CHAPTER XXII.
BEFORE THE BRIDAL.
There was a fresh grave made in the churchyard, and another chair vacant at the cottage, where Maddy was at last alone. Unfettered by care and anxiety for sick ones, her aching heart was free to go to the stately mansion she had heard described so often, and where now two brides were busy with their preparations for the bridal hurrying on so fast. Since the letter read in the leafless October woods, Maddy had not heard from Guy directly, though Lucy had written a few brief lines, telling how happy she was, how strong she was growing, and how much like himself Guy was becoming. Maddy had been less than a woman if the last intelligence had failed to affect her unpleasantly. She did not wish Guy to regret his decision; but to be forgotten so soon after so strong protestations of affection was a little mortifying, and Maddy’s heart throbbed painfully as she read the letter, half hoping it might prove the last she should receive from Lucy Atherstone.
Guy had left no orders for any changes to be made at Aikenside; but Agnes, who was largely imbued with a love of bustle and repair, had insisted that at least the suite of rooms intended for the bride should be thoroughly renovated with new paper and paint, carpets and furniture. This plan Mrs. Noah opposed, for she guessed how little Guy would care for the change; but Agnes was resolved, and as she had great faith in Maddy’s taste, she insisted that she should go to Aikenside, and pass her judgment upon the improvements. It would do her good, she said—little dreaming how much it cost Maddy to comply with her wishes, or how fearfully the poor, crushed heart ached, as Maddy went through the handsome rooms intended for Guy’s young bride; but Mrs. Noah guessed it all, and pitied the white-faced girl, whose deep mourning robes told the loss of dear ones by death, but gave no token of that great loss, tenfold worse than death.
“It was wicked in her to fetch you here,” she said to Maddy one day when in Lucy’s room she found her sitting upon the floor, with her head bowed down upon the window-sill. “But she’s a triflin’ thing, and didn’t know ’twould kill you, poor child, poor Maddy!” and Mrs. Noah laid her hand kindly on Maddy’s hair. “Maybe you’d better go home,” she continued, as Maddy made no reply; “it must be hard, to be here in the rooms, and among the things which by good rights should be yours.”
“No, Mrs. Noah,” and Maddy’s voice was strangely unnatural, as she lifted up her head, revealing a face so haggard and white that Mrs. Noah was frightened, and asked in much alarm if anything new had happened.
“No, nothing; I was going to say that I’d rather stay a little longer where there are signs and sounds of life. I should die to be alone at Honedale to-morrow. I may die here, I don’t know. Do you know that to-morrow will be the bridal?”
Yes, Mrs. Noah knew it; but she hoped it might have escaped Maddy’s mind.
“Poor child,” she said again, “poor child, I mistrust you did wrong to tell him No!”
“Oh, Mrs. Noah, don’t say that; don’t make it harder for me to bear. The tempter has been telling me so, all day, and my heart is so hard and wicked, I cannot pray as I would. Oh, you don’t knew how wretched I am!” and Maddy hid her face in the broad, motherly lap, sobbing so wildly that Mrs. Noah was greatly perplexed how to act, or what to say.