On, on, went the little boat. The still, rigid form of the woman lay motionless. Not even her eyelids quivered nor a muscle contracted. And so, at last, just about noon—at nearly the same hour when Rosamond Arleigh’s funeral services were concluded, and the coffin hidden away under the red earth piled high in the old grave-yard—poor Rosamond reached the schooner, was placed on board, and the trip to the city begun.
The negro, whose name was Clark, informed the captain of the vessel that the lady had met with an accident; and he begged so hard that the poor creature might be allowed to make the trip upon his schooner, that the captain had not the heart to refuse.
The schooner reached the city the next morning. A little later, the kind-hearted captain had made arrangements for the reception of Rosamond Arleigh at the charity hospital.
She lay upon her white bed in the accident ward, and two of the most learned physicians in the city bent over the silent form. A long and careful examination disclosed the fact that the skull had been fractured, and a bit of bone had been forced upon the brain. The physicians looked at each other.
Doctor Dane shook his head. He was the younger and less experienced of the two.
“She will die,” he said, slowly, “or——”
“Or she will live, but with a shattered intellect,” interposed Doctor Bruce, quickly. “Perhaps it would be kinder to let her die, for the alternative is horrible. But one must do the humane in such a case. One can not stand idly by and see a human creature perish, when even one frail chance remains.”
“Then you think that there may be a chance?” inquired the other physician, softly.
Doctor Bruce nodded.
“There may be; but it is a frail one, and attended with great difficulty and danger. You forget, Dane, that if the fractured skull, or the bit of bone which presses upon the brain itself should be lifted, and the brain relieved from the pressure, the probability is that the patient will be restored to her right mind. On the other hand, the prospect is that she will go down to her grave a hopeless idiot. Fine-looking woman, isn’t she? And the entire case is shrouded in mystery. Captain Cloyne, of the schooner Reine, brought her here this morning, with a brief explanation that she had been placed in his care by a negro who had rescued the woman from drowning in one of the small rivers tributary to the lake. Cloyne is really to blame for not finding out the particulars; but he looked overjoyed to get her off his hands, and really no one can wonder at it; so I was obliged to accept his meager explanation. Well, Dane, what do you say, my boy? Shall we attempt the remedy? It is all that I can prescribe; and in her case she is very frail and delicate evidently. I doubt if she can endure the operation. And I dare not administer chloroform or anything of the sort, for, if I mistake not, she has been suffering from a severe affection of the heart, and I do not think it safe to administer such a thing.”