Chapter XI: Through the Gate of Dreams (1)

Much of the good fortune that has come to me has come unsought: Shortly after returning home from Boston an elderly friend of our family, an invalid who spent her winters in Florida, invited me to go there with her. In my somewhat reduced state of health the invitation was most opportune.

My first glimpse of New York, as we stopped there on the way, made Boston seem small.

We started for the South at night. I was a bit timid at going so far from home with the frail little old woman who had tuberculosis, and already had had alarming hemorrhages, and who calmly told me that she would probably die while in the South that winter. With only a kit of medicines and my inexperience to cope with what might arise, I felt rather helpless; but my patient had a stout heart and a cheery disposition, and was soon enjoying my enthusiasm for experiences and scenes which had become an old story to her.

We reached Palatka at sunset one night in February, so the calendar said, but how soft and sweet the air! how like pictures every scene on the street! The palm trees looked artificial, and the orange trees, with both blossoms and fruit on them, reminded me of the toy trees belonging to the Noah’s Ark with which I had played in childhood. Darkies were everywhere, real darkies, with their soft voices and shiftless ways. We had rooms in a fine old comfortable house with a Southern family, and a typical Southern darkey to wait on us who crooned Negro melodies as she lounged around and occasionally did a stroke of work. Her deliberation and her dialect were most amusing. When reminded that her tasks were still undone, she was always “jes’ a-fixin’ to begin to get ready” to do them.

Oh, the delight of the senses that first night under Florida skies! I stepped out on the balcony into a moonlight such as I had never before known--and the delicious odours, the caressing air, the outline of those unfamiliar trees in the garden below! I heard the fountain, and smelled the sulphur water as it trickled in the moonlight, and, gazing on the dreaming view, was stirred by the soft, sensuous beauty of the night. Something seemed to awaken in me: I was happy and sad: lonely, yet wanting to be alone. It was as though something very beautiful ought to happen; my heart seemed ready to burst with either joy or sorrow, I hardly knew which. I suppose all the loveliness made me homesick without knowing it; and that I also vaguely felt that here, in all this sensuous beauty, life--my life--lacked something, perhaps always would lack something--Juliet was on her balcony in the moonlight, but only the roses were climbing to whisper to her; only the fountain trickled to her half-formed thoughts.

At the hotel where we took our meals we made acquaintances, but found none especially congenial. I could not sit on the veranda and play cards, as most of the women did. There were no young people, no children, and few books were accessible. On rainy days the time dragged. Several little excursions on the St. John’s River, and down Rice Creek, varied the monotony of visiting old plantations and orange groves, and strolling along the quiet streets basking in the sunshine. The indolent life was a welcome change after my arduous year at the hospital, and for a time I was content to drift and dream. I enjoyed most the evenings when, in the hotel parlour, my patient would play on the piano. Her touch had a peculiar charm. She could bring the men in from the office; the darkies from the kitchen would peer in at the doors; people loitering on the street would come up on the veranda; even the women would stop their stupid cards and furtively wipe away the tears, as the frail little figure sat at the piano, and the thin white fingers twinkled over the keys, playing “Ben Bolt,” “By Bendermeer’s Stream,” “The Harp that Once Through Tara’s Halls,” and a host of other ballads and dance-tunes. Sometimes she would sing a ballad, and the pathos of her voice made one’s heart ache.

She always left the piano with liquid eyes and a delicate flush on her cheek that made me apprehensive. Music stirred her so much that she permitted herself to indulge in it but infrequently. How she loved life and youth, and what a young heart she had to the last!

A coloured folks’ meeting which I attended there was like the things one reads about: The preacher’s text was “Under a Palm Tree”; he pronounced it “pam” tree, and nearly convulsed us with his big words misapplied. An “experience meeting” followed. Beginning quietly, the experiences and prayers gradually increased in fervour and unction till finally the dusky worshippers were all on their knees--one eloquent supplicant held forth in a lengthy, moving appeal, while the others kept up a monotonous undertone--a weird, melodious sing-song, with interjections of “Amen!” “Hallelujah!” and “Bless de Lawd!” as they swayed and chanted in an abandonment of religious fervour.

At St. Augustine symptoms of “malaria,” which I had developed while in Palatka, suddenly left me. (Our “Dr. Conrad” used to say scornfully, “‘Malaria’ is simply a convenient term to express the unknown.”) What invigoration! what skies! and the sea! Stealing away to the Sea Wall and old Fort Marion, I would look far out across the waters and dream--of what, I know not--just dream. Keen as was already my realization that life is real and earnest, I was yet reluctant to pass through “girlhood’s Gate of Dreams”; I well knew that on my return North I must decide where I should begin to practise; must engage in the work for which the preceding years had been preparing me; but there on the old Sea Wall I could still hold back from the oncoming Future.

On our return we spent some delightful weeks in Washington; saw hundreds of children on Easter Monday at their egg-rolling on the White House lawn, and heard their united voices as they greeted President Harrison when he came out to watch them, with Baby McKee in his arms. In New York, we witnessed the splendid spectacle of the Washington Centennial celebration; and then, in early May, returned to our little village amid the drumlins.

Spectacles and parades have never much interested me, but, besides the Washington Centennial parade, I recall one other (a few years later, however) which stands out significantly, more especially because of my own reactions to it. As a girl I had always been more moved by history or fiction dealing with any other nationality than with my own. When, as children, we had played at being Somebody Else, I chose to be French, Scotch, German--anything but American! The romance of the distant, the unattainable! In school I was never interested in American history, but the history of Greece and Rome--what charm they had!

I actually believed myself wanting in patriotism--a Girl without a Country--till, one summer when visiting in Buffalo, I saw a G. A. R. parade. Parades as parades I abominated, but tried to show a polite interest when my hostess, Dr. Thorndike, announced what good seats she had been able to secure. I learned something about myself that day. I had never supposed I would go across the street to see a president, but when McKinley rode by, and I saw his kindly face and gracious responses to the crowds’ salutes, something stirred within me. Suddenly I got a conception of what it meant to be a president of a great republic. I seemed to realize that it was a nation doing homage to its government, as well as to its chief executive, when the cheers and huzzas greeted our president. It was the first time I had ever thought of him or another as _our_ President; it was really the first time I had felt myself a part of our nation; and it was a thrilling awakening for one who had always believed herself wanting in patriotism. What had done it? Partly the sight of the army of soldiers, I suppose; but I believe it was largely due to the way in which McKinley responded to the greetings of the crowd. There was that in his manner which seemed to say: “I am proud to be your servant; you appear to exalt me, but it is our nation and the office that you exalt. I am one with you, and will do my best to serve you, or rather, to conserve the honour and interests of our nation.” Always after that, the thought of McKinley was blended with gratitude that I was no longer a Girl without a Country.

This stirring of patriotism when he rode by was a feeble forerunner of what I felt later, when I saw on a banner the name of Cayuga County, and of the Post from our home town--saw in the old soldiers the remnant of the Company of which two of my uncles were a part. The faded, tattered flag they carried stood to me for the one under which they had marched away; and, though scrutinizing the ranks in vain for their faces, still I knew the men marching past were among those with whom my young uncles had gone to the front. I began to understand what Mother had always felt when the soldiers had marched by on Decoration Day: she would get away by herself, and, coming suddenly upon her, we would find her weeping--the martial music and the sight always bringing back those dreadful years when her young brothers went away to the War. My Buffalo friends were surprised at the change in my attitude toward parades, for before the day was over I grew enthusiastic enough to suit the most exacting--and why not?--that day I was born an American!

An old schoolmate living in U---- had written me that there was a good opening there for a woman physician, and as Father’s business took him to that city every month or so, I decided to investigate the possibilities there rather than in New England, where, personally, I was more inclined to go. Accordingly, Father called on the leading woman physician in U---- (herself a graduate of Boston University) and reported her as eager to have me come and look the field over.

I had a long wait in Dr. Wyeth’s reception room that afternoon in July, as there were many patients ahead of me. Each time she came out and smilingly said “Next,” I scrutinized her to learn what manner of woman she was. I saw a tall, well-built, middle-aged woman, rather spare, of erect carriage, with a quick, nervous step. Her soft brown hair was ’wavy and streaked with gray; she had clear blue eyes and a fair skin with pink cheeks. Her face had a weary look, but her smile was kind, and I noted her long, white, capable-looking hands. Quietly distinctive in dress, she gave one the impression of being untrammelled by her clothing, yet by no means unmindful of her appearance--there were certain little touches that showed her feminine side, businesslike as was her manner. On the whole I approved of her. She seemed to have all the business capability of “Our Caddie” without her masculinity. I saw her surrounded by evidences of prosperity; heard her spoken of as a successful physician and a noble woman; and thought with admiration and wonder, “Will the time ever come when I shall be a real woman physician--established, successful, and as independent as is she?”

At length she ushered me into her private office, and our acquaintance progressed rapidly. We liked each other instantly; she urged me to come there; gave me sound advice; and prophesied advantages to us both should I come. Practically alone, so far as sister physicians were concerned, she craved one with whom she could affiliate, for although there were three other women physicians in the city, one was intemperate and impossible, one a “bluffer,” and the other, though bright and well-educated, was so lacking in self-confidence as to be of no practical help in consultation.

At the Doctor’s home that night I met her mother, who had one of the sweetest faces I ever saw; it was framed in brown ringlets which hung in a waterfall under her cap; her hair was less tinged with gray than was her daughter’s--a sweet-souled woman, hospitable, with a good word for everyone; a clinging nature that called out the protective instinct in all who met her. I saw that the numerous relatives of the Doctor’s leaned on her and looked to her as to an oracle, and that she lavishly spent herself for them. It was “Dr. Sue” here, and “Dr. Sue” there; and as I came to see more of her, I used to wish she could get away for a long holiday and forget that she had relatives or patients depending upon her. I have never known a life more beautifully and unselfishly lived than that of this noble woman--so resourceful, so ready, so full of reserve strength, even when worn and tired almost to the point of exhaustion.

The business proposition which the Doctor made was that I share her office, taking different office hours; pay the rent for a year, and receive, in turn, the benefit of her office furnishings and medical equipment. She would call me in consultation whenever she had an opportunity, and turn over her practice to me whenever she went away, as she would do in a few weeks, if I would come soon.

How my head whirled that night as I pondered the proposition! The cost seemed stupendous--twenty-eight dollars a month for office rent alone!--but on reaching home and talking it over with Father, we decided to accept her terms. So in mid-July Father and I started for U----, I with my trunk and books, my medicines, and few surgical instruments, and Father with the money to pay a month’s expenses, and a big fund of hope and faith in his daughter’s ability to make a success of this momentous undertaking. When I look back and see how inexperienced I was, how little I knew of the world and of life, I wonder at my audacity; I wonder still more at the faith my friends had in me, and at the confidence and respect which Dr. Wyeth showed in my ability and opinions; but to such faith and confidence I owe largely what success I have attained.

How busy Father and I were that first day, making my few purchases--a small desk being the main one; making arrangements for my business cards in the papers; ordering stationery; renting a lodging-room; and looking up a boarding-place! I recall the gown I wore--a dark green serge which Sister had made for me--very plain, as I had insisted, and suitable for a staid physician.

In a building adjoining the office building, I found a furnished room which I sub-rented from a woman living there, though just as I went there she went away for a time. I have never had such a desolate feeling as I had those few nights when, after closing the office, I climbed the stairs to that lonely little room, the halls echoing to my steps. And I kept thinking, “I am paying eight dollars a month extra for this loneliness!” So it was not many days before I asked Dr. Wyeth if she minded if I slept in the office, using her operating-chair as my bed; arranging a place behind the draperies for my clothes; and making a few other little additions which would suffice for my needs, yet not detract from the professional appearance of the office. She had no objection, but thought I ought to have a more comfortable bed. The change was made, and few who visited the office ever knew that I lodged there. For four years I slept on a narrow operating-chair, never thinking it a hardship.

Sending a month’s rent to the woman of whom I had engaged the room, I wrote her why I had decided to give it up. Replying with a menacing letter, she tried to intimidate me into keeping the room. Scared, though knowing I had made no compact with her for a stated time, I anxiously awaited her return to town, when I called upon her. Pale with rage, her eyes blazing, she denounced me as a liar and a hypocrite, and said she would blast my reputation in U----. I did not know what to make of such conduct. It was the first time I had ever had threatening or abusive language used to me. I had been perfectly honourable with her, but she was wildly unreasonable. I could hardly speak for the dryness of my mouth as she continued her vituperations, and when I escaped from her presence, it was as though from the den of a wild beast. For some time after I was uneasy, but she never took the steps she threatened. I learned later that her mother was insane, and that she herself finally lost her mind.

Under the head of “Business” in one of the city papers, the day after I went to U----, were two items only, the first telling of a new doctor (my humble self) locating there, and the other of a new undertaker having set up in business. Accidental as was the juxtaposition, it was nevertheless a bit startling.

One of the men in the office of the firm for which Father was then travelling had recommended to him a boarding-place for me near my office, and I had engaged board there at once. Although disappointed on seeing the fellow-boarders, knowing I could not afford a high-priced place, I had decided to grin and bear it; but when Dr. Wyeth learned where I was boarding, she said it would not do at all; she named two places, either one of which would be desirable. On asking what they charged, I found that one was two dollars more a week than I was paying, the other one dollar more. So, telling her how necessary it was to count the cost till I could get a footing, I said I had better make no change. But she earnestly and emphatically opposed my staying there; said it was poor policy, would immediately tell against me--a bit of worldly wisdom that I strongly rebelled against--a dollar a week more just to please Mrs. Grundy and board in a more aristocratic neighbourhood! I was full of impotent rage at such a state of affairs, and Father had much the same feeling, but having great respect for Dr. Wyeth’s judgment, I reluctantly made the change. Immediately I saw that she was right. The people with whom I then came in contact were cultured; the whole atmosphere was desirable; and, in a short time, through acquaintances there, I was engaged in work which did much to introduce me well in the city.

“In the leisure of your first few months’ practice” was a phrase which one of our professors had often used in lecturing to us, and through this facetious reiteration, I was prepared for a long wait before that first patient should arrive. But my second day in the city, the woman physician who had an office adjoining ours asked me to see a case with her. It was a servant in a fine house next to the home of Roscoe Conklin. As it was a case of varicose ulcers such as I had seen dozens of in the Dispensary clinics, I was able to make a positive diagnosis, and confidently to advise the Doctor as to treatment, for which she was grateful and gave me a dollar and a half--my first fee. This physician was rather pompous, and not well grounded in medicine. She had a fair exterior, an open countenance, and a big, motherly figure, but she did not inspire confidence in me, yet she was kind-hearted and disposed to be friendly. When, some months later, Sister came to visit me, and the Doctor learned that we were sleeping together on that narrow office-chair, she insisted on our using the unused folding-bed in her office.

As a neighbour she was something of a nuisance, for whenever she knew I was alone in my office she would come in and stay the entire evening. I tired of her talk, and soon resorted to subterfuge to rid myself of her: I would open my waiting-room door (which rang a bell whenever the door opened); would pretend to usher someone in, and then try to simulate the conversation of two persons, also moving about the office, rattling instruments, letting water run, and so on. Knowing she could hear some sounds from her office, I hoped she would think I was engaged, and so stay away. Sometimes I would read aloud, so she would think I had someone in there. Perhaps she heard more distinctly than I thought, and saw through my deception. My most serious grudge against her was for trying to destroy my ideal of one of our much-loved New England poets. She had lived in the same city with him and claimed to have been a frequenter in his home, and she met my glowing enthusiasm for him with the rehearsal of gossip about an intrigue between him and some woman friend. I did not believe her story, but it shocked and angered me, and I detested her for mentioning it. I must have been pretty severe, for she grew apologetic and conciliatory, and never afterward talked to me about such things. Her story may or may not have been true, but I smile sadly now at that girl who looked out upon the world with such unbounded faith in humanity; who held such rigid notions of right and wrong; and suffered such painful shocks on finding both good and bad mixed in the same individual.

I had been practising nine days when I received my first office call. The time had seemed very long since that day after my arrival, when Dr. M---- had called me in consultation. I had begun to feel that the waiting time was going to be no joke. But on that momentous day, a working-girl strayed into my office. Listening to her symptoms, I prescribed as carefully as I could, calmly took the seventy-five cents office-fee, and ushered her out in my most professional manner. When the door had closed upon her, I literally danced for joy; the capers I cut would have made an onlooker laugh--or cry, for it had its pathetic side. There was so much at stake; it meant so much to me, to my family, and friends--and here was the beginning! a patient had actually come to me! I had to be careful lest the physicians whose offices were each side of mine should hear my demonstrations. I ran to the mirror and stood on tip-toe (it was hung high for Dr. Wyeth), and looked for sympathy into my own sparkling eyes, and saw my flushed face, and felt half ashamed, and wholly elated, as I nodded and smiled to myself. Then I skipped about the room again, until I remembered my new account-book with its lone entry. Proudly making my second entry, I then recorded in my case-book the patient’s symptoms and my prescription. I do not recall that she ever came again, but hope the _bryonia_ which I gave her for rheumatism helped her as much as her coming helped me.

This was my red-letter day, for scarcely had I become presentable from the elation of that first call when another patient came. I felt like an old hand at the business as I gave her the medicine and carelessly took the office-fee. Although I had had patients for two years in dispensary and hospital, these were the first who had paid me for my services. A check for several months of my present salary, put into my hands this minute, could not produce the elation I felt at receiving those paltry office-fees.

As though that were not enough for one day! My cup literally ran over when, in the evening, the telephone rang and there was a hurry call from the hotel across the way. Seizing my medicine-case, which I had heretofore been unnecessarily carrying in my walks about the city (in obedience to Dr. Wyeth, though I felt like a hypocrite in so doing), I flew down the stairs and across the street where I found the patient--a nervous, impressionable girl, whom I had no difficulty in quieting and relieving, at the same time alleviating her mother’s anxiety as well.

As I went through the hotel corridors I walked on air; my heart was beating tumultuously. I wanted to shout for joy. A band was playing in the street, making it harder still to maintain decorum until I could reach my friendly office--that office where I had spent so many lonely hours waiting for the door-bell to ring! that office which had this day witnessed my triple triumph!

A few evenings later the bell rang. In the waiting room stood a tall, lanky old chap.

“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.”

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.