FOURTH NARRATIVE (2/3)

by Wilkie Collins

“I’m relieved to see, from what I observed upstairs,” I said, “that you stood your ground against the secret Dictate.”

“Stood my ground isn’t quite right,” Betteredge replied. “Wrestled is more accurate. I wrestled, sir, between the silent urges in my heart pulling me one way and the written orders in my pocket pushing me the other, until, if I may say so, I was in a cold sweat. In that dreadful state of mind and weakness of body, what remedy did I turn to? The remedy that has never failed me in over thirty years—This Book!”

He slapped the book with his hand, releasing a stronger whiff of stale tobacco than ever.

“What did I find here,” Betteredge continued, “on the very first page I opened? This dreadful bit, sir, page one hundred seventy-eight, which reads: ‘Upon these, and many similar reflections, I made it a rule that whenever I felt those secret nudges of my mind urging me to do or not do something, or to go this way or that, I never failed to obey the secret Dictate.’ I swear, Mr. Jennings, those were the first words I saw, right when I was defying the secret Dictate! You don’t find anything unusual about that, do you?”

“I see a coincidence—nothing more.”

“You’re not feeling the slightest bit unsettled about this medical venture of yours?”

“Not at all.”

Betteredge stared at me in silence, his gaze intense. He closed the book with great care, locked it away in the cupboard with meticulous attention, then turned back to me, fixing me with another hard look. Finally, he spoke.

“Sir,” he said gravely, “there’s a lot of leeway to be given to a man who hasn’t read _Robinson Crusoe_ since childhood. I wish you a good morning.”

He opened the door with a slight bow and left me to find my own way into the garden. I ran into Mr. Blake, who was returning to the house.

“You don’t need to tell me what just happened,” he said. “Betteredge has played his last card: he’s made another prophetic discovery in _Robinson Crusoe_. Have you indulged his favorite delusion? No? You’ve let him see that you don’t believe in _Robinson Crusoe_? Mr. Jennings! You’ve sunk to the lowest point in Betteredge’s estimation. Say what you want and do what you want from now on. You’ll find he won’t waste another word on you.”

June 21st.—I’ll keep today’s journal entry brief.

Mr. Blake had the worst night yet. I’ve had to prescribe for him, which I did reluctantly. Men with his sensitive constitution tend to respond quickly to treatment. Otherwise, I’d worry he wouldn’t be fit for the experiment when the time comes.

As for me, after a brief respite from my pain over the last two days, I had a severe attack this morning. I won’t say much about it other than that it has convinced me to return to the opium. I’ll close this book and take my full dose—five hundred drops.

June 22nd.—Our outlook seems brighter today. Mr. Blake’s nervous suffering has eased significantly. He managed to sleep a little last night. Thanks to the opium, my night felt like that of a man who is dazed. I can’t say I woke this morning; a more fitting description would be that I regained my senses.

We drove to the house to check on the refurnishing progress. It will be finished tomorrow—Saturday. As Mr. Blake predicted, Betteredge raised no further objections. From start to finish, he was ominously polite and quietly watchful.

My medical venture, as Betteredge calls it, must now be postponed until Monday. Tomorrow evening, the workmen will be late finishing up. The following day, the established Sunday restrictions that are part of our free country will make it impossible for anyone to travel from London to us. Until Monday, all I can do is keep a close eye on Mr. Blake and ensure he remains in the same condition I found him today.

In the meantime, I’ve convinced him to write to Mr. Bruff, insisting that he be present as one of the witnesses. I specifically chose the lawyer because he holds strong biases against us. If we can win him over, our victory will be indisputable.

Mr. Blake has also written to Sergeant Cuff, and I’ve sent a note to Miss Verinder. With these witnesses, along with old Betteredge—who is truly significant in the family—we’ll have enough for our purpose, without needing to include Mrs. Merridew if she insists on sacrificing herself to public opinion.

June 23rd.—The effects of the opium caught up with me again last night. No matter; I must continue with it until Monday is behind us.

Mr. Blake wasn’t feeling well again today. At two this morning, he admitted that he had opened the drawer where he kept his cigars. He managed to lock it again only after a considerable struggle. His next move, in case temptation struck again, was to throw the key out of the window. The waiter found it this morning, sitting at the bottom of an empty cistern—such is Fate! I’ve taken possession of the key until Tuesday.

June 24th.—Mr. Blake and I took a long drive in an open carriage. We both felt the soothing effects of the gentle summer air. I joined him for dinner at the hotel. To my great relief—since he had been in an agitated, overly excited state this morning—he managed to get two hours of solid sleep on the sofa after dinner. If he has another rough night now, I’m not too worried about the consequences.

June 25th, Monday.—Today is the day of the experiment! It’s five o’clock in the afternoon, and we’ve just arrived at the house.

The most pressing concern is Mr. Blake’s health.

From what I can tell, he seems physically just as sensitive to the effects of the opium tonight as he was at this time last year. This afternoon, he’s in a state of nervous tension that’s just shy of irritation. His complexion changes easily; his hand isn’t quite steady; and he jumps at unexpected noises and sudden appearances of people or things.

These symptoms are all the result of sleep deprivation, which stems from abruptly stopping his smoking habit after indulging in it excessively. The same causes are at play again, and it seems like the same effects are emerging. Will the comparison still hold when we reach the final test? The events of the night will tell.

As I write this, Mr. Blake is keeping himself entertained at the billiard table in the inner hall, practicing different shots just like he did when he was a guest here last June. I’ve brought my journal along, partly to fill the idle hours I know I’ll have between now and tomorrow morning, and partly hoping something worth recording might happen.

Have I left anything out so far? A quick look at yesterday’s entry reminds me that I forgot to mention the morning’s mail. Let me correct that before I close this for now and join Mr. Blake.

I received a brief note yesterday from Miss Verinder. She’s arranged to travel by the afternoon train, as I suggested. Mrs. Merridew insisted on going with her. The note hints that the old lady’s usually pleasant demeanor is a bit ruffled and asks for some understanding, given her age and habits. I’ll try to emulate Betteredge’s patience in my dealings with Mrs. Merridew. He greeted us today, dressed in his best black suit and stiff white cravat. Whenever he looks my way, he remembers that I haven’t read _Robinson Crusoe_ since childhood, and he looks at me with a mix of pity and respect.

Yesterday, Mr. Blake also received the lawyer’s response. Mr. Bruff has accepted the invitation—though not without reservations. He believes it’s essential for someone with a reasonable amount of common sense to accompany Miss Verinder to what we’ll call the proposed exhibition. Since there’s no one better available, Mr. Bruff himself will take on that role. So, poor Miss Verinder now has two “chaperones.” It’s a relief to think that society’s expectations will surely be met!

There’s been no word from Sergeant Cuff. He’s likely still in Ireland. We shouldn’t expect to see him tonight.

Betteredge just came in to say that Mr. Blake has asked for me. I need to put my pen down for now.

Seven o’clock.—We’ve gone through the refurbished rooms and staircases again, and we enjoyed a pleasant walk in the shrubbery, which was Mr. Blake’s favorite path when he was here last. I hope this will help revive his memories of the places and things as vividly as possible.

We’re about to have dinner at the same time as the birthday dinner from last year. My goal, of course, is purely medical. The laudanum needs to be digested as closely as possible to how it was last year.

After dinner, I plan to steer the conversation back—as naturally as I can—to the topic of the Diamond and the Indian conspiracy to steal it. Once I fill his mind with these thoughts, I’ll have done everything I can before it’s time to give him the second dose.

It was half-past eight when I finally found a moment to tackle the most pressing task at hand: checking the family medicine cabinet for the laudanum that Mr. Candy had used last year.

Just ten minutes earlier, I had caught Betteredge at a rare moment of free time and told him what I needed. Without a hint of hesitation or even a glance at his pocketbook, he led me to the storeroom where the medicine chest was kept, accommodating my every step.

I located the bottle, securely sealed with a glass stopper and tied with leather. As I had expected, it contained the standard Tincture of Opium. Seeing that it was still mostly full, I decided to use it instead of the two alternatives I had prepared for emergencies.

The question of how much to administer posed some challenges. After some consideration, I resolved to increase the dose.

According to my notes, Mr. Candy had given Mr. Blake only twenty-five minims. That seemed too small a dose to have caused the effects that followed, especially for someone as sensitive as Mr. Blake. I suspect Mr. Candy may have given more than he realized, especially since he enjoyed his meals and had measured out the laudanum after dinner on a birthday. This time, I decided to risk increasing the dose to forty minims. Mr. Blake was aware he would be taking the laudanum, which, physiologically speaking, meant he would have some unconscious ability to resist its effects. If I was right, I would need to give him a larger amount this time to achieve the same results as before.

At ten o’clock, the witnesses—or should I say the company?—arrived at the house an hour ago.

Just before nine, I managed to persuade Mr. Blake to come to his bedroom, telling him it was for one last look to ensure nothing had been overlooked in the room’s refurnishing. I had already arranged with Betteredge for Mr. Bruff’s room to be next to Mr. Blake’s, and I would be notified of the lawyer’s arrival by a knock at the door. Five minutes after the clock struck nine, I heard the knock and stepped out to meet Mr. Bruff in the corridor.

My appearance, as usual, didn’t do me any favors. Mr. Bruff’s distrust was evident in his eyes. Used to creating this impression on strangers, I wasted no time before speaking to him before he entered Mr. Blake’s room.

“You traveled here with Mrs. Merridew and Miss Verinder, didn’t you?” I asked.

“Yes,” he replied, his tone dry.

“Miss Verinder has likely informed you that I want her presence—and Mrs. Merridew’s, of course—to remain a secret from Mr. Blake until I’ve conducted my experiment?”

“I know I’m supposed to keep quiet, sir!” Mr. Bruff said, clearly impatient. “I’m usually silent about human folly, so I’m more than ready to keep my mouth shut this time. Does that satisfy you?”

I nodded and left Betteredge to show him to his room. As I parted ways with Betteredge, he gave me a look that seemed to say, “You’ve got your work cut out for you, Mr. Jennings—and that work is Mr. Bruff.”

Next, I needed to meet with the two ladies. I descended the stairs, feeling a bit nervous, on my way to Miss Verinder’s sitting room.

The gardener’s wife, tasked with looking after the ladies, met me in the corridor on the first floor. This kind woman treated me with an exaggerated politeness that was clearly rooted in fear. She stared, trembled, and curtsied whenever I spoke. When I asked for Miss Verinder, she stared and trembled, and would have curtsied again if Miss Verinder hadn’t interrupted by opening her sitting room door.

“Is that Mr. Jennings?” she asked.

Before I could respond, she stepped eagerly into the corridor to speak with me. We met under the warm glow of a lamp on the wall. At the sight of me, Miss Verinder paused, hesitated, then quickly regained her composure, blushing for a moment before offering me her hand with charming openness.

“I can’t treat you like a stranger, Mr. Jennings,” she said. “Oh, if you only knew how happy your letters have made me!”

She looked at my weathered face, her eyes filled with a bright gratitude that was completely new to me. I was taken aback by her kindness and her beauty. After years of hardship, my heart hadn’t hardened, thank God. I felt as awkward and shy with her as if I were a teenager.

“Where is he now?” she asked, her voice revealing her one overwhelming concern—Mr. Blake. “What’s he doing? Has he mentioned me? Is he in good spirits? How does he feel about the house after everything that happened last year? When are you going to give him the laudanum? Can I watch you pour it out? I’m so interested; I’m so excited—I have a million things to say to you, and they’re all jumbled up in my head. Do you wonder why I care so much?”

“No,” I replied. “I think I understand completely.”

She was far too genuine to pretend to be flustered. She spoke to me as if I were a brother or a father.

“You’ve lifted an unbearable weight off my shoulders; you’ve given me a new lease on life. How could I possibly be ungrateful enough to hide anything from you? I love him,” she said simply. “I’ve loved him from the very beginning—even when I was wronging him in my own thoughts; even when I was saying the harshest, cruelest things to him. Is there any excuse for that? I hope there is—I’m afraid it’s the only excuse I have. When tomorrow comes, and he knows I’m in the house, do you think—”

She paused, looking at me with intense sincerity.

“When tomorrow comes,” I said, “I think you just need to tell him what you’ve just told me.”

Her face lit up, and she took a step closer to me. Her fingers nervously toyed with a flower I had picked from the garden and tucked into my coat.

“You’ve seen a lot of him lately,” she said. “Have you really seen _that?_”

“Really and truly,” I answered. “I’m quite sure of what will happen tomorrow. I wish I could feel as certain about what will happen tonight.”

Just then, Betteredge entered with the tea tray, giving me a knowing look as he passed into the sitting room. “Aye! Aye! Make your hay while the sun shines. The Tartar’s upstairs, Mr. Jennings—the Tartar’s upstairs!”

We followed him into the room. A little old lady, neatly dressed and deeply focused on a piece of embroidery in the corner, dropped her work in her lap and let out a small gasp at the sight of my gypsy complexion and piebald hair.

“Mrs. Merridew,” said Miss Verinder, “this is Mr. Jennings.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Jennings,” the old lady said, looking at Miss Verinder while addressing me. “Railway travel always makes me nervous. I’m trying to calm myself by keeping busy. I don’t know if my embroidery is appropriate for this unusual occasion. If it interferes with your medical views, I’ll be happy to put it away.”

I quickly assured her that the embroidery was just fine, just as I had approved the absence of the burst buzzard and Cupid’s wing. Mrs. Merridew made a valiant effort—a grateful effort—to look at my hair. No, it wasn’t going to happen. She turned her gaze back to Miss Verinder.

“If Mr. Jennings will allow me,” the old lady continued, “I’d like to ask a favor. Mr. Jennings is about to conduct a scientific experiment tonight. I used to attend those when I was a girl at school, and they always ended in an explosion. If Mr. Jennings would be so kind, I’d like to be warned if there’s going to be an explosion this time. I’d prefer to get it over with before I go to bed.”

I tried to reassure Mrs. Merridew that an explosion was not part of the plan this time.

“No,” she said. “I appreciate Mr. Jennings’ kindness, but I know he’s just trying to spare my feelings. I prefer honesty. I’m quite prepared for an explosion, but I _do_ want to get it over with before I go to bed.”

Just then, the door opened, and Mrs. Merridew let out another little scream. Was this the explosion? No, just Betteredge making his entrance.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Jennings,” Betteredge said, in a tone that suggested he had something important to share. “Mr. Franklin wants to know where you are. Since I’m under orders to deceive him about the presence of my young lady in the house, I told him I didn’t know. That, I should point out, was a lie. With one foot already in the grave, sir, the fewer lies you expect me to tell, the more grateful I’ll be when my conscience pricks me and my time comes.”

I couldn’t afford to waste any time pondering Betteredge’s conscience. Mr. Blake might come looking for me, so I needed to head to his room right away. Miss Verinder followed me into the corridor.

“It feels like they’re all conspiring against you,” she said. “What’s going on?”

“It’s just the world’s small-scale protest against anything new, Miss Verinder.”

“What should we do about Mrs. Merridew?”

“Let her know the big reveal will happen at nine tomorrow morning.”

“So she’ll go to bed early?”

“Yes, exactly. So she’ll go to bed.”

Miss Verinder returned to the sitting room, and I went upstairs to find Mr. Blake.

To my surprise, he was alone, pacing his room with a hint of irritation at being left to his own thoughts.

“Where’s Mr. Bruff?” I asked.

He gestured toward the closed door connecting their rooms. Mr. Bruff had popped in for a moment, trying to voice his objections to our plans, but had failed to make any impact on Mr. Blake. Frustrated, the lawyer had retreated to a bulging black leather bag filled with paperwork. “The serious matters of life,” he admitted, “are out of place at a time like this. But they still need to be addressed. Mr. Blake might kindly overlook the old-fashioned ways of a practical man. Time is money—and Mr. Jennings can rest assured that Mr. Bruff will be available when needed.” With that, the lawyer had returned to his own room, burying himself in his bag.

I thought about Mrs. Merridew and her embroidery, and about Betteredge and his conscience. There’s a remarkable consistency in the solid side of the English character, much like the uniform expression on an English face.

“When are you going to give me the laudanum?” Mr. Blake asked, impatience creeping into his voice.

“You’ll have to wait a little longer,” I replied. “I’ll stay with you until it’s time.”

It was still before ten o’clock. From my previous inquiries with Betteredge and Mr. Blake, I had concluded that the laudanum dose given by Mr. Candy couldn’t have been administered before eleven. So, I decided to hold off on the second dose until then.

We chatted a bit, but our minds were both consumed by the upcoming ordeal. The conversation soon faded, leaving a heavy silence. Mr. Blake absentmindedly flipped through the books on his bedside table. I had glanced at them when we first entered the room: _The Guardian_, _The Tatler_, Richardson’s _Pamela_, Mackenzie’s _Man of Feeling_, Roscoe’s _Lorenzo de’ Medici_, and Robertson’s _Charles the Fifth_. All classic works, undoubtedly superior to anything written in more recent times, and from my current perspective, they had the one great advantage of not engaging anyone’s interest or stirring anyone’s thoughts. I left Mr. Blake to the calming influence of standard literature and turned my attention to my journal.

My watch showed it was nearly eleven o’clock. I needed to close this journal for now.

Two o’clock A.M.—The experiment has been conducted. Here’s what happened.

At eleven, I rang for Betteredge and informed Mr. Blake that he could finally get ready for bed.

I looked out the window at the night. It was mild and rainy, reminiscent of last year’s birthday on June twenty-first. While I didn’t believe in omens, it was at least reassuring to see no signs of nervous energy—no storms or electric disturbances in the air. Betteredge joined me at the window and discreetly slipped a note into my hand. It read:

“Mrs. Merridew has gone to bed, with the clear understanding that the big reveal is set for nine tomorrow morning, and that I’m not to leave this part of the house until she comes to release me. She has no idea that the main event of the experiment is happening in my sitting room—or she would have stayed in there all night! I’m alone and quite anxious. Please let me watch you measure out the laudanum; I want to be involved, even if it’s just as a spectator.—R.V.”

I followed Betteredge out of the room and instructed him to move the medicine chest into Miss Verinder’s sitting room.

The request seemed to catch him off guard. He looked at me as if he suspected I had some hidden medical scheme involving Miss Verinder. “May I ask,” he said, “what my young lady and the medicine chest have to do with each other?”

“Just stay in the sitting room, and you’ll see.”

Betteredge seemed unsure of his ability to supervise me effectively, especially with a medicine chest involved.

“Is there any objection, sir?” he asked. “Can we bring Mr. Bruff into this part of the business?”

“Quite the opposite! I’m actually going to ask Mr. Bruff to come downstairs with me.”

Betteredge stepped away to get the medicine chest, saying nothing more. I returned to Mr. Blake’s room and knocked on the connecting door. Mr. Bruff opened it, papers in hand—deep in legal matters, completely oblivious to the medical side of things.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” I said. “But I’m about to prepare the laudanum for Mr. Blake, and I need you to be present to see what I’m doing.”

“Yes?” Mr. Bruff replied, his attention mostly on his papers, with only a fraction reluctantly given to me. “Anything else?”

“I need you to come back with me and watch me administer the dose.”

“Anything else?”

“One more thing. I need you to stay in Mr. Blake’s room and wait to see what happens.”

“Oh, very well!” Mr. Bruff said. “My room or Mr. Blake’s room—it doesn’t matter. I can work on my papers anywhere. Unless you object, Mr. Jennings, to my bringing a bit of common sense into this?”

Before I could respond, Mr. Blake spoke from his bed, addressing the lawyer.

“Do you really mean to say you don’t care about what we’re about to do?” he asked. “Mr. Bruff, you have as much imagination as a cow!”

“A cow is a very useful animal, Mr. Blake,” the lawyer replied, and with that, he followed me out of the room, still clutching his papers.

We found Miss Verinder, pale and anxious, pacing back and forth in her sitting room. Betteredge stood guard over the medicine chest in a corner. Mr. Bruff plopped down in the nearest chair and, like the cow he had just mentioned, buried himself back into his papers.

Miss Verinder pulled me aside, her focus immediately returning to her main concern—Mr. Blake.

“How is he now?” she asked. “Is he nervous? Is he in a bad mood? Do you think it will work? Are you sure it won’t harm him?”

“I’m completely sure. Come and watch me measure it out.”

“One moment! It’s past eleven now. How long will it be before anything happens?”

“It’s hard to say. Maybe an hour.”

“I suppose the room needs to be dark, like last year?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’ll wait in my bedroom—just like before. I’ll keep the door slightly open. It was a little open last year. I’ll keep an eye on the sitting room door, and the moment it moves, I’ll blow out my light. It all happened that way on my birthday night. And it has to happen the same way again, doesn’t it?”

“Are you sure you can control yourself, Miss Verinder?”

“For his sake, I can do anything!” she replied passionately.

One look at her face told me I could trust her. I turned back to Mr. Bruff.

“I need you to set your papers aside for a moment,” I said.

“Oh, of course!” He jumped up as if I had interrupted him at a crucial moment and followed me to the medicine chest. Without the thrill of his usual work, he glanced at Betteredge and yawned.

Miss Verinder joined me, carrying a glass jug of cold water she had taken from a side table. “Let me pour the water,” she whispered. “I have to be involved!”

I measured out forty minims from the bottle and poured the laudanum into a medicine glass. “Fill it until it’s three-quarters full,” I instructed, handing the glass to Miss Verinder. I then told Betteredge to lock up the medicine chest, letting him know I was finished with it. A look of immense relief washed over the old servant’s face. He had clearly feared I had some medical intentions toward his young lady!