Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, July 11, 1896, Page 7

| CHAPTER XVII. Another Rejection For a moment Prof. Drummond's passion overmastered his judgment. The sight of the brass switch in the doctor’s hand was, in a way, startling, but the professor had been measura- bly, prepared for it. He forgot how it was the emblem of the doctor's hold upon him, and saw in it simply the proof of his own correct reasoning. He wrenched himself free and seized the doctor by both wrists. In a very brief struggle the piece of brass fell to the ground. ‘The doctor felt it drop, but he cared not. The emblem might go; the fatal facts remained, and a word from him would cause a minute examination to be made of every inch of Fairview. Prof. Drummond’s grip was like sieel. Strong as he was, he doctor was helpless. The very master he quickly attained over the physician served to bring the professor partly to his senses. “T could kill you where you stand!” he muttered between clenched teeth. “Bah!” retorted the doctor, and, the more completely to express his con- tempt, he spat in the professor's face. This worse than blow sent the pro- fessor staggering back. It demon- strated, all too clearly, the utter futil- ity of his physical superiority. Be- wildered and amazed, he let go the doctor's wrists. Quick to take advantage of his re- lease, Dr. Williams turned about, took Amelia in his arms and bore her rap- idly through the wood toward the house. It seemed for a moment as if the professor would remain where he was, but his mind, alive to his situa- tion, recovered its poise, and he fol- lowed hurriedly. “Let me help you, doctor,” he cried as they approached the ledge door, where Mrs. Williams and Louise anx- jously awaited them. “Don’t dare to so much as touch her dress,” returned the doctor in a low but threatening voice. He carried Amelia into the house and down the stairs to her chamber, bid- ding his mother to follow, while the professor came after, exclaiming inco- Took Amelia in His Arms. hherently to Louise about the harm that had come to “dear’’ Amelia. For some time all the doctor’s atten- tion was concentrated upon Amelia. He had his mother put her to bed, while he wrote a prescription and took it to the professor, whom he found as usual in the dining room. Louise was with him. “Take this to the village and have it filled,” he said shortly, handing over the slip of paper. Prof. Drummond took the paper with a vacant stare. “Let me go, papa,” said Louise; “you are so worn and anxious. Stay at home, or let Betsey or Mrs. Appleton go.” She turned appealingly to the doc ‘tor. “I think Prof. Drummond had better go himself,” he responded, “but I’m indifferent so long as the medicine is obtained quickly.” “Tl go,” exclaimed the professor, while a flush mounted to his brow. The doctor followed him to the door. “TI think you know better,” he said, “than to tamper with that prescrip- rtion.” Prof. Drummond glared angrily at the doctor, but went out without re- plying.” “Is Amelia very ill, doctor?’ asked Louise, as he started up stairs. “Yes,” he answered, “she is in a very serious condition.” ‘The invalid remained unconscious un- til the professor’s return. Louise brought the medicines to t 7 Dr. Widiams examined the, fully and observed that had been sealed and stan druggist. None of the sea Isen. | “Is she in danger, Mason | mother after a time. | “She is in a very bad w he responded thoughtful remain here tonight. I better go home now.” t “Now, Mason? Why! if needed here it seems to m the time.” “It is very natural tha | think so, mother, but I as: | -you ought to go home.” | “What will Prof. Drum: -daughter think if I leay “It doesn’t matter wt ‘them thinks. Please don «me, mother. I shall tell ‘that I want you to go.” Mrs. Williams still hesi: “Tf I could only help ‘she urged. “Nok” he exclaimed a! “I have done wrong in to be here at all. It is no or any other good wom: Mrs. Williams was gr by her son’s words and 1 “T feel afraid to have ; Mason,” she whispered, ‘The doctor took her fac and caressed it tenderly. + sulliccedeteada “Bless your soul, mot composedly, “you mustn’t conpure up dangers that don’t exist. The fact is that there is no person in Fairview to whom evil is less likely to come than to me. Go home now, and if I need you I will send for you.” “Do, Mason,” she pleaded. “I shall feel so much better to be near you.” The doctor was almost tempted to re- treat. There was no doubt that his mother should worry, and that she would be more distressed at her own home than if she remained with him, but the thought of her staying longer in the professor's house was intolera- ble. So he conducted her down stairs and said: “I have told my mother to return home.” 4 He could not possibly frame any po- lite phrases to convey this announce- ment. Mrs. Williams tried to express her sympathy for the household in view of the new distress that had come to afflict it, but her words were falter ing and incoherent. “Don’t apologize, Mrs. Williams,” in- terrupted the professor blandly, ‘‘we are already under the greatest obliga- tions to you, and we could not, of course, urge you longer to neglect your own home. I have left the horse har- nessed and will drive you as soon:as you are ready.” Mrs. Williams turned to her son, alarm showing in her eyes. “There is no need—” began the doc- tor. “Oh, I insist upon it,” exclaimed the professor. “I know that Belmont women are accustomed to walking, but we can’t permit it under the circum- — stances; can we, Lou? Get your things, dear, and go with us.” “It will be better to comply, mother,” whispered the doctor, who knew that no harm could come to his mother, even if she went with the professor alone. For herself she felt perfectly at ease with Louise along, and the de- parture was, therefore, speedily ef- tected. The doctor returned to the sick room. He found Mrs. Appleton sitting near Amelia’s bed as calmly as if she had een installed there as nurse by his or- ders. He was surprised and disturbed. The yery slight contact he had had with her had not been sufficient to give him an insight into the character that underlay her reticent demeanor, and it had not been enough to dissipate a sense of distrust that her presence had | aroused. Why was she here now? The | serving women had naturally been cognizant of Amelia’s disappearance, and they had hovered about at the | first, ready to assist Mrs. Williams, or carry out any instructions of ‘his own. | After the professor had gone with the | prescription they had returned to the | basement, as it was evident that there | was nothing more required of them up | horses’ hoofs climbing the driveway to the stable ;and, a little later, the | voices of Prof. Drummond and Louise in the broad hall. Presently Louise knocked at the door. As Mrs. Appie- ton showed no disposition to stir, the doctor opened it. “We've all forgotten,” said Louise, evidently struggling with agitation,’ “that we have not even begun dinner. Your mother got supper for us at her house; she insisted on it. Shan’t L bring you up something? Betsey has kept some of the dishes warm.” “Thank you,” replied the doctor; now that I think of it, | am hungry. 1 shall be much cbliged.” “Would you rather come to the din- ing room?” b “No. Please send up a little bread, anything that is handy.” “Papa wanted me to ask if you would speak to him a few moments. He said Mrs. Appleton wouldn’t mind remaining with Amelia.” “I prefer to stay here. ‘Iell the pro- fessor to come up.” The doctor had tried to speak dis- passionately, but he feared that his tone, in spite of himself, was cutting, cold, and even severe. Louise was plainly affected, aimost to crying, and Dr. Williams could not but inter that something more immediately personal to herself than Amelia’s illness trou- bled her. He wondered a little what it was, but if he had been inclined to speculate on the matter, as he was not, there would have been very little opportunity to do so, for almost im- mediately after Louise had gone down the professor appeared bearing a tray of food and drink. The doctor admitted him without a His Face White With Anger. word and cleared a place for the dish- es on the table. “You are very faithful to your pa- tient, doctor,” said the professor. “Mrs. Appleton could relieve you as well as not, and give you warning if Amelia should return to conscious- ness.” “There is no need of her troubling herself,” said the doctor. “1 shall re- main in the room.” “That being the case, Mrs. Appleton, you might retire, if you wish to.” The woman gathered up her work and left the room. Dr. Williams sat down and began to eat, while the pro- fessor stood near looking on, ‘he doc- tor had nothing to say. Presently Prof. Drummond remarked: “I thought it was you who removed the electric switch.” The doctor glanced at him and con- stairs. “She probably means well,” thought | the dector, trying to disabuse his mind | of prejudice. His reason told him that | it was unfair to distrust everybody be- of his or her association with | iew and the professor. “1 shall remain with the patient from now on, Mrs. Appleton,” he said, aloud. He did not care to have. her in the room, and yet he hesitated to ask her | to leave, having no ground for such a | request other than his aversion for her, and he hoped she would volunta- rily leave. Mrs. Appleton, however, | took up her sock from a basket at her side and began to darn without a word, as if she had settled down for an all-night session. The doctor went to the bedside and stood there for a long time looking at Amelia. Her condition aroused his professional anxiety to an unusual de- gree. He saw plenty of danger in the case from natural causes, wholly aside from any foul acts that might have been contemplated by Prof. Drum- mond. He had done all that a physi- cian could do for the time being, and when he found his thoughts wander- ing from her case in its technical as- pecis to her strange situation in the} professor's household, he withdrew to | the further side of the chamber and | sat down. What was to be done? was | the query that rose imperatively, and he recognized that the necessity of his | staying with the patient was fortun- | ate in that it gave him time to think. | To his discontent it proye? *het he! could not think ahead. Hissscem cect sistently reverted to what and not to the study of w be. Dr. Williams was we hausted. The apprehen: which he had awaited the i om as | i | | | | tinued his meal. “It was a fine thing to do, doctor, and I appreciate it. L am unhappily cursed by a quick temper, and too often do and say things that I do not really 1aean. That was the case out in the woods when we found poor Amelia. A difference had arisen be- tween us of a purely family nature, ; that I presume you do not care to know about, though I will tell you if you wish.” Dr. Williams shook his head. “I presumed you would look at it that way,” continued the professor, “and I refer to it merely to apologize to you for my momentary violence of word and action. I have been consid- erably unstrung by the strain of the past two weeks and cannot always control myself perfectly. However, what I wanted to express was my pro found appreciation of your course with respect to all matters connected with the very unfortunate death of Stark- weather. But for your discretion a la- mentable accident might have been in- terpreted by a thoughtless community as a horrible crime.” The doctor’s face expressed inere- dulity and surprise that the professory should venture to suggest the theory of accident, but he said nothing. Prov. Drummond went on: : “I would have done well to be more frank with you in the beginning, on the very day the death occurred, but I was beside myself with grief, consternation and—yes, with fear. I did pot know you as I do now. I did not know engigh to trust y I hoped to cover ened by od _as far ied. You, uth. alt that in 1 you had me. I ac- oose so to < at it as my grati- ou permit iing could her your ‘ch to her caken that ace white sid, “I dis- 1 you, the an act of y presum- descended ne for my responded ace of re you were dark as to e. Believe nee, gently oubts from { am sure, 3. I speak, edge of af- Louise has ed for her. yours with - You will 1 magnifi- | “Prof. Drummond,” interrupted the doctor, “your daughter and I had set- tled our relations before you spoke to her. There is no occasion to reopen the matter.” “Man alive!” exclaimed the profes- sor, struggling with his fears aud pas- sion, “I offer you the woman co whcm you made love and to whom you pro- posed—” “And I reject the offer,” said the coc- or. CHAPTER NVUIL ‘A Promise of Light. Prof. Drummond seemed to be ut- terly confounded. He turned as‘le to conceal the disappointment and rage that twisted his features into a mest malevolent expression. The déecior watched him for a moment and then went to the bedside. Amelia had wn- dergone no change apparently, and tke doctor expected none for many hours. As he stood there he reflected on the strange situation in which he was placed—committed by: his publie action to shielding a man whom he believed to be a murderer and refusing the hand of the woman whom until that day, that very evening, in fact, he had believed that he had loved with last ing devotion. He felt not a little self- contempt for what he regarded as his inconstancy, but there was not the |* slightest disposition to waver from the ground he had taken with the profes- sor. The latter gained control of himself | presently and said: “You don’t know what you are throwing away, doctor.” “I am content with my ignorance,” replied Dr. Williams, turning away from the bed, ‘and I command you to speak in a lower voice if you must con- tinue to talk. I will not have Miss Willis disturbed.” “I suppose a physician may assume command without offense,” returned the doctor, “although there is more than one way of asserting it. I take no offense. You are in the way of doing your own character and career a great injustice, and my child a great wrong. I do not know exactly what you think of me, but 1 cannot think your recent words really ex- pressed your convictions; but it is plainly the case that you are visiting upon the head of an innocent girl the sins you ascribe to her father. ‘hat is not manly, and it is not like you, Dr. Williams.” “You are mistaken, Prof. Drum-s mond,” said the doctor. “What you are or what you have done has noth- ing to do with the matter. , 1 thought | loved your daughter, and told her so. I was wrong, and it should be cause for rejoicing that 1 discovered my error in time, and that she has not the slightest love for me. ‘There is abso- lutely no room for discussion.” “What if you had misinterpreted my daughter?’ asked the professor. “You are a young man, and perhaps not old’ enough to know that a girl’s affection is not only hard to gain, but that it is a harder thing to bring her to an ac- knowledgment of it. What if Louise, dismayed by what she conceived to be hostility to her father on your part, should have felt it her loyal duty to reject you, while all the time the ten- derest love for you was glowing in her heart? Yow aroused that love, Dr. Williams; you sought it, you fos- tered it by your suit. Do you deny that you have some responsibility un- der such circumstances? Does not your high conception of honorable ob- ligations suggest a somewhat different attitude from that you have now as- sumed?” The doctor’s heart felt like a leaden weight. It was with positive fear that the force of the professor’s argument appealed to him. Could he satisfacto- rily answer the suppositious question? Was the professor speaking from mere Prof, Drum- Mistaken, Said the Doctor. conjecture or was he stating a fact, as he appeared to be toward the end of his speech? “I see,” said the professor, after a “You Are mond,” moment, “that there is room for @dis- enssion, after all. ‘Think of it, doctor. The night is before you. Everything in Fairvlew is at your service. Can Lt send you anything? Well, 1 shalt be awake for hours, and you need not hesitate to call or to arouse me after I have gone to bed. Matters may look differently to-morrow. Good-night, Dr. Williams.” The professor went from the reom, leaving the doctor too perturbed, too much in conflict with himself to speak. | It was hours before he recovered his composure wholly. He had to review his scene with Louise over and over again to stand firm in his conviction that she had no love for him. © “Prof. Drummond will change his mind when he hears from Phitbrick,” concluded the doctor. As the night wore on Dr. Williams became conscious of his nerves. His fancy dwelt, in spite of the appeals of his reason, upon all manner of villain- jes that might be perpetrated by the professor. He scemed to see the man at work in his recent “shop,” concoct- ing poisons and engines of destruction. Every mysterious noise of the night suggested the cautious foottalls of the professor as he drew near the cham- ber to work some diabolical plot | against his unconscious niece. Not for an instant did the doctor fear for himself. All his apprehension was centered on the well-being of Amelia, for whom he felt himself responsible, not only as a physician, but as a man under whose protection she had come. | He felt himself ealled upon to save her, and to this purpose he resolved tbat ll his energies should be conse- erated. Methodically, as he would diagnosti- cate another’s ailment, he viewed his own condition and reasoned upon it, It was undertaking too much to watch.} 1?" by Amelia’s bedside night and day, to begin with; a part of such work be delegated to another whom, could trust. Moreover, there must !n- attending to the patient. The situa- tion at Fairview could not possibly continue in statu quo. It would break soon by its own weight, and when the break came, even if he should not pre- cipitate-it, he ought to be*prepared to meet it with a clear mind and full bodily strength. He would have liked to plan to have Amelia removed from Fairview to his own or some other house, but in view of her present and probable condition it was not tq be thought of: There was, therefore, only one expe- dient available—to send for his moth- er. She alone could be trusted to take charge of the sick room. Im the light of this conclusion it seemed a pity that he had sent her away; but there was no help for it, and he had the sat- isfaction of knowing that she would welcome the eLange. Prof. Drummond was the first to eall Seated om the Ledge Was Mr, Phil: briek, at the chamber when morning came. He inquired about the patient's condi- tion as naturally as if there were no such thing as strained relations. “Miss Willis,” replied the doctor, “is as well as could be expected, but her condition is critical. It is- not advisa- ble—I may say not possible—to remove her without danger. Such a course would probably be fatal” “I haven’t the slightest desire to have her removed,” responded the pro- fessor; “such a suggestion was the far- thest from: my mind: And yourself, doctor?” “I need rest,” said the doctor bluntly, “and I dare not and. will not take it until I can be satisfied to leave Miss Willis. I want you. to send for my mother.” “It sliall be done at once,. doctor. I will have Louise drive over for her after breakfast.” “Give her this note,. then;” and Dr. Williams handed the professor a letter that he had written during the night. In it he hadi taken pains to convey no hint of the real situation, but had laid stress on the serious nature of Ame- lia’s illness and his desire to have her faithfully nursed while he rested’ and attended’ to other matters. He was re- lieved, though little surprised, that Prof. Drummond acceded to his: sug- gestion without a murmur. He might well have insisted that either Betsey or Mrs. Appleton could officiate as nurse, and if he had done so the doc- tor would have unhesitatingly resorted to extreme measures. That he not compelled to do so seemed to indicate that the professor felt the power the doctor had over him,.and was ready: to acknowledge it by respecting: the doc- tor’s wishes. When Louise had finished’ her break- fast the professor gave her some let- ters to take to the postoflice and) in- structed her to call for Mrs. Williams on her way back. “You'll find the horse harnessed and hitched,” he said. Louise went to the stable: by, way. of the lodge door, as to climb one flight: of stgirs from her chamber seemed. easier than to go down two, including the long steps to the piazza, and then, to go around the house and part way up the slope that led to the ledge and sta- ple alike. Seated on the ledge, idly oc- eupied in tossing bits of bark into the river and watching them float away, was Mr. Philbrick. “Don’t fall in again,” she said,. her spirits rising at sight of him. “Sh, good morning, Miss Drum- mond,” he said, getting up; “i was out for a constitutional, and’ my steps as usual were drawn in this direction: in spite of myself. I like early morning: walks. All well within, I hope?” He was close to her, looking. down with smiling admiration into her eyes. It was his way. He always approach- ed so near that her heart fluttered like a leaf in the breeze. “No,” said Louise, “my cousin is se~ riously ill, The doctor has been here all night.” ~ “Indeed! I am distressed to hear it. What is the matter?” “Papa says her mind—but I don’t know that I ought to repeat it. The doctor hasn’t reported definitely yet.” “IT am sorry I asked a delicate ques- tion, Miss Drummond. It was far from my intention.” “of course, and 1 don’t believe it matters anyway to tell you, only, of course, you won't repeat it im the vil- lage, for she may come out of it.’” “I am all interest and secrecy.” “You're poking fun at me!” “i protest—” 1 “Well, papa says her mind has been overstrained by the shock of Mr. Stark- weather’s suicide. Hie suspects that she felt an attachment for him, you know, and then she would insist on | going to the inquest. It was enough to upset anybody, wasn’t it, Mr. Phil- brick?” * “Undoubtedly. What symptoms of mental aberration has Miss Willis | shown?’ | “She wandered out of the house yes- terday afternoon, we don’t know just when. Papa found her unconscious over there among the trees.” “Where?” and Mr. Philbrick peered curiously: into the wood. | “Just beyond the great hemloek, I | believe. They eame’past it in bring- ling her in, anyway. I am going for | Mrs. Williams again now. The doctor wants her to nurse Amelia.” | “H’m, it’s very sad.” B | Mr. Philbrick looked really lugubri- ous. “Are you going to be here when I re- turn?’ asked Louise. “T’m afraid I shall be In the way if there’s illness in the house, but—may “How absurd! Of course you may. I shall look for you. Please keep away from that ledge!” = serttes se evitably be other things to do besides | | back corridor. She ran down to the stable, just es- eaping Mr. Phifyrick, who reached out to grasp her hand. He followed her to the top of the slope, watched her drive away, waved her a salute and then —~ strode into the wood to the spot wherg , Louge said Amelia had been found! Very curious man, Mr. Philbrick, for- ever prying into matters that did not concern him. Louise returned in about an hour and brought Mrs. Williams with her. Mrs. Williams went directly te the sick room, responding to the professor's =~ hearty greeting by a slight bow as she passed him in the hall. Prof. Drummond wandered with a parent aimlessness about the hall au piazza, his eyes directed ever toward the village. He was looking for Phil- brick. There were two strings to the professor's bow, and Philbrick was one of them. If there had been ample =— time during the night for Dr. Williams to ponder the situation, so had there been for the professor. He had recur- red to his former reasoning and his conviction that Philbrick was staying on in Belmont because he had fallen ir, love with Louise. There was still doubt about Philbrick. He had not found @ brass switch or any other sug- ==) gestive piece of evidence that the pro- fessor was aware ef, but beneath we man’s: apparent ingenuousness there seemed to lurk a clear conception of the circumstances, if not a positi theor s to their meaning. Philbrick’s conversion relative to the inquest and the part the doeetor took in it was teeming with suggestiveness.. The man =~ might know nothing, but he might sus- pect a great deal. “His suspicions,”” thought the profes sor, “might stand in the way of proposal for Louise; in any event his suspicions must be removed.” Philbrick had not called during the previous evening. It seemed cer therefore;. that he would come to-~ and even as the professor was cOjg- tating, around. the corner from the sta- ble came his daughter and the man he looked for: Mr. Philbri “think of: Ak!” cried the pro- what is it? and “You were thinking of angels and your daughter appears,” interrupted Philbrick. m “Well, to tell. the truth, I was: think ing of you.. I was hoping to see you “Good. Here I am: How do I look and Philbrick struck an, attitude, while Louise, as usual, laughed. heartily. “I can’t smile, Philbrick,” responded the professor;. “for the matver on ipy mind is very. grave:. Come in.” They entered the broad haut, and the professor threw open the door to the side room. “Shall I run away,. papa?” asked Louise. “Yes, please. Go ane see if the doc- tor can join us for a: few minutes.” Philbrick entered: the side room and sat down, while the professor made some casual remark upon the weather. Dr. Will came down stairs slowly. “What is it?’ he asked, stopping be- fore he reached the bottom. 9 “I know you need! rest, doctor,” si the professer; “but this matter need not occupy you.long, and. I am certair that you will be better satisfied for having attended to it.” He went to the side room and nod-~ ded to Piiilbrick, who came out promptly and bowed. to the doctor. “Now, gentlemen,” said the profes- sor, have been thinking over recent events during the night, and have come to the conclusion that I have act- ed with remarkable indiscretion, from the fruits of which the doctor has saved me. I can see clearly. now that. at the very.outset, when I saw how the people of Belmont were bent on believing tliat a terrible crime had been committed here; I should have courted and demanded a thorough in- vestigation. It was a mistake that I did not do so. Much unhappiness might have been averted, for in the end I have no doubt that public opin-, jon would lave seen the circumstances in the true light. Why! I even went so far-as to deny to my best friend, Dr. Williams, the privilege of examin- ing my shop! I wonder that he stood by me-after that. “However, he did'so, and Tam fubate- ful: You, Mr. Philbrick, are anc ‘er good friend, and I am anxious to ausa- buse both your minds of any ugly” thoughts that may linger tliere as a re sult of the: common talk. and of any “Step This Way, Please:” cireumstanees whieh may have com to your eyes and that may sugges, evil. I have made up my mind to 27 mit you to my shop, a privilege neve accorded to anybody save to a fortunate partner. Not only ty am prepared to answer any io that may oceur to you relative to tl construction ef my house, and an eontrivamees in it. Step this wa: please,” and he led them through th {To Be Continued.) Ania A Stammering Statesman. The Right Hon. David Robe Plunket (gow Lord Rathmore), wl sat im the house of commons .or Mar years as member for the yao’ Dublin, was a stammerer, and yet of the most eloquent men in thé gous ‘The impediment in his speech sn a slight one, and at times made hi drop a word that stuck and substitu another. While he was at the office works, and had to answer questions that department, t w him. In the glowing rb: gat speech; however, he was; le throw over seine, } i ; '