Light drizzle was still falling as the last few items were brought out of the cottage. Glanville stood under the shelter of a tree and watched it all with grave misgivings. Jack Harsnett and his wife were being evicted. Their mean furniture and possessions were loaded on to a cart. It was sobering to think that they had both lived so long and yet owned so little. The mangy horse that stood between the shafts now cropped at the grass in the clearing for the last time. Like his owners, he was being moved on to leaner pastures.
Harsnett came over to where the steward was standing.
' Thankee,' he said gruffly.
'I tried, Jack.'
'I know, sir.'
'The new master was deaf to all entreaty.'
'New master!'
Harsnett turned aside and spat excessively to show his disgust. By order of Francis Jordan, he should have been turned out of the cottage on the previous day but Glanville had permitted him to stay the night. It was the only concession he felt able to offer and he was taking a risk with that. Harsnett was a surly and uncommunicative man but the steward respected him. The stocky forester was conscientious in his work and asked only to be left alone to do his job. He never complained about the misery of his lot and he held his chin up with a defiant pride.
' Things'll change,' he grunted.
'I fear they will, Jack.'
'We're but the first of many to go.'
'I will work to get you back.'
'No, sir.'
'But you are a proven man in the forest.'
'I'll not serve him!' sneered Harsnett.
There was a loan moan from inside the cottage and they both turned towards it. The forester's wife was evidently in great discomfort.
'Let me help you,' said Glanville kindly.
'I can manage.'
'But if your wife is unwell…'
Harsnett shook his head. 'We come into the place on our own, we'll leave the same way.'
He walked across to the cottage and ducked in through the low doorway. A couple of minutes later, he emerged with his wife, a poor, wasted, grey-haired woman in rough attire with an old shawl around her head. The whiteness of her face and the slowness of her movements told Glanville how ill she was. Harsnett had to lift her bodily on to the cart. He returned quickly to the cottage to bring out his last and most precious possession.
It was his axe. Sharp and glittering, it had seen him through many a year and was the symbol of his craft. He slammed the door behind him then turned back to view the place which had been their home throughout their marriage. The cottage was his no more. It belonged to the new master of Parkbrook House. Hatred and revenge welled up in Harsnett and he saw the building as a version of Francis Jordan himself, as a cold, bitter, cruel, unwelcoming place. He swung the axe with sudden violence and sank the blade deep into the front door.
After this last gesture of defiance, he pulled the axe clear of i he timber and hurried across to throw it in the back of the cart. When he climbed up beside his wife, she collapsed against him. He took the reins in one hand and put the other arm around his ailing spouse. In response to a curt command, the horse struggled into life.
'God go with you!' said Glanville.
But they had no time to hear him.
*
Kirk said nothing to his colleagues about the progress he had made. They would not understand it. The other keepers at Bedlam took the simple view that lunatics should he treated in only two ways. They should either he amused with toys or beaten with whips. Play or punishment. It never occurred to them that their charges might respond to individual care of another kind. Rooksley typified the attitude that was prevalent. The head keeper believed that lunatics could not be cured by anything that he and his staff might do. The salvation of the mentally deranged lay entirely with the Almighty. In support of this credo, Rooksley could recite, word for word, from a document which dated from the first year of Queen Elizabeth's reign and which confirmed the institution's status as an asylum for the insane.
‘Be it known to all devout and faithful people that there have been erected in the city of London four hospitals for the people that be stricken by the hand of God. Some be distraught from their wits and these be kept and maintained in the Hospital of our Lady of Bedlam, until God call them to his mercy, or to their wits again.’
For the vast majority of inmates, therefore, there was no respite and no hope. Stricken by the hand of God, they were repeatedly stricken by the hand of man as well. It was a savage Christianity.
Kirk sought to keep at least one person clear of it.
'I've brought your meal, David.'
'Ah.'
'You have to do better than that, sir,' coaxed the other. 'I will nor feed you else. Come, sir, what is that word we learned this morning?'
David's brow knotted with concentration for a moment.
Kirk prompted. 'If I give you something, what is my reward?'
' Th… ank…'
'Try again, David.'
' Th… ank…you…'
'Well done, sir! That deserves a meal.'
David was sitting on the bed in his featureless cell. The keeper sat down beside him and put the plate into the patient's lap. Taking hold of David's right hand, he Pitted the spoon into it then guided him down to his meal. The first mouthful was soon being chewed with slow deliberation. David was being helped to feed himself. He smiled at his minor triumph. It was another small sign of advance.
Kirk knew that nothing could be rushed. David could now say his name and mouth a few words bur that was all. He had to be taught again from the beginning and that would require time and patience. When the meal was over, Kirk waited expectantly. David was at first puzzled, then he grinned as he realised what was wanted.
Th… ank…'
'Speak up, sir.'
'Thank you!'
'Excellent!'
Kirk patted him on the back by the way of congratulation. There was still the vacant look in David's eye but he was not so completely beyond reach as the others believed. It was merely a question of opening up a line of communication with him.
'What's your name, sir?' asked Kirk.
' Da… vid.'
'Again.'
'David.'
'Again!'
'David. David. David.'
'And where do you live, David?'
The patient's face clouded over and his lips quivered.
'Where is your home?' said the keeper.
David glanced around and gestured with both hands.
'No, not here. Not Bedlam. This is where you live now, David. But where did you live before?'
The question completely baffled the patient. He looked lost and hurt. Kirk tried to jog his memory with a gentle enquiry.
'Was it in London?'
Unsure at first, David gave a hesitant shake of his head.
'Was it in a city?'
A longer wait then another uncertain shake of the head.
