Nothing but Money! CHAPTER 34.
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Having precipitated a quarrel with Henry, it was no part of his step-mother's program to let the fires of antagonism go out for lack of fuel. Oil and faggot were always at hand, and furnished without stint, so that they were perpetually in a blaze. It ended as the step-mother desired. Henry left the house in a passion, vowing not to cross the threshold again, and took lodgings at one of the hotels. This occurred in a week after the brief interview mentioned as having taken place between Henry and Doctor Hofland. In order to make this separation complete, Mrs. Guyton gathered everything belonging to the young man — clothing, books and other articles — and sent them to his address at the hotel, accompanied by a note couched in language that left him in no doubt of her purpose to hold him forever at a distance. He had turned from the door of his father's house, and now it was closed against him. He was out in the world alone, friendless and almost powerless. As he sat, in the small room at the hotel — so mean and poor compared with the one he left — sat there on the first night of his voluntary exile, and looked into the dark, mysterious future, his heart shivered — his spirit grew faint and fearful. He realized more consciously than ever, that his step-mother was too strong and subtle for him — that in her hands, he was weak as an infant!
As Henry sat thus, alone, looking with dismay at the prospect before him, Mr. Larobe and his step-mother were in close conference.
"You say," remarked Mrs. Guyton, "that he has never called on you to ask the direction of the Asylum."
"I have not seen him," answered the lawyer.
"Just as I supposed it would be. Not a spark of filial love burns in one of their souls. I never saw such a heartless brood. If they had their father's money, he might be at the bottom of the ocean for all they cared!"
"You think that Henry will not return here?" said Mr. Larobe.
"He can't return." Mrs. Guyton's voice was soft and low — but it expressed the purpose of an iron will.
"I received a letter from Doctor Du Fontz today," remarked the lawyer.
"Well! What does he write?" The manner of Mrs. Guyton changed instantly, and she leaned towards her companion with an expression of hope on her countenance.
"The Doctor wishes to see me, immediately."
"Ah! For what purpose?"
"Here is his letter." And Mr. Larobe read, — "I wish to see you at once, about Mr. Guyton. His condition is less favorable than when I last wrote. Closer confinement, I fear, will be necessary; but, before making a change, I think it best to ask an interview. Come with as little delay as possible."
"Is that all he says?" asked Mrs. Guyton, taking a long breath.
"All." And Larobe handed her the letter, which she scanned closely.
Then they looked at each other, silently, for some moments.
"When will you go?"
"Tomorrow. The case, as you see, admits of no delay."
"The Doctor writes with consummate prudence," said Mrs. Guyton.
"He understands his business," replied the lawyer, with an expression of face that would have made innocence shudder.
On the evening of the third day following this interview, Mr. Larobe and Mrs. Guyton met again.
"When did you arrive?" was the first, and natural question.
"Two hours ago."
"How is my husband?"
"That will inform you." And Mr. Larobe handed a letter from Doctor Du Pontz. Hastily opening it, Mrs. Guyton read —
Dear Madam — I regret to inform you, that, within the last two weeks, all the symptoms in your honored husband's case have assumed more discouraging features. Mr. Larobe has visited him at my desire; and we agree, in the conclusion, that his safety will require a still greater restriction of liberty. The few gleams of intelligence which, lighting up now and then, gave us so much hope, seem to have died away forever, and left his mind in total darkness. It is exceedingly painful, my dear madam, to write in so disheartening a way of your excellent husband; but my duty is to state the case exactly. Have no fear that any harsh means will be adopted. These are not in my system. He shall be tenderly cared for, and permitted all the freedom consistent with safety. Very truly, Alexis Du Pontz, M. D."
"You saw him?" There was a look of inexpressible anxiety on the countenance of Mrs. Guyton.
"Yes."
"He knew you?"
"Of course."
"What did he say?"
"He was violent — demanded a release — and threatened all manner of consequences."
Mrs. Guyton's face grew pale.
"What did you say?"
"Nothing. It is not my custom to waste words on an insane man."
Larobe continued cool and self-possessed — but Mrs. Guyton was nervous, and vaguely alarmed.
"Is there no danger of his escape?" she asked.
"He made several attempts recently," replied Larobe, "but the Doctor has now put him in such close confinement, that no apprehension need be entertained."
"I tremble at the bare imagination of such a thing," said Mrs. Guyton, the paleness of her face remaining.
"You may fully depend on Doctor Du Pontz," were Larobe's assuring words. "I have studied the man, and know him. Mr. Guyton is safe."
"Henry will be of age in a few weeks." Mrs. Guyton still spoke with manifest concern.
"Trust him with me, my dear madam. I understand his relation to the estate, and will take care that no disturbance of our plans originate with him." Thus the lawyer spoke in reassuring words.
"He will visit his father," said Mrs. Guyton.
Larobe merely shrugged his shoulders.
"And see him — "
"No, that does not follow,"
"Doctor Du Pontz will hardly deny the son an interview. Were he to do so, suspicion would be aroused, and legal steps follow."
The lawyer bent close to the ear of Mrs. Guyton, and whispered a brief sentence.
"Ah! I never thought of that!" she answered, light breaking into her face.
"Leave all with the Doctor," said Larobe. "He understands the case just as well as you or I, and will see that all things work to the good result we have in view."
Thus assured, the heart of Mrs. Guyton took courage again.
Sooner than expected by Mrs. Guyton, Henry's resolution to visit his father assumed the form of a present purpose. He called on Mr. Larobe within a few days after his separation from his step-mother, and asked for such information in regard to the Woodville Asylum as would enable him to find his way there by the direct course. Mr. Larobe treated him politely — even kindly — and not only gave him the information he sought — but also an open letter to Dr. Du Pontz, introducing him as the son of Mr. Guyton, who wished to visit his father.
Henry left immediately for New York, and in an hour after his arrival, was on his way to Staten Island. On reaching the landing, he hired a coach, according to the direction received from Mr. Larobe, and started for the Woodville Asylum, which was yet ten or twelve miles distant. A ride of two hours brought him in view of Doctor Du Pontz's establishment. Instead of a large and imposing modern edifice, as Henry had pictured it to himself — he found the Woodville Asylum to consist of an old-fashioned, two storied brick house, with high pitched roof and dormer windows, built, evidently, in the first years of the century by a well-conditioned farmer, or gentleman of wealth having rural tastes. The space covered by the main building and attachments was large; and the ground covered with fine old trees.
A chill crept along Henry's nerves as he passed from the avenue leading up to the house, and entered the grounds more immediately surrounding it. The old gate lopsided on the decaying posts, from which the paint had disappeared years before. The heavy hedges were ragged, broken, and untrimmed; and the shrubbery, of which there was considerable, showed only partial and unskilled care. But, the walks were in good condition, and clean. A dead silence dwelt in the air — so dead, that to every footfall of the young man, an echo was stirred, and came distinctly to his sense of hearing.
As Henry ascended the steps leading to the door, he was met by a short, stout man, over fifty years of age, with a heavy black and grey beard, and a sallow countenance.
"Can I see Doctor Du Pontz?" he asked.
"That is my name," replied the short, stout man, with a slight French accent; bowing and smiling. "Walk in." And he moved back, giving way for Henry to enter.
The hall was spacious, having a broad stairway in the center. Doors opened into rooms on either side. From the hall Doctor Du Pontz conducted his visitor to a small room, evidently used as his private office, as it contained books, papers, medicine cases, and professional apparatus. On entering, Henry gave the Doctor his letter of introduction.
"Oh, Mr. Guyton," said the Doctor, cordially, yet in a tone of sympathy, extending his hand and grasping that of Henry. "I'm gratified to receive a visit from you; though pained, of course, in view of the occasion."
"How is my father?" asked Henry, passing at once to the subject that was first in his thoughts.
The Doctor's face became serious.
"The case, I regret to say, is not as hopeful as could be desired."
"Can I see him?"
"O, yes." There was not a sign of hesitation. "But you must prepare yourself for a great change in his appearance. When mind gives way at the fearful rate witnessed in your father's case, bodily changes equally important, almost always attend the disaster. You will look upon a sadly altered man."
There was a tone of pity and sympathy in the Doctor's voice, that won a little on the confidence of Henry, and softened the unfavorable impression at first made.
"Do you think my father's case hopeless?" Henry's voice was husky and choked.
The Doctor gave a shrug, and arched his heavy eyebrows. Then, as his countenance fell back to its grave seriousness, he answered,
"Hopeless, I fear."
Henry caught his breath. The Doctor showed considerable feeling, and spoke kindly and sympathizingly.
"Wait here for a little while," he said, after conversing a short time with the young man; and Henry was left alone. In the ten minutes that passed before the Doctor's return, he did not observe with much care what was around him, for his mind was absorbed in the coming interview.
"Come," said Doctor Du Pontz, appearing at the door.
Henry arose and followed. So suddenly did the blood now flow back upon his heart, that it labored, half suffused, and felt like one on the eve of suffocation. All his soul shrunk from the meeting with his father about to occur. But it was too late to recede.
"Will he know me?" the young man found voice to inquire, in a suppressed whisper, as they paused before entering a room on the second floor of one of the additions which had been made to the main building — an addition not seen in approaching the house.
"I cannot say," replied the Doctor. "He is not much inclined to notice anyone. But, he may remember you."
And the Doctor turned the key that was in the lock on the outside of the door, and pushing it gently open, passed in, followed by Henry.
Sitting near the window was a man, to all appearance, sixty years of age, his face covered with a short, grizzly beard. He did not stir, nor seem in any way surprised or disconcerted by the intrusion; but fixed his wild looking eyes intently on Henry, who, recognizing scarcely a feature, advanced quickly, and holding out his hand, pronounced the word "Father!" in an eager tone.
The man startled, and bending towards Henry, who had already grasped his hand, looked at him curiously, yet in evident doubt.
"I am Henry, father; your son Henry!" said the young man, with much tenderness and feeling.
"Henry? Henry? My son Henry? I thought he died a long while ago." The man looked doubtfully at Henry, and then in a mute questioning way from him to the Doctor.
"O, no," said Doctor Du Pontz, falling in with his humor, "that was a mistake. He didn't die. But, you'll remember I told you last week, that he would be here in a few days."
"He looks like my boy." And a light shone in the vacant face, as this was said.
"I am your boy, your own boy, father!" Henry's voice shook, and his eyes were blinded with tears.
"Are you indeed? Well, I couldn't have believed it. They say the dead come to life again, sometimes."
And the poor old man smoothed, with both of his hands, the temples and face of Henry, along whose nerves the cold, unearthly touches sent a shudder.
"Can't I go home with you, my son?" he asked, in a plaintive, pleading voice. "I don't like to stay here. I want to go home."
"Why don't you like to stay here? "asked Henry.
Instead of answering, the old man threw a half fearful look at Doctor Du Pontz. Henry turned quickly, and saw an intimidating glance in the Doctor's eyes.
"Why don't you like to stay?" Doctor Du Pontz repeated Henry's question, and in a tone that, to all appearance, invited confidence.
But, no answer was returned. That one glance from the Doctor seemed to have touched him like a spell. His face lost all signs of intelligence or feeling. He receded from an awakened state of dim, hopeful consciousness — to the gloomy caverns where his soul had been dwelling. Fruitless were Henry's efforts to call him back again. Voice and words failed to penetrate the region of conscious life. He sat, as still as a statue, with an unchanging countenance, and eyes that never, for an instant, lifted themselves from the floor.
"I am going, father," said Henry, after exhausting all the means of gaining attention that were suggested to his mind.
No response was made. Henry partly turned, and moved a step or two in the direction of the door; then stopped and waited; but there was no recognition of the movement.
"Good-by, father!" Henry's voice trembled. He came back a few paces, and held out his hand. "Goodby, father," he repeated. But, the form before him remained immovable. He stooped, and lifting one of the impassive hands, said —
"I'm going now father."
The touch aroused the old man. Springing to his feet, he caught the shoulder of Henry with a strong grip, and holding him off at arm's length, glared wildly into his face. Instantly Doctor Du Pontz was between them, and, by the exertion of great strength, broke away the hold on Henry, and pressing back the now foaming and raving maniac, called, in a quick, warning voice for the young man to leave the room instantly, an injunction which he did not fail to obey. On the outside of the door Henry stood, all in a tremor, listening to the struggle that still went on, and which continued for nearly a minute. Then the clanking of a chain chilled his blood, and with a sickening heart he made his way to the office in which he had been at first received, there to await the Doctor's return.
Soon Doctor Du Pontz joined him, his dress in considerable disorder, and his sallow face flushed.
"Poor man! You see how sad the case is. Mind nearly gone." The Doctor spoke in a tone of pity.
"Are such dreadful paroxysms frequent?" asked Henry.
"No. If all causes of excitement are avoided, he remains calm and indifferent," replied the Doctor.
"He knew me," said Henry.
"There was, certainly, a partial recognition, and the disturbance which followed was a consequence. We are obliged to keep all exciting influences as far away as possible."
"Do you see any improvement, taking his condition now, and comparing it with his condition one, two or three months back?" inquired Henry.
The Doctor shook his head.
"Is there any change?"
"I think so."
"Unfavorable?"
"Yes."
Henry sighed heavily, and remained silent.
"It pains me," said Doctor Du Pontz, "to be obliged to speak with so little encouragement; but truth compels me to affirm, that I see little in your father's case to inspire hope. But, of one thing you may be assured, while in this establishment, he will receive the kindest care, and the best medical discipline his case demands. Time, and a wise patience, may bring beneficial results. As in diseases of the body, so we say in diseases of the mind — while there is life, there is hope."
Henry went back from Woodville, sadder than when he came, and with a darker cloud resting on all his future. He felt a sense of weakness creeping into his soul, as if forces, impossible to be conquered, were arraying themselves against him. Between his step-mother and Mr. Larobe, evidently existed a league; and there was little doubt in Henry's mind as to the object. But, what could he do to thwart the evil purpose they had, as he believed, in view? Nothing, certainly, until he attained his majority.
"A few weeks more, and then!" So Henry said to himself, many times, as he journeyed back. "A few weeks, and then this guardianship, so far as I am concerned, must cease!"
But what then? The answers were far from clear. He would take counsel, and demand a legal adjustment of his relation to his father's estate. The law would put him right! But Henry did not know the law.
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