Doctor Luttrells First Patient | Page 4

she has such a good
appetite, and one cannot stint growing girls."
"I should keep her a little longer," was Aunt Madge'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 assent to this.
But her conscience was not quite satisfied. Even Aunt Madge, 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 dull, narrow life, and one hardly worth living; but the invalid would
have contradicted this.
Madge Broderick had learned the secret of contentment; she had lived
through great troubles--the loss of the husband she had idolised, and
her only little child. Since then acute suffering that the doctors had
been unable to relieve had wasted her strength. Nevertheless, there was
a peaceful atmosphere in the sunshiny room, where she lay hour after
hour reading and working with her faithful companion Zoe beside her.

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 eulogise his doggish virtues as Mrs.
Browning had immortalised her Flush.
Olivia was devoted to her Aunt Madge; 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 hours 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
had 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; he
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 Madge Broderick's
eyes as she took up her work.
CHAPTER II.
THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.
"I at least will do my duty."--Caesar.
Young Mrs. Luttrell stood at the window one November afternoon,
buttoning 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 obtruded itself--presently the
crinkle deepened and widened into a frown, and she walked impatiently
to the fireplace, where a black, uninviting fire smouldered 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 clinging damp peculiar to November made her

shiver; but a cheery blaze would be too great a 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 favourite 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 her round 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 Dot's new winter pelisse. 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 clad.
She must do without her new pair of gloves, that was all, and here
Olivia looked disconsolately at her worn finger-tips; she could ink the
seams and use her old muff, and no one would notice; what was the use
of buying new