Mark Dunn - Under the Harrow

I nodded with a grin.

Antonia resumed: “That he should have returned by his own wits and industry is more than a joy, is it not, Dr. Timberry?”

“Indeed.”

“Mulberry,” said I, “I would like you to examine Gus at your earliest convenience. To make certain that whilst he is quite exhausted and somewhat malnourished, there is nothing else the matter with him.”

“I will have a look at Hannah Pupker, as well, for she has undergone quite a trial at the hands of her father.”

But Hannah Pupker’s trial was hardly over.

Within two hours the young woman had lost her battle to keep herself from immurement within the malignant walls of Bedlam. The good protective offices of Mrs. Lumbey and the good legal offices of Sheriff Muntle had not been enough to prevent it, and by that point-in-time, Muntle’s offices were no longer his to employ anyway.

This we discovered upon my return to Mrs. Lumbey’s in the company of Mulberry and Antonia and my sister-in-law Charlotte, who had yet to be told that we were taking her to be reunited with her lost husband Gus so as to prevent onlookers from deducing from her rapturous expression the fact of her beloved’s return.

What awaited us when we gained my landlady’s shop was nothing to be wished for and everything that had been dreaded: the new chief law enforcement officer of Dingley Dell — the absurdly freckled, red-topped Mr. Boldwig — was at the very moment of our arrival in the midst of transporting a combative, yet wholly frightened Hannah Pupker out the front door of Mrs. Lumbey’s shop, as several other men stood close by with folded arms and penetrating, satisfied visages. The men were Hannah’s own tyrannical father, Montague Pupker; the dictatorial director of Bedlam, Dr. Arthur Towlinson; the malpractising, malodourous Dr. Fibbetson; and Bedlam’s empty-headed orderly Oscar, who stood hard by the open door of the van, which had been requisitioned to convey the young woman to her new address.

Trailing Boldwig and his captive out the door was a most distressed Mrs. Lumbey and her equally discomposed assistant Amy Casby.

“What is this?” I enquired, interposing myself between the sheriff and the van.

“No business of yours,” replied Boldwig with a cracking voice that had yet to settle upon a consistent adult pitch.

“Where’s Muntle?”

“Cashiered and put on quarter pension on account of his incompetency,” offered Pupker. “Now you are blocking the way of our new sheriff, so kindly step aside.”

I directed my next question to the new Boy Sheriff: “Where is Muntle at this moment ?”

“Clearing out his lodgings at the Inn-of-Justice so that I can move myself in. He’s being very slow about it, by the bye. Slower than even those apricot eaters Mr. Pupker just had me throw out of his mews.”

“Is this true, Pupker?” I asked. “You have evicted Harry Scadger and his family?”

Pupker nodded. “I try to please my brother-in-law when I can.”

“Now, Mr. Trimmers,” pursued Billy, “if you do not suffer me to do my duty here, I will have no choice but to make your arrest the second official act of my brand new tenure as sheriff of this Dell.”

I glanced at Hannah, who seemed at the moment to know not what to do, for she didn’t want to go with Boldwig — this much was clear — but did not know how one might successfully contest such a thing.

It was Mrs. Lumbey who spoke next: “I’ll ask it again, Pupker: under what charge is your poor daughter being arrested?”

“She isn’t being arrested, Mrs. Lumbey,” replied Dr. Towlinson snappishly. “The sheriff is merely assisting me in transporting her to Bethlehem Hospital.”

“By whose order?” asked Antonia, stepping forward, and delivering her question in an equally clipped fashion.

“By my request,” retorted Montague Pupker.

“And under the signed order of Judge Fitz-Marshall,” Dr. Towlinson added. “I have the order here if anyone wishes to examine it. The commitment is perfectly legal. A commission of lunacy was convened last night and the judge ruled that the girl should be consigned with all due expedition to the hospital for treatment.”

“Who in attendance at that hearing spoke on behalf of Hannah’s own wishes?” I asked.

Dr. Fibbetson, who was given to speaking in a flubbery way as if he were a squirrel carrying winter nuts about in his mouth, replied on behalf of his medical colleague, “The girl has no say in the matter. Do we forestall treating a man with boils until we should fully interview the carbuncles themselves? I think not.”

Mrs. Lumbey could not restrain herself: “Dr. Fibbetson, you are a blithering, lip-flapping fool!”

“Bless my heart and eyebrows, I have never in my life been so openly disparaged!”

“There’s more of that to come, you chuckle-headed marvel of medical malfeasance!”

“Hold!” enjoined Dr. Timberry. “Dr. Fibbetson, you and our colleague Dr. Towlinson know that there are two sides to a sanity dispute and you have done Miss Pupker here a grievous injustice by not hearing her side or having that side advocated by another party. I recall from my training, and I believe that it was you who taught it to me, Fibbetson, that lunacy is a difficult affliction to diagnose, and for this reason every caution is customarily taken to make certain that the rights of the patient to liberty are not errantly abridged.”

“I cannot remember saying any such thing!” protested Fibbetson.

“You can’t recall what you had for breakfast this morning, you doddering old fool!” Mrs. Lumbey would not check herself, and continued to vilify the appalled and affronted surgeon standing before her. There was a look of serene admiration upon the face of Antonia, who was rather enjoying the plucky spirit of her inveterate adversary. “It is you who should be put away, you lunatic medical incompetent, rather than this poor girl who has done nothing worse than find herself at odds with a dictatorial father. I extend that assessment to you as well, Dr. Towlinson, for Bedlam is become the equivalent of punishing prison for the human mind.”

“My dear Mrs. Lumbey, are you quite through?” asked Pupker, his nostrils flaring.

“For the nonce.” Mrs. Lumbey folded her arms and jutted her chin in a show of holding her ground.

Through pursed, indignant lips, Pupker continued, “Because I will not permit another black word from you that impugns my character or the character of my friends and associates.”

“And what do you intend to do about it? Have me thrown into Bedlam as well for mental deficiency?” Mrs. Lumbey’s cheeks were puffed out and reddened by the temperature of her anger. “I see nothing here but a father’s attempt to punish his daughter for no longer wishing to live beneath his roof.” Mrs. Lumbey now addressed herself to all the rest of us: “We all know what a patriarchal despot this man is. If I were his daughter I should have fled the family manse at the age of four.” Mrs. Lumbey was scrupulous in avoiding the larger reason for Hannah’s present travails — that she had seen things she was not supposed to see and now must be put away to prevent her speaking of them too widely and in a way that would produce difficult consequences for her father and others in his league.

“I’ll no longer remain here to be so maliciously slandered,” said Pupker to Sheriff Boldwig. “Put my daughter in the van and let us be on our way.”

Boldwig nodded and tugged upon the arm of Hannah Pupker. Hannah wrenched her arm away and fell back into the clasping embrace of Mrs. Lumbey. “I implore you, Papa,” said Hannah, regarding her father from over the shoulder of her temporary protector, “not to put me into Bedlam. You know in your heart that there is nothing wrong with me. Don’t do this cruel thing to me, I pray!”