But it is weary work lying still day after day till the weeks actually lengthen into months. I kept on telling myself I was making headway, but it was a poor pretence. I gave up thinking about it at last, and wondered how I could best endure the pain that no one seemed able to relieve.
The autumn had now changed to winter, and one morning I woke to see snow bearing down the fir-trees and lying on the hills. The snow is very beautiful when one is well and strong, and able to go out in the crisp cold air and enjoy it; but to me, penned in among the hills, miles away from town and the advantages of up-to-date civilisation, it gave a sudden sense of desolation. It shut me off most effectually from the big world I wanted so badly to see again. As I looked out upon that snow, it seemed as though I were buried already.
One desire swamped all others, and that was the longing to get back to London where friends would be around me, and specialists within easy reach. And yet that appeared to be an utter impossibility. It has always been a matter of pride with me that my cottage is situated in one of the most inaccessible spots in the British Isles; I used to feel so happy in the thought that it was only with the utmost difficulty that a vehicle could be got near the garden gate. It gave me such a sense of seclusion and delightful “far-away-ness” after the crush and hustle of town life.
But for once I wished I had been a wee bit more accessible. I realised that there might be certain advantages in having a good county road close by whereon a helpless invalid could be driven to the station without having every bone in her body jolted to pieces! But it was too late to do anything now.
Altogether it was two months before I let anyone in town know how ill I really was; most people thought I was merely taking a long rest. Naturally it was at once suggested a specialist should be sent for; but I said no. I was such a weak creature by this time, I felt I couldn’t bear to hear the worst—I was almost sure there would be a “worst” to hear—and that a specialist wouldn’t diagnose my illness as merely overwork. I insisted that I would rather be left to die quietly. I know it sounds very cowardly, and I was a coward at the time. But I think many women will understand this condition of mind; we do try so often to push back, with both our hands, trouble of this sort, when we dimly see it ahead.
The hale and hearty person will naturally exclaim: “How perfectly ridiculous! How much more sensible to have proper advice, and then set to work to get strong again!” I know! I have myself said this sort of thing to ill people many a time in the past! But I learnt a lot of things during that breakdown; among them, that it is very easy to lay down the law as to what should be done, and to act in a common-sense manner, when one is well; but it is quite another thing to follow one’s own good advice, or, in fact, do anything one ought to do, when one is too weak even to think!
Yet how often it happens that, in our direst extremity, help comes when least expected! So soon as it became known in town that I was really seriously ill, there appeared among my morning letters a note from one of London’s most famous surgeons saying that he was coming down on a friendly visit in a couple of days “just to see if I can help you at all.”
I read the letter a second time, and then all my fears vanished. Someone coming “to help” me seemed so different from a formal consultation. That phrase was better than reams of ordinary sympathy, or kind inquiries, or professional expressions. And then I felt so glad that the matter had been taken out of my hands. It seemed as though a weight was lifted from my brain, and being a feeble as well as a foolish creature, at first I put my head under the eiderdown and had a weep—for sheer gratitude; but a few minutes later I rubbed my eyes and felt I was heaps better already!
Yet the way was not entirely clear, even though this busy, over-worked specialist was offering to spend more than a day in journeying right across England to the far-off cottage; there was the snow to be reckoned with, and, when it likes, the snow on our hills can frustrate anybody’s best-laid plans. The sky was very grey; I did hope no more would fall, otherwise the roads would probably be impassable.