Chapter 10

"By Jove!" he muttered, "this room is as dark as Egypt, and then some--Wonder where Florence is. Those damned servants ought to be shot! Whole house like a confounded coal-pit! Didn't expect me for hours yet, I suppose! That's no reason for living like a lot of damned bats! 'Fraid of musquitoes, I suppose. Where are those matches? _Florence!_ She's evidently gone out--or to bed. Wonder where her little 'kitten' is? Umm--wonder how much longer Florence means to keep her here? Don't see how the thing's going to go on much longer this way, with a girl with a conscience like that. Perfectly abnormal! Perfectly ridiculous! Umm--no more tact than--"

Nellie moaned aloud. Florence had held her breath, hoping he would go. He had almost reached the door leading to the hall, after his vain search for matches.

"Hello! what was that?" said Campbell, turning again into the room.

His wife knew that escape was not now possible. "Nothing, Tom," she said, in a voice that trembled a little. "Go upstairs. I will come up soon."

"Why, hello, Florence, that you? What are you sitting here in the dark for, all alone? Why didn't you speak to me when I came in? What did you let me--"

Nellie sat up, and in doing so overturned a chair.

Tom's eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness. He saw the two women outlined before him, and he saw that Nellie had been on the floor, and that his wife stood over her.

"What's the matter?" he demanded. "What's up?"

He came toward them. Nellie sprang to her feet, with flashing eyes and outstretched, imploring hands to wave him back. She was about to rush into a painful explanation. Florence stepped toward her, put both arms about her, and drew her onto the cushioned window-seat at their side. She knew she must cover the girl's agitation from her husband, and somehow gain time to think.

"Sit down, dear," she said softly. "Sit down here by me. You have been asleep. He frightened you coming in so suddenly. You have been dreaming; you talked in your sleep--but it was all nonsense--about an ancestor, whom you blamed very bitterly."

The girl began to speak impulsively, but Florence checked her.

"Yes, I know. You told me. It was all the greatest stuff. But the part that was true--I doubt if she was to blame. I think, from all I know of--of her, and of the gentleman you mentioned, the one she--seemed to care for--that--oh, no, kitten! I am _sure she_ was not to blame."

Nellie was trembling violently, clinging to her friend in shame and remorse. Tom stood perfectly quiet in the deeper darkness, back from the window, with a smile on his cheerful face and a puzzled light in his handsome eyes.

"Go upstairs, Tom," said Florence again, this time in a steadier tone. "Nellie's head aches; you waked her up too suddenly. We don't want more light--do we, Nellie? Not just now. We have quite light enough for the present. I assure you we are better off just now in the dark. You would think so yourself if you could see us as we see ourselves. We are quite battered and out at elbow, I assure you, and not at all fit for fastidious masculine eyes."

She was pulling herself up well. "To-morrow we will spruce up our bangs, put on fresh gowns, and not know ourselves for the wretches we are tonight. Until then, Sir Knight, no masculine eye shall rest upon our dilapidation. Go!"

Tom Campbell had seen his wife in this mood before. He went.

All the way upstairs he wondered what had happened. "Never could make women out anyway," he muttered; "least of all, Florence. Women are a queer lot. More you live with 'em, more you don't know what they'll do next. Wonder what in thunder's up. 'Kitten' never said a word; but I'm damned if I did't hear her groan! Guess the little goose feels kind of--queer--with me and the old lady both present. Wonder--whew!--wonder how much I said aloud, and how much they heard when I first went in! Confounded habit, talking aloud to myself! Got to stop it, old boy; must be done--get you into trouble yet!"

Then he turned off the gas, and was sleeping as peacefully as an infant before the two women below stairs had parted for the night.

When Tom left the room, Nellie began to sob again, and Florence stroked her hair with her icy hands and waited for the girl to speak--or grow calm. And for herself--she hardly knew what she waited for in herself; but she felt that she needed time.

After a long silence she said, quite gently; "Nellie, little girl, we will go upstairs now; you will go to bed. If you ever feel like it, after you take time to think it over, and your nerves are quiet--if you ever feel like it, you may tell just what trick your troublesome ancestor has tried to play you; but I want to say now, dear, don't feel that you _must_ tell me, nor that I do not know perfectly well that my little kitten is all right, ancestors or no ancestors, and that we, together can somehow find the combination to that Time Lock that so distresses you, and turn it off again. Meantime, little girl _no one_ shall harm you. You shall be let alone; you are all right! Be _sure_ of that. I am. Now, good-night;" and she kissed the still sobbing girl on the forehead and hands, in spite, of her protests and self-accusations.

Suddenly Nellie sank on her knees again, and grasped Florence's dress as she had turned to go:

"O Florence! O Florence! are you human? How _can_ you? You are not like other women! O my God! if I could only be like you; but you frighten me! You are so calm. How cold your hands are! oh--"

"Are they? I did not notice. Oh well, no matter; it is an old trick of theirs, you know."

Florence Campbell's voice was very steady now. Her words were slow and deliberate--they sounded as if she was very tired; and her step, as she climbed the stairs, had lost its spring and lightness.

The next morning Nellie's breakfast was carried to her room, with a message from Florence not to get up until she came to her at their usual hour for reading together.

About noon, as the girl lay thinking for the hundredth time that she must get up and face life again--that she must somehow stop this blinding headache, and go away--that she must die--Florence swept into the room, trailing her soft, long gown behind her, and gently closed the door. She had put on a gay pink tea-gown, with masses of white lace and smart little bows in unexpected places.

"Feel better, dear?" she asked, gayly. "Griggs told me your head ached, and that you had not slept well. I confess I did not either--not very. Tom and I talked rather late; you know he sails for Liverpool at noon. Sure enough, you didn't know. Well, no matter. The vessel is just about sailing now. Yes, it is _rather_ sudden. We talked so much of it last night that it seems quite an old story to me to-day, though. You know he was to go in two weeks, anyway. It seemed best to go earlier, so I helped him pack, and saw him to the steamer two hours ago. You know a man doesn't have to take anything but a tooth-brush and a smoking-cap. We thought it would be best for his health to go at once. Tom has not seemed quite himself of late." She did not look at her friend as she talked and her white face was turned from the light. She talked so fast, it seemed as if she had rehearsed and was repeating a part with a desire to have it over as soon as might be. "His Travelling Ancestor, the one who wants change--change--change in all things, has had hold of him of late. I'm sure you have noticed how restless he was."

The girl sat up and listened with wide eyes and flushed cheeks. She had known many unexpected and unexplained things to be done in the house of this friend, who had given her a home and a warm welcome a year before, when she had left school, an orphan and homeless. But this sudden departure she had not heard even mentioned before. She thought she understood it.

"O Florence! Florence!" she cried, passionately. "It is _my_ fault! I have separated you! I have brought sorrow to you! You, who are so good, _so good;_ and I--oh, how _can_ you be so kind to me? _Hate_ me! _Hate me!_ Thrust me from your house, and tell the world I tried to steal your husband! Tell that I am vile and wicked! Tell--and now I have sent him away from you, who love him--whom he loves! Why do you not blame me? Why do you never blame anyone? Why--"

There was a pause; the girl sobbed bitterly, while the older woman seemed afraid to trust her voice. After a while in a tired, solemn tone, Nellie went on:

"Do you think you can believe a word I say, Florence? Is there any use for me to tell you the truth?"

Her friend nodded slowly, looking her steadily in the eyes. Her lips were tightly drawn together, and her hands were cold and trembling.

"Then, Florence, I will tell you, truly--truly--truly, as I hope for--" She was going to say "your forgiveness," but it seemed too cruel to ask for that just now. "I did not understand, not at first, either him or myself. I thought he was like you"--she felt Florence shudder--"and loved me, as he said, as you did. I was so glad and proud, until--until--O Florence! how can I tell you that I let him _beg_ me to go away with him! After I understood what he meant, my heart _did_ leap, even in its utter self-abasement and wretchedness. I let him beg me twice, and kiss me, _after_ I understood! It must have been my fault; he said it was"--Florence took her friend's hand in hers--"and he said that no one else had ever taken his thoughts away from you."

The girl thought she saw the drawn lips before her curl; but she must free her whole heart now, and lay bare her very soul.

"He said that he had always been true to you, Florence, even in thought, until I--O Florence! I must be worse than anyone one earth. I--he said--"

Florence Campbell sprang to her feet. "Yes, I know, I know!" she exclaimed, breathlessly, "and you _believed_ him! Poor little fool! Women do. Sometimes a second time, but not a third time, dear--not a third time! Do not blame yourself any more." She stopped, then hurried on as one will do when danger threatens from within. "If it had not been you, it would, it might--my God! it might have been worse! Some poor girl--"

She stopped again as if choking. The two women looked at each other; the younger one gave a long, shuddering moan, and buried her face in her hands.

Presently Florence said slowly: "All ancestors were not thieves. Some were simply fickle, and light, and faithless."

Nellie raised a face full of passionate suffering: "Florence! Florence! how can you excuse either of us? How _can--_"

Suddenly, with a great sob, Florence Campbell threw herself into the girl's outstretched arms, and with a wail of utter desolation cried: "Hush, Nellie, hush! Never speak of it again, never! Only _love_ me, _love me--love me!_ I need it so! And _no_ one--no one in all the world has ever loved me truly!" It was the only time Nellie ever saw Florence Campbell lose her self-control.

FLORENCE CAMPBELL'S FATE.

_"'Tis the good reader that makes the good book; a good head cannot read amiss; in every book he finds passages which seem confidences or asides hidden from all else and unmistakably meant for his ear...._"

_"Every man has a history worth knowing, if he could tell it, or if we could draw it from him."_--Ralph Waldo Emerson.

I was sitting in my office, with my head in my hands, and with both elbows resting on my desk. I was tired in every nerve of my body; more than that, I was greatly puzzled over the strange conduct of my predecessor in the college, whose assistant I had been, and whose place I was appointed to fill during the unexpired term for which he had been elected lecturer on anatomy.

That morning he was to introduce me to the class formally as his successor, deliver his last lecture, and then retire from active connection with anatomical instruction.

Everything appeared to be perfectly arranged, and, indeed, some of the younger men--under my direction--had taken special pains to provide our outgoing and much admired professor with rather unusual facilities for a brilliant close to his career as our instructor.

I was feeling particularly pleased with the arrangements, when, after a neat little speech on his part, commendatory of me, and when we supposed him to be about to begin his lecture, he suddenly turned to me and said, bluntly: "You will be so good as to take the class to-day. Young gentlemen, I bid you good morning," and abruptly took up his hat and left. I sat facing an expectant and surprised class of shrewd young fellows, and I was quite unprepared to proceed.

I had intended my first lecture to be a great success. It was ready for the following day; but my notes were at home, and my position can, therefore, be better imagined than described.

I was thinking over this and the strange behavior of my generally punctilious predecessor, when he entered my office, unannounced, and, after the ordinary salutations and apologies for having placed me in so undesirable a position in the morning, he told me the following episode from his history. I will give it in his own words, omitting, as far as possible, all comment made by me at the time, thus endeavoring to leave you alone with him and his story, as I was that night. This will better enable me to impart the effect to you as it was conveyed to me at the time. It greatly interested me then, but the more I think it over, the less am I able to decide, in my own mind, all of the psychological questions which it aroused then and which it has since called up. This is the story.

I.

I am, as you know, not a young man, and in the practice of my profession, which has extended over a period of nearly thirty years, I have learned to diagnose the cases that come under my care very slowly and by degrees. Every year has taught me, what you will undoubtedly learn--for I have great hopes for your future career--that physical symptoms are often the results of mental ailments, and that, while cordials and powders are sometimes very useful aids, the first and all-important thing is to understand fully the _true_ history of my patient.

I have laid stress upon the word true, simply because while _a_ history is easy enough to get, about the most difficult matter in this world to secure is _the_ history of one who comes to a physician ailing in body or in mind. It is easy enough to treat a broken leg, a gunshot wound, or even that ghastliest of physical foes, diphtheria, if it is one of these and nothing more.

But if it is a broken leg as to outward sign, and a broken heart as an inward fact, then the case is quite another matter, and the treatment involves skill of a different kind.

If the bullet that tore its way through the body was poisoned with the bitterness of disappointment, anxiety, terror, or remorse, something more is needed than bandages and beef-tea.

If diphtheria was contracted solely from a defective sewage-pipe, it will, no doubt, yield to remedies and pure air. But if long years of nervous and mental prostration have made ready its reception, the work to be done is of a much more serious nature.

So when I was first called to see Florence Campbell, the message conveyed to me threw no light on the case, beyond what the most ordinary observer would have detected at a glance.

The note read thus:

"Dr. H. Hamilton.

"Dear Sir: Although I have been in your city for several months, it is the first time since I came that I have myself felt that I needed medical attention. I have, therefore, not sent you the enclosed note (the history of which you no doubt know) until now. If you will read it, it will explain that the time has now come when, if you will come to me, I need your care.

"Yours respectfully,

"Florence Campbell."

"Parlor 13, F------ Ave. Hotel."

The note enclosed was from a physician in Chicago whom I had known intimately many years before, but with whom, contrary to the hint given by the lady, I had held no communication for a long time past. It said:

"My Dear Doctor: One of my patients is about to visit your city. The length of her stay is uncertain, and, as she is often ailing, she has asked me to give her a note to one whom I believe to be skilful and to possess the qualities which she requires in a physician. In thinking over the list of those known to me in New York, I have decided to give her this note to you. I need not commend her to you; she will do that for herself. You will see at a glance that she is a charming woman, and you will learn in five minutes' conversation with her, that she is a brilliant one. She is also one of those rare patients to whom you can afford to tell the unvarnished truth--an old hobby of yours, I remember--and from whom you can expect it. She has had no serious illness recently, but is rather subject to slight colds and sick headache. I give her sulph. 12. She always responds to that in time.

"Yours, as ever,

"Thomas C. Griswold."

I folded the note and laid it on my desk and took up a pen. Then, on second thought, I turned to the messenger and said, "Say to Miss Campbell that I will call at four o'clock this afternoon."

Before I had finished the sentence he was gone, and I laid down the pen and sat thinking.

How like Tom Griswold that was--the old Tom of college days--to write such a note as that and give it to a patient! "Sulph. 12"--and then I laughed outright at his interpretation of my desire for veracious relations between patient and practitioner, and re-read his note from end to end.

Then I read hers again. Neither of them indicated the slightest need of haste on my part.

I pictured a pretty little blonde--I knew Tom's taste. He had been betrothed to three different girls during the old days, and they had all been of that type; small, blue-eyed, Dresden-china sort of girls, who had each pouted--and married someone else in due time, after a "misunderstanding" with Tom.

One of these misunderstandings had been over some roses, I remember. They did not "match" her dress in color, and she was wretched. She told him he should have known better than to get that shade, when he knew very well that she never wore anything that would "go with" it.

He had naturally felt a little hurt, since he had bought the finest and highest-priced roses to be had, and expected ecstatic praise of his taste and extravagance. The "misunderstanding" was final, and, after a wretched evening and several days of tragic grief, five tinted notes of sorrow, reproach, and pride, they each began to flirt with some one else and to talk of the inconstancy of the other sex. They vowed, of course, that they would never marry anybody on earth, and finally engaged themselves to marry some one else, who perhaps, had just passed through a similar harrowing experience and was yearning to be consoled.

I remember that Tom smoked a great deal during this tragic period, that he looked gloomy, wore only black neckties, and allowed a cold to run on until it became thoroughly settled and had to be nursed all the rest of the winter.

He knew that smoking injured him, and he doubtless had an idea that he would end his misery by means of this cold, supplemented by nicotine poison. How near he might have approached to success it would be difficult to tell, if he had not met my sister Nellie at Christmas-time, and, after having told his woes to her, promised her, "as a friend," not to smoke again for three days and then to report to her. The report was satisfactory, and she then confessed that she had forsworn bonbons for the same length of time, as a sort of companionship in sacrifice.

This, of course, impressed Tom as a truly remarkable test of friendship and sympathy, and,--well, what is the use to tell the rest?

You will know it. It had no new features, so far as I can now recall, and I believe that they had been betrothed six months before Nellie met grave old Professor Menlo and began the study of Greek roots and mythology.

I think that, perhaps, Tom would have been all right if it had not been for the mythology. But Nellie was romantic, and the professor was an enthusiast in this branch of knowledge, and so, by and by, Tom, poor devil, took to smoking again--this time it was a pipe--and local papers were filled with notices of the romantic marriage of "Wisdom and Beauty," and poor little Nellie wrote a pathetic note to Tom, and sent it by me, with frantic directions not to allow him to kill himself because she had not understood her own heart; but that she loved him truly--as a friend--still, and he must come to see her and _her_ professor in their new home on the hill. And, dear, dear, what a time I had with Tom! It is funny enough now; but even I felt sorry for him then, and shielded him from the least unnecessary pain by telling the boys that they absolutely must not congratulate me on my sister's marriage, nor mention it in any way whatever, when Tom was present, unless they wanted to have trouble with me personally.

And to think that Tom married Kittie Johnson before he had fairly finished his first year in the hospital service; and had to take her home for his father to support! Since then I had seen him from time to time, and heard of his large practice, his numerous children, and his elegant home; but he never talked of his wife, although I believed him to be perfectly satisfied with her. He seemed content, was prosperous beyond expectation, and had grown fat and gouty, when I last saw him at a medical convention. He attributed his too great flesh and his gout to the climate of his Western home, and was constantly threatening to retire from practice, and said that he should ultimately come to New York to live.

Yes, undoubtedly Florence Campbell is a petite blonde, with little white teeth and a roseleaf cheek, thought I, and I laughed, and rang for my carriage.

II.

I do not know that I ever entered a more delicately perfumed room--and I am very sensitive to perfumes--than the one in which Florence Campbell sat.

She arose from her deep arm-chair as I entered, and, extending her hand, grasped mine with a vigor unusual in a woman, even when she is well.

"This is Dr. Hamilton?" she said, in a clear voice, which told nothing of pain, and was wholly free from the usually querulous note struck by women who are ill, or who think that they are. "This is Dr. Hamilton? I am very glad to see you, doctor. I am Florence Campbell. You received a note from your friend, Dr. Griswold, of Chicago, and one telling how I came to send it to you--how I came into possession of it." Direct of speech, clear of voice, hand feverish, but firm in grasp, I commented mentally, as she spoke.

This is not what I had expected. This is not the limp little blonde that I had pictured, on a lounge, in tears, with the light fluffy hair in disorder, and a tone of voice which plead for sympathy. This is not the figure I had expected to see.

She stood with her back to the light, very erect and well poised.

"Come to the window," I said. "Does your head ache?" That is always a safe question to ask, you know.

She laughed. "Oh, I don't know that it does--not particularly. I fancy there is not enough inside of it to ache much. Mere bone and vacuity could not do a great deal in that line, could it, doctor?" Then she laughed again. She looked me in the eyes, and I fancied she was diagnosing _me_.

Her eyes were deep, large, and brown, or a dark gray; her complexion was dark and clear--almost too transparent; her cheeks were flushed a little; and the light in her eyes was unnaturally intense.

She was evidently trying to gain time--to take my measure.