PART THE FIRST.

THE DOCTOR'S DILEMMA

A NOVEL

BY HESBA STRETTON

NEW YORK:

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY,

549 & 551 BROADWAY.

1872.

She shook her clinched hand in my face

CONTENTS

PART THE FIRST.

CHAPTER THE FIRST.

CHAPTER THE SECOND.

CHAPTER THE THIRD.

CHAPTER THE FOURTH.

CHAPTER THE FIFTH.

CHAPTER THE SIXTH.

CHAPTER THE SEVENTH.

CHAPTER THE EIGHTH.

PART THE SECOND.

CHAPTER THE FIRST.

CHAPTER THE SECOND.

CHAPTER THE THIRD.

CHAPTER THE FOURTH.

CHAPTER THE FIFTH.

CHAPTER THE SIXTH.

CHAPTER THE SEVENTH.

CHAPTER THE EIGHTH.

CHAPTER THE NINTH.

CHAPTER THE TENTH.

CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH.

CHAPTER THE TWELFTH.

CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH.

CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH.

CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH.

CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH.

CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH.

CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH.

CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH.

CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SECOND.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-THIRD.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIFTH.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SIXTH.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SEVENTH.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-EIGHTH.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-NINTH.

CHAPTER THE THIRTIETH.

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FIRST.

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SECOND.

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-THIRD.

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FOURTH.

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FIFTH.

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SIXTH.

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SEVENTH.

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-EIGHTH.

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-NINTH.

CHAPTER THE FORTIETH.

CHAPTER THE FORTY-FIRST.

CHAPTER THE FORTY-SECOND.

CHAPTER THE FORTY-THIRD.

CHAPTER THE FORTY-FOURTH.

CHAPTER THE FORTY-FIFTH.

CHAPTER THE FORTY-SIXTH.

CHAPTER THE FORTY-SEVENTH.

CHAPTER THE FORTY-EIGHTH.

CHAPTER THE FORTY-NINTH.

PART THE THIRD.

CHAPTER THE FIRST.

CHAPTER THE SECOND.

CHAPTER THE THIRD.

CHAPTER THE FOURTH.

CHAPTER THE FIFTH.

CHAPTER THE SIXTH.

CHAPTER THE SEVENTH.

CHAPTER THE EIGHTH.

CHAPTER THE NINTH.

CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH.

CHAPTER THE TWELFTH.

CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH.

CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH.

CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH.

CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH.

CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH.

CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH.

CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH.

CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SECOND.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-THIRD.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIFTH.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SIXTH.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SEVENTH.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-EIGHTH.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-NINTH.

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. The re was no chance of my dying; I was too strong for that. The re 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.

The re 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 It alian 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.

The re 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. The re had been no time to lose, and none was lost. The omnibus drove on again quickly, and no trace was left of me.