Chapter V: Ingomar Himself Had a Dream to Dream

Long minutes went by, and still no signal came from below to haul up.

One of the sailors--a light-weight, but strong--had just proposed shinning down the rope, when suddenly it was shaken three successive times, and the men commenced hauling up with every care.

Charlie and Walt had nothing to do, and their suspense was therefore dreadful.

The rope seemed so thin. What if it should suddenly snap from chafing over the sharp edge of the rock!

At last, however, brave Ingomar’s handsome, resolute face was seen over the precipice. And in his arms he bore a sad burden.

Curtis was not tall, so his weight was nothing in comparison with the strength of his rescuer. But his face hung backwards, and was covered with blood.

The doctor, who had come back with the men, now made attempts to resuscitate his unfortunate patient. But for a long time he was unsuccessful. At last Arnold opened his eyes, and was presently able to swallow a little cordial, and even to talk a word or two, though very incoherently.

“There is no fracture,” said Dr. Wright, as the unfortunate lieutenant relapsed once more into insensibility. “Bear him to the boat most carefully, men, and we will follow.”

“No fracture, doctor. I’m so glad.”

Then Ingomar fainted. The strain had been too much for even his strong physique.

He was laid on his back, however, and soon revived. When fairly restored and able to take the road gently leaning on Charlie’s arm--

“I say, Charlie,” he said, “wasn’t it a blessing that I didn’t succumb when about halfway up the cliff?”

Ingomar was smiling, but the boy shuddered as he thought of the narrow escape of the first lieutenant and Hans Armstrong himself, the two principal men of the expedition. Had the dreadful accident occurred, and the bold rescuer been obliged to quit hold while being hauled to bank, it would have cast a gloom over all the hands which nothing could ever have dispelled.

I believe if people would only try to look upon the bright side of things in this world, they would always find something to be thankful for.

The captain’s cabin in the _Sea Elephant_ was the largest and best in the ship. It was right aft, and there was a minimum of noise above it. This was at once apportioned to the lieutenant, who had not yet recovered sensibility.

Nor did he for three long days.

The shock to brain and system generally had been very great, and would have killed a less strong man. Even the loss of blood, so said Dr. Wright, had been in no way against his patient.

Ingomar constituted himself Arnold’s nurse, and a gentle and tender one he made, Charlie and Walt relieving him now and then.

Meanwhile, good work was being done on shore. Not only were observations both by night and day taken, and surveys made and soundings ascertained, but the sailors were now busy in the erection of a stone house or cabin, which was to be the abode of five men and an officer for probably a whole year--their home, indeed; and a more dreary one than this it would be impossible to conceive, especially throughout the long and terrible winter. They were to have the companionship of two of the best dogs, plenty of provisions, and everything likely to conduce to their comfort, with books to read, and even games to while away the time. Moreover, they would be engaged every day in taking observations, for the advancement of science, for every little aids; but, nevertheless, it would be--

“A weary time, a weary time.”

One evening Dr. Wright came into the saloon or mess-place.

He was looking sad.

“Has a change come?” said the captain.

“I fear so,” said Wright.

“Then we need not ask what it is?”

“No; I fear my patient is sinking, although, mind you, even yet there is hope.”

It was one of those still nights which we find in these far Southern climes, when the stars shine clear and bright above, and are reflected from the dark, smooth sea, when, in the middle watch, hardly a sound is to be heard except the gentle lapping of the water around the stern, a sound that often resembles the talking of people in low, subdued monotones, only that and the solemn far-off boom of the waves breaking drowsily on the rugged rocks and shore.

Wright had given Ingomar his last instructions, and left him sitting quietly by the cotside, Arnold’s favourite Eskimo dog near his feet, for the faithful beast could seldom be prevailed upon to leave the cabin or even to touch a morsel of food.

Presently, and most unexpectedly, the patient breathed a sigh, and opened his eyes. Ingomar was standing over him in a moment with his finger on his pulse.

That pulse was flickering and uncertain, but it seemed stronger; but well did Hans know that these signs might be but the forerunner of death and darkness.

A spoonful of cordial was held to the poor fellow’s lips, and this he swallowed.

“Have--have I--been long ill? How----”

Ingomar smiled, but shook his head.

“Don’t speak just yet awhile,” he half whispered. “You have been ill, but now I think you will recover. Be of good cheer. I’ll go for the doctor now.”

When he returned with Wright, Ruby the dog was sitting by the bed with his cheek resting softly on his master’s hand.

It was such a pretty show of affection that Ingomar would not disturb him.

Not long after this Curtis had fallen into a gentle sleep, and his nurse had resumed his watch.

The change, the happy change, had come during that sleep, the clogged wheels of life were once more moving steadily round, and when the doctor again entered the cabin, he pronounced him out of danger.

It was not until next night, however, and in the stillness of a night just like its predecessor, that the patient was allowed to talk a little, for Dr. Wright’s orders were very peremptory, and were being carried out to the letter.

“Hans Armstrong,” said Curtis, quietly, “you may tell me all.”

Hans did so.

“And you saved my life?”

“That is little credit to me, Arnold. Some one else would have done so had I not.”

“But it is a credit to you. I have reason to love the name of Armstrong; it will be a name dearer to me now than ever.

“But, Hans, when I am strong enough I am going to return to that crevasse, and descend.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, indeed, for there I must have dropped a gold locket, which contained a portrait of the girl I love.”

Ingomar smiled.

“Keep your mind easy,” he said. “I found the locket, and here it is. I did not open it--I deemed it sacred.”

“Oh, thanks! thanks!” he cried, taking the trinket, and with somewhat shaky hands succeeding in opening it.

Probably one glance at the sweet face it contained did as much to place the patient out of danger as days of nursing.

“Look, Hans--look for yourself. Is she not beautiful?”

No wonder that Ingomar started as he looked upon it, rubbed his eyes, and looked again.

“Why--why----” he said.

“Yes, Hans, a portrait of _my_ Marie.”

“Nay, but _my_ Marie--my sister Marie.”

“Thank God,” murmured Curtis.

He did not speak again for several seconds.

“I say thank God, Hans, for this reason. Ever since we met I have been struck by the strange likeness there is between you and Marie; and being of the same name, I could not help thinking that you might be some near relative--a cousin, and perhaps a lover. My mind is now relieved, and I shall get speedily well.”

“But still I am puzzled. Where did you meet poor Marie?”

“I met her at a ball in New York. I think, Hans, it was love at first sight. It was so with me, at all events. And though we have known each other for but a very short time, it seems as if we had been acquainted for years.”

Ingomar was deep in thought.

“Did she speak of father and mother, and--of me?”

“She often talked of her father and mother, Hans, but seldom of you. She grew so sad when she mentioned you, and it was always as ‘poor brother who is dead and gone.’ And now, Hans, are we still as good friends?”

“Here is my hand, Arnold. It is a brother’s hand; I shall live in hopes of sister Marie and you being happy--some day. But how strange we should have met, and that I should have saved your life!”

“I care little for life save for her.”

“True, Arne; I have felt like that myself before now, when in love with Cheena, the daughter of an Indian backwood chief.”

“Some day, Hans, you will tell me that story. But, Hans, there is something I still have on my mind; and if I unburden myself to you, I shall be in a fair way to happiness.”

“Here,” said Ingomar, “drink this first. I fear I am leading you into too much talk.”

Arnold did as he was told, then continued--

“It was after I knew your sister, and after we loved each other, that I found out your father was very wealthy, and that she would one day be so. This discovery made me very unhappy. Though I myself am connected with the peerage, my family are poor at present. I knew Marie would not believe I was trying to woo her for her wealth. Heavens! she would be rich had she not a single sou; but her father might object. And so I told her all.”

“And did it make any difference?”

“To Marie not the slightest. But to me it did. I was determined she should not bind herself to a roving sailor like myself. It was in grief and sorrow, ay, and in tears, that we parted. I had heard that one or two expeditions were bound for the Antarctic, and I determined to join. I have done so, and I feel it is for the best. If I die--well, all will be over. If, during the years of enforced absence in these seas, Marie forgets me--well, all will be over just the same, and I still can pray for her happiness should I never see her more.”

“But,” said Ingomar, “suppose she does not forget you?”

“Ah! then,” said Arne, with a faint smile, “I may still dare to hope. This hope, dear Hans, I have. It is this hope that makes me live again, and this hope that I will cherish whatever happens.”

Once more he clasped Hans’ hand, and, still clasping it, fell into a gentle sleep. Ingomar now spread a rug over his knees, and went to sleep in Captain Bell’s easy-chair.

For Ingomar himself had a dream to dream.