CHAPTER XXXVI.
There was a man lay upon the road in the darkness of the night forsome five or six minutes, and a horse galloped away snorting, with abroken bridle hanging at his head, on the way towards the park of SirPhilip Hastings. Had any carriage come along, the man who was lyingthere must have been run over; for the night was exceedingly dark, andthe road narrow. All was still and silent, however. No one was seenmoving--not a sound was heard except the distant clack of a water-millwhich lay further down the valley. There was a candle in a cottagewindow at about a hundred yards' distance, which shot a dim and feebleray athwart the road, but shed no light on the spot where the man lay.At the end of about six minutes, a sort of convulsive movement showedthat life was not yet extinct in his frame--a sort of heave of thechest, and a sudden twitch of the arm; and a minute or two after, JohnAyliffe raised himself on his elbow, at put his hand to his head.
"Curse the brute," he said, in a wandering sort of way, "I wonder,Shanks, you don't--damn it, where am I?--what's the matter? My sideand leg are cursed sore, and my head all running round."
He remained in the same position for a moment or two more, and thengot upon his feet; but the instant he did so he fell to the groundagain with a deep groan, exclaiming, "By--, my leg's broken, and Ibelieve my ribs too. How the devil shall I get out of this scrape?Here I may lie and die, without any body ever coming near me. That isold Jenny Best's cottage, I believe. I wonder if I could make the oldcanting wretch hear," and he raised his voice to shout, but the painwas two great. His ribs were indeed broken, and pressing upon hislungs, and all that he could do was to lie still and groan.
About a quarter of an hour after, however, a stunt, middle-agedman--rather, perhaps, in the decline of life--came by, carrying ahand-basket, plodding at a slow and weary pace as if he had had a longwalk.
"Who's that? Is any one there?" said a feeble voice, as he approached;and he ran up, exclaiming, "Gracious me, what is the matter? Are youhurt, sir? What has happened?"
"Is that you, Best?" said the feeble voice of John Ayliffe, "my horsehas reared and fallen over with me. My leg is broken, and the bonepoking through, and my ribs are broken too, I think."
"Stay a minute, Sir John," said the good countryman, "and I'll gethelp, and we'll carry you up to the Hall."
"No, no," answered John Ayliffe, who had now had time for thought,"get a mattress, or a door, or something, and carry me into yourcottage. If your son is at home, he and you can carry me. Don't sendfor strangers."
"I dare say he is at home, sir," replied the man. "He's a good lad,sir, and comes home as soon as his work's done. I will go and see. Iwon't be a minute."
He was as good as his word, and in less than a minute returned withhis son, bringing a lantern and a straw mattress.
Not without inflicting great pain, and drawing forth many a heavygroan, the old man and the young one placed John Ayliffe on thepaliasse, and carried him into the cottage, where he was laid uponyoung Best's bed in the back room. Good Jenny Best, as John Ayliffehad called her--an excellent creature as ever lived--was all kindnessand attention, although to say truth the suffering man had not shownany great kindness to her and hers in his days of prosperity. She waseager to send off her son immediately for the surgeon, and did so inthe end; but to the surprise of the whole of the little cottage party,it was not without a great deal of reluctance and hesitation that JohnAyliffe suffered this to be done. They showed him, however, that hemust die or lose his limb if surgical assistance was not immediatelyprocured, and he ultimately consented, but told the young manrepeatedly not to mention his name even to the surgeon on any account,but simply to say that a gentleman had been thrown by his horse, andbrought into the cottage with his thigh broken. He cautioned fatherand mother too not to mention the accident to any one till he was wellagain, alluding vaguely to reasons that he had for wishing to concealit.
"But, Sir John," replied Best himself, "your horse will go home,depend upon it, and your servants will not know where you are, andthere will be a fuss about you all over the country."
"Well, then, let them make a fuss," said John Ayliffe, impatiently. "Idon't care--I will not have it mentioned."
All this seemed very strange to the good wan and his wife, but theycould only open their eyes and stare, without venturing farther tooppose the wishes of their guest.
It seemed a very long time before the surgeon made his appearance, butat length the sound of a horse's feet coming fast, could bedistinguished, and two minutes after the surgeon was in the room. Hewas a very good man, though not the most skilful of his profession,and he was really shocked and confounded when he saw the state of SirJohn Hastings, as he called him. Wanting confidence in himself, hewould fain have sent off immediately for farther assistance, but JohnAyliffe would not hear of such a thing, and the good man went to workto set the broken limb as best he might, and relieve the anguish ofthe sufferer. So severe, however, were the injuries which had beenreceived, that notwithstanding a strong constitution, as yet butlittle impaired by debauchery, the patient was given over by thesurgeon in his own mind from the first. He remained with him, watchinghim all night, which passed nearly without sleep on the part of JohnAyliffe; and in the course of the long waking hours he took anopportunity of enjoining secrecy upon the surgeon as to the accidentwhich had happened to him, and the place where he was lying. Not lesssurprised was the worthy man than the cottager and his wife had beenat the young gentleman's exceeding anxiety for concealment, and as hislicentious habits were no secret in the country round, they allnaturally concluded that the misfortune which had overtaken him hadoccurred in the course of some adventure more dangerous anddisgraceful than usual.
Towards morning John Ayliffe fell into a sort of semi-sleep, restlessand perturbed, speaking often without reason having guidance of hiswords, and uttering many things which, though disjointed and oftenindistinct, showed the good man who had watched by him that the mindwas as much affected as the body. He woke confused and wandering abouteight o'clock, but speedily returned to consciousness of hissituation, and insisted, notwithstanding the pain he was suffering,upon examining the money which was in his pockets to see that it wasall right. Vain precaution! He was never destined to need it more.
Shortly after the surgeon left him, but returned at night again towatch by his bedside. The bodily symptoms which he now perceived wouldhave led him to believe that a cure was possible, but there was a deepdepression of mind, a heavy irritable sombreness, from the result ofwhich the surgeon augured much evil. He saw that there was someterrible weight upon the young man's heart, but whether it was fear orremorse or disappointment he could not tell, and more than once herepeated to himself, "He wants a priest as much as a physician."
Again the surgeon would often argue with himself in regard to thepropriety of telling him the very dangerous state in which he was. "Hemay at any time become delirious," he said, "and lose all power ofmaking those dispositions and arrangements which, I dare say, havenever been thought of in the time of health and prosperity. Then,again, his house and all that it contains is left entirely in thehands of servants-a bad set too, as ever existed, who are just aslikely to plunder and destroy as not; but on the other hand, if I tellhim it may only increase his dejection and cut off all hope ofrecovery. Really I do not know what to do. Perhaps it would be betterto wait awhile, and if I should see more unfavorable symptoms and nochance left, it will then be time enough to tell him his truesituation and prepare his mind for the result."
Another restless, feverish night passed, another troubled sleeptowards morning, and then John Ayliffe woke with a start, exclaiming,"You did not tell them I was here--lying here unable to stir, unableto move--I told you not, I told you not. By--" and then he lookedround, and seeing none but the surgeon in the room, relapsed intosilence.
The surgeon felt his pulse, examined the bandages, and saw that aconsiderable and unfavorable change had taken place; but yet hehesitated. He was one of those men who shrink from the task of tellingun
pleasant truths. He was of a gentle and a kindly disposition, whicheven the necessary cruelties of surgery had not been able to harden.
"He may say what he likes," he said, "I must have some advice as tohow I should act. I will go and talk with the parson about the matter.Though a little lacking in the knowledge of the world, yet Dixwell isa good man and a sincere Christian. I will see him as I go home, butmake him promise secrecy in the first place, as this young baronet isso terribly afraid of the unfortunate affair being known. He will die,I am afraid, and that before very long, and I am sure he is not in afit state for death." With this resolution he said some soothing wordsto his patient, gave him what he called a composing draught, and sentfor his horse from a neighboring farm-house, where he had lodged itfor the night. He then rode at a quiet, thoughtful pace to theparsonage house at the gates of the park, and quickly walked in. Mr.Dixwell was at breakfast, reading slowly one of the broad sheets ofthe day as an especial treat, for they seldom found their way into hisquiet rectory; but he was very glad to see the surgeon, with whom heoften contrived to have a pleasant little chat in regard to theaffairs of the neighborhood.
"Ah, Mr. Short, very glad to see you, my good friend. How go things inyour part of the world? We are rather in a little bustle here, thoughI think it is no great matter."
"What is it, Mr. Dixwell?" asked the surgeon.
"Only that wild young man, Sir John Hastings," said the clergyman,"left his house suddenly on horseback the night before last, and hasnever returned. But he is accustomed to do all manner of strangethings, and has often been out two or three nights before without anyone knowing where he was. The butler came down and spoke to me aboutit, but I think there was a good deal of affectation in his alarm, forwhen I asked him he owned his master had once been away for a wholeweek."
"Has his horse come back?" asked the surgeon.
"Not that I know of," replied Mr. Dixwell. "I suppose the man wouldhave mentioned it if such had been the case. But what is going on atHartwell?"
"Nothing particular," said the surgeon, "only Mrs. Harrison broughtto bed of twins on Saturday night at twenty minutes past eleven. Ithink all those Harrisons have twins--but I have something to talk toyou about, my good friend, a sort of case of conscience I want to putto you. Only you must promise me profound secrecy."
Mr. Dixwell laughed--"What, under the seal of confession?" he said."Well, well, I am no papist, as you know, Short, but I'll promise anddo better than any papist does, keep my word when I have promisedwithout mental reservation."
"I know you will, my good friend," answered the surgeon, "and this isno jesting matter, I can assure you. Now listen, my good friend,listen. Not many evenings ago, I was sent for suddenly to attend ayoung man who had met with an accident, a very terrible accident too.He had a compound fracture of the thigh, three of his ribs broken, andhis head a good deal knocked about, but the cranium uninjured. I hadat first tolerable hope of his recovery; but he is getting much worseand I fear that he will die."
"Well, you can't help that," said Mr. Dixwell, "men will die in spiteof all you can do, Short, just as they will sin in spite of all I cansay."
"Ay, there's the rub," said the surgeon, "I fear he has sinned a verytolerably sufficient quantity, and I can see that there is somethingor another weighing very heavy on his mind, which is even doing greatharm to his body."
"I will go and see him, I will go and see him," said Mr. Dixwell, "itwill do him good in all ways to unburden his conscience, and to hearthe comfortable words of the gospel."
"But the case is, Mr. Dixwell," said Short, "that he has positivelyforbidden me to let any of his friends know where he lies, or to speakof the accident to any one."
"Pooh, nonsense," said the clergyman, "if a man has fractured hisskull and you thought it fit to trepan him, would you ask him whetherhe liked it or not? If the young man is near death, and his conscienceis burdened, I am the physician who should be sent for rather thanyou."
"I fancy his conscience is burdened a good deal," said Mr. Short,thoughtfully; "nay, I cannot help thinking that he was engaged in somevery bad act at the time this happened, both from his anxiety toconceal from every body where he now lies, and from various words hehas dropped, sometimes in his sleep, sometimes when waking confusedand half delirious. What puzzles me is, whether I should tell him hisactual situation or not."
"Tell him, tell him by all means," said Mr. Dixwell, "why should younot tell him?"
"Simply because I think that it will depress his mind still more,"replied the surgeon, "and that may tend to deprive him even of thevery small chance that exists of recovery."
"The soul is of more value than the body," replied the clergyman,earnestly; "if he be the man you depict, my friend, he should have asmuch time as possible to prepare--he should have time to repent--ay,and to atone. Tell him by all means, or let me know where he is to befound, and I will tell him."
"That I must not do," said Mr. Short, "for I am under a sort ofpromise not to tell; but if you really think that I ought to tell himmyself, I will go back and do it."
"If I really think!" exclaimed Mr. Dixwell, "I have not the slightestdoubt of it. It is your bounden duty if you be a Christian. Not onlytell him, my good friend, but urge him strongly to send for someminister of religion. Though friends may fail him, and he may not wishto see them--though all worldly supports may give way beneath him, andhe may find no strengthening--though all earthly hopes may pass away,and give him no mortal cheer, the gospel of Christ can never fail tosupport, and strengthen, and comfort, and elevate. The sooner he knowsthat his tenement of clay is falling to the dust of which it wasraised, the better will be his readiness to quit it, and it is wise,most wise, to shake ourselves free altogether from the dust andcrumbling ruins of this temporal state, ere they fall upon our headsand bear us down to the same destruction as themselves."
"Well, well, I will go back and tell him," said Mr. Short, and biddingthe good rector adieu, he once more mounted his horse and rode away.
Now Mr. Dixwell was an excellent good man, but he was not withoutcertain foibles, especially those that sometimes accompanyconsiderable simplicity of character. "I will see which way he takes,"said Mr. Dixwell, "and go and visit the young man myself if I can findhim out;" and accordingly he marched up stairs to his bedroom, whichcommanded a somewhat extensive prospect of the country, and traced thesurgeon, as he trotted slowly and thoughtfully along. He could notactually see the cottage of the Bests, but he perceived that thesurgeon there passed over the brow of the hill, and after waiting forseveral minutes, he did not catch any horseman rising upon theopposite slope over which the road was continued. Now there was nocross road in the hollow and only three houses, and therefore Mr.Dixwell naturally concluded that to one of those three houses thesurgeon had gone.
In the mean while, Mr. Short rode on unconscious that his movementswere observed, and meditating with a troubled mind upon the best meansof conveying the terrible intelligence he had to communicate. He didnot like the task at all; but yet he resolved to perform it manfully,and dismounting at the cottage door, he went in again. There wasnobody within but the sick man and good old Jenny Best. The old womanwas at the moment in the outer room, and when she saw the surgeon sheshook her head, and said in a low voice, "Ah, dear, I am glad you havecome back again, sir, he does not seem right at all."
"Who's that?" said the voice of John Ayliffe; and going in, Mr. Shortclosed the doors between the two rooms.
"There, don't shut that door," said John Ayliffe, "it is so infernallyclose--I don't feel at all well, Mr. Short--I don't know what's thematter with me. It's just as if I had got no heart. I think a glass ofbrandy would do me good."
"It would kill you," said the surgeon.
"Well," said the young man, "I'm not sure that would not be best forme--come," he continued sharply, "tell me how long I am to lie here onmy back?"
"That I cannot tell, Sir John," replied the surgeon, "but at allevents, supposing that you do recover, and that every t
hing goes well,you could not hope to move for two or three months."
"Supposing I was to recover!" repeated John Ayliffe in a low tone, asif the idea of approaching death had then, for the first time, struckhim as something real and tangible, and not a mere name. He pausedsilently for an instant, and then asked almost fiercely, "what broughtyou back?"
"Why, Sir John, I thought it might be better for us to have a littleconversation," said the surgeon. "I can't help being afraid, Sir John,that you may have a great number of things to settle, and that notanticipating such a very severe accident, your affairs may want a gooddeal of arranging. Now the event of all sickness is uncertain, and anaccident such as this especially. It is my duty to inform you," hecontinued, rising in resolution and energy as he proceeded, "that yourcase is by no means free from danger--very great danger indeed."
"Do you mean to say that I am dying?" asked John Ayliffe, in a hoarsevoice.
"No, no, not exactly dying," said the surgeon, putting his hand uponhis pulse, "not dying I trust just yet, but--"
"But I shall die, you mean?" cried the other.
"I think it not at all improbable," answered the surgeon, gravely,"that the case may have a fatal result."
"Curse fatal results," cried John Ayliffe, giving way to a burst offury; "why the devil do you come back to tell me such things and makeme wretched? If I am to die, why can't you let me die quietly and knownothing about it?"
"Why, Sir John, I thought that you might have many matters to settle,"answered the surgeon somewhat irritated, "and that your temporal andyour spiritual welfare also required you should know your realsituation."
"Spiritual d----d nonsense!" exclaimed John Ayliffe, furiously; "Idare say it's all by your folly and stupidity that I am likely to dieat all. Why I hear of men breaking their legs and their ribs every dayand being none the worse for it."
"Why, Sir John, if you do not like my advice you need not have it,"answered the surgeon; "I earnestly wished to send for otherassistance, and you would not let me."
"There, go away, go away and leave me," said John Ayliffe; but as thesurgeon took up his hat and walked towards the door, he added, "comeagain at night. You shall be well paid for it, never fear."
Mr. Short made no reply, but walked out of the room.