The doctor looked at me curiously. "He is pretty badly hurt, but I
think he will pull through. I don't suppose it makes any particular
difference to him or anybody else, whether he does or not!" he said,
brushing his hat with his coat-sleeve.
"Why not?" I demanded.
"Why, because he will only pull through this to get killed in some
other scrape, and before he can get into anything else he will have to
answer for this one. You know how he was hurt?"
"No, I don't know anything about it."
"He robbed a fellow in the night, and the man chased him and shot him,
and finding that he still ran, knocked him down with the butt end of
his pistol, threw it at him; that is the worst hurt he had. And he is
an old customer, for this blow opened an old place; it isn't the first
time he has been caught. I've just trepanned it--quite a serious
operation under the circumstances."
"And the pistol wounds?"
"Nothing but scratches; they won't hurt."
"Well, he is a human creature, with an immortal soul, and I shall take
care of him, anyhow. There is nobody else to do it, so I intend to," I
said as calmly as I could, after all this terrible information, which
had shaken me none the less for the doctor's indifferent tone and
manner.
"Very well, ma'am, I wish you success. There's nothing to do now but
keep him quiet until I come back after breakfast."
I walked in alone and looked at the still, white face under the
bandages. He was evidently under the influence of a heavy opiate, for
there was no sign of life, except the faint breathing.
I could not help feeling a great pity for the young man, so friendless
and so indifferently regarded, and with such a future to look forward
to in his recovery. No clue could be found to his past or his family,
if he had any.
I took it as more than mere accident that he had fallen thus helpless
and suffering into my hands, and resolved to use to the utmost my
skill and influence for the best.
He lay for a good many days--I cannot tell just how many--in a
comatose condition, and I did not for a moment relax my watch, except
to take a little rest now and then. At length there began to be signs
of returning consciousness. The dull eyes would open and gaze vacantly
around the room.
He could utter a few incoherent words, and the hands groped in a
troubled way among the bed-clothes. And day by day, as the bronze tint
of the skin disappeared, and the features grew clearer and thinner,
that marvellous likeness grew stronger, until, looking at him, I
rubbed my eyes sometimes, and believed myself the victim of an
hallucination.
One morning, at length, he opened his eyes, and looked at me with a
new intelligence, an attentiveness that I had never seen in him
before.
As he lay there with bright open eyes the likeness was simply
intolerable, as I thought of the career that he represented. I busied
myself in bringing the basin of water and sponge to bathe his face and
hands. He was evidently trying to recall the circumstances of his
injury and account for his presence there, for he looked in turn at me
and the room, and then at the bed in which he lay.
"Mrs. Spencer, I cannot think how you come to be here. Was I much
hurt?"
"Yes, you were pretty badly hurt, but you will soon be all right now
if you keep quiet. Don't move your head. I will wash your hands now."
He closed his eyes as if weary with even the effort he had made, and
soon fell asleep, as naturally as a child.
Later in the day he awoke and seemed strange. He looked at me with the
same puzzled expression. I was heating some drink for him over a
spirit lamp when he spoke in a strangely familiar voice, although very
weak.
"Mrs. Spencer, has anything happened at home that you have come to me,
and not mother? I had a letter from mother yesterday, and all were
well. Was the accident very fatal?"
I dropped the cup I was holding; my heart seemed to stop beating. For
the white, serious face on the pillow was not that of Charlie
Reynolds, but Chester Mansfield! I ran out of the room, down the hall,
and into my own room. I had no motive in doing so, because I was too
much startled and I think terrified for thought.
My first collected idea was, that I had dwelt upon the subject so much
during lonely days and nights of vigil that I was now a victim of
subjective vision--I was for the moment insane upon that subject. I
sent for the doctor immediately, and after bathing my face and trying
to steady my quivering nerves, returned to my patient whom I was
afraid I might have shocked by my sudden exit. He looked surprised,
and watched me curiously.
"I think you had better not talk any more. The doctor says you must be
kept quiet." And I busied my hands in smoothing down the bed-clothes.
"I will be quiet; but you must tell me one or two things. Are they all
well at home--Lucia, and mother and the girls? and how many were hurt
in the accident?"
"They are all well at home. I am visiting here," I managed to answer,
and he turned away his head, apparently satisfied. I paced up and down
the hall until the doctor came, and drew him into a vacant room to
tell him the situation. He looked at me incredulously when I had
finished my excited narrative, reached for my wrist, and shook his
head. "You have been working too hard over that fellow," he said. "You
will be the next patient."
"But he asked for his wife and called her by name. Come and see which
is the lunatic," and I led the way to the sick-room.
"Ah!" he said in a cheery tone, going to the bedside. "I see we are
getting along bravely, and look as smart as folks that have a whole
skull."
The patient (I didn't know what name to call him) smiled, but without
a trace of recognition.
"I suppose you are my physician, and I am probably indebted to you for
my life," he said feebly.