Attentions so marked could not fail to be commented upon; and while poor, unsuspecting Maddy was deriving so much comfort from his daily visits, deeming that day very long which did not bring him to her, the Honedale gossips, of which there were many, were busy with her affairs, talking them over at their numerous tea-drinkings, discussing them in the streets, and finally at a quilting, where they met in solemn conclave, deciding, that, “for a girl like Maddy Clyde it did not look well to have so much to do with that young Remington, who, everybody knew, was engaged to a somebody in England.”
“Yes, and would have been married long ago, if it wasn’t for this foolin’ with Maddy,” chimed in Mrs. Joel Spike, throwing the chalk across the quilt to her sister, Tripheny Marvel, who wondered if Maddy thought he’d ever have her.
“Of course he wouldn’t. He knew what he was about. He was not green enough to marry Grandpa Markham’s daughter; and if she didn’t look out, she’d get herself into a pretty scrape. It didn’t look well, anyhow, for her to be putting on airs, as she had done ever since big folks took her up, and she guessed she wouldn’t be beholden to nobody for her larnin’.”
All this and much more was discussed, and by the time the patchwork thing was done, there remained but little to be said either for or against Guy Remington and Maddy Clyde which had not been said by either friend or foe.
Among the invited guests at that quilting was the wife of Farmer Green, Maddy’s warmest friend in Honedale, and the one who did her best to defend her against the attacks of those whose remarks she well knew were caused more by envy than any personal dislike to Maddy, who used to be so much of a pet until her superior advantages separated her in a measure from them. Good Mrs. Green was sorely tried. Without in the least blaming Maddy, she, too, had been troubled at the frequency of Guy’s Visits to the cottage. It was not friendship alone which took him there, she was sure; and knowing that he was engaged, she feared for Maddy’s happiness at first, and afterward, when people began to talk, she feared for her good name. Something must be done, and though she dreaded it greatly, she was the one to do it. Accordingly, next day she started for the cottage, which Guy had just left, and this, in her opinion, accounted for the bright color in Maddy’s cheek and the sparkle in her eye. Guy had been there, bringing and leaving a world of sunshine, but, alas, his chances for coming ever again as he had done were fearfully small, when, at the close of Mrs. Green’s well-meant visit, Maddy lay on her bed, her white, frightened face buried in the pillows, and herself half wishing she had died before the last hour had come, with the terrible awakening it had brought; awakening to the fact that of all living beings, Guy Remington was the one she loved the best—the one without whose presence it seemed to her she could not live, but without which she now knew she must.
With the best of intentions Mrs. Green had made a bungle of the whole affair, but had succeeded in giving Maddy a general impression that folks were talking awfully about Guy’s coming there, and doing for her so much like an accepted lover, when everybody knew he was engaged, and wouldn’t be likely to marry a poor girl if he wasn’t; that unless she wanted to be ruined teetotally, and lose all her friends, she must contrive to stop his visits, and not see him so much.
“Yes, I’ll do anything, only please leave me now,” Maddy gasped, her face as white as ashes and her eyes fixed pleadingly upon Mrs. Green, who, having been young herself, guessed the truth, and, as she arose to go, laid her motherly hand on Maddy’s head, saving kindly:
“Poor child, it’s hard to bear now, but you’ll get over it in time.”
“Get over it,” Maddy moaned, as she shut and bolted the door after Mrs. Green, and then threw herself upon the bed, “I never shall till I die.”
She almost felt that she was dying then, so desolate and so dreary the future looked to her. What was life worth without Guy, and why had she been thrown so much in his way; why permitted to love him as she knew she did, if she must lose him now? Maddy could not cry; there was a tightness about her eyes, and a keen, cutting pain about her heart as she tried to pray for strength to do what was right—strength to cast Guy Remington from her heart where it was a sin for him to be; and then she asked to be forgiven for the wrong she had unwittingly done to Lucy Atherstone, who trusted implicitly, and who, in her last letter, had said: