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Show THE CARELESS WORDS. Various were the comments of the good people of A- when the sign of Alfred Keith, M. D., was first noted [?] upon the window shutter. The old ladies wondered if his cures were as infallible as Swann's Panacea; the young ones if he was married, handsome, and loved picnics and sleighing parties, while the gentlemen of the village positively declared that if he was a young physician, it was presumption in him to endeavor to compete with old Dr. Smith. But alas for the interest hanging around Alfred Keith. Had he enveloped himself in mystery, his office would soon have filled with patients, but it was quickly known that he only came to A- in order to increase, if possible, a very small income; that he had never prescribed a dozen times in his life, and that he was too poor and too agreeable for mammas with marriageable daughters to care about cultivating his acquaintance. Popularity, however, came faster than patients. Dr. Keith could play backgammon and chess with the old gentlemen, pick up balls of knitting-cotton, or tie up stray flowering stalks for the ladies, and ride, dance, quote poetry and sing with the daughters. But with none did Dr. Keith's voice harmonize so well as with Clara Graham's. Clara was the belle of the village. Her father was the richest man, her mother the proudest lady, and Clara the prettiest and sauciest girl in the place. The summer time sped on gaily, and rumor said that the doctor and Clara were engaged. The white Jessamine flowers over a certain vine covered piazza at the side of Mr. Graham's house, might have confirmed the report could they have spoken, but Mr. Graham was supposed never to trouble himself with anything of less importance than money and his lady was entirely too haughty a dame for the curious to risk the fear of her displeasure by prying questions. Had Clara been asked if the report was true, she would undoubtedly have replied "yes," with such a comically serious face that no one would for a moment have believed her. Not that she was ashamed of marrying a poor man, as Alfred Keith undoubtedly was, but the sensitive delicacy of the young gal shrunk from having her love talked and jested about. One afternoon a party of village gossips happened to assemble at Mrs. Jackson's, where the doctor boarded, and the conversation turned upon the visits of a gentleman to the place who was supposed to be an admirer of Clara Graham's. "They do say he is very rich, but one can't tell nowadays whether a man has money or not, fine feathers make such fine birds," said old Mrs. Patterson. "Well, then, he need not be coming to see Clara Graham, for, take my word for it, she will never marry a poor man," replied Mrs. Jackson, putting the half-knit stocking up toward the window in the deep [unreadable] to take up a stitch. "[unreadable] the doctor here had his eye on her," said another, looking at him and laughing, "but you [unreadable] wisdom-teeth [unreadable], didn't you, doctor?' [unreadable] and have dismissed you with a smile and a bow like a queen." Alfred Keith laughed, and said there was no danger of Miss Graham discarding him, but at the same time he felt rather uncomfortable. "Could Clara be ashamed of the engagement, that she insisted upon its being kept so quiet?" asked he, mentally. He had told her frankly of his small dependence, but old Dr. Smith was nearly supersaturated [?], and his own practice was increasing daily. Clara had declared herself perfectly willing to share his small fortune, but her lovers pride had often chafed that he must ask such a sacrifice from her. The evening after the tea drinking at Mrs. Jackson's, Clara met Dr. Keith at a party. She was the gayest of the gay, and constantly attended by the stranger to whom allusion had been made the afternoon before. "What do you think, Clara? Mary Kay is going to marry young Abbott," said a friend at her side. "Poor Mary! how she is throwing herself away. Why he is as poor as a church mouse and as to the love in a cottage, it is more romantic than comfortable," was the laughing rejoinder. "I think Mary will be very happy, though; she is not ambitious, and is accustomed to making sacrifices. If she loves Mr. Abbott, all those petty trials will be light," replied her friend. Clara gave a groan, threw up her hands and eyes with much earnestness and said: "Poor little innocent thing! You know nothing at all about it. How can love exist through the soap suds of washing day? And whose is the romance of sweeping from garret to cellar with a white pocket handkerchief tied around one's head, or burning one's hands and arms preserving fruit? Oh, no! let me marry a rich man who can afford to keep servants for all this. A poor man indeed! he would be the death of me." Careless words, carelessly spoken, but how bitter the fruits? Dr. Keith was standing near Clara at the time. The gossip of the afternoon previous had made him suspicious. He feared these feelings did influence Clara and that she repealed her promise to him. He drew near to her, and said in a low voice, "Are you serious, Miss Graham?" "As a judge," was the laughing reply. The annoyances of the lover increased, and he said, with some asperity, "If I was engaged to a young lady who really entertained these sentiments, I should be most happy for a release." Clara looked up in surprise, but seeing how seriously he had taken her trifling, she answered, as the haughty flush mounted to neck and brow, "and I should be too happy to release him." A moment after she would have given anything to have been able to recall what she had just said in the impulse of anger, but it was too late. Dr. Keith had moved to another part of the room, and the conversation was soon changed by the party around. In a short time the chafed lover bowed his adieus to his hostess, saying there was a sick child whom he must visit that night. A few hours before he had assured the distressed mother that it was but a cold ailing the infant, but now one might judge that it was threatened with an incipient scarlet fever. Mrs. Jones' baby received one visit more that night than it would have done had it not been for Clara Graham's careless words. And how fared it with Clara? She was unusually gay after her lover's departure, but one might judge that she expected some one by the anxiety with which she watched the opening of the door. The flush which had mounted to her brow died away, leaving only a bright spot on each cheek and an unusual brilliancy in her eyes. "Why, Miss Graham, are you ill?" asked the lady of the house, as Clara's hand touched hers in patting down a vase of flowers. It was icy cold, while the fever spot on the face burned hotly. "I do not feel well, but a night's sleep will restore all, I hope," said Clara. But there was no sleep for Clara that night. She reached home in a fever of anger and excitement. She could recognize no reason why Dr. Keith should take her jeering words so seriously. In her indignation she forgot how much reason she had given for offense, though unintentionally, how sensitive a poor man is who loves. Clara was one of those peculiar natures, the very depth of whose affection makes them undemonstrative. She forgot that he did not know as well as she how bravely her strong heart would battle out the world's trials with him by her side. The night passed in this conflict between resentment and love and the morning found her tired and weeping. After an hour or two of unrefreshing sleep, she arose and hurried through her toilet. But Clara's haste was unnecessary. The leaves of all her music-books had been turned, the plants in the window had the dead leaves plucked off, and placed toward the sun; one piece of sewing after another was thrown aside, and still Dr. Keith did not make his appearance. Clara felt angry again. A few hours before, had he come, she would frankly have acknowledged her thoughtlessness, but now, at the ring of the door-bell, the old haughty spirit rose up as she thought, "He has been giving me time to repent, I suppose," and her manner chilled to iciness. Although she knew the voice and step perfectly well, Clara sat unmoved in her room till the servant announced Dr. Keith. She arose with the most imperturbable calmness, and brushed of the snips of zephyr worsted which clung to her dress, as if to her own heart she would not acknowledge her excited feelings. When Clara entered the parlor, her lover was standing looking out of the window with his back to the doors. Whether it was that her light footstep was unheard, or that he was determined that she should speak first, Clara could not determine. For the moment her impulse was to go up and place her hand on his shoulder, but pride forbade, so she only said, coldly, "Good morning, Dr. Keith." He turned and bowed, but made no effort to advance or take her hand. Clara drew up her tall figure, then took her seat, and carelessly turned over the sofa cushion against which she was leaning. "Will you not be seated, sir?" she said. "Thank you, no. I called, Miss Graham, to release you from an engagement which, by your own avowal, was irksome to you. It is not so great a curse after all, this being poor, one finds out so soon how much such a petty thing as a heart is worth, said he, bitterly. Clara sat with her eyes fixed unquailingly on his face, and except that at this last taunt the bright spot sprung to her cheek, and the lines of her flexible mouth grew wonderfully rigid, she gave no signs of the death throes in her heart. "You will remember, if you please, sir, that I have before said I should be most happy to be released. I see no change of happiness in our union," and she arose and bowed haughtily to her lover. He had hoped when he went in that Clara would have made some apology, but now that was all over, coldly bidding her good morning, he departed. And Clara, poor Clara! She was not one to give way to violent weeping, but she threw herself on the sofa, buried her head in the cushions, and after one deep groan lay like one dead. A long time after she arose and went upstairs, but to both dinner and tea she excused herself on the plea of a severe head ache. When her mother stopped in her room before retiring that night, she was alarmed at Clara's appearance, and sent for Dr. Smith, who pronounced her dangerously ill. Day after day she lingered in a violent fever, and when she rose from her sickbed, her mother asked no questions as to the absence of Dr. Keith, for she had gained intelligence enough, not from Clara's ravings, but from the heart-broken voice and look of her sick child. Years have passed, and Dr. Keith, the bachelor, is a rich man in the village, and the once gay, proud Clara, is Clara Graham still, because of those careless words. |