“No, indeed; not at all. I have just recovered from a serious illness—but pray go on.”
“I have very little more to say. The father went away in a fury, just as he came; the daughter has not yet made her appearance a second time. But, after what was reported to me of the first interview, I daresay she will come. She must, if she wants to see Turner; he won’t be out, I suspect, for another fortnight. He has been making himself worse by perpetually writing letters; we were rather afraid of erysipelas, but he’ll get over that danger, I think.”
“About the woman,” said Ralph; “it is of the greatest importance that we should know where she is now living. Is there any possibility (we will pay well for it) of getting some sharp fellow to follow her home from this place, the next time she comes here?”
Mr. Bernard hesitated a moment, and considered.
“I think I can manage it for you with the porter, after you are gone,” he said, “provided you leave me free to give any remuneration I may think necessary.”
“Anything in the world, my dear fellow. Have you got pen and ink? I’ll write down my brother’s address; you can communicate results to him, as soon as they occur.”
While Mr. Bernard went to the opposite end of the room, in search of writing materials, Ralph whispered to me—
“If he wrote to my address, Mrs. Ralph might see the letter. She is the most amiable of her sex; but if written information of a woman’s residence, directed to me, fell into her hands—you understand, Basil! Besides, it will be easy to let me know, the moment you hear from Jack. Look up, young one! It’s all right—we are sailing with wind and tide.”
Here Mr. Bernard brought us pen and ink. While Ralph was writing my address, his friend said to me:
“I hope you will not suspect me of wishing to intrude on your secrets, if (assuming your interest in Turner to be the reverse of a friendly interest) I warn you to look sharply after him when he leaves the hospital. Either there has been madness in his family, or his brain has suffered from his external injuries. Legally, he may be quite fit to be at large; for he will be able to maintain the appearance of perfect self-possession in all the ordinary affairs of life. But, morally, I am convinced that he is a dangerous monomaniac; his mania being connected with some fixed idea which evidently never leaves him day or night. I would lay a heavy wager that he dies in a prison or a madhouse.”
“And I’ll lay another wager, if he’s mad enough to annoy us, that we are the people to shut him up,” said Ralph. “There is the address. And now, we needn’t waste your time any longer. I have taken a little place at Brompton, Jack—you and Basil must come and dine with me, as soon as the carpets are down.”
We left the room. As we crossed the hall, a gentleman came forward, and spoke to Mr. Bernard.
“That man’s fever in the Victoria Ward has declared itself at last,” he said. “This morning the new symptoms have appeared.”
“And what do they indicate?”
“Typhus of the most malignant character—not a doubt of it. Come up, and look at him.”
I saw Mr. Bernard start, and glance quickly at my brother. Ralph fixed his eyes searchingly on his friend’s face; exclaimed: “Victoria Ward! why you mentioned that—;” and then stopped, with a very strange and sudden alteration in his expression. The next moment he drew Mr. Bernard aside, saying: “I want to ask you whether the bed in Victoria Ward, occupied by this man whose fever has turned to typhus, is the same bed, or near the bed which—” The rest of the sentence was lost to me as they walked away.
After talking together in whispers for a few moments, they rejoined me. Mr. Bernard was explaining the different theories of infection to Ralph.
“My notion,” he said, “is, that infection is taken through the lungs; one breath inhaled from the infected atmosphere hanging immediately around the diseased person, and generally extending about a foot from him, being enough to communicate his malady to the breather—provided there exists, at the time, in the individual exposed to catch the malady, a constitutional predisposition to infection. This predisposition we know to be greatly increased by mental agitation, or bodily weakness; but, in the case we have been talking of,” (he looked at me,) “the chances of infection or non-infection may be equally balanced. At any rate, I can predict nothing about them at this stage of the discovery.”
“You will write the moment you hear anything?” said Ralph, shaking hands with him.
“The very moment. I have your brother’s address safe in my pocket.”
We separated. Ralph was unusually silent and serious on our way back. He took leave of me at the door of my lodging, very abruptly; without referring again to our visit to the hospital.
A week passed away, and I heard nothing from Mr. Bernard. During this interval, I saw little of my brother; he was occupied in moving into his new house. Towards the latter part of the week, he came to inform me that he was about to leave London for a few days. My father had asked him to go to the family house, in the country, on business connected with the local management of the estates. Ralph still retained all his old dislike of the steward’s accounts and the lawyer’s consultations; but he felt bound, out of gratitude for my father’s special kindness
