by E. F. Benson
“Why, that was thoughtful of you,” he said. “And perhaps a little errand on your own account? Why, man, there’s a packet in your coat — no, your breast-pocket. It’s bulging. I can see it from here.”
Thurso’s hand tightened on it.
“Yes; I can’t help it,” he said. “Besides, I am much better, am I not? I must break myself of it by degrees, you know.”
Outside the gale yelled defiance; here inside there was tense silence, but it seemed to Maud as if some conflict mightier than that of the elements was going on.
“Ah, do let me have it just this once!” cried Thurso. “I’ve been without it for a week, and I swear to you by all I hold sacred — —”
“By laudanum?” said Cochrane.
“Yes, by laudanum, that it shall be a fort-night before I take it again. And don’t send me to sleep this time. I — I think I should die if I didn’t have it.”
“Let’s have a look at the bottle,” said Cochrane.
A look of futile, childish cunning came into Thurso’s face.
“Oh, I think not,” he said. “You — you might forget to give it me back; one always may forget things. Look here, I — I’m going to take it. That’s all about it. I’m awfully grateful to you for all you have done, and to-morrow I will beg your forgiveness, and ask you to go on curing me. But this once you sha’n’t stop me. Besides, there’s no power either for evil or good in drugs.”
“That is blasphemous on your lips,” said Cochrane quickly. “I beg your pardon; I shouldn’t have said that.”
For that moment the light of anger had sprung into his eyes, but it only dulled them, and he stood there in silence a space, while they brightened again with that brilliant serenity and confidence which had been there before. Then he looked at Maud, smiled encouragement to her, and spoke.
“I never stopped you before,” he said. “And I’m not going to stop you now. But you laudanum-drinkers are such selfish fellows. You get away by yourselves, and drink by yourselves, and never treat anybody else. I want some of that too. Do you remember saying that perhaps it would end in your converting me? Well, let’s make a beginning to-night. Let’s have a jolly good drink together. You’ve got enough for us both, I expect, in that big bottle.”
Thurso still looked suspicious, and he kept his hand on his package. But Cochrane’s manner was perfectly sincere, and soon he gave a little cackle of delight. His eyes, too, like Cochrane’s, were very bright, but they were bright with thirst and desire. His mouth, too, so watered that he could hardly swallow quick enough to keep the saliva down.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said, “but I’ll do anything if you’ll let me take it, and not stop me. There’s enough for me for to-night and for you for a week. And may I get some more to-morrow?”
“You may do what you choose to-morrow,” said Cochrane, “if you will give me some to-night. I’ve often wanted an opportunity, a proper opportunity, to take it. Why, you might say I had quite a craving for it.”
Maud was looking from one to the other, utterly puzzled. She came close to Cochrane.
“Mr. Cochrane, what are you going to do?” she said. “What are you about? I am frightened.”
He looked at her quickly and radiantly.
“Ah, don’t be frightened,” he said. “You must help and not hinder. I know I am right. Don’t be afraid, and don’t doubt.”
CHAPTER V.
THEY went back into the billiard-room again; outside the wild hurly-burly of the storm still screamed and wailed round the house, but Cochrane now was utterly unconscious of it. A clear command, louder than the wind and the tattoo of rain, the “still small voice” which made all else inaudible, had come to his soul. He knew that what he was going to do was right, and had no fear at all of the consequences. Consequences? He gloried in them, and embraced them, for they would be nothing else than a demonstration, convincing and conclusive, as to the truth of all he taught and worked and believed. He had said to Maud half an hour ago that he did not then know what he should do if Thurso had a relapse, but now that the relapse had come he knew. He was perfectly certain that he was doing right.
He rang the bell as soon as he got to the fireplace.
“We want some glasses, I suppose, don’t we?” he said. “I beg your pardon, may I ring? Because I have rung.”
Thurso looked at him secretly.
“Better for the servants not to know,” he said.
“Why not? We’re doing nothing to be ashamed of,” he said. “I should like everybody to know. Ah! Would you bring a couple of glasses, please?” he said to the man.
Thurso came close to him, and whispered:
“I take a little water and sugar with mine,” he said. “Perhaps hot water would be nice; I got so wet.”
“Yes, very wise,” said Cochrane. “And some hot water and sugar, please,” he added.
Then a sudden distrust came into Thurso’s mind.
“You are not going to cheat me?” he asked.
Cochrane felt one moment of vast pity for him. Ever since he and Maud had gone out into the hall, and found him stealthily closing the door so that his return should be unheard, he had felt it was a different personality from the Thurso of the last three days whom they had discovered there dripping from his secret errand. It was as if he was possessed; he was furtive and suspicious and bubbling with this one desire; nothing remained of him but Thirst, and the jealous fear that it was not going to be quenched — Thirst for that drug which had already dragged him so near to the precipitous edge of ruin and death, and that expunged from his mind all sense of honour, all the rudimentary moral code by which men are bound, all sense that anything in the world existed except Thirst and the quenching of it.
“You shouldn’t have said that,” he said quietly, “because I never have cheated you or anybody, and you have no right to suppose that I ever should. Dear me! how long they are bringing our glasses! Did you forge the prescription again?”
Again Thurso gave that dreadful little cackle of cunning laughter. He took such pleasure in his success, such pride as some foolish-natured dog takes in doing its “trick.”
“Well, yes, I suppose I did,” he said, “and I forged Sir James’s name quite beautifully. The one I did on the steamer was a clumsy affair. And I wrote it on a rather crumpled piece of paper, so that it looked to be an old prescription.”
“Why, that was real smart of you!” said Cochrane.
The man had brought the sugar and water and glasses, and as soon as he had left the room Thurso produced his package, and tore its coverings off. What was going to happen Maud did not know, but she trusted Cochrane, and she trusted the Power in obedience to which she felt sure he was acting. Thurso trusted him too, it appeared, for after he had poured some half of the bottle into his own glass, he passed it across to Cochrane. Then he dropped a lump of sugar into his glass, and poured in a little hot water, stirring it up, and stabbing with his spoon at the lump.
“I wouldn’t take much if I were you,” he said.
“Ah, to leave more for you to-morrow morning,” said Cochrane. “Greedy fellow! And look at your ration! Why, you’ve taken half the bottle!”
Thurso gave that dreadful giggle again.
“I know,” he said. “It’s a regular bumper this time, isn’t it? I’m going to drink to our first merry meeting. Damn the sugar! it melts so slowly.”
A moment’s doubt and fear swept over Maud like some huge combing breaker.
“Thurso, Thurso!” she cried. “Mr. Cochrane!”
He still held the bottle in his hand.
“Ah, reverse your fear quickly,” he said.
But Thurso seemed not to hear her. The sugar was nearly dissolved now, and he was stabbing at the few remaining crystals.
“What a nice fire!” he said. “I shall sit by it all the evening, and not come to dinner, and enjoy four or five hours of Paradise. Time goes so slowly, too, in Paradise; it seems an eternity. I shouldn’t take more than a tea-spo
onful if I were you,” he said to Cochrane, who was just tilting the bottle. “That’s what I began with.”
“Ah, was it?” said Cochrane. “Then, see here.”
He poured the whole of the rest of the bottle into the glass. Then, without troubling about hot water or sugar, he put it to his mouth and drank it off.
“Can’t say I like your brand,” he said, putting the glass down.
The sugar was melted in Thurso’s glass, and he had withdrawn the spoon. The first sip was imminent now, that first sip of so many. Then the struggle began; he longed for that first sip, but as he saw what Cochrane had done his hands trembled; they would not raise the glass to his mouth. But the stammering had gone, and the giggling laugh was dumb.
“Why, it will kill you! it will kill you!” he screamed. “You don’t know what you have done! It’s nearly pure laudanum. You must take an emetic at once. Here, this hot water. Ah, it’s too hot! But go quick. You’ll be dead in a couple of hours. Maud, don’t sit there!” he cried. “Send for a doctor! Send for somebody quick!”
He put his own glass down, and sprang up from his chair with the helpless agitation of a man who has no control of himself. But Maud did not move. Cochrane looked at her once, and she smiled at him, and he seemed satisfied, as if he had been waiting for that, waiting for the assurance of her confidence that the smile gave. Then he turned to Thurso.
“Now, I haven’t cheated you, have I?” he said. “There’s your glass; drink it. I told you I would not interfere with you, and I am not doing so. I have finished the bottle, I am afraid, but you can get some more to-morrow. And while you are drinking — why don’t you drink? — just listen to me a minute. I’m going to talk straight to you now.
“What I have drunk will have no effect at all on me,” he said. “You may sit here, and not have dinner, but I shall have dinner just the same, please. I drank that in order to show you how you have been a slave to a thing that has no real power or effect of any kind. What you have been a slave to is your intention, your false belief, your self-indulgence. And now at last you will see how unreal is the power of that stuff which you love so much compared to the Power which I love so much. It is through error that you have made an unreal thing real to you. It is through truth that I show you how unreal it is. And look what error has made of you! Think for a moment of what you were a year ago, and what you are to-day. There’s a glass: look. You know without it.”
Thurso had risen, and was walking up and down the room, waving his hands in the impotent gesticulations of despair. Once or twice he paused by the table where his steaming glass still stood brimming, but he only shuddered at it. Once he tried to go to the curtain that led to the hall, but Cochrane stood in front of it, big, cheerful, but rather determined, blocking his way.
“Aren’t you going to drink that?” he asked, pointing to Thurso’s untasted glass. “Aren’t you going to have four hours of Paradise?”
Thurso shrank from the table where the glass stood.
“Oh, I implore you, I implore you!” he cried, “run to a doctor, take an emetic, and be quick. You have taken a fatal dose: you will be dead in a couple of hours. You are such a good chap: you’ve been so good to me, so patient, and have helped me so much. And this damnable habit of mine will have killed you. You don’t know what you have done: you think drugs have no power. And you’ve done it to convince me. Oh, if you’ll only go before it is too late, I will swear to you never to touch the stuff again. As for that — —”
He took his own glass, and flung it, contents and all, into the heart of the fire. There, with a huge puff of steam, a hissing and blackening of the wood logs, and crack of glass, it passed away up the chimney.
“There, will that show you that I am in earnest?” he cried. “Just when I was worked up for it, just when I wanted it as I never wanted it before, you have caused me to do that! Oh, I implore you to go and make yourself sick. Maud! Maud! tell him to do something. If he doesn’t I shall have killed him, and he has helped me so, has helped me — damned beast that I am!”
He flung himself down on a sofa in a paroxysm of despair, writhing and sobbing and shuddering. As for Maud, though she dared not speak for fear of giving way to some uncontrollable outburst of emotion, she thanked God for it, telling herself she was not afraid, and would not be afraid. Here in this room life and death, not the mere life or death of a man, even the man she loved, were fighting their battle: the eternal principle of life, love, health, was asserting its serene supremacy over sin and death and disease. As ever, its work was kind and compassionate, bringing healing with it, and deliverance from error, and nothing could prevail against it. She believed now, in spite of her moment’s panic terror when she saw Cochrane toss off that deadly draught, that he had done right. God could not play him false without playing Himself false, while, as for Thurso, poor, trembling, sobbing Thurso, at last he was broken. A thousand times had he fallen and been sorry, and vowed to amend, but it had never been like this. This was the complete abandonment, the absolute break-up, without which there is no real repentance. If, as Cochrane had said, there had still been a reservoir of error, so to speak, within him, she could not doubt now but that its banks were broken; it was coming out from him in torrents.
For a minute or two Cochrane looked with those kind, sorry eyes on Thurso’s agony; then, still smiling, still serene, he sat down by him as he writhed on the sofa, and laid his hand on his shoulder.
“I’m awfully sorry for all the anguish you are feeling,” he said, “but I had to do it. There was really no other way, as far as I could see, of convincing you. You are not convinced yet, but you will soon see that your fears for me now are just as false, just as mistaken, as was your desire for that stuff that tasted so abominable. But, apart from that, I can’t tell you how glad I am to have had this opportunity, for I feel sure you will see now. You’ve thrown it off for good, I believe. You’ve been getting better all these days, you know, but somehow I was unable to get deep enough into you. But it’s all right now.”
“Oh, it’s not too late yet!” cried Thurso; “but go at once, before you begin to feel the effects. Go! go!”
“And show you I don’t really believe a word of all that I have ever said to you and Lady Maud?” he asked. “You can’t seriously invite me to show myself such a hypocrite as that. Why, anyone of the least spirit would sooner really die, as you still fancy I am going to do, than do that.”
Thurso laid an agonised hand on his shoulder.
“Oh, your work is done,” he cried, “as regards me. And — and I know you believe you are safe. But make it really safe. Or have you ever done anything of the sort before? For pity’s sake tell me that you have, and that it had no result. The minutes are passing, too.”
Cochrane laughed.
“Well, no, I haven’t,” he said, “and this is the opportunity I have long hoped would come my way. Now, when is this bad-tasting stuff supposed to take effect?”
Again Thurso beat the air with his hands.
“Oh, it’s my fault, it’s all my fault!” he cried. “Maud, can’t you persuade him? You are friends.”
“No, dear Thurso,” she said quietly. “I can’t persuade him, and I don’t want to.”
Thurso sat quivering there a moment longer, then he suddenly got up, dashed through the curtained doorway, and a moment afterwards the curtain again bellied inwards, rising free of the ground, and showing that the gale had got into the house again. Then the front-door banged to, and the wind subsided.
“He has gone out again,” said Maud. “Is it safe to leave him?”
“Oh yes. I think he has gone for a doctor, or he may have gone just to despair by himself. Then he will come back and see. He will not harm himself; he won’t even catch cold,” he added, smiling.
“You are sure?” she asked.
“Yes; so are you. Why, Divine Love is pouring into him on all sides. It has got to break him first, then it builds so tenderly, so gloriously.”
He looke
d at her for a long moment.
“He is cured, you know,” he said. “It’s over.”
Then in flood there came over him all that he had so resolutely banished all these days. He felt that his visit as healer must come to an end at once. But he would see them again, see her again.
“There is no longer any reason for me to stop here,” he said. “It’s rather a rough night, but if you don’t think it is very rude and abrupt of me, I think I’ll go back to town at once.”
Then Maud’s lip quivered, and her eyes brimmed over.
“Without letting me say ‘God bless you?’” she asked.
“No; thank you for that,” he said gravely.
She took both his hands in hers for a moment, silently thanking him. Then she looked at him once more.
“You mustn’t think of going up to-night, or to-morrow, or, I hope, for a long time,” she said. “You say your work is over, and so I believe. But won’t you stay a little while with your friends when they ask you?”
“As your friend?” he said.
“Yes, mine and Thurso’s.”
They looked at each other, still gravely.
“Thanks, yes,” he said. “It is kind of you.”
But his hour had come.
“Maud, Maud,” he cried, “don’t you know what I have kept back so long? Why, I love you, I love you!”
* * * * *
Bertie Cochrane’s conjecture had been right, and half an hour later Thurso came back, drenched with storm, for he had put on neither hat nor coat, with the doctor from Port Washington. A minute later a highly affronted physician left again, wondering if it was some form of aristocratic English humour to drag a man out on a night like this, because a friend in the house had inadvertently taken a huge dose of laudanum, only to find on arrival that the friend in the house, who, if he had really done so, would certainly by now have lost consciousness, looked rather annoyed at the interruption, but otherwise perfectly well.
But a glance at his companion seemed to the doctor to account for his annoyance.
