It required some persuasion to induce Aunt Amy to consent to see the
doctor. Doctors, she had found (with the single exception of Dr.
Coombe), were terribly unreasonable. They asked all kinds of questions,
and never believed a word of the answers.
"And if I have a doctor," she declared tearfully, "I shall have to go to
bed. And if I go to bed who will get supper? The sprigged tea-set--"
"But you won't need to go to bed, Auntie. You aren't ill, you know; just
a little bit upset. If you feel like lying down why not use the sofa in
my room? And even if you do not wish to see the doctor for yourself,"
Esther's tone was reproachful, "think what a good opportunity it is for
us to get an opinion about mother. Don't you remember saying just the
other day that you thought mother was foolish to be so nervous
about doctors?"
"Yes, but she needn't stay in the room, need she, Esther? I don't want
her in the room. She laughs. But I would like to lie on your sofa and if
I must see him I had better wear my lavender cap."
"Yes, dear, and you will not mind mother staying--"
"But I do mind, Esther. And anyway she can't," triumphantly, "because
she has gone out."
"Gone out? Mother? But she knew the doctor was coming and she
promised--"
"Yes, I know. She said to tell you she had fully intended staying in
until the doctor had been, but she had forgotten about the Ladies' Aid
Meeting. She simply had to go to that. She said you could attend to the
doctor quite as well as she could and that it was all nonsense anyway,
because there was nothing whatever the matter with me." The faded eyes
filled with tears again and Esther had much ado to prevent their
imminent overflow.
She settled Aunt Amy upon the couch and adjusted the lavender cap
without further betrayal of her own feelings, but in her heart she was
both angry and hurt. Her mother had known of the doctor's intended visit
and had distinctly promised to remain in to receive him. What would Dr.
Callandar think? It was most humiliating.
The Ladies' Aid Meeting was plainly an excuse for a deliberate shirking
of responsibility. Or, worse still, Mrs. Coombe, divining Esther's
double motive, may have left the house purposely to escape seeing the
doctor on her own account. Esther well knew the stubbornness of which
she was capable upon this one question, and the cunningness of it was
like her. She had made no objections; she had not troubled to refuse or
to argue--she had simply gone out.
Well, it was something to feel that she, Esther, had done what she
could. At any rate, there was no time to worry, for the doctor was
already coming up the walk.
Esther hurried to the door. It relieved her to find that he seemed to
expect her, and showed no offence on realising that the patient's
nearest relative was not at home to receive him. Indeed, he seemed to
think of no one save the patient herself. His manner, Esther thought,
was perfect. Had she been a little older she might have suspected such
perfection, deducing from it that Callandar, like herself, was
subconsciously aware of an interest in the situation not altogether
professional. But the girl made no deductions and certainly there was no
trace of any embarrassment in the doctor's way with his patient. It took
only a moment for Esther to decide that here, at least, she had done the
right thing. She waited only long enough to see the frightened look in
Aunt Amy's eyes replaced by one of timid confidence and then, murmuring
an excuse, slipped away, leaving them together.
Callandar also waited while the startled eyes grew quiet and then lifted
the fluttering hand into his own firm one.
"Creatures of habit, we doctors, aren't we?" he said, smiling. "Always
taking people's temperatures."
Aunt Amy ventured upon a vague answering smile.
"I understand," continued the doctor, "that you have reason to fear that
you have been poisoned?"
The hand began to flutter again, but quieted as the pleasant, confident
voice went on:
"Your niece has told me something of the case but no details. Perhaps
you can supply them for me. When exactly did it happen and what kind of
poison was it?"
The fluttering hand became quite still and the eyes of Aunt Amy slowly
filled with a great amazement. Here was an unbelievable thing--a doctor
who did not argue or deny or playfully scold her for "fancies." A doctor
who took her seriously and showed every intention of believing what she
said. No one, save Dr. Coombe, had ever done that--
"It is always best in these cases to get the details from the patient
herself," went on the doctor, encouragingly.
No, he was not laughing! Aunt Amy could detect nothing save the gravest
of interest in his kindly eyes. An immense relief stole over her. A
relief so great that Callandar, watching, felt his heart grow hot
with pity.
"Oh, doctor!" she cried feebly, "I--" a rush of easy tears drowned the
rest of the sentence.
Callandar let her cry. He knew the value of those tears. Presently when
she grew more quiet he exchanged her soaking bit of cambric for his own
more serviceable square. Aunt Amy dried her eyes on it and handed it
back as simply as a child.
"Pray excuse me," she begged, "but--the relief! I might have died if you
had not come." She went on brokenly. "You see," dropping her voice, "my
relatives are _queer_. They have strange ideas. When I know things quite
well they tell me I am mistaken. Mary, my niece, laughs. Even Esther,
who tries to help me, thinks I do not know what I am talking about. They
all argue in the most absurd manner. If I do not pretend always that I
agree with them I have no peace. Sometimes when I tell some of the
things I know, Esther looks frightened and says I am not to tell Jane.
So I try to keep everything to myself. I don't want the children to be
frightened. They are young and ought to be happy. I was happy when I was
young--at least, I think it was I. Sometimes I'm not sure whether it
wasn't some other girl--I get confused--"
"Don't worry about it," said the doctor calmly. "Or about Miss Esther
either. I want to hear all about the poison."
Aunt Amy remembered her precarious condition with a start. Her eyes grew
vague.
"I don't know how They put it in," she said. "I didn't see Them, you
know. I left my cup of coffee standing while I went to find Jane. I
heard her crying. She had cut her finger and when I had bound it up I
felt faint, so I foolishly forgot and picked up the coffee and drank it.
I wasn't quite myself or I should never have been so careless."
The doctor seemed to appreciate this point. "Did you taste anything in
the coffee?" he asked.
"No. Of course They would be too clever for that!"
"And when did you begin to feel ill?"
"Just as soon as I remembered that I had forgotten to pour out a fresh
cup." The naïveté of this statement was quite lost upon the
eager speaker.
Esther, who had re-entered the room, opened her lips to improve this
opportunity for argument but, meeting the doctor's eye, refrained.
Callandar took no notice of the significant admission.
"Where do you feel the pain now?" he asked.
Aunt Amy appeared disturbed.
"Mostly in my head--I--I think." She moved restlessly.
Callandar appeared to consider this.
"But I suppose," he said thoughtfully, "that you really feel very little
actual pain. None at all perhaps?"
Aunt Amy admitted that she could not locate any particular pain.
"Weakness is the predominating symptom," went on the doctor. "It is, in
fact, a very simple case. All the more serious, of course, for being so
simple, _if_ we did not understand it. But now that we know exactly what
is wrong we need have no fear."
Aunt Amy's vague eyes began to shine.
"Shall we get the better of them again?" she asked eagerly.
"We certainly shall," kindly. "Miss Esther, I am going to leave some
medicine for your aunt; these little pink tablets. She must have one
every two hours and two at bedtime. When she has taken them for two days
I shall send something else. You will notice an improvement almost at
once. Even in an hour or two, perhaps. By the end of the week all
medicine may be discontinued."
He crushed a little pink tablet in a spoon, mixed it with water, and
watched the old lady while she eagerly swallowed it.
"There!" he exclaimed. "That is the beginning! All we need now is a
little rest and quiet. Nothing to excite the patient and a tablet
regularly every two hours." He arose, affecting not to see Aunt Amy's
grateful tears. "And of course," he added as if by an afterthought,
"_They_ won't know anything about this. They will think that, having
taken the coffee, the result is certain. They will take for granted that
They have finished you, in fact! So cheer up, it is worth a little
illness to be rid of the fear of Them forever."
A lightning flash of hope lit up the worn face upon the pillow. "Oh,
Doctor! Do you really think I am free?"
"Sure of it."
Aunt Amy sank back with a long sigh; her lined face grew suddenly
peaceful. Esther, who had observed the little scene with wonder, said
nothing, but taking the tablets, kissed her Aunt, and led the way out
in silence.
"Well?"
As they stood together in the hall she could see the amused twinkle in
the doctor's eye.
"I don't like it! You lied to her!"
"So I did," cheerfully.
"These tablets," holding up the glass vial, "what are they?"
"Tonic."
"And the medicine which you are going to send later?"
"More tonic."
"But she thinks--you gave her to understand that they are the antidote
for the poison which you know does not exist."
"No. They are the antidote for a poison which does exist--medicine for a
mind diseased."
"It's--it's like taking advantage of a child."
"So it is, exactly. I suppose you have never taken advantage of a child,
for the child's good?"
"Certainly not."
"Never told one, gave one to understand, so to speak, that a kiss will
cure a bumped head?"
"That's different!"
"Never told your school class during a thunderstorm that lightning never
hurts good children?"
"That's very different."
"And yet all the time you know that lightning falls upon the just and
unjust equally."
Esther was silent. The doctor laughed.
"I fear we are both sad story-tellers," he said gaily. "But in Aunt
Amy's case the fibbing will all be charged to my account, you are merely
the nurse. A nurse's duty is to obey orders and not frown (as you are
doing now) upon the doctor. You will find that I shall effect a cure.
Seriously, I do not believe that you have any idea of what that poor
woman has been suffering. If the delusion of living in continual danger
can be lifted in any way even for a time, it will make life over for
her. You would not really allow a scruple to prevent some alleviation of
your Aunt's condition, would you?"
The girl's downcast eyes flashed up to his, startlingly blue.
"No. I would not. I love her. I would tell all the fibs in the world to
help her. But all the time I should have a queer idea that _I_ was doing
wrong. It would be common sense against instinct."
"Against prejudice," he corrected. "The prejudice which always insists
that truth consists in a form of words."
They were now in the cool green light of the living room. Esther stood
with her back to the table, leaning slightly backward, supporting
herself by one hand. She looked tired. There were shadows under her
eyes. The doctor felt an impulse of irritation against the absent mother
who let the girl outwear her strength.
"My advice to you is not to worry," he said abruptly. "You are tired.
More tired than a young girl of your age ought to be. You cannot teach
those imps of Satan--I mean those charming children--all day and come
back to home cares at night. Will it be possible for me to speak to Mrs.
Coombe before I go?"
Watching her keenly he saw that now he had touched the real cause of the
trouble.
"I am sorry," began Esther, but meeting his look, the prim words of
conventional excuse halted. A little smile curled the end of her lips
and she added, "Since she went out purposely to escape you, it is
not likely."
"Your mother went out to escape me?" in surprise.
"In your capacity of doctor only. You see," with a certain childish
naïveté, "she hasn't seen you yet. And mother dislikes doctors very
much. Oh!" with a hot blush, "you will think we are a queer family,
all of us!"
"It is not at all queer to dislike doctors," he answered her cheerfully.
"I dislike them myself. At the very best they are necessary evils."
"Indeed no! And when one is ill it seems so foolish--"
"Is Mrs. Coombe ill?"
"I don't know. I think so. She has headaches. She is not at all like
herself. I hoped so much that you would meet her this afternoon, and
then she--she went out!"
"And this is really what is troubling you, and not Aunt Amy?"
"Yes. You see, Aunt Amy has been quite all right until the last two
days. But mother--that has been troubling us a long time."
"How long?"
"Almost since father died--a year ago."
"But--don't you think that if Mrs. Coombe were really ill her prejudice
would disappear? People do not suffer from choice, usually."
"No. That is just what puzzles me!" She did indeed look puzzled, very
puzzled and very young.
"If I could help you in any way?" suggested Callandar. "You may be
worrying quite needlessly."
"Do people ever consult you about their mothers behind their mother's
back?"
"Often. Why not?"
"Only that it doesn't seem natural. Grown-up people--"
"Are often just as foolish as anybody else!"
"Besides, I doubt if I can make you understand." Now that the ice was
broken Esther's voice was eager. "I know very little of the real trouble
myself. It seems to be just a general state of health. But it varies so.
Sometimes she seems quite well, bright, cheerful, ready for anything!
Then again she is depressed, nervous, irritable. She has desperate
headaches which come on at intervals. They are nervous headaches, she
says, and are so bad that she shuts herself up in her room and will not
let any of us in. She will not eat. I--I don't know very much about
it, you see."
"You know a little more than that, I think, perhaps when you know me
better?--It is, after all, a matter of trusting one's doctor."
"I do trust you. But feelings are so difficult to put into words. And
the greatest dread I have about mother's illness is only a feeling, a
feeling as if I knew, without quite knowing, that the trouble is deeper
than appears. Jane feels it too, so it can't be all imagination. It is
caused, I think, by a change in mother herself. She seems to be growing
into another person--don't laugh!"
"I am not laughing. Please go on."
"Well, one thing more tangible is that the headaches, which seem to mark
a kind of nervous crisis, are becoming more frequent. And the
medicine--"
"But you told me that she took no medicine!"
"Did I? Then I am telling my story very badly. She has some medicine
which she always takes. It is a prescription which my father gave her a
few months before he died. She had a bad attack of some nervous trouble
then which seems to have been the beginning of everything. But that time
she recovered and it was not until after father's death that the
headaches began again. Father's prescription must, long ago, have lost
all effect, or why should the trouble get worse rather than better? But
mother will not hear a word on the subject. She will take that medicine
and nothing else."
"Do you know what the medicine is?"
"No. Father used to fill it for her himself. She says it is a very
difficult prescription and she never has it filled in town, always in
the city."
"But why? Taylor, here, is quite capable of filling any prescription. He
is a most capable dispenser."
"Yes--I know. But mother will not believe it."
"And you say it does her no good whatever?"
"She thinks that it does. She has a wonderful belief in it. But she gets
no better."
The doctor looked very thoughtful.
"She will not allow you to try any kind of compress for her head?"
"No. She locks her door. And I am sure she suffers, for sometimes when I
have gone up hoping to help I have heard such strange sounds, as if she
were delirious. It frightens me!"
"Does she talk of her illness?"
"Never, and she is furious if I do. She says she is quite well and
indeed no one would think that anything serious was wrong unless they
lived in the house. Any one outside would be sure that I am worrying
needlessly. Am I, do you think?"
"I can't think until I know more. But from what you tell me, it looks as
if this medicine she is taking might have something to do with it. If it
does no good, it probably does harm. Perhaps it was never intended to
be used as she is using it. Otherwise, as you say, the attacks would
diminish. At the same time a blind faith in a certain medicine is not at
all uncommon. One meets it constantly. Also the prejudice against
consulting a physician. It is probable that Mrs. Coombe does not realise
that she is steadily growing worse. Could you let me examine the
medicine?"
Esther hesitated.
"It is kept locked up. But, I might manage it. If I asked her for it she
would certainly refuse. I--I should hate to steal it," miserably.
"I see. Well, try asking first. It is just a question of how far one has
the right to interfere with another's deliberately chosen course of
action. The medicine is probably injurious, even dangerous. I should
warn her, at least. If she will do nothing and you still feel
responsible I should say that you have a moral right to have your own
mind reassured upon the matter."
Esther smiled. "I believe I feel reassured already. Perhaps I have been
foolishly apprehensive and it never occurred to me that the medicine
might be at fault; at the worst I thought it might be useless, not
harmful. If I could only manage to have you see it without _taking_ it!
There must be a way. I'll think of something and let you know."
"Do." The doctor picked up his hat for the second time. He was genuinely
interested. He had not expected to find a problem of any complexity in
sleepy Coombe. The cases of Aunt Amy and the peculiar Mrs. Coombe seemed
to justify his staying on. It was pleasant also to help this charming
young girl--although that, naturally, was a secondary consideration!
Esther ran upstairs with a lightened heart.