CONTENTMENT.
The departure of his friends from Bright Farm created a great void in
the life of Doctor Lester Conway, and he felt it sorely.
They were his only friends, if we except good Mrs. Allan, and his
naturally lonesome life was made trebly so by their departure.
That he was sincerely and unselfishly glad of their great good fortune
there could be no doubt; and that he was content with his own lot in
life. Well, he had insisted to Jim that he was content, and he had even
repeated it to himself a great many times after Jim had left, rather as
if it required a good many assurances to convince even himself. But he
was content; he said so a great many times, so he must be content.
But however content he might be, Lester Conway certainly was not happy.
Some one of those old philosophers, who fondly imagined that they knew
the world long before the world began to really know itself, said:
“Contentment is the basis of all true happiness.”
Now, here was a direct refutation of this theory; for Lester Conway,
with plenty of contentment, was miserably, piteously unhappy.
Piteously, I say; for I know of no misery so well deserving of pity as
the mental sufferings of a strong, patient, and self-reliant man, one
who fights pluckily against the burdens that fate has laid upon him,
and who strives, in the midst of his sufferings, to convince himself
that he is strong enough to bear his load without complaining, and
that, therefore, he must not complain, even to himself.
So it was with Conway, and he plunged into his work with an effort
to forget his mental misery by making himself as miserable bodily as
possible.
There was a great deal of sickness in that mountainous neighborhood
that winter, and he had plenty to do, and was very thankful for it.
He was always ready and willing to go, no matter where or from whom the
call came; and he was just as tender, and his smile was just as kindly
as ever. But his eyes were something too bright, and gray hairs began
to be visible in his tawny mustache; and I am afraid that he could not
forget.
Jim proved himself an excellent correspondent, and kept his friend
fully informed of all that occurred in their new home.
There was hardly a week passed that did not bring to Lester Conway some
kindly token of Jim’s friendship. Conway was at first inclined to be
angry at this, for he did not like to be patronized; but he soon came
to look at it in a different light, and thanked his friends heartily
for their kindness.
Jim had developed a passion for books--at least he said so--was buying
them by the square foot, he humorously wrote Conway, and must unload
all pertaining to medicine on his friend; and as the process of
unloading was unremitting, Conway soon had a library such as he had
dreamed of, but never before possessed.
They were very happy in their new home, Jim wrote, and were making so
many new friends that their lonesomeness had nearly worn away.
As for himself, his letters said he was very busy with nothing at all
to do. There was so much to see in that great city that he was forever
exploring it, and continually finding something new and astonishing.
“All the sights are not pleasant ones,” he wrote sadly. “There are
lights and shades, and I think the shades largely predominate. I am
very thankful that I have the means to do some good, when so much is
needed. I find myself swindled once in a while; but I don’t mind it
much, for I find experience necessary even in trying to do good.”
Conway could easily see that his friend had not yet become spoiled
by his good fortune, and often pictured to himself the good-hearted,
kindly fellow, whose money would only make him a mark for the
unscrupulous, and whose good heart was only too likely to make him a
ready prey.
So his letters were mostly filled with sage advice and cynical sayings
destined to save his friend from the many pitfalls of the metropolis.
So the fall and winter passed away, and he waited with all the patience
he could muster for the advent of summer.
He knew they would return to the little farm--at least during the
heated term--and he longed passionately for the time when he might at
least see Norine again, even though they part again as hopelessly as
ever.
He went very often to the little cottage, and planned with Mrs. Higgins
for making it a very bower by the time its mistress returned.
There was some relief for him in this--some surcease of pain in
touching the household treasures that he knew she valued, and in going
over places dear to him by their associations with her. For the rest,
he spent the day in labor and his nights in study, and waited for her
coming.
He was something of a trial to good Mrs. Allan in these days, for she
was very fond of him, and it disturbed her to have him so restless and
miserable.
“I wish that Norine would go off and get married again, and be done
with it,” the good lady thought fretfully. “Land knows I don’t see
what he can find in her to make himself so miserable about. She is not
nearly as handsome as my Lettie,” and Mrs. Allan would sigh grievously
as she thought of the child of her heart, whom she might never see
again.
True, she heard frequently from her niece--heard that she was contented
and happy, and almost every letter contained a promise that some day
they would be together again; but she had been gone nearly four years
now, and the longed-for meeting was apparently as far off as ever.
“Doctor,” she said one day as he entered the house for his supper, “I
have got a letter from Lettie.”
“Ah! is she well?” inquired Conway kindly.
“Yes, she says she is,” replied Mrs. Allan; “but she has asked me such
strange questions.”
“About what?”
“You would never guess. She wants the name of Norine Bright’s husband,
and wants me to tell her all I can about him. What ever she can mean I
don’t know.”
“No harm, at any rate,” replied Conway, smiling slightly. “You know
that all you women are more or less curious. I would write and tell her
whatever she wants to know.”
“But I don’t know half myself,” said Mrs. Allan, hunting in her
capacious pocket for the letter. “I do wish, doctor, I could get you to
answer it for me; but, land knows, I hate to trouble you.”
“It is no trouble at all,” replied Conway pleasantly. “I should rather
like to correspond with Miss Lettie after all this time.”
Perhaps Conway thought it better that he should tell this inquisitive
girl what he thought best that she should know. So he took the letter
from Mrs. Allan and went into his office to answer it. And so it came
about that Lester Conway commenced a correspondence with Miss Lettie
Allan that was destined to greatly affect the lives of both.