University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
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.