“Yes—yes, perfectly,” said the widow, but looking somewhat mystified, notwithstanding.
“The brain thus thrown back upon itself engenders an irritability of the nerves, which is altogether abnormal. Fits of peevishness, of ill-temper, of causeless fault-finding, gradually supervene, till at length all natural amiability of disposition vanishes entirely, and there is nothing left but a wretched hypochondriac, a misery to himself and all around him.”
“Gracious me! Mr. Bristow, what a picture! But I hope you do not put me down as a misery to myself and all around me.”
“Far from it—very far from it—my dear Mrs. McDermott. You are only in the premonitory stage at present. Let us hope that in your case, the later stages will not follow.”
“I hope not, with all my heart.”
“Of course, you have not yet been troubled with hearing voices?”
“Hearing voices! Whatever do you mean, Mr. Bristow?”
“One of the worst symptoms of the cerebral disorder, from the earlier stages of which you are now suffering, is that the patient hears voices—or fancies that he hears them, which is pretty much the same thing. Sometimes they are strange voices; sometimes they are the voices of relatives, or friends, no longer among the living. In short, to state the case as briefly as possible, the patient is haunted.”
“I declare, Mr. Bristow, that you quite frighten me!”
“But there are no such symptoms as these about you at present, Mrs. McDermott. The moment you have the least experience of them—should such a misfortune ever overtake you—then take my advice, and seek the only remedy that can be of any real benefit to you.”