Ever since arriving at the Ben Cleuch, Budthorne had been in a state of mental distress and physical collapse. The desire for drink was with him constantly, and in his soul a fierce battle raged unceasingly. In the night he rose and paced the floor of his room, his hands clinched, his nerves taut, mumbling, mumbling, mumbling. Every night, at his request, Nadia locked him in that room, keeping the key with her.
“You must master the desire, Dunbar, my brother,” she said. “You can do it.”
“Yes, by Heaven!” he cried, setting his teeth. “For you, Nadia, I will do it!”
“Not for me alone, Dunbar; for yourself, as well. You can see what you have come to in less than a year. A year ago you were not the slave of drink.”
“I should say not! And had any one told me I’d get this way in twelve months I should have thought him a fool. I don’t understand it now. Nadia, why can other men drink when they choose, and let it alone when they choose?”
“Not all of them can, Dunbar, I am sure. I believe there are thousands just like you.”
“Perhaps you’re right; they keep it hidden from others, or they do not realize it themselves.”
“That’s the way it is.”
“What a wise little chicken you are, sister! What a brave little girl! And what a worthless brother you have!”
Then she would caress him and pat him on the cheek, and tell him he was “all right.”