A STRANGE AWAKENING.
It will be necessary now to make a break in the continuity of the
story, and return to the spotless bedchamber in Dr. Schneeberger’s
house, where the real Phil Debenham lay so long.
For many weeks after Tor had left him, he remained in a state of
helpless torpor—knowing nothing, hearing nothing, seeing nothing—merely
taking what nourishment was given in a mechanical fashion, from which
all power of volition seemed absent.
But gradually a change came over the sick man. By slow degrees, and
without any visible alteration in his condition, his brain began to
recover its faculties, and long before he was inclined to evince any
sign of life, he was able to hear, and in part to comprehend, what
went on around him.
At first his thoughts were very dim and indistinct, and he was chiefly
disturbed by a haunting dread that Tor had left him. He missed him, in
a blind, unreasoning way, and was vaguely distressed by the absence of
his friend, before he had really realized that he was alone.
As his brain-power gradually strengthened he took in other things.
He found that, to this unknown household, wherever it might be, he was
known as Herr Torwood, and over this strange metamorphosis he puzzled
long and helplessly, and threw himself again into unconsciousness for
some days.
When he woke again, his mind was still clearer. He gave, however, no
sign of comprehension, partly because the effort to awake his benumbed
faculties seemed greater than he cared as yet to make, partly because a
vague mistrust and uneasiness had fallen upon him, and he felt that he
must gain a clearer insight into his surroundings, before he allowed it
to be seen that he had come to himself.
One day, whilst he was in this state, the little German, whom he
supposed to be a doctor, because of his daily visits and careful
examinations—one day this German doctor brought with him a medical
friend, to whom he talked long and learnedly over the supposed
condition of his patient’s brain.
Doctors and Germans, however, are not above gossip, and after the
medical side of the subject had been exhaustively discussed, they fell
into another vein.
‘The Herr Debenham, his rich friend, will be very much disturbed at
this long insensibility,’ remarked Dr. Schneeberger.
‘Where, then, is this Herr Debenham? Does he visit his friend often?’
‘No, he cannot. He is in England. I think he is a great lord there. He
has come into some very vast property, I believe. Gretchen thinks so,
from what he told her when he was here, after he had brought his friend
to us. His letters come from a Ladywell Manor. I believe an English
Manor is equal to a Schloss with us. He may be a Graf, for all I know.’
‘He pays well for his friend here, I suppose?’
‘Very well. He is a true Englishman for that. He was so anxious to
leave Herr Torwood with me, that I believe he would have paid any sum I
chose to ask. Ah! yes; he is a liberal patron. I have a great respect
for Herr Debenham. Such a handsome Englishman, too!’
‘Well to be his friend, then,’ said the other. ‘Does he purpose to come
and see this one ever?’
‘I am to send for him the moment I detect any sign of returning
sensibility. He is very anxious to be with his friend when he awakes
from this long sleep. I confess I, too, am anxious that he should be
here, in case what he expects should take place.’
‘What does he expect?’
‘He tells me that upon a former occasion, when the Herr Torwood became
unconscious for a short time, he came to himself, believing himself to
be Herr Debenham; and it was a good while before he could be convinced
of his own identity. Now this is a very curious symptom, and will be
interesting to watch; but as I am a stranger to Herr Torwood, I would
rather his own friend was with him to convince him of his error. I
might find it difficult.’
‘What an odd thing!’ said the second doctor. ‘I never heard of a
similar case. I wonder if it will be so?’
‘Herr Debenham, I am sure, anticipates it. He has alluded to it more
than once in his letters. He tells me that they have, from time to
time, passed under each other’s names during their travels, which may
perhaps account, to a certain extent, for the confusion of ideas.’
‘Perhaps; still, it is an odd symptom. One would be curious to watch
its development.’
And then the two doctors took their departure, leaving the patient,
they supposed to be so utterly vacant, in a very perturbed state.
Phil’s mind was not altogether clear, the true balance of his faculties
was not entirely restored. He could understand a great deal, but he
could not weigh possibilities, or grasp a complex situation, as he
could have done at another time.
Had he been able to do this, it is probable he might have guessed
somewhat at Tor’s motive for acting as he had done. His entire
confidence in his friend would have sustained him until he could see
him face to face, and learn the truth from his own lips. But in its
present clouded state, his mind could only take in one thing at a
time; and the fact which he had firmly grasped, through overhearing
this conversation, was that his friend had defrauded him of his name
and position, and was living upon his estate, whilst he had taken care
that the real possessor should not be believed when he did recover
consciousness, and have power to assert his claim.
Ladywell was a name well known to Phil. The Manor House had been his
ideal of all a house should be, from his childhood’s days, when he and
little Maud had played in secluded corners of the park. The old uncle,
who was regarded as something of an ogre, to be feared and avoided,
was only dimly remembered; but Phil had always known that he was his
great-uncle’s natural heir, and with the buoyant hopefulness of his
nature, had entertained a dim expectation that the property might, by
some lucky chance, come to him, either by testamentary bequest, or (in
absence of will) as heir-at-law.
Evidently this is what had taken place. The old man had died. The
property had come to him, and Tor, forgetting under pressure of
temptation all his old honour and uprightness, had taken advantage of
Phil’s helplessness, and of the fact that he was a perfect stranger to
his own relations, and had claimed the inheritance as his own, calmly
transferring his own name and personality to his unconscious friend,
and adopting Phil’s instead.
Phil writhed in helpless irritation and dismay when the whole force
of the situation broke upon him. He had no clue to Tor’s real motive;
naturally it did not occur to him to imagine it. He could think of
nothing but the treacherous way in which he had been defrauded, and of
what possible steps he could take to free himself from the net which
had been cast about him.
One thing was self-evident. He must remain in a state of apparent
insensibility for the present. If he betrayed one gleam of
consciousness, Tor would be summoned; and once let Tor’s strong hand
close over him, and Phil knew that he should be powerless. He had not
lived eighteen years in close company, without knowing Tor’s strength
of will and purpose; and he knew that in an open struggle he would
simply be crushed. Tor’s word, not his, would be believed; and if he
were to be resolute in his declaration that he was Philip Debenham, he
might, for all he knew, be housed in a madhouse before many days were
over.
It was a terrible suspicion, and quite sufficed to keep up all Phil’s
determination to remain quiet until he had matured some plan of escape.
From time to time some of the old loving confidence in Tor would assert
itself, and Phil would be half tempted to have him summoned, and learn
from his own lips how it was that he had acted thus; but then again
doubts and fears filled his mind, and the risk seemed too great a one
to run.
Suppose Tor was his enemy? Suppose, having made one false step, he
had then advanced until retreat should be impossible? Such things had
happened before, and might happen again. When once a man had fallen,
had begun a course of deceit and treachery, it was a hard matter to
draw back. Phil was ready to believe that Tor might have acted, in the
first place, simply from an impulse of ambition; but he could not get
over his fear, that having once announced to the world that he was
Philip Debenham, and assumed the position at Ladywell Manor to which
the name entitled him, he would be prepared to stick to his colours
at all cost, and would never admit himself a liar, an impostor, and a
forger.
No; come what might, Tor would make up his mind, and he would yield
to nothing but actual force. He would never submit to humiliation and
disgrace, and he had evidently taken every means in his power to ensure
himself against danger. He would never willingly let Phil escape from
his clutches, and therefore it would be necessary to use subtlety
before he could hope to obtain his freedom.
For many days Phil lay silent and motionless, making plans and weighing
possibilities. As the helplessness of his condition grew more and more
apparent, so did his bitterness increase against his former friend.
‘Friend’ indeed! Phil often smiled mournfully over the mockery of the
word; and would lie for hours brooding over the strange, mysterious
change which must have come over Tor, before he could stoop to such
treachery and baseness. ‘Mine own familiar friend,’ he would sometimes
murmur to himself over and over again; ‘mine own familiar friend,’
until the words seemed to haunt him night and day, as the most
expressive in the whole language of thought. Yes, it was ever so; it
was no new thing, this sudden betrayal of confidence, this treacherous
attack from one who had answered to the sacred name of friend. It had
been true thousands of years ago, and it was true that day. The history
of the world could furnish countless instances of that same crime;
and as the great Roman Emperor found, it was the hand of the familiar
friend which was readiest to strike the deathblow.
‘Et tu, Brute?’
Those words of dignity and pathos have passed into a household word,
but never before had Phil so realized their melancholy and touching
significance.
‘Mine own familiar friend’—yes, indeed. It was to that very
familiarity, that implicit confidence which existed between them that
Tor owed the power to practise this great deception. This was an added
pang, and cost Phil many hours of bitter thought.
He had learned during these days of consciousness how this household,
of which he seemed a member, divided its time. He knew when food would
be brought up for him, and at what hour the doctor paid his daily
visit. He knew when to expect the maid to sweep out the room and dust
the furniture, and he equally knew when he should be left long hours in
solitude.
One day, at this time, he tried the experiment of getting up. He found
his strength less impaired than he had feared, for he had but a dim
idea of the flight of time, and did not know if months or weeks had
passed since he had been laid low, nor did he understand exactly what
it was that had ailed him.
After a few trials, made day by day, he was able to stand and walk
without any great difficulty; the giddiness he experienced at first
diminished with every trial.
Soon he was able to stand and sit for some time; and he then began a
careful search for any papers which Tor might have left behind, by
accident or design, which could throw any light upon the subject which
so haunted him.
He soon saw that an exchange of personal trifles had been effected;
watches and seals, cigar-cases, pencils, pocket-books, all had been
changed, evidently because they bore upon them some clue to the owner’s
identity. In Tor’s pocket-book, which had been left behind, was a
sealed packet, which, to Phil’s great astonishment, contained English
bank-notes to the value of £500.
He looked utterly amazed, and then his face clouded.
‘Is it a bribe? or is it a trap?—I cannot tell. But if I can escape,
this money will be everything in my chance of success. Ah! and here is
a paper—what can this be?’
It was the lawyer’s letter informing Phil of his accession to wealth
and property. The very reading of it, with the associations called
up by the various items of intelligence, was enough to set Phil’s
heart beating with impatient longing. The other papers Tor had taken
away with him, so that Maud’s letter and Mr. Maynard’s could explain
nothing; although in them lay the clue to Tor’s reckless deed.
Phil placed everything exactly as he had found it, and lay down again
to meditate.
His plan—the plan which for days and days had been slowly shaping
itself in his brain, was this: He must escape from his present
captivity, but must escape in such a way that no uneasiness should be
excited in Tor’s mind—he must remain in ignorance of the matter.
Once free from restraint and with money in his pocket, Phil would go in
disguise to Ladywell, and watch what the enemy was about. He could then
calculate what were his chances of success, should he bring an action
against him; and he might possibly be able to detect some extenuating
circumstances which should make the crime less black.
Not willingly had Phil believed his friend a traitor; and there still
lurked in his heart some hopes of a future reconciliation. But doubt
and distrust were very strong, and the feeling of helplessness most
trying. Tor had taken possession of every credential Phil could have
brought forward as proof of his identity, and, as it were, cut away
the ground from under his feet in every possible way.
Phil knew nothing of his likeness to his family, and was not man of
the world enough to see that his own knowledge and recollection of the
events of his childhood and of his native place, as opposed to Tor’s
ignorance, would go far towards making good his case, were it brought
before competent authority. He could only see at present that it would
be his bare word, against Tor’s word backed by all the credentials
which should have been his. He knew Tor would be no mean opponent, and
his heart sank at the thought of a hand-to-hand fight.
No, he must go disguised, whilst Tor believed him still in Germany,
and then he would try to read the riddle; and if he dared, he would
confront his false friend face to face, and wrest the truth from him by
threat, or by sheer force of justice.
But this plan of escape involved the co-operation of the German doctor,
in whose care he had been left; and it might be a difficult, even a
dangerous matter to secure it.
However, Phil was not without a certain dogged obstinacy of his own,
and he determined that he would at least make a bold attempt, and trust
to chance for success.
Upon the following day, when the doctor visited him, he received him
with wide-open eyes, and a look of quiet comprehension, which sent the
little man into a silent ecstasy of delight.
‘Dr. Schneeberger,’ began Phil, after he had calmly and rationally
replied to some dozen searching questions, ‘will you sit down for a few
minutes and listen to something of importance that I have to say?’
‘Certainly, my dear sir, certainly. I am only too delighted. What
news this will be for your good friend! I think I ought to send him a
telegram at once to inform him.’
‘Not just yet, if you please, doctor,’ said Phil quietly; ‘I want you
first to hear what I have to say to you.’
‘I will listen to anything, so long as you do not too greatly fatigue
yourself.’
‘I will be careful not to do so. Now, doctor, I am going to ask you
a few questions. Was I not brought here several weeks ago by a tall,
good-looking Englishman, who gave his name as Debenham? And did he not
inform you that my name was Torwood?’
Dr. Schneeberger nodded his head.
‘Certainly—exactly. You have accurately stated the case.’
‘And did he, or did he not, warn you that when I recovered my senses, I
should be under the impression that _my_ name was Debenham?’
The doctor stared.
‘Well—ah! let me see—well, yes, he certainly did give me some such
warning; but I cannot imagine how you came to know it.’
He was looking very curiously at his patient, as if to detect some new
and strange phenomenon in his case. But Phil confronted him with an
unwavering eye, and spoke on connectedly and quietly.
‘I know it, or guessed it, from what I know of the circumstances which
surround me, and from what I heard and remarked whilst I seemed to you
to be still unconscious.’
‘You have recovered, then, gradually?’ cried the doctor eagerly. ‘It
was not the work of a moment?’
‘I have been slowly recovering for several days; but this is the first
time that I have felt any inclination to rouse myself and let it be
known. You have doubtless known similar cases?’
Dr. Schneeberger assented readily, and talked a good deal of the brain
and its various developments. Phil listened with praiseworthy patience,
until a pause gave him the opportunity to proceed.
‘When this friend of mine informed you that he considered it probable I
should claim the name of Debenham upon my recovery, did it not strike
you as a very odd thing for him to suppose?’
‘Well, yes; certainly it was a remarkable symptom, one which interested
me greatly.’
‘Did you ever know of a case in which, after the brief confusion of
ideas on first recovery, a man did not know his own name?’
‘Well, no; I certainly have not known of such a case; but one is always
making fresh discoveries in the book of Nature.’
‘Or of art,’ suggested Phil. ‘And now, doctor, your candid opinion: do
you think it likely, do you consider it practically possible, for a man
to recover the full use of his faculties, and yet not to know who he
is?’
The doctor hummed and hawed a little, but admitted that it seemed
rather an improbable idea, when looked at in that light.
‘I want you to look at it in this light; not simply from a medical
point of view. Treat me as a man, not as a patient, and tell me if it
never occurred to you what could be the reason for such a statement on
the part of my friend.’
‘He said it had occurred before, and might recur in this instance.’
‘And it never struck you as possible that I might really be Philip
Debenham, and he the Torwood he wished to make me out?’
The doctor stared, and eyed him suspiciously.
‘No, certainly; such an idea as that never occurred to me for a moment.’
‘Think over the idea for a moment, doctor, and see what you make of it.’
Dr. Schneeberger looked puzzled, and seemed to turn the matter over in
his mind, looking all the while meditatively at Phil.
‘You see that I know what I am saying?’
‘Yes, you certainly do that.’
‘I am talking to you now in a foreign tongue. I am ready to answer
any and every question you like to put upon any subject with which I
am acquainted. I can tell you, as I mean to do, the whole of my past
history, or talk to you in half a dozen languages. Do you think it is
possible that I do not know my own name?’
‘It seems improbable; but we will have your friend over, and hear all
he has to say. Why should he say he is a Debenham if he is not?’
‘He had a very adequate motive, as I will show you. My name gained for
him wealth and position, and landed property of considerable value.
I will tell you all about it immediately; but first promise me one
thing—not to write yet to my friend to tell him of the change in my
state. You must promise me this.’
‘But I promised him——’
‘Never mind that promise now. Wait at least until you have heard my
story. One day cannot make much difference. You will do dreadful
mischief if you do not listen to me.’
The poor little man, unused to face difficulties of this kind, gave way
without much demur.
‘I will hear your story, at least. That cannot do harm, nor lose much
time. If it will not tire you, mein Herr, I am ready to listen to it
now.’
So Phil began the story of his life, and told it clearly and
consecutively from beginning to end. He told of his eccentric
great-uncle and the Ladywell property, to which he was natural heir. He
told all the family history, and was too clear and succinct to speak
from mere hearsay. Finally, he told of his awakening from this strange
sleep, to find that the property had suddenly become his own, and that
his trusted friend and comrade had played Jacob’s part toward him, and
had supplanted him in his inheritance.