LIFE OR DEATH?
Mr. Ryle was carried home on the mattress, and laid on the large table
in the sitting-room, by the surgeon's directions. Mrs. Ryle,
clear-headed and of calm judgment, had sent for medical advice even
before sending for her husband. The only doctor available for immediate
purposes was Mr. King, who lived about half-way between the farm and the
village. He attended at once, and was at the house before his patient.
Mrs. Ryle had sent also to Barmester for another surgeon, but he could
not arrive just yet. It was by Mr. King's direction that the mattress
was placed on the large table in the parlour.
"Better there; better there," acquiesced the sufferer, when he heard the
order given. "I don't know how they'd get me up the stairs."
Mr. King, a man getting in years, was left alone with his patient. The
examination over, he came forth from the room and sought Mrs. Ryle, who
was waiting for the report.
"The internal injuries are extensive, I fear," he said. "They lie
chiefly here"--touching his chest and right side.
"Will he _live_, Mr. King?" she interrupted. "Do not temporise, but let
me know the truth. Will he live?"
"You have asked me a question I cannot yet answer," returned the
surgeon. "My examination has been hasty and superficial: I was alone,
and knew you were anxiously waiting. With the help of Mr. Benage, we may
be able to arrive at some decisive opinion. I fear the injuries are
serious."
Yes, they were serious; and nothing could be done, as it seemed, to
remedy them or alleviate the pain. Mr. Ryle lay helpless on the bed,
giving vent to his regret and anguish in somewhat homely phraseology. It
was the phraseology of this simple farmhouse; that to which he had been
accustomed; and he was not likely to change it now. Gentlemen by birth
and pedigree, he and his father had been content to live as plain
farmers only, in language as well as work.
He lay groaning, lamenting his imprudence, now that it was too late, in
venturing within the reach of that dangerous animal. The rest waited
anxiously and restlessly the appearance of the surgeon. For Mr. Benage
of Barmester had a world-wide reputation, and such men seem to bring
consolation with them. If any one could apply healing remedies and save
his life, it was Mr. Benage.
George Ryle had taken up his station at the garden gate. His hands
clasped, his head lying lightly upon them, he was listening for the
sound of the gig which had been despatched to Barmester. Nora at length
came out to him.
"You'll catch cold, George, out here in the keen night air."
"The air won't hurt me to-night. Listen, Nora! I thought I heard
something. They might be back again by this."
He was right. The gig was bowling swiftly along, containing the
well-known surgeon and messenger despatched for him. The surgeon, a
little man, quick and active, was out of the gig before it had well
stopped, passed George and Nora with a nod, and entered the house.
A short time, and the worst was known. There would be but a few more
hours of life for Mr. Ryle.
Mr. King would remain, doing what he could to comfort, to soothe pain.
Mr. Benage must return to Barmester, for he was wanted there.
Refreshment was offered him, but he declined it. Nora waylaid him in the
garden as he was going down.
"Will the master see to-morrow's sun, sir?"
"It's rising now; he may do so. He will not see its setting."
Can you picture to yourselves what that night was for the house and its
inmates? In the parlour, gathered round the table on which lay the dying
man supported by pillows and covered with blankets, were Mrs. Ryle,
George and Trevlyn, the surgeon, and sometimes Nora. In the outer room
was collected a larger group: John Pinder, the men who had borne him
home, and Molly; with a few others whom the news of the accident had
brought together.
Mrs. Ryle stood near her husband. George and Trevlyn seemed scarcely to
know what to do with themselves; and Mr. King sat in a chair in the
recess of the bay window. Mr. Ryle looked grievously wan, and the
surgeon administered medicine from time to time.
"Come here, my boys," he suddenly said. "Come close to me."
They approached as he spoke, and leaned over him. He took a hand of
each. George swallowed down his tears in the best way that he could.
Trevlyn looked frightened.
"Children, I am going. It has pleased God to cut me off in the midst of
my career, just when I had least thought of death. I don't know how it
will be with you, my dear ones, or how it will be with the old home.
Chattaway can sell up everything if he chooses; and I fear there's
little hope but he will do it. If he would let your mother stay on, she
might keep things together, and get clear of him in time. George will be
growing into more of a man every day, and may soon learn to be useful in
the farm, if his mother thinks well to trust him. Maude, you'll do your
best for them? For him, as for the younger ones?"
"I will," said Mrs. Ryle.
"Ay, I know you will. I leave them all to you, and you will act for the
best. I think it's well George should be upon the farm, as I am taken
from it; but you and he will see to that. Treve, you must do the best
you can in whatever station you may be called to. I don't know what it
will be. My boys, there's nothing before you but work. Do you understand
that?"
"Fully," was George's answer. Treve seemed too bewildered to give one.
"To work with all your might; your shoulders to the wheel. Do your best
in all ways. Be honest and single-hearted in the sight of God; work for
Him whilst you are working for yourselves, and then He will prosper you.
I wish I had worked for Him more than I have done!"
A pause, broken only by George, who could no longer control his sobs.
"My days seem to have been made up of nothing but struggling, and
quarrelling, and care. Struggling to keep my head above water, and
quarrelling with Chattaway. The end seemed far-off, ages away, something
as heaven seems. And now the end's come, and heaven's come--that is, I
must set out upon the journey that leads to it. I fear the end comes to
many as suddenly; cutting them off in their carelessness and their sins.
Do not spend your days in quarrelling, my boys; be working on a bit for
the end whilst time is given you. I don't know how it will be in the
world I am about to enter. Some fancy that when once we have entered it,
we shall see what is going on here, in our families and homes. For that
thought, if for no other, I would ask you to try and keep right. If you
were to go wrong, think how it would grieve me! I should always be
thinking that I might have trained you better, and had not done so.
Children! it is only when we come to lie here that we see all our
shortcomings. You would not like to grieve me, George?"
"Oh, no! no!" said George, his sobs deepening. "Indeed I will try to do
my best. I shall be always thinking that perhaps you are watching me."
"One greater than I is always watching you, George. And that is God. Act
well in His sight; not in mine. Doctor, I must have some more of that
stuff. I feel a strange sinking."
Mr. King rose, poured some drops into a wine-glass of water, and
administered them. The patient lay a few moments, and then took his
sons' hands, as before.
"And now, children, for my last charge to you. Reverence and love your
mother. Obey her in all things. George, she is not your own mother, but
you have never known another, and she has been as one to you. Listen to
her always, and she will lead you aright. If I had listened to her, I
shouldn't be lying where I am now. A week or two ago I wanted the
character of that outdoor man from Chattaway. 'Don't go through that
field,' she said before I started. 'Better keep where the bull can't
touch you.' Do you remember, Maude?"
Mrs. Ryle simply bowed her head in reply. She was feeling the scene
deeply, but emotion she would not show.
"I heeded what your mother said, and went up to Chattaway's, avoiding
the fields," resumed Mr. Ryle. "This last afternoon, when I was going up
again and had got to the field gate, I turned into it, for it cut off a
few steps, and my temper was up. I thought of what your mother would
say, as I swung in, but it didn't stop me. It must have been that red
neckerchief that put him up, for I was no sooner over the gate than he
bellowed savagely and butted at me. It was all over in a minute; I was
in the ditch, and he went on, bellowing and tossing and tearing at the
cloth. If you go there to-morrow, you'll see it in shreds about the
field. Children, obey your mother; there'll be still greater necessity
for it when I am gone."
The boys had been obedient hitherto. At least, George had been: Trevlyn
was too indulged to be perfectly so. George promised that he would be so
still.
"I wish I could have seen the little wench," resumed the dying man, the
tears gathering on his eyelashes. "But it may be for the best that she's
away, for I should hardly have borne parting with her. Maude! George!
Treve! I leave her to you all. Do the best you can by her. I don't know
that she'll be spared to grow up, for she's a delicate little mite: but
that is as God pleases. I wish I could have stayed with you all a bit
longer--if it's not sinful to wish contrary to God's will. Is Mr. King
there?"
Mr. King had resumed his seat in the bay window, and was partially
hidden by the curtain. He came forward. "Is there anything I can do for
you, Mr. Ryle?"
"You would oblige me by writing out a few directions. I should like to
write them myself, but it is impossible; you'll enter the sentences just
as I speak them. I have not made my will. I put it off, and put it off,
thinking I could do it at any time; but now the end's come, and it is
not done. Death surprises a great many, I fear, as he has surprised me.
It seems that if I could only have one day more of health, I would do
many things I have left undone. You shall write down my wishes, doctor.
It will do as well; for there's only themselves, and they won't dispute
one with the other. Let a little table be brought, and pen, ink, and
paper."
He lay quiet whilst these directions were obeyed, and then began again.
"I am in very little pain, considering that I am going; not half as much
as when I lay in that ditch. Thank God for it! It might have been that I
could not have left a written line, or said a word of farewell to you.
There's sure to be a bit of blue sky in the darkest trouble; and the
more implicitly we trust, the more blue sky we shall find. I have not
been what I ought to be, especially in the matter of disputing with
Chattaway--not but that Chattaway's hardness has been in fault. But God
is taking me from a world of care, and I trust He will forgive all my
shortcomings for our Saviour's sake. Is everything ready?"
"All is ready," said Mr. King.
"Then leave me alone with the doctor a short time, dear ones," he
resumed. "We shall not keep you out long."
Nora, who had brought in the things required, held the door open for
them to pass through. The pinched look that the face, lying there, was
assuming, struck upon her ominously.
"After all, the boy was right," she murmured. "The scratched hole was
not meant for Jim Sanders."