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  “I must…must beg your pardon…that is, I am very pleased to see you, Mr. Crabbe.”

  Mr. Crabbe was a hale old gentleman of seventy-five, white-haired and demure, of whom it was said that he knew many secrets worth the knowing. Forty years ago he had written books and exerted himself in the legal reviews, but those days were long behind him. There were young men, doubtless, who appeared in court and presented petitions in Mr. Crabbe’s name, but Mr. Crabbe, here in the twilight of his years, contented himself with offering opinions. Again, I do not know whether Mr. Crabbe’s judgements were particularly scintillating, or whether it was merely the gravity of the demeanour with which he offered them, but it was felt that these opinions were worth the having. At any rate, Mr. Crabbe was a circumspect old man, and it was apparent to him—apparent from the moment he entered the room—that John Carstairs’s visit was something out of the ordinary, and that whatever the nature of his business he was doubtful of his ability to prosecute it.

  “Delighted to see you, Mr. Carstairs. I hope I find you well?”

  John Carstairs’s health, which was excellent, having been disposed of, Mr. Crabbe pressed on.

  “And is there some way in which I may be of service?”

  “As to that, Mr. Crabbe, I—well, in fact, I have come about my cousin, Miss Brotherton.”

  “Miss Brotherton?”

  “That is—Mrs. Ireland.”

  “Indeed? Mrs. Ireland.” Mr. Crabbe’s face as he said this was quite without expression, so that Mr. Carstairs, who had assured himself when the conversation began that at any rate the old gentleman could not eat him, now feared that he might be devoured on the spot. “What is it that you wish to know about Mrs. Ireland?”

  And here John Carstairs felt that he was placed in a quandary. He too believed that there was some mystery surrounding his cousin’s whereabouts, and yet this belief was not something that he could exactly put into words. Indeed he scarcely knew what he did believe, or suspect, about Mrs. Ireland’s apparent disappearance, other than it was a subject of popular remark and had excited the general curiosity. So he contented himself by saying rather lamely, “My mother and I—my father is dead, you know—would be very glad to hear the terms of Mr. Ireland’s will.”

  “Mr. Ireland’s will?” Mr. Crabbe, who had hitherto been standing, now seated himself in a chair on the further side of a large deal table littered with documents and pieces of paper bound up with coloured tapes, hooked one black-clothed leg over the other and stared at his visitor as if the question of Mr. Henry Ireland’s will was quite the gravest matter to have come before him in fifty years of legal practice.

  “Well, as probate has been granted, I think I may say something of Mr. Ireland’s will. But in which particular?”

  “Well—in the provisions made for his wife, let us say.”

  Mr. Crabbe—wholly disingenuously, it may be said, for he remembered the terms of Henry Ireland’s will almost as well as he remembered the names of his children—took a file from the shelf that ran behind him and made a pretence of examining it.

  “Mr. Carstairs. Do not think me impertinent”—John Carstairs shook his head, as if he could not for the life of him imagine Mr. Crabbe guilty of impertinence—“but are you at all acquainted with Mrs. Ireland’s state of health?”

  “We had heard that she was not well.”

  “Not well! That is one way of putting it. I regret to say that the last doctor who examined her pronounced her…mad.”

  “Mad, you say?”

  “At the time of her husband’s death and for some months previously, I am reliably informed, she had lost her reason to the extent of being unable to recognise him when he entered a room. Naturally this state of affairs was foremost in her husband’s mind when he made his will.”

  “Naturally.”

  “At present she is residing with her husband’s kinsman, Mr. Dixey, who is responsible for her care. You will appreciate that she is not at all able to appear in society.”

  “I feared it was so.”

  There was a silence in the room so profound that each of the other sounds that had formerly run in counterpoint to Mr. Crabbe’s voice—a church clock striking the hour in the distance, the old clerk scuttling up the stair—seemed magnified and made unreal by it.

  “And really, Mr. Carstairs, that is all I am prepared to say about Henry Ireland’s will. But perhaps you have some other question?”

  John Carstairs shook his head; he had no other question. He was aware that what the old lawyer had said had been perfectly reasonable, and yet he was conscious, too, that in some way he could not perfectly fathom Mr. Crabbe had had the better of him, that he had failed to extract certain pieces of information that, through skill and persistence, another man might have been able to acquire. All this irked him, for he felt himself placed at a disadvantage—feared, too, that all the business with Mr. Crabbe’s files was a sham. But he was a man who was disposed to accept what was told to him, especially when the teller was so lofty an authority as Mr. Crabbe.

  At the same time, he was now definitely oppressed by the atmosphere of the room—Mr. Crabbe’s dusty papers, his damask hangings, his dinner invitations, the framed testimonies to Mr. Crabbe’s juvenile accomplishments dating from ever so many years ago—and determined that he would take his leave. Consequently, he picked up his hat, shook hands with his host, escaped down Mr. Crabbe’s staircase through the gate of Lincoln’s Inn and had himself driven away to the Board of Trade.

  And Mr. Crabbe, having watched him go across the square, stalked around his chamber pulling first one book from his shelves and then another but always failing to discover whatever it was that he wanted from them, then summoned his old clerk and informed him that he would see no callers, sat in apparent abstraction for half an hour and finally slipped away down the staircase to his club, as demure and confidential a shadow as ever passed beneath the portals of Lincoln’s Inn Fields and out into the City beyond.

  III

  SOME CORRESPONDENCE

  MR. DIXEY

  Easton Hall

  Dear Sir,

  This is a line as requested to notify you that the young woman as was spoken of has been put into my care.

  She may be collected from this house at any time convenient.

  The sum of four guineas in respect of her board and lodging would be gratefully received.

  Your respectful servant,

  SARAH FARTHING

  JAS. DIXEY, ESQ.

  Easton Hall

  Nr. Watton

  Norfolk

  Dear Sir,

  I am commanded to inform you that a bill bearing your signature in favour of Mr. Jabez Zangwill of Leadenhall Street, to the value of five hundred pounds, due on the 17th ult., is in our possession, and that we should be glad of either a prompt settlement or any terms that you may care to propose.

  Most faithfully yours,

  R. GRACE

  Clerk to Mr. Pardew

  JAS. DIXEY, ESQ.

  Easton Hall

  Nr. Watton

  Norfolk

  Dear Sir,

  I am commanded by Mr. Pardew to inform you that he is in receipt of your letter of the 14th inst., and will communicate with you at his earliest convenience.

  Most faithfully yours,

  R. GRACE

  Clerk to Mr. Pardew

  JAS. DIXEY, ESQ.

  Easton Hall

  Nr. Watton

  Norfolk

  Dear Dixey,

  I have your cheque for two hundred pounds. Come now, it won’t do! The bill was picked up from Zangwill in our usual way, as you well know. And here is some more paper with your name on it for three hundred pounds drawn on our mutual friend Mr. Ruen! Look here—I must have specie: another two hundred pounds and your promise to pay at six weeks. That’s about the strength of it.

  Yours, &c.,

  R. PARDEW

  JAS. DIXEY, ESQ.

  Easton Hall

  Nr. Watton
>
  Norfolk

  Dear Sir,

  We regret to have to inform you that as you decline to communicate with us in regard to settlement of the two bills bearing your signature in our possession, the total value of which plus interest now stands at £660, we are reluctantly compelled to place the matter in the hands of our legal representatives.

  Most faithfully yours,

  PARDEW & CO.

  Bill brokers, Carter Lane, EC

  JAS. DIXEY, ESQ.

  My dear Sir,

  In accordance with your instructions, received by letter and stated verbally on the occasion that we met, I have taken the opportunity of observing the patient in the manner that you suggested. This period of observation, I may say, occupied the greater part of a forenoon, during which time I was able to satisfy myself, I believe, of the lady’s innate condition, as opposed to any vagary of expression caused by the novelty of my presence before her.

  A prolonged maniacal attack is not infrequently characterised by continual activity and a most ingenious disposition to mischief. In the case of Mrs. Ireland I think it may safely be said that the majority of these symptoms have passed, notwithstanding a constant restlessness, eagerness to move about the room & so forth. From the strict medical point of view, the lady is somewhat emaciated and suffering from disorder of the stomach and bowels. I believe these afflictions to be consequent upon her mental state and not the result of any organic disease.

  Her articulation is, I suspect, much impaired by her malady. She will begin a sentence and then break off at some quite arbitrary point. Her conversation, additionally, is disconnected—almost rambling: the Queen, her late father, the names of persons unknown to me, memories of her girlhood, &c. She seems conscious of this failing yet unable to correct it. She is reliably informed—could name several of Mr. Dickens’s novels, the Archbishop and his predecessor—but could do nothing with the information. Her recreations, while confined, have been of the most primitive cast. Thus I heard (from her attendant) that she will from time to time sing, not unmelodiously, to herself, or attempt to fashion small drawings on the sheets of paper that are provided for her. Examples of the latter, which I have seen, are incomprehensible. On one occasion, I believe, she asked to sit at a pianoforte, and, there being one available, looked longingly at the keys as if they stirred some recollection within her on which she could not quite bring herself to act.

  I append a list of her responses to such questions as I put:

  Q: What is your name?

  A: Mrs. Ireland.

  Q: Your age?

  A: I have passed my twenty-seventh year. (In fact, as I am led to believe, she is twenty-eight.)

  Q: Who came before the present monarch?

  A: The Hanoverian Elector.

  Q: What is the bird that sits in the tree beyond the window?

  A: A sparrow. (In fact it was a magpie.)

  Q: Have you living relatives?

  A: I have a husband.

  Q: Where is he?

  A: He is dead.

  In the course of my examination I placed a number of objects before the patient with the aim of gauging her reaction. In a book—a volume of children’s tales—she took no interest, yet the fastening of a horse’s bridle, which I happened to have in my pocket, she shrank from, saying that it awakened in her the darkest fears and apprehensions. A handkerchief she received with the gravest solemnity, balancing it on the palm of her hand and inspecting it as if it were some rare token whose significance she appreciated without comprehending its function. A very sorrowful look came upon her as she did this.

  As to whether this derangement betokens an outright imbecility, I am not yet in possession of sufficient facts to judge. I can see no reason for the use of the strait waistcoat, the muff, the leg locks and handcuffs, the restraining chair—or indeed any other form of material restraint. The arrangements that you propose for her seem to be admirable in every respect. The routines that I should additionally suggest are those of seclusion, quiet, repetitive yet undemanding work which may give the brain an opportunity to function without undue distress. A suitable sedative may perhaps be administered in the patient’s food.

  If I can be of any further professional assistance, or if a future consultation is thought to be advisable, then by all means apply to my secretary.

  I am, my dear sir, yours most cordially,

  JOHN CONOLLY, M.D.

  Late resident physician to the Hanwell Asylum

  JAS. DIXEY, ESQ.

  Easton Hall

  Nr. Watton

  Norfolk

  Dear Dixey,

  Come now, there is a way out of this unpleasantness! Let me have that letter you spoke of (none shall know how I came by it, that I promise), and all shall be well. Why, you may have another one hundred pounds for all I care, and buy as many gulls’ eggs as you choose!

  Yrs., &c.,

  R. PARDEW

  IV

  THE GOODS ARE DELIVERED

  Early afternoon in Tite Street, and already the twilight is seeping up through the area steps and out into the grey pavements beyond. A bitter February day here in Tite Street (“that most respectable locality,” as the house agents’ particulars so truly represent it) with a raw fog hanging in the air since dawn, and little flicks of wind agitating the washing hung out in the smoky courts and byways—there is always washing in Tite Street, it will be there when all else has perished—like an unseen hand. Tite Street. King’s Cross Station half a mile away and Somers Town hard by. “Tite Street!” the cabman echoes his passenger, as if to say, “You wouldn’t go there if you knew about it.”

  Tite Street. Forty stucco houses in varying states of dilapidation, a profusion of polished brass plates (apothecaries, insurance agents, water bailiffs—Tite Street has them all), so many cards offering furnished apartments, pianoforte lessons and the like that to gather them up and deal them out would be to commence an all but interminable game of whist. Tite Street. At the nearer end an undertaker’s parlour, with a couple of great horses, their plumes dyed nearly purple, stamping on the kerb. At the further, the Tite Arms and Refreshment Emporium, Jno Phelps, prop., the dreariest public house you ever saw, with a couple of smeary windows through which the melancholy figure of a man in a nankeen jacket and side-whiskers, possibly even Mr. Phelps himself, can be seen polishing a row of pewter pots. A shooting gallery, a tobacconist-cum-newspaper-seller and a faded French milliner’s whose door no customer has been seen to enter in the three years of the shop’s existence complete the scope of Tite Street’s amenities. Tite Street. Forty brass doorknobs, forty dark casement windows, for all the world like forty dim aquariums were it not that no fish swim inside them, on a grim, grey day in February and no one at home.

  Or not quite no one. For old Mrs. Farthing, seated at present in her back kitchen with the lamps turned low and the shadows crawling consequently up the pale wall like so many phantoms, is always at home. One might as well expect the Sphinx to pick up its skirts and go hobbling across the desert as to conceive of Mrs. Farthing quitting her roost in Tite Street, where she has squatted these past twenty years and become so much a fixture that were she to depart on a little excursion to Camden Town or Marylebone market, Tite Street would feel itself robbed of an essential part of its character and get up a petition for her swift return.

  Who is Mrs. Farthing? To be sure, a queer old woman of seventy-five, with a queer old face whose nose and chin threaten to meet in midair like a pair of nutcrackers, peeping up out of shiny widow’s weeds of black bombazine. There is no Mr. Farthing, has not been for thirty years, and nobody—least of all his relict—has anything to say of him. Perhaps he was a half-pay officer, or a commission agent, or took in lodgers—all occupations with which Tite Street is passingly familiar. Perhaps his is the face, having a pair of muttonchop whiskers and a sprightly blue eye, that gazes from the further wall of the back kitchen, but Tite Street neither knows nor cares.

  Had this putative Mr. Farthing the abil
ity to look down on his relict’s back kitchen, what would he see? Well, a monstrous old black-leaded range looking as if half a ton of coals at least were needed to keep it hot, a dreary old mahogany sideboard covered over with cups and plates and what-not, a quantity of copper saucepans, warming pans and chafing dishes piled in a heap, an old white-whiskered cat looking as if she were placed on this earth at approximately the same time as her owner. Everything old, ugly and inconvenient, and sitting amidst them perhaps the oldest, ugliest and most inconvenient article of all, namely Mrs. Farthing, hunched up in a tall rocking chair above a smoky fire, with her face all shiny from the heat and the remains of some genteel refection (Tite Street inclines to pork chops and sweetbreads) lying on the rickety table beside her.

  The capital’s actor managers, did they know of this Tite Street faery’s existence, would probably subscribe a respectable sum to induce her onto the London stage, so professed is her ability to reproduce the symptoms of inward agitation. There is no one in the room save the cat, but curiously Mrs. Farthing’s attitude suggests that she believes there to be a burglar, say, concealed under the fender, or a bailiff with an eye on the mahogany sideboard sat at the breakfast table before her. Twice in the course of ten minutes Mrs. Farthing starts up in her chair and reaches forward, with who knows what constriction of her old bones, to stir the fire irons and administer a wholly unnecessary prod to the slumbering fire with the poker. Twice, again, she rises to her feet, makes a halfhearted sally in the direction of the parlour door, thinks better of it and retires. A man delivering circulars comes and pushes one through the letter box, and Mrs. Farthing pops her old head into the passage, catches sight of the white paper fitfully descending and mutters something scornful and unintelligible under her breath. Another glance at the parlour door, another rattle of the fire irons, and Mrs. Farthing resumes her seat.