I have not a word to say about my own sensations.
My impression is that the shock inflicted on me completely suspended my
thinking and feeling power. I certainly could not have known what I was
about when Betteredge joined me--for I have it on his authority that I
laughed, when he asked what was the matter, and putting the nightgown
into his hands, told him to read the riddle for himself.
Of what was said between us on the beach, I have not the faintest
recollection. The first place in which I can now see myself again
plainly is the plantation of firs. Betteredge and I are walking back
together to the house; and Betteredge is telling me that I shall be able
to face it, and he will be able to face it, when we have had a glass of
grog.
The scene shifts from the plantation, to Betteredge's little
sitting-room. My resolution not to enter Rachel's house is forgotten.
I feel gratefully the coolness and shadiness and quiet of the room.
I drink the grog (a perfectly new luxury to me, at that time of day),
which my good old friend mixes with icy-cold water from the well. Under
any other circumstances, the drink would simply stupefy me. As things
are, it strings up my nerves. I begin to "face it," as Betteredge has
predicted. And Betteredge, on his side, begins to "face it," too.
The picture which I am now presenting of myself, will, I suspect,
be thought a very strange one, to say the least of it. Placed in a
situation which may, I think, be described as entirely without parallel,
what is the first proceeding to which I resort? Do I seclude myself
from all human society? Do I set my mind to analyse the abominable
impossibility which, nevertheless, confronts me as an undeniable fact?
Do I hurry back to London by the first train to consult the highest
authorities, and to set a searching inquiry on foot immediately? No.
I accept the shelter of a house which I had resolved never to degrade
myself by entering again; and I sit, tippling spirits and water in the
company of an old servant, at ten o'clock in the morning. Is this the
conduct that might have been expected from a man placed in my horrible
position? I can only answer that the sight of old Betteredge's familiar
face was an inexpressible comfort to me, and that the drinking of old
Betteredge's grog helped me, as I believe nothing else would have helped
me, in the state of complete bodily and mental prostration into which
I had fallen. I can only offer this excuse for myself; and I can only
admire that invariable preservation of dignity, and that strictly
logical consistency of conduct which distinguish every man and woman who
may read these lines, in every emergency of their lives from the cradle
to the grave.