Doctor Vandyke :: :: University of Virginia Library

“Yes, my dear, I propose to deliver
a brief lecture this morning upon natural
phenomena, with the effect produced by
them upon the human mind. The term
lecture may fright you, but be tranquil.
I aim only to explain a circumstance or
two. It will be best that you should
have this explanation.”

“Yes, doctor.”

“And you feel, I hope, that affection
as well as professional duty prompts it?”

“Yes, yes, indeed! Something in
your face tells me that you have for me
—that you really—love me!”

“My face interprets my heart, Honoria,”
said the eccentric physician, with a
quick flush; and, taking in his own the
thin, white hand of the girl, he said,
earnestly:

“I loved your mother once, Honoria
—I mean, was her suitor; and what better
means could I adopt, to prove the sincerity
of my love, than to cure her child?
I have effected this cure, or nearly effected
it—you see that I speak to you
as a rational being, which you were not
yesterday morning.”

Honoria sobbed.

“I fear I was not, doctor. Those
terrible sights and sounds—”

“Stop, Honoria! No more nervous
tremors—no more shuddering. Listen
to me, and the last remains of your fright
will disappear.”

The girl raised her head and gazed at
him with deep earnestness.

“Let us divide the phenomena, or
supposed phenomena, into four parts,”
said Dr. Vandyke, coolly. “You hear a
low breathing from the bed in your
chamber; the eyes of a picture make

you afraid; a shadowy dagger strikes at
your night - dress; and some nameless
thing leaps on your shoulders. Is that
all?”

“Yes, doctor,” was the reply, in a
low and nervous voice.

“Well, now, for elucidation of these
terrible phenomena,” said the physician.
“You repaired to your chamber on the
night of the performance of this absurd
dumb-cake ceremony, in a high state
of nervous excitement, consequent upon
terror at the storm through which you
had passed, and superstitious fear. Well,
the first thing you hear is a mysterious
breathing from your bed—then a picture
stares at you—then an arm wields a
poniard. Let us stop there for the present,
and let me ask you if you now
doubt the real character of those phenomena?
The breathing from the bed
was the wind, or a dog, or a cat, or
—nothing! The eyes of the portrait
looked at you, as the eyes of all good
portraits look at all persons, whatever
position is taken up, either to the right,
to the left, or in front. Lastly, the gigantic
and frightful arm, grasping the
dagger, seen when you were half asleep,
and half conscious, was simply the
shadow of that bough of the oak yonder
through the window, which shadow
was cast by the moon, and waved, as
the bough waved, in a manner so peculiarly
terrifying that it produced brain-fever.
So far you understand, do you
not, my child?”

“Yes, doctor,” came in a low tone
from Honoria, “but—”

“The horror! the frightful, nameless
something—the nightmare, bugbear, call
it what you will!”

The doctor burst out laughing, in
spite of Honoria's quick shudder.

“That was the only real part of the
whole phenomena,” said Dr. Vandyke,
coolly. “The thing, or individual, rather,
who leaped from that chair, as you saw
me leap, was—Meta!”

Honoria half rose, exclaiming:

“Meta! doctor?”

“Meta,” was the calm response, “who
had hidden herself in this apartment to
frighten you during the ordeal of the
dumb-cake—who may or may not have
uttered the low breathing from the bed
—who certainly did spring upon your
shoulders.”

“O doctor! is it possible? It cannot
be that Meta could have been so
cruel—”

“Meta is a lunatic, or nearly so,”
was the calm reply, “and lunatics are
both cunning and malevolent.”

“But what motive could she have?”

“To frighten you?”

“Yes, doctor.”

“Hatred arising from—jealousy.”

“Jealousy!”

Honoria gazed at Dr. Vandyke, as
she uttered this word, with profound
astonishment.

“Yes, my child,” said the physician.
“Listen. As soon as I entered this
house, and ascertained the causes of your
condition, I concentrated my whole mind
upon the question — who was it that
frightened you—not what? A human
being must have caused you to fall with
that piercing shriek; and the mystery
was—what human being? No servant
would have dared—no young lady friend
have been so cruel. Thus the irresistible
conclusion was, that some idiot, or other
weak-minded person, must have been
guilty of this act, and there was such a
person in the family. So far, the chain
of reasoning was perfect; but what
motive could exist for the act of this
girl, who was supposed to love you?
Even with idiots there is a motive, and
I questioned Lady Brand, the servants,
and all, so closely that I discovered what
I wished to know.”

“The motive—O doctor what could
it have been? Jealousy? Jealousy of
me—!”

“Precisely,” said Dr. Vandyke;

“Meta happens to have fallen in love
with a young gentleman named Edmund
Innis; she knows that he loves you —
there, the words are uttered!—she overheard,
in the drawing-room, the whole
discussion in regard to the dumb-cake,
and she hid in this chamber behind the
bed—watched you in your sleep—concealed
herself in this chair — saw you
rise—leaped on your shoulders gibbering
as insane persons do, and, when you
shrieked and fell, escaped from the apartment.”

Honoria drew a long breath, and for
some moments remained silent; at last
she murmured:

“How do you know this, doctor?”

“From Edmund Innis, who is able
to communicate by signs with the girl,
and extracted the confession from her.”

Honoria covered her face with her
hands. She was quietly weeping.

“It was cruel in Meta,” she murmured.
“I thought she loved me too
much to—”

“To love young Master Edmund
more?” said the doctor, with a smile.
“No, Honoria; that passion exceeds in
force all others—is as strong in Meta
as in Edmund Innis, only he loves
you.”

Honoria's face was covered with
blushes, but a happy smile shone through
her tears.

“At last!” said Dr. Vandyke, rising.
“You are now well, my dear Honoria!
let me call you dear. I call few so!
You are well in body and mind, in heart
as in brain. God watch over you, my
child, and guard you from all danger,
and give you this honest gentleman,
Edmund Innis, to be your faithful husband!
That is my prayer, Honoria, the
prayer of the old dried-up physician who
loved once a human being—your mother.
Farewell now, Honoria!”

And, stooping, the eccentric personage
touched the girl's brow with his
lips, left the apartment, and on the same
evening set out on his return to the
capital.

His patient was cured.