He was happier even now than he had been at Battersby or at
Roughborough, and he would not now go back, even if he could, to his
Cambridge life, but for all that the outlook was so gloomy, in fact so
hopeless, that he felt as if he could have only too gladly gone to sleep
and died in his arm-chair once for all.
As he was musing thus and looking upon the wreck of his hopes--for he saw
well enough that as long as he was linked to Ellen he should never rise
as he had dreamed of doing--he heard a noise below, and presently a
neighbour ran upstairs and entered his room hurriedly--
"Good gracious, Mr Pontifex," she exclaimed, "for goodness' sake come
down quickly and help. O Mrs Pontifex is took with the horrors--and
she's orkard."
The unhappy man came down as he was bid and found his wife mad with
_delirium tremens_.
He knew all now. The neighbours thought he must have known that his wife
drank all along, but Ellen had been so artful, and he so simple, that, as
I have said, he had had no suspicion. "Why," said the woman who had
summoned him, "she'll drink anything she can stand up and pay her money
for." Ernest could hardly believe his ears, but when the doctor had seen
his wife and she had become more quiet, he went over to the public house
hard by and made enquiries, the result of which rendered further doubt
impossible.
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