WOMANHOOD.
Two years pass quickly, particularly at school, and to Maddy Clyde,
talking with her companions of the coming holidays, it seemed hardly
possible that two whole years were gone since the eventful vacation
when Dr. Holbrook had so startled her by offering her his hand. He was
in Europe still, and another name than his was on the little office in
Mrs. Conner’s yard. To Maddy he now wrote frequently; friendly,
familiar letters, such as a brother might write, never referring to the
past, but telling her whatever he thought would interest and please
her. Occasionally at first, and more frequently afterward, he spoke of
Margaret Atherstone, Lucy’s younger sister, a brilliant, beautiful girl
who reminded him, he said, of Maddy, only she was saucier, and more of
a tease; not at all like Lucy, whom he described as something perfectly
angelic. Her twenty-fifth birthday found her on a sickbed, with Dr.
Holbrook in attendance, and this was the reason given why the marriage
between herself and Guy was again deferred. There had been many weeks
of pain, succeeded by long, weary months of languor, and during all
this time the doctor had been with her as the family physician, while
Margaret also had been constantly in attendance. But Lucy was much
better now. She could sit up all day, and even walk a little distance,
assisted by the doctor and Margaret, whose name had become to be almost
as familiar to Maddy as was that of Lucy. And Maddy, in thinking of
Margaret, sometimes wondered “if——” but never went any farther than
that. Neither did she ask Guy a word about her, though she knew he must
have seen her. She not say much to him of Lucy, but she wondered why he
did not go for her, and wanted to talk with him about it but he was so
changed that she dared not. He was not sociable, as of old, and Agnes
did not hesitate to call him cross, while Jessie complained that he
never walked or played with her now, but sat all day long in a deep
reverie of some kind.
On this account Maddy did not look forward to the coming vacation as
joyfully as she would otherwise have done. Still it was, always
pleasant going home, and she sat talking with her young friends of all
they expected to do, when a servant entered the room and glancing over
the group of girls, singled Maddy out saying, as he placed an unsealed
envelope in her hand. “A telegram for Miss Clyde.”
There was a blur before Maddy’s eyes, so that at first she could not
see clearly, and Jessie, climbing on the bench beside her, read aloud:
“Your grandmother is dying. Come at once. Agnes and Jessie will stay
till next week.
“GUY REMINGTON.”
It was impossible to go that afternoon but with the earliest dawn she
was up, and unmindful of the snow falling so rapidly, started on the
sad journey home. It was the first genuine storm of the season, and it
seemed resolved on making amends for past neglect, sweeping in furious
gusts against the windows sifting down in thick masses from the leaden
sky, and so impeding the progress of the train that the chill wintery
night had closed gloomily in ere the Sommerville station was reached,
and Maddy, weary and dispirited, stepped out upon the platform,
glancing anxiously around for the usual omnibus, which she had little
hope would be there on such a night. If not, what should she do? This
had been the burden of her thoughts for the last few hours, for she
could not expect Guy to send out his horses in this fearful storm, much
less to be there himself. But Guy was there, and it was his voice which
first greeted her as she stood half blinded by the snow, uncertain what
she must do next.
“Ah, Mr. Remington, I didn’t expect this. I am so glad, and how kind it
was of you to wait for me!” she exclaimed, her voice expressing her
delight, and amply repaying the young man, who had not been very
patient or happy through the six long hours of waiting he had endured.
But he was both happy and patient now with Maddy’s hand in his, and
pressing it very gently he led her into the ladies’ room; then making
her sit down before the fire he brushed her snowy garments himself, and
dashing a few flakes from her disordered hair, told her what she so
eagerly asked to know. Her grandmother had had a paralytic stroke, and
the only word she had uttered since was “Maddy.” Guy had not been down
himself, but had sent Mrs. Noah as soon as Farmer Green had brought the
news. She was there yet, he said, the storm having prevented her
return.
“And grandma?” Maddy gasped, fixing her eyes wistfully upon him. “You
do not think her dead?”
No, Guy did not, and stooping he asked if he should not remove from the
dainty little feet resting on the stove hearth the overshoes, so full
of melting snow. Maddy cared little for her shoes, or herself just
then. She hardly knew that Guy was taking them off, much less that, as
he bent beside her, her hand lay lightly upon his shoulder as she
continued her questionings.
“She is not dead, you say; but do you think-does any-body think she’ll
die? Your telegram said ‘dying.’”
Maddy was not to be deceived, and thinking it best to be frank with
her, Guy told her that the physician, whom he had taken pains to see on
his way to the depot, had said there was no hope. Old age and an
impaired constitution precluded the possibility of recovery, but he
trusted she might live till the young lady came.
“She must—she will! Oh, grandma, why did I ever leave her?” and burying
her face in her hands. Maddy cried passionately, while the last three
years of her Life passed in rapid review before her mind—years which
she had spent in luxurious ease, leaving her grandmother to toil in the
humble cottage, and die at the last, it might be, without one parting
word for her.
The feeling that perhaps she had been guilty of neglect, was the
bitterest of all, and Maddy wept on, unmindful of Guy’s attempts to
soothe and quiet her. At last, as she heard a clock in the adjoining
room strike eight, she started up exclaiming “I have stayed too long. I
must go now. Is there any conveyance here?”
“But, Maddy,” Guy rejoined, “you cannot go to-night. The roads between
here and Honedale are one unbroken snow bank. It would take hours to
break through; besides you are too tired. You need rest, and must come
with me to Aikenside, where you are expected, for when I found how late
the train would be, I sent back word to have your room and parlors
warmed, and a nice hot supper to be ready for us. You’ll surely go with
me, if I think best.”
Guy’s manner was more like a lover than a friend, but Maddy was in no
state to remark it. She only felt an intense desire to go home, and
turning a deaf ear to all he could urge, replied: “You don’t know how
dear grandma is to me, or you would not ask me to stay. She’s all the
mother I ever knew, and I must go. Think, would you stay if the one you
loved best was dying?”
“But the one I love best is not dying, so I can reason clearly, Maddy.”
Here Guy checked himself, and listened while Maddy asked again if there
was no conveyance there as usual.
“None but mine,” said Guy, while Maddy continued faintly:
“And you are afraid it will kill your horses?”
“No, it would only fatigue them greatly; it’s for you I fear. You’ve
borne enough to-day.”
“Then, Mr. Remington, oh, please send me. I shall die at Aikenside.
John will drive me, I know. He used to like me. I’ll ask him,” and
Maddy was going in quest of the Aikenside coachman, when Guy held her
back, and said:
“John will go if I bid him. But you, Maddy, if I thought it was safe.”
“It is. Oh, let me go,” and Maddy grasped both his hands beseechingly.
If there was a man who could resist the eloquent appeal of Maddy’s eyes
at that moment, the man was not Guy Remington, and leaving her alone,
he sought out John, asking if it would be possible to get through to
Homedale that night.
John shook his head decidedly, but when Guy explained Maddy’s distress
and anxiety, the negro began to relent, particularly as he saw his
young master, too, was interested.
“It’ll kill them horses,” he said, “but mabby that’s nothin’ to please
the girl.”
“If we only had runners now, instead of wheels, John,” Guy said, after
a moment’s reflection. “Drive back to Aikenside as fast as possible,
and change the carriage for a covered sleigh. Leave the grays at home
and drive a pair of farm horses. They can endure more. Tell Flora to
send my traveling shawl. Miss Clyde may need it, and an extra buffalo,
and a bottle of wine, and my buckskin gloves, and take Tom on with you,
and a snow shovel; we may have to dig.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” and tying his muffler about his throat, John
started off through the storm, his mind a confused medley of ideas, the
main points of which were, bottles of wine, snow shovels, and the fact
that his master was either crazy or in love.
Meanwhile, with the prospect of going home, Maddy had grown quiet, and
did not refuse the temporary supper of buttered toast, muffins, steak
and hot coffee, which Guy ordered from the small hotel just in the rear
of the depot. Tired, nervous, and almost helpless, she allowed Guy
himself to prepare her coffee, taking it from his hand and drinking it
at his bidding as obediently as a child. There was a feeling of
delicious rest in being cared for thus, and but for the dying one at
Honedale she would have enjoyed it vastly. As it was, though, she never
for a moment forgot her grandmother. She did forget, in a measure, her
anxiety, and was able to think how kind, how exceedingly kind Guy was.
He was like what he used to be, she thought, only kinder, and thinking
it was because she was in trouble, she accepted all his little
attentions willingly, feeling how pleasant it was to have him there,
and thinking once with a half shudder of the long, cold ride before
her, when Guy would no longer be present, and also of the dreary home
where death might possibly be a guest ere she could reach it.
It was after nine ere John appeared, his crisp wool powdered with snow
which clung to his outer garments, and literally covered his dark,
cloth cap.
“’Twas mighty deep,” he said, bowing to Maddy, “and the wind was
getting colder. ’Twas a hard time Miss Clyde would have, and hadn’t she
better wait?”
No, Maddy could not wait, and standing up she suffered Guy to wrap her
cloak about her, and fasten more securely the long, warm scarf she wore
around her neck.
“Drive close to the platform,” he said to John, and the covered sleigh
was soon brought to the point designated. “Now then, Maddy, I won’t let
you run the risk of covering your feet with snow. I shall carry you
myself,” Guy said, and ere Maddy was fully aware of his intentions, he
had her in his arms, and was bearing her to the sleigh.
Very carefully he drew the soft, warm robe about her, shielding her as
well as he could from the cold; then pulling his own fur collar about
his ears, he sprang in beside her, and, closing the door behind him,
bade John drive on.
“But, Mr. Remington,” Maddy exclaimed in much surprise, “surely you are
not going too? You must not. It is asking too much. It is more than I
expected. Please don’t go.” “Would you rather I should not—that is,
aside from any inconvenience it may be to me—would you rather go
alone?” Guy asked, and Maddy replied:
“Oh, no. I was dreading the long ride, but did not dream of your going.
You will shorten it so much.” “Then I shall be paid for going,” was
Guy’s response, as he drew still more closely around her the fancy
buffalo robe.
The roads, though badly drifted in some places, were not as bad as Guy
had feared, and the strong horses kept steadily on; while Maddy,
growing more and more fatigued, at last fell away to sleep, and ceased
to answer Guy, For a time he watched her drooping head, and then
carefully drawing it to him, made it rest upon his shoulder, while he
wound his arm around her slight figure, and so supported her. He knew
she was sleeping quietly, by her gentle breathings; and once or twice
he involuntarily passed his hand caressingly over her soft, round
cheek, feeling the blood tingle to his finger tips as he thought of his
position there, with Maddy Clyde sleeping in his arms. What would Lucy
say, could she see him? And the doctor, with his strict ideas of right
and wrong, would he object? Guy did not know, and, with his usual
independence, he did not care. At least, he said to himself he did not
care; and so, banishing both the doctor and Lucy from his mind, he
abandoned himself to the happiness of the moment—a singular land of
happiness, inasmuch as it merely consisted in the fact that Maddy
Clyde’s young head was pillowed on his bosom, and that, by bending
down, he could feel her sweet breath on his face. Occasionally there
flitted across Guy’s mind a vague, uneasy consciousness that though the
act was, under the circumstances, well enough, the feelings which
prompted it were not such as either the doctor or Lucy would approve.
But they were far away; they would never know unless he told them, as
he probably should, of this ride on that wintry night; this ride, which
seemed to him so short that he scarcely believed his senses when,
without once having been overturned or called upon to use the shovels
so thoughtfully provided, the carriage suddenly came to a halt, and he
knew by the dim light shining through the low window that the red
cottage was reached.
Grandma Markham was dying, but she knew Maddy, and the palsied lips
worked painfully as they attempted to utter the loved name; while her
wasted face lighted up with eager joy as Maddy’s arms were twined about
her neck, and she felt Maddy’s kisses on her cheek and brow. Could she
not speak? Would she never speak again, Maddy asked despairingly, and
her grandfather replied: “Never, most likely. The only thing she’s said
since the shock was to call your name; She’s missed you despatly this
winter back, more than ever before, I think. So have we all, but we
would not send for you—Mr. Guy said you was learning so fast.” “Oh,
grandpa, why didn’t you? I would have come so willingly,” and for an
instant Maddy’s eyes flashed reproachfully upon the recreant Guy,
standing aloof from the little group gathered about the bed, his arms
folded together, and a moody look upon his face.
He was thinking of what had not yet entered Maddy’s mind, thinking of
the future—Maddy’s future, when the aged form upon the bed should be
gone, and the two comparatively helpless men be left alone.
“But it shall not be. The sacrifice is far too great. I can prevent it,
and I will,” he muttered to himself, as he turned to watch the gray
dawn breaking in the east. Guy was a puzzle to himself. He would not
admit that during the past year his liking for Maddy Clyde had grown to
be something stronger than mere friendship, nor yet that his feelings
toward Lucy had undergone a change, prompting him not to go to her when
she was sick, and not to be as sorry as he ought that the marriage was
again deferred. Lucy had no suspicion of the change and her childlike
trust in him was the anchor which held him still true to her in
intentions at least, if not in reality. He knew from her letters how
much she had learned to like Maddy Clyde, and so, he argued, there was
no harm in his liking her too. She was a splendid girl, and it seemed a
pity that her lot should have been so humbly cast. This was usually the
drift of his thoughts in connection with her; and now, as he stood
there its that cottage, Maddy’s home, they recurred to him with tenfold
intensity, for well he foresaw that a struggle was before him if he
rescued Maddy as he meant to do from her approaching fate.
No such thoughts, however, intruded themselves on Maddy’s mind. She did
not look away from the present, except it were at the past, in which
she feared she had erred by leaving her grandmother too much alone. But
to her passionate appeals for forgiveness, if she ever had neglected
the dying one, there came back only loving looks and mute caresses, the
aged hand smoothing lovingly the bowed head, or pressing fondly the
girlish cheeks where Guy’s hand had been. With the coming of daylight,
however, there was a change; and Maddy, listening intently, heard what
sounded like her name. The tied tongue was loosed for a little, and in
tones scarcely articulate, the disciple who for long years had served
her Heavenly Father faithfully, bore testimony to the blessed truth
that God’s promises to those who love Him are not mere promises—that He
will go with them through the river of death, disarming the fainting
soul of every fear, and making the dying bed the very gate of heaven.
This tribute to the Savior was her first thought, while the second was
a blessing for her darling, a charge to seek the narrow way now in
life’s early morning. Disjointed sentences they were, but Maddy
understood them all, treasuring up every word even to the last, the
words the farther apart and most painfully uttered,
“You—will—care—and—comfort——” She did not say whom, but Maddy knew whom
she meant; and without then realizing the magnitude of the act,
virtually accepted the burden from which Guy was so anxious to save
her.