To her niece Mrs. Kelsey had communicated the result of her interview with J.C., and that young lady had fallen into a violent passion, which merged itself at last into a flood of tears, and ended finally in strong hysterics. While in this latter condition Mrs. Kelsey deemed it necessary to summon her brother, to whom she narrated the circumstances of Nellie's illness. To say that the doctor was angry would but feebly express the nature of his feelings. He had fully expected that Nellie would be taken off his hands, and he had latterly a very good reason for wishing that it might be so.
Grown-up daughters, he knew, were apt to look askance at stepmothers, and if he should wish to bring another there he would rather that Nellie should be out of the way. So he railed at the innocent Maude, and after exhausting all the maxims which would at all apply to that occasion, he suggested sending for Mr. De Vere and demanding an explanation. But this Mrs. Kelsey would not suffer.
"It will do no good," she said, "and may make the matter worse by hastening the marriage. I shall return home to-morrow, and if you do not object shall take your daughter with me, to stay at least six months, as she needs a change of scene. I can, if necessary, intimate to my friends that she has refused J.C., who, in a fit of pique, has offered himself to Maude, and that will save Nellie from all embarrassment. He will soon tire of his new choice, and then—"
"I won't have him if he does," gasped Nellie, interrupting her aunt—"I won't have anybody who has first proposed to Maude. I wish she'd never come here, and if pa hadn't brought that woman—"
"Helen!" and the doctor's voice was very stern, for time had not erased from his heart all love for the blue-eyed Matty, the gentle mother of the offending Maude, and more than all, the mother of his boy—"Helen, that woman was my wife, and you must not speak disrespectfully of her."
Nellie answered by a fresh burst of tears, for her own conscience smote her for having spoken thus lightly of one who had ever been kind to her.
After a moment Mrs. Kelsey resumed the conversation by suggesting that, as the matter could not now be helped, they had better say nothing, but go off on the morrow as quietly as possible, leaving J.C. to awake from his hallucination, which she was sure he would do soon, and follow them to the city. This arrangement seemed wholly satisfactory to all parties, and though Nellie declared she'd never again speak to Jed De Vere, she dried her tears, and retiring to rest, slept quite as soundly as she had ever done in her life.
The next morning when Maude as usual went down to superintend the breakfast, she was surprised to hear from Hannah that Mrs. Kelsey was going that day to Rochester, and that Nellie was to accompany her.
"Nobody can 'cuse me," said Hannah, "of not 'fillin' Scriptur' oncet, whar it says `them as has ears to hear, let 'em hear,' for I did hear 'em a-talkin' last night of you and Mr. De Vere, and I tell you they're ravin' mad to think you'd cotched him; but I'm glad on't. You desarves him, if anybody. I suppose that t'other chap aint none of your marryin' sort," and unconscious of the twinge her last words had inflicted Hannah carried the coffee-urn to the dining room, followed by Maude, who was greeted with dark faces and frowning looks.
Scarcely a word was spoken during breakfast, and when after it was over Maude offered to assist Nellie in packing her trunks, the latter answered decisively, "You've done enough, I think."
A few moments afterward J.C.'s voice was heard upon the stairs. He had come over to see the "lioness and her cub," as he styled Mrs. Kelsey and her niece, whose coolness was amply atoned for by the bright, joyous glance of Maude, to whom he whispered softly, "Won't we have glorious times when they are gone!"
Their projected departure pleased him greatly, and he was so very polite and attentive that Nellie relented a little, and asked how long he intended remaining at Laurel Hill, while even Mrs. Kelsey gave him her hand at parting, and said, "Whenever you recover from your unaccountable fancy I shall be glad to see you."
"You'll wait some time, if you wait for that," muttered J.C., as he returned to the house in quest of Maude, with whom he had a long and most delightful interview, for old Hannah, in unusually, good spirits, expressed her willingness to see to everything, saying to her young mistress, "You go along now and court a spell. I reckon I haint done forgot how I and Crockett sot on the fence in old Virginny and heard the bobolinks a-singin'."
Old Hannah was waxing sentimental, and with a heightened bloom upon her cheeks Maude left her to her memories of Crockett and the bobolinks, while she went back to her lover. J.C. was well skilled in the little, delicate acts which tend to win and keep a woman's heart, and in listening to his protestations of love Maude forgot all else, and abandoned herself to the belief that she was perfectly happy. Only once did her pulses quicken as they would not have done had her chosen husband been all that she could wish, and that was when he said to her, "I wrote to James last night, telling him of my engagement. He will congratulate me, I know, for he was greatly pleased with you."
Much did Maude wonder what James would say, and it was not long ere her curiosity was gratified; for scarcely four days were passed when J.C. brought to her an unsealed note, directed to "Cousin Maude."
"I have heard from Jim," he said, "and he is the best fellow in the world. Hear what he says of you," and from his own letter he read, "I do congratulate you upon your choice. Maude Remington is a noble creature—so beautiful, so refined, and withal so pure and good. Cherish her, my cousin, as she ought to be cherished, and bring her some time to my home, which will never boast so fair a mistress."
"I'm so glad he's pleased," said J.C. "I would rather have his approval than that of the whole world. But what! Crying, I do believe!" and turning Maude's face to the light he continued, "Yes, there are tears on your eyelashes. What is the matter?"
"Nothing, nothing," answered Maude, "only I am so glad your relatives like me."
J.C. was easily deceived, so was Maude—and mutually believing that nothing was the matter, J.C. drummed on the piano, while Maude tore open the note which James had written to her. It seemed so strange to think he wrote it, and Maude trembled violently, while the little red spots came out all over her neck and face as she glanced at the words, "My dear Cousin Maude."
It was a kind, affectionate note, and told how the writer would welcome and love her as his cousin, while at the same time it chided her for not having answered the letter sent some weeks before. "Perhaps you did not deem it worthy of an answer," he wrote, "but I was sadly disappointed in receiving none, and now that you are really to be my cousin I shall expect you to do better, and treat me as if I had an existence. J.C. must not monopolize you wholly, for I shall claim a share of you for myself."
Poor, poor Maude! She did not feel the summer air upon her brow—did not hear the discordant notes which J.C. made upon the piano, for her whole soul was centered on the words, "sadly disappointed," "love you as my cousin," and "claim a share of you for myself."
Only for a moment, though, and then recovering her composure she said aloud, "What does he mean? I never received a note."
"I know it, I know it," hastily spoke J.C., and coming to her side he handed her the soiled missive, saying, "It came a long time ago, and was mislaid among my papers, until this letter recalled it to my mind. There is nothing in it of any consequence, I dare say, and had it not been sealed I might, perhaps, have read it, for as the doctor says, `It's a maxim of mine that a wife should have no secrets from her husband,' hey, Maude?" and he caressed her burning cheek, as she read the note which, had it been earlier received, might have changed her whole after life.
And still it was not one-half as affectionate in its tone as was the last, for it began with, "Cousin Maude" and ended with "Yours respectfully," but she knew he had been true to his promise, and without a suspicion that J.C. had deceived her she placed the letters in her pocket, to be read again when she was alone, and could measure every word and sentiment.
That afternoon when she went to her chamber to make some changes in her dress she found herself standing before the mirror much longer than usual, examining minutely the face which James De Vere had called beautiful.
"He thought so, or he would not have said it; but it is false," she whispered; "even J.C. never called me handsome;" and taking out the note that day received, she read it again, wondering why the name "Cousin Maude" did not sound as pleasantly as when she first heard it.
That night as she sat with Louis in her room she showed the letters to him, at the same time explaining the reason why one of them was not received before.
"Oh, I am so glad," said Louis, as he finished reading them, "for now I know that James De Vere don't like you."
"Don't like me, Louis!" and in Maude's voice there was a world of sadness.
"I mean," returned Louis, "that he don't love you for anything but a cousin. I like J.C. very, very much, and I am glad you are to be his wife; but I've sometimes thought that if you had waited the other one would have spoken, for I was almost sure he loved you, but he don't, I know; he couldn't be so pleased with your engagement, nor write you so affectionately if he really cared."
Maude hardly knew whether she were pleased or not with Louis' reasoning. It was true, though, she said, and inasmuch as James did not care for her, and she did not care for James, she was very glad she was engaged to J.C.! And with reassured confidence in herself she sat down and wrote an answer to that note, a frank, impulsive, Maude-like answer, which, nevertheless, would convey to James De Vere no idea how large a share of that young girl's thoughts were given to himself.
The next day there came to Maude a letter bearing the Canada postmark, together with the unmistakable handwriting of Janet Hopkins. Maude had not heard of her for some time, and very eagerly she read the letter, laughing immoderately, and giving vent to sudden exclamations of astonishment at its surprising intelligence. Janet was a mother!—"a livin' mother to a child born out of due season," so the delighted creature wrote, "and what was better than all, it was a girl, and the Sunday before was baptized as Maude Matilda Remington Blodgett Hopkins, there being no reason," she said, "why she shouldn't give her child as many names as the Queen of England hitched on to hers, beside that it was not at all likely that she would ever have another, and so she had improved this opportunity, and named her daughter in honor of Maude, Matty, Harry, and her first husband Joel. But," she wrote, "I don't know what you'll say when I tell you that my old man and some others have made me believe that seein' I've an heir of my own flesh and blood, I ought to change that will of mine, so I've made another, and if Maude Matilda dies you'll have it yet. T'other five thousand is yours, anyway, and if I didn't love the little wudget as I do, I wouldn't have changed my will; but natur' is natur'."
Scarcely had Maude finished reading this letter when J.C. came in, and she handed it to him. He did not seem surprised, for he had always regarded the will as a doubtful matter; but in reality he was a little chagrined, for five thousand was only half as much as ten. Still his love for Maude was, as yet, stronger than his love for money, and he only laughed heartily at the string of names which Janet had given to her offspring, saying, "It was a pity it hadn't been a boy, so she could have called him Jedediah Cleishbotham."
"He does not care for my money," Maude thought, and her heart went out toward him more lovingly than it had ever done before, and her dark eyes filled with tears when he told her, as he ere long did, that he must leave the next day, and return to Rochester.
"The little property left me by my mother needs attention, so my agent writes me," he said, "and now the will has gone up, and we are poorer than we were before by five thousand dollars, it is necessary that I should bestir myself, you know." Maude could not tell why it was that his words affected her unpleasantly, for she knew he was not rich, and she felt that she should respect him more if he really did bestir himself, but still she did not like his manner when speaking of the will, and her heart was heavy all the day. He, on the contrary, was in unusually good spirits. He was not tired of Maude, but he was tired of the monotonous life at Laurel Hill, and when his agent's summons came it found him ready to go. That for which he had visited Laurel Hill had in reality been accomplished. He had secured a wife, not Nellie, but Maude, and determining to do everything honorable, he on the morning of his departure went to the doctor, to whom he talked of Maude, expressing his wish to marry her. Very coldly the doctor answered that "Maude could marry whom she pleased. It was a maxim of his never to interfere with matches," and then, as if the subject were suggestive, he questioned the young man to know if in his travels he had ever met the lady Maude Glendower. J.C. had met her frequently at Saratoga.
"She was a splendid creature," he said, and he asked if the doctor knew her.
"I saw her as a child of seventeen, and again as a woman of twenty-five. She is forty now," was the doctor's answer, as he walked away, wondering if the Maude Glendower of to-day were greatly changed from the Maude of fifteen years ago.
To J.C.'s active mind a new idea was presented, and seeking out the other Maude—his Maude—he told her of his suspicion. There was a momentary pang, a thought of the willow-shaded grave where Kate and Matty slept, and then Maude Remington calmly questioned J.C. of Maude Glendower—who she was, and where did she live?
J.C. knew but little of the lady, but what little he knew he told. She was of both English and Spanish descent. Her friends, he believed, were nearly all dead, and she was alone in the world. Though forty years of age, she was well preserved, and called a wondrous beauty. She was a belle—a flirt—a spinster, and was living at present in Troy.
"She'll never marry the doctor," said Maude, laughing, as she thought of an elegant woman leaving the world of fashion to be mistress of that house.
Still the idea followed her, and when at last J.C. had bidden her adieu, and gone to his city home, she frequently found herself thinking of the beautiful Maude Glendower, whose name, it seemed to her, she had heard before, though when or where she could not tell. A strange interest was awakened in her bosom for the unknown lady, and she often wondered if they would ever meet. The doctor thought of her, too—thought of her often, and thought of her long, and as his feelings toward her changed, so did his manner soften toward the dark-haired girl who bore her name, and who he began at last to fancy resembled her in more points than one. Maude was ceasing to be an object of perfect indifference to him. She was an engaged young lady, and as such, entitled to more respect than he was wont to pay her, and as the days wore on he began to have serious thoughts of making her his confidant and counselor in a matter which he would never have intrusted to Nellie.
Accordingly, one afternoon when he found her sitting upon the piazza, he said, first casting an anxious glance around to make sure no one heard him: "Maude, I wish to see you alone a while."
Wonderingly Maude followed him into the parlor, where her astonishment was in no wise diminished by his shutting the blinds, dropping the curtains, and locking the door! Maude began to tremble, and when he drew his chair close to her side, she started up, alarmed. "Sit down—sit down," he whispered; "I want to tell you something, which you must never mention in the world. You certainly have some sense, or I should not trust you. Maude, I am going—that is, I have every reason to believe—or rather, I should say perhaps—well, anyway, there is a prospect of my being married."
"Married!—to whom?" asked Maude.
"You are certain you'll never tell, and that there's no one in the hall," said the doctor, going on tip-toe to the door, and assuring himself there was no one there. Then returning to his seat, he told her a strange story of a marvellously beautiful young girl, with Spanish fire in her lustrous eyes, and a satin gloss on her blue-black curls.
Her name was Maude Glendower, and years ago she won his love, leading him on and on until at last he paid her the highest honor a man can pay a woman—he offered her his heart, his hand, his name. But she refused him—scornfully, contemptuously, refused him, and he learned afterward that she had encouraged him for the sake of bringing another man to terms!—and that man, whose name the doctor never knew, was a college student not yet twenty-one.
"I hated her then," said he, "hated this Maude Glendower, for her deception; but I could not forget her, and after Katy died I sought her again. She was the star of Saratoga, and no match for me. This I had sense enough to see, so I left her in her glory, and three years after married your departed mother. Maude Glendower has never married, and at the age of forty has come to her senses, and signified her willingness to become my wife—or, that is to say, I have been informed by my sister that she probably would not refuse me a second time. Now, Maude Remington, I have told you this because I must talk with someone, and as I before remarked, you are a girl of sense, and will keep the secret. It is a maxim of mine, when anything is to be done, to do it; so I shall visit Miss Glendower immediately, and if I like her well enough I shall marry her at once. Not while I am gone, of course, but very soon. I shall start for Troy one week from to-day, and I wish you would attend a little to my wardrobe; it's in a most lamentable condition. My shirts are all worn out, my coat is rusty, and last Sunday I discovered a hole in my pantaloons—"
"Dr. Kennedy," exclaimed Maude, interrupting him, "you surely do not intend to present yourself before the fastidious Miss Glendower with those old shabby clothes. She would say No sooner than she did before. You must have an entire new suit. You can afford it, too, for you have not had one since mother died."
Dr. Kennedy was never in a condition to be so easily coaxed as now. Maude Glendower had a place in his heart, which no other woman bad ever held, and that very afternoon the village merchant was astonished at the penurious doctor's inquiring the prices of the finest broadcloth in his store. It seemed a great deal of money to pay, but Maude Remington at his elbow and Maude Glendower in his mind conquered at last, and the new suit was bought, including vest, hat, boots, and all. There is something in handsome clothes very satisfactory to most people, and the doctor, when arrayed in his, was conscious of a feeling of pride quite unusual to him. On one point, however, he was obstinate, "he would not spoil them by wearing them on the road, when he could just as well dress at the hotel."
So Maude, between whom and himself there was for the time being quite an amicable understanding, packed them in his trunk, while Hannah and Louis looked on wondering what it could mean.
"The Millennial is comin', or else he's goin' a-courtin'," said Hannah, and satisfied that she was right she went back to the kitchen, while Louis, catching at once at her idea, began to cry, and laying his head on his sister's lap begged of her to tell him if what Hannah had said were true.
To him it seemed like trampling on the little grave beneath the willows, and it required all Maude's powers of persuasion to dry his tears and soothe the pain which every child must feel when first they know that the lost mother, whose memory they so fondly cherish, is to be succeeded by another.
She was a most magnificent looking woman, as she sat within her richly furnished room on that warm September night, now gazing idly dawn the street and again bending her head to catch the first sound of footsteps on the stairs. Personal preservation had been the great study of her life, and forty years had not dimmed the luster of her soft, black eyes, or woven one thread of silver among the luxuriant curls which clustered in such profusion around her face and neck. Gray hairs and Maude Glendower had nothing in common, and the fair, round cheek, the pearly teeth, the youthful bloom, and white, uncovered shoulders seemed to indicate that time had made an exception in her favor, and dropped her from its wheel.
With a portion of her history the reader is already acquainted. Early orphaned, she was thrown upon the care of an old aunt who, proud of her wondrous beauty, spared no pains to make her what nature seemed to will that she should be, a coquette and a belle. At seventeen we find her a schoolgirl in New Haven, where she turned the heads of all the college boys, and then murmured because one, a dark-eyed youth of twenty, withheld from her the homage she claimed as her just due. In a fit of pique she besieged a staid, handsome young M.D. of twenty-seven, who had just commenced to practice in the city, and who, proudly keeping himself aloof from the college students, knew nothing of the youth she so much fancied. Perfectly intoxicated with her beauty, he offered her his hand, and was repulsed. Overwhelmed with disappointment and chagrin, he then left the city, and located himself at Laurel Hill, where now we find him the selfish, overbearing Dr. Kennedy.
But in after years Maude Glendower was punished for that act. The dark-haired student she so much loved was wedded to another, and with a festering wound within her heart she plunged at once into the giddy world of fashion, slaying her victims by scores, and exulting as each new trophy of her power was laid at her feet. She had no heart, the people said, and with a mocking laugh she thought of the quiet grave 'mid the New England hills, where, one moonlight night two weeks after that grave was made, she had wept such tears as were never wept by her again. Maude Glendower had loved, but loved in vain; and now, at the age of forty, she was unmarried and alone in the wide world. The aunt, who had been to her a mother, had died a few months before, and as her annuity ceased with her death Maude was almost wholly destitute. The limited means she possessed would only suffice to pay her, board for a short time, and in this dilemma she thought of her old lover, and wondered if he could again be won. He was rich, she had always heard, and as his wife she could still enjoy the luxuries to which she had been accustomed. She knew his sister,—they had met in the salons of Saratoga,—and though it hurt her pride to do it, she at last signified her willingness to be again addressed.
It was many weeks ere Dr. Kennedy conquered wholly his olden grudge, but conquered it he had, and she sat expecting him on the night when first we introduced her to our readers. He had arrived in Troy on the western train, and written her a note announcing his intention to visit her that evening. For this visit Maude Glendower had arrayed herself with care, wearing a rich silk dress of crimson and black—colors well adapted to her complexion.
"He saw me at twenty-five. He shall not think me greatly changed since then," she said, as over her bare neck and arms she threw an exquisitely wrought mantilla of lace.
The Glendower family had once been very wealthy, and the last daughter of the haughty race glittered with diamonds which had come to her from her great-grandmother, and had been but recently reset. And there she sat, beautiful Maude Glendower—the votary of fashion—the woman of the world—sat waiting for the cold, hard, overbearing man who thought to make her his wife. A ring at the door, a heavy tread upon the winding stairs, and the lady rests her head upon her hand, so that her glossy curls fall over, but do not conceal her white, rounded arm, where the diamonds are shining.
"I could easily mistake him for my father," she thought, as a gray-haired man stepped into the room, where he paused an instant, bewildered with the glare of light and the display of pictures, mirrors, tapestry, rosewood, and marble, which met his view.
Mrs. Berkley, Maude Glendower's aunt, had stinted herself to gratify her niece's whims, and their surroundings had always been of the most expensive kind, so it was not strange that Dr. Kennedy, accustomed only to ingrain carpet and muslin curtains, was dazzled by so much elegance. With a well-feigned start the lady arose to her feet, and going to his side offered him her hand, saying, "You are Dr. Kennedy, I am sure. I should have known you anywhere, for you are but little changed."
She meant to flatter his self-love, though, thanks to Maude Remington for having insisted upon the broadcloth suit, he looked remarkably well.
"She had not changed at all," he said, and the admiring gaze he fixed upon her argued well for her success. It becomes us not to tell how that strange wooing sped. Suffice it to say that at the expiration of an hour Maude Glendower had promised to be the wife of Dr. Kennedy when another spring should come. She had humbled herself to say that she regretted her girlish freak, and he had so far unbent his dignity as to say that he could not understand why she should be willing to leave the luxuries which surrounded her and go with him, a plain, old-fashioned man. Maude Glendower scorned to make him think that it was love which actuated her, and she replied, "Now that my aunt is dead, I have no natural protector. I am alone and want a home."
"But mine is so different," he said. "There are no silk curtains there, no carpets such as this—"
"Is Maude Remington there?" the lady asked, and in her large black eyes there was a dewy tenderness, as she pronounced that name.
"Maude Remington!—yes," the doctor answered. "Where did you hear of her? My sister told you, I suppose. Yes, Maude is there. She has lived with me ever since her mother died. You would have liked Matty, I think," and the doctor felt a glow of satisfaction in having thus paid a tribute to the memory of his wife.
"Is Maude like her mother?" the lady asked; a glow upon her cheek, and the expression of her face evincing the interest she felt in the answer.
"Not at all," returned the doctor. "Matty was blue-eyed and fair, while Maude is dark, and resembles her father, they say."
The white jeweled hands were clasped together, for a moment, and then Maude Glendower questioned him of the other one, Matty's child and his. Very tenderly the doctor talked of his unfortunate boy, telling of his soft brown hair, his angel face, and dreamy eyes.
"He is like Matty," the lady said, more to herself than her companion, who proceeded to speak of Nellie as a paragon of loveliness and virtue. "I shan't like her, I know," the lady thought, "but the other two," how her heart bounded at the thoughts of folding them to her bosom.
Louis Kennedy, weeping that his mother was forgotten, had nothing to fear from Maude Glendower, for a child of Matty Remington was a sacred trust to her, and when as the doctor bade her good-night he said again, "You will find a great contrast between your home and mine," she answered, "I shall be contented if Maude and Louis are there."
"And Nellie, too," the doctor added, unwilling that she should be overlooked.
"Yes, Nellie too," the lady answered, the expression of her mouth indicating that Nellie too was an object of indifference to her.
The doctor is gone, his object is accomplished, and at the Mansion House near by he sleeps quietly and well. But the lady, Maude Glendower, oh, who shall tell what bitter tears she wept, or how in her in-most soul she shrank from the man she had chosen. And yet there was nothing repulsive in him, she knew. He was fine-looking,—he stood well in the world,—he was rich while she was poor. But not for this alone had she promised to be his wife. To hold Maude Remington within her arms, to look into her eyes, to call his daughter child, this was the strongest reason of them all. And was it strange that when at last she slept she was a girl again, looking across the college green to catch a glimpse of one whose indifference had made her what she was, a selfish, scheming, cold-hearted woman.
There was another interview next morning, and then the doctor left her, but not until with her soft hand in his, and her shining eyes upon his face, she said to him, "You think your home is not a desirable one for me. Can't you fix it up a little? Are there two parlors, and do the windows come to the floor? I hope your carriage horses are in good condition, for I am very fond of driving. Have you a flower garden? I anticipate much pleasure in working among the plants. Oh, it will be so cool and nice in the country. You have an ice-house, of course."
Poor doctor! Double parlors, low windows, ice-house, and flower garden he had none, while the old carryall had long since ceased to do its duty, and its place was supplied by an open buggy, drawn by a sorrel nag. But Maude Glendower could do with him what Katy and Matty could not have done, and after his return to Laurel Hill he was more than once closeted with Maude, to whom he confided his plan of improving the place, asking her if she thought the profits of next year's crop of wheat and wool would meet the whole expense. Maude guessed at random that it would, and as money in prospect seems not quite so valuable as money in hand, the doctor finally concluded to follow out Maude Glendower's suggestions, and greatly to the surprise of the neighbors, the repairing process commenced.
The October sun had painted the forest trees with the gorgeous tints of autumn and the November winds had changed them to a more sober hue ere J.C. De Vere came again to Laurel Hill. Very regularly he wrote to Maude—kind, loving letters, which helped to cheer her solitary life. Nellie still remained with Mrs. Kelsey, and though she had so far forgiven her stepsister as to write to her occasionally, she still cherished toward her a feeling of animosity for having stolen away her lover.
On his return to Rochester J.C. De Vere had fully expected that his engagement would be the theme of every tongue, and he had prepared himself for the attack. How, then, was he surprised to find that no one had the least suspicion of it, though many joked him for having quarreled with Nellie as they were sure he had done, by his not returning when she did.
Mrs. Kelsey had changed her mind and resolved to say nothing of an affair which she was sure would never prove to be serious, and the result showed the wisdom of her proceeding. No one spoke of Maude to J.C., for no one knew of her existence, and both Mrs. Kelsey, and Nellie, whom he frequently met, scrupulously refrained from mentioning her name. At first he felt annoyed, and more than once was tempted to tell of his engagement, but as time wore on and he became more and more interested in city gayeties, he thought less frequently of the dark-eyed Maude, who, with fewer sources of amusement, was each day thinking more and more of him. Still, he was sure he loved her, and one morning near the middle of November, when he received a letter from her saying, "I am sometimes very lonely, and wish that you were here," he started up with his usual impetuosity, and ere he was fully aware of his own intentions he found himself ticketed for Canandaigua, and the next morning Louis Kennedy, looking from his window and watching the daily stage as it came slowly up the hill, screamed out, "He's come—he's come!"
A few moments more and Maude was clasped in J.C.'s arms. Kissing her forehead, her cheek, and her lips, he held her off and looked to see if she had changed. She had, and he knew it. Happiness and contentment are more certain beautifiers than the most powerful cosmetics, and under the combined effects of both Maude was greatly improved. She was happy in her engagement, happy in the increased respect it brought her from her friends, and happy, too, in the unusual kindness, of her stepfather. All this was manifest in her face, and for the first time in his life J.C. told her she was beautiful.
"If you only had more manner, and your clothes were fashionably made, you would far excel the city girls," he said, a compliment which to Maude seemed rather equivocal.
When he was there before he had not presumed to criticise her style of dress, but he did so now, quoting the city belles until, half in earnest, half in jest, Maude said to him, "If you think so much of fashion, you ought not to marry a country girl."
"Pshaw!" returned J.C. "I like you all the better for dressing as you please, and still I wish you could acquire a little city polish, for I don't care to have my wife the subject of remark. If Maude Glendower comes in the spring, you can learn a great deal of her before the 20th of June."
Maude colored deeply, thinking for the first time in her life that possibly J.C. might be ashamed of her, but his affectionate caresses soon drove all unpleasant impressions from her mind, and the three days that he stayed with her passed rapidly away. He did not mention the will, but he questioned her of the five thousand which was to be hers on her eighteenth birthday, and vaguely, hinted that he might need it to set himself up in business. He had made no arrangements for the future, he said, there was time enough in the spring, and promising to be with her again during the holidays, he left her quite uncertain as to whether she were glad he had visited her or not.
The next; day she was greatly comforted by a long letter from James, who wrote occasionally, evincing so much interest in "Cousin Maude" that he always succeeded in making her cry, though why she could not tell, for his letters gave her more real satisfaction than did those of J.C., fraught as the latter were with protestations of constancy and love. Slowly dragged the weeks, and the holidays were at hand, when she received a message from J.C., saying he could not possibly come as he had promised. No reason was given for this change in his plan, and with a sigh of disappointment Maude turned to a letter from Nellie, received by the same mail. After dwelling at length upon the delightful time she was having in the city, Nellie spoke of a fancy ball to be given by her aunt during Christmas week. Mr. De Vere was to be "Ivanhoe," she said, and she to be "Rowena."
"You don't know," she wrote, "how interested J.C. is in the party. He really begins to appear more as he used to do. He has not forgotten you, though, for he said the other day you would make a splendid Rebecca. It takes a dark person for that, I believe!"
Maude knew the reason now why J.C. could not possibly come, and the week she had, anticipated so much seemed dreary, enough, notwithstanding it was enlivened by a box of oranges and figs from her betrothed, and a long, affectionate letter from James De Vere, who spoke of the next Christmas, saying he meant she should spend it at Hampton.
"You will really be my cousin then," he wrote, "and I intend inviting yourself and husband to pass the holidays with us. I want my mother to know you, Maude. She will like you, I am sure, for she always thinks as I do."
This letter was far more pleasing to Maude's taste than were the oranges and figs, and: Louis was suffered to monopolize the latter—a privilege which he appreciated, as children usually do. After the holidays J.C. paid a flying visit to Laurel Hill, where his presence caused quite as much pain as pleasure, so anxious he seemed to return. Rochester could not well exist without him, one would suppose, from hearing him talk of the rides he planned, the surprise parties he man—aged, and the private theatricals of which he was the leader.
"Do they pay you well for your services?" Louis asked him once, when wearying of the same old story.
J.C. understood the hit, and during the remainder of his stay was far less egotistical than he would otherwise have been. After his departure there ensued an interval of quiet, which, as spring approached, was broken by the doctor's resuming the work of repairs, which had been suspended during the coldest weather. The partition between the parlor and the large square bedroom was removed; folding-doors were made between; the windows were cut down; a carpet was bought to match the one which Maude had purchased the summer before; and then, when all was done, the doctor was seized with a fit of the blues, because it had cost so much. But he could afford to be extravagant for a wife like Maude Glendower, and trusting much to the wheat crop and the wool, he started for Troy about the middle of March, fully expecting to receive from the lady a decisive answer as to when she would make them both perfectly happy!
With a most winning smile upon her lip and a bewitching glance in her black eyes, Maude Glendower took his hand in hers and begged for a little longer freedom.
"Wait till next fall," she said; "I must go to Saratoga one more summer. I shall never be happy if I don't, and you, I dare say, wouldn't enjoy it a bit."
The doctor was not so sure of that. Her eyes, her voice, and the soft touch of her hand made him feel very queer; and he was almost willing to go to Saratoga himself if by these means he could secure her.
"How much do they charge?" he asked; and, with a flash of her bright eyes, the lady answered, "I suppose both of us can get along with thirty or forty dollars a week, including everything; but that isn't much, as I don't care to stay more than two months!"
This decided the doctor. He had not three hundred dollars to throw away, and so he tried to persuade his companion to give up Saratoga and go with him to Laurel Hill, telling her, as an inducement, of the improvements he had made.
"There were two parlors now," he said, "and with her handsome furniture they would look remarkably well."
She did not tell him that her handsome furniture was mortgaged for board and borrowed money—neither did she say that her object in going to Saratoga was to try her powers upon a rich old Southern bachelor who had returned from Europe, and who she knew was to pass the coming summer at the Springs. If she could secure him Dr. Kennedy might console himself as best he could, and she begged so hard to defer their marriage until the autumn that the or gave up the contest, and with a heavy heart prepared to turn his face homeward.
"You need not make any more repairs until I come; I'd rather see to them myself," Miss Glendower said at parting; and wondering what further improvements she could possibly suggest, now that the parlor windows were all right, the doctor bade her adieu, and started for home.
Hitherto Maude had been his confidant, keeping her trust so well that no one at Laurel Hill knew, exactly what his intentions were, and, as was very, natural, immediately after his return he went to her for sympathy in his disappointment. He found her weeping bitterly, and ere he could lay before her his own grievances she appealed to him for sympathy and aid. The man to whom her money was intrusted had speculated largely, loaning some of it out West, at twenty per cent., investing some in doubtful railroad stocks, and experimenting with the rest, until by some unlucky chance he lost the whole, and, worse than all, had nothing of his own with which to make amends. In short, Maude was penniless, and J.C. De Vere in despair. She had written to him immediately, and he had come, suggesting nothing, offering no advice, and saying nothing at first, except that "the man was mighty mean, and he had never liked his looks."
After a little, however, he rallied somewhat, and offered the consolatory remark that "they were in a mighty bad fix. I'll be honest," said he, "and confess that I depended upon that money to set me up in business. I was going to shave notes, and in order to do so I must have some ready, capital. It cramps me," he continued, "for, as a married man, my expenses will necessarily be more than they now are."
"We can defer our marriage," sobbed Maude, whose heart throbbed painfully with every word he uttered. "We can defer our marriage a while, and possibly a part of my fortune may be regained—or, if you wish it, I will release you at once. You need not wed a penniless bride," and Maude hid her face in her hands while she awaited the answer to her suggestion. J.C. De Vere did love Maude Remington better than anyone he had ever seen, and though he caught eagerly at the marriage deferred, he was not then willing to give her up, and, with one of his impetuous bursts, he exclaimed, "I will not be released, though it may be wise to postpone our bridal day for a time, say until Christmas next, when I hope to be established in business," and, touched by the suffering expression of her white face, he kissed her tears away and told her how gladly he would work for her, painting "love in a cottage," with nothing else there, until he really made himself believe that he could live on bread and water with Maude, provided she gave him the lion's share!
J.C.'s great faults were selfishness, indolence, and love of money,and Maude's loss affected him deeply; still, there was no redress, and playfully bidding her "not to cry for the milkman's spilled milk," he left her on the very day when Dr. Kennedy returned. Maude knew J.C. was keenly disappointed; that he was hardly aware what he was saying, and she wept for him rather than for the money.
Dr. Kennedy could offer no advice—no comfort. It had always been a maxim of his not to make that man her guardian; but women would do everything wrong, and then, as if his own trials were paramount to hers, he bored her with the story of his troubles, to which she simply answered, "I am sorry;" and this was all the sympathy either gained from the other!
In the course of a few days Maude received a long letter from James De Vere. He had heard from J.C. of his misfortune, and very tenderly he strove to comfort her, touching at once upon the subject which he naturally supposed lay heaviest upon her heart. The marriage need not be postponed, he said; there was room in his house and a place in his own and his mother's affections for their "Cousin Maude." She could live there as well as not. Hampton was only half an hour's ride from Rochester, and J. G., who had been admitted at the bar, could open an office in the city until something better presented.
"Perhaps I may set him up in business myself," he wrote. "At all events, dear Maude, you need not dim the brightness of your eyes by tears, for all will yet be well. Next June shall see you a bride, unless your intended husband refuse my offer, in which case I may divine something better."
"Noble man," was Maude's exclamation, as she finished reading the letter, and if at that moment the two cousins rose up in contrast before her mind, who can blame her for awarding the preference to him who had penned those lines, and who thus kindly strove to remove from her pathway every obstacle to her happiness.
James De Vere was indeed a noble-hearted man. Generous, kind, and self-denying, he found his chief pleasure in doing others good, and he had written both to Maude and J.C. just as the great kindness of his heart had prompted him to write. He did not then know that he loved Maude Remington, for he had never fully analyzed the nature of his feelings toward her. He knew he admired her very much, and when he wrote the note J.C. withheld he said to himself, "If she answers this, I shall write again—and again, and maybe"—he did not exactly know what lay beyond the "maybe," so he added, "we shall be very good friends."
But the note was not answered, and when his cousin's letter came, telling him of the engagement, a sharp, quick pang shot through his heart, eliciting from him a faint outcry, which caused his mother, who was present, to ask what was the matter.
"Only a sudden pain," he answered, laying his hand upon his side.
"Pleurisy, perhaps," the practical mother rejoined, and supposing she was right he placed the letter in his pocket and went out into the open air. It had grown uncomfortably warm, he thought, while the noise of the falling fountain in the garden made his head ache as it had never ached before; and returning to the house he sought his pleasant library. But not a volume in all those crowded shelves had power to interest him then, and with a strange disquiet he wandered from room to room, until at last, as the sun went down, he laid his throbbing temples upon his pillow, and in his feverish dreams saw again the dark-eyed Maude sitting on her mother's grave, her face upturned to him, and on her lip the smile that formed her greatest beauty.
The next morning the headache was gone, and with a steady hand he wrote to his cousin and Maude congratulations which he believed sincere. That J.C. was not worthy of the maiden he greatly feared, and he resolved to have a care of the young man, and try to make him what Maude's husband ought to be, and when he heard of her misfortune he stepped forward with his generous offer, which J.C. instantly refused.
"He never would take his wife to live upon his relatives, he had too much pride for that, and the marriage must be deferred. A few months would make no difference. Christmas was not far from June, and by that time he could do something for himself."
Thus he wrote to James, who mused long upon the words, "A few months will make no difference," thinking within himself, "If I were like other men, and was about to marry Maude, a few months would make a good deal of difference, but everyone to their mind." Four weeks after this he went one day to Canandaigua on business, and having an hour's leisure ere the arrival of the train which would take him home he sauntered into the public parlor of the hotel. Near the window, at the farther extremity of the room, a young girl was looking out upon the passers-by. Something in her form and dress attracted his attention, and he was approaching the spot where she stood when the sound of his footsteps caught her ear, and turning round she disclosed to view the features of Maude Remington.
"Maude!" he exclaimed, "this is indeed a surprise. I must even claim a cousin's right to kiss you," and taking both her hands in his, he kissed her blushing cheek—coyly—timidly—for James De Vere was unused to such things, and not quite certain, whether under the circumstances it were perfectly proper for him to do so or not.
Leading her to the sofa, he soon learned that she had come to the village to trade, and having finished her shopping was waiting for her stepfather, who had accompanied her.
"And what of J.C.?" he asked, after a moment's silence. "Has he been to visit you more than once since the crisis, as he calls it?"
Maude's eyes filled with tears, for J.C.'s conduct was not wholly satisfactory to her. She remembered his loud protestations of utter disregard for her money, and she could not help thinking how little his theory and practice accorded. He had not been to see her since his flying visit in March, and though he had written several times his letters had contained little else save complaints against their "confounded luck." She could not tell this to James De Vere, and she replied, "He is very busy now, I believe, in trying to make some business arrangement with the lawyer in whose office he formerly studied."
"I am glad he has roused himself at last," answered James; "he would not accept my offer, for which I am sorry, as I was anticipating much happiness in having my Cousin Maude at Hampton during the summer. You will remain at home, I suppose."
"No," said Maude hesitatingly; "or, that is, I have serious thoughts of teaching school, as I do not like to be dependent on Dr. Kennedy."
James De Vere had once taught school for a few weeks by way of experiment, and now as he recalled the heated room, the stifling atmosphere, the constant care, and more than all, the noisy shout of triumph which greeted his ear on that memorable morning when he found himself fastened out, and knew his rule was at an end, he shuddered at the thought of Maude's being exposed to similar indignities, and used all his powers of eloquence to dissuade her from her plan. Maude was frank, open-hearted, and impulsive, and emboldened by James' kind, brotherly manner she gave in a most childlike manner her reason for wishing to teach.
"If I am married next winter," she said, "my wardrobe will need replenishing, for J.C. would surely be ashamed to take me as I am, and I have now no means of my own for purchasing anything."
In an instant James De Vere's hand was on his purse, but ere he drew it forth he reflected that to offer money then might possibly be out of place, so he said, "I have no sister, no girl-cousin, no wife, and more money than I can use, and when the right time comes nothing can please me more than to give you your bridal outfit. May I, Maude? And if you do not like to stay with Dr. Kennedy, come to Hampton this summer and live with us, will you, Maude? I want you there so much," and in the musical tones of his voice there was a deep pathos which brought the tears in torrents from Maude's eyes; while she declined the generous offer she could not accept.
Just then Dr. Kennedy appeared. He was ready, to go, he said, and bidding Mr. De Vere good-by, Maude was soon on her way home, her spirits lighter and her heart happier for that chance meeting at the hotel. One week later Mr. De Vere wrote to her, saying that if she still wished to teach, she could have the school at Hampton. He had seen the trustees, had agreed upon the price, and had even selected her a boarding-place near by. "I regret," said he, "that we live so far from the schoolhouse as to render it impossible for you to board with us. You might ride, I suppose, and I would cheerfully carry you every day; but, on the whole, I think you had better stop with Mrs. Johnson."
This letter Maude took at once to her brother, from whom she had hitherto withheld her intention to teach, as she did not wish to pain him unnecessarily with the dread of a separation, which might never be. Deeply had he sympathized with her in her misfortune, whispering to her that two—thirds of his own inheritance should be hers. "I can coax almost anything from father," he said, "and when I am twenty-one I'll ask him to give me my portion, and then I'll take you to Europe. You won't be old, Maude, only twenty-seven, and I shall be proud when the people say that beautiful woman with eyes like stars is the crippled artist's sister!"
In all his plans he made no mention of J.C., whose conduct he despised, and whose character he began to read aright.
"Maude will never marry him, I hope," he thought, and when she brought to him the letter from James De Vere, the noble little fellow conquered his own feelings, and with a hopeful heart as to the result of that summer's teaching he bade her go. So it was all arranged, and the next letter which went from Maude to J.C. carried the intelligence that his betrothed was going "to turn country school-ma'am, and teach the Hampton brats their A B C's," so at last he said to Mrs. Kelsey and her niece, between whom and himself there was a perfectly good understanding, and to whom he talked of his future prospects without reserve. Mrs. Kelsey was secretly delighted, for matters were shaping themselves much as she would wish. Her brother evinced no particular, desire to have his daughter at home, and she determined to keep her as long as there was the slightest chance of winning J.C. De Vere. He was now a regular visitor at her house, and lest he should suspect her design, she spoke often and respectfully of Maude, whose cause she seemed to have espoused, and when he came to her with the news of her teaching she sympathized with him at once.
"It would be very mortifying," she said, "to marry a district school-mistress, though there was some comfort in knowing that his friends were as yet ignorant of the engagement."
"Let them remain so a while longer," was the hasty answer of J.C., who, as time passed on, became more and more unwilling that the gay world should know of his engagement with one who was not an heiress after all.