Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (965 page)

But one feeling animated me when the first shock was over. Even the horror of that fearful sight seemed only to increase the pity that I felt for the stricken wretch. I started impulsively to my feet. Seeing nothing, thinking of nothing but the helpless figure in the chair, I sprang forward to raise him, to revive him, to recall him (if such a thing might still be possible) to himself. At the first step that I took, I felt hands on me — I was violently drawn back. “Are you blind?” cried Benjamin, dragging me nearer and nearer to the door. “Look there!”

He pointed; and I looked.

Ariel had been beforehand with me. She had raised her master in the chair; she had got one arm around him. In her free hand she brandished an Indian club, torn from a “trophy” of Oriental weapons that ornamented the wall over the fire-place. The creature was transfigured! Her dull eyes glared like the eyes of a wild animal. She gnashed her teeth in the frenzy that possessed her. “You have done this!” she shouted to me, waving the club furiously around and around over her head. “Come near him, and I’ll dash your brains out! I’ll mash you till there’s not a whole bone left in your skin!” Benjamin, still holding me with one hand opened the door with the other. I let him do with me as he would; Ariel fascinated me; I could look at nothing but Ariel. Her frenzy vanished as she saw us retreating. She dropped the club; she threw both arms around him, and nestled her head on his bosom, and sobbed and wept over him. “Master! master! They shan’t vex you any more. Look up again. Laugh at me as you used to do. Say, ‘Ariel, you’re a fool.’ Be like yourself again!” I was forced into the next room. I heard a long, low, wailing cry of misery from the poor creature who loved him with a dog’s fidelity and a woman’s devotion. The heavy door was closed between us. I was in the quiet antechamber, crying over that piteous sight; clinging to my kind old friend as helpless and as useless as a child.

Benjamin turned the key in the lock.

“There’s no use in crying about it,” he said, quietly. “It would be more to the purpose, Valeria, if you thanked God that you have got out of that room safe and sound. Come with me.”

He took the key out of the lock, and led me downstairs into the hall. After a little consideration, he opened the front door of the house. The gardener was still quietly at work in the grounds.

“Your master is taken ill,” Benjamin said; “and the woman who attends upon him has lost her head — if she ever had a head to lose. Where does the nearest doctor live?”

The man’s devotion to Dexter showed itself as the woman’s devotion had shown itself — in the man’s rough way. He threw down his spade with an oath.

“The Master taken bad?” he said. “I’ll fetch the doctor. I shall find him sooner than you will.”

“Tell the doctor to bring a man with him,” Benjamin added. “He may want help.”

The gardener turned around sternly.

“
I’m
the man,” he said. “Nobody shall help but me.”

He left us. I sat down on one of the chairs in the hall, and did my best to compose myself. Benjamin walked to and fro, deep in thought. “Both of them fond of him,” I heard my old friend say to himself. “Half monkey, half man — and both of them fond of him.
That
beats me.”

The gardener returned with the doctor — a quiet, dark, resolute man. Benjamin advanced to meet them. “I have got the key,” he said. “Shall I go upstairs with you?”

Without answering, the doctor drew Benjamin aside into a corner of the hall. The two talked together in low voices. At the end of it the doctor said, “Give me the key. You can be of no use; you will only irritate her.”

With those words he beckoned to the gardener. He was about to lead the way up the stairs when I ventured to stop him.

“May I stay in the hall, sir?” I said. “I am very anxious to hear how it ends.”

He looked at me for a moment before he replied.

“You had better go home, madam,” he said. “Is the gardener acquainted with your address?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. I will let you know how it ends by means of the gardener. Take my advice. Go home.”

Benjamin placed my arm in his. I looked back, and saw the doctor and the gardener ascending the stairs together on their way to the locked-up room.

“Never mind the doctor,” I whispered. “Let’s wait in the garden.”

Benjamin would not hear of deceiving the doctor. “I mean to take you home,” he said. I looked at him in amazement. My old friend, who was all meekness and submission so long as there was no emergency to try him, now showed the dormant reserve of manly spirit and decision in his nature as he had never (in my experience) shown it yet. He led me into the garden. We had kept our cab: it was waiting for us at the gate.

On our way home Benjamin produced his note-book.

“What’s to be done, my dear, with the gibberish that I have written here?” he said.

“Have you written it all down?” I asked, in surprise.

“When I undertake a duty, I do it,” he answered. “You never gave me the signal to leave off — you never moved your chair. I have written every word of it. What shall I do? Throw it out of the cab window?”

“Give it to me.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“I don’t know yet. I will ask Mr. Playmore.”

CHAPTER XLI. MR. PLAYMORE IN A NEW CHARACTER.

BY that night’s post — although I was far from being fit to make the exertion — I wrote to Mr. Playmore, to tell him what had taken place, and to beg for his earliest assistance and advice.

The notes in Benjamin’s book were partly written in shorthand, and were, on that account, of no use to me in their existing condition. At my request, he made two fair copies. One of the copies I inclosed in my letter to Mr. Playmore. The other I laid by me, on my bedside table, when I went to rest.

Over and over again, through the long hours of the wakeful night, I read and re-read the last words which had dropped from Miserrimus Dexter’s lips. Was it possible to interpret them to any useful purpose? At the very outset they seemed to set interpretation at defiance. After trying vainly to solve the hopeless problem, I did at last what I might as well have done at first — I threw down the paper in despair. Where were my bright visions of discovery and success now? Scattered to the winds! Was there the faintest chance of the stricken man’s return to reason? I remembered too well what I had seen to hope for it. The closing lines of the medical report which I had read in Mr. Playmore’s office recurred to my memory in the stillness of the night — ”When the catastrophe has happened, his friends can entertain no hope of his cure: the balance once lost, will be lost for life.”

The confirmation of that terrible sentence was not long in reaching me. On the next morning the gardener brought a note containing the information which the doctor had promised to give me on the previous day.

Miserrimus Dexter and Ariel were still where Benjamin and I had left them together — in the long room. They were watched by skilled attendants, waiting the decision of Dexter’s nearest relative (a younger brother, who lived in the country, and who had been communicated with by telegraph). It had been found impossible to part the faithful Ariel from her master without using the bodily restraints adopted in cases of raging insanity. The doctor and the gardener (both unusually strong men) had failed to hold the poor creature when they first attempted to remove her on entering the room. Directly they permitted her to return to her master the frenzy vanished: she was perfectly quiet and contented so long as they let her sit at his feet and look at him.

Sad as this was, the report of Miserrimus Dexter’s condition was more melancholy still.

“My patient is in a state of absolute imbecility” — those were the words in the doctor’s letter; and the gardener’s simple narrative confirmed them as the truest words that could have been used. He was utterly unconscious of poor Ariel’s devotion to him — he did not even appear to know that she was present in the room. For hours together he remained in a state of utter lethargy in his chair. He showed an animal interest in his meals, and a greedy animal enjoyment of eating and drinking as much as he could get — and that was all. “This morning,” the honest gardener said to me at parting, “we thought he seemed to wake up a bit. Looked about him, you know, and made queer signs with his hands. I couldn’t make out what he meant; no more could the doctor.
She
knew, poor thing — She did. Went and got him his harp, and put his hand up to it. Lord bless you! no use. He couldn’t play no more than I can. Twanged at it anyhow, and grinned and gabbled to himself. No: he’ll never come right again. Any person can see that, without the doctor to help ‘em. Enjoys his meals, as I told you; and that’s all. It would be the best thing that could happen if it would please God to take him. There’s no more to be said. I wish you good-morning, ma’am.”

He went away with the tears in his eyes; and he left me, I own it, with the tears in mine.

An hour later there came some news which revived me. I received a telegram from Mr. Playmore, expressed in these welcome words: “Obliged to go to London by to-night’s mail train. Expect me to breakfast to-morrow morning.”

The appearance of the lawyer at our breakfast-table duly followed the appearance of his telegram. His first words cheered me. To my infinite surprise and relief, he was far from sharing the despondent view which I took of my position.

“I don’t deny,” he said, “that there are some serious obstacles in your way. But I should never have called here before attending to my professional business in London if Mr. Benjamin’s notes had not produced a very strong impression on my mind. For the first time, as
I
think, you really have a prospect of success. For the first time, I feel justified in offering (under certain restrictions) to help you. That miserable wretch, in the collapse of his intelligence, has done what he would never have done in the possession of his sense and his cunning — he has let us see the first precious glimmerings of the light of truth.”

“Are you sure it
is
the truth?” I asked.

“In two important particulars,” he answered, “I know it to be the truth. Your idea about him is the right one. His memory (as you suppose) was the least injured of his faculties, and was the last to give way under the strain of trying to tell that story. I believe his memory to have been speaking to you (unconsciously to himself) in all that he said from the moment when the first reference to ‘the letter’ escaped him to the end.”

“But what does the reference to the letter mean?” I asked. “For my part, I am entirely in the dark about it.”

“So am I,” he answered, frankly. “The chief one among the obstacles which I mentioned just now is the obstacle presented by that same ‘letter.’ The late Mrs. Eustace must have been connected with it in some way, or Dexter would never have spoken of it as ‘a dagger in his heart’; Dexter would never have coupled her name with the words which describe the tearing up of the letter and the throwing of it away. I can arrive with some certainty at this result, and I can get no further. I have no more idea than you have of who wrote the letter, or of what was written in it. If we are ever to make that discovery — probably the most important discovery of all — we must dispatch our first inquiries a distance of three thousand miles. In plain English, my dear lady, we must send to America.”

This, naturally enough, took me completely by surprise. I waited eagerly to hear why we were to send to America.

“It rests with you,” he proceeded, “when you hear what I have to tell you, to say whether you will go to the expense of sending a man to New York, or not. I can find the right man for the purpose; and I estimate the expense (including a telegram) — ”

“Never mind the expense!” I interposed, losing all patience with the eminently Scotch view of the case which put my purse in the first place of importance. “I don’t care for the expense; I want to know what you have discovered.”

He smiled. “She doesn’t care for the expense,” he said to himself, pleasantly. “How like a woman!”

I might have retorted, “He thinks of the expense before he thinks of anything else. How like a Scotchman!” As it was, I was too anxious to be witty. I only drummed impatiently with my fingers on the table, and said, “Tell me! tell me!”