The Biter Bitten; or, Christmas Eve
in a Lunatic Asylum
COMPLETE STORY.
It was Christmas-eve and a good old-fashioned one, too.
The "old lady" above had been steadily "picking her
goose" the whole of the day, and was apparently no nearer
the body of the bird for the "feathers" were still thickly
descending. Most of the City offices were already closed.
One house of business, however, in Lombard-street, had
retained two clerks on work of a special nature; but they
too, having completed their tasks, were preparing to leave
as "Big Ben" boomed out the hour of six into the growing
stillness of the almost deserted, ghostly-looking city.
"Well! good-bye, Tom, old fellow; I wish you, with
all my heart, a merry Christmas."
The speaker, Ernest Lenton, a rather tall young man of
six-and-twenty, with an open good-humoured countenance
was addressing his fellow-clerk, Thomas Edgecombe,
a decidedly handsome man of thirty; but, like a great
many other handsome men, the possessor of a face that
was no true index of his heart. He had an almost habitual
moroseness, too, which rendered him anything but an
agreeable companion. On the present occasion he seemed
unusually cheerful, and answered smilingly —
"Good-bye, Ernest, good-bye, and allow me to return
the good wishes."
"You needn't have troubled to have done so, old
fellow, for it would take old Lucifer himself to have upset
my happiness this Christmas. In a few hours I shall be
in the company of the sweetest and truest girl on the face
of the earth! You look incredulous; accept the pater's
invite, and see Nellie for yourself, then I'm sure you'll
endorse my opinion. Come now, last time of asking."
Ernest was pressing him once again in all seriousness,
for he was positively overflowing with peace and goodwill
to all men in general, and with love to one lady in
particular. Truthful himself, he had given ready credence
to Tom's unfortunate story of his life (by the way, a pure
fabrication) and had generously sought to include him in
the festivities at his father's country residence, Hollybush
Lodge. His repeated invitation was in vain, however.
"No, thanks, Ernest; I have already engaged myself,
as I told you before, and can't possibly disappoint; otherwise
I should be only too delighted."
Ernest glanced at him a moment, surprised at his
unwonted cheerfulness, wished him once more a merry
Christmas, and was gone.
No sooner had the door closed than a diabolical expression
overspread Tom's features. Alone, he was evidently
unable to contain all his thoughts, and began muttering,
occasionally employing words entirely foreign to the
dictionary. He soon became oblivious of his surroundings,
and spoke aloud.
"How I hate him! Thank goodness, he's out of my
sight. I really thought I should have murdered him while
he was speaking. He little dreams, poor fool, how I have
planned to destroy his happiness."
Daring the delivery of the foregoing soliloquy Tom
several times dealt an imaginary person a severe blow, the
action affording him evident temporary relief. Suddenly
remembering himself, he hurriedly locked the office, and
walked off in the direction of his lodgings.
Ernest, on leaving business, hailed a cab and was driven
to Charing-cross as rapidly as the snow-blocked condition
of the streets would allow. He was soon whirling along
towards his destination, seated alone in a comfortable
second-class carriage. About twenty minutes had elapsed,
when he was startled out of a happy reverie by hearing a
gruff voice exclaim —
"That's the joker, Jim! Jump in, sharp; we've got him
lovely!" and two powerful, rough-looking young fellows
sprang into the carriage as the train steamed slowly on.
An undefined sense of uneasiness crept over Ernest as
he wondered whether it were possible he was the person
thus coarsely alluded to as the "joker;" but he
immediately dismissed the idea as absurd the men were
entire strangers and could have no business with him. He
was speedily undeceived. As soon as the station was well
cleared, the taller of the strangers shifted his seat to one
directly opposite him and giving his companion a knowing
wink began —
"Well, I was afeard we had missed yer, sir; Charing-cross
is a very busy crib, ain't it?"
"Pardon me," said Ernest; "you are labouring under
a slight mistake; I haven't the pleasure of your acquaintance."
"No, my beauty, but yer will have afore long, I'm
thinking."
At this mysterious reply both men indulged in a hearty
guffaw.
Ernest was becoming somewhat alarmed at their strange
behaviour, but, still thinking it a case of mistaken
identity produced his card and handed it across. The
man grasped it, and holding it to the carriage lamp,
slowly spelt out the name — Ernest Lenton.
"I knowed it was 'im," broke in Jim. "I should have
knowed 'im among a thousand by 'is innocent-looking
mug."
Ernest protested he was the victim of some mistake or
vile conspiracy. He was no coward, yet trembled as he
vainly endeavoured to fathom their object.
"We'd better humour my gentleman," said the first
speaker to his companion; then turning to Ernest,
continued, in a mocking tone, "All right, sir, don't alarm
yourself; we'll take every care of yer. To begin with,
just let me put this 'ere nice warm comforter over yer mouth to
keep out the cold," and suiting the action to the word,
he proceeded, with the help of his companion, despite
many frantic struggles and shoutings, to securely gag and
handcuff the all but powerless victim. Scarcely had the
villains finished when the train ran into the station, and
Ernest determined to make another desperate struggle for
liberty, or, at any rate, attract attention.
In this he succeeded, for several passengers indignantly
inquired of the men what they were doing as they roughly
pushed him along. A hurriedly-returned whisper transformed
their looks of indignation, as if by magic, to looks
of sincere pity.
"Poor fellow," Ernest heard one say; "has he always
been so?"
"Yes, more or less," was the reply.
They forced him into a vehicle which was in waiting,
and drove a long distance into the country. The horror
of that drive Ernest never forgot. At length they stopped,
and he was dragged through the snow into the hall of a
large, old-fashioned building, known as Belmont House,
where his gag and handcuffs were removed. As soon as
this measure of liberty was granted, he shouted, excitedly —
"Well what next? If you mean to murder me, you
wretches, do it sharp, and don't torture me any longer."
"Murder, my cherub! no, we don't murder. We only
takes care of you dangerous people what ain't in a fit
state to take care of yerselves. I'll tell yer where yer
are if you'll keep quiet a minute — this is a privut
loonatic hasylum, and me and my mate is the keepers."
A groan escaped Ernest's lips as he gasped —
"I see it all now; the pitying glances of the passengers
should have told me sooner. Great Heavens then I am
accounted mad!" Turning fiercely on the keepers, he
said — "Who has told you that I am mad? Who has set
you on to work this infamy? I swear to you I am not
mad; you must be mad!"
"Ah! same old tale," said Jim, nodding to his companion; "he ain't mad, 'tain't likely' it's everybody
helse. Funny they allers git that rum notion in their
nobs, ain't it?"
"You scoundrel! answer my question — who sent me
here?"
"I'm blest if I know," was the cool reply; "you com'd
of yer own ercord, didn't yer?" and both men grinned.
Ernest turned from them in disgust; he saw it was
useless bandying words with them, so endeavoured to
keep as cool as possible.
He was marched off into a padded room in the
extremity of the building, and left to his own bitter
reflections. What a change a few hours had wrought in his
hopes! Instead of enjoying his darling's society, he was
suffering solitary confinement, and as a madman. Truly,
it was sufficient to turn his reason. Racked with these
terrible thoughts, he paced the room for hours in great
agitation; at length, becoming thoroughly exhausted, he
sank into a troubled slumber, ever and anon starting up
and shouting wildly.
*
*
*
* *
About a fortnight before the events just narrated
occurred, Tom Edgecombe met Ernest's present
"Guardians" in London. Discovering the kind of men
they were, he bribed them to play a conspicuous part in a
vile plot
he had concocted. They had informed him that a
Mr. Darnley, a new patient, was to be admitted on
Christmas-eve, and Tom prevailed on them to agree to
substitute his fellow-clerk for the genuine patient, tell him
he was mad, and then treat him as a violent lunatic.
Everything seemed to play into the plotter's hands. Dr.
Harbourn, the principal of the asylum, arranged to be up
in town on the 24th, return in the evening, and shortly
after proceed with his ward to a friend's house for
a brief Christmas holiday, leaving the keepers and an old
female housekeeper in charge. "So far, so good," Tom
remarked at the time to the men; "but suppose the
doctor should return Belmont House after you — he
might want to see the patient." "Of course he would,"
replied one of the "angels;" "but what 'ud that matter?
I should say, 'ere's Mr. Darnley, sir —
'e's reyther wiolent;
and then the patient 'ud most likely start swearing
'e was some one else, and all that sort er thing; but the
doctor 'ud only say 'Quite right, sir, quite right,' and
wouldn't take no more notice. Yer see he's used to 'em
and their rum ways, and 'ud thiuk 'im mad enough, don't
you fret. Why, the last chap we 'ad used to swear hev'ry
day of 's blessed life that 'e was the Prince o' Wales, and
could jolly well prove it, too, if we only take the trouble
to fetch 'is mother. Why, the doctor started to fetch that
there woman about one hundred and fifty times, just to
humour my gentleman. That'll be all serene, guvnor.
As for the real cracked chap, I'll git 'im took care of for
a spell."
The keepers had further arranged between themselves
to borrow a few of the doctor's "nick-nacks," as they
termed his valuables, and decamp before his return after
Christmas.
*
*
*
* *
As soon as Ernest was safely secured in the asylum, the
keepers dispatched a telegram to Tom acquainting him
with their success. He had just finished reading it with
great satisfaction when a stranger stepped into his room,
without troubling to go through the formality of knocking,
and requested his name.
"Thomas Edgecombe."
"The same. Mr. Thomas Edgecombe, you are
'wanted' on suspicion of picking a gentleman's pocket
in the Strand this afternoon."
"Pocket-picking!" was the astonished reply.
"You've got hold of the wrong man, my friend; I
haven't been near the Strand to-day."
"You must tell that to the Marines, old party; it
won't wash with this gentleman."
"But I take my oath I didn't leave the office between
one o'clock and six," Tom continued with some warmth;
"you are off the scent entirely."
"I may be off the scent but I shan't be sent off with
any of your tales all the same," replied the detective,
laughing at his own pun. "Considering the gentleman
was robbed about five, it stands to reason you must have
left the orfice unbeknown to yourself, which, to say the
least of it was extremely awkward. There can't be no
mistake about it, fer you answer the description to a T,
so you'd better walk off quietly; it's the shortest way in
the long run."
"I tell you, fellow, I can prove what I say," said Tom,
whose temper was now fairly aroused. "I have a fellow-clerk
who can — who can ——"
"Tell lies as fast as you can," and the "limb of the
law" completed the half-finished sentence. With the
proverbial astuteness of the "force," he had interpreted
the hesitation as conclusive evidence of guilt, and, without
deigning to offer any further remark, marched the
bewildered prisoner off.
The detective had altogether mistaken the cause of the hesitation.
The truth was, Tom, in his excitement, had forgotten Ernest,
and it was not until he had occasion to
mention his fellow-clerk that the hopelessness of his own
situation dawned suddenly upon him.
Arrested on a false charge with the maddening knowledge
of having, by his own wickedness, destroyed the
only evidence of his innocence, made him almost beside
himself with frenzied rage. It would be useless to recall
Ernest, even if that were possible, for what was the value
of a madman's testimony? To make a full confession
would only aggravate his case, and he cursed himself bitterly
as he mechanically accompanied the officer.
Meanwhile, the housekeeper of Belmont House had
received a telegram from the doctor, stating he would
be unavoidably detained in London till Christmas-day, and that
if his ward, Miss Strafford, had arrived from Bournemouth,
she was to be made as comfortable as possible, and endeavour
for this once to overcome her prejudice against sleeping on
the premises; he would return as early as possible in the
morning.
Miss Strafford had arrived as expected, and, after certain
misgivings consented to acquiesce in the doctor's wishes.
She had retired to rest some three or four hours, when
she awoke in terrible fright, with the perspiration streaming
from every pore. Hark! what was that? Surely
screams of murder, like she had heard in her horrid dream.
She was no believer in ghosts and haunted houses; nevertheless
she was fast becoming a convert, when she suddenly
recollected the house she was sleeping in. After all, then,
she had been listening to the cries of a madman — perchance
a sane man branded as a lunatic, and confined by some
designing relative; she had heard and read of such horrible
things.
To her intense relief, the cries gradually grew fainter
and fainter, and finally subsided altogether. She was too
unnerved to attempt sleeping again that night, or rather
morning, so dressed herself and waited. She watched the
dawning of that glorious Christmas morn, revealing the
unsurpassed beauties of the country covered with virgin
snow.
Lost in contemplation, she was surprised to hear of
Dr. Harbourn's arrival, and immediately sought him.
The greeting over, he remarked her haggard appearance,
when she briefly explained the cause, expressing the fear
that something was wrong.
"Ah!" the doctor replied; "I suspect you were
disturbed by the new patient; I hear he is rather violent I
will at once see him myself. Meanwhile, get your breakfast,
restore your faded roses, and prepare to start. I
will return shortly."
Dr. Harbourn saw the patient, and acted, to a great
extent, as the keeper had predicted.
Ernest's protestations of sanity he listened to
complacently then left him with the assurance of speedy
relief, imagining the patient would soon forget all about
his false promises. He cautioned the keepers to give him
very careful attention during his brief absence.
Shortly after, Miss Strafford and the doctor left
Belmont House. On the way to the station she
questioned him closely concerning the now patient,
taking a peculiar interest in his answers. When he
mentioned as a curious coincidence that, the man would
insist his name was not Darnley, but Lenton her
suspicions were crowned, and after some difficulty persuaded
the doctor to return and let her see the man.
The patient was taken by the keepers into the drawing-room,
and, on beholding Miss Stratford, broke away from
his guards and affectionately embraced her. The doctor
stood by dumb with astonishment; but on the relationship
of the ward and patient being explained, he ordered
the men, on pain of arrest, to disclose all. Their own
safety being assured, they confessed everything, to the
utter astonishment of all parties. Ernest was the first
to speak.
"I can't, for the life of me, fathom it at all," he said,
"Tom seemed unusually pleasant last night."
"Perhaps I can help to solve the mystery," Nellie
blushingly replied. "A year ago at Bournemouth,
Thomas Edgecombe declared his passionate love for me.
I told him I could never return it. A few days afterwards
he was missing, and a woman appeared in the town
making inquiries for her husband, Fred Wareham, alias
Thomas Edgecombe, who had cruelly deserted her. I
never mentioned the circumstance to anyone," she added,
"as I thought it best forgotten."
"That man must be an out-and-out scamp," said the
doctor; "he robbed me yesterday afternoon in the Strand,
and was the sole cause or my delay."
"This time he is unjustly accused," replied Ernest,
smiling; "he was in the office with me from one to six."
"Then there must be two scoundrels very much alike!"
exclaimed the doctor, "and they have arrested the wrong
one. I'm heartily glad they have blundered; it will do
him good to spend his Christmas in gaol."
But Ernest possessed a generous, forgiving disposition
and quickly decided on his revenge. He rightly concluded
Tom's wicked action had been prompted by jealousy, and
forgave him. Moreover, he calmly reasoned with the
doctor. That gentleman being very favourably impressed
with his ward's choice, of whom he had heard a great
deal, but never before seen, allowed himself ("just to
humour the patient," as he jokingly remarked) to be
prevailed upon to return to town with Ernest, and
endeavour to obtain the unhappy man's release.
This was with difficulty accomplished, and when Tom
heard how his plot was discovered and how magnanimously
Ernest had acted, his hard heart was touched, and
he burst into tears and sobbed —
"May God bless you, Ernest Lenton; you deserve to
be happy, for you are the only true man I have ever
known. I will take your advice and emigrate, and with
the help of the God whom you so faithfully serve I will
endeavour to be a better man. Good-bye! God bless
you, God bless you!"
On the return of the good Samaritans they found the
keepers had already departed, minus the "nick-nacks."
They evidently preferred spending their Christmas under
a more congenial roof.
The doctor therefore decided to remain at home, and
bade the happy couple God-speed.
On their arrival at Hollybush Lodge they received a
very hearty welcome. Of course, the party was already
aware of all the circumstances, and Ernest was the lion
of the occasion.
The following Christmas-eve Ernest spent in his own
home and the name of his keeper was Nellie.
(THE END)
