IN THE LABYRINTH.
A strange conflict went on in Lionel Westford’s mind after that scene
outside the northern wing of Wilmingdon Hall. At one moment the young
man’s brain was occupied by thoughts of Julia Godwin--her beauty,
the noble nature which was evinced in every word she uttered, the
amiable and yet impulsive temper, and all those charms and graces
of manner which made the banker’s daughter irresistible. But in the
next instant the remembrance of the old gardener’s dark hints would
flash upon Lionel Westford’s mind, and he would find it impossible to
enjoy a moment’s peace in a house that was haunted by a hideous yet
shapeless shadow.
Yes, Wilmingdon Hall had become a haunted house in the imagination
of Lionel Westford. Do what he would, he could not banish from his
recollection the strange and terrible words that had been uttered by
the old gardener.
Those words were for ever taking a more palpable form in Lionel’s
mind. They shaped themselves into the story of a murder--a foul
and deadly crime, which had been witnessed by the half-witted old
man through a chink in the shutter of the seventh window in that
long range of darkened casements belonging to the deserted wing of
Wilmingdon Hall.
But who was the murderer? That was a fearful point. Lionel Westford
scarcely dared to whisper to himself the name of the man to whom his
suspicion pointed.
That man was the same of whom his widowed mother had spoken with
unusual and apparently unreasonable bitterness; the man through whose
agency a family had been cast penniless upon the world.
But the same man was also the father of Julia Godwin, and Lionel
Westford’s heart sank within him as he contemplated the possibility
of the banker’s guilt.
What was he to do? To remain in that haunted house without taking
some active step in the matter was impossible. The very atmosphere of
the place seemed to oppress him. The cry of a dying creature seemed
perpetually ringing in his ears.
His dreams were made hideous by shapeless visions. His brain grew
dazed and bewildered, and a fitful fever took possession of him.
His tremulous hands refused to do their work; and he found himself
sometimes sitting for an hour together, staring vacantly at the
drawing before him, while his mind dwelt upon that scene in the
deserted old garden before the northern wing.
He felt that only action--prompt and decided action--could save him
from a serious illness.
“My brain is beginning to be affected,” he thought; “at any moment
I may be seized with brain-fever. In my ravings I may reveal the
suspicion that fills my mind--reveal it, perhaps, to the ears of
guilt; and then--”
He scarcely dared to follow out the thought, which was a very
horrible one.
If in the delirium attendant upon brain-fever he revealed the secret
preying so fearfully upon his mind, and revealed it to the ears of
a murderer, what more likely than that some means would be taken to
prevent his ever leaving that house alive? A helpless and unconscious
creature, stricken by fever, could be very easily disposed of, and no
one would be likely to suspect any but a natural cause for his death.
“I must act in this matter, and act promptly,” the young man thought.
“It is not because I have fallen desperately in love with Julia
Godwin that I can refrain from using my utmost endeavours to fathom
this mystery. Duty demands that I should investigate the old man’s
story. Heaven grant it may be only the delusion of a demented brain!”
Having once resolved upon the course he should take, Lionel’s mind
grew much clearer. He worked quietly and calmly all that afternoon,
keeping to his own apartments; for he was determined henceforward to
avoid the dangerous fascination of Julia Godwin’s society.
He saw Miss Godwin stroll out upon the lawn; and never had she seemed
lovelier to him than this afternoon, when stern duty kept him away
from her. He saw her walk slowly across the grass, book in hand, and
take the direction of that laurel avenue where they had so often
met--where they had passed so many happy hours.
His heart beat quicker as his eyes followed that tall white-robed
figure, in which girlish elegance was mingled with a queen-like
grace. Lionel Westford was no coxcomb, and yet within the last week
of his residence at Wilmingdon Hall, vague but delicious hopes and
fancies had mingled themselves with the tortures that oppressed his
mind.
He had been a great deal in Julia’s society within the last week, and
something--some subtle shade of tone and manner--told him that his
love was not altogether hopeless. In spite of the apparent difference
between their social positions, Julia’s manner innocently and
unconsciously revealed a tender interest in the man whom she had been
so anxious to save from destitution.
And Lionel had to exclude this exquisite hope from his mind; and,
knowing that he was beloved, he yet felt himself called upon to
devote all the force of his intellect to the carrying out of an
investigation which might result in branding with a fearful crime the
father of the girl who loved him. The task was very terrible; but
Lionel Westford was inflexible in a matter in which he felt that duty
and honour alike called upon his firmness.
“At the cost of my own happiness, at the sacrifice even of Julia’s
peace, I must fathom this horrible secret,” he thought, as he turned
away from the open window looking out upon the lawn.
That evening he began his work.
It was his habit to dine alone in his own apartment at seven o’clock,
the hour at which Miss Godwin and her stately companion, Mrs.
Melville, took their ceremonious meal.
All the arrangements of the grand old mansion were perfect in their
style, and Lionel’s solitary dinner-table was served as carefully as
if he had been a distinguished guest.
He had rarely spoken much to the man-servant who waited upon him; but
this evening he talked to the man with a purpose, for he felt that he
could do nothing in the task he had set himself until he had obtained
all the information which the members of Mr. Godwin’s household could
afford him.
“I have been very much interested lately in an old man whom
I often see about the grounds,” Lionel began with assumed
carelessness,--“Caleb Wildred, I think you call him. Poor fellow, his
mind seems quite gone. How long has he been in his present state?”
“Well, sir,” answered the servant, who was very glad of an
opportunity of talking, “Old Caleb has been queerish in his head,
off and on, for the last five or six years. But he had a bad illness
about a twelvemonth ago, and ever since he’s been a great deal worse
than he used to be--regular mad, as you must have seen, sir, talking
about blood being shed--and treachery--and daggers--and murder--and
all sorts of horrid things, till really it makes a man’s flesh creep
to hear him.”
“Poor fellow! And this has come about since his illness! What sort of
an illness was it?”
“Brain-fever, sir, and desperately bad he had it, poor chap! His life
was give over; but Mrs. Beckson, the housekeeper, she’s a very old
woman, she is, but not so old as Caleb, and as sharp as a needle, and
she and Caleb are cousins, you see, sir; so she nursed him all the
time, without troubling Mr. Godwin about the poor old chap’s illness,
and he was kept up in a garret at the top of the house, where nobody
could be disturbed by his raving and going on when the fever was at
its worst. But lor, sir, it was awful to hear the things that poor
weak-witted old fellow said.”
“What kind of things did he say?”
“Well, it was always the same story, sir, over and over and over
again. Murder and treachery, and a chink in a shutter, and goodness
knows what, but always the same; till it seemed to make your brain
go queer to hear him. That illness of his lasted for nigh upon two
months; and ever since that he’s been just as you see him now--able
to do his little bit of work well enough, and quiet and harmless,
but always going over the same ground, and yet somehow sensible and
rational in some things, for after raving out about the murder, and
the treachery, and so on, he’ll turn round the next minute and tell
you it all means nothing, it’s all nonsense, and you’re not to listen
to it. So, you see, the poor old fellow knows that he’s queer in his
head, sir; and that’s more than most of your lunatics do.”
“Has Mr. Godwin ever heard of his wild talk?”
“Never, sir, so far as I’m aware. Indeed, I may venture to say for
certain that he hasn’t, for that’s another strange part of the
business. Ever since that illness of his, old Caleb has seemed afraid
of his master; never will he go anywhere near Mr. Godwin; the very
sound of master’s voice will set him of a tremble from head to foot,
and he’ll turn as white as a ghost sometimes at the mere mention
of his name. But, lor bless me, sir, when once a man’s brain’s
turned, there’s no accounting for the fancies that get into it. I
had a cousin, sir, which he was barman at a tavern in Hertford, and
took to taking more liquor than was good for him, and had delirious
tremblings, I think the doctor called it; and, lor bless your heart,
sir, that poor fellow was always fancying things, and making grabs
at nothing, sir, thinking as how he was catching flies, mostly
blue-bottles; and if once a man gets a tile off, as the saying is,
it’s uncommon difficult to get the tile on again.”
Lionel assented to this truism. He was not particularly interested
in the delirious fancies of the footman’s drunken cousin, but he was
deeply interested in the account he gave of old Caleb. Everything the
man said helped to strengthen the hideous suspicions that oppressed
him. Why should the superannuated gardener exhibit this unreasonable
terror of his master?--why, unless the shock which had dethroned his
reason had been caused by some act of that master’s?
Lionel asked presently:
“But how was poor old Wildred seized with this brain-fever? What
brought on the attack?”
“Well, sir, that’s the queerest part of the story. You must know that
most of the servants in this house, the women servants especially,
will have it, foolish like, that the northern wing of the Hall is
haunted. It was built in the time of the Planpagennys, you see, sir,
and from all accounts it appears the Planpagennys were a queer lot.
There’s not one of the women servants will go near the place after
dark; and they all put down poor old Caleb’s fever to his having seen
some kind of a ghost.”
“But why so?”
“Because, you see, sir, this is how he was took. One night in
July,--or, let me see,” said the footman, checking himself abruptly,
with an air of intense conscientiousness, “don’t let me tell a
story--was it the beginning of July, as Caleb was took, or was it
the end of June? Well, I think it was the end of June, as it might
be somewheres between the twentieth and the thirtieth. Howsomdever,
as we was all a-sitting down to supper, the housekeeper she misses
Caleb; and being a relation, and attached to him for old times’ sake,
she was regular uneasy about him, and couldn’t go on with her supper
till she’d had him looked for. So she sends the under-gardener,
and he was gone above an hour, searching here and there about the
grounds. And it was nigh upon twelve o’clock at night when he found
poor old Caleb--where do you suppose, sir?”
“I really can’t imagine.”
“Lying in a swound, under one of the windows in the northern wing;
and our people will have it as he’d been peeping through the shutter,
and had seen a ghost.”
“Strange!” exclaimed Lionel thoughtfully.
He had lingered over his dinner, scarcely eating half-a-dozen
mouthfuls, so deeply interested was he in what the man had to tell
him. But he could not venture to prolong the meal any further, or to
ask any more questions, lest by so doing he should excite suspicion
in the mind of the servant.