V
He had forgotten all about Mavis, and he was pleasantly surprised when she came into his office the next afternoon.
“I pretended that I had a sore throat,” she said, “so I could come and see you. You see, Edward came last night, and oh, doctor, he did seem so awfully flat, after you!”
“You mustn’t be so extreme,” he said. “There are some men who aren’t at all unhappy in marriage.”
“I know. Ordinary little men aren’t. It’s only the wonderful men like you. But, doctor dear, I couldn’t be happy with an ordinary man. I—I want a man like you!”
It wouldn’t do, of course, to tell her that there were mighty few men of this sort, and[Pg 9] that they wouldn’t care for naive little girls, anyway. Andrew wasn’t even much flattered by her admiration; it was too indiscriminate.
“Suppose you don’t marry,” he said. “What will you do?”
“I thought you could tell me. I thought, of course, you had some perfectly wonderful sort of plan for women.”
Well, he hadn’t, and he saw that he must make one. It seemed that his first step toward the settlement of this specific case would be to make an analysis, and he at once began. Mavis answered all his questions readily and fully, but he had a suspicion that she told him what she thought he would like to hear, instead of keeping to facts. Still, even at that, he learned a great deal, for she was too ignorant and young to deceive a trained observer. Of course it took a very long time; his other office patients had to be sent away.
He went politely to the door with Mavis, and he was surprised to see Miss Franklin standing in the hall—the little private hall which was only for outgoing patients, and in which she had no possible business to be.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked.
“I was just wondering what you were doing,” she retorted, “shut up in there with that girl all this long time!”
“I was writing an analysis of her.”
“Let’s see your analysis!”
“It’s not finished. Besides—”
“Do let me see it! Perhaps I can help you.”
“You don’t know Miss Borrowby—”
“Oh, yes, I do know Miss Borrowby!” said Miss Franklin. “I know her better than you do!”
Andrew didn’t like her tone, but he let it pass, with a meekness quite new to him. Miss Franklin smiled and went away.
He intended to spend the evening perfecting his analysis in peace; but scarcely had he got well started when Miss Franklin opened the door.
“A patient!” she said.
It was a lady. She sat down beside Andrew’s desk, without raising her veil, and at once began to sob.
“Oh, doctor!” she cried. “I don’t know what to do! Oh, my suffering! What shall I do?”
He felt quite sure that this was a drug addict, and his manner, though kind, was one of thorough sophistication.
“Now, now, my dear madam!” he said. “Don’t excite yourself!”
“You don’t even know me!” she cried, pushing up her veil.
“I do!” he protested guiltily. “It’s Mrs. Hamilton. I knew your voice; but it’s dark here in the corners of the room when there’s only the lamp lighted.”
She smiled bitterly.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s it. I’m lost in the darkness, outside the circle of lamplight!”
“This chair—”
“I’m speaking figuratively, doctor. I’m in such trouble. I wish I were dead!”
Reluctantly, but in duty bound, he said:
“Tell me about it.”
She began to weep again.
“You’re the only one I can tell. You showed such an interest in me the other day. You cared, didn’t you?”
“Yes, certainly I did; but please don’t cry.”
“Oh, dear doctor, it is your own great trouble that makes you so sympathetic to others, I am sure!”
“My own great trouble?”
“I heard of it indirectly—through Miss Franklin. She mentioned it to some one I know. She said that your wife”—Mrs. Hamilton dropped her voice, and ended with the greatest delicacy: “That your wife has left you. I am so sorry!”
“Nothing of the sort!” Andrew began angrily.
Then it occurred to him that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to explain so modern a situation to so romantic a creature; so instead he encouraged her to tell him her own sad story.
He never learned what her trouble was, because she didn’t tell him. “My husband” and “a woman’s sensitive heart,” and “disgusting intoxication,” had something to do with it. She cried forlornly, and he tried to stop her. Common sense and all that he had learned from experience of her type warned him not to be too sympathetic, but it was difficult. She was exquisite. She had a sort of morbid charm about her—a sensibility at once dangerous and pitiful.
He rose, went over to her, and laid his hand on her shoulder.
“It’s hard,” he said. “Life is bound to be hard for people like you; but you must try to see it in a more robust way, with more humor, more indifference.[Pg 10]”
“I do! No one knows how I try!” she said, looking up into his face with her dark eyes, luminous with tears.
Suddenly the door opened, without warning. Miss Franklin looked in, and disappeared again. Mrs. Hamilton rose.
“Who was that?” she asked.
“That’s Miss Franklin.”
“Oh! I didn’t know she was so young. Does she stay here as late as this?”
“She lives here.”
“Lives here—with your wife away?”
Mrs. Hamilton was moving toward the door.
“Good night, doctor!” she said, and there was a decided coolness in her voice.