University of Virginia Library

47. XLVII.
HALLUCINATION.

A week after these events, Lord
Ruthven was seated in an arm-chair, in
his lodgings at Williamsburg, wrapped
in his dressing-gown of figured silk. In
a chair opposite sat Dr. Vandyke, whose
eyes were fixed upon his patient.

Ruthven was fearfully thin and pale.
His frame seemed to have dwindled
away; and his eyes had that dreamy,
wandering expression which indicates
the want of physical energy under the
hand of disease.

“So you think I shall recover now,
doctor?” he said, in a low voice.

“Unless you have a relapse, which,
to be frank with you, is apt to prove
fatal,” was the reply.

Ruthven inclined his head.

“I like frankness, doctor. I have
had a dangerous attack, have I not?”

“Very dangerous.”

“You have not yet given me your
opinion of my case—I should say, have
not explained its nature, and I should be
glad to know now the character of the
disease which has just assailed me.”

“Do you wish the scientific or the
familiar definition; that is to say, jargon
or intelligible statement?”

“The familiar definition, doctor.—
What has been the cause of my illness?”

“Nervous prostration.”

Ruthven nodded.

“Your view coincides with my own.
And to what was this prostration of the
nervous system due; to physical or to
mental causes?”

“Do you wish a plain statement of
your case? I hate beating round the
bush,” said Dr. Vandyke, in his vibrating
and metallic voice.

“A plain statement, by all means,
sir.”

“Listen, then, my Lord Ruthven.
Men of your organization and habits
never undergo nervous prostration from
physical causes. Drunkards, roués, and
others, have attacks of that description.
You are neither a drunkard nor a roué;
thus the cause of disease is to be sought
elsewhere; and I may as well inform
you that I have not had long to seek.
You have been ill, very ill, in consequence
of mental excitement, which, reacting,
as every thing does, on the body,
has brought the physical system in sympathy
with the mental condition—that
is, made you ill. Beyond this, I see no
necessity to go.”

“And yet you have gone further?”

The eyes of the two men met.

“Yes,” said Dr. Vandyke, coolly.

“You have discovered the source of
my mental excitement.”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“You wish me to speak plainly?”

“Yes—yes.”

“Well, I employ the scientific term
now. You have been the victim of hallucination.”

“The plainer term for which is—?”

Ruthven looked with sudden intensity
at the physician.

“Second sight,” said Dr. Vandyke.

Ruthven uttered a low groan, and
closed his eyes as though he were about
to faint.

“Your—meaning?” he murmured.

“I mean nothing—a mere jest,” said
Dr. Vandyke; “here, a few drops of this
cordial?”

“No, doctor,” said Ruthven, sitting
erect in his chair, and speaking in a firm
voice. “I do not need it, and am stronger,
I think, than you suppose. You
would turn the conversation, I see, but
do not fear—the topic does not agitate
me.”

He remained lost in thought for some
moments; then he said:

“I was not aware that you had
turned your attention to a subject which
few thinkers regard as worthy of their
serious attention. Then you believe—in
the superstition, as the world calls it, of
—second sight?”

He uttered the last words only after
a moment's hesitation, and with evident
repugnance.

Dr. Vandyke looked fixedly at him,
and said:

“Believe in is a phrase which means
much or little. If you tell me that you
have seen a ghost and felt the breath of
the grave issue from the phantom, I believe
in the ghost—as far as it concerns
yourself.”

“Well, well,” was Ruthven's impatient
exclamation, “but that is no reply.
I ask if you believe that—”

“Human beings in the island of Skye
and in parts of Scotland fall into trances,
and see the future? Yes—I believe that
they believe it.”

“Then you do not believe it?” Lord
Ruthven murmured.

“I believe in science, and science defines
hallucination as plainly as it defines
any other, the most rational operation
of the human brain.”

“We drop logic and fence with
words, sir,” said Ruthven, impatiently.
“You plainly have no faith in this—
second sight,” again he paused before
the words; “but suppose I were to tell
you that I know persons—in my own
family—who possess the fearful gift?”

“Yourself, that is to say,” said Dr.
Vandyke. “I know very well that
second sight is hereditary, or people
think so, ut ante—otherwise I should
not have said, `Your nervous prostration
is due to this cause.' Am I
wrong?”

“You have divined rightly.”

The words were uttered in an almost
sepulchral whisper.

“Yes,” continued Lord Ruthven,
gloomily, “my family has for two hundred
years been the victim of this frightful
faculty. They have seen, in vision,
the events that are to come—the faces,
the figures, the scenes, have all passed
before them. And the scenes of my future
have passed before me!”

“My lord!” said Dr. Vandyke.

“Sir!”

“You will have the goodness, if you
please, to stop this sort of talk. I consented
to discuss with you this scientific
question, but had no design to bring on
a second attack of nervous illness. In
an evil moment I uttered the words,
`hallucination' and `second sight.' I
am sorry I did so, and it was a waste of
time, too, for I now inform you frankly
that your `second-sight' business is all
flummery—moonshine.”

“You think so?” came in a low voice
from Ruthven's pale lips. “Well, so be
it, sir.”

“I know it! All froth and devil's
deception! Let the thought alone! It
will madden you! Buy a fiddle, and
drink rum, and go and dance a dozen
reels—there's your philosophic proceeding—and
let these chimeras rest in congenial
darkness.”

Lord Ruthven bowed with calm courtesy,
and said, coolly:

“I thank you for your advice, doctor,
and acknowledge that it is sound. And
now let us have done with this rather
melancholy subject, which I had no design
to discuss, and was betrayed into,
before becoming aware of the fact.
What is my condition — when shall I
recover?”

“Speedily, if you have no relapse.”

“I shall be able to—travel, say—in
my coach—in a week?”

“No.”

“In two weeks?”

“Possibly.”

“Thanks, sir. That will serve my
purpose.”

“If you take my advice,” growled
Dr. Vandyke, “you will put off this
travelling for a month.”

“That is impracticable, doctor, for
reasons it is needless to detail.”

“Right — I know them. You are
going to Rivanna to marry Honoria
Brand.”

“Yes, doctor—I see that you are acquainted
with my private affairs.”

“Perfectly; and, perhaps, I know
some circumstances unknown to yourself.”

“Unknown?”

“Do you know that Honoria Brand
loves her cousin, Edmund Innis?”

A cloud passed across Ruthven's
brow, and his eyes grew cold and
haughty.

“I knew at least that Mr. Innis did
the future Countess of Ruthven the honor
to bestow his affections upon her.”

“And this mutual attachment—for it
is mutual—is no obstacle in your eyes?”

“An obstacle? No! A cause of displeasure?
Yes!”

“Why, then—”

“Persist in the offer of my hand, sir?
For the very simple reason that marriage
is not silly romance. This is better understood
in Europe than in Virginia, sir!
Do you fancy that in Europe young ladies
neglect to enjoy their private romance?
Everywhere they do so; but
they form alliances, sir, upon solider
foundations!”

Dr. Vandyke listened to these words
in gloomy silence.

“Well,” he muttered, “'tis no affair
of mine; I have done all I could, and
this one is like the other at Rivanna.”

Having solaced himself with this
growl, Dr. Vandyke rose.

“If she can't stand up, that will end
it!” he added, in the same tone.

He turned to Lord Ruthven.

“You are doing well now, and need
me no further,” he said. “Good-day,
sir.”

Before Lord Ruthven could reply he
had left the room.