A PROMISE TO THE DYING.
Paying no further heed to the servant, and much to the surprise of that
functionary, Van Vernet turned his gaze back upon the picture, and
looked long and intently, shifting his position once or twice to obtain
a different view. Then taking up his hat, he silently left the house, a
look of mingled elation and perplexity upon his face.
"It's the same!" he thought, as he hurried away; "it's the same face, or
a most wonderful resemblance. Allow for the difference made by the
glazed cap, the tattoo marks and the rough dress, and it's the very same
face! It seems incredible, but I know that such impossibilities often
exist. What is there in common between Mr. Alan Warburton, aristocrat,
and a nameless sailor, with scars upon his face and blood upon his
hands? The same face, certainly, and--perhaps the same delicate hands
and dainty feet. It may be only a resemblance, but I'll see this Alan
Warburton, and I'll solve the mystery of that Francoise hovel yet."
* * * * *
While Van Vernet thus soliloquizes over his startling discovery, we will
follow the footsteps of Richard Stanhope.
He is walking away from the more bustling portion of the city, and
turning into a quiet, home-like street, pauses before a long,
trim-looking building, turns a moment to gaze about him in quest of
possible observers, and then enters.
It is a hospital, watched over by an order of noble women, and
affording every relief and comfort to the suffering ones within its
walls.
Passing the offices and long wards, he goes on until he has reached a
private room in the rear of the building. Here coolness and quiet reign,
and a calm-faced woman is sitting beside a cot, upon which a sick man
tosses and mutters feverishly. It is the ex-convict who was rescued from
the Thieves' Tavern by Stanhope, only a few nights ago.
"How is your patient?" queries the detective, approaching the bed and
gazing down upon the man whom he has befriended.
"He has not long to live," replies the nurse. "I am glad you are here,
sir. In his lucid moments he asks for you constantly. His delirium will
pass soon, I think, and he will have a quiet interval. I hope you will
remain."
"I will stay as long as possible," Stanhope says, seating himself by the
bed. "But I have not much time to spare to-night."
The dying man is living his childhood over again. He mutters of rolling
prairies, waving trees, sweeping storms, and pealing thunder. He laughs
at the review of some pleasing scene, and then cries out in terror as
some vision of horror comes before his memory.
And while he mutters, Richard Stanhope listens--at first idly, then
curiously, and at last with eager intensity, bending forward to catch
every word.
Finally he rises, and crossing the room deposits his hat upon a table,
and removes his light outer coat.
"I shall stay," he says briefly. "How long will he live?"
"He cannot last until morning, the surgeon says."
"I will stay until the end."
He resumes his seat and his listening attitude. It is sunset when his
watch begins; the evening passes away, and still the patient mutters and
moans.
It is almost midnight when his mutterings cease, and he falls into a
slumber that looks like death.
At last there comes an end to the solemn stillness of the room. The
dying man murmurs brokenly, opens his eyes with the light of reason in
them once more, and recognizes his benefactor.
"You see--I was--right," he whispers, a wan smile upon his face; "I am
going to die."
He labors a moment for breath, and then says:
"You have been so good--will--will you do one thing--more?"
"If I can."
"I want my--mother to know--I am dead. She was not always good--but she
was--my mother."
"Tell me her name, and where to find her?"
The voice of the dying man sinks lower. Stanhope bends to catch the
whispered reply, and then asks:
"Can you answer a few questions that I am anxious to put to you?"
"Y--yes."
"Now that you know yourself dying, are you willing to tell me anything I
may wish to know?"
"You are the--only man--who was ever--merciful to me," said the dying
man. "I will tell you--anything."
Turning to the nurse, Stanhope makes a sign which she understands, and,
nodding a reply, she goes softly from the room.
When Richard Stanhope and the dying man are left alone, the detective
bends his head close to the pillows, and the questions asked, and the
answers given, are few and brief.
Suddenly the form upon the bed becomes convulsed, the eyes roll wildly
and then fix themselves upon Stanhope's face.
"You promise," gasps the death-stricken man, "you will tell them--"
The writhing form becomes limp and lifeless, the eyes take on a glassy
stare, and there is a last fluttering breath.
Richard Stanhope closes the staring eyes, and speaks his answer in the
ears of the dead.
"I will tell them, poor fellow, at the right time, but--before my duty
to the dead, comes a duty to the living!"