MR. LISTON AND THE DOCTOR
Among Snowdon's poor that day, as well as among the wealthier class,
there was many an aching heart, and many a prayer was breathed for the
stricken Alice, not less beloved than the mother had been. At Terrace
Hill mansion too, much sorrow was expressed. On the whole it was very
unfortunate that Mrs. Johnson should have died so unexpectedly, and they
did wish John was there to comfort the young girl who, they heard,
refused to see any one except the clergyman and Mr. Liston.
"Suppose we telegraph for John," Eudora said, and in less than two hours
thereafter, Dr. Richards in New York read that Alice was an orphan.
There was a pang as he thought of her distress, a wish that he were with
her, and then in his selfish heart the thought arose, "What if she does
not prove as wealthy as I have supposed? Will that make any
difference?"
"I must do something," he soliloquized, "or how can I ever pay those
debts in New York, of which mother knows nothing? I wish that widow--"
He did not finish his wishes, for a turn in the path brought him
suddenly face to face with Mr. Liston, whom he had seen at a distance,
and whom he recognized at once.
"I'll quiz the old codger," he thought. "He don't, of course, know me,
and will never suspect my object."
Mistaken, doctor! The old codger was fully prepared. He did know Dr.
Richards by sight, and was rather glad than otherwise when the elegant
dandy, taking a seat upon the gnarled roots of the tree under which he
was sitting, made some trivial remark about the weather, which was very
propitious for the crowd who were sure to attend Mrs. Johnson's funeral.
Yes, Mr. Liston presumed there would be a crowd. It was very natural
there should be, particularly as the deceased was greatly beloved and
was also reputed wealthy, "It beats all what a difference it makes, even
after death, whether one is supposed to be rich or poor," and the codger
worked away industriously at the pine stick he was whittling.
"But in this case the supposition of riches must be correct, though I
know people are oftener overvalued than otherwise," and with his
gold-headed cane the doctor thrust at a dandelion growing near.
"Nothing truer than that," returned the whittler, brushing the litter
from his lap. "Now I've no doubt that prig of a doctor, who they say is
shining up to Alice, will be disappointed when he finds just how much
she's worth. Let me see. What is his name? Lives up there," and with his
jackknife Mr. Liston pointed toward Terrace Hill.
"The Richards family live there, sir. You mean their son, I presume."
"Ted, the chap that has traveled and come home so changed. They do say
he's actually taken to visiting all the rheumatic old women in town,
applying sticking-plasters to their backs and administering squills to
their children, all free gratis."
Poor doctor! How he fidgeted, moving so often that his tormentor
demurely asked him if he were sitting on a thistle or what!
"Does Miss Johnson remain here?" the doctor asked at last, and Mr.
Liston replied by telling what he knew of the arrangements.
At the mention of Worthington the doctor looked up quickly. Whom had he
known by that name, or where had he heard it before? "Mrs. Worthington,
Mrs. Worthington," he repeated, unpleasant memories of something, he
knew not what, rising to his mind. "Is he living in this vicinity?"
"In Elmwood. It's a widow and her daughter," Mr. Liston answered, wisely
resolving to say nothing of a young man, lest the doctor should feel
anxious.
"A widow and her daughter! I must be mistaken in thinking I ever knew
any one by that name, though it seems strangely familiar," said the
doctor, and as by this time he had heard all he wished to hear, he
arose, and bidding Mr. Liston good-morning walked away in no enviable
frame of mind.
Looking at his watch the doctor found that it lacked several hours yet
ere the express from Boston was due. But this did not discourage him. He
would stay in the fields or anywhere, and turning backward he followed
the course of the river winding under the hill until he reached the
friendly woods which shielded him from observation. How he hated himself
hiding there among the trees, and how he longed for the downward train,
which came at last, and when the village bell tolled out its summons to
the house of mourning, he sat in a corner of the car returning to New
York even faster than he had come.
Gradually the Riverside cottage filled with people assembling to pay the
last tribute of respect to the deceased, who during her short stay among
them had endeared herself to many hearts.
Slowly, sadly, they bore her to the grave. Reverently they laid her down
to rest, and from the carriage window Alice's white face looked
wistfully out as "earth to earth, ashes to ashes," broke the solemn
stillness. Oh, how she longed to lay there, too, beside her mother! How
the sunshine, flecking the bright June grass with gleams of gold, seemed
to mock her misery as the gravelly earth rattled heavily down upon the
coffin lid, and she knew they were covering up her mother. "If I, too,
could die!" she murmured, sinking back in the carriage corner and
covering her face with her veil. But not so easily could life be shaken
off by her, the young and strong. She must live yet longer. She had a
work to do--a work whose import she knew not; and the mother's death,
for which she then could see no reason, though she knew well that one
existed, was the entrance to that work. She must live and she must
listen while Mr. Liston talked to her that night on business, arranging
about the letter, which was forwarded immediately to Kentucky, and
advising her what to do until an answer was received, when he would come
up again and do whatever was necessary.