“And do you really think a wife would make it pleasanter?” Dr. Holbrook asked, the tone of his voice indicating a little doubt as to a man’s being happier for having a helpmate to share his joys and sorrows.
But no such doubts dwelt in the mind of Guy Remington. Eminently fitted for domestic happiness, he looked forward anxiously to the time when Lucy Atherstone, the fair English girl to whom he had become engaged when he visited Europe, four years ago, should be strong enough to bear transplanting to American soil. Twice since his engagement he had visited her, finding her always loving and sweet, but never quite ready to come with him to his home in America. He must wait a little longer; and he was waiting, satisfied that the girl was worth the sacrifice, as indeed she was, for a fairer, sweeter flower never bloomed than Lucy Atherstone, his affianced bride. Guy loved to think of her, and as the doctor’s remarks brought her to his mind, he went off into a reverie concerning her, becoming so lost in thought, that until the doctor’s hand was laid upon his shoulder, by way of rousing him, he did not see that what his friend had designated as a go-giggle was stopping in front of the office, and that from it a young lady was alighting.
Naturally polite, Guy’s first impulse was to go to her assistance, but she did not need it, as was proven by the light spring with which she reached the ground. The white-haired man was with her again, but he evidently did not intend to stop, and a close observer might have detected a shade of sadness and anxiety upon his face as Madeline called cheerily out to him, “Good-bye, grandpa. Don’t fear for me, and I hope you will have good luck;” then, as he drove away, she ran a step after him and said, “Don’t look so sorry, please, for if Mr. Remington won’t let you have the money, there’s my pony, Beauty. I am willing to give him up.”
“Never, Maddy. It’s all the little fortin’ you’ve got. I’ll let the old place go first;” and chirruping to Sorrel, the old man drove on, while Madeline walked, with a beating heart, to the office door where she knocked timidly.
Glancing involuntarily at each other, the young men exchanged meaning smiles, while the doctor whispered softly, “Verdant—that’s sure.”
As Guy sat nearest the door, it was he who opened it, while Madeline came in, her soft brown eyes glistening with something like a tear, and her cheeks burning with excitement as she took the chair indicated by Guy Remington, who unconsciously found himself master of ceremonies, and whom she naturally mistook for Dr. Holbrook, whom she had never seen.
CHAPTER II.
MADELINE CLYDE.
Maddy, her grandfather and grandmother called her, and there was a world of unutterable tenderness in the voices of the old couple when they spoke that name, while their dim eyes lighted up with pride and joy whenever they rested upon the young girl who made the sunlight of their home. She was the child of their only daughter, and had lived with them since her mother’s death, for her father was a sea captain, who never returned from his last voyage to China, made two months before she was born.
For forty years the aged couple had lived in the old red farm-house, tilling the barren soil of the rocky homestead, and, save on the sad night when they heard that Richard Clyde was lost at sea, and the far sadder morning when their daughter died, they had been tolerably free from sorrow; and, truly thankful for the blessings so long vouchsafed them, they had retired each night in peace with God and man, and risen each morning to pray. But a change was coming over them. In an evil hour Grandpa Markham had signed a note for a neighbor and friend, who failed to pay, and so it all fell upon Mr. Markham, who, to meet the demand, had been compelled to mortgage his homestead; the recreant neighbor still insisting that long before the mortgage was due he should be able himself to meet it. This, however, he had not done, and, after twice begging off a foreclosure, poor old Grandfather Markham found himself at the mercy of a grasping, remorseless man, into whose hands the mortgage had passed. It was vain to hope for mercy from a man like Silas Slocum. The money must either be forthcoming, or the red farm-house be sold, with its few acres of land; and as among his neighbors there was not one who had the money to spare, even if they had been willing to do so, he must look for it among strangers.