“The thirst which from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a draught divine!”
“Most extraordinary!”
These words were uttered aloud by Mr. Black as he sat alone in his
editorial office, engaged in the laborious work of reading manuscript.
He was a reserved man; indeed, he had to be, for nothing but his great
self-possession and power of concentration could have enabled him to
get through with the duties of his position. With the aid of these,
however, he did accomplish them thoroughly and systematically, and was
always deliberate in his manner--rarely hurried, and rarely excited.
For this reason it was all the more remarkable that such an exclamation
as the one recorded should have escaped him. His duties included such
an endless amount of boredom that the perusal of a manuscript which
could have had such words applied to it would have been cause for
immense gratulation to him, had it been its merit which had called
forth such an expression. As a matter of fact, it was not this, but
rather a very extraordinary coincidence.
Mr. Black was possessed of a marvellous insight into the literary
demands of his subscribers, and it was this insight which had swelled
his list to its present size; and he knew perfectly well that the
manuscript now in his hands would have to be refused, as he knew also
that the one which he had laid down just before it must share the same
fate. And yet to himself, personally, both of these manuscripts had
been of deep and peculiar interest.
The first was written in a woman’s hand, and was signed “Ethel Ross,”
and, in the note that had accompanied it, Miss Ethel Ross had given her
address in a certain small and obscure town. This note, as well as
the manuscript itself, had a certain _naïveté_ about it which gave Mr.
Black some insight into the writer. The freedom with which the note was
written was of a piece with the freedom with which the manuscript was
written, and Mr. Black felt pretty sure that both of them were under
the protection of a _nom de guerre_. The young lady calling herself
Miss Ethel Ross had taken him into her confidence in the amusing way
in which a contributor so often confides in an unknown editor. Mr.
Black, however, was a very human-hearted editor, and he never objected
to these confidences, and even did what he could to give a friendly
word of response to the writers, independent of his judgment of the
manuscript.
In this instance the writer had acknowledged the fact that this was her
first manuscript, and had added that it would probably be her last! She
had always heard, she went on to say, that everybody had one story
in them, and, if that saying were true, this was her story. She had
never thought of writing for publication before, she said, but for
certain reasons she had suddenly concluded to make the effort, and the
accompanying manuscript was the result.
With these data to go upon, Mr. Black, who was a keen student of human
nature, had seen the whole thing as plain as a picture before his eyes,
even to the understanding of the “certain reasons.” He felt sure that
the need of money had been the reason--a _motif_ for literary effort
known to him all too well. There was no indication in either the letter
or the manuscript of even the faintest stirring of the divine afflatus
of literary creation. There was no hint of any desire for fame. It was
distinctly, and he felt sure, honestly, owned, that the writer had
emptied herself in this story, and would be incapable of doing anything
further. Of all the incentives to writing known to him, the need of
money was the only one that fitted this case. And how powerful must
that need have been to have caused a woman to write her heart out, as
this woman had done here.
The story, if it could be called a story, was absolutely without
literary form, and so unfinished in style that no magazine could
have ventured to print it. And yet there breathed through it such an
exquisite soul of sweetness, such a spirit of refinement, purity,
innocence, aspiration and charm, that Mr. Black was tempted to ask
her to re-cast the manuscript, leave out the poor attempt at plot,
and let the subtle self-analysis appear in the form of entries in a
journal, or letters, or something of that sort. There were two reasons
against this, though--one was, that he felt that the girl would have
been incapable of doing what he wanted, and would simply have made a
mess of it; and the other was, that he positively shrank from exposing
to public view the secrets of the heart of this young girl. For the
keynote of this poor story of hers was the aspiration of a young,
innocent, and ardent woman after love. What it described was the
hardships of a lot keenly interpenetrated with pain, full of privation
of body and soul, obscured by perplexities and difficulties on every
side, and yet sweetened, illuminated, glorified, by the possibility of
the attainment of the supreme good, which, to this being, at least,
was to be found only in love. Here was a creature, if ever words
painted truth, whose waiting heart was kept both strong and pure by
the sanctification of that hope. The manuscript proved beyond a doubt,
that, though she could not write, she could love!
Mr. Black had laid it down, with tenderness and regret, and had rather
sadly gone about the task of writing her a note to be sent with the
returned manuscript. He had had to harden his heart to this sort of
thing so often, that he did not flinch from the plain duty before him,
and he would not lead this girl to believe that she could ever write.
What he felt like telling her was, that he found himself positively
grateful to her for the self-revelation of so pure a heart and so
strong a spirit. This, of course, he was not at liberty to express; but
he said what he could to soften the blow to her, and he put aside to be
returned to the author the manuscript, which was beautifully written
(on both sides of the paper, however), and tied with a bit of blue
ribbon.
Then he took up the next manuscript, and, to his relief, found it to
be in a man’s handwriting. It would help him, he hoped, to efface the
impression which its predecessor had made on him. This strong and
vigorous writing was unknown to him also, and Mr. Black began to read,
with that stirring of possibilities which rises in the jaded mind of
the editor at the sight of the work of a perfectly new contributor, and
which ninety-nine times out of a hundred ends in disappointment.
This case proved not to be the exceptional one, for this manuscript
possessed the same faults of inexperience and lack of literary form
as the last one. The letter that accompanied it furnished a further
coincidence, in the fact that it acknowledged the use of a _nom de
guerre_, and that the present was the first effort of the writer, who,
for certain reasons, had been impelled to write this one story, and
would probably never write another. The motive, however, in this case,
must have been a different one; for this man, who called himself Hugh
Robertson, said that he didn’t think his story worth paying for; (This
made Mr. Black smile. Could it then be worth publishing?) but he would
like to have it come out in this magazine, because its circulation was
so large that, in that way, it would reach a great number of readers.
And what, then, was the message for which this Hugh Robertson desired
such a wide audience? Mr. Black read the manuscript attentively, and
then, after a brief study of the man, as his character was indicated in
his note and his handwriting, he constructed his theory of the case.
Here was a man, strong, able, successful, surrounded by conditions
of prosperity and ease which flatly contradicted the case of Ethel
Ross--and yet the keynote to this soul, too, was the all-powerful one
of love. Between the two there was a difference, however, for the
woman’s heart was attuned to aspiration and the man’s to renunciation.
The message from the woman’s heart was that every trial and earthly
evil could be borne without complaint, so long as there remained the
possibility of the fulfilment of ideal love. The message from the man’s
heart was that the fulfilment of ideal love was so well-nigh impossible
a thing (though every other fulfilment which the world could give
was scant joy in comparison with it), that it behooved one to learn
earnestly the lesson of resignation without cynicism. The man’s voice
was the stronger of the two, and his message was the nobler, but then
there was every indication of its being the outcome of a maturer mind.
It had been as Mr. Black laid down the second manuscript that he had
uttered the exclamation already recorded, and the thing that struck
him as so very extraordinary was the subtle sort of answering to
each other’s needs which these two manuscripts conveyed to his mind.
The man’s was as obviously a self-revelation as the woman’s; and the
perspicacious editor shrewdly suspected him of being a very shy man,
who would not have been able to express himself fully and freely in his
own person, and who had therefore sought this means of saying what he
had to say to as large an audience as he could reach. Mr. Black could
not quite explain why he felt it so, but, in reality, he was convinced
that this was a man of influence and importance, who lived a life of
active labor, in which he was able to express himself objectively,
but who was now, for the first time, giving his soul a subjective
expression in this manuscript. The address given by Hugh Robertson was
in a great and populous city. It was also in a locality not very far
away from the little town from which Ethel Ross had dated her letter.
Mr. Black reflected on this fact rather wistfully. He wished that this
man and this woman could meet. He could hardly have been the judge of
fiction that he was, without a certain amount of romance in him; but,
on the other hand, he had an equal amount of common sense, and he saw
that the obvious and practical duty of the present moment was to guard
the confidence of his contributors in the discharge of his functions as
editor.
So he drew a sheet of paper toward him, and wrote his letter to Hugh
Robertson. It was much shorter and more restrained than the former one,
for no one could fail to recognize in this man a person quite able to
stand on his own feet, and yet Mr. Black felt conscious of a regret in
this instance, too. A man so strongly capable of renouncing seemed to
him the very man who deserved to possess.
Before he had quite finished, he was interrupted by a pressing business
demand, so he thrust both the finished and unfinished letters into the
drawer of his desk, together with the letters to which they were the
answers. Before he left the room, he called one of his assistants and
delivered to him the two manuscripts, to be put up for return, and
giving the addresses, told the clerk to send on the manuscripts, and he
would forward, later in the day, his letters to the two authors.
He hurried away from the room then, and the clerk took the two
manuscripts into the outer office, put them up with great precision
and care, and in all unconsciousness sent Hugh Robertson’s manuscript
to Ethel Ross, and Ethel Ross’s manuscript to Hugh Robertson. He had
understood Mr. Black’s very explicit directions, but, in putting up and
sealing the two parcels, he had mixed them.
So it came to pass that when Miss Ethel Ross--whose real name, in
full, was Ethel Ross Duncan--went on her daily mission to the little
postoffice of the small country town, she received one day, not the
envelope containing a check, for which she so mightily longed, but a
bulky package, which made her very young and ardent heart sink low
within her. She really had not expected to have her story returned. It
had seemed to her, as she had written it with breathless agitation,
in stolen moments, alone in her chamber at night, so palpitatingly
interesting, that, as she had ended it, she had felt a positive
certainty of seeing those thrilling words turned into print, and of
having, in exchange for it, a check which should be large enough for
her to carry out a passionate desire of her heart.
It was with difficulty that she could repress her tears as she took the
package, which had suddenly become so stale and poor and worthless a
thing, and walked homeward with it.
It could hardly be called a home to which she was going back, for she
had neither father nor mother to give that sacred character to the
shabby little house she now approached. But this house contained,
all the same, the being who was at once the source of the sweetest
pleasure and the keenest pain in her young life. This was her little
brother, who, long ago, had had an injury from a fall, and who had been
an invalid and a cripple ever since. The whole responsibility of his
care, as well as his support, was upon Ethel, and she had been able to
discharge it by means of a position in the village school, which paid
her just enough for the bare living of the two. For years her brother’s
case had been considered hopeless, and the local doctor, saying he
could do no good, had not kept up his visits. Lately, however, Ethel
had heard of wonderful things achieved by a distinguished surgeon in a
great city not far away, and it had now became an ardent hope in her
heart to take little Bob there. She confided this wish to the woman
with whom they boarded, but the rural mind is slow to catch enthusiasm,
and she had only responded by saying that it would take more money than
ever she could scrape together. Ethel had managed to save a little by
great economy, and she calculated that this would cover the traveling
expenses, if only she could get from somewhere enough to pay the doctor.
This had been the spur that had led her to make that desperate effort
with the story, and to lay bare the deepest and most sacred feelings of
her heart. She was a very reserved girl, and she never could have done
it, but for the safety of distance, and the protection of a name that
was not her own.
Well, she had done it, and done it conscientiously. She had “dipped
her pen in herself” and written out of her own heart, and this was the
result--to have the record of her soul-life returned with thanks, or
perhaps without them. She felt no interest in opening the packet, and
went and thrust it out of sight in the back of a drawer in her own
room as soon as she reached the house. Bob was in pain, and he called
to her crossly, and complained because she had left him. He was often
impatient with her, and she generally bore it sweetly; but to-day it
cut and irritated her.
She said nothing, however, as she took off her hat and came to the side
of the couch where he was lying. The child looked up and saw tears in
her eyes, and his face and tone grew more resentful still.
“What are you crying about?” he said. “What business have _you_ to cry,
when you are well and strong, and you can walk and run and go about
wherever you please, and never have an ache or a pain? And then you
have the ‘cheek’ to tell me to be brave, and to bear my pain, and not
to cry!”
“O Bobby, you are right!” she said. “I ought not to cry and be a
coward, and I _am_ ashamed of it; but something has happened that has
disappointed me so dreadfully. However, I’ll try to be brave about
it, and remember the lessons I have tried to teach to you. I wish I
could help you--poor little Bob! It _is_ awful, _awful_, to have to
suffer all the time as you do; but, at least, you don’t suffer in
your mind--do you? You know I always take care of you and make you as
comfortable as I can. Tell me that, Bobby, for it comforts me more than
anything in the world to think of that.”
“Of course, I know you will take care of me,” said the child; “but is
nobody ever going to do anything to make me any better? Am I going to
lie and suffer all my life, and never be strong and well like other
boys?”
“O Bobby, I don’t know! I don’t know!” said the poor girl, remembering,
with a pang, the failure of the only effort it had been in her power
to make. “I want to take you to the city to see that great doctor, for
I think he might be able to help you. I will do it, if I ever can, but
poor sister can do so little to make money, and it takes money to do a
thing like that.”
“Yes, I know,” said the boy, with a certain change in his tone. “When I
was little, I used to think I’d make money for you. I used to say you
were too pretty to work, and that I would work for you. When Mother
died and the pension stopped, I thought if you’d work for me a little
while, I’d soon be able to work for you, and I would have done it, if
I had not had that fall. Oh, why didn’t it kill me at once! I wish it
had!”
“No, my Bobby, no!” said Ethel, bending over him and drawing his arm
around her neck. “If you had died, poor sister would have had no one in
the world to love; and that would be the worst thing that could happen
to anybody.”
“It’s not so bad as being lame,” said the boy.
“O Bobby, I think it’s worse!” said Ethel, half involuntarily.
“Then it shows how much you know about it!” said Bobby; and Ethel made
haste to soothe and reassure him, and tell him how much she sympathized
with his trouble, and stifled back the wish that he, or somebody, could
sympathize with hers.
When night came at last, and the child had gone to sleep, and Ethel was
alone in her little room that opened into his, she softly closed the
door between them, and gave herself up to the luxury of a good cry.
It was one of the few luxuries within her reach; she did not often
indulge herself in this, but to-night she felt she must. It was this
craving for sympathy which brought it on her--the passionate wish
that somebody understood her and was aware of the struggle she made
continually, by day and by night, to still the craving of her heart for
love. She loved Bobby, but he was an unceasing care to her, and she
wanted somebody to care for her, as she cared for him. If she had, how
ardently grateful would she be for such care and protection--and how
little he seemed to respond to or appreciate it! Of course, it was not
to be expected of a crippled boy, continually preoccupied by pain, and,
as a rule, she never thought of expecting it. But to-night she felt
that need of being understood swelling up within her so passionately,
that it seemed almost more than she could bear.
When she had cried until there seemed to be no more tears left to shed,
she got up and went to the old dressing-table to prepare for bed. She
looked at herself, half bitterly, as she realized how useless all those
foolish tears had been. She might as well make up her mind that her
lot in life was to be drudgery and disappointment, and that no one
would ever really understand her or enter into the feelings of her
heart.
She pulled open a drawer to get something out, and as she did so she
remembered the manuscript. She took it out and looked at the cold,
unsympathetic typewriting on the back. It was foolish of her to shrink
from opening it, and she would compel herself to look once more at
those poor pages which she had written with such heart throbbings, and
sent off with such hopes.
Running a hairpin along the edge of the sealed envelope, she cut it
open and drew the contents out. How was this? They looked unfamiliar.
There was no binding with blue ribbons, no delicate woman-writing.
Instead, she held in her hands a number of loose sheets covered with
the strong, distinct, nervous characters of a man’s hand. The title of
this manuscript was _The Draught Divine_. The title of hers had been
_The Soul-Thirst_. The caption under the title was exactly the one that
she had put under hers:
“The thirst which from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a draught divine.”
But for this coincidence she would probably have suspected some mistake
at the editorial office and put the manuscript by; but after seeing
this, she felt that she must read it.
And so, standing fascinated where she was, she turned leaf after
leaf, and read breathlessly on. As she did so, the old mirror
opposite reflected a picture whose glowing beauty deepened every
minute. Here, the divine draught of love was so strongly analyzed,
its component parts so comprehendingly described, and its powerful
effects so brilliantly demonstrated, that the paper had almost the
character of a scientific treatise. The subject, she felt, could
scarcely have been handled in this deliberate way but for the very
fact that the writer was in an attitude, not of anticipation, but of
renunciation. It mattered little to Ethel that the plot of this story
was ill-constructed and illogical, and the situations commonplace and
trite. What she saw before her on these sheets, and felt permeating
every corner of her soul, was the renunciation of all the ideal
conditions of living and loving that her heart aspired to. What this
man gave up was what she had always so resolutely claimed--what she
had never wavered in demanding and expecting of life, until this very
evening, when, for the first time, she had looked in the face of
possible renunciation.
But with the reading of this paper she shifted back to her old
ground, for here, at least, she felt herself comprehended at last.
Not one of all the people with whom her lot had hitherto been cast
had ever uttered thoughts and feelings such as these; but here, in
this manuscript, were the very echoes of her own soul. Yes, all of
them--the loud, sonorous, reverberating ones, no less than the
delicate soundings of her finest needs. She looked at the signature at
the end, and saw the words, “Hugh Robertson.” This gave an individual
character to the consciousness that had just entered into her, and the
mere knowledge of the existence of such a personality in the world was
a stimulating and an exhilarating thought that made her smile.
As she did so, she looked up and caught the reflection of herself in
the mirror before her. Happiness, the supreme beautifier, had swiftly
done its wonder-work, and she could not fail to realise that she was
very fair to see. The knowledge of it gave her pleasure. The power of
enjoyment, lately so stultified and depressed, returned to her with
a glowing ardor. All the world began suddenly to look more hopeful.
Ah, life was sweet, its opportunities were great and precious, its
possibilities were divine!
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.
“Then let me tell you, my dear child, that I feel very certain that
I can help him and relieve him of much of the pain, but I have no
certainty of curing him. The most that I can do is to help nature out,
and wait for results. The treatment will be long, but will inevitably
do much good and relieve the pain; I ask nothing, but that you will
leave the case to me. Will you?”
“How can you ask? How can I be anything but glad and thankful to do
it?” said Ethel, the tears springing to her eyes. “But I have told
you--”
“Yes, I know,” he interrupted her, “we needn’t speak about that now. If
you leave the matter to me, you must leave it to me wholly. All that is
my affair. I often wait indefinitely for my pay, and it really isn’t
such an expensive matter as you may suppose. But, as I said before, you
must do your part. You must stay here with Bobby, and take care of and
amuse him. That will do away with the need of a special nurse.”
“Of course I will--until my school begins,” said Ethel. “Then I will
be obliged to go. That is a matter of life and death to Bobby, and me,
too.”
“And how long before that does begin?”
“Three weeks,” said Ethel, in a tone that was half desperate.
“Three weeks!” said the doctor, quickly. “That is plenty of time to
arrange for the future; and now all you have got to do is to be as
happy as you can, say your prayers, and leave the rest to me. Now, you
can go and see Bobby. I told Lawson to stay with him until you came.”
He got up and opened the door for her, as he spoke, and, without
knowing why, she carried away a strong impression of charm and strength
from the pose of his figure, as he held the door open for her. He was a
trained athlete, and not the least part of his personal attractiveness
was in his exceptionally handsome figure.
The next day, Bobby was put under chloroform, and an operation was
performed. Ethel was sent to Mrs. Mills’ room during this time, and
when at last a message arrived for her to come, she found her little
brother stretched out very straight and stiff upon a bed, waiting for
the plaster jacket, in which he had been cased, to harden. He was still
unconscious, but the doctor, who met her at the door, prepared her for
a comprehension of everything, by telling her that it was “all right,”
and that he was more convinced than ever of being able to do Bobby
good. The doctor himself was in his working clothes of immaculate white
linen, a costume in which those who had been privileged to see him,
declared that he looked his very best; and when he bent over Bobby,
and took the trouble to explain to Ethel what he had done in the way
of straightening and righting things, she felt as if he were a sort of
strong good spirit, who had both power and will to lessen the woes of
life.
Ethel had feared that the effect of the plaster would be to make the
boy, at first, at least, more uncomfortable; but to her delight, she
found that the support which it gave was an intense relief to him, and
that he seemed every hour to be growing better in body and in mind.
The doctor’s influence over him was simply unbounded, and a tremendous
reformation had evidently begun in temper and disposition.
One afternoon, a few days later, Ethel was sitting telling Bobby a
story, when there came a knock at the door. She called “Come in,” and
to her surprise it was the doctor who entered, although it was out of
his usual hospital hours. He wore a long overcoat of tan-colored cloth,
had a flower in his button-hole, and held an immaculate top-hat in his
gloved hand. Ethel quite started. She had never seen such an imposing
gentleman as this, outside of a picture, before.
“I have come to give you a little airing,” he said; “you need it, I
am sure. Will you put on your wraps and come down as soon as you are
ready? I want to take you to the park.”
Then he turned and put his gloved thumb on the button of the electric
bell, and, in a moment, a tidy nurse appeared.
“Are you on special duty, this afternoon?” he asked; and having a
negative reply, went on: “Then find some storybooks or toys and come
and amuse this child, if you please. I am going to take Miss Duncan for
a little airing.”
When Ethel, five minutes later, came downstairs, she found the doctor
waiting in the hall, while several people--nurses, patients, etc.--were
trying to get a word with him.
But he waved them off, shaking his head and shutting his eyes, with a
smile of obstinate dismissal of their claims.
“I am off duty now,” he said; “all these things must wait, or you must
go to the other doctors. Come, Miss Duncan,” and he led the way down
the long hall. As he opened the door for Ethel to go out, she saw,
drawn up before the pavement, a handsome drag, with a pair of superb
horses, glittering with their heavy harnesses, and with a groom in
top-boots standing at their heads.
As she was helped into this imposing equipage, which was as far removed
from anything in her former experience as the coach and six was from
Cinderella’s, the doctor gathered up the reins, while the groom sprang
into his place behind, and they started off over the noisy cobblestones
at a swinging pace.
Very soon, however, they had left the city streets behind, and were
bowling along at ease over the smooth roads of the beautiful park.
And then what delightful talk they had! How her companion drew her
out, and provoked her to charming and spontaneous chatter! She was a
rather countrified little creature, in spite of her beauty, and perhaps
some of the fashionable people, who bowed to Dr. Hubert in passing,
wondered at the shape of her little black hat, and the cut of her dark
cloth jacket. If they did, she never suspected it; and if her companion
did, it must have troubled him very little, for he had a gleam of
positive exultation in his eyes.
It was a memorable drive to them both, and there was such a feeling of
spontaneous freedom and confidence in the girl’s heart, that, when she
got back to Bobby at last, she felt as if she had really known this
charming, friendly doctor the whole of her natural life.
“And so you have!” he said to her, next day, when, having sent for her
to come to his office, she had made this same remark to him. “I really
believe we have known each other always. It only remained for us to
meet in bodily presence. But what I sent for you to-day was, to tell
you that I had leisure now to listen to what you said you had to tell
me about your future plans. I checked you then, but now I want to hear
what it is. Tell me.”
“I only wanted to remind you that I must go away very soon,” she began.
“You can’t go; Bobby needs you,” said the doctor, decidedly.
“I know it. I don’t see what I am to do. I can go back and send a
little money from my salary for his weekly board, but that seems almost
preposterous.”
“The idea of your leaving seems preposterous,” he said. “I really can’t
let you go. The school must go to the wall.”
“Oh! how can you talk so?” she said. “It’s the first time that you have
seemed uncomprehending.”
“I am not uncomprehending,” he said; “I am only thinking hard how I can
make you comprehend.”
“Comprehend what?” she said.
“Shall I tell you?” he asked. “Will you promise me not to be angry, and
will you keep your promise?”
“Yes, tell me; I promise,” she said. “I don’t believe I could fail to
comprehend whatever it is that you have to say to me.”
“Then what I have to say is this--what my heart burns to say, what I
have had to fight myself, day and night, since the first day of your
coming, to keep from saying, is this--that I love you, and that all my
hope of joy is to have you for my wife.”
She sprang to her feet, and looked at him with wonder and mystification
in her eyes.
“Ah!” he said; “you were mistaken. You cannot comprehend how I love you
so, when, as you think, I know you so little. But there you are wrong.
I know you, as no one else in all the world can possibly know you; and
I think you, of all the world, are the one who best knows me. Here,
look at this, and tell me if you have ever seen it before.”
He took a packet from the drawer at his side, and put it in her hands.
The color flew to her face, and her lips parted in a radiant smile.
“Yes,” she said, “I have seen it before. Was this story written by you?”
“It was,” he answered; “and it is because I know that you have read
it and have understood that it is no story, but the baring of a man’s
inmost heart, that I say you know me as no one else does. In the same
manner also, it has come to pass that I know you.”
“You got my manuscript?” she said. “It was you to whom Mr. Black sent
it by mistake?”
“It was,” he answered; “and perhaps it will not seem strange to you
now when I say, we are not strangers, but are intimately, closely,
mysteriously known to one another. This knowledge of you, on my part,
has led to love--the first real passion of my life. I loved you from
the hour that I read that paper. I loved your nature, your mind, your
soul. Now that I have seen you, in all your goodness and loveliness
and beauty, I love you beyond all my dreams of love. And you?” he said;
“how is it with you, Ethel?”
She looked at him with a slow, half-puzzled, wholly confiding, and
happy smile.
“If you had asked me to marry you without telling me this,” she said,
“I could not have said ‘yes.’ I might not have told you the reason, but
it would have been that my heart was already given to a man whom I had
never seen, and who was known to me only as ‘Hugh Robertson.’”
“But now,” he said, “now that you know that Hugh Robertson is really
Arthur Hugh Hubert, what will you say? O Ethel, I love you with the
hoarded love of many loveless and lonely years! Will you come to me,
and be my wife?”
His eyes were glowing. His face was flushed; his breathing came from
him in quick breaths. He did not move toward her, but stood where he
was, and held out his arms.
And Ethel came to them, and as she rested there an instant, and then
turned her face upward to receive his kiss, they both felt in that
moment’s ecstasy the long thirsting of their souls satisfied at last,
completely and eternally, by the divine draught of love.