‘No,’ said Brion. ‘I understand it was here long before his time.’
‘It is a clever contrivance, whoever designed it. I have seen some in my day, and none, I think, so well thought out. Prudens simplicitas.’
* * * * * *
Day succeeded day, and week week, and still the patient showed no signs of mending, but sat propped against the wall, with that eternal aspect of weakness and suffering which had never changed since Brion first brought him into the pit. The young fellow was at his wits’ end to know what to do. Time was flying, and at any moment he might receive his summons from Plymouth. At length he made up his mind, and laid bare the whole truth to Clerivault—enormously, as may be supposed, to that paragon’s astonishment.
‘I believe,’ said Brion, ‘the poor wretch is dying: and I cannot leave him to die there. What am I to do?’
‘A secret chamber—in the old well-house!’ gasped Clerivault; ‘and to discover it—God’s ’slid! thou must have dared alone the haunted terrors of that place!’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Brion impatiently—‘and a fig for such bugbears. But that is not the point. He must be brought out—brought here—put to bed—old Harlock must see him—God o’ mercy! I shall go demented!’
He started striding forth and back, his fingers wound desperately in his hair. Clerivault quieted him down:—
‘Ah, peace, my sweetheart! We will arrange it.’
‘But you do not know—my fears, my suspicions, my distractions. I will not, for all the world, that mine Uncle and he be brought together—nor so much as learn, each one, that the other is in the house.’