University of Virginia Library

51. LI.
THE INTERVIEW BETWEEN LORD RUTHVEN
AND DR. VANDYKE.

At the words “Come in!” Dr. Vandyke
turned the knob of the door and
entered. In the few moments which
had elapsed since the end of the interview
with Meta, the eccentric physician's
impression had undergone an entire
change. In the child's chamber he had
laughed, jested, nearly played the clown
—now he was cold, stern, collected, with
the air of a man who does not particularly
relish the society of the person
with whom he is about to converse, and
has made up his mind to be surprised at
nothing.

As Dr. Vandyke advanced into the
apartment, Lord Ruthven bowed with
calm courtesy, and said:

“Welcome, doctor; I thank you for
your punctuality.”

He then turned to Fergus.

“Leave us to ourselves, Fergus, closing
the door carefully. Remain there
without, and see that no one approaches
the door. I wish to converse for a few
moments with Dr. Vandyke.”

Fergus silently left the apartment,
closing the door after him. Lord Ruthven's
next proceeding was singular. He
raised a window and looked out upon a
species of balcony, apparently to ascertain
if any one were there; closed the
window, went and sounded the walls,
carefully locked the door, and then returned
to the fireplace, near which Dr.
Vandyke was standing.

“We are entirely alone, doctor,” he
said, “and may converse upon matters
the most secret without danger of being
overheard.”

Dr. Vandyke looked intently at Ruthven,
but simply nodded.

“This interview is, no doubt, a mystery
to you—I mean its object?” continued
Lord Ruthven.

“Humph!—perhaps—perhaps not.”

“We shall see—but you have visited
Meta. She is better, I trust?”

“No better.”

“Worse?”

“No worse.”

“But not agitated—suffering?”

“Not at all.”

“Will she live, or die?”

Lord Ruthven seemed unable or unwilling
to come to the real subject of the
interview.

“Will she live, or die?” repeated Dr.
Vandyke. “To answer that question I
should require to be a divinity—and I
am a worm! What matters it? What
is life or death? This child will see the
spring-flowers at Rivanna—or in heaven!
'Tis the same.”

A dreamy glance of the eyes accompanied
the words. The metallic voice
was suddenly modulated, and sounded
like music.

“You seem moved, doctor,” said Lord
Ruthven.

“Moved?”

“Your voice grows soft—I scarcely
recognize it.”

“Well, that is the sequel of talking
with a sick girl. I am nearly seventy,
without illusions—my heart is hard—
well, the patience and sweetness of this
child have melted me. But, to business!”

Lord Ruthven bowed.

“True, doctor—and time presses. I
have not requested you to inform me of
Miss Brand's condition; she fainted in
consequence of a very disgusting scene
at dinner, but has, I am assured, recovered
now, and is preparing for the approaching
ceremony.”

“Yes.”

Ruthven was silent for a moment;
then he looked fixedly at the doctor, and
said:

“'Tis of the ceremony—my marriage
—that I desire to speak with you.”

“I know it.”

Ruthven was again silent. The glance
fixed upon Dr. Vandyke grew more intense.

“We are losing time, doctor,” he
said, with sudden gloom.

“Well, come to the point!”

“I will do so. You think me—insane!”

“Is that a question?”

“Reply to the words as though they
were, doctor.”

“To be frank, then—I do.”

“And yet, you are absolutely mistaken.”

Dr. Vandyke smiled grimly, but said
nothing. This silence and the expression
of the physician's countenance apparently
irritated Lord Ruthven.

“You would say—if you said any
thing, sir,” he exclaimed—“that madmen
never believe themselves mad,
would you not? Well, that is perfectly
just, and I do not ask you to take my
own denial. What I do ask of you is, an
attentive perusal of this paper.”

And, taking from his breast a folded
document, Ruthven extended it toward
Dr. Vandyke.

“'Tis a strange testimony, and on a
strange subject,” said Ruthven, relapsing
into gloom, “as you will perceive, sir. I,
too, was disposed to entertain, at one
time, the same conviction you entertain
—regarded myself as of unsound mind—
and took steps to determine the question.
I visited Paris, Rome, Berlin, and the
chief cities of Europe, where, frankly,
fully, without reservation, my case, to
use the medical term, was laid before the
first physicians. These gentlemen subjected
me to the severest examination—
prosecuted the investigation without
ceremony—and there is the result.”

Ruthven pointed, as he spoke, to the
paper, upon which were a few lines of
writing in five different languages, signed
by five of the first physicians of Europe.
Of these languages, Dr. Vandyke was
familiar with four — French, German,
Italian, and Latin; and a perusal of the
paper placed the fact beyond doubt that
the man whom he regarded as a madman
was considered perfectly sane by
five of the most celebrated doctors of the
Old World.

The fact staggered him.

“I see that you still doubt,” said

Ruthven; “and, after all, doctor, authority,
however great it may be, is still
inconclusive, since the human mind is
liable to error. Use, then, your own
judgment. Madmen have a strange glitter
of the eye—my eyes, I believe, are
calm. Their expression is wild, roving
—do you perceive aught of wildness in
mine? They talk incoherently—do I?
I reason, remember, love, and hate normally,
and can be charged, I think, at
worst, with being the victim of an absurd
superstition. Can you tell me what
human being is not irrational or superstitious
upon some point?”

Dr. Vandyke was more and more
staggered. Lord Ruthven saw the advantage
which he had gained, and resumed
with ardor the strange conversation.

“I speak to one who will understand
me, and weigh my words in the scales of
reason,” he said. “You and I, doctor,
are not children, or shallow gossips talking
neighborhood news. I would descend
with you, if possible, into the
depths of this profound subject, and endeavor
to reach some just and rational
conclusion. Is that rational?”

And a sad smile came to the speaker's
lips.

“Yes; go on,” said Dr. Vandyke.

“Well, to sum up in a few words.
You hold in your hand evidence of the
fact that the first savants of Europe regard
me as a person of sound mind;
neither in my eyes, my talk, nor my acts,
do you perceive traces of aberration of
mind, which, I need not tell so distinguished
a physician as yourself, signifies
divergence, either in diminution or excess,
from the normal condition. What
remains is this simple superstition of—
let us speak plainly—second-sight; that
is to say, the conviction that the future
is revealed to certain persons in dreams.
That is all—is it not?”

“All,” said Dr. Vandyke.

“Then I triumph! For, demand of
your reading, your study, your observation,
whether the world is not full of
`vulgar errors'—if you choose to call
this such. Is the peasant insane who
believes that the hare running across his
path brings bad fortune? Is the sailor
insane who believes that Friday is an ill
day for the commencement of his voyage?
Is the Irish squire insane who believes
that the banshee cries when Death
is about to visit his household? All believe—are
they necessarily insane therefore?
Absurd, irrational, credulous, you
may call them; but are they really insane?”

“That's good sense, I grant you,”
said Dr. Vandyke; “and your superstition—”

“Was, doubtless, instilled into me by
some old Highland crone, who believed
in every thing and nothing. The child's
mind is wax—doubtless, my own took
the imprint.”

Dr. Vandyke knit his brows.

“And you yourself, then, consider all
this second-sight business folly and moonshine?”
he said.

Ruthven's brows were knit in turn;
and, with a strange, gloomy look, he
said:

“I know not! How ask a human
being, the victim of superstition, if he is
superstitious? I reason, simply—'tis for
you to judge. And one of the elements
of your decision must be the rational or
irrational character of my reasoning.”

“Judging thus, you are sane,” said
Dr. Vandyke. “No pride of opinion
shall prevent me from saying that. But
—these stubborn buts!—tell me something
more important.”

“Speak, doctor.”

“This second-sight—what is it?”

“The future seen in vision,” replied
Ruthven, in a low tone.

“Seen clearly?”

“Clearly!”

“Recalled clearly when you awake?”

“With absolute distinctness.”

“All—faces, places?”

“All!” said Ruthven, in a still lower
voice.

Dr. Vandyke nodded.

“Now, but one thing remains,” he
said—“to tell me what your vision, as
you style it, has been in connection
with—”

He paused, looking at Ruthven, who
was as pale as death.

“Speak out,” the latter whispered.

“In connection with Honoria Brand
and Edmund Innis!” said Dr. Vandyke.

Lord Ruthven breathed heavily, and
made no reply. Fully five minutes
elapsed before he could speak. Then he
said, in an almost inaudible tone:

“'Twas to tell you that, or to let you
read something I have written, that I
asked this interview.”

“To read something?”

“This!”

And Ruthven drew from his breast
the paper which he had written on that
night at Williamsburg. Dr. Vandyke extended
his hand to take it—his eyes
blazing with curiosity — but Ruthven
drew back.

“A moment!” he said. “Before
proceeding further, or intrusting this
paper to you, I must exact a promise.”

“What promise?”

“That you will take no steps to obstruct
my marriage!”

“To obstruct your marriage?”

“You may otherwise fancy that 'tis
—desirable—to do so.”

Dr. Vandyke looked gloomily at the
speaker, whose cheeks had filled with
blood.

“And if I refuse to give this promise?”

“Your perusal of this paper will be
impossible!”

“I will give no promise!”

“So be it.”

And Lord Ruthven restored the paper
to his breast.

“Stop!” said Dr. Vandyke, for his
master - weakness, curiosity, overcame
him. “What is it that you exact as a
condition precedent to my reading your
statement?”

“That you shall take no steps whatever,
in consequence of having come
into possession of my secret.”

“What steps do you speak of?”

“Any steps!”

“I am to remain silent, inactive—
whatever I may read?”

“Yes!”

“Impossible!”

Lord Ruthven inclined his head.

“As you will, doctor. But, observe,
that your ignorance is equally disadvantageous
with your obligation.”

“True,” muttered Dr. Vandyke.
With a hesitating movement, he extended
his hand.

“Give it me!” he said.

“You accept the condition?”

“Yes!”

“You swear upon your honor to remain
silent, and to take no steps whatever
to place an obstacle in the way of
my marriage with Miss Brand, whatever
you may read in this paper which I have
written?”

“I swear!”

“Enough, sir. The word of a man
like yourself is sufficient. Read!”

And, unsealing the package, he extended
it to Dr. Vandyke, who clutched
it eagerly, and began to read by the light
of the wax-candles in the silver candelabra
on the tall mantel-piece. Lord
Ruthven, meanwhile, remained erect
near the mantel-piece, upon one of
whose carved ledges he leaned his elbow.
His face had resumed its deep
pallor, and his dark eyes were half
closed, the long lashes drooping toward
the cheeks.

As Dr. Vandyke proceeded with his
perusal of the document, his countenance
gradually lost its color, and his lips were
closely compressed, or, opening, showed
the large teeth set like iron beneath.

When approaching the middle of the
paper, these evidences of emotion became
more marked and striking. Toward
the end, every particle of blood
faded from his face, his bosom labored
with long breaths, and, suddenly finishing
the paper, he whirled it from him,
raised his head, and exclaimed, in hoarse,
imperious tones—his frame shaking, his
eyes blazing:

“You have laid a trap for me! You
are—! Oh! to exact that oath! Monstrous!
But I will not be bound by it!
Before I'll stand by, silent, and permit
this marriage to proceed, I will—”

Ruthven stooped, and drew from the
trunk, in which Fergus had hidden it,
the Highland dirk.

“Here is the very weapon!” he said,
in his deep voice. “Strike!”

Dr. Vandyke drew a long breath,
shuddering visibly.

“You are mad, after all!” he muttered,
hoarsely.

“I am as sane as yourself!”

“I will reveal the contents of this
accursed paper!”

“You dare not! You are bound by
your word of gentleman!”

“And you would have me permit this
murderous—”

Lord Ruthven extended his hand, and
placed it on the physician's lips.

“Your promise!” he said.

Dr. Vandyke fell heavily into a chair,
uttering a groan. Lord Ruthven quietly
refolded the paper, sealed it again, placed
it in a drawer of the table beside him,
and said, coldly:

“If any thing should happen, remember
that the paper is there. 'Tis my vindication!”

He shuddered as he uttered the words
“if any thing should happen,” and
looked for a moment at Dr. Vandyke in
silence.

“But, what can happen?” he continued,
in a deep, firm, measured voice.
“Do you think, sir, that I would not
plunge this dirk into my heart before
committing that crime? And ask yourself
another question: What earthly
motive could I have for this deed without
a name? Men act from rational motives—except
madmen; and you declare
that I am not mad! What motive here?
He has left the country; and, as to the
other, what earthly motive could impel
me to a deed at which my soul revolts?
I love, adore, worship, this woman—I
would lie down and die to save her from
a moment's suffering! And yet—you
think—you dream that I am capable—
without motive, I say—without motive!”

“Woe to you!” cried Dr. Vandyke,
suddenly bounding up and confronting
the speaker—“woe to you if you take
one step toward the commission of this
horror! I am old, but not weak; I
would slay you with my own hand!”

“And you would do right! I will
not resist! But listen.”

And he went close up to Dr. Vandyke.

“I do not know,” he said, in a low
voice, “if there be truth or no in this
forewarning—if the devil will or will not
tempt me to a crime without conceivable
reason! But I am a free agent to a certain
point. This horror will take place,
if it takes place at all, at midnight.
Well, neither at midnight, nor at any
other hour between the marriage ceremony
and dawn, shall my foot be placed
in that chamber—do you hear, doctor?”

Dr. Vandyke rose erect, and looked
at the speaker with blazing eyes.

“Swear it!” he said.

Before Ruthven could reply, a knock
was heard at the door, and Fergus entered.

“They await you, my lord,” he said:
“the bride is ready.”