The Doctor's Red Lamp A Book of Short Stories Concerning the Doctor's Daily Life

THE DOCTOR’S FRONT YARD. XX c302 THE DOCTOR’S FRONT YARD. IT ALL began with the tap of a gavel—an imposing white gavel adorned with a yellow bow and resounding like the crack of doom. Behind it, under a nodding purple ostrich feather, sat Mrs. Bunker; before it the eight awe-struck members of the Village Improvement Society; enveloping us all in its cold, judicial atmosphere was room No. 10 of the new town building, maintained as a meeting place in order to give dignity to our association, and its rent representing just so many entertainments and strawberry-festivals per annum. Mrs. Bunker is the “progressive woman” of West Hedgeworth. She lives in that large, white house with the terraces and box borders and a fountain, just where you turn into Main street. She goes to Boston twice each season to get clothes and ideas upon which she feeds our little social circle through the medium of clubs and afternoon teas. The clothes are remarkable, the ideas equally up to date; we look upon her with reverence and obey her slightest mandate. I believe I am the only one who now and then rebels inwardly. Why, for example, I should have been considered eligible for the V. I. S., a girl of twenty-three, with not the slightest pretensions to domestic talent or judgment, except that I have had to take care of father and the boys for the last few years, I couldn’t see,—nor could any one else; but Mrs. Bunker had ordained that I should go into it, and I had no choice. “You are a very clever girl, Irene,” she explained severely, as if this were a situation to be deprecated, but could be atoned for by penance of some sort, “and it would be extremely unfortunate for you to have no outlet for your talents. People should take up the work that best suits them.” I withdrew all objections, of course. If Mrs. Bunker pronounces one clever, no matter how wretched one may be under the verdict, there is never any appeal from it. But as the progressive woman is always ready to shoulder the responsibility of her friends’ cleverness, I haven’t found mine a very great burden. So far as the duties of membership in the Village Improvement Society are concerned, they only consist in doing as one is bid. The gavel roused me from a study of bonnets. Mrs. Suter, the wife of our good druggist, and Mrs. Pitman, the postmaster’s lady, always faithfully advertise the village milliner in familiar black-lace-covered frames, the one adorned with aggressive bunches of buttercups, the other trailed over by a hairy-leaved poppy. Mrs. Cope, the Episcopal clergyman’s wife, has the parish down upon her for appearing in unmistakable French headgear, simple, but beyond imitation; it does not justify her in their eyes that the hats come from a rich relative, and the poor soul is credited with proud and haughty aspirations, of which she is as innocent as a babe. Miss Maria Withers’ strong point is not fashion; so the little parched, limp, black bonnet which she has found satisfactory for eight years, still perches above her gray curls. I was absorbed in working out a series of arguments on the effect of dress upon character, when the white gavel descended and the Society came to order with a start. We are nothing if not parliamentary. The latest manual lies at Mrs. Bunker’s right hand. Miss Scrapson, of the academy, makes an excellent secretary, and her minutes are comprehensive. Miss Withers, as treasurer, is somewhat rambling and uncertain. Her reports are subject to pauses, silent mental calculations and ejaculations of “Dear me,—no, that wasn’t it—just wait a minute,” and excursions into a little black bag which she carries, after missing items on stray scraps of paper. Mrs. Bunker bears this with self-control, as Miss Maria has valuable qualities. Miss Scrapson and Mrs. Cope play into her hands most cleverly in a discussion over a motion or a point of order. We manage to have a little unfinished business on the carpet, usually, to give style to the meeting, and altogether maintain an air of importance which is quite remarkable for a small village club. But on this particular day, a May morning, I saw in our president’s eye that there was something new and exciting to be taken up. “Ladies,” she announced at last, “our spring campaign is opening with opportunities of no mean order. The village of West Hedgeworth is menaced with a disgrace which so far outdoes in horror even the peanut shells on the post-office floor and the loose papers on the common that words almost fail me as I mention it. Give me your close attention, please.” Ever since the meeting when Mrs. Bunker took Mrs. Pitman to task for the condition of her ash barrels, we have been subject to a weak-kneed and guilty sensation when she gives us an introduction of this sort. “You probably know,” she continued in more colloquial style, “the small house with pointed gables and a piazza, fronting the common next the old Benjamin place. You are aware how neatly it has always been kept by former occupants. That house is just rented by a doctor who has come here with his wife, I am told, from New York. They moved in a week ago, and in that short space of time,— one week , ladies,—they have made the premises a blot upon the scutcheon of our lovely village. Their packing-cases were unloaded on the piazza in a high wind, and bits of paper, excelsior and what not are scattered from end to end of the yard; boxes, planks, tin cans and other refuse are piled at one side; the whole appearance of the establishment is enough to make one of us ,”—impressively—”avert her head in passing it. And still the scandal goes on, unabated, from day to day. It is a moment for immediate action, a moment to be seized by patriotic and public-spirited women, and the disturbers of our peace of mind made to feel the necessity of taking immediate steps towards reform. I lay the case before you, ladies, for suggestions as to prompt aggression.” There was a suitable pause. Then Miss Withers’ gentle voice piped up. “This is really a dreadful state of things,” she began mildly. “I hadn’t noticed it myself, I suppose because”— “Hadn’t noticed it!” ejaculated the president, in tones of thunder. “I was going to say,” fluttered Miss Maria hurriedly, “because I haven’t passed there in two weeks. If I had, no doubt I should have been very much annoyed about it.” “ Annoyed! ” exclaimed Mrs. Bunker again, savagely. “Annoyance is altogether too personal a term. It arouses all my loyalty to the society; that’s the way it impresses me .” Of course this brought forth many protestations of the same sentiment from the rest of us. Then Mrs. Pitman ventured to ask if Mrs. Bunker didn’t think it would be well to send a committee to the doctor and ask him to “clear up a little.” “The chair has no thoughts, Mrs. Pitman,” answered that body loftily. “I await a motion.” I always second everybody else’s motion, but have never made one yet, in the meetings. Miss Scrapson, however, came to the fore, and it was presently decided that the president should appoint a committee to visit the doctor and his lady and reprove them. “If that is really the pleasure of the Association,” said Mrs. Bunker, with a wave of her purple ostrich plume, “I will appoint Miss Allison” (that is my name), “a committee of one to call at the doctor’s house for this purpose. As you are one of the young ladies of the place, Irene, it would be in the way of your social duty at any rate. You can mingle business with pleasure.” “Yes,—but Mrs. Bunker, I never could mingle things! Don’t ask me to go,” I implored. “I’m sure I shall make a failure of it. I don’t want to offend them, you know,—they may be nice people.” “ Nice people! ” Mrs. Bunker compressed her lips into that peculiar stiff smile which means scorn, and closed her eyes slowly with her head tilted back. “They certainly must be lax,” murmured Miss Scrapson,—”very lax.” Nobody, however, came to my rescue. I was evidently doomed to be the unhappy instrument of the Society’s revenge. I gave in and took my instructions as meekly as I could. “The wife has an extremely youthful and inexperienced air,” said my mentor, “and undoubtedly needs a little judicious instruction. It will alarm her less to be confronted by a person of her own age. Our work is largely educational, you know, so do not antagonize her. Simply say to her something of this kind in gentle but firm tones: ‘My dear madam, do you not appreciate the beauty of this peaceful little village, and will you not bear your part henceforward in the maintenance of its order and symmetry?’ Such a method of speech would be better than to alarm her. And yet don’t fail to impress upon her that disorder simply cannot be .” I acquiesced, with a slightly strangling sound, which the president did not notice, fortunately. It resulted from physical distress of a kind which is sometimes on these occasions, beyond control. It was with me yet, in a milder form, as I ascended the doctor’s steps that afternoon, card-case in hand, which last appendage seemed the most despicable mockery. The house was a neat, smart little affair in its way, inartistic, but not aggressively ugly, and well arranged for professional purposes. The sign, Dr. M. H. Richmond , was tacked up beside the door. There certainly were evidences of an upheaval, however, in plain sight. The front yard was, as Mrs. Bunker had described it, littered with papers and excelsior, the piazza floor as bad. At the side of the house was a pile of tin cans, boxes, broken china and other unsightly abominations. Somehow one could not help feeling that a woman’s eye and touch were wanting, and I found myself stiffening against the wife who could allow such a state of affairs to go on. My primmest expression was ready, as the door flew open, swung hospitably wide by a big young man with a short brown beard and gray eyes. The moment I saw him it occurred to me to wonder what he would take me for—patient, caller, or perhaps an agent! Horrible thought, that last,—I found a certain timidity threatening my assurance. “Might I,” I began, putting myself into the latter category at once by my mode of address, “might I see the lady of the house, please?” “Walk in, won’t you?” said the doctor affably, ushering me into what happened to be his office. Ah,—one knew now a little better where one was. Whatever its exterior shortcomings, this must be the home of thoroughly cultivated people. Their furniture was solid, their pictures were fine, and their few decorations faultless. As to their books, filling all available space, no library critic could find the selection wanting in true literary discrimination. I felt the courage of my mission diminishing as I slid into a leather covered arm chair opposite the easy, amused looking doctor. “I’m so very sorry,” he observed, “that she isn’t at home. She went away by the early train this morning; but perhaps you could leave a message with me if it’s a matter of importance.” There was a short but awkward pause. No help for it,—I might as well make the plunge. The more Bunkerish I could be, the better, if any stern message was to be sent to the wife by this good-natured personage. “I wanted to see Mrs. Richmond,” I explained stiffly, “on a little matter of business connected with the work of the Village Improvement Society. It was reported at our last meeting that the condition of your front yard is very bad.” “My front yard! I see.” The doctor looked quizzical but serene, and glanced out over his shoulder to the lawn. “Our Association,” I continued bravely, “aims to incite the pride of householders in the appearance of the village as well as in their own homes; and your place here is conspicuous, facing the common as it does. We thought that might not have occurred to you.” “It really hadn’t,” smiled my host. “This is very kind of you, however. Do I understand that your Society orders me, through you, to clear up the yard? In that case, do they provide cleaners and so forth,—or will they perhaps come and take charge of it themselves?” “Not at all,” I exclaimed angrily. “You are expected to attend to it.” “What should you do,” he inquired suavely, “if I left it in disorder? I ask from curiosity, naturally, as I should never have the temerity to defy so august a body. Would the law be obliged to take its course?” “You are probably aware that we have no law whatever behind us,” I said with all the dignity I could assume, “though the selectmen are very good about backing us up in flagrant cases. But I should imagine a doctor just settling in a town would be sufficiently alive to his own interests to see the propriety of making a good impression by the appearance of his house and grounds.” “Ah!” He nodded slowly, smiling in a way which maddened me. “Now I see. This is a special kindness on your part. How grateful I am to you. Your suggestion may really result in my winning the hearts of the West Hedgeworth people; and I shall begin at once. The propriety of making a good impression by the appearance of my house and grounds!—it is a noble sentiment. My colored boy who is my only servant, shall attend to the matter, and the Village Improvement Society shall see a change indeed. Are there any other little touches,—extra touches, you know,—that occur to you?” I glanced at the big, low table with its littering of attractive books and magazines, a great ivory club of a paper knife lying across an uncut review. I was as much at home among those things as he. Why had I been forced into the attitude of an impertinent village miss, to be laughed over with his wife again in the way he was laughing now? The idea was distressing; but I had no defence. “I think you are quite capable of arranging your own yard,” I said curtly. “You will very soon find out what the village people like. All that our Association requires is cleanliness and good order;”—with which I moved towards the door, murmuring a regret that I had not seen Mrs. Richmond. “This is so good of you”—and now the doctor actually showed a shade of embarrassment himself,—”that I am really overwhelmed with shame to be obliged to disappoint you about my wife. It would be so pleasant for her to know you ladies and to”—he coughed slightly—”to come under your helpful influence. But the fact is, she isn’t—she doesn’t—there never has—in short, there isn’t any Mrs. Richmond. My sister came with me to help me settle things. She is a college girl somewhat younger than I and with no experience whatever. I hope you will be willing to welcome her when she comes back in July,—that is, of course, if we are tidy enough to be recognized by the villagers.” Still the blandest expression about his mouth, but a twinkle in the gray eyes which made me grind my teeth. And he had calmly sat there, letting me call on him ! I attempted to “sweep” across the piazza with dignity, but only swept up little bits of excelsior on the hem of my gown. But I did make him feel the arrows of a dignified wrath, I think;—not that he evinced any such sensation at the time. To Mrs. Bunker, who had asked for a prompt report, I flew. She took the affair with unsympathetic calmness. “You did your duty, Irene,” was her gracious commendation, “and it was not your fault that the girl—who certainly was there, for I saw her—should be his sister and not his wife. You said precisely the right thing, and I trust he will profit by it and earn the respect of the village. I am glad he is a young man of taste.” He got on, whether possessed of taste or not. It annoyed me to see the way he made friends with everybody who crossed his path, man, woman or child. They were rather slow to consult him professionally; but Doctor Bell, the old physician who had all the practice round here, lives at Hedgeworth Centre, three miles away, so when Miss Phœbe Withers, Miss Maria’s older sister, had an attack of heart failure one day, they sent for Doctor Richmond, and took a tremendous fancy to him. I kept out of his way; to my mind he was the most thoroughly disagreeable man I ever met. The front yard, meanwhile, had been cleared up. Nick, the black imp who drove, cooked and gardened for the doctor, was known to be mysteriously occupied behind the house for hours at a time, after the rubbish was removed. Mrs. Benjamin saw it all from her back windows, and reported it at the sewing society. He spent hours pottering among paint-cans, starting seeds and what not; and shortly after, the front fence appeared painted grass green, the gate picked out with white cross-bars, and the lamp-post similarly decorated, bearing a brand-new reflector. Then clam-shell borders to the gravel-walk cropped out, and two round clam-edged beds of geraniums stared from the lawn, while a “rockery” of red and blue boulders, with ferns, reared itself where the piles of tin cans had been. “Do you like that sort of thing, I want to know?” I inquired wrathfully of Mrs. Bunker at our next Village Improvement meeting. “Well, it looks perfectly neat,” she answered, “and it is in the style of most of the best kept yards here. I can’t say that I should not prefer quieter colors; but he is a young man yet, you know.” I was silenced. What right had I, any way, to feel as if there were a sort of practical joke on me, personally, in all this? The day after, a new ornament appeared;—a pair of andirons, painted scarlet, and a hollowed out log across them filled with yellow nasturtiums. Mrs. Pitman pointed it out to me delightedly. “Just like a real fire!” she said. “Do you see, Irene? The doctor is quite a landscape gardener, isn’t he?” I made no reply. Another decoration was set forth next, on the opposite side of the yard;—this time a crane, also of scarlet hue, and a swinging pot, with money-wort bubbling in it and dribbling down the sides. By ill luck I was passing at the moment when Nick put it there, turning round with a grin for the approval of his master, who stood in the window. “Very good, indeed, Nick,” I heard the doctor call out. “You’re a regular Village Improvement Society in yourself, boy.” I wondered if it were possible, by Delsartian methods, to throw scorn into the expression of one’s back. The attempt ended weakly in one of those little conscious adjustments of drapery to which one resorts involuntarily at such junctures. Somehow I felt that those gray eyes were upon me. I had occasionally caught the expression of them before, always with the inevitable twinkle, when we met in public. He grew into the habit of dropping in at the Bunkers’, to my disgust, as it spoiled my own intimacy there. Mr. B., a shadowy figure in the background of the family stage, had been cured, or imagined he had, of rheumatism by the new physician, and took a great fancy to him. Emily, the daughter, who is so fearfully quiet that most people never make any attempt to rouse her, was actually known to chat with him quite naturally and easily; and our beloved president submitted to cruel thrusts from him with a good grace. “Mrs. Bunker,” he said one evening as we were all sitting on the piazza in a June twilight, “you’ve never told me yet how you liked the arrangement of my front yard. Have you seen the new garden seat I had put out this week? It’s one of the latest fads in outdoor decoration, made of the head-board and frame of an antique bedstead—a very choice thing. I got the idea from a farmhouse up on the north road.” “I haven’t noticed it,” she answered somewhat cautiously, “but I observe, doctor, that you have an idea of falling in with the taste of the people.” “My dear madam,” he clasped his hand round one knee and looked off dreamily into space,—”a doctor just settling down in a town should be sufficiently alive to his own interests to see the propriety of making a good impression by the appearance of his house and grounds.” How dared he mock me to my very face in this fashion? I was thankful for the little back gate leading out of the Bunkers’ grounds, by which I could get a short cut home, leaving my good-byes with Emily Bunker. When we met accidentally at the post-office next morning, I turned my back on him to stamp some letters, and never looked up till he was gone, after telling Alice Cobb, one of the village belles, who stood there, that he was going away in the afternoon to his sister’s Commencement and would bring her back with him. The week seemed very peaceful, and I enjoyed going about without the dread of further shafts of ridicule. I was always planning some way to give his impertinence a decided snub, but never found the chance. The afternoon of his return, I was sitting with my work in Mrs. Benjamin’s parlor as the buggy drove up, Nick having been left to walk home from the station. When he helped the sister out,—a manifestly high bred, charming little blonde,—I couldn’t help watching for the effect upon her of those painted monstrosities. She wouldn’t tolerate them a moment, I felt sure. But oh, stab after stab! She gave one glance at them and turned to her brother with an expression of such utter merriment that I knew at once the thing was a joke already understood between the two. I decided that Amy Richmond would not become a friend of mine. Yet curiously enough she actually sought me out, at an academy reception the next night. Emily Bunker introduced her, and she began at once: “I’ve been so anxious to meet you, Miss Allison. Morris tells me so much about you, and he’s sure we shall be congenial.” I stiffened. Another back-handed thrust, probably, lay underneath this. “He thinks I shall learn an immense amount from you, too,” she pursued,—”don’t you Morris?”—to the doctor, who was unexpectedly standing behind me. “I’ve told my sister,” he answered, “that she must persuade you to give her some hints about household matters. She hasn’t had even as much experience yet as Nick and I.” I tried to be very ungracious, as dark suspicions flew through my mind; but Miss Richmond looked absolutely guileless, and furthermore she wouldn’t let me alone; there was no use trying to avoid her. And it did seem good to have a friend of her sort. The West Hedgeworth girls are bright and pretty, and some of them intellectual, but we had all been village comrades too long to get up much enthusiasm over one another’s society. Doctor Richmond’s brotherly devotion caused him to lend his sister the buggy and spirited little horse for her own use now and then, besides the drives she took with him; so we two enjoyed long excursions through the country roads, steeped in July sunshine and finding our mutual interest deeper with every day. Once I went to tea with them, and on that occasion the doctor seemed quite like other people, except just as I was leaving under the escort of my younger brother, which I had purposely arranged, the temptation to give me a parting thrust was too strong for him, and he remarked as we descended the front steps: “Miss Allison, I am so glad to have had you get a glimpse of our clam-shells in the moonlight.” Amy went off to the seashore a day or two later, and I felt really sorry for him, but it was much the easiest way to avoid him altogether, and I never asked him to come to our house, nor crossed his path if I could help it. As for the nasturtiums and geraniums, scorching on his lawn in the midsummer heat, I wanted no sight of them. By and by I went away myself, and came back in September to a taste of the unpleasantnesses of life. My two brothers left home, one to a business position in Boston, the other to college. Father, meanwhile, who for eight years since mother’s death had been lost in melancholy and required my constant offices as consoler, divulged the fact that a buxom widow in Hedgeworth Centre had succeeded in resurrecting his buried affections; an individual as utterly unlike—well, there was a sting about it all that made things look pretty black for awhile, and since they desired the engagement “kept quiet,” I locked up my woes and could only wonder now and then whether anybody felt any sympathy, while parrying the usual village questions about father’s frequent drives to the Centre. The Bunkers went abroad for the winter, thank Heaven!—and the V. I. S. was suspended for the time being. Mercifully I had a chance to do something for somebody else. Aunt Abby, my mother’s sister, who had lived alone with her servants in a big house fronting the common, a rather morose and unmanageable old maiden lady, was breaking down. My other aunt, who lives in California, could not come east at once, so I was the only member of the family to nurse her, and with father and the boys provided for I had time to go to her whenever she needed me. Dr. Bell fell ill and Dr. Richmond was called. His appearance in the sick-room seemed likely to destroy the only comfort I had there; but, strange to say, I laid down my weapons before three visits were over. His management of her was absolutely perfect; thoughtful, gentle, cheery, and so patient with her whims and imaginings, poor old soul, that his coming grew to be the one bright spot in her life, and I fancied she would give herself up to complete invalidism for the sake of them. But he looked grave one day over her, and informed me she must have a nurse. “Do you think me incapable?” I asked rather sharply. “No, but you couldn’t hold out to do all there is to be done. Your aunt is going to be worse, Miss Allison, and I doubt if we can pull her through. You’ll want somebody for night work.” Mrs. Smith, the village nurse, is the dreariest of her kind, and brings an atmosphere of melancholy with her. My services were needed as cheerer-up from this time on, for poor Aunt Abby grew visibly weaker, and finally one stormy night the end seemed near, so I did not go home. Dr. Richmond came in about nine o’clock and found me in the cold, lofty parlor with its straight backed furniture and grim family portraits. “See here,” he remarked as he returned from the sick-room, “mightn’t you be a little more comfortable somehow? You can’t sit up all night on the edge of a slippery sofa like that. Why don’t you doze, and let the nurse call if she wants you?” I had unconsciously taken the attitude of my childhood’s years, when sent to call on Aunt Abby and charged not to let my feet touch the furniture, my hands crossed in my lap, and spine rigid. But I couldn’t have slept at any rate, I told him, and should manage all right. He opened the front door to depart, then came back. A West Indian tornado was tearing at the house and lashing the trees with howls of fury, the chimneys moaning and blinds rattling. He looked at me irresolutely, I sitting motionless. What did a mere storm matter,—a tumult of nature which would be over by morning? He might object to it, with nothing worse to worry about; it made no difference to me. “I must be on hand every hour, anyway,” he said slowly, “to watch your aunt’s pulse. Neither you nor the nurse would understand it. If you don’t mind, I’ll stay here, instead of coming back and forth across the common in such a gale as this. And meanwhile let me show you a better way to rest.” Poor Aunt Abby! It was fortunate that she could not see her plush sofa moved around cornerwise and its end filled with pillows, nor the logs which the doctor brought from the cellar piled across her beautifully polished, unused andirons. Had I any business to sink back luxuriously and enjoy the sparkle and warmth of a fire, with that unconscious figure in the next room? I sprang up again and tiptoed in to ask the nurse if I might not take her place. “No,” said Mrs. Smith dolorously but firmly, “you ain’t experienced enough to watch out her last hours. Miss Abby’s been good to me in ways I sha’n’t say nothin’ about, and I’m a-goin’ to see her through. All I want you for is to call if I need you, and so long as I ain’t all alone I shall stay up till the last.” I crept back, feeling incompetent and useless, and with some of the diminished nerve which results from the nearness and certainty of death—that hour we are never ready for. “Lie against the cushions, please,” commanded the doctor quietly. “Now I’m going to be here and watch every symptom. You won’t have to keep anything on your mind,—and your aunt may rally, remember, perhaps even return to consciousness again. Just put the responsibility entirely on Mrs. Smith and me, and try to rest as much as you can.” There was no resisting this; he should not see, however, that my eyes grew moist under the unwonted sensation of being looked out for. I turned my head away to pull my forces together, but he had gone back to Aunt Abby’s bedside. When he came out, in about five minutes, he told me that all was going well, and then sitting down began to speak of everyday matters. Before very long a better footing was established between us than ever before, and for a couple of hours we talked, only interrupted by visits to the sick-room. I forgot my secret smart at having been ridiculed, in hearing Morris Richmond tell delightful bits of his own experiences and life interest. Not being enough of a woman of the world to resist the delicate flattery which such a recital implies, I didn’t suspect him either of adroitness enough to use his autobiography for that purpose. But about twelve o’clock he looked at his watch, then at me, and frowned. “You’re horribly tired,” he said, “and I’ve no business to keep you up when it isn’t necessary. Please go upstairs to bed, and sleep till four o’clock. I shall be here till then, and there will be absolutely nothing for you to do. If your aunt is improving, you needn’t be called till seven, for you can take Mrs. Smith’s place to-morrow, and Mrs. Benjamin will come over to help you if you need her.” Evidently he himself was tired of talking so long. I didn’t give him credit for any especially disinterested motives in sending me off, but went with some resentment, since he so plainly wished me to go. I didn’t sleep, however. The mirror on the wall of the barren guest room moved from some hidden draught or jar, the old willow whipped its twigs against the window panes, and I lay watching them with a strange tumult in my heart, a whirlwind of whys and conjectures, a creeping nervousness as to the outcome of the next few hours, a lonely dread of the after months when Aunt Abby should be gone and my home life changed,—and yet, through it all, an odd new satisfaction which I tried to push away, and a tendency to go over word for word the talk of that evening and the looks on Morris Richmond’s face. There was a faint dawn in the room before I knew it, and then it occurred to me that the doctor ought to have a little breakfast after his long vigil. The servants were asleep, but the kitchen fire had been left “in,” and I knew where everything was kept. I freshened myself up and stole down the back stairs to cook coffee and eggs and hot toast. In the midst of it the door opened behind me, and I started guiltily. “What are you doing now ?” he demanded. “How did you know?” I faltered. “The smell of that coffee going all through the house is enough to wake anybody. So this is the way you obey orders! Miss West is better, and I am just going. You might perfectly well have slept on.” “But I couldn’t,” I insisted, “and you will stay and drink the coffee now that I have cooked it.” He consented if I would have some too, and we ate our impromptu meal in the dark dining-room, warming up over it and chatting most familiarly. It was growing light when the doctor took his hat in the hall. “Thank you for being so good to me,” he said. “I appreciate it. Now please don’t overdo. I sha’n’t be in again probably until noon, unless you send for me;”—and he opened the door, where we both stood looking out. We were just opposite his house. The storm was abating, but the havoc it had made was visible everywhere. A big elm had been uprooted on the common, and lay prone, with hundreds of scattered twigs about it. And the doctor’s front yard? Alas! Mrs. Benjamin’s old buttonwood tree, which had been dying all summer, was crashed over, burying in its prostrate branches the crane, the andirons, the gay beds and all. Nature itself had swept away the last barriers now, I reflected triumphantly, to what might be a good satisfactory friendship. Better days were coming. But— “Whew!” said my companion lightly. “Look over there. Dear me—I must hurry home and set Nick at work. It will take us a whole week to get square with the Village Improvement Society!” Aunt Abby lived nearly a month longer. Her sister came on from California and took charge in the sick-room with an energy which left very little for others to do. After the funeral she went away again. The property had been left to her, the house to me, with just enough income to live, economically, in it. Father and his affianced bride were well satisfied with this arrangement, and made preparations to be married at Thanksgiving, at which time I was to move into my new abode. I felt it to be following indeed in Aunt Abby’s footsteps, and could see myself in imagination going on year after year with my one servant, growing older and grimmer, brooding over past days, finally slipping out of life without a friend in the world. It was rather a new thing for me to take this morbid view, but one always finds a fresh idea interesting, and I hugged it for a time with all the vehemence of my nature. The doctor I had seen now and then, and we had managed to remain pretty well on our new basis of easy and even confidential acquaintanceship. But I could not forget the old grudge; he would not keep up that spirit of mockery which cropped out so often unless he regarded me still as a village nonenity. Yet why need I care? One November afternoon I started out to walk off the blues. It was gray and windy, but with occasional gleams of sunshine,—a good day for a hilltop. I went by the Bunkers’ shut up mansion, waved to Miss Maria at her little corner sitting-room window, shook my head to resist Mrs. Benjamin’s beckoning hand as I passed her door, and glanced at the doctor’s yard. It was in order again indeed. The mutilated crane and andirons had been removed, and the beds emptied and raked over; but a new horror had been perpetrated in the shape of two brilliant globular lawn-reflectors on pedestals, one blue-gray, the other yellow, which gave a miniature distorted panorama of all passing objects and showed me a waddling image of myself, with flattened, wrathful countenance. It was the last straw, and I walked fiercely away, resolved that if my future dwelling must be opposite this man’s, its front blinds should be lowered forever. As that walk registered just about the lowest point my mental and spiritual barometer has ever reached, I can hardly forget it. I climbed over Hart’s hill, and from its summit looked off westward over level fields, bounded by a horizon of tossing gray clouds and slits of pale, yellow light. The old graveyard lay to the right, smooth bare maple boughs tossed above me. The road ran straight ahead, and I stood undecided whether to go on down or not. If it had been in a story, I reflected bitterly, the man I hated yet longed to see would appear then and there; in real life such things never happen at the right juncture. I should simply go back, give father his tea, and see him depart as usual for the evening, then sit alone. But, after all, this is a story, or I shouldn’t be telling it. A buggy turned out of the farm-yard half way down the hill, and came toward me. I knew the horse and occupant, and turned my feet resolutely homeward, with a confusion in my brain which I thought was anger. A rapid trot sounded behind me, and then the doctor’s “Whoa!” I did not look up till I heard him say: “Miss Allison, would you please let me drive you home?” “I came out for a walk,” I answered. “Yes, but you’ve had the walk. And besides that, you are more by yourself nowadays than is good for you.” What business was it of his?—”Then, best of all, I have a letter from Amy to read you.” “Oh, I don’t suppose it matters,” said I, climbing wearily in beside him, “only please have the goodness not to drive me past your house. The prospect of looking at it morning, noon and night hereafter is bad enough since this latest infliction.” “Infliction! do you really think so?” he asked, with the old merriment in his voice. “But I had to put something there, you know, to brighten it up a little. You certainly would have me sufficiently alive to my own interests as a physician, wouldn’t you, to see the propriety—” “Stop!” I burst out, my cheeks one flame and the hot tears of tired-out nerves and pent-up anger springing to my eyes. “Be kind enough to understand that for your interests as a physician I don’t care one straw!” The Doctor turned and laid his hand gently on mine, looking down at me with a smile which levelled all my fortifications. “Of course you don’t,” he said. “But as a man—you surely must have seen by this time how badly I need a wife! Won’t you come home and take command of my front yard?” Ruth Huntington Sessions. XXI c322 A GENTLE MANIAC. A STUDY IN LOVE AND INSANITY. CHARACTERS. Mr. Valdingam. Henry Van Hyde, M. D. Susan Valdingam. Rose. Richard , a servant. Time : Present. Place : Mr. Valdingam’s country place near New York. Scene : Library in Mr. Valdingam’s house. At the right of the stage, there is a large window opening upon a veranda and garden; moonlight effect. At the left there is an exit to other parts of the house. Mr. Valdingam ( who is pacing the room restlessly ): Dr. Van Hyde is extremely inconsiderate—extremely inconsiderate. He promised to be here at six-thirty sharp. A physician should keep his word at all hazards. ( He goes to his desk at right and rings a bell. ) ( Enter Richard from LEFT .) Richard : You rang, sir? Mr. Valdingam ( testily ): When does the next train leave for New York? Richard : In a half hour, sir. Mr. Valdingam : Good. If Dr. Van Hyde does not arrive within that time, you will take the train and fetch him. Do you understand? Richard : Yes, sir. Mr. Valdingam : Meanwhile, tell my sister that I want to speak with her. ( Exit Richard , L. ) Now I’ll surprise that excellent woman; excellent, that is to say, if she possessed an ounce of brains. If she could have her way, Rose would soon be in a lunatic asylum. ( Enter Susan , L. ) Susan ( curtly ): You have something to say to me? Mr. Valdingam ( sharply ): Get ready a supper for two—for two —do you hear? Susan : For two? Mr. Valdingam : And you can serve it in this room. Susan : You are expecting a friend? Mr. Valdingam : Yes, a friend; or, rather a physician—a physician ... for Rose. Susan ( aside ): The same old delusion ( To Mr. Valdingam .) But, brother, Rose is quite well. Mr. Valdingam : Well! You say well !... It’s none of your business, however. Do as I bid. Susan ( aside ): It’s useless to argue with him. ( To Mr. Valdingam .) When do you expect your—friend? Mr. Valdingam : By the train that was due several minutes ago. Late, as usual. ( Enter Richard , L. ) Richard : The doctor has just arrived, sir. Mr. Valdingam : Good. Bring the lamps, and then show the doctor in. Susan ( aside ): That doctor may be useful, after all. ( Exeunt Richard and Susan .) Mr. Valdingam ( exultingly ): Ha! I’ve gained my point, in spite of them. Rose shall be saved. ( Enter , L. , Richard , with two lighted lamps. After placing them, he retires, leaving Dr. Van Hyde in the background .) Dr. Van Hyde : This is Mr. Valdingam? Mr. Valdingam : And this Dr. Van Hyde? How delighted I am to meet you at last! But it is disgraceful that you should have been so long delayed. I shall see to it that the officers of the road are severely censured. Dr. Van Hyde : Pray do not worry over such a trifle. Mr. Valdingam : That is very nicely said, sir.... As I informed you by letter, the case which you are about to treat is a very serious one—a very complicated one. It may even baffle you.... But before I add anything, permit me to see my sister for an instant. She is preparing a little supper for us, and, if you don’t object, we shall eat it here, tête-à-tête . Dr. Van Hyde : With the greatest pleasure, Mr. Valdingam. Mr. Valdingam : Then kindly make yourself at home. The house is yours while you are in it. ( Exit Mr. Valdingam , L. ) Dr. Van Hyde ( throwing himself into an easychair ): A comfortable place, certainly. That fellow, Valdingam, however, is an odd chap. Restless and excitable, I take it; but very agreeable, otherwise. I wonder what sort of a little creature the patient is, by the way. A stupid thing, I suppose.... ( After a moment of reflection .) Strange!—I wonder if I am losing my own mind. For three days I’ve been in a state which is positively abnormal. I am haunted by a face, and I can’t rid my memory of it. And what a face! Who could forget it after having once looked upon it? I am in love with it. I am still more in love with its owner. That smile, like a glimpse of paradise! That mouth, like a dissected strawberry! That blush, like the stolen red of a rose! Oh, shall I ever see her again? ( Enter Mr. Valdingam , L. ) Mr. Valdingam : You must be hungry, Dr. Van Hyde, and I fear that I can offer you little to appease a healthy appetite—a bowl of broth, a tender bit of broiled chicken, and some of the finest Burgundy in the world to wash it down. We homely folk of the country stick to the ancient fashions, you know,—a noonday lunch, and all that. Dr. Van Hyde : I like your ancient fashions, as you call them, Mr. Valdingam. ( Enter Richard , who sets a small table for two and serves supper .) Mr. Valdingam : Then let us sit down without ceremony. Dr. Van Hyde : Your Burgundy is indeed delicious, Mr. Valdingam. Mr. Valdingam : I flatter myself that it is. It dissolves the cobwebs from one’s brains, so to speak. It is the elixir of happiness; and alas! I am not a happy man, Dr. Van Hyde.... ( To Richard .) Leave us alone, Richard. ( Exit Richard .) Dr. Van Hyde : Perhaps you exaggerate your misfortunes, my dear sir. Mr. Valdingam : Far from it—far from it.... Imagine a father, a doting father, like myself, whose only child is on the verge of insanity. Dr. Van Hyde : It is a pitiful case, truly. Mr. Valdingam : It is pitiful, and it is strange; strange because my daughter Rose is, to all outward appearances, as sane as you or I. Dr. Van Hyde : But there are symptoms— Mr. Valdingam : Symptoms which my keen sight discovered long ago. ( Mysteriously. ) My daughter is morally irresponsible in her social relations with men. Dr. Van Hyde : You astonish me! Mr. Valdingam : Prepare yourself for still greater astonishment. Accustomed though you are to dealings with the insane, I venture to say that Rose will deceive you at first as she has deceived others.... However, you are now on your guard. If you will permit me to do so, I will indicate to you the line of inquiry which you may adopt in your preliminary examination of my daughter. ( As this conversation progresses the door at L. is opened slightly, and Susan is seen to be listening. Later she closes the door softly and disappears. ) Dr. Van Hyde : With pleasure, sir. Mr. Valdingam : Here is the point, then. My daughter appears to fall in love with every young man that strikes her fancy. Dr. Van Hyde : Really— Mr. Valdingam : She may even fall in love with you. Dr. Van Hyde : Extraordinary! Mr. Valdingam : Your course, therefore, will be to draw from her some decisive manifestation of this abnormal amativeness. You will not be slow to discover how deep-rooted the disease is.... By the way, would you object to meeting my daughter this evening? I shall not allow you to return to New York to-night, you know. Dr. Van Hyde : I am wholly at your service. Mr. Valdingam ( ringing for Richard ): So much the better. ( Enter Richard , who removes the dining table .) Now, if you will join me in a cigar and a stroll in the garden, we can talk more at our ease on this painful subject. ( They light their cigars and pass out into the garden. Enter from L. at the same time Susan , followed by Rose .) Susan : Well, what do you think of that? Rose ( laughingly ): I am very sorry for poor Dr. Van Hyde. Suppose I should be attacked with a tender passion for him, after all. Susan : Don’t be ridiculous, Rose. Between you and me, however, it seems to me that this mad-doctor here, who is said to be so very clever, might be turned to some good purpose. I begin to think that your father needs looking after. Rose : Oh, papa is harmless. At any rate, wait awhile. At present, you must remember, I am Dr. Van Hyde’s patient. Susan : Nonsense! Rose : I intend that he shall practise on me, certainly, especially if, as you assert, he is young and handsome. Or, let us say, I will experiment on him. Susan : You are out of your senses. Rose : Not a bit. Has not Dr. Van Hyde come all the way up here to see me , to examine me ? Shall I disappoint this luminary of the medical profession?... Never!... Now, Aunt Susan, you must let me have my own way this time. No harm shall come of it, I promise you. And who knows? Perhaps I may be able to give Dr. Van Hyde points for his next clinic. Susan : Well, do as you please. But I fear the worst. More than one sane creature has been clapped into a lunatic asylum by some fool of a doctor. Rose : Tell me something more about this Dr. Van Hyde. Susan : I’ve told you all I know ... young, handsome, and, I doubt not, a gentleman; very pleasant mannered, so far as I could see. Rose ( musingly ): Young, handsome, pleasant mannered. Not the traditional doctor, evidently; just such a doctor as I might naturally fall in love with. Susan : Rose, you amaze me! Rose : But I am not going to fall in love with him.... ( After a pause, and mischievously. ) Indeed, I have some one else in my thought at this moment. Susan : What do you mean? Rose : Don’t blame me if I am a little human. Have you never met a man, Aunt Susan, who pleased you as no other man had ever pleased you before? Susan : Perhaps I have; but it was mighty long ago. Rose : Call me foolish if you will; I, too, have met such a man. Susan : You! Where? Rose : You won’t be cross if I confide in you? Besides, it’s not likely that I shall meet my Romeo again?—for he was a Romeo, Aunt Susan. Susan : There are no Romeos nowadays. Rose : Oh, yes, there are—in trousers. Now, let me tell you my experience with him. It was not a bit romantic. Last Monday, as you remember, I was shopping in New York. To-day is Friday. ( With mock gravity. ) An eternity from then till now.... Well, as I was rushing through a quiet side street, in haste to catch a car, suddenly I slipped and fell. My parasol went in one direction, my fan in another, my purse in still another, and three parcels I was carrying in three others. To make matters worse, I had sprained my ankle slightly, and was ready to cry with pain and mortification. Imagine the situation, Aunt Susan. There I sat in a heap on the pavement, surrounded by my possessions. Susan ( grimly ): I hope you didn’t sit there long? Rose : How unsympathetic you are!... No, I did not sit there long. For a second I was paralyzed. Afterward, as I prepared to rise with proper dignity, I heard a man’s voice—a particularly agreeable man’s voice—close at my side. It said: “Permit me to assist you, madam.” Before I could reply, the owner of the voice lifted me to my feet. Oh, he did his part gallantly! I was, of course, too confused to thank him at once. But he did not stop for thanks. He simply picked up my purse, my parasol, and my parcels, and after placing them in my hands, and inquiring very gently whether I was hurt, lifted his hat courteously and passed on. Only for a single—a single instant, Aunt Susan, our eyes met. Susan : What then, pray? Rose : Nothing. I limped to the car. That’s all. Susan : And this stranger is your Romeo! Rose, you are a goose. Put him out of your head. Rose : How can I put him out when he persists in staying in? There, now you have my story. Susan ( starting at the sound of footsteps ): Hush! I think your father and the doctor are coming back. ( Susan busies herself with one of the lamps at L. , and Rose takes up a book and pretends to read. Her face is turned away from the right entrance. Enter Mr. Valdingam and Dr. Van Hyde .) Mr. Valdingam : Doctor, I rely upon you now with the utmost confidence. What a knowledge is yours! How vast, how intricate a subject is this of insanity! I marvel that you should have learned so much in so few years. I’ll wager that you have not passed your thirty-fifth birthday. Dr. Van Hyde : You have made a nearly correct guess, Mr. Mr Valdingam. I am in my thirty-sixth year. But I have enjoyed unusual experience. ( At the sound of Dr. Van Hyde’s voice, Rose half-rises, then hides her face with her book .) Rose ( aside ): Good gracious! I have heard that voice before. ( She glances over the edge of the book toward the two men. ) It is he. ( She slips out of her chair, and joins Susan. The backs of the two women are turned to the men, who are conversing sotto voce. ) Aunt Susan! Susan ( starting ): What’s the matter? Rose : It is he. Susan : He? Who’s he? Rose : The same. Susan : Who’s the same? Rose : The doctor. Susan : What of the doctor? Rose : The doctor is—Romeo! Susan ( dropping the book which Rose had passed to her ): Lord! ( At the sound of the book falling , Mr. Valdingam turns and perceives the two women. Then he catches Dr. Van Hyde by the arm .) Mr. Valdingam ( to the doctor ): She is here. Prepare yourself. Dr. Van Hyde ( glancing at the backs of the women ): Your daughter? Mr. Valdingam : Yes, my daughter. A splendid opportunity for you, doctor. I will see to it that you are left alone with her. Talk to her. Watch her closely. Discover all you can. But first, I will introduce you to her. ( He goes over to L. , while Dr. Van Hyde stays quietly at R. He approaches his daughter. ) Rose! Rose ( turning toward Mr. Valdingam ): Yes, papa. Mr. Valdingam : May I introduce to you a dear, a very old friend of mine. Rose ( aside ): A very old friend! ( To Mr. Valdingam .) Certainly, papa. ( She advances toward center of stage. Susan glares at Mr. Valdingam , but does not come forward .) Mr. Valdingam ( to Dr. Van Hyde ): Doctor! Dr. Van Hyde ( advancing toward Rose ): At your service, Mr. Valdingam. Mr. Valdingam : May I introduce— ( At this instant , Dr. Van Hyde obtains a full view of Rose , who regards him demurely. He stumbles back in amazement. ) Dr. Van Hyde : This—this—is your daughter? Mr. Valdingam : You appear surprised? ( Aside. ) I knew it. I knew it. Dr. Van Hyde : Not surprised—but— Mr. Valdingam : I understand thoroughly. ( Aside to the doctor. ) Didn’t I tell you so? ( To Rose .) Rose, this is my friend, Dr. Van Hyde. For certain reasons, my child, he is anxious to have a little chat with you. Rose ( innocently ): With me, papa? Mr. Valdingam : That is to say.... Well, no matter, I will explain later. ( Turning to Susan .) Susan! ( Susan advances toward center very stiffly .) Dr. Van Hyde, this is my sister, Miss Valdingam. ( Dr. Van Hyde bows to Susan in an embarrassed manner .) Susan : Glad to know you, sir. ( She retires to L. , accompanied by Rose . Mr. Valdingam rejoins Dr. Van Hyde at R. ) Mr. Valdingam ( to Dr. Van Hyde ): Did I not manage that skilfully? Dr. Van Hyde ( dryly ): Most skilfully. Mr. Valdingam : The rest is simple enough. Remain where you are, and I will retire with Susan. Then you will have the field to yourself. Do you agree with me? Dr. Van Hyde : Perfectly. ( Mr. Valdingam goes over to L. , consults in an undertone with Susan , and then exeunt Mr. Valdingam and Susan at L. Dr. Van Hyde and Rose are thus left alone. Their backs are turned to each other. ) Rose ( aside ): He recognized me. Dr. Van Hyde ( aside ): I wonder if she recognized me. Rose ( aside ): What shall I do—play the mad woman? Dr. Van Hyde ( aside ): This, then, is the end of my dream. I have fallen in love with a lunatic. Rose ( aside ): I suppose, to carry out papa’s wishes, that I ought to make love to him. Dr. Van Hyde ( aside ): How did she come to be alone in the city last Monday? She must have escaped somehow. She is guarded with too little caution. Rose ( aside ): Why doesn’t he speak? Dr. Van Hyde ( aside ): She is more enchanting than ever. How can so sweet a creature be condemned to such misery? ( He turns and confronts Rose .) Miss Valdingam! Rose ( without moving ): Yes? Dr. Van Hyde ( more softly ): Miss Valdingam! Rose ( turning slowly, and half looking at him ): Dr. Van Hyde! Dr. Van Hyde : Will you not sit down? Rose : Thank you, I will. ( She seats herself at L. ) Dr. Van Hyde ( still standing, and speaking gravely ): Now— Rose ( carelessly ): Oh, you may as well take a chair yourself. Dr. Van Hyde ( seating himself at L. ): With your permission. Rose : Well? Dr. Van Hyde : I was saying— Rose : Were you? I didn’t hear it. Dr. Van Hyde : I was, rather, about to say— Rose ( laughing ): This is very odd, is it not? Dr. Van Hyde : What, may I ask, is odd? Rose : This tête-à-tête . Dr. Van Hyde : Professionally speaking— Rose : As a rule, you know, it takes two old friends to make a tête-à-tête . Now, it must be admitted that we are not old friends, are we? Dr. van Hyde : I trust that we shall be very good friends soon. Rose : Oh, my father has recommended you, and I may accept you on that basis. Are you from New York? Dr. Van Hyde : Yes. Rose : And you are a physician? Dr. Van Hyde : I practice a little. Rose : I suppose papa is to be one of your patients. He has not been strong. How is he, doctor? Dr. Van Hyde ( aside ): She is very insistent. Rose : Why don’t you answer me? Is there some serious complication? Dr. Van Hyde ( hurriedly ): Nothing serious, I assure you.... In fact, I have had no conversation with Mr. Valdingam about his health. Rose : Then what about?... Oh, I forgot. You are very old friends. Dr. Van Hyde : Very old friends. ( Aside. ) There is a strange gleam in her eyes. Poor thing! Poor thing! Rose : It is singular that he had never spoken of you before to-night.... ( After a pause of reflection. ) Do you know, I feel that you called to see me , as well as papa. Am I right? Dr. Van Hyde : Partly right, Miss Valdingam.... And I am very glad to have met you at last. I have heard so much about you. Rose : Still, you had never seen me until this evening? Dr. Van Hyde ( taken by surprise ): Oh, I had.... ( Aside. ) What a silly business I am making of this! She looks so perfectly sane and charming that I am tempted to forget my mission. ( To Rose .) It seemed to me almost, I mean, that I had met you—I don’t know where. Rose ( aside ): This is delicious. I must punish him. ( Advancing toward him with an air of anger. ) Sir, I perceive that you wish to mislead me. Your presence here has a professional object. Do not deny it. Dr. Van Hyde : I—I—do not deny it. Rose ( tragically ): Connected with myself? Dr. Van Hyde ( aside ): Suspicious of a stranger! Restless under medical observation! These are symptoms!... I must try to divert her thoughts. Rose : I repeat, sir—connected with myself? Dr. Van Hyde : Pray, Miss Valdingam, do not excite yourself. Rose : Conceal nothing! I am wretched, annoyed, persecuted. I am under a wicked surveillance. Do you imagine that I’m blind? I understand their plot. ( Pointing to door at L. ) And you, too, are in the plot. But I shall prove to you—at once, at once —that I am as rational as they, as you. ( In a quieter tone. ) Now, have you any questions to ask me? Dr. Van Hyde ( somewhat confused ): Do not take the matter so seriously, Miss Valdingam. Even a rational person—not excepting myself—may have theories, hallucinations, dreams— Rose ( wildly ): Dreams! I have astonishing dreams, doctor. They come to me when I am awake, when I seem to be awake. Strange noises then rattle in my brain, and I grow dizzy. In any other person, these dreams might be ideas .... At other times, the world of my fancy is crowded with men, myriads of men. Dr. Van Hyde ( aside ): Her father was not mistaken. Rose : Yes, young men; graceful men; men who flatter and adore me!... Totally unlike the men I see when I escape to New York. Dr. Van Hyde : Ah, she escapes! Rose : Then, too, I have visions of matrimony. I feel a wild desire to propose to every man I meet. Have you ever proposed, doctor? Dr. Van Hyde : Never. Rose : Why don’t you? You can not have lacked opportunity. Dr. Van Hyde : I fear that I have. Rose : You are young, rich, good-looking, and successful. Dr. Van Hyde ( aside ): Heavens! Rose : You should marry. Dr. Van Hyde : I have not the time— Rose : There is no time like the present.... We are alone. Dr. Van Hyde ( nervously ): Alone? Rose : Yes; papa and Aunt Susan were discreet enough to retire. Do not be afraid. Dr. Van Hyde : Afraid of what? Rose : Of proposing to me. If you are, I will propose to you. Dr. Van Hyde ( aside ): I must humor her. But it is distressing to do so. ( To Rose .) You would marry me? Rose : Oh, yes! Dr. Van Hyde : You like me well enough for that? Rose : I liked you at first sight. Dr. Van Hyde : But you have barely an acquaintance with me. Rose : So much the better. If my acquaintance with you were more intimate, I might not be willing to marry you. Dr. Van Hyde : You can’t love me, however; and what is marriage without love? Rose : Why can’t I love you? Dr. Van Hyde : Love, my dear child, love is the tenderest passion of our nature. It is the flower of life. It is the affinity of souls. It is— Rose ( passionately ): It is—it is. Dr. Van Hyde ( aside ): If I could only believe that she might learn to love me—that she had not loved forty other men—that she was not a monster in the guise of a siren! Yet I will do my duty, cruel as it is to me. ( To Rose .) But your father? Rose : Papa has never objected to my loving anybody. Dr. Van Hyde : Then you have loved somebody else? Rose : Yes, indeed. Eighteen. Dr. Van Hyde : Eighteen! Rose : Eighteen lost opportunities. You are the nineteenth. If you refuse to take me, I shall have to look out for my twentieth. Perhaps you can introduce me to one of your friends. Dr. Van Hyde : Suppose—suppose—I consent to marry you; that is to say, suppose you consent to marry me. How can I be sure that you won’t fall in love with your twentieth—as you call him—to-morrow. Rose : You can’t be sure. Love has wings like a bird. Its natural action is flight. How can one help loving? Dr. Van Hyde ( tenderly ): I should not wish to share your love with another man. Rose : I don’t understand you. Dr. Van Hyde ( aside ): This is the most remarkable case in my experience. The girl is clean daft on one subject. And yet, somehow, I am half inclined to take her at her word. I might succeed in curing her of her mania; I might transform her, create a new woman in this unhappy spirit; I can not abandon her to a wretched fate. ( To Rose .) You say you do not understand me? Rose : I can’t understand why I should not be allowed to love whomever I please. Dr. Van Hyde : The law declares that you must love but one husband. Rose : As I could only have one husband at a time, I might still love some one who was not my husband. Dr. Van Hyde ( crossing to R. and seating himself next to Rose ): Don’t you think you could love one man, whose devotion to you would be tireless, whose life would be your life, whose thought would be always for your welfare and happiness; don’t you think you could love this man, and this man alone? Rose ( moving away from him ): I never thought of that. Dr. Van Hyde ( moving toward her again ): Try, try, my dear child, to see things with my eyes. Rose : I have a pair of my own, thank you. Dr. Van Hyde ( losing himself in his passion ): Listen to me. I do love you, and I want you to love me—but not as you love other men. I am anxious to be your friend, your very best friend. I want you to look to me as you would look to no one else. I want— Rose ( changing her manner and laughing ): You play your part admirably, Dr. Van Hyde. Dr. Van Hyde ( in astonishment ): Play my part! Rose : You have just asked me to love you? Dr. Van Hyde : Yes. Rose : To accept you as my very best friend? Dr. Van Hyde : Yes. Rose : Then I wish to tell you, sir, that you have been trifling with me. Your love-making is purely professional. It is a kind of medicine. Dr. Van Hyde ( aside ): This is a hopeless case. Rose : Furthermore, I have convicted you of falsehood. You never met my father until to-night. You did meet me last Monday afternoon, in New York, at 2:25 p. m. Dr. Van Hyde : Miss Valdingam! Rose ( courtesying to him ): Permit me to thank you, dear doctor, for your kindness in picking up my parcels, my parasol, my purse, and myself. I did not have a chance to thank you while you were performing that unpleasant duty. Dr. Van Hyde : Then you remember? Rose : How could I forget so fascinating an adventure, although, to be sure, we crazy women are apt to have defective memories. Dr. Van Hyde ( aside ): Have I been a fool? ( To Rose .) I may as well confess that, when I saw you for the first time here to-night, I recognized you. But I did not suppose that you recognized me. Rose : Which proves that you are not so wise a doctor as you ought to be. Dr. Van Hyde : Really, Miss Valdingam— Rose : Really, Dr. Van Hyde— Dr. Van Hyde : I—I do not know what to say. Rose : I repeat—you have played your part admirably. Dr. Van Hyde : How can you accuse me of playing a part? Rose : Sweet duplicity! Did you not come here to minister to my mind’s disease? Dr. Van Hyde : To meet you—to learn to know you. Rose : Of course. Meanwhile, by way of illustrating my mania, you made love to me. Dr. Van Hyde : That is— Rose : That is—you played a part. And you were so successful that, a few minutes ago, you thought I had fallen in love with you. Dr. Van Hyde : You embarrass me, Miss Valdingam. Rose : A doctor should never be embarrassed. He should keep a cool head. His nerves should be steady; his hand determined. Now, let us be entirely frank. You wanted to diagnose me—to analyze me—perhaps to hypnotize me. Have I been a good subject? Dr. Van Hyde ( awkwardly ): An admirable subject. Rose : And, honestly, what do you think of my mania now? Dr. Van Hyde ( still more bewildered ): It is a very gentle mania. Rose : A very gentle mania? Nothing worse than that? Dr. Van Hyde : Nothing worse; I am convinced. Rose : You reassure me. But let me tell you, in return, that I have reason to be grateful to you, Dr. Van Hyde. It may be that I am matrimonially mad. Many persons are. Nearly all girls are. But at least I feel certain that I shall never be confined in an asylum. You would not let them send me to an asylum, would you? Dr. Van Hyde : No! No! Rose : Then we can afford to be good friends. Dr. Van Hyde : The best of friends. Rose : We need not talk of love again? Dr. Van Hyde ( hesitatingly ): No. Rose : Because, you see, though you are a man, you are also my doctor; and a patient could not fall in love with her doctor, could she? Dr. Van Hyde : Well, it’s not usual. Rose : Then, let me ask you a question. Do you think my malady—it is a terrible malady, I suppose—can be cured? Dr. Van Hyde : I am sure it can be. Rose : Ah! you give me hope. Dr. Van Hyde : But you must follow my instructions carefully. These I will explain to you later. In the first place, however, you should try to exercise a certain amount of will power. When you meet a person—that is, a man— Rose : I should hate and despise him. Dr. Van Hyde : Oh, not so bad as that. You should avoid him. Rose : Avoid him, I see. Dr. Van Hyde : Then you could hardly fall in love with him. Rose : Nor marry him. Dr. Van Hyde : Of course you need amusement. Rose : Of course. Dr. Van Hyde : Get as much of it as you can. Rose ( aside ): I’m getting it. Dr. Van Hyde : Meanwhile, I will have a talk with your father. Rose : Papa will do anything for me. Dr. Van Hyde : Then we have little to fear.... Now ( he turns to upper L. ) I know you must be tired. This long talk has fatigued you. I will call Mr. Valdingam. ( He is about to open the door. ) Rose ( suddenly ): One moment, please. Dr. Van Hyde ( turning to her ): Yes? Rose: Pardon me, I am not in the least fatigued. I have—something more to say. Dr. Van Hyde : Indeed? Rose : Before you see papa again.... Please sit down. ( He seats himself at R. She stands leaning against table at L. ) We have had quite an important little chat, after all, have we not? Dr. Van Hyde ( gravely ): I think it has been important. Rose: For me? Dr. Van Hyde: For you, I hope. Rose : And during this conversation, have I had—any lucid intervals? Dr. Van Hyde : Well, candidly, and though I am what is called a specialist in brain diseases, I should regard your mind as perfectly normal and healthy, except— Rose : Except on the subject of matrimony. Dr. Van Hyde : Ye-s. Rose : Now, suppose I should assure you that I am not in the least bit insane. Would that be characteristic of insanity? Dr. Van Hyde : Few persons with a mania suspect their affliction. Rose : I understand. But suppose—suppose—you had been deceived? Dr. Van Hyde ( jumping to his feet ): Is it possible? Rose : Physicians are deceived sometimes, are they not? Dr. Van Hyde ( seating himself ): They are only human. Rose ( slyly ): And you are very human. Dr. Van Hyde ( confusedly ): I confess it—to-night. Rose : That is why, then, you have been so easily deceived—to-night? Dr. Van Hyde ( jumping to his feet again ): You mean?— Rose : That you have actually been deceived. I have no mania—not even a mania to wed all the young men I meet. ( Laughing merrily. ) But, of course, you won’t believe me. My denial is only a symptom of my dementia. Dr. Van Hyde : What can I think? Your father told me— Rose : Yes, poor papa told you a great many things. You took it for granted that what he said was said with reason. Dr. Van Hyde ( moving toward her eagerly ): And I have been— Rose : As patient as a saint with the mad-cap teasing of a foolish girl, and gently considerate of an old man’s whims. Dr. Van Hyde ( joyfully ): Can it be true? Oh, Miss Valdingam, I begin to look upon myself as the most ridiculous as well as the happiest of men. Rose : But I could not resist teasing you. And still, in spite of this confession, I have one mania—only one. Dr. Van Hyde : A gentle mania? Rose : Very gentle, as you have said. It is love— Dr. Van Hyde ( advancing ): Love! Rose ( mischievously ): For my father. Dr. Van Hyde ( disappointedly ): Oh! Rose : He is a good, kind father. Since my mother’s death I have been his closest companion. Oh, doctor, I am so happy that you have come to our house. It is my father who needs your help, your sympathy. You will give both, I know. Dr. Van Hyde : It is your father, then— Rose : Who is partially insane. He has been in this condition for years. His chief delusion is that I am insane. Dr. Van Hyde : What a fool I have been! Rose : Do not blame yourself. Have I not done what I could to convince you that papa had told you the truth.... Can you forgive me? Dr. Van Hyde : Forgive you ! Can you forgive me ? Rose : Let us forgive each other, then. ( Walking to the window at R. and looking out. ) Dr. Van Hyde ( following her ): Miss Valdingam—I— Rose ( turning and regarding him archly ): Be careful, sir! Perhaps you are even now mistaken. Remember how cunning we maniacs are! Dr. Van Hyde ( aside ): I am more than ever in love with her. How beautiful she is. Sane or insane, it would be a blessing to possess her. ( To Rose , nervously .) Miss Valdingam, may I ask you a question? Rose ( gently ): Yes. Dr. Van Hyde : You remember that when—when—I thought you were not quite— Rose : Balanced. Dr. Van Hyde : I had the hardihood—well—to speak to you of love. Rose : Certainly. You spoke professionally. Dr. Van Hyde : I did not speak professionally. Rose ( looking out of the window ): Oh, indeed? Dr. Van Hyde : I spoke with sincerity—from my heart. Rose ( with mock dignity ): Sir! Dr. Van Hyde : I must tell you the truth. Since that day— Rose ( smiling ): Monday at 2:25 p. m. Dr. Van Hyde : Don’t laugh at me. I was in earnest a few moments ago—I am in earnest now.... I love you! Rose ( with agitation ): You love me! Dr. Van Hyde : With all my soul. ( He seizes her hand and kisses it. ) Rose ( drawing her hand away quickly ): Hush! Some one is coming. Mr. Valdingam ( from behind the door ): Can we come in, doctor? Rose ( in a whisper to the doctor ): Pretend that you do not know the truth, that you are able to cure me. Dr. Van Hyde ( in a whisper ): That I have taken the case? Rose : Yes. Dr. Van Hyde : For life? Rose : We shall see. But speak to him. Dr. Van Hyde ( turning to L. ): Is that you, Mr. Valdingam? Please come in. ( Enter Mr. Valdingam and Susan .) Mr. Valdingam ( eagerly and secretly, to Dr. Van Hyde ): Well? Dr. Van Hyde ( gravely ): I am glad to be able to assure you, Mr. Valdingam, that my preliminary examination of your daughter has been entirely satisfactory. Mr. Valdingam : Sir, I am overwhelmed with delight. Dr. Van Hyde : While your daughter is, without doubt, suffering from certain delusions— Mr. Valdingam ( turning to Susan ): Do you hear that, sister? Dr. Van Hyde : Her trouble is not far enough advanced to occasion anxiety. Mr. Valdingam : Heaven be praised! Dr. Van Hyde : In fact, I promise you that within one month her mind will be as clear and vigorous as your own. Mr. Valdingam ( grasping the doctor’s hands ): Sir, I regard you as our benefactor. Dr. Van Hyde : But you must be very patient and kind; and, with your permission, I will take charge of her. My plan is to visit her, here at your house, twice, or perhaps three or four times a week. You will notice an improvement in her condition very soon. Mr. Valdingam : Have your way, doctor. So long as my child is saved to me, that is everything. ( Turning to Rose .) Rose, my pet, I hear that the doctor and you have become fast friends already. ( Rose joins them at L. C. , and Mr. Valdingam kisses and fondles her .) Rose : Oh, yes, papa, Dr. Van Hyde and I are now very good friends. Mr. Valdingam : That’s right—that’s right. Put your trust in him, my child. He has your interest at heart. ( Mr. Valdingam turns gleefully to Susan , and the two converse .) Dr. Van Hyde ( to Rose ): You hear? He places you in my care. Rose : I share his confidence. Dr. Van Hyde : And—may I not hope to be—your nineteenth? Rose : There has not yet been—a first. Dr. Van Hyde : Shall we unite then in a study of agreeable possibilities? Rose ( archly ): Won’t you walk with me in the garden? See how bright and beautiful the night is!... Come. Perhaps I may find you— a rose . ( Rose and Dr. Van Hyde exeunt at L. as the curtain falls. ) George Edgar Montgomery.

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