Chapter VIII: Part IX: Chap. XLIII

A short time after the loss of poor Julius, Bagot had gone to town without seeing Lady Lee in the interval. The night of his arrival he wrote a note to Seager, desiring that gentleman to come to him in the morning.

Seager came about ten o’clock to the lodgings occupied by Bagot, expecting to find him up and dressed. As he was not in the sitting-room, Seager proceeded up-stairs to his bedroom. He was met at the head of the stairs by Wilson, the Colonel’s servant, who told him he feared his master was ill. “He had been talking queer,” Wilson said,—“very queer.”

Seager entered the bedroom. The Colonel was in bed, and did not look ill, but his friend observed that he cast a peculiar hurried anxious glance at the door as he entered. He went up to him, shook hands, congratulated him on the late event, and then seated himself on the side of the bed.

“What makes you so late in bed?” asked Seager; “keeping it up late last night, eh?”

“No,” said Bagot, “no. I want to get up—but how can I, you know, with these people in the room?” (casting a quick nervous glance towards a corner of the apartment.)

“Very odd,” thought Seager, following the direction of the Colonel’s eyes, and seeing no one. “He hasn’t lost his wits, I hope. A little feverish, perhaps. I’m afraid you’re out of sorts, Lee,” he said. “You don’t look well.”

“Quite well,” said Bagot; “never better. I’ll get up in a minute, my good fellow, as soon as they’re gone. Couldn’t you”—(in an under tone),—“couldn’t you get ’em to go?”

“Who?” inquired Seager, again following the glance the Colonel cast towards the same part of the room.

“Who!” cried Bagot; “why, that tea-party there. They’ve been drinking tea the whole morning—two women and a man.”

“By Jove, he’s mad,” thought Seager to himself—“mad as a March hare.”

“I’ve asked ’em as civilly as I could to go away,” said Bagot, “but they don’t mind that. It’s very curious, too, where they got the tea, for I don’t take much of it. Fancy them coming to me for tea, eh?” said Bagot. “Absurd, you know.”

“Why, ’tis rather a good joke,” said Seager, affecting to laugh, but in great consternation. Since reading the accident to the poor little Baronet in the papers, he had counted on Bagot as the source from whence all the funds required for the conduct of the coming trial (without mentioning other more immediate wants) were to be supplied. And here was the Colonel evidently out of his mind—unfit, perhaps, to transact even so simple a business as drawing money.

“Have you got much money in the house, Lee?” asked Seager presently.

“Money,” said Bagot, who seemed to answer some questions rationally enough; “no, I don’t think I have; I’m going to draw some as soon as I’ve seen my lawyer.”

“Just so,” said Seager, “and the sooner the better. Where’s your check-book? Just sign your name, and I’ll fill it up. We must have some funds to carry on the war. The trial comes on the beginning of next month, and there’s a great deal to be done beforehand.”

“Ah, that cursed trial!” said the Colonel, grinding his teeth; “but I’ve been thinking it over, Seager, and it’s my belief that, if we bribe the Crown lawyers high enough, we may get ’em to lay the indictment for _manslaughter_.”

“Manslaughter!” repeated Seager to himself, as he took the check-book from Bagot’s writing-desk. “Oh, by Jove, he’s stark staring! Now, old fellow,” he continued, coming to the bedside with the inkstand and check-book, “here you are. Just take the pen and write your name here. I’ll fill it up afterwards.”

Bagot took the pen, and tried to write his name as Seager directed; but his hand shook so that he could not, and after an attempt or two, he threw the pen from him.

“Come, try once more, and I’ll guide your hand,” said Seager. But Bagot refused so testily that he did not press him.

“Do you know,” said Seager presently, puzzled at Bagot’s extraordinary demeanour, “I don’t think you’re half awake yet, Lee. You’ve been dreaming, haven’t you?”

“Not a bit,” said Bagot; “I didn’t sleep a wink all night.”

“I wonder if that’s true?” thought Seager. “You don’t see the tea-party now, do you?”

Bagot, as if suddenly recollecting them, looked quickly towards the corner where he had fancied them seated. “No,” said he, with a kind of doubtful pleasure; “they’re gone—gone, by Jove!” Then, raising himself on his elbow, he cast a searching glance all round the room, and at last behind his bed, when he started, and, falling back aghast on his pillow, muttered, “There they are behind the curtains, drinking tea as hard as ever, _and they’ve got a little boy with ’em now_.”

“Ah,” said Seager, humouring him, “what’s the boy like?”

“I could only see his back,” answered Bagot, in a whisper, “but I wouldn’t look again for the world,” (shuddering, and turning his face away.)

Seager now went to the door, and, calling Wilson, desired him to fetch a physician who lived in the street, to see his master.

The physician, a brisk man, of few years, considering his eminence, and who piqued himself on suiting his tone to that of his patients and their friends, soon arrived. He came in jauntily, asked Bagot how he was, heard all about the intrusive tea-party, felt his pulse, looked at him attentively, and then took Seager aside.

“The Colonel, now, isn’t the most abstemious man in the world, is he?” he inquired, with a jocular air.

“No, by Gad,” said Mr Seager; “he’s a pretty hard liver.”

“Drinks pretty freely, eh? Wine?—brandy?”

“More than I should like to,” replied Seager. “I’ve often told him he’d have to pull up some day.”

“Ah, yes, he’ll have to”—said the other nodding. “He’s got delirium tremens.”

“Has he, by Jove!” exclaimed Seager—adding, with an oath, “what a fool I was, that it never occurred to me, knowing him as I do.”

“The attack’s just beginning now, and promises to be violent,” said the doctor.

“What—you think ’twill go hard with him, eh?”

The physician said, “Perhaps it might; ’twas impossible to say; however,” he added, “you won’t be long in suspense—a few days will settle the matter.”

“Come, that’s a comfort,” said Seager, remembering how important it was that Bagot should be able to exert himself before the trial. “Poor devil,” he added, “what a pity—just come into a fine property!”

“Well, well, we’ll try to keep him in possession,” said the doctor. “I’ll leave a prescription, and look in again shortly.”

“By the by,” said Seager, detaining him, “people who’ve got this complaint sometimes talk confounded stuff, don’t they?” The doctor said they did.

“And let out secrets about their own affairs, and other people’s?”

“Possibly they might,” the doctor said—“their delusions were various, and often mixed strangely with truth. I’ve heard patients,” he added, “in this state talk about private matters, and therefore it may be as well to let no strangers come about him, if you can avoid it.”

Seager thought the advice good, and assured the doctor that he would look after him himself. Accordingly, he sent to his own lodgings for a supply of necessaries, and established himself as Bagot’s attendant.

In this capacity Mr Seager’s energy and vigilant habits enabled him to act with great effect; in fact, if he had been the poor Colonel’s warmly-attached brother, he could not have taken better care of him. He administered his medicine, which there was no difficulty in getting him to take, as it consisted principally of large doses of brandy: he held him down, with Wilson’s assistance, in his violent fits, and humoured the strange hallucinations which now began to crowd upon him thick and fast.

Some of these Mr Seager found rather diverting, especially an attendant imp which Bagot conceived was perpetually hovering about the bed, and in whose motions he took vast interest.

“Take care,” said Bagot, starting up in bed on one occasion as Seager approached him; “mind, mind! you’ll tread on him.”

“Tread on what?” said Seager, looking down, deceived by the earnestness of the appeal.

“Why the little devil—poor little fellow, don’t hurt him. You’ve no idea how lively he is. I wouldn’t have him injured,” added Bagot tenderly, “on any account.”

“Certainly not,” said Seager; “not while he behaves himself. What’s he like, eh?”

“He’s about the size,” returned Bagot, “of a printer’s devil, or perhaps a little smaller; and, considering his inches, he’s uncommonly active. He was half-way up the bedpost this morning at one spring.”

All this nonsense, delivered with perfect earnestness and gravity, contrasted so oddly with the Colonel’s red nose and bristly unshaven face, that it greatly amused Mr Seager, and helped him to pass the time. By and by, however, both the tea-party and the imp disappeared, and their place was taken by spectres of more formidable stamp. In particular, there was a demon disguised as a bailiff in top-boots, who was come, as Bagot firmly believed, to take his soul in execution, he having unfortunately lost it at chicken hazard to the enemy of mankind, which latter personage he paid Mr Seager the compliment of taking him for.

It was now that Seager began to appreciate the soundness of the doctor’s advice with respect to excluding strangers from the hearing of Bagot’s delusions. He began to talk, sometimes pertinently, sometimes wildly, of the approaching trial, generally ending in absurd ravings; sometimes charging Seager with dreadful crimes, sometimes imagining himself the culprit. On the third day of his attack, Seager remarked that a showman figured largely in his discourse, and, finding the patient in a tractable mood, he questioned him as to who this showman might be.

“I know,” said the Colonel, still taking Mr Seager for the distinguished personage aforesaid—“I know it’s of no use to try to keep anything a secret from _you_. But suppose now I tell you all about Holmes, will you let me off what—what I lost, you know?”

“What was that?” asked Seager, forgetting the imaginary forfeit.

“Why the—the soul,” said Bagot. “It’s of no use to you, you know.”

“Oh, ah, I’d forgotten that,” said Seager. “Pray, don’t mention it; ’tisn’t of the least consequence. Yes, we’ll cry quits about that.”

Then, to his hearer’s surprise, Bagot, apparently satisfied with the conditions, related all the particulars of his nocturnal interview with Mr Holmes, comprising what had passed between them inside the caravan.

Seager listened in breathless astonishment. The delusion, if delusion there was in this instance, was the most plausible and coherent of any that had yet haunted Bagot. It had touched, too, on some previous suspicions in Seager’s own mind, and he resolved, if Bagot recovered, to sound him on the subject.

Meantime he tried to lead him to talk more freely on the subject. But Bagot now began to wander, talked all kinds of nonsense, and ended, as usual, in violent ravings.

All this time the demon in top-boots and his brethren were in constant attendance. Never for a moment was Bagot free from the horror of their presence; and if all the frightful spectres of romance and superstition had been actually crowded round his bed, the poor Colonel could not have suffered more than from the horrible phantasms that his imagination summoned to attend him.

It was beginning to be doubtful if he could hold out much longer under the disease; but on the third night he fell asleep, and woke the next morning in his right mind.

“Ah, he’s pulled through this time,” said the doctor, when he saw him. “All right, now; but he mustn’t resume his hard drinking, or he’ll have another attack.”

“I’ll look after him myself,” said Mr Seager. “I’ll lock up the brandy bottle, and put him on short allowance.”

“Well, he ought to be very grateful to you, I’m sure,” said the doctor, “for all your attention. Really, I never saw greater kindness, even among near relations.” And the doctor having been paid, departed, perfectly convinced that Mr Seager was one of the best fellows that ever breathed, and the sort of person to make any sacrifice to serve his friends.

“Now I’ll tell you what it is, Lee,” said Seager, when Bagot was on his legs again, and manifested a desire for his customary drams. “You mustn’t go on in your old way yet awhile. If you do, you’ll go to the devil in no time.”

“Never you mind, sir,” said Bagot with dignity. “I presume I’m the best judge of what’s good for me.”

“You never made a greater mistake,” returned Mr Seager. “Just go and look in the glass, and see what your judgment of what’s good for you has brought you to, you unfortunate old beggar. You look like a cocktail screw after the third heat, all puffing and trembling. I’ll lay you a five-pound note you don’t look me straight in the face for a minute together. Here’s a sovereign, now—well, I’ll put it between your lips, and if you can hold it there for fifty seconds, you shall have it, and if not, you shall give me one. What d’ye say to that?”

“Sir,” said Bagot, with his lips trembling, and his eyes rolling more than ever at these delicate allusions to his infirmities—“sir, you are disagreeably personal.”

“Personal!” sneered Mr Seager. “I wish you could hear the confounded rubbish you talked while in bed. I only wished I’d had a short-hand writer to take it down—all about the bailiffs, and devils, and so forth. And the showman, too—one Holmes. He struck me as a real character; and if all you said was true, you must have had some queer dealings together.”

As he spoke he fixed his green eye on Bagot, who started, cast one nervous glance at him, and then, in great agitation, rose and walked to the window, where Seager saw him wipe his forehead with his handkerchief.

Presently he looked stealthily over his shoulder, and, perceiving that Seager still eyed him, he affected to laugh. “Cursed nonsense I must have talked, I daresay,” said he huskily. “Oh, cursed, you know, ha, ha.”

“But that about the showman Holmes didn’t sound so absurd as the rest,” said Seager. “It struck me as more like some real circumstances you were recollecting. Come, suppose you tell me all about it sensibly, now.”

“No more of this, sir,” said Bagot, waving the handkerchief he had been wiping his forehead with. “The subject is unpleasant. No man, I presume, likes to be reminded that he has been talking like a fool. We won’t resume the subject now, or at any other time, if you please.”

“Ah,” said Seager to himself, on observing Bagot’s agitation, “I was right—there was some truth in that. I must consider how to turn it to account.”