Eleanor stood at a few paces from the bed, listening with horror to the man’s delirious ravings.
“What is it?” she asked, in a subdued voice. “Is it a fever that makes him like this. Or has he gone mad?”
The major shook his head.
“I think I can guess pretty well what’s the matter with the poor devil,” he said: “he’s been going it a little too fast. He’s got a touch of del. trem.”
“Del. trem.!”
“Delirium tremens, my dear,” answered the major. “Yes, you can hear his teeth chattering now this minute. I had it once when I was up the country, and our fellers took to living upon brandy pawnee. I had rather a sharp time of it, while it lasted; used to fancy the tent was on fire; wanted to go out tiger-hunting in the middle of the night; tried to set the bed-clothes alight to cure myself of the hiccough: and ran after Meg with a razor early one morning. This man has got a touch of it, Mrs. Monckton, and I don’t think we shall get much reason out of him to-night.”
The conduct of Monsieur Victor Bourdon, who was at that moment holding a very animated discourse with a dozen or so of juvenile demons supposed to be located in the bed-curtains, went very far towards confirming the major’s assertion.
Eleanor sat down at the little table, upon which the dirty litter of the Frenchman’s last meal was huddled into a heap and intermixed with writing materials; an ink-bottle, and a mustard-pot, a quill pen, and a teaspoon lying side by side. The girl’s fortitude had given way before this new and most cruel disappointment. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed aloud.
Major Lennard was very much distressed at this unexpected collapse upon the part of his chief. He was very big, and rather stupid; but he had one of those tender childish natures which, never learn to be hard and unmerciful. He was for ever patting the shock heads of dirty pauper children, for ever fumbling in his pockets for copper coin, always open to the influence of any story of womanly distress, and quite unable to withstand the dingiest female, if she could only produce the merest phantom of a tear to be wiped away furtively from one eye, while the other looked round the corner to see if the shot went home.
He looked piteously at Eleanor, as she sat sobbing passionately, half unconscious of his presence, forgetful of everything except that this last hope had failed her.