"I'm so tired, Pauline," she said, and sank down in her chair again. "And Maurice's being called away was something of a shock, you know."
Pauline went over to her. "Yes, I know," she said. "And I know you are tired; you look all worn out. Shall I go to your room with you?"
"Oh, no, thank you; that is not necessary. I shall be all right when I am rested again. Good-night, Pauline." And she started again for her room.
"Good-night, Evelyn. There is a light in your room. I hope you sleep well."
As Mrs. Thorpe entered her dimly lighted room a cold, dizzy sensation again came over her. She sank into her easy chair and the events of the day passed before her. Suddenly she sat upright and gazed with horror at the sight which greeted her. She tried to shriek, but her tongue was silent; she tried to fly, but her feet were motionless. She closed her eyes, but it was not with her natural vision that she saw the outline of phantom forms and ghoulish faces that filled the room.
"She is ours at last! She will never resist us again." It was not a voice that she heard; there was not a sound in the room; the silence was oppressive. Over and over, around and about, circling, advancing, retreating, the forms filled every foot of space, and yet she was sure that the room was empty save the furnishings; the chairs, the bed, the table, these stood out clearly and distinctly. She felt the rush of bodies, the bustle and strife among the myriad forms as they jostled each other in their struggle to be near her; yet there was not a breath of air stirring in the room; all was motionless and quiet. Then a space above her cleared, the air seemed to open and the somber form and sable wings that she had seen so often descended upon her. She was conscious of wondering how it could be that she had met this phantom so many times and denounced and driven it from her. She felt so stupid now, so numb and powerless; yet the horror had never been one half so great. She felt the claw-like fingers clutch her shoulder and the blood gushed forth in a crimson stream, yet there was no sensation of pain, only the grim and awful horror of it. She felt herself borne away, the multitude of forms and faces following in her wake. What a ghastly burden she was! Blood oozed from every pore and left a crimson trail behind. Her phantom carrier went tirelessly on and on, through space and over distances until it reached an abyss, wide, deep and black. Over this, with fluttering wings, it paused. And could it be--broiling, seething, writhing below--oh, could it be--was it true? She must be wild--her vision blasted--her senses gone. She had heard the wail and moan of suffering children, the call of lost souls; she had seen the world circled with the maimed, the bruised and the broken hearted, but this--oh, this which she now saw and heard! How could it be that the abyss contained that which greeted her vision! The carrier, with poised wings, now let go its grasp upon her shoulder and slowly, yet with deadly certainty, she slid down into the abyss--to become one of them!
It was past midnight when Mr. Thorpe left the stricken home where he had been called. He had performed the last sacred rites for the dying woman; he had knelt at her bedside and committed her soul to the keeping of Him who gave it. It had been a painful scene and he was tired and depressed when he reached home. He entered his wife's room and found her in her easy chair in a dead faint. He hastily summoned Pauline and sent a message for Dr. Eldrige. Mrs. Thorpe was ill, very ill. Dr. Eldrige, fussing and fuming, declared that her nervous system was a complete wreck. There was little that he could do for her. Proper nourishment, careful nursing, and, above all, perfect quiet. These were the only remedies in a case of this kind.
To his son he said: "The thing I predicted has happened; the woman's mind is gone. She is mad as a March hare, and it is my opinion that much learning or effort toward learning has made her so."
Dr. Eldrige Jr. recalled his last interview with Mrs. Thorpe. Evidently she had not followed his advice. He was not surprised at this, for he had not really expected that she would. He felt, too, that the advice that he had given her at that time was very much like giving to a patient in the full flush of fever remedies intended to prevent fevers generally in their incipient stages. He resolved, however, to satisfy himself whether there was anything that could be done for her now. The manner in which he obtained his father's consent to call upon her was typical of the method by which he managed to have his own way when he especially desired it, and yet get along smoothly with his irascible parent.
"If this woman has brought about her own destruction, as you believe," he said, "while doing what we can for her professionally, we can also study her condition for the benefit of science. I wouldn't mind calling on her myself."