The town clock struck three. Dr. Maltby was sitting in his office. Misty memories floated before him. The weight of long and crushing years seemed rolled away from the doctor’s mind as if by magic. He could not lift the mystic veil and peer into the future, but he could look back over the past. He could see plainly the bright days when he was a school-boy. Then the days when he was a young man.
When he first started out in the world to seek his fortune, expecting to return and claim a wife in the land of his birth, he had been successful in obtaining his fortune. [He] returned to his native home, to tell her, who had promised him her hand—her heart and hand—that he had the “cage” prepared. What was his consternation when he found the “bird” had flown! He had started out as a mere adventurer from the Eastern hills, had journeyed to the far West, and there he became a physician. He stayed until he made a fortune, then returned. His hopes ran high but they were soon blighted, and in the bitter sorrow of his heart, he vowed he would hunt the whole Earth over. He would scan every female face in the whole Earth.
He accordingly searched every state in the United States [and] all over Virginia until he came to Winchester. He had been in Winchester for a considerable period and [was] just thinking of starting for the Old World when he had at last caught sight of a face that resembled the one he had been looking for for so many years. He was determined to stay now and see this face once more.
Oh! Pen cannot depict the sorrow of a heart starving for love.
All those memories floated before him as vividly as if it had all occurred but yesterday. Then the thought came: Did she ever love him? Or did she trifle with his affections? No, he would not believe that. The very idea was preposterous.
The words—tender words of love she had spoken to him—every word that came to his mind was like an additional arrow, piercing his already bleeding heart.
No, he would not stand it any longer. He would inquire into this person[’s] former life, this person that so strikingly resembled his betrothed—the one who had all of his heart, though he knew not where she was. But wherever she was—if she was on the island of Terra del Fuego—his heart was with her. He knew not that a messenger would bring him news of the lost one, but he was destined soon—very soon—to hear of his only love. And he was also destined to see her sometime in the course of human events.
Enough—we will not attempt to raise the mystic veil and peer into the future. We will let the future alone until it comes to be the present, then we will say what there is to say.
The doctor still sat there. He was deeply absorbed in the memories of the past.
The future seemed still more puzzling. He held a miniature in his hand—tears? Yes, tears stood in his eyes. Slowly they rolled down his cheeks—fast—now faster did they roll. One by one they fell in quick succession; they were not tears of remorse or shame. They were simply tears of sorrow—heartfelt sorrow—they were the tears of love—tears of a starving heart—starving for love. For unrequited love? We hope not—we hope the love was to be requited some day.
He pressed the miniature to his lips again and again. His whole frame shook and quivered with emotion. In vain did he try to console himself—in vain did he try to put the miniature aside—he could not—something compelled him to hold it—to gaze on it. The smile that rested on the face of that picture pierced his innermost soul.
How many times had he seen that face smile in reality—how many times had he seen that “Kiss me if you can” mouth open and speak words of love? He had heard that mouth—or words proceed from that mouth—that made his life seem renewed with manly vigor. “Oh, would to God I could forget the past!” was his only cry.
Why forget the past?
“Will I ever see peace and enjoyment anymore? Will I ever be happy again?” groaned he in his bitter reflections.
Perhaps Mrs. King’s brother had won his betrothed from him. If he had, what would be the consequence?
A thousand theories presented themselves to him as he sat there in his despair. Was it despair? No, it was hope—hope until the last. He also had a letter in his hand. He read it over and over and over again. It was a letter he had received while he was but a short distance from his native home. He was a native of the United States to be sure, but still he was a good long distance from his native town—the town where he was born and grew up in. He read the letter again. We will give our Reader a few words of the letter. It was written in a clear delicate hand, and ran as follows: “I hope I will see you again soon, dear Robert, and don’t doubt my love for you. No one shall ever have my heart. I have given it to you, my only love. As ever yours, Jennie.” That was all: the name it had signed to it—the missive.
“I may yet find her and she may be faithful still,” said he. “She may have married someone, but I am confident she never gave anyone her heart. No, she was too true. Oh, I love her yet and will always love her, may God bless her, and if we do not meet in this world, I know we shall meet in Heaven!”
He bowed his head on his knees and cried like a child. Then he fell upon his knees and did as he had done many a time and oft before—he prayed unto God to guide him to his lost love—always ending his prayers in this wise: If He did not see fit for them to meet on Earth, let them meet in Heaven. He rose from his knees and hurried away to see some of his patients.
He returned to his office about five o’clock. He soon went into the parlor, to have a chat with Mrs. King. He wanted to think more of the present and less of the past. However, he concluded he would ask Mrs. King if she had any idea who her brother married. So, after the formal salutations were given, he proceeded to business. ÷
“Mrs. King,” said he, “have you any idea who your brother would have been likely to have married, if he married anyone?”
“Indeed, I haven’t the least idea,” answered Mrs. King. “I can dimly recollect hearing [him] call a young girl he was going to see ‘Jennie’ or ‘dear Jennie.’ I guess he married her if he married anyone.” Dr. Maltby’s heavy frame quivered with emotion. This then was the one that had robbed him of his happiness.
He had no thought of revenge. He was too much of a gentleman for that.
“Did he ever call her any other name beside Jennie, as you know of?” queried the doctor.
“Not as I remember—I don’t remember hearing him call her by any other name. Why, was a person by that name a personal friend of yours that you have not heard of for some time?” asked Mrs. King, as she found her curiosity beginning to get excited.
“Well—y-e-s,” drawled the doctor somewhat reluctantly. Then he added, trying to change the subject, “This is the first day of May. What a lovely day it is, to be sure.”
“Yes, it is a very pretty day indeed,” commented Mrs. King, shrugging her shoulder. “A pretty day,” continued she. “And my Albert still hidden in obscurity. Where do you think he can be, Doctor?” And she looked at the doctor appealingly. The doctor spoke the truth when he said:
“I expect he is with William Reed out West.” We said he spoke the truth—what we mean by that is that he spoke according to his belief—not as he was sure that Albert King was with William Reed.
“Well, I hope he’ll soon return,” said she sadly.
“Yes, we will hope for the best always,” said the doctor in a cheerful voice.
“Doctor, you may thank the mighty one that [you] never had any children—that is, that you were never married. For children cause their parents a great deal of trouble.”
“Well, it has to be just as God wills it. God said multiply and replenish the Earth. I have no one to bear my name when I go hence, while you have a son. Oh, don’t think my bachelor life is a happy one, for it is not. I am miserable.”
“And why miserable, Doctor? You have every comfort in life that anyone can have.”
“Mrs. King, it is my heart—my heart is starving for companionship—for one I have always loved and always will love.”
“Doctor, I did once think you had no heart—now I know you have a heart and a very tender heart. You suffer very much.”
“We will speak no more on that subject, if you please,” said the doctor persuasively. ÷
They had talked—the one of her brother, the other of his lost love, yet in all their conversation, they had called no names with the exception of “Jennie.”
“How is your patient at Brookland, Doctor?” queried Mrs. King after a thoughtful pause.
“She is getting along very well, with the exception of some severe headaches,” replied the doctor. “As soon as they can take her out they are going to Rockbridge Alum Springs and stay awhile.”
“Why, it will be a nice resort to be sure,” said Mrs. King flippantly. “I have always heard that Rockbridge Alum is a very nice summer resort.”
“Yes, madam, it is a very nice place and it will be more than beneficial to the speedy restoration of this young lady’s health.”
“Have you asked her anything about that dreadful night, Doctor?”
“No, we haven’t said anything to her as yet, and we will not venture to do so until she has thoroughly recovered her health. She is in a very precarious condition yet, and it might cause additional shock to her nerves.”
“How are they all out there anyway? Is Mr. Kent still at Sowers’, or has he finished his visit and gone back home?”
“He is still there, and I don’t believe he is going away soon. He talks of going to the Springs with the Sowers family.”
“I hear that he roves about a great deal through the woods and fields.”
“Yes, he does rove about a great deal. In fact, he is a stirring kind of a man, and he never likes to be sitting around.”
“That may be the case. Doctor, is he very talkative or have you had a chance to talk with him?”
“Yes, he is pretty talkative in general,” answered the doctor dryly. He was left alone for some time. Finally supper was announced. He ate his supper and went on another visit. Then he returned and sat in the parlor with Mrs. King until about ten o’clock. He then retired to bed, little thinking of the revelation that was to be made to him on the morrow.
The scene closes. It is eleven o’clock, and we can dimly discern the outlines of a human figure going cautiously in the direction of the ledge of rocks intervening between Brookland Mills and the fine stately mansion of Joshua Sowers. Listen as he proceeds. We can identify him in the dim moonlight by his voice. What does he say?
“I am playing two games, and I will win both, or my name ain’t Kent.”
