MR. KEMBLE'S APPEAL
It often happens that the wife's disposition is an antidote to her
husband: and this was fortunately true of Mrs. Jackson. She was neither
curious nor gossiping, and with a quick instinct that privacy was
desired by Martine, gave at an early hour her orders to close the house
for the night. The few loungers, knowing that she was autocratic,
slouched off to other resorts. The man and maids of all work were kept
out of the way, while she and her husband waited on their unexpected
guests. After Mr. Kemble's departure, the errand-boy was roused from
his doze behind the stove and seat for Dr. Barnes; then Jackson wrote
another note at Martine's dictation:
"MR. WILLIAM NICHOL:
"DEAR SIR--A relative of yours is sick at my house. He came on the
evening train. You and your wife had better come at once in the
carriage."
Martine retired to the room in which he had seen Mr. Kemble, that he
might compose himself before meeting the physician. The sound of
Helen's voice, the mere proximity of the girl who at this hour was to
have been his wife had not "old chaos" come again for him, were by no
means "straws" in their final and crushing weight. Motionless, yet with
mind verging on distraction, he sat in the cold, dimly lighted room
until aroused by the voice of Dr. Barnes.
"Why, Hobart!" cried his old friend, starting at the bloodshot eyes and
pallid face of the young man, "what is the matter? You need me, sure
enough, but why on earth are you shivering in this cold room at the
hotel?"
Martine again said to Jackson: "Don't leave him," and closed the door.
Then, to the physician: "Dr. Barnes, I am ill and worn-out. I know it
only too well. You must listen carefully while I in brief tell you why
you were sent for; then you and others must take charge and act as you
think best. I'm going home. I must have rest and a respite. I must be
by myself;" and he rapidly began to sketch his experiences in
Washington.
"Hold!" said the sensible old doctor, who indulged in only a few strong
exclamations of surprise, which did not interrupt the speaker, "hold!
You say you left the ward to think it over, after being convinced that
you had discovered Nichol. Did you think it over quietly?"
"Quietly!" repeated Martine, with intense bitterness. "Would a man, not
a mummy, think over such a thing quietly? Judge me as you please, but I
was tempted as I believe never man was before. I fought the Devil till
morning."
"I thought as much," said the doctor, grasping Martine's hand, then
slipping a finger on his pulse. "You fought on foot too, didn't you?"
"Yes, I walked the streets as if demented."
"Of course. That in part accounts for your exhaustion. Have you slept
much since?"
"Oh, Doctor, let me get through and go home!"
"No, Hobart, you can't get through with me till I am with you. My dear
fellow, do you think that I don't understand and sympathize with you?
There's no reason why you should virtually risk your life for Captain
Nichol again. Take this dose of quinine at once, and then proceed. I
can catch on rapidly. First answer, how much have you slept since?"
"The idea of sleep! You can remedy this, Doctor, after my part in this
affair is over. I must finish now. Helen may return, and I cannot meet
her, nor am I equal to seeing Mr. and Mrs. Nichol. My head feels queer,
but I'll get through somehow, if the strain is not kept up too long;"
and he finished in outline his story. In conclusion he said, "You will
understand that you are now to have charge of Nichol. He is prepared by
his experience to obey you, for he has always been in hospitals, where
the surgeon's will is law. Except with physicians, he has a sort of
rough waywardness, learned from the soldiers."
"Yes, I understand sufficiently now to manage. You put him in my
charge, then go home, and I'll visit you as soon as I can."
"One word more, Doctor. As far as you think best, enjoin reticence on
Jackson. If the sight of Helen restores Nichol, as I believe it will,
little need ever be said about his present condition. Jackson would not
dare to disobey a physician's injunction."
"Don't you dare disobey them, either. I'll manage him too. Come."
Nichol had slept a good deal during the latter part of his journey, and
now was inclined to wakefulness--a tendency much increased by his habit
of waiting on hospital patients at night. In the eager and curious
Jackson he had a companion to his mind, who stimulated in him a certain
child-like vanity.
"Hello, Ma'tine," he said, "ye're gittin' tired o' me, I reckon, ye're
off so much. I don't keer. This yere Jackson's a lively cuss, en I 'low
we'll chin till mawnin'."
"Yes, Nichol, Mr. Jackson is a good friend of yours; and here is
another man who is more than a friend. You remember what the surgeon at
the hospital said to you?"
"I reckon," replied Nichol, anxiously. "Hain't I minded yer tetotally?"
"Yes, you have done very well indeed--remarkably well, since you knew I
was not a doctor. Now this man is a doctor--the doctor I was to bring
you to. You won't have to mind me any more, but you must mind this man,
Dr. Barnes, in all respects, just as you did the doctors in the
hospitals. As long as you obey him carefully he will be very good to
you."
"Oh, I'll mind, Doctor," said Nichol, rising and assuming the
respectful attitude of a hospital nurse. "We uns wuz soon larned that't
wuzn't healthy to go agin the doctor. When I wuz Yankee Blank, 'fo' I
got ter be cap'n, I forgot ter give a Johnny a doze o' med'cine, en I'm
doggoned ef the doctor didn't mek me tek it myse'f. Gee wiz! sech a
time ez I had! Hain't give the doctors no trouble sence."
"All right, Captain Nichol," said Dr. Barnes, quietly, "I understand my
duties, and I see that you understand yours. As you say, doctors must
be obeyed, and I already see that you won't make me or yourself any
trouble. Good-night, Hobart, I'm in charge now."
"Good-night, Doctor. Mr. Jackson, I'm sure you will carry out Dr.
Barnes' wishes implicitly."
"Yer'd better, Jackson," said Nichol, giving him a wink. "A doctor kin
give yer high ole jinks ef ye're not keerful."
Martine now obeyed the instinct often so powerful in the human breast
as well as in dumb animals, and sought the covert, the refuge of his
home, caring little whether he was to live or die. When he saw the
lighted windows of Mr. Kemble's residence, he moaned as if in physical
pain. A sudden and immeasurable longing to see, to speak with Helen
once before she was again irrevocably committed to Nichol, possessed
him. He even went to her gate to carry out his impulse, then curbed
himself and returned resolutely to his dwelling. As soon as his step
was on the porch, the door opened and Mr. Kemble gave him the warm
grasp of friendship. Without a word, the two men entered the
sitting-room, sat down by the ruddy fire, and looked at each other,
Martine with intense, questioning anxiety in his haggard face. The
banker nodded gravely as he said, "Yes, she knows."
"It's as I said it would be?" Martine added huskily, after a moment or
two.
"Well, my friend, she said you would understand her better than any one
else. She wrote you this note."
Martine's hands so trembled that he could scarcely break the seal. He
sat looking at the tear-blurred words some little time, and grew
evidently calmer, then faltered, "Yes, it's well to remember God at
such a time. He has laid heavy burdens upon me. He is responsible for
them, not I. If I break, He also will be responsible."
"Hobart," said Mr. Kemble, earnestly, "you must not break under this,
for our sake as well as your own. I have the presentiment that we shall
all need you yet, my poor girl perhaps most of all. She doesn't, she
can't realize it. Now, the dead is alive again. Old girlish impulses
and feelings are asserting themselves. As is natural, she is deeply
excited; but this tidal wave of feeling will pass, and then she will
have to face both the past and future. I know her well enough to be
sure she could never be happy if this thing wrecked you. And then,
Hobart," and the old man sank his voice to a whisper, "suppose--suppose
Nichol continues the same."
"He cannot," cried Martine, almost desperately. "Oh, Mr. Kemble, don't
suggest any hope for me. My heart tells me there is none, that there
should not be any. No, she loved him as I have loved her from
childhood. She is right. I do understand her so well that I know what
the future will be."
"Well," said Mr. Kemble, firmly, as he rose, "she shall never marry him
as he is, with my consent. I don't feel your confidence about Helen's
power to restore him. I tell you, Hobart, I'm in sore straits. Helen is
the apple of my eye. She is the treasure of our old age. God knows I
remember what you have done for her and for us in the past; and I feel
that we shall need you in the future. You've become like a son to
mother and me, and you must stand by us still. Our need will keep you
up and rally you better than all Dr. Barnes' medicine. I know you well
enough to know that. But take the medicine all the same; and above all
things, don't give way to anything like recklessness and despair. As
you say, God has imposed the burden. Let him give you the strength to
bear it, and other people's burdens too, as you have in the past. I
must go now. Don't fail me."
Wise old Mr. Kemble had indeed proved the better physician. His
misgivings, fears, and needs, combined with his honest affection, had
checked the cold, bitter flood of despair which had been overwhelming
Martine. The morbid impression that he would be only another
complication, and of necessity an embarrassment to Helen and her
family, was in a measure removed. Mere words of general condolence
would not have helped him; an appeal like that to the exhausted
soldier, and the thought that the battle for him was not yet over,
stirred the deep springs of his nature and slowly kindled the purpose
to rally and be ready. He rose, ate a little of the food, drank the
wine, then looked around the beautiful apartment prepared for her who
was to have been his wife, "I have grown weak and reckless," he said.
"I ought to have known her well enough--I do know her so well--as to be
sure that I would cloud her happiness if this thing destroyed me."