Complete Works of Bram Stoker (286 page)

‘Where? where?  Help me!  I am blind!’  A hand took his and guided it to a tightened girth.  Instinctively his fingers closed round it, and he hung on grimly.  His senses were going fast.  He felt as if it was all a strange dream.  A voice here in the sea!  A girth!  A horse; he could hear its hard breathing.

The voice came again.

‘Steady!  Hold on!  My God! he’s fainted!  I must tie him on!’  He heard a tearing sound, and something was wound round his wrists.  Then his nerveless fingers relaxed their hold; and all passed into oblivion.

CHAPTER XXXIII  —  THE QUEEN’S ROOM

To Stephen all that now happened seemed like a dream.  She saw Hector and his gallant young master forge across the smoother water of the current whose boisterous stream had been somewhat stilled in the churning amongst the rocks, and then go north in the direction of the swimmer who, strange to say, was drifting in again towards the sunken rocks.  Then she saw the swimmer’s head sink under the water; and her heart grew cold.  Was this to be the end!  Was such a brave man to be lost after such gallant effort as he had made, and just at the moment when help was at hand!

The few seconds seemed ages.  Instinctively she shut her eyes and prayed again.  ‘Oh! God.  Give me this man’s life that I may atone!’

God seemed to have heard her prayer.  Nay, more!  He had mercifully allowed her to be the means of averting great danger.  She would never, could never, forget the look on the man’s face when he saw, by the flame that she had kindled, ahead of him the danger from the sunken rocks.  She had exulted at the thought.  And now . . .

She was recalled by a wild cheer beside her.  Opening her eyes she saw that the man’s head had risen again from the water.  He was swimming furiously, this time seaward.  But close at hand were the heads of the swimming horse and man . . . She saw the young squire seize the man . . .

And then the rush of her tears blinded her.  When she could see again the horse had turned and was making back again to the shelter of the point.  The squire had his arm stretched across the horse’s back; he was holding up the sailor’s head, which seemed to roll helplessly with every motion of the cumbering sea.

For a little she thought he was dead, but the voice of the old whaler reassured her:

‘He was just in time!  The poor chap was done!’  And so with beating heart and eyes that did not flinch now she watched the slow progress to the shelter of the point.  The coastguards and fishermen had made up their minds where the landing could be made, and were ready; on the rocky shelf, whence Hector had at jumped, they stood by with lines.  When the squire had steered and encouraged the horse, whose snorting could be heard from the sheltered water, till he was just below the rocks, they lowered a noosed rope.  This he fastened round the senseless man below his shoulders.  One strong, careful pull, and he was safe on land; and soon was being borne up the steep zigzag on the shoulders of the willing crowd.

In the meantime other ropes were passed down to the squire.  One he placed round his own waist; two others he fastened one on each side of the horse’s girth.  Then his friend lowered the bridle, and he managed to put it on the horse and attached a rope to it.  The fishermen took the lines, and, paying out as they went so as to leave plenty of slack line, got on the rocks just above the little beach whereon, sheltered though it was, the seas broke heavily.  There they waited, ready to pull the horse through the surf when he should have come close enough.

Stephen did not see the rescue of the horse; for just then a tall grave man spoke to her:

‘Pardon me, Lady de Lannoy, but is the man to be brought up to the Castle?  I am told you have given orders that all the rescued shall be taken there.’  She answered unhesitatingly:

‘Certainly!  I gave orders before coming out that preparation was to be made for them.’

‘I am Mr. Hilton.  I have just come down to do lacum tenens for Dr. Winter at Lannoch Port.  I rode over on hearing there was a wreck, and came here with the rocket-cart.  I shall take charge of the man and bring him up.  He will doubtless want some special care.’

‘If you will be so good!’ she answered, feeling a diffidence which was new to her.  At that moment the crowd carrying the senseless man began to appear over the cliff, coming up the zig-zag.  The Doctor hurried towards him; she followed at a little distance, fearing lest she should hamper him.  Under his orders they laid the patient on the weather side of the bonfire so that the smoke would not reach him.  The Doctor knelt by his side.

An instant after he looked up and said:

‘He is alive; his heart is beating, though faintly.  He had better be taken away at once.  There is no means here of shelter.’

‘Bring him in the rocket-cart; it is the only conveyance here,’ cried Stephen.  ‘And bring Mr. Hepburn too.  He also will need some care after his gallant service.  I shall ride on and advise my household of your coming.  And you good people come all to the Castle.  You are to be my guests if you will so honour me.  No!  No!  Really I should prefer to ride alone!’

She said this impulsively, seeing that several of the gentlemen were running for their horses to accompany her.  ‘I shall not wait to thank that valiant young gentleman.  I shall see him at Lannoy.’

As she was speaking she had taken the bridle of her horse.  One of the young men stooped and held his hand; she bowed, put her foot in it and sprang to the saddle.  In an instant she was flying across country at full speed, in the dark.  A wild mood was on her, reaction from the prolonged agony of apprehension.  There was little which she would not have done just then.

The gale whistled round her and now and again she shouted with pure joy.  It seemed as if God Himself had answered her prayer and given her the returning life!

By the time she had reached the Castle the wild ride had done its soothing work.  She was calm again, comparatively; her wits and feelings were her own.

There was plenty to keep her occupied, mind and body.  The train of persons saved from the wreck were arriving in all sorts of vehicles, and as clothes had to be found for them as well as food and shelter there was no end to the exertions necessary.  She felt as though the world were not wide enough for the welcome she wished to extend.  Its exercise was a sort of reward of her exertions; a thank-offering for the response to her prayer.  She moved amongst her guests, forgetful of herself; of her strange attire; of the state of dishevelment and grime in which she was, the result of the storm, her long ride over rough ground with its share of marshes and pools, and the smoke from the bonfire and the blazing house.  The strangers wondered at first, till they came to understand that she was the Lady Bountiful who had stretched her helpful hands to them.  Those who could, made themselves useful with the new batches of arrivals.  The whole Castle was lit from cellar to tower.  The kitchens were making lordly provision, the servants were carrying piles of clothes of all sorts, and helping to fit those who came still wet from their passage through or over the heavy sea.

In the general disposition of chambers Stephen ordered to be set apart for the rescued swimmer the Royal Chamber where Queen Elizabeth had lain; and for Mr. Hepburn that which had been occupied by the Second George.  She had a sort of idea that the stranger was God’s guest who was coming to her house; and that nothing could be too good for him.  As she waited for his coming, even though she swept to and fro in her ministrations to others, she felt as though she trod on air.  Some great weight seemed to have been removed from her.  Her soul was free again!

At last the rocket-cart arrived, and with it many horsemen and such men and women as could run across country with equal speed to the horses labouring by the longer road.

The rescued man was still senseless, but that alone did not seem to cause anxiety to the Doctor, who hurried him at once into the prepared room.  When, assisted by some of the other men, he had undressed him, rubbed him down and put him to bed, and had seen some of the others who had been rescued from the wreck, he sought out Lady de Lannoy.  He told her that his anxiety was for the man’s sight; an announcement which blanched his hearer’s cheeks.  She had so made up her mind as to his perfect safety that the knowledge of any kind of ill came like a cruel shock.  She questioned Mr. Hilton closely; so closely that he thought it well to tell her at once all that he surmised and feared:

‘That fine young fellow who swam out with his horse to him, tells me that when he neared him he cried out that he was blind.  I have made some inquiries from those on the ship, and they tell me that he was a passenger, named Robinson.  Not only was he not blind then, but he was the strongest and most alert man on the ship.  If it be blindness it must have come on during that long swim.  It may be that before leaving the ship he received some special injury  —  indeed he has several cuts and burns and bruises  —  and that the irritation of the sea-water increased it.  I can do nothing till he wakes.  At present he is in such a state that nothing can be done for him.  Later I shall if necessary give him a hypodermic to ensure sleep.  In the morning when I come again I shall examine him fully.’

‘But you are not going away to-night!’ said Stephen in dismay.  ‘Can’t you manage to stay here?  Indeed you must!  Look at all these people, some of whom may need special attention or perhaps treatment.  We do not know yet if any may be injured.’  He answered at once:

‘Of course I shall stay if you wish it.  But there are two other doctors here already.  I must go over to my own place to get some necessary instruments for the examination of this special patient.  But that I can do in the early morning.’

‘Can I not send for what you want; the whole household are at your service.  All that can be done for that gallant man must be done.  You can send to London for special help if you wish.  If that man is blind, or in danger of blindness, we must have the best oculist in the world for him.’

‘All shall be done that is possible,’ said he earnestly.  ‘But till I examine him in the morning we can do nothing.  I am myself an oculist; that is my department in St. Stephen’s Hospital.  I have an idea of what is wrong, but I cannot diagnose exactly until I can use the ophthalmoscope.’  His words gave Stephen confidence.  Laying her hand on his arm unconsciously in the extremity of pity she said earnestly:

‘Oh, do what you can for him.  He must be a noble creature; and all that is possible must be done.  I shall never rest happily if through any failing on my part he suffers as you fear.’

‘I shall do all I can,’ he said with equal earnestness, touched with her eager pity.  ‘And I shall not trust myself alone, if any other can be of service.  Depend upon it, Lady de Lannoy, all shall be as you wish.’

There was little sleep in the Castle that night till late.  Mr. Hilton slept on a sofa in the Queen’s Room after he had administered a narcotic to his patient.

As soon as the eastern sky began to quicken, he rode, as he had arranged during the evening, to Dr. Winter’s house at Lannoch Port where he was staying.  After selecting such instruments and drugs as he required, he came back in the dogcart.

It was still early morning when he regained the Castle.  He found Lady de Lannoy up and looking anxiously for him.  Her concern was somewhat abated when he was able to tell her that his patient still slept.

It was a painful scene for Mr. Hilton when his patient woke.  Fortunately some of the after-effects of the narcotic remained, for his despair at realising that he was blind was terrible.  It was not that he was violent; to be so under his present circumstances would have been foreign to Harold’s nature.  But there was a despair which was infinitely more sad to witness than passion.  He simply moaned to himself:

‘Blind!  Blind!’ and again in every phase of horrified amazement, as though he could not realise the truth: ‘Blind!  Blind!’  The Doctor laid his hand on his breast and said very gently:

‘My poor fellow, it is a dreadful thing to face, to think of.  But as yet I have not been able to come to any conclusion; unable even to examine you.  I do not wish to encourage hopes that may be false, but there are cases when injury is not vital and perhaps only temporary.  In such case your best chance, indeed your only chance, is to keep quiet.  You must not even think if possible of anything that may excite you.  I am now about to examine you with the ophthalmoscope.  You are a man; none of us who saw your splendid feat last night can doubt your pluck.  Now I want you to use some of it to help us both.  You, for your recovery, if such is possible; me, to help me in my work.  I have asked some of your late companions who tell me that on shipboard you were not only well and of good sight, but that you were remarkable even amongst strong men.  Whatever it is you suffer from must have come on quickly.  Tell me all you can remember of it.’

The Doctor listened attentively whilst Harold told all he could remember of his sufferings.  When he spoke of the return of old rheumatic pains his hearer said involuntarily: ‘Good!’  Harold paused; but went on at once.  The Doctor recognised that he had rightly appraised his remark, and by it judged that he was a well-educated man.  Something in the method of speaking struck him, and he said, as nonchalantly as he could:

‘By the way, which was your University?’

‘Cambridge.  Trinity.’  He spoke without thinking, and the instant he had done so stopped.  The sense of his blindness rushed back on him.  He could not see; and his ears were not yet trained to take the place of his eyes.  He must guard himself.  Thenceforward he was so cautious in his replies that Mr. Hilton felt convinced there was some purpose in his reticence.  He therefore stopped asking questions, and began to examine him.  He was unable to come to much result; his opinion was shown in his report to Lady de Lannoy:

‘I am unable to say anything definite as yet.  The case is a most interesting one; as a case and quite apart from the splendid fellow who is the subject of it.  I have hopes that within a few days I may be able to know more.  I need not trouble you with surgical terms; but later on if the diagnosis supports the supposition at present in my mind I shall be able to speak more fully.  In the meantime I shall, with your permission, wait here so that I may watch him myself.’