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The Doctor's Dilemma by Hesba Stretton

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THE DOCTOR'S DILEMMA.

_A NOVEL_.

BY HESBA STRETTON


NEW YORK:
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY,
549 & 551 BROADWAY.
1872.




CONTENTS.


_PART THE FIRST_.

I.--AN OPEN DOOR
II.--TO SOUTHAMPTON
III.--A ROUGH NIGHT AT SEA
IV.--A SAFE HAVEN
V.--WILL IT DO?
VI.--TOO MUCH ALONE
VII.--A FALSE STEP
VIII.--AN ISLAND WITHOUT A DOCTOR


_PART THE SECOND_.

I.--DR. MARTIN DOBREE
II.--A PATIENT IN SARK
III.--WITHOUT RESOURCES
IV.--A RIVAL PRACTITIONER
V.--LOCKS OF HAIR
VI.--WHO IS SHE?
VII.--WHO ARE HER FRIENDS?
VIII.--THE SIXTIES OF GUERNSEY
IX.--A CLEW TO THE SECRET
X.--JULIA'S WEDDING-DRESS
XI.--TRUE TO BOTH
XII.--STOLEN WATERS ARE SWEET
XIII.--ONE IN A THOUSAND.
XIV.--OVERHEAD IN LOVE
XV.--IN A FIX
XVI.--A MIDNIGHT RIDE
XVII.--A LONG HALF-HOUR
XVIII.--BROKEN OFF
XIX.--THE DOBREES' GOOD NAME
XX.--TWO LETTERS
XXI.--ALL WRONG
XXII.--DEAD TO HONOR
XXIII.--IN EXILE
XXIV.--OVERMATCHED.
XXV.--HOME AGAIN
XXVI.--A NEW PATIENT
XXVII.--SET FREE
XXVIII.--A BRIGHT BEGINNING
XXIX.--THE GOULIOT CAVES
XXX.--A GLOOMY ENDING
XXXI.--A STORY IN DETAIL
XXXII.--OLIVIA GONE
XXXIII.--THE EBB OF LIFE
XXXIV.--A DISCONSOLATE WIDOWER
XXXV.--THE WIDOWER COMFORTED
XXXVI.--FINAL ARRANGEMENTS
XXXVII.--THE TABLES TURNED
XXXVIII.--OLIVIA'S HUSBAND
XXXIX.--SAD NEWS
XL.--A TORMENTING DOUBT
XLI.--MARTIN DOBREE'S PLEDGE
XLII.--NOIREAU
XLIII.--A SECOND PURSUER
XLIV.--THE LAW OF MARRIAGE
XXV.--FULFILLING THE PLEDGE
XLVI.--A DEED OF SEPARATION
XLVII.--A FRIENDLY CABMAN
XLVIII.--JULIA'S WEDDING
XLIX.--A TELEGRAM IN PATOIS


_PART THE THIRD_.

I.--OLIVIA'S JUSTIFICATION
II.--ON THE WING AGAIN
III.--IN LONDON LODGINGS
IV.--RIDLEY'S AGENCY-OFFICE
V.--BELLRINGER STREET
VI.--LEAVING ENGLAND
VII.--A LONG JOURNEY
VIII.--AT SCHOOL IN FRANCE
IX.--A FRENCH AVOCAT
X.--A MISFORTUNE WITHOUT PARALLEL
XI.--LOST AT NIGHTFALL
XII.--THE CURE OF VILLE-EN-BOIS
XIII.--A FEVER-HOSPITAL
XIV.--OUTCAST PARISHIONERS
XV.--A TACITURN FRENCHWOMAN
XVI.--SENT BY GOD
XVII.--A MOMENT OF TRIUMPH
XVIII.--PIERRE'S SECRET
XIX.--SUSPENSE
XX.--A MALIGNANT CASE
XXI.--THE LAST DEATH
XXII.--FREE
XXIII.--A YEAR'S NEWS
XXIV.--FAREWELL TO VILLE-EN-BOIS
XXV.--TOO HIGHLY CIVILIZED
XXVI.--SEEING SOCIETY
XXVII.--BREAKING THE ICE
XXVIII.--PALMY DAYS
XXIX.--A POSTSCRIPT BY MARTIN DOBREE





PART THE FIRST.




CHAPTER THE FIRST.

AN OPEN DOOR.


I think I was as nearly mad as I could be; nearer madness, I believe,
than I shall ever be again, thank God! Three weeks of it had driven me
to the very verge of desperation. I cannot say here what had brought me
to this pass, for I do not know into whose hands these pages may fall;
but I had made up my mind to persist in a certain line of conduct which
I firmly believed to be right, while those who had authority over me,
and were stronger than I was, were resolutely bent upon making me submit
to their will. The conflict had been going on, more or less violently,
for months; now I had come very near the end of it. I felt that I must
either yield or go mad. There was no chance of my dying; I was too
strong for that. There was no other alternative than subjection or
insanity.

It had been raining all the day long, in a ceaseless, driving torrent,
which had kept the streets clear of passengers. I could see nothing but
wet flag-stones, with little pools of water lodging in every hollow, in
which the rain-drops splashed heavily whenever the storm grew more in
earnest. Now and then a tradesman's cart, or a cab, with their drivers
wrapped in mackintoshes, dashed past; and I watched them till they were
out of my sight. It had been the dreariest of days. My eyes had followed
the course of solitary drops rolling down the window-panes, until my
head ached. Toward nightfall I could distinguish a low, wailing tone,
moaning through the air; a quiet prelude to a coming change in the
weather, which was foretold also by little rents in the thick mantle of
cloud, which had shrouded the sky all day. The storm of rain was about
to be succeeded by a storm of wind. Any change would be acceptable to
me.

There was nothing within my room less dreary than without. I was in
London, but in what part of London I did not know. The house was one of
those desirable family residences, advertised in the _Times_ as to be
let furnished, and promising all the comforts and refinements of a home.
It was situated in a highly-respectable, though not altogether
fashionable quarter; as I judged by the gloomy, monotonous rows of
buildings which I could see from my windows: none of which were shops,
but all private dwellings. The people who passed up and down the streets
on line days were all of one stamp, well-to-do persons, who could afford
to wear good and handsome clothes; but who were infinitely less
interesting than the dear, picturesque beggars of Italian towns, or the
sprightly, well-dressed peasantry of French cities. The rooms on the
third floor--my rooms, which I had not been allowed to leave since we
entered the house, three weeks before--were very badly furnished,
indeed, with comfortless, high horse-hair-seated chairs, and a sofa of
the same uncomfortable material, cold and slippery, on which it was
impossible to rest. The carpet was nearly threadbare, and the curtains
of dark-red moreen were very dingy; the mirror over the chimney-piece
seemed to have been made purposely to distort my features, and produce
in me a feeling of depression. My bedroom, which communicated with this
agreeable sitting-room by folding-doors, was still smaller and gloomier;
and opened upon a dismal back-yard, where a dog in a kennel howled
dejectedly from time to time, and rattled his chain, as if to remind me
that I was a prisoner like himself. I had no books, no work, no music.
It was a dreary place to pass a dreary time in; and my only resource was
to pace to and fro--to and fro from one end to another of those wretched
rooms.

I watched the day grow dusk, and then dark. The rifts in the driving
clouds were growing larger, and the edges were torn. I left off roaming
up and down my room, like some entrapped creature, and sank down on the
floor by the window, looking out for the pale, sad blue of the sky which
gleamed now and then through the clouds, till the night had quite set
in. I did not cry, for I am not given to overmuch weeping, and my heart
was too sore to be healed by tears; neither did I tremble, for I held
out my hand and arm to make sure they were steady; but still I felt as
if I were sinking down--down into an awful, profound despondency, from
which I should never rally; it was all over with me. I had nothing
before me but to give up, and own myself overmatched and conquered. I
have a half-remembrance that as I crouched there in the darkness I
sobbed once, and cried under my breath, "God help me!"

A very slight sound grated on my ear, and a fresh thrill of strong,
resentful feeling quivered all through me; it was the hateful click of
the key turning in the lock. It gave me force enough to carry out my
defiance a little longer. Before the door could be opened I sprang to my
feet, and stood erect, and outwardly very calm, gazing through the
window, with my face turned away from the persons who were coming in; I
was so placed that I could see them reflected in the mirror over the
fireplace. A servant came first, carrying in a tray, upon which were a
lamp and my tea--such a meal as might be prepared for a school-girl in
disgrace.

She came up to me, as if to draw down the blinds and close the shutters.

"Leave them," I said; "I will do it myself by-and-by."

"He's not coming home to-night," said a woman's voice behind me, in a
scoffing tone.

I could see her too without turning round. A handsome woman, with bold
black eyes, and a rouged face, which showed coarsely in the ugly
looking-glass. She was extravagantly dressed, and wore a profusion of
ornaments--tawdry ones, mostly, but one or two I recognized as my own.
She was not many years older than myself. I took no notice whatever of
her, or her words, or her presence; but continued to gaze out steadily
at the lamp-lit streets and stormy sky. Her voice grew hoarse with
passion, and I knew well how her face would burn and flush under the
rouge.

"It will be no better for you when he is at home," she said, fiercely.
"He hates you; he swears so a hundred times a day, and he is determined
to break your proud spirit for you. We shall force you to knock under
sooner or later; and I warn you it will be best for you to be sooner
rather than later. What friends have you got anywhere to take your side?
If you'd made friends with me, my fine lady, you'd have found it good
for yourself; but you've chosen to make me your enemy, and I'll make him
your enemy. You know, as well as I do, he can't hear the sight of your
long, puling face."

Still I did not answer by word or sign. I set my teeth together, and
gave no indication that I had heard one of her taunting speeches. My
silence only served to fan her fury.

"Upon my soul, madam," she almost shrieked, "you are enough to drive me
to murder! I could beat you, standing there so dumb, as if I was not
worthy to speak a word to. Ay! and I would, but for him. So, then, three
weeks of this hasn't broken you down yet! but you are only making it the
worse for yourself; we shall try other means to-morrow."

She had no idea how nearly my spirit was broken, for I gave her no
reply. She came up to where I stood, and shook her clinched hand in my
face--a large, well-shaped hand, with bejewelled fingers, that could
have given me a heavy blow. Her face was dark with passion; yet she was
maintaining some control over herself, though with great difficulty. She
had never struck me yet, but I trembled and shrank from her, and was
thankful when she flung herself out of the room, pulling the door
violently after her, and locking it noisily, as if the harsh, jarring
sounds would be more terrifying than the tones of her own voice.

Left to myself I turned round to the light, catching a fresh glimpse of
my face in the mirror--a pale and sadder and more forlorn face than
before. I almost hated myself in that glass. But I was hungry, for I was
young, and my health and appetite were very good; and I sat down to my
plain fare, and ate it heartily. I felt stronger and in better spirits
by the time I had finished the meal; I resolved to brave it out a little
longer. The house was very quiet; for at present there was no one in it
except the woman and the servant who had been up to my room. The servant
was a poor London drudge, who was left in charge by the owners of the
house, and who had been forbidden to speak to me. After a while I heard
her heavy, shambling footsteps coming slowly up the staircase, and
passing my door on her way to the attics above; they sounded louder than
usual, and I turned my head round involuntarily. A thin, fine streak of
light, no thicker than a thread, shone for an instant in the dark corner
of the wall close by the door-post, but it died away almost before I saw
it. My heart stood still for a moment, and then beat like a hammer. I
stole very softly to the door, and discovered that the bolt had slipped
beyond the hoop of the lock; probably in the sharp bang with which it
had been closed. The door was open for me!




CHAPTER THE SECOND.

TO SOUTHAMPTON.


There was not a moment to be lost. When the servant came downstairs
again from her room in the attics, she would be sure to call for the
tea-tray, in order to save herself another journey; how long she would
be up-stairs was quite uncertain. If she was gone to "clean" herself, as
she called it, the process might be a very long one, and a good hour
might be at my disposal; but I could not count upon that. In the
drawing-room below sat my jailer and enemy, who might take a whim into
her head, and come up to see her prisoner at any instant. It was
necessary to be very quick, very decisive, and very silent.

I had been on the alert for such a chance ever since my imprisonment
began. My seal-skin hat and jacket lay ready to my hand in a drawer; but
I could find no gloves; I could not wait for gloves. Already there were
ominous sounds overhead, as if the servant had dispatched her brief
business there, and was about to come down. I had not time to put on
thicker boots; and it was perhaps essential to the success of my flight
to steal down the stairs in the soft, velvet slippers I was wearing. I
stepped as lightly as I could--lightly but very swiftly, for the servant
was at the top of the upper flight, while I had two to descend. I crept
past the drawing-room door. The heavy house-door opened with a grating
of the hinges; but I stood outside it, in the shelter of the portico;
free, but with the rain and wind of a stormy night in October beating
against me, and with no light save the glimmer of the feeble
street-lamps flickering across the wet pavement.

I knew very well that my escape was almost hopeless, for the success of
it depended very much upon which road of the three lying before me I
should happen to take. I had no idea of the direction of any one of
them, for I had never been out of the house since the night I was
brought to it. The strong, quick running of the servant, and the
passionate fury of the woman, would overtake me if we were to have a
long race; and if they overtook me they would force me back. I had no
right to seek freedom in this wild way, yet it was the only way. Even
while I hesitated in the portico of the house that ought to have been my
home, I heard the shrill scream of the girl within when she found my
door open, and my room empty. If I did not decide instantaneously, and
decide aright, it would have been better for me never to have tried this
chance of escape.

But I did not linger another moment. I could almost believe an angel
took me by the hand, and led me. I darted straight across the muddy
road, getting my thin slippers wet through at once, ran for a few yards,
and then turned sharply round a corner into a street at the end of which
I saw the cheery light of shop-windows, all in a glow in spite of the
rain. On I fled breathlessly, unhindered by any passer-by, for the rain
was still falling, though more lightly. As I drew nearer to the
shop-windows, an omnibus-driver, seeing me run toward him, pulled up his
horses in expectation of a passenger. The conductor shouted some name
which I did not hear, but I sprang in, caring very little where it might
carry me, so that I could get quickly enough and far enough out of the
reach of my pursuers. There had been no time to lose, and none was lost.
The omnibus drove on again quickly, and no trace was left of me.

I sat quite still in the farthest corner of the omnibus, hardly able to
recover my breath after my rapid running. I was a little frightened at
the notice the two or three other passengers appeared to take of me, and
I did my best to seem calm and collected. My ungloved hands gave me some
trouble, and I hid them as well as I could in the folds of my dress; for
there was something remarkable about the want of gloves in any one as
well dressed as I was. But nobody spoke to me, and one after another
they left the omnibus, and fresh persons took their places, who did not
know where I had got in. I did not stir, for I determined to go as far
as I could in this conveyance. But all the while I was wondering what I
should do with myself, and where I could go, when it readied its
destination.

There was one trifling difficulty immediately ahead of me. When the
omnibus stopped I should have no small change for paying my fare. There
was an Australian sovereign fastened to my watch-chain which I could
take off, but it would be difficult to detach it while we were jolting
on. Besides, I dreaded to attract attention to myself. Yet what else
could I do?

Before I had settled this question, which occupied me so fully that I
forgot other and more serious difficulties, the omnibus drove into a
station-yard, and every passenger, inside and out, prepared to alight. I
lingered till the last, and sat still till I had unfastened my
gold-piece. The wind drove across the open space in a strong gust as I
stepped down upon the pavement. A man had just descended from the roof,
and was paying the conductor: a tall, burly man, wearing a thick
water-proof coat, and a seaman's hat of oil-skin, with a long flap lying
over the back of his neck. His face was brown and weather-beaten, but he
had kindly-looking eyes, which glanced at me as I stood waiting to pay
my fare.

"Going down to Southampton?" said the conductor to him.

"Ay, and beyond Southampton," he answered.

"You'll have a rough night of it," said the conductor.--"Sixpence, if
you please, miss."

I offered him my Australian sovereign, which he turned over curiously,
asking me if I had no smaller change. He grumbled when I answered no,
and the stranger, who had not passed on, but was listening to what was
said, turned pleasantly to me.

"You have no change, mam'zelle?" he asked, speaking rather slowly, as if
English was not his ordinary speech. "Very well! are you going to
Southampton?"

"Yes, by the next train," I answered, deciding upon that course without
hesitation.

"So am I, mam'zelle," he said, raising his hand to his oil-skin cap; "I
will pay this sixpence, and you can give it me again, when you buy your
ticket in the office."

I smiled quickly, gladly; and he smiled back upon me, but gravely, as if
his face was not used to a smile. I passed on into the station, where a
train was standing, and people hurrying about the platform, choosing
their carriages. At the ticket-office they changed my Australian
gold-piece without a word; and I sought out my seaman friend to return
the sixpence he had paid to me. He had done me a greater kindness than
he could ever know, and I thanked him heartily. His honest, deep-set,
blue eyes glistened under their shaggy eyebrows as they looked down upon
me.

"Can I do nothing more for you, mam'zelle?" he asked. "Shall I see after
your luggage?"

"Oh! that will be all right, thank you," I replied, "but is this the
train for Southampton, and how soon will it start?"

I was watching anxiously the stream of people going to and fro, lest I
should see some person who knew me. Yet who was there in London who
could know me?

"It will be off in five minutes," answered the seaman. "Shall I look out
a carriage for you?"

He was somewhat careful in making his selection; finally he put me into
a compartment where there were only two ladies, and he stood in front of
the door, but with his back turned toward it, until the train was about
to start. Then he touched his hat again with a gesture of farewell, and
ran away to a second-class carriage.

I sighed with satisfaction as the train rushed swiftly through the
dimly-lighted suburbs of London, and entered upon the open country. A
wan, watery line of light lay under the brooding clouds in the west,
tinged with a lurid hue; and all the great field of sky stretching above
the level landscape was overcast with storm-wrack, fleeing swiftly
before the wind. At times the train seemed to shake with the Wast, when
it was passing oyer any embankment more than ordinarily exposed; but it
sped across the country almost as rapidly as the clouds across the sky.
No one in the carriage spoke. Then came over me that weird feeling
familiar to all travellers, that one has been doomed to travel thus
through many years, and has not half accomplished the time. I felt as if
I had been fleeing from my home, and those who should have been my
friends, for a long and weary while; yet it was scarcely an hour since I
had made my escape.

In about two hours or more--but exactly what time I did not know, for my
watch had stopped--my fellow-passengers, who had scarcely condescended
to glance at me, alighted at a large, half-deserted station, where only
a few lamps were burning. Through the window I could see that very few
other persons were leaving the train, and I concluded we had not yet
reached the terminus. A porter came up to me as I leaned my head through
the window.

"Going on, miss?" he asked.

"Oh, yes!" I answered, shrinking back into my corner-seat. He remained
upon the step, with his arm over the window-frame, while the train moved
on at a slackened pace for a few minutes, and then pulled up, but at no
station. Before me lay a dim, dark, indistinct scene, with little specks
of light twinkling here and there in the night, but whether on sea or
shore I could not tell. Immediately opposite the train stood the black
hulls and masts and funnels of two steamers, with a glimmer of lanterns
on their decks, and up and down their shrouds. The porter opened the
door for me.

"You've only to go on board, miss," he said, "your luggage will be seen
to all right." And he hurried away to open the doors of the other
carriages.

I stood still, utterly bewildered, for a minute or two, with the wind
tossing my hair about, and the rain beating in sharp, stinging drops
like hailstones upon my face and hands. It must have been close upon
midnight, and there was no light but the dim, glow-worm glimmer of the
lanterns on deck. Every one was hurrying past me. I began almost to
repent of the desperate step I had taken; but I had learned already that
there is no possibility of retracing one's steps. At the gangways of the
two vessels there were men shouting hoarsely. "This way for the Channel
Islands!" "This way for Havre and Paris!" To which boat should I trust
myself and my fate? There was nothing to guide me. Yet once more that
night the moment had come when I was compelled to make a prompt,
decisive, urgent choice. It was almost a question of life and death to
me: a leap in the dark that must be taken. My great terror was lest my
place of refuge should be discovered, and I be forced back again. Where
was I to go? To Paris, or to the Channel Islands?




CHAPTER THE THIRD.

A ROUGH NIGHT AT SEA.


A mere accident decided it. Near the fore-part of the train I saw the
broad, tall figure of my new friend, the seaman, making his way across
to the boat for the Channel Islands; and almost involuntarily I made up
my mind to go on board the same steamer, for I had an instinctive
feeling that he would prove a real friend, if I had need of one. He did
not see me following; no doubt he supposed I had left the train at
Southampton, having only taken my ticket so far; though how I had missed
Southampton I could not tell. The deck was wet and slippery, and the
confusion upon it was very great. I was too much at home upon a steamer
to need any directions; and I went down immediately into the ladies'
cabin, which was almost empty, and chose a berth for myself in the
darkest corner. It was not far from the door, and presently two other
ladies came down, with a gentleman and the captain, and held an anxious
parley close to me. I listened absently and mechanically, as indifferent
to the subject as if it could be of no consequence to me.

"Is there any danger?" asked one of the ladies.

"Well, I cannot say positively there will be no danger," answered the
captain; "there's not danger enough to keep me and the crew in port; but
it will be a very dirty night in the Channel. If there's no actual
necessity for crossing to-night I should advise you to wait, and see how
it will be to-morrow. Of course we shall use extra caution, and all that
sort of thing. No; I cannot say I expect any great danger."

"But it will be awfully rough?" said the gentleman.

The captain answered only by a sound between a groan and a whistle, as
if he could not trust himself to think of words that would describe the
roughness. There could be no doubt of his meaning. The ladies hastily
determined to drive back to their hotel, and gathered up their small
packages and wrappings quickly. I fancied they were regarding me
somewhat curiously, but I kept my face away from them carefully. They
could only see my seal-skin jacket and hat, and my rough hair; and they
did not speak to me.

"You are going to venture, miss?" said the captain, stepping into the
cabin as the ladies retreated up the steps.

"Oh, yes," I answered. "I am obliged to go, and I am not in the least
afraid."

"You needn't be," he replied, in a hearty voice. "We shall do our best,
for our own sakes, and you would be our first care if there was any
mishap. Women and children first always. I will send the stewardess to
you; she goes, of course."

I sat down on one of the couches, listening for a few minutes to the
noises about me. The masts were groaning, and the planks creaking under
the heavy tramp of the sailors, as they got ready to start, with shrill
cries to one another. Then the steam-engine began to throb like a pulse
through all the vessel from stem to stern. Presently the stewardess came
down, and recommended me to lie down in my berth at once, which I did
very obediently, but silently, for I did not wish to enter into
conversation with the woman, who seemed inclined to be talkative. She
covered me up well with several blankets, and there I lay with my face
turned from the light of the swinging lamp, and scarcely moved hand or
foot throughout the dismal and stormy night.

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