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?"