A dreary time followed. Sometimes the patient would lie awake half the night, howling with misery, and accusing Donal of heartless cruelty. He knew as well as he what would ease his pain and give him sleep, but not a finger would he move to save him! He was taking the meanest of revenges! What did it matter to him what became of his soul! Surely it was worse to hate as he made him hate than to swallow any amount of narcotics!
"I tell you, Grant," he said once, "I was never so cruel to those I treated worst. There's nothing in the Persian hells, which beat all the rest, to come up to what I go through for want of my comfort.
Promise to give it me, and I will tell you where to find some."
As often as Donal refused he would break out in a torrent of curses, then lie still for a space.
"How do you think you will do without it," Donal once rejoined, "when you find yourself bodiless in the other world?"
"I'm not there yet! When that comes, it will be under new conditions, if not unconditioned altogether. We'll take the world we have. So, my dear boy, just go and get me what I want. There are the keys!"
"I dare not."
"You wish to kill me!"
"I wouldn't keep you alive to eat opium. I have other work than that. Not a finger would I move to save a life for such a life. But I would willingly risk my own to make you able to do without it.
There would be some good in that!"
"Oh, damn your preaching!"
But the force of the habit abated a little. Now and then it seemed to return as strong as ever, but the fit went off again. His sufferings plainly decreased.
The doctor, having little yet of a practice, was able to be with him several hours every day, so that Donal could lie down. As he grew better, Davie, or mistress Brookes, or lady Arctura would sit with him. But Donal was never farther off than the next room. The earl's madness was the worst of any, a moral madness: it could not fail to affect the brain, but had not yet put him beyond his own control.
Repeatedly had Donal been on the verge of using force to restrain him, but had not yet found himself absolutely compelled to do so: fearless of him, he postponed it always to the very last, and the last had not yet arrived.
The gentle ministrations of his niece by and by seemed to touch him.
He was growing to love her a little, He would smile when she came into the room, and ask her how she did. Once he sat looking at her for some time--then said, "I hope I did not hurt you much."
"When?" she asked.
"Then," he answered.
"Oh, no; you did not hurt me--much!"
"Another time, I was very cruel to your aunt: do you think she will forgive me!"
"Yes, I do."
"Then you have forgiven me?"
"Of course I have."
"Then of course God will forgive me too!"
"He will--if you leave off, you know, uncle."
"That's more than I can promise."
"If you try, he will help you."
"How can he? It is a second nature now!"
"He is your first nature. He can help you too by taking away the body and its nature together."
"You're a fine comforter! God will help me to be good by taking away my life! A nice encouragement to try! Hadn't I better kill myself and save him the trouble!"
"It's not the dying, uncle! no amount of dying would ever make one good. It might only make it less difficult to be good."
"But I might after all refuse to be good! I feel sure I should! He had better let me alone!"
"God can do more than that to compel us to be good--a great deal more than that! Indeed, uncle, we must repent."
He said no more for some minutes; then suddenly spoke again.
"I suppose you mean to marry that rascal of a tutor!" he said.
She started up, and called Donal. But to her relief he did not answer: he was fast asleep.
"He would not thank you for the suggestion, I fear," she said, sitting down again. "He is far above me!"
"Is there no chance for Forgue then?"
"Not the smallest. I would rather have died where you left me than--"
"If you love me, don't mention that!" he cried. "I was not myself--indeed I was not! I don't know now--that is, I can't believe sometimes I ever did it."
"Uncle, have you asked God to forgive you!"
"I have--a thousand times."
"Then I will never speak of it again."
In general, however, he was sullen, cantankerous, abusive. They were all compassionate to him, treating him like a spoiled, but not the less in reality a sickly child. Arctura thought her grandmother could not have brought him up well; more might surely have been made of him. But Arctura had him after a lifetime fertile in cause of self-reproach, had him in the net of sore sickness, at the mercy of the spirit of God. He was a bad old child--this much only the wiser for being old, that he had found the ways of transgressors hard.
One night Donal, hearing him restless, got up from the chair where he watched by him most nights, and saw him staring, but not seeing: his eyes showed that they regarded nothing material. After a moment he gave a great sigh, and his jaw fell. Donal thought he was dead.
But presently he came to himself like one escaping from torture: a terrible dream was behind him, pulling at the skirts of his consciousness.
"I've seen her!" he said. "She's waiting for me to take me--but where I do not know. She did not look angry, but then she seldom looked angry when I was worst to her!--Grant, I beg of you, don't lose sight of Davie. Make a man of him, and his mother will thank you. She was a good woman, his mother, though I did what I could to spoil her! It was no use! I never could!--and that was how she kept her hold of me. If I had succeeded, there would have been an end of her power, and a genuine heir to the earldom! What a damned fool I was to let it out! Who would have been the worse!"
