ELSIE, THE LUNATIC.
There was one person in that institution to whom Catharine warmly
attached herself at first sight. She was a middle-aged woman, possessed
of a wild sort of beauty, which might have been loveliness in youth, and
was now wonderfully picturesque. She had been a long time insane;
sometimes in a madhouse, violent and refractory; sometimes in private
institutions, always especially cared for, as the rich provide for their
unfortunates; but never, until now, surrounded with home-like elegances,
and attentions so delicate, that they did not seem to be watchful.
This woman occupied a little parlor and bedroom close to that in which
Catharine slept. She was under no visible restraint, for the inmates
only recognized their keepers as servants, and felt complimented by
their devoted attention. One day, in passing Catharine’s door, she saw
her bending over the table, toiling patiently over a drawing, which she
was forced to work out, with no help save that of her own genius.
Something, either in her attitude or countenance, arrested the woman,
who turned, and, after peering into the room to make sure that no one
else was there, stole in so noiselessly that Catharine was unconscious
of her presence, until she felt her breath floating across her cheek.
“Get up, that’s all wrong.”
Catharine started from her chair in some alarm. The woman sat down,
seized upon a pencil, and went to work with the spirit and dash of an
artist. That which Catharine had been striving to accomplish, she
achieved with a few movements of the hand, creating a perspective here,
a middle distance there, and livening up the foreground with a figure or
two that fairly startled the girl, as she saw them grow into a
_vraisemblance_ of humanity under her gaze.
All at once, the woman looked up, and Catharine remarked the wonderful
beauty of her eyes, now widening with pleasure.
“_He_ stood exactly so, that night,” she said, “touching one of the
figures with her pencil. I—no, I’m not here. It is that terrible woman.
How dare you let her come near him?”
She seized the paper between her hands, tore it fiercely through the
middle, and flung it down, quivering, as if she had just dashed a
serpent from her. When Catharine stooped to pick up the fragments, her
excitement grew intense; she stamped her foot down upon the paper,
defied the girl with her great burning eyes, and dashed out of the room.
At first this scene frightened Catharine, but in the end it gave her a
hopeful idea. This woman had the knowledge which she was toiling for.
Might it not be guided for their mutual benefit? She consulted with Mrs.
Barr, and resolved to lure the maniac into an occupation which might
bring her dormant faculties into healthy action.
The next day, she went to Elsie’s room, with a variety of many-colored
silks in her hand. The woman was sitting by herself, silent and sullen.
She had some loose beads in her lap, and was counting them over one by
one, dropping each with a click into the pile, and evidently wondering
why it never grew less. She caught a glance at the silks in Catharine’s
hand, stirred restlessly in her chair, and fell to counting her beads
again. Catharine sat down by the window, spreading out her silks in a
connection which would have disturbed any one who had an artist’s eye
for color. Elsie watched her keenly, dropping her beads all the time;
but Catharine could see that the heavy mournfulness of her eyes kindled
into intelligence, and that she was growing restless. Still, the little
temptress went on matching her colors bunglingly.
All at once, the crazy woman started up, her hoard of beads fell to the
floor, and rushed, helter-skelter, over the room. She did not heed them
in the least, but set herself down on the carpet, at Catharine’s feet,
and taking the silks from her hands, began to arrange them in such
contrast, or harmony, as her fancy dictated. It was a study to watch
this poor demented creature, as she pursued her work, lovingly as a
child dresses her doll. She looked up more than once, and laughed
pleasantly. Catharine smiled back, for she knew that in this she was
resurrecting an almost dead faculty.
By what link of intelligence the maniac and her young nurse became in
accord, I cannot determine, but it was not long before Elsie learned to
smile when she appeared, and was docile as a lamb in her company.
Almost, it would seem, by a miracle, she brought the long-buried talents
of former years into action. True, Elsie was erratic, and she would only
exert herself when the caprice was on her, but Catharine had the good
sense to leave her free, and thus won a world of instruction from her,
giving and taking benefit.
Perhaps this was the most tranquil period of Catharine’s life. It
certainly was the most useful, and God has so ordained it that no human
soul can devote its energies to the good of humanity without
proportionate self-benefit. In truth, it is only through others that we
are ever made happy. Selfishness has no power of radiation, and
degenerates the soul it centres in. The great secret of human happiness
lies in that benevolence which encompasses the greatest number of God’s
creatures with benefits.
Was Catharine happy? No, a famished heart is never content. In all her
duties, one thought was forever uppermost, and even in her sleep she was
haunted by two images: the husband who had abandoned her, and the child
that had for a little time taken the place of her own. Was she never on
earth to hear of them again? More than two years had gone by; what had
the authorities done with the child? Was he among the pauper children?
Was he dead, or had some person taken compassion on his helplessness?
She had no way of learning. Mary Margaret, with all her goodness, did
not know how to write, and the last time Catharine had looked for the
humble roof that sheltered her in the hour of need, a brown-stone house
was approaching completion upon the ground where it had stood; the rocks
upon which the goat had browsed were blasted away, and no vestige of the
pond remained.
More than once, Catharine had written to Madame De Marke, imploring news
of her husband. Not a word came in reply, but, spite of all this, a
vague faith in him still lived in her heart.
Thus time wore on, not heavily, as he creeps with those who have no
duties to perform, but surely leaving traces of his progress, either for
good or for evil, on every living thing. To Catharine he had given
health, intelligence, a rich growth of mind, and such beauty as her
early years had never promised. Her slender girlishness had rounded into
perfect proportion, not the less delicate because it had ceased to be
fragile. Her face had gained bloom and expression. Timid hesitation of
manner had given way to a calm self-composure, modest as it was
dignified. Such was Catharine as she entered into her real womanhood.