A GENEROUS LETTER.
At last the answer came, and it was Maddy who brought it to Guy. She
had been home that day, and on her return had ridden by the office as
Guy had requested her to do. She saw the letter bore a foreign
postmark, also that it was in the delicate handwriting of some female,
but the sight did not affect her in the least. Maddy’s heart was far
too heavy that day to care for a trifle, and so placing the letter
carefully in her basket she kept on to Aikenside.
The letter was decidedly Lucy-ish in all that pertained to her “dearest
darling,” her “precious Guy,” but when she came to Maddy Clyde, her
true, womanly nature spoke; and Guy, while reading it, felt how good
she was. Of course he might teach Maddy Clyde all he wished to teach
her, and it made Lucy love him better to know that he was willing to do
such things. She wished she was there to help him; they would open a
school for all the poor, but she did not know when mamma would let her
come. That pain in her side was not any better, and her cough had come
earlier this season than last. The physician had advised a winter in
Naples, and they were going before very long. It would be pleasant
there, no doubt, only she should be farther away from her boy Guy, but
she would think of him, oh, so often, teaching that dear little Maddy
Clyde, and she would pray for him, too, just as she always did. Then
followed a few more lines sacred to the lover’s eye, lines which told
how pure was the love which sweet Lucy Atherstone bore for Guy
Remington, who, as he read, felt his heart beat with a throb of pain,
for Lucy spoke to him now for the first time of what might possibly be.
“I’ve dreamed about it nights,” she said. “I’ve thought about it days,
and tried so hard to be reconciled; to feel that if God will have it
so, I am willing to die before you have ever called me your little
wife, or I have ever called you husband. Heaven is better than earth, I
know, and I am sure of going there, I think, but oh, dear Guy, a life
with you looks so very sweet, that sometimes your little Lucy shrinks
from the dark grave, which would hide her forever from you. Guy, you
once said you never prayed, and it made me feel so badly, but you will,
when you get this, won’t you? You will ask God to make me well, and may
be He will hear you. Do, Guy, please do pray for your Lucy, far away
over the sea.”
Guy could not resist that touching appeal, “to pray for his little
Lucy,” and though his lips were all unused to prayer, bowing his head
upon his hands he did ask that she might live, beseeching the Father to
send upon him any calamity save this one—Lucy must be spared. Guy felt
better for having prayed, it was something to tell Lucy, something that
would please her well, and though his heart yet was very sad, a part of
the load was lifted, and he could think of Lucy now without the bitter
pain her letter first had cost him. Was there nothing that would save
her, nobody who could cure her? Her disease was not hereditary; surely
it might be made to yield; had English physicians no skill, would not
an American do better? It was possible, and if that mother of Lucy’s
would let her come where doctors knew something, she might get well;
but she wouldn’t; she was determined that no husband should be burdened
with an ailing wife, and so if the mountain would not come to Mahomet,
why, Mahomet must go to the mountain, and Guy fairly leaped from his
chair as he exclaimed: “I have it—Doc!—he’s the most skillful man I
ever knew; I’ll send him to England; send him to the Atherstones; he
shall go to Naples with them as their family physician; he can cure
Lucy; I’ll speak to him the very next time he comes here;” and with
another burden lifted from his mind, Guy began to wonder where Maddy
was, and why that day had been so long.
He knew she had returned, for Flora had said she brought the letter,
and he was about going out, in hopes of finding her and Jessie, when he
heard her in the hall, as she answered some question of Mrs. Noah’s;
stepping to the door, he asked her to come in, saying he would, if she
chose, appoint the lessons talked about so long. Ordinarily, Maddy’s
eyes would have flashed with delight, for she had anticipated so much
from these lessons; now, however, there was a sad look upon her face
and she could scarcely keep from crying as she came at Guy’s bidding,
and sat upon the sofa, near to his armchair. Somehow it rested Guy to
look at Maddy Clyde, who, having recovered from her illness, seemed the
very embodiment of perfect health, a health which glowed and sparkled
all over her bright face; showing itself as well in the luxuriance of
her glossy hair as in the brilliancy of her complexion, and the flash
of her lustrous eyes. How Guy wished that Lucy could share in what
seemed almost superfluity of health; and why shouldn’t she? Dr.
Holbrook had cured Maddy; Dr. Holbrook could cure Lucy; and so for the
present dismissing that from his mind, he turned to Maddy, and said the
time had come when he could give those promised lessons, asking if she
would commence to-morrow, after she was through with Jessie, and what
she would prefer to take up first?
“Oh, Mr. Remington,” and Maddy began to cry: “I am afraid I cannot stay
they need me at home, or maybe Grandpa said so and I don’t want to go,
though I know it’s wicked not to; oh, dear, dear!”
Here Maddy broke down entirely, sobbing so convulsively that Guy became
alarmed, and wondered what he ought to do to quiet her. As she sat the
bowed head was just within his reach, and so he very naturally laid his
hand upon it, and as if it had been Jessie’s smoothed the silken hair,
while he asked why she must go home. Had anything occurred to make her
presence more necessary than it was at Aikenside? and into the young
man’s heart there crept a feeling that Aikenside would be very lonely
without Maddy Clyde.
Controlling her voice as well as she was able, Maddy told him how the
physicians at the asylum had written that as Uncle Joseph would in all
human probability never be perfectly sane, and as a change of scene
would do him good, Mr. Markham had better try taking him a while; that
having been spoken with upon the subject, he seemed as anxious as a
little child, even crying when the night came around and he was not at
home, as he expressed it. “They have kept him so long,” Maddy said,
“that grandpa thought it his duty to relieve them, though he can’t well
afford it, and so he’s coming next week, and grandma will need some one
to help, and I must go. I know it’s wrong, but I do not want to go, try
as I will.”
It was a gloomy prospect to exchange Aikenside for the humble home
where poverty had its abode, and it was not very strange that Maddy
should shrink from it at first. She did not stop to ask what was her
duty, or think how much happiness her presence might give her
grandparents, or how much she might cheer and amuse the weak imbecile,
her uncle. She was but human, and so when Guy began to devise ways of
preventing her going, she listened, while the pain at her heart grew
less as her faith in Guy grew stronger. He would drive down with her
to-morrow, he said, and see what could be done. Meanwhile she must dry
her eyes and go to Jessie, who was calling her.
As Guy had half expected, the doctor came around that evening, and
inviting him into his private room, Guy proceeded at once to unfold his
scheme, asking him first:
“How much he probably received a year for his services as physician.”
The doctor could not tell at once, but after a little thought made an
estimate, and then inquired why Guy had asked the question.
“Because, Doc, I have a project on foot. Lucy Atherstone is dying with
what they call consumption. I don’t believe those old fogies understand
her disease, and if you will go over to England and undertake her cure,
I’ll give you just double what you’ll get by remaining here. They are
going to Naples for the winter, and, undoubtedly, will spend some time
in Paris. It will be just the thing for you. Lucy and her mother will
be glad of your services when they know I sent you, Lucy likes you now.
Will you go? You can trust Maddy to me. I’ll take good care that she is
worthy of you when you come back.”
At the mention of Maddy’s name, the doctor’s brow darkened. He was sure
that Guy meant kindly, but it grated on his feelings to be thus joked
about what he knew was a stern reality. Guy’s project appeared to him
at first a most insane one, but as he continued to enlarge upon it, and
the advantage it would be to the doctor to travel in the old world, a
feeling of enthusiasm was kindled in his own breast; a desire to visit
Naples and France, and the places he had dreamed of as a boy, but never
hoped to see, Guy’s plan began to look more feasible, and possibly he
might have yielded but for one thought, and that a thought of Maddy
Clyde. He would not leave her alone with Guy, even though Guy was true
to Lucy as steel. He would stay; he would watch; and in time he would
win the young girl waiting now for him in the hall below, waiting to
tell him ’mid blushes of shame and tears of regret how she had meant to
pay him with her very first wages, but now, Uncle Joseph was coming
home, and he must wait a little longer.
“Would he, could he be so good?” and unmindful of Guy’s presence Maddy
laid her hand confidingly upon his arm, while her soft eyes looked
beseechingly into his.
How the doctor wished Guy was away, and kindly taking the hint, Guy
left them together in the lighted hall. Sitting down on the sofa, and
making Maddy sit beside him, the doctor began:
“Maddy, you know I mean what I say, at least to you, and when I tell
you that I never think of that bill except when you speak of it, you
will believe me. I know your grandfather’s circumstances, and I know,
too, that I did much to induce your sickness, consequently if I made
one out at all, it would be a very small one.”
He did not get any further, for Maddy hastily interrupted him, and
while her eyes flashed with pride, exclaimed:
“I will not be a charity patient! I say I will not! I’d be a hired girl
before I’d do it!”
It troubled the doctor to see Maddy so disturbed about dollars and
cents—to know that poverty was pressing its iron hand upon her young
heart; and only because she was so young did he refrain from offering
her then and there a resting place from the ills of life in his
sheltering love. But she was not prepared, and he should only defeat
his object by his rashness, so he restrained himself, though he did
pass his arm partly around her waist as he said to her:
“I tell you, Maddy, honestly, that when I want that bill liquidated
I’ll ask you. I certainly will, and I’ll let you pay it, too. Does that
satisfy you?”
Yes, Maddy was satisfied, and after a little the doctor continued:
“By the way, Maddy, I have some idea of going to Europe for a few
months, or a year or more. You know it does a physician good to study
awhile in Paris. What do you think of it? Shall I go?”
The doctor had become quite necessary to Maddy’s happiness. He it was
to whom she confided all her little troubles, and to lose him would be
a terrible loss, and so she answered that if it would be much better
for him she supposed he ought to go, though she should miss him sadly
and be so lonely without him.
“Would you, Maddy? Are you in earnest? Would you be lonelier for my
being gone?” the doctor asked, eagerly. With her usual truthfulness,
Maddy replied: “Of course I should;” and, when, after the conference
was ended, the doctor stood for a moment talking with Guy, ere bidding
him good-night, he said: “I think I shall not accept your European
proposition. Somebody else must cure Lucy.”
The next day, as Guy had proposed, he rode down to Honedale, taking
Maddy with him, and offering so many reasons why she should not be
called home, that the old people began to relent, particularly as they
saw how Maddy’s heart was set on the lessons Guy was going to give her.
She might never have a like opportunity, the young man said, and as a
good education would put her in the way of helping them when they were
older and needed her more, it was their duty to leave her with them. He
knew they objected to her receiving three dollars a week, but he should
pay it just the same, and if they chose they might, with a part of it,
hire a little girl to do the work which Maddy would do were she at
home. All this sounded very feasible, especially as it was backed up by
Maddy’s eyes, brimful of tears, and fixed pleadingly upon her
grandfather. The sight of them, more than Guy’s arguments, influenced
the old man, who decided that if grandma were willing Maddy should
stay, unless absolutely needed at the cottage. Then the tears burst
forth, and winding her arms around her grandfather’s neck, Maddy sobbed
out her thanks, asking if it were selfish and wicked and naughty in her
to prefer learning rather than staying there.
“Not if that’s your only reason,” grandpa replied. “It’s right to want
learning, quite right; but, if my child is biased by the fine things at
Aikenside, and hates to come back to her poor home, because ’tis poor,
I should say it was very natural, but not exactly right.”
Maddy was very happy after it was settled, and chatted gayly with her
grandmother, while Guy went out with her grandfather, who wished to
speak with him alone.
“Young man,” he said, “you have taken a deep interest in me and mine
since I first came to know you, and I thank you for it all. I’ve
nothing to give in return except my prayers, and those you have every
day; you and that doctor. I pray for you two just as I do for Maddy.
Somehow you three come in together. You’re uncommon good to Maddy.
’Tain’t every one like you who would offer and insist on learning her.
I don’t know what you do it for. You seem honest. You can’t, of course,
ever dream of making her your wife, and, if I thought—yes, if I
supposed”—here grandpa’s voice trembled, and his face became a livid
hue with the horror of the idea—“if I supposed that in your heart there
was the shadow of an intention to deceive my child, to ruin my Maddy,
I’d throttle you here on the spot, old as I am, and bitterly as I
should repent the rashness.”
Guy attempted to speak, but grandpa motioned him to be silent, while he
went on:
“I do not suspect you, and that’s why I trust her with you. My old eyes
are dim, but I can see enough to know that Maddy is beautiful. Her
mother was so before her, and the Clydes were a handsome race. My Alice
was elevated, folks thought, by marrying Captain Clyde, but I don’t
think so. She was pure and good as the angels, and Maddy is much like
her, only she has the ambition of the Clydes: has their taste for
everything a little above her. She wouldn’t make nobody blush if she
was mistress of Aikenside.”
Grandpa felt relieved when he had said all this to Guy, who listened
politely, smiling at the idea of his deceiving Maddy, and fully
concurring with grandpa in all he said of her rare beauty and natural
gracefulness. On their return to the house grandpa showed Guy the
bedroom intended for Uncle Joseph, and Guy, as he glanced at the
furniture, though within himself how he would send down from Aikenside
some of the unused articles piled away on the garret when he
refurnished his house. He was becoming greatly interested in the
Markhams, caring nothing for the remarks his interest might excite
among the neighbors, some of whom watched Maddy half curiously as in
the stylish carriage, beside its stylish owner, she rode back to
Aikenside in the quiet, autumnal afternoon.