“Yes! yes!”
“And what was the name of your ship?”
Holdsworth thought and thought without avail.
Herein was the deception that misled Mr. Sherman: Holdsworth could perfectly remember familiar names, but they had to be pronounced in his hearing before he could recall them. In like manner he could tell the names and discourse of the things he beheld, because he saw them. Had Johnson lived, he would have known and called him Johnson. Had Mr. Sherman spoken of Dolly, of Southbourne, of the London Docks, of the “Meteor,” of any of the incidents connected with the “Meteor’s” loss, Holdsworth would have remembered exactly as much as he heard. But, in the absence of suggestion, his memory was powerless—absolutely helpless—to generate independent conclusions as to the impressions his mind had received previous to his rescue.
The real miracle lay in this contradiction—in the death of memory, dating up to the moment of the swoon in the boat; in its resurrection to health and vigour, dating from the moment of his recovery.
He returned to the chair that had been placed for him near the skylight, and Mr. Sherman, still not despairing of arousing this dormant faculty, went below and returned with the parcel of things that had been taken from Holdsworth’s pockets. These were given him one by one, but he handled them without recognition.
“But you know their names?” said Mr. Sherman.
“Yes. This is a knife. This is a watch.”
“They are yours; found in your pockets.”
His hand trembled, and he gazed at them with devouring eyes; but no other idea was conveyed to him by Mr. Sherman’s assurance than the bare fact that they were his property. He could not remember having purchased or owned them.