Dr. Lavendar's People

by Margaret Wade Campbell Deland

"MRS. BARKLEY ROSE, TAPPING THE TABLE WITH ALARMING LOUDNESS"

Mr. Rives was unmoved. His little, steely smile never wavered; he rose also, bowed, and said: "Possibly Miss Sampson does not agree with you. I will bid you good-night, ma'am."

"I was a perfect fool," she said again, as the door closed softly behind him.

But William Rives was no fool.... He said to himself that it behooved him to see Miss Lydia before Mrs. Barkley had a chance to impart to her those impolite views regarding himself. And that was why, as she was still sitting at her kitchen table, twinkling with happiness over the kindness of her world and piling her gold pieces in a little leaning tower, William knocked at the door.

Miss Lydia threw an apron over the small, glittering heap and ran to let her caller in. When she saw who it was she whipped off the apron to display her wealth; the tears stood in her eyes, and her happy heart burst into words: "How good people are! Just think—$100! Why, it takes my breath away—"

"It is a large sum of money," William said, solemnly, touching the gold with respectful fingers. "I would suggest a bank until you pay for the mending of your chimney. And you will get some interest if you defer payment for ninety days."

"Mending my chimney?" Miss Lydia said, thoughtfully. "Well—that wouldn't take nearly all this."

William's face brightened. "You are right to be prudent, Lydia," he said. "I admire prudence in a female; but still, masons and carpenters—in fact, all persons of that sort,—are—thieves!" Then he coughed delicately. "Lydia," he said, "I—I have been thinking—"

"Yes?" said Miss Lydia, calmly.

"We are so situated—each alone, that perhaps we might—we might, ah—marry—to our mutual advantage?"

"Marry?"

"Yes," William said, earnestly; "I should be pleased to marry, Lydy. I need a home. My health is not very good, and I need a home. You need a home, also."

"Indeed I don't!" she said; "I've got a home, thank you."

"I haven't," William said; and Lydia's blue eyes softened. "I am not very strong," he said ("though I see no reason why I should not live to old age); but I want a home. Won't you take me, Lydy?"

Miss Lydia frowned and sighed. "I am very well satisfied as I am," she said; "but perhaps that is a selfish way to look at it."

"Yes, it is," he told her, earnestly; "and you didn't use to be selfish, Lydia."

Miss Lydia sighed again. "I suppose I could make you comfortable, William."

"Do take me, Lydy," he entreated.

And somehow or other, before she quite knew it, she had consented.

As soon as the word was spoken, William arose with alacrity. "I don't like to be out in the night air," he said, "so I'll say good-night, Lydy. And, Lydy—shall we, for the moment, keep this to ourselves?"

"Oh yes," said Miss Lydia, getting very red, "I'd rather, for the present." Then, smiling and friendly, she went out with him, bare-headed, to the gate. There William hesitated, swallowed once, rubbed his hands nervously, and then suddenly gave her a kiss.

Miss Lydia Sampson jumped. "Oh!" she said; and again, "Oh!"

And then she ran back into the house, her eyes wet and shining, her face flushed to her forehead. She sat down by the table and put her hands over her eyes; she laughed, in a sort of sob, and her breath came quickly.

"I hadn't thought of it—that way," she whispered to herself. And somehow, as she sat there by her kitchen table, she began to think of it that way—Miss Lydia was very young! ... Oh, she would try and make him happy; she would try and be more orderly; she would try to be good, since her Heavenly Father had given back to her the old happiness.

And that night she did not bid the picture good-night.

Mr. Rives was himself not without emotion. It was many years, he reflected, since his lips had touched those of a female, and the experience was agreeable—so agreeable that he wished to repeat it as soon as possible; and, furthermore, he felt anxious to know that Lydia had put the gold in a safe place. But when he called the next day he was a little late, because, as he explained to Miss Lydia, he had had to wait for the mail. She met him with a new look in her innocent, eager eyes, and her face was shy and red. As she sat sewing, listening vaguely, she would glance at him now and then, as if, until now, she had not seen him since that day of parting, thirty-one years ago—the thirty-one years which had blotted Amanda's field from her memory. The old happiness, like a tide long withdrawn, was creeping back, rising and rising, until it was overflowing in her eyes. This puffy gentleman, with his tight, smiling mouth, was the William of her youth—and she had never known it until last night! She had thought of him during the last month or two only as an old friend who needed the care which her kind heart prompted her to give; and lo! suddenly he was the lover who would care for her.

"I was sorry, my dear Lydia, to be late," said Mr. Rives, in his soft voice; "I was detained by waiting for the mail."

Miss Lydia said, brightly, that it didn't matter.

"But it was worth waiting for," William assured her. "I have done a good piece of business. (Not that it will make me richer; I have so many obligations to meet!) But it was a fortunate stroke."

"That is good," said Miss Lydia.

"A female in a distant city, where I own a poor little bit of real estate—nothing of any value, Lydia; I am a poor man—"

"That's no difference," she told him, softly.

"—this female, a widow, and foolish (as widows always are)," William said, with a little giggle, "asked me to sell her a house I owned. She wished, for some reason, to purchase in that locality. I named the market price. I did so, by letter, a fortnight ago. I believe she thought it high; but that was her affair. She would have to sell certain securities to purchase it, she said. But as I wrote her—'my dear madam, that's your business.'" Mr. Rives laughed a little. Miss Lydia looked up, smiling and interested. "Yes," said Mr. Rives—"I didn't urge it. I never urge, because then I can't be blamed if things go wrong. But I held my price. That is always good policy—not to drop a dollar on price. So she's bought it. She made a payment yesterday to bind the sale. Not that I feel any richer, for I must immediately apply the money to the purchase of other things."

"That's nice," Miss Lydia said.

"I guess it is," William agreed; "I happen to know that a boiler factory is to be erected on the rear lot."

"But will she like that—the poor widow?" Miss Lydia said.

Mr. Rives laughed comfortably. "Ah, Lydy, my dear, in business we do not ask such questions before making a sale. I like it. In three months that bit of property will have shrunk to an eighth of its selling price to-day." Mr. Rives's eyes twinkled with satisfaction.

"But—William!" said Miss Lydia. Suddenly she grew pale. "William," she said, "it seems to me you ought to have told the poor widow."

"Lydia, a lady cannot understand business," William said, with kindly condescension, but with a slight impatience. "Don't you see, if I had told her, she would not have made the purchase?"

Miss Lydia was silent, stroking the gathers of her cambric with a shaking needle. Then she said, in a low voice, "I suppose she wouldn't."

William nodded encouragingly. "You'll learn, Lydia. A married lady learns much of business methods through her husband. Though they don't profit by it, I notice; widows are always foolish. Not that—that you will be likely to be—to be foolish," he ended, hastily, frowning very much.

Lydia went on sewing in silence. The color did not come back into her face, which caused William to ask her anxiously how she was.

"You are sure you are healthy, Lydia, aren't you?" he said.

Miss Lydia, without looking at him, said she was. When he had gone, she stopped sewing and glanced about her in a frightened way; then she put her hands over her eyes and drew in her breath, and once she shivered. She sat there for a long time. After a while she got up and went over to the picture of Mr. William Rives and stood looking at it; and as she looked her poor, terrified eyes quieted into tears and she straightened the bit of box with a tender hand, and then she suddenly bent down and kissed the slim gentleman behind the misty glass.

The next day when she met her lover she was cheerful enough. It was at the front door of the Tavern; Dr. Lavendar was there, too, waiting for the morning stage for Mercer.

"Well! well! So I am going to have company, am I?" he said, for Miss Lydia was waiting for it, too. Her bonnet was on one side, her shabby jacket, fading from black to green on the shoulders, was split at the elbow seams, and the middle finger of each glove was worn through; but her eyes were shining with pleasure.

"Yes," she said, nodding; "I'm going."

Her presence seemed to be a surprise to Mr. Rives, who had strayed forth from the breakfast-room to see the stage start.

"You are going to Mercer?" he said, his small smile fading into an astonished question.

"Yes," Miss Lydia said, laughing, and suddenly she gave a little jump of happiness. "I haven't been to Mercer for nine years. Oh, dear! isn't it just delightful!"

"But, why?" William persisted, in an amazed aside.

"Oh, that's the secret!" cried Miss Lydia, clambering into the stage; "you'll know sometime."

"I suppose you wish to arrange for the alterations of your house?" William said; "but considering the stage fares back and forth— Oh, there is Dr. Lavendar."

He came round to the other side of the stage, smiling very much. "Well, sir, good-morning! good-morning, sir!"

"Hello," Dr. Lavendar said.

Mr. Rives rubbed his hands. "I—I was about to say, Dr. Lavendar—that little matter between us—it's of no importance, of course; quite at your convenience, sir; I don't mean to press you—but at your convenience, sir."

"What are you talking about?" Dr. Lavendar said, with a puzzled blink.

"Well," William said, smiling, "there's no haste, only I thought I'd just remind you. I'm always business-like myself; and that little matter of accommodation—"

Dr. Lavendar stared at him. "I am afraid I'm a stupid old fellow; I don't understand."

The stage-driver gathered up his reins; Miss Lydia nodded joyously on the back seat, the two other passengers frowned at the delay; so William Rives made haste to explain: "Merely, sir, the stamp I had the pleasure of lending you. But pray don't incommode yourself; I merely remind you; it's of no—"

Dr. Lavendar pulled out his shabby leather pocket-book, his hands fairly trembling with haste, and produced the stamp; then he pulled the door to, and as the stage sagged forward and went tugging up the hill, he turned his astonished eyes on Miss Lydia. She had grown very pale, but she said nothing, only looking out of the window and rubbing her little cotton gloves hard together.

"Would you have asked him for a receipt?" Dr. Lavendar said, under his breath, chuckling. But when she tried to answer him, there was something in her face that turned Dr. Lavendar grave.

The stage jolted on; the two other passengers chatted, then one fell asleep and the other read an almanac. Suddenly Miss Lydia turned sharply round. "It just kills me!" she said.

"Nonsense!" Dr. Lavendar told her. "He is a man of business, and I'm a forgetful old codger. I knew William, and I ought to have remembered."

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.

IV

And 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.