"Then you aint married to Maude after all," said the astonished Janet, as she proceeded to question him of the doctor's family. "It beats all, I never heard on't; but no wonder, livin' as we do in this out o' the way place--no cars, no stage, no post office but twice a week--no nothin'."
This was indeed the reason why Janet had remained so long in ignorance of the people with whom she formerly lived. Fayette, as she said, was an out of the way place, and after hearing from a man who met them in New York, that Maude and Louis were both gone to Europe, she gave Laurel Hill no further thought, and settled quietly down among the hills until her monotonous life was broken by the birth of a son, the John Joel who, as she talked with J.C., slept calmly in his crib.
"So you aint merried to her," she kept repeating, her anger at her husband's treacherous memory fast decreasing. "I kinder thought her losin' my money might make a difference, but you're jest as happy with Nellie, aint you?"
The question was abrupt, and J.C. colored crimson as he tried to stammer out an answer.
"Never you mind," returned Janet, noticing his embarrassment."
Married life is just like a checker-board, and all on us has as much as we can do to swaller it at times; but you would of been happy with Maude, I know."
J.C. knew so, too, and long after he parted with Janet her last words were ringing in his ears, while mingled with them was the bitter memory, "It might perhaps have been."
But there was no hope now, and with an increased air of dejection he went back to his cheerless home. They were housekeeping, Nellie and himself, for Mrs. Kelsey had married again, and as the new husband did not fancy the young people they had set up an establishment of their own, and J.C. was fast learning how utterly valueless are soft, white hands when their owner knows not how to use them. Though keeping up an outside show, he was really very poor, and when he heard of the doctor's misfortune he went to his chamber and wept as few men ever weep. As Hannah well expressed it, "he was shiftless," and did not know how to take care of himself. This James De Vere understood, and after the sale at Laurel Hill he turned his attention to his unfortunate cousin, and succeeded at last in securing for him the situation of bookkeeper in a large establishment in New York with which he was himself remotely connected. Thither about Christmas J.C. and Nellie went, and from her small back room in the fifth story of a New York boarding-house Nellie writes to Louis glowing descriptions of high life in the city, and Louis, glancing at his crutches and withered feet, smiles as he thinks how weary he should be climbing the four flights of stairs which lead to that high life.
And now, with one more glance at Maude, we bring our story to a close. It is Easter, and over the earth the April sun shines brightly, just as it shone on the Judean hills eighteen hundred years ago. The Sabbath bells are ringing, and the merry peal which comes from the Methodist tower bespeaks in John a frame of mind unsuited to the occasion. Since forsaking the Episcopalians. he had seldom attended their service, but this morning, after his task is done, he will steal quietly across the common to the old stone church, where James De Vere and Maude sing together the glorious Easter Anthem. Maude formerly sang the alto, but in the old world her voice was trained to the higher notes, and to-day it will be heard in the choir where it has so long been missed.
The bells have ceased to toll, and a family group come slowly up the aisle. Dr. Kennedy, slightly bent, his white hair shading a brow from which much of his former sternness has gone, and his hand shaking but slightly as he opens the pew door and then steps back for the lady to enter, the lady Maude Glendower, who walks not as proudly as of old. She, too, has been made better by adversity, and though she will never love the palsied man, her husband, she will be to him a faithful wife, and a devoted mother to his boy, who in the square, old-fashioned pew sits where his eye can rest upon his beautiful sister, as her snowy fingers sweep once more the organ keys, which tremble joyfully as it were to the familiar touch. Low, deep-toned, and heavy is the prelude to the song, and they who listen feel the floor tremble beneath their feet. Then a strain of richest melody echoes through the house, arid the congregation hold their breath, as Maude De Vere sings to them of the Passover once sacrificed for us.
And now, shall we not leave them thus with the holy Easter light streaming up the aisles and the sweet music of the Easter song dying on the air?
