“She could pull herself together perfectly well. But she won’t.
She won’t do it, just because it would please me,” he murmured in
suppressed anger, throwing back his head impatiently, with a moan as of
pain. “And I--I need joy and merriment--and brightness-- And--you saw
what it was yesterday. That’s the way it always is now--always.”
“But you are a physician,” I exclaimed. “Can you not give orders? This
shutting herself up is all wrong for a young woman like that.”
He burst out into a loud, bitter laugh. “A physician?-- Why, she thinks
I’m ill and she is well-- And that isn’t all-- She never can forgive
me for our child’s death--” He stared out ahead of him as if he were
looking into a world of misery.
“But how dare she?” I whispered. “A thing like that--is fate.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I am a physician--I should have helped.”
And then he told me the story in a dull and weary tone. An epidemic of
scarlet fever had broken out in the city. His wife had demanded that he
should refuse to treat severe cases, in consideration for herself and
the child. He would not comply with her wish and brought the infection
into the house. “From her point of view, Theresa is quite right in
hating me,” he said, thoughtfully. “But she acts and talks as if it
were only her child--it was _my_ son also.”
We set out for a restaurant that he had recommended. He was quiet and
absent-minded. Suddenly he looked at his watch and said: “You’re an
independent woman. You don’t mind going there alone, do you? I have a
patient to visit and will meet you there later. Will this suit you?”
I assented, understanding that he had already repented of his
confession and wished to be alone. I waited the rest of the afternoon,
but without the hope of seeing him again. He did not come, and I left
the town that evening.
* * * * *
It was in quite another city, in another corner of Germany, where I
was visiting relatives, when one day some one asked me: “Aren’t you a
friend of Dr. Philip Hartens? According to the directory he lives here
now, quite near us. Would you want to look him up?”
“Of course I would.”
An hour later I might have believed that the six years which had passed
between that day and my first visit to the young couple had been a
dream only. For I sat beside the very same table at which I had waited
before. The friendly spring sunshine shone on the gold lettering of the
large books that surrounded the majolica plate, mirrored itself in the
vase with fresh flowers, and awoke a delicate play of color from the
little mother-of-pearl bowl. There were also the amulet with the head
of Apollo and the little glass bottle. The sight of these old friends
caused me to smile, just as Theresa entered. The delicate outlines
of her figure had not changed, she had become frozen into them, as
it were. There was something of the old maid about her, and the
stubbornness, which had been a piquant touch in her soft young face,
was now hardened into the chief quality of its expression. She took my
hand.
“I’m very sorry to hear that Philip is away.”
“My husband has left me,” was her short, sharp answer.