Cousin Maude Part 18

"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 p.r.o.nounciation 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 n.i.g.g.e.r 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 s.h.i.+ngles, 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-gla.s.s 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 n.i.g.g.e.r'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, p.r.o.nounced "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 a.s.sistance 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 att.i.tude.

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 G.o.d 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 pa.s.sionately 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 n.o.ble 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 pa.s.sengers 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 gra.s.s 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 sh.o.r.es of the Old World.

CHAPTER XX.

THE s.e.xTON.

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 s.e.xton. 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 princ.i.p.al store, where, with elevated heels and busy jackknives, they whittled out shapeless things, or made remarks concerning any luckless female who chanced to pa.s.s. 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 a.s.sure 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 n.i.g.g.e.r!" and John glanced at the bell, as if he intended a repet.i.tion of the rejoicings.

Surely Maude De Vere, across the sea, never received a greater tribute of respect than was paid to her that day by the warm-hearted John, who, the moment he heard the glad news, sped away, to proclaim it from the church-tower. The letter had come that afternoon, and, as John said, was written by Maude herself. The experiment had been performed weeks before, but she would wait until a.s.surance was doubly sure ere she sent home the joyful tidings. It was a wonderful cure, for the chance of success was small, but the efforts used in her behalf had succeeded, and she could see again.

"But what of Louis?" asked Dr. Kennedy, who was listening while his wife read to him the letter. "What of Louis? Have they done anything for him?"

"They had tried, but his deformity could not be helped," and with a pang of disappointment the father was turning away when something caught his ear which caused him to listen again.

"You don't know," Maude wrote, "how great a lion Louis is getting to be. He painted a picture of me just as I looked that dreadful morning when I stood in the suns.h.i.+ne and felt that I was blind. It is a strange, wild thing, but its wildness is relieved by the angel-faced boy who looks up at me so pityingly. Louis is perfect, but Maude--oh! I can scarce believe that she ever wore that expression of fierce despair. Strange as it may seem, this picture took the fancy of the excitable French, and ere Louis was aware of it he found himself famous. They come to our rooms daily to see le pet.i.t artist, and many ask for pictures or sketches, for which they pay an exorbitant price. One wealthy American gentleman brought him a daguerreotype of his dead child, with the request that he would paint from it a life-sized portrait, and if he succeeds in getting a natural face he is to receive five hundred dollars. Think of little Louis Kennedy earning five hundred dollars, for he will succeed. The daguerreotype is much like Nellie, which will make it easier for Louis."

This was very gratifying to Dr. Kennedy, who that day more than once repeated to himself, "Five hundred dollars: it's a great deal of money, for him to earn; maybe he'll soon be able to help me, and mercy knows I shall soon need it if that woman continues her unheard-of extravagances. More city company to-morrow, and I heard her this morning tell that Jezebel in the kitchen to put the whites of sixteen eggs into one loaf of cake. What am I coming to?" and Dr. Kennedy, groaned in spirit as he walked through the handsome apartments, seeking in vain for a place where he could sit and have it seem as it used to do, when the rocking-chair which Matty had brought stood invitingly in the middle of the room where now a center-table was standing, covered with books and ornaments of the most expensive kind.

Since last we looked in upon her Maude Glendower had ruled with a high hand. She could not live without excitement, and rallying from her grief at parting with her child, she plunged at once into repairs, tearing down and building up, while her husband looked on in dismay. When they were about it, she said, they might as well have all the modern improvements, and water, both hot and cold, was accordingly carried to all the sleeping apartments, the fountain-head being a large spring distant from the house nearly half a mile.

Gas she could not have, though the doctor would hardly have been surprised had she ordered the laying of pipes from Rochester to Laurel Hill, so utterly reckless did she seem. She was fond of company, and as she had visited everybody, so everybody in return must visit her, she said, and toward the last of summer she filled the house with city people, who vastly enjoyed the good cheer with which her table was always spread.

John's desire to see the fun was more than satisfied, as was also Hannah's, and after the receipt of Maude's letter the latter determined to write herself, "and let Miss De Vere know just how things was managed." In order to do this, it was necessary to employ an amanuensis, and she enlisted the services of the gardener, who wrote her exact language, a mixture of negro, Southern, and Yankee.

A portion of this letter we give to the reader.

After expressing her pleasure that Maude could see, and saying that she believed the new Miss to be a good woman, but a mighty queer one, she continued:

"The doin's here is wonderful, and you'd hardly know the old place.

Thar's a big dining room run out to the south, with an expansion table mighty nigh a rod long, and what's more, it't allus full too, of city stuck-ups--and the way they do eat! I haint churned nary pound of b.u.t.ter since you went away. Why, bless yer soul, we has to buy. Do you mind that patch of land what the doctor used to plant with corn? Well, the garden sa.s.s grows there now, and t'other garden raises nothin' but flowers and strabries, and thar's a man hired on purpose to tend 'em. He's writin' this for me. Thar's a tower run up in the northeast eend, and when it's complete, she's goin' to have a what you call 'em--somethin' that blows up the water--oh, a fountain. Thar's one in the yard, and, if you'll believe it, she's got one of Cary's rotary pumpin' things, that folks are runnin'

crazy about, and every hot day she keeps John a-turnin' the injin'

to squirt the water all over the yard, and make it seem like a thunder shower! Thar's a bathroom, and when them city folks is here some on 'em is a-was.h.i.+n' in thar all the time. I don't do nothin'

now but wash and iron, and if I have fifty towels I have one! But what pesters me most is the wide skirts I has to do up; Miss Canady wears a hoop bigger than an amberell. They say Miss Empress, who makes these things, lives in Paris, and I wish you'd put yourself out a little to see her, and ask her, for me, to quit sendin' over them fetched hoops. Thar aint no sense in it! We've got jiggers in every chamber where the water spirts out. Besides turnin' the injin John drives the horses in the new carriage. Dr. Canady looks poorly, and yet madam purrs round him like a kitten, but I knows the claws is thar. She's about broke him of usin' them maxims of his, and your poor marm would enjoy it a spell seein' him paid off, but she'd pity him after a while. I do, and if things continners to grow wus, I shall just ask pra'rs for him in my meetin'. Elder Blossom is powerful at that. My health is considerable good, but I find I grow old. Yours, with respect and regrets," Hannah.

"P.S.--I don't believe that t'other beau of yourn is none the happiest. They live with Miss Kelsey yet, but thar's a story round that she's a-gwine to marry again, and the man don't like De Vere, and won't have him thar, so if the doctor should run out, as I'm afraid he will, what'll them lazy critters do? Nellie's got to be kinder sozzlin' in her dress, and he has took to chawin' tobacker by the pound. They was here a spell ago, and deaf as I be, I hearn 'em have one right smart quarrel. He said she was slatterly, or somethin' like that, and she called him a fool, and said she 'most knew he wished he'd took you, blind as you was, and he said, kinder sorry-like, 'Maude would never of called me a fool, nor wore such holes in the heels of her stockin's.' I couldn't hear no more, but I knew by her voice that she was cryin', and when I went below and seen the doctor out behind the woodshed a-figgerin' up, says I to myself, 'If I was a Univa.r.s.elar, I should b'lieve they was all on 'em a-gittin' thar pay,' but bein' I'm a Methodis', I don't believe nothin'."

This letter, which conveyed to Maude a tolerably correct idea of matters at home, will also show to the reader the state of feeling existing between J.C. and Nellie. They were not suited to each other, and though married but seven months, there had been many a quarrel besides the one which Hannah overheard. Nellie demanded of her husband more love than he had to bestow, and the consequence was, a feeling of bitter jealousy on her part and an increasing coldness on his. They were an ill-a.s.sorted couple, utterly incapable of taking care of themselves, and when they heard from Mrs. Kelsey that she really contemplated a second marriage, they looked forward to the future with a kind of hopeless apathy, wholly at variance with the feelings of the beautiful, dark-eyed Maude and the n.o.ble James De Vere.