We--that is, Dr. Senior, Lowry, and I--made our examination of Foster,
and held our consultation, three days from that time.
There was no doubt whatever that he was suffering from the same disease
as that which had been the death of my mother--a disease almost
invariably fatal, sooner or later. A few cases of cure, under most
favorable circumstances, had been reported during the last half-century;
but the chances were dead against Foster's recovery. In all probability,
a long and painful illness, terminating in inevitable death, lay before
him. In the opinion of my two senior physicians, all that I could do
would be to alleviate the worst pangs of it.
His case haunted me day and night. In that deep under-current of
consciousness which lurks beneath our surface sensations and
impressions, there was always present the image of Foster, with his
pale, cynical face, and pitiless eyes. With this, was the perpetual
remembrance that a subtile malady, beyond the reach of our skill, was
slowly eating away his life. The man I abhorred; but the sufferer,
mysteriously linked with the memories which clung about my mother,
aroused her most urgent, instinctive compassion. Only once before had I
watched the conflict between disease and its remedy with so intense an
interest.
It was a day or two after our consultation that I came accidentally upon
the little note-book which I had kept in Guernsey--a private note-book,
accessible only to myself. It was night; Jack, as usual, was gone out,
and I was alone. I turned over the leaves merely for listless want of
occupation. All at once I came upon an entry, made in connection with my
mother's illness, which recalled to me the discovery I believed I had
made of a remedy for her disease, had it only been applied in its
earlier stages. It had slipped out of my mind, but now my memory leaped
upon it with irresistible force.
I must tell the whole truth, however terrible and humiliating it may be.
Whether I had been true or false to myself up to that moment I cannot
say. I had taken upon myself the care, and, if possible, the cure of
this man, who was my enemy, if I had an enemy in the world. His life and
mine could not run parallel without great grief and hurt to me, and to
one dearer than myself. Now that a better chance was thrust upon me in
his favor, I shrank from seizing it with unutterable reluctance. I
turned heart-sick at the thought of it. I tried my utmost to shake off
the grip of my memory. Was it possible that, in the core of my heart, I
wished this man to die?
Yes, I wished him to die. Conscience flashed the answer across the inner
depths of my soul, as a glare of lightning over the sharp crags and
cruel waves of our island in a midnight storm. I saw with terrible
distinctness that there had been lurking within a sure sense of
satisfaction in the certainty that he must die. I had suspected nothing
of it till that moment. When I told him it was the instinct of a
physician to save his patient, I spoke the truth. But I found something
within me deeper than instinct, that was wailing and watching for the
fatal issue of his malady, with a tranquil security so profound that it
never stirred the surface of my consciousness, or lifted up its ghostly
face to the light of conscience.
I took up my note-book, and went away to my room, lest Jack should come
in suddenly, and read my secret on my face. I thrust the book into a
drawer in my desk, and locked it away out of my sight. What need had I
to trouble myself with it or its contents? I found a book, one of
Charles Dickens's most amusing stories, and set myself resolutely to
read it; laughing aloud at its drolleries, and reading faster and
faster; while all the time thoughts came crowding into my mind of my
mother's pale, worn face, and the pains she suffered, and the remedy
found out too late. These images grew so strong at last that my eyes ran
over the sentences mechanically, but my brain refused to take in the
meaning of them. I threw the book from me; and, leaning my head on my
hands, I let all the waves of that sorrowful memory flow over me.
How strong they were! how persistent! I could hear the tones of her
languid voice, and see the light lingering to the last in her dim eyes,
whenever they met mine. A shudder crept through me as I recollected how
she travelled that dolorous road, slowly, day by day, down to the grave.
Other feet were beginning to tread the same painful journey; but there
was yet time to stay them, and the power to do it was intrusted to me.
What was I to do with my power?
It seemed cruel that this power should come to me from my mother's
death. If she were living still, or if she had died from any other
cause, the discovery of this remedy would never have been made by me.
And I was to take it as a sort of miraculous gift, purchased by her
pangs, and bestow it upon the only man I hated. For I hated him; I said
so to myself, muttering the words between my teeth.
What was the value of his life, that I should ransom it by such a
sacrifice? A mean, selfish, dissipated life--a life that would be
Olivia's curse as long as it lasted. For an instant a vision stood out
clear before me, and made my heart beat fast, of Olivia free, as she
must be in the space of a few months, should I leave the disease to take
its course; free and happy, disenthralled from the most galling of all
bondage. Could I not win her then? She knew already that I loved her;
would she not soon learn to love me in return? If Olivia were living,
what an irreparable injury it would be to her for this man to recover!
That seemed to settle the question. I could not be the one to doom her
to a continuation of the misery she was enduring. It was irrational and
over-scrupulous of my conscience to demand such a thing from me. I would
use all the means practised in the ordinary course of treatment to
render the recovery of my patient possible, and so fulfil my duty. I
would carefully follow all Dr. Senior's suggestions. He was an
experienced and very skilful physician; I could not do better than
submit my judgment to his.
Besides, how did I know that this fancied discovery of mine was of the
least value? I had never had a chance of making experiment of it, and no
doubt it was an idle chimera of my brain, when it was overwrought by
anxiety for my mother's sake. I had not hitherto thought enough of it to
ask the opinion of any of my medical friends and colleagues. Why should
I attach any importance to it now? Let it rest. Not a soul knew of it
but myself. I had a perfect right to keep or destroy my own notes.
Suppose I destroyed that one at once?
I unlocked the desk, and took out my book again. The leaf on which these
special notes were written was already loose, and might have been easily
lost at any time, I thought. I burned it by the flame of the gas, and
threw the brown ashes into the grate. For a few minutes I felt elated,
as if set free from an oppressive burden; and I returned to the story I
had been reading, and laughed more heartily than before at the grotesque
turn of the incidents. But before long the tormenting question came up
again. The notes were not lost. They seemed now to be burned in upon my
brain.
The power has been put into your hands to save life, said my conscience,
and you are resolving to let it perish. What have you to do with the
fact that the nature is mean, selfish, cruel? It is the physical life
simply that you have to deal with. What is beyond that rests in the
hands of God. What He is about to do with this soul is no question for
you. Your office pledges you to cure him if you can, and the fulfilment
of this duty is required of you. If you let this man die, you are a
murderer.
But, I said in answer to myself, consider what trivial chances the whole
thing has hung upon. Besides the accident that this was my mother's
malady, there was the chance of Lowry not being called from home. The
man was his patient, not mine. After that there was the chance of Jack
going to see him, instead of me; or of him refusing my attendance. If
the chain had broken at one of these links, no responsibility could have
fallen upon me. He would have died, and all the good results of his
death would have followed naturally. Let it rest at that.
But it could not rest at that. I fought a battle with myself all through
the quiet night, motionless and in silence, lest Jack should become
aware that I was not sleeping. How should I ever face him, or grasp his
hearty hand again, with such a secret weight upon my soul? Yet how could
I resolve to save Foster at the cost of dooming Olivia to a life-long
bondage should he discover where she was, or to life-long poverty should
she remain concealed? If I were only sure that she was alive! But if she
were dead--why, then all motive for keeping back this chance of saving
him would be taken away. It was for her sake merely that I hesitated.
For her sake, but for my own as well, said my conscience; for the subtle
hope, which had taken deeper root day by day, that by-and-by the only
obstacle between us would be removed. Suppose then that he was dead, and
Olivia was free to love me, to become my wife. Would not her very
closeness to me be a reproving presence forever at my side? Could I ever
recall the days before our marriage, as men recall them when they are
growing gray and wrinkled, as a happy golden time? Would there not
always be a haunting sense of perfidy, and disloyalty to duty, standing
between me and her clear truth and singleness of heart? There could be
no happiness for me, even with Olivia, my cherished and honored wife, if
I had this weight and cloud resting upon my conscience.
The morning dawned before I could decide. The decision, when made,
brought no feeling of relief or triumph to me. As soon as it was
probable that Dr. Senior could see me; I was at his house at Fulham; and
in rapid, almost incoherent words laid what I believed to be my
important discovery before him. He sat thinking for some time, running
over in his own mind such cases as had come under his own observation.
After a while a gleam of pleasure passed over his face, and his eyes
brightened as he looked at me.
"I congratulate you, Martin," he said, "though I wish Jack had hit upon
this. I believe it will prove a real benefit to our science. Let me turn
it over a little longer, and consult some of my colleagues about it. But
I think you are right. You are about to try it on poor Foster?"
"Yes," I answered, with a chilly sensation in my veins, the natural
reaction upon the excitement of the past night.
"It can do him no harm," he said, "and in my opinion it will prolong his
life to old age, if he is careful of himself. I will write a paper on
the subject for the _Lancet_, if you will allow me."
"With all my heart," I said sadly.
The old physician regarded me for a minute with his keen eyes, which had
looked through the window of disease into many a human soul. I shrank
from the scrutiny, but I need not have done so. He grasped my hand
firmly and closely in his own.
"God bless you, Martin!" he said, "God bless you!"