With a trembling hand, and apparently in the utmost haste, Willoughby folded and sealed the letter he had just finished; and without allowing himself one moment for reflection, rang and ordered the person who appeared to take it to the post-office immediately.
As the door closed, however, after the servant to whom he had given this command, a sense of terror at having thus himself rendered his fate irremediable, overwhelmed him; and, with an instinctive impulse, he grasped at the bell, but immediately flinging it from him, he assumed a mock composure, and as though there had been some one present before whom to act a part, with a ghastly sort of smile, seated himself. He had for some time been almost expecting, though he would not confess it to his own thoughts, some such blow as this: he had seen, despite every effort to avert his mental vision from the view, that all could not be right; and, weary of secret dread—the true definition of that hope deferred, which maketh the heart sick—he now fancied, for the moment, that there was a sort of stern satisfaction in knowing that fate had done its worst. His brain, however, was already beginning to wander; he was already contemplating, though vaguely, the fatal step which finally ended his career. He thought of Alfred, and his soul secretly yearned for the consolation of pouring out all its sorrows into his affectionate bosom; butPride, under the form of wounded vanity, with a jealous soreness, shrank from the salutary exposure; while so irritable was the state of his mind, that the very pleadings of his own heart, for the balm it longed for, seemed importunate, and were resisted with something of his characteristic obstinacy. Nay, the pettiest and most contemptible considerations from time to time blended themselves indistinctly with his despair, and became, to a certain degree, governing motives of conduct.
The story of his former disappointment, and of such recent occurrence too, he reflected, with a very disproportionate share of uneasiness, would now be renewed, coupled with the present affair: he should become a proverb—a byword—an object for the finger of scorn to point at. Then the wild excitement of the hope with which, despite his fears, he had with strange inconsistency fed his passion; this was gone, and he could not endure the void within; while it was upon the brain, the fever seemed to feed. Whether there was a physical cause for this, such as Alfred had sometimes feared; or whether the attachment, though violent, being recently formed, still dwelt more in the imagination than in the heart, it might be difficult to decide; but the effect on Willoughby was that some active principle of misery and evil seemed urging him on to a frantic resistance of his fate; compelling his very pulses to beat at a maddening pace; causing an alternation of quickened and suspended breathing, which fatigued him sensibly; and the while presenting to his imagination, snatches of thoughts, and visions of projects so terrific, that while they were in fact the effects of incipient insanity, they became, in their turn, by the fearful excitement they produced, powerful causes of its future development. There was still an inward struggle, but it ended fatally. He could not—no, he never would pronounce her name again! He—in whom else he would have confided every thought—he it was who was preferred; and, though he could not feel a rival's hatred towards his kind, his generous, his unoffending brother—no, he did not, he would not even love him less; but still there was a remembrance that he was his rival; and with it thoughts, strangely blended, of littleness, and the wildest, most extravagant generosity. Alfred should have all—love, wealth, title; and then Lady Palliser could no longer object; but he must wait—it might be for a few days, perhaps only a few hours—nay, the sooner the better; why should he live but to cause and to endure misery? Endure!—did he endure? Can powerlessness to resist the decrees of fate, while yet the heart and feelings openly and wilfully rebel against them, be called endurance? Certainly not. But alas, such rebellion brings with it its own punishment. How often had Willoughby, while fearing the worst, inwardly vowed that were he indeed destined to disappointment, he would never survive the blow. Now the blow had fallen, and though his heart secretly turned towards his habitual, his earliest, his deepest seated affection, the love he bore his twin brother, he was pledged, as it were, to resist every gentler emotion, to embrace despair! and unhappily he did so.
He would carefully conceal every circumstance, every thought; he would allow it to be believed, that the preparations for his marriage were still going forward; nay, he would assume the most exuberant spirits, and to the last moment of existence preserve his fatal secret. When he was gone, when he had found a resting-place for his weary spirit in the grave, Alfred should know all! Reflecting thus, he journeyed on.
Lady Palliser at first took no notice of Sir Willoughby's sudden departure. At a late hour in the evening, however, she received his note. During its perusal she laughed immoderately, then flinging it towards Caroline, said, "Silly young man! my only object in marrying you to him was to chastise you for your improper conduct. It has happened, however, quite as well; for I was getting amazingly tired of the thing. Let the intended punishment," she added, with returning severity of manner, "be a lesson to you, that young women in your station, and with the fortune you will possess, are not to make choice for themselves. When I choose you to marry, and have decided to whom I shall marry you, I shall let you know."
Poor Caroline, how little understood was her position by those, and they were many, the springs of whose peace were poisoned by envy of her greatness! OhPride, bane of human happiness! mingling bitter mortification in the otherwise palatable cup of humble competency, and lading with its glittering chains, the slaves on whom it seems to heap its choicest gifts.
Caroline, who had apprehended a storm of rage and disappointment, heightened by, perhaps, some suspicion of the truth, was greatly relieved; and, though habituated to the unaccountable caprices of her mother's temper, was somewhat surprised, at the perfect indifference thus shown by Lady Palliser, respecting her ultimate failure on a point, to carry which, so violent a determination had previously been manifested.
On Willoughby's arrival at Arden, he strained every power of his mind to hide from his brother the true state of his feelings; and, to a certain degree, succeeded; his strange manner inducing in Alfred a belief that it was the immediate prospect of the fulfilment of his wishes, which had unsettled his intellect; for, that it was to a certain degree unsettled, this affectionate brother could not help detecting, in the extravagance, the sometimes almost terrific wildness, of the gaiety assumed by Willoughby. It is impossible to describe the wretchedness of Alfred, while with an aching heart, he watched the flushed cheek and flashing eye of his brother, and listened to the strange unnatural sound of his laugh. We may say, without in the slightest degree exaggerating the disinterestedness of our hero, that every thought of self was forgotten, in the miserable excess of sympathy which the extraordinary circumstances of others now called forth. It was not only for his brother, that brother to whom from infancy he had been so tenderly attached, that he now felt the cruellest apprehensions; but what was also to be the fate of Caroline, and what would be the misery of their mother, the sorrow of the whole family, if, indeed, the awful infliction he had so long dreaded, had at length fallen upon them?
Or even, were this excitement which now alarmed him so much, to subside again for the present, how dreadful was the prospect opened by its having ever assumed so serious a form; and the inconsistency of Willoughby's conduct and manner, the incoherence of his expressions in his ill-sustained attempts at conversation, put the fatal truth beyond a doubt. Yet, were all those symptoms so far to abate, that no eye less watchful, less practised to watch than his own, could detect the lurking malady, was it fair, was it honourable, to involve in so frightful a family affliction, the happiness of a being as yet unconscious of it? Yet who could, who would, who ought to interfere? Delicacy and all good feeling for ever forbade that any surmise should proceed from him. Oh impossible! quite impossible! Fate must roll on, and overwhelm whom it would, he must be passive! But he was more: instinctively he strove to conceal from servants, and the few country neighbours whom chance threw in their way, the hourly increasing infirmity of his brother; treating, while such were present, his extravagance as hilarity, and every contradiction and inconsistency as an intended jest; adding thus the while, by the violent and unnatural contrast to his own secret sufferings.
Alfred sometimes thought that possibly he ought so far to conquer his scruples as to write to his mother, and communicate to her, in strict confidence, his apprehensions respecting the state of Willoughby's mind: but he might recover after a short period of quiet, and then his mother might be spared the pang: and he could not, as he had before decided, even within the bosom of his own family,—he could not, be the consequence what it might, bring himself to be the first to suggest such a thought. His mother, of course, would not suspect him of a base desire to grasp at his brother's birth-right, and of a consequent quicksightedness in discerning the approaches of this frightful visitation; but there were those who might so misjudge him. It was, however, he thought, at least his duty to prepare his mother's mind in some degree for whatever might be the result, by saying, that he did not think Willoughby quite well: this, therefore, he did in one or two of his letters. Yet Willoughby himself made no complaint; and to servants and occasional visiters appeared to be in particularly good health and spirits. We remark this now because the comment subsequently becomes important.
After a few days, however, Willoughby, like one who had run at full speed as long as his strength would permit, flagged; his efforts were first less sustained, then his gaiety became confined to wild bursts of noisy mirth, while at length whole hours, with a seeming unconsciousness of the lapse of time, were passed in gloomy abstraction. The bursts of seeming mirth, however, were always assumed when servants or strangers were present; the gloom and abstraction given way to only when alone with his brother.
Willoughby had always felt, and often expressed, great horror of persons being opened after death: to this subject he now recurred with a frequency, and clung to it with a pertinacity quite extraordinary; adding the most solemn injunctions to Alfred to be the protector of his remains whenever he should die.
"You will then be master here," he would say; "every thing will then be yours; my very body I bequeath to you—I make it your property: do not, Alfred, I conjure you, suffer the defenceless corse of your poor brother to be mangled. It would be hard indeed," he would sometimes subjoin, with a wild ironical laugh, "if a man could not find rest even in the grave."
On occasions like these Alfred would sit beside him, and endeavour to sooth him by every kind and rational argument he could devise; not unfrequently Willoughby would appear entirely deaf to all that could be urged; while at other times, he would take Alfred's hand, thank him with gentle kindliness of manner, and hope that he might yet be as truly happy as he deserved to be; joining with this latter expression an earnest and expressive solemnity which almost seemed a blending of prophecy with the prayer of affection. He often talked of having a foreboding that he should die young.
"But why, my dear brother," Alfred would reply, "give way to such thoughts? Why should you die young? You have no ailment, no care, no sorrow——"
"It may be a silly fancy, yet I am possessed with the idea:"—this much Willoughby said with well-acted carelessness. "My only anxiety in dying," he added, with a suddenly altered tone, and an inquiring look of the most mournful tenderness, "is for you, Alfred; I fear you will feel it severely; but do not!—do not! Why should any one be miserable?—I shall not be missed, except by you: no selfish happiness, I know, will enable you entirely to forget me. My mother is kind, very kind; but you were always her favourite—and that in time will reconcile her—"
Caroline was in Alfred's thoughts; her name even trembled on his lips, but he had not courage to give it utterance.
"You speak wildly," he said, "my dear Willoughby; you not missed! you—who—who—you who love and are beloved." Willoughby laid his hand on Alfred's, and looked anxiously in his face for some moments, but continued silent; at length he moved his lips, as if about to speak; then pressing his brother's hand, dropped it, and exclaimed, "I cannot!—I cannot!" An instant after he burst into a passion of tears, and laying his head on Alfred's shoulder, wept like a child, till relieved by giving way to his feelings, though completely exhausted, he seemed to sleep. In a few seconds, however, he started, looked up, and repeated anxiously once or twice, "What have I been saying, Alfred? what have I been saying? I think I have been asleep," he added; "but I have lately got into a strange habit of laying awake the whole night: it is merely a habit. Sleep is altogether a habit, I think. I don't sleep at all now, as I tell you; and yet you see I am perfectly well!"
Alfred looked mournfully at him, and replied, "Would to heaven you were, Willoughby! Do," he added, anxiously, "let us go to town; you ought to take some medical advice; if, as you say, you do not sleep, you cannot be well."
"Well—I am perfectly well I assure you—shall we ride?" he added, rising and calling his two beautiful greyhounds that lay on the rug before the fire: "I wonder, by the by," he continued, "if they have laid the poison which I ordered for the rats in the stable-lofts; shall we go out at the back way, and I'll see to it myself."
Willoughby hurried out, Alfred followed, and heard him inquire with great precision respecting the poison, and give, in the most rational manner, precautionary directions against mistakes or accidents in its use. A servant in reply pointed out a shelf in the saddle-room, where it lay perfectly apart from all articles of food; and showed both the gentlemen that the outward paper was, according to a usual and very proper precaution on the part of druggists and apothecaries, strongly marked in very large letters—"Poison, Arsenic." The characters too, though done with a pen, were those of print, which made them more strikingly legible to every eye.
The brothers now proceeded to ride as Willoughby had proposed; Alfred, however, could think of nothing but the poison: he had often heard of the most artful preparations on the part of deranged persons, and he could not banish the idea that Willoughby had made the particular inquiries he had just heard with a view to possessing himself of the arsenic; and he determined, lest this should indeed be the case, that he would, as soon as he returned to the house, privately take away the packet from where he had seen it, and put it in some place of security. If the fearful project of self-destruction did indeed dwell among the wanderings of his brother's mind, the quiet removal of the means would not only prevent the immediate execution of his fatal purpose, but might by possibility change the current of his thoughts into some more healthful channel. Accordingly, as soon after their return as he could find a convenient opportunity, he repaired to the said saddle-room, and not wishing to confide his fears to any one, possessed himself, unobserved as he supposed, of the paper of arsenic, which he locked up carefully in his own escritoire, feeling, as he did so, almost a security, that he had thus for the present, at least, removed one danger from the reach of his poor brother; for as Willoughby had been scarcely out of his sight, since they came back from their ride, there was no reason to fear that the mischief was already done: nor did it indeed occur to Alfred, when he found the packet laying where he had seen it in the morning, that without displacing the whole, sufficient for the purpose he dreaded might have been taken away.
For the remainder of the day, and especially during dinner, he observed that Willoughby's manners were more than ever strange and inconsistent; and that his efforts at gaiety were fewer and worse sustained than on any former occasion; yet, as long as the servants were present, extravagant. While, the moment the brothers were alone, there was an overflow of mournful tenderness, and an expression of the same character in his countenance which filled Alfred with the most harrowing sensations. Yet a circumstance had occurred when they were riding, which had in a great measure allayed his immediate fears, and given his thoughts too, a somewhat new direction. They had met with a neighbouring squire who, possessing little either of tact or delicacy, and also thinking himself privileged as being not only an old man but an old acquaintance, immediately began to rally Sir Willoughby on the report of his approaching marriage.
Willoughby saw that Alfred watched him anxiously; and, being rendered by the presence of a stranger doubly determined to keep his secret to the last, he aroused himself to great exertion and replied with astonishing coolness, at the same time admitting the fact of his intended marriage, that the event to which the squire alluded was not to take place so immediately as he seemed to imagine, for that previously to his becoming a benedict he was to join his friends at Paris, and proceed with them on a tour which would occupy some months.
The old gentleman at parting commended him for showing Lady Anne Armadale so soon how little he thought of her, and congratulated him on the great superiority of his present choice, both in beauty and fortune. The gloom and abstraction of Willoughby after this was so marked that it suggested to Alfred the possibility of his not having yet conquered his first attachment, and of his having entered into his present engagement more out of pique than preference. How strange and absorbing for a time were the speculations occasioned by such a surmise, while some of them were calculated almost to reawaken selfish regrets, yet were these again checked by the appalling thought that such a supposition strengthened his worst fears; contending emotions were more likely seriously and permanently to unsettle the mind than the excitement, however great, of a successful attachment; at least, to suppose such a cause, it was necessary to take for granted a predisposition stronger than there was, perhaps, sufficient grounds to believe did exist.
That disease however, was present, whatever the cause, there could be no doubt; and Alfred firmly resolved, therefore, if he could not the very next day prevail with Willoughby to accompany him to town, that he would send thither for the first medical advice that could be obtained, and also entreat his mother to come to Arden. For he now began to fear with infinite self-reproach that he had already carried delicacy on this point too far.
A biscuit and a glass of wine-and-water was usually the temperate supper of the brothers. They generally took it in the library, and read till they felt disposed to retire for the night. This evening Alfred, who had risen from the table for a book which he happened to be some little time in selecting, observed on his return, but without a suspicion at the moment as to the cause, that the water which Willoughby was pouring into his glass looked less clear than usual. He remarked upon the circumstance and advised his brother to put it away and have some fresh brought up.
"It seems very good," said Willoughby, adding wine and taking off the whole at one draught, though in general he sipped it from time to time during perhaps an hour of either reading or conversation.
Alfred accustomed to his brother's love of opposition in trifles was not at all surprised. He sighed, however, for he always considered this infirmity of temper a symptom of the incipient malady he dreaded; so simply saying,
"There is quite a sediment in the goblet you see," he read on, but still without an apprehension. It had somehow never once entered into his calculations, amid all his vague fears, that a mode and occasion so public as the present would have been chosen.
"Put away your book, Alfred," said Willoughby, a few moments after. Alfred looked up and saw that his brother was pale in the extreme, and with a ghastliness of expression quite alarming.
"I have the idea more strongly impressed upon my mind than ever this evening that I shall not live long!" said Willoughby in a voice changed and hoarse; "and that when I do die," he continued, "it will be suddenly, very suddenly: let our good-night then be also a farewell; we know not what may happen before morning."
"Do not make me miserable by such melancholy forebodings," said Alfred, "surely—there is, there can be no cause for such! Willoughby! Willoughby! you do look ill!" And the thought crossed his mind, that had he not secured the poison he should now be really alarmed.
"It is only a presentiment," said Willoughby, affecting a ghastly smile; "yet, lest it should be verified, indulge me in my childishness, and before I go to bed take leave of me, and—forgive, say you forgive every pettish word, every wilful act, of which I have ever been guilty towards you, my kind, my excellent, my too amiable brother."
"Forgive! dear Willoughby! surely I have all that is kind and noble in intention to thank you for, nothing to forgive—unless indeed," and he paused in silent alarm. "Oh, Willoughby," he added, gazing at the working of his countenance, "I fear—I fear some terrible purpose! speak to me! tell me I am wrong—you have no such thought—no you would not—you press my hand, what does that mean? Speak, Willoughby! Is it to reassure me?—oh, my poor mother—think of her!—think of me, how much, how truly I love you, never should I know happiness again, if—oh misery—those eyes—he does not know me!" Willoughby attempted to speak; the words were not only indistinctly uttered, but evidently without purpose in their arrangement; while unable longer to maintain the struggle against bodily suffering, with the wildness of delirium in his looks and gestures, he sank on a sofa writhing in agonies which partook of the nature of convulsions.
The now terrified Alfred, calling aloud for help, hastily loosed his brother's stock and undid the buttons of his waistcoat; within which, while so employed, his eye was unavoidably drawn from its close connexion with the frightful circumstances of the moment, by a piece of crushed paper, on which the word "Poison," in the conspicuous characters already described, was nevertheless strikingly visible. Alfred snatched up this fatal witness; it was a part of what he had seen in the morning, and had but too evidently been thrust into the bosom as a place of concealment after its contents had been emptied into the goblet; nay, it had still a considerable portion of the powder lurking in its folds. The terrible conviction that his precaution had been too late, and that his brother had assuredly swallowed thepoison, flashed at once upon Alfred, fearfully strengthened by the appearance of Willoughby laying on the sofa, his eyeballs rolling beneath their closed lids, except when they started wildly open for a second and closed again. He still attempted to speak, but now nearly without the power of articulation, saving that the name of Alfred was more than once distinguishable amid a low rapid murmur, which however soon faded into whispers, then subsided into a mere movement of the lips without sound, and then ceased altogether. By this time the poor sufferer had become quite insensible, and no one had yet answered Alfred's continued calls for help. He now ran to the bell, then to the door, giving orders to the servants, who at length appeared, to fly for the nearest medical aid, adding incoherent directions about bringing antidotes forpoison, and even naming arsenic in particular; yet at the same moment, without any direct consciousness of what he was doing, his fingers with a sort of instinctive movement were thrusting within the breast of his own waistcoat, the fatal scrap of paper he had found in his brother's bosom; for all the while that with the aid of servants he was vainly endeavouring to render assistance to Willoughby, confused notions were floating through his mind of the dreadful addition, that in case of the worst, it would be to his poor mother's grief to know that Willoughby had committed the awful crime of putting a period to his own existence; and mingled with these, were thoughts still more disjointed of Christian rites refused to persons guilty of suicide: so that altogether Alfred was actuated, without any power of defining his motives, by a vague sense, that some sort of necessity existed for suppressing the proofs of his brother having wilfully taken thepoison. He was of course quite incapable at such a moment of a process of reasoning by which to decide what other supposition it would be either probable or desirable should be formed.
Messengers had been despatched in every direction; yet before any medical man arrived, the convulsions had subsided, and death, accompanied by the most ghastly appearances, taken place.
At length the bustle of an arrival was heard; instead, however, of the expected doctor, Geoffery Arden entered the room.
The arrival of Geoffery at this critical moment was accidental. He had scarcely time to gather from the appearance of Willoughby, and the incoherent expressions of Alfred, who seemed at one moment half wild, the next stupified by his grief, a somewhat confused notion of what had occurred, when his entrance was followed by that of Doctor Harman.
The patient, however, being already quite dead, there remained nothing for the Doctor to do, but pronounce his opinion as to the probable cause of death, founded on the appearance of the body, and the symptoms of the attack, as described by those who had been present. This he did by expressing a suspicion that Sir Willoughby had swallowed poison, although he granted that similar symptoms might have been occasioned by a fit of apoplexy, and that such a fit might have had a fatal termination. To all Alfred's anxious inquiries if there was nothing that could be done, he replied decidedly that all was over. Alfred now stood for a considerable time with his arms folded, looking on his brother with a sort of mute despair, when a strange unbidden vision of the appearance which the water in Willoughby's goblet had presented, occurred to his memory. He turned towards the table on which the glasses still remained, and in a species of day-dream, lifted and examined that from which Willoughby had drunk. He perceived in the bottom a considerable quantity of whitish powder. Unfit for cool calculation, as were the powers of his mind at the moment, this, with all the circumstances, seemed to place it beyond a doubt, that Willoughby had taken the poison at the very time he had commented on the want of clearness of the water into which he was pouring his wine. With this conviction came again vague thoughts, as before, of expediency of concealing the fact of the suicide. Too wretched, however, to remember how strange his conduct, if not explained, must appear to those present, he poured some water into the glass, and was about to empty the same into a basin on the table.
"Should not the contents of that glass be preserved?" said Geoffery, aside to the Doctor.
"Undoubtedly!" replied the tatler, darting forward, and seizing the visibly trembling hand of Alfred.
"This may be of consequence, my dear sir," he said, mildly.
Alfred, as though he had been a detected culprit, who had not a word to plead in his own excuse, yielded without a comment, not only his whole attention, but his whole heart and soul, being at the instant recalled to the sofa, whence some of the servants were about to remove the remains of Willoughby, for the purpose of conveying them to a bedchamber. But for this circumstance, he would, in all probability, have explained his motives to the Doctor. Alfred now assisted the servants with as much tender solicitude, as though the unconscious object of his care were still capable of distinguishing affection's gentle hand, from all the aid that may be bought or sold. The Doctor and Geoffery had also approached the sofa, on the impulse of the moment, ready to give their assistance had it been required; it was not required, however, and they stood to let the melancholy procession pass. While doing so, their eyes naturally rested on the interesting figure of Alfred, bending over his poor brother, and consequently it so happened that while he was in the act of stooping, accompanied with some share of exertion, in the performance of his pious task, they both distinctly saw the piece of paper he had so lately placed within the breast of his waistcoat, glide out from thence, and fall to the ground. Geoffery perceived the Doctor's eye follow it; he kept his own upon it, for there was sufficient visible of the conspicuous letters with which it was marked, to draw attention. When all but the Doctor and himself had quitted the apartment, he pointed at it. The large characters, as we have already particularly remarked, being, though strongly done with a pen, those of print, were so distinct, that they were legible, even at the distance where the paper lay on the floor. After both gentlemen had stood looking down upon it for a considerable time, Geoffery said, at length,
"Will you have the goodness, Doctor, to pick up that paper?" The Doctor did so, though not without hesitation.
"I would not have touched it myself for the world!" continued Geoffery, as soon as it was in the Doctor's hand. "You saw whence it fell?" he proceeded. The Doctor was gazing in horror, one after another, at the letters which spell the word poison, and carefully collecting together a minute particle or two of powder, which still remained in some yet unfolded crevices of the crumpled paper:
"I am sorry to say I did," he answered, shaking his head.
"What powder is that?" asked Geoffery.
"It is scarcely fair to form a judgment on so small a portion," replied the Doctor, "but it certainly resembles arsenic."
Geoffery looked very hard at him; he returned the look, for a moment only, then dropped his eyelids, and compressed his lips, as though he feared his thoughts would assume the shape of words, and escape from them unbidden.
"What can be the meaning of all this, Doctor!" said Geoffery, after a pause of some duration.
"I don't know, sir—I don't know," replied the Doctor, hastily, and almost angrily.
"There seems to be no comment necessary," observed Geoffery. "Yet," he added, after another pause, "the only possible solution is too horrible to be thought of."
"Quite so, sir, quite so!" replied the Doctor. "I wish," he subjoined, shortly after, "that any other medical man but myself had been called in."
"That, too, was strange!" said Geoffery, turning towards the table: "what object could Mr. Arden, or Sir Alfred, rather, as we mustnowcall him I suppose, have had in attempting to rinse that glass?"
"It is impossible to say," replied the Doctor.
"Why should he," persisted Geoffery, instead of being anxious to ascertain the truth (as every near relative who had not his own reasons for a contrary line of conduct must be), "seek to make away with evidence?"
The Doctor compressed his lips harder than before.
"What do you suppose these dregs to be?" asked Geoffery, after a long pause, devoted to a careful scrutiny of the contents of the glass.
"Arsenic, apparently," replied the Doctor;—this was a point on which he considered himself called upon to speak.
"And you think Sir Willoughby's death was caused by poison?"
"I did certainly from the symptoms described suspect as much; but I should, for the further satisfaction of the family, recommend the body being opened."
"You are quite right," said Geoffery; "it ought to be satisfactory to every member of the family that the cause and manner of Sir Willoughby's death should be clearly ascertained."
The good Doctor moved his head mournfully but made no reply. The paper was still in his hand. Being about to depart, he offered it to Geoffery, saying, "I had better give this to you, I suppose, sir?"
"By no means," replied Geoffery; "but I must request that you will take especial charge of it. 'Tis scarcely to be supposed that circumstances so mysterious and extraordinary will be passed over without some investigation, in which case that scrap of paper will be of infinite importance."
The Doctor took out a memorandum-book with trembling fingers, placed the bit of paper within its leaves, and sighing as he restored the depository to his pocket, said, "Ours is a wretched profession, sir! It is not enough that we must witness every agony that is felt, and see every tear that is shed; but other and still more painful duties, which at first sight one would suppose to be quite distinct from the medical department, are daily thrust upon us by circumstances. The nakedness of human misery as well as human depravity both, are for ever before our eyes!" after a pause he added, "I wish it to be distinctly understood, that I shall decline all interference which is not enforced by law—which is not, in short, matter of sad necessity."
"We must be in a great measure guided by circumstances," said Geoffery, "My situation is peculiarly painful and delicate; I heartily wish I had not arrived when I did—had my own suspicions never been awakened, I had not been called upon either by honour or by feeling, to take a part which may, notwithstanding, be supposed by many to be very invidious. You don't think I could with propriety allow this affair to blow over without an investigation? What do you say, Doctor?"
"I can offer no advice on such a subject," replied the Doctor, "it would be quite stepping out of my sphere, sir."
"I commend your prudence," observed Geoffery, "It is time enough for you to answer questions when you are on your oath."
"A surmise at least," interrupted the Doctor, with the air of one who had suddenly recollected an important fact, if not an absolute knowledge that poison had been taken, "must have existed previously to my being sent for, as the servant who came for me, desired that I should bring antidotes; and, by-the-by, arsenic was particularly mentioned. Possibly Sir Willoughby is known to have put a period to his own existence?"
"Wherefore, in that case," replied Geoffery, "should the paper which had contained the poison have been so carefully concealed, where both of us saw it come from? Besides, Sir Willoughby's affairs were in the most prosperous state possible. He was also on the point of marriage with a very charming young woman. A match quite of his own choosing, too."
After a slight degree of hesitation, Geoffery assuming a look of affected mystery, through which, however, flashed that fiendish sparkle of the eye, which betrays the self-gratulatory acumen of knavery, added,
"I should scarcely suppose that there had existed much cordiality between the brothers of late. Both were pretenders to the hand of the same lady, and the feeling of mutual jealousy on the subject was, I myself happen to know, very strong. The lady in question, too, is an heiress of considerable wealth, by whose means there is little doubt that Alfred Arden had, before poor Sir Willoughby became hisrival, hoped to mend his fortunes as a younger brother. Indeed, I think he was very ill treated in the business from first to last. It was enough to exasperate the feelings of any man;—not that I mean to justify a crime like this."
"These are family matters with which I can have no concern," interrupted the prudent man of medicine. "As it is highly probable, however, that some investigation of the sudden death of Sir Willoughby must take place, it becomes, I apprehend, my imperative duty, being the medical attendant on the occasion, to take charge of the contents of this glass."
So saying, he rang the bell, asked for a bottle, and carefully putting every particle of the supposed poison into it, took his departure, carrying the bottle with him.
As soon as Doctor Harman had taken his departure, Geoffery, with an officious affectation of sympathy, followed Alfred up stairs.
He found him seated beside the bed on which the deceased was laid, and leaning against it, with his face buried in both his hands.
The attendants had all quitted the apartment; Geoffery attempted some commonplace expressions of condolence. Alfred moved his head in a desponding manner, but did not raise it.
Geoffery while standing waiting, as it were,—for he deemed it necessary to remain a few moments with his cousin,—cast his eyes, from mere unfeeling idleness, round the apartment, when something on an adjacent table arrested his attention. He looked down upon it for a few seconds, then raised his eyes cautiously in the direction of Alfred, and perceiving that his face was still covered, lifted the object of his curiosity, which appeared to be a letter, slid it into his pocket, and after repeating his expressions of condolence and adding some sage advice respecting firmness under the unavoidable trials of life, and the expediency of courting the salutary influence of sleep, was about to retire; but Alfred, while he was bidding him good night, looked up for a moment, and said,
"I would not on any account have it known that poor Willoughby had been guilty of suicide. They may deny him Christian burial;—besides it would add greatly to my poor mother's affliction. Did not the doctor say something of a sudden seizure, a fit, having similar symptoms, and of its being likely to prove equally fatal?"
"He did."
"Let it be so supposed then, and discourage all further inquiry. Good night—" and here he again covered his face; on which Geoffery sought his own room, and having carefully shut and bolted his door, drew the purloined letter from his pocket, and without waiting to sit down, perused its contents with a countenance of eager satisfaction. He then proceeded to unfold and read an enclosure which seemed to make him look grave. After this he paced the apartment lost in thought, from which he broke into occasional soliloquy, thus: "My coming over too, just at this juncture, was the merest chance: if I had not been short of cash, I should not have thought of it." A long pause followed.—"He was always a vain fool," he recommenced: "the dread of being laughed at, I make no doubt, has goaded him to this! There must have been derangement of course, temporary, at least." He opened the letter again, and looked at a passage or two—"Incoherent enough!" he ejaculated. "But my happening to see the packet," he pursued, "was so fortunate——He had not noticed it, I should think——that, however, is a point which I must ascertain, for he appears to be by some means, aware of the suicide——but can he prove it, if necessary?——at present he seems desirous to conceal the fact, which is so far well, the mystery will look suspicious.——" Here he again opened the enclosure, shook his head, looked serious, and paced the room once or twice——"Their being abroad, however, just at this time, has happened well," he said—stopped and stood still—then added, after a long pause of deep and motionless thought, "This is most probably the only proof——It would certainly appear from its style that he had made no previous disclosure——I must talk with him——I shall easily perceive how far he is informed, and, at any rate, it is highly improbable that the letter has been seen by any witness."
The slumbers which followed the prolonged reveries of Geoffery Arden, were rendered unrefreshing by feverish dreams, some of a truly horrible character; in particular the vision that presented itself on his first closing his eyes; which was, that he had himself for some reason or other been condemned to be hung; that it was the night before his execution, and that he was laying trembling in the condemned cell, dreading the approach of dawn. The agony of his feelings awoke him. What he had just suffered, and his infinite relief on finding that all was but a dream, had for some moments a salutary effect, even on his heart, which, if ever heart of man was justly entitled to the epithet, was indeed "desperately wicked;" now, however, the scheme with which he had laid his head on his pillow, seemed almost too diabolical to be attempted; he almost shrank from the idea of inflicting on any human creature the intense suffering with the recent escape from which his own heart still beat audibly.
These were the thoughts of solitude and of darkness. He slept again, and awoke only to fear, as he beheld the full light of day penetrating every where, and making the true forms of all things evident, that his scheme of murderous treachery was too monstrous to be practicable. No one would listen to such a proposition: and as for proofs, could circumstances be indeed tortured into any strong enough to meet the powerful current of opinion, flowing in the opposite direction? Yet, on the other hand, such things had been heard of, and without one-tenth part the stake as to property, which in this instance might be alleged as one powerful incentive, while there was room also to suppose the workings of violent jealousy, and even of revenge. His own mother, moreover, could be summoned to prove that he had actually been accepted, and that he himself ascribed his disappointment afterwards to the rivalship of his brother.
At this moment a servant answered Geoffery's bell, prepared to assist him at his morning toilet.
The man's face was full of importance and mystery; Geoffery noted this, and willing to encourage the fellow, in whatever he might have to tell respecting the opinions of servants, &c., said,
"Why, Davison, you look absolutely frightened! What is the matter?"
"I don't know that I have got any occasion to look frightened," said the man, "for whatever way the poor gentleman came by his death, whether by a fit, as somesais, or by poison, as othersthinks, it was nearly over with him before ever we came to the house. But there's no saying, for that matter, who'll be blamed, or who wont; they are all in such a taking about it below, as never was."
"How do you mean?"
"Why the coachman thinks that as it was he that went to Arden for the arsenic for laying for the rats, for it was in the stable-lofts they were most troublesome, that he'll get brought into some mischief, although he had his master's orders; but who is to prove that, now poor Sir Willoughby's dead and gone? And for the butler, he's afraid of his life, but people may think that something must have been wrong with the glasses or the water, when he carried them in; and so he took Johnson and myself to the saddle-room, that we should see where the arsenic lay, and so judge that it was impossible for it to come near any thing that was for eating or drinking. When we got there, however, the packet with the poison was nowhere to be found, although it had lain on the very shelf he showed us, in that selfsame room (the butlersais), no longer ago than yesterday forenoon, when poor Sir Willoughby and Mr. Alfred looked at it themselves."
"Strange indeed!" said Geoffery, "and has inquiry been made? Does any one own to having moved the packet? This may throw light on the whole affair. It is rather too bad that gentlemen are to lose their lives in this manner by the shameful carelessness of servants. How are they to prove it carelessness either? How are they to show it was not intentional? The half of them will be hung, I make no doubt, and richly they deserve it."
"The servants are all ready to swear, that not one of them touched it, or so much as went near the place," replied Davison; "and what's more, the groom who was leading the horses round, after the gentlemen returned from riding,sais, that he saw Mr. Alfred coming out of the saddle-room with a paper parcel in his hand; so that if one of the family thought proper to remove the arsenic himself, and an accident happened in consequence to any article of food, the servants all say that was no fault of theirs."
"Can the man swear to this?"
"So hesais."
"If this could be proved it might certainly clear servants from blame, but it is, I must say, altogether a very improbable story. If Sir Alfred had wished to have the arsenic removed to any other place, he would have given orders to that effect, and not have gone about the thing himself in the clandestine manner you describe. No, no, this won't do, it is but a flimsy excuse, and as I told you before, gentlemen are not to lose their lives by the shameful carelessness of servants; nor are their nonsensical excuses to be taken, and the thing hushed up. As for poor Sir Alfred, he is too much overcome by his grief to attend to any thing; it necessarily devolves upon me therefore to make the proper inquiries.—Send Johnson here, I must question him. I shall, in fact, examine them all, both separately and face to face."
Geoffery was determined, by this means and on this pretext, to collect all the information he could as to what were the surmises of others, and what the facts of the case, that admitted of proof or of distortion. He knew enough to be perfectly aware that the servants were not in fault, but he considered it his most judicious play, to pretend to blame them; exciting their ignorant and selfish fears, might be useful, and at length make them willing to hear even their master accused rather than themselves. Although he had sources of information not open to others, he could by no means understand the extraordinary circumstance of the paper which had fallen from Alfred's bosom. The attempt to rinse the glass, he now indeed thought might be ascribed to the wish Alfred had since expressed to conceal the fact of the suicide; but as he had not explained his motive to the doctor at the time, the circumstance looked so very suspicious, that he hoped it might be turned to account. He could of course deny what his cousin had said to him in private. Knowing however, as he did, that the inference to be naturally drawn from all that had at present transpired was false, he was aware that he must proceed with caution; something positive might yet come to light, which would do away with all fallacies, and render it imprudent in him, or at least invidious to breathe a suspicion against his cousin.
Before he took any step, therefore, he must find out what all the servants had to say; and as he had already determined to do, sound Alfred himself,—without any witness present, however; for if, as he now began to hope, his cousin's exculpation should rest entirely on explanations to be made by himself, his not offering such till after formal accusations were brought against him, would look very suspicious. He would, therefore, make himself the medium of communication between Alfred and all others; and, if possible, encourage him not to see any one else. In the end, if necessary, he could and would firmly and boldly deny every word which had been said to him only, and so give to his cousin's motives the colouring of excuses, subsequently invented to cover guilt. This, however, was a desperate game, which he would not venture to play till he could see that his card would sweep the board.
The circumstance of Alfred's having been seen bringing away the packet of poison, would certainly be very strong if it should so turn out that it could be proved; he feared, however, that it must be a mistake: he had his own reasons for thinking that it would be found to have been Sir Willoughby whom the groom had seen pass and carelessly mistaken for Sir Alfred.
"Pray, Johnson," said Geoffery, when the person so named made his appearance, "what is all this that Davison has been saying, about a paper of arsenic being missing from where it lay no later than yesterday; and the groom's absurd assertion, that Sir Alfred was the person who removed it? This is a mere excuse, to hide the carelessness of some of you servants, who have probably flung the paper of poison in among the glasses; and now that you see the consequences of your own misconduct, you are all terrified. And very justly, for I make no doubt of it, the half of you will be hung!—The plea of carelessness, let me tell you, and I know something of the law, will not be taken; malicious interest will be supposed. As I told Davison, if Sir Alfred chose to have the arsenic removed, he would have given his orders to that effect, and not have gone about the thing himself, in a skulking clandestine manner: why should he take so much trouble, unless concealment were his object; and what motive could he have for concealment?"
"The ladsaisit was Sir Alfred," answered Johnson.
"Can he swear to the fact?"
"Hesaishe can."
"Poor Sir Alfred," proceeded Geoffery, "is not in a state of mind to be spoken to; or the thing might be cleared up in a moment, by my asking him the question. Indeed he has given orders that no one shall go near him; besides, it would be the utmost cruelty to allude to such a subject at present; particularly if he really has, by any carelessness about this paper of which you speak, been the cause of the accident, he will never forgive himself;—so that, in that case, from respect to his feelings, the circumstance ought in fact to be hushed up." Geoffery was well aware that ordering servants to hush a thing up, was the best possible mode of giving it publicity.
The groom, when he appeared, was so firm to his text, that Geoffery began to hope the assertion, whether true or false, might be turned to account. He endeavoured, accordingly, to terrify the lad into a steady evidence, by telling him, that what he once said, he must, on his peril, stand to throughout; for that the slightest prevarication, or even hesitation on so serious an affair, might hang him. "And I know something of the law," he added, as usual. So saying, he dismissed the groom, desiring him to send up the butler.
"This is a shocking business, Thomas," said Geoffery, as the butler entered.
Thomas made no reply.
"Poor Sir Alfred," continued Geoffery, "thinks, it seems, that his brother died of a fit, and it is better for his peace of mind, that he should think so; although there is no doubt, that Sir Willoughby was poisoned. Do you think, Thomas, that you will be able to clear yourself?"
"Clear myself!" answered the man, his eyes flashing with rage, through the honest tears he had been shedding for his master. "I'd be glad to know who'll accuse—I who have served his father, and his grandfather before him, man and boy these fifty-five years, and have nursed himself and his brother one on each knee, many's the time."
"Far be it from me, Thomas, to accuse you or any one else of such a crime as murder; I only suspect you of unpardonable carelessness; but I must say, and I know something of the law, as you may suppose, that circumstances are very strong against you; it may be thought that you intended to poison both brothers, and rob the house; my arrival was unexpected; such things you know have been done! Nothing I should think can clear you, but its being satisfactorily proved who is to blame. You brought up the glasses; poison has been found in one of them, and there was no one in the room but Sir Willoughby, his brother, and yourself. You certainly would get nothing by the death of Sir Willoughby, unless, as I said before, you had made away with both gentlemen, and robbed the house; that is so far in your favour: yet no one, you know, could think of suspecting his own brother, and circumstances seem to lay the mischief, however it happened, at the door of one or the other."
"No one who had not got the heart of the devil in his breast would lay it at the door of either," replied the man, angrily.
Without noticing his irritation, Geoffery proceeded, "I still mean in the way of accident or mistake. Some of you talk, I understand, of Sir Alfred having been the person who removed the paper of arsenic." And here he enlarged as before, on the affliction our hero would no doubt suffer, could he at all blame himself for any thing that had happened, and how cruel it would therefore be to mention the subject to him.
"Was the arsenic at any time kept in the same place with the glasses? Do you think you might have scattered any quantity about, in lifting it from shelf to shelf?"
"I wiped out the glasses with my own hands, the moment before I carried them in. Besides, the arsenic was never in the cupboard with my things at all, it lay on a shelf in the saddle-room, quite out of the way of what was for any one's use, and was marked in large letters, "arsenic, poison"; for Sir Willoughby was very particular in his orders to me to be careful about it, and made me show him where I put it, and that Mr. Alfred knows, for he was with his brother at the same time, no longer since than yesterday forenoon."
"If your statement is correct, I do not see how it was possible for an accident to have happened," said Geoffery, "could you swear that it was not possible for an accident to have occurred?"
"Yes, I could," he replied, though sulkily. "That is," he added, "as long as the arsenic lay where I left it."
This was one of the main points which Geoffery wanted to establish. He now dismissed the butler, who was sobbing so violently, that he could scarcely answer the questions put to him.
The coachman next entered; and it being Geoffery's object, with the views already stated, to alarm all the servants for their own safety, he looked extremely austere, and, aware that the individual he had now to deal with was not overburdened with wisdom, began thus:
"So I find, James, you don't pretend to deny that you brought arsenic from Arden, and the defence which I understand you pretend to set up, is, that you did so by your master's orders, for the purpose of poisoning rats. Now, this is quite too hackneyed an excuse; as to the orders yousayyou received, I fancy you have no proof that you received any."
"I told the groom that went with me, and the boy at the apothecary's, that my master sent me."
"You told them! What sort of proof is that? You don't suppose that your own word will be taken for yourself, whatever it may against yourself! This will never do. I know something of the law, and unless there is stronger evidence against some one else, you will certainly be hung for the murder. The only thing in your favour is, that you would get nothing by Sir Willoughby's death."
"If theychoosesto hang an innocent man," replied James, very philosophically, "I can't help it, I dun as I was bid."
"It's a very awkward thing having no witness in your favour but a dead man. Are you sure it was not Sir Alfred who gave you the orders? for if so, he is there, you know, to say so, which might save you."
"No, it was Sir Willoughby himself."
After a little more cross-questioning, James retired to the servants' hall, where the effect of Geoffery's interference, was just what he intended it should be: the utmost excitement existed. The one general argument in their own favour, cunningly suggested to each by Geoffery, that they would get nothing by the death of poor Sir Willoughby, was constantly recurred to, while every time this was said, the remembrance naturally suggested itself of who it was that would gain everything by the melancholy event; not that any of the household yet dared in word, or even perhaps in thought, to connect accusation or suspicion with the mental recognition of the abstract fact. The strangeness, too, of attempting to rinse the glass, and the strangeness of taking away the paper of arsenic were named, while other still stranger circumstances were from time to time, as they transpired, cautiously whispered to a chosen few, by Geoffery's man, Davison, but no one ventured to draw inferences. As the servants, however, of neighbouring families came in to make inquiries respecting the sudden demise of Sir Willoughby, already beginning to be generally known, many very extraordinary rumours soon got abroad.
Alfred, wholly unsuspicious of the evil thoughts which dwelt in the minds of others, was seated in the retirement of his own chamber, writing the melancholy announcement of Willoughby's death to Lady Arden. With the idea, however, that the knowledge of his brother's having put a period to his own existence would add much to his mother's affliction, he made no allusion to that part of the subject; nor any mention of the supposition, that Willoughby's death had been occasioned by poison; he merely stated, that it had been very sudden, and that Dr. Harman was of opinion, that something of an apoplectic fit, had been the cause.
While he was thus employed, Geoffery presented himself, and renewed his officious offers of condolence.
Alfred thanked him, but begged to be left alone. While Geoffery stood behind his cousin's chair, his restless eye (expressive at once of outlook and precaution), wandering as usual in every direction, and scanning every object, descried, as much to his astonishment as delight, in one of the recesses of the escritoire, the paper packet marked arsenic, which it may be remembered, Alfred had put there the day before. How it had got there, which to Geoffery was of course a mystery, there could be little doubt that this was the packet spoken of by the servants as missing. Here indeed was a powerful circumstance in favour of a scheme, so diabolical in purpose, so improbable in execution, that it was his wishes, not his hopes, which had first given entertainment to the thought. This monster, this creation of the evil one, was now assuming an almost palpable, or at least plausible form. If, as he had strong reason to suspect, the entire truth was known only to himself, it seemed now, no great stretch of probability to hope, that this extraordinary combination of unlooked-for circumstances might establish, by apparently irresistible evidence, the next to incredible accusation, which, could it indeed be established, would in the selfsame hour build up at once his own long despaired-of fortunes. Caution, however, must still be observed, while steps must be taken, to procure the interference of the coroner; and get him to require that the body should be opened; he must also receive a hint to search the escritoire; and the result of the coroner's inquest must decide him, whether or not it would be prudent to take any further steps. In the mean while, however, lest the poison should be removed, previously to the time of a legal search being made, he must contrive, that the packet, where it now lay, should be seen by an impartial witness. His own evidence might not be received, as he was known of course, as heir at law, to have an interest in Alfred's being proved guilty. These were his thoughts, while descending to the hall. Here he summoned Davison, and instructed him to go up to Sir Alfred's room; to enter quietly, as though fearful of disturbing him; to proceed to the back of his chair before he spoke; then to apologize for his intrusion by saying, Mr. Geoffery had sent him for his gloves, which he had laid on the table and forgotten. While pretending to search for the gloves, he was to fix an attentive eye on the part of the escritoire described to him by Geoffery, till he saw with sufficient distinctness to be able to swear to the fact, a paper packet with the word arsenic marked upon it. He was of course not to make a comment, or even allow Sir Alfred to observe the direction of his eyes.
This service punctually performed, but the gloves, which, by-the-by, were on Geoffery's hands, still unfound, Davison returned to his master, who, after ascertaining that he could swear to having seen the arsenic, added,
"You must have perceived, Davison, by the delicacy of my conduct from the first, how glad I should be to retain the charitable opinions of every one as long as possible; but at the same time I have a duty to perform, though a painful one, and so may you, perhaps, when called upon in a court of justice. In the mean time, however, be prudent, and don't hurt the feelings of the older servants, by any rash or premature remarks. As for strangers they don't care, and every one must know sooner or later, so that your denying facts to them would be wrong, and might invalidate your future evidence."
Davison looked half puzzled and half frightened, but said nothing.
"Doctor Harman," proceeded Geoffery, "has not been quite prudent; he has, I find from one or two neighbours who have called this morning to make inquiries, been gossiping already." And here, under pretext of repeating what the Doctor had been saying, though poor Harman, to do him justice, had not opened his lips, Geoffery, in an under voice, and with much mystery of manner, mentioned the suspicious circumstance of the paper which had fallen from Sir Alfred's bosom. As for the attempt to rinse the glass, several servants had been present at the time.
Geoffery, now thinking that he had supplied his attendant with sufficient topics of conversation for any servants' hall he might enter, ordered his horses. He had several objects in view in his morning ride, one of the principal ones, a call on business at Doctor Harman's.
With what indescribable feelings of exultation did Geoffery ride through the splendid park, look back on the baronial remains of the ancient castle, and the grandeur of the modern mansion, then around them on the immeasurable extent of the grounds, the endless variety of the scenery, the magnificent, unfathomable woods, the beautiful openings, displaying in the distance the rich low pastures, with their grazing flocks; the bare hill rising beyond, crowned with herds of deer; bends of the picturesque river, with here the swan or the wild duck sailing on its smooth bosom, there a waterfall, veiling its rocky sides in spray, and clothing its surface with a sheet of foam; all, in short, on which he had so long looked with corroding envy, and fierce thirst for possession, but for many years without a hope.
He checked the bridle of his horse on the centre of a little eminence, inhaled a long draught of the fragrant air, and smiled with supercilious self-importance while he thought of the cheering probability, to which time and chance had at length given birth, that all might yet be his.
He found Doctor Harman at home, and with great solemnity and well-acted sorrow, made known to him the discoveries of the morning. The packet of arsenic being missing, Sir Alfred having been seen coming from the place where it had lain, and the still more extraordinary and, he feared, perfectly decisive circumstance of his having himself seen a packet marked arsenic in Sir Alfred's escritoire.
It was too shocking to be thought of, he said, yet how were such staggering facts as these, together with those which had previously come under the Doctor's own eye, to be got rid of? He wished to retain charitable opinions to the very last. Investigation, however, had become a duty, although he would certainly wish it to be conducted in the most delicate manner possible. In answer to an inquiry from Geoffery, the Doctor said he had already tested the dregs found in the glass, and proved them to be arsenic; to obtain full satisfaction, he added, that it would be very desirable to open the body, and examine by similar tests the contents of the stomach. "But," he proceeded "the request must come from Sir Alfred."
"Which we know will not be the case," replied Geoffery; "on the contrary, I fear he will refuse to permit an examination, and if so, the proper authorities must enforce submission; but I am so anxious to proceed in this affair with the utmost delicacy, that you would greatly oblige me, Doctor, if you would first urge it as your own request—as a matter of favour to yourself—as throwing a light on science. I do not wish unnecessarily to hurt the feelings of Sir Alfred, and if ever I am myself compelled to yield my belief to the frightful suspicions which circumstances, I am sorry to say, almost justify, it must not be till the most ample proof has no longer left me free to doubt."
His object in wishing to act with this affected delicacy was, that Alfred might refuse to allow the body to be opened; as such conduct, under the circumstances, would look suspicious, and he felt certain, knowing as he did Alfred's wish to repress the suicide, that so requested he would of course refuse, while, if he were informed that suspicions already existed, it was to be supposed that he would for his own sake instantly consent. The Doctor, however, still objected to attend unsummoned.
As soon, therefore, as Geoffery returned to Arden, he despatched a servant on horseback with a verbal message, requesting that Doctor Harman and two surgeons would attend prepared to open the body of Sir Willoughby. This succeeded in taking in the honest-hearted Doctor, to whom it did not occur to inquire who had given the message to a servant who was one of Sir Alfred's household.
On the arrival of the medical gentlemen, Geoffery, who was determined that every point unfavourable to his cousin should admit of proof by other witnesses than himself, sent a servant up to Sir Alfred with a message purporting to be from Doctor Harman to say, that if Sir Alfred had no objection, the Doctor was very desirous of being permitted to open the body of the deceased, for the purpose of ascertaining whether or not his view of the case were correct, in supposing that the sudden death of Sir Willoughby had been occasioned by a fit of apoplexy.
Alfred, surprised at the officious impertinence of such an interference to which he had no idea of sacrificing the solemn injunctions of his dying brother, sent back an immediate and positive refusal; on which Geoffery with a face of solemn sorrow, dismissed the medical gentlemen, adding many flourishes and innuendoes, and confessing that he certainly had ventured to send for them himself, in the hope that Sir Alfred might have been induced to permit an examination, for which the circumstances of the case so loudly called. This might be thought officious in him, but his motive was, to combine delicacy with a step he felt it his duty to take.
Alfred had many reasons for his refusal; first, and above all, were his brother's anxious and repeated injunctions, which, except superseded by sad necessity, would of course be laws to him; next, he was, as we have already said, very desirous that the idea of a suicide should not be even suggested; lest it should come to the ears of his mother, and add to her distress: and, finally, he wished, that if the idea were suggested, the fact should not be proved, lest as we have already hinted, Christian rites should be refused. At the same time, feeling himself but too certain, that his poor brother must have put a period to his own existence, he had no anxious doubts to be satisfied by an examination. As to the opinions which might be entertained by others, though the doctor had said at first, that the symptoms resembled those of poison, he had, at the same time allowed, that an apoplectic fit might have caused the sudden death, and been attended with similar symptoms. Alfred naturally thought, therefore, that the family appearing satisfied with this solution, it would become the prevalent opinion, and the melancholy event pass over, as little noticed by the public, as the private sorrows of individuals generally are.
This honourable and exalted mind never once conceived the idea, that any combination of circumstances whatever, could have suggested to any human being such a thought of horror, as that of his having shortened the life of his dear brother; much less did he imagine, that by the part he was now acting, he was actually furnishing a treacherous enemy with a sort of presumptive evidence that such was the fact: so that while every unfortunate coincidence, on which the ignorance of some, and the malignant designs of others, could found an evil report, was being universally disseminated, and discussed. Alfred sat apart, unsuspicious of evil, yielding to his grief, and communicating with none, except to give such orders as were absolutely necessary; while the arts of Geoffery, and the delicacy of friends, prevented any creature's offering him a hint of what was unhappily, by this time, passing in the minds of many. For, not only were all the particulars which the servants had witnessed, already in circulation; but, the circumstances of the marked paper falling from Alfred's bosom, and the missing packet being seen in his escritoire, were also beginning to be pretty generally known, to the great surprise of the poor Doctor, who, as we said, had never breathed a hint on the subject. Yet had his prudence gained him no credit; for Geoffery had not confined his insinuations against the Doctor's talents for taciturnity, to what he had said to his man Davison; but had also complained to several confidential friends, how that meddling, gossiping fellow, Harman, had been saying so and so—giving here each particular, in the form of a quotation. If his auditorschancedto reply, that they had heard nothing of the kind before, Geoffery would express his surprise; assure them that every one else had; lament that such should be the case; and add, how much he had wished, to suppress unpleasant reports; at least, until the whole affair should necessarily become matter of public discussion.
Geoffery having, as we have said, his reasons for being aware that Willoughby had taken poison, was determined, for the furtherance of his diabolical schemes against Alfred, that the body should be opened; and proof thus furnished, of the fact of poison having been swallowed. He took care, therefore, that not only reports, but direct information should reach the coroner, of a nature to render it his duty to demand an investigation of the whole affair.