It is very seldom that mere ordinary people like John and myself secureancestral halls for the summer.
A colonial mansion, a hereditary estate, I would say a haunted house, andreach the height of romantic felicity — but that would be asking toomuch of fate!
Still I will proudly declare that there is something queer about it.
Else, why should it be let so cheaply? And why have stood so longuntenanted?
John laughs at me, of course, but one expects that in marriage.
John is practical in the extreme. He has no patience with faith, anintense horror of superstition, and he scoffs openly at any talk of thingsnot to be felt and seen and put down in figures.
John is a physician, and perhaps — (I would not say it to a livingsoul, of course, but this is dead paper and a great relief to mymind) — perhaps that is one reason I do not get well faster.
You see, he does not believe I am sick!
And what can one do?
If a physician of high standing, and one’s own husband, assures friendsand relatives that there is really nothing the matter with one buttemporary nervous depression — a slight hysterical tendency — whatis one to do?
My brother is also a physician, and also of high standing, and he says thesame thing.
So I take phosphates or phosphites — whichever it is, and tonics, andjourneys, and air, and exercise, and am absolutely forbidden to “work”until I am well again.
Personally, I disagree with their ideas.
Personally, I believe that congenial work, with excitement and change,would do me good.
But what is one to do?
I did write for a while in spite of them; but it does exhaust me a gooddeal — having to be so sly about it, or else meet with heavyopposition.