Yes; his little girl, that he spoke of so carelessly, that he lied to so
easily, that he meant to marry so cruelly, was my Dora. I had pitied the woman who was to be Harry Lemarchant's wife even when I
didn't know who she was in any way; I pitied her terribly, with all my
heart, when I knew that she was Dora--my own Dora. If I have become a
murderer, after all, it was to save Dora--to save Dora from that
unutterable, abominable ruffian. I clutched the photograph in the locket eagerly, and held it up to the
man's eyes. He opened them dreamily. "Is that the lady you are going to
marry?" I asked him, with all the boiling indignation of that terrible
discovery seething and burning in my very face. He smiled, and took it all in in half a minute. "It is," he answered, in
spite of the fever, with all his old dare-devil carelessness. "And now I
recollect they told me the fellow she was engaged to was a doctor in
London, and a brother of the parson. By Jove, I never thought of it
before that your name, too, was actually Robinson. That's the worst of
having such a deuced common name as yours; no one ever dreams of
recognizing your relations. Hang it all, if you're the man, I suppose
now, out of revenge, you'll be wanting next to go and poison me." "You judge others by yourself, I'm afraid," I answered sternly. Oh, how
the words seem to rise up in judgment against me at last, now the
dreadful thing is all over! I doctored him as well as I was able, hoping all the time in my inmost
soul (for I will confess all now) that he would never recover. Already
in wish I had become a murderer. It was too horrible to think that such
a man as that should marry Dora. I had loved her once and I loved her
still; I love her now; I shall always love her. Murderer as I am, I say
it nevertheless, I shall always love her. But at last, to my grief and disappointment, the man began to mend and
get better. My doctoring had done him good; and the sailors, though even
they did not love him, had shot him once or twice a small bird, of which
we made fresh soup that seemed to revive him. Yes, yes, he was coming
round; and my cursed medicines had done it all. He was getting well, and
he would still go back to marry Dora. The very idea put me into such a fever of terror and excitement that at
last I began to exhibit the same symptoms as Lemarchant himself had
done. The Captain saw I was sickening, and feared the fever might prove
an epidemic. It wasn't: I knew that. Mine was brain, Lemarchant's was
intermittent; but the Captain insisted upon disbelieving me. So he put
me and Lemarchant into the same hut, and made all the others clear out,
so as to turn it into a sort of temporary hospital. Every night I put out from the medicine-chest two quinine powders
apiece, for myself and Lemarchant. One night, it was the 7th of April (I can't forget it), I woke feebly
from my feverish sleep, and noticed in a faint sort of fashion that
Lemarchant was moving about restlessly in the cabin. "Lemarchant," I cried authoritatively (for as surgeon I was, of course,
responsible for the health of the expedition), "go back and lie down
upon your bearskin this minute! You're a great deal too weak to go
getting anything for yourself as yet. Go back this minute, sir, and if
you want anything, I'll pull the string, and Paterson'll come and see
what you're after." For we had fixed up a string between the two huts,
tied to a box at the end, as a rough means of communication. "All right, old fellow," he answered, more cordially than I had ever yet
heard him speak to me. "It's all square, I assure you. I was only seeing
whether you were quite warm and comfortable on your rug there." "Perhaps," I thought, "the care I've taken of him has made him really
feel a little grateful to me." So I dozed off and thought nothing more
at the moment about it. Presently, I heard a noise again, and woke up quietly, without starting,
but just opened my eyes and peered about as well as the dim light of the
little oil-lamp would allow me. To my great surprise, I could make out somehow that Lemarchant was
meddling with the bottles in the medicine-chest. "Perhaps," thought I again, "he wants another dose of quinine. Anyhow,
I'm too tired and sleepy to ask him anything just now about it." I knew he hated me, and I knew he was unscrupulous, but it didn't occur
to me to think he would poison the man who had just helped him through a
dangerous fever. At four I woke, as I always did, and proceeded to take one of my
powders. Curiously enough, before I tasted it, the grain appeared to me
to be rather coarser and more granular than the quinine I had originally
put there. I took a pinch between my finger and thumb, and placed it on
my tongue by way of testing it. Instead of being bitter, the powder, I
found, was insipid and almost tasteless. Could I possibly in my fever and delirium (though I had not consciously
been delirious) have put some other powder instead of the quinine into
the two papers? The bare idea made me tremble with horror. If so, I
might have poisoned Lemarchant, who had taken one of his powders
already, and was now sleeping quietly upon his bearskin. At least, I
thought so. Glancing accidentally to his place that moment, I was vaguely conscious
that he was not really sleeping, but lying with his eyes held half open,
gazing at me cautiously and furtively through his closed eyelids. Then the horrid truth flashed suddenly across me. Lemarchant was trying
to poison me. Yes, he had always hated me; and now that he knew I was Dora's discarded
lover, he hated me worse than ever. He had got up and taken a bottle
from the medicine-chest, I felt certain, and put something else instead
of my quinine inside my paper. I knew his eyes were fixed upon me then, and for the moment I
dissembled. I turned round and pretended to swallow the contents of the
packet, and then lay down upon my rug as if nothing unusual had
happened. The fever was burning me fiercely, but I lay awake, kept up
by the excitement, till I saw that he was really asleep, and then I once
more undid the paper. Looking at it closely by the light of the lamp, I saw a finer powder
sticking closely to the folded edges. I wetted my finger, put it down
and tasted it. Yes, that was quite bitter. That was quinine, not a doubt
about it. I saw at once what Lemarchant had done. He had emptied out the quinine
and replaced it by some other white powder, probably arsenic. But a
little of the quinine still adhered to the folds in the paper, because
he had been obliged to substitute it hurriedly; and that at once proved
that it was no mistake of my own, but that Lemarchant had really made
the deliberate attempt to poison me. This is a confession, and a confession only, so I shall make no effort
in any way to exculpate myself for the horrid crime I committed the next
moment.