LETTER-WRITING AND HYSTERICS
The young doctor sat in his room writing. It was a pleasant room,
looking upon the garden, and in style and furnishing altogether to the
young doctor's taste. He liked the tall narrow mantel, with its
delicate mouldings; he liked the white paint, and the high wainscoting
against which, the old mahogany came out so well; and he liked the
mahogany itself, which was in quaint and graceful shapes. The dimity
curtains, too, with their ball and tassel fringe, were of such a fresh
clear white. They had never been dirty, they never could be dirty, the
young doctor thought; some things must always be fresh and clean; like
that girl's dresses. He was sitting in his favourite chair; a chair
that stimulated to effort or wooed to repose, according to the attitude
one assumed in it. Geoffrey Strong felt a sort of ownership in this
chair, for he had discovered the secret pocket in one arm; the tiny
panel which, when pressed one day by his careless fingers, slipped
aside, revealing a dark polished well, and in the well an ancient
vinaigrette of green and gold glass. Sometimes Geoffrey would take out
the vinaigrette and sniff its faded perfume, and it told him a new
story every time. Now, however, it lay quiet in its nest, for Geoffrey
was writing busily.
"You can't laugh any more at me and my old
ladies, Jim. There's a new development, a young
lady; niece, visitor here, and invalid visitor at that.
Neurasthenia, overwork at college, the old story.
When will young women learn that they are not
young men? Malady in this case takes the form
of aversion to the male sex in general, and G. S. in
particular. Handsome, sullen creature, tawny hair,
eyes no particular colour, but very brilliant; pupils
much dilated. I won't bother you with symptoms
while you are off on your vacation, but she has
some interesting ones. The dear old ladies want
me to prescribe for her, but she prefers to play with
pills herself. Has a remarkable voice, deep notes
now and again that thrill like the middle tones of
a 'cello; or might, if they said anything but 'Please
pass the butter!' If she were better tempered, I
should be tempted to send for you; you are simply
spoiling for some one to fall in love with, I can tell
that from your last letter. The pretty brunette had
not intellectuality enough, had she? My dear
fellow, as if that had anything to do with it! You
were not ready, that was all. You fall in love by
clockwork once every year; and it is time now. If
you should see the P. B. again to-morrow, you'd be
lost directly. As for me--I should think you
would be tired of asking. No, I am not in love.
No, I feel no inclination whatever to become so.
No, there is no 'charmer' (what vile expressions
you use, James; go back to the English Department,
and learn how to speak of Woman!) who interests
me in the least (except pathologically, of course),
except Miss Vesta Blyth, aged sixty. I am in love
with her, I grant you; anybody would be, with eyes
in his head. Don't I know that I would amount to
twice as much if the society of women formed part
of my life? Numskull, it _does_ form part of it, a
very important part. In the first place, I have my
patients. Body of me, my patients! Did I not sit
a stricken hour with Mrs. Abigail Plummer yesterday
afternoon? She 'feels a crawling in her pipes,'--I'll
spare you Mrs. Plummer, but you must hear
how Mrs. Cotton cured her lumbago. (I am still
hunting rheumatic affections, yes, and always shall
be.) She took a quart of rum, my Christian friend;
she put into it a pound and a half of sulphur and
three-quarters of a pound of cream tartar, and took
'a good swaller' three or four times a day. There's
therapeutics for you, sir! Lady weighs three hundred
pounds if she does an ounce, and has a colour
like a baby's. Well, I could go on indefinitely.
That's in the first place. In the second, I have
here in this house society that is absolutely to my
mind. Experience is life, you grant that. Therefore,
the person of experience is the person who
really lives. (Of course I admit exceptions.) Therefore,
the society of a woman of sixty--an intelligent
woman--is infinitely more to be desired than that
of a callow girl with nothing but eyes and theories.
It is profitable, it is delightful; and this with no
hurrying of the heart, no upsetting of the nerves,
none of the deplorable symptoms that I observe
annually in my friend Mr. James Swift. That for
the second place. There is a third. Jim, Jim, do
you forget that I was brought up with 'six female
cousins, and all of them girls?' They were virtuous
young women, every one of them; one or two were
good looking; four of them (including the plainest),
have married, and I trust their husbands find them
interesting. I did not, but I 'learned about women
from them,' as the lynx-eyed schoolboy does learn.
I divided them into three classes, sugary, vinegary,
peppery; to-day I should be more professional; let
us say saccharine, acidulated, irritant. These classes
still seem to me to include the greater part of young
womankind. Sorry to displease, but sich am de
facts. And--yes, I still sing '_aber hierathen ist nie
mein Sinn_!' Business? oh, so so! A country
doctor doesn't make a fortune, but he learns a power,
if he isn't an idiot. Now here is enough about me,
in all conscience. When you write, tell me about
yourself, and what the other fellows are doing.
After all, that is--"
Geoffrey came to the end of his paper, and paused to take a fresh
sheet. Glancing up as he did so, he also glanced out of the window, to
see what was going on in the garden. He always liked to keep in touch
with the garden, and was on intimate terms with every bird and blossom
in it. It was neither bird nor blossom that his eyes lighted on now. A
young girl stood on the gravel-path, near his favourite syringa arbour.
A hammock hung over her arm, and she carried a book and a pillow. She
was looking about her, evidently trying to select a place to hang her
hammock. Geoffrey considered her. She was dressed in clear white; her
hair, of a tawny reddish yellow, hung in one heavy braid over her
shoulder.
"Oh, yes, she is handsome," said Geoffrey, addressing the syringa-bush.
"I never said she wasn't handsome. The question is, would she like me
to hang that hammock for her, or would she consider it none of my
business?"
At this moment the girl dropped the book; then the pillow slipped from
her hands. She threw down the hammock with a petulant gesture and stood
looking at the syringa-bush as if it were her mortal enemy. Geoffrey
Strong laid down his pen.
A few minutes later he came sauntering leisurely around the corner. One
would have said he had been spending an hour in the garden, and was now
going in.
"Good morning, Miss Blyth! glorious day, isn't it? going to sling a
hammock? let me do it, won't you?"
Vesta Blyth looked at him with sombre eyes. "I couldn't hold it!" she
said, unwillingly. "There is no strength left in my hands."
"You are still tired, you see," said Geoffrey, cheerfully, as he picked
up the hammock. "That's perfectly natural."
"It isn't natural!" said the girl, fiercely. "It's devilish!"
"This is a good place," said Geoffrey, paying no attention to her.
"Combination of shade and sun, you see. Pillow at this end? There! how
is that?"
"Thank you! it will do very well."
She stretched herself at full length in the hammock. Her movements were
perfectly graceful, he noted; and he made a swift comparison with the
way his cousins flounced or twittered or slumped into a hammock.
[Illustration: He stood looking at her, his hand still on the hammock
rope.]
He stood looking at her, his hand still on the hammock-rope. He was
conscious only of a friendly feeling of compassion for this fair young
creature, built for vigour and an active life, now condemned for
months, it might be years, of weariness and pain. Whether any
unconscious keenness of scrutiny crept into his eyes or not, is not
known; but as Vesta Blyth looked up and met their gaze, a wave of angry
crimson rushed over her face and neck.
"Doctor Strong," she said, violently, her voice low and vibrating, as
some women's are in passion, "I must request you _not_ to look at me!"
Geoffrey started, and coloured in his turn. "I beg your pardon!" he
said. "I was not aware--I assure you I had no intention of being rude,
Miss Blyth."
"You were not rude!" Vesta swept on. "I am rude; I am unreasonable, I
am absurd. I can't help it. I will not be looked at professionally.
Half the people in this village would welcome your professional glance
as a beam from heaven, and bask in it, and drop every symptom as if it
were a pearl, but I am not a 'case.' I am simply a human being, who
asks nothing but to be let alone."
She stopped abruptly, her bosom heaving, her eyes like black agates
with fire behind them, looking straight past him at the trees beyond.
"If you wish to put me to the last humiliation," she added, hurriedly,
"you may wait and have the satisfaction of seeing me cry; if not--"
But Geoffrey was gone, fleeing into the house with the sound of stormy
sobs chasing him like Furies. He never stopped till he reached his own
room, where he flung himself into his chair in most unprofessional
agitation. The window was open--what a fool he was to leave windows
open!--and the sound followed him; he could not shut it out. Dreadful
sobs, choking, agonising; he felt, as if he saw it, the whole slender
figure convulsed with them. Good heavens! the girl would be in
convulsions if she went on at this rate.
Now the sobs died away into long moans, into quivering breaths; now
they broke out again, insistent, terrible. Broken words among them, too.
"What shall I do? Oh, dear! oh, dear! what shall I do?"
Geoffrey, who had been trying to look over some papers, started up and
paced the room hurriedly. "This--this is very curious!" he was trying
to say to himself. "Hysteria pure and simple--very interesting--I must
note the duration of the paroxysms. Good God! can't somebody stop her?
perfectly inhuman, to let a creature go on like that!"
He was at the door, with some vague idea of alarming the house, when a
soft knock was heard on the other side. He flung the door open, and
startled Miss Vesta so that she gave a little cry of dismay, and
retreated to the head of the stairs. "Pray excuse me, Doctor Strong,"
she said. "I see that you are occupied; I pray you to excuse me!"
"No, no!" said Geoffrey, hurriedly. "I am not--it's nothing at all.
What can I do for you, Miss Vesta? Do come in, please!"
"My niece," said the little lady, with a troubled look, "is in a highly
nervous condition to-day, Doctor Strong. She is--weeping. My sister
thought you might have--" she paused, as Miss Phoebe's crisp and
decided tones came up over the stairs.
"Little Vesta has got into a crying-spell, Doctor Strong. I want a
little valerian for her, please. I will go down and give it to her
myself, if you will hand it to my sister."
"In one moment, Miss Blyth," called Geoffrey, in his most composed and
professional tones. Then, seizing Miss Vesta's hand, he almost dragged
her into the room, and shut the door.
"Don't let her go!" he said, hurriedly, as he sought and poured out the
valerian. "Take it yourself, please, Miss Vesta, please! Miss Blyth
will--that is, she is less gentle than you; if your niece is in such a
condition as--as you say, you are the one to soothe her. Will you go?
Please do."
"Dear Doctor Strong," said Miss Vesta, panting a little, "are you--I
fear you are unwell yourself. You alarm me, my dear young friend."
"I am a brute," said Geoffrey; "a clumsy, unfeeling brute!" He kissed
her little white wrinkled hand; then, still holding it, paused to
listen. The voice came up again from the place of torture.
"What shall I do? Oh, dear! oh, dear! what shall I do?"
He pressed the glass in Miss Vesta's hand. "There! there! a teaspoonful
at once, please; but you will be better than medicine. Tell Miss
Blyth--tell her I want very much to speak to her, please! Ask if she
could come up here now, this moment, just for two or three minutes. And
you'll go down yourself, won't you, Miss Vesta--dear Miss Vesta?"
He was so absorbed in listening he did not hear the creaking of Miss
Phoebe's morocco shoes on the stairs; and when she appeared before him,
flushed and slightly out of breath, he stared at the good lady as if he
had never seen her before.
"You wished to see me, Doctor Strong?" Miss Phoebe began. She was half
pleased, half ruffled, at being summoned in this imperious way.
"Yes--oh, yes," answered Geoffrey, vaguely. "Come in, please, Miss
Blyth. Won't you sit down--no, I wouldn't sit near the window, it's
damp to-day (it was not in the least damp). Sit here, in my chair. Did
you know there was a secret pocket in this chair? Very curious thing!"
"I was aware of it," said Miss Phoebe, with dignity. "Was that what you
wished to say to me, Doctor Strong?"
"No--oh, no (thank Heaven, she has stopped! that angel is with her).
I--I am ashamed to trouble you, Miss Blyth, but you said you would be
so very good as to look over my shirts some day, and see if they are
worth putting on new collars and cuffs. It's really an imposition; any
time will do, if you are busy now. I only thought, hearing your voice--"
"There is no time like the present," said Miss Phoebe, in her most
gracious tone. "It will be a pleasure, I assure you, Doctor Strong, to
look over any portions of your wardrobe, and give you such advice as I
can. I always made my honoured father's shirts after my dear mother's
death, so I am, perhaps, not wholly unfitted for this congenial task.
Ah, machine-made!"
"Beg pardon!" said Geoffrey, who had been listening to something else.
"These shirts were made with the aid of the sewing-machine, I
perceive," said Miss Phoebe. "No--oh, no, it is nothing unusual. Very
few persons, I believe, make shirts entirely by hand in these days. I
always set the same number of stitches in my father's shirts, five
thousand and sixty. He always said that no machine larger than a
cambric needle should touch his linen."
"Then--you don't think they are worth new collars?" said Geoffrey,
abstractedly.
"Did I convey that impression?" said Miss Phoebe, with mild surprise.
"I had no such intention, Doctor Strong. I think that a skilful person,
with some knowledge of needlework, could make these garments (though
machine-made) last some months yet. You see, Doctor Strong, if she
takes this--"
It was a neat and well-sustained little oration that Miss Phoebe
delivered, emphasising her remarks with the cuff of a shirt; but it was
lost on Geoffrey Strong. He was listening to another voice that came
quavering up from the garden below, a sweet high voice, like a wavering
thread of silver. No more sobs; and Miss Vesta was singing; the
sweetest song, Geoffrey thought, that he had ever heard.