"A change!" she said, wearily. "A change! Let me see, I have been here
nearly five months. I stayed two months in the last place. I was nine
days in San Francisco, one year doing the whole of Europe, and seven
months in Asia. Yes, decidedly, I must need a change. There are three
places left for me to try, which one do you advise?" There was a bitter
little laugh, but her expression was sweet, and her eyes twinkled as she
glanced at me.
"I am glad I have three places to choose from," I said. "I was afraid
you were not going to leave so many as that, and had already begun to
plan 'electric treatment' as a final refuge."
She laughed nervously, but I thought I saw signs of a mental change.
I had always found that I could do most with her by falling into her
own moods of humor or merry satire upon her own condition or upon the
various stages of medical ignorance and pretence into which we are often
driven.
"Where are these three unhappy places that you have so shamelessly
neglected? Was it done in malice? I sincerely hope, for their sakes,
that it was not so bad as that--that it was a mere oversight on your
part," I went on.
"Australia has been spared my presence so far through malice; the other
two, through defective theology. I dislike the idea of one of them
on account of the climate, and of the other, because of the stupid
company," she said, with a droll assumption of perplexity; "so, you
see, I can't even hope for a pleasant change after death. Oh, my case is
quite hopeless, I assure you, doctor; _quite!_" She laughed again.
I had her where I wanted her now. I thought by a little adroitness I
might get, at least, a part of the truth.
"So you are really afraid to die, and yet think that you must," I said,
bluntly.
She turned her great luminous eyes on me, and her lip curled slightly,
with real scorn, before she forced upon her face her usual mask of
good-hum-ored sarcasm.
"Afraid!" she exclaimed, "afraid to die! afraid of what, pray? I cannot
imagine being afraid to die. It is _life_ I am afraid of. If I could
only--" This last passionately. She checked herself abruptly, and with
an evident effort resumed her usual light air and tone. "But it does
always seem so absurdly impossible to me, doctor, to hear grownup people
talk about being afraid to die. It almost surprised me into talking
seriously, a reprehensive habit I never allow myself. A luxury few can
afford, you know. It skirts too closely the banks of Tragedy. One is
safer on the high seas of Frivolity--don't you think?"
"Much safer, no doubt, my child," said I, taking her hand, which was
almost as cold and white as marble; "much safer from those deceived and
confiding persons who prescribe 'sulph. 12' for the broken heart and
overwrought nerves of a little woman who tries bravely to fly her gay
colors in the face of defeat and to whistle a tune at a grave."
I had called late, and we were sitting in the twilight, but I saw tears
fall on her lap, and she did not withdraw her hand, which trembled
violently.
I had touched the wound roughly--as I had determined to do--but, old man
as I was, and used to the sight of suffering as I had been for years, I
could restrain myself only by an effort from taking her in my arms and
asking her to forget what I had said. She seemed so utterly shaken. We
sat for some moment in perfect silence, except for her quick, smothered
little sobs, and then she said, passionately:
"Oh, my God! doctor, how did you know?" And then, with a flash of fear in
her voice, "Who told you? No one has talked me over to you? No one has
written to you?"
"I know nothing, except what I have seen of your brave fight, my child.
All the information I have had about you, from outside, was contained in
that valuable little note of introduction from Griswold."
In spite of her tears and agitation she smiled, but looked puzzled, as I
afterward recalled she always did when I mentioned his name, or spoke as
if she knew him well.
"I have not watched you for nothing. And I never treat a patient without
first diagnosing his case. I do not say that I am _always_ right. I am
not vain of the methods nor of the progress of my profession; but I am,
at least, not blind, and I have always been interested in you. I should
like to help you, if you will let me. I can do nothing for you in the
dark." Then dropping my voice, significantly: "Does _he_ know where you
are? Does _he_ know you are ill?"
There was a long silence. I did not know but that she was offended. She
was struggling for command of her voice, and for courage. Presently she
said, in a hoarse whisper, which evidently shocked her as much as it
startled me, so unnatural did it sound:
"Who? My husband?"
"Your _husband!_" I exclaimed. "Are you--is there--I did not know you
were married. Why did you always allow me to call you _Miss_ Campbell?"
"I do not know," she said, wearily. "It made no difference to me, and it
seemed to please your fancy to treat me as a child.. But I never really
noticed that you did always call me Miss. If I had, I should not have
cared. What difference could it make to me--or to you--what prefix you
put to my name?"
"But I did not know you were married," I said almost sharply.
She looked up, startled for a moment; but recovering, as from some vague
suspicion, in an instant she said, smiling a little, and with evident
relief, plunging into a new opening:
"That had nothing to do with my case. There was no need to discuss
family relations. I never thought of whether _you_ were married or
not. You were my doctor--I your patient. What our family relations,
wardrobes, or political affiliations might be seem to me quite aside
from that. We may choose to talk of them together, or we may not, as
the case may be. And in my case, it would not be--edifying." There was
a moment's pause, then she said, rather impatiently, but as if the new
topic were a relief to her: "The idea that a woman must be ticketed as
married or unmarried, to every chance acquaintance, is repellent to me.
Men are not so ticketed--and that is right. It is vulgar to suppose a
sign is needed to prevent trespass, or to tempt approach. 'Miss Jones,
this is Mr. Smith.' What does it tell?" She was talking very rapidly
now--nervously. "It tells her, 'Here is a gentleman to whom I wish to
introduce you. If you find him agreeable you will doubtless learn more
of him later on.' It tells him, 'Here is a lady. _She is not married._
Her family relations--her most private affairs--are thrust in his face
before she has even said good evening to him. I think it is vulgar,
and it is certainly an unnecessary personality. What his or her marital
relations may be would seem to come a good deal later in the stage of
acquaintance, don't you think so, doctor?" She laughed, but it was not
like herself. Even the laugh had changed. She was fighting for time.
"It is a new idea to me," I said, "and I confess I like it. Come to
think of it, it _is_ a trifle premature--this thrusting a title intended
to indicate private relations onto a name used on all public occasions.
By Jove! it is absurd. I never thought of it before; but it is _never_
done with men, is it? 'General,' 'Mr.' 'Dr.'--none of them. All relate
to him as an individual, leaving vast fields of possibilities all about
him. 'Mrs.' 'Miss'--they tell one thing, and one only. That is of a
private nature--a personal association. You have started me on a new
line of thought, and," said I, taking her hand again, "you have given
me so much that is new to think of to-night that I will go home to
look over the budget. You are tired out. Go to bed now. Order your tea
brought up. Here is an order to see to anything you may ask, promptly.
Beesley, the manager, is an old friend of mine. Any order you may give,
if you send it down with this note from me, will be obeyed at once. I
shall come to-morrow. Good-night."
I put the order on the table, at her side. I know my voice was husky.
It startled me, as I heard it. She sat perfectly still, but she laid her
other hand on top of mine, with a light pressure, and her voice sounded
tired and full of tears.
"Good-night. You are very kind--very thoughtful. I will be brave
to-morrow. Good-night." That night I drove past and saw a light in her
window at one o'clock. "Poor child!" I said; "will she be brave enough
to tell me to-morrow, or will she die with her burden, and her gay
little laugh on her lips?"