enough to allude to it in the first paragraph. Something was gravely wrong with Dora.
. . . the Dr. had a long talk with me last night about Dorie, she may take months to get her brain right which you know has been so weak the last few years her memory going so completely. I will tell you details when you come and I conceive the Dr. will tell you about us . . .
Margaret Conway was breathless with worry. Goodness, what in the world was wrong with Dora’s brain? What was this talk of staying in a sanitarium until July? In cabins? She had never heard of such things in all her life.
She put the letter and cablegram in her pocketbook. There would be no trip to see the volcanic crater called the Punch Bowl. If the girls asked her about it, she would tell them the view had been as lovely as they described. Instead, Margaret planned to shop for Hawaiian curios for Dora and Claire. Perhaps hatpins with little colored seashells affixed to the heads could be had? They were so pretty. They were within Margaret’s modest means, and she knew they would be just the right cheer for the girls. Never far in the back of her mind, it relieved her that the cablegram had been sent on May 17—
fifteen days after the letter.
Dora must have taken a turn for the better.
The cablegram indicated “both quite well.”
M ARGARET CONWAY gripped the handrail as she and other passengers poured down the
Marama
’s gangway in Vancouver on June 1, 1911. The air was warm and moist. Grey-winged gulls circled and screamed from a chalky white sky. Miss Conway’s clothing was heavy for the season; summertime in Canada was winter in Australia. She wished she had packed more appropriately, but there hadn’t been time. Anxiousness and the warm air caused her face to glow and wisps of escaping hair from under her hat to paste against her scalp.
As Margaret prepared to climb aboard the omnibus, a handsome man approached. He identified himself as Samuel Hazzard. Margaret Conway was at once both surprised and pleased. He wore the clothes of a gentleman; a dark summer suit of worsted wool and shoes that glistened black in the sunlight. Even though he was nearly a perfect stranger, she was glad someone was there to meet her. She knew he was the man mentioned in Claire’s letter; the husband of the fasting doctor. Sam said he had taken two rooms at the Babington Hotel and that after a night of rest he would accompany her on a four-hour boat trip to Seattle. Once there, they would take a launch to Olalla.
“How are the girls?” Margaret asked, catching her breath, as they boarded the omnibus.
“Miss Dora is all right,” Sam said, the warm smile of his greeting dissolving in the damp air. “But I will tell you of Miss Claire presently.”
Margaret settled her round frame into a seat, her heart heavy with concern. Now Dora was doing better, and it was Claire who was enduring the worst of it. She worried if Claire’s uterus had been giving her pains, or if she had suffered an attack of rheumatism as her sister had the year before.
“Miss Conway, I have something I must tell you,” he said in a manner that would later haunt Margaret as unbecomingly and peculiarly casual. There was nothing in his tone to suggest that what would follow was no greater than a trivial disclosure between parties who had just met.
“Yes, sir?”
“Miss Claire has died, and Miss Dora is helplessly insane. I am sorry.”
Claire dead?
Sam Hazzard’s words stung at her heart. An ambush. His message was so unexpected that for an instant she didn’t allow herself the certainty that she heard Mr. Hazzard correctly. It could not be that dire. She had just received a letter from Claire. The girl was ill, but improving. The old nurse felt the world drifting to darkness, and she held tight to her seat. Her heart pressed against her rib
. . . the Dr. had a long talk with me last night about Dorie, she may take months to get her brain right which you know has been so weak the last few years her memory going so completely. I will tell you details when you come and I conceive the Dr. will tell you about us . . .
Margaret Conway was breathless with worry. Goodness, what in the world was wrong with Dora’s brain? What was this talk of staying in a sanitarium until July? In cabins? She had never heard of such things in all her life.
She put the letter and cablegram in her pocketbook. There would be no trip to see the volcanic crater called the Punch Bowl. If the girls asked her about it, she would tell them the view had been as lovely as they described. Instead, Margaret planned to shop for Hawaiian curios for Dora and Claire. Perhaps hatpins with little colored seashells affixed to the heads could be had? They were so pretty. They were within Margaret’s modest means, and she knew they would be just the right cheer for the girls. Never far in the back of her mind, it relieved her that the cablegram had been sent on May 17—
fifteen days after the letter.
Dora must have taken a turn for the better.
The cablegram indicated “both quite well.”
M ARGARET CONWAY gripped the handrail as she and other passengers poured down the
Marama
’s gangway in Vancouver on June 1, 1911. The air was warm and moist. Grey-winged gulls circled and screamed from a chalky white sky. Miss Conway’s clothing was heavy for the season; summertime in Canada was winter in Australia. She wished she had packed more appropriately, but there hadn’t been time. Anxiousness and the warm air caused her face to glow and wisps of escaping hair from under her hat to paste against her scalp.
As Margaret prepared to climb aboard the omnibus, a handsome man approached. He identified himself as Samuel Hazzard. Margaret Conway was at once both surprised and pleased. He wore the clothes of a gentleman; a dark summer suit of worsted wool and shoes that glistened black in the sunlight. Even though he was nearly a perfect stranger, she was glad someone was there to meet her. She knew he was the man mentioned in Claire’s letter; the husband of the fasting doctor. Sam said he had taken two rooms at the Babington Hotel and that after a night of rest he would accompany her on a four-hour boat trip to Seattle. Once there, they would take a launch to Olalla.
“How are the girls?” Margaret asked, catching her breath, as they boarded the omnibus.
“Miss Dora is all right,” Sam said, the warm smile of his greeting dissolving in the damp air. “But I will tell you of Miss Claire presently.”
Margaret settled her round frame into a seat, her heart heavy with concern. Now Dora was doing better, and it was Claire who was enduring the worst of it. She worried if Claire’s uterus had been giving her pains, or if she had suffered an attack of rheumatism as her sister had the year before.
“Miss Conway, I have something I must tell you,” he said in a manner that would later haunt Margaret as unbecomingly and peculiarly casual. There was nothing in his tone to suggest that what would follow was no greater than a trivial disclosure between parties who had just met.
“Yes, sir?”
“Miss Claire has died, and Miss Dora is helplessly insane. I am sorry.”
Claire dead?
Sam Hazzard’s words stung at her heart. An ambush. His message was so unexpected that for an instant she didn’t allow herself the certainty that she heard Mr. Hazzard correctly. It could not be that dire. She had just received a letter from Claire. The girl was ill, but improving. The old nurse felt the world drifting to darkness, and she held tight to her seat. Her heart pressed against her rib
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