BEFORE THE BRIDAL.
There was a fresh grave made in the churchyard, and another chair vacant
at the cottage, where Maddy was at last alone. Unfettered by care and
anxiety for sick ones, her aching heart was free to go to the stately
mansion she had heard described so often, and where now two brides were
busy with their preparations for the bridal hurrying on so fast. Since
the letter read in the leafless October woods, Maddy had not heard from
Guy directly, though Lucy had written a few brief lines, telling how
happy she was, how strong she was growing, and how much like himself Guy
was becoming. Maddy had been less than a woman if the last intelligence
had failed to affect her unpleasantly. She did not wish Guy to regret
his decision; but to be forgotten so soon after so strong protestations
of affection was a little mortifying, and Maddy’s heart throbbed
painfully as she read the letter, half hoping it might prove the last
she should receive from Lucy Atherstone.
Guy had left no orders for any changes to be made at Aikenside; but
Agnes, who was largely imbued with a love of bustle and repair, had
insisted that at least the suite of rooms intended for the bride should
be thoroughly renovated with new paper and paint, carpets and furniture.
This plan Mrs. Noah opposed, for she guessed how little Guy would care
for the change; but Agnes was resolved, and as she had great faith in
Maddy’s taste, she insisted that she should go to Aikenside, and pass
her judgment upon the improvements. It would do her good, she
said—little dreaming how much it cost Maddy to comply with her wishes,
or how fearfully the poor, crushed heart ached, as Maddy went through
the handsome rooms intended for Guy’s young bride; but Mrs. Noah guessed
it all, and pitied the white-faced girl, whose deep mourning robes told
the loss of dear ones by death, but gave no token of that great loss,
tenfold worse than death.
“It was wicked in her to fetch you here,” she said to Maddy one day when
in Lucy’s room she found her sitting upon the floor, with her head bowed
down upon the window-sill. “But she’s a triflin’ thing, and didn’t know
’twould kill you, poor child, poor Maddy!” and Mrs. Noah laid her hand
kindly on Maddy’s hair. “Maybe you’d better go home,” she continued, as
Maddy made no reply; “it must be hard, to be here in the rooms, and
among the things which by good rights should be yours.”
“No, Mrs. Noah,” and Maddy’s voice was strangely unnatural, as she
lifted up her head, revealing a face so haggard and white that Mrs. Noah
was frightened, and asked in much alarm if anything new had happened.
“No, nothing; I was going to say that I’d rather stay a little longer
where there are signs and sounds of life. I should die to be alone at
Honedale to-morrow. I may die here, I don’t know. Do you know that
to-morrow will be the bridal?”
Yes, Mrs. Noah knew it; but she hoped it might have escaped Maddy’s
mind.
“Poor child,” she said again, “poor child, I mistrust you did wrong to
tell him No!”
“Oh, Mrs. Noah, don’t say that; don’t make it harder for me to bear. The
tempter has been telling me so, all day, and my heart is so hard and
wicked, I cannot pray as I would. Oh, you don’t knew how wretched I am!”
and Maddy hid her face in the broad, motherly lap, sobbing so wildly
that Mrs. Noah was greatly perplexed how to act, or what to say.
Years ago, she would have spurned the thought that the grandchild of the
old man who had bowed to his own picture, should be mistress of
Aikenside; but now, could she have had her way, she would have stopped
the marriage, and, bringing her boy home, have given him to the young
girl weeping so bitterly in her lap. But Mrs. Noah could not have her
way. The bridal guests were, even then, assembling in that home beyond
the sea. She could not call Guy back, and so she pitied and caressed the
wretched Maddy, saying to her, at last:
“I’ll tell you what is impressed on my mind; this Lucy’s got the
consumption, without any kind of doubt, and if you’ve no objections to a
widower, you may——”
She did not finish the sentence, for Maddy started in horror. To her
there was something murderous in the very idea, and she thrust it
quickly aside. Guy Remington was not for her, she said, and her wish was
to forget him. If she could get through the dreaded to-morrow, she
should do better. There had been a load upon her the whole day, a
nightmare she could not shake off, and she had come to Lucy’s room, in
the hope of leaving her burden there, of praying her pain away. Would
Mrs. Noah leave her awhile, and see that no one came?
The good woman could not refuse, and going out, she left Maddy by the
window, watching the sun as it went down, and then watching the wintry
twilight deepen over the landscape, until all things were blended
together in one great darkness, and Jessie, seeking for her, found her
at last fainting upon the floor.
Maddy was glad of the racking headache which kept her in her bed the
whole of the next day, glad of any excuse to stay away from the family,
talking of Guy, and what was transpiring in England. They had failed to
remember the difference in the longitude of the two places; but Maddy
forgot nothing, and when the clock struck nine she called Mrs. Noah to
her and whispered faintly:
“They were to be married before twelve, you know, so it was over two
hours ago, and Guy is lost forever!”
Mrs. Noah had no consolation to offer, and only pressed the hot,
feverish hands, while Maddy turned her face to the wall, and did not
speak again, except to whisper incoherently, as she half slumbered, half
woke:
“Did Guy think of me, when he promised to love her, and does he, can he
see how miserable I am?”
Maddy was indeed passing through deep waters, and the day and the night
of the fourth of December were the longest, dreariest she ever knew, and
could never be forgotten. Once past, the worst was over, and as the
rarest metal is purified by fire, so Maddy came from the dreadful ordeal
strengthened for what was before her. Both Agnes and Mrs. Noah noticed
the strangely beautiful expression of her face when she came down to the
breakfast room, while Jessie, as she kissed her pale cheek, whispered:
“You look as if you had been with the angels.”
Guy was not expected with his bride for two or three weeks, and as the
days dragged on, Maddy felt that the waiting for him was more
intolerable than the seeing him with Lucy would be. Restless and
impatient, she could not remain quietly at the cottage—and when at
Aikenside, she longed to return again to her own home; and in this way
the time wore on, until the anniversary of that day when she had come
from New York, and found Guy waiting for her at the station. To stay
that day in the house so rife with memories of the dead was impossible,
and Flora was surprised and delighted to hear that both were going up to
Aikenside in the vehicle hired of Farmer Green, whose son officiated as
driver. It was nearly noon when they reached their destination, meeting
at the gate with Flora’s brother Tom, who said to them:
“We’ve heard from Mr. Guy; the ship is in; they’ll be here to-night, and
Mrs. Noah is turnin’ things upside down with the dinner.”
Leaning back in the buggy, Maddy felt for a moment as if she were dying.
Never until then had she realized how, all the while, she had been
clinging to an indefinable hope, a presentiment that something might yet
occur to spare her from a long lifetime of pain, such as lay before her,
if Guy were really lost; but the bubble had burst, leaving her nothing
to hope, nothing to cling to, nothing but black despair; and half
bewildered, she received the noisy greeting of Jessie, who met her at
the door, and dragged her into the drawing-room, decorated with flowers
from the hot-house, and told her to guess who was coming.
“I know; Tom told me; Guy is coming with Lucy,” Maddy answered, and
relieving herself from Jessie, she turned to Agnes, asking where Mrs.
Noah was, and if she might go to her for a moment.
“Oh, Maddy, child, I’m sorry you’ve come to-day,” Mrs. Noah said, as she
chafed Maddy’s cold hands, and leading her to the fire, made her sit
down, while she untied her hood, and removed her cloak and furs.
“I did not know it, or I should not have come,” Maddy replied; “I shall
not stay, as it is. I cannot see them to-day. Charlie will drive me back
before the train is due. But what did he say? And how is Lucy?”
“He did not mention her. There’s the dispatch,” and Mrs. Noah handed to
Maddy the telegram, received that morning, and which was simply as
follows:
“The steamer is in. Shall be at the station at five o’clock P. M.
“GUY REMINGTON.”
Twice Maddy read it over, experiencing much the same feeling she would
have experienced had it been her death warrant she was reading.
“At five o’clock. I must go before that,” she said, sighing as she
remembered how, one year ago that day, she was traveling over the very
route where Guy was now traveling with his bride. Did he think of it?
think of his long waiting at the depot, or of that memorable ride to
Honedale, the events of which grew more and more distinct in her memory,
making her cheeks burn even now, as she recalled his many acts of
tenderness and care.
Laying the telegram on the table, she went with Mrs. Noah through the
rooms, warmed and made ready for the bride, lingering longest in Lucy’s,
which the bridal decorations, and the bright fire blazing in the grate,
made singularly inviting. As yet, there were no flowers there, and Maddy
claimed the privilege of arranging them for this room herself. Agnes had
almost stripped the conservatory; but Maddy found enough to form a most
tasteful bouquet, which she placed upon a marble dressing table; then
within a slip of paper which she folded across the top, she wrote:
“Welcome to the bride.”
“They both will recognize my handwriting; they’ll know I’ve been here,”
she thought, as with one long, last, sad look at the room, she walked
away.
They were laying the table for dinner now, and with a kind of dizzy,
uncertain feeling, Maddy watched the servants hurrying to and fro,
bringing out the choicest china, and the glittering silver, in honor of
the bride. Comparatively, it was not long since, a little, frightened,
homesick girl, she first sat down with Guy at that table, from which the
proud Agnes would have banished her; but it seemed to her an age, so
much of happiness and pain had come to her since then. There was a place
for her there now, near Guy; but she should not fill it. She could not
stay; and she astonished Agnes and Jessie, just as they were going to
make their dinner toilet, by announcing her intention of going home. She
was not dressed to meet Mrs. Remington, she said, shuddering as for the
first time she pronounced a name which the servants had frequently used,
and which jarred on her ear every time she heard it. She was not dressed
appropriately to meet an English lady. Flora of course would stay, she
said, as it was natural she should, to greet her new mistress; but she
must go; and finding Charlie Green she bade him bring round the buggy.
Agnes was not particularly surprised, for a vague suspicion of something
like the truth had gradually been creeping into her brain, as she noted
Maddy’s pallid face, and the changes which passed over it whenever Guy
was mentioned. Agnes pitied Maddy for in her own heart there was a
little burning spot, when she remembered who was to accompany Dr.
Holbrook. So she did not urge her to remain, and she tried to hush
Jessie’s lamentations when she heard Maddy was going.
One long, sad, wistful look at Guy’s and Lucy’s home, and Maddy followed
Charlie to the buggy waiting for her, and bade him drive rapidly, as
there was every indication of a coming storm.
The gray, wintry afternoon was drawing to a close, and the December
night was shutting down upon the Honedale hills in sleety rain, when the
cottage was reached, and Maddy, passing up the narrow, slippery walk,
entered the cold, dreary room, where there was neither fire nor light,
nor friendly voice to greet her. No sound save the ticking of the clock;
no welcome save the purring of the house cat, who came crawling at her
feet as she knelt before the stove and tried to kindle the fire. Charlie
Green had offered to go in and do this for her, as indeed he had offered
to return and stay all night, but she had declined, preferring to be
alone, and with stiffened fingers she laid the kindlings Flora had
prepared, and then applying the match, watched the blue flame as it
gradually licked up the smoke and burst into a cheerful blaze.
“I shall feel better when it’s warm,” she said, crouching over the fire,
and shivering with more than bodily cold.
There was a kind of nameless terror stealing over her as she sat
thinking of the years ago when the inmates of three graves across the
meadow were there beneath that very roof where she now sat alone.
“I’ll strike a light,” she said, rising to her feet, and trying not to
glance at the shadowy corners filling her with fear.
The lamp was found, and its friendly beams soon dispersed the darkness
from the corners and the fear from Maddy’s heart, but it could not drive
from her mind thoughts of what might at that moment be transpiring at
Aikenside. If the bride and groom came at all that night, she knew they
must have been there for an hour or more, and in fancy she saw the
tired, but happy Lucy, as in her pleasant room she made her toilet for
dinner, with Guy standing by and looking on. Did he smile approvingly
upon his young wife? Did his eye, when it rested on her, light up with
the same expression she had seen so often when it looked at her? Did he
commend her taste and say his little wife was beautiful, as he kissed
her fair white cheek, or was there a cloud upon his handsome face, a
shadow on his heart, heavy with thoughts of her, and would he rather it
were _Maddy_ there in the bridal room? If so, his burden was hard
indeed, but not so hard as hers, and kneeling on the floor, poor Maddy
laid her head in the chair, and, ‘mid piteous moans, asked God, her
Father, to help them both to bear—help her and Guy—making the latter
love as he ought the gentle girl who had left home and friends to live
with him in a far distant land; asked, too, that she might tear from her
heart every sinful thought, loving Guy only as she might love the
husband of another.
The prayer ended, Maddy still sat upon the floor, while over her pale
face the lamplight faintly flickered, showing the dark lines beneath her
eyes and the tear-stains on her cheek. Without, the storm still was
raging, and the wintry rain, mingled with sleet and snow, beat piteously
against the curtained windows, while the wind howled mournfully as it
shook the door, and sweeping past the cottage went screaming over the
hill. But Maddy heard nothing of the tumult. She had brought a pillow
from the bed-room, and placing it upon the chair, sat down again upon
the floor and rested her head upon it. She did not even know that her
pet cat had crept up beside her, purring contentedly, and occasionally
licking her hair, much less did she hear above the storm the swift tread
of horses’ feet as some one came dashing down the road, the rider
pausing an instant as he caught a glimpse of the cottage lamp, and then
hurrying on to the public-house beyond, where the hostler frowned
moodily at being called out to care for the horse of a stranger, who
went back on foot to where the cottage lamp shone a beacon light through
the inky darkness.
The stranger reached the little gate, and undoing the fastening, went
hurrying up the walk, his step upon the crackling snow catching Maddy’s
ear at last and making her wonder who could be coming there on such a
night as this. It was probably Charlie Green, she said, and with a
feeling of impatience at being intruded upon she rose to her feet just
as the door turned upon its hinges, letting in a powerful draught of
wind which extinguished the light, and left her in total darkness.
But it did not matter. Maddy had caught a sound, a peculiar cough, which
froze the blood in her veins and made her quake with terror quite as
much as if the footsteps hurrying towards her had been the footsteps of
the dead, instead of belonging, as she knew they did, to Guy
Remington—who, with garments saturated with rain, felt for her in the
darkness, and found her where from faintness she had crouched again
beside the chair, and drawing her closely to him in a passionate, almost
painful embrace, said, so tenderly, so lovingly:
“Maddy, my darling, my own! We shall never be parted again.”