CHAPTER XXII COLONEL PRESTON'S RECOVERY
Four weeks afterward, we will introduce the reader into the bedchamber of Colonel Preston. His sickness has been severe. At times recovery was doubtful, but Mrs. Burke has proved a careful and devoted nurse, intelligent and faithful enough to carry out the directions of the physician.
"How do you feel this morning, Colonel Preston?" asked the doctor, who had just entered the chamber.
"Better, doctor. I feel quite an appetite."
"You are looking better—decidedly better. The disease has spent its force, and retreated from the field."
"It is to you that the credit belongs, Dr. Townley."
"Only in part. The greater share belongs to your faithful nurse, Mrs.
Burke."
"I shall not soon forget my obligations to her," said the sick man, significantly.
"Now, Colonel Preston," said Mrs. Burke, "you are making too much of what little I have done."
"That is impossible, Mrs. Burke. It is to your good nursing and the doctor's skill that I owe my life, and I hardly know to which the most."
"To the doctor, sir. I only followed out his directions."
"At the expense of your own health. You show the effects of your long-continued care."
"It won't take long to pick up," said Mrs. Burke, cheerfully.
"Is the danger of contagion over, doctor?" asked the patient.
"Quite so."
"Then, would it not be well to write to Mrs. Preston? Not that I mean to give up my good nurse just yet; that is, if she is willing to stay."
"I will stay as long as you need me, sir."
"That is well; but Mrs. Preston may wish to return, now that there's no further danger."
"I will write to her at once."
"Thank you."
The following letter was dispatched to Mrs. Preston:
"MRS. PRESTON:—
"Dear Madam: It gives me great pleasure to inform you that your husband is so far recovered that there is no danger now of infection. You can return with safety, and he will, doubtless, be glad to see you. He has been very ill, indeed—in danger of his life; but, thanks to the devotion of Mrs. Burke, who has proved an admirable nurse, he is now on the high road to recovery. Yours respectfully,
"John Townley."
"I think that will bring her," said the doctor.
But he reckoned without his host.
The next day he received the following letter, on scented paper:
"MY DEAR DOCTOR TOWNLEY: You cannot think how rejoiced I am to receive the tidings of my husband's convalescence. I have been so tortured with anxiety during the last four weeks! You cannot think how wretchedly anxious I have been. I could not have endured to stay away from his bedside but that my duty imperatively required it. I have lost flesh, and my anxiety has worn upon me. Now, how gladly will I resume my place at the bedside of my husband, restored by your skill. I am glad the nurse has proved faithful. It was a good chance for her, for she shall be liberally paid, and no doubt the money will be welcome. But don't you think it might be more prudent for me to defer my return until next week? It will be safer, I think, and I owe it to my boy to be very careful. You know, the contagion may still exist. It is hard for me to remain longer away, when I would fain fly to the bedside of Mr. Preston, but I feel that it is best. Say to him, with my love, that he may expect me next week. Accept my thanks for your attention to him. I shall never forget it; and believe me to be, my dear doctor, your obliged "Lucinda Preston."
Dr. Townley threw down this letter with deep disgust.
"Was ever any woman more disgustingly selfish?" he exclaimed. "Her husband might have died, so far as she was concerned."
Of course, he had to show this letter to Colonel Preston.
The latter read it, with grave face, and the doctor thought he heard a sigh.
"My wife is very prudent," he said, with a touch of bitterness in his voice.
"She will be here next week," said the doctor, having nothing else to answer.
"I think she will run no risk then," said the sick man, cynically.
But Mrs. Preston did not return in a week. It was a full week and a half before she arrived at her own house.
The doctor was just coming out of the front door.
"How is my husband?" she asked.
"Not far from well. He is still weak, of course."
"And are you sure," she said, anxiously, "that there is no danger of infection?"
"Not the slightest, madam," said Dr. Townley, coldly.
"I am so glad I can see him once more. You cannot imagine," she exclaimed, clasping her hands, "how much I have suffered in my suspense!"
The doctor remained cool and unmoved. He didn't feel that he could respond fittingly, being absolutely incredulous.
Mrs. Preston saw it, and was nettled. She knew that she was a hypocrite, but did not like to have the doctor, by his silence, imply his own conviction of it.
"Mine has been a hard position," she continued.
"Your husband has not had an easy time," said the doctor, significantly.
"But he has had good care—Mrs. Burke was a good nurse?"
"Admirable."
"She must be paid well."
"I offered her ten dollars a week."
"Humph!" said Mrs. Preston, doubtfully, in whose eyes five dollars would have been liberal compensation. "It has been a good chance for her."
"It is far from adequate," said the doctor, disgusted. "Money cannot pay for such service as hers, not to speak of the risk she ran, for cases have been known of persons being twice attacked by the disease."
"You don't think my husband will have a relapse?" asked Mrs. Preston, with fresh alarm.
"Not if he has the same care for a short time longer."
"He shall have it. She must stay. Of course her duties are lighter now, and six dollars a week for the remainder of the time will be enough—don't you think so?"
"No, I don't," said the doctor, bluntly; "and, moreover, I am quite sure your husband will not consent to reducing the wages of one whose faithful care has saved his life."
"Oh, well, you know best," said Mrs. Preston, slowly. "I am quite willing that she should be well paid."
Mrs. Preston went upstairs, and entered her husband's chamber.
"Oh, my dear husband!" she exclaimed, theatrically, hurrying across the room, with affected emotion. "I am so glad to find you so much better!"
"I am glad to see you back, Lucinda," said Colonel Preston; but he spoke coldly, and without the slightest affectation of sentimental joy. "I have passed through a good deal since you left me."
"And so have I!" exclaimed his wife. "Oh, how my heart has been rent with anxiety, as I thought of you lying sick, while duty kept me from your side."
"Is Godfrey well?" asked her husband, taking no notice of her last speech.
"Yes, poor boy! He sends his love, and is so anxious to see you."
"Let him come next Friday afternoon," said the sick man, who doubted this statement, yet wanted to believe it true.
"He shall. I will write to him at once."
So Mrs. Preston resumed her place in the house; but from that time there was a something she could not understand in her husband's manner. He was graver than formerly, and sometimes she saw him watching her intently, and, after a little, turn away, with a sigh.
He had found her out in all her intense selfishness and want of feeling, and he could never again regard her as formerly, even though she tried hard at times, by a show of affection, to cover up her heartless neglect.
CHAPTER XXIII MRS. BURKE HAS GOOD FORTUNE
Mrs. Burke remained a week longer to nurse Colonel Preston. At the end of this time Mr. Preston thought he was well enough to dispense with a nurse, and accordingly she prepared to take leave.
"I shall always remember your kind service, Mrs. Burke," said the colonel, warmly.
"It was only my duty, sir," said the widow, modestly.
"Not all would have done their duty so faithfully."
"I am glad to see you well again," said the widow.
"Not more than I am to get well, I assure you," said he. "Whenever you are in any trouble, come to me."
With these words, he placed in her hands an envelope, which, as she understood, contained the compensation for her services. She thanked him, and took her departure.
Mrs. Preston was curious to know how much her husband paid the nurse, and asked the question.
"A hundred dollars," he replied.
"A hundred dollars!" she repeated, in a tone which implied disapproval. "I thought she agreed to come for ten dollars a week."
"So she did."
"She has not been here ten weeks; only about six."
"That is true, but she has richly earned all I gave her."
"Ten dollars a week I consider very handsome remuneration to one in her position in life," said Mrs. Preston, pointedly.
"Lucinda, but for her attention I probably should not have lived through this sickness. Do you think a hundred dollars so much to pay for your husband's life?"
"You exaggerate the value of her services," said his wife.
"Dr. Townley says the same thing that I do."
"You are both infatuated with that woman," said Mrs. Preston, impatiently.
"We only do her justice."
"Oh, well, have it your own way. But I should have only paid her what I agreed to. It is a great windfall for her."
"She deserves it."
Mrs. Preston said no more at this time, for she found her husband too "infatuated," as she termed it, to agree with her. She did, however, open the subject to Godfrey when he came home, and he adopted her view of the case.
"She and her low son are trying to get all they can out of father," he said. "It's just like them."
"I wish I could make your father see it," said Mrs. Preston, "but he seems prepossessed in her favor."
"If he can give a hundred dollars to her, he can give me a little extra money; I'm going to ask him."
So he did the same evening.
"Will you give me ten dollars, father?" he asked.
"What for?"
"Oh, for various things. I need it."
"I give you an allowance of three dollars a week."
"I have a good many expenses."
"That will meet all your reasonable expenses. I was far from having as much money as that when I was of your age."
"I don't see why you won't give me the money," said Godfrey, discontentedly.
"I don't think you need it."
"You are generous enough to others."
"To whom do you refer?"
"You give plenty of money to that Irish boy and his mother."
"They have both rendered me great services. The boy saved me from being robbed. The mother, in all probability, saved me from falling a victim to smallpox. But that has nothing to do with your affairs. It is scarcely proper for a boy like you to criticise his father's way of disposing of his money."
"I confess I think Godfrey is right in commenting upon your extraordinary liberality to the Burkes," observed Mrs. Preston.
"Lucinda," said her husband, gravely, "when my own wife deserted my sick bed, leaving me to wrestle alone with a terrible and dangerous disease, I was fortunate enough to find in Mrs. Burke a devoted nurse. The money I have paid her is no adequate compensation, nor is it all that I intend to do for her."
There was a part of this speech that startled Mrs. Preston. Never before had her husband complained of her desertion of him in his sickness, and she hoped that he had been imposed upon by the excuse which she gave of saving herself for Godfrey. Now she saw that in this she had not been altogether successful, and she regretted having referred to Mrs. Burke, and so brought this reproach upon herself. She felt it necessary to say something in extenuation.
"It was because I wanted to live for Godfrey," she said, with a flushed face. "Nothing but that would have taken me away from you at such a time. It was a great trial to me," she continued, putting up her handkerchief to eyes that were perfectly dry.
"We will say no more about it," said Colonel Preston, gravely. "I shall not refer to it, unless you undervalue my obligations to Mrs. Burke."
Mrs. Preston thought it best not to reply, but on one thing that her husband had said, she commented to Godfrey.
"Your father speaks of giving more money to Mrs. Burke. I suppose we shall not know anything about it if he does."
"Perhaps he will leave her some money in his will," said Godfrey.
"Very likely. If he does, there is such a thing as contesting a will—that is, if he gives her much."
Mrs. Preston was right. Her husband did intend to give his devoted nurse something in his will, but of that more anon. There was one thing which he did at once, and that was to buy the cottage which Mrs. Burke occupied, from the heir, a non-resident. Mrs. Burke didn't learn this until she went to pay her rent to the storekeeper, who had acted as agent for the owner.
"I have nothing to do with the house any longer, Mrs. Burke," he said.
"Then who shall I pay rent to?" said Mrs. Burke.
"To Colonel Preston, who has recently bought the house."
Mrs. Burke, therefore, called at the house of the colonel.
Mr. and Mrs. Preston were sitting together when the servant announced that she wished to speak to him.
"You seem to have a good deal of business with Mrs. Burke," said his wife, in a very unpleasant tone.
"None that I care to conceal," he said, smiling. "Show Mrs. Burke in here, Jane," he continued, addressing the servant.
"Good-morning, Mrs. Burke," he said, pleasantly.
"Good-morning," said Mrs. Preston, coldly.
"Good-morning, sir, I'm glad to see you looking so much better."
"Oh, yes, I am feeling pretty well now."
"I didn't find out till just now, Colonel Preston, that you were my landlord."
Here Mrs. Preston pricked up her ears, for it was news to her also, as her husband had not mentioned his recent purchase.
"Yes, I thought I would buy the house, as it was in the market."
"I have come to pay my rent. I have been in the habit of paying fifteen dollars a quarter."
"I won't be a hard landlord," said Colonel Preston. "You are welcome to live in the house, if it suits you, free of all rent."
"This is too much kindness," said Mrs. Burke, quite overwhelmed by the unexpected liberality.
Mrs. Preston thought so, too, but could not well say anything.
"There's been kindness on both sides, Mrs. Burke. Put up your money, I don't want it, but I have no doubt you will find use for it. Buy yourself a new dress."
"Thank you, Colonel Preston. You are very generous, and I am very grateful," said the widow.
"I have something to be grateful for also, Mrs. Burke. If you want any repairs, just let me know, and they shall be attended to."
"Thank you, sir, but the house is very comfortable."
She soon took her leave.
"When did you buy that house, Colonel Preston?" asked his wife.
"A month since."
"You didn't say anything about it to me."
"Nor to anyone else, except those with whom I did the business."
Mrs. Preston would like to have said more, but she did not think it expedient, remembering what she had brought upon herself before.
CHAPTER XXIV ANDY'S JOURNEY
Toward the first of April of the succeeding year, Miss Sophia Grant took a severe cold, not serious, indeed, but such as to make it prudent for her to remain indoors. This occasioned a little derangement of her sister's plans; for both sisters were in the habit, about the first of April and of October, of taking a journey to Boston—partly for a change, and partly because at these times certain banks in which they owned stock declared dividends, which they took the opportunity to collect. But this spring it seemed doubtful if they could go. Yet they wanted the money—a part of it, at least.
"Send Andrew," suggested Miss Sophia, after her sister had stated the difficulty.
In general Miss Priscilla did not approve Sophia's suggestions, but this struck her more favorably.
"I don't know but we might," she said, slowly. "He is a boy to be trusted."
"Just so."
"And I think he is a smart boy."
"Just so."
"He can take care of himself. You remember how he saved Colonel Preston from the robber?"
"Just so."
"Then, on the other hand, he has never been to Boston."
"He could ask."
"I don't suppose there would be any particular difficulty. I could give him all the necessary directions."
"Just so."
"I'll propose it to him."
So, after supper, as Andy was going out into the woodshed for an armful of wood, Miss Priscilla stopped him.
"Were you ever in Boston, Andy?" asked she.
"No, ma'am."
"I wish you had been."
"Why, ma'am?"
"Because I should like to send you there on some business."
"I'll go, ma'am," said Andy, eagerly.
Like most boys of his age, no proposition could have been more agreeable.
"Do you think you could find your way there, and around the city?"
"No fear of that, ma'am," said Andy, confidently.
"We generally go ourselves, as you know, but my sister is sick, and I don't like to leave her."
"Of course not, ma'am," said Andy, quite approving any plan that opened the way for a journey to him.
"We own bank stock, and on the first of April they pay us dividends. Now, if we send you, do you think you can get to the bank, get the money, and bring it back safe?"
"I'll do it for you, ma'am," said Andy.
"Well, I'll think of it between now and next week. If we send you at all, you must start next Monday."
"I'll go any day, ma'am," said Andy, "any day you name."
Miss Priscilla finally decided to send Andrew, but cautioned him against saying anything about it, except to his own family.
On Monday morning, just before the morning train was to start, Andrew appeared on the platform of the modest village depot with a small carpetbag in his hand, lent him by the Misses Grant.
"Give me a ticket to Boston," said he to the station master.
Godfrey Preston, who was about to return to his boarding school, had just purchased a ticket, and overheard this. He didn't much care to speak to Andy, but his curiosity overcame his pride.
"Are you going to Boston?" he asked.
"Yes," said Andy.
"What are you going for?"
"Important business."
"Has Miss Grant turned you off?"
"She didn't say anything about it this morning. Why, do you want to take my place?"
"Do you think I'd stoop to be a hired boy?" said Godfrey, haughtily.
"You wouldn't need to stoop," said Andy; "you ain't any too tall."
Godfrey winced at this. He was not tall of his age, and he wanted to be. Andy had been growing faster than he, and was now, though scarcely as old, quite two inches taller.
"It makes no difference about being tall," he rejoined. "I am a gentleman, and don't have to work for a living like you do."
"What are you going to be when you grow up?"
"A lawyer."
"Then won't you work for money?"
"Of course."
"Then you'll be a hired man, and work for a living."
"That's very different. When are you coming back?"
"When I've finished my business."
"How soon will that be?"
"I can't tell yet."
"Humph! I shouldn't wonder if you were running away."
"Don't you tell anybody," said Andy, in a bantering tone.
"Where did you get the money to pay for your ticket?"
"What would you give to know?"
"You are impudent," said Godfrey, his cheek flushing.
"So are your questions," said Andy.
"I dare say you stole it."
"Look here, Godfrey Preston," said Andy, roused to indignation by this insinuation, "you'd better not say that again, if you know what's best for yourself."
He advanced a step with a threatening look, and Godfrey instinctively receded.
"That comes of my speaking to my inferior," he said.
"You can't do that."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know anybody that's inferior to you."
Godfrey turned on his heel wrathfully, muttering something about a "low beggar," which Andy, not hearing, did not resent.
The whistle of the locomotive was heard, and the cars came along.
With high anticipation of pleasure, Andy got aboard. He had before him a journey of close upon a hundred miles, and he wished it had been longer. He had never been much of a traveler, and the scenes which were to greet his eyes were all novel. He had heard a good deal of Boston also, and he wanted to see it.
Besides the money which Miss Grant had given him to defray his expenses, he had with him ten dollars of his own. Since his mother had received the two donations from Colonel Preston she made Andy keep half his wages for his own use. These were now seven dollars a week, so he kept three and a half, and of this sum was able to lay up about half. So he had a supply of money in his trunk, of which he had taken with him ten dollars.
"Maybe I'll see something I want to buy in the city," he said to himself.
I don't mean to dwell upon the journey. There is nothing very exciting in a railway trip, even of a hundred miles, nowadays, unless, indeed, the cars run off the track, or over the embankment, and then it is altogether too exciting to be agreeable. For the sake of my young hero, whom I really begin to like, though he was "only an Irish boy," I am glad to say that nothing of that sort took place; but in good time—about the time when the clock on the Old South steeple indicated noon—Andy's train drove into the Boston & Maine Railway depot, fronting on Haymarket Square.
"Inquire your way to Washington Street."
That was the first direction that Andy had received from Miss Priscilla, and that was what our hero did first.
The question was addressed to a very civil young man, who politely gave Andy the necessary directions. So, in a short time, he reached Washington Street by way of Court Street.
The next thing was to inquire the way to the Merchants' Bank, that being the one in which the ladies owned the largest amount of stock.
"Where is the Merchants' Bank?" asked Andy of a boy, whose blacking-box denoted his occupation.
"I'll show you, mister," said the boy. "Come along." His young guide, instead of taking him to the bank, took him to the side door of the court-house, and said:
"Go in there."
It was a massive stone building, and Andy, not suspecting that he was being fooled, went in. Wandering at random, he found his way into a room, where a trial was going on. That opened his eyes.
"He cheated me," thought Andy. "Maybe I'll get even with him."
He retraced his steps, and again found himself in the street. His fraudulent young guide, with a grin on a face not over clean, was awaiting his appearance.