Part 10 (1/2)
From the slow monotony of the prison shoe-shop, Henderson has, at last, been released by ill-health, and is now permanently established in the hospital; and, dismal though it be to find oneself a tenant of a hospital cell, and facing the blank certainty that there is for him no egress, save by that final inexorable door opening into the blind unknown, he is comparatively happy. So sweet is the merest taste of liberty to long-denied lips!
Now he may, hour by hour, stroll in the prison-yard, brightened in summer by its small oasis of verdure and bloom (the flowerbeds), and, in winter, still wholesomely sweet with keen, bracing air and genial suns.h.i.+ne. The old sea-longing still haunts his enfeebled mind; but now, it is a thing to be borne. He has outlived the fierce vehemence of human desire; and, with little positive suffering, is slowly wearing away of lingering consumption, complicated with incurable disease of the heart.
The prison clock is on the stroke of nine, and the prison itself (already in its nightcap) composes itself for a long night's rest.
In the deserted guard-room and along the now empty corridors, silence undisturbedly reigns. Here in the hospital the quiet of the hour is less unbroken. Five consumptives (as is their wont, poor fellows!) will cough the slow night away; and, in yonder cell, a man, with a great carbuncle under his ear, groans, _sotto-voce_, at every breath.
On the second floor, in the large cell or room at the head of the stairway (which is, as occasion requires, used for the sick, for the holding of prison inquests, or for an operating-room, and but one of whose several cots is now occupied), a convict is dying. He has been long about it, for his vitality is tremendous. In his single body there would seem to be the makings of, at least, two centenarians.
Nature, however, _makes_ us men, and the devil _mars_ them. And here, before the coming of his first gray hair, lies the sin-spoilt material for a brisk old patriarch of a hundred years!
He is not, however, to be lightly put out of existence. Even this nefarious old prison does not readily dispatch him. Consumption, the chosen ”red slayer” of its ”slain,” he flouts with his last fluttering breath.
This daring and desperate sinner has proved himself, even under the disadvantages of restraint, a splendid villain. Unweariedly indefatigable in his efforts to regain his forfeited liberty, and, prolific of resources to that end, his custody (even when in close confinement) has sorely vexed the official soul. By repeated a.s.saults upon his fellow convicts and the prison officers (for which sanguinary purpose he has fas.h.i.+oned the deadliest weapons from the most inconceivable of articles), he has well-nigh lost all claim on human sympathy; and the entire prison community has long since given him over to his diabolic possessor. Failing health, and its attendant necessities, have partially subdued this fierce, unresting spirit; but even now, in the last stage of consumption, unable to lift himself from his pillow, and already on the solemn outskirts of an unknown world, the abnormal evil is yet strong within him. For a past day or two he has been delirious; and though far too wasted to require physical restraint, he is, even in his helplessness, half terrible.
The pa.s.sing soul still revels amid remembered scenes of debauch, or gloats upon the foul details of crime. The night-watcher's labour is here one of love; yet, tender as the convict is to his ailing comrade, this dying wretch scarce appeals to his humanity; and night-watching zeal is, in this case, inconveniently cool. Robert Henderson--who in this favouring month of June somewhat renews his failing strength--has kindly volunteered to sit up to-night with this unpopular patient. The superintendent, ever ready to encourage good intent, and scarce aware of Henderson's unfitness for the hard mental strain of a lonely night beside so uncanny a death-bed, accedes to his request, and at nine o'clock he takes his place in the dismal apartment. The cells are, as is customary, secured for the night. The superintendent leaves the hospital; the cook, who, with his attendant, is also a hospital nurse, retires to his rest; and Henderson, locked in, is left alone with his charge. It chances to be his first watch beside a dying bed, and an exceptionally trying one it proves.
As he listens to the muttered ravings of this frenzied creature, he already half regrets the humane impulse that tempted him to brave the horrors of such a night. An hour pa.s.ses. The man raves on. Terrors, vague and supernatural, begin to seize upon the watcher's unnerved mind. Surely already evil fiends are swooping on their prey--the parting soul! And in the silence that now alternates with these fierce outbreaks of insanity, he half fancies in the dusky room the whirr of their uncanny wings. He wishes to G.o.d it were morning, and he well out of this! The night, however, has scarce begun; and so, manfully bracing himself to his task, he resolves to stick to his post, doing his best, let what will come. Suddenly the patient ceases to rave, and seems to struggle gaspingly with some strong and terrible foe!
White foam flecks his blue lips, and great beads of agony start to his brow. Hurrying to his side, Henderson tenderly wipes the pain-distorted forehead, and offers him drink. His teeth are fast clenched. He makes a rude attempt to drive the comforter from him.
Obeying the motion, Henderson seats himself and awaits the issue.
By and by the convulsive gasping ceases. Again he bends over the sufferer. How strangely quiet the man is! No motion, no sound--not even a breath! Heaven help him! he has gone at last!
How dismal will the long night be locked in here alone with a corpse!
Death sits horribly on these evil features. Upon the hard, set face, one may still trace the footprints of unholy and unbridled desire. The mouth is much drawn. Its strong white teeth show grimly between the blue parted lips, and, to the watcher's nervous fancy, they seem, even in death, to snarl viciously at the beholder. Livid circles underline the sunken eyes, now wide and gla.s.sy, beneath their heavy brows, and, as Henderson morbidly conceives, turned wrathfully upon _him_. If he could but close those terrible eyes! Alas! he dare not with his shaky hand attempt so bold a thing! A moment ago he could have turned his back upon the ugly sight; _now_ it is too late. By some hypnotic fascination beyond his control, his gaze is riveted to the corpse.
The slow hours wear on. The living and the dead, set face to face, grimly confront each other. The dead man never winces. The living man, at last, succ.u.mbs to the stress and horror of the situation. The walls of the apartment reel and totter. The corpse dims and fades before him, and he falls limp and unconscious to the floor.
Sensation gradually returning to the overwrought watcher, he finds himself still miserably faint and weak. It is, however, _something_ to have escaped the spell of those death-glazed eyes, and, thanking G.o.d, he strives to get upon his feet. In his effort to rise, he stumbles clumsily over a small dark object upon the floor, close beside the bed. Regaining his poise, he discerns that it is the coa.r.s.e, heavy shoe of a convict. He lifts it, thinking to place it beside its fellow beneath the cot. His hand is weak and nerveless. It escapes his grasp, and falls clattering to the floor. As it strikes, his ear is surprised by the click of some metallic substance. A small s.h.i.+ning implement lies at his feet. He picks it up. It is a miniature steel saw, and must somehow have been concealed in this shoe of the dead man.
Curiously examining _it_ and the shoe, he discovers (what in the dim light had at first eluded his notice) a displaced inner sole, thin, but firm and nicely fitted. Removing it, he sees that the shoe is still intact, and that this neatly adjusted super-sole was but an ingenious blind, adroitly concealing the precious implement, which, had fate proved less unkind, should have opened to the dead prisoner the long untrodden way of liberty.
It is not in Robert Henderson's nature to peach on a comrade, living or dead, and, carefully restoring the saw to its hiding-place, he readjusts the sham sole, and, with a touch of that reverence which one instinctively yields to the belongings of the dead, puts the shoe aside.
Still weak and trembling, but no longer magnetically drawn to the corpse, he totters to the grated window, which, to eke out the sick man's failing breath, has been left open. Dropping upon the rude stool beside it, he leans his yet dizzy head upon the sill. A wandering breath of the summer night steals gently in. How balmy it is, this tender night wind! And he, a worn creature at a prison grating, might be a gentle lady at her lattice, so softly it caresses his wasted cheek!
Yet, kindly as it is, it does not wholly restore his wonted vigour. At intervals, a deathly faintness oppresses him. A fearful sinking of heart and limb, as if life and courage were, together, oozing away.
What if the end were indeed come, and he were to die to-night, unattended and alone; his filmy eyes looking their last upon earth, still confronted by that odious dead face, that, even in the world beyond, may still pursue him, as, for years, _another_ dead face has!