Book: Our Nervous Friends

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Alac MacReady was Scotch-English. The family had executed a number of
important contracts for the British government; one of these had
brought two of the boys to Canada. With their family backing, they had
undertaken some constructive work in northern New York, and, at this
time, were building a railroad which passed through Geneva. Alac had
been in the neighborhood for two months supervising operations. He was
striking in appearance--a florid-faced' blonde, brusque in business,
quite jovial socially, and cracking--full of the conceit of youth,
wealth and station. So far, life had, in practically nothing, refused
his bidding.

Annette Neil's father kept a small store, Annette did much of the
clerking. She was unquestionably the prettiest girl in Geneva; indeed
she was as pretty as girls are made. With all her small-town
limitations she was bright as a pin, and as sharp; fine of instinct
and, withal, coy as a coquette. The first time Alac addressed her it
was as a shop-keeper. Something she said kept turning over in his
brain and he realized next morning, as he was shaving, that her reply
had been impertinent. Piqued, he returned the day after to make
another purchase, and made the greater mistake of being patronizing.
Mr. Alac MacReady discovered, without any prolonged period of
rumination, that he had a bee in his bonnet, and left the little shop
semispeechless and irate. He was not satisfied to leave the honors
with this "snip of an American girl," and evolved a plan of verbal
assault which was to bring the provincial upstart to her senses, only
to discover that she had a dozen defenses for each attack, and to find
himself, for two consecutive, disconcerting minutes, wondering if
perchance he might be a "boob." With each visit--and they were almost
daily and many of them made in the face of strong, contrary
resolution--he felt the distinction in their stations disappearing. He
later found himself calling on Annette's mother, and, stiffly at
first, later humbly asking for the company of the bewitching girl,
who, coy witch that she was, steadfastly refused to be "company" even
when her mother said she might. This trip across the lake was the
first real concession the little minx had made-and how "bloomingly" he
"messed it up"! He was not used to the water, and, oarless, became
"panicky." A pair of ridiculing eyes caused him to break off his
second bellow for help, in its midst.

The little boat drifted slowly. The June breeze was not strong. The
sun slipped behind radiant clouds, clouds which shifted and softened,
and tinted and toned through the pastels into the neutrals. Gently
they were nearing the shore when the great, golden moon rose in the
east, and soon brightening, shimmered the lake with countless, dancing
splotches of silver. The water lapped with ceaseless, dainty caresses
the sides of the boat. Some mother-bird nestling near the water's edge
crooned her good-night message to her mate. A halo surrounded and
softened the white face so near and, as part of the evening symphony,
two dark eyes rested upon his face, deeply luminous. There are
different stories of what he said. He admitted he was never so
awkward. But they missed their companions, and the dance, and walked
all the way 'round the head of the lake, home, this proud son of near-
nobility doing obeisance to his untutored queen. So Alac and Annette
married. They traveled far, first to Canada, then to England.
Annette's sheer beauty and remarkable taste in the use of Alac's
prodigal gifts of clothing and jewels carried the badly disturbed and
certainly unfavorably prejudiced MacReady family by assault. Ten years
they lived in the big Northumberland home. A boy and a girl came, both
blondes like their father. The MacReady boys were not meeting the same
success in their contracting ventures for which two former generations
had been noted. And, after their father's death, one particularly
disastrous contract quite reduced the family's financial standing and
consequent importance. The three brothers could not agree as to which
was to blame, so Alac and his family returned to America and located
in Rochester. Their few thousands Alac invested in a small
manufacturing concern which never prospered sufficiently to maintain
him in his life-long habits of good living. Unhappily, too, strong as
Alac was in many ways, his one weakness grew. Three or four times a
year he would make trips to Toronto or New York, drink gloriously,
spend hundreds of dollars, and return home meek and dutiful, almost
praying Annette not to say what he knew was in her mind. Of the two
children, little Alac multiplied his father's weaknesses by an
unhappily large factor. He never amounted to much, developing little
but small bombast. Charlotte was the child, dutiful, studious, rather
serious perhaps, but very conscientious. Her features were those of
neither father nor mother, but peculiarly delicate, strikingly
refined. When she was fifteen her father was found dead, one morning,
in an obscure hotel in the Middle West. He had neglected his insurance
premiums. The resourceful little widow went to work at once. The
products of her needle were exquisite. She sold some of the handsome
old furniture and, during the next five years, most of her jewels went
to keep the children in school. She had given absolutely to her
husband and to her home, and through the years to come her cheer was
never bedimmed save when the husband was mentioned. Charlotte became
more attractive. She was slender, fair--the English type was apparent;
she was a distinct contrast to her highly colored, brunette mother,
who, however, might have been but an older sister, she had so
preserved her youth. Charlotte was periodically morbid, a transmuted
heritage. The financial need directed her training into practical
lines; she studied stenography and was fortunate in securing a
position in the office of John Evanson, the energetic senior member of
a growing leather-manufacturing firm. There was something poetically
appealing to this busy man in the quiet, sometimes sad-faced, fine-
faced, competent woman, which gradually created in him a hungering
sense of need-and he called one night. He afterwards said if he hadn't
married Charlotte, he would have married her mother, who, to tell the
truth, put what sparkle there was into the courtship.

Charlotte's cup of happiness should have been overflowing when she
moved into the handsome, big house. Her mother was to live with them,
and such a mother-in-law would be a welcome asset to any home. Mr.
Evanson gave Alac Junior the only good position he ever had--a
position which he never filled to any one's satisfaction but his own.
For two years Charlotte's virtues were expressed in quiet, almost
thoughtful home-devotion, entertainment of poor relatives, and church-
work. John Evanson was simple and rational in his tastes. In business
he was enterprising and a keen fighter of competition. He cleverly
managed his interests, which had grown through years of steadfast
attention. He was nearly forty when he married, and his new home was
to him a haven. The mother adapted herself superbly and was a real joy
in the household through her wit and daintiness and ingenious
thoughtfulness.

Charlotte was not well for several months before the birth of the
much-wished-for baby, which unhappily never breathed. A sharp illness
which lingered was followed by eight miserable months, then an
operation, and the surgeon pronounced her well-but she could not
believe she was. Two years of rather unassuming semi-invalidism
passed. She made few complaints; she was evidently repressing
expression of the recurring symptoms of her discomfort. But since her
baby's death she had recovered little ability for effort. She tired
quickly. She was living a life of quiet, sheltered, almost luxurious
inadequacy. Dr. Corning was puzzled. Mrs. Evanson had appealed to his
professional pride and sympathetic nature strongly. Was there
something obscure, a lurking condition which he had overlooked? He
would have his work reviewed by the celebrated New York internist.
Nothing was found which resulted helpfully. Mrs. MacReady was patient.
Her innate good judgment withheld discussion of details with her
unhappy daughter. She believed Charlotte to be secretly mourning for
the little one who had not lived. She spent hours with her son-in-law
in anxious conference. What could get her poor child out of this
almost apathy? She looked so well; she had never weighed so much; but
twice she had been found looking over the baby's things. Was her
sorrow eating away at her heart? Hadn't he noticed that for months she
left the room when her father or the baby was mentioned! And hadn't he
noticed the marks of tears when she came back? The husband had never
loved his wife more; he pitied her; he yearned to share the burden
which she did not mention. He watched the change in her moods and
brought something new each day to please, divert, to interest-books
and flowers, periodicals, clothing, jewelry. Pets proved tiresome. She
wearied soon on every attempted trip. Concerts and the theater, and
music in the home, all made her "nervous."

Mrs. MacReady firmly believed the trouble was a haunting spirit of
unsatisfied mother-love, and suggested bringing a child into the home.
This plan did arouse new interest. Months were spent in making the
selection. Scores of points must be satisfactorily fulfilled, or the
plan would prove but a bitter disappointment. At last, a nine-months-
old girl-baby was discovered who promised to resemble her foster-
mother, and who had a "respectable heritage 'way back on both sides."
It seemed most fortunate for both the little orphan and the hungering
woman-this adoption. Charlotte spent much time in getting the little
one outfitted and settled. The child brought new problems, such as
worthy nursemaids, sleep-hours and safe feeding-and Charlotte was
better.

Mrs. MacReady had not been looking well. For months she had been
slowly losing weight, although there had been not a syllable of
complaint. Mr. Evanson finally insisted-the examination revealed an
incurable condition--presto! Charlotte was prostrated. The trained
nurse, secured for the mother, spent most of her time attending the
multiplying needs of the daughter, whose apprehension grew until she
began sending for her husband during his office-hours, fearing that
her mother was worse; or because she looked as if she might have one
of the hemorrhages the doctor feared, or to discuss what they would do
when her mother died. The months dragged on. The splendid mother
radiated cheer to the last. Then began the reign of terror. Stimulants
and sedatives seemed necessary to protect Charlotte from "collapse."
For a month, Mr. Evanson did not go near the office; for years, he was
subject to calls by day, was disturbed mercilessly at night. No nurse
could fill his place. It seemed chiefly the sick woman's "heart." Dr.
Corning was too frank-Charlotte insisted he did not "understand." Dr.
Winton was "sympathetic." He was physician for many society women. He
was an adept in providing understanding and comfort. He never advised
"dangerous operations or nasty mixtures," and was no fanatic on diet
and exercise.

When Charlotte married, she was "lily-fair," and weighed one hundred
and sixteen. Five years after her mother's death she was florid,
vapid, and weighed one hundred and sixty-eight miserable pounds. She
ran the gamut of nervous ailments: disturbances of circulation,
digestion, breathing, eating, sleeping, antagonism to draughts and
noises, and a special antipathy to the odor from the exhaust of motor-
cars. This last made her faint, and of her fainting attacks pages
might be written. The home of John Evanson was now a dreary place. It
was a household subsidized to the whims of a self-pitying woman. Her
loss of father, baby and mother had "wrecked her life." Husband,
child, nurse, servants, were all under the blight of her enslaving
self-commiseration. For years all church and social activities were
unattempted. Relatives and friends could not be entertained, for every
one's attention was demanded to meet the varying possible emergencies
of symptoms and to keep her mind from dwelling on her losses and the
wretchedness of her fate.

Mr. Evanson's business interests were neglected. His devotion to his
morbid, now thoroughly selfish wife lost him big opportunities. His
nerves, too, suffered from the unceasing strain. Serious-minded,
nonimaginative, honest, it never occurred to him that the illness of
his "poor afflicted wife" was an illness of the soul only. The adopted
daughter was surrounded by an atmosphere of unnatural repression, an
atmosphere charged with false sympathy and unwholesome concessions to
the selfish weaknesses of her foster-mother. Dr. Winton advised many
comfortable and diverting variations in treatment, but life in the
Evanson home became increasingly distorted. At last John realized he
was losing out badly-he must have a change. Through some subconscious
inspiration he took Dr. Winton with him. They spent two weeks hunting
and fishing in the Maine woods. John sought to get in touch with the
man behind the doctor. The doctor soon realized the manliness of his
companion. They were resting after a taxing portage, both feeling the
fine exhilaration of perfect physical relaxation after productive
physical weariness. The two men were pretty close. Shop had not been
mentioned during the two weeks.

"Doctor, tell me about my wife, just as though she were a sister."

The doctor mused several minutes. "It is not pleasant... it is not
easy to tell... you won't want to hear it. You probably will not
accept what I have to say... you may resent it."

"Tell me straight; you know how vitally I and my household need to
understand the truth."

Gravely the physician spoke--as friend to friend: "Your wife has
leprosy!--not the physical form, but the kind that anesthetizes,
ulcerates, deforms the soul--the leprosy of self-pity. It began with
her father's death. It has eaten deeper and deeper, fed by the
unselfishness of her mother and of yourself, unchecked by the soothing
salves applied by doctors like me. I early recognized that she would
not pay the price of radical cure--the price of effortful living. Her
understanding soul has degenerated--something vital to Christ-like
living is, I believe, lost. She believes her undiseased body to be
ill. Her reason is distorted by her disease-obsessions; her will has
been pampered into a selfish caricature. She has accepted the false
counsel of her selfishness so long that she is attracted by error, and
repelled by truth. I see relief for her only through the culminating
self-deception that disease does not exist. If this error is accepted
by her, she will become as fanatically superior to her wretched
sensations as she is now subservient to them. In other words, she is a
worse than useless woman whom Christian Science may transform. She is
emotionally sick. Christian Science appeals to the emotional life; it
is not concerned with reason-no more is she. It negates physical
illness and thus might replace her morbid, hopeless, selfish
sufferings with years of applied, wholesome cheer and faith."

Some details were discussed. A fine personality, a woman who devoutly
accepted the teachings of Mrs. Eddy, who would have been an example of
selfless living, regardless of details of religious faith, was
interested in poor Charlotte. Progress was slow at first. Then the
leaven began to work. One day the expressman moved a big box from the
Evanson home to a local hospital. It contained the paraphernalia of a
one-time invalid. One plastic nurse lost a chronic case. To-day in the
Evanson household, all discussions of illness are under the ban. The
home is no longer a private infirmary, but breathes a bit of the
after-glow of cheer which should linger long after the passing of one
so worthy and radiant as Annette--the mother beautiful in body and
spirit.




CHAPTER XX

THE SLAVE OF CONSCIENCE


In the following life-story, our sympathies are strongly drawn to the
conscientious woman who gave so many years of uncomplaining service--a
giving which should have brought its daily reward of satisfaction; yet
she sorrowed through her youth because she lacked the charity that
"suffereth long and is kind," finding which, her problem was met.

The never too attractive Yarnell home was in a mess. Irene, the eight-
year-old child, seemed seriously ill. The doctor had said, the night
before, that they might have to operate if the pain in her side didn't
get better; and the little girl prayed that they would, and prayed
specially that she would die while they were doing it. She didn't want
to live. She wanted to go rather than to stay forever with the new
mother her father had brought home last month. Big Sister wouldn't
stay; she ran away the second week and married Tim Shelby, and had a
good home now with Tim's people--even though her father hadn't spoken
to the Shelbys for years. Aunt Erne had gone too, dear Aunt Erne, her
mother's sister, who had been mother to her ever since her real mother
died--just after she was born--that precious mother, who, Aunt Effie
used to tell her, had died happy that her little girl might live. Aunt
Effie had always taught her a beautiful love, and every night she said
a beautiful prayer for the mother she had never seen. Aunt Effie tried
to stay, too, but couldn't. She left the same day the new mother asked
father, before them all, how he was ever going to keep up with all the
expenses of so many and give a tenth of his salary to the church.

The very night her aunt went away, the step-mother had told Irene that
it was wicked to "do up" her hair in curl-papers, and when she begged
her, "Just this once," because she had a "piece to speak" in school
next day, and cried in her disappointment, her stepmother had shaken
her so hard that something seemed to tear loose in her side. Irene had
never hated any one before--and it was wicked to hate; and so she was
praying her real mother to come and take her before she became a
sinner. But in spite of her prayers, she shrank when her stepmother
came near and chilled whenever touched by her. She couldn't eat the
food she brought, and every time she thought of her, the pain was
worse. Both her father and his new wife seemed so strange. She felt
like some stray, hurt animal, not loved by any one.

The new Mrs. Yarnell had been a maiden-lady many years. During her
spinstership she had given herself without stint to the activities of
her small church, a church belonging to an obscure denomination which
teaches that holiness is nigh upon us; that if we but supplement
conversion by a second act of grace, sanctification here and
forevermore is ours. Hers was not an easy disposition to live with.
She had ably held her own through years of bickerings and wordy
contentions with an overworked, irritable mother. She gave little
love. She received little. But her underdeveloped, souring heart
instinctively craved some drops of sweetness. So, when she listened to
the fervid exhorter, revealing the new highway to heaven, that
glorious way where the good Lord carries all our burdens, if we will
just cast them upon Him, a great light illumined her soul. Why a weary
life of strife and misunderstanding? She would give herself without
reserve, and even in the giving she could feel her burden roll away.
In a flash it seemed, life had changed. She was now the Lord's--mind,
soul and body. He directed; she followed. He could not lead her wrong,
and, as all her impulses and desires were now divine, she could do no
wrong. She could think no wrong. Having given all, she was now saved
to the uttermost. Misunderstood she must be, of course, by those who
knew not the holy leadings of her sanctified soul. Serenely,
supremely, she lived. Her old biting temper was now righteous
indignation. Her dislike for household work was only an evidence that,
like beautiful Mary, she had chosen the better part. What her mother
had always called obstinacy and perversity were now stead-fastness in
the Lord. Oddly, her tart, sarcastic, even flaying tongue was not
softened by any gentleness of divine inspiration. Incidentally, the
Lord had given her a plump figure, and a knack of apparel which had
long appealed to Widower Yarnell's eye. And the Lord approved; in
truth He said "Yes!" so audibly that Miss Spinster hesitated hut one
maidenly minute.

Mrs. Yarnell's sanctification washed dishes, kept house, and nursed
lonely, sick, little children most inefficiently. So, after Aunt Effie
and Big Sister, both willing workers, left, the new bride found
unforeseen difficulties in following the Lord's leadings, which seemed
to call to real back-and-muscle taxing effort for other people--such
was for the world of Marthas. So things in the Yarnell household got
in a mess.

It seemed hard for Irene to recover. But her returning strength found
early tonic in the house-work which was left for her to do. The new
mother's church activities occupied so much of her time that little
was left for any but unavoidable essentials. Irene became a fine
little worker, and should have had all the honors and happiness due
the model child. Neat, rapid, effective, an excellent student, she
developed physically strong, the possessor of that rare and attractive
glow of health, into a thoroughly wholesome looking young woman. Deep
within, however, she had not known peace since the day Aunt Effie
left. For years she had fought smoldering resentment and an
embittering sense of injustice, until at fourteen the deeper depths
were stirred by a slow but irresistible religious awakening. Her
stepmother's church was on the opposite side of town, too far for them
both to attend. Her own mother's church was in the neighborhood, and
throughout the years she had usually been able to attend Sunday-school
there and be home again in time to get dinner. Her young understanding
had long been in a turmoil as to what religion and right are. Aunt
Effie had taught gentleness of conduct and charity of speech, and
forgetfulness of self in service. Mrs. Yarnell constantly proclaimed
that, until the Lord entered her heart to absolutely sanctify it, she
was certain to be miserable, unless she became a hopelessly hardened
sinner.

Unhappy the child surely was. Her conscience was a sensitive one; it
seemed ever to chide, and often to condemn. No matter how faithfully
she followed duty, her failure to receive that wonder-working "second
blessing" left her feeling as an unworthy one outside of the fold.
Then, when she neglected, even for an hour, her household duties or
school-work for church-socials or class-picnics, her conscience, and
usually her step-mother, pounced upon her mercilessly. At early
fourteen, she was feeling the chilling shadows of a morbid conscience.
Her stepmother was away for two weeks attending a denominational
conference, and it seemed to Irene that she had more time than usual;
so she talked her perplexities over with the pastor of her mother's
church. A good man he was, but far from being an expert physician of
the soul. He did not seem to sense her deeper problem-the one daily
hurting her sensitive spirit, but asked a number of questions, her
answers to which convinced him that she was entirely ready to join the
church, which he definitely advised her to do, believing thereby she
would find the peace she sought. So without delay, even before her
stepmother's return, and without consulting her, she followed the
minister's advice. Unhappily, her business-burdened father had no
special interest in the welfare of any one's soul. Mrs. Yarnell
henceforth treated Irene as a religious inferior. High school brought
more work and little play. The unsuccessful father died with bad
arteries when Irene was eighteen. He left little beside the mortgaged
place; so Irene took up bookkeeping, and before she was twenty had a
bank-position which, through her ability and merit and trustworthy
conscientiousness, she has held through the years and the
vicissitudes, supporting herself and her stepmother. Irene's play days
had been rare. Her conscience was a grim-visaged angel whose flaming
sword she ever saw barring each path to pleasure.

The president of her bank was also an elder in her church. His mind
was pretty well filled with business, still he took occasional thought
for his employees, and the summer Irene was twenty-three, he asked her
how she would spend her two vacation weeks. "No," she was not going to
leave Wheeling. "Yes," it was hot, but she had much sewing to do, and
if she could save for two years more, the mortgage would be paid. The
banker noticed, even as they talked, the slight tremor of fingers and
lips which bespeaks tension; and that not a little of her appearance
of reserve and strength had slipped away through the grind of the
years.

Three delegates were to be sent to the Chautauqua Assembly for a two
weeks' special conference, and somehow it turned out that, with those
of Mrs. Crumb, the pastor's wife, and Matthew Reynolds, a theologic
student the church was helping educate, Irene Tarnell's name was read.
Two weeks at Chautauqua, her railway-fare paid both ways!-a score of
the best people of the church assuring her that it was her duty-and an
envelope with the banker's personal check for twenty dollars, endorsed
"for incidentals as delegate"! Thus Irene set forth on her first
foreign mission, her first trip out into this big, busy world, about
which she had, wrongfully, of course, wasted a few minutes now and
then in dreaming. Who could have been more companionable than Matthew,
or who more thoughtful and self-eliminating than Mrs. Crumb whose
thrifty, matronly heart early sensed the promise and wisdom-and
excitement, too, of a romance en route. And dear Mrs. Crumb was deft,
and Matthew supremely susceptible, and Irene-she was in the clouds!
How like a story-book, the kind that ends happily, it would have
worked out, if alas! Matthew had not been quite so susceptible. There
was a Pittsburgh girl who had the advantage of prior association and,
unfortunately, the young student's pledge of eternal devotion. Still,
Irene was a mighty good-looking girl; in fact, Matthew admitted, the
third day of their trip, when her fine color began to flash back, that
she was better looking than his promised, and so refreshingly free
from worldly-mindedness. Mrs. Crumb did not know of Matthew's
entanglements, while the devotion of his attentions, a certain
lighting of his eyes, and gentleness of speech and demeanor convinced
her that all she wished was going very well. So convinced was she that
she made bold, early the second week, to express her belief in Irene's
almost unequaled qualifications for a minister's wife, to which
dutiful Matthew gave unreserved assent.

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