 Chapter 1 of Dr. LaTrell's First Patient. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Dr. LaTrell's First Patient by Rosa Neuschette Carey. Chapter 1. At the corner house, seek not that the things which happen should happen as you wish. Epictetus. There is an old adage, one almost threadbare with continual use, when poverty looks in at the door, love flies out at the window. And doubtless there is an element of truth in the saying, nevertheless, though there were lines of care on Marcus LaTrell's face and in the strong sunlight, the seams of his wife's black gown looked a little shiny. There was still peace and the patience of a great and enduring affection in the corner house at Galveston Terrace. When the brass plate, glittering with newness, had been first affixed to the door, Marcus LaTrell's heart had been sanguine with hope. And he had brought his young fiancee to see it. The small, narrow house with its dark square entry, its double parlors communicating with folding doors and the corner room that would do for a surgery had seemed to them both a most desirable abode. Olivia, who prided herself on being unusually practical, pointed out its numerous advantages with great satisfaction. The side entrance in Harbick Street, for instance, and the front room where patients would be interviewed and which had a window in Galveston Terrace. It is so conspicuous, Marcus, she said, with legitimate pride in her voice, no one can overlook it. It is worth paying a few pounds more rent instead of being jammed in between two terrace houses. Harbick Street is ever so much nicer than Galveston Terrace and the houses are larger and it is so convenient having those shops opposite. Olivia was disposed to see everything in Coulure du Rose but to most people, Galveston Terrace would have appeared woefully dingy. Two or three of the houses had cards in the sitting room windows with desirable apartments for a single gentleman, fixed there on and at the farther end, a French dressmaker eked out a slender income. The terrace had by no means a prosperous look, a little fresh paint and cleaner blinds would have been improvements. Nevertheless, people lived out harmless lives there and on the whole were tolerably contented with their lot. And Marcus Latrell made that fatal mistake of marrying in haste and repenting at leisure, things had not looked so badly with him. He had bought his partnership and had a little money in hand and Olivia had had sufficient for her modest true so. How could either of them have suspected that the partnership was a deceit and a fraud that old Dr. Slade had let Marcus in for a rotten concern that no paying patients would crowd the small dining room and that two years of professional profits would be represented in shillings. Now and then when he was tired and discouraged, Dr. Latrell would accuse himself of rashness and folly in no measured terms. Your aunt measures right, Olive he would say we have been a couple of fools but I was the biggest. What business had I to tempt Providence in this way? I do believe when a man is in love he loses his judgment. Look at the life to which my selfishness has condemned you. You will be an old woman before your time with the effort to make a sixpence go as far as a shelling and there is dot. And here the young doctor sighed and frowned but Olivia who had plenty of spirit refused to be depressed. You took me from such a luxurious home. Did you not Marcus? She would say with a genial laugh a hard working daily governance leads such an enjoyable life and it was so exhilarating and refreshing to sit in one's lodgings of an evening with no one to care if one were tired and dull. Yes dear old boy of course I was ever so much happier without you and dot to worry me. And somehow at these cheering words the harassed frown on Marcus's brow relaxed. Had he been so wrong after all how could he know that old Slade would prove a rogue and a humbug? It would have been wiser to wait a little but then human nature is liable to make mistakes and in spite of it all they had been so happy. Olive was such a splendid companion. She had brains as well as heart. Yes he had been a fool but he knew that under like circumstances many a man would have done the same. He remembered the events that had led to their hasty marriage. Olivia had not long lost her mother. The widow's annuity had died with her and Olivia who had only her salary as a daily governance in a large family had just moved into humbler lodgings. He had gone round with some flowers in a book that he thought would interest her and as she came forward to greet him he could see her eyes were red and swollen. What is it dear he had asked kindly and then the poor girl had utterly broken down. Oh Marcus what shall I do? She said when her sobs would allow her to speak I cannot bear it. It is also dull and miserable. I am missing mother and I'm so tired and the children have been so cross all day. And Olivia whose nerves were on edge with the strain of grief and worry looked so pallid and woe-begone that Marcus had been filled with consternation. Never had he seen his sweetheart in such distress and then it was that the suggestion came to him. Why should they both be lonely? Olivia could marry him and do her work as well and there need be no more dull evenings for either of them. You will trust me to make you as happy as I can dear as he said tenderly as he pleaded for an early marriage and as Olivia listened to him the sad burden seemed lifted from her heart. Are you quite sure we ought to do this Marcus? She had asked a little dubiously for in spite of her youth she had plenty of good sense and then Marcus had been very ready with his arguments. A doctor ought to be a married man. His house was too large for a bachelor and needed a mistress. What was the use of Olivia paying for lodgings when he wanted a wife to make him comfortable and if she liked she could still go on with her teaching. It was this last proviso that overcame Olivia's objections if she could keep her situation she would be no expense to Marcus. Her salary was good and until paying patients came she could subscribe towards the housekeeping. It was just one of those arrangements that look so promising and plausible until fairly tried but before many months had passed there was a hitch something out of gear in the daily machinery. It was a dry summer and Brompton is not exactly a bracing place. Olivia began to flag a little. The long hours of teaching the hurried walks to and fro tried her vigorous young frame. The little maids who followed each other in quick succession were all equally inefficient and unreliable. Marcus began to complain that such ill-cooked tasteless meals would in time impair their digestion. The Marthaism, Anne's and Sally's who clumped heavily about the corner house with smudges on their round faces and bare red arms had never heard of the school of cookery at South Kensington. Olivia, Thagdon Weary looked ready to cry when she saw the blackened steak and unwholesome chips set before Marcus. Not one man in a thousand she thought would have borne it all so patiently. Then one hot oppressive evening the climax came. Olivia, who had never fainted in her life found herself through a great astonishment lying on the little couch by the open window with her face very wet and Marcus looking at her with grave professional eyes. That night he spoke very plainly there must be no more teaching. Olivia was simply killing herself and he refused to sanction such madness any longer. In future he must be the only breadwinner until patients were obliging enough to send for him they must just live on their little capital. Olivia must stay at home and see after things and take care of herself or he would not answer for the consequences. You have your husband to consider he said in a masterful tone but how absurdly boyish he looked as he stood on the rug tossing back a loose wave of fair hair from his forehead. People always thought Dr. Luttrell younger than he was in reality. He was eight and 20 and Olivia was six years younger. She was rather taller than her husband and had a slim erect figure. She had no claims to beauty. Her features were too irregular but her clear honest eyes and sweet smile and a certain effective dimple redeemed her from plainness and the soft brown hair waving naturally over the temples had a sunny gleam in it. Then baby Dot made her appearance Dorothy Maud Luttrell as she was inscribed in the register. The young parents forgot their anxieties for a time in their joy in watching their first born. Marcus left his books to devote himself to nursing his pale wife back to health and as Olivia lay on the couch with her baby near her and feasted on the delicacies that Aunt Madge's thoughtfulness have provided or listened to Marcus as he read to her it seemed to her as though the cup of her blessing were full. Oh Marcus, how happy we are. She would whisper and Marcus would stifle us sigh bravely. Alas, he knew the little capital was dwindling sadly, rent and taxes, bread and cheese and even the modest wages of a second Martha were draining his purse too heavily. He had plenty of poor patients but no one but the French dressmaker had yet sent for the late Dr. Slade's partner. It was then that those care-worn lines came to the young doctor's brow. It was bitterly hard for Marcus loved his profession and had studied hard. The poor people whom he attended were devoted to him. He, Alas, tells a body the truth, said old widow Bates. I do hate a fellow who truckles aminces as words like that sparks. Do you suppose Jem arc right would have let his leg be cut off in that lam-like manner if it had been Benjamin Sparks to do it? I was down at their place and I heard when Dr. Luttrel said, now my man, you must just make up your mind and be quick about it. Will you be a brave chap in part with this poor useless limb or will you leave your poor wife to bring up six fatherless children? I am telling you the truth, Jem, if you will not consent to part with your leg, there is no chance for you. Laws sakes. You would have thought he was a gray-headed or fellow to hear him. He kind of made one jump to see his young beardless face, but there he was good to Jem arc right that he was. Polly can't say enough for him. She fairly cries if one mentions his name. I should have been Jem's widow, but for Dr. Luttrel, she said one day, why before he came in, Jem was lying there bowing that he had soon had died than part with his leg. It was the thought of the little ends that broke him. My Jem always had a feeling heart. And other folks, although they had not widow Bates's garrulous tongue, were ready enough to sing the doctor's praises. When Dot was a year old and able to pull herself up by the help of her mother's hand, things were no better at the corner house. Olivia had even consulted her aunt, Maj, about the advisability of sending Martha away and doing the work of the house herself. Martha is the best girl we have had yet. She said Marcus owned that yesterday. She is rough, but her ways are nicer than Anne's or Sally's and she keeps herself clean. But then Aunt Maj, she has such a good appetite and one cannot stint growing girls. I should keep her a little longer was Aunt Maj's reply to this. It will only take the heart out of Marcus, knowing that you have to scrub and black lead stoves and he is discouraged enough already. When Dot is able to run about, you may be able to dispense with Martha's services and Olivia returned a reluctant descent to this. But her conscience was not quite satisfied. Even Aunt Maj, she thought hardly knew how bad things really were. Mrs. Broderick was a chronic invalid and never went beyond the two rooms that made her little world. Most people would have considered it a doll. Narrow light and one hardly worth living, but the invalid would have contradicted this. Maj Broderick had learned the secret of contentment. She'd lived through great troubles, the loss of the husband she had idolized and her only little child. Since then, acute suffering that the doctors have been unable to relieve had wasted her strength. Nevertheless, there was a peaceful atmosphere in the sunshine room where she lay hour after hour, reading and working with her faithful companion Zoe Besider. Zoe was a beautiful brown and white spaniel with eyes that were almost human in their soft beseechingness. And Mrs. Broderick often lamented that she could not eulogize his doggies virtues as Mrs. Browning had immortalized her flesh. Olivia was devoted to her Aunt Maj. They had a mutual admiration for each other's character and her sister's child was dear to Mrs. Broderick's heart and perhaps the saddest hour she ever spent now were passed in thinking over the young couple's future. I was wrong, she would say to herself with a painful contraction of the brow. I said too little at the time to discourage their marriage. If I'd been firm and reasoned with the child she would have listened to me. Livy is always so manageable but I was a romantic old goose and then she was in love, poor dear. And now, oh, it breaks one's heart to see their young anxious faces. I know so well what Marcus feels is ready to go out into the roads and break stones if he can only keep a roof over his wife's head. And there were tears in Maj. Broderick's eyes as she took up her work. End of chapter one. Chapter two of Dr. LaTrell's first patient by Rosa Neuchette Carey. This Livy Vox recording is in the public domain. A mysterious stranger. I at least will do my duty. Caesar. Young Mrs. LaTrell stood at the window one November afternoon butting her gloves in an absent and perfunctory manner as she looked out at the slushy road and greasy pavement. There was a crinkle on her smooth broad forehead and an uneasy expression in her eyes as though some troublesome thought had uptreated itself presently the crinkle deepened and widened into a frown. And she walked impatiently to the fireplace where a black uninviting fire smoldered in a cheerless sort of way and took up the poker in rather an aggressive manner then shook her head as she glanced at the half empty coal scuttle. She was cold and the cleaning damp peculiar to November made her shiver but a cheery blaze would be too great of self-indulgence. Left to itself the fire would last until tea time. She would be back in plenty of time for Marcus's late tea. He should have a warm clear fire to welcome him and a plate of smoking French toast because it was so economical and only took half the amount of butter. It had been a favorite delicacy in her nursery days and the revival had given her great solace. Yes, he should have his tea first and then she would bring in the vexed subject for argument in spite of Aunt Madge's well-meant advice it was a foregone conclusion in Olivia's mind that Martha must go. Of course it was a pity she liked the girl she was so willing and good tempered and around childish face was always well washed and free from smudges and she was so good to dot caring for her as if she were a baby sister of her own. Nevertheless, stern in her youthful integrity Olivia had already decided that Martha's hours at the corner house were numbered. And then there was the stuff for dots, new winter police. Marcus would give her the few shillings without a murmur. She was sure of that but he would sigh furtively as he counted out the coins. Whatever deprivations they might be called upon to endure their little one must be warmly clothed. She must do without her new pair of gloves that was all and here Olivia looked disconsolately at her worn fingertips. She could ink the seams and use her old mouth and no one would notice. What was the use of buying new gloves when her hands would soon be as red and rough as Martha's? Olivia was just a little vein of her hands. They were not small but the long slender fingers with almond-shaped nails were full of character and Marcus had often praised them. For his sake she would try to take care of them but black letting stoves and washing dots little garments would not help to beautify them. Of course it was nonsense to care about such trifles. She must be strong-minded and live above such sub-lunary things. Marcus would only honor her the more for her self-forgetfulness and labors of love. Here the pucker vanished from Olivia's brow and a sweet earnest look came to her face. The next moment her attention was distracted. A tall old man in a great coat with a fur-lined collar passed the window. He was a little bent and walked feebly leaning on a gold-headed stick. Olivia watched him until he was out of sight for some occult reason, not comprehensible even to her. She felt interested in the old man although she'd never spoken to him but he looked old and ill and lonely. Three decided claims on Olivia's bountiful and sympathetic nature. She knew his name, Mr. Gaythorn. He was a neighbor of theirs and he lived at Yalveston House, the dull-looking red brick house with two stone lines on the gate posts. Olivia had amused her husband more than once with imaginary stories about their neighbor he was a miser, a recluse, a misanthrope. He had a wife in a lunatic asylum. He had known some great trouble that had embittered his life. He had made a vow never to let a human being cross his threshold. He was a Roman Catholic priest in disguise an agnostic amylist. There was no end to Olivia's quaint surmises but she could only be certain of two facts that the mysterious Mr. Gaythorn was methodical by nature and whatever it might be the weather always took his exercise at the same hour and also would only trades people entered the line guarded portals of Galveston House. Olivia had only once come face to face with him. She was hurrying along one afternoon when in turning a corner she almost ran against him and pulled herself up with a confused word of apology. A suppressed grunt answered her a singular old face with bright deeply sunken eyes and a white peaked beard and mustache seemed to rise stiffly from the fur-lined collar. Then the old man's hand touched his slouched hat mechanically and he walked on. It was that night that Olivia was convinced that Mr. Gaythorn was a nihilist and an agnostic and hinted darkly at the storage of dynamite and infernal machines in the cellars of Galveston House. My dear child, you might write a novel. Had been her husband's remark on this, your imagination is really immense. But in spite of sarcasm and jibes on Marcus's part, Olivia chose to indulge in these harmless fancies. She had always enjoyed making up stories about her neighbors and it did no one any harm. When Mr. Gaythorn was out of sight, she went to the kitchen to take a last look at Dot who was slumbering peacefully in her cot. The kitchen was the warmest place and Martha could clean her knives and wash her plates and keep an eye on her. Martha gave her usual broad grin when her mistress entered. The little handmaid adored her master, mistress, and Dot. During her rare holiday, she always entertained her mother and brothers and sisters with wonderful descriptions of her mistress's cleverness and miss baby's ways. Martha had eleven brothers and sisters and the house in summer's row was not a luxurious abode. A mother took in washing and eleven brothers and sisters of all ages and of every variety of snub-nose made any sort of privacy impossible. Nevertheless, on her previous holiday, as Martha or Patty, as they called her at home, sat in her best blue merino frock with her youngest sister on her lap and a paper bag of sugar sticks for distribution to the family, there were few happier girls to be found anywhere. Now I brought you half a pound of really good tea, mother observed Martha proudly. I knew what a treat that would be to you and father. You are a good girl, Patty, returned her mother, winking away the moisture in her eyes as she went on with her ironing. Amabel, don't you be trampling on Patty's best dress? There's a good little lass. Well, as I was saying, Patty, only the children do interrupt so. There, Joe and Ben, just take your sugar sticks and be off to play. I think I have found a nice little place for Susan. She is to sleep at home, but will have all her meals in half a crown a week and the lady will teach her everything that is pretty fair for a beginning. And as father says, the money will just find her in shoe leather and aprons. Father's looking out for a place for Joe now. I wish Susan could have a place like mine, mother returned Martha proudly. They are real gentle folks. That is what they are. Will you be so good as to clean my boots, Martha? Or thank you, Martha, when I drive the paper over morning? Oh, it is like play living at the corner house. And as for that darling Miss Baby, but here words failed Martha. It could not be denied that Olivia was unusually depressed that afternoon, fog and damp always had this effect on her. Her nature needed sunshine and crisp bracing air. There was no buoyancy and elasticity in her tread. Many people looked at her as they often did for her pliant slim figure, rather attractive notice. She thought they were only commenting on her old black hat and jacket. Only one article of her dress satisfied her. Her boots were neat and strong. Marcus had found her one wet day warming her feet at the fire and had gone off to examine her boots without a word. Olivia had flushed up and looked uncomfortable when he came back with the boots in his hand. Do you want to be laid up with bronchitis or congestion of the lungs? He asked rather sadly as he showed her the thin worn soles, do you think that will make things easier for me, Livy? The next day he had taken for himself to the bootmakers and had had her fitted with a serviceable stout pair. Somehow in spite of her pleasure in the boots and Marcus's thoughtfulness, she had felt rather like a scolded child. Her unusual pessimism had a moment's distraction for as she passed the print shop at the corner of Harbit Street, she saw her mysterious old gentleman standing still on the pavement fixedly regarding a small oil painting. Olivia had a good view of the lean, cadaver's face and peaked white beard. The heavy gray eyebrows seemed to beadle over the dark sunken eyes. After all, he looks more like a Spaniard than a Russian, she thought. And again, her theory of the Roman Catholic priest came into her mind. If I could only see him without his hat, I should know if he had a taunt shirt. And then with youthful curiosity, she looked to see what picture had interested him. It was a small painting of the prodigal son but was evidently by no amateur, the face of both father and son were admirably portrayed. The strong Syrian faces were melded by the ruddy gleams of sunset. A tame kid was gambling behind them and two women were grinding corn with the millstone between them. On the flat white roof of the house, another woman had just laid aside her distaffed in a hurry. The father's arms with their gold bracelets were clasping the gaunt sharp shoulders of the starving youth. Olivia knew the picture well. Marcus had been very much struck with it. It was good work, he said. The Syrian faces were perfect types and he had made Olivia notice the strong resemblance between father and son. That is the mother, I suppose, had been her comment. She has just caught sight of them. There is a puzzled look in her eyes as she lays aside her distaffed as though she is not quite sure that that wild-looking figure in sheepskin is her own long lost son. It must be a grand thing to be an artist, was Marcus's reply to this. Goddard, I do not know the name. The picture is cheap, too, only 25 pounds but I would wager any money that it was painted in Syria. Olivia stole a second glance at the old man but he never moved. Then she shivered and walked faster. It was bitterly cold, a miserable afternoon for Marcus who was visiting his poor patients in the squalid back streets and slums that fringed Brompton. Mayfuel villas were about 10 minutes walk from Galveston Terrace. The villas had burrandas and long, narrow gardens but most of them had lodgings to live. Mrs. Broderick and her maid occupied the first floor at number six. The drawing room and back bedroom belonged to the invalid and Deborah had a tiny room close by her mistress. The other room had been converted into a kitchen. None of the rooms were large but they were well furnished and thoroughly comfortable. During her husband's lifetime, Mrs. Broderick had been comfortably off and had had a good house. The carved bookcases, turkey carpet and D.P.Z. chairs and a few proof engravings, handsomely framed all spoke of better days. When Olivia's foot sounded on the stairs, a tall, hard-featured woman came out of the kitchen. I knew it was you, she said, come in. My mistress is just rearing for you. She never sleeps in daylight and it is ill-reading and working in the fading light. I will soon have the tea ready. I've been baking some scones. Olivia sniffed the warm perfume delightedly. She was hungry, oh so hungry, although two hours had not elapsed since dinnertime and dev scones with sweet, fresh country butter was ambrosial food. Don't let Deb keep you with her, Jotter. Come, Ben, my old woman, as my poor Fergus would have said. The voice was peculiarly youthful and melodious, the timber exquisite and modulation of volume, but the face belonged to a woman aged more by pain and trouble than years. Madge Broderick had never been a handsome woman. Her nose was too long and her skin too shallow for beauty. But her bright eyes and a certain gracefulness of figure and her beautiful voice had been her charms. Fergus Broderick, a rough Scotchman, with a tongue as uncouth as his native dales, had fallen in love with her at their first meeting. He had been invited to dine at the house of the senior partner in whose employ he was and as the awkward bashful young Scotchman entered the fire lit room, a clear laugh from amongst a group of girls gathered round the hearth, penetrated like music to his ear. Parting is such sweet sorrow, said the voice, with much patience that I could say goodbye until tomorrow. Those are your sentiments, Katie, are they not? Hush, Madge, here is Mr. Broderick waiting for us to speak to him and the daughter of the house rose with a laugh to greet him. When the lamps were lighted, Fergus Broderick had scanned all the girlish faces with furtive eagerness. He had felt a shock of disappointment when the owner of the exquisite voice had revealed her identity. Madge's long nose and shallow skin were no beauty, certainly. Nevertheless, before the evening was over, Fergus Broderick knew he had found his mate and for eight blissful years, Madge dwelt in her woman's kingdom and gathered more roses than thorns. Her first trouble had been the loss of her boy. He had succumbed to some childish ailment. For husband's death, the result of an accident had followed a few months later. The strain of the long nursing and excessive grief had broken down Madge Broderick's strength. The seeds of an unsuspected disease latent in her system now showed itself and for some two or three years, her sufferings both mental and physical would have killed most women. Then came alleviation and the law that resembles peace. The pain was no longer so acute. The disease had reached a stage when there would be days and even weeks of tolerable comfort. Then Madge courageously set herself to make the most of her life. With a courage that was almost heroic, she divided and subdivided the hours of each day, so many duties, so many hours of recreation. She had her charity work, her fancy work, her heavy and light reading, books and flowers were her luxuries. The newest books, the sweetest flowers were always to be found on the table beside her couch. Madge often said laughingly that she lived in a world of her own, but I have very good society. She would, the best and wisest of all ages give me their company. This morning I was listening to Plato's dialogues and this afternoon, Sir Edwin Arnold was entertaining me at the Maple Club in Tokyo. This evening, well, please do not think me frivolous, but affairs at Rome and a certain Prince, Sarah Senevska, claimed my attention. A good novel puts me in a better humor and disposes me to sleep, you know? She would finish brightly, but I always read aloud to Fergus in the evening. We were going through a course of factory. We were in the middle of Philip on his way through the world when the accident happened. After that, he could only bear a few verses or a song. End of chapter two, chapter three of Dr. LaTrell's first patient by Rosa Mousset-Carrie. As Livervox recording is in the public domain. Chapter three, Aunt Madge. It is more delightful and more honorable to give than receive, Epicurus. Most people thought it a strange thing that Mrs. Broderick spoke so constantly of her husband, Mrs. Tolman, the vicar's wife who was a frequent visitor, had been scandalized more than once and had expressed herself rather strongly on the subject to her husband. I know you think very highly of poor Mrs. Broderick, Stephen, and so do I, she remarked one day. Very few women would bear things in that quiet, uncomplaining way and the amount of work she gets through is astonishing that that perpetual dragging in of her husband's name seems to me such bad taste. Upon my word, Isabella, I cannot say that I agree with you and the vicar straightened himself on the rug in his favorite attitude. He was a heavy ponderous man with an expression of shrewd good sense on his face that won people's confidence. I wish other women were as faithful to their husband's memory, that flighty little Mrs. Martin, for example. My dear Stephen, what an absurd idea, fancy talking of Lydia Martin. Everyone knows she is making a dead set at Mr. Germain, although poor Jack Martin has hardly been dead a year. She is Mrs. Broderick's exact opposite. Please do not misunderstand me in this tiresome way and hear Mrs. Talman frown slightly. It is the manner in which Mrs. Broderick speaks of her husband that offends my tastes, in my opinion, compressing her lips as she spoke our departed dear ones are sacred and should not be mentioned in a secular manner. At the word secular, there was a twinkle in the vicar's eyes, though he held his peace. And to tell the truth, Mrs. Talman had been unable to find the expression she needed. But with Mrs. Broderick, it is Fergus here and Fergus there, just as though he were alive and in the next room. And she was expecting him in every moment. Sometimes in the twilight, it makes me quite creepy to hear her speaking in that spitely voice, just as though she were making believe that he heard her. Poor soul was the vicar's answer to this, but he was used to keeping his thoughts to himself. He and Mrs. Broderick understood each other perfectly. She had not a firmer friend in the world unless it was her kind physician, Dr. Ryan Dahl. Poor soul, he repeated when his wife and a silent dungeon had retired from the room. It is not likely that Isabella would understand her. Mrs. Broderick is the bravest and the brightest woman I know. And yet the furnace was heated seven fold for her. Make believe that he is alive while he has never been dead to her. It is her vivid faith and her vivid imagination that has helped her to live all these years instead of lying there a crushed wreck for people to patronize and pity. And here again, there was a wicked little twinkle in the vicar's eyes. Did he not know his Isabella and how good she was to those who would allow her to advise and lecture them? Mrs. Broderick has just laughed and put her foot down. That is why Isabella is always complaining of her. They have not exactly hit it off. And here the vicar laughed softly as he sat down to consider his sermon. Upmatch, how cozy you look, exclaimed Olivia as she stood on the threshold of the warm, far-lit room. And then a swift transition of thought carried her back to the dismal little dining room at Galveston Terrace with his black smoldering fire and the damp clinging to the windowpains and an involuntary shiver crossed her as she knelt down beside her aunt's couch. My dear Olivia, you are a perfect iceberg. Explain, Mrs. Broderick, no, you shall not kiss me again until you are warmer. Sit down in that easy chair close to the fire where I can see you and take that hand screen for the good of your complexion. Now, Deb, bring the tea things like a good soul for Mrs. LaTrell has made a poor dinner. How could you guess that, Aunt Maj? Are you a witch or a magician? Asked Olivia in her astonished voice. It was pure guesswork on Mrs. Broderick's part, but as usual, her keen wits had grazed the truth. Olivia, who had a healthy girlish appetite, had risen from the midday meal almost as hungry as when she had sat down. The dish of hashed mutton had been small, and if Olivia had eaten her share, Martha would have fared badly. A convenient flower pot, a gift from Aunt Maj, had prevented Marcus from seeing his wife's plate. Olivia, who had dined off potatoes and gravy, was already faint from exhaustion. As usual, she confessed the truth. It was my fault, Aunt Maj, she said, basking like a blissful salamander in the warm glow. I ought to have known the meat would not go round properly, but happily Marcus did not notice, or else there would have been a fuss. He and Martha dined properly, and I mean to enjoy my tea. But Mrs. Broderick's only answer was to ring her handbell. Dad boiled two of those nice new laid eggs that Mrs. Broughton sent me. Mrs. LaTrell has had no dinner. If the scones are ready, we will have tea at once. And as Deborah nodded and vanished, she shook her head a little sadly. Olive, dear, it won't pay. You are not the sort of person who can safely starve. I thought there was something wrong about you. When you came in, you had a peeky underfed look. Oh, I thought so, as the tears rose to Olivia's eyes. No, I am not going to say another word until you have had your tea. Look at Zoe. She thinks you are in trouble about something. And wants to lick your face is not the sympathy of a dumb creature touching. They don't understand what is wrong, but they see plainly that their human friend is unhappy. Come to me, Zoe, and I will explain matters. It is not much of a trouble. Olive is not really miserable. She is only cold and hungry and weak and wants petting and causating. I think I am rather unhappy. Our match returned Olivia in a sad voice. Things are getting worse and Marcus looks so care-worn. He was talking in his sleep last night. We have so little money left, only just enough for a six-month rent and the coals and ever so little for housekeeping and no patience come. And now I have made up my mind to tell him tonight that Martha must go. My dear Olivia, we talked that over a few weeks ago and we decided then that you had better keep her. Yes Aunt Maj, I know, but indeed, indeed, we cannot afford her food. These growing girls must be properly fed and the amount of bread and butter she eats would astonish Deb. And here Olivia heaved a harassed sigh. Well, well, we will talk it over again and then Deb brought in the tea things and the scones and the new late eggs and as Mrs. Broderick sipped her tea, it did her kind heart good to see how her niece enjoyed the good things before her. There now you feel ever so much better, she said when the meal was finished. Now we can talk comfortably. I've been thinking over what you have said and I suppose you are right from your point of view and that if you cannot afford Martha's food, she must go. But I've been thinking of Marcus, he is at the turning point of his career. Everything depends on his making a practice. When patients send for him and they will send for him by and by, do you think it will look well for his wife to open the door to them? But Aunt Maj, Olive you were always a good honest little girl and you have grown up an honest woman. You want to do your duty and slave for Marcus and Dot and you have begun nobly by starving yourself until you are on the verge of an hysterical attack. But we must think of Marcus, Martha must not go. At least not until the winter is over. I have been saving a few pounds for your Christmas present. I meant you to have had a new dress and jacket and a few other little things you needed. But if you like to pay Martha's wages with it until Easter, you can please yourself, only take it and say no more. What crying again, what nonsense as though I may not give my own niece a little present. It is the goodness and the kindness returned Olivia with a low sob. Aunt Maj, why are you so good to me? You have saved all this and you have so little to spare as though I do not know what a small income you really have. It is a very respectable income and my dear Fergus worked hard to make it. I never profess to be a rich woman but I have everything I want. If people would only cut their coat by their cloth as Fergus used to say there would be less distress in the world. Well, my wants are a few. I have no milliner's bills. Here there was a gleam of fun in the invalid's eyes. No smart bonnets or fashionable mantles needed at this establishment. Only just a cozy tea gown now and then when the old one is too shabby. Come Olive, are you not going to count your money? And then Olivia emptied the contents of the little purse on her lap. Well, as the slim finger sorted the gold and silver will there be enough for Martha's wages until Easter? Yes indeed Aunt Maj and there will be some over. I can buy the stuff for baby's winter police without troubling Marcus. And do you know knitting her brows in careful calculation? I do believe that with a little contrivance and management I can get some new trimming for my Sunday hat and a pair of Chevrolet gloves. Good Chevrolet gloves are dear but they wear splendidly. And a pair would last me most of the winter. Yes, her eyes brightening. I am sure I could do it. It does fright Marcus so to see me shabby. Mrs. Broderick nodded in a sympathizing way. She knew the joy of these small economies and contrivances. The little purse of savings had not been gathered together without some self denial. But as she saw the lovely rainbow smile on Olivia's face she felt that she had her reward. This is my red letter day. She said quickly, it is always a red letter day when I can really help someone. I have my black letter days when I can do nothing special. When it is all knots and crosses in my diary I've had my Christmas treat beforehand and I shall be quite happy till bedtime thinking about Dot's police and the new hat trimming. By the by, what color is the police to be? Blue, baby is so fair and blue suits her best. I think I shall get some cotton-backed velvet just to trim it. I must not dream of fur. How would Miniver look round the cape and neck? I have two or three yards in very good condition. Deb picked it off my wadded side. Mental years ago I was keeping it for some special occasion. If you buy a really good cashmere and trim it with my old Miniver, Dot will have a grand police. And then Mrs. Broderick hunted in her key basket for a certain key and instructed her niece to unlock a drawer in her wardrobe. It was growing late by this time and Olivia was obliged to take her leave. Marcus had promised to be backed by seven and it was six o'clock now but as she walked briskly through the quiet streets she felt as lighthearted as a child. What a happy evening she and Marcus would spend. There would be no need now to tell him about Martha or to beg him to give her the few shillings for Dot's police. He should have a nice tea. Aunt Madge had made her take a couple of the new laid eggs and a pot of Deb's delicious marmalade home with her and she knew how Marcus would enjoy the little treat. Dear Aunt Madge, how I love her. I think she is the very best woman in the world but here Olivia gave a surprise start. She had reached the print shop at the corner of Harbett Street and in the strong glare of the gas lamp she distinctly saw the tall bent form of her mysterious neighbor. He was coming out of the shop and walking stiffly and with difficulty in the direction of his house. She had never known him out so late before. His afternoon walk was always timed for him to be backed by four. She glanced at the shop window but there was no picture of the prodigal son to be seen. Had he bought it, was this the reason why he was out so late? Olivia felt a little anxious as she noticed how feebly he walked. The greasy pavements were rather slippery and Galveston Terrace was not a well-lighted thoroughfare. Perhaps it was nonsense but she would not enter her house until she had seen him safely across the road and within the line guarded portals. It was just kindly, womanly instinct but all her lifelong Olivia was glad that she had yielded to that impulse. She was still standing upon the step and the old man was nearly across the road when she saw him slip. A piece of orange peel on the curb had escaped him in the darkness and he had put his foot on the slippery substance. Olivia gave a quick exclamation as she saw him try to recover his balance and then fall forward rather heavily. No one was passing just then and happily the road was clear of vehicles. Olivia ran across and picked up his stick then she took him by the arm and helped him to rise. I trust you have not hurt yourself, she said anxiously. Please do not be afraid of leaning on me. I am very strong. Ah, as the old man uttered a groan. You have injured yourself in some way. The curb is rather steep just here. It is my ankle but I must get home somehow. You are very good, madam. If you will allow me to take your arm I think I can manage those few yards. I live there pointing to the grim doorway. Yes, I know Mr. Gaythorn of Galveston House. We are neighbors of yours and I have seen you come out of the house frequently. Shall I ring the bell for you and perhaps hesitating a little as though she were taking a liberty you will allow me to go as far as the hall door with you. But to her alarm the old man suddenly stood still. It was pitchy dark under the overhanging trees and only a faint gleam from a large bow window showed her the length of the garden path that they would have to traverse. I can do no more, he said faintly. I believe I have broken my ankle. Mrs. Crampton and the maids must find some way of getting me in. Perhaps, madam, you will be so good as to explain the matter to them. I see the door is open and Olivia at once left him and went up to the house. Your master has met with a slight accident, she said to the astonished maid. He has fallen and hurt his foot and it is quite impossible for him to walk up to the house. He mentioned Mrs. Crampton. Perhaps you will ask her what is to be done and the girl a good-natured buxom country lass at once ran off. Olivia stood patiently for a few minutes. The hall with its handsome rugs and blazing fire looked delightfully inviting. A lean old hound stretched on a tiger's skin turned its head and then rose stiffly and came towards her. As its slender nose touched her dress, she saw the poor thing was blind. The next moment, a cheerful-looking, great-haired woman hurried towards her, followed by two maids. What is it that Phoebe tells me, ma'am? Mr. Gaethon has met with an accident. Times out of number, I have begged and prayed him not to go out alone, but he was not to be persuaded. He is down there by the gate. The trees hide him, returned Olivia hastily. I think it would be best to take an armchair if you think we could carry him in. He is in dreadful pain and cannot walk a step farther. Phoebe tell Cook to light the lantern and then you two girls bring one of the study chairs, the lantern first mined. Now, ma'am, perhaps we had better find my master and the last says we'll follow us. There are four of us and Mr. Gaethon is not so very heavy and we will have him on the library couch in no time. End of chapter three, chapter four of Dr. Luttrell's First Patient by Rosa Neuchette Carey. Miss Librivox recording is in the public domain. Chapter four, Dr. Luttrell's First Patient, sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, browning. Olivia felt as if she were dreaming as she followed the little procession down the dark garden path. Once she pinched her wrist slightly to assure herself that she was awake, Mrs. Crampton held the lantern and the cook and the two maids carried the armchair with jolting uneven footsteps that brought a suppressed groan to Mr. Gaethon's lips. As they lifted him on the couch, he looked so white that Olivia thought he was going to faint and beg the housekeeper to give him some wine. He was evidently in severe pain. It would be better not to touch the foot until the doctor comes, she observed, and then Mrs. Crampton looked perplexed. My master does not hold with doctors, ma'am. I don't remember one ever crossing the threshold since poor Miriam had typhoid fever. The foot is swelling already and it will be a job to get the boot off. Ah, I thought so. As Mr. Gaethon winced and motioned her away, he will be afraid of one touching it. My husband lives just opposite the corner house with the red lamp in Harbott Street. He is a doctor and very clever and I'm nearly sure that he is in just now. Olivia spoke a little breathlessly and anxiously then she bent over the old man. If Mrs. Crampton does not know of another doctor, would you mind one of the maids running across the road for Dr. Latrell? You are suffering so much and your foot ought to be treated at once. It is impossible for anyone to know if it be only a sprain until the boot is removed. You fell so heavily that perhaps a small bone might be broken. Yes, and send, return the invalid irritably, clear the room, Crampton. You know that I hate to have a parcel of women round me. There is no need for you to go, madam, with an attempt at civility, as Olivia was about to withdraw at this plain speaking. Give the lady a chair, Phoebe. But Olivia, who had excellent tact, only smiled pleasantly and shook her head. I think it will be best for me to send the doctor across. There's nothing that I can do for you until he comes. She took the old man's hand as she spoke and pressed it gently. I'm so sorry to leave you in such pain, but I hope you will soon be relieved. Perhaps you will not mind my inquiring another day, but a stranger is only in the way tonight. Olivia's soft, well-modulated voice was so full of kindly sympathy that Mr. Gaithorn opened his weary eyes again. Thank you, was all he said, but he watched her keenly as she crossed the long room. Olivia walked so quickly that she was almost out of breath when she reached her own door. The dining room looked cold and comfortless. Martha was on her knees before the fireplace, trying to revive the blackened embers with the help of the kitchen bellows. And Dr. LaTrell, with a tired face and puckered brow, was watching the proceedings somewhat impatiently. A tallow candle was guttering uncomfortably on the table. Is the fire out? Oh, Marcus, I'm so sorry, but Martha and I will soon put things to rights. Will you go across to Galveston House at once, please? And here Olivia's voice was full of suppressed excitement. Mr. Gaithorn has slipped against the curb and hurt his foot. He is in great pain. I've been helping him and then I said I would send you. I've left the gate open so you can just go up to the door. Marcus listened to these details with an astonished face and then he caught up his black bag and nodded acquiescence. The tired frown left his face and he moved away with his quiet professional step. Olivia watched him from the doorstep as she closed the door after him. She could have clapped her hands with sheer delight and excitement. It was her doing that Marcus had his first patient. Those foolish maids would never have thought of sending for him. Scott was awake and singing to herself in her usual chuckling fashion in the firelight but Olivia had no time to play with her pet. The bellas are no good Martha, she said quickly you must just fetch a bundle of sticks and a newspaper and relay the fire while I came to the lamp and set the table for tea. The room feels like a vault. There is a good fire in the kitchen ma'am if you want to make toast, observed Martha rising reluctantly from her knees. I've been ironing Miss Baby's pennies. Olivia, who was drawing the heavy curtain across the window, was relieved to hear this. In another quarter of an hour, the little room wore a more cheerful aspect. The sticks crackled and blazed lustily. The green shaded lamp diffused a mellow light. The tea tray was set and the plate of French toast was frizzling gently on a brass trivet. At the sound of her master's footstep, Martha had orders to fill up the teapot and boil the eggs. After this, Olivia played with Dot and undressed her and then brought her in to say good night to her father but she wacked sleepy long before he let himself in with his latch key. Marcus paused on the threshold a moment as though something struck him. Olivia's face looked fair and sweet as she sat in her low chair with a sleepy child in her arms. She put back her head with a soft questioning smile as he bent down to kiss her face. Dot is nearly asleep but I had not the heart to put her in her cot until you had seen her. Tea is quite ready and Martha is boiling some new laid eggs. Dot Madge has sent you to a pot of her homemade marmalade because she knows how fond you are of it. Sit down and begin, I shall not be a moment. And Olivia's voice was so full of suppressed excitement that Marcus laughed as he drew his chair to the table. He was tired and hungry but he no longer felt impatient and depressed. Now tell me everything she exclaimed when she came back. What have you done? Was the foot very bad? Will you have to go to Galveston house again? Rather, return Marcus, it is a pretty bad sprain. I can tell you why I should not be surprised if Mr. Gaythorne is laid up for the next two or three weeks. He is not in good condition and the shaking and fright have upset him. He will want good nursing and plenty of attention as I told his housekeeper. I'm going again early in the morning. And was he civil to you? Mrs. Crampton says he hates doctors and Olivia's tone was a trifle anxious. Well, he was a bit grumpy at first but I had my work to do and took no notice. But when I had helped him upstairs and put him comfortable for the night he waxed his shade more gracious and thanked me quite civilly. I fancy he is a character and has lived so long alone that he has grown morose and unsociable. That blind hound of his followed us upstairs and would not leave him. Did you notice him, Livy? Yes, and is it not a nice house, Marcus? That library is a beautiful room. All those hundreds of well-bound books and the massive oak furniture. I had not time to notice things but I could not help feeling how deliciously soft and warm the carpets felt to one's feet and then those lovely rugs and skins in the hall. His bedroom was just as luxurious. Mr. Gaythorne is evidently a rich man though he keeps no carriage. Mrs. Crampton told me so. He is very fond of flowers. There's a sort of conservatory on the first floor full of beautiful plants and an alcove where he can sit and enjoy them. I could not help stopping a moment to admire them but Mrs. Crampton did not invite me to go in. He may depend upon it. The old gentleman is a strict martinet and rules his household with a rod of iron. Mrs. Crampton seems a good creature but he spoke pretty sharply to her once or twice. But he was in such pain, Marcus. Yes, my dear, I know that. Oh, by the by he sent his compliments to you. I am greatly indebted to Mrs. La Trolle and I trust that I shall soon have an opportunity of thanking her properly for her kind helpfulness. There, Livy, now we shall hear no more of the nihilist or the Roman priest. Dr. La Trolle was in spirits. It was easy to see that the first patient, the first brief, the first book, I and the first love, what a halo remains round them. Our first fruits may be immature, unripe, but to us they have a goodly flavor, a subtle sweet aroma of their own. All through his successful life, Dr. La Trolle will look back to this evening as the turning point of his career. When he stood cold and tired watching Martha's bellows and his wife's voice with a triumphant ring in it, had called to him from the threshold. Marcus's first piece of good luck had so absorbed them that it was some time before Olivia remembered to tell him about Aunt Madge's present. Marcus forgot to go on with his tea when he saw the little heap of coins in his wife's hand. Martha's wages, dots, police, and even the gloves and new hat trimming were all duly canvassed. And Marcus said abruptly, Aunt Madge is a Trump. His glistening eyes were eloquent enough. They had so much to discuss that it was nearly bedtime before he offered to go on with the book he was reading aloud, but after all, they were neither in the mood for other people's stories. In youth life is so interesting. No chapters of past memories, no wide experiences are so beguiling and absorbing. So we live then how often we hear that phrase as the old man looks back over a long life to the time when lads love filled his days with sunshine. When Marcus lay awake that night, there was no deadly coldness at his heart, no lurking demon of despondency waiting for the small dark hours to assail him. On the contrary, hope with serif wings fanned him blissfully. Marcus Latrell was young, but he was no coward. For two years he had waited patiently until the tide should turn, wait till the clouds roll by, he used to say cheerily, but only his wife guessed how he was really losing heart as day after day and month after month passed and no paying patients presented themselves at the corner house at Galveston Terrace. Olivia was at the window the following morning with Dot in her arms. As Dr. Latrell with his shabby black bag crossed the road, he looked back once and Dot kissed her dimpled hand to him. Olivia, who admired her husband with all her honest girlish heart, watched eagerly until the slight, well-built figure passed between the stone lions. If he were only a little older looking, she thought regretfully, but his smooth face and fair hair gave him a boyish look. It was absurd, of course, but she could settle to nothing until he came back, but Marcus, who had had a bad accident case on his mind, was in too great a hurry to satisfy his wife's curiosity. The foot was going on as well as he expected, but Mr. Gaethon was unable to leave his bed. He was going again in the evening and now he must be off to the model lodging house to see if the poor fellow had pulled through the night. Olivia had planned out her morning. She had her marketing to do and her purchases to make. Then it was only right to go round and tell Aunt Madge of a wonderful piece of good fortune that had befallen them. Mrs. Broderick was unfaithfully pleased. Still, olive, she remarked with commendable prudence. One swallow does not make a summer. No, Aunt Madge, of course not, but as Marcus says, one patient brings others. Galveston House is a big place and when the neighbors see him going in and out, it will be a sort of testimonial. Besides, I shall quote Deb's favorite proverb, every nickel makes a muckle. Now I really must go for I want to cut out Dot's police. And the dinner, olive, are you sure it will go round today? Then Olivia left in a shame-faced way. Yes, indeed, I've been dreadfully extravagant and we are going to have steaks and chips because it is Marcus's favorite dish. And Martha does it so well. There's a whole pound of steak and just a little over, I saw it cut myself and it was such good weight and hesitating little, there are current dumplings too. Come, this is feasting indeed. But Aunt Madge smiled a little sadly when she found herself alone. Does olive have realized how happy she is? She said to herself, she is a rich woman in spite of all her poverty and cares when one has youth and love and health and a good conscience, every day is a feast and a delight. One day Marcus will drive in his carriage and pair. He is a clever fellow and there is real grit in him and people will find it out, they always do. And olive will wear silk dresses and get stout with prosperity and good living. But I doubt if she will be quite as happy as she is today, cutting out Dot's police and enjoying her daydreams. And very probably Mrs. Broderick was right. Marcus was more communicative that evening when he returned from his second visit to Galveston House. Mr. Gaythorne was not exactly an ideal patient. He had a will and a temper of his own and already his opinion clashed with his doctors. Marcus had laid great stress on perfect rest. He wished his patient to remain in bed for the next two or three days, but Mr. Gaythorne perversely refused to do anything of the kind. He would put on his dressing gown and lie on the couch. He hated bed in the daytime. It made him nervous and spoiled his night's sleep. I shall have to give in to him when to Aunt Marcus a little irritably. If I were in good practice, I should just throw up the case. My good sir, I should say, if you will not follow my directions, it will be useless for me to prescribe for you. My professional reputation is at stake and I cannot stand by and see you retard your cure. Can't you fancy me saying it, Libby? And Marcus tossed back his wave of hair in his old boyish way. Yes, dear, but people will soon find out what a splendid doctor you are and so that poor glazier in the models will recover, you think? Yes, I hope so. The chances are in his favor, poor chap. It was hard lines crashing through the roof of that conservatory. If I had not been on the spot, he would have bled to death before they could have got him to a hospital. You might go and see them, Libby. They are decent people. She is a pleasant, hardworking young woman. And they have two little children and the place is as clean as possible. I told Mr. Gathorn about them just to amuse him, but he only grunted and looked bored. By the way, you are right. In one of your surmises, he has bought your favorite picture of the prodigal son. He was on a chair beside his bed and he consulted me as to where he could have it hung. I was going to suggest over the mantelpiece, but then I saw there was a large picture there with a silk curtain over it. That must be his wife's picture, Marcus. How nice of him to have curtains over it. Very nice if we could be sure that Mr. Gathorn has been married and had a wife. He returned a little dryly, but I should not be surprised to find that he was an old bachelor. He is far too fussy and precise for a widower. But my dear child, we are getting into very gossiping ways and I must really get on with that book Aunt Madge lent us and then Olivia consented to hold her tongue and let him read aloud to her as usual. End of chapter four. Chapter five of Dr. LaTrell's First Patient by Rosa Neuchette Carey. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter five, a visit to Galveston House. He who knows how to speak knows also when to speak. Plutarch. The next morning as Olivia sat at work with Dot on the rug at her feet, playing with that limp furry monkey over which she was gurgling and cooing like a baby dove, Dr. LaTrell entered the room. There was a pleased look on his face. Olivia said, look what Mr. Gathorn has given me for poor Jack Travers. And he held a five pound note before his wife's eyes. Don't you think we owe him a handsome apology for calling him a miser? It does not do to judge by appearances in this world. Mr. Gathorn is eccentric and a trifle contankerous but he is not stingy. Jack Travers, is that the poor man in the models? Oh Marcus, how splendid of him to give all that. It will be quite a fortune to the poor things. Yes, it will pay their rent until Travers gets about again. He is not going to die this journey. Was it not liberal of the old fellow? But if you had only seen the way he gave it to me as though he were ashamed of the whole thing. That is for the man you told me about last night. He said in quite a grumpy voice and he had hardly seemed as though he had listened yesterday and he would not let me thank him. He turned testy at once. By the by, Livy, he wants you to go and see him. You have evidently won his heart, my dear. If Mrs. LaTrell has half an hour's leisure I shall be pleased to see her. Those were his very words. I hope you told him that it would be rather difficult to find leisure with all my numerous engagements returned Olivia sassily, but that I would do my best for him. How many callers have we had since we were married? Marcus, let me see the vicar and Mrs. Tolman. Oh, and one day Mrs. Tolman brought a friend. I remember how excited I was that afternoon and that horrid little Sarah Jane had her sleeves rolled up to her elbows when she opened the door and I did not offer them tea because I knew she would never have had boiling water. Oh, yes, continued Olivia merrily. I will look over my visiting list and see how I am to squeeze in a call at Galveston House. What hour do you think would suit him best, Marcus? Then Dr. Latrell, who had been much amused by his wife's droglary, gravely considered the point. About three o'clock, I should say, I think he wants to show you his flowers. He is going to have his couch wheeled into the conservatory or his winter garden as he calls it. Why should you not go across this afternoon? Now I must be off to the models and as Olivia took up her work again, there was a soft flush on her cheek and a happy look in her eyes as she listened to his light springing tread. Dear Marcus, she said to herself, how pleased he is about this. It has done him good already. Oh, how I hope Mr. Gaythorne won't take our fancy to him. He is rich and liberal, I am sure of that. He will pay Marcus well and perhaps before long someone else will send for him. What dot, my sweet, must I love Jack O, too, has dot laid her treasure on her mother's lap. When Olivia rang at the bell of Galveston House that afternoon, the same rosy cheek maid admitted her. If you will step into the library a minute, ma'am, she observed I will tell Mrs. Crampton and Olivia was left alone in the beautiful room she remembered so well. A bright fire burned cheerly on the hearth and the blind hound lay on the rug. He came up to Olivia and thrust his slender nose into her hand in a friendly fashion. It was in this room that Mr. Gaythorne evidently passed his days. The tables bore signs of his numerous occupations. One table seemed loaded with books of reference. A pile of neatly written manuscripts were on the esquitoire. Portfolios of engravings and a microscope on a pedestal stand occupied one corner and a small inner room seemed full of cabinets and cases of stuffed birds and butterflies. Mr. Gaythorne was evidently a collector and a man of culture. The volumes in the carved oak bookcases were mostly bound in Russian cath. Olivia had only time to read a few titles when Mrs. Crampton appeared her comely face had a pleased smile on it. Mr. Gaythorne will be extremely obliged if you will step upstairs and see him, ma'am. She said civilly, he has been wheeled into the conservatory. My master thinks a deal of his flowers, books and flowers, they are his main amusements when his cough keeps him from going out you must come to arrows of course as the hound bothered them closely. Galveston house had been built in rather an unusual fashion. A conservatory had been thrown out at the back of the first floor landing and ran along one side of the house forming a sort of veranda to the lower rooms. As Mrs. Crampton opened the glass door the warm fragrant air met them deliciously. At the farther end, Mr. Gaythorne lay on a couch under a tall palm with an oriental quilt thrown over him. His dark rims and dressing gown and black velvet cap gave him a picturesque appearance with his white peak beard and mustache and his dark sunken eyes he would have passed for a Venetian doge. The mass of brilliant bloom and the warm flower scented air made Olivia slightly giddy. This is very kind of you, Mrs. Latrell, observed Mr. Gaythorne in a slow, precise voice as she stooped over him and took his hand. Crampton, bring a chair for the lady. I've been wanting to thank you for your kind assistance that unlucky evening. I told the doctor so and he has been good enough to give you my message. Indeed I did very little, returned Olivia in her mellow voice. You seem so feeble that I could not help watching you cross the road and then you slipped and I felt you had hurt yourself. I fear from what my husband tells me that it will be some little time before you will be able to get out again. So he says and he threatens me with crutches, returned the old man grimly, but as I seldom cross the threshold in winter, I need not trouble myself about that. Are you fond of flowers, Mrs. Latrell? As Olivia's eyes wandered to the splendid exotics around her, Crampton shall cut you some presently my library and my winter garden form my entire world now. And you live among all these lovely things, observed Olivia almost in a tone of awe. Oh, if only Aunt Maj could see these flowers. She spoke impulsively without considering her words and blushed a little when she saw Mr. Gaythorne lift his eyebrows cynically. I was only thinking of my aunt, Mrs. Broderick. She said apologetically, she is such a sad invalid. She has never been out once since Uncle Fergus died and that is ever so many years ago and she suffers such dreadful pain sometimes. The doctors say her complaint is incurable and she is not at all old. She lives all along with her maid and never goes beyond her two rooms and yet no one hears her complain. Mrs. Broderick must be a wonderful person. She beats Job, return Mr. Gaythorne with a cynical curl of his lip, but Olivia was too much engrossed with her subject to notice it. Oh, she is wonderful. She returned earnestly. I never met anyone like her. She is the bravest woman I know. Even the vicar says so. Don't you love Pluck, Mr. Gaythorne? So few people are plucky in that sense. Aunt Maj has lost everything she cares for, husband and child and health, but she bears it all so beautifully and makes the best of things. I could not help thinking of her when I saw all those lovely flowers. She simply dote some flowers. There are always some on her little table. Flowers and books, those are her sole pleasures. When on earth made you hold forth on Aunt Maj's virtues, you absurd child, was Marcus's comment when Olivia repeated this portion of her conversation. Fancy entertaining Mr. Gaythorne with an account of your relations and Olivia blushed guiltily. It does sound odd if you put it in that way, Marcus. She returned, but when I saw all those beautiful flowers, Aunt Maj just jumped into my head and I always do speak out my thoughts so, but I could see he was interested. He said little sharps, nearing things at first, but afterwards he questioned me a good deal. Oh, we got on splendidly. He began asking me about ourselves and if you had much of a practice, so he said it quite nicely as Marcus dropped the loaf he was cutting and frowned anxiously. He was quite gentlemanly and only hinted at things, but I understood him, of course. And you told him, I suppose, that he was my first patient in an annoyed turn. You may as well own it, Livy. You are honest enough even for that. And there was no denying that Marcus's voice was decidedly sarcastic. With all her virtues, Olivia never did know when to hold her tongue. Oh, Marcus dear, how could I help it? Replied Olivia nervously. Of course I had to tell him that we were just beginners and how Dr. Slade had deceived us that there was no redress as he was dead, but I told him too how hard you worked among the poor. He did not say much. I don't think he is a great talker, but he stroked that funny beard of his and nodded his head. Then when Mrs. Crampton came up, he told her to bring coffee and he made me stay and pour it out for him. There was such a lovely chased coffee pot and cream jug and such delicious cakes. And when I said it last that I must go, he thanked me quite pleasantly. It is long since I've been so well amused and I hope you will come and see me again. Yes, he said that Marcus, so I am sure he did not mind my frankness, but oh dear, he quite forgot to tell Mrs. Crampton to cut me some flowers. You need not expect any flowers now, returned her husband impatiently. You have done for yourself and me too. I expect a beginner you said, Olivia and you a sensible woman. When I go this evening, I have no doubt. I shall be civilly told that a second opinion will be desirable. My dear girl, don't you know that modest reticence, a judicious silence is sometimes the safest policy? A professional beggar may whine and show his sores, but a needy doctor out at elbows must wear a good appearance. But Olivia, who was on the verge of tears from sheer vexation at her own impulsiveness, did not seek to defend herself. If she had imperiled Marcus's professional reputation by her carelessness, she felt she should never hold up her head again, but Marcus, who was tired and a little out of humor, was not disposed to comfort her. He had had a worrying day among his poor patients. The one bright spot had been his visit to the models when Jack Travers had sobbed and broken down in the attempt to speak his gratitude. And now just as they were getting on so well, Olivia's wants of tact and that terribly honest tongue of hers had spoiled everything. Was it likely, was it within the bounds of possibility that a man of the world, a rich man too, would be content with the services of an unknown practitioner? If he put himself in Mr. Gaithorn's place, he knew that he should be disposed to request Dr. Bevin to call. It was not only a sprained ankle, Mr. Gaithorn was an ailing man and needed medical care. Marcus, who was clever and quick-witted, had already formed a pretty correct diagnosis of the case. There is mental as well as physical trouble. He had said to himself the previous evening and with professional reticence, he had kept this opinion to himself, but he was already deeply interested in his patient. So much was at stake and their fortunes were at so low an ad that Marcus might be pardoned for his unusual touchiness, yet when he left the room without further remark, Olivia's heart sank within her. Why could I not have held my tongue? She thought with tardy repentance. What could have induced me to talk so much? But Mr. Gaithorn really seemed interested and somehow he encouraged me to go on. If he had appeared bored or tired, I should have stopped at once, but he seemed so curious about Aunt Mad. She even asked if she had a good doctor. Oh dear, surely that is not Marcus going out as the street door opened and now there were actual tears in Olivia's eyes. In all the two years of their happy married life, they had never had more than a momentary misunderstanding. If a hasty word had been uttered by one of them, the other had always an eager protest or a smooth answer ready. When Olivia had been impatient and captious, Marcus had only laughed and coaxed her into good humor again. And even when he had indulged in a few sarcastic speeches, Olivia's soft voice and ready acquiescence had avoided friction. Marcus often told her that they were a model couple and had earned the done moe flinch over and over again. But in reality, their mutual respect and thorough understanding of each other's salient points had conduced to this harmony. That Marcus should leave the house therefore without speaking to her alarmed Olivia excessively. She must have vexed him indeed if he could do such a thing as that. And here, one or two bright drops ran down on the blue police. She was actually crying like a scolded child. When two or three minutes later, the parlor door opened and Marcus entered. His face wore a queer expression. And in each hand he held an exquisite bunch of hot house flowers. Their perfume reached Olivia before he laid them before her. There, Olive, he said, I take back my words. Then as he caught side of her tear-stained face, oh, you foolish little woman, you absurd child. But his hand rested affectionately on her soft brown hair as she put back her head against him. Oh, Marcus, I could not help crying to think I had vexed you so. Somehow it is the one thing I cannot bear to think my foolish tongue should have harmed you. I was in an awful funk, certainly. Return, Marcus, frankly. But I never meant to bother you like that. Cheer up, Livy. I dare say it is all right. And I know you will be a model of discretion for the future. Aren't you going to look at your flowers? And then Olivia did permit herself to be consoled. Think of his cutting all those lovely flowers for me. She cried ecstatically. Is he not an old deer, Marcus? For why two bouquets, knitting her brows in a puzzle fashion. You had better open that folded slip of paper, suggested her husband sensibly. It may explain matters. And Olivia took his advice. Mrs. LaTrell, with Mr. Gaythorne's compliments, was penciled in a shaky hand, and on the second slip almost illegibly for Mrs. LaTrell's aunt. Oh, Marcus, how sweet of him. And Olivia looked almost lovely in her excitement, and Marcus agreed that he was a good old sort. If you are going to write a narrative thanks, you must just hurry up, as it is nearly time for me to go across. And then Olivia put the flowers in water and got out her writing case. End of chapter five. Chapter six of Dr. LaTrell's first patient. By Rosa Neuchette Carey. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. I remind you of someone. The fire in the flint shows not till it be struck. Timon of Athens. Although Marcus had other visits to pay, and would not be back until quite late, Olivia sat up for him on pretense of finishing dots, police, but to her disappointment, he had very little to tell her on his return. Mr. Gaythorne had been tired and out of spirits, and he had had no inducement to prolong his visit. He had not read Olivia's note, only placed it beside him. Perhaps he was a shade more civil than usual observed Marcus dryly, but his manners certainly want mending. Could you not eliminate that motto? Livy, manners make of man, and we would frame it and give it him as a Christmas present. But Olivia could not be induced to see the joke. Mr. Gaythorne was still an old deer, and the perfume of his flowers was sweet to her. Marcus would have wondered if he had intercepted one of the searching glances that were reading him so acutely. Those deep-set melancholy eyes could pierce like a jimlet. Sometimes the vivid blue light seemed to dart from them. When master has one of his awful looks on, I dare not face him, Phoebe would say, and Mrs. Grampton, conscious as she was of rectitude and the claim of long and faithful service, felt there were limitations to her intercourse with her master. Once and only once had she ventured on a tabooed subject and had retired from the room with her comely face quite pale with fear. I thought he would have struck me, she said to her confidant, the middle-aged housemaid, or that he would have had a fit. I should have one myself if I ever tried it on again, but I never will, Rebecca, I will take my oath of that. Master has an awful temper when he is drove wrong, returned Rebecca primly. I don't wonder at Mr. Alwyn myself, I don't hold with keeping too tight a hand over a young man. It fairly throttles all the goodness out of them. He was none so bad that he would not have done better if only he had had a word of encouragement instead of all those flouts and jibes. Those are exactly my sentiments, Becky returned Mrs. Grampton wiping her eyes with her snowy frilled apron and having a boy of my own, bless him, I am a pretty fair judge. Tom was a pickle before he went to sea, but neither his poor father nor me ever cast it at him. He ran away and took the queen's shilling, though it night broke our hearts. Well, he is a sergeant now and Polly makes him a good wife and all's well that ends well, but I must be looking after Master supper and Mrs. Grampton bustled away to her duties. Olivia took her flowers round to Aunt Maj as soon as her household duties were done in the morning. Mrs. Broderick, who had had a sleepless night of pain, looked more worn and languid than usual, but she brightened up at the sight of the flowers and poked her long nose into the heart of a rose with an air of rapt enjoyment, but the next moment she frowned. Livy, she said severely, I am extremely angry. How dare you be guilty of such extravagance? Even if it be my birthday, don't I know what these exquisite flowers must have cost? Then Olivia's face fell a little. Oh, Aunt Maj, I had no idea it was your birthday and I brought you nothing, nothing at all. Do let me explain. And then Mrs. Broderick listened with much interest to Olivia's recital. The flowers are even sweeter than I thought them, she said presently and her face flushed a little. I thought the day would be so blank and that I should just lie here missing Fergus. He always made such a fuss on my birthdays. They were red letter days to him and now this friendly message has come to me. Give me my writing case, Livy. I must scroll a few lines to your old gentleman and she refused to dictate the note to Olivia. My dear sir, she wrote, do you know what you have done? You have given a poor invalid a very happy day. Your beautiful flowers have come to me like a lovely message of sympathy and goodwill from an unknown friend. If you were ever sad and lonely, if life has not always been easy to you, it will sweeten your solitary hours to know that you have given enjoyment to a crippled sufferer. Today is my birthday, the 46th milestone on my life's journey. During a long, wakeful night of pain, I've been counting up past blessings and the new day seemed a blank to me and then your flowers came and I thank God and took courage. Dear sir, I remain yours, gratefully Margaret Broderick Widow. That was one of Aunt Maja's fads, one of her harmless little peculiarities to sign herself in that fashion. There is so much in the word widow, she would say. If it were not for it seeming odd or making people smile, I would always sign myself Fergus's widow instead of my proper name, but nothing could induce her to send even a note without that curious signature. Olivia could not quite get over her grievance of forgetting Aunt Maja's birthday. It was so horrid of me, she said with a long face, but anyhow, I will come to tea. No, dear, not today, returned Mrs. Broderick quietly. Tomorrow, Deb and I will be delighted to welcome you and Deb shall bake some shortbread and scones. Marcus might come too, it is long since I saw him. But why not today, dear Aunt Maja, persisted Olivia rather curiously. Fergus and I always spent the day alone together and I keep up the custom still, returned Mrs. Broderick in a dreamy voice. He never gave me his present until the evening and it was always such a grand surprise. His last present to me was that revolving book table, how splendid I thought it and what a comfort it has been to me all these years. Don't look so serious, Olivia, I don't mean to be dull, I never am, but I like to fancy that on my birthday, I have Fergus near me still and nothing that Olivia could say would shake her resolution. Olivia hesitated to repeat her visit to Galveston House and when she consulted Marcus, he advised her to wait a little. We must not be too pushing, I dare say, one of these days, Mr. Gaythorne, will send you another message. He is rather ailing and out of sorts just now and inclined to bristle up at a word, but though Marcus wrapped in this way, he had not found his birth and easy one. Mr. Gaythorne was often irritable and the least contradiction, even the assertion of an opinion would ruffle him. Once when Marcus had proposed discontinuing his evening visits, Mr. Gaythorne had appeared quite affronted. If I can afford to pay for medical advice, I suppose I may be allowed to have it. He had returned testily. Of course, if your time is too valuable, but Marcus flushing at the covert sneer answered in his quick straightforward way. I wish it were more valuable, but as I have no wish to pick your pocket, I thought it would be only honest to tell you that the evening visit is no longer necessary. Very well, then we will regard it in the light of a luxury, returned Mr. Gaythorne a little less grimly. By the by, Dr. Latrell, I want to ask you if you will kindly let me have your account at the end of the month. Monthly payments are my rule, if it will not inconvenience you. Marcus assured him he was quite ready to meet his wishes. Olivia, who had few amusements, often thought longingly of that beautiful winter garden and wished to revisit it. She had described it so vividly and graphically to Aunt Maj that Mrs. Broderick declared she could picture it exactly. She was never weary of hearing her niece's description. I feel as though my world were enlarged and that I had got a new friend, she said one day. And Olivia was amused to hear that the faded flowers had been carefully pressed. She was much delighted then when one raw foggy November morning, Marcus brought her a message. Mr. Gaythorne felt himself better and would be very pleased if Mrs. Latrell would give him an hour that afternoon. Her visit was a very pleasant one. The yellow fog outside had been extremely depressing, but as she stepped into the hall, the whole house seemed brightly illuminated. Mr. Gaythorne, who was on crutches, met her at the head of the staircase. He had discarded his dressing gown and wore a black velvet coat that became him still better. The conservatory lighted up by lamps, cunningly concealed among the foliage, looked more like fairyland than ever. And the deep, easy chairs with their crimson cushions were deliciously inviting. Her admiration seemed to gratify Mr. Gaythorne and as he pointed out his favorite flowers and descanted on their habits and peculiar beauties, Olivia listened with such intelligent interest and asked such sensible and pertinent questions that he was drawn insensibly into giving her a botanical lesson. They were so engrossed with their subject that it was almost an effort to break off when coffee was brought. Mrs. Crampton had sent up a profusion of dainty cakes and as Olivia drank her coffee and feasted on the various delicacies, the one drawback to her pleasure was that Marcus was not there to share it. At this present moment, he was in some slum or other supplementing the labors of the overworked parish doctor. How surprised Dr. Latrell would have been if he could have seen the transformation in his patient's appearance. The lean, cadaverous face had lost its fretful look. The melancholy dark eyes had grown bright and vivid. The slow, precise voice had waxed, animated and even eloquent as he discourse learnedly on his floral treasures. Flowers, butterflies and birds were his great hobbies and his magnificent collections had been gathered from all parts of the world. He had been a great traveler in his early manhood. I've been everywhere and seen everything, he said once. Towards the end of the afternoon, Olivia had been much touched by a little incident. She'd asked him a question about a curious cactus. If you will come with me, my dear, he had answered. I could show you a better specimen. And then a dull red had risen to his forehead. Excuse me, Mrs. Latrell, I forgot whom I was addressing and you, but here he checked himself. Oh, do finish your sentence, she said in her bright persuasive voice. You were going to say that I remind you of someone. And as he met her kind, friendly glance, his shy stiffness relaxed. Yes, he said simply. And a great sadness came into his eyes. You remind me of my daughter. That first evening when you spoke to me, you reminded me of her then. And you have lost her. Oh, I am so sorry, does it pain you to speak of her? I should so like to know her name. Her name was Olivia. He returned slowly, but we always called her Olive. She was born at Beirut under the Syrian sun and in the land of gray olive trees. How strange what a curious coincidence returned young Mrs. Latrell softly. That is my name too. And Marcus often calls me Olive. And I remind you of her. Yes, Olive spoke in just that brisk, cheerful manner. She was so full of life and energy. She died of fever at Rome. We were staying there. She was only two and 20. And she was to have been married that summer. Her poor mother never got over the shock. Before the autumn, she had followed her. Oh, how sad, how dreadfully sad, observed Olivia with tears in her eyes. What a tragedy to live through and her poor lover too. Oh, yes, Arbuth Nott, he was bitterly cut up. He is a judge now and has a good wife, but I doubt if he has ever forgotten Olive. She was no beauty, but she had a way with her. Stay, I will show you her picture. Poor man, no wonder he looks melancholy, thought Olivia, as he slowly hobbled away on his crutches. How strange that I should remind him of her. And that she should be Olive too. But when Mr. Gaythorne returned and placed a beautiful miniature before her, she could see no resemblance to herself in the dark, sweet face of Olive Gaythorne. No, she was not beautiful, but there was something wonderfully attractive and winning in her expression. The eyes deep set like her father's had a frank, soft look. Your only child and you lost her, murmured Olivia sympathetically. My only daughter corrected Mr. Gaythorne in a tone so peculiar that Olivia raised her eyes and then she felt a little frightened. There was a curious pallor on Mr. Gaythorne's face which made it look like old ivory and his bushy eyebrows were drawn closely together. It is a sweet face, a dear face, returned Olivia hurriedly. She was a little nervous over her mistake. It is kind of you to show me this and I like to think her name was Olive. And then she closed the case reverently and put it back in his hands. I must go now, she said, it has been such a lovely time and you've taught me so much. Will you send for me again when you want to see me? I think that is best. It would be such a pity for me to disturb you when you felt tired or disinclined for visitors. You are my only visitor, returned Mr. Gaythorne in his old grim manner. The vicar's wife, what is the woman's name, forced her way in one day, but I do not think her reception pleased her. The vicar himself is an honest man. I have given him a hint that he will be welcome if he comes alone, but no bustling prying vicar is for me. Oh poor Mrs. Tolman, well she is a little officious as Marcus calls her and I know she often sets Aunt Madge's nerves on edge. Oh by the way, I intend to send Mrs. Broderick some more flowers. Will it be a trouble to you to take them or shall one of the lasses carry them straight to her house? Oh no please, let me have the pleasure of taking them if you had only seen Aunt Madge's delight. She wrote me a pretty sort of note, return Mr. Gaythorne, but tell her not to do that again. Gratitude is for favors to come. You may reminder of that. Does she always sign her name in that fashion, Margaret Broderick Widow? Yes always, it is one of Aunt Madge's whimsies, but you will never get her to alter. It does not sound bad, but it is certainly unique. How would it answer if one were to follow her example, John Allwin Gaythorne Wittewer? And here Mr. Gaythorne gave a short sardonic laugh. Marcus, oh Marcus exclaimed Olivia coming into the room in her breezy fashion, I have so much to tell you. Mr. Gaythorne is a Wittewer and he has lost his only daughter and her name was Olivia and that is why he has taken to me because I remind him of her. But checking herself as she caught sight of her husband's face, you have something to tell me too. Only that they sent for me from Fairfax Lodge, that is that Ivy covered house next to Gavilston house, a child taken suddenly with croup. I've been there most of the afternoon. Then Olivia clapped her hands with that little exclamation of delight. Marcus's tone had been quite cool. A matter of fact that there was a glint of satisfaction in his eyes, the tide had turned at last. End of chapter six.