PROOF POSITIVE
Burton did not get very far with his novel. About nine o'clock on the
same evening, Mr. Waddington, who was spending a quiet hour or two with
his books, was disturbed by a hasty knock at the door of his rooms. He
rose with some reluctance from his chair to answer the summons.
"Burton!" he exclaimed.
Burton came quickly in. He was paler, even, than usual, and there were
black shadows under his eyes. There was a change in his face,
indescribable but very apparent. His eyes had lost their dreamy look,
he glanced furtively about him, he had the air of a man who has
committed a crime and fears detection. His dress was not nearly so neat
as usual. Mr. Waddington, whose bachelor evening clothes--a loose
dinner-jacket and carefully tied black tie--were exactly as they should
be, glanced disparagingly at his visitor.
"My dear Burton," he gasped, "whatever is the matter with you? You seem
all knocked over."
Burton had thrown himself into a chair. He was contemplating the little
silver box which he had drawn from his pocket.
"I've got to take one of these," he muttered, "that's all. When I have
eaten it, there will be three left. I took the last one exactly two
months and four days ago. At the same rate, in just eight months and
sixteen days I shall be back again in bondage."
Mr. Waddington was very much interested. He was also a little
distressed.
"Are you quite sure," he asked, "of your symptoms?"
"Absolutely certain," Burton declared sadly. "I found myself this
evening trying to kiss my landlady's daughter, who is not in the least
good-looking. I was attracted by the programme of a music hall and had
hard work to keep from going there. A man asked me the way to Leicester
Square just now, and I almost directed him wrongly for the sheer
pleasure of telling a lie. I nearly bought some ties at an outfitter's
shop in the Strand--such ties! It's awful--awful, Mr. Waddington!"
Mr. Waddingon nodded his head compassionately.
"I suppose you know what you're talking about," he said. "You see, I
have already taken my second bean and to me the things that you have
spoken of seem altogether incredible. I could not bring myself to
believe that an absolute return to those former horrible conditions
would be possible for either you or me. By the bye," he added, with a
sudden change of tone, "I've just managed to get a photograph of the
Romney I was telling you of."
Burton waved it away.
"It doesn't interest me in the least," he declared gloomily. "I very
nearly bought a copy of Ally Sloper on my way down here."
Mr. Waddington shivered.
"I suppose there is no hope for you," he said. "It is excessively
painful for me to see you in this state. On the whole, I think that the
sooner you take the bean, the better."
Burton suddenly sat up in his chair.
"What are those sheets of paper you have on the table?" he asked
quickly.
"They are the sheets of paper left with the little flower-pot in the
room of Idlemay House," Mr. Waddington answered. "I was just looking
them through and wondering what language it was they were written in.
It is curious, too, that our friend should have only translated the last
few lines."
Burton rose from his chair and leaned over the table, looking at them
with keen interest.
"It was about those papers that I started out to come and see you," he
declared. "There must be some way by which we could make the action of
these beans more permanent. I propose that we get the rest of the pages
translated. We may find them most valuable."
Mr. Waddington was rather inclined to favor the idea.
"I cannot think," he admitted, "why it never occurred to us before.
Whom do you propose to take them to?"
"There is some one I know who lives a little way down in the country,"
Burton replied. "He is a great antiquarian and Egyptologist, and if any
one can translate them, I should think he would be able to. Lend me the
sheets of manuscript just as they are, and I will take them down to him
to-morrow. It may tell us, perhaps, how to deal with the plant so that
we can get more of the beans. Eight months is no use to me. When I am
like this, just drifting back, everything seems possible. I can even
see myself back at Clematis Villa, walking with Ellen, listening to the
band, leaning over the bar of the Golden Lion. Listen!"
He stopped short. A barrel organ outside was playing a music hall
ditty. His head kept time to the music.
"I wish I had my banjo!" he exclaimed, impulsively. Then he shivered.
"Did you hear that? A banjo! I used to play it, you know."
Mr. Waddington looked shocked.
"The banjo!" he repeated. "Do you really mean that you want to play it
at the present moment?"
"I do," Burton replied. "If I had it with me now, I should play that
tune. I should play others like it. Everything seems to be slipping
away from me. I can smell the supper cooking in my little kitchen at
Clematis Villa. Delicious! My God, I can't bear it any longer! Here
goes!"
He took a bean from his pocket with trembling fingers and swallowed it.
Then he leaned back in his chair for several moments with closed eyes.
When he opened them again, an expression of intense relief was upon his
face.
"I am coming back already," he declared faintly. "Thank Heavens! Mr.
Waddington, your room is charming, sir. Japanese prints, too! I had no
idea that you were interested in them. That third one is exquisite.
And what a dado!"
"Hewlings himself designed it for me," Mr. Waddington observed, with
satisfaction. "There are several things I should like you to notice,
Burton. That lacquer-work box!"
Burton was already holding it in his fingers and was gazing at it
lovingly.
"It is perfect," he admitted. "What workmanship! You are indeed
fortunate, Mr. Waddington. And isn't that Mona Lisa on the walls?
What a beautiful reproduction! I am saving up money even now to go to
Paris to see the original. Only a few nights ago I was reading Pater's
appreciation of it."
He rose and wandered around the room, making murmured comments all the
time. Presently he came back to the table and glanced down at the
sheets of manuscript.
"Mr. Waddington," he said, "let me take these to my friend. I feel
that the last few hours must have been a sort of nightmare, and yet--"
He drew out a little box from his waistcoat pocket and peered inside.
He was suddenly grave.
"It was no nightmare, then," he muttered. "I have really taken a bean."
"You took it not a quarter of an hour ago," Mr. Waddington told him.
Burton sighed.
"It is awful to imagine that I should have needed it," he confessed.
"There must be some way out of this. You will trust me with these
sheets, Mr. Waddington? If my friend in the country can do nothing for
us, I will take them to the British Museum."
"By all means," Mr. Waddington replied. "Take care of them and bring
them back safely. I should like, if possible, to have a written
translation. It should indeed prove most interesting."
Burton went out with the musky-smelling sheets in his pocket. All the
temptations of the earlier part of the evening had completely passed
away. He walked slowly because a big yellow moon hung down from the
sky, and because Mr. Waddington's rooms were in a neighborhood of leafy
squares and picturesque houses. When he came back to the more travelled
ways he ceased, however, to look about him. He took a 'bus to
Westminster and returned to his rooms. Somehow or other, the possession
of the sheets acted like a sedative. He felt a new confidence in
himself. The absurdity of any return to his former state had never been
more established. The remainder of the night he spent in the same way
as many others. He drew his writing-table up to the open window, and
with the lights of the city and the river spread out before him, and the
faint wind blowing into the room, he worked at his novel.