THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER.
Oh, her smile, it seemed half holy,
As if drawn from thoughts more far,
Than our common jestings are.
And, if any painter drew her,
He would paint her unaware
With a hallow round her hair.
E. B. Browning.
On the appointed day Traverse took his way to Willow Heights to keep his tryst and enter upon his medical studies in the good doctor's office. He was anxious also to know if his patron had as yet thought of any plan by which his mother might better her condition. He was met at the door by little Mattie, the parlor-maid, who told him to walk right up-stairs into the study, where her master was expecting him.
Traverse went up quietly and opened the door of that pleasant study-room, to which the reader has already been introduced, and the windows of which opened upon the upper front piazza.
Now, however, as it was quite cold, the windows were down, though the blinds were open, and through them streamed the golden rays of the morning sun that fell glistening upon the fair hair and white raiment of a young girl who sat reading before the fire.
The doctor was not in the room, and Traverse, in his native modesty, was just about to retreat when the young creature looked up from her book and, seeing him, arose with a smile and came forward, saying:
"You are the young man whom my father was expecting, I presume. Sit down; he has stepped out, but will be in again very soon."
Now, Traverse, being unaccustomed to the society of young ladies, felt excessively bashful when suddenly coming into the presence of this refined and lovely girl. With a low bow and a deep blush he took the chair she placed for him.
With natural politeness she closed her book and addressed herself to entertaining him.
"I have heard that your mother is an invalid; I hope she is better."
"I thank you—yes, ma'am—miss," stammered Traverse, in painful embarrassment. Understanding the mauvaise honte of the bashful boy, and seeing that her efforts to entertain only troubled him, she placed the newspapers on the table before him, saying:
"Here are the morning journals, if you would like to look over them, Mr. Rocke," and then she resumed her book.
"I thank you, miss," replied the youth, taking up a paper, more for the purpose of covering up his embarrassment than for any other.
Mr. Rocke! Traverse was seventeen years of age, and had never been called Mr. Rocke before. This young girl was the very first to compliment him with the manly title, and he felt a boyish gratitude to her and a harmless wish that his well-brushed Sunday suit of black was not quite so rusty and threadbare, tempered by an innocent exultation in the thought that no gentleman in the land could exhibit fresher linen, brighter shoes or cleaner hands than himself.
But not many seconds were spent in such egotism. He stole a glance at his lovely companion sitting on the opposite side of the fireplace—he was glad to see that she was already deeply engaged in reading, for it enabled him to observe her without embarrassment or offense. He had scarcely dared to look at her before, and had no distinct idea of her beauty.
There has been for him only a vague, dazzling vision of a golden-haired girl in floating white raiment, wafting the fragrance of violets as she moved, and with a voice sweeter than the notes of the cushat dove as she spoke.
Now he saw that the golden hair flowed in ringlets around a fair, roseate face, soft and bright with feeling and intelligence. As her dark-blue eyes followed the page, a smile intense with meaning deepened the expression of her countenance. That intense smile—it was like her father's, only lovelier—more heavenly.
That intense smile—it had, even on the old doctor's face, an inexpressible charm for Traverse—but on the lovely young face of his daughter it exercised an ineffable fascination. So earnest and so unconscious became the gaze of poor Traverse that he was only brought to a sense of propriety by the opening of the door and the entrance of the doctor, who exclaimed:
"Ah, here already, Traverse? That is punctual. This is my daughter Clara, Traverse; Clare, this is Traverse you've heard me speak about. But I daresay you've already become acquainted," concluded the doctor, drawing his chair up to the reading table, sitting down and folding his dressing-gown around his limbs.
"Well, Traverse, how is the little mother?" he presently inquired.
"I was just telling Miss Day that she was much better, sir," said Traverse.
"Ah, ha, ha, ha!" muttered the doctor to himself; "that's kitchen physic—roast turkey and port wine—and moral medicine, hope—and mental medicine, sympathy."
"Well, Traverse," he said aloud, "I have been racking my brain for a plan for your mother, and to no purpose. Traverse, your mother should be in a home of peace, plenty and cheerfulness—I can speak before my little Clare here; I never have any secrets from her. Your mother wants good living, cheerful company and freedom from toil and care. The situation of gentleman's or lady's housekeeper in some home of abundance, where she would be esteemed as a member of the family, would suit her. But where to find such a place? I have been inquiring—without mentioning her name, of course—among all my friends, but not one of them wants a housekeeper or knows a soul who does want one; and so I am 'at sea on the subject.' I'm ashamed of myself for not succeeding better."
"Oh, sir, do not do yourself so great an injustice," said Traverse.
"Well, the fact is, after boasting so confidently that I would find a good situation for Mrs. Rocke, lo and behold! I have proved myself as yet only a boaster."
"Father," said Clara, turning upon him her sweet eyes.
"Well, my love?"
"Perhaps Mrs. Rocke would do us the favor to come here and take charge of our household."
"Eh! What? I never thought of that! I never had a housekeeper in my life!" exclaimed the doctor.
"No, sir; because you never needed one before, but now we really do. Aunt Moggy has been a very faithful and efficient manager, although she is a colored woman; but she is getting very old."
"Yes, and deaf and blind and careless. I know she is. I have no doubt in the world she scours the coppers with the table napkins and washes her face and hands in the soup tureen."
"Oh, father!" said Clara.
"Well, Clare, at least she wants looking after."
"Father, she wants rest in her old age."
"No doubt of it; no doubt of it."
"And, father, I intend, of course, in time, to be your housekeeper; but, having spent all my life in a boarding school, I know very little about domestic affairs, and I require a great deal of instruction; so I really do think that there is no one needs Mrs. Rocke's assistance more than we do, and if she will do us the favor to come we cannot do better than to engage her."
"To be sure; to be sure! Lord bless my soul! to think it should never have entered my stupid old head until it was put there by Clare! Here I was searching blindly all over the country for a situation for Mrs. Rocke, and wanting her all the time more than any one else! That's the way, Traverse; that's the way with us all, my boy! While we are looking away off yonder for the solution of our difficulties, the remedy is all the time lying just under our noses!"
"But so close to our eyes, father, that we cannot see it," said Clara.
"Just so, Clare; just so. You are always ahead of me in ideas. Now, Traverse, when you go home this evening you shall take a note to your mother setting forth our wishes—mine and Clara's; if she accedes to them she will make us very happy."
With a great deal of manly strength of mind, Traverse had all his mother's tenderness of heart. It was with difficulty that he could keep back his tears or control his voice while he answered:
"I remember reading, sir, that the young queen of England, when she came to her throne, wished to provide handsomely for an orphan companion of her childhood; and, seeing that no office in her household suited the young person, she created one for her benefit. Sir, I believe you have made one for my mother."
"Not at all; not at all! If she doesn't come to look after our housekeeping, old Moggy will be greasing our griddles with tallow candle ends next! If you don't believe me; ask Clara, ask Clara!"
Not "believe" him! If the doctor had affirmed that the moon was made of moldy cheese, Traverse would have deemed it his duty to stoutly maintain that astronomical theory. He felt hurt that the doctor should use such a phrase.
"Yes, indeed, we really do need her, Traverse," said the doctor's daughter.
"Traverse!" It had made him proud to hear her call him for the first time in his life, "Mr. Rocke!" but it made him deeply happy to hear her call him "Traverse." It had such a sisterly sound coming from this sweet creature. How he wished that she really were his sister! But, then, the idea of that fair, golden-haired, blue-eyed, white-robed angel being the sister of such a robust, rugged, sunburned boy as himself! The thought was so absurd, extravagant, impossible, that the poor boy heaved an unconscious sigh.
"Why, what's the matter, Traverse? What are you thinking of so intently?"
"Of your great goodness, sir, among other things."
"Tut! let's hear no more of that. I pleased myself," said the doctor; "and now, Traverse, let's go to work decently and in order. But first let me settle this point—if your good little mother determines in our favor, Traverse, then, of course, you will live with us also, so I shall have my young medical assistant always at hand. That will be very convenient; and then we shall have no more long, lonesome evenings, Clara, shall we, dear? And now, Traverse, I will mark out your course of study and set you to work at once."
"Shall I leave the room, father?" inquired Clara.
"No, no, my dear; certainly not. I have not had you home so long as to get tired of the sight of you yet! No, Clare, no; you are not in our way—is she, Traverse?"
"Oh, sir, the idea—" stammered Traverse, blushing deeply to be so appealed to.
In his way! Why, a pang had shot through his bosom at the very mention of her going.
"Very well, then. Here, Traverse, here are your books. You are to begin with this one; keep this medical dictionary at hand for reference. Bless me, it will bring back my student days to go over the ground with you, my boy."
Clara took her work-box and sat down to stitch a pair of dainty wristbands for her father's shirts.
The doctor took up the morning papers.
Traverse opened his book and commenced his readings. It was a quiet but by no means a dull circle. Occasionally Clara and her father exchanged words, and once in a while the doctor looked over his pupil's shoulder or gave him a direction.
Traverse studied con amore and with intelligent appreciation. The presence of the doctor's lovely daughter, far from disturbing him, calmed and steadied his soul into a state of infinite content. If the presence of the beautiful girl was ever to become an agitating element, the hour had not yet come.
So passed the time until the dinner bell rang.
By the express stipulation of the doctor himself, it was arranged that Traverse should always dine with his family. After dinner an hour—which the doctor called a digestive hour—was spent in loitering about and then the studies were resumed.
At six o'clock in the evening Traverse took leave of the doctor and his fair daughter and started for home.
"Be sure to persuade your mother to come, Traverse," said Clara.
"She will not need persuasion; she will be only too glad to come, miss," said Traverse, with a deep bow, turning and hurrying away toward home. With "winged feet" he ran down the wooded hill and got into the highway, and hastened on with such speed that in half an hour he reached his mother's little cottage. He was agog with joy and eagerness to tell her the good news.