“BALDOVIE."

South Canterbury Times, Issue 6243, 16 June 1890, Page 4

“BALDOVIE."

LiTSRATURE

4 TALL OF CRIME AND MISFORTUNE.

Late in the evening a man wearing a fur cap turned sharply round the corner ot Dock Street into the Greeiftnarket, and made his way up to the High Street, out of which ho turned quickly into a dingy close. In this quarter the tenements of one, two, or three apartments were occupied by millbands, labourers, and the poorer class of mechanics—notably the jobbing shoemaker and tailor. There were squalor and dirt enough amongst tbe population in this wynd, and tbe sounds and sights of Saturday nights were sometimes horrible as well as pitiable. But there were honest, hard-working folk living there too, doing their best to walk straight and keep their bands clean in the cruel struggle with poverty, which accident, sickness, and slack trade, and consequent want of work too often brought upon them. The man entered a passage Deneath the gangway, and ascended a common stair, the stones of which were worn and rounded at the edges by the feet of generations. He halted on the first landing, fumbled about in the dark until he found the handle of a door, which he presently opened with a latch-key. He passed in, closing the door behind him quickly buf noiselessly. In the small lobby in which he now stood there were three doors one wide open, a second partly so, and light streamed through the apertures of both.

The first gave admission to tbe kitchen, and a s out jb woman, rather over middle age, was standing by the fire cooking someihing which apparently required strict attention, for she din not observe the entrance ot a man until he spoke. ‘ Well, Mrs Duncan, how is your patient to-night ?’ he said in a subdued but friendly tone. She turned slowly a white face, on which were the traces of long, bitter, and hidden suffering. ‘ Quiet —always quiet,’ she answered in a weary monotone, as if all interest in the human affairs of herself or others had long since passed away from her. ‘ Always quiet, except a few minutes after he takes his medicine.’ ‘ You have given it to him regularly P’ ‘ Regularly, as directed.’ ‘ Then what difference does it make upon him? Does it make him talk ?’ ‘lt makes him jabber, and I dare say he thinks he is talking ; but there is no more sense to be made" out of it than out of the chattering of monkeys or the skirling of parrots. He looks silly, and smiles and leers, and chuckles as though he was enjoying himself amongst company that he alone can ■ee.’ ‘ And then ?’

‘He settles down into quietness and sleeps, or seems to sleep; but his eyes are always open—staring, as it he saw something awful before him.’ ‘ But he does not speak then ?’ ‘ No ; he sobs at whiles, or moans like a bairn in its sleep.’ ‘Ah, that is the mildest form of the delirium.. The brain is not hopelessly affected,’

The woman looked at him with dull wondering eyes —and seemed to bo looking through -him at something behind him, as she said in a low, monotonous voice :

‘ You will be a clever doctor indeed if you ever bring that man back to reason in this world again.' ‘ I shall do my best and can do no more,’ said the man, who was apparently believed by Mrs Duncan to be a doctor. He spoke with the gentle gravity of tone which one uses when in a state of hope largely mingled with fear. ‘ Should I fail, there will be nothing else for it but to remove to an asylum. My poor friend, however, h.d such a prejudice against asylums, that when he first became aware of the possibility that his brain might become affected by the malady from which he is suffering, he implored me to do anything with him rather than put him into one ol them,’

‘ Perhaps he was wrong,’ observed the woman turning her attention to the saucepan on the fire. ‘ I certainly think he was wrong; but he pleaded so hard that he compolled me to give him my promise, and it must only be as the very last ’•esource that I can take him to an asylum. However, I think we shall pull him through ; at any rate, no mortal man could do any more for that end than I am doing.’ He looked as if he expected some sign of approval from the woman — some indication that she had felt assured of the sincerity of his efforts. But she remainsd silent.

* I shall go in and see him now,’ the doctor said, after waiting a few moments for her to speak. A few steps took him to the door, which stood ajar, and he passed softly into the room.

The place had been hastily furnished with »uch articles of luxury as were unknown in this locality, and the comfort of the invalid appeared to have baen studied in every particular. The tidiness of everything showed that Mrs Duncan, as nurse, had done her duty.

On the bed lay the form of a man, his face upturned, and his eyes almost closed in sleep : but at intervals they opened wide, and bis lips moved as if he .were trying to speak. The doctor stood by the bedside for some minutes, watching him and taking note of every movement of nerve and muscle. The result of the observation was apparently satisfactory. ‘ You are better to-night,’ he said in a low but firm voice. The invalid’s eyelids quivered, as it under a gentle shock of elecricity. Then he looked up straight at the visitor. The eyes were bright and wild, and they seemed to be seeking for something which they conld not find, and as if their owner were striving to concentrate some idea. Then he proved his head restlessly from side to

side, as if in despair at not being able to grasp the idea. ‘ Yes, yes,’ ho muttered ; ‘ but how long is this to last ? Where am I? — who am I ?’

‘Be still,’ said the doctor firmly. ‘ You are exciting yourself again, and I have told you that there is no hope unless you keep quiet.’ ‘ Hope. . . . quiet!’ echoed the patient, as if he were trying to realise the lull meaning of the words. ‘ Ay, ay, you have told me. . . . hope. . . . quiet—what are they V • Patience, and you will find them.’ ‘Patience—yes, yes!’ and the invalid laughed feebly : and then, checking his minh, he inquired earnestly—- ‘ Did you see the ugly brute as he came along ? What was he P Who was he ? What did he mean by. . . , I can’t make it out. What has become of my brains ? Have you got them ?’

He gave that feeble laugh again, as if partly conscious of the absurdity of tbe question. ‘ I tall you there was no one,’ said the doctor, in his low firm voice, * except in your imagination. As soon as you can understand that you will be better.’

‘As soon as I cau understand that,’ echoed the patient eagerly. ‘l’ll try, I’ll try.’ ‘ That is right, and now don’t speak any more. Take this pill and you will get a sound sleep, which is what you require at present.’ The patient swallowed the pill and took a lew mouthfuls of water whilst the doctor raised his head from the pillow. As soon as the supporting arm was withdrawn he sank back into unconsciousness.

After giving a few instructions to Mrs Duncan, the doctor departed. ‘Another week and he will have neither will nor memory,’ the strange man was saying to himself as he passed along the wynd.

(To he Continued, i