CHAPTER XIX.

A CHANGE OF BASE.

And so James and Norine Darling became wealthy beyond their utmost expectations, and James and Norine Bright passed out of existence forever. There was no chance of their becoming spoiled by their sudden and unexpected good fortune; they were both too unaffectedly good for that. And then they had the steady, clear brain and good counsel of Doctor Conway to help them; and with that and the kindly advice of the shrewd New York lawyer they passed through the ordeal in very creditable shape.

It required some discussion before Norine could be induced to discard her husband’s name.

“Why should my aunt desire me to do this?” she asked. “If Jim resumes the old name, and they know I am his sister, they will know, of course, that I am a Darling. So why should I not retain my own name and Clinton’s?”

Doctor Conway made no attempt to answer all this. He simply said:

“Your aunt wished it, and you should comply with her wishes if you accept her gift. Little Clinton can always retain his father’s name, and I see no reason why you should refuse.”

He said nothing of the permission her aunt had given that she might adopt his name if she wished to; he was too generous for that and too hopeless.

“I suppose you are right,” said Norine, with a little wistful sigh. “But it seems cruel in me to give up his name; it looks as if I were ashamed of him, when I am not, and then it is cowardly of me to do so. I think I should always keep his name for little Clinton’s sake.”

“But you need not change the child’s name,” replied Conway quietly; “and she has left you everything she had, relying on you to gratify her last wishes in this matter. She did not command it, and it can make no difference in your future. Think what she has enabled you to do for little Clinton! You can educate him in any way you choose now. It is but a small repayment that you can make for her generosity. And who knows? perhaps she will sleep the better for it.”

There was nothing more said about it at the time; but Norine wrote him a little note the next day, and signed it “Norine Darling,” and the doctor evidently thought the signature highly appropriate, for he laid the note away among his few cherished treasures.

They were still at Bright Farm, though the summer was passing away. But there was so much to be done before they could enter into their new sphere that the summer had nearly gone before they were ready to move.

Jim had been to New York several times in order to familiarize himself with his new property and duties, but Norine had remained contentedly at the little cottage, being somewhat loath, in fact, to leave it. There were so many pleasant faces about the old homestead, and her past life had been so completely wrapped up in her immediate surroundings, that it was like being born anew to leave it. So she spent the greater part of this summer in idling listlessly about the place, going many times to the little hut--now very much dismantled--where she had first met her husband, and visiting in turn every place made sacred to her by her memory of him.

But the time had come at last when they were to move. The Higginses had already taken possession of the cottage and farm as tenants and agents, and there was nothing left to do but say good-by to all things, animate and inanimate, about the place.

Norine made one last pilgrimage to the little shanty in the woods, while Jim drove into town for a last consultation with Doctor Conway.

“Well, Jim,” cried the doctor cheerily, “is everything arranged to your satisfaction?”

“Yes,” replied Jim, heaving a great sigh of relief, “everything is settled at last; that is,” he added, “everything but one.”

“What is that?”

“Why, it is your matter. I don’t see why you won’t let me help you, now I have a chance. God knows,” he added earnestly, “you have helped me often enough.”

“If I have, I have been amply repaid for it,” said Conway. “And really, Jim, if there was anything you could do for me, I would not hesitate a moment to accept your kind offer. But, you see, there is really nothing I want.”

“Oh, nonsense!” retorted Jim ungraciously. “I have heard you say a thousand times that you hoped to move into a large city some day, where you would have a chance to build yourself up.”

“That was when I was young and ambitious. I have outgrown all that now,” said Conway.

He spoke very pleasantly, for Jim was his one particular friend; but there was a tired, worn look on his face, when it was in repose, and a tinge of indifference in all he said.

“Then you do not care to improve?” inquired Jim.

“Improve? Certainly. I study every day with that end in view. The physician who does not care to improve himself and increase his knowledge can have no affinity for his chosen profession. I hope to improve greatly; but that does not necessitate a desire to change.”

“But you would have greater advantages in the city,” persisted Jim. “Your field of labor would become more extended, and your opportunities for doing good be so much greater.”

“That would all be true, if my heart was in it,” replied Conway indifferently. “But I am content to stay where I am. Perhaps, after all, my talents are best adapted to the dull routine of a country physician. Be satisfied, my dear friend, with your own prosperity, and let those who are less fortunate suffer; believe me, that is the way of the world.”

“But it is not my way,” said Jim sturdily. “Nor is it Norine’s. Of course, I am glad we have got this money. It is a great thing to know that one need never trouble one’s self with the ‘carking cares of poverty.’ But I do not believe God put this money in our hands just to gratify our selfishness. I hope to make it do some good to others than ourselves. Besides that,” he went on, speaking very earnestly, “I feel that we owe our good fortune to you; it was you who was with our aunt. If it had been any one else, how do we know what might have happened? I tell you plainly, Lester, that I shall not be able to enjoy my fortune until I have paid at least a part of the debt we owe you.”

“You owe me nothing but good wishes,” returned Conway. “Perhaps some time in the future I may want you to help me; but it is not likely. Believe me, I am content.”

“It is all Norine’s fault,” grumbled Jim in a deeply injured tone. “I don’t see why you don’t marry her, and have done with it. Just think if you went there with us, and started a practice, you might win her in a year.”

“If I thought I could in ten,” replied Conway, “I would go; but I know it is impossible. Let it rest, my friend. You will have plenty of opportunities of assisting me, for whenever my poor people get unusually poor, I will call on you.”

With this Jim was obliged to be silent, if not content. But he parted from his friend with sincere sorrow.

“You will come out and bid Norine good-by,” he said at parting. “You would not make her unhappy by refusing?”

“I will come,” said Conway; and so Jim was obliged to leave him.

The next morning they started early. Conway was there, as he had promised, and parted from them both with many cheerful wishes.

Norine was very quiet and subdued at parting from her old home.

“I am glad you came,” she said to Conway. “I should have been unhappy to have gone without a farewell from my brother.”

Conway winced a little at this; but, fortunately, they were about to start, and that spared him somewhat.

“You will see us again,” said Norine, giving him her hand; and then, as she was about to enter the carriage, she said simply: “You will kiss me good-by, won’t you?”

And he kissed her good-by and wondered dumbly that he had strength enough to relinquish her after he had once held her in his arms, and he stood there dreamily until long after the carriage was out of sight, and then awakened to find himself in the midst of the lamenting Higginses.

Norine was very quiet during the journey, and Jim thought she cried a little at times; but with the changes to be made and his little flock to care for, he had no time to devote to idle speculation.

Traveling is like everything else--it has to be learned by experience--and both Jim and Norine were too ignorant, as travelers, to enjoy the many comforts while en route.

On reaching New York, they were driven to the Waldorf, where they were to stay for a few days, while their new home was being put in order for them.