The reception of Agnes' note produced quite a commotion at the red
cottage, where various opinions were expressed as to the prime mover
of the plan, grandpa thinking that as Mrs. Agnes wrote the note, and
was most interested in it, she, of course, had suggested it, grandma
insisting that it was Jessie's doings, while Maddy, when she said
anything, agreed with her grandmother, though away down in her heart
was a tiny spot warm with the half belief that Mr. Guy himself had
first thought of having her at Aikenside, where she would rather go
than to any other spot in the wide world; to Aikenside, with its
shaven lawn, almost large enough to be called a park, with its shaded
paths and winding walks, its costly flowers and running vines, its
fountains and statuary, its fish pond and grove, its airy rooms, its
marbled hall, its winding stairs, with banisters of rosewood, its
cupola at the top, from which so many miles of hill and meadow land
could be discerned, its bay windows and long piazzas, its sweet-faced,
golden-haired Jessie, and its manly, noble Guy. Only the image of
Agnes, flashing in silk and diamonds was a flaw on the picture's fair
surface. From thoughts of her Maddy had insensibly shrank, until she
met her in the carriage, and then received the note asking her
services. These events wrought in her a change, and dread of Mrs.
Agnes passed away. She should like her, and she should be so happy at
Aikenside, for, of course, she was going, and she began to wish the
doctor would come so as to tell her how long before she would be
strong enough to perform the duties of teacher to little Jessie.
At first Grandpa Markham hesitated. It might do Maddy a deal of hurt
to go to Aikenside, he said, her humble home would look mean to her
after all that finery, while the temptations to vanity and ambition
would be greater there than at home; but Maddy put all his objections
aside, and long before the doctor came she had written to Mrs. Agnes
that she would go. The doctor could not understand why it was that in
Maddy's home he did not think as well of her going to Aikenside as he
had done the evening previous. She looked so bright, so pure, so
artless, sitting by her grandfather's knee, that it seemed a pity to
transplant her to another soil, while, hidden in his heart where even
he did not know it was hidden, was a fear of what might be the effect
of daily intercourse with Guy. Still he said it was the best thing for
her to do, and laughingly remarked that it was far better than
teaching the district school, and then he asked if she would ride
again that day; but to this Mrs. Markham objected. It was too soon,
she said, Maddy had hardly recovered from yesterday's fatigue,
suggesting that as the doctor was desirous of doing good to his
convalescent patients, he carry out poor old deaf Mary Barnes, who
complained that he stayed so long with the child at "granther
Markham's" as to have but a moment to spare for her.