The Jardines came the next day, self-invited guests. Ida had tried to prevent any such visit, in her desire to keep her husband’s degradation1 from the knowledge of his kindred; but Bessie was not to be so put off. She had heard that Brian was ill, and that Vernon had been dangerously ill; and her heart overflowed3 with love and compassion4 for her friend. It was not easy for Mr. Jardine to leave his parish, but he would have done a more difficult thing rather than see his wife unhappy; so on the Monday morning after that scene in the church, Ida received a telegram to say that Mr. and Mrs. Jardine were going to drive over to see her, and that they would claim her hospitality for a couple of days.
It was a drive of over thirty miles, only to be done by a merciful man between sunrise and sunset. Mr. and Mrs. Jardine started at five o’clock, breakfasted and lunched on the road, and brought their faithful steed, Drummer Boy, up to the Wimperfield portico5 at seven in the evening, with not a hair turned. Ida was waiting for them in the portico.
‘You darling, how pale and worried you look!’ exclaimed Bessie, as she hugged her friend; ‘and why didn’t you let me come before?’
‘You could have done me no good, dear, when my troubles were at the worst. Thank God the worst is over now — Vernie is getting on splendidly. He was downstairs to-day, and ate such a dinner. We were quite afraid he would bring on a relapse from over-eating. He is delighted at the idea of seeing you and Mr. Jardine.’
‘Has he gone to bed? I’ll go up to see him at once, if I may,’ said John Jardine.
‘He is in his own room. He asked to stop up till seven on purpose to see you.’
‘Then I’ll go to him this instant.’
The luggage had been brought out of the light T cart, and the Drummer Boy had been led round to the stables. Ida took Bessie to a room at the end of the house, remote from Brian’s apartments.
‘Why, this isn’t our usual room!’ said Bessie, astonished.
‘No, I thought this would be a pleasanter room in such warm weather. It looks east,’ Ida answered, rather feebly.
‘It’s a very nice room; only I felt more at home in the other. I have occupied it so often, you know, I felt almost as if it were my own. Oh, you cruel girl! why didn’t you let me come sooner? I wanted so to be with you in your trouble; and I offered to come directly I heard Vernie was ill!’
‘I know, dear; but you could have done no good. We were in God’s hands. We could only pray and wait.’
‘Love can always do good. I could have comforted you!
‘Nothing could have comforted me if he had died.’
‘And Brian — poor Brian has been ill, too. I thought him very much changed when we were here — so thin, so nervous, so depressed8.’
‘Yes, he was ill then — he is very ill now. We take all the care we can of him, but he doesn’t get any better.’
‘Poor dear Brian! and he was once the soul of fun and gaiety — used to sing comic songs so capitally. I suppose it is a poor thing for a man to do, but it was very nice, especially at Christmas time. There are so few people who can do anything to help one over Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Brian was good at everything — charades9, clumps10, consequences, dumb crambo. And to think that he should be ill so long! What is his complaint, Ida?’ asked Bessie, suddenly becoming earnest, after a lapse6 into childishness.
‘It is a nervous complaint,’ faltered11 Ida; ‘he will soon get over it, I hope and believe, if we take proper care of him. He is very excitable, very unlike his old self; and you must not be astonished at anything he may say or do.’
‘You don’t mean that he is out of his mind?’ said Bessie, with an awe-stricken look.
‘No, no; nothing of the kind — at least, nothing that is likely to be lasting12; but he has delusions13 sometimes — a kind of hysterical14 affection. Oh, Bessie, I did not want you to know anything; I tried to keep you away.’
Bessie had her arms round her old friend, and Ida, quite broken down by the fears and agitations15 of the last six weeks, hid her face upon Mrs. Jardine’s shoulder and sobbed17 aloud. It was a complete collapse18 of heroic resolutions, of that unflinching courage and strength of mind which had sustained her so long; but it was also a blessed relief to the overcharged heart and brain.
‘It is very selfish of me to plague you with my troubles,’ she said, when Bessie had kissed and comforted her with every expression of sympathy and tenderness in the gamut19 of womanly love, ‘but I wanted you to be prepared for the worst. And now, let me help you to change your gown, if you are going to make any change for dinner. The gong will sound in less than half-an-hour.’
‘Oh, those gongs, they always fill me with despair!’ cried Bess. ‘I am never ready when ours begins to buzz through the house, like a gigantic, melancholy-mad bumble bee. Of course I must change, dear; firstly, because I am smothered20 with dust, and sixthly, as Dogberry says, because I have brought a pretty gown to do honour to Wimperfield.’
And Bessie, rushing to her portmanteau, and tearing out its contents in a frantic21 way, shook out the laces and ribbons of a gracious Watteau-like arrangement in Madras muslin, while she chattered22 to her hostess.
‘Shall I send for Jane Dyson?’ the immaculate maid, who had lived with an archbishop’s wife. ‘She can unpack23 your things.’
‘Not for worlds. I have oceans to tell you, and I should hate that prim24 personage looking on and listening. Such news, Ida: Urania is engaged.’
‘At last!’
‘That was what everybody said. This was her sixth season, and it was rapidly becoming a case of real distress25, and she was getting blue, oh, to a frightful26 extent — a perambulatory epitome27 of Huxley-cum-Darwin — that’s what our boys call her. And now, after refusing ever so many nice young men in the Government offices because they were not rich enough for her, she is going to make a great match, and marry a nasty old man.’
‘Oh, Bessie! nasty and old!’
‘Strong language, isn’t it? but the gentleman has been to Kingthorpe, and there is no doubt about the fact. One wouldn’t mind his being elderly if he were only a gentleman; but he is not.’
‘Then why in mercy’s name does Miss Rylance marry him?’
‘Because he is Sir Tobias Vandilk, one of the richest men on the Stock Exchange. He is of Dutch extraction, they say; and this is supposed to account for his utter destitution28 with regard to English aspirates. He has a palace in Park Lane, and a park in Yorkshire; gives dinners of a most recherché description every Thursday in the season; and immense shooting parties, at which I am told he and his friends slaughter29 quintillions of pheasants, and flood the London market every autumn; and it is whispered that he has lent money to royal personages.’
‘Is Urania happy?’
‘If she is not, I know who is. Dr. Rylance looks twenty years younger since the engagement. He was beginning to get weighed down by Urania. You remember with what a firm hand he managed her in days gone by! Well, after she took to Huxley and Darwin, and the rest of them, that was all over. She was always tripping him up with some little shred30 of scientific knowledge, fresh from Tyndall; always attacking his old-fashioned notions with some new light. He was as merry as a boy let loose from school when he came down to Kingthorpe the other day. He went to one of our picnics, and made himself tremendously agreeable. We took Sir Tobias to see the Abbey, and had afternoon tea there. He pretended to admire everything, but in a patronising way that made me savage31; affected32 to think Wendover Abbey a little bit of a place, as compared with his modern barrack in Yorkshire, with its riding-school, tan gallop33, range of orchard-houses, picture-gallery, and so on. And Urania’s grandeur34 is something too large for words. “You and Mr. Jardine must come and stay with us at Hanborough some day,” she said, as if she were promising35 me a treat; so I told her plainly that my husband’s parish work made such a visit impossible. “Oh, but some day,” she said sweetly. “Never,” said I; “we are rooted in the chalk of Salisbury Plain.” “Poor things!” she sighed, “what a destiny!”’
‘And you all drank tea at the Abbey,’ said Ida, musingly36; ‘dear old Abbey! I can fancy you there, in the long low library, with the afternoon sunlight shining in at the open windows, and Mary Stuart smiling at you from the panelling over one fire-place, and crafty37 Elizabeth looking sideways at you from over the other, and the Dijon roses clambering and twining round every lattice.’
‘How well you remember the old place. Isn’t it horrid38 of Brian to stay away all these years?’
‘It is — rather eccentric.’
‘Eccentric! It is positively39 wicked, when we know how agreeable he can make himself. Why, in that happy summer we spent at the Abbey he brightened all our lives. Didn’t he, now, Ida?’
‘He was very kind,’ faltered Ida, like a slave giving evidence under torture. ‘Have you heard from him lately?’
‘Not for more than a year, but father hears of him through his London agent, and we know he is well. He sent us all lovely presents last Christmas — Indian shawls, prayer-rugs, ivories, carved sandalwood boxes. The Vicarage is glorified40 by his gifts.’
The gong began booming and buzzing as Bessie pinned a big yellow rose among the folds of her Madras fichu, and Mrs. Jardine and her hostess went down to the drawing-room lovingly arms entwined, as in that long-ago holiday, when Ida was a guest at Kingthorpe.
Lady Palliser and Mr. Jardine were in the drawing-room talking to each other, while Brian paced up and down the room, pale and wan7, as he had looked yesterday in the church. He offered his arm to Bessie at his wife’s bidding, without a word. Mr. Jardine followed, with Lady Palliser and Ida; and the little party of five sat down to dinner with a blight41 upon them, the awful shadow of domestic misery42. There are many such dinners eaten every day in England — than which the Barmecide’s was a more cheerful feast, a red herring and bread and butter in a garret a banquet of sweeter savour.
For the first two courses Brian preserved a sullen43 silence. He ate nothing — did not even pretend to eat — and drank the sherry and soda-water which were offered to him without comment. With the third course the butler, who had supplied him with the prescribed amount of sherry, gave him plain soda-water. He looked at his tumbler for a moment or so, and burst out laughing.
‘Byron used to drink soda-water at dinners when he was the rage in London society,’ he said. ‘It was chic44, and Byron was like Sara Bernhardt — he would have done anything to get himself talked about.’
‘I should have thought the fame he won by “Childe Harold” would have satisfied him, without any outside notoriety as a total abstainer,’ said Mr. Jardine.
‘Oh, if you think that, you don’t know Byron,’ exclaimed Brian. ‘He wanted people always to be talking of him. A man may write the greatest book that was ever written, and the world will accept it, and put him on a pinnacle45; but they soon leave off talking about him unless he does something. He must keep a bear in his rooms — quarrel with his wife — wear a pea-green overcoat — cross the Channel in a balloon — and go on doing queer things — if he wants to be famous. Byron was an adept46 in the art of réclame— just as Whistler is on his smaller scale. It wasn’t enough for Byron to be the greatest poet of modern Europe, he wanted to be the most notorious rake and roué into the bargain.’
‘It was a curious nature,’ said Mr. Jardine —‘half gold and half tinsel.’
‘Ah, but the tinsel caught the public. I really don’t think, for a man who wants to make a stir in his generation, a fellow could have played his cards better than Byron did.’
‘It is a life that one can only contemplate47 with infinite pity and regret — a great nature, wrecked48 by small vices49 and smaller follies,’ said Mr. Jardine; and then Brian took up the strain, and talked with loud assertiveness50 of the right of genius to do what it likes in the world, launching out into a broad declaration of infidelity and rank materialism51, which shocked and scared the three women who heard him.
Ida gave an imploring52 look at her stepmother, and they all three rose simultaneously53, and hastily retired54, driven away by that blatant55 blasphemy56. John Jardine closed the door upon the ladies, and then went quietly back to his seat. He heard all that Brian had to say — he listened to his wild ramblings as to the voice of an oracle57; and then, when Brian had poured out his little stock of argument in favour of materialism, had quoted Aristotle, and Holbach, and Hume, and Comte, and Darwin, and had perverted58 their arguments against a personal God into the divine right of man to ruin his soul and body, John Jardine, who had read more of Aristotle than Brian knew of all the metaphysicians put together, and who had Plato, Kant, and Dugald Stewart in his heart of hearts, gravely took up the strain, and made mincemeat of Mr. Wendover’s philosophy.
Brian listened meekly59, and did not appear to take offence when the Vicar went on to warn him against the peril60 here and hereafter of a life misspelt, a constitution ruined by self-indulgence, talents unused, opportunities neglected. The pale and haggard wretch61 sat cowering62, as the voice of reproof63 and warning went on, solemnly, earnestly, with the warm sympathy which springs from perfect pity, from the Christian’s wide love of his fellow-men.
‘For your wife’s — for your own sake — for the love of Him in whose image you were made — wrestle64 with the devil that possesses you,’ said John Jardine, when they had risen to leave the room, laying his hand affectionately upon Brian’s shoulder. ‘Believe me, victory is possible.’
‘Not now,’ Brian answered, with a semi-hysterical laugh. ‘It is too late. There comes an hour, you know, even in your all-merciful creed65, when the door is shut. “Too late, ye cannot enter now.” The door is shut upon me. I fooled my life away in London. It was pleasant enough while it lasted, but it’s over now. I can say with Cleopatra —“O my life in Egypt, O, the dalliance and the wit.”’
They were in the hall by this time. The broad marble-paved hall, with its marble figures of gods and goddesses, of which nobody ever took any more notice than if they had been umbrella stands. They were crossing the hall on their way to the drawing-room, when Brian suddenly clutched John Jardine’s arm and reeled heavily against him, with an appalling66 cry.
‘Hold me!’ he screamed; ‘hold me! I am going down!’
It was one of the dreadful symptoms of his dreadful disease. All at once, with the solid black and white marble beneath his feet, he felt himself upon the edge of a precipice67, felt himself falling, falling, falling, into a bottomless pit.
It was an awful feeling, a waking nightmare. He sank exhausted68 into John Jardine’s arms, panting for breath.
‘You are safe, it is only a momentary69 delusion,’ said Mr. Jardine. ‘Have you had that feeling often before?’
‘Yes — sometimes — pretty often,’ gasped70 Brian.
Mr. Jardine’s wide reading and large experience as a parish priest had made him half a doctor. He knew that this was one of the symptoms of delirium71 tremens, and a symptom seen mostly in cases of a dangerous type. He had suspected the nature of Mr. Wendover’s disease before now; but now he was certain of it.
He went with Brian to his room, advising him to lie down and rest. Brian appearing consentient, Mr. Jardine left him, with Towler in attendance.
In the drawing-room the Vicar contrived72 to get a little quiet talk with Ida, while at the other end of the room Lady Palliser was expatiating73 to Bessie upon the minutest details of her boy’s illness. He invited Ida’s confidence, and frankly74 told her that he had fathomed75 the nature of Brian’s disease.
‘I have seen too many cases in the course of my parochial experience not to recognise the painful symptoms. I am so sorry for you and for him. It is a bright young life thrown away.’
‘Do you think he will not recover?’
‘I think it is a very bad case. He is wasted to a shadow, and has a worn, haggard look that I don’t like. And then he has those painful hallucinations — that idea of falling down a precipice, for instance, which are oftenest seen in fatal cases.’
Ida told him of the scene in the church yesterday — she confided76 in him fully77 — telling him all that Dr. Mallison had said of the case.
‘What can I do?’ she asked, piteously.
‘I don’t think you can do more than you are doing. That man who waits upon your husband is a nurse, I suppose?’
‘Yes. Dr. Mallison sent him.’
‘And care is taken that the patient gets no stimulants78 supplied to him?’
‘Every care — and yet —’
‘And yet what?’
‘I have a suspicion — and I think Towler suspects too — that Brian does get brandy — somehow.’
‘But how can that be, if your servants are honest, and this attendant is to be depended upon?’
‘I can’t tell you. I believe the servants are incapable79 of deceiving me. Towler, the attendant, comes to us with the highest character.’
‘Well, I will be on the alert while I am with you,’ said Mr. Jardine; and Ida felt as if he were a tower of strength. ‘I have seen these sad cases, and had to do with them, only too often. On some occasions I have been happy enough to be the means of saving a man from his own folly80.’
‘Pray stop as long as you can with us, and do all you can,’ entreated81 Ida. ‘I wish I had asked you to come sooner, only I was so ashamed for him, poor creature. I thought it would be a wrong to him to let anyone know how low he had fallen.’
‘It is part of my office to know how low humanity can fall and yet be raised up again,’ said Mr. Jardine.
‘You won’t tell Bessie — she would be so grieved for her cousin.’
‘I will tell her nothing more than she can find out for herself. But you know she is very quick-witted.’
There was a change for the worse in Towler’s charge next morning, when Ida, who still occupied the room adjoining her husband’s bedchamber, went in at eight o’clock to inquire how he had passed the night. Brian was up, half dressed, pacing up and down the room, and talking incoherently. He had been up ever since five o’clock, Towler said; but it was impossible to get him to dress himself, or suffer himself to be dressed. A frightful restlessness had taken possession of him, more intense than any previous restlessness, and it was impossible to do anything for him. His hallucinations since daybreak had taken a frightful form; he had seen poisonous snakes gliding82 in and out of the folds of the bedclothes; he had fancied every kind of hideous83 monster — the winged reptiles84 of the jura formation — the armour-plated fish of the old red sandstone — everything that is grotesque85, revolting, terrible — skeletons, poison-spitting toads86, vampires87, were-wolves, flying cats — they had all lurked88 amidst the draperies of bed or windows, or grinned at him through the panes89 of glass.
‘Look!’ he shrieked90, as Ida approached him, soothing91, pleading in gentlest accents; ‘look! don’t you see them?’ he cried, pointing to the shapes that seemed to people the room, and trying to push them aside with a restless motion of his hands; ‘don’t you see them, the lares and lemures? Look, there is Cleopatra with the asp at her breast! That bosom92 was once beautiful, and see now what a loathsome93 spectacle death has made it — the very worms recoil94 from that corruption95. See, there is Canidia, the sorceress, who buried the boy alive! Look at her hair flying loose about her head! hair, no, those locks are living vipers96! and Sagana, with hair erect97, like the bristles98 of a wild boar! See, Ida, how she rushes about, sprinkling the room with water from the rivers of hell! And Veia, whose cruel heart never felt remorse99! Yes, he knew them well, Horace. These furies were the women he had loved and wooed!’
Fancies, memories flitted across his disordered brain, swift as lightning flashes. In a moment Canidia was forgotten, and he was Pentheus, struggling with Agave and her demented crew. They were tearing him to pieces, their fingers were at his throat. Then he was in the East, a defenceless traveller in the tropical desert, surrounded by Thugs. He pointed100 to one particular spot where he saw his insidious101 foe102 — he described the dusky supple103 figure, the sinuous104 limbs, gliding serpent-like towards him, the oiled body, the dagger105 in the uplifted hand. An illustration in Sir Charles Bell’s classic treatise106 had flashed into his brain. So, from memory to memory, with a frightful fertility of fancy, his unresting brain hurried on; while his wife could only watch and listen, tortured by an agony greater than his own. To look on, and to be powerless to afford the slightest help was dreadful. Up and down, and round about the room he wandered, talking perpetually, perpetually waving aside the horrid images which pursued and appalled107 him, his eyeballs in constant motion, the pupils dilated108, his hollow cheeks deadly pale, his face bathed in perspiration109.
‘Send for Mr. Fosbroke,’ said Ida, speaking on the threshold of the adjoining room, to the maid who brought her letters; and, in the midst of his distraction110, Brian’s quick ear caught the name.
‘Fosbroke me no Fosbrokes!’ he said. ‘I will have no village apothecaries111 diagnosing my disease, no ignorant quack112 telling me how to treat myself.’
‘I will telegraph for Dr. Mallison, if you like, Brian,’ Ida answered, gently; ‘but I know Mr. Fosbroke is a clever man, and he perfectly113 understands —’
‘Yes, he will have the audacity114 to tell you he knows what is the matter with me. He will say this is delirium tremens— a lie, and you must know it is a lie!’
To her infinite relief, Mr. Jardine appeared at this moment He questioned Towler as to the possibility of tranquillising his patient; and he found that the sedatives115 prescribed by Dr. Mallison had ceased to exercise any beneficial effect. Nights of insomnia116 and restlessness had been the rule with the patient ever since Towler had been in attendance upon him.
‘I never knew such a brain, or such invention!’ exclaimed Towler; ‘the people and the places, and the things he talks about is enough to make a man’s hair stand on end.’
‘The natural result of a vivid memory, and a good deal of desultory117 reading.’
‘Most patients takes an idea and harps118 upon it,’ said Towler. ‘It’s the multiplication119 table — or the day of judgment120 — or the volcanoes and hot-springs, and what-you-may-call-ems, in the centre of the earth; and they’ll go on over and over again — always coming back to the same point, like a merry-go-round; but this one is quite different. There’s no bounds to his delusions. We’re at the North Pole one minute, and digging up diamonds in Africa the next.’
Brian had flung himself upon his bed, rolled in the damask curtain, like Henry Plantagenet, what time he went off into one of his fury-fits about Thomas Becket; and Mr. Jardine and Towler were able to talk confidentially121 at a respectful distance.
‘Are you sure that he does not get brandy without your knowledge?’
‘No, sir,’ said Towler; ‘that is what I am not sure about. It’s a puzzling case. He didn’t ought to be so bad as he is after my care of him. There ought to be some improvement by this time; instead of which it’s all the other way.’
‘What precautions have you taken?’
‘I’ve searched his rooms, and not a thing have I found stowed away anywhere. It isn’t often that he’s left to himself, for when I get my midday sleep Mrs. Wendover sits with him; or, if he’s cranky, and wants to be alone, she stays in the next room, with the door ajar between them; and Robert, the groom122, is on duty in the passage, in case the patient should get unmanageable.’
‘I see — you have been very careful; but practically your patient has been often alone — the half-open door signifies nothing — he was unobserved, and free to do what he pleased all the same.’
‘But he couldn’t drink if there was no liquor within reach.’
‘Was there none? that is the question!’ answered Mr. Jardine.
‘Look about the rooms yourself, sir, and see if he could hide anything, except in such places as I’ve overhauled123 every morning,’ said Towler, with an offended air; and then, swelling124 with outraged125 dignity, he flung open doors of wardrobes and closets, pulled out drawers, and otherwise demonstrated the impossibility of anything remaining secret from his eagle eye.
‘What about the next room?’ asked Mr. Jardine, going into the adjoining room, which was Brian’s study.
The room was littered with books and papers heaped untidily upon tables and chairs, and even strewn upon the carpet. Brian had objected to any attempt at setting this apartment in order — the servants were to leave all books and papers untouched, on pain of his severe displeasure. Thus everything in the shape of litter had been allowed to accumulate, with its natural accompaniment, dust. Everyone knows the hideous confusion which the daily and weekly newspapers alone can make in a room if left unsorted and unarranged for a mouth or so; and mixed with these there were pamphlets, magazines, manuscripts, and piles of more solid literature in the shape of books brought up from the library for reference and consultation126.
In one corner there were a pile of empty boxes, and on one of these Mr. Jardine’s eye lighted instantly, on account of its resemblance to a wine merchant’s case.
He pulled this box out from the others — a plain deal box, roughly finished, just the size of a two-dozen case. One label had been pulled off, but there was a railway label which gave the data of delivery, just three weeks back.
‘Have you any idea what this box contained?’ inquired Mr. Jardine.
‘No, sir. It was here when I came, just as you see it now.’
‘It looks very like a wine merchant’s box.’
‘Well, it might be a wine-case, sir, as far as the look of it but it might have held anything. It was empty when I came here, and there’s no stowage for wine bottles in these rooms, as you have seen with your own eyes.’
‘Don’t be too sure of that; and now go back to your patient, and get him to eat some breakfast, if you can, while I go downstairs.’
‘He can’t eat, sir. It’s pitiful; he don’t eat enough, for a robin127. We try to keep up his strength with strong soups, and such like; but it’s hard work to get him to swallow anything.’
Mr. Jardine went down to the family breakfast room, where his wife, Ida, and her stepmother were sitting at table, with pale perturbed128 faces, and very little inclination129 for that excellent fare which the Wimperfield housekeeper130 provided with a kind of automatic regularity131, and would have continued to provide on the eve of a deluge132 or an earthquake. He told Ida that all was going on quietly upstairs, and that he would share Towler’s task as nurse all that day, so that she might be quite easy in her mind as to the patient. And then the servants came trooping in, as the clock struck nine, and they all knelt down, and John Jardine read the daily portion of prayer and praise.
It had been decreed by medical authority that on this day, provided the sky were propitious133 and the wind in a warm quarter, Vernon was to go out for his first drive. Mr. Jardine accordingly entreated that the three ladies would accompany him, and that Ida would have no fear as to her husband’s welfare during her absence.
‘I don’t like to leave him,’ she said, in confidence, to Mr. Jardine; ‘he seems so much worse this morning — wilder than I have ever seen him yet — and so white and haggard.’
‘He is very bad, but your remaining indoors will do him no good. I will not leave him while you are away.’
Ida yielded. It was a relief to her to submit to authority — to have some one able to tell her to do this or that. She felt utterly134 worn out in body and mind — all the energy, the calm strength of purpose, which had sustained her up to a certain point, was now exhausted. Despair had taken possession of her, and with despair came that dull apathy135 which is like death in life.
John Jardine took his wife aside before he went back to Brian’s rooms.
‘I want you to take care of Ida, to keep with her all day. She has been sorely tried, poor soul, and needs all your love.’
‘She shall have it in full measure,’ answered Bessie. ‘How grave and anxious you look! Is Brian very ill?’
‘Very ill.’
‘Dangerously?’
‘I am afraid so. I shall hear what Mr. Fosbroke says presently, and if his report be bad, I shall telegraph for the physician.’
‘Poor Brian! How strangely he talked at dinner last night! Oh, John, I hardly dare say it — but — is he out of his mind?’
‘Temporarily — but it is the delirium of a kind of brain fever, not madness.’
‘And he will recover?’
‘Please God; but he is very low. I am seriously alarmed about him.’
‘Poor dear Brian!’ sighed Bess. ‘He was once my favourite cousin. But I must go back to Ida. You need not be afraid of my neglecting her. I shan’t leave her all day.’
Mr. Jardine went to the housekeeper’s room to make an inquiry136. He wanted to know what that box from London had contained, a box delivered upon such and such a date.
The housekeeper’s mind was dark, or worse than dark upon the subject — an obscurity enlightened by flashes of delusive137 light. Two housemaids, and an odd man who looked after the coal scuttles138, were produced, and gave their evidence in a manner which would have laid them open to the charge of rank prevarication139 and perjury140, as to the receipt of a certain wooden box, which at some stages of the inquiry became hopelessly entangled141 with a hamper142 from the Petersfield fishmonger, and a band-box from Lady Palliser’s Brighton milliner.
‘The carriage must have been paid,’ said the housekeeper, ‘that’s the difficulty. If there’d been anything to pay, it would have been entered in my book; but when the carriage is paid, don’t you see, sir, it’s out of my jurisdiction143, as you may say,’ with conscious pride in a free use of the English language, ‘and I may hear nothing about it.’
But now the odd man, after much thoughtful ‘scratching of his head, was suddenly enlightened by a flash of memory from the paleozoic darkness of three weeks ago. He remembered a heavy wooden box that had come in his dinner-time — the fact of its coming at that eventful hour had evidently impressed him — and he had carried it up to Mr. Wendover’s own sitting-room144.
It was very heavy, and Mr. Wendover had told him that it contained books.
‘Did you open it for Mr. Wendover?’
‘No, sir; I offered to open it, but Mr. Wendover says he’d got the tools himself, and would open it at his leisure. He had no call for the books yet awhile, he says, and didn’t want it opened.
‘I see, the box contained books. Thank you, that’s all I wanted to know.’
John Jardine had very little doubt in his mind now as to the actual contents of the box. He had no doubt that Brian, finding himself refused drink, for which he suffered the drunkard’s incessant145 craving146, had contrived to get himself supplied from London; and that if the fire of his disease had known no abatement147 it was because the fuel that fed the flame had not been wanting.
The only question that remained to be answered was how Brian, carefully attended as he had been, had managed to dispose of his secret store of drink, under the very eyes, as it were, of his keeper. But Mr. Jardine knew that the sufferer from alcoholic148 poison is no less cunning than the absolute lunatic, and that falsehood, meanness, and fraud seem to be symptoms of the disease.
When he went back to Brian’s rooms, he found the patient lying on his bed, exhausted by the agitation16 and restlessness of the last few hours. He was not asleep, but was quieter than usual, in a semi-conscious state, muttering to himself now and then. Towler was sitting at a little table by the open window, breakfasting comfortably; his enjoyment149 of the coffee-pot, and a dish of ham and eggs, being in no manner lessened150 by the neighbourhood of the patient.
‘Haven’t been able to get him to take any nourishment,’ whispered Towler, as Mr. Jardine came quietly into the room ‘He’s uncommon151 bad.’
‘Mr. Fosbroke will be here presently, I hope.’
‘I don’t think he’ll be able to do much good when he does come,’ said Towler; ‘doctors ain’t in it with a case of this kind. If he don’t go off into a good sleep by-and-by, I’m afraid this will be a fatal case.’
Mr. Jardine made no reply to this discouraging observation. There are times when speech is worse than useless. He stood by the window, looking over at that shrunken figure on the groat old-fashioned four-post bed, with its voluminous drab damask curtains, its cords, fringes, tassels152, and useless decorations — the nerveless, helpless figure of wasted youth, the wreckage153 of an ill-spent life. The haggard countenance154, damp with the dews of mental agony, and of a livid pallor, looked like the face of death. What could medicine do for this man beyond diagnosing his case, and giving an opinion about it, for the satisfaction — God save the mark! — of his friends? John Jardine knew in his heart that not all the doctors in Christendom could pick this shattered figure up again, and replace it in its former position among mankind.
Still intent upon solving that mystery about the contents of the wine-case, Mr. Jardine’s eyes wandered about the room, trying to discover some hiding-place which the careful had overlooked. But so far he could see no such thing There was the tall four-poster, with its square cornice, a ponderous155 mahogany frame with fluted156 damask stretched across it. Could Brian have hidden his brandy up yonder, behind the mahogany cornice? Surely not. First the damask would have bulged157 with the weight of the bottles, and, secondly158, the place was not accessible enough. He must have hidden his poison in some spot where he could apply himself to it furtively159, hurriedly twenty, fifty, a hundred times in the day or night.
Presently Mr. Jardine’s glance fell on the half-open door of the bath-room. It was a slip of a room cut off the study, a room that had been created within the last twenty years. It was the only room which Mr. Jardine had not inspected before he went down to breakfast.
He pushed open the door, and went in, followed by Towler, wiping the egginess and haminess from his mouth as he went.
‘You kept your eye upon this room as well as the others, I suppose,’ said Mr. Jardine, looking about him.
‘Yes, sir, I have kept an eye upon everything.’
The apartment was not extensive. A large copper160 bath with a ponderous mahogany case, panelled, moulded, bevelled, the elaborate workmanship of local cabinet-makers; a row of brass161 hooks hung with bath towels, which looked like surplices pendent in a vestry; a washstand in a corner, a dressing-table and glass, with its belongings162, in the window, and a wicker arm-chair, comprised the whole extent of furniture. No hiding-place here, one would suppose.
Mr. Jardine looked about the room thoughtfully. It was the one apartment in which the patient could hardly be intruded163 upon by his attendant. Here he could be sure of privacy.
‘Did you examine the case of the bath,’ he inquired presently, his mathematical eye quick to take in the difference between the inner shell of copper and the outer husk of mahogany.
‘No, sir,’ answered Towler, briskly. ‘Is it ‘oller?’
‘Of course it’s hollow. Surely your eye tells you that.’
‘Yes, sir; but there’s the hot-water pipes inside — and there’s no getting at it, except for a plumber164.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Mr. Jardine, kneeling down at one end of the bath, where there was a convenient mahogany door for the accommodation of the plumber, a door which lay somewhat in shadow, and had escaped Towler’s observation.
‘Bring me a candle,’ said Mr. Jardine, unconsciously imitating the brotherhood165 of plumbers166, whose consumption of candles is a household terror.
Towler returned to fetch a candle, while Mr. Jardine with cautious hand explored the cavern-like recesses167 between the bath and its outer shell, recesses in which lurked serpent-like convolutions of hot-water pipes and cold-water pipes, waste and overflow2.
Yes, before Towler could arrive with the candle, he had fathomed the mystery. Three or four full bottles, and a large number of empties, were stowed away in this dusty receptacle. He drew one of the full bottles out into the light. ‘Hennessy’s Fine Old Cognac,’ said the label. This had been the secret source of fever and delirium — here had lurked the evil which had made all remedial measures vain.
Mr. Fosbroke was announced while John Jardine was washing the dust and the stains of rusty168 iron from his hands. Brian was in too low a condition to be rude to the country practitioner169, much as he had protested against his interference. He suffered the apothecary170 to sit by his bed and feel his pulse, without a word of remonstrance171.
‘How do you find him?’ asked Mr. Jardine, when Mr. Fosbroke had left the bedside.
‘Very bad; pulse small and thready — a hundred and forty in the minute; violent throbbing172 in the temporal and carotid arteries173; profuse174 perspiration — all bad signs. What medicines has he been taking?’
He was shown the prescriptions175.
‘Hum — hum — digitalis — bromide of potassium. I should like to inject chloral; but as the case is in Dr. Mallison’s hands —’
‘If you think there is danger I will telegraph for Mallison.’
‘There is always danger in this stage of the malady176, especially in the case of a patient of Mr. Wendover’s age. The season, too, is unfavourable — the mortality in this complaint is nearly double in summer. If we can get him into a sound sleep of some hours he may wake with a decided177 turn for the better — the delirium subjugated178; but in his low state, even sleep may be fatal — there is so little vital power. Yes, I should certainly telegraph for Dr. Mallison; and in the meantime I’ll try what can be done with chloral.’
‘You must do the utmost you can. Mrs. Wendover has implicit179 faith in you.’
‘I’ll drive back and get the chloral.’
When the apothecary was gone, Mr. Jardine’s first act was to telegraph to the London physician, his next, to put the unused bottles of cognac under lock and key, and, with Towler’s help, to clear away the empty bottles without the knowledge of the servants. No doubt every member of the household knew the nature of Mr. Wendover’s illness; but it was well to spare him the exposure of these degrading details.
收听单词发音 |
1
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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charades
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| n.伪装( charade的名词复数 )；猜字游戏 | |
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clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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delusions
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| n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 )；谬见；错觉；妄想 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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agitations
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| （液体等的）摇动( agitation的名词复数 )； 鼓动； 激烈争论； （情绪等的）纷乱 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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gamut
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| n.全音阶，(一领域的)全部知识 | |
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smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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23
unpack
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| vt.打开包裹（或行李），卸货 | |
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prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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epitome
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| n.典型，梗概 | |
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destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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shred
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| v.撕成碎片，变成碎片；n.碎布条，细片，些少 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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chic
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| n./adj.别致(的)，时髦(的)，讲究的 | |
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pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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adept
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| adj.老练的，精通的 | |
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47
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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49
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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50
assertiveness
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| n.过分自信 | |
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51
materialism
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| n.［哲］唯物主义，唯物论；物质至上 | |
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52
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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53
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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54
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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55
blatant
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| adj.厚颜无耻的；显眼的；炫耀的 | |
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56
blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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57
oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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58
perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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59
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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60
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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61
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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cowering
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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64
wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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expatiating
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| v.详述，细说( expatiate的现在分词 ) | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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fathomed
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| 理解…的真意( fathom的过去式和过去分词 )； 彻底了解； 弄清真相 | |
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76
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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stimulants
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| n.兴奋剂( stimulant的名词复数 )；含兴奋剂的饮料；刺激物；激励物 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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reptiles
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| n.爬行动物，爬虫( reptile的名词复数 ) | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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toads
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| n.蟾蜍，癞蛤蟆( toad的名词复数 ) | |
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vampires
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| n.吸血鬼( vampire的名词复数 )；吸血蝠；高利贷者；（舞台上的）活板门 | |
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88
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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90
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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92
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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93
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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94
recoil
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| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
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95
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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96
vipers
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| n.蝰蛇( viper的名词复数 )；毒蛇；阴险恶毒的人；奸诈者 | |
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97
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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98
bristles
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| 短而硬的毛发，刷子毛( bristle的名词复数 ) | |
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99
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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100
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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101
insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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102
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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103
supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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104
sinuous
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| adj.蜿蜒的，迂回的 | |
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105
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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106
treatise
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| n.专著；(专题)论文 | |
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107
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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108
dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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110
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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111
apothecaries
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| n.药剂师，药店( apothecary的名词复数 ) | |
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112
quack
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| n.庸医；江湖医生；冒充内行的人；骗子 | |
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113
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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114
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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115
sedatives
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| n.镇静药，镇静剂( sedative的名词复数 ) | |
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116
insomnia
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| n.失眠，失眠症 | |
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117
desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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118
harps
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| abbr.harpsichord 拨弦古钢琴n.竖琴( harp的名词复数 ) | |
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119
multiplication
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| n.增加，增多，倍增；增殖，繁殖；乘法 | |
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120
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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121
confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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122
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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123
overhauled
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| v.彻底检查( overhaul的过去式和过去分词 )；大修；赶上；超越 | |
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124
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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125
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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126
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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127
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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128
perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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129
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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130
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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131
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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132
deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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133
propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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134
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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135
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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136
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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137
delusive
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| adj.欺骗的，妄想的 | |
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138
scuttles
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| n.天窗( scuttle的名词复数 )v.使船沉没( scuttle的第三人称单数 )；快跑，急走 | |
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139
prevarication
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| n.支吾；搪塞；说谎；有枝有叶 | |
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140
perjury
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| n.伪证；伪证罪 | |
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141
entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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142
hamper
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| vt.妨碍，束缚，限制；n.(有盖的)大篮子 | |
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143
jurisdiction
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| n.司法权，审判权，管辖权，控制权 | |
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144
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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145
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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146
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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147
abatement
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| n.减(免)税，打折扣，冲销 | |
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148
alcoholic
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| adj.（含）酒精的，由酒精引起的；n.酗酒者 | |
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149
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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150
lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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151
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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152
tassels
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| n.穗( tassel的名词复数 )；流苏状物；（植物的）穗；玉蜀黍的穗状雄花v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须( tassel的第三人称单数 )；使抽穗， （为了使作物茁壮生长）摘去穗状雄花；用流苏装饰 | |
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153
wreckage
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| n.（失事飞机等的）残骸，破坏，毁坏 | |
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154
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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155
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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156
fluted
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| a.有凹槽的 | |
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157
bulged
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| 凸出( bulge的过去式和过去分词 )； 充满； 塞满（某物） | |
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158
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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159
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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160
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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161
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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162
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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163
intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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164
plumber
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| n.(装修水管的)管子工 | |
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165
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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166
plumbers
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| n.管子工，水暖工( plumber的名词复数 )；[美][口]（防止泄密的）堵漏人员 | |
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167
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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168
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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169
practitioner
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| n.实践者，从事者；(医生或律师等)开业者 | |
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170
apothecary
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| n.药剂师 | |
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171
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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172
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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173
arteries
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| n.动脉( artery的名词复数 )；干线，要道 | |
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174
profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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175
prescriptions
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| 药( prescription的名词复数 )； 处方； 开处方； 计划 | |
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176
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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177
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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178
subjugated
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| v.征服，降伏( subjugate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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179
implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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