“The iniquity is tremendous—and yet it is legal,” said Lord William. “Yes—I blush for my country when I declare such to be the fact,—I blush also for my fellow-countrymen that they should tolerate a system which savages themselves would regard with abhorrence! Well, madam, the deed is done—the atrocity is consummated—and Sir Gilbert Heathcote, though in the complete enjoyment of his intellects, is borne off to a lunatic-asylum. James—his vile brother—will obtain the control over his property; and that is the aim and object of his wickedness. But knowing that you are interested—deeply interested in Sir Gilbert’s welfare——”
“Oh! heaven can witness how deeply!” exclaimed the lady, clasping her hands with fervour.
“Knowing, I repeat, how profoundly you are interested in all that concerns my valued friend,” continued Trevelyan, “James Heathcote sought to expatriate you at least for a season—so that he might prevent you from adopting any measures to restore the victim to the enjoyment of freedom.”
“But of what avail would a few weeks’ delay be, even supposing that the plot devised against myself had succeeded?” asked Mrs. Sefton. “If I had gone to America, I should have found that Sir Gilbert was not in New York—and I should have forthwith returned to London. Unless, indeed,” she added, with a shudder, “my heart had broken with the immensity of its sorrow!”
“Ah! madam—and it was perhaps upon this catastrophe that the vile man reckoned!” said Lord William, his blood growing cold at the extent of the turpitude which he was contemplating. “And yet a more terrible suspicion still has come into my mind—a suspicion so dreadful——”
“Name it! Keep me not in suspense!” cried the lady, observing that her young friend was himself becoming painfully excited now.
“During your absence, madam,” returned he, his countenance darkening,—“during your absence, I say—supposing that you had been induced to depart—sufficient time would be gained to drive Sir Gilbert mad in reality; and then, on your reappearance in London, the lawyer would have defied all that you could possibly attempt or devise!”
“Merciful heaven!” ejaculated the horror-stricken woman; “can so much black iniquity exist in the human breast?”
“Alas! such schemes as these are of frequent occurrence in this land which vaunts a consummate civilisation!” said Trevelyan. “Could we but penetrate into the mysteries of the mad-house, we should behold scenes that would make our hair stand on end—our blood run cold in our veins—our very souls sick! Yes, madam—too often, indeed, is the lunatic asylum rendered the engine of the most hideous cruelty: too often does it become a prison for the sane!”
“You will drive me mad, my lord!” cried Mrs. Sefton, dreadfully excited: “I shall myself become an inmate—and deservedly so—of one of those awful places!”