TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS.
Early in March, as I was one Saturday morning seated with my aunt in her
pleasant, cozy sewing-room, a little boy brought me a note from Dell
Clayton, in which she requested me, if possible, to spend the afternoon
with her. She was sick, she wrote, unable to sit up, and what was worse
than all, she was homesick and unhappy! Her aunt, she said, was out of
the city, and as she had no acquaintance, she thought the sight of a
familiar face would do her good.
Aunt Charlotte, to whom I handed the note, consented to my going, and
immediately after dinner, which that day was served at an earlier hour
than usual, I started. Long and daily walks have always been to me a
luxury, and so, though I had been but a few months in Boston, I was
tolerably well acquainted with most of its localities, and had no
trouble in finding the once stylish, but now rather dilapidated and
gloomy looking block, in one part of which Dr. Clayton was keeping
house. Since the night when I met him at the theatre, I had never seen
him, and all that I knew of him was that he had left the Tremont.
Subsequently, however, I heard the whole history of their
proceedings—partly from the doctor, partly from Dell, and partly from
other sources, and as a recital of it may not be wholly uninteresting to
my readers, I will give it before proceeding with a description of my
call.
It seems that boarding at the Tremont was rather too expensive for a
physician, whose patients were not so numerous as to be troublesome, and
several times had the doctor proposed returning to his old place in
Sturbridge, where everything was cheaper; but to this Dell objected, for
she well knew it would be an admission that they could not succeed in
Boston, and against this her pride revolted. “People at home,” she
reasoned, “would never know how matters really were, and as long as she
could keep up an appearance of gentility and upper-ten-dom with her
former friends, she should do so,” preferring, like many others, almost
absolute want in the city, to plenty in the country. From this, the
reader is not to infer that the doctor was extremely poor; for when he
first went to Boston he was worth about fifteen hundred dollars, which,
in a country village, with a prudent wife, would have surrounded him
with all the comforts of life, besides leaving him with something for
that “rainy day,” about which everybody blessed with a careful
grandmother has heard more or less.
In the city, of course, it needed a great deal of money to keep up the
kind of style upon which Dell insisted, and which, after all, was far
from satisfying her—it was so much inferior to the elegance she saw
around her; and as check after check of the doctor’s little hoard was
drawn from the bank to meet their expenses, while but few would get
sick, or being so would send for him, his heart sank within him, and
without really meaning to do so, he began to wonder “when that old
grandmother would die!” Finding that he could not much longer pay the
enormous bills, which were presented to him weekly at the Tremont, he
decided at last upon housekeeping, and exercising in this case his own
judgment, in spite of the tears, sulks, and remonstrances of his wife,
he hired a house in an obscure street, where the rents were much lower
than in the more fashionable part of the city. Very neatly he fitted it
up, going rather beyond his means, it is true, but depending a great
deal upon the fast failing health of Grandmother Barton, to set all
things right.
Everything was at last arranged, and with that comfortable feeling which
other men have experienced in similar circumstances, he took his seat
for the first time at his own table, forgetting in his happiness that
the smiling, handsome face of the lady opposite, in blue merino morning
gown and clean white linen collar, had ever worn any look save that
which now sat upon it. Breakfast was hardly over, when the door bell
rang violently and a man appeared telling the doctor that his services
were required immediately by the wealthy Mrs. Archer, who lived in an
adjoining street, and who owned the entire block in which he lived.
Mrs. Archer belonged to that class of people who are always dying, first
with one fancied disease and then with another, in the end, however,
living much longer than those whose business it is to minister to their
wants. Being freakish and whimsical, she seldom employed the same
physician longer than a year, but during that time a man with limited
wants was sure of a livelihood, for his services were required every
day, and the remuneration for the same was so prompt and liberal as to
make her patronage much sought after, particularly by new practitioners.
Having taken a violent fancy to Dr. Clayton when he bargained with her
for the house, she had decided henceforth to employ him, if on trial he
proved to be all she wished.
The doctor was well aware of her peculiarities, and for several days
past had indulged a faint hope that she might favor him with a call.
This she had now done, and very eagerly he prepared to visit her. As he
reached his gate, he was met by a boy who brought a telegraphic dispatch
from Wilbraham, saying that _Grandma Barton was dead_! Yes, the old lady
was gone, and Dell was undoubtedly the heiress of ten thousand dollars
at least, and probably more, for her grandmother bore the reputation of
being miserly, and rumor said that twice ten thousand was nearer the
actual sum of her possessions. To ascertain the truth as soon as
possible was the doctor’s great desire, and as the next train bound for
the east started in about two hours, he decided to go at once, though
the funeral was not to take place for two or three days.
Suddenly Mrs. Archer’s message occurred to him, but matters were now
changed—he was _a rich man_, and as such Mrs. Archer’s patronage was not
of vital importance. Still it would hardly do to slight her, and rather
unwillingly he bent his steps towards her dwelling. When there he
appeared so abrupt and absent-minded, telling her there was nothing
whatever the matter with her as he could see, that the good lady was
wholly disgusted, and the moment he was gone, she dispatched the servant
for another physician, who, possessing more tact, and not having
recently come into the possession of a fortune, told her with a grave,
concerned look, that “he never saw anything like her case—it really
baffled his skill, though he thought he _could_ cure her, and it would
give him pleasure to try.”
Of course he was employed, and just as Dr. Clayton and Dell were
stepping into the omnibus, which took them to the dépôt, a note was
handed to the former, saying his services were no longer needed by Mrs.
Archer. Without giving it a thought, the doctor crushed the note into
his pocket, and then springing into the carriage, took his seat by Dell,
to whom he was unusually attentive, for she had risen in his estimation
full _ten thousand dollars’ worth_, and what man, for that sum of money,
would not occasionally endure a cross look, or a peevish word! Not the
doctor most certainly; and when on reaching the dépôt, they found that
the cars would not leave for half an hour or more, he could not resist
her entreaties to go with her to a jeweller’s, on —— street, where the
day before she had seen “such a beautiful set of cameos, earrings,
bracelet, and pin to match—then, too, they were so cheap, only $50. She
knew he would buy them!”
’Twas in vain for him to say that he had not fifty dollars for she
replied, that “he could take it from the bank and replace it when she
got her fortune;” adding, “I’ll give you a hundred in place of it: so
gratify me this once, that’s a dear, good man.”
Of course, the _dear good man_ was persuaded as many an other dear good
man has been, and will be again by a coaxing woman. The cameos were
bought, and in the best of humor the young couple took their seats in
the cars, which were soon bearing them swiftly towards the house of
death. Very pleasant were the doctor’s reflections as the train sped on
over valley and plain: he was a fortunate, happy man, and if when they
paused at the Meadow Brook station he thought for an instant of the girl
Rosa Lee, her memory was to him like an idle dream, which had passed
away in the _golden_ beams of day. Arrived at Wilbraham dépôt, they took
a carriage for the village, which is about two miles or more from the
railroad.
The old brown shutters of the large wooden building, where Mrs. Barton
had lived and died, were closed, and about the house there was no sign
of life. But this was hardly different from what it had been during the
old lady’s life, for she was one who lived mostly within herself, seldom
seeing company, though always sure to go whenever she was invited.
Exceedingly penurious, she stinted her household to the last degree of
endurance, and denied herself even the comforts of life, while her last
request had been that her body might be suffered to remain in her
sleeping-room, so as not to litter the parlor, or wear the carpet!
At the head of the family was Mabel Warrener, a poor young girl, who for
the three years had lived with Mrs. Barton in the capacity of half
waiting-maid, half companion, and to her the neighbors now looked for
directions. Anxious to pay all due deference to the wishes of her late
mistress, Mabel at first said, “Let the body remain where it is;” but
when she reflected that “the fashionable Mrs. Clayton from Boston,” with
her proud husband (for so were they considered), would probably be
there, she changed her mind, and the deceased was carried into the dark,
damp parlor, where a fire had not been kindled for more than a year. The
same was also true of the chamber above, which was designed for the
doctor and his lady, the latter of whom shivered as she entered it,
rather haughtily bidding Mabel, who accompanied her, “to make a fire
there as soon as possible, for she was not accustomed to cold rooms, and
should freeze to death.”
Very meekly Mabel complied, not only with this requisition, but with
fifty others, from the same source; for Dell, thinking she was now
mistress of the house, took upon herself many airs, ordering this, that
and the other, until the neighbors, quite disgusted, left poor Mabel
alone, with the exception of the deaf old woman, who ruled in the
kitchen as cook. The morning following the arrival of the doctor, Capt.
Thompson, wife, and son came out from Sturbridge to attend the funeral;
for though they were in no way connected with Mrs. Barton, they knew her
well, and wished to pay her this last tribute of respect. Then, too,
Mrs. Thompson was very desirous of seeing Dell, who was now an heiress,
and as such entitled to attention. Long they talked together concerning
the future, Dell telling how she meant “to fix up the old rookery for a
summer residence,” and inviting her sister-in-law to spend as much time
with her as she possibly could. The cameos were next duly inspected,
admired, tried on, and then the two went down to the room below, and
turning back the thin muslin which shaded the face of the dead, gazed
upon the pinched, stony features which seemed so much to reproach them
for their cold-hearted selfishness, in thus planning ways and means by
which to spend her hoarded wealth even before she was buried from their
sight.
That afternoon there was heard a tolling bell, and a long procession
moved slowly to the churchyard, where the words “ashes to ashes—dust to
dust,” and the sound of the hard frozen earth, rattling upon the
coffin-lid, broke the solemn stillness, but disturbed not the rest of
those, who, henceforth, would be the fellow-sleepers of her now
committed to the grave. When the party of mourners had returned to the
house, the doctor began to speak of the necessity there was for his
returning immediately to the city, at the same time hinting to Capt.
Thompson that “if there was a _will_ he would like to see it.”
Mabel Warrener, who was supposed to know more than any one else
concerning Mrs. Barton’s affairs, was called in and questioned, she
replying that her mistress, one day, about two weeks before her death,
had said to her that if, after her death, any inquiry should be made
concerning her will, it could be found in the private drawer of her
secretary, where was also a letter for Mrs. Clayton. Both of these were
brought out, and with her handkerchief over her eyes, Dell listened
while Capt. Thompson read aloud the astounding fact that the entire
possessions of Mrs. Barton, amounting to $15,000, were given to MABEL
WARRENER, who, having had no suspicion whatever of the fortune in store
for her, fainted away, and was borne from the room, as was also Dell;
while the doctor, it was confidently asserted, went out behind the
woodshed and actually _vomited_, so great was his disappointment! Soon
rallying, however, both he and his wife declared it a fraud, accusing
the still unconscious Mabel of treachery, and it was not until the
lawyer who had drawn the will was produced, that they could be
convinced. Suddenly remembering her letter, Dell broke it open and found
therein the reasons for this most unaccountable freak. Always peculiar
and naturally jealous, Mrs. Barton had felt piqued that she was not
invited to Dell’s wedding, which, considering that she was spending the
summer in Albany at the time when it took place, was not very
remarkable. Then, too, she was not consulted, and she didn’t believe in
doctors, they killed more than they cured; but the head and front of the
offence seemed to be that instead of hiring two or three rooms and
keeping house in a small, economical way, they _boarded_ at the Tremont,
where Dell had nothing to do but “to change her dress, eat, sleep, and
_laze_”—so the letter ran—“and she (Mrs. Barton) would not suffer a
penny of her money to go for the support of such extravagance: she
preferred giving it to Mabel Warrener, who was a prudent, saving girl,
and would take care of it; while the paltry doctor would spend it for
cigars, fast horses, patent leather boots, and all sorts of fooleries.”
The letter ended with an exhortation to Dell to “go to work and earn her
own living, as her grandmother had done before her.”
The doctor’s reflections, as he rode back to Boston, were not of the
most enviable nature; and who can wonder if he _was_ rather testy
towards his wife, who retorted so angrily as to bring on quite a sharp
quarrel, which was prevented from being heard by the roar of the
machinery; and if at _Meadow Brook_ he _did_ think again of Rosa Lee,
half fancying that 5,000 divided by 13, if shared with _her_, might be
preferable to _nothing_ divided by _nothing_, shared with Dell; who can
blame him? Not _I_, most certainly. Wasn’t he terribly disappointed?
Hadn’t he just lost $15,000, to say nothing of a patient, whose
patronage would have insured him a living for at least a year, besides
introducing him into a broader field of practice; and if the cameo
earrings _were_ rather becoming to the dark hair and black eyes of his
wife, did that in any way compensate him for the fifty dollars which
stood on the Cr. side of his bank-book? Still, I see no good reason why,
after their arrival home at a late hour of the night, they should sit up
for more than an hour in a cold, cheerless room, telling each other—the
one that she wished she had never married him, for “he alone stood in
the way of her inheritance;” while the other replied, that “but for her
extravagance he should now have had $1,500 in the bank instead of five
hundred.”
Wretched couple! Their history is like that of many others, who marry
without a particle of love, or at most, only a passing fancy. Had Dell
chosen, she could in time have won the affection of her husband, but
being naturally selfish and exacting, she expected from him every
attention; while in return she seldom gave him aught save cross looks
and peevish words, complaining that he did not treat her now as he once
had done. As long as the doctor had a fortune in expectancy, he bore his
wife’s ill humor tolerably well, but now that hope was gone, his whole
being seemed changed, and Dell was not often obliged to quarrel alone.
At last, broken in spirits, and being really sick, she had sent for me,
as I have before stated. I found her in bed, propped up on pillows, her
shining hair combed back, and her large black eyes seeming blacker than
ever, from contrast with her colorless cheek. All her old haughtiness
was gone, and the moment she saw me she stretched her arms towards me,
and bursting into tears, exclaimed, “Oh, Rose, I am _so_ glad you have
come. I was afraid you wouldn’t, for I knew your aunt was very
aristocratic, and I thought she might not be willing to have you visit
poor, obscure people like us.”
There was much of bitterness in the last part of this speech, and it
grated harshly upon my feelings; but it was like her, I knew, and she
had only judged my aunt by what she well knew she should herself be in a
similar position; so I took no notice of it, save to assure her that
Aunt Charlotte was perfectly willing I should come, while at the same
time I expressed my sorrow at finding her so unwell, and asked “what was
the matter.”
“Oh, nothing much,” said she. “I have no particular disease, unless it
be one of the mind, and that you know is not easily cured.”
I made no answer to this; but after a moment’s silence, I ventured to
inquire for her husband. Instantly there came a bright glow to her
cheek, as she replied, “Oh, he is as well as could be expected,
considering his terrible disappointment.”
Of course I asked what disappointment, whereupon she proceeded to
narrate a part of what I have already told to my readers, withholding
nearly all the points wherein she had been to blame, and dwelling with
apparent delight upon the faults of her husband, who, she protested, was
wholly selfish and avaricious. “I know,” said she, “why he married me;
’twas for the sake of the few dollars he thought my grandmother would
leave me, and now being disappointed in that, he cares no more for me
than he does for _you_—no, nor half so much, for he always preferred you
to me, and I wish I had let you have him, for you liked him, I know,
better than I did.”
As she said this, she looked me steadily in the face, as if to read my
inmost soul. I felt provoked, for I now thought of my former affection
for the doctor as something of which I was _a little ashamed_, and I did
not much like to be reminded of it by his wife. So I ventured to say
that “whatever I might once have felt for her husband, it was all over
now, and I could think of no greater misfortune than that of being his
wife!”
_Now_, I should know better than to speak thus to any woman concerning
her husband, for however much she may talk against him herself, she
certainly has no desire or expectation that her listener will agree with
her. On this occasion, Dell grew angry at once, telling me “I needn’t
speak so lightly of her husband—he was good enough for anybody,” while
at the same time she muttered something about “sour grapes!”
I was taken quite aback, and remained silent, until she at last said,
laughingly, “I don’t wish to quarrel with you, Rose. Pardon any ill
humor I may have manifested. I get nervous and fidgety staying here
alone so much.”
“Is not the doctor with you sometimes?” I inquired.
“Oh, yes; once in a great while,” said she; “but he can bear the
atmosphere of any other sick-room better than mine. So he’s off—hunting
up patients, I suppose. I tell him he gets his living that way, and a
poor living it bids fair to be. Between you and me, Rose,” she
continued, growing excited, “he is _shiftless_, if you know what that
means, and we are worth to-day just as much as we ever shall be.”
I felt that she wronged him, and told her so, at the same time
enumerating his many good qualities, while she listened, evidently
better pleased than when I had spoken lightly of him. In the midst of
our conversation there was a familiar step in the hall, and a moment
after the doctor himself entered the room. He looked careworn and
haggard; but at the sight of me, whose presence surprised him, his face
quickly lighted up, and there was much of his olden manner as he took my
hand and expressed his pleasure at finding me there. ’Twas but a for
moment, however, for catching the eye of his wife, he became almost
instantly reserved, and seating himself near a window, he pretended to
be much occupied with a book, which I accidentally discovered was wrong
side up! It was strange how much waiting-upon Dell suddenly needed.
Heretofore she had been very quiet, saying she did not wish for
anything, but now that he was there, her pillows must be turned, her
head must be bathed, the window must be open and then shut, while with
every other breath, she declared him to be “the awkwardest man she ever
saw,” saying once, “she didn’t wonder he had no more practice if he
handled all his patients as roughly as he did her.”
After this unkind speech, the doctor made no farther attempt to please
her, but left her side and returned to his seat by the window. Ere long
the supper bell rang. I had not supposed it was so late, and starting up
announced my intention of going home, but to this neither the doctor nor
Dell would listen, both of them insisting upon my staying to tea; _she_,
because she felt that common civility required it, and _he_, because he
really wished it. Once out of her sight, he was himself again, and
playfully drawing my arm within his, he led me to the dining-room,
placing me at the head of the table, where Dell was accustomed to sit,
while he took the seat opposite. As we sat there thus, I shall not say
that there came to my mind no thought of what might have been, but I can
say, and truthfully too, that such thoughts brought with them naught of
pain; for though Dr. Clayton had once possessed the power of swaying me
at his will, that time had gone by, and he was to me now only a friend,
whom I both liked and pitied, for I knew he was far from being happy.
Once, when I handed him his second cup of tea, he said, smiling upon me,
“It makes me very happy to see you there—in that seat.”
I made no answer; and, as if thinking he had said what he ought not, he
immediately changed the conversation, and began to question me of my
studies, etc., asking me among other things, if I went to _dancing
school_. Instantly I remembered Mrs. Ross’s slippers with the little
_wads_ of cotton, and I laughed aloud. It seems his thoughts took the
same direction, for he, too, laughed so loudly that when we returned to
Dell’s room, she rather pettishly inquired what we found to amuse us so
much, saying “she hadn’t seen the doctor look so pleased since—since,
well, since grandma’s death,” she finally added, at the same time
glancing at him to witness the effect of her words.
He turned very white about the mouth, and I am quite certain I heard the
word “_thunder!_” At all events, his eyes flashed angrily upon the
provoking woman, who again inquired at what we were laughing. When I
told her, she too laughed, saying, “Oh, yes, I remember it well, and
have sometimes thought that I owe my present position to that awkward
misstep of yours.”
“I am very glad I fell, then,” said I, rather impatiently, while I threw
on my hood and shawl, preparatory to going home.
“Hadn’t you better call an omnibus for her?” asked Dell of her husband,
who was putting on his overshoes.
“I am going round with her myself,” he answered. “I have a patient on
the way,” and he hurried from the room ere she could say anything
further.
It was a beautiful moonlight night, and as I took his arm I recalled the
time when once before we had walked thus together. I think he remembered
it too, for he asked me “if I ever visited Pine District?”
“Not often,” I replied; and he continued to say, that “notwithstanding
that it was little more than a year and a half since he first saw me
there, it seemed to him an age,” adding; “and it is not strange neither,
for I have passed through many trials since then.”
To this I made no reply, and ere long he proceeded to speak further of
himself, and of his disappointment, first with regard to his business,
and next with regard to his domestic relations, which he gave me to
understand were not particularly happy. Very delicately and carefully he
handled the latter subject, speaking not one half so harshly of Dell as
she had spoken of him. Still I felt that he had no right thus to speak
to me, and so I told him.
“I know it, Rose,” he returned. “I know it all; but for this once you
_must_ hear me, and I will never trouble you again. I committed a great
error in marrying one, while my heart belonged to another—stay,” he
continued, as I was about to interrupt him. “You must hear me out. It is
not of my love for _that other_ that I would speak; but, Rose, I would
know how far I have wronged you. _Did_ you love me, and had I asked you
to share my home, when at a suitable age, would you have done so?”
He was very pale, and the arm on which my hand was resting, trembled
violently, but grew still when he heard my answer, which was, “I _did_
love you, but ’twas a childish love and quickly passed away. And were
you now free as you once were, I could be to you nothing save a friend.”
There was a mixture of disappointment and pleasure on his face; but he
replied, “I am glad that it is so, and shall now feel happier, for the
hardest part of all was the thought that possibly _you, too_, might
suffer.”
“Not at all,” I answered, adding, “it would be foolish to break my heart
for one man, when there are so many in the world.”
This I said with bitterness, for I remembered the time when I had wept
in the shadowy woods of Meadow Brook, and if for a moment I experienced
a feeling of satisfaction in knowing that what _I_ suffered then, _he_
was suffering now, I can only plead _woman’s nature_ as an apology.
’Twas but for a moment, however, and then, casting off all such
feelings, I spoke to him kindly of his wife, telling him he could be
happy with her if he tried, and that if he were not, it was probably as
much his fault as hers. Brighter days, too, would come, I said, when his
practice would not be limited to _three_ patients, one of whom was too
poor to pay, and another was already convalescent, while the third was
in the last stages of her disease, and would need his services but a few
days longer.
“You are my good angel, Rose,” said he, when at last we reached my
uncle’s door, “and your words inspire me with courage. Come and see us
often, for the sight of you does me good, and God knows how much I stand
in need of sympathy. Farewell.”
He pressed my hand, and hastily raising it to his lips, turned away,
dreading, as I well knew, a return to the sick-room, where naught would
greet him save reproachful complaints, and where the dark eyes, which
had first won his admiration, would flash angrily upon him. In the hall,
I stood for a time, pondering in my mind some way by which I could
assist him, and I even thought of feigning sickness myself for the sake
of adding another patient to his list! But this, I knew, he would easily
detect, and possibly he might misconstrue my motive for so doing, and
this project was abandoned, and I entered the parlor in quest of my
aunt, who, I learned from one of the servants, was in her own room,
suffering from a severe headache. She had taken a violent cold, which,
by the next morning, had developed itself into a species of influenza,
at that time prevailing in the city. Added to this was a general
debility and prostration of the nerves, brought on by her recent trouble
and anxiety concerning Herbert.
My uncle, who was always alarmed when she was ill, wished for medical
advice; but to this she objected, as Dr. Mott, the family physician, was
absent, and she knew of no other, whom she dare trust. Instantly I
thought of Dr. Clayton. If she could be prevailed upon to employ him, I
knew she would like him, for _I_ could testify to his extreme kindness
in a sick-room, and good nursing was what she most needed. When I
suggested that he should be called, she at first refused; but before
night, being much worse, she consented, and never had I experienced a
moment of greater happiness than when I hastened to the kitchen with a
message for John, who was to go immediately for Dr. Clayton. Then taking
my uncle aside, I explained to him the straitened circumstances of the
young physician, hinting to him, that prompt remuneration for his
services would undoubtedly be acceptable.
“Yes, yes, I understand,” said he; “you want me to pay him to-day.”
Here we were interrupted by the ringing of the door-bell. Dr. Clayton
had come, and the result was as I had hoped. My aunt was greatly
pleased—he was so kind and gentle, humoring all her fancies, and
evincing withal so much judgment and skill, that she felt confidence in
his abilities; and when he was gone, expressed herself as preferring him
even to Dr. Mott, “who,” she said, “was getting old and cross.”
As he was leaving the house, my uncle placed in his hand a five dollar
bill, whereupon the doctor turned very red, and asked if he were not
expected to call again.
“Certainly, certainly,” said my uncle, who, manlike, hadn’t the least
bit of tact; “keep coming until Charlotte is well. I only paid you for
this call to please Rosa.”
Instead of the displeased, mortified look, which I expected to see on
the doctor’s face, there was an expression of deep gratitude, as he
turned his eyes towards me; and I thought there was a moisture in them,
which surprised me, for I did not then know how much that five dollars
was needed: it being the exact amount requisite for the payment of the
girl, who refused to remain with them another day unless her wages were
forthcoming. To such straits are people, apparently in easy
circumstances, sometimes reduced.
For more than a week my aunt was confined to her room, while the doctor
came regularly, always staying a long time, and by his delicate
attentions winning golden laurels from his patient, who was far better
pleased with him than with the fussy old man, who, being always in a
hurry, only stopped for a moment, while he looked at her _tongue_, felt
her _pulse_, and recommended _blistering_ and _bleeding_, with a dose of
_calomel_, neither of which Dr. Clayton believed to be a _saving
ordinance_, and indispensable to the _comfort_ and recovery of his
patients. By this, I do not mean anything derogatory to the good old
custom of tormenting folks to death before their time, but having a
faint remembrance of certain _blisters_, which, together with _cabbage
leaves_ and the _tallowed rags_, once kept me in a state of torture for
nearly a week, to say nothing of the _sore mouth_, the _loose teeth_,
and the tightly-bandaged arm, I cannot help experiencing a kind of
nervous tremor at the very mention of said prescriptions.
Dr. Clayton’s attendance upon my aunt was a great benefit to him, as,
through its means, he became known to several of the higher circle, who
began to employ him, so that by the last of May, the time when I left
Boston for Meadow Brook, he had quite a large practice. For some reason
or other, Mrs. Archer, too, sent for him again; and as he had now no ten
thousand dollars in prospect, he succeeded in pleasing the whimsical
lady, thereby securing her patronage for a year at least. Here, for a
time, I leave him, while I go back to the dear old home at Meadow Brook,
over which a shadow, dark and heavy, was brooding.