LIFE AT THE COTTAGE.
It was arranged that Flora should for the present at least remain at
the cottage, and Maddy accepted the kindness gratefully. She had become
so much accustomed to being cared for by Guy that she almost looked
upon it as a matter of course, and did not think of what others might
possibly say, but when, in as delicate a manner as possible Guy
suggested furnishing the cottage in better style, even proposing to
modernize it entirely in the spring, Maddy objected at once. “They were
already indebted to him for more than they could ever pay,” she said,
and she would not suffer it. So Guy submitted, though it grated upon
his sense of the beautiful and refined terribly, to see Maddy amid so
humble surroundings. Twice a week, and sometimes oftener, he rode down
to Honedale, and Maddy felt that without these visits life would hardly
have been endurable.
During the vacation Jessie spent a part of the time with her, but Agnes
resolutely resisted all Guy’s entreaties that she would at least call
once on Maddy, who had expressed a wish to see her, and who, on account
of her grandfather’s health, and the childishness with which Uncle
Joseph clung to her, could not well come up to Aikenside. Agnes would
not go down, neither would she give other reason for her obstinacy than
the apparently foolish one that she did not wish to see the crazy man.
Still she did not object to Jessie’s going as often as she liked, and
she sent by her many little delicacies from the larder at Aikenside,
some for grandpa, but most for Uncle Joseph, who prized highly
everything coming from “the madam,” and sent back to her more than one
strangely worded message which made the proud woman’s eyes overflow
when sure that no one could see her. But this kind of intercourse came
to an end at last. The vacation was over, Jessie had gone back to
school, and Maddy began in sober earnest the new life before her.
Flora, it is true, relieved her of all household drudgery, but no one
could share the burden of care and anxiety pressing so heavily upon
her, anxiety for her grandfather, whose health seemed failing so fast,
and who always looked so disturbed if a shadow were resting on her
bright face, or her voice were less cheerful in its tone, and care for
the imbecile Joseph, who clung to her as a puny child clings to its
mother, refusing to be cared for by any one else, and often requiring
of her more than her strength could endure for a great length of time.
She it was who gave him his breakfast in the morning, amused him
through the day, and then, after he was in bed at night, often sat by
his side till a late hour, singing to him old songs, or telling Bible
stories until he fell away to sleep. Then if he awoke, as he frequently
did, there was a cry for Maddy, and the soothing process had to be
repeated, until the tired, pale watcher ceased to wonder that her
grandmother had died so suddenly, wondering rather that she had lived
so long and borne so much.
Those were dark, wearisome days to Maddy, and the long, cold winter was
gone from the New England hills, and the early buds of spring were
coming up by the cottage door, the neighbors began to talk of the
change which had come over the young girl, once so full of life and
health, but now so languid and pale. Still Maddy was not unhappy, nor
was the discipline too severe, for by it she learned at last the great
object of life; learned to take her troubles and cares to One who
helped her bear them so cheerfully, that those who pitied her most
never dreamed how heavy was her burden, so patiently and sweetly she
bore it. Occasionally there came to her letters from the doctor, but
latterly they gave her less pleasure than pain, for as sure as she read
one of his kind, friendly messages of sympathy and remembrance, the
tempter whispered to her that though she did not love him as she ought
to love her husband, yet a life with him was far preferable to the life
she was living, and a receipt of his letters always gave her a pang
which lasted until Guy came down to see her, when it usually
disappeared. Agnes was now at Aikenside, and thus Maddy frequently had
Jessie at the cottage, but Agnes never came, and Maddy little guessed
how often the proud woman cried herself to sleep after listening to
Jessie’s recital of all Maddy had to do for the crazy man, and how
patiently she did it. He had taken a fancy that Maddy must tell him
stories of Sarah, describing her as she was now, not as she used to be
when he knew her, but now. “What is she now? How does she look? What
does she wear? Tell me, tell me!” he would plead, until Maddy, forced
to tell him something, and having distinctly in her mind but one
fashionable woman such as she fancied Sarah might be, told him of Agnes
Remington, describing her as she was in her mature beauty, with her
heavy flowing curls, her brilliant color, her flashing diamonds and
costly laces, and Uncle Joseph, listening to her with parted lips and
hushed breath, would whisper softly, “Yes, that’s Sarah, beautiful
Sarah; but tell me—does she ever think of me, or of that time in the
orchard when I wove the apple blossoms in her hair, where the diamonds
are now? She loved me then; she told me so. Does she know how sick, and
sorry, and foolish I am?—how the aching in my poor, simple brain is all
for her, and how you, Maddy, are doing for me what it is her place to
do? Had I a voice,” and the crazy man now grew excited, as, raising
himself in bed, he gesticulated wildly, “had I a voice to reach her,
I’d cry shame on her, to let you do her work, let you-wear your young
life and fresh, bright beauty all away for me, whom she ruined.”
The voice he craved, or the echo of it, did reach her, for Jessie had
been present when the fancy first seized him to hear of Sarah, and in
the shadowy twilight she told her mother all, dwelling most upon the
touching sadness of his face when he said, “Does she know how sick and
sorry I am?”
The pillow which Agnes pressed that night was wet with tears, while in
her heart was planted a germ of gratitude and respect for the young
girl doing her work for her. All that she could do for Maddy without
going directly to her, she did, devising many articles of comfort,
sending her fruit and flowers, the last new book, or whatever else she
thought might please her, and always finding a willing messenger in
Guy. He was miserable, and managed when at home to make others so
around him. The sight of Maddy bearing her burden so uncomplainingly
almost maddened him. Had she fretted or complained could bear it
better, he said, but he did not see the necessity for her to lose all
her spirit or interest in everything and everybody. Once when he hinted
as much to Maddy, he had been awed into silence by the subdued
expression of her face as she told him in part what it was which helped
her to bear and made the rough places so smooth. He had seen something
like this in Lucy, when paroxysms of pain were racking her delicate
frame, but he could not understand it; he only knew it was something he
could not touch—something against which his arguments beat helplessly,
and so, with an added respect for Maddy Clyde, he smothered his
impatience, and determining to help her all he could, rode down to
Honedale every day, instead of twice a week, as he had done before.
Attentions so marked could not fail to be commented upon; and while
poor, unsuspecting Maddy was deriving so much comfort from his daily
visits, deeming that day very long which did not bring him to her, the
Honedale gossips, of which there were many, were busy with her affairs,
talking them over at their numerous tea-drinkings, discussing them in
the streets, and finally at a quilting, where they met in solemn
conclave, deciding, that, “for a girl like Maddy Clyde it did not look
well to have so much to do with that young Remington, who, everybody
knew, was engaged to a somebody in England.”
“Yes, and would have been married long ago, if it wasn’t for this
foolin’ with Maddy,” chimed in Mrs. Joel Spike, throwing the chalk
across the quilt to her sister, Tripheny Marvel, who wondered if Maddy
thought he’d ever have her.
“Of course he wouldn’t. He knew what he was about. He was not green
enough to marry Grandpa Markham’s daughter; and if she didn’t look out,
she’d get herself into a pretty scrape. It didn’t look well, anyhow,
for her to be putting on airs, as she had done ever since big folks
took her up, and she guessed she wouldn’t be beholden to nobody for her
larnin’.”
All this and much more was discussed, and by the time the patchwork
thing was done, there remained but little to be said either for or
against Guy Remington and Maddy Clyde which had not been said by either
friend or foe.
Among the invited guests at that quilting was the wife of Farmer Green,
Maddy’s warmest friend in Honedale, and the one who did her best to
defend her against the attacks of those whose remarks she well knew
were caused more by envy than any personal dislike to Maddy, who used
to be so much of a pet until her superior advantages separated her in a
measure from them. Good Mrs. Green was sorely tried. Without in the
least blaming Maddy, she, too, had been troubled at the frequency of
Guy’s Visits to the cottage. It was not friendship alone which took him
there, she was sure; and knowing that he was engaged, she feared for
Maddy’s happiness at first, and afterward, when people began to talk,
she feared for her good name. Something must be done, and though she
dreaded it greatly, she was the one to do it. Accordingly, next day she
started for the cottage, which Guy had just left, and this, in her
opinion, accounted for the bright color in Maddy’s cheek and the
sparkle in her eye. Guy had been there, bringing and leaving a world of
sunshine, but, alas, his chances for coming ever again as he had done
were fearfully small, when, at the close of Mrs. Green’s well-meant
visit, Maddy lay on her bed, her white, frightened face buried in the
pillows, and herself half wishing she had died before the last hour had
come, with the terrible awakening it had brought; awakening to the fact
that of all living beings, Guy Remington was the one she loved the
best—the one without whose presence it seemed to her she could not
live, but without which she now knew she must.
With the best of intentions Mrs. Green had made a bungle of the whole
affair, but had succeeded in giving Maddy a general impression that
folks were talking awfully about Guy’s coming there, and doing for her
so much like an accepted lover, when everybody knew he was engaged, and
wouldn’t be likely to marry a poor girl if he wasn’t; that unless she
wanted to be ruined teetotally, and lose all her friends, she must
contrive to stop his visits, and not see him so much.
“Yes, I’ll do anything, only please leave me now,” Maddy gasped, her
face as white as ashes and her eyes fixed pleadingly upon Mrs. Green,
who, having been young herself, guessed the truth, and, as she arose to
go, laid her motherly hand on Maddy’s head, saving kindly:
“Poor child, it’s hard to bear now, but you’ll get over it in time.”
“Get over it,” Maddy moaned, as she shut and bolted the door after Mrs.
Green, and then threw herself upon the bed, “I never shall till I die.”
She almost felt that she was dying then, so desolate and so dreary the
future looked to her. What was life worth without Guy, and why had she
been thrown so much in his way; why permitted to love him as she knew
she did, if she must lose him now? Maddy could not cry; there was a
tightness about her eyes, and a keen, cutting pain about her heart as
she tried to pray for strength to do what was right—strength to cast
Guy Remington from her heart where it was a sin for him to be; and then
she asked to be forgiven for the wrong she had unwittingly done to Lucy
Atherstone, who trusted implicitly, and who, in her last letter, had
said:
“If I had not so much faith in Guy I should be jealous of one who has
so many opportunities for stealing his heart from me. But I trust you,
Maddy Clyde. You would not do a thing to harm me, I am sure, and to
lose Guy now, after these years of cruel waiting, would kill me.”
Sweet Lucy, there was in her heart a faint stirring of fear lest Maddy
Clyde might be a shadow in her pathway, else she had never written that
to her. But Lucy’s cause was safe in Maddy’s hands. Always too
high-souled to do a treacherous act, she was now sustained by another
and holier principle, which of itself would have kept her from the
wrong. But for a few moments Maddy abandoned herself to the bliss of
fancying what it would be to be loved by Guy Remington, even as she
loved him. And as she thought, there crept into her heart the certainty
that in some degree he did love her; that his friendship was more than
a mere liking for the girl to whom he had been so kind. In Lucy’s
absence she was essential to his happiness, and that was why he sought
her society so much. Remembering everything that had passed, but more
particularly the incidents of that memorable night ride to Honedale
with all that had followed since, she could not doubt it, and softly to
herself she whispered, “He loves me, he loves me,” while little throbs
of joy beat all over her heart; but only for an instant, and then the
note of joy was changed to sorrow as she thought how she must
henceforth seek to kill that love, both for her own sake and Lucy’s.
Guy must not come there any more. She could not bear it now, even if
the neighbors had never meddled with her. She could not see him as she
had done, and not betray her real feelings toward him. He had been
there that day; he would come again tomorrow. She could see him now
just as he would look coming up the walk, easy and self-possessed,
confident of his reception, his handsome face beaming all over with
kind thoughtfulness for her, and his voice full of tender concern as he
asked how she was, and bade Flora see that she did not overtax herself,
and all this must cease. She had seen it, heard it for the last time.
No wonder that Maddy’s heart fainted within her, as she thought how
desolate, how dreary would be the days when Guy no longer came. But the
victory was gained at last, and strength imparted for the task she had
to do.
Going to the table she opened her portfolio, the gift of Guy, and with
her gold pen, also his gift, wrote to him what the neighbors were
saying, and that he must come there no more; at least, only once in a
great while, because if he did, she could not see him. Then, when this
was written, she went down to Uncle Joseph, beginning to call for her,
and sat by him as usual, singing to him the songs he loved so well, and
which this night pleased him especially, because the voice which sang
them was so plaintive, so full of woe. Would he never go to sleep, or
the hand which held hers so firmly relax its hold? Never, it seemed to
Maddy, who sat and sang, while the night-bird on a distant tree,
awakened by the low song, uttered a responsive note, and the hours
crept on to midnight. Human nature could endure no more, and when the
crazy man said to her, “Now sing of Him who died on Calvary,” Maddy’s
answer was a gaping cry as she fell fainting on the pillow.
“It was only a nervous headache,” she said to the frightened Flora, who
came at Uncle Joseph’s call, and helped her young mistress up to bed.
“She should be better in the morning, and she would rather be alone.”
So Flora left her there, but went often to her door, until assured by
the low breathing sound that Maddy was sleeping at last. It was a heavy
sleep, and when Maddy awakened from it the pain in her temples was
there still; she could not rise, and half glad that she could not,
inasmuch as her illness would be a reason why she could not see Guy if
he came. She did not know he was here already, until she heard his
voice speaking to her grandfather. It was later than she imagined, and
he had ridden down early because he could not stay away.
“I can’t see him, Flora,” Maddy said, when the latter came up with the
message that Mr. Remington was there with his buggy, and asked if a
little ride would not do her good. “I can’t see him, but give him
this,” and she placed in Flora’s hand the note, baptized with so many
tears and prayers, and the contents of which made Guy furious; not at
her, but at the neighbors, the inquisitive, envious, ignorant,
meddlesome neighbors, who had dared to talk of him, or to breathe a
suspicious word against Maddy Clyde. He would see; he would make them
sorry for it; they should take back every word; and they should beg
Maddy’s forgiveness for the pain they had caused her.
All this, and much more, Guy thought, as with Maddy’s note in his hand
he walked up and down the sitting-room, raging like a young lion, and
threatening vengeance upon everybody. This was not the first intimation
Guy had received of the people’s gossip, for only that morning Mrs.
Noah had hinted that his course was not at all calculated to do Maddy
any good, while Agnes had repeated to him some things which she had
heard touching the frequency of his visits to Honedale; but these were
nothing to the calmly worded message which banished him effectually
from Maddy’s presence. He knew Maddy, and he knew, she meant what she
wrote, but he could not have it so. He must see her; he would see her;
and so for the next half hour Flora was the bearer of written messages
to and from Maddy’s room; messages of earnest entreaty on the one hand,
and of firm denial on the other. At last Maddy wrote:
“If you care for me in the least, or for my respect, leave me, and do
not come again until I send for you. I am not insensible to your
kindness. I feel it all; but the world is nearer right than you
suppose. It does not look well for you to come here so much, and I
prefer that you should not. Justice to Lucy requires that you stay
away.”
That ended it! That roused up Guy’s pride, and writing back:
“You shall be obeyed. Good-by.” He sprang into his buggy, and Maddy,
listening, with head and heart throbbing alike, heard him as he drove
furiously away.
Those were long, dreary days which followed, and but for her
grandfather’s increasing feebleness Maddy would almost have died.
Anxiety for him, however, kept her from dwelling too much upon herself,
but the excitement and the care wore upon her sadly, robbing her eye of
its luster and her cheek of its remaining bloom, making even Mrs. Noah
cry when she came one day with Jessie to see how they were getting on.
She had heard from Guy of his banishment, and now that he stayed away,
she was ready to step in; so she came, laden with sympathy and other
more substantial comforts brought from the Aikenside larder.
Maddy was glad to see her, and for a time cried softly on her bosom,
while Mrs. Noah’s tears kept company with hers. Not a word was said of
Guy, except when Jessie told her he was gone to Boston, and it was so
stupid at home without him.
With more than her ordinary discretion, Flora kept to herself what had
passed when Guy was last there, so Mrs. Noah knew nothing except what
he had told her, and what she read in Maddy’s white, suffering face.
This last was enough to excite all her pity, and she treated the young
girl with the most motherly kindness, staying all night, and herself
taking care of grandpa, who was now too ill to sit up. There seemed to
be no disease preying upon him, nothing save old age, and the loss of
one who for more than forty years had shared all his joy and sorrow. He
could not live without her, and one night, three weeks after Guy’s
dismissal, he said to Maddy, as she was about to leave him:
“Sit with me, darling, for a little while, if you are not too tired.
Your grandmother seems near me to-night, and so does Alice, your
mother. Maybe I’ll be with them before another day. I hope I may if God
is willing, and there’s much I would say to you.”
He was very pale, and the great sweat drops stood on his forehead and
under his white hair, but Maddy wiped them away and listened with a
breaking heart while the aged disciple almost home told her of the
peace, the joy, that shone around his pathway to the tomb, and of the
everlasting arm bearing him so gently over Jordan. Then he talked of
herself, blessing her for all she had been to him, telling her how
happy she had made his life since she came home to stay, and how for a
time he had ached so with fear lest she should choose to go back and
leave him to a stranger. “But my darling stayed with her old grandpa.
She’ll never be sorry for it, never. I’ve tried you sometimes, I know,
for old folks ain’t like young; but I’m sorry, Maddy, and you’ll forget
it when I’m gone, darling Maddy, precious child;” and the trembling
hand rested caressingly on her bowed head as grandpa went on to speak
of his affairs, his little property which was hers after the mortgage
to Mr. Guy was paid. “I’ve kept up the interest,” he said, “but I could
never get him to take any of the principal. I don’t know why he is so
good to me. Tell him, Maddy, how I thanked and blessed him just before
I died; tell him how I used to pray for him every day that he might
choose the better part. And he will—I’m sure he will, some day. He
hasn’t been here of late, and though my old eyes are dim, I can see
that your step has got slow, and your face whiter by many shades, since
he stayed away. Maddy, child, the dead tell no secrets, and I shall
soon be dead. Tell me, then, what it is between you two. Does my girl
love Mr. Guy?”
“Oh, grandpa! grandpa!” Maddy moaned, laying her head beside his own on
the pillow.
It would be a relief to talk with some one of that terrible pain, which
grew worse every day; of that intense longing just for one sight of the
beloved one; of Guy, still absent from Aikenside, wandering nobody knew
where; and so Maddy told the whole story, while the dying man listened
to her, and smoothing her silken hair, tried to comfort her.
“The worst is not over yet,” he said. “Guy will offer to make you his
wife, sacrificing Lucy for you, and if he does, what will my darling
do?”
Maddy’s heart leaped up into her throat, and for a moment prevented her
from answering, for the thought of Guy’s really offering to make her
his wife, to shield her from evil, to enfold her in his tender love,
made her giddy with joy. But it could not be, and she answered through
her tears:
“I shall tell him no.”
“God bless my Maddy! She will tell him no for Lucy’s sake, and God will
bring it right at last,” the old man whispered, his voice growing very
faint and tremulous. “She will tell him no,” he kept repeating, until,
rousing up to greater consciousness, he spoke of Uncle Joseph, and
asked what Maddy would do with him; would she send him back to the
asylum, or care for him there? “He will be happier here,” he said, “but
it is asking too much of a young girl like you. He may live for years.”
“I do not know, grandpa. I hope I may do right. I think I shall keep
Uncle Joseph with me,” Maddy replied, a shudder creeping over her as
she thought of living out all her youth and possibly middle age with a
lunatic.
But her grandfather’s whispered blessings brought comfort with them,
and a calm quiet fell upon her as she sat there listening to the words
of prayer, and catching now and then her own name and that of Guy’s.
“I am drowsy, Maddy. Watch while I sleep. Perhaps I’ll never wake
again,” grandpa said, and clasping Maddy’s hands he fell away to sleep,
while Maddy kept her watch beside him, herself falling into a troubled
sleep, from which she was aroused by a clammy hand pressing on her
forehead, and Uncle Joseph’s voice, which said: “Wake, my child.
There’s been a guest here while you slumbered,” and he pointed to the
rigid features of the newly dead.