by Maud Diver
CHAPTER XIV.
"My undissuaded heart I hear Whisper courage in my ear." --R.L.S.
Down,--steadily, interminably down the face of that formidable ravine,Theo Desmond slid, and scrambled, and climbed; holding his mind rigidlyon the practical necessities of the moment, which were many anddisconcerting. His stockinged feet showed dull-red streaks and blotches,where sharp stones had cut them. His hands were grazed and torn byfutile clutchings at the surface of broken rocks: and the protruding neckof the brandy bottle had a trick of digging him playfully in the ribs:which made him swear. Impertinent raindrops chased each other down hischeeks and forehead; trickling into his eyes, and blinding him atcritical moments when he dared not release a hand to brush them away.The inch-by-inch progress to which he was condemned fretted the hastyspirit of the man; anxiety consumed him, and conspired with impatience tobeget a nightmare illusion that he had been battling with naked rock anddripping vegetation since the beginning of Time.
Once,--for all the caution with which he crept backward anddownward,--his foot slipped, on the wet surface of a boulder; and, in thehope of avoiding a fall, he clutched at a small shrub, with one hand,shielding the aggressive brandy bottle with the other. But thetreacherous sapling yielded under his weight; and wrenching its rootsfrom the moist earth, he rolled over and over, knocking his head andchest violently against outlying peninsulars of rock.
Both hands were requisitioned now, in a vain effort to check a descentthat had become too rapid for comfort or dignity: and before long, amusical clink, followed by a strong whiff of spirit, announced the fateof the brandy bottle.
"Damn the thing!" he exclaimed in an access of helpless fury. Then afresh blow on his head whelmed anger and anxiety in sheer pain, and senthim rolling like a log into a kindly patch of undergrowth, which had, sofar, blocked his downward view.
Here he lay awhile, half stunned, small runnels of water trickling fromhis clothing. But his vitality--never long in abeyance--soon reasserteditself. He sat up, and his hand went instinctively to his pocket.Drawing out the beheaded bottle, he was relieved to find that it stillheld a tablespoonful or more; and that his handkerchief was saturatedwith the precious fluid. He sucked a mouthful from it with keensatisfaction: then, using it for a wad, plugged up the bottle; andundaunted by bruises, dizziness, torn hands, and smarting feet, lost notime in starting afresh.
For the time being, progress was simpler, and less hazardous: and, oncethrough the undergrowth, he came with disconcerting abruptness upon thatwhich he sought.
Eight feet below him, on a merciful ledge of earth wide enough to checkthe fatal rebound into space, Eldred Lenox lay face downward, his leftarm crumpled under him; the other flung outward as if in a last desperateeffort to ward off the inevitable. Shaitan was nowhere to be seen. Thesheer drop beyond told his fate.
Soldier as he was, and inured to the sight of death in its most barbarousaspect, Desmond's heart stood still as he looked down upon that powerfulfigure of manhood lying helpless and alone, pattered upon indifferentlyby the dripping heavens.
Choosing a spot that promised a soft landing-place, Desmond dropped on tothe ledge; knelt beside the injured man; and speedily assured himselfthat life was not extinct. Unconsciousness was due to a wound on theback of his head, from which blood still trickled sluggishly through thethick black hair. The arm crumpled under him was broken below the elbow.Very gently, as though he were a child asleep, Desmond turned him on tohis back. His eyes showed fixed and glazed between half-open lids, and adeep scratch disfigured his cheek. Pillowing the inert head on one arm,Desmond applied the spirit to his lips again and again, a few drops at atime: till the lids lifted heavily, and life returned with a slowshuddering breath.
Desmond bent down to him eagerly.
"Not going out this journey, Lenox, old chap."
But no answering gleam rewarded him; no movement of limb or feature.Only the lids fell again; and Desmond knew that this was no fainting fit,but collapse from probable damage to the brain.
After applying more brandy to the lips and temples without result, heremoved his Norfolk coat--still warm and dry within--and with the help oftwo fir boughs contrived to shelter Lenox's head and chest from thechilling downpour. Then he set to work on the broken arm. The samefir,--springing sturdily from a cleft in the rock below,--provided asplint; and with two handkerchiefs (he had wrung the last drop ofrain-diluted brandy from his own) he tied the injured limb skilfully andsecurely into place. That done, there remained nothing but to wait:--thehardest task that can be assigned to a man of action.
And to wait sitting was beyond him. Steady pacing in the cramped spaceavailable helped to deaden thought and promote warmth,--for by now hissoaked shirt-sleeves clung to his arms.
He kept it up doggedly till approaching footsteps brought his damp vigilto an end; and Colonel Mayhew stepped on to the ledge.
"Alive?" he asked, glancing at the prostrate figure, and Desmond nodded.
"Can't get him round, though. Concussion, I'm afraid. A nasty wound onhis head, and one arm fractured. But for that strip of undergrowth, hewould have been done for. Hope to God that lazy beggar Garth hurried upafter O'Malley. We won't wait here, though.--Come on, _coolie-log_."[Transcriber's note: The "o" in "_log_" is the Unicode "o-macron",U+014D.]
Colonel Mayhew going forward to lend a hand, glanced over the precipitousdrop on his right, and turned hastily away again. That which had beenShaitan was visible below; and it was not pleasant to look at.
"Lenox'll be cut up about that," he muttered as they lifted himcautiously on to the reeking strip of blanket.
It was a dreary journey up that corkscrew footpath, inch-deep in runningwater, that led to the ordinary levels of life. Desmond kept his post byLenox's head and shoulders, sheltering him still with the discarded coat,and clinging to the track's edge with supple, stockinged feet. But therewas no preventing jars and jolts arising from broken ground, and thedifficulty of carrying a litter at an almost impossible angle. Half-wayup they caught sight of Dr O'Malley,--a Pickwickian figure of a man,booted and spurred,--skipping, stumbling, and slithering towards them ina fashion ludicrous enough to bring a flicker of mirth into Desmond'seyes.
They drew up when, at length, he bore down upon them with a rush ofexpletives by way of sympathy: for he was good-hearted and a ready man ofhis tongue, if not a brilliant unit of his profession. His rapidexamination of Lenox ended in praise of Desmond's amateur bit of surgery,and a confirmation of his verdict--concussion of the brain.
"An' there's no telling yet, of course, if it's slight or serious. Butbegad be must have had a nasty tumble. Devilish lucky to get off withhis life,--that's a fact. What's the nearest bungalow we can get himinto? 'Tis a good eight miles to the hospital; and the sooner he's outof this d--d watering-can business the better chance for him."
Desmond turned to Colonel Mayhew.
"How about the Forest bungalow, sir? Only a couple of miles on, isn'tit? Brodie must be there now; and he's the right sort, if he is a bit ofan anchorite."
"Why, of course. The very thing. He's something of an experimentalisttoo. Keeps up a small pharmacy in one of his outhouses. He'll make roomfor Lenox like a shot."
"And for me too, I hope. I'm game to sleep anywhere. But I won't leaveLenox till he's fit to go into Dalhousie."
Colonel Mayhew nodded approval; and the dismal procession set out again;O'Malley enlivening its progress with highly-coloured reminiscences of_khud_ accidents he had known, and with incidental attempts at jocularitythat fizzled out like damp fireworks. It was all meant kindly enough.But Desmond was thinking of both man and wife as he had seen them greetone another that morning; and an atmosphere of pseudo-hilarity jarred hisnerves like a discord in music. For the man possessed that mingling offortitude and delicacy of feeling, which stands revealed in the lives ofso many famous fighters, and may well be termed the hall-mark of heroism.
In due time they came upon the two women, still
sitting--drenched andpatient--on their bank of soaked fir-needles; and Desmond hurried forwardto get in a word or two with Quita unobserved. At sight ofhim--coatless, mud-bespattered, with torn clothes, and blood-stained faceand hands--Honor could not repress a small sound of dismay. But Quitasaw in his eyes the one thing she wanted; and may surely be forgiven ifshe paid small heed to his plight. Her face fell at the details of thedamage done.
"Mayn't I just have a sight of him as he passes us?" she pleaded.
"Better not," he answered kindly, "You have an artist's brain, remember;and I want you to sleep a little to-night. Trust me to do every mortalthing I can for him. Honor will see you home, and I'll send a runner inwith news this evening. We'll pull him through between us,--never fear."
She tried to speak her thanks; but failing, put out a hand impulsively tospeak for her; and his enfolding grasp made her feel less lonely, lessdesperate than she had felt since the awful moment when her husbandvanished into space. The fact that he was in Desmond's hands seemed aguarantee that all would go well with him. There was no logic in theconclusion; and she knew it. But logic has little to do with conviction:and many who came to know Desmond fell into this same trick of dependingon him to win through the thing to which he set his band. Yet hisoptimism had no affinity with the cheap school of philosophy, that nursesa pleasant mind without reference to disconcerting facts. It was theoutcome of that supreme faith in an Ultimate Best, working undismayedthrough failure and pain, which lies at the root of all humanachievement: and it was, in consequence, singularly infectious andconvincing.
Quita's impressionable spirit readily caught a reflection from its rays:and hope revived sent a glow through all her chilled body.
"Take a stiff whisky toddy the minute you get in," he commanded, whilelifting her into the saddle. "And try to remember that over-anxietywon't mend matters. It will only exhaust your strength. I'll come inand see you whenever I can. Ride on at once," he added hastily, for thestretcher, with its pitiful burden, was close upon them. "We'll catchyou up."
She obeyed with a childlike docility that touched him to the heart, andhe turned quickly to his wife.
"Come on, you dear, drenched woman. You've no business to be here atall; and we mustn't keep 'em waiting."
"But Theo, . . . your feet!" she murmured distressfully. "Are they quitecut to bits?"
"No--not quite." He glanced whimsically down at his dishevelled figure."Lord, what a scarecrow I must be! Aren't you half-ashamed of owning me?"
"Well--naturally!" she answered, beaming upon him as she set her foot inthe hollow of his hand. "I shall see something of you,--shan't I?"
"Trust me for that. See all you can of her too. She's as plucky as theymake 'em: but she may need it all and more, before we're through withthis, poor little soul."
He mounted, and rode with them as far as the woodsheds, where the menbranched off to the Forest bungalow, leaving the two women to ride onalone: and, in obedience to Desmond's parting injunction, they kept up asteady canter most of the way.
