“No,” said Dr. Barrère, “if it comes to that, not horrible at all—a moment, no more.”
“A moment—but you can’t tell till you try what may be in a moment. I don’t mind, doctor; something sharp and soon would be a sort of relief. It is the sitting and waiting, counting the days, seeing it coming—always coming. Nobody has a right to torture a fellow like that—let them take him and hang him as the lynchers do, straight off.” Then Jim was seized with a slight convulsive shudder. “And then the afterwards, doctor? for all your science you can’t tell anything about that. Perhaps you don’t believe in it at all. I do.”
Dr. Barrère made no reply. He was not quite clear about what he believed; and he had nothing to say on such a subject to this young man standing upon the verge, with all the uncertainties and possibilities of life still so warm in him, and yet so near the one unalterable certainty. After a minute Jim resumed.
“I do,” he said firmly. “I’ve never been what you call a skeptic. I don’t believe men are: they only pretend, or perhaps think so, till it comes upon them. I wonder what they’ll say to a poor fellow up there, doctor? I’ve always been told they understand up there—there can’t be injustice done like here. And I’ve always been a true believer. I’ve never been led away—like that.”
“It isn’t a subject on which I can talk,” said the doctor, unsteadily; “your mother and Agnes, they know. But, Jim, for the love of God don’t talk to them as you are doing now. Put on a good face for their sakes.”
“Poor mother!” said Jim. He turned all at once almost to crying—softened entirely out of his wild talk. “What has she done to have a thing like this happen to her? She is a real good woman—and to have a son hanged, good Lord!” Again he shivered convulsively. “She won’t live long, that’s one thing; and perhaps it’ll be explained to her satisfaction up there. But that’s what I call unjust, Barrère, to torture a poor soul like that, that has never done anything but good all her life. You’ll take care of Agnes. But mother will not live long, poor dear. Poor dear!” he repeated with a tremulous smile. “I suppose she had a happy life till I grew up—till I—I wonder what I could be born for, a fellow like me, to be hanged!” he cried with a sudden, sharp anguish in which there was the laughter of misery and the groan of despair.
Dr. Barrère left the prison with his heart bleeding; but he did not abandon Jim. On the contrary, there was a terrible attraction which drew him to the presence of the unfortunate young man. The doctor of Poolborough jail, though not so high in the profession as himself, was one of Dr. Barrère’s acquaintances, and to him he went when he left the condemned cell. The doctor told his professional brother that Surtees was in a very bad state of health. “His nerves have broken down entirely. His heart—haven’t you remarked?—his heart is in such a state that he might go at any moment.”
“Dear me,” said the other, “he has never complained that I know of. And a very good thing, too, Barrère; you don’t mean to say that you would regret it if anything did happen, before—”
“No,” said the doctor, “but the poor fellow may suffer. I wonder if you’d let me have the charge of him, Maxwell? I know you’re a busy man. And it would please his mother to think that I was looking after him. What do you say?”
The one medical man looked at the other. Doctor Barrère was pale, but he did not shrink from the look turned upon him. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Barrère,” said the prison doctor at last. “I’m getting all wrong for want of a little rest. Feel my hand—my nerves are as much shaken as Surtees’! If you’ll take the whole for a fortnight, so that I may take my holiday—”