6
Mary jumped into the doctor’s car, and held a consultation. She sat with her legs drawn up, her elbows on her knees, her little serious face puckered. He liked her like that; something was coming.
She put her little head on the side and returned his glance. She didn’t smile as usual.
“It’s a psychosis. The fever is not physical; it’s a condition of the mind. I think she needs analysing.”
His Scotch wrath broke over her head.
“Stop that!—I won’t have it with her; this analysing has done too much mischief, dragging the wild beasts out of their caverns, showing the poor victims the horrors that are within them. I tell you, the people are playing with psycho-analysis like children with dynamite; they don’t understand it, nor do we, yet. Let that woman alone, do you hear!—unless you want to rob her of the little reason she has left. She’s the victim of heredity; we can’t change that, can we? She’s the victim of a certain physical tendency, inborn; we can’t change that; she’s the victim of the errors of her ancestors; we can’t change that.”
“No, Doctor, but we all are, if we knew it.”
“It’s a good thing we don’t. Now I hope this woman’s love for her child and her husband will counteract other influences; mind you, she’s a good, innocent woman; but she is obsessed by an evil spirit which must be exorcised.” There he was, the old Scotch Calvinist.
Julie was quiet until evening.
“Where is Floyd?”
“Do you want to see him?”
Mary flew downstairs. Floyd was trying to read the evening paper; trying to be just to his wife, his friend. He hated to be suspicious; it turned the honey of life to gall; such thoughts made him ill; he couldn’t live with them. He heard a patter, patter. Mary put her head in the door, beckoning him. He found Julie crushed into the pillows.
“Miss Mary says I’ve been out of my head.”
Floyd was vexed. Why did Miss Mary tell her that?
“Did I say irrational things?”
“No, just babbled a bit.”
“What did I say?”
“Only disconnected words without meaning.”
She evidently didn’t know what had happened.
Floyd smoked his pipe that night, and read Emerson on Friendship. Martin was to be pitied; he was a lonely wretch; he’d give him the benefit of the doubt. Mary came in to say good night.
“Everything is all right. We’ll close up early. She’ll have a quiet night, I hope.”
The hope was not realized. The sick woman had a terrible night; her pulse was jumping like a frenzied thing, but her mind was clear. She clung frantically to Mary.
“I’m lost! save me! save me!” then she broke into convulsive sobbing, always begging to be helped. Mary shut the door carefully. It wouldn’t do for that “poor man” to hear.
Floyd tossed uneasily. He was sure there was something mentally wrong with Julie; he had heard of women getting “queer” after weaning a child. He had been too harsh with Martin. She had called him in her delirium; that meant nothing. Martin had wanted to marry her, but it was all long forgotten; she was his wife now, the mother of his child; it was foolish to make a fuss about a few moments of delirium. Julie would never know about it.
“What was that?”
He jumped out of bed and listened. He thought he heard somebody calling, “Martin! Martin!”
Julie’s door was shut; all was still. It was his own imagination; that cry was still in his ears. He went back to bed; he must get that idea out of his head; he wouldn’t let it become a mania with him. He would see Martin often, have him to dinner. It was low of him to keep on thinking evil of them both. The thought acted like a sedative; he slept.
He was up and dressed before seven. The night’s depression descended again over him like a black veil. There was a knock; Mary stood outside, pale, agitated.
“What is it? What is it?”
“Come and see.”
It was dark. He saw Julie’s figure lying across the bed; she was in a deep sleep. Mary opened a shutter gently. He stifled an exclamation. The long thick wavy hair flowing loosely over the pillow, over her heart, had turned white; she lay in an ocean of foam. What had happened to her in the night? What had been at work in her brain?—he had heard vaguely of a sudden shock turning the hair white. He gazed and gazed; it was as if an artist had dipped his brush into molten silver and drawn it through every hair in her head. Another long look; then he went downstairs, putting his hand on the balustrade to support himself.
Mary closed the shutter softly and followed him. His mind was confused. The ordeal with his wife, culminating in this, was too much; he needed help. She waited, standing quietly beside him. He felt her intense sympathy; then he said in a low, hushed voice:
“What could have caused it?”
“It can easily be accounted for. Your wife is subject to violent nervous headaches; she had an attack in the night.”
“Was she sobbing?”
“Yes, she suffered terribly. We must be brave for her sake.”
He looked at her standing there, her eyes shining, undaunted, courageous. Where did she get that spirit? She was no longer only a nurse; she was a comrade, a fellow-fighter; her voice was like a call to arms.
“I was always very happy,” he said. “I mean, I thought it was happiness, but I see now that it was like being under shelter when others were destitute; that kind of happiness is selfish, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Mary. “That’s why I try not to be too happy.”
“My parents were my only friends. They left me; I had only my wife. Perhaps I wanted too much from her; she was unfortunate in her family; I should have taken better care—I—can’t see ahead! I don’t know how this will affect her. I—I don’t know.”
“It will be a blow, but you can soften it for her.”
“I, what can I do?”
Mary hesitated. Why was she obliged to say what he should have known intuitively: did he love his wife?
“Her heart would be at rest if you would convince her it doesn’t matter to you what color her hair is.”
He was on his feet, his eyes averted.
“You want me to tell her?”
“Yes.”
He went to the door, then came back. “Will you come with me?”
“It’s better for you to go alone.”
He entered his wife’s room, sat down beside the bed, feeling like an intruder. She awoke startled, her eyes were deep with the sleep-shadows of opiates.
“Did I frighten you?”
“No, but I felt someone was here—Something has happened! Tell me?”
“Yes. Your hair.”
“It has turned gray since last night.” She was out of bed with a bound, standing before the mirror.
“Let in the light.”
He went from window to window; the sun struck the surface of the looking glass, dancing in and out of the silver veil that enveloped her.
She gave a low cry, and shrunk away.
“Julie, don’t grieve about what can’t be helped; it often happens from such headaches; it’s your nerves.” He wanted to say, “You will always be the same to me because I love you.” He couldn’t.
“It is not a symptom, it is a punishment.”
“You have done nothing to deserve punishment.”
She looked at him, through him, past him. He didn’t know her thoughts; that door was closed to him.
“I want to see Miss Mary.”
Mary was surprised to find her patient sitting up in bed. She had wound her hair in a tight coil around her head, covering it with a heavy lace cap.
“Miss Mary, I am feeling better this morning; I don’t think I shall need you any longer.”
Mary gasped. Where was the exhausted creature of the night before, the helpless invalid?
“I’m very glad, Mrs. Garrison. Any time you send for me, I will come.” Then she took Julie’s hand, bent forward and kissed her; there was a slight quiver of the mouth.
“Don’t think I’m ungrateful, but I couldn’t bear you to say anything; it’s unspeakable, good-bye.”
Floyd was waiting in the hall when Mary came down with her hat on, carrying her suitcase.
“You are not going?”
“There is nothing more for me to do here. Your wife is better; the shock will cure her.” Then she smiled at him. “I’m aching for the slums; my cradle stood there; there I learnt what life means; when I get thinking too much of myself, I go back and learn again.”
He went with her to the door, and held her hand in a strong grasp; he could think of nothing worth saying. A cloud of dust blew in their faces; they were pulling down the little row of brick houses on the other side.
Floyd stopped in the hall to brush himself off. The wreckers were working within him, scattering debris. He went up to his wife’s room again, listened; there was no sound. He turned the knob cautiously; the door was locked. There was a sense of relief; he wouldn’t have to spend the morning in that dark room. He jumped into a taxi and drove to his club.