Chapter 11

"It is always a rather trying thing to get a new doctor; don't you think so?" she asked, with another little laugh. "I always feel so foolish to think I have called him to come for so trifling a matter as my ailments are. I am never really ill, you know," she said with nervous haste; "but I am not very strong, and so I often feel--rather--under the weather, and I always fancy that a doctor can prevent, or cure it; but I suppose he cannot. I shall really not expect a great deal of you, in that line, doctor. I cannot expect you to furnish me with robust ancestors, can I? Just so you keep me out of bed"--and here, for the first time, I noticed a slight tremor in her voice--"just keep me so that I can read, and--so that I shall not need to sit alone, and--think--I shall be quite satisfied--quite." She had turned her face away, as she said the last; but I saw that she was having a hard struggle to keep back the tears, notwithstanding the little laugh that followed.

I had felt her pulse; it was hardly perceptible, and fluttered rather than beat; and I had watched her closely as she spoke; but whenever she came near the verge of showing deeper than the surface she broke in with that non-committal little laugh, or turned her face, or half closed her great eyes, and I was foiled. Her pulse and the faint blue veins told me one story; she tried to tell me quite another.

"How are you suffering to-day," I asked.

She looked steadily at me a moment, then lowered her eyes, raised her left hand (upon which I remember noticing there was a handsome ring), looked at its palm a moment, held her lips tightly closed, and then, with a sudden glance at me, again as if on the defensive said:

"I hardly know; I am only a little under the weather; I am weak. I am losing my--grip--on myself; I am--losing my grip--on my--nerves. I cannot afford to do that." The last was said with more emotion than she cared to display. So she arose, walked swiftly to the dressing-case, took up a lace handkerchief, glanced at herself in the mirror, moved a picture (I noticed that it was a likeness of an old gentleman, perhaps her father), and returned to a chair which stood in the shadow, and then, with a merry little peal of laughter, said: "Well, I don't wonder, doctor, that you are unable to diagnose that case. It would require a barometer to do that I fancy, from the amount of weather I got into it. But really, now, how am _I_ to know what is the matter with me? That is for you to say; I am not the doctor. If you tell me it is malaria, as all of you do, I shall be perfectly satisfied--and take your powders with the docility of an infant in arms. I suppose it _is_ malaria, don't you?"

I wanted to gain time--to study her a little. I saw that she was, or had been really ill; ill, that is, in mind if not in body. I fancied that she had succeeded in deceiving Griswold into treating her for some physical trouble which she did not have, or, if she had it, only as a result of a much graver malady.

The right branch may have been found and nipped off from time time when it grew uncomfortably long, but the root, I believed, had not been touched, and, I thought, had not been even suspected by her former physician.

We of the profession, as you very well know, do not always possess that abiding faith in the knowledge and skill of our brethren that we demand and expect from outsiders.

We claim our right to guess over after our associates, and not always to guess the same thing.

I believed that Griswold had not fully understood his former patient. "Sulph. 12," indeed! Then I smiled, and said aloud:

"Dr. Griswold writes me that in such cases as yours he advises sulph. 12--that it has given relief. Do you call yourself a sulphur patient?" I watched her narrowly, and if she did not smile in a satirical way, I was deceived. "Are you out of that remedy? and do you want more of it?" I asked with a serious face.

She did not reply at once. There seemed to be a struggle in her mind as to how much she would let me know. Then she looked at me attentively for a moment, with a puzzled expression, I thought; an unutterably weary look crossed her face. She said, slowly, deliberately: "I have no doubt sulphur will do as well as anything else. Oh! yes--I am decidedly a sulphur patient, no doubt I suppose I have taken several pints of that innocent remedy in my time. A number of physicians have given it to me from time to time. Your friend is not its only devotee. Sulphur and nux--nux and sulphur! I believe they cure anything short of a broken heart, or actual imbecility, do they not, doctor?" She laughed, not altogether pleasantly.

How far would she go and how far would she let me go, with this humbuggery? I looked gravely into her eyes, and said, "Certainly they will do all that, and more. They sometimes hold a patient until a doctor can decide which of those two interesting complaints is the particular one to be treated. In _your_ case I am inclined to suspect--the--that it is--_not_ imbecility. I shall therefore begin by asking you to be good enough to tell me what it is that affects your heart."

I had taken her wrist in my hand, as I began to speak. My finger was on her pulse. It gave a great bound, and then beat rapidly; and although her face grew a shade paler and her eyes wavered as they tried to look into mine, I knew that I had both surprised and impressed her.

She recovered herself instantly, and made up her mind to hedge still further. "If there is anything the matter with my heart, you are the first to suspect it. My father, however, died of heart disease, and I have--always--hoped that I should--die as suddenly. But I shall not! I shall not! I am so--wiry--so all-enduring. I recover! I always recover!"

She said this passionately, and as if it were a grave misfortune--as if she were very old. I pretended to take it humorously.

"Perhaps at your advanced age your father might have said the same."

She laughed. She saw a loophole, and immediately took it. "Oh, you think I am very young, doctor, but I am not. People always think me younger than I am--at first. I look older when you get used to me. I am nearly thirty."

I was surprised; I had taken her to be about twenty-three.

"In years or in experience?" I said. "Which way do you count your age?"

She got up suddenly again and walked to the dressing-case, then to the window. In doing so she raised her hand to her eyes. It was the hand with the lace handkerchief in it.

"Experience!" she exclaimed; and then, checking herself. "No, people never think me so old--not at first," she said, returning to her chair. "But I suppose I am not too old to be cured with sulph. 12, am I?" Then she laughed her little nervous, quick laugh, and added: "Dear old Dr. Griswold, what faith he must have in 'sulph. 12.' and in his patients. He seems to think that they were made for each other, as it were; and--of course, I am not a doctor--how do I know they were not?"

"Miss Campbell," I said, stepping quickly to her side and surprising her, "you do not need sulphur. You need to be relieved of this strain on your nerves. Make up your mind to tell me your history to-morrow morning--to tell it all; I do not want some fairy-tale. Until then, take these drops to quiet your nerves."

There were tears in her eyes. She did not attempt to hide them. They ran down her cheeks, and she simply closed the lids and let them flow. I took her lace handkerchief and wiped her cheeks. Then I dropped it in her lap, placed the phial on her stand, took up my hat, and left.

III.

But I did not get her story the next day, nor the next, nor the next.

Her tact was perfectly mystifying in its intricacy; her power of evasion marvellous, and her study of me amusing. She grew weaker and more languid every day; but insisted that she had no pain--"nothing upon which to hang a symptom," she would say.

I suggested that refuge of all puzzled doctors--a change.

"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?"

IV.

The next day I called earlier than usual. I had spent an almost sleepless night, wondering what I could do for this beautiful, lovable woman, who seemed to be all alone in the world, and who evidently felt that she must remain apart and desolate.

What had caused her to leave her husband? Or had he left her? What for? What kind of a man was he? Did she love him, and was she breaking her heart for him? or did he stand between her and some other love? Had she married young, and made a mistake that was eating her life out? Whose fault was it? How could I help her?

All these and a thousand other questions forced themselves upon me, and none of the answers came to fit the case. Answers there were in plenty, but they were not for these questions nor for this woman--not for this delicate flower of her race.

As I stepped into the hotel office to send my card to "Parlor 13," as was my custom, the clerk looked up with his perfunctory smile and said, "Go' morning, doctor. Got so in the habit 'coming here lately, s'pose it'll take quite a while to taper off. That about the size of it?"

I stared at the young man in utter bewilderment.

"Ha! ha! ha! I believe you'd really forgot already she'd gone;" and then, with a quick flash of surprise and intelligent, detective shrewdness, "You knew she was going, doctor? She did not skip her little bill, did she? Of course not. Her husband was in such a deuce of a hurry to catch the early train, the night-clerk said he was ringing his bell the blessed night for fear they'd get left. Front! take water to 273. You hadn't been gone five minutes last night, when he came skipping down here with your check and order, and we just had to make things hum to get cash enough together to meet it for her; but we made it, and so they got off all right."

"Have you got my check here yet?" asked I, in in a tone that arrested the attention of the other clerk, who looked up in surprise.

"Good heavens! no. Do you think we're made of ready money, just because you are? That check was in the bank and part of the cash in that desk the first thing after banking hours," said he, opening out the register and reaching for a bunch of pens behind him. "You see it cleaned us out last night. I couldn't change two dollars for a man this morning. I told Campbell last night that you must think hotels were run queer, to expect us to cash a five-thousand dollar check on five minutes' notice. Couldn't 'a' done it at all if 't hadn't been pay-night for servants and the rest of us. We all had to wait till to-day. But the old man'll tell you. Here he comes."

"Why, hello! doctor, old boy," said Beesley, coming up from behind and clapping me vigorously on the shoulder. "Didn't expect to see the light of your countenance around here again so soon. Thought we owed it all to your professional ardor for that charming patient of yours up in 13. They got off all right, but if any other man but you had sent that order and check down here for us to cash last night I'd have told him to make tracks. Of course, I understood that they were called away suddenly--unexpectedly, and all that. He told me all about it, and that you did not finish the trade till the last minute; but--"

"_Trade?_" gasped I, in spite of my determination to hear all before disclosing anything. "Trade?"

"Oh, come off. Don't be so consumedly skittish about the use of English, I suppose you want me to say that the 'transaction between you was not concluded,' etc., etc. Oh, you're a droll one, doctor." He appeared to notice a change on my face, which he evidently misconstrued, and he added, gayly. "Oh, it was all right, my boy, as long as it was you--glad to do you a good turn any day; but what a queer idea for that little woman to marry such a man! How did it happen? I'd like to know the history! Every time I saw him come swelling around I made up mind to ask you about them, and then I always forgot it when I saw you. When he told me you had been his wife's guardian I thought some of kicking you the next good chance I got, for allowing the match, and for not telling me you had such a pretty ward. You always were a deep rascal--go off!" He rattled on.

Several times I had decided to speak, but as often restrained myself. My blank face and unsettled manner appeared to touch his sense of humor. He concluded that it was good acting. I decided to confirm the mistake, until I had time to think it all over. Finally, I said, as carelessly as I could:

"How long had this--a--husband been here? That is--when did he get back?"

"Been here! get back! Been here all the time; smoked more good cigars and surrounded more wine than any other one man in the house. Oh, he was a Jim-dandy of a fellow for a hotel!" Then, with sudden suspicion: "Why? Had he told you he'd go away before? Oh! I--see! _That_ was the trade? Paid him to skip, hey? M--m--m--yes! I think I begin to catch on." He could hardly restrain his mirth, and winked at me in sheer ecstasy.

I went slowly out. When I arrived at the house I directed the servant to say to anyone who might call that the doctor was not at home. I went to my room and wrote to Dr. Griswold, asking him for information about Florence Campbell, the fair patient he had sent me. "Who was she? What did he know of her? Where were her friends?" I told him nothing of this last development, but asked for an immediately reply, adding--"for an important reason."

Three days later a telegram was handed to me as I drove up to my office. It was this:

"Never heard of her. Why? Griswold?"

I did not sleep that night. For the first time my faith in Florence Campbell wavered. Up to that time I had blamed her husband for everything. I had woven around her a web of plausible circumstances which made her the unwilling victim of a designing villain--an expert forger, no doubt, who used her, without her own knowledge, as a decoy--a man of whom she was both ashamed and afraid, but from whom she could not escape.

But how was all that to be reconciled with this revelation? Griswold did not know her. How about his introduction and that "sulph. 12"? I looked through my desk for Griswold's note. It was certainly his handwriting; but I noticed, for the first time, that it did not mention her name.

Perhaps this was a loop-hole through which I might bring my fair patient--in whom I was beginning to fear I had taken too deep an interest--without discredit to herself.

Might she not have changed her name since Griswold treated her? I determined to give her the benefit of this doubt until I could be sure that it had no foundation.

I felt relieved by this respite, and, heartily ashamed of the unjust suspicion of the moment before, I gave no hint of it in the letter I now wrote Griswold, describing the lady, and in which I enclosed his letter of introduction to me.

The next few days I went about my practice in a dream, and it was no doubt due to fortuitous circumstances rather than to my skill that several of my patients still live to tell the tale of their suffering and of my phenomenal ability to cope with disease in all its malignant power.

V.

In due time Griswold's letter came. I went into my office to read it. I told myself that I had no fears for the good name of Florence Campbell. I knew that some explanation would be made that would confirm me in my opinion of her; but, for all that, I locked the door, and my hand was less steady than I liked to see it, as I tore the end of the envelope.