THE HOLIDAYS.
The summer vacation had been spent by the Remington’s and Maddy at the
seaside, the latter coming to the cottage for a week before returning
to her school in New York, and as the doctor was then absent from home,
she did not meet him at all. Consequently he had not seen her since she
left Aikenside for New York. But she was at home now for the Christmas
holidays—was down at the cottage, too; and unusually nervous for him,
the doctor stood before the little square glass in his back office,
trying to make himself look as well as possible, for he was going that
very afternoon to call upon Miss Clyde. He was glad she was not at
Aikenside; he would rather meet her where Guy was not, and he hoped he
might be fortunate enough to find her alone.
The doctor was seriously in love. He acknowledged that now to himself,
confessing, too, that with his love was mingled a spice of jealousy,
lest Guy Remington should be expending more thought on Maddy Clyde than
was consistent with the promised husband of Lucy Atherstone. He wished
so much to talk with Guy about her, and yet he dreaded it; for if the
talk should confirm his suspicious there would be no hope for him. No
girl in her right mind would prefer him to Guy Remington, and with a
little sigh the doctor was turning away from the glass, when, as if to
verify a familiar proverb, Guy himself drove up in a most dashing
equipage, the silver-tipped harness of his high-mettled steed flashing
in the wintry sunlight, and the bright-hued lining of his fanciful
robes presenting a very gay appearance.
Guy was in the best of spirits. For an entire half day he had tried to
devise some means to getting Maddy up to Aikenside. It was quite too
bad for her to spend the whole vacation at the cottage, as she seemed
likely to do. He knew she was lonely there; that the bare floor and
low, dark walls affected her unpleasantly. He had seen that in her face
when he bade her good-by, for he had carried her down to the cottage
himself, and now he was going after her. There was to be a party at
Aikenside; the very first since Guy was its master. The neighbors had
said he was too proud to invite them, but they should say so no more.
The house was to be thrown open in honor of Guy’s twenty-sixth
birthday, and all who were at all desirable as guests were to be bidden
to the festival. First on the list was the doctor, who, remembering how
averse Guy was to large parties, wondered at the proceedings. But Guy
was all engaged in the matter, and after telling who were to be
invited, added rather indifferently: “I’m going now down to Honedale
after Maddy. It’s better for her to be with us a day or two beforehand.
You’ve seen her, of course.”
No, the doctor had not; he was just going there, he said, in a tone so
full of sad disappointment, that Guy detected it at once, and asked if
anything was the matter.
“Guy,” the doctor continued, sitting down by his friend, “I remember
once your making me your confidant about Lucy. You remember it, too?”
“Yes, why? well?” Guy replied, beginning to feel strangely
uncomfortable as he half divined what was coming next.
Latterly Guy had stopped telling the doctor that he was educating Maddy
for him. Indeed, he did not talk of her at all, and the doctor might
have fancied her out of his mind but for the frequent visits to New
York, which Guy found it absolutely necessary to make. Guy did not
himself understand the state of his own feelings with regard to Maddy,
but if compelled to explain them they would have been something as
follows: He fully expected to marry Lucy Atherstone; the possibility
that he should not had never occurred to him, but that was no reason
why Maddy Clyde need be married for these many years. She was very
young yet; there was time enough for her to think of marrying when she
was twenty-five, and in the meanwhile it would be splendid to have her
at Aikenside as Lucy’s and his friend. Nothing could be nicer, and Guy
did not care to have this little arrangement spoiled. But that the
doctor had an idea of spoiling it, he had not a doubt, particularly
after the doctor’s next remark.
“I have not seen Maddy since last spring, you know. Is she very much
improved?”
“Yes, very much. There is no more stylish-looking girl to be seen on
Broadway than Maddy Clyde,” and Guy shook down his pantaloons a little
awkwardly.
“Well, is she as handsome as she used to be, and as childish in her
manner?” the doctor asked; and Guy replied:
“I took her to the opera once, last month, and the many admiring
glances cast at our box proved pretty positively that Maddy’s beauty
was not of the ordinary kind.”
“The opera!” the doctor exclaimed; “Maddy Clyde at the opera! What
would her grandfather say? He is very puritanical, you know.”
“Yes, I know; and so is Maddy, too. She wrote and obtained his consent
before she’d go with me. He won’t let her go to a theatre anyhow.”
Here an interval of silence ensued, and then the doctor began again,
“Guy, you told me once you were educating Maddy Clyde for me, and I
tried then to make you think I didn’t care; but I did, oh, so much.
Guy, laugh at me, if you please. I cannot blame you if you do; but the
fact is, I believe I’ve loved Maddy Clyde ever since that time she was
so sick. At all events, I love her now, and I was going down there this
very afternoon to tell her so. She’s old enough. She was sixteen last
October, the—the——”
“Tenth day,” Guy responded, thus showing that he, too, was keeping
Maddy’s age, even to a day.
“Yes, the tenth day,” resumed the doctor. “There’s ’most eleven years’
difference between us, but if she feels at all as I do, she will not
care, Guy;” and the doctor began to talk earnestly: “I’ll be candid
with you, and say that you have sometimes made my heart ache a little.”
“Me!” and Guy’s face was crimson, while the doctor continued:
“Yes, and I beg your pardon for it; but let me ask you one question,
and upon its answer will depend my future course with regard to Maddy:
You are true to Lucy?”
Guy felt the blood trickling at the roots of his hair, but he answered
truthfully as he believed:
“Yes, true as steel;” while the generous thought came over him that he
would further the doctor’s plans all he possibly could.
“Then I am satisfied,” the doctor rejoined; “and as you have rather
assumed the position of her guardian or brother, I ask your permission
to offer her the love which whether she accepts it or not, is hers.”
Guy had never felt a sharper pang than that which now thrilled through
every nerve, but he would not prove false to the friend confiding in
him, and he answered calmly:
“You have my consent; but, Doc, better put it off till you see her at
Aikenside. There’s no chance at the cottage, with those three old
people. I wonder she don’t go wild. I’m sure I should.”
Guy was growing rather savage about something, but the doctor did not
mind; and grasping his arm as he arose, he said:
“And you’ll manage it for me, Guy? You know how. I don’t. You’ll
contrive for me to see her alone, and maybe say a word beforehand in my
favor.”
“Yes, yes, I’ll manage it. I’ll fix it right. Don’t forget, day after
to-morrow night. The Cutlers’ will be there, and, by the way, Marcia
has got to be a splendid girl. She fancied you once, you know. Old
Cutler is worth half a million.” And Guy tore himself away from the
doctor, who, now that the ice was broken, would like to have talked of
Maddy forever.
But Guy was not thus inclined, and in a mood not extremely amiable, he
threw himself into his sleigh and went dashing down toward Honedale.
For some unaccountable reason he was not now one bit interested in the
party, and, were it not that a few of the invitations were issued, he
would have been tempted to give it up. Guy did not know what ailed him.
He only felt as if somebody had been meddling with his plans, and had
he been in the habit of swearing, he would probably have sworn; but as
he was not, he contented himself with driving like a second Jehu he
reached Honedale, where a pair of soft, brown eyes smiled up into his
face, and a little, fat, warm hand was clasped in his, as Maddy came
even to the gate to meet him.
She was very glad to see him. The cottage with its humble adornings did
seem lonely, almost dreary, after the life and bustle of New York, and
Maddy had cried more than once to think how hard and wicked she must be
growing when her home had ceased to be the dear old home she once loved
so well. She had been there five days now, and notwithstanding the
efforts of her grandparents to entertain her, each day had seemed a
week in its duration. Neither the doctor nor Guy had been near her, and
capricious little Maddy had made herself believe that the former was
sadly remiss in his duty, inasmuch as he had not seen her for so long.
He had been in the habit of calling every week, her grandmother said,
and this did not tend to increase her amiability. Why didn’t he come
now when he knew she was at home? Didn’t he want to see her? Well, she
could be indifferent, too, and when they did meet, she’d show how
little she cared!
Maddy was getting to be a woman with womanly freaks, as the reader will
readily see. At Guy she was not particularly piqued. She did not take
his attentions, as a matter of course; still she thought more of him,
if possible, than of the doctor, during those five days, saying to
herself each morning: “He’ll surely come to-day,” and to herself each
night: “He will be here to-morrow.” She had something to show him at
last—a letter from Lucy Atherstone, who had gradually come to be her
regular correspondent, and whom Maddy had learned to love with all the
intensity of her girlhood. To her ardent imagination Lucy Atherstone
was but a little lower than the angels, and the pure, sweet thoughts
contained in every letter were doing almost as much toward molding her
character as Grandpa Markham’s prayers and constant teachings. Maddy
did not know it, but it was these letters from Lucy which kept her from
loving Guy Remington. She could not for a moment associate him with
herself when she so constantly thought of him as the husband of
another, and that other Lucy Atherstone. Not for worlds would Maddy
have wronged the gentle creature who wrote to her so confidingly of
Guy, envying her in that she could so often see his face and hear his
voice, while his betrothed was separated from him by many thousand
miles. Little by little it had come out that Lucy’s mother was averse
to the match, that she had in her mind the case of an English lord, who
would make her daughter “My Lady;” and this was the secret of her
deferring so long her daughter’s marriage. In her last letter to Maddy,
however, Lucy had written with more than her usual spirit that she
would come in possession of her property on her twenty-fifth birthday.
She should then feel at liberty to act for herself, and she launched
out into joyful anticipations of the time when she should come to
Aikenside and meet her dear Maddy Clyde. Feeling that Guy, if he did
not already know it, would be glad to hear it, Maddy had all the
morning been wishing he would come; and when she saw him at the gate
she ran out to meet him, her eyes and face sparkling with eager joy as
she suffered him to retain her hand while she said: “I am so glad to
see you, Mr. Remington. I almost thought you had forgotten me at
Aikenside, Jessie and all.”
Guy began to exclaim against any one’s forgetting her, and also to
express his pleasure at finding her so glad to see him, when Maddy
interrupted him with, “Oh, it’s not that; I’ve something to show
you—something which will make you very happy. I had a letter from Lucy
last night. When she is twenty-five she will be her own mistress, you
know, and she means to be married in spite of her mother—she says—let
me see—” and drawing from her bosom Lucy’s letter, Maddy read, “‘I do
not intend to fail in filial obedience, but I have tired dear Guy’s
patience long enough, and as soon as I can I shall marry him.’ Isn’t it
nice?” and returning the letter to its hiding place, Maddy scooped up
in her hand and ate a quantity of the snow beside the path.
“Yes, it was very nice,” Guy admitted, but there was a shadow on his
brow as he followed Maddy into the cottage, where the lunatic, who had
been watching them from the window, shook his head doubtfully and said,
“Too young, too young for you, young man. You can’t have our Sunshine
if you want her.”
“Hush, Uncle Joseph,” Maddy whispered, softly, taking his arm and
laying it around her neck. “Mr. Remington don’t want me. He is engaged
to a beautiful English girl across the sea.”
Low as Maddy’s words were, Guy heard them, as well as the crazy man’s
reply, “Engagements have been broken.”
That was the first time the possibility had ever entered Guy’s brain
that his engagement might be broken, provided he wished it, which he
did not, he said to himself positively. Lucy loved him, he loved Lucy,
and that was enough, so in a kind of abstracted manner arising from the
fact that he was calculating how long it would be before Lucy was
twenty-five, he began to talk with Maddy, asking how she had spent her
time, and so forth. This reminded Maddy of the doctor, who, she said,
had not been to see her at all.
“He was coming this morning,” Guy rejoined, “but I persuaded him to
defer his call until you were at Aikenside. I have come to take you
back with me, as we are to have a party day after to-morrow evening,
and I wish you to be present.”
A party, a big party, such as Maddy had never in her life attended! How
her eyes sparkled from mere anticipation as she looked appealingly to
her grandfather, who, though classing parties with the pomps and
vanities from which he would shield his child, still remembered that he
once was young, that fifty years ago he, too, like Maddy, wanted “to
see the folly of it,” and not take the mere word of older people that
in every festive scene there was a pitfall, strewn over so thickly with
roses that it was ofttimes hard to tell just where its boundary line
commenced. Besides that, grandpa had faith in Guy, and so his consent
was granted, and Maddy was soon on her way to Aikenside, which
presented a gayer, busier appearance than she had ever known before.
Jessie was wild with delight, dragging forth at once the pink dress
which she was to wear, and whispering to Maddy that Guy had bought a
dark blue silk for her, and that Sarah Jones was at that moment
fashioning it after a dress left there by Maddy the previous summer.
“Mother said plain white muslin was more appropriate for a young girl,
but Brother Guy said no; fee blue would be useful after the party; it
was what you needed, and so he bought it and paid a dollar and
three-quarters a yard, but it’s a secret until you are called to try it
on. Isn’t Guy splendid?”
He was indeed splendid, Maddy thought, wondering why he was so kind to
her, and if it would be so when Lucy came. The dress fitted admirably,
only Maddy thought grandpa would say it was too low in the neck, but
Sarah overruled her objections, assisted by Guy, who, when the dress
was completed and tried on for the last time, was called in by Jessie
to see if “Maddy’s neck didn’t look just like cheese curd,” and if “she
shouldn’t have a piece sewed on as she suggested.” The neck was _au
fait_, Guy said, laughing as Maddy for blushing so, and saying when he
saw how really distressed she seemed that he would provide her with
something to relieve the bareness of which she complained. “Oh, I know,
I saw, I peeked in the box,” Jessie began, but Guy put his hand over
the little tattler’s mouth, bidding her keep the result of her peeking
to herself.
And for once Jessie succeeded in doing so, although she several times
set Maddy to guessing what it was Guy had for her in a box! As the size
of the box was not mentioned, Maddy had fully made up her mind to a
shawl or scarf, and was proportionately disappointed when, as she was
dressing for the party, there was sent up to her room a small round
box, scarcely large enough to hold an apple, much less a small scarf.
The present proved to be a pair of plain but heavy bracelets, and a
most exquisitely wrought chain of gold, to which was appended a
beautiful pearl cross, the whole accompanied with the words, “From
Guy.” Jessie was in ecstasies again. Clasping the ornaments on Maddy’s
neck and arms, she danced around her, declaring there never was
anything more beautiful, or anybody as pretty as Maddy was in her rich
party dress. Maddy was fond of jewelry—as what young girl is not?—and
felt a flush of gratified pride, or vanity, or satisfaction, whichever
one chooses to call it, as she glanced at herself in the mirror and
remembered the time when, riding with the doctor, she had met Mrs.
Agnes, with golden bracelets flashing on her arms, and wished she might
one day wear something like them. The day had come sooner than she then
anticipated, but Maddy was not as happy in possession of the coveted
ornaments as she had thought she should be. Somehow, it seemed to her
that Guy ought not to have given them to her, that it was improper for
her to keep them, and that both Mrs. Noah and Agnes thought so, too.
She wished she knew exactly what was right, and then, remembering that
Guy had said the doctor was expected early, she decided to ask his
opinion on the subject and abide by it.
At first Agnes had cared but little about the party, affecting to
despise the people in their immediate neighborhood; but when Guy gave
her permission to invite from the adjoining towns, and even from
Worcester if she liked, her spirits arose; and when her toilet was
completed, she shone resplendent in lace and diamonds and curls,
managing to retain through all a certain simplicity of dress
appropriate to the hostess. But beautiful as Agnes was, she felt in her
jealous heart that there was about Maddy Clyde an attraction she did
not possess. Guy saw it, too, and while complimenting his pretty
mother-in-law, kept his eyes fixed admiringly on Maddy, who started him
into certain unpleasant remembrances by asking if the doctor had come
yet.
“No—yes—there he was now,” and Guy looked into the hall, where the
doctor’s voice was heard inquiring for him.
“I want to see him a minute, alone, please. There’s something I want to
ask him.” And, unmindful of Agnes’ darkening frown, or Guy’s look of
wonder, Maddy darted from the room, and ran hastily down the hall to
where the doctor stood, waiting for Guy, not for her.
He had not expected to meet her thus, or to see her thus, and the sight
of her, grown so tall, so womanly, so stylish and so beautiful, almost
took his breath away. And yet, as he stood with her soft hand in his,
and surveyed her from head to foot, he felt that he would rather have
had her as she was when a dainty frill shaded her pale, wasted face,
when the snowy ruffle was fastened high about her throat, and the
cotton bands were buttoned about her wrists, where gold ones now were
shining. The doctor had never forgotten Maddy as she was then, the very
embodiment, he thought, of helpless purity. The little sick girl, so
dear to him then, was growing away from him now; and these adornings,
which marked the budding woman, seemed to remove her from him and place
her nearer to Guy, whose bride should wear silk and jewels, just as
Maddy did.
She was very glad to see him, she said, asking in the same breath why
he had not been to the cottage, if she had not grown tall, and if he
thought her one bit improved with living in a city?
“One question at a time, if you please,” he said, drawing her a little
more into the shadow of the door where they would be less observed by
any one passing through.
Maddy did not wait for him to answer, so eager was she to unburden her
mind and know if she ought to keep the costly presents, at which she
knew he was looking.
“If he remembers his unpaid bill, he must consider me mighty mean,” she
thought: and then, with her usual frankness, she told him of the
perplexity and asked his opinion.
“It would displease Mr. Guy very much if I were to give them back,” she
said: “but it hardly is right for me to accept them, is it?”
The doctor did not say she ought not to wear the ornaments, though he
longed to tear them from her arms and neck and throw them anywhere, he
cared not where, so they freed her wholly from Guy.
They were very becoming, he said. She would not look as well without
them; so she had better wear them to-night, and to-morrow, if she would
grant him an interview, he would talk with her further.
Dissembling doctor! He said all this to gain the desired interview with
Maddy, the interview for which Guy was to prepare her. That he had not
done so he felt assured, but he could not be angry with him, as he came
smilingly toward them, asking if they had talked privacy long enough,
and glancing rather curiously at Maddy’s face. There was nothing in its
expression to disturb him, and, offering her his arm, he led her back
to the drawing-rooms where Agnes was smoothing down the folds of her
dress, preparatory to receiving the guests just descending the stairs.
It was a brilliant scene which Aikenside presented that night, and amid
it all Agnes bore herself like a queen, while Jessie, with her sunny
face and golden hair, came in for a full share of attention. But amid
the gay throng there was none so fair or so beautiful as Maddy, who
deported herself with as much ease and grace as if she had all her life
long been accustomed to just such occasions as this. At a distance the
doctor watched her, telling several who she was, and once resenting by
both look and manner a remark made by Maria Cutler to the effect that
she was nobody but Mrs. Remington’s governess, a poor girl whom Guy had
taken a fancy to educate out of charity.
“He seems very fond of his charity pupil, upon my word. He scarcely
leaves her neighborhood at all,” whispered old Mrs. Cutler, the mother
of Maria, who, Guy said, once fancied Dr. Holbrook, and who had no
particular objections to fancying him now, provided it could be
reciprocal.
But the doctor was only intent on Maddy, knowing always just where she
was standing, just who was talking to her; and just how far from her
Guy was. He knew, too, when the latter was urging her to sing; and,
managing to get nearer, heard her object that no one cared to hear her.
“But I do; I wish it,” Guy replied in that tone which people generally
obeyed; and casting a half-frightened look at the sea of faces around
her, Maddy suffered him to lead her to the piano, sitting quite still
while he found what he wished her to play.
It was his favorite song, and one which brought out Maddy’s voice in
its various modulations.
“Oh, please, Mr. Remington, anything but a song. I cannot sing,” Maddy
whispered pleadingly; but Guy answered resolutely, “You can.”
There was no appeal after this, but a resigned, obedient look, which
made the doctor gnash his teeth as he leaned upon the instrument. What
right had Guy to command Maddy Clyde, and why should she obey? and yet,
as the doctor glanced at Guy, he felt that were he in Maddy’s place, he
should do the same.
“No girl can resist Guy Remington,” he thought. “I’m glad there’s a
Lucy Atherstone over the sea.” And with a smile of encouragement for
Maddy, who was pale with nervous timidity, he listened while her sweet,
birdlike voice trembled for a moment with fear; and then, gaining from
its own sound, filled the room with melody, and made those who had
wandered off to other parts of the building hasten back to see who was
singing.
Maria Cutler had presided at the piano earlier in the evening, as had
one or two other young ladies, but to none of these had Guy paid half
the attention he did to Maddy, staying constantly by her, holding her
fan, turning the leaves of music, and dictating what she should play.
“There’s devotion,” tittered a miss in long ringlets; “but she really
does play well,” and she appealed to Maria Cutler, who answered, “Yes,
she keeps good time, and I should think might play for a dance. I mean
to ask her,” and going up to Guy she said, “I wish to speak to—to—well,
Jessie’s governess. Introduce me, please.”
Guy waited till Maddy was through, and then gave the desired
introduction. In a tone not wholly free from superciliousness, Miss
Cutler said:
“Can you play a waltz or polka, Miss Clyde? We are aching to exercise
our feet.”
Maddy bowed and struck into a spirited waltz, which set many of the
people present to whirling in circles, and produced the result which
Maria so much desired, viz: it drove Guy away from the piano, for he
could not mistake her evident wish to have him as a partner, and with
his arm around her waist he was soon moving rapidly from that part of
the room, leaving only the doctor to watch Maddy’s fingers as they flew
over the keys. Maddy never thought of being tired. She enjoyed the
excitement, and was glad she could do something toward entertaining
Guy’s guests. But Guy did not forget her for an instant. Through all
the mazes of the giddy dance, he had her before his eye, seeing not the
clouds of lace and muslin encircled by his arm, but the little figure
in blue sitting so patiently at the piano until he knew she must be
tired, and determined to release her. As it chanced, Maria was again
his partner, and drawing her nearer to Maddy, he said, “Your fingers
ache by this time, I am sure. It is wrong to trouble you longer. Agnes
will take your place while you try a quadrille with me.”
“Oh, thank you,” Maddy answered. “I am not tired in the least. I had as
lief play till morning, provided they are satisfied with my time and my
stock of music holds out.”
“But it is not fair for one to do all the playing; besides, I want you
to dance with me—so consider yourself invited in due form to be my next
partner.”
Maddy’s face crimsoned for an instant, and then in a low voice she
said, “I thank you, but I must decline.”
“Maddy!” Guy exclaimed, in tones more indicative of reproach than
expostulation.
There were tears in Maddy’s eyes, and Maria Cutler, watching her, was
vexed to see how beautiful was the expression of her face as she
answered frankly, “I have never told you that grandpa objected to my
taking dancing lessons when I wrote to him about it. He does not like
me to dance.”
“A saint!” Maria uttered under her breath, smiling contemptuously as
she made a movement to leave the piano, hoping Guy would follow her.
But he did not at once. Standing for a moment irresolute, while he
looked curiously at Maddy, he said at last:
“Of course I interfere with no one’s scruples of that kind, but I
cannot allow you to wear yourself out for our amusement.”
“I like to play—please let me,” was Maddy’s reply; and, as the set upon
the floor were waiting for her, she turned to the instrument, while Guy
mechanically offered his arm to Maria, and sauntered toward the green
room.
“What a blue old ignoramus that grandfather must be, to object to
dancing, don’t you think so?”
Maria laughed a little spitefully, secretly glad that Maddy had
refused, and secretly angry at Guy for seeming to care so much.
“Say,” she continued, as Guy did not answer her, “don’t you think it a
sign that something is lacking in brains or education, when a person
sets up that dancing is wicked?”
Guy would have taken Maddy’s side then, whatever he might have thought,
and he replied:
“No lack of brains, certainly; though education and circumstances have
much to do with one’s views upon that subject. For my part, I like to
see people consistent. Now, that old ignoramus, as you call him, lays
great stress on pomp and vanities, and when I asked him once what he
meant by them, he mentioned dancing in particular as one of the things
which you, church people, promise to renounce;” and Guy bowed toward
Maria, who, knowing that she was one of the church people referred to,
winced perceptibly.
“But this girl—this Maddy. There’s no reason why she should decline,”
she said; and Guy replied: “Respect for her grandfather, in her case,
seems to be stronger than respect for a higher power in some other
cases.”
“It’s just as wicked to play for dancing as ’tis to dance,” Maria
remarked impatiently, while Guy rejoined:
“That is very possible; but I presume Maddy has never seen it in that
light, which makes a difference;” and the two retraced their steps to
the rooms where the gay revelers were still tripping to Maddy’s
stirring music.
After several ineffectual efforts Agnes had succeeded in enticing the
doctor away from the piano, and thus there was no one near to see how
at last the bright color began to fade from her cheeks as the notes
before her ran together, and the keys assumed the form of one huge key
which Maddy could not manage. There was a blur before her eyes, a
buzzing in her ears, and just as the dancers were entering heart and
soul into the merits of a popular polka, there was a sudden pause in
the music, a crash among the keys, and a faint cry, which to those
nearest to her sounded very much like “Mr. Guy,” as Maddy fell forward
with her face upon the piano. It was hard telling which carried her
from the room, the doctor or Guy, or which face of the three was the
whitest. Guy’s was the most frightened, for the doctor knew she had
only fainted, while Guy, struck with the marble rigidity of the face so
recently flushed with excitement, said at first, “She’s dead,” while
over him there flashed a feeling that life with Maddy dead would be
desolate indeed. But Maddy was not dead, and Guy, when he went back to
his guests carried the news that she had recovered from her faint,
which she kindly ascribed to the heat of the rooms, instead of fatigue
from playing so long. The doctor was with her and she was doing as well
as could be expected, he said, thinking within himself how he wished
they would go home, and wondering what attraction there was there, now
that Maddy’s place was vacant. Guy was a vastly miserable man by the
time the last guest had bidden him good-night, and he had heard for the
hundred-and-fiftieth time what a delightful evening it had been.
Politeness required that he should look to the very last as pleasant
and unconcerned as if upstairs there were no little sick girl, all
alone undoubtedly with Dr. Holbrook, whom he mentally styled a “lucky
dog,” in that he was not obliged to appear again in the parlors unless
he chose.
The doctor knew Maddy did not require his presence after the first half
hour, but he insisted upon her being sent to bed, and then went
frequently to her door until assured by Mrs. Noah that she was sleeping
soundly, and would, if let alone, be well as ever on the morrow, a
prediction which proved true, for when at a late hour next morning the
family met at the breakfast table, Maddy’s was the brightest, freshest
face of the whole, not even excepting Jessie’s. Maddy, too, was
delighted with the party, declaring that nothing but pleasurable
excitement and heat had made her faint, and then with all the interest
which young girls usually attach to fainting fits, she asked how she
looked, how she acted, if she didn’t appear very ridiculous, and how
she got out of the room, saying the only thing she remembered after
falling was a sensation as if she were being torn in two.
“That’s it,” cried Jessie, who readily volunteered the desired
information, “Brother Guy was ’way off with Maria Cutler, and doctor
was with mamma, but both ran, oh, so fast, and both tried to take you
up. I think Miss Cutler real hateful, for she said, so meanlike, ‘Do
you see them pull her, as if ’twas of the slightest consequence which
carried her out?’”
“Jessie,” Guy interposed sternly, while the doctor looked
disapprovingly at the little girl, who subsided into silence after
saying, in an undertone, “I do think she’s hateful, and that isn’t all
she said either about Maddy.”
It was rather uncomfortable at the table after that, and rather quiet,
too, as Maddy did not care to ask anything more concerning her faint,
while the others were not disposed to talk.
Breakfast over, the two young men repaired to the library, where Guy
indulged in his cigar, while the doctor fidgeted for a time, and then
broke out abruptly:
“I say, Guy, have you said anything to her about—well, about me, you
know?”
“Why, no, I’ve hardly had a chance; and then, again, I concluded it
better for each one to speak for himself;” and carelessly knocking the
ashes from his half-smoked cigar, Guy leaned back in his chair, with
his eyes, and, to all appearance, thoughts, wholly intent upon the
curls of smoke rising above his head.
“Guy, if you were not engaged, I should be tempted to think you wanted
Maddy Clyde yourself,” the doctor suddenly exclaimed, confronting Guy,
who, still watching the rings of smoke, answered with the most
provoking coolness, “You should?”
“Yes, I should; and I am not certain but you do as it is, Guy,” and the
doctor grew very earnest in his manner, “if you do care for Maddy
Clyde, and she for you, pray tell me so before I make a fool of
myself.”
“Doctor,” returned Guy, throwing the remains of his cigar into the
grate and folding his hands on his head, “you desire that I be frank,
and I will. I like Maddy Clyde very much—more indeed than any girl I
ever met—except Lucy. Had I never seen her—Lucy, I mean—I cannot tell
how I should feel toward Maddy. The chances are, however, that much as
I admire her, I should not make her my wife, even if she were willing.
But I have seen Lucy. I am engaged to be married. I shall keep that
engagement, and if you have feared me at all as a rival, you may fear
me no longer. I do not stand between you and Maddy Clyde.”
Guy believed that he was saying the truth, notwithstanding that his
heart beat faster than its wont and his voice was a little thick. It
was doubtful whether he would marry Maddy Clyde, if he could. By nature
and education he was very proud, and the inmates of the red cottage
would have been an obstacle to be surmounted by his pride. He knew they
were good, far, far better than himself; but, from his earliest
remembrance, he had been taught that blood and family and position were
all-important; that by virtue of them Remington was a name of which to
be proud; that his father’s foolish marriage with a pretty governess
was the first misalliance ever known in the family, and that he was not
likely to follow that example was a point fully established in his own
mind. He might admire Maddy very much, and, perhaps, build castles of
what might possibly have been, had she been in his sphere of life; but,
should he verily think of making her his wife, the olden pride would
certainly come up a barrier between them. Guy could not explain all
this to the doctor, who would have been tempted to knock him down, if
he had; but he succeeded in quieting his fears, and even suggested
bringing Maddy in there, if the doctor wished to know his fate that
morning.
“I hear her now—I’ll call her,” he said; and, opening the door, he
spoke to Maddy, just passing through the hall. “Dr. Holbrook wishes to
see you,” he said, as Maddy came up to him; and, holding the door for
her to enter, he saw her take the seat he had just vacated. Then,
closing it upon them, he walked away, thinking that last night’s party,
or something, had produced a bad effect on him, making him blue and
wretched, just as he should suppose a criminal would feel when about to
be executed.