"HOW CAN I?"
Martine sank into his chair again. Although the conversation had been
carried on in low tones, it was the voice of Nichol that he had heard.
Closer inspection of the slightly disfigured face proved that, apart
from the scar on the forehead, it was the countenance of Nichol. A
possible solution of the mystery was beginning to force itself in
Hobart's reluctant mind. When Nichol had fallen in the Wilderness, the
shock of his injury had rendered him senseless and caused him to appear
dead to the hasty scrutiny of Sam and Jim Wetherby. They were terribly
excited and had no time for close examination. Nichol might have
revived, have been gathered up with the Confederate wounded, and sent
to Richmond. There was dire and tremendous confusion at that period,
when within the space of two or three days tens of thousands were
either killed or disabled. In a Southern hospital Nichol might have
recovered physical health while, from injury to the brain, suffering
complete eclipse of memory. In this case he would have to begin life
anew, like a child, and so would pick up the vernacular and bearing of
the enlisted men with whom he would chiefly associate.
Because he remembered nothing and know nothing, he may at first have
been tolerated as a "cur'ous chap," then employed as he had explained.
He could take the place of a better man where men were greatly needed.
This theory could solve the problem; and Martine's hospital experience
prepared his mind to understand what would be a hopeless mystery to
many. He was so fearfully excited that he could not remain in the ward.
The very proximity to this strange being, who had virtually risen from
the dead and appeared to him of all others, was a sort of torture in
itself.
What effect would this discovery have on his relations to Helen? He
dared not think yet he must think. Already the temptation of his life
was forming in his mind. His cousin was sleeping; and with a wild
impatience to escape, to get away from all his kind, he stole
noiselessly out into the midnight and deserted streets. On, on he went,
limping he knew not, cared not where, for his passion and mental agony
drove him hither and thither like a leaf before a fitful gale.
"No one knows of this," he groaned. "I can still return and marry
Helen. But oh, what a secret to carry!"
Then his heart pleaded. "This is not the lover she lost--only a
horrible, mocking semblance. He has lost his own identity; he does not
even know himself--would not know her. Ah! I'm not sure of that. I
would be dead indeed if her dear features did not kindle my eyes in
recognition. It may be that the sight of her face is the one thing
essential to restore him. I feel this would be true were it my case.
But how can I give her up now? How can?--how can I? Oh, this terrible
journey! No wonder Helen had forebodings. She loves me; she is mine. No
one else has so good a right. We were to be married only a few hours
hence. Then she whom I've loved from childhood would make my home a
heaves on earth. And yet--and yet--" Even in the darkness he buried his
face in his hands, shuddered, moaned, writhed, and grated his teeth in
the torment of the conflict.
Hour after hour he wavered, now on the point of yielding, then stung by
conscience into desperate uncertainty. The night was cold, the howling
wind would have chilled him at another time, but during his struggle
great drops of sweat often poured from his face. Only the eye of God
saw that battle, the hardest that was fought and won during the war.
At last, when well out of the city, he lifted his agonized eyes and saw
the beautiful hues of morning tingeing the east. Unconsciously, he
repeated the sublime, creative words, "Let there be light." It came to
him. With the vanishing darkness, he revolted finally against the
thought of any shadows existing between him and Helen. She should have
all the light that he had, and decide her own course. He had little
hope that she would wed him, even if she did not marry Nichol in his
present condition--a condition probably only temporary and amenable to
skilful treatment.
Wearily he dragged his lame foot back to a hotel in the populous party
of the city, and obtained food and wine, for he was terribly exhausted.
Next he telegraphed Mr. Kemble:
"Arrived last evening. The wedding will have to be postponed. Will
explain later."
"It's the best I can do now," he muttered. "Helen will think it is all
due to my cousin's illness." Then he returned to the hospital and found
his relative in a state of wonderment at his absence, but refreshed
from a good night's rest. Yankee Blank was nowhere to be seen.
"Hobart," exclaimed his cousin, "you look ill--ten years older than you
did last night."
"You see me now by daylight," was the quiet reply. "I am not very well."
"It's a perfect shame that I've been the cause of so much trouble,
especially when it wasn't necessary."
"Oh, my God!" thought Martine, "there was even no need of this fatal
journey." But his face had become grave and inscrutable, and the plea
of ill-health reconciled his cousin to the necessity of immediate
return. There was no good reason for his remaining, for by a few
additional arrangements his relative would do very well and soon be
able to take care of himself. Martine felt that he could not jeopardize
his hard-won victory by delay, which was as torturing as the time
intervening between a desperate surgical operation and the knowledge
that it is inevitable.
After seeing that his cousin made a good breakfast, he sought a private
interview with the wardmaster. He was able to extract but little
information about Yankee Blank more than the man had given himself.
"Doctors say he may regain his memory at any time, or it may be a long
while, and possibly never," was the conclusion.
"I think I know him," said Martine. "I will bring physician from the
city to consult this morning with the surgeon in charge."
"I'm glad to hear it," was the reply. "Something would have to be done
soon. He is just staying on here and making himself useful to some
extent."
When Martine re-entered the ward, Yankee Blank appeared, grinned, and
said affably, "Howdy." Alas! a forlorn, miserable hope that he might
have been mistaken was banished from Hobart's mind now that he saw
Nichol in the clear light of day. The scar across his forehead and a
change of expression, denoting the eclipse of fine, cultivated manhood,
could not disguise the unmistakable features. There was nothing to be
done but carry out as quickly as possible the purpose which had cost
him so dear.
He first telegraphed his uncle to dismiss further anxiety, and that his
son would soon be able to visit him. Then the heavy-hearted man sought
a physician whom he knew well by reputation.
The consultation was held, and Nichol (as he may be more properly named
hereafter) was closely questioned and carefully examined. The result
merely confirmed previous impressions. It was explained, as far as
explanation can be given of the mysterious functions of the brain, that
either the concussion of the exploding shell or the wound from a flying
fragment had paralyzed the organ of memory. When such paralysis would
cease, if ever, no one could tell. The power to recall everything might
return at any moment or it might be delayed indefinitely. A shock, a
familiar face, might supply the potency required, or restoration come
through the slow, unseen processes of nature. Martine believed that
Helen's face and voice would accomplish everything.
He was well known to the medical authorities and had no difficulty in
securing belief that he had identified Nichol. He also promised that
abundant additional proof should be sent on from Alton, such certainty
being necessary to secure the officer's back pay and proper discharge
from the service. The surgeon then addressed the man so strangely
disabled, "You know I'm in charge of this hospital?"
"I reckon," replied Nichol, anxiously, for the brief experience which
he could recall had taught him that the authority of the
surgeon-in-chief was autocratic.
"Well, first, you must give up the name of Yankee Blank. Your name
hereafter is Captain Nichol."
"All right, Doctor. I'll be a gin'ral ef you sez so."
"Very well; remember your name is Captain Nichol. Next, you must obey
this man and go with him. You must do just what he says in all
respects. His name is Mr. Hobart Martine."
"Yes, he tole me las' night, Hob't Ma'tine. He took on mighty cur'ous
after seein' me."
"Do you understand that you are to mind, to obey him in all respects
just as you have obeyed me?"
"I reckon. Will he tek me to anuther hospital?"
"He will take you where you will be well cared for and treated kindly."
Having written Nichol's discharge from the hospital, the surgeon turned
to other duties.
Martine informed his cousin, as far as it was essential, of the
discovery he had made and of the duties which it imposed, then took his
leave. Nichol readily accompanied him, and with the exception of a
tendency to irritation at little things, exhibited much of the
good-natured docility of a child. Martine took him to a hotel, saw that
he had a bath, put him in the hands of a barber, and then sent for a
clothier. When dressed in clean linen and a dark civilian suit, the
appearance of the man was greatly improved. Hobart had set his teeth,
and would entertain no thought of compromise with his conscience. He
would do by Nichol as he would wish to be done by if their relations
were reversed. Helen should receive no greater shock than was
inevitable, nor should Nichol lose the advantage of appearing before
her in the outward aspect of a gentleman.
Martine then planned his departure so that he would arrive at Alton in
the evening--the evening of the day on which he was to have been
married. He felt that Mr. Kemble should see Nichol first and hear the
strange story; also that the father must break the news to the
daughter, for he could not. It was a terrible journey to the poor
fellow, for during the long hours of inaction he was compelled to face
the probable results of his discovery. The sight of Nichol and his
manner was intolerable; and in addition, he was almost as much care as
a child. Everything struck him as new and strange, and he was disposed
to ask numberless questions. His vernacular, his alternations of
amusement and irritation, and the oddity of his ignorance concerning
things which should be simple or familiar to a grown man, attracted the
attention of his fellow-passengers. It was with difficulty that
Martine, by his stern, sad face and a cold, repelling manner, kept
curiosity from intruding at every point.
At last, with heart beating thickly, he saw the lights of Alton
gleaming in the distance. It was a train not often used by the
villagers, and fortunately no one had entered the car who knew him;
even the conductor was a stranger. Alighting at the depot, he hastily
took a carriage, and with his charge was driven to the private entrance
of the hotel. Having given the hackman an extra dollar not to mention
his arrival till morning, he took Nichol into the dimly-lighted and
deserted parlor and sent for the well-known landlord. Mr. Jackson, a
bustling little man, who, between the gossip of the place and his few
guests, never seemed to have a moment's quiet, soon entered. "Why, Mr.
Martine," he exclaimed, "we wasn't a-lookin' for you yet. News got
around somehow that your cousin was dyin' in Washington and that your
weddin' was put off too--Why! you look like a ghost, even in this
light," and he turned up the lamp.
Martine had told Nichol to stand by a window with his back to the door.
He now turned the key, pulled down the curtain, then drew his charge
forward where the light fell clear upon his face, and asked, "Jackson,
who is that?"
The landlord stared, his jaw fell from sheer astonishment, as he
faltered, "Captain Nichol!"
"Yes," said Nichol, with a pleased grin, "that's my new name! Jes' got
it, like this new suit o' clo's, bes' I ever had, doggoned ef they
ain't. My old name was Yankee Blank."
"Great Scott!" ejaculated Jackson; "is he crazy?"
"Look yere," cried Nichol; "don' yer call me crazy or I'll light on yer
so yer won't fergit it."
"There, there!" said Martine, soothingly, "Mr. Jackson doesn't mean any
harm. He's only surprised to see you home again."
"Is this home? What's home?"
"It's the town where you were brought up. We'll make you understand
about it all before long. Now you shall have some supper. Mr. Jackson
is a warm friend of yours, and will see that you have a good one."
"I reckon we'll get on ef he gives me plenty o' fodder. Bring it
toreckly, fer I'm hungry. Quit yer starin', kyant yer?" "Don't you know
me, Captain Nichol? Why, I--"
"Naw. Never seed ner yeared on yer. Did I ever nuss yer in a hospital?
I kyant reckerlect all on 'em. Get we uns some supper."
"That's the thing to do first, Jackson," added Martine, "Show us
upstairs to a private room and wait on us yourself. Please say nothing
of this till I give you permission."
They were soon established in a suitable apartment, in which a fire was
kindled. Nichol took a rocking-chair and acquiesced in Martine's going
out on the pretext of hastening supper.
The landlord received explanations which enabled him to co-operate with
Martine. "I could not," said the latter, "take him to his own home
without first preparing his family. Neither could I take him to mine
for several reasons."
"I can understand some of 'em, Mr. Martine. Why, great Scott! How about
your marriage, now that--"
"We won't discuss that subject. The one thing for you to keep in mind
is that Nichol lost his memory at the time of his wound. He don't like
to be stared at or thought strange. You must humor him much as you
would a child. Perhaps the sight of familiar faces and scenes will
restore him. Now copy this note in your handwriting and send it to Mr.
Kemble. Tell your messenger to be sure to put it into the banker's
hands and no other's," and he tore from his note-book a leaf on which
was pencilled the following words:
"MR. KEMBLE:
"DEAR SIR--A sick man at the hotel wishes to see you on important
business. Don't think it's bad news about Mr. Martine, because it
isn't. Please come at once and oblige, HENRY JACKSON."