"You!" cried Hawke.
The wall of the rock made a right angle behind him, and he backed into
the corner of it, fronting Gordon with the lanthorn held aloft between
them. There was a ring of terror in his voice, and his eyes glanced
rapidly round with a hunted look.
Gordon saw the look and smiled; for the little platform on which they
stood was open only upon two sides, of which the gully guarded one and
himself the other.
He did not answer Hawke's exclamation at once, for the sudden check
had aroused him to the need of wariness. A struggle had to be avoided
at all costs, he thought; for it would land them both, locked
together, on the screes below. It was very pleasant to him, besides,
to watch the shrinking fear visible in his enemy's attitude. The very
lanthorn was rattling in his unsteady grasp, and the sound of it was
music to Gordon's ears.
"You did not expect to see me, did you, Austen?" he said at last,
purring the words.
"You did rather startle me, I own. You came along so quietly."
"One needs to be careful when it is as dark as this. As it was, I lost
my way. If you had not lit that lanthorn I should have been over the
cliffs. I may thank you for my life," and Gordon laughed cheerfully.
His words and the familiarity of his voice helped Hawke back to some
portion of his confidence. But he still held the lanthorn above their
heads.
During these last days he had lived in a constant dread of detection,
Gordon's unforeseen visit to the dale wearing to him almost the
appearance of a fatality. He cursed the infatuation which had led him
to summon Kate Nugent, and each fresh sight of the man he had wronged
awakened in him a shudder of alarm. It is true that he had voluntarily
sought Gordon's company at the farm-house the night before and again
this morning. But the inconsistency of the proceeding was purely on
the surface. He had felt compelled to that course by the urgency of
his dread, which shook him chiefly when alone. And it was the effect
of these solitary cogitations which produced his inexpressible terror
on each occasion that he met the man. Once in his presence, however,
the feeling wore off. He had always been accustomed to regard Gordon
somewhat contemptuously in the light of an unpractical dreamer, and as
he listened to his voice and watched his gestures, this habit
reasserted itself from an association of ideas. He came to the
conclusion that there were no grounds for his fears, crediting Gordon
with no great powers of self-repression.
Viewed generally, this latter judgment of Hawke's was correct. The
fatal mistake, however, which he committed was to make no allowance
for a possible concentration of his entire faculties upon a single
aim, under the influence of an overmastering passion, such as the lust
for revenge which absorbed Gordon now.
On this particular occasion, however, Hawke had been more than usually
startled. He had intended to leave Wastdale Head early the next
morning, and had planned this expedition in order to avoid meeting
Gordon again--nay, more, had actually given him a false description of
his route. Consequently his sudden appearance from the surrounding
darkness and the silence of his approach had intensified his feeling
of alarm and betrayed it unmistakably to his companion.
"You have made the circuit quickly," Gordon resumed.
"I gave up the idea of Eskdale when the sky clouded," Hawke replied,
"and came straight across from the Pillar."
"I wonder we did not meet before."
Gordon was speaking at random, watching keenly for a chance; but Hawke
still faced him, with his back to the rock.
"Oh! I have been on the mountain for some time. You have only just
come, I suppose."
"I came with the mist."
"It's a poor companion," Hawke resumed. "I found rather a good
glissade just behind these cliffs running into Eskdale. I spent most
of the afternoon on that. You ought to try it."
"I will."
"It lands you out close to Mickledoor and not far below the chimney.
So I thought I would go home this way. But if I had known it was going
to grow as cold and dark as this I would have seen myself damned
first."
"It is cold," Gordon assented, although his senses gave him no
knowledge of the fact. He was wondering whether Hawke would ever move.
If only he would set the lanthorn down!
"Suppose that we move," he went on. "You have got the lanthorn, so you
had better go first."
He drew to one side as he spoke, and made room for Hawke to pass. But
at the very moment that he was taking the step, Hawke suddenly placed
the lanthorn on the ground, and cried--
"Wait a moment!"
The next instant he stood upright, and that opportunity was gone.
"I have got a bottle of brandy here," said Hawke. "We had better open
it. Has your knife got a corkscrew?"
Gordon thrust his hand quickly into his pocket and felt the sharp
blade cut into his flesh. But he drew his hand out again empty, and
said--
"I haven't got a knife at all. I left mine at home."
"We must use mine, then, and knock the neck off. They have jammed the
cork in so tightly, that there is no other way. Here! hold the
bottle."
Hawke handed him the bottle and searched in his pocket for his knife.
He was perfectly defenceless at the moment, but the memory of
Arkwright's accident had suddenly flashed upon Gordon and suggested to
him a safer plan.
He added another item to his supposed new knowledge. He understood
now, he fancied, why the recollection of that night in the Alps had so
persistently mingled with his thoughts yesterday, and he laughed
gleefully.
"What is the matter?" Hawke asked. "You seem pleased."
"I am," he replied. "It is the brandy warming me through the cork."
Hawke laughed. "It wasn't a bad suggestion, was it?"
"It was the best I ever heard from you."
Hawke found his knife and held it out to Gordon, saying--
"You had better do it! My fingers are so cursedly numbed, I should
only cut myself or drop the bottle."
Gordon took the knife with his right hand, and Hawke exclaimed--
"What on earth have you done to your hand? It is covered with blood."
"Oh, it's nothing," Gordon answered quickly. "I cut it on a pointed
piece of rock, that's all."
For a moment he stood with the bottle poised in one hand and the knife
in the other, thinking. Then he said--
"Just take this while I open the blade," and he handed the bottle
back.
"The handle will serve," said Hawke.
"The blade will do it cleaner."
Hawke took the bottle back while Gordon opened the knife. It was of a
strong and heavy make, with a long, powerful blade. Gordon ran his
thumb along the edge and found it sharp and even.
"Now if you will hold the bottle out," he said, "I will operate. Not
that way! We shall spill it all;" and he readjusted the bottle in
Hawke's hands, settling the base in his upturned palms, with the cork
pointing towards himself.
"That's right," he said, and struck the neck on the side nearest to
Hawke, slipped the blade on the glass, and drove it with all his force
down into his left arm where it showed white below his sleeve.
The bottle crashed on the ground.
Hawke reeled against the rock wall behind him, clutching the injured
wrist with his disengaged hand.
"God!" he shrieked. "It's an artery."
Gordon could see the blood spurting in quick jets, and said, quietly--
"It reminds me of Arkwright. That was an accident, too."
"Don't stand there, man--dreaming! Do something!"
Gordon laughed at the words--a low, happy laugh, which struck a new
horror into Hawke.
"You meant to do it?"
Gordon nodded to him, knowingly.
"Damn you!" Hawke hissed and sunk down upon the platform beside the
lanthorn, concentrating all his strength into the oath. He was still
vainly endeavouring to stop the bursts from the vein by the pressure
of his fingers.
Gordon knelt by his side.
"Let me look," he said.
Hawke dragged himself a few inches farther away, with an inarticulate
snarl, and turned his back.
"Won't you let me help you?" Gordon asked, in a tone of gentle
remonstrance.
The other shot a quick glance across his shoulder, and replied, with a
beaten air--
"I could believe it was myself said that."
"But I mean it. There's the difference. Won't you let me bind up your
arm?"
Hawke looked at him again and rolled over to face him, his eyes alive
with hope.
"Oh, if you will," he said. "But be quick! quick! Use my scarf! Only
be quick!"
Something in his manner recalled vividly to Gordon Kate's appeal to
Hawke of the night before; but he unwound the scarf from the neck of
the wounded man. The latter could not repress a convulsive shiver as
he felt the touch of his fingers.
"I am sorry," Gordon apologised. "I know it must be unpleasant."
The scarf was of thick white wool, and he twisted it round the arm
just above the cut and tied it firmly; but a dark stain came through
it at once and widened over the folds.
"The ice-axe," gasped Hawke. "It is by your side."
Gordon took it from where it was resting on the ground, and inserting
the pick into the wool, used it as a tourniquet, and strained the
bandage tight.
"Thanks! thanks!" murmured Hawke. "That will hold. Give me the pole of
the axe. Now run down to the Inn and get help. I may be able to last
out--if only I don't freeze to death," he added, with a moan.
"It is a pity the brandy's spilt."
"Never mind that! Hurry down to the Inn."
"No! no! Austen," Gordon replied, indulgently, much as one refuses a
child an impossible request. "I don't think I can do that."
Hawke raised himself upon his right elbow and peered into the other's
face. Neither of them spoke, but the animation flickered out of
Hawke's features, and it seemed as if a veil were drawn across the
pupils of his eyes.
"You have murdered me," he said, sinking back and letting his head
fall sideways on the ground.
"I have waked up. You said I was dreaming. I have waked up, that's
all. It is not the sleeper's fault if he hits the man who wakes him."
Gordon bent over as he spoke, and shot the words into Hawke's ear with
a savage intensity. In a moment, however, he resumed his former
composure.
"But we are wasting time, and we have not much time to waste, have we?
I want three letters."
Hawke dropped the pole of the axe and instinctively moved his right
hand to protect his breast-pocket.
"Thank you," said Gordon. "I only wanted to know whether you had them
with you. I felt sure you would have, but it was best to make certain.
Don't worry about them now. I will take them--afterwards."
He laid the slightest possible stress upon the word, and continued--
"The shawl is safe enough, too. I am carrying it now. I thought you
would like to know that. Is there anything more? Oh, yes! You have
taught me a lesson--never to conduct interviews at night with the
blind up and the window open."
"Then you--you were outside?"
"Yes! I was outside," cried Gordon, his savage fury boiling over its
barriers and sweeping him away on a full flow.
"The fool was asleep, was he? The fool was on the outhouse staring
into your face. Who was the fool, eh? Did you think I was blind? Did
you think I didn't see you were frightened when I met you yesterday!
Did you think I didn't see you watching my bedroom from the barn? What
made you come back and turn my lamp out? Who was the fool, eh? Why,
but for you I should never have known, never have suspected, never
have killed you."
His voice had risen to a scream, and he thrust his face into Hawke's,
livid with hate. A sudden access of passion stung the latter into
life; he pushed the face away from him and gathering all his strength,
half struggled to his feet. On the instant Gordon slipped the steel
point of the axe from the bandage round his arm and Hawke fell back,
fainting and sick.
"Damn you!" he whispered, "and the girl, too!"
Gordon uttered a cry, and dying though the man was, struck him on the
mouth with his clenched fist.
Hawke took the blow without a moan, fixed one steady look upon the
other, and then let his head fall back upon the rock.
After that neither spoke.
A feeling of horror at this last action swept over Gordon. He
reproached himself for the blow, and sought to replace the axe in the
scarf. His fingers, however, were now too numbed; so he clenched them
tightly round the arm and knelt there watching the blanching face and
feeling the blood soak about his knees. In a moment or two he saw
Hawke's eyeballs quiver under the half-closed lids and he leaned
across the body and blew out the lanthorn-light. The darkness rushed
down between them, and almost immediately the storm broke in a
pitiless shower of hail.
After awhile it passed, and Gordon bethought him of the time, but he
was now so starved by the cold that at first he was powerless to
unclasp his hands. The feeling of utter helplessness threw him into an
agony. He fancied that his hands were dead--dead hands frozen round
the dead man's wrist with blood. He looked forward in his mind through
the black hours of the night and saw the morning pour down the
mountain side and touch the grey face by his knees--nay, more, bring
the dalesmen up to discover him riveted to the man he had killed. With
this last thought he summoned all his strength to his aid, and making
a final effort wrenched his hands free. The body was lying motionless
at his side, and he felt along it until he reached the breast. To take
the letters, however, he had to unbutton the coat, and he paused,
shrinking from that. In the end he mustered courage for the task,
rebuttoned the coat, and groped his way cautiously to the summit, the
rest of the ascent being no more than a rock-strewn slope. From there
his path was easy, and although a high wind was now blowing, he
descended rapidly. Half-way down he struck a glissade which rare
winters of great snow form along an old stone wall, and so slid out of
the mist.