Marjorie Daw
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I.
DR. DILLON TO EDWARD DELANEY, ESQ., AT THE PINES.
NEAR RYE, N.H.
August 8, 1872.
My Dear Sir: I am happy to assure you that your anxiety is without
reason. Flemming will be confined to the sofa for three or four
weeks, and will have to be careful at first how he uses his leg. A
fracture of this kind is always a tedious affair. Fortunately the
bone was very skilfully set by the surgeon who chanced to be in the
drugstore where Flemming was brought after his fall, and I
apprehend no permanent inconvenience from the accident. Flemming is
doing perfectly well physically; but I must confess that the
irritable and morbid state of mind into which he has fallen causes
me a great deal of uneasiness. He is the last man in the world who
ought to break his leg. You know how impetuous our friend is
ordinarily, what a soul of restlessness and energy, never content
unless he is rushing at some object, like a sportive bull at a red
shawl; but amiable withal. He is no longer amiable. His temper has
become something frightful. Miss Fanny Flemming came up from
Newport, where the family are staying for the summer, to nurse him;
but he packed her off the next morning in tears. He has a complete
set of Balzac's works, twenty-seven volumes, piled up near his
sofa, to throw at Watkins whenever that exemplary serving-man
appears with his meals. Yesterday I very innocently brought
Flemming a small basket of lemons. You know it was a strip of
lemonpeel on the curbstone that caused our friend's mischance.
Well, he no sooner set is eyes upon those lemons than he fell into
such a rage as I cannot adequately describe. This is only one of
moods, and the least distressing. At other times he sits with bowed
head regarding his splintered limb, silent, sullen, despairing.
When this fit is on him--and it sometimes lasts all day--nothing
can distract his melancholy. He refuses to eat, does not even read
the newspapers; books, except as projectiles for Watkins, have no
charms for him. His state is truly pitiable.
Now, if he were a poor man, with a family depending on his daily
labor, this irritability and despondency would be natural enough.
But in a young fellow of twenty-four, with plenty of money and
seemingly not a care in the world, the thing is monstrous. If he
continues to give way to his vagaries in this manner, he will end
by bringing on an inflammation of the fibula. It was the fibula he
broke. I am at my wits' end to know what to prescribe for him. I
have anaesthetics and lotions, to make people sleep and to soothe
pain; but I've no Medicine that will make a man have a little
common-sense. That is beyond my skill, but maybe it is not beyond
yours. You are Flemming's intimate friend, his fidus Achates. Write
to him, write to him frequently, distract his mind, cheer him up,
and prevent him from becoming a confirmed case of melancholia.
Perhaps he has some important plans disarranged by his present
confinement. If he has you will know, and will know how to advise
him judiciously. I trust your father finds the change beneficial?
I am, my dear sir, with great respect, etc.
II.
EDWARD DELANEY TO JOHN FLEMMING, WEST 38TH STREET,
NEW YORK.
August 9, 1872.
My Dear Jack: I had a line from Dillon this morning, and was
rejoiced to learn that your hurt is not so bad as reported. Like a
certain personage, you are not so black and blue as you are
painted. Dillon will put you on your pins again in two to three
weeks, if you will only have patience and follow his counsels. Did
you get my note of last Wednesday? I was greatly troubled when I
heard of the accident.
I can imagine how tranquil and saintly you are with your leg in a
trough! It is deuced awkward, to be sure, just as we had promised
ourselves a glorious month together at the sea-side; but we must
make the best of it. It is unfortunate, too, that my father's
health renders it impossible for me to leave him. I think he has
much improved; the sea air is his native element; but he still
needs my arm to lean upon in his walks, and requires some one more
careful that a servant to look after him. I cannot come to you,
dear Jack, but I have hours of unemployed time on hand, and I will
write you a whole post-office full of letters, if that will divert
you. Heaven knows, I haven't anything to write about. It isn't as
if we were living at one of the beach houses; then I could do you
some character studies, and fill your imagination with groups of
sea-goddesses, with their (or somebody else's) raven and blonde
manes hanging down their shoulders. You should have Aphrodite in
morning wrapper, in evening costume, and in her prettiest bathing
suit. But we are far from all that here. We have rooms in a
farm-house, on a cross-road, two miles from the hotels, and lead
the quietest of lives.
I wish I were a novelist. This old house, with its sanded floors
and high wainscots, and its narrow windows looking out upon a
cluster of pines that turn themselves into aeolian harps every time
the wind blows, would be the place in which to write a summer
romance. It should b
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