Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 22, Number 87, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 19 July 1901 — The Doctor’s Dilemma [ARTICLE]

The Doctor’s Dilemma

By Hesba Stretton

CHAPTER X.—(Continued.) Without a light I went up to my own room, where the moou that had shone «pon me in my last night’s ride, was flcaming brightly through the window, t intended to reflect and deliberate, but I was worn out. I flung myself down on the bed, but could not have remained awake for a single moment. I fell into a deep sleep, which lasted till morning. When I awoke my poor mother was «ltt.ing beside me, looking very ill and sorrowful. She had slipped a pillow under my head, and thrown a shawl across me. I got up with a bewildered brain, And a general sense of calamity, which I could not clearly define. “Captain Carey’s man brought a letter ■from Julia just now.’’ she said, taking't from her pocket; "he said there was no answer.” Her eyelids were still red from weeping, and her voice faltered as if she might break out into sobs any moment. As soon as my mother was gone I •opened Julia’s letter. It began: “My Dear Martin—l know all now. Johanna has told me. When you spoke to me so hurriedly and unexpectedly, this Afternoon, I could not bear to hear another word. But now I am calm, and I -can think it all over quite quietly. “It is an infatuation, Martin. Johanna says so as well as I, and she is never wrong. It is a sheer impossibility that you, in your sober senses, should love a strange person, whose very name you do aot know. A Dobree could not make ah adventuress his wife. Then you have •seen so little of her. Three times, since the Week you were there in March! What 4b that compared to the years we have spent together? It is impossible that in your heart of hearts you should love her more than me. “I cannot give up the thought of our 3ioine, just finished and so pretty. It was so pleasant this afternoon, before you came in with your dreadful thunderbolt. I was thinking what a good wife 1 would be to you; and how, in my own ‘bouse, I should never be tempted into -those tiresome tempers you have seen in ■me sometimes. You could not know how .much I love you, how my life is bound •up in you, or you would have been proof Against that person in Sark. “I think it right to tell you all this though it is not in my nature to make professions and demonstrations of my love. Think of me, of yourself, of your poor mother. You were never selfish, and you can do noble things. I do i»ot say it would be noble to marry me; ■bat it would be a noble thing to conquer An ignoble love. How could Martin Dobree fall in love with an unknown adventnress? “I shall remain in the house all day tomorrow, and if you can come to see me, feeling that this has been a dream of folly from which you have awakened, I will not ask you to own it. That you come at all will be a sign to me that you wish it forgotten and blotted out between us, as if it had never been. • “With true, deep love for you, Martin, believe me still “Your affectionate “JULIA.” T pondered over Julia’s letter as I dressed. There was not a word of resentment in it. It was full of affectionate thought for us all. But what reaaoning! I had not known Olivia so long as I had known her, therefore I could *»ot love her as truly! There was no longer any hesitation in my mind as to what I must do. Julia knew all now. I had told her distinctly •of my love for Olivia, and she would not 'believe it. She appeared wishful to hold me to my engagement in spite of it; at any rate, so I interpreted her letter. I •did not suppose that I should not live it down, this infatuation, as they chose to call it. I might hunger and thirst, and be on the point of perishing; then my nature would turn to other nutriment, and assimilate it to its contracted and atultificd capacities. ■

I went r&echanically through the routSne of my morning's work, and it was late in the afternoon before I could get away to ride to the Vale. My mother •knew where I was going, and gazed wistfully into my face, blit without otherwise asking me any questions. At the last moment, as I touched Madam’s bridle, I looked down at her standing on the doorstep. “Cheer up, mother!" I said, al,:nost gaily, "it will all come right." t found Julia standing by the fireplace, and leaning against it, as if she could not stand alone. When I went up to her and;took her hand, she flung her arms around ray neck, and clung to me, in a •passion of tears. It was some minutes •before she could recover her self-com-mand. I had never seen her abandon herself to such a paroxysm before. “Julia, my poor girl!’ I said, "I did not think you would take it so much to heart as this.” “I shall come all right directly," she «obbcd, sitting down, and trembling from head to foot. "Johanna said you would come, but I was not sure." ’“Yes, I am here," I answered, with a •very dreary feeling about me. "That is enough,” said Julia; "you need not say a word more. Let us forget H, both of us. You will only give me your promise never to see her or speak to her again." “Olivia quite understands about my engagement to you,” I snid. “I told her at •once that we were going to be married, and that I hoped she would find a friend In you." "A friend in me, Martin!” she exclaimed, In a tone of indignant surprise; "you v could not ask me to be that!” “Not now, I suppose,” I replied; “the rirl Is as innocent and blameless ns any *irl living; but I dare say you would ■•oner befriend the most good-for nothing Je*»bel in the Channel Islands.” "Y<*. I would,” she said. "An innocent rlrl Indeed! I only wish she had been killed when she f«M from the cliff.” "HuA!" I cried, shuddering at the bare mention Olivia'a death; "you do not know whfct you say. It is worse than useless to talk about her. I came to aak you to think\n o more of what passed betaHU ua yesterday.”

. “But you are going to persist in your infatuation,” said Julia; “you can never deceive me. I know you too well. Oh, I see that you still think the same of her!” "You know nothing about her,” I replied. “And I shall take care I never do,” she interrupted spitefully. “So it is of no use to go on quarreling about her,” I continued. "I made up my mind before I came here that I must see as little as possible of her for the future. You must understand, Julia, she has never given me a particle of reason to suppose she loves me.” "But you are still in love with her? Martin,” she continued, with flashing eyes, and a rising tone in her voice, which, like the first shrill moan of the wind, presaged .a storm, “I will never marry you until you can say, on your word of honor, that you love that person no longer, and are ready to promise to hold no further communication with her. Oh! I know what my poor aunt has had to endure, and I will not put up with it.” “Very well, Julia,” I answered, controlling myself as well as I could, ‘,'l have only one more word to say on this subject. I love Olivia, and as far as I 1 know myself, I shall love her as long as I live. I did not come here to give you any reason for supposing my mind is changed as to her. If you consent to be my wife, I will do my best to be most true, most faithful to you. But my motive for coming now is to tell you some particulars about' your property, which my father made known to me only last night.” It was a miserable task for n\e; but I told her simply the painful discovery I had made. She sat listening with a dark and sullen face, but betraying not a spark of resentment, so far as her loss of fortune was concerned. a “Yes”’ she said bitterly, when I had finished, "robbed by the father and jilted by the son.” “I would give my life to cancel the wrong,” I said. “It is so easy to talk,” she replied, with a deadly coldness of tone and manner. “I am ready to do whatever you choose,” I urged. “It is *true my father has robbed you; but it is not true that I have jilted you. I did not know my own heart till a word from Captain Carey revealed it to me; and I told you frankly, partly because Johanna insisted upon it, and partly because I believed it right to do so.' If you demand it, I will even promise not to see Olivia again, or to hold direct communication with her. Surely that is all -foil ought to require from me.” “No,” she replied vehemently; “do you suppose I could become your wife while you maintain that you love another woman better than me? You must have a very low opinion of me.” “Would you have me tell you a falsehood?” I rejoined, with vehemence equal to hers.

“You had better leave me,” she said, “before we hate one another. I tell you I have been robbed by the father and jilted by the son. Good-bye, Martin.” “Good-bye, Julia,” I replied; but I still lingered, hoping she would speak to me again. I was anxious to hear what she would do against my father. She looked at me fully and angrily, and as I did not move, she swept out of t)ie room, with a dignity which I had never seen in her before. I retreated towards the house door, but could not make good my escape without encountering Johanna; "Well, Martin?” she said. “It is all wrong,” I answered. “Julia persists in it that I am jilting her.” “All the world will think you have behaved very badly,” she said. I rode home again, Sark lying in full view before me; and, in spite of the darkness of my prospects, I felt intensely glad to be free to win my Olivia. Four days passed without any sign from Julia. My father had gone off on a visit and my mother and I had the house to ourselves; and, in spite of her frettings, we enjoyed considerable pleasure during the temporary lull. There were, however, sundry warnings out of doors which foretold tempest. I met cold glances and sharp inquiries from old friends, among whom some rumors of our separation were floatiug. There was sufficient to justify suspicion—my father's absence, Julia’s prolouged sojourn with the Careys, and the postponement of my voyage to England. I began to fancy that even the women servants flouted at me.

CHAPTER XI. One morning we received word that my father was lying ill at a hotel in Jersey. Captain Carey at once went with me in response to the message. Julia, too, had been sent for, but she reached the hotel in a separate ear. The landlady received us with a portentous face. Dr. Collas had spoken very seriously indeed of his patient, an if as for herself, she had not the smallest hope. I heard Julia sob, and saw her lift her handkerchief to her eyos behind her veil. Captain Carey looked very much frightened. lie was a man of quick sympathies, and nervous about his own life into the bargain, so that any serious illness alarmed him. As for myself, I was in a miserable condition of mind. We were not admitted into my father’s room for half an hour, as lie seat word lie must get up his strength for the interview, Julia and myself alone were allowed to see him. He was propped up in bed with a number of pillows; with the room darkened by Venetian blinds, and a dim green twilight prevailing, which cast a sickly hue over his really pallid face. His abundant white hair fell lankly about his head, instead of being ia crisp curls as usual. I was about to feel his pulse for him, but he waved me off. "XI, my son," he said, "my recovery is not to be desired. I feel that I have nothing now to do but to die. It is the only reparation in my power. I would far rather die than recover.” I had nothing to say to that; indeed, I had veally no answer ready, so antaaed

was I at the tone he had taken. But Julia began to sob again, and pressed past me, sinking down on the chair by his side and laying her hand upon one of his pillows. “Julia, my love,” he continued feebly, “you know how I have wronged you; but you are a true Christian. You will forgive your uncle when he is dead and gone. I should like to be buried in Guernsey with the other Dobrees.” Neither did Julia answer, save by sobs. I stepped towards the window to draw up the blinds, but he stopped me, speaking in a much stronger voice thaD before. “Leave them alone,” he said. "I have no wish to see the light of day. A dishonored man does not care to show his face. I have seen no one since I left Guernsey, except Collas.” “I think you are alarming yourself needlessly,” I answered. “You know you are fidgety about your own health. Let me prescribe for you. Surely I know 51s much as Collas.” “No, no, let me die,” he said plaintively; "then you can all be happy. I have robbed my only brother’s only child, who was dear to me as my own daughter. I cannot hold up my head after that. I should die gladly if you two were but reconciled to one another.” By this time Julia’s hand had reached his, and was resting in it fondly.-—I never knew a man gifted with such power over women and their susceptibilities as he had. My mother herself would appear to forget all her unhappiness, if he only smiled upon her. “My poor, dear Julia!” he murmured; “my poor child!” “Uncfe,” she said, checking her sobs by a great effort, “if you imagine I should tell any one —Johanna Carey even—what you have done, you wrong me. The name of Dobree is as dear to me as to Martin, and he was willing to marry a woman he detested in order to shield it. No, you ‘are quite safe ffrom disgrace as far as I am concerned.” “Heaven bless you, my own Julia!” he ejaculated fervently. “I knew your noble nature. But will you not be equally generous to Martin? Cannot you forgive him as you do me?” “Uncle,” she cried, “I could never, never marry a man who says he loves some one else more than me.” “I should think not, my girl!” he said, in a soothing tone; “but Martin will very soon repent. He is a fool just now, but he will be wise again presently. He has known you too long not to know your wogfeh.” “Julia,” I said, “I do know how good

you are. You have always been generous, and you are so now. I owe you as much gratitude as my father does, and anything I can do to prove it I am ready to do this day.” “Will you marry her before we leave Jersey?” asked my father. “Yes,” I answered. The word slipped from me almost unawares, yet I did not wish to retract it. She was behaving so nobly and generously towards us both that I was willing to do anything to make her happy. “Then, my love,” he said, “you hear what Martin promises. All’s well that ends well. Only make up your mind to put your proper pride away, and we shall all be as happy as we were before.” “Never!” she cried indignantly. “I would not marry Martin here, hurriedly and furtively; no, not if you were dying, uncle!” “But, Julia, if I were dying, and wished to see you united before my death!” he insinuated. A sudden light broke up.on me. It was an ingenious plot—one at which I could not help laughing, mad as I was. Julia’s pride was to be saved, and an immediate marriage between us effected, under cover of my father’s dangerous illness. I did smile, in spite of my anger, and he caught it, and smiled back again. I think Julia became suspicious, too. "Martin,” she said, sharpening her voice to address me, “do you think your father is in any danger?” “No, I do not,” I answered, notwithstanding his gestures and frowns. “Then that is at an end,” she said. “I was almost foolish enough to think that I would yield. You don’t know what this disappointment is to me. Everybody will be talking of it, and some of them will pity me, and the rest laugh at me. I am ashamed of going out of doors anywhere. Oh, it is too bad; I cannot bear it.” She was positively writhing with agitation, and tears, real tears I am sure, started into my father’s eyes. “My poor little Julia!” he said; “my darling! But what can be done if you will not marry Martin?” “He ought to go away from Guernsey,” she sobbed. “I should feel better if I was quite sure I should never see him, or hear of other people seeing him.” “I will go,” I said. “Guernsey will be too hot for me when all this is known.” “And, uncle,” she pursued, speaking to him, not me, “he ought to promise me to give up that girl. I cannot set him free to go and marry her—a stranger and adventuress. She will be his ruin. I think, for my sake, he ought to give her up.” “So he ought, and so he will, my love,” answered my father. “When he thinks of all we owe to you, he will promise you that.” I pondered over what our family owed to Julia for some minutes. It was truly a very great debt. Though I had brought her into perhaps the most painful position a woman could be placed in, she was generously sacrificing her just resentment and revenge against my father's dishonesty, in order to -secure our name from blot. On the other hand, I had no reason to suppose Olivia loved me, and I should do her no wrong. I felt that, whatever it might cost me, I must consent to Julia’s stipulation. “It is the hardest thing you could ask me,” 1 said, “but I will give her up. On one condition, however; for I must not leave her without friends. I shnll tell Tardif if he ever needs help for Olivia he must apply to me through my mother.” “There could be no harm in that,” observed my. father. “How soon shall I leave Guernsey?” I asked. “He cannot go until you are well again, uncle,” she answered, “1 will stny here to nurse you, and Martin must take care of ybur patients. We will send him word a day or two before we return, and I should like him to be gone before wo reach home.” (To be continued.) The bird on a woman’s bat has the wings of riches.