Nothing but Money! CHAPTER 29.
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As we sow in life — so we shall reap in the surely coming harvest times. We shall reap good fruit if the seed is good; and evil fruit if the seed is evil. The law works with unfailing certainty.
True as this proved in the case of Adam Guyton, it was also true in the case of Dr. Hofland. As the one sowed tares in his field — and found tares in midsummer and approaching autumn; so the other, having scattered wheat in his well prepared fields — gathered, in reaping time, full-eared sheaves of golden grain.
That one sharp experience in his life proved quite effectual. Never again did the Doctor permit taste, ambition to make a good appearance, or a covetous desire for things beyond his ability to purchase — tempt him from the path of safety. Debt, after being once freed from its shackles, became an unknown element in his life; and warned by the memories of the past, he forced upon himself a well considered rule of expenditure, which always left him at the year's end a little better off than at its beginning. Thus, he remained free from anxieties and humiliating embarrassments, and so kept his mind above the depressing influences of care, that he could enter with full vigor into the spirit of his profession, and keep pace with its higher developments.
Some years before the period at which we have now arrived, the Doctor moved a second time from the humble home in which he had twice started in the world. In going up, on this occasion, the step was taken in all assurance that it was safe and right. His practice was largely on the increase, and he had a sum of money in bank considerably above the amount needed for extra furnishing. From his fall — he arose again, wiser and warier. The discipline of a temporary misfortune, with its sharp humiliations and self-revealings, made him a truer, stronger and clearer seeing man. Out of the valley he came, and stopped not in ascending, until he stood far above the place from which he had fallen.
And sweet, also, had been to Diane, the uses of adversity. She had arisen, likewise, into a purer spiritual atmosphere, and now saw with clearer vision. And thus ascending, she had drawn nearer to her husband. As his mind grew more and more in love with nobler things — as he grew wiser in the knowledge of those sublime truths which lead men up to an inner acknowledgment of God as the source of all life, she found increased pleasure in communing with his thoughts; and in the light of them, saw ravishing forms of spiritual beauty unrevealed to her own unaided vision. More and more were they growing into a oneness of life. He, the wise-seeing; and she, the wisdom-loving. Two minds were blending into one, in a sweet foretaste of eternal bliss. Pleasant and instructive would it be to dwell with them for a brief season; to look into their daily lives, and breathe in thetranquil atmosphere with which they were surrounded. But events bear us onward.
The Doctor was coming home from a visit in the neighborhood, just after dark, when, in passing a young woman, he noticed something in her face and manner that excited his interest. Her movements were slow and uncertain; and the look of exhaustion and almost despair that he saw on her countenance, as the light of a gas lamp revealed it to him for a moment, left on his feelings a most painful impression. The face was that of a child rather than of a woman.
"So young!" He sighed to himself, as he moved on, the thought of sin and shame crossing his mind, and sending to his heart a shade of sadness.
There was more than his usual tenderness in the manner of Doctor Hofland, as his lips touched the pure lips of his daughter Diane, on entering his home a few minutes afterwards.
"Must you go out again tonight, father?" said Diane, drawing her arm within his, after they had risen from the tea table, and holding him half playfully and half earnestly back from the hall into which he was about passing.
"Yes, dear; there are two or three patients who must be seen," answered the Doctor.
"Don't stay long," urged Diane. "It seems as if we never can have you in the evening."
"I'll be home in an hour."
"And that will be past nine o'clock," said Diane, with a shade of disappointment in her tones.
"We can make a long evening after that, if we will," was smilingly answered.
"I'm not so sure of that," returned Diane. "Ten to one, the office will be full of patients when you get back; or there'll be a call on the slate."
"In which case, dear, let us not only be thankful that the blessing of health is ours; but that, in God's providence, I have power to help the sick and suffering."
"I'm very selfish, I know," answered Diane, as she relaxed the firm hold with which she had grasped her father's arm; "but it is such a pleasure to have you at home in the evening."
"And such a pleasure to stay," replied her father. "Duty first, however." And taking his hat he went out. Doctor Hofland had only gone a short distance, when he noticed the same young person who had attracted his attention not long before. She was standing at one of the street corners, and seemed either awaiting someone, or to be in a state of indecision. As he passed, he drew near and made an effort to look into her face — but she startled, with a timid air, and turning, walked slowly down an unfrequented street. The Doctor stood still and looked after her, feeling so much inclined to follow that he nearly yielded to the impulse. But, moving on his way again, he said, in his thought,
"Poor child! There is something wrong."
Scarcely satisfied with himself for letting an opportunity to help or save an unfortunate one, which Providence had placed in his way, pass unimproved, the Doctor walked onward, conscious of an unusual pressure on his feelings. Two visits were made, and he then crossed to a part of the city somewhat remote from that portion in which he lived. It was later than anticipated, when he returned to his own neighborhood, and he was walking with a quicker step than usual. Suddenly he stood still. A cry had fallen on his ears; a cry of terror — and the voice was a woman's. He looked in all directions — but could not determine from whence it came. Then it was repeated, and nearer, coming from an adjoining street, to which he hastened. At the corner, he met the same young woman who had twice before attracted his attention. She was running in a wild way. Seeing the Doctor, she fled to his side and caught hold of him, crying out,
"Oh, sir! Protect me, for heaven's sake!"
Two men followed quickly, pausing for a moment, as if to lay hold of her. But, on a closer view of Doctor Hofland, they moved away without speaking, crossed the street, and stood still on the other side.
The Doctor felt the girl's hand shaking on his arm, as they clung to him with a tight grip; and she pressed against him in a way that he understood to be from sudden prostration of strength.
"Who are you?" he asked, in a kind voice.
"Do you know Mr. Guyton? — Adam Guyton?" The choking voice that put the question trembled so that it was scarcely articulate.
The truth — or, at least a part of the truth flashed over the Doctor's mind in an instant. This was Lydia's child! He saw, in the dim light, her mother's old look in her face.
"Not Lydia Guyton?" he said, in unveiled astonishment.
"O, sir, do you know my father?" And the wretched girl held on closer to his arm, and leaned still more heavily against him.
"What does this mean, Lydia? Why are you wandering alone in the street," asked the Doctor, assuming a serious tone.
"Are you Doctor Hofland?" said the girl, with a hopeful thrill in her voice.
"Yes, child. I am Doctor Hofland."
"O, sir! Won't you take me home for tonight! I've no place to go. My father is offended; and they won't let me see him. I came home from school today; but they won't let me in. I've been walking the street for hours. O, sir; for the love of Heaven have mercy on me! Let me stay at your house tonight, and tomorrow I will go away. I'm not wicked, sir!"
'Poor child!" said Doctor Hofland, with a sob in his voice, as he drew her hand within his arm, "come home with me. For your mother's sake Mrs. Hofland will give you a mother's welcome." And with Lydia almost clinging to him, the Doctor moved on again.
"Home from school today?" asked the Doctor. "Did I so understand you?"
"Not exactly from school," Lydia answered, in evident embarrassment. "I left school nearly three weeks ago."
"To get married?" The truth suggested itself to the Doctor's mind.
"Yes, sir." Faintly.
"In opposition to your father's wishes?" said the Doctor.
"Yes, sir; or, at least without his knowledge."
"That was bad, bad, Lydia. I'm sorry."
She did not respond, and they kept on in silence.
"This is my house," said the Doctor, at length, as he paused. A painful sense of her humiliated condition was now so strongly felt by Lydia, that she drew back, murmuring —
"O, sir, I can't go in! Take me to my father's! He won't let me die in the street!"
"Have you seen him?" asked the Doctor.
"No, sir! My stepmother drove me from the house; and when I went back again, the servant refused to let me in."
Dr. Hofland reflected for some moments, as to what were best to be done.
"I think you had better remain with us tonight, and open your heart freely to Mrs. Hofland," said he, in answer. She was your mother's friend, and will be a true friend to you. You are in no condition to walk farther."
Thus urged, Lydia yielded, and went in with the Doctor. Leaving her in one of the parlors, the kind-hearted physician sought for his wife, and, in a few hurried sentences, informed her of Lydia's presence in the house, and the cause thereof. Mrs. Hofland, the moment she clearly understood her husband, ran downstairs. Glancing hastily about the parlor, she saw Lydia in a half reclining position, on the sofa. Springing forward, she caught her in her arms, and thus prevented her falling forward on the floor. The intense strain of mind and body, from which she had suffered for hours, being removed, Lydia had sunk down quickly; and when Mrs. Hofland received her in her arms, every outward sense was locked.
"It would be better for her peace," said Dr. Hofland, as he stood looking upon the white face of Lydia, after she had been removed to a chamber, "if there were no waking time for her in this world! Poor child!"
A slight convulsion moved over her face, even while he spoke.
"God knows what is best," he added, in a half regretful voice, as he recognized this sign of returning animation, "and He will temper the winds to the shorn lamb."
Then there were sighs, and low meanings and mutterings, as of one awaking from a sleep, which had been haunted by troubled dreams; then, the veil of unconsciousness was lifted, and she looked out upon life again — looked out, in surprise and tears.
Wronged and unhappy child! What a strange chill pervaded her heart, as Mrs. Hofland drew her arm under her neck, and held her head lovingly against her bosom, kissing her, and weeping over her, for humanity's and her mother's sake. Love — tender, outgushing love, she had never known; and, as pity took the form of love, her heart swelled and pulsated with new emotions.
"Is this a dream?" she said, as thought grew clear, and she looked from the face of Mrs. Hofland, to that of her husband. "Where am I? What does it mean? Yes — yes! — I understand!" And, covering her face, she sobbed bitterly.
"Be calm, my dear," said Mrs. Hofland, affectionately. "You are with friends. Rest and sleep for tonight, are what you need." And she kissed her.
Lydia shut her eyes. How like she was to her mother! It seemed, to Diane's vision, that it was indeed the Lydia of her girlish days, who now lay so pale and still before her. Gently, and lovingly, did her hand pass over forehead and temples, smoothing back the damp hair, with soft, caressing tones.
"Oh, it is so hard," suddenly exclaimed Lydia, starting up in bed, the tears flowing over her cheeks. "I can't endure the thought, indeed, I can't!"
"What thought, my child?" asked Mrs. Hofland, striving, as she spoke, to press the unhappy creature back upon her pillow.
"The thought of being turned away from my father's door, as if I were one of the vilest! Left in the street, without friends or a home, to die, or meet a worse fate! Can you imagine a thing so cruel? It was not my father? No — no! As hard as he may be, he is not so iron-hearted as that."
"Tomorrow, we will talk of this, dear; not tonight," said Mrs. Hofland — "you are worn down, and excited. Rest and sleep are now demanded. And she gently bore her down again upon the bed. "Thank God, that friends unlooked for, have been found — friends who will be true unto the last. I loved your mother very tenderly, and will love you, also, if you will lean upon me, and trust in me. Out of this bitter experience, God may lead you into unfailing pleasures. This may be only the beginning of a better and truer life. The way to mountain heights, is often first down into dark and gloomy valleys, out of which the soul comes weeping and trembling; but God's angels were with it in the descent — its guides and comforters."
And, in such loving and true words, Mrs. Holland won the confidence of Lydia, and soothed her into quiet. Overwearied nature did the rest, locking her senses in sleep.
Morning found Mrs. Hofland early at Lydia's bedside, "You are not well," she said, with undisguised concern, as she looked into her flushed face, and heavy eyes. "Your hands are quite hot," she added.
"My head aches badly," was the languid reply.
"Have you been awake long?"
"Yes, ma'am; a good while."
"The Doctor must see you," said Mrs. Hofland, turning away.
"Oh no, ma'am; I shall be better when I get up;" and Lydia made a movement to arise — but fell back, with a low moan.
"Nothing but what I expected," said Doctor Hofland, when his wife informed him of Lydia's condition. "It results from excessive fatigue, and mental excitement. She must be kept as quiet as possible."
"Will you see her father this morning?" asked Mrs, Hofland.
"He must be informed of his daughter's presence here; but, I have not yet decided whether to see him, or send him a note."
"It would be best to see him, I think," said Mrs. Hofland.
"I'm not sure in regard to that. A brief, rather unsatisfactory note, would set him to thinking; and, by the time he made his appearance here, if he should conclude to come, his mind would be in a better condition to hear all I might feel inclined to say, than if there had been no preparation for the interview."
"As you think best," said the Doctor's wife — "but, I have no faith in any reconciliation between Lydia and her family. If this marriage is, as I suspect, with a person in humble life, the indignation of Mr. Guyton will know no bounds. If he is penniless, so to speak, the act will not be forgiven. The daughter may be allowed to come home, after a period of banishment — but her husband, never. So long as the sin of poverty stains his garments, he will be held off, as one despised and contemned."
"I fear as much," answered the Doctor; "but I can do no less than inform Mr. Guyton of his daughter's presence in my house. Beyond that, the responsibility is with him."
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