Mrs. Barkley's hopes withered and then revived; for as she climbed the
hill to the Stuffed-Animal House a day or two later whom should she see
wandering through the graveyard (of all places!) but Lydia and William.
"Of course, I pretended not to see them," she told Harriet Hutchinson,
"but I believe they've begun to take notice."
They had not seen her; the graveyard was on the crest of the hill, and
the road lay below the bank and the stone wall, wherein were set two or
three iron doors streaked and eaten with rust, each with its name and
its big ring-bolt. There was a bleached fringe of dead grass along the
top of the wall, but the bank above was growing green in the April
sunshine. There were many trees in this older part of the cemetery,
and even now, when the foliage was hardly more than a mist, the tombs
and low mounds and old headstones were dappled with light shadows.
Miss Lydia and William had met here, by some chance; and Mrs. Barkley,
climbing the road before it dipped below the bank, had caught sight of
them just where the slope broke into sunshine beyond the trees. Behind
them, leaning sidewise over a sunken grave, was a slate headstone, its
base deep in a thatch of last year's grass; there were carved cherubs
on the corners, and the inscription was blurred with lichen. A still
older tomb, a slab of granite on four pedestals, made a seat for Miss
Lydia. She had been deciphering its crumbling inscription:
"Mr. Amos Sm ... Sr.
Born ...... 1734
Die ... May 7th, 1802
Aged 68
"Base body, thou art faint and weak--
(How the sweet moments roll!)
A mortal paleness on thy cheek,
But glory in thy soul!"
William, reading it, had remarked that he thought people lived longer
nowadays. "Don't you?" he added, anxiously.
"We live long enough," Miss Lydia said. "I don't want to live too
long."
"You can't live too long," he told her, with his sharp smile.
Miss Lydia laughed and looked down at the crumbling stone. "I think
sixty-eight was just about long enough. I'm like Dr. Lavendar; he says
he 'wants to get up from the banquet of life _still hungry_.' That's
the way I feel. I don't want to lose my appetite for life by getting
too much of it."
"I couldn't get too much," Mr. Rives said, nervously. "Let us proceed.
This place is--is not cheerful. I like cheerfulness. You always seem
cheerful, Lydy?"
"Course I am," she said, getting up. "Why shouldn't I be? I haven't a
care in the world."
"You don't say so!" said William Rives. "I was under the impression
that your circumstances--"
"My circumstances?" said Miss Lydia. "Bless you! I haven't any.
Father didn't leave much of anything. I had $2000, but Cousin Robinson
invested it and lost it. He felt so badly, I was just distressed about
him."
"He should have been prosecuted!" Mr. Rives said, angrily.
Miss Lydia shook her head in horrified protest, but she beamed at him
from under her black frizette, grateful for his sympathy.
"I remember," he said, thoughtfully, "that you were always
light-hearted. I recall your once telling me that you began to sing as
soon as you got up in the morning."
"Oh yes," Miss Lydia said, simply. "I always sing the morning hymn.
You know the morning hymn, William?
"'Awake, my soul, and with the sun
Thy daily course of duty run--'"
William nodded. "Vocal exercises (if in tune and not too loud) are
always cheerful," he said.
Gossiping thus of simple things, they walked back to Lydia's house and
sat down in her parlor. There William told her, with a sort of
whimper, that his health was bad. "I sent for Willy King--he is so
young, he ought not to charge the full fee. I remember him as a very
impudent boy," Mr. Rives said, growing red at some memory of William's
youth; "however, he seems a respectable young man."
"Oh, indeed he is," said Miss Lydia; "he is a dear, good boy. I hope
he is doing you good?" she ended, with eager kindness.
"Yes, I think so," he said, anxiously. And then he gave his symptoms
with a detail that made poor Miss Lydia get very red. "And I don't
sleep very well," he ended, sighing. "Willy told me to try repeating
the kings of England backward, but I couldn't remember them; so it
didn't do any good."
"When I don't sleep," said Miss Lydia, "I just count my blessings.
That's a splendid thing to do, because you fall asleep before you get
to the end of 'em."
William sighed. "The kings of England was a foolish prescription; yet
I paid Willy $1.50 for that call. Still, I must say I think he is
doing me good; but he recommends many expensive things--perhaps because
he is young. He wished me to hire a vehicle and drive every day. Now
just think of the expense of such a thing! I suggested to him that
instead of hiring a conveyance, I would go out with him in his buggy
whenever he calls. He is a very young man to treat an important case,"
William ended, sighing. Then he asked Lydia about her health, with an
exactness which she thought very kind.
"Yes, I'm always well; and _so_ sorry for the poor people who are
sick," she said.
"You are a good nurse, aren't you, Lydy?" he asked.
"I'm always glad when I can do anything for a sick person. I'm so
sorry for 'em," Miss Lydia said, kindly.
"And you are economical, aren't you, Lydy?" Mr. Rives inquired, in his
mild voice, "and not fond of dress?"
"Bless you!" said Lydia, "how can I be anything but economical? And as
for being fond of dress--I'm fond of my old dresses, William."
"That is an excellent trait," said William Rives, solemnly. Then,
catching sight of his own portrait--the slim, anaemic young person in a
stock and tight-waisted coat, with very small feet and very large hat,
he got up to look at it. "I--have changed a little," he said,
doubtfully.
"It's more becoming to be heavier," Miss Lydia said. And this remark
gave him such obvious satisfaction that when he went away his perpetual
smile had deepened into positive heartiness.
It was after this talk that he finally added his offering to the
"Present" which just then was occupying Old Chester's attention. "And
how much do you suppose I got out of him?" Mrs. Barkley asked Dr.
Lavendar. "_$1.50!_"
However, other friends were more liberal, and by the end of May the $85
(grown now into the round sum of $100) was ready for Miss Lydia. A
little silk bag, with a scrap of paper twisted about its ribbon
drawing-string, was thrust one evening by an unknown hand into Miss
Lydia's door. In it were twenty five-dollar gold pieces. "From old
friends," Dr. Lavendar had written on the scrap of paper.
"Sha'n't we say--'for repairs'?" Mrs. Barkley asked, doubtfully.
"No," Dr. Lavendar declared; "I'd rather say 'to buy curl-papers.' Of
course she'll use it for repairs; but we mustn't dictate."
Nobody saw Miss Lydia gasp when she opened the bag, and sit down, and
then cry and laugh, but probably every friendly heart in Old Chester
was busy imagining the scene, for every friend had contributed. They
had all done it in their different ways--and how character confesses
itself in this matter of giving! ... Mrs. Dale, who gave the largest
sum, did it with calm, impersonal kindness. Martha King said that she
had so many calls upon her charity that she couldn't give much, but was
glad to do what she could. Miss Harriet Hutchinson said it was a
first-rate idea, and she was obliged to Mrs. Barkley for letting her
have a hand in it; as for Mrs. Drayton, she said it was a great trial
not to contribute, but she could not do so conscientiously. "_I_ make
such things a matter of prayer," she said; "some do not. I do not
judge them. I never judge any one. But I take all such matters to the
Throne of Grace, and as a result I feel that such things are injurious
to a poor person, and so I must deny myself the pleasure of charity."
William Rives said that he would be pleased to contribute, and Mrs.
Barkley had a moment of intense excitement when she read his
check--$150. But her emotion only lasted until she put on her
spectacles.
And yet, when Lydia, sitting at the kitchen table, wiped her eyes and
counted her gold by the light of a candle in a hooded candlestick, she
felt, somehow, William's hand in it. For, by this time, William's
friendliness was beyond any question. He came to see her every other
day, and he told her all his symptoms and talked of his loneliness and
forlornness until they were both moved to tears.
"Poor William!" she said, her eyes overflowing with sympathy. "Well,
I'm glad you have plenty of money, anyhow. It would be hard to be poor
and have bad health, too."
"But I haven't plenty of money," William said, with agitation. "How
did you get such an idea? I haven't!"
And then Miss Lydia was sorrier for him than ever. "Although," she
said, cheerfully, "poverty is the last thing to worry about. Look at
me. I don't want to brag, but I'm always contented, and I'll tell you
why: _I don't want things_. Don't want things, and then you're not
unhappy without 'em."
"Oh, Lydy, that's so true," Mr. Rives said, earnestly. "I'm so glad
you feel that way." And he began to call every day.
"It's plain to be seen what's going to happen," said Mrs. Barkley,
excitedly, and whispered her hopes (in secret) to almost everybody in
Old Chester--except Dr. Lavendar. He became very ill-tempered the
moment she approached the subject. But she was jocose, in a deep bass,
to Miss Lydia herself; and Miss Lydia did not pretend to misunderstand.
She reddened and laughed; but her eyes were not clear; there was a
puzzled look at the back of them. Still, when she sat and looked at
her gold the puzzle lightened, and her face, under her black
frizette--in her excitement fallen sidewise over one ear--softened
almost to tears. "William is kind," she said to herself.
And, indeed, at that very moment William was referring to her in most
kindly terms. He was sitting in Mrs. Barkley's gloomy parlor, on the
edge of the horse-hair sofa, and Mrs. Barkley was regarding him with
romantic interest. "I have been much saddened, ma'am," he was saying,
"to observe the destitution of Miss Lydia Sampson."
Mrs. Barkley beamed. Was he going to do something, after all? She
spoke in an amiable bass, twitching her heavy eyebrows. "Our little
gift, which has gone to her to-night, will make her more comfortable.
I could wish it had been larger," she ended, and looked sidewise at Mr.
Rives, who bowed and regretted that it was not larger. He then coughed
behind his hand.
"Mrs. Barkley, I wish to approach a subject of some delicacy."
("He _is_ going to do something," she thought, excitedly; "or perhaps
he means marriage!")
"Mrs. Barkley, in past years there were passages of affection between
Miss Sampson and myself" (Mrs. Barkley bowed; her heart began to glow
with that warmth which stirs the oldest of us at the sight of a lover).
"We were younger in those days, ma'am," William said, in his soft voice.
"Oh no!" she protested, politely. "Why, you are very well preserved,
I'm sure."
"Yes," said William, "I am. Yet I am not as young as I once was."
This drifting away from Miss Lydia disturbed Mrs. Barkley. She lowered
her chin and glared at him over her spectacles, saying, in a rumbling
bass: "Neither is Lydia; and it's hard for her to be destitute in her
old age."
"Just so," Mr. Rives said, eagerly--"exactly. She is not as young as
she once was, which, for many reasons, is desirable. But I think she
is healthy?"
"Why, yes," Mrs. Barkley admitted; "but I don't know that that makes it
easier to be poor."
"But I infer that poverty has taught her economy?" William Rives said.
"Yes; but poverty is a hard teacher."
"But thorough--thorough!" said Mr. Rives; "and some people will learn
of no other."
Mrs. Barkley was growing impatient; she gave up marriage and thought of
a pension.
"Yes," said William; "she is economical, and has good health, and is
fond of old clothes, and is kind-hearted, and doesn't have any wants.
Excellent traits--excellent. I have looked very carefully at the items
of expense in regard to a housekeeper or nurse."
Mrs. Barkley stared at him in bewilderment. Was he going to offer
Lydia a position as housekeeper? She was fairly dizzy with this seesaw
of possibilities; and she was perplexed, too, for, after all, badly as
Lydia needed assistance, propriety must be considered, and certainly
this housekeeping project was of doubtful propriety. "Because you know
you are neither of you very old," she explained.
Mr. Rives looked disturbed. "Yes, we are," he said, sharply. "Quite
old enough. I would not wish a youthful wife, for--many reasons.
There might be--results, which would interfere with my comfort. No,
Lydia is no longer young; yet she is sufficiently robust to make me
extremely comfortable." The light was breaking slowly on Mrs. Barkley.
Her face flushed; she sat up very straight and tapped the table with
her thimble. "The expense of an extra person is not very considerable,
is it?" Mr. Rives said, doubtfully. "It was in regard to this that I
wished to consult you."
"Not more than the wages of a housekeeper or a nurse," Mrs. Barkley
said, in a restrained voice.
"Exactly!" cried Mr. Rives--"granted that her health is good."
Mrs. Barkley opened and closed her lips. Her impulse to show him the
door battled with her common-sense. After all, it would mean a home
for Lydia; it would mean comfort and ease and absence from worry--plus,
of course, Mr. Rives. But if Lydia liked him, that wouldn't make any
difference. And she must like him--her faithfulness to the picture
proved it--and he was an agreeable person; amiable, too, Mrs. Barkley
thought, for he always smiled when he spoke.
"Would you live in Old Chester?" she managed to say, after a pause.
"Yes."
"You would build, I suppose?" Mrs. Barkley said, trying, in the
confusion of her thoughts, to make time.
"No," Mr. Rives said; "we would reside in Lydia's present abode."
"_In Lydia's house_? You couldn't!--why, it would be impossible!"
Mrs. Barkley, her mouth open with astonishment, saw, suddenly, that
this project was not comfort plus William, but William minus comfort.
"You couldn't! The chimney in the parlor is dreadful; it smokes
whenever the wind is from the west."
"But, as I understand, Lydia has been provided with the means of
mending the chimney?" William said, anxiously.
At this the rein broke. Mrs. Barkley rose, tapping the table with
alarming loudness and glaring down at her guest. "William Rives, I
have been a perfect fool. But you are worse--you are a mean person.
I'd rather live with a murderer than a mean man!"
[Illustration: "MRS. BARKLEY ROSE, TAPPING THE TABLE WITH ALARMING
LOUDNESS"]
Mr. Rives was unmoved. His little, steely smile never wavered; he rose
also, bowed, and said: "Possibly Miss Sampson does not agree with you.
I will bid you good-night, ma'am."
"I was a perfect fool," she said again, as the door closed softly
behind him.
But William Rives was no fool.... He said to himself that it behooved
him to see Miss Lydia before Mrs. Barkley had a chance to impart to her
those impolite views regarding himself. And that was why, as she was
still sitting at her kitchen table, twinkling with happiness over the
kindness of her world and piling her gold pieces in a little leaning
tower, William knocked at the door.
Miss Lydia threw an apron over the small, glittering heap and ran to
let her caller in. When she saw who it was she whipped off the apron
to display her wealth; the tears stood in her eyes, and her happy heart
burst into words: "How good people are! Just think--$100! Why, it
takes my breath away--"
"It is a large sum of money," William said, solemnly, touching the gold
with respectful fingers. "I would suggest a bank until you pay for the
mending of your chimney. And you will get some interest if you defer
payment for ninety days."
"Mending my chimney?" Miss Lydia said, thoughtfully. "Well--that
wouldn't take nearly all this."
William's face brightened. "You are right to be prudent, Lydia," he
said. "I admire prudence in a female; but still, masons and
carpenters--in fact, all persons of that sort,--are--thieves!" Then he
coughed delicately. "Lydia," he said, "I--I have been thinking--"
"Yes?" said Miss Lydia, calmly.
"We are so situated--each alone, that perhaps we might--we might,
ah--marry--to our mutual advantage?"
"_Marry?_"
"Yes," William said, earnestly; "I should be pleased to marry, Lydy. I
need a home. My health is not very good, and I need a home. You need
a home, also."
"Indeed I don't!" she said; "I've got a home, thank you."
"I haven't," William said; and Lydia's blue eyes softened. "I am not
very strong," he said ("though I see no reason why I should not live to
old age); but I want a home. Won't you take me, Lydy?"
Miss Lydia frowned and sighed. "I am very well satisfied as I am," she
said; "but perhaps that is a selfish way to look at it."
"Yes, it is," he told her, earnestly; "and you didn't use to be
selfish, Lydia."
Miss Lydia sighed again. "I suppose I could make you comfortable,
William."
"Do take me, Lydy," he entreated.
And somehow or other, before she quite knew it, she had consented.
As soon as the word was spoken, William arose with alacrity. "I don't
like to be out in the night air," he said, "so I'll say good-night,
Lydy. And, Lydy--shall we, for the moment, keep this to ourselves?"
"Oh yes," said Miss Lydia, getting very red, "I'd rather, for the
present." Then, smiling and friendly, she went out with him,
bare-headed, to the gate. There William hesitated, swallowed once,
rubbed his hands nervously, and then suddenly gave her a kiss.