KIT FINDS HIS FATHER.
It was a beautiful spring-like day in the latter part of September when
Kit stepped ashore on the quay in the city of Wellington, New Zealand.
Fresh new leaves were upon the trees, fresh green grass in the lawns,
bright fresh flowers in the beds. Nature had recently awakened from her
winter sleep, and the young city of the Antipodes was at its brightest
and best.
During the long voyage he had had ample time to determine just what
he must do on arrival. First, of course, he would go to the American
consul’s and introduce himself; and how often he had hoped that the
consul would not detain him long, for he would be so anxious to get
to the hospital! And then he would hurry to the hospital, and in five
minutes the great question would be decided.
But now that he was actually on the spot, things did not look, somehow,
exactly as he had expected. No place ever does look just as we expect
when we have long been thinking about it and then go to see it for the
first time. He looked with curiosity at the big buildings, wondering
which was the hospital, which the consulate. He could hardly grasp the
idea that in all probability his father was in one of those buildings
before him. But suppose that, after all, the man in the hospital should
not prove to be his father; suppose he had made this long journey for
nothing? He quickened his steps up the street to walk these useless
fancies away.
“Will you be kind enough to tell me the way to the American consulate,
sir?” he asked a gentleman whom he met.
“It is in that red brick building on the other side,” the gentleman
answered. “You cannot very well miss it.”
In two minutes more he had made himself known to Mr. Wilkins, the
vice-consul and acting consul.
“I rather thought we should see you here,” Mr. Wilkins said, “but
hardly so soon. My second letter must have made good time over to
America.”
“Your second letter!” Kit exclaimed; “we had not received a second
letter from you, sir, when I left home. I started as soon as we got the
photograph you sent.”
“Oh, yes; I see,” said Mr. Wilkins. “Then you recognized your father in
the photograph, did you?”
“Not with certainty,” Kit replied; “but there was a resemblance. But
was there any further news in your second letter, sir?”
“Well, I can hardly say any further news, except that there has been
a great improvement in your father--at least in the man in the
hospital. Even since the photograph was taken he has improved very
much. Physically, I mean; he is a great deal stronger, and looks and
acts much younger. And mentally he has improved somewhat, too. He is
not able to give the least account of himself, to be sure; the past
seems to be a perfect blank to him; but in affairs of the present he
takes some intelligent interest. I am glad that you will see him in his
improved condition rather than as he was some months ago. It was a hard
matter for the consulate to deal with. A distressed American sailor
we are allowed to send home at the public expense; but there was no
evidence that this man is an American sailor--or indeed an American at
all.”
“I think I can soon settle that question when I see him, sir,” Kit
answered. “If he is my father, I shall know him, no matter how much he
is changed. And naturally I am anxious to see him as soon as possible.
If you will be kind enough to give me a line of introduction to the
hospital authorities, I will go there at once.”
“Of course you are anxious!” the consul assented. “You have been kept
in suspense a terribly long time; but you shall know the best or the
worst without delay. I will go over to the hospital with you at once.
It is only a few steps from here.”
In the hospital they were shown into the house surgeon’s office;
and when the surgeon entered he was greatly interested to find that
some one had come from the other side of the world in the hope of
identifying the mysterious John Doe.
“It is a case that we have all taken much interest in,” he said. “If
you could have seen him when he arrived here, you would be assured by
his present appearance that we have taken good care of him. But you
have made a long journey to find a father, and I will not keep you
waiting. For some weeks this patient has been going in and out at his
own pleasure, under the necessary restrictions; but his favorite place
is the sunny courtyard. To avoid exciting him unduly, I think the best
plan will be to induce him to walk in the courtyard; and we three will
then walk quietly through. That will give the best opportunity to see
whether you can identify him, or whether he will recognize you.”
“You know best about that, sir,” Kit answered.
The surgeon tapped his bell, and in a moment an attendant entered--the
same one who had held the flags in front of the patient long before.
“I want you to get John Doe into the courtyard for a walk,” the surgeon
said. “This gentleman hopes to identify him, and in a few minutes we
will walk through the yard. But give the patient no hint that anything
unusual is happening. Just ask him out for a walk; he is always ready
for a walk in the sun.”
“I must caution you,” the surgeon said to Kit after the attendant had
gone to execute his order, “that in these cases of suspended memory we
have to be prepared for almost anything. Nothing is surprising. If the
patient proves to be your father, he may recognize you at once, and the
shock may restore his lost memory in an instant. On the other hand, he
may not recognize you at all. Or if he does, he may treat you as if
you had left him only a few minutes before--as if your being here was
a perfectly natural thing. If he knows you at all, it is an extremely
favorable indication. With one little beginning, his whole past will
almost certainly come back to him.”
As they walked through the long corridor toward the door that was to
admit them to the courtyard, Kit felt his heart beating against his
ribs as though trying to break them. The consul said something, but it
made no impression upon him. He heard footsteps on the stone pavement
outside, and tried to recognize them, but could not. The surgeon threw
open the door, and they stepped out.
At the farther end of the yard, where the sun shone brightest, “John
Doe” was walking slowly up and down, with his hands clasped behind him.
“That is my father!” Kit said very quietly.
It surprised him that he could speak so coolly, for he felt anything
but cool. The moisture in his eyes was beyond his control; but he had
firmly made up his mind that he would make no scene, whatever happened.
He had too often been disgusted at seeing bearded Frenchmen hug and
kiss each other like school-girls; he would have none of that--at least
not in public.
For a moment neither of his companions spoke. They appreciated his
feelings and gave him time to collect himself. But the consul’s hand
stole into his and gave him a warm grip. Then another hand; that was
the surgeon’s.
After a short delay the surgeon put his arm through Kit’s, and the
three walked across the yard toward the patient. It was a terribly
trying moment for Kit. The impulse to rush forward and clasp his
father’s hands was almost irresistible, but he restrained himself.
Before they were half way across the yard, “John Doe,” now John Doe
no longer, but Christopher Silburn, hearing footsteps, turned and
looked around. Recognizing the surgeon, he nodded to him, and was about
to resume his walk, when something about their party attracted his
attention. He looked again, and turned his steps toward them--not in
his former aimless way, but as if he had an object in view. In a moment
more Kit and his father were face to face.
“Now what’s kept you all this time, Kit?” Mr. Silburn asked, in an
annoyed tone. “When I send you on an errand, I want you to do it and
come straight home. I will not have this sort of thing.”
It was so utterly different from anything he had anticipated that Kit
was completely taken off his guard. But as soon as he recovered himself
he was filled with joy at being recognized at all. He must, he knew,
humor his father’s mood, and lead him gradually along.
“I got here as soon as I could, father,” he answered, in a tone as
tender as a girl’s. “There were some things I had to do for mother
first.”
“Where _is_ mother?” Mr. Silburn asked, looking around as if he
expected to find her behind him.
“She’s in the house--at home,” Kit answered.
“And Vieve?” he asked.
“She’s at home, too.”
“Well, you must do your mother’s errands, of course,” Mr. Silburn went
on. “But I don’t like to have you away so long, Kit. I’ve been wanting
you to bring me my other clothes. I can’t find them anywhere, but they
must be some place around the house. I’m tired of these gray ones.”
He held out one arm and looked at the sleeve, then down at the legs of
the trousers, as if they were something new to him.
“Hadn’t we better go down to the tailor’s and get your new ones?” Kit
asked. “They must be done by this time, and you will have to try them
on.”
He looked at the surgeon as he spoke, and the surgeon gave him an
approving nod, as if to say, “Yes, humor him as much as you can.”
“Yes, we will go and get the new ones,” Mr. Silburn answered. “I don’t
like these gray ones at all.”
“In just a minute, father,” Kit said. “I want to run into the house a
minute first.”
The surgeon took the hint and followed him in, for he saw that Kit
desired to speak to him.
“Perhaps it will make him feel more like himself to have the kind of
clothes he is accustomed to--a dark blue suit,” he suggested. “If you
think best I will take him out to a tailor’s to buy some. And he would
like to have his hair and beard trimmed in the old way, I am sure.”
“Yes, the more you can make him look like his old self, the better,”
the surgeon assented. “He is doing famously. Don’t contradict him in
anything. Just let him take his own way as he has been doing, and it
will not be long before he will discover that there has been some
change in his surroundings. Then he will begin to ask questions, and
you can tell him what has happened.
“I advise you to bring him back here,” the surgeon continued, “at least
for a few days. It would not be well to make everything too strange for
him at first. We will give you a room here with two beds, so that you
can stay with him. By the time you get back from your walk you may find
a great improvement in him; I can see that having you with him makes
him feel happier.”
When the two Christopher Silburns started down the street for the
tailor’s, the consul went with them, for he was very much interested in
the strange case; and it was not long before the patient was arrayed
in a dark blue suit, with a new derby hat; and after his hair and
beard had been trimmed to the way he was accustomed to wear them, he
looked so much like the old Christopher Silburn that Kit could hardly
help dancing around him for joy. But he held himself in, and made no
demonstrations. It was evident that his father was very much pleased,
too, with the change in his appearance; he admired himself in the
mirror, drew himself up till the stoop was gone from his shoulders, and
was very particular to have the new hat on straight. It was nothing but
the truth when the consul said that he looked like a new man.
“I should like to go to the cable office for a minute or two,” Kit
said, when they were done with the barber. “I don’t want to keep all
this pleasure to myself.”
But writing a cable message home, when every word cost more than a
day’s salary, was no easy matter. The first one he wrote contained
sixteen words, and that was far too long. After many trials he got it
reduced to nine, in this fashion:--
SILBURN, Huntington, Conn.
Father much improved. Knows me.
KIT.
“That tells them that I have found him, and that we are both all
right,” he reflected. It was just like Kit that the first real
extravagance he ever committed was for his mother and Vieve, not for
his own pleasure. The message cost him nearly thirty dollars.
“Who is that to?” his father asked, as he handed the telegram to the
clerk.
“To mother,” Kit replied. “It’s just to let her know that we are all
right.”
“And where is mother?” was the next question.
“Why, at home, in Huntington,” Kit answered, thinking that now were
coming the questions that the doctor had said were sure to come sooner
or later. But he was mistaken. His father looked perplexed, as though
trying hard to think about something, but walked out of the office with
them without saying more, stroking what the barber had left of his
beard.
On the way up the street to the consul’s office, however, he stopped
and seized Kit by the arm.
“Kit,” he said, “what place is this?”
“This is Wellington, New Zealand, father,” Kit replied.
His father merely nodded his head and went on stroking his beard, but
asked no more. It worried Kit to see how very hard he was trying to
remember something, without succeeding. But it was not till they were
seated in the consul’s office that he spoke again.
“There is something I don’t understand,” he said then to Kit. “And I
see you don’t want to tell me; but tell me this, is anything wrong at
home?”
“Not a thing, father,” Kit answered.
“Nobody dead?”
“No, indeed; nor sick, either; and in an hour or two they’ll be the
happiest couple in the world, when they get my message.”
“Well, then I can wait,” Mr. Silburn answered. “I don’t know what it
all means, but it’s all right, since you’re here. You’re such a big
fellow, Kit; I had no idea you were such a big boy. And you’re going
home with me?”
“In the very first ship,” Kit answered.
“Then it’s all right,” he said; “you can tell me when you get ready.
Things are all in a muddle, somehow.”
The consul had a great many questions to ask about Kit’s voyage, and
his business, and how long he was going to stay; and after a little
conversation, of which Mr. Silburn took no notice, he asked one in
which the former patient took a sudden interest.
“Don’t you both feel as if you could eat something? There is an
excellent restaurant across the street, and I should be glad to have
you eat dinner with me.”
“Yes, I’m hungry,” Mr. Silburn answered. “I haven’t eaten anything
since--no, I’m getting mixed again. The last thing I ate was a bit of
raw lobster, but I can’t remember where it was.”
When they were seated at the table, the patient gave ample proof that
his loss of memory did not affect his appetite.
“That lobster you spoke of,” the consul said, hoping to revive the
subject, “was that on the island?”
“It seems to me it was on an island somewhere,” Mr. Silburn answered.
“Not much of an island, as far as I can remember; just a little place,
with only a few people on it. I’m glad you spoke of it; though it seems
to put me in mind of something, though I can’t think what it is. Give
me some more of the roast beef, please.”
When Kit and his father retired to their room in the hospital early
that evening, a room evidently kept for some of the staff rather than
for patients, Kit drew one of the big chairs up to the table, and
seating his father in it, proceeded to open the small package that
Vieve had entrusted to him.
“You see Vieve hasn’t forgotten you, father,” he said. “She thought you
must miss your slippers, so she made me bring them over to you. And
here’s something else. Do you remember this?”
He reached into one of the slippers and took out his father’s pocket
knife that the sailor from the _Flower City_ had given him.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for that knife,” Mr. Silburn said, taking
it as coolly as if he had mislaid it somewhere the day before. “Where
did you find it, Kit?”
“I got it from the man you handed it to, to cut away one of the
_Flower City’s_ boats with, sir,” Kit answered. “Do you remember
that?”
“Why shouldn’t I remember it?” Mr. Silburn asked, a little petulantly.
“I handed it to Blinkey, and they got away from the schooner all right.
Has anything been heard from them yet?”
“Blinkey is safe in England,” Kit replied, as he took off his father’s
shoes and put on his slippers. “But you and he are the only ones who
have been heard of.”
“Oh, well, they’ll be all right,” Mr. Silburn exclaimed; “they were
good tight boats, and--no, our boat went to pieces, though. I get these
things so mixed. My head’s all in a muddle with trying to remember,
and it tires me. I think you’d better help me get to bed, Kit. I’ll be
rested by morning.”
“Kit!” he called, as Kit was tucking the bedclothes snugly about him;
“you still here, Kit?”
“Yes; here I am, father.”
“And you’ve come all the way to New Zealand to take me home?”
“Yes; we’re going home just as fast as we can.”
“And you won’t go without me, Kit?”
“Do you think I’d be likely to do such a thing, father?” Kit asked.
“No, you wouldn’t, Kit; you always were a good boy. And I’ll be rested
by morning.” And with Kit’s hand firmly clutched in his he closed his
eyes and gave up trying to remember.
Kit stood by the bedside for some minutes, till he was sure that his
father was asleep; then he sat down at the table and wrote a long
letter home, knowing that the mails would reach America weeks earlier
than the slow _Brindisi_ could arrive. And a letter to Mr. Clark
too, and another to Captain Griffith. It was nearly midnight before he
got to bed, but the fatigue and excitement of the day insured a good
night’s sleep.
“Kit, my boy, wake up. I want you to tell me something.”
When Kit opened his eyes, the sun was streaming in the windows, and
his father, already dressed, was standing by his bed. He sprang up and
began to put on his clothes.
“I want you to tell me, Kit,” he repeated, seating himself in one of
the big chairs, “how long I have been away from home.”
“Nearly two years, sir,” Kit answered.
“Two years!” Mr. Silburn exclaimed, springing from his chair. “You’re
not making game of me, Kit? You wouldn’t do that, my boy!”
“No, sir,” Kit answered; “it is true. After the wreck of the _Flower
City_ you disappeared, and we almost gave you up. Then after a
long time we heard of an American sailor in the hospital here in New
Zealand, and got them to send us a photograph. We were not sure even
then; but I came on, and found you. So that trouble is all over, and
you mustn’t worry yourself about it.”
“No, I’ll not worry about it,” his father replied. “But I want to know;
it makes a man feel so foolish not to know where he has been. How did
you get here, my boy?”
That made a long story; for Kit had to tell how he had been a cabin
boy and a supercargo; how he had become an assistant purser; and how
his good friends on the two ships had paved the way for him to New
Zealand. As he got on with the recital, his father seized his hand and
fondled it; and before he finished, great tears of love and gratitude
were rolling down the old sailor’s cheeks.
While he was still in this position, the house surgeon called to learn
how his former patient had passed the night.
“That’s what I want to see,” he said, as he took in the situation. “You
shed no tears while you remembered nothing, Mr. Silburn. This is one
of the best symptoms, to have your emotions aroused. Don’t try to push
your memory now; it will all come back to you; give it time.”
In the four days that Kit could spend in New Zealand, he saw
improvement every day. Gradually it came back to his father that after
the _Flower City’s_ boat went to pieces, he was a long time in the
water. That when he was about to give up, he was rescued by some ship,
he could not remember her name, that carried him around Cape Horn. That
that ship was also wrecked and abandoned. Then there was a hazy picture
in his mind of a desert island, and terrible suffering from hunger and
thirst. All beyond that was still a blank.
Kit was so jealous of anything that took him away from his father, that
it was a relief to hear that the Bishop of New Zealand had gone to
Australia on business; so it would be useless for him to present his
letter from the cardinal. That would have been valuable in case of
trouble, but all had been smooth sailing.
Throughout the long voyage home, in which Mr. Silburn was a passenger
on the _Brindisi_, he continued to improve. There was hardly
anything now about his adventures that he could not remember, except
his long stay in the Wellington Hospital. Every little incident had
been discussed over and over. But it was not till the vessel had passed
Sandy Hook, and was steaming slowly up New York Bay, that he let Kit
know of something that had been worrying him.
“There was a payment due on the house about the time I ought to have
been home,” he said. “I’m afraid we are going to have trouble about
that.”
It was worth all the hard work to Kit, all the hard saving, to be able
to tell his father that the indebtedness had been paid to the last
penny.