To Stephen all that now happened seemed like a dream. She saw Hector and
his gallant young master forge across the smoother water of the current
whose boisterous stream had been somewhat stilled in the churning amongst
the rocks, and then go north in the direction of the swimmer who, strange
to say, was drifting in again towards the sunken rocks. Then she saw the
swimmer's head sink under the water; and her heart grew cold. Was this
to be the end! Was such a brave man to be lost after such gallant effort
as he had made, and just at the moment when help was at hand!
The few seconds seemed ages. Instinctively she shut her eyes and prayed
again. 'Oh! God. Give me this man's life that I may atone!'
God seemed to have heard her prayer. Nay, more! He had mercifully
allowed her to be the means of averting great danger. She would never,
could never, forget the look on the man's face when he saw, by the flame
that she had kindled, ahead of him the danger from the sunken rocks. She
had exulted at the thought. And now . . .
She was recalled by a wild cheer beside her. Opening her eyes she saw
that the man's head had risen again from the water. He was swimming
furiously, this time seaward. But close at hand were the heads of the
swimming horse and man . . . She saw the young squire seize the man . . .
And then the rush of her tears blinded her. When she could see again the
horse had turned and was making back again to the shelter of the point.
The squire had his arm stretched across the horse's back; he was holding
up the sailor's head, which seemed to roll helplessly with every motion
of the cumbering sea.
For a little she thought he was dead, but the voice of the old whaler
reassured her:
'He was just in time! The poor chap was done!' And so with beating
heart and eyes that did not flinch now she watched the slow progress to
the shelter of the point. The coastguards and fishermen had made up
their minds where the landing could be made, and were ready; on the rocky
shelf, whence Hector had at jumped, they stood by with lines. When the
squire had steered and encouraged the horse, whose snorting could be
heard from the sheltered water, till he was just below the rocks, they
lowered a noosed rope. This he fastened round the senseless man below
his shoulders. One strong, careful pull, and he was safe on land; and
soon was being borne up the steep zigzag on the shoulders of the willing
crowd.
In the meantime other ropes were passed down to the squire. One he
placed round his own waist; two others he fastened one on each side of
the horse's girth. Then his friend lowered the bridle, and he managed to
put it on the horse and attached a rope to it. The fishermen took the
lines, and, paying out as they went so as to leave plenty of slack line,
got on the rocks just above the little beach whereon, sheltered though it
was, the seas broke heavily. There they waited, ready to pull the horse
through the surf when he should have come close enough.
Stephen did not see the rescue of the horse; for just then a tall grave
man spoke to her:
'Pardon me, Lady de Lannoy, but is the man to be brought up to the
Castle? I am told you have given orders that all the rescued shall be
taken there.' She answered unhesitatingly:
'Certainly! I gave orders before coming out that preparation was to be
made for them.'
'I am Mr. Hilton. I have just come down to do lacum tenens for Dr.
Winter at Lannoch Port. I rode over on hearing there was a wreck, and
came here with the rocket-cart. I shall take charge of the man and bring
him up. He will doubtless want some special care.'
'If you will be so good!' she answered, feeling a diffidence which was
new to her. At that moment the crowd carrying the senseless man began to
appear over the cliff, coming up the zig-zag. The Doctor hurried towards
him; she followed at a little distance, fearing lest she should hamper
him. Under his orders they laid the patient on the weather side of the
bonfire so that the smoke would not reach him. The Doctor knelt by his
side.
An instant after he looked up and said:
'He is alive; his heart is beating, though faintly. He had better be
taken away at once. There is no means here of shelter.'
'Bring him in the rocket-cart; it is the only conveyance here,' cried
Stephen. 'And bring Mr. Hepburn too. He also will need some care after
his gallant service. I shall ride on and advise my household of your
coming. And you good people come all to the Castle. You are to be my
guests if you will so honour me. No! No! Really I should prefer to
ride alone!'
She said this impulsively, seeing that several of the gentlemen were
running for their horses to accompany her. 'I shall not wait to thank
that valiant young gentleman. I shall see him at Lannoy.'
As she was speaking she had taken the bridle of her horse. One of the
young men stooped and held his hand; she bowed, put her foot in it and
sprang to the saddle. In an instant she was flying across country at
full speed, in the dark. A wild mood was on her, reaction from the
prolonged agony of apprehension. There was little which she would not
have done just then.
The gale whistled round her and now and again she shouted with pure joy.
It seemed as if God Himself had answered her prayer and given her the
returning life!
By the time she had reached the Castle the wild ride had done its
soothing work. She was calm again, comparatively; her wits and feelings
were her own.
There was plenty to keep her occupied, mind and body. The train of
persons saved from the wreck were arriving in all sorts of vehicles, and
as clothes had to be found for them as well as food and shelter there was
no end to the exertions necessary. She felt as though the world were not
wide enough for the welcome she wished to extend. Its exercise was a
sort of reward of her exertions; a thank-offering for the response to her
prayer. She moved amongst her guests, forgetful of herself; of her
strange attire; of the state of dishevelment and grime in which she was,
the result of the storm, her long ride over rough ground with its share
of marshes and pools, and the smoke from the bonfire and the blazing
house. The strangers wondered at first, till they came to understand
that she was the Lady Bountiful who had stretched her helpful hands to
them. Those who could, made themselves useful with the new batches of
arrivals. The whole Castle was lit from cellar to tower. The kitchens
were making lordly provision, the servants were carrying piles of clothes
of all sorts, and helping to fit those who came still wet from their
passage through or over the heavy sea.
In the general disposition of chambers Stephen ordered to be set apart
for the rescued swimmer the Royal Chamber where Queen Elizabeth had lain;
and for Mr. Hepburn that which had been occupied by the Second George.
She had a sort of idea that the stranger was God's guest who was coming
to her house; and that nothing could be too good for him. As she waited
for his coming, even though she swept to and fro in her ministrations to
others, she felt as though she trod on air. Some great weight seemed to
have been removed from her. Her soul was free again!
At last the rocket-cart arrived, and with it many horsemen and such men
and women as could run across country with equal speed to the horses
labouring by the longer road.
The rescued man was still senseless, but that alone did not seem to cause
anxiety to the Doctor, who hurried him at once into the prepared room.
When, assisted by some of the other men, he had undressed him, rubbed him
down and put him to bed, and had seen some of the others who had been
rescued from the wreck, he sought out Lady de Lannoy. He told her that
his anxiety was for the man's sight; an announcement which blanched his
hearer's cheeks. She had so made up her mind as to his perfect safety
that the knowledge of any kind of ill came like a cruel shock. She
questioned Mr. Hilton closely; so closely that he thought it well to tell
her at once all that he surmised and feared:
'That fine young fellow who swam out with his horse to him, tells me that
when he neared him he cried out that he was blind. I have made some
inquiries from those on the ship, and they tell me that he was a
passenger, named Robinson. Not only was he not blind then, but he was
the strongest and most alert man on the ship. If it be blindness it must
have come on during that long swim. It may be that before leaving the
ship he received some special injury--indeed he has several cuts and
burns and bruises--and that the irritation of the sea-water increased it.
I can do nothing till he wakes. At present he is in such a state that
nothing can be done for him. Later I shall if necessary give him a
hypodermic to ensure sleep. In the morning when I come again I shall
examine him fully.'
'But you are not going away to-night!' said Stephen in dismay. 'Can't
you manage to stay here? Indeed you must! Look at all these people,
some of whom may need special attention or perhaps treatment. We do not
know yet if any may be injured.' He answered at once:
'Of course I shall stay if you wish it. But there are two other doctors
here already. I must go over to my own place to get some necessary
instruments for the examination of this special patient. But that I can
do in the early morning.'
'Can I not send for what you want; the whole household are at your
service. All that can be done for that gallant man must be done. You
can send to London for special help if you wish. If that man is blind,
or in danger of blindness, we must have the best oculist in the world for
him.'
'All shall be done that is possible,' said he earnestly. 'But till I
examine him in the morning we can do nothing. I am myself an oculist;
that is my department in St. Stephen's Hospital. I have an idea of what
is wrong, but I cannot diagnose exactly until I can use the
ophthalmoscope.' His words gave Stephen confidence. Laying her hand on
his arm unconsciously in the extremity of pity she said earnestly:
'Oh, do what you can for him. He must be a noble creature; and all that
is possible must be done. I shall never rest happily if through any
failing on my part he suffers as you fear.'
'I shall do all I can,' he said with equal earnestness, touched with her
eager pity. 'And I shall not trust myself alone, if any other can be of
service. Depend upon it, Lady de Lannoy, all shall be as you wish.'
There was little sleep in the Castle that night till late. Mr. Hilton
slept on a sofa in the Queen's Room after he had administered a narcotic
to his patient.
As soon as the eastern sky began to quicken, he rode, as he had arranged
during the evening, to Dr. Winter's house at Lannoch Port where he was
staying. After selecting such instruments and drugs as he required, he
came back in the dogcart.
It was still early morning when he regained the Castle. He found Lady de
Lannoy up and looking anxiously for him. Her concern was somewhat abated
when he was able to tell her that his patient still slept.
It was a painful scene for Mr. Hilton when his patient woke. Fortunately
some of the after-effects of the narcotic remained, for his despair at
realising that he was blind was terrible. It was not that he was
violent; to be so under his present circumstances would have been foreign
to Harold's nature. But there was a despair which was infinitely more
sad to witness than passion. He simply moaned to himself:
'Blind! Blind!' and again in every phase of horrified amazement, as
though he could not realise the truth: 'Blind! Blind!' The Doctor laid
his hand on his breast and said very gently:
'My poor fellow, it is a dreadful thing to face, to think of. But as yet
I have not been able to come to any conclusion; unable even to examine
you. I do not wish to encourage hopes that may be false, but there are
cases when injury is not vital and perhaps only temporary. In such case
your best chance, indeed your only chance, is to keep quiet. You must
not even think if possible of anything that may excite you. I am now
about to examine you with the ophthalmoscope. You are a man; none of us
who saw your splendid feat last night can doubt your pluck. Now I want
you to use some of it to help us both. You, for your recovery, if such
is possible; me, to help me in my work. I have asked some of your late
companions who tell me that on shipboard you were not only well and of
good sight, but that you were remarkable even amongst strong men.
Whatever it is you suffer from must have come on quickly. Tell me all
you can remember of it.'
The Doctor listened attentively whilst Harold told all he could remember
of his sufferings. When he spoke of the return of old rheumatic pains
his hearer said involuntarily: 'Good!' Harold paused; but went on at
once. The Doctor recognised that he had rightly appraised his remark,
and by it judged that he was a well-educated man. Something in the
method of speaking struck him, and he said, as nonchalantly as he could:
'By the way, which was your University?'
'Cambridge. Trinity.' He spoke without thinking, and the instant he had
done so stopped. The sense of his blindness rushed back on him. He
could not see; and his ears were not yet trained to take the place of his
eyes. He must guard himself. Thenceforward he was so cautious in his
replies that Mr. Hilton felt convinced there was some purpose in his
reticence. He therefore stopped asking questions, and began to examine
him. He was unable to come to much result; his opinion was shown in his
report to Lady de Lannoy:
'I am unable to say anything definite as yet. The case is a most
interesting one; as a case and quite apart from the splendid fellow who
is the subject of it. I have hopes that within a few days I may be able
to know more. I need not trouble you with surgical terms; but later on
if the diagnosis supports the supposition at present in my mind I shall
be able to speak more fully. In the meantime I shall, with your
permission, wait here so that I may watch him myself.'
'Oh you are good. Thank you! Thank you!' said Stephen. She had so
taken the man under her own care that she was grateful for any kindness
shown to him.
'Not at all,' said Mr. Hilton. 'Any man who behaved as that fellow did
has a claim on any of us who may help him. No time of mine could be
better spent.'
When he went back to the patient's room he entered softly, for he thought
he might be asleep. The room was, according to his instructions, quite
dark, and as it was unfamiliar to him he felt his way cautiously. Harold,
however, heard the small noise he made and said quietly:
'Who is there?'
'It is I; Hilton.'
'Are you alone?'
'Yes.'
'Look round the room and see. Then lock the door and come and talk to me
if you will. You will pity a poor blind fellow, I know. The darkness
has come down upon me so quickly that I am not accustomed to it!' There
was a break in his voice which moved the other. He lit a candle, feeling
that the doing so would impress his patient, and went round the room; not
with catlike movement this time--he wanted the other to hear him. When
he had turned the key in the lock, as sharply as he could, he came to the
bedside and sat down. Harold spoke again after a short pause:
'Is that candle still lit?'
'Yes! Would you like it put out?'
'If you don't mind! Again I say pity me and pardon me. But I want to
ask you something privately, between our two selves; and I will feel more
of equality than if you were looking at me, whilst I cannot see you.' Mr
Hilton blew out the candle.
'There! We are equal now.'
'Thank you!' A long pause; then he went on:
'When a man becomes suddenly blind is there usually, or even
occasionally, any sort of odd sight? . . . Does he see anything like a
dream, a vision?'
'Not that I know of. I have never heard of such a case. As a rule
people struck blind by lightning, which is the most common cause,
sometimes remember with extraordinary accuracy the last thing they have
seen. Just as though it were photographed on the retina!'
'Thank you! Is such usually the recurrence of any old dream or anything
they have much thought of?'
'Not that I know of. It would be unusual!' Harold waited a long time
before he spoke again. When he did so it was in a different voice; a
constrained voice. The Doctor, accustomed to take enlightenment from
trivial details, noted it:
'Now tell me, Mr. Hilton, something about what has happened. Where am
I?'
'In Lannoy Castle.'
'Where is it?'
'In Angleshire!'
'Who does it belong to?'
'Lady de Lannoy. The Countess de Lannoy; they tell me she is a Countess
in her own right.'
'It is very good of her to have me here. Is she an old lady?'
'No! A young one. Young and very beautiful.' After a pause before his
query:
'What's she like? Describe her to me!'
'She is young, a little over twenty. Tall and of a very fine figure. She
has eyes like black diamonds, and hair like a flame!' For a long time
Harold remained still. Then he said:
'Tell me all you know or have learned of this whole affair. How was I
rescued, and by whom?' So the Doctor proceeded to give him every detail
he knew of. When he was quite through, the other again lay still for a
long time. The silence was broken by a gentle tap at the door. The
Doctor lit a candle. He turned the key softly, so that no one would
notice that the door was locked. Something was said in a low whisper.
Then the door was gently closed, and the Doctor returning said:
'Lady Lannoy wants, if it will not disturb you, to ask how you are.
Ordinarily I should not let anyone see you. But she is not only your
hostess, but, as I have just told you, it was her ride to the headland,
where she burned the house to give you light, which was the beginning of
your rescue. Still if you think it better not . . . !'
'I hardly like anybody to see me like this!' said Harold, feebly seeking
an excuse.
'My dear man,' said the other, 'you may be easy in your mind, she won't
see much of you. You are all bandages and beard. She'll have to wait a
while before she sees you.'
'Didn't she see me last night?'
'Not she! Whilst we were trying to restore you she was rushing back to
the Castle to see that all was ready for you, and for the others from the
wreck.' This vaguely soothed Harold.
If his surmise was correct, and if she had not seen him then, it was well
that he was bandaged now. He felt that it would not do to refuse to let
her see him; it might look suspicious. So after pausing a short while he
said in a low voice:
'I suppose she had better come now. We must not keep her waiting!' When
the Doctor brought her to his bedside Stephen felt in a measure awed. His
bandaged face and head and his great beard, singed in patches, looked to
her in the dim light rather awesome. In a very gentle voice she said
kind things to the sick man, who acknowledged them in a feeble whisper.
The Doctor, a keen observer, noticed the change in his voice, and
determined to understand more. Stephen spoke of his bravery, and of how
it was due to him that all on the ship were saved; and as she spoke her
emotion moved her so much that her sweet voice shook and quivered. To
the ears of the man who had now only sound to guide him, it was music of
the sweetest he had ever heard. Fearing lest his voice should betray
him, he whispered his own thanks feebly and in few words.
When Stephen went away the Doctor went with her; it was more than an hour
before he returned. He found his patient in what he considered a state
of suppressed excitement; for, though his thoughts were manifestly
collected and his words were calm, he was restless and excited in other
ways. He had evidently been thinking of his own condition; for shortly
after the Doctor came in he said:
'Are we alone?'
'Quite!'
'I want you to arrange that there shall not be any nurse with me.'
'My dear sir! Don't handicap me, and yourself, with such a restriction.
It is for your own good that you should have regular and constant
attention.'
'But I don't wish it. Not for the present at all events. I am not
accustomed to a nurse, and shall not feel comfortable. In a few days
perhaps . . . ' The decided tone of his voice struck the other. Keeping
his own thoughts and intentions in abeyance, even to himself, he answered
heartily:
'All right! I shall not have any nurse, at present.'
'Thanks!' There was relief in the tone which seemed undue, and Mr.
Hilton again took mental note. Presently he asked a question, but in
such a tone that the Doctor pricked up his ears. There was a
premeditated self-suppression, a gravity of restraint, which implied some
falsity; some intention other than the words conveyed:
'It must have been a job to carry me up those stairs.' The Doctor was
doubting everything, but as the safest attitude he stuck to literal truth
so far as his words conveyed it:
'Yes. You are no light weight!' To himself he mused:
'How did he know there were stairs? He cannot know it; he was senseless!
Therefore he must be guessing or inquiring!' Harold went on:
'I suppose the Castle is on high ground. Can you see far from the
windows? I suppose we are up a good height?'
'From the windows you can see all round the promontory. But we are not
high up; that is, the room is not high from the ground, though the Castle
is from the sea.' Harold asked again, his voice vibrating in the note of
gladness:
'Are we on the ground floor then?'
'Yes.'
'And I suppose the gardens are below us?'
'Yes.' The answer was given quickly, for a thought was floating through
him: Why did this strong brave man, suddenly stricken blind, wish to know
whether his windows were at a height? He was not surprised when his
patient reaching out a hand rested it on his arm and said in an imploring
tone:
'It should be moonlight; full moon two nights ago. Won't you pull up the
blind and describe to me all you see? . . . Tell me fully . . . Remember,
I am blind!'
This somehow fixed the Doctor's thought:
'Suicide! But I must convey the inutility of such effort by inference,
not falsity.'
Accordingly he began to describe the scene, from the very base of the
wall, where below the balcony the great border was glorious with a mass
of foliage plants, away to the distant sea, now bathed in the flood of
moonlight. Harold asked question after question; the Doctor replying
accurately till he felt that the patient was building up a concrete idea
of his surroundings near and far. Then he left him. He stood for a long
time out in the passage thinking. He said to himself as he moved away:
'The poor fellow has some grim intention in his mind. I must not let him
know that I suspect; but to-night I will watch without his knowing it!'