THE DARK BEYOND.
“That undiscovered country, from whose bourne
No traveler returns.”--SHAKESPEARE.
“Let me help you to restore your fallen fortunes,” Doctor Verne had
said to Earle Essex, out of the depths of his tender heart, and in his
strong pity for weak, erring humanity.
He said always afterward that he had some hope of succeeding until
that ill-fated escapade when Earle Essex, maddened by the thirst for
drink, stole out one night from the asylum, and plunged into a terrible
debauch.
All search for him failed for two days, and then Doctor Verne found him
the third night lying drunk in the snow at the asylum gate, a stream
of blood pouring from his lips. He was carried into the house and
carefully attended, but if a single chance for him had existed before,
all hope was at an end now.
Doctor Verne found that the seeds of consumption had been long since
sown by dissipation and reckless exposure. Weakened by the inroads of
the insidious disease, half-maddened by the fearful and oft-recurring
hallucinations of that blood-curdling horror, delirium tremens, the
wretched patient had reached that stage where the most that man’s
kindly ministrations can do is to smooth the thorny road that leads to
death. It was written in the book of fate that “Life’s fitful fever”
was almost over, and after weeks of sinking the patient began to
recognize this fact with something like rebellious despair.
When Doctor Verne was sitting with him one day he asked him anxiously:
“Shall I ever be a well man, and go forth among my fellow men to mix
with the busy world again, Max, or does this strange weariness, this
great sinking of every vital energy, portend the mortal dissolution of
a wrecked frame?”
Doctor Verne answered rather evasively:
“You have lost all taste for liquor, Earle, and I am longing to see
your health improve again.”
There was a moment’s silence. The invalid’s sunken dark eyes were
studying the other’s face with pathetic scrutiny.
“But do you believe that I shall ever get well again?” he exclaimed,
with willful impatience. “Tell me the truth.”
Doctor Verne’s face grew very grave, even sad, as he asked slowly:
“Do you wish very much to live?”
“You ask me that?” the invalid cried almost angrily. “Oh, Max, cannot
you imagine how much I want to live, now that I am cured of my appetite
for strong drink? Oh, God! if I could only describe to you my remorse
for the past--my longing to live, and make the future a reparation, an
atonement to--her!”
Doctor Verne’s face expressed mute appreciation and sympathy; but
he preserved a silence that was more eloquent than speech; for,
moving nearer to the speaker, he laid his shapely white hand on the
thin, nervous fingers that worked restlessly on the white pillow.
Essex comprehended the import of this deep and quiet sympathy, and a
bitter pang pierced his heart, but after a moment he said, with manly
resignation:
“So it isn’t to be, Max? All my life’s possibilities for good are
merged into the might-have-been.”
“Not quite,” Doctor Verne answered quietly. “There remains a final page
that you may inscribe as you will.”
“What can I write there?”
“I shall tell you presently--let us talk of other things now. Why is it
you have never expressed a wish to see your family since you came here?”
“I have written to my wife twice since I came here--short letters, to
tell her where I was and how I was. I left it to her own choice to
visit me here or not. She has not come, you see. I can’t complain; I
don’t deserve her compassion.”
“Yet you would like to see her, Earle?”
One swift, yearning glance answered him without words.
“You shall see her, then. I have been called professionally to see
Madame Orne--she suffers from a heart affection--and I shall have no
difficulty in managing it. A hint to Madame Orne will bring it about.”
“It is for the last time--an eternal farewell. You will let Viva know
that?”
“But it may not be for the last time, Earle. Your case is
uncertain--you may linger on in weakness for months, or you may----”
“Go on, please. Be frank; I can bear it now.”
“You may linger for months, or--you may go from us to-day or to-morrow,
as Heaven wills.”
Silence fell as the reluctant words left the speaker’s lips. The shadow
of the “wide unknown” seemed to fall on both their hearts.
Then Essex broke the silence in a tone of awful dread:
“To-day--to-morrow,” he repeated. He seemed dazed by the awful nearness
of eternity.
“Or months hence, remember--life is so uncertain,” reminded Doctor
Verne hopefully. His eyes grew grave and earnest as he added: “Let us
hope for the best; but in the meantime may I not talk to you of one who
can help you to meet the end with a patient faith? One who can guide
your weak hand to write the _finis_ to the book of life?”
“And the dark beyond, Max? The dark beyond?” shuddering.
“I shall show you the sinner’s friend, Earle. He will be a lamp unto
your feet and a guide unto your path,” was the reverent reply, as
Doctor Verne, who was pacing the floor with restless feet, sat down to
point a dying sinner to the cross of Christ.