There was a moment’s silence in the room, then the girl spoke in a low, faint voice:
“Thank you!” she said softly. With a hand that moved in mechanical fashion she took a little paper packet from her muff, laid it down on the corner of the desk, and rose to her feet.
“One moment!” cried the doctor hastily. In that room, seated in that chair, it had been his lot to speak many sentences of death, but he had not yet hardened himself to maim a life unmoved. Having dealt his blow, he was anxious to speak a word of comfort to the girl who had said “Thank you,” in that quiet voice. His keen, hawk-like face wrinkled into a network of lines as he looked at her across the room.
“One moment! What I have said may appear hard; but before you allow yourself to grieve at a possible sorrow, look around at the women whom you know—married and unmarried—compare their lives, make what you can out of the contrast. There is a large, an increasing number of unmarried women who consider that their own is the fuller and easier lot; they refuse to give up their liberty to become what is called the ‘slave of a household.’ There are some unlovely features connected with their cult; but remember there is always a modicum of truth behind such axioms. A married woman, if she is worth her salt, lives not for herself, but for her household. If she has wider possibilities of joy, she has also infinitely greater possibilities of pain. Even putting the husband apart—and he as a rule comes first of all—if she has ten children, she must needs suffer with each of the ten. Give her every ease and luxury in the world, and if one of the brood is in trouble, the poor soul must go down to the depths by his side. To be a wife and mother is the hardest profession in the world; some people also consider it the worst repaid. Don’t allow yourself to be blinded by sentiment concerning the married life. Remember its drawbacks; exaggerate them if you will. Your best medicine is content; to secure that, cultivate, if needs be, a little intentional blindness. Never allow yourself to believe that your happiness is necessarily sacrificed!”
“Thank you,” repeated the girl once more.
It was the great man’s duty to exhort, and preach cheerfulness and resignation, but to-day his trained physiological eye gave the lie to his words. This was not a woman whom nature had framed to live alone. Hers was a tender and appealing grace; long sweeping lashes lent a veiled softness to her eyes; her lips were red and curved; her figure, though slim, was gracefully rounded; an atmosphere of feminine charm enveloped her whole personality. Men would love her, children would love her; but she must turn from them and live alone. The doctor’s thoughts over-leapt professional bounds, and took an intimate, personal tone.
“You say you are a comparative stranger in town,” he said abruptly. “You ought to have friends—plenty of friends. My wife is at home every Sunday afternoon. Will you come to see us sometimes, and let us do what we can to help your life?”
“Thank you,” said the girl for the third time. After a moment’s hesitation she added quickly, “You are very good. I should like to come.”
“That’s well. Come soon. We shall expect you next Sunday, or the one following. Good afternoon.”
The door opened and shut, and the girl found herself once more in the big, grim entrance hall. A table of carved oak strewed with cards and letters occupied the centre position; plaster busts of well-known scientific men stood on brackets to right and left, a glass case containing stuffed birds and fish testified to the doctor’s holiday recreation. At the girl’s approach the butler rose from a bench near the door, his expression unconsciously sobering, to match her own.