University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.
ALICE JOHNSON.

The Sunday anticipated by Dr. Richards as the one
which was to bless him with a sight of Snowdon's belle,
dawned at last, a clear, cold, winter morning, when the air
was full of frost, and the crispy snow creaked beneath the
tread, and glittered like diamonds in the sunshine. The
Doctor had not yet made his appearance in the village, for
a hoarseness, to which he was subject, had confined him
at home, and Saturday had been spent by him in rehearsing
to his sisters and the servants the things he had seen
abroad, and in wondering if Alice Johnson would meet
his expectations. He did not believe her face would at all
compare with the one which continually haunted his
dreams, and over which the coffin-lid was shut weary
months ago, but $50,000 had invested Miss Alice with
that peculiar charm which will sometimes make an ugly
face beautiful. The Doctor was beginning to feel the need
of funds, and now that Lily was dead, the thought had
more than once crossed his mind that to set himself to the
task of finding a wealthy wife was a duty he owed himself
and his family. Had poor, deserted Lily lived, he
could not tell what he might have done, for the memory
of her love was the one restraining influence which kept
him from much sin. He never could forget her; never
love another as he had once loved her, but she was dead,
and he was free to do his mother's will. Similar to these
were the Doctor's cogitations, as, on that Sunday morning,
he made his toilet for church, anticipating not a little satisfaction
from the sensation he was sure to create among

some of the worshippers at St. Paul's, for he remembered
that the Terrace Hill gentry had always been people of
much importance to a certain class of Snowdonites.

Anna was not with the party which at the usual hour
entered the family carriage with Bibles and prayer-books
in hand. She seldom went out except on warm, pleasant
days; but she stood in the deep bay window watching
the carriage as it wound down the hill and thinking, how
handsome and stylish her young brother looked with his
Parisian cloak and cap, which he wore so gracefully.
Others than Anna thought so too; and at the church
door there was quite a little stir, as he gallantly handed
out first his mother and then his sisters, and followed
them into the church.

Dr. Richards had never enjoyed a reputation for being
very devotional, and the interval between his entrance
and the commencement of the service was passed by him
in a rather scornful survey of the time-worn house, which
had not improved during his absence. With a sneer in
his heart, he mentally compared the old-fashioned pulpit,
with its steep flight of steps and faded trimmings, with
the lofty cathedral he had been in the habit of attending
in Paris, and a feeling of disgust and contempt for people
who could be satisfied with a town like Snowdon, and a
church like St. Paul's, was creeping over him, when a soft
rustling of silk and a consciousness of a delicate perfume,
which he at once recognized as aristocratic, warned him
that somebody was coming; somebody entirely different
from the score of females who had distributed themselves
within range of his vision, their countrified bonnets, as he
termed them, trimmed outside and in without the least
regard to taste, or combination of color. But the little
lady, moving so quietly up the aisle, her full skirt of dark
blue silk trailing as she came, her handsome cloth cloak,
falling so gracefully from the sloping shoulders, which the
fur of Russian sable fitted so well, her plain, but fashionable

hat tied beneath her chin, with broad, rich ribbon,
the color of her dress, her dainty little muff, and,
more than all, the tiny glove, fitting, without a wrinkle, the
little hand which tried the pew door twice ere it yielded
to her touch; she was different. She was worthy of
respect, and the Paris beau felt an inclination to rise at
once and acknowledge her superior presence.

Wholly unconscious of the interest she was exciting,
the lady deposited her muff upon the cushions, and then
kneeling reverently upon the well worn stool, covered
her face with the hands which had so won the doctor's
admiration. What a little creature she was, and how gloriously
beautiful were the curls of indescribable hue, falling
in such profusion from beneath the jaunty hat. All
this Dr. Richards noted, marvelling that she knelt so long,
and wondering what she could be saying. His mother
and sisters did the same, it is true, but he always imagined
it was merely to be fashionable; but in the attitude
of this kneeler at his side there was something which
precluded mockery. Was she sincere? Was there one
hearing what she said — an ear which marked the faintest
sigh and caught the weakest tone? He wished he knew;
and a pang, keen as the cut of a dissector's knife, shot
through his heart, as he remembered another maiden, almost
as fair as this one, kneeling at her prayers. Lily
had believed in Alice Johnson's God, and he was glad
that she had so believed, for without God, poor Lily's short,
sad life had been worse than vain!

Alice's devotions ended at last, and the view so coveted
was obtained; for in adjusting her dress Alice turned
toward him, or rather toward his mother, and the doctor
drew a sudden breath as he met the brilliant flashing of
those laughing sunny blue eyes, and caught the radiant
expression of that face, slightly dimpled with a smile.
Beautiful, wondrously beautiful was Alice Johnson, and
yet the features were not wholly regular, for the piquant

nose had a slight turn up, and the forehead was not very
high; but for all this, the glossy hair, the dancing blue
eyes, the apple-blossom complexion, and the rose-bud
mouth made ample amend; and Dr. Richards saw no fault
in that witching face, flashing its blue eyes for an instant
upon him, and then modestly turning to the service just
commencing. But few of the sacred words, we fear, took
deep root in the doctor's heart that morning. He could
scarcely have told the day, certainly not the text, and when
the benediction was pronounced he was astonished that
what he had dreaded as prosy and long had proved to be
so short.

As if divining his wishes in the matter, his mother, after
waiting a moment, till Alice arose from her knees, offered
her hand to the young girl, inquired kindly for Mrs.
Johnson, expressed extreme concern when told of a heavy
cold, suggested one or two remedies, commented upon
the weather, spoke of Mr. Howard's sermon, and then, as
if all the while this had not been the chief object in stopping,
she turned to the eagerly expectant doctor, whom
she introduced as “My son, Dr. Richards.”

With a smile which he felt even to his finger tips, Alice
offered him her hand, welcoming him home, and making
some trivial remark touching the contrast between their
quiet town and the cities he had left.

“But you will help make it pleasanter for us this winter,
I am sure,” she continued, and the sweet blue eyes sought
his for an answer as to whether he would desert Snowdon
immediately.

“No,” he replied, he should probably remain at home
some time, he always found it pleasant at Snowdon,
though as a boy he had often chafed at its dullness; but it
could not now be dull, with the acquisition it had received
since he was there before; and he bowed toward the
young lady, who acknowledged the compliment with a
faint blush and then turned toward the group of noisy

ill-bred children,” as Dr. Richards thought, who came
thronging about her, one offering a penny lest it should
be forgotten, a second whispering that Tommie couldn't
come because he had no shoes, while a third climbed upon
the seat for the kiss, which was promptly given, the
giver all unconscious of the disgust felt by the foreign
gentleman, who had a strong desire to take the kissed by
the neck and thrust him out into the snow! What affinity
was there between that sparkling, beautiful girl, and
that pack of vulgar young ones, he'd like to know?
What was she to them, or they to her, that they should
cling to her so confidingly?

“My Sunday School scholars; I have a large class, you
see,” Alice said, as if in answer to these mental queries.
Ah, here comes my youngest —” and Alice stooped to
caress a little rosy cheeked boy, with bright brown eyes
and patches on both coat sleeves.

The doctor saw the patches, and with a gesture of impatience,
turned to go, just as his ear caught another kiss,
and he knew the patched boy received what he would
have given much to have.

“Hanged if I don't half wish I was one of those ragged
urchins,” he said, after handing his mother and sisters to
their carriage, and seating himself at their side. “But
does not Miss Johnson display strange taste. Surely some
other one less refined might be found to look after those
brats, if they must be looked after, which I greatly doubt.
Better leave them as you find them; can't elevate them
if you try. It's trouble thrown away,” and John Richards
wrapped his Parisian cloak closer around him, and leaning
back in his corner, wondered if Alice Johnson really was
happy in her teaching, or did she do it for effect.

“It is like what Lily would have done, he thought, had
she possessed the power and means. Alice and Lily must
be alike,” and with a mental wish that Alice's fate might
prove a happier one than poor Lily's had been, John relapsed

into a silent mood, such as usually came over him
when Lily was in his mind.

That afternoon, while his mother and elder sisters were
taking their usual Sunday nap, and Anna was nodding in
her chair, the Doctor sat watching the blazing fire and
trying to decide upon his future course.

Should he return to New York, accept the offer of an
old friend of his father's, an experienced practitioner, and
earn his own bread honorably; or, should he remain at
Snowdon and cultivate Alice Johnson? John wanted
money sadly; the whole family wanted money, as every
hour of his stay among them proved. They were growing
poor so fast, and it showed plainly, in spite of their
attempts to conceal it. John would almost as soon be
dead as be poor. He never had denied himself; he never
could, he said, though well he knew the time was coming
when he must, unless, to use Micawber's expression, “something
should turn up.” And hadn't it turned up in the
shape of a beautiful heiress? What was to hinder him
from entering the lists and carrying off the prize? He
had never yet failed when he chose to exert himself, and
though he might, for a time, be compelled to adopt a different
code of morality from that which heat present acknowledged,
he would do it for once. He could be interested
in those ragged children; he could encourage Sunday
schools; he could attend church as regularly as Alice
herself and, better yet, he could doctor the poor for nothing,
as that was sure to tell, and he would do it, too, if
necessary. This was the finale which he reached at last by
a series of arguments pro and con, and when it was reached,
he was anxious to commence the task at once. He
presumed he could love Alice Johnson; she was so pretty;
but even if he didn't, he would only be doing what thousands
had done before him. He should be very proud of
her, and would certainly try to make her happy. One
long, almost sobbing sigh to the memory of poor Lily,

who had loved so much and been so cruelly betrayed, one
faint struggle with conscience, which said that Alice Johnson
was too pure a gem for him to trifle with, and then
the past, with its sad memories, was buried. Lily's sweet
pleading face, asking that no other one should be wronged
as she had been, was thrust aside, and Dr. Richards stood
ready for his new career.