Part 18 (1/2)

”Not really? Oh, I am so glad! Now I can always talk to you about it.

Did papa tell you? Why did he want you to go?”

I briefly explained the circ.u.mstances of my seeing Madame Patoff in the Black Forest, and the hope that was entertained of her recognizing me.

”Do you ever go in to see her, Miss Carvel?” I asked.

”Sometimes. They do not like me to go,” said she; ”they think it is too depressing for me. I cannot tell why. Poor dear aunt! she used to be glad to see me. Is not it dreadfully sad? Can you imagine a man who has just seen his mother in such a condition, behaving as Paul Patoff behaves this evening? He talks as if nothing had happened.”

”No, I cannot imagine it. I suppose he does not want to make everybody feel badly about it.”

”Mr. Griggs, is she really mad?” asked Hermione, in a low voice, leaning forward and clasping her hands.

”Why,” I began, very much surprised, ”does anybody doubt that she is insane?”

”I do,” said the young girl, decidedly. ”I do not believe she is any more insane than you and I are.”

”That is a very bold thing to say,” I objected, ”when a man of Professor Cutter's reputation in those things says that she is crazy, and gives up so much time to visiting her.”

”All the same,” said Hermione, ”I do not believe it. I am sure people sometimes try to kill themselves without being insane, and that is all it rests on.”

”But she has never recognized any one since that,” I urged.

”Perhaps she is ashamed,” suggested my companion, simply.

I was struck by the reply. It was such a simple idea that it seemed almost foolish. But it was a woman's thought about another woman, and it had its value. I laughed a little, but I answered seriously enough.

”Why should she be ashamed?”

”It seems to me,” said the young girl, ”that if I had done something very foolish and wicked, like trying to kill myself, and if people took it for granted that I was crazy, I would let them believe it, because I should be too much ashamed of myself to allow that I had consciously done anything so bad. Perhaps that is very silly; do you think so?”

”I do not think it is silly,” I replied. ”It is a very original idea.”

”Well, I will tell you something. Soon after she was first brought here I used to go and see her more often than I do now. She interested me so much. I was often alone with her. She never answered any questions, but she would sometimes let me read aloud to her. I do not know whether she understood anything I read, but it soothed her, and occasionally she would go to sleep while I was reading. One day I was sitting quite quietly beside her, and she looked at me very sadly, as though she were thinking of somebody she had loved,--I cannot tell why; and without thinking I looked at her, and said, 'Dear aunt Annie, tell me, you are not really mad, are you?' Then she turned very pale and began to cry, so that I was frightened, and called the nurse, and went away. I never told anybody, because it seemed so foolish of me, and I thought I had been unkind, and had hurt her feelings. But after that she did not seem to want to see me when I came, and so I have thought a great deal about it.

Do you see? Perhaps there is not much connection.”

”I think you ought to have told some one; your father, for instance,” I said. ”It is very interesting.”

”I have told you, though it is so long since it happened,” she answered; and then she added, quickly, ”Shall you tell Professor Cutter?”

”No,” I replied, after a moment's hesitation. ”I do not think I shall.

Should you like me to tell him?”

”Oh, no,” she exclaimed quickly, ”I should much rather you would not.”

”Why?” I inquired. ”I agree with you, but I should like to know your reason.”

”I think Professor Cutter knows more already than he will tell you or me”---- She checked herself, and then continued in a lower voice: ”It is prejudice, of course, but I do not like him. I positively cannot bear the sight of him.”