CHAPTER XVI.THE DOCTOR AND MADDY.
Now that they were alone, the doctor’s courage forsook him, and he could only stammer out some common-place remarks about the party, asking how Maddy had enjoyed it, and if she was sure she had entirely recovered from the effects of her fainting fit. He was not getting on at all, and it was impossible for him to say anything as he had meant to say it. Why couldn’t she help him, instead of looking so unsuspiciously at him with those large, bright eyes? Didn’t she know how dear she was to him? He should think she might. She ought to have divined it ere this; and if so, why didn’t she blush, or do something?
At last she came to his aid by saying, “You promised to tell me about the bracelets and necklace, whether I ought to keep them.”
“Yes, oh, yes, I believe I did.” And getting up from his chair, the doctor began to walk the floor, the better to hide his confusion. “Yes, the bracelets.You looked very pretty in them, Maddy, very; but you are always pretty—ahem—yes. If you were engaged to Guy, I should say it was proper; but if not, why, I don’t know; the fact is, Maddy, I am not quite certain what I’m saying, so you must excuse me. I almost hated you that day you sent the note, telling me you were coming to be examined; but I had not seen you then. I did not know how, after a while—a very little while—I should in all probability—well, I did; I changed my mind, and I—I guess you have not the slightest idea what I mean.” And stopping suddenly, he confronted the astonished Maddy, who replied:
“Not the slightest, unless you are going crazy.”
She could in no other way account for his strange conduct, and she sat staring at him while he continued:
“I told you once that when I wanted my bill I’d let you know. I’d ask for pay. I want it now. I present my bill.”
With a scared, miserable feeling, Maddy listened to him, wondering where she could get the money, if it were possible for her grandfather to raise it, and how much her entire wardrobe would bring, suppose she should sell it! The bill had not troubled her latterly,for she had fallen into a way of believing that the doctor would wait until she was graduated and could earn it by teaching. Nothing could be more inopportune than for him to present it now; and with a half-stifled sob she began to speak, but he silenced her by a gesture, and sitting down beside her, said, in a voice more natural than the one with which he had at first addressed her:
“Maddy, I know you have no money. It is not that I want, Maddy; I want—I want—you.”
He bent down over her now, for her face was hidden in her hands, all sense of sight shut out, all sense of hearing, too, save the words he was pouring into her ear—words which burned their way into her heart, making it throb for a single moment with gratified pride, and then grow heavy as lead as she knew how impossible it was for her to pay the debt in the way which he desired.
“I can’t, doctor; oh, I can’t!” she sobbed. “I never dreamed of this; never supposed you could want me for your wife. I’m only a little girl—only sixteen last October—but I’m so sorry for you, who have been so kind. If I only could love you as you deserve. I do love you, too; but not the way you mean. I cannot be your wife; no, doctor, I cannot.”
She was sobbing piteously, and in his concern for her the doctor forgot somewhat the stunning blow he had received.
“Don’t, Maddy!” he said, drawing her trembling form closely to him. “Don’t be so distressed. I did not much think you’d tell me yes, and I was a fool to ask you. I am too old; but, Maddy, Guy is as old as I am.”
The doctor did not know why he said this, unless in the first keenness of his disappointment there was a satisfaction in telling her that the objection to his age would apply also to Guy. But it did not affect Maddy in the least, or give her the slightest inkling of his meaning. He saw it did not, and the pain was less to bear. Still, he would know certainly if he had a rival, and he said to her:
“Do you love some one else, Maddy? Is another preferred before me, and is that the reason why you cannot love me?”
“No,” Maddy answered, through her tears. “There is no one else. Whom should I love, unless it were you? I know nobody but Mr. Remington.”
That name touched a sore, aching chord in thedoctor’s heart, but he gave no sign of the jealousy, which had troubled him, and for a moment there was silence in the room; then, as the doctor began to realize that Maddy had refused him, there awoke within him a more intense desire to win her than he had ever felt before. He would not give her up without another effort, and he pleaded again for her love, going over all the past, and telling of the interest awakened when first she came to him that April afternoon, almost two years ago; then of the little sick girl who had grown so into the heart never before affected in the least by womankind; and lastly, of the beautiful woman, as he called her, sitting beside him now in all the freshness of her young womanhood. Maddy, as she listened, felt for him a strange kind of a pity, a wish to do his bidding if she only could, and why shouldn’t she? Girls had married those whom they did not love, and been tolerably happy with them too. Perhaps she could be so with the doctor. There was everything about him to respect, and much which she could love. Should she try? There was a great lump in Maddy’s throat as she tried to speak, but it cleared away, and she said very sadly but very earnestly, too:
“Dr. Holbrook, would you like me to say yes withmy lips when all the time there was something at my heart tugging to answer no?”
This was not at all what Maddy meant to say, but the words were born of her extreme truthfulness, and the doctor thus learned the nature of the struggle which he saw was going on.
“No, Maddy, I would not have you say yes unless your heart was in it,” he answered, while he tried to smile upon the tearful face looking up so sorrowfully at him.
But the smile was a forlorn one, and there came instead a tear as he thought how dear was this girl who never could be his. Maddy saw the tear, and, as if she were a child, wiped it from his cheek; then, in tones which never faltered, she told him it might be that in time she should learn to love him. She would try so hard, she would think of him always as her promised husband, and by that means should learn at last not to shrink from taking him for such. It might be ever so long, and perhaps she should be twenty or more, but some time in the future she should feel differently. Was he satisfied, and would he wait?
Her little hand was resting on his shoulder, but he did not mind its soft pressure or know that it was there, so strong was the temptation to accept thathalf-made promise. But the doctor was too noble, too unselfish, to bind Maddy to himself unless she were wholly willing, and he said to her that if she did not love him now she probably never would. She could not make a love. She need not try, as it would only result in her own unhappiness. They would be friends just as they always had been, and none need know of what had passed between them, exceptGuy. “I must tell him,” the doctor said, “because he knew that I was going to ask you.”
Maddy could not explain why it was that she felt glad the doctor would tell Guy. She did not analyze any of her feelings, or stop to ask why she should care to have Guy Remington know the answer she had given Dr. Holbrook. He was going to him now, she was sure, for he arose to leave her, saying he might not see her again before she returned to New York. She did not mention his bill. That was among the bye-gones, a thing never again to be talked about; and offering him her hand, she looked for an instant earnestly into his face, and then, without a word, hurried from the room, while the doctor, with a sad, heavy heart, went in quest of Guy.
“Refused you, did you say?” and Guy’s face certainlylooked brighter than it had before since he left the doctor with Maddy Clyde.
“Yes, refused me, as I might have known she would,” was the doctor’s reply, spoken so naturally that Guy looked up quickly to see if he really did not care.
But the expression of the face belied the calmness of the voice; and, touched with genuine pity, Guy asked the cause of the refusal—“Preference for any one else, or what?”
“No, there was no one whom she preferred. She merely did not like me well enough to be my wife, that was all,” the doctor said, and then he tried to talk of something else; but it would not do. The wound was yet too fresh and sore to be covered up, and in spite of himself the bearded chin quivered and the manly voice shook as he bade good-bye to Guy, and then went galloping down the avenue.
Great was the consternation among the doctor’s patients when it was known that their pet physician—the one in whose skill they had so much confidence—was going to Europe, where in Paris he could perfect himself in his profession. Some cried, and among them Agnes; some said he knew enough already;some tried to dissuade him from his purpose; some wondered at the sudden start, while only two knew exactly why he was going—Guy and Maddy; the former approving his decision, and lending his influence to make his tour abroad as pleasant as possible; and the latter weeping bitterly as she thought how she had sent him away, and that if aught befell him on the sea or in that distant land, she would be held responsible. Once there came over her the wild impulse to bid him stay, to say that she would be his wife; but, before the rash act was done, Guy came down to the cottage, and Maddy’s resolution gave way at once.
It would be difficult to tell the exact nature of Maddy’s liking for Guy at that time. Had he offered himself to her, she would probably have refused him even more promptly than she did the doctor; for, to all intents and purposes, he was, in her estimation, the husband of Lucy Atherstone. As such, there was no harm in making him her paragon of all male excellence; and Guy would have felt flattered, could he have known how much he was in that young girl’s mind. But now for a few days he had a rival, for Maddy’s thoughts were all given to the doctor, who came down to see her once before starting for Europe.She did not cry while he was there, but her voice was strange and hoarse as she gave him messages for Lucy Atherstone; and all that day her face was white and sad, as are the faces of those who come back from burying their dead.
Only once after the party did she go up to Aikenside, and then, summoning all her fortitude, she gave back to Guy the bracelets and the necklace, telling him she ought not to wear them; that ornaments as rich as these were not for her; that her grandmother did not wish her to keep them, and he must take them back. Guy saw she was in earnest, and much against his will he received again the ornaments he had been so happy in purchasing.
“They will do for Jessie when she was older,” Maddy said; but Guy thought it very doubtful whether Jessie would ever have them. They were something he had bought for Maddy, something she had worn, and as such they were too sacred to give to another. So he laid them away beside the picture guarded so carefully from every one.
Two weeks afterward Aikenside presented again a desolate, shut-up appearance, for Agnes, Maddy and Jessie had returned to New York; Agnes to continue the siege which, in despair of winning the doctor, shehad commenced against a rich old bachelor, who had a house on Madison square; and Maddy to her books, which ere long obliterated, in a measure, the bitter memory of all that had transpired during her winter vacation.