SOME days after this Mr. Rolfe received a line from Lady Bassett, to
say she was at the Adelphi Hotel, in John Street. He put some letters
into his pocket and called on her directly.
She received him warmly, and told him, more fully than she had by
letter, how she had acted on his advice; then she told him of Richard
Bassett's last act, and showed him her retort.
He knitted his brows at first over it; but said he thought her
proclamation could do no harm.
“As a rule,” said he, “I object to flicking with a lady's whip when I
am going to crush, but--yes--it is able, and gives you a good excuse
for keeping out of the way of annoyances till we strike the blow. And
now I have something to consult you upon. May I read you some extracts
from your husband's letters to me?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Forgive a novelist; but this is a new situation, reading a husband's
letters to his wife. However, I have a motive, and so I had in
soliciting the correspondence with Sir Charles.” He then read her the
letters that are already before the reader, and also the following
extracts:
“Mr. Johnson, a broken tradesman, has some imagination, though not of a
poetic kind; he is imbued with trade, and, in the daytime, exercises
several, especially a butcher's. When he sees any of us coming, he
whips before the nearest door or gate, and sells meat. He sells it very
cheap; the reason is, his friends allow him only a shilling or two in
coppers, and as every madman is the center of the universe, he thinks
that the prices of all commodities are regulated by the amount of
specie in his pocket. This is his style, 'Come, buy, buy, choice mutton
three farthings the carcass. Retail shop next door, ma'am. Jack, serve
the lady. Bill, tell him he can send me home those twenty bullocks, at
three half-pence each--' and so on. But at night he subsides into an
auctioneer, and, with knocking down lots while others are conversing,
gets removed occasionally to a padded room. Sometimes we humor him, and
he sells us the furniture after a spirited competition, and debits the
amounts, for cash is not abundant here. The other night, heated with
business, he went on from the articles of furniture to the company, and
put us all up in succession.
“Having a good many dislikes, he sometimes forgot the auctioneer in the
man, and depreciated some lots so severely that they had to be passed;
but he set Miss Wieland in a chair, and descanted on her beauty, good
temper, and other gifts, in terms florid enough for Robins, or any
other poet. Sold for eighteen pounds, and to a lady. This lady had
formed a violent attachment to Miss W.; so next week they will be at
daggers drawn. My turn came, and the auctioneer did me the honor to
describe me as 'the lot of the evening.' He told the bidders to mind
what they were about, they might never again be able to secure a live
baronet at a moderate price, owing to the tightness of the money
market. Well, sir, I was honored with bids from several ladies; but
they were too timid and too honest to go beyond their means; my less
scrupulous sex soared above these considerations, and I was knocked
down for seventy-nine pounds fifteen shillings, amid loud applause at
the spirited result. My purchaser is a shop-keeper mad after gardening.
Dr. Suaby has given him a plot to cultivate, and he whispered in my
ear, 'The reason I went to a fancy price was, I can kill two birds with
one stone with you. You'll make a very good statee stuck up among my
flowers; and you can hallo, and keep those plaguy sparrows off.'”
“Oh, what creatures for my darling to live among!” cried Lady Bassett
piteously.
Mr. Rolfe stared, and said, “What, then, you are like all your sex--no
sense of humor?”
“Humor! when my husband is in misery and degradation!”
“And don't you see that the brave writer of these letters is steeled
against misery, and above degradation? Such men are not the mere sport
of circumstances. Your husband carries a soul not to be quelled by
three months in a well-ordered mad-house. But I will read no more,
since what gives me satisfaction gives you pain.”
“Oh, yes, yes! Don't let me lose a word my husband has ever uttered.”
“Well, I'll go on; but I'm horribly discouraged.”
“I'm so sorry for that sir. Please forgive me.”
Mr. Rolfe read the letter next in date--
“We are honored with one relic of antiquity, a Pythagorean. He has
obliged me with his biography. He was, to use his own words, engendered
by the sun shining on a dunghill at his father's door,' and began his
career as a flea; but his identity was, somehow, shifted to a boy of
nine years old. He has had a long spell of humanity, and awaits the
great change--which is to turn him to a bee. It will not find him
unprepared; he has long practiced humming, in anticipation. A faithful
friend, called Caffyn, used to visit him every week. Caffyn died last
year, and the poor Pythagorean was very lonely and sad; but, two months
ago, he detected his friend in the butcher's horse, and is more than
consoled, for he says, Caffyn comes six times a week now, instead of
once.'”
“Poor soul!” said Lady Bassett. “What a strange world for him to be
living in. It seems like a dream.”
“There is something stranger coming in this last letter.”
“I have at last found one madman allied to Genius. It has taken me a
fortnight to master his delusion, and to write down the vocabulary he
has invented to describe the strange monster of his imagination. All
the words I write in italics are his own.
“Mr. Williams says that a machine has been constructed for malignant
purposes, which machine is an _air-loom._ It rivals the human machine
in this, that it can operate either on mind or matter. It was invented,
and is worked, by a gang of villains superlatively skillful in
_pneumatic chemistry, physiology, nervous influence, sympathy,_ and the
_higher metaphysic,_ men far beyond the immature science of the present
era, which, indeed, is a favorite subject of their ridicule.
“The gang are seven in number, but Williams has only seen the four
highest: _Bill, the King,_ a master of the art of _magnetic
impregnation; Jack, the schoolmaster,_ the short-hand writer of the
gang; _Sir Archy,_ Chief Liar to the Association; and the
_glove-woman,_ so called from her always wearing cotton mittens. This
personage has never been known to speak to any one.
“The materials used in the air-loom by these _pneumatic adepts_ are
infinite; but principally _effluvia of certain metals, poisons,
soporific scents,_ etc.
“The principal effects are:
“1st. EVENT-WORKING.--This is done by _magnetic manipulation_ of kings,
emperors, prime ministers, and others; so that, while the world is
fearing and admiring them, they are, in reality, mere puppets played by
the workers of the air-loom.
“2d. CUTTING SOUL FROM SENSE.--This is done _by diffusing the magnetic
warp from the root of the nose under the base of the skull, till it
forms a veil; so that the sentiments of the heart can have no
communication with the operations of the intellect._
“3d. KITING.--As boys raise a kite in the air, so the air-loom can lift
an idea into the brain, where it floats and undulates for hours
together. The victim cannot get rid of an idea so insinuated.
“4th. LOBSTER-CRACKING.--An external pressure of the magnetic
atmosphere surrounding the person assailed. Williams has been so
operated on, and says he felt as if he was grasped by an enormous pair
of nut-crackers with teeth, and subjected to a piercing pressure, which
he still remembers with horror. Death sometimes results from
Lobster-cracking.
“5th. LENGTHENING THE BRAIN.--_As the cylindrical mirror lengthens the
countenance,_ so these assailants find means to _elon_gate the brain.
This distorts the ideas, and subjects the most serious are made silly
and ridiculous.
“6th. THOUGHT-MAKING.--While one of these villains sucks at the brain
of the assailed, and extracts his existing sentiments, another will
press into the vacuum ideas very different from his real thoughts. Thus
his mind is physically enslaved.”
Then Sir Charles goes on to say:
“Poor Mr. Williams seems to me an inventor wasted. I thought I would
try and reason him out of his delusion. I asked if he had ever seen
this gang and their machine.
“He said yes, they operated on him this morning. 'Then show them me,'
said I. 'Young man,' said he, satirically, 'do you think these
assassins, and their diabolical machine, would be allowed to go on, if
they could be laid hands on so easily? The gang are fertile in
disguise; the machine operates at considerable distances.'
“To drive him into a corner, I said, 'Will you give me a drawing of
it?' He seemed to hesitate, so I said, 'If you can not draw it, you
never saw it, and never will.' He assented to that, and I was vain
enough to think I had staggered him; but yesterday he produced the
inclosed sketch and explanation. After this I sadly fear he is
incurable.
“There are three sane patients in this asylum, besides myself. I will
tell you their stories when you come here, which I hope will be soon;
for the time agreed on draws near, and my patience and self-control are
sorely tried, as day after day rolls by, and sees me still in a
madhouse.”
“There, Lady Bassett,” said Mr. Rolfe. “And now for my motive in
reading these letters. Sir Charles may still have a crotchet, an
inordinate desire for an heir; but, even if he has, the writer of these
letters has nothing to fear from any jury; and, therefore, I am now
ready to act. I propose to go down to the asylum to-morrow, and get him
out as quickly as I can.”
Lady Bassett uttered an ejaculation of joy. Then she turned suddenly
pale, and her countenance fell. She said nothing.
Mr. Rolfe was surprised at this, since, at their last meeting, she was
writhing at her inaction. He began to puzzle himself. She watched him
keenly. He thought to himself, “Perhaps she dreads the excitement of
meeting--for herself.”
At last Lady Bassett asked him how long it would take to liberate Sir
Charles.
“Not quite a week, if Richard Bassett is well advised. If he fights
desperately it may take a fortnight. In any case I don't leave the work
an hour till it is done. I can delay, and I can fight; but I never mix
the two. Come, Lady Bassett, there is something on your mind you don't
like to say. Well, what does it matter? I will pack my bag, and write
to Dr. Suaby that he may expect me soon; but I will wait till I get a
line from you to go ahead. Then I'll go down that instant and do the
work.”
This proposal was clearly agreeable to Lady Bassett, and she thanked
him.
“You need not waste words over it,” said he. “Write one word, 'ACT!'
That will be the shortest letter you ever wrote.”
The rest of the conversation is not worth recording.
Mr. Rolfe instructed a young solicitor minutely, packed his bag, and
waited.
But day after day went by, and the order never came to act.
Mr. Rolfe was surprised at this, and began to ask himself whether he
could have been deceived in this lady's affection for her husband. But
he rejected that. Then he asked himself whether it might have cooled.
He had known a very short incarceration produce that fatal effect. Both
husband and wife interested him, and he began to get irritated at the
delay.
Sir Charles's letters made him think they had already wasted time.
At last a letter came from Gloucester Place.
“Will my kind friend now ACT?
“Gratefully,
“BELLA BASSETT.”
Mr. Rolfe, upon this, cast his discontent to the winds and started for
Bellevue House.
On the evening of that day a surgeon called Boddington was drinking tea
with his wife, and they were talking rather disconsolately; for he had
left a fair business in the country, and, though a gentleman of
undoubted skill, was making his way very slowly in London.
The conversation was agreeably interrupted by a loud knock at the door.
A woman had come to say that he was wanted that moment for a lady of
title in Gloucester Place, hard by.
“I will come,” said he, with admirably affected indifference; and, as
soon as the woman was out of sight, husband and wife embraced each
other.
“Pray God it may all go well, for your sake and hers, poor lady.”
Mr. Boddington hurried to the number in Gloucester Place. The door was
opened by the charwoman.
He asked her with some doubt if that was the house.
The woman said yes, and she believed it was a surprise. The lady was
from the country, and was looking out for some servants.
This colloquy was interrupted by an intelligent maid, who asked, over
the balusters, if that was the medical man; and, on the woman's saying
it was, begged him to step upstairs at once.
He found his patient attended only by her maid, but she was all
discretion, and intelligence. She said he had only to direct her, she
would do anything for her dear mistress.
Mr. Boddington said a single zealous and intelligent woman, who could
obey orders, was as good as a number, or better.
He then went gently to the bedside, and his experience told him at once
that the patient was in labor.
He told the attendant so, and gave her his directions.