Dr. Lavendar's People
But Miss Lydia's face had fallen into such drawn and anxious lines that Dr. Lavendar had to do his best to cheer her. He began to ask questions: How long was it since she had been in Mercer? Was she going to call on friends? Was she going to shop? "I believe you ladies always want to shop?" said Dr. Lavendar, kindly. And somehow Miss Lydia brightened up. Yes; she was going to shop! It was a secret: she couldn't tell Dr. Lavendar yet, but he should know about it first of all. She was so happy, so important, so excited, that her pain at William's business-like ways seemed forgotten; and when in Mercer they separated at the Stage House, she went bustling off into the sunshine, waving a shabby cotton glove at him, and crying, "I haven't a minute to lose!"
Dr. Lavendar stood still and shook his head. "Pity," he said – "pity, pity. But I suppose it can't be helped. There's no use telling William about her; he must see it. And there's no use telling her about William; she must see it. No – no use. But it's a pity – a pity." Which shows that Dr. Lavendar had reached that degree of wisdom which knows that successful interference in love affairs must come from the inside, not from the outside.
He did not see Miss Lydia again until they met in the afternoon at the Stage House, and for a minute he did not recognize her. She came running and panting, laden with bundles, to the coach door. Indeed, she was so hurried that one of her innumerable packages, a long, slim bundle, slipped from her happy, weary arms, and, hitting the iron drop-step, crashed into fragments and splashed her dress with its contents. "Oh! that's one of my bottles of Catawba," said Miss Lydia. "Dear, dear! Well, never mind; I'll order another."
The fragrance of the wine soaking her gloves and the front of her faded dress, filled the stage (in which they were the only passengers), and Miss Lydia joyously licked the two bare finger-tips. "Too bad!" she said; "but accidents will happen."
Dr. Lavendar helped her pile her bundles on the front seat, and then he unhooked the swinging strap so that certain parcels could be put on the middle bench. Miss Lydia leaned back with a happy sigh. "The rest will come down to-morrow," she said.
"The rest?" said Dr. Lavendar.
"Oh, I've just got to tell somebody!" she said. "Promise you won't tell?"
"I won't tell," he assured her.
"Well," said Miss Lydia, "look here – do you see that?" She tore a little hole in a long, flat package, and Dr. Lavendar saw a gleam of blue. "That's a dress. Yes, a blue silk dress – for myself. I'm afraid it was selfish to get a thing just for myself, but that and a pair of white kid gloves and some lace are all I did get; and I've wanted a silk dress, a blue silk dress, ever since I got poor."
Dr. Lavendar looked at her and at the hole in the package, and at her again. "Lydia!" he said, "is it possible that you – ? Lydia!" he ended, speechless with consternation.
"The other things are all for the party."
"The – party?"
"Presents!" she said, rubbing her hands. "Oh, dear! I'm so tired! And I'm so happy! Oh, nobody was ever so happy. The party (that's the secret) is to be next Thursday a week; that gives me time to make my dress. I ordered the cake in Mercer. All pink-and-white icing – perfectly lovely! And I have a present for everybody. Here's a work-basket for Martha King. And I have a bird-cage and a canary for dear Willy (that is to come down to-morrow; I really couldn't carry everything). And I've got a knitted shawl for Maria Welwood, and a cloak for her dear Rose – that was rather expensive, but it's always cheap to get the best. And a cornelian breast-pin for Alice Gray. And a Roman sash for poor little Mary Gordon; she seems to me such a forlorn child – no mother, and that rough Alex for a brother. And – well; oh, dear! I'm so excited I can hardly remember – a book for Mr. Ezra; a book for Mrs. Dale. Books are safe presents, don't you think?"
Dr. Lavendar groaned.
"And a picture for Rachel King – that's it; that square bundle. So pretty! – a little girl saying her prayers; sweet! – it's like her Anna. And a box of candy for Sally Smith's little brothers; and a pair of agate cuff-buttons for Sally – " She was moving her packages about as she checked them off, and she looked round at Dr. Lavendar with a sigh of pure joy. He could not speak his distracted thought.
"Oh, you mustn't see that," she cried, suddenly pushing a certain package under the others with great show of secrecy; and Dr. Lavendar groaned again. "I think a party with presents for everybody will be very unusual, don't you?" she asked, heaping her bundles up carefully; two more fingers had burst through her cotton gloves, and as she leaned forward a button snapped off her jacket. "I don't want to brag," she said, "but I think it will be as nice a party as we have ever had in Old Chester."
"But, Lydia, my dear," Dr. Lavendar said, gently, "I am afraid it is extravagant, isn't it, to try to give us all so much pleasure? And is a blue silk frock very – well, serviceable, I believe, you ladies call it?"
"No, indeed it isn't," she said, with sudden, pathetic passion. "That's why I got it. I never, since I was a girl, have had anything that wasn't serviceable."
"But," Dr. Lavendar said, "I rather hoped you would see your way clear to making your house a little more comfortable?"
"Why, but I'm perfectly comfortable," she assured him; "and even if I was not, I'd rather, just for once in my life, have my party and give my presents. Oh, just once in a lifetime! I'd rather," she said, and her eyes snapped with joy – "I'd rather have next Thursday night, and my house as it is, than just comfort all the rest of my days. Comfort! What's comfort?"
"Well, Lydia, it's a good deal to some of us," Dr. Lavendar said. And then his eyes narrowed. "Lydia, my dear – does Mr. Rives know about this?"
Miss Lydia, counting her packages over, said, absently, "No; it is to be a surprise to William."
"If I am not mistaken," said Dr. Lavendar, "it will be a very great surprise to William."
And then he fell into troubled thought; but as he thought his face brightened. It brightened so much that by the time they reached Old Chester he was as joyously excited about the party as was Miss Lydia herself, who made him a thousand confidences about her dress and her presents and the food which would be offered to her guests. His joyousness had not abated when, the next morning, Mrs. Barkley presented herself, breathless, at the Rectory.
"I think," said she, in an awful bass, sitting up very straight and glaring at Dr. Lavendar, "that this is the most terrible thing that ever happened."
"There are worse things," said Dr. Lavendar.
"I know of nothing worse," Mrs. Barkley said, with dreadful composure. "You may. You know what the unregenerate human heart may do. I do not. This is the worst. What will people say? What will Mrs. Dale say? It must be stopped! She ran in this morning and told me in confidence. She came, she said, to know if she could borrow my teaspoons next Thursday week. I said she could, of course; but I suppose I looked puzzled; I couldn't imagine – then she confessed. She said you knew, but no one else. Then, before I came to my senses, she ran out. I came here at once to say that you must stop it."
"In the first place," said Dr. Lavendar, thrusting his hands down into his dressing-gown pockets, "I couldn't stop it. In the second place, I haven't the right to stop it. And in the third place, I wouldn't stop it if I could."
"Dr. Lavendar!"
"I am delighted with the plan. We need gayety in Old Chester; I think we'll get it. I hope she'll have Uncle Davy in, with his fiddle, and we'll have a reel. Mrs. Barkley, will you do me the honor?"
It came over Mrs. Barkley, with a sudden chill, that there was something the matter with Dr. Lavendar.
"I have calculated," said the old minister, chuckling, "that Miss Lydia has in hand, at present, about $1.75 of our $100. This sum I trust she will give to Foreign Missions. The need is great. I shall bring it to her attention."
"Dr. Lavendar," said Mrs. Barkley; and paused.
"Ma'am?"
"I don't understand you, sir."
Dr. Lavendar looked at her and smiled.
IVAnd so the night of Old Chester's festivity approached. Miss Lydia's invitations were delivered the morning of the day, but a rumor of the party was already in the air. There had been some shakings of the head and one or two frowns. "It will cost her at least $3," said Martha King, "and she could get a new bonnet with that."
"It's her way of thanking us for her present," said the doctor, "and a mighty nice way, too. I'm going. I'll wear my white waistcoat."
Mrs. Drayton said, calmly, that it was dishonest. "The money was given to her for one purpose. To ask people to tea, and have even only cake and lemonade, is spending it for another purpose. It will cost her at least $4.50. Not a large sum, compared with the whole amount donated in charity. But the principle is the same. I always look for the principle – it is a Christian's duty. And I could not face my Maker if I ever failed in duty."
Then Mrs. Dale's comment ran from lip to lip: "Miss Lydia has a right to do as she pleases with her own; if she invites me to tea, I shall go with pleasure."
When the rumor reached William Rives's ears he turned pale, but he made no comment. "But I came to ask you about it, Lydy," he said. This was Wednesday evening, and William stood at the front door; Miss Lydia was on the step above him. "I won't ask you to come in, William," she said, "I'm so busy – if you'll excuse me."
"I am always gratified," said William, "when a female busies herself in household affairs, so I will not interrupt you. I came for two purposes: first, to inquire when you intend to begin the improvements upon your house; and, secondly, to say that I hope I am in error in regard to this project of a supper that I hear you are to give."
"Why?" said Lydia.
"Because," William said, with his sharp, neat smile, "a supper is not given without expense. Though I approve of hospitality, and make a point of accepting it, yet I am always conscious that it costs money. I cannot but calculate, as I see persons eating and drinking, the amount of money thus consumed, and I often wonder at my hosts. I say to myself, as I observe a guest drink a cup of tea, 'Two cents.' Such thoughts (which must present themselves to every practical man) are painful. And such a supper as I hear you mean to give would involve many cups of tea."
"Twenty-seven," said Miss Lydia.
"And is there to be cake also?" said William, breathlessly.
"There is," said Miss Lydia; "a big one, with a castle in pink-and-white icing on it – beautiful!"
William was stricken into silence; then he said, shaking his head, "Do you really mean it, Lydy?"
"I do, William."
Mr. Rives sighed.
"Well," he said – "well, I regret it. But, Lydy, we might utilize the occasion? Refreshment is always considered genteel at a marriage. Why not combine your supper with our wedding? We can be married to-morrow night. Dr. Lavendar is coming, I presume? I can get the license in the morning."
Miss Lydia was silent; the color came into her face, and she put her hand up to her lips in a frightened way. "Oh, I – don't know," she faltered. "I – I am not – not ready – "
"Oh," William urged, "never mind about being ready; I should be the last to wish you to go to any of the foolish expense of dress customary on such occasions. Yes, Lydy, it is an opportunity. Do agree, my dear; we will save money by it."
Miss Lydia drew in her breath; she was very pale; then suddenly she nodded. "Well, yes," she said. "I will, if you want to, William. Yes, I will."
"I will communicate with Dr. Lavendar," said Mr. Rives, joyfully, "and ask him to hold himself in readiness, but not to speak of it outside." Miss Lydia nodded, and, closing the door, went back to her engrossing affairs. Presents and a party and a wedding – no wonder the poor little soul was white and dizzy with excitement!
Long will Old Chester remember that occasion: The little house, lighted from garret to cellar; candles in every possible spot; flowers all about; the mantel-piece heaped with bundles; William King's bird-cage hanging in the window; Uncle Davy's fiddle twanging in the kitchen; and Miss Lydia in front of the smoky fireplace, banked now with larkspurs and peonies – Miss Lydia in a light, bright blue silk dress trimmed with lace; Miss Lydia in white kid gloves, buttoned with one button at the wrist, and so tight that the right glove split across the back when she began to shake hands. Oh, it was a great moment… No wonder she was pale with excitement! … She was very pale when William Rives arrived – arrived, and stood dumfounded! – staring at Miss Lydia; staring at the packages which were now finding their way into astonished hands; staring at the refreshment-table between the windows, at the great, frosted cake, at the bottles of Catawba, at Mrs. Barkley's spoons stuck into tall glasses of wine jelly. Mr. Rives stood staring at these things, his small eyes starting out upon his purpling cheeks, and as he stared, Miss Lydia, watching him, grew paler and paler.
Then, suddenly, William, stealthily, step by step, began to back out of the room. In the doorway he shouldered Mrs. Barkley, and, wheeling, turned upon her a ferocious face:
"And I contributed $1.50 —"
But as he retreated and retreated, the color returned to Miss Lydia's cheek. She had almost stopped breathing as he stood there; but when he finally disappeared, she broke out into the full joyousness of the occasion. The opening of each present was like a draught of wine to her, the astounded or angry thanks went to her head; she rubbed her hands until the left glove split also; and then Uncle Davy's fiddle began in good earnest, and she bustled about, running and laughing, and arranging partners for the reel.
Yes, it was a great occasion. Old Chester talked of it for months; not even William Rives's most unexpected and unexplainable departure the next day on the morning stage could divert the appalled, excited, disapproving interest that lasted the year out. Not even Miss Lydia's continued faithfulness to the portrait, which had condoned so many offences in the past, could soften Old Chester's very righteous indignation. There were, it must be admitted, one or two who professed that they did not share the disapproval of all right-thinking persons; one was, if you please, Mr. Smith! (He was one of the new Smiths, so one might expect anything from him.) He had not been invited to the party, but when he heard of it he roared with most improper mirth.
"Well done!" he said. "By Jove! what a game old party. Well done! The money was champagne on an empty stomach; of course, she got drunk. It would have been cheaper to have bought a bottle of the genuine article and shut herself up for twenty-four hours. Well, it's worth the cost of a new chimney. I'll put her repairs through, Dr. Lavendar – unless you want to get up another present?" And then he roared again. Very ill-bred man he was.
Dr. Lavendar said that there would not be another present. He said Miss Lydia had a right, in his opinion, to spend her money as she chose; but there would not be another present.
And then he walked home, blinking and smiling. "Smith's a good fellow," he said to himself, "if he is one of the new folks. But what I'd like to know is: did Lydia think $100 a low price?"
AMELIA
IThe exception that proved Old Chester's rule as to the subjection of Youth was found in the household of Mr. Thomas Dilworth.
When the Dilworth children (at least the two girls) hung about their father when he came home at night or teased and scolded and laughed at him at their friendly breakfast-table, an observer might have thought himself miles away from Old Chester and its well-brought-up Youth. The way those girls talk to Thomas Dilworth! "Where will it end?" said Old Chester, solemnly. For instance, the annual joke in the Dilworth family was that father had been in love with mother for as many years as she was old, less so many minutes.
Now, imagine Old Chester children indulging in such familiarities!
Yet on Mrs. Dilworth's birthday this family witticism was always in order:
"Father, how long have you been mother's beau?"
And Thomas, rosy, handsome, looking at least ten years younger than his Amelia, would say: "Well, let's see: forty-one years" (or two or three, as the case might be), "eleven months, twenty-nine days, twenty-three hours, and forty minutes; she was twenty minutes old when I first laid eyes on her, and during those twenty minutes I was heart-whole."
But Mrs. Dilworth, smiling vaguely behind her coffee-cups, would protest: "I never heard anything about it, Tom, until you were sixteen."
And then the girls would declare that they must be told just what father said when he was sixteen and mother was twelve. But Thomas drew the line at that. "Come! come! you mustn't talk about love-making. As for marrying, I don't mean to let you girls get married at all. And Ned here had better not let me catch him thinking of such nonsense until he's twenty-five. He can get married (if I like the girl) when he is twenty-eight."
"You got married at twenty-two, sir," Edwin demurred.
"If you can find a woman like your mother, you can get married at twenty-two. But you can't. They don't make 'em any more. So you've got to wait. And remember, I've decided not to let Mary and Nancy get married, ever. I don't propose to bring up a brace of long-legged girls, and clothe 'em and feed 'em and pay their doctors' bills, and then, just as they get old enough to amount to anything and quit being nuisances, hand 'em over to another fellow. No, sir! You've got to stay at home with me. Do you understand?"
The girls screamed at this, and flung themselves upon him to kiss him and pull his hair.
No wonder Old Chester was shocked.
Yet, in spite of such happenings, Thomas and Amelia Dilworth were of the real Old Chester. They were not tainted with newness– that sad dispensation of Providence which had to be borne by such people as the Macks or the Hayeses, or those very rich (but really worthy) Smiths. The Dilworths were not new; yet their three children had the training – or the lack of training – that made the Hayes children and their kind a subject for Old Chester's prayers.
"Who can say what the result of Milly Dilworth's negligence will be?" Mrs. Drayton said, sighing, to Dr. Lavendar; who only reminded her that folks didn't gather thistles of figs – generally speaking.
But in spite of Dr. Lavendar's optimism, it was a queer household, according to Old Chester lights… In the first place, the father and mother were more unlike than is generally considered to be matrimonially safe. Amelia was a dear, good soul, but, as Miss Helen Hayes said once, "with absolutely no mind"; while Thomas Dilworth was eminently level-headed, although very fond (so Mrs. Drayton said) of female society. And it must be admitted that Thomas had more than once caused his Milly a slight pang by such fondness. But at least he was never conscious that he had done so – and Milly never told him. (But Mrs. Drayton said that that was something she could not forgive in a married gentleman. "My dear husband," said Mrs. Drayton, "has never wandered from me, even in imagination.") Added to conjugal incongruity was this indifference on the part of Thomas and his wife to the training of the children. The three young Dilworths were allowed to grow up exactly as they pleased. It had worked well enough with Mary and Nancy, who were good girls, affectionate and sensible – so sensible that Nancy, when she was eighteen, had practically taken the housekeeping out of her mother's hands; and Mary, at sixteen, looked out for herself and her affairs most successfully. With Edwin the Dilworth system had not been so satisfactory. He was conceited (though that is only to be expected of the male creature at nineteen) and rather selfish; and he had an unlovely reserve, in which he was strikingly unlike his father, who overflowed with confidences. This, and other unlikeness, was, no doubt, the reason that there were constant small differences between them. And Mrs. Dilworth – vague, gentle soul! – was somehow unable to smooth the differences over as successfully as most mothers do.
Now, smoothing things over is practically a profession to mothers of families. But Milly Dilworth had never succeeded in it. In the first place, she had no gift of words; the more she felt, the more inexpressive she became; but, worst of all, she had, poor woman, not the slightest sense of humor. Now, in dealing with husbands and children (especially with husbands), though you have the tongues of men – which are thought to be more restrained than those of women – and though you have the gift of prophecy (a common gift of wives) and understand all mysteries – say, of housekeeping – and though you give your body to be used up and worn out for their sakes, yet all these things profit you nothing if you have no sense of humor. And Milly Dilworth had none.
That was why she could not understand.
She loved, in her tender, undemonstrative way, her shy, unpractical, secretive Edwin and her two capable girls; she loved, with the single, silent passion of her soul, her generous, selfish, light-hearted Tom, who took her wordless worship as unconsciously and simply as he took the air he breathed; she loved them all. But she did not pretend to understand them. Thus she stood always a little aside, watching and loving, and wondering sometimes in her simple way; but often suffering, as people with no sense of humor are apt to suffer. Dear, dull, gentle Milly! No one could remember a harsh word of hers, or mean deed, or a little judgment. No wonder Dr. Lavendar felt confident that there would be no thistles in her household.
Thomas Dilworth had the same comfortable conviction, especially in regard to his girls. "Now, Milly, honestly," he used to say, "apart from the fact that they are ours, don't you really think they are the nicest girls in Old Chester?"
Milly would admit, in her brief way, that they were good children.
"And Edwin means all right," the father would assure himself; and then add that he couldn't understand their boy – "at least, I suppose he's ours? Willy King says so. I have thought perhaps he was a changeling, put into the cradle the first day."
"But, Tom," Milly would protest, anxiously, "Neddy couldn't be a changeling. He was never out of my sight for the first week – not even to be taken out of the room to be shown to people. Besides, he has your chin and my eyes."
"Well, if you really think so?" Thomas would demur. And Mrs. Dilworth always said, earnestly, that she was sure of it.
Still, in spite of eyes and chin, Ned's unpracticalness was an anxiety to his father, and his uncommunicativeness a constant irritation. Thomas himself was ready to share anything he possessed, money or opinions or hopes, with any friend, almost with any acquaintance. "I don't want to know anybody's business," he used to say; "I'm not inquisitive, Milly; you know I'm not. But I hate hiding things! Why shouldn't he say where he's going when he goes out in the evening? Sneaking off, as if he were ashamed."
"He just doesn't think of it," the mother would say, trying to smooth it over.
"Well, he ought to think of it," the father would grumble, eager to be smoothed.
But Milly found it harder to reconcile her husband to their boy's indifference to business than to his reserves.
"He sees fit to look down on the hardware trade," Tom told his wife, angrily. "'Well, sir,' I said to him the other day, 'it's given you your bread-and-butter for nineteen years; yes – and your fiddle, too, and your everlasting music lessons.' And I'll tell you what, Milly, a man who looks down on his business will find his business looking down on him. And it's a good business – it's a darned good business. If Ned doesn't have the sense to see it, he had better go and play his fiddle and hold out his hat for pennies."
Milly looked anxiously sympathetic.
"I don't know what is going to become of him," Thomas went on. "When you come to provide for three out of the hardware business, nobody gets very much."
Mrs. Dilworth was silent.
"I was talking about him to Dr. Lavendar yesterday, and he said: 'Oh, he'll fall in love one of these days, and he'll see that fiddling won't buy his wife her shoe-strings; then he'll take to the hardware business,' Dr. Lavendar said. It's all very well to talk about his falling in love and taking to business; but if he falls in love, I'll have another mouth to fill. And maybe more," he added, grimly.
