THE HOLIDAYS.
The summer vacation had been spent by the Remingtons and Maddy at the
seaside, the latter coming to the cottage for a week before returning to
her school in New York; and as the doctor was then absent from home, she
did not meet him at all. Consequently he had not seen her since she left
Aikenside for New York. But she was at home now for the Christmas
holidays—was down at the cottage, too; and, unusually nervous for him,
the doctor stood before the little square glass in his back office,
trying to make himself look as well as possible, for he was going that
afternoon to call upon Miss Clyde. He was glad she was not at Aikenside;
he would rather meet her at the cottage, and he hoped he might be
fortunate enough to find her alone.
The doctor was seriously in love. He acknowledged that now to himself,
confessing, too, that with his love was mingled a spice of jealousy,
lest Guy Remington should be expending more thought on Maddy Clyde than
was consistent with the promised husband of Lucy Atherstone. He wished
so much to talk with Guy about her, and yet he dreaded it; for if the
talk should confirm his suspicions there would be no hope for him. No
girl in her right mind would prefer him to Guy Remington, and with a
little sigh the doctor was turning away from the glass, when, as if to
verify a familiar proverb, Guy himself drove up in a most dashing
equipage, the silver-tipped harness of his high-mettled steed flashing
in the wintry sunlight, and the bright-hued lining of his fanciful robes
presenting a very gay appearance.
Guy was in the best of spirits. For an entire half day he had tried to
devise some means of getting Maddy up to Aikenside. It was quite too bad
for her to spend the whole vacation at the cottage, as she seemed likely
to do. He knew she was lonely there; that the bare floor and low, dark
walls affected her unpleasantly. He had seen this in her face when he
bade her good-bye, for he had carried her down to the cottage himself,
and now he was going after her. There was to be a party at Aikenside;
the very first since Guy was its master. The neighbors had said he was
too proud to invite them, but they should say so no more. The house was
to be thrown open in honor of Guy’s birthday, and all who were at all
desirable guests, were to be bidden to the festival. First on the list
was the doctor, who, remembering how averse Guy was to large parties,
wondered at the proceedings. But Guy was all engaged in the matter, and
after telling who were to be invited, added rather indifferently, “I’m
going down to Honedale after Maddy. It’s better for her to be with us a
day or two beforehand. You’ve seen her, of course.”
No, the doctor had not; he was just going there, he said, in a tone so
full of sad disappointment, that Guy detected it at once, and asked if
anything was the matter.
“Guy,” the doctor continued, sitting down by his friend, “I remember
once your making me your confidant about Lucy. You remember it too?”
“Yes, why?” Guy replied, beginning to feel strangely uncomfortable as he
half divined what was coming next.
Latterly Guy had stopped telling the doctor that he was educating Maddy
for him. Indeed, he did not talk of her at all, and the doctor might
have fancied her out of his mind but for the frequent visits to New
York, which Guy found it absolutely necessary to make. Guy did not
himself understand the state of his own feelings with regard to Maddy,
but if compelled to explain them they would have been something as
follows: He fully expected to marry Lucy Atherstone; the possibility
that he should not had never occurred to him, but that was no reason why
Maddy Clyde need be married for these many years. She was very young
yet; there was time enough for her to think of marrying when she was
twenty-five, and in the meanwhile it would be splendid to have her at
Aikenside as Lucy’s friend. Nothing could be nicer, and Guy did not care
to have this little arrangement spoiled. But that the doctor had an idea
of spoiling it, he had not a doubt, particularly after the doctor’s next
remark.
“I have not seen Maddy since last spring, you know. Is she very much
improved?”
“Yes, very much. There is no more stylish-looking girl to be seen on
Broadway than Maddy Clyde,” and Guy shook down his pantaloons a little
awkwardly.
“Well, is she as handsome as she used to be, and as childish in her
manner?” the doctor asked; and Guy replied:
“I took her to the opera once, last month, and the many admiring glances
cast at our box proved pretty positively that Maddy’s beauty was not of
the ordinary kind.”
“_The opera!_” the doctor exclaimed; “Maddy Clyde at the opera! What
would her grandfather say? He is very puritanical in his notions.”
“Yes, I know; and so is Maddy, too. She wrote and obtained his consent
before she’d go with me. He won’t let her go to a _theater_ anyhow. He
considers that in the same block with the bottomless pit.”
Here an interval of silence ensued, and then the doctor began again:
“Guy, you told me once you were educating Maddy Clyde for me, and I
tried to make you think I didn’t care; but I did, oh, so much. Guy,
laugh at me if you please. I cannot blame you if you do; but the fact
is, I believe I’ve loved Maddy Clyde ever since she was so sick. At all
events, I love her now, and I was going down there this very afternoon
to tell her so. She’s old enough. She was sixteen last October,
the—the——”
“Tenth day,” Guy responded, thus showing that he, too, was keeping
Maddy’s age, even to a day.
“Yes, the tenth day,” resumed the doctor. “There are many years’
difference between us, but if she feels at all as I do she will not
care, Guy;” and the doctor began to talk earnestly: “I’ll be candid with
you, and say that you have sometimes made my heart ache a little.”
“_I!_” and Guy’s face was crimson, while the doctor continued:
“Yes, and I beg your pardon for it; but let me ask you one question, and
upon its answer will depend my future course with regard to Maddy: You
are true to Lucy?”
Guy felt the blood prickling at the roots of his hair, but he answered
truthfully, as he believed:
“Yes, true as steel;” while the generous thought came over him that he
would further the doctor’s plans all he possibly could.
“Then I am satisfied,” the doctor rejoined; “and as you have rather
assumed the position of Maddy’s guardian or brother, I ask your
permission to offer her the love which, whether she accepts it or not,
is hers.”
Guy had never fell a sharper pang than that which now thrilled through
every nerve, but he would not prove false to the friend confiding in
him, and he answered calmly.
“You have my consent; but, Doc, better put it off till you see her at
Aikenside. There’s no chance at the cottage, with those three old
people. I wonder she don’t go wild. I’m sure I should.”
Guy was growing rather savage about something but the doctor did not
mind; and grasping his arm as he arose, he said:
“And you’ll manage it for me, Guy? You know how. I don’t. You’ll
contrive for me to see her alone, and maybe say a word beforehand in my
favor.”
“Yes, yes, I’ll manage it. I’ll fix it right. Don’t forget, day after
to-morrow night. The Cutlers will be there, and, by the way, Maria has
grown to be a splendid girl. She fancied you once, you know. Old Cutler
is worth half a million.” And Guy tore himself away from the doctor,
who, now that the ice was broken, would like to have talked of Maddy
forever.
But Guy was not thus inclined, and in a mood not extremely amiable, he
threw himself into his sleigh and went dashing down toward Honedale. For
some unaccountable reason, he was not now one bit interested in the
party, and, were it not that a few of the invitations were issued, he
would have been tempted to give it up. Guy did not know what ailed him.
He only felt as if somebody had been meddling with his plans, and had he
been in the habit of swearing he would probably have sworn: but as he
was not he contented himself with driving like a second Jehu until he
reached Honedale, where a pair of soft, brown eyes smiled up into his
face, and a little warm hand was clasped in his, as Maddy came out to
the gate to meet him.
She was very glad to see him. The cottage, with its humble adornings,
did seem lonely, and almost dreary, after the life and bustle of New
York, and Maddy had cried more than once to think how hard and wicked
she must be growing when her home had ceased to be the dear old place
she once loved so well. She had been there five days, and
notwithstanding the efforts of her grandparents to entertain her, each
day had seemed a week in its duration. Neither the doctor nor Guy had
been near her, and Maddy had made herself believe that the former was
sadly remiss in his duty, inasmuch as he had not seen her for so long.
He had been in the habit of calling every week, her grandmother said,
and this did not tend to increase her amiability. Why didn’t he come now
when he knew she was at home? Didn’t he wish to see her? If not, she
could be indifferent too, and when they did meet, she could show him how
little she cared!
At Guy she was not particularly piqued. She did not take his attentions
as a matter of course, and did not think it very strange that since
bringing her there on the night of her return from New York, he had not
once called upon her; still, she thought more of him, if possible, than
of the doctor, during those five days, and was rather anxious to see
him. She had something to show him—a letter from Lucy Atherstone, who
had gradually come to be her regular correspondent, and whom Maddy had
learned to love with all the intensity of her girlhood. To her ardent
imagination Lucy Atherstone was but a little lower than the angels, and
the pure, sweet thoughts contained in every letter were doing almost as
much toward molding her character as Grandpa Markham’s prayers and
constant teachings. Maddy did not know it, but it was these letters from
Lucy which kept her from loving Guy Remington. She could not for a
moment associate him with herself when she so constantly thought of him
as the husband of another, and that other Lucy Atherstone. Not for
worlds would Maddy have wronged the gentle creature who wrote to her so
confidingly of Guy, envying her in that she could so often see his face
and hear his voice, while his betrothed was separated from him by many
thousand miles. Little by little Maddy had learned that Lucy’s mother
was averse to the match, and had always been; that she had in her mind
an English lord, who would make her daughter “My lady;” and this was the
secret of her so long deferring her daughter’s marriage. In her last
letter to Maddy, however, Lucy had written with more than her usual
spirit that she should come into possession of her property on her
twenty-fifth birthday and be really her own mistress. She should then
feel at liberty to act for herself, and she launched out into joyful
anticipations of the time when she should come to Aikenside and meet her
dear Maddy Clyde. Feeling that Guy would be glad to see this letter,
Maddy had all the morning been wishing he would come; and when she saw
him at the gate she ran out to meet him, her eyes and face sparkling
with eager joy as she suffered him to retain her hand, while she said,
“I am so glad to see you, Mr. Remington. I almost thought you had
forgotten me at Aikenside.”
Guy began to exclaim against any one’s forgetting her, and also to
express his pleasure at finding her so glad to see him, when Maddy
interrupted him with, “Oh, it’s not that; I’ve something to show
you—something which will make you very happy. I had a letter from Lucy
last night. When she is twenty-five she will be her own mistress, you
know, and she means to be married in spite of her mother—she says—let me
see—” and drawing from her bosom Lucy’s letter, Maddy read, “‘I do not
intend to fail in filial obedience, but I have tired dear Guy’s patience
long enough, and as soon as I am of age I shall marry him.’ Isn’t it
nice?” and returning the letter to its hiding-place, Maddy scooped up in
her hand and ate a quantity of the snow beside the path.
“Yes, it is very nice,” Guy admitted, but there was a shadow on his brow
as he followed Maddy into the cottage, where the lunatic, who had been
watching them from the window, shook his head doubtfully and said, “Too
young, too young for you, young man. You can’t have our Sunshine, if you
want her.”
“Hush, Uncle Joseph,” Maddy whispered, softly, taking his arm and laying
it around her neck. “Mr. Remington don’t want me. He is engaged to a
beautiful English girl across the sea.”
Low as Maddy’s words were, Guy heard them, as well as the crazy man’s
reply, “Engagements have been broken.”
That was the first time the possibility had ever entered Guy’s brain
that his engagement might be broken, provided he wished it, which he did
not, he said to himself positively. Lucy loved him, he loved Lucy, and
that was enough; so in a kind of abstracted manner, arising from the
fact that he was calculating how long it would be before Lucy was
twenty-five, he began to talk with Maddy, asking how she had spent her
time, and so forth. This reminded Maddy of the doctor, who, she said,
had not been to see her at all.
“He was coming this morning,” Guy rejoined, “but I persuaded him to
defer his call until you were at Aikenside. I have come to take you back
with me, as we are to have a party day after to-morrow evening, and I
wish you to be present.”
Maddy had never attended a big party in her life, and her eyes sparkled
from mere anticipation as she looked appealingly to her grandfather,
who, though classing parties with the pomps and vanities from which he
would shield his child, still remembered that he once was young; that,
fifty years ago he, too, like Maddy, wanted “to see the folly of it,”
and not take the mere word of older people that in every festival scene
there was a pitfall, strewn over so thickly with roses that it was
ofttimes hard to tell just where its boundary line commenced. Besides
that, grandpa had faith in Guy, and so his consent was granted, and
Maddy was soon on her way to Aikenside, which presented a gayer, busier
appearance than she had seen there before. Jessie was wild with delight,
dragging forth at once the pink dress which she was to wear, and
whispering to Maddy that Guy had bought a blue silk for her, and that
Sarah Jones was at that moment fashioning it after a dress left there by
Maddy the previous summer.
“Mother said plain white muslin was more appropriate for a young girl,
but brother Guy said no; the blue silk would be useful after the party;
it was what you needed; and so he bought it and paid two dollars a yard,
but it’s a secret until you are called to try it on. Isn’t Guy
splendid?”
He was indeed splendid. Maddy thought, wondering why he was so kind to
her, and if it would be so when Lucy came. The dress fitted admirably,
though Maddy thought her grandfather would say it was too low in the
neck, but Sarah overruled her objections, assisted by Guy, who, when the
dress was complete and tried on for the last time, was called in by
Jessie to see if “Maddy must have a piece sewed on, as she suggested.”
The neck was _au fait_, Guy said, laughing at Maddy for being so
old-maidish, and saying when he saw how really distressed she seemed,
that he would provide her with something to relieve the bareness of
which she complained.
“Oh, I know, I saw, I _peeked_ in the box,” Jessie began, but Guy put
his hand over the little tattler’s mouth, bidding her keep the result of
her _peeking_ to herself.
And for once Jessie succeeded in doing so, although she several times
set Maddy to guessing what it was Guy had for her in a box! As the size
of the box was not mentioned, Maddy had fully made up her mind to a
shawl or scarf, and was proportionately disappointed when, as she was
dressing for the party, there was sent up to her room a small round box,
scarcely large enough to hold an apple, much less a small scarf. The
present proved to be a pair of plain but heavy bracelets, and a most
exquisitely wrought chain of gold, to which was appended a beautiful
pearl cross, the whole accompanied with the words, “From Guy.”
Jessie was in ecstacies again. Clasping the ornaments on Maddy’s neck
and arms, she danced around her, declaring there never was anything more
beautiful, or anybody so pretty as Maddy was in her party dress. Maddy
was fond of jewelry—and felt a flush of gratified pride, or vanity, or
satisfaction, whichever one chooses to call it, as she glanced at
herself in the mirror and remembered the time when, riding with the
doctor, she had met Mrs. Agnes, with golden bracelets flashing on her
arms, and wished she might one day wear something like them. The day had
come sooner than she had anticipated, but Maddy was not so happy in
possession of the coveted ornaments as she had thought she should be. It
seemed to her that _Guy_ ought not to have given them to her, that it
was improper for her to keep them, and that both Mrs. Noah and Agnes
thought so, too. She wished she knew exactly what was right; and then,
remembering that Guy had said the doctor was expected early, she decided
to ask his opinion on the subject and abide by it.
At first Agnes had cared but little about the party, affecting to
despise the people in their immediate neighborhood; but her spirits rose
at last; and when her toilet was completed, she shone resplendent in
lace and diamonds and curls, managing to retain through all a certain
simplicity of dress appropriate to the hostess. But beautiful as Agnes
was, she felt in her jealous heart that there was about Maddy Clyde an
attraction she did not possess. Guy saw it too, and while complimenting
his pretty mother-in-law, kept his eyes fixed admiringly on Maddy, who
started him into certain unpleasant remembrances by asking if the doctor
had come yet.
“No—yes—there he is now;” and Guy looked into the hall, where the
doctor’s voice was heard inquiring for him.
“I want to see him a minute, alone, please. There’s something I wish to
ask him.” And, unmindful of Agnes’s darkened frown, or Guy’s look of
wonder, Maddy darted from the room, and ran hastily down to the hall
where the doctor stood, waiting for Guy, not for her.
He had not expected to meet her thus, or to see her thus, and the sight
of her, grown so tall, so womanly and beautiful, almost took his breath
away. And yet, as he stood with her hand in his, and surveyed her from
head to foot, he felt that he would rather have her as she was when a
dainty frill shaded her pale, wasted face, when the snowy ruffle was
fastened high about her throat, and the cotton bands were buttoned about
her wrists, where golden ones now were shining. The doctor had never
forgotten Maddy as she was then, the very embodiment, he thought, of
helpless purity. The little sick girl, so dear to him then, was growing
away from him now; and these adornings, which marked the budding woman,
seemed to remove her from him and place her nearer to Guy, whose bride
should wear silk and jewels, just as Maddy did.
She was very glad to see him, she said, asking in the same breath why he
had not been to the cottage, if she had not grown tall, and if he
thought her improved with living in a city?
“One question at a time, if you please,” he said, drawing her a little
more into the shadow of the hall, where they would be less observed by
any one passing through it.
Maddy did not wait for him to answer, so eager was she to unburden her
mind and know if she ought to keep the costly presents, at which she
knew he was looking.
“If he remembers his unpaid bill, he must consider me mighty mean,” she
thought; and then, with her usual frankness, she told him of the
perplexity, and asked his opinion.
“It would displease Mr. Guy very much if I were to give them back,” she
said; “but it is hardly right for me to accept them, is it?”
The doctor did not say she ought not to wear the ornaments, though he
longed to tear them from her arms and neck and throw them anywhere, he
cared not where, so they freed her wholly from Guy.
“They are very becoming,” he said. “You would not look as well without
them; so you had better wear them to-night, and to-morrow, if you will
grant me an interview, I will talk with you further.”
He said all this to gain the desired interview for which Guy was to
prepare her. That he had not done so he felt assured, but he could not
be angry with him, as he came smilingly toward them, asking if they had
talked privacy long enough, and glancing rather curiously at Maddy’s
face. There was nothing in its expression to disturb him, and, offering
her his arm, he led her back to the drawing-rooms, where Agnes was
smoothing down the folds of her dress, preparatory to receiving the
guests just descending the stairs. It was a brilliant scene which
Aikenside presented that night, and amid it all Agnes bore herself like
a queen; while Jessie, with her sunny face and flowing hair, came in for
a full share of attention. But amid the gay throng there was none so
fair or beautiful as Maddy, who deported herself with as much ease and
grace as if she had all her life been accustomed to just such occasions
as this. At a distance the doctor watched her, telling several who she
was, and once resenting, by both look and manner, a remark made by Maria
Cutler, to the effect that she was nobody but Mrs. Remington’s
governess, a poor girl whom Guy had taken a fancy to educate out of
charity.
“He seems very fond of his charity pupil, upon my word. He scarcely
leaves her neighborhood at all,” whispered old Mrs. Cutler, the mother
of Maria, who, Guy said, once fancied Dr. Holbrook, and who had no
particular objections to fancying him now, provided it could be
reciprocal.
But the doctor was only intent on Maddy, knowing always just where she
was standing, just who was talking to her, and just how far from her Guy
was. He knew, too, when the latter was urging her to sing; and, managing
to get nearer, heard her object that no one cared to hear her.
“But _I_ do; I wish it,” Guy replied in that tone which people generally
obeyed; and casting a half-frightened look at the sea of faces around
her, Maddy suffered him to lead her to the piano, sitting quite still
while he found what he wished her to play.
It was his favorite song, and one which brought out Maddy’s voice in its
various modulations.
“Oh, please, Mr. Remington, anything but that song. I cannot do it
justice;” Maddy whispered, pleadingly, but Guy answered resolutely, “You
can.” There was no appeal after this, but a resigned, obedient look,
which made the doctor gnash his teeth as he leaned upon the instrument.
What right had Guy to command Maddy Clyde, and why should she obey? and
yet, as the doctor glanced at Guy, he felt that, were he in Maddy’s
place, he should have done the same.
“No girl can resist Guy Remington,” he thought. “I’m glad there’s a Lucy
Atherstone over the sea.” And with a smile of encouragement for Maddy,
who was pale with nervous timidity, he listened while her sweet,
bird-like voice trembled for a moment with fear, and then, gaining
confidence from its own sound, filled the room with melody, and made
those who had wandered off to other parts of the building hasten back to
see who was singing.
Maria Cutler had presided at the piano earlier in the evening, as had
one or two other young ladies, but to none of these had Guy paid half
the attention he did to Maddy, staying constantly by her, holding her
fan, turning the leaves of music, and dictating what she should play.
“There’s devotion,” tittered a miss in long ringlets; “but she really
does play well,” and she appealed to Maria Cutler, who answered, “Yes,
she keeps good time, and I should think might play for a dance. I mean
to ask her,” and going up to Guy she said, “I wish to speak
to—to—Jessie’s _governess_. Introduce me, please.”
Guy waited till Maddy was through, and then gave the desired
introduction. In a tone not wholly free from superciliousness, Miss
Cutler said:
“Can you play a waltz or polka, Miss Clyde? We are aching to exercise
our feet—that is, if Mr. Remington does not object. I dare say old Mr.
and Mrs. Deacon Crane will start for home instanter at the first note of
anything as wicked as Money Musk.”
When the party was first talked about, Agnes had proposed that it be a
regular dancing party, with suitable music provided for it. But Guy, who
knew how such a thing would shock the puritanical prejudices of many of
the people of Sommerville, who held dancing as a sin, said, “No—he
wished all his guests to enjoy themselves. So he would not hire music,
or have dancing as a rule. If any of the young people wished to amuse
themselves that way, they were welcome to do so, and he presumed some
one of their number could play sufficiently well for quadrilles, and
possibly waltzing.” So, when appealed to on the subject by Miss Cutler,
he replied, “Certainly; dance by all means if you wish to, and Maddy is
willing to play.”
Maddy bowed, and struck into a spirited waltz, which set many of the
young people to whirling in circles, and produced the result which Maria
so much desired, viz.: it took Guy away from the piano, for he could not
mistake her evident wish to have him as a partner, and with his arm
around her waist he was soon moving rapidly from that part of the room,
leaving only the doctor to watch Maddy’s fingers as they flew over the
keys. Maddy never thought of being tired. She enjoyed the excitement,
and was glad she could do something towards entertaining Guy’s guests.
But Guy did not forget her for an instant. Through all the mazes of the
giddy dance, he had her before his eye, seeing not the clouds of lace
and muslin encircled by his arm, but the little figure in blue sitting
so patiently at the piano until he knew she must be tired, and
determined to release her. As it chanced, Maria was on his arm, and
drawing her nearer to Maddy, he said, “Your fingers ache by this time, I
am sure. It is wrong to trouble you longer. Agnes will take your place
while you try a quadrille—I shall find you a partner.”
“Oh, thank you,” Maddy answered. “I am not tired in the least. I had as
lief play till morning, provided they are satisfied with my time, and my
stock of music holds out.”
“But it is not fair for one to do all the playing; besides, I shall ask
you to dance with me by-and-bye.”
Maddy’s face crimsoned for an instant, and then in a low voice she said,
“I thank you, but I must decline.”
“_Maddy!_” Guy exclaimed, in tones more indicative of reproach than
expostulation.
There were tears in Maddy’s eyes, and Maria Cutler, watching her, was
vexed to see how beautiful was the expression of her face as she
answered frankly, “I have never told you that grandpa objected to my
taking dancing lessons when I wrote to him about it. He does not like me
to dance.”
“A saint!” Maria uttered under her breath, smiling contemptuously as she
made a movement to leave the piano, hoping Guy would follow her.
But he did not at once. Standing for a moment irresolute, while he
looked curiously at Maddy, he said at last:
“Of course I interfere with no one’s scruples of that kind, but I cannot
allow you to wear yourself out for our amusement.”
“I like to play—please let me,” was Maddy’s reply; and, as the set upon
the floor were waiting for her, she turned to the instrument, while Guy
mechanically offered his arm to Maria, who was waiting for him, and
sauntered toward the green room.
“What a blue old ignoramus that grandfather must be to object to
dancing, don’t you think so?” Maria said, laughing a little spitefully,
and feeling secretly glad that Maddy had refused, and secretly angry at
Guy for seeming to care so much.
“Say,” she continued, as Guy did not answer her, “don’t you think it a
sign that something is lacking in brains or education, when a person
sets up that dancing is wicked?”
Guy would have taken Maddy’s side then, whatever he might have thought,
and he replied:
“Not lack of brains, certainly. Education and circumstances have much to
do with one’s views upon that subject. For my part, I like to see people
consistent. Now, this old ignoramus, as you call him, lays great stress
on _pomp_ and _vanities_, and when I asked him once what he meant by
them, he mentioned _dancing_ in particular as one of the things which
you church members promise to renounce;” and Guy bowed towards Maria,
who, knowing that she was one of the church members referred to, winced
perceptibly.
“But this girl—this Maddy. There’s no reason why she should decline,”
she said; and Guy replied:
“Respect for her grandfather, in her case, seems to be stronger than
respect for a higher power in some other cases.”
“It’s just as wicked to play for dancing as ’tis to dance,” Maria
remarked, impatiently; while Guy rejoined:
“That is very possible; but I presume Maddy has never seen it in that
light, which makes a difference;” and the two retraced their steps to
the rooms where the gay revelers were still tripping to Maddy’s music.
After several ineffectual efforts Agnes had succeeded in enticing the
doctor away from the piano, and thus there was no one near to see how at
last the bright color began to fade from Maddy’s cheeks as the notes
before her ran together, and the keys assumed the form of one huge key
which she could not manage. There was a blur before her eyes, a buzzing
in her ears, and just as the dancers were entering heart and soul into
the merits of a popular polka, there was a sudden pause in the music, a
crash among the keys, and a faint cry, which to those nearest to her
sounded very much like “Mr. Guy,” as Maddy fell forward with her face
upon the piano. It was hard telling which carried her from the room, the
doctor or Guy, or which face of the three was the whitest. Guy’s was the
most frightened, for the doctor knew she had only fainted, while Guy,
struck with the marble rigidity of the face so recently flushed with
excitement, said at first, “She’s dead!” while over him there flashed a
feeling that life with Maddy dead would be desolate indeed. But Maddy
was not dead, and Guy, when he went back to his guests, carried the news
that she had recovered from her faint, which she kindly ascribed to the
heat of the rooms, instead of fatigue from playing so long. The doctor
was with her and she was doing as well as could be expected, he said,
thinking within himself how he wished they would go home, and wondering
what attraction there was there, now that Maddy’s place was vacant. Guy
was a vastly miserable man by the time the last guest had bidden him
good-night, and he had heard for the hundred-and-fiftieth time what a
delightful evening it had been. Politeness required that he should look
to the very last as pleasant and unconcerned as if up-stairs there were
no little sick girl, all alone undoubtedly with Dr. Holbrook, whom he
mentally styled a “lucky dog,” in that he was not obliged to appear
again in the parlors, unless he chose.
The doctor knew Maddy did not require his presence after the first half
hour, but he insisted upon her being sent to bed, and then went
frequently to her door, until assured by Mrs. Noah that she was sleeping
soundly, and would, if let alone, be well as ever on the morrow; a
prediction which proved true, for when at a late hour next morning the
family met at the breakfast table, Maddy’s was the brightest, freshest
face of the whole, not even excepting Jessie’s. Maddy, too, was
delighted with the party, declaring that nothing but pleasurable
excitement and heat had made her faint; and then, with all the interest
which young girls usually attach to fainting fits, she asked how she
looked and how she acted, and if she didn’t appear very ridiculous, and
how she got out of the room, saying the only thing she remembered after
falling was a sensation as if she were being torn in two.
“That’s it,” cried Jessie, who readily volunteered the desired
information. “Brother Guy was ’way off with Maria Cutler, and doctor was
with mamma, but both ran so fast, and both tried to take you up. I think
Miss Cutler real hateful, for she said, mean like, ‘Do you see them pull
her, as if it was of the slightest consequence which carried her out?’”
“Jessie!” Guy interposed sternly; while the doctor, who had spent the
night at Aikenside, looked disapprovingly at the little girl, who
subsided into silence after saying, in an under-tone, “I do think she’s
hateful, and that isn’t all she said either about Maddy!”
It was rather uncomfortable at the table after that, and rather quiet
too, as Maddy did not care to ask anything more concerning her faint,
while the others were not disposed to talk.
Breakfast over, the two young men repaired to the library, where Guy
indulged in his cigar, while the doctor fidgeted for a time, and then
broke out abruptly:
“I say, Guy, have you said anything to her about—well, about me, you
know?”
“Why, no, I’ve hardly had a chance; and then, again, I concluded it
better for each one to speak for himself;” and carelessly knocking the
ashes from his half-smoked cigar, Guy leaned back in his chair, with his
eyes, and, to all appearance, thoughts, wholly intent upon the curls of
smoke rising above his head.
“Guy, if you were not engaged, I should be tempted to think you wanted
Maddy Clyde yourself,” the doctor suddenly exclaimed, confronting Guy,
who, still watching the rings of smoke, answered with the most provoking
coolness, “You should?”
“Yes, I should; and I am not certain but you do as it is. Guy,” and the
doctor grew very earnest in his manner, “if you do care for Maddy Clyde,
and she for you, pray tell me so before I make a fool of myself.”
“Doctor,” returned Guy, throwing the remains of his cigar into the grate
and folding his hands on his head, “you desire that I be frank, and I
will. I like Maddy Clyde very much—more, indeed, than any girl I ever
met, except Lucy. Had I never seen her—Lucy, I mean—I cannot tell how I
should feel toward Maddy. The chances are, however, that much as I
admire her, I should not make her my wife, even if she were willing. But
I have seen Lucy. I am engaged to be married. I shall keep that
engagement, and if you have feared me at all as a rival, you may fear me
no longer. I do not stand between you and Maddy Clyde.”
Guy believed that he was saying the truth, notwithstanding that his
heart beat faster than its wont and his voice was a little thick. It was
doubtful whether he would marry Maddy Clyde, if he could. By nature and
education he was very proud, and the inmates of the red cottage would
have been an obstacle to be surmounted by his pride. He knew they were
far, far better than himself; but, from his earliest remembrance, he had
been taught that blood and family and position were all-important; that
by virtue of them Remington was a name of which to be proud; that his
father’s foolish marriage with a pretty governess was the first
misalliance ever known in the family, and that he was not likely to
follow that example was a point fully established in his own mind. He
might admire Maddy very much, and, perhaps, build castles of what might
possibly have been, had she been in his sphere of life; but, should he
verily think of making her his wife, the olden pride would certainly
come up as a barrier between them. Guy could not explain all this to the
doctor, who would have been tempted to knock him down, if he had; but he
succeeded in quieting his fears, and even suggested bringing Maddy
there, if the doctor wished to know his fate that morning.
“I hear her now—I’ll call her,” he said; and opening the door, he spoke
to Maddy, who was just passing through the hall, “Dr. Holbrook wishes to
see you,” he said, as Maddy came up to him; and, holding the door for
her to enter, he saw her take the seat he had just vacated. Then,
closing it upon them, he walked away, thinking that last night’s party,
or something, had produced a bad effect on him making him blue and
wretched, just as he should suppose a criminal would feel when about to
be executed.