Page:Mysteries of Melbourne Life.djvu/69

Rh his restored reason he now saw plainly that all his misery had been caused by himself. And here, again, he felt a ray of hope permeate his soul. He had sinned heavily in this world and he had been heavily punished in this world. Was the doctrine true that we are punished here for the evil we have done? Surely after the anguish he had experienced in this wretched world there was not a hell awaiting him in the next? Poor soul!

The fever of life had died out and reason once more had resumed her sway. His life for years had been one terrible excitement since he first assumed the privilege of manhood. How it had grown upon him gradually as he saw himself surrounded by new friends daily, entering into pleasures and speculations of which he had fondly dreamed, and was now over elated to find himself realising. Then came the trouble and turmoil of his fall, followed by the effort to drown in drink and dissipation the stings and reproaches of his conscience, the terrible disappointment of his life. During that awful time reason on several occasions had returned, but only to be drowned by the mad indulgence in the Lethe of intoxicating liquor. It was like a fearful dream, too horrible to be true.

Was it only a dream, and had he now awoke to find himself again setting out on the journey of life, young, handsome, gay, beloved! Oh! no, no, no; there was evidence around that the dream had been too terribly true. As he lay there in the still night he had every reason to know it was not a dream.

The bare white walls looked down upon a scene such as must bring home to the most hardened the stern realities and sufferings of life. In the dim light of the half turned on gas was to be seen bed after bed, on which lay some poor wretch bandaged and swathed, his features pinched with pain. No happy faces were there; no cheerful voices. From the white bedclothes rose pale faces, looking around wearily. From afar came the din of the city, the music of the bands, the hum of many voices and the beat of many feet. Lying there in that dreary solitude, ah! how many a one thought of the gay hours he had spent in places not far distant, and now he lay here forgotten by the butterflies of pleasure, who were just as intent on their amusements as if he had never existed. Gone were the gay companions, vanished the illusory phantoms of an unhealthy existence; and now life stood out bare and cold.

As Slabang lay there the recollections of the past began to throng upon him, the many memories that return to the mind after being discarded for years. He saw what a bright life his would be now had he not given way to the sirens of pleasure that had lured him to destruction. Had he kept on the steady life he had been leading, be would now hold a high position in the Collusive Bank, would have had a neat residence in the suburbs, a loving wife, sweet little children. His life would pass away in a dream of gentle pleasure. O! fatal woman, fatal wine-cup, that had allured him from the peaceful paths of life. And now, what was he? A thing for even the lowest to despise. Opportunity had been his, but he had let it slip, and now it would come no more. The rope had been thrown to him when struggling in the water of life, and he had contemptuously flung it aside.

How in the still hours of the night, unbroken save by an occasional groan from the shrouded sufferers, his companions, his soul was racked and tortured with the memory of the past and the to come. How earnestly he wished for some one to be near him to console him with the unutterably precious pearl, love, to whisper in his ear the words of hope, of sympathy, the sympathy for which his soul craved with an unappeasable hunger. How the tears rolled down his checks as he thought that he was alone in the world without a soul to care for him, except these cold heartless attendants, who treated him like a dog. It is singular how unsympathetic and hard hospital attendants are. They treat suffering as if it were nothing; the milk of human kindness finds no place in their hearts. Slabang thought how different it would have been if he had led a regular life; he would have had one at least who would have cared for him, loved him, tended him to the last, and wept when he was dead.

And now for the first time dark thoughts came into his mind, thoughts full of the malice of human evil. Strange to say, it was the vision of a sweet face that darkened his soul. Like a face seen in dissolving views this rose before him, first gentle and so very beautiful, then tinged with care, and lastly changed so that the first bore little resemblance to the last vision. Ah! if Hugh had not come between them how beautiful their life might have been. But his last act would be to revenge the girl he had so fondly loved.

Thursday afternoon came. He knew it by the unusual commotion in the city, the sound of many vehicles as they hurried to Fleming-