WHAT SHE HEARD, SAW AND FOUND
She hurried along as rapidly as she could in the darkness which had
followed the eclipse of the moon. Momentarily she expected to hear his
footsteps coming after her. But, so far as she was able to tell, there
was not a sound which suggested pursuit. Something, possibly, had
prevented his giving immediate chase. In the darkness it was impossible
to see where she was going, or to make out surrounding objects. What
seemed to be the branch of a tree struck her across the face with such
force that it brought her to an instant standing. She stood still,
trembling from head to foot. The collision had partly stunned her. Her
face was smarting, where it had come in contact with the unseen
obstacle. For the moment she was demoralised, incapable of moving in
any direction. Her breath was coming in great gasps. It would have
needed very little to have made her burst into tears.
As she was gradually regaining her equilibrium, her presence of mind, a
sound crashed through the darkness, which started her trembling worse
than ever. It was a gunshot. Quite close at hand. So close that the
flash of it flamed before her eyes. In the air about her was the smell
of the powder.
Silence followed, which was the more striking, because it was
contrasted with the preceding thunderclap. What had happened? Who had
fired? at what? and where? The gun had been fired by someone who was on
the left of where she was then standing, possibly within twenty or
thirty feet. The direction of the aim, it seemed, had been at something
behind her. What was there behind her at which anyone would be likely
to fire, in that reckless fashion, at that hour of the night? Robert
Champion was behind her; but the idea that anyone--
The silence was broken. Someone was striding through the brushwood
towards the place which had been aimed at. She became conscious of
another sound, which made her heart stand still. Was not someone
groaning, as if in pain? Someone who, also, was behind her? Suddenly
there was the sound of voices. The person who had strode through the
underwood was speaking to the person who was groaning. Apparently she
was farther off than she had supposed, or they were speaking in muffled
tones. She could only just distinguish voices. Who were the speakers,
and what they said, she had not a notion. The colloquy was but a brief
one. Again there was a sound of footsteps, which retreated; then,
again, groans.
What did it mean? What had happened? who had come and gone? who had
been the speakers? of what had they been talking? The problem was a
knotty one. Should she go back and solve it? The groans which
continued, and, if anything, increased in vigour, were in themselves a
sufficiently strenuous appeal. That someone was in pain was
evident--wounded, perhaps seriously. It seemed that whoever was
responsible for that gunshot had, with complete callousness, left his
victim to his fate. And he might be dying! Whoever it was, she could
not let him die without, at least, attempting succour. If she did, she
would be a participant in a crime of which--to use an Irishism--she
had not only been an unseen, but also an unseeing, witness. If she let
this man die without doing something to help him live, his blood would
be on her hands also; certainly, she would feel it was. However
repugnant the task might be, she must return and proffer aid.
She had just brought herself to the sticking point, and was about to
retrace her steps, when, once more, she became conscious of someone
being in movement. But, this time, not only did it come from another
direction, but it had an entirely different quality. Before, there had
been no attempt at concealment. Whoever had gone striding through the
underwood, had apparently cared nothing for being either seen nor
heard. Whoever was moving now, unless the girl's imagination played her
a trick--was desirous of being neither seen nor heard. There was a
stealthy quality in the movements, as if someone were stealing softly
through the brushwood, taking cautious steps, keenly on the alert
against hidden listeners.
In what quarter was the newcomer moving? The girl could not at first
decide; indeed, she never was quite clear, but it seemed to her that
someone was creeping along the fence which divided Exham Park and Oak
Dene. All the while, the wounded man continued to groan.
Suddenly, she could not tell how she knew, but she knew that the
newcomer had not only heard the groans, but, in all probability, had
detected the quarter from whence they came; possibly had caught sight
of the recumbent figure, prostrate on the grass. Because, just then,
the moon came out again in undiminished splendour, and, almost
simultaneously, the footsteps ceased. To Violet Arnott, the plain
inference seemed to be that the returning light had brought the
sufferer into instant prominence. Silence again, broken only by groans.
Presently, even they ceased.
Then, without the slightest warning, something occurred which was far
worse than the gunshot, which affected her with a paralysis of horror,
as if death itself had her by the throat.
The footsteps began again, only with a strange, new swiftness, as if
whoever was responsible for them had suddenly darted forward. In the
same moment there was a noise which might have been made by a man
struggling to gain his feet. Then, just for a second, an odd little
silence. Then two voices uttering together what seemed to her to be
formless ejaculations. While the voices had still not ceased to be
audible, there came a dreadful sound; the sound as of a man who was in
an agony of fear and pain. Then a thud--an eloquent thud. And, an
instant afterwards, someone went crashing, dashing through the
underwood, like some maddened wild beast, flying for life.
The runner was passing close to where she stood. She did not dare to
move; she could not have moved even had she dared--her limbs had
stiffened. But she could manage to move her head, and she did. She
turned, and saw, in the moonlight, in headlong flight, forcing aside
the brushwood as he went, Hugh Morice.
What happened during the next few moments she never knew. The
probability is that, though she retained her footing, consciousness
left her. When, once more, she realised just where she was, and what
had occurred, all was still, with an awful stillness. She listened for
a sound--any sound; those inarticulate sounds which are part and parcel
of a wood at night. She could hear nothing--no whisper of the breeze
among the leaves; no hum of insect life; no hint of woodland creatures
who wake while men are sleeping. A great hush seemed to have fallen on
the world--a dreadful hush. Her heart told her that there was horror in
the silence.
What should she do? where should she go? what was lying on the ground
under the beech tree, on which not so long ago, Hugh Morice had cut
their initials with his hunting-knife? She was sure there was
something--what?
She would have to go and see. The thought of doing so was hideous--but
the idea of remaining in ignorance was not to be borne. Knowledge must
be gained at any price; she would have to know. She waited. Perhaps
something would happen to tell her; to render it unnecessary that she
should go upon that gruesome errand. Perhaps--perhaps he would groan
again? If he only would! it would be the gladdest sound she had ever
heard.
But he would not--or he did not.
Yet all was still--that awful stillness.
It was no use her playing the coward--putting it off. She would have to
go--she must go. She would never know unless she did. The sooner she
went, the sooner it would be done.
So she returned along the footpath towards the beech tree. In the
moonlight the way was plain enough. Yet she went stumbling along it as
she had never stumbled even in the darkness--uncertain upon her feet;
reeling from side to side; starting at shadows; stopping half-a-dozen
times in as many yards, fearful of she knew not what.
What was that? A sound? No, nothing. Only a trick of her imagination,
which was filled with such fantastic imaginings, such shapes and sounds
of horror.
She came to the end of the path. Before her was the open space; the
favourite nook where she had first met Hugh Morice, which she had come
to regard almost as a sanctuary. In front was the saucer-shaped break
in the ground which she had found offered such luxurious ease. What was
lying in it now?
Nothing? Or--was that something? Well under the shadow of the beech
tree, where the moonlight scarcely reached? almost in the darkness, so
that at a first glance it was difficult to see? She stood, leaning a
little forward, and looked--long, intently. As she looked her heart
seemed to become gradually constricted; she became conscious of actual
pain--acute, lancinating.
Something was there. A figure--of a man--in light-coloured clothes. He
lay on the ground, so far as she could judge from where she stood, a
little on his right side, with his hands thrown over his head as if
asleep--fast asleep. The recumbent figure had for her an unescapable
fascination. She stared and stared, as though its stillness had in it
some strange quality.
She called to the sleeper--in a tone which was so unlike her ordinary
voice that--even in that awful moment--the sound of it startled her.
"Robert! Robert! Wake up!"
Probably not a dozen times since she had known this man had she called
him by his Christian name. It was so singular that she should have done
so; the mere singularity of the thing should have roused him from the
soundest slumber. But he continued silent. He neither moved nor
answered, nor was there any sign to show that he had heard. She called
again.
"Robert! Robert! Do you hear me, wake up! Answer me!"
But he did neither--he neither woke nor answered.
The persistent silence was assuming an appalling quality. She could
endure it no longer. She suddenly moved forward under the shadow of the
beech tree, and bent down to look. What was that upon the front of his
jacket? She touched it with her finger.
"Oh--h--h!"
A sound, which was part shriek, part groan, broke from her trembling
lips. Her finger-tips were wet. She had not realised what the dark mark
might mean--now she understood. All at once she burst out crying, until
she saw something shining up at her from the turf almost at her feet.
At sight of it she ceased to cry with the same suddenness with which
she had begun. She picked the shining thing up. It was a knife--his
knife--Hugh Morice's--the one with which he had cut their initials in
the trunk of the tree. Its great blade was all wet.
She gave one quick glance round, slipped the blade--still all
wet--inside her bodice; then, returning to the winding footpath, ran
along it at the top of her speed, neither pausing nor looking back.