"'Twas along about then that I got to hatin' Jim, lookin' at him sleepin' so hard, his face all red an’ his mouth open. 'Twasn't that so much, though, Doctor, 'cause I always thought Jim was nice-lookin' even though he was coarse complected. But he got to havin' restless spells, wakin' up along of cock-crowin' time, 'bout when I’d got my pill an' had kind of quit shakin' over the shadows an' things. Then I'd have to rouse up to 'em again an' rub him to sleep once more. I got to wonderin' if he'd die right off, without it's hurtin' him none, if I'd press down hard on them soft spots in his temples. Seem like havin' to do it any more would be more'n I could bear—"
She stopped again as if reliving her torture; perhaps slipping once more like a white wraith from bedroom to kitchen shelf and back again, to stand looking down upon her husband's sprawled figure, battling against the up-surge of desire to crush out the life beneath her hands and be forever free from her hideous task!
". . . I didn't kill Jim, though, Doctor, until them pills give out. I reckon mebby I wouldn't never have done it if they hadn't give out. But after that . . . sometime after that I killed Jim. I pressed down—down . . ."
Maynard waited until he was sure she had finished; then he spoke in a commanding tone.
"Mrs. Howard!"
Startled, she stared at us as if seeing us for the first time. She grasped the cell door and shook it in a frenzy of anxiety.
"Doctor Maynard! You're a-goin' to let me out, ain't you? You're a-goin' to let me go home an' rub Jim's head for him so's he can sleep? Jim cain't sleep unless I rub his head! I've told you so often, Doctor . . ."
MAYNARD drew me away; but that pleading voice followed us down the length of the corridor, thin, anguished—
I hurried.
When we had closed the door of the Psychopathic Ward behind us, Maynard said:
"Now that's the interesting part of it—that last—to a psychologist. Did you note that she still loves him, whenever she comes out from under her obsession about killing him?"
"Didn't she kill him?" I asked.
"Not at all. You see, when she could get no more of the drug, her grief and her loss of sleep 'turnd her brain,' as you laymen would say. Remember what she said about 'Pa'."
I battled with my bewilderment at this unexpected turn of the affair.
"But I don't understand!" I stammered.
"Probably not. I shall try to explain it, as simply as possible and without using scientific terms. You see, she had wanted to kill him for so long—had gone over the manner of it so often in her silent vigils—that when at last her conscious mind became unbalanced the resisted desire took its revenge by becoming a subconscious obsession, which announced itself an accomplished fact. It is an interesting sidelight on psychopathy, don't you think?"
I did not. I changed the subject.
"What became of the man—her husband? How did he take it?"
"Well. Very well, indeed. Level-headed fellow. Of course, he was upset at first over her condition; but when we made it clear to him that she was incurable he calmed down. He went home and slept on it for a night or two—"
"How do you suppose,” I broke in (I really could not resist asking it)—"How do you suppose he got to sleep without—"
". . . And then he applied for a divorce," continued Maynard, ignoring my childish rudeness. "He wants to marry again, but, of course, our laws—"
"Marry!"
Maynard frowned. "One can see his point of view."
"Yes; to be sure, And our laws . . . quite unsympathetic—"
Maynard dismissed the matter with a magnanimous gesture. Also, his kindling eye bespoke a concentration of interest which ignored the trivial. He peered at me eagerly.
"What would you think, Wayne—I am studying the case, and I ask for information—would you be led to believe that her reason for wanting to kill him was a subconscious sensing of that trait in him, that eagerness to be rid of whatever irked him, regardless of his responsibilities? Or, on the other hand, would you think it a flair of sex antagonism—resentment that he, unlike herself, could resume a normal existence so soon after an emotional cataclysm?"
I fumbled my hat and turned toward the door. I wanted to get away.
"My time is up, Maynard," I said hastily. "Sorry, but I must go. Glad to have had this visit with you. Awfully proud to have been the classmate of a celebrity, you know, and all that. But I really cannot follow your scientific subtleties. If you mean do I think his cruelty drove her mad—"
Maynard threw up his hands. "Oh you laymen!" he laughed. "But come in again, Wayne. Any time you're passing through town. Glad to see you always. We have some very interesting cases here."
Deaf and Blind Students Perform Miracles
WIDE attention has been attracted by two students at Northwestern University, one of them stone blind, the other deaf and dumb, by reason of their marvelous demonstrations in "seeing" and "hearing." Wiletta Huggins, deaf and dumb, can hear with her fingertips, or by placing a pole against a speaker's chest and feeling the vibrations. Professor Robert H. Gault is conducting a series of experiments with her that may eventually lead to teaching deaf mutes to talk. No less remarkable are the achievements of the blind student, Carl Bostrom, who has so trained his facial nerves and ears that he can "see" things that are denied those who have the use of their eyes. In a crowded court room, he could tell, by the sound of a prisoner's voice, whether or not he was telling the truth. Also, with uncanny accuracy, he told the dimensions of the room, located the doors and windows, and calmly announced that on one side of the room only men were standing, and on the other only women.
"I can tell by the sounds," he said—"little sounds that most people miss. There is a difference in the noises made by men and women."
A reporter asked him how many persons there were in the court.
He listened acutely, then said, "Seventy-five."
The reporter guessed one hundred. Another guess estimated the number at sixty. The persons in the room were counted. There were exactly eighty two.
