WOMANHOOD.
Two years pass quickly, particularly at school, and to Maddy Clyde,
talking with her companions of the coming holidays, it seemed hardly
possible that two whole years were gone since the eventful vacation when
Dr. Holbrook had so startled her by offering her his hand. He was in
Europe still, and another name than his was on the little office in Mrs.
Conner’s yard. To Maddy he now wrote frequently; friendly, familiar
letters, such as a brother might write, never referring to the past, but
telling her whatever he thought would interest and please her.
Occasionally, at first, and more frequently afterwards, he spoke of
Margaret Atherstone, Lucy’s younger sister, a brilliant, beautiful girl,
who reminded him, he said, of Maddy, only she was saucier, and more of a
tease; not at all like Lucy, whom he described as something perfectly
angelic. Her twenty-fifth birthday found her on a sick bed, with Dr.
Holbrook in attendance, and this was the reason given why the marriage
between herself and Guy was again deferred. There had been many weeks of
pain, succeeded by long, weary months of languor, and during all this
time the doctor had been with her as the family physician, while
Margaret also had been constantly in attendance.
But Lucy was much better now. She could sit up all day, and even walk a
little distance, assisted by the doctor and _Margaret_, whose name had
come to be almost as familiar to Maddy as was that of Lucy. And Maddy,
in thinking of Margaret, sometimes wondered “if—,” but never went any
further than that. Neither did she ask Guy a word about her, though she
knew he must have seen her. She did not say much to him of Lucy, but she
wondered why he did not go for her, and wanted to talk with him about
it, but he was so changed that she dared not. He was not sociable, as of
old, and Agnes did not hesitate to call him _cross_, while Jessie
complained that he never romped or played with her now, but sat all day
long in a deep reverie of some kind.
On this account Maddy did not look forward to the coming vacation as
joyfully as she would otherwise have done. Still, it was always pleasant
going home, and she sat talking with her young friends of all they
expected to do, when a servant entered the room, and glancing over the
group of girls, singled Maddy out, saying, as he placed an unsealed
envelope in her hand, “A telegram for Miss Clyde.”
There was a blur before Maddy’s eyes, so that at first she could not see
clearly, and Jessie, climbing on the bench beside her read aloud:
“Your grandmother is dying. Come at once. Agnes and Jessie will stay
till next week.
GUY REMINGTON.”
It was impossible to go that afternoon, but with the earliest dawn Maddy
was up, and, unmindful of the snow falling so rapidly, started on that
sad journey home. It was the first genuine storm of the season, and it
seemed resolved on making amends for past neglect sweeping in furious
gusts against the windows, sifting down in thick masses from the leaden
sky, and so impeding the progress of the train that the chill wintry
night had closed gloomily in ere the Sommerville station was reached,
and Maddy, weary and dispirited, stepped out upon the platform, glancing
anxiously around for the usual omnibus, which she had little hope would
be there on such a night. If not, what would she do? This had been the
burden of her thoughts for the last few hours, for she could not expect
Guy to send out his horses in this fearful storm, much less to be there
himself. But Guy was there, and it was his voice which first greeted her
as she stood half-blinded by the snow, uncertain what she must do next.
“Ah, Mr. Remington, I didn’t expect this. I am so glad, and how kind it
was of you to wait for me!” she exclaimed, her voice expressing her
delight, and amply repaying the young man, who had not been very patient
or happy through the six long hours of waiting he had endured.
But he was both happy and patient now, with Maddy’s hand in his, and
pressing it very gently he led her into the ladies’ room; then making
her sit down before the fire, he brushed her snowy garments himself, and
dashing a few flakes from her disordered hair, told her what she so
eagerly wished to know. Her grandmother had had a paralytic stroke, and
the only word she had uttered since was “Maddy.” Guy had not been down
himself, but had sent Mrs. Noah as soon as Farmer Green had brought the
news. She was there yet, the storm having prevented her return.
“And grandma?” Maddy gasped, fixing her eyes wistfully upon him. “You do
not think her dead?”
No, Guy did not, and stooping he asked if he should not remove from the
little feet resting on the stove-hearth the over-shoes, so full of
melting snow. Maddy cared nothing for her shoes or herself just then.
She hardly knew that Guy was taking them off, much less that as he bent
beside her, her hand lay lightly upon his shoulders as she continued her
questionings.
“She is not dead, you say; but do you think—does anybody think she’ll
die? Your telegram said ‘dying.’”
Maddy was not to be deceived, and thinking it best to be frank with her,
Guy told her that the physician, whom he had taken pains to see on his
way to the depot, had said there was no hope. Old age and an impaired
constitution precluded the possibility of recovery, but he trusted she
might live till the young lady came.
“She must—she will! Oh, grandma, why did I ever leave her?” and burying
her face in her hands Maddy cried passionately, while the last three
years of her life passed in rapid review before her mind—years which she
had spent in luxurious ease, leaving her grandmother to toil in the
humble cottage, and die without one parting word for her.
The feeling that perhaps she had been guilty of neglect was the
bitterest of all, and Maddy wept on, unmindful of Guy’s attempts to
soothe her. At last, as she heard a clock in the adjoining room strike
eight, she started up, exclaiming, “I have staid too long. I must go
now. Is there any conveyance here?”
“But, Maddy,” Guy rejoined, “you cannot go to-night. The roads between
here and Honedale are one unbroken snow-bank. It would take hours to
break through; besides, you are too tired. You need rest, and must come
with me to Aikenside, where you are expected, for when I found how late
the train would be, I sent word to have your room and the parlors
warmed, and a nice hot supper ready for us. You’ll surely go with me, if
I think best.”
Guy’s manner was more like a lover than a friend, but Maddy was in no
state to remark it. She only felt an intense desire to go home, and
turning a deaf ear to all he could urge, replied;
“You don’t know how dear grandma is to me, or you would not ask me to
stay. She’s all the mother I ever knew, and I must go. Think, would you
stay if the one you loved best was dying?”
“But the one I love best is not dying, so I can reason clearly, Maddy.”
Here Guy checked himself, and listened while Maddy asked again if there
was no conveyance there as usual.
“None but mine,” said Guy, while Maddy continued faintly:
“And you are afraid it will kill your horses?”
“No, it would only fatigue them greatly. It’s for you I fear. You’ve
borne enough to-day.”
“Then Mr. Remington, oh, please send me. I shall die at Aikenside. John
will drive me, I know. He used to like me. I’ll ask him,” and Maddy was
going in quest of the Aikenside coachman, when Guy held her back, and
said:
“John will go if I bid him. But you, Maddy, if I thought it was safe.”
“It is. Oh, let me go,” and Maddy grasped both his hands beseechingly.
If there was a man who could resist the eloquent appeal of Maddy’s eyes
at that moment, the man was not Guy Remington, and leaving her alone, he
went to John, asking him if it would be possible to get through to
Honedale that night.
John shook his head decidedly, but when Guy explained Maddy’s distress
and anxiety, the negro began to relent, particularly as he saw his young
master too was interested.
“It’ll kill them horses,” he said; “but mabby that’s nothin’ to please
the girl.”
“If we only had runners now, instead of wheels, John,” Guy said, after a
moment’s reflection. “Drive back to Aikenside as fast as possible, and
change the carriage for a covered sleigh. Leave the grays at home and
take a pair of farm horses. They can endure more. Tell Flora to send my
traveling shawl—Miss Clyde may need it—and an extra carriage robe, and a
bottle of wine, and my buckskin gloves, and bring Tom with you, and a
snow-shovel, we may have to dig.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” and tying his muffler about his throat, John started
off through the storm, his mind a confused medley of ideas, the main
points of which were, bottles of wine, snow-shovels, and the fact that
his master was either crazy or in love.
Meanwhile, with the prospect of going home, Maddy had grown quiet, and
did not refuse the supper of buttered toast, muffins, steak, and hot
coffee, which Guy ordered from the small hotel just in rear of the
depot. Tired, nervous, and almost helpless, she allowed Guy himself to
prepare the coffee, taking it from his hand and drinking it at his
bidding as obediently as a child. There was a feeling of delicious rest
in being cared for thus, and but for the dying one at Honedale she would
have enjoyed it vastly. As it was, however, she never for a moment
forgot her grandmother—though she did forget, in a measure, her anxiety,
and was able to think how exceedingly kind Guy was. He was like what he
used to be, she thought, only kinder; and thinking it was because she
was in trouble she accepted all his little attentions willingly, feeling
how pleasant it was to have him there, and thinking once with a half
shudder of the long, cold ride before her, when Guy would no longer be
present, and also of the dreary home where death might possibly be a
guest ere she could reach it.
It was after nine when John appeared, his crisp wool powdered with snow,
which clung to his outer garments, and literally covered his dark cloth
cap.
“The snow was mighty deep,” he said, bowing to Maddy, “and the wind was
getting colder. It was a hard time Miss Clyde would have, and hadn’t she
better wait?”
No, Maddy could not wait, and standing up she suffered Guy to wrap her
cloak about her, and fasten more securely the long, warm scarf she wore
around her neck.
“Drive close to the platform,” he said to John and the covered sleigh
was soon brought to the point designated. “Now then, Maddy, I won’t let
you run the risk of covering your feet with snow. I shall carry you
myself,” Guy said, and before Maddy was fully aware of his intentions,
he had her in his arms, and was bearing her to the sleigh.
Very carefully he drew the soft, warm robe about her, shielding her as
well as he could from the cold; then pulling his own fur collar about
his ears, he sprang in beside her, and, closing the door behind him,
bade John drive on.
“But, Mr. Remington,” Maddy exclaimed in much surprise, “surely you are
not going, too? You must not! It is asking too much. It is more than I
expected. Please don’t go!”
“Would you rather I should not—that is, aside from any inconvenience it
may be to me—would you rather go alone?” Guy asked; and Maddy replied:
“Oh, no. I was dreading the long ride, but did not dream of your going.
You will shorten it so much.”
“Then I shall be paid for going,” was Guy’s response, as he drew still
more closely around her the fancy robe.
The roads, though badly drifted in some places, were not as bad as Guy
had feared, and the strong horses kept steadily on; while Maddy, growing
more and more fatigued, at last fell away to sleep, and ceased to answer
Guy. For a time he watched her drooping head, and then, carefully
drawing it to him, made it rest upon his shoulder, while he wound his
arm around her slight figure, and so supported her. He knew she was
sleeping quietly, by her gentle breathings; and once or twice he
involuntarily passed his hand caressingly over her soft, round cheek,
feeling the blood tingle to his finger tips as he thought of his
position there, with Maddy Clyde sleeping in his arms. What would Lucy
say could she see him? And the doctor, with his strict ideas of right
and wrong, would he object? Guy did not know, and, with his usual
independence, he did not care. At least he said to himself he did not
care; and so, banishing both the doctor and Lucy from his mind, he
abandoned himself to the happiness of the moment—a singular kind of
happiness, inasmuch as it merely consisted in the fact that Maddy
Clyde’s young head was pillowed on his bosom, and that, by bending down,
he could feel her sweet breath on his face. Occasionally there flitted
across Guy’s mind a vague, uneasy consciousness that though the act was,
under the circumstances, well enough, the feelings which prompted it
were not such as either the doctor or Lucy would approve. But they were
far away; they would never know unless he told them, as he probably
should, of this ride on that wintry night; this ride, which seemed to
him so short that he scarcely believed his senses when, without once
having been overturned or called upon to use the shovels so thoughtfully
provided, the carriage suddenly came to a halt, and he knew by the dim
light shining through the low window that the red cottage was reached.
* * * * *
Grandma Markham was dying, but she knew Maddy, and the palsied lips
worked painfully as they attempted to utter the loved name; while her
wasted face lighted up with eager joy as Maddy’s arms were twined about
her neck, and she felt Maddy’s kisses on her cheek and brow. Could she
not speak? Would she never speak again, Maddy asked despairingly, and
her grandfather replied:
“Never, most likely. The only thing she’s said since the shock was to
call your name. She’s missed you despatly this winter back; more than
ever before, I think. So have we all, but we would not send for you—Mr.
Guy said you were learning so fast.”
“Oh, grandpa, why didn’t you? I would have come so willingly,” and for
an instant Maddy’s eyes flashed reproachfully upon the recreant Guy,
standing aloof from the little group gathered about the bed, his arms
folded together, and a moody look upon his face.
He was thinking of what had not yet entered Maddy’s mind, thinking of
_the future_—Maddy’s future, when the aged form upon the bed should be
gone, and the two comparatively helpless men be left alone.
“But it shall not be. The sacrifice is far too great. I can prevent it,
and I will,” he muttered to himself, as he turned to watch the gray dawn
breaking in the east.
Guy was a puzzle to himself. He would not admit that during the past
year his liking for Maddy Clyde had grown to be something stronger than
mere friendship, nor yet that his feelings toward Lucy had under gone a
change, prompting him not to go to her when she was sick, and not to be
as sorry as he ought that the marriage was again deferred. Lucy had no
suspicion of the change, and her child-like trust in him was the anchor
which held him still true to her in intentions at least, if not in
reality. He knew from her letters how much she had learned to like Maddy
Clyde, and so, he argued, there was no harm in his liking her, too. She
was a splendid girl, and it seemed a pity that her lot should have been
so humbly cast. This was usually the drift of his thoughts in connection
with her; and now, as he stood there in that cottage, Maddy’s home, they
recurred to him with tenfold intensity, for he foresaw that a struggle
was before him if he rescued Maddy as he meant to do from her
approaching fate.
No such thoughts, however, intruded themselves on Maddy’s mind. She did
not look away from the present, except it were at the past, in which she
feared she had erred by leaving her grandmother too much alone. But to
her passionate appeals for forgiveness, if she ever had neglected the
dying one, there came back only loving looks and mute caresses, the aged
hand smoothing lovingly the bowed head, or pressing fondly the girlish
cheeks.
With the coming of daylight, however, there was a change; and Maddy,
listening intently, heard what sounded like her name. The tied tongue
was loosed for a little, and in tones scarcely articulate, the
disciple who for long years had served her Heavenly Father faithfully,
bore testimony to the blessed truth that God’s promises to those who
love Him are not mere promises—that He will go with them through the
river of death, disarming the fainting soul of every fear, and making
the dying bed the gate of Heaven. This tribute to the Saviour was her
first thought, while the second was a blessing for her darling, a
charge to seek the narrow way now in life’s early morning. Disjointed
sentences they were, but Maddy understood them all, treasuring up
every word even to the last, the words so painfully uttered;
“You—will—care—and—comfort——”
She did not say whom, but Maddy knew whom she meant; and without then
realizing the magnitude of the act, virtually accepted the burden from
which Guy was so anxious to save her.