On a certain cold morning in early spring, I was visited by two ladies,
mother and daughter. The mother was dressed as a widow. She was a tall,
striking-looking woman, with full, wide-open dark eyes, and a mass of
rich hair turned back from a white and noble brow. Her lips were firm,
her features well formed. She seemed to have plenty of character, but
the deep lines of sadness under her eyes and round her lips were very
remarkable. The daughter was a girl of fourteen, slim to weediness. Her
eyes were dark, like her mother's, and she had an abundance of tawny
brown and very handsome hair. It hung down her back below her waist,
and floated over her shoulders. She was dressed, like her mother, in
heavy mourning, and round her young mouth and dark, deep eyes there
lingered the same inexpressible sadness.
I motioned my visitors to chairs, and waited as usual to learn the
reason of their favouring me with a call.
"My name is Heathcote," said the elder lady. "I have lately lost my
husband. I have come to you on account of my daughter--she is not well."
I glanced again more attentively at the young girl. I saw that she
looked overstrained and nervous. Her restlessness, too, was so apparent
that she could scarcely sit still, and catching up a paper-knife which
stood on the table near, she began twirling it rapidly between her
finger and thumb.
"It does me good to fidget with something," she said, glancing
apologetically at her mother.
"What are your daughter's symptoms?" I asked.
Mrs. Heathcote began to describe them in the vague way which
characterizes a certain class of patient. I gathered at last from her
words that Gabrielle would not eat--she slept badly--she was weak and
depressed--she took no interest in anything.
"How old is Miss Gabrielle?" I asked.
"She will be fifteen her next birthday," replied her mother.
All the while Mrs. Heathcote was speaking, the young daughter kept her
eyes fixed on the carpet--she still twirled the paper-knife, and once
or twice she yawned profoundly.
I asked her to prepare for the usual medical examination. She complied
without any alacrity, and with a look on her face which said plainly,
"Young as I am, I know how useless all this fuss is--I only submit
because I must."
I felt her pulse and sounded her heart and lungs. The action of the
heart was a little weak, but the lungs were perfectly healthy. In
short, beyond a general physical and mental debility, I could find
nothing whatever the matter with the girl.
After a time, I rang the bell to desire my servant to take Miss
Heathcote into another room, in order that I might speak to her mother
alone.
The young lady went away very unwillingly. The sceptical expression on
her face was more apparent than ever.
"You will be sure to tell me the exact truth?" said Mrs. Heathcote, as
soon as we were alone.
"I have very little to tell," I replied. "I have examined your daughter
carefully. She is suffering from no disease to which a name can be
attached. She is below par, certainly; there is weakness and general
depression, but a tonic ought to set all these matters right."
"I have tried tonics without avail," said Mrs. Heathcote.
"Has not your family physician seen Miss Heathcote?"
"Not lately." The widow's manner became decidedly hesitating. "The fact
is, we have not consulted him since--since Mr. Heathcote's death," she
said.
"When did that take place?"
"Six months ago."
Here she spoke with infinite sadness, and her face, already very pale,
turned perceptibly paler.
"Is there nothing you can tell me to give me a clue to your daughter's
condition? Is there anything, for instance, preying on her mind?"
"Nothing whatever."
"The expression of her face is very sad for so young a girl."
[Illustration: "I FELT HER PULSE."]
"You must remember," said Mrs. Heathcote, "that she has lately lost her
father."
"Even so," I replied; "that would scarcely account for her nervous
condition. A healthy-minded child will not be overcome with grief to
the serious detriment of health after an interval of six months. At
least," I added, "that is my experience in ordinary cases."
"I am grieved to hear it," said Mrs. Heathcote.
She looked very much troubled. Her agitation was apparent in her
trembling hands and quivering lips.
"Your daughter is in a nervous condition," I said, rising. "She
has no disease at present, but a little extra strain might develop
real disease, or might affect her nerves, already overstrung, to a
dangerous degree. I should recommend complete change of air and scene
immediately."
Mrs. Heathcote sighed heavily.
"You don't look very well yourself," I said, giving her a keen glance.
She flushed crimson.
"I have felt my sorrow acutely," she replied.
I made a few more general remarks, wrote a prescription for the
daughter, and bade Mrs. Heathcote good-bye. About the same hour on the
following morning I was astonished when my servant brought me a card
on which was scribbled in pencil the name _Gabrielle Heathcote_, and
underneath, in the same upright, but unformed hand, the words, "I want
to see you most urgently."
A few moments later, Miss Gabrielle was standing in my consulting-room.
Her appearance was much the same as yesterday, except that now her face
was eager, watchful, and all awake.
"How do you do?" she said, holding out her hand, and blushing. "I have
ventured to come alone, and I haven't brought a fee. Does that matter?"
"Not in the least," I replied. "Pray sit down and tell me what you
want."
"I would rather stand," she answered; "I feel too restless and excited
to sit still. I stole away from home without letting mother know. I
liked your look yesterday and determined to see you again. Now, may I
confide in you?"
"You certainly may," I replied.
My interest in this queer child was a good deal aroused. I felt
certain that I was right in my conjectures of yesterday, and that this
young creature was really burdened with some secret which was gravely
undermining her health.
"I am willing to listen to you," I continued. "You must be brief, of
course, for I am a very busy man, but anything you can say which will
throw light on your own condition, and so help me to cure you, will, of
course, be welcome."
"You think me very nervous?" said Miss Gabrielle.
"Your nerves are out of order," I replied.
"You know that I don't sleep at night?"
"Yes."
Miss Gabrielle looked towards the door.
"Is it shut?" she asked, excitedly.
"Of course it is."
She came close to me, her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, her face
turned not only white but grey.
"I can stand it no longer," she said. "I'll tell you the truth. You
wouldn't sleep either if you were me. _My father isn't dead!_"
"Nonsense," I replied. "You must control such imaginings, Miss
Gabrielle, or you will really get into a very unhealthy condition of
mind."
"That's what mother says when I speak to her," replied the child. "But
I tell you, this thing is true. My father is not dead. I know it."
"How can you possibly know it?" I asked.
"I have seen him--there!"
"You have seen your father!--but he died six months ago?"
"Yes. He died--and was buried, and I went to his funeral. But all the
same he is not dead now."
"My dear young lady," I said, in as soothing a tone as I could assume,
"you are the victim of what is called a hallucination. You have felt
your father's death very acutely."
"I have. I loved him beyond words. He was so kind, so affectionate, so
good to me. It almost broke my heart when he died. I thought I could
never be happy again. Mother was as wretched as myself. There weren't
two more miserable people in the wide world. It seemed impossible to
either of us to smile or be cheerful again. I began to sleep badly, for
I cried so much, and my eyes ached, and I did not care for lessons any
more."
"All these feelings will pass," I replied; "they are natural, but time
will abate their violence."
"You think so?" said the girl, with a strange smile. "Now let me go on
with my story: It was at Christmas time I first saw my father. We live
in an old house at Brixton. It has a walled-in garden. I was standing
by my window about midnight. I had been in bed for an hour or more,
but I could not sleep. The house was perfectly quiet. I got out of bed
and went to the window and drew up the blind. I stood by the window
and looked out into the garden, which was covered with snow. There,
standing under the window, with his arms folded, was father. He stood
perfectly still, and turned his head slowly, first in the direction of
my room and then in that of mother's. He stood there for quite five
minutes, and then walked across the grass into the shelter of the
shrubbery. I put a cloak on and rushed downstairs. I unbolted the front
door and went into the garden. I shouted my father's name and ran into
the shrubbery to look for him, but he wasn't there, and I--I think I
fainted. When I came to myself I was in bed and mother was bending over
me. Her face was all blistered as if she had been crying terribly. I
told her that I had just seen father, and she said it was a dream."
"So it was," I replied.
Miss Gabrielle's dark brows were knit in some pain.
"I did not think you would take that commonplace view," she responded.
"I am sorry I have offended you," I answered. "Girls like you do have
bad dreams when they are in trouble, and those dreams are often so
vivid, that they mistake them for realities."
"Very well, then, I have had more of those vivid dreams. I have seen my
father again. The last time I saw him he was in the house. It was about
a month ago. As usual, I could not sleep, and I went downstairs quite
late to get the second volume of a novel which interested me. There was
father walking across the passage. His back was to me. He opened the
study door and went in. He shut it behind him. I rushed to it in order
to open it and follow him. It was locked, and though I screamed through
the key-hole, no one replied to me. Mother found me kneeling by the
study door and shouting through the key-hole to father. She was up and
dressed, which seemed strange at so late an hour. She took me upstairs
and put me to bed, and pretended to be angry with me, but when I told
her that I had seen father she burst into the most awful bitter tears
and said:--
"'Oh, Gabrielle, he is dead--dead--quite dead!'
"'Then he comes here from the dead,' I said. 'No, he is not dead. I
have just seen him.'
"'My poor child,' said mother, 'I must take you to a good doctor
without delay. You must not get this thing on your brain.'
"'Very well,' I replied; 'I am quite willing to see Dr. Mackenzie.'"