Books: Cousin Maude
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Mary J. Holmes >> Cousin Maude
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To James he had given back the ornaments intended for another bride
than Nellie, saying, as he did so, "Maude De Vere may wear them
yet."
"What do you mean?" asked James, and J.C. replied: "I mean that I,
and not you, will have a Cousin Maude."
Two days had elapsed since then, and it was night again--but to the
blind girl, drinking in the words of love which fell like music on
her ear, it was high noon-day, and the sky undimmed by a single
cloud.
"I once called you my cousin, Maude," the deep-toned voice said,
"and I thought it the sweetest name I had ever heard, but there is a
nearer, dearer name which I would give to you, even my wife--Maude--
shall it be?" and he looked into her sightless eyes to read her
answer.
She had listened eagerly to the story of his love born so long ago--
had held her breath lest she should lose a single word when he told
her how he had battled with that love, and how his heart had
thrilled with joy when he heard that she was free--but when he asked
her to be his wife the bright vision faded, and she answered
mournfully, "You know not what you say. You would not take a blind
girl in her helplessness."
"A thousandfold dearer to me for that very helplessness," he said,
and then he told her of the land beyond the sea, where the
physicians were well skilled in everything pertaining to the eye.
"Thither they would go," he said, "when the April winds were
blowing, and should the experiment not succeed, he would love and
cherish her all the more."
Maude knew he was in earnest, and was about to answer him, when
along the hall there came the sound of little crutches, and over her
face there flitted a shadow of pain. It was the sister-love warring
with the love of self, but James De Vere understood it all, and he
hastened to say, "Louis will go, too, my darling. I have never had a
thought of separating you. In Europe he will have a rare opportunity
for developing his taste. Shall it not be so?"
"Let him decide," was Maude's answer, as the crutches struck the
soft carpet of the room.
"Louis," said Mr. De Vere, "shall Maude go with me to Europe as my
wife?"
"Yes, yes--yes, yes," was Louis' hasty answer, his brown eyes
filling with tears of joy when he heard that he, too, was to
accompany them.
Maude could no longer refuse, and she half fancied she saw the
flashing of the diamonds, when James placed upon her finger the ring
which bore the inscription of "Cousin Maude." Before coming there
that night, Mr. De Vere had consulted a New York paper, and found
that a steamship would sail for Liverpool on the 20th of April,
about six weeks from that day.
"We will go in it," he said, "my blind bird, Louis, and I," and he
parted lovingly the silken tresses of her to whom this new
appellation was given.
There was much in the future to anticipate, and much in the past
which he wished to talk over; so he remained late that night, and on
passing through the lower hall was greatly surprised to see Mrs.
Kennedy still sitting in the parlor. She had divined the object and
result of his visit, and the moment he was gone she glided up the
stairs to the room where Maude was quietly weeping for very joy. The
story of the engagement was soon told, and winding her arm around
Maude's neck Mrs. Kennedy said, "I rejoice with you, daughter, in
your happiness, but I shall be left so desolate when you and Louis
are both gone."
Just then her eye caught the ring upon Maude's finger, and taking it
in her hand. she admired its chaste beauty, and was calculating its
probable cost, when glancing at the inside she started suddenly,
exclaiming, "'Cousin Maude'--that is my name--the one by which he
always called me. Has it been given to you, too?" and as the throng
of memories that name awakened came rushing over her, the impulsive
woman folded the blind girl to her bosom, saying to her, "My child,
my, child, you should have been!"
"I do not understand you," said Maude, and Mrs. Kennedy replied, "It
is not meet that we should part ere I tell you who and what I am. Is
the name of Maude Glendower strange to you? Did you never hear it in
your Vernon home?"
"It seemed familiar to me when J.C. De Vere first told me of you,"
answered Maude, "but I cannot recall any particular time when I
heard it spoken. Did you know my mother?"
"Yes, father and mother both, and loved them too. Listen to me,
Maude, while I tell you of the past. Though it seems so long ago, I
was a schoolgirl once, and nightly in my arms there slept a fair-
haired, blue-eyed maiden, four years my junior, over whom I
exercised an elder sister's care. She loved me, this little blue-
eyed girl, and when your brother first spoke to me I seemed again to
hear her voice whispering in my ear, 'I love you, beautiful Maude.'"
"It was mother--it was mother!" and Maude Remington drew nearer to
the excited woman, who answered:
"Yes, it was your mother, then little Matty Reed; we were at school
together in New Haven, and she was my roommate. We were not at all
alike, for I was wholly selfish, while she found her greatest
pleasure in ministering to others' happiness; but she crossed my
path at last, and then I thought I hated her."
"Not my mother, lady. You could not hate my mother!" and the blind
eyes flashed as if they would tear away the veil of darkness in
which they were enshrouded, and gaze upon a woman who could hate
sweet Matty Remington.
"Hush, child! don't look so fiercely at me," said Maude Glendower.
"Upon your mother's grave I have wept that sin away, and I know I am
forgiven as well as if her own soft voice had told me so. I loved
your father, Maude, and this was my great error. He was a distant
relative of your mother, whom he always called his cousin. He
visited her often, for he was a college student, and ere I was aware
of it, I loved him, oh, so madly, vainly fancying my affection was
returned. He was bashful, I thought, for he was not then twenty-one,
and by way of rousing him to action. I trifled with another--with
Dr. Kennedy," and she uttered the name spitefully, as if it were
even now hateful to her.
"I know it--I know it," returned Maude, "he told me that when he
first talked with me of you, but I did not suppose the dark-eyed
student was my father."
"It was none other," said Mrs. Kennedy, "and you can form some
conception of my love for him, when I tell you that it has never
died away, but is as fresh within my heart this night as when I
walked with him upon the College Green and he Called me 'Cousin
Maude,' for he gave me that name because of my fondness for Matty,
and he sealed it with a kiss. Matty was present at that time, and
had I not been blind I should have seen how his whole soul was bound
up in her, even while kissing me. I regarded her as a child, and so
she was; but men sometimes love children, you know. When she was
fifteen, she left New Haven. I, too, had ceased to be a schoolgirl,
but I still remained in the city and wrote to her regularly, until
at last your father came to me, and with the light of a great joy
shining all over his face, told me she was to be his bride on her
sixteenth birthday. She would have written it herself, he said, only
she was a bashful little creature, and would rather he should tell
me. I know not what I did, for the blow was sudden, and took my
senses away. He had been so kind to me of late--had visited me so
often, that my heart was full of hope. But it was all gone now.
Matty Reed was preferred to me, and while my Spanish blood boiled at
the fancied indignity, I said many a harsh thing of her--I called
her designing, deceitful, and false; and then in my frenzy quitted
the room. I never saw Harry, again, for he left the city next
morning; but to my dying hour I shall not forget the expression of
his face when I talked to him of Matty. Turn away, Maude, turn away!
for there is the same look now upon your face. But I have repented
of that act, though not till years after. I tore up Mattie's
letters. I. said I would burn the soft brown tress--"
"Oh, woman, woman! you did not burn my mother's hair!" and with a
shudder Maude unwound the soft, white arm which so closely encircled
her.
"No, Maude, no. I couldn't. It would not leave my fingers, but
coiled around them with a loving grasp. I have it now, and esteem it
my choicest treasure. When I heard that you were born, my heart
softened toward the young girl. Mother and I wrote, asking that
Harry's child might be called for me. I did not disguise my love for
him, and I said it would be some consolation to know that his
daughter bore my name. My letter did not reach them until you had
been baptized Matilda, which was the name of your mother and
grandmother, but to prove their goodness, they ever after called you
Maude."
"Then I was named for you;" and Maude Remington came back to the
embrace of Maude Glendower, who, kissing, her white brow, continued:
"Two years afterward I found myself in Vernon, stopping for a night
at the hotel. 'I will see them in the morning,' I said; 'Harry,
Matty, and the little child;' and I asked the landlord where you
lived. I was standing upon the stairs, and in the partial darkness
he could not see my anguish when he replied, 'Bless you, miss. Harry
Remington died a fortnight ago.'"
"How I reached my room I never knew, but reach it I did, and half an
hour later I knelt by his grave, where I wept away every womanly
feeling of my heart, and then went back to the giddy world, the
gayest of the gay. I did not seek an interview with your mother,
though I have often regretted it since. Did she never speak of me?
Think. Did you never hear my name?"
"In Vernon, I am sure I did," answered Maude, "but I was then too
young to receive a very vivid impression, and after we came here
mother, I fear, was too unhappy to talk much of the past."
"I understand it," answered Maude Glendower, and over her fine
features there stole a hard, dark look, as she continued, "I can see
how one of her gentle nature would wither and die in this
atmosphere, and forgive me, Maude, she never loved your father as I
loved him, for had he called me wife I should never have been here."
"What made you come?" asked Maude; and the lady answered, "For
Louis' sake and yours I came. I never lost sight of your mother. I
knew she married the man I rejected, and from my inmost soul I
pitied her. But I am redressing her wrongs and those of that other
woman who wore her life away within these gloomy walls. Money is his
idol, and when you touch his purse you touch his tenderest point.
But I have opened it, and, struggle as he may, it shall not be
closed again."
She spoke bitterly, and Maude knew that Dr. Kennedy had more than
met his equal in that woman of iron will.
"I should have made a splendid carpenter," the lady continued, "for
nothing pleases me more than the sound of the hammer and saw, and
when you are gone I shall solace myself with fixing the entire
house. I must have excitement, or die as the others did."
"Maude--Mrs. Kennedy, do you know what time it is?" came from the
foot of the stairs, and Mrs. Kennedy answered, "It is one o'clock, I
believe."
"Then why are you sitting up so late, and why is that lamp left
burning in the parlor, with four tubes going off at once? It's a
maxim of mine--"
"Spare your maxims, do. I'm coming directly," and kissing the blind
girl affectionately, Mrs. Kennedy went down to her liege lord, whom
she found extinguishing the light, and gently shaking the lamp to
see how much fluid had been uselessly wasted.
He might have made some conjugal remark, but the expression of her
face forbade anything like reproof, and he soon found use for his
powers of speech in the invectives he heaped upon the long rocker of
the chair over which he stumbled as he groped his way back to the
bedroom, where his wife rather enjoyed, than otherwise, the
lamentations which he made over his "bruised shin." The story she
had been telling had awakened many bitter memories in Maude
Glendower's bosom, and for hours she turned uneasily from side to
side, trying in vain to sleep. Maude Remington, too, was wakeful,
thinking over the strange tale she had heard, and marveling that her
life should be so closely interwoven with that of the woman whom she
called her mother.
"I love her all the more," she said; "I shall pity her so, staying
here alone, when I am gone."
Then her thoughts turned upon the future, when she would be the wife
of James De Vere, and while wondering if she should really ever see
again, she fell asleep just as the morning was dimly breaking in the
east.
CHAPTER XIX.
A SECOND BRIDAL.
After the night of which we have written, the tie of affection
between Mrs. Kennedy and the blind girl was stronger than before,
and when the former said to her husband, "Maude must have an outfit
worthy of a rich man's stepdaughter," he knew by the tone of her
voice that remonstrance was useless, and answered meekly, "I will do
what is right, but don't be too extravagant, for Nellie's clothes
almost ruined me, and I had to pay for that piano yesterday. Will
fifty dollars do?"
"Fifty dollars!" repeated the lady. "Are you crazy?" Then, touched
perhaps by the submissive expression of his face, she added, "As
Maude is blind, she will not need as much as if she were going at
once into society. I'll try and make two hundred dollars answer,
though that will purchase but a meager trousseau."
Mrs. Kennedy's pronounciation of French was not always correct, and
John, who chanced to be within hearing, caught eagerly at the last
word, exclaiming, "Ki! dem trouses must cost a heap sight mor'n
mine! What dis nigger spec' 'em can be?" and he glanced ruefully at
his own glazed pants of corduroy, which had done him service for two
or three years.
Maude was a great favorite with John, and when he heard that she was
going away forever he went up to the woodshed chamber where no one
could see him, and seating himself upon a pile of old shingles,
which had been put there for kindling, he cried like a child.
"It'll be mighty lonesome, knowin' she's gone for good," he said,
"for, though she'll come back agin, she'll be married, and when a
gal is married, that's the last on 'em. I wish I could give her
somethin', to show her my feelin's."
He examined his hands; they were hard, rough, and black. He drew
from his pocket a bit of looking-glass and examined his face--that
was blacker yet; and shaking his head, he whispered: "It might do
for a mulatto gal, but not for her." Then, as a new idea crossed his
mind, he brightened up, exclaiming, "My heart is white, and if I
have a tip-top case, mebby she won't 'spise a poor old nigger's
picter!"
In short, John contemplated having his daguerreotype taken as a
bridal present for Maude. Accordingly, that very afternoon he
arrayed himself in his best, and, entering the yellow car of a
traveling artist who had recently come to the village, he was soon
in possession of a splendid case and a picture which he, pronounced
"oncommon good-lookin' for him." This he laid carefully away until
the wedding-day, which was fixed for the 15th of April. When Mr. De
Vere heard of John's generosity to Maude in giving her the golden
eagles, he promptly paid them back, adding five more as interest,
and at the same time asking him if he would not like to accompany
them to Europe.
"You can be of great assistance to us," he said, "and I will gladly
take you."
This was a strong temptation, and for a moment the negro hesitated,
but when his eye fell upon his master, who was just then entering
the gate, his decision was taken, and he answered, "No, I'm bleeged
to you. I'd rather stay and see the fun."
"What fun?" asked Mr. De Vere; and John replied, "The fun of seein'
him cotch it;" and he pointed to the doctor coming slowly up the
walk, his hands behind him and his head bent forward in a musing
attitude.
Dr. Kennedy was at that moment in an unenviable frame of mind, for
he was trying to decide whether he could part for a year or more
with his crippled boy, who grew each day more dear to him. "It will
do him good, I know," he said, "and I might, perhaps, consent, if I
could spare the money; but I can't, for I haven't got it. That woman
keeps me penniless, and will wheedle me out of two hundred dollars
more. Oh, Mat--"
He did not finish the sentence, for by this time he had reached the
hall, where he met Mr. De Vere, who asked if Louis was to go.
"He can't," answered the doctor. "I have not the means. Mrs. Kennedy
says Maude's wardrobe will cost two hundred dollars."
"Excuse me, sir," interrupted Mr. De Vere. "I shall attend to
Maude's wants myself, and if you are not able to bear Louis'
expenses, I will willingly do it for the sake of having him with his
sister. They ought not to be separated, and who knows but Louis'
deformity may be in a measure relieved?"
This last decided the matter. Louis should go, even though his
father mortgaged his farm to pay the bill, and during the few weeks
which elapsed before the 15th the house presented an air of bustle
and confusion equal to that which preceded Nellie's bridal. Mr. De
Vere remained firm in his intention to defray all Maude's expenses,
and he delegated to Mrs. Kennedy the privilege of purchasing
whatever she thought was needful. Her selections were usually in
good taste, and in listening to her enthusiastic praises Maude
enjoyed her new dresses almost as much as if she had really seen
them. A handsome plain silk of blue and brown was decided upon for a
traveling dress, and very sweetly the blind girl looked when,
arrayed in her simple attire, she stood before the man of God whose
words were to make her a happy bride. She could not see the sunlight
of spring streaming into the room, neither could she see the
sunlight of love shining over the face of James De Vere, nor yet the
earnest gaze of those who thought her so beautiful in her
helplessness, but she could feel it all, and the long eyelashes
resting on her cheek were wet with tears when a warm kiss was
pressed upon her lips and a voice murmured in her ear, "My wife--my
darling Maude."
There were bitter tears shed at that parting; Maude Glendower
weeping passionately over the child of Harry Remington, and Dr.
Kennedy hugging to his bosom the little hunchback boy, Matty's boy
and his. They might never meet again, and the father's heart clung
fondly to his only son. He could not even summon to his aid a maxim
with which to season his farewell, and bidding a kind good-by to
Maude, he sought the privacy of his chamber, where he could weep
alone in his desolation.
Hannah and John grieved to part with the travelers, but the latter
was somewhat consoled by the gracious manner with which Maude had
accepted his gift.
"I cannot see it," she said, "but when I open the casing I shall
know your kind, honest face is there, and it will bring me many
pleasant memories of you."
"Heaven bless you, Miss Maude," answered John, struggling hard to
keep back the tears he deemed it unmanly to shed. "Heaven bless you,
but if you keep talking so book-like and good, I'll bust out a-
cryin', I know, for I'm nothin' but an old fool anyhow," and
wringing her hand, he hurried off into the woodshed chamber, where
he could give free vent to his grief.
Through the harbor, down the bay, and out upon the sea, a noble
vessel rides; and as the evening wind comes dancing o'er the wave it
sweeps across the deck, kissing the cheek of a brown-eyed boy and
lifting the curls from the brow of one whose face, upturned to the
tall man at her side, seems almost angelic, so calm, so peaceful, is
its expression of perfect bliss. Many have gazed curiously upon that
group, and the voices were very, low which said, "The little boy is
deformed," while there was a world of sadness in the whisper, which
told to the wondering passengers that "the beautiful bride was
blind."
They knew it by the constant drooping of her eyelids, by the
graceful motion of her hand as it groped in the air, and more than
all by the untiring watchfulness of the husband and brother who
constantly hovered near. It seemed terrible that so fair a creature
should be blind; and like the throb of one great heart did the
sympathy of that vessel's crew go out toward the gentle Maude, who
in her newborn happiness forgot almost the darkness of the world
without, or if she thought of it, looked forward to a time when hope
said that she should see again. So, leaving her upon the sea,
speeding away to sunny France, we glance backward for a moment to
the lonely house where Maude Glendower mourns for Harry's child, and
where the father thinks often of his boy, listening in vain for the
sound which once was hateful to his ear, the sound of Louis'
crutches.
Neither does John forget the absent ones, but in the garden, in the
barn, in the fields, and the woodshed chamber, he prays in his
mongrel dialect that He who holds the wind in the hollow of His hand
will give to the treacherous deep charge concerning the precious
freight it bears. He does not say it in those words, but his
untutored language, coming from a pure heart, is heard by the Most
High. And so the breeze blows gently o'er the bark thus followed by
black John's prayers--the skies look brightly down upon it--the blue
waves ripple at its side, until at last it sails into its destined
port; and when the apple-blossoms are dropping from the trees, and
old Hannah lays upon the grass to bleach the fanciful white bed-
spread which her own hands have knit for Maude, there comes a letter
to the lonely household, telling them that the feet of those they
love have reached the shores of the Old World.
CHAPTER XX.
THE SEXTON.
The Methodist Society of Laurel Hill had built themselves a new
church upon the corner of the common, and as a mark of respect had
made black John their sexton. Perfectly delighted with the office,
he discharged his duties faithfully, particularly the ringing of the
bell, in which accomplishment he greatly excelled his Episcopal
rival, who tried to imitate his peculiar style in vain. No one could
make such music as the negro, or ring so many changes. In short, it
was conceded that on great occasions he actually made the old bell
talk; and one day toward the last of September, and five months
after the events of the preceding chapter, an opportunity was
presented for a display of his skill.
The afternoon was warm and sultry, and overcome by the heat the
village loungers had disposed of themselves, some on the long piazza
of the hotel, and others in front of the principal store, where,
with elevated heels and busy jackknives, they whittled out shapeless
things, or made remarks concerning any luckless female who chanced
to pass. While thus engaged they were startled by a loud, sharp ring
from the belfry of the Methodist church succeeded by a merry peal,
which seemed to proclaim some joyful event. It was a musical,
rollicking ring, consisting of three rapid strokes, the last
prolonged a little, as if to give it emphasis.
"What's up now?" the loungers said to each other, as the three
strokes were repeated in rapid succession. "What's got into John?"
and those who were fortunate enough to own houses in the village,
went into the street to assure themselves there was no fire.
"It can't be a toll," they said. "It's too much like a dancing tune
for that," and as the sound continued they walked rapidly to the
church, where they found the African bending himself with might and
main to his task, the perspiration dripping from his sable face,
which was all aglow with happiness.
It was no common occasion which had thus affected John, and to the
eager questioning of his audience he replied, "Can't you hear the
ding--dong--de-el. Don't you know what it says? Listen now," and the
bell again rang forth the three short sounds. But the crowd still
professed their ignorance, and, pausing a moment, John said, with a
deprecating manner: "I'll tell the first word, and you'll surely
guess the rest: it's 'Maude.' Now try 'em," and wiping the sweat
from his brow, he turned again to his labor of love, nodding his
head with every stroke. "No ear at all for music," he muttered, as
he saw they were as mystified as ever, and in a loud, clear voice,
he sang, "Maude can see-e! Maude can see-e!"
It was enough. Most of that group had known and respected the blind
girl, and joining at once in the negro's enthusiasm they sent up a
deafening shout for "Maude De Vere, restored to sight."
John's face at that moment was a curiosity, so divided was it
between smiles and tears, the latter of which won the mastery, as
with the last hurrah the bell gave one tremendous crash, and he sank
exhausted upon the floor, saying to those who gathered round, "Will
'em hear that, think, in France?"
"How do you know it is true?" asked one, and John replied, "She writ
her own self to tell it, and sent her love to me; think of dat--sent
her love to an old nigger!" and John glanced at the bell, as if he
intended a repetition of the rejoicings.
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