Iwill not trouble you with details of those three terrible daysand nights when we drifted helplessly about at the mercy of thecurrents on our improvised life-raft up and down the EnglishChannel. The first night was the worst. Slowly after that we grewused to the danger, the cold, the hunger, and the thirst. Oursenses were numbed; we passed whole hours together in a sort oftorpor, just vaguely wondering whether a ship would come in sightto save us, obeying the merciful law that those who are utterlyexhausted are incapable of acute fear, and acquiescing in theprobability of our own extinction. But however slender the chance—and as the hours stole on it seemed slender enough—Hilda stillkept her hopes fixed mainly on Sebastian. No daughter could havewatched the father she loved more eagerly and closely than Hildawatched her life-long enemy—the man who had wrought such evil uponher and hers. To save our own lives without him would be useless.At all hazards, she must keep him alive, on the bare chance of arescue. If he died, there died with him the last hope of justiceand redress.

As for Sebastian, after the first half-hour, during which he laywhite and unconscious, he opened his eyes faintly, as we could seeby the moonlight, and gazed around him with a strange, puzzledstate of inquiry. Then his senses returned to him by degrees."What! you, Cumberledge?" he murmured, measuring me with his eye;"and you, Nurse Wade? Well, I thought you would manage it." Therewas a tone almost of amusement in his voice, a half-ironical tonewhich had been familiar to us in the old hospital days. He raisedhimself on one arm and gazed at the water all round. Then he wassilent for some minutes. At last he spoke again. "Do you knowwhat I ought to do if I were consistent?" he asked, with a tinge ofpathos in his words. "Jump off this raft, and deprive you of yourlast chance of triumph—the triumph which you have worked for sohard. You want to save my life for your own ends, not for mine.Why should I help you to my own undoing?"

Hilda's voice was tenderer and softer than usual as she answered:"No, not for my own ends alone, and not for your undoing, but togive you one last chance of unburdening your conscience. Some menare too small to be capable of remorse; their little souls have noroom for such a feeling. You are great enough to feel it and totry to crush it down. But youcannot crush it down; it crops up inspite of you. You have tried to bury it in your soul, and you havefailed. It is your remorse that has driven you to make so manyattempts against the only living souls who knew and understood.If ever we get safely to land once more—and God knows it is notlikely—I give you still the chance of repairing the mischief youhave done, and of clearing my father's memory from the cruel stainwhich you and only you can wipe away."

Sebastian lay long, silent once more, gazing up at her fixedly,with the foggy, white moonlight shining upon his bright, inscrutableeyes. "You are a brave woman, Maisie Yorke-Bannerman," he said, atlast, slowly; "a very brave woman. I will try to live—I too—fora purpose of my own. I say it again: he that loseth his life shallgain it."

Incredible as it may sound, in half an hour more he was lying fastasleep on that wave-tossed raft, and Hilda and I were watching himtenderly. And it seemed to us as we watched him that a change hadcome over those stern and impassive features. They had softenedand melted until his face was that of a gentler and better type.It was as if some inward change of soul was moulding the fierce oldProfessor into a nobler and more venerable man.

Day after day we drifted on, without food or water. The agony wasterrible; I will not attempt to describe it, for to do so is tobring it back too clearly to my memory. Hilda and I, being youngerand stronger, bore up against it well; but Sebastian, old and worn,and still weak from the plague, grew daily weaker. His pulse justbeat, and sometimes I could hardly feel it thrill under my finger.He became delirious, and murmured much about Yorke-Bannerman'sdaughter. Sometimes he forgot all, and spoke to me in the friendlyterms of our old acquaintance at Nathaniel's, giving me directionsand advice about imaginary operations. Hour after hour we watchedfor a sail, and no sail appeared. One could hardly believe wecould toss about so long in the main highway of traffic withoutseeing a ship or spying more than the smoke-trail of some passingsteamer.

As far as I could judge, during those days and nights, the windveered from south-west to south-east, and carried us steadily andsurely towards the open Atlantic. On the third evening out, aboutfive o'clock, I saw a dark object on the horizon. Was it movingtowards us? We strained our eyes in breathless suspense. A minutepassed, and then another. Yes, there could be no doubt. It grewlarger and larger. It was a ship—a steamer. We made all thesigns of distress we could manage. I stood up and waved Hilda'swhite shawl frantically in the air. There was half an hour ofsuspense, and our hearts sank as we thought that they were about topass us. Then the steamer hove to a little and seemed to noticeus. Next instant we dropped upon our knees, for we saw they werelowering a boat. They were coming to our aid. They would be intime to save us.

Hilda watched our rescuers with parted lips and agonised eyes.Then she felt Sebastian's pulse. "Thank Heaven," she cried, "hestill lives! They will be here before he is quite past confession."

Sebastian opened his eyes dreamily. "A boat?" he asked.

"Yes, a boat!"

"Then you have gained your point, child. I am able to collectmyself. Give me a few hours' more life, and what I can do to makeamends to you shall be done."

I don't know why, but it seemed longer between the time when theboat was lowered and the moment when it reached us than it hadseemed during the three days and nights we lay tossing abouthelplessly on the open Atlantic. There were times when we couldhardly believe it was really moving. At last, however, it reachedus, and we saw the kindly faces and outstretched hands of ourrescuers. Hilda clung to Sebastian with a wild clasp as the menreached out for her.

"No, takehim first!" she cried, when the sailors, after the customof men, tried to help her into the gig before attempting to saveus; "his life is worth more to me than my own. Take him—and forGod's sake lift him gently, for he is nearly gone!"

They took him aboard and laid him down in the stern. Then, andthen only, Hilda stepped into the boat, and I staggered after her.The officer in charge, a kind young Irishman, had had the foresightto bring brandy and a little beef essence. We ate and drank whatwe dared as they rowed us back to the steamer. Sebastian lay back,with his white eyelashes closed over the lids, and the livid hue ofdeath upon his emaciated cheeks; but he drank a teaspoonful or twoof brandy, and swallowed the beef essence with which Hilda fed him.

"Your father is the most exhausted of the party," the officer said,in a low undertone. "Poor fellow, he is too old for suchadventures. He seems to have hardly a spark of life left in him."

Hilda shuddered with evident horror. "He is not my father—thankHeaven!" she cried, leaning over him and supporting his droopinghead, in spite of her own fatigue and the cold that chilled ourvery bones. "But I think he will live. I mean him to live. He ismy best friend now—and my bitterest enemy!"

The officer looked at her in surprise, and then touched hisforehead, inquiringly, with a quick glance at me. He evidentlythought cold and hunger had affected her reason. I shook my head."It is a peculiar case," I whispered. "What the lady says isright. Everything depends for us upon our keeping him alive tillwe reach England."

They rowed us to the boat, and we were handed tenderly up the side.There, the ship's surgeon and everybody else on board did theirbest to restore us after our terrible experience. The ship was theDon, of the Royal Mail Steamship Company's West Indian line; andnothing could exceed the kindness with which we were treated byevery soul on board, from the captain to the stewardess and thejunior cabin-boy. Sebastian's great name carried weight even here.As soon as it was generally understood on board that we had broughtwith us the famous physiologist and pathologist, the man whose namewas famous throughout Europe, we might have asked for anything thatthe ship contained without fear of a refusal. But, indeed, Hilda'ssweet face was enough in itself to win the interest and sympathy ofall who saw it.

By eleven next morning we were off Plymouth Sound; and by midday wehad landed at the Mill Bay Docks, and were on our way to acomfortable hotel in the neighbourhood.

Hilda was too good a nurse to bother Sebastian at once about hisimplied promise. She had him put to bed, and kept him therecarefully.

"What do you think of his condition?" she asked me, after thesecond day was over. I could see by her own grave face that shehad already formed her own conclusions.

"He cannot recover," I answered. "His constitution, shattered bythe plague and by his incessant exertions, has received too severea shock in this shipwreck. He is doomed."

"So I think. The change is but temporary. He will not last outthree days more, I fancy."

"He has rallied wonderfully to-day," I said; "but 'tis a passingrally; a flicker—no more. If you wish to do anything, now is themoment. If you delay, you will be too late."

"I will go in and see him," Hilda answered. "I have said nothingmore to him, but I think he is moved. I think he means to keep hispromise. He has shown a strange tenderness to me these last fewdays. I almost believe he is at last remorseful, and ready to undothe evil which he has done."

She stole softly into the sick room. I followed her on tip-toe,and stood near the door behind the screen which shut off thedraught from the patient. Sebastian stretched his arms out to her."Ah, Maisie, my child," he cried, addressing her by the name shehad borne in her childhood—both were her own—"don't leave me anymore! Stay with me always, Maisie! I can't get on without you."

"But you hated once to see me!"

"Because I have so wronged you."

"And now? Will you do nothing to repair the wrong?"

"My child, I can never undo that wrong. It is irreparable, for thepast can never be recalled; but I will try my best to minimise it.Call Cumberledge in. I am quite sensible now, quite conscious.You will be my witness, Cumberledge, that my pulse is normal andthat my brain is clear. I will confess it all. Maisie, yourconstancy and your firmness have conquered me. And your devotionto your father. If only I had had a daughter like you, my girl,one whom I could have loved and trusted, I might have been a betterman. I might even have done better work for science—though onthat side, at least, I have little with which to reproach myself."

Hilda bent over him. "Hubert and I are here," she said, slowly, ina strangely calm voice; "but that is not enough. I want a public,an attested, confession. It must be given before witnesses, andsigned and sworn to. Somebody might throw doubt upon my word andHubert's."

Sebastian shrank back. "Given before witnesses, and signed andsworn to! Maisie, is this humiliation necessary; do you exact it?"

Hilda was inexorable. "You know yourself how you are situated.You have only a day or two to live," she said, in an impressivevoice. "You must do it at once, or never. You have postponed itall your life. Now, at this last moment, you must make up for it.Will you die with an act of injustice unconfessed on yourconscience?"

He paused and struggled. "I could—if it were not for you," heanswered.

"Then do it for me," Hilda cried. "Do it for me! I ask it of younot as a favour, but as a right. Idemand it!" She stood, white,stern, inexorable, by his couch, and laid her hand upon hisshoulder.

He paused once more. Then he murmured feebly, in a querulous tone,"What witnesses? Whom do you wish to be present?"

Hilda spoke clearly and distinctly. She had thought it all outwith herself beforehand. "Such witnesses as will carry absoluteconviction to the mind of all the world; irreproachable,disinterested witnesses; official witnesses. In the first place, acommissioner of oaths. Then a Plymouth doctor, to show that youare in a fit state of mind to make a confession. Next, Mr. HoraceMayfield, who defended my father. Lastly, Dr. Blake Crawford, whowatched the case on your behalf at the trial."

"But, Hilda," I interposed, "we may possibly find that they cannotcome away from London just now. They are busy men, and likely tobe engaged."

"They will come if I pay their fees. I do not mind how much thiscosts me. What is money compared to this one great object of mylife?"

"And then—the delay! Suppose that we are too late?"

"He will live some days yet. I can telegraph up at once. I wantno hole-and-corner confession, which may afterwards be useless, butan open avowal before the most approved witnesses. If he will makeit, well and good; if not, my life-work will have failed. But Ihad rather it failed than draw back one inch from the course whichI have laid down for myself."

I looked at the worn face of Sebastian. He nodded his head slowly."She has conquered," he answered, turning upon the pillow. "Lether have her own way. I hid it for years, for science' sake. Thatwas my motive, Cumberledge, and I am too near death to lie.Science has now nothing more to gain or lose by me. I have servedher well, but I am worn out in her service. Maisie may do as shewill. I accept her ultimatum."

We telegraphed up, at once. Fortunately, both men were disengaged,and both keenly interested in the case. By that evening, HoraceMayfield was talking it all over with me in the hotel atSouthampton. "Well, Hubert, my boy," he said, "a woman, we know,can do a great deal"; he smiled his familiar smile, like a genialfat toad; "but if your Yorke-Bannerman succeeds in getting aconfession out of Sebastian, she'll extort my admiration." Hepaused a moment, then he added, in an afterthought: "I say thatshe'll extort my admiration; but, mind you, I don't know that Ishall feel inclined to believe it. The facts have always appearedto me—strictly between ourselves, you know—to admit of only oneexplanation."

"Wait and see," I answered. "You think it more likely that MissWade will have persuaded Sebastian to confess to things that neverhappened than that he will convince you of Yorke-Bannerman'sinnocence?"

The great Q.C. fingered his cigarette-holder affectionately.

"You hit it first time," he answered. "That is precisely myattitude. The evidence against our poor friend was so peculiarlyblack. It would take a great deal to make me disbelieve it."

"But surely a confession—"

"Ah, well, let me hear the confession, and then I shall be betterable to judge."

Even as he spoke Hilda had entered the room.

"There will be no difficulty about that, Mr. Mayfield. You shallhear it, and I trust that it will make you repent for taking soblack a view of the case of your own client."

"Without prejudice, Miss Bannerman, without prejudice," said thelawyer, with some confusion. "Our conversation is entirely betweenourselves, and to the world I have always upheld that your fatherwas an innocent man."

But such distinctions are too subtle for a loving woman.

"Hewas an innocent man," said she, angrily. "It was your businessnot only to believe it, but to prove it. You have neither believedit nor proved it; but if you will come upstairs with me, I willshow you that I have done both."

Mayfield glanced at me and shrugged his fat shoulders. Hilda hadled the way, and we both followed her. In the room of the sick manour other witnesses were waiting: a tall, dark, austere man who wasintroduced to me as Dr. Blake Crawford, whose name I had heard ashaving watched the case for Sebastian at the time of theinvestigation. There were present also a commissioner of oaths,and Dr. Mayby, a small local practitioner, whose attitude towardsthe great scientist was almost absurdly reverential. The three menwere grouped at the foot of the bed, and Mayfield and I joinedthem. Hilda stood beside the dying man, and rearranged the pillowagainst which he was propped. Then she held some brandy to hislips. "Now!" said she.

The stimulant brought a shade of colour into his ghastly cheeks,and the old quick, intelligent gleam came back into his deep sunkeyes.

"A remarkable woman, gentlemen," said he, "a very noteworthy woman.I had prided myself that my willpower was the most powerful in thecountry—I had never met any to match it—but I do not mindadmitting that, for firmness and tenacity, this lady is my equal.She was anxious that I should adopt one course of action. I wasdetermined to adopt another. Your presence here is a proof thatshe has prevailed."

He paused for breath, and she gave him another small sip of thebrandy.

"I execute her will ungrudgingly and with the conviction that it isthe right and proper course for me to take," he continued. "Youwill forgive me some of the ill which I have done you, Maisie, whenI tell you that I really died this morning—all unknown toCumberledge and you—and that nothing but my will force hassufficed to keep spirit and body together until I should carry outyour will in the manner which you suggested. I shall be glad whenI have finished, for the effort is a painful one, and I long forthe peace of dissolution. It is now a quarter to seven. I haveevery hope that I may be able to leave before eight."

It was strange to hear the perfect coolness with which he discussedhis own approaching dissolution. Calm, pale, and impassive, hismanner was that of a professor addressing his class. I had seenhim speak so to a ring of dressers in the old days at Nathaniel's.

"The circumstances which led up to the death of Admiral ScottPrideaux, and the suspicions which caused the arrest of DoctorYorke-Bannerman, have never yet been fully explained, although theywere by no means so profound that they might not have beenunravelled at the time had a man of intellect concentrated hisattention upon them. The police, however, were incompetent and thelegal advisers of Dr. Bannerman hardly less so, and a woman onlyhas had the wit to see that a gross injustice has been done. Thetrue facts I will now lay before you."

Mayfield's broad face had reddened with indignation; but now hiscuriosity drove out every other emotion, and he leaned forward withthe rest of us to hear the old man's story.

"In the first place, I must tell you that both Dr. Bannerman andmyself were engaged at the time in an investigation upon the natureand properties of the vegetable alkaloids, and especially ofaconitine. We hoped for the very greatest results from this drug,and we were both equally enthusiastic in our research. Especially,we had reason to believe that it might have a most successfulaction in the case of a certain rare but deadly disease, into thenature of which I need not enter. Reasoning by analogy, we wereconvinced that we had a certain cure for this particular ailment.

"Our investigation, however, was somewhat hampered by the fact thatthe condition in question is rare out of tropical countries, andthat in our hospital wards we had not, at that time, any example ofit. So serious was this obstacle, that it seemed that we mustleave other men more favourably situated to reap the benefit of ourwork and enjoy the credit of our discovery, but a curious chancegave us exactly what we were in search of, at the instant when wewere about to despair. It was Yorke-Bannerman who came to me in mylaboratory one day to tell me that he had in his private practicethe very condition of which we were in search.

"'The patient,' said he, 'is my uncle, Admiral Scott Prideaux.'

"'Your uncle!' I cried, in amazement. 'But how came he to developsuch a condition?'

"'His last commission in the Navy was spent upon the Malabar Coast,where the disease is endemic. There can be do doubt that it hasbeen latent in his system ever since, and that the irritability oftemper and indecision of character, of which his family have sooften had to complain, were really among the symptoms of hiscomplaint.'

"I examined the Admiral in consultation with my colleague, and Iconfirmed his diagnosis. But, to my surprise, Yorke-Bannermanshowed the most invincible and reprehensible objection toexperiment upon his relative. In vain I assured him that he mustplace his duty to science high above all other considerations. Itwas only after great pressure that I could persuade him to add aninfinitesimal portion of aconitine to his prescriptions. The drugwas a deadly one, he said, and the toxic dose was still to bedetermined. He could not push it in the case of a relative whotrusted himself to his care. I tried to shake him in what Iregarded as his absurd squeamishness—but in vain.

"But I had another resource. Bannerman's prescriptions were madeup by a fellow named Barclay, who had been dispenser at Nathaniel'sand afterwards set up as a chemist in Sackville Street. This manwas absolutely in my power. I had discovered him at Nathaniel's indishonest practices, and I held evidence which would have sent himto gaol. I held this over him now, and I made him, unknown toBannerman, increase the doses of aconitine in the medicine untilthey were sufficient for my experimental purposes. I will notenter into figures, but suffice it that Bannerman was giving morethan ten times what he imagined.

"You know the sequel. I was called in, and suddenly found that Ihad Bannerman in my power. There had been a very keen rivalrybetween us in science. He was the only man in England whose careermight impinge upon mine. I had this supreme chance of putting himout of my way. He could not deny that he had been giving his uncleaconitine. I could prove that his uncle had died of aconitine. Hecould not himself account for the facts—he was absolutely in mypower. I did not wish him to be condemned, Maisie. I only hopedthat he would leave the court discredited and ruined. I give youmy word that my evidence would have saved him from the scaffold."

Hilda was listening, with a set, white face.

"Proceed!" said she, and held out the brandy once more.

"I did not give the Admiral any more aconitine after I had takenover the case. But what was already in his system was enough. Itwas evident that we had seriously under-estimated the lethal dose.As to your father, Maisie, you have done me an injustice. You havealways thought that I killed him."

"Proceed!" said she.

"I speak now from the brink of the grave, and I tell you that I didnot. His heart was always weak, and it broke down under thestrain. Indirectly I was the cause—I do not seek to excuseanything; but it was the sorrow and the shame that killed him. Asto Barclay, the chemist, that is another matter. I will not denythat I was concerned in that mysterious disappearance, which was aseven days' wonder in the Press. I could not permit my scientificcalm to be interrupted by the blackmailing visits of so insignificanta person. And then after many years you came, Maisie. You also gotbetween me and that work which was life to me. You also showed thatyou would rake up this old matter and bring dishonour upon a namewhich has stood for something in science. You also—but you willforgive me. I have held on to life for your sake as an atonementfor my sins. Now, I go! Cumberledge—your notebook. Subjectivesensations, swimming in the head, light flashes before the eyes,soothing torpor, some touch of coldness, constriction of thetemples, humming in the ears, a sense of sinking—sinking—sinking!"

It was an hour later, and Hilda and I were alone in the chamber ofdeath. As Sebastian lay there, a marble figure, with his keen eyesclosed and his pinched, thin face whiter and serener than ever, Icould not help gazing at him with some pangs of recollection. Icould not avoid recalling the time when his very name was to me aword of power, and when the thought of him roused on my cheek a redflush of enthusiasm. As I looked I murmured two lines fromBrowning'sGrammarian's Funeral:

Hilda Wade, standing beside me, with an awestruck air, added a stanza from the same great poem:

I gazed at her with admiration. "And it isyou, Hilda, who pay himthis generous tribute!" I cried, "You, of all women!"

"Yes, it is I," she answered. "He was a great man, after all,Hubert. Not good, but great. And greatness by itself extorts ourunwilling homage."

"Hilda," I cried, "you are a great woman; and a good woman, too.It makes me proud to think you will soon be my wife. For there isnow no longer any just cause or impediment."

Beside the dead master, she laid her hand solemnly and calmly inmine. "No impediment," she answered. "I have vindicated andcleared my father's memory. And now, I can live. 'Actual lifecomes next.' We have much to do, Hubert."

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