my poor child admits of no doubt. Others may be duped; the cunning of lunacy may impose upon many; but a parent’s eye, sir, a parent’s eye! Do you think, sir, that you can take in a parent’s eye?”
He removed his spectacles, and rubbed his eyes violently with his red-and-green silk handkerchief, as though he were polishing them up for exhibition.
“And is her present state such as to require control?”
“Upon some such points as these, and generally as to the measures that may be legally taken respecting her, I desire to ask your opinion. Is she dangerous? you would say. Well, perhaps I should be disinclined to apply so painful a term. Lunacy, as I have before hinted, is gifted with great cunning. Upon many points those in the habit of seeing her constantly and intimately would very probably pronounce her sane.”
“She suffers then, I conclude, from some kind of monomania.”
“Precisely. It is a dreadful thing to say, sir, but I am positively persecuted by my own child.” He warmed his hands, and rubbed them comfortably together.
“I am her victim, sir. The vials of her lunacy, if I may be allowed to say so, are turned upon me—her father, sir, her poor old father! She is a dear good girl, sir, a good dear girl, though I say it, but she renders my life completely unendurable. I am subjected, sir, to a persecution that is killing me.”
To see that smooth, bland, rotund old gentleman, calmly warming his silk handkerchief by the fire, one would have thought that his dying of persecution was quite the last fate he was undergoing, or likely to undergo. He was one of those old gentlemen who have a sort of picturesque daintiness about them. His linen was perfectly got up—his frill seemed to have been pleated by machinery, it was so even; his black satin waistcoat was singularly glossy; and his tight grey trousers were strapped over the most resplendently polished Wellingtons I ever saw.
“What particular form does this persecution assume?”
He paused for a minute, as though reflecting, turning about the while the massive seals which, suspended from a thick curb chain, acted as buoys, and demonstrated where his watch was sunk.
“It is one of the well-known characteristics of lunacy, and thoroughly understood by those who have studied its economy, when the sufferer is thoroughly convinced of his sanity, and strenuous in accusing those around him—even those who should be dearest to him—of his own malady. Thus my poor child, in the most alarming paroxysms of her attacks, does not hesitate to charge even me with lightheadedness! This is not much, you will say. But when with the subtlety of her complaint she proceeds to induce others to believe her accusation—when I find there is a deep-laid plan to pursue me everywhere with this strange idea, and to surround me with a system of surveillance that is positively terrible in its perfectness—then, sir, I begin to take alarm, and I complain of persecution; not unnaturally, I think.”
“A very singular case.”
“I believe entirely without precedent.”
“Are you prepared with any medical evidence?”
“Not at present. But—I see—it is necessary. I will at once proceed with this, and then see you again. Will not that be the better course?”
“Certainly. I would only suggest great caution and secresy in all that you do, and your at once seeing your medical man with a view to some examination of the sufferer.”
“Sir, I cannot thank you too much for your admirable counsel. Just what I could have expected of you. I will be prepared to lay before you certain ascertained facts touching the case, and then see you again. When? Will Monday suit? Let us say, then, Monday, at three o’clock. Again let me thank you. Oh, this is the way out, is it? Thank you. Good-day—Good-day.”
I sat for some time considering the matter over. I took down from the book-shelves certain of the authorities on lunacy. I began to study the practice in regard to lunatics, and especially as to what it was necessary to do in the office of the Masters in Lunacy in Lincoln’s-Inn-Fields. Then it occurred to me, what little information I was possessed of after all, and how foolishly I had abstained from making inquiries. How old was Miss Brigham? Was she a minor? Was she an heiress? Would it be necessary to place her under the benign protection of the Court of Chancery? To appoint a Committee, and take the accounts of her estate in the usual manner? He was a gentlemanly old man: was he rich? would he pay my bill? He was very courteous and polite; but little affected, though, at his daughter’s sad state. He had nothing of the naval officer about him—nothing whatever; in fact, he looked much more like a wholesale wine merchant with a villa residence at Tooting or Muswell Hill.
Mr. Mason entered precipitately: very inky as to his fingers, and with a piece of red tape tied round his head to prevent his hair falling over his eyes, which imparted to him an acrobatic rather than a legal aspect.
“I have no more letters, Mr. Mason.”
A grin broke up the sallow monotony of his face.
“Please, sir, here’s a lady wants to see you; don’t give her name.”
“Show her in, sir, directly.”
And a little lady presently entered. I had only just time to notice that she was dressed in black silk, with puce velvet trimmings, and an ample black velvet cloak. Her bonnet and gloves were also puce colour, and she wore her black veil half down, which, being sprinkled with embroidery, gave a pleasant variegation to the upper part of her face; while the pretty little red-lipped mouth and daintily pointed chin, nibbed, as it were, by a dimple, made the lower half look very winning indeed. She carried a handsome mother-of-pearl card-case, but had evidently forgotten to make use of her cards. At any rate, she made no attempt in the first instance to put me in possession of her name.
“Oh pray excuse me,”—such a light, soft, silvery voice. “I am sure I owe you a hundred