Books: Cousin Maude
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Mary J. Holmes >> Cousin Maude
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"She was a splendid creature," he said, and he asked if the doctor
knew her.
"I saw her as a child of seventeen, and again as a woman of twenty-
five. She is forty now," was the doctor's answer, as he walked away,
wondering if the Maude Glendower of to-day were greatly changed from
the Maude of fifteen years ago.
To J.C.'s active mind a new idea was presented, and seeking out the
other Maude--his Maude--he told her of his suspicion. There was a
momentary pang, a thought of the willow-shaded grave where Kate and
Matty slept, and then Maude Remington calmly questioned J.C. of
Maude Glendower--who she was, and where did she live?
J.C. knew but little of the lady, but what little he knew he told.
She was of both English and Spanish descent. Her friends, he
believed, were nearly all dead, and she was alone in the world.
Though forty years of age, she was well preserved, and called a
wondrous beauty. She was a belle--a flirt--a spinster, and was
living at present in Troy.
"She'll never marry the doctor," said Maude, laughing, as she
thought of an elegant woman leaving the world of fashion to be
mistress of that house.
Still the idea followed her, and when at last J.C. had bidden her
adieu, and gone to his city home, she frequently found herself
thinking of the beautiful Maude Glendower, whose name, it seemed to
her, she had heard before, though when or where she could not tell.
A strange interest was awakened in her bosom for the unknown lady,
and she often wondered if they would ever meet. The doctor thought
of her, too--thought of her often, and thought of her long, and as
his feelings toward her changed, so did his manner soften toward the
dark-haired girl who bore her name, and who he began at last to
fancy resembled her in more points than one. Maude was ceasing to be
an object of perfect indifference to him. She was an engaged young
lady, and as such, entitled to more respect than he was wont to pay
her, and as the days wore on he began to have serious thoughts of
making her his confidant and counselor in a matter which he would
never have intrusted to Nellie.
Accordingly, one afternoon when he found her sitting upon the
piazza, he said, first casting an anxious glance around to make sure
no one heard him: "Maude, I wish to see you alone a while."
Wonderingly Maude followed him into the parlor, where her
astonishment was in no wise diminished by his shutting the blinds,
dropping the curtains, and locking the door! Maude began to tremble,
and when he drew his chair close to her side, she started up,
alarmed. "Sit down--sit down," he whispered; "I want to tell you
something, which you must never mention in the world. You certainly
have some sense, or I should not trust you. Maude, I am going--that
is, I have every reason to believe--or rather, I should say perhaps-
-well, anyway, there is a prospect of my being married."
"Married!--to whom?" asked Maude.
"You are certain you'll never tell, and that there's no one in the
hall," said the doctor, going on tip-toe to the door, and assuring
himself there was no one there. Then returning to his seat, he told
her a strange story of a marvellously beautiful young girl, with
Spanish fire in her lustrous eyes, and a satin gloss on her blue-
black curls.
Her name was Maude Glendower, and years ago she won his love,
leading him on and on until at last he paid her the highest honor a
man can pay a woman--he offered her his heart, his hand, his name.
But she refused him--scornfully, contemptuously, refused him, and he
learned afterward that she had encouraged him for the sake of
bringing another man to terms!--and that man, whose name the doctor
never knew, was a college student not yet twenty-one.
"I hated her then," said he, "hated this Maude Glendower, for her
deception; but I could not forget her, and after Katy died I sought
her again. She was the star of Saratoga, and no match for me. This I
had sense enough to see, so I left her in her glory, and three years
after married your departed mother. Maude Glendower has never
married, and at the age of forty has come to her senses, and
signified her willingness to become my wife--or, that is to say, I
have been informed by my sister that she probably would not refuse
me a second time. Now, Maude Remington, I have told you this because
I must talk with someone, and as I before remarked, you are a girl
of sense, and will keep the secret. It is a maxim of mine, when
anything is to be done, to do it; so I shall visit Miss Glendower
immediately, and if I like her well enough I shall marry her at
once. Not while I am gone, of course, but very soon. I shall start
for Troy one week from to-day, and I wish you would attend a little
to my wardrobe; it's in a most lamentable condition. My shirts are
all worn out, my coat is rusty, and last Sunday I discovered a hole
in my pantaloons--"
"Dr. Kennedy," exclaimed Maude, interrupting him," you surely do not
intend to present yourself before the fastidious Miss Glendower with
those old shabby clothes. She would say No sooner than she did
before. You must have an entire new suit. You can afford it, too,
for you have not had one since mother died."
Dr. Kennedy was never in a condition to be so easily coaxed as now.
Maude Glendower had a place in his heart, which no other woman bad
ever held, and that very afternoon the village merchant was
astonished at the penurious doctor's inquiring the prices of the
finest broadcloth in his store. It seemed a great deal of money to
pay, but Maude Remington at his elbow and Maude Glendower in his
mind conquered at last, and the new suit was bought, including vest,
hat, boots, and all. There is something in handsome clothes very
satisfactory to most people, and the doctor, when arrayed in his,
was conscious of a feeling of pride quite unusual to him. On one
point, however, he was obstinate, "he would not spoil them by
wearing them on the road, when he could just as well dress at the
hotel."
So Maude, between whom and himself there was for the time being
quite an amicable understanding, packed them in his trunk, while
Hannah and Louis looked on wondering what it could mean.
"The Millennial is comin', or else he's goin' a-courtin'," said
Hannah, and satisfied that she was right she went back to the
kitchen, while Louis, catching at once at her idea, began to cry,
and laying his head on his sister's lap begged of her to tell him if
what Hannah had said were true.
To him it seemed like trampling on the little grave beneath the
willows, and it required all Maude's powers of persuasion to dry his
tears and soothe the pain which every child must feel when first
they know that the lost mother, whose memory they so fondly cherish,
is to be succeeded by another.
CHAPTER XI.
MAUDE GLENDOWER.
She was a most magnificent looking woman, as she sat within her
richly furnished room on that warm September night, now gazing idly
dawn the street and again bending her head to catch the first sound
of footsteps on the stairs. Personal preservation had been the great
study of her life, and forty years had not dimmed the luster of her
soft, black eyes, or woven one thread of silver among the luxuriant
curls which clustered in such profusion around her face and neck.
Gray hairs and Maude Glendower had nothing in common, and the fair,
round cheek, the pearly teeth, the youthful bloom, and white,
uncovered shoulders seemed to indicate that time had made an
exception in her favor, and dropped her from its wheel.
With a portion of her history the reader is already acquainted.
Early orphaned, she was thrown upon the care of an old aunt who,
proud of her wondrous beauty, spared no pains to make her what
nature seemed to will that she should be, a coquette and a belle. At
seventeen we find her a schoolgirl in New Haven, where she turned
the heads of all the college boys, and then murmured because one, a
dark-eyed youth of twenty, withheld from her the homage she claimed
as her just due. In a fit of pique she besieged a staid, handsome
young M.D. of twenty-seven, who had just commenced to practice in
the city, and who, proudly keeping himself aloof from the college
students, knew nothing of the youth she so much fancied. Perfectly
intoxicated with her beauty, he offered her his hand, and was
repulsed. Overwhelmed with disappointment and chagrin, he then left
the city, and located himself at Laurel Hill, where now we find him
the selfish, overbearing Dr. Kennedy.
But in after years Maude Glendower was punished for that act. The
dark-haired student she so much loved was wedded to another, and
with a festering wound within her heart she plunged at once into the
giddy world of fashion, slaying her victims by scores, and exulting
as each new trophy of her power was laid at her feet. She had no
heart, the people said, and with a mocking laugh she thought of the
quiet grave 'mid the New England hills, where, one moonlight night
two weeks after that grave was made, she had wept such tears as were
never wept by her again. Maude Glendower had loved, but loved in
vain; and now, at the age of forty, she was unmarried and alone in
the wide world. The aunt, who had been to her a mother, had died a
few months before, and as her annuity ceased with her death Maude
was almost wholly destitute. The limited means she possessed would
only suffice to pay her, board for a short time, and in this dilemma
she thought of her old lover, and wondered if he could again be won.
He was rich, she had always heard, and as his wife she could still
enjoy the luxuries to which she had been accustomed. She knew his
sister,--they had met in the salons of Saratoga,--and though it hurt
her pride to do it, she at last signified her willingness to be
again addressed.
It was many weeks ere Dr. Kennedy conquered wholly his olden grudge,
but conquered it he had, and she sat expecting him on the night when
first we introduced her to our readers. He had arrived in Troy on
the western train, and written her a note announcing his intention
to visit her that evening. For this visit Maude Glendower had
arrayed herself with care, wearing a rich silk dress of crimson and
black--colors well adapted to her complexion.
"He saw me at twenty-five. He shall not think me greatly changed
since then," she said, as over her bare neck and arms she threw an
exquisitely wrought mantilla of lace.
The Glendower family had once been very wealthy, and the last
daughter of the haughty race glittered with diamonds which had come
to her from her great-grandmother, and had been but recently reset.
And there she sat, beautiful Maude Glendower--the votary of fashion-
-the woman of the world--sat waiting for the cold, hard, overbearing
man who thought to make her his wife. A ring at the door, a heavy
tread upon the winding stairs, and the lady rests her head upon her
hand, so that her glossy curls fall over, but do not conceal her
white, rounded arm, where the diamonds are shining.
"I could easily mistake him for my father," she thought, as a gray-
haired man stepped into the room, where he paused an instant,
bewildered with the glare of light and the display of pictures,
mirrors, tapestry, rosewood, and marble, which met his view.
Mrs. Berkley, Maude Glendower's aunt, had stinted herself to gratify
her niece's whims, and their surroundings had always been of the
most expensive kind, so it was not strange that Dr. Kennedy,
accustomed only to ingrain carpet and muslin curtains, was dazzled
by so much elegance. With a well-feigned start the lady arose to her
feet, and going to his side offered him her hand, saying, "You are
Dr. Kennedy, I am sure. I should have known you anywhere, for you
are but little changed."
She meant to flatter his self-love, though, thanks to Maude
Remington for having insisted upon the broadcloth suit, he looked
remarkably well.
"She had not changed at all," he said, and the admiring gaze he
fixed upon her argued well for her success. It becomes us not to
tell how that strange wooing sped. Suffice it to say that at the
expiration of an hour Maude Glendower had promised to be the wife of
Dr. Kennedy when another spring should come. She had humbled herself
to say that she regretted her girlish freak, and he had so far
unbent his dignity as to say that he could not understand why she
should be willing to leave the luxuries which surrounded her and go
with him, a plain, old-fashioned man. Maude Glendower scorned to
make him think that it was love which actuated her, and she replied,
"Now that my aunt is dead, I have no natural protector. I am alone
and want a home."
"But mine is so different," he said. "There are no silk curtains
there, no carpets such as this--"
"Is Maude Remington there?" the lady asked, and in her large black
eyes there was a dewy tenderness, as she pronounced that name.
"Maude Remington!--yes," the doctor answered." Where did you hear of
her? My sister told you, I suppose. Yes, Maude is there. She has
lived with me ever since her mother died. You would have liked
Matty, I think," and the doctor felt a glow of satisfaction in
having thus paid a tribute to the memory of his wife.
"Is Maude like her mother?" the lady asked; a glow upon her cheek,
and the expression of her face evincing the interest she felt in the
answer.
"Not at all," returned the doctor. "Matty was blue-eyed and fair,
while Maude is dark, and resembles her father, they say."
The white jeweled hands were clasped together, for a moment, and
then Maude Glendower questioned him of the other one, Matty's child
and his. Very tenderly the doctor talked of his unfortunate boy,
telling of his soft brown hair, his angel face, and dreamy eyes.
"He is like Matty," the lady said, more to herself than her
companion, who proceeded to speak of Nellie as a paragon of
loveliness and virtue. "I shan't like her, I know," the lady
thought, "but the other two," how her heart bounded at the thoughts
of folding them to her bosom.
Louis Kennedy, weeping that his mother was forgotten, had nothing to
fear from Maude Glendower, for a child of Matty Remington was a
sacred trust to her, and when as the doctor bade her good-night he
said again, "You will find a great contrast between your home and
mine," she answered, "I shall be contented if Maude and Louis are
there."
"And Nellie, too," the doctor added, unwilling that she should be
overlooked.
"Yes, Nellie too," the lady answered, the expression of her mouth
indicating that Nellie too was an object of indifference to her.
The doctor is gone, his object is accomplished, and at the Mansion
House near by he sleeps quietly and well. But the lady, Maude
Glendower, oh, who shall tell what bitter tears she wept, or how in
her in-most soul she shrank from the man she had chosen. And yet
there was nothing repulsive in him, she knew. He was fine-looking,--
he stood well in the world,--he was rich while she was poor. But not
for this alone had she promised to be his wife. To hold Maude
Remington within her arms, to look into her eyes, to call his
daughter child, this was the strongest reason of them all. And was
it strange that when at last she slept she was a girl again, looking
across the college green to catch a glimpse of one whose
indifference had made her what she was, a selfish, scheming, cold-
hearted woman.
There was another interview next morning, and then the doctor left
her, but not until with her soft hand in his, and her shining eyes
upon his face, she said to him, "You think your home is not a
desirable one for me. Can't you fix it up a little? Are there two
parlors, and do the windows come to the floor? I hope your carriage
horses are in good condition, for I am very fond of driving. Have
you a flower garden? I anticipate much pleasure in working among the
plants. Oh, it will be so cool and nice in the country. You have an
ice-house, of course."
Poor doctor! Double parlors, low windows, ice-house, and flower
garden he had none, while the old carryall had long since ceased to
do its duty, and its place was supplied by an open buggy, drawn by a
sorrel nag. But Maude Glendower could do with him what Katy and
Matty could not have done, and after his return to Laurel Hill he
was more than once closeted with Maude, to whom he confided his plan
of improving the place, asking her if she thought the profits of
next year's crop of wheat and wool would meet the whole expense.
Maude guessed at random that it would, and as money in prospect
seems not quite so valuable as money in hand, the doctor finally
concluded to follow out Maude Glendower's suggestions, and greatly
to the surprise of the neighbors, the repairing process commenced.
CHAPTER XII.
HOW THE ENGAGEMENTS PROSPERED.
The October sun had painted the forest trees with the gorgeous tints
of autumn and the November winds had changed them to a more sober
hue ere J.C. De Vere came again to Laurel Hill. Very regularly he
wrote to Maude--kind, loving letters, which helped to cheer her
solitary life. Nellie still remained with Mrs. Kelsey, and though
she had so far forgiven her stepsister as to write to her
occasionally, she still cherished toward her a feeling of animosity
for having stolen away her lover.
On his return to Rochester J.C. De Vere had fully expected that his
engagement would be the theme of every tongue, and he had prepared
himself for the attack. How, then, was he surprised to find that no
one had the least suspicion of it, though many joked him for having
quarreled with Nellie as they were sure he had done, by his not
returning when she did.
Mrs. Kelsey had changed her mind and resolved to say nothing of an
affair which she was sure would never prove to be serious, and the
result showed the wisdom of her proceeding. No one spoke of Maude to
J.C., for no one knew of her existence, and both Mrs. Kelsey, and
Nellie, whom he frequently met, scrupulously refrained from
mentioning her name. At first he felt annoyed, and more than once
was tempted to tell of his engagement, but as time wore on and he
became more and more interested in city gayeties, he thought less
frequently of the dark-eyed Maude, who, with fewer sources of
amusement, was each day thinking more and more of him. Still, he was
sure he loved her, and one morning near the middle of November, when
he received a letter from her saying, "I am sometimes very lonely,
and wish that you were here," he started up with his usual
impetuosity, and ere he was fully aware of his own intentions he
found himself ticketed for Canandaigua, and the next morning Louis
Kennedy, looking from his window and watching the daily stage as it
came slowly up the hill, screamed out, "He's come--he's come!"
A few moments more and Maude was clasped in J.C.'s arms. Kissing her
forehead, her cheek, and her lips, he held her off and looked to see
if she had changed. She had, and he knew it. Happiness and
contentment are more certain beautifiers than the most powerful
cosmetics, and under the combined effects of both Maude was greatly
improved. She was happy in her engagement, happy in the increased
respect it brought her from her friends, and happy, too, in the
unusual kindness, of her stepfather. All this was manifest in her
face, and for the first time in his life J.C. told her she was
beautiful.
"If you only had more manner, and your clothes were fashionably
made, you would far excel the city girls," he said, a compliment
which to Maude seemed rather equivocal.
When he was there before he had not presumed to criticise her style
of dress, but he did so now, quoting the city belles until, half in
earnest, half in ,jest, Maude said to him, "If you think so much of
fashion, you ought not to marry a country girl."
"Pshaw!" returned J.C. "I like you all the better for dressing as
you please, and still I wish you could acquire a little city polish,
for I don't care to have my wife the subject of remark. If Maude
Glendower comes in the spring, you can learn a great deal of her
before the 20th of June."
Maude colored deeply, thinking for the first time in her life that
possibly J.C. might be ashamed of her, but his affectionate caresses
soon drove all unpleasant impressions from her mind, and the three
days that he stayed with her passed rapidly away. He did not mention
the will, but he questioned her of the five thousand which was to be
hers on her eighteenth birthday, and vaguely, hinted that he might
need it to set himself up in business. He had made no arrangements
for the future, he said, there was time enough in the spring, and
promising to be with her again during the holidays, he left her
quite uncertain as to whether she were glad he had visited her or
not.
The next; day she was greatly comforted by a long letter from James,
who wrote occasionally, evincing so much interest in "Cousin Maude"
that he always succeeded in making her cry, though why she could not
tell, for his letters gave her more real satisfaction than did those
of J.C., fraught as the latter were with protestations of constancy
and love. Slowly dragged the weeks, and the holidays were at hand,
when she received a message from J.C., saying he could not possibly
come as he had promised. No reason was given for this change in his
plan, and with a sigh of disappointment Maude turned to a letter
from Nellie, received by the same mail. After dwelling at length
upon the delightful time she was having in the city, Nellie spoke of
a fancy ball to be given by her aunt during Christmas week. Mr. De
Vere was to be "Ivanhoe," she said, and she to be "Rowena."
"You don't know," she wrote," how interested J.C. is in the party.
He really begins to appear more as he used to do. He has not
forgotten you, though, for he said the other day you would make a
splendid Rebecca. It takes a dark person for that, I believe!"
Maude knew the reason now why J.C. could not possibly come, and the
week she had, anticipated so much seemed dreary, enough,
notwithstanding it was enlivened by a box of oranges and figs from
her betrothed, and a long, affectionate letter from James De Vere,
who spoke of the next Christmas, saying he meant she should spend it
at Hampton.
"You will really be my cousin then," he wrote, "and I intend
inviting yourself and husband to pass the holidays with us. I want
my mother to know you, Maude. She will like you, I am sure, for she
always thinks as I do."
This letter was far more pleasing to Maude's taste than were the
oranges and figs, and: Louis was suffered to monopolize the latter--
a privilege which he appreciated, as children usually do. After the
holidays J.C. paid a flying visit to Laurel Hill, where his presence
caused quite as much pain as pleasure, so anxious he seemed to
return. Rochester could not well exist without him, one would
suppose, from hearing him talk of the rides he planned, the surprise
parties he man--aged, and the private theatricals of which he was
the leader.
"Do they pay you well for your services?" Louis asked him once, when
wearying of the same old story.
J.C. understood the hit, and during the remainder of his stay was
far less egotistical than he would otherwise have been. After his
departure there ensued an interval of quiet, which, as spring
approached, was broken by the doctor's resuming the work of repairs,
which had been suspended during the coldest weather. The partition
between the parlor and the large square bedroom was removed;
folding-doors were made between; the windows were cut down; a carpet
was bought to match the one which Maude had purchased the summer
before; and then, when all was done, the doctor was seized with a
fit of the blues, because it had cost so much. But he could afford
to be extravagant for a wife like Maude Glendower, and trusting much
to the wheat crop and the wool, he started for Troy about the middle
of March, fully expecting to receive from the lady a decisive answer
as to when she would make them both perfectly happy!
With a most winning smile upon her lip and a bewitching glance in
her black eyes, Maude Glendower took his hand in hers and begged for
a little longer freedom.
"Wait till next fall," she said; "I must go to Saratoga one more
summer. I shall never be happy if I don't, and you, I dare say,
wouldn't enjoy it a bit."
The doctor was not so sure of that. Her eyes, her voice, and the
soft touch of her hand made him feel very queer; and he was almost
willing to go to Saratoga himself if by these means he could secure
her.
"How much do they charge?" he asked; and, with a flash of her bright
eyes, the lady answered, "I suppose both of us can get along with
thirty or forty dollars a week, including everything; but that isn't
much, as I don't care to stay more than two months!"
This decided the doctor. He had not three hundred dollars to throw
away, and so he tried to persuade his companion to give up Saratoga
and go with him to Laurel Hill, telling her, as an inducement, of
the improvements he had made.
"There were two parlors now," he said, "and with her handsome
furniture they would look remarkably well."
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