Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: Ruth passed the astonished Ayah.—CHAP. XVIII.]
_[The Arundel Family series]_
The Doctor's Daughter
BY
CATHARINE SHAW
Author of "The Gabled Farm," "Nellie Arundel," "In the Sunlight,"
"At Last," &c., &c.
JOHN F. SHAW & CO., LTD.
3 PILGRIM STREET
LUDGATE HILL, LONDON, E.C.4
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. LONELY
II. ARTHUR ARUNDEL
III. SOMETHING TO LIVE FOR
IV. THE LETTER THAT WAS POSTED
V. A CHAIN
VI. MARY
VII. IN THE SUNLIGHT
VIII. THE BAY WINDOW
IX. PROUD
X. THE HARDEST THING
XI. THE ARRIVAL
XII. THE LOST LETTER
XIII. AN ANGRY ELEPHANT
XIV. A DREAM
XV. AT RIVERSIDE
XVI. INVADED
XVII. AT THE FARM
XVIII. NORMAN'S SUPPER
XIX. CONFIDENCES
XX. A PRESENT
XXI. ON THE DOORSTEP
XXII. HOUSEKEEPING
XXIII. A PARTING
XXIV. GOOD NEWS
XXV. DISMAY.
XXVI. INTERRUPTED
XXVII. BY THE WINDOW
XXVIII. A SUNSET
XXIX. MALA
XXX. DR. BROWN'S PLAN
XXXI. THE HOUSE IN THE TREES
XXXII. A LARGE FAMILY
XXXIII. IN THE SHADED ROOM
THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER.
———
CHAPTER I.
_LONELY._
"WELL, my dear!" said a quick, rather pleasant voice. "Here you are!"
"Yes, father, always here," answered another voice, as a young girl
emerged from behind the curtains of the bay window, where she had been
standing gazing out on the pretty garden. "What a wet day you have had!"
"Pretty well," he answered, as he came forward to the fire, "but I do
not feel it in the carriage as other folks do who have to trudge along
in the mud."
"No," she assented, helping him off with his coat and carrying it into
the hall; "are you ready for your tea, father?"
"I should think 'you' are," he answered, glancing at the clock. "Such
a list of patients as I have had to-day. I thought I should never get
through."
"I suppose it is the wet weather," she remarked as she rang the bell.
"It is wonderfully cold for April!"
Her father sat down in the armchair she had placed for him, and warmed
his hands in a placid way, looking round on his daughter with contented
eyes.
"Is Dr. Arundel come, father?"
"Not yet; he arrives this evening. Heigho! I'd sooner have rubbed along
by myself, I do believe, than to undertake to get someone else into the
work."
"Oh! But, then, see how the work keeps on increasing, and now we live
up the hill, it is such a long way from the town. You could not do it
all."
He smiled a little. "You know best, don't you?" he said fondly. "Here
is the teapot; pour out a cup, there's a dear; I'm weary."
She handed it to him, pressing him with pretty persuasion to take
something to eat.
She was a dainty little thing, with wavy hair, small hands and feet,
and an engaging manner.
He watched her as she moved quickly and noiselessly about, and then he
sighed.
She turned her head quickly.
"Is the tea not good?" she asked.
"Oh, yes, perfectly. Very nice, my dear."
She sat down by his side, with her own cup in her hand, and looked
into the fire. She was always disturbed if her father sighed. "I was
thinking, Ruth, that it was a mistake to have come up here to live; I
wish we had not."
"Then we will go to the town again," she answered decidedly; "it is
nothing to move."
"Nothing!" he responded. "That is all you know!"
"Why do you regret it, particularly?" asked Ruth.
"I came up here for your mother's sake, and after all, it did not save
her. Nothing could, as far as that went; but I wish I had not moved
from the town."
There was an instant's pause.
"Oh, well!" she said brightly. "We can think it over. I like being at
The Firs ten times as much as in the old frowsy town, but if you do
not, we'll go back there. I love the dear old house! See, your tea is
getting cold; let me give you another cup. Perhaps Dr. Arundel's coming
will make ever so much difference."
"I should not wonder." Then there was another sigh, and after a moment
he asked, "Let me see, how old are you, Ruth?"
"I am seventeen—" she hesitated an instant—"to-morrow."
"To-morrow!" he exclaimed, rousing himself. "Why did no one tell me, or
remind me?" Then, with the heaviest sigh he had yet given, he went on,
"It was your mother who always thought of these things."
Ruth had privately wondered if he would remember. He was so clever in
all outside things. But as long as she was cheerful, and in her place
to welcome him, he seemed to think very little about her, or so she
thought.
Perhaps she was mistaken. But sometimes when she had finished a long
day of pretty ministry to him, and was shut up in her own room at
night, she would lay her head in her mother's chair and cry bitterly
for the want of she knew not what. Whether it was the lack of
mother-love or sympathy, or simple desolateness, she could not tell.
"What would you like me to give you, my dear?" asked her father,
turning round abruptly.
And Ruth's thoughts came back to the present.
"I do not know, father," she answered colouring. "Anything you like—or
nothing—"
"That is likely, is it not, my precious?" he said fondly. "Well, I
must 'cudgel my brains,' as people say; girls are curious creatures. I
expect you will have to help me?"