UNREST.
The sun was streaming through the Sanderson's library window, and the
curtains were fluttering in the soft lake breeze which blew through the
open casement. Across the driveway a policeman was chatting with a trim
nursery maid, and two or three loungers were leaning over the sea wall,
watching the blue water splash lazily against the grey stones. The white
sails of the lake craft in the offing glistened in the sunshine, and the
smoke from the steamers settled along the horizon in long black streaks,
while the passing of an occasional vehicle along the driveway produced a
little cloud of dust, which for a moment obscured the view, and then was
carried away by the summer breeze and scattered along the roadway. The
atmosphere had the hazy hue peculiar to one of those first warm days of
early summer, when the air seems charged with lassitude, and one is
overpowered with a depressing sense of _ennui_, which precludes the
possibility of any sort of action.
Marion Sanderson and Florence Moreland were there in the library, trying
to keep cool and talking over the events of the past six months. Marion
was stretched on a lounge with an Eau-de-Cologne bandage bound about her
forehead to relieve the _migraine_ from which she was suffering, and
Florence sat beside her, plying a palm-leaf fan and trying to amuse her
friend by accounts of the small doings of her life in New Hampshire.
"So you think I must have had a stupid winter," said Florence, in answer
to Marion's last remark.
"I am sure of it. You had much better have remained here with me."
"You are very inconsistent," laughed Florence. "Last minute you said
Chicago was the dullest place you knew anything about."
"I meant dull in comparison with London or New York. It is certainly
better than a place where life is made up of prayer meetings and snow
banks."
"I am glad you are beginning to appreciate the advantages of your home,"
said Florence.
"Don't chaff me, Florence. I can't bear it. I am too nervous. I wish you
had this headache for five minutes and perhaps you would feel sorrier
for me."
"Why, my dear, I do feel sorry for you; isn't there anything I can do?"
"No; Dr. Maccanfrae is coming this morning and I suppose he will give me
a lot of stuff, but it won't do me any good. I have taken every known
medicine this winter, and I have had this headache every day for months.
I can't eat anything. I can't sleep, and I am tired and bored all the
time. The Doctor calls it neurasthenia, but I don't know what good it
does to put such a big name to it, when he can't do me any good."
"There must be something that will help you," said Florence.
"Of course there is. If I could go somewhere else to live I know I
should feel better. What I need is some new distraction, but how can I
have that in this stupid town?" Then she was silent for awhile and
during that time she thought of the few days last winter when a new
element had come into her life only to vanish as quickly again. She
thought of a ball-room, an exciting dance, and the magnetic impulse of a
moment which had made life seem so sweet. Why had she resisted that
temptation, she asked herself. The other course could not have made her
more unhappy, and it, at least, was no more a mockery than her present
life, with that love still burning fiercely to the wild accompaniment of
Tzigan strains, echoing in her heart. "What is the use of being good?"
she asked herself. Then she smiled a mocking answer, turned over on the
lounge and buried her face in the cushions.
Florence watched Marion anxiously for a moment. She was extremely
worried about the state of nervous depression in which she had found her
friend on returning to Chicago, and she was trying to think of some way
in which she could help her. She leaned over her and slowly stroked her
rich black hair. Marion looked up and smiled faintly. Then she seized
Florence's hand and began to sob nervously. "You love me, don't you
Florence; you love me, don't you?" she said between the sobs.
"You don't need to ask that, Marion."
"I know it," she replied; "I think you are the only person in the world
who understands me, the only person who loves me."
"You are wrong in that, my dear, I am sure."
"No, I am not," she moaned. "I want love, I must have love. O, I can't
live without it!"
Florence stroked Marion's head again, and tried to soothe her hysterical
sobbing. "Dear," she said softly, "there is one man who would die for
you if it would bring you happiness. I am sure of it."
Marion turned her head away and did not reply. Florence felt pity for
her friend's unhappy state of mind, which she considered was, in a great
measure, self-produced, but she knew it was useless to talk to Marion
about her husband, as she was a woman who could not be influenced by
persuasive words. Florence wanted to help her friend to understand the
danger she was in, but she could not see a way which promised success;
so, thinking that the best course was to divert her mind from herself,
she took Marion's hand and said cheerfully, "I have a secret to tell
you, dear, but you must sit up and look pleased."
"I hope it is interesting," said Marion somewhat mournfully. "I haven't
heard a secret for months."
"Guess what it is."
"Is it an engagement?"
"Yes."
"Whose?"
"Guess."
"I can't. You must tell me immediately. I am dying to know," answered
Marion, brightening considerably.
"It is mine."
"You horrid creature," said Marion, sitting up and hurling one of the
sofa cushions at Florence.
"That is a novel way to treat a friend at such a time," Florence said as
she dodged the pillow.
"You are an awful girl not to tell me before. How could you be in the
house since yesterday and not say anything? I suppose Harold Wainwright
is the man, but I don't much care who he is. You are a provoking
creature," and she emphasized her remarks by throwing another cushion
which hit wide of the mark, and sent some books spinning off the library
table onto the floor.
Marion was over her depression now, and, jumping up, she threw her arms
about Florence and kissed her, saying: "Sit down, dear, and tell me all
about it. When did it happen? When is it going to be announced? When are
you going to be married? I always felt you would marry him. Who are you
going to have for bridesmaids?"
Florence laughed at Marion's multitude of questions. "You dear girl,"
she said, kissing her, "I am glad I made you smile again; but I can
answer only one of those questions. It happened last Sunday at
Fairville."
"And you didn't tell me until now! O, I will pay you up for this. But
come, let's talk it all over and decide about the wedding and the
bridesmaids."
A servant entered the room and announced "Dr. Maccanfrae." Marion and
Florence hurriedly assumed different positions and adjusted their
ruffled hair. Then the kind face of the philanthropic physician appeared
in the doorway.
"How do I find my patient this morning?" said the Doctor, coming toward
the window where they were seated.
"Better, I hope," said Florence, turning round.
"Miss Moreland!" exclaimed the Doctor in astonishment. "I thought you
were somewhere in the White Mountains."
"No; I came back yesterday," she continued as he shook her hand. "I
thought you needed a nurse for your patient."
"Nurse and remedy combined, for you are the best cure I could prescribe
for Mrs. Sanderson."
"You are very flattering, Doctor. Under your advice I shall try to do my
best, but, if you will excuse me, I shall run away and do some
unpacking." Saying this, Florence left her seat, and, bidding the Doctor
good-by, walked toward the door. As she was leaving the room she called
to him, asking when he would give her another lecture on pantheism.
"I fear if I do I shall have to suffer for the sin of corrupting the
heart of a Puritan," said the Doctor.
"A Puritan is always fortified against Satan's wiles," she answered
laughingly, as she stopped in the doorway, "and, besides, my
grandfathers, for six generations, were ministers."
"A case of the transmission of the original sin, I suppose," answered
the Doctor, as she retired through the door. "And how is my patient
to-day?" he repeated, as Florence's laughter died away and her steps
were heard hurrying up the stairs.
"I don't think I am a bit better," said Marion somewhat mournfully,
having relapsed into her former state in the presence of the Doctor.
After adjusting the cloth on her aching head, she continued: "I have no
animation or ambition; I have these frightful nervous pains and
headaches; my appetite is all gone; nothing seems to amuse me any more,
and I lie here all day long feeling utterly wretched. In the evening I
manage to develop animation enough to take me out, and, for a while, I
forget myself, but when it is over I feel worse than ever. Oh, Doctor,
what is the matter with me?"
Dr. Maccanfrae looked at Marion a moment as though hesitating to answer
her question, then, feeling her pulse, he replied: "Mrs. Sanderson,
there is nothing the matter with you."
"What do you mean, Doctor?" said Marion somewhat angrily. "Do you
suppose I don't know how I feel?"
"When I say there is nothing the matter with you, I mean you have no
organic disease. You are simply suffering from the fashionable complaint
of nervous depression, or neurasthenia, as we physicians call it. Almost
every woman in your station in life has it sooner or later. It is
nothing but a symptom, but it may grow into a great many worse things."
"Well, why don't you cure me then, if it is nothing?" remarked Marion in
a provoked manner.
The Doctor looked at her a moment; then he asked slowly, but with an
emphasis which seemed to carry a hidden meaning: "Do you want to get
well, Mrs. Sanderson?"
Marion looked up somewhat startled. "Why do you ask such a question?"
she replied.
"Because you produced the disease yourself, and you alone can cure it."
"You are positively rude, Doctor."
"I know I should ask pardon for my brusqueness, but I am your physician,
and I desire to see you well again. The only way that can be
accomplished is for you to take the case in your own hands."
"I don't understand, Doctor."
"I take a sincere interest in you and your husband. If you will let me
talk to you as a friend, and will take my advice, I hope I may do you
much good; but if I am to remain the physician and must confine myself
to writing prescriptions for worthless drugs, I fear the improvement
will be slow."
"Go on, Doctor. I promise to listen," said Marion, prompted more by a
curiosity to hear his advice than by a resolution to follow it.
"I may say some very plain things. Will you promise to take them in the
friendly way in which they are meant?"
"Go on, Doctor. I shall not get angry, I promise you."
The Doctor leaned forward and said, in a more sympathetic manner: "Mrs.
Sanderson, every physician whose patients are drawn from the classes we
call society has to deal with scores of cases precisely like yours. One
of us will administer bromides; another will feed his patients on
extract of beef; another will use electricity; another will recommend
massage, and so on. But all these remedies are fruitless except in so
far as they assist the sufferer to believe that she is improving, or
afford some temporary relief. The disease, if so I may term a depressed
state of the nervous system, is caused by the habits of the patient, and
can only be cured by changing those habits."
"I am not dissipated," said Marion somewhat resentfully.
"I did not say that, Mrs. Sanderson, but if you desire to get well you
must completely change your mode of life."
"What must I do?"
"I fear you will only laugh when I tell you, and call me a silly old
fool."
"No, I sha'n't; I promise."
"You must go to bed before eleven every night. You must be up by
half-past seven. You must walk or ride every morning, drink no wine,
tea, or coffee, eat plain food, and read no novels. You must develop an
interest in your household affairs, get a wholesome occupation for every
hour of the day, and take no more medicine. When you feel a headache go
into the fresh air; when you feel depressed, throw the mood off by
finding some work to do."
"But, Doctor, I had almost sooner die than do all that. I could never
live in such a routine of the commonplace."
"I know that is very hard, but perhaps it is not all," said the Doctor.
"You have no children, Mrs. Sanderson."
"No, thank heaven. I am worried enough without that."
"Unfortunately we are confronted in this world with a certain amount of
worry. I think experience proves that it is better to accept the worries
nature intended than to create worse ones by trying to circumvent her.
However, I see you weary of my preaching. Think it over until Monday,
and then I shall give you some more advice provided you think your
nerves can bear it."
"You are just as bad as Dr. Thompson."
"Only I have no choir boys and spring bonnets to attract an audience,"
replied the Doctor, rising to leave. Then he continued in a different
tone: "I trust you will pardon what I have said, and even if you don't
follow my disagreeable _regime_, I want you to feel that I gave you the
best advice that I could."
The Doctor bade her good-by, and when he was gone she buried her face in
the pillows and thought over what he had said. "I never could do all
that," she thought; "besides, he is a perfect crank on fresh air and
diet. If I thought Roswell would let me, I would go to someone else. I
think he is too old to be up with the times, and Mrs. Smythe says Dr.
Wimbleton is a perfect dear and helped her from the first day she went
to him. O, my poor head, how it does ache!" she called out, half
expecting sympathy from the oak book-shelves and the bric-a-brac; then
she turned over nervously and continued her restless thinking. "I wish I
were dead," she moaned. "So little comes into my life that living it is
scarcely worth the trouble. If there were only someone to bring me
sympathy. If I could only forget those days when, for a few moments, I
felt as other women feel."
Florence came into the room again and Marion, hearing her step, looked
up. "Is it you?" she said.
"Yes," answered Florence; "I heard the Doctor go out so I thought I
would come back. What did he say?"
"O, a lot of nonsense which I really did not listen to. He ought to do
more to cure me and talk less. In fact, I think his personality
exasperates me, and I am afraid I shall have to change physicians if I
want to get any better."
"Poor Dr. Maccanfrae," said Florence. "He is the dearest, kindest, best
intentioned man in the world. Think of the good he does among the poor."
"O, I know all about that, but that's no reason why he should lecture me
like a child about going to bed early and taking exercise."
"Perhaps he believes more in such medicine than in drugs. Don't you
think yourself that it is some such _regime_ that you need?"
"Don't you begin to lecture me, too," said Marion, with a sigh. "Life
is hard enough without your making it worse."
"I shall not lecture you, I promise, but," she continued, taking
Marion's hands and pulling her up from the lounge, "as your nurse, I
must see that you have a change. Come, tell me what are the plans for
to-day."
"Why, there's the luncheon at Mrs. Ryder's."
"Good, and what else?"
"Why, we dine at the Beemers' to-night."
"And to-morrow?"
"We go to the races on Walter Sedger's drag, and dine at the Washington
Park Club."
"Is your husband going?"
"Of course."
"How does he leave his business?"
"I make him."
"Very well, then this morning before luncheon we take a walk as far as
Lincoln Park."
"I can't walk that far, Florence."
"You are going to walk that far," said Florence, authoritatively. "I am
your nurse, and I insist upon it."
"But I shall be ill all day."
"Never mind, you will get over it this afternoon when we read some
Thackeray, and to-morrow morning you and I will do the marketing."
"You are crazy, Florence, I do believe."
"I never was more sane in my life. Come, I am in earnest. You would have
me here, you know, and I shall make myself so disagreeable that you will
be thankful when I am gone."
"O, Florence, how can you be so rough?" said Marion, as Florence dragged
her toward the door.
"There, now," said Florence, after they had passed into the hall, "go
and put on your hat. I brought mine with me."
"Just think of the heat, Florence," said Marion as she disappeared up
the stairs.
In a few minutes Marion returned looking brighter already, Florence
thought, and the two women were soon strolling along the lake shore
talking over the countless trivialities women find to talk about, and at
tea-time, after a day of Florence's nursing, Marion was forced to admit
that she had passed an unusually cheerful day. Roswell Sanderson came in
just as they were finishing tea, and after taking a seat and declining
a cup of the beverage, he said in a careless manner: "By the way,
Marion, an old friend of yours came into the bank just before I left."
"Who?" asked Marion.
"That New Yorker, Duncan Grahame."
Marion felt a sudden sinking in her heart and was conscious that the
color was fading from her cheeks, but she took a large swallow of tea
and tried to look unconcerned. Florence watched Roswell's face closely
and saw the same expression come into his eyes which she had noticed
that afternoon at the Renaissance Club tea.
"When did he come?" asked Marion, after a moment.
"This morning on the 'Limited'. He has been in England all winter. You
will see him to-morrow, as he told me Sedger had asked him on his
coach."
"What fate has brought him back again?" thought Marion.
Roswell Sanderson was silent for a moment, then he came toward his wife.
Taking a seat beside her, he asked tenderly if she remembered what day
it was; then he took a package from his pocket which he dropped into her
lap.
"Why, it's the anniversary of our wedding. I had quite forgotten it."
Florence had left the room a moment before, so that they were alone.
Marion untied the parcel in her lap, and found that it was a case
containing a string of pearls. She looked up into her husband's face and
kissed him, and a feeling of shame came into her heart. She saw a love
in his eyes which she could not return, and she prayed that he might
find the means to make her love him. This thought was in her heart only
for a moment, then she was playing with the pearls, and wondering again
why Duncan had come back into her life.