“No hope at all?” he said, as the doctor and he walked together afterwards through the dingy shop.
“Not the slightest,” said the surgeon once more, as he stood upon the doorstep. “He has never thoroughly recovered from the effects of the operations he suffered, and besides, it’s the old tale with the poor fellow—sorrow, misery, starvation, on the one hand; dissipation, drink, late hours on the other. The poor old fellow speaks the truth; he is worn out.”
Night came, and Lucy and Septimus still waited by the old man’s dying bed. He had slept for some little time, during which interval Lucy had replied to her stepfather’s many queries—replied as she thought of the despair that must have prompted the awful plunge into futurity. Then the old man woke, and talked eagerly for awhile of the future prospects of the family. But soon a change came over his face, his head tossed wearily from side to side of his dirty pillow, while often he would raise it and stare wildly from face to face, but recognising none, sink back again with a pitiful moan.
“Lost life, lost life! Worn out, worn out!” he kept on muttering as he tossed restlessly from side to side, frequently starting and looking round as if not knowing where he was. Then he seemed to sleep peacefully for awhile, to open his eyes once more, and smile feebly at his visitors, beckoning them to come nearer.
“God bless you both!” he muttered; “it’s all over.”
Septimus half-rose and would have fetched the doctor again, but Matt whispered “No.”
“Don’t go,” he said. “He can do no good now, nor anyone else; I’m past all that. It’s been coming for days past, and I’ve fought it out; kept on till my work was done. I’ve never been much good, sir; but now I’m worn out. P’r’aps I might have been different, if I’d had other chances; but I was always weak, sir; weak.”
He paused again; and Lucy’s sobs were the only sounds that broke the silence.
“Ah!” said Matt again, feebly; “I’ve justified many a line, sir; line by line—‘line upon line,’ don’t it say somewhere? but I can’t justify myself. Dropping out of the old forme, sir; fast—fast now. But there, sir, hold up; for I’m happy enough. You did me a good turn once, and I’ve tried to pay it back; and since I’ve known you, and you’ve been ready to be my friends, I’ve seemed to get proud, and wouldn’t do anything that should disgrace Miss Lucy here. But I began too late, and I never deserved such friends as I’ve found; for I’ve been a poor, weak, helpless drinking old galley-slave. But there, sir,” he said with a smile, “my case is foul; the sorts are out; and I’m putting away my stick for good.”
“May I fetch Mr Sterne?” whispered Septimus.