Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 34, Number 14, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 18 October 1901 — The Doctor’s Dilemma. [ARTICLE]

The Doctor’s Dilemma.

By Hesba Stretton

CHAPTER XXV.lL—(Continued.) “Hast thou brought a doctor with thee, my brother?’’ she asked. “I have brought uo doctor except thy brother, my sister,” answered Monsieur Laurentie, “also a treasure which I found at the foot of the Calvary down yonder.” He had alighted whilst saying this, and the rest of the conversation was carried •n in whispers. There was some one ill in the house, and our arrival was illtimed, that was quite clear. Whoever the woman was that had come to the 4oor, she did not advance to speak to me, but retreated as soon as the conversation was over. “Pardon, madame,” he said, approaching us, “but my sister is too much occupied with a sick person to do herself the honor of attending upon you.” He did not conduct us through the open door, but led us round the angle of the presbytery to a small ■ out-house opening •n to the court, and with no other entrance. It was a building lying between the porch and belfry of the church and his own dwelling place. But it looked comfortable and inviting. A fire had been hastily kindled on an open hearth, and a heap of wood lay beside it. Two beds were in this room; one with hangings over the head and a large tall cross at the toot board; the other a low, narrow pallet, lying along the foot of it. A cruciftx hung upon the wall, and the wood work of the high window also formed a cross. It seemed a strange goal to reach after our day's wanderings. Monsieur Laurentie put the lamp down an the table, and drew the logs of wood together on the hearth. He was an old man, as I then thought, over sixty. He looked round upon us with a benevolent ■mile. “Madame,” he said, “our hospitality fe rude and simple, but you are very welcome guests. My sister is desolated that she must leave you to my cares. But if there be anything you have need of, tell me, I pray you.” “There is nothing, monsieur,” I answered; “you are too good to us —too good.” “No, no, madame,” he said, “be content. To-morrow I will send you to Granville under the charge of my good Jean. Sleep well, my children, and fear nothing. The good God will protect you.” Minima had thrown herself upon the low pallet bed. I took off her damp clothes, and laid her down comfortably to rest. It was not long before I also was sleeping soundly. Once or twice a Tague impression forced itself upon me that Minima was talking a great deal in her dreams. It was the clang of the bell for matins which fully roused me at last, but it was a minute or two before 1 could make out where I was. Then Minima began to talk. “How funny that is!” she said, “there the boys run, and I can't catch one of them. Father, Temple Secundus is pulling faces at me, and all the boys are laughing. Well! it doesn’t matter, does it? Only we are so poor, Aunt Nelly and all. We're so poor—so poor—so poor!”

Her voice fell into a murmur too low Jor me to hear what she was saying, though she went on talking rapidly, and laughing and sobbing at tiipes. 1 called to her, but she did not answer. What could ail the child? I went to her, and took her hands in mine—burning little hands. I said, "Minimal” and she turned to me with a caressing gesture, raising her hot fingers to stroke my face. “Yes, Aunt Kelly. How poor we are, you and I! I am so tired, aud the prince ■ever comes 1” There was hardly room for me in the ■arrow bed, but I managed to lie down kesidether, and took her into my arms to soothe her. She rested there quietly enough; but her mind was wandering, and all her whispered chatter was about the boys, aud the dominie, her father, and the happy days at home in the school in tipping Forest. As soon as it was light I dressed myself in haste, and opened my door to see if I could find any one to send to Monsieur Laurentie. The first person 1 saw was hirhself. coming in my direction. I had not fairly looked at him before, for I had seen him only by twilight and firelight. His cassock was old and threadbare, and his hat brown. His hair fell in rather long locks helow his hat, and was beautifully white. His face was healthy looking, like that •f a man who lived much out of doors, and his clear, quick eyes shone with a kindly light. I ran impulsively to meet him, with outstretched hands, which he took into his own a pleasant smile. “Oh, come, monsieur,” I cried; “make haste! She is ill, my poor Minima!” The smile failed away from his face in an instant, and he did not utter a word. He followed me quickly to the side of the little bed, laid his hand softly on the child's forehead, and felt her pulse. He lifted up her head gently, and opening her mouth, looked at her tongue and throat. He shook his head as he turned to me with a grave and perplexed expression, and he spoke with a low, solemn accent. “AAudamo,” he said, “it is the fever!” He left me, and I sank down on a ♦hair, half stupefied by this new disaster. It would be necessary to stay where we were until Minima recovered; yet I had ao means to pay these people for the trouble we should give them, and the expense we should be to them. I hud not thne to decide upon nny course, however, before he returned and brought with him his sister. Mademoiselle Therese was a tall, plain, elderly woman, hut with the same pleasant expression of open friendliness as that of her brother. She went through precisely the same examination of Minima ns.he had done. “The fever!” she ejaculuted, in much the same tone as his. They looked sig■lfcaatly at each other, and then held a hurried consultation together outside the door, after which the cure returned alone. "Madame,” he said, “this child is not yaur own, ns I supposed last night. My afarter *iys you are too young to be her ■Mthar. Is she your sister?”

“No, monsieur,” I answered. “I called you madame because you were traveling alone,” he continued, smiling; “French demoiselles never travel alone. You are mademoiselle, no doubt?” “No, monsieur,” I said frankly, “I am married.” “Where, then, is your husband?” he inquired. “He is in London,” I answered. "Monsieur, it is difficult for me to explain it; I cannot speak your language well enough. I think in English, and I cannot find the right French words. I am very unhappy, but I am not wicked.” “Good,” he said, smiling again, “very good, my child; I believe you. You will learn my language quickly; then you shall tell me all, if you remain with us. But you said the migfionne is not your sister.” “No, she is not my relative at all,” I replied; “we were both in a school at Noireau, the school of Monsieur Emile Perrier. Perhaps you know it, monsieur?” “Certainly, madame,” he said. “He has failed, and run away,” I continued; “all the pupils are dispersed. Minima and I were returning through Granville.” “I understand, madame,” he responded, “but it is villainous, this affair! Listen, my child. I have much to say to you. Do I speak gently and slowly enough for you?” “Yes,” I answered, “I understand you perfectly.” “We have had the fever in Ville-en-bois for some weeks,” he went on; “it is now bad) very bad. Yesterday I went to Noireau to seek a doctor, but I could only hear of one, who is in Paris at present, and cannot come immediately. At present we have made my house into a hospital for the sick. My people bring their sick to me, and we do our best, and put our trust in God. But this little house has been kept free from all infection, and you would be safe here for one night, so I hoped. The mignonne must have caught the fever some days ago. Now I must carry her into my little hospital. But you, madame, what am I to do with you? Do you wish to go on to Granville, and leave the mignonne with me? We will take care of her as a little angel of God. What shall I do with you, my child?” “Monsieur,” I exclaimed, eagerly, “take me into your hospital, too. Let me take care of Minima and your other sick people. I am very strong, and in good health; I am never ill—never, never. I will do all you say to me. Let me stay, dear monsieur.” “But your husband, your friends ” he said. “I have no friends,” I interrupted, “and my husband does not love me. If I have the fever and die—good! very good! lam not wicked; I am a Christian, I hope. Only let me stay with Minima, and do all I can in the hospital.” “Be content, my child,” he said, “you shall stay with us.” I felt a sudden sense of contentment, for here was work for me to do, as well as a refuge. Neither should I be compelled to leave Minima. I wrapped her up warmly in the blankets, and Monsieur Laurentie lifted her carefully and tenderly from the low bed? He told me to accompany him, and we crossed the court and entered the house by the door I hud seen the night before. A staircase led up to a long, low room, which had been turned into a hastily fitted-up fever ward for women and children. There were already nine beds in it, of different sizes, brought with the patients who now occupied them. But one of these was empty. In this home-like ward I took up my work as nurse. “Madame,” said Monsieur Laurentie, one morning, the eighth that I had been in the fever-smitten village, “you did not take a promenade yesterday.” “Not yesterday, monsieur.” “Nor the day before yesterday?” he continued. “No, monsieur,” I answered; “I dare not leave Minima. I fear she is going to die.” Monsieur Laurentie raised me gently from my low chair, and seated himself upon it, with a smile as he looked up at me. “Madame,” he said, “I promise not to quit the chamber till you return. My sister has a little commission for you to do. Confide the mignonne to me, and make your promenade in peace. It is necessary, madame; you must obey me.” The commission for mademoiselle was to carry some food and medicine to a cottage lower down the valley; and Jean's eldest son, Pierre, was appointed to be my guide. Both the cure and his sister gave me a strict charge as to what we were to do; neither of us was upon any account to go near or enter the dwelling; but after the basket was deposited upon a flat stone, which Pierre was to point out to me, he was to ring a small hand-bell which he carried with him for that purpose. Then we were to turn our backs and begin our retreat, before any person came out Of the infected house. I set out with Pierre, a solemn looking boy of about twelve years of age. We passed down the village street, with its closely packed houses forming a very nest for fever, until we reached the road by which I had first entered Ville-en-bois. Above the tops of the trees appeared a tall chimney, and a sudden turn in the by-road we had taken brought us full in sight of a small cotton mill, built on the banks of the noisy stream. A more mournfully dilapidated place I hud never seen. In the yard adjoining this deserted factory stood a miserable cottage with a mildewed thatched roof. The place bore the aspect of a pest house. Pierre led me to a large fiat stone, and I laid down my basket upon it. Then he rang his hand bell noisily, and the next instunt was scampering back along the road. But I could not run away. The desolate plague-Btricken place had a dismal fascination for me. I wondered what manlier of persons could dwell in it; and as I lingered I saw the low door opened,

and a thin, spectral figure standing in the gloom within, but delaying to cross the moldering doorsill as long as I remained in sight. In another minute Pierre had rushed back for me, and dragged me away with all his boyish strength and energy. “Madame,” he said, in angry remonstrance, “you are disobeying Monsieur le Cure.” “But who lives there?” I asked. “They are very wicked people,” he answered emphatically; “no one goes near them, except Monsieur le Cure. They became wicked before my time, and Monsieur le Cure has forbidden us to speak of them with rancour, so we do not speak of them at all.” Who were these pariahs, whose name even was banished from every tongue? A few days after this, the whole community was thrown into a tumult by the news that their cure was about to undertake the perils of a voyage to England, and would be absent a whole fortnight. He said it was to obtain some information as to the English system of drainage in agricultural districts, which might make their own valley more healthy and less liable to fever. But it struck me that he was about to make some inquiries concerning my husband, and perhaps about Minima, whose desolate position had touched him deeply. I ventured to tell him what danger might arise to me if any clue to my hiding place fell into Richard Foster's hands. The afternoon of that day was unusually sultry and oppressive. The blue of the sky was almost livid. I was weary with a long walk in the morning, and after our mid-day meal I stole away from mademoiselle and Minima and betook myself to the cool shelter of the church. I sat down upon a bench just within the door. There was a faint scent yet of the incense which had been burned at the mass celebrated before the cure’s departure. I leaned my head against the wall and closed my eyes, with a pleasant sense of sleep coming softly towards me, when suddenly a hand was laid upon my arm, with a firm, silent grip. (To be continued.)