EXTRACT FROM DR. WEST’S JOURNAL.
“SAN FRANCISCO, June.
“Do I believe it now, after the first stunning effect is over, and I sit
here alone thinking calmly of what came to me in Jessie Verner’s letter?
Do I believe that Dora will marry her brother-in-law, remembering as I
do the expression of her face when she sat by the two graves and I told
her of Anna? Can there be jealousy where there is no love? I think not,
and she was jealous of my commendations of Jessie. Oh, was I deceived,
and did her coldness and ill-nature mean more than I was willing to
admit? It is very hard to give her up, loving her as I do, but God knows
best what is for my good. When I set Anna above Him He took her away,
and now He will take my Dora. It is sheer selfishness, I know, and yet I
cannot help feeling that I would rather she were lying by Anna’s side
than to see her Squire Russell’s wife. It is a most unnatural match, for
there is no bond of sympathy in their natures. Dora must be unhappy
after the novelty is gone. Darling Dora,—it is not wicked to speak thus
of her now, as there is no certainty in the case, only a surmise, which,
nevertheless, has almost broken my heart, for I feel sure that whether
she marry the Squire or not, she is lost to me. She does not care for
me. She never did, else why does she grow so cross and crisp when my
name is mentioned? Alas! that I should ever have thought otherwise, and
built up a beautiful future which only Dora was to share with me. I am
afraid to record on paper how dear she is to me, or how constantly she
has been in my mind since I parted from her. How anxiously I waited for
some reply to my letter, and how disappointed I was in the arrival of
every mail. I wonder if I did well to answer Jessie so soon, and send
that message to Dora? I am confident now that it was not a right spirit
which prompted me to act so hastily. I felt that Dora had broken faith
with me,—that she should have waited at least the year,—that in some way
she was injuring me, and so vindictive pride dictated the words I sent
her. May I be forgiven for the wrong; and if Dora is indeed to be the
bride of her sister’s husband, may she be happy with him, and never know
one iota of the pain and suffering her marriage will bring to me.
“Our stay in California has been very pleasant, even though I have
failed thus far in what was the secret motive which led me here, the
hope of finding the man to whom that letter was addressed long years
ago, Robin’s father, and, as I believe, Anna’s husband. We have been at
this hotel just three weeks to-day, and mother likes it better than the
private boarding-house we left. Friends seem to spring up around us
wherever we go, and I believe I have nearly as many patients in San
Francisco as I ever had at home. For this good fortune, which I did not
expect, I thank my Heavenly Father, praying that the means I use may be
blessed to the recovery of those who so willingly put their lives in my
hands.
“How that poor fellow in the next room groans, and how the sound of his
moaning makes me long to hasten to his side and alleviate, if possible,
the fever which they say is consuming him. Poor fellow, he was making
money so fast, I hear, and hoarding it so carefully for his mother, he
told his acquaintance, and now he is dying here alone, far from his
mother, who would so gladly smooth his dying pillow. I saw him when they
carried him through the hall on his arrival from the mountains, and
something in the shape of his head and the way the hair curled around
it, made me start, it was so like Robert’s. But the name, when I asked
it, drove the hope away: _John Maxwell_, or _Max_, as he is generally
called by those who know him best. He has been here for years, steadily
accumulating money, and winning, as it would seem, scores of friends.
Even the head chamber-maid, when she heard ‘young Max’ was ill, and was
to be brought here, evinced more womanly interest than I supposed her
capable of doing. He must be growing worse, his moanings increase so
fast, and there seems to be a consultation going on within his room,
while my name is spoken by some one, a friend too it would seem, for he
says:
“‘I wish you would try him at least. I have great faith in that mode of
practice.’
“They are going to send for me; they are coming now to the door; they
are saying to me:
“‘Dr. West, will you step in and see what you think of poor Max’s
case?’”