Part 23 (1/2)
”I received the letter the day before yesterday,” Eve continued gravely.
”And Charlie is certainly not coming home to find me away.”
For two entire days she had had the important letter and had concealed it. Mr. Prohack was disturbed.
”Very well,” Dr. Veiga concurred. ”It doesn't really matter whether you go to Frinton now or next month, or even next year but one. You're a powerful woman and you'll last a long time yet, especially if you don't worry. I won't call for about a week, and if you'd like to consult another doctor, do.” He smiled on her in an avuncular manner, and rose.
Whereupon Mr. Prohack also jumped up.
”I'm not worrying,” she protested, with a sweet, pathetic answering smile. ”Yes, I am. Yes, I am. I'm worrying because I know I'm worrying my poor husband.” She went quickly to her poor husband and kissed him lavishly. Eve was an artist in kissing, and never a greater artist than at that moment. And now Mr. Prohack, though still to the physical eye a single individual, became two Mr. Prohacks. There was the Mr. Prohack who strongly deprecated this departure from the emotional reserve which is one of the leading and sublimest characteristics of the British governing-cla.s.s. And there was the Mr. Prohack, all nerves and heart and humanity, who profoundly enjoyed the demonstration of a woman's affection, disordered and against the rules though the demonstration might be. The first Mr. Prohack blushed and hated himself for blus.h.i.+ng.
The second was quite simply enraptured and didn't care who knew it.
”Dr. Veiga,” Eve appealed, clinging to Mr. Prohack's coat. ”It is my husband who needs looking after. He is not making any progress, and it is my fault. And let me tell you that you've been neglecting him for me.”
She was a dramatic figure of altruism, of the everlasting sacrificial feminine. She was quite possibly absurd, but beyond doubt she was magnificent. Mr. Prohack felt ashamed of himself, and the more ashamed because he considered that he was in quite tolerable health.
”Mother,” murmured Sissie, with a sweetness of which Mr. Prohack had imagined her to be utterly incapable. ”Come and sit down.”
And Eve, guided by her daughter, the callous, home-deserting dancing-mistress, came and sat down.
II
”My dear sir,” said Dr. Veiga. ”There is nothing at all to cause alarm.
She will gradually recover. Believe me.”
He and Mr. Prohack and Sissie were conspiring together in the dining-room, the drawing-room being at that hour and on that day under the dominion of servants with brushes.
”But what's the matter with her? What is it?”
”Merely neurasthenia--traumatic neurasthenia.”
”But what's that?” Mr. Prohack spoke low, just as though his wife could overhear from the boudoir above and was listening to them under the impression that they were plotting against her life.
”It's a morbid condition due to a violent shock.”
”But how? You told me the other day that it was purely physical.”
”Well,” said Dr. Veiga. ”It is, because it must be. But I a.s.sure you that if a post-mortem were to be held on Mrs. Prohack--”
”Oh, doctor, please!” Sissie stopped him resentfully.
The doctor paused and then continued: ”There would be no trace of any morbid condition in any of the organs.”
”Then how do you explain it?”
”We don't explain it,” cried Dr. Veiga, suddenly throwing the onus on the whole medical profession. ”We can't. We don't know.”
”It's very, very unsatisfactory, all this ignorance.”
”It certainly is. But did you suppose that medical science, alone among all sciences, had achieved finality and omniscience? We've reached the state of knowing that we don't know, and that's something. I hope I'm not flattering you by talking like this. I only do it to people whom I suspect to be intelligent. But of course if you'd prefer the omniscient bedside manner you can have it without extra charge.”