"Hatfield is so ashamed of his sister's friendship for the woman that
I had the utmost difficulty in making him tell me the whole truth, but,
from what I gathered yesterday, he thinks them most likely the head of a
gang of counterfeiters or forgers and--"
I read no further, or, if I did, I can recall only that. It was burned
into my brain, and when a loud pounding on my office-door aroused me, I
found the letter twisted and torn into a hundred pieces, the Vichy and
wine-bottles at my side half-empty, and the hands of the clock pointing
to half-past ten.
"Doctor, doctor," called my lackey; "oh, doctor! Oh, lord, I'm afraid
something's wrong with the doctor, but I'm afraid to break in the door."
I went to the door to prevent a scene. One of my best patients stood
there, with Morgan, the man. Both of them were pale and full of
suppressed excitement.
"Heavens and earth, doctor, we were afraid you were dead. I've been
waiting here a good hour for you to come home. No one knew you were in,
till Morgan peeped over the transom. What in the devil is the matter?"
said my patient.
"Tired out, went to sleep," said I; but I did not know my own voice as I
spoke. It sounded distant, and its tones were strange.
They both looked at me suspiciously, and with evident anxiety as to my
mental condition. I caught at the means of escape.
"I am too tired to see anyone to-night. In fact, I am not well. You will
have to let me off this time. Get Dr. Talbott, next door, if anyone is
sick; I am going to bed. Good-night."
There was a long pause. Then he said, wearily: "You are a young man,
doctor. You have taken the chair I left vacant at the college. I would
never have told the story to you, perhaps, only I wanted you to know why
I left the class in your care so suddenly this morning, when I uncovered
the beautiful face of the 'subject' you had brought from the morgue for
me to give my closing lecture upon. That class of shallow-pated fellows
have not learned yet that doctors--even old fellows like me--know a
good deal less than they think they do about the human race--themselves
included."
I stammered some explanation of the circumstances, and again there was a
long silence.
Then he said:
"Found drowned, was she? Poor girl! Do you believe, with that face, she
was ever a bad woman? Or that she had anything to do with the rascality
of her husband, even if he were consciously a rascal? and who is to
judge of that, knowing so little of him? Did I ever recover the five
thousand dollars? Did I attempt to recover it? Oh, no. All this happened
nearly ten years ago now; and if that were all it had cost me I should
not mind. The hotel people never knew. Why should they? This is the
first time I have told the story. You think I am an old fool? Well,
well, perhaps I am--perhaps I am; who can say what any of us are, or
what we are not? Thirty years ago I knew that I understood myself and
everybody else perfectly. To-day I know equally well that I understand
neither the one nor the other. We learn that fact, and then we die--and
that is about all we do learn. You wonder, after what I tell you, if the
beautiful face at the demonstration class this morning was really hers,
or whether a strong likeness led my eyes and nerves astray You wonder if
she drowned herself, and why? Was it an accident? Did _he_ do it? This
last will be decided by each one according as he judges of Florence
Campbell and her husband--of who and what they were. Perhaps I shall
try to find him now. Not for the money, but to learn why she married the
man he seemed to be. It is hard to tell what I should learn. It is not
even easy to know just what I should _like_ to learn; and perhaps, after
all, it is better not to know more--who shall say?"
And the doctor bade me good-night and bowed himself out to his carriage
with his old courtesy, and left me alone with the strange, sad story of
the beautiful girl whose lifeless form had furnished the subject of my
first lecture to a class of medical students.