Next moment they had surged as on the top of a wave to the room within.
Nothing could be more strange than the scene presented there. The room
was curtained all round with red, hung above a man’s height with ruddy
thick folds, upon which the firelight threw a still warmer flicker. A
shaded lamp filled it with softened light, and from above, from what
seemed a large skylight, a white stream of moonlight fell in, making a
curious disturbing effect in the warm artificial light. These
accessories, however, though they told afterwards, were as nothing to
the sight that burst upon the eyes of the new-comers. In the centre of
the room stood a tall old man, with a long pallid face, straggling white
hair, and a white beard. His face was distorted with excitement, his
voice bellowing forth a succession of cries, or rather roars, like the
roars of a wild animal. His loose lips gave forth these utterances with
flying foam and a sort of mechanical rapidity:
“I know what you’ve come for? I can pay up! I can pay up! I’ve plenty of
money, and I can pay up! But I won’t be taken, not if it costs me my
life!”
These were the words that finally emancipated themselves from the
stammering utterance and became clear.
Vicars stood behind this wild figure holding both his arms, but it was
only by glimpses that the smaller man was visible holding the other as
in a vise.
“Come, sir, come, sir, no more of this; they’ll take you for a fool,” he
said.
And then this King Lear resumed. The foam flew from his lips; his great
voice came out in its wild bellowing, the very voice which Janet had
heard so often. It had seemed to her to utter but an inarticulate cry,
but this, it would seem, was what it had been saying all the time--words
in which there was some meaning--though what that meaning was, or
whether the speaker himself understood it, who would say?
The policeman and his attendant had edged towards the doorway, and stood
there huddled upon one another. The leader of the search had been
willing to face a revolver, but the madman was a thing for which he was
not prepared. He stood against the doorway ready to retreat still
further in case there should be any further advance. Meredith and Gussy
had passed into the room, and stood together, she very anxious, he very
eager, at the side, where those wild eyes had not caught them. Behind
was Dolff very pale, standing half concealed by the group formed by the
madman and his attendant, raising his head to look over them to the two
in the doorway who had come to look for him, and had received so
unexpected a check.
Mrs. Harwood stumbled into the midst of this strange scene with her
tottering uncertain stride, driving Janet with her. She put up her hand
to hold back the dreadful insane figure. She was at one of the moments
in life when one is afraid of nothing, shrinks from nothing.
“Take him back to his seat, Vicars,” she said, “take him back.
Adolphus!” The tottering, helpless woman stood up straight, and put her
hand upon the madman’s breast. The eyes that had been blind with misery
changed and dissolved as if to dew in their orbits, consolidated again,
opened blue and strong like a relighted flame. She fixed them upon the
staring red eyes of the maniac. “Adolphus, go back, be silent, calm
yourself. There is no need for you to say anything. I am here to take
care of you. Let Vicars put you back in your chair.”
“I will not be taken,” he said, “I will not be taken! I can pay up. I
have got money, plenty of money. I will pay up!”
“Vicars,” cried Mrs. Harwood, imperiously, “put him back in his chair.”
She held her hand on his breast, and fixed her eyes upon his, pushing
him softly back. The roarings grew fainter, fell into a kind of
whimpering cry.
“I’ll pay it all--I have plenty of money. Don’t let them take me
away--I’ll pay everything up!”
“Go back and rest in your chair, Adolphus. Put him in his chair.”
The astonished spectators all stood looking on while the old servant and
this woman, whom force of necessity had moved from her own helplessness,
subdued the maniac. Vicars had partially lost his head, he had lost
control of his patient, but this unlooked-for help restored him to
himself. Between them they drew and guided the patient back to the
chair, which was fitted with some mechanical appliances, and held him
fast. Mrs. Harwood seemed to forget her weakness entirely; she tottered
no longer, but moved with a free step. She turned round upon the
frightened policeman at the door.
“Now go,” she said, “you have done your worst; whatever you want, go;
you can get no further satisfaction here.”
The intruder breathed more freely when he saw the madman sink into
quietude. He said, with a voice that quivered slightly.
“I am very willing to go: but that young gentleman has to go along with
me!”
“Come on,” cried the other man, whose teeth were chattering in his head.
“Come on; we’ve got nothing to do here.”
“I’m going: when that young gentleman makes up his mind to come with
me.”
“What young gentleman? Why, bless you, _that_ ain’t the young
gentleman!” said the man, who had struggled out into the passage, and
was now only kept from running by the other’s strong retaining grasp.
It was not wonderful that the policeman was indignant. He let his friend
go with an oath, and with a sudden push which precipitated him into the
outer room.
“You d----d fool! to have led me such a dance; and as much as our lives
are worth, and come to nothing at the end.”
The man fell backward, but got up again in a moment and took to his
heels, with the noise as of a runaway horse in the dark passage. The
policeman, reassured to see that the madman was secured, had the courage
to linger a moment. He turned to Meredith with a defiant look.
“It has come to nothing, sir, and I ask your pardon that I’ve been led
into giving you this trouble by an ass. But I make bold to ask is this
house licensed? and what right has anyone got to keep a dangerous madman
in it without inspection, or any eye over ’im? I’ll have to report it to
my superior.”
“Report it to the--devil, and be off with you,” Meredith said.
The party stood round, staring into each other’s faces, when the
strangers thus withdrew. The madman struggled against the fastenings
that secured him.
“Julia,” he said, “don’t let them take me!” He tried to get hold of her
with his hands, feeling for her as if he did not see, and began to cry
feebly, in a childish, broken voice, “Don’t let them take me! I have got
enough to pay everybody. I kept it for you and the children. It was for
you and the children; but I’ll pay up, I’ll pay everybody; only don’t
let them take me, don’t let them take me!” he whimpered, tears--piteous,
childish tears--suffusing the venerable face.
“Oh,” cried Gussy, “don’t let him cry; for God’s sake don’t let him cry!
I cannot bear it--I cannot bear it--it is too much.”
“I’ll never complain any more,” said the patient; “I’m very comfortable,
I don’t want for anything. You shall pay them all up yourself if you
don’t believe me. I’ll give you the money--only don’t let them send me
away! I’ve got it all safe here,” he said. “Stop a moment, I’ll give it
you: and all these ladies and gentlemen can prove it, that I gave it you
to pay up.” He struggled to get his arms free, trying to reach his
breast-pocket with one hand. “Vicars, get it out, and give it to your
mistress. The money--the money, you know, to pay everybody up. Only,” he
cried, putting the piteous hands together which were held fast and could
do so little, “don’t, Julia--don’t let them take me away!”
“Oh, mamma,” cried Gussy, “I can’t bear it--I can’t bear it.”
She fell on her knees and covered her face.
“Who is he?” said Dolff. They had all of them, and even Dolff himself,
forgotten what was the cause of this revelation. The young man came
forward, very pale. “I know nothing about this,” he said, looking round;
“nothing. I hope everybody will believe me. I want to know who he is!”
No one said a word, they all stood round, struck silent, not knowing
what to think. Mrs. Harwood stood with her hand upon the table,
supporting herself, asking no other support. She was perfectly pale, but
her countenance had recovered its features and expression. She did not
even look at her children--one on her knees, one standing up confronting
her, demanding to know the truth. To neither of them did she give a word
or look. Her eyes were fixed upon the man who was thus utterly in her
hands. Vicars extracted an old, large pocket-book from the pocket of the
patient, and handed it to her, not without a sort of
smile--half-mocking--on his face. She took it, glancing at it with a
certain disdain, as if the trick, often employed but no longer
necessary, had disgusted her, and flung it on the table.
“There are in this book,” she said, “old scraps of paper of no value.
This is what I am to pay his debts with. He has given it to me twenty
times before. I get tired in the end of playing the old game over and
over.”
“Mother who is he?” cried Dolff. “You have had him in your house, in
secret, never seeing the light of day, and I, your son, never knew. Who
is he?”
Mrs. Harwood made no reply.
It was a question to which no one there could give any answer, except
perhaps Gussy--on her knees, with her hands covering her face--who did
not look up or give any attention to what was going on. Meredith alone
seemed to have some clear idea in his mind: his face shone with aroused
interest and eagerness, like a man on the very trace of knowledge of the
utmost importance to him. A rapid process of thought was going on in his
mind, his intelligence was leaping from point to point.
“You will perhaps be surprised,” he said, “to hear that I have known
this for some time.”
“You!” Mrs. Harwood half turned to him, a gleam as of fire passing over
her face. “You!”
“Yes, I, who have several interests involved. I had just received
information on the subject when that young fool, thinking heaven knows
what other folly, knocked me down, taking me unawares, and nearly killed
me. Oh, yes, it is perfectly true it was Dolff who did it. You start as
if I were likely to make any fuss on that subject. Is it true that he
had the money to pay everybody?--that is what I want to know.”
“Charley, Charley, do you mean to say that Dolff----”
“Oh, I mean nothing about Dolff,” he said, impatiently: “answer me, Mrs.
Harwood.”
“I can’t answer for nothing, Mrs. Harwood,” cried Vicars, “if you keep a
lot of folks round him. He is working himself up into a fury again.”
The madman was twisting in his chair, fighting against the mechanical
bonds that secured him. He was looking towards the pocket-book which lay
on the table.
“She has got my money, and she throws it down for anybody to pick up,”
he cried. “My money! there’s money there to pay everything! Why don’t
you pay those people and let ’em go--pay them, pay them and let them go!
or else give me back my money!” he cried, wildly straining forward, with
his white hair falling back, his reddened eyes blazing, struggling
against his bonds. Mrs. Harwood took up the pocket-book, weighing it,
with a sort of forced laugh, in her hand.
“You think there may be a fortune here--enough to pay? And he thinks
so. Give it to him, Vicars. We’ve tried to keep it all quiet, but it
seems we have failed. You may leave the door open now--you may do as you
please. It can’t matter any longer. I have thought of the credit of the
family, and of many things that nobody else thinks of. And of his
comfort--nobody will say I have not thought of his comfort. Look round
you: there is everything, everything we could think of. But it is all of
no use now.”
The old man had caught the pocket-book from Vicars’ hands with a pitiful
demonstration of joy. He made a pretence of examining its contents,
eagerly turning them over as if to make sure that nothing was lost,
kissing the covers in enthusiasm of delight. He made an attempt with his
confined arms to return it to his pocket, but, failing in that, kept it
embraced in both his hands, from time to time kissing it with
extravagant satisfaction.
“As long as I have got this they can do nothing to me,” he said.
While this pantomime was going on, and while still Mrs. Harwood was
speaking, a little movement and rustle in the group caught everybody’s
attention as if it had been a new fact: but it was only Janet stealing
away behind the others who had a right there which she did not possess.
She had been watching her moment. She herself, who had nothing to do
with it, had received her share of discomfiture too. Her heart was
sinking with humiliation and shame. What had she to do with the
mysteries of the Harwoods, the things they might have to conceal? What
was she to them but a stranger of no account, never thought of, dragged
into the midst of their troubles when it pleased them, thrown off again
when they chose? Nobody would have said that Janet had any share in this
crisis, and yet it was she who had received the sharpest arrow of all;
or so, at least, she thought. She slipped behind Julia, who was bigger
and more prominent than she, and stole through the bewildering stairs
and passages. How well she seemed to know the way, as if it had been
familiar to her for years! And it was she who had given the
information--she who had been the cause of everything, drawn here and
drawn there into affairs alike alien to her, with which she had nothing
to do. They were all moved by her departure; not morally, indeed, but by
the mere stir it caused.
Gussy rose from her knees, showing a countenance as pale as death and
still glistening with tears. She said,
“Mamma, shall we go away? Whatever there may be to be said or
explained, it ought not to be done here.” She went up to the old man in
the chair, who was still embracing his pocket-book, and kissed him on
the forehead. “If any wrong has been done to you, I don’t know of it,”
she said; “I thought it was nothing but good.”
“No wrong has been done to him--none--none,” cried Mrs. Harwood,
suddenly dropping from her self-command and strength. “Children, you may
not believe me, since I’ve kept it secret from you. There has been no
wrong to him--none--none. If there has been wrong, it has not been to
him. Oh, you may believe me, at least, for I have never told you a lie.
Everything has been done for him. Look round you--look round you and you
will see.”
“Who is he?” said Dolff, obstinate and pale, standing behind the chair.
“You have no thought for me,” said the mother. “You see me standing
here, come here to defend you all, in desperation for you, and you never
ask how I am to get back, whether it will kill me---- No, no, Janet has
gone, who supported me, who was a stranger, and asked no questions, but
only helped a poor woman half mad with trouble and distress. Ah!” she
said, “he could go mad and get free--he who was the cause of it all: but
I have had to keep my sanity and my courage and bear it all, and look as
if nothing was the matter, for fifteen years. For whom? Was it for me?
It would have been better for me to have died and been done with it all.
For you, children, to give you a happy life, to do away with all
disgrace, to give you every advantage. Yes, I’ll take your arm, Ju: you
have not been a good child, but you know no better. Get me to my chair
before I drop down; get me to my chair----” She paused a moment, and
looked round with a hard laugh. “For I am very heavy,” she said, “and I
would have to be carried, and who would do it I don’t know. Ju, make
haste, before my strength is all gone. Get me to my chair.”