The grey London sunlight shone on the face of the patient as she sat
facing the long window of the consulting-room, on the finely cut
features, sensitive lips, and clear, dilated eyes. The doctor sat in
the shadow, leaning back in his chair, tapping softly with his fingers
upon the desk.
"And you must not be afraid," he said, following a vigorous
cross-questioning with his skilled advice. "That is the most important
lesson which you have to learn. Banish fear. Live it down; if
necessary, crowd it out. Don't allow yourself time to think and grow
morbid. I tell you frankly that the chances are quite good that you may
entirely _escape_ this curse of your family, but you must understand
that the power is in your own hands to increase or diminish those
chances. Anxiety, depression, loneliness--these will be your worst
enemies. You say that you have sufficient means; that makes things
easier all round. Cultivate interests; cultivate friends. Search for
congenial occupation, and when you have found it--work! Work hard; hard
enough to make rest grateful when the day is over, and sleep
sound--_not_ hard enough to feel worn out. Avoid fatigue as carefully
as you would idleness. Take a good holiday twice a year, and as many
little breaks as possible. Be a hard task-mistress of your mind, but of
your body a careful, even an indulgent, guardian. The two continually
act and react on each other. A diseased mind imagines illness where
there is none; a diseased body taints and demoralises the mind. Look
after both. You must allow yourself to be somewhat self-indulgent as
regards health. There will be other matters which will demand all your
courage and self-denial..."
The girl did not speak, but her eyelashes flickered nervously over her
dilated eyes. The doctor looked down at the tips of those tapping
fingers.
"Marriage," he said slowly--"Marriage is not for you. It is better that
you should face that fact at once. Such a family history as the one you
have just related is a standing evidence of selfishness and cruelty.
Your parents, your grandparents, outraged a great moral law, and you and
others are here to pay the price. You must not follow their example.
This handing on of disease must come to an end. You may think that in
the case of your possible marriage there might not be children; I will
not discuss that point to-day--it is not needful. You are my patient,
and you yourself would run a more serious risk of developing the malady
as a wife. Even the happiest of married lives has responsibilities,
anxieties, physical and mental strains, which might easily prove too
much for your mental balance. It would not be fair to a man to bring
that dread into his life. Marriage for you would be a cruel and
cowardly act. For the man's sake, for your own sake, you must put the
idea out of your life."
There was a moment's silence in the room, then the girl spoke in a low,
faint voice:
"Thank you!" she said softly. With a hand that moved in mechanical
fashion she took a little paper packet from her muff, laid it down on
the corner of the desk, and rose to her feet.
"One moment!" cried the doctor hastily. In that room, seated in that
chair, it had been his lot to speak many sentences of death, but he had
not yet hardened himself to maim a life unmoved. Having dealt his blow,
he was anxious to speak a word of comfort to the girl who had said
"Thank you," in that quiet voice. His keen, hawk-like face wrinkled
into a network of lines as he looked at her across the room.
"One moment! What I have said may appear hard; but before you allow
yourself to grieve at a possible sorrow, look around at the women whom
you know--married and unmarried--compare their lives, make what you can
out of the contrast. There is a large, an increasing number of
unmarried women who consider that their own is the fuller and easier
lot; they refuse to give up their liberty to become what is called the
`slave of a household.' There are some unlovely features connected with
their cult; but remember there is always a modicum of truth behind such
axioms. A married woman, if she is worth her salt, lives not for
herself, but for her household. If she has wider possibilities of joy,
she has also infinitely greater possibilities of pain. Even putting the
husband apart--and he as a rule comes first of all--if she has ten
children, she must needs suffer with each of the ten. Give her every
ease and luxury in the world, and if one of the brood is in trouble, the
poor soul must go down to the depths by his side. To be a wife and
mother is the hardest profession in the world; some people also consider
it the worst repaid. Don't allow yourself to be blinded by sentiment
concerning the married life. Remember its drawbacks; exaggerate them if
you will. Your best medicine is content; to secure that, cultivate, if
needs be, a little intentional blindness. Never allow yourself to
believe that your happiness is necessarily sacrificed!"
"Thank you," repeated the girl once more.
It was the great man's duty to exhort, and preach cheerfulness and
resignation, but to-day his trained physiological eye gave the lie to
his words. This was not a woman whom nature had framed to live alone.
Hers was a tender and appealing grace; long sweeping lashes lent a
veiled softness to her eyes; her lips were red and curved; her figure,
though slim, was gracefully rounded; an atmosphere of feminine charm
enveloped her whole personality. Men would love her, children would
love her; but she must turn from them and live alone. The doctor's
thoughts over-leapt professional bounds, and took an intimate, personal
tone.
"You say you are a comparative stranger in town," he said abruptly.
"You ought to have friends--plenty of friends. My wife is at home every
Sunday afternoon. Will you come to see us sometimes, and let us do what
we can to help your life?"
"Thank you," said the girl for the third time. After a moment's
hesitation she added quickly, "You are very good. I should like to
come."
"That's well. Come soon. We shall expect you next Sunday, or the one
following. Good afternoon."
The door opened and shut, and the girl found herself once more in the
big, grim entrance hall. A table of carved oak strewed with cards and
letters occupied the centre position; plaster busts of well-known
scientific men stood on brackets to right and left, a glass case
containing stuffed birds and fish testified to the doctor's holiday
recreation. At the girl's approach the butler rose from a bench near
the door, his expression unconsciously sobering, to match her own.
All day long he ushered patients into that dull back room, and escorted
them to the door after the all-important interview; he had grown skilful
in divining the nature of the verdict which each one had received.
Occasionally a friend or a relation of the patient came out from that
room in tears, but the patient himself rarely wept. He walked with
mechanical steps; he stared before him with blank, unseeing eyes, as
this young lady stared to-day. She was young, too, good-looking, nicely
dressed; the butler was moved to a sigh of regret as he flung open the
heavy oak door.
The girl who was never to marry walked out into the glare of the
streets, and turned mechanically towards the west.