His sensitive nature cannot bear the thought of everybody seeing the mark of the loathsome disease as it slowly eats its way, so he covers his face with a black veil, which he never removes. He loses sight of his own condition in ministering to the sufferings of others. Finally, after many months his own hour comes, and he locks himself within his office, determined that no mortal eye shall see his last sufferings. He writes a letter to his wife beseeching her to respect his wishes in this matter, and assuring her that by doing so she can atone for all her sins against him. She obeys him to the letter, refusing, in spite of vigorous protests, to allow anyone to enter his chamber. She takes her position just outside his door, and listens with agony to his moaning until the end comes, when she finds a note, written just before he expired, in which he recognizes her love for him and asks her forgiveness. After her own great sorrow she is able really to sympathize with the sufferings of others, and finally goes down to the grave respected by all who know her.
Such is the story, briefly told. The title reminds us of Hawthorne's parable, 'The Minister's Black Veil.' Both Doctor Wickford and Parson Hooper put on the veil never to lay it aside even for a moment, and the effect on the outside world is naturally very much the same in both cases, but here the resemblance ceases, for the cause is physical in one instance and moral in the other. The selfishness and levity of Madame Wickford find a parallel in the heroine of Benson's 'Dodo', while her 'new birth' is not altogether unlike that of Marcella, who is, however, an infinitely stronger character. More interesting still is a comparison between our novel and 'The Forge Master' of George Ohnet. Claire persists in receiving the advances of her husband, Philippe Derblay, with such coldness that he finally loses patience and pays her in her own coin. Her respect for him is awakened, and when he is on the point of fighting a duel for her sake, she rushes in between him and his adversary, revealing to him the fact that she now loves him devotedly. Thus a reconciliation is effected. I do not mean to say that our author has borrowed anything from these stories, for, while she is probably acquainted with them all, it is by no means certain that she has read any one of them. I have mentioned these points of resemblance merely because I think they are interesting.
I have heard the situations in 'The Veiled Doctor' characterized as unnatural and melodramatic, and the style criticised as stilted. With this opinion I cannot agree. Our author partially disarms criticism by calling our attention to the perspective,—the events being supposed to have taken place in "those times when the lives of men and women swung between the two poles of war's brutality and a super-refined sentimentalism, which seems mawkish to their more prosaic grandchildren." The ideals of different periods are not the same, and it is hardly safe to take those of our own as a perfectly reliable standard in judging those of another. For instance, to our age Goethe's 'Sorrows of Werther' seems full of maudlin sentimentality, yet it was received with wild enthusiasm when it appeared, for it mirrored perfectly the spirit of the time. All are agreed that a story should harmonize, at least in a general way, with its historical setting, for else we should be reminded of Horace's picture of the figure with a woman's head, a horse's neck, feathered body, and a fish's tail.
When we take into consideration the sensitive nature of Gordon Wickford and the ignorance of the physicians of his day with regard to the proper treatment of cancer, his desire to die alone does not seem so unnatural, and, if this view be accepted, Isabel's obedience is easily understood. It must be confessed that the most sympathetic and practical character in the book is 'Aunt Hannah.'
The style is not always what it should be, our author being at times unable to resist the temptation to use high-sounding phrases, but it sometimes manifests considerable strength, and we find numerous bits of description that are really clever and show excellent taste in their simplicity. I quote several passages:
"As yet the trees in the street had not completely hidden their graceful branch-lines in new spring greenery; there were still light young shoots in the box hedges, and the air was full of the breath of the spring. In the old garden long lines of crocus, yellow jonquils, and single blue hyacinths hedged the grass-plots. The snowballs were covered with great foamy white balls, periwinkles looked up clear-eyed from under the parlor windows, and everywhere the single blue violets were making the air sweet with their spring thanksgiving. The tall standard roses had thrown out pale-green racemes, and the 'bridal-wreath' bushes were just commencing to powder their branches with miniature blossoms. A young moon hung like a reap-hook in the evening sky; the bride and groom could see it between a fret-work of flowery apple and pear branches as they paced backward and forward in the soft air."
"At last the day broke rosy and splendid over a steel-blue sea."
"There was a freshness on her cheeks and a dewy look about her eyes that seemed to answer to the glory of the new day, and to proclaim her an integral part of the summer morning."
"Autumn had dressed the old town in sober suits of brown, laced with yellow and red; there was a sharp tang in the salt sea air that sent the blood dancing. The smell of the ripe apples, crushed by the cider-presses, pervaded the orchards, and in the fields the stacked dried corn showed the unsuspected wealth of golden pumpkins that grew between rows. Out in the woods the ferns had grown wan and pale, and the fading leaves began to carpet the dead summer's undergrowth. Day after day the officer and the lady rode away from the tree-shaded streets to the silent autumn forests where silver-gray oak-boles upheld canopies of brown velvet leaves. The gumtrees burned like fire, and the hickory and sassafras gleamed golden over the red sumach and whortleberry that made the old fields seem deluged with the blood of some mighty battle. At times the long lines of homing ducks would pass them, or a V of wild geese would sweep over their heads, crying 'honk-honk!'"