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, much sorrow was expressed, and among the older sisters a
considerable anxiety felt as to whether this sudden death would postpone
indefinitely the marriage they had looked upon as sure to take place
between their brother and the youthful heiress. They hoped not, for
money was greatly needed at Terrace Hill. In the familiar intercourse
which latterly had existed between themselves and Alice they had seen
enough to know how generous and free she was. Once their sister, and
Terrace Hill would blossom again as the rose. 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 the thought arose, “What if she does not prove as wealthy
as I have supposed. Will that make any difference?”
He knew it would, for though more interested in Alice than he supposed
he could be in any one after poor Lily died, he was far too mercenary to
let his affections run away with his judgment, and could the stricken
Alice have looked into his heart and seen what his cogitations were that
morning, when at the St. Nicholas he sat thinking, how her mother’s loss
might possibly affect him, she would have shrunk from him in horror. He
had best go home at once, he said, and on the day appointed for the
funeral he reached the station adjoining Snowdon, where he alighted, as
the Express train did not stop in the next town. It was not more than
two miles to Terrace Hill across the fields, and as he preferred walking
to riding, he sauntered slowly on, thinking of Alice and wishing he did
know just the amount left her by her mother.
“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 over valued 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
jack-knife Mr. Liston pointed toward Terrace Hill.
Smothering his desire to throttle and then pitch into the river the old
man, calling him a _a prig of a doctor_, so coolly and deliberately
marring his golden visions, the doctor answered, naturally,
“The Richards family live there, sir. You mean their son, I presume.”
“Yes, the chap that has travelled 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. Don’t ask a red—does it for charity’s
sake: but I know he expects to get his pay out of Alice’s purse, as he
does it to please her and nothing else. He ought to be rewarded for all
his philanthropy with a rich wife, that’s a fact. It’s too bad to have
him so disappointed, and if he comes out to the funeral I believe I’ll
tell him as a friend that my advice is, not to marry for money—it won’t
pay,” and from beneath the slouched hat drawn so closely over the
comical face, the keen gray eyes looked curiously.
Poor doctor! How he fidgeted, moving so often that his tormenter
demurely asked him if he were sitting on a _thistle_!
“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 she living in this vicinity?”
“In Kentucky. 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 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.
“I didn’t tell him a lie. He will be disappointed when he finds just how
much she is worth, and my advice to him, or any other man, is not to
marry for money,” Mr. Liston chucklingly soliloquized as he watched the
crestfallen doctor disappearing from view, muttering to himself, “The
wretch! to talk so to my face! I wish I’d knocked him down. Rheumatic
woman and squills, indeed! But it’s all true, every word, and that’s the
worst of it. I have turned fool just to get a pretty girl, or rather to
get her money. But I won’t stay here to be laughed at. I’ll go back this
very day. I am glad no one has seen me except that old rat, who never
guessed I was the chap he complimented so highly, the rascal!”
Looking at his watch the doctor found that it lacked several hours 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.
Not a word did he say of his interview with the doctor, nor did Alice
know he had been there. She would not have cared if she had, so crushed
and desolate was her young heart, and after Mr. Liston was gone and the
house had become quiet again, a species of apathy settled upon her as
with a feeling akin to despair she sat down to wait for the news from
Kentucky, which was to decide her future course.