he?â
âYes.â
âDear, dear! Now thatâs terribly distressing, ainât it?â an apostolic smile revealed his gold-filled teeth.
âOf course you know thereâs no such thing as sickness. Ainât that a lovely thought? Death itself is but a delusion of our grosser senses. Onây lay yourself open to the influx of the sperrit, submit yourself passively to the action of the divine force, and disease and dissolution will cease to exist for you. If you could indooce your husband to read this little pamphlet ââ
The faces about her again grew indistinct. She had a vague recollection of hearing the motherly lady and the parent of the freckled child ardently disputing the relative advantages of trying several medicines at once, or of taking each in turn; the motherly lady maintaining that the competitive system saved time; the other objecting that you couldnât tell which remedy had effected the cure; their voices went on and on, like bell-buoys droning through a fog ... The porter came up now and then with questions that she did not understand, but that somehow she must have answered since he went away again without repeating them; every two hours the motherly lady reminded her that her husband ought to have his drops; people left the car and others replaced them ...
Her head was spinning and she tried to steady herself by clutching at her thoughts as they swept by, but they slipped away from her like bushes on the side of a sheer precipice down which she seemed to be falling. Suddenly her mind grew clear again and she found herself vividly picturing what would happen when the train reached New York. She shuddered as it occurred to her that he would be quite cold and that some one might perceive he had been dead since morning.
She thought hurriedly: ââIf they see I am not surprised they will suspect something. They will ask questions, and if I tell them the truth they wonât believe me â no one would believe me! It will be terribleâ â and she kept repeating to herself: âT must pretend I donât know. I must pretend I donât know. When they open the curtains I must go up to him quite naturally â and then I must scream.â ... She had an idea that the scream would be very hard to do.
Gradually new thoughts crowded upon her, vivid and urgent; she tried to separate and retrain them, but they beset her clamorously, like her schoolchildren at the end of a hot day, when she was too tired to silence them. Her head grew confused, and she felt a sick fear of forgetting her part, of betraying herself by some unguarded word or look.
âI must pretend I donât know,â she went on murmuring. The words had lost their significance, but she repeated them mechanically, as though they had been a magic formula, until suddenly she heard herself saying: âI canât remember, I canât remember!â
Her voice sounded very loud, and she looked about her in terror; but no one seemed to notice that she had spoken.
As she glanced down the car her eye caught the curtains of her husbandâs berth, and she began to examine the monotonous arabesques woven through their heavy folds. The pattern was intricate and difficult to trace; she gazed fixedly at the curtains and as she did so the thick stuff grew transparent and through it she saw her husbandâs face â his dead face. She struggled to avert her look, but her eyes refused to move and her head seemed to be held in a vice. At last, with an effort that left her weak and shaking, she turned away; but it was of no use; close in front of her, small and smooth, was her husbandâs face. It seemed to be suspended in the air between her and the false braids of the woman who sat in front of her. With an uncontrollable gesture she stretched out her hand to push the face away, and suddenly she felt the touch of his smooth skin. She repressed a cry and half started from her
Elizabeth Veatch, Crystal Smith