And now, reader mine, on the threshold of the drunkard's room let us understand each other. I am not going to take you across the boundary. The door will, with your permission, remain closed. There are certain things in life which are better left unstudied—certain dirty corners where the dust lies thickly. It is better to let it accumulate. Some of us have seen these things; some foot has been across the threshold; but this is no realistic novel; and in life, as in a story, there are details which (however powerful in themselves) in no way help forward the narrative or beautify the narration. There is assuredly nothing to be gained by dredging human nature. As a man, the present writer is influenced by a strong esprit de corps. It is not his wish to trample upon fallen human nature. We are not what we ought to be, but there is nothing to be gained by flaunting the seamy side before the world. This volume may fall into the hands of some young woman, or some youth to whom man is still something of an ideal. God forbid that any word of mine should dispel illusions which, though they be but hollow, are at least joyous.
Therefore we will let Theodore Trist enter that room alone. His walk in life had not been in the flowery part of the garden, but through the rougher growths, where good is sometimes hidden beneath a hideous exterior, and he knew already how slight a division there is between man and brute. Any battle-field would have taught him that.
The doctor came, and stayed longer than he could conscientiously spare out of his busy life. It was half-past one o'clock in the morning before he went away, leaving Trist alone with Huston, to whom sleep had come at last. Before leaving he promised, however, to send an experienced nurse.
The war-correspondent sat in a deep leather-covered arm-chair before the smouldering fire, contemplating his own shoes. A man of many resources, he had found himself in many strange situations during his short thirty years. He had made the best of more than one awkward dilemma by going straight ahead in his patient, steady way. He listened to the stertorous breathing of the sick man, and never thought of his own fatigue. There was no suggestion of complaint in his mind that his evening of pleasure should have had such an unpleasant finish. He did not even look at his own dress-clothes contrasting with the dingy surroundings, and appreciate the dramatic force of it all as Hicks might have done. It was merely an incident in his life, another opportunity to exercise for his own satisfaction that power of adaptability to environment which was in reality his chief aid to success in the peculiar surroundings of his varied life.
The nurse could scarcely be expected for half an hour or so, and there was nothing else to do but keep faithfully the watch that was his in the meantime. It was rather strange that Trist should have saved twice within a month the worthless life of this man who had done his best to throw it away. As has already been stated, this student of Death had his own views upon the worth of human life—a semi-Oriental philosophy which would not bear setting forth here in black and white to sensitive Western minds. There is no doubt that familiarity with death breeds a contempt for life. I cannot explain this, but it is so. Doctors and soldiers have a different view of human life from that held by the rest of mankind; but there is something in us which is stronger than the strongest views—namely, the instinct of preserving life. Theodore Trist knew that the miserable existence to which was attached the name Alfred Huston was in every way valueless. To its possessor it was a source of wretchedness, a constant struggle against the overpowering odds of evil. To others his death would be a mercy. He knew this; he valued his life lightly—and yet he staved off this death twice.
As he sat and thought over these things, the fire-light flickered rosily upon his face; it gleamed in his womanly eyes, glowed upon his broad high forehead. He was quite absorbed in his reflections, and never glanced towards the bed which was within the deep crimson shadow. He judged from the heavy respiration that Huston was asleep; in this, however, he was mistaken. The ex-soldier lay on his back, but his face was turned towards the fire, and his bloodshot eyes were wide open. His lips moved restlessly, but no sound came from them beyond the strong indrawing of the sodden air. His wavering glance wandered from Trist's head to his feet, restless and full of an insatiable hatred. Upon the dirty white coverlet his fingers moved convulsively, as if clutching and losing hold of something by turns.
It was a terrible picture, and one that could not fail to arouse in thoughtful minds a hopeless sense of despair. No one could look on it and say that human life is a success. We may paint the good points as brilliantly as we like, slur over the misery as quickly as we can, but, my brothers and sisters, the fact remains that we, as a race, are an utter failure.
Presently there was a soft knock at the front-door, and Trist rose from his chair. His watch was over; the hospital nurse had arrived, with her soft brave eyes, her quick, fearless fingers. As he left the room, Trist turned and glanced towards the bed. Huston lay there with closed eyes, unnaturally still.
Then the war-correspondent left the room on tiptoe. No sooner had the door closed than the sick man's eyes opened. There was a peculiar shifty light in the expanded pupils, and the man's horrible lips moved continuously. He sat up in bed.
'Ah!' he mumbled thickly; 'I know him. That's the man ... that's the man who's in love with my wife.'