"Mr. Cook avec une grande et charmante bonté m'a fait des remontrances: il me dit que le ton de ma lettre l'a blessé et que mes 'menaces' lui ont fait de la peine; qu'il n'a jamais manqué de largesse envers ses écrivains et que l'excédent de mes dépenses en livres, voyages, etc., sera toujours défrayé par la Revue. J'ai été réellement touché de la manière affectueuse dont il m'a fait ses observations auxquelles il a su joindre des compliments, en me disant que j'avais découvert la meilleure façon de faire la revue des expositions et que mes articles sont précisément ce qu'il lui faut. J'ai répondu que quant à la peine que cela avait pu lui faire, je le regrettais sincèrement, mais que les 'menaces' étaient tout simplement l'expression d'une résolution très décidément prise, et dans un moment où j'étais à la fois trop malade et trop pressé pour procéder avec plus de formes.
"Comme ma promenade sur l'eau m'a fait du bien hier je vais la renouveler.
"Ton mari, qui te reverra bientôt."
I decided at once to go to him; my mother, who had come to stay with me during his absence, approved my resolution, and undertook the management of the house and the care of the children: so without asking for his leave, I wrote that I was on my way to Amiens.
His joy was great when he saw me, and his progress towards recovery was so rapid that he abandoned the idea of retracing his steps, and encouraged by my presence, thought he could accomplish the journey to London without danger. It was of great importance that he should keep his post on the "Saturday Review," because it was his only regular income, everything else being uncertain; and we knew that if he could undertake the work again it would be readily entrusted to him.
We only stayed two days at Amiens, and as my husband was never seasick or nervous on the sea, everything went on satisfactorily so far; but as soon as we had left Dover for London, I perceived signs of uneasiness in his behavior. He closed his eyes not to see the moving objects we passed; he uncovered his head, which seemed burning by the flushed face; he chafed his cold, bloodless hands, and shuffled his feet to bring back circulation. For a long time he attempted to hide these alarming symptoms from me, but I had detected them from the beginning; his eyes had a far-reaching look and unusual steely brilliancy; the expression of his countenance was hard-set, rigid, almost defiant, as if ready to overthrow any obstacle in his way; and indeed it was the case, for unable to control himself any longer, he got up and told me hoarsely that he was going to jump out of the train. I took hold of his hands, and said I would follow; only I entreated him to wait a short time, as we were so near a station. I placed myself quite close to the door of the railway carriage, and stood between it and him. Happily we were near a station, else I don't know what might have happened; he rushed out of carriage and station into the fields, whilst I followed like one dazed and almost heart-broken. After half-an-hour he lessened his pace, and turned to me to say, "I think it is going." I could not speak for fear of bursting into tears, but I pressed his hand in mine and held it as we continued our miserable way across the fields. We walked perhaps two hours, at the end of which Gilbert said tenderly, in his usual voice: "You must be terribly tired, my poor darling; I think I could bear to rest now; we may try to sit down." We sat down upon a fallen tree, and after some minutes he told me that if I could get him a glass of beer somewhere it would bring him round. I went in search of an inn and discovered a closed one, for it was Sunday and the time of afternoon service. Nevertheless I knocked so perseveringly that a woman came forth, incensed by my pertinacity, and peremptorily refused with indignation any kind of drink: to obtain a bottle of beer I had to take an oath that it was for a patient.
The glass of ale at once calmed and revived my husband, and when the bottle had been emptied—in the course of an hour or so—he was himself again and felt hungry.
We did not know the place,—it was Adisham; we had no luggage, and as to resuming our journey it was out of the question, for some time at least. So I went again to the inn, and asked the woman if she could give us a room. "No, there was not one ready; and then it was so suspicious, people coming like that through the fields and without luggage." I offered to pay in advance. "But we might be runaways." My husband had his passport, and I explained that he had been taken ill suddenly, and that our luggage could be sent to us from London. "If the gentleman were to die here it would be a great trouble." I had to assure her that it was not dangerous, and that rest only was required. At last she consented to show me into a very clean, freshly-papered room, deprecating volubly the absence of curtains and bedstead in such an emergency, but promising to put them up shortly if we remained some time.
The bedding was laid upon the carpet; the mattresses had just undergone a thorough cleaning, and the sheets and counterpane smelt sweet. When night came we were thankful to rest our tired limbs even on the floor, and to hope that sleep would bury in oblivion the anguish of the day, at least for a while.
Oh, the weary, weary time spent there, without work, without books, and with but little hope of better days. How should we get out of it, and when?… It was now clear that these terrible attacks were due to railway travelling. Then how should we ever get home again?…