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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
In "The Year of Miracle," Fergus Hume presents a captivating narrative that weaves together elements of mystery and philosophical reflection against the backdrop of the Victorian era. Set in the idyllic English countryside, the story unfolds around a young protagonist whose life takes an unforeseen turn after a series of supernatural events. Hume's masterful prose, characterized by its vivid imagery and intricate character development, invites readers to explore themes of fate, the uncanny, and the human condition, underscoring the tension between rationality and the spiritual. This novel serves as both a critique of Victorian society'Äôs rigid norms and a celebration of the possibilities that emerge when one dares to embrace the inexplicable. Fergus Hume, an influential figure in the literary landscape of the late 19th century, is best known for his pioneering work in the detective fiction genre. His own experiences as an outsider in England and his keen observations of social justice likely inspired him to craft a tale that blends mysticism with moral inquiry. Hume'Äôs diverse background and fascination with the supernatural inform the narrative's depth, as he challenges conventions and explores the boundaries of rational thought. "The Year of Miracle" stands as a significant contribution to both Victorian literature and the development of modern genre fiction. Readers who appreciate rich storytelling and profound philosophical questions will find this novel to be both a thought-provoking and immersive experience. For those intrigued by the intersections of the known and the unknown, Hume's work offers an unforgettable journey into the extraordinary.
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The Year of Miracle
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 A Struggle-For-Lifer
The door was that of a respectable-looking house in Weymouth Street, in the year one thousand nine hundred, and the bright, new brass plate attached to the door of the respectable-looking house, displayed the name "Dr. Francis Rebelspear," engraved in fat, black letters, defiantly prominent in their determination to attract the attention of the public. Poor Rebelspear, he was very proud when he first obtained the right to use that title, looking upon it as a sure lure to those who desired to be cured by the application of the latest medical science; but, evidently, the sick, the halt, the lame, and the blind—or rather the half-blind—mistrusted the inexperienced look of that new brass plate, for they invariably passed by on their way to some older practitioner, while Dr. Francis sat gloomily in his empty consulting-room; wondering when his turn would come to experiment on the ailing bodies of his fellow-creatures. The first brief, the first sermon, the first patient—it is all very well to look back at them through the golden haze of success, but it is not so pleasant to look forward to them with a lean purse and an anxious heart.
Rebelspear was anxious, terribly anxious, there was no doubt of that, for he had now been waiting many months for the incoming of patients, but as yet none had responded to the mute appeal of that brand-new brass plate which so eloquently declared the inexperience of its owner. After finishing his medical education, and obtaining his license to kill or cure, he had found himself a fully qualified M.D. with comparatively little money at his disposal. The rent, rates, taxes, and furnishings of the respectable-looking house in Weymouth Street, the constant paying out and nothing coming in, had reduced that comparatively little to almost next to nothing; and as civilised man cannot live without a certain amount of capital, Dr. Rebelspear's future looked very gloomy indeed.
He was young—just turned thirty; he was clever—proved by sundry mystical letters tailing after his name; he was hopeful—videlicet the sprat-to-catch-a-mackerel house in Weymouth Street; but notwithstanding all these encouraging qualifications, it seemed as though this poor young man would be worsted in his encounter with the world. There were many, many doctors, and, as a compensatory law, there were many, many patients; but he was one of the many former, and these many latter did not come his way. So, as he could not forcibly drag them into his consulting room, he had to sit there biting his nails and waiting—waiting for nothing, it appeared to him, unless it was the dawn of the twentieth century.
Here was a brilliant illustration of the Darwinian theory concerning the survival of the fittest. Question: Was Rebelspear one of the fittest who would survive! Answer: Entirely depends upon his capacity for holding out, or the public's giving in. At present, the public had evidently no intention of giving in, and Dr. Francis could certainly not hold out much longer, so matters were thus at a dead lock; and, unless a miracle occurred—but then the age of miracles is past. Twentieth century—Materialism and a disbelief in the supernatural. Twentieth century—Dr. Rebelspear and a disbelief that he would ever succeed. An overcrowded profession, and Frank Rebelspear one of the crowd. A young doctor—a comparative pauper—a struggle-for-lifer, was there any chance of sending the ball rolling towards the Temple of Plutus by securing that important first patient? Well, unless a miracle!—again! Pshaw! the twentieth century and miracles indeed. Fire and water were a better mixture.
Nine o'clock, said the respectable, black marble timepiece in the consulting room—nine o'clock on a June evening at the height of the London season, and three people filled the empty room—well, hardly three, seeing the third was immortal and invisible. Dr. Francis and his friend, Julian Delicker, present in the flesh, and at the door, the good fairy, Hope, pausing for a moment before finally leaving this unlucky house by the new brass-plated door. Hope, charming fairy who lightens the doleful hearts of poor humanity, looked at Rebelspear seated at his desk with his head on his hands and a dreary frown on his handsome face, and then looked at Julian Delicker, leaning against the mantelpiece, in strange contrast to his friend.
Julian Delicker, man-about-town, society butterfly, well-to-do idler, and old schoolfellow of Frank Rebelspear's, who had come to cheer him up, and offer his help, his personal influence, his advice, in fact, everything except his purse, which was what the poor young doctor most needed. Hope looked regretfully at his tableau of wealth and poverty—of Grasshopper and Ant—but no, that comparison is hardly correct, for this time the fable was reversed and Grasshopper had the best of it, while Ant, unfortunate Ant, was in difficulties of the most perplexing nature. Will not Hope, the good fairy, stay where she is so much needed? No, she will not. Hope needs some inducement to remain, a promise, a prospect, a belief, but without one of these encouragements she flies, fickle fairy that she is; and in this pitiful case she fled with a tear in her eye, being loath to leave the Weymouth Street house. Still finding no place in the heart of Rebelspear, she fled and left the worker to be consoled by the idler.
Tick! tick! tick! from the respectable, black marble clock on the mantelpiece, against which lounged Julian. Yes, that was certainly excellent advice, but who would trust a pauper, who positively could not conceal his deficiency of income? Still it was amusing, and the antique joke might cheer Rebelspear, so Julian translated the advice of the respectable clock to the desponding doctor.
"If things are so bad, you'll have to live on 'tick,' Frank, at least so the clock says."
Dr. Rebelspear lifted his aching head from his hands and looked angrily at the timepiece and the adviser.
"If you came here to use slang and make jokes," he said, resentfully, "you had better go away as soon as you can. I'm in no humour for jesting."
"I came here to take you to Sir Luke Kernshaw's ball," replied Julian, coolly arranging the carnation in his buttonhole—"that is, if you care to come. It will cheer you up a bit."
"Cheer me up!" echoed the doctor, with a dreary laugh. "What a Job's comforter you are, Julian. I have no money—I have no patients. I have no hope of things improving, and yet you talk about my going to a ball to be cheered up—ridiculous!"
"At all events you will see Eva Kerrishaw there."
"Worse and worse! To see the woman I love, and know that I cannot hope to make her my wife because of my position. How can you suggest such a Tantalus-like torture, Delicker?"
"Tantalus! Tantalus! Eh? who was he? Some Greek fellow, wasn't he? Don't be classical, Frank. We had too much of that sort of thing at school. I don't care about it now."
"You don't care about anything, except yourself."
"And why not? Number One is the greatest number."
"From a selfish point of view, I suppose it is," retorted the doctor, filling his pipe; "but I won't go to Kernshaw's to be tortured by a sight of the unattainable, and as for you, my friend, you'd better clear out, or the scent of tobacco smoke will spoil your nice evening clothes."
"Don't be nasty, Frank," said Delicker, taking a seat. "I have come to you, as your old schoolfellow, to see what I can do for you."
"And, as I have told you before, you can do nothing, except break your leg and let me set it, or poison yourself and take the emetic I prescribe."
"Après!"
"Oh, après, you can trumpet my praises abroad as the best doctor you know, and all those brainless idiots you call your friends will come to me to be cured of their fancied ailments. I shall become a fashionable physician and get knighted. Eva will marry me, and from the splendid gloom of Harley Street Sir Francis and Lady Rebelspear will set forth to be presented at court."
Dr. Rebelspear spoke in a semi-jocular fashion, making a jest of his own poverty, but his laughter was very much akin to tears, and he hastily enveloped himself in thick clouds of tobacco smoke, lest Julian should see the nervous agitation of his face. Delicker, however, was not looking at his friend, nor even paying much attention to his grotesquely bitter speech, being quite absorbed in rolling a cigarette, which he did in characteristically neat fashion.
"It's about half-past nine," he said at last, having lighted his roll of tobacco, "so if you intend coming to Kernshaw's dance, you'd better dress at once."
"I'm not going!"
"My dear old misanthrope, it will do you good. Sitting here waiting for mythical patients will only make you mope over your troubles; while if you come with me, you will have a chance of speaking to Eva Kernshaw, and—"
"What's the good?" interrupted Rebelspear savagely, "it's like showing a hungry man a dinner, and forbidding him to touch it. I adore Eva, and she loves me; but because I am poor and unknown, her purse-proud old father won't hear of an engagement between us. No! no! my dear would-be-comforter, Eva Kernshaw is reserved for wealthy young men like yourself, not for a poor devil like me, who has got nothing in this overcrowded world but his brains to recommend him."
"If that is meant for me, Rebelspear, you can set your mind at rest. I am not a marrying man; and if I were, Eva Kernshaw is certainly not the woman I would choose for my wife. The other sister is the more charming of the two."
"Night?"
"Yes! You adore golden-haired Day; I admire darkbrowed Night; but while you want to marry Eva, I don't want to marry anybody. Besides, Laura Kernshaw admires you."
"Nonsense!"
"Oh, yes, she does! Lucky man to be adored by two lovely women who have been painted by an R.A. as Day and Night. It's a reverse of the judgment of Paris, my friend. To whom will you give the golden apple of discord?"
"You are classical now," said Rebelspear, with a faint smile; "but, indeed, you are mistaken. I love Eva, and she returns my love; as for Miss Laura, I don't believe she ever gives a thought to me."
"Well, come to-night and we shall see."
Frank looked round the comfortable room, at the sombre row of medical books, at his study table, whereon lay a new number of the Lancet he wished to read, at the clock, at his friend, and finally shook his head.
"Don't tempt me, Julian. I have work to do."
"Oh, nonsense. You know quite enough to cure any patient who comes, and as they don't come, why worry your brains?"
"I must be prepared."
"Well, one night won't make much difference. No patient will come to-night."
"No! I suppose not," said Rebelspear, gloomily; "humanity must be healthier than it used to be, or there are too many doctors; but, certainly, I don't see much chance of making a living."
"What a pity there can't be a jolly good old plague."
"Delicker!"
"Well! what do you look so horrified for? It would do good in two ways. Give you patients and kill off a large number of the superfluous population. The world is getting overcrowded, and what with socialism, anarchy, war, famine, and Heaven only knows what, it's a bad look-out for the twentieth century."
"Possibly it is, but I don't see how your receipt would improve matters."
"Don't you?" said Julian, with surprise; "my dear old mole, if all the weak, the sick, and the revolutionary were killed off, think of how much smoother things would go. There would be more elbow-room—more chance of humanity developing. We would rid ourselves of a criminal population—bread would not be so dear—there would be work for all—in fact, the whole of this overcrowded planet we call earth would make a fresh start, not as savages, but with all the accumulated wisdom of centuries to begin with. Under these circumstances, think what a brilliant twentieth century we should have."
"How horribly paradoxical you are," replied Rebelspear, with a shudder. "You would sacrifice the many for the benefit of the few."
"Well, yes; if you like to put it that way. It would be a case of the survival of the fittest."
"No doubt; but think what a wonderfully discriminating plague would be necessary. To kill off all the criminals and spare the brainworkers. To put out of existence the lame and the deformed, in order to save the physically perfect. A most selective plague, truly."
"Oh, you may laugh as you please, Frank," said Julian, rather piqued, "but things are getting to such a pitch that unless we have a great war or a great plague everything will go to the devil."
"There is not much chance of the one or the other. Military weapons have been brought to such a pitch of perfection that each nation is afraid of the other, as a war in the present state of devilish ingenuity would mean the annihilation of one or the other; while, as for a plague, what with our recent discoveries in medical science, sickness on a large scale is not likely to occur. You can, therefore, my dear philanthropist, dismiss your bizarre idea of a plague as a regenerative measure for the humanity of the twentieth century, and—"
At this moment the servant entered with a grin on his face. "Please, sir, a patient!"
"A patient!" echoed Rebelspear, in a tone of disbelief.
"Shakespeare," cried Julian, with a gay laugh. "There is a tide in the affairs of men—"
"Oh, don't quote any more," said Frank, rising quickly. "I'll take this patient at the flood anyhow, and if or rather he, leads on to fortune—"
"Well?"
"I'll marry Eva Kernshaw."
Chapter 2 His First Patient
So that difficult first step had at last been taken, and Dr. Rebelspear had obtained his first patient. Certainly, when this long-expected and much-prized individual appeared, he did not look very promising, as, judging from his looks, he was not gifted with a superfluity of this world's goods. Still he was distinctly a patient—one who had come to ask the advice of the young doctor regarding his ailments, and that was something to be grateful for; so when the servant had departed and the prize was safely caged in the consulting-room, Rebelspear took a long, long look at this shabby old man, in order to assure himself that he was flesh and blood, and not a mere phantom creation of the brain.
Not that he looked unlike a phantom either, for he was very tall and very thin, while his black clothes hung round his bony frame in a loose fluttering fashion which gave him a wavering appearance. As he stood there in the strong electric light with his long white locks flowing over his shoulders, and his long white beard streaming down to his waist, both young men were struck by his unsubstantial look, which suggested all kinds of fanciful horrors.
But his eyes—ah, those terrible eyes! the light from which streamed out from under his frowning white eyebrows like the flash of gems—these gave a fierce, repellent look to his venerable face, a face lined and marked and scored and seamed with innumerable wrinkles betokening great age. His rounded shoulders were much bent, and with his thin, hooked nose, his long, claw-like fingers clutching his hat, and those brilliant eyes, he looked like some ill-omened bird of prey waiting to pounce on his victim.
Julian stared at this grotesquely terrible figure in his usual nonchalant manner, then, shrugging his shoulders, prepared to take his departure, when Rebelspear stopped him.
"Don't go, Delicker," he said, quickly, resuming his seat; "when I have finished with this gentleman I will go with you to Sir Luke Kernshaw's."
"Sir Luke Kernshaw!"
The echo of the name did not come from Julian but from that strange old man who stood rigidly by the door with the draught fluttering his loose garments, and his fierce eyes flashing their light first on one and then on the other. Both of them looked up in surprise at the mention of the name, and again the stranger repeated it in a harsh, strident voice eminently disagreeable.
"Sir Luke Kernshaw!"
"Yes!" said Rebelspear, recovering from his astonishment. "Why do you repeat that name! Do you know Sir Luke?"
"To my cost!" Rebelspear looked at Julian, and Julian returned his gaze with a significant nod in the direction of the stranger.
"Mad!"
"No, young gentleman, I am not mad, although I have suffered enough to be so. I could tell you strange things about—but no, at present I will say nothing, the time is not yet come. I have come to see this doctor for my wound!"
"Your wound?"
"Behold!"
