III.
April 2.--It is more than two weeks since I wrote in my journal. I havebeen ill--a sort of low fever that kept me in my cabin. Nothing serious,Uncle John said, and so it has proved, except that I am very weak. Unclehas been kind, but most of his time has been devoted to that woman. Hesays that it is a very interesting case. She became conscious a few daysago, and has gained strength since. She will be on deck in a day or two,he thinks. I'm anxious to see her. I want to see if there really isanything familiar in her face. It's fortunate for her that clothing ofMrs. Raymond's is on board. She'd be in a plight, else. I asked UncleJohn what her name was. He looked queer, and said that he didn't know.Strange that he hasn't asked her. The sailor, Jones, seems quiterecovered and has taken his place among the crew. We were rathershort-handed, and the captain was glad enough to have him. He can be ofservice. But the woman can be nothing but a trouble, to me at least, forI must see her daily, I suppose. And yet I am anxious to see her, too.This fever has left me rather childish as well as weak.
April 3.--Thank God for these pages to which I can talk, else I shouldgo mad, I think. Could you read these words as they flow from my pen,mother, you might well wonder whether I had not indeed gone mad. But Iwill be quite calm while I tell of what fate, or Satan, or whatever evilpower it is, has done for me. I was sitting on the deck this morning,still very weak, when I heard footsteps behind me, and Uncle John'svoice saying, "Good-morning, Arthur." I turned and saw him standing nearme, and leaning on his arm Helen Rankine! I write these words calmlyenough now. Can you imagine what I felt when I saw her? I staggered tomy feet, muttered some incoherent words, and would have fallen had notUncle John sprang to my side and caught me. "Why, what's the matter,Arthur? Calm yourself, my boy. Is it possible that you know this younglady?"
By a supreme effort of will, aided by the memory of that day when welast parted, I drew myself up and bowed, and I said that I had had thegreat honor of once knowing Miss Helen Rankine, and that I had had noidea that it was she we were fortunate enough to have rescued.
Uncle looked at me in wonder as I said these words with sneeringpoliteness. The girl looked at me questioningly, but there was no shadowof recognition on her face.
"Then your name is Helen Rankine?" said Uncle John kindly, turningtoward the girl and speaking as though to a little child.
A troubled look passed over her face, and then she said quietly, "I donot know. I cannot remember."
"Do you know this gentleman, Mr. Arthur Hartley?" he asked in the samekindly way.
Again the troubled look, an apparent effort to seize some elusivethought, and then again the voice I knew so well, but now so unnaturallycalm:
"I do not know him."
I stood aghast at what seemed the consummate acting of a heartless andconscienceless woman, and yet on the instant I saw that there was noacting there. Let me stop a moment, mother, and describe her. Youremember how beautiful she was, with that rich, dark beauty you oncespoke of as "Italian." It was that beauty that enslaved me. You rememberthat I have written of her appearance as she lay on the deck the day shewas saved. The days of illness and quiet in the cabin below had almostobliterated all the ravages done by wind and sun and sea. The olivecheeks were a little darker than of old, and the hands browner. The facewas not quite so pure an oval as when you saw it last; the color of lipand cheek not quite so vivid. The large brown eyes had lost the sparkleand the changing light that once pierced my boyish, foolish heart. Cladin a simple gown, belted at the waist and hanging in folds to the deck,her dark hair parted across her broad forehead and confined in a simpleknot, and with a strange calm on the face that once expressed hervarying moods as they came and went, she seemed to me to be another, abetter, an almost unearthly Helen, come to me here to atone for thegreat wrong that she had done me; and, for the moment, I forgot my hate.
My uncle gave his arm to Helen, and they walked the deck while I watchedthem. What did it mean, this failure of Helen to recognize me? Was Iright in thinking the girl to be Helen Rankine. Yes; I could not bemistaken. That graceful walk, some of its old-time spring and elasticitygone, to be sure, was the walk of Helen; the turn of the lovely neck;the pose of the head were hers. Then the story of the sailor, Jones, thefore-castle gossip that she was going out to India to join hersoldier-lover; how well it tallied with what she had told me on thatfatal day when she spurned my proffered love. But I would not dwell moreon that. I will not now. I must force myself to forget, just for alittle time, the past, that I may solve the mystery of the present. Myhead throbs; my brain is in a whirl.
April 4.--After writing this I threw myself into my berth and tried tothink over clearly the strange occurrences of the day. I was aroused byUncle John asking me if I felt well enough to take a turn with him ondeck. I joined him at once, and we paced the deck without speaking. Itwas a lovely night and the stars filled the heavens. At length UncleJohn said, "Arthur, here's a very remarkable case. This poor girl haslost her memory completely, and no wonder, after her terriblesufferings. She cannot remember an event that happened before she openedher eyes in the cabin below. She can talk well, reads readily, shows thebreeding of a lady, but as far as the past is concerned, she might aswell be a week-old baby. You say that her name is Helen Rankine. Who isHelen Rankine? Where did you meet her?"
Uncle John had never known why I was so ready to give up my dreams ofartist life and join him in his Australian scheme. I told him the wholestory of my infatuation for Helen and her heartless perfidy. He listenedintently. When I had finished, he said:
"My boy, let me say one thing, first of all. On your own evidence,forming my opinion solely from what you have told me, I think you havedone a good girl injustice. I don't believe that Helen Rankine coquettedwith you. Like many a young fellow before you, you thought that thefrank friendliness of a young woman who looked upon you as a boy, thoughperhaps not your senior in years, was encouragement to make love to her.She thought that you knew of her engagement, so she said, and felt asecurity that misled you. You are not the first lad that has had such anexperience and cursed all women, and vowed that he'd never trust oneagain. I'll trot your children on my knee yet. Well, so much for theHelen of the past. Now for the Helen of the present, for we might aswell call her Helen as anything else."
"But she is Helen; Helen Rankine. I can swear it," I interrupted.
"Well, well. So be it. I confess it looks so. I have taken a physician'sliberty, and examined her clothing for marks. I find it marked 'H. R.'"
"Isn't that proof enough?" I asked eagerly.
"Yes. I dare say it is. Still there are other girls whose initials areH. R. You and I have our task. It is to try and lead this poor girl backto the past. The awful experiences and sufferings of those days in theboat have affected her brain. Whether beyond cure or not I know not. Nowremember, Arthur," and Uncle John looked at me seriously; "remember,that even if this girl is the girl you think has wronged you, in factshe is not the same girl. She knows no more of you than she knows of me,whom she never saw in her life before. Another thing, if she is HelenRankine, she is engaged to John Bruce. Perhaps she wears his ring on herfinger. You and I as gentlemen are bound to do what we can to deliverher to him as speedily as possible. And I pray God that we may see hermeet him in her right mind, the same free-hearted English girl that heis now dreaming of."
I bowed my head, but could not say a word. Is Uncle John right, and haveI been a weak, blind fool of a boy, thinking that the girl, who wasmerely kind, was encouraging me to love her? I feel my face burn at thethought. I can't think clearly yet, but I see my duty.
April 10.--If I lacked proof of the girl's identity, I have it now.Yesterday we sat together on the deck for hours, I trying gently to leadher back to the past. Helen Rankine used to wear several valuable rings.Now she wears but one. "You have a pretty ring," I said, pointing to herhand! How white and dimpled it used to be. How I longed to catch it tomy lips, to kiss the pretty rosy-tipped fingers! Her hand! Now brownwith wind and sun, but still dimpled a
nd rosy tipped. Like a child shelaid it in mine.
"Yes," she said, "it is a pretty ring."
"Where did you get it, Helen?" I asked.
"I don't remember," she said quietly.
"May I look at it?" I asked.
"Oh, yes," and she slipped it from her finger and laid it in my hand.
"What are these letters engraved within?" I asked.
"Are there letters there?" she said. "I didn't know it. So there are. ToH. R., from J. B. What does that mean?"
"Don't you know?" I asked. Oh, it was hard to see that calm face, tohear that calm voice. Better the blush and silent avowal of love, evenfor another, than that blank gaze.
"No. I do not know what those letters mean," she answered.
"Perhaps 'H. R.' stands for your own name," said I.
She smiled like a happy child. "Yes, yes. That must be it. But the 'J.B.,' what do they stand for?"
I hesitated--who would not?
"Perhaps they stand for--for John Bruce," I said slowly, looking hersteadily in the eyes. She returned the gaze with the calm confidence ofa child.
"Who is John Bruce?" she asked. "I can't remember John Bruce."
My heart gave a great leap, then sank like lead. Am I then such avillain that I rejoice at the thought that Helen Rankine has no memoryof her lover? Where is the hate that I boasted of? It has gone. It couldnot live before the calm eyes of the girl by my side. But I had my dutyto do.
"John Bruce is in India, Helen," said I. "Don't you remember? And youwere going to him, and when you reached him you were to marry him. Heloves you dearly, and you loved him dearly. Can't you remember?"
The troubled look came to the dark eyes and ruffled the calm brow. Afaint flush passed across the rich, warm cheeks. Then, like a spoiledchild, she shook her head and said:
"No, no, no, no!" with a little pat of the foot and nod at the last"No." "I do not know anything about it at all. I do not know John Bruce,and of course I do not love him. How could I? But I know you, Arthur,and I love you," and she laid her hand in mine, with a pretty smile.
I wonder if I'm the same man that set sail in the _Albatross_ six shortweeks ago? The Arthur Hartley then was a mad, foolish boy. The ArthurHartley now is a grave, serious man. I feel that years and years havepassed, instead of weeks. How much I am changed let this prove: I heldHelen's hand in mine and answered gently, "I am very glad you love me,Helen. I hope you will ever love me. I certainly love you dearly. Icould not love a sister more."
She smiled at this and patted my hand, and then we sat, hand in hand,without speaking, until the shadows deepened on the deck.
May 2.--You have been much in my thoughts of late, dear mother, but youwill never know it. You will never see these words. I had thought not towrite in this book again, for I feel sure that it will never reach you;but I seem to be urged to keep some record of our eventful voyage. Weare lying becalmed far in the Southern Atlantic, so Captain Raymondsays. An awful storm that drove us at its will, and before which itseemed possible for no ship to live, has driven us here far out of ourcourse. For six days we have been lying here motionless. The storm thatraged with such terrible fury seems to have exhausted all the winds ofthe heavens. I never knew anything more thoroughly depressing than thiscalm. Even writing seems a task beyond me. But, indeed, I am not asstrong as before the attack of fever. I do not seem to regain mystrength. I had in mind to describe the storm. It is beyond my powers.We lost a long boat and a quantity of spars. Two sailors, one of themRichard Jones, saved but to be lost, were washed overboard and neverseen again. There is no change in Helen. She is apparently perfectlyhappy, but it is the happiness of a contented and healthy child. Shetakes much pleasure in being with me, and sits by the hour with her handin mine, while I talk of the England that we have left and of the scenesof other days. But nothing awakens the dormant memory. Uncle John hasgot back to his studies, and talks explosives to any one who willlisten.
May 17.--Here we lie, still becalmed. It is horrible! What will come ofit all? The sailors are ready to take to the boats and quit the ship,and it requires all of Captain Raymond's firmness and kindness, for heis a kind captain, and all of Mate Robinson's sternness, to deal withthe crew. The steward tells me in great confidence that the men say thatthe _Albatross_ is bewitched, and that Helen is the witch that has doneit. I can see that they follow her with black looks, in which issomething of fear, as she walks the deck, singing softly to herself andhappy as a bird--the only happy soul aboard. Why should she not behappy? She has no past, looks forward to no future. She lives in thepresent, Nature's own child. The ocean that gave her to us seems to haveclaimed her as its own. She loves the sea in all its moods. When thestorm was at its fiercest and the huge waves swept over us, she insistedon being on deck, and clapped her hands and laughed in glee, asthoughtless of danger as one of Mother Cary's chickens. Now, when thishorrible calm is drawing the very life out of us all, she sings andlaughs and is merry; or, when not merry, wears a calm, passionless,almost soulless face. I don't wonder that the men think that she is awitch. She has bewitched me more than once.
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