Читать книгу POSSESSED - Moffett Cleveland - Страница 7

Penelope moved nervously in her chair, evidently very much troubled about something as she waited in the doctor's office. Her two years in France had added a touch of mystery to her strange beauty. Her eyes were more veiled in their burning, as if she had glimpsed something that had frightened her; yet they were eyes that, even unintentionally, carried a message to men, an alluring, appealing message to men. With her red mouth, her fascinatingly unsymmetrical mouth, and her sinuous body Penelope Wells at thirty-three was the kind of woman men look at twice and remember. She was dressed in black.

When Dr. William Owen entered the front room of his Ninth Street office he greeted her with the rough kindliness that a big man in his profession, a big-hearted man, shows to a young woman whose case interests him and whose personality is attractive.

“I got your note, Mrs. Wells,” he began, “and I had a letter about you from my young friend, Captain Herrick. I needn't say that I had already read about your bravery in the newspapers. The whole country has been sounding your praises. When did you get back to New York?”

“About a week ago, doctor. I came on a troop ship with several other nurses. I—I wish I had never come.”

There was a note of pathetic, ominous sadness in her voice. Even in his first study of this lovely face, the doctor's experienced eye told him that here was a case of complicated nervous breakdown. He wondered if she could have had a slight touch of shell shock. What a ghastly thing for a high spirited, sensitive young woman to be out on those battle fields in France!

“You mustn't say that, Mrs. Wells. We are all very proud of you. Think of having the croix de guerre pinned on your dress by the commanding general before a whole regiment! Pretty fine for an American woman!”

Penelope Wells sat quite still, playing with the flexible serpent ring on her thumb, and looked at the doctor out of her wonderful deep eyes that seemed to burn with a mysterious fire. Could there be something Oriental about her—or—or Indian, the physician wondered.

“Doctor,” she said, in a low tone, “I have come to tell you the truth about myself, and the truth is that I deserve no credit for what I did that day, because I—I did not want to live. I wanted them to kill me, I took every chance so that they would kill me; but God willed it differently, the shells and bullets swept all around me, cut through my dress, through my hair, but did not harm me.”

“Tell me a little more about it, just quietly. How did you happen to go out there? Was it because you heard that Captain Herrick was wounded? That's the way the papers cabled the story. Was that true?” Then, seeing her face darken, he added: “Perhaps I ought not to ask that question?”

“Oh, yes, I want you to. I want you to know everything about me—everything. That's why I am here. Captain Herrick says you are a great specialist in nervous troubles, and I have a feeling that unless you can help me nobody can.”

“Well, I have helped some people who felt pretty blue about life—perhaps I can help you. Now, then, what is the immediate trouble? Any aches or pains? I must say you seem to be in splendid health,” he smiled at her with cheery admiration.

“It isn't my body. I have no physical suffering. I eat well enough, I sleep well, except—my dreams. I have horrible, torturing dreams, doctor. I'm afraid to go to sleep. I have the same dreams over and over again, especially two dreams that haunt me.”

“How long have you had these dreams?”

“Ever since I went out that dreadful day from Montidier—when the Germans almost broke through. They told me Captain Herrick was lying there helpless, out beyond our lines. So I went to him. I don't know how I got there, but—I found him. He was wounded in the thigh and a German beast was standing over him when I came up. He was going to run him through with a bayonet. And somehow, I—I don't know how I did it, but I caught up a pistol from a dead soldier and I shot the German.”

“Good Lord! You don't say! They didn't have that in the papers! What a woman! No wonder you've had bad dreams!”

Penelope passed a slender hand over her eyes as if to brush away evil memories, then she said wearily: “It isn't that, they are not ordinary dreams.”

“Well, what kind of dreams are they? You say there are two dreams?”

“There are two that I have had over and over again, but there are others, all part of a sequence with the same person in them.”

The doctor looked at her sharply. “The same person? A person that you recognize?”

“Yes.”

“A person you have really seen? A man?”

“Yes, the man I killed.”

“Oh!”

“I told you he was a beast. I saw that in his face, but I know it now because I dream of things that he did as a conqueror—in the villages.”

“I see—brutal things?”

“Worse than that. In one dream I see him—Oh!” she shuddered and the agony in her eyes was more eloquent than words.

“My dear lady, you are naturally wrought up by these dreadful experiences, you need rest, quiet surroundings, good food, a little relaxation——”

“No, no, no,” Mrs. Wells interrupted impatiently.

“Don't tell me those old things. I am a trained nurse. I know my case is entirely different.”

“How is it different? We all have dreams. I have dreams myself. One night I dreamed that I was dissecting the janitor downstairs; sometimes I wish I had.”

Penelope brushed aside this effort at humor. “You haven't dreamed that twenty times with every detail the same, have you? That's how I dream. I see these faces, real faces, again and again. I hear the same cries, the same words, vile words. Oh, I can't tell you how horrible it is!”

“But we are not responsible for our dreams,” the doctor insisted.

She shook her head wearily. “That's just the point, it seems to me that I am responsible. I feel as if I enjoy these horrible dreams—while I am dreaming them. When I am awake, the very thought of them makes me shudder, but while I am dreaming I seem to be an entirely different person—a low, vulgar creature proud of the brutal strength and coarseness of her man. I seem to be a part of this human beast! When I wake up I feel as if my soul had been stained, dragged in the mire, almost lost. It seems as if I could never again feel any self-respect. Oh, doctor,” Penelope's voice broke and the tears filled her eyes, “you must help me! I cannot bear this torture any longer! What can I do to escape from such a curse?”

Seldom, in his years of practice, had the specialist been so moved by a patient's confession as was Dr. Owen during Penelope's revelation of her suffering. As a kindly human soul he longed to help this agonized mortal; as a scientific expert he was eager to solve the mystery of this nervous disorder. He leaned toward her with a look of compassion.

“Be assured, my dear Mrs. Wells, I shall do everything in my power to help you. And in order to accomplish what we want, I must understand a great many things about your past life.” He drew a letter from his pocket. “Let me look over what Captain Herrick wrote me about you. Hm! He refers to your married life?”

“Yes.”

The doctor studied the letter in silence. “I see. Your husband died about four years ago?”

“Four years and a half.”

“I judge that your married life was not very happy?”

“That is true, it was very unhappy.”

“Is there anything in your memory of your husband, any details regarding your married life, that may have a bearing on your present state of mind?”

“I—I think perhaps there is,” she answered hesitatingly.

“Is it something of an intimate nature that—er—you find it difficult to tell me about?”

“I will tell you about it, doctor, but, if you don't mind,” she made a pathetic little gesture, “I would rather tell you at some other time. It has no bearing upon my immediate trouble, that is, I don't think it has.”

“Good. We'll take that up later on. Now I want to ask another question. I understood you to say that when you did that brave act on the battle field you really wanted to—to have the whole thing over with?”

“Yes, I did.”

“You did not go out to rescue Captain Herrick simply because you—let us say, cared for him?”

For the first time Penelope's face lighted in an amused smile. “I haven't said that I care for Captain Herrick, have I? I don't mind telling you, though, that I should not have gone into that danger if I had not known that Chris was wounded. I cared for him enough to want to help him.”

“But not enough to go on living?”

“No, I did not want to go on living.”

He eyed her with the business-like tenderness that an old doctor feels for a beautiful young patient. “Of course, you realize, Mrs. Wells, that it will be impossible for me to help you or relieve your distressing symptoms unless you tell me what is behind them. I must know clearly why it was that you did not wish to go on living.”

“I understand, doctor, I am perfectly willing to tell you. It is because I was convinced that my mind was affected.”

“Oh!” He smiled at her indulgently. “I can tell you, my dear lady, that I never saw a young woman who, as far as outward appearances go, struck me as being more sane and healthy than yourself. What gives you this idea that your mind is affected? Not those dreams? You are surely too intelligent to give such importance to mere dreams?”

Penelope bit her red lips in perplexed indecision, then she leaned nearer the doctor and spoke in a low tone, glancing nervously over her shoulder. Fear was plainly written on her face.

“No—it's not just the dreams. They are horrible enough, but I have faith that you will help me get rid of them. There's something else, something more serious, more uncanny. It terrifies me. I feel that I'm in the power of some supernatural being who takes a fiendish delight in torturing me. I'm not a coward, Dr. Owen,” Penelope lifted her head proudly, “for I truly have no fear of real danger that I can see and face squarely, but the unseen, the unknown——” She broke off suddenly, a strained, listening look on her face. Then she shivered though the glowing fire in the grate was making the room almost uncomfortably warm.

“Do you mind giving me some details?” Dr. Owen spoke in his gentlest manner, for he realized that he must gain her confidence.

Penelope continued with an effort:

“For several months I have heard voices about me, sometimes when no one is present, sometimes in crowds on the street, at church, anywhere. But the voices that I hear are not the voices of real persons.”

“What kind of voices are they? Are they loud? Are they distinct? Or are they only vague whispers?”

“They are perfectly distinct voices, just as clear as ordinary voices. And they are voices of different persons. I can tell them apart; but none of them are voices of persons that I have ever seen or known.”

“Hm! I suppose you have heard, as a trained nurse, of what we call clairaudient hallucinations?”

“Yes, doctor, and I know that those hallucinations often appear in the early stages of insanity. That is what distresses me.”

“How often do you hear these voices—not all the time? Do you hear them in the night?”

“I hear them at any time—day or night. I have tried not to notice them, I pretend that I do not hear them. I do my best to forget them. I have prayed to God that He will make these voices cease troubling me, that He will make them go away; but nothing seems to do any good.”

“What kind of things do these voices say? Do they seem to be talking to you directly?”

“Sometimes they do, sometimes they seem to be talking about me, as if two or three persons were discussing me, criticizing me. They say very unkind things. It seems as if they read my thoughts and make mischievous, wicked comments on them. Sometimes they say horrid things, disgusting things. Sometimes they give me orders. I am to do this or that; or I am not to do this or that. Sometimes they say the same word over and over again, many times. It was that way when I went out on the battlefield to help Captain Herrick. As I ran along, stumbling over the dead and wounded, I heard these voices crying out: 'Fool! Fool! Don't do it! You mustn't do it! You're a coward! You know you're a coward! You're going to be killed! You're a little fool to get yourself killed!'”

“And yet you went on? You did not obey these voices?”

“I went on because I was desperate. I tell you I wanted to die. What is the use of living if one is persecuted like this? There is nothing to live for, is there?”

He met her pathetic look with confidence.

“I think there is, Mrs. Wells. There is a lot to live for. Those hallucinations and dreams are not as uncommon as you think. I could give you cases of shell shock patients who have suffered in this way and come back to normal health. You have been through enough, my young friend, to bring about a somewhat hysterical condition that is susceptible of cure, if you will put yourself in favorable conditions. Do you mind if I ask you straight out whether you have any objections to marrying a second time?”

“N—no, that is to say I—er——” The color burned in her cheeks and Owen took note of this under his grizzled brows.

“As an old friend of the family—I mean Herrick's family—may I ask you if you would have any objection to Captain Herrick as a husband—assuming that you are willing to accept any husband?”

“I like Captain Herrick very much, I—I think I care for him more than any man I know, but——”

“Well? If you love Herrick and he loves you——” Owen broke off here with a new thought, “Ah, perhaps that is the trouble, perhaps Captain Herrick has not told you that he loves you? I hope, dear lady, I am not forcing your confidence?”

“No, doctor, I want you to know. Captain Herrick cares for me, he loves me, he has asked me to marry him, but—I have refused him.”

“But why—if you love him? Why refuse him?”

“Oh, can't you see? Can't you understand? How could I think of such a thing, knowing, as I do, that something is wrong with my mind? It is quite impossible. Besides, there is another reason.”

“Another reason?” he repeated.

“It has to do with my married life. As I said I would rather tell you about that some other time—if you don't mind?”

He saw that she could go no farther.

“Exactly, some other time. Let us say in about two weeks. During that time my prescription for you is a rest down at Atlantic City with long walks and a dip in the pool every morning. Come back then and tell me how you feel, and don't think about those dreams and voices. But think about your past life—about those things that you find it hard to tell me. It may not be necessary to tell me provided you know the truth yourself. Will you promise that?” He smiled at her encouragingly as she nodded. “Good! Now be cheerful. I am not deceiving you, Mrs. Wells, I am too sensible an old timer to do that. I give you my word that these troubles can be easily handled. I really do not consider you in a serious condition. Now then, until two weeks from today. I'll make you a friendly little bet that when I see you again you'll be dreaming about flower gardens and blue skies and pretty sunsets. Good morning.”

He watched her closely as she turned with a sad yet hopeful smile to leave the room.

“Thank you very much, doctor. I'll come back two weeks from today.”

Then she was gone.

For some minutes Owen sat drumming on his desk, lost in thought. “By George, that's a queer case. Her other reason is the real one. I wonder what it is?”