Possessed | Page 6

that is the trouble, perhaps Captain
Herrick has not told you that he loves you? I hope, dear lady, I am not

forcing your confidence?"
"No, doctor, I want you to know. Captain Herrick cares for me, he
loves me, he has asked me to marry him, but--I have refused him."
"But why--if you love him? Why refuse him?"
"Oh, can't you see? Can't you understand? How could I think of such a
thing, knowing, as I do, that something is wrong with my mind? It is
quite impossible. Besides, there is another reason."
"Another reason?" he repeated.
"It has to do with my married life. As I said I would rather tell you
about that some other time--if you don't mind?"
He saw that she could go no farther.
"Exactly, some other time. Let us say in about two weeks. During that
time my prescription for you is a rest down at Atlantic City with long
walks and a dip in the pool every morning. Come back then and tell me
how you feel, and don't think about those dreams and voices. But think
about your past life--about those things that you find it hard to tell me.
It may not be necessary to tell me provided you know the truth yourself.
Will you promise that?" He smiled at her encouragingly as she nodded.
"Good! Now be cheerful. I am not deceiving you, Mrs. Wells, I am too
sensible an old timer to do that. I give you my word that these troubles
can be easily handled. I really do not consider you in a serious
condition. Now then, until two weeks from today. I'll make you a
friendly little bet that when I see you again you'll be dreaming about
flower gardens and blue skies and pretty sunsets. Good morning."
He watched her closely as she turned with a sad yet hopeful smile to
leave the room.
"Thank you very much, doctor. I'll come back two weeks from today."
Then she was gone.

For some minutes Owen sat drumming on his desk, lost in thought. "By
George, that's a queer case. Her other reason is the real one. I wonder
what it is?"
CHAPTER II
WHAT PENELOPE COULD NOT TELL THE DOCTOR
(Fragments from Her Diary)
Atlantic City, Tuesday.
I cannot tell what is on my mind, I cannot tell anyone, even a doctor;
but I will keep my promise and look into my past life. I will open those
precious, tragic, indiscreet little volumes bound in red leather in which
I have for years put down my thoughts and intimate experiences. I have
always found comfort in my diary.
I am thirty-three years old and for ten years, beginning before I was
married, I have kept this record. I wrote of my unhappiness with my
husband; I wrote of my lonely widowhood and of my many temptations;
I wrote of my illness, my morbid cravings and hallucinations.
There are several of these volumes and I have more than once been on
the point of burning them, but somehow I could not. However
imperfectly I have expressed myself and however mistaken I may be in
my interpretation of life, I have at least not been afraid to speak the
truth about myself and about other women I have known, and truth,
even the smallest fragment of it, is an infinitely precious thing.
What a story of a woman's struggles and emotions is contained in these
pages! I wonder what Dr. Owen would think if he could read them.
Heavens! How freely dare I draw upon these intimate chapters of my
life? How much must the doctor know in order to help me--to save me?
Shall I reveal myself to him as I really was during those agitated years
before my marriage when I faced the struggle of life, the temptations of
life--an attractive young woman alone in New York City, earning her

own living?
And how shall I tell the truth about my unhappy married life--the
torture and degradation of it? The truth about my widowhood--those
two gay years before the great disaster came, when, with money
enough, I let myself go in selfish pursuit of pleasure--playing with fire?
As I turn over these agitated pages I feel I have tried to be honest. I
rebel against hypocrisy, I hate false pretense, often I make myself out
worse than I really am.
In one place I find this:
"There is no originality in women. They do what they see others do,
they think what they are told to think--like a flock of sheep. Their hair
is a joke--absurd frizzles and ear puffs that are always imitated. Their
shoes are a tragedy. Their corsets are a crime. But they would die rather
than change these ordered abominations. So would I. I flock