Part 20 (2/2)
May I speak for a little? No, I'm not ill, and we need not a light.”
They sat in the clean little office, the swaying cottonwood boughs making a changeful pattern on the floor.
”You are a doctor, and you can make an end to it--you must make an end to it,” said Jeanne, after a little hesitation. ”This young man--this nephew--he must not marry my young lady.”
”What makes you think he wants to?” asked the doctor.
”I have seen, I have heard--I know,” said Jeanne. ”You know, all can see that he loves her. _He!_ Not such as he for my young lady.”
”Why do you object to him, Jeanne?”
”He has lived the bad life,” said the woman, grimly.
”Most young men are open to criticism,” said Dr. Bellair. ”Have you anything definite to tell me--anything that you could _prove_?--if it were necessary to save her?” She leaned forward, elbows on knees.
Jeanne sat in the flickering shadows, considering her words. ”He has had the sickness,” she said at last.
”Can you prove that?”
”I can prove to you, a doctor, that Coralie and Anastasia and Estelle--they have had it. They are still alive; but not so beautiful.”
”Yes; but how can you prove it on him?”
”I know he was with them. Well, it was no secret. I myself have seen--he was there often.”
”How on earth have you managed not to be recognized?” Dr. Bellair inquired after a few moments.
Jeanne laughed bitterly. ”That was eight years ago; he was but a boy--gay and foolish, with the others. What does a boy know?... Also, at that time I was blonde, and--of a difference.”
”I see,” said the doctor, ”I see! That's pretty straight. You know personally of that time, and you know the record of those others. But that was a long time ago.”
”I have heard of him since, many times, in such company,” said Jeanne.
They sat in silence for some time. A distant church clock struck a single deep low note. The woman rose, stood for a hushed moment, suddenly burst forth with hushed intensity: ”You must save her, doctor--you will! I was young once,” she went on. ”I did not know--as she does not. I married, and--_that_ came to me! It made me a devil--for awhile. Tell her, doctor--if you must; tell her about my boy!”
She went away, weeping silently, and Dr. Bellair sat sternly thinking in her chair, and fell asleep in it from utter weariness.
CHAPTER VIII.
A MIXTURE.
In poetry and painting and fiction we see Such praise for the Dawn of the Day, We've long since been convinced that a sunrise must be All Glorious and Golden and Gay.
But we find there are mornings quite foggy and drear, With the clouds in a low-hanging pall; Till the grey light of daylight can hardly make clear That the sun has arisen at all.
Dr. Richard Hale left his brood of temporary orphans without really expecting for them any particular oversight from Andrew d.y.k.eman; but the two were sufficiently close friends to well warrant the latter in moving over to The Monastery--as Jimmie Saunders called it.
Mr. d.y.k.eman was sufficiently popular with the young men to be welcome, even if he had not had a good excuse, and when they found how super-excellent his excuse was they wholly approved.
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