University of Virginia Library

32. CHAPTER XXXII.
CONCLUSION.

Mr. Bernard Langdon had no sooner taken
his degree, than, in accordance with the advice
of one of his teachers whom he frequently consulted,
he took an office in the heart of the city
where he had studied. He had thought of beginning
in a suburb or some remoter district of the
city proper.

“No,” said his teacher, — to wit, myself, —
“don't do any such thing. You are made for
the best kind of practice; don't hamper yourself
with an outside constituency, such as belongs to
a practitioner of the second class. When a fellow
like you chooses his beat, he must look ahead a
little. Take care of all the poor that apply to
you, but leave the half-pay classes to a different
style of doctor, — the people who spend one half
their time in taking care of their patients, and the
other half in squeezing out their money. Go for
the swell-fronts and south-exposure houses; the
folks inside are just as good as other people, and
the pleasantest, on the whole, to take care of.
They must have somebody, and they like a gentleman
best. Don't throw yourself away. You

have a good presence and pleasing manners.
You wear white linen by inherited instinct.
You can pronounce the word view. You have
all the elements of success; go and take it. Be
polite and generous, but don't undervalue yourself.
You will be useful, at any rate; you may
just as well be happy, while you are about it.
The highest social class furnishes incomparably
the best patients, taking them by and large. Besides,
when they won't get well and bore you to
death, you can send 'em off to travel. Mind me
now, and take the tops of your sparrowgrass.
Somebody must have 'em, — why shouldn't you?
If you don't take your chance, you'll get the buttends
as a matter of course.”

Mr. Bernard talked like a young man full of
noble sentiments. He wanted to be useful to his
fellow-beings. Their social differences were nothing
to him. He would never court the rich, —
he would go where he was called. He would
rather save the life of a poor mother of a family
than that of half a dozen old gouty millionnaires
whose heirs had been yawning and stretching
these ten years to get rid of them.

“Generous emotions!” I exclaimed. “Cherish
'em; cling to 'em till you are fifty, till you are
seventy, till you are ninety! But do as I tell
you, — strike for the best circle of practice, and
you'll be sure to get it!”

Mr. Langdon did as I told him, — took a genteel
office, furnished it neatly, dressed with a

certain elegance, soon made a pleasant circle of
acquaintances, and began to work his way into
the right kind of business. I missed him, however,
for some days, not long after he had opened
his office. On his return, he told me he had been
up at Rockland, by special invitation, to attend
the wedding of Mr. Dudley Venner and Miss
Helen Darley. He gave me a full account of
the ceremony, which I regret that I cannot relate
in full. “Helen looked like an angel,” — that, I
am sure, was one of his expressions. As for her
dress, I should like to give the details, but am
afraid of committing blunders, as men always do,
when they undertake to describe such matters.
White dress, anyhow, — that I am sure of, —
with orange-flowers, and the most wonderful lace
veil that was ever seen or heard of. The Reverend
Doctor Honeywood performed the ceremony,
of course. The good people seemed to have forgotten
they ever had had any other minister, —
except Deacon Shearer and his set of malecontents,
who were doing a dull business in the
meeting-house lately occupied by the Reverend
Mr. Fairweather.

“Who was at the wedding?”

“Everybody, pretty much. They wanted to
keep it quiet, but it was of no use. Married at
church. Front pews, old Doctor Kittredge and
all the mansion-house people and distinguished
strangers, — Colonel Sprowle and family, including
Matilda's young gentleman, a graduate of
one of the fresh-water colleges, — Mrs. Pickins

(late Widow Rowens) and husband, — Deacon
Soper and numerous parishioners. A little nearer
the door, Abel, the Doctor's man, and Elbridge,
who drove them to church in the family-coach.
Father Fairweather, as they all call him now,
came in late with Father McShane.”

“And Silas Peckham?”

“Oh, Silas had left The School and Rockland.
Cut up altogether too badly in the examination
instituted by the Trustees. Had removed over
to Tamarack, and thought of renting a large
house and `farming' the town-poor.”

Some time after this, as I was walking with a
young friend along by the swell-fronts and south-exposures,
whom should I see but Mr. Bernard
Langdon, looking remarkably happy, and keeping
step by the side of a very handsome and singularly
well-dressed young lady? He bowed and
lifted his hat as we passed.

“Who is that pretty girl my young doctor has
got there?” I said to my companion.

“Who is that?” he answered. “You don't
know? Why, that is neither more nor less than
Miss Letitia Forrester, daughter of — of — why,
the great banking-firm, you know, Bilyuns Brothers
& Forrester. Got acquainted with her in the
country, they say. There's a story that they're
engaged, or like to be, if the firm consents.”

“Oh!” I said.

I did not like the look of it in the least. Too
young, — too young. Has not taken any position

yet. No right to ask for the hand of Bilyuns
Brothers & Co.'s daughter. Besides, it will spoil
him for practice, if he marries a rich girl before
he has formed habits of work.

I looked in at his office the next day. A box
of white kids was lying open on the table. A
three-cornered note, directed in a very delicate
lady's-hand, was distinguishable among a heap
of papers. I was just going to call him to account
for his proceedings, when he pushed the
three-cornered note aside and took up a letter
with a great corporation-seal upon it. He had
received the offer of a professor's chair in an
ancient and distinguished institution.

“Pretty well for three-and-twenty, my boy,”
I said. “I suppose you'll think you must be
married one of these days, if you accept this
office.”

Mr. Langdon blushed. — There had been stories
about him, he knew. His name had been
mentioned in connection with that of a very
charming young lady. The current reports were
not true. He had met this young lady, and been
much pleased with her, in the country, at the
house of her grandfather, the Reverend Doctor
Honeywood, — you remember Miss Letitia Forrester,
whom I have mentioned repeatedly? On
coming to town, he found his country-acquaintance
in a social position which seemed to discourage
his continued intimacy. He had discovered,
however, that he was a not unwelcome
visitor, and had kept up friendly relations with

her. But there was no truth in the current reports,
— none at all.

Some months had passed, after this visit, when
I happened one evening to stroll into a box in one
of the principal theatres of the city. A small
party sat on the seats before me: a middle-aged
gentleman and his lady, in front, and directly
behind them my young doctor and the same very
handsome young lady I had seen him walking
with on the sidewalk before the swell-fronts and
south-exposures. As Professor Langdon seemed
to be very much taken up with his companion,
and both of them looked as if they were enjoying
themselves, I determined not to make my presence
known to my young friend, and to withdraw
quietly after feasting my eyes with the sight of
them for a few minutes.

“It looks as if something might come of it,”
I said to myself. At that moment the young
lady lifted her arm accidentally in such a way
that the light fell upon the clasp of a chain which
encircled her wrist. My eyes filled with tears as
I read upon the clasp, in sharp-cut Italic letters,
E. V. They were tears at once of sad remembrance
and of joyous anticipation; for the ornament
on which I looked was the double pledge
of a dead sorrow and a living affection. It was
the golden bracelet, — the parting-gift of Elsie
Venner.