MR. WILSON GUEST MAKES A MISTAKE
Mr. Wilson Guest had seen all this many times before. The actual
demonstration would have given him amusement and filled him with that
odd secret pride which was the only reward he asked from that science
which he had followed so long under different conditions than the
present.
If Sir William Gouldesbrough had not absolutely prohibited the use of
any alcohol upon that day, Guest might have been normal and himself. It
was in this matter that Sir William made a great mistake. In his extreme
nervousness and natural anxiety, he forgot the pathology of his subject,
and did not realize how dangerous it is to rob a man of his drug, and
then expect him to do his work.
Guest's assistance had been absolutely necessary in the first instance,
in order to prepare the various parts of the Thought Spectrum, and to
ensure the proper working of the machinery.
But now, when all that was done, when the demonstration was actually
going on and everything was working smoothly and well, there was no
immediate need at the moment for Guest's presence in the laboratory.
Accordingly, while Lord Landsend was vainly trying to secrete thought,
Wilson Guest slipped out by the side-door in the dark. He was in a long
passage leading to the other experimental rooms, and he heaved a great
sigh of relief. High above in the air, the thunder could still be heard
growling, but the corridor itself, lit by its rows of electric lights
and softly carpeted, seemed to the wretched man nothing but an avenue to
immediate happiness.
He shambled and almost trotted towards the dining-room in the other part
of the house, where he knew that he would find something to drink
quicker than anywhere else. He crossed the big hall and went into the
dining-room. No one was there.
It was a panelled room with a softly glowing wood fire upon the hearth,
and heavy crimson curtains shutting out the dying lights of the day. On
a gleaming mahogany sideboard were bottles of cut-glass, ruby, diamond,
and amber; bottles in which the soft firelight gleamed and was repeated
in a thousand twinkling points.
A loud sob of relief burst from the drunkard, and he went up to the
sideboard with the impish greed and longing that one sees in some great
ape.
And now, as his shadow, cast upon the wall in the firelight, parodied
and distorted all his movements, there seemed _two_ obscene and evil
creatures in the rich and quiet room. It was as though the man with his
huge hairless face were being watched and waited for by an ape-like
ambassador from hell.
Guest clutched the mahogany sideboard and, his fingers were so hot that
a greyness like that of damp breath on frosted glass glowed out upon the
wood--it seemed as if the man's very touch brought mildew and blight.
Guest ran his eye rapidly along the decanters. His throat felt as though
it was packed with hot flour. His mouth tasted as if he had been sucking
a brass tap. His tongue was swollen and his lips were hard, cracked, and
feverish. He snatched the brandy bottle from a spirit-case, and poured
all that was in it into a heavy cut-glass tumbler. Then, looking round
for more, for the tantalus had not been more than one-fourth part full,
he saw a long wicker-covered bottle of curaçao, and he began to pour
from it into the brandy. Then, without water, or mineral water, he began
to gulp down this astonishing and powerful mixture, which, in a fourth
of its quantity, would probably have struck down the ordinary man, as a
tree snaps and falls in a sudden wind.
It had been Guest's intention to take enough alcohol to put him into
something like a normal condition, and then to return to the laboratory
to assist at the concluding scenes of the demonstration, and to enjoy it
in his own malicious and sinister fashion. But as the liquor seemed to
course through his veins and to relieve them of the intolerable strain,
as he felt his whole body respond to the dose of poison to which he had
accustomed it, thoughts of returning to the laboratory became very dim
and misty.
Here was this large comfortable room with its panelled walls, its old
family portraits in their massive gilt frames, this fire of wood logs in
a great open hearth, sending out so pleasant and hospitable an
invitation to remain. Every fibre of the wretch's body urged him to take
the twilight hour and enjoy it.
Guest sat down in a great arm-chair, padded with crimson leather, and
gazed dreamily into the white heart of the fire.
He felt at peace, and for five minutes sat there without movement,
looking in the flickering firelight like some grotesque Chinese
sculpture, some god of darkness made by a silent moon-faced man on the
far shores of the Yang-tze-Kiang.
Then Mr. Guest began to move again; the fuel that he had taken was
burning out. The man's organism had become like one of those toy engines
for children, which have for furnace a little methyl lamp, and which
must be constantly renewed if the wheels of the mechanism are to
continue to revolve.
Mr. Guest rose from the arm-chair and shambled over to the sideboard
again. The bottle of curaçao was still almost full, though there did not
appear to be any more brandy.
That would do, he thought, and he poured from the bottle into his glass
as if he had been pouring beer. The wretched man had forgotten that, in
his present state--a state upon the very verge of swift and hidden
paroxysm and of death--the long abstention of the morning and afternoon
had modified his physiological condition. Moreover, the suddenness of
these stealthy potations in the dining-room began to have their way with
him. He was a man whom it was almost impossible to make intoxicated, as
the ordinary person understands intoxication. When Guest was drunk, his
mind became several shades more evil, that was all.
But at this moment the man succumbed, and in half-an-hour his brain was
absolutely clouded and confused. He had forgotten both time and
occasion, and could not think coherently.
At last he seemed to realize this himself. He rose to his feet and,
clutching hold of the dining-room table, swayed and lurched towards the
dining-room door. There was a dim consciousness within him of something
which was imminently necessary to be done, but which he had forgotten or
was unable to recall.
"What was it?" he kept asking himself with a thick indistinctness. "I
knew I had somethin' to do, somethin' important, can't think what it
was."
At that moment his hand, which he had thrust into his pocket, touched a
key.
"I've got it," he said, "'course, I know now. I must go down and put the
cap on Rathbone, after I have injected the alcohol preparation. William
and I want to sit in front of the screen and follow his thoughts; they
are funnier than they ever used to be before we told him what we were
doing to him. I'll just take one more drink, then I'll go down-stairs to
the cellars at once."