There was a man lay upon the road in the darkness of the night for
some five or six minutes, and a horse galloped away snorting, with a
broken bridle hanging at his head, on the way towards the park of Sir
Philip Hastings. Had any carriage come along, the man who was lying
there must have been run over; for the night was exceedingly dark, and
the road narrow. All was still and silent, however. No one was seen
moving--not a sound was heard except the distant clack of a water-mill
which lay further down the valley. There was a candle in a cottage
window at about a hundred yards' distance, which shot a dim and feeble
ray athwart the road, but shed no light on the spot where the man lay.
At the end of about six minutes, a sort of convulsive movement showed
that life was not yet extinct in his frame--a sort of heave of the
chest, and a sudden twitch of the arm; and a minute or two after, John
Ayliffe raised himself on his elbow, at put his hand to his head.
"Curse the brute," he said, in a wandering sort of way, "I wonder,
Shanks, you don't--damn it, where am I?--what's the matter? My side
and leg are cursed sore, and my head all running round."
He remained in the same position for a moment or two more, and then
got upon his feet; but the instant he did so he fell to the ground
again with a deep groan, exclaiming, "By--, my leg's broken, and I
believe my ribs too. How the devil shall I get out of this scrape?
Here I may lie and die, without any body ever coming near me. That is
old Jenny Best's cottage, I believe. I wonder if I could make the old
canting wretch hear," and he raised his voice to shout, but the pain
was two great. His ribs were indeed broken, and pressing upon his
lungs, and all that he could do was to lie still and groan.
About a quarter of an hour after, however, a stunt, middle-aged
man--rather, perhaps, in the decline of life--came by, carrying a
hand-basket, plodding at a slow and weary pace as if he had had a long
walk.
"Who's that? Is any one there?" said a feeble voice, as he approached;
and he ran up, exclaiming, "Gracious me, what is the matter? Are you
hurt, sir? What has happened?"
"Is that you, Best?" said the feeble voice of John Ayliffe, "my horse
has reared and fallen over with me. My leg is broken, and the bone
poking through, and my ribs are broken too, I think."
"Stay a minute, Sir John," said the good countryman, "and I'll get
help, and we'll carry you up to the Hall."
"No, no," answered John Ayliffe, who had now had time for thought,
"get a mattress, or a door, or something, and carry me into your
cottage. If your son is at home, he and you can carry me. Don't send
for strangers."
"I dare say he is at home, sir," replied the man. "He's a good lad,
sir, and comes home as soon as his work's done. I will go and see. I
won't be a minute."
He was as good as his word, and in less than a minute returned with
his son, bringing a lantern and a straw mattress.
Not without inflicting great pain, and drawing forth many a heavy
groan, the old man and the young one placed John Ayliffe on the
paliasse, and carried him into the cottage, where he was laid upon
young Best's bed in the back room. Good Jenny Best, as John Ayliffe
had called her--an excellent creature as ever lived--was all kindness
and attention, although to say truth the suffering man had not shown
any great kindness to her and hers in his days of prosperity. She was
eager to send off her son immediately for the surgeon, and did so in
the end; but to the surprise of the whole of the little cottage party,
it was not without a great deal of reluctance and hesitation that John
Ayliffe suffered this to be done. They showed him, however, that he
must die or lose his limb if surgical assistance was not immediately
procured, and he ultimately consented, but told the young man
repeatedly not to mention his name even to the surgeon on any account,
but simply to say that a gentleman had been thrown by his horse, and
brought into the cottage with his thigh broken. He cautioned father
and mother too not to mention the accident to any one till he was well
again, alluding vaguely to reasons that he had for wishing to conceal
it.
"But, Sir John," replied Best himself, "your horse will go home,
depend upon it, and your servants will not know where you are, and
there will be a fuss about you all over the country."
"Well, then, let them make a fuss," said John Ayliffe, impatiently. "I
don't care--I will not have it mentioned."
All this seemed very strange to the good wan and his wife, but they
could only open their eyes and stare, without venturing farther to
oppose the wishes of their guest.
It seemed a very long time before the surgeon made his appearance, but
at length the sound of a horse's feet coming fast, could be
distinguished, and two minutes after the surgeon was in the room. He
was a very good man, though not the most skilful of his profession,
and he was really shocked and confounded when he saw the state of Sir
John Hastings, as he called him. Wanting confidence in himself, he
would fain have sent off immediately for farther assistance, but John
Ayliffe would not hear of such a thing, and the good man went to work
to set the broken limb as best he might, and relieve the anguish of
the sufferer. So severe, however, were the injuries which had been
received, that notwithstanding a strong constitution, as yet but
little impaired by debauchery, the patient was given over by the
surgeon in his own mind from the first. He remained with him, watching
him all night, which passed nearly without sleep on the part of John
Ayliffe; and in the course of the long waking hours he took an
opportunity of enjoining secrecy upon the surgeon as to the accident
which had happened to him, and the place where he was lying. Not less
surprised was the worthy man than the cottager and his wife had been
at the young gentleman's exceeding anxiety for concealment, and as his
licentious habits were no secret in the country round, they all
naturally concluded that the misfortune which had overtaken him had
occurred in the course of some adventure more dangerous and
disgraceful than usual.
Towards morning John Ayliffe fell into a sort of semi-sleep, restless
and perturbed, speaking often without reason having guidance of his
words, and uttering many things which, though disjointed and often
indistinct, showed the good man who had watched by him that the mind
was as much affected as the body. He woke confused and wandering about
eight o'clock, but speedily returned to consciousness of his
situation, and insisted, notwithstanding the pain he was suffering,
upon examining the money which was in his pockets to see that it was
all right. Vain precaution! He was never destined to need it more.
Shortly after the surgeon left him, but returned at night again to
watch by his bedside. The bodily symptoms which he now perceived would
have led him to believe that a cure was possible, but there was a deep
depression of mind, a heavy irritable sombreness, from the result of
which the surgeon augured much evil. He saw that there was some
terrible weight upon the young man's heart, but whether it was fear or
remorse or disappointment he could not tell, and more than once he
repeated to himself, "He wants a priest as much as a physician."
Again the surgeon would often argue with himself in regard to the
propriety of telling him the very dangerous state in which he was. "He
may at any time become delirious," he said, "and lose all power of
making those dispositions and arrangements which, I dare say, have
never been thought of in the time of health and prosperity. Then,
again, his house and all that it contains is left entirely in the
hands of servants-a bad set too, as ever existed, who are just as
likely to plunder and destroy as not; but on the other hand, if I tell
him it may only increase his dejection and cut off all hope of
recovery. Really I do not know what to do. Perhaps it would be better
to wait awhile, and if I should see more unfavorable symptoms and no
chance left, it will then be time enough to tell him his true
situation and prepare his mind for the result."
Another restless, feverish night passed, another troubled sleep
towards morning, and then John Ayliffe woke with a start, exclaiming,
"You did not tell them I was here--lying here unable to stir, unable
to move--I told you not, I told you not. By--" and then he looked
round, and seeing none but the surgeon in the room, relapsed into
silence.
The surgeon felt his pulse, examined the bandages, and saw that a
considerable and unfavorable change had taken place; but yet he
hesitated. He was one of those men who shrink from the task of telling
unpleasant truths. He was of a gentle and a kindly disposition, which
even the necessary cruelties of surgery had not been able to harden.
"He may say what he likes," he said, "I must have some advice as to
how I should act. I will go and talk with the parson about the matter.
Though a little lacking in the knowledge of the world, yet Dixwell is
a good man and a sincere Christian. I will see him as I go home, but
make him promise secrecy in the first place, as this young baronet is
so terribly afraid of the unfortunate affair being known. He will die,
I am afraid, and that before very long, and I am sure he is not in a
fit state for death." With this resolution he said some soothing words
to his patient, gave him what he called a composing draught, and sent
for his horse from a neighboring farm-house, where he had lodged it
for the night. He then rode at a quiet, thoughtful pace to the
parsonage house at the gates of the park, and quickly walked in. Mr.
Dixwell was at breakfast, reading slowly one of the broad sheets of
the day as an especial treat, for they seldom found their way into his
quiet rectory; but he was very glad to see the surgeon, with whom he
often contrived to have a pleasant little chat in regard to the
affairs of the neighborhood.
"Ah, Mr. Short, very glad to see you, my good friend. How go things in
your part of the world? We are rather in a little bustle here, though
I think it is no great matter."
"What is it, Mr. Dixwell?" asked the surgeon.
"Only that wild young man, Sir John Hastings," said the clergyman,
"left his house suddenly on horseback the night before last, and has
never returned. But he is accustomed to do all manner of strange
things, and has often been out two or three nights before without any
one knowing where he was. The butler came down and spoke to me about
it, but I think there was a good deal of affectation in his alarm, for
when I asked him he owned his master had once been away for a whole
week."
"Has his horse come back?" asked the surgeon.
"Not that I know of," replied Mr. Dixwell. "I suppose the man would
have mentioned it if such had been the case. But what is going on at
Hartwell?"
"Nothing particular," said the surgeon, "only Mrs. Harrison brought
to bed of twins on Saturday night at twenty minutes past eleven. I
think all those Harrisons have twins--but I have something to talk to
you about, my good friend, a sort of case of conscience I want to put
to you. Only you must promise me profound secrecy."
Mr. Dixwell laughed--"What, under the seal of confession?" he said.
"Well, well, I am no papist, as you know, Short, but I'll promise and
do better than any papist does, keep my word when I have promised
without mental reservation."
"I know you will, my good friend," answered the surgeon, "and this is
no jesting matter, I can assure you. Now listen, my good friend,
listen. Not many evenings ago, I was sent for suddenly to attend a
young man who had met with an accident, a very terrible accident too.
He had a compound fracture of the thigh, three of his ribs broken, and
his head a good deal knocked about, but the cranium uninjured. I had
at first tolerable hope of his recovery; but he is getting much worse
and I fear that he will die."
"Well, you can't help that," said Mr. Dixwell, "men will die in spite
of all you can do, Short, just as they will sin in spite of all I can
say."
"Ay, there's the rub," said the surgeon, "I fear he has sinned a very
tolerably sufficient quantity, and I can see that there is something
or another weighing very heavy on his mind, which is even doing great
harm to his body."
"I will go and see him, I will go and see him," said Mr. Dixwell, "it
will do him good in all ways to unburden his conscience, and to hear
the comfortable words of the gospel."
"But the case is, Mr. Dixwell," said Short, "that he has positively
forbidden me to let any of his friends know where he lies, or to speak
of the accident to any one."
"Pooh, nonsense," said the clergyman, "if a man has fractured his
skull and you thought it fit to trepan him, would you ask him whether
he liked it or not? If the young man is near death, and his conscience
is burdened, I am the physician who should be sent for rather than
you."
"I fancy his conscience is burdened a good deal," said Mr. Short,
thoughtfully; "nay, I cannot help thinking that he was engaged in some
very bad act at the time this happened, both from his anxiety to
conceal from every body where he now lies, and from various words he
has dropped, sometimes in his sleep, sometimes when waking confused
and half delirious. What puzzles me is, whether I should tell him his
actual situation or not."
"Tell him, tell him by all means," said Mr. Dixwell, "why should you
not tell him?"
"Simply because I think that it will depress his mind still more,"
replied the surgeon, "and that may tend to deprive him even of the
very small chance that exists of recovery."
"The soul is of more value than the body," replied the clergyman,
earnestly; "if he be the man you depict, my friend, he should have as
much time as possible to prepare--he should have time to repent--ay,
and to atone. Tell him by all means, or let me know where he is to be
found, and I will tell him."
"That I must not do," said Mr. Short, "for I am under a sort of
promise not to tell; but if you really think that I ought to tell him
myself, I will go back and do it."
"If I really think!" exclaimed Mr. Dixwell, "I have not the slightest
doubt of it. It is your bounden duty if you be a Christian. Not only
tell him, my good friend, but urge him strongly to send for some
minister of religion. Though friends may fail him, and he may not wish
to see them--though all worldly supports may give way beneath him, and
he may find no strengthening--though all earthly hopes may pass away,
and give him no mortal cheer, the gospel of Christ can never fail to
support, and strengthen, and comfort, and elevate. The sooner he knows
that his tenement of clay is falling to the dust of which it was
raised, the better will be his readiness to quit it, and it is wise,
most wise, to shake ourselves free altogether from the dust and
crumbling ruins of this temporal state, ere they fall upon our heads
and bear us down to the same destruction as themselves."
"Well, well, I will go back and tell him," said Mr. Short, and bidding
the good rector adieu, he once more mounted his horse and rode away.
Now Mr. Dixwell was an excellent good man, but he was not without
certain foibles, especially those that sometimes accompany
considerable simplicity of character. "I will see which way he takes,"
said Mr. Dixwell, "and go and visit the young man myself if I can find
him out;" and accordingly he marched up stairs to his bedroom, which
commanded a somewhat extensive prospect of the country, and traced the
surgeon, as he trotted slowly and thoughtfully along. He could not
actually see the cottage of the Bests, but he perceived that the
surgeon there passed over the brow of the hill, and after waiting for
several minutes, he did not catch any horseman rising upon the
opposite slope over which the road was continued. Now there was no
cross road in the hollow and only three houses, and therefore Mr.
Dixwell naturally concluded that to one of those three houses the
surgeon had gone.
In the mean while, Mr. Short rode on unconscious that his movements
were observed, and meditating with a troubled mind upon the best means
of conveying the terrible intelligence he had to communicate. He did
not like the task at all; but yet he resolved to perform it manfully,
and dismounting at the cottage door, he went in again. There was
nobody within but the sick man and good old Jenny Best. The old woman
was at the moment in the outer room, and when she saw the surgeon she
shook her head, and said in a low voice, "Ah, dear, I am glad you have
come back again, sir, he does not seem right at all."
"Who's that?" said the voice of John Ayliffe; and going in, Mr. Short
closed the doors between the two rooms.
"There, don't shut that door," said John Ayliffe, "it is so infernally
close--I don't feel at all well, Mr. Short--I don't know what's the
matter with me. It's just as if I had got no heart. I think a glass of
brandy would do me good."
"It would kill you," said the surgeon.
"Well," said the young man, "I'm not sure that would not be best for
me--come," he continued sharply, "tell me how long I am to lie here on
my back?"
"That I cannot tell, Sir John," replied the surgeon, "but at all
events, supposing that you do recover, and that every thing goes well,
you could not hope to move for two or three months."
"Supposing I was to recover!" repeated John Ayliffe in a low tone, as
if the idea of approaching death had then, for the first time, struck
him as something real and tangible, and not a mere name. He paused
silently for an instant, and then asked almost fiercely, "what brought
you back?"
"Why, Sir John, I thought it might be better for us to have a little
conversation," said the surgeon. "I can't help being afraid, Sir John,
that you may have a great number of things to settle, and that not
anticipating such a very severe accident, your affairs may want a good
deal of arranging. Now the event of all sickness is uncertain, and an
accident such as this especially. It is my duty to inform you," he
continued, rising in resolution and energy as he proceeded, "that your
case is by no means free from danger--very great danger indeed."
"Do you mean to say that I am dying?" asked John Ayliffe, in a hoarse
voice.
"No, no, not exactly dying," said the surgeon, putting his hand upon
his pulse, "not dying I trust just yet, but--"
"But I shall die, you mean?" cried the other.
"I think it not at all improbable," answered the surgeon, gravely,
"that the case may have a fatal result."
"Curse fatal results," cried John Ayliffe, giving way to a burst of
fury; "why the devil do you come back to tell me such things and make
me wretched? If I am to die, why can't you let me die quietly and know
nothing about it?"
"Why, Sir John, I thought that you might have many matters to settle,"
answered the surgeon somewhat irritated, "and that your temporal and
your spiritual welfare also required you should know your real
situation."
"Spiritual d----d nonsense!" exclaimed John Ayliffe, furiously; "I
dare say it's all by your folly and stupidity that I am likely to die
at all. Why I hear of men breaking their legs and their ribs every day
and being none the worse for it."
"Why, Sir John, if you do not like my advice you need not have it,"
answered the surgeon; "I earnestly wished to send for other
assistance, and you would not let me."
"There, go away, go away and leave me," said John Ayliffe; but as the
surgeon took up his hat and walked towards the door, he added, "come
again at night. You shall be well paid for it, never fear."
Mr. Short made no reply, but walked out of the room.