THE EXAMINATION.
It was Guy who received her, Guy who pointed to a chair, Guy who seemed
perfectly at home, and, naturally enough she took him for Dr. Holbrook,
wondering who the other black-haired man could be, and if he meant to
stay in there all the while. It would be very dreadful if he did, and in
her agitation and excitement the cube root was in danger of being
altogether forgotten. Half guessing the cause of her uneasiness, and
feeling more averse than ever to taking part in the matter, the doctor,
after a hasty survey of her person, withdrew into the background, and
sat where he could not be seen. This brought the short dress into full
view, together with the dainty little foot nervously beating the floor.
“She’s very young,” he thought; “too young, by far;” and Maddy’s chances
of success were beginning to decline even before a word had been spoken.
How terribly still it was for the time during which telegraphic
communications were silently passing between Guy and the doctor, the
latter shaking his head decidedly, while the former insisted that he
should do his duty. Madeline could almost hear the beatings of her
heart, and only by counting and recounting the poplar trees growing
across the street could she keep back the tears. What was he waiting
for, she wondered, and, at last, summoning all her courage, she lifted
her great brown eyes to Guy, and said, pleadingly:
“Would you be so kind, sir, as to begin? I am afraid I shall forget.”
“Yes, certainly,” and electrified by that young, bird-like voice, the
sweetest save one he had ever heard, Guy took from the pile of books
which the doctor had arranged upon the table, the only one at all
appropriate to the occasion, the others being as far beyond what was
taught in district schools as his classical education was beyond
Madeline’s common one.
When a boy of ten, or thereabouts, Guy had spent a part of a summer with
his grandmother in the country, and for a week had attended a district
school. But he was so utterly regardless of rules and restrictions,
talking aloud and walking about whenever the fancy took him, that he was
ignominiously dismissed at the end of the week, and that was all the
experience he had ever had in the kind of school Madeline was to teach.
But even this helped him a little, for remembering that the teacher in
Farmingham had commenced her operations by sharpening a lead pencil, so
he now sharpened a similar one, determining as far as he could to follow
Miss Burr’s example. Maddy counted every fragment as it fell upon the
floor, wishing so much that he would commence, and fancying that it
would not be half so bad to have him approach her with some one of the
terrible dental instruments lying before her, as it was to sit and wait
as she was waiting. Had Guy Remington reflected a little, he would never
have consented to do the doctor’s work; but, unaccustomed to country
usages, especially those pertaining to schools and teachers, he did not
consider that it mattered in the least which examined that young girl,
Dr. Holbrook or himself. Viewing it somewhat in the light of a joke, he
rather enjoyed it; and as the Farmingham teacher had first asked her
pupils their names and ages, so he, when the pencil was sharpened
sufficiently, startled Madeline by asking her name.
“Madeline Amelia Clyde,” was the meek reply, which Guy recorded with a
flourish.
Now, Guy Remington intended no irreverence; indeed, he could not tell
what he did intend, or what it was which prompted his next query:
“Who gave you this name?”
Perhaps he fancied himself a boy again in the Sunday-school, and
standing before the railing of the altar, where, with others of his age,
he had been asked the question propounded to Madeline Clyde, who did not
hear the doctor’s smothered laugh as he retreated into the adjoining
room.
In all her preconceived ideas of this examination, she had never dreamed
of being _catechised_, and with a feeling of terror as she thought of
that long answer to the question, “What is thy duty to thy neighbor?”
and doubted her ability to repeat it, she said, “My sponsors, in
baptism, gave me the first name of Madeline Amelia, sir,” adding, as she
caught and misconstrued the strange gleam in the dark eyes bent upon
her, “I am afraid I have forgotten some of the catechism; I knew it
once, but I did not know it was necessary in order to teach school.”
“Certainly, no; I do not think it is. I beg your pardon,” were Guy
Remington’s ejaculatory replies, as he glanced from Madeline to the open
door of the adjoining room, where was visible a _slate_, on which, in
large letters, the amused doctor had written “Blockhead.”
There was something in Madeline’s quiet, womanly, earnest manner which
commanded Guy’s respect, or he would have given vent to the laughter
which was choking him, and thrown off his disguise. But he could not
bear now to undeceive her, and resolutely turning his back upon the
doctor, he sat down by the pile of books and commenced the examination
in earnest, asking first her age.
“Going on fifteen,” sounded older to Madeline than “fourteen and a
half,” so “Going on fifteen,” was her reply, to which Guy responded,
“That is very young, Miss Clyde.”
“Yes, but Mr. Green did not mind. He’s the committee-man. He knew how
young I was. He did not care,” Madeline said, eagerly, her great brown
eyes growing large with the look of fear which came so suddenly into
them.
Guy noticed the eyes then, and thought them very bright and handsome for
brown, but not as handsome as if they had been blue, for Lucy
Atherstone’s were blue; and as he thought of her he was glad she was not
obliged to sit there in that doctor’s office, and be questioned by him
or any other man. “Of course, of course,” he said, “if your employers
are satisfied it is nothing to me, only I had associated teaching with
women much older than yourself. What is logic, Miss Clyde?”
The abruptness with which he put the question startled Madeline to such
a degree that she could not positively tell whether she had ever heard
that word before, much less could she recall its meaning, and so she
answered frankly, “I don’t know.”
A girl who did not know what logic was did not know much, in Guy’s
estimation, but it would not do to stop here, and so he asked her next
how many cases there were in Latin!
Maddy felt the hot blood tingling to her very finger tips, for the
examination had taken a course widely different from her ideas of what
it would probably be. She had never looked inside a Latin grammar, and
again her truthful “I don’t know, sir,” fell on Guy’s ear, but this time
there was a half despairing tone in the young voice, usually so hopeful.
“Perhaps then you can conjugate the verb _amo_,” Guy said, his manner
indicating the doubt he was beginning to feel as to her qualifications.
Maddy knew what _conjugate_ meant, but that verb _amo_, what could it
mean? and had she ever heard it before? Mr. Remington was waiting for
her, she _must_ say something, and with a gasp she began: “_I amo, thou
amoest, he amoes. Plural: We amo, ye or you amo, they amo._”
Guy looked at her aghast for a single moment, and then a comical smile
broke all over his face, telling poor Maddy plainer than words could
have done, that she had made a most ridiculous mistake.
“Oh, sir,” she cried, her eyes wearing the look of the frightened hare,
“it is not right. I don’t know what it means. Tell me, teach me. What
does _amo_ mean?”
To most men it would not have seemed a very disagreeable task, teaching
young Madeline Clyde what _amo_ meant, and some such idea flitted across
Guy’s mind, as he thought how pretty and bright was the eager face
upturned to his, the pure white forehead, suffused with a faint flush,
the cheeks a crimson hue, and the pale lips parted slightly as Maddy
appealed to him for the definition of _amo_.
“It is a Latin verb, and means to _love_,” Guy said, with an emphasis on
the last word, which would have made Maddy blush had she been less
anxious and frightened.
Thus far she had answered nothing correctly, and feeling puzzled to know
how to proceed, Guy stepped into the adjoining room to consult with the
doctor, but he was gone. So returning again to Madeline, Guy resumed the
examination by asking her how “_minus_ into _minus_ could produce
_plus_.”
Again Maddy was at fault, and her low-spoken “I don’t know” sounded like
a wail of despair. Did she know anything? Guy wondered, and feeling some
curiosity now to ascertain that fact, he plied her with questions
philosophical, questions algebraical, and questions geometrical, until
in an agony of distress Maddy raised her hands deprecatingly, as if she
would ward off any similar questions, and sobbed out:
“Oh, sir, no more of this. It makes my head so dizzy. They don’t teach
that in common schools. Ask me something I do know.”
Suddenly it occurred to Guy that he had gone entirely wrong, and
mentally cursing himself for the blockhead the doctor had called him, he
asked, kindly:
“What do they teach? Perhaps you can enlighten me?”
“Geography, arithmetic, grammar, history, and spelling-book,” Madeline
replied, untying and throwing off her bonnet, in the vain hope that it
might bring relief to her poor, giddy head, which throbbed so fearfully
that all her ideas seemed for the time to have left her.
This was a natural consequence of the high excitement under which she
was laboring, and so, when Guy did ask her concerning the books
designated, she answered but little better than before, and he was
wondering what he should do next, when the doctor’s welcome step was
heard, and leaving Madeline again, he repaired to the next room to
report his ill success.
“She does not seem to know anything. The veriest child ought to do
better than she has done. Why, she has scarcely answered half a dozen
questions correctly.”
This was what poor Maddy heard, though it was spoken in a low whisper;
but every word was distinctly understood, and burned into her heart’s
core, drying her tears and hardening her into a block of marble. She
knew that Guy had not done her justice, and this helped to increase the
torpor stealing over her. Still she did not lose a syllable of what was
said in the back office, and her lip curled scornfully when she heard
Guy remark, “I pity her; she is so young, and evidently takes it so
hard. Maybe she’s as good as they average. Suppose we give her the
certificate, anyway?”
Then Dr. Holbrook spoke, but to poor, bewildered Maddy his words were
all a riddle. It was nothing to _him_, whether she knew anything or
not,—who was _he_ that he should be dictating thus? There seemed to be a
difference of opinion between the young men, Guy insisting that out of
pity she should not be rejected; and the doctor demurring on the ground
that he ought to be more strict, especially with the _first_ one. As
usual, Guy overruled, and seating himself at the table, the doctor was
just commencing, “I hereby certify——” while Guy was bending over him,
when the latter was startled by a hand laid firmly on his arm, and,
turning quickly, he confronted Madeline Clyde, who, with her short hair
pushed back from her blue-veined forehead, her face as pale as ashes,
save where a round spot of purplish red burned upon her cheeks, and her
eyes gleaming like coals of fire, stood before him.
“He need not write that,” she said, huskily, pointing to the doctor. “It
would be a lie, and I could not take it. You do not think me qualified.
I heard you say so. I do not want to be pitied. I do not want a
certificate because I am so young, and you think I’ll feel badly. I do
not want——”
Here her voice failed her, her bosom heaved, and the choking sobs came
thick and fast, but still she shed no tear, and in her bright, dry eyes
there was a look which made both those young men turn away
involuntarily. Once Guy tried to excuse her failure, saying she no doubt
was frightened. She would probably do better again, and might as well
accept the certificate; but Madeline still said no, so decidedly that
further remonstrance was useless. “She would not take what she had no
right to,” she said, “but if they pleased she would wait there in the
back office until her grandfather came back; it would not be long, and
she should not trouble them.”
Guy brought her the easy-chair from the front room and placed it for her
by the window. With a faint smile she thanked him and said: “You are
very kind,” but the smile hurt Guy cruelly, it was so sad, so full of
unintentional reproach, while the eyes she lifted to his looked so
grieved and weary that he insensibly murmured to himself, “Poor child!”
as he left her, and with the doctor repaired to the house, where Agnes
was impatiently waiting for them, and where, in the light badinage which
followed, they forgot poor little Maddy.
It was the first keen disappointment she had ever known, and it crushed
her as completely as many an older person has been crushed by heavier
calamities.
“Disgraced forever and ever,” she kept repeating to herself, as she
tried to shake off the horrid nightmare stealing over her. “How can I
hold up my head again at home, where nobody will understand just how it
was, except grandpa and grandma? The people will say I do not know
anything, and I _do_! I _do_! Oh, grandpa, I can’t earn that thirty-six
dollars now. I most wish I was dead, and I am—I am dying.
Somebody—come—quick!”
There was a low cry for help, succeeded by a fall, and while in Mrs.
Conner’s parlor Guy Remington and Dr. Holbrook were chatting gayly with
Agnes, Madeline was lying upon the office floor, white and insensible.
Little Jessie Remington, tired of sitting still and listening to what
her mamma and Mrs. Conner were saying, had strayed off into the garden,
and after filling her hands with daffodils and early violets, made her
way at last to the office, the door of which was partially open. Peering
curiously in she saw the crumpled bonnet, with its ribbons of blue, and
attracted by this advanced into the room, until she came where Madeline
was lying. With a feeling that something was wrong, Jessie bent over the
girl, asking if she were asleep, while she lifted the long, fringed
lashes drooping on the colorless cheek. The dull, dead expression of the
eyes sent a chill through Jessie’s heart, and hurrying to the house she
cried, “Oh, brother Guy, somebody’s dead in the office, and her bonnet
is all jammed!”
Scarcely were the words uttered before Guy and the doctor both were with
Madeline, the former holding her in his arms, while he smoothed the
short hair, thinking how soft and luxuriant it was, and how fair was the
face which never moved a muscle beneath his scrutiny. The doctor was
wholly self-possessed; Maddy had no terrors for him now. She needed his
services, and he rendered them willingly, applying restoratives which
soon brought back signs of life in the rigid form. With a shiver and a
moan Madeline whispered, “Oh, grandma, I’m so tired, and so sorry, but I
could not help it. I forgot everything.”
By this time Mrs. Conner and Agnes had come into the office, asking in
much surprise who the stranger was, and what was the cause of her
illness. As if there had been a previous understanding between them, the
doctor and Guy were silent with regard to the recent farce enacted
between them, and simply said it was some one who had come for medical
advice, and it was possible she was in the habit of fainting; many
people were. Very daintily, Agnes held back the skirt of her rich silk
as if fearful that it might come in contact with Madeline’s plain
delaine; then, as the scene was not very interesting, she returned to
the house, bidding Jessie do the same. But Jessie refused, choosing to
stay by Madeline, who by this time had been placed upon the comfortable
lounge, where she preferred to remain rather than be taken to the house,
as Guy proposed.
“I’m better now, much better,” she said. “Leave me, please. I’d rather
be alone.”
So they left her with Jessie, who, fascinated by the sweet young face,
knelt by the lounge, and, laying her curly head caressingly against
Madeline’s arm, aid to her, “Poor girl, you’re sick, and I’m so sorry.
What makes you sick?”
There was genuine sympathy in that little voice, and with a cry as of
sudden pain, Maddy clasped the child in her arms and burst into a wild
fit of weeping, which did her a great deal of good. Forgetting that
Jessie could not understand, and feeling it a relief to tell her grief
to some one, she said, in reply to Jessie’s repeated inquiries as to
what was the matter, “I did not get a certificate, and I wanted it so
much, for we are poor, and our house is mortgaged, and I was going to
help grandpa pay it; and now I never can, and the house must be sold.”
“It’s dreadful to be poor!” sighed little Jessie, as her fingers
threaded the soft, nut-brown hair resting in her lap, where Maddy had
laid her aching head.
Maddy did not know who this beautiful child was, but her sympathy was
very sweet, and they talked together confidingly, as children will,
until Mrs. Agnes’ voice was heard calling to her little girl that it was
time to go.
“I love you, Maddy, and I mean to tell brother Guy all about it,” Jessie
said, as she wound her arms round Madeline’s neck and kissed her at
parting.
It never occurred to Maddy to ask her name, she felt so stupefied and
bewildered, and with a responsive kiss she sent her away. Then leaning
her head upon the table, she forgot everything but her own wretchedness,
and so did not see the gayly-dressed, haughty-looking lady who swept
past the door, accompanied by Guy and Dr. Holbrook. Neither did she
hear, or notice, if she did, the hum of their voices, as they talked
together for a moment, Agnes asking the doctor very prettily to come up
to Aikenside while she was there, and enliven her a little. Engaged
young men like Guy were so stupid, she said, as with a merry laugh she
sprang into the carriage; and, bowing gracefully to the doctor, was
driven rapidly toward Aikenside.
Rather slowly the doctor returned to the office, and after fidgeting for
a time among the powders and phials, summoned courage to ask Madeline
how she felt, and if any of the fainting symptoms had returned.
“No, sir,” was all the reply she gave him, never lifting up her head, or
even thinking which of the two young men it was speaking to her.
There was a call just then for Dr. Holbrook; and leaving his office in
charge of Tom, he went away, feeling slightly uncomfortable whenever he
thought of the girl, to whom he knew that justice had not been done.
“I half wish I had examined her myself,” he said. “Of course she was
excited, and could not answer; beside, hanged if I don’t believe it was
all humbug tormenting her with Greek and Latin and logic. Guy is such a
stupid; I’ll question her myself when I get back, and if she’ll possibly
pass, give her the certificate. Poor child! how white she was, and what
a queer look there was in those great eyes, when she said, ‘I shall not
take it.’”
Never in his life before had Dr. Holbrook been as much interested in any
woman who was not sick as he was in Madeline, and determining to make
his call on Mrs. Briggs as brief as possible, he alighted at her gate,
and knocked impatiently at her door. He found her pretty sick, while
both her children needed a prescription, and he was detained so long
that his heart misgave him on his homeward route, lest Maddy should be
gone, and with her the chance to remedy the wrong he might have done
her.
Maddy was gone, and the wheel-ruts of the square-boxed wagon were fresh
before the door when he came back. Grandpa Markham had returned, and
Madeline, who recognized old Sorrel’s step, had gathered her shawl
around her, and gone sadly out to meet him. One look at her face was
sufficient.
“You failed, Maddy?” the old man said, fixing about her feet the warm
buffalo robe, for the night wind was blowing cool.
“Yes, grandpa, I failed.”
They were out of the village and more than a mile on their way home
before Madeline found voice to say so much, and they were nearer home by
half a mile before the old man answered back:
“And, Maddy, I failed, too.”