her age, but he’d never known it to come on so swiftly. In May she’d been
delicate-she was always prone to bronchial complaints-but she’d been pink as a rose and lively as a
kitten.
“When did this start?” he asked, expecting her to say-as so many did-that she didn’t really know, that it
had come on her gradually.
Instead she replied at once, “In Whitby. I used to sleep-walk when I was at school, I think I told
you-poor Mina was forever chasing me down the hallways in the middle of the night! In Whitby I started
doing so again. One night I went right out of the house where we were staying, and walked clear up to
the churchyard that overlooks the town. Mina found me lying on one of the tombstones, like the heroine
of a play. We didn’t tell Mama.”
Again the hesitation, the shadow of fear crossing her eyes–fear of what she half-guessed, fear that she
would not even speak of to Seward, and he a doctor. Fear that her fear for her mother was true.
She went on, “I felt ill right after that. I thought I’d just taken a chill, and that it would pass off, and it
did, for a day or two. Then it came back, for three, perhaps four days. I felt better for a day or two just
before Mina left for Buda-Pesth, and when Arthur was in Whitby, we rode and walked and went
boating, and I thought all was well. But now . . .”
She lowered her head to her hands again, and began to cry afresh. “A week ago it began again, the
dreams, and the sleep-walking, and this horrible feeling of being in some terrible danger that I cannot see.
Last night I woke up lying on the floor between my bed and the window, gasping as if I were drown-ing
and cold … so cold! I’ve tried asking Mother if I may sleep with her and she doesn’t want me to. She
says she sleeps so lightly she’s afraid she will disturb me, or I her. I look at myself in the mirror and I look
like Death. I see myself in Arthur’s eyes…”
She broke off, her hands pressed to her mouth, her thin body trembling as if with bitter chill. “What’s
wrong with me, jack?” Her voice thinned to barely a breath. “I know this isn’t right. What’s happening to
me?”
“What’s happening is that you’re ill.” Seward would have given his right arm to cup her thin cheek with
his hand; he took her hand instead. Long practice had given him the ability to put into his voice a calm
steadiness that he was far from feeling. “All pathologies have an explanation: we simply haven’t found the
right one here yet. You show some symptoms of anaemia but the onset is all wrong. Are you able to
eat?”
She shook her head. It was true she’d only toyed with her lunch.
“The sleep-walking and the dreams may very well have some-thing to do with it, and with your very
natural concern over your mother’s health. In my work with the human mind, I’ve ob-served many cases
of some mental stress or upset working its way out in physical symptoms. There’s a great deal of new
work being done on this subject and it’s apparently not at all uncom-mon. Would it be all right if I came
back for lunch the day after tomorrow, and brought a friend with me? He’s the doctor I stud-ied with at
the University of Leyden, an expert in rare diseases. He may be able to take one look at you and say,
`Ach, it is polly-diddle-itis! She has only to bathe in goat’s milk and she vill be vell again!”‘
Lucy burst into laughter, her whole emaciated face lightening, and she clasped Seward’s hand in both of
hers. “Bring whom you will, dear Jack,” she said. “Mother will be lunching out; we can be alone. And
thank you,” she added, as she descended the stairs with him, and walked him to the door. “Thank you
more than I can say.”
Lucy’s laughter, and the brightness that had replaced the frightened lethargy in her eyes, remained with
Seward through the long rattling journey back to Purfleet in the two-horse fly he kept-at rather more
expense than he
delicate-she was always prone to bronchial complaints-but she’d been pink as a rose and lively as a
kitten.
“When did this start?” he asked, expecting her to say-as so many did-that she didn’t really know, that it
had come on her gradually.
Instead she replied at once, “In Whitby. I used to sleep-walk when I was at school, I think I told
you-poor Mina was forever chasing me down the hallways in the middle of the night! In Whitby I started
doing so again. One night I went right out of the house where we were staying, and walked clear up to
the churchyard that overlooks the town. Mina found me lying on one of the tombstones, like the heroine
of a play. We didn’t tell Mama.”
Again the hesitation, the shadow of fear crossing her eyes–fear of what she half-guessed, fear that she
would not even speak of to Seward, and he a doctor. Fear that her fear for her mother was true.
She went on, “I felt ill right after that. I thought I’d just taken a chill, and that it would pass off, and it
did, for a day or two. Then it came back, for three, perhaps four days. I felt better for a day or two just
before Mina left for Buda-Pesth, and when Arthur was in Whitby, we rode and walked and went
boating, and I thought all was well. But now . . .”
She lowered her head to her hands again, and began to cry afresh. “A week ago it began again, the
dreams, and the sleep-walking, and this horrible feeling of being in some terrible danger that I cannot see.
Last night I woke up lying on the floor between my bed and the window, gasping as if I were drown-ing
and cold … so cold! I’ve tried asking Mother if I may sleep with her and she doesn’t want me to. She
says she sleeps so lightly she’s afraid she will disturb me, or I her. I look at myself in the mirror and I look
like Death. I see myself in Arthur’s eyes…”
She broke off, her hands pressed to her mouth, her thin body trembling as if with bitter chill. “What’s
wrong with me, jack?” Her voice thinned to barely a breath. “I know this isn’t right. What’s happening to
me?”
“What’s happening is that you’re ill.” Seward would have given his right arm to cup her thin cheek with
his hand; he took her hand instead. Long practice had given him the ability to put into his voice a calm
steadiness that he was far from feeling. “All pathologies have an explanation: we simply haven’t found the
right one here yet. You show some symptoms of anaemia but the onset is all wrong. Are you able to
eat?”
She shook her head. It was true she’d only toyed with her lunch.
“The sleep-walking and the dreams may very well have some-thing to do with it, and with your very
natural concern over your mother’s health. In my work with the human mind, I’ve ob-served many cases
of some mental stress or upset working its way out in physical symptoms. There’s a great deal of new
work being done on this subject and it’s apparently not at all uncom-mon. Would it be all right if I came
back for lunch the day after tomorrow, and brought a friend with me? He’s the doctor I stud-ied with at
the University of Leyden, an expert in rare diseases. He may be able to take one look at you and say,
`Ach, it is polly-diddle-itis! She has only to bathe in goat’s milk and she vill be vell again!”‘
Lucy burst into laughter, her whole emaciated face lightening, and she clasped Seward’s hand in both of
hers. “Bring whom you will, dear Jack,” she said. “Mother will be lunching out; we can be alone. And
thank you,” she added, as she descended the stairs with him, and walked him to the door. “Thank you
more than I can say.”
Lucy’s laughter, and the brightness that had replaced the frightened lethargy in her eyes, remained with
Seward through the long rattling journey back to Purfleet in the two-horse fly he kept-at rather more
expense than he
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