The Trail of the Serpent/Book 2/Chapter 4
Chapter IV.
Jim looks over the Brink of the Terrible Gulf.
The light had gone down on the last of the days through which, according to the doctor's prophecy, Jim Lomax was to live to see that light.
Poor Jim's last sun sank to his rest upon such cloud-pillows of purple and red, and drew a curtain of such gorgeous colours round him in the western sky, as it would have very much puzzled any earthly monarch to have matched, though Buskin himself had chosen the colours, and Turner had been the man to lay them on. Of course some of this red sunset nickered and faded upon the chimney-pots and window-panes—rare luxuries, by the bye, those window-panes—of Blind Peter; but there it came in a modified degree only—this blessed sign-manual of an Almighty Power—as all earthly and heavenly blessings should come to the poor.
One ray of the crimson light fell full upon the face of the sick man, and slanted from him upon the dark hair of the girl, who sat on the ground in her old position by the bedside. This light, which fell on them and on no other object in the dusky room, seemed to unite them, as though it were a messenger from the sky that said, "They stand alone in the world, and never have been meant to stand asunder."
"It's a beautiful light, lass," said the sick man, "and I wonder I never cared more to notice or to watch it than I have. Lord, I've seen it many a time sinking behind the sharp edge of ploughed land, as if it had dug its own grave, and was glad to go down to it, and I've thought no more of it than a bit of candle; but now it seems such a beautiful light, and I feel as if I should like to see it again, lass."
"And you will—you will see it again, Jim." She drew his head upon her bosom, and stroked the rough hair away from his damp forehead. She was half dead herself, with want, anxiety, and fatigue; but she spoke in a cheerful voice. She had not shed a tear throughout his illness. "Lord help you, Jim dear, you'll live to see many and many a bright sunset— live to see it go down upon our wedding-day, perhaps."
"No, no, lass; that's a day no sun will ever shine upon. You must get another sweetheart, and a bettor one, maybe. I'm sure you deserve a better one, for you're true, lass, true as steel."
The girl drew his head closer to her breast, and bending over him, kissed his dry lips. She never thought, or cared to know, what fever or what poison she might inhale in that caress. If she had thought about it, perhaps she would have prayed that the same fever which had struck him down might lay her low beside him. He spoke again, as the light, with a lingering glow, brightened, and flickered, and then faded out.
"It's gone; it's gone for ever; it's behind me now, lass, and must look straight before"
"At what, Jim?—at what?"
"At a terrible gulf, my lass. I'm a-standing on the edge of it, and I'm a-looking down to the bottom of it—a cold dark lonesome place. But perhaps there's another light beyond it, lass; who knows?"
"Some say they do know, Jim," said the girl; "some say they do know, and that there is another light beyond, better than the one we see here, and always shining. Some people do know all about it, Jim."
"Then why didn't they tell us about it?" asked the man, with an angry expression in his hollow eyes. "I suppose those as taught them meant them to teach us; but I suppose they didn't think us worth the teaching. How many will be sorry for me, lass, when I am gone? Not grandmother; her brain's crazed with that fancy of hers of a golden secret—as if she wouldn't have sold it long before this if she'd had a secret—sold it for bread, or more likely for gin. Not anybody in Blind Peter—they've enough to do to think of the bit of food to put inside them, or of the shelter to cover their unfortunate heads. Nobody but you, lass, nobody but you, will be sorry for me; and I think you will."
He thinks she will be sorry. What has been the story of her life but one long thought and care for him, in which her every sorrow and her every joy have taken their colour from joys and sorrows of his?
While they are talking, Jabez comes in, and, seating himself on a low stool by the bed, talks to the sick man.
"And so," says Jim, looking him full in the face with a curious glance—"so you're my brother—the old woman's told me all about it—my twin brother; so like me, that it's quite a treat to look at you. It's like looking in a glass, and that's a luxury I've never been accustomed to. Light a candle, lass; I want to see my brother's face."
His brother was against the lighting of the candle—it might hurt the eyes of the sufferer, he suggested; but Jim repeated his request, and the girl obeyed.
"Now come here and hold the candle, lass, and hold it close to my brother's face, for I want to have a good look at him."
Mr. Jabez North seemed scarcely to relish the unflinching gaze of his newly-found relation; and again those fine blue eyes, for which he was distinguished, winked and shifted, and hid themselves, under the scrutiny of the sick man.
"It's a handsome face," said Jim; "and it looks like the face of one of your fine high-born gentlemen too, which is rather queer, considering who it belongs to; but for all that, I can't say it's a face I much care about. There's something under—something behind the curtain. I say, brother, you're hatching of some plot to-night, and a very deep-laid plot it is too, or my name isn't Jim Lomax."
"Poor fellow," murmured the compassionate Jabez, "his mind wanders sadly."
"Does it?" asked the sick man; "does my mind wander, lad? I hope it does; I hope I can't see very clear to-night, for I didn't want to think my own brother a villain. I don't want to think bad of thee, lad, if it's only for my dead mother's sake."
"You hear!" said Jabez, with a glance of appeal to the girl, "you hear how delirious he is?"
"Stop a bit, lad," cried Jim, with sudden energy, laying his wasted hand upon his brother's wrist; "stop a bit. I'm dying fast; and before it's too late I've one prayer to make. I haven't made so many either to God or man that I need forget this one. You see this lass; we've been sweethearts, I don't know how long, now—ever since she was a little toddling thing that I could carry on my shoulder; and, one of these days, when wages got to be better, and bread cheaper, and hopes brighter, somehow, for poor folks like us, we was to have been married; but that's over now. Keep a good heart, lass, and don't look so white; perhaps it's better as it is. Well, as I was saying, we've been sweethearts for a many year, and often when I haven't been able to get work, maybe sometimes when I haven't been willing, when I've been lazy, or on the drink, or among bad companions, this lass has kept a shelter over me, and given me bread to eat with the labour of her own hands. She's been true to me. I could tell you how true, but there's something about the corners of your mouth that makes me think you wouldn't care to hear it. But if you want me to die in peace, promise me this—that as long as you've got a shilling she shall never be without a sixpence; that as long as you've got a roof to cover your head she shall never be without a shelter. Promise!"
He tightened his grasp convulsively upon his brother's wrist. That gentleman made an effort to look him full in the face; but not seeming to relish the searching gaze of the dying man's eyes, Mr. Jabez North was compelled to drop his own.
"Come," said Jim; "promise—swear to me, by all you hold sacred, that you'll do this."
"I swear!" said Jabez, solemnly.
"And if you break your oath," added his brother, "never come anigh the place where I'm buried, for I'll rise out of my grave and haunt you."
The dying man fell back exhausted on his pillow. The girl poured out some medicine and gave it to him, while Jabez walked to the door, and looked up at the sky.
A very dark sky for a night in June. A wide black canopy hung over the earth, and as yet there was not one feeble star to break the inky darkness. A threatening night—the low murmuring of whose sultry wind moaned and whispered prophecies of a coming storm. Never had the blindness of Blind Peter been darker than to-night. You could scarcely see your hand before you. A wretched woman who had just fetched half-a-quartern of gin from the nearest public-house, though a denizen of the place, and familiar with every broken flag-stone and crumbling brick, stumbled over her own threshold, and spilt a portion of the precious liquid.
It would have been difficult to imagine either the heavens or the earth under a darker aspect in the month of June. Not so, however, thought Mr. Jabez North; for, after contemplating the sky for some moments in silence, he exclaimed—"A fine night! A glorious night! It could not be better!"
A figure, one shade darker than the night, came between him and the darkness. It was the doctor, who said—
"Well, sir, I'm glad you think it a fine night; but I must beg to differ with you on the subject, for I never remember seeing a blacker sky, or one that threatened a more terrible storm at this season of the year."
"I was scarcely thinking of what I was saying, doctor. That poor man in there"
"Ah, yes; poor fellow! I doubt if he'll witness the storm, near as it seems to be. I suppose you take some interest in him on account of his extraordinary likeness to you?"
"That would be rather an egotistical reason for being interested in him. Common humanity induced me to come down to this wretched place, to see if I could be of any service to the poor creature."
"The action does you credit, sir," said the doctor. "And now for my patient."
It was with a very grave face that the medical man looked at poor Jim, who had, by this time, fallen into a fitful and restless slumber; and when Jabez drew him aside to ask his opinion, he said,—"If he lives through the next half-hour I shall be surprised. Where is the old woman—his grandmother?"
"I haven't seen her this evening," answered Jabez. And then, turning to the girl, he asked her if she knew where the old woman was.
"No; she went out some time ago, and didn't say where she was going. She's not quite right in her mind, you know, sir, and often goes out after dark."
The doctor seated himself on a broken chair, near the mattress on which the sick man lay. Only one feeble guttering candle, with a long, top-heavy wick, lighted the dismal and comfortless room. Jabez paced up and down with that soft step of which we have before spoken. Although in his character of a philosopher the death of a fellow-creature could scarcely have been very distressing to him, there was an uneasiness in his manner on this night which he could not altogether conceal. He looked from the doctor to the girl, and from the girl to his sick brother. Sometimes he paused in his walk up and down the room to peer out at the open door. Once he stooped over the feeble candle to look at his watch. There was a listening expression too in his eyes; an uneasy twitching about his mouth; and at times he could scarcely suppress a tremulous action of his slender fingers, which bespoke impatience and agitation. Presently the clocks of Slopperton chimed the first quarter after ten. On hearing this, Jabez drew the medical man aside, and whispered to him,—
"Are there no means," he said, "of getting that poor girl out of the way? She is very much attached to that unfortunate creature; and if he dies, I fear there will be a terrible scene. It would be an act of mercy to remove her by some stratagem or other. How can we get her away till it is all over?"
"I think I can manage it," said the doctor. "My partner has a surgery at the other end of the town; I will send her there."
He returned to the bedside, and presently said,—
"Look here, my good girl; I am going to write a prescription for something which I think will do our patient good. Will you take it for me, and get the medicine made up?"
The girl looked at him with an appealing glance in her mournful eyes.
"I don't like to leave him, sir."
"But if it's for his good, my dear?"
"Yes, yes, sir. You're very kind. I will go. I can run all the the way. And you won't leave him while I'm gone, will you, sir?"
"No, my good girl, I won't. There, there; here's the prescription. It's written in pencil, but the assistant will understand it. Now listen, while I tell you where to find the surgery."
He gave her the direction; and after a lingering and mournful look at her lover, who still slept, she left the house, and darted off in the direction of Slopperton.
"If she runs as fast as that all the way," said Jabez, as he watched her receding figure, "she will be back in less than an hour."
"Then she will find him either past all help, or better," replied the doctor.
Jabez' pale face turned white as death at this word "better."
"Better!" he said. "Is there any chance of his recovery?"
"There are wonderful chances in this race between life and death. This sleep may be a crisis. If he wakes, there may be a faint hope of his living."
Jabez' hand shook like a leaf. He turned his back to the doctor, walked once up and down the room, and then asked, with his old calmness,—
"And you, sir—you, whose time is of such value to so many sick persons—you can afford to desert them all, and remain here, watching this man?"
"His case is a singular one, and interests me. Besides, I do not know that I have any patient in imminent danger tonight. My assistant has my address, and would send for me were my services peculiarly needed."
"I will go out and smoke a cigar," said Jabez, after a pause. "I can scarcely support this sick room, and the suspense of this terrible conflict between life and death."
He strode out into the darkness, was absent about five minutes, and returned.
"Your cigar did not last long," remarked the doctor. "You are a quick smoker. Bad for the system, sir."
"My cigar was a bad one. I threw it away."
Shortly afterwards there was a knock at the door, and a ragged vagabond-looking boy, peeping in, asked,—
"Is Mr. Saunders the doctor here?"
"Yes, my lad. Who wants me?"
"A young woman up in Hill Fields, sir, what's took poison, they say. You're wanted very bad."
"Poison! that's urgent," said Mr. Saunders. "Who sent you here for me?"
The lad looked with a puzzled expression at Jabez standing in the shadow, who, unperceived by the doctor, whispered something behind his hand.
"Surgery, sir," answered the boy, still looking at Jabez.
"Oh, you were sent from the surgery. I must be off, for this is no doubt a desperate case. I must leave you to look after this poor fellow. If he wakes, give him two teaspoonfuls of that medicine there. I could do no more if I stopped myself. Come, my lad."
The doctor left the house, followed by the boy, and in a few moments both were lost in the darkness, and far out of the ken of Blind Peter.
Five minutes after the departure of the medical man Jabez went to the door, and after looking out at the squalid houses, which were all dark, gave a long low whistle.
A figure crept out of the darkness, and came up to where he stood. It was the old woman, his grandmother.
"All's right, deary," she whispered. "Bill Withers has got everything ready. He's a waiting down by the wall yonder. There's not a mortal about; and I'll keep watch. You'll want Bill's help. When you're ready for him, you're to whistle softly three times running. He'll know what it means—and I'm going to watch while he helps you. Haven't I managed beautiful, deary? and shan't I deserve the golden sovereigns you've promised me? They was guineas always when I was young, deary. Nothing's as good now as it used to be."
"Don't let us have any chattering," said Jabez, as he laid a rough hand upon her arm; "unless you want to wake everybody in the place."
"But, I say, deary, is it all over? Nothing unfair, you know. Remember your promise."
"All over? Yes; half an hour ago. If you hinder me here with your talk, the girl will be back before we're ready for her."
"Let me come in and close his eyes, deary," supplicated the old woman. "His mother was my own child. Let me close his eyes."
"Keep where you are, or I'll strangle you!" growled her dutiful grandson, as he shut the door upon his venerable relation, and left her mumbling upon the threshold.
Jabez crept cautiously towards the bed on which his brother lay. Jim at this moment awoke from his restless slumber; and, opening his eyes to their widest extent, looked full at the man by his side. He made no effort to speak, pointed to his lips, and, stretching out his hand towards the bottles on the table, made signs to his brother. These signs were a supplication for the cooling draught which always allayed the burning heat of the fever.
Jabez never stirred. "He has awoke," he murmured. "Tide is the crisis of his life, and of my fate."
The clocks of Slopperton chimed the quarter before eleven.
"It's a black gulf, lass," gasped the dying man; "and I'm fast sinking into it."
There was no friendly hand, Jim, to draw you back from that terrible gulf. The medicine stood untouched upon the table; and, perhaps as guilty as the first murderer, your twin brother stood by your bed-side.