Gradually, under the pressure of his brooding mind, his body stooped, his
step lost its elasticity, his eyes were seldom lifted from the ground. He
knew he could not help the deplorable mistake that had been made, but he
knew he could not mend it; for the days and weeks went by, and no one
claimed his name or his possessions. And now there began to creep over
him a cloudy consciousness of often-recurring confusion in his head. He
would unaccountably lose, sometimes whole hours, sometimes a whole day
and night. Once, his remembrance stopped as he sat at the head of the
dinner-table, and was blank until daybreak. Another time, it stopped as
he was beating time to their singing, and went on again when he and his
partner were walking in the court-yard by the light of the moon, half the
night later. He asked Vendale (always full of consideration, work, and
help) how this was? Vendale only replied, "You have not been quite well;
that's all." He looked for explanation into the faces of his people. But
they would put it off with "Glad to see you looking so much better, sir;"
or "Hope you're doing nicely now, sir;" in which was no information at
all.

At length, when the partnership was but five months old, Walter Wilding
took to his bed, and his housekeeper became his nurse.

"Lying here, perhaps you will not mind my calling you Sally, Mrs.
Goldstraw?" said the poor wine-merchant.

"It sounds more natural to me, sir, than any other name, and I like it
better."

"Thank you, Sally. I think, Sally, I must of late have been subject to
fits. Is that so, Sally? Don't mind telling me now."