Very meekly Mabel complied, not only with this requisition, but with fifty others, from the same source; for Dell, thinking she was now mistress of the house, took upon herself many airs, ordering this, that and the other, until the neighbors, quite disgusted, left poor Mabel alone, with the exception of the deaf old woman, who ruled in the kitchen as cook. The morning following the arrival of the doctor, Capt. Thompson, wife, and son came out from Sturbridge to attend the funeral; for though they were in no way connected with Mrs. Barton, they knew her well, and wished to pay her this last tribute of respect. Then, too, Mrs. Thompson was very desirous of seeing Dell, who was now an heiress, and as such entitled to attention. Long they talked together concerning the future, Dell telling how she meant “to fix up the old rookery for a summer residence,” and inviting her sister-in-law to spend as much time with her as she possibly could. The cameos were next duly inspected, admired, tried on, and then the two went down to the room below, and turning back the thin muslin which shaded the face of the dead, gazed upon the pinched, stony features which seemed so much to reproach them for their cold-hearted selfishness, in thus planning ways and means by which to spend her hoarded wealth even before she was buried from their sight.
That afternoon there was heard a tolling bell, and a long procession moved slowly to the churchyard, where the words “ashes to ashes—dust to dust,” and the sound of the hard frozen earth, rattling upon the coffin-lid, broke the solemn stillness, but disturbed not the rest of those, who, henceforth, would be the fellow-sleepers of her now committed to the grave. When the party of mourners had returned to the house, the doctor began to speak of the necessity there was for his returning immediately to the city, at the same time hinting to Capt. Thompson that “if there was a will he would like to see it.”
Mabel Warrener, who was supposed to know more than any one else concerning Mrs. Barton’s affairs, was called in and questioned, she replying that her mistress, one day, about two weeks before her death, had said to her that if, after her death, any inquiry should be made concerning her will, it could be found in the private drawer of her secretary, where was also a letter for Mrs. Clayton. Both of these were brought out, and with her handkerchief over her eyes, Dell listened while Capt. Thompson read aloud the astounding fact that the entire possessions of Mrs. Barton, amounting to $15,000, were given to Mabel Warrener, who, having had no suspicion whatever of the fortune in store for her, fainted away, and was borne from the room, as was also Dell; while the doctor, it was confidently asserted, went out behind the woodshed and actually vomited, so great was his disappointment! Soon rallying, however, both he and his wife declared it a fraud, accusing the still unconscious Mabel of treachery, and it was not until the lawyer who had drawn the will was produced, that they could be convinced. Suddenly remembering her letter, Dell broke it open and found therein the reasons for this most unaccountable freak. Always peculiar and naturally jealous, Mrs. Barton had felt piqued that she was not invited to Dell’s wedding, which, considering that she was spending the summer in Albany at the time when it took place, was not very remarkable. Then, too, she was not consulted, and she didn’t believe in doctors, they killed more than they cured; but the head and front of the offence seemed to be that instead of hiring two or three rooms and keeping house in a small, economical way, they boarded at the Tremont, where Dell had nothing to do but “to change her dress, eat, sleep, and laze”—so the letter ran—“and she (Mrs. Barton) would not suffer a penny of her money to go for the support of such extravagance: she preferred giving it to Mabel Warrener, who was a prudent, saving girl, and would take care of it; while the paltry doctor would spend it for cigars, fast horses, patent leather boots, and all sorts of fooleries.”
The letter ended with an exhortation to Dell to “go to work and earn her own living, as her grandmother had done before her.”
The doctor’s reflections, as he rode back to Boston, were not of the most enviable nature; and who can wonder if he was rather testy towards his wife, who retorted so angrily as to bring on quite a sharp quarrel, which was prevented from being heard by the roar of the machinery; and if at Meadow Brook he did think again of Rosa Lee, half fancying that 5,000 divided by 13, if shared with her, might be preferable to nothing divided by nothing, shared with Dell; who can blame him? Not I, most certainly. Wasn’t he terribly disappointed? Hadn’t he just lost $15,000, to say nothing of a patient, whose patronage would have insured him a living for at least a year, besides introducing him into a broader field of practice; and if the cameo earrings were rather becoming to the dark hair and black eyes of his wife, did that in any way compensate him for the fifty dollars which stood on the Cr. side of his bank-book? Still, I see no good reason why, after their arrival home at a late hour of the night, they should sit up for more than an hour in a cold, cheerless room, telling each other—the one that she wished she had never married him, for “he alone stood in the way of her inheritance;” while the other replied, that “but for her extravagance he should now have had $1,500 in the bank instead of five hundred.”
Wretched couple! Their history is like that of many others, who marry without a particle of love, or at most, only a passing fancy. Had Dell chosen, she could in time have won the affection of her husband, but being naturally selfish and exacting, she expected from him every attention; while in return she seldom gave him aught save cross looks and peevish words, complaining that he did not treat her now as he once had done. As long as the doctor had a fortune in expectancy, he bore his wife’s ill humor tolerably well, but now that hope was gone, his whole being seemed changed, and Dell was not often obliged to quarrel alone.
At last, broken in spirits, and being really sick, she had sent for me, as I have before stated. I found her in bed, propped up on pillows, her shining hair combed back, and her large black eyes seeming blacker than ever, from contrast with her colorless cheek. All her old haughtiness was gone, and the moment she saw me she stretched her arms towards me, and bursting into tears, exclaimed, “Oh, Rose, I am so glad you have come. I was afraid you wouldn’t, for I knew your aunt was very aristocratic, and I thought she might not be willing to have you visit poor, obscure people like us.”
There was much of bitterness in the last part of this speech, and it grated harshly upon my feelings; but it was like her, I knew, and she had only judged my aunt by what she well knew she should herself be in a similar position; so I took no notice of it, save to assure her that Aunt Charlotte was perfectly willing I should come, while at the same time I expressed my sorrow at finding her so unwell, and asked “what was the matter.”
“Oh, nothing much,” said she. “I have no particular disease, unless it be one of the mind, and that you know is not easily cured.”
I made no answer to this; but after a moment’s silence, I ventured to inquire for her husband. Instantly there came a bright glow to her cheek, as she replied, “Oh, he is as well as could be expected, considering his terrible disappointment.”