The Lunatic at Large | Page 3

"Mandell-Essington."
"Sounds aristocratic. He might come in useful afterwards, when he's
cured."
Welsh spoke with an air of reflection, which might have been entirely
disinterested.
"He'd probably commit suicide first," said Twiddel, "and of course I'd
get all the blame."
"Or homicide," replied Welsh, "When he would."
"No, he wouldn't--that's the worst of it; I'd be blamed for having my
own throat cut."
"Twiddel," said his friend, deliberately, "it seems to me you're a fool."
"I'm at least alive," cried Twiddel, warming with sympathy for himself,
"which I probably wouldn't be for long in Mr Essington's company."
"I don't blame your nerves, dear boy," said Welsh, with a smile that

showed all his teeth, "only your head. Here are £500 going a-begging.
There must be some way----" He paused, deep in reflection. "How
would it do," he remarked in a minute, "if I were to go in your place?"
Twiddel laughed and shook his head.
"Couldn't be managed?"
"Couldn't possibly, I'm afraid."
"No," said Welsh. "I foresee difficulties."
He fished a pipe out of his pocket, filled and lit it, and leaned back in
his chair gazing at the ceiling.
"Twiddel, my boy," he said at length, "will you give me a percentage of
the fee if I think of a safe dodge for getting the money and preserving
your throat?"
Twiddel laughed.
"Rather!" he said.
"I am perfectly serious," replied Welsh, keenly. "I'm certain the thing is
quite possible."
He half closed his eyes and ruminated in silence. The doctor watched
him--fascinated, afraid. Somehow or other he felt that he was already a
kind of Guy Fawkes. There was something so unlawful in Welsh's
expression.
They sat there without speaking for about ten minutes, and then all of a
sudden Welsh sprang up with a shout of laughter, slapping first his own
leg and then the doctor's back.
"By Gad, I've got it!" he cried. "I have it!"
And he had; hence this tale.

PART I.

CHAPTER I.
In a certain fertile and well-wooded county of England there stands a
high stone wall. On a sunny day the eye of the traveller passing through
this province is gratified by the sparkle of myriads of broken bottles
arranged closely and continuously along its coping-stone. Above these
shining facets the boughs of tall trees swing in the wind and throw their
shadows across the highway. The wall at last leaves the road and
follows the park round its entire extent. Its height never varies; the
broken bottles glitter perpetually; and only through two entrances, and
that when the gates are open, can one gain a single glimpse inside: for
the gates are solid, with no chinks for the curious.
The country all round is undulating, and here and there from the crest
of an eminence you can see a great space of well-timbered park land
within this wall; and in winter, when the leaves are off the trees, you
may spy an imposing red-brick mansion in the midst.
Any native will inform you, with a mixture of infectious awe and
becoming pride, that this is no less than the far-famed private asylum of
Clankwood.
This ideal institution bore the enviable reputation of containing the
best-bred lunatics in England. It was credibly reported that however
well marked their symptoms and however well developed their
delusions, none but ladies and gentlemen of the most unblemished
descent were permitted to enjoy its seclusion. The dances there were
universally considered the most agreeable functions in the county. The
conversation of many of the inmates was of the widest range and the
most refreshing originality, and the demeanour of all, even when most

free from the conventional trammels of outside society, bore evidence
of an expensive, and in some cases of a Christian, upbringing. This is
scarcely to be wondered at, when beneath one roof were assembled the
heirs-presumptive to three dukedoms, two suicidal marquises, an odd
archbishop or so, and the flower of the baronetage and clergy. As this
list only includes a few of the celebrities able or willing to be
introduced to distinguished visitors, and makes no mention of the
uncorroborated dignities (such as the classical divinities and Old
Testament duplicates), the anxiety shown by some people to certify
their relations can easily be understood.
Dr Congleton, the proprietor and physician of Clankwood, was a
gentleman singularly well fitted to act as host on the occasion of
asylum reunions. No one could exceed him in the respect he showed to
a coroneted head, even when cracked; and a bishop under his charge
was always secured, as far as possible, from the least whisper of
heretical conversation. He possessed besides a pleasant rubicund
countenance and an immaculate wardrobe. He was further fortunate in
having in his assistants, Dr Escott and Dr Sherlaw, two young
gentlemen whose