THE DECISION.
The reception of Agnes’ note produced quite a commotion at the red
cottage, where various opinions were expressed as to the prime mover of
the plan, grandpa thinking that as Mrs. Agnes wrote the note, and was
most interested in it, she, of course, had suggested it, grandma
insisting that it was Jessie’s doings, while Maddy, when she said
anything, agreed with her grandmother, though away down in her heart
was a tiny spot warm with the half belief that Mr. Guy himself had
first thought of having her at Aikenside, where she would rather go
than to any other spot in the wide world; to Aikenside, with its shaven
lawn, almost large enough to be called a park, with its shaded paths
and winding walks, its costly flowers and running vines, its fountains
and statuary, its fish pond and grove, its airy rooms, its marbled
hall, its winding stairs, with banisters of rosewood, its cupola at the
top, from which so many miles of hill and meadow land could be
discerned, its bay windows and long piazzas, its sweet-faced,
golden-haired Jessie, and its manly, noble Guy. Only the image of
Agnes, flashing in silk and diamonds was a flaw on the picture’s fair
surface. From thoughts of her Maddy had insensibly shrank, until she
met her in the carriage, and then received the note asking her
services. These events wrought in her a change, and dread of Mrs. Agnes
passed away. She should like her, and she should be so happy at
Aikenside, for, of course, she was going, and she began to wish the
doctor would come so as to tell her how long before she would be strong
enough to perform the duties of teacher to little Jessie.
At first Grandpa Markham hesitated. It might do Maddy a deal of hurt to
go to Aikenside, he said, her humble home would look mean to her after
all that finery, while the temptations to vanity and ambition would be
greater there than at home; but Maddy put all his objections aside, and
long before the doctor came she had written to Mrs. Agnes that she
would go. The doctor could not understand why it was that in Maddy’s
home he did not think as well of her going to Aikenside as he had done
the evening previous. She looked so bright, so pure, so artless,
sitting by her grandfather’s knee, that it seemed a pity to transplant
her to another soil, while, hidden in his heart where even he did not
know it was hidden, was a fear of what might be the effect of daily
intercourse with Guy. Still he said it was the best thing for her to
do, and laughingly remarked that it was far better than teaching the
district school, and then he asked if she would ride again that day;
but to this Mrs. Markham objected. It was too soon, she said, Maddy had
hardly recovered from yesterday’s fatigue, suggesting that as the
doctor was desirous of doing good to his convalescent patients, he
carry out poor old deaf Mary Barnes, who complained that he stayed so
long with the child at “granther Markham’s” as to have but a moment to
spare for her.
Instantly the eyes of Mrs. Markham and the doctor met, the latter
feeling very uncomfortable, while the former was confirmed in the
suspicion raised by what Maddy told her the day before.
It was the doctor who carried Maddy’s answer to Agnes, the doctor who
made all the succeeding arrangements, deciding that Maddy would not be
wholly strong until the very day fixed upon by Agnes for her departure
for Saratoga. For this Guy was sorry. It would have been an easy matter
for him to have ridden down to the cottage, and seen the girl in whom
he was beginning to feel so much interest that in his last letter to
Lucy he had mentioned her as about to become his sister’s governess;
but he did not care to see her there. It seemed to him that the
surroundings of that slanting-roofed house did not belong to her, and
he would rather meet her in his own more luxurious home. But the
doctor’s word was law, and so, on the first day of August he followed
Agnes and her three huge traveling trunks to the carriage, and was
driven from the house to which Maddy was coming that afternoon.