Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 34, Number 13, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 15 October 1901 — The Doctor's Dilemma. [ARTICLE]

The Doctor's Dilemma.

By Hesba Stretton

CHAPTER XXVI. December came in with intense severity. Icicles a yard long hung to the •ares, and the snow lay unmolted for days together ou the roofs. More often than not we were without wood for our •re, and when we had it, it was green and unseasoned, and only smoldered away with a smoke that stung and irritated our eyes. Our insufficient and unwholesome food supplied us with no inward warmth. At times the pangs of hunger grew too strong for us both, and forced me to spend a little of the money 1 was nursing so carefully. As soon us 1 could make myself understood, I went •ut occasionally after dark to buy bread and milk. I found that I had no duties to perform as a teacher, for none of the three French pupils desired to learn English. English girls, who had been decoyed into the same snare by the same false photograph and prospectus which had entrapped me, Were all of families too poor to be able to forfeit the money which had been paid In advance for their French education. Two of them, however, completed their term at Christmas and returned home weak and ill; the third was to leave hi Abe spring. Very fast melted away my money. 1 could not see the child pining with hunger, though every sou I spent made our aeturn to England more difficult. Madame Perrier put no hindrance in my way, ior the more food We purchased for our■elves, the less we ate at her table, 'lhe ■titter cold and the coarse food told upon Minima’s delicate little frame. Yet what could I do? I dared not write to Mrs. Wilkinson, and I very much doubtad if there would, be any benefit to be lioped for if I ran the risk. Minima did not know the address of any one of the persons who had subscribed for her education and board. She was as friendless as I was in the world. So far away were Dr. Martin Dobrce and Tardif that I dared not count them as friends who could have any power to help me. Better for Dr. Martin Dobree If he could altogether forget me, and icturn to his cousin Julia. Perhaps he had done so already. Towards the middle of February Madame Perrier's coarse face was always •vereast, and monsieur seemed gloomy, too gloomy to retain even French politeness of manner towards any of us. The household was under a cloud, but I could «ot discover why. What little discipline and work there had been in the school was quite at an end. Every one was left to do as she chose. Early one morning, long before the daybreak, I was startled out of my sleep by a hurried knock at my door. It proved to be Mademoiselle Morel. I opened the doar for her, and she appeared in her bonnet and walking dress, carrying a lajip in her hand, which lit up her weary tejr-stained face. She took a seat at foot of my bed and buried her face in her handkerchief. '•Mademoiselle,” she said, “here is a grand misfortune, a misfortune without parallel. Monsieur and madarne are gone.” “Gone!” I repeated; “where are they gone?” “I do not know, mademoiselle,” she

answered; “I know nothing at all. They are gone away. The poor good people were in debt, and their creditors are ns iard as stone. They are gone, and I lave no means to carry on the establishment. The school is finished.” “But I am to stay here twelve months,” I cried, in dismay, “and Minima was to atay four years. The money has been paid to them for it. What is to become ♦f us?” “I cannot say, mademoiselle; I am desalated myself,” she replied, with a fresh turst of "tears; “all is finished here. If you have not money enough to take you back to England, you must write to your friends. I am going to return to Bordeaux. I detest Normandy; it is so cold and triste.” “But what is to be done with the other pupils?” I inquired. “The English pupil goes with me to Paris," she answered; “she has her friends there. The French demoiselles are not far from their own homes, and they return to-day by the omnibus to Granville. It is a misfortune without parallel, mademoiselle —a misfortune without a parallel.” To crown all, she was going to start immediately by the omnibus to Falaise, and on by rail to Paris, not waiting for the storm to burst. She kissed me on both cheeks, bade me adieu, and was (one, leaving me in utter darkness, before 1 fairly comprehended the rapid French fa which she conveyed her intention. I bad seen my last of Monsieur and Madame Perrier, and of Mademoiselle Morel. All I had to do was to see to myself aad Minima. I carried sur breakfast back with me, when I returned to Minfcna. “I wish I'd been born a boy,” she said plaintively; “they can get their own living sooner than girls, and better. How aoon do you think I could get my own living? I could be a little nursemaid bow, you know; and I'd eat very little." “What makes you talk about getting jrour living?" I asked. “How pale you look!” she answered, modding her little head; “why, I heard something of what mademoiselle said. You're very poor, aren't you, Aunt Kelly?” “Very poor!” I repeated, hilling my face on her pillow, whilst hot tears forc•d themselves through my eyelids. “Oh! this will never do,” said the fhildIsh voice; “we mustn't cry, you know. The boya always said it was like a baby to cry; and father used to say, ‘jCourage, Minimal' Perhaps, when all our money is gone, we ahull fiud a great big purse full of gold; or elae n beautiful French prince will see you and fall in love with you, and take ua both to hia palace, and make you bis princeas; and wc shall all grow up till we die.” I laughed at the oddity of this childish etlmax, In apite of the heaviness of my fceart and the springing of my teara. Minima's fresh young fancies were too

droll to resist, especially in combination with her shrewd, old-womanish knowledge of many things of which I was ignorant. , .. It was now that across the darkness of my prospects flashed a thought that seemed like an angel of light. Why should I not try to make my way to Mrs. Dobree. Martin’s mother, to whom I could tell my whole history, and on whose friendship and protection I could rely implicitly? By this time Kate Daltrey would have quitted the Channel Islands, satisfied that I had eluded her pursuit. The route was neither long nor difficult; at Granville a vessel sailed direct for Jersey, and we were not more than thirty miles from Granville. It was a distance that we could almost walk. If Mrs, Dobree could not help me, Tardif would take Minima into his house for a time, and the child could not have a happier home. I could count upon my good Tardif doing that. These plans were taking shape in my brain, when I heard a voice calling softly under the window. I opened the easement, and leaning out, saw the welcome face of Rosalie, the milk woman. “Will you permit me to come in?” she inquired. “Yes, yes, come in,” I said eagerly. She entered, and saluted us both with much ceremony. “So my little Emile and his spouse are gone, mademoiselle,” she said, in a mysterious whisper. “I have been saying to myself, ‘What will my little English lady do?’ That is why I am here. Behold me.” “I do not know what to do,” I answered. “If mademoiselle is not difficult,” she said, “she and the little one could rest with me for a day or two. My bed is clean and soft—bah! ten times softer than these paillasses. I would ask only a franc a night for it. That is much less than at the hotels, where they charge for light and attendance. Mademoiselle could write to her friends, if she has not enough money to carry her and the little one back to their own country.” “I have no friends,” I said despondingly. “No friends! no relations!” she exclaimed.

“Not one,” I replied. I was only too glad to get a shelter for Minima and myself for another night. Mademoiselle Rosalie explained to me the French system of borrowing money upon articles. But upon packing up our few possessions, I remembered that only a few days before Madame Perrier had borrowed from me my sealskin mantle, the one valuable thing I had remaining. I had lent it reluctantly, and in spite of myself; and it had never been returned. Minima's wardrobe was still poofer than my own. All the money we could raise was less than two napoleons; and with tins we had to make our way to Granville, and from thence to Guernsey. We could not travel luxuriously. The next morning we left Noireau on foot, and strolled on as if we were walking on air, and could feel no fatigue. Every step which carried us nearer to Granville brought new hope to me. The face of Martin's mother came often to my mind, looking at me, as she had done in Sark, with a mournful yet tender smile —a smile behind which lay many tears. “Courage!” I said to myself; “every hour brings you nearer to her.” I had full directions as to our route, and I carried a letter from Rosalie t<Fa cousin of hers, who lived in g Sim vent about twelve miles from Noireaa. If we reached the convent before six ©’dock we should find the doors open, and should gain admission. But in the afternoon the sky changed. The wind changed tj point or two from the south, and a breath from the east blew, with a chilly touch, over the wide open plain we were now crossing. The road was very desolate. It brought us after a while to the edge of a common, stretching before us, drear and brown, as far as my eye could reach. “Are you very tired, my Minima?” I asked. “It will be so nice to to bed, when we reach the convent,” she said, looking up with a smile. “I can’t imagine why the prince has not come yet.” “Perhaps he is coming all the time,” I answered, “and he’ll find us when we want him worst.” We plodded on after that, looking for the convent, or for any dwelling where we could stay till morning. But none came in sight, or any person from whom we could learn where we were wandering. I was growing frightened, dismayed. What would become of us both, if we could find no shelter from the cold of a February night? CHAPTER XXVII. There were unshed tears in my eyes—for I would not let Minima know my fears —when, I saw dimly, through the mist, a high cross standing iu the midst of a small grove of yews and cypresses, •planted formally about it. The rain was beating against it, an’d the wind sobbing in the trees surrounding it. It seemed so snd, so forsaken, thut it drew us to it. Without speaking the child and I crept to the shelter at its foot, and sat down to rest there, as if we were companions to it in its loneliness. It was too dark now to sec far along the road, but ns we waited and watched there came into sight a rude sort of covered carriage, like a market cart, drawn by a horse with a blue sheep-skin hanging round his neck. The pace at which he was going was not above a jog-trot, nud he came almost to a standstill opposite the cross, as if it was customary to pause there. This was the instant to appeal for aid. I darted forward and stretched out iny hands to the driver. "Help us,” I cried; “we have lost our way, nnd the night is come.” I could see now that the driver was a burly, redfaced, clenn-shaven Norman peasant. He crossed himself hurriedly, and glanced at the grove of dark, solemn trees from which wc had come. But by his side sat a priest, in his cassock and broad-brim-med hat fastened up at the sides, who alighted almost before I had finished

speaking, and stood before ns ban beofc ed, and bowing profoundly. t “Madame,” he said, In a bland tone, “t* what town ace yon going?” “We ore going to Granville,” I answered; “but I am afraid I have lost the way. We are very tired, this little child and I. We can walk no more, monsieur. Take care of us, I pray you.” I spoke brokenly, for in an extremity like this it was difficult to put my request into French. The priest appeared perplexed, but he went back and held a short, earnest conversation with the driver, in a subdued voice. “Madame,” he said, returning to me, “I am Francis Lanrentie, the cure of Ville-en-bois. It is quite a small village about a league from here, and we are on the road to it; but the route to Granville is two leagues behind us, and it is still farther to the nearest village. There is not time to return with you this evening. Will you, then, go with us to Ville-en-bois? —and to-morrow we will send you on to Granville.” He spoke very slowly and distinctly, with a clear, cordial voice, which filled me with confidence. I could hardly distinguish his features, but his hair was silvery white, and shone in the gloom, ns he still stood bare-headed before me, though the rain was falling fast. “Take care of us, monsieur,” I replied, putting my hand in his; “we will go with you.” “Make haste, then, my children,” he said cheerfully; “the rain will hurt you. Let me lift the mignonne! Bah! How little she is. Now, madarne, permit me.” There was a seat in the back, which we reached by climbing over the front bench, assisted by the driver. There we were well sheltered from the driving wind and rain, with our feet resting upon a sack of potatoes, and the two strange figures of the Norman peasant in his blouse and white cotton cap, and the cure in his hat and cassock, filling up the front of the car before us. “They are not Frenchwomen, Monsieur le Cure,” observed the driver, after a short pause. “No, no, my good Jean,” was the cure s answer; “by their tongue I should say they are English. Englishwomen are extremely intrepid,-and voyage about all the world quite alone, like this. It is only a marvel to me that we have never encountered one of them before to-day.” “Monsieur,” I interrupted, feeling almost guilty in having listened so far, “I understand French very well, though I speak it badly.” “Pardon, madarne!” he replied, “I hope you will not be grieved by the foolish words we have been speaking one to th& other.” After that all was still again for some time, except the tinkling of the bells, and the pad-pad of the horse's feet upon the steep and rugged road. By and by a village clock striking echoed faintly down the valley; and the cure turned round and addressed me again. “There is my village, madarne,” he said, stretching forth his hand to point it out; “it is very small, and my parish contains but four hundred and twenty-two soul#, some of them very little ones. They all know me, and regard me as a father. They love me, though I have some rebel sons.” We entered a narrow and roughly paved village street. The houses, as I saw afterwards, were all huddled together, with a small church at the point farthest from the entrance; and the road ended-at its porch, as if there were no other pUce in the world beyond it. We drove at last into a square coprt yard, paved with pebbles. Almost before the horse could stop I saw a stream of light shining from an open door aeroua a causeway, and the voice of a woman, whom I could not see, spoke eagerly a# soon as the horse’s hoofs had ceased to scrape upon the pebbles. (To be continued.)