It created no little consternation amongst the establishment of Montrevor, when it was delicately set about, amongst them, that Mr. Eustace Trevor, that noble, fine, generous-hearted young gentleman was mad! Some, said, no wonder, coming home as he did, to find his mother, whom he loved so well, dead. Others told how, indeed, they had been near his room, and heard his ravings. One woman could testify of what she had seen of his strange grief exhibited in the chamber of death. Some few shook their heads mysteriously, but preserved discreet—though significant silence.

Vague reports got abroad, of course to this same effect. Neighbours called to inquire. Mr. Trevor and his youngest son were not visible; but the cautious answers given at the door concerning the health of Eustace, served but to confirm the fearful suspicions now let loose.

Some few of the suffering young man's particular friends, amongst them young de Burgh of Silverton, made efforts to visit him in person, but this was declared to be so perfectly impracticable, that every endeavour of the sort was obliged to be relinquished; and at length it became pretty generally known that Eustace Trevor was removed from Montrevor, though it was not exactly ascertained where, and under what circumstances.

Eugene Trevor still kept himself shut up, inaccessible to every visitor, and even the servants were not a set disposed to be very communicative concerning the family affairs; indeed, immediately after Mrs. Trevor's death, although at no time had it been on a very extensive scale, a great reduction had been made in the establishment—it was compressed into the smallest possible compass for the exigencies of the large house.

All the domestics perhaps knew on the subject was, that on a certain day, about a fortnight after Mrs. Eustace had been taken so very ill, Mr. Panton had brought, besides his assistant, another medical gentleman to the house. One of the Trevor carriages had been brought round, and Mr. Eustace was carried down stairs and conveyed away therein by the two doctors; his state of mind—as Mrs. Marryott reported—having arrived at a pitch which rendered it absolutely necessary that he should be placed under more close and immediate medical treatment.

As for Mr. Eugene, it seemed that he took his brother's condition greatly to heart. They never saw a gentleman look so ill. He scarcely touched a morsel of food, nor left the house to breathe the fresh air, but sat shut up in the library with the old gentleman; which must, they all thought, be very bad for him, both in mind and body—worse even than going off to London and racketting there, as they heard was his wont, though he did manage to keep it so snug and make himself such a favourite with his father. They wondered indeed how he managed with the old gentleman. They well knew how poor Mr. Eustace had been treated, and should always think Mr. Trevor had helped to drive him mad; but it was only like the proverb which says that "one man may steal a horse out of the field, whilst another may not as much as look over the hedge."

There is a pretty looking country-house about five miles distant from Montrevor, of which travellers as they pass generally ask the name, and are astonished when they hear its nature and appropriation; so little, excepting perhaps the wall surrounding the premises, is there in its exterior, as seen from the road, calculated to give the beholder an idea of its belonging to any such class of institution as it really does. The interior too, on a stranger's first entrance, would not be likely to enlighten him. There are pretty drawing-rooms below, looking upon lawns and gardens, in which well-dressed people are seen to sit or walk; and who give one little idea, by their carriage, behaviour, or even sometimes by their conversation, what has brought them there, and under which dreadful malady they are supposed to be labouring.

They seem to be treated in the kindest manner, and entertained and accommodated as in every way would be accordant with the immense sum which has gained for them the privilege of an entrance into this asylum of wealthy woe; for woe—yes, one of those worst of woes flesh is heir to—lies concealed beneath the glittering surface of appearances such as we are describing. And few would wish to pierce, even if allowed, farther into "the secrets of that prison-house," lest sounds or sights which freeze the blood and harrow the soul might be listened to and revealed.

In a remote chamber of this mansion, between whose close grated windows the light of day but feebly straggled through blinds which debarred all outward view, Eustace Trevor had opened his eyes, and for the first time for many a day felt his brain cool, his mind clear, his vision disentangled from those false and disturbed images which hitherto had so tormented it, and reduced him an unconscious unresisting prey into the hand of the enemy. The crisis had passed—a deep but healthy sleep had succeeded. "The wild fever had swept away like an angry red cloud, and the refreshing summer rain began to fall upon the parched earth."

But where and under what circumstances did this change find him?

He had no assured remembrance of what had been. It only seemed to him at first that he had awoke out of a long, disturbed and painful slumber, of which confused dreams and horrid visions had composed the greater portion. He felt that he had been ill, and was feeble beyond description—too feeble at first to turn his eyes around—to raise his hands, upon which, clasped together on his breast, there seemed to lay, as upon his other limbs, some dead and oppressive weight.

He closed his eyes—the light, faint as it was, pained his long unconscious sight—and yielded himself again to that passive state of immovability to which he seemed reduced.

He lay for some time in this manner, memory and consciousness working their way by dull degrees within his soul. There was a profound stillness reigning round him, which induced the drowsiness of exhaustion, and he was relapsing into a half wakeful dose, when the rumbling of carriage-wheels broke faintly on the silence; and soon after, a confused movement in the house more effectually, but still vaguely aroused his attention. Then followed the hushed sound of human voices; and one, raised above all others, in a terrible, but, as it were, quickly stifled shriek, caused him fearfully to start up in a sitting posture upon the bed.

He heard no other sound but that of a door being closed and fastened heavily, and, as it seemed, at no great distance from his own. Yet at the same moment, as by an instinctive sympathy with the ideas suggested in his mind, he tried to move his arms once more. Still they resisted every freedom of action. He struggled—he looked—he felt what a cold, leaden power it was, that thus constrained them, and strength seemed to return as fiercely. The unfortunate Eustace struggled to tear his wrists asunder. But no—more than the strength of a stronger man than he was needed to tear away those bonds; for it was under no mere physical weakness, but bonds of iron, against which he had to contend, and his efforts served but to gall and bruise the limbs they encircled.

Eustace gazed around him. His eyes fixed upon the grated window, and a look of indescribable horror stole over that fine but emaciated countenance. He tried to put his feet to the ground, and found them too strongly bound together; but still he managed to move them from the bed upon the floor, and thus he sat, and again gazed round his prison walls.

Suddenly a man appeared by his side. The captive—for such he might be called—met the firm, peculiar regard this person fixed upon him, with the full, clear glance of his powerful dark eyes; then looking down at the chains which bound him, said in a tone of earnest, but composed inquiry:

"Good heavens! do you mean to say that all this has been necessary? Where am I? Where is Mr. Panton? Can I speak to him?"

"Mr. Panton is not in attendance at present upon you; but there is another gentleman, who will visit you at the appointed time. He is now engaged."

"Oh, very well; but at least be so good as to relieve me from these shackles. I am perfectly sane now, you see, at any rate; and weak enough, God knows! to be perfectly harmless," he added, as sinking back upon the pillows, he faintly offered his hands for the required release.

"When Dr. Miller arrives, Sir," replied the man, "I have no doubt your wishes will be obeyed; but I cannot take upon myself to do anything of the kind without his authority. In less than an hour he will be here. Till then, Sir," with decision, turning the bed-clothes over the patient, "be so good as to lie as quiet as possible, and take this light nourishment I have brought you."

"No, no, Sir! Till Dr. Miller arrives, I consent—because I have no power to do otherwise—to lie here chained like a maniac, but not a drop of nourishment do I take till I am at liberty to receive it in my own hands. To have it sent down my throat that way, I cannot allow; so attempt it on your peril. You see as well as possible that I am not mad now, if I have ever been so, which I very much doubt. I have had a brain fever I imagine. I had one once before in my life; but this last may have been more violent in its effects, and at its height I suppose I was incarcerated as a lunatic here. You see, Sir, I have a pretty clear idea of the true state of the case, so take care what you do. And now be so good as to let this Dr. Miller be sent to me with as little delay as possible."

The keeper, for such he was, did not attempt any further parley. He only said soothingly that he should be obeyed, watched his noble-looking charge turn and resettle himself as conveniently as he could, with an air of disdainful pride, upon his pallet-couch, and departed to report concerning him.

In about an hour Dr. Miller arrived. Eustace fixed his eyes calmly and firmly upon him as he stood by his bedside, looking gravely and anxiously into his patient's face. But when the medical man proceeded in the same way to feel his pulse, Eustace said, yielding with a wan smile his fettered wrists:

"I think, Doctor, you will be able to manage that better without these cuffs—ornaments which I can, if you please, dispense with at your leisure."

But the doctor with silent deliberation performed his office; then relaxing his hold, and fixing his eyes again earnestly on his patient, said after another silent pause:

"Yes, Sir, you are better—certainly better; and a week or two of quiet I hope may perfectly restore you. Jefferies, you are wanted."

And in obedience to his sign, the assistant, who reappeared at the moment, proceeded to undo the fastenings of both legs and arms; and whilst so doing, the doctor and his factotum significantly looked at each other, as on removing the clumsy apparatus intended as handcuffs, the fearfully lacerated and wounded state of poor Eustace Trevor's wrists became visible.

"These are, indeed, awkward customers," whispered the man.

"Most unnecessary!" was the low-toned reply.

The fact was, that the ignorant, time-serving village doctor—a particular ally of Marryott's,—had taken upon himself thus to torture the insensible man, knowing perfectly that the greater semblance of insanity he could substantiate in his patient, the more he should gain favour in the sight of Marryott and her employers.

Eagerly the imprisoned one sat up, and watched the progress of this operation, as if like an enchained eagle awaiting his release to spread his wings and take its sunward flight. But at the same moment as the bonds relaxed their hold, a sudden faintness came over him, and sinking back again upon his pillow, he gasped an entreaty for water.

It was given to him, with other restoratives. The doctor forbade him to speak, gave further orders to the assistant, and left the room. And that day, and the next, and throughout the week, Eustace was treated as any other man recovering from a dangerous fever might have been; and day after day, as gradually he felt his strength returning, was he the more content to submit calmly, and patiently, to the discipline to which he was subjected—the perfect quiet imposed upon him, feeling as he did, that thus the sooner would he be able to exact that explanation as to his present position, and his release therefrom, which he so earnestly desired.

We will not attempt to imagine the thoughts and feelings which must have worked within the soul of the sick man, as he lay there, within that grated chamber.

"Fearfulness and trembling have taken hold upon me, and a horrible dread has overwhelmed me."

The very idea of finding himself in such a place, was enough of itself to affect the strongest mind with revolting feelings. But with that idea, the dark doubt, and uncertainty as to the circumstances attendant on his position—whether the cause had really justified the dreadful measures which had been employed; or if—equally revolting idea!—the unnatural persecution which had haunted him from his birth, had taken this last dark means of wreaking itself on its victim; if so, to what extent might it not be carried? And at the best, had not enough already been done to fix the brand of madness for ever on his name—

We need not say, how agonizing thoughts of his late mother mingled with this sterner woe, how he seemed to float alone on a stormy sea of trouble, that star of light which once alone had illumined his darkness, now withdrawn to shine upon a higher, purer sphere, till in moments of despair he was tempted, poor, unfortunate young man! to implore of Heaven that those deep black waters might engulph him for ever in their depth—that he might die! for "what now was his life good unto him?"