Majorie Daw

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 lemon-peel 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,
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Majorie Daw
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,
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Majorie Daw
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 even