The Strand Magazine/Volume 3/Issue 17/Dr. Freston's Brother
WAS Sister in a large male surgical ward of a well-known hospital in the North of England at the time when the following incident occurred.
A few months previously one of those disastrous colliery explosions, only too common in our neighbourhood, had taken place, and eight of the men, poor fellows, all badly injured, had been brought into the Martin ward. We all had a heavy time of it, and our house-surgeon—never very strong—had completely broken down under the strain of his devoted attention to his patients.
He had the satisfaction of seeing all the cases (with one exception) fairly started on the road to convalescence before he too came on the sick list, and was ordered absolute rest for several months. No man ever deserved a rest more than he.
By his constant and unwearied labours of love he had earned the blessing pronounced on Abou Ben Adhem as "one who loved his fellow men." We all greatly missed his cheery presence in the wards, and felt small interest in the doctor who came as his "locum," feeling sure that no one could take his place.
Dr. Freston, the temporary house-surgeon, however, made a favourable impression on his arrival, and soon showed that he thoroughly knew his work. He had a quiet, reserved manner, and we had worked together some days before I learned anything more about him. Then an accident, if there is such a thing, showed me the real man. One evening, on going his rounds, I reported a new case just come in, to him. It was a man who had been found lying in the road. He had evidently fallen against the curb-stone, and had received a scalp wound. That he was a stranger in the town was proved by some papers in his pocket, showing him to have been discharged from a sailing vessel at Hull a few days previously.
"I have not made out his history yet," I said, "he seems to be very poor, and apparently has no friends."
"No friends," repeated Dr. Freston, with an expression I had not seen on his face before. "Very few of us realise what those words mean, Sister. It means more than mere friendlessness. It means a man's life without any influence for good upon it—no restraint to keep him from sinking to the lowest depths. No anchor to hold him back from suffering shipwreck on the rocks which surround us all. Some seen, and some hidden ones more dangerous than all. No—." He seemed to have forgotten he was speaking to me, and remembering, checked himself.
"We see so many of such lives in our work," I said.
"Yes," he said slowly and absently, as if his thoughts were far away, "it must always be a sad sight, even if those who suffer are utter strangers to us."
He paused, then turned round to face me, and spoke more quickly, as if he wished to force himself to say something.
"To me it is the most painful sight of all, because I am haunted by the feeling that somewhere in this world there may now be a man who is friendless and alone through my fault. Every fresh face I see I think may be his. Every morning I wake with the thought that I may see it before night."
I looked at him with intense interest. My woman's instinct, which so seldom errs, told me that he had never spoken of this to anyone before, and that it was a great relief to speak of it now.
I longed to hear more. He seemed to read the sympathy expressed in my face, and went on more quietly.
"I had a younger brother."
"I had a younger brother. There were only the two of us. I was older by three years, and both in appearance and character we were totally unlike. He had been spoilt by my father, who always let him have his own way, chiefly, I fancy, on account of the strong likeness he bore to our mother, who died when we were quite young. I was at Oxford, reading for a degree previous to entering the hospital, when my father died, and I—but do I bore you? I have no right to inflict all this on you; but somehow you always look as if you were used to hearing other people's troubles, I notice everyone comes to you."
"Please, go on;" I could not say more.
"My father had had a nasty fall in the hunting field, and was almost at the last before I got to him. All his affairs were in perfect order, but he was anxious about Jack—always his first thought.
"You will look after him, Tom," he said: "promise me you will look after him. If you promise, I know you won't go back; a promise is a promise with you, Tom; I could always trust you."
I did promise again and again, and, God knows, I meant to keep my word, and my old father died quite happy, with my promise still sounding in his ears, and his eyes resting to the last on his darling Jack. He never doubted me for a moment. How could he forsee? I am thankful he died happy. Do you think he knows now, Sister, how I kept my word?
I shook my head, but did not speak.
"I went back to Oxford and Jack entered the same college. That was the mistake. At a distance—if I had only seen him now and then—we might have got on well enough; but at my elbow, always bursting into my room when I wanted to read, filling his room with friends as noisy and light-hearted as himself, spending money recklessly on all sides, and turning everything I said into a joke—all this was a daily annoyance to me. It grew intolerable. I had no sympathy at all with any of his pursuits, and I grew more cold and more reserved, until one day, exasperated more than usual, I told him that if he wanted to go to the dogs he might go by himself. His temper was as quick as mine. His sharp answer drew a sharper one from me, which roused him to a fury. 'You won't see me again, so you need not trouble your head about it. I can work for myself,' and he was gone. Even then, Sister, if I had gone after him, I might have stopped him; but I was mad with him, and was glad that he was gone. As glad then to hear that he was gone as I should be glad now to hear that once again on this earth I might hope to see his face. I live for that, and one day it may come."
"And you never heard of him again?"
"No sound from that day to this. He went without money, and he could draw none except through me."
"Perhaps," I suggested, utterly at a loss what to say, "he found some work, or—"
"You won't see me again."
"Work! Jack never did a day's work in his life; he was not made to work."
"Do you think that some of his friends—" I began rather hopelessly.
No," he replied, with a deep tone of sadness in his voice; "no; not one of his friends ever heard of him—that's four—no, five years ago. Five years—and night and day I think of those words, 'You will look after Jack, Tom.'"
There was a silence I did not know how to break.
"I think, Sister," he added, looking up with eyes which long sorrow had filled with wonderful depth of expression, "I think I should have put an end to my life before now; but I knew father's first question would be, 'Have you looked after him, Tom?'"
The door opened to admit the stretcher with a new case from the surgery, and Dr. Freston was in a moment the professional man, absorbed in investigating the extent of the new arrival's injuries.
Before leaving the ward he turned to the bedside of the patient whose friendless condition had led to our conversation. He took down the head-card to fill up the details.
"Name, Sister?"
"George Thomas."
"Age?"
"I do not know, he looks about forty; but he is very weather-beaten."
The doctor glanced at the tanned, scarred face, nearly hidden by bandages, and stood hesitating, pen in hand.
"Occupation—do you know?"
"Sailor."
"No other particulars, Sister?"
He laid the card on the table, and wiped his pen carefully—a methodical and orderly man in every detail of his work.
"I only found a few coppers and these old papers in his pocket," I said, showing the contents of a pocket-book, much the worse for wear. One crumpled piece of paper had the words, '15, Back Wells-court, Hull,' written upon it; probably the address of his last lodging. I proceeded to unfold another piece, and found an old, plain, gold locket, worn thin and bright; one side was smooth, on the other was a monogram still faintly legible, 'J. F.'"
I felt it suddenly snatched from my hands.
Dr. Freston had seized it, and, carrying it quickly across the ward, turned the gas full on, and gazed on the locket with eyes that seemed to pierce it through.
"Look, Sister!" he said, and his strong hand shook as he held it towards me, "there can be no mistake. I remember this locket so well. Jack gave it to my father with his photograph inside before he went to school, and after father died Jack kept it. It was an old joke of theirs to take each other's things, because they were marked with the same initials. I could swear to this anywhere, and I see quite clearly how it came here. Jack met this man at Hull, perhaps he came off the same boat, and if he was hard up—but he must have been hard up before he would part with this, and then it's not much use to anyone else. No one would give a shilling for an old thing like this; but here it is, and here is the address of where the man stayed. It's the first clue I have ever had, Sister," and his face was bright with hope, "Jack may be still there, I must go without losing a minute. I may catch him before he goes on further. Is there anything else you want me for to-night?
He was already near the door. "No, not to-night; the others are all very comfortable. But do you not think it would be worth while to ask this man where he got the locket? It may not have been in Hull at all, and you would have the journey for nothing. Give me the locket, and I will ask him."
He handed it to me without appearing to follow what I had said.
The idea of his brother being within reach had taken such hold of his mind that he could hardly endure a minute's delay before going off to seek him.
I bent over No. 7's bed.
"I found this among your things."
"I found this among your things," I said. "Is it your own, or did someone sell it to you?"
He looked up quickly and suspiciously. "What do you want to know for?" he muttered.
"I only want to know whether the man who owned this first was with you at this address in Hull."
He looked at me sharply, and did not answer for a minute.
"Yes," he said slowly, "the man who owned that was there when I was," and he turned round as if unwilling to say more.
I had learned all I wished, and repeated the information to Dr. Freston.
"Thank you very much," he said simply. "Good night, Sister; I may not see you for a few days." He was already on the landing.
"Good night, Dr. Freston," but I doubt if he heard me. He was half way downstairs.
Next day Dr. Freston's work was done by the junior surgeon, and the ward routine went on as usual.
I could find out nothing more of No. 7's history, except that his real age was 28. He looked at least ten years older. He had knocked about a good deal in the world, he told some of his fellow patients.
His injuries proved to be very slight, and on the evening of the second day he was allowed to sit up for a short time.
On the day following, when it was growing dusk, the door of the ward opened, and Dr. Freston came quietly in.
I saw at a glance that he had not been successful in his search. There was nothing more to be learnt at that address, he told me. The people there remembered quite well a man who gave the name of George Thomas sleeping there for one night a week ago, but they were sure they had had no other lodger at the time. They knew nothing whatever about the man. He was evidently very poor, but had paid for what he had had.
I could see how keenly he felt his failure, and tried to say how grieved I was at his disappointment.
"I ought not to have built so many hopes upon so slight a foundation," he replied, with a poor attempt at a smile, and a tone of weary sorrow in his voice. "I have waited so long that I ventured to think that perhaps at last he—" then checking himself, and with an effort turning his thoughts elsewhere—"but I am late, Sister. I must catch up my work. Have you anything for me to-night?"
"Will you sign No. 7's paper? The wound was very superficial, and Mr. Jones discharged him this morning. He is anxious to get on."
"I must speak to him first; he may be able to tell me something more," and he turned towards No. 7, sitting by the fire, and for the first time looked him in the face—the first time for five years rather! for I saw Dr. Freston pause as if transfixed, and the next moment he was at his brother's side.
"Jack!" he said, "Jack!" and could not say another word.
But that was all he had to say. Jack had been the thought of his life, night and day, for five years. And, now Jack was here, and he held him fast, what should he say but repeat "Jack!" again and again, until he could realise that this was no dream, but rather the awakening to a better and happier life than he had known before? Jack said nothing at all. For one moment he had looked round as if wishing to escape; but, if he would, he could not. And where in the world that he had found so hard and merciless could he hope to meet the warm welcome which strove to find utterance in his brother's broken words; but, finding feeble outlet there, shone so unmistakably in his brother's happy eyes, which gazed on the ragged figure before him as if he could never look enough.
That is all the tale. It gave the patients something to talk about for a day or two, and was then forgotten, in the ward at least.
But there are three people from whose memories no act or word recorded here can ever be effaced. Need I name them? They are Dr. Freston; Jack, his brother; and myself, Tom Freston's wife.
"Jack!"