Mad: A Story of Dust and Ashes
A morning or two after, the old man was again seated at his bedside, trying to amuse himself with a book; but with little success, for his eyes were weak.
“I shall let well alone,” growled the old man; “and if they want to operate, they may cut and carve someone else. I shall do for the few years I have to live; but they might find a poor fellow a scrap of snuff, hang ’em!”
“Here, you Number 19, into bed with you directly!”
“Why, I’m only just up,” grumbled Matt, who was the said number.
“Never mind, old fellow,” said the speaker; “be smart, for they will be after you directly.”
Old Matt shivered and trembled, and his lips moved as he slowly returned to his bed, and there lay waiting. He had almost determined to be content, and bear his burden to the grave; for, said he, “I can’t live much longer.” But then he thought of the wondrous skill and care of those in whose hands he would be, and of the rest that would afterwards be his were his life spared.
“I won’t turn coward now,” he muttered, letting his eyes rest upon some flowers in a window near his bed, and gazing at them in a strange earnest way, – “No, I won’t turn coward, not even if they kill me. But that’s hard to think of, that is. Mine has been a rough life, and I’ve put up with a deal; but I never tired of it – not to say thoroughly tired of it, though I’ve been very near more than once; and I should like to keep grinding on for a long time yet. Life’s sweet, somehow, when you’ve got friends, and I seem to have found ’em at last. I should have liked to have helped him out with that entry, though. Where did I see it?”
The old man paused thoughtfully, and kept passing his hand across his dew-wet forehead; but the memory was still defective, and he sighed wearily: “Why didn’t I begin sooner, or make him begin? Ah, that’s it – that’s it! why don’t we begin hundreds of things sooner, and not leave them till it’s too late!”
The old man paused again, and his lean, bony fingers clutched and clawed restlessly to get at the flowers. But his old train of thought now seemed to have returned, for he continued: “Don’t often see anything about hospital operations, but I have had copy about them – ‘Death from the Administration of Chloroform.’ What an ugly word that first is, and what a shiver it seems to give one when we think of it in connection with ourselves, though it seems so little when it has to do with anyone else! Wonder whether any of the old ’stab or piece hands would get hold of it to set, and feel sorry for the battered old stamp they used to laugh at, and whether it would get into the papers if I was to – ”
The old man stopped once more, and wiped the dew from his wet forehead.
“Well, well,” he said half-aloud, “what is to be will be. God help me well through it all, for I’m a miserable coward; and if it’s to be the end of old Matt, why, I don’t think I’ve been so very bad, and – there, hang it!” he whined, “they might have left me a pinch of snuff. Here, I say, though,” he cried, rousing up, “this won’t do. I’m on the wrong folio, and shall have to re-set.”
“I wonder whether it’s hard to die?” he muttered, after another pause. “Don’t seem as if it was, for they look almost as if they were asleep, and wanting to be woke up again. One must go sometime or another; but it would have been happier like to have had hold of someone’s hand, and seen two or three faces round one’s bed, faces of people sorry I was going – going. There, there,” he gasped, “I can’t stand it. They sha’n’t touch me. It’s like running headlong into one’s grave. They sha’n’t touch me, for I must live and find out about the doctor, for that poor helpless fellow in the Rents; or he’ll never do it himself. They sha’n’t touch me, for I am nearly clear now, and I can grub on as I am; while, if my chronics kill me in time, why they do, and there’s an end of it. They sha’n’t – ”
“Now, Number 19,” said a voice, and to his dismay poor old Matt saw a couple of porters enter the ward with a stretcher.
The old man moaned and closed his eyes, muttering the whole while as he resigned himself, meekly as a child and without a word of opposition, to the men, who tenderly lifted him upon their portable couch, and then bore him along the whitewashed passages, whose walls seemed so familiar to him, and struck him as being so particularly white and clean – white as were ceiling and floor. He only saw one cobweb, and that was out of reach in a far corner; and in his nervous state this greatly attracted his attention, so that he could fancy the large spider grinned at him as if he were a larger kind of fly in the trammels of a net. He felt that he should have liked for the men to set down the stretcher and remove that cobweb, but he stifled the desire to speak. Then he noticed how strangely the hair of his foremost bearer grew, and this, too, troubled him: there were no short hairs on the poll, and for some distance up the back of his neck was a barren land. Then he fell to studying the man’s coat-buttons, the depth of his collar, and how easily he tramped along with the handles of the portable couch, whose motion was so easy with the light, regular, springy pace of the man; while the dread of what was impending seemed quite to have passed away, and he began, now the peril was so near, to think of himself as though he were someone else in whom he took an interest; and then came a very important question:
How would they bring him back?
Would he be lighter with the loss of blood, and would he be gradually stiffening, and growing colder and colder, till the icy temperature of death pervaded him through and through? And then, too, what would they do with him? He had no relations – no one to come and claim his body. And even this thought seemed to trouble him but little, for he smiled grimly, muttering to himself:
“Cause of science, sir, cause of science; and besides, it won’t matter then.”
On still, with a light swinging motion and an easy tread, the porters bore their load, and in the minute or two the removal occupied old Matt thought of the last time he had made that journey, and his sensations then: how that he had looked upon it all as a dream, and felt that he should soon wake up to find himself in bed. But the old man’s musings ceased as he was borne into the theatre, save for an instant when the thought flashed across his mind, Suppose he died without seeing the entry? and this troubled him for a few moments; but directly after he was gazing up with anxious eye at the tier upon tier of benches, some crowded, some nearly empty, and looking from face to face; but there seemed not one that sympathised with him, as, after a glance when he was first borne in, a quiet light, chatty conversation was carried on in an undertone. Then there was almost perfect silence, and the old man felt himself to be the centre upon which every eye was fixed. His heart told him now that in the low-murmured buzz of conversation that rose, students who had again and again stood at his bedside were discussing his case, and that if the operation were unsuccessful or unskilfully performed, they would merely say that the patient did not rally, and then go home or to their studies, regardless of the little gap left in the ranks of life; while Septimus Hardon would probably never succeed in his endeavours to recover his lost position.
Then he half-smiled as he thought of the importance with which he rated himself, and looked eagerly round. Close by he could see the earnest, study-lined faces of several older men, many of them grey-haired and thoughtful-eyed – men of eminence in their profession, but strongly imbued with the belief of the man of wisdom, that we are ever but learners. Then he looked straight above, even at the skylight, where he could see that the sun illumined the thick ground-glass; and now once more, in a quiet musing vein, he set to wondering how it would be after the operation.
Plenty of faces round, but mostly cool, calm, and matter-of-fact. Here were the hospital dressers and assistants, standing by the table – a curious-looking table in the centre of an open space; and a hasty glance showed him sponges, and water, and cloths, and lint, and mahogany cases, that at another time, if some other sufferer were to have been operated upon, would have caused him to shudder. But all that was past now, and he merely looked earnestly round till his gaze rested upon a stout grey-haired, keen-eyed man, whose black clothes and white neck-tie were spotless, and who now advanced to the table with a quiet business-like aspect, as he bowed somewhat stiffly to the assembled surgeons and students, and then spoke a few cheering words to the patient as he felt his pulse.
“I hope he won’t turn nervous over it,” thought Matt. “Be serious to a man in his position, with so many looking on. – Can’t I have the chloroform?” he then whispered to a dresser by his side.
“Yes, of course: here he is with it,” said the man; and for the second time in his life Matt gazed curiously at a polished mahogany box which was being brought forward.
“I say,” whispered Matt earnestly to the man at his side, “if anyone comes afterwards – afterwards, you know, and asks for me, you’ll say, ‘Medicine and attendance,’ – there, don’t laugh – it’s particular – you’ll say, ‘Medicine and attendance;’ and that old Matt tried to think it out to the last. You’ll do that for me?” he whispered earnestly.
The man repeated the words over, and smiled as he made the required promise.
“Tell him not to give me too much,” said Matt, now with the first display of anxiety, as he glanced at the inhaling apparatus.
The time since old Matt had been brought into the theatre might be reckoned by moments; and now, in the midst of a profound stillness, the grey-haired man calmly raised his eyebrows, turned up his sleeves, and then walked a step or two from the patient, now inhaling the wondrous vapour of that simple-looking limpid fluid, whose first effect was to cause him to push away the apparatus and struggle feebly with those who administered it. But there was a strong hand upon his pulse and a pair of stern eyes watching him, and, as the mouthpiece was kept firmly against his face, old Matt gave one or two more inspirations and became insensible. Then every eye was fixed upon the calm, business-like man, whose nerves seemed of kindred material to the blades he drew from their delicate purple-velvet resting-places and quietly inspected for an instant, his eyes flashing brightly as their grey-hued blades – knives whose keen edges were formed of the finest-tempered metal that human skill and ingenuity could produce.
A breathless silence ensued, and the gay thoughtless aspect was gone from the young faces crowding the benches. Here and there an assumed cynical smile could be seen, but the effects of a strange clutching at the heart, a curious vibration of the nerves, was visible in the pallor of cheeks and fevered aspect of the onlookers of the upper seats. Two young men right at the back surreptitiously drank from small flasks, and when wiping their lips paused, too, to pass their handkerchiefs over their damp foreheads, before thrusting them in their moist palms as the great surgeon – one who had climbed by slow degrees to his present eminence in the profession, and upon whose knowledge and skill now depended the life of a fellow-creature – gave his quick, sharp orders, and changed the position of one or two assistants at the operating-table, pointing, like a general preparing for battle, with the keen blade he held in his hand. Short, quick orders as he grasped the flashing steel and made ready for the fight – for the combat à l’outrance, with the grim, slow-crawling, dragon disease – a fight where skill and genius took the place of physical force and daring.
A painful silence, and then, while every eye was fixed upon his movements, the great surgeon gave a hasty glance round to see that all was in readiness for the time when moments were more than grains of gold, and would add their weight in one scale of the balance – life or death; but all seemed there, ready hands and the many appliances for checking the rapid flow of life’s stream, and then, with almost an air of nonchalance, he stretched out his arms to secure freedom of action.
Not a whisper, not a movement, the spectators of the scene with craning necks, immovable as groups of statuary, as they gazed from their tiers of benches in this modern amphitheatre down upon the gladiatorial combat taking place, even as of old the Roman citizens may have watched some fight for life or death.
A keen bright flash of the blade in the softened light, and the surgeon thoughtfully describing an imaginary curve in the air with the point just above the insensible patient; then, with a satisfied nod, he leaned forward. There was once more a bright flash of the knife, followed by a bold, firmly-directed cut, deep and long, but clear of vital parts in the wondrous organisation. Then came the spouting gush from many a vessel as the old man’s life-blood rushed from its maze; busy fingers at work, here upon arteries to stay their waste, there applying sponge; one blade changed for another, more manipulation, and orders performed after being given in a calm impressive whisper; a few more busy moments, and the throbbing flow of life arrested; rapidly-moving fingers with sponges, silk, strapping, towels; and the great surgeon softly wiping his hands, cool, calm, and unruffled.
“Very little loss, Mr Grant,” to the next general in command.
“Extremely little,” with a bow and a smile; “most successful operation.”
“Well, well, I think so,” said the great man, unbending somewhat as he arranged his cuffs and brushed off an imaginary speck of dust. He then felt the patient’s pulse for a few moments, nodded with a satisfied air, said a few words to the chief of his staff, bowed once more, and by the time the hospital-dressers had finished their task and the patient was lifted back upon his portable conch, the operator was in the brougham waiting in the street.
Then came once more the murmuring buzz of voices, the reaction and the pallor tried to be laughed down, the porters, and then in a few minutes old Matt was once more in his bed and comfortably arranged before he recovered consciousness.
The house-surgeon and an assistant were beside his bed as he opened his eyes and stared vacantly about, trying to recall what had taken place.
“How sick and faint – what a nasty dream!” he muttered; “but I don’t know, sir, – been as well if it had been true.”
“What would?” said the surgeon, smiling.
“Why, I dreamed, sir, that – why, so it was – so it was, then,” muttered the old man fervently; “thank God, thank God!”
A calm heavy sleep soon fell upon Matt, but he was not free from trouble then. There was the entry continually worrying him; now he knew he had seen it, now he felt that it was only a dream, or a dream within a dream. At last, though, a change came over the scene, and all was prosperity; he had entered into partnership with Septimus Hardon, and purchased the copyright of the Times, whose columns they regularly filled every day with a complete exposure of Doctor Hardon.
But the dream was not founded upon fact, for Septimus Hardon, with hope in his breast, had been to the entrance of the hospital, thinking that now Matt was so much better he would perhaps be ready with some information. But the visitor had been told of the operation, and the old man’s present critical state, while being advised not to see him at that visit; and receiving a promise that a message should be sent in the event of a change for the worse, Septimus Hardon slowly, and sadly disheartened, returned to his law-copying.
End of Volume TwoVolume Three – Chapter One.
The Breaking of a Barrier
It was about this time that Aunt Fanny, in the large room at Surrey-street, took to complaining of her neck, and wore a narrow strip of flannel beneath the stiff white-muslin kerchief, while night and morn her servant had to rub the said neck with hartshorn and oil. And truly the old dame’s neck was stiff, and cold might have had some share in producing the stiffness; but undoubtedly it was principally caused by the many sage shakes she gave her head when pondering over her nephew’s state; for in spite of all the medicaments which he patiently allowed her to administer, the old lady effected no cure, and was in consequence sorely troubled in her own mind.
But she was not so sorely troubled as the object of her interest, who angered himself in vain because of the chaotic state of his mind. Battle, battle – ever the same useless struggle, till he was ashamed of his weakness and want of self-control. To-day victor, to-morrow vanquished; now reviling himself for his want of faith and cruel suspicions, which he owned were almost baseless; the next day a slave to duty, and forbidding his heart to harbour further thoughts of her he now called his enemy. Work seemed the only refuge, and he toiled on. Study he could not; but he visited from house to house in the fold of Bennett’s-rents, where the tainted sheep of his flock were gathered; and hiding from himself his real feelings – a shallow pretence – he knew the while how anxious he was respecting that little ewe-lamb.
But he drew a mask over his face, telling himself it was his true countenance; and with a calmness that was but on the surface, he called frequently to see the invalid mother, timing, however, his visits that they might be made while Lucy was absent – for duty’s sake (and he now knew pretty well when she was likely to visit the warehouse); while, when he had visited the Bents, and returned without seeing her, he credited duty largely, and praised his own self-denial. All steps, he flattered himself, towards the final conquest which he would achieve; but though casting out the weak thoughts, he told himself that it was his duty to satisfy his heart concerning the doubts which so constantly tormented him.
How often the hours came when he scorned his dissimulation, and tore off the mask, none knew; but his face grew more pale and livid, and the grey hairs that sprinkled his temples were thicker than of old.
It happened one day, though, when he and Lucy had not encountered since he saw her bending over the child from Mrs Jarker’s room, that, visiting from house to house and room to room, Mr Sterne stood in front of Mrs Sims’; but that lady was from home; so hearing the merry voice of the laughing child, he had ascended the stairs to find Lucy in the bird-catcher’s attic. For the little face had been pressed against the blackened window, and a pair of bright little eyes had peered, hour after hour, from beneath the tangled golden hair, watching the busy fingers at the sewing-machine, till with heart aching for the neglected babe, and to study her mother, who objected to its being brought into the room, Lucy had crossed the court, and gone up and played with the little thing, laughing merrily at the child’s delight, though a tear stood in her eye more than once as she evaded the child’s eager, oft-repeated question of “When mammy come back?” Bill had gone out with his nets, and most probably would not be back until night; so the child had been left alone with some food in the dreary room, to play or cry itself to sleep, unless Mrs Sims should be there to attend to its wants. But there was that one spot by the window where she could look down upon Lucy; and there, day after day, she would stand without murmuring, attracted by that wondrous sense which draws children to the loveable and true. Lucy’s heart yearned as she gazed up from time to time at the child, and she longed earnestly for the season when its mother should make fresh arrangements; but for some reason she came not, and Lucy had not seen her since Mrs Jarker’s death.
And now the golden hours for which the little soul had longed had come again. Lucy was with her, and, herself a child for the time, she laughed merrily at the little one’s delight.
Panting, tumbled, and flushed with exercise, Lucy stood at last, returning an escaped curl to its bondage, a bright smile playing round her ruddy lips, which parted to display the white teeth beneath, when the door opened, and, with a frown upon his brow, the curate stood in the entrance gazing upon the scene before him.
“In that ruffian’s room – there of all places in the world!” doubt whispered to him; at a time, too, when their chance meetings had been attended by a cold reserve on Lucy’s part – a reserve which his doubting heart misinterpreted; for he could not in his blindness see the cost at which it was maintained. And yet this reserve had pleased him while it pained, for he at times acknowledged the interest he took in her welfare. But it mattered not, he said, for his desire was but to try and save her from evil, nothing more; and the oftener he listened to these delusive whisperings the stronger grew a voice within, telling him that his reasoning was false, and that he was forgetting duty, position – all, in a love for one who grew colder and more distant at every meeting. Wearily, though, he kept on building up a wall between them – a wall built upon the sand. Stone by stone he laid, telling himself that it was for duty’s sake, as he toiled on helplessly at his self-imposed task. True, he might have satisfied himself of the motive for Lucy’s actions, which to him wore a blurred and strange aspect; but to others her name seemed a sealed book, one which he shrank from opening, lest he should at the same time reveal the secret of his own heart.
And now he stood at the door of that beggarly room, where was the bed over which he had so lately bent to whisper comfort to the suffering woman, or knelt by its side to ask mercy for the poor sufferer and a blessing on the helpless child. There was the same bare look of misery in the wretched place; but as the sun streamed through the great leaden lattice, all seemed glorified and brightened by the presence there. Unseen he gazed on, while the glow of orange light flooded the room, and played round the graceful form of Lucy, as, starting again, she was pursued by the laughing child, varying her attitude each moment as she eluded its grasp.
Suddenly the child struck itself sharply against a chair, and broke into a whimpering cry; but the caressing arms, the words of endearment, and the loving kiss soothed the pain instantly, and a smile came over the sunny face once more; when Lucy stood as if transfixed, the merry light faded from her eyes, the smile from her lip, and then the blood flushed to her temples, but only to retreat and leave her deadly pale, for in an instant the wall so laboriously built up, and at so great a cost in suffering, was swept down by the flood of passion. Arthur Sterne knew that the battle had been in vain, and that he was but man; while doubt, everything, was cast to the winds as he was by her side, her hands clasped in his, telling her of his beaten-down love, his hopes, his fears, – all, all in the impassioned burst of words raised by the tempest of a strong man’s love; for the sandy foundation was undermined, and the last trace of the barrier swept away.
And what said she? No words came in reply to his appeal. At first, startled, confused, overcome, she shrank from him, pale and trembling; but as his words came pouring forth, making cheek and neck burn, she knew that no greater bliss could be hers; and the trembling lids of her dark-blue eyes were slowly lifted to meet his, when, as if scathing her once more, came the recollection of his bitter, contemptuous look, his long coldness, and even scorn; and snatching away her hands, she burst into tears and darted from the room.
Pale and troubled in mind as to what to attribute Lucy’s behaviour, his brain in a whirl of doubt, Arthur Sterne stood gazing at the door, until, turning, he became aware that the opposite attic window was being opened. The lark began to twitter as the hand of Jean Marais secured it outside; and then he saw the wild dark eyes of the youth begin to earnestly watch the room.
Turning with a few kind words to the astonished child, who crouched in a corner, Arthur Sterne made his way from the house; and a sad evening spent Aunt Fanny, in her anxiety for the “wilful boy” who angrily rejected her advice. He was not ill, he said; but the good dame nipped her lips together; while, retiring at last, the curate spent the night pacing his chamber-floor, trying to examine the tangle in his heart, but only to conclude that, come what might, difference of position should be no bar between him and Lucy; for, driving away, as he thought successfully, the doubt that still assailed him, he declared to himself that she possessed virtues before which birth and dowry paled and became as naught.
