and be overtaken by Dr. Wilson on his way home. Of course he stopped to
speak to her, and then walked a little way up the lane with her; and
when Miss Morton once had Dr. Wilson all to herself in a _cul-de-sac_,
it was impossible for him to help proposing to her if she were inclined
to have him. Indeed, he was much readier at the business than she had
expected. In an hour both families knew all about it; and the next day
the engagement was "out," to the excitement of their whole world. It was
such a romantic affair--childish attachment--Henry Wilson so deeply in
love, and so hopeless of success, his feelings accidentally betrayed at
last! On these details dilated all Lucy's young friends. They did not
think they could ever have loved him themselves, but they admired her
for doing so. When, some time after, the grander but less interesting
match between the Talbot and Andrews clans was announced, it chiefly
roused excitement as having doubtless been the result of pique on
Eugene's part--an idea to which his subdued appearance gave some colour;
and he was pitied accordingly.
His wedding was a quiet one, overshadowed by the glories of Lucy's. No
one would have dreamed of her grandparents doing the thing with such
magnificence; but they were so surprised and pleased, for to them the
Wilson connection was a lofty one; and Mrs. Wilson was so flatteringly
eager and delighted, that Lucy found them pliant to her will. Her
grandfather unhesitatingly put at her disposal a larger sum than his
yearly expenditure had ever amounted to; and her exquisite taste in
using it made her wedding a spectacle to be remembered, and conferring
distinction on everyone who assisted in the humblest capacity, while
still each one of these had the flattering conviction that without his
or her presence the whole thing would have been a failure. The bride of
ten years back could not but recall with approval her own demeanour on
the occasion, when, "as one in a dream, pale and stately she went," the
very personification of feeling too deep to be stirred by the unregarded
trifles of her wedding pomp.
The tale of the ensuing years she ran briefly over, for it was one of
uncheckered prosperity. Dr. Wilson's reputation had steadily grown.
Hardly a year after his marriage he had successfully performed the
operation of tracheotomy upon a patient almost _in articulo mortis_; and
although it was only on the ninth child of an Irish labourer, it got
into all the newspapers, and ran the rounds of all circles. It was
wonderful how such cases came in his way after that, till no one in
town dreamed of calling in anyone else for a sore throat; the other
physicians being, as Mrs. Henry Wilson was wont to say, "very good
general practitioners, _but_--" At thirty-five he had an established
fame as a specialist, with an immense consulting practice extending all
over and about Boston, his personal disadvantages forgotten in the
prestige of his marvellous skill, indeed, rather enhancing it.
He took his successes very indifferently; but his wife showed a loving
pride in them, too simple and too well controlled to excite envy, gently
checking his mother's more outspoken exultation, and backing him up in
his refusal of all solicitations to move into Boston, well knowing his
constitution could never stand a town life. Money was now less of an
object to him than ever. Lucy's grandfather had died in peace and
honour, leaving a much larger estate than any one had dreamed possible.
The lane had been extended into a road, and the cow pasture had been cut
up into building lots. All the Morton property had risen in value, and
all was one day to be Lucy's; and on the very prettiest spot in it she
now lived, in a charming house designed (with her assistance) by her
brother-in-law, that rising young architect, Cockburn Wilson, so
strikingly original, and so delightfully convenient, that photographs
and plans of it were circulated in every direction, bringing the
architect more orders than he wanted or needed; for though with not much
more to boast of in the way of looks than his brother, he had made
another amazing stroke of Wilson luck in marrying that great heiress,
Miss Jenny Diman. She was a heavy, shy young person, who had been
educated in foreign convents, and had missed her proper duty of marrying
a foreign nobleman by being called suddenly home to settle her estate.
She had taken a fancy to the clever, amusing Mrs. Wilson, had visited
her, and found the little _partie carree_ at her pretty house
delightful, she hardly knew why; but it was evident that her hostess's
married life was most successful, and Lucy told her that dear Cockburn
had in him the making of as devoted a husband as dear Henry.
Dear Cockburn for some time showed no eagerness to exercise his latent
powers; but his delicacy in addressing so great an heiress once
overcome, swelled into heroic proportions, and made the love affairs of
two extremely plain and quiet people into a wildly romantic drama. They
seemed surprised, but well content, when they found themselves settled
in their pretty home, still prettier than Dr. Wilson's, because it
showed yet newer ideas; and Mrs. Cockburn Wilson, who had never known
society, developed a taste for it, which her sister-in-law well knew how
to direct.
Lucy's active mind had just run down the stream of time to the present,
and was boldly projecting itself forward into the future, and the
throbbing pulses her one painful memory had raised were subsiding in the
soothing task of planning the decorations for a dinner party for which
Jenny's invitations were already out. She had just decided that it would
make a good winter effect to fill all Jenny's lovely Benares brass bowls
with red carnations, when her husband entered the room.
The crest of sandy locks, which had won Dr. Wilson his boyish title, had
thinned and faded now. It was difficult to say of what colour it had
been; and his face was of no colour at all. He had no salient points,
and won attention chiefly by always looking very tired. This evening he
looked doubly so. "Dear Henry, I am so glad!" cried his wife, springing
up to give him an affectionate embrace. "You will have something to
eat?" and, as he nodded silently, she rang the bell twice, the only
signal needed at any hour to produce an appetising little meal at once;
and she herself waited on him while he ate.
"How is the little boy?" she asked timidly.
"Very low."
"Are you going back?"
"Directly. I am going to operate as soon as Stevens gets there. I have
telephoned for him."
"Is there any hope?"
"Can't say."
"Can I do anything?"
"You might come and take the other children home with you--all but the
baby."
"I can just as well have her too."
"I would rather have her there; her mother needs her."
"Yes, I suppose you don't want Mabel in the room while the operation is
going on."
"I don't want her there at all. She's of no use."
"Poor thing!"
"She can't help it."
"Could I do anything there? If I can, Jenny will take the children, I
know."
"No, there's no need of that." The doctor threw out his sentences
between mouthfuls of food automatically taken from a plate replenished
by his wife.
"What nurse have they?"
"They've had Nelly Fuller--she is a very fair one; but of course they
need two now, and one of them first rate, so I got Julia Mitchell for
them."
"Julia! but how ever could you make Mrs. Sypher give her up?"
"I had no trouble."
"And how can the Talbots ever manage to pay her?"
"That will be all right. I told them she would not expect her full price
for such a short engagement, in a gap between two others. I settled it
with her myself beforehand, of course."
"I am very glad you did," said Lucy, with another loving caress, which
he hardly seemed to notice. He looked at his watch, and told her she had
better hurry and change her dress. In five minutes they walked together
down the street under the beautiful arch of leafless elms, where the
snowy air brought glowing roses into Lucy's cheeks, and an elastic
spring into her tread. Her husband shrank up closer inside his fur-lined
coat, and slipped a case he had taken from his study from one cold hand
to another.
"I hope the children will be ready," from her; "Julia will see to that,"
from him,--were all the words that passed between them on their way.
The Talbot house was but a few streets off. Lucy did not often enter it;
but the picture of battered, faded prettiness it presented, taken in at
a few glances, and heightened each time it was seen, was deeply stamped
on her mind. There was no spare money to keep up appearances here.
Mabel's father had been unfortunate in his investments and extravagant
in his expenditures, and died a poor man, while her relations had grown
tired of helping Eugene, whose business talents had not fulfilled their
early promise. He always seemed, somehow, to miss in his calculations.
What little order there now was in the place was due to the energetic
rule of Julia Mitchell, already felt from garret to cellar. By her care
the three little girls were dressed and ready, and were hanging, eager
and excited, round their mother, who sat, her baby on her lap, with
tear-washed cheeks and absent gaze, all pretence to the art of dress
abandoned. She hardly looked up as her beautiful, richly clad visitor
entered; but when she felt the tender pressure of the hand that Lucy
silently extended, she gave way to a fresh burst of grief.
"Stevens here? asked Dr. Wilson, aside, of Miss Mitchell.
"Yes, sir; he's upstairs; and Miss Fuller, and Mr. Talbot--_he's_ some
use, and the boy wants him. I don't believe you'll ever get him to take
the ether unless his papa's 'round; and I thought, if Miss Fuller would
stay outside and look after _her_?"
"Certainly."
"Then, if Mrs. Wilson will take the others off, why, the sooner the
better."
The doctor looked at his wife, who was quick to respond, though with her
whole soul she longed to stay. She wanted to see Eugene; to know how he
was taking it; to hear him say something to her, no matter what; to give
him the comfort and support his wife was evidently past giving; and
then, she wanted to see her husband as nearly as possible at the moment
he had saved the child's life. She did not let the thought that he might
fail enter her mind,--not in this case, the crowning case of his life!
For this alone he had toiled, and she had striven. She gave his hand one
hard squeeze, as if to make him catch some of the passionate longing of
her heart, and then drew back with the fear that it might weaken rather
than strengthen his nerve. He looked as immobile as ever; and she turned
to take the children's little hands in hers.
"Oh, Lucy!" faltered out her successful rival, "how good of you! I can't
tell you--it does not seem as if it could be true that my beautiful
Eugene--" Here another burst of sobs shook her all over. Lucy's own
tears, as she kissed the poor mother, were bright in her eyes, but they
did not fail. She led the two older girls silently away, and young Dr.
Walker, who had been standing in the background, followed with the third
in his arms, his cool business air, just tempered by a proper
consideration for the parents' feelings, covering his inward excitement
at this first chance of assisting the great physician at an operation.
As he helped the pretty Mrs. Wilson, adored of all her husband's pupils,
into her handsome carriage, which had come for her, and settled his
little charge on her lap, he was astonished, and even awe-struck, to see
that she was crying. "I never thought," he said to himself, "that Mrs.
Wilson had so much feeling! but to be sure she has a boy just this
little fellow's age!"
* * * * *
At nine o'clock, the Talbot children, weary of the delights of that
earthly paradise, Harry Wilson's nursery, had been put to bed, and Lucy
was waiting for her husband. She looked anxiously at his face when he
came, but it told her nothing.
"How--is he?" she faltered out at last.
"Can't tell as yet."
"Was the operation successful?"
"Yes, that was all right enough."
"And how soon shall you know if he's likely to rally?"
"Impossible to say."
"Any bad signs?"
"No, nothing apparent as yet."
"You must be very tired," she said, with a tender, unnoticed touch of
her hand to his forehead.
"Not very."
"Have you been there all this time?"
"No, I have made one or two other calls. I was there again just now."
"Do have some tea," said Lucy, striking a match and lighting the alcohol
lamp under her little brass kettle, to prepare the cup of weak,
sugarless, creamless tea, the only luxury of taste which the doctor,
otherwise rigidly keeping to a special unvaried regimen, allowed
himself; and while he sipped it languidly, she watched him intently. If
only he would say anything without being asked! But she could not wait.
"How is Mabel?"
"Very much overcome."
"She has no self-control."
"She is fairly worn out."
"I am glad Julia is there."
"Yes, I should not feel easy unless she were. But Talbot himself behaved
very well. He is more of a hand with the boy than the mother is. He
seems bound up in him."
"Poor fellow!" said Lucy, sympathetically. Her husband did not respond.
"You had better go to bed, dear, and get some sleep," she went on. "You
must need it."
"I told Julia I would be there before six," said Dr. Wilson, rising.
"She must get some rest then. So if you'll wake me at five--"
"Of course," said Lucy, who was as certain and much more agreeable than
an alarm clock; "and now go to sleep, and forget it all. You have had a
hard day, you poor fellow!"
The doctor threw his arm round his wife, as she nestled closer to him,
and they turned with a common impulse to the next room, where there own
only child lay sleeping. Father and mother stood long without a word,
looking at the bright-haired boy, whose healthy breathing came and went
without a sound or a quiver; but when the mother turned to go, the
father lingered still. She did not wait for him, for her exquisite tact
could allow for shyness in a husband as well as in anyone else, and she
had no manner of jealousy of it. If he wanted to say his prayers, or
shed a few tears, or go through any other such sentimental performance
which he would feel ashamed to have her witness, why, by all means let
him have the chance; and she kept on diligently brushing her rich, dark
hair, that he might not find her waiting.
There was no dramatic scene when little Eugene Talbot was declared out
of danger; it came gradually as blessings are apt to do; but after Dr.
Wilson had informed his wife day after day for a week that the child was
"no worse," he began to report him as "a little better," and finally
somewhat grudgingly to allow that with care there was no reason why he
should not recover. By early springtime the little fellow was playing
about in the sun and air; his sisters had been sent home all well and
blooming, with many a gift from Mrs. Wilson, and their wardrobes bearing
everywhere traces of her dainty handiwork; the mother had overflowed in
tearful thanks, and the father had struggled to speak his in vain.
* * * * *
"I wish I knew how small I could decently make Talbot's fee," said Dr.
Wilson, as he sat at his desk, in a half-soliloquising tone, but still
designed to catch his wife's ear, and win her judicious advice.
But it was not till after he had repeated the words, that she said
without raising her head from her work, while her fingers ran nervously
on, "I will tell you what I should do."
"Well?" as she paused.
"I should make out my bill for the usual amount, and send it in
receipted. Won't you, Henry? I wish you would, so very, very much!" she
went on, surprised at the dawning of a look she had never seen before on
his face.
"That would be hardly treating him like a gentleman," he began; and then
suddenly, "Lucy, how can you keep up such a grudge against Eugene
Talbot?"
Lucy's work dropped, and she sat looking full at him, her pretty face
white as ashes, and her eyes dilated as if she had heard a voice from
the grave.
"I know," he resumed, "that he has injured you on the tenderest point on
which a man can injure a woman, but surely you should have got over
thinking of that by this time. Is it noble, is it Christian to bear
malice so long? Can't you be satisfied without crowding down the coals
of fire so very hard upon his head? I never," went on Dr. Wilson,
reflectively, "did like that passage, though it is in the Bible."
"Oh, Henry!"
"Put it on a lower ground. Is it just to me? Do you owe me nothing? I
don't forget how much I owe you. You have made the better part of what
little reputation I have; you are proud of it; you would like to have me
more so. But do you suppose I can feel pride in anything earthly, while
another man has the power so to move my wife? You may think you do not
love him now; but where you make a parade of forgiveness, resentment
lingers; and where revenge is hot, love is still warm."
"Then you knew it all?" gasped Lucy; "but how--how could you ever want
to marry me?"
"Because, my dear, I loved you--all the time--too well not to be
thankful to get you on any terms. I gave you credit for too much good
sense and high principle to let yourself care for him when you were once
married; and--I am but a poor creature, God knows! but I hoped I could
win your love in time. There, my dear, don't! I knew I could! I am very
sure I did."
He raised her head from where she had buried it among the sofa pillows,
and let her weep out a flood of the bitterest tears she had ever shed,
on his shoulder. It was long before she could check them enough to
murmur, "Forgive me--only forgive me!"
"Dearest, we will both of us forget it."
* * * * *
"Mr. Talbot wants to see you, ma'am."
"Is the doctor out?"
"Yes, ma'am. He did not ask for the doctor. He said he wanted to speak
to you for a minute."
"Show him into the library, and tell anyone else who calls that I am
engaged for a few moments."
Mrs. Wilson hastened downstairs, to find her visitor rather nervously
turning over the books on her table. Eugene's once bright chestnut curls
were as thin now as Henry Wilson's sandy locks, and his attire was
elegant with an effort, though he still kept his fine eyes and winning
smile.
"Won't you sit down?"
"No, thank you. I only came--I have not much time--I came on
business--if you are not too much engaged?"
"Not at all," said Lucy, quietly seating herself, which seemed to soothe
her companion's nerves.
He sat down, too, and began abruptly, "I cannot begin to tell you how
much we owe to your husband!"
"We have both sympathised so much in your sorrow and anxiety! If he
could do anything at all, I am sure he is only too glad, and so am I."
"It was not only his saving our child's life, but he has done--I can't
tell you what he has done for us in every way, as if he had been a
brother--"
Lucy raised her head proudly, with a glad light in her eyes. Eugene
looked at her a moment, and then went on with a sigh; "I couldn't say
this to him, but I must to you, though of course you don't need any
praise I can give him to tell you what he is."
"No," said Lucy, "it is the greatest happiness of my life to know it--it
would be if no one else did; not but what it is very pleasant to have
him appreciated," she added, smiling.
"I know," said Eugene, now growing red and confused, "that no recompense
could ever express all we felt. Such services as his are not to be
bought with a price, but I could not feel satisfied if I did not give
him all that was in my power. I shall never rest till I have done
so,--but--the fact is," he hurried on desperately, "I know his charges
are very small--they seem ridiculously so for a man of his
reputation--but the fact is, I am unable just now to meet all my
obligations; the ill-health of my family has been terribly expensive--I
must ask a little time--I am ashamed to do so, but I can do it better
from him than from anyone else--and from you."
"Oh, don't mention it!" cried Lucy, eagerly, "the sum is a mere trifle
to us; it would not matter if we never had it. To whom should you turn
to be helped or understood, if not to old friends like us?"
"I hope to be able to pay all my just debts, and this among the first."
"Oh, of course! but don't feel the least bit hurried about it! Henry
will never think of it till the time comes. He always forgets all about
his bills when they are once out. Wait till it is perfectly convenient."
"Thank you," said Eugene huskily; "you are all goodness. I have not
deserved this of you." He had already risen to go: but as he drew near
the door he turned back: "Oh, Lucy, don't believe I was ever quite as
heartless as I seemed. I know I treated you in a scoundrelly way, but I
loved you all the time--indeed, indeed, I did."
"Stop, Mr. Talbot! This is no language for you to use! If you have no
regard for me, recollect at least what is due to your wife."
"I have nothing to say against Mabel. She's a dear good girl, a great
deal too good for me. It isn't her fault that things have gone against
me. I always felt it was to pay me up for my conduct to you. I loved you
as well as I ever could love anyone; but I was a selfish brute, and
thought to better myself in the world--"
"Stop, Mr. Talbot! I ought not to hear any more of this! I was too much
overcome by surprise at first to check you, but now I must ask you to
leave me at once if you cannot control yourself."
"I haven't a word to say that need offend you," said Eugene, humbly. "I
only wanted to ask you to forgive me for old time's sake."
"There is nothing I know of for me to forgive. I am sorry, for your own
sake, to hear that you ever had such feelings. I never dreamed of them."
"It seemed to me as if you could not help knowing."
"Indeed? I don't remember," said Mrs. Wilson, smiling. "I was so
engrossed with my own affairs then, you see," she added with engaging
candour; "and if I thought about you, I supposed you were the same. You
can understand, after what you have seen of Henry, how little attention
a girl who loved him would have to spare for anyone else."
Eugene assented absently. He was unable to discipline his wandering
memory, which just then was vividly picturing Lucy Morton at her
prettiest, as with a sparkle in her eye and a curl on her lip she had,
for the amusement of them both, flung some gentle sarcasm at "Henny
Wilson." He could still hear her ringing laugh at his affected jealousy
of her neighbour. But those days were past, and there before him sat
Mrs. Wilson, her face lighted up with earnest emotion, grown more lovely
still, and her voice thrilling with a deeper music. He allowed with a
pang of mortification that he was not as clever as he had supposed
himself in sounding the depths of womankind; and then with keener shame
he stifled his incredulous doubts of Dr. Wilson's being able to win and
keep love. "He deserves it all," he said aloud, while still a secret
whisper told him that love does not go by desert.
"Does he not?" said Lucy. "And now we will not talk of this any more.
You must know how glad we are to be able to give you any little help,
and you must be willing to take it as freely as it is given. I am very
sure that brighter days are coming for Mabel and you; and when they do,
we will all enjoy them together, will we not?"
"You are an angel," said Eugene, taking the hand she held out; and then
he let it go and turned away without another word. Lucy stood looking
after him a longer time than she usually allowed herself to waste in
revery; and then, starting, hastened off intent on household duties.
"Why are these boots in such a condition?" she asked, in a more emphatic
tone than was her wont to use to her servants, as a muddy pair in her
back entry caught her eye.
"I am very sorry, ma'am. I brought them down here to be cleaned, but
Crossman has gone, as you ordered, to take Mrs. Talbot a little drive,
and James is out with the doctor somewhere, and there are two clean pair
in his dressing-room. Shall I black these, ma'am?" inquired the highly
trained parlour maid, who would have gone down on her very knees to
scrub the stable floor at a hint that such a proceeding might be
agreeable to Dr. Wilson.
"Oh, no; never mind," said her mistress, carelessly; but when the girl
had gone, she stooped and, picking up the boots, bore them to her own
room, and bringing blacking also, cleaned and blacked them all over in
the neatest manner, with her own delicate hands.
"I know I'm not worthy to black Henry's boots," she thought to herself,
as a tear or two, which she made haste to rub away, dropped on their
polished surface; "but I can do them well, at least. No one shall ever
say that I have not made him a good wife!"
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THREE CUPS OF TEA
"Mrs. Samuel N. Brackett, at home Wednesday, December Tenth,
from four to seven, 3929 Commonwealth Avenue."
* * * * *
"Miss Caldwell, Wednesdays, Mount Vernon Street, December
10th, 4.30-6.30."
* * * * *
"100 CHARLESGATE, EAST.
"DEAREST CARRIE: