Little more than two years have passed away since the September afternoon when the deep-toned bell rang out the merry tidings, "Maude can see—Maude can see," and again upon the billow another vessel rides. But this time to the westward; and the beautiful lady, whose soft, dark eyes look eagerly over the wave says to her companion, "It is very pleasant going home."
They had tarried for a long time in Italy, both for Louis' sake and because, after the recovery of her sight, Maude's health had been delicate, and her husband would stay until it was fully re-established. She was better now; roses were blooming on her cheek—joy was sparkling in her eye—while her bounding step, her ringing laugh, and finely rounded form told of youthful vigor and perfect health. And they were going home at last—James, Louis, and Maude—going to Hampton, where Mrs. De Vere awaited so anxiously their coming. She did not, however, expect them so soon, for they had left England earlier than they anticipated, and they surprised her one day; as she sat by her pleasant window gazing out upon the western sky and wondering how many more suns would set ere her children would be with her. It was a happy meeting; and after the first joy of it was over Maude inquired after the people at Laurel Hill.
"It is more than four months since we heard from them," she said, "and then Mrs. Kennedy's letter was very unsatisfactory. The doctor, she hinted, had lost his senses, but she made no explanation. What did she mean?"
"Why," returned Mrs. De Vere, "he had a paralytic shock more than six months ago."
"Oh, poor father," cried Louis, while Mrs. De Vere continued, "It was not a severe attack, but it has impaired his health somewhat. You knew, of course, that his house and farm were to be sold."
"Our house, our old home! It shall not be!" and the tears glittered in Louis' eyes, while, turning to Mrs. De Vere, Maude whispered softly, "His wife has ruined him, but don't let us talk of it before Louis."
The lady nodded, and when at last they were alone, told all she knew of the affair. Maude Glendower had persisted in her folly until her husband's property was reduced to a mere pittance. There was a heavy mortgage upon the farm, and even a chattel-mortgage upon the furniture, and as the man who held them was stern and unrelenting, he had foreclosed, and the house was to be sold at auction. "Why has mother kept it from us?" said Maude, and Mrs. De Vere replied, "Pride and a dread of what you might say prevented her writing it, I think. I was there myself a few weeks since, and she said it could do no good to trouble you. The doctor is completely broken down, and seems like an old man. He cannot endure the handsome rooms below, but stays all day in that small garret chamber, which is furnished with your carpet, your mother's chair, and the high-past bedstead which his first wife owned."
Maude's sympathies were roused, and, fatigued as she was, she started the next morning with her husband and brother for Laurel Hill. Louis seemed very sad, and not even the familiar way-marks, as he drew near his home, had power to dissipate that sadness. He could not endure the thought that the house where he was born and where his mother had died should pass into the hands of strangers. He had been fortunate with his paintings, and of his own money had nearly two thousand dollars; but this could do but little toward canceling the mortgage, and he continued in the same dejected mood until the tall poplars of Laurel Hill appeared in view. Then, indeed, he brightened up, for there is something in the sight of home which brings joy to every human heart.
It was a hazy October day. The leaves were dropping one by one, and lay in little hillocks upon the faded grass. The blue hills which embosomed the lake were encircled with a misty veil, while the sunshine seemed to fall with a somber light upon the fields of yellow corn. Everything, even the gossamer thistle-top which floated upon the autumnal air, conspired to make the day one of those indescribable days when all hearts are pervaded with a feeling of pleasurable sadness—a sense of beauty mingled with decay.
"Is this home?" cried Maude, as they stopped before the gate. "I should hardly have recognized it."
It was indeed greatly changed, for Maude Glendower had perfect taste, and if she had expended thousands upon the place, she had greatly increased its value.
"Beautiful home, beautiful home—it must not be sold," was Louis' exclamation as he gazed upon it.
"No, it must not be sold," returned Maude, while her husband smiled quietly upon them both, and said nothing.
Maude Glendower had gone to an adjoining town, but Hannah and John greeted the strangers with nosy demonstrations, the latter making frequent use of his coat skirts to wipe away his tears.
"Can you see, marm—see me as true as you live?" he said, bowing with great humility to Maude, of whom he stood a little in awe, so polished were her manners and so elegant her appearance. Maude assured him that she could, and then observing how impatient Louis appeared, she asked for Dr. Kennedy. Assuming a mysterious air, old Hannah whispered, "He's up in de ruff, at de top of de house, in dat little charmber, where he stays mostly, to get shet of de music and dancin' and raisin' ob cain generally. He's mighty broke down, but the sight of you will peart him up right smart. You'd better go up alone—he'll bar it better one at a time."
"Yes, go, sister," said Louis, who heard the last part of Hannah's remarks, and felt that he could not take his father by surprise. So, leaving her husband and brother below, Maude glided noiselessly upstairs to the low attic room, where, by an open window, gazing sorrowfully out upon the broad harvest-fields, soon to be no longer his, a seemingly old man sat. And Dr. Kennedy was old, not in years, perhaps, but in appearance. His hair had bleached as white as snow, his form was bent, his face was furrowed with many a line of care, while the tremulous motion of his head told of the palsy's blighting power. And he sat there alone, that hazy autumnal day, shrinking from the future and musing sadly of the past. From his armchair the top of a willow tree was just discernible, and as he thought of the two graves beneath that tree he moaned, "Oh, Katy, Matty, darlings. You would pity me, I know, could you see me now so lonesome. My only boy is over the sea—my only daughter is selfish and cold, and all the day I'm listening in vain for someone to call me father."
"Father!" The name dropped involuntarily from the lips of Maude, standing without the door.
But he did not hear it, and she could not say it again; for he was not her father; but her heart was moved with sympathy, and going to him laid her hands on his head and looked into his face.
"Maude—Matty's Maude—my Maude!" And the poor head shook with a palsied tremor, as he wound his arms around her and asked her when she came.
Her sudden coming unmanned him wholly, and bending over her he wept like a little child. It would seem that her presence inspired in him a sense of protection, a longing to detail his grievances, and with quivering lips he said, "I am broken in body and mind. I've nothing to call my own, nothing but a lock of Matty's hair and Louis' little crutches—the crutches that you cushioned so that I should not hear their sound. I was a hard-hearted monster then. I aint much better now, but I love my child. What of Louis, Maude? Tell me of my boy," and over the wrinkled face of the old man broke beautifully the father-love, giving place to the father-pride, as Maude told of Louis' success, of the fame he won, and the money he had earned.
"Money!" Dr. Kennedy started quickly at that word, but ere he could repeat it his ear caught a coming sound, and his eyes flashed eagerly as, grasping the arm of Maude, he whispered, "It's music, Maude—it's music—don't you hear it? Louis crutches on the stairs. He comes! he comes! Matty's boy and mine! Thank Heaven, I have something left in which that woman has no part."
In his excitement he had risen, and with lips apart, and eyes bent on the open door he waited for his crippled boy; nor waited long ere Louis came in sight, when with a wild, glad cry which made the very rafters ring he caught him to his bosom. Silently Maude stole from the room, leaving them thus together, the father and his son. Nor is it for us to intrude upon the sanctity of that interview, which lasted more than an hour, and was finally terminated by the arrival of Maude Glendower. She had returned sooner than was anticipated, and, after joyfully greeting Maude started in quest of Louis.
"Don't let her in here," whispered the doctor, as he heard her on the stairs. "Don't let her in here; she'd be seized with a fit of repairs. Go to her; she loves you, at least."
Louis obeyed, and in a moment was in the arms of his stepmother. She had changed since last they, met. Much of her soft, voluptuous beauty was gone, and in its place was a look of desperation, as if she did not care for what she had done, and meant to brave it through. Still, when alone with Mr. De Vere and Maude, she conversed freely of their misfortunes, and ere the day was over they thoroughly understood the matter. The doctor was ruined; and when his wife was questioned of the future she professed to have formed no plan, unless, indeed, her husband lived with Nellie, who was now housekeeping, while she went whither she could find a place. To this arrangement Mr. De Vere made no comment. He did not seem disposed to talk, but when the day of sale came he acted; and it was soon understood that the house together with fifty acres of land would pass into his hands. Louis, too, was busy. Singling out every article of furniture which had been his mother's, he bought it with his own money, while John, determining that "t'other one," as he called Katy, should not be entirely overlooked, bid off the high-post bedstead and chest of drawers which once were hers. Many of the more elegant pieces of furniture were sold, but Mr. De Vere kept enough to furnish the house handsomely; and when the sale was over and the family once more reassembled in the pleasant parlor, Dr. Kennedy wept like a child as he blessed the noble young man who had kept for him his home. Maude Glendower, too, was softened; and going up to Mr. De Vere she said, "If I know how to spend lavishly I know also how to economize, and henceforth none shall accuse me of extravagance."
These were no idle words, for, as well as she could, she kept her promise; and though she often committed errors, she usually tried to do the thing which her children would approve. After a day or two Mr. De Vere and Maude returned to Hampton, leaving Louis with his father, who, in his society, grew better and happier each day. Hannah, who was growing old, went, from choice, to live with Maude, but John would not forsake his master. Nobody knew the kinks of the old place like himself, he said, and he accordingly stayed, superintending the whole, and coming ere long to speak of it all as his. It was his farm, his oxen, his horses, his everything, except the pump which Hannah in her letter to Mauda, had designated as an injun.
"'Twas a mighty good thing in its place," he said, "and at a fire it couldn't be beat, but he'd be hanged if he didn't b'lieve a nigger was made for somethin' harder and more sweaty-like than turnin' that crank to make b'lieve rain when it didn't. He reckoned the Lord knew what he was about, and if He was a mind to dry up the grass and the arbs, it wasn't for Cary nor nary other chap to take the matter into their own hands, and invent a patent thunder shower."
John reasoned clearly upon some subjects, and though his reasoning was not always correct, he proved a most invaluable servant. Old Hannah's place was filled by another colored woman, Sylvia, and though John greatly admired her complexion, as being one which would not fade, he lamented her inefficiency, often wishing that the services of Janet Hopkins could be again secured.
But Janet was otherwise engaged; and here, near the close of our story, it may not be amiss to glance for a moment at one who in the commencement of the narrative occupied a conspicuous place. About the time of Maude's blindness she had removed to a town in the southern part of New York, and though she wrote apprising her young mistress of the change, she forgot entirely to say where she was going, consequently the family were ignorant of her place of residence, until accident revealed it to J.C. De Vere. It was but a few weeks preceding Maude's return from Europe that he found himself compelled to spend a Sabbath in the quiet town of Fayette. Not far from his hotel an Episcopal church reared its slender tower, and thither, at the usual hour for service, he wended his way. There was to be a baptism that morning, and many a smile flitted over the face of matron and maid, as a meek-looking man came slowly up the aisle, followed by a short, thick, resolute Scotchwoman, in whom we recognize our old friend Janet Hopkins. Notwithstanding her firm conviction that Maude Matilda Remington Blodgett was her last and only one, she was now the mother of a sturdy boy, which the meek man carried in his arms. Hot disputes there had been between the twain concerning a name, Mr. Hopkins advocating simply John, as having been borne by his sire, while Janet, a little proud of the notoriety which her daughter's cognomen had brought to her, determined to honor her boy with a name which should astonish every one.
At the time of Maude's engagement with J.C. De Vere she had written to know what J.C. was for, and Jedediah Cleishbotham pleased her fancy as being unusual and odd. Indirectly she had heard that Maude was married to Mr. De Vere, and gone to Europe, and supposing it was of course J.C., she on this occasion startled her better half by declaring that her son should be baptized "John Joel Jedediah Cleishbotham," or nothing! It was in vain that he remonstrated. Janet was firm, and hunting up Maude's letter, written more than three years before, she bade him write down the name, so as not to make a blunder. But this he refused to do. "He guessed he could remember that horrid name; there was not another like it in Christendom," he said, and on the Sunday morning of which we write he took his baby in his arms, and in a state of great nervous irritability started for church, repeating to himself the names, particularly the last, which troubled him the most. Many a change he rang upon it, and by the time he stood before the altar the perspiration was starting from every pore, so anxious was he to acquit himself creditably, and thus avoid the Caudle lecture which was sure to follow a mistake. "But he should not make a mistake; he knew exactly what the name was; he'd said it over a hundred times," and when the minister, taking the baby in his arms, said, "Name this child," he spoke up loud and promptly, jerking out the last word with a vengeance, as if relieved to have it off his mind, "John Joel Jedediah Leusebottom."
"That's for me," was J.C.'s involuntary exclamation, which, however, was lost amid the general titter which ran through the house.
In an agony of anxiety Janet strove to rectify the mistake, while her elbow sought the ribs of her conjugal lord; but the minister paid no heed, and when the screaming infant was given back to its frightened father's arms it bore the name of "John Joel," and nothing more.
To this catastrophe Janet was in a measure reconciled when after church J.C. sought her out and, introducing himself, informed her of the true state of affairs.
"Then you aint married to Maude after all," said the astonished Janet, as she proceeded to question him of the doctor's family. "It beats all, I never heard on't; but no wonder, livin' as we do in this out o' the way place—no cars, no stage, no post office but twice a week—no nothin'."
This was indeed the reason why Janet had remained so long in ignorance of the people with whom she formerly lived. Fayette, as she said, was an out of the way place, and after hearing from a man who met them in New York, that Maude and Louis were both gone to Europe, she gave Laurel Hill no further thought, and settled quietly down among the hills until her monotonous life was broken by the birth of a son, the John Joel who, as she talked with J.C., slept calmly in his crib.
"So you aint merried to her," she kept repeating, her anger at her husband's treacherous memory fast decreasing. "I kinder thought her losin' my money might make a difference, but you're jest as happy with Nellie, aint you?"
The question was abrupt, and J.C. colored crimson as he tried to stammer out an answer.
"Never you mind," returned Janet, noticing his embarrassment. "Married life is just like a checker-board, and all on us has as much as we can do to swaller it at times; but you would of been happy with Maude, I know."
J.C. knew so, too, and long after he parted with Janet her last words were ringing in his ears, while mingled with them was the bitter memory, "It might perhaps have been."
But there was no hope now, and with an increased air of dejection he went back to his cheerless home. They were housekeeping, Nellie and himself, for Mrs. Kelsey had married again, and as the new husband did not fancy the young people they had set up an establishment of their own, and J.C. was fast learning how utterly valueless are soft, white hands when their owner knows not how to use them. Though keeping up an outside show, he was really very poor, and when he heard of the doctor's misfortune he went to his chamber and wept as few men ever weep. As Hannah well expressed it, "he was shiftless," and did not know how to take care of himself. This James De Vere understood, and after the sale at Laurel Hill he turned his attention to his unfortunate cousin, and succeeded at last in securing for him the situation of bookkeeper in a large establishment in New York with which he was himself remotely connected. Thither about Christmas J.C. and Nellie went, and from her small back room in the fifth story of a New York boarding-house Nellie writes to Louis glowing descriptions of high life in the city, and Louis, glancing at his crutches and withered feet, smiles as he thinks how weary he should be climbing the four flights of stairs which lead to that high life.
And now, with one more glance at Maude, we bring our story to a close. It is Easter, and over the earth the April sun shines brightly, just as it shone on the Judean hills eighteen hundred years ago. The Sabbath bells are ringing, and the merry peal which comes from the Methodist tower bespeaks in John a frame of mind unsuited to the occasion. Since forsaking the Episcopalians, he had seldom attended their service, but this morning, after his task is done, he will steal quietly across the common to the old stone church, where James De Vere and Maude sing together the glorious Easter Anthem. Maude formerly sang the alto, but in the old world her voice was trained to the higher notes, and to-day it will be heard in the choir where it has so long been missed.
The bells have ceased to toll, and a family group come slowly up the aisle. Dr. Kennedy, slightly bent, his white hair shading a brow from which much of his former sternness has gone, and his hand shaking but slightly as he opens the pew door and then steps back for the lady to enter, the lady Maude Glendower, who walks not as proudly as of old. She, too, has been made better by adversity, and though she will never love the palsied man, her husband, she will be to him a faithful wife, and a devoted mother to his boy, who in the square, old-fashioned pew sits where his eye can rest upon his beautiful sister, as her snowy fingers sweep once more the organ keys, which tremble joyfully as it were to the familiar touch. Low, deep-toned, and heavy is the prelude to the song, and they who listen feel the floor tremble beneath their feet. Then a strain of richest melody echoes through the house, arid the congregation hold their breath, as Maude De Vere sings to them of the Passover once sacrificed for us.
And now, shall we not leave them thus with the holy Easter light streaming up the aisles and the sweet music of the Easter song dying on the air?
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