SIX months have elapsed. Summer-time has come again.
The last parting is over. Prolonged by my care, the days of my mother's
life have come to their end. She has died in my arms: her last words
have been spoken to me, her last look on earth has been mine. I am now,
in the saddest and plainest meaning of the words, alone in the world.
The affliction which has befallen me has left certain duties to be
performed that require my presence in London. My house is let; I am
staying at a hotel. My friend, Sir James (also in London on business),
has rooms near mine. We breakfast and dine together in my sitting-room.
For the moment solitude is dreadful to me, and yet I cannot go into
society; I shrink from persons who are mere acquaintances. At Sir
James's suggestion, however, one visitor at the hotel has been asked to
dine with us, who claims distinction as no ordinary guest. The physician
who first warned me of the critical state of my mother's health is
anxious to hear what I can tell him of her last moments. His time is too
precious to be wasted in the earlier hours of the day, and he joins
us at the dinner-table when his patients leave him free to visit his
friends.
The dinner is nearly at an end. I have made the effort to preserve my
self-control; and in few words have told the simple story of my mother's
last peaceful days on earth. The conversation turns next on topics of
little interest to me: my mind rests after the effort that it has made;
my observation is left free to exert itself as usual.
Little by little, while the talk goes on, I observe something in the
conduct of the celebrated physician which first puzzles me, and then
arouses my suspicion of some motive for his presence which has not been
acknowledged, and in which I am concerned.
Over and over again I discover that his eyes are resting on me with a
furtive interest and attention which he seems anxious to conceal. Over
and over again I notice that he contrives to divert the conversation
from general topics, and to lure me into talking of myself; and,
stranger still (unless I am quite mistaken), Sir James understands and
encourages him. Under various pretenses I am questioned about what I
have suffered in the past, and what plans of life I have formed for the
future. Among other subjects of personal interest to me, the subject
of supernatural appearances is introduced. I am asked if I believe
in occult spiritual sympathies, and in ghostly apparitions of dead or
distant persons. I am dexterously led into hinting that my views on
this difficult and debatable question are in some degree influenced by
experiences of my own. Hints, however, are not enough to satisfy the
doctor's innocent curiosity; he tries to induce me to relate in detail
what I have myself seen and felt. But by this time I am on my guard;
I make excuses; I steadily abstain from taking my friend into my
confidence. It is more and more plain to me that I am being made the
subject of an experiment, in which Sir James and the physician are
equally interested. Outwardly assuming to be guiltless of any suspicion
of what is going on, I inwardly determine to discover the true motive
for the doctor's presence that evening, and for the part that Sir James
has taken in inviting him to be my guest.
Events favor my purpose soon after the dessert has been placed on the
table.
The waiter enters the room with a letter for me, and announces that the
bearer waits to know if there is any answer. I open the envelope, and
find inside a few lines from my lawyers, announcing the completion of
some formal matter of business. I at once seize the opportunity that is
offered to me. Instead of sending a verbal message downstairs, I make my
apologies, and use the letter as a pretext for leaving the room.
Dismissing the messenger who waits below, I return to the corridor in
which my rooms are situated, and softly open the door of my bed-chamber.
A second door communicates with the sitting-room, and has a ventilator
in the upper part of it. I have only to stand under the ventilator,
and every word of the conversation between Sir James and the physician
reaches my ears.
"Then you think I am right?" are the first words I hear, in Sir James's
voice.
"Quite right," the doctor answers.
"I have done my best to make him change his dull way of life," Sir James
proceeds. "I have asked him to pay a visit to my house in Scotland; I
have proposed traveling with him on the Continent; I have offered
to take him with me on my next voyage in the yacht. He has but one
answer--he simply says No to everything that I can suggest. You have
heard from his own lips that he has no definite plans for the future.
What is to become of him? What had we better do?"
"It is not easy to say," I hear the physician reply. "To speak plainly,
the man's nervous system is seriously deranged. I noticed something
strange in him when he first came to consult me about his mother's
health. The mischief has not been caused entirely by the affliction of
her death. In my belief, his mind has been--what shall I say?--unhinged,
for some time past. He is a very reserved person. I suspect he has been
oppressed by anxieties which he has kept secret from every one. At his
age, the unacknowledged troubles of life are generally troubles caused
by women. It is in his temperament to take the romantic view of love;
and some matter-of-fact woman of the present day may have bitterly
disappointed him. Whatever may be the cause, the effect is plain--his
nerves have broken down, and his brain is necessarily affected by
whatever affects his nerves. I have known men in his condition who have
ended badly. He may drift into insane delusions, if his present course
of life is not altered. Did you hear what he said when we talked about
ghosts?"
"Sheer nonsense!" Sir James remarks.
"Sheer delusion would be the more correct form of expression," the
doctor rejoins. "And other delusions may grow out of it at any moment."
"What is to be done?" persists Sir James. "I may really say for myself,
doctor, that I feel a fatherly interest in the poor fellow. His mother
was one of my oldest and dearest friends, and he has inherited many of
her engaging and endearing qualities. I hope you don't think the case is
bad enough to be a case for restraint?"
"Certainly not--as yet," answers the doctor. "So far there is no
positive brain disease; and there is accordingly no sort of reason
for placing him under restraint. It is essentially a difficult and a
doubtful case. Have him privately looked after by a competent person,
and thwart him in nothing, if you can possibly help it. The merest
trifle may excite his suspicions; and if that happens, we lose all
control over him."
"You don't think he suspects us already, do you, doctor?"
"I hope not. I saw him once or twice look at me very strangely; and he
has certainly been a long time out of the room."
Hearing this, I wait to hear no more. I return to the sitting-room (by
way of the corridor) and resume my place at the table.
The indignation that I feel--naturally enough, I think, under the
circumstances--makes a good actor of me for once in my life. I invent
the necessary excuse for my long absence, and take my part in the
conversation, keeping the strictest guard on every word that escapes me,
without betraying any appearance of restraint in my manner. Early in the
evening the doctor leaves us to go to a scientific meeting. For half an
hour or more Sir James remains with me. By way (as I suppose) of farther
testing the state of my mind, he renews the invitation to his house in
Scotland. I pretend to feel flattered by his anxiety to secure me as
his guest. I undertake to reconsider my first refusal, and to give him a
definite answer when we meet the next morning at breakfast. Sir James is
delighted. We shake hands cordially, and wish each other good-night. At
last I am left alone.
My resolution as to my next course of proceeding is formed without a
moment's hesitation. I determine to leave the hotel privately the next
morning before Sir James is out of his bedroom.
To what destination I am to betake myself is naturally the next question
that arises, and this also I easily decide. During the last days of my
mother's life we spoke together frequently of the happy past days when
we were living together on the banks of the Greenwater lake. The longing
thus inspired to look once more at the old scenes, to live for a while
again among the old associations, has grown on me since my mother's
death. I have, happily for myself, not spoken of this feeling to Sir
James or to any other person. When I am missed at the hotel, there will
be no suspicion of the direction in which I have turned my steps. To the
old home in Suffolk I resolve to go the next morning. Wandering among
the scenes of my boyhood, I can consider with myself how I may best bear
the burden of the life that lies before me.
After what I have heard that evening, I confide in nobody. For all I
know to the contrary, my own servant may be employed to-morrow as the
spy who watches my actions. When the man makes his appearance to take
his orders for the night, I tell him to wake me at six the next morning,
and release him from further attendance.
I next employ myself in writing two letters. They will be left on the
table, to speak for themselves after my departure.
In the first letter I briefly inform Sir James that I have discovered
his true reason for inviting the doctor to dinner. While I thank him for
the interest he takes in my welfare, I decline to be made the object of
any further medical inquiries as to the state of my mind. In due
course of time, when my plans are settled, he will hear from me again.
Meanwhile, he need feel no anxiety about my safety. It is one among my
other delusions to believe that I am still perfectly capable of taking
care of myself. My second letter is addressed to the landlord of the
hotel, and simply provides for the disposal of my luggage and the
payment of my bill.
I enter my bedroom next, and pack a traveling-bag with the few things
that I can carry with me. My money is in my dressing-case. Opening it, I
discover my pretty keepsake--the green flag! Can I return to "Greenwater
Broad," can I look again at the bailiff's cottage, without the one
memorial of little Mary that I possess? Besides, have I not promised
Miss Dunross that Mary's gift shall always go with me wherever I go? and
is the promise not doubly sacred now that she is dead? For a while I sit
idly looking at the device on the flag--the white dove embroidered on
the green ground, with the golden olive-branch in its beak. The innocent
love-story of my early life returns to my memory, and shows me in
horrible contrast the life that I am leading now. I fold up the flag and
place it carefully in my traveling-bag. This done, all is done. I may
rest till the morning comes.
No! I lie down on my bed, and I discover that there is no rest for me
that night.
Now that I have no occupation to keep my energies employed, now that
my first sense of triumph in the discomfiture of the friends who have
plotted against me has had time to subside, my mind reverts to the
conversation that I have overheard, and considers it from a new point
of view. For the first time, the terrible question confronts me: The
doctor's opinion on my case has been given very positively. How do I
know that the doctor is not right?
This famous physician has risen to the head of his profession entirely
by his own abilities. He is one of the medical men who succeed by
means of an ingratiating manner and the dexterous handling of good
opportunities. Even his enemies admit that he stands unrivaled in the
art of separating the true conditions from the false in the discovery of
disease, and in tracing effects accurately to their distant and hidden
cause. Is such a man as this likely to be mistaken about me? Is it not
far more probable that I am mistaken in my judgment of myself?
When I look back over the past years, am I quite sure that the strange
events which I recall may not, in certain cases, be the visionary
product of my own disordered brain--realities to me, and to no one else?
What are the dreams of Mrs. Van Brandt? What are the ghostly apparitions
of her which I believe myself to have seen? Delusions which have been
the stealthy growth of years? delusions which are leading me, by slow
degrees, nearer and nearer to madness in the end? Is it insane suspicion
which has made me so angry with the good friends who have been trying to
save my reason? Is it insane terror which sets me on escaping from the
hotel like a criminal escaping from prison?
These are the questions which torment me when I am alone in the dead of
night. My bed becomes a place of unendurable torture. I rise and dress
myself, and wait for the daylight, looking through my open window into
the street.
The summer night is short. The gray light of dawn comes to me like a
deliverance; the glow of the glorious sunrise cheers my soul once more.
Why should I wait in the room that is still haunted by my horrible
doubts of the night? I take up my traveling-bag; I leave my letters on
the sitting-room table; and I descend the stairs to the house door. The
night-porter at the hotel is slumbering in his chair. He wakes as I pass
him; and (God help me!) he too looks as if he thought I was mad.
"Going to leave us already, sir?" he says, looking at the bag in my
hand.
Mad or sane, I am ready with my reply. I tell him I am going out for a
day in the country, and to make it a long day, I must start early.
The man still stares at me. He asks if he shall find some one to carry
my bag. I decline to let anybody be disturbed. He inquires if I have any
messages to leave for my friend. I inform him that I have left written
messages upstairs for Sir James and the landlord. Upon this he draws the
bolts and opens the door. To the last he looks at me as if he thought I
was mad.
Was he right or wrong? Who can answer for himself? How can I tell?