THE BURDEN GROWS HEAVIER.
Of the days which followed, Maddy had no distinct consciousness. She
only knew that other hands than hers cared for the dead, that in the
little parlor a stiff, white figure lay, that neighboring women stole
in, treading on tiptoe, and speaking in hushed voices as they
consulted, not her, but Mrs. Noah, who had come at once, and cared for
her and hers so kindly. That she lay all day in her own room, where the
summer breeze blew softly through the window, bringing the perfume of
summer flowers, the sound of a tolling bell, of grinding wheels, the
notes of a low, sad hymn, sung in faltering tones, and of many feet
moving from the door. Then friendly faces looked in upon her, asking
how she felt, and whispering ominously to each other as she answered:
“Very well; is grandpa getting better?”
Then Mrs. Noah sat with her for a time, fanning her with a palm-leaf
fan and brushing the flies away. Then Flora came up with a man whom
they called “Doctor,” and who gave his sundry little pills and powders
dissolved in water, after which they all went out and left her there
with Jessie who had been crying, and whose soft little hands felt so
cool on her hot head, and whose kisses on her lips made the tears
start, and brought a thought of Guy, making her ask, “if he was at the
funeral.” She did not know whose funeral, or why she used that word,
only it seemed to her that Jessie just came back from somebody’s grave,
and she asked if Guy was there. “No,” Jessie said; “mother wanted to
write and tell him, but we don’t know where he is.”
And this was all Maddy could recall of the days succeeding the night of
her last watch at her grandfather’s side, until one balmy August
afternoon, when on the Honedale hills there lay that smoky haze so like
the autumn time hurrying on apace, and when through her open window
stole the fragrance of the later summer flowers. Then, as if waking
from an ordinary sleep, she woke suddenly to consciousness, and staring
about the room, wondered if it were as late as the western sun would
indicate, and how she came to sleep so long. For a while she lay
thinking, and as she thought, a sad scene came back to her, a night
when her hot hands had been enfolded in those of the dead, and that
dead her grandfather. Was it true, or was she laboring under some
hallucination of the brain? If true, was that white, placid face still
to be seen in the room below, or had they burial him from her sight?
She would know, and with a strange kind of nervous strength she arose,
and throwing on the wrapper and slippers which lay near, descended the
stairs, wondering to find herself so weak, and half shuddering at the
deep stillness of the house; stillness broken only by the ticking of
the clock and the purring of the house cat, which at sight of Maddy
arose from its position near the door and came forward, rubbing its
sides against her dress, and trying in various ways to evince its joy
at seeing one whose caresses it had missed so long. The little bedroom
off the kitchen where grandpa slept and died was vacant; the old
fashioned coat was put away, as was every vestige of the old man save
the broad-rimmed hat which hung upon the wall just where his hands had
hung it, and which looked so much like its owner that with a gush of
tears Maddy sank upon the bed, moaning to herself, “Yes, grandpa is
dead. I remember now. But Uncle Joseph, where is he? Can he too have
died without my knowledge? and she looked round in vain for the
lunatic, not a trace of whom was to be found. His room was in perfect
order, as was everything about the house, showing that Flora was still
the domestic goddess, while Maddy detected also various things which
she recognized as having come from Aikenside. Who sent them? Did Guy,
and had he been there too while she was sick? The thought brought a
throb of joy to Maddy’s heart, but it soon passed away as she began
again to wonder if Uncle Joseph too had died, and where Flora was. It
was not far to the Honedale burying ground. Maddy could see the
headstones from where she sat gleaming through the August sunlight;
could discern her mother’s, and knew that two fresh mounds at least
were made beside it. But were there three? Was Uncle Joseph there? By
stealing across the meadow in the rear of the house the distance to the
graveyard was shortened more than half, and could not be more than the
eighth part of a mile, She could walk so far, she knew. The fresh air
would do her good, and hunting up her long unused flat, the impatient
girl started, stopping once or twice to rest as a dizzy faintness came
over her, and then continuing on until the spot she sought was reached,
Three graves, one old and sunken, one made when the last winter’s snow
was on the hills, the other fresh and new. That was all, Uncle Joseph
was not there, and vague terror entered Maddy’s heart lest he had been
taken back to the asylum.
“I will get him out,” she said; “I will take care of him. I should die
with nothing to do; and I promised grandpa——”
She could get no farther, for the rush of memories which came over her,
and seating herself upon the ground close to the new grave, she laid
her face upon it, and sobbed piteously:
“Oh, grandpa. I’m so lonely without you all; I almost wish I was lying
here in the quiet yard.”
Then a storm of tears ensued, after which Maddy grew calm, and with her
head still bent low, did not hear the rapid step approaching, the manly
step coming down the grassy road, coming past the marble tombstones, on
to where that wasted figure was crouching upon the ground. There it
stopped, and in a half whisper called, “Maddy! Maddy!” Then indeed she
started, and lifting up her head saw before her Guy Remington. For a
moment she regarded him intently while he said to her, oh so kindly, so
pityingly.
“Poor child, you have suffered so much, and I never knew of it till a
few days ago.”
At the sound of that loved voice speaking thus to her, everything else
was forgotten, and with a cry of joy Maddy stretched her hands toward
him, moaning out:
“Oh, Guy, Guy, where have you been, when I wanted you so much?”
Maddy did not know what she was saying, or half comprehend the effect
it had on Guy, who forgot everything save that she wanted him, had
missed him, had turned to him in her trouble, and it was not in his
nature to resist her appeal. With a spring he was at her side, and
lifting her in his arms seated himself upon her mother’s grave; then
straining her tightly to his bosom, he kissed her again and again. Hot,
burning, passionate kisses they were, which took from Maddy all power
of resistance, even had she wished it, which she did not. Too weak to
reason, or see the harm, if harm there were, in being loved by Guy, she
abandoned herself for a brief interval to the bliss of knowing that she
was beloved, and of hearing him tell her so.
“Darling Maddy,” he said, “I went away because you sent me, but now I
have come back, and nothing shall part us again. You are mine; I claim
you here at your mother’s grave. Precious Maddy, I did not know of all
this till three days ago, when Agnes’ letter found me almost at the
Rocky Mountains. I traveled day and night, reaching Aikenside this
morning, and coming straight to Honedale. I wish I had come before, now
that I know you wanted me. Say that again, Maddy. Tell me again that
you missed and wanted me.”
He was smoothing her hair now, as her head still lay pillowed upon his
breast, so he could not see the spasm of pain which contorted her
features as he thus appealed to her. Half bewildered, Maddy could not
at first make out whether it were a blissful dream or a reality, her
lying there in Guy’s arms with his kisses on her forehead, lips and
cheek, his words of devotion in her ear, and the soft summer sky
smiling down upon her. Alas, it was a dream from which she was awakened
by the thought of one across the sea, whose place she had usurped, and
this it was which brought the grieved expression to her face as she
answered mournfully:
“I did want you, Guy, when I forgot; but now—oh, Guy—Lucy Atherstone!”
With a gesture of impatience Guy was about to answer, when something in
the heavy fall of the little hand from his shoulder alarmed him, and
lifting up the drooping head he saw that Maddy had fainted. Then back
across the meadow Guy bore her to the cottage, where Flora, just
returned from a neighbor’s, whither she had gone upon an errand, was
looking for her in much affright, and wondering who had come from
Aikenside with that wet, tired horse, showing so plainly how hard it
had been driven.
Up again into her little chamber Maddy was carried and laid upon the
bed, which she never left until the golden harvest sheaves were
gathered in, and the hot September sun was ripening the fruits of
autumn. But now she had a new nurse, a constant attendant, who during
the day seldom left her except to talk with and amuse Uncle Joseph,
mourning below because no one sang to him or noticed him as Maddy used
to do. He had not been sent to the asylum, as Maddy feared, but by way
of relieving Flora had been taken to Farmer Green’s, where he was so
homesick and discontented that at Guy’s instigation he was suffered to
return to the cottage, crying like a little child when the old familiar
spot was reached, kissing his armchair, the cook-stove, the tongs, Mrs.
Noah and Flora, and timidly offering to kiss the Lord Governor himself,
as he persisted in calling Guy, who declined the honor, but listened
quietly to the crazy man’s promise “not to spit the smallest kind of a
spit on the floor, or anywhere, except in its proper place.”
Guy had passed through several states of mind during the interval in
which we have seen so little of him. Furious at one time, and reckless
as to consequences, he had determined to break with Lucy and marry
Maddy, in spite of everybody; then, as a sense of honor came over him,
he resolved to forget Maddy, if possible, and marry Lucy at once. It
was in this last mood, and while roaming over the Western country,
whither after his banishment he had gone, that he wrote to Lucy a
strange kind of letter, saying he had waited for her long enough, and
sick or well he should claim her the coming autumn. To this letter Lucy
had responded quickly, sweetly reproving Guy for his impatience, softly
hinting that latterly he had been quite as culpable as herself in the
matter of deferring their union and appointing the bridal day for
the—of December. After this was settled Guy felt better, though the old
sore spot in his heart, where Maddy Clyde had been, was very sore
still, and sometimes it required all his powers of self-control to keep
from writing to Lucy and asking to be released from an engagement so
irksome as his had become. Neglecting to answer Agnes’ letters when he
first left home, she did not know where he was until a short time
before, when she wrote apprising him of grandpa’s death and Maddy’s
severe illness. This brought him, while Maddy’s involuntary outburst
when she met him in the graveyard, changed the whole current of his
intentions. Let what would come, Maddy Clyde should be his wife and as
such he watched over her, nursing her back to life, and by his manner
effectually silencing all remark, so that the neighbors whispered among
themselves what Maddy’s prospects were, and, as was quite natural, were
a very little more attentive to the future lady of Aikenside. Poor
Maddy! it was a terrible trial which awaited her, but it must be met,
and so with prayers and tears she fortified herself to meet it, while
Guy, the devoted lover, hung over her, never guessing of all that was
passing in her mind, or how, when he was out of sight, the lips he had
longed so much to kiss, but never had since that day in the graveyard,
quivered with anguish as they asked for strength to do right. Oh, how
Maddy did love the man she must give up, and how often went up the
wailing cry, “Help me, Father, to do my duty, and give me, too, a
greater inclination to do it than I now possess.”
Maddy’s heart did fail her sometimes, and she might have yielded to the
temptation but for Lucy’s letter, full of eager anticipations of the
time when she should see Guy never to part again.
“Sometimes,” she wrote, “there comes over me a dark foreboding of
evil—a fear that I shall miss the cup now within my reach; but I pray
the bad feelings away. I am sure there is no living being who will come
between us to break my heart, and as I know God doeth all things well,
I trust Him wholly, and cease to doubt.”
It was well the letter came when it did, as it helped Maddy to meet the
hour she so much dreaded, and which came at last on an afternoon when
Mrs. Noah had gone to Aikenside, and Flora had gone on an errand to a
neighbor’s, two miles away, thus leaving Guy free to tell the story,
the old, old story, yet always new to him who tells it and her who
listens—story which, as Guy told it, sitting by Maddy’s side, with her
hands in his, thrilled her through and through, making the sweat drops
start out around her lips and underneath her hair—story which made Guy
himself pant nervously and tremble like a leaf, so earnestly he told
it; told how long he had loved her, of the picture withheld, the
jealousy he felt each time the doctor named her, the selfish joy he
experienced when he heard the doctor was refused; told of his growing
dissatisfaction with his engagement, his frequent resolves to break it,
his final decision, which that scene in the graveyard had reversed, and
then asked if she would not be his—not doubtfully, but confidently,
eagerly, as if sure of her answer.
Alas for Guy! he could not believe he heard aright when, turning her
head away for a moment while she prayed for strength, Maddy’s answer
came, “I cannot, Guy, I cannot. I acknowledge the love which has stolen
upon me, I know not how, but I cannot do this wrong to Lucy. Away from
me you will love her again. You must. Read this, Guy, then say if you
can desert her.”
She placed Lucy’s letter in his hand, and Guy read it with a heart
which ached to its very core. It was cruel to deceive that gentle,
trusting girl writing so lovingly of him, but to lose Maddy was to his
undisciplined nature more dreadful still, and casting the letter aside
he pleaded again, this time with the energy of despair, for he read his
fate in Maddy’s face, and when her lips a second time confirmed her
first reply, while she appealed to his sense of honor, of justice, of
right, and told him he could and must forget her, he knew there was no
hope, and man though he was, bowed his head upon Maddy’s hands and wept
stormily, mighty, choking sobs, which shook his frame, and seemed to
break up the very fountains of his life. Then to Maddy there came a
terrible temptation. Was it right for two who loved as they did to live
their lives apart?—right in her to force on Guy the fulfillment of vows
he could not literally keep? As mental struggles are always the more
severe, so Maddy’s took all her strength away, and for many minutes she
lay so white and still that Guy roused himself to care for her,
thinking of nothing then except to make her better.
It was a long time ere that interview ended, but when it did there was
on Maddy’s face a peaceful expression, which only the sense of having
done right at the cost of a fearful sacrifice could give, while Guy’s
bore traces of a great and crushing sorrow, as he went out from Maddy’s
presence and felt that to him she was lost forever. He had promised her
he would do right; had said he would marry Lucy, being to her what a
husband should be; had listened while she talked of another world,
where they neither marry nor are given in marriage, and where it would
not be sinful for them to love each other, and as she talked her face
had shone like the face of an angel. He had held one of her hands at
parting, bending low his head, while she laid the other on it as she
blessed him, letting her snowy fingers thread his soft brown hair and
linger caressingly among his curly locks. But that was over now. They
had parted forever. She was lying where he left her, cold, and white,
and faint with dizzy pain. He was riding swiftly toward Aikenside, his
heart beats keeping time to the swift tread of his horse’s feet, and
his mind a confused medley of distracted thoughts, amid which two facts
stood out prominent and clear-he had lost Maddy Clyde, and had promised
her to marry Lucy Atherstone.
For many days after that Guy kept his room, saying he was sick, and
refusing to see any one save Jessie and Mrs. Noah, the latter of whom
guessed in part what had happened, and imputing to him far more credit
than he deserved, petted and pitied and cared for him until he grew
weary of it, and said to her savagely: “You needn’t think me so good,
for I am not. I wanted Maddy Clyde, and told her so, but she refused me
and made me promise to marry Lucy; so I’m going to do that very
thing—going to England in a few weeks, or as soon as Maddy is better,
and before the sun of this year sets I shall be a married man.”
After this all Mrs. Noah’s sympathy was in favor of Maddy, the good
lady making more than one pilgrimage to Honedale, where she expended
all her arguments trying to make Maddy revoke her decision; but Maddy
was firm in what she deemed right, and as her health began slowly to
improve, and there was no longer an excuse for Guy to tarry, he gave
out to the neighborhood that he was at last to be married, and started
for England the latter part of October, as unhappy and unwilling a
bridegroom, it may be, as ever wait after a bride.