Smart Set/A Cure of Souls

By Owen Oliver

ISS AGNES leaned back among the cushions, and closed her eyes wearily, as the doctor rose to go.

"I don't think I shall ever get well," she said, in a soft, tired voice.

"Nonsense!" said Dr. Strong, vigorously. He was a tall, broad man with big features, and everything that he did was vigorous. "There's nothing the matter with you, and you want to think there is."

"You mean that there's something the matter with me, and you want me to think there isn't. What is it, doctor?"

"Prostration after influenza," he pronounced, gruffly. She passed a tiny, scented handkerchief over her forehead. It was a puzzle whether her face, her hand, or her handkerchief was the whitest.

"What do you mean by prostration?" she asked, languidly. "A complaint that doctors cure with evil-tasting tonics."

"It's useless to give me medicine," she asserted, in the same uninterested tone.

"That's my business. I shall give you medicines till I have exhausted the whole pharmacopæia; they'll all be nasty," he added, grimly.

"And then?"

He shrugged his great shoulders. "Then? Oh! I shall go through the pharmacopæia again. Come, come!"—he brought his hand down heavily on his knee—"you've got to be cured, so what's the use of making a fuss about it?"

"You cannot minister to a mind diseased."

"Mind! Don't talk to me about what you're pleased to call minds. I've trouble enough with bodies." He got up and paced the room. "For two pins," he threatened, "I—I'd give up the case."

Miss Agnes's mouth quivered a little, and her pale-blue eyes grew moist. The doctor put his hand suddenly on her shoulder. He had a very soft touch for such a huge man.

"Tell me about it, my dear," he begged. "What is it?" She sobbed, faintly. "I saw the name in a book the other day. I did not know before what to call it. You will laugh at me."

He drew a chair beside her, and sat down. "God forbid," he said, gravely, "that I should laugh at you. What was it called—in your book?"

She turned her head away. "Soul-sickness," she whispered.

He stroked the poor, wasted hand that hung over the arm of the couch. "The soul," he said, slowly, "has no right to be sick. It has its work to do; the work that God has given it."

"God"—her voice trembled—"has not given me my work." He laughed a soft, comforting laugh. "'They also serve who only stand and wait,'" he said. "Some love their work so much that it seems just part of themselves. They do it, and never think that it is work."

"You mean—just little things."

He stroked her hand again. "You call it little things. I don't. Do you know how I reckon up my assets, when I start on my rounds to heal—the work that God has given me?" She shook her head. "First, I put down my medicines, such as they are; then, my doctor craft, such as it is; then, the nurse's work—which is more than mine. These are the things that everybody sees; that get the credit for the case. But there is a greater healer than all these."

"You mean?"

"I mean kindness, my dear; the kindness of all the people in our little world—your world and mine; and, among all the kind people who help me to heal, I put you first!"

The tears came suddenly to the pale eyes, and one rolled down each white cheek. He took her handkerchief, and wiped the tears slowly away, before he continued:

"I don't mean the charitable societies, and the alms. I mean the cheering words, the kind smiles, the sympathy—the letting them see that somebody cares." He got up and paced the room again. "The sick of soul want kindness, most of all. Everybody wants it, sometimes—even a cross-grained old doctor going his rounds. You help me by helping the patients. You help the patients by helping me. That is your work."

Miss Agnes gripped the arm of the couch, and raised herself. Her mouth moved, tremulously, and there was a look almost of terror in her eyes.

"Help me!" she cried; "help me! I—Don't look at me, doctor! Don't look at me! I want—to be loved!"

He drew a deep breath, and said nothing for a long time. "You mean—I won't affect to misunderstand—you wish for—a lover?"

The pale face flushed, hotly.

"There isn't any one," she protested, excitedly. "I—I don't want any one to make love to me—I don't mind being an old maid, only, it seems as if my life was incomplete. If I could know that somebody— It is natural for a woman— What must you think of me?"

"My opinion of you is too fixed to be greatly altered," he said, gravely. "So far as I can alter it, it is—exalted."

She shook her head, feebly. "I am ashamed of such thoughts," she told him, in a low voice.

"They are womanly dreams. You need not be ashamed of them. We—we all have our dreams. I have mine—I allow myself one sigh a year, as an indispensable luxury."

"You have sighed three times this afternoon," she reminded him, gently.

"Sighs for other people don't count against me."

"They count," she said, "on the other side of the account—the credit side."

"I meant a selfish sigh, a sigh for the things that I wished for myself—I was to be a famous specialist; I was to make a fortune; I was to have little children growing up at my knee. Well, well! here I am, getting on to fifty; growing a little bald; temper not improving; an unwealthy country-practitioner; and alone! Ah, there's my annual sigh! I shall permit myself no more soul-sickness for a year."

"It is different with a man," she pleaded. "He can aim at so many things."

"More failure is possible to him, certainly," he said, grimly. "However, we are wandering from your case."

"I don't want to talk any more about my folly." She flushed, faintly. "I—really, there is nothing more to tell."

"Then, it only remains to prescribe. You have made me physician in ordinary to your mind, you know. Suppose there were somebody? I presume you have set up a standard for him in your mind?"

"Yes," she confessed.

"I thought so! He would fall far short of your ideal. Men do not run good!"

"Some do."

He shook his head. "You would soon find out, if you married him!"

"I should not want to marry him. I am nearly forty, you see, doctor; and I—I have my ways."

"Exactly. He would have his ways, too. At forty, more or less, ways do not meet easily. They go better apart."

"I fear so," she sighed. "I should prefer not to try—now."

"Yet, you would like him to love you?"

"I don't know." She hesitated.

"Come, come! I must have the symptoms clearly. Yes, or no?"

"Yes," she said, softly; "if it is not selfish to wish it. Perhaps, it would not be good for him."

"It is good for any man—the liberal education of loving a good woman. I have missed the finishing school. Perhaps, that is why I am no better than I am."

"Yon have loved the sick and the poor, and the little children," she said, softly. "Your education has been that."

"Have you not loved them?"

"A woman is different. Loving is not enough for her. She wants love. A flower is a poor stunted thing without the sunshine."

They were silent for a long time; and the doctor mortgaged another year's sigh. Then, she spoke again.

"You have been so very, very kind. I don't know how to thank you. It will help me to remember"

"You must begin by forgetting."

"I can't." She twisted the handkerchief, restlessly, in her fingers. "Oh, I can't!"

"Then, love an imaginary—him," he suggested.

She laughed a quick, feeble laugh. "Oh, you don't understand! I have been imagining him all my life. I shall go on imagining him until—" Her voice choked.

"Umph!" He paced the room with his hands beneath his coat-tails, and watched her under his thick eyebrows as she sank into listlessness again. How very thin she was, and pale! It was strange that no lover had ever come to her. She was a sweet woman, a little colorless, perhaps, but still— She had been pretty, too. Even now, with a little pink in her cheeks— Unless something aroused her the color would never come again—never!

"Forget what I have said, doctor," she begged, presently. "I was overwrought. It is, of course, a morbid fancy—a sick woman's fancy."

"And, when the sick woman is well, it will go?"

"No," she whispered, almost inaudibly; "it will never go."

"Umph!" he said again. "Then, you will never be quite cured, unless—" He walked slowly to the window, and looked out for a few seconds; then walked back with the vigor of decision. "A doctor has strange confidences, sometimes," he remarked. "If he could divulge them—suppose I know that there is some one. I can't tell you about him, but"—she tried to sit up, but he held her back, gently—"he certainly has a great regard for you."

"You don't think—" her voice was more frightened than eager—"you don't think he will say anything to me? Oh, I hope not!"

"No-o. I don't think he will say anything. He is a sensible man, and recognizes that you are both a little—a little settled in habits, he will say. It would not be for the happiness of either of you."

She smoothed out her apron, and smiled. "I won't ask who he is"

"I couldn't tell you, if you did."

"Of course not; but, is he—I hope he is not young. Boys are so foolish, you know." She smiled, tenderly. All the boys brought their troubles to Miss Agnes.

"He is older than you are," he reassured her.

"And—and—?" She stopped.

"Not at all good-looking, if that is what you mean. Quite an ordinary man, and—I sha'n't tell you another word about him." He took up his hat. "Now, you must get well!"

"Yes, yes! Does he know I am ill?"

"He—he is very anxious about you." The doctor saw her eyes wander to the side-table, laden with fruit and flowers, the offerings of many friends. "You needn't look at your presents." She sighed, disappointedly. "He is not so unkind to you, or himself, as to betray his feelings."

"I wonder—" she began, dreamily; but she did not finish. Dr. Strong closed the door, softly, and went away. When he was outside the house, he wiped his forehead slowly, with a colored silk handkerchief.

"I am a quack," he muttered; "a quack! There never was a quack yet who wasn't found out—eh, James? What? No, I can't say that she is better, but—how often have I told you not to keep the horse standing in the sun?"

The following day, Miss Agnes was very still and quiet; but there was a little more life in her face. The next day, she was distinctly better; and the next, and the next. In a week, she was able to sit up to tea. The doctor had tea with her. She did not ask him any questions, except with her eyes; and, then, he looked the other way.

The morning after, she laughed twice during his visit. When he was going, she called him.

"Doctor!" He stopped with his hand on the door-handle. "Tell me a little more—just a little!"

"Umph!" Dr. Strong frowned, severely. "Just like a woman! I told you that he spoke to me in confidence."

"He actually spoke to you, then?"

"There are more ways than one of speaking. There's only one way of holding one's tongue. It's no use looking at me as if I were ill-using you. You can call me a brute, if you like."

"I prefer to call you kind." The smile that she gave him was not a sick woman's.

"Umph! You think you're going to coax me into telling you? You're not." He opened the door. "He—he keeps on asking after you," he said. Then, he went.

On the two following visits, Miss Agnes made no inquiry about her unknown lover. On Saturday, the doctor decided that she might go for a drive. He called for her in the afternoon, in a carriage loaded with pillows, cushions and rugs, and drove himself. She was unusually animated, and chatted pleasantly about people, music and books. She had always been an interesting talker in a rather timid way. She seemed to have found the touch of brightness that he had thought wanting.

"How is the soul-sickness?" he asked, abruptly. They were driving through Deep Vale, where the trees overhang.

She turned a little away from him. "You give it very little medicine."

"Professional etiquette," he began. "No, hang professional etiquette! It isn't that. There's his side of the question. I don't understand that you're in love with him!"

"I don't know who he is."

"Are you in love with anybody?" he asked, sharply.

"Oh, doctor!" There was a pale pink in her cheeks now, and it became pinker. "How can you ask such a thing!"

"You haven't answered."

"Of course, I'm not."

"Then," he said, emphatically, "I've no right to give him away; and I'm not going to."

"Am I never to know?" she asked, wistfully.

"If you can ever say to me, 'Doctor, I love so and so'"

"I shall never say that!"

"Then, I shall never tell you. Don't pout like a child."

She laughed, almost girlishly. "I know I am old," she said; "but I feel young to-day."

"You look young. Well, well! we are nearly home. It has been a pleasant time."

"A pleasant time," she echoed. "Probably, that is why I feel so childish."

She smiled, contentedly, as she lay back among the pillows; and the doctor looked at her out of the corners of his eyes.

"She's a pretty woman," he thought, "a very pretty woman—and wasting her love on a shadow. I'm a confounded fool!"

A week later, she asked the doctor if she might go out walking. She was "as well as well could be," she declared, and wanted "to reckon among his assets again."

"Very well," he assented; "you are off the sick-list."

"It is you," she vowed, "who have cured me."

"Soul-sickness and all?"

She drew a deep breath. "You will think so, when I tell you that I do not intend to ask you about—your confidant—any more." His big fingers played with a book on the table.

"You—don't—want—to—know—about—him?" he said, jerkily. "May I ask why?"

"You have every right to ask. It is because I do not—do not love him, whoever he may be. You will not tell him that, of course. It will always help me to know that some one has cared for me. Perhaps, he will not be any worse for doing so."

"I am sure," said the doctor, "he is better for it; much better. Not that he is really good, but—he might be worse."

"I shall always think of him as a good man. If I knew him"

"Suppose I advised him to come and tell you?"

"No," she cried, agitatedly; "no! it is better as it is."

The doctor took his hat, and bowed.

"Better as it is," he echoed.

"You think it is wiser?" she pleaded.

"Yes, it is wiser," he agreed; "and, perhaps, wisdom is better than love."

They looked at each other for a moment. Then, she touched his sleeve, gently.

"You are such a dear friend," she said, softly. "I don't want you to think that I am incapable of love. It is only to save him pain. I have—an ideal. He couldn't be that—he couldn't. If you think he wants my friendship, I will give him all the affection that I can, as a friend. You may tell him that, only—he must understand that I cannot love him."

The doctor bowed again. "I am sorry," he said; "very sorry."

"But why?"

He put down his hat, suddenly. "I am the man," he said.

"You! "she cried; "you!"

"I," he declared, gravely. "Don't try to comfort me now, my dear. I can't bear it. He was a fiction at first; a quack remedy. It serves me right for being a quack—but, I grew to love you so dearly! Now, we'll shake hands—and forget."

He held out his big hand, and she took it, softly, in both of hers. Her lips were trembling and her eyes were wet and smiling; and her voice was like a song of triumph, sung softly.

"It is you, who are my ideal," she told him. "I—I love you!"