XI

Mrs Clinton was at her wit's end. Her husband had sold out his shares,

and the money was lying at the bank ready to be put to its destined use.

Visions of debt and bankruptcy presented themselves to her. She saw her

black satin dress in the ruthless clutches of a pawnbroker, the house

and furniture sold over her head, the children down at heel, and herself

driven to work for her living--needlework, nursing, charing--what might

not things come to? However, she went to the doctor and told him of the

failure of their scheme.

'I've come to the end of my tether, Mrs Clinton; I really don't know

what to do. The only thing I can suggest is that a mental specialist

should examine into the state of his mind. I really think he's wrong in

his head, and, you know, it may be necessary for your welfare and his

own that he be kept under restriction.'

'Well, doctor,' answered Mrs Clinton, putting her handkerchief up to her

eyes and beginning to cry, 'well, doctor, of course I shouldn't like him

to be shut up--it seems a terrible thing, and I shall never 'ave a

moment's peace all the rest of my life; but if he must be shut up, for

Heaven's sake let it be done at once, before the money's gone.' And here

she began to sob very violently.

The doctor said he would immediately write to the specialist, so that

they might hold a consultation on Mr Clinton the very next day.

So, the following morning, Mrs Clinton again put on her black satin

dress, and, further, sent to her grocer's for a bottle of sherry, her

inner consciousness giving her to understand that specialists expected

something of the kind....

The specialist came. He was a tall, untidily-dressed man, with his hair

wild and straggling, as if he had just got out of bed. He was very

clever, and very impatient of stupid people, and he seldom met anyone

whom he did not think in one way or another intensely stupid.

Mr Clinton, as before, had gone out, but Mrs Clinton did her best to

entertain the two doctors. The specialist, who talked most incessantly

himself, was extremely impatient of other people's conversation.

'Why on earth don't people see that they're much more interesting when

they hold their tongues than when they speak?' he was in the habit of

saying, and immediately would pour out a deluge of words, emphasising

and explaining the point, giving instances of its truth....

'You must see a lot of strange things, doctor,' said Mrs Clinton,

amiably.

'Yes,' answered the specialist.

'I think it must be very interesting to be a doctor,' said Mrs Clinton.

'Yes, yes.'

'You _must_ see a lot of strange things.'

'Yes, yes,' repeated the doctor, and as Mrs Clinton went on

complacently, he frowned and drummed his fingers on the table and looked

to the right and left. 'When is the man coming in?' he asked

impatiently.

And at last he could not contain himself.

'If you don't mind, Mrs Clinton, I should like to talk to your doctor

alone about the case. You can wait in the next room.'

'I'm sure I don't wish to intrude,' said Mrs Clinton, bridling up, and

she rose in a dignified manner from her chair. She thought his manners

were distinctly queer. 'But, of course,' she said to a friend

afterwards, 'he's a genius, there's no mistaking it, and people like

that are always very eccentric.'

'What an insufferable woman!' he began, when the lady had retired,

talking very rapidly, only stopping to take an occasional breath. 'I

thought she was going on all night. She's enough to drive the man mad.

One couldn't get a word in edgeways. Why on earth doesn't this man come?

Just like these people, they don't think that my time's valuable. I

expect she drinks. Shocking, you know, these women, how they drink!' And

still talking, he looked at his watch for the eighth time in ten

minutes.

'Well, my man,' he said, as Mr Clinton at last came in, 'what are you

complaining of?... One moment,' he added, as Mr Clinton was about to

reply. He opened his notebook and took out a stylographic pen. 'Now, I'm

ready for you. What are you complaining of?'

'I'm complaining that the world is out of joint,' answered Mr Clinton,

with a smile.

The specialist raised his eyebrows and significantly looked at the

family doctor.

'It's astonishing how much you can get by a well-directed question,' he

said to him, taking no notice of Mr Clinton. 'Some people go floundering

about for hours, but, you see, by one question I get on the track.'

Turning to the patient again, he said, 'Ah! and do you see things?'

'Certainly; I see you.'

'I don't mean that,' impatiently said the specialist. 'Distinctly

stupid, you know,' he added to his colleague. 'I mean, do you see things

that other people don't see?'

'Alas! yes; I see Folly stalking abroad on a 'obby 'orse.'

'Do you really? Anything else?' said the doctor, making a note of the

fact.

'I see Wickedness and Vice beating the land with their wings.'

'_Sees things beating with their wings_,' wrote down the doctor.

'I see misery and un'appiness everywhere.'

'Indeed!' said the doctor. '_Has delusions._ Do you think your wife puts

things in your tea?'

'Yes.'

'Ah!' joyfully uttered the doctor, 'that's what I wanted to get

at--_thinks people are trying to poison him_. What is it they put in, my

man?'

'Milk and sugar,' answered Mr Clinton.

'Very dull mentally,' said the specialist, in an undertone, to his

colleague. 'Well, I don't think we need go into any more details.

There's no doubt about it, you know. That curious look in his eyes, and

the smile--the smile's quite typical. It all clearly points to insanity.

And then that absurd idea of giving his money to the poor! I've heard of

people taking money away from the poor, there's nothing mad in that; but

the other, why, it's a proof of insanity itself. And then your account

of his movements! His giving ice-creams to children. Most pernicious

things, those ice-creams! The Government ought to put a stop to them.

Extraordinary idea to think of reforming the world with ice-cream!

Post-enteric insanity, you know. Mad as a hatter! Well, well, I must be

off.' Still talking, he put on his hat and talked all the way

downstairs, and finally talked himself out of the house.

The family doctor remained behind to see Mrs Clinton.

'Yes, it's just as I said,' he told her. 'He's not responsible for his

actions. I think he's been insane ever since his illness. When you think

of his behaviour since then--his going among those common people and

trying to reform them, and his ideas about feeding the hungry and

clothing the naked, and finally wanting to give his money to the

poor--it all points to a completely deranged mind.'

Mrs Clinton heaved a deep sigh. 'And what do you think 'ad better be

done now?' she asked.

'Well, I'm very sorry, Mrs Clinton; of course it's a great blow to you;

but really I think arrangements had better be made for him to be put

under restraint.'

Mrs Clinton began to cry, and the doctor looked at her compassionately.

'Ah, well,' she said at last, 'if it must be done, I suppose it 'ad

better be done at once; and I shall be able to save the money after

all.' At the thought of this she dried her tears.

The moral is plain.