The Rescue.
Meanwhile the little ladies at the Parsonage looked anxiously out into
the fog, and wondered that Paddy should have gone to Mourne Lodge on
such a night.
“I suppose they will keep her until to-morrow,” Miss Jane remarked;
“but I am rather sorry she went. It is just the weather to take cold.”
And at Mourne Lodge Mrs Blake said: “How odd of Lawrence to stay at the
Parsonage so late. Did you say he went home with Paddy, Doreen?”
Doreen looked worried, but she only replied:
“Yes; he said he should not be late.”
Another half-hour passed, and then Mrs Blake asked; “What made him go
home with Paddy at all, Doreen?”
Doreen was now fidgeting nervously, glancing constantly at the clock,
and at last she decided to tell her mother exactly what had passed.
Almost before she had finished, Mrs Blake was out in the hall
peremptorily ordering one of the stable-boys to be sent for at once,
and she waited at the open door until he came.
“Take a bicycle,” she cried, in the same decisive manner, “and ride as
hard as you can to Omeath Parsonage. Go to the back door, and, without
making any noise, find out from the servants if Mr Lawrence has been
there this evening. If he is there it is all right! but if not, come
back here as quickly as possible, and tell them not to let the Misses
O’Hara know that you came. Do you understand?”
“Yes, m’m,” and in two seconds the boy was gone.
Another anxious half-hour passed, during the whole of which Mrs Blake
paced the drawing-room, quite unable to sit still a moment. When she
heard a step on the gravel, she hurried instantly to the front door.
“Is he there?” she asked, quite unable to conceal her anxiety.
“No, m’m—he has not been there at all, and they all think Miss Adair is
here. I told them not to say anything, but cook is so anxious she is
coming here on foot now.”
Mrs Blake blanched a death-like hue, but never for an instant lost her
head.
“Rouse George at once,” she exclaimed, naming the head coachman, who
had been with them for years, “and tell him not to lose a second in
coming here. Stay—tell him Mr Lawrence and Miss Adair are lost on the
mountains, and he must get a search party at once; then come to me.”
The boy rushed off, and she turned quickly to the housekeeper, now
anxiously waiting near.
“Blankets, Mrs Best,” with almost unnatural calmness, “and a flask of
brandy, and candles for the lanterns. There is nothing else we can
prepare. I think.”
George had gone to bed, which made it only the more incredible how he
got up and got his party together in the short space before he was at
the hall door; but there they stood, four alert men, with poles and
lanterns, perfectly ready to risk their lives at a moment’s notice for
the master and Miss Adair. Mrs Blake explained in a few short sentences
what had occurred and which way they had better take, but it was only
at the very last she faltered.
“Don’t come back without them, George,” she said, in a low, husky
voice, to the faithful old servant, and, with a like huskiness in his
own throat, he answered:
“I will not, m’m.”
Then commenced another terrible watch for the mother and her two
daughters, when each tried in vain to frame words that might help the
others.
There was nothing for it but to endure in silence and continue that
restless pacing to and fro. At twelve o’clock the housekeeper came in
with hot cocoa and biscuits, but all turned away at once. Mrs Best was
another old and privileged servant, however, so she would take no
refusal.
“Shure, ’tis no good gettin’ fainting,” she said, trying to speak
cheerily. “Indeed, m’m, it’s meeself will have to give it ye if ye
won’t take it.” And then they tried to drink the cocoa to please her.
“There’s Eliza downstairs,” she continued. “About as much use as a
child, rocking to and fro under her apron and moaning about little Miss
Paddy, and what a wonderful baby she was, as if that would do any one
any good. Relating all the mischief she used to be up to in one breath,
and what a sainted angel she is in the next.”
“Poor Eliza,” said Mrs Blake, with a smile. “She is a faithful old
soul. To think of her walking all this way from Omeath upon such a
night!”
Still the time crept on and no footsteps sounded on the gravel, and
away up the mountain Lawrence tended his little fire and began to look
round anxiously for the fuel which was fast dwindling away. From time
to time he stepped out into the fog and shouted, but sound could
scarcely pierce the dense air, and he knew he would not be heard any
distance away. Each time when he stepped out Paddy raised her head and
watched him, instead of continuing her gaze at the flickering fire, but
the last time he noticed that she did not stir.
He bent down over her and said her name softly, but there was no
answer, and he saw that, worn out with exhaustion, she had fallen into
a troubled sleep. For a few moments he was at his wits’ end to know
what to do for the best. The fire could not be kept going much longer,
and meanwhile the damp cold increased hourly. Should he rouse her and
try to make the descent? Which course was the least dangerous?—to
crouch in the cold, damp shelter, or try and pierce the black gloom of
the night? He looked at the sleeping form a moment, and then made up
his mind. In such a strait, all things must be disregarded except
whatever might diminish the danger. Whereupon, having come to a
decision, he immediately set about carrying it out to the exclusion of
all else. First he hunted round for every scrap of possible fuel and
made up the fire; then, very tenderly and gently, he gathered Paddy
into his arms, as if she had been a child and soothed her into a deep,
dreamless slumber.
How long they remained thus he did not know. Paddy never stirred after
the first half-unconscious resistance, but just slept on in the
calmest, childlike sleep, and rather than disturb her he kept the same
position, regardless of the severe cramp that seized him first in one
limb and then another.
The only movement he made was to bend occasionally and touch her hair
with his lips, but, apart from this, the fire went out and they
remained in absolute silence and stillness—Paddy kept warm and
comfortable and soothed into a restful slumber, while he sat upright,
without even a coat, numbed with the damp and cold and a martyr to
cramp.
Only what of it? While she lay in his arms, and every nerve of his body
was strained in serving her, could he ask more? Lawrence looked out
into the awful gloom, felt the creeping cold through all his bones and
the sharp, shooting pains in his limbs, and was content. Of a truth he
was not a man to do his loving by halves when it was real.
But human nature is not infallible, and it is doubtful if he could have
endured much longer by the time a vague sound over the mountain fell on
his ear. He raised his head and listened intently.
Yes—there it was again—a shout! Good God! some one was coming to them.
With the utmost gentleness he managed to disengage himself and then
struggle to his feet, but only to collapse ignominiously on to the
ground, overcome by cramp through his whole body. He made another
effort, and dragged himself up by the wall; then, still clinging to it,
shouted with all his might.
Instantly rang back an answering shout, and within five minutes the
little search party stood in the tumbled-down shelter, almost too
overjoyed for words.
Old George gripped his young master’s hand and the tears rained down
his face.
“We were losing heart,” he said. “We were almost giving you up, but I’d
never have gone back to face the mistress without you.”
“Have you blankets?” Lawrence asked, trying not to show what he was
suffering, and still quite unable to stand alone.
George took in the situation at a glance, seeing him in shirtsleeves
and the deadly pallor on his face.
“The young lady won’t hurt for a minute or two,” he said with sudden
sharpness to the others. “Come and help me chafe the master’s limbs,”
and he almost lifted Lawrence bodily, laying him down on a blanket and
setting to work with a will, after first giving him some brandy. After
a little while the pain gave and the colour came back to his lips, but
meanwhile Paddy had awakened, and, without making any sound, sat
watching. She knew instinctively what had happened, and she would not
for worlds have attracted any attention to herself until Lawrence was
better, his drawn face and blue lips going straight to her heart.
After a little, with George’s help, Lawrence managed to get to his feet
and stand upright, and then he turned at once to Paddy.
“Give me the flask,” he said, and the others waited while he poured out
some brandy and held it to her lips. Then he seemed quite himself
again, and prepared to start for home, arranging everything, and, as
usual, compelling acquiescence. Paddy wanted to try and walk, but he
would not hear of it, and finally she had to get into the litter he
contrived for her with blankets and be carried down the steep and
dangerous slope.
At three in the morning the sound of footsteps at last fell on the
straining ears at Mourne Lodge, and Mrs Blake hastened wildly to the
door, her composure fast giving way.
“Lawrence!” she called out into the night. “Lawrence!” And only a
mother could have spoken the name so.
“We’re all right, mother,” came back the answer cheerily; but as he
came up, overcome at last, Mrs Blake fainted into his arms.