A dreamy sensation of cold and thick darkness and stumbling on and on,
with a dull light glowing about his head and fading away directly, then
more darkness and stumbling on, and once more a dull yellow glow, and
this fading away, with the darkness increasing. Then a slight struggle,
and a few petulant remonstrances.
Why wouldn't the doctor let him sleep?
Then another feeble struggle, a sensation of passing through the air, a
sudden plunge into the icy water, and then utter darkness, and a noise,
as if of thunder, in his ears.
But the sudden immersion was electric in its effect, sending a thrill
through nerve and muscle, though the brain remained still drowsily
inert, while the natural instinct of desire for life chased away the
helpless state of collapse; and Mark Heath, old athlete, expert swimmer,
man hardened by his life in the southern colony, rose to the surface,
and struck out, swimming slowly and mechanically, as if it were the
natural action of his muscles. On and on, breasting the icy water,
keeping just afloat, but progressing blindly where the tide willed; on
and on through the darkness, with the yellow fog hanging like a solid
bank a few feet above his head, as if the rushing of the water were
cutting the lower stratum away.
Now a yellow light shone weirdly through the mist, came into sight, and
after glowing for a moment on the murky current, died away.
On still, as if it were the tide--that last tide which sweeps away the
parting spirit--stroke after stroke, given mechanically; and then there
was another light--a dull red light, then an angry glow--a stain as of
blood upon the black water; and it, too, died away, but not till it had
bathed the upturned face with its crimson hue.
Onward still, the icy water thrilling the swimmer through and through,
but seeming to bring with it no dread, no sense of horror, no
recollection of the past, no fear of what was to come: the sensation was
that he was swimming as one swims without effort in a dream.
A blow from some dark slimy object along whose side he glided, and then
on once more.
Another blow against something which checked him for a time, and turned
him face downward, so that the thundering recommenced in his ears; there
was the sense of strangulation; and then he was steadily swimming on
once more, past moored barge with its lights, past steamboat pontoon;
and then with a rush he was driven against a stone pier; his hands
grasped at the slimy stones without avail, he was turned in an eddy
around and around, sucked under, and rose again, to swim on and on, till
at last, in the darkness, his hands touched the muddy pebbles of the
river shore, his knees struck heavily, and he crawled through a pool,
and then staggered to his feet, with the water streaming from him.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
What next? It was all as in a dream, in which, in the gloom of the
thick night, he stumbled upon a flight of slippery steps, and walked up
and up, and then along a road which he crossed again and again, and
always walking on and on.
At times he guided himself by mechanically touching a cold rough stony
wall, till somehow it was different and felt slippery, and his hand
glided over the side.
Then darkness, and a sense of wandering. How long? Where? Why was he
wandering on?
------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was all a dream, but changed to a time when his head was as it were
on fire, and he was climbing mountains where diamonds glistened at the
top, but which he could not reach, though he was ever climbing, with the
sun burning into his brain, and the diamonds that he must find farther
and farther away.
And so on, and so on, in one long weary journey, to reach that which he
could not attain, and at last oblivion--soft, sweet, restful oblivion--
with nothing wrong, nothing a trouble, no weariness or care: it was
rest, sweet rest, after that toilsome climb.
The next sensation was of a cool soft hand upon his brow, and Mark Heath
opened his eyes, to gaze into those of a pale, grave-looking woman in
white, curiously-shaped cap; and she smiled at the look of intelligence
in his face as he said softly.
"Who are you?"
"Your nurse," was the reply.
"Nurse?"
One word only, but a chapter in its inquiring tone. "Yes," she said
gently; "you have been ill. Don't try to talk. Take this, and lie
quite still."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Another long, dreamy time, during which there were noises about his
head--the gentle, pleasant voice of his nurse, and the firm, decisive
voice of the doctor. It might have been hours, it might have been days
or weeks, he did not know; and then came the morning when he seemed to
awaken from a long disturbed sleep, full of terrible dreams, with a full
realisation of his position.
He looked about him, and there were people in beds on either side, while
a row of windows started from opposite to him, and went on right and
left.
At last he saw the face of the woman whom he felt that he had seen
leaning over him in his dream.
She came to his bedside.
"Well?" she said, with a pleasant smile.
"Is this a hospital?" he said eagerly.
"Yes."
"And I have met with some accident--hurt?"
"No," was the reply; "not an accident. You have been ill."
"Ill? How came I here?"
He looked wildly in the calm soft face before him, and behind it there
seemed to be a dense mental mist which he could not penetrate. There
was the nurse; and as he lay, it seemed to him that he could think as
far as their presence there, and no further.
"You had better wait till the doctor has been round."
"If you don't tell me what all this means," he said impetuously, "you
will make me worse."
She laid her hand upon his forehead, to find that it was perfectly cool,
and he caught her fingers in his as she was drawing them away. "Don't
keep me in suspense," he said piteously.
"Well, I will tell you. The police brought you here a fortnight ago.
They found you lying in a doorway, drenched with water and fast asleep.
You were quite delirious, and you have been very ill."
"Ill? Yes, I feel so weak," he muttered, as he struggled to penetrate
the mist which seemed to shut him in, till the nurse's next words gave
him a clue to the way out.
"We do not even know who you are; only that they suppose you to be a
sailor who has just left his ship."
"Heath--Mark Heath," he said quickly.
"Ah! And your friends? We want to communicate with them."
"My friends! No; it would frighten her, poor little girl!"
"The cause for alarm is passed," said the nurse gravely.
"Yes. Ah! I begin to recollect now," he said. "Send to Miss Heath--my
sister--19 Upper Brunswick Avenue, Bloomsbury."
"Yes; and now lie still."
The nurse left him, and he lay thinking, and gradually finding in the
mist the pieces of the puzzle of his past adventure, till he seemed to
have them nearly all there.
Then came the doctor with a few words of encouragement.
"You'll do now," he said. "Narrow escape of losing your hair, young
fellow. Next time you come from sea don't touch the drink."
Mark Heath lay back thinking, and with the puzzle pretty well fitted
together now all but what had happened since, half wild with exhaustion
and excitement, he had taken refuge at Doctor Chartley's.
"Don't touch the drink!" he muttered. "He thinks I have had D.T. Well,
I did drink--brandy. I had some. Yes; I remember now--at the doctor's,
and--Great Heavens!"
He paused, with his hands pressed to his forehead; and now the light had
come back clearly.
He lay waiting till the nurse passed round again, and he signed to her
to come to his side.
"You have sent to my sister?"
"Yes; a messenger has been sent."
"My clothes?" he said, in an eager whisper. "Where are they?"
"They have been taken care of quite safely."
"And the bag, and the belt--the cash-belt I had strapped round my
waist?"
"I will make inquiries."
The nurse went away, and Mark Heath lay in an agony of spirit which he
could hardly control till her return, to announce that he had nothing
whatever upon him in the way of bag or money when found by the police.
Mark lay as if stunned till the messenger returned with the intelligence
that Miss Heath had left the lodgings indicated; that the people there
were new, and could give no information whatever.
"But you have other friends," said the nurse, as she looked down
pityingly in the patient's agitated face.
"Yes," he said, "I have friends. Write for me to--"
He paused for a few moments, with a hysterical sob rising to his lips as
he recalled how he had struggled to return to her wealthy, and had come
back a beggar.
"Yes, to--"
The gently-spoken inquiry roused him, and he went on. "To Miss
Richmond--"
"Richmond?" said the nurse, looking up inquiringly as she took down the
name in a little memorandum-book.
"Miss Richmond Chartley, 27 Ramillies Street, Queen's Square,
Bloomsbury, to beg her to find and send my sister here."
The nurse smiled, and left him to his thoughts, which now came freely
enough--too freely to help him to convalescence.
It was late in the evening when the nurse came to announce that there
were visitors; and after a few grave firm words, bidding him be calm,
she left him, and returned with Janet and Richmond, both trembling and
agitated, to grasp his hands, and fight hard against the desire to throw
themselves sobbing upon his breast.
The nurse remained, not from curiosity, but to watch over her patient,
whom she had literally dragged from the grasp of death, while, after the
first loving words, Mark Heath gazed at Richmond in a troubled way, and
proceeded to tell of his adventures.
"But did you really bring back a bag of diamonds, Mark, or is it--"
"Fancy," he said bitterly. "No; it is no fancy. I have been delirious,
Jenny; but I am sane enough now. I had the bag of diamonds, and over a
hundred pounds in gold, in a belt about my waist. Rich, darling, I was
silent during these past two years; for I vowed that I would not write
again till I could come back to you and say I have fulfilled my promise,
and now I have come to you a beggar."
"Yes," said Richmond, laying her hand in his, as an ineffably sweet look
of content beamed from her eyes in his, and there was tender yearning
love in every tone of her sweet deep voice; "but you have come back
alive after we had long mourned you as dead."
"Better that I had been," he said bitterly. "Better that that dark
night's work had been completed than I should have come back a beggar."
Janet and Richmond exchanged glances; which with a sick man's suspicion
he noted, and his brow contracted.
"They doubt me," he thought.
"But you have come back, Mark. We are young; and there is our life
before us. I do not complain," said Richmond gently. "We must wait."
"Wait!" he said bitterly; and he uttered a low groan, which made the
nurse approach. "No, no," he said, "I will be quite calm." The nurse
drew back.
"Tell me, Mark," said Janet, with her pretty little earnest face
puckered up. "Why did you not come straight to me? How stupid? Of
course you didn't know where, as you did not get my last letters?"
"No, I have had no letters for a year. How could I, out in that
desert?"
"But, Mark, you recollect being pursued by those men!"
"Yes, yes."
"You are sure it was not a dream?"
He looked at her almost fiercely.
"Dream? Could a man dream a thing like that?"
"Don't be cross with me, dear Mark," she said, laying her cheek against
his. "It seems so strange, and you have been very, very ill. My own
darling brother!"
It was not jealousy, but something very near akin, that troubled Rich as
she stood there, with an intense longing to take her friend's place,
after the long parting. But there was the recollection that their
parting had not been the warm passionate embracing of lovers, only calm
and full of the hope of what might be.
Janet continued:
"And you went late at night through a dreadful fog, and took refuge with
a friend?"
"Yes," he said, with his features contracting, and a shudder passing
through him, as he gazed furtively at Rich.
"And what can you recollect besides? Are you sure you had what you
say--diamonds and money?"
"Yes, I am certain."
"I never wore diamonds," said Janet, with her pretty white forehead
growing more puckered, "and I don't want any; but after being so poor,
and with one's dearest friends so poor, and when it would make every one
so happy, I should like you to find them again."
Mark uttered a low groan.
"But tell me, Mark, what else can you recollect?"
"Very little," he said. "It all seems misty; but I recollect drinking
something."
"Brandy, Mark?"
"Yes; and afterwards a medicine that was to calm him, for I was half mad
with excitement."
"Yes; go on."
"Then everything is confused: I seemed to fall asleep--a long restful
sleep, that was broken by my taking a long journey."
"Yes, but that was dreaming, dear."
"Maybe," he said, "and then I was swimming--swimming for life--and then
toiling on and on, a long weary journey under a hot sun to get my
diamonds."
"Yes, dear, fever," said Janet, with the tears streaming down her
cheeks. "Oh, Mark, what you have suffered! Rich, love, do you hear?"
"Yes--yes," cried Rich, who seemed to be roused from a strange dream, in
which she was fighting to recall another of which she had a misty
recollection--a dream that troubled her on the night she took the
chloral, when half mad with pain.
"You have seen and borne so much, dear," said Janet piteously. "Was not
all this about the bag of diamonds and those people a feverish dream?"
"Jenny, do you want to drive me mad?"
"My own dear old darling brother, no," she whispered caressingly; and
once more that strange half-jealous feeling swept like a hot breath of
wind across Rich, making her pale face flush. "I only want to make you
see things rightly, and not fret about a fancy."
"I tell you it was no fancy," he said angrily; and then, as the nurse
held up a warning hand. "All right," he added, "I'll be calm."
"Say something to him, Rich," said Janet piteously.
Rich started, and then took Mark's hand. "You say that you went to the
house of a friend?" she whispered.
"Ye-es," he replied hesitatingly.
"And that you partook of some medicine that was to make you sleep?"
He bowed his head slowly.
"And that your next clear recollection is of lying here, where you were
brought after being found delirious by the police?"
"Yes, yes," he said impatiently.
"Robbed?"
"Stripped of everything," he said bitterly.
"It could not have been a friend, then, with whom you took refuge," said
Rich.
Mark was silent.
"Must it not have been a dream?" said Janet in a whisper to her
companion.
"No," said Rich aloud. "I think that all Mark recollects before he took
this medicine must be true, and that this friend must have drugged him."
Mark drew a long, catching breath between his teeth.
"And robbed him while he slept."
Mark's breast rose and fell as if he were suffering some great emotion,
and he stared at Rich wildly, his hand twitching and his lip quivering
as he waited for her next speech, which seemed to crush him, as she
asked in a clear firm voice.
"Who was the friend to whose house you went?"
He looked at her wildly, with the thoughts of the consequences of
telling her that which he believed to be the truth--that Dr Chartley--
her father--the father of the woman he passionately loved--had drugged
him--taken the treasure for which he had fought so hard, and then cast
him forth feverish and delirious into the river to die. For he realised
it now: he had been swimming; he could even recall the very plunge; he
had been cast into the river to drown, and somehow he must have
struggled out.
"Who was the friend, Mark?" she said again, in her calm firm way.
"Yes, who was it?" cried Janet, with her little lips compressed. "You
are right, Rich. Some one did do this dreadful thing. Who was it,
Mark?"
The sick man turned from her with a shudder, while she, all excitement
now, pressed his hard hand.
"Tell us, Mark dear, that he may be punished, and made to restore what
he has stolen."
"No, no!" he said excitedly; "I cannot tell you--I do not know."
"Try and recollect, Mark," said Rich gently; and she looked in his face
with an appealing smile.
"No, no!" he gasped, as he shuddered again; "it is impossible. I--I do
not know. And Heaven forgive me for my lie!" he muttered, as he sharply
withdrew his hands, sank back upon his pillow, and covered his face.
"He must be left now," said the nurse firmly, "He is very weak, and your
visit is proving painful. Say good-night to him. You can come
to-morrow. He will be stronger after a night's rest."
"But--there is no danger?" whispered Rich, as she caught the sister's
hand.
"No; the danger is past, but he must be kept quiet. Say good-night."
Janet bent down and kissed her brother lovingly; and as she drew back
from his pallid drawn face, Rich took her place and held out her hand.
Mark caught it in both his, and there was an agonised look in his eyes.
"Rich," he whispered passionately, "I have come back to you a beggar,
after fighting so hard. Heaven knows how hard, and what I am suffering
for your sake. I cannot tell you more. I only say, believe in me and
trust in me. Kiss me, my love--my love."
Richmond Chartley's pale face deepened, but she did not hesitate. There
were patients here and there who lay witnessing the scene, and there
were others present; but at that moment the world seemed very small, and
they two the only living creatures it contained, as she bent down,
passed her arm beneath his neck, and for the first time her lips met
his.
"Rich--poor--what does it matter, Mark?" she whispered, with her warm
breath seeming to caress his cheek. "You have come back to me, as it
were, from the dead."
She drew down her veil as she rose from the parting, and the nurse's
quick experienced eyes noted the restful happy look that had come over
her patient's face.
"Good-bye," she said to the two visitors. "May I?"
Rich leaned forward, and the two women kissed.
"I had some one once whom I dearly loved. It pleased God that he should
die--for his country--trying to save a brother officer's life.
Good-bye, dear. You are the best physician for him now. Come back
soon."
Janet impulsively threw her arms about the sister's neck and kissed her.
"And I never thanked you for your care of my poor brother," she said.
"But tell me, he is still a little wandering, is he not?"
"I could not help hearing all that passed," was the reply. "It was my
duty to be present. I have, of course, had some experience of such
cases, and I fear that he must have been drinking heavily in riotous
company, and these ideas have become impressed upon his brain."
"And they are fancies?"
"I think so, but as he grows stronger these ideas will weaken, and you,
his sister--and you--Ah, men are sometimes very weak, but to whom should
they come for forgiveness when weak and repentant, if not to us?"
"But I won't believe my Mark has been going on as she hinted," said
Janet, through her tears, as she walked away, weeping bitterly, and
clinging tightly to Rich's arm.
"No; it is impossible," replied Rich; and with the feeling upon her that
it was her duty to suffer for all in turn, and be calm and patient, she
fought down her own longing to burst into a passionate fit of weeping,
and walked on to resume her watch by her father's side, where he lay
still insensible, as if in a sleep which must end in death.
"Rich dear, if it is true, and poor Mark was drugged and robbed, the
wretch who did it shall be brought to justice, shall he not?"
"Yes," said Rich, as she clasped the weeping girl to her breast.
And as she sat there in the silent chamber, through the dark watches of
the night, at times a feeling of exultation and joy filled her breast,
while at others a hot pang of rage shot through her, and she felt that
she could slay the wretch who had raised a hand against him who had
returned to her as from the dead.