Blind Love

Glancing with careless curiosity at the disorder of the dinner-table,

she noticed some wine still left in the bottom of her husband's glass.

Had artificial means been used to reduce him to his present condition?

She tasted the claret. No; there was nothing in the flavour of it which

betrayed that he had been drugged. If the waiter was to be believed, he

had only drunk claret--and there he was, in a state of helpless

stupefaction, nevertheless.

She looked again at the dinner-table, and discovered one, among the

many empty bottles, with some wine still left in it. After a moment of

reflection, she took a clean tumbler from the sideboard.

Here was the wine which had been an object of derision to Mr. Vimpany

and his friends. They were gross feeders and drinkers; and it might not

be amiss to put their opinions to the test. She was not searching for

the taste of a drug now; her present experiment proposed to try the

wine on its own merits.

At the time of her triumphs on the country stage--before the date of

her unlucky marriage--rich admirers had entertained the handsome

actress at suppers, which offered every luxury that the most perfect

table could supply. Experience had made her acquainted with the flavour

of the finest claret--and that experience was renewed by the claret

which she was now tasting. It was easy to understand why Mr. Mountjoy

had purchased the wine; and, after a little thinking, his motive for

inviting Mr. Vimpany to dinner seemed to be equally plain. Foiled in

their first attempt at discovery by her own prudence and tact, his

suspicions had set their trap. Her gross husband had been tempted to

drink, and to talk at random (for Mr. Mountjoy's benefit) in a state of

intoxication!

What secrets might the helpless wretch not have betrayed before the

wine had completely stupefied him?

Urged by rage and fear, she shook him furiously. He woke; he glared at

her with bloodshot eyes; he threatened her with his clenched fist.

There was but one way of lifting his purblind stupidity to the light.

She appealed to his experience of himself, on many a former occasion:

"You fool, you have been drinking again--and there's a patient waiting

for you." To that dilemma he was accustomed; the statement of it

partially roused him. Mrs. Vimpany tore off the paper wrapping, and

opened the medicine-bottle which she had brought with her.

He stared at it; he muttered to himself: "Is she going to poison me?"

She seized his head with one hand, and held the open bottle to his

nose. "Your own prescription," she cried, "for yourself and your

hateful friends."