Dreaming
"Will you have all the apollinaris, Sir Jocelyn?"
Sydney Beaton looked up. He was vaguely conscious of having been roused
from slumber by someone, possibly by the person who was standing by his
side. He was still very far from being wide awake; his eyes, limbs,
body, all were heavy. He had not a notion where he was. There was a
real bed, in striking contrast to the makeshifts he had known of late;
there were soft sheets, a soft pillow, and there were hangings. It was
not really a large room, but, compared to the kind of accommodation
with which he had recently been made familiar, it was palatial. There
seemed to be some decent furniture, and a carpet on the floor. It was
not well lighted; there was only one not over large window, on the
other side of which was the November fog. What had happened to him?
Where could he be? He put his wondering into words.
"Where am I? Who are you?"
The man at his bedside did not answer. He was holding in one hand a
tray on which was a glass; in the other was a bottle, out of which he
was pouring something into the glass. He repeated in another form his
first inquiry:
"Will that be enough apollinaris, Sir Jocelyn?"
"I'm not Sir Jocelyn, if you're talking to me. What's in that glass?"
"A good pick-me-up. I think you will find it just about right, Sir
Jocelyn." Sydney took the glass which the man advanced. Whatever its
contents, they were pleasant to swallow.
"That's good, uncommon good. My word!" He had another drink. "I haven't
tasted anything as good as that since"--he hesitated--"since I don't
know when."
"I thought you'd find it refreshing, Sir Jocelyn?"
"Why do you call me Sir Jocelyn? Who are you? Where am I? How did I
come to be here?" The question was again ignored.
"Her ladyship wished me to say that if you felt equal to it, Sir
Jocelyn, she would be glad if you would join her at breakfast."
"Her ladyship! Who's her ladyship? Didn't you hear me ask you where I
am?"
Perhaps it was because the man was busy with certain articles of the
gentleman's wardrobe that he did not hear what was said.
"I thought you might like to wear this suit to-day." He was placing
three garments over the back of a chair, which Sydney felt, hazily,
were certainly not his. "Everything is quite ready, Sir Jocelyn."
Why did the fellow persist in calling him by a name which was not his?
What had happened to him? What did it all mean? What was the matter
with his head that he felt so incapable of collecting his thoughts? He
had never felt so stupid before. Before he clearly understood what was
occurring, the bed-clothes were being removed from the bed, and he was
being assisted on to the floor as if he were a child or a sick man;
indeed, as his feet touched the ground he felt as if, literally, he was
a sick man. The room swam round him; his legs refused him support; had
not the other had his arm half round him he would have collapsed on to
the carpet.
"What," he asked, with a sudden thickness of voice, "what is the
matter?"
Had he been clearly conscious of anything he could scarcely have helped
but notice the keen scrutiny with which his attendant was observing
him. His manner almost suggested a medical man; it was so suave, yet he
treated Sydney as if he were an irresponsible patient.
"You've not been quite well, Sir Jocelyn. You've had rather a bad
night. I think you'd better have another pick-me-up."
Sydney was placed in an easy chair. Presently he found himself drinking
the contents of another tumbler. How good it was. And it did him good;
it seemed to relieve some of the heaviness which weighed down his limbs
and to render the confusion in his head less obvious, but it was very
far from restoring him to himself. The other dressed him, slipping on
garment after garment with a curious deftness, for Sydney seemed
incapable of giving him any help at all. Beaton was dressed actually
before he knew it in garments which he realised were not his, but which
somehow seemed to fit him. How he had come to be in them he could not
have told; yet so skilful was his valet that in a surprisingly short
time his costume was completed, even to his collar and his tie, yet he
had not once moved out of the arm-chair in which he had originally been
placed.
The other took a final survey of his handiwork, standing a little back
to enable him to do so. He gave audible expression to his candid
opinion; he was plainly aware that the other was not in a condition to
resent anything he might either say or do.
"You look very well indeed, Sir Jocelyn, quite remarkably well,
considering. You want one more pick-me-up, made a trifle strong, then I
think we'll take you downstairs, and breakfast with her ladyship may be
trusted to do the rest."
For the third time Sydney Beaton emptied the contents of a tumbler
which was insinuated into his hand. Possibly because it was more potent
it had a more visible effect upon him than either of the other two. The
other watched the effect the liquid made on him with about his thin
lips that not quite agreeable something that was half a sneer and half
a grin.
"Now, Sir Jocelyn, how are we feeling? Do you think you could manage to
stand up?"
Sydney proved it by standing up there and then, but there was an
unsteadiness about the fashion with which he managed to keep his feet
which the other could scarcely fail to notice.
"I'm all right," he said; "pounds better; sound as a roach; if
this----" He held out the glass with a hand that was shaky. "What was
the stuff you gave me? It's first rate, a regular corpse reviver."
"It is rather effective, under certain conditions, in its way." The
man's tone, in spite of its suavity, could hardly have been drier.
"Now, Sir Jocelyn, I think you'll find that her ladyship awaits you."
"Her ladyship? Why will you keep calling me Sir Jocelyn? That's not my
name. And who's her ladyship?"
Once more the questions were ignored. The other placed his fingers
lightly on Sydney's arm, and Sydney found himself moving towards the
door. But whether he was moving of his own volition or in obedience to
the other's behest he would not have found it easy to say. The man
opened the door, led him through it, walked beside him down the
stairs--always with his fingers on his arm. At the foot of the stairs
he paused:
"Now, Sir Jocelyn, how are you feeling?"
For the moment Sydney really could not say; he was feeling very queer
indeed, incapable of expressing himself in articulate words. Had it not
been that the other's arm was again half round him he might have found
it difficult to retain his perpendicular.
"Another taste, Sir Jocelyn?"
It seemed that the man had brought the glass with him down the stairs
refilled. Sydney had it between his fingers without his quite knowing
how it came there. He took another taste; it had on him the same effect
as before, seeming to steady his limbs and to clear his brain. Before
the effect could pass away the man had led him to a door, had opened
it, and was ushering him into the room beyond. Someone advanced to him,
a woman, whom even in his hazy state he was aware was good to look at.
"I am so glad to see you; you can't think how anxious I have been. I
hope you're feeling better, quite yourself again?"
Sydney knew not what to say. The woman's voice was a pleasant one, and
was grateful to his ears; her face was lit by such a delicious smile,
it was grateful to his eyes. He had a feeling that this must be some
old and very dear friend. Yet he could not place her, he had not the
dimmest notion who she was; his memory must be playing him a trick. It
was part of the general haziness through which he was looking out upon
the world. But she did not seem to wait for an answer or to be hurt by
his silence.
"Come," she said, "breakfast has been waiting quite a while. Will you
have the seat by the fire, or will it be too much for you?"
"I'll sit wherever you please."
He managed to get out that much. She laughed, as if he had been guilty
of a joke. She had quite a musical laugh.
"Then you shall sit by the fire, and I will do the honours. For once in
a way I'll wait on you. I don't think you'll be required." The last
words were addressed to the man who was still standing in the open
doorway. They exchanged glances, of which Sydney was oblivious. The man
made a significant gesture with the empty tumbler which he was holding
in his hand, then touched his finger to his forehead. "I quite
understand," said the lady. "But I tell you again that I don't think
you'll be required. If I want you I will ring. In the meantime you may
go."
The man went. Outside the door he paused; an odd look came on his face;
he knit his brows; he glanced about him quickly, back and front; then
he drew himself up straight and grinned.
"It's a ticklish game she's got to play, but there's few can play a
ticklish game better than she can."