"I'M HELEN"
Dr. Barnes descended the stairs to the parlor where Mr. Kemble
impatiently awaited him. "Well?" said the banker, anxiously.
"I will explain while on the way to your house. The carriage is still
ready, I suppose?" to Jackson.
"Yes," was the eager reply; "how did he take the meeting of his
parents?"
"In the main as I feared. He does not know them yet. Mr. Jackson, you
and I are somewhat alike in one of our duties. I never talk about my
patients. If I did, I ought to be drummed out of the town instead of
ever being called upon again. Of course you feel that you should not
talk about your guests. You can understand why the parties concerned in
this matter would not wish to have it discussed in the village."
"Certainly, Doctor, certainly," replied Jackson, reddening, for he knew
something of his reputation for gossip. "This is no ordinary case."
"No, it is not. Captain Nichol and his friends would never forgive any
one who did not do right by them now. In about fifteen minutes or so I
will return. Have the carriage wait for me at Mr. Kemble's till again
wanted. You may go back to the captain and do your best to keep him
wide-awake."
Jackson accompanied them to the conveyance and said to the man on the
box: "Obey all Dr. Barnes's orders."
As soon as the two men were seated, the physician began: "Our first
test has failed utterly;" and he briefly narrated what had occurred,
concluding, "I fear your daughter will have no better success. Still,
it is perhaps wise to do all we can, on the theory that these sudden
shocks may start up the machinery of memory. Nichol is excited; such
powers as he possesses are stimulated to their highest activity, and he
is evidently making a strong effort to recall the past, I therefore now
deem it best to increase the pressure on his brain to the utmost. If
the obstruction does not give way, I see no other course than to employ
the skill of experts and trust to the healing processes of time."
"I am awfully perplexed, Doctor," was the reply. "You must be firm with
me on one point, and you know your opinion will have great weight.
Under no sentimental sense of duty, or even of affection, must Helen
marry Nichol unless he is fully restored and given time to prove there
is no likelihood of any return of this infirmity."
"I agree with you emphatically. There is no reason for such
self-sacrifice on your daughter's part. Nichol would not appreciate it.
He is not an invalid; on the contrary, a strong, muscular man,
abundantly able to take care of himself under the management of his
family."
"He has my profound sympathy," continued Mr. Kemble, "but giving that
unstintedly is a very different thing from giving him my only child."
"Certainly. Perhaps we need not say very much to Miss Helen on this
point at present. Unless he becomes his old self she will feel that she
has lost him more truly than if he were actually dead. The only deeply
perplexing feature in the case is its uncertainty. He may be all right
before morning, and he may never recall a thing that happened before
the explosion of that shell."
The carriage stopped, and Mr. Kemble hastily led the way to his
dwelling. Helen met them at the door. "Oh, how long you have been!" she
protested; "I've just been tortured by suspense."
Dr. Barnes took her by the hand and led her to the parlor. "Miss
Helen," he said gravely, "if you are not careful you will be another
patient on my hands. Sad as is Captain Nichol's case, he at least obeys
me implicitly; so must you. Your face is flushed, your pulse feverish,
and--"
"Doctor," cried the girl, "you can't touch the disease till you remove
the cause. Why is he kept so long from me?"
"Helen, child, you MUST believe that the doctor--that we all--are doing
our best for you and Nichol," said Mr. Kemble, anxiously. "His father
and mother came to the hotel. It was but natural that they should wish
to see him at once. How would we feel?"
"Come, Helen, dear, you must try to be more calm," urged the mother,
gently, with her arm around her daughter's neck. "Doctor, can't you
give her something to quiet her nerves?"
"Miss Helen, like the captain, is going to do just as I say, aren't
you? You can do more for yourself than I can do for you. Remember, you
must act intelligently and cooperate with me. His father, and
especially his mother, exhibited the utmost degree of emotion and made
the strongest appeals without effect. Now we must try different
tactics. All must be quiet and nothing occur to confuse or irritate
him."
"Ah, how little you all understand me! The moment you give me a chance
to act I can be as calm as you are. It's this waiting, this torturing
suspense that I cannot endure. Hobart would not have permitted it. He
knows, he understands. Every effort will fail till Albert sees me. It
will be a cause for lasting gratitude to us both that I should be the
one to restore him. Now let me manage. My heart will guide me better
than your science."
"What will you do?" inquired her father, in deep solicitude.
"See, here's his picture," she replied, taking it from a table
near--"the one he gave me just before he marched away. Let him look at
that and recall himself. Then I will enter. Oh, I've planned it all! My
self-control will be perfect. Would I deserve the name of woman if I
were weak or hysterical? No, I would do my best to rescue any man from
such a misfortune, much more Albert, who has such sacred claims."
"That's a good idea of yours about the photograph. Well, I guess I must
let Nature have her own way again, only in this instance I advise quiet
methods."
"Trust me, Doctor, and you won't regret it."
"Nerve yourself then to do your best, but prepare to be disappointed
for the present. I do not and cannot share in your confidence."
"Of course you cannot," she said, with a smile which illuminated her
face into rare beauty. "Only love and faith could create my confidence."
"Miss Helen," was the grave response, "would love and faith restore
Captain Nichol's right arm if he had lost it?"
"Oh, but that's different," she faltered.
"I don't know whether it is or not. We are experimenting. There may be
a physical cause obstructing memory which neither you nor any one can
now remove. Kindness only leads me to temper your hope."
"Doctor," she said half-desperately, "it is not hope; it is belief. I
could not feel as I do if I were to be disappointed."
"Ah, Miss Helen, disappointment is a very common experience. I must
stop a moment and see one who has learned this truth pretty thoroughly.
Then I will bring Nichol and his parents at once."
Tears filled her eyes. "Yes, I know," she sighed; "my heart just bleeds
for him, but I cannot help it. Were I not sure that Hobart understands
me better than any one else, I should be almost distracted. This very
thought of him nerves me. Think what he did for Albert from a hard
sense of duty. Can I fail? Good-by, and please, PLEASE hasten."
Martine rose to greet the physician with a clear eye and a resolute
face. "Why, why!" cried Dr. Barnes, cheerily, "you look a hundred per
cent better. That quinine--"
"There, Doctor, I don't undervalue your drugs; but Mr. Kemble has been
to see me and appealed to me for help--to still be on hand if needed.
Come, I've had my hour for weakness. I am on the up-grade now. Tell me
how far the affair has progressed."
"Haven't time, Hobart. Since Mr. Kemble's treatment is so efficacious,
I'll continue it. You will be needed, you will indeed, no matter how it
all turns out. I won't abandon my drugs, either. Here, take this."
Martine took the medicine as administered. "Now when you feel drowsy,
go to sleep," added the doctor.
"Tell me one thing--has she seen him yet?"
"No; his father and mother have, and he does not know them. It's going
to be a question of time, I fear."
"Helen will restore him."
"So she believes, or tries to. I mercifully shook her faith a little.
Well, she feels for you, old fellow. The belief that you understand her
better than any one has great sustaining power."
"Say I won't fail her; but I entreat that you soon let me know the
result of the meeting."
"I'll come in," assented the doctor, as he hastily departed. Then he
added sotto voce, "If you hear anything more under twelve or fifteen
hours, I'm off my reckoning."
Re-entering the carriage, he was driven rapidly to the hotel. Jackson
had played his part, and had easily induced Nichol to recount his
hospital experience in the presence of his parents, who listened in
mingled wonder, grief, and impotent protest.
"Captain, put on your overcoat and hat and come with me," said the
doctor, briskly. "Your father and mother will go with us."
"Good-by, Jackson," said Nichol, cordially. "Ye're a lively cuss, en I
hopes we'll have a chaince to chin agin."
With a blending of hope and of fear, his parents followed him. The
terrible truth of his sensibility to all that he should recognize and
remember became only the more appalling as they comprehended it. While
it lost none of its strangeness, they were compelled to face and to
accept it as they could not do at first.
"Now, Captain," said the doctor, after they were seated in the
carriage, "listen carefully to me. It is necessary that you recall what
happened before you were wounded. I tell you that you must do it if you
can, and you know doctors must be obeyed."
"Look yere, Doctor, ain't I a-tryin'? but I tell yer hit's like tryin'
ter lift myself out o' my own boots."
"Mind, now, I don't say you must remember, only try your best. You can
do that?"
"I reckon."
"Well, you are going to the house of an old friend who knew you well
before you were hurt. You must pay close heed to all she says just as
you would to me. You must not say any rude, bad words, such as soldiers
often use, but listen to every word she says. Perhaps you'll know her
as soon as you see her. Now I've prepared you. I won't be far off."
"Don't leave me, Doctor. I jes' feels nachelly muxed up en mad when
folks pester me 'bout what I kyant do."
"You must not get angry now, I can tell you. That would never do at
all. I FORBID it."
"There, there now, Doctor, I won't, doggone me ef I will," Nichol
protested anxiously.
Mr. Kemble met them at the door, and the captain recognized him
instantly.
"Why, yere's that sensible ole feller what didn't want to ast no
questions," he exclaimed.
"You are right, Captain Nichol, I have no questions to ask."
"Well, ef folks wuz all like you I'd have a comf't'ble time"
"Come with me, Captain," said the physician, leading the way into the
parlor. Mr. Kemble silently ushered Mr. and Mrs. Nichol into the
sitting-room on the opposite side of the hall and placed them in the
care of his wife. He then went into the back parlor in which was Helen,
now quiet as women so often are in emergencies. Through a slight
opening between the sliding-door she looked, with tightly clasped hands
and parted lips, at her lover. At first she was conscious of little
else except the overwhelming truth that before her was one she had
believed dead. Then again surged up with blinding force the old feeling
which had possessed her when she saw him last--when he had impressed
his farewell kiss upon her lips. Remembering the time for her to act
was almost at hand, she became calm--more from the womanly instinct to
help him than from the effort of her will.
Dr. Barnes said to Nichol, "Look around. Don't you think you have seen
this room before? Take your time and try to remember."
The captain did as he was bidden, but soon shook his head. "Hit's right
purty, but I don't reckerlect."
"Well, sit down here, then, and look at that picture. Who is it?"
"Why, hit's me--me dressed up as cap'n," ejaculated Nichol, delightedly.
"Yes, that was the way you looked and dressed before you were wounded."
"How yer talk! This beats anythin' I ever yeared from the Johnnies."
"Now, Captain Nichol, you see we are not deceiving you. We called you
captain. There's your likeness, taken before you were hurt and lost
your memory, and you can see for yourself that you were a captain. You
must think how much there is for you to try to remember. Before you
went to the war, long before you got hurt, you gave this likeness of
yourself to a young lady that you thought a great deal of. Can't you
recall something about it?"
Nichol wrinkled his scarred forehead, scratched his head, and hitched
uneasily in his chair, evidently making a vain effort to penetrate the
gloom back of that vague awakening in the Southern hospital. At last he
broke out in his usual irritation, "Naw, I kyant, doggon--"
"Hush! you must not use that word here. Don't be discouraged. You are
trying; that's all I ask," and the doctor laid a soothing hand on his
shoulder. "Now, Captain, I'll just step in the next room. You think
quietly as you can about the young lady to whom you gave that picture
of yourself."
Nichol was immensely pleased with his photograph, and looked at it in
all its lights. While thus gratifying a sort of childish vanity, Helen
entered noiselessly, her blue eyes, doubly luminous from the pallor of
her face, shining like sapphires. So intent was her gaze that one might
think it would "kindle a soul under the ribs of death."
At last Nichol became conscious of her presence and started,
exclaiming, "Why, there she is herself."
"OH, Albert, you DO know me," cried the girl, rushing toward him with
outstretched hand.
He took it unhesitatingly, saying with a pleased wonder, "Well, I
reckon I'm comin' round. Yer the young lady I give this picture to?"
"I'm Helen," she breathed, with an indescribable accent of tenderness
and gladness.
"Why, cert'ny. The doctor tole me 'bout you."
"But you remember me yourself?" she pleaded. "You remember what you
said to me when you gave me this picture?" and she looked into his eyes
with an expression which kindled even his dull senses.
"Oh, shucks!" he said slowly, "I wish I could. I'd like ter 'blige yer,
fer ye're right purty, en I am a-tryin' ter mind the doctor."
Such a sigh escaped her that one might think her heart and hope were
going with it. The supreme moment of meeting had come and gone, and he
did not know her; she saw and felt in her inmost soul that he did not.
The brief and illusive gleam into the past was projected only from the
present, resulting from what he had been told, not from what he
recalled.
She withdrew her hand, turned away, and for a moment or two her form
shook with sobs she could not wholly stifle. He looked on perplexed and
troubled, then broke out, "I jes' feels ez ef I'd split my blamed ole
haid open--"
She checked him by a gesture. "Wait," she cried, "sit down." She took a
chair near him and hastily wiped her eyes. "Perhaps I can help you
remember me. You will listen closely, will you not?"
"I be dog--oh, I forgot," and he looked toward the back parlor
apprehensively. "Yes, mees, I'll do anythin' yer sez."
"Well, once you were a little boy only so high, and I was a little girl
only so high. We both lived in this village and we went to school
together. We studied out of the same books together. At three o'clock
in the afternoon school was out, and then we put our books in our desks
and the teacher let us go and play. There was a pond of water, and it
often froze over with smooth black ice. You and I used to go together
to that pond; and you would fasten my skates on my feet--"
"Hanged ef I wouldn't do it agin," he cried, greatly pleased. "Yer
beats 'em all. Stid o' astin' questions, yer tells me all 'bout what
happened. Why, I kin reckerlect it all ef I'm tole often anuff."
With a sinking heart she faltered on, "Then you grew older and went
away to school, and I went away to school. We had vacations; we rode on
horseback together. Well, you grew to be as tall as you are now; and
then came a war and you wore a captain's uniform, like--like that you
see in your likeness, and--and--" she stopped. Her rising color became
a vivid flush; she slowly rose as the thought burned its way into her
consciousness that she was virtually speaking to a stranger. Her words
were bringing no gleams of intelligence into his face; they were
throwing no better, no stronger light upon the past than if she were
telling the story to a great boy. Yet he was not a boy. A man's face
was merely disfigured (to her eyes) by a grin of pleasure instead of a
pleased smile; and a man's eyes were regarding her with an unwinking
stare of admiration. She was not facing her old playmate, her old
friend and lover, but a being whose only consciousness reached back but
months, through scenes, associations coarse and vulgar like himself.
She felt this with an intuition that was overwhelming. She could not
utter another syllable, much less speak of the sacred love of the past.
"O God!" she moaned in her heart, "the man has become a living grave in
which his old self is buried. Oh, this is terrible, terrible!"
As the truth grew upon her she sprang away, wringing her hands and
looking upon him with an indescribable expression of pity and dread.
"Oh," she now moaned aloud, "if he had only come back to me mutilated
in body, helpless! but this change--"
She fled from the room, and Nichol stared after her in perplexed
consternation.