It is no use pretending that Patricia was not ashamed of herself. She was—desperately so. She felt she had been guilty of immodesty, that she had forfeited her husband’s respect. Even when she realized that Peter’s damaged memory retained few details of their night except his promise to consult her father about his “nerves,” shame haunted her. Constantly, she expected him to remember, to judge, to condemn. ... Yet actually, she had saved him!

For Peter’s “case” was, in the terms of psycho-pathology (which is the science of soul-illnesses), one of “repressed complexes”: in simpler language, of bottling-up his emotions. At their first interview, Heron Baynet put the matter to him very simply. Heron Baynet said:—

“You have been twice wounded. One wound is in your arm; the other in your mind. The flesh wound, you let us cure: you understood that it needed antiseptics, drainage, bandages, rest. The wound in your mind, you concealed from us; and it has festered. Now, tell me what you are most afraid of?”

“Consumption,” admitted Peter.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I’m afraid I’ve got it.”

“Who put that idea into your head?”

Peter told his father-in-law about the gas-attack at Neuve Église, about his cough, about Rolleston. Heron Baynet laughed.

“We’ll soon settle that. Tubercle’s a bacillus. I’ll test you for it. Now then, what else are you afraid of?”

Peter hesitated.

“Shall I tell you a few things?” went on the doctor. “You’re afraid of going out by yourself. You’re afraid of noise. You’re afraid of time.”

“How do you know?” asked Peter wonderingly.

“My dear boy, how do you know things? By learning them, don’t you? You were trained in business, you were trained in soldiering. You studied them. Well, I’ve studied the mind....”

“But damn it,” said Peter, “one oughtn’t to be afraid of anything. At least, one oughtn’t to admit it?”

“Oughtn’t”—the doctor smiled. “There’s no ‘oughtn’t’ in the mind. ‘Oughtn’t’ is half your trouble. You’ve corked-up all these fears with your ‘oughtn’ts’ until they’ve become obsessions.”

“Well, anyway I’m a coward,” said Peter stubbornly. “You can’t get over that, however much you argue about it.”

“Of course you are,” countered his father-in-law blandly, “of course you’re a coward. So are nine-hundred and ninety-nine men out of every thousand. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have tried to control this wound in your mind. You were afraid to tell anybody about it, weren’t you?”

“I suppose I was.”

“Why?”

“Cowardice, I suppose. According to your theory.”

“Exactly. Don’t you see, Peter, that cowardice and bravery are ridiculous terms?”

“No, I don’t,” snapped Peter. “A man either does his job, or he funks it. If he funks it, he’s a coward.”

“You mean, if he funks it and doesn’t do it. Supposing he funks it, and does it all the same.”

“Then,” admitted Peter, “he’s not a coward.”

“Good. Now, let me tell you something. That power which drives the man to do a thing he funks, is not bravery but the will-to-be-brave. Your will-to-be-brave is damaged; you’ve overstrained it. If you go on overstraining it, you’ll lose it altogether. Give it a rest. Do you understand me? Give it a rest. All these repressions you’ve been so proud of—don’t interrupt, you have been proud of them, subconsciously proud—all these repressions are wrong. You’ve bound the wound up tight instead of allowing it to drain. You’ve been sitting on you’re mental safety-valves. If you want to jump when you hear a noise, for God’s sake jump. It’s much better for you than the effort to control yourself. If you’re afraid of open spaces, avoid ’em—don’t go through them with a loaded gun and pretend you’re trying to shoot rabbits....”

Peter blushed scarlet; and the lesson went on. One by one, Heron Baynet detailed the Fears—Fear of Open Spaces, Fear of Closed Spaces, Fear of Time, Fear of Money, Fear of Pain and Fear of Death. To his listening son-in-law, the catalogue seemed inexhaustible.

“Is everybody afraid of something?” asked the patient at last.

“Everybody with any sense,” was the answer. “Fear is the beginning of knowledge.”

“Then what are you afraid of?”

“I!” Heron Baynet’s quiet eyes held Peter’s for a full second. “I’m afraid of not knowing enough.”

... “Afraid of not knowing enough!” The phrase lingered in Peter’s mind—as Heron Baynet had intended it should linger: and with it, came back a scrap of Greek wisdom, ????? sea?t?? [Greek: gnÔthi seauton] (“Know thyself”). For the first time in his life, Peter began to think.

Hitherto, he had lived automatically; actions had contented him. Now, he started in to reason about his actions. Why had he done thus? Why had he done so? What was the driving-force behind his actions? Why had that driving-force suddenly run down?

The process—study of “cause” as opposed to study of “effect”—fascinated a mind hitherto devoid of introspection; so that by the time he went up to town for his second “lesson,” the following question formulated itself:

“What,” asked Peter Jameson, “is the real cause of this neurasthenia? Is it a mental trouble or a physical one? I’ve had the devil’s own time since I saw you last. I’m as nervy as fourteen cats. My hands wobble all over the place. I don’t seem able to control my memory. I’ve had three nightmares in four nights; and woken up screaming my guts out. What’s wrong—my mind or my body?”

“Can you separate ’em?” said Heron Baynet. “You’re not God. Nor am I. I’m only a doctor: but I don’t know more about both your body and your mind than you do. Now listen....”

So, twice weekly, the educative process went on. And gradually, with the coming of knowledge, fear abated.