Some days later I found myself sitting at breakfast, having just put myself on the outside of a fair meal of ham and eggs, and feeling pretty happy with life. Here I was, growing into my new role and with every prospect of a long run. I was comfortable; the lodgings and food were more than satisfactory; you could not call my duties onerous.
At first I feared my ignorance and complete lack of medical training would betray me, but I soon relaxed because it was not long before it became apparent to me that for all Morgan’s bombast about scientific methods and his lectures on brain abnormalities, he didn’t actually know much more about mental illness than the next man, even when the next man was me.
Although I could see that much of the work would rapidly become routine, like a popular play whose superficial appeal soon begins to wear thin, I had my Moral Treatment experiment to keep me amused and offer me some intellectual interest. I was pleased, too, with the character I had established for myself here. I could see I was respected and liked by everyone, except perhaps O’Reilly, a bully whose contempt for the patients naturally made her annoyed by what she saw as softness in the way I handled them. But I could tell Morgan liked me and appreciated the obvious sincerity of my beliefs, even though he didn’t agree with them. I was my own man, everyone could see, with my own ideas, and not just some docile lapdog.
So everything was going swimmingly and, provided I kept a lid on things and stopped my old nature from resurfacing and sabotaging me, I figured I could easily remain here until it was safe to leave. What could possibly go wrong?
The answer arrived a moment later when a servant came in with the morning post, which she handed to Morgan. He flicked through the envelopes without opening them and then said, ‘Ah, here’s one for you.’
My mouth was half open to say that was impossible – it impossibles – and wave the proffered missive away when I caught sight of the writing on the envelope and read the words ‘Dr John Shepherd’. I took the letter from him and sat staring at it as Morgan opened one of his own and began reading the contents.
What an imbecile I was! Congratulating myself on my cleverness in making myself so comfortable here and overlooking something so obvious, something moreover that was now burning my fingers. Why had I not thought things through? Why had I imagined myself springing from the train wreck like a newborn? To let myself think that my life commenced here, with no preamble!
Morgan looked up from his reading. ‘Well, go on, man. Aren’t you going to open it?’
‘What? Oh yes, yes of course.’ I picked up his paper knife and slit open the envelope. Inside were a couple of sheets of writing paper, densely written in a neat, feminine hand. There was an Ohio address at the top of the page.
My Dearest John,
What is happening? Why have you not written? You promised to do so as soon as you were settled in your new position but it has now been nearly two weeks and not a word has reached me. My mind is a whirlwind of worry. Please, please write back the instant you read this and let me know you are alive and well. I am going out of my mind here with the worry of it all.
You will think me the very model of a silly wittering woman, I know, but my first thought was that it was out of sight out of mind. That once removed from your orbit I have ceased to matter in your life and am as little in your thoughts as you are the opposite in mine, that is to say, always, for I have no one else in the world but you. If such is the case, I must lose all hope for the future, for if after just leaving me you ceased to think of me, then what hope would I have after a month, or three, or six?
I could not account otherwise for your silence, until today, when we first had news in the Bugle of the recent railroad disaster. As soon as I saw the paper, my heart began to beat so fast I thought it would explode out of my chest and my head to pound, so that I had to sit down, on a bench right outside Mr Applegate’s store, where I’d bought the paper after seeing the headline. It was several minutes before I could calm myself sufficiently to read the article. It was with my heart in my mouth that I commenced it, and when I came to the details of those killed and injured I could scarcely breathe, expecting as I went down the page to see the name John Shepherd jump out at me. I nearly fainted at the sight of ‘John’ followed by an ‘S’, but then found it was some other name starting with that letter. I finished it relieved not to see your name among the victims but then saw the note at the foot of the column that the list was incomplete because many of the dead and injured had not yet been identified. I immediately put on my cloak and set off to the railroad depot, where I consulted the stationmaster, Mr Wickets. He had no more information concerning the casualties than was in the paper, so I questioned him as to the possibility of your having been on the wrecked train, because naturally I have no idea of the different lines and routes of the railroad system. To my alarm, he informed me that the line in question was the one you would have taken from Columbus, although of course I had no way of knowing at what time and on which train you left that city. You had told me you had some purchases to make there before commencing your new employment and any one of a number of trains in the timetable was possible.
Please forgive the rambling nature of this letter. I am distraught with worry and cannot think clearly. I do not know how accurate the newspaper report was, if you are one of the unidentified bodies or among the injured taken to the hospital, or if you were even on the train at all. I pray God that you are safe and if so please will you wire me immediately to put me out of my misery, or if that is not practical – I know, at least I hope and pray, you are on the island and may not be able to telegraph – will you write back by express letter?
If I have not heard from you by Saturday, then I shall take the train east and come out to the island to find out for myself.
Please, please write and tell me you are safe. Even if my first foolish fears are realised and it is simply that you no longer love me, at least, my darling, tell me that you live, that your heart still beats in this world, even if not for me?
I love you and always will, dead or alive.
Your ever-loving fiancée
Caroline Adams
‘Bad news?’
Morgan’s voice came to me from far off, as when someone wakes you and interrupts a dream. ‘What?’ I said, looking up, half delirious.
‘I said, is it bad news, old man? You’re as white as a ghost.’
My head was swimming. I couldn’t speak. This was a thunderbolt, striking out of the blue, that could ruin everything and even destroy me. My first thought was to jump up from the table, run to my room, throw a few things into my valise and hurry down to the jetty before the morning boat left and return with it to the city. And I almost did it, until reason took over and I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths, the way I always do with stage fright. Do not panic, I told myself; there will be a way to handle this. There must be.
I felt a hand on my arm and opened my eyes, to find Morgan peering at me. ‘What’s wrong, old man? You don’t look at all well.’
‘Sorry,’ I muttered, ‘it’s nothing. Just a bit of food went down the wrong way. Couldn’t get my breath for a moment there.’
He shrugged. ‘Well, you do tend to bolt your food like a man who’s been starved for a month. You need to slow down a little.’ He pulled out his watch. ‘Although not too much: it’s seven minutes after eight and we really should be making our rounds in another eight minutes.’
I stuffed the letter in my jacket pocket and wiped my mouth with a napkin. ‘Yes, of course. Shall we go now?’