THE TATTOOING.
Two years are passed, and nothing that very specially affects the
doctor’s family has happened. The twins go to school, quarrel with each
other, as sisters generally do, but they give Aunt Dinah less trouble.
They have grown far too considerate to attempt flavoring the hominy with
live kitten, an event which, for a very long time, she constantly feared
would be repeated. They are “as like as two peas,” according to most
people outside of the family, though in fact, with the exception of
their size and dress, they do not much resemble each other. Leila is a
natural egotist, and has everything pretty much her own way, for Linnie
has no rights which her more positive sister is inclined to respect.
Linnie, who is much more generous and affectionate than Leila, protests
loudly against the tyranny of her sister, “yells,” as Leila poetically
calls weeping, but in the end invariably yields.
Dan is about seventeen, and with Clara attends the village high-school.
His educational progress is of the same order as that which
distinguished him in the old district-school spelling class, where the
head was at the wrong end of the room! To his loving mother he is a
vexation of spirit, though he is less awkward at table, and he has
learned to take off his hat, and with great effort, and for a short
time, to behave “like a gentleman’s son,” as she says. Still he finds
Jim Dykes as irresistible as ever, for the two are now endeared by one
or two desperate encounters, wherein the “science” acquired from his
worthy teacher had enabled Dan to prove himself master. He was much
prouder of this than he would have been of any honor at the disposal of
the high-school, for the great bully, Jim Dykes, treated him with
distinguished respect.
One evening, when Mrs. Forest was sitting up for him, as she always did,
he came in very late. She reproved him for passing his time in low
company, whereupon he stoutly defended the whole Dykes family on general
principles. This he had never done before. She was seriously concerned,
and when she spoke of Susie Dykes, he answered insolently and went
upstairs in a huff. When the doctor entered, a little later, his wife
appeared at the head of the stairs, and asked him to come up to Dan’s
room, whither she had followed him, as she had often done, to offer
silent prayers at his bedside, when distrusting all mortal power to
guide him safely through the temptations of youth. He was sleeping, as
she expected; but she had been diverted from her pious purpose by a
sight that turned all her maternal solicitude into indignation and
refined disgust. The doctor followed Mrs. Forest into the boy’s room,
where he lay asleep, as stalwart and beautiful in form as any rustic
Adonis could well be. He had thrown the covering partially off, for it
was warm, and one of his incurable habits was to sleep entirely nude.
This the doctor said he had inherited from his old Saxon ancestry, who
always slept in that way.
The cause of his mother’s perturbation was soon perceived by the doctor.
This was a fresh tattooing on his left arm, extending quite from the
elbow to the wrist. It was abominably but clearly done, in blue and
scarlet, the design being two hearts spitted with a dart, between the
names DAN FOREST and SUSAN DYKES.
“The young donkey!” said the doctor, laughing; and on the way
down-stairs he added, “This young America is too fast for you, is he
not, Fannie?”
“I must say you take it very coolly, doctor. Such a shocking thing! To
think of his disfiguring himself for life in that way.” Mrs. Forest
looked in despair.
“My dear, there’s nothing to be done. You must accept the inevitable.
What astonishes me is the precocity of the rascal. See! nothing has ever
given that boy any enthusiasm in life. In school he’s a perfect laggard,
and though now past sixteen, cannot write a decent letter. He has idled
away his time, with no real interest in anything. Now, here is born in
him suddenly a new life, and it so charms him that he disfigures himself
for life, as you say, in order to immortalize the sentiment, not
questioning for a moment that Susan Dykes will remain so long as he
lives the same divinity in his eyes that she now seems. If we could only
utilize such forces when they appear! but under our present subversive
social system, they are as unmanageable as the unloosed affrites of the
_Arabian Nights_.”
Mrs. Forest looked bewildered. The doctor went on:
“Suppose this girl had been in Dan’s class and superior to him
intellectually (as she is in fact), and he had to recite every day with
her eyes upon him. Don’t you see what a spur it would be to his learning
his lessons? The strongest motive would be to distinguish himself, and
so win her admiration. Well, Dan is your idol, Fannie. I confess I know
nothing about him, nor how to help him; but for Clara I am decided.
She’s a child after my own heart, and, by Heaven! she shall have a
chance. She shall not be sacrificed for want of anything in my power to
do for her. She must go to school, Fannie. In a month the fall term
commences at Stonybrook College. There are no decent schools for girls,
but that I believe is about the best we have. Can you get her ready, do
you think?”
Mrs. Forest was amazed at this sudden decision, and she answered
despondently, “What _am_ I to do without Clara? she is so much help to
me.”
“I know; but we must not spoil the girl’s future. This is the beginning
of the age of strong women, and Clara is a natural student; besides she
has a noble head everyway. Time was when piano-playing, a little
monochromatic daubing, and an infinitesimal amount of book lore,
sufficed for a girl. That time is past. I want Clara to develop her
forces all she possibly can under the present social conditions. She
must be strong and self-supporting.”
“Why! don’t you expect her to marry?”
“No; that is, I don’t care. I’d as soon she would not. As things go,
sensible, educated, and self-poised women are better single than
married, even to the best class of men. About every man is conscious
that he’s a tyrant; but slaves make tyrants. If there were no slaves
there would be no tyrants, but a great republic of equals.”
“Why, doctor! Have I not always been a good wife to you?” and the tears
came to her eyes.
This was so unexpected, that the doctor felt inclined to laugh. He had
been looking into vacancy as he talked, not dreaming that he was
uttering words that could by any possibility be turned into any personal
application. He had forgotten for a moment the fact that Mrs. Forest was
like many women, who never fail to see a personal reflection in any
comment upon woman’s culture or condition, or upon anything unusual in
household management. Sometimes, for example, the bread bought at the
baker’s would prove unusually chippy and innutritious, but never could
the doctor remark the fact without hurting his wife’s feelings, as if
she had personally made the bread and staked her reputation upon its
giving perfect satisfaction. The doctor knew well this weakness, but had
forgotten it for a moment. Had he been looking at her while he talked,
he would have tempered his voice or words probably.
“A good wife, dear! of course you have,” he said, caressing her, “though
I have not quite forgiven you for doubling my responsibilities.”
This was the doctor’s one marital teaze, which was so comically
effective that he could not resist repeating it, occasionally, to hear
her defend herself with the ingenuous concern of one-half conscious of
being in the wrong, yet not knowing how. When this subject was
exhausted, and Mrs. Forest’s temporary grief also, the subject of
sending Clara to school was resumed. Mrs. Forest asked how it could be
accomplished. “It will cost so much,” she said.
“Why, I am as rich as a Jew, Fannie,” he replied. “Old Kendrick actually
paid me to-day all his long standing bill. You know I’ve just got him
through a horrid case of peritonitis,” he added, with an inward chuckle,
seeing that he had spoken ambiguously, and knowing that certain people
are always anxious to know the name of a disease, which generally
satisfies their curiosity in proportion to the incomprehensibility of
the term—“a serious case of peritonitis, and feeling very comfortable
to-day, but that his life was still in my hands, he had an access of
gratitude, and promised to pay me every cent as soon as he got out of
the house. I joked him and declared that my only sure way to get my fees
was to dispatch him speedily, which I seriously thought I would do on
reflection, as the settlement would be certain then. That joke did the
business; for he made me ring for the servant, whom he ordered to bring
him his writing materials, and then and there he made out a cheque for
the amount.”
“But, dear, you should first have a nice whole suit of clothes
yourself,” said Mrs. Forest.
“Oh no; I’ll get on well enough. I should feel too much like a swell in
a whole new suit.” In truth, the good doctor had not experienced that
luxury for years, and his appearance was not a great many removes from
the condition known as “seedy;” but thanks to Mrs. Buzzell’s devotion,
he was always kept supplied with elegant linen and hand-knit stockings
for summer and winter, which he always wore long and gartered above the
knee. In gloves he was somewhat extravagant, for he held that a
physician’s hands should be preserved sensitive and fine to the touch;
especially when he filled the office of surgeon as well as physician, as
most country doctors do.
Dr. Forest’s medicaments in all ordinary cases were of the most simple
kind, and his rival, Dr. Delano, and even old Dr. Gallup, were in much
better repute at the druggists than he was, for his heart was always
with the poor, and to these he generally furnished most of the medicines
himself. He understood well the weakness of uncultivated people, shown
nowhere more signally than in their faith in the potency of mysterious
drugs; and when he called for “two glasses, two-thirds filled with fresh
water,” he did it with an assumption of certainty that convinced his
patient that life or death might be in those words, “two-thirds;” and
when he emptied a harmless powder, perhaps of magnesia or carbonate of
soda, into one and stirred it carefully, and then some other equally
innocuous substance into the other glass, stirring each alternately, it
was with an air that said plainly, “Beware how you trifle with the time
and the manner of taking these!”
Though it can by no means be proved that the popular and almost adored
Dr. Forest gave bread pills and innocuous medicines generally, yet it is
exceedingly probable that he did, and his marvelous success goes far by
way of corroboration. Apparently, he knew just what to do in all cases.
Water he insisted upon so mercilessly that his patients became regularly
habituated to taking a warm bath while they waited for his visit. To the
questions of the better educated of his patients he used to say, “Lord
bless you, how do I know? Do you think medicine a science whose every
problem can be worked out by a formula like those of algebra or
geometry? We knew precious little of the absolute value of medicines
when all that is incontrovertible is admitted and all the rest rejected.
One thing is certain, there is nowhere on this two-cent planet at
present the conditions for perfect health, because there are nowhere the
conditions for perfect happiness. Bless your heart! instead of being
decrepit and played out at seventy or eighty years, we ought to be
teaching boys how to turn double-back somersaults, or making sonnets to
fresh and beautiful women who are great-grandmothers. Life, as we know
it now, is but a miserable travesty of the real destiny of our race when
we become integrally developed, and have brought the planet thoroughly
under our united control. If a physician is up with the science of his
time and a true man, about all he can say honestly is: keep your lungs,
skin, liver, and kidneys in working order, lead an active, temperate
life, possess your soul in quiet, and send for the doctor when you know
you haven’t done these and want to shove the responsibility off upon
him.”
He was severe to many of his patients, but so popular that he had to
manœuvre shrewdly to give the young Dr. Delano a chance to establish
himself. Among the poor, the old, and especially the forlorn, like poor
Mrs. Buzzell, he made his longest visits; and where he knew that love
and sympathy were “indicated,” he gave them freely, as in the case of
this lonely woman. He often caressed her thin hand after counting her
pulse, held his cool, soft, magnetic hand long upon her forehead;
sometimes closing her eyes thus while he talked gayly, told her comical
anecdotes in his life, which made her laugh, and so stimulated some
laggard function into working order.