Principle and Practice Part 4

"Yes, I am rather easier," replied Monteath, "but still it is dreadful pain. However, I shall have worse to go through before I am better. I see what is before me: I do not wish to be blind to it."

"I am glad you are not blind to it," replied Charles. "You have strength of mind and self-command, and if you can keep up for a few hours, the worst will be over. Your present calmness a.s.sures me that you will keep up."

"I know not," replied Monteath. "Thoughts come crowding upon me faster than I can bear. This pain is not the worst: yet Oh! how it weakens me!

I ought to feel, even at this moment, that all is right, that this suffering is for my good."

"It is," said Charles; "and it is this thought which has comforted me for you. In a few hours you will, I trust, be at ease, and, after that, all will come easy to you. In the mean time, think whose hand has brought this evil upon you, and remember that he is pitying your pain.

He also gives strength and courage to those who ask for them."

"I will seek for them," replied Monteath. "Leave me for a while: I will try to compose my mind, and strengthen myself for these hours of pain."

Charles drew the curtains round the bed, and sat down in the window-seat. He did feel sick at heart. His head throbbed, and his heart beat thick, when he thought of the agony he had witnessed, of what was yet to be undergone by his companion, and of the dreadful disclosure which must be made to the father and mother, who were now probably counting the minutes as they flew, in the hope of a joyous meeting with their son. By degrees, he became aware that he was looking only at the dark side of the picture. He reproached himself for overlooking the mercies which had attended this dispensation. His own preservation, that of many besides, that only one life was lost among so many, that the suffering had fallen upon those who were apparently the best able to bear it; and he was not forgetful that the warning which was afforded them all of the uncertainty of life, and health, and peace, was of itself a great mercy. He now remarked the sun disappearing behind the hills, and remembered how he had watched it declining in the heavens, with the confident expectation that the hours of succeeding darkness would be spent in the home of his sisters; that, before the sun should rise again, he would have embraced them, have looked on their faces, and heard their voices, and exchanged affectionate greetings with them. Now the night was to be pa.s.sed beside the bed of pain, and the sunrise would find him, probably, exhausted and spiritless, and still far from those he loved. "What a little way can we see!" thought Charles: "how uncertain should we ever feel of the future! how prepared for whatever may happen! how grateful for every exemption from suffering! I am not happy now; I cannot be happy while one is near me who is suffering severely: but let me be grateful: let me remember my preservation from personal injury, and let me trust that those who suffer will find strength and comfort from Him who has blessed and preserved me."

While these thoughts pa.s.sed through his mind, tears coursed each other down his cheeks. He did not check them, for he found relief from these quiet tears. He was, meantime, not forgetful of his charge: he listened to his breathing; it was, at first, loud and irregular, as of one in pain, and now and then a deep sob could be heard. Still Charles sat quiet, for he judged rightly that Monteath would be better able to compose himself, if left undisturbed. By degrees, his breathing became more regular, and all was so quiet, that Charles hoped he was at ease, if not asleep. Meanwhile it was becoming dark, and as night advanced, the public-house was more quiet, and Charles entertained the hope that his friend might be strengthened for his approaching suffering, by a few hours of repose. When the last tinge of brightness had faded from the clouds, and was succeeded by total darkness, Charles still remained in the window-seat: he would not procure a light for fear of noise; and he continued to look out, though nothing was to be seen, but a servant occasionally crossing the yard with a lantern, which cast a dim gleam through the room. The ticking of his watch was the only sound that he heard. It was too dark to see what time it was, but when he imagined he had been sitting about two hours, the loud ringing of a bell broke the silence, and disturbed poor Monteath, who had really been asleep. He attempted to move, but the attempt extorted a deep groan. Charles sprang to the bedside, and spoke to him. "You are in pain again," said he, "but you have been easier, and will be so again soon."

Monteath could not answer him.

Charles rang for a light. It was brought, and Monteath asked what o'clock it was. It was near eleven. "No more!" said he, and he enquired how soon his father and mother could be with him. Charles thought in four or five hours, and he told his friend that if he would be prevailed on to take a little refreshment, he thought he might sleep again.

"O, no, do not ask me to move," replied Monteath.

"You need not move," replied Charles. "I will give it you, while you lie still: but indeed you need it."

"I will," said Monteath. "But have you been beside me all this time, without any refreshment? You must be quite exhausted. Pray go down and have some supper: I shall not want you just now: why did you not leave me?"

Charles, though little inclined to eat, consented to have some supper brought up, but he would not leave his friend. He asked Monteath if he had not enjoyed his repose.

"It was a great rest," was the reply; "but I believe I have had my poor mother in my mind almost all the time. I am afraid she is more unhappy than I am at this moment."

"But when she hears that you have slept, and when she sees you able to speak, and even to comfort her, as I think you will, she will be relieved."

"They will have Mr Everett with them," said Monteath, "and he is a kind and judicious friend. It is he who must free me from this pain," added he. "I hope I shall not hate him for the office, as I have heard that some people hate their surgeons, in spite of themselves."

"No fear of that," said Charles.

"I hope they will not delay it," said Monteath. "I would fain hope that in twelve hours, it will be over. I almost think it cannot be worse than what I suffered when I was lying on the road, before you found me."

"Probably not so bad, and most probably much sooner over. Some people would think me wrong in letting you speak of this, but I think it will do you no harm. You would think about it at all events, and it makes antic.i.p.ated evils less, to talk rationally about them."

"You are right," said Monteath. "I have been looking steadily at the whole matter, and I want to ask you one thing. Mr Everett will perhaps bring no a.s.sistant. If he does not, will you, can you, stand by, and prevent my father from being present? I know he will insist on it, if no friend is at hand but Mr Everett."

"I can, and I certainly will," replied Charles. "I have never attempted any thing of the kind, but I think I can make my resolution equal to the occasion. If I can be of use, I shall not think of myself."

"Thank you, thank you," replied Monteath. "Things might have been worse with me yet. There might have been no one who would have had compa.s.sion on me, no friend who would have comforted me as you are doing."

"I can do little," said Charles. "There is a better friend with you, who can yield support when earthly friends are far away, or too feeble to give comfort. I hope you feel this."

"I do now, more than ever in my life before. Just now, I was in too much pain to think of any thing: but I am easy enough to think, and speak, and listen, at present. Have you a Bible with you?"

Charles instantly produced his Bible, and asked his friend what he should read.

"The forty-second and forty-third Psalms first," said Monteath.

Charles read them, and afterwards chose a chapter in the New Testament, and with pleasure he perceived that Monteath appeared more and more tranquil, and in a little time he enjoyed the repose which his exhausted frame required.

He slept till three o'clock, and was then too anxious for the arrival of his father and mother to rest again. Charles attempted to interest him in conversation, and he was interested; but he started at every little noise, and to say the truth, Charles was little less nervous than himself. At length, almost before they could reasonably expect it, they distinctly heard a chaise drive up.

"O, go, go!" cried Monteath. "Go and bring them to me!"

"Not yet," said Charles, firmly. "I will go to them, but they must not see you till I can tell them that you are more calm. Compose yourself, and remember that the best comfort you can give them is to see you tranquil. I will tell them that you have slept, and in a few minutes you shall see them; in the mean time compose yourself."

Charles went down stairs, and the first meeting with Mr and Mrs Monteath was very painful. He was glad, however, to give them some comfort, and he spoke as cheerfully as he could of the night which his friend had pa.s.sed. Presently he conducted them to their son's chamber, and left them at the door. Mr Everett enquired the particulars of the accident, and the extent of the injury, as far as Charles could judge of it. He shook his head, when he had heard the particulars, and said he feared there was no help for it, but that the leg must be amputated.

"Thinking this would be necessary," he said, "I brought an a.s.sistant with me; and I am glad I did, for delay would be dangerous; and I suppose there is no surgeon near. Is your friend prepared for it?"

"Perfectly," replied Charles: "and he thinks the sooner it is done, the better. How soon will it be, Sir?"

"Directly, if it has to be done," replied Mr Everett, "but you know I have not seen him yet, and therefore cannot be sure that it will be necessary."

Mr and Mrs Monteath came down presently, and told Mr Everett that their son wished to see him. Before he went, he told them that he should recommend their trying to get some rest.

"Now that your son has seen you, he will sleep again," said he, "and I wish to remain alone with him for two or three hours. He will not rest if you are beside him, so you must trust him with me, and our young friend will bring you news of him from time to time."

The father and mother were obliged to consent: they retired, and Charles took his station in the next room to his friend. In a few minutes Mr Everett's a.s.sistant came out of the chamber, and soon after returned with a servant, and there were signs of preparation which were sickening to poor Charles. He made a great effort to forget himself, however, and gently opening the chamber door, asked if he could be of use.

"You can, Sir, if you think yourself able," replied Mr Everett. "I believe we may trust you, for you are aware of the importance of self-command just now. I advise you to take a gla.s.s of wine, and then go and speak to your friend, and we will call you when we want you."

Charles did so.

"Your mother has gone to lie down," he whispered; "by the time she wakes, we shall have comfort to give her, and you will be better able to see her."

Monteath pressed his hand. "I am better than I was," said he; "stronger in mind, too. I do believe I dreaded seeing my mother more than any thing else."

Mr Everett now approached the bed, and in a short time, which, however, appeared to Charles as if it never would be over, the painful thing was done, and Monteath was in bed again. Charles remained beside him, and in an hour the patient was once more in a sound sleep. Mr Everett went then to tell his father and mother what had been done. They were dreadfully agitated at first, but the sight of their son in deep repose calmed them, and every thing was soon so comfortably arranged, that Charles thought his a.s.sistance was no longer needed. He went to bed, rested till the middle of the day, and in the afternoon proceeded with Mr Everett to Exeter, the a.s.sistant being left behind with the patient, and Mr Everett promising to return the next day but one. Monteath did not know how to express his grat.i.tude, and his parents'

acknowledgments were painful to Charles, who felt that in common humanity he could not have done less than he had done. They however thought differently, and were grateful, not only for what he had done, but for the manner of doing it; and felt very sure, that, painful as that night had been to Charles, every recollection of it would bring pleasure as long as he lived. He promised his friend that he would not return to London without seeing him, and then set off, wondering when he thought that his acquaintance with Monteath had been of only twenty-four hours' standing, and that, in that time, he had been called on to perform more painful offices of kindness, than generally devolve upon intimate friends during a connexion of many years.

"At this hour yesterday," thought Charles, "we met for the first time, and now we are perhaps friends for life. It has been proved, by a fiery trial, that Monteath has many virtues. I know, beyond a doubt, that he is religious, that he is attached to his family, that he is considerate to others, that he is courageous and patient. This is a great deal to have learned in twenty-four hours. If I were to consider myself alone, I might rejoice in this accident. I have gained a valuable friend, and received a lesson which I shall never forget, at the expense of only a few hours of salutary pain. But I am the last person to be considered.

Better fruits even than these may spring from this calamity, to those who have at present suffered more from it."

The journey with Mr Everett was cheerful and pleasant. Charles had now the opportunity of learning a great deal about his sister Jane; and all that he heard gave him pleasure. His home and its inmates had been forgotten for some hours, but now he began again to antic.i.p.ate the pleasures of meeting, though with much less confidence than before. At first he felt almost sure that something would yet happen to delay their meeting; but when they were within five miles of the city, he began to recognise some well-known object at every step, and to feel a quieter hope that at length he should reach his journey's end in peace. He started up at the first sight of the Cathedral towers, and gazed at them till he actually pa.s.sed them. Then he looked for familiar faces, and as the chaise turned the corner into the market-place, a boy looked up from the foot pavement, who, tall as he was, could, Charles was sure, be no other than Alfred. "It _is_ Alfred," said Mr Everett, "going home to tea, I guess. You will find them just sitting down to tea, the lessons all learned, the business all done, and nothing to do but to talk and listen."

The chaise stopped, and Charles was soon on his way home, with his little trunk under his arm. When Hannah answered his knock, she knew him instantly, and started back, calling, "Miss Jane, Miss Jane!"

Miss Jane rose from the tea-table, and she and Charles met at the parlour door. "Charles! my dear, dear Charles! What can have brought you? What are you here for?"

"I am come to see you, my dearest; and you, and you," added he, turning to the others, as they pressed round him. "I am come for a whole fortnight. Now, dearest, I have taken you too much by surprise," for Jane's tears flowed fast. "Come, come, compose yourself. Look up, and smile at me."

Jane hung on his shoulder. He led her to a chair, Isabella seated herself on the other side, and Harriet sprung on his knee. "I should not have startled you so," said Charles, "but I had no time to write, and give you notice. I did not know myself, till a few hours before I left town, that I was coming."