A few days before Maddy's departure, grandpa went up to see "the
madam;" anxious to know something more than hearsay about a person to
whose care his child was to be partially intrusted. Agnes was in her
room when told who wanted to see her. Starting quickly, she turned so
deadly white that Maddy, who brought the message, flew to her side,
asking in much alarm, what was the matter.
"Only a little faint. It will soon pass off," Agnes said, and then,
dismissing Maddy, she tried to compose herself sufficiently to pass
the ordeal she so much dreaded, and from which there was no possible
escape.
Thirteen years! Had they changed her past recognition? She hoped, she
believed so, and yet, never in her life had Agnes Remington's heart
beaten with so much terror and apprehension as when she entered the
reception room where Guy sat talking with the infirm old man she
remembered so well. He had grown older, thinner, poorer looking, than
when she saw him last, but in his wrinkled face there was the same
benignant, heavenly expression which, when she was better than she was
now, used to remind her of the angels. His snowy hair was parted just
the same as ever, but the mild blue eye was dimmer, and it rested on
her with no suspicious glance as, partially reassured, she glided
across the threshold, and bowed civilly when Guy presented her.
A little anxious as to how her grandfather would acquit herself, Maddy
sat by, wondering why Agnes appeared so ill at ease, and why her
grandsire started sometimes at the sound of her voice, and looked
earnestly at her.
"We've never met before to my knowledge, young woman," he said once to
Agnes, "but you are mighty like somebody, and your voice when you talk
low keeps makin' me jump as if I'd heard it summers or other."
After that Agnes spoke in elevated tones, as if she thought him deaf,
and the mystified look of wonder did not return to his face. Numerous
were the charges he gave to Agnes concerning Maddy, bidding her be
watchful of his child, and see that she did not "get too much drinked
in with the wicked things on Broadway!" then, as he arose to go, he
laid his trembling hand on her head and said solemnly: "You are young
yet, lady, and there may be a long life before you. God bless you,
then, and prosper you in proportion as you are kind to Maddy. I've
nothing to give you nor Mr. Guy for your goodness only my prayers, and
them you have every day. We all pray for you, lady, Joseph and all,
though I doubt me he knows much the meaning of what he says." "Who,
sir? What did you say?" and Agnes' face was scarlet, as grandpa
replied: "Joseph, our unfortunate boy; Maddy must have told you, the
one who's taken such a shine to Jessie. He's crazy-like, and from the
corner where he sits so much, I can hear him whispering by the hour,
sometimes of folks he used to know, and then of you, who we call
madam. He says for ten minutes on the stretch: "God bless the madam--the
madam--the madam!" You're sick, lady; talkin' about crazy folks
makes you faint," grandpa added, hastily, as Agnes turned white, like
the dress she wore. "No--oh, no, I'm better now," Agnes gasped, bowing
him to the door with a feeling that she could not breathe a moment
longer in his presence. He did not hear her faint cry of bitter,
bitter remorse, as he walked through the hall, nor know she watched
him as he went slowly down the walk, stopping often to admire the fair
blossoms which Maddy did not feel at liberty to pick. "He loved
flowers," Agnes whispered, as her better nature prevailed over every
other feeling, and, starting eagerly forward, she ran after the old
man, who, surprised at her evident haste, waited a little anxiously
for her to speak. It was rather difficult to do so with Maddy's
inquiring eyes upon her, but Agnes managed at last to say: "Does that
crazy man like flowers--the one who prays for the madam?" "Yes, he
used to years ago," grandpa replied; and, bending down, Agnes began to
pick and arrange into a most tasteful bouquet the blossoms and buds of
May, growing so profusely within the borders.