Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 34, Number 18, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 1 November 1901 — The Doctor's Dilemma [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

The Doctor's Dilemma

By Hesba Stretton

CHAPTER XXVIII— (Continued.) “My daughter,” he said, “I bade you laaye even your duty in my keeping. Now X summon you to fulfill it. Your duty Bes yonder, by your husband's side in fcis agony of death." “I will go,” I whispered, my lips scarcely moving to pronounce the words, so stiff and cold they felt. “Good!” he said, “you have chosen the better part. Come! The good God will protect you.” He drew my hand through his arm and led me to the low doorway. The inner room, as I entered, was very dark with the overhanging eaves, and my •yes, contracted by the strong sunlight, could discern but little in the gloom. Tardif was kneeling beside a low bed, bathbag my husband's forehead. He made iway for me, and I felt him touch my hand with his lips as I took his place. Richard's sunken, haggard, dying, with filmy dawned gradually out wf the dim twilight, line after line, until 'lt lay sharp and distinct under my gaze. The poor, miserable face! the restless, jdreary, dying eyes! “Where is Olivia?” he muttered, in a (hoarse and labored voice. “I am here, Richard,” I answered, fallItag on my knees where Tardif had been 'kneeling, and putting my hand in his; '“look at me. I am Olivia.” “You are mine, you know,” he said, his Hfaigers closing round my wrist with a igrasp as weak as a very young child’s; ‘“she is my wife. Monsieur le Cure.” “Yes,” I sobbed, “I am your wife, ißichard.” “Do they hear it?” he asked, in a whis(per. “We hear it,” answered Tardif.

A strange, spasmodic smile flitted •cross his ghastly face, a look of triumph and success. His lingers tightened over my hand, and I left it passively in their elasn. “Mine!” he murmured. “Olivia,” he said, after a long pause, and in a stronger voice, ‘‘you always ■poke the truth to me. This priest and lis follower have been trying to frighten lie into repentance, as if I were an old woman. They say I am near dying. Tell aae, is it true?” “Richard,” I said, “it is true.” His lips closed after a cry, and seemed •s if they would never open again. He ■hut his eyes weariedly. Feebly and titlully came his gasps for breath, and he •waned at times. But still his fingers fteld me fast, though the slightest effort «f mine would have set me free. I left aiy hand in his cold grasp, and spoke to fcim whenever he moaned. There was long silence. I could hear the chirping of the sparrows in the thatched roof. Monsieur Laurentie and Tardif stood at the foot of the bed, looking down upon us both, but I only saw their shadows falling across us. My eyes were fastened upon the face 1 should ■oon see no more. The little light there was seemed to be fading away from it, leaving it all dark and blank. “Olivia!” he cried, once again, in a tone of mingled anger and entreaty. “I am here,” I answered, laying my •ther hand upon his, which was at last relaxing its hold and falling away helplessly. But where was he? Where was the voice which half a minute ago called Olivia? Where was the life gone that had grasped my hand? He had not heard my answer, or felt my touch upon his cold fingers. Tardif lifted me gently from my place beside him, and carried me away into the •pen air, under the overshadowing eaves.

CHAPTER XXIX. The unbroken monotony of Ville-en-fcois closed over me again. A week has glided by—a full week. I am seated at the window of the salon, gasping in a breath of fresh air—such a cool, balmy breeze as blows over the summer Bea to the cliffs of Sark. Monsieur Laurentie, under the shelter of a huge red umbrella, is choosing the ripest cluster of grapes for our supper this evening. All the street is as still as at midnight. Suddenly there breaks upon us the harsh, metallic clang of well-shod horse hoofs ■pon the stony roadway—the cracking •f a postillion’s whip—the clatter of an approaching carriage. Pierre, who has been basking idly under the window, jumps to his feet, shouting, “It is Monsieur the Bishop!’’ Minima claps her hands and cries, “The Prince, Aunt Nelly, the Prince!” Monsieur Laurentie walks slowly down to the gate, his cotton umbrella spread aver him like a giant fungus. It is certainly not the Prince; for an elderly, {White-haired man, older than Monsieur (Laurentie, but with a more imposing and (■lately presence,* steps out of the car*t«e, and they salute one another with

great ceremony. They entered the house and came directly to the salon. 1 was making my escape by another door, when Monsieur Laurentie called to me. “Behold a friend for you, madamc," he said, “a friend from England. Monsieur, this is my beloved English child.” “You do not know who 1 am, my dear?” The English voice and words went straight to my heart. “No,” I answered, “but you are come to me from Dr. Martin Dobree.” “Very true,” he said, “I am his friend s father—Dr. John Senior’s father. Martin has sent me to you,- He wished Miss Johanna Carey to accompany me, but we were afraid of the fever for her. I am an old physician, and feel at home with diseases and contagion. But we cannot allow you to remain in this unhealthy village; that is out of the question. I am come to carry you away, in spite of this old cure.” Monsieur Laureiftie was listening eagerly, and watching Dr. Senior’s lips, as if he could catch the meaning of his words by sight, if not by hearing. “But where am I to go?” I asked. “1 have no money, and cannot get any until I have written to Melbouprne, and have an answer. I have no means of proving who I am.” “Leave all that to us, my dear girl,” answered Dr. Senior, cordially. “I have already spoken of your affairs to an old friend of mine, who is an excellent lawyer. I am come to offer myself to you in place of your guardians on the other side of the world.” I moved a little nearer to Monsieur Laurentie, and put my hand through his arm. He folded his own thin, brown hand over it caressingly, and looked down

at me, with something like tears glistening in his eyes. “Is it all settled?” he asked, “is monsieur come to rob me of my English daughter? She will go away now to her own island, and forget Ville-en-bois and her poor old French father!” “Never! never!” I answered vehemently, “I shall not forget you as long as 1 live. Besides, I mean to come back very often; every year if 1 can. I almost wish I could stay here altogether; but you know that is impossible, monsieur. Is it not quite impossible?” “Quite impossible!” he repeated, somewhat sadly, “madame is too rich now; she will have many good friends.” “Not one better than you,” I said, “not one more dear than you. Yes, lam rich; and I have been planning something to do for Ville-en-bois. Would you like the church enlarged and beautified, Monsieur le Cure?” “It is large enough and fine enough already,” he answered. “Shall I put some painted windows and marble images into it?” I asked. “No, no, madame,” he replied, “let it remain as it is during my short lifetime.” “I thought so,” 1 said, “but I believe I have discovered what Monsieur le Cure would approve. It is truly English. There is no sentiment, no romance about it. Cannot you guess what it is, my wise and learned monsieur?” “No, no, madame,” he answered, smiling in spite of his sadness. “Listen, dear monsieur,” I continued; “if this village is unhealthy for me, it is unhealthy for you and your people. I)r. Martin told Tardif there would always be fever here, as long as there are no drains and no pure water. Very well; now lam rich I shall have it drained, precise# like the best English towns; and therjwshall be a fountain in the middle of the vfllage, where all the people can go to draw good water. I shall come back next year to see how it has been done. There is my secret plan for Ville-en-bois.” The next morning I took a last solitary walk till I came upon a grave. It was my farewell to the wrecked romance of my married life. Monsieur Laurentie accompanied us on our journey, as far as the cross at the entrance to the valley. He parted with us there; and when I stood up in the carriage to look back once more at him, I saw his black-robed figure kneeling on the white steps of the Calvary, and the sun shining upon his silvery head. For the third time I landed in England. When I set foot upon its shores first 1 was worse than friendless, with foes of my own household surrounding me; the second time I was utterly alone, in daily terror, in poverty, with a dreary lifelong future stretching before me. Now every want of mine was anticipated, every step directed, as if I were a child again, and my father himself was caring for me. How many friends, good and tried and true, could I count! All the rough patha were made smooth for me. I soon learned to laugh at the dismay which had filled me upon my entrance

Into my new sphere. It would have beea difficult to resist the cordiality with which I was adopted into the household. Dr. Senior treated me as his daughter; Dr. John was as much at home with me aa if I had been his sister. Minima, too, became perfectly reconciled to her new position. , I saw little of Martin. He had been afraid I should feel myself bound to him; and the very fact that he had once told me he loved me had made it more difficult to him to say so a second time. H« would not have any love from me as a duty. If I did not love him fully, with my whole heart, choosing him after knowing others with whom I could compare him, he would not receive any lesser gift from- me. “What will you do, Olivia?” asked Dr. John one day. “What can I do?” I said. “Go to him,” he urged; “he is alone. I saw him a moment ago, looking out at us from the drawing room window. God bless himl Olivia, my dear girl, go to him.” “Oh, Jack!” I cried, “I cannot.” “I don’t see why you cannot,” he answered gaily. “You are trembling, and your face goes from white to red, and then white again; “but you have not lost the use of your limbs, or your tongue. If you take my arm, it will not be very difficult to cross the lawn. Come; he is the best fellow living, and worth walking a dozen yards for.” I believe I should have run away, but I heard Minima’s voice behind me, calling shrilly to Dr. John, and I could not bear to face him again. Taking my courage in both hands, I stepped quickly across the floor, for if I had hesitated longer my heart would have failed me. Scarcely a moment had passed since Jack left me, and Martin had not turned his head, yet it seemed an age. “Martin,” I whispered, as I stood close behind him, “how could you be so foolish as to send Dr. John to me?”

We were married as soon as the season was over, when Martin’s fashionable patients were all going away from town. Ours was a very quiet wedding, for I had no friends on my side, and Martin’s cousin Julia could not come, for she had a baby very young, and Captain Carey could not leave them. Johanna Carey and Minima were my bridesmaids, and Jack was Martin’s groomsman. On our way home from Switzerland, in the early autumn, we went down from Paris to Falaise, and through Noireau to Ville-en-bois. The next stage of our homeward journey was Guernsey. Martin was welcomed with almost as much enthusiasm in St. Peter-port as I had been in little Ville-en-bois. My eyes were dazzled with the sunshine, and dim with tears, when I first caught sight of the little cottage of Tardif, who was stretching out his nets on the stone causeway under the windows. Martin called to him, and he flung down his nets and ran to meet us. “We are come to spend the day with you, Tardif,” I cried, when he was within hearing of my voice. “It will be a day from heaven,” he said, takiag off his fisherman’s cap, and looking round at the blue sky with its sunflecked clouds, and the sea with its scattered islets. It was like a day from heaven. We wandered about the cliffs, visiting every spot which was most memorable to either of us, and Tardif rowed us in his boat past the entrance of the Gouliot Caves. He was very quiet, but he listened to our free talk together, for I could not think of good old Tardif as any stranger; and he seemed to watch us both, with a faroff, faithful, quiet look upon his face. Sometimes I fancied he did not hear what we were saying, and again his eyes would brighten with a sudden gleam, as if his whole soul and heart shone through them upon us. It was the last day of our holiday, for in the morning we should return to London and to work; but it was such a perfect day as I had never known before. “You are quite happy, Mrs. Martin Dobree?” said Tardif to me, when we were parting from him. “I did not know I could ever be so happy,” I answered. We saw him to the last moment standing on the cliff, and waving his hat to us high above his head. Now and then there came a shout across the water. Before we were quite beyond earshot, we heard Tardif’s voice calling amid the splashing of the waves: “God be with yOu, my friends. Adieu, mam’zelle!” (The end.)

“I CAME UPON A GRAVE.”