THE BURDEN.
Grandma Markham was dead, and the covered sleigh, which late in the
afternoon plowed its way heavily back to Aikenside, carried only Mrs.
Noah, who, with her forehead tied up in knots, sat back among the
cushions, thinking not of the peaceful dead, gone forever to the rest
which remains for the people of God, but of the wayward Guy, who had
resisted all her efforts to persuade him to return with her, instead of
staying where he was, not needed, and where his presence was a
restraint to all save one, and that one Maddy, for whose sake he
stayed.
“She’d be vummed,” the indignant old lady said, “if she would not write
to Lucy herself if Guy did not quit such doin’s,” and thus resolving
she kept on her way, while the subject of her wrath was, it may be,
more than half repenting of his decision to stay, inasmuch as he began
to have an unpleasant consciousness of himself being in everybody’s
way.
In the first hour of Maddy’s bereavement he had not spoken with her,
but had kept himself aloof from the room where, with her grandfather
and Uncle Joseph, she sat, holding the poor aching head of the latter
in her lap and trying to speak a word of consolation to the old,
broken-hearted man, whose hand was grasped in hers. But Maddy knew he
was there. She could hear his voice each time he spoke to Mrs. Noah,
and that made the desolation easier to bear. She did not look forward
to the time when he would be gone; and when at last he told her he was
going, she started quickly, and with a gush of tears, exclaimed: “No,
no! oh, no!”
“Maddy,” Guy whispered, bending over the strange trio, “would you
rather I should stay? Will it be pleasanter for you, if I do?”
“Yes—I don’t know. I guess it would not be so lonely. Oh, it’s terrible
to have grandmother dead!” was Maddy’s response; after which Guy would
have stayed if a whole regiment of Mrs. Noah’s had confronted him
instead of one.
Maddy wished it; that was reason enough for him; and giving a few
directions to John, he stayed, thereby disconcerting the neighboring
women who came in to perform the last offices for the dead, and who
wished the young man from Aikenside was anywhere but there, watching
them in all their movements, as they vainly fancied he did. But Guy
thought only of Maddy, watching her so carefully that more than one
meaning glance was exchanged between the women, who, even over the
inanimate form of the dead, spoke together of what might possibly
occur, wondering what would be the effect on Grandpa Markham and Uncle
Joseph. Who would take care of them? And then, in case Maddy should
feel it her duty to stay there, as they half hoped she would, they fell
to pitying the young girl, who seemed now so wholly unfitted for the
burden.
To Maddy there came no definite idea of the future during the two days
that white, rigid form lay in the darkened cottage; but when, at last,
the deep grave made for Grandma Markham was occupied, and the lounge in
the little front room was empty—when the Aikenside carriage, which had
been sent down for the use of the mourners, had been driven away,
taking both Guy and Mrs. Noah—when the neighbors, too, had gone,
leaving only herself and the little hired girl sitting by the evening
fire, with the grandfather and the imbecile Uncle Joseph—then it was
that she first began to fed the pressure of the burden—began to ask
herself if she could live thus always, or at least for many years—as
long as either of the two helpless men were spared. Maddy was young,
and the world as she had seen it was very bright and fair, brighter far
than a life of laborious toil, and for a while the idea that the latter
alternative must be accepted made her dizzy and faint.
As if divining her thoughts, poor old grandpa, in his prayers that
night, asked in trembling tones, which showed how much he felt what he
was saying, that God would guide his darling in all she did, and give
her wisdom to make the proper decision; that if it were best she might
be happy there with them, but if not, “Oh, Father, Father!” he sobbed,
“help me and Joseph to bear it.” He could pray no more aloud, and the
gray head remained bowed down upon his chair, while Uncle Joseph, in
his peculiar way, took up the theme, begging like a very child that
Maddy might be inclined to stay—that no young men with curling hair, a
diamond cross, and smell of musk, might be permitted to come near her
with enticing looks, but that she might stay as she was and die an old
maid forever! This was the subject of Uncle Joseph’s prayer, a prayer
which set the little hired girl to tittering, and would have wrung a
smile from Maddy herself had she not felt all the strange petition
implied.
With waywardness natural to people in his condition, Uncle Joseph that
night turned to Maddy for the little services his sister had formerly
rendered, and which, since her illness, Grandpa Markham had done, and
would willingly do still. But Joseph refused to let him. Maddy must
untie his cravat, unbutton his vest, and take off his shoes, while,
after he was in bed, Maddy must sit by his side, holding his hand until
he fell away to sleep. And Maddy did it cheerfully, soothing him into
quiet, and keeping back her own choking sorrow for the sake of
comforting him. Then, when this task was done she sought her
grandfather, still sitting before the kitchen fire and evidently
waiting for her. The little hired girl had retired, and thus there was
no barrier to free conversation between them.
“Maddy,” the old man said, “come sit close by me, where I can look into
your face, while we talk over what must be done.”
With a half shudder, Maddy drew a stool to her grandfather’s feet, and
resting her head upon his knee, listened while he talked to her of the
future; told her all her grandmother had done; told of his own
helplessness; of the trial it was to care for Uncle Joseph, and then in
faltering tones asked who was going to look after them now. “We can’t
live here alone, Maddy. We can’t. We’re old and weak, and want some one
to lean on. Oh, why didn’t God take us with her, Joseph and me, and
that would leave you free, to go back to the school and the life which
I know is pleasanter than to stay here with us. Oh, Maddy! it comforts
me to look at you—to hear your voice, to know that though I don’t see
you every minute, you are somewhere, and by and by you’ll come in. I
shan’t live long, and maybe Joseph won’t. God’s promise is to them who
honor father and mother. It’ll be hard for you to stay, harder than it
was once; but, Maddy, oh, Maddy! stay with me, stay with me!—stay with
your old grandpa!”
In his earnestness he grasped her arm, as if he thus would hold her,
while the tears rained over his wrinkled face. For a moment Maddy made
no response. She had no intention of leaving him, but the burden was
pressing heavily and her tongue refused to move. Maddy was then a
stranger to the religion which was sustaining her grandfather in his
great trouble, but the teachings of her childhood had not been in vain.
She was God’s covenant child. His protecting presence was over and
around her, moving her to the right. New York, with its gay sights, her
school, where in another year she was to graduate, the trip to the
Catskills which Guy had promised Mrs. Agnes, Jessie and herself,
Aikenside with its luxurious ease—all these must be given up, while,
worse than all the rest, Guy, too, must be given up. He would not come
there often; the place was not to his taste, and in time he would cease
to care for her as he cared for her now. “Oh, that would be dreadful!”
she groaned aloud, while here thoughts went backward to that night ride
in the snowstorm, and the numberless attentions he had paid her then.
She would never ride with him again—never; and Maddy moaned bitterly,
as she began to realize for the first time how much she liked Guy
Remington, and how the giving him up and his society was the hardest
part of all. But Maddy had a brave young heart, and at last, winding
her arms around her grandfather’s neck, she whispered: “I will not
leave you, grandpa. I’ll stay in grandmother’s place.”
Surely Heaven would answer the blessings whispered over Maddy by the
delighted old man, and the young girl taking so cheerfully the burden
from which many would have shrunk, should be blessed by God.
With her grandfather’s hand upon her head, Maddy could almost feel that
the blessing was descending; but when, in her own room, the one where
she had lain sick for so many weary weeks, her courage began to give
way, and the burden, magnified tenfold by her nervous weakness, looked
heavier than she could bear. How could she stay there, going through
each day with the same routine of literal drudgery—drudgery which would
not end until the two for whom she made the sacrifice were dead.
“Oh, is there no way of escape, no help?” she moaned, as she tossed
from side to side, “Must my life be wasted here. Surely—-”
Maddy did not finish the sentence, for something checked the words of
repining, and she seemed to hear again her grandfather’s voice as it
repeated the promise to those who keep with their whole souls the fifth
commandment.
“I will, I will,” she cried, while into her heart there crept an
intense longing for the love of him who alone could make her task a
light one. “If I were good like grandma, I could bear everything,” she
thought, and turning upon her pillow, Maddy prayed an earnest,
childlike prayer, that God would help her do night, that He would take
from her the proud spirit which rebelled against her lot because of its
loneliness, that pride and love of her own ease and advancement in
preference to others’ good might all be subdued; in short that she
might be God’s child, walking where He appointed her to walk without a
murmur, and doing cheerfully His will.
Aikenside, and school, and the Catskill Mountains were easier to
abandon after that contrite prayer; but when she thought of Guy, the
fiercest, sharpest pang she had ever felt shot through her heart,
making her cry out so quickly that the little hired girl who shared her
bed moved as if about to waken, but Maddy lay very quiet until all was
still again, when turning a second time to God she tried to pray, tried
to give up what to her was the dearest idol, but she could not say the
words, and ere she knew what she was doing she found herself asking
that Guy should not forsake her. “Let him come,” she sobbed, “let Guy
come some time to see me”.
Once the tempter whispered to her, that had she accepted Dr. Holbrook
she would have been spared all this, but Maddy turned a deaf ear to
that suggestion. Dr. Holbrook was too noble a man to have an unloving
wife, and not for a moment did she repent of her decision with regard
to him. She almost knew he would say now that she was right in refusing
him, and right in staying there, as she must. Thoughts of the doctor
quieted her, she believed, not knowing that Heaven was already owning
its submissive child, and breathing upon it a soothing benediction. The
moan of the winter wind and the sound of the snow beating against her
little window ceased to annoy her. Heaven, happiness, Aikenside and
Guy, all seem blended into one great good just within her reach, and
when the long clock below the stairs struck three, she did not hear it,
but with the tear stains upon her face she lay nestled among her
pillows, dreaming that her grandmother had come back from the bright
world of glory to bless her darling child.
It was broad noon ere Maddy awoke, and starting up she looked about her
in bewilderment, wondering where she was and what agency had been at
work in her room, transforming it from the cold, comfortless apartment
she had entered the previous night into the cheery-looking chamber,
with a warm fire blazing in the tiny fireplace, a rug spread down upon
the hearth, a rocking-chair drawn up before it, and all traces of the
little hired girl as completely obliterated as if she had never been.
In her grief Maddy seemed to have forgotten how to make things cozy,
and as, during her grandmother’s illness, her own room had been left to
the care of the hired girl, Nettie, it wore a neglected, rude aspect,
which had grated on Maddy’s finer feelings, and made everything so
uninviting. But this morning all was changed. Some skillful hand had
been busy there while she slept, and Maddy was wondering who it could
be, when the door opened cautiously and Flora’s good-humored face
looked in—Flora from Aikenside. Maddy knew now to whom she was indebted
for all this comfort, and with a cry of joy she welcomed the girl,
whose very presence brought back something of the life with which she
had parted forever.
“Flora,” she exclaimed, “how came you here, and did you make this fire
and fix the room for me?”
“Yes, I made the fire,” Flora replied, “and fixed up the things a
little, hustlin’ that young one’s goods out of here; because it was not
fittin’ for you to be sleepin’ with her. Mr. Guy was mad enough when he
found it out.”
“Mr. Guy, Flora? How should he know of our sleeping ’rrangements?”
Maddy asked, but Flora evaded a direct reply, saying, “there was enough
ways for things to get to Aikenside;” then continuing, “How tired you
must be, Miss Maddy, to sleep so sound as never to hear me at all,
though to be sure I tried to be still as a mouse. But let me help you
dress. It’s all but noon, and you must be hungry. I’ve got your
breakfast all ready.”
“Thank you, Flora, I can dress myself,” Maddy said, stepping out upon
the floor, and feeling that the world was not as dark as it had seemed
to her when last night she came up to her chamber.
God was comforting her already, and as she made her simple toilet, she
tried to thank Him for His goodness, and ask for grace to make her what
she ought to be.
“You have not yet told me why you came here,” she said to Flora, who
was busy making her bed, and who replied: “It’s Mr. Guy’s work. He
thought I’d better come, as you would need help to get things set to
rights, to could go back to school.”
Maddy felt her heart coming up in her throat, but she answered calmly,
“Mr. Guy is very kind—so are you all; but, Flora, I am not going back
to school.” “Not going back!” and Flora stopped her bed-making, while
she stared blankly at Maddy. “What be you going to do?” “Stay here and
take care of grandpa,” Maddy said, bathing her face and neck in the
cold water, which could not cool the feverish heat she felt spreading
all over them. “Stay here! You are crazy, Miss Maddy! ’Tain’t no place
for a girl like you, and Mr. Guy never will suffer it, I know,” Flora
rejoined, as she resumed her work, thinking she “should die to be moped
up in that nutshell of a house.” With a little sigh as she foresaw the
opposition she should probably meet with from Guy, Maddy went on with
her toilet, which was soon completed, as it did not take long to
arrange the dark calico dress and plain linen collar which she wore.
She was not as fresh-looking as usual that morning, for excitement and
fatigue had lent a paleness to her cheek, and a languor to her whole
appearance, but Flora, who glanced anxiously after her as she went out,
muttered to herself, “She was never more beautiful, and I don’t wonder
an atom that Mr. Guy thinks so much of her.” The kitchen was in perfect
order, for Flora had been busy there as elsewhere. The kettle was
boiling on the stove, while two or three little covered dishes were
ranged upon the hearth, as if waiting for some one. Grandpa Markham had
gone out, but Uncle Joseph sat in his accustomed corner, rubbing his
hands when he saw Maddy, and nodding mysteriously toward the front
room, the door of which was open, so that Maddy could hear the fire
crackling on the hearth.
“Go in, go in,” Uncle Joseph said, waving his hand in that direction.
“My Lord Governor is in there waiting for you. He won’t let me spit on
the floor any more as Martha did, and I’ve swallowed so much that I’m
almost choked.”
Continual spitting was one of Uncle Joseph’s worst habits, and as his
sister had indulged him in it, it had become a source of great
annoyance both to Maddy, and to some one else of whose proximity Maddy
did not dream. Thinking that Uncle Joseph referred to her grandfather,
and feeling glad that the latter had attempted a reform, she entered
the room known at the cottage as the parlor, the one where the rag
carpet was, the six cane-seated chairs and the Boston rocker, and where
now the little round table was nicely laid for two, while cozily seated
in the rocking-chair, reading last night’s paper, and looking very
handsome and happy, was Guy!
When Maddy prayed that he might come and see her she did not expect an
answer so soon, and she started back in much surprise, while Guy came
easily forward to greet her, asking how she was, once telling her she
looked tired and thin, then making her take the chair he had vacated,
he stood over her, smoothing her hair, while he continued:
“I have taken some liberties, you see, and have made myself quite at
home. I knew how unaccustomed you were to the duties of a house, and as
I saw that girl was wholly incompetent, I denied myself at least two
hours’ sleep this morning for the sake of getting here early, bringing
Flora with me and a few things which I thought would be for your
comfort. You must excuse me, but Flora looked so cold when she came
down from your chamber, where I sent her to see how you were, that with
your grandfather’s permission I ordered a fire to be kindled there. I
hope you found it comfortable. This house is very cold.”
He kept talking on, and Maddy in a delicious kind of bewilderment
listened to him, wondering if ever before there was a person so kind
and good as Guy. And really Guy was doing great violence to his pride
by being there as he was, but he could do anything for Maddy, and so he
had forced down his pride, trying for her sake to make the cottage as
pleasant as possible. With Flora to assist he had succeeded
wonderfully, and was really enjoying it himself. At first Maddy could
not thank him, her heart was so full, but Guy was satisfied with the
expression of her face, and calling Flora he bade her serve the
breakfast.
“You know my habits,” he said, smilingly, as he took a seat at the
table, “and breakfasting at daylight, as I did, has given me an
appetite; so, with your permission, I’ll carve this nice bit of steak
for you, while you pour me a cup of coffee, some of Mrs. Noah’s best.
She”—Guy was going to say, “sent it,” but as no stretch of the
imagination could construe her “calling him a fool” into sending Maddy
coffee, he added instead, “I brought it from Aikenside, together with
this strawberry jelly, of which I remember you were fond;” and he
helped Maddy lavishly from the fanciful jelly jar which yesterday was
adorning the sweetmeat closet at Aikenside.
How chatty and social he was, trying to cheer Maddy up and make her
forget that such a thing as death had so lately found entrance there;
talking of Jessie, of Aikenside, of the pleasant little time they would
have during the vacation, and of the next term at school, when Maddy,
as one of the graduating class, would not be kept in as strictly as
heretofore, but allowed to see more of the city. Maddy felt as if she
should die for the pain tugging at her heart, while she listened to him
and knew that the pictures he was drawing were not for her. Her place
was there; and after the breakfast was over and Flora had cleared the
dishes away, she shut the door, so that they might be alone, and then
standing before Guy, she told him of her resolution, begging of him to
help her and not make it harder to bear by devising means for her to
escape what she felt to be an imperative duty. Guy had expected
something like this and was prepared, as he thought, to combat all her
arguments; so when she had finished, he replied that of course he did
not wish to interfere with her duty, but there might be a question as
to what really was her duty, and it seemed to him he was better able to
judge of that than herself. It was not right for her to bury herself
there while her education was unfinished, when another could do as
well. Her superior talents were given to her to improve, and how could
she improve them in Honedale; besides her grandfather did not expect
her to stay. Guy had talked with him while she was asleep, and the
matter was all arranged; a competent woman was to be hired to take
charge of the domestic arrangements, and if it seemed desirable, two
should be procured; anything to leave Maddy free.
“And grandpa consented to this willingly?” Maddy said, feeling a throb
of pleasure at thoughts of release. But Guy could not answer that the
grandfather consented willingly.
“He thinks it best. When he comes back you can ask him yourself,” he
said, just as Uncle Joseph, opening the door, brought their interview
to a close by asking very meekly, “if it would please the Lord Governor
to let him spit!”
The blood rushed at once to Maddy’s face, and she not repress a smile,
white Guy laughed aloud, saying to her softly: “For your sake, I tried
my skill to stop what I knew must annoy you. Pardon me if I did wrong;”
then turning to Uncle Joseph, he gave the desired permission, together
with the promise of a handsome spittoon, which should be sent down on
the morrow. With a bow Uncle Joseph turned away, muttering to himself,
“High doings now Martha’s gone; but new lords, new laws. I trust he’s
not going to live here;” and slyly he asked Flora if the Lord Governor
had brought his things!
At this point Grandpa Markham came in, and to him Guy appealed at once
to know if he were not willing for Maddy to return to school.
“I said she might if she thought best,” was the reply, spoken so sadly
that Maddy’s arms were at once twined around the old man’s neck, while
she said to him:
“Tell me honestly which you prefer. I’d like so much to go to school,
but I am not sure I should be happy there, knowing how lonely you were
here at home. Say, grandpa, which would you rather now, honor bright?”
and Maddy tried to speak playfully, though her heart-beats were almost
audible as she waited for the answer.
Grandpa could not deceive. He wanted his darling sorely, and he wanted
her to be happy, he said. Perhaps they would get on just as well
without her. When Mr. Guy was talking it looked as if they might, he
made it all so plain, but the sight of Maddy was a comfort. She was all
he had left. Maybe he shouldn’t live long to pester her, and if he
didn’t wouldn’t she always feel better for having stayed with her old
grandpa to the last?
He looked very pale and thin, and his hair was white as snow. He could
not live many years, and turning resolutely from Guy, who, so long as
he held her eye, controlled her, Maddy said:
“I’ve chosen once for all. I’ll stay with grandpa till he dies,” and
with a convulsive sob she clung tightly to his neck, as if fearful that
without such told on him her resolution would give way.
It was in vain that Guy strove to change Maddy’s resolution. She was
wholly decided, and late in the afternoon he rode back to Aikenside, a
disappointed man, with, however, the feeling that Maddy had done right,
and that he respected her all the more for withstanding the temptation.