Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  “Can I see Doctor Damian?” he asked of the servant who opened the door.

  “If you please to wait a moment, sir, I’ll inquire; who shall I say?”

  “He does not know me, and my name will hardly help him; give him this card, however, and say that I call upon urgent business connected with Glarewoods. I’ll wait here till you come down.”

  He stood on the steps, looking toward the sea, wondering whether Mr. Damian would see him, and without any distinct plan as to how to order and arrange what he had to say.

  The servant returned; Doctor Damian would see him.

  He followed to the drawingroom, in which were an unusual number of candles burning, and for the first time he saw Doctor Damian, of whom he had heard a great deal in the course of his life.

  He saw, standing at some distance, a tall, lean man, broad-shouldered, erect, with hair white as snow, a broad square forehead, and a resolute face.

  He had heard that this man was benevolent and pious. He saw nothing in his face but cold command and sternness.

  He placed a chair for Mr. Marston, with a slight bow, and asked him, by name, to sit down.

  “You are a son of Lord Warhampton, I conjecture, from the address upon your card?” said the old man, in a voice still clear, and, like his aspect, somewhat stern.

  Mr. Marston assented, and the doctor, taking a chair, asked him to state the object of his visit.

  Doctor Damian listened to the young man’s fluent and sometimes vehement address with a countenance unmoved and impenetrable.

  “We have never had at Glarewoods a single case of fraudulently imputed insanity,” he said with cold decision. “The statement on which Miss Vernon was admitted, and furnished in the form of attested copies of affidavits, was conclusive upon that point; I assume them to be true; you mention the inquiry just held at Glarewoods, on the motion of friends and relations, into this case. I have heard from Antomarchi on the subject. Have you about you the report you said you had of what occurred there, and if so can you permit me to read it?”

  Mr. Marston placed the paper in his hands. He glanced through it. Mr. Marston could not help admiring the large, cold, grey eyes with which the old man read it. To judge by his countenance, it had not made the slightest impression upon him.

  “When shall we know the nature of the commissioner’s report?” he asked.

  “In a day or two, I believe,” Marston said.

  “And what particular request, Mr. Marston, do you urge upon me?” he inquired.

  “I want you, with the immense powers you possess in this matter, to recognise the awful obligation so obviously imposed on your conscience, and to take this inquiry actively into your own hands.”

  The old man smiled coldly.

  “You are frank, Mr. Marston. You may fail to persuade, but you don’t mince the matter.”

  “I hope, Doctor Damian, I have not spoken too strongly; I would not offend you for any consideration.”

  “I am never offended, sir, by bluntness. Will you take some tea, sir, or a glass of sherry; or will you allow me to order some supper: it is later than I thought.”

  All these hospitable offers were declined with thanks.

  “I don’t say I am not obliged to you, Mr. Marston, for this call; but you must remember that I speak with a knowledge of Doctor Antomarchi’s great ability, and of the statement on which the patient was received at Glarewoods. I quite accept the responsibility that rests upon me; but, from a rather long experience, I can assure you that relations are often very much at issue upon the question of a patient’s insanity, when a medical man can entertain no doubt either of its existence or of its very advanced development. I will bear your request in mind. That is the utmost I can say. But I counsel you not to be sanguine. I don’t share your hopes.”

  “But, Mr. Damian, you will not let the matter rest?”

  “I shall make the inquiries necessary to satisfy the friends and relations whom you represent, sir; I can say no more on the subject.”

  There was something harsh in the tones in which this was spoken that warned Charles Marston that he might possibly do wisely to forbear any further pressure. The old gentleman was accustomed to command, and his air and looks were peremptory.

  “Not much sympathy there,” thought Charles Marston, as, with a heavy heart, he descended the steps, and walked back toward the London railway.

  CHAPTER LXXXIII.

  THREE DOCTORS.

  A letter reached Mr. Dawe two days later, from his solicitor, stating that the commissioner had reported strongly against removing Miss Vernon from the restraints of her present position; and that the court would not intervene.

  This letter made its dismal tour of the three principal promoters of the inquiry; from Mr. Dawe to Miss Medwyn it flew, and from Miss Medwyn to Mr. Marston.

  Mr. Marston, on receipt of it, took wing instantly for the Hermitage, in the vague pursuit of sympathy, and longing for some one to talk to.

  There are situations and states of mind in which it is quite impossible to remain stationary; a universal irritation of the nervous system, which can only be subdued by overpowering bodily fatigue, and in which nature instinctively impels to change and exertion.

  Things were looking very black. He was not aware, until the adverse result was actually made known, how much hope he had secretly cherished.

  Whirling up the embowered avenue of the quiet Hermitage, with four reeking horses, at a canter — he would have had six if they would have brought him there five minutes sooner — Charles Marston reached the steps of the oldfashioned house, and running up them he rang at the hall-door as impetuously as if his best-beloved lay within, in the agonies of death, and he had arrived with a specific in his hand.

  On learning that Miss Medwyn was in the drawingroom, without waiting to be announced, he hurried to the room, and found her with Mr. Dawe, who had arrived only ten minutes before.

  Mr. Dawe had other things beside this to trouble him. A letter had reached him from Captain Vivian, in whom, by a kind of adoption, he took a very near interest, relating what had occurred. Mr. Dawe was angry. He had been tricked in return for years of kindness.

  Why should he be surprised or angry? If it were not that every child of earth must learn wisdom for himself, in the school of pain and labour, and if experience were orally communicable, as old people are prone to fancy it is, and if youth were less conceited and selfish, comparatively few foolish things would be done, and this life would lose, in a large measure, its efficacy as a place of discipline.

  Mr. Dawe is going on with this particular news to Lady Vernon. She may or may not see him, as she thinks fit; but she ought to hear it as soon as he; and he is not deterred by the language she held to him a few weeks ago.

  “I must see Lady Vernon first, upon quite another matter,” said Mr. Dawe, therefore, mysteriously. “But I will meet you, Mr. Marston, in town, at my attorney’s, this day week. I have put my hand to the plough, and will not look back.”

  “Could you not name an earlier day?” urged Mr. Marston.

  “This day week, if you please,” said Mr. Dawe.

  “And where will a letter find you in the mean time?” asked active Miss Medwyn, who rather liked writing notes.

  “I shall sleep, tomorrow night, at the Verney Arms; and I shall not leave Roydon till evening. I have business in the neighbourhood.’’

  And so Mr. Dawe took his leave.

  A week’s delay, to a man upon the rack, is a good deal. It was quite impossible that Charles Marston should be quiet all that time.

  Maximilla liked his impatience, and sympathised with all his unreasonableness.

  “Quite accidentally,” she said, “I heard such a character of Doctor Antomarchi, from our rector, here; he had a cousin who was confined at Glarewoods, and discharged about a year ago; and he says that Doctor Antomarchi is quite a charming person, and the kindest man you can imagine; and he thought Mr. Damian, on the contrary, a severe man, with hardly a huma
n sympathy, although his establishment is conducted on very genial and indulgent principles. His view of Mr. Damian corresponds very much with your impression, on seeing him at Brighton. He thought him conscientious, but cold and stern. Now I have taken a whim into my head; I don’t know why, but I do fancy if we went to Glarewoods and saw Doctor Antomarchi, to-day, some good would come of it. I think he would allow me to see Maud, and I have been two or three times on the point of ordering the carriage and setting out for the railway.”

  Full of this whimsical presentiment, I shall leave her, still in conference with Charles Marston, who is only too well pleased to find the active old lady almost as restless as himself.

  Night descends on Glarewoods, and all the country round. Moonlight falls on lofty trees and dark yew hedges, on high, carved chimneys, steep roofs, and black oak cagework with white plaster between. From long rows of windows overlooking the croquet-ground peeps the peculiar soft light, emitted through the dull globes fixed in the ceilings of the patients’ rooms. This is not one of the festive nights at Glarewoods, and neither ball nor concert stirs the strange gaiety of the colony that dwells there.

  The great house, with its sylvan surroundings, looks all serenity and happiness; more like fair Belmont, as Lorenzo and Jessica beheld it, in the moonlight, than a madhouse.

  A visitor is closeted with Antomarchi. It is Doctor Malkin, who has come from Roydon, to talk and hear, on Lady Vernon’s behalf, all that it may at this moment concern her to learn.

  They have had their conference, and have dined together. They are sitting now at an open window, looking out on the moonlit croquet-ground. A small round table, with decanters and glasses on it, stands close by; they are sipping their claret, with their eyes turned toward the drooping flowers and dewy foliage, while they talk for a minute longer about Miss Vernon.

  Candles are burning at the further end of the room. They prefer the open window and the moon.

  “You and Miss Medwyn are at issue respecting the young lady’s state of mind,” said Antomarchi.

  “I am a very secondary opinion on the question,” answered Malkin, peering into the claret in his glass; “you may observe that I contribute, myself, next to nothing to the proof, and rest my opinion entirely upon the assumption that the evidence on which I found it is strictly true; and I have been looking the subject up, and I’m not afraid to maintain that opinion anywhere.”

  “Nor am I; nor is Damian,” said Antomarchi. “She is violent; she was troublesome this morning. Tomorrow, at twelve, I have arranged to give that young lady a fright that will a good deal tame her.”

  “It is very sad it should be so,” murmured Doctor Malkin, still looking down with a gloomy shake of his head.

  “It is very sad,” echoed Antomarchi, abstractedly.

  And there followed a silence, during which Darkdale entered the room.

  “Miss Medwyn, the old lady who was here before the commissioner,” Mr. Darkdale said softly, leaning over his shoulder, “is in the waiting-room, with a friend, and hopes that you will see her, and desires me to say, that she is most anxious to visit Miss Vernon, for ever so short a time, in her room.”

  “Tell her I regret I can’t possibly permit an interview with Miss Vernon; but that I shall be very happy, in a few minutes, to see Miss Medwyn in the waiting-room.”

  “I remember you, Antomarchi, in Paris,” said Doctor Malkin, as soon as Darkdale was gone. “You and I have played billiards there, and could hardly afford our demi-tasse of coffee after. I little fancied I should see you what you are. If I had your cards to play, I should die a baronet with ten thousand a year, and you can play them better than I. I wish you’d tell me your secret; what god do you worship? Æsculapius, Fortune, Satan? Do give a poor devil a wrinkle.”

  “Fill your glass; take comfort; I’m not quite so prosperous as you fancy. I have burnt my fingers a little in that cursed thing that old Tintern went into; but, as you say, I am making way, notwithstanding.”

  “Making way? Why, my dear fellow, you know all this must belong to you, it must, and managed as you would manage it, it is the revenue of a principality. When does old Damian return?”

  “In a month, perhaps; perhaps in six; perhaps never,” says Antomarchi, who was in a state of luxurious goodhumour. “It is high time he should take a little rest; it is only fair. He can’t be many months on this side of seventy, and he may sing Non sum qualis eram.”

  “I am not what I used to was,” translated Doctor Malkin, facetiously.

  “He does not like work as he used,” continued Antomarchi, “and he has confidence in me; and he feels he need not fatigue himself as he used; he may take his ease, and yet all go well.”

  “All go better,” said Malkin.

  “I did not say that; but it is not a great way from the truth. He is sometimes a little bit in one’s way; but his name in the concern is valuable, and he is a good man, and always, at least, means well.”

  “He’ll make over the whole concern to you before a year, on an annuity, and he won’t live three years after; and then you are monarch of all you survey! You’ll be wanting a sharp fellow to play second fiddle, eh? And if you think I would answer, it is the kind of thing I should like.”

  “First make me monarch of all I survey. It would be idle choosing my man Friday till I step into my island.”

  A slight noise at the other end of the room attracted the eyes of both. They saw a tall man with a resolute face, and hair white as snow, standing near the door, hat in hand, as if off a journey.

  With an odd sensation, for he did not know at what moment he had entered, Doctor Malkin, sitting in the moonlight, with his claret glass in his fingers, recognised Mr. Damian, exhibited, like a figure of Schalkin’s, in the oblique candlelight.

  CHAPTER LXXXIV.

  LIGHT.

  “How d’ye do, Doctor Malkin?” said Mr. Damian, with a short nod. “I called at Roydon Hall to-day, only an hour after you had left it. How d’ye do, Antomarchi?” Antomarchi had walked up to him, and extended his hand, which Damian took, and shook civilly, but with no great energy. “I have come here to-day,” he continued, “about Miss Vernon’s case; I’m not quite satisfied about it. I ought to have stayed perhaps to see her. We could then have consulted. But it seemed on the statement a very clear case. Had I known that her family were divided on the point, I should have thought twice.”

  “I can’t say that,” said Antomarchi, promptly. “There is no division of the family, sir; but one dissentient, an old lady, Miss Medwyn, who said her say here, and nothing in it. Mr. Dawe is no relation, Mr. Marston is none; although I’m told he would have no objection to become one.”

  “I had a letter from Mr. Dawe this morning,” said Mr. Damian.

  “He’s a very strong partisan,” observed Antomarchi, with a satirical smile.

  “Yes,” acquiesced Damian, and turned to Malkin. “You recollect, sir, the substance of your statement?” said Damian. “May I put two or three questions to you upon it?”

  Damian sat down, and he and Malkin had a short talk; and Damian thanked him in a gentle abstraction, like a man who is meditating on the materials of a hypothesis.

  A few minutes later, Doctor Malkin had taken his leave, and was on his way to the railway.

  Damian was still sitting in his cloak, his white head leaning on his hand, thinking. On a sudden looking up, he said gently:

  “We may as well see the young lady now.”

  “Don’t you think, sir, it may be a little late?” suggested Antomarchi.

  Damian looked at his watch.

  “I think not; only a quarter past eight,” said he. “Let the young lady decide. I will send the message. We can see her in the office.”

  Thither they went.

  “I am very glad on my own account you have come, sir. I was glad to have even Mr. Dawe, the other day; when a question is raised, it is not pleasant to be quite alone.”

  “I’m sure of it,” said Damian.

  He touch
ed the office-bell, and told the servant to send Mr. Darkdale to him.

  He charged that officer with his message to Miss Vernon; and when he had gone, he sent for the “register” and the “ledger” of the establishment.

  “You will see in the ledger a reference to a letter of Lady Vernon’s, it is intended only for your eye and mine.”

  “In the ledger? You mean the register, I suppose,” said Damian.

  “No — the ledger,” said Antomarchi, coolly.

  “Then it refers to terms,” said Damian.

  “Certainly; this is it.”

  He had taken from the office desk a letter, which looked more like a law paper, folded attorney fashion, and he placed it on the ledger which had been laid before Damian.

  At this moment the door opened, and Miss Vernon, followed by Mercy Creswell, came in.

  The young lady was looking pale and ill.

  Damian stood up, and received her with a bow, courteously, and, taking her by the hand, he led her to a chair.

  “Don’t be frightened, Miss Vernon,” he said. “I merely want to talk a little with you, and to ask you how you are; I assure you there is nothing to make you the least uncomfortable in anything that has passed between Doctor Antomarchi and me. Therefore, you must not be nervous; and if you would prefer tomorrow, any time, we can put off our little conversation. Or we can repeat it as often as you please; so that should you feel nervous or put out at one time, you will not be so at another; and I will make every allowance for a little flurry and embarrassment.”

  “I should much rather you asked me any questions you please, now; but not here.”

  “And why not here?” he asked, with a smile.

  “I can’t answer collectedly while Doctor Antomarchi fixes his eyes on me; I am nervous while I am in the same room.”

  Antomarchi smiled faintly and shrugged, looking at Damian.

  “Perhaps, Antomarchi, you would kindly leave us for a little — — “