LETTIE ALLAN.
It was late that night when Doctor Conway drove the little pony
into the big barn in the rear of the comfortable dwelling occupied
by good, motherly Mrs. Allan, with whom he had “taken board” on his
first coming to this little town. It had been a very busy day for the
good doctor--so busy that he had not had time as yet to feel the full
extent of his disappointment. He was conscious of a dull, aching pain
at his heart and of a feeling of impending evil, but this he ascribed
to overwork and nervousness, and hastened to give the little pony his
usual supper and to shake down his bed of clean, sweet-smelling straw.
The doctor had not yet risen to the dignity of maintaining an hostler,
and it was some time before this was completed to his satisfaction, and
the doctor at liberty to shoulder his saddlebags and trudge wearily
into the house.
Late as it was, however, his supper was spread on a little round table
in front of the kitchen fire, and Lettie--the orphan niece of good Mrs.
Allan--stood ready to pour out his tea, and to make the bright, cleanly
kitchen still brighter by her presence.
She had been cowering before the fire for hours, waiting for him, and
would have waited as patiently until morning if need be, simply for the
pleasure of waiting on him, and feeling that she was in some degree
necessary to his comfort and happiness. And now, hearing him coming,
she hastened to throw more wood on the fire, that it might shine a
brighter welcome, and sought, by little feminine touches of her hair
and dress, to remove any traces of her long waiting, and enhance her
appearance in his eyes.
She was a handsome girl, and she fully understood that fact; but there
was nothing at all coquettish about her little preparations for his
coming; instead there was a curious sense of repression about her, as
if she endeavored to conceal her passionate nature under a garb of
quiet restraint. But the flash of her black eyes, and the sudden flush
on her rounded cheeks were hard matters to conceal. Perhaps it was for
that reason that she stooped over the fire, with her back to the door,
when he entered.
“Why, Lettie!” exclaimed Conway, in astonishment. “You still out of
bed? Don’t you know, child, that it is after midnight?”
“Yes, I know,” replied Lettie quietly. “But I was not sleepy, and you
were so late I thought there might have been an accident.”
“If you had been asleep, as you should have been, you would not have
known that I was late. Do you think me ungrateful?” he hastened to add,
perhaps noticing the pallor that overspread her face as he spoke. “I am
greatly obliged for your kindness; only you must not neglect yourself.
Remember,” he went on, smiling kindly, “folks at your age need plenty
of sleep.”
“I am not a child,” she retorted sullenly.
“A child by no means,” replied Conway, pleasantly. “Quite a young lady,
now. Eh, Lettie? and a very pretty one at that. We’ll have no end
of lovers soon, I suppose, and then there will be no one to get the
doctor’s supper for him and be scolded for thanks.”
He had seated himself at the little table with an air of great
satisfaction, and she was standing partly behind him, pouring out his
tea.
“Will you miss me?” she asked presently.
“Miss you?” he repeated kindly; “to be sure I will, Lettie.” He leaned
back in his chair, and took her hands in his over his shoulders. “I am
afraid you think me very thankless,” he said; “but I am not. I do thank
you for your kindness, only I have been very busy to-day and a little
worried;” and he ended with something very like a sigh.
“What is it?” she asked quickly.
“There was an accident,” he replied, “or at least I suppose it was an
accident. We found a stranger suffering from exposure, and--and,” he
concluded, absently, “it rather put me out.”
Lettie was standing behind him now, and the look of repression deepened
upon her face.
“Where did you find him?” she asked.
“I? Oh, it was Norine--that is, Miss Bright--who found him,” stammered
Conway, flushing. “It was at an old hut on the mountainside,” continued
Conway hurriedly, “and she--that is, we--removed him to Bright’s.”
“And was it _that_ that put you out?” inquired Lettie intently.
“Why, yes. I wanted to bring him to the village.”
“_She_ will nurse him,” said the girl, with a sly emphasis on the
personal pronoun; “so he is sure of good care.”
Conway moved uneasily in his chair.
“Oh, he will have good enough care, I suppose,” he said indifferently.
“Does it put you out to have her nurse him?” persisted Lettie.
There was no answer to this, and she moved around the table for a
moment to look into his face, but immediately returned to her old
position behind his chair.
“You must care a great deal for her,” she said softly.
“Who told you that? Why do you think so?” he inquired, quickly facing
her.
“No one has told me,” replied the girl, with a mingled air of pride and
defiance; “but I know you do.”
Conway was not a demonstrative man by any means. His life had been full
of self-restraint, and he was, from the very nature of his education,
self-contained as well as self-reliant. But there is something in our
nature that demands sympathy, and I am afraid that the best of men are
generally prone to transfer their loads of care and vexation on to the
first pair of sympathetic shoulders that are found available.
So the good doctor, thinking, no doubt, that his cherished secret was
already discovered, became almost communicative; and though older,
stronger, and very much wiser, was only too glad to lean on this girl’s
mental strength, and to accept from her the meed of sympathy that she
was ready to bestow.
“Yes,” he said simply: “it put me out to have that stranger taken to
her home. I had almost hoped to bring her to mine,” and he faltered a
little.
“You think a great deal of her?” said Lettie in a questioning tone.
“Yes; a great deal more than I thought I could care for any one.”
She had her hands folded over her breast now, still standing
behind him. Her color came and went rapidly, and her bosom heaved
tumultuously. Still she spoke softly:
“You could never care for any one else?”
“In the same way? Oh, no,” replied Conway, in the confidence of his
first love; “I could never care for any one else.”
“Not even if she should not care--if you did not marry her?” asked
Lettie, in her repressed tone. “Not even if she were to marry some one
else?”
“Not even then,” replied Conway; and he laid his head down upon his
folded hands as he added softly: “Not while I live.”
There was silence now. Conway had felt her hands fluttering over him in
a mute caress; but when he lifted his head she was gone.
Though it was so late when Conway sought his bed that night, he was up
early enough the next morning--so early, in fact, that he had given
the little pony his breakfast, and harnessed him ready for the daily
rounds, before he was called in for his own morning meal.
“I am afraid you will have to prescribe for Lettie, doctor,” said good
Mrs. Allan, as he entered the kitchen. “She is quite ill this morning.”
“I shall have to order more sleep for her, and less trouble from
myself,” replied Conway. “I am afraid I kept her up too late last
night. I guess that rest is all she needs.” And he bolted his coffee
and cakes as rapidly as possible, and retired to his office.
“Dear me!” said Mrs. Allan to herself, after he had left the room, “he
has eaten nothing at all. I’m sure he needs looking after as badly as
any one. And now with Lettie sick, I’m sure I----Why, Lettie!” she
cried in astonishment. “Good lands, child, how you frightened me!”
“I am better,” replied Lettie quietly.
It had been but a few moments before that her aunt had left her in bed,
with every symptom of a high fever, and now she entered the room neatly
and prettily clothed, and, with the exception of a slight pallor,
apparently as well as ever.
She kissed her aunt affectionately, poured herself out a cup of coffee,
and, sitting down to the table, made a pretense of eating.
“I am better,” she said again, as she found her aunt staring at her.
“Of course you are better, child; but you are not well enough to be up.
Why didn’t you lie still, and let me bring you a cup of coffee?”
The girl’s lips trembled a little, perhaps at her aunt’s kindly words.
She looked up thankfully, but only repeated that she felt better.
Mrs. Allan bustled about with her morning’s work. She was a notable
housekeeper, and took pride in her work. But she glanced at her niece
several times with a troubled look.
There was something wrong. She could not tell what. At last she asked
suddenly:
“You did not quarrel last night?”
Lettie looked up quickly.
“Quarrel?” she repeated, with a soft little laugh. “Do you suppose I
could quarrel--with him?”
“What is it, then?”
“Nothing--only I am unhappy,” with a little touch of proud scorn in her
tones.
“Pshaw! You must not mind that,” replied her aunt kindly. “Lands sake,
child! When you get to be as old as I am, you will know what trouble
means;” and her ample bosom heaved with a retrospective sigh.
Lettie echoed the sigh in a softer way, and going over to the window,
she stood with her forehead pressed against the cold glass, and stared
moodily into the street.
She was young yet, but she was a woman, with more than her share of
womanly passion. And this was the turning point of her life. She knew
what it was to be unhappy. She thought wearily, and wondered sadly, if
her misery was to increase with her age.
She had been petted and spoiled, perhaps, by this kindly old woman,
who loved her so dearly, and her imperiously passionate nature could
not brook restraint. And she loved, and knew that she could not be
loved in return. And at eighteen, that to a woman of her nature was
everything.
She stood by the window, silent and sullen, for a long time. There was
only one person in her narrow world that she cared for outside of her
one great love, and that was her aunt. And now she was going to do what
she knew would give her aunt pain. That which would bring pain and
sorrow to herself as well; she knew that, but she did not care for it.
She wanted to save this good woman all she could; beyond that, she was
reckless of consequences.
Only she must go away. She would not stay and see the love she longed
for given to another. And she stood there and chafed and fretted,
staring into the village street with her great dusky eyes glowing
sullenly, but seeing nothing of what passed.
“Auntie,” she called at last, “I want to tell you something.”
Mrs. Allan dropped the work she had in hand, and joined her niece at
the window.
“What is it, dear?” she asked kindly.
“Something that will hurt you, I am afraid,” replied Lettie, looking
resolutely out of the window, that she might not see her aunt’s face.
“I am sorry, auntie,” she said huskily; “sorry for both you and myself:
but I can not stand it any longer, auntie. I am going away, and I think
I shall start at once.”
“Away? Where?” was all her aunt could ejaculate.
“I am going away,” repeated Lettie steadily; “going to Aunt Kate’s, and
I want to go at once.”
“My lands, child! You don’t mean that you want to start for Chicago so
suddenly as this?” cried Mrs. Allan, deeply wounded. “Of course, if you
want to leave me,” she added, in an injured tone, “I will help you to
go. But I did not think you would leave me like this.”
And the good woman broke down and sobbed.
“My dear, dear aunt!” cried Lettie, throwing her arms around her aunt’s
neck. “My dearest friend, do not think so ill of me. You are the only
friend I have!” she cried bitterly, kneeling down by her aunt’s side
and burying her face in her aunt’s capacious apron. “You have done
so much for me--my more than mother, and I love you so dearly. But I
must go!” she cried passionately. “I must go, or I shall do something
desperate.”
“Why, Lettie Allan, what do you mean?” cried her aunt, frightened at
the girl’s vehemence.
“I mean that I must leave you for a time, and him,” said Lettie, rising
dry-eyed from a tempest of sobbing. “I can not stay and stand it. I
_must_ go. Oh, aunt, aunt! You do not understand!” she cried, pacing up
and down the room, her cheeks and eyes flaming with passion--“you do
not understand, or you would freely forgive me, and let me go.”
“What is it, child? What is there to forgive?” exclaimed the aunt.
“Nothing,” said Lettie, turning proudly--“nothing more than my leaving
you, when I should have been a daughter to you. But I _do_ love you,”
she went on, giving away to passionate tears. “And I want you to love
me.”
“Land knows, child, I have always loved you!” said Mrs. Allan, wiping
her eyes.
“And you will let me go?” cried Lettie.
“Let you go, child? I can’t prevent your going if you want to. But I
never thought it would come like this.”
And the old woman wept bitterly.
Lettie moved restlessly around the room.
“Auntie,” she said presently, “you are a woman; you will understand
some day, and forgive me. Kiss me good-by, auntie, dear, and give me
your blessing. You can send my things; and some day, perhaps, we can be
happy again together.”
Poor Mrs. Allan was too overcome to speak. She could only bend forward
and kiss the willful girl with her trembling lips, and then, covering
her head with her apron, she gave way to her surprise and grief.
Lettie kissed her fondly, and left the room. Going upstairs, she soon
returned completely equipped for the street, and carrying a small
traveling bag in her hands. This she must have prepared before leaving
the room for breakfast. In the hall, she stopped for a moment as if
hesitating, and then walking steadily, she entered the little room used
by Doctor Conway as an office.
He had gone--she knew that, yet she stayed for some moments in the
little office alone. When she left it, her veil was drawn closely
over her face; and so she left the house, and so passed out of Lester
Conway’s life for many years.