THE BURDEN.
Grandma Markham was dead, and the covered sleigh, which late in the
afternoon plowed its way heavily back to Aikenside carried only Mrs.
Noah, who, with her forehead tied up in knots, sat back among the
cushions, thinking not of the peaceful dead, gone forever to the rest
which remains for the people of God, but of the wayward Guy, who had
resisted all her efforts to persuade him to return with her, instead of
staying where he was not needed, and where his presence was a restraint
to all save one, and that one Maddy, for whose sake he staid.
“She’d be _vummed_,” the indignant old lady said, “if she would not
write to Lucy herself if Guy did not quit such doin’s;” and thus
resolving she kept on her way, while the object of her wrath was, it may
be, more than half repenting of his decision to stay, inasmuch as he
began to have an unpleasant consciousness of being in everybody’s way.
In the first hour of Maddy’s bereavement he had not spoken with her, but
had kept himself aloof from the room where, with her grandfather and
Uncle Joseph, she sat, holding the poor aching head of the latter in her
lap and trying to speak a word of consolation to the old, broken-hearted
man, whose hand was grasped in hers. But Maddy knew he was there. She
could hear his voice each time he spoke to Mrs. Noah, and that made the
desolation easier to bear. She did not look forward to the time when he
would be gone; and when at last he told her he was going, she started
quickly, and with a gush of tears, exclaimed: “No, no! oh, no!”
“Maddy,” Guy whispered, bending over the strange trio, “would you rather
I should stay? Will it be pleasanter for you if I do?”
“Yes—I don’t know. I guess it would not be so lonely. Oh, it’s terrible
to have grandmother dead!” was Maddy’s response; after which Guy would
have staid if a whole regiment of Mrs. Noahs had confronted him instead
of one.
Maddy wished it; that was reason enough for him; and giving a few
directions to John, he staid, thereby disconcerting the neighboring
women who came in to perform the last offices for the dead, and who
wished the young man from Aikenside was anywhere but there, criticising
all their movements, as they vainly fancied he was. But Guy thought only
of Maddy, watching her so carefully that more than one meaning glance
was exchanged between the women, who, even over the inanimate form of
the dead, spoke together of what might possibly occur, and wondering
what would be the effect on Grandpa Markham and Uncle Joseph. Who would
take care of them? And then, in case Maddy should feel it her duty to
stay there, as they half-hoped she would, they fell to pitying the young
girl, who seemed now so wholly unfitted for the burden.
To Maddy there came no definite thought of the future during the two
days that white, rigid form lay in the cottage; but when, at last, the
deep grave made for Grandma Markham was occupied, and the lounge in the
little front room was empty—when the Aikenside carriage, which had been
sent down for the mourners, had driven away, taking both Guy and Mrs.
Noah—when the neighbors, too, had gone, leaving only herself and the
little girl who had been hired as help sitting by the fire, with the
grandfather and the imbecile Uncle Joseph—then it was that she first
began to feel the pressure of the burden—began to ask herself if she
could live thus always, or at least for as long as either of the two
helpless men were spared. Maddy was young, and the world as she had seen
it was very bright and fair, brighter far than a life of laborious toil,
and for a while the idea that the latter alternative must be accepted
made her dizzy and faint.
As if divining her thoughts, the poor old grandfather, in his prayers
that night, asked in trembling tones, which showed how much he felt what
he was saying, that God would guide his darling in all she did, and give
her wisdom to make the proper decision; that if it were best she might
be happy there with them, but if not, “Oh, Father, Father!” he sobbed,
“help me and Joseph to bear it.” He could pray no more aloud, and the
gray head remained bowed down upon his chair, while Uncle Joseph, in his
crazy way, took up the theme, begging like a very child that Maddy might
be inclined to stay—that no young man with curling hair, a diamond
cross, and smell of musk, might be permitted to come near her with
enticing looks, but that she might stay as she was and die an old maid
forever! This was the substance of Uncle Joseph’s prayer, which set the
little hired girl to tittering, and would have wrung a smile from Maddy
herself had she not felt all the strange petition implied.
With the waywardness natural to people in his condition, Uncle Joseph
that night turned to Maddy for the little services his sister had
formerly rendered, and which, since her illness, Grandpa Markham had
done, and would willingly do still. But Joseph refused to let him. Maddy
must untie his cravat, unbutton his vest, and take off his shoes, and
after he was in bed, Maddy must sit by his side holding his hand until
he fell away to sleep. And Maddy did it cheerfully, soothing him into
quiet, and keeping back her own choking sorrow for the sake of
comforting him. Then, when this task was done, she sought her
grandfather, still sitting before the kitchen fire and evidently waiting
for her. The little hired girl had retired, and thus there was no
barrier to free conversation between them.
“Maddy,” the old man said, “come sit close by me, where I can look into
your face, while we talk over what must be done.”
With a half shudder, Maddy drew a stool to her grandfather’s feet, and
resting her head upon his knee, listened while he talked to her of the
future, and told her all her grandmother had done; told of his own
helplessness; of the trial it was to care for Uncle Joseph, and then in
faltering tones asked who was going to look after them now. “We can’t
live here alone, Maddy. We can’t. We’re old and weak, and want some one
to lean on. Oh, why didn’t God take us with her, Joseph and me, and that
would leave you free, to go back to the school, and the life which I
know is pleasanter than to stay here with us. Oh, Maddy! it comforts me
to look at you—to hear your voice, to know that though I don’t see you
every minute, you are somewhere, and by and by you’ll come in. _I_
shan’t live long, and maybe Joseph won’t. God’s promise is to them who
honor father and mother. It’ll be hard for you to stay, harder than it
was once; but, Maddy! stay with me, stay with me!—stay with your old
grandpa!”
In his earnestness he grasped her arm, as if he thus would hold her,
while the tears rained over his wrinkled face. For a moment Maddy made
no response. She had no intention of leaving him, but the burden was
pressing heavily and her tongue refused to move. Maddy then was a
stranger to the religion which was sustaining her grandfather in his
great trouble, but the teachings of her childhood had not been in vain.
She was God’s covenant child. His protecting presence was over and
around her, moving her to the right. New York, with its gay sights; her
school, where in another year she was to graduate; the trip to the
Catskills which Guy had promised Mrs. Agnes, Jessie and herself;
Aikenside, with its luxurious ease—all these must be given up, while,
worse than all the rest, Guy, too, must be given up. He would not come
to Honedale often; the place was not to his taste, and in time he would
cease to care for her as he cared for her now. “Oh, that would be
dreadful!” she groaned aloud, while her thoughts went backward to that
night ride in the snow-storm, and the numberless attentions he had paid
then. She should never ride with him again—never; and Maddy moaned
bitterly, as she began to realize for the first time how much she liked
Guy Remington, and how the giving him up and his society was the hardest
part of all. But Maddy had a brave young heart, and at last, winding her
arms around her grandfather’s neck, she whispered: “I will not leave
you, grandpa. I’ll stay in grandmother’s place.”
Surely Heaven would answer the blessings which the delighted old man
whispered over the young girl, taking so cheerfully the burden from
which many would have shrunk.
With her grandfather’s hand upon her head, Maddy could almost feel that
the blessing was descending; but in her own little room, where she had
lain sick for so many weary weeks, her courage began to give way, and
the burden, magnified tenfold by her nervous weakness, looked heavier
than she could bear. How could she stay there, going through each day
with the same routine of literal drudgery—drudgery which would not end
until the two for whom she made the sacrifice were dead.
“Oh, is there no way to escape, no help?” she moaned, as she tossed from
side to side. “Must my life be wasted here? Surely——”
Maddy did not finish the sentence, for something checked the words of
repining, and she seemed to hear again her grandfather’s voice as it
repeated the promise to those who keep with their whole souls the fifth
commandment.
“I will, I will,” she cried, while into her heart there crept an intense
longing for the love of him who alone could make her task a light one.
“If I were good, like grandma, I could bear everything,” she thought,
and turning upon her pillow, Maddy prayed an earnest, childish prayer,
that God would help her do right; that he would take from her the proud
spirit which rebelled against her lot because of its loneliness, that
pride and love of her own ease and advancement in preference to other’s
good might all be subdued; in short, that she might be God’s child,
walking where he appointed her to walk without a murmur, and doing
cheerfully his will.
Aikenside, and school, and the Catskill mountains were easier to abandon
after that prayer; but when she thought of _Guy_, the fiercest, sharpest
pang she had ever felt shot through her heart, making her cry out so
quickly that the little hired girl who shared her bed moved as if about
to waken; but Maddy lay very quiet until all was still again, when,
turning a second time to God, she tried to pray, tried to give up what
to her was the dearest idol, but she could not say the words, and ere
she knew what she was doing she found herself asking that _Guy_ should
not forsake her. “Let him come,” she sobbed, “let Guy come sometimes to
see me.”
Once the tempter whispered to her, that had she accepted Dr. Holbrook
she would have been spared all this, but Maddy turned a deaf ear to that
suggestion. Dr. Holbrook was too noble a man to have an unloving wife,
and not for a moment did she repent of her decision with regard to him.
She almost knew he would say now that she was right in refusing him, and
right in staying there, as she must. Thoughts of the doctor quieted her,
she believed, not knowing that Heaven was already owning its submissive
child, and breathing upon it a soothing benediction. The moan of the
winter wind and the sound of the snow beating against her little window
ceased to annoy her. Heaven, happiness, Aikenside, and Guy, all seemed
blended into one great good, just within her reach, and when the long
clock below stairs struck three she did not hear it, but with the
tear-stains upon her face she lay nestled among the pillows, dreaming
that her grandmother had come back from the bright world of glory to
bless her darling child.
It was broad noon ere Maddy awoke, and, starting up, she looked about
her in bewilderment, wondering where she was and what agency had been at
work in her room, transforming it from the cold, comfortless apartment
she had entered the previous night, into the cheery-looking chamber,
with a warm fire blazing in the tiny fire-place, a rug spread down upon
the hearth, a rocking-chair drawn up before it, and all traces of the
little hired girl as completely obliterated as if she had never been.
During her grandmother’s illness, Maddy’s room had been left to the care
of the hired girl, Nettie, and it wore a neglected, rude aspect, which
had grated on Maddy’s finer feelings, and made everything so uninviting.
But this morning all was changed. Some skillful hand had been busy there
while she slept, and Maddy was wondering who it could be, when the door
opened cautiously and _Flora’s_ good-humored face looked in—Flora from
Aikenside. Maddy knew now to whom she was indebted for all this comfort,
and with a cry of joy she welcomed the girl, whose very presence brought
back something of the life with which she had parted forever.
“Flora,” she exclaimed, “how came you here, and did you make this fire,
and arrange the room for me?”
“Yes, I made the fire,” Flora replied, “and fixed up the things a
little, hustlin’ that young one’s goods out of here; because it was not
fit for you to be sleeping with her. Mr. Remington was angry enough when
he found it out.”
“Mr. Remington, Flora? How should he know of our sleeping arrangements?”
Maddy asked, but Flora evaded a direct reply, saying, “There were enough
ways for things to get to Aikenside;” then continuing, “How tired you
must be, Miss Maddy, to sleep so sound as never to hear me at all,
though to be sure I tried to be still as a mouse. But let me help you
dress. It’s nearly noon, and you must be hungry. I’ve got your breakfast
all ready.”
“Thank you, Flora, I can dress myself,” Maddy said, stepping out upon
the floor, and feeling that the world was not so dark as it had seemed
to her when last night she came up to her chamber.
God was comforting her already, and as she made her simple toilet, she
tried to thank Him for His goodness, and ask for grace to make her what
she ought to be.
“You have not yet told me why you came here,” she said to Flora, who was
busy making her bed; and who replied, “It’s Mr. Remington’s work. He
thought I’d better come, as you would need help to get things set to
rights, so you could go back to school.”
Maddy felt her heart coming up in her throat, but she answered calmly,
“Mr. Remington is very kind—so are you all; but, Flora, I am not going
back to school.”
“Not going back!” and Flora stopped her bed making, while she stared
blankly at Maddy. “What are you going to do?”
“Stay here and take care of grandpa,” Maddy aid, bathing her face and
neck in the cold water, which could not cool the feverish heat she felt
spreading all over them.
“Stay here! You are crazy, Miss Maddy! ’Tain’t no place for a girl like
you, and Mr. Remington never will suffer it, I know,” Flora rejoined, as
she resumed her work, thinking she “should die to be moped up in that
nutshell of a house.”
With a little sigh as she foresaw the opposition she should probably
meet with from Guy, Maddy went on with her toilet, which was soon
completed, as it did not take long to arrange the dark calico dress and
plain linen collar which she wore. She was not as fresh-looking as usual
that morning, for excitement and fatigue had lent a paleness to her
cheek, and a languor to her whole appearance, but Flora, who glanced
anxiously after her as she went out, muttered to herself, “She was never
more beautiful, and I don’t wonder an atom that Mr. Guy thinks so much
of her.”
The kitchen was in perfect order, for Flora had been busy there as
elsewhere. The kettle was boiling on the stove, while two or three
little covered dishes were ranged upon the hearth, as if waiting for
some one. Grandpa Markham had gone out, but Uncle Joseph sat in his
accustomed corner, rubbing his hands when he saw Maddy, and nodding
mysteriously toward the front room, the door of which was open, so that
Maddy could hear the fire crackling on the hearth.
“Go in, go in,” Uncle Joseph said, waving his hand in that direction.
“My Lord Governor is in there waiting for you. He won’t let me spit on
the floor any more as Martha did, and I’ve swallowed so much that I’m
almost choked.”
Continual spitting was one of Uncle Joseph’s worst habits, and as his
sister had indulged him in it, it had become a source of great annoyance
to every one. Thinking that Uncle Joseph referred to her grandfather,
and feeling glad that the latter had attempted a reform, she entered the
room known at the cottage as the parlor, where the rag carpet and the
six cane-seated chairs and the Boston rocker were kept, and where now
the little round table was nicely laid for two, while, cozily seated in
the rocking-chair, reading last night’s paper, and looking very handsome
and happy, was Guy!
When Maddy prayed that he might come and see her she did not expect an
answer so soon, and she started back in much surprise, while Guy came
easily forward to greet her, asking how she was, and telling her she
looked tired and thin; then making her take the chair he had vacated, he
stood over her, while he continued:
“I have taken some liberties, you see, and have made myself quite at
home. I knew how unaccustomed you were to the duties of a house, and as
I saw that girl was wholly incompetent, I denied myself at least two
hours’ sleep this morning for the sake of getting here early, bringing
Flora with me and a few things which I thought would be for your
comfort. You must excuse me, but Flora looked so cold when she came down
from your chamber, where I sent her to see how you were, that with your
grandfather’s permission I ordered a fire to be kindled there. I hope
you found it comfortable. This house is very cold.”
He kept talking, and Maddy, in a delicious kind of bewilderment,
listened to him, wondering if ever before there was a person so kind and
good as Guy. And Guy was doing great violence to his pride by being
there as he was, but he could do anything for Maddy, and so he had
forced down his pride, trying for her sake to make the cottage as
pleasant as possible. With Flora to assist he had succeeded wonderfully,
and was really enjoying it himself. At first Maddy could not thank him,
her heart was so full, but Guy was satisfied with the expression of her
face, and calling Flora he bade her serve the breakfast.
“You know my habits,” he said, smilingly, as he took a seat at the
table, “and breakfasting at daylight, as I did, has given me an
appetite; so with your permission, I’ll carve this nice bit of steak for
you, while you pour me a cup of coffee, some of Mrs. Noah’s best.
She”—Guy was going to say, “sent it,” but as no stretch of the
imagination could construe her “calling him a fool” into sending Maddy
coffee he added instead, “I brought it from Aikenside, together with
this strawberry jelly, of which I remember you were fond;” and he helped
Maddy lavishly from the fanciful jelly-jar which yesterday was adorning
the sweetmeat closet at Aikenside.
How chatty and social he was, trying to cheer Maddy up and make her
forget that such a thing as death had so lately found entrance there. He
talked of Jessie, of Aikenside, of the pleasant time they would have
during the vacation, and of the next term at school, when Maddy, as one
of the graduating class would not be kept in as strictly as heretofore,
but allowed to see more of the city. Maddy felt as if she should die for
the pain tugging at her heart, while she listened to him and knew that
the pictures he was drawing were not for her. Her place was there; and
after the breakfast was over and Flora had cleared the dishes away, she
shut the door, so that they might be alone, and then standing before
Guy, she told him of her resolution, begging of him to help her and not
make it harder to bear by devising means for her to escape what she felt
to be an imperative duty. Guy had expected something like this and was
prepared, as he thought, to combat all her arguments; so when she had
finished, he replied that of course he did not wish to interfere with
her duty, but there might be a question as to what really was her duty,
and it seemed to him he was better able to judge of that than herself.
It was not right for her to bury herself there, where another could do
as well. Her superior talents were given to her to improve, and how
could she improve them in Honedale? besides, her grandfather did not
expect her to stay. Guy had talked with him while she was asleep, and
the matter was all arranged; a competent woman was to be hired to take
charge of the domestic arrangements, and if it seemed desirable, two
should be procured; anything to leave Maddy free.
“And grandpa consented to this willingly?” Maddy said, feeling a throb
of pleasure at thoughts of release. But Guy could not answer that the
grandfather consented willingly.
“He thinks it best. When he comes back you can ask him yourself,” he
said, just as Uncle Joseph opened the door and brought their interview
to a close by asking very meekly, “If it would please the Lord Governor
to let him _spit_!”
The blood rushed at once to Maddy’s face, and she could not repress a
smile, while Guy laughed aloud, saying to her softly: “For your sake, I
tried my skill to stop what I knew must annoy you. Pardon me if I did
wrong!” then turning to Uncle Joseph, he gave the desired permission,
together with the promise of a handsome spittoon, which should be sent
down on the morrow. With a bow Uncle Joseph turned away, muttering to
himself, “High doings, now Martha’s gone; but new lords, new laws. I
trust he’s not going to live here;” and very slyly he asked Flora if the
Lord Governor had brought his things?
At this point Grandpa Markham came in, and to him Guy appealed at once
to know if he were not willing for Maddy to return to school.
“I said she might if she thought best,” was the reply, spoken so sadly
that Maddy’s arms were at once twined round the old man’s neck, while
she said to him:
“Tell me honestly which you prefer. I’d like so much to go to school,
but I am not sure I should be happy there, knowing how lonely you were
at home. Say, grandpa, which do you prefer?” and Maddy tried to speak
playfully, though her heart-beats were almost audible as she waited for
the answer.
Grandpa could not deceive her. “He wanted his darling sorely, and he
wanted her to be happy,” he said. Perhaps they could get on just as well
without her. When Mr. Guy was talking it looked as if they might, he
made it all so plain, but the sight of Maddy was a comfort. She was all
he had left. Maybe he shouldn’t live long to pester her, and if he
didn’t, wouldn’t she always feel better for having staid with her old
grandpa to the last?
He looked very pale and thin, and his hair was as white as snow. He
could not live many years, and, turning resolutely from Guy, who, so
long as he held her eye, controlled her, Maddy said:
“I’ve chosen once for all. I’ll stay with grandpa till he dies,” and
with a convulsive sob she clung tightly to his neck, as if fearful that
without such hold on him her resolution would give way.
It was in vain that Guy strove to change Maddy’s decision, and late in
the afternoon he rode back to Aikenside a disappointed man, with,
however, the feeling that Maddy had done right, and that he respected
her all the more for withstanding the temptation.