CHAPTER X.
DELIRIUM—A RECOGNITION—A DEPARTURE AND A RETURN.
Many times during Murkard's illness Ellison found cause to bless Merton's coming. Not only was his cheerful nature calculated to counteract the horrors of the patient's delirium, but without being asked he took upon himself the invalid's work and made himself invaluable in the store. He was a clever fellow, able to turn his hand to anything; and before he had been a week in the house he had brought himself to be looked upon as quite a member of the family. His singing was a great source of delight to both his host and hostess. Esther, in particular, seemed never tired of listening to him, and it was noticeable that when she was in his audience he sang his best. But he was more than a talented musician, he was a clever talker, had read everything that was worth reading, and boasted a most capacious memory. He could recite, conjure, and ventriloquise better than most professionals, and however hard he might have been working during the day, when evening came he always exerted his talents to please. Once or twice he had volunteered to sit with Murkard, but Ellison could not be brought to permit it. He was afraid to leave them alone together, lest by any chance Murkard should let slip something which it would be inadvisable the other should know. He need not have worried himself, however, for even in his worst delirium Murkard was singularly reticent about the station affairs. Once or twice he spoke of his own past history, but only in the vaguest fashion. His main delusion seemed to be that he had done somebody a grievous wrong by not speaking out on a certain subject, and on this he harped continually.
"You must tell him!" he would reiterate times out of number. "He will never find it out otherwise. You must tell him!" A pause. "Oh, coward! coward! coward! Have you fallen so low?"
Ellison racked his brains to discover the meaning of this constant self-accusation, but in vain. At times he thought it referred to himself, but what had Murkard to tell him that could cause him so much pain. Then he would ascribe it to some detail of his past, but it was too real and recent for that. In the silence of the night, with only the moan of the waves on the beach, the monotonous voice would cry:
"You must tell him! He is suffering so. He will never find out otherwise. Oh, coward! coward! coward! Have you fallen so low?"
Once or twice Ellison tried to question him. But it was of little or no use. Only on one occasion could he get anything approaching a clear response from him.
"What is it, old man," he asked, directly the sick man had completed his customary speech, "that you must tell? Can I help you?"
Murkard leaned out of his bed and took his friend by the wrist. His eyes were still strangely bright, and his face was hard set as flint.
"Tell him," he almost hissed, "tell him at once and save his soul. D'you think I haven't watched—aye, watched day and night. The man must be saved, I tell you, and for her sake! For her sake, don't you hear, you fool, you dolt, you ninny? Can't you understand Queen's English when you hear it?" He dropped his voice to a whisper. "The man must be saved for the woman's sake, and the woman for the man's, and both for the child's. Three in one, and one in three. Isn't that plain enough? God help you if you can't see it as plainly as I can!"