Little more than two years have passed away since the September afternoon when the deep-toned bell rang out the merry tidings, "Maude can see--Maude can see," and again upon the billow another vessel rides. But this time to the westward; and the beautiful lady, whose soft, dark eyes look eagerly over the wave says to her companion, "It is very pleasant going home."
They had tarried for a long time in Italy, both for Louis' sake and because, after the recovery of her sight, Maude's health had been delicate, and her husband would stay until it was fully re-established. She was better now; roses were blooming on her cheek--joy was sparkling in her eye--while her bounding step, her ringing laugh, and finely rounded form told of youthful vigor and perfect health. And they were going home at last--James, Louis, and Maude--going to Hampton, where Mrs. De Vere awaited so anxiously their coming. She did not, however, expect them so soon, for they had left England earlier than they anticipated, and they surprised her one day; as she sat by her pleasant window gazing out upon the western sky and wondering how many more suns would set ere her children would be with her. It was a happy meeting; and after the first joy of it was over Maude inquired after the people at Laurel Hill.
"It is more than four months since we heard from them," she said, "and then Mrs. Kennedy's letter was very unsatisfactory. The doctor, she hinted, had lost his senses, but she made no explanation. What did she mean?"
"Why," returned Mrs. De Vere, "he had a paralytic shock more than six months ago."
"Oh, poor father," cried Louis, while Mrs. De Vere continued, "It was not a severe attack, but it has impaired his health somewhat.
You knew, of course, that his house and farm were to be sold."
"Our house, our old home! It shall not be!" and the tears glittered in Louis' eyes, while, turning to Mrs. De Vere, Maude whispered softly, "His wife has ruined him, but don't let us talk of it before Louis."
The lady nodded, and when at last they were alone, told all she knew of the affair. Maude Glendower had persisted in her folly until her husband's property was reduced to a mere pittance. There was a heavy mortgage upon the farm, and even a chattel-mortgage upon the furniture, and as the man who held them was stern and unrelenting, he had foreclosed, and the house was to be sold at auction. "Why has mother kept it from us?" said Maude, and Mrs. De Vere replied, "Pride and a dread of what you might say prevented her writing it, I think. I was there myself a few weeks since, and she said it could do no good to trouble you. The doctor is completely broken down, and seems like an old man. He cannot endure the handsome rooms below, but stays all day in that small garret chamber, which is furnished with your carpet, your mother's chair, and the high-past bedstead which his first wife owned."
Maude's sympathies were roused, and, fatigued as she was, she started the next morning with her husband and brother for Laurel Hill. Louis seemed very sad, and not even the familiar way-marks, as he drew near his home, had power to dissipate that sadness. He could not endure the thought that the house where he was born and where his mother had died should pass into the hands of strangers. He had been fortunate with his paintings, and of his own money had nearly two thousand dollars; but this could do but little toward canceling the mortgage, and he continued in the same dejected mood until the tall poplars of Laurel Hill appeared in view. Then, indeed, he brightened up, for there is something in the sight of home which brings joy to every human heart.
It was a hazy October day. The leaves were dropping one by one, and lay in little hillocks upon the faded grass. The blue hills which embosomed the lake were encircled with a misty veil, while the sunshine seemed to fall with a somber light upon the fields of yellow corn. Everything, even the gossamer thistle-top which floated upon the autumnal air, conspired to make the day one of those indescribable days when all hearts are pervaded with a feeling of pleasurable sadness--a sense of beauty mingled with decay.
"Is this home?" cried Maude, as they stopped before the gate. "I should hardly have recognized it."
It was indeed greatly changed, for Maude Glendower had perfect taste, and if she had expended thousands upon the place, she had greatly increased its value.
"Beautiful home, beautiful home--it must not be sold," was Louis' exclamation as he gazed upon it.
"No, it must not be sold," returned Maude, while her husband smiled quietly upon them both, and said nothing.
Maude Glendower had gone to an adjoining town, but Hannah and John greeted the strangers with nosy demonstrations, the latter ****** frequent use of his coat skirts to wipe away his tears.
"Can you see, marm--see me as true as you live?" he said, bowing with great humility to Maude, of whom he stood a little in awe, so polished were her manners and so elegant her appearance. Maude assured him that she could, and then observing how impatient Louis appeared, she asked for Dr. Kennedy. Assuming a mysterious air, old Hannah whispered, "He's up in de ruff, at de top of de house, in dat little charmber, where he stays mostly, to get shet of de music and dancin' and raisin' ob cain generally. He's mighty broke down, but the sight of you will peart him up right smart. You'd better go up alone--he'll bar it better one at a time."
