Books: Cousin Maude
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Mary J. Holmes >> Cousin Maude
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"Look, mother," she cried, "see the nice dinner!" and her own eyes
fairly danced as she placed the tray upon the table before her
mother, who, scarcely less pleased, exclaimed, "A boiled egg--and
jelly, too!--I've wanted them both so much. How did it happen?"
"Eat first, and then I'll tell you," answered Maude, propping her up
with pillows, and setting the server in her lap.
"It tastes like old times--like Janet," said the invalid, and from
the room without, where Janet watched, there came a faint, choking
sound, which Matty thought was the wind and which Maude knew was
Janet.
Through the door she caught sight of her mistress, whose white,
wasted face wrung from her that cry. Stuffing her handkerchief into
her mouth, she waited until toast, tea, egg, and all had
disappeared, then, with the exclamation, "She's et 'em all up slick
and clean," she walked into the room.
It would be impossible to describe that meeting, when the poor sick
woman bowed her weary head upon the motherly bosom of her faithful
domestic, weeping most piteously while Janet folded her lovingly in
her arms, saying to her soothingly, "Nay, now, Matty darling--nay,
my bonnie bird--take it easy like--take is easy, and you'll feel
better."
"You won't leave me, will you?" sobbed Matty, feeling that it would
not be hard to die with Janet standing near.
"No, honey, no," answered Janet, "I'll stay till one or t'other of
us is carried down the walk and across the common where them
gravestones is standin', which I noticed when I drove up."
"It will be me, Janet. It will be me," said Matty. "They will bury
me beneath the willows, for the other one is lying there, oh, so
peacefully."
Louis was by this time awake, and taking him upon her lap Janet
laughed and cried alternately, mentally resolving that so long as
she should live, she would befriend the little helpless boy, whose
face, she said, "was far winsomer than any she had ever seen."
Then followed many mutual inquiries, during which Matty learned that
Janet was a widow, and had really come to stay if necessary.
"I'm able now to live as I please, for I've got property," said
Janet, again consulting the silver watch, as she usually did when
speaking of her husband's will.
Many questions, too, did Matty ask concerning her former home--her
friends--her flowers--and Harry's grave; "was it well kept now, or
was it overrun with weeds?"
To this last question Janet did not reply directly, but making some
excuse for leaving the room, she soon returned, bearing in one hand
a box in which a small rose-bush was growing. In the other hand she
held a beautiful bouquet which, having been kept moist, looked
almost as fresh as when it was first gathered. This she gave to
Matty, saying, "They grew on Harry's grave. I picked 'em myself
yesterday morning before I left; and this," pointing to the rose-
bush, "is a root I took from there last spring on purpose for you,
for I meant to visit you this fall."
Need we say those flowers were dearer to Matty than the wealth of
the Indies would have been! They had blossomed on Harry's grave--his
dust had added to them life, and as if they were indeed a part of
him, she hugged them to her heart--kissing them through her tears
and blessing Janet for the priceless gift.
"Don't tell him, though," she whispered, and a deep flush mounted to
her cheek as on the stairs she heard a heavy footstep, and knew that
Dr. Kennedy was coming!
He had been in the kitchen, demanding of Hannah, "Whose is all that
baggage in the hall?" and Hannah, glad of an opportunity to "free
her mind," had answered, "Some low-lived truck or other that they
called 'Janet,' and a body'd s'pose she owned the house, the way she
went on, splittin' up yer board for kindlin', makin' missus' toast
swim in butter, and a-bilin' three of them eggs you laid away to
sell. If she stays here, this nigger won't--that's my 'pinion," and
feeling greatly injured she left the kitchen, while Dr. Kennedy,
with a dark, moody look upon his face, started for the sick-room.
He knew very well who his visitor was, and when his wife said,
"Husband, this is my faithful Janet, or rather Mrs. Blodgett now.
Wasn't it kind in her to come so far to see me?" he merely nodded
coolly to Mrs. Blodgett, who nodded as coolly in return; then,
turning to his wife, he said, "You seem excited, my dear, and this
ought not to be. 'Tis a maxim of mine that company is injurious to
sick people. What do you think, Mrs. Blodgett?"
Mrs. Blodgett didn't think anything save that he was a most
disagreeable man, and as she could not say this in his presence, she
made no particular answer. Glancing toward the empty plate which
stood upon the table, he continued, "Hannah tells me, my dear, that
you have eaten three boiled eggs. I wonder at your want of
discretion, when you know how indigestible they are," and his eye
rested reprovingly on Janet, who now found her tongue, and starting
up, exclaimed, "One biled egg won't hurt anybody's digester, if it's
ever so much out of kilter--but the jade lied. Two of them eggs I
cooked for myself, and I'll warrant she's guzzled 'em down before
this. Anyway, I'll go and see," and she arose to leave the room.
Just as she reached the door the doctor called after her, saying,
"Mrs. Blodgett, I observed a trunk or two in the lower hall, which I
presume are yours. Will you have them left there, or shall I bring
them up to your chamber? You will stay all night with us, of
course!"
For an instant Janet's face was crimson, but forcing down her wrath
for Matty's sake, she answered, "I shall probably stay as long as
that," and slamming together the door she went downstairs, while
Matty said sadly, "Oh, husband, how could you thus insult her when
you knew she had come to stay a while at least, and that her
presence would do me so much good?"
"How should I know she had come to stay, when I've heard nothing
about it," was the doctor's reply; and then in no mild terms he gave
his opinion of the lady--said opinion being based on what old Hannah
had told him.
There were tears in Matty's eyes, and they dropped from her long
eye-lashes as, taking the doctor's hand, she said: "Husband, you
know that I'm going to die--that ere the snow is falling you will be
a second time alone. And you surely will not refuse me when I ask
that Janet shall stay until the last. When I am gone you will,
perhaps, be happier in the remembrance that you granted me one
request."
There was something in the tone of her voice far more convincing
than her words, and when she added, "She does not expect wages, for
she has money of her own," Dr. Kennedy yielded the point,
prophesying the while that there would be trouble with Hannah.
Meantime Mrs. Blodgett had wended her way to the kitchen, meeting in
the way with Nellie, around whose mouth there was a substance
greatly resembling the yolk of an egg! Thus prepared for the worst,
Janet was not greatly disappointed when she found that her eggs had
been disposed of by both the young lady and Hannah, the latter of
whom was too busy with her dishes to turn her head or in any way
acknowledge the presence of a second person.
"Joel Blodgett's widow ought to be above havin' words with a
nigger," was Janet's mental comment as she contented herself with a
slice of bread and a cup of tea, which, by this time, was of quite a
reddish hue.
Her hunger being satisfied, she began to feel more amiably disposed
toward the old negress, whose dishes she offered to wipe. This
kindness was duly appreciated by Hannah, and that night, in speaking
of Janet to her son, she pronounced her "not quite so onery a white
woman as she at first took her to be."
As the days wore on Janet's presence in the family was felt in
various ways. To Matty it brought a greater degree of happiness than
she had experienced since she left her New England home, while even
the doctor acknowledged an increased degree of comfort in his
household, though not willing at first to attribute it to its proper
source. He did not like Janet; her ideas were too extravagant for
him, and on several different occasions he hinted quite strongly
that she was not wanted there; but Janet was perfectly invincible to
hints, and when at one time he embodied them in language that could
not be misunderstood, telling her. "'twas a maxim of his that if a
person had a home of their own they had better stay there," she
promptly replied that "'twas a maxim of hers to stay where she
pleased, particularly as she was a woman of property," and so, as
she pleased to stay there, she stayed!
It took but a short time for her to understand the doctor, and to
say that she disliked him would but feebly express the feeling of
aversion with which she regarded him. Not a word, however, would
Matty admit of past or present unkindness--neither was it necessary
that she should, for Janet saw it all--saw how "Old Maxim," as she
called him, had worried her life away, and while cherishing for him
a sentiment of hatred, she strove to comfort her young mistress, who
grew weaker and weaker every day, until at last the husband himself,
aroused to a sense of her danger, strove by little acts of kindness
unusual in him, to make amends for years of wrong. Experience is a
thorough teacher, and he shrank from the bitter memories which
spring from the grave of a neglected wife, and he would rather that
Matty, when she died, should not turn away from him, shuddering at
his touch, and asking him to take his hand from off her brow; just
as one brown-haired woman had done. This feeling of his was
appreciated by Janet, who in proportion as he became tender toward
Matty, was respectful to him, until at last there came to be a
tolerably good understanding between them, and she was suffered, in
most matters, to have her own way.
With John she was a special favorite, and through his
instrumentality open hostilities were prevented between herself and
his mother, until the latter missed another cup of jelly from its
new hiding-place. Then, indeed, the indignant African announced her
intention of going at once to "Miss Ruggles'," who had offered her
"twelve shillings a week and a heap of leisure."
"Let her go," said John, who knew Mrs. Ruggles to be a fashionable
woman, the mother of nine children, whose ages varied from one to
fifteen; "let her go--she'll be glad to come back," and the sequel
proved he was right, for just as it was beginning to grow light on
the second day of her absence, someone rapped at his window, and a
half-crying voice whispered, "Let me in, John; I've been out to
sarvice enough."
John complied with the request, and when Janet came down to the
kitchen, how was she surprised at finding Hannah there, leisurely
grinding her coffee, with an innocent look upon her sable face, as
if nothing had ever happened. John's raillery, however, loosened her
tongue at last, and very minutely she detailed her grievances. "She
had done a two weeks' washing, besides all the work, and the whole
of them young ones under her feet into the bargain. Then at night,
when she hoped for a little rest, Mrs. Ruggles had gone off to a
party and stayed till midnight, leaving her with that squallin'
brat; but never you mind," said she, "I poured a little paregol down
its throat, or my, name aint Hannah," and with a sigh of relief at
her escape from "Miss Ruggles," she finished her story and resumed
her accustomed duties, which for many weeks she faithfully
performed, finding but little fault with the frequent suggestions of
Mrs. Janet Blodgett, whose rule in the household was for the time
being firmly established.
CHAPTER VI.
THE MOTHER.
From the tall trees which shade the desolate old house the leaves
have fallen one by one, and the November rain makes mournful music
as in the stillness of the night it drops upon the withered foliage,
softly, slowly, as if weeping for the sorrow which has come upon the
household. Matty Kennedy is dead; and in the husband's heart there
is a gnawing pain, such as he never felt before; not even when Katy
died; for Katy, though pure and good, was not so wholly unselfish as
Matty had been, and in thinking of her, he could occasionally recall
an impatient word; but from Matty none. Gentle, loving, and
beautiful she had been to him in life; and now, beautiful in death,
she lay in the silent parlor, on the marble table she had brought
from home, while he--oh, who shall tell what thoughts were busy at
his heart, as he sat there alone, that dismal, rainy night.
In one respect his wishes had been gratified; Matty had not turned
from him in death. She had died within his arms; but so long as the
light of reason shone in her blue eyes,--so long had they, rested on
the rose-bush within the window,--the rose-bush brought from Harry's
grave! Nestled among its leaves was a half-opened bud, and when none
could hear, she whispered softly to Janet, "Place it in my bosom
just as you placed one years ago, when I was Harry's bride."
To Nellie and to Maude she had spoken blessed words of comfort,
commending to the latter as to a second mother the little Louis,
who, trembling with fear, had hidden beneath the bedclothes, so that
he could not see the white look upon her face. Then to her husband
she had turned, pleading with all a mother's tenderness for her
youngest born--her unfortunate one.
"Oh, husband," she said, "you will care for him when I am gone. You
will love my poor, crippled boy! Promise me this, and death will not
be hard to meet. Promise me, won't you?" and the voice was very,
very faint.
He could not refuse, and bending low, he said, "Matty, I will, I
will."
"Bless you, my husband, bless you for that," was Matty's dying
words, for she never spoke again.
It was morning then,--early morning, and a long, dreary day had
intervened, until at last it was midnight, and silence reigned
throughout the house. Maude, Nellie, Janet, and John had wept
themselves sick, while in little Louis' bosom there was a sense of
desolation which kept him wakeful, even after Maude had cried
herself to sleep. Many a time that day had he stolen into the
parlor, and climbing into a chair, as best he could, had laid his
baby cheek against the cold, white face, and smoothing with his
dimpled hand the shining hair, had whispered, "Poor, sick mother,
won't you speak to Louis any more? "
He knew better than most children of his age what was meant by
death, and as he lay awake, thinking how dreadful it was to have no
mother, his thoughts turned toward his father, who had that day been
too much absorbed in his own grief to notice him.
"Maybe he'll love me some now ma is dead," he thought, and with that
yearning for paternal sympathy natural to the motherless, he crept
out of bed, and groping his way with his noiseless crutches to his
father's door, he knocked softly for admittance.
"Who's there?" demanded Dr. Kennedy, every, nerve thrilling to the
answer.
"It's me, father; won't you let me in, for its dark out here, and
lonesome, with her lying in the parlor. Oh, father, won't you love
me a little, now mother's dead? I can't help it because I'm lame,
and when I'm a man I will earn my own living. I won't be in the way.
Say, pa, will you love me?"
He remembered the charges his father had preferred against him, and
the father remembered them too. She to whom the cruel words were
spoken was gone from him now and her child, their child, was at the
door, pleading for his love. Could he refuse? No, by every kindly
feeling, by every parental tie, we answer, No; he could not; and
opening the door he took the little fellow in his arms, hugging him
to his bosom, while tears, the first he had shed for many a year,
fell like rain upon the face of his crippled boy. Like some mighty
water, which breaking through its prison walls seeks again its
natural channel, so did his love go out toward the child so long
neglected, the child who was not now to him a cripple. He did not
think of the deformity, he did not even see it. He saw only the
beautiful face, the soft brown eyes and silken hair of the little
one, who ere long fell asleep, murmuring in his dreams, "He loves
me, ma, he does."
Surely the father cannot be blamed if, when he looked again upon the
calm face of the dead, he fancied that it wore a happier look, as if
the whispered words of Louis had reached her unconscious ear. Very
beautiful looked Matty in her coffin--for thirty years had but
slightly marred her youthful face, and the doctor, as he gazed upon
her, thought within himself, "she was almost as fair as Maude
Glendower."
Then, as his eye fell upon the rosebud which Janet had laid upon her
bosom, he said, "'Twas kind in Mrs. Blodgett to place it there, for
Matty was fond of flowers;" but he did not dream how closely was
that rosebud connected with a grave made many years before.
Thoughts of Maude Glendower and mementos of Harry Remington meeting
together at Matty's coffin! Alas, that such should be our life!
Underneath the willows, and by the side of Katy, was Matty laid to
rest, and then the desolate old house seemed doubly desolate--Maude
mourning truly for her mother, while the impulsive Nellie, too, wept
bitterly for one whom she had really loved. To the doctor, however,
a new feeling had been born, and in the society of his son he found
a balm for his sorrow, becoming ere long, to all outward appearance,
the same exacting, overbearing man he had been before. The blows are
hard and oft repeated which break the solid rock, and there will
come a time when that selfish nature shall be subdued and broken
down; but 'tis not yet--not yet.
And now, leaving him a while to himself, we will pass on to a period
when Maude herself shall become in reality the heroine of our story.
CHAPTER VII.
PAST AND PRESENT.
Four years and a half have passed away since the dark November night
when Matty Kennedy died, and in her home all things are not as they
were then. Janet, the presiding genius of the household, is gone--
married a second time, and by this means escaped, as she verily
believes, the embarrassment of refusing outright to be Mrs. Dr.
Kennedy, No. 3! Not that Dr. Kennedy ever entertained the slightest
idea of making her his wife, but knowing how highly he valued money,
and being herself "a woman of property," Janet came at last to fancy
that he had serious thoughts of offering himself to her. He, on the
contrary, was only intent upon the best means of removing her from
his house, for, though he was not insensible to the comfort which
her presence brought, it was a comfort for which he paid too dearly.
Still he endured it for nearly three years, but at the end of that
time he determined that she should go away, and as he dreaded a
scene he did not tell her plainly what he meant, but hinted, and
with each hint the widow groaned afresh over her lamented Joel.
At last, emboldened by some fresh extravagance, he said to her one
day: "Mrs. Blodgett, ah--ahem." Here he stopped, while Mrs.
Blodgett, thinking her time had come, drew out Joel's picture, which
latterly she carried in her pocket, so as to be ready for any
emergency. "Mrs. Blodgett, are you paying attention?" asked the
doctor, observing how intently she was regarding the picture of the
deceased.
"Yes, yes," she answered, and he continued:
"Mrs. Blodgett, I hardly know what to say, but I've been thinking
for some time past--"
"I know you've been thinking," interrupted the widow, "but it won't
do an atom of good, for my mind was made up long ago, and I shan't
do it, and if you've any kind of feeling for Matty, which you haint,
nor never had, you wouldn't think of such a thing, and I know, as
well as I want to know, that it's my property, and nothin' else,
which has put such an idee into your head!"
Here, overcome with her burst of indignation, she began to cry,
while the doctor, wholly misunderstanding her, attempted to smooth
the matter somewhat by saying: "I had no intention of distressing
you, Mrs. Blodgett, but I thought I might as well free my mind. Were
you a poor woman, I should feel differently, but knowing you have
money--"
"Wretch!" fairly screamed the insulted Janet. "So you confess my
property is at the bottom of it! But I'll fix it--I'll put an end to
it!" and in a state of great excitement she rushed from the room.
Just across the way a newly-fledged lawyer had hung out his sign,
and thither that very afternoon the wrathful widow wended her way,
nor left the dingy office until one-half of her property, which was
far greater than anyone supposed it to be, was transferred by deed
of gift to Maude Remington, who was to come in possession of it on
her eighteenth birthday, and was to inherit the remainder by will at
the death of the donor.
"That fixes him," she muttered, as she returned to the house; "that
fixes Old Maxim good; to think of his insultin' me by ownin' right
up that 'twas my property he was after, the rascal! I wouldn't have
him if there warn't another man in the world!" and entering the room
where Maude was sewing, she astonished the young girl by telling her
what she had done. "I have made you my heir," said she, tossing the
deed of gift and the will into Maude's lap. "I've made you my heir;
and the day you're eighteen you'll be worth five thousand dollars,
besides havin' the interest to use between this time and that. Then,
if I ever die; you'll have five thousand more. Joel Blodgett didn't
keep thirty cows and peddle milk for nothin'."
Maude was at first too much astonished to comprehend the meaning of
what she heard, but she understood it at last, and then with many
tears thanked the eccentric woman for what she had done, and asked
the reason for this unexpected generosity.
"'Cause I like you!" answered Janet, determined not to injure
Maude's feelings by letting her know how soon her mother had been
forgotten. "'Cause I like you, and always meant to give it to you.
But don't tell anyone how much 'tis, for if the old fool widowers
round here know I am still worth five thousand dollars they'll like
enough be botherin' me with offers, hopin' I'll change my will; but
I shan't. I'll teach 'em a trick or two, the good for-nothin' Old
Maxim."
The latter part of this speech was made as Janet was leaving the
room, consequently Maude did not hear it, neither would she have
understood if she had. She knew her nurse was very peculiar, but she
never dreamed it possible for her to fancy that Dr. Kennedy wished
to make her his wife, and she was greatly puzzled to know why she
had been so generous to her. But Janet knew; and when a few days
afterward Dr. Kennedy, determining upon a fresh attempt to remove
her from his house, came to her side, as she was sitting alone in
the twilight, she felt glad that one-half her property at least was
beyond her control.
"Mrs. Blodgett," he said, clearing his throat and looking
considerably embarrassed, "Mrs. Blodgett."
"Well, what do you want of Mrs. Blodgett?" was the widow's testy
answer, and the doctor replied, "I did not finish what I wished to
say to you the other day, and it's a maxim of mine, if a person has
anything on his mind, he had better tell it at once."
"Certainly, ease yourself off, do," and Janet's little gray eyes
twinkled with delight, as she thought how crestfallen he would look
when she told him her property was gone.
"I was going, Mrs. Blodgett," he continued, "I was going to propose
to you--"
He never finished the sentence, for the widow sprang to her feet,
exclaiming, "It's of no kind of use! I've gin my property all to
Maude; half of it the day she's eighteen, and the rest on't is
willed to her when I die, so you may as well let me alone," and
feeling greatly flurried with what she verily believed to have been
an offer, she walked away, leaving the doctor to think her the most
inexplicable woman he ever saw.
The next day Janet received an invitation to visit her husband's
sister who lived in Canada. The invitation was accepted, and to his
great delight the doctor saw her drive from his door, just one week
after his last amusing interview. In Canada Janet formed the
acquaintance of a man full ten years her junior. He had been a
distant relative of her husband, and knowing of her property, asked
her to be his wife. For several days Janet studied her face to see
what was in it "which made every man in Christendom want her!" and,
concluding at last that "handsome is that handsome does," said
"Yes," and made Peter Hopkins the happiest of men.
There was a bridal trip to Laurel Hill, where the new husband
ascertained that the half of that for which he had married was
beyond his reach; but being naturally of a hopeful nature, he did
not despair of eventually changing the will, so he swallowed his
disappointment and redoubled his attentions to his mother-wife, now
Mrs. Janet Blodgett Hopkins.
Meantime the story that Maude was an heiress circulated rapidly, and
as the lawyer kept his own counsel and Maude, in accordance with
Janet's request, never told how much had been given her, the amount
was doubled; nay, in some cases trebled, and she suddenly found
herself a person of considerable importance, particularly in the
estimation of Dr. Kennedy, who, aside from setting a high value upon
money, fancied he saw a way by which he himself could reap some
benefit from his stepdaughter's fortune. If Maude had money she
certainly ought to pay for her board, and so he said to her one day,
prefacing his remarks with his stereotyped phrase that "'twas a
maxim of his that one person should not live upon another if they
could help it."
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