Every nerve rigid and tense Mervyn listened again. Yes--it was
repeated. It echoed forth more distinctly now upon the dismal night,
and it came from far up the great pond above. Quickly he rose and threw
on a warm cloak, and as quickly reached the front door, turned the key,
and went out. Somebody was in imminent peril--and then he remembered.
The ice!
He sprang up the path stairway which led to the sluice, and even as he
did so the thought flashed through his mind that he had been on the eve
of falling asleep in his chair when the phenomenon of the door handle
had befallen to start him wide awake. No more thought however did he
give to this, as he reached the level of the sluice and looked out.
The long triangle of the pond narrowing away between its overhanging
woods, shone in the moonlight a gleaming sheet of ice, whose silver
surface the drive of sleet was already whitening, and the firs in the
dark woods which flowed down the banks were scintillating with
hoarfrost. Now again, from far up that long gleaming triangle, came the
raucous, agonised appeal for aid, this time quite distinctly audible.
"Some one's got stuck there in the ice," said Mervyn to himself. "But
what the devil is he doing there at this time of night? Some poacher I
suppose. Well, poaching isn't a capital crime." And raising his voice
he answered the shout with a vigorous and reassuring halloo.
The sleet had suddenly ceased, and the clouds parting somewhat, showed
glimpses of a rushing moon. Far up the frozen surface a dark
interruption was just discernible. Here it was that the ice had parted,
and from here now came a responsive, but weakening shout of hopeless
human extremity.
"Keep up--keep up," bellowed Mervyn through his hands. "I'm coming."
He did not stop to think, he did his thinking while he moved. He went
quickly down the sluice path to his house, all superstitious midnight
imaginings thrown to the winds. To have started straight for the spot
would have been to render no earthly service to the submerged man. He
would have been powerless for anything save to stand on the bank and
encourage him drowning, wherefore the additional few minutes sacrificed
to returning to the house and procuring a ladder might mean the
difference in any case between life and death.
The ladder was not found quite so easily as he had reckoned on, and when
found, it proved a trifle heavier than he had expected. In spite of the
biting cold he was streaming with perspiration by the time he had
dragged it up the steep path to the level of the sluice again, and by
the time he had brought it to the gate which opened into the path
through the wood which skirted the length of the long triangle of ice he
was wondering if he could get any further with it. But he sent forth a
loud, encouraging shout, and without waiting for an answer, held on his
way.
Fortunately every inch of the latter was known to him, and shafts of
moonlight, darting through the leafless wood aided him appreciably.
Still the way seemed interminable, and his progress, weighted as it was,
was perforce slow. He knew exactly where to find the spot, and, lo--
there it was.
"Are you there?" he cried, parting some elder stems, to reach the edge,
and thrusting out the ladder along the smooth, shining surface. No
answer came, but in the glint of moonlight he could see the shattered,
heaving ice slabs, and wedged in between these, supported by both arms
extended, he made out the head and shoulders of a man.
The latter, obviously, was not more than half conscious, indeed it was
little short of a miracle that he had not, in a state of relaxed
muscular power, lost all hold and slid down to his frozen death in the
black water. Obviously, too, he was in a state of collapse, and
incapable of helping himself. The helping would all devolve upon his
would-be rescuer. The latter, in cold blood, would not in the least
have relished the job.
It is curious how the glow of a life-saving attempt will warm the
coldest blood. John Seward Mervyn was a complete and genuine cynic; yet
to effect the rescue of this totally unknown stranger, and that at great
peril to himself, here in the biting freezing midnight, seemed to him at
that moment the one thing worth living for.
At great peril to himself. Yes, for he knew the water here to be a
matter of four fathoms in depth--it might as well have been four hundred
for the result would be the same. It was likely enough that in
attempting single-handed to get the stranger out he would share the
stranger's fate.
The ice cracked and bent as he pushed out the ladder along its surface;
and cautiously, and lying flat in order to distribute his weight, made
his way along it. Then it broke, with a glass-like splintering, and
jets of water spurted through. Then the moon was again obscured, and a
wild drive of sleet whirled down.
"Here, buck up, man, and lay hold of the ladder," he panted, having
attained within grasp of his objective. The latter, whose staring eyes
and blue lips showed the very last stage of exhaustion, made a wild
attempt to comply, but his hand just missed its grasp, and the
supporting ice slabs, loosened by the effort, would have let him through
and in another moment would have closed over his head, when his wrist
was seized in a tolerably firm grip.
"Now--you're all right," gasped Mervyn. "Grab hold with the other hand,
and work your way along the rungs of the ladder. Come on. Buck up."
The nearly drowned, and wholly frozen man seemed to understand, for
although powerless for speech he did just what he was told. There was a
mingling of splashing and glassy splintering as the ice gave way beneath
this double weight, but Mervyn's head was clear, and he distributed his
own weight while piloting the other along the half submerged ladder. At
last slowly and laboriously, foot by foot, they regained the bank.
"Here. You get outside a great toothful of this," said Mervyn,
producing the square whisky bottle which he had shoved hastily into his
side pocket with an eye to just such a contingency, and had hurriedly
deposited under a tree, when starting to venture upon the ice. "Then
we'll sprint as hard as we can for my diggings. Do as I say," he added,
sharply, as the other hesitated. "It may mean the difference between
life and death."
The stranger, who had seemed to hesitate, now obeyed, and took a liberal
pull at the potent spirit. His rescuer followed his example.
"Here, take another pull," urged the latter. "Nothing like it, on top
of a freezing soak. Go ahead. It can't hurt you under the
circumstances."
The stranger complied, and the effect was nearly instantaneous. His
chattering teeth were stilled, and the awful numbness that held his
frame, relaxed, as the generous warmth of the spirit ran through his
veins. Still he did not speak. Mervyn eyed him critically.
"Come along," he said. "My crib's just handy. Sooner we get there the
better, for I'm in as risky a state as you are. Man, but I'm just
steaming with perspiration, and a chill upon that on an icy night like
this--at my age--no thank you! Here--I'll give you an arm. You must be
clean played out."
"I am," said the other, speaking for the first time. But that was all
he said. No words of thanks, of explanation. Mervyn passed a tolerably
strong arm through that of his guest, and piloted him along the path
beneath the trees, athwart whose frosted boughs the moon was networking
in fitful strands of light. The ladder he did not trouble his head
further about. It would be there in the morning. Two owls, floating
over the tree-tops, hooted sepulchrally but melodiously to each other.
"That's how I heard them when I was in there. They sounded like the
voices of devils."
Mervyn looked at the speaker curiously. They had nearly gained the gate
which opened out of the sombre woods on to the sluice. The voice was
rather deep, not unpleasing, but strained. Lord! what if a touch of
brain fever followed on the strain of the long immersion? What on earth
was he going to do with a raving delirious man, in his lonely, haunted
abode? thought Mervyn.
"Oh, that's how they struck you!" he answered, bluffly. "No `devil'
about them. They're jolly beggars and I like to hear them. I dare say,
though, when you're hanging on for dear life in a freezing ice hole at
midnight anything strikes you as all distorted--eh? Well, here we are--
that's my crib. Hold up, go easy down this path. It's really a flight
of steps, you know. By the way, as you see, I'm yards below the level
of the pond. If that sluice were to give way it'd sweep me and my shack
to Kingdom Come before you could say knife. I shouldn't like to say how
many million gallons of water there are in that pond. It's about half a
mile long, and fills what is really the bottom of a valley, so you can
imagine it's astonishingly deep."
Thus chatting, he had piloted the man he had rescued safely down the
staircase-like path and had gained the front door, which had been left
half open in his hurried exit. The lamp in the inner room was still
burning, and into this he led the stranger.
"Now, peel off all your wet clothes," he went on. "This is the only
decent fire in the house--the one in my bedroom has burnt low. But--
lose no time about it. I'll get you a couple of rough towels for a
glowing rub down--then you'll be none the worse."
Mervyn stirred up the fire and piled on it several great billets. In a
moment they were roaring up the chimney. But as he did so his glance
quickly sought the mysterious door in the shadowy corner. It was tight
shut--moreover the long loop handle was in its normal position--at the
horizontal.
"I must have been dreaming," he said to himself, as he went upstairs to
rummage out the towels aforesaid, and anything else that his new-found
guest would be likely to need. "And yet--if that devilish rum optical
delusion hadn't come off--why I should have dozed on comfortably, and
never have heard that chump's shout for help. Well I've read of that
sort of thing, but here's a first-class case in point."
But at this decision his meditations stopped short, and that
uncomfortably. For the dread legends that hung around his lonely abode
invariably had it that any manifestations within the same boded ill--
were productive of ill--to the witness or witnesses thereof; certainly
not good, to any living soul. Yet this manifestation--if manifestation
it were--had been directly instrumental in the saving of a human life.
And with this came another uncomfortable reflection--to wit, the proverb
that if you save anybody's life, he--or she--is bound to do you an
injury.
"All bosh," he decided, next minute, as he proceeded to get out a suit
of clothes, in fact a complete outfit, for his guest. Both were tall
men, and much of the same build. The things would fit admirably. But
this sudden acquisition of human companionship had made all the
difference in Mervyn. An imaginative man when alone, he was as
hard-headed and matter of fact as could be in the society of his
fellows. He did not disguise from himself that the society of this one,
whoever he might be, had come right opportunely just now.
"Here you are," he cried, flinging the bundle of things down on the
table. "Get into these while I go and rummage out some supper. You can
do with some I expect after your `dip.' But I warn you it's all cold,
and there's no kitchen fire. There isn't a soul on the premises but
myself."
The stranger protested that he really required nothing. His voice was
rather a pleasing one, with ever so slight a foreign intonation and
accent. He had a well-shaped head, straight features, and a short dark
beard trimmed to a point. On the whole, rather a striking looking man.
While he was changing Mervyn made several expeditions to the back
premises, and by the time these were completed the table looked alluring
by reason of the adornment of a cold silverside, half a Stilton cheese--
and the usual appurtenances thereto.
"Rough and ready," declared Mervyn, "but all good of its kind. I
thought we could dispense with laying a cloth."
The other bowed a smiling assent. If his dark eyes flashed round the
room in a quick appraising glance when his host was not, looking he
evinced no appreciable curiosity otherwise, either by look or speech.
The latter, for his part, was equally contained. He detested being
cross-questioned himself, consequently forebore, as second nature, to
subject other people to that process. If his guest chose to volunteer
information about himself he would do so, if not--well, he needn't.
A renewed whirl of dismal wind round the gables of the house, and a fine
clatter of sleet against the windowpanes as they began their meal. The
stranger looked up.
"I am fortunate indeed," he said, "to have fallen upon such hospitality
as yours to-night, Mr--?"
"Mervyn," supplied his host. But hardly had he uttered his own name,
than a very strange and unaccountable misgiving struck root within his
mind. Was it some long-forgotten brain wave that suggested to him that
he had seen this man somewhere or other before--and that under
circumstances which would in no way render it desirable that he should
see him again? Yet, like a long-forgotten dream which locates us in
similar place or circumstances, it was an impression to vanish as
completely and as bafflingly as recalled.
"Hark! That is not the wind," went on the stranger, looking up.
"No, it isn't," said Mervyn, on whose ears the sound of a scratching on
the windowpane and a plaintive little cry at the same time struck.
He raised the sash, admitting a whirl of icy sleet, also the little
black kitten, its fur plentifully powdered with the white particles. It
had slipped out of the door when he had started upon his rescue quest,
and he had been too much occupied with this and the sequel to give it
another thought just then.
"Why, Poogie, you little fool, what did you want to leave a snug fire
for at all on a night like this?" he apostrophised as the tiny creature
sprang lightly to his shoulder, and sat there purring and rubbing its
head against his cheek. He sat down with it at the table, and began
feeding it with scraps from his plate. The stranger looked on with a
slightly amused smile.
"I see you are a lover of cats, Mr Mervyn," he remarked.
"Why, rather. They're such jolly, chummy little beasts. Look at this
one," holding it up. "Isn't it a picture, with its little tufted ears
and round, woolly face?"
But somehow the object of this eulogy did not seem appreciative. It
struggled, and half struck its claws into its owner's hand, which held
it up under the armpits. But its said owner realised that its
resentment was not directed upon him. It was viewing the stranger with
much the same manifestations of disapproval and distrust as when gazing
at the weirdly opening door, earlier in the night. And to its owner was
borne in the consciousness that it had never displayed hostility towards
anybody before--stranger or not. This, however, he kept to himself. He
replaced the kitten on his lap, but even then it seemed restive and
uneasy.
"Are you fond of dogs too?" said the other. "I suppose you are, but I
didn't see or hear one when we came in."
"Yes. But I haven't got one just now. The fact is this is a difficult
place to keep a dog in. They get roaming off into the coverts and get
trapped or shot. The last one I had disappeared--suddenly."
There was a curious hesitation about this explanation. Perhaps the
stranger noticed it--perhaps not.
"Now we'll have a smoke," said Mervyn, when they had finished, producing
a cigar box. "These are pretty well matured--Unless you'd prefer to
turn in?"
But the other declared he preferred nothing of the kind. The comfort of
this delightful room after the experience he had gone through was
idyllic. So Mervyn, by no means averse to this opportunity of
conviviality so unexpectedly thrown in his way, fell in, and for upwards
of an hour they sat on, before the blazing roaring log-fire, chatting
easily, but always on indifferent subjects. And all the time the
stranger, while an ideal conversationalist, had vouchsafed no
information about himself--not even as to his name.
But when bedtime came he flatly and absolutely refused to avail himself
of his host's bedroom. He could not think of entailing that
inconvenience, he declared. Here was a roomy and comfortable couch, and
a blazing fire. A couple of pillows and a blanket was all he needed.
And Mervyn perforce had to acquiesce. The latter smiled queerly to
himself at his own thoughts while doing so. If the mysterious one were
a burglar--only he did not look like it--why the most professional of
burglars would hardly burgle a man who had just pulled him out of the
jaws of death, and--more potent argument still perhaps to the hardened
cynic--here was nothing worth burgling.
But--when he was in his own room, and was disposing himself comfortably
to sleep, with the little black kitten as usual curled up on his feet
outside the counterpane, he reflected complacently that the door of his
room owned a very strong lock, and that a Browning pistol reposed beside
his watch under his pillow.
But these precautions--especially in this instance--had nothing to do
with burglars or burgling.