"You are a likely limb, my boy. If you could get some of the foolishness out of your head you might make your mark in the world yet. To-morrow you can go and tell those pious people at the parsonage that your old dad is indisposed and sends you in his place."
When Dr. Eldrige entered the sick room the next day Mrs. Thorpe fixed her eyes intently upon him. Never in his experience had he felt the compassion, the depth of sympathy for a fellow being that her appearance kindled within him. Every expression of her face, every movement, every muscle was blended in physical pain and mental horror.
Love and compassion, as well as other emotions strong and deep, are not limited to the mind in which they have their inception; neither are they bound nor fettered, and they cannot fail to effect in some degree the being that has called them forth. Dr. Eldrige Jr. advanced to the bedside and quietly regarded the sufferer.
Mrs. Thorpe, who seemed to have taken no notice of anyone before, now raised herself to a sitting posture and, as a child reaches out its hands to a parent, she extended her hands to him.
"Take me out of this," she said, and there was fear and pleading, piteous and frenzied in her voice. Her eyes, in which no light of reason glimmered, wandered apprehensively about the room and back to the doctor's face. "Oh, do help me!" she gasped. "Take me out of this!"
The doctor's mind was working rapidly; with quick perception he detected that all reason was not gone, for it was evident that Mrs. Thorpe recognized him; yet he could not doubt that her mind was unbalanced to the extent that she believed herself in some place or condition the horror of which was unspeakable. If a condition, he must find some way to work upon what remained of her intellect, until, in her mind this condition was changed; but if it were a place or surroundings, his task might be less difficult, but it must be performed quickly. Without more than a moment's hesitation he extended his hands to her in return.
"Certainly," he said in a brisk, cheerful voice, "certainly I will take you out. That is exactly what I came for." He bent over her and took her in his arms as though she were a little child. Then to the nurse he said:
"Show me the nearest bed outside this room."
The nurse opened the door, crossed the hall and swung open the door of the room opposite. It was Pauline's room, and as usual it was in perfect order and spotless. The doctor said no word to his patient, but laid her quietly upon the bed. She rested her head on the pillow with her hand under her cheek and her eyes wandered curiously about the room. Then her eyelids fluttered drowsily, fluttered and closed. The doctor held up his finger commanding quiet and the nurse remained motionless where she stood. A little clock on the mantel ticked off the minutes; there was no other sound in the room and the sufferer fell quietly asleep. It was the first sleep that had come to her since her illness, and her condition, which the older doctor had pronounced hopeless, at least so far as her reason was concerned, dated its improvement from this time.
CHAPTER IX