Dr. Lavendar's People

Aged 68

"Base body, thou art faint and weak —(How the sweet moments roll!)A mortal paleness on thy cheek,But glory in thy soul!"

William, reading it, had remarked that he thought people lived longer nowadays. "Don't you?" he added, anxiously.

"We live long enough," Miss Lydia said. "I don't want to live too long."

"You can't live too long," he told her, with his sharp smile.

Miss Lydia laughed and looked down at the crumbling stone. "I think sixty-eight was just about long enough. I'm like Dr. Lavendar; he says he 'wants to get up from the banquet of life still hungry.' That's the way I feel. I don't want to lose my appetite for life by getting too much of it."

"I couldn't get too much," Mr. Rives said, nervously. "Let us proceed. This place is – is not cheerful. I like cheerfulness. You always seem cheerful, Lydy?"

"Course I am," she said, getting up. "Why shouldn't I be? I haven't a care in the world."

"You don't say so!" said William Rives. "I was under the impression that your circumstances – "

"My circumstances?" said Miss Lydia. "Bless you! I haven't any. Father didn't leave much of anything. I had $2000, but Cousin Robinson invested it and lost it. He felt so badly, I was just distressed about him."

"He should have been prosecuted!" Mr. Rives said, angrily.

Miss Lydia shook her head in horrified protest, but she beamed at him from under her black frizette, grateful for his sympathy.

"I remember," he said, thoughtfully, "that you were always light-hearted. I recall your once telling me that you began to sing as soon as you got up in the morning."

"Oh yes," Miss Lydia said, simply. "I always sing the morning hymn. You know the morning hymn, William?

"'Awake, my soul, and with the sunThy daily course of duty run – '"

William nodded. "Vocal exercises (if in tune and not too loud) are always cheerful," he said.

Gossiping thus of simple things, they walked back to Lydia's house and sat down in her parlor. There William told her, with a sort of whimper, that his health was bad. "I sent for Willy King – he is so young, he ought not to charge the full fee. I remember him as a very impudent boy," Mr. Rives said, growing red at some memory of William's youth; "however, he seems a respectable young man."

"Oh, indeed he is," said Miss Lydia; "he is a dear, good boy. I hope he is doing you good?" she ended, with eager kindness.

"Yes, I think so," he said, anxiously. And then he gave his symptoms with a detail that made poor Miss Lydia get very red. "And I don't sleep very well," he ended, sighing. "Willy told me to try repeating the kings of England backward, but I couldn't remember them; so it didn't do any good."

"When I don't sleep," said Miss Lydia, "I just count my blessings. That's a splendid thing to do, because you fall asleep before you get to the end of 'em."

William sighed. "The kings of England was a foolish prescription; yet I paid Willy $1.50 for that call. Still, I must say I think he is doing me good; but he recommends many expensive things – perhaps because he is young. He wished me to hire a vehicle and drive every day. Now just think of the expense of such a thing! I suggested to him that instead of hiring a conveyance, I would go out with him in his buggy whenever he calls. He is a very young man to treat an important case," William ended, sighing. Then he asked Lydia about her health, with an exactness which she thought very kind.

"Yes, I'm always well; and so sorry for the poor people who are sick," she said.

"You are a good nurse, aren't you, Lydy?" he asked.

"I'm always glad when I can do anything for a sick person. I'm so sorry for 'em," Miss Lydia said, kindly.

"And you are economical, aren't you, Lydy?" Mr. Rives inquired, in his mild voice, "and not fond of dress?"

"Bless you!" said Lydia, "how can I be anything but economical? And as for being fond of dress – I'm fond of my old dresses, William."

"That is an excellent trait," said William Rives, solemnly. Then, catching sight of his own portrait – the slim, anæmic young person in a stock and tight-waisted coat, with very small feet and very large hat, he got up to look at it. "I – have changed a little," he said, doubtfully.

"It's more becoming to be heavier," Miss Lydia said. And this remark gave him such obvious satisfaction that when he went away his perpetual smile had deepened into positive heartiness.

It was after this talk that he finally added his offering to the "Present" which just then was occupying Old Chester's attention. "And how much do you suppose I got out of him?" Mrs. Barkley asked Dr. Lavendar. "$1.50!"

However, other friends were more liberal, and by the end of May the $85 (grown now into the round sum of $100) was ready for Miss Lydia. A little silk bag, with a scrap of paper twisted about its ribbon drawing-string, was thrust one evening by an unknown hand into Miss Lydia's door. In it were twenty five-dollar gold pieces. "From old friends," Dr. Lavendar had written on the scrap of paper.

"Sha'n't we say – 'for repairs'?" Mrs. Barkley asked, doubtfully.

"No," Dr. Lavendar declared; "I'd rather say 'to buy curl-papers.' Of course she'll use it for repairs; but we mustn't dictate."

Nobody saw Miss Lydia gasp when she opened the bag, and sit down, and then cry and laugh, but probably every friendly heart in Old Chester was busy imagining the scene, for every friend had contributed. They had all done it in their different ways – and how character confesses itself in this matter of giving! … Mrs. Dale, who gave the largest sum, did it with calm, impersonal kindness. Martha King said that she had so many calls upon her charity that she couldn't give much, but was glad to do what she could. Miss Harriet Hutchinson said it was a first-rate idea, and she was obliged to Mrs. Barkley for letting her have a hand in it; as for Mrs. Drayton, she said it was a great trial not to contribute, but she could not do so conscientiously. "I make such things a matter of prayer," she said; "some do not. I do not judge them. I never judge any one. But I take all such matters to the Throne of Grace, and as a result I feel that such things are injurious to a poor person, and so I must deny myself the pleasure of charity."

William Rives said that he would be pleased to contribute, and Mrs. Barkley had a moment of intense excitement when she read his check – $150. But her emotion only lasted until she put on her spectacles.

And yet, when Lydia, sitting at the kitchen table, wiped her eyes and counted her gold by the light of a candle in a hooded candlestick, she felt, somehow, William's hand in it. For, by this time, William's friendliness was beyond any question. He came to see her every other day, and he told her all his symptoms and talked of his loneliness and forlornness until they were both moved to tears.

"Poor William!" she said, her eyes overflowing with sympathy. "Well, I'm glad you have plenty of money, anyhow. It would be hard to be poor and have bad health, too."

"But I haven't plenty of money," William said, with agitation. "How did you get such an idea? I haven't!"

And then Miss Lydia was sorrier for him than ever. "Although," she said, cheerfully, "poverty is the last thing to worry about. Look at me. I don't want to brag, but I'm always contented, and I'll tell you why: I don't want things. Don't want things, and then you're not unhappy without 'em."

"Oh, Lydy, that's so true," Mr. Rives said, earnestly. "I'm so glad you feel that way." And he began to call every day.

"It's plain to be seen what's going to happen," said Mrs. Barkley, excitedly, and whispered her hopes (in secret) to almost everybody in Old Chester – except Dr. Lavendar. He became very ill-tempered the moment she approached the subject. But she was jocose, in a deep bass, to Miss Lydia herself; and Miss Lydia did not pretend to misunderstand. She reddened and laughed; but her eyes were not clear; there was a puzzled look at the back of them. Still, when she sat and looked at her gold the puzzle lightened, and her face, under her black frizette – in her excitement fallen sidewise over one ear – softened almost to tears. "William is kind," she said to herself.

And, indeed, at that very moment William was referring to her in most kindly terms. He was sitting in Mrs. Barkley's gloomy parlor, on the edge of the horse-hair sofa, and Mrs. Barkley was regarding him with romantic interest. "I have been much saddened, ma'am," he was saying, "to observe the destitution of Miss Lydia Sampson."

Mrs. Barkley beamed. Was he going to do something, after all? She spoke in an amiable bass, twitching her heavy eyebrows. "Our little gift, which has gone to her to-night, will make her more comfortable. I could wish it had been larger," she ended, and looked sidewise at Mr. Rives, who bowed and regretted that it was not larger. He then coughed behind his hand.

"Mrs. Barkley, I wish to approach a subject of some delicacy."

("He is going to do something," she thought, excitedly; "or perhaps he means marriage!")

"Mrs. Barkley, in past years there were passages of affection between Miss Sampson and myself" (Mrs. Barkley bowed; her heart began to glow with that warmth which stirs the oldest of us at the sight of a lover).

"We were younger in those days, ma'am," William said, in his soft voice.

"Oh no!" she protested, politely. "Why, you are very well preserved, I'm sure."

"Yes," said William, "I am. Yet I am not as young as I once was."

This drifting away from Miss Lydia disturbed Mrs. Barkley. She lowered her chin and glared at him over her spectacles, saying, in a rumbling bass: "Neither is Lydia; and it's hard for her to be destitute in her old age."

"Just so," Mr. Rives said, eagerly – "exactly. She is not as young as she once was, which, for many reasons, is desirable. But I think she is healthy?"

"Why, yes," Mrs. Barkley admitted; "but I don't know that that makes it easier to be poor."

"But I infer that poverty has taught her economy?" William Rives said.

"Yes; but poverty is a hard teacher."

"But thorough – thorough!" said Mr. Rives; "and some people will learn of no other."

Mrs. Barkley was growing impatient; she gave up marriage and thought of a pension.

"Yes," said William; "she is economical, and has good health, and is fond of old clothes, and is kind-hearted, and doesn't have any wants. Excellent traits – excellent. I have looked very carefully at the items of expense in regard to a housekeeper or nurse."

Mrs. Barkley stared at him in bewilderment. Was he going to offer Lydia a position as housekeeper? She was fairly dizzy with this seesaw of possibilities; and she was perplexed, too, for, after all, badly as Lydia needed assistance, propriety must be considered, and certainly this housekeeping project was of doubtful propriety. "Because you know you are neither of you very old," she explained.

Mr. Rives looked disturbed. "Yes, we are," he said, sharply. "Quite old enough. I would not wish a youthful wife, for – many reasons. There might be – results, which would interfere with my comfort. No, Lydia is no longer young; yet she is sufficiently robust to make me extremely comfortable." The light was breaking slowly on Mrs. Barkley. Her face flushed; she sat up very straight and tapped the table with her thimble. "The expense of an extra person is not very considerable, is it?" Mr. Rives said, doubtfully. "It was in regard to this that I wished to consult you."

"Not more than the wages of a housekeeper or a nurse," Mrs. Barkley said, in a restrained voice.

"Exactly!" cried Mr. Rives – "granted that her health is good."

Mrs. Barkley opened and closed her lips. Her impulse to show him the door battled with her common-sense. After all, it would mean a home for Lydia; it would mean comfort and ease and absence from worry – plus, of course, Mr. Rives. But if Lydia liked him, that wouldn't make any difference. And she must like him – her faithfulness to the picture proved it – and he was an agreeable person; amiable, too, Mrs. Barkley thought, for he always smiled when he spoke.

"Would you live in Old Chester?" she managed to say, after a pause.

"Yes."

"You would build, I suppose?" Mrs. Barkley said, trying, in the confusion of her thoughts, to make time.

"No," Mr. Rives said; "we would reside in Lydia's present abode."

"In Lydia's house? You couldn't! – why, it would be impossible!"

Mrs. Barkley, her mouth open with astonishment, saw, suddenly, that this project was not comfort plus William, but William minus comfort. "You couldn't! The chimney in the parlor is dreadful; it smokes whenever the wind is from the west."

"But, as I understand, Lydia has been provided with the means of mending the chimney?" William said, anxiously.

At this the rein broke. Mrs. Barkley rose, tapping the table with alarming loudness and glaring down at her guest. "William Rives, I have been a perfect fool. But you are worse – you are a mean person. I'd rather live with a murderer than a mean man!"

Mr. Rives was unmoved. His little, steely smile never wavered; he rose also, bowed, and said: "Possibly Miss Sampson does not agree with you. I will bid you good-night, ma'am."

"I was a perfect fool," she said again, as the door closed softly behind him.

But William Rives was no fool… He said to himself that it behooved him to see Miss Lydia before Mrs. Barkley had a chance to impart to her those impolite views regarding himself. And that was why, as she was still sitting at her kitchen table, twinkling with happiness over the kindness of her world and piling her gold pieces in a little leaning tower, William knocked at the door.

Miss Lydia threw an apron over the small, glittering heap and ran to let her caller in. When she saw who it was she whipped off the apron to display her wealth; the tears stood in her eyes, and her happy heart burst into words: "How good people are! Just think – $100! Why, it takes my breath away – "

"It is a large sum of money," William said, solemnly, touching the gold with respectful fingers. "I would suggest a bank until you pay for the mending of your chimney. And you will get some interest if you defer payment for ninety days."

"Mending my chimney?" Miss Lydia said, thoughtfully. "Well – that wouldn't take nearly all this."

William's face brightened. "You are right to be prudent, Lydia," he said. "I admire prudence in a female; but still, masons and carpenters – in fact, all persons of that sort, – are – thieves!" Then he coughed delicately. "Lydia," he said, "I – I have been thinking – "

"Yes?" said Miss Lydia, calmly.

"We are so situated – each alone, that perhaps we might – we might, ah – marry – to our mutual advantage?"

"Marry?"

"Yes," William said, earnestly; "I should be pleased to marry, Lydy. I need a home. My health is not very good, and I need a home. You need a home, also."

"Indeed I don't!" she said; "I've got a home, thank you."

"I haven't," William said; and Lydia's blue eyes softened. "I am not very strong," he said ("though I see no reason why I should not live to old age); but I want a home. Won't you take me, Lydy?"

Miss Lydia frowned and sighed. "I am very well satisfied as I am," she said; "but perhaps that is a selfish way to look at it."

"Yes, it is," he told her, earnestly; "and you didn't use to be selfish, Lydia."

Miss Lydia sighed again. "I suppose I could make you comfortable, William."

"Do take me, Lydy," he entreated.

And somehow or other, before she quite knew it, she had consented.

As soon as the word was spoken, William arose with alacrity. "I don't like to be out in the night air," he said, "so I'll say good-night, Lydy. And, Lydy – shall we, for the moment, keep this to ourselves?"

"Oh yes," said Miss Lydia, getting very red, "I'd rather, for the present." Then, smiling and friendly, she went out with him, bare-headed, to the gate. There William hesitated, swallowed once, rubbed his hands nervously, and then suddenly gave her a kiss.

Miss Lydia Sampson jumped. "Oh!" she said; and again, "Oh!"

And then she ran back into the house, her eyes wet and shining, her face flushed to her forehead. She sat down by the table and put her hands over her eyes; she laughed, in a sort of sob, and her breath came quickly.

"I hadn't thought of it – that way," she whispered to herself. And somehow, as she sat there by her kitchen table, she began to think of it that way – Miss Lydia was very young! … Oh, she would try and make him happy; she would try and be more orderly; she would try to be good, since her Heavenly Father had given back to her the old happiness.

And that night she did not bid the picture good-night.

Mr. Rives was himself not without emotion. It was many years, he reflected, since his lips had touched those of a female, and the experience was agreeable – so agreeable that he wished to repeat it as soon as possible; and, furthermore, he felt anxious to know that Lydia had put the gold in a safe place. But when he called the next day he was a little late, because, as he explained to Miss Lydia, he had had to wait for the mail. She met him with a new look in her innocent, eager eyes, and her face was shy and red. As she sat sewing, listening vaguely, she would glance at him now and then, as if, until now, she had not seen him since that day of parting, thirty-one years ago – the thirty-one years which had blotted Amanda's field from her memory. The old happiness, like a tide long withdrawn, was creeping back, rising and rising, until it was overflowing in her eyes. This puffy gentleman, with his tight, smiling mouth, was the William of her youth – and she had never known it until last night! She had thought of him during the last month or two only as an old friend who needed the care which her kind heart prompted her to give; and lo! suddenly he was the lover who would care for her.

"I was sorry, my dear Lydia, to be late," said Mr. Rives, in his soft voice; "I was detained by waiting for the mail."

Miss Lydia said, brightly, that it didn't matter.

"But it was worth waiting for," William assured her. "I have done a good piece of business. (Not that it will make me richer; I have so many obligations to meet!) But it was a fortunate stroke."

"That is good," said Miss Lydia.

"A female in a distant city, where I own a poor little bit of real estate – nothing of any value, Lydia; I am a poor man – "

"That's no difference," she told him, softly.

" – this female, a widow, and foolish (as widows always are)," William said, with a little giggle, "asked me to sell her a house I owned. She wished, for some reason, to purchase in that locality. I named the market price. I did so, by letter, a fortnight ago. I believe she thought it high; but that was her affair. She would have to sell certain securities to purchase it, she said. But as I wrote her – 'my dear madam, that's your business.'" Mr. Rives laughed a little. Miss Lydia looked up, smiling and interested. "Yes," said Mr. Rives – "I didn't urge it. I never urge, because then I can't be blamed if things go wrong. But I held my price. That is always good policy – not to drop a dollar on price. So she's bought it. She made a payment yesterday to bind the sale. Not that I feel any richer, for I must immediately apply the money to the purchase of other things."

"That's nice," Miss Lydia said.

"I guess it is," William agreed; "I happen to know that a boiler factory is to be erected on the rear lot."

"But will she like that – the poor widow?" Miss Lydia said.

Mr. Rives laughed comfortably. "Ah, Lydy, my dear, in business we do not ask such questions before making a sale. I like it. In three months that bit of property will have shrunk to an eighth of its selling price to-day." Mr. Rives's eyes twinkled with satisfaction.

"But —William!" said Miss Lydia. Suddenly she grew pale. "William," she said, "it seems to me you ought to have told the poor widow."

"Lydia, a lady cannot understand business," William said, with kindly condescension, but with a slight impatience. "Don't you see, if I had told her, she would not have made the purchase?"

Miss Lydia was silent, stroking the gathers of her cambric with a shaking needle. Then she said, in a low voice, "I suppose she wouldn't."

William nodded encouragingly. "You'll learn, Lydia. A married lady learns much of business methods through her husband. Though they don't profit by it, I notice; widows are always foolish. Not that – that you will be likely to be – to be foolish," he ended, hastily, frowning very much.

Lydia went on sewing in silence. The color did not come back into her face, which caused William to ask her anxiously how she was.

"You are sure you are healthy, Lydia, aren't you?" he said.

Miss Lydia, without looking at him, said she was. When he had gone, she stopped sewing and glanced about her in a frightened way; then she put her hands over her eyes and drew in her breath, and once she shivered. She sat there for a long time. After a while she got up and went over to the picture of Mr. William Rives and stood looking at it; and as she looked her poor, terrified eyes quieted into tears and she straightened the bit of box with a tender hand, and then she suddenly bent down and kissed the slim gentleman behind the misty glass.

The next day when she met her lover she was cheerful enough. It was at the front door of the Tavern; Dr. Lavendar was there, too, waiting for the morning stage for Mercer.

"Well! well! So I am going to have company, am I?" he said, for Miss Lydia was waiting for it, too. Her bonnet was on one side, her shabby jacket, fading from black to green on the shoulders, was split at the elbow seams, and the middle finger of each glove was worn through; but her eyes were shining with pleasure.

"Yes," she said, nodding; "I'm going."

Her presence seemed to be a surprise to Mr. Rives, who had strayed forth from the breakfast-room to see the stage start.

"You are going to Mercer?" he said, his small smile fading into an astonished question.

"Yes," Miss Lydia said, laughing, and suddenly she gave a little jump of happiness. "I haven't been to Mercer for nine years. Oh, dear! isn't it just delightful!"

"But, why?" William persisted, in an amazed aside.

"Oh, that's the secret!" cried Miss Lydia, clambering into the stage; "you'll know sometime."

"I suppose you wish to arrange for the alterations of your house?" William said; "but considering the stage fares back and forth – Oh, there is Dr. Lavendar."

He came round to the other side of the stage, smiling very much. "Well, sir, good-morning! good-morning, sir!"

"Hello," Dr. Lavendar said.

Mr. Rives rubbed his hands. "I – I was about to say, Dr. Lavendar – that little matter between us – it's of no importance, of course; quite at your convenience, sir; I don't mean to press you – but at your convenience, sir."

"What are you talking about?" Dr. Lavendar said, with a puzzled blink.

"Well," William said, smiling, "there's no haste, only I thought I'd just remind you. I'm always business-like myself; and that little matter of accommodation – "

Dr. Lavendar stared at him. "I am afraid I'm a stupid old fellow; I don't understand."

The stage-driver gathered up his reins; Miss Lydia nodded joyously on the back seat, the two other passengers frowned at the delay; so William Rives made haste to explain: "Merely, sir, the stamp I had the pleasure of lending you. But pray don't incommode yourself; I merely remind you; it's of no – "

Dr. Lavendar pulled out his shabby leather pocket-book, his hands fairly trembling with haste, and produced the stamp; then he pulled the door to, and as the stage sagged forward and went tugging up the hill, he turned his astonished eyes on Miss Lydia. She had grown very pale, but she said nothing, only looking out of the window and rubbing her little cotton gloves hard together.

"Would you have asked him for a receipt?" Dr. Lavendar said, under his breath, chuckling. But when she tried to answer him, there was something in her face that turned Dr. Lavendar grave.

The stage jolted on; the two other passengers chatted, then one fell asleep and the other read an almanac. Suddenly Miss Lydia turned sharply round. "It just kills me!" she said.

"Nonsense!" Dr. Lavendar told her. "He is a man of business, and I'm a forgetful old codger. I knew William, and I ought to have remembered."