[Illustration: IN A HALF WHISPER SOME ONE CALLED, “MADDY!
MADDY!”—_Madeline, Page 326._]
MADELINE
BY
MARY J. HOLMES
[Illustration: [Logo]]
G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1881,
DANIEL HOLMES.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. The Examining Committee 7
II. Madeline Clyde 23
III. The Examination 35
IV. Grandpa Markham 53
V. The Result 65
VI. Convalescence 86
VII. The Drive 106
VIII. Shadowings of What was to Be 116
IX. The Decision 127
X. At Aikenside 131
XI. Guy at Home 146
XII. Lucy’s Letter 173
XIII. Gossip 186
XIV. Maddy and Lucy 203
XV. The Holidays 225
XVI. The Doctor and Maddy 256
XVII. Womanhood 267
XVIII. The Burden 282
XIX. Life at the Cottage 302
XX. The Burden grows Heavier 322
XXI. The Interval before the Marriage 337
XXII. Before the Bridal 342
XXIII. Lucy 364
XXIV. Finale 369
MADELINE.
CHAPTER I.
THE EXAMINING COMMITTEE.
Twenty-five years ago the people of Devonshire, a little town among the
New England hills, had the reputation of being rather quarrelsome.
Sometimes about meek, gentle Mrs. Tiverton, the minister’s wife, whose
manner of housekeeping, or style of dress, did not exactly suit them;
sometimes about the minister himself, who vainly imagined that if he
preached three sermons a week, attended the Wednesday evening
prayer-meeting, the Thursday evening sewing society, visited all the
sick, and gave to every beggar that called at his door, besides
superintending the Sunday-school, he was earning his salary of six
hundred per year.
Sometimes, and that not rarely, the quarrel crept into the choir, and
then for two or three Sundays it was all in vain that Mr. Tiverton read
the psalm and hymn, and cast troubled glances toward the vacant seats of
his refractory singers. There was no one to respond, except poor Mr.
Hodges, who usually selected something in a minor key, and pitched it so
high that few could follow him; while Mrs. Captain Simpson—whose
daughter was the organist—rolled her eyes at her next neighbor, or
fanned herself furiously in token of her disgust.
Latterly, however, there had arisen a new cause for quarrel, before
which everything else sank into insignificance. Now, though the village
of Devonshire could boast but one public school-house, said house being
divided into two departments, the upper and lower divisions, there were
in the town several district schools; and for the last few years a
committee of three had been annually appointed to examine and decide
upon the merits of the various candidates for teaching, giving to each,
if the decision were favorable, a slip of paper certifying his or her
qualification to teach a common school. It was strange that over such an
office so fierce a feud should have arisen; but when Mr. Tiverton,
Squire Lamb, and Lawyer Whittemore, in the full conviction that they
were doing right, refused a certificate of scholarship to a niece of
Mrs. Judge Tisdale, and awarded it to one whose earnings in a factory
had procured for her a thorough English education, the villagers were
roused as they had never been before—the aristocracy abusing, and the
democracy upholding the dismayed trio, who at last quietly resigned
their office, and Devonshire was without a school committee.
In this emergency something must be done, and as the two belligerent
parties could only unite on a stranger, it seemed a matter of special
providence that only two months before the quarrel began, young Dr.
Holbrook, a native of Boston, had rented the pleasant little office on
the village common, formerly occupied by old Dr. Carey, whose days of
practice were over. Besides being handsome, and skillful, and quite as
familiar with the poor as the rich, the young doctor was descended from
the aristocratic line of Boston Holbrooks, facts which tended to make
him a favorite with both classes; and, greatly to his surprise, he found
himself unanimously elected to the responsible office of sole Inspector
of Common Schools in Devonshire. It was in vain that he remonstrated,
saying he knew nothing whatever of the qualifications requisite for a
teacher; that he could not talk to _girls_ unless they happened to be
sick; that he should make a miserable failure, and be turned out of
office in less than a month. The people would not listen. Somebody must
examine the teachers, and that somebody might as well be Dr. Holbrook as
any one.
“Only be strict with ’em and draw the reins tight; find out to your
satisfaction whether a gal knows her P’s and Q’s before you give her a
stifficut: we’ve had enough of your ignoramuses,” said Colonel Lewis,
the democratic potentate to whom Dr. Holbrook was expressing his fears
that he should not give satisfaction. Then, as a bright idea suggested
itself to the old gentleman, he added: “I tell you what, just _cut_ one
or two at first; that’ll give you a name for being particular, which is
just the thing.”
Accordingly, with no definite idea as to what was expected of him,
except that he was to find out “whether a gal knew her P’s and Q’s,” and
was also to “cut one or two of the first candidates,” Dr. Holbrook
accepted the situation, and then waited rather nervously his initiation.
He was never at his ease in the society of ladies, unless they stood in
need of his professional services, when he lost sight of _them_ at once,
and thought only of their disease. His patient once well, however, he
became nervously shy and embarrassed, retreating as soon as possible
from her presence to the shelter of his friendly office, where, with his
boots upon the table, and his head thrown back in a most comfortable
position, he sat one April morning, in happy oblivion of the bevy of
girls who were ere long to invade his sanctum.
“Something for you, sir. The lady will wait for an answer,” said his
office boy, passing to his master a little note, and nodding toward the
street.
Following the direction indicated, the doctor saw near his door an
old-fashioned one-horse wagon, such as is still occasionally seen in New
England among the farmers who till the barren soil and rarely indulge in
anything new. On this occasion it was a square-boxed dark-green wagon,
drawn by a sorrel horse, sometimes called by the genuine Yankee
“yellow,” and driven by a white-haired man, whose silvery locks, falling
around his wrinkled face, gave him a pleasing, patriarchal appearance,
which interested the doctor far more than did the flutter of the blue
ribbon beside him, even though the bonnet that ribbon tied shaded the
face of a young girl.
The note was from her, and, tearing it open, the doctor read, in a
pretty, girlish handwriting:
“Dr. Holbrook.”
Here it was plainly visible that a “D” had been written as if she would
have said “Dear.” Then, evidently changing her mind, she had with her
finger blotted out the “D,” and made it into an oddly-shaped “S,” so
that it read:
“DR. HOLBROOK—SIR: Will you be at leisure to examine me on Monday
afternoon, at three o’clock?
“MADELINE A. CLYDE.
“P. S.—For particular reasons I hope you can attend to me as early as
Monday.
M. A. C.”
Dr. Holbrook knew very little of girls and their peculiarities, but he
thought this note, with its P. S., decidedly girlish. Still he made no
comment, either verbal or mental, so flurried was he with the thought
that the evil he so much dreaded had come upon him at last. Had it been
left to his choice, he would far rather have extracted every one of
Madeline Clyde’s teeth, than have set himself up before her as some
horrid ogre, asking what she knew and what she did not know. But the
choice was not his, and, turning at last to the boy, he said shortly,
“Tell her to come.”
Most men would have sought for a glimpse of the face under the bonnet
tied with blue, but Dr. Holbrook did not care a picayune whether it were
ugly or fair, though it _did_ strike him that the voice was singularly
sweet, which, after the boy had delivered the message, said to the old
man, “Oh, I am so glad; now, grandpa, we’ll go home. I know you must be
tired.”
Very slowly Sorrel trotted down the street, the blue ribbons fluttering
in the wind, and one little ungloved hand carefully adjusting about the
old man’s shoulders the ancient camlet cloak which had done duty for
many a year, and was needed on this chill April day. The doctor saw all
this, and the impression left upon his mind was, that Candidate No. 1
was probably a nice kind of a girl, and very good to her grandfather.
But what should he ask her, and how demean himself towards her, and
would it be well to “cut her,” as Colonel Lewis had advised him to do to
one or two of the first? Monday afternoon was frightfully near, he
thought, as this was only Saturday; and then, feeling that he must be
prepared, he brought out from the trunk, where, since his arrival in
Devonshire, they had been quietly lying, books enough to have frightened
an elder person than poor little Madeline Clyde, riding slowly home, and
wishing so much that she’d had a glimpse of Dr. Holbrook, so as to know
what he was like, and hoping he would give her a chance to repeat some
of the many pages of Geography and History which she knew by heart. How
she would have trembled could she have seen the formidable volumes
heaped upon the doctor’s table and waiting for her. There were French
and Latin grammars, Hamilton’s Metaphysics, Olmstead’s Philosophy, Day’s
Algebra, Butler’s Analogy, and many other books, into which poor
Madeline had never so much as looked. Arranging them in a row, and half
wishing himself back again in the days when he had studied them, the
doctor went out to visit his patients, of which there were so many that
Madeline Clyde entirely escaped his mind, nor did she trouble him again
until the dreaded Monday came, and the hands of his watch pointed to
two.
“One hour more,” he said to himself, just as the roll of wheels and a
cloud of dust announced the arrival of some one.
“Can it be Sorrel and the square wagon?” Dr. Holbrook thought. But far
different from Grandfather Clyde’s turnout was the stylish carriage and
the spirited bays which the colored coachman stopped in front of the
white cottage in the same yard with the office, the house where Dr.
Holbrook boarded, and where, if he married while in Devonshire, he would
most likely bring his wife.
“Guy Remington, the very chap of all others whom I’d rather see, and, as
I live, there’s Agnes with Jessie. Who knew _she_ was in these parts?”
was the doctor’s mental exclamation, as, running his fingers through his
hair and making a feint of pulling up the corners of his rather limp
collar, he hurried out to the carriage, from which a dashing-looking
lady of thirty, or thereabouts, was alighting.
“Why, Agnes—I beg your pardon, Mrs. Remington—when did you come?” he
asked, offering his hand to the lady, who, coquettishly shaking back
from her pretty, dollish face a profusion of light brown curls, gave him
the tips of her lavender kids, while she told him she had come to
Aikenside the Saturday before; and hearing from Guy that the lady with
whom he boarded was an old friend of hers, she had driven over to call,
and brought Jessie with her. “Here, Jessie, speak to the doctor. He was
poor dear papa’s friend,” and something which was intended as a sigh of
regret for “poor, dear papa,” escaped Agnes Remington’s lips as she
pushed a little curly-haired girl toward Dr. Holbrook.
Mrs. Conner, the lady of the house, had seen them by this time, and came
running down the walk to meet her distinguished visitor, wondering a
little to what she was indebted for this call from one who, since her
marriage with the aristocratic Dr. Remington, had somewhat ignored her
former acquaintances. Agnes was delighted to see her, and as Guy
declined entering the cottage just then, the two friends disappeared
within the door, while the doctor and Guy repaired to the office, the
latter sitting down in the chair intended for Madeline Clyde. This
reminded the doctor of his perplexity, and also brought the comforting
thought that Guy, who had never failed him yet, could surely offer some
suggestions. But he would not speak of it just now, he had other matters
to talk about; and so, jamming his pen-knife into a pine table covered
with similar jams, he said, “Agnes, it seems, has come to Aikenside,
notwithstanding she declared she never would, when she found that the
whole of the Remington property belonged to your mother, and not your
father.”
“Oh, yes. She recovered from her pique as soon as I settled a handsome
little income on Jessie, and, in fact, on her too, until she is foolish
enough to marry again, when it will cease, of course, as I do not feel
it my duty to support any man’s wife, unless it be my own,” was Guy
Remington’s reply; whereupon the pen-knife went again into the table,
and this time with so much force that the point was broken off; but the
doctor did not mind it, and with the jagged end continued to make jagged
marks, while he said: “She’ll hardly marry again, though she may. She’s
young—not over twenty-six—”
“Thirty, if the family Bible does not lie,” said Guy; “but she’d never
forgive me if she knew I told you that. So let it pass that she’s
twenty-eight. She certainly is not more than two years your senior, a
mere nothing, if you wish to make her Mrs. Holbrook;” and Guy’s dark
eyes scanned curiously the doctor’s face, as if seeking there for the
secret of his proud young step-mother’s anxiety to visit plain Mrs.
Conner the moment she heard that Dr. Holbrook was her boarder. But the
doctor only laughed merrily at the idea of his being father to Guy, who
was his college chum and long-tried friend.
Agnes Remington, who was reclining languidly in Mrs. Conner’s
easy-chair, and overwhelming her former friend with descriptions of the
gay parties she had attended in Boston, and the fine sights she saw in
Europe, whither her gray-haired husband had taken her for a wedding
tour—would not have felt particularly flattered, could she have seen
that smile, or heard how easily, from talking of her, Dr. Holbrook
turned to Madeline Clyde, whom he expected every moment. There was a
merry laugh on Guy’s part, as he listened to the doctor’s story; and
when it was finished, he said: “Why, I see nothing so very distasteful
in examining a pretty girl, and puzzling her, to see her blush. I half
wish I were in your place. I should enjoy the novelty of the thing.”
“Oh, take it, then; take my place, Guy,” the doctor exclaimed, eagerly.
“She does not know me from Adam. She never saw me in her life. Here are
books, all you will need. You went to a district school a whole week
that summer when you were staying in the country, with your grandmother.
You surely have some idea what they do there, while I have not the
slightest. Will you, Guy?” he persisted more earnestly, as he heard
wheels in the street, and was sure old Sorrel had come again.
Guy Remington liked anything savoring of a frolic, but in his mind there
were certain conscientious scruples touching the justice of the thing,
and so at first he demurred; while the doctor still insisted, until at
last he laughingly consented to _commence_ the examination, provided the
doctor would sit by, and occasionally come to his aid.
“You must write the certificate, of course,” he said, “testifying that
she is qualified to teach.”
“Yes, certainly, Guy, if she is; but maybe she won’t be, and my orders
are, to be strict—very strict at first, and cut one or two. You have no
idea what a row the town is in.”
“How did the girl look?” Guy asked, and the doctor replied: “Saw nothing
but her bonnet and a blue ribbon. Came in a queer old go-giggle of a
wagon, such as your country farmers drive. There was an old man with her
in a camlet cloak. Guess she won’t be likely to impress either of us,
particularly as I am bullet-proof, and you have been engaged for years.
By the way, when do you cross the sea again for the fair Lucy? Rumor
says, this summer.”
“Rumor is wrong, as usual, then,” was Guy’s reply, a soft light stealing
into his handsome eyes. Then, after a moment, he added: “Miss
Atherstone’s health is far too delicate for her to incur the risk of a
climate like ours. If she were here I should be glad, for it is terribly
lonely up at Aikenside, and I must stay there, you know. It would be a
shame to let the place run down.”
“And do you really think a wife would make it pleasanter?” Dr. Holbrook
asked, the tone of his voice indicating a little doubt as to a man’s
being happier for having a helpmate to share his joys and sorrows.
But no such doubts dwelt in the mind of Guy Remington. Eminently fitted
for domestic happiness, he looked forward anxiously to the time when
Lucy Atherstone, the fair English girl to whom he had become engaged
when he visited Europe, four years ago, should be strong enough to bear
transplanting to American soil. Twice since his engagement he had
visited her, finding her always loving and sweet, but never quite ready
to come with him to his home in America. He must wait a little longer;
and he was waiting, satisfied that the girl was worth the sacrifice, as
indeed she was, for a fairer, sweeter flower never bloomed than Lucy
Atherstone, his affianced bride. Guy loved to think of her, and as the
doctor’s remarks brought her to his mind, he went off into a reverie
concerning her, becoming so lost in thought, that until the doctor’s
hand was laid upon his shoulder, by way of rousing him, he did not see
that what his friend had designated as a _go-giggle_ was stopping in
front of the office, and that from it a young lady was alighting.
Naturally polite, Guy’s first impulse was to go to her assistance, but
she did not need it, as was proven by the light spring with which she
reached the ground. The white-haired man was with her again, but he
evidently did not intend to stop, and a close observer might have
detected a shade of sadness and anxiety upon his face as Madeline called
cheerily out to him, “Good-bye, grandpa. Don’t fear for me, and I hope
you will have good luck;” then, as he drove away, she ran a step after
him and said, “Don’t look so sorry, please, for if Mr. Remington won’t
let you have the money, there’s my pony, Beauty. I am willing to give
him up.”
“Never, Maddy. It’s all the little fortin’ you’ve got. I’ll let the old
place go first;” and chirruping to Sorrel, the old man drove on, while
Madeline walked, with a beating heart, to the office door where she
knocked timidly.
Glancing involuntarily at each other, the young men exchanged meaning
smiles, while the doctor whispered softly, “Verdant—that’s sure.”
As Guy sat nearest the door, it was he who opened it, while Madeline
came in, her soft brown eyes glistening with something like a tear, and
her cheeks burning with excitement as she took the chair indicated by
Guy Remington, who unconsciously found himself master of ceremonies, and
whom she naturally mistook for Dr. Holbrook, whom she had never seen.