“I wish I could do something, Mrs. Ramsay. Would you like me to stop here at night—you know you’ve only to say the word,” he urged, in a boyish tone that was irresistible.
“Oh no, no, no; but it’s awfully good of you to offer. It’s not at night, but when he is out by himself that is so trying. I do follow as much as I dare. You see,” now lowering her voice, “once this mental breakdown of his took the form of suicide”—and here her voice sank to a whisper—“he tried to hang himself in Claringbold’s barn; but I caught him just in time, and it never got out. That was years ago; and afterwards he made a wonderful recovery. Now, it seems to me more like a decay of will-power and memory, with occasional outbreaks of violence—I can manage him then—but it’s the dying of the mind!” and she gave a little sob.
“If I may speak plainly, Mrs. Ramsay, I really think you should get an experienced man to look after him at once. I know nothing of mental disease, but I’m sure it’s not right for you to be alone here with him, and just two maids and old Mary.”
“You mean for me to get a keeper? No; I couldn’t do it; and think of what people would suppose.”
Poor innocent lady! Did she imagine for a moment that all Ottinge did not know for a fact that her husband was insane?
“You might let them suppose he had come to help with the dogs,” he suggested, after a moment’s hesitation.
“Of course—of course—what a splendid idea!”
“And you will send for him to-morrow, won’t you? Or would you like me to wire or write to-night? I know some one in London who would see about this.”
(Leila would have been considerably astonished if her brother’s first commission from Ottinge was to dispatch a keeper for a male lunatic!)
“I must consult Dr. Boas. Thank you very much. I won’t do anything in a hurry.”