Should he return to New York, accept the offer of an old friend of his
father's, an experienced practitioner, and thus earn his own bread
honorably; or, should he remain a while at Snowdon and cultivate Alice
Johnson? He had never yet failed when he chose to exert himself, and
though he might, for a time, be compelled to adopt a different code of
morality from that which he at present acknowledged, he would do it for
once. He could be interested in those ragged children; he could
encourage Sunday schools; he could attend church as regularly as Alice
herself; and, better yet, he could doctor the poor for nothing, as that
was sure to tell, and he would do it, too, if necessary. This was the
finale which he reached at last by a series of arguments pro and con,
and when it was reached, he was anxious to commence the task at once. He
presumed he could love Alice Johnson; she was so pretty; but even if he
didn't, he would only be doing what thousands had done before him. He
should be very proud of her, and would certainly try to make her happy.
One long, almost sobbing sigh to the memory of poor Lily, who had loved
so much and been so cruelly betrayed, one faint struggle with
conscience, which said that Alice Johnson was too pure a gem for him to
trifle with, and then, the past, with its sad memories, was buried.
"Not going to church twice in one day!" Mrs. Richards exclaimed as the
doctor threw aside the book he had been reading, and started for his
cloak.
"Why, yes," he answered. "I liked that parson so much better than I
expected, that I think I'll go again," and hurrying out, he was soon on
his way to St. Paul's.
"Gone on foot, too, when it's so cold!" and the mother, who had risen
and stood watching him from the window, spoke anxiously.
The service was commencing, but the doctor was in no hurry to take his
seat. He would as soon be seen as not, and, vain fop that he was, he
rather enjoyed the stirring of heads he felt would ensue when he moved
up the aisle. At last he would wait no longer, and with a most
deferential manner, as if asking pardon for disturbing the congregation,
he walked to his pew door, and depositing his hat and cloak, sat down
just where he meant to sit, next the little figure, at which he did not
glance, knowing, of course, that it was Alice.
How then was he astonished and confounded when at the reading of the
Psalter, another voice than hers greeted his ear!--a strange, sharp
voice, whose tones were not as indicative of refinement as Alice's had
been, and whose pronunciation, distinctly heard, savored somewhat of the
so-called down East. He looked at her now, moving off a foot or more,
and found her a little, odd, old woman, shriveled and withered, with
velvet hat, not of the latest style, its well-kept strings of black
vastly different from the glossy blue he had so much admired at an
earlier period of the day. Was ever man more disappointed? Who was she,
the old witch, for so he mentally termed the inoffensive woman devoutly
conning her prayer book, unconscious of the wrath her presence was
exciting in the bosom of the young man beside her! How he wished he had
stayed at home, and were it not that he sat so far distant from the
door, he would certainly have left in disgust. What a drawling tone was
Mr. Howard's.