Mr. Bernard Langdon had no sooner taken his degree, than, in accordance
with the advice of one of his teachers whom he frequently consulted,
he took an office in the heart of the city where he had studied. He had
thought of beginning in a suburb or some remoter district of the city
proper.
“No,” said his teacher,--to wit, myself,--“don't do any such thing. You
are made for the best kind of practice; don't hamper yourself with an
outside constituency, such as belongs to a practitioner of the second
class. When a fellow like you chooses his beat, he must look ahead
a little. Take care of all the poor that apply to you, but leave the
half-pay classes to a different style of doctor,--the people who spend
one half their time in taking care of their patients, and the other half
in squeezing out their money. Go for the swell-fronts and south-exposure
houses; the folks inside are just as good as other people, and the
pleasantest, on the whole, to take care of. They must have somebody, and
they like a gentleman best. Don't throw yourself away. You have a
good presence and pleasing manners. You wear white linen by inherited
instinct. You can pronounce the word view. You have all the elements of
success; go and take it. Be polite and generous, but don't undervalue
yourself. You will be useful, at any rate; you may just as well be
happy, while you are about it. The highest social class furnishes
incomparably the best patients, taking them by and large. Besides,
when they won't get well and bore you to death, you can send 'em off to
travel. Mind me now, and take the tops of your sparrowgrass. Somebody
must have 'em,--why shouldn't you? If you don't take your chance, you'll
get the butt-ends as a matter of course.”
Mr. Bernard talked like a young man full of noble sentiments. He wanted
to be useful to his fellow-beings. Their social differences were nothing
to him. He would never court the rich,--he would go where he was called.
He would rather save the life of a poor mother of a family than that of
half a dozen old gouty millionaires whose heirs had been yawning and
stretching these ten years to get rid of them.
“Generous emotions!” I exclaimed. “Cherish 'em; cling to 'em till you
are fifty, till you are seventy, till you are ninety! But do as I tell
you,--strike for the best circle of practice, and you 'll be sure to get
it!”
Mr. Langdon did as I told him,--took a genteel office, furnished it
neatly, dressed with a certain elegance, soon made a pleasant circle
of acquaintances, and began to work his way into the right kind of
business. I missed him, however, for some days, not long after he had
opened his office. On his return, he told me he had been up at Rockland,
by special invitation, to attend the wedding of Mr. Dudley Venner and
Miss Helen Darley. He gave me a full account of the ceremony, which
I regret that I cannot relate in full. “Helen looked like an
angel,”--that, I am sure, was one of his expressions. As for her dress,
I should like to give the details, but am afraid of committing blunders,
as men always do, when they undertake to describe such matters. White
dress, anyhow,--that I am sure of,--with orange-flowers, and the most
wonderful lace veil that was ever seen or heard of. The Reverend Doctor
Honeywood performed the ceremony, of course. The good people seemed
to have forgotten they ever had had any other minister, except Deacon
Shearer and his set of malcontents, who were doing a dull business in
the meeting-house lately occupied by the Reverend Mr. Fairweather.
“Who was at the wedding?”
“Everybody, pretty much. They wanted to keep it quiet, but it was of
no use. Married at church. Front pews, old Dr. Kittredge and all the
mansionhouse people and distinguished strangers,--Colonel Sprowle and
family, including Matilda's young gentleman, a graduate of one of
the fresh-water colleges,--Mrs. Pickins (late Widow Rowens) and
husband,--Deacon Soper and numerous parishioners. A little nearer the
door, Abel, the Doctor's man, and Elbridge, who drove them to church in
the family-coach. Father Fairweather, as they all call him now, came in
late with Father McShane.”
“And Silas Peckham?”
“Oh, Silas had left The School and Rockland. Cut up altogether too
badly in the examination instituted by the Trustees. Had removed over
to Tamarack, and thought of renting a large house and 'farming' the
town-poor.”
Some time after this, as I was walking with a young friend along by
the swell-fronts and south-exposures, whom should I see but Mr. Bernard
Langdon, looking remarkably happy, and keeping step by the side of
a very handsome and singularly well-dressed young lady? He bowed and
lifted his hat as we passed.
“Who is that pretty girl my young doctor has got there?” I said to my
companion.
“Who is that?” he answered. “You don't know? Why, that is neither more
nor less than Miss Letitia Forrester, daughter of--of--why, the great
banking firm, you know, Bilyuns Brothers & Forrester. Got acquainted
with her in the country, they say. There 's a story that they're
engaged, or like to be, if the firm consents.”
“Oh” I said.
I did not like the look of it in the least. Too young,--too young. Has
not taken any position yet. No right to ask for the hand of Bilyuns
Brothers & Co.'s daughter. Besides, it will spoil him for practice, if
he marries a rich girl before he has formed habits of work.
I looked in at his office the other day. A box of white kids was lying
open on the table. A three-cornered note, directed in a very delicate
lady's-hand, was distinguishable among a heap of papers. I was just
going to call him to account for his proceedings, when he pushed
the three-cornered note aside and took up a letter with a great
corporation-seal upon it. He had received the offer of a professor's
chair in an ancient and distinguished institution.
“Pretty well for three-and-twenty, my boy,” I said. “I suppose you'll
think you must be married one of these days, if you accept this office.”
Mr. Langdon blushed.--There had been stories about him, he knew. His
name had been mentioned in connection with that of a very charming young
lady. The current reports were not true. He had met this young lady,
and been much pleased with her, in the country, at the house of her
grandfather, the Reverend Doctor Honeywood,--you remember Miss Letitia
Forrester, whom I have mentioned repeatedly? On coming to town, he found
his country-acquaintance in a social position which seemed to discourage
his continued intimacy. He had discovered, however; that he was a not
unwelcome visitor, and had kept up friendly relations with her. But
there was no truth in the current reports,--none at all.'
Some months had passed, after this visit, when I happened one evening to
stroll into a box in one of the principal theatres of the city. A small
party sat on the seats before me: a middle-aged gentleman and his lady,
in front, and directly behind them my young doctor and the same very
handsome young lady I had seen him walking with on the sidewalk before
the swell-fronts and south-exposures. As Professor Langdon seemed to
be very much taken up with his companion, and both of them looked as
if they were enjoying themselves, I determined not to make my presence
known to my young friend, and to withdraw quietly after feasting my eyes
with the sight of them for a few minutes.
“It looks as if something might come of it,” I said to myself. At that
moment the young lady lifted her arm accidentally in such a way that the
light fell upon the clasp of a chain which encircled her wrist. My eyes
filled with tears as I read upon the clasp, in sharp-cut Italic
letters, E. V. They were tears at once of sad remembrance and of joyous
anticipation; for the ornament on which I looked was the double
pledge of a dead sorrow and a living affection. It was the golden
bracelet,--the parting-gift of Elsie Venner, the golden bracelet,--the
parting-gift of Elsie Venner.
End of Project Gutenberg's Elsie Venner, by Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.