THE SONS AND THEIR FATHER.
“Where is my mother?”
Such was Reginald's last question. He asked it as though Lady Dudleigh
was only _his_ mother, and not the mother of Leon also. But the
circumstances of his past life had made his father and his brother seem
like strangers, and his mother seemed all his own.
At this question Leon stared at him with a look of surprise that was
evidently unfeigned.
“Your mother?” he repeated.
“I do not say _our_ mother,” said Reginald. “I say _my_
mother. Where is she?”
“I swear I know nothing about her,” said Leon, earnestly. “I have never
seen her.”
“You have never seen her?” repeated Reginald, in a tremulous voice.
“Never,” said Leon; “that is, not since she left this place ten years
ago.”
“You saw her at Dalton Hall!” cried Reginald.
“At Dalton Hall? I did not,” said Leon.
“Mrs. Dunbar, she called herself. You saw her often.”
“Mrs. Dunbar! Good Heavens!” cried Leon, in unaffected surprise. “How
was I to know that?”
Reginald looked at him gloomily and menacingly.
“Leon,” said he, in a stern voice, “if you dare to deceive me about
this, I will show no mercy. You must tell _all_--yes, _all_.”
“But I tell you I don't know any thing about her,” said Leon; “I swear I
don't. I'll tell every thing that I know. No such person has ever been
here.”
Reginald looked at his brother with a gloomy frown; but Leon's tone
seemed sincere, and the thought came to him that his brother could have
no reason for concealment. If Leon did not know, he would have to seek
what he wished from another--his father. His father and his mother had
gone off together; that father alone could tell.
“Where is Sir Lionel?” asked Reginald, as these thoughts came to him. He
called him “Sir Lionel.” He could not call him “father.”
Leon looked at him with a strange expression.
“He is here,” said he.
“Where shall I find him? I want to see him at once. Is he in his room?”
Leon hesitated.
“Quick!” said Reginald, impatiently. “Why don't you answer?”
“You won't get much satisfaction out of him,” said Leon, in a peculiar
voice.
“I'll find out what he knows. I'll tear the secret out of him,” cried
Reginald, fiercely. “Where is he? Come with me. Take me to him.”
“You'll find it rather hard to get any thing out of him,” said Leon,
with a short laugh. “He's beyond even your reach, and your courts of
law too.”
“What do you mean?” cried Reginald.
“Well, you may see for yourself,” said Leon. “You won't be satisfied, I
suppose, unless you do. Come along. You needn't be alarmed. I won't run.
I'll stick to my part of our agreement, if you stick to yours.”
With these words Leon led the way out of the library, and Reginald
followed. They went up a flight of stairs and along a hall to the
extreme end. Here Leon stopped at a door, and proceeded to take a key
from his pocket. This action surprised Reginald. He remembered the room
well. In his day it had not been used at all, except on rare occasions,
and had been thus neglected on account of its gloom and dampness.
“What's the meaning of this?” he asked, gloomily, looking suspiciously
at the key.
“Oh, you'll see soon enough,” said Leon.
With these words he inserted the key in the lock as noiselessly as
possible, and then gently turned the bolt. Having done this, he opened
the door a little, and looked in with a cautions movement. These
proceedings puzzled Reginald still more, and he tried in vain to
conjecture what their object might be.
One cautious look satisfied Leon. He opened the door wider, and said, in
a low voice, to his brother,
“Come along; he's quiet just now.”
With these words he entered, and held the door for Reginald to pass
through. Without a moment's hesitation Reginald went into the room. He
took but one step, and then stopped, rooted to the floor by the sight
that met his eyes.
The room was low, and had no furniture but an iron bed. There were two
small, deep windows, over which the ivy had grown so closely that it
dimmed the light, and threw an air of gloom over the scene.
Upon the iron bed was seated a strange figure, the sight of which sent a
thrill of horror through Reginald's frame. It was a thin, emaciated
figure, worn and bent. His hair was as white as snow; his beard and
mustache were short and stubbly, as though they were the growth of but a
few weeks; while his whiskers were bushy and matted together.
Over this figure a quilt was thrown in a fantastic manner, under which
appeared a long night-gown, from which thin bare legs protruded, with
bare, gaunt, skeleton-like feet.
As he sat there his eyes wandered about on vacancy; a silly smile was on
his white, worn face; he kept muttering to himself continually some
incoherent and almost inaudible sentences; and at the same time his long
bony fingers kept clawing and picking at the quilt which covered him.
[Illustration: “UPON THE IRON BED WAS SEATED A STRANGE FIGURE.”]
At first Reginald could scarce believe what he saw; but there was the
fact before his eyes, and the terrible truth could not be denied that in
this wretched creature before him was the wreck of that one who but a
short time before had seemed to him to be a powerful and unscrupulous
villain, full of the most formidable plans for inflicting fresh wrongs
upon those whom he had already so foully injured. Reginald had seen him
for a few moments at the trial, and had noticed that the ten eventful
years for which they had been parted had made but little difference in
his appearance. The casual glimpses of him which he afterward had
caught showed some change, but nothing very striking; but now the change
was terrible, the transformation was hideous; the strong man had become
a shattered wreck; the once vigorous mind had sunk into a state of
helpless imbecility and driveling idiocy.
Leon shut the door, and turning the key, stood looking on. The slight
noise which he made attracted the wandering gaze of the madman. He
started slightly, and stood up, wrapping the quilt carefully around him.
Then, with a silly smile, he advanced a few paces.
“Well, Dr. Morton,” he said, in a weak, quavering voice, “you have
received my letter, I hope. Here is this person that I wrote about. Her
name is Mrs. Dunbar. She is an old dependent. She is mad--ha, ha!--mad.
Yes, mad, doctor. She thinks she is my wife. She calls herself Lady
Dudleigh. But, doctor, her real name is Mrs. Dunbar. She is mad,
doctor--mad--mad--mad. Ha, ha, ha!”
At these words a terrible suspicion came to Reginald's mind. The madman
had still prominent in his thoughts the idea which he had lately been
carrying out. Could there be any truth in these words, or were they mere
fancies? He said not a word, but looked and listened in anxious silence.
He had felt a moment's pity for this man, who, wretch though he had
been, was still his father; but now his mother's image rose before
him--his mother, pale, suffering, and perhaps despairing--and in his
eager desire to learn her fate, all softer feelings for his father died
out.
“You must keep her, Dr. Morton,” said Sir Lionel, in the same tone. “You
know what she wants. I will pay you well. Money is no object. You must
keep her close--close--yes, close as the grave. She is incurable,
doctor. She must never come out of this place with her mad fancies. For
she is mad--mad--mad--mad--mad. Oh yes. Ha, ha, ha!”
Sir Lionel then smiled as before, and chuckled to himself, while a leer
of cunning triumph flashed for a moment from his wandering eyes.
“Trapped!” he ejaculated, softly. “Trapped! The keeper! The keeper
trapped! She thought she was my keeper! And so she was. But she was
trapped--yes, trapped. The keeper trapped! Ha, ha, ha! She thought it
was an inn,” he continued, after a brief silence, in which he chuckled
to himself over the remembrance of his scheme; “and so she was trapped.
The keeper was caught herself, and found herself in a mad-house! And
she'll never get out--never! She's mad. They'll all believe it. Mad!
Yes, mad--and in a mad-house! Ha, ha, ha! There's Lady Dudleigh for
you! But she's Mrs. Dunbar now. Ha, ha, ha!”
Reginald's eagerness to learn more was uncontrollable. In his impatience
to find out he could no longer wait for his father's stray confessions.
“What mad-house? Where?” he asked, eagerly and abruptly.
Sir Lionel did not look at him. But the question came to him none the
less. It came to him as if it had been prompted by his own thoughts, and
he went on upon the new idea which this question started.
“She saw me write it, too--the letter--and she saw me write the address.
There it was as plain as day--the address. Dr. Morton, I wrote,
Lichfield Asylum, Lichfield, Berks. But she didn't look at it. She
helped me put it in the post-office. Trapped! Trapped! Oh yes--the
keeper trapped!” he continued. “She thought we were going to Dudleigh
Manor, but we were going to Lichfield Asylum. And we stopped there. And
she stopped there. And she is there now. Trapped! Ha, ha, ha! And, my
good doctor, keep her close, for she's mad. Oh yes--mad--mad--mad--and
very dangerous!”
The wretched man now began to totter from weakness, and finally sat down
upon the floor. Here he gathered his quilt about him, and began to smile
and chuckle and wag his head and pick at his fantastic dress as before.
The words which he muttered were inaudible, and those which could be
heard were utterly incoherent. The subject that had been presented to
his mind by the entrance of Reginald was now forgotten, and his thoughts
wandered at random, like the thoughts of a feverish dream, without
connection and without meaning.
Reginald turned away. He could no longer endure so painful a spectacle.
He had been long estranged from his father, and he had come home for the
sake of obtaining justice from that father, for the sake of the innocent
man who had suffered so unjustly and so terribly, and whom he loved as a
second father. Yet here there was a spectacle which, if he had been a
vengeful enemy, would have filled him with horror. One only feeling was
present in his mind now to alleviate that horror, and this was a sense
of profound relief that this terrible affliction had not been wrought by
any action of his. He had no hand in it. It had come upon his father
either as the gradual result of years of anxiety, or as the immediate
effect of the sudden appearance of Dalton and his wife.
But for these thoughts there was no leisure. His whole mind was filled
with but one idea--his mother. In a few moments they were outside the
room. The madman was left to himself, and Reginald questioned Leon about
him.
“I have heard all this before,” said Leon. “He came home very queer,
and before a week was this way. I put him in there to keep him out of
mischief. I feed him myself. No one else goes near him. I've had a
doctor up, but he could do nothing. He has often talked in this way
about trapping someone, but he never mentioned any name till today. He
never did--I swear he never did. I swear I had no idea that he had
reference to my--to Lady Dudleigh. I thought it was some crazy fancy
about Mr. Dalton--some scheme of his for 'trapping' him. I did--I
swear.”
Such was Leon's statement, extorted from him by the fiercest of
cross-questionings on the part of Reginald, accompanied by most savage
threats.
Leon, however, swore that he thought it referred to a scheme of his
father's to “trap” Dalton, and shut him up in a mad-house. If it was
true that no names had been mentioned, Reginald saw that it was quite
possible that Leon might have supposed what he said, though his
knowledge of his brother did not lead him to place any particular
confidence in his statement, even when accompanied by an oath.
It now remained to find out, without delay, the place which the madman
had revealed. Reginald remembered it well: _Dr. Morton, Lichfield
Asylum, Lichfield, Berks._ Leon also said that the same name had been
always mentioned. There could not, therefore, be any mistake about this,
and it only remained to find out where it was.
Leon knew both the man and the place, and told all that he knew, not
because he had a particle of affection for his mother, but because he
wished to satisfy Reginald, so as to gain that freedom which his brother
only could give him. He had been the intimate confidant of his father,
and this Dr. Morton had been connected with them previously in another
affair. He was therefore able to give explicit information about the
place, and the quickest manner of reaching it.
Reginald set off that very day.
“It will be better for you to stay here,” said he to Leon, as he was
leaving, in a significant tone.
“Oh, I'll stay,” said Leon. “If you act square, that's all I want. Give
me those notes and bonds, and I'll never trouble you or yours again.”
Before leaving he obtained from Leon further information about his first
marriage with Miss Fortescue. This he communicated to Leon's wife, whom
he found waiting for him in great suspense. As soon as she heard it she
set out for London to find the witness mentioned by Leon; after which
she intended to go to Falkirk in search of the clergyman.
After parting with Leon's wife, Reginald left by the first train, _en
route_ for Dr. Morton's asylum at Lichfield, in accordance with
Leon's directions. On the middle of the following day he reached the
place.
He came there accompanied by two officers of the law, who had a warrant
for the arrest of Dr. Morton on a charge of conspiracy and illegal
imprisonment. That distinguished physician came down to see his
visitors, under the impression that one of them was a patient, and was
very much surprised when he found himself under arrest. Still more
surprised was he when Reginald asked him, fiercely, after Lady Dudleigh.
In a few moments the door of Lady Dudleigh's room was flung open, and
the almost despairing inmate found herself in the arms of her son. She
looked feeble and emaciated, though not so much so as Reginald had
feared. She had known too much of the sorrows of life to yield
altogether to this new calamity. Her chief grief had been about others,
the fear that they might have become the prey of the villain who had
shut her in here; but in spite of her terrible suspense, she struggled
against the gloom of her situation, and tried to hope for release. It
had come at last, and with it came also the news that there was no
longer any need for her or for Reginald to take any proceedings against
the guilty husband and father, since he had been struck down by a more
powerful arm.
When they went away, Dr. Morton was taken away also. In due time he was
tried on the charge above mentioned. He showed, however, that Lady
Dudleigh had been put under his care by Sir Lionel himself, and in the
usual way; that Sir Lionel had specified the nature of her insanity to
consist in the belief that she was his wife, and that so long as she
maintained that belief he thought her actually insane. He showed that,
apart from that confinement which he had deemed requisite, she had been
treated with no unnecessary cruelty. Many other things he also showed,
by means of which he contrived to obtain an acquittal. Still, so much
came out in the course of the trial, and so very narrow was his escape,
and so strong was his fear of being re-arrested on other charges, that
he concluded to emigrate to another country, and this he did without
delay.
But Reginald returned at once with his mother to Dudleigh Manor. Here
Lady Dudleigh for a few days sank under the effects of the accumulated
troubles through which she had passed, and when at length she was able
to move about, Sir Lionel was the first one of whom she thought, and she
at once devoted herself to him. But the wretched man was already beyond
the reach of her care. His strength was failing rapidly; he refused all
nourishment; his mind was a hopeless wreck; he recognized no one; and
all that was now left to the wife to do was to watch over him and nurse
him as patiently as possible until the end, which she knew must be near.
In the excitement consequent upon his first return, his interviews with
Leon and Sir Lionel, his rescue of Lady Dudleigh, and his deep anxiety
about her after her release. Reginald had sent no word to Edith of any
kind. This arose neither from neglect nor forgetfulness, but because
his surroundings were too sad, and he had not the heart to write to her
until some brighter prospect should appear. His mother's short illness
at first alarmed him; but this passed away, and on her recovery he felt
sufficiently cheerful to send to Edith an account of all that had
occurred.
Ten days had passed since he parted with
her. On the day after he wrote to her he
received a letter from her. It was the first
communication that he had received.
That letter conveyed to him awful intelligence. It informed him of the
arrest of Edith and Frederick Dalton.
* * * * *