Part 7

As these thoughts darted through her mind and illuminated her beautiful face there came a sudden recollection which checked the first and clouded the second--the thought of Bob with his sad burden of pain and helplessness. Oh, how dreadful that such things could be! Couldn’t it be helped? she wondered. Couldn’t something be done? Somehow, a new power seemed to have come into her--a power of initiative and action, such as she had never felt before. She suddenly determined that she would write to the great doctor, of whose skill she had heard so much, and ask him if he would examine Bob if she brought him on, and tell her what could be done. The incentive was so strong that she got her desk and wrote the letter at once, explaining that she had no money now, except enough for the bare expenses of the trip, but adding that, if treatment could be had for Bob at a moderate cost, she might hope to save the money for it, if she could pay a little at a time.

She finished the letter, and addressed it in her delicate, characteristic hand to Dr. Arthur H. Hubert, but there she had to stop. It would be necessary to wait until she could get his address.

Ethel waked next morning with a feeling of renewed youth, for which she could not account, until she recollected the manuscript, which, in her ardent way, she had slipped under her pillow, before going to sleep. Perhaps it was to that cause that she was indebted for some very sweet and joy-giving dreams, in which she had lived in such a rose-colored world that, even in returning to the sombreness of the actual one, she brought with her a portion of that lovely hue.

To-day’s mail brought her Mr. Black’s letter, and made it perfectly clear that this manuscript had been sent her by mistake, instead of her own. The kind words in the letter helped and strengthened her, and the reading of the manuscript had given her such joy that she felt the sting of the failure of her own half obliterated. She sat down and wrote to Mr. Black, telling him of the mistake, and asking him to give her the address of Hugh Robertson, so that she might send his manuscript to him and ask for her own back, if he should, as she supposed, have received hers. She knew that the more regular way would be to send the manuscript back to Mr. Black; but the fact was, she hated to part with it, and she resorted to this means of keeping it a little longer. She was too refined a girl to have any idea of getting up an acquaintance with the writer of the story in this way, and it would never have occurred to her to do more than let him know that she had read it. That, she thought, she might do, though she did not mention the fact to Mr. Black.

Immediately upon the receipt of her letter Mr. Black wrote and asked that the manuscript might be returned to him, apologizing for the mistake. He said the addresses of his contributors were a matter of professional confidence, and he felt bound, therefore, to return the manuscript himself. He made many apologies for having also, through a fault in his office, sent her manuscript to Hugh Robertson, and added that he had just received from that gentleman a request for her address, to which he had replied in the same terms as those of his letter to her. As soon as he received her manuscript he would forward it to her, he said.

What he did not say, however, was, that the clerk who had made the mistake had been let off with a lighter reprimand than was usual with Mr. Black, who somehow felt that if he said too much he might be tampering with the designs of Providence.

Dr. Hubert sat alone in his office opening his mail--a great pile of letters and papers and medical journals, relative chiefly to his practice and the working of his hospital. Many of the people who wrote to the celebrated surgeon from a distance were much surprised, when they came to see him, to find him so young a man. The great success of his surgical practice had brought him almost suddenly into notice and prominence, and now, although he was under forty, he had a well-established and very successful hospital of his own. He was unmarried, despite the fact of such decided personal attractions as made him almost an idol with the ladies; and the current belief was, that he had been “disappointed in love.” Although this fact was generally accepted, no one had ever been able to identify the object of this theory. If the more intimate of his friends and patients ventured to question him on this point, he would laughingly defy them to point out the lady; but, confident as he was of their inability to do this, he acknowledged, to his own heart, at least, that it was literally true that he had been “disappointed in love.” That was exactly it. No loved woman had ever disappointed him, but his feelings came from the fact that love itself had disappointed him; and the little god, though long expected and looked for, had resolutely turned his back and looked the other way. So now, at last, Dr. Hubert had made up his mind to be independent of Cupid; and having spent much of his force in restless watching and wooing of him, he had determined to secure a greater power of concentration in his profession by bidding him farewell. He was essentially a deliberate and methodical man, however; and as it was his habit to study and investigate every theory and practice of medicine and surgery before he either accepted or rejected it, and even to formulate his grounds of action in writing, he had written out his theory of love, and formulated to himself the grounds of his rejection of it. The chief reason for this rejection was the difficulty, if not the impossibility, of realizing his ideal. Dr. Hubert was an intensely energetic man, and the great secret of his success had been in his excellent discrimination between the attainable and unattainable. So in his profession he left the province of abstract and experimental theories to less active men, and only worked along the lines that gave promise of definite results. He was very ambitious in his profession, and he knew that he had so long served it with a divided heart, that he now proposed to do in the matter of love what he had done in all other departments, and give up a search for what plainly appeared to be the unattainable.

Accordingly, it had occurred to him to make the matter more impersonal by writing his thesis on renunciation in the form of a story, and, having written it, to publish it under a _nom de guerre_, and send it to a journal with a large circulation. He was accustomed to having his papers considered important, and he had never written one that appeared to him more so than this. Moreover, he had an absolute horror of wasted force in any department, and he wanted this paper to be widely read. The message which he delivered in it was a warning to men, and women too, not to spend their best energies in a restless seeking after love, but, rather, after a reasonable amount of time and force had been put into the quest, to make a strong act of renunciation, and to have their faculties unimpeded for whatever work they could find to do.

This was the story which he had sent to Mr. Black’s magazine, and which, with Mr. Black’s usual admirable promptness, had been returned to him, as he supposed. But, lo! upon opening the envelope he had found another manuscript, written in the beautiful handwriting of a refined woman, tied with a bit of blue ribbon, and having a title strongly allied to his own, and a sub-title that was identical.

Of course he read the manuscript. He began it with interest, which increased to eagerness, and ended in avidity. Whoever Ethel Ross might be, she had a soul that answered his; a heart that gave back to his heart, throb for throb. He had dashed off a note to Mr. Black, asking for her address, that he might return the manuscript to its author, and Mr. Black had sent him, by this post, the letter in which he had declined to give the address, and had asked that the manuscript might be returned to him.

This was the letter which Dr. Hubert had singled out of the pile before him, recognizing it by the name of the magazine printed in the corner, and pushing all his other mail aside.

He read the letter twice, with a look of distinct disappointment on his face, but mingled with it there was a look of strong determination. He was in the habit of overcoming difficulties, and he did not purpose to let himself be conquered here. He put Mr. Black’s communication in a drawer, and drew the remainder of his letters toward him.

He read them rapidly through, putting them by to be answered by his stenographer in the evening, until he came to the one at the bottom of the pile. When he saw the address on this letter, he started. All the rest he had read with business-like composure, but now his face actually flushed. The handwriting looked familiar; its character was peculiar, and he had seen it before--he knew where.

He hastily cut it open and turned to the signature. It was “Ethel R. Duncan.” What could it mean? Had she, perchance, read his manuscript, too, and more successful than he, obtained his address and written to him? These questions were soon answered by the reading of the letter.

He found himself addressed simply in his capacity as physician, and the whole tone of the letter was that of a young person speaking to an elder. This grated on him a little, but it was a mere detail, and the main point was, that he found the coveted opportunity, which he had been prepared to do much to win, just within his grasp.

He held the letter in his hand a moment, and then opening a drawer, and taking out the manuscript eagerly, identified the writing. There could not be a shadow of a doubt. This letter proposed to give him immediately the power to make her acquaintance, by coming on to his hospital at once, and bringing her little brother to him for treatment. This was her wish and design, provided the very scanty means which she acknowledged should not be an obstacle. One point that she made, was the necessity for immediate action, as her school was to re-open in three weeks, and she, at least, would have to return.

Dr. Hubert drew a sheet of paper toward him at once, and wrote to Miss Duncan, taking the tone that it was the most natural thing in the world for people to bring patients to his hospital without any prospect of paying for their treatment, and urging her not to lose a day in bringing her brother on, saying that the financial part of the transaction could all be settled at some future time, when it had been seen whether or not the patient could be benefitted. This he left to be copied on the typewriter.

Then he wrote a very light and easy letter to Mr. Black, and with the utmost propriety returned the manuscript. He had fancied that it would be a great trial to him to give up that little packet of paper but now, with the opportunity which he had in view, he could let it go willingly, especially as every word of it was inscribed on his heart.

These two matters disposed of, Dr. Hubert got into his buggy, and had himself driven to the hospital. It was not his usual time for coming, and the matron and nurses were thrown into quite a little flutter of surprise at seeing him. He soon explained, however, that he had only come to give explicit orders that Number 29 was not to be given to any one, as he wished it reserved for a patient whom he was expecting in a day or two. This was his favorite room in the hospital; its wallpaper, furniture, and situation were the very best in the house, and the price of it corresponded to this fact.

When Dr. Hubert sprang into his buggy again, there was a buoyancy in his manner which was unusual, even to this energetic man. A little later, as he came suddenly in view of a florist’s window, he put out his hand and jerked up the horse suddenly, to the driver’s surprise, and went into the shop. When he came out, he had a rose in his button-hole, and a big bunch of carnations in his hands. These he smelt with evident pleasure, from time to time, finally bestowing them on a little crippled boy who was one of his patients.

By return of post Dr. Hubert got a letter announcing the day and hour on which the new patient and his sister might be expected.

On that day and hour he sent one of his young assistant physicians to the station to meet the brother and sister, explaining that they had been very especially commended to his care, and that, as the boy was lame, the young lady might require assistance in moving him.

As he uttered the words “young lady,” the possibility crossed his mind that the adjective might possibly be proved to be a mistake. Suppose, after all, she should turn out to be elderly, unlovable, and unbeautiful! He laughed to himself, in ardent rejection of the idea. Such a woman might well have been the author of those two letters, which were models of stiff propriety and reserve, but such a woman could never be the author of that manuscript. When he remembered the free expression of vivid thought and ardent feeling that that story had contained, he felt a positive certainty that the being who had written it would prove to be both young and lovely.

And both young and lovely did she prove. When “The Doctor,” as he was called by all the inmates of the hospital, whether they served and worshipped him as employees or as patients, arrived that afternoon, he paid every visit that was due on the premises before he went to Number 29. These visits were unusually brief, however, and as he consulted his watch before tapping at that door, he saw that he had managed well, and had left himself plenty of time to be deliberate in the examination of this patient and the talking over of his case with his sister.

Certainly it was a youthful voice that called, “Come in,” in answer to his knock. He came in, accordingly, and closed the door behind him.

He was a very handsome man, this doctor, and very young for his great reputation. He stood just within the threshold, with his hands resting on his hips in an attitude of much natural grace. Then he bowed politely and took in the two occupants of the room with a keen and concentrated gaze, through a pair of very light and polished glasses.

The crippled boy was lying on the bed, and a beautiful, blooming, vigorous young girl was sitting by him in an attitude of expectation, and with a look upon her face that was tinged with a shy timidity. The doctor did not speak at first, having a fancy that she should open the conversation. She stood up, in evident hesitation what to do, and then said:

“Did you want to speak to me about anything?”

“I fancied you wanted to speak to me,” he said.

“You are, perhaps, one of the doctors,” said Ethel, not knowing what else to say.

“Yes, I’m one of the doctors,” he said, looking at her keenly all the time, with a self-possession which she found it impossible to imitate. She was so confused, in fact, that she could think of nothing to say but, “Which one?”

“Dr. Hubert,” he said.

“Oh, are there two Dr. Huberts?” she asked. “I didn’t know that.”

“There is but one Dr. Hubert, so far as I know,” he said. “Why do you object to my being he?”

“Oh, really!” said the girl, blushing. “Please excuse me. I thought he would be an old man.”

“I’m glad he ain’t. I hate old men!” put in Bobby, unexpectedly.

“Thank you very much, my boy,” said the doctor, advancing to the bed-side. “Your sister, it seems, is disappointed in me. I am afraid I will have to make a big effort to build up her confidence.”

“Oh, no, no! It isn’t that,” said Ethel, eagerly; but he was plainly not attending to her words, as he bent over the bed and looked scrutinizingly into the boy’s face, and then took one of the small, thin hands into his, and held it in a watchful sort of way as he turned to the girl and said, with earnest interest:

“Is his general health pretty good?”

“Oh, yes, I think so,” began Ethel; but the child interrupted her, roughly:

“Oh, yes, you think so!” he said. “As if you knew how I suffer! You never have an ache or a pain, and you don’t care how _I_ feel!”

Ethel was about to speak, when the doctor, catching Bobby by the chin and looking intently into his eyes, said firmly:

“Now look here, my youngster, I’m going to put a stop to this at once--do you understand? I’m not going to have your sister spoken to in any such a way as that. She’s your best friend, and she seems to be a good enough one for any boy alive, and I’d like to see you treat her with a little respect, if you please.”

The boy flushed deeply as he realized the impression that he had made upon this new doctor, from whom he hoped so much. He was very angry with himself, and said quickly:

“Perhaps you think I don’t love her, or know how good she is to me. If you think so, you are wrong. I love her better than all the world, and I know there never was such a good sister; but she doesn’t mind. She knows how I suffer, and she lets me talk to her like that, when the pain is very bad.”

There were tears of regret and mortification in his eyes as he spoke, seeing which the doctor’s face grew suddenly very gentle.

“I know how you suffer, even better than she does,” he said; “but until I can relieve the suffering, as I hope to do, _I_ am not going to let you talk to her like that, both because it must hurt her feelings and because it is unkind and unmanly of you. I know you well enough already to feel sure that you want to bear your troubles like a man, and I am going to help you to do it.”

With what infinite comfort did Ethel listen to these words! She had found her poor little brother’s tempers almost more than she could battle with at times, and for his own sake she had longed to correct them, but no one had ever given her any help before. Indeed, it was a new thing to her to be helped in any way, and never had she recognized in any human being such a power of helpfulness as she had already divined to be in this man. She looked at Bobby keenly to see if he appeared to be irritated and angry; but, instead of showing a spirit of peevishness and antagonism toward the person who had given him so decided a rebuke, she saw that the child’s eyes were fixed upon the doctor with a look of strong confidence and affectionate appeal.

“Can you make me well?” he said.

“That is more than I can tell you yet,” the doctor answered; “but I will do my part, if you do yours. You know, and I know, that this good sister of yours will do hers.”

“Yes, I know that better than you,” said Bobby; “but what is my part?”

“To be patient and manly, and to do what you are told. Can you do that?”

“I can try,” said Bobby, wistfully.

“That is all that any of us can do--try our best. And now, Miss Duncan, if you will do me the kindness to go to the matron’s room, at the end of this hall, and tell her to send Dr. Lawson to me here, at once, I will see what is the trouble with this little man. If you will also stay with Mrs. Mills until I send for you to return, you will have the chance to make acquaintance with a very kind and motherly woman, whom you will find prepared to render you any help or service that may be in her power, while you are in the house.”

Ethel got up at once, but before leaving she said, while her face grew suddenly white and anxious:

“Can you tell me what you are going to do?”

“Only to make an examination,” he said, gently. “I will not hurt him.”

Oh, how grateful it was to her heart to find that he cared--cared about hurting Bobby’s body, and cared about hurting her feelings! As the girl left the room and walked down the wide and beautifully clean and bright hall, she was conscious for the first time since childhood of being helped and taken care of, and of having her load of responsibility shared by another.

At the end of about twenty minutes of pleasant talk with Mrs. Mills, a pretty little nurse, with snowy cap and apron, appeared, and with the manner of suppressed agitation, which usually characterized in this establishment those who were the bearers of messages from “The Doctor,” she summoned Ethel to an audience with that august individual in his private office.

When Ethel knocked at the door of this attractive room, it was promptly opened from within, and Dr. Hubert, after having closed the door behind her, led her to a chair and sat down facing her. He then began asking her very searching and detailed particulars as to the fall which Bobby had had, and, when he had ended these, he added:

“And, now, you would like to ask me some questions, would you not? You want to know the result of my examination?”

“If you want to tell me,” she said. “I am willing to know as much or as little as you wish.”

“You have confidence in me, then?”

“Oh, I have, indeed,” said Ethel, “absolute confidence!”

“That is good!--but, this confidence--when did it come to you? From what you have heard of me, or from what you have seen?”

“A good deal from what I have heard, but more from what I have seen. I knew you were a great doctor, but now I know you are good and kind.”

“You trust me, then, about your brother? You believe that I will do my utmost for him and for you?”

“Oh, I do!” said Ethel, earnestly.