And indeed there will be time 2/???
I came to myself with a jolt, choking on thin air as an intense sensation of drowning took over my entire self. A strong pair of arms stole gently beneath me, hauling me up into a half-sitting stance, and from the depths of my terror I heard the well-known accent of my friend - the faithful friend whom I had failed even in death.
With redoubled energy, I struggled out of his grip and sank back into the soft surface I had found myself lying upon; I tried to brush off the cold hand which I felt pressed against my cheek, but my limbs were like lead, anchoring me still despite desperate attempts to prop myself up on one elbow. As awareness flowed back into me, I realised that my moves were restricted by several layers of blankets. The air had a faint, persistent smell of antiseptic, and I needed not open my aching eyes to picture the surroundings where my foolishness had led me - I lay swaddled ridiculously in a hospital bed, freshly fished out of the sea and brought back to life to answer for my actions before the scrutinising tribunal of public opinion.
Poirot's voice was exhorting me to renounce darkness; yet I obstinately kept my eyes shut, until the cowardice of my futile conduct dawned upon my conscience. I had disgraced myself in many a way, but as long as I lived, never would I stoop so low as to evade the consequences of my folly.
Cautiously, I blinked to find the blurry vision of my friend bending over me in alarm. In my confused state of mind, a new thought possessed me - the green eyes did not betray either anger or indignation, only deep concern and solicitude. How could he not resent the dishonour I had brought upon my family and friends, my callous disregard for the feelings of others? Surely he, the greatest mind of his time... I had jumped on my own accord... unless...
We had both been silent for some time when I felt my lips parting, and murmured on an impulse:
"What's happened, Poirot...? What's happened to me?"
Slowly, my friend's left hand came to rest on my shoulder, tentatively finding its way along my neck, up to my brow. This time I did not shrink away, but found myself oddly soothed by the cool touch of his fingers - to my astonishment, his inseparable gloves were lying carelessly on the bedside table. Finally he spoke, almost hesitantly:
"The fever, Hastings. The fever came back to you on the ship, you were delirious. Do not worry yourself, mon ami, I told the doctors about your malaria... you were lucky that young Mr Woods dove to your rescue."
"Woods?" I repeated automatically, too shocked to think about the man who had inadvertently precipitated my downfall by rushing to my help.
"Yes, a cabin boy. It was only his second voyage... I expect that he shall remember it for many years, n'est-ce pas?" Poirot smiled a little, before frowning at my embarrassment. "You do not recall the accident."
"No, I can't say that I do", I concurred, and hastily added "But I'm much indebted to him."
"Indeed you are, mon ami. It is very fortunate that he was enjoying the fresh evening air."
Poirot fell silent again. He had moved his hand back to his lap, and was absent-mindedly smoothing down the legs of his wrinkled trousers; his manner was now very calm and composed.
My mind ran frantically from one conjecture to another: how long had the lad been watching me? What exactly had he reported to the detective? The night was dark and hazy, but I was not standing in the shade; he could easily have seen me wander the deck, debating whether I ought to end it all here and now. And what if I had spoken aloud in confusion?
The crucial question - how much did he know ?- was pounding through my head like a leitmotif. In a state of infinite weariness, I allowed my eyes to close again, but my friend shook me roughly by the shoulder, and in his queerly distant voice ordered me to stay awake until the doctor came back.
"Sorry, old chap" I muttered apologetically. "Can't seem to do anything right, today... it is still today, isn't it? How long was I unconscious - what about my luggage, did you - my God, I had promised Dulcie to cable her..."
Suddenly, I found myself overwhelmed by a stream of practical matters; the drowning sensation came back, more suffocating than ever. The last thing I saw before the room dissolved away was Poirot's hand, plunging over my head for the bell.
With redoubled energy, I struggled out of his grip and sank back into the soft surface I had found myself lying upon; I tried to brush off the cold hand which I felt pressed against my cheek, but my limbs were like lead, anchoring me still despite desperate attempts to prop myself up on one elbow. As awareness flowed back into me, I realised that my moves were restricted by several layers of blankets. The air had a faint, persistent smell of antiseptic, and I needed not open my aching eyes to picture the surroundings where my foolishness had led me - I lay swaddled ridiculously in a hospital bed, freshly fished out of the sea and brought back to life to answer for my actions before the scrutinising tribunal of public opinion.
Poirot's voice was exhorting me to renounce darkness; yet I obstinately kept my eyes shut, until the cowardice of my futile conduct dawned upon my conscience. I had disgraced myself in many a way, but as long as I lived, never would I stoop so low as to evade the consequences of my folly.
Cautiously, I blinked to find the blurry vision of my friend bending over me in alarm. In my confused state of mind, a new thought possessed me - the green eyes did not betray either anger or indignation, only deep concern and solicitude. How could he not resent the dishonour I had brought upon my family and friends, my callous disregard for the feelings of others? Surely he, the greatest mind of his time... I had jumped on my own accord... unless...
We had both been silent for some time when I felt my lips parting, and murmured on an impulse:
"What's happened, Poirot...? What's happened to me?"
Slowly, my friend's left hand came to rest on my shoulder, tentatively finding its way along my neck, up to my brow. This time I did not shrink away, but found myself oddly soothed by the cool touch of his fingers - to my astonishment, his inseparable gloves were lying carelessly on the bedside table. Finally he spoke, almost hesitantly:
"The fever, Hastings. The fever came back to you on the ship, you were delirious. Do not worry yourself, mon ami, I told the doctors about your malaria... you were lucky that young Mr Woods dove to your rescue."
"Woods?" I repeated automatically, too shocked to think about the man who had inadvertently precipitated my downfall by rushing to my help.
"Yes, a cabin boy. It was only his second voyage... I expect that he shall remember it for many years, n'est-ce pas?" Poirot smiled a little, before frowning at my embarrassment. "You do not recall the accident."
"No, I can't say that I do", I concurred, and hastily added "But I'm much indebted to him."
"Indeed you are, mon ami. It is very fortunate that he was enjoying the fresh evening air."
Poirot fell silent again. He had moved his hand back to his lap, and was absent-mindedly smoothing down the legs of his wrinkled trousers; his manner was now very calm and composed.
My mind ran frantically from one conjecture to another: how long had the lad been watching me? What exactly had he reported to the detective? The night was dark and hazy, but I was not standing in the shade; he could easily have seen me wander the deck, debating whether I ought to end it all here and now. And what if I had spoken aloud in confusion?
The crucial question - how much did he know ?- was pounding through my head like a leitmotif. In a state of infinite weariness, I allowed my eyes to close again, but my friend shook me roughly by the shoulder, and in his queerly distant voice ordered me to stay awake until the doctor came back.
"Sorry, old chap" I muttered apologetically. "Can't seem to do anything right, today... it is still today, isn't it? How long was I unconscious - what about my luggage, did you - my God, I had promised Dulcie to cable her..."
Suddenly, I found myself overwhelmed by a stream of practical matters; the drowning sensation came back, more suffocating than ever. The last thing I saw before the room dissolved away was Poirot's hand, plunging over my head for the bell.