"Mary, shall I tell you my real reason?"

"Do."

"Because I am a woman--that is a sufficient reason. We women are driven to do strange things, by motives that cannot be put into words, motives that we cannot ourselves a.n.a.lyze. But see, here comes the doctor. He's sweet on me--so he's safe to come and talk with us."

CHAPTER X.

A LOVE THAT DOES NOT RUN SMOOTHLY.

The gentleman who was approaching the two girls was a quietly-dressed man of about thirty-two, but he looked somewhat older. He was tall and broad-shouldered. His clean-shaved face was ma.s.sive in its make, and indicative of power. His expression was grave, and women would have put him down as plain were it not for his eyes, clear thoughtful brown eyes, with a n.o.ble look in them that inspired confidence and respect.

Dr. Duncan had acquired a considerable reputation as a surgeon since we last saw him in the Gaiety with Tommy Hudson. He was still working in the same hospital--that in which Mary and Susan were undergoing their training as nurses.

Taking off his hat, he addressed the girls in a pleasant tone. "I am glad to see that you are making the best of this beautiful afternoon.

How lovely the foliage of the trees is, Miss Riley; is it not? I don't think I ever remember seeing such fine autumnal effects in the heart of London."

Susan replied in a sentimental voice: "Yes, doctor; but it means hard work for us I fear. This still dank weather makes nature look like a sort of huge death-bed, the vegetation rotting slowly, and the steam of decay hanging over everything. It's just the weather to breed fevers and rheumatisms. The weakly ill-fed poor will inhale the foul breath of the dying air, and rot off like all these pretty hectic leaves you are admiring so much."

The false voice in which she said this rather jarred on Dr. Duncan. He looked at her curiously, and said:

"Yes! but it is better for them than the cold winds and the snow and the frost after all, Miss Riley. The maladies and deaths _they_ cause are out of the reach of us doctors, though the remedies are simple enough, G.o.d knows. Coals and bread, that is all that is wanted to stop nine-tenths of the illness of what is called a good old-fashioned winter."

Susan gave the doctor a soft look out of her voluptuous wicked eyes, and exclaimed in a sort of mellow cooing voice, which she knew how to put on when she wanted to fascinate: and it was well calculated to effect this object:

"Ah, doctor! they say that you give away a great deal of that sort of medicine among the poor of this district sometimes. How gratefully they speak of you! You are idolized in the lowest slums. They would die for you. It must be delicious to be loved by all as you are," and she threw out a sigh and another bewitching glance.

But the flattery was a little too thickly laid on for a man of this stamp, though he liked flattery well enough, as all men do, bad or good.

He turned to Mary and said, "Miss King, I have been concerned to see how pale and ill you have been looking of late. I am afraid the hard work is upsetting you. You should take a holiday. Why don't you run down to the sea-side for a week?"

Mary coloured slightly, and said, coldly: "Indeed, I feel very well, thank you, Dr. Duncan. I generally am rather pale, but I think I am as strong as anyone can be."

Susan felt rather annoyed at the manner with which her remarks had been received. She wanted to monopolize the doctor's conversation. She had been setting her cap at him for some time, for what purpose it is difficult to say, unless it were out of mere malice and vanity; for in her heart she disliked this cold man who would not fall into a violent infatuation about her, as most others would have done after a quarter of the love-making she had thrown away on him.

And now she remembered her time was up. She must return to the hospital, and perhaps the doctor would walk part of the way home with Mary. It was most provoking; for she felt that Mary's charms were as great as her own, greater perhaps, she suspected, when a wise man was concerned, though that silly child did not know how to employ them.

"Oh, dear!" she exclaimed, "I wish I could stay a little longer in this pretty place, and have a pleasant chat with you two, but it is time for me to go home."

"I am going home now, Susan," said Mary, "and I will walk as far as the hospital with you. It is on my way."

"And on mine too," said the doctor. "If you allow me I will accompany you."

Mary made no reply.

"Oh! how nice," gushed Susan. "It is so lonely to walk down all those dingy streets by oneself. It is a treat to have somebody with one, especially--" and the cunning beauty checked herself, and pretended to be embarra.s.sed.

They talked on indifferent matters till they reached the gates of the hospital, through which Susan pa.s.sed after affectionately kissing the younger woman, and a parting, "Good-bye, Mary, I'll see you to-morrow morning; good-bye, doctor."

"I am going to Praed Street," said the doctor. "That is in your direction I think. I am going to walk. It will do you good to walk too, Miss King, if you are not tired. Shall we go together? It will be a very great pleasure for me."

"Thank you, Dr. Duncan, I shall be very glad. I don't feel inclined to go in a stuffy omnibus on such a fine afternoon."

So they went together through the now gaslit streets, that were filled with that haze of the still November afternoon, which the true Londoner loves for the soft melancholy of it. It is all very well for us to abuse our London fogs; but there are fogs and fogs, and who would exchange that dreamy poetic indistinctness of effect, which Turner so well knew how to express on canvas, for all the hard clear outline of your Southern cities.

I remember once, in Buenos Ayres, seeing tears come to the eyes of an old Bohemian of Fleet Street, who had for years been dwelling in that city of pellucid atmosphere, when one winter evening a genuine English mistiness made its appearance for a while, reminding that home-sick exile of his dear dingy city of the far Northern island.

This was by no means the first time that the doctor had walked home with Mary. A mutual liking had for some time existed between them; but so far the keenest observer could not have detected, in a word or look of either, any signs of serious affection, if such existed. They were not a demonstrative couple, and did not carry their hearts on their sleeves as Sister Susan seemed to do.

The doctor would speak to her in a calm respectful way, paying only those attentions a well-bred man always pays to a young woman.

She, very much on her guard when with him, affected a manner that would have repulsed many less earnest admirers. She would be cold, curt almost to rudeness, and went so far as to a.s.sume, at times, a flippant cynicism, which she was far from feeling.

But the soft languor of this November afternoon seemed to have entered into the girl's soul; and during this particular walk her power of putting on such defensive affectations failed her for once.

Said the doctor: "What a strange girl that Miss Riley is; I cannot make her out at all."

"She is a very good nurse," replied Mary.

"Excellent; but she is different from all I have ever seen. She shows none of the nervousness, the more or less concealed repugnance, all other girls exhibit at the commencement of this unpleasant training."

"She is kind to the patients."

"Oh, yes! She in a way is the kindest of you all. She is never awkward.

She sets to work in such a business-like way, and is so quick and deft.

She is so free from nervousness that she inflicts a minimum of pain on a patient. She would make a splendid surgeon. But she seems to have no feeling for them, or, at any rate, conceals it as no novice ever did before. I have seen her a.s.sisting at a horrible surgical case, and she looked as calm, even absent-minded, over it, as if it had been a case of gardening, tr.i.m.m.i.n.g and pruning plants, and not poor human flesh."

"I wish I was like her: I am very stupid and nervous sometimes."

"And yet I think I would rather be nursed by you, Miss King."

"I don't think it is very charitable of us to be criticising poor Miss Riley behind her back," said Mary, wishing to turn the conversation.

"Of us! Of me you mean. I am the only culprit. You have been generously taking up the cudgels in her defence. But we will change the subject. I have heard nothing of your aunt for some time. May I ask how she is?"

"My aunt! Oh, Mrs. King! She is very well indeed, thank you, Dr. Duncan; but I did not know you were even aware of her existence."

"I only heard, by accident, the other day, that she was your aunt, and that you lived with her; but I have known of her existence for years."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Mary.

"Oh, yes! She used to speak and lecture on woman's rights, on the abolition of the House of Lords, and such like questions. I heard her several times: very eloquent she was too. I was rather a Radical myself then, but I have changed my views since.... I trust you do not follow your aunt in _all_ her opinions, Miss King?" and he looked rather anxiously at her.

"I think I do, Dr. Duncan."

There was a silence for a while. The man was evidently troubled, and was carefully pondering his next remark. Mary regarded him furtively, wondering what was coming.