On one of those occasions, when the forlorn old man had, as it seemed, been driven by his evil genius almost to the verge of desperation, his faithful servant, urged on by uncontrollable feeling, ventured, for the first time, to hint at the secret source of this overwhelming misery, and to press upon him the entreaty that he would open his heart freely to some old and true friend. “See Mr L——, sir!” implored the worthy Hallings; “for God’s sake, my dear, dear master! let me send directly for Mr L——, or go to him and tell him you would speak with him immediately.”
For a moment Mr Devereux seemed as if half moved to compliance with the prayer of his attached servant. For a moment he sat in trembling agitation, with half-opened lips and eyes fixed on Hallings, as if about to give the permission so earnestly supplicated; but the indecision ended fatally. Slowly and mournfully shaking his head, as it sank upon his breast, he waved his hand rejectingly, and faintly murmured in an inward tone, “Too late! too late! Leave me, good Hallings! Your master will not be long a trouble to you;—but he has lived too long.”
On the day succeeding that on which this scene took place, Mr Devereux was again shut up in conference with Cousin Heneage and his assistant friend, the convenient scrivener. Hallings’s anxiety kept him hovering near the library where they were convened, and more than once he heard the hateful grating voice of Cousin Heneage raised to a threatening loudness, and then, after a pause, his master’s well-known accents, apparently pleading with pathetic earnestness, till overpowered by the discordant tones of his kinsman and the attorney.
“At last,” said Hallings, “I could distinguish a sort of choking, gasping cry, and a hysterical sob from my dear master; and then I could bear it no longer, but knocked loudly for admittance at the locked door. My interruption broke up the conference; a chair was pushed back with violence as Mr Heneage, it seemed, rose from it, for it was his voice that thundered out, as he thumped the table in his rage—‘To-morrow, sir! I tell you, to-morrow. I will be fooled no longer.’ And then my master almost shrieked out—‘A little time! a little time! Only a year; one little year, Cousin Heneage!’ But the savage laughed in scorn; and, as he strode past me, followed by that other viper, looked back with stern determination, while he uttered, in a loud insulting tone—‘Not a week, sir! Not a day beyond to-morrow.’”
On going to the assistance of his master, poor Hallings found him in a state of dreadful agitation. “His forehead, sir, was wet with perspiration, though the fire had burnt down to nothing, and there was snow upon the ground, and there was a deep red spot upon either cheek. His hands were grasping the arms of his chair, and he rose from it as I entered, but stared at me with seeming unconsciousness. I could not see him so, and control my own feelings. ‘My dear master!’ I said, and the tears gushed from my eyes. The sight of that seemed to bring him to himself a little—for you know, sir, how tender-hearted he was—and he fetched two or three short sighs, and said, ‘Oh, Hallings! it is all over,’ and trembled so violently that I feared he would fall, and ran to his support; but he recovered himself, and seemed to have more strength than usual in his crippled limbs, as he walked across the library and hall, and up-stairs to his own bedroom, to the door of which I followed him. But he forbade my entrance in a determined tone; and, desiring he might not be disturbed for an hour or two, as he should lie down and recover himself, he went in and shut the door, drawing the bolt after him.”
So far I have given you in substance the narrative of Hallings; but his farther statement was of a nature so agitating that it was made more unconnectedly, and I must briefly relate to you, in my own words, the miserable conclusion.
The habitual deference with which Hallings was ever accustomed to obey his master’s least imperative command, restrained him on that last fatal occasion from opposing his desire to be left alone and undisturbed.
But “something,” the old man said, would not let him rest, or keep away for ten minutes together from his master’s door, at which he was anxiously listening, when he heard the tinkling of glass, and the unlocking, as he well knew the sound, of Mr Devereux’s medicine-chest. Hallings noted the circumstance gladly, for he supposed from it that Mr Devereux was taking a nervous medicine—some drops of sal-volatile, to which he had often recourse at seasons of peculiar languor or nervous agitation. But still, as he strongly repeated, he “could not rest,” nor refrain from assuring himself of his master’s state a moment beyond the absolutely prescribed hour. He knocked at the door, and for some time awaited an answer; but none was made. And again, at the risk of disturbing his master’s slumber, he repeated the rap more loudly; and Mr Devereux being a very light sleeper, aroused by the faintest sound, Hallings said his heart sank within him when that knock, and the next, and another, and another, were still unnoticed.