The door has just closed behind one of the most eminent physicians in
the State, and I am no longer Philippa Armstrong, but a case of
neurasthenia, an inmate of Room Number 17, which has a yellow placard
over its entrance; a placard announcing that no callers are allowed
within, save with the special permission of Dr. Levi Stanwood. At
present the placard is the only thing I enjoy about the institution;
that, at least, promises peace; at all events, such peace as can be
found outside of one's own soul.
I am counseled to have complete rest, cheerful surroundings,
abstinence from newspapers and letters, sound sleep, careful and
nourishing diet, freedom from anxiety, gentle tonics, with electrical
and other treatments underlined upon a printed list.
The head physician (who is a genius in the way of diagnosis, seeing
through the human system as if it were plate glass) has made a careful
study of my symptoms and written my Cousin Sarah that all I need is
six or eight weeks of his care to be quite myself again.
How little they understand us women, after all--poor, blind,
unsuspicious doctors! My heart-beats, my color, my temperature, my
pulse, my blood pressure, even my tongue, all these have told no tales
to the scientific eye, and as it was literally impossible for Dr.
Stanwood to discern my malady, it was equally beyond him to suggest a
remedy. As a matter of fact, all I need to make and keep me well is
large and constant doses of Richard Morton, Esq., of Baltimore; but
who would confess that to a doctor?
Cousin Sarah does not suspect the state of things, the gentleman
himself is, I trust, quite ignorant, and the doctor will waste upon me
all the wealth of curative agencies at his command without effecting
the least change in my condition.
Richard Morton is an orphan; so am I. He is young, strong,
good-looking, clever, and poor. I am the first, second, and fifth; as
to one's own beauty and cleverness it is difficult to speak
impartially.
I have thought for nearly six months, and indeed I am still inclined
to think, that Richard Morton loves me, and I was equally certain,
until a few weeks ago, that he was only awaiting a suitable
opportunity to declare his love and ask me to marry him. I had made up
my mind, whenever he should put the important question, to answer him
frankly and joyously in the affirmative; not because he is the
handsomest or most brilliant or most desirable person in the world,
but because for sheer lovableness and husbandliness he is unsurpassed
and unsurpassable.
In March Cousin Sarah made a visit to Germantown and met there a Mrs.
Taunton, Richard Morton's widowed aunt. When the intimacy had
progressed sufficiently Mrs. Taunton told Cousin Sarah one day that
she hoped her nephew would eventually marry a certain Amy Darling, a
near neighbor of hers; that Miss Darling's father and Richard's had
been friends from boyhood; and that they had always planned a marriage
between the two young people, each an only child.
Of course, Mr. Darling, who died only this winter, did not indulge in
any such melodramatic or bookish nonsense as setting down commands or
desires in his will, nor were any of his bequests dependent upon them.
He did talk with his daughter, however, during his last illness, and
he did leave Richard Morton a letter expressing his regard and
confidence, and saying that as his daughter was entirely without
relatives he should have felt much happier had he seen her married
before his death. If he had stopped there all would have been well,
but he went on. He knew, he said, that Amy was one of the sweetest and
most attractive girls in the world, and if a mutual affection should
grow out of her acquaintance with Richard he would be glad to know
that the fortune he had made by his own energy might be a basis for
the future prosperity and business success of his old friend's son.
Cousin Sarah came home from Germantown quite excited by this romance
and discussed it with me daily, in exasperating unconsciousness that I
could feel the least distaste for the subject.
"It seems almost providential, Philippa," she said, over her
knitting.
"Providential for which of them?" I asked, stabbing my sheet of music
paper with the pen, while I tried in vain to think how many eighth
notes would fill a measure.
"For both; though I was really thinking of Mr. Morton. His business is
one that peculiarly requires capital; then again he has many interests
in Philadelphia, and there is that beautiful place in Germantown with
house, stable, horses, and gardens all ready for him."
"And the girl, too; don't forget her," I responded. "Though some men
don't care for these ready-to-wear wives; they prefer to look about
and to choose."
"He would have to look a long distance before he found any one to
compare with Miss Darling, either in beauty or suitableness," said
Cousin Sarah, thereby injecting the first drop of poison in my blood
and starting me on the downward path toward nervous prostration.
"Miss Darling is a man's woman," she continued, unconsciously giving
me another push; "the type with which neither you nor I have anything
in common, but which we know to be irresistible."
Now Cousin Sarah is fifty-five, thin, angular, erect, uncompromising.
I love and respect her, but do not care to be lumped with her in
affairs of the heart, at least not for thirty years to come; and
although I think it is disgusting to be labeled a "man's woman" it is
insufferable to be told that one is _not_!
"I can see Amy Darling in my mind's eye," I ventured; "blonde, dimply,
fluffy as to head, willowy as to figure so as to cling the better,
blue eyes swimming in unshed tears, and a manner so exquisitely
feminine that she makes all the other women in her vicinity appear
independent and mannish. But not all men care for pets, Cousin
Sarah--some of them prefer companions."
"A pet _is_ a companion," remarked Cousin Sarah casually as she left
the room, giving me thereby an entirely new and most unpleasant
thought.
I have known Richard Morton for many months, and although I have met
him very often at other places, he has been a constant visitor at our
house. If he has had any resemblance to a possible suitor why hasn't
Cousin Sarah discovered it? Is _she_ deaf and blind, or have my ears
and eyes played me false? Am I so undesirable that it would never
cross her mind that a man might fall in love with me? Hardly, for she
is well aware that several men have expressed their willingness to
annex my poverty-stricken charms.
As I look back upon the weeks that followed the interview with Cousin
Sarah I see that Richard was never the same after he received Mr.
Darling's letter. I felt a nameless difference. It was not only that I
saw him less frequently, but that he gave me less of himself when I
did see him. I, too, was on guard and never succeeded in being quite
natural. I am not so foolish as to give up to another girl a man who
loves me, simply because she is rich. The thought that worries me
night and day is this: if at the moment he only feels for me
friendship, ought I to let it grow into love when there is another
woman who could give him with herself everything he needs to assure
his career? With Philippa Armstrong for a wife he will have to work
unceasingly, and unless fortune is particularly kind he may not
achieve a large success for many years. If he marries Amy Darling
(soft, silly, spineless little name!) he has house, lands, and money,
all the influence of her father's former business associates, and has,
besides, carried out his own father's wishes.
This is considerable; quite enough to make a man reflect and
vacillate, unless he is so deeply in love already that no temptation
is strong enough to assail him.
Richard Morton, I know, likes to dance with me, sing with me, golf
with me, talk with me, consult with me about his affairs, write
letters to me; and more than that, he doesn't like to have other men
usurp these privileges; but I am not prepared to say that he would
pine away if circumstances removed me altogether from his path. At any
rate, these perplexities have been too much for my peace of mind, and
when Richard Morton announced that he had business which would keep
him in Philadelphia for a month I began to feel physically ill and
unable to bear Cousin Sarah's sympathy, her curiosity, even at last
her proximity. When the doctor advised my coming here to this quiet,
restful place I eagerly embraced the opportunity simply because I
could be alone, and because I need not meet Richard until he had
enjoyed a full month of Amy Darling's society, either succumbing to
its fascination or resisting it, as the case might be.
Would it be nobler of me to give him up before he is really mine,
knowing that in this way I am advancing his worldly interests? This is
the question that I hope solitude will help me to answer, but its
complications and side-issues are so many that I feel dazed by their
number and their difficulty. I went to sleep last night echoing the
old negro's prayer: "Thou knowest what's about right, Lord. Now do
it!"
* * * * *