CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE DOCTOR HIMSELF AGAIN.
On the morning after his return to Poppleton, Dick Birch went down to the Port, and resumed his duties as the business man of Eugene, just as though nothing had happened. People were glad to see him; they said so, and most of them knew he was “all right” from the beginning. There was not the shadow of a stain resting upon him. Some enthusiastic individuals proposed to give him a public reception--welcome him with speeches, and glorify him in the choicest rhetoric of the Poppleton orators; but those who knew Dick best were sure that he would not submit to the operation.
Eugene’s income had been accumulating with fearful rapidity, and the balance in his favor in the Poppleton Bank was absolutely appalling. The affrighted _millionnaire_ began to reproach himself for his own laziness. The chapel and the church, the missionaries and the Sisters of Charity, seemed hardly to affect the mighty balance, and the model houses paid their own way. Something must be done to mitigate the severity of the balance, which reproached the unfortunate owner for his want of enterprise.
Dick sympathized with him, and before dinner time the balance was happily disposed of, and the bewildered man of money dined in peace. A public library and reading-room were projected. A site for an elegant building was agreed upon, and an investment for its perpetual support and improvement was arranged. Several vacant rooms in the bank building were at once hired for the temporary accommodation of the library, for the projected edifice could not be completed before the autumn of the next year.
“Of course this will be called the ‘Hungerford Library,’” said Dick Birch, when the plan was satisfactorily adjusted.
“Bah!”
“Why not?”
“I will not permit my name to be applied to any public institution.”
“But the people who are to receive the benefit of this library will insist upon it.”
“I will never consent. It shall be called the ‘Poppleton Library,’ or something of that sort.”
“Just think of the immense value of this institution to the people. Here will be a large library, from which the whole town may take books without cost. Here will be a great hall, warmed and lighted, open day and evening, supplied with all the newspapers and magazines of the day, where the citizens can sit and read publications which would cost them a hundred dollars a year to obtain individually. Here is a conversation-room, where they can meet to talk politics, religion, ships, and factories. Don’t you think they will be grateful to you?”
“Doubtless.”
“They will insist upon having your name in connection with the enterprise.”
“If that were the alternative, I wouldn’t do it at all. I intend to do this thing for the public good, not for my own glory. Giving my own name to such an institution, seems to me very much like putting ‘esquire’ to my own signature. I will not do it, or let it be done.”
“Of course you will do as you please.”
“I know of nothing that would make me feel cheaper and more insignificant, than to see my name in great letters on the proposed building. I abhor the very idea.”
Eugene was decided, and he was sincere. He was not the man who offered to give a large sum of money to any town that would adopt his name; he could not have been even a friend of such a man. The balance was effectually used up, and Hungerford and his friend went to dinner with better appetites for the good work they had done. Dick had dropped back very easily into his old position, which was not less satisfactory to the family than to himself.
Julia was in no respect altered from what she had been before Dick’s withdrawal from the mansion. She treated him now with the intimacy of friendship, but he did not seem at all disposed to improve his opportunity. He did not attempt to make love to her, resorted to no expedients to win her favor; in fact, he conducted himself in the most commonplace manner, precisely as though he did not intend to take advantage of Dr. Lynch’s absence.
“Dick, we must get up a list of books for the public library,” said Eugene, after dinner.
“That is no small matter.”
“No; and as you and I have enough to do, I propose to leave the selection to another.”
“I am entirely willing.”
“I will carry what catalogues we have to Mary, and let her do this work. She has good taste and good judgment.”
“Excellent!” laughed Dick.
“John Porter will assist her.”
“I think you had better assist her yourself.”
Eugene took the catalogues and went to The Great Bell. He laid his bundle on the table in the parlor, and came away without saying a word about the public library. He forgot it.
“To-morrow has come, Mary,” said he, as he took her hand, and kissed her cheek.
Mary was troubled.
“It has come too soon.”
“Don’t you love me?”
“I cannot deny it.”
“Would you deny it?”
“If I could I might be more true and just to you.”
“If you love me, it is all I ask. You consent?”
“I do not--yet.”
“Why not, Mary?”
“I do not deserve you.”
“Do I deserve you?”
“O, yes!”
“Then would you deprive me of my desert?”
“Eugene, my heart says yes; my reason says no.”
“The heart before the reason, Mary.”
“I am afraid that, months or years hence, when this step cannot be recalled, you will see me as I am. You will think of the odious events which once separated us, and wish you had passed me by on the other side.”
“You wrong me, Mary.”
“It would not be unnatural, Eugene. You know what a break there was in the love which began while we were children. Even now you wish this had not happened.”
“I do,” replied Eugene, candidly. “If I could to-day be reduced to poverty, and possess you as you were before Buckstone stepped into your path, I would take the poverty, and rejoicingly clasp my treasure to my heart.”
Mary shrank from him.
“Then you do not regard me as you did before?” said she, sadly, and with quivering lip.
“I love you the same; do not shrink from me. I have only said that I would give the poor boon of wealth to have you as you were. This cannot be. Mary, I am cool, self-possessed; I am not carried away by any silly enthusiasm. I have thought calmly and dispassionately of our marriage. I have compared you with all the women I know--with all I have seen here and abroad. You are beautiful; if it were for your beauty alone I sought you, I could distrust myself. It is not. You have a Christian heart. You were my ideal of a woman. You are still. What has happened does not affect the qualities for which I seek you. Morally, mentally, spiritually, you are the same. I love you in spite of what has come between us. I cannot love another. I could not help looking coldly upon the fairest and most accomplished, even after I knew that you were the wife of another. If I had been doomed never to see you again, I should still have cherished the Mary I loved, and never thought of supplying her place with another. I feel what I say; I mean it. I am not making a special plea; I am only telling the simple truth.”
She did not shrink from him now.
“Could I have known that you still loved me,” replied she, as he took her hand again, “I should not have done violence to my own heart as I did. I would have slept in the woods, and fed upon acorns, rather than be false to the love that was in my heart. I thought you repelled me. I gave you up, and believed that I had conquered my heart.”
“It was my fault; but let us not speak of these things. They are loathsome to me. Let me atone for my error.”
“I wish you to know the whole truth. The past is more painful to me than it can be to you.”
“Let the dead bury their dead; let us never allude to these things again.”
“Never, Eugene.”
“You are mine, Mary?”
“I cannot say no, and I dare not say yes.”
His arm encircled her waist, as she leaned her head upon his shoulder. There were tears in her eyes--why they came she could not tell.
“Do not rob me of this highest earthly joy, Mary.”
“I can rob you of nothing, Eugene; no word or deed of mine can add a joy to your lot.”
“The word can hardly add to the consent your looks and actions give, Mary, but speak.”
“Yes, Eugene! Do with me as you will. I am not worthy, but such as I am, I am yours, since you desire it.”
She smiled through her tears, as he printed his warm kiss upon her lips, and the compact was sealed.
They were to be married in the spring; to no earlier time than this would she willingly consent. When he had gone, Mary wondered what the bundle of catalogues could mean; but Eugene came every day after this, and in a week the list of books for the Poppleton library was ready.
Mary still applied herself with unremitting diligence to her missionary duties in connection with the chapel. John Porter preached and labored among the Protestant poor, and Father McCafferty and the Sisters of Charity among the Catholic. The keepers of grog shops complained of hard times. The reading-room was opened; the books of the library began to circulate; a course of lectures was commenced; and then the keepers of the billiard and bowling saloons began to grumble, as their patrons decreased in number.
“I have it!” exclaimed Eugene, as soon as the effects of his enterprise began to be apparent.
“What, Hungerford?” asked Dick, taking his cigar from his mouth.
“We must have the library building three stories high.”
“Is that all?” laughed Dick, who did not regard this as a very brilliant idea.
“The structure will be on a side hill. We can have it two stories on the street, and three in the rear.”
“No doubt we can; what are you talking about, Hungerford?”
“In the lower story we will have a bowling alley and a billiard-room.”
“Will you, indeed? I thought you were opposed to these institutions.”
“Not to the bowling or the billiards, but to the gambling, drinking, and swearing, which always go with them. We will make these amusements decent and respectable. No drinking, no profanity, no gambling will be allowed on our premises. Young men must have amusements; let them be innocent amusements, and we may cheat the devil out of many a fine young fellow.”
“What is the next story for?”
“The library, the reading and conversation rooms.”
“Good; but a ten-strike in the basement might disturb the politicians up stairs, or upset the lucubrations of the philosophical student, buried in the contents of the Edinburgh or North British.”
“The floor can be made of brick or stone, so that the noise will not disturb the readers or the talkers. The upper story will be for the lecture-room.”
Eugene was satisfied with the idea, and so was Dick Birch. Both were confident that this institution would place Poppleton one step nearer paradise. New instructions were immediately sent to the architect, who was preparing the plans.
Dr. Lynch had been absent a month. Poppleton missed him very much. The people spoke kindly of him. He “felt bad,” and they pitied him. The invalids wanted their physician. Dr. White could not fill his place. Dr. Lynch had a way of making people believe they were very sick, when they desired to think so; then he understood their cases; he knew their constitutions better than any other man. He could look so sad and sympathizing in an emergency which required nothing but a brown-bread pill to restore the patient to perfect health. If a man did not want to be very sick, he could often accommodate him. A patient with a bad liver had his pork and coffee stopped for a month, and got well on faith in a compound of molasses and water, medicinally impregnated with essence of sassafras. The doctor had tact; he doctored people’s imaginations, quite as much as their bodies, when the circumstances indicated such an array of remedial agents.
The invalids wanted their doctor. Mrs. Brown hoped the Lord would spare her from any sickness till Dr. Lynch came back. Mrs. Jones would certainly die if she had one of her ill turns in his absence. Squire Green was sure he could not survive another attack of liver complaint, if his old doctor, who had twice saved his life, could not attend him. Deacon Smith might as well speak for his gravestone at once if Dr. Lynch did not return before spring. The popular physician had made a bad mistake in the Buckstone business; but all men make mistakes, and he was no worse than others. He had perjured himself, wronged an innocent man; but he had taken it all back; he had done all he could, and angels could no more.
The ship-masters, the ship-builders, the bank officers, and the mill agents, who were wont to eat evening suppers at the Bell River House, declared that the doctor had been the life and soul of the party; and they hoped he would come back. He had been a little too sharp for his own interest; but there were a great many worse men than Dr. Lynch, who still held up their heads in society.
Everybody condemned the conduct of the doctor, but all hoped he would return. Eugene Hungerford spoke tenderly of him, and Mr. Birch, the man of all others who had the right to denounce him, was never heard to say a word against him. The public voice preached the cardinal doctrine of Christianity: “And now abideth faith, hope, charity--these three; but the greatest of these is charity.” So said Poppleton, and the doctor was forgiven.
At the end of the month Dr. Lynch came back, to close up his business affairs, previous to his final departure. The people protested. Squire Green was down with the liver complaint, and as a special favor, the doctor consented to see him; then to attend him while he remained. There was a supper of the club at the hotel; seven times the doctor positively refused to be present, and finally went. A man at the Mills had his leg crushed on the railroad; the doctor reluctantly consented to amputate it. Mrs. Jones had an ill turn; he could not refuse her earnest petition. He performed all these kind acts with apparent unwillingness, and still continued to talk of going. The pressure brought to bear upon him was tremendous, and he could not resist it. A new sign, with the name of “Dr. Lynch” upon it, was nailed to his office door, for, the doctor facetiously added, his practice was already sufficient, and the name could no longer injure him.
The doctor was invited to visit Pine Hill; he declined. He could not look Julia in the face, he said. He was ashamed of his conduct. She could not help despising him. He did love her, but it was right that he should suffer.
“Mr. Hungerford, I am no hypocrite,” added the doctor. “When I say suffer, I mean so. God knows how gladly I would resume my old intimacy with your family; but I shall remain a voluntary exile. I do not deserve any further kindness at your hands.”
“We shall forget the past. We do not ask you to punish yourself so severely. Mr. Birch would be as glad to see you at Pine Hill as I should.”
“He overwhelms me with his generosity. He loves Julia; so do I. I will not go.”
“That does not alter the case.”
“I will not seem to come between him and her.”
“Julia cannot be bargained for.”
“No; but I can prove my regard for Mr. Birch, my willingness to suffer for his sake, by not attempting to win her. If this involves any presumption on my part, it does not affect my intentions towards our mutual friend. Let us change the topic, Mr. Hungerford,” added the doctor, as he unlocked a closet and took from it a human skull.
Eugene was annoyed.
“One more act of justice yet remains to be done, Mr. Hungerford. This is the skull of Buckstone.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Eugene, disgusted at the idea it suggested.
“Here is the part where Ross struck the fatal blow,” added the doctor, pointing to a place on the skull where the bone was beaten in and broken.
“Why do you keep it?”
“I do not purpose to do so. I shall employ the sexton who buried the body to put this in the coffin. I will restore the brain, which I have kept in spirits. If you please, I will explain to you the nature of Mr. Dunbar’s disease, and show you in this brain just what the trouble was.”
“No, I thank you,” replied Eugene.
Whether the skull and brain were ever returned to the body in the ground Eugene never inquired. He went home and reported what the doctor had said about coming to Pine Hill. Even Julia declared that he was too nice--more nice than wise. But, in less than a week from this time, Dr. Lynch did go to Pine Hill. It was midnight--dark, cold, and stormy. Mrs. Hungerford had been suffering, for several days, with a severe cold; and in the night her symptoms had suddenly assumed a form which alarmed Julia. The sufferer wanted Dr. Lynch, if she had any physician. She had unbounded confidence in him. Eugene went for the doctor himself.
“Don’t you think you had better procure some other physician, Mr. Hungerford?” asked the doctor, who seemed to be much troubled at the idea of going to Pine Hill.
“You surely will not refuse to go, Dr. Lynch?”
“Of course I am entirely willing to go; I would do anything for your family; but don’t you think, under the circumstances, that it would be better to call another physician?”
“My mother particularly desired to have you. If you are not willing to go----”
“I am entirely willing to go, Mr. Hungerford. Do not misunderstand me.”
“My mother is very sick; be as quick as possible.”
“I will be with you in a moment,” replied the doctor, as he hastened his preparations. “I would go a thousand miles to serve your mother, but of course I must meet Julia.”
“That cannot be avoided, even if you wish to avoid it.”
Eugene thought that Dr. Lynch exhibited a degree of delicacy and consideration which few men possessed. He certainly appeared to be sincere in his purpose to renounce his claims, if any he had, upon Julia.
The doctor was shown to the room of Mrs. Hungerford. Julia was there, sad and troubled. She gave her hand to the physician, and warmly greeted him. She thought only of her mother, and she believed that he would save her if human skill could do so.
“I am sorry to meet you under such unpleasant circumstances, after my absence,” said the doctor, as he took off his overcoat, and opened his trunk.
“Why didn’t you come when we sent for you? We should have been glad to see you.”
“Thank you; but I did not feel like coming. You have learned to despise me, and I submit, for I deserve it.”
“Far from it, doctor. We have never ceased to be grateful to you. I am afraid mother is very sick.”
“I fear she is, from the sound of her breathing.”
The doctor bent over her. She gave him her hand, and, hardly able to speak, expressed her pleasure at seeing him again. He felt her pulse, applied his ear to her chest, making a very careful examination of her condition. He shook his head, and Julia trembled like an aspen. He spoke of lung fever. It was a dangerous disease at the patient’s time of life, and with her peculiar constitution. But the doctor went to work. He gave her medicine; he applied poultices, draughts, lotions. He did not leave her bedside during the remainder of the night. Before daylight she was comparatively comfortable, and slept a little.
Dr. Lynch said the physician had not been called soon enough; and Mrs. Hungerford had typhoid-pneumonia. For two weeks he was as diligent, as watchful, as interested, apparently, as he had been in Julia’s illness. It was a sickly season in Poppleton, and he was worked night and day. He grew pale; he would drop asleep while sitting at the bedside of his Pine Hill patient. Julia was afraid the doctor would be sick himself; but he would remit no portion of his attentions to her mother.
Mrs. Hungerford began to improve. Again came rich wines, grapes from foreign shores, and bouquets from the conservatories of the great city; but whether or not the doctor brought these things for consistency’s sake, the reader may judge. At any rate, no one at Pine Hill thought of the errors of Dr. Lynch; in fact, he was again the demigod of Pine Hill. His patient had not been as near to death’s door as Julia was; but she might have been if the doctor had been less faithful, less skilful; might have died in the hands of an ordinary physician; so the family were willing to believe.
Dr. Lynch saw Julia every day, several times a day, during her mother’s severe illness. He sat for hours with her by the bedside of the invalid. His former relations were apparently reëstablished, and he did not conceal from her the pleasure her society afforded him.
“Your mother is pretty well now, Miss Hungerford,” said he, one day, when the patient was down stairs. “I think she needs a physician no longer.”
“But you will see her occasionally, doctor?”
“Perhaps not; it is hardly proper for me to come here, except professionally,” replied the doctor, glancing into the fair eyes of the beautiful girl.
“Proper--why not?” said she, her cheek glowing.
“It depends upon circumstances. If you will favor me with ten minutes’ private conversation, I can answer better.”
“I will, with pleasure. Take a seat, doctor.”
It was in the sitting-room, and they were alone.