A CHORD OF MEMORY.
Of his own choice, Doctor Rupert would have preferred any other work
than this--to labor among the poor demented souls at Weston, some of
them pitiable, some amusing, only a few, as in the case of little Eva,
interesting.
He ached to the core of his heart with yearning sympathy for
the unfortunates, but not for all his pain would he desert his
self-appointed task of watching over hapless Eva, whose wretched lot
was cast among these lunatics.
He found that Doctor Bertrand, the earnest young woman physician, and
Doctor Merry, his other colleague, ably seconded him in every effort to
alleviate the sadness of her fate.
Flowers were at first given her, rousing a faint interest and pleasure.
She would keep them in her hands until they faded and more were
brought, brooding over them with tender eyes.
Then they brought her novels and books of poetry. But it was some time
before Eva showed any interest in these. The sweet flowers pleased her
better.
Doctor Rupert remembered the roses that had grown in the front yard
at Stony Ledge, with other homely vines and flowers dear to rural
hearts--old-fashioned pinks and sweet lady-fingers, and hyacinths and
bleeding-hearts, and many others that he had seen the fair golden head
bending over as he rode by to tend his patients. His heart swelled with
pain as he thought she would never be there again in the old home she
had loved so well.
He would have been willing to lay down his life to convince the world
of Eva’s innocence and purity, so that her grandfather would have taken
her back to his heart again.
But he knew that if he went back to-morrow, and reiterated the story he
had told to Eva--that he had been sent there by a pretense that she was
ill--every one would laugh him to scorn.
But old Doctor Binks, on getting over his spree, plainly remembered
sending Doctor Ludington to see his patient, and said so. Nay, more: He
had sternly accused Dan Ellis of bringing him the hurry call to Eva’s
bedside.
The frightened chore boy, acting under instructions from the twins,
flatly denied the charge. He swore he had never been near the office
of the drunken old doctor that night, and proved an alibi by the gang
of neighborhood boys who had helped him in his mischievous Hallowe’en
pranks.
He succeeded in convincing every one that Doctor Binks was
mistaken--every one, at least, but the old man himself, who was quite
sure of his facts, and horrified by the tragedy, raged at the liar,
and started out to have his life for the falsehoods that made it
impossible to clear little Eva’s name from obloquy.
Dan being warned in time of his murderous intentions, fled from the
neighborhood, and it knew him no more for many a long day, while
justice slumbered.
So Doctor Rupert knew too well how futile would be a crusade at present
in Eva’s defense, for he realized that there was more behind the scenes
than he at first suspected.
He did not doubt the truth of Doctor Binks’ accusation against the
stupid Dan Ellis; he only wondered why he had denied it and fled from
the doctor’s wrath.
There was a mystery in that flight that Doctor Rupert said to himself
grimly would bear investigation when he could find time.
But first in his thoughts was the duty of restoring Eva’s reason. To
that task he bent himself with ardor all the more eager because it had
to be concealed.
But he had stirred such a zeal in Doctor Bertrand that in her capacity
of a sister woman she could approach Eva oftener and show her more
kindness than he dared to do.
This keen sympathy of her anxious friends seemed to surround Eva with
an atmosphere of love and good will, through which the light of reason
began to penetrate to her bewildered mind. Now and then she had a shy,
sweet smile for the woman doctor; now and then she offered a light
caress, and presently she began to open the books that were given
her, and stare dreamily at the illustrations. She ceased chanting
her soul-piercing melancholy songs, and talked to herself instead,
sometimes like a little child at play.
One day Doctor Rupert, pausing at a little distance to watch her, while
he seemed to be busy with another patient, saw her pick up a paper that
had fallen from her book and open it with trembling fingers.
He was close enough to see that the unfolded sheet had some verses
written on it in a large, masculine hand, and he glanced curiously at
Eva’s face.
It was startling, the flash of joyous comprehension that changed her
face like lightning from its dull blank of indifference, as her great
sombre dark eyes ran over the verses.
“What has happened to little Eva? She looks brighter--almost sane! Has
she a letter?” asked Doctor Bertrand, coming up to Rupert.
He answered huskily:
“In one of the novels I brought her I must have left a copy of some
verses I had written, for she seems to be reading them.”
They moved a little closer, and she looked up at them with a smile of
childlike confidence and joy, exclaiming eagerly:
“See, my poet-lover has sent me some more of his sweet verses!”
It was the first comprehensive sentence she had uttered since coming to
the asylum, nearly four months before.
They could not answer for surprise, and Eva added, with gentle
happiness:
“Now I know that my unknown lover is not dead. It is so long--so
long--since he sent me my tokens of his love that I thought he was
dead.”
“My dear Eva!” Doctor Bertrand cried, with tender sympathy, and
catching hold of her hand, Eva continued:
“Many times I have looked on the window sill at dawn for the tokens he
used to leave there--the wildflowers with the dew on their fragrant
petals, the boxes of candy, the poetry books, and, sweetest of all the
dear poems in praise of me that thrilled my heart with joy in every
word. Do you remember how jealous and angry the twins were when I first
told them about my splendid unknown lover?” She stopped and pressed
her lips to the paper in her hand, thrilling one heart to a secret,
inexpressible ecstasy.
“How wonderful! She seems almost sane. She has never talked as much
as that to any one here before. I am glad you left your verses in the
book. They seem to have struck some vibrating chord in her fancy. Can
it be fancy, or a reality?” Doctor Bertrand murmured excitedly to her
companion, who answered with gleaming eyes:
“It is hard to tell!”
He felt like breaking down and confessing all his secret to the
sympathetic woman at his side, but prudence restrained his confidence.
She might laugh at him, and in his present nervous tension he could not
bear it.
He had tried an experiment, and it had succeeded beyond all his hopes.
He gazed at Eva longingly, trying to keep the sparkling lovelight out
of his face.
Doctor Bertrand actually stooped and kissed the mad girl’s smiling
face, carried out of her usual self-possessed pose by true, womanly
sympathy; but she did not guess how Doctor Rupert envied the caress,
and she said tenderly:
“I am glad your lover has written to you at last, Eva, and I hope you
will get another letter to-morrow.”
“I shall be sure to look again on the window sill,” answered the happy
girl; then she would not take any more notice of them, nor answer a
word. She sat dreaming over the verses all day, with a tender, wistful
light in her great dark eyes, as if trying to piece together some
scattered links of memory.
As they turned away Doctor Rupert said, low and earnestly:
“The incident turned out so happily, would it be wise to repeat it?”
“By all means try it again. But let me have the verses, and I will
humor her fancy by placing them on her window sill. I declare I am
quite excited and hopeful. What if we have stumbled on the key to
unlock her darkened mind to the light of reason?”
“God grant it!” Doctor Rupert replied earnestly, and he worked as well
as prayed for the result he wished, having the verses ready each day,
with other tokens that Doctor Bertrand always placed on the casement,
ready for Eva’s eager waking eyes.
It was a unique way to cure insanity, but it was certainly succeeding.
Eva improved so rapidly that the aberration of her mind was almost
cured.
She took delight in the tokens of a lover’s kindness that came to her
hands each day, and from her first childish confidences she relapsed
into maidenly shyness, keeping her verses sacredly to herself, though
she generously shared her sweets with all.
“This is very encouraging. We can soon discharge the young girl as
cured,” said the superintendent cheerfully, but one bright morning they
had an unpleasant shock of surprise.
Eva Somerville was missing from the asylum!