The exultation and joy of the Pickwickians knew no bounds, when their
patience and assiduity, their washing and scraping, were crowned
with success. The stone was uneven and broken, and the letters were
straggling and irregular, but the following fragment of an inscription
was clearly to be deciphered:--
[cross] B I L S T
u m
P S H I
S. M.
ARK
Mr. Pickwick's eyes sparkled with delight, as he sat and gloated over
the treasure he had discovered. He had attained one of the greatest
objects of his ambition. In a county known to abound in the remains of
the early ages; in a village in which there still existed some memorials
of the olden time, he--he, the chairman of the Pickwick Club--had
discovered a strange and curious inscription of unquestionable
antiquity, which had wholly escaped the observation of the many learned
men who had preceded him. He could hardly trust the evidence of his
senses.
'This--this,' said he, 'determines me. We return to town to-morrow.'
'To-morrow!' exclaimed his admiring followers.
'To-morrow,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'This treasure must be at once deposited
where it can be thoroughly investigated and properly understood. I have
another reason for this step. In a few days, an election is to take
place for the borough of Eatanswill, at which Mr. Perker, a gentleman
whom I lately met, is the agent of one of the candidates. We will
behold, and minutely examine, a scene so interesting to every
Englishman.'
'We will,' was the animated cry of three voices.
Mr. Pickwick looked round him. The attachment and fervour of his
followers lighted up a glow of enthusiasm within him. He was their
leader, and he felt it.
'Let us celebrate this happy meeting with a convivial glass,' said he.
This proposition, like the other, was received with unanimous applause.
Having himself deposited the important stone in a small deal box,
purchased from the landlady for the purpose, he placed himself in an
arm-chair, at the head of the table; and the evening was devoted to
festivity and conversation.
It was past eleven o'clock--a late hour for the little village of
Cobham--when Mr. Pickwick retired to the bedroom which had been prepared
for his reception. He threw open the lattice window, and setting his
light upon the table, fell into a train of meditation on the hurried
events of the two preceding days.
The hour and the place were both favourable to contemplation; Mr.
Pickwick was roused by the church clock striking twelve. The first
stroke of the hour sounded solemnly in his ear, but when the bell ceased
the stillness seemed insupportable--he almost felt as if he had lost a
companion. He was nervous and excited; and hastily undressing himself
and placing his light in the chimney, got into bed.
Every one has experienced that disagreeable state of mind, in which a
sensation of bodily weariness in vain contends against an inability to
sleep. It was Mr. Pickwick's condition at this moment: he tossed first
on one side and then on the other; and perseveringly closed his eyes
as if to coax himself to slumber. It was of no use. Whether it was
the unwonted exertion he had undergone, or the heat, or the
brandy-and-water, or the strange bed--whatever it was, his thoughts kept
reverting very uncomfortably to the grim pictures downstairs, and the
old stories to which they had given rise in the course of the evening.
After half an hour's tumbling about, he came to the unsatisfactory
conclusion, that it was of no use trying to sleep; so he got up and
partially dressed himself. Anything, he thought, was better than lying
there fancying all kinds of horrors. He looked out of the window--it was
very dark. He walked about the room--it was very lonely.
He had taken a few turns from the door to the window, and from the
window to the door, when the clergyman's manuscript for the first time
entered his head. It was a good thought. If it failed to interest him,
it might send him to sleep. He took it from his coat pocket, and
drawing a small table towards his bedside, trimmed the light, put on his
spectacles, and composed himself to read. It was a strange handwriting,
and the paper was much soiled and blotted. The title gave him a sudden
start, too; and he could not avoid casting a wistful glance round
the room. Reflecting on the absurdity of giving way to such feelings,
however, he trimmed the light again, and read as follows:--
A MADMAN'S MANUSCRIPT
'Yes!--a madman's! How that word would have struck to my heart, many
years ago! How it would have roused the terror that used to come upon me
sometimes, sending the blood hissing and tingling through my veins, till
the cold dew of fear stood in large drops upon my skin, and my knees
knocked together with fright! I like it now though. It's a fine name.
Show me the monarch whose angry frown was ever feared like the glare of
a madman's eye--whose cord and axe were ever half so sure as a madman's
gripe. Ho! ho! It's a grand thing to be mad! to be peeped at like a wild
lion through the iron bars--to gnash one's teeth and howl, through the
long still night, to the merry ring of a heavy chain and to roll and
twine among the straw, transported with such brave music. Hurrah for the
madhouse! Oh, it's a rare place!
'I remember days when I was afraid of being mad; when I used to start
from my sleep, and fall upon my knees, and pray to be spared from
the curse of my race; when I rushed from the sight of merriment or
happiness, to hide myself in some lonely place, and spend the weary
hours in watching the progress of the fever that was to consume my
brain. I knew that madness was mixed up with my very blood, and the
marrow of my bones! that one generation had passed away without the
pestilence appearing among them, and that I was the first in whom it
would revive. I knew it must be so: that so it always had been, and so
it ever would be: and when I cowered in some obscure corner of a crowded
room, and saw men whisper, and point, and turn their eyes towards me, I
knew they were telling each other of the doomed madman; and I slunk away
again to mope in solitude.
'I did this for years; long, long years they were. The nights here are
long sometimes--very long; but they are nothing to the restless nights,
and dreadful dreams I had at that time. It makes me cold to remember
them. Large dusky forms with sly and jeering faces crouched in the
corners of the room, and bent over my bed at night, tempting me to
madness. They told me in low whispers, that the floor of the old house
in which my father died, was stained with his own blood, shed by his
own hand in raging madness. I drove my fingers into my ears, but they
screamed into my head till the room rang with it, that in one generation
before him the madness slumbered, but that his grandfather had lived
for years with his hands fettered to the ground, to prevent his tearing
himself to pieces. I knew they told the truth--I knew it well. I had
found it out years before, though they had tried to keep it from me. Ha!
ha! I was too cunning for them, madman as they thought me.
'At last it came upon me, and I wondered how I could ever have feared
it. I could go into the world now, and laugh and shout with the best
among them. I knew I was mad, but they did not even suspect it. How I
used to hug myself with delight, when I thought of the fine trick I was
playing them after their old pointing and leering, when I was not mad,
but only dreading that I might one day become so! And how I used to
laugh for joy, when I was alone, and thought how well I kept my secret,
and how quickly my kind friends would have fallen from me, if they had
known the truth. I could have screamed with ecstasy when I dined alone
with some fine roaring fellow, to think how pale he would have turned,
and how fast he would have run, if he had known that the dear friend who
sat close to him, sharpening a bright, glittering knife, was a madman
with all the power, and half the will, to plunge it in his heart. Oh, it
was a merry life!
'Riches became mine, wealth poured in upon me, and I rioted in pleasures
enhanced a thousandfold to me by the consciousness of my well-kept
secret. I inherited an estate. The law--the eagle-eyed law itself--had
been deceived, and had handed over disputed thousands to a madman's
hands. Where was the wit of the sharp-sighted men of sound mind? Where
the dexterity of the lawyers, eager to discover a flaw? The madman's
cunning had overreached them all.
'I had money. How I was courted! I spent it profusely. How I was
praised! How those three proud, overbearing brothers humbled themselves
before me! The old, white-headed father, too--such deference--such
respect--such devoted friendship--he worshipped me! The old man had a
daughter, and the young men a sister; and all the five were poor. I was
rich; and when I married the girl, I saw a smile of triumph play upon
the faces of her needy relatives, as they thought of their well-planned
scheme, and their fine prize. It was for me to smile. To smile! To laugh
outright, and tear my hair, and roll upon the ground with shrieks of
merriment. They little thought they had married her to a madman.
'Stay. If they had known it, would they have saved her? A sister's
happiness against her husband's gold. The lightest feather I blow into
the air, against the gay chain that ornaments my body!
'In one thing I was deceived with all my cunning. If I had not been
mad--for though we madmen are sharp-witted enough, we get bewildered
sometimes--I should have known that the girl would rather have been
placed, stiff and cold in a dull leaden coffin, than borne an envied
bride to my rich, glittering house. I should have known that her heart
was with the dark-eyed boy whose name I once heard her breathe in her
troubled sleep; and that she had been sacrificed to me, to relieve the
poverty of the old, white-headed man and the haughty brothers.
'I don't remember forms or faces now, but I know the girl was beautiful.
I know she was; for in the bright moonlight nights, when I start up
from my sleep, and all is quiet about me, I see, standing still and
motionless in one corner of this cell, a slight and wasted figure with
long black hair, which, streaming down her back, stirs with no earthly
wind, and eyes that fix their gaze on me, and never wink or close. Hush!
the blood chills at my heart as I write it down--that form is HERS; the
face is very pale, and the eyes are glassy bright; but I know them well.
That figure never moves; it never frowns and mouths as others do, that
fill this place sometimes; but it is much more dreadful to me, even
than the spirits that tempted me many years ago--it comes fresh from the
grave; and is so very death-like.
'For nearly a year I saw that face grow paler; for nearly a year I saw
the tears steal down the mournful cheeks, and never knew the cause. I
found it out at last though. They could not keep it from me long. She
had never liked me; I had never thought she did: she despised my wealth,
and hated the splendour in which she lived; but I had not expected that.
She loved another. This I had never thought of. Strange feelings came
over me, and thoughts, forced upon me by some secret power, whirled
round and round my brain. I did not hate her, though I hated the boy she
still wept for. I pitied--yes, I pitied--the wretched life to which her
cold and selfish relations had doomed her. I knew that she could not
live long; but the thought that before her death she might give birth
to some ill-fated being, destined to hand down madness to its offspring,
determined me. I resolved to kill her.
'For many weeks I thought of poison, and then of drowning, and then of
fire. A fine sight, the grand house in flames, and the madman's wife
smouldering away to cinders. Think of the jest of a large reward, too,
and of some sane man swinging in the wind for a deed he never did, and
all through a madman's cunning! I thought often of this, but I gave
it up at last. Oh! the pleasure of stropping the razor day after day,
feeling the sharp edge, and thinking of the gash one stroke of its thin,
bright edge would make! 'At last the old spirits who had been with me so
often before whispered in my ear that the time was come, and thrust the
open razor into my hand. I grasped it firmly, rose softly from the bed,
and leaned over my sleeping wife. Her face was buried in her hands. I
withdrew them softly, and they fell listlessly on her bosom. She had
been weeping; for the traces of the tears were still wet upon her cheek.
Her face was calm and placid; and even as I looked upon it, a tranquil
smile lighted up her pale features. I laid my hand softly on her
shoulder. She started--it was only a passing dream. I leaned forward
again. She screamed, and woke.
'One motion of my hand, and she would never again have uttered cry or
sound. But I was startled, and drew back. Her eyes were fixed on mine.
I knew not how it was, but they cowed and frightened me; and I quailed
beneath them. She rose from the bed, still gazing fixedly and steadily
on me. I trembled; the razor was in my hand, but I could not move. She
made towards the door. As she neared it, she turned, and withdrew her
eyes from my face. The spell was broken. I bounded forward, and clutched
her by the arm. Uttering shriek upon shriek, she sank upon the ground.
'Now I could have killed her without a struggle; but the house was
alarmed. I heard the tread of footsteps on the stairs. I replaced the
razor in its usual drawer, unfastened the door, and called loudly for
assistance.
'They came, and raised her, and placed her on the bed. She lay bereft
of animation for hours; and when life, look, and speech returned, her
senses had deserted her, and she raved wildly and furiously.
'Doctors were called in--great men who rolled up to my door in easy
