Volume Ii Part 15 (1/2)
Eugene listened with attentive consideration to his father's words, then looking up, met the significant glance of Marryott fixed upon him.
He turned away, and stood thoughtfully gazing into the fire. A pause of some length succeeded. Mr. Trevor had sat for some time musing, or rather calculating also, whilst Marryott stood watching with cold interest and curiosity, the progress of a train of thought, of which her insinuations had kindled the first spark.
At length Eugene felt his arm touched. His father had made his way close up to his side.
”I say Eugene,” and he whispered--but not so low that the third person should not overhear--some words in his ear.
His unhappy listener shrank as if the serpent's breath had in reality fanned his cheek. But he only shrank--he did not flee; and those ”evil thoughts” from whence stand ready to pour forth like a flood, that fearful category of crime the gospel enumerates--were working within his breast, waiting but that same breath to breathe them forth into life and action.
CHAPTER XVIII.
A light broke in upon my brain; It ceased, and then it came again; And then by dull degrees came back My senses to their wonted track.
BYRON.
It created no little consternation amongst the establishment of Montrevor, when it was delicately set about, amongst them, that Mr.
Eustace Trevor, that n.o.ble, fine, generous-hearted young gentleman was _mad_! Some, said, no wonder, coming home as he did, to find his mother, whom he loved so well, dead. Others told how, indeed, they had been near his room, and heard his ravings. One woman could testify of what she had seen of his strange grief exhibited in the chamber of death. Some few shook their heads mysteriously, but preserved discreet--though significant silence.
Vague reports got abroad, of course to this same effect. Neighbours called to inquire. Mr. Trevor and his youngest son were not visible; but the cautious answers given at the door concerning the health of Eustace, served but to confirm the fearful suspicions now let loose.
Some few of the suffering young man's particular friends, amongst them young de Burgh of Silverton, made efforts to visit him in person, but this was declared to be so perfectly impracticable, that every endeavour of the sort was obliged to be relinquished; and at length it became pretty generally known that Eustace Trevor was removed from Montrevor, though it was not exactly ascertained where, and under what circ.u.mstances.
Eugene Trevor still kept himself shut up, inaccessible to every visitor, and even the servants were not a set disposed to be very communicative concerning the family affairs; indeed, immediately after Mrs. Trevor's death, although at no time had it been on a very extensive scale, a great reduction had been made in the establishment--it was compressed into the smallest possible compa.s.s for the exigencies of the large house.
All the domestics perhaps knew on the subject was, that on a certain day, about a fortnight after Mrs. Eustace had been taken so very ill, Mr. Panton had brought, besides his a.s.sistant, another medical gentleman to the house. One of the Trevor carriages had been brought round, and Mr. Eustace was carried down stairs and conveyed away therein by the two doctors; his state of mind--as Mrs. Marryott reported--having arrived at a pitch which rendered it absolutely necessary that he should be placed under more close and immediate medical treatment.
As for Mr. Eugene, it seemed that he took his brother's condition greatly to heart. They never saw a gentleman look so ill. He scarcely touched a morsel of food, nor left the house to breathe the fresh air, but sat shut up in the library with the old gentleman; which must, they all thought, be very bad for him, both in mind and body--worse even than going off to London and racketting there, as they heard was his wont, though he did manage to keep it so snug and make himself such a favourite with his father. They wondered indeed how he managed with the old gentleman. They well knew how poor Mr. Eustace had been treated, and should always think Mr. Trevor had helped to drive him mad; but it was only like the proverb which says that ”one man may steal a horse out of the field, whilst another may not as much as look over the hedge.”
There is a pretty looking country-house about five miles distant from Montrevor, of which travellers as they pa.s.s generally ask the name, and are astonished when they hear its nature and appropriation; so little, excepting perhaps the wall surrounding the premises, is there in its exterior, as seen from the road, calculated to give the beholder an idea of its belonging to any such cla.s.s of inst.i.tution as it really does. The interior too, on a stranger's first entrance, would not be likely to enlighten him. There are pretty drawing-rooms below, looking upon lawns and gardens, in which well-dressed people are seen to sit or walk; and who give one little idea, by their carriage, behaviour, or even sometimes by their conversation, what has brought them there, and under which dreadful malady they are supposed to be labouring.
They seem to be treated in the kindest manner, and entertained and accommodated as in every way would be accordant with the immense sum which has gained for them the privilege of an entrance into this asylum of wealthy woe; for woe--yes, one of those worst of woes flesh is heir to--lies concealed beneath the glittering surface of appearances such as we are describing. And few would wish to pierce, even if allowed, farther into ”the secrets of that prison-house,” lest sounds or sights which freeze the blood and harrow the soul might be listened to and revealed.
In a remote chamber of this mansion, between whose close grated windows the light of day but feebly straggled through blinds which debarred all outward view, Eustace Trevor had opened his eyes, and for the first time for many a day felt his brain cool, his mind clear, his vision disentangled from those false and disturbed images which hitherto had so tormented it, and reduced him an unconscious unresisting prey into the hand of the enemy. The crisis had pa.s.sed--a deep but healthy sleep had succeeded. ”The wild fever had swept away like an angry red cloud, and the refres.h.i.+ng summer rain began to fall upon the parched earth.”
But where and under what circ.u.mstances did this change find him?
He had no a.s.sured remembrance of what had been. It only seemed to him at first that he had awoke out of a long, disturbed and painful slumber, of which confused dreams and horrid visions had composed the greater portion. He felt that he had been ill, and was feeble beyond description--too feeble at first to turn his eyes around--to raise his hands, upon which, clasped together on his breast, there seemed to lay, as upon his other limbs, some dead and oppressive weight.
He closed his eyes--the light, faint as it was, pained his long unconscious sight--and yielded himself again to that pa.s.sive state of immovability to which he seemed reduced.
He lay for some time in this manner, memory and consciousness working their way by dull degrees within his soul. There was a profound stillness reigning round him, which induced the drowsiness of exhaustion, and he was relapsing into a half wakeful dose, when the rumbling of carriage-wheels broke faintly on the silence; and soon after, a confused movement in the house more effectually, but still vaguely aroused his attention. Then followed the hushed sound of human voices; and one, raised above all others, in a terrible, but, as it were, quickly stifled shriek, caused him fearfully to start up in a sitting posture upon the bed.
He heard no other sound but that of a door being closed and fastened heavily, and, as it seemed, at no great distance from his own. Yet at the same moment, as by an instinctive sympathy with the ideas suggested in his mind, he tried to move his arms once more. Still they resisted every freedom of action. He struggled--he looked--he felt what a cold, leaden power it was, that thus constrained them, and strength seemed to return as fiercely. The unfortunate Eustace struggled to tear his wrists asunder. But no--more than the strength of a stronger man than he was needed to tear away those bonds; for it was under no mere physical weakness, but bonds of iron, against which he had to contend, and his efforts served but to gall and bruise the limbs they encircled.
Eustace gazed around him. His eyes fixed upon the grated window, and a look of indescribable horror stole over that fine but emaciated countenance. He tried to put his feet to the ground, and found them too strongly bound together; but still he managed to move them from the bed upon the floor, and thus he sat, and again gazed round his prison walls.
Suddenly a man appeared by his side. The captive--for such he might be called--met the firm, peculiar regard this person fixed upon him, with the full, clear glance of his powerful dark eyes; then looking down at the chains which bound him, said in a tone of earnest, but composed inquiry: