The moment he entered my room I recognized him. He was the thin-lipped, gentlemanly person whom I had met on my journey to Bournemouth last spring—the man who had seemed so much impressed by my views on insanity2, and had manifested such interest in the description I had given—without mentioning any name—of Carriston’s peculiar3 mind.
I should have at once claimed acquaintanceship with my visitor, but before I could speak he advanced, and apologized gracefully4 for his intrusion.
“You will forgive it,” he added, “when I tell you my name is Ralph Carriston.”
Remembering our chance conversation, the thought[241] that, after all, Charles Carriston’s wild suspicion was well-founded, flashed through me like lightning. My great hope was that my visitor might not remember my face as I remembered his. I bowed coldly but said nothing.
“I believe, Dr. Brand,” he continued, “you have a young relative of mine at present staying with you?”
“Yes, Mr. Carriston is my guest,” I answered. “We are old friends.”
“Ah, I did not know that. I do not remember having heard him mention your name as a friend. But as it is so, no one knows better than you do the unfortunate state of his health. How do you find him to-day—violent?”
I pretended to ignore the man’s meaning, and answered smilingly, “Violence is the last thing I should look for. He is tired out and exhausted6 by travel, and is in great distress7. That, I believe, is the whole of his complaint.”
“Yes, yes; to be sure, poor boy! His sweetheart has left him, or something. But as a doctor you must know that his mental condition is not quite what it should be. His friends are very anxious about him. They fear that a little restraint—temporary, I hope—must be put upon his actions. I called to ask your advice and aid.”
“In what, Mr. Carriston?”
“In this. A young man can’t be left free to go about threatening his friends’ lives. I have brought Dr. Daley with me; you know him, of course. He is below in my carriage. I will call him up, with your permission. He could then see poor Charles, and the needful certificate could be signed by you two doctors.”
“Mr. Carriston,” I said decidedly, “let me tell you in the plainest words that your cousin is at present as fully5 in possession of his wits as you are. Dr. Daley, whoever he may be, could sign no certificate, and in our day no asylum8 would dare to keep Mr. Carriston within its walls.”
An unpleasant sinister9 look crossed my listener’s face, but his voice still remained bland10 and suave11. “I am sorry to differ from you, Dr. Brand,” he said, “but I know him better than you do. I have seen him as you have never yet seen him. Only last night he came to me in a frantic12 state. I expected every moment he would make a murderous attack on me.”
“Perhaps he fancied he had some reasons for anger,” I said.
Ralph Carriston looked at me with those cold eyes of which his cousin had spoken. “If the boy has succeeded in converting you to any of his delusions14 I can only say that doctors are more credulous15 than I fancied. But the question is not worth arguing. You decline to assist me, so I must do without you. Good-morning, Dr. Brand.”
He left the room as gracefully as he had entered it. I remained in a state of doubt. It was curious that Ralph Carriston turned out to be the man whom I had met in the train; but the evidence offered by the coincidence was not enough to convict him of the crime of endeavoring to drive his cousin mad by such a far-fetched stratagem16 as the inveigling17 away of Madeline Rowan. Besides, even in wishing to prove Charles Carriston mad he had much to say on his side. Supposing him to be innocent of having abducted18 Madeline, Carriston’s violent behavior on the[243] preceding evening must have seemed very much like insanity. In spite of the aversion with which Ralph Carriston inspired me, I scarcely knew which side to believe.
Carriston still slept; so when I went out on my afternoon rounds I left a note, begging him to remain in the house until my return. Then I found him up, dressed, and looking much more like himself. When I entered, dinner was on the table; so not until that meal was over could we talk unrestrainedly upon the subject which was uppermost in both our minds.
As soon as we were alone I turned toward my guest. “And now,” I said, “we must settle what to do. There seems to me to be but one course open. You have plenty of money, so your best plan is to engage skilled police assistance. Young ladies can’t be spirited away like this without leaving a trace.”
To my surprise Carriston flatly objected to this course. “No,” he said, “I shall not go to the police. The man who took her away has placed her where no police can find her. I must find her myself.”
“Find her yourself! Why, it may be months, years, before you do that! Good heavens, Carriston! She may be murdered, or worse—”
“I shall know if any further evil happens to her—then I shall kill Ralph Carriston.”
“But you tell me you have no clew whatever to trace her by. Do talk plainly. Tell me all or nothing.”
Carriston smiled very faintly. “No clew that you, at any rate, will believe in,” he said. “But I know this much, she is a prisoner somewhere. She is unhappy, but not, as yet, ill-treated. Heavens! do you[244] think if I did not know this I should keep my senses for an hour?”
“How can you possibly know it?”
“By that gift—that extra sense or whatever it is—which you deride19. I knew it would come to me some day, but I little thought how I should welcome it. I know that in some way I shall find her by it. I tell you I have already seen her three times. I may see her again at any moment when the strange fit comes over me.”
All this fantastic nonsense was spoken so simply and with such an air of conviction that once more my suspicions as to the state of his mind were aroused. In spite of the brave answers which I had given Mr. Ralph Carriston, I felt that common-sense was undeniably on his side.
“Tell me what you mean by your strange fit,” I said, resolved to find out the nature of Carriston’s fancies or hallucinations. “Is it a kind of trance you fall into?”
“Yes,” he said at last. “It must be a kind of trance. An indescribable feeling comes over me. I know that my eyes are fixed21 on some object—presently that object vanishes, and I see Madeline.”
“How do you see her?”
“She seems to stand in a blurred22 circle of light as cast by a magic lantern. That is the only way that I can describe it. But her figure is plain and clear—she might be close to me. The carpet on which she stands I can see, the chair on which she sits, the table on which she leans her hand, anything she touches I can[245] see; but no more. I have seen her talking. I knew she was entreating23 some one, but that some one was invisible. Yet, if she touched that person, the virtue24 of her touch would enable me to see him.”
So far as I could see, Carriston’s case appeared to be one of over-wrought, or unduly-stimulated imagination. His I had always considered to be a mind of the most peculiar construction. In his present state of love, grief, and suspense25 these hallucinations might come in the same way in which dreams come. For a little while I sat in silence, considering how I could best combat with and dispel26 his remarkable27 delusions. Before I had arrived at any decision I was called away to see a patient. I was but a short time engaged. Then I returned to Carriston, intending to continue my inquiries28.
Upon re-entering the room I found him sitting, as I had left him—directly opposite to the door. His face was turned fully toward me, and I trembled as I caught sight of it. He was leaning forward; his hands on the table-cloth, his whole frame rigid29, his eyes staring in one direction, yet, I knew, capable of seeing nothing that I could see. He seemed even oblivious30 to sound, for I entered the room and closed the door behind me without causing him to change look or position. The moment I saw the man I knew that he had been overtaken by what he called the strange fit.
My first impulse—a natural one—was to arouse him; but second thoughts told me that this was an opportunity for studying his disease which should not be lost—I felt that I could call it by no other name than disease—so I proceeded to make a systematic31 examination of his symptoms.
I leaned across the table; and, with my face about a foot from his, looked straight into his eyes. They betrayed no sign of recognition—no knowledge of my presence. I am ashamed to say I could not divest32 myself of the impression that they were looking through me. The pupils were greatly dilated33. The lids were wide apart. I lighted a taper34 and held it before them, but could see no expansion of the iris35. It was a case, I confess, entirely36 beyond my comprehension. I had no experience which might serve as a guide as to what was the best course to adopt. All I could do was to stand and watch carefully for any change.
Save for his regular breathing and a sort of convulsive twitching37 of his fingers, Carriston might have been a corpse38 or a statue. His face could scarcely grow paler than it had been before the attack. Altogether, it was an uncomfortable sight: a creepy sight—this motionless man, utterly39 regardless of all that went on around him, and seeing, or giving one the idea that he saw something far away. I sighed as I looked at the strange spectacle, and foresaw what the end must surely be. But although I longed for him to awake, I determined40 on this occasion to let the trance, or fit, run its full course, that I might notice in what manner and how soon consciousness returned.
I must have waited and watched some ten minutes—minutes which seemed to me interminable. At last I saw the lips quiver, the lids flicker41 once or twice, and eventually close wearily over the eyes. The unnatural42 tension of every muscle seemed to relax, and, sighing deeply, and apparently43 quite exhausted, Carriston sank back into his chair with beads44 of perspiration45 forming on his white brow. The fit was over.
In a moment I was at his side and forcing a glass of wine down his throat. He looked up at me and spoke13. His voice was faint, but his words were quite collected.
“I have seen her again,” he said. “She is well; but so unhappy. I saw her kneel down and pray. She stretched her beautiful arms out to me. And yet I know not where to look for her—my poor love! my poor love!”
I waited until I thought he had sufficiently46 recovered from his exhaustion47 to talk without injurious consequences. “Carriston,” I said, “let me ask you one question: Are these trances or visions voluntary or not?”
He reflected for a few moments. “I can’t quite tell you,” he said; “or, rather, I would put in this way. I do not think I can exercise my power at will; but I can feel when the fit is coming on me, and, I believe, can if I choose stop myself from yielding to it.”
“Very well. Now listen. Promise me you will fight against these seizures48 as much as you can. If you don’t you will be raving49 mad in a month.”
“I can’t promise that,” said Carriston, quietly. “See her at times I must, or I shall die. But I promise to yield as seldom as may be. I know, as well as you do, that the very exhaustion I now feel must be injurious to any one.”
In truth, he looked utterly worn out. Very much dissatisfied with his concession50, the best I could get from him, I sent him to bed, knowing that natural rest, if he could get it, would do more than anything else toward restoring a healthy tone to his mind.
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1
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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7
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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8
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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9
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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14
delusions
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| n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 )；谬见；错觉；妄想 | |
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15
credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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stratagem
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| n.诡计，计谋 | |
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inveigling
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| v.诱骗，引诱( inveigle的现在分词 ) | |
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abducted
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| 劫持，诱拐( abduct的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（肢体等）外展 | |
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deride
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| v.嘲弄，愚弄 | |
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loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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23
entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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systematic
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| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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divest
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| v.脱去，剥除 | |
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dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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iris
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| n.虹膜，彩虹 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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41
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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42
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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43
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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44
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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45
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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47
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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48
seizures
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| n.起获( seizure的名词复数 )；没收；充公；起获的赃物 | |
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49
raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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50
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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