Sally did not recover rapidly from her illness: her long mental
suffering had told upon her vitality, and left her unprepared for any
strain. The little baby also languished, sharing its mother's depressed
condition. Day after day, Doctor Eben came to the house. His quick step
sounded in the hall and on the stairs; his voice rang cheery, whenever
the door of Sally's room stood open. Hetty found herself more and more
conscious of his presence: each day she felt a half guilty desire to see
him again; she caught herself watching for his knock, listening for his
step; she even went so far as to wonder in a half impatient way why he
never sent for her, to give her the directions about Sally, instead of
giving them to the nurse. She little dreamed that Doctor Eben was as
anxious to avoid seeing her, as she had been to avoid seeing him. He had
a strangely resentful feeling towards Hetty, as if she were a personal
friend who had been treacherous to him. She was the only one of all
the partisans of Doctor Tuthill that he could not sympathize with and
heartily forgive. He would have found it very hard to explain why he
thus singled out Hetty, but he had done so from the outset. Strange
forerunning instinct of love, which uttered its prophecy in an unknown
tongue in an alien country! There came a day before long, when Doctor
Eben and Hetty were forced to forget all their prejudices, and to come
together on a common ground, where no antagonisms could exist.
Sally and the baby were both very ill. Hetty, in her inexperience of
illness, had not realized how serious a symptom Sally's long continued
prostration was. In her own busy and active life, the days flew by
almost uncounted: she was out early and late, walking or riding over the
farm; and when she came back to Sally's room, and found her always with
the same placid smile, and fair untroubled face, and heard always the
same patient reply, “Very comfortable, thank you, dear Hetty,” it never
occurred to her that any thing was wrong. It seemed strange to her that
the baby was so still, that he neither cried nor laughed like other
babies; and it seemed to her very hard for Sally to have to be shut up
in the house so long: but this was all; she was totally unprepared
for any thought of danger, and the shock was terrible to her, when the
thought came. It was on a sunny day in May, one of those incredible
summer days which New England sometimes flashes out like frost-set
jewels in her icy spring. Hetty had listened, as usual, to hear the
Doctor leave Sally's room: she was more than usually impatient to have
him go, for she was waiting to take in to Sally a big basket of arbutus
blossoms which old Cæsar had gathered, and had brought to Hetty with a
characteristic speech.
“Seems's if the Lord meant 'em for baby's cheeks, don't it, Miss Hetty?
they're so rosy.”
“Our poor little man's cheeks are not so pink yet,” said Hetty, and as
she looked at the pearly pink bells nestling in their green leaves, she
sighed, and wished that the baby did not look so pale. “But he'll be all
right as soon as we can get him out of doors in the June sunshine,” she
added, and turned from the dining-room into the hall, with the great
basket of arbutus in her hand. As she turned, she gave a cry, and
dropped her flowers: there sat Dr. Eben, in a big arm-chair, by the
doorway. He sprang to pick up the flowers. Hetty looked at him without
speaking. “I was waiting here to see you, Miss Gunn,” he said, as
he gave back the flowers. “I am very sorry to be obliged to speak to
you,”--here Hetty's eyes twinkled, and a slight, almost imperceptible,
but very comic grimace passed over her face. She was thinking to
herself, “Honest, that! I expect he is very sorry,”--“I am very sorry to
have to speak to you about Mrs. Little,” he continued; “but I think it
is my duty to tell you that she is sinking very fast.”
“What! Sally! what is the matter with her?” exclaimed Hetty. “Come right
in here, doctor;” and she threw open the sitting-room door, and, leading
him in, sank into the nearest chair, and said, like a little child:
“Oh, dear! what shall I do?”
Dr. Eben looked at her for a second, scrutinizingly.
This was not the sort of person he had expected to see in Miss Hetty
Gunn. This was an impulsive, outspoken, loving woman, without a trace of
any thing masculine about her, unless it were a certain something in the
quality of her frankness, which was masculine rather than feminine; it
was more purely objective than women's frankness is wont to be: this Dr.
Eben thought out later; at present, he only thought: “Poor girl! I've
got to hurt her sadly.”
“You don't mean that Sally's going to die, do you?” said Hetty, in a
clear, unflinching tone.
“I am afraid she will, Miss Gunn,” replied Dr. Eben, “not immediately;
perhaps not for some months: but there seems to be a general failure of
all the vital forces. I cannot rouse her, body or soul.”
“Nonsense!” said Hetty. “If rousing is all she wants, surely we can
rouse her somehow. Isn't there any thing wrong with her anywhere?”
Dr. Eben smiled in spite of himself at this off-hand, non-professional
view of the case; but he answered, sadly:
“Not what you mean by any thing wrong; if there were, it would be easier
to cure her.”
Hetty knitted her brows, and looked at him in her turn, scrutinizingly.
“Have you had patients like her before?”
“Yes,” said Dr. Eben.
“Did they all die? Didn't you cure one?” continued Hetty, inexorably.
“I have known persons in such a condition to recover,” said Dr. Eben,
with dignity; “but not by the help of medicine so much as by an entire
change of conditions.”
“What do you mean by conditions?” said Hetty, never having heard, in her
simple and healthful life, of anybody's needing what is called a “change
of scene.” Dr. Eben smiled again, and, as he smiled, he noted with an
involuntary professional delight the clear, fine skin, the firm flesh,
the lustrous eye, the steady poise of every muscle in this woman,
who was catechising him, with so evident a doubt as to his skill and
information.
“I hardly think; Miss Gunn,” he went on, “that I could make you
understand, in your superb health, just all I mean by change of
conditions. It means change of food, air, surroundings; every thing in
short, which addresses itself to the senses. It means an entire new set
of nerve impressions.”
“Sally isn't in the least nervous,” broke in Hetty. “She's always as
quiet as a mouse.”
“You mean that she isn't in the least fidgety,” replied the doctor.
“That is quite another thing. Some of the most nervous people I know
have absolute quiet of manner. Mrs. Little's nervous system has been for
several years under a terrible strain. When I was first called to her, I
thought her trouble and suffering would kill her; and I didn't think it
would take so long. But it is that which is killing her now.” Hetty was
not listening: she was thinking very perplexedly of what the doctor had
said a few moments before; interrupting him now, she said, “Would it do
Sally good to take her to another place? that is easily done.” Dr. Eben
hesitated.
“I think sea-air might help her; but I am not sure,” he replied.
“Would you go with us?” asked Hetty. “She wouldn't go without you.” The
doctor hesitated again. He looked into Hetty's eyes: they were fixed
on his as steadily, as unembarrassedly, as if he and Hetty had been
comrades for years. “What a woman she is,” he thought to himself, “to
coolly ask me to become their travelling physician, when for six weeks I
have been coming to the house every day, and she would not even speak to
me!”
“I am not sure that I could, Miss Gunn,” he replied. Hetty's face
changed. A look of distress stamped every feature.
“Oh, Dr. Williams, do!” she exclaimed. “Sally would never go without
you; and she will die, you say, unless she has change.” Then hesitating,
and turning very red, Hetty stammered, “I can pay you any thing--which
would be necessary to compensate you: we have money enough.” Dr. Eben
bowed, and answered with some asperity:
“The patients that I had hesitancy about leaving are patients who pay me
nothing. It is not in the least a question of money, Miss Gunn.”
“Forgive me,” exclaimed Hetty, “I did not know--I thought--”
“Your thought was a perfectly natural one, Miss Gunn,” interrupted
the doctor, pitying her confusion. “I have never had need to make my
profession a source of income: I have no ambition to be rich; and, as
I am alone in the world, I can afford to do what many other physicians
could not.”
“When can you tell if you could go?” continued Hetty, not apparently
hearing what the doctor had said.
“She only thinks of me as she would of a chair or a carriage which would
make her friend more comfortable,” thought the doctor; “and why should
she think of me in any other way,” he added, impatient with himself for
the selfish thought.
“To-morrow,” said he, curtly. “If I can go, I will; and there is no time
to be lost.”
Hetty nodded her head, but did not speak another word: she was too near
crying; and to have cried in the presence of Dr. Eben Williams would
have mortified Hetty to the core.
“Oh, to think,” she said to herself, “that, after all, I should have to
be under such obligations to that man! But it is all for Sally's sake,
poor dear child. How good he is to her! If he were anybody else, I
should like him with all my heart.”
The next morning, as Dr. Williams walked slowly up the avenue, he
saw Hetty standing in the doorway, shading her eyes with her hand and
looking towards him. The morning sun shone full upon her, and made
glints of golden light here and there in her thick brown curls. Hetty
had worn her hair in the same style for fifteen years; short, clustering
curls close to her head on either side, and a great mass of curls
falling over a comb at the back. If Hetty had a vanity it was of her
hair; and it was a vanity one was forced to forgive,--it had such
excellent reason for being. The picture which she made in the doorway,
at this moment, Dr. Eben never forgot: a strange pleasure thrilled
through him at the sight. As he drew near, she ran down the steps
towards him; ran down with no more thought or consciousness of the
appearance of welcoming him, than if she had been a child of seven: she
was impatient to know whether Sally could go to the sea-shore. This
man who approached held the decision in his hands; and he was, at that
moment, no more to Hetty than any messenger bringing word which she was
eager to hear. But Dr. Eben would have been more or less than man, could
he have seen, unmoved, the swift motion, the outstretched hands, the
eager eyes, the bright cheeks, the sunlit hair, of the beautiful woman
who ran to meet him.
“Well?” was all that Hetty said, as, panting for want of breath, she
turned as shortly as a wild creature turns, and began to walk by Dr.
Eben's side. He forgot, for the instant, all the old antagonisms; he
forgot that, until yesterday, he had never spoken with Hetty Gunn; and,
meeting her eager gaze with one about as eager, he said in a familiar
tone:
“Yes; well! I am going.”
Hetty stopped short, and, looking up at him, exclaimed:
“Oh, I am so glad!”
The words were simple enough, but the tone made them electric. The
doctor felt the blood mounting in his face, under the unconscious look
of this middle-aged child. She did not perceive his expression. She did
not perceive any thing, except the fact that Sally's doctor would help
her take Sally away, and save Sally's life. She continued:
“We'll take her to 'The Runs.' Did you ever go there, doctor? It is only
a day's journey from here, the loveliest little sea-side place I ever
saw. It isn't like the big sea-side places with their naked rocks, and
their great, cruel, thundering beaches. I hate those. They make me sad
and desperate. I know Sally wouldn't like them. But this little place
is as sweet and quiet as a lake; and yet it is the sea. It is hugged in
between two tongues of land, and there are ever so many little threads
of the sea, running way up into the meadows, which are thick with high
strong grass, so different from all the grasses we have here. I buy salt
hay from there every year, and the cattle like it, just a little of it,
as well as we like a bit of broiled bacon for breakfast. There is a nice
bit of beach, too,--real beach; but there are trees on it, and it looks
friendly: not as if it were just made on purpose for wrecks to drift up
on, like the big beaches: oh, but I hate a great, long sea-beach! There
is a farm-house there, not two minutes' walk from this beach, where they
always take summer boarders. In July it wouldn't be pleasant, because
it is crowded; but now it will be empty, and we can have it all to
ourselves. There is a dear, old, retired, sea captain there, too, who
takes people out in such a nice sail-boat. I shall keep Sally and the
baby out on the water all day long. I am afraid you will find it very
dull, Dr. Williams. Do you like the sea? Of course you will stay with us
all the time. I don't mean in the least, that you are to come only
once a day to see Sally, as you do here. You will be our guest, you
understand. I dare say you will do more to cure Sally than all the
sea-air and all the medicine put together. She has had so few people to
love in this world, poor girl, that those she does love are very dear to
her. She is more grateful to you than to anybody else in the world.”
“Except you, Miss Gunn,” replied the doctor, earnestly. “You have
done for her far more than I ever could. I could show only a personal
sympathy; but you have added to the personal sympathy material aid.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” said Hetty, absently. She did not wish to hear any
thing said about this. “We can set out to-morrow, if you can be ready,”
she continued. “I shall have Cæsar drive the horses over next week. They
can't very well be spared this week. The worst thing is, we have to set
out so early in the morning, and Sally is always so much weaker then.
Could you”--Hetty hesitated, and fairly stammered in her embarrassment.
“Couldn't you come over here to-night and sleep, so as to be here when
she first wakes up? You might do something to help her.” Before Hetty
had finished her sentence, her face was crimson. Dr. Eben's was full
of a humorous amusement. Already, in twenty-four hours, had it come to
this, that Hetty was urging that popinjay Dr. Ebenezer Williams, to come
and sleep under her roof? The twinkle in his face showed her plainly
what he was thinking. He began to reply:
“You are very kind, Miss Gunn”--Hetty interrupted him:
“No, I am not at all kind, Dr. Williams; and I see you are laughing at
me, because I've had to speak to you, after all, as if I liked you. But,
of course, you understand that it is all for Sally's sake. If I were to
be ill myself, I should have Dr. Tuthill,” said Hetty, in a tone meant
to be very resolute and dignified, but only succeeding in being comical.
The doctor bowed ceremoniously, replying: “I will be as frank as you
are, Miss Gunn. As you say, 'of course' I understand that any apparent
welcome which you extend to me is entirely for Mrs. Little's sake; and
that it is sorely against your will that you have been obliged to speak
to me; and that it is solely in my capacity as physician that I am asked
to sleep under your roof to-night; and I beg your pardon for saying that
I accept the invitation in that capacity, and no other, solely because
I believe it will be for the interest of my patient that I do so. Good
morning, Miss Gunn,” and, as at that moment they reached the house, Dr.
Eben bowed again as ceremoniously as before, sprang up the piazza steps,
and ran up the staircase, two steps at a time, to Sally's room. Hetty
stood still in the doorway: she felt herself discomfited. She was half
angry, half amused. She did not like what the doctor had said; but she
admitted to herself that it was precisely what she would have said in
his place.
“I don't blame him,” she thought, “I don't blame him a bit; but, it is
horridly disagreeable. I don't see how we're ever to get on; and it is
so provoking, for, if he were anybody else, we'd be real good friends.
He isn't in the least what I thought he was. I hope he won't come over
before tea. It would be awkward enough. But then, he's got to take all
his meals with us at 'The Runs.' Oh, dear!” and Hetty went about her
preparations for the journey, with feelings by no means of unalloyed
pleasure.
No danger of Dr. Eben's coming before tea. It was very late when he
appeared, valise in hand, and said in a formal tone to Hetty, who met
him at the door, in fact had been nervously watching for him for four
whole hours:
“I am very sorry to see you still up, Miss Gunn. I ought to have
recollected to tell you that I should not be here until late: I have
been saying good-by to my patients. Will you have the kindness to let
me be shown to my room?” and like a very courteous traveller, awaiting a
landlady's pleasure, he stood at foot of the stairs.
With some confusion of manner, and in a constrained tone, unlike her
usual cheery voice, Hetty replied:
“The next door to Sally's, doctor.” She wished to say something more,
but she could not think of a word.
“What a fool I am!” she mentally ejaculated, as the doctor, with a hasty
“good-night,” entered his room. “What a fool I am to let him make me so
uncomfortable. I don't see what it is. I wish I hadn't asked him to go.”
“That woman's a jewel!” the doctor was saying to himself the other side
of the door: “she is as honest as a man could be. I didn't know there
could be any thing so honest in shape of a woman under fifty: she
doesn't look a day over twenty-five; but, they say she's nearly forty;
it's the strangest thing in life she's never married. I'll wager any
thing, she's wishing this minute I was in Guinea; but she'll put it
through bravely for sake of Sally, as she calls her, and I'll keep out
of her way all I can. If it weren't for the confounded notion she's
taken up against me, I'd like to know her. She's a woman a man could
make a friend of, I do believe,” and Dr. Eben jumped into bed, and was
fast asleep in five minutes, and dreamed that Hetty came towards him,
dressed like an Indian, with her brown curls stuck full of painted
porcupine quills, and a tomahawk brandished in her hand.