LUCY.
Hours went by, and the hands of the clock pointed to twelve, ere Maddy
compelled herself to hear the story Guy had come to tell. She had thrust
him from her at first, speaking to him of _Lucy_, his wife, and Guy had
answered her, “I have no wife—I never had one. Lucy is in Heaven;” and
that was all Maddy knew until the great shock had spent itself in tears
and sobs, which became almost convulsions as she tried to realize the
fact that Lucy Atherstone was dead; that the bridal robe about which she
had written with girlish frankness proved to be her shroud, and that her
head that night was not pillowed on Guy’s arm, but resting under English
turf and beneath an English sky. She could listen at last, but her
breath came in panting gasps; while Guy told her how, on the very
morning of the bridal, Lucy had greeted him with her usual bright smile,
appearing and looking better than he had seen her look since he reached
her mother’s home; how for an hour they sat together alone in a little
room sacred to her, because years before it was there he confessed his
love.
Seated on a low ottoman, with her golden head lying on his lap, she had
this morning told him, in her artless way, how much she loved him, and
how hard it sometimes was to make her love for the creature second to
her love for the Creator; told him she was not faultless, and asked that
when he found how erring and weak she was, he would bear with her
frailties as she would bear with his; talked with him, too, of Maddy
Clyde, confessing, in a soft, low tone, how once or twice a pang of
jealousy had wrung her heart when she read his praises of his pupil. But
she had conquered that; she had prayed it all away, and now, next to her
own sister, she loved Maddy Clyde.
Other words, too, were spoken—words of guileless, pure affection, too
sacred even for Guy to breathe to Maddy; and then Lucy had left him, her
bounding step echoing through the hall and up the winding stairs, down
which she never came again alive, for when Guy next looked upon her, she
was lying white and still, her neck and dress and golden hair stained
with the pale life-blood oozing from her livid lips. A blood-vessel had
been suddenly ruptured, the physician said, adding that it was what he
had been fearing for some time, and now it had come—and there was no
hope. They told her she must die, for the mother would have them tell
her. Once, for a few moments, there was on her face a frightened look,
such as a harmless bird might wear when suddenly caught in a snare. But
that soon passed away as from beneath the closed eyelids the great tears
came gushing, and the stained lips whispered faintly:
“God knows best what is right. Poor Guy!—break it gently to him.”
At this point in the story Guy broke down entirely, sobbing as only
strong men can sob.
“Maddy,” he said, “I felt like a heartless wretch—a most consummate
hypocrite—as, standing by Lucy’s side, I met the fond, pitying glance of
her blue eyes, and suffered the poor little hand to part my hair as she
tried to comfort me, even though every word she uttered was shortening
her life; tried to comfort me, the wretch who was there so unwillingly,
and who at this prospect of release hardly knew at first whether he was
more sorry than glad. You may well start from me in horror, Maddy. I was
just the wretch I describe; but I overcame it, Maddy, and Heaven is my
witness that no thought of you intruded itself upon me afterwards as I
stood by my dying Lucy. I saw how good, how sweet she was, and something
of the old love came back to me, as I held her in my arms, where she
wished to be. I would have saved her if I could: and when I called her
‘my darling Lucy’ they were not idle words. I kissed her many times for
myself, and once, Maddy, for you. She told me to do so. She whispered,
‘Kiss me, Guy, for Maddy Clyde. Tell her I’d rather she should take my
place than anybody else—rather my Guy should call her wife—for I know
she would not be jealous if you sometimes talked of your dead Lucy, and
I know she will help lead you to that blessed home where sorrow never
comes.’ That was the last she ever spoke, and when the sun went down
death had claimed my bride. She died in my arms, Maddy. I felt the last
fluttering of her pulse, the last beat of her heart. I laid her back
upon her pillows. I wiped the blood from her lips and from her golden
curls. I followed her to her early grave. I saw her buried from my
sight, and then, Maddy, I started home; thoughts of you and thoughts of
Lucy blended equally together until Aikenside was reached. I talked with
Mrs. Noah; I heard all of you there was to tell, and then I talked with
Agnes, who was not greatly surprised, and did not oppose my coming here
to-night. I could not remain there, knowing you were here alone, even
though some old fogies might say it was not proper—God knows what is in
my heart. In the bridal chamber I found your bouquet, with its ‘Welcome
to the Bride.’ Maddy, you must be that bride. Lucy sanctioned it, and
the doctor, too, for I told him all. His own wedding was, of course,
deferred, and he did not come home with me, but he said ‘Tell Maddy not
to wait. Life is too short to waste any happiness. She has my blessing.’
And, Maddy, it must be so. Aikenside needs a mistress; you are all
alone. You are mine—mine forever!”
The storm had died away, and the moonbeams stealing through the window
told that morning was breaking, but neither Guy nor Maddy heeded the
lapse of time. Theirs was a sad kind of happiness as they sat talking
together, and could Lucy have listened to them she would have felt
satisfied that she was not forgotten. One long bright curl, cut from her
head by his own hand, was all there was left of her to Guy save the
hallowed memories of her purity and goodness—memories which would yet
mold the proud, impulsive man into the earnest, consistent Christian
which Lucy in her life had desired that he should be and which Maddy
rejoiced to see him.