CHAPTER XXTHE FAMILY COUNCIL
He arrived at Curzon Street at fifteen minutes after nine next morning, and was shown up to the drawing-room by the butler. Here he took his seat, and waited the coming of the Family, amusing himself as best he could by looking round at the furniture and pictures, and listening to the sounds of the house and the street outside.
He heard taxi horns, the faint rumble of wheels, voices.
Now he heard someone running up the stairs outside, a servant probably, for the sound suddenly ceased and was followed by a laugh as though two servants had met on the stairs and were exchanging words.
One could not imagine any of that terrible family running up the stairs lightly or laughing. Then after another minute or two the door opened and the Duke of Melford entered. He was in light tweeds with a buff waistcoat, he held a morning paper under his arm and was polishing his eye glasses.
He nodded at Jones.
“Morning,” said his grace, waddling to a chair and taking his seat. “The women will be up in a moment.” He took his seat and spread open the paperas if to glance at the news. Then looking up over his spectacles, “Glad to hear from Collins you’ve got that land back. I was in there just after you left and he told me.”
“Yes,” said Jones, “I’ve got it back.” He had no time to say more as at that moment the door opened and the “women” appeared, led by the Dowager Countess of Rochester.
Venetia shut the door and they took their seats about the room whilst Jones, who had risen, reseated himself.
Then, with the deep breath of a man preparing for a dive, he began:
“I have asked you all to come here this morning—I asked you to meet me this morning because I just want to tell you the truth. I am an intruder into your family—”
“An intruder,” cried the mother of the defunct. “Arthur, whatareyou saying?”
“One moment,” he went on. “I want to begin by explaining what I have done for you all and then perhaps you will see that I am an honest man even though I am in a false position. In the last few days I have got back one million and eight thousand pounds, that is to say the coal mine property and other money as well, one million and eight thousand pounds that would have been a dead loss only for me.”
“You have acted like a man,” said the Duke of Melford, “go on—what do you mean about intrusion?”
“Let me tell the thing in my own way,” said Jones irritably. “The late Lord Rochester got dreadfully involved owing to his own stupidity with a woman—I call him the late Lord Rochester because I have to announce now the fact of his death.”
The effect of this statement was surprising. The four listeners sat like frozen corpses for a moment, then they moved, casting terrified eyes at one another. It was the Duke of Melford who spoke.
“We will leave your father’s name alone,” said he; “yes, we know he is dead—what more have you to say?”
“I was not talking of my father,” said Jones, beginning to get bogged and slightly confused, also angry, “he was not my father. If you will only listen to me without interrupting I will make things plain. I am talking of myself—or at least the man whom I am representing, the Earl of Rochester. I say that I am not the Earl of Rochester, he is dead—” He turned to Rochester’s wife. “Ihateto have to tell you this right out and in such a manner, but it has to be told. I am not your husband. I am an American. My name is Victor Jones, and I come from Philadelphia.”
The Dowager Countess of Rochester who had been leaning forward in her chair, sank back, she had fainted.
Whilst Venetia and the Duke of Melford were bringing her to, the wife of Rochester who had been staring at Jones in a terrified manner ran from the room. She ran like a blind person with hands outspread.
Jones stood whilst the unfortunate lady was resuscitated. She returned to consciousness sobbing and flipping her hands, and she was led from the room by Venetia. Beyond the door Jones heard her voice roused in lamentation:
“My boy—my poor boy.”
Venetia had said nothing.
Jones had expected a scene, outcries, questions, but there was something in all this that was quite beyond him. They had asked no questions, seemed to take the whole thing for granted, Venetia especially.
The Duke of Melford shut the door.
“Your mother—I mean Lady Rochester’s heart is not strong,” said he, going to the bell and touching it. “I must send for the doctor to see her.”
Jones, more than ever astonished by the coolness of the other, sat down again.
“Look here,” said he, “I can’t make you all out—you’ve called me no names—you haven’t let me fully explain, the old lady is the only one that seems to have taken the news in. Can’t you understand what I have told you?”
“Perfectly,” said the old gentleman, “and it’s the most extraordinary thing I have ever heard—and the most interesting—I want to have a long talk about it.—James,” to the servant who had answered the bell, “telephone for Dr. Cavendish. Her ladyship has had another attack.”
“Dr. Cavendish has just been telephoned for, your grace, and Dr. Simms.”
“That will do,” said his grace.
“Yes, ’pon my soul, it’s quite extraordinary,” he took a cigar case from his pocket, proffered a cigar which Jones took, and then lit one himself.
“Look here,” said Jones suddenly alarmed by a new idea, “you aren’t guying me, are you?—you haven’t taken it into your heads that I’ve gone dotty—mad?”
“Mad!” cried the old gentleman with a start. “Never—such an idea never entered my mind. Why—why should it?”
“Only you take this thing so quietly.”
“Quietly—well, what would you have? My dear fellow, what is the good of shouting—ever? Not a bit. It’s bad form. I take everything as it comes.”
“Well, then, listen whilst I tell you how all this happened. I came over here some time ago to rope in a contract with the British Government over some steel fixtures. I was partner with a man named Aaron Stringer. Well, I failed on the contract and found myself broke with less than ten pounds in my pocket. I was sitting in the Savoy lounge when in came a man whom I knew at once by sight, but I couldn’t place his name on him. We had drinks together in the American bar, then we went upstairs to the lounge. He would not tell me who he was. ‘Look in the looking-glass behind you,’ said he, ‘and you will see who I am.’ I looked and I saw him. I was his twin image. I must tell you first that I had been having some champagne cocktails and a whisky and soda. I’m not used to drink. We had a jamboree together anddinner at some place, and then he sent me home as himself—I was blind.
“When I woke up next morning I said nothing but lay low, thinking it was all a joke. I ought to have spoken at once, but didn’t, one makes mistakes in life—”
“We all do that,” said the other; “yes—go on.”
“And later that day I opened a newspaper and saw my name and that I had committed suicide. It was Rochester, of course, that had committed suicide; did it on the underground.—Then I was in a nice fix. There I was in Rochester’s clothes, with not a penny in my pockets; couldn’t go to the hotel, couldn’t go anywhere—so I determined to be Rochester, for a while, at least.
“I found his affairs in an awful muddle. You know that business about the coal mine. Well, I’ve managed to right his affairs. I wasn’t thinking of any profit to myself over the business, I just did it because it was the right thing to do.
“Now I want to be perfectly plain with you. I might have carried on this game always and lived in Rochester’s shoes only for two things, one is his wife, the other is a feeling that has been coming on me that if I carried on any longer I might go dotty. Times I’ve had attacks of a feeling that I did not know who I was. It’s leading this double life, you know. Now I want to get right back and be myself and cut clear of all this. You can’t think what it has been, carrying on this double life, hearing the servants calling me ‘your lordship.’ I couldn’t have imagined it wouldhave acted on the brain so. I’ve been simply crazy to hear someone calling me by my right name—well, that’s the end of the matter, I want to settle up and get back to the States—”
The door opened and a servant appeared.
“Dr. Simms has arrived, your grace.”
The Duke of Melford rose from his chair.
“One moment,” said he to Jones. He left the room closing the door.
Jones tipped the ash of his cigar into a jardinière near by.
He was astonished and a bit disturbed by the cool manner in which his wonderful confession had been received. “Can it be they are laying low and sending for the police?” thought he.
He was debating this question when the door opened and the Duke walked in, followed by a bald, elderly, pleasant-looking man; after this latter came a cadaverous gentleman, wearing glasses.
The bald man was Dr. Simms, the cadaverous, Dr. Cavendish.
Simms nodded at Jones as though he knew him.
“I have asked these gentlemen as friends of the family to step in and talk about this matter before seeing Lady Rochester,” said the Duke. “She has been taken to her room, and is not yet prepared for visitors.”
“I shall be delighted to help in any way,” said Simms; “my services, professional or private, are always at your disposal, your grace.” He sat down and turned to Jones. “Now tell us all about it,” said he.
Cavendish took another chair and the Duke remained standing.
Jones felt irritated, felt somewhat as a maestro would feel who, having finished that musical obstacle race The Grand Polonnaise, finds himself requested to play it again.
“I’ve told the whole thing once,” said he, “I can’t go over it again—the Duke knows.”
Suddenly Cavendish spoke:
“I understand from what his grace said on the stairs, that there is some trouble about identity?”
“Some trouble,” said Jones; “I reckon you are right in calling it some trouble.”
“You are Mr. Jones, I think,” said Simms.
“Victor Jones was the name I was christened by,” answered Jones.
“Quite so, American?”
“American.”
“Now, Mr. Jones, as a matter of formality, may I ask where you live in America?”
“Philadelphia.”
“And in Philadelphia what might be your address?”
“Number one thousand, one hundred and one, Walnut Street,” replied Jones.
Cavendish averted his head for a moment and the Duke shifted his position on the hearthrug, leaving his elbow on the mantel and caressing for a moment his chin.
Simms alone remained unmoved.
“Just so,” said Simms. “Have you any family?”
“Nope.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“No.”
“I thought you said nope—my mistake.”
“Not a bit, I did say nope—it’s short for no.”
“Shortfor no—I see, just so.”
Cavendish interposed with an air of interest.
“How would you spell that word?” asked he. Jones resented Cavendish somehow.
“I don’t know,” said he, “this isn’t a spelling bee. N-o-p-e I suspect. You gentlemen have undertaken to question me on behalf of the family as to my identity, I think we had better stick to that point.”
“Just so,” said Simms, “precisely—”
“Excuse me,” said the Duke of Melford, “I think if Mr. er—Jones wishes to prove his identity as Mr. Jones he will admit that his actions will help. Now Lord Rochester was a very, shall we say, fastidious person, quiet in his actions.”
“Oh, was he,” said Jones, “that’s news.”
“Quiet, that is to say, in his movements—let it stand at that. Now my friend Collins said to me something about the eating of a document—”
Jones bristled. “Collins had no right to tell you that,” said he, “I told him that privately. When did he tell you that?”
“When I called, just after his interview with you—he did not say it in anyway offensively. In fact he seemed to admire you for your—energy and so forth.”
“Did you, in fact, eat a document?” asked Simms, with an air of bland interest.
“I did—and saved a very nasty situation,anda million of money.”
“What was the document?” asked Cavendish.
“A bill of exchange.”
“Now may I ask why you did that?” queried Simms.
“No, you mayn’t,” replied Jones, “it’s a private affair affecting the honour of another person.”
“Quite so,” said Simms, “but just one more question. Did you hear a voice telling you to—er—eat this paper?”
“Yes.”
“What sort of voice was it?”
“It was the sort of voice that belongs to common-sense.”
“Ha, ha,” laughed Cavendish. “Good, very good,—but there is just something I want to ask. How was it, Mr.—er—Jones, that you turned into your present form, exchanged your position as it were with the Earl of Rochester?”
“O Lord,” said Jones. Then to the Duke of Melford, “Tell them.”
“Well,” said the Duke. “Mr. Jones was sitting in the lounge of an hotel when a gentleman entered whom he knew but could not recognize.”
“Couldn’t place his name,” cut in Jones.
“Precisely. The gentleman said ‘turn round and look in that mirror’—”
“You’ve left the drinks out,” said Jones.
“True. Mr. Jones and the gentleman had partaken of certain drinks.”
“What were the drinks?” put in Simms.
“Champagne cocktails, whisky and soda, then a bottle of Bollinger—after,” said Jones.
“Mr. Jones looked into the mirror,” continued the Duke, “and saw that he was the other gentleman, that is to say, Lord Rochester.”
“No, the twin image,” put in Jones.
“The twin image—well, after that more liquor was consumed—”
“The chap doped me with drink and sent me home as himself,” cut in Jones, “and I woke up in a strange bed with a guy pulling up the window blinds.”
“A guy?” put in Cavendish.
“A chap. Church is his name—I thought I was being bamboozled, so I determined to play the part of Lord Rochester—you know the rest.” Turning to the Duke of Melford.
“Well,” said Cavendish, “I don’t think we need ask any more questions of Mr. Jones; we are convinced, I believe, that Mr. Jones and—er—the Earl of Rochester are different.”
“Quite so,” said Simms, “we are sure of hisbonafidesand of course it is for the family to decide how to meet this extraordinary situation. I am sure they will sympathize with Mr. Jones and make no trouble. It is quite evident he had no wrong intent.”
“Now you are talking,” said Jones.
“Quite so—One more question, does it seem to you I have not been talking at all up to this?”
Jones laughed. “It seems to me you have utteredoneword or two—ask a bee in a bottle, has it been buzzing.”
The cadaverous Cavendish, who, from his outward appearance presented no signs of a sense of humour, exploded at this hit, but Simms remained unmoved.
“Quite so,” said he. “Well, that’s all that remains to be said—but, now as a professional man, has not all this tried you a good deal, Mr. Jones?—I should think it was enough to try any man’s health.”
“Oh, my health is all right,” said Jones. “I can eat and all that, but, times, I’ve felt as if I wasn’t one person or the other, that’s one of my main reasons for quitting, leaving aside other things. You see I had to carry on up to a certain point, and, if you’ll excuse me blowing my own horn, I think I’ve not done bad. I could have put my claws on all that money—If I hadn’t been a straight man, there’s a lot of things I could have done, ’pears to me. Well, now that everything is settled, I think that ought to be taken into consideration. I don’t ask much, just a commission on the money salved.”
“Decidedly,” said Simms. “In my opinion you are quite right. But as a professional man my concern just a moment ago was about your health.”
“Oh, the voyage back to the States will put that right.”
“Quite so, but you will excuse my professional instinct—and I am giving you my services for nothing, if you will let me—I notice signs of nerve exhaustion—Let’s look at your tongue.”
Jones put out his tongue.
“Not bad,” said Simms. “Now just cross your legs.”
Jones crossed his legs, right over left, and Simms, standing before him, gave him a little sharp tap just under the right knee cap. The leg flew out.
Jones laughed.
“Exaggerated patella reflex,” said Simms. “Nerve fag, nothing more. A pill or two is all you want. You don’t notice any difficulty in speech?”
“Not much,” said Jones, laughing.
“Say—‘Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers.’”
“‘Peter Peter piped a pick—’” began Jones, then he laughed.
“You can’t say it,” said Simms, cocking a wise eyebrow.
“You bet I can,” said the patient. “‘Peter Piper pucked a pick’”—
“Nerve exhaustion,” said Simms.
“Say, Doc,” cut in Jones, beginning to feel slight alarm. “What are you getting at, you’re beginning to make me feel frightened, there’s not anything really wrong with me, is there?”
“Nothing but what can be righted by care,” replied Simms.
“Let me try Mr. Jones with a lingual test,” said Cavendish. “Say: ‘She stood at the door of the fish-sauce shop in the Strand welcoming him in.’”
“She stood at the door of the fish shauce shop in the Strand welcom-om ming im,” said Jones.
“H’m, h’m,” said Cavendish.
“That’s crazy,” said Jones, “nobody could say that—Oh, I’m all right—I reckon a little liver pill will fix me up.”
The two doctors withdrew to a window and said a few words together. Then they both nodded to the Duke of Melford.
“Well,” said the Duke, “that’s settled and now, Mr. Jones, I hope you will stay here for luncheon.”
Jones had had enough of that house.
“Thanks,” said he, “but I think I’ll be getting back. I want a walk. You’ll find me at Carlton House Terrace where we can finish up this business. It’s a weight off my mind now everything is over—whew! I can tell you I’m hungry for the States.”
He rose and took his hat which he had placed on the floor, nodded to the Duke of Melford and turned to the door.
Simms was standing in front of the door.
“Excuse me,” said Simms, “but I would not advise you to go out in your condition, much better stay here till your nerves have recovered.”
Jones stared at him.
“My nerves are all right,” said he.
“Don’t, my dear fellow,” said Cavendish.
Jones turned and looked at him, then turned again to the door.
Simms was barring the way still.
“Don’t talk nonsense,” said Jones, “think I was a baby. I tell you I’m all right—what on earth doyou mean—upon my soul, you’re like a lot of children.”
He tried to pass Simms.
“You must not leave this room yet,” said Simms. “Pray quiet yourself.”
“You mean to say you’ll stop me?”
“Yes.”
Then in a flash he knew. These men had not been sent for to attend the Dowager Countess of Rochester, they were alienists, and they considered him to be Rochester—Rochester gone mad.
Right from the first start of his confession he had been taken for a mad man, that was why Venetia had said nothing, that was why the old lady had fainted, that was why his wife—at least Rochester’s wife, had run from the room like a blind woman.
He stood appalled for a moment, before this self-evident fact. Then he spoke:
“Open that door—get away from that door.”
“Sit down andquietyourself,” said Simms, staring him full in the eye, “you—will—not—leave-this—house.”
It was Simms who sat down, flung away by Jones.
Then Cavendish pinioned him from behind, the Duke of Melford shouted directions, Simms scrambled to his feet, and Jones, having won free of Cavendish, the rough and tumble began.
They fought all over the drawing-room, upsetting jardinières, little tables, costly china.
Jones’ foot went into a china cabinet carryingdestruction amongst a concert party of little Dresden figures; Simms’ portly behind bumped against a pedestal, bearing a portrait bust of the nineteenth Countess of Rochester, upsetting pedestal and smashing bust, and the Duke of Melford, fine old sportsman that he was, assisting in the business with the activity of a boy of eighteen, received a kick in the shin that recalled Eton across a long vista of years.
Then at last they had him down on a sofa, his hands tied behind his back with the Duke’s bandanna handkerchief.
Jones had uttered no cry, the others no sound, but the bumping and banging and smashing had been heard all over the house. A tap came to the door and a voice. The Duke rushed to the door and opened it.
“Nothing,” said he, “nothing wrong. Off with you.”
He shut the door and turned to the couch.
Jones caught a glimpse of himself in a big mirror, happily un-smashed, caught a glimpse of himself all tumbled and towsled with Simms beside him and Cavendish standing by, re-fixing his glasses.
He recognised a terrible fact; though he had smashed hundreds of pounds’ worth of property, though he had fought these men like a mad bull, now that the fight was over, they showed not the least sign of resentment. Simms was patting his shoulder.
He had become possessed of the mournful privilege of the insane, to fight without raising ire in one’s antagonists, to smash with impunity—to murder without being brought to justice.
Also he recognised that he had been a fool. He had acted like a mad-man—that is to say, like a man furious with anger. Anger and madness have awful similarities.
He moved slightly away from Simms.
“I reckon I’ve been a fool,” said he, “three to one is not fair play. Come, let my hands free, I won’t fight any more.”
“Certainly,” said Simms. “But let me point out that we were not fighting you in the least, only preventing you from taking a course detrimental to your health. Cavendish, will you kindly untie that absurd handkerchief?”
Cavendish obeyed, and Jones, his hands freed, rubbed his wrists.
“What are you going to do now?” asked he.
“Nothing,” said Simms, “you are perfectly free, but we don’t want you to go out till your health is perfectly restored. I know, you will say that you feel all right. No matter, take a physician’s advice and just remain here quiet for a little while. Shall we go to the library where you can amuse yourself with the newspaper or a book whilst I make up a little prescription for you?”
“Look here,” said Jones. “Let’s talk quietly for a moment—you think I’m mad.”
“Not in the least!” said Simms. “You are only suffering from a nerve upset.”
“Well, if I’m not mad you have no right to keep me here.”
This was cunning, but, unfortunately, cunning likeanger, is an attribute of madness as well as of sanity.
“Now,” said Simms, with an air of great frankness, “do you think that it is for our pleasure that we ask you to stay here for a while? We are not keeping you, just asking you to stay. We will go down to the library and I will just have a prescription made up. Then, when you have considered matters a bit you can use your own discretion about going.”
Jones recognized at once that there was no use in trying to fight this man with any other weapon than subtlety. He was fairly trapped. His tale was such that no man would believe it, and, persisting in that tale, he would be held as a lunatic. On top of the tale was Rochester’s bad reputation for sanity. They called him mad Rochester.
Then as he rose up and followed to the library, a last inspiration seized him.
He stopped at the drawing-room door.
“Look here,” said he, “one moment. I can prove what I say. You send out a man to Philadelphia and make enquiries, fetch some of the people over that knew me. You’ll find I’m—myself and that I’ve told you no lie.”
“We will do anything you like,” said Simms, “but first let us go down to the library.”
They went. It was a large, pleasant room lined with books.
Simms sat down at the writing-table, whilst the others took chairs. He wrote a prescription, and the Duke, ringing the bell, ordered a servant to take the prescription to the chemists.
Then during the twenty minutes before the servant returned they talked. Jones, giving again his address, that fantastic address which was yet real, and the names and descriptions of people he knew and who would know him.
“You see, gentlemen,” said he, “it’s just this, I have only one crave in life just now, to be myself again. Not exactly that, but to be recognized as myself. You can’t imagine what that feeling is. You needn’t tell me. I know exactly what you think, you think I’m Rochester gone crazy. I know the yarn I’ve slung you sounds crazy, but it’s the truth. The fact is I’ve felt at times that if I didn’t get someone to recognize me as myself I’dgocrazy. Just one person to believe in me, that’s all I want and then I’d feel free of this cursed Rochester. Put yourself in my place. Imagine that you have lost touch with everything you ever were, that you were playing another man’s part and that everyone in the world kept on insisting you were the other guy. Think of that for a position. Why, gentlemen, you might open that door wide. I wouldn’t want to go out, not till I had convinced one of you at all events that my story was true. I wouldn’t want to go back to the States, not till I had convinced you that I am who I am. It seems foolish but it’s a bed-rock fact. I have to make good on this position, convince someone who knows the facts, and so get myself back. It wouldn’t be any use my going to Philadelphia. I’d say to people I know there, ‘I’m Jones.’ They’d say, ‘Of course you are,’ and believe me. But then, do you see, they wouldn’t know of thisadventure and their belief in me wouldn’t be a bit of good. Of course IknowI’m Jones, all the same I’ve been playing the part of Rochester so hard that times I’ve almost believed I’m him, times I’ve lost myself, and I have a feeling at the back of my mind that if I don’t get someone to believe me to be who I am, I may go dotty in earnest. It’s a feeling without reason, I know. It’s more like having a grit in the eye than anything else. I want to get rid of that grit, and I can’t take it out myself, someone else must do it. One person would be enough, just one person to believe in what I say and I would be myself again. That’s why I want you to send to Philadelphia. The mind is a curious thing, gentlemen, the freedom of the body is nothing if the mind is not free, and my mind can never be free till another person who knows my whole story believes in what I say. I could not have imagined anyone being trapped like this—I’ve heard of an actor guy once playing a part so often he went loony and fancied himself the character. I’m not like that, I’m as sane as you, it’s just this uneasy, uncomfortable feeling—this want to get absolutely clean out of this business, that’s the trouble.”
“Never mind!” said Simms cheerfully, “we will get you out only you mustnotworry yourself. I admit that your story is strange, but we will send to Philadelphia and make all enquiries—come in.”
The servant had knocked at the door. He entered with the medicine. Simms sent him for a wine glass and when it arrived he poured out a dose.
“Now take a dose of your medicine like a man,”said the kindly physician, jocularly, “and another in four hours’ time, it will re-make your nerves.”
Jones tossed the stuff off impatiently.
“Say,” said he, “there’s another point I’ve forgot. You might go to the Savoy and get the clerk there, he’d recognize me, the bar tender in the American bar, he’d maybe be able to recognise me too, he saw us together—I say I feel a bit drowsy, you haven’t doped me, have you?”
Simms and Cavendish, leaving the house together five minutes later, had a moment’s conversation on the steps.
“What do you think of him?” said Simms.
“Bad,” said Cavendish. “He reasons on his own case, that’s always bad, and did you notice how cleverly he worked that in about wanting someone to believe in him.”
They walked down the street together.
“That smash has been coming for a long time,” said Simms—“it’s an heirloom. It’s a good thing it has come, he was getting to be a bye-word—I wonder what it is that introduces the humorous element into insanity; that address, for instance, one thousand one hundred and ninety one Walnut Street, could never have strayed into a sane person’s head.”
“Nor a luncheon on bills of exchange,” said Cavendish. “Well, he will be all right at Hoover’s. What was the dose you gave him?”
“Heroin, mostly,” replied the other. “Well, so long.”
CHAPTER XXIHOOVER’S
Jones, after the magic draught administered by Simms, entered into a blissful condition of twilight sleep, half sleep, half drowsiness, absolute indifference. He walked with assistance to the hall door and entered a motor car, it did not matter to him what he entered or where he went, he did not want to be disturbed.
He roused himself during a long journey to take a drink of something held to his lips by someone, and sank back, tucking sleep around him like a warm blanket.
In all his life he had never had such a gorgeous sleep as that, his weary and harassed brain revelled in moments of semi-consciousness, and then sank back into the last abysms of oblivion.
He awoke a new man, physically and mentally, and with an absolutely clear memory and understanding. He awoke in a bed-room, a cheerful bed-room, lit by the morning sun, a bed-room with an open window through which came the songs of birds and the whisper of foliage.
A young man dressed in a black morning coat was seated in an armchair by the window, reading a book. He looked like a superior sort of servant.
Jones looked at this young man, who had not yet noticed the awakening of the sleeper, and Jones, as he looked at him, put facts together.
Simms, Cavendish, the fact that he had been doped, the place where he was, and the young man. He had been taken here in that conveyance, whatever it was; they had thought him mad—they had carted him off to a mad-house, this was a mad-house, that guy in the chair was an attendant. He recognized these probabilities very clearly, but he felt no anger and little surprise. His mind, absolutely set up and almost renewed by profound slumber, saw everything clearly and in a true light.
It was quite logical that, believing him mad, they had put him in a mad-house, and he had no fear at all of the result simply because he knew that he was sane. The situation was amusing, it was also one to get free from—but there was plenty of time, and there was no room for making mistakes.
Curiously enough, now, the passionate or almost passionate desire to recover his own personality had vanished, or at least, was no longer active in his mind; his brain, renewed by that tremendous sleep, was no longer tainted by that vague dread, no longer troubled by that curious craving to have others believe in his story and to have others recognize him as Jones.
No, it did not matter to him just now whether he recovered his personality in the eyes of others; what did matter to him was the recovery of his bodily freedom. Meanwhile, caution. Like Brer Rabbit, he determined to “lie low.”
“Say,” said Jones.
The young man by the window started slightly, rose, and came to the bedside.
“What o’clock?” said the patient.
“It has just gone half past eight, sir,” replied the other. “I hope you have slept well.”
Jones noticed that this person did not “my Lord” him.
“Not a wink,” said he, “tossed and tumbled all night—oh, say—what doyouthink—”
The young man looked puzzled.
“And would you like anything now, sir?”
“Yes—my pants. I want to get up.”
“Certainly, sir, your bath is quite ready,” replied the other.
He went to the fire-place and touched an electric button, then he bustled about the room getting Jones’ garments together.
The bed-room had two doors, one leading to a sitting-room, one to a bath-room; in a minute the bath-room door opened and a voice queried, “Hot or cold?”
“Hot,” said Jones.
“Hot,” said the attendant.
“Hot,” said the unseen person in the bath-room, as if registering the order in his mind. Then came the fizzling of water and in a couple of minutes the voice:
“Gentleman’s bath ready.”
Jones bathed, and though the door of the bath-room had been shut upon him and there was no person present, he felt all the time that someone waswatching him. When he was fully dressed, the attendant opened the other door, and ushered him into the sitting-room, where breakfast was laid on a small table by the window. He had the choice between eggs and bacon and sausages, he chose the former and whilst waiting, attracted by the pleasant summery sound of croquet balls knocking together, he looked out of the window.
Two gentlemen in white flannels were playing croquet; stout elderly gentlemen they were. And on a garden seat a young man in flannel trousers and a grey tweed coat was seated watching the game and smoking cigarettes.
He guessed these people to be fellow prisoners. They looked happy enough, and having noticed this fact he sat down to breakfast.
He noted that the knife accompanying his fork was blunt and of very poor quality—of the sort warranted not to cut throats, but he did not heed much. He had other things to think of. The men in flannels had given him a shock. Instinctively he knew them to be “inmates.” He had never considered the question of lunatics and lunatic asylums before. Vague recollections of Edgar Allan Poe and the works of Charles Reade had surrounded the term lunatic asylum with an atmosphere of feather beds and brutality; the word lunatic conjured up in his mind the idea of a man obviously insane. The fact that this place was a house quite ordinary and pleasant in appearance, and these sane looking gentlemen lunatics, gave him a grue.
The fact that an apparently sane individual can be held as a prisoner was beginning to steal upon him, that a man might be able to play croquet and laugh and talk and take an intelligent interest in life and yet, just because of some illusion, be held as a prisoner.
He did not fully realise this yet, but it was dawning upon him. But he did fully realise that he had lost his liberty.
Before he had finished his eggs and bacon this recognition became acute.
The fear of losing his own personality had vanished utterly; all that haunting dread was gone. If he could escape now, so he told himself, he would go right back to the States. He had eight thousand pounds in the National Provincial Bank; no one knew that it was there. He could seize it with a clear conscience and take it to Philadelphia. The shadow of Rochester—oh, that was a thing gone forever, dissipated by this actual fact of lost liberty—so he told himself.
A servant brought up theTimesand he opened it, and lit a cigarette.
Then as he looked casually over the news and the doings of the day, an extraordinary feeling came upon him; all this printed matter was relative to the doings and ideas of free men, men who could walk down the street, if the fancy pleased them. It was like looking at the world through bars. He got up and paced the floor, the breakfast things had been removed, and the attendant had left the room and was in the bed-room adjoining.
Jones walked softly to the door through which the servant had carried away the things, and opened it gently and without noise. A corridor lay outside, and he was just entering it when a voice from behind made him turn.
“Do you require anything, sir?”
It was the attendant.
“Nothing,” said Jones. “I was just looking to see where this place led to.” He came back into the room.
He knew now that every movement of his was watched, and he accepted the fact without comment. He sat down and took up theTimeswhilst the attendant went back to the bed-room.
He had said to himself on awaking, that a sane man, held as insane, could always win free just by his sanity. He was taking up the line of reasoning now and casting about him for a method.
He was not long in finding one. The brilliancy of the idea that had all at once struck him made him cast the paper from his knees to the floor. Then, having smoked a cigarette and consolidated his plan, he called the attendant.
“I want to see the gentleman who runs this place.”
“Dr. Hoover, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Certainly, sir, I will ring and have him sent for.”
He rang the bell, a servant answered and went off with the message.
Jones took up the paper again and resumed his cigarette. Five minutes passed and then the dooropened and a gentleman entered.
A pleasant faced, clean-shaven man of fifty, dressed in blue serge and with a rose in his button-hole, such was Doctor Hoover. But the eye of the man held him apart from others; a blue grey eye, keen, sharp, hard, for all the smile upon the pleasant face.
Jones rose up.
“Dr. Hoover, I think,” said he.
“Good morning,” said the other in a hearty voice. “Fine day, isn’t it? Well, how are we this morning?”
“Oh, I’m all right,” said Jones. “I want to have a little talk with you.” He went to the bed-room door, which was slightly ajar, and closed it.
“For your sake,” said Jones, “it’s just as well we have no one listening, the attendant is in there—you are sure he cannot hear what we say, even with the door shut?”
“Quite,” said Hoover, with a benign smile.
He was used to things like this, profoundly confidential communications concerning claims to crowns and principalities, or grumbles about food.
He did not expect what followed.
“I am not going to grumble at your having me here,” said Jones; “it’s my fault for playing practical jokes. I didn’t think they’d go the length of doping me and locking me up under the name I gave them.”
“And what name was that?” asked Hoover kindly.
“Jones.”
“Oh, and now tell me, if you are not Mr. Jones, who are you?”
“Who am I? Well, I can excuse the question. I’m the Earl of Rochester.”
This was a nasty one for Hoover, but that gentleman’s face shewed nothing.
“Indeed,” said he, “then why did you call yourself Jones?”
“For a joke. I slung them a yarn and they took it in. Then they gave me a draught to compose my nerves, they thought really that I was dotty, and I drank it—you must have seen the condition I was in when I got here.”
“Hum, hum,” said Hoover. He was used to the extremely cunning ways of gentlemen off their balance, and he had a profound belief in Simms and Cavendish, whose names endorsed the certificate of lunacy he had received with the newcomer. He was also a man just as cunning as Jones.
“Well,” he said, with an air of absolute frankness, “this takes me by surprise; a practical joke, but why did you play such a practical joke?”
“I know,” said Jones, “it was stupid, just a piece of tom-foolery—but you see how I am landed.”
Dr. Hoover ignored this evasion whilst noting it.
Then he began to ask all sorts of little questions seemingly irrelevant enough. Did Jones think that he was morally justified in carrying out such a practical joke? Why did he not say at once it was a practical joke after the affair had reached a certain point? Was his memory as good as of old? Was he sure in his own mind that he was the Earl of Rochester? Was he sure that as the Earl of Rochesterhe could hold that title against a claim that he was not the Earl? Give details and so forth?
“Now suppose,” said Dr. Hoover, “I were to contest the title with you and say ‘you are Mr. Jones and I am the Earl of Rochester,’ how would you establish your claim. I am simply asking, to find out whether what you consider to be a practical joke was in fact a slight lapse of memory on your part, a slight mind disturbance such as is easily caused by fatigue or even work, and which often leaves effects lasting some weeks or months.
“Now I must point out to you that, as—practical joke or not—you came here calling yourself Mr. Jones, I would be justified in asking you for proof that you arenotMr. Jones. See my point?”
“Quite.”
“Well, then, prove your case,” said the physician jovially.
“How can I?”
“Well, if you are the Earl of Rochester, let me test your memory. Who is your banker?”
“Coutts.”
Hoover did not know who the Earl of Rochester’s banker might be, but the promptness of the reply satisfied him of its truth, the promptness was also an index of sanity. He passed at a venture to a subject on which he was acquainted.
“And how many brothers and sisters have you?”
That was fatal.
Jones’ eye fell under the pressure of Hoover’s.
“There is no use in going on with these absurdquestions,” said he, “a thing everyone knows.”
“But I just want to prove to you,” said Hoover, gently, “that your mind, which in a week from now, will have quite recovered, is still a little bit shaky—now how long is it since you succeeded to the title? It’s just a test memory question.”
Jones did not know. He saw that he was lost. He had also gained an appreciation of Hoover. Beside the fat Simms and the cadaverous Cavendish, Hoover seemed a man of keen common sense.
Jones recognized that the new position into which he had strayed was a blind alley. If he were detained until his memory could answer questions of which his mind knew nothing, he would be detained forever. He came to the grand determination to try back.
“Look here,” said he, “let’s be straight with one another. I can’t answer your questions. Now if you are a man of sense, as I take you to be, and not a man like those others, who think everyone but themselves is mad, you will recognizewhyI can’t answer your questions. I’m not Rochester. I thought I’d get out of here by pretending that I’d played a practical joke on those guys; it was a false move, I acknowledge it, but when I fixed on the idea, I didn’t know the man I had to deal with. If you will listen to my story, I will tell you in a few words how all this business came about.”
“Go on,” said Hoover.
Jones told, and Hoover listened and when the tale was over, at the end of a quarter of an hour or so,Jones scarcely believed it himself. It sounded crazy. Much more crazy than when he had told it to the Duke of Melford and the reason of this difference was Hoover. There was something in Hoover’s eye, something in his make up and personality, something veiled and critical, that destroyed confidence.
“I have asked them to make enquiries,” finished Jones, “if they will only do that everything will be cleared up.”
“And you may rest content we will,” said Hoover.
“Now for another thing,” said Jones. “Till I leave this place, which will be soon, I hope, may I ask you to tell that confounded attendant not to be always watching me. I don’t know whether you think me mad or sane, think me mad if you like, but take it from me, I’m not going to do anything foolish, but if anything would drive me crazy, it would be feeling that I am always watched like a child.”
Hoover paused a moment. He had a large experience of mental cases. Then he said:
“You will be perfectly free here. You can come downstairs and do as you like. We have some very nice men staying here and you are free to amuse yourself. I’ll just ask you this, not to go outside the grounds till your health is perfectly established. This is not a prison, it’s a sanatorium. Colonel Hawker is here for gout and Major Barstowe for neuritis, got it in India. You will like them. There are several others who make up my household—you can come on down with me now—are you a billiard player?”
“Yes, I can play—but, see here, before we go down, where is this place?—I don’t even know what part of the country it’s in.”
“Sandbourne-on-sea,” replied Hoover, leading the way from the room.
Now in London on the night before, something had happened. Dr. Simms, at a dinner-party, given by Doctor Took of Bethlem Hospital had, relative to the imagination of lunatics, given an instance:
“Only to-day,” said Simms, “I had a case in point. A man gave me as his supposed address, one thousand one hundred and ninety one, Walnut Street, Philadelphia.”
“But there is a Walnut Street, Philadelphia,” said Took, “and it’s ten miles long, and the numbers run up well towards that.”
Half an hour later, Simms got into his carriage.
“Savoy Hotel, Strand,” said he to the coachman.