The squirrel and the squirrel only. There was not even a sound now.
Vane could see the basket he had brought and the two pieces of the
strong ash stick which he had broken over the fight with the second boy.
The ground was trampled and the leaves kicked up, but no enemy was
near, and he naturally began to investigate his damages.
"They haven't killed me--not quite," he said, half-aloud, as he winced
in passing his hand over his left shoulder and breast; and then his eyes
half-closed, a deathly feeling of sickness came over him and he nearly
fainted with horror, for at the touch of his hand a severe pain shot
through his shoulder, and he could feel that his breast and armpit was
soaking wet.
Recovering from the shock of the horrible feeling he took out his
handkerchief to act as a bandage, for he felt that he must be bleeding
freely from one of the blows, and he knew enough from his uncle's books
about injured arteries to make him set his teeth and determine to try
and stop that before he attempted to get to his feet and start for home.
His first effort was to unbutton his Norfolk jacket and find the injury
which he felt sure must be a cut across the shoulder, but at the first
touch of his hand he winced again, and the sick feeling came back with a
faint sensation of horror, for there was a horrible grating sound which
told of crushed bone and two edges grinding one upon the other.
Again he mastered his weakness and boldly thrust his hand into his
breast, withdrew it, and burst out into a wild hysterical laugh as he
gave a casual glance at his hand before passing it cautiously into his
left breast-pocket and bringing out, bit by bit, the fragments of the
bottle of preparation which the doctor had dispensed, and that it had
been his mission to deliver that afternoon. For in the heat of the
struggle, a blow of one of the sticks had crushed the bottle, saturating
his breast and side with the medicament, and suggesting to his excited
brain a horrible bleeding wound and broken bones.
"Oh, dear!" he groaned; and he laughed again, "how easy it is to deceive
oneself;" and he busied himself, as he spoke, in picking out the remains
of the bottle, and finally turned his pocket inside out and shook it
clear.
"Don't smell very nice," he said with a sigh; "but I hope it's good for
bruises. Well, it's of no use for me to go on now, so I may as well get
back."
He was kneeling now and feeling his arms and shoulders again, and then
he cautiously touched his face and head. But there was no pain, no
trace of injury in that direction, and he began softly passing his hands
up and down his arms, and over his shoulders, wincing with agony at
every touch, and feeling that he must get on at once if he meant to
reach home, for a terrible stiffness was creeping over him, and when at
last he rose to his feet, he had to support himself by the nearest tree,
for his legs were bruised from hip to ankle, and refused to support his
weight.
"It is of no good," he said at last, after several efforts to go on, all
of which brought on a sensation of faintness. "I can't walk; what shall
I do?"
He took a step or two, so as to be quite clear of the broken bottle, and
then slowly lowered himself down upon the thick bed of beech-mast and
leaves, when the change to a recumbent position eased some of his
sufferings, and enabled him to think more clearly. And one of the
results of this was a feeling of certainty that it would be impossible
for him to walk home.
Then he glanced round, wondering whether his assailants had gone right
away or were only watching prior to coming back to finish their work.
"I don't know what it means," he said, dolefully. "I can't see why they
should attack me like this. I never did them any harm. It must be for
the sake of money, and they'll come back when I'm asleep."
Vane ground his teeth, partly from rage, partly from pain, as he thrust
his hand into his pocket, took out all the money he had, and then after
looking carefully round, he raised the trowel, scraped away the leaves,
dug a little hole and put in the coins, then covered them up again,
spreading the leaves as naturally as possible, and mentally making marks
on certain trees so as to remember the spot.
At the same time he was haunted by the feeling that his every act was
being watched, and that the coins would be found.
"Never mind," he muttered, "they must find them," and he lay back once
more to think about getting home, and whether he could manage the task
after a rest, but he grew more and more certain that he could not, for
minute by minute he grew cooler, and in consequence his joints and
muscles stiffened, so that at last he felt as if he dared not stir.
He lay quite still for a while, half-stunned mentally by his position,
and glad to feel that he was not called upon to act in any way for the
time being, all of which feeling was of course the result of the
tremendous exertion through which he had passed, and the physical
weakness and shock caused by the blows.
It was a soft, deliciously warm evening, and it was restful to lie
there, gazing through the trees at the glowing west, which was by slow
degrees paling. The time had gone rapidly by during the last two hours
or so, and it suddenly occurred to him in a dull, hazy way that the
evening meal, a kind of high tea, would be about ready now at the little
manor; that Aunt Hannah would be getting up from her work to look out of
the window and see if he was coming; and that after his afternoon in the
garden, the doctor would have been up to his bedroom and just come down
ready to take his seat at the snug, comfortable board.
"And they are waiting for me," thought Vane.
The idea seemed more to amuse than trouble him in his half-stupefied
state, for everything was unreal and dreamy. He could not fully realise
that he was lying there battered and bruised, but found himself thinking
as of some one else in whose troubles he took an interest.
It was a curious condition of mind to be in, and, if asked, he could not
have explained why he felt no anxiety nor wonder whether, after waiting
tea for a long time, the doctor would send to meet him, and later on
despatch a messenger to the village, where no news would be forthcoming.
Perhaps his uncle and aunt would be anxious and would send people in
search of him, and if these people were sent they would come along the
deep lane and over the moorland piece, thinking that perhaps he would
have gone that way for a short cut.
Perhaps. It all seemed to be perhaps, in a dull, misty way, and it was
much more pleasant to lie listening to the partridges calling out on the
moor--that curiously harsh cry, answered by others at a distance, and
watch the sky growing gradually grey, and the clouds in the west change
from gold to crimson, then to purple, and then turn inky black, while
now from somewhere not far away he heard the flapping of wings and a
hoarse, crocketing sound which puzzled him for the moment, but as it was
repeated here and there, he knew it was the pheasants which haunted that
part of the forest, flying up to their roosts for the night, to be safe
from prowling animals--four-legged, or biped who walked the woods by
night armed with guns.
For it did not matter; nothing mattered now. He was tired; and then all
was blank.
Sleep or stupor, one or the other. Vane had been insensible for hours
when he woke up with a start to find that lie was aching and that his
head burned. He was puzzled for a few minutes before he could grasp his
position. Then all he had passed through came, and he lay wondering
whether any search had been made.
But still that did not trouble him. He wanted to lie still and listen
to the sounds in the wood, and to watch the bright points of light just
out through the narrow opening where he had seen the broad red face of
the sun dip down, lower and lower out of sight. The intense darkness,
too, beneath the beeches was pleasant and restful, and though there were
no partridges calling now, there were plenty of sounds to lie and listen
to, and wonder what they could be.
At another time he would have felt startled to find himself alone out
there in the darkness, but in his strangely dulled state now every
feeling of alarm was absent, and a sensation akin to curiosity filled
his brain. Even the two gipsy lads were forgotten. He had once fancied
that they might return, but he had had reasoning power enough left to
argue that they would have come upon him long enough before, and to feel
that he must have beaten them completely,--frightened them away.
And as he lay he awoke to the fact that all was not still in that black
darkness, for there was a world of active, busy life at work. Now there
came, like a whispering undertone, a faint clicking noise as the leaves
moved. There were tiny feet passing over him; beetles of some kind that
shunned the light; wood-lice and pill millipedes, hurrying here and
there in search of food; and though Vane could not see them he knew that
they were there.
Again there was the soft rustling movement of a leaf, and then of
another a short distance away on the other side of his head. And Vane
smiled as he lay there on his back staring up at the overhanging boughs
through which now and then he could catch sight of a fine bright ray.
For he knew that sound well enough. It was made by great earth worms
which reached out of their holes in the cool, moist darkness, feeling
about for a soft leaf which they could seize with their round looking
mouths, hold tightly, and draw back after them into the hole from which
their tails had not stirred.
Vane lay listening to this till he was tired, and then waited for some
other sound of the night.
It was not long in coming--a low, soft, booming buzz of some beetle,
which sailed here and there, now close by, now so distant that its hum
was almost inaudible, but soon came nearer again till it was right over
his head, when there was a dull flip, then a tap on the dry beech-mast.
"Cockchafer," said Vane softly, and he knew that it had blundered up
against some twig and fallen to earth, where, though he could not see
it, he knew that it was lying upon its back sprawling about with its
awkward-looking legs, vainly trying to get on to them again and start
upon another flight.
Once more there was silence, broken only by a faint, fine hum of a gnat,
and the curious wet crackling or rustling sound which rose from the
leaves.
Then Vane smiled, for in the distance there was a resonant, "Hoi, hoi,"
such as might have been made by people come in search of him. But he
knew better, as the shout rose up, and nearer and nearer still at
intervals, for it was an owl sailing along on its soft, silent pinions,
the cry being probably to startle a bird from its roost or some
unfortunate young bird or mouse into betraying its whereabouts, so that
a feathered leg might suddenly be darted down to seize, with four keen
claws all pointing to one centre, and holding with such a powerful grip
that escape was impossible.
The owl passed through the dark shadowy aisles, and its cry was heard
farther and farther away till it died out; but there was no sense of
loneliness in the beech-wood. There was always something astir.
Now it was a light tripping sound of feet over the dead leaves, the
steps striking loudly on the listener's ear. Then they ceased, as if
the animal which made the sounds were cautious and listening for danger.
Again trip, trip, trip, plainly heard and coming nearer, and from
half-a-dozen quarters now the same tripping sounds, followed by pause
after pause, and then the continuation as if the animals were coming
from a distance to meet at some central spot.
_Rap_!
A quick, sharp blow of a foot on the ground, followed by a wild, tearing
rush of rabbits among the trees, off and away to their burrows, not one
stopping till its cotton-wool-like tail had followed its owner into some
sandy hole.
Another pause with the soft petillation of endless life amongst the dead
leaves, and then from outside the forest, down by the sphagnum margined
pools, where the cotton-rushes grew and the frogs led a cool, soft
splashing life, there came a deep-toned bellowing roar, rising and
falling with a curious ventriloquial effect as if some large animal had
lost its way, become bogged, and in its agony was calling upon its owner
for rescue.
No large quadruped, only a brown-ruffed, long necked, sharp-billed
bittern, the now rare marsh bird which used to haunt the watery
solitudes with the heron, but save here and there driven away by
drainage and the naturalist's gun.
And as Vane lay and listened, wondering whether the bird uttered its
strange, bellowing song from down by a pool, or as it sailed round and
round, and higher and higher, over the boggy mere, he recalled the
stories Chakes had told him of the days when "bootherboomps weer as
plentiful in the mash as wild ducks in winter." And then he tried to
fit the bird's weird bellowing roar with the local rustic name--"boomp
boomp--boother boomp!" but it turned out a failure, and he lay listening
to the bird's cry till it grew fainter and less hoarse. Then fainter
still, and at last all was silent, for Vane had sunk once more into a
half-insensible state, it could hardly be called sleep, from which he
was roused by the singing of birds and the dull, chattering wheezing
chorus kept up by a great flock of starlings, high up in the beech tops.
The feverish feeling which had kept him from being cold had now passed
off, and he lay there chilled to the bone, aching terribly and
half-puzzled at finding himself in so strange a place. But by degrees
he recalled everything, and feeling that unless he made some effort to
crawl out of the beech-wood he might lie there for many hours, perhaps
days, he tried to turn over so as to get upon his knees and then rise to
his feet.
He was not long in finding that the latter was an impossibility, for at
the slightest movement the pain was intense, and he lay still once more.
But it was terribly cold; he was horribly thirsty, and fifty yards away
the beech trees ended and the sun was shining hotly on the chalky bank,
while just below there was clear water ready for scooping up with his
hand to moisten his cracked lips. In addition, there were blackberries
or, if not, dew-berries which he might reach. Only a poor apology for
breakfast, but delicious now if he could only get some between his lips.
He tried again, then again, each time the pain turning him sick; but
there was a great anxiety upon him now. His thoughts were no longer
dull and strained in a selfish stupor; he was awake, fully awake, and in
mental as well as bodily agony. For his thoughts were upon those at the
little manor, and he knew that they must have passed a sleepless night
on his account, and he knew, too, that in all probability his uncle had
been out with others searching for him, certain that some evil must have
befallen or he would have returned.
It was a terrible wrench, and he felt as if his muscles were being torn;
but with teeth set, he struggled till he was upon hands and knees, and
then made his first attempt to crawl, if only for a foot or two.
At last, after shrinking again and again, he made the effort, and the
start made, he persevered, though all the time there was a singing in
his ears, the dead leaves and blackened beech-mast seemed to heave and
fall like the surface of the sea, and a racking agony tortured his
limbs. But he kept on foot by foot, yard by yard, with many halts and a
terrible drag upon his mental powers before he could force himself to
recommence. How long that little journey of fifty or sixty yards took
he could not tell; all he knew was that he must get out of the forest
and into the sunshine, where he might be seen by those who came in
search of him; and there was water there--the pure clear water which
would be so grateful to his parched lips and dry, husky throat.
The feeling of chill was soon gone, for his efforts produced a burning
pain in every muscle, but in a dim way he knew that he was getting
nearer the edge, for it was lighter, and a faint splashing sound and the
beating of wings told of wild-fowl close at hand in that clear water.
On then again so slowly, but foot by foot, till the last of the huge
pillar-like trunks which had seemed to bar his way was passed, and he
slipped down a chalky bank to lie within sight of the water but unable
to reach it, utterly spent, when he heard a familiar voice give the
Australian call--"Coo-ee!" and he tried to raise a hand but it fell
back.
Directly after a voice cried:
"Hi! Here he is!"
The voice was Distin's, and as he heard it Vane fainted dead away.