RIVERSIDE COTTAGE.
Mrs. Johnson did not like Dr. Richards when she came to know him, and
yet he was an almost daily visitor at Riverside Cottage, where one face
at least grew brighter when he came, and one pair of eyes beamed on him
a welcome. His new code of morality worked admirably, and as weeks
passed away he showed no signs of weariness in the course he had
adopted. Mr. Howard himself was not more regular at church, or Alice
more devout, than Dr. Richards. The children, whom he had denominated
“ragged brats,” were no longer spurned with contempt, but fed instead
with pea-nuts and molasses candy, the doctor going frequently into the
by-lanes where they lived, and where they began to expect him almost as
much as Alice. He was popular with the children, but the parents,
clearer sighted, treated him most shabbily at his back, accusing him of
caring only for Miss Alice’s good opinion, and of being at heart a most
consummate knave!
This was what the poor said, and what many others thought. It could not
be that John Richards, whom they had known from boyhood as proud,
selfish, and overbearing, could so suddenly change his entire nature,
becoming at once so amiable, so familiar, so generous, so much, in
short, like Alice herself. As well might the leopard change its spots,
and many were the insinuations thrown darkly at Alice, who smiled at
them all and thought how little Dr. Richards was understood.
As the winter passed away and spring advanced, he showed no intentions
of leaving Snowdon, but on the contrary opened an office in the village,
greatly to the surprise of the inhabitants, and greatly to the dismay of
old Dr. Rogers, who for years had blistered and bled the good people
without a fear of rivalry.
“Does Dr. Richards intend locating permanently in Snowdon?” Mrs. Johnson
asked of her daughter as they sat alone one evening.
“His sign would indicate as much,” was Alice’s reply.
There was a faint sigh in the direction of the sofa, on which Mrs.
Johnson, who for several days had been suffering from a severe pain in
her head, was lying, and the sigh smote painfully on Alice’s ear, for
well she guessed its import.
“Mother,” she said gently, as leaving her chair she came and knelt by
her mother’s side, “you look pale and worried, as if something ailed you
more than your head. You have looked so for some time past. What is it,
mother? Are you very sick, or——” and Alice hesitated, “are you troubled
about me?”
“Is there any reason why I should be troubled about my darling?” asked
the mother, smoothing fondly the bright curls almost touching her face.
Alice never had any secrets from her mother, and she answered frankly,
“I don’t know, unless—unless—mother, why don’t you like Dr. Richards?”
The ice was fairly broken now, and very briefly but candidly Mrs.
Johnson told why she did not like him. He was handsome, refined,
educated and agreeable, she admitted, but there was something lacking.
The mask he was wearing had not deceived her, and she would have liked
him far better without it. This she said to Alice, adding gently, “He
may be all he seems, but I doubt it. I distrust him greatly. I think he
fancies you and loves your money.”
“Oh, mother, you do him injustice, and he has been so kind to us, while
Snowdon is so much pleasanter since he came.”
“Are you engaged to him?” was Mrs. Johnson’s next question.
“No,” and Alice looked up wonderingly. “I do not like him well enough
for that.”
Alice Johnson was wholly ingenuous and would not for the world have
concealed a thing from her mother, and very frankly she continued,
“I like Dr. Richards better than any gentleman I have ever met, and it
seems to me that people here do him injustice, but I may be mistaken. I
know he is unpopular, and that first made me sorry for him. I am sure he
is pleased with me, but he has never asked me to be his wife. I should
have told you, mother,” and the beautiful eyes which had so charmed the
doctor, looked up confidingly at the pale face bending over them.
“God bless my darling, and keep her as innocent as now,” Mrs. Johnson
murmured, bowing her head upon her daughter’s, and kissing the rosy
cheek. “I am glad there is no engagement. Will you promise there shall
not be for one year at least?”
It was a hard thing to ask, for more than she guessed, till then, did
Alice’s heart incline toward Dr. Richards. Slily, adroitly, he had
insinuated himself into her affections, boasting that he could sway her
at will, only let him attend the Lenten services, week days and all,
drop something in the plate every Sabbath, speak to all the ragamuffins
he met, take old Mrs. Snyder out for an airing every week, and he was
all right with Alice Johnson. And this was the man from whom Mrs.
Johnson would save her daughter, asking again for the promise.
“Yes, I will, I do,” Alice said at last.
A second “God bless my darling,” came from the mother’s lips, and
drawing her treasure nearer to her, she continued, “You have made me
very happy, and by and by you’ll be so glad. You may leave me now, for I
am tired and faint.”
It was long ere Alice forgot the expression of her mother’s face or the
sound of her voice, as she bade her good night on that last evening they
ever spent together alone. The indisposition of which Mrs. Johnson had
been complaining for several days, proved to be no light matter, and
when next morning Dr. Rogers was summoned to her bedside, he decided it
to be a fever which was then prevailing to some extent in the
neighboring towns.
That afternoon it was told at Terrace Hill that Mrs. Johnson was very
sick, and half an hour later the Richards carriage, containing the
doctor and his sister Anna, wound down the hill, and passing through the
park, turned in the direction of the cottage, where they found Mrs.
Johnson worse than they had anticipated. The sight of distress roused
Anna at once, and forgetting her own feebleness she kindly offered to
stay until night if she could be of any service. Mrs. Johnson was fond
of Anna, and she expressed her pleasure so eagerly that Anna decided to
remain, and went with Alice to remove her wrappings.
“Oh, I forgot!” she exclaimed, as a sudden thought seemed to strike her.
“I don’t know as I can stay after all, though I might write it here, I
suppose, as well as at home; and as John is going to New York to-night
he will take it along.”
“What is it?” Alice asked; and Anna replied,
“You’ll think me very foolish, no doubt; they all do, especially John,
and have tried to laugh me out of it, but I have thought about it, and
dreamed about it, until it is impressed upon me that I must do it, and I
had decided to attend to it this very day, when we heard of your
mother’s illness, and John persuaded me to come here with him, as he
wished to say good-bye to you.”
“I’ll get you writing materials if you like,” Alice said, “or you can go
at once to the library. Your brother will wait, I am sure.”
“Yes; but I want to know if you too think me foolish. I’m so dependent
on others’ opinions;” and, in a low tone, Anna told how long she had
been wanting some nice young person to be constantly with her as
companion or waiting-maid, and of the advertisement seen early last
winter, how queerly it was expressed, and how careless John had been in
tearing off the name and address, with which to light his cigar. “It
seems to me,” she continued, “that ‘unfortunate married woman’ is the
very one I want. I cannot account for the interest I feel in her, and in
spite of all my family can say, I’ve concluded to write, and let John
take it to the _Herald_.”
“Yes; but how will you find her? I understand that the address was
burned,” Alice rejoined quickly, feeling herself that Anna was hardly
sane in her calculations.
“Oh, I’ve fixed that in the wording,” Anna answered. “I do not know as
it will ever reach her, it’s been so long, but if it does, she’ll be
sure to know I mean her, or somebody like her.”
It was not at all clear to Alice, but she made no objections, and taking
her silence as a tacit approval of her project, Anna followed her to the
library.
“I dislike writing very much,” she said, as she saw the array of
materials, “and I write so illegibly too. Please do it for me, that’s a
dear, good girl,” and she gave the pen to Alice, who wrote the first
word, “Wanted,” and then waited for Anna to dictate.
“WANTED.—By an invalid lady, whose home is in the country, a young
woman, who will be both useful and agreeable, either as a companion or
waiting-maid. No objection will be raised if the woman is married, and
unfortunate, or has a child a few months old.
“Address,
“A. E. R., Snowdon, Hampden Co., Mass”
“That is what will assure her, should she ever see it,” Anna said,
pointing to the lines,——
“No objection raised if the young woman is married and unfortunate, or
has a child a few months old.”
Alice thought it the queerest advertisement she had ever seen, but Anna
was privileged to do queer things, and folding the paper, she went out
into the hall, where the doctor sat waiting for her. Handing him the
note, she was about to explain its import, when Anna joined her, and
explained herself, charging him to attend to it the very first thing.
John’s mustached lip curled a little scornfully as he read it.
“Why, puss, that girl or woman is in Georgia by this time, and as the
result of this, Terrace Hill will be thronged with unfortunate women and
children, desiring situations. They’ll stand three deep from the park
gate to the house. Better let me burn this, as I did the other, and not
be foolish. She will never see it,” and John made a gesture as if he
would put it in the stove, but Anna caught his hand, saying imploringly,
“Please humor me this once. She may see it, and I’m so interested.”
Anna was always humored, and so the doctor placed in his memorandum book
the note, then turning to Alice he addressed her in so low a tone that
Anna readily took the hint and left them together. Dr. Richards was not
intending to be gone long, he said, though the time would seem a little
eternity, so much was his heart now bound up in Snowdon.
Afraid lest he might say something more of the same nature, Alice
hastened to ask if he had seen her mother and what he thought of her.
“I stepped in for a moment while you were in the library,” he replied.
“She seemed to have a high fever, and I fancied it increased while I
stood by her. I am sorry to leave while she is so sick, but remember
that if anything happens you will be dearer to me than ever,” and the
doctor pressed the little hand which he took in his to say good-bye, for
now he must really go.
With a swelling heart Alice watched him as he left the house, and then
running to her own room locked the door and throwing herself upon the
bed sobbed bitterly. What did his words, “if anything happens” imply?
Did he think her mother so very sick? Was she going to die? “Oh, mother,
mother! I will not let her go!” was the cry of a heart which at first
rebelled against the threatened blow, refusing to receive it. Anon,
however, better, calmer thoughts succeeded, and though Alice could not
yet say “Thy will be done,” she was not so rebellious, and a pleading
prayer went up, “Spare, oh, spare my mother,” while hope whispered that
this terrible calamity would not happen to her.
As the day and night wore on Mrs. Johnson grew worse so rapidly that at
her request a telegram was forwarded to Mr. Liston, who had charge of
her moneyed affairs, and who came at once, for the kind old man was
deeply interested in the widow and her lovely daughter. As Mrs. Johnson
could bear it, they talked alone together until he perfectly understood
what her wishes were with regard to Alice, and how to deal with Dr.
Richards. Then promising to return again in case the worst should
happen, he took his leave, while Mrs. Johnson, now that a weight was
lifted from her mind, seemed to rally, and the physician pronounced her
better. But with that strange foreknowledge, which sometimes comes to
people whose days are nearly numbered, she felt that she would die, and
that in mercy this interval of rest and freedom from pain was granted
her, in which she might talk with Alice concerning the arrangements for
the future.
“Alice, darling,” she said, when they were alone, “come sit by me here
on the bed and listen to what I say.”
Alice obeyed, and taking her mother’s hot hand in hers she waited for
what was to come.
“Alice, darling, are you willing to be left alone for a little while? It
won’t be long, and our Father in Heaven knows best what is for our
good.”
“Oh, mother, don’t; you will not die,” and Alice sobbed convulsively.
“Last night, when I thought you were in danger, I prayed so hard to be
willing, but I couldn’t, oh, I couldn’t, and God seemed a great ways
off—seemed as if he did not hear. In all the wide world I can never find
another mother, and I shall be so desolate.”
Mrs. Johnson knew just how desolate her dying would leave her child, for
she had felt the same, and for a few moments she strove to comfort the
weeping girl, who hid her face in the pillows, by telling her of One who
will surely care for the orphan; for he has said he would, and his word
never fails.
“You have learned to trust him in prosperity, and He will be a thousand
fold nearer to you in adversity. You’ll miss me, I know, and be very
lonely without me, but you are young, and life has many charms for you,
besides God will never forget or forsake his covenant children.”
Gradually as she talked the sobbing ceased, and when the white face
lifted itself from its hiding place there was a look upon it as if the
needed strength had been sought and to some extent imparted.
“My will was made some time ago,” Mrs. Johnson continued, “and that with
a few exceptions, such as legacies to your nurse Densie Densmore, and
some charitable institutions, you are my sole heir. Mr. Liston is to be
your guardian, and will look after your interests until you are of age,
or longer if you choose. You know that as both your father and myself
were only children, you have no near relatives on either side to whom
you can look for protection. There is a kind of second cousin, it is
true, the old gentleman who visited us just before we came here. But his
family are gay, fashionable people, and I’d rather you should not go
there, even if he were willing. Mr. Liston would give you a home with
him, but I do not think that best and there is but one other
alternative.
“You will remember having heard me speak occasionally of a friend now
living in Kentucky, a Mrs. Worthington whose husband was a distant
relative of ours. Ralph Worthington and your father were school boys
together, and afterward college companions. They were more like brothers
than friends; indeed, they were often likened to David and Jonathan, so
strongly were they attached to each other.
“I was but sixteen when I became a bride, and, as you know, several
years elapsed ere God blessed me with a living child. Your father was
consumptive, and the chances were that I should early be left a widow.
This it was, I think, which led to the agreement made by the two friends
to the effect that if either died the living one should care for the
widow and fatherless as for a brother’s family. To see the two as they
pledged themselves to keep this solemn compact, you would not have
guessed that the tall, athletic, broad chested Ralph, would be the first
to go, yet so it was. He died ere you were born.”
“Then _he_ is dead? Oh, I’m so sorry,” Alice exclaimed.
“Yes, he’s dead; and, as far as possible, your father fulfilled his
promise to Ralph’s widow and her child—a little boy, five years old, of
whom Mrs. Worthington herself was appointed guardian. I never knew what
spirit of evil possessed Eliza who had been my schoolmate and to whom I
was greatly attached; but in less than a year after her husband’s death,
she made a second and most unfortunate marriage. We both opposed it, for
we distrusted the man. As the result of our opposition, a coolness
sprang up between us, and we saw but little of each other after that.
Mr. Murdoch proved a greater scoundrel that we supposed, and when their
little girl was nearly two years old, we heard of a divorce. Mr.
Johnson’s health was failing fast, and we were about to make the tour of
Europe, in hopes a change would benefit him. Just before we sailed we
visited poor Eliza, whom we found doubly heart-broken, for, in addition
to the other outrages heaped upon her, the brutal wretch had managed to
steal her beautiful daughter, and carried it no one knew whither. I
never shall forget the distress of the brother. I’ve often thought of
him since, and wondered what he had grown to be. We comforted Eliza as
best we could, and left money to be used for her in case she needed it.
Then we embarked with you and Densie for Europe. You know how for a
while, your father seemed to regain his strength, how he at last grew
worse and hastened home to die. In the sorrow and excitement which
followed, it is not strange that Eliza was for a time forgotten, and
when I remembered and enquired for her again, I heard that Hugh had been
adopted by some relation in Kentucky, that the stolen child had been
mysteriously returned, and was living with its mother in Elmswood—a
quiet, out-of-the-way town, which I never visited until that summer when
you went West with the Gilmores.
“At first Eliza appeared a little cool, but this soon wore off, and was
mostly owing, I fancy, to the mortification she felt at my finding her
in circumstances so changed from what they used to be, for, though
managing to keep up a genteel exterior, she was really very poor. She
did not talk much of Hugh. Indeed, she knew but little of him, as his
letters were far apart, and only contained praises of his horses, his
dogs, and the rare sport he had in hunting with his eccentric uncle,
whose name I have forgotten. Neither did she say much of Adaline, who
was then away at school. Still my visit was a sadly satisfactory one, as
we recalled old times when we were girls together weeping over our great
loss when our husbands were laid to rest. Then we spoke of their
friendship, and lastly of the contract.
“‘It sounds preposterous in me, I know,’ Mrs. Worthington said, when we
parted, ‘you are so rich and I so poor, but if ever Alice should want a
mother’s care, I will gladly give it to her.’
“This was nearly eight years ago. And, as I failed to write her for a
long, long time, while she was long in answering, the correspondence
ceased till just before her removal to Kentucky, when she apprised me of
the change. You have now the history of Mrs. Worthington, the only
person who comes to mind as one to whose care I can entrust you.”
“But, mother, I may not be wanted there,” and Alice’s lip quivered
painfully. “Adaline is a young lady now, and Hugh, what of him, mother?
What is he?”
Mrs. Johnson could not tell; neither did she know if her darling would
be welcome, but money, she knew, had a charm, and she replied to Alice’s
queries,
“You will not go empty handed, nor be a burden to them. They are poor,
and money will not come amiss. We can but try at all events, and if they
object, Mr. Liston will do the best he can for you. For some weeks, it
has been impressed upon me that my time was short, and fancying it could
do no harm, I have written to Mrs. Worthington a letter which you will
send when I am gone. I have asked her to receive you, to care for you as
her own. I said that Mr. Liston would attend to all pecuniary matters,
paying your allowance quarterly; and I am sure you will not object when
I tell you that I think it right to leave Adaline the sum of one
thousand dollars. It will not materially lessen your inheritance, and it
will do her a world of good. Mr. Liston will arrange it for you. You
will remain here until you hear from Mrs. Worthington, and then abide by
her arrangements. She is a gentle, affectionate woman, and will be kind
to you. I do not know that she is a Christian, but your influence may do
her good, and make her bless the day when you were sent to her. Will you
go, my daughter—go cheerfully?”
“Yes, mother, I’ll go,” came gaspingly from Alice’s lips, “I’ll go but,
mother, oh, mother,” and Alice’s cry ended as it always did, “you will
not, you must not die!”
But neither tears, nor prayers could avail to keep the mother longer.
Her work on earth was done, and after this conversation she grew worse
so rapidly that hope died out of Alice’s heart, and she knew that soon
she would be motherless. There were days and nights of pain and delirium
in which the sick woman recognized none of those around her save Alice,
whom she continually blessed as her darling, praying that God, too,
would bless and keep his covenant child. At last there came a change,
and one lovely Sunday morning, when the sunlight lay upon the springing
grass and sparkled on the river, when the air was laden with the early
flowers’ perfume, and birds were singing by the door, the delirium
passed away, and in the room so long kept dark and still, were heard
whispered words of joy, of peace, of perfect rest, such as the dying
Christian only feels. It was early morning then and ere the bell from
St. Paul’s tower sent forth its summons to the house of God, there rang
from its belfry a solemn toll, and the villagers listening to it, said,
as they counted forty-four, that Mrs. Johnson was dead.