His mind was rushed long past the word that had awakened it. First, with that awakening, had come the moment when first he had spoken it—"I'm going to call you Brida!" St. James's Park; dusk falling; the rustle of October leaves about their feet; her flower face redly suffused.... More than that called him. More! In this sudden tumult of his brain, these beating pulses, all these noises, more, more than these demanded recognition; fiercely some clamour called him on to emotions that wrapped up these, submerged, enveloped them. There had been one in these emotions that claimed him more than she; there had been fears, pains, perils in them—ah, here with a sudden, overwhelming rush they came! "Wedge in, boy! Wedge in!" He that had called those words was swinging on his hands—hands that had held him!—was swinging on his hands above the swirling water—was down, was gone!
Mr. Wriford screamed out shockingly: "You couldn't swim! You couldn't swim!"
Sister was saying: "There, there! Don't, don't! You're all right now! You're all right now! Look, Nurse will hold your hand."
He stared at her. He said brokenly: "Let me alone! Let me alone!"
"Shan't Nurse hold your hand?"
"Please let me alone."
III
He only wanted to be alone—alone with his thoughts that now were full and clear returned to him—alone with that grotesque figure with that grotesque name who had come to him through the water and for him had gone into the water—and could not swim, could not swim!
He slept and awoke now and lay awake in normal periods. He smiled at Nurse and Sister and Doctor but did not talk. He only wanted to be alone. He would lie through the day for hours together with wide, staring eyes, submitting passively when some one came to attend him or to feed him, but never speaking. He only wanted to be alone.
Strangers came sometimes—ladies with flowers, mostly. He came to recognize them. They smiled at him, and he smiled responsively at them. But never spoke. He only wanted to be alone. When they were quite strangers—visitors he had not seen before—he always heard Sister bringing them with the same words: "This is our very interesting patient. Yes, this is the private ward. It is rather nice, isn't it? Our interesting patient. Poor fellow, he—" and then whispering, and then Sister at the foot of the bed with some one who smiled and nodded and said: "Good morning. I hope you are better."