THE DOCTOR AND MADDY.
Now that they were alone, the doctor’s courage forsook him, and he
could only stammer out some commonplace remarks about the party, asking
how Maddy Lad 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 might have
divined it ere this; and if so, why didn’t she blush, or 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, he believed he 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 am 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 should 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 stopped 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
growing 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 Maddy Holbrook; 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 darling!” 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 one whit, 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 so 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 Guy.”
That name touched a sore, aching chord in the doctor’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 faintly 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 laying her unresisting head
upon his bosom, 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. And Maddy,
as she listened, felt for him a strange kind of 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 with my 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 plainly 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 the fair creature who never would 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 in time she’d
learn to love him. She would try so hard, she’d 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 that half-made promise. But the doctor was too noble, to
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,
none but Guy. “I must tell him” the doctor said, “because he knows 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 bygones, a thing never
again to be talked about, and offering him her hand, she looked for an
instant earnestly into his face, 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 certainly looked 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-by 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 amenable. Once there came over her the wild impulse to bid him
stay, to say that she would be his wife; but, ere 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 thoughts. 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 would 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 be given 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, she had
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.