"Keep a quiet mind."
"Yes, but if one cannot keep a quiet mind; if one is anxious and
excited, and----"
"In love," he finished, as I hesitated.
"Well, no; I did not mean that," I said; "though, of course, that might
enter into the case also. Suppose one is uneasy about a certain amount
of money, for instance?"
"Are you?" he asked, ignoring the general suggestiveness of my remark.
"Well, yes; I want to make some if I can."
"Don't want, then," he advised. "Take my word for it, no amount of money
is worth the loss of a night's rest; and you have been tossing about all
night, I can see. Come, Patterson, if it's forgery or embezzlement, out
with it, man, and I will help you if I am able."
"If it were either one or the other, I should go to Mr. Craven," I
answered, laughing.
"Then it must be love," remarked my host; "and you will want to take me
into your confidence some day. The old story, I suppose: beautiful girl,
stern parents, wealthy suitor, poor lover. I wonder if we could interest
her in a case of small-pox. If she took it badly, you might have a
chance; but I have a presentiment that she has been vaccinated."
"Ned," was my protest, "I shall certainly fling a plate at your head."
"All right, if you think the exertion would do you good," he answered.
"Give me your hand, Patterson"; and before I knew what he wanted with
it, he had his fingers on my wrist.
"Look here, old fellow," he said; "you will be laid up, if you don't
take care of yourself. I thought so when you came in, and I am sure of
it now. What have you been doing?"
"Nothing wrong, Munro," I answered, smiling in spite of myself. "I have
not been picking, or stealing, or abducting any young woman, or courting
my neighbour's wife; but I am worried and perplexed. When I sleep I have
dreadful dreams--horrible dreams," I added, shuddering.
"Can you tell me what is worrying and perplexing you?" he asked, kindly,
after a moment's thought.
"Not yet, Ned," I answered; "though I expect I shall have to tell
you soon. Give me something to make me sleep quietly: that is all I
want now."
"Can't you go out of town?" he inquired.
"I do not want to go out of town," I answered.
"I will make you up something to strengthen your nerves," he said, after
a pause; "but if you are not better--well, before the end of the week,
take my advice, and run down to Brighton over Sunday. Now, you ought to
give me a guinea for that," he added, laughing. "I assure you, all the
gold-headed cane, all the wonderful chronometer doctors who pocket
thousands per annum at the West End, could make no more of your case
than I have done."
"I am sure they could not," I said, gratefully; "and when I have the
guinea to spare, be sure I shall not forget your fee."
Whether it was owing to his medicine, or his advice, or his cheery,
health-giving manner, I have no idea; but that night, when I walked
towards the Uninhabited House, I felt a different being.
On my way I called at a small corn-chandler's, and bought a quartern of
flour done up in a thin and utterly insufficient bag. I told the man the
wrapper would not bear its contents, and he said he could not help that.
I asked him if he had no stronger bags. He answered that he had, but he
could not afford to give them away.
I laid down twopence extra, and inquired if that would cover the expense
of a sheet of brown paper.
Ashamed, he turned aside and produced a substantial bag, into which he
put the flour in its envelope of curling-tissue.
I thanked him, and pushed the twopence across the counter. With a grunt,
he thrust the money back. I said good-night, leaving current coin of the
realm to the amount indicated behind me.