Wallingford continued to slumber undisturbed for four hours, except when Miss Bramlett would remove her hand from his brow, and then he would begin to show signs of restlessness, which never failed to disappear as soon as she would replace it. The burning fever that had been raging began to subside, and the hemorrhage ceased, curiously, while all the symptoms took a favorable turn.
“Demar,” whispered Plaxico, after he had held his finger on the patient’s pulse for a long while; “I think Miss Bramlett’s treatment has saved our friend’s life; the fact is, she has performed a most wonderful miracle.”
It was late in the evening when Wallingford opened his eyes and began to stare in a bewildered way at the beautiful face that hovered near him, while evidences of restored reason unmistakably appeared in his movements. For two or three minutes he gazed earnestly at Miss Bramlett, then placing his hand on her head, he gently stroked her hair, and then ran his hand over her face, and then took hold of her arm.
“Yes,” he whispered; “it is her, and it was all a dream; and such a horrible one, too; I thought she was dead, and I dreamed that Bowles had killed her, and then drowned me in the river. Why do you not speak to me, Viola? Am I mistaken in thinking I see you?”
As he uttered the last words, he placed his arm round her neck and drew her head down until her cheek touched against his.
“Come away, Demar,” said Plaxico, as he plucked him by the sleeve; “I shall shout with joy if I remain here another moment. That scene is enough to make the angels weep with delight.”
It was on the morning of the fourth day after Wallingford received his wounds, that he made his appearance in the saloon supported by Miss Bramlett and Lottie, each one with a shoulder under his arm, fairly lifting him along by main strength.
Harry Wallingford was lazily reclining in a large cushioned armchair on the hurricane-deck, listening to Lottie, who was reading Mazeppa to him, while Miss Bramlett sat near him, gazing vacantly at the rolling waves that dashed up behind the boat. A long pause ensued when Lottie laid the book down and began to fondle her brother’s dark-brown hair.
“Viola,” said Harry, “I want you to tell me what induced you to give your friends in New York the dodge, leaving them to conclude that you had committed suicide; in fact, I want you to tell me all about everything connected with your history from the time we parted, until the present moment.”
“There is but very little to tell, I assure you, and as I have nothing better to do, and being anxious to amuse you, I suppose I must undertake the task; but before I begin, you must allow me to express my thanks for the beautiful monument you caused to be erected over my grave in New York. Your generosity in that instance, indeed deserves my profound gratitude, and it has convinced me that you did really care something for me.