Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 22, Number 91, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 2 August 1901 — The Doctors Dilemma [ARTICLE]

The Doctors Dilemma

By Hesba Stretton

CHAPTER XIII. In one sense time seemed to be standing still with me after my home return, so like were the days that followed the one to the other. But in another sense those days fled with awful swiftness, for they were hurrying us both, my mother and me, to a great gulf which would soon, far too soon, lie between us. Every afternoon Julia came to spend an hour or two with my mother; but her arrival was always formally announced, and it was an understood thing that I should immediately quit the room, to avoid meeting her. "'•'There was an etiquette in her resentment which I was bound to observe. I had not taken up any of my old patients again, for I was determined that everybody should feel that my residence at home was only temporary. But about ten days after my return the following note was brought to me, directed in full to Dr. Martin Dobree: “A lady from England, who is only a visitor in Guernsey, will be much obliged by Dr. Martin Dobree calling upon her at Rose Villa, Vauvert Road. She is suffering from a slight indisposition; and knowing Dr. Senior by name and reputation, she would feel great confidence In the skill of Dr. Senior’s friend.” I wondered for aii instant who the stranger could be, and how she knew the Seniors; but as there could be no answer to these queries without visiting the lady, I resolved to go. Rose Villa was a house where the rooms were let to visitors during the season, and the Vauvert Road was scarcely five minutes’ walk from our house. Julia was paying her daily visit to my mother, and I was at a loss for something to do, so I went at once. I found a very handsome, fine-looking •woman; dark, with hair and eyes as black as a gypsy’s, and a clear olive complexion to match. Her forehead was low, but smooth and well shaped; and the lower part of her face, handsome as it was, was far more developed than the upper. There was not a trace of refinement about her features; yet the coarseness of them was but slightly apparent as yet. My new patient did not inspire me with much sympathy; but she attracted my curiosity, and interested me by the bold style of her beauty. “You Guernsey people are very stiff with strangers,” she remarked, as I sat opposite to her, regarding her with that close observation which is permitted to a doctor. “So the world says,” I answered. “Of course I am no good judge, for we Guernsey people believe ourselves as perfect as any class of the human family.” “I have been here a week,” she replied, pouting her full crimson lips, “and have not had a chance of Speaking a word, except to strangers like myself who don’t know a soul.” That, then, was the cause of the little indisposition which had obtained me the honor of attending her. I indulged myself in a mild sarcasm to that effect, but it was lost upon her. She gazed at me solemnly with her large black eyes, which shone like beads. “I am really ill,” she said, “but it has nothing to do with not seeing anybody, though that’s dull. There’s nothing for me to do but take a bath-in the morning and a drive in the afternoon, and go to bed very early. Good gracious! it’s enough to drive me mad!” “Try Jersey,” 1 suggested. “No, I’ll not try Jersey,” she said. “I mean to make my way here. Don’t you know anybody, doctor, that would take pity on a poor stranger?” “I am sorry to say no,” I answered. She frowned at that and looked disappointed. I was about to ask her how she knew the Seniors, when she spoke again. “Do you have many visitors come to Guernsey late in the autumn, as late as October?” she inquired. “Not many,” I answered; “ a few may arrive who intend to winter here.” “A dear young friend of mine came here last autumn,” she said, “alone, ns I am, and I’vo been w'ondering ever since I’ve been here however she would get along amongst such a Bet of stiff, formal, stand-offish folks. She had not money enough for a dash, or that would make a difference, I suppose.” “Not the least,” I replied, "if "your friend came without any introductions.” “What a dreary winter she’d have!” pursued my patient, with a tone of exultation. “She was quite young, and us pretty as a picture. All the young men would know her, I’ll be bound, and you amongst them, Dr. Martin. Any woman who i?n’t a fright gets stared at enough to be known again.” Could this woman know anything of Olivia? I looked at her morfe earnestly and critically. She was not a person I should like Olivia to have anything to do with. A coarse, ill-bred, bold woman, whose eyes met mine unabashed, and did not blink under my scrutiny. Could she be Olivia’s step-mother, who had been the rhin of her life? “I’d bet a hundred to one you know her,” she said, laughing and showing all her white teeth. “A girl like her couldn’t go about a little poky place like this without all the young men knowing her. Perhaps she left the island in the spring. I have asked at all the drapers’ shops, but nobody recollects her. I’ve very good news for her if I could find her—a slim, middle-sized girl, with a clear, fair skin and grey eyes and hair of a bright brown. Stay, I can show you her photograph.” She put into my hands an exquisite portrait of Olivia, taken in Florence. There was an expression of quiet mournfulness in the face, which touched me to the core of my heart. I could not put It down and speak indifferently about it. My heart beat wildly, and I felt tempted to run off with the treasure and retu*i no more to this woman. “Ah! you recognize her!” she exclaimed triumphantly. “I never saw such a person in Guernsey,” I answered, looking steadily into her face. ▲ sullen and gloomy expression came across it, and she snatched the portrait out of my hand. * r You want to keep it a secret,” she

said, “but I defy you to do it. I am come here to find her, and find her I will. She hasn’t drowned herself, and the earth hasn’t swallowed her up. I’ve traced her as far as here, and that I tell you. She crossed in the Southampton boat one dreadfully stormy night last October—the only lady passenger—and the stewardess recollects her well. She landed here. You must know something about her.” , “I assure you I never saw that girl here,” I replied evasively. “What inquiries have you made after her?” v “I’ve inquired here and there and everywhere,” she said. “I’ve done nothing else ever since I came. It is of great importance to her, as well as to me, that I should find her. It’s a very anxious thing when a girl like that disappears and is never heard of again, all because she has a little difference with her friends. If you could help me to find her you would do her family a very great service.” “Why do you fix upon me?” I inquired. “Why did you >aqt send for one of the resident doctors? T left some time ago.” “You were here last winter,” she said, “and you’re a young man, and would notice her more.” “There are other young doctors in Guernsey,” I remarked. “Ah, but you’ve been in London,” she answered, “and I know something of Dr. Senior. When you are in a stmnge place you catch at any chance of an acquaintance.” “Come, be candid with me,” I said. “Did not Messrs. Scott and Brown 6end you here?” The suddenness of my question took her off her guard and startled her. She hesitated, stammered, and finally denied it with more than natural emphasis. “I could take my oath I don’t know any such persons,” she answered. “I don’t know who you mean, or what you mean. All I want is quite honest. There is a fortune waiting for that poor girl, and I want to take her back to those who love her, and are ready to forgive and forget everything. I feel sure you know something of her. But nobody except me and her other friends have anything to do with it.” “Well,” I said, rising to take my leave, “all the information I can give you is that I never saw such a person here, either last winter or since. It is quite possible she went on to Jersey, or to Granville, when the storm was over. That she did not stay in Guernsey I am quite sure.” I .went away in a fever of anxiety. The woman, who was certainly not a lady, had inspired me with a repugnance that I could not describe. Surely this person could not be related to Olivia! I tried to guess in what relationship to her she could possibly stand. I felt more chafed than I had ever done about Olivia’s secret. I tried to satisfy myself with the reflection that I had put Tardif on his guard, and that he would protect her. Buethat did not set my mind at ease. I never knew a mother yet who believed that any other woman could nurse her sick child as well as herself; and I could not be persuaded that even Tardif would shield Olivia from danger and trouble as I could, if I were only allowed the privilege. Yet my promise to Julia bound me to hold no communication with her. I had strolled down some of the quieter streets of the town whilst I was turning this affair over in my mind, and now as I crossed' the end of the Rue Haute, I caught sight of Kate Daltrey turning into a milliner’s shop. There was every reasonable probability that she' would not come out again soon, for I saw a bonnet reached out of the window. If she were gone to buy a bonnet she was safe for half an hour, and Julia would be alone. I had felt a strong desire to see Julia ever since I returned home. My mind was made up on the spot. If I found her in a gentle mood she would release me from the promise she had extorted from me when she was in the first heat of her anger and disappointment. It was a chance worth trying. If I were free to declare to Olivia my love for her, I should establish a claim upon her full confidence, and we could laugh at further difficulties. She was of age, and therefore mistress of herself. Her friends, represented by this odious woman, could have no legal authority over her. I turned shortly up a side street and walked as fast as I could towards the house which was to have been our home. By a bold stroke I might reach Julia’s presence. I rang, and the maid who answered the bell opened wide eyes of astonishment at seeing me there. I passed by quickly. “I wish to speak to Miss Dobree,” I said. “Is she in the drawing room?” “Yes, sir,” she answered, in a hesitating tone. I waited for nothing more, but knocked at the drawing room door for myself, and heard Julia call, “Come in.”

, CHAPTER XIV. Julia looked vfcry much the same as she had done that evening when I came reluctantly to tell her that my heart was not in her keeping, but belonged to another. She wore the same kind of fresh, light muslin dress, with ribbons and lace about it, and she snt near the window, with a piece of needlework in her hands; yet she was not sewing, and her hands lay listlessly on her lap. A mingled feeling of sorrow, pity and shame prevented me from advancing into the room. She looked up to see who was standing in the doorway, and my appearance there evidently alarmed and distressed her. “Martin!" she cried. ■‘May I come in and speak to you, Julia*?” I asked. “Is my aunt ..worse?” she inquired hu*riedly. “Are you come to fetch me to her?” “No, no, Julia,” I said; “my mother Is as well as usual? I hope. But surely you will let me speak to you after all this timer “It is not a long time,” she answered. “Has it not been long to you?” I asked.

“It seems years to me. All life has changed for me. I had no idea then of my mother’s illness.” “Nor I,” she said, sighing deeply. *lf I had known it,” I continued, “all this might not hare happened.- Barely the troubles I shall have to bear must plead with you for me!” “Yes, Martin,” she answered; ‘*ye» I am very sorry for you.” She came forward and offered me her hand/but without looking into my face. I saw.that she had been crying, for her eyes were red. In a tone of formal politeness she asked me if I would not sit down. I considered it best to remain standing, as an intimation that I should not trouble her with my presence for long. I had no time to lose, lest Kate Daltrey should come in, and it was a very difficult subject to approach. “We were talking of you to-day,” she said at length, in a hurried and thick voice. “Aunt is in great sorrow about you. It preys upon her day and night that you will be dreadfully alone when she is gone, and—and —Martin, she wishes to know before she dies that the girl in Sark will become your wife.” * The words struck like a shot upon my ear and brain. What! had Julia and m.v mother been arranging between them my happiness and Oliyia’s safety that very afternoon Such generosity was incredible. I could not believe I ,had heard aright. “She has seen the girl,” continued Julia, in the same husky tone, “and she is convinced she is no adventuress. Johanna says the same. They tell me it is unreasonable and selfish in me to doom you to the dreadful loneliness I feel. If Aunt Dobree asked me to pluck out my right eye just now, I could not refuse.' It is something like that, but I have promised to do it. I release you from every promise you ever made to me, Martin.” “Julia!” I cried, crossing to her and bending over her with more love and admiration than I had ever'felt before; “this is very noble, very generous.” “No,” she said, bursting into tears; “I am neither noble nor generous. I do it because I cannot help myself, with aunt’s white face looking so imploringly at me. I do not give you up willingly to that girl in Sark. I hope I shall never see her or you for many, many years. Aunt says you will have no chance of marrying her till you are settled in a practice somewhere; but you are free to ask her to be your wife. Aunt wants you to have somebody to love you and care for you after she is gone, as I should have done.” “But you are generous to consent to it,” I said again. “No,” she answered, wiping her eyes and lifting up her head; “I thought I was generous; I thought I was a Christian, but it is not easy to be a Christian when one is mortified, and humbled, and wounded. I am a great disappointment to myself; quite as great as you are to me. I fancied myself very superior to what I am. 1 hope yon may not be disappointed in that girl in Sark.” Her hand was lying on her lap, and I stooped down and kissed it, seeing on it still the ring I had given her when we were first engaged. She did not look at me or bid me good-bye, and I went out of the house, my veins tingling with shame and gladness. I met Captain Carey coming up the street, with a basket of fine grapes in his hand. He appeared very much amazed. “Why, Martin!” he exclaimed, “can you have been to see Julia?” “Yes,” f answered. “Reconciled?” he said, arching his eyebrows, which were still dark and bushy, though his hair was grizzled. “Not exactly,” I replied, with a stiff smile exceedingly difficult to force; “nothing of the sort indeed. Captain* when will you take, me across to Sark?” “Come, come! none of that, Martin,” he said; “you’re on honor, you know. You are pledged to poor Julia not to visit Sark again.” “She has just set me free,” I answered; and out of the fullness of my heart I told him all that had just passed between us. His eyes glistened, though a film came across them which h'e had to wipe away. “She is a - noble girl,” he ejaculated; “a fine, generous, noble girl. I really thought she’d break her heart over you at first, but she will confle round again now. We will have a run over to Sark to-morrow.” I felt myself lifted into a third heaven of delight all that evening. My mother and I talked of no one but Olivia. The present rapture so completely eclipsed the coming sorrow that I forgot how soon it would be upon me. I remember now that my mother neither by word nor sign suffered me to be reminded of her illness. She listened to my , rhapsodies, smiling with her divine, pathetic smile. There is no love, no love at all, like that of a mother! Swiftly we ran across the next day, with a soft wind drifting over the sea and playing upon our faces, and a long furrow lying in the wake of our boat. It was almost low tide when we reached the island. I found Tardif's house completely deserted. The only sign of life was a family of hens clucking about the fold.

The door was not fastened, and I entered, but there was nobody there. I stood in the middle of the kitchen and called, but there was no answer. Olivia’s door was ajar, and I pushed it a little more open. There lay books I had lent her on the table, and her velvet slippers were on the floor, as if they had only just been taken off. Very worn and brown were the little slippers, but they reassured me she had been wearing them a short time ago. I returned through the fold. All the place' seemed left to itself. Tardif s sheep were browsing along the cliffs, anfl his cows were tethered here and there. At last I caught sight of a head rising from behind a crag, the rough shock head of a boy, and I shouted to him, making a trumpet with my hands. “Where is neighbor Tardif?” I called. “Down below there!” he shouted back again, pointing downwards to the Havre Gosselin. I did not wait for any further information, but darted off down the long, steep gulley to the little strand, where the pebbles were being lapped lazily by the ripple of the lowering tide. Tardif s boat was within a stone’s throw, and I 1 saw Olivia sitting in the stern of it. I shouted again' with a vehemence which made them both start. “Come back, Tardif,” I cried, “and take me with you!” The boat was too far off for me to see how my sudden appearance affected Olivia. Did she turn white or red at the sound of my voice? By the time it neared the shore and I plunged in knee-deep to meet it, he* 1 face was bright with smiles,

and her hands were stretched out to help me over the boat’s side. If Tardif had not been there I should have kissed them both. As it was, I tucked np my wet feet out of reach of her dress and took an oar, unable to utter a word of the gladness I felt. “Whe-e are you going to?” I asked, addressing neither of them in particular. “Tardif was going to row me past the entrance to the Gouliot Caves,” answered Olivia, “but we will put it off now. We will return to the shore and hear all your adventures, Dr. Martin. You come upon us like a phantom and take an oar in ghostly silence. Are you really, truly there?” (To be continued.)