CHAPTER IX
The doctor's pretty housemaid stood waiting for me, with the street dooropen in her hand. Pouring brightly into the hall, the morning light fellfull on the face of Mr. Candy's assistant when I turned, and looked athim.
It was impossible to dispute Betteredge's assertion that the appearanceof Ezra Jennings, speaking from a popular point of view, was againsthim. His gipsy-complexion, his fleshless cheeks, his gaunt facial bones,his dreamy eyes, his extraordinary parti-coloured hair, the puzzlingcontradiction between his face and figure which made him look old andyoung both together--were all more or less calculated to produce anunfavourable impression of him on a stranger's mind. And yet--feelingthis as I certainly did--it is not to be denied that Ezra Jennings madesome inscrutable appeal to my sympathies, which I found it impossible toresist. While my knowledge of the world warned me to answer the questionwhich he had put, acknowledging that I did indeed find Mr. Candy sadlychanged, and then to proceed on my way out of the house--my interest inEzra Jennings held me rooted to the place, and gave him the opportunityof speaking to me in private about his employer, for which he had beenevidently on the watch.
"Are you walking my way, Mr. Jennings?" I said, observing that he heldhis hat in his hand. "I am going to call on my aunt, Mrs. Ablewhite."
Ezra Jennings replied that he had a patient to see, and that he waswalking my way.
We left the house together. I observed that the pretty servant girl--whowas all smiles and amiability, when I wished her good morning on my wayout--received a modest little message from Ezra Jennings, relating tothe time at which he might be expected to return, with pursed-up lips,and with eyes which ostentatiously looked anywhere rather than look inhis face. The poor wretch was evidently no favourite in the house.Out of the house, I had Betteredge's word for it that he was unpopulareverywhere. "What a life!" I thought to myself, as we descended thedoctor's doorsteps.
Having already referred to Mr. Candy's illness on his side, EzraJennings now appeared determined to leave it to me to resume thesubject. His silence said significantly, "It's your turn now." I, too,had my reasons for referring to the doctor's illness: and I readilyaccepted the responsibility of speaking first.
"Judging by the change I see in him," I began, "Mr. Candy's illness musthave been far more serious that I had supposed?"
"It is almost a miracle," said Ezra Jennings, "that he lived throughit."
"Is his memory never any better than I have found it to-day? He has beentrying to speak to me----"
"Of something which happened before he was taken ill?" asked theassistant, observing that I hesitated.
"Yes."
"His memory of events, at that past time, is hopelessly enfeebled," saidEzra Jennings. "It is almost to be deplored, poor fellow, that eventhe wreck of it remains. While he remembers dimly plans that heformed--things, here and there, that he had to say or do before hisillness--he is perfectly incapable of recalling what the plans were, orwhat the thing was that he had to say or do. He is painfully consciousof his own deficiency, and painfully anxious, as you must have seen, tohide it from observation. If he could only have recovered in a completestate of oblivion as to the past, he would have been a happier man.Perhaps we should all be happier," he added, with a sad smile, "if wecould but completely forget!"
"There are some events surely in all men's lives," I replied, "thememory of which they would be unwilling entirely to lose?"
"That is, I hope, to be said of most men, Mr. Blake. I am afraid itcannot truly be said of ALL. Have you any reason to suppose that thelost remembrance which Mr. Candy tried to recover--while you werespeaking to him just now--was a remembrance which it was important toYOU that he should recall?"
In saying those words, he had touched, of his own accord, on the verypoint upon which I was anxious to consult him. The interest I felt inthis strange man had impelled me, in the first instance, to give him theopportunity of speaking to me; reserving what I might have to say, on myside, in relation to his employer, until I was first satisfied that hewas a person in whose delicacy and discretion I could trust. The littlethat he had said, thus far, had been sufficient to convince me that Iwas speaking to a gentleman. He had what I may venture to describe asthe UNSOUGHT SELF-POSSESSION, which is a sure sign of good breeding, notin England only, but everywhere else in the civilised world. Whateverthe object which he had in view, in putting the question that he hadjust addressed to me, I felt no doubt that I was justified--so far--inanswering him without reserve.
"I believe I have a strong interest," I said, "in tracing the lostremembrance which Mr. Candy was unable to recall. May I ask whether youcan suggest to me any method by which I might assist his memory?"
Ezra Jennings looked at me, with a sudden flash of interest in hisdreamy brown eyes.
"Mr. Candy's memory is beyond the reach of assistance," he said. "I havetried to help it often enough since his recovery, to be able to speakpositively on that point."
This disappointed me; and I owned it.
"I confess you led me to hope for a less discouraging answer than that,"I said.
Ezra Jennings smiled. "It may not, perhaps, be a final answer, Mr.Blake. It may be possible to trace Mr. Candy's lost recollection,without the necessity of appealing to Mr. Candy himself."
"Indeed? Is it an indiscretion, on my part, to ask how?"
"By no means. My only difficulty in answering your question, is thedifficulty of explaining myself. May I trust to your patience, if Irefer once more to Mr. Candy's illness: and if I speak of it this timewithout sparing you certain professional details?"
"Pray go on! You have interested me already in hearing the details."
My eagerness seemed to amuse--perhaps, I might rather say, to pleasehim. He smiled again. We had by this time left the last houses in thetown behind us. Ezra Jennings stopped for a moment, and picked some wildflowers from the hedge by the roadside. "How beautiful they are!" hesaid, simply, showing his little nosegay to me. "And how few people inEngland seem to admire them as they deserve!"
"You have not always been in England?" I said.
"No. I was born, and partly brought up, in one of our colonies. Myfather was an Englishman; but my mother--We are straying awayfrom our subject, Mr. Blake; and it is my fault. The truth is, I haveassociations with these modest little hedgeside flowers--It doesn'tmatter; we were speaking of Mr. Candy. To Mr. Candy let us return."
Connecting the few words about himself which thus reluctantly escapedhim, with the melancholy view of life which led him to place theconditions of human happiness in complete oblivion of the past, Ifelt satisfied that the story which I had read in his face was, in twoparticulars at least, the story that it really told. He had suffered asfew men suffer; and there was the mixture of some foreign race in hisEnglish blood.
"You have heard, I dare say, of the original cause of Mr. Candy'sillness?" he resumed. "The night of Lady Verinder's dinner-party was anight of heavy rain. My employer drove home through it in his gig, andreached the house wetted to the skin. He found an urgent message froma patient, waiting for him; and he most unfortunately went at once tovisit the sick person, without stopping to change his clothes. I wasmyself professionally detained, that night, by a case at some distancefrom Frizinghall. When I got back the next morning, I found Mr. Candy'sgroom waiting in great alarm to take me to his master's room. By thattime the mischief was done; the illness had set in."
"The illness has only been described to me, in general terms, as afever," I said.
"I can add nothing which will make the description more accurate,"answered Ezra Jennings. "From first to last the fever assumed nospecific form. I sent at once to two of Mr. Candy's medical friendsin the town, both physicians, to come and give me their opinion of thecase. They agreed with me that it looked serious; but they both stronglydissented from the view I took of the treatment. We differed entirely inthe conclusions which we drew from the patient's pulse. The twodoctors, arguing from the rapidity of the beat, declared that a
loweringtreatment was the only treatment to be adopted. On my side, I admittedthe rapidity of the pulse, but I also pointed to its alarming feeblenessas indicating an exhausted condition of the system, and as showing aplain necessity for the administration of stimulants. The two doctorswere for keeping him on gruel, lemonade, barley-water, and so on. I wasfor giving him champagne, or brandy, ammonia, and quinine. A seriousdifference of opinion, as you see! A difference between two physiciansof established local repute, and a stranger who was only an assistant inthe house. For the first few days, I had no choice but to give way to myelders and betters; the patient steadily sinking all the time. I made asecond attempt to appeal to the plain, undeniably plain, evidence of thepulse. Its rapidity was unchecked, and its feebleness had increased.The two doctors took offence at my obstinacy. They said, 'Mr. Jennings,either we manage this case, or you manage it. Which is it to be?' Isaid, 'Gentlemen, give me five minutes to consider, and that plainquestion shall have a plain reply.' When the time expired, I was readywith my answer. I said, 'You positively refuse to try the stimulanttreatment?' They refused in so many words. 'I mean to try it at once,gentlemen.'--'Try it, Mr. Jennings, and we withdraw from the case.' Isent down to the cellar for a bottle of champagne; and I administeredhalf a tumbler-full of it to the patient with my own hand. The twophysicians took up their hats in silence, and left the house."
"You had assumed a serious responsibility," I said. "In your place, I amafraid I should have shrunk from it."
"In my place, Mr. Blake, you would have remembered that Mr. Candy hadtaken you into his employment, under circumstances which made you hisdebtor for life. In my place, you would have seen him sinking, hour byhour; and you would have risked anything, rather than let the one man onearth who had befriended you, die before your eyes. Don't suppose thatI had no sense of the terrible position in which I had placed myself!There were moments when I felt all the misery of my friendlessness, allthe peril of my dreadful responsibility. If I had been a happy man, if Ihad led a prosperous life, I believe I should have sunk under the task Ihad imposed on myself. But I had no happy time to look back at, no pastpeace of mind to force itself into contrast with my present anxiety andsuspense--and I held firm to my resolution through it all. I took aninterval in the middle of the day, when my patient's condition was atits best, for the repose I needed. For the rest of the four-and-twentyhours, as long as his life was in danger, I never left his bedside.Towards sunset, as usual in such cases, the delirium incidental tothe fever came on. It lasted more or less through the night; and thenintermitted, at that terrible time in the early morning--from twoo'clock to five--when the vital energies even of the healthiest of usare at their lowest. It is then that Death gathers in his human harvestmost abundantly. It was then that Death and I fought our fight overthe bed, which should have the man who lay on it. I never hesitatedin pursuing the treatment on which I had staked everything. When winefailed, I tried brandy. When the other stimulants lost their influence,I doubled the dose. After an interval of suspense--the like of which Ihope to God I shall never feel again--there came a day when the rapidityof the pulse slightly, but appreciably, diminished; and, betterstill, there came also a change in the beat--an unmistakable change tosteadiness and strength. THEN, I knew that I had saved him; and then Iown I broke down. I laid the poor fellow's wasted hand back on the bed,and burst out crying. An hysterical relief, Mr. Blake--nothing more!Physiology says, and says truly, that some men are born with femaleconstitutions--and I am one of them!"
He made that bitterly professional apology for his tears, speakingquietly and unaffectedly, as he had spoken throughout. His tone andmanner, from beginning to end, showed him to be especially, almostmorbidly, anxious not to set himself up as an object of interest to me.
"You may well ask, why I have wearied you with all these details?"he went on. "It is the only way I can see, Mr. Blake, of properlyintroducing to you what I have to say next. Now you know exactly whatmy position was, at the time of Mr. Candy's illness, you will the morereadily understand the sore need I had of lightening the burden on mymind by giving it, at intervals, some sort of relief. I have had thepresumption to occupy my leisure, for some years past, in writing abook, addressed to the members of my profession--a book on the intricateand delicate subject of the brain and the nervous system. My work willprobably never be finished; and it will certainly never be published. Ithas none the less been the friend of many lonely hours; and it helpedme to while away the anxious time--the time of waiting, and nothingelse--at Mr. Candy's bedside. I told you he was delirious, I think? AndI mentioned the time at which his delirium came on?"
"Yes."
"Well, I had reached a section of my book, at that time, which touchedon this same question of delirium. I won't trouble you at any lengthwith my theory on the subject--I will confine myself to telling you onlywhat it is your present interest to know. It has often occurred to me inthe course of my medical practice, to doubt whether we can justifiablyinfer--in cases of delirium--that the loss of the faculty of speakingconnectedly, implies of necessity the loss of the faculty of thinkingconnectedly as well. Poor Mr. Candy's illness gave me an opportunityof putting this doubt to the test. I understand the art of writingin shorthand; and I was able to take down the patient's 'wanderings',exactly as they fell from his lips.--Do you see, Mr. Blake, what I amcoming to at last?"
I saw it clearly, and waited with breathless interest to hear more.
"At odds and ends of time," Ezra Jennings went on, "I reproduced myshorthand notes, in the ordinary form of writing--leaving large spacesbetween the broken phrases, and even the single words, as they hadfallen disconnectedly from Mr. Candy's lips. I then treated the resultthus obtained, on something like the principle which one adopts inputting together a child's 'puzzle.' It is all confusion to begin with;but it may be all brought into order and shape, if you can only findthe right way. Acting on this plan, I filled in each blank space on thepaper, with what the words or phrases on either side of it suggestedto me as the speaker's meaning; altering over and over again, until myadditions followed naturally on the spoken words which came before them,and fitted naturally into the spoken words which came after them. Theresult was, that I not only occupied in this way many vacant and anxioushours, but that I arrived at something which was (as it seemed to me) aconfirmation of the theory that I held. In plainer words, after puttingthe broken sentences together I found the superior faculty of thinkinggoing on, more or less connectedly, in my patient's mind, while theinferior faculty of expression was in a state of almost completeincapacity and confusion."
"One word!" I interposed eagerly. "Did my name occur in any of hiswanderings?"
"You shall hear, Mr. Blake. Among my written proofs of the assertionwhich I have just advanced--or, I ought to say, among the writtenexperiments, tending to put my assertion to the proof--there IS one, inwhich your name occurs. For nearly the whole of one night, Mr. Candy'smind was occupied with SOMETHING between himself and you. I have got thebroken words, as they dropped from his lips, on one sheet of paper. AndI have got the links of my own discovering which connect those wordstogether, on another sheet of paper. The product (as the arithmeticianswould say) is an intelligible statement--first, of something actuallydone in the past; secondly, of something which Mr. Candy contemplateddoing in the future, if his illness had not got in the way, and stoppedhim. The question is whether this does, or does not, represent the lostrecollection which he vainly attempted to find when you called on himthis morning?"
"Not a doubt of it!" I answered. "Let us go back directly, and look atthe papers!"
"Quite impossible, Mr. Blake."
"Why?"
"Put yourself in my position for a moment," said Ezra Jennings. "Wouldyou disclose to another person what had dropped unconsciously from thelips of your suffering patient and your helpless friend, without firstknowing that there was a necessity to justify you in opening your lips?"
I felt that he was unanswerable, here; but I tried to argue thequestion, ne
vertheless.
"My conduct in such a delicate matter as you describe," I replied,"would depend greatly on whether the disclosure was of a nature tocompromise my friend or not."
"I have disposed of all necessity for considering that side of thequestion, long since," said Ezra Jennings. "Wherever my notes includedanything which Mr. Candy might have wished to keep secret, those noteshave been destroyed. My manuscript experiments at my friend's bedside,include nothing, now, which he would have hesitated to communicate toothers, if he had recovered the use of his memory. In your case, Ihave every reason to suppose that my notes contain something which heactually wished to say to you."
"And yet, you hesitate?"
"And yet, I hesitate. Remember the circumstances under which I obtainedthe information which I possess! Harmless as it is, I cannot prevailupon myself to give it up to you, unless you first satisfy me that thereis a reason for doing so. He was so miserably ill, Mr. Blake! and he wasso helplessly dependent upon Me! Is it too much to ask, if I request youonly to hint to me what your interest is in the lost recollection--orwhat you believe that lost recollection to be?"
To have answered him with the frankness which his language and hismanner both claimed from me, would have been to commit myself to openlyacknowledging that I was suspected of the theft of the Diamond. Stronglyas Ezra Jennings had intensified the first impulsive interest whichI had felt in him, he had not overcome my unconquerable reluctance todisclose the degrading position in which I stood. I took refuge oncemore in the explanatory phrases with which I had prepared myself to meetthe curiosity of strangers.
This time I had no reason to complain of a want of attention on thepart of the person to whom I addressed myself. Ezra Jennings listenedpatiently, even anxiously, until I had done.
"I am sorry to have raised your expectations, Mr. Blake, only todisappoint them," he said. "Throughout the whole period of Mr. Candy'sillness, from first to last, not one word about the Diamond escaped hislips. The matter with which I heard him connect your name has, I canassure you, no discoverable relation whatever with the loss or therecovery of Miss Verinder's jewel."
We arrived, as he said those words, at a place where the highway alongwhich we had been walking branched off into two roads. One led to Mr.Ablewhite's house, and the other to a moorland village some two or threemiles off. Ezra Jennings stopped at the road which led to the village.
"My way lies in this direction," he said. "I am really and truly sorry,Mr. Blake, that I can be of no use to you."
His voice told me that he spoke sincerely. His soft brown eyes rested onme for a moment with a look of melancholy interest. He bowed, and went,without another word, on his way to the village.
For a minute or more I stood and watched him, walking farther andfarther away from me; carrying farther and farther away with him what Inow firmly believed to be the clue of which I was in search. He turned,after walking on a little way, and looked back. Seeing me still standingat the place where we had parted, he stopped, as if doubting whether Imight not wish to speak to him again. There was no time for me to reasonout my own situation--to remind myself that I was losing my opportunity,at what might be the turning point of my life, and all to flatternothing more important than my own self-esteem! There was only time tocall him back first, and to think afterwards. I suspect I am one of therashest of existing men. I called him back--and then I said to myself,"Now there is no help for it. I must tell him the truth!"
He retraced his steps directly. I advanced along the road to meet him.
"Mr. Jennings," I said. "I have not treated you quite fairly. Myinterest in tracing Mr. Candy's lost recollection is not the interest ofrecovering the Moonstone. A serious personal matter is at the bottomof my visit to Yorkshire. I have but one excuse for not having dealtfrankly with you in this matter. It is more painful to me than I cansay, to mention to anybody what my position really is."
Ezra Jennings looked at me with the first appearance of embarrassmentwhich I had seen in him yet.
"I have no right, Mr. Blake, and no wish," he said, "to intrude myselfinto your private affairs. Allow me to ask your pardon, on my side, forhaving (most innocently) put you to a painful test."
"You have a perfect right," I rejoined, "to fix the terms on which youfeel justified in revealing what you heard at Mr. Candy's bedside. Iunderstand and respect the delicacy which influences you in this matter.How can I expect to be taken into your confidence if I decline toadmit you into mine? You ought to know, and you shall know, why I aminterested in discovering what Mr. Candy wanted to say to me. If I turnout to be mistaken in my anticipations, and if you prove unable tohelp me when you are really aware of what I want, I shall trust to yourhonour to keep my secret--and something tells me that I shall not trustin vain."
"Stop, Mr. Blake. I have a word to say, which must be said before you goany farther." I looked at him in astonishment. The grip of some terribleemotion seemed to have seized him, and shaken him to the soul. Hisgipsy complexion had altered to a livid greyish paleness; his eyeshad suddenly become wild and glittering; his voice had dropped to atone--low, stern, and resolute--which I now heard for the first time.The latent resources in the man, for good or for evil--it was hard, atthat moment, to say which--leapt up in him and showed themselves to me,with the suddenness of a flash of light.
"Before you place any confidence in me," he went on, "you ought to know,and you MUST know, under what circumstances I have been received intoMr. Candy's house. It won't take long. I don't profess, sir, to tell mystory (as the phrase is) to any man. My story will die with me. All Iask, is to be permitted to tell you, what I have told Mr. Candy. If youare still in the mind, when you have heard that, to say what you haveproposed to say, you will command my attention and command my services.Shall we walk on?"
The suppressed misery in his face silenced me. I answered his questionby a sign. We walked on.
After advancing a few hundred yards, Ezra Jennings stopped at a gap inthe rough stone wall which shut off the moor from the road, at this partof it.
"Do you mind resting a little, Mr. Blake?" he asked. "I am not what Iwas--and some things shake me."
I agreed of course. He led the way through the gap to a patch of turfon the heathy ground, screened by bushes and dwarf trees on the sidenearest to the road, and commanding in the opposite direction a grandlydesolate view over the broad brown wilderness of the moor. The cloudshad gathered, within the last half hour. The light was dull; thedistance was dim. The lovely face of Nature met us, soft and stillcolourless--met us without a smile.
We sat down in silence. Ezra Jennings laid aside his hat, and passed hishand wearily over his forehead, wearily through his startling white andblack hair. He tossed his little nosegay of wild flowers away from him,as if the remembrances which it recalled were remembrances which hurthim now.
"Mr. Blake!" he said, suddenly. "You are in bad company. The cloud of ahorrible accusation has rested on me for years. I tell you the worst atonce. I am a man whose life is a wreck, and whose character is gone."
I attempted to speak. He stopped me.
"No," he said. "Pardon me; not yet. Don't commit yourself to expressionsof sympathy which you may afterwards wish to recall. I have mentioned anaccusation which has rested on me for years. There are circumstancesin connexion with it that tell against me. I cannot bring myself toacknowledge what the accusation is. And I am incapable, perfectlyincapable, of proving my innocence. I can only assert my innocence. Iassert it, sir, on my oath, as a Christian. It is useless to appeal tomy honour as a man."
He paused again. I looked round at him. He never looked at me in return.His whole being seemed to be absorbed in the agony of recollecting, andin the effort to speak.
"There is much that I might say," he went on, "about the mercilesstreatment of me by my own family, and the merciless enmity to whichI have fallen a victim. But the harm is done; the wrong is beyond allremedy. I decline to weary or distress you, sir, if I can help it. Atthe outset of my career in this c
ountry, the vile slander to whichI have referred struck me down at once and for ever. I resigned myaspirations in my profession--obscurity was the only hope left for me.I parted with the woman I loved--how could I condemn her to share mydisgrace? A medical assistant's place offered itself, in a remotecorner of England. I got the place. It promised me peace; it promised meobscurity, as I thought. I was wrong. Evil report, with time and chanceto help it, travels patiently, and travels far. The accusation fromwhich I had fled followed me. I got warning of its approach. I was ableto leave my situation voluntarily, with the testimonials that I hadearned. They got me another situation in another remote district. Timepassed again; and again the slander that was death to my characterfound me out. On this occasion I had no warning. My employer said, 'Mr.Jennings, I have no complaint to make against you; but you must setyourself right, or leave me.' I had but one choice--I left him. It'suseless to dwell on what I suffered after that. I am only forty yearsold now. Look at my face, and let it tell for me the story of somemiserable years. It ended in my drifting to this place, and meeting withMr. Candy. He wanted an assistant. I referred him, on the question ofcapacity, to my last employer. The question of character remained. Itold him what I have told you--and more. I warned him that there weredifficulties in the way, even if he believed me. 'Here, as elsewhere,'I said 'I scorn the guilty evasion of living under an assumed name: I amno safer at Frizinghall than at other places from the cloud that followsme, go where I may.' He answered, 'I don't do things by halves--Ibelieve you, and I pity you. If you will risk what may happen, I willrisk it too.' God Almighty bless him! He has given me shelter, hehas given me employment, he has given me rest of mind--and I have thecertain conviction (I have had it for some months past) that nothingwill happen now to make him regret it."
"The slander has died out?" I said.
"The slander is as active as ever. But when it follows me here, it willcome too late."
"You will have left the place?"
"No, Mr. Blake--I shall be dead. For ten years past I have suffered froman incurable internal complaint. I don't disguise from you that I shouldhave let the agony of it kill me long since, but for one last interestin life, which makes my existence of some importance to me still. I wantto provide for a person--very dear to me--whom I shall never see again.My own little patrimony is hardly sufficient to make her independent ofthe world. The hope, if I could only live long enough, of increasingit to a certain sum, has impelled me to resist the disease by suchpalliative means as I could devise. The one effectual palliative in mycase, is--opium. To that all-potent and all-merciful drug I am indebtedfor a respite of many years from my sentence of death. But even thevirtues of opium have their limit. The progress of the disease hasgradually forced me from the use of opium to the abuse of it. I amfeeling the penalty at last. My nervous system is shattered; my nightsare nights of horror. The end is not far off now. Let it come--I havenot lived and worked in vain. The little sum is nearly made up; and Ihave the means of completing it, if my last reserves of life fail mesooner than I expect. I hardly know how I have wandered into telling youthis. I don't think I am mean enough to appeal to your pity. Perhaps, Ifancy you may be all the readier to believe me, if you know that what Ihave said to you, I have said with the certain knowledge in me that I ama dying man. There is no disguising, Mr. Blake, that you interest me.I have attempted to make my poor friend's loss of memory the means ofbettering my acquaintance with you. I have speculated on the chance ofyour feeling a passing curiosity about what he wanted to say, and of mybeing able to satisfy it. Is there no excuse for my intruding myself onyou? Perhaps there is some excuse. A man who has lived as I have livedhas his bitter moments when he ponders over human destiny. You haveyouth, health, riches, a place in the world, a prospect before you. You,and such as you, show me the sunny side of human life, and reconcile mewith the world that I am leaving, before I go. However this talk betweenus may end, I shall not forget that you have done me a kindness in doingthat. It rests with you, sir, to say what you proposed saying, or towish me good morning."
I had but one answer to make to that appeal. Without a moment'shesitation I told him the truth, as unreservedly as I have told it inthese pages.
He started to his feet, and looked at me with breathless eagerness as Iapproached the leading incident of my story.
"It is certain that I went into the room," I said; "it is certain thatI took the Diamond. I can only meet those two plain facts by declaringthat, do what I might, I did it without my own knowledge----"
Ezra Jennings caught me excitedly by the arm.
"Stop!" he said. "You have suggested more to me than you suppose. Haveyou ever been accustomed to the use of opium?"
"I never tasted it in my life."
"Were your nerves out of order, at this time last year? Were youunusually restless and irritable?"
"Yes."
"Did you sleep badly?"
"Wretchedly. Many nights I never slept at all."
"Was the birthday night an exception? Try, and remember. Did you sleepwell on that one occasion?"
"I do remember! I slept soundly."
He dropped my arm as suddenly as he had taken it--and looked at me withthe air of a man whose mind was relieved of the last doubt that restedon it.
"This is a marked day in your life, and in mine," he said, gravely."I am absolutely certain, Mr. Blake, of one thing--I have got what Mr.Candy wanted to say to you this morning, in the notes that I took at mypatient's bedside. Wait! that is not all. I am firmly persuaded that Ican prove you to have been unconscious of what you were about, when youentered the room and took the Diamond. Give me time to think, and timeto question you. I believe the vindication of your innocence is in myhands!"
"Explain yourself, for God's sake! What do you mean?"
In the excitement of our colloquy, we had walked on a few steps, beyondthe clump of dwarf trees which had hitherto screened us from view.Before Ezra Jennings could answer me, he was hailed from the high roadby a man, in great agitation, who had been evidently on the look-out forhim.
"I am coming," he called back; "I am coming as fast as I can!" He turnedto me. "There is an urgent case waiting for me at the village yonder;I ought to have been there half an hour since--I must attend to itat once. Give me two hours from this time, and call at Mr. Candy'sagain--and I will engage to be ready for you."
"How am I to wait!" I exclaimed, impatiently. "Can't you quiet my mindby a word of explanation before we part?"
"This is far too serious a matter to be explained in a hurry, Mr. Blake.I am not wilfully trying your patience--I should only be adding toyour suspense, if I attempted to relieve it as things are now. AtFrizinghall, sir, in two hours' time!"
The man on the high road hailed him again. He hurried away, and left me.
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