The Hampstead mystery: a novel. Volume 3 (of 3)Marryat, Florence
General
The Hampstead mystery: a novel. Volume 3 (of 3)
Marryat, Florence
Fiction
‘Not the slightest. He does not need change. If he does, we will go
away quietly together. Don’t think me unkind, Arthur, but I have
already told you what Henry’s illness arises from. I know he sometimes
takes a little dose of morphia, or smokes a pipe of opium; he does it
to allay the pain of neuralgia, which often unfits him for business;
many other neuralgic patients do the same. The pain he endures unfits
him for society also; it upsets his nerves and makes him irritable. But
to call him mad--to bring a mad doctor to see him, without asking his
consent, or mine-- Oh! it was cruel--cruel!’
She turned her back upon her brother-in-law, and went on with her work,
whilst he sat there, hardly knowing what to do or say.
‘How am I to persuade you, Hannah,’ he resumed at last, ‘that I acted
in all love and kindness towards my brother and you? I believed that,
living always by his side, you could not have noticed what is so very
palpable to me--the extraordinary change in poor Henry--’
‘Not seen it?’ she interrupted him with. ‘Not wept over it, and prayed
over it for months past! Why not say at once that I do not love my
husband, Arthur? I know far more of him than you do, and could have
saved you the trouble of bringing a _mad_ doctor to gloat upon his
infirmities. Henry is unhappy, poor darling! He has been unhappy ever
since his partner’s death, and his nerves have become unstrung. He is
foolish, perhaps, to take so much morphia, but it soothes and relieves
him, and anything is better than that he should suffer. But you will
not cure him--neither you nor your doctors! Only time and affection
will do that, with perfect quiet. I will not, therefore, have him
disturbed, nor worried in any way, either by relations or strangers. I
will not let him go to public amusements again, which only tire him,
but he shall stay at home with me till God, in His own good time, sees
fit to cure him of his complaint.’
‘Forgive me, Hannah,’ said Captain Hindes, after a pause, ‘I daresay I
have been very officious, but I did it for the best. Won’t you believe
that?’
‘Yes, I believe that.’
‘And I will leave Henry for the future to you. But, oh! do try to wean
him from that dreadful habit. And look here, my dear, under these
circumstances, what is the use of my remaining in London? I cannot
afford the expense of an hotel, and came here, as you must know, only
to be near you and Henry. But it can be no pleasure to me to continue
to see him in this condition, especially if I can do him no good. It
unnerves me, Hannah. He is a wreck of his former self. We shall only
quarrel if we continue to meet, so the sooner I take my wife and little
ones into the fresh country, the better. Don’t be surprised, then, if
we start almost immediately, but I shall, of course, run up and say
good-bye to you and Henry before we go.’
He held out his hand to her as he spoke, but, to his surprise, instead
of taking it, Hannah covered her face with her own, and burst into a
flood of tears.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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