"Jeff," said Percy, after a minute or two, "it's nonsense your staying
here to get frozen; do go on."
"No, old fellow; I prefer your company to my own."
"But, Jeff, we may not last out till the morning."
"We won't give it up yet, though." Jeffreys had great faith in the
caloric of hope, especially for a boy of Percy's temperament. For
himself he saw enough to guess that their position was a desperate one.
The ledge on which they sat was narrow and slanting, and the wind,
shifting gradually to the west, began to get round them menacingly, and
cause them now and then to grip at the stones while some specially
furious gust blew past. Add to that, Percy's arm was probably broken,
and, despite a makeshift bandage and sling, adjusted at imminent peril
of being swept away in the operation, increasingly painful. The mist
wrapped them like a winding-sheet, and froze as it fell.
"How long will Julius take getting down?" asked the boy.
"Not long," said Jeffreys, with a shudder, not wholly caused by the
cold.
"An hour? He could bring them up in three hours, couldn't he?"
"Less, perhaps. We can hold out for three hours."
"Jeff, old fellow, do go; what _is_ the use of you staying?"
"Harder work for the wind to lift two of us than one. It can't last
long, I'm certain; it's chopping already."
They relapsed into silence, and listened to the storm as it dashed on
the cliffs above them.
A quarter of an hour passed. Then Jeffreys felt the boy's head drop on
his shoulder.
"Percy, old man, no sleeping," said he, raising his head.
"I'm not sleeping; only wondering where Julius is."
But his voice was drowsy, and the words drawled out slowly and dreamily.
"Perhaps he's down the lower zigzag now," said Jeffreys, giving his
companion a shake, under pretext of readjusting the wraps.
"I guess he'll go to Raby first," said Percy. "Won't she be scared?"
"She will probably go to your father, and he'll get Appleby and Kennedy
and some of the men, and they'll--Percy! hold up your head!"
"Scarfe would like to get engaged to Raby, but she would sooner--"
"Percy, old man, you're talking rubbish. Unless you sit up and keep
awake we shall both come to grief."
"I'll try," said the boy, "but I don't know how."
"Tell me something about your year at Rugby. I want to hear about it so
much. What form were you in?"
Then followed a desperate half-hour of cross-examination, Jeffreys
coming down with a question at the slightest symptom of drowsiness, and
Percy, with all the cunning of a "somno-maniac," taking time to think
before each answer, and even shirking a syllable here or there in order
to snatch a wink.
The daylight slowly faded out of the mist, but still the wind howled and
shook them on their narrow perch at every gust. Jeffreys, with dismay,
found his limbs growing cramped and stiff, boding ill, unless relief
soon came, for the possibility of moving at all.
Surely, though, the wind was abating. The dash overhead sounded a
trifle less deafening; and the driving sleet, which an hour ago had
struck on their faces, now froze their ears.
Yes, the wind was shifting and falling.
In the half-minute which it took Jeffreys to make this discovery Percy
had once more fallen asleep, and it required a shake more prolonged than
ever to arouse him.
"What!" said he, as he slowly raised his head, "are they here? Is
father there?"
"No, old boy, but the wind is going down, and we may be able to move
soon. Where did you field in that cricket match you were telling me
of?"
"Short leg, and I made two catches."
"Bravo! Were they hard ones? Tell me."
So for another half-hour this struggle with sleep went on. Jeffreys had
more to do than keep his companion awake. He accompanied every question
with a change of position of his knees and arms, that he might be able
when the time came to use his limbs. It was little enough scope he had
for any movement on that narrow ledge, but he lost no chance, and his
self-imposed fidgets helped not only himself but Percy.
At last the roar on the cliffs changed into a surly soughing, and the
gusts edged slowly but surely round behind the great buttress of the
mountain.
"Percy," said Jeffreys, "we must try a move. Can you hold yourself
steady while I try to get up?"
Percy was wide awake in an instant.
"I can hold on, but my other arm is no good for scrambling."
"I'll see to that, only hold on while I get up."
It was a long and painful operation; every joint and muscle seemed to be
congealed. At length, however, by dint of a terrible effort, he managed
to draw up his feet and even to stand on the path. He kicked up the
earth so as to make a firm foothold, and then addressed himself to the
still more difficult task of raising the stiff and crippled Percy.
How he did it, and how he half dragged, half carried him back along the
ledge to the firmer ground of the upper zigzag path, he never knew. He
always counted it as one of the miracles of his life, the work of that
stronger than human arm which had already helped him along his path, and
which in this act showed that it still was with him. To stand even on
that steep mountain path was, after the peril of that fearful ledge,
like standing on a broad paved road.
"Where next?" said Percy.
"Over the top and down by the Sharpenholme track. Do you see the moon
is coming out through the mist?"
"All serene!"
The heroism of that night's adventure was not all absorbed by the elder
traveller. The boy who with indomitable hopefulness toiled up that
steep ascent with a broken arm bandaged to his side, making nothing of
his pain, was a type of English boy happily still to be met with, giving
promise of men of the right stuff yet to come to maintain the good name
of their country.
They were not much in the humour for admiring the wonderful beauty of
the scene as the mist gradually cleared and above them rose the full
white moon flooding the mountain and the hills beyond with its pure
light. They welcomed the light, for it showed them the way; but they
would have sold the view twenty times over for a pot of hot coffee.
At the top they met the tail end of the gale spending its little
remaining force on the mountain's back. It seemed like a balmy zephyr
compared with the tempest of a few hours ago.
The descent down the broad grass track with its slight covering of snow
towards Sharpenholme had little difficulty; but the jolting tried
Percy's arm as the steep climb with all its exertion had not done.
Jeffreys noticed the boy's steps become more unsteady, and felt him lean
with increasing heaviness on his arm.
"Percy, old boy, you are done up."
"No--I--Suppose we rest a minute or two; I shall be all right."
But while he spoke he staggered faintly and would have fallen but for
Jeffreys' arm in his.
"I think if you went on," said he, "I could rest a bit and follow
slowly."
Jeffreys' answer was curt and decisive.
He took the boy up in his arms as if he had been a baby, and, despite
all protestations, carried him.
On level ground and under ordinary circumstances it would have been a
simple matter. For Jeffreys was brawny and powerful; and the light
weight of the slender, wiry boy was nothing to him. But on that
slippery mountain-side, after the fatigue and peril of the afternoon, it
was as much as he could do to stagger forward under the burden.
Yet--was it quite unnatural?--a strange sort of happiness seemed to take
possession of him as he felt this helpless boy's form in his arms, the
head drooped on his shoulder, and the poor bruised arm tenderly
supported in his hand. There seemed hope in the burden; and in that
brotherly service a promise of expiation for another still more sacred
service which had been denied him! He tramped down that long gradual
slope in a contented dream, halting often to rest, but never losing
heart. Percy, too exhausted to remonstrate, yielded himself gratefully,
and lay only half conscious in his protector's arms, often fancying
himself at home in bed or lolling idly in the summer fields.
It may have been midnight, or later still, when Jeffreys, looking beyond
the shadows projected by the moon in front of him, perceived a gleam of
light far down in the valley.
"Probably," thought he, "some honest shepherd, after his day's work, is
happily going to rest. Think of a bed, and a pillow, and a blanket!"
But no, the light--the lights, there were two--were moving--moving
rapidly and evenly.
Jeffreys stood still to listen. The wind had long since dropped into
rest, and the clear night air would have carried a sound twice the
distance. Yes, it was a cart or a carriage, and he could even detect
the clatter of the horses on the hard road. Possibly some benighted
wagoner, or a mail cart.
He raised a shout which scared the sleeping rabbits in their holes and
made the hill across the valley wake with echoes. The lights still
moved on. He set Percy down tenderly on the grass with his coat beneath
him. Then, running with all his speed, he halved the distance which
separated him and the road, and shouted again.
This time the clatter of the hoofs stopped abruptly and the lights stood
still.
Once more he shouted, till the night rang with echoes. Then, joyful
sound! there rose from the valley an answering call, and he knew all was
safe.
In a few minutes he was back again where Percy, once more awake, was
sitting up, bewildered, and listening to the echoes which his repeated
shouts still kept waking.
"It's all right, old fellow; there's a carriage."
"They've come to look for us. I can walk, Jeff, really."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, and they'd be so scared if they saw me being carried."
So they started forward, the answering shouts coming nearer and nearer
at every step.
"That's Appleby," said Percy, as a particularly loud whoop fell on their
ears. It was, and with him Mr Rimbolt and Scarfe.
When darkness came, and no signs of the pedestrians, the usual
uneasiness had prevailed at Wildtree, increased considerably by Walker's
and Raby's report as to the mountaineering garb in which the missing
ones had started. The terrible tempest which had attacked the face of
Wild Pike had swept over Wildtree too, and added a hundredfold to the
alarm which, as hour passed hour, their absence caused. Scarfe,
arriving at home about ten o'clock, found the whole family in a state of
panic. Mr Rimbolt had been out on the lower slopes of the mountain,
and reported that a storm raged there before which nothing could stand.
The only hope was that they had been descending the back of the
mountain, and taken refuge somewhere in the valley for the night. The
carriage was ordered out, and Mr Rimbolt and Scarfe started on what
seemed a forlorn hope. For an hour or two they passed and repassed the
valley road, inquiring at every cottage and farm without result.
At last, just as they were resolving to give it up for the night,
Appleby pulled up the horses suddenly, and said he had heard a shout.
Instantly they jumped out and shouted back; and now, following the
direction of the voice, far up the great slope, they _met_ Jeffreys,
with the boy leaning on his arm safe, but almost exhausted.
Neither of them retained a vivid recollection of that drive home.
Jeffreys was vaguely conscious of them calling on the way for the
doctor, and taking him along in the carriage. He also heard Scarfe say
something to Mr Rimbolt in tones of commiseration, in which something
was added about the inconsiderateness and untrustworthiness of Jeffreys.
But for the rest he reclined back in his seat, scarcely conscious of
anything but the rest and warmth.
At Wildtree, the now familiar scene of the whole household gathered
panic-struck an the threshold drove him precipitately to his room. He
knew what to expect if he stayed there.
Jeffreys dropped asleep with the dog's howl ringing weirdly in his ears.
In his dreams it seemed to change into that still more terrible howl
which had stunned him long ago on the Bolsover meadow. It followed him
as he carried young Forrester in his arms across that fatal ledge. It
was pitch dark; and on the ledge Scarfe stood to drive him back. Then
suddenly a new bright path seemed to open at his side, into which he
stepped with his precious burden. And as he did so he saw, far off,
Raby standing at the end of the way.
It was ten o'clock when he awoke; but the house was still asleep. Only
a few servants were stirring; and even Walker had taken advantage of the
occasion to "sleep in."
Jeffreys was tough and hardy; and the night's rest had done more for him
than twenty doctors. He got up, shook himself, and behold his limbs
were strong under him, and his head was clear and cool. He dressed
himself quietly and descended to the kitchen, where he begged an early
breakfast of the servants. Then he sallied forth with his stick towards
Wild Pike.
The grand pile on this bright winter's morning looked almost
hypocritically serene and benignant. The sunlight bathed the stern
cliff which yesterday had buffeted back the wind with a roar as fierce
as itself; and in the quiet spring-like air the peaceful bleating of
sheep was the only sound to be heard on the steep mountain-side.
But Jeffreys did not turn his steps upward. On the contrary, he kept to
the lowest track in the valley, and took the path which led him nearest
to the base of that terrible wall of rock. A hard scramble over the
fallen stones brought him to a spot where, looking up, the top of the
wall frowned down on him from a sheer height of five hundred feet, while
half-way down, like a narrow scratch along the face of the cliff, he
could just detect the ledge on which last night they had sat out the
storm.
There, among the stones, shattered and cold, lay all that remained of
the brave Julius. His fate must have overtaken him before he had gone
twenty yards on his desperate errand, and almost before that final howl
reached his master's ears all must have been over.
Jeffreys, as he tenderly lifted his lost friend in his arms, thought
bitterly and reproachfully of the dog's strange conduct yesterday--his
evident depression and forebodings of evil--the result, no doubt, of
illness, but making that last act of self-devotion all the more heroic.
He made a grave there at the base of that grand cliff, and piled up a
little cairn to mark the last resting-place of his friend. Then, truly
a mourner, he returned slowly to Wildtree.
At the door he encountered Mrs Rimbolt, who glared at him and swept
past.
"How is Percy this morning?" he inquired.
"No thanks to you, Mr Jeffreys," said the lady, with a double venom in
her tones, "he is alive."
"His arm, is it--?"
"Go to your work, sir," said the lady; "I have no wish to speak to you."
Jeffreys bowed and retreated. He had expected such a reception, and
just now it neither dismayed nor concerned him.
On the staircase he met Raby. She looked pale and anxious, but
brightened up as she saw him.
"Mr Jeffreys," said she, "are you really up, and none the worse?"
"I am well, thank you," said he, "but very anxious to hear about Percy."
"He has had a bad night with his arm, but the doctor says he is going on
all right. What a terrible adventure you had. Percy told me a little
of it. Oh, Mr Jeffreys, it is all my fault!"
Jeffreys could not help smiling.
"By what stretch of ingenuity do you make that out?"
"It was I suggested your coaxing Percy out, you know; I might have been
the death of you both."
"You did not send the wind, did you, or the mist? If you did, of course
you are quite entitled to all the credit."
"Don't laugh about it, please. Percy was telling me how if it had not
been for you--"
"He would never have been in any danger. Perhaps he is right. By the
way. Miss Atherton, is there any chance of seeing him?"
"He has asked for you already; but auntie, I believe, would have a fit
if you went near him. She seems to consider you are his evil genius;
instead of being just the opposite. Tell me how Julius is--he went with
you, did he not?"
"I have been out this morning to bury Julius at the place where he
fell."
Raby, already unduly excited by the events of the past few days, broke
into tears, and at the same moment Scarfe, descending the stairs, stood
before them.
He looked first at Jeffreys, next at the girl. Then, taking her arm, he
said--
"What is the matter? May I take you downstairs?"
"Oh no," she cried, pushing away his hand, and dashing the tears from
her eyes.
"Mr Jeffreys, I am so sorry, do forgive me!" and she ran upstairs to
her own room.
Jeffreys and Scarfe stood facing one another.
"What is the meaning of this?" said the latter wrathfully.
"It would not interest you. I was telling Miss Atherton about my dog."
"Hang your dog! Did not I tell you that I did not choose for you to
obtrude yourself on Raby?"
"You did, and I should be sorry to obtrude myself on any one, whether
you choose it or not."
"You appear to forget, Cad Jeffreys--"
"I forget nothing--not even that I am keeping you from your breakfast."
And he quitted the scene.
Later in the morning, as he was working in the library, Mr Rimbolt
entered and greeted him cordially.
"Jeffreys, my dear fellow, you are constantly adding new claims on my
gratitude. What can I say to you now to thank you for your heroism
yesterday, about which Percy has just told us?"
"Pray say nothing, and discount Percy's story heavily, for he was the
hero. With his broken arm and in all the danger he never lost heart for
a moment."
"Yes, he is a brave boy, too. But I came now to tell you he is asking
for you. Will you come and see him?"
Jeffreys followed the father gratefully to the sick-chamber. At the
door he encountered Mrs Rimbolt, who, having evidently been present at
the boy's narrative, was pleased to regard him almost graciously, and,
delightfully ignoring the previous encounter, to wish him good morning.
Percy looked hot and feverish, but brightened up at once as he caught
sight of his protector.
"Hullo, old Jeff," said he, "isn't this all nonsense? They say I'm in
for a mild congestion, and shall have to stick in bed for a fortnight.
Just sit down; do you mind, and stay with me. You've pulled me through
so far; you may as well finish the job."
Thus informally, and without consulting anybody, Jeffreys was
constituted nurse-in-chief in the sick-chamber. The boy would tolerate
no discussion or protest on the part of the authorities. He must have
old Jeff. Bother a hospital nurse, bother the doctor, bother Scarfe,
bother everybody. He wanted Jeff; and if Jeff couldn't come he didn't
mean to take his medicine or do anything he ought to do. Walker had
better put up a chair-bed in the dressing-room for Jeff, and Jeff and he
(Percy) could have their grub together. Of course all the others could
come and see him, especially Raby--but he meant to have Jeff there for
good, and that was flat. Thus this selfish young invalid arranged for
his own pleasure, and upset all the sober arrangements of his friends.
Jeffreys delightedly accepted his new duty, and faced the jealousy of
Mrs Rimbolt and Scarfe unflinchingly. It was certainly an unfortunate
position for the fond mother; and little wonder if in her mind Jeffreys'
brave service should be blotted out in the offence of being preferred
before herself in the sick-chamber. She readily lent an ear to the
insinuations which Scarfe, also bitterly hurt, freely let out, and
persuaded herself miserably that her boy was in the hands of an
adventurer who had cajoled not only the boy but the father, and in short
personated the proverbial viper at the fireside.
So the fortnight passed. Percy turned the corner; and the time for the
departure of Mrs Scarfe and her son drew near.
Percy on the evening before they went had been less bright than usual,
and had alarmed Jeffreys by a slight return of feverishness. He had
just dropped off to sleep, and seemed about to settle quietly for the
night, when the door opened and Scarfe came in.
Jeffreys was there in an instant with his hand raised in warning.
"Hush, please," said he, "he has just gone over."
"Whom are you telling to hush? you canting brute!" said Scarfe, raising
his voice in a passion unusual for him. "Let me come in, do you hear?"
And he moved forward, as if to force his way into the room.
Jeffreys caught him by the two elbows and lifted him bodily out into the
landing, and then stood with his back to the door.
Scarfe, livid with rage, made no attempt to get back into the room.
Turning on his adversary, he said between his teeth--
"I shall remember this," and departed.