“I reckon we’ll get on ef he gives me
plenty o’ fodder. Bring it toreckly, fer
I’m hungry. Quit yer starin’, kyant
yer?” “Don’t you know me, Captain
Nichol? Why, I—”
“Naw. Never seed ner yeared on yer.
Did I ever nuss yer in a hospital? I kyant reckerlect
all on ’em. Get we uns some supper.”
“That’s the thing to do first, Jackson,”
added Martine, “Show us upstairs to a private
room and wait on us yourself. Please say nothing
of this till I give you permission.”
They were soon established in a suitable apartment,
in which a fire was kindled. Nichol took a rocking-chair
and acquiesced in Martine’s going out on the
pretext of hastening supper.
The landlord received explanations which enabled him
to co-operate with Martine. “I could not,”
said the latter, “take him to his own home without
first preparing his family. Neither could I take
him to mine for several reasons.”
“I can understand some of ’em, Mr. Martine.
Why, great Scott! How about your marriage, now
that—”
“We won’t discuss that subject. The
one thing for you to keep in mind is that Nichol lost
his memory at the time of his wound. He don’t
like to be stared at or thought strange. You must
humor him much as you would a child. Perhaps
the sight of familiar faces and scenes will restore
him. Now copy this note in your handwriting and
send it to Mr. Kemble. Tell your messenger to
be sure to put it into the banker’s hands and
no other’s,” and he tore from his note-book
a leaf on which was pencilled the following words:
“Mr. Kemble:
“Dear sir—A sick man at
the hotel wishes to see you on important business.
Don’t think it’s bad news about Mr. Martine,
because it isn’t. Please come at once and
oblige, Henry Jackson.”
SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS
This first day of winter, her fatal wedding-day, was
a sad and strange one to Helen Kemble. The sun
was hidden by dark clouds, yet no snow fell on the
frozen ground. She had wakened in the morning
with a start, oppressed by a disagreeable yet forgotten
dream. Hastily dressing, she consoled herself
with the hope of a long letter from Martine, explaining
everything and assuring her of his welfare; but the
early mail brought nothing. As the morning advanced,
a telegram from Washington, purposely delayed, merely
informed her that her affianced was well and that full
information was on its way.
“He has evidently found his cousin very low,
and needing constant care,” she had sighingly
remarked at dinner.
“Yes, Nellie,” said the banker, cheerily,
“but it is a comfort he is well. No doubt
you are right about his cousin, and it has turned
out as Hobart feared. In this case it is well
he went, for he would always have reproached himself
if he had not. The evening mail will probably
make all clear.”
