For the first time that afternoon, her father laughed. “Not if I know anything about Medical Boards, Pat. He wouldn’t last ten days.” The doctor grew serious. “But that doesn’t help us much. The damage to his mind has got to be repaired somehow. You might start the process; I can’t.”
“I?” The monosyllable carried infinite query.
“Yes. You, and you only. Get his confidence; make him tell you—under pledge of secrecy—why he carries that gun; why he’s afraid of consumption for the children. Make him talk to you about the day he was wounded—about the horrors he’s seen.”
“Can’t you talk to him, pater? He never opens his mouth about that sort of thing to me.”—Her voice faltered.—“We’re not such good friends as we used to be, pater.”
Heron Baynet’s voice did not falter. “I know you’re not, Pat. But you’ve got to be. These repressions are killing Peter. Unless somebody can break them down, I won’t be answerable for the consequences. It’s no use my talking to him, he’d freeze up at once. Whereas you, you’re his wife.”
“But, Pater. . . .”
“Damn it, girl,”—the doctor’s voice rose to fury—“can’t you see that this is a matter of life or death. You must make him talk. Make him drunk if you like—get drunk yourself—make love to him as if you were his mistress: but for God’s sake, make him talk.”
Patricia blushed scarlet; quickened her pace.
“And then?” she asked.
“Persuade him somehow that he’s got shell-shock, and to consult me about it.” For a moment, the doctor forgot his son-in-law: neurasthenia and its treatment lay very near his professional heart, and that heart was being steadily broken by War Office neglect. “Two years, I’ve been at them,” he burst out, “two years! And they’re only just beginning to realize that a wound in the mind can be as fatal as a wound in the body. Meanwhile, God knows how many brave men are being tortured.”