Basil

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"Ralph! Ralph! how could you--"

"Stop! hear the end of it. Of course I knew that we couldn't carry out
this divorce-threat, without its being the death of my father; but I
thought a little quiet bullying on my part might do Mr. Shopkeeper
Sherwin some good. And I was right. You never saw a man sit sorer on
the sharp edges of a dilemma than he did. I stuck to my point in spite
of everything; silence and money, or exposure and divorce--just which
he pleased. 'I deny every one of your infamous imputations,' said he.
'That's not the question,' said I. 'I'll go to your father,' said he.
'You won't be let in,' said I. 'I'll write to him,' said he. 'He won't
receive your letter,' said I. There we came to a pull-up. _He_ began
to stammer, and _I_ refreshed myself with a pinch of snuff. Finding it
wouldn't do, he threw off the Roman at last, and resumed the
Tradesman. 'Even supposing I consented to this abominable compromise,
what is to become of my daughter?' he asked. 'Just what becomes of
other people who have comfortable annuities to live on,' I answered.
'Affection for my deeply-wronged child half inclines me to consult her
wishes, before we settle anything--I'll go up-stairs,' said he. 'And
I'll wait for you down here,' said I."

"Did he object to that?"

"Not he. He went up-stairs, and in a few minutes ran down again, with
an open letter in his hand, looking as if the devil was after him
before his time. At the last three or four stairs, he tripped, caught
at the bannisters, dropped the letter over them in doing so, tumbled
into the passage in such a fury and fright that he looked like a
madman, tore his hat off a peg, and rushed out. I just heard him say
his daughter should come back, if he put a straight waistcoat on her,
as he passed the door. Between his tumble, his passion, and his hurry,
he never thought of coming back for the letter he had dropped over the
bannisters. I picked it up before I went away, suspecting it might be
good evidence on our side; and I was right. Read it yourself; Basil;
you have every moral and legal claim on the precious document--and
here it is."

I took the letter, and read (in Mannion's handwriting) these words,
dated from the hospital:--

"I have received your last note, and cannot wonder that you are
getting impatient under restraint. But, remember, that if you had not
acted as I warned you beforehand to act in case of accidents--if you
had not protested innocence to your father, and preserved total
silence towards your mother; if you had not kept in close retirement,
behaving like a domestic martyr, and avoiding, in your character of a
victim, all voluntary mention of your husband's name--your position
might have been a very awkward one. Not being able to help you, the
only thing I could do was to teach you how to help yourself. I gave
you the lesson, and you have been wise enough to profit by it.

"The time has now come for a change in my plans. I have suffered a
relapse; and the date of my discharge from this place is still
uncertain. I doubt the security, both on your account, and on mine, of
still leaving you at your father's house, to await my cure. Come to me
here, therefore, to-morrow, at any hour when you can get away
unperceived. You will be let in as a visitor, and shown to my bedside,
if you ask for Mr. Turner--the name I have given to the hospital
authorities. Through the help of a friend outside these walls, I have
arranged for a lodging in which you can live undiscovered, until I am
discharged and can join you. You can come here twice a week, if you
like, and you had better do so, to accustom yourself to the sight of
my injuries. I told you in my first letter how and where they had been
inflicted--when you see them with your own eyes, you will be best
prepared to hear what my future purposes are, and how you can aid
them.

R. M."

This was evidently the letter about which I had been consulted by the
servant at North Villa; the date corresponded with the date of
Mannion's letter to me. I noticed that the envelope was missing, and
asked Ralph whether he had got it.

"No," he replied; "Sherwin dropped the letter just in the state in
which I have given it to you. I suspect the girl took away the
envelope with her, thinking that the letter which she left behind her
was inside. But the loss of the envelope doesn't matter. Look there:
the fellow has written her name at the bottom of the leaf; as coolly
as if it was an ordinary correspondence. She is identified with the
letter, and that's all we want in our future dealings with her
father."

"But, Ralph, do you think--"

"Do I think her father will get her back? If he's in time to catch her
at the hospital, he assuredly will. If not, we shall have some little
trouble on our side, I suspect. This seems to me to be how the matter
stands now, Basil:--After that letter, and her running away, Sherwin
will have nothing for it but to hold his tongue about her innocence;
we may consider _him_ as settled and done with. As for the other
rascal, Mannion, he certainly writes as if he meant to do something
dangerous. If he really does attempt to annoy us, we will mark him
again (I'll do it next time, by way of a little change!); _he_ has no
marriage certificate to shake over our heads, at any rate. What's the
matter now?--you're looking pale again."

I _felt_ that my colour was changing, while he spoke. There was
something ominous in the contrast which, at that moment, I could not
fail to draw between Mannion's enmity, as Ralph ignorantly estimated
it, and as I really knew it. Already the first step towards the
conspiracy with which I was threatened, had been taken by the
departure of Sherwin's daughter from her father's house. Should I, at
this earliest warning of coming events, show my brother the letter I
had received from Mannion? No! such defence against the dangers
threatened in it as Ralph would be sure to counsel, and to put in
practice, might only include _him_ in the life-long persecution which
menaced _me._ When he repeated his remark about my sudden paleness, I
merely accounted for it by some common-place excuse, and begged him to
proceed.

"I suppose, Basil," he said, "the truth is, that you can't help being
a little shocked--though you could expect nothing better from the
girl--at her boldly following this fellow Mannion, even to the
hospital" (Ralph was right; in spite of myself, this feeling was one
among the many which now influenced me.) "Setting that aside, however,
we are quite ready, I take it, to let her stick to her choice, and
live just as she pleases, so long as she doesn't live under our name.
There is the great fear and great difficulty now! If Sherwin can't
find her, we must; otherwise, we can never feel certain that she is
not incurring all sorts of debts as your wife. If her father gets her
back, I shall be able to bring her to terms at North Villa; if not, I
must get speech of her, wherever she happens to be hidden. She's the
only thorn in our side now, and we must pull her out with gold pincers
immediately. Don't you see that, Basil?"

"I see it, Ralph!"

"Very well. Either to-night or to-morrow morning, I'll communicate
with Sherwin, and find out whether he has laid hands on her. If he
hasn't, we must go to the hospital, and see what we can discover for
ourselves. Don't look miserable and downhearted, Basil, I'll go with
you: you needn't see her again, or the man either; but you must come
with me, for I may be obliged to make use of you. And now, I'm off for
to-day, in good earnest. I must get back to Mrs. Ralph (unfortunately
she happens to be one of the most sensitive women in the world), or
she will be sending to advertise me in the newspapers. We shall pull
through this, my dear fellow--you will see we shall! By the bye, you
don't know of a nice little detached house in the Brompton
neighbourhood, do you? Most of my old theatrical friends live about
there--a detached house, mind! The fact is, I have taken to the violin
lately (I wonder what I shall take to next?); Mrs. Ralph accompanies
me on the pianoforte; and we might be an execrable nuisance to very
near neighbours--that's all! You don't know of a house? Never mind; I
can go to an agent, or something of that sort. Clara shall know
to-night that we are moving prosperously, if I can only give the
worthiest creature in the world the slip: she's a little obstinate,
but, I assure you, a really superior woman. Only think of my dropping
down to playing the fiddle, and paying rent and taxes in a suburban
villa! How are the fast men fallen! Good bye, Basil, good bye!"

VII.

The next morning, Ralph never appeared--the day passed on, and I heard
nothing--at last, when it was evening, a letter came from him.

The letter informed me that my brother had written to Mr. Sherwin,
simply asking whether he had recovered his daughter. The answer to
this question did not arrive till late in the day; and was in the
negative--Mr. Sherwin had not found his daughter. She had left the
hospital before he got there; and no one could tell him whither she
had gone. His language and manner, as he himself admitted, had been so
violent that he was not allowed to enter the ward where Mannion lay.
When he returned home, he found his wife at the point of death; and on
the same evening she expired. Ralph described his letter, as the
letter of a man half out of his senses. He only mentioned his
daughter, to declare, in terms almost of fury, that he would accuse
her before his wife's surviving relatives, of having been the cause of
her mother's death; and called down the most terrible denunciations on
his own head, if he ever spoke to his child again, though he should
see her starving before him in the streets. In a postscript, Ralph
informed me that he would call the next morning, and concert measures
for tracking Sherwin's daughter to her present retreat.

Every sentence in this letter bore warning of the crisis which was now
close at hand; yet I had as little of the desire as of the power to
prepare for it. A superstitious conviction that my actions were
governed by a fatality which no human foresight could alter or avoid,
began to strengthen within me. From this time forth, I awaited events
with the uninquiring patience, the helpless resignation of despair.

My brother came, punctual to his appointment. When he proposed that I
should at once accompany him to the hospital, I never hesitated at
doing as he desired. We reached our destination; and Ralph approached
the gates to make his first enquiries.

He was still speaking to the porter, when a gentleman advanced towards
them, on his way out of the hospital. I saw him recognise my brother,
and heard Ralph exclaim:

"Bernard! Jack Bernard! Have you come to England, of all the men in
the world!"

"Why not?" was the answer. "I got every surgical testimonial the
_Hotel Dieu_ could give me, six months ago; and couldn't afford to
stay in Paris only for my pleasure. Do you remember calling me a
'mute, inglorious Liston,' long ago, when we last met? Well, I have
come to England to soar out of my obscurity and blaze into a shining
light of the profession. Plenty of practice at the hospital,
here--very little anywhere else, I am sorry to say."

"You don't mean that you belong to _this_ hospital?"

"My dear fellow, I am regularly on the staff; I'm here every day of my
life."

"You're the very man to enlighten us. Here, Basil, cross over, and let
me introduce you to an old Paris friend of mine. Mr. Bernard--my
brother. You've often heard me talk, Basil, of a younger son of old
Sir William Bernard's, who preferred a cure of bodies to a cure of
souls; and actually insisted on working in a hospital when he might
have idled in a family living. This is the man--the best of doctors
and good fellows."

"Are you bringing your brother to the hospital to follow my mad
example?" asked Mr. Bernard, as he shook hands with me.

"Not exactly, Jack! But we really have an object in coming here. Can
you give us ten minutes' talk, somewhere in private? We want to know
about one of your patients."

He led us into an empty room, on the ground-floor of the building.
"Leave the matter in my hands," whispered Ralph to me, as we sat down.
"I'll find out everything."

"Now, Bernard," he said, "you have a man here, who calls himself Mr.
Turner?"

"Are _you_ a friend of that mysterious patient? Wonderful! The
students call him 'The Great Mystery of London;' and I begin to think
the students are right. Do you want to see him? When he has not got
his green shade on, he's rather a startling sight, I can tell you, for
unprofessional eyes."

"No, no--at least, not at present; my brother here, not at all. The
fact is, certain circumstances have happened which oblige us to look
after this man; and which I am sure you won't inquire into, when I
tell you that it is our interest to keep them secret."

"Certainly not!"

"Then, without any more words about it, our object here, to-day, is to
find out everything we can about Mr. Turner, and the people who have
been to see him. Did a woman come, the day before yesterday?"

"Yes; and behaved rather oddly, I believe. I was not here when she
came, but was told she asked for Turner, in a very agitated manner.
She was directed to the Victoria Ward, where he is; and when she got
there, looked excessively flurried and excited--seeing the Ward quite
full, and, perhaps, not being used to hospitals. However it was,
though the nurse pointed out the right bed to her, she ran in a mighty
hurry to the wrong one."

"I understand," said Ralph; "just as some women run into the wrong
omnibus, when the right one is straight before them."

"Exactly. Well, she only discovered her mistake (the room being rather
dark), after she had stooped down close over the stranger, who was
lying with his head away from her. By that time, the nurse was at her
side, and led her to the right bed. There, I'm told, another scene
happened. At sight of the patient's face, which is very frightfully
disfigured, she was on the point (as the nurse thought) of going into
a fit; but Turner stopped her in an instant. He just laid his hand on
her arm, and whispered something to her; and, though she turned as
pale as ashes, she was quiet directly. The next thing they say he did,
was to give her a slip of paper, coolly directing her to go to the
address written on it, and to come back to the hospital again, as soon
as she could show a little more resolution. She went away at
once--nobody knows where."

"Has nobody asked where?"

"Yes; a fellow who said he was her father, and who behaved like a
madman. He came here about an hour after she had left, and wouldn't
believe that we knew nothing about her (how the deuce _should_ we know
anything!) He threatened Turner (whom, by the bye, he called Manning,
or some such name) in such an outrageous manner, that we were obliged
to refuse him admission. Turner himself will give no information on
the subject; but I suspect that his injuries are the result of a
quarrel with the father about the daughter--a pretty savage quarrel, I
must say, looking to the consequences--I beg your pardon, but your
brother seems ill! I'm afraid," (turning to me), "you find the room
rather close?"

"No, indeed; not at all. I have just recovered from a serious
illness--but pray go on."

"I have very little more to say. The father went away in a fury, just
as he came; the daughter has not yet made her appearance a second
time. But, after what was reported to me of the first interview, I
daresay she _will_ come. She must, if she wants to see Turner; he
won't be out, I suspect, for another fortnight. He has been making
himself worse by perpetually writing letters; we were rather afraid of
erysipelas, but he'll get over that danger, I think."

"About the woman," said Ralph; "it is of the greatest importance that
we should know where she is now living. Is there any possibility (we
will pay well for it) of getting some sharp fellow to follow her home
from this place, the next time she comes here?"

Mr. Bernard hesitated a moment, and considered.

"I think I can manage it for you with the porter, after you are gone,"
he said, "provided you leave me free to give any remuneration I may
think necessary."

"Anything in the world, my dear fellow. Have you got pen and ink? I'll
write down my brother's address; you can communicate results to him,
as soon as they occur."

While Mr. Bernard went to the opposite end of the room, in search of
writing materials, Ralph whispered to me--

"If he wrote to _my_ address, Mrs. Ralph might see the letter. She is
the most amiable of her sex; but if written information of a woman's
residence, directed to me, fell into her hands--you understand, Basil!
Besides, it will be easy to let me know, the moment you hear from
Jack. Look up, young one! It's all right--we are sailing with wind and
tide."

Here Mr. Bernard brought us pen and ink. While Ralph was writing my
address, his friend said to me:

"I hope you will not suspect me of wishing to intrude on your secrets,
if (assuming your interest in Turner to be the reverse of a friendly
interest) I warn you to look sharply after him when he leaves the
hospital. Either there has been madness in his family, or his brain
has suffered from his external injuries. Legally, he may be quite fit
to be at large; for he will be able to maintain the appearance of
perfect self-possession in all the ordinary affairs of life. But,
morally, I am convinced that he is a dangerous monomaniac; his mania
being connected with some fixed idea which evidently never leaves him
day or night. I would lay a heavy wager that he dies in a prison or a
madhouse."

"And I'll lay another wager, if he's mad enough to annoy us, that we
are the people to shut him up," said Ralph. "There is the address. And
now, we needn't waste your time any longer. I have taken a little
place at Brompton, Jack,--you and Basil must come and dine with me, as
soon as the carpets are down."

We left the room. As we crossed the hall, a gentleman came forward,
and spoke to Mr. Bernard.

"That man's fever in the Victoria Ward has declared itself at last,"
he said. "This morning the new symptoms have appeared."

"And what do they indicate?"

"Typhus of the most malignant character--not a doubt of it. Come up,
and look at him."

I saw Mr. Bernard start, and glance quickly at my brother. Ralph fixed
his eyes searchingly on his friend's face; exclaimed: "Victoria Ward!
why you mentioned that--;" and then stopped, with a very strange and
sudden alteration in his expression. The next moment he drew Mr.
Bernard aside, saying: "I want to ask you whether the bed in Victoria
Ward, occupied by this man whose fever has turned to typhus, is the
same bed, or near the bed which--" The rest of the sentence was lost
to me as they walked away.

After talking together in whispers for a few moments, they rejoined
me. Mr. Bernard was explaining the different theories of infection to
Ralph.

_"My_ notion," he said, "is, that infection is taken through the
lungs; one breath inhaled from the infected atmosphere hanging
immediately around the diseased person, and generally extending about
a foot from him, being enough to communicate his malady to the
breather--provided there exists, at the time, in the individual
exposed to catch the malady, a constitutional predisposition to
infection. This predisposition we know to be greatly increased by
mental agitation, or bodily weakness; but, in the case we have been
talking of," (he looked at me,) "the chances of infection or
non-infection may be equally balanced. At any rate, I can predict
nothing about them at this stage of the discovery."

"You will write the moment you hear anything?" said Ralph, shaking
hands with him.

"The very moment. I have your brother's address safe in my pocket."

We separated. Ralph was unusually silent and serious on our way back.
He took leave of me at the door of my lodging, very abruptly; without
referring again to our visit to the hospital.

A week passed away, and I heard nothing from Mr. Bernard. During this
interval, I saw little of my brother; he was occupied in moving into
his new house. Towards the latter part of the week, he came to inform
me that he was about to leave London for a few days. My father had
asked him to go to the family house, in the country, on business
connected with the local management of the estates. Ralph still
retained all his old dislike of the steward's accounts and the
lawyer's consultations; but he felt bound, out of gratitude for my
father's special kindness to him since his return to England, to put a
constraint on his own inclinations, and go to the country as he was
desired. He did not expect to be absent more than two or three days;
but earnestly charged me to write to him, if I had any news from the
hospital while he was away.

During the week, Clara came twice to see me--escaping from home by
stealth, as before. On each occasion, she showed the same affectionate
anxiety to set me an example of cheerfulness, and to sustain me in
hope. I saw, with a sorrow and apprehension which I could not
altogether conceal from her, that the weary look in her face had never
changed, never diminished since I had first observed it. Ralph had,
from motives of delicacy, avoided increasing the hidden anxieties
which were but too evidently preying upon her health, by keeping her
in perfect ignorance of our visit to the hospital, and, indeed, of the
particulars of all our proceedings since his return. I took care to
preserve the same secrecy, during her short interviews with me. She
bade me farewell after her third visit, with a sadness which she
vainly endeavoured to hide. I little thought, then, that the tones of
her sweet, clear voice had fallen on my ear for the last time, before
I wandered to the far West of England where I now write.

At the end of the week--it was on a Saturday, I remember--I left my
lodgings early in the morning, to go into the country; with no
intention of returning before evening. I had felt a sense of
oppression, on rising, which was almost unendurable. The perspiration
stood thick on my forehead, though the day was not unusually hot; the
air of London grew harder and harder to breathe, with every minute; my
heart felt tightened to bursting; my temples throbbed with fever-fury;
my very life seemed to depend on escaping into pure air, into some
place where there was shade from trees, and water that ran cool and
refreshing to look on. So I set forth, careless in what direction I
went; and remained in the country all day. Evening was changing into
night as I got back to London.

I inquired of the servant at my lodging, when she let me in, whether
any letter had arrived for me. She answered, that one had come just
after I had gone out in the morning, and that it was lying on my
table. My first glance at it, showed me Mr. Bernard's name written in
the corner of the envelope. I eagerly opened the letter, and read
these words:

"Private. "Friday.

"My DEAR SIR,

"On the enclosed slip of paper you will find the address of the young
woman, of whom your brother spoke to me when we met at the hospital. I
regret to say, that the circumstances under which I have obtained
information of her residence, are of the most melancholy nature.

"The plan which I arranged for discovering her abode, in accordance
with your brother's suggestion, proved useless. The young woman never
came to the hospital a second time. Her address was given to me this
morning, by Turner himself; who begged that I would visit her
professionally, as he had no confidence in the medical man who was
then in attendance on her. Many circumstances combined to make my
compliance with his request anything but easy or desirable; but
knowing that you--or your brother I ought, perhaps, rather to
say--were interested in the young woman, I determined to take the very
earliest opportunity of seeing her, and consulting with her medical
attendant. I could not get to her till late in the afternoon. When I
arrived, I found her suffering from one of the worst attacks of Typhus
I ever remember to have seen; and I think it my duty to state
candidly, that I believe her life to be in imminent danger. At the
same time, it is right to inform you that the gentleman in attendance
on her does not share my opinion: he still thinks there is a good
chance of saving her.

"There can be no doubt whatever, that she was infected with Typhus at
the hospital. You may remember my telling you, how her agitation
appeared to have deprived her of self-possession, when she entered the
ward; and how she ran to the wrong bed, before the nurse could stop
her. The man whom she thus mistook for Turner, was suffering from
fever which had not then specifically declared itself; but which did
so declare itself, as a Typhus fever, on the morning when you and your
brother came to the hospital. This man's disorder must have been
infectious when the young woman stooped down close over him, under the
impression that he was the person she had come to see. Although she
started back at once, on discovering her mistake, she had breathed the
infection into her system--her mental agitation at the time,
accompanied (as I have since understood) by some physical weakness,
rendering her specially liable to the danger to which she had
accidentally exposed herself.

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