He rambled on with this horrible garrulity for a time that seemed almost an eternity to his agonised wife, and only ceased at last from positive exhaustion. But when Ida talked to him with gentle firmness, reminding him that Vernon was still the owner of Wimperfield, and that she was never likely to be its mistress, he changed his tone, and appeared to be in some measure recalled to his right senses.
‘What, have I been talking rot again?’ he muttered, with a sheepish look. ‘Yes, of course, the boy is still owner of the place. The alterations must stand over. Get me some brandy and soda, Ida, my mouth is parched.’
Ida rose as if to obey him, and rang the bell; but when the servant came she ordered soda-water only.
‘Brandy and soda,’ Brian said; ‘do you hear? Bring a bottle of brandy. I can’t get through the night without a little now and then.’
Ida gave the man a look which he understood. He left the room in silence.
‘Brian,’ she said, when he was gone, ‘you must not have any more brandy. It is brandy which has done you harm, which has filled your brain with these horrible delusions. Mr. Fosbroke told me so. You affect to despise him; but he is a sensible man who has had large experience.’
‘Large experience! in an agricultural village — physicking a handful of rustics!’ cried Brian, scornfully.
‘I know that he is clever, and I believe him,’ answered Ida; ‘my own common sense tells me that he is right. I see you the wreck and ruin of what you have been; and I know there is only one reason for this dreadful change.
‘It is your fault,’ he said sullenly. ‘I should be a different man if you had cared for me. I had nothing worth living for.’
Ida soothed him, and argued with him, with inexhaustible patience, full of pity for his fallen state. She was firm in her refusal to order brandy for him, in spite of his angry protest that he was being treated like a child, in spite of his assertion that the London physician had ordered him to take brandy. She stayed with him for hours, during which he alternated between rambling garrulity and sullen despondency; till at last, worn out with the endeavour to control or to soothe him, she withdrew to her own room, adjoining his, and left him, in the hope that, if left to himself, he would go to bed and sleep.
Rest of any kind for herself was impossible, weighed down with anxiety about her husband’s condition, and stricken with remorse at the thought that it was perhaps his ill-starred marriage which had in some wise tended to bring about this ruin of a life. And yet things had gone well with him, existence had been made very easy for him, since his marriage; and only moral perversity would have so blighted a career which had lain open to all the possibilities of good fortune. The initial difficulty — poverty, which so many men have to overcome, had been conquered for Brian within the first year of his marriage. And now six years were gone, and he had done nothing except waste and ruin his mind and body.
Ida left the door ajar between the two rooms, and lay down in her clothes, ready to go to her husband’s assistance if he should need help of any kind. She had taken the key out of the door opening from his room into the corridor, so that he would have to pass through her own room in going out. She had done this from a vague fear that he might go roaming about the house in the dead of the night, scaring her stepmother or the boy by some mad violence. She made up her mind to telegraph for the London physician early next morning, and to obtain some skilled attendant to watch and protect her husband. She had heard of a man in such a condition throwing himself out of a window, or cutting his throat: and she felt that every moment was a moment of fear, until proper means had been taken to protect Brian from his own madness.
She listened while he paced the adjoining room, muttering to himself; once she looked in, and saw him sitting on the floor, hunting for some imaginary objects which he saw scattered around him.
‘How did I come to drop such a lot of silver?’ he muttered; ‘what a devil of a nuisance not to be able to pick it up properly?’
She watched him groping about the carpet, pursuing imaginary objects, with eager sensitive fingers, and muttering to himself angrily when they evaded him.
By-and-by he flung himself upon his bed, but not to sleep, only to turn restlessly from side to side, over and over again, with a weary monotony which was even more wearisome to the watcher than to himself.
Two or three times he got up and hunted behind the bed curtains, evidently with the idea of some lurking foe, and then lay down again, apparently but half convinced that he was alone. Once he started up suddenly, just as he was dropping off to sleep, and complained of a flash of light which had almost blinded him.
‘Lightning,’ he muttered; ‘I believe I am struck blind. Come here, Ida.’
She went to him and soothed him, and told him there had been no lightning; it was only his fancy.
‘Everything is my fancy,’ he said, ‘the world is built out of fancies, the universe is only an extension of the individual mind;’ and then he began to ramble on upon every metaphysical theory he had ever read about, from Plato and Aristotle to Leibnitz and Kant, from Hegel to Bain — talking, talking, talking, through the slow hours of that terrible night.
At last, when the sun was high, he fell into what seemed a sound sleep; and then Ida, utterly worn with care and watching, changed her gown for a cashmere peignoir, and lay down on her bed.
She slept soundly for a blessed hour or more of respite and forgetfulness, then woke suddenly with an acute consciousness of trouble, yet vaguely remembering the nature of that trouble Memory came back only too soon. She rose hurriedly, and went to look at her patient.
His room was empty. He had passed through her room and gone out into the corridor, without awakening her. She rang her bell, and was answered by Lady Palliser’s own maid, Jane Dyson, who came in a leisurely way with the morning cups of tea. It was now seven o’clock.
‘Is Mr. Wendover downstairs — in the dining-room or library?’ Ida asked, trying not to look too anxious.
‘I have not seen him, ma’am.’
‘Inquire, please. I want to know where he is, and why he left his room so much earlier than usual.’
She had a dismal feeling that all the household must know what was amiss, that the shame and degradation of the case could hardly be deepened.
‘Yes, ma’am; I’ll go and see.’
‘Do, please, while I take my bath,’ said Ida. ‘You can come back to me in ten minutes.’
The cold bath refreshed her, and she was dressing hurriedly when Jane Dyson returned to announce that Mr. Wendover and Sir Vernon had gone out fishing at half-past six — the under-housemaid had seen them go, and had heard Mr. Wendover say that they would have a long day.
‘Go and ask her if she heard where they were going,’ said Ida, going on with her dressing, eager to be out of doors on her brother’s track.
That wild talk of Brian’s last night — that horrible delusion about the boy’s death — coupled with this early expedition, filled her with unspeakable fear. It was no new thing for Brian and the boy to go out fishing together. They had spent many a long day whipping distant trout streams in the summer that was gone, but this year Vernon had vainly endeavoured to tempt his old companion to join him in his wanderings with rod and line. Brian had refused all such invitations peevishly or sullenly; as if it were an offence to remind him how poor a creature he had become. And now, after a night of wakefulness and delirium, Brian, with his brain still wild and disordered, perhaps, had taken the boy out with him on some indefinite excursion — alone — the helpless child in the power of a maniac!
Ida did not wait for the return of the maid, but ran downstairs as soon as she was dressed, and questioned Rogers the butler. Rogers, as an old and valuable servant, took his ease of a morning, and only appeared upon the scene when underlings had made all things comfortable and ready to his hand. He therefore knew nothing of the mode and manner of Mr. Wendover and the boy’s departure.
Robert, Sir Vernon’s body-guard, groom, and gen
eral out-door retainer, was fetched from his breakfast; and he was able to inform Mrs. Wendover how Sir Vernon had gone out to the stables at twenty minutes past six, with his fishing basket slung over his shoulder, to ask for some artificial flies which Robert had been making for him, and to say that he should not want the pony or Robert all the morning, as he was going out with Mr. Wendover. He had not mentioned his destination, but Robert knew that the water meadows on the other side of Blackman’s Hanger were his favourite ground for such sport. He had been there with Robert many a day.
His remotest point in this direction was five or six miles from home. The boy was able to walk twelve miles in a day without undue fatigue, resting a good deal, and taking his own time; but in a general way he rode his pony when he went on any long excursion, and dismounted from time to time as the fancy took him.
‘I’m afraid he may overtire himself with Mr. Wendover, said Ida, anxious to give a good reason for her anxiety. ‘Get Cleopatra ready for me, and get a horse for yourself, and we’ll ride after them. Mr. Wendover is an invalid, and ought not to have the trouble of a child upon his hands all day. If I can overtake them, I shall persuade them both to come back.’
‘If they don’t, they’ll be likely to get caught,’ said Robert, exploring the clouds with the sagacious eyes of a rustic observer schooled by long experience to read signs and tokens in the heavens. ‘There’ll be a storm, I’m afeard, before dinner-time.’
Dinner-time with Robert meant the hour of the sun’s meridian, which he took to be the universal and legitimate dinner-hour for all mankind, designed so to be from the creation.
‘How soon can you have the horses ready?’
‘In a quarter of an hour, ma’am.’
Ida flew upstairs, meeting her step-mother on the way. Lady Palliser had gone to her son’s room as soon as she left her own — her custom always; and on missing the boy, had made instant inquiries as to his whereabouts, and had already taken fright.
‘Oh, Ida, if that dreadful husband of yours should lure him into some lonely place, and kill him! My boy, my beloved, my lovely boy!’
‘Dear mother, be reasonable. Brian would not hurt a hair of his head. Brian loves him,’ urged Ida soothingly, yet with a torturing pain at her heart, remembering Brian’s delirious raving last night.
‘What will not a madman do? Who can tell what he will do?’ cried Lady
Palliser, wringing her hands.
‘Trust in God, mother; no harm will come to our boy. No harm shall come to him — except perhaps a wetting. Get warm clothes ready for him against I bring him home. I am going to ride after him,’ said Ida, hurrying off to her room.
In less than ten minutes she had put on her habit, and was in the stable yard; and three minutes afterwards Fanny Palliser, roaming up and down and round about her son’s room like a perturbed spirit, heard the clatter of hoofs, and saw her stepdaughter ride out of the yard attended by Robert, the best and kindest of grooms, and devoted to his young master.
Lady Palliser went downstairs, and again interrogated the housemaid who had witnessed Sir Vernou’s departure. ‘How had Mr. Wendover seemed?’ she asked—’good-tempered, and pleasant, and quiet?’
Very good-tempered, and very pleasant, the girl told her, but not quiet; he talked and laughed a great deal, and seemed full of fun, but in a great hurry.
The mother remembered how many a time her boy and Brian Wendover had been out together, and tried to put away fear. After all, Brian was a nice fellow — he had always made himself agreeable to her. It was only of late that he had become fitful and strange in his ways. She had seen such a case before in her own family, her own flesh and blood, her mother’s only brother. That victim to his own vice had been elderly at the time she knew him — a chronic sufferer. She but too well remembered his tottering knees, and restless, tremulous feet: those painful morning hours when he shook like an aspen leaf: those dreadful nights, when he sat cowering over the fire, glancing askant over his shoulder every now and then, haunted by phantoms, hearing and replying to imaginary voices, striving with restless, shivering hands to rid himself of imaginary vermin. He had been mad enough at times in all conscience, as mad as any lunatic in Bedlam; but he had never tried to injure any one but himself. Once they found him with an open razor, possibly contemplating suicide; but he abandoned the idea meekly enough when surprised by his friends, and explained himself with one of those lies with which his tremulous tongue was every so ready.
Arguing with herself by the light of past experience, that after all this drink-madness was a disease apart, seldom culminating in actual violence, Lady Palliser sat down before her silver urn, and made believe to breakfast, in solitary state, thinking as she poured out her tea how very little all these grand things upon the table could help or comfort one in the hour of trouble. Nay, in such times of misfortune, the little sitting-room of her childhood, the round table and shabby old chairs, the kettle on the hob, and the cat upon the hearth, had seemed to possess an element of sympathy and comfort entirely wanting in this spacious formal dining-room, with its perpetual repetition of straight lines, and its chilling distances.
Ida rode through the park, and across the common, and round the base of Blackman’s Hanger, as fast as her clever mare could carry her with any degree of comfort to either. The clever mare was somewhat skittish from want of work, and inclined to show her cleverness by shying at every stray rabbit, or crocodile-shaped excrescence in the way of fallen timber, lying within her range of vision; but Ida was too anxious to be disconcerted by any such small surprises, and rode on without drawing rein to the banks of the trout-stream which wound its silvery way through the valley on the other side of Blackman’s Hanger. If they could have crossed the hill, the distance would have been lessened by at least two-thirds, but the steep was much too sheer for any horse to mount, and Ida had to circumnavigate the wooded promontory, which narrowed and dwindled to a furzy ridge at the edge of the river. Once in the valley her way was easy, with only here and there a low hedge for the mare to jump, just enough to put her in good spirits. But after riding for about seven miles along the bank of the stream, Ida pulled up in despair, to ask Robert where next she must look for his master. It was evident this was the wrong scent.
‘They’d hardly have come further nor this within the time,’ Robert admitted, with a rueful look at the lather on Cleopatra’s dark brown neck and shoulder; ‘and this is further nor ever I come with Sir Vernon. We must try somewheres else, ma’am.
And so they turned, and at Robert’s direction Ida rode off, this time at a walking pace, for another of Vernon’s happy hunting grounds.
A sudden ray of hope occurred to her as they returned by the base of Blackman’s Hanger. What if Vernon should have taken Brian to Cheap Jack’s cottage, to have introduced him to that gifted misanthrope, who, among his other accomplishments, had a talent for repairing fishing tackle?
Moved by this hope, Ida dismounted, and gave Cleopatra’s bridle to
Robert, who was on his feet almost as soon as his mistress.
‘Let the mare rest for a little while, Robert,’ she said;’ I am going up to the top of the hill to see the pedlar — Sir Vernon may have been with him this morning.’
‘Not unlikely, ma’am — he be a rare favourite with Sir Vernon.’
‘I hope he’s a respectable person.’
‘Oh, I think the chap’s honest enough,’ answered the groom, with a patronising air; ‘but he’s a queer customer — a reg’lar Peter the wild boy, he is.’
Ida, who had never heard of this gentleman, was not particularly enlightened by the comparison. She went lightly and quickly up the steep ascent, and along a furzy ridge which rose imperceptibly skywards, until she came to the fir plantation which sheltered the gamekeeper’s cottage. The lattice stood wide open, and a man was leaning with folded arms on the sill as she came in sight, but in a flash the man had gone, and the lattice was closed.
She ran on, nothing deterred by this discour
tesy, and knocked at the door with the handle of her whip.
‘Is my brother, Sir Vernon Palliser, here?’ she asked.
‘No,’ a gruff voice answered from within.
‘Please open the door, ‘I want to ask your advice. The boy has wandered off on a fishing expedition. Have you seen anything of him this morning?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Do you think I should tell you a lie?’ growled the sulky voice from within.
‘What a surly brute!’ thought Ida. ‘How can Vernon like to make a companion of such a man?’
She lingered, only half convinced, and nervously repeated her story — how Sir Vernon had gone out with Mr. Wendover that morning before seven, and how she had been looking for them, and was afraid they would be caught in the storm which was evidently coming.
‘You’d better go home before you’re half drowned yourself,’ growled the surly voice. ‘I’ll look for the boy and send him home to you, if he’s above ground.’
‘Will you! will you really look for him?’ faltered Ida, in a rapture of gratitude. ‘You know his ways, and he is so fond of you. Pray find him, and bring him home. You shall be liberally rewarded. We shall be deeply grateful,’ she added hastily, fearing she had offended by this suggestion of sordid recompense.
Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon Page 828
