Here, the murmurs died away; then began again, but more confusedly. Sometimes his wandering speech was all about Annie; sometimes it changed to lamentations over the broken mask; sometimes it went back again to the old days behind the scenes at Drury Lane.
‘Oh, Annie! Annie!’ cried the Squire, with his eyes full of tears; ‘why did you ever go away?’
‘I am not sure,’ said the doctor, ‘that her going may not do good in the end. It has evidently brought matters to a climax with him; I can see that. Her coming back will be a shock to his mind—it’s a risk, sir; but that shock may act in the right way. When a man’s faculties struggle to recover themselves, as his are doing, those faculties are not altogether gone. The young lady will come back, you say, the day after tomorrow?’
‘Yes, yes!’ answered the Squire, ‘with a “surprise”, she says. What surprise? Good Heavens! why couldn’t she say what!’
‘We need not mind that,’ rejoined the other. ‘Any surprise will do, if his physical strength will bear it. We’ll keep him quiet—as much sleep as possible—till she comes back. I’ve seen some very curious cases of this kind, Mr Colebatch; cases that were cured by the merest accidents, in the most unaccountable manner. I shall watch this particular case with interest.’
‘Cure it, doctor! cure it; and, by Jupiter! I’ll—’
‘Hush! you’ll wake him. We had better go now. I shall come back in an hour, and will tell the landlady where she can let me know, if anything happens before that.’
They went out softly; and left him as they had found him, muttering and murmuring in his sleep.
On the third day, late in the afternoon, Mr Colebatch and the doctor were again in the drawing-room at No. 12; and again intently occupied in studying the condition of poor old Reuben Wray.
This time, he was wide awake; and was restlessly and feebly moving up and down the room, talking to himself, now mournfully about the broken mask, now fiercely and angrily about Annie’s absence. Nothing attracted his notice in the smallest degree; he seemed to be perfectly unaware that anybody was in the room with him.
‘Why can’t you keep him quiet?’ whispered the Squire; ‘why don’t you give him an opiate, or whatever you call it, as you did yesterday?’
‘His grandchild comes back today,’ answered the doctor. Today must be left to the great physician—Nature. At this crisis, it is not for me to meddle, but to watch and learn.’
They waited again in silence. Lights were brought in; for it grew dark while they kept their anxious watch. Still no arrival!
Five o’clock struck; and, about ten minutes after, a knock sounded on the street door.
‘She has come back!’ exclaimed the doctor.
‘How do you know that already?’ asked Mr Colebatch, eagerly.
‘Look there, sir!’ and the doctor pointed to Mr Wray.
He had been moving about with increased restlessness, and talking with increased vehemence, just before the knock. The moment it sounded he stopped; and there he stood now, perfectly speechless and perfectly still. There was no expression on his face. His very breathing seemed suspended. What secret influences were moving within him now? What dread command went forth over the dark waters in which his spirit toiled, saying to them, ‘Peace! be still!’ That, no man—not even the man of science—could tell.
As the door opened, and the landlady’s joyful exclamation of recognition, sounded cheerily from below, the doctor rose from his seat, and gently placed himself close behind the old man.
Footsteps hurried up the stairs. Then, Annie’s voice was heard, breathless and eager, before she came in. ‘Grandfather, I’ve got the mould! Grandfather, I’ve brought a new cast! The mask—thank God!— the mask of Shakespeare!’
She flew into his arms, without even a look at anybody else in the room. When her head was on his bosom, the spirit of the brave little girl deserted her for the first time since her absence, and she burst into an hysterical passion of weeping before she could utter another word.
He gave a great cry the moment she touched him—an inarticulate voice of recognition from the spirit within. Then his arms closed tight over her; so tight, that the doctor advanced a step or two towards them, showing in his face the first look of alarm it had yet betrayed.
But, at that instant, the old man’s arms dropped again, powerless and heavy, by his side. What does he see now, in that open box in the carpenter’s hand? The Mask!—his Mask, whole as ever! white, and smooth, and beautiful, as when he first drew it from the mould, in his own bedroom at Stratford!
The struggle of the vital principle at that sight—the straining and writhing of every nerve—was awful to look on. His eyes rolled, distended, in their orbits; a dark red flush of blood heaved up and overspread his face; he drew his breath in heavy, hoarse gasps of agony. This lasted for a moment—one dread moment; then he fell forward, to all appearance death-struck, in the doctor’s arms.
He was borne to the sofa, amid the silence of that suspense which is too terrible for words. The doctor laid his finger on his wrist, waited an instant, then looked up, and slightly nodded his head. The pulse was feebly beating again, already!
Long and delicate was the process of restoring him to animation. It was like aiding the faint new life to develop itself in a child just born. But the doctor was as patient as he was skilful; and they heard the old man draw his breath again, gently and naturally, at last.
His weakness was so great, that his eyelids closed at his first effort to look round him. When they opened again, his eyes seemed strangely liquid and soft—almost like the eyes of a young girl. Perhaps this was partly because they turned on Annie the moment they could see.
Soon, his lips moved; but his voice was so faint, that the doctor was obliged to listen close at his mouth to hear him. He said, in fluttering accents, that he had had a dreadful dream, which had made him very ill, he was afraid; but that it was all over, and he was better now, though not quite strong enough to receive so many visitors yet. Here his strength for speaking failed, and he looked round on Annie again in silence. In a minute more he whispered to her. She went to the table and fetched the new mask; and, kneeling down, held it before him to look at.
The doctor beckoned Mr Colebatch, the landlady, and the carpenter, to follow him into the back-room.
‘Now,’ said he, ‘I’ve one, and only one, important direction to give you all; and you must communicate it to Miss Wray when she is a little less agitated. On no account let the patient imagine he’s wrong in thinking that all his troubles have been the troubles of a dream. That will be the weak point in his intellectual consciousness for the rest of his life. When he gets stronger, he is sure to question you curiously about his dream; keep him in his self-deceit, as you value his sanity! He’s only got his reason back by getting it out of the very jaws of death, I can tell you—give it full time to strengthen! You know, I dare say, that a joint which is dislocated by a jerk, is also replaced by a jerk. Consider his mind, in the same way, to have been dislocated by one shock, and now replaced by another; and treat his intellect as you would treat a limb that had only just been slipped back into its proper place—treat it tenderly. By the bye,’ added the doctor, after a moment’s consideration, ‘if you can’t get the key of his box, without suspicion, pick the lock; and throw away the fragments of the old cast (which he was always talking about in his delirium)—destroy them altogether. If he ever sees them again, they may do him dreadful mischief. He must always imagine what he imagines at present, that the new cast is the same cast that he has had all along. It’s a very remarkable case, Mr Colebatch, very remarkable: I really feel indebted to you for enabling me to study it. Compose yourself, sir, you’re a little shaken and startled by this, I see; but there’s no danger for him now. Look there: that man, except on one point, is as sane as ever he was in his life!’
They looked, as the doctor spoke. Mr Wray was still on the sofa, gazing at the mask of Shakespeare, which Annie supported before him, as she knelt by h
is side. His arm was round her neck; and, from time to time, he whispered to her, smiling faintly, but very happily, as she replied in whispers also. The sight was simple enough; but the landlady, thinking on all that had passed, began to weep as she beheld it. The honest carpenter looked very ready to follow her example; and Mr Colebatch probably shared the same weakness at that moment, though he was less candid in betraying it. ‘Come,’ said the Squire, very huskily and hastily, ‘we are only in the way here; let us leave them together!’
‘Quite right, sir,’ observed the doctor; ‘that pretty little girl is the only medical attendant fit to be with him now! I wait for you, Mr Colebatch!’
‘I say, young fellow,’ said the Squire to the carpenter, as they went down stairs, ‘be in the way tomorrow morning: I’ve a good deal to ask you in private when I’m not all over in a twitter, as I am at present. Now our good old friend’s getting round, my curiosity’s getting round too. Be in the way tomorrow, at ten, when I come here. Quite ready, doctor! No! after you, if you please. Ah, thank God! we came into this house mourners, and we go out of it to rejoice. It will be a happy Christmas, doctor, and a merry New Year, after all!’
X
When ten o’clock came, the Squire came—punctual to a minute. Instead of going up stairs, he mysteriously sent for the carpenter into the back parlour.
‘Now, in the first place, how is Mr Wray?’—said the old gentleman, as anxiously as if he had not already sent three times the night before, and twice earlier in the morning, to ask that very question.
‘Lord bless you, sir!’—answered the carpenter with a grin, and a very expressive rubbing of the hands—‘He’s coming to again, after his nice sleep last night, as brave as ever. He’s dreadful weak still, to be sure; but he’s got like himself again, already. He’s been down on me twice in the last half hour, sir, about my elocution; he’s making Annie read Shakespeare to him; and he’s asking whether any new pupils are coming—all just in the old way again. Oh, sir, it is so jolly to see him like that once more—if you’ll only come up stairs—’
‘Stop, till we’ve had our talk’—said the Squire—‘sit down. By the bye! has he said anything yet about that infernal cash box?’
‘I picked the lock of the box this morning, sir, as the gentleman told me; and buried every bit of plaster out of it, deep in the kitchen garden. He saw the box afterwards, and gave a tremble, like. “Take it away,” says he, “never let me see it again: it reminds me of that dreadful dream.” And then, sir, he told us about what had happened, just as if he really had dreamt it; saying he couldn’t get the subject quite out of his head, the whole thing was so much as if it had truly taken place. Afterwards, sir, he thanked me for making the new box for the cast—he remembered my promising to do that, though it was only just before all our trouble!’
‘And of course, you humour him in everything, and let him think he’s right?’—said the Squire—’He must never know that he hasn’t been dreaming, to his dying day.’
And he never did know it—never, in this world, had even a suspicion of what he owed to Annie! It was but little matter; they could not have loved each other better, if he had discovered everything.
‘Now, master carpenter,’ pursued the Squire, ‘you’ve answered very nicely hitherto. Just answer as nicely the next question I ask. What’s the whole history of this mysterious plaster cast? It’s no use fidgeting! I’ve seen the cast; I know it’s a portrait of Shakespeare! and I’ve made up my mind to find out all about it. Do you mean to say you think I’m not a friend fit to be trusted? Eh, you sir?’
‘I never could think so, after all your goodness, sir. But, if you please, I really did promise to keep the thing a secret,’ said the carpenter, looking very much as if he were watching his opportunity to open the door, and run out of the room; ‘I promised, sir; I did, indeed!’
‘Promised a fiddlestick!’ exclaimed the Squire, in a passion. ‘What’s the use of keeping a secret that’s half let out already? I’ll tell you what, you Mr—, what’s your name? There’s some joke about calling you Julius Caesar. What’s your real name, if you really have one?’
‘Martin Blunt, sir. But don’t, pray don’t ask me to tell the secret! I don’t say you would blab it, sir; but if it did leak out, like; and get to Stratford-upon-Avon,’—here he suddenly became silent, feeling he was beginning to commit himself already.
‘Stop! I’ve got it!’ cried Mr Colebatch. ‘Hang me, if I haven’t got it at last!’
‘Don’t tell me, sir! Pray don’t tell me, if you have!’
‘Stick to your chair, Mr Martin Blunt! No shirking with me! I was a fool not to suspect the thing, the moment I saw it was a portrait of Shakespeare. I’ve seen the Stratford bust, Master Blunt! You’re afraid of Stratford, are you?—Why? I know! Some of you have been taking that cast from the Stratford bust, without leave—it’s as like it, as two peas! Now, young fellow, I’ll tell you what! if you don’t make a clean breast to me at once, I’m off to the office of the ‘Tidbury Mercury’, to put in my version of the whole thing, as a good local anecdote! Will you tell me? or will you not?—I’m asking this in Mr Wray’s interests, or I’d die before I asked you at all!’
Confused, threatened, bullied, bawled at, and out-manoeuvred, the unfortunate carpenter fairly gave way. ‘If it’s wrong in me to tell you, sir, it’s your fault what I do,’ said the simple fellow; and he forthwith retailed, in a very roundabout, stammering manner, the whole of the disclosure he had heard from old Reuben—the Squire occasionally throwing in an explosive interjection of astonishment, or admiration; but, otherwise, receiving the narrative with remarkable calmness and attention.
‘What the deuce is all this nonsense about the Stratford Town Council, and the penalties of the law?’—cried Mr Colebatch, when the carpenter had done—‘But never mind; we can come to that afterwards. Now tell me about going back to get the mould out of the cupboard, and making the new cast. I know who did it! It’s that dear, darling, incomparable little girl!—but tell me all about it—come! quick, quick!— don’t keep me waiting!’
‘Julius Caesar’ got on with his second narrative much more glibly than with the first. How Annie had suddenly remembered, one night, in her bedroom, about the mould having been left behind—how she was determined to try and restore her grandfather’s health and faculties, by going to seek it; and how he (the carpenter), had gone also, to protect her—how they got to Stratford, by the coach (outside places, in the cold, to save money)—how Annie appealed to the mercy of their former landlord; and instead of inventing some falsehood to deceive him, fairly told her whole story in all its truth—how the landlord pitied them, and promised to keep their secret—how they went up into the bed-room, and found the mould in the old canvas bag, behind the volumes of the Annual Register, just where Mr Wray had left it—how Annie, remembering what her grandfather had told her, about the process of making a cast, bought plaster, and followed out her instructions; failing in the first attempt, but admirably succeeding in the second—how they were obliged, in frightful suspense, to wait till the third day for the return coach; and how they finally got back, safe and sound, not only with the new cast, but with the mould as well. —All these particulars flowed from the carpenter’s lips, in a strain of homely eloquence, which no elocutionary aid could have furnished with one atom of additional effect, that would have done it any good whatever.
‘We’d no notion, sir,’ said ‘Julius Caesar’, in conclusion, ‘that poor Mr Wray was so bad as he really was, when we went away. It was a dreadful trial to Annie, sir, to go. She went down on her knees to the landlady—I saw her do it, half wild, like; she was in such a state—she went down on her knees, sir, to ask the woman to be as a daughter to the old man, till she came back. Well, sir, even after that, it was a toss-up whether she went away, when the morning came. But she was obliged to do it. She durstn’t trust me to go alone, for fear I should let the mould tumble down, when I got it (which I’m afraid, sir, was very likely!)—or ge
t into some scrape, by telling what I oughtn’t, where I oughtn’t; and so be taken up, mould and all, before the Town Council, who were going to put Mr Wray in prison, only we ran off to Tidbury; and so—’
‘Nonsense! stuff! they could no more put him in prison for taking the cast than I can,’ cried the Squire. ‘Stop! I’ve got a thought! I’ve got a thought at least, that’s worth—Is the mould here?—Yes or No?’
‘Yes, sir! Bless us and save us, what’s the matter!’
‘Run!’ cried Mr Colebatch, pacing up and down the room like mad. ‘No. 15 in the street! Dabbs and Clutton, the lawyers! Fetch one of them in a second! Damn it, run! or I shall burst a blood vessel!’
The carpenter ran to No. 15; and Mr Dabbs, who happened to be in, ran from No. 15. Mr Colebatch met him at the street door, dragged him into the back parlour, pushed him on to a chair, and instantly stated the case between Mr Wray and the authorities at Stratford, in the fewest possible words and the hastiest possible tones. ‘Now,’ said the old gentleman at the end, ‘can they, or can they not, hurt him for what he’s done?’
‘It’s a very nice point,’ said Mr Dabbs, ‘a very nice point indeed, sir.’
‘Hang it, man!’ cried the Squire, ‘don’t talk to me about “nice points”, as if a point was something good to eat! Can they, or can they not, hurt him? Answer that in three words!’
‘They can’t,’ said Dabbs, answering it triumphantly in two.
‘Why?’ asked the Squire, beating him by a rejoinder in one.
‘For this reason,’ said Dabbs. ‘What does Mr Wray take with him into the church? Plaster of his own, in powder. What does he bring out with him? The same plaster, in another form. Does any right of copyright reside in a bust two hundred years old? Impossible. Has Mr Wray hurt the bust? No; or they would have found him out here, and prosecuted directly—for they know where he is. I heard of the thing from a Stratford man, yesterday, who said they knew he was at Tidbury. Under all these circumstances, where’s there a shadow of a case against Mr Wray? Nowhere!’
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