CHAPTER X

How the interval of suspense in which I was now condemned might have

affected other men in my position, I cannot pretend to say. The

influence of the two hours’ probation upon _my_ temperament was simply

this. I felt physically incapable of remaining still in any one place,

and morally incapable of speaking to any one human being, until I had

first heard all that Ezra Jennings had to say to me.

In this frame of mind, I not only abandoned my contemplated visit to

Mrs. Ablewhite—I even shrank from encountering Gabriel Betteredge

himself.

Returning to Frizinghall, I left a note for Betteredge, telling him

that I had been unexpectedly called away for a few hours, but that he

might certainly expect me to return towards three o’clock in the

afternoon. I requested him, in the interval, to order his dinner at the

usual hour, and to amuse himself as he pleased. He had, as I well knew,

hosts of friends in Frizinghall; and he would be at no loss how to fill

up his time until I returned to the hotel.

This done, I made the best of my way out of the town again, and roamed

the lonely moorland country which surrounds Frizinghall, until my watch

told me that it was time, at last, to return to Mr. Candy’s house.

I found Ezra Jennings ready and waiting for me.

He was sitting alone in a bare little room, which communicated by a

glazed door with a surgery. Hideous coloured diagrams of the ravages of

hideous diseases decorated the barren buff-coloured walls. A bookcase

filled with dingy medical works, and ornamented at the top with a

skull, in place of the customary bust; a large deal table copiously

splashed with ink; wooden chairs of the sort that are seen in kitchens

and cottages; a threadbare drugget in the middle of the floor; a sink

of water, with a basin and waste-pipe roughly let into the wall,

horribly suggestive of its connection with surgical

operations—comprised the entire furniture of the room. The bees were

humming among a few flowers placed in pots outside the window; the

birds were singing in the garden, and the faint intermittent jingle of

a tuneless piano in some neighbouring house forced itself now and again

on the ear. In any other place, these everyday sounds might have spoken

pleasantly of the everyday world outside. Here, they came in as

intruders on a silence which nothing but human suffering had the

privilege to disturb. I looked at the mahogany instrument case, and at

the huge roll of lint, occupying places of their own on the

bookshelves, and shuddered inwardly as I thought of the sounds,

familiar and appropriate to the everyday use of Ezra Jennings’ room.

“I make no apology, Mr. Blake, for the place in which I am receiving

you,” he said. “It is the only room in the house, at this hour of the

day, in which we can feel quite sure of being left undisturbed. Here

are my papers ready for you; and here are two books to which we may

have occasion to refer, before we have done. Bring your chair to the

table, and we shall be able to consult them together.”

I drew up to the table; and Ezra Jennings handed me his manuscript

notes. They consisted of two large folio leaves of paper. One leaf

contained writing which only covered the surface at intervals. The

other presented writing, in red and black ink, which completely filled

the page from top to bottom. In the irritated state of my curiosity, at

that moment, I laid aside the second sheet of paper in despair.

“Have some mercy on me!” I said. “Tell me what I am to expect, before I

attempt to read this.”

“Willingly, Mr. Blake! Do you mind my asking you one or two more

questions?”

“Ask me anything you like!”

He looked at me with the sad smile on his lips, and the kindly interest

in his soft brown eyes.

“You have already told me,” he said, “that you have never—to your

knowledge—tasted opium in your life.”

“To my knowledge,” I repeated.

“You will understand directly why I speak with that reservation. Let us

go on. You are not aware of ever having taken opium. At this time, last

year, you were suffering from nervous irritation, and you slept

wretchedly at night. On the night of the birthday, however, there was

an exception to the rule—you slept soundly. Am I right, so far?”

“Quite right!”

“Can you assign any cause for the nervous suffering, and your want of

sleep?”

“I can assign no cause. Old Betteredge made a guess at the cause, I

remember. But that is hardly worth mentioning.”

“Pardon me. Anything is worth mentioning in such a case as this.

Betteredge attributed your sleeplessness to something. To what?”

“To my leaving off smoking.”

“Had you been an habitual smoker?”

“Yes.”

“Did you leave off the habit suddenly?”

“Yes.”

“Betteredge was perfectly right, Mr. Blake. When smoking is a habit a

man must have no common constitution who can leave it off suddenly

without some temporary damage to his nervous system. Your sleepless

nights are accounted for, to my mind. My next question refers to Mr.

Candy. Do you remember having entered into anything like a dispute with

him—at the birthday dinner, or afterwards—on the subject of his

profession?”

The question instantly awakened one of my dormant remembrances in

connection with the birthday festival. The foolish wrangle which took

place, on that occasion, between Mr. Candy and myself, will be found

described at much greater length than it deserves in the tenth chapter

of Betteredge’s Narrative. The details there presented of the

dispute—so little had I thought of it afterwards—entirely failed to

recur to my memory. All that I could now recall, and all that I could

tell Ezra Jennings was, that I had attacked the art of medicine at the

dinner-table with sufficient rashness and sufficient pertinacity to put

even Mr. Candy out of temper for the moment. I also remembered that

Lady Verinder had interfered to stop the dispute, and that the little

doctor and I had “made it up again,” as the children say, and had

become as good friends as ever, before we shook hands that night.

“There is one thing more,” said Ezra Jennings, “which it is very

important I should know. Had you any reason for feeling any special

anxiety about the Diamond, at this time last year?”

“I had the strongest reasons for feeling anxiety about the Diamond. I

knew it to be the object of a conspiracy; and I was warned to take

measures for Miss Verinder’s protection, as the possessor of the

stone.”

“Was the safety of the Diamond the subject of conversation between you

and any other person, immediately before you retired to rest on the

birthday night?”

“It was the subject of a conversation between Lady Verinder and her

daughter——”

“Which took place in your hearing?”

“Yes.”

Ezra Jennings took up his notes from the table, and placed them in my

hands.

“Mr. Blake,” he said, “if you read those notes now, by the light which

my questions and your answers have thrown on them, you will make two

astounding discoveries concerning yourself. You will find:—First, that

you entered Miss Verinder’s sitting-room and took the Diamond, in a

state of trance, produced by opium. Secondly, that the opium was given

to you by Mr. Candy—without your own knowledge—as a practical

refutation of the opinions which you had expressed to him at the

birthday dinner.”

I sat with the papers in my hand completely stupefied.

“Try and forgive poor Mr. Candy,” said the assistant gently. “He has

done dreadful mischief, I own; but he has done it innocently. If you

will look at the notes, you will see that—but for his illness—he would

have returned to Lady Verinder’s the morning after the party, and would

have acknowledged the trick that he had played you. Miss Verinder would

have heard of it, and Miss Verinder would have questioned him—and the

truth which has laid hidden for a year would have been discovered in a

day.”

I began to regain my self-possession. “Mr. Candy is beyond the reach of

my resentment,” I said angrily. “But the trick that he played me is not

the less an act of treachery, for all that. I may forgive, but I shall

not forget it.”

“Every medical man commits that act of treachery, Mr. Blake, in the

course of his practice. The ignorant distrust of opium (in England) is

by no means confined to the lower and less cultivated classes. Every

doctor in large practice finds himself, every now and then, obliged to

deceive his patients, as Mr. Candy deceived you. I don’t defend the

folly of playing you a trick under the circumstances. I only plead with

you for a more accurate and more merciful construction of motives.”

“How was it done?” I asked. “Who gave me the laudanum, without my

knowing it myself?”

“I am not able to tell you. Nothing relating to that part of the matter

dropped from Mr. Candy’s lips, all through his illness. Perhaps your

own memory may point to the person to be suspected.”

“No.”

“It is useless, in that case, to pursue the inquiry. The laudanum was

secretly given to you in some way. Let us leave it there, and go on to

matters of more immediate importance. Read my notes, if you can.

Familiarise your mind with what has happened in the past. I have

something very bold and very startling to propose to you, which relates

to the future.”

Those last words roused me.

I looked at the papers, in the order in which Ezra Jennings had placed

them in my hands. The paper which contained the smaller quantity of

writing was the uppermost of the two. On this, the disconnected words,

and fragments of sentences, which had dropped from Mr. Candy in his

delirium, appeared as follows:

“... Mr. Franklin Blake ... and agreeable ... down a peg ... medicine

... confesses ... sleep at night ... tell him ... out of order ...

medicine ... he tells me ... and groping in the dark mean one and the

same thing ... all the company at the dinner-table ... I say ...

groping after sleep ... nothing but medicine ... he says ... leading

the blind ... know what it means ... witty ... a night’s rest in spite

of his teeth ... wants sleep ... Lady Verinder’s medicine chest ...

five-and-twenty minims ... without his knowing it ... tomorrow morning

... Well, Mr. Blake ... medicine today ... never ... without it ...

out, Mr. Candy ... excellent ... without it ... down on him ... truth

... something besides ... excellent ... dose of laudanum, sir ... bed

... what ... medicine now.”

There, the first of the two sheets of paper came to an end. I handed it

back to Ezra Jennings.

“That is what you heard at his bedside?” I said.

“Literally and exactly what I heard,” he answered—“except that the

repetitions are not transferred here from my short-hand notes. He

reiterated certain words and phrases a dozen times over, fifty times

over, just as he attached more or less importance to the idea which

they represented. The repetitions, in this sense, were of some

assistance to me in putting together those fragments. Don’t suppose,”

he added, pointing to the second sheet of paper, “that I claim to have

reproduced the expressions which Mr. Candy himself would have used if

he had been capable of speaking connectedly. I only say that I have

penetrated through the obstacle of the disconnected expression, to the

thought which was underlying it connectedly all the time. Judge for

yourself.”

I turned to the second sheet of paper, which I now knew to be the key

to the first.

Once more, Mr. Candy’s wanderings appeared, copied in black ink; the

intervals between the phrases being filled up by Ezra Jennings in red

ink. I reproduce the result here, in one plain form; the original

language and the interpretation of it coming close enough together in

these pages to be easily compared and verified.

“... Mr. Franklin Blake is clever and agreeable, but he wants taking

down a peg when he talks of medicine. He confesses that he has been

suffering from want of sleep at night. I tell him that his nerves are

out of order, and that he ought to take medicine. He tells me that

taking medicine and groping in the dark mean one and the same thing.

This before all the company at the dinner-table. I say to him, you are

groping after sleep, and nothing but medicine can help you to find it.

He says to me, I have heard of the blind leading the blind, and now I

know what it means. Witty—but I can give him a night’s rest in spite of

his teeth. He really wants sleep; and Lady Verinder’s medicine chest is

at my disposal. Give him five-and-twenty minims of laudanum tonight,

without his knowing it; and then call tomorrow morning. ‘Well, Mr.

Blake, will you try a little medicine today? You will never sleep

without it.’—‘There you are out, Mr. Candy: I have had an excellent

night’s rest without it.’ Then, come down on him with the truth! ‘You

have had something besides an excellent night’s rest; you had a dose of

laudanum, sir, before you went to bed. What do you say to the art of

medicine, now?’”

Admiration of the ingenuity which had woven this smooth and finished

texture out of the ravelled skein was naturally the first impression

that I felt, on handing the manuscript back to Ezra Jennings. He

modestly interrupted the first few words in which my sense of surprise

expressed itself, by asking me if the conclusion which he had drawn

from his notes was also the conclusion at which my own mind had

arrived.

“Do you believe as I believe,” he said, “that you were acting under the

influence of the laudanum in doing all that you did, on the night of

Miss Verinder’s birthday, in Lady Verinder’s house?”

“I am too ignorant of the influence of laudanum to have an opinion of

my own,” I answered. “I can only follow your opinion, and feel

convinced that you are right.”

“Very well. The next question is this. You are convinced; and I am

convinced—how are we to carry our conviction to the minds of other

people?”

I pointed to the two manuscripts, lying on the table between us. Ezra

Jennings shook his head.

“Useless, Mr. Blake! Quite useless, as they stand now for three

unanswerable reasons. In the first place, those notes have been taken

under circumstances entirely out of the experience of the mass of

mankind. Against them, to begin with! In the second place, those notes

represent a medical and metaphysical theory. Against them, once more!

In the third place, those notes are of _my_ making; there is nothing

but _my_ assertion to the contrary, to guarantee that they are not

fabrications. Remember what I told you on the moor—and ask yourself

what my assertion is worth. No! my notes have but one value, looking to

the verdict of the world outside. Your innocence is to be vindicated;

and they show how it can be done. We must put our conviction to the

proof—and You are the man to prove it!”

“How?” I asked.

He leaned eagerly nearer to me across the table that divided us.

“Are you willing to try a bold experiment?”

“I will do anything to clear myself of the suspicion that rests on me

now.”

“Will you submit to some personal inconvenience for a time?”

“To any inconvenience, no matter what it may be.”

“Will you be guided implicitly by my advice? It may expose you to the

ridicule of fools; it may subject you to the remonstrances of friends

whose opinions you are bound to respect.”

“Tell me what to do!” I broke out impatiently. “And, come what may,

I’ll do it.”

“You shall do this, Mr. Blake,” he answered. “You shall steal the

Diamond, unconsciously, for the second time, in the presence of

witnesses whose testimony is beyond dispute.”

I started to my feet. I tried to speak. I could only look at him.

“I believe it _can_ be done,” he went on. “And it _shall_ be done—if

you will only help me. Try to compose yourself—sit down, and hear what

I have to say to you. You have resumed the habit of smoking; I have

seen that for myself. How long have you resumed it.”

“For nearly a year.”

“Do you smoke more or less than you did?”

“More.”

“Will you give up the habit again? Suddenly, mind!—as you gave it up

before.”

I began dimly to see his drift. “I will give it up, from this moment,”

I answered.

“If the same consequences follow, which followed last June,” said Ezra

Jennings—“if you suffer once more as you suffered then, from sleepless

nights, we shall have gained our first step. We shall have put you back

again into something assimilating to your nervous condition on the

birthday night. If we can next revive, or nearly revive, the domestic

circumstances which surrounded you; and if we can occupy your mind

again with the various questions concerning the Diamond which formerly

agitated it, we shall have replaced you, as nearly as possible in the

same position, physically and morally, in which the opium found you

last year. In that case we may fairly hope that a repetition of the

dose will lead, in a greater or lesser degree, to a repetition of the

result. There is my proposal, expressed in a few hasty words. You shall

now see what reasons I have to justify me in making it.”

He turned to one of the books at his side, and opened it at a place

marked by a small slip of paper.

“Don’t suppose that I am going to weary you with a lecture on

physiology,” he said. “I think myself bound to prove, in justice to

both of us, that I am not asking you to try this experiment in

deference to any theory of my own devising. Admitted principles, and

recognised authorities, justify me in the view that I take. Give me

five minutes of your attention; and I will undertake to show you that

Science sanctions my proposal, fanciful as it may seem. Here, in the

first place, is the physiological principle on which I am acting,

stated by no less a person than Dr. Carpenter. Read it for yourself.”

He handed me the slip of paper which had marked the place in the book.

It contained a few lines of writing, as follows:—

“There seems much ground for the belief, that _every_ sensory

impression which has once been recognised by the perceptive

consciousness, is registered (so to speak) in the brain, and may be

reproduced at some subsequent time, although there may be no

consciousness of its existence in the mind during the whole

intermediate period.”

“Is that plain, so far?” asked Ezra Jennings.

“Perfectly plain.”

He pushed the open book across the table to me, and pointed to a

passage, marked by pencil lines.

“Now,” he said, “read that account of a case, which has—as I believe—a

direct bearing on your own position, and on the experiment which I am

tempting you to try. Observe, Mr. Blake, before you begin, that I am

now referring you to one of the greatest of English physiologists. The