The Brave In Heart

by Mary Burchell

  “No. ‘Quite pretty’ doesn’t describe her in the least. She’s lovely.”

  Then the car drove away, and Jessica was left standing, with the scarf forgotten in her hand. And, after a moment or two, she went back into the house, shaken, curiously enough, not so much by Angela’s words as by her brother’s.

  “Didn’t you catch them?” Mary glanced at the scarf. “I made sure you had. I thought I heard them drive away only a moment ago.”

  “I just didn’t quite manage it,” Jessica explained carefully. And Mary said:

  “Well, it doesn’t matter. I’m sure to see her passing the house during the next day or two.”

  On the way home, Jessica was rather quiet. But when Mrs. Forrest said, “It was a charming evening, wasn’t it?” she agreed earnestly that indeed it had been.

  During the next few days, Jessica was busy and saw nothing of any of her neighbours. But, on the day before Uncle Hector and Aunt Miriam were due to make their return visit, the twins begged that she would give herself a holiday and come with them on an expedition to a distant tarn, which was a favourite place for picnics, but too far and too dangerous a climb for the twins to go alone.

  The Forrests were motoring over to Keswick for the day to see friends, so that the opportunity seemed a good one.

  “And we don’t know how often we shall have the chance again,” Judy said with not unenjoyable melancholy. “If Uncle Hector does turn sticky, this’ll be our last summer here.”

  “There’s no need to anticipate Uncle Hector’s turning sticky,” Jessica assured her briskly. “But this certainly does seem to be a very special opportunity, so we’ll go.”

  As soon as the Forrests had left, therefore, Jessica brought out a picnic basket, packed it with the speed and thoroughness of much experience, and, leaving a rather gratified Linda in charge, they set off on their long walk.

  It was one of those cool, clear days, distinguished by a transient brightness which is all the more poignantly enjoyable because it may vanish at any moment.

  “It’ll rain before dark,” Tom prophesied as they tramped up and up, over the turf and the heather, pausing at intervals to look back on the distant valley, or to measure the height at which they stood by comparison with one or other of the neighbouring hills.

  “We shall be home before dark, though,” Judy said. “Isn’t it fun like this — just ourselves? Jessica, if you get married, Tom and I can stay on with you, can’t we?”

  “Of course,” agreed Jessica, who was often called on to allay some remote anxiety roused by Judy’s active imagination. “But I’m not thinking of getting married just now, anyway.”

  “No, but you never know when it might happen,” said Judy, preparing for all eventualities. “I sometimes think Mr. Forrest might ask you.”

  “Judy! Don’t be ridiculous. Whatever put such an idea into your head?”

  “Well, he’s going to paint your portrait, for one thing,” Judy pointed out, a little shaken, however, by the emphasis of her sister’s denial.

  “That’s nothing. He is a portrait-painter. He’s probably going to paint Miss Onderley, come to that.”

  “Ah, but he’s been asked to do that,” said Judy shrewdly. “He did the asking himself where you were concerned.”

  “That doesn’t mean a thing,” Jessica explained hastily. “Except that he thinks I’m paintable, for some reason or other. It’s probably my red hair. Some artists choose people they think look awful, just because they’ll make an interesting study, you know.”

  “Oh,” said Judy, who didn’t seem to like this view of realism in art. “But I don’t think Mr. Forrest chose you because he thinks you look awful,” she added finally, as though having arrived at a satisfactory conclusion, and Jessica laughed.

  “I think Mr. Onderley’s more likely to ask you to marry him,” Tom stated stolidly at this point.

  “Good gracious! What extraordinary ideas you children have.” cried Jessica. “I can’t see the least reason why either of them should.”

  “Just because you’re so nice,” Judy said rather touchingly, while Tom said more judicially:

  “I can. I’d marry you myself if I were grown-up and you weren’t my sister. You know how to do everything well in a home, and you’re not at all bad-looking, and you don’t get cross about nothing, and you have a nice laugh.”

  “Well, really, I didn’t know I was so highly appreciated in the home circle,” declared Jessica, both amused and touched. “But I can’t imagine that anyone will ever think so well of me as you two seem to, so, on the whole, perhaps I’d better stay with you and not get married at all.”

  The twins both seemed to find this a satisfactory solution, so the subject was abandoned in favour of the even more important one of the best time for lunch.

  “I think the best way is to start eating as soon as you get hungry,” Judy declared. “Then you get lots of energy for going on further.”

  “I don’t. I think it’s best to do all the hard climbing first. Then you can enjoy the eats and feel good,” countered Tom.

  Jessica — knowing from experience the value of the carrot-before-the donkey technique — firmly supported Tom’s school of thought, and not until they reached the summit of the hill did she call a final halt, choose a spot sheltered from the sudden and capricious wind which had risen, and spread out the picnic supplies.

  In front and far below lay the little tarn which was their ultimate goal, mirroring in its unruffled surface the clear blue of the sky overhead, so that it looked like an incredible, uncut jewel, carelessly thrown down at the foot of the surrounding hills.

  “Isn’t it a darling!” exclaimed Judy, regarding it with affectionate proprietorship. “I’m glad we waited until now to have lunch, because we can look at it all the time.”

  “We can look at it all the while we are climbing down to it too,” observed Tom practically. But Judy said that wasn’t quite the same thing, because you had to look where you were going, as the path was rough.

  “As a matter of fact” — Jessica glanced away a little doubtfully to the west — “I hate to say it, but I think we’d be wise not to go right down to the tarn this afternoon. It looks to me as though there’s a heavy storm coming up soon.”

  “But we’ve got our macs,” cried the twins in chorus. “We don’t mind getting a bit wet.”

  “It’s not that.” Jessica looked faintly worried. “It’s quite a stiff descent from here back home again, and if we spend the afternoon going to the tarn and back and it rains all the time, you know how greasy and difficult we shall find it coming down here again.”

  But the twins protested that it would be “all right,” that it wouldn’t rain for ages, that it was ridiculous to have come so far and not go down to the tarn. And, at the same time, out came the sun again, as though to prove Jessica overcautious, and she finally allowed herself to be overruled.

  The picnic things were repacked and, with Tom swinging the now much lighter basket, they began the descent to the tarn.

  They were halfway down when the rain began, but it only came in fitful gusts at first, and there were still rags of blue in a cloudy sky to seduce them into the hope that the rain would pass.

  By the time they reached the tarn, however, it was coming down in sheets, and the once blue and placid little tarn looked dark and ruffled and menacing.

  Not that this did not give it a certain sinister charm, and, in spite of the rain, they all three lingered for a short while in the partial shelter of some trees, responding with curious enjoyment to the wild, melancholy scene.

  Then Jessica insisted that they must make their way back, particularly as it was obvious that the ever-thickening clouds would mean an unusually early nightfall.

  Scrambling and slipping on the light, greasy mud of the path, they slowly began the ascent, while the rain poured down in that steady, pitiless way which characterises mountain districts. Even stout mackintoshes were hardly proof against it and. hot though they we
re from the upward struggle, they were also soaked and bedraggled by the time they reached the place where they had had their pleasant picnic.

  As they finally came over the brow of the hill, and out of the shelter of the valley, a great capricious gust of wind struck them and almost took their breath away.

  “Gosh, it’s going to be fierce getting home from here,” Tom said — but cheerfully, because stormy weather was no novelty to them.

  “It’s downhill, so it won’t be bad.” Judy declared. But Jessica, while keeping her misgivings to herself, thought there were few things more unpleasant than a steep descent in wind and rain, down a slippery path with stones half-hidden in the mud.

  At first the children made light of it, laughing a good deal at their attempts to keep their balance. But after a while the adventure began to assume more the character of a struggle than a joke, and they became more silent.

  The rain seemed to come at them from every direction at once, and the wind rose and fell with a capricious violence that forced them at one moment to press against it as though it were a concrete thing, and the next, to stagger at the sudden withdrawal of the opposition.

  “Have my hand, Judy,” said Jessica, suspecting that her little sister was beginning to feel scared.

  But Judy was anxious to demonstrate her independence, and she firmly shook her head and slithered on ahead, trying to keep up as good a show as Tom.

  There was one point where the path took a sharp curve, narrowed and overhung a bank so steep that it might almost be considered a precipice, and it was here that Jessica felt her heart come into her throat as she saw Judy slither, unaided but determined, in the wake of Tom.

  “Judy!” Anxiety sharpened her voice. “Keep further in, dear. Wait for me and I’ll give you a hand.”

  “I don’t want a hand,” cried Judy, defiant with weariness and fright. And she glanced back crossly at Jessica, at the same time as she took an uncertain step forward.

  In one second the child’s feet shot from under her.

  Jessica saw her clutch at nothing, heard her cry out, and, the next moment — like something seen in a nightmare — Judy disappeared over the edge of the cliff.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  JESSICA never quite forgot the horror of that moment when Judy’s red beret vanished from sight.

  She called wildly to Tom, who was tramping on ahead, unaware of the disaster behind him. And then, clinging to a wind-bent but stout little tree at the edge of the cliff, she leaned over as far as she could and looked down, dreading to think what she might see there.

  As Tom panted up behind her, demanding, “What’s hap-happened? Where’s Judy?” she made out her little sister, lying on a wide ledge, not really very far down the side of the cliff — but lying quite still.

  “Stay where you are,” she ordered Tom. “I’m going down.”

  And, because he was a sensible child who had been taught to obey, he just gave one gasp and said:

  “All right. But it’s not so steep further along the path. Try that, and then work your way back once you get further down.”

  Jessica saw the advice was good, and ran further down the path at a pace she would not have thought possible three minutes ago. Then, holding fast to bushes and shrubs, she lowered herself over the side of the cliff, and began the descent to the ledge where Judy lay.

  Once her foot slipped — and found nothing. And she hung by her hands for several throbbing seconds, while she felt desperately for a foothold where none seemed to be. Then her foot found some sort of resting place and. venturing her weight on it by frightened degrees, she found that it held, so that she was able to take the strain at last from her aching, trembling arms.

  And, all the while, silhouetted against the darkening sky, she could see the sturdy, comforting outline of Tom, faithfully standing guard — from which she derived an inordinate amount of courage and consolation.

  It seemed a long while — but in reality it could have been only a few minutes — before she reached the ledge, which proved to be narrower than it had looked from above, and with a sickening slope outwards towards further depths. Only the fact that she had caught against a tree stump had prevented Judy from rolling further.

  As Jessica bent over the child, Judy gave a faint whimper and began to show signs of returning consciousness. Divided between unnerving joy at finding her alive and fear that too much movement might precipitate them both further, Jessica took the little girl in her arms, and said over and over again:

  “You’re all right, darling. Don’t be frightened. You’re all right.”

  After a few moments, Judy returned to full consciousness with a start which brought Jessica’s heart into her mouth.

  “Careful, Judy. We’ve got to keep rather still for the moment,” she explained quickly, while she tried to imagine how on earth she was to get a frightened, and possibly injured child up a cliff which had been difficult enough to come down.

  At that moment, even Tom’s stoicism showed signs of cracking, and he shouted down anxiously:

  “Is she all right, Jess?”

  Jessica looked up at his good, devoted little figure, peering over at them both.

  “Yes, she’s alive and I think she’s all right,” she called back encouragingly.

  But Judy gave a sob and whispered dolefully.

  “I’m not all right. My leg’s twisted under me and I can’t move it.”

  “I’ll raise you, darling, and then you see what you can do.” Jessica said, and moved her cautiously.

  But, at the first real movement, Judy screamed and so obviously turned faint again, that Jessica realised, with a sinking heart, that it was real injury, rather than fright and shock, that had rendered the child helpless.

  Fortunately, she was used to making her own decisions — even hard ones — in a crisis, and she accepted the fact that, unaided, she could not possibly move Judy from the ledge. Equally, she could not leave the child there, frightened and soaked and with night coming on fast. That left only Tom on whom to rely and — not for the first time in her life — she thanked heaven that he was such a reliable child.

  “Tom,” she called, “listen to me carefully.”

  “Yes?” came back the answer, and, though anxiety had unsteadied his voice and even, she thought from the quaver, produced a few tears, she knew that he would do what she told him.

  “Judy’s hurt her leg and I can’t get her up alone, so I’ll have to stay with her. Leave all the baskets and things on the path, dear, and go down to the village as fast as you can. Don’t take any risks, Tom — but go as fast as you can with safety. Go to Mr. Skelton, and fetch the doctor too, if you can. But, anyway, tell them they’ll need ropes to bring up someone who’s injured.”

  “Yes. It’s all right. I know what to tell them.” Tom sounded more like himself again. “Is — is she much hurt, Jess?”

  “I’m all right,” piped Judy rather weakly. And Jessica reinforced that with a confidence she was far from feeling:

  “She’s not dangerously hurt. But the sooner we get her home and to bed, the better. Now, off you go.”

  “I shan’t be long,” cried Tom confidently. And his figure disappeared.

  There was a short silence after he had gone, and then Judy said, with rather patent anxiety:

  “How long do you think he will be, Jess?”

  “Oh, not very long.” Jessica sounded as though the whole experience were nothing very sensational. “He walks very fast, you know, and he may meet someone long before he gets to the village. Someone on a bicycle or in a car.”

  “He won’t do that till he gets to the main road,” objected Judy.

  “No. But he’ll soon be there,” Jessica insisted with more heartiness than she felt, particularly when she reflected how unlikely it was that any cyclist or motorist would be out on this stormy night for any reason but extreme necessity.

  Judy, however, seemed satisfied with her optimistic forecasts, because she sank into docile silence once
more.

  For a few moments, Jessica was thankful for the fact. Then she realised that the child was cold and over-quiet, and she guessed distractedly that she was beginning to suffer the after-affects of shock.

  And still the rain poured down relentlessly.

  In spite of Judy’s protests, Jessica managed to move them both into the tiny bit of shelter which the cliff afforded, and then, taking off her own raincoat, she put it round both of them, bundling Judy up close against her and trying to keep her warm.

  It was too dark now to see the time by her watch, and, in any case, she had forgotten to look at the time when Tom had gone. She could only guess at the distance he might have covered, and the consequent length of time which they still had to wait before help might come.

  Meanwhile, all she could do was try not to shiver too violently under the onslaught of wind and rain, and try to reassure Judy from time to time that she was quite warm without her raincoat and that help would soon come.

  After a while, Judy drifted off into something between uneasy sleep and semi-consciousness. And presently Jessica too seemed at any rate to lose much consciousness of the passage of time. She was only aware of a deadly ever-present sense of anxiety, and a degree of physical discomfort beyond anything she had ever imagined.

  “But at least I’m not cold any more,” she muttered to herself once. And then she wondered if the burning, unnatural heat which seemed to oppress her were not even more unbearable than the cruel told. Her weary, numbed brain was still struggling with this question — which seemed to have assumed a ridiculous degree of importance — when she was aware of a voice overhead, calling her name, and some inexplicable, blinding light blazed with what seemed unnecessary cruelty into her dazzled eyes as she looked up.

  “Jessica —” and, incredibly, it was Ford Onderley’s voice which recalled her to full consciousness. “Jessica, answer me! Are you still down there?” And she realised that the light came from a powerful torch, with which he was raking the side of the cliff.

  “Yes, we’re down here,” she called hoarsely. And then, most unreasonably, “Put out that light.”