Have n't I solved the riddle of the Sphinx? Who can this man be but the
boy of that story? Look at the date of the journal when he was eleven
years old, it would make him twenty-five now, and that is just about the
age the people here think he must be of. What could account so entirely
for his ways and actions as that strange poisoning which produces the
state they call Tarantism? I am just as sure it must be that as I am
that I am alive. Oh, doctor, doctor, I must be right,--this Signorino
M ... Ch... was the boy Maurice Kirkwood, and the story accounts for
everything,--his solitary habits, his dread of people,--it must be
because they wear the colors he can't bear. His morning rides on
horseback, his coming here just as the season was approaching which
would aggravate all his symptoms, does n't all this prove that I must be
right in my conjecture,--no, my conviction?”
The doctor knew too much to interrupt the young enthusiast, and so he
let her run on until she ran down. He was more used to the rules of
evidence than she was, and could not accept her positive conclusion so
readily as she would have liked to have him. He knew that beginners are
very apt to make what they think are discoveries. But he had been an
angler and knew the meaning of a yielding rod and an easy-running reel.
He said quietly,
“You are a most sagacious young lady, and a very pretty prima facie case
it is that you make out. I can see no proof that Mr. Kirkwood is not
the same person as the M... Ch... of the medical journal,--that is, if
I accept your explanation of the difference in the initials of these two
names. Even if there were a difference, that would not disprove their
identity, for the initials of patients whose cases are reported by their
physicians are often altered for the purpose of concealment. I do not
know, however, that Mr. Kirkwood has shown any special aversion to any
particular color. It might be interesting to inquire whether it is so,
but it is a delicate matter. I don't exactly see whose business it is
to investigate Mr. Maurice Kirkwood's idiosyncrasies and constitutional
history. If he should have occasion to send for me at any time, he might
tell me all about himself, in confidence, you know. These old accounts
from Baglivi are curious and interesting, but I am cautious about
receiving any stories a hundred years old, if they involve an
improbability, as his stories about the cure of the tarantula bite
by music certainly do. I am disposed to wait for future developments,
bearing in mind, of course, the very singular case you have unearthed.
It wouldn't be very strange if our young gentleman had to send for me
before the season is over. He is out a good deal before the dew is off
the grass, which is rather risky in this neighborhood as autumn comes
on. I am somewhat curious, I confess, about the young man, but I do not
meddle where I am not asked for or wanted, and I have found that eggs
hatch just as well if you let them alone in the nest as if you take
them out and shake them every day. This is a wonderfully interesting
supposition of yours, and may prove to be strictly in accordance with
the facts. But I do not think we have all the facts in this young man's
case. If it were proved that he had an aversion to any color, it would
greatly strengthen your case. His 'antipatia,' as his man called
it, must be one which covers a wide ground, to account for his
self-isolation,--and the color hypothesis seems as plausible as any.
But, my dear Miss Vincent, I think you had better leave your singular
and striking hypothesis in my keeping for a while, rather than let it
get abroad in a community like this, where so many tongues are in active
exercise. I will carefully study this paper, if you will leave it with
me, and we will talk the whole matter over. It is a fair subject for
speculation, only we must keep quiet about it.”
This long speech gave Lurida's perfervid brain time to cool off a
little. She left the paper with the doctor, telling him she would come
for it the next day, and went off to tell the result of this visit to
her bosom friend, Miss Euthymia Tower.
XV. DR. BUTTS CALLS ON EUTHYMIA.
The doctor was troubled in thinking over his interview with the young
lady. She was fully possessed with the idea that she had discovered the
secret which had defied the most sagacious heads of the village. It was
of no use to oppose her while her mind was in an excited state. But
he felt it his duty to guard her against any possible results of
indiscretion into which her eagerness and her theory of the equality,
almost the identity, of the sexes might betray her. Too much of the
woman in a daughter of our race leads her to forget danger. Too little
of the woman prompts her to defy it. Fortunately for this last class of
women, they are not quite so likely to be perilously seductive as their
more emphatically feminine sisters.
Dr. Butts had known Lurida and her friend from the days of their
infancy. He had watched the development of Lurida's intelligence from
its precocious nursery-life to the full vigor of its trained faculties.
He had looked with admiration on the childish beauty of Euthymia,
and had seen her grow up to womanhood, every year making her more
attractive. He knew that if anything was to be done with his self-willed
young scholar and friend, it would be more easily effected through the
medium of Euthymia than by direct advice to the young lady herself.
So the thoughtful doctor made up his mind to have a good talk with
Euthymia, and put her on her guard, if Lurida showed any tendency to
forget the conventionalities in her eager pursuit of knowledge.
For the doctor's horse and chaise to stop at the door of Miss Euthymia
Tower's parental home was an event strange enough to set all the tongues
in the village going. This was one of those families where illness was
hardly looked for among the possibilities of life. There were other
families where a call from the doctor was hardly more thought of than
a call from the baker. But here he was a stranger, at least on his
professional rounds, and when he asked for Miss Euthymia the servant,
who knew his face well, stared as if he had held in his hand a warrant
for her apprehension.
Euthymia did not keep the doctor waiting very long while she made ready
to meet him. One look at her glass to make sure that a lock had not run
astray, or a ribbon got out of place, and her toilet for a morning call
was finished. Perhaps if Mr. Maurice Kirkwood had been announced, she
might have taken a second look, but with the good middle-aged, married
doctor one was enough for a young lady who had the gift of making all
the dresses she wore look well, and had no occasion to treat her chamber
like the laboratory where an actress compounds herself.
Euthymia welcomed the doctor very heartily. She could not help
suspecting his errand, and she was very glad to have a chance to talk
over her friend's schemes and fancies with him.
The doctor began without any roundabout prelude.
“I want to confer with you about our friend Lurida. Does she tell you
all her plans and projects?”
“Why, as to that, doctor, I can hardly say, positively, but I do not
believe she keeps back anything of importance from me. I know what she
has been busy with lately, and the queer idea she has got into her
head. What do you think of the Tarantula business? She has shown you the
paper, she has written, I suppose.”
“Indeed she has. It is a very curious case she has got hold of, and I do
not wonder at all that she should have felt convinced that she had come
at the true solution of the village riddle. It may be that this young
man is the same person as the boy mentioned in the Italian medical
journal. But it is very far from clear that he is so. You know all her
reasons, of course, as you have read the story. The times seem to agree
well enough. It is easy to conceive that Ch might be substituted for K
in the report. The singular solitary habits of this young man entirely
coincide with the story. If we could only find out whether he has any
of those feelings with reference to certain colors, we might guess with
more chance of guessing right than we have at present. But I don't see
exactly how we are going to submit him to examination on this point. If
he were only a chemical compound, we could analyze him. If he were only
a bird or a quadruped, we could find out his likes and dislikes. But
being, as he is, a young man, with ways of his own, and a will of
his own, which he may not choose to have interfered with, the problem
becomes more complicated. I hear that a newspaper correspondent has
visited him so as to make a report to his paper,--do you know what he
found out?”
“Certainly I do, very well. My brother has heard his own story, which
was this: He found out he had got hold of the wrong person to interview.
The young gentleman, he says, interviewed him, so that he did not
learn much about the Sphinx. But the newspaper man told Willy about the
Sphinx's library and a cabinet of coins he had; and said he should make
an article out of him, anyhow. I wish the man would take himself off. I
am afraid Lurida's love of knowledge will get her into trouble!”
“Which of the men do you wish would take himself off?”
“I was thinking of the newspaper man.”
She blushed a little as she said, “I can't help feeling a strange sort
of interest about the other, Mr. Kirkwood. Do you know that I met him
this morning, and had a good look at him, full in the face?”
“Well, to be sure! That was an interesting experience. And how did you
like his looks?”
“I thought his face a very remarkable one. But he looked very pale as he
passed me, and I noticed that he put his hand to his left side as if he
had a twinge of pain, or something of that sort,--spasm or neuralgia,--I
don't know what. I wondered whether he had what you call angina
pectoris. It was the same kind of look and movement, I remember, as you
must, too, in my uncle who died with that complaint.”
The doctor was silent for a moment. Then he asked, “Were you dressed as
you are now?”
“Yes, I was, except that I had a thin mantle over my shoulders. I was
out early, and I have always remembered your caution.”
“What color was your mantle?”
“It was black. I have been over all this with Lucinda. A black mantle on
a white dress. A straw hat with an old faded ribbon. There can't be
much in those colors to trouble him, I should think, for his man wears
a black coat and white linen,--more or less white, as you must have
noticed, and he must have seen ribbons of all colors often enough. But
Lurida believes it was the ribbon, or something in the combination of
colors. Her head is full of Tarantulas and Tarantism. I fear that she
will never be easy until the question is settled by actual trial. And
will you believe it? the girl is determined in some way to test her
supposition!”
“Believe it, Euthymia? I can believe almost anything of Lurida. She is
the most irrepressible creature I ever knew. You know as well as I do
what a complete possession any ruling idea takes of her whole nature. I
have had some fears lest her zeal might run away with her discretion. It
is a great deal easier to get into a false position than to get out of
it.”
“I know it well enough. I want you to tell me what you think about the
whole business. I don't like the look of it at all, and yet I can do
nothing with the girl except let her follow her fancy, until I can show
her plainly that she will get herself into trouble in some way or other.
But she is ingenious,--full of all sorts of devices, innocent enough in
themselves, but liable to be misconstrued. You remember how she won us
the boat-race?”
“To be sure I do. It was rather sharp practice, but she felt she was
paying off an old score. The classical story of Atalanta, told, like
that of Eve, as illustrating the weakness of woman, provoked her to
make trial of the powers of resistance in the other sex. But it was
audacious. I hope her audacity will not go too far. You must watch her.
Keep an eye on her correspondence.”
The doctor had great confidence in the good sense of Lurida's friend.
He felt sure that she would not let Lurida commit herself by writing
foolish letters to the subject of her speculations, or similar
indiscreet performances. The boldness of young girls, who think no evil,
in opening correspondence with idealized personages is something quite
astonishing to those who have had an opportunity of knowing the facts.
Lurida had passed the most dangerous age, but her theory of the equality
of the sexes made her indifferent to the by-laws of social usage. She
required watching, and her two guardians were ready to check her, in
case of need.
XVI. MISS VINCENT WRITES A LETTER.
Euthymia noticed that her friend had been very much preoccupied for two
or three days. She found her more than once busy at her desk, with a
manuscript before her, which she turned over and placed inside the desk,
as Euthymia entered.
This desire of concealment was not what either of the friends expected
to see in the other. It showed that some project was under way, which,
at least in its present stage, the Machiavellian young lady did not
wish to disclose. It had cost her a good deal of thought and care,
apparently, for her waste-basket was full of scraps of paper, which
looked as if they were the remains of a manuscript like that at which
she was at work. “Copying and recopying, probably,” thought Euthymia,
but she was willing to wait to learn what Lurida was busy about, though
she had a suspicion that it was something in which she might feel called
upon to interest herself.
“Do you know what I think?” said Euthymia to the doctor, meeting him as
he left his door. “I believe Lurida is writing to this man, and I don't
like the thought of her doing such a thing. Of course she is not like
other girls in many respects, but other people will judge her by the
common rules of life.”
“I am glad that you spoke of it,” answered the doctor; “she would write
to him just as quickly as to any woman of his age. Besides, under the
cover of her office, she has got into the way of writing to anybody. I
think she has already written to Mr. Kirkwood, asking him to contribute
a paper for the Society. She can find a pretext easily enough if she has
made up her mind to write. In fact, I doubt if she would trouble herself
for any pretext at all if she decided to write. Watch her well. Don't
let any letter go without seeing it, if you can help it.”
Young women are much given to writing letters to persons whom they only
know indirectly, for the most part through their books, and especially
to romancers and poets. Nothing can be more innocent and simple-hearted
than most of these letters. They are the spontaneous outflow of young
hearts easily excited to gratitude for the pleasure which some story
or poem has given them, and recognizing their own thoughts, their own
feelings, in those expressed by the author, as if on purpose for them to
read. Undoubtedly they give great relief to solitary young persons, who
must have some ideal reflection of themselves, and know not where to
look since Protestantism has taken away the crucifix and the Madonna.
The recipient of these letters sometimes wonders, after reading through
one of them, how it is that his young correspondent has managed to fill
so much space with her simple message of admiration or of sympathy.
Lurida did not belong to this particular class of correspondents,
but she could not resist the law of her sex, whose thoughts naturally
surround themselves with superabundant drapery of language, as their
persons float in a wide superfluity of woven tissues. Was she indeed
writing to this unknown gentleman? Euthymia questioned her point-blank.
“Are you going to open a correspondence with Mr. Maurice Kirkwood,
Lurida? You seem to be so busy writing, I can think of nothing else. Or
are you going to write a novel, or a paper for the Society,--do tell me
what you are so much taken up with.”
“I will tell you, Euthymia, if you will promise not to find fault with
me for carrying out my plan as I have made up my mind to do. You may
read this letter before I seal it, and if you find anything in it you
don't like you can suggest any change that you think will improve it. I
hope you will see that it explains itself. I don't believe that you will
find anything to frighten you in it.”
This is the letter, as submitted to Miss Tower by her friend. The bold
handwriting made it look like a man's letter, and gave it consequently
a less dangerous expression than that which belongs to the tinted and
often fragrant sheet with its delicate thready characters, which slant
across the page like an April shower with a south wind chasing it.
ARROWHEAD VILLAGE, August--, 18--.
MY DEAR SIR,--You will doubtless be surprised at the sight of a letter
like this from one whom you only know as the Secretary of the Pansophian
Society. There is a very common feeling that it is unbecoming in one of
my sex to address one of your own with whom she is unacquainted, unless
she has some special claim upon his attention. I am by no means disposed
to concede to the vulgar prejudice on this point. If one human being
has anything to communicate to another,--anything which deserves being
communicated,--I see no occasion for bringing in the question of sex. I
do not think the homo sum of Terence can be claimed for the male sex as
its private property on general any more than on grammatical grounds,
I have sometimes thought of devoting myself to the noble art of healing.
If I did so, it would be with the fixed purpose of giving my whole
powers to the service of humanity. And if I should carry out that idea,
should I refuse my care and skill to a suffering fellow-mortal because
that mortal happened to be a brother, and not a sister? My whole
nature protests against such one-sided humanity! No! I am blind to all
distinctions when my eyes are opened to any form of suffering, to any
spectacle of want.
You may ask me why I address you, whom I know little or nothing of,
and to whom such an advance may seem presumptuous and intrusive. It
is because I was deeply impressed by the paper which I attributed to
you,--that on Ocean, River, and Lake, which was read at one of our
meetings. I say that I was deeply impressed, but I do not mean this as
a compliment to that paper. I am not bandying compliments now, but
thinking of better things than praises or phrases. I was interested in
the paper, partly because I recognized some of the feelings expressed in
it as my own,--partly because there was an undertone of sadness in all
the voices of nature as you echoed them which made me sad to hear, and
which I could not help longing to cheer and enliven. I said to myself, I
should like to hold communion with the writer of that paper. I have
had my lonely hours and days, as he has had. I have had some of his
experiences in my intercourse with nature. And oh! if I could draw him
into those better human relations which await us all, if we come with
the right dispositions, I should blush if I stopped to inquire whether I
violated any conventional rule or not.
You will understand me, I feel sure. You believe, do you not? in the
insignificance of the barrier which divides the sisterhood from the
brotherhood of mankind. You believe, do you not? that they should be
educated side by side, that they should share the same pursuits, due
regard being had to the fitness of the particular individual for hard
or light work, as it must always be, whether we are dealing with
the “stronger” or the “weaker” sex. I mark these words because,
notwithstanding their common use, they involve so much that is not true.
Stronger! Yes, to lift a barrel of flour, or a barrel of cider,--though
there have been women who could do that, and though when John Wesley
was mobbed in Staffordshire a woman knocked down three or four men, one
after another, until she was at last overpowered and nearly murdered.
Talk about the weaker sex! Go and see Miss Euthymia Tower at the
gymnasium! But no matter about which sex has the strongest muscles.
Which has most to suffer, and which has most endurance and vitality? We
go through many ordeals which you are spared, but we outlast you in
mind and body. I have been led away into one of my accustomed trains of
thought, but not so far away from it as you might at first suppose.
My brother! Are you not ready to recognize in me a friend, an equal, a
sister, who can speak to you as if she had been reared under the same
roof? And is not the sky that covers us one roof, which makes us all one
family? You are lonely, you must be longing for some human fellowship.
Take me into your confidence. What is there that you can tell me
to which I cannot respond with sympathy? What saddest note in your
spiritual dirges which will not find its chord in mine?
I long to know what influence has cast its shadow over your existence. I
myself have known what it is to carry a brain that never rests in a body
that is always tired. I have defied its infirmities, and forced it to do
my bidding. You have no such hindrance, if we may judge by your aspect
and habits. You deal with horses like a Homeric hero. No wild Indian
could handle his bark canoe more dexterously or more vigorously than
we have seen you handling yours. There must be some reason for your
seclusion which curiosity has not reached, and into which it is not the
province of curiosity to inquire. But in the irresistible desire which
I have to bring you into kindly relations with those around you, I must
run the risk of giving offence that I may know in what direction to
look for those restorative influences which the sympathy of a friend and
sister can offer to a brother in need of some kindly impulse to change
the course of a life which is not, which cannot be, in accordance with
his true nature.
I have thought that there may be something in the conditions with which
you are here surrounded which is repugnant to your feelings,--something
which can be avoided only by keeping yourself apart from the people
whose acquaintance you would naturally have formed. There can hardly be
anything in the place itself, or you would not have voluntarily sought
it as a residence, even for a single season there might be individuals
here whom you would not care to meet, there must be such, but you cannot
have a personal aversion to everybody. I have heard of cases in which
certain sights and sounds, which have no particular significance for
most persons, produced feelings of distress or aversion that made,
them unbearable to the subjects of the constitutional dislike. It has
occurred to me that possibly you might have some such natural aversion
to the sounds of the street, or such as are heard in most houses,
especially where a piano is kept, as it is in fact in almost all of
those in the village. Or it might be, I imagined, that some color in
the dresses of women or the furniture of our rooms affected you
unpleasantly. I know that instances of such antipathy have been
recorded, and they would account for the seclusion of those who are
subject to it.
If there is any removable condition which interferes with your free
entrance into and enjoyment of the social life around you, tell me, I
beg of you, tell me what it is, and it shall be eliminated. Think it not
strange, O my brother, that I thus venture to introduce myself into
the hidden chambers of your life. I will never suffer myself to be
frightened from the carrying out of any thought which promises to be
of use to a fellow-mortal by a fear lest it should be considered
“unfeminine.” I can bear to be considered unfeminine, but I cannot
endure to think of myself as inhuman. Can I help you, my brother'?
Believe me your most sincere well-wisher, LURIDA VINCENT.
Euthymia had carried off this letter and read it by herself. As she
finished it, her feelings found expression in an old phrase of her
grandmother's, which came up of itself, as such survivals of early days
are apt to do, on great occasions.
“Well, I never!”
Then she loosened some button or string that was too tight, and went to
the window for a breath of outdoor air. Then she began at the beginning
and read the whole letter all over again.
What should she do about it? She could not let this young girl send
a letter like that to a stranger of whose character little was known
except by inference,--to a young man, who would consider it a most
extraordinary advance on the part of the sender. She would have liked to
tear it into a thousand pieces, but she had no right to treat it in
that way. Lurida meant to send it the next morning, and in the mean time
Euthymia had the night to think over what she should do about it.