Three days had passed since the bridal, and James still lingered at Laurel Hill, while not very many miles away his mother waited and wondered why he did not come. J.C. and Nellie were gone, but ere they had left the former sought an interview with Maude, whose placid brow he kissed tenderly as he whispered in her ear: "Fate decreed that you should not be my wife, but I have made you my sister, and, if I mistake not, another wishes to make you my cousin."
To James he had given back the ornaments intended for another bride than Nellie, saying, as he did so, "Maude De Vere may wear them yet."
"What do you mean?" asked James, and J.C. replied: "I mean that I, and not you, will have a Cousin Maude."
Two days had elapsed since then, and it was night again--but to the blind girl, drinking in the words of love which fell like music on her ear, it was high noon-day, and the sky undimmed by a single cloud.
"I once called you my cousin, Maude," the deep-toned voice said, "and I thought it the sweetest name I had ever heard, but there is a nearer, dearer name which I would give to you, even my wife--Maude--shall it be?" and he looked into her sightless eyes to read her answer.
She had listened eagerly to the story of his love born so long ago--had held her breath lest she should lose a single word when he told her how he had battled with that love, and how his heart had thrilled with joy when he heard that she was free--but when he asked her to be his wife the bright vision faded, and she answered mournfully, "You know not what you say. You would not take a blind girl in her helplessness."
"A thousandfold dearer to me for that very helplessness," he said, and then he told her of the land beyond the sea, where the physicians were well skilled in everything pertaining to the eye.
"Thither they would go," he said, "when the April winds were blowing, and should the experiment not succeed, he would love and cherish her all the more."
Maude knew he was in earnest, and was about to answer him, when along the hall there came the sound of little crutches, and over her face there flitted a shadow of pain. It was the sister-love warring with the love of self, but James De Vere understood it all, and he hastened to say, "Louis will go, too, my darling. I have never had a thought of separating you. In Europe he will have a rare opportunity for developing his taste. Shall it not be so?"
"Let him decide," was Maude's answer, as the crutches struck the soft carpet of the room.
"Louis," said Mr. De Vere, "shall Maude go with me to Europe as my wife?"
"Yes, yes--yes, yes," was Louis' hasty answer, his brown eyes filling with tears of joy when he heard that he, too, was to accompany them.
Maude could no longer refuse, and she half fancied she saw the flashing of the diamonds, when James placed upon her finger the ring which bore the inscription of "Cousin Maude." Before coming there that night, Mr. De Vere had consulted a New York paper, and found that a steamship would sail for Liverpool on the 20th of April, about six weeks from that day.
"We will go in it," he said, "my blind bird, Louis, and I," and he parted lovingly the silken tresses of her to whom this new appellation was given.
There was much in the future to anticipate, and much in the past which he wished to talk over; so he remained late that night, and on passing through the lower hall was greatly surprised to see Mrs.
Kennedy still sitting in the parlor. She had divined the object and result of his visit, and the moment he was gone she glided up the stairs to the room where Maude was quietly weeping for very joy. The story of the engagement was soon told, and winding her arm around Maude's neck Mrs. Kennedy said, "I rejoice with you, daughter, in your happiness, but I shall be left so desolate when you and Louis are both gone."
Just then her eye caught the ring upon Maude's finger, and taking it in her hand. she admired its chaste beauty, and was calculating its probable cost, when glancing at the inside she started suddenly, exclaiming, "'Cousin Maude'--that is my name--the one by which he always called me. Has it been given to you, too?" and as the throng of memories that name awakened came rushing over her, the impulsive woman folded the blind girl to her bosom, saying to her, "My child, my, child, you should have been!"
"I do not understand you," said Maude, and Mrs. Kennedy replied, "It is not meet that we should part ere I tell you who and what I am. Is the name of Maude Glendower strange to you? Did you never hear it in your Vernon home?"
"It seemed familiar to me when J.C. De Vere first told me of you," answered Maude, "but I cannot recall any particular time when I heard it spoken. Did you know my mother?"
"Yes, father and mother both, and loved them too. Listen to me, Maude, while I tell you of the past. Though it seems so long ago, I was a schoolgirl once, and nightly in my arms there slept a fair-haired, blue-eyed maiden, four years my junior, over whom I exercised an elder sister's care. She loved me, this little blue-eyed girl, and when your brother first spoke to me I seemed again to hear her voice whispering in my ear, 'I love you, beautiful Maude.'"
"It was mother--it was mother!" and Maude Remington drew nearer to the excited woman, who answered:
"Yes, it was your mother, then little Matty Reed; we were at school together in New Haven, and she was my roommate. We were not at all alike, for I was wholly selfish, while she found her greatest pleasure in ministering to others' happiness; but she crossed my path at last, and then I thought I hated her."
"Not my mother, lady. You could not hate my mother!" and the blind eyes flashed as if they would tear away the veil of darkness in which they were enshrouded, and gaze upon a woman who could hate sweet Matty Remington.
"Hush, child! don't look so fiercely at me," said Maude Glendower.
