LA MAISON DE SANTE.
Just where it was situated, how far from Vienna, how far from Lintz, or
how far from the Danube, does not matter to the reader, who needs only
to know that there was such a place, embowered in trees, and flowers,
and shrubs, and seeming to the casual passer-by like a second little
Eden, where one had nothing to do but to enjoy the brightness of the
Austrian skies, and the beauty of the premises around. But every door
was barred, and every window had a net-work of iron in front of it,
through which white, haggard faces looked wistfully, and strange, wild
laughs, mingled sometimes with cries of rage, were heard to issue at all
hours of the day. Frequently the inmates of that house, or those who
were on the “good list,” walked in the beautiful grounds, but never
walked alone. An attendant was always with them, watchful, vigilant,
without, however, seeming to be so; for the rule of the house was
kindness, whenever it would answer, and as much freedom as was
compatible with safety. Except in extreme cases, where the patient was
poor and obscure, it was not a cruelly conducted household which Baron
or Doctor Van Schoisner had in charge; but in all the world there was
not, perhaps, a more avaricious, grasping man than the baron, who would
have sold his soul for thirty pieces of silver, and for forty almost
have consented to a murder. If, for purposes of their own, people wished
to incarcerate their friends, and paid him well for it, their secret was
safe with him, and the victim was insane as long as he lived, if
necessary. But there his wickedness ceased, and his patients were
generally made as happy and comfortable as it was possible to make them.
He, alone, held the secrets of his employers. Not a whisper of the truth
ever escaped his lips, and to his attendants everybody was crazy, and
must be watched and treated as such, no matter what were their
pretensions to the contrary; so when poor little Rossie awoke one
morning to find herself deserted, she became at once a _lunatic_. All
liberty of action was gone; even her name was taken from her, and she
was told that the Rosamond Hastings who she professed to be, was dead,
and lying under the grass where the wild violets were growing, while she
was _Myra_, the niece of the baron, who had come to the house the same
night with the beautiful American girl who was so sick, and who had died
in a few days. No wonder if for a time her brain reeled, and she was in
danger of being in reality insane.
Poor little Rossie had enjoyed much and suffered much since the day when
we last saw her, waving a farewell to her friends from the deck of the
steamer which bore her away. Her brother had been uniformly kind and
affectionate to her, but many things had arisen to shake her confidence
in him, and to make her think it possible that he was not the honorable,
upright man he professed to be. Then, as the year wore on, and they got
farther and farther from home, her letters were unanswered, and there
began to steal over her a longing for America which she could not
conceal, and which took all the color from her face and roundness from
her form, until at last she was really sick with hope deferred and an
anxiety to know why none of her letters were answered.
At Florence she was very ill of a fever contracted in Rome, and from the
effects of which she did not recover, although she was able at last to
go on toward Vienna, their ultimate destination. At Salzburg they halted
for a few days, and there her brother brought to her a stranger, whom he
introduced as a friend and old acquaintance, Dr. Van Schoisner, to whom
he said he owed his life, and who had a kind of Sanitarium for people
diseased in body and mind, upon the river Danube. Van Schoisner, who
spoke English very well, was exceedingly kind and tender in his manner
toward Rossie, whom he questioned so closely, and in such a peculiar
way, that she first was annoyed, and then confused and bewildered, and
finally contradicted herself two or three times in her statements with
regard to her recent illness, and when he asked how she would like to go
to his beautiful place on the river and stay a few weeks while he
treated her, she shrank away from him, and bursting into tears said she
would not like it at all,—that she did not need to be treated, as there
was nothing the matter with her but homesickness, and only America could
cure that.
Van Schoisner laughed, and stroked her hair, and said he would soon have
her all right, and then went to her brother, between whom and himself
there was a long conference, during which both sold themselves, body and
soul, to the evil one, and were pledged to do his work.
“If she would only abandon that nonsense of hers about giving her
fortune to that Forrest, as soon as she comes of age, and would share it
with me, I wouldn’t do it, for, by Jove, I’ve a kind of liking for the
girl,” Dr. Matthewson said, as there came a little prick of conscience,
and a drawing back from the thing he proposed to do, which was nothing
more or less than burying Rossie alive inside a mad-house, where, so
long as the price was paid, she would be as really dead to the world as
if the grass were growing over her, and where the chances were that she
would either die a speedy death, or, with her temperament, become a
hopeless lunatic.
Money he must have, and as he believed in neither God nor the devil, he
had no scruples as to how he got it, only he would a little rather not
murder one outright to get it. Every argument which he could think of
had been brought to bear upon Rossie, with a view to inducing here to
keep the fortune willed her, but she had stood firm as a rock in her
decision to make the whole over to Everard as soon as she came of age,
and so he had recourse to the horrid scheme of which we have hinted.
He knew Van Schoisner well, and knew that he was the man for any deed,
however dark,—provided there was money in it, with little chance of
detection; and he sent for him to meet them at Salzburg to confer on
important business. So Van Schoisner went and found what the business
was, and talked to Rossie about her head, and brain, and _cerebellum_,
until she lost her wits and said she hadn’t any _cerebellum_, and never
had. She was homesick, and that was all. This, of course, was proof
conclusive of a diseased state of mind. A girl who hadn’t any
cerebellum, and who persisted in throwing away hundreds of thousands of
dollars, must be insane and dealt with accordingly. So the bargain was
made, and Rossie’s fate was sealed. And then arose the question of the
friends at home. What should be said to them to quiet all suspicion?
“She must be dead, of course,” Van Schoisner said. “Nothing easier than
that. A notice in the paper; a letter containing particulars; crape on
your hat; a tear in your eye, and the thing is accomplished.”
“Yes,” returned the doctor, “but suppose that chap who is in love with
her takes it into his head to come spooning after her grave, and
inquires about her death, and wants to see the very room, and all
that,—and it would be like him to do it,—what then?”
Van Schoisner rubbed his forehead thoughtfully a moment, and then said:
“That’s the hardest part to manage, but I think I can do it, only give
me time. I have a niece in the country a few miles from here, very sick
with consumption,—in the last stages, and poor, too, with no friends but
myself. I pay her board where she is, and visit her sometimes. She was
born in London, her father was an Englishman; so she speaks English
perfectly, and might be your sister. I have talked of taking her to
Haelder-Strauchsen, and will do so at once, though the journey will
shorten her life. But that will not matter, as she must die soon. Once
at Haelder-Strauchsen she is your sister, and your sister is my niece.
The attendants never ask questions nor talk. Do you comprehend?”
Dr. Matthewson thought he did, but left the matter wholly to his ally,
who had, if possible, drank deeper from the cup of iniquity than
himself.
As the result of this conversation there was brought to the hotel a few
days later a white-faced, fair-haired girl, in whose great blue eyes and
about whose mouth and nose death was plainly written. They called her
Myra, and said she was Van Schoisner’s niece, whom he was taking to his
home for better care than she could have in the country. No one attended
her. Her uncle could do all that was necessary, he said, and he seemed
very kind to her, and staid by her constantly upon the boat when at last
they started for home, accompanied by Dr. Matthewson and Rossie, who was
greatly interested in the sick girl. It was night when they reached the
landing where they were to stop, and from the windows of the close
carriage Rossie saw nothing of the country through which they passed for
a few miles, but was conscious at last that they were entering spacious
grounds, and stopping before a large, square building, with two wings on
either side.
The room assigned her was in one of the wings on the third floor, as was
Myra’s also. It was very prettily furnished, and the windows looked out
upon the grounds, but there was stretched before them a gauzy net-work
of iron, which Rossie noticed at once, and asked for the reason. Then
her brother explained to her the real character of the house, but said
that as they were transient visitors it would not affect them in the
least, and all she had to do was to rest and get as well as possible, so
they might go on to Vienna.
And Rossie tried to rest and enjoy the beautiful place, but the
occasional sight of some of the patients walking in the distance, the
strange sounds, like human cries, which reached her in the night when
everything was still, and, more than all, a great languor and desire to
sleep which she could not shake off, wore upon her so fast that in a few
days she was seriously ill again, and lost all consciousness of time or
what was passing around her. How long she remained in this condition she
never knew; only this, that she awoke one morning to find Van Schoisner
with her, apparently watching her as she slept, and administering some
powerful stimulants. He was very kind, indeed, and told her Dr.
Matthewson had been obliged to go to Vienna on business, which might
detain him a few days, but he would soon be back, and she was to be as
happy and quiet as possible till his return. Her next question was for
the sick girl, who, he said, had died a week ago, and then he bade her
try to sleep again, as perfect rest was what she needed most.
“And I went to sleep,” Rossie said, afterward, when telling Beatrice of
that awful time when she was kept a prisoner at Haelder-Strauchsen, with
no hope of escape. “I went to sleep and slept so heavily and long that
it must have been days before I awoke, and when I did, my head ached so
hard, and everything seemed so confused, and I could not understand a
word the woman said, for she spoke only German, which I never could make
out. I tried to make her know that I wanted my brother, but she shook
her head and put her finger to her lips, and finally went out and locked
the door after her. Then I got up and went to the window, and leaned my
head against the bars, and cried for home, and you, and Everard, till I
felt so sick and dizzy that I went back to bed, and lay there till Van
Schoisner came and told me nothing had been heard from Dr. Matthewson
since he left the Sanitarium, two weeks before.
“‘I certainly expected him to return,’ he said, ‘and am afraid some evil
has befallen him. I have written to the hotel where he intended to stop,
and they have not seen him.’
“He called him Dr. Matthewson all the time, as formal-like as if he had
not been my brother, and once he called me _Myra_, and when I said he
was mistaken, for I was Rossie Hastings, he smiled kind of pityingly,
and said:
“‘Poor little girl, be anything you like to yourself. To me you are
Myra. Rossie died just across the hall, and is buried in such a pretty
spot.’
“I thought he was crazy, and felt afraid of him, but had no suspicion
then of the real state of things. That came gradually, as days and weeks
went by and I heard nothing from my brother, and seldom saw any one but
the doctor and the attendant, Margotte, who never talked with me except
by signs, so I had no opportunity to learn the language, which I greatly
desired to do, in order to make myself understood, and convince her that
I was not Myra, and was not mad, as I knew she believed me to be.
“Oh, it was so horrible that time, and my head got so confused, and I
used to pray constantly ‘God keep me from going really mad!’ and he did,
though I was very near it. At first they would not let me have paper or
ink to write to you with, but I begged so hard on my knees, clinging to
that man’s feet, that he consented at last, and I wrote to you, and
Everard, and Lawyer Russell, and my brother, too, though I did not know
where he was, and Margotte took the letters, which I know now were never
sent, but were burned to ashes, for Yulah told me so,—good, kind Yulah,
who came to me like an angel from Heaven.
“Margotte was sick, and Yulah took her place. She had been there once as
a patient, mad herself, from some great wrong done to her by one she
loved and trusted. Her baby had died there, and been buried in the
grounds, and she was attached to the place, and after her cure, staid
from choice, and was nurse and attendant both, and the most faithful and
vigilant of them all, and the one the doctor trusted the most. So he put
me in her charge, and the moment I saw her sweet, sad face, and looked
into her eyes, which seemed always ready to run over with tears, I loved
her, and put my tired head in her lap, and cried like a child.
“‘_Qu’avez vous, petite Myra?_’ she said, and then I knew she spoke
French, and my heart gave a great bound, for I knew I could talk with
her a little, and I mustered all my knowledge of the language and told
her I was not Myra at all; I was Rosamond Hastings, from America; shut
up, detained there unlawfully, for what reason I did not know; that I
had written and written home and nobody had answered me, and the doctor
said my brother, who came with me, was dead, but I did not believe it;
and a great deal more, to which she listened patiently, as one might
listen to the meaningless prattle of a child.
“But when I mentioned brother’s name, she sprang to her feet and shaking
me off asked fiercely, ‘_votre frère, comment s’appelle-t-il?_’ I told
her again, ‘Dr. Matthewson; Dr. John Matthewson, from America,’ and for
a few moments she acted as if she were perfectly insane, and glaring at
me with her terrible eyes, she spit upon me and demanded, ‘You are sure
you are his sister? You are nothing else to him, though that is bad
enough?’
“I made her believe at last, and then she asked me so many questions
that before I knew it I had told her all about the Forrest House, and
the will, and Everard, and everything, she all the time looking straight
at me with her great bright eyes, which seemed to be reading me to see
if I were telling the truth.
“‘I see, I see, I understand. Poor child, God sent me here to be your
friend, and I will!’ she said, when I had finished; and then she broke
out angrily against my brother, whom she called a villain, a murderer, a
rascal, and said he had done her a terrible wrong, which she had sworn
to avenge, and she saw a way by which she could keep her word.
“‘I go to America myself, but what your friends shall know,’ she said,
and to my great delight she spoke to me now in English, but whispered
very low. ‘It is better they not to know I can talk in your tongue, and
they not suspect; and I must be very strict, watch you very much is my
order, because you dangerous, you try to kill yourself, he say, and I
never let you from my sight. But I fix ’em. I cheat. I have my revenge
much. You will see what I do.’”
This was in part the story told afterwards to Beatrice by Rossie, who
did not then know that Yulah Van Eisner was the girl who had once
pleaded so piteously for justice at the hands of Dr. Matthewson, and
been by him spurned with contempt, which had turned her love into bitter
hatred. She saw no reason to discredit Rossie’s story, and understood
readily why she had been immured in a living tomb, and guessed that to
her friends at home she was supposed to be dead, and that the knavish
brother had the inheritance. She did not, however, communicate all her
suspicions to her charge, as she did not wish to wound her
unnecessarily, but she meant to get her away, and set herself steadily
to that object. Through her influence writing materials were again
furnished to Rossie, who, acting upon Yulah’s advice, wrote two letters
to Everard, one of which went into Von Schoisner’s hands and was burned
as usual, while the other was secreted about Yulah’s person and found
its way to America, but not until some time had elapsed, and Yulah had
given up her situation to Margotte, with the understanding, however,
that there was always a place for her in the Maison de Sante, either as
attendant or nurse, when she chose to return.