The Storyteller.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXIX, Issue 1, 3 January 1901, Page 23

The Storyteller.

THE DOCTOR'S COMPROMISE.

Young Dr. Felton, famous, rich, and admired by the circle he movfd in, was somewhat uneasy and discontented. Why he should be he himself could not explain, for the world at large served him well. There were no visits to be made to hospital wards no students to accompany to clinics, no fashionable invalids in need of his care, and even the poor wretches of the slums in whom he had become interested had been attended to that morning. So he had promised himself the whole afternoon to prosecute the study of a theory he was developing in which he earnestly hoped to reduce to practice. The best-disciplined minds, however, are at times subject to overpowering moods, and it was one of these that now caused his discontented ne»s. Probably it was due to a Bense of freedom from the thousand duties that usually hedged him in ; or Bhall we oharge this unaccustomed state of mind to the faint suggestion of early spring that had stolen across country fields and found him out in his New York flat ? Whatever it was, the Doctor's studies were not made that April afternoon. A retrospective mood, in which memories of the passed welled up in his heart, controlled him. Under its influence, this busy young doctor, the astonishment of the profession, whose firmness and almost womanly gentleness alleviated the fever -racked hospital patient, and whose kindness brightened the life of many a poor factory girl, as his skill satisfied the wealthy society lady, became almost a boy again. It was not his wont to indulge in these memories, for his life was too busy. But now his discontent slipped away as he gave himself up to them. And as he sank down in his easy chair, it was not the walls of his library, the bookß, the instruments, or the anatomical charts that formed his horizon. He had little thought for his profession that afternoon. It was the little New England town of his birth and his student days he was absorbed in. He could not be more than 28, but one might read experience in that clever, good-looking young face. Pensive lines marked his features as his thoughts dwelt upon his little home on the hillside. beautified by his mother's flower-beds and clinging vines. There, next door, had been the home of the little girl who had been the best friend a boy ever had, as he used to think in those days. What a refreshing sensation the thought of that little girl brought ! and the young doctor smiled unconsciously as he pictured the pranks they played together. The smile faded as his mother's early death came to him, how she had died in her youth and happiness, leaving him with his grief-stricken father. And well he remembered the quiet life they then had led together ; the evenings they had spent in the lonely home thinking of her. Sometimes the father would read to his boy, or would tell him the hopes he had of seeing his little lad a physician like himself one day. For the parent had also been a medical man, one of the true servants of God's people, who labors not solely for money, and was, therefore, greatly beloved by his fellow-townsmen. Then came his father's sudden death, hastened by the unending labors that kept sapping his strength throughout one long dreary winter. Before the young doctor's eyes that scene of 15 years past vividly presented itself. On a wild March day, far unlike the present golden afternoon, he stood in the quaint little churchyard bitterly crying as the cold stones fell with a dull sound upon his father's coffin. And while he knelt among the sympathetic friends, and the good old parish priest prayed fervently for the departed eoul of the good man lying there beneath them, his grief rendered him insensible to the sharp cut of the sleet and rain. One thing only had been able to cheer him, and that was his little neighbor, who, as his city aunt led him from the sad place, whispered :—: — ' Willie, don't feel so badly. Your papa is in heaven, and I love you.' But now he could hardly recall her name, so utterly had thohe old times ceased to interest him. • Dead as Helen of Troy for all I know,' he said to himself. His aunt had taken him to New York to live, and there he had met one of his father's college friends, a man high up in the medical profession. For his friend's sake this man interested himBelf, and observing the boy's bright clever ways, he trained him under his own eyes in all the mysteries of medicine. C .n-fully watohing as the boy grew up to young manhood, he discovered rich traits that promised to reward pystematic development. When it was time, therefore, he sent the boy abroad to have the advantage of the ripeet knowledge in Europe. He Btudied at Paris undrr the famous Bavanta there. And after several years spent profitably he went to Berlin. It was to the German student-life he owed much of his character, for he had loved that life with its excitement, its duels, its singing, and the clear-headed men he met. When he left there and came back to America he was a brilliant, masterful man, almost a genius, and not hampered, as he told himself, by too many religious convictions. He was not positively irreligious, not at all a cynic, but, like the Germans whom he had known, one who considered all the obligations fulfilled when the mandates of honor and duty are ob-en cd. Still he acknowledged that the faith of thobe poor wretches whom out of philanthropy he often visited, was ths one sunny spot in their gloomy existence. But for himself, he was wont to tell the young Catholic priest who used to meet him at the hospitals, and who had interested him in the poor, that to do right by one's fellow-men, be charitable, and admit the existence of God was sufficient^ And then Father Ryan, who saw the nobility of the young dootor's heart, endeavoring to convince him of his mistake, would be told that nothing short of a tangible scientific experiment could be of any avail as an argument. Such was the natnre of Dr. Felton 's reveries, and he might have continued them had he not thought of Father Ryan. When the priest entered his mind, he remembered a promise he had made to

visit him. Thia afternoon was his opportunity. He had given np all his plans of study that day, and besides he felt that the pompany of the sincere young' clergyman would do him food. So, Btill possessed by reoolleotions, he got up and went out of the hease into the atreet. After a short walk he arrived and was admitted into the parlor of the pastoral residence by the neat, elderly housekeeper. In tile interval of waiting he occupied himself by admiring the exquisitely carved ivory crucifix that hung above the door. A slight amUe played over his mouth as he looked at the tokens of Catholitt faith around the room, for to him they were little better tfram instruments of superstition, and it somewhat puzzled him that his priestfriend oould so implicitly believe in the usefulness of suoh things. His meditations were broken off abruptly by the appearanoe of Father Ryan, who took him up to his own room. He was delighted to have this busy young dootor pay him a visit, and especially since his leisurely manner promised a long, pleasant talk with him. The doctor was still full of memories, and of these he appeared desirous of talking. Father Ryan, therefore, sympathised enough to set the smouldering fire of these memories ablaze, and soon he was listening to the story of his friend's life. To him this explained very much and also encouraged him greatly. It was no plight interest he had in the young doctor who was so clever, good, and honorable, but whose religious views pained him deeply. He had often wondered at the familiarity his rationalistic friend showed with Catholic observances whenever they had visited together the sick poor of his flock. Where could he have acquainted himself so well as to know when oandles and holy water were neoeasary ? He ventured to say accordingly : ' Doctor, pardon me, but it strikes me, after hearing lyou dwell so on your life, that you once were a Catholic, and still hare the faith, despite your apparent indifference.' ' Not at all, Father, not in the least ' rejoined he, • although you have rightly guessed that I was born in .your faith. There is no use, I am convinced, in tying oneself down to those unreasonable ceremonies of religion. You know my profession of belief, and I think it a food one.' ' Well, I know your mind too thoroughly to argue with you on that point,' the priest answered ; • but tell me, are you not greatly influenced by these recollections of your childhood when they oome back to you ? ' The other nodded assent. ' Then I may venture to say that by them you will be led back to the faith in which you were born.' The doctor was now getting merry, as he saw his friend becoming so earnest, and rallied him by declaring that no power on earth could make him believe otherwise than he did, unless it was the proof based on scientific data he had before mentioned. ' We shall see,' said the priest. 1 If ever it does oome to pass otherwise,' answered the dootor, ' 1 11 devote myself more than ever to your poor, Father.' A knock at the door interrupted their conversation. Opening it, Father Ryan was handed a letter stamped specially to hasten its delivery. The rather unconcerned glance he at first oast on the envelope suddenly vanished, and a look of interest and great anticipation succeeded. Excusing himself, he broke the seal and found his interest justified, for it was from an old priest who had been a great friend or his, and whom he had not heard from in years. Tha letter informed him that his friend had a parish in a little New England town, and the reason of his writing was to request a favor. Evidently Father Ryan thought the doctor might like to hear what the letter contained, | for, asking him to listen, he read the following excerpt : ' Knowing- that your circumstances bring you into daily oontaot with the beet medical men in the city, I beg of you by any n>e*n* possible to persuade some specialist in brain diseases to come up ht re immediately. The patient is a young lady, the only ohild left a widowed mother. The local physicians are mystified at the case, and declare a cure impossible. But I would notaooept that decision without making a great effort to secure someone who could speak more authoritatively. Let no fear of expense retard you, 'If you can do this favor for me you will secure my lasting gratitude, besides a mother's blessing. ' Believe me, Yours sincerely in Christ, 'Thomas Bxxkily.' Turning to the doctor, the young priest inquired if he had not deeply investigated disorders affecting the brain. ' It has been my favorite study,' he replied. ' Well, then, would you not be willing to take up thiaoaae which so puz/Jes the village doctors ? ' ' If you wish it, and I can accomplish the journey so aa to return to-morrow morning, I am willing, Bnt you have not mentioned where you wish me to go, have you ? ' ' True. The name of the town, is Brassville, in Connecticut, on the New York, New Haven, and Hartford Railway, not far distant f iom Hartford, I believe.' • Bra^svilleis a name I never heard of in Connecticut, which is my own home, Father, and I was born in the vicinity of Hartford ; but I suppose, since I've forgotten so many things, I've also let slip the names of towns ; but if you say I can get there and return in the limited time at my disposal, I shall be very glad to do whatever lies in my power for the young lady.' ' Then, dootor, it's settled, and I'll telegraph to Father Berkely to meet you to-night at the station. Now you must hurry your preparations, for your train will leave in about an hour. Good-bye and on your journey reflect upon the things I've said to you this afternoon.' This parting shot brought a smile to the doctor's face aa he left the house and hastened towards his own home. Arriving them he selected the necessary articles and was off directly for the Grand Central Station, And as he went along he ww once again plunged

into the thoughts that had possessed him all the afternoon. How singular it was that after the hours he had given to his childhood's none that day he should now be on bis way to the vicinity in whioh that home was J How twisted are the threads of life, he mused. He bought his ticket and passed out through the guards. Beating himself comfortably in his seat, he gave himself up to the congenial memories and the words of Father Ryan. He was going to a town called Brassville, and if this town was near Hartford it was not far from where he himself had passed his early days. He, however, oould nob recollect auy euoh place. His own town bore the old Indian name of Hattafcuck. But as he did not remember the names of all the places he onoe knew, hid inability to recall the ▼erv modern name of Brassville didn't cause him much uneasiness. So he told the conductor to notify him should he be asleep when the train arrived at his destination, and closing his eyes he leaned back in the seat, the servant of alternate naps and dreams. • • • It was the prettiest plaoe in the town, this charming home of Mrs. Sayton. Set back on a broad lawn and surrounded by walks thatpansies and nasturtiums bordered all through the summer time, the old-fashioned white house stood at the top of the long, high village street. Down below the busy manufacturing community spread itself out, and along the river that eeemed to cut the distant northern hills apart the familiar New England scene of numerous clustering factories met one's eye. In front, two tall buttonball trees stood like giant sentinels, and on the side a row of elms formed a boundary between the lawn and a narrow country lane. Rose bushes climbed over the house and ran around the windows, and a honeysuckle vine curtained the long verandah. It was the beginning of spring, and everything had begun to feel the ■eason's influenoe. The buds were swelling on the shrubberies and trees, and the fragrance of fresh earth upturned in the gardens mingled with the invigorating odor that came from fields and nearby woods. People passing by on this April evening, however, missed the sense of serenity that had Btemed to belong to the place. Little groups of women had been coming and going all the afternoon, and the anxiety expressed by their audible sighs seemed to hover around and attack whomsoever chanced to pass the gate. A fight for life was going on in one of the rooms around whose windows a rose bush had wound itself. Mary Sayton, the only child of her widowed mother, was slowly dying, about to fade away when the beautiful springtime that she loved so much was bringing baok the days of sunshine and flowers and the pleasures she deemed so sweet. Beside her bedside the poor mother, worn out by Bleeplesß nights aad the terrible strain, struggled to keep back the feeling that threatened to overcome her. A fortnight ago and Mary had been full of life and happiness. Her charity lit up and cheered several poor homes, and Mrs Malone, 4 always ailin',' daily declared that the sweet girl's visits made her forget her pains. It was therefore fit that a deed of mercy should have occasioned the accident which now it seemed was to result in her untimely death. A reckless driver would have run over little Tommy Rafferty, whose mother w«s too busy to keep him from playing in the middle of the public street, had not Mary run out in time to snatch the little fellow up. But as she lifted him from under the horse's feet a projecting piece of wood in the swiftly-moving waggon struck her on the head, leaving her senseless with the soared youngster safe in her arms, Tommy's father and some fellow-laborers in the near-by mill had seen the accident, and rushing out they lifted the young lady they all admired, and tenderly bore her to the house on the top of the hill. Her brain had sustained a grave injury, and since then the periods of consciousness had been few and biief. The kind old family doctor moved around administering soothing medicines. The case puzzled him and the fellow-physician whom he had called into consultation. And now as he turned towards the heart-broken parent, who already felt the awful loneliness and desolation of death, his own eyes were full of suffering and pity. He also loved the pure, bright girl, and it pained him, who. was so used to bereavement, to see the fair young creature of scarcely two-and -twenty years leave the world in her bloom, and he utterly powerless to help her. His voice was almost broken as he told the stricken mother to resign herself to the inevitable. The poor woman could no longer restrain her pent-np emotion, and she Bobbed out : ' Oh, I cannot lose my Mary and be left alone in the world 1 Oh, my darling girl ! Bpeak to me, Mary ? Oh, let me have the consolation of talking with you once more I ' But no response came. There was no intelligence in those iweet blue eyes, and the beautiful face that lay on the pillow, shrined in luxuriant brown hair, was vacant of all knowledge of ita surroundings. Then the mother Bank down and buried her face in the bedclothes. The delirium seemed to increase, and some of Mary's friends in the adjoining room could hear wild, incoherent sentences uttered with appalling vigor. How long her nerves could have withstood it was doubtful, and all were glad when they heard the assuring voice of the kind old parish priest below. Some person was with him, and as they passed through into the sick girl's ohamber the girls noticed the stranger's youthful appearance. When the old family physician was told by the priest that his young confrere was one of the ablest men in the profession, he looked upon him somewhat sceptically. And who would blame this experienced practitioner of thirty years' standing for thus looking on one who seemed hardly of as great an age as that. The dean-shaven face and the crisp, dark-brown hair that clustered on the high forehead indeed were almost typical of a boy ; but the experienoe that showed in those serious eyes, and the movements of hit alender, well-knit body marked him as one who well knew his purpose and pursued it to the end always. Gradually the older man

found himself admiring the manner in which he inquired the oircumstanoes, and the firmness and decision with which he examined the patient. The girl was still in a delirium, which, instead of abating, grew much worse. Something: had to be done immediately, for it seemed as tnouffn the end was approaching:. First, the young doctor prerailed upon the distracted mother to leave the room, and so she was led out and the girls took her in charge. Then, seeing the urgency of the case, he considered what was best to be done. To his mind there was only one thing, and that was to change the delirium to Borne state of mind in which pleasant ideas might predominate, Soon the patient showed the success of the young doctor's skilful treatment. Gradually the stormy fits subsided, and a calmer mood came on. And now she began to speak on something that must nave been very dear to her. To the doctor it was nothing but the coming back of memories that had for years lain dormant in brain irr listened because he was ever a student. What she said would hardly offer food for scientific oonsideraturn, but his attention was undivided as she was saying : 'Willie, let's go down by the stone wall and gather flowers for the May alter. Father Berkely says he's going to have a pretty $!^ r ln I .^ onor o* Mary. Queen of May.' 'Are you going to be a doctor hke your father, Willie T ' 'Oh, won't you be happy on your first-communion day ! I know you'll be a good man like your father, and have the priest say of you, as Father Berkely says of your father, that he's a Christian Catholic gentleman. 1 • Don't cry so, Willie ; your papa is in heaven, and I love you.' Thus she wandered on in a happy state of mind, saying things that made the young doctor start. His own name was William • his father had been a doctor, and he had a dim recollection of onoe having heard the words she had spoken, and surely the last ones were somewhere once said to him. But now there was no time to spare for such thoughts. Consulting awhile with his older associate, he prepared for a delicate operation, upon the suocess of which he could not be certain. But risks were equal. Then in that ohamber a gallant fight those two men made against death, and finally the light of hope came into both their eyes. The young doctor had triumphed, and the older man grasped his hand in one whose pressure conveyed a glad testimony to his genius. And as the morning came he instructed the older doctor in what was to be done thereafter, and as he was required at home as goon as possible he hurried from the house, barely having time to assure the overjoyed mother that all might Boon be well, and with her blessings in his ears he got into a carriage and was driven to the morning train. {To be concluded in our next istue).