CHAPTER XII.

LUCY’S LETTER.

At last the answer came, and it was Maddy who brought it to Aikenside. She had been home that day, and on her return had ridden by the office as Guy had requested her to do. She saw the letter bore a foreign post-mark, and that it was in the delicate handwriting of some lady, but the sight did not affect her in the least. Maddy’s heart was far too heavy that day to care for a trifle, and placing the letter carefully in her basket she kept on to Aikenside.

The letter was just like Lucy, and Guy, while reading it, felt how good she was. Of course, he might teach Maddy Clyde all he wished to teach her, and it made Lucy love him better to know that he was willing to do such things. She wished she was there to help him: they would open a school for all the poor, but she did not know when her mother would let her come. That pain in her side was not any better, and her cough had come earlier this season than last. The physician had advised a winter in Naples, and they were going before very long. It would be pleasant there, no doubt, only she should be farther away from her Guy, but she would think of him, oh! so often, teaching that dear little Maddy Clyde, and she should pray for him, too, just as she always did. Then followed a few more lines sacred to the lover’s eye, lines which told how pure was the love which sweet Lucy Atherstone bore for Guy Remington, who, as he read, felt his heart beat with a throb of pain, for Lucy spoke to him now for the first time of what might possibly be in store for them.

“I’ve dreamed about it nights,” she said, “I’ve thought about it days, and tried so hard to be reconciled; to feel that if God will have it so, I am willing to die before you have ever called me your wife, or I have ever called you husband. Heaven _is_ better than earth, I know, and I am sure of going there, I think; but, oh! dear Guy, a life with you looks so very sweet, that I sometimes shrink from the dark grave, which would hide me forever from you. Guy, you once said you never prayed, and it made me feel so badly, but you will, when you get this, won’t you? You will ask God to make me well, and maybe he will hear _you_. Do, Guy, please pray for your Lucy, far away over the sea.”

Guy could not resist that touching appeal, and though his lips were all unused to prayer, he bowed his head upon his hands and asked that she might live, beseeching the Father to send upon him any calamity save this one—Lucy must not die. Guy felt better for having prayed. It was something to tell Lucy, something that would please her, and though his heart yet was very sad, a part of the load was lifted, and he could think of Lucy now, without the bitter pain her letter first had cost him. Was there nothing that would save her, nobody who could cure her? Her disease was not hereditary; surely it might be made to yield. Had English physicians no skill? would not an American do better? It was possible, and if Lucy’s mother would let her come where doctors were skillful, she might get well; but she was determined that no husband should be burdened with an ailing wife, and so, if the mountain would not come to Mahomet, Mahomet must go to the mountain; and Guy fairly leaped from his chair as he exclaimed, “I have it—there’s _Doc_!—he’s the most skillful man I ever knew; I’ll send him to England; send him to the Atherstones; he shall go to Naples with them as their family physician; he can cure Lucy; I’ll speak to him the very next time he comes here;” and with another burden lifted from his mind, Guy began to wonder where Maddy was, and why the day had been so long.

He knew she had returned, for Flora had said she brought the letter, and he was about going out, in hopes of finding her and Jessie, when he heard her in the hall, as she answered some question of Mrs. Noah’s; stepping to the door, he asked her to come in, saying he would, if she chose, appoint the lessons talked about so long. Ordinarily, Maddy’s eyes would have flashed with delight, for she had anticipated so much from these lessons; now, however, there was a sad look upon her face, and she could scarcely keep from crying as she came at Guy’s bidding, and sat upon the sofa, near his arm-chair. Somehow it rested Guy to look at Maddy Clyde, who, having recovered from her illness, seemed the very embodiment of perfect health, a health which glowed and sparkled all over her bright face; showing itself as well in the luxuriance of her glossy hair as in the brilliancy of her complexion, and the flash of her lustrous eyes. How Guy wished that Lucy could share in what seemed almost a superfluity of health; and why shouldn’t she? Dr. Holbrook had cured Maddy; Dr. Holbrook could cure Lucy; and so for the present dismissing Lucy from his mind, he turned to Maddy, and said the time had come when he could give those promised lessons, and asked if she would commence to-morrow, after she was through with Jessie, and what she would prefer to take up first.

“Oh, Mr. Remington,” and Maddy began to cry, “I am afraid I cannot stay! they need me at home, or may need me. Grandpa said so, and I don’t want to go, though I know it’s wicked not to; oh, dear, dear!”

Here Maddy broke down entirely, sobbing so convulsively that Guy became alarmed, and wondered what he ought to do to quiet her. As she sat the bowed head was just within his reach, and he very naturally laid his hand upon it, and, as if it had been Jessie’s, smoothed the silken hair, while he asked why she must go home? Had anything occurred to make her presence more necessary than it was at Aikenside?

Controlling her voice as well as she was able, Maddy told him that the physicians at the asylum had written that as Uncle Joseph would in all human probability never be perfectly sane, and as a change of scene would do him good, it might be well for Mr. Markham to take him to Honedale awhile; that having been spoken with upon the subject, he seemed as anxious as a little child, even crying when the night came round and he was not at home, as he expressed it. “They have kept him so long,” Maddy said, “that grandpa thought it his duty to relieve them, though he can’t well afford it; and so he’s coming next week, and grandma will need some one to help, and I must go. I know it’s wrong, but I do not want to go, try as I will.”

It was a gloomy prospect to exchange Aikenside for the humble home where poverty had its abode, and it was not very strange that Maddy should shrink from it at first. She did not stop to ask what was her duty, or think how much happiness her presence might give her grandparents, or how much she might cheer and amuse the imbecile, her uncle. She was but human, and so when Guy began to devise ways of preventing her going, she listened, while the pain at her heart grew less as her faith in Guy grew stronger. He would drive down with her to-morrow, he said, and see what could be done. Meanwhile she must dry her eyes and go to Jessie, who was calling her.

As Guy had half expected, the doctor came round that evening, and inviting him into his private room, Guy proceeded at once to unfold his scheme, asking him first:

“How much he probably received a year for his services as physician.”

The doctor could not tell at once, but after a little thought made an estimate, and then inquired why Guy had asked the question.

“Because I have a project on foot. Lucy Atherstone is dying with what they call consumption. I don’t believe those old fogies understand her disease, and if you will go over to England and undertake her cure, I’ll give you just double what you’ll get by remaining here. They are going to Naples for the winter, and, undoubtedly, will spend some time in Rome. It will be just the thing for you. Lucy and her mother will be glad of your services when they know I sent you. Lucy likes you now. Will you go? You can trust Maddy to me. I’ll take good care that she is worthy of you when you come back.”

At the mention of Maddy’s name, the doctor’s brow darkened. He was sure that Guy meant kindly, but it grated on his feelings to be thus joked about what he knew was a stern reality. Guy’s project appeared to him at first a most insane one, but as he continued to enlarge upon it, and the advantage it would be to the doctor to travel in the old world, a feeling of enthusiasm was kindled in his own breast; a desire to visit Naples and Rome, and the places he had dreamed of as a boy, but never hoped to see; and Guy’s plan began to look more feasible, and possibly he might have yielded but for one thought, and that a thought of Maddy Clyde. He would not leave her alone with Guy, even though Guy was true to Lucy as steel. He would stay; he would watch; and in time he would win the young girl, waiting now for him in the hall below to tell him, amid blushes of shame and tears of regret, how she had intended to pay him with her very first wages, but now that Uncle Joseph was coming home, he must wait a little longer.

“Will you be so good?” and unmindful of Guy’s presence Maddy laid her hand confidingly upon his arm, while her soft eyes looked beseechingly into his as she explained.

Thinking they would rather be alone, Guy left them together in the lighted hall, and then, sitting down on the sofa, and making Maddy sit beside him, the doctor began:

“Maddy, you know I mean what I say, at least to you, and when I tell you that I never think of that bill except when you speak of it, you will believe me. I know your grandfather’s circumstances, and I know, too, that I did much to induce your sickness, consequently if I made one out at all, it would be a very small one.”

He did not get any further, for Maddy hastily interrupted him, and while her eyes flashed with pride, exclaimed:

“I will not be a charity patient! I say _I will not_! I’d be a hired girl before I’d do it!”

It troubled the doctor to see Maddy so disturbed about dollars and cents—to know that poverty was pressing its iron hand upon her young heart; and only because she was so young did he refrain from offering her then and there a resting-place from the ills of life in his sheltering love. But she was not prepared, and he should only defeat his object by his rashness, so he restrained himself, though he did pass his arm partly around her waist as he said to her:

“I tell you, Maddy, honestly, that when I want that bill liquidated I’ll ask you. I certainly will, and will let you pay it, too. Does that satisfy you?”

“Yes,” Maddy said, and after a little the doctor continued:

“By the way, Maddy, I have some idea of going to Europe for a few months, or a year, perhaps. You know it does a physician good to study awhile in Paris. What do you think of it? Shall I go?”

The doctor had become quite necessary to Maddy’s happiness. It was to him she confided all her little troubles, and to lose him would be a terrible loss; and so she answered that if it would be much better for him she supposed he ought to go, though she should miss him sadly and be very lonely without him.

“Would you, Maddy? Are you in earnest? Would you be the lonelier for my being gone?” the doctor asked, eagerly. With her usual truthfulness, Maddy replied, “Of course I should;” and when, after the conference was ended, the doctor stood for a moment talking with Guy, ere bidding him good-night, he said, “I think I shall not accept your European proposition. Somebody else must cure Lucy.”

The next day, as Guy had proposed, he rode down to Honedale, taking Maddy with him, and offering so many reasons why she should not be called home, that the old people began to relent, particularly as they saw how Maddy’s heart was set on the lessons Guy was going to give her. She might never have a like opportunity, the young man said, and as a good education would put her in the way of helping them when they were older and needed her more, it was their duty to leave her with him. He knew they objected to her receiving three dollars a week, but he should pay it just the same, and if they chose they might, with a part of it, hire a little girl to do the work which Maddy would do were she at home. All this sounded very well, especially as it was backed by Maddy’s eyes, full of tears, and fixed pleadingly upon her grandfather. The sight of them, more than Guy’s arguments, influenced the old man, who decided that if grandma were willing, Maddy should stay, unless absolutely needed at the cottage. Then the tears burst forth, and winding her arms around her grandfather’s neck, Maddy sobbed out her thanks, asking if it were selfish and wicked and naughty in her to prefer an education.

“Not if that’s your only reason,” grandpa replied. “It’s right to want learning, quite right; but if my child is biased by the fine things at Aikenside, and hates to come back to her poor home, because ’tis poor, I should say it was very natural, but not exactly right.”

Maddy was very happy after it was settled, and chatted gayly with her grandmother while Guy went out with her grandfather, who wished to speak with him alone.

“Young man,” he said, “you have taken a deep interest in me and mine since I first came to know you, and I thank you for it all. I’ve nothing to give in return except my prayers, and those you have every day; you and that doctor. I pray for you two just as I do for Maddy. Somehow you three come in together. You’re uncommon good to Maddy. ’Tain’t every one like you who would offer and insist on learning her. I don’t know what you do it for. You seem honest. You can’t, of course, ever dream of making her your wife, and, if I thought—yes, if I supposed,”—here grandpa’s voice trembled, and his face became livid with horror at the idea—“if I supposed that in your heart there was the shadow of an intention to deceive my child, to ruin my Maddy, I’d throttle you here on the spot, old as I am, and bitter as I should repent the rashness.”

Guy attempted to speak, but grandpa motioned him to be silent, while he went on:

“I do not suspect you, and that’s why I trust her with you. My old eyes are dim, but I can see enough to know that Maddy is beautiful. Her mother was so before her, and the Clydes were a handsome race. My Alice was elevated, folks thought, by marrying Captain Clyde, but I don’t think so. She was pure and good as the angels, and Maddy is much like her, only she has the ambition of the Clydes; has their taste for everything a little above her. She wouldn’t make nobody blush if she was mistress of Aikenside.”

Grandpa felt relieved when he had said all this to Guy, who listened politely, smiling at the idea of deceiving Maddy, and fully concurring with grandpa in all he said of her rare beauty and natural gracefulness. On their return to the house grandpa showed Guy the bed-room intended for Uncle Joseph, and Guy, as he glanced at the furniture, thought within himself how he would send down from Aikenside some of the unused articles piled away on the garret when he refurnished his house.