“1st. The lines,'Great wits to madness nearly are allied,And thin partitions do their bonds divide,'
are, in my opinion, exaggerated and untrue. Taking the people here as a guide, the insane in general appear to be people with very little brains, and enormous egotism.
“My next observation is, that the women have far less imagination than the men; they cannot even realize their own favorite delusions. For instance, here are two young ladies, the Virgin Mary and the Queen of England. How do they play their parts? They sit aloof from all the rest, with their noses in the air. But gauge their imaginations; go down on one knee, or both, and address them as a saint and a queen; they cannot say a word in accordance; yet they are cunning enough to see they cannot reply in character, so they will not utter a syllable to their adorers. They are like the shop-boys who go to a masquerade as Burleigh or Walsingham, and when you ask them who is Queen Bess's favorite just now, blush, and look offended, and pass sulkily on.
“The same class of male lunatics can speak in character; and this observation has made me doubt whether philosophers are not mistaken in saying that women generally have more imagination than men. I suspect they have infinitely less; and I believe their great love of novels, which has been set down to imagination, arises mainly from their want of it. You writers of novels supply that defect for them by a pictorial style, by an infinity of minute details, and petty aids to realizing, all which an imaginative reader can do for himself on reading a bare narrative of sterling facts and incidents.
“I find a monotony in madness. So many have inspirations, see phantoms, are the victims of vast conspiracies (principalities and powers combined against a fly); their food is poisoned, their wine is drugged, etc., etc.
“These, I think, are all forms of that morbid egotism which is at the bottom of insanity. So is their antipathy for each other. They keep apart, because a madman is all self, and his talk is all self; thus egotisms, clash, and an antipathy arises; yet it is not, I think, pure antipathy, though so regarded, but a mere form of their boundless egotism.
“If, in visiting an asylum, you see two or three different patients buttonhole a fourth and pour their grievances into a listening ear, you may safely suspect No. 4 of—sanity.
“On the whole, I think the doctor himself, and one of his attendants, and Jones, a keeper, have more solid eccentricity and variety about them than most of the patients.”
Extract from Letter 2, written about a fortnight later:
“Some insane persons have a way of couching their nonsense in language that sounds rational, and has a false air of logical connection. Their periods seem stolen from sensible books, and forcibly fitted to incongruous bosh. By this means the ear is confused, and a slow hearer might fancy he was listening to sense.
“I have secured you one example of this. You must know that, in the evening, I sometimes collect a few together, and try to get them to tell their stories. Little comes of it in general but interruptions. But, one night, a melancholy Bagman responded in good set terms, and all in a moment; one would have thought I had put a torch to a barrel of powder, he went off so quickly, in this style:
“'You ask my story: it is briefly told. Initiated in commerce from my earliest years, and traveled in the cotton trade. As representative of a large house in Manchester, I visited the United States.
“'Unfortunately for me, that country was then the chosen abode of spirits; the very air was thick and humming with supernaturalia. Ere long spirit-voices whispered in my ear, and suggested pious aspirations at first. That was a blind, no doubt; for very soon they went on to insinuate things profane and indelicate, and urged me to deliver them in mixed companies; I forbore with difficulty, restrained by the early lessons of a pious mother, and a disinclination to be kicked downstairs, or flung out o' window.
“'I consulted a friend, a native of the country; he said, in its beautiful Doric, “Old oss, I reckon you'd better change the air.” I grasped his hand, muttered a blessing, and sailed for England.
“'On ocean's peaceful bosom the annoyance ceased. But under this deceitful calm fresh dangers brooded. Two doctors had stolen into the ship, unseen by human eye, and bided their time. Unable to act at sea, owing to the combined effect of wind and current, they concealed themselves on deck under a black tarpaulin—that is to say, it had been black, but wind and weather had reduced it to a dirty brown—and there, adopting for the occasion the habits of the dormouse, the bear, the caterpillar, and other ephemeral productions, they lay torpid. But the moment the vessel touched the quay, profiting by the commotion, they emerged, and signed certificates with chalk on my portmanteau; then vanished in the crowd. The Custom-house read the certificates, and seized my luggage as contraband. I was too old a traveler to leave my luggage; so then they seized me, and sent us both down here. (With sudden and short-lived fury) that old hell-hound at the Lodge asked them where I was booked for. “For the whole journey,” said a sepulchral voice unseen. That means the grave, my boys, the silent grave.'
“Notwithstanding this stern decree, Suaby expects to turn him out cured in a few months.
“Miss Wieland, a very pretty girl, put her arm in mine, and drew me mysteriously apart. 'So you are collecting the villainies,' said she, sotto voce. 'It will take you all your time. I'll tell you mine. There's a hideous old man wants me to marry him; and I won't. And he has put me in here, and keeps me prisoner till I will. They are all on his side, especially that sanctified old guy, Suaby. They drug my wine, they stupefy me, they give me things to make me naughty and tipsy; but it is no use; I never will marry that old goat—that for his money and him—I'll die first.'
“Of course my blood boiled; but I asked my nurse, Sally, and she assured me there was not one atom of truth in any part of the story. 'The young lady was put in here by her mother; none too soon, neither.' I asked her what she meant. 'Why, she came here with her throat cut, and strapping on it. She is a suicidal.'”
This correspondence led eventually to some unexpected results; but I am obliged to interrupt it for a time, while I deal with a distinct series of events which began about five weeks after Lady Bassett's visit to Mr. Rolfe, and will carry the reader forward beyond the date we have now arrived at.
It was the little dining-room at Highmore; a low room, of modest size, plainly furnished. An enormous fire-place, paved with plain tiles, on which were placed iron dogs; only wood and roots were burned in this room.
Mrs. Bassett had just been packed off to bed by marital authority; Bassett and Wheeler sat smoking pipes and sipping whisky-and-water. Bassett professed to like the smell of peat smoke in whisky; what he really liked was the price.
After a few silent whiffs, said Bassett, “I didn't think they would take it so quietly; did you?”
“Well, I really did not. But, after all, what can they do? They are evidently afraid to go to the Court of Chancery, and ask for a jury in the asylum; and what else can they do?”
“Humph! They might arrange an escape, and hide him for fourteen days; then we could not recapture him without fresh certificates; could we?”
“Certainly not.”
“And the doors would be too well guarded; not a crack for two doctors to creep in at.”
“You go too fast.Youknow the law from me, and you are a daring man that would try this sort of thing; but a timid woman, advised by a respectable muff like Oldfield! They will never dream of such a thing.”
“Oldfield is not her head-man. She has got another adviser, and he is the very man to do something plucky.”
“I don't know who you mean.”
“Why, her lover, to be sure.”
“Her lover? Lady Bassett's lover!”
“Ay, the young parson.”
Wheeler smiled satirically. “You certainly are a good hater. Nothing is too bad for those you don't like. If that Lady Bassett is not a true wife, where will you find one?”
“She is the most deceitful jade in England.”
“Oh! oh!”
“Ah! you may sneer. So you have forgotten how she outwitted us. Did the devil himself ever do a cunninger thing than that? tempting a fellow into a correspondence that seemed a piece of folly on her part, yet it was a deep diabolical trick to get at my handwriting. Didyousee her game? No more than I did. You chuckled at her writing letters to the plaintiffpendente lite.We were both children, setting our wits against a woman's. I tell you I dread her, especially when I see her so unnaturally quiet, after what we have done. When you hook a large salmon, and he makes a great commotion, but all of a sudden lies like a stone, be on your guard; he means mischief.”
“Well,” said Wheeler, “this is all very true, but you have strayed from the point. What makes you think she has an improper attachment?”
“Is it so very unnatural? He is the handsomest fellow about, she is the loveliest woman; he is dark, she is fair; and they are thrown together by circumstances. Another thing: I have always understood that women admire the qualities they don't possess themselves—strength, for instance. Now this parson is a Hercules. He took Sir Charles up like a boy and carried him in his arms all the way from where he had the fit. Lady Bassett walked beside them. Rely on it, a woman does not see one man carry another so without making a comparison in favor of the strong, and against the weak. But what am I talking about? They walk like lovers, those two.”
“What, hand in hand? he! he!”
“No, side by side; but yet like lovers for all that.”
“You must have a good eye.”
“I have a good opera-glass.”
Mr. Wheeler smoked in silence.
“Well, but,” said he, after a pause, “if this is so, all the better for you. Don't you see that the lover will never really help her to get the husband out of confinement? It is not in the nature of things. He may struggle with his own conscience a bit, being a clergyman, but he won't go too far; he won't break the law to get Sir Charles home, and so end these charming duets with his lady-love.”
“By Jove, you are right!” cried Bassett, convinced in his turn. “I say, old fellow, two heads are better than one. I think we have got the clew, between us. Yes, by Heaven! it is so; for the carriage used to be out twice a week, but now she only goes about once in ten days. By-and-by it will be once a fortnight, then once a month, and the black-eyed rector will preach patience and resignation. Oh, it was a master-stroke, clapping him in that asylum! All we have got to do now is to let well alone. When she is over head and ears in love with Angelo she will come to easy terms with us, and so I'll move across the way. I shall never be happy till I live at Huntercombe, and administer the estate.”
The maid-servant brought him a note, and said it was from her mistress. Bassett took it rather contemptuously, and said, “The little woman is always in a fidget now when you come here. She is all for peace.” He read the letter. It ran thus:
“DEAREST RICHARD—I implore you to do nothing more to hurt Sir Charles. It is wicked, and it is useless. God has had pity on Lady Bassett, and have you pity on her too. Jane has just heard it from one of the Huntercombe servants.”
“What does she mean with her 'its'? Why, surely—Read it, you.”
They looked at each other in doubt and amazement for some time. Then Richard Bassett rushed upstairs, and had a few hasty words with his wife.
She told him her news in plainer English, and renewed her mild entreaties. He turned his back on her in the middle. He went out into the nursery, and looked at his child. The little fellow, a beautiful boy, slept the placid sleep of infancy. He leaned over him and kissed him, and went down to the dining-room.
His feet came tramp, tramp, very slowly, and when he opened the door Mr. Wheeler was startled at the change in his appearance. He was pale, and his countenance fallen.
“Why, what is the matter?” said Wheeler.
“She has done us. Ah, I was wiser than you; I feared her. It is the same thing over again; a woman against two children. This shows how strong she is; you can't realize what she has done—even when you see it. An heir was wanted to those estates. Love cried out for one. Hate cried out for one. Nature denied one. She has cut the Gordian knot; cut it as boldly as the lowest woman in Huntercombe would have cut it under such a terrible temptation.”
“Oh, for shame!”
“Think, and use your eyes.”
“My eyes have seen the lady; I think I see her now, kneeling like an angel over her husband, and pitying him for having knocked me down. I say her only lover is her husband.”
“Oh, that was a long time ago. Time brings changes. You can't take the eyes out of my head.”
“Suppose it should be only a false alarm?”
“Is that likely? However, I will learn. Whether it is or not, that child shall never rob mine of Bassett and Huntercombe. Anything is fair against such a woman.”
THAT very night, after Wheeler had gone home, Richard Bassett wrote a cajoling letter to Mary Wells, asking her to meet him at the old place.
When the girl got this letter she felt a little faint for a moment; but she knew the man, his treachery, and his hard egotism and selfishness so well, that she tossed the letter aside, and resolved to take no notice. Her trust was all in her mistress, for whom, indeed, she had more real affection than for any living creature; as for Richard Bassett she absolutely detested him.
As the day wore on she took another view of matters: her deceiver was the enemy of her mistress; she might do her a service by going to this rendezvous, might learn something from him, and use it against him.
So she went to the rendezvous with a heart full of bitter hate.
Bassett, with all his assurance, could not begin his interrogatory all in a moment. He made a sort of apology, said he felt he had been unkind, and he had never been happy since he had deserted her.
She cut that short. “I have found a better than you,” said she. “I am going to London very soon—to be married.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“No doubt you are.”
“I mean for your sake.”
“For my sake? You think as little of me as I do of you. Come, now, what do you want of me—without a lie, if youcan?”
“I wanted to see you, and talk to you, and hear your prospects.”
“Well, I have told you.” And she pretended to be going.
“Don't be in such a hurry. Tell us the news. Is it true that Lady Bassett is expected—”
“Oh, that is no news.”
“It is to me.”
“'Tain't no news in our house. Why, we have known it for months.”
This took away the man's breath for a minute.
At last he said, with a great deal of intention:
“Will it be fair or dark?”
“As God pleases.”
“I'll bet you five pounds to one that it is dark.”
Mary shrugged her shoulders contemptuously, as if these speculations were too childish for her.
“It's my lady you want to talk about, is it? I thought it was to make me a wedding present.”
He actually put his hand in his pocket and gave her two sovereigns. She took them with a grim smile.
He presumed on this to question her minutely.
She submitted to the interrogatory.
Only, as the questions were not always delicate, and the answer was invariably an untruth, it may be as well to pass over the rest of the dialogue. Suffice it to say that, whenever the girl saw the drift of a question she lied admirably; and when she did not, still she lied upon principle: it must be a good thing to deceive the enemy.
Richard Bassett was now perplexed, and saw himself in that very position which had so galled Lady Bassett six weeks or so before. He could not make any advantageous move, but was obliged to await events. All he could do was to spy a little on Lady Bassett, and note how often she went to the asylum.
After many days' watching he saw something new.
Mr. Angelo was speaking to her with a good deal of warmth, when suddenly she started from him, and then turned round upon him in a very commanding attitude, and with prodigious fire. Angelo seemed then to address her very humbly. But she remained rigid. At last Angelo retired and left her so; but he was no sooner out of sight than she dropped into a garden seat, and, taking out her handkerchief, cried a long time.
“Why doesn't the fool come back?” said Bassett, from his tower of observation.
He related this incident to Wheeler, and it impressed that worthy more than all he had ever said before on the same subject. But in a day or two Wheeler, who was a great gossip, and picked up every thing, came and told Bassett that the parson was looking out for a curate, and going to leave his living for a time, on the ground of health. “That is rather against your theory, Mr. Bassett,” said he.
“Not a bit,” said Bassett. “On the contrary, that is just what these artful women do who sacrifice virtue but cling all the more to reputation. I read French novels, my boy.”
“Find 'em instructive?”
“Very. They cut deeper into human nature than our writers dare. Her turning away her lovernowis just the act of what the French call a masterly woman—maitresse femme.She has got rid of him to close the mouth of scandal; that is her game.”
“Well,” said Wheeler, “you certainly are very ingenious, and so fortified in your opinions that with you facts are no longer stubborn things; you can twist them all your way. If he had stayed and buzzed about her, while her husband was incarcerated, you would have found her guilty: he goes to Rome and leaves her, and therefore you find her guilty. You would have made a fine hanging judge in the good old sanguinary times.”
“I use my eyes, my memory, and my reason. She is a monster of vice and deceit. Anything is fair against such a woman.”
“I am sorry to hear you say that,” said Wheeler, becoming grave rather suddenly. “A woman is a woman, and I tell you plainly I have gone pretty well to the end of my tether with you.”
“Abandon me, then,” said Bassett, doggedly; “I can go alone.”
Wheeler was touched by this, and said, “No, no; I am not the man to desert a friend; but pray do nothing rash—do nothing without consulting me.”
Bassett made no reply.
About a week after this, as Lady Bassett was walking sadly in her own garden, a great Newfoundland dog ran up to her without any warning, and put his paws almost on her shoulder.
She screamed violently, and more than once.
One or two windows flew open, and among the women who put their heads out to see what was the matter, Mary Wells was the first.
The owner of the dog instantly whistled, and the sportive animal ran to him; but Lady Bassett was a good deal scared, and went in holding her hand to her side. Mary Wells hurried to her assistance, and she cried a little from nervousness when the young woman came earnestly to her.
“Oh, Mary! he frightened me so. I did not see him coming.”
“Mr. Moss,” said Mary Wells, “here's a villain come and frightened my lady. Go and shoot his dog, you and your son; and get the grooms, and fling him in the horse-pond directly.”
“No!” said Lady Bassett, firmly. “You will see that he does not enter the house, that is all. Should he attempt that, then you will use force for my protection. Mary, come to my room.”
When they were together alone Lady Bassett put both hands on the girl's shoulders, and made her turn toward her.
“I think you love me, Mary?” said she, drinking the girl's eyes with her own.
“Ah! that I do, my lady.”
“Why did you look so pale, and your eyes flash, and why did you incite those poor men to—It might have led to bloodshed.”
“It would; and that is what I wanted, my lady!”
“Oh, Mary!”
“What, don't you see?”
“No, no; I don't want to think so. It might have been an accident. The poor dog meant no harm; it was his way of fawning, that was all.”
“The beast meant no harm, but the man did. He is worse than any beast that ever was born; he is a cruel, cunning, selfish devil; and if I had been a man he should never have got off alive.”
“But are you sure?”
“Quite. I was upstairs, and saw it all.”
This was not true; she had seen nothing till her mistress screamed.
“Then—anything is fair against such a villain.”
“Of course it is.”
“Let me think.”
She leaned her head upon her hand, and that intelligent face of hers quite shone with hard thought.
At last, after long and intense thinking, she spoke.
“I'll teach you to be inhuman, Mr. Richard Bassett,” said she, slowly, and with a strange depth of resolution.
Then Mary Wells and she put their heads together in close discussion; but now Lady Bassett took the lead, and revealed to her astonished adviser extraordinary and astounding qualities.
They had driven her to bay, and that is a perilous game to play with such a woman.
Mary Wells found herself a child compared with her mistress, now that that lady was driven to put out all her powers.
The conversation lasted about two hours: in that time the whole campaign was settled.
MARY WELLS by order went down, in a loose morning wrapper her mistress had given her, and dined in the servants' hall. She was welcomed with a sort of shout, half ironical; and the chief butler said,
“Glad to see you come back to us, Miss Wells.”
“The same to you, sir,” said Mary, with more pertness than logic; “which I'm only come to take leave, for to-morrow I go to London, on business.”
“La! what's the business, I wonder?” inquired a house-maid, irreverentially.
“Well, my business is not your business, Jane. However, if you want to know, I'm going to be married.”
“And none too soon,” whispered the kitchen-maid to a footman.
“Speak up, my dear,” said Mary. “There's nothing more vulgarer than whispering in company.”
“I said, 'What will Bill Drake say to that?'”
“Bill Drake will say he was a goose not to make up his mind quicker. This will learn him beauty won't wait for no man. If he cries when I am gone, you lend him your apron to wipe his eyes, and tell him women can't abide shilly-shallying men.”
“That's a hexcellent sentiment,” said John the footman, “and a solemn warning it is—”
“To all such as footmen be,” said Mary.
“We writes it in the fly-leaf of our Bibles accordingly,” said John.
“No, my man, write it somewhere where you'll have a chance to read it.”
This caused a laugh; and when it was over, the butler, who did not feel strong enough to chaff a lady of this caliber, inquired obsequiously whether he might venture to ask who was the happy stranger to carry off such a prize.
“A civil question deserves a civil answer, Mr. Wright,” said Mary. “It is a sea-faring man, the mate of a ship. He have known me a few years longer than any man in these parts. Whenever he comes home from a voyage he tells me what he has made, and asks me to marry him. I have said 'No' so many times I'm sick and tired; so I have said 'Yes' for once in a way. Changes are lightsome, you know.”
Thus airily did Mary Wells communicate her prospects, and next morning early was driven to the station; a cart had gone before with her luggage, which tormented the female servants terribly; for, instead of the droll little servant's box, covered with paper, she had a large lady's box, filled with linen and clothes by the liberality of Lady Bassett, and a covered basket, and an old carpet-bag, with some minor packages of an unintelligible character. Nor did she make any secret that she had money in both pockets; indeed, she flaunted some notes before the groom, and told him none but her lady knew all she had done for Sir Charles. “But,” said she, “he is grateful, you see, and so is she.”
She went off in the train, as gay as a lark; but she was no sooner out of sight than her face changed its whole expression, and she went up to London very grave and thoughtful.
The traveling carriage was ordered at ten o'clock next day, and packed as for a journey.
Lady Bassett took her housekeeper with her to the asylum.
She had an interview with Sir Charles, and told him what Mr. Bassett had done, and the construction Mary Wells had put on it.
Sir Charles turned pale with rage, and said he could no longer play the patient game. He must bribe a keeper, make his escape, and kill that villain.
Lady Bassett was alarmed, and calmed it down.
“It was only a servant's construction, and she might be wrong; but it frightened me terribly; and I fear it is the beginning of a series of annoyances and encroachments; and I have lost Mr. Angelo; he has gone to Italy. Even Mary Wells left me this morning to be married. I think I know a way to turn all this against Mr. Bassett; but I will not say it, because I want to hear what you advise, dearest.”
Sir Charles did not leave her long in doubt. He said, “There is but one way; you must leave Huntercombe, and put yourself out of that miscreant's way until our child is born.”
“That would not grieve me,” said Lady Bassett. “The place is odious to me, now you are not there. But what would censorious people say?”
“What could they say, except that you obeyed your husband?”
“Is it a command, then, dearest?”
“It is a command; and, although you are free, and I am a prisoner—although you are still an ornament to society, and I pass for an outcast, still I expect you to obey me when I assume a husband's authority. I have not taken the command of you quite so much as you used to say I must; but on this occasion I do. You will leave Huntercombe, and avoid that caitiff until our child is born.”
“That ends all discussion,” said Lady Bassett. “Oh, Charles, my only regret is that it costs me nothing to obey you. But when did it ever? My king!”
He had ordered her to do the very thing she wished to do.
She now gave her housekeeper minute instructions, settled the board wages of the whole establishment, and sent her home in the carriage, retaining her own boxes and packages at the inn.
Richard Bassett soon found out that Lady Bassett had left Huntercombe. He called on Wheeler and told him. Wheeler suggested she had gone to be near her husband.
“No,” said Bassett, “she has joined her lover. I wonder at our simplicity in believing that fellow was gone to Italy.”
“This is rich,” said Wheeler. “A week ago she was guilty, and a Machiavel in petticoats; for why? she had quarreled with her Angelo, and packed him off to Italy. Now she is guilty; and why? because he is not gone to Italy—not that you know whether he is or not. You reason like a mule. As for me, I believe none of this nonsense—till you find them together.”
“And that is just what I mean to do.”
“We shall see.”
“You will see.”
Very soon after this a country gentleman met Wheeler on market-day, and drew him aside to ask him a question. “Do you advise Mr. Richard Bassett still?”
“Yes.”
“Did you set him to trespass on Lady Bassett's lawn, and frighten her with a great dog in the present state of her health?”
“Heaven forbid! This is the first I've heard of such a thing.”
“I am glad to hear you say that, Tom Wheeler. There, read that. Your client deserves to be flogged out of the county, sir.” And he pulled a printed paper out of his pocket. It was dated from the Royal Hotel, Bath, and had been printed with blanks, as follows; but a lady's hand had filled in the dates.
“On the day —— of ——, while I was walking alone in my garden, Mr. Richard Bassett, the person who has bereaved me by violence of my protector, came, without leave, into my private grounds, and brought a very large dog; it ran to me, and frightened me so that I nearly fainted with alarm. Mr. Bassett was aware of my condition. Next day I consulted my husband, and he ordered me to leave Huntercombe Hall, and put myself beyond the reach of trespassers and outrage.
“One motive has governed Mr. Bassett in all his acts, from his anonymous letter to me before my marriage—which I keep for your inspection, together with the proofs that he wrote it—to the barbarous seizure of my husband upon certificates purchased beforehand, and this last act of violence, which has driven me from the county for a time.
“Sir Charles and I have often been your hosts and your guests; we now ask you to watch our property and our legal rights, so long as through injustice and cruelty my husband is a prisoner, his wife a fugitive.”
“There,” said the gentleman, “these papers are going all round the county.”
Wheeler was most indignant, and said he had never been consulted, and had never advised a trespass. He begged a loan of the paper, and took it to Bassett's that very same afternoon.
“So you have been acting without advice,” said he, angrily; “and a fine mess you have made of it.” And, though not much given to violent anger, he dashed the paper down on the table, and hurt his hand a little. Anger must be paid for, like other luxuries.
Bassett read it, and was staggered a moment; but he soon recovered himself, and said, “What is the foolish woman talking about?”
He then took a sheet of paper, and said he would soon give her a Roland for an Oliver.
“Ay,” said Wheeler, grimly, “let us see how you will put downthe foolish woman.I'll smoke a cigar in the garden, and recover my temper.”
Richard Bassett's retort ran thus:
“I never wrote an anonymous letter in my life; and if I put restraint upon Sir Charles, it was done to protect the estate. Experienced physicians represented him homicidal and suicidal; and I protected both Lady Bassett and himself by the act she has interpreted so harshly.
“As for her last grievance, it is imaginary. My dog is gentle as a lamb. I did not foresee Lady Bassett would be there, nor that the poor dog would run and welcome her. She is playing a comedy: the real truth is, a gentleman had left Huntercombe whose company is necessary to her. She has gone to join him, and thrown the blame very adroitly upon
“RICHARD BASSETT.”
When he had written this Bassett ordered his dog-cart.
Wheeler came in, read the letter, and said the last suggestion in it was a libel, and an indictable one into the bargain.
“What, if it is true—true to the letter?”
“Even then you would not be safe, unless you could prove it by disinterested witnesses.”
“Well, if I cannot, I consent to cut this sentence out. Excuse me one minute, I must put a few things in my carpetbag.”
“What! going away?”
“Of course I am.”
“Better give me your address, then, in case anything turns up.”
“If you were as sharp as you pass for you would know my address—Royal Hotel, Bath, to be sure.”
He left Wheeler staring, and was back in five minutes with his carpet-bag and wraps.
“Wouldn't to-morrow morning do for this wild-goose chase?” asked Wheeler.
“No,” said Richard. “I'm not such a fool. Catch me losing twelve hours. In that twelve hours they would shift their quarters. It is always so when a fool delays. I shall breakfast at the Royal Hotel, Bath.”
The dog-cart came to the door as he spoke, and he rattled off to the railway.
He managed to get to the Royal Hotel, Bath, at 7 A.M., took a warm bath instead of bed, and then ordered breakfast; asked to see the visitors' book, and wrote a false name; turned the leaves, and, to his delight, saw Lady Bassett's name.
But he could not find Mr. Angelo's name in the book.
He got hold of Boots, and feed him liberally, then asked him if there was a handsome young parson there—very dark.
Boots could not say there was.
Then Bassett made up his mind that Angelo was at another hotel, or perhaps in lodgings, out of prudence.
“Lady Bassett here still?” said he.
Boots was not very sure; would inquire at the bar. Did inquire, and brought him word Lady Bassett had left for London yesterday morning.
Bassett ground his teeth with vexation.
No train to London for an hour and a half. He took a stroll through the town to fill up the time.
How often, when a man abandons or remits his search for a time, Fate sends in his way the very thing he is after, but has given up hunting just then! As he walked along the north side of a certain street, what should he see but the truly beautiful and remarkable eyes and eyebrows of Mr. Angelo, shining from afar.
That gentleman was standing, in a reverie, on the steps of a small hotel.
Bassett drew back at first, not to be seen. Looking round he saw he was at the door of a respectable house that let apartments. He hurried in, examined the drawing-room floor, took it for a week, paid in advance, and sent to the Royal for his bag.
He installed himself near the window, to await one of two things, and act accordingly. If Angelo left the place he should go by the same train, and so catch the parties together; if the lady doubled back to Bath, or had only pretended to leave it, he should soon know that, by diligent watch and careful following.
He wrote to Wheeler to announce this first step toward success.
SOME days after this Mr. Rolfe received a line from Lady Bassett, to say she was at the Adelphi Hotel, in John Street. He put some letters into his pocket and called on her directly.
She received him warmly, and told him, more fully than she had by letter, how she had acted on his advice; then she told him of Richard Bassett's last act, and showed him her retort.
He knitted his brows at first over it; but said he thought her proclamation could do no harm.
“As a rule,” said he, “I object to flicking with a lady's whip when I am going to crush, but—yes—it is able, and gives you a good excuse for keeping out of the way of annoyances till we strike the blow. And now I have something to consult you upon. May I read you some extracts from your husband's letters to me?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Forgive a novelist; but this is a new situation, reading a husband's letters to his wife. However, I have a motive, and so I had in soliciting the correspondence with Sir Charles.” He then read her the letters that are already before the reader, and also the following extracts:
“Mr. Johnson, a broken tradesman, has some imagination, though not of a poetic kind; he is imbued with trade, and, in the daytime, exercises several, especially a butcher's. When he sees any of us coming, he whips before the nearest door or gate, and sells meat. He sells it very cheap; the reason is, his friends allow him only a shilling or two in coppers, and as every madman is the center of the universe, he thinks that the prices of all commodities are regulated by the amount of specie in his pocket. This is his style, 'Come, buy, buy, choice mutton three farthings the carcass. Retail shop next door, ma'am. Jack, serve the lady. Bill, tell him he can send me home those twenty bullocks, at three half-pence each—' and so on. But at night he subsides into an auctioneer, and, with knocking down lots while others are conversing, gets removed occasionally to a padded room. Sometimes we humor him, and he sells us the furniture after a spirited competition, and debits the amounts, for cash is not abundant here. The other night, heated with business, he went on from the articles of furniture to the company, and put us all up in succession.
“Having a good many dislikes, he sometimes forgot the auctioneer in the man, and depreciated some lots so severely that they had to be passed; but he set Miss Wieland in a chair, and descanted on her beauty, good temper, and other gifts, in terms florid enough for Robins, or any other poet. Sold for eighteen pounds, and to a lady. This lady had formed a violent attachment to Miss W.; so next week they will be at daggers drawn. My turn came, and the auctioneer did me the honor to describe me as 'the lot of the evening.' He told the bidders to mind what they were about, they might never again be able to secure a live baronet at a moderate price, owing to the tightness of the money market. Well, sir, I was honored with bids from several ladies; but they were too timid and too honest to go beyond their means; my less scrupulous sex soared above these considerations, and I was knocked down for seventy-nine pounds fifteen shillings, amid loud applause at the spirited result. My purchaser is a shop-keeper mad after gardening. Dr. Suaby has given him a plot to cultivate, and he whispered in my ear, 'The reason I went to a fancy price was, I can kill two birds with one stone with you. You'll make a very good statee stuck up among my flowers; and you can hallo, and keep those plaguy sparrows off.'”
“Oh, what creatures for my darling to live among!” cried Lady Bassett piteously.
Mr. Rolfe stared, and said, “What, then, you are like all your sex—no sense of humor?”
“Humor! when my husband is in misery and degradation!”
“And don't you see that the brave writer of these letters is steeled against misery, and above degradation? Such men are not the mere sport of circumstances. Your husband carries a soul not to be quelled by three months in a well-ordered mad-house. But I will read no more, since what gives me satisfaction gives you pain.”
“Oh, yes, yes! Don't let me lose a word my husband has ever uttered.”
“Well, I'll go on; but I'm horribly discouraged.”
“I'm so sorry for that sir. Please forgive me.”
Mr. Rolfe read the letter next in date—
“We are honored with one relic of antiquity, a Pythagorean. He has obliged me with his biography. He was, to use his own words, engendered by the sun shining on a dunghill at his father's door,' and began his career as a flea; but his identity was, somehow, shifted to a boy of nine years old. He has had a long spell of humanity, and awaits the great change—which is to turn him to a bee. It will not find him unprepared; he has long practiced humming, in anticipation. A faithful friend, called Caffyn, used to visit him every week. Caffyn died last year, and the poor Pythagorean was very lonely and sad; but, two months ago, he detected his friend in the butcher's horse, and is more than consoled, for he says, Caffyn comes six times a week now, instead of once.'”
“Poor soul!” said Lady Bassett. “What a strange world for him to be living in. It seems like a dream.”
“There is something stranger coming in this last letter.”
“I have at last found one madman allied to Genius. It has taken me a fortnight to master his delusion, and to write down the vocabulary he has invented to describe the strange monster of his imagination. All the words I write in italics are his own.
“Mr. Williams says that a machine has been constructed for malignant purposes, which machine is anair-loom.It rivals the human machine in this, that it can operate either on mind or matter. It was invented, and is worked, by a gang of villains superlatively skillful inpneumatic chemistry, physiology, nervous influence, sympathy,and thehigher metaphysic,men far beyond the immature science of the present era, which, indeed, is a favorite subject of their ridicule.
“The gang are seven in number, but Williams has only seen the four highest:Bill, the King,a master of the art ofmagnetic impregnation; Jack, the schoolmaster,the short-hand writer of the gang;Sir Archy,Chief Liar to the Association; and theglove-woman,so called from her always wearing cotton mittens. This personage has never been known to speak to any one.
“The materials used in the air-loom by thesepneumatic adeptsare infinite; but principallyeffluvia of certain metals, poisons, soporific scents,etc.
“The principal effects are:
“1st. EVENT-WORKING.—This is done bymagnetic manipulationof kings, emperors, prime ministers, and others; so that, while the world is fearing and admiring them, they are, in reality, mere puppets played by the workers of the air-loom.
“2d. CUTTING SOUL FROM SENSE.—This is doneby diffusing the magnetic warp from the root of the nose under the base of the skull, till it forms a veil; so that the sentiments of the heart can have no communication with the operations of the intellect.
“3d. KITING.—As boys raise a kite in the air, so the air-loom can lift an idea into the brain, where it floats and undulates for hours together. The victim cannot get rid of an idea so insinuated.
“4th. LOBSTER-CRACKING.—An external pressure of the magnetic atmosphere surrounding the person assailed. Williams has been so operated on, and says he felt as if he was grasped by an enormous pair of nut-crackers with teeth, and subjected to a piercing pressure, which he still remembers with horror. Death sometimes results from Lobster-cracking.
“5th. LENGTHENING THE BRAIN.—As the cylindrical mirror lengthens the countenance,so these assailants find means toelongate the brain. This distorts the ideas, and subjects the most serious are made silly and ridiculous.
“6th. THOUGHT-MAKING.—While one of these villains sucks at the brain of the assailed, and extracts his existing sentiments, another will press into the vacuum ideas very different from his real thoughts. Thus his mind is physically enslaved.”
Then Sir Charles goes on to say:
“Poor Mr. Williams seems to me an inventor wasted. I thought I would try and reason him out of his delusion. I asked if he had ever seen this gang and their machine.
“He said yes, they operated on him this morning. 'Then show them me,' said I. 'Young man,' said he, satirically, 'do you think these assassins, and their diabolical machine, would be allowed to go on, if they could be laid hands on so easily? The gang are fertile in disguise; the machine operates at considerable distances.'
“To drive him into a corner, I said, 'Will you give me a drawing of it?' He seemed to hesitate, so I said, 'If you can not draw it, you never saw it, and never will.' He assented to that, and I was vain enough to think I had staggered him; but yesterday he produced the inclosed sketch and explanation. After this I sadly fear he is incurable.
“There are three sane patients in this asylum, besides myself. I will tell you their stories when you come here, which I hope will be soon; for the time agreed on draws near, and my patience and self-control are sorely tried, as day after day rolls by, and sees me still in a madhouse.”
“There, Lady Bassett,” said Mr. Rolfe. “And now for my motive in reading these letters. Sir Charles may still have a crotchet, an inordinate desire for an heir; but, even if he has, the writer of these letters has nothing to fear from any jury; and, therefore, I am now ready to act. I propose to go down to the asylum to-morrow, and get him out as quickly as I can.”
Lady Bassett uttered an ejaculation of joy. Then she turned suddenly pale, and her countenance fell. She said nothing.
Mr. Rolfe was surprised at this, since, at their last meeting, she was writhing at her inaction. He began to puzzle himself. She watched him keenly. He thought to himself, “Perhaps she dreads the excitement of meeting—for herself.”
At last Lady Bassett asked him how long it would take to liberate Sir Charles.
“Not quite a week, if Richard Bassett is well advised. If he fights desperately it may take a fortnight. In any case I don't leave the work an hour till it is done. I can delay, and I can fight; but I never mix the two. Come, Lady Bassett, there is something on your mind you don't like to say. Well, what does it matter? I will pack my bag, and write to Dr. Suaby that he may expect me soon; but I will wait till I get a line from you to go ahead. Then I'll go down that instant and do the work.”
This proposal was clearly agreeable to Lady Bassett, and she thanked him.
“You need not waste words over it,” said he. “Write one word, 'ACT!' That will be the shortest letter you ever wrote.”
The rest of the conversation is not worth recording.
Mr. Rolfe instructed a young solicitor minutely, packed his bag, and waited.
But day after day went by, and the order never came to act.
Mr. Rolfe was surprised at this, and began to ask himself whether he could have been deceived in this lady's affection for her husband. But he rejected that. Then he asked himself whether it might have cooled. He had known a very short incarceration produce that fatal effect. Both husband and wife interested him, and he began to get irritated at the delay.
Sir Charles's letters made him think they had already wasted time.
At last a letter came from Gloucester Place.
“Will my kind friend now ACT?
“Gratefully,
“BELLA BASSETT.”
Mr. Rolfe, upon this, cast his discontent to the winds and started for Bellevue House.
On the evening of that day a surgeon called Boddington was drinking tea with his wife, and they were talking rather disconsolately; for he had left a fair business in the country, and, though a gentleman of undoubted skill, was making his way very slowly in London.
The conversation was agreeably interrupted by a loud knock at the door.
A woman had come to say that he was wanted that moment for a lady of title in Gloucester Place, hard by.
“I will come,” said he, with admirably affected indifference; and, as soon as the woman was out of sight, husband and wife embraced each other.
“Pray God it may all go well, for your sake and hers, poor lady.”
Mr. Boddington hurried to the number in Gloucester Place. The door was opened by the charwoman.
He asked her with some doubt if that was the house.
The woman said yes, and she believed it was a surprise. The lady was from the country, and was looking out for some servants.
This colloquy was interrupted by an intelligent maid, who asked, over the balusters, if that was the medical man; and, on the woman's saying it was, begged him to step upstairs at once.
He found his patient attended only by her maid, but she was all discretion, and intelligence. She said he had only to direct her, she would do anything for her dear mistress.
Mr. Boddington said a single zealous and intelligent woman, who could obey orders, was as good as a number, or better.
He then went gently to the bedside, and his experience told him at once that the patient was in labor.
He told the attendant so, and gave her his directions.