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 armchair 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. 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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