A confused, waving field was Irene Stuart’s vision at that time. There was that peculiar, indescribable confusion of forms and colors which one sometimes experiences during a mental aberration. All unimaginable figures doubled and disappeared within one another with noiseless celerity; objects never dreamt of before took form and motion, and her vision finally became a gorgeous mixture of light and darkness, of shadow and sunlight, and of forms and colors.
But amid all these, an object gradually took shape. At first it had the appearance of a long, dark, undulating column, directly in the centre of her field of vision. It swayed gently from side to side, as though agitated by a passing breeze, but the base still maintained its place without motion. Slowly, almost enough to be imperceptible, it diminished in size, and the airy figures around grew dimmer and more obscure every moment. Once or twice it seemed as though some sound proceeded from the shaft, but Irene heeded it not, although her gaze still remained from a languid unwillingness to remove it, riveted upon the dark object. Suddenly it diminished in size to that of a man, and the first thought that had anything of vigor in it was, that it bore some resemblance to a human form. By a seemingly desperate effort, she roused herself and looked intently at it. It was a human form.
“Why, Irene, how long before you are going to speak to me?”
“Oh, George! is it you? I was thinking so deeply!”
“Thinking? thinking of what?” asked Kingman, approaching and taking one of her hands, and looking searchingly into her rich blue eyes.
“Why, thinking of you,” she replied, impulsively.
“Thank Heaven!” he added, in a low tone, as he embraced her fervently, and half carried her within the cabin. For a moment Irene was totally overcome; the great strain which her system had undergone now suffered a reaction, and she was as weak and helpless as a child. There seemed an utter abandonment about her which made her a dead weight in Kingman’s arms: not a dead weight, either, but a live one, and for that matter our hero felt perfectly willing that it might be thus for any length of time. He brushed the dark curls from her forehead, and kissing it ardently, drew her head down upon his shoulder, where for a few moments the sobs came without restraint. But she shortly recovered herself, and he allowed her to withdraw herself from his arms and seat herself beside him.
“What made you remain so long away?” she asked, with a deep, yearning look which Kingman felt.
“I could not help it.”
“Could not help it? Why not? Were you hurt?”