A year later.
"How do you feel to-day?"
"The same."
Helen keeps her eyes fixed on the handle of the cracked wash-pitcher.
The physician looks at her curiously for a moment. After a little he
says:
"Have you no friends?"
"None;" without ceasing to study the cracked pitcher. As usual, the
woman leaves no chance for further questions.
As he rises to go, the physician says gravely:
"I think if you could force yourself to arouse, you could throw off
this--this--disease that is sapping your vitality. It is more a disease
of the mind, I think, than the body."
"Doubtless."
The physician says:
"Well, good-day," lingering a moment longer.
"Good-day," from the bed.
He has attended this woman, who is on his charity list, for two months,
and he has never heard her utter more than one sentence at a time--and
seldom a sentence of more than one word. She has looked in his face
once. He will never forget that look. Since then, she has studied the
wall, or the broken window, or some other object. He may speak for five
minutes at a time, and she makes no sign that she hears him unless he
asks a question.
He cannot decide what is the matter with her. She lies here day after
day, apparently unattended--indeed he is not certain but that she is
starving, though she has said, "Nothing," when he has inquired if there
was anything that she needed, anything he could do for her.
He has made inquiries of the Irish woman below, of the Dutchman across
the hall, and the Italian above, but he only hears below that she's "wan
av yer foine ladies," and across the hall and above he has heard--no
matter what.
He has discovered that the daughter of the old-iron man in the cellar
goes in once a day, and is paid ten cents for it--or used to be; now she
goes for sweet charity. He can learn no more. He calls only occasionally
now. He can do nothing for her. He does not know what is the matter with
her.
As she lies here alone after he has gone, she clasps her thin hands,
with a weak movement, and gives a little moan indicative of weakness, of
pain, of sorrow perhaps--perhaps all three. After a time she says aloud:
"_He_ is to blame for it all."
The old gleam is in her eyes. The old relentless expression in her tone.
She turns her face to the grimy wall, with a smothered groan. She lies
with her eyes shut, while the dusk closes in. The night-sounds in the
street reach her through the open window. The room is hot and stuffy;
the odors are intolerable. They are intolerable in their suggestions. It
is not the subtle perfume that arouses an emotion--but what the perfume
suggests; it is not the fume that disgusts--but what it suggests.
_These_ fumes suggest a Chinese restaurant, an unclean bedroom, a
garbage barrel, a swill cart, and the stale memory of bad tobacco. All
this is tinctured with the Dutchman's cheese over the way.
A child is bawling in the street. The Italian above is beating his
monkey; a coal-heaver is cursing his wife, and has just thrown a bottle
at his brat, which accounts for one less sound,--for one more silence
suddenly occurring. And Helen lies on a bed assorting these sounds and
smells. Helen! Patrician Helen! Helen of dainty habit! Fastidious
Helen! Braine's wife! Braine's Helen!
"D'ye want anythin'?" The old-iron man's daughter thrusts her kindly,
dirty face inside the door.
"Nothing."