When Sir Richard Mortmain next opened his eyes after his fall he found
himself in his bedchamber. The curtains were tightly drawn, allowing
only a shimmer of sunshine to creep in and play upon the ceiling; an
unknown woman in a nurse's uniform was sitting motionless at the foot of
his bed; the air was heavy with the pungent odor of iodoform, and his
right arm, tightly bandaged and lying extended upon a wooden support
before him, throbbed with burning pains. Too weak to move, unable to
recall what had brought him to such a pass, he raised his eyebrows
inquiringly, and in reply the nurse laid her finger upon her lips and
reaching toward a stand beside the bed held a tumbler containing a glass
tube to the baronet's lips. Mortmain sucked the contents from the
tumbler and felt his pulse strengthen--then weakness manifested itself
and he sank back, his lips framing the unspoken question, "What has
happened?"
The nurse smiled--she was a pretty, plump young person--not the kind Sir
Richard favored (Burne-Jones was his type), and whispered:
"You have been unconscious over twelve hours. You must lie still. You
have had a bad fall and your hand is injured."
In some strange and unaccountable way the statement called to Mortmain's
fuddled senses a confused recollection of a scene in Hauptmann's "Die
Versunkene Glöcke," and half unconsciously he repeated the words:
"I _fell_. I--fe--l--l!"
"Yes, you did, indeed!" retorted the pretty nurse. "But Sir Penniston
will never forgive me if I let you talk. How is your arm?"
"It burns--and burns!" answered the baronet.
"That horrid vase crushed right through the palm. Rather a nasty wound.
But you will be all right presently. Do you wish anything?"
Suddenly complete mental capacity rushed back to him. The disagreeable
scene with Flaggs, the finding of the notes, the news of Russell's
murder, and his accident. The murder! He must learn the details. And the
notes. What had he done with them? He could not recollect, try hard as
he would. Were they on the table? His head whirled and he grew suddenly
faint. The nurse poured out another tumbler from a bottle and again held
the tube to his lips. How delicious and strengthening it was!
"Please get me a newspaper!" said Sir Richard.
"A newspaper!" cried the nurse. "Nonsense! I'll do no such thing!"
"Then please see if there are some papers in an envelope lying on the
writing table in my private study."
The nurse seemed puzzled. Where aristocratic patients were concerned,
particularly if they were in a weakened condition, she was accustomed to
accommodate them. She hesitated.
"At once!" added Sir Richard.
The nurse tiptoed out of the room, and in the course of a few moments
returned.
"The butler says that Mr. Flynt's clerk, a man named Faggs, or Flaggs,
or something of the sort, came back for them half an hour ago. He
explained that he thought Mr. Flynt might have left some papers by
mistake, and the butler supposed it was all right and let him have them.
The name of your solicitors was upon the envelope."
Sir Richard stared at her stupidly. A queer feeling of horror and
distrust pervaded him, the very same feeling which his first sight of
the clerk had inspired in him. What could Flaggs have known of the
notes? The clerk himself could not have committed the ghastly deed,
since he had been under arrest at the time--but might he not have been
an accomplice? Were the notes part of some terrible plot to enmesh
_him_, Sir Richard Mortmain, in the murder? Was it a scheme of
blackmail? The blood surged to his head and dimmed his eyesight. But why
had Flaggs taken them away? Had he left them on the street hoping that
Sir Richard would find them and bring them into the house, so that he
could testify to having found them in the study? But, if so, why had he
risked the possibility of their having been destroyed before he could
regain them? Such a supposition was most unlikely. It must have been
merely chance. The fellow had probably sneaked in simply to see what he
could find. And what had he found! A shiver of terror quenched for an
instant the burning of Mortmain's body. A horrible vision of himself
standing outside the window of Lord Gordon Russell took shape before
him. What if people should say--! He had been heard by Joyce and the
clerk to express his hatred of the old man and his willingness to kill
him. In addition there were the notes, overdue and about to be
protested, which Flaggs had found in his study within twelve hours of
Lord Russell's murder. Motive enough for any crime. Moreover, the
policeman had seen him loitering there at almost the exact moment of the
homicide!
These momentous facts came crashing down upon his brain with the weight
of stones, numbing for an instant his exquisite torture--then reason
reasserted herself. Lord Russell was dead. If circumstances seemed to
point in his direction, he had only to deny that the notes had been in
his possession, and certainly his word would be taken as against that of
the drunken clerk of a solicitor. Moreover, the notes were obviously not
in the possession of the executors. Should, by any chance, no memoranda
of them remain he might never be called upon to honor them. At all
events, his bankruptcy had, for the time at least, been averted. Even
were their existence known, legal procedure would intervene to give him
time to evolve some means of escape--perhaps, in default of aught else,
a marriage of convenience. Sir Richard, in spite of the burning pain in
his right arm, leaned back his head with a sensation of relief.
A soft knock came at the door and he heard the nurse's voice murmuring
in low tones; then the curtain was partially raised and he recognized
the figures of Sir Penniston Crisp and his young assistant.
"Ah, my dear Mortmain! When you left me yesterday morning I hardly
expected to see you so soon again. And how do you find yourself?" was
the baronet's cheery salutation.
Sir Richard smiled faintly.
"Rather a nasty wound," continued the surgeon. "Fickles, hand me those
bandage scissors. Well, we must take a look at it." And he seated
himself comfortably by the bedside.
Miss Fickles, who had elevated Sir Richard to a sitting posture, now
handed Sir Penniston the scissors, and the great physician leisurely cut
the bandage from the arm. Mortmain winced with pain and closed his eyes.
For an instant the outer air soothed the burning palm and forearm, then
the blood crept into the veins and the pain became veritable agony.
"Hm!" remarked Sir Penniston. "I must open this up. It needs attending
to."
He might well say so, for the edges of the wound showed tinges of
yellow, and the hand itself was torn pitifully.
"Scalscope, pass those instruments to Miss Fickles, and open that bottle
of somni-chloride. I shall have to give you a whiff of anæsthetic,
Mortmain. These little exploring expeditions are apt to be painful,
however gentle we try to be. Just enough to make you a mere
spectator--you will not lose consciousness. Wonderful, isn't it? I'm
afraid I shall have to pick out some slivers of bone and trim off the
edges a little. It will only take a moment or two. Then a nice bandage
and you will be quite at ease."
While Jermyn was emptying Sir Penniston's bag of its heterogeneous
contents, Miss Fickles boiled the surgeon's implements in a tray of
water over a tiny electric stove, and then arranged them in order upon a
soft bed of padded cotton. Scalscope pulled a table to the bedside, and
laid out with military precision rolls of linen, absorbents, antiseptic
gauze, scissors, tape, thread, needles, and finally the little bottle of
somni-chloride. The nurse lowered Sir Richard back upon the pillow and
quickly twisted a fresh towel into a cone.
"How science leaps onward," continued Sir Penniston, meditatively
taking the cone in his left hand. "Anodyne, ether, chloroform, nitrous
oxide, ethyl-chloride, and at last the greatest of all boons,
somni-chloride! And all within my lifetime--that is really the most
extraordinary part of it. Ah, what are the miracles of art to the
miracles of science? Think of being able at last, as you heard me
announce, to feel sure of never permanently losing a limb!"
He allowed a single drop from the bottle to fall into the cone. Even as
it descended it resolved itself into a lilac-colored volatile filling
the cone like a horn of plenty. Sir Penniston held it with a smile just
over Mortmain's head and suffered it to escape gently downward. At the
first faint odor the baronet felt a perfect calm steal over his tired
brain, at the second he seemed translated from his body and hovering
above it, retaining the while an almost supernatural acuteness of eye
and ear. Of bodily pain he felt nothing. Then Crisp inverted the cone
and poured out the lilac smoke in a faint iridescent cloud, which eddied
round the baronet's head and filled his nostrils with the sweet
fragrance of an old-fashioned garden. Its perfume almost smothered him,
and for a moment his eyes were blurred as if he had inhaled a breath of
strong ammonia. Then his sight cleared and he no longer smelled the
flowers. The surgeon laid down the cone and took up a small, thin knife.
"Fickles, hold the wrist; you, Scalscope, the fingers. Thank you, that
will do nicely."
Mortmain watched with fascinated interest as Sir Penniston applied the
point to his palm. Then the surgeon suddenly raised his head and looked
pityingly at Sir Richard. At the same moment the effect of the
somni-chloride began to wear off and the baronet felt a throbbing in
his hand. Jermyn also cast a glance of compassion at the patient, while
Miss Fickles turned away her head as if unable to bear the sight of his
suffering.
"My poor Mortmain," said the surgeon. "I fear you can never use this
hand again."
Mortmain caught his breath and choked.
"What do you mean?" he gasped, and the effort sent a sharp pain through
his lungs. "Not use my hand again?" His words sounded like the roar of a
waterfall.
"I fear you cannot. It is an ugly-looking wound. I am sorry to say you
will have to lose your hand. We shall be lucky if we can save the arm."
Mortmain felt an extraordinary pity for himself. He sobbed aloud. He had
been vaguely aware that certain unfortunate persons in lowly
circumstances occasionally lost their limbs. He was accustomed to
contribute handsomely toward the homes for cripples and the blind, but
he had never associated such an affliction with himself. He could not
appreciate the proximity of it. There must be a mistake--or an
alternative.
"No, no, no!" he exclaimed heavily. "Surely, you can restore my hand by
treatment. I do not care how painful or tedious it may be. Why, I _must_
have my hand. I have it now. Leave it as it is. I shall recover in
time."
Sir Penniston smiled cheerfully.
"I am sorry," he repeated, and Mortmain fancied that he detected a gleam
of exultation in his eye. "Nothing can save it. Gangrene has already set
in. The verdigris of the vase has poisoned the flesh. Do you think I
would trifle with you? That is not my business. Be a man. It is hard;
true enough. But it might be much worse."
"But my music!" cried Mortmain in agony. "I shall be a miserable
cripple! A fellow with an empty sleeve or a stuffed hand in a glove!
Horrible!" He groaned.
"You have still another," remarked the surgeon calmly. "Bind up this
arm," he ordered, turning sharply to Jermyn. "Mortmain, I shall have to
amputate your hand at the wrist within twelve hours. Do you desire a
consultation? I assure you any physician would unhesitatingly give the
same opinion. Still, if you desire----"
The room swam about the baronet, and for an instant the two surgeons
seemed like two ogres hovering aloft with bloodthirsty faces glowering
down at his helpless body.
Scalscope finished the bandage and tied the ends. Then he looked across
at Crisp and remarked:
"How fortunate, Sir Penniston, that your experiments have been concluded
in time to save Sir Richard. He will be the very first to benefit by
your great discovery!"
Crisp smiled responsively.
"What is that?" cried Mortmain. "Save me? What do you mean?"
"Merely this, Mortmain. That if you are willing I may still give you a
hand in place of this ruined one. It is possible, as I announced
yesterday, to graft another in its place."
Mortmain stared stupidly at Sir Penniston. A great weight seemed
stifling him.
"Did you really _mean_ it?" he gasped.
"Precisely," returned the surgeon. "It will be difficult, but not
particularly dangerous."
"Another's hand!" groaned the baronet.
"And why not?" eagerly continued the surgeon. "Surely some one will be
found who can be induced for a proper consideration to assist in an
operation that will restore to usefulness so distinguished a member of
society."
"But is it _right_?" gasped Mortmain. "Is it lawful to maim a
fellow-creature merely to serve oneself?" The idea disgusted him.
"As you please," remarked Crisp dryly. "If you are to avail yourself of
this opportunity, which has never been offered to another, you must say
so at once. If you are indifferent to the loss of your hand or distrust
my skill, there is nothing left but to amputate and be done with it."
"It cannot be right!" moaned Mortmain. "I know it is a wicked thing."
"Right?" sneered Crisp. "Why, I almost believe that it would be a sin if
I let this opportunity go by."
"What is that?" cried Miss Fickles sharply.
There was a sharp knock at the door and Ashley Flynt entered, with a
strange look on his face. Like a flash it occurred to Mortmain that the
solicitor had called to see him about the bankruptcy. He looked again,
and a terrible thought possessed him that it was for something else that
the lawyer had come. Was it about the murder? Was he already suspected?
Apprehension dwarfed the horror of Sir Penniston's suggestion.
"Ah, Flynt," said the surgeon, "I am glad you have come. You can advise
our friend here. I have offered to give him a new hand in place of the
one which he must lose. He's afraid that it is unlawful. Come, give us
an opinion!"
Flynt sank silently into an armchair and rested his finger tips lightly
together.
"Flynt," cried Mortmain, "what a terrible thing it is to deprive a
fellow-creature of a limb. Is it legal? Is it not criminal?"
Flynt gazed fixedly at Sir Richard for a moment without replying.
"Situations sometimes arise," he remarked in a toneless voice, "where
the results desired, even if they do not justify the means employed, at
least render legal opinions superfluous."
"I do not understand you," groaned Mortmain. "Do you mean that what Sir
Penniston proposes is a crime?"
"I mean that in a transaction of such moment the purely legal aspect of
the case may be of slight importance."
"Exactly!" exclaimed Sir Penniston, whose face had assumed an expression
of uneasiness. "To be sure! How plain he puts things, Mortmain. The law
does not concern us when the integrity of the human body is involved."
"But if I require and insist upon your advice?" continued Mortmain. "You
know that you are my solicitor."
"In a matter of this kind I should refuse to give an opinion in a
specific case touching the interest of a client," returned Flynt.
"I must know the law!" cried the baronet.
"Very well," replied Flynt. "I have examined the statutes and find that
the maiming of another (save where such maiming is necessary to preserve
his life or health), even with his consent, is a felony. That is the
law, if you must have it."
"Well, well!" exclaimed Crisp. "There are so many laws that one can't
help violating some of them every day. What an absurd statute! It only
shows how ignorant our legislators used to be! I am sure there were no
scientific men in Parliament. It is nonsensical."
Flynt gave a short laugh and arose.
"My dear Sir Richard," he remarked dryly, "this is entirely a matter for
your own conscience and that of your physician. I trust that you will
soon recover. I have an important engagement. I must beg you to excuse
me."
"Gad, sir," cried Crisp, making a wry face toward the door as it closed
behind the solicitor, "what a fellow that is! You might as well try to
wring juice out of a paving stone. I feel quite irritated by him."
"If I consent," said Mortmain, "do you think you can find a proper
person to--to----"
"My dear Mortmain," responded Sir Penniston eagerly, "leave that to us.
You may be sure that we shall accept no hand that is not perfect in
every way and adapted to your particular needs. You need give yourself
not the slightest uneasiness upon that score, I assure you. Of course,
you will have to pay for it, but I am convinced that in an affair of
this kind a satisfactory adjustment can easily be made--say, two hundred
pounds down and an annuity of fifty pounds. How does that strike you?
Why, it would be a godsend to many a poor fellow--say a clerk. He earns
a beggarly five pounds a month. You give him two hundred pounds and as
much a year for doing nothing as he was earning working ten hours a
day."
The pains in Mortmain's hand had begun again with renewed intensity and
his whole arm throbbed in response. He felt excited and feverish, and
his thoughts no longer came with the same clearness and consecutiveness
as before. It was evident to him that Crisp's diagnosis was correct. But
shocking as was the realization that he, who had been in the prime of
health but a few hours before, must now undergo a major operation, it
was as nothing compared with the moral difficulty in which he found
himself. All his inherited tendencies drew him back from a violation of
the law, particularly a violation which included the maiming of a
fellow-being; and so, for that matter, did all his acquired tastes and
characteristics. On the other hand, his confidence in Crisp's skill and
knowledge was such that he never for an instant doubted his ability
successfully to achieve that which he had proposed.
"But the law! The law!" cried Mortmain in a last and almost pathetic
effort to oppose that which he now in reality desired. Crisp laughed
almost sneeringly.
"What is the law? The law is for the general good, not the individual.
Are we to follow it blindly when to do so would be suicidal? Bah! The
law never dares transgress the sacred circle of a physician's
discretion."
"I suppose that is quite true!" exclaimed Sir Richard faintly. "I leave
it to you. Do as you think best. I will follow your instructions. But I
am suffering. My hand tortures me horribly. Let us have it over with as
soon as possible. How soon can you make your arrangements?"
"By this afternoon, Sir Richard."
Mortmain sank back. In his eagerness he had half raised himself from the
pillow, and now a sensation of nausea accompanied by dizziness took
possession of him. He saw things dimly and in distorted forms. There
was a strange roaring in his head as of a multitude of waters and he
perceived that Crisp and Jermyn were talking eagerly together. He caught
disconnected words muttered hurriedly in low tones. They moved slowly
toward the door and he distinctly heard Crisp say as they passed out:
"Yes, Flaggs is the very man!"
The words filled him with a nameless terror.
"Stop!" he cried, "stop! I will have nothing to do with that man--do you
hear? Stop! Comeback!" But the door closed, and Mortmain, helpless and
trembling, again fell back and shut his eyes.