But these nervous troubles are dreadfully depressing.
John does not know how much I really suffer. He knows there is no
reason to suffer, and that satisfies him.
Of course it is only nervousness. It does weigh on me so not to do my
duty in any way!
I meant to be such a help to John, such a real rest and comfort, and
here I am a comparative burden already!
Nobody would believe what an effort it is to do what little I am
able—to dress and entertain, and order things.
It is fortunate Mary is so good with the baby. Such a dear baby!
And yet I cannot be with him, it makes me so nervous.
I suppose John never was nervous in his life. He laughs at me so about
this wallpaper!
At first he meant to repaper the room, but afterwards he said that I
was letting it get the better of me, and that nothing was worse for a
nervous patient than to give way to such fancies.
He said that after the wallpaper was changed it would be the heavy
bedstead, and then the barred windows, and then that gate at the head
of the stairs, and so on.
“You know the place is doing you good,” he said, “and really, dear, I
don’t care to renovate the house just for a three months’ rental.”
“Then do let us go downstairs,” I said, “there are such pretty rooms
there.”
Then he took me in his arms and called me a blessed little goose, and
said he would go down cellar if I wished, and have it whitewashed into
the bargain.
But he is right enough about the beds and windows and things.
It is as airy and comfortable a room as any one need wish, and, of
course, I would not be so silly as to make him uncomfortable just for a
whim.
I’m really getting quite fond of the big room, all but that horrid
paper.
Out of one window I can see the garden, those mysterious deep-shaded
arbors, the riotous old-fashioned flowers, and bushes and gnarly trees.
Out of another I get a lovely view of the bay and a little private
wharf belonging to the estate. There is a beautiful shaded lane that
runs down there from the house. I always fancy I see people walking in
these numerous paths and arbors, but John has cautioned me not to give
way to fancy in the least. He says that with my imaginative power and
habit of story-making a nervous weakness like mine is sure to lead to
all manner of excited fancies, and that I ought to use my will and good
sense to check the tendency. So I try.
I think sometimes that if I were only well enough to write a little it
would relieve the press of ideas and rest me.
But I find I get pretty tired when I try.
It is so discouraging not to have any advice and companionship about my
work. When I get really well John says we will ask Cousin Henry and
Julia down for a long visit; but he says he would as soon put
fire-works in my pillow-case as to let me have those stimulating people
about now.