JOCK too cried "Oh!"—a very startled "Oh!" He was sorely frightened.
"Aunt Judith," he called. "Aunt Judith, are you hurt? Please tell me."
No answer came. In the dim light, Jock could just make out a motionless
form on the ground. The whole place was quite still, not a sound to be
heard, except one or two little "chirps" from a sleepy bird.
Jock felt dreadfully alone and afraid. But he was a plucky little
fellow; and he knew at once that there was only one thing to be done,
and that was to get down as soon as possible.
So, though he was shaking all over, he went down, step by step, holding
firmly to small bushes at the side, sometimes slipping and sliding, yet
each time recovering himself. And at last, he arrived at the spot where
Aunt Judith lay—her face quite white, her eyes closed, one arm flung
out, and the other doubled beneath her.
Jock came close, trembling. He was very much upset, and no wonder. It
was enough to frighten a little fellow only eight years old. To see
poor Aunt Judith lying there, still and silent, was awful. Perhaps she
was dead. This thought gripped him. What if the fall had killed her?
And, oh, what was he to do?
He knew what he wanted to do. He wanted, most desperately, to rush
away, right off, wildly on and on till he could find somebody—just
somebody to take care of him and of poor Aunt Judith. He wanted,
desperately, to get out of this dark little valley, with its tall
silent trees standing up in a solemn fringe round the upper edges, and
the rugged path down which he had clambered, right away from the dismal
loneliness and silence, away from the terrified thumping of his own
heart.
If he rushed on along the path, through the Combe, and out on the
farther side, he would come to a high road, where it would not be
nearly so dark, and then he might run fast—oh, ever so fast!—till he
came to somebody, or to the next village. Plenty of people there.
That was what he craved, more than words can say. He simply could not
stay here—he could not. He had to find somebody; it must, must, be
done. Under this overwhelming impulse, Jock started off and ran as hard
as his shaking knees would carry him along the path—but only for a
little way. He went more slowly—and then he stopped.
It was the thought of leaving Aunt Judith all alone which stayed those
eager feet. If she was not killed—if she was only hurt—how could he
leave her thus by herself in the dismal little Combe, with no one to
help her, no one to say a word? Could he do it? Would Dad like him to
do it?
Slowly he turned and came back, and stood as before gazing on the white
face.
"Aunt Judith," he said imploringly. "Oh, Aunt Judith, do speak—please,
please, do speak."
"Is that Jock?" a faint voice asked, and he saw that her eyes were
open. "Jock, what has happened?"
"You tumbled down—all the way down. Do please get up."
Aunt Judith's right hand made a slow groping movement in his direction.
"Here, dear, come close. Are you frightened? Poor little boy. I can't
think how I could do—such a silly thing."
Jock crept closer, and the touch of her hand did him good, though it
was a very cold touch. Her fingers were like ice. But it took away the
feeling of being all alone, so far from everybody.
"Don't mind, dear," she said at the sound of a sob. "I shall be better
soon. We must—wait. Don't be frightened—if I-I feel rather like—it's
only—faintness—"
Her voice trailed weakly off, and she again lay with closed eyes. But
at least she was not killed. And Jock had more than once seen his
mother faint away and come to again, so he was less alarmed than he
might have been. If only the place were not quite so dark and forsaken!
He remembered how Jane used to bring the bottle of smelling-salts to
his mother. But he had no smelling-salts here. There was nothing to be
done but to wait, and waiting is often harder than doing.
Crouching down close to Aunt Judith, he tried hard to be brave. He
did wonder what was to happen, and how she was ever to get home. If
she could not walk, would he have to spend the whole night with her
here? Jock's heart went down into his shoes at the thought. It was so
terribly still; no sound broke the silence, except a faint rustle of
leaves as the breeze crept past.
Then came another sound, a distant soft murmur of church bells,
drifting thither from a village not far off. Had the wind set the other
way, Jock could not have heard that gentle murmur. And the village
bell-ringers, going through their weekly practice, never dreamt of the
comfort which they were sending to a forlorn little boy in the Combe.
Somehow, those sweet sounds took Jock back in a moment to his home,
and he was with his mother again. He heard once more her soft voice,
whispering to him about that "Best Friend" Who would always, always, be
with him, ready to help.
Jock gazed wonderingly around. Was that "Best Friend" really there,
down in the Combe with him and Aunt Judith in their trouble? The very
thought of that wonderful Presence brought comfort. He tried to say a
little prayer, and all he could manage was—
"Please—O please—"
But it meant everything.
"Jock, have I fainted again? This won't do. We must think—If I could
get up—"
"Mayn't I help you?"
"No—wait—I can't bear a touch. My arm—" She made a slight effort
to change her position, but stopped instantly. "I—can't—" Then,
faintly—"You must not stay here. Could you find your way—and
ask—help—?" The voice died away.
Then, suddenly, a shout came from above. "Hallo. Anything wrong down
there?"
Jock knew the voice and a wild rush of joy and relief thrilled through
him. "Oh, please come," he cried. "Please do! Aunt Judith has had a
tumble."
"All right. I'm coming."
Captain Royle made nothing of the steep path. He descended at a
swinging pace, as easily as if it had been a level road. In a trice he
was bending over the prostrate figure, while Jock poured out the tale
of their misfortunes. Aunt Judith, coming to again, let him tell it his
own way, but added—"And Jock has stayed with me all the time. He would
not leave me."
Captain Royle turned his torch on Jock, and gave him the brightest
smile the boy had ever seen. "Shake hands, Jock," he said. "You behaved
like a man, and I'm proud of you."
Jock's delight can be imagined.
Very tenderly the Captain lifted Aunt Judith, so as to set free the arm
on which she lay.
She bore it without a sound. But when he with the utmost gentleness
felt the arm itself, she again went promptly off into unconsciousness.
"H'm—a bad business," he said.
"Is she dreadfully hurt?" asked Jock.
"Broken arm. It's a mercy I came this way."
"Can she walk home?"
"Doesn't look like it. I must carry her out of the Combe. Once on the
road, we shall find someone who can go ahead, and send a cab or taxi
to meet us. But first I must tie the arm in an easier position." The
Captain was pulling off his neckcloth as he spoke.