Life Unveiled, by a Child of the Drumlins — Chapter 11 Part II - Through the Gate of Dreams

“Hello, thar!

Whar’s Doctor Sue?

” I told him Dr. Wyeth was out of town for a week or two and that I was taking her practice.

He looked at me comically; his face underwent some kind of contortion which I suppose was a smile, as he said: “Ye be?

Wall, I vum!

I don’t know just how that’ll strike Betsy.

Ye--ye’re used to old wimmen?

Ye’re jest a-studyin’ with Doctor Sue, I calk’late--No?

Ye’re a full-fledged doctor, be ye?

Wall, wall, no harm intended--I’m jest a-wonderin’ about Betsy--she’s kind o’ cantankerous.

” He scratched his head and eyed me.

“Wall, ye may as well come along and see what ye can make out with her.

” Inquiring his name and where he lived, I said I would call as soon as my office hours were over.

“I’m Uncle Bill Gilmore--live in West U----.

Ye git off the car at V---- Street, and ask the fust one ye meet whar Uncle Bill lives, and he’ll tell ye.

Doctor Sue’s doctored us ever sen’ she hung out her shingle.

Betsy sets great store by her--don’t know how she’ll cotton to you--ye mustn’t mind if she’s a leetle peppery.

” Off he went, and I, to maintain the dignity of my office hours, waited, though I could just as well have gone with him.

“Betsy” “cottoned” to me all right, and thereafter they called me whenever Dr. Wyeth was out of town.

During October and November, the Doctor being away, I was busy and happy--busy mostly with work which would have been hers had she been there, but with occasional patients who came to me.

How the sight of my old account-book brings back those days--my struggles, hopes, exultations, and dismays, and Father’s visits!

He came to the city every few weeks, and always after the greeting and home news were over would ask with assumed indifference to see the book.

And I would watch him look it over--the tears often coming to his eyes as he saw evidences of a streak of good luck.

And what a lively interest he took in my rehearsal of experiences and descriptions of people and incidents!

Spendthrift that I am, I practised the strictest economy those days;

but then, as now, I would walk miles to save a carfare; then, on occasion, suddenly launch out in some expenditure that proved how prone I was to strain at gnats and swallow camels.

That first year I saw a great deal of Dr. Holton, a timid, conscientious, romantic person several years my senior.

She was much addicted to novel-reading and prone to neglect things which she knew would have contributed to her success.

Her comments on her own failures were most amusing; she had the real Irish wit, and enjoyed a joke on herself.

As she urged me to, I often visited her during her office hours, usually finding her with nothing to do; we talked over books, cases, people, and experiences, and got on famously together.

I throve on her expressed admiration of certain qualities which I had and she lacked.

She would comment on the friendliness of the County Society members toward me, and how easily I talked with them, while she, who had long known them, felt so abashed in their presence.

She said they treated all women physicians better since I had come among them.

I told her they would treat her in a more friendly way if she were not so shrinking and apologetic; that they took her at her own valuation.

But how I used to wish they could hear her witty and caustic remarks about them!

They little dreamed how keen she was because in their presence she was so Uriah-Heepish.

The men respected Dr. Wyeth, but her reserve and apparent coldness stood in the way of a really cordial feeling.

She had started in medicine when much more antagonism had existed between men and women physicians than obtained when I began the study, and had never quite overcome the feeling that the men considered the women as interlopers.

She used to say it did her good to see the frank, fearless way in which I spoke to Dr. Torrey, the surgeon of whom everyone else, even the other men, stood in awe; she declared I could smile and talk him into anything I wanted to.

Occasionally he asked me to anesthetize his patients, and, knowing I had been in hospital service, would sometimes inquire what I thought of this or that procedure, and I would tell him, without hesitation, which Dr. Wyeth and Dr. Holton would never have dared to do, though having as decided opinions perhaps as I had.

Dr. Torrey was a sandy-haired man with a mouthful of fine teeth and a ready smile; jovial yet irascible; a bachelor; always well-groomed;

and with the ego ever on duty.

He had a habit of preparing papers for the medical society, whirling in and asking to be allowed to read them right away, as he had an important engagement.

Everything would be set aside for him, and, on finishing, he would whirl out again, indifferent to all other papers.

I had watched this happen on several occasions; then once, when he asked me to write a paper, I spoke out in meeting and said that I would, if he would have the uncommon courtesy to stay and listen to it.

A little chagrined, but amused, he really did better after that.

Dr. Wyeth said that if she had attempted to say that to him, she would have incurred his lasting enmity; and Dr. Holton declared that the very thought of her undertaking it paralyzed her; yet my temerity made him more friendly than before.

He was something of a nettle in disposition, and because I laid hold with a firm grasp I didn’t get hurt.

One of the leading physicians, Dr. Lord, turned practically all his gynecological cases over to me.

This physician had great charm of manner, an engaging smile, and the most infectious laugh I have ever heard--a valuable asset in the sick room.

But what an alarmist!

His patients were always being saved as by fire.

He could make most persons believe that black was white, and when confronted by his irresistible manner, I was almost as ready as others to espouse his various medical fads, though I soon found that his fad of to-day was ousted by that of the day after to-morrow.

What a study the different ones among my _confrères_ were!

Dr. Hood, another of them, boarded where I boarded the first year--a big, lymphatic man with a smooth, fat face, eyes that could smile merrily, but a mouth that drooped at the corners as though with a perpetual grievance.

He looked profound, but was not.

Always chivalrous in his treatment of women, his courtesy had a Southern flavour.

His friends and associates were chiefly women, and, I am bound to say, he excelled them in gossip.

He had a never-failing curiosity, seemed interested in everybody, remembered details, was a capital _raconteur_.

Delightful as a table-companion, but as full of sarcasm and prejudices as a dressmaker’s pincushion is of pin-pricks; back-biting was, in his case, one of the little foxes that spoiled the vines.

Never busy, never in a hurry, he apparently never cared whether he had any professional work to do.

He knew how to cook better than most women can; would on occasion go into the homes of his patients and prepare special diets; more than that, he could knit, crochet, and embroider, and they used to say that he made most of the trimming for his step-daughter’s underwear when she was preparing her wedding trousseau!

Dr. Chapin, another brother physician, was a mild, easy-going man, somewhat lacking in decision, unassuming, conscientious, dependable; never one to make a big stir, but one of a class now fast disappearing--a typical family physician.

Besides these in our own school of medicine, there were a few of the old school physicians with whom I became friendly.

Early in October of my first year of practice, through the secretary of the Y. M. C. A.

, who boarded where I boarded, I was engaged to make the physical examination of about two hundred women who were to join the ladies’ club of the gymnasium.

Professor Barton, the Physical Director, called on me and explained the work: each applicant was to be examined as to heart and lungs, general nutrition, and abnormalities;

and certain measurements were to be taken so that the Director could ascertain what parts needed special development.

The Director himself was a fine specimen of physical manhood, past forty, slightly below medium height, a strong, masculine frame, vigorous, energetic; dark brown, penetrating eyes, black hair, a firm chin--a forceful personality.

Almost boyish in his love for his work, his enthusiasm was contagious.

Firmly believing in the efficacy of body-building to form mind and character, his work was his religion;

and so impressed was I with its importance, I consented to undertake it without the question of compensation for my services being even mentioned.

The ladies came to my office, I gave the greater part of my time for a month to the work, and the only remuneration I received was my ticket to the gymnasium class for a year!

The Secretary had probably left the question of my remuneration to the Physical Director, and he probably thought the Secretary had arranged it; while I supposed that, in time, one or the other would attend to it.

So when the ladies, on being examined, asked what the charges were, I foolishly said, “Nothing”; therefore, I came out with no financial gain whatever when, but for my timidity in speaking up when engaged for the work, I should have realized, at the very least, two hundred dollars; while, the probabilities are, it would have amounted to double that sum, had I let each lady pay me, as the most of them evidently expected to do, when I made the examination.

The whole thing is rather characteristic of my way of dealing with financial matters when my own interests are at stake--a trait which I share in common with my father.

But the work was interesting, and by its means I gained a speedy introduction to the “Two Hundred” of U----, while the gymnasium practice was beneficial to me.

Early in my practice, when I had but few acquaintances in U----, I became intimate with a certain family, through having the wife and children as patients.

My old school-mate had moved away shortly after I went there, and as I had no place to go during Dr. Wyeth’s office hours, I got in the way of spending a good deal of time in the Richards’s home.

Mrs. Richards, a woman of tall, handsome figure, was a mild, placid woman, an excellent housekeeper, kind and motherly.

She made me welcome in her home; her boys, of whom I was fond, were fine little fellows.

The freedom with which I came and went in their home was delightful.

The father of the family was a forceful man of keen intellect, impulsive, ardent, magnetic, and of ungovernable temper when aroused.

He was alive to all that pertained to the development and guidance of his boys, and got in the way of coming to my office of an evening to borrow books and chat awhile about them; he said it did him good to discuss these matters with me, and he was glad to have my influence on his boys.

He was frank in his liking for me, and his occasional calls were welcome in my lonely evenings.

Sometimes he would say: “I fear I come here too much--I don’t want to do that; Jane likes to have me come--but if you mind, you must tell me.

” It was perhaps after a half dozen calls that he began telling me about his early life, of his proud and passionate mother, and of her second marriage to a man so vastly inferior in race and breeding that his childhood and youth were made utterly miserable.

As he recounted some of the experiences of his boyhood, and the shame and rage he had often been made to feel because of taunts concerning his step-father, I felt a great pity for him, and was able to understand, in a measure, his curious outbursts of temper of which he told me.

Later he began speaking more freely about his wife, of her goodness, but also of her limitations; her incapacity for companionship, her unresponsiveness.

Because of all this, he said, he especially appreciated my kindness to him, and thanked God he had found such a friend; he thought we could be of help to each other, and was sure I understood him as no one else ever had.

That night when he left he held my hand longer than his wont, and I felt an uneasiness, combined with an unwonted pleasure.

At his next call he found me upset over the elopement of the husband of a favourite cousin.

Those horrid headlines in the paper referred to someone I actually knew!

It was a relief to discuss it with a friend.

This talk led to a discussion of kindred topics.

Afterward, as I tried to recall our conversation, it seemed to me it had been on a particularly lofty plane.

I could seem to remember nothing which led up to what happened.

I remember that the large willow rockers in which we sat got gradually nearer, and that the first I knew he was holding my hands and looking in my eyes, and I was permitting it with less and less resistance, a dangerous fascination, a kind of paralysis stealing over me that held me spellbound.

He was talking, talking breathlessly, ardently, on his knees by my chair.

I think he wept over my hand and put his head in my lap; and there I sat like one dazed--conscious of all he said, but only half able to reason, and, for a time, seemingly, wholly incapable of stemming the tide of his passionate outburst.

I seemed to live ages in what must have been only a few minutes.

Presently I roused myself and then, like one in pain on awakening, felt wounded to the very soul--a stain was forever on my womanhood--a married man had confessed his love for me!

Suddenly I saw what in my blindness and ignorance I had only vaguely divined in the weeks previous--all, all had been leading up to this.

A deadly faintness came over me.

I fell back in my chair, conscious still, cruelly conscious, but passive, limp, and mute.

He must have taken this for acquiescence, for he kissed me--on the cheek, near the neck.

_It burned me_, and aroused me.

I sat up, passive no longer.

What I said I do not know, but he felt my anger and shrank from it.

I

almost tore the spot from my face in the vehemence with which I tried to eradicate that burning kiss.

That angered him to the point of fury, and my words enraged him more.

While I had been in that passive state, and he was covering my hands with kisses, he had said he would wait years for me, if need be, if I would only tell him that I would love him when he was free.

On finding my tongue, I bitterly denounced him for that; told him if he were free I would not marry him; that I could never love him; and by then I must have experienced a marked revulsion of feeling, for I loathed him.

Growing fairly black with rage, he became threatening; accused me of leading him on, or at least of permitting his love, only to thrust it back upon him.

He took me by the shoulders roughly, looking into my face with rage and hatred.

I looked steadily back.

I had a vague realization of his great strength, and of his fiendish temper when aroused, but was at that instant beyond physical fear; my desperation at what I then felt was an ineradicable stain upon my soul was so extreme that mere danger to life was as nothing.

I must have met him unflinchingly; I think I even said, “Kill me if you like!

” Then a terrible remorse came upon me.

Suddenly I seemed to feel wholly to blame, and with that began to soften towards him; he softened then, and wept.

One thing he said then pierced me to the heart: “Why did you do it, Doctor?

Why did you let me love you--life was hard enough before--why did you do it?

” And as he talked that way my agony grew apace.

I believed myself guilty--responsible for it all; I believed (what I knew later was not true) that I must have seen it all from the beginning--my consent to his calls, our handclasps at parting, were blackest evidence of the steps I had permitted to lead up to this.

My remorse and misery changed his attitude entirely; he then began accusing himself.

Presently we fell to discussing it more calmly.

But at the recollection of my scornful words, the fire leaped in his eyes, and a malicious purpose again plainly showed itself: “You could never love me if I were ‘the last man on earth’--you--_girl_!

You don’t know what you are saying.

Do you want to rouse the very devil in me?

Don’t you know that if I were free, free to make you love me, you would be mine--_mine_!

I’d make you take back those words--I’ve a mind to make you take them back--_I’ve a mind to make you love me now_!

” He was sitting or kneeling beside me, his face close to mine.

I looked in his eyes, and the very devil of daring and adventure must have been in me at that instant, for I was fully conscious of a challenge passing into my look.

I think I said no word, but fairly defied him to make me love him--if he could.

He fixed my glance imperiously, and with his face close to mine he hissed: “Kiss me--on the lips--kiss me!

You don’t dare to--_you’re afraid_!

” His lips came closer, his eyes flamed.

I had a wild desire to do as he commanded--not because I wanted to kiss him, for I hated him again--such rapid revulsions of feeling swept over me--but just to prove to him that his words were false--that I dared to kiss him and still would not love him as he boasted.

I had a curiosity also, a real desire to know if there could possibly be such potency in a kiss.

But the instant of wavering could not have been long.

At that crucial moment my guardian angel (surely I had a guardian angel than) turned my eyes from his compelling gaze to the top of the book-case by the wall where stood the photographs of my father and mother.

Instantly the spell was broken.

The power he had regained over me, after my first repulsion had subsided, was dispelled by the sight of my parents’ faces looking down at me.

But oh, the agony then!

The remorse I had felt earlier was as nothing compared to this.

I cannot recall clearly what followed.

I know my defiance of him gave place to self-loathing and self-castigation.

It must have been shortly after that a profound prostration supervened--the conflicting emotions were having their effect upon my physical self.

My pallor must have been extreme for he became alarmed; he called to me; he chafed my hands, and pleaded with me to rally, to speak, to live.

I heard it all and knew all--was never more aware in my life--but was powerless to stir, almost, it seemed, to breathe.

Finally, the faintness wearing away, I was again in possession of all my faculties, but, oh, so cold, so cold!

and with the consciousness of an ineradicable stain on my soul.

It was then after midnight.

All at once I became aware of the compromising situation should he be seen leaving my office at that time of night.

I was disturbed, too, as to what Mrs. Richards would think of his staying so late, yet was afraid to have him go.

I was afraid to be alone, afraid of my own thoughts.

I clung to him, my fear of him all gone--the danger now all gone--for my weakness appealed to his strength, and his one thought then seemed to be to restore and help me.

He urged me to come home with him; he would carry me, if necessary; we would together tell Jane; she would understand; or, should he rush home and get her, and have her come and stay the night with me?

he did not dare to leave me there alone.

But all this time I was getting where I could think and plan for the future.

When, previously, in helplessness, I had clung to him, it was as though I must make him take it all back, wipe it out; yet I was acutely conscious of the irrevocableness of it all, I had only clung in desperation--like two drowning persons must cling--no longer blaming him, but in utter wretchedness that together we had brought this on ourselves.

Now I was clearer.

I began to talk.

I told him he must never come there again alone.

Then, as I thought of Mrs. Richards and the boys, and how they loved and trusted me, I broke down completely.

I felt I could never again look into their faces; never enter their home, nor again have the happy times we had enjoyed.

This he opposed vigorously.

He asked nothing for himself, he said, but for her and the boys he pleaded that I would not be so cruel: they needed me; I had brightened their lives; he was more patient and kind when I was there, even when he knew I was coming; I helped him to control his temper, they all knew it--if I deserted them now, it would add to their misery.

I suppose I then promised to go to their home as usual.

I, having completely rallied by that time, he left me, himself looking worn and penitent, and showing unfeigned concern at my wretchedness.

As I opened the door to let him out, every sound in the quiet building, every fall of his foot down the stairs, struck me with dread; and when I found myself alone in the room, my terror increased.

I did not dare to move; every sound I made increased this feeling; I was afraid to undress; afraid to open out the operating-chair and make my bed; so, wrapping a blanket around me, I reclined on the half-opened chair and slept from sheer exhaustion.

When I awoke, the terrible consciousness was there that _it was all true_; that it was not an ugly dream.

Then I drank my first bitter draught of the cup of life.

I had thought I had known sorrow before;

thought I had suffered; but then, then, I knew that never until then had I realized what suffering is.

“It _isn’t_ true”--“It _is_ true,”--fast upon the one thought, said as though the very force with which I uttered it would undo the truth, would follow the other inexorable sentence, “It _is_ true.

”