Part 4 (1/2)
”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.