“And therefore I suppose that his death will be laid at my door!” exclaimed Heathcote, now for the first time in his life glancing timidly—almost appealing, at his clerk, as if to implore him to devise some excuse or start some palliation that might ease his troubled conscience.
But Green, whose very obsequiousness and servility afforded him the means of venting his spite on his hated master, pretended to take the observation as an assertion and not an interrogatory, and replied in a humble tone, “Your foresight and knowledge of the world, sir, are beyond all dispute; and, as you say, Beale’s death is certain to be laid at your door. But of course you are perfectly indifferent to the tittle-tattle of scandalous tongues.”
Heathcote rose from his seat—or rather started from it, and walked rapidly up and down the room thrice. He felt sorely troubled; for, hardened as his heart was—obdurate as his soul had become, he could not shut out the whispering voice of conscience which now proclaimed him to be the author of all the deaths that his clerk had enumerated. And, while he was racked by these painful convictions, the thought suddenly flashed to his brain that Green had displayed a savage delight in detailing those horrors; and, man of the world as James Heathcote was, it occurred to him, as a natural sequence to the suspicion just mentioned, that his clerk hated and abhorred him.
Acting under the influence of these impressions, he stopped suddenly short close by the spot where Green was standing; and he fixed his snake-like gaze upon the shabbily-dressed, senile-looking, self-debasing individual, who appeared to be maintaining his eyes bent timidly and reverentially on the floor—as if his master’s emotions were something too sacred to look upon.
“Green!—Mr. Green!” exclaimed Heathcote, laying his hand with such abruptness and also with such violence upon the grovelling wretch’s shoulder, that it made him start convulsively—though he knew all the while that his master had accosted him, and was also gazing on him.
“Yes, sir!” cried the clerk, raising his eyes diffidently toward Heathcote’s countenance.
“Do you conceive that the deaths of those people can be righteously attributed to me?” demanded the lawyer, speaking in a low, measured, and solemn tone, and looking as if he sought to read into the most secret depths of his clerk’s soul: “do you, I say, dare to associate any act or deed of mine with their fate?” he asked, raising his voice, while his face became terrible to gaze upon.
“Who?—I, sir!” ejaculated Green, as if in astonishment at the questions put to him; and his own countenance assumed such a sinister aspect that Heathcote surveyed him with increasing suspicion and distrust.
“Yes—you!” cried the lawyer, ferociously. “Now, mark me, Green,” he continued, in a lower and more composed tone of voice,—“if you dare to harbour ill feelings towards me—if even a scintillation of such feelings should transpire from your words or manner, I will crush you as I would a worm—I will send you to Newgate—abandon you to your fate—and, if necessary, help to have you shipped for eternal exile.”
“My God! how have I deserved these implied reproaches—these terrible menaces?” demanded Green, his countenance expressing real alarm, and his whole frame shivering from head to heel.
“Perhaps you have not deserved them—and in that case they will serve as a warning,” said Heathcote, now becoming suddenly calm and imperiously scornful: “but I think that you did merit all I have uttered—and now you know me better, perhaps, than you knew me before. However, let all this pass. I do not for an instant suppose that I possess your affection; but I will guard against the effects of your hate. Answer me not, sir: you cannot wipe away the impressions which this afternoon’s scene has conjured up in my mind. And now proceed with anything more that you may have to tell me.”
“Fox, the ironmonger, sir,” resumed Green, in a more timid and servile tone than ever, and with a manner so cowed and grovelling that it completely veiled the strong pantings for revenge and the emotions of bitter, burning hate which dwelt in the clerk’s secret soul,—“Fox, the ironmonger, sir, has realised all his property and absconded.”
“Did I not tell you to issue execution against his goods without delay?” demanded Heathcote, angrily.
“I obeyed your commands, sir, as soon as the usual forms were gone through,” responded Green: “but in the interval the man, knowing the steps you were taking against him, sold off everything and ran away—no one can tell whither.”
“Then all your intelligence is evil this afternoon, Mr. Green?” said Heathcote. “What about Mrs. Sefton?”
“The spy that I set to watch her has reported her removal from Kentish Town to a house at Bayswater, sir,” answered Green; “and as she has a young lady with her—a Miss Vernon, it appears—she does not seem to be busying herself in any way that might interfere with your interests.”
“But that insolent young nobleman—that Lord William Trevelyan?” demanded Heathcote.
“I do not think he is troubling himself any more in the business, sir,” answered Green.
“Good and well!” ejaculated the attorney. “These latter tidings constitute something like an agreeable set-off in respect to all your former communications. Hah!” he cried, suddenly interrupting himself, as the clock proclaimed the hour: “five already! Well, you may go now, Green—and see that your spies keep a good look-out upon the movements of Mrs. Sefton and Lord William Trevelyan.”
“I will, sir,” was the reply; and the clerk bowed himself out of the office.
Half an hour afterwards Mr. Green was wending his way towards the aristocratic quarters of the West End; and at length he entered a respectable-looking public-house in the neighbourhood of Portland Place.
Having called for some refreshment, he took up the newspaper to while away the time until the arrival of the person whom he was expecting: but he could not settle his thoughts to the perusal of the journal. He read an article through, from beginning to end; and, when he reached the termination, he had not retained a single idea of the subject.
The fact was that the man’s mind was excited and bewildered by the scene which had taken place that afternoon with his master. He felt that he had been trampled upon—treated with every possible indignity—despised, menaced, and almost spit upon;—and he was compelled to suffer all—to bear everything—to endure those flagrant wrongs, without daring to murmur.
“But I will be avenged—terribly avenged!” thought he within himself, as he bent over the table in the public-house parlour, supporting his head upon his two hands: “yes—even though I should sacrifice myself, I will be avenged sooner or later. For years and years have I been his slave—his menial—his instrument—his tool;—and he has kept me in such utter subjection that it was not until lately I remembered that I really possessed a soul and a spirit of my own. The hard-hearted—cruel—remorseless wretch! I hate and abhor him with a malignant hatred and a savage abhorrence. No words are strong enough—no terms sufficiently potent to convey even to myself an idea of the magnitude of that aversion which I now entertain for him. But if he has me in his power in one way, he is at my mercy in many other others. He little suspects how deep an insight I possess into his affairs—his machinations—his dark plots. He thinks that I behold but the surface: he knows not that I have fathomed to the bottom!”
At this point in the clerk’s musings, the door of the parlour was opened, and a respectable-looking man, dressed in black, but with a white cravat entered the room.
“You are somewhat behind your time, Mr. Fitzgeorge,” said Green, as this individual—who was Lord William Trevelyan’s valet—seated himself by the clerk’s side.
“Only a few minutes,” responded Fitzgeorge. “And now to business without delay. It is fortunate that we are all alone in this parlour at present: otherwise I should have proposed to adjourn to a private room. Have you thought well of the subject I mentioned to you yesterday?”
“I have,” was the answer, delivered in a tone of decision: “and I am prepared to meet your wishes. But remember that I told you how completely I am in the power of the villain Heathcote; and if he were to discover that your noble master received his information through me——”
“He cannot possibly detect your instrumentality in the business, provided you do not betray yourself,” said Fitzgeorge.
“Then I cannot hesitate to serve you,” responded Green.
“Here are a hundred pounds in advance of the sum promised you,” continued the valet, producing bank-notes to the amount named; “and the other moiety shall be paid the moment the information you are about to give me shall have proved to be correct.”
“Ah! it is a long—long time since I could call so much money my own,” said Green, with a deep sigh, as he gazed upon the notes—half doubting whether it were possible that they were about to find their way into his pocket.
“Take up the money and use despatch—for my time is precious,” exclaimed Fitzgeorge.
The clerk followed the first suggestion with amazing alacrity; and his sinister countenance was now as radiant with joy as such a face could be.
“Your master is generous—very generous,” he said, as soon as the notes were secured in his waistcoat-pocket; “and I will serve him to the utmost of my power. The mad-house to which Sir Gilbert Heathcote has been consigned, is kept by Dr. Swinton, and is situated in the neighbourhood of the new church facing the end of the Bethnal Green Road.”
“I am well acquainted with the locality,” said Fitzgeorge. “The church you speak of is in the Cambridge Road, and stands at one of the angles of the Green?”
“Precisely so,” answered the clerk; “and the lunatic asylum looks upon the Green itself, its back windows commanding a view of Globe Town. But here is the exact address,” continued the man, producing a card from his pocket.
“That is all I require,” said Fitzgeorge. “Three days hence you can meet me here again; and if in the meantime I should have discovered that Sir Gilbert Heathcote is really confined in Dr. Swinton’s asylum, the other hundred pounds shall be handed over to you.”
The valet and the clerk then separated.
The mad-house kept by Dr. Swinton was a spacious building, with a large garden, surrounded by a high wall, at the back.
It was by no means a gloomy-looking place, although the casements were protected by iron bars: for to mitigate that prison-like effect, the curtains were of a cheerful colour, and the window-sills were adorned with flowers and verdant evergreens in bright red pots. Moreover, the front of the house was stuccoed; and wherever paint was used, the colours were of the gayest kind.
The front door always stood open during the day-time, because there was an inner door of great strength which led into the hall; and a porter in handsome livery was constantly lounging about at the entrance.
The Doctor himself was an elderly person, of highly respectable appearance, and of very pleasing manners when he chose to be agreeable: but no demon could exhibit greater ferocity than he, when compelled to exercise his authority in respect to those amongst his patients who had no friends to care about them.
It was between nine and ten o’clock in the evening of the day following the interview between Fitzgeorge and Heathcote’s head clerk, that a plain carriage and pair drove up to the door of Doctor Swinton’s establishment.
The porter immediately rushed forward to open the door and let down the steps of the vehicle; and two persons alighted.
One was a tall, handsome young man of genteel bearing, and handsomely dressed: the other was some years older, and might be described as respectable without having anything aristocratic in his appearance.
“Have the kindness to say that Mr. Smithson, accompanied by his friend Mr. Granby, requests an interview with your master,” were the words immediately addressed to the porter by the elder of the two visitors, while the other appeared to be gazing about him in a vacant and stolid manner.
“Walk in, gentlemen,” said the obsequious porter, with a low bow: he then rang a bell, and a footman in resplendent livery opened the inner door.
Mr. Granby and Mr. Smithson were now conducted through a spacious hall into an elegantly furnished parlour, lighted by a superb lustre suspended to the ceiling.
“The Doctor will be with you in a minute, gentlemen,” said the domestic, who immediately retired to acquaint his master with their arrival: but the moment the door had closed behind him, a smile of deep meaning instantly appeared upon the lips of the visitors, as they exchanged equally significant looks.
In a few minutes Dr. Swinton appeared—his countenance wearing such a benignant expression that if the Saints at Exeter Hall could only have bribed him to attend on the platform at their May Meetings, they would have secured a sufficiency of outward appearance of philanthropy to draw gold from the purses of even the most cynical. In fact, the doctor was precisely the individual from whose lips might be expected a most touching and lachrymose speech upon the “benighted condition” of the heathen, and the absolute necessity of procuring funds for the purpose of circulating a million of Bibles amongst the poor savages of the Cannibal Islands.
His thin grey hair was combed with precision over his high and massive forehead: a smile played on his lips, showing his well-preserved teeth;—and his eyes beamed with mildness—almost with meekness, as if he had succeeded, by long perseverance, in resigning himself to a profession which militated sadly against a natural benevolence of heart.
He was dressed in deep black; his linen was of the finest material and of snowy whiteness;—he wore a low cravat; and his enormous shirt-frill was prevented from projecting too much by means of a diamond pin that could not have cost less than fifty guineas.
The middle finger of his right hand was adorned with a ring of equal value; and a massive chain with a bunch of gold seals depended from his fob.
We should have observed that the Doctor wore black silk stockings and shoes—it being evening; and we have every cause to believe that the reader may now form a tolerably accurate idea of that gentleman’s personal appearance.
Leaning forward as he walked, and with a kind of mincing gait—half familiar, and half obsequious—Dr. Swinton advanced towards the visitors, only one of whom rose at his approach;—and this was Mr. Smithson, the elder of the two. The other remained in an apparent state of apathetic laziness on the sofa, where he had taken his seat.
“Your most obedient, Mr. Smithson,” said the Doctor, proffering his hand to the individual whom he thus addressed. “This is your friend Mr. Granby, I presume—the gentleman of whom you made mention when you honoured me with a visit this morning.”
“Yes. Doctor—that is indeed my unfortunate friend Granby,” responded Smithson, drawing the physician into the window-recess, and speaking in a whisper.
“He is a fine, handsome young man,” observed the mad-doctor, glancing towards the subject of his remark, and likewise adopting a low tone. “What a pity it is!” he added, turning towards Mr. Smithson, and placing his fore-finger significantly to his forehead.
“A thousand—thousand pities, Doctor!” was the reply, delivered in a mournful voice. “Such a splendid intellect to be thus clouded!—such a genius to be thus crushed—annihilated!”
“No—do not anticipate such a calamity,” hastily interposed the physician. “Rather let us hope that a judicious system—my system, Mr. Smithson—will eventually succeed in effecting a cure. But have you the regular certificates, my dear sir?—because you are well aware that a heavy responsibility rests upon gentlemen of my profession, who receive patients——”
“Everything is straightforward, Doctor,” interrupted Mr. Smithson, producing two papers from his pocket. “These certificates are signed by medical men of eminence, and whose honour is unimpeachable.”
“Oh! assuredly,” exclaimed Swinton, glancing over the documents: “Dr. Prince is an ornament to the profession—and Mr. Spicer is equally well known. I have not the pleasure of their personal acquaintance—but I am no stranger to their high reputation and rigid integrity. So far, so good, my dear sir,” continued the mad-doctor, restoring the certificates to Smithson. “And now, I think, we have little more to say in respect to arrangements——”
“Nothing that I am aware of,” interrupted Mr. Smithson. “When I saw you this morning, you told me that your usual terms for first-class patients were six hundred a-year——”
“Each quarter payable in advance, you will please to recollect, my dear sir,” said the physician, in a tone of bland insinuation. “It is a mere matter of form, you know—just the bare trouble of writing a cheque at the beginning instead of the close of the three months——”
“Oh! pray offer no apology for such an excellent regulation,” interrupted Smithson: “short accounts make long friends.”
“Ah! ah! very good—very good indeed!” said the Doctor, with a jocular cachinnation. “You are quite right, my dear sir—quite right. Shall I give you a stamped receipt?” he asked, as Smithson placed in his hands two bank notes—one for a hundred and the other for fifty pounds.
“You can send me the acknowledgment at your leisure,” answered Smithson. “And now, as I must take my leave, permit me to beseech you to bestow all possible attention upon my unhappy friend, and to spare no expense in rendering him as comfortable as possible. His relations, who have empowered me thus to place him in your establishment, are very wealthy, and will cheerfully augment the allowance, if required. No coercion is necessary with him: he is very tractable and by no means dangerous. At the same time, any thing resembling restraint would only induce him to move heaven and earth to escape. He cannot even endure to have his chamber-door locked at night; and you may safely trust him with a candle. Indeed, he will have a light. As for placing a keeper in his room, such a step would be as unwise as it is uncalled for. But I need not attempt to counsel a gentleman of your great experience and well-known skill——”
“Pardon me, my dear sir,” interrupted Dr. Swinton, drawing himself up at the compliment thus paid to his professional ability;—“but I am always delighted to receive any hints which the friends of my patients are kind enough to give me; and I can assure you that your suggestions shall be fully borne in mind. Of course you will call upon Mr. Granby occasionally?” asked the Doctor, in a tone which was as much as to imply that the less frequent such visits were, the better he thought it would be.
“Yes—I shall call now and then,” responded Smithson, catching the physician’s meaning in a moment: “but not too often—as the visits of friends are likely, no doubt, to produce an injurious effect on those minds which, under the influence of your admirable system, are becoming settled and tranquil. It is however my intention to return in a few days, just to assure myself that Granby is comfortable, and likewise that you are not displeased with your patient.”
“Very good,” said the Doctor; “I shall be delighted to see you. But will you not remain and partake of supper with us? You will then have an opportunity of judging how I treat my patients—for we all sit down to table together,—at least, those who belong to the first class, and who may be termed the parlour boarders. Besides, I forgot to mention to you this morning that the religious principles of my patients are not neglected, and that I keep a regular chaplain in the establishment. If you will stay to supper, you will have the pleasure of hearing him say grace before meat, and deliver a most soul-refreshing exhortation afterwards. Indeed, I may consider myself highly fortunate in having secured the spiritual services and the constant companionship of such a worthy man as the Reverend Mr. Sheepshanks.”
“I should be much gratified by remaining to partake of your hospitality,” answered Smithson,—“and even still more rejoiced to form the acquaintance of such an estimable character as Mr. Sheepshanks; but, unfortunately, my time is precious—and I must depart at once.”
With these words Smithson turned away from the window; and approaching Mr. Granby, who was lounging upon the sofa, seemingly gazing on vacancy, he touched him on the shoulder, saying, “Good bye, my dear friend: you are going to stay here for a few days with Dr. Swinton—and you will find yourself very comfortable.”
“I am already very comfortable,” observed Granby, beginning to play with his fingers in a stolid, silly manner. “Can you talk with the hands, Smithson?”
“Oh! yes—and I will come to-morrow and hold a conversation with you by that method,” was the answer.
“Well—don’t forget,” said Granby; “and bring all my friends with you,—twenty—thirty—forty of them, if you like. I shall know how to entertain them.”
“In that case I will bring them all, my dear fellow,” returned Smithson: then, in a whisper to the Doctor, he observed, “You perceive how childish he is—but perfectly harmless.”
“Ah! I begin to fear with you that his cure will be no easy nor speedily-accomplished matter,” responded the physician, also in a low tone.
“But you will do your best, Doctor, I know,” said Smithson: then, turning once more to his friend, he exclaimed, “Good-bye, Granby—I am off.”
“Well, go—I don’t mean to accompany you,” answered the patient, without moving from his recumbent position, and without even glancing towards Smithson; but maintaining his eyes fixed upon his fingers, with which he appeared to be practising the dumb alphabet. “Go along, I say—I am very comfortable where I am.”
Mr. Smithson heaved a profound sigh, and, bidding the Doctor farewell, hurried to the carriage, with his cambric handkerchief to his eyes.
“Ah! he feels deeply for his afflicted friend,” thought Dr. Swinton, as he remained for a few moments on the threshold of the front door, looking forth into the mild, clear, and beauteous night: “but I shall be the greatest fool in existence if ever I allow Mr. Granby to recover his reason. An annuity of six hundred pounds is not to be thrown away in a hurry. But I must prevent this fellow Smithson from calling more than once or twice a-year at the outside—and then only on stated days, or else with a week’s notice. However, I shall get him here to supper in a short time, and will then cajole him into anything I propose. He is a soft-pated fool himself,—that I can see with half an eye.”
Having arrived at this complimentary conclusion in respect to Mr. Smithson, the Doctor returned to the room where Mr. Granby was still lying upon the sofa, and still playing with his fingers.
Almost immediately after the departure of Mr. Smithson, supper was served up in a spacious and handsomely-furnished apartment.
The table literally groaned beneath the load of plate and China spread upon it: a splendid epergne, upon a large silver tray, occupied the middle of the board;—and numerous crystal decanters, containing choice wines of various sorts, sparkled in the flood of golden light poured forth from a magnificent lustre suspended to the ceiling.
Upwards of a dozen persons took their places at the table—all the first-class patients partaking of their meals in the delectable society of the Doctor.
That eminent individual seated himself at the head of the board; and our old friend, Mr. Sheepshanks, occupied the other extremity. The reverend gentleman, though now well stricken in years, was so little altered since the reader last found himself in his company, that no minute description of his personal appearance is again necessary: suffice it to say, that his long, pale countenance was as sanctimoniously hypocritical at ever,—his hair, now quite grey, was combed with its wonted sleekness over his forehead,—and his speech was as drawling in tone and as full of cant in respect to language, as when we beheld him holding forth to the members of the South Sea Islands Bible Circulating Society, or figuring so ignominiously in the Insolvents’ Court.
Mr. Granby, being a new-comer, was placed in the post of honour—namely, on the Doctor’s right hand: but the unfortunate young gentleman did not appear to understand, much lest appreciate the distinction—for he scarcely uttered a syllable, did but little justice to the succulent viands, and remained for the most part of the time gazing in listless vacancy straight before him.
We should however observe that, on first being introduced into the supper-room, he had darted a rapid and searching glance around,—embracing with that sweeping look the countenances of the dozen patients who were already assembled there: but immediately afterwards he resumed his stolid, meaningless expression, as if his mind were indeed a blank and mournful void.
“Now, Mr. Sheepshanks,” said the Doctor, when all were duly seated at the table, “will you ask the usual blessing?”
“With your permission, most respected sir,” replied the reverend gentleman: then, with a countenance as rueful as if he were about to go forth to the place of execution, he drawled out a lengthy grace in such a droning voice, that one of the lunatics fell fast asleep, and did not wake up again until the savoury odour of a plate of roast duck which was placed before him recalled to him his recollection and his supper.
“How do you find yourself this evening, Mr. Sheepshanks?” inquired Dr. Swinton, after having assured himself that all his guests were duly served. “You were complaining of a bilious attack this morning.”
“Alas! yes, kind sir,” responded the reverend gentleman, in a most doleful tone and with a profound sigh: “it pleased the Lord to ordain that the salmon of which I partook bountifully at yesterday’s dinner should disagree with me—or peradventure it was the cucumber;—but, by the aid of the Divine blessing and the black draught, my dear patron, I have pretty well come round again. Nevertheless, I feel my appetite failing me.”
And as he uttered these words, Mr. Sheepshanks helped himself to about a pound and a quarter of pigeon-pie—that being his second attack on the same dish.
“I shall be happy to assist you to some roast duck, Mr. Sheepshanks,” said the Doctor, after a pause of about seven minutes.
“It would be an act of rudeness to decline an offer which bespeaks such delicate attentions on your part, worthy sir,” returned the pious gentleman. “I have just managed to pick a morsel of this savoury pie; and I will endeavour to get through the wing of a duck, with heaven’s assistance.”
“So you shall,” said the Doctor. “In the meantime I recommend you to take a little wine—for your stomach’s sake.”
“Ah! that was salutary advice which Paul gave to Timothy—‘a little wine for the stomach’s sake,’” drawled out the excellent Mr. Sheepshanks;—and to prove that he really thought so, he filled a tumbler with claret and imbibed the delicious draught without a pause.
By this time a plate, containing the wing, leg, and part of the breast of a duck, was placed before him; and, with a hollow groan as if he thought he should never get through it all, he commenced the attack.
We may here observe that the Doctor, who was a widower, was fond of good living himself, and was well pleased when he found any one inclined to keep him company in the enjoyment of the pleasures of the table. For this reason he especially admired the Reverend Mr. Sheepshanks; and he well knew that when his chaplain pretended to have no appetite at all, he was in reality prepared to do ample justice to every dish. Hence the copious supply of duck which the physician had sent him; and that hospitable gentleman heard with secret pleasure the groan which Mr. Sheepshanks had given, and which was a sure indication that the modesty of the reverend glutton would be so far overcome as to induce him to allow the Doctor to help him again presently.
And here we may likewise remark that Swinton was no niggard of his good cheer. If he kept an excellent table, he liked to see justice done to the viands served up; and, as he received handsome remuneration from the friends of his first-class patients, he could well afford to regale them sumptuously, and amass a splendid fortune out of them into the bargain.
In conversation of the trivial kind of which we have just recorded a specimen, did the Doctor and Sheepshanks pass the time during supper,—the patients all maintaining a profound silence, and conducting themselves with the most perfect propriety. Indeed, were it not for a certain vacancy in the eyes of some, and a peculiar but inexplicable expression in the looks of the rest, it were impossible for a stranger to believe that there were any lunatics at all in the room.
After supper Mr. Sheepshanks delivered himself of a long prayer;—but as his libations had been somewhat copious, in spite of his bilious attack, his voice was occasionally so thick as to be unintelligible,—and it appeared as if he at times fancied himself to be an Irvingite speaking in the unknown tongues. Towards the conclusion of his oration, which very much resembled a funeral sermon in those parts where the meaning and sense could be caught, the reverend gentleman became so much affected that he began to weep; and had a maliciously-disposed person been present, he would have probably entertained the derogatory notion that Mr. Sheepshanks was in that maudlin condition vulgarly termed “crying drunk.”
However, the affair passed off to the satisfaction of the worthy Doctor, who, as he thought of all that his chaplain had eaten and drunk during the evening, felt really proud of having beneath his roof a man of such splendid qualifications.
The after-supper oration being concluded, the keepers, all dressed in plain clothes, made their appearance to conduct the patients to their respective chambers; but as this was Granby’s first night in the house, the Doctor volunteered to show him to the apartment prepared for his reception.
The new inmate of the asylum immediately obeyed the hint which the physician gave him relative to the hour for retiring; and he was forthwith escorted up a handsome staircase to a long corridor on the second floor. From this passage, which was carpeted, adorned with statues in recesses, and lighted by lamps hanging to the ceiling, opened several rooms, the doors of which were numbered.
At the entrance to the passage the Doctor pulled a wire which communicated with a bell on the storey overhead; and a matronly, respectable-looking woman made her appearance in answer to the summons.
“Which chamber is Mr. Granby to occupy, Mrs. Probert?” said the Doctor to his housekeeper—for such was the situation filled by the female.
“I have moved the gentleman—you know whom I mean, sir—that was in Number 7——”
“Ah! I understand,” interrupted the physician, with some degree of impatience, as if he were afraid that his housekeeper was about to be more communicative than was necessary in the presence of the stranger. “Well—you have removed a certain person——”
“To Number 12, sir,” replied Mrs. Probert; “and therefore Mr. Granby will please to occupy Number 7.”
“Very good,” said the Doctor. “Now, Mr. Granby, my dear friend—have the kindness to follow me.”
The request was instantaneously obeyed; and the physician conducted his docile patient into the room that had been selected for him, and which was indeed the most spacious, airy, and elegantly furnished bed-chamber in the whole establishment. It was usually appropriated to any new-comer of the first class whose friends appeared to take an interest in him; so that on the occasion of their first visit after his location in the asylum, the doctor might be enabled to show them, with pride, and even triumph, the magnificent apartment in which the patient was lodged. It was afterwards an easy matter to remove him to another and inferior, though still comfortable chamber—so as to make room for another arrival; and it was very seldom that a lunatic ever thought of mentioning to his friends, when they visited him again, the change of apartments that had taken place.
Having introduced Mr. Granby into the elegantly furnished chamber, the Doctor placed the candle upon the table, wished the young gentleman a good night’s rest, and then retired—closing, but not locking, the door behind him.
The moment he had departed, a remarkable and signal change took place in the appearance and manner of Mr. Granby. His countenance lost its stolid vacancy of expression, and became animated with its natural intelligence; and, instead of seeming a dull, drivelling idiot, he stood erect—a fine intrepid young man, conscious of the possession of superior mental faculties, and prepared to carry out effectually the scheme which had already been so successfully commenced.
Indeed, all further mystery in this respect being unnecessary, we may as well at once declare that the fictitious Mr. Granby was the real Lord William Trevelyan—and that Smithson, who had so well performed the part of an afflicted and faithful friend, was none, other than the astute valet, Fitzgeorge.
The young nobleman had made confidants of his two friends, Dr. Prince and Mr. Spicer, who at his request had drawn up and signed the certificates necessary to procure his introduction into the abode of Dr. Swinton.
We must likewise here observe that when the short colloquy had occurred between the Doctor and his housekeeper, it instantly struck Trevelyan that allusion was made by them to Sir Gilbert Heathcote as being the individual whose sleeping-place had been changed from No. 7 to No. 12. He had noticed that the woman had observed a degree of mystery in referring, in the first instance, to the late occupant of the best bed-room—and that the Doctor, as if fearful that walls had ears, or that even a lunatic (such as he believed Trevelyan to be) might learn a dangerous secret, had hastily interposed to prevent Mrs. Probert from making a more direct allusion. All these circumstances induced Trevelyan to conjecture that the late occupant of his room was none other than Sir Gilbert; and, if this were the case, he had acquired the certainty that the baronet was the tenant of a neighbouring apartment in the same corridor.
It was now eleven o’clock; and the young nobleman resolved to wait until a much later hour ere he took any steps in pursuance of the clue which he believed himself to have gained relative to the chamber occupied by his persecuted friend.
He walked to the window, and looked forth through the iron bars, upon the mass of narrow lanes and squalid alleys constituting the suburb known as Globe Town, and all the features of which were brought vividly forward in the powerful moonlight,—for the atmosphere was as bright as if it were of transparent quicksilver.
But in a few minutes, Trevelyan grew wearied of the sameness of the prospect, so still and inanimate at that hour; and he began to examine, more minutely than at first, the chamber in which he found himself.
A massive wardrobe of dark mahogany, and elaborately carved, particularly attracted his notice; and, impelled by that curiosity which frequently seizes upon persons who seek to while away an hour or two by any means that opportunity or accident may afford, he opened the large and heavy doors. There were several shelves inside, filled with blankets and counterpanes, evidently deposited there during the summer-months, when the beds required less clothing than in winter.
Trevelyan was about to close the doors, when he suddenly caught sight of something that appeared to be a roll of papers thrust between the blankets. He drew forth the object of his attention, and found that his conjecture was correct; for he held in his hand a manuscript consisting of several folios of foolscap closely written upon in a genteel and fluent style.
A farther examination of the papers showed him, by means of certain dates, that the manuscript was only recently composed; and an indescribable feeling of interest, superior to any thing like vulgar curiosity, prompted him to read the documents that had thus strangely fallen into his possession.
Besides, he had determined to let a couple of hours slip away ere he took any step in pursuance of the design that had brought him to the mad-house; and he was by no means sorry at having discovered a mode of passing the interval otherwise than by restlessly pacing his chamber or gazing from the window.
He accordingly seated himself at the table, and commenced the perusal of the extraordinary document that will be found in the ensuing chapter.
“My blood has been boiling like a lava-stream. It appears to me as if I can now freely respire the fresh air, after having only breathed by gasps. What agony, then, has it been that has thus convulsed my soul?—of what kind was the anguish which has left such strange and unnatural sensations behind? Have I just awakened from a reverie of burning thoughts and appalling visions?—or was there any truth in the hideous things which seem to have passed like a frightful phantasmagoria through my brain? What means this suffocating sob that has struggled upward, and as it were spontaneously from my breast? O God! it appears to me now as if the wildest—most maniacal ideas have crowded into volumes, but become compressed into instants! Do I rave?—am I really here—in a room elegantly furnished—and seated at this table, writing? Is the bright sun-light streaming in at the open casement?—and does the breeze penetrate into the chamber, fanning my feverish cheek and throbbing brow, and wafting to me the delicious perfume of flowers? Is all this true—or a dream? Am I still a denizen of the earth,—that earth of which I seem for some time to have lost all forgetfulness—dwelling during the interval in a chaos peopled with horrible images—ghastly spectres—frightful beings of nondescript shape? Oh, I remember—I found this paper, this pen, and this ink in that large and massive ward-robe so exquisitely carved;—and something tells me that there are persons watching my movements—spying my actions—and who will be angry with me—perhaps ill-treat me—if they behold me writing down my ideas. Oh! I am afraid—I am afraid. My God! where am I? There is a hurry in my brain—my blood again begins to boil—my hand trembles as I write. But wherefore do I write at all? I know not:—and yet it seems to do me good!
“If any persons—any of those men whom I remember to have seen just now—should endeavour to enter the room, I will hide my papers in yonder ward-robe. Or else under the bed?—or between the mattresses? No: in that ward-robe—it is the safest place, I feel confident.
“But why should I not go forth and walk in that garden which I can see from the window?—or else penetrate into the fields at a great distance, and lie down and think? If the breeze coming into this room, does me good, how much more refreshed should I feel were I to ramble about in the open country! Yes—I will go.
“What does this mean? I have tried the door—and it is locked! Who dares to treat me thus—me—a gentleman of birth and fortune? I will not endure such conduct: I will appeal to my brother, the magistrate, for protection. He shall hang the wretches who have perpetrated this insolence.
“O God! what do I see? There are bars at the window! Great heavens! I shall go mad!
“Mad! Yes—that was the last word that I wrote yesterday—I suppose it must have been yesterday—when I so hastily concealed my papers, on hearing some one approach the door. I remember that full well! Yes—it was an elderly man, with a mild and benevolent countenance—dressed in black, with linen beautifully white—and with a massive chain and seals. I looked at him well: but I knew him not. I do not think that I ever saw him before. He sate down by my side—felt my pulse—and asked me several questions. Ah! a thought flashes to my mind: that good old gentleman is a doctor. And now,—yes—I think I can recollect it all,—I abused him—I insulted him very grossly;—and then some men entered and compelled me to go to bed. They undressed me by force. I struggled against them; but it was useless.
“Oh! what does it all mean? Why those men to coerce me?—why that doctor to attend upon me?—and why those bars at the window? Gracious God! it cannot be—no—no—the horrible thought——
“Yes: it must be so—I am really mad!
“Again I sit down, calmly and tranquilly, to write. I have weighed well my condition—have asked myself a thousand questions—have read what I have written above—have striven to recollect all the past—have carefully examined the present—and have dared to think of the future. By all this—and by the bars at the window—I know that I am mad!
“Yes: but I can write the word now without growing excited; and I must practise writing it again, so that I may by degrees gather to my aid such an amount of self-possession as to be able to trace on this paper all that has occurred to me. Then shall I possess a positive memorial—a substantial key to the past; and should I again forget, in an interval of delirium, all that has occurred, I can speedily recommit the mournful history to my memory during a lucid interval like the present.
“Mad—mad—mad—mad! There—now I can write the word without the least excitement; and this is a triumph already achieved. By gaining a complete and accurate knowledge of my real position, I shall know how to act. I am aware that I am in a lunatic asylum: I am also aware that I have passed through intervals of fearful delirium. But I must compose myself as much as possible. I cannot remain in this horrible place;—and if I cannot become really sane again, I may at all events pretend to be so—and then they will let me out. But in order to regain my intellects, or appear to recover my reason, I must remember all that has occurred to me, so as to be enabled to converse calmly and sensibly on the subject. Stay! I will think—I will reflect profoundly for the rest of the day; and to-morrow I will resume my pen.
“God forbid that the doctor or his men—or that prying old housekeeper, should look into the wardrobe! I would not lose my manuscript for worlds.
“I have learnt the day of the month. The doctor has been with me for an hour; and he readily complied with my request to be furnished with an almanack. He told me that this is the 13th of June; and henceforth I hope I shall be enabled to keep the dates accurately. When I was at school—but that is many years ago!—I used to make an almanack to calculate how long it was to the holidays; and every evening I scratched out the day that had just passed. Oh! happy—happy age of boyhood—wilt thou never come back? hast thou gone for ever? Now must I erase each day as it passes, and hope that the period of my release is near at hand. That shall be the holiday of my manhood, to which I must look forward with such anxious—fervid—burning hope!
“But to my narrative.
“A hundred thousand pounds became mine on the day that I attained my majority. That was nine years ago! I was my own master: my parents had long been dead—and my guardians attempted not even to advise me—much less control me. They were not relations—mere men of business to whom my fortune had been intrusted, with a view to its accumulation. The moment I became possessed of that wealth, I plunged headlong into the vortex of pleasure. Heavens! in what dissipation did I indulge. Who could drink deeper than I, and walk home steadily afterwards?—who was more sought after and caressed amongst the fair sex?—who was a more constant attendant at race-courses, gaming-houses, and the haunts of fashionable vice and aristocratic debauchery? Fool that I was! I imagined that to spend money profusely, was to enjoy life largely. I had three mistresses at the same time,—three women, having each a separate establishment, maintained at my cost! What were the consequences? At five-and-twenty my constitution was nearly ruined, and eighty thousand pounds of my fortune had been expended. The very principles of my existence seemed to be undermined—disease was gnawing at my vitals—an unbroken career of the wildest dissipation was hurrying me, with race-horse speed, to the tomb!
“Suddenly I awoke, as from a dream. But it was not because remorse touched me,—nor because good counsels were proffered me,—nor because some latent feelings of virtue sprang into existence. Neither was it because my fortune was nearly wasted and my health failing rapidly. No: but it was because I at that epoch saw my Editha for the first time! Oh! how can I retain my calmness now, when I think of her as I then beheld her,—beheld her in all the glory of her matchless beauty—radiant with that loveliness that seemed to surround her with the halo that only angels have! Yes—I was then twenty-five, and Editha Greville was nineteen—that delightful age when the female figure swells into womanly loveliness—round, full, and exquisitely modelled!
“We loved—almost at first sight; and though several weeks passed ere I ventured to declare my passion, I could read in Editha’s eyes that I was far from being displeasing to her. She was an only child; her father was dead; her mother, though a woman of considerable wealth, mixed little in society; and the wildness of my conduct was not therefore fully known to Mrs. Greville. At the same time, she had heard that I was extravagant and imprudent; but when I implored her to bestow upon me the hand of her daughter, she yielded her assent, expressing a hope that I had sown all my wild oats by that time, and should grow steady in a matrimonial state. Thus was it that I became the recognised suitor of Editha; and when some of Mrs. Greville’s friends, who knew me well, represented to her that I was notoriously a half-ruined rake, the old lady had too much confidence in all the promises of reformation which I had made, to revoke the consent she had given to our union. Besides, she saw that Editha was deeply attached to me, and that the beauteous girl’s happiness depended on the smooth progress of love’s course.