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After a while, Aymer awoke from the stupor into which the drug that had been administered to him had thrown his senses. His awakening was more painful than the first effects of the poison. His head felt as heavy as lead, and there was a dull pain across his brow. A languid helplessness seemed to possess his limbs, he could not walk across the room, and with difficulty stretched out his hand to the bell-rope. Then all the designs upon the wallpapering got mixed up before his eyes in a fantastic dance, which made him giddy, till he was obliged to shut them. His consciousness had as yet barely sufficiently returned for him to notice that he was in a different apartment to any he had hitherto occupied at the asylum. He must have had partial returns to consciousness previously, for he found himself sitting in a large armchair, half clad, and wearing a dressing-gown. A second pull at the bell-rope brought footsteps outside the door, which sounded heavy upon the boards, evidently uncarpeted. Then a key turned in the lock outside, at the sound of that Aymer opened his eyes quickly, and a strong-looking man, whom he had never seen before, peered in.
“Where is Mr. Theodore?” said Aymer. “Is Miss Waldron come? Tell them I am better. Ask her to see me. What has been the matter with me?”
“You’ve had one of your fits, sir,” replied the man, very civilly, but in an indifferent tone.
“My fits! I never have fits. Why do you stand in the doorway? Why was the door locked?”
“All right sir—don’t excite yourself. There, you see you can’t stand. It’s your head, sir, your head.”
“Send me a doctor instantly,” said Aymer.
“A doctor? He’s been to see you three or four times.”
“Three or four times! How long have I been ill, then?”
“Oh, five days, I think. Let’s see, you were brought over here on the Tuesday I remember—yes, five days.”
“Brought over here? What do you mean? Who the deuce are you?” said Aymer, for the first time growing suspicious, and standing up by dint of effort.
“Do sit still, sir, and keep calm, or you’ll have another fit. My name’s Davidson; I’m a warder; and I’ll take good care of you, sir, if you’ll only keep quiet.”
The truth flashed into Aymer’s mind in an instant.
“Do you mean to say I am in the madhouse?” he asked, quietly.
“Well, no, sir, not quite so bad as that. This is an asylum, sir.”
“How did I get here?”
“You were carried over in your fit.”
“And where’s Miss Waldron? Tell her to come to me at once.”
“There’s no Miss Waldron, sir; your head is not quite clear yet.”
“What! you don’t mean to say that you believe me mad?”
“Well, your papers is all right, sir.”
Aymer lost his temper, as well he might.
“Mr. Theodore must be mad,” he said. “Tell him to come at once; no, I’ll go to him.”
With an effort he reached the door; but Davidson easily kept him back with one hand, in his weak state.
“Now do keep quiet, sir—do sit down.”
“I tell you I’m the secretary,” said Aymer, his breath coming fast and thick, for he began to feel that he was trapped.
“Ay, ay, sir; they all say that, or something like it. You see, we likes to get people to come quiet, without any noise. One gent came here thinking it was his family mansion, and he was a duke. If you’ll sit down, sir, I’ll get you anything you want.”
Poor Aymer was obliged to totter to his chair.
“And where’s Violet—where’s Miss Waldron?” he said.
“There isn’t no such person, sir. ’Tis your head; you’ll be better presently. I’ll look in again by-and-by.”
The door shut, the lock turned. Aymer knew that he was a prisoner. For a few minutes he really was mad, frenzied with unusual passion and indignation, to be trapped like an animal lured on by provender, and for what purpose? Ah, for what purpose? Violet—it must be Violet—her claim to the Stirmingham estate. He was trapped that he might not follow up the clue. Where was she? Doubtless spirited away somewhere, or perhaps expecting him at Belthrop, thinking he was coming to her. They would be sure to keep them as far apart as possible. Theodore was Marese Baskette’s cousin, his friend, his confidant; he saw it all—he had been drugged, stupefied, made to utter every species of nonsense, to appear literally mad. He looked round the room; it was to all appearance an ordinary apartment, except that the door was strong, and without panels to weaken it. He staggered to the window, he put it up; there were no bars, no iron rods to prevent him getting out; but he looked down—a drop of twenty feet—into a narrow, stone-paved courtyard. A bitter thought entered his mind: they would rather like him to commit suicide out of that window. Opposite, about ten feet distant, ran an immensely high stone wall, crenelated on the top, and over that he could catch a glimpse of the blue May sky. He understood now why the corridor was evidently uncarpeted; if by any means he should get out at the door, his steps would sound, and give the alarm at once. He sat down and tried to think; either the excitement, or the natural strength of his constitution was fast overcoming the poison. His head was clearer, and he could see distinctly, but his limbs were still feeble. What could he do?
At this moment the key again turned in the lock, and Davidson entered, bearing a tray with an appetising dinner.
“How do I know these things are not drugged also?” said Aymer.
“Drugged, sir? That’s always their delusion. Them’s good victuals. I’ll taste if you like.” And he did so.
While his head was turned, Aymer, weak as he was, made a rush at the door. The warder turned and seized him, and led him back to his chair like a child. Aymer, mad with passion, threatened him, and snatched at a knife upon the table.
“Ay, ay; steady, sir,” said the warder, quite coolly; “that’s no use, my waistcoat is padded on purpose. I’ve had him padded ever since Mr. Odo made a stab at me. Now, now, sir, do be quiet; you’re only a hurting yourself. Eat your dinner and get stronger, and maybe then you can have a wrestle with me.”
He glanced with a half smile at Aymer’s slight, panting figure, and then at his own sturdy proportions, winked, and withdrew.
As his steps died away in the passage, Aymer started to his feet in intense astonishment. He had heard his own name; he could not believe his senses—was he really mad?
“Aymer Malet, Esq.”
The voice was low, but distinct. It might come from the doorway, the window, the wall, the ceiling. He was startled, but replied—
“Yes; I am here.”
“Young man,” said the voice, very low, but quite audible, “take my advice: control your temper. If you stab a warder they will have a pretext to keep you here all your lifetime.”
“Ah,” said Aymer; “thank you, I understand. But who are you?—who are you?”
“I am a young old man. Who are you?”
“I am a young man,” said Aymer, growing curious, and for the moment forgetting his position. “My name you know—I can’t tell how. I come from World’s End.”
“Ah!” said the voice, sadly; “I had hoped you were sane.”
“So I am.”
“Why then say you came from the world’s end?”
“I did not. I said from World’s End; it is a place near Bury Wick.”
“You are sane then so far. I know that World’s End very well. I only tried you. I overheard your name when you were carried in. Now, answer me. Why are you here?”
“There, that is what I want to know.”
“If you do not know, you are not sane. Cannot you see the motive for your confinement?”
“Certainly I can. It is easy to see that.”
And Aymer briefly related the circumstances.
“And where is your Violet?”
“Doubtless at Belthrop, or spirited away—perhaps abroad. Far enough from me, at all events.”
“Not so: she is in this very place.”
“I don’t believe it. They would keep her away.”
“I am sure of it. What should you do if you got out?”
“I should go straight to Belthrop—or, stay, perhaps I should go to Mr. Broughton. He would protect me.”
“Broughton—ah! he is a lawyer. I see you are sane. I must have a look at you. Turn your face towards the picture of the ‘Last Supper.’ ”
Wondering and yet curious, Aymer did as he was bid. On the wall above a sideboard was a large copy of Vinci’s “Last Supper.” In a few seconds the voice came again; and soon he found it came from the picture.
“I see you. I have read you. You have talent, perhaps genius; but your chin is weak. You know not how to fight men. You do not comprehend that men are beasts, and that it is necessary to be always fighting them. Still you are sane, you are young—eat, and get strong—you will do. Your name is familiar to me. Who was your father?”
Aymer told him. The voice replied—“I knew him—a clever man, and, excuse me, a fool. How came you to reside at World’s End?”
Aymer told him. “But who are you?” he said, eagerly. “Let me see you also.”
“Very well. Look at the dog under the table in the picture. Now.”
Aymer saw a slender white finger suddenly protruded through the body of the dog.
“But I only see your finger.”
“Well, that is me. Don’t you know that the hand is the man, and the claw is the beast? You can see by my finger that I have a hand.”
It was evident that the stranger was proud of his white hand and slender finger.
“Who on earth are you?” said Aymer, beginning to get excited. “If you do not answer me I will pull the picture down.”
“If you do, you will ruin us both.”
“Well, tell me who you are.”
“I am a prisoner like yourself. My name is, or was, for I am dead now, Fulk Lechester.”
“Fulk Lechester—Lady Agnes’ cousin! Ah! I have heard of you,” said Aymer. “You were very clever, and you went—well, I mean—”
“Ha! ha! ha! I will convince you that I am as sane as yourself—saner; for what a goose you were to be so easily trapped.”
“So I certainly was.”
“Would you like to get out? Of course. So should I. Let me see. First, I have seen you—your physiognomy is good; next, I have read of your book, for I see the papers; thirdly, I knew your father, at least I knew all about his career; fourthly, you come from World’s End, and that is my neighbourhood; fifthly, you are young; sixthly, you are in love, which is a strong stimulus to exertion. Yes, you will do. Now eat your dinner; you must get strong.”
“I will not touch it till I see you. I will tear the picture down.”
“Oh, rash, headstrong! Lift it up instead.”
Aymer tried. “I can’t,” he said.
“No, because I have fixed it. Now try.”
The picture lifted easily, and Aymer was face to face with the stranger. He saw a little man, a head and a half shorter than himself, elegantly made, and dressed in the fashion. His brow was very broad and high, his eyes dark and large, deeply set; his lips perfect. He had a small moustache but no beard or whiskers. His complexion was the worst part of his appearance; it was almost yellow. Fulk smiled, and showed good teeth.
“I am yellow, I know,” he said. “So would you be if you had not been out of doors for two years. I look forty, I know; I am really just thirty-three. Nipped in the bud. Ha! ha! However, there is no time to waste—the warder will return. Eat your dinner. Let us shake hands.”
Aymer readily extended his hand. Suddenly he said—
“How do I know that this is not a new trap?”
Fulk smiled sadly. “A week ago you believed everybody,” he said; “now you run to the other extreme. That is youth. I am young; but I am also old. Trouble makes men old, thought perhaps still older. For seven years I have done nothing but think.”
“For seven years!” echoed Aymer, in horror. “Have you been here seven years?”
“Yes; I was then twenty-six, now I am thirty-three. Ah! I blossomed too fast. It is a bad sign, friend Aymer, when life is all roses too early; the frosts are sure to come.”
“True,” said Aymer, thinking of his wedding-day, so strangely, so dreadfully interrupted.
“I was a Secretary of State at twenty-six. I had everything—money, youth, power, a career, a loving wife. A few hours changed it.”
“May I ask, how?”
“Certainly; companions in misfortune have no secrets. My wife was thrown from her horse; her beautiful neck was broken. I had no son. We Lechesters are perhaps a little wild. Odo was certainly wild. Well, grief made me eccentric. I threw up my career. I was young then, like you. I resigned; I went down to Cornwall; I built a hut among the rocks, and said I would live a hermit’s life. I did so. I began to feel better. The sea soothed me; I learnt much from Nature. You see, I had lived hitherto all my days with men. If I had stayed there, I should have written something great. But there were men who had their eyes on me. My property is large, you know; trustees or guardians do not get pay direct; but there are indirect profits in managing estates. My wife was dead; her friends did not trouble to protect me. Perhaps I did seem eccentric. Hermits are out of date. For years it has been the custom to put Lechesters in an asylum. I was put here; but not so easily as you. I fought; it was no use. I might as well have been calm.”
“And you have been here all these years?”
“All these years, but not without trying to escape. I pretended to be harmlessly mad—quite satisfied with my condition. I was allowed to wander in the grounds. One day I got up a tree, and before they could follow I was on the wall, I dropped over but broke my leg. Well, I recovered, but I still limp a little; after a while, I went into the grounds with a keeper. I tried cunning. I became harmlessly mad again—my fancy was to fly kites. To one kite I attached a long letter with an account of my imprisonment. I let it loose, and it fell in the midst of Stirmingham. But it was no good—it made a stir—people came here, and I answered their questions calmly. No good. They were determined to see that I was mad. If I misspelt a single word in a sentence, it was a proof that a highly-educated mind had partially broken down. Like you, I got violent—I tried to despatch a warder and get out. Ever since then I have been in this room.”
“Two years?”
“Two years. Hush—eat your dinner—Davidson comes.”
The picture fell into its place, and Aymer tried to eat the dinner, which had grown cold.