Part 18 (1/2)

”I know nothing, except what I have seen of your brave fight, my child.

All the information I have had about you, from outside, was contained in that valuable little note of introduction from Griswold.”

In spite of her tears and agitation she smiled, but looked puzzled, as I afterward recalled she always did when I mentioned his name, or spoke as if she knew him well.

”I have not watched you for nothing. And I never treat a patient without first diagnosing his case. I do not say that I am _always_ right. I am not vain of the methods nor of the progress of my profession; but I am, at least, not blind, and I have always been interested in you. I should like to help you, if you will let me. I can do nothing for you in the dark.” Then dropping my voice, significantly: ”Does _he_ know where you are? Does _he_ know you are ill?”

There was a long silence. I did not know but that she was offended. She was struggling for command of her voice, and for courage. Presently she said, in a hoa.r.s.e whisper, which evidently shocked her as much as it startled me, so unnatural did it sound:

”Who? My husband?”

”Your _husband!_” I exclaimed. ”Are you--is there--I did not know you were married. Why did you always allow me to call you _Miss_ Campbell?”

”I do not know,” she said, wearily. ”It made no difference to me, and it seemed to please your fancy to treat me as a child.. But I never really noticed that you did always call me Miss. If I had, I should not have cared. What difference could it make to me--or to you--what prefix you put to my name?”

”But I did not know you were married,” I said almost sharply.

She looked up, startled for a moment; but recovering, as from some vague suspicion, in an instant she said, smiling a little, and with evident relief, plunging into a new opening:

”That had nothing to do with my case. There was no need to discuss family relations. I never thought of whether _you_ were married or not. You were my doctor--I your patient. What our family relations, wardrobes, or political affiliations might be seem to me quite aside from that. We may choose to talk of them together, or we may not, as the case may be. And in my case, it would not be--edifying.” There was a moment's pause, then she said, rather impatiently, but as if the new topic were a relief to her: ”The idea that a woman must be ticketed as married or unmarried, to every chance acquaintance, is repellent to me.

Men are not so ticketed--and that is right. It is vulgar to suppose a sign is needed to prevent trespa.s.s, or to tempt approach. 'Miss Jones, this is Mr. Smith.' What does it tell?” She was talking very rapidly now--nervously. ”It tells her, 'Here is a gentleman to whom I wish to introduce you. If you find him agreeable you will doubtless learn more of him later on.' It tells him, 'Here is a lady. _She is not married._ Her family relations--her most private affairs--are thrust in his face before she has even said good evening to him. I think it is vulgar, and it is certainly an unnecessary personality. What his or her marital relations may be would seem to come a good deal later in the stage of acquaintance, don't you think so, doctor?” She laughed, but it was not like herself. Even the laugh had changed. She was fighting for time.

”It is a new idea to me,” I said, ”and I confess I like it. Come to think of it, it _is_ a trifle premature--this thrusting a t.i.tle intended to indicate private relations onto a name used on all public occasions.

By Jove! it is absurd. I never thought of it before; but it is _never_ done with men, is it? 'General,' 'Mr.' 'Dr.'--none of them. All relate to him as an individual, leaving vast fields of possibilities all about him. 'Mrs.' 'Miss'--they tell one thing, and one only. That is of a private nature--a personal a.s.sociation. You have started me on a new line of thought, and,” said I, taking her hand again, ”you have given me so much that is new to think of to-night that I will go home to look over the budget. You are tired out. Go to bed now. Order your tea brought up. Here is an order to see to anything you may ask, promptly.

Beesley, the manager, is an old friend of mine. Any order you may give, if you send it down with this note from me, will be obeyed at once. I shall come to-morrow. Good-night.”

I put the order on the table, at her side. I know my voice was husky.

It startled me, as I heard it. She sat perfectly still, but she laid her other hand on top of mine, with a light pressure, and her voice sounded tired and full of tears.

”Good-night. You are very kind--very thoughtful. I will be brave to-morrow. Good-night.” That night I drove past and saw a light in her window at one o'clock. ”Poor child!” I said; ”will she be brave enough to tell me to-morrow, or will she die with her burden, and her gay little laugh on her lips?”

IV.

The next day I called earlier than usual. I had spent an almost sleepless night, wondering what I could do for this beautiful, lovable woman, who seemed to be all alone in the world, and who evidently felt that she must remain apart and desolate.

What had caused her to leave her husband? Or had he left her? What for?

What kind of a man was he? Did she love him, and was she breaking her heart for him? or did he stand between her and some other love? Had she married young, and made a mistake that was eating her life out? Whose fault was it? How could I help her?

All these and a thousand other questions forced themselves upon me, and none of the answers came to fit the case. Answers there were in plenty, but they were not for these questions nor for this woman--not for this delicate flower of her race.

As I stepped into the hotel office to send my card to ”Parlor 13,” as was my custom, the clerk looked up with his perfunctory smile and said, ”Go' morning, doctor. Got so in the habit 'coming here lately, s'pose it'll take quite a while to taper off. That about the size of it?”

I stared at the young man in utter bewilderment.

”Ha! ha! ha! I believe you'd really forgot already she'd gone;”

and then, with a quick flash of surprise and intelligent, detective shrewdness, ”You knew she was going, doctor? She did not skip her little bill, did she? Of course not. Her husband was in such a deuce of a hurry to catch the early train, the night-clerk said he was ringing his bell the blessed night for fear they'd get left. Front! take water to 273.

You hadn't been gone five minutes last night, when he came skipping down here with your check and order, and we just had to make things hum to get cash enough together to meet it for her; but we made it, and so they got off all right.”