LUCY’S LETTER.
At last the answer came, and it was Maddy who brought it to Aikenside.
She had been home that day, and on her return had ridden by the office
as Guy had requested her to do. She saw the letter bore a foreign
post-mark, and that it was in the delicate handwriting of some lady, but
the sight did not affect her in the least. Maddy’s heart was far too
heavy that day to care for a trifle, and placing the letter carefully in
her basket she kept on to Aikenside.
The letter was just like Lucy, and Guy, while reading it, felt how good
she was. Of course, he might teach Maddy Clyde all he wished to teach
her, and it made Lucy love him better to know that he was willing to do
such things. She wished she was there to help him: they would open a
school for all the poor, but she did not know when her mother would let
her come. That pain in her side was not any better, and her cough had
come earlier this season than last. The physician had advised a winter
in Naples, and they were going before very long. It would be pleasant
there, no doubt, only she should be farther away from her Guy, but she
would think of him, oh! so often, teaching that dear little Maddy Clyde,
and she should pray for him, too, just as she always did. Then followed
a few more lines sacred to the lover’s eye, lines which told how pure
was the love which sweet Lucy Atherstone bore for Guy Remington, who, as
he read, felt his heart beat with a throb of pain, for Lucy spoke to him
now for the first time of what might possibly be in store for them.
“I’ve dreamed about it nights,” she said, “I’ve thought about it days,
and tried so hard to be reconciled; to feel that if God will have it so,
I am willing to die before you have ever called me your wife, or I have
ever called you husband. Heaven _is_ better than earth, I know, and I am
sure of going there, I think; but, oh! dear Guy, a life with you looks
so very sweet, that I sometimes shrink from the dark grave, which would
hide me forever from you. Guy, you once said you never prayed, and it
made me feel so badly, but you will, when you get this, won’t you? You
will ask God to make me well, and maybe he will hear _you_. Do, Guy,
please pray for your Lucy, far away over the sea.”
Guy could not resist that touching appeal, and though his lips were all
unused to prayer, he bowed his head upon his hands and asked that she
might live, beseeching the Father to send upon him any calamity save
this one—Lucy must not die. Guy felt better for having prayed. It was
something to tell Lucy, something that would please her, and though his
heart yet was very sad, a part of the load was lifted, and he could
think of Lucy now, without the bitter pain her letter first had cost
him. Was there nothing that would save her, nobody who could cure her?
Her disease was not hereditary; surely it might be made to yield. Had
English physicians no skill? would not an American do better? It was
possible, and if Lucy’s mother would let her come where doctors were
skillful, she might get well; but she was determined that no husband
should be burdened with an ailing wife, and so, if the mountain would
not come to Mahomet, Mahomet must go to the mountain; and Guy fairly
leaped from his chair as he exclaimed, “I have it—there’s _Doc_!—he’s
the most skillful man I ever knew; I’ll send him to England; send him to
the Atherstones; he shall go to Naples with them as their family
physician; he can cure Lucy; I’ll speak to him the very next time he
comes here;” and with another burden lifted from his mind, Guy began to
wonder where Maddy was, and why the day had been so long.
He knew she had returned, for Flora had said she brought the letter, and
he was about going out, in hopes of finding her and Jessie, when he
heard her in the hall, as she answered some question of Mrs. Noah’s;
stepping to the door, he asked her to come in, saying he would, if she
chose, appoint the lessons talked about so long. Ordinarily, Maddy’s
eyes would have flashed with delight, for she had anticipated so much
from these lessons; now, however, there was a sad look upon her face,
and she could scarcely keep from crying as she came at Guy’s bidding,
and sat upon the sofa, near his arm-chair. Somehow it rested Guy to look
at Maddy Clyde, who, having recovered from her illness, seemed the very
embodiment of perfect health, a health which glowed and sparkled all
over her bright face; showing itself as well in the luxuriance of her
glossy hair as in the brilliancy of her complexion, and the flash of her
lustrous eyes. How Guy wished that Lucy could share in what seemed
almost a superfluity of health; and why shouldn’t she? Dr. Holbrook had
cured Maddy; Dr. Holbrook could cure Lucy; and so for the present
dismissing Lucy from his mind, he turned to Maddy, and said the time had
come when he could give those promised lessons, and asked if she would
commence to-morrow, after she was through with Jessie, and what she
would prefer to take up first.
“Oh, Mr. Remington,” and Maddy began to cry, “I am afraid I cannot stay!
they need me at home, or may need me. Grandpa said so, and I don’t want
to go, though I know it’s wicked not to; oh, dear, dear!”
Here Maddy broke down entirely, sobbing so convulsively that Guy became
alarmed, and wondered what he ought to do to quiet her. As she sat the
bowed head was just within his reach, and he very naturally laid his
hand upon it, and, as if it had been Jessie’s, smoothed the silken hair,
while he asked why she must go home? Had anything occurred to make her
presence more necessary than it was at Aikenside?
Controlling her voice as well as she was able, Maddy told him that the
physicians at the asylum had written that as Uncle Joseph would in all
human probability never be perfectly sane, and as a change of scene
would do him good, it might be well for Mr. Markham to take him to
Honedale awhile; that having been spoken with upon the subject, he
seemed as anxious as a little child, even crying when the night came
round and he was not at home, as he expressed it. “They have kept him so
long,” Maddy said, “that grandpa thought it his duty to relieve them,
though he can’t well afford it; and so he’s coming next week, and
grandma will need some one to help, and I must go. I know it’s wrong,
but I do not want to go, try as I will.”
It was a gloomy prospect to exchange Aikenside for the humble home where
poverty had its abode, and it was not very strange that Maddy should
shrink from it at first. She did not stop to ask what was her duty, or
think how much happiness her presence might give her grandparents, or
how much she might cheer and amuse the imbecile, her uncle. She was but
human, and so when Guy began to devise ways of preventing her going, she
listened, while the pain at her heart grew less as her faith in Guy grew
stronger. He would drive down with her to-morrow, he said, and see what
could be done. Meanwhile she must dry her eyes and go to Jessie, who was
calling her.
As Guy had half expected, the doctor came round that evening, and
inviting him into his private room, Guy proceeded at once to unfold his
scheme, asking him first:
“How much he probably received a year for his services as physician.”
The doctor could not tell at once, but after a little thought made an
estimate, and then inquired why Guy had asked the question.
“Because I have a project on foot. Lucy Atherstone is dying with what
they call consumption. I don’t believe those old fogies understand her
disease, and if you will go over to England and undertake her cure, I’ll
give you just double what you’ll get by remaining here. They are going
to Naples for the winter, and, undoubtedly, will spend some time in
Rome. It will be just the thing for you. Lucy and her mother will be
glad of your services when they know I sent you. Lucy likes you now.
Will you go? You can trust Maddy to me. I’ll take good care that she is
worthy of you when you come back.”
At the mention of Maddy’s name, the doctor’s brow darkened. He was sure
that Guy meant kindly, but it grated on his feelings to be thus joked
about what he knew was a stern reality. Guy’s project appeared to him at
first a most insane one, but as he continued to enlarge upon it, and the
advantage it would be to the doctor to travel in the old world, a
feeling of enthusiasm was kindled in his own breast; a desire to visit
Naples and Rome, and the places he had dreamed of as a boy, but never
hoped to see; and Guy’s plan began to look more feasible, and possibly
he might have yielded but for one thought, and that a thought of Maddy
Clyde. He would not leave her alone with Guy, even though Guy was true
to Lucy as steel. He would stay; he would watch; and in time he would
win the young girl, waiting now for him in the hall below to tell him,
amid blushes of shame and tears of regret, how she had intended to pay
him with her very first wages, but now that Uncle Joseph was coming
home, he must wait a little longer.
“Will you be so good?” and unmindful of Guy’s presence Maddy laid her
hand confidingly upon his arm, while her soft eyes looked beseechingly
into his as she explained.
Thinking they would rather be alone, Guy left them together in the
lighted hall, and then, sitting down on the sofa, and making Maddy sit
beside him, the doctor began:
“Maddy, you know I mean what I say, at least to you, and when I tell you
that I never think of that bill except when you speak of it, you will
believe me. I know your grandfather’s circumstances, and I know, too,
that I did much to induce your sickness, consequently if I made one out
at all, it would be a very small one.”
He did not get any further, for Maddy hastily interrupted him, and while
her eyes flashed with pride, exclaimed:
“I will not be a charity patient! I say _I will not_! I’d be a hired
girl before I’d do it!”
It troubled the doctor to see Maddy so disturbed about dollars and
cents—to know that poverty was pressing its iron hand upon her young
heart; and only because she was so young did he refrain from offering
her then and there a resting-place from the ills of life in his
sheltering love. But she was not prepared, and he should only defeat his
object by his rashness, so he restrained himself, though he did pass his
arm partly around her waist as he said to her:
“I tell you, Maddy, honestly, that when I want that bill liquidated I’ll
ask you. I certainly will, and will let you pay it, too. Does that
satisfy you?”
“Yes,” Maddy said, and after a little the doctor continued:
“By the way, Maddy, I have some idea of going to Europe for a few
months, or a year, perhaps. You know it does a physician good to study
awhile in Paris. What do you think of it? Shall I go?”
The doctor had become quite necessary to Maddy’s happiness. It was to
him she confided all her little troubles, and to lose him would be a
terrible loss; and so she answered that if it would be much better for
him she supposed he ought to go, though she should miss him sadly and be
very lonely without him.
“Would you, Maddy? Are you in earnest? Would you be the lonelier for my
being gone?” the doctor asked, eagerly. With her usual truthfulness,
Maddy replied, “Of course I should;” and when, after the conference was
ended, the doctor stood for a moment talking with Guy, ere bidding him
good-night, he said, “I think I shall not accept your European
proposition. Somebody else must cure Lucy.”
The next day, as Guy had proposed, he rode down to Honedale, taking
Maddy with him, and offering so many reasons why she should not be
called home, that the old people began to relent, particularly as they
saw how Maddy’s heart was set on the lessons Guy was going to give her.
She might never have a like opportunity, the young man said, and as a
good education would put her in the way of helping them when they were
older and needed her more, it was their duty to leave her with him. He
knew they objected to her receiving three dollars a week, but he should
pay it just the same, and if they chose they might, with a part of it,
hire a little girl to do the work which Maddy would do were she at home.
All this sounded very well, especially as it was backed by Maddy’s eyes,
full of tears, and fixed pleadingly upon her grandfather. The sight of
them, more than Guy’s arguments, influenced the old man, who decided
that if grandma were willing, Maddy should stay, unless absolutely
needed at the cottage. Then the tears burst forth, and winding her arms
around her grandfather’s neck, Maddy sobbed out her thanks, asking if it
were selfish and wicked and naughty in her to prefer an education.
“Not if that’s your only reason,” grandpa replied. “It’s right to want
learning, quite right; but if my child is biased by the fine things at
Aikenside, and hates to come back to her poor home, because ’tis poor, I
should say it was very natural, but not exactly right.”
Maddy was very happy after it was settled, and chatted gayly with her
grandmother while Guy went out with her grandfather, who wished to speak
with him alone.
“Young man,” he said, “you have taken a deep interest in me and mine
since I first came to know you, and I thank you for it all. I’ve nothing
to give in return except my prayers, and those you have every day; you
and that doctor. I pray for you two just as I do for Maddy. Somehow you
three come in together. You’re uncommon good to Maddy. ’Tain’t every one
like you who would offer and insist on learning her. I don’t know what
you do it for. You seem honest. You can’t, of course, ever dream of
making her your wife, and, if I thought—yes, if I supposed,”—here
grandpa’s voice trembled, and his face became livid with horror at the
idea—“if I supposed that in your heart there was the shadow of an
intention to deceive my child, to ruin my Maddy, I’d throttle you here
on the spot, old as I am, and bitter as I should repent the rashness.”
Guy attempted to speak, but grandpa motioned him to be silent, while he
went on:
“I do not suspect you, and that’s why I trust her with you. My old eyes
are dim, but I can see enough to know that Maddy is beautiful. Her
mother was so before her, and the Clydes were a handsome race. My Alice
was elevated, folks thought, by marrying Captain Clyde, but I don’t
think so. She was pure and good as the angels, and Maddy is much like
her, only she has the ambition of the Clydes; has their taste for
everything a little above her. She wouldn’t make nobody blush if she was
mistress of Aikenside.”
Grandpa felt relieved when he had said all this to Guy, who listened
politely, smiling at the idea of deceiving Maddy, and fully concurring
with grandpa in all he said of her rare beauty and natural gracefulness.
On their return to the house grandpa showed Guy the bed-room intended
for Uncle Joseph, and Guy, as he glanced at the furniture, thought
within himself how he would send down from Aikenside some of the unused
articles piled away on the garret when he refurnished his house.