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

The events of the next few days, even my first meeting with Mrs. Richards, are gone from my recollection.

I remember one thing, though: The next day, at my boarding-place, at dinner, a little Chatterbox of a woman spoke of how pale and wretched I looked, then, babbling on, told me that, having dropped into Mrs. Richards’s that morning, she had found her suffering from a severe sick headache.

It seemed as if I must cry out in remorse and despair.

In my hypersensitive condition I felt directly responsible for her suffering, though she had suffered similarly for years.

I seemed made up of two entities, the one being stabbed by this chatter, and by my own self-reproaches, and the other calmly and indifferently replying to my table-mate, discussing the most commonplace affairs.

I marvelled at my own unmoved exterior, marvelled at everything going on the same in the street, at the office, everywhere--the same as the day before--when all was so changed in me!

The first time I saw Mr. Richards after that was in his home, the family having sent for me to come to the house for supper.

Already there, and dreading to meet him, I heard him run up the steps briskly, _whistling as he came_!

He called out cheerily, “Are you in there, Doctor?

” It was a shock to me.

I had so dreaded to meet him; had thought of him as suffering from remorse as I had suffered (had he not said with contrition that he would ask God to forgive him?

); and here he was whistling, and a love song!

Again I recoiled from him, and with it came a sickening sense of being alone in my misery, and of having wasted more pity on him than he deserved.

I was pretty severe when we spoke of it later, but think he succeeded in mollifying me somewhat, though I began then to think that his religious talk was largely cant, and so ceased to have much patience with his asking God to forgive him.

My friendliness with the family continued, but I never received him in the office after that, unless Mrs. Richards, or the boys, came with him.

Later I learned a great deal of their home life which I had only divined before--learned that he was a very different man when I was there from his ordinary self; that the boys’ fondness for me, though genuine, was only a part of the reason why they were always so eager for me to come there, the other part being that Dad was always so jolly and good then, and things went so smoothly.

One evening while he and his wife and I were sitting on the veranda, the boys came home, greeted us, and passed on into the house, after which their father followed them, and we heard them in earnest conversation.

Soon they were talking angrily.

Mrs. Richards hurried in, and shortly after, I heard a cry of distress, and then her voice calling, “Doctor, come--_come_!

” Rushing in, there in the dining room I saw what nearly paralyzed me--the father, looking more like a fiend than a human being, had his younger son by the throat, while the elder boy, white with terror, stood on one side of the table, as far from his father as he could get.

The mother was closing windows and doors, so that the neighbours could not hear, and was all the time beseeching the boy in jeopardy to say he did it: “Say it, Tommy, or he’ll kill you!

” With no clue as to what it all meant, I only knew that here was an enraged man, beside himself, and that his son, though in danger of being choked to death, was defying him, standing out about something he had been accused of.

I took no time for thought, but, feeling exultantly, “Here, I have some power over him--now I can expiate my wrong,” rushed between the struggling father and son, tearing at the man’s fingers as they clasped the boy’s neck.

He tried to push me away, looking as though he only half realized who I was; but, pulling at him, I interfered with all my strength, calling to him.

Presently he warned me: “Doctor, get away if you don’t want me to hurt you, too--I warn you--I will not be thwarted--he _shall_ confess.

” But I felt I must save the boy; must exert to the full my influence over this enraged man.

I don’t know what followed, or just what I did, except that we three were being dragged around the table, and that I kept my hands on those powerful hands that were grasping the boy’s throat; and soon I stood looking into the eyes of that crazed creature for what seemed an eternity--it was probably only a few seconds--all the force of my being bent on making him relax his hold.

Gradually I felt his fingers loosen, his eyes ceased to glare with that lurid rage, and at last his hands dropped limp; the boy was freed, and the man and I confronted each other in breathless silence.

“Thank God!

Thank God!

” hysterically cried the mother, while the older boy tried to hush her cry.

But the calm was of short duration.

A second rage succeeded the first.

At the thought that I had seen this exhibition of his wrath, and that further concealment was futile, he sprang at the boy again.

Tommy ran round the table.

I sprang again at the father, and a second contest took place.

I can only remember clinging to his hands, and holding his gaze, and hearing the frightened woman scream to me to be careful, or he would attack me as he had attacked Tom.

How the storm subsided I cannot recall, except that he gradually got control of himself, though the looks he cast at the boys showed that his rage was only sleeping.

His remarks to me were to the effect that the game was up; I would loathe him now; I may as well know him now as they knew him, and, though I had prevented him from carrying out his threats, he would know the truth yet--he would wait till to-morrow--but punish those boys he would, and I need not think I could prevent it.

Then he left the house.

We breathed freer after he was gone, but looked at one another in dismay, feeling it was only a lull in the storm.

They depended on me for help, but how was I to help them?

It seems that evening at the “Gym,” he had seen the boys hobnobbing with some others whose habits he had warned them against; he thought they acted guilty when he came upon them, and had been awaiting their return home to confront them with his suspicions.

Their denial had enraged him, hence the terrible scene.

All the woman’s disguises were now laid aside.

Previously she had tried heroically to conceal the unhappiness in their home life.

Many a time I had detected her anxiety when the boys had been saying or doing things which she feared might anger their father, but, on meeting my glance, she would summon a smile and change the subject.

Now it was all out.

We talked it all over.

She was afraid he would desert them now, as he had threatened doing of late; but what she feared most was his coming home late in the night, after I had gone, and dragging the boys out of bed and repeating the scene; or, if just sullen, he would wait till morning, and then give the boys a thrashing; his smouldering anger would flare afresh--and, God pity them all!

They implored me not to leave them.

It was a miserable evening that we spent listening for him.

I heard him come in late in the night, stalk about his room, and fling off his shoes.

How I pitied the woman lying there, afraid to speak, feigning sleep, recoiling, as she must, from that man’s presence, yet welcoming that rather than that he should go across the hall to where the boys were sleeping!

In the morning she came to my room, heavy-eyed and anxious, dreading what the day held for them.

He did not come down to breakfast.

They seemed to think the storm had got to come--that it was only being postponed while I could stay with them.

Reassuring them as best I could, I went upstairs to him.

I had no definite plan, but knew I must in some way extract a promise to let the matter drop, at least not to punish the boys till entirely over his anger, he had heard them calmly; and that, if he did punish them, I was to be present.

There the great black creature lay, his face sullenly turned to the wall.

What should I do?

My instinct told me what.

And here I recall the complexity of feelings I experienced: the shrinking from him at the recollection of his brutal rage; the thought that I had calmed that rage somewhat, and could still more if I could conquer my repugnance.

Then came the recognition that I could only do it by exerting my power as a woman over him--the discovery of a power that shortly before had made me sick with remorse.

Then came another thought: If, though unwittingly, I have acquired this power over him, and have suffered it to develop to the point it has with no object in view, why not now, with this worthy object, take advantage of the influence, and compel him to do my bidding?

It was similar reasoning to what I had used the night before, if my rapid thoughts and impulsive acts could be said to be the result of reasoning.

This morning’s course was more deliberate, though hardly as much so as this statement of it would seem to imply.

Stepping to the bed I put my hand on his shoulder and tried to have him look round.

He snarled savagely, turning farther away.

I remember keeping my hand on his shoulder and trying to get him to turn over and talk to me.

I sat on the bed and pleaded with him.

After he did turn, he looked at me searchingly for a while, and, when he spoke, expressed surprise that I would ever speak to him again.

I don’t recall what I said, but suddenly he looked at me sharply and said: “See here!

I have a great big thought--is it true?

--tell me!

Do you care for me more than you have let me know, but have fought it because it was right to---- Is it so?

_Is_ it?

” And I, seeing him melting under my influence, and knowing that I had set to work deliberately to bring this melting about, anxious to gain my ends, conscious of what a fiend he was when thwarted--I did not have the courage to contradict him outright; and, if I did make some half dissent, was at least keeping my hold on him, literally, by the touch of my hand, while wondering how far it would do to let him think he was right--enough at least to gain this point about the boys, so he would take back his threats and let go the punishment.

I was conscious of making some compromise with my conscience on the ground of the exigencies of the case; conscious that the look in his eyes, before we were done talking, was that of a tamed, or, rather, subdued, animal, instead of an angry, morose one; yet I really did nothing except just to be my undisguised self--soft and pitying and tender to this man whose evil temper I now understood.

I let him see that I did not despise him, even for this revelation; but that I wanted to help him and them; still I did not entirely dispel that thought which had come to him, and think I hoped he would continue to think that perhaps it was true--for a time, at least.

Downstairs we all talked it over together, and he gave me his word before them all that that should end it.

And it did.

My intimacy with the family increased.

I felt their dependence upon me, and was easier now that he frankly showed his interest in me before his wife; it seemed to take the sting from the recollection of that tragic night in the office.

One evening, weeks later, at their home, they began jesting about my marrying, speculating as to the kind of man I would be likely to love.

I did not like such talk.

(Once, earlier, when he had been trying to make light of what had happened, to reassure me and dispel my remorse he had said, “You will marry some good man one of these days, and forget all about this.

” Aside from other considerations, entirely apart from this, I had previously declared that I should never marry; but now in my hypersensitiveness over it all, I actually thought I had lost the right to marry--I knew I could not marry without confessing that a married man had made love to me, and that I had listened to him, and I fully believed that any honourable man would despise me for this.

I was in dead earnest.

In vain he had tried to point out how little I had to be remorseful about; deaf to his arguments, I thought them put forth only because of his own callous depravity.

) And so I was angry at him now for bringing up this question in his home; but continuing, he said: “Jane, the Doctor says she will never marry--do you know why?

” I was afraid he was coming out with the whole story.

He turned on the boys, who were showing an eager interest in the talk, saying, “Boys, go in the other room”; then, turning to me, said, “You say you will never marry; you think you are strong enough to stick to that; you pride yourself on being independent, but--_if I were free_, I’d make you marry me, _and I’d make you love me_!

You couldn’t help yourself.

Oh, you needn’t mind Jane--she doesn’t mind--do you, Jane?

She knows me, and knows I love you--I’d show you what your resolutions would amount to--_if I were free_!

” This, accompanied with poorly veiled excitement and a daredevil look, and said to me _before her_, in their own home, made me speechless.

For her sake I had done my best to appear ignorant of his special interest in me; but here he was boldly confessing it, and, in a way, challenging me again to withstand him.

It roused my scorn and contempt, and I fear I showed it that night.

So, little by little, the disguises dropped away all around, though our friendship continued.

As I became busier in my work I went less frequently to their house.

Subsequently he confessed to me an intrigue he had had some years before.

This shocked me, and lowered him further (as well as myself) in my esteem, for, in trying to win me he had claimed that I was the one woman to him; and, while having admitted that it was wrong to confess his love, he had declared that something in me made it impossible to help it, and so on; and, in my ignorance and vanity, I had believed him; had doubtless condoned his wrong for this very reason.

This later confession of a previous infatuation--even a guilty one--made all this in which I had had a share seem not only more wrong, but more sordid; and, too, it gave a deep wound to my self-love.

I was getting my eyes opened to life and human nature at a rapid rate.

Other revelations of his temper and character, as time passed, made me sick at heart, but gradually out-growing the acuteness of my remorse, I learned in time rather to exult in the fact that I had not been more deeply compromised.

After a time the family moved away.

Years later I saw them again.

They seemed to be getting on well.

We then discussed calmly the earlier times.

I found much of my bitterness and denunciation toward him had moderated.

I had by that time seen more of life; had learned to be more tolerant; understood him better.

He told me that he had never ceased to be thankful that my own steadfastness had prevented him from ruining my life; that, whether I chose to believe him or not, bad as he had been, he had never meant to wrong me; that he had always esteemed me above any woman he had known; and that no one in the world, knowing of his baseness, had shown him the tenderness and tolerance and helpfulness that I had shown.

He talked over my own life and subsequent experiences with me, and gave me sound advice.

He understood me better than I had understood myself.

I am bound to say that his retrospections and prophecies were alike sympathetic and penetrating.

During that first year’s practice, a few weeks after this regrettable experience which had cast such a shadow over me, I saw deep into the tragedy of the life of a young girl who came to me for succour.

She was only nineteen; she refused to give me her name or address, but haltingly told me her story, and expressed her fears.

It was some weeks before I could either dispel or confirm her fears, during which time my hold on her was precarious; but she came again and again, both of us hoping against hope as long as we could.

On the day when I had to acknowledge to myself and her that what she feared was true, I seemed to grow years older.

Though I had now been graduated in medicine a year, my worldly wisdom was very limited, and here was a desperate girl looking to me for help--a pretty, round-faced, red-cheeked child, unsophisticated, undeveloped.

She resolutely refused to tell me the name of the young man concerned, saying if he were willing she would not marry him.

She did not mind what she suffered if only her parents did not find out.

Her mother would die if she learned the truth.

When she found I could not help her in the way she had hoped, she was in dire distress.

I tried to persuade her to send her mother to me and together we would plan something, but she would not consent; if I could help her to go away and keep the secret from everyone there, she would go and have her child honourably; if not, she would go to someone who would help her in the other way.

I felt I must save her from that crime at all costs, and my earnest convictions must have impressed her, too;

for she then begged me to think out some way by which it could be arranged.

Knowing the resident woman physician in a Home in a distant city, where they took girls who had gone astray for the first time, and found homes for their babies, I took steps to get her admitted there.

While our plans were pending, the girl came to me almost daily; she had nowhere else to go.

During these interviews, I was struck by the fact that she seemed all intent on concealing the consequences of her wrong-doing, but showed little remorse for the wrong itself.

I could not understand this; but, as I came later to see more of such cases, I learned that by the time the poor creatures are certain of their condition, the acuteness of remorse has spent itself--they are confronted by a desperate condition calling for action, and their need of escaping detection then overrides contrition.

Not appreciating this then, I was puzzled and hurt at the girl’s apparent callousness.

As an accomplice in the scheme for getting her away, I was throwing myself so completely into the situation that I shared her shame.

I verily believe I felt her sin and remorse more than she did _at that time_, though there’s no telling what she had felt earlier.

The knowledge which I had so recently gained had made me aware of the dangerous fascination between the sexes, or I might have been less sympathetic with her; as it was, I came to be almost glad of an experience that enabled me to help the poor girl more understandingly than I otherwise could have helped her.

At length we learned the cost and requirements at the Home.

She could manage the cost, but how were we to get her away, and keep her away all the months necessary, so that her family and friends should be blinded to the facts?

Her already changing figure made it imperative that she go at once.

Persuading a friend in the country to take her a few weeks to board, it was still necessary to devise some excuse for her going that would appeal to her family.

As her mother knew that I had been treating her for an “anemic condition,” it would be, I thought, a simple matter to persuade her that her daughter needed to get away for a change of air, so I told her to bring her mother to the office.

The woman came, solicitous about her daughter.

She rehearsed her daughter’s symptoms; was afraid she was going into a decline, or had a tumour growing, or some other serious condition.

The mother was very deaf; I thought her blind also, for she evidently suspected nothing.

Reassuring her as well as I could, I persuaded her to let Hetty go to my friend’s for two weeks, well knowing that after once getting her away, we must invent some other excuse for a longer stay.

Right there in the mother’s presence, owing to her deafness, we perfected the plans.

I shudder when I think of that hour; when necessary to talk at length about details, to avoid suspicion, I would go to a distant part of the room a little out of range of the mother’s vision, and, appearing to be busy there, would, in a low voice, give my directions.

Our scheme was for her to stay with my friend for two months, if possible, writing back home frequent encouraging letters as to her marked improvement in health, thus gaining consent to remain away.

Later she was to state that my friend, Miss Hurd, a semi-invalid, had grown attached to her and had invited her to go on to New England for a little visit.

If this worked, and she obtained permission to go so far from home, we were to have Miss Hurd become so ill while away as to require Hetty’s services as a nurse, thus accounting for her long stay in Providence.

It proved even a harder undertaking than I had bargained for.

It was my first experience in downright, sustained deception; but there was much at stake, and I was bound to carry the thing through.

Hetty had been at Miss Hurd’s only three weeks when they felt they could keep her no longer--the neighbours were getting curious, and the family was uneasy about the whole situation.

So it was decided to have Hetty go on to Providence early.

As a matter of fact, Miss Hurd came on to U---- to visit me, so they came that far together, Hetty going on to New England.

Meeting her at the train, I could offer only a few hurried words of direction and encouragement, and the train bore her away in the darkness.

Homesick and frightened, she could not get off that train and seek her home, but must journey on, alone, at night, to that strange city, suffering, dread, and wretchedness ahead of her!

About two weeks later her mother appeared at my office, this time in great distress.

Miss Hurd opened the door for her--the very young woman with whom her daughter was supposed to be in Providence--but of course she had no suspicion as to who she was.

The woman demanded that I write and tell Miss Hurd that her daughter must come home at once: people were thinking it queer that Hetty was staying away so long; someone had even intimated that she was married and was going to have a baby--they were saying all sorts of things.

There that deluded mother sat and said to me: “You and I know that it isn’t so; we know the poor girl has been sick, and that she is taking care of this invalid friend of yours; but they have made these insinuations and her father is furious; he says she must come home at once and put a stop to such reports--he says that under the circumstances her duty is to herself and not to Miss Hurd.

” I used what persuasion and arguments I could, and assured her I would communicate immediately with Miss Hurd and Hetty, and tell them how matters stood here, though I hated to distress the poor child with such reports being circulated about her.

She agreed it was a great shame, and, too, just as she was so happy and feeling so like her old self.

As soon as she had gone, in the same room where she had been sitting, Miss Hurd sat and, heading the letter from Providence, wrote to the girl’s mother, begging her to let Hetty stay another month at least, pleading her need, and her physician’s opinion that a change of companions just then would be very prejudicial to her--a letter which the family could show to doubting friends, thus allaying suspicion.

This letter, inclosed in one to Hetty, was sent back with the Providence post-mark, and the family quieted down.