Rupert Godwin

IN THE LABYRINTH.

A strange conflict went on in Lionel Westford’s mind after that scene outside the northern wing of Wilmingdon Hall. At one moment the young man’s brain was occupied by thoughts of Julia Godwin—her beauty, the noble nature which was evinced in every word she uttered, the amiable and yet impulsive temper, and all those charms and graces of manner which made the banker’s daughter irresistible. But in the next instant the remembrance of the old gardener’s dark hints would flash upon Lionel Westford’s mind, and he would find it impossible to enjoy a moment’s peace in a house that was haunted by a hideous yet shapeless shadow.

Yes, Wilmingdon Hall had become a haunted house in the imagination of Lionel Westford. Do what he would, he could not banish from his recollection the strange and terrible words that had been uttered by the old gardener.

Those words were for ever taking a more palpable form in Lionel’s mind. They shaped themselves into the story of a murder—a foul and deadly crime, which had been witnessed by the half-witted old man through a chink in the shutter of the seventh window in that long range of darkened casements belonging to the deserted wing of Wilmingdon Hall.

But who was the murderer? That was a fearful point. Lionel Westford scarcely dared to whisper to himself the name of the man to whom his suspicion pointed.

That man was the same of whom his widowed mother had spoken with unusual and apparently unreasonable bitterness; the man through whose agency a family had been cast penniless upon the world.

But the same man was also the father of Julia Godwin, and Lionel Westford’s heart sank within him as he contemplated the possibility of the banker’s guilt.

What was he to do? To remain in that haunted house without taking some active step in the matter was impossible. The very atmosphere of the place seemed to oppress him. The cry of a dying creature seemed perpetually ringing in his ears.

His dreams were made hideous by shapeless visions. His brain grew dazed and bewildered, and a fitful fever took possession of him. His tremulous hands refused to do their work; and he found himself sometimes sitting for an hour together, staring vacantly at the drawing before him, while his mind dwelt upon that scene in the deserted old garden before the northern wing.

He felt that only action—prompt and decided action—could save him from a serious illness.

“My brain is beginning to be affected,” he thought; “at any moment I may be seized with brain-fever. In my ravings I may reveal the suspicion that fills my mind—reveal it, perhaps, to the ears of guilt; and then—”

He scarcely dared to follow out the thought, which was a very horrible one.

If in the delirium attendant upon brain-fever he revealed the secret preying so fearfully upon his mind, and revealed it to the ears of a murderer, what more likely than that some means would be taken to prevent his ever leaving that house alive? A helpless and unconscious creature, stricken by fever, could be very easily disposed of, and no one would be likely to suspect any but a natural cause for his death.

“I must act in this matter, and act promptly,” the young man thought. “It is not because I have fallen desperately in love with Julia Godwin that I can refrain from using my utmost endeavours to fathom this mystery. Duty demands that I should investigate the old man’s story. Heaven grant it may be only the delusion of a demented brain!”

Having once resolved upon the course he should take, Lionel’s mind grew much clearer. He worked quietly and calmly all that afternoon, keeping to his own apartments; for he was determined henceforward to avoid the dangerous fascination of Julia Godwin’s society.

He saw Miss Godwin stroll out upon the lawn; and never had she seemed lovelier to him than this afternoon, when stern duty kept him away from her. He saw her walk slowly across the grass, book in hand, and take the direction of that laurel avenue where they had so often met—where they had passed so many happy hours.

His heart beat quicker as his eyes followed that tall white-robed figure, in which girlish elegance was mingled with a queen-like grace. Lionel Westford was no coxcomb, and yet within the last week of his residence at Wilmingdon Hall, vague but delicious hopes and fancies had mingled themselves with the tortures that oppressed his mind.

He had been a great deal in Julia’s society within the last week, and something—some subtle shade of tone and manner—told him that his love was not altogether hopeless. In spite of the apparent difference between their social positions, Julia’s manner innocently and unconsciously revealed a tender interest in the man whom she had been so anxious to save from destitution.

And Lionel had to exclude this exquisite hope from his mind; and, knowing that he was beloved, he yet felt himself called upon to devote all the force of his intellect to the carrying out of an investigation which might result in branding with a fearful crime the father of the girl who loved him. The task was very terrible; but Lionel Westford was inflexible in a matter in which he felt that duty and honour alike called upon his firmness.

“At the cost of my own happiness, at the sacrifice even of Julia’s peace, I must fathom this horrible secret,” he thought, as he turned away from the open window looking out upon the lawn.

That evening he began his work.

It was his habit to dine alone in his own apartment at seven o’clock, the hour at which Miss Godwin and her stately companion, Mrs. Melville, took their ceremonious meal.

All the arrangements of the grand old mansion were perfect in their style, and Lionel’s solitary dinner-table was served as carefully as if he had been a distinguished guest.

He had rarely spoken much to the man-servant who waited upon him; but this evening he talked to the man with a purpose, for he felt that he could do nothing in the task he had set himself until he had obtained all the information which the members of Mr. Godwin’s household could afford him.

“I have been very much interested lately in an old man whom I often see about the grounds,” Lionel began with assumed carelessness,—“Caleb Wildred, I think you call him. Poor fellow, his mind seems quite gone. How long has he been in his present state?”

“Well, sir,” answered the servant, who was very glad of an opportunity of talking, “Old Caleb has been queerish in his head, off and on, for the last five or six years. But he had a bad illness about a twelvemonth ago, and ever since he’s been a great deal worse than he used to be—regular mad, as you must have seen, sir, talking about blood being shed—and treachery—and daggers—and murder—and all sorts of horrid things, till really it makes a man’s flesh creep to hear him.”

“Poor fellow! And this has come about since his illness! What sort of an illness was it?”

“Brain-fever, sir, and desperately bad he had it, poor chap! His life was give over; but Mrs. Beckson, the housekeeper, she’s a very old woman, she is, but not so old as Caleb, and as sharp as a needle, and she and Caleb are cousins, you see, sir; so she nursed him all the time, without troubling Mr. Godwin about the poor old chap’s illness, and he was kept up in a garret at the top of the house, where nobody could be disturbed by his raving and going on when the fever was at its worst. But lor, sir, it was awful to hear the things that poor weak-witted old fellow said.”

“What kind of things did he say?”

“Well, it was always the same story, sir, over and over and over again. Murder and treachery, and a chink in a shutter, and goodness knows what, but always the same; till it seemed to make your brain go queer to hear him. That illness of his lasted for nigh upon two months; and ever since that he’s been just as you see him now—able to do his little bit of work well enough, and quiet and harmless, but always going over the same ground, and yet somehow sensible and rational in some things, for after raving out about the murder, and the treachery, and so on, he’ll turn round the next minute and tell you it all means nothing, it’s all nonsense, and you’re not to listen to it. So, you see, the poor old fellow knows that he’s queer in his head, sir; and that’s more than most of your lunatics do.”

“Has Mr. Godwin ever heard of his wild talk?”

“Never, sir, so far as I’m aware. Indeed, I may venture to say for certain that he hasn’t, for that’s another strange part of the business. Ever since that illness of his, old Caleb has seemed afraid of his master; never will he go anywhere near Mr. Godwin; the very sound of master’s voice will set him of a tremble from head to foot, and he’ll turn as white as a ghost sometimes at the mere mention of his name. But, lor bless me, sir, when once a man’s brain’s turned, there’s no accounting for the fancies that get into it. I had a cousin, sir, which he was barman at a tavern in Hertford, and took to taking more liquor than was good for him, and had delirious tremblings, I think the doctor called it; and, lor bless your heart, sir, that poor fellow was always fancying things, and making grabs at nothing, sir, thinking as how he was catching flies, mostly blue-bottles; and if once a man gets a tile off, as the saying is, it’s uncommon difficult to get the tile on again.”

Lionel assented to this truism. He was not particularly interested in the delirious fancies of the footman’s drunken cousin, but he was deeply interested in the account he gave of old Caleb. Everything the man said helped to strengthen the hideous suspicions that oppressed him. Why should the superannuated gardener exhibit this unreasonable terror of his master?—why, unless the shock which had dethroned his reason had been caused by some act of that master’s?

Lionel asked presently:

“But how was poor old Wildred seized with this brain-fever? What brought on the attack?”

“Well, sir, that’s the queerest part of the story. You must know that most of the servants in this house, the women servants especially, will have it, foolish like, that the northern wing of the Hall is haunted. It was built in the time of the Planpagennys, you see, sir, and from all accounts it appears the Planpagennys were a queer lot. There’s not one of the women servants will go near the place after dark; and they all put down poor old Caleb’s fever to his having seen some kind of a ghost.”

“But why so?”

“Because, you see, sir, this is how he was took. One night in July,—or, let me see,” said the footman, checking himself abruptly, with an air of intense conscientiousness, “don’t let me tell a story—was it the beginning of July, as Caleb was took, or was it the end of June? Well, I think it was the end of June, as it might be somewheres between the twentieth and the thirtieth. Howsomdever, as we was all a-sitting down to supper, the housekeeper she misses Caleb; and being a relation, and attached to him for old times’ sake, she was regular uneasy about him, and couldn’t go on with her supper till she’d had him looked for. So she sends the under-gardener, and he was gone above an hour, searching here and there about the grounds. And it was nigh upon twelve o’clock at night when he found poor old Caleb—where do you suppose, sir?”

“I really can’t imagine.”

“Lying in a swound, under one of the windows in the northern wing; and our people will have it as he’d been peeping through the shutter, and had seen a ghost.”

“Strange!” exclaimed Lionel thoughtfully.

He had lingered over his dinner, scarcely eating half-a-dozen mouthfuls, so deeply interested was he in what the man had to tell him. But he could not venture to prolong the meal any further, or to ask any more questions, lest by so doing he should excite suspicion in the mind of the servant.