ANDREW REBELS.
As Andrew Falconer grew better, the longing of his mind after former excitement and former oblivion, roused and kept alive the longing of his body, until at length his thoughts dwelt upon nothing but his diseased cravings.His whole imagination, naturally not a feeble one, was concentrated on the delights in store for him as soon as he was well enough to be his own master, as he phrased it, once more.
He soon began to see that, if he was in a hospital, it must be a private one, and at last, irresolute as he was both from character and illness, made up his mind to demand his liberty.He sat by his bedroom fire one afternoon, for he needed much artificial warmth.
The shades of evening were thickening the air.He had just had one of his frequent meals, and was gazing, as he often did, into the glowing coals.Robert had come in, and after a little talk was sitting silent at the opposite corner of the chimney-piece.
'Doctor,' said Andrew, seizing the opportunity, 'you've been very kind to me, and I don't know how to thank you, but it is time I was going.I am quite well now.Would you kindly order the nurse to bring me my clothes to-morrow morning, and I will go.'
This he said with the quavering voice of one who speaks because he has made up his mind to speak.A certain something, I believe a vague molluscous form of conscience, made him wriggle and shift uneasily upon his chair as he spoke.
'No, no,' said Robert, 'you are not fit to go.Make yourself comfortable, my dear sir.There is no reason why you should go.'
'There is something I don't understand about it.I want to go.'
'It would ruin my character as a professional man to let a patient in your condition leave the house.The weather is unfavourable.Icannot--I must not consent.'
'Where am I? I don't understand it.I want to understand it.'
'Your friends wish you to remain where you are for the present.'
'I have no friends.'
'You have one, at least, who puts his house here at your service.'
'There's something about it I don't like.Do you suppose I am incapable of taking care of myself?'
'I do indeed,' answered his son with firmness.
'Then you are quite mistaken,' said Andrew, angrily.'I am quite well enough to go, and have a right to judge for myself.It is very kind of you, but I am in a free country, I believe.'
'No doubt.All honest men are free in this country.But--'
He saw that his father winced, and said no more.Andrew resumed, after a pause in which he had been rousing his feeble drink-exhausted anger,'I tell you I will not be treated like a child.I demand my clothes and my liberty.'
'Do you know where you were found that night you were brought here?'
'No.But what has that to do with it? I was ill.You know that as well as I.'
'You are ill now because you were lying then on the wet ground under a railway-arch--utterly incapable from the effects of opium, or drink, or both.You would have been taken to the police-station, and would probably have been dead long before now, if you had not been brought here.'
He was silent for some time.Then he broke out,'I tell you I will go.I do not choose to live on charity.I will not.I demand my clothes.'
'I tell you it is of no use.When you are well enough to go out you shall go out, but not now.'
'Where am I? Who are you?'
He looked at Robert with a keen, furtive glance, in which were mingled bewilderment and suspicion.
'I am your best friend at present.'
He started up--fiercely and yet feebly, for a thought of terror had crossed him.
'You do not mean I am in a madhouse?'
Robert made no reply.He left him to suppose what he pleased.
Andrew took it for granted that he was in a private asylum, sank back in his chair, and from that moment was quiet as a lamb.But it was easy to see that he was constantly contriving how to escape.
This mental occupation, however, was excellent for his recovery;and Robert dropped no hint of his suspicion.Nor were many precautions necessary in consequence; for he never left the house without having De Fleuri there, who was a man of determination, nerve, and, now that he ate and drank, of considerable strength.
As he grew better, the stimulants given him in the form of medicine at length ceased.In their place Robert substituted other restoratives, which prevented him from missing the stimulants so much, and at length got his system into a tolerably healthy condition, though at his age, and after so long indulgence, it could hardly be expected ever to recover its tone.
He did all he could to provide him with healthy amusement--played backgammon, draughts, and cribbage with him, brought him Sir Walter's and other novels to read, and often played on his violin, to which he listened with great delight.At times of depression, which of course were frequent, the Flowers of the Forest made the old man weep.Falconer put yet more soul into the sounds than he had ever put into them before.He tried to make the old man talk of his childhood, asking him about the place of his birth, the kind of country, how he had been brought up, his family, and many questions of the sort.His answers were vague, and often contradictory.