WHAT THE DAWN BROUGHT
When our lives come to be written in their true proportion, it will be
found that in some cases a year has passed like a watch in the night,
while some nights have lasted for years. This is why the realistic
novelists, who take pages to describe how a girl took a taper out of the
sideboard drawer and lit the gas, are so pitifully mistaken. When a
good cook takes a cabbage to cook for the pot, her first action is to
strip and throw away the outer leaves, as of no value. The realist
seems to deal only with these outer leaves. He does not hold that any
cabbage is ever cooked, or, if it is, then it was not worth the cooking.
Life, in his estimation, consists in the perpetual stripping of outer
leaves.
The night in the mile-castle marked an extraordinary epoch to Olwen
Innes. When she looked back to it she felt that had not her senses been
so bemused there were certain deductions she must have drawn, certain
conclusions at which she must have arrived.
As a matter of fact, all these things escaped her at the time, she being
in no state to reason. Yet the impressions left by what then happened
to her were so deep that afterwards she was able to think out the whole
thing justly.
There were periods during that long waiting when her temperature rose,
and she chattered a little deliriously. There were moments when she grew
cold and sick, and shivering fits assailed her. Again there were
merciful interludes, during which she slumbered heavily. In all these
phases Ninian Guyse was close at hand to lay her down, to ease her
posture, to chafe her cold hands, to hold her close in his efforts to
keep life in her.
She did not know how, in course of those dreadful hours, he parted by
degrees with quite half his clothing to reinforce her flickering
vitality. She had longish periods of something that was half sleep,
half stupor, and during these he rested. He dare not risk allowing
their carefully cultivated warmth to escape by opening the door until
the last moment, when they must make their final dash.
After what seemed to her an endless period of darkness and pain and
ever-increasing discomfort, she felt that he was busily occupied in
fitting on her squirrel cap over her bandaged head and wrapping her fur
stole about her throat afresh.
"Are you awake? Can you hear what I say?" he was inquiring in a voice
of dull patience.
"Oh, what do you want? Let me lie still."
"No, you must get up. See! I have a cup of tea for you, and when you
have drunk it you must try to stand and to walk a little. We are going
out."
She tried to resist these intentions on his part, feebly whimpering as
she pushed away his hands. He held on steadily, repeating in a weary
voice: "Sit up; I'll hold you. You _can_ sit up if you try. There! Is
that all right? Now you must eat this before I give you the tea. Come,
be a brave girl! Pull yourself together. We're not dead yet!"
With a start she awoke to fuller consciousness. She was sitting on the
ground, propped against Ninian, and his electric torch shed a light upon
them both. She was past wondering whence came the tea or the bit of
stale sponge-cake which he put into her mouth as though she were a young
cuckoo. She wanted the tea so desperately that she ate as he commanded.
Then came the drink. Having been kept all night it was barely lukewarm,
but it was tea.
When she had finished, her guardian sat quite still for a few minutes,
allowing her to recover. Presently her faltering voice uttered some
pathetic little thanks.
"Come!" he said. "That's more like you. Now listen. It's six o'clock,
and the sun rises before half-past seven. There's hint of dawn now. The
snow has quite stopped falling, and I think we can strike Wade's Road if
we make for the south. Hotwells Farm is too far, but there should be a
house of sorts within a mile or rather more from where we are in the
opposite direction, and the lie of the ground is easier; it's down hill.
Our only chance is to get there somehow. The movement will keep us
warm. Are you game?"
"I'll do whatever you tell me," came faintly. "I'm sorry to be such--a
pig."
A slight pressure of the arm which held her accepted her apology. "All
right; then I'm going to lift you to your feet. It's just high enough
in here for us to stand up."
He suited the action to the word. Two or three billiard balls, which
had been floating about in her head all night, clashed together with a
horrid shock. She hung limp against Ninian while she waited for the
resulting tumult to subside. The perpendicular attitude seemed to
restore her scattered wits. For the first time pride and a desire to
make the best of things awoke within her. Up to that moment she had
been too badly hurt to care.
"That's--better," said she clearly. "I--I think I can get along. I'll
do my best. You are so good."
"Come on, then," he replied, pushing open the door. He said nothing to
Olwen of his struggle, half an hour earlier, with that same door.
It had taken him twenty minutes to force it wide enough for his arm and
stick to operate upon the drift without: in fact, there had been a
moment during which he had feared that the weight was too great for him
to move alone. In the end, however, he had succeeded in cutting a path
out through the doorway of the mile-castle, inside which the snow had
piled itself.
Outside there was a more or less uniform depth of something more than a
foot. Before them, as they faced south, the cliff, so precipitous on
its northern face, sloped gently downwards to the level of the old
coaching road that runs from Carlisle to Newcastle, and is, of late
years, almost deserted.
Not only was there a glimmer of dawn in the east, but a belated moon
hung over this white and lonely world. They could see quite well enough
to make progress possible, but the distance was hidden. Ninian wanted
to descry a house, that they might make a beeline for it, but they could
see nothing in all the snowy wilderness. At last the girl spoke.
"Do you see that black little grove of trees to our right, lower down,
not quite so far as the road, I should think?"
"Yes, I see where you mean."
"Isn't there something light against the black trees that looks like a
line of smoke going up?"
"Jove, the porcelain rogue has done it! That's smoke right enough.
They're astir early enough over there. Cheer-o, partner! We can hit
that clump of trees without having to take such a very steady aim.
Better keep along the top for a bit, in the lee of the wall; the snow is
not half so thick there as it is just beyond."
They started off, and for the first few minutes the stimulus of the tea
and the sting of the high air revived Olwen surprisingly.
"What a blessing our coats hide some of the havoc!" observed Ninian, who
upheld her by her arm. "I am nothing but rags underneath, and as to you
the less said the better; you are in a ghastly mess, and I don't see how
I can so much as wipe your face for you."
"Is it all over blood?" she asked, with such strong distaste that he
began to turn over in his mind the possibility of wiping it for her.
Their handkerchiefs had all been requisitioned for bandaging, and he
would not allow her to cut up her clothes. After reflection, he found a
convenient boulder, brushed the snow from it, and seated her thereon.
Then, without announcing his intention, he cut away a bit of the sleeve
of his flannel shirt. Having put a little snow into the tin cup, he
thawed it by holding lighted matches under it.
Then he sat down, propped her head against his shoulder, and washed the
poor soiled little face with the water thus obtained, teasing her softly
the while with uncomplimentary remarks upon her features, such as a
brother might have made.
"Oh, thank you, thank you," she sighed. "You really are a dear. You
are good to me."
He made a queer little sound that was almost like a groan. Looking up
quickly, she surprised in his face an expression of misery which was
unlike any look he had worn before. His eyes met hers in a beseeching
sort of way, and he put up his hand to her face as if to hold her head
closer or to prevent her looking at him. Then he uttered this
unlooked-for aspiration:
"I wish to God I had never seen you!"
At the time the words sounded incredible, but on thinking it over
afterwards she was sure that he had used them. She felt too stupid,
however, to ask him to explain. They sat silent for a minute, then
arose and continued their difficult pilgrimage.
When they thought themselves close to the house they were stalking they
had a disappointment. They came to one of those abrupt gaps in the
cliff, up and down which the Roman builders carried their wall without
flinching. This particular gap is extremely precipitous, and getting
down was a long and difficult job. By the time it was accomplished, and
they found themselves in a boulder-strewn field, they could see the
house plainly.
"Oh, this is Hazel Crag, where old Abraham Bird lives," said Ninian
hopefully. "He is the oldest inhabitant--must be ninety or more. He
has a daughter, a sprightly young thing of seventy or so, who looks
after him. The old girl gets up bright and early, doesn't she? Anyway,
she has a good fire, and you can rest here and be warm till I bring the
trap for you."
She smiled wanly, for she was sick with pain. "Do I look so very
awful?" she asked with a truly feminine shrinking.
"I don't think old Mrs. Barcombe can see what you look like," he replied
encouragingly; "but, in any case, I've washed your face for you. Now, a
long pull and a strong pull, and we'll be in harbour in quite a few
minutes. We shall beat the sun, I do declare!"
Slithering and wading through the loose snow, they reached the door of
the farm-kitchen. The blind was drawn, and a glow of lamplight and
firelight showed through it As they stood awaiting an answer to their
knock, the girl turned her pain-dimmed eyes upon the drear, inhospitable
world wherein they had been so nearly lost.
A faint glimmer, premonition only of daylight, showed vague whiteness,
mist, black trunks of trees that stood motionless at gaze in the now
windless air.
It was like the vision of a clairvoyant, not a moment in actual
existence. The girl's weariness and pain were interpenetrated by a
strange new thrill, born perhaps of the contact of Ninian's closely
folded arm.
"The call of the north," she said to herself, "Sunia is really a witch.
This is where I belong."
The sound of a bolt being drawn from within made her turn quickly. The
door was thrown widely open, and Dr. Balmayne confronted them.
The revulsion of feeling in Olwen, caused by his presence and his look,
cannot be put into words. He had his usual aspect of well-groomed
neatness. His blue eyes rested upon the couple outside, first with the
blank stare of non-recognition, then with a depth of amazement which was
in itself a condemnation.
"Well," said Ninian easily, "I do have the devil's own luck. Out of all
the world you are the man we want at this moment, Balmayne. Miss Innes
has had an accident."
"So I see," said Balmayne mechanically, speaking like a man overwhelmed.
"I've come to ask old Abe for hospitality while I go and fetch the
sleigh and take her home," said Ninian, as he led the girl into the warm
kitchen where the fire blazed gloriously, seated her in a cavernous
chair and, kneeling before her, began swiftly to unlace her wet boots.
"Old Abe died about an hour ago," said Balmayne, standing aside with
stony countenance.
Ninian stopped short with a start, then resumed his ordinary manner.
"That so! I suppose you've been up all night?"
"I came last night and couldn't get back."
"The storm was sudden," said Ninian calmly. He rose to his feet, strode
out of the room, and called up the stairs:
"Mrs. Barcombe! Mrs. Barcombe!"
"Why, who be you?" said a quavering voice from above.
"Guyse of the Pele. I got snowed up on the fell, and I've brought a
young lady here. She had an accident. May I leave her in your kitchen
while I go and get the sleigh to drive her home?"
"I'll be doon verra soon, Mr. Guyse. I'm joost a-putting the pennies
upon his eyes. Poor old feyther, he do make a handsome corp, for sure
he do."
"He was a fine man, Mrs. Barcombe. God rest his soul. Well, may the
young lady stay?"
"Oo ay, she may bide if she will. She ain't your sweetheart, Mr.
Guyse--eh?"
"Why, what makes you ask that?"
"You shouldna bring your sweetheart into the house wi' a corp in it or
she'll never wed you."
"I'll have to risk it, old lady. You come down and get the doctor some
hot water and clean rags, will you?"
During this colloquy Olwen had sat with eyes closed, and the doctor
stood staring upon her as though he had been turned to stone. As the
talk went on he saw the girl shrink and wince; and when Ninian came back
into the room she was sitting up, holding the arms of her chair,
shivering and shedding tears.
"What is it? You're not afraid to stay, are you?" cried he explosively,
going to her side.
"Miss Innes has no alternative," put in the doctor curtly. "She is not
in a condition to talk; in fact I doubt if she ought to be moved at all.
I shall be able to judge better when I have examined her injury." He
came a little nearer and stood looking at her. "How did it happen?"
"Just by accident--the frost----" she began, and Ninian cut in.
"Never mind how it happened; the thing is to get it mended as soon as we
can. I'm afraid it's pretty bad, but she's so plucky."
Balmayne's lip curled. "Mr. Guyse has singularly bad luck with the
young ladies who come to stay at the Pele," said he, as if he could not
resist the temptation to see Ninian writhe.
The culprit did no such thing. He stood there in the centre of the
kitchen, as great a contrast to the other man as could be conceived.
He was so dark that to go one night unshorn made a ruffian of him; and
his cut hands, torn clothes and tousled hair, joined to the fact that
his cheek was green and blue with a severe bruise, and that there were
flecks of blood about him, made him seem as unsuitable a companion for a
night's adventure upon the fells as any poor girl could have been
afflicted with.
He kept his self-possession, however. He had just caught sight of his
reflection in the dim little mirror above the high chimney-piece, and he
grinned as he sleeked his black head with both dirty hands.
"I'll leave her in your charge, doctor," said he easily. "Do all you can
for her, and if the time hangs heavy before I get back, you can always
amuse yourself by taking away the last shreds of my character."
For a moment he stooped over the girl. "Keep up your spirit," he
murmured. "Think of home, and Sunia, and nice white bed-clothes."
She gave him a wan little smile; but the force she had put upon herself
to enable her to reach the farm had left her spent. She was within
measurable distance of complete collapse.
The moment the door closed behind Guyse, Balmayne went into the
adjoining parlour and wheeled out a long horsehair couch. Giving rapid
directions to old Mrs. Barcombe, who had come downstairs by this time,
he secured enough pillows to enable him to lay the girl down easily. In
a few minutes he had a hot-water bottle at her feet, and having warmed a
little milk in a saucepan, added a tablespoonful of brandy and made her
drink it before commencing his operations.
The removal of Nin's bandages revealed a more serious wound than he had
anticipated. Investigation proved it to be superficial, but it was
extensive enough to need a good many stitches. As a matter of fact, the
fur cap which the girl wore had deflected the course of the descending
rock, and probably saved her life by causing it to strike obliquely. A
bit of the scalp had been torn quite away from the bone, which was
itself slightly scratched, but not cracked, as he ascertained with
relief.
She was so exhausted that she lay almost torpid under his handling, and
he accomplished the painful business of sterilising and sewing up the
wound with no greater sign of suffering than a few moans. It took him
some time to unfasten her hair, and it was with real regret that he
found himself obliged to cut away a long, thick tress to clear the
ground for his operations.
When the job was done, and he had adjusted the lint, steeped in
antiseptic lotion, with skilfully folded roller bandages, he gave her
more milk and brandy. To his astonishment she had very little fever,
but he expected considerable reaction that night when the effects of the
shock became more manifest.
He covered her warmly and went away, leaving her to herself while he
washed his implements in the scullery.
When he came back her eyes were open, and she murmured a few words of
thanks.
"Is the pain in the head less?"
"Oh, much less."
"You must have fallen a considerable distance."
"I did not fall."
"No?"
"The frost had made the rock dangerous. We were climbing ... Duke's
Crag. A bit of rock broke loose and fell upon me."
"This, I conclude, happened yesterday?"
"Yes."
"Would it be impertinent to ask where you have passed the night?"
"In the mile-castle. There is a little hut there. I was unconscious,
and the snow came on. We could not get home."
"It seems incredible that Guyse should take you to such a place on foot
at such a time of year."
"We went to skate."
"Indeed! Does Guyse usually skate up the face of a cliff?"
She smiled a little. "It was my fault we went up. I wanted to see the
Roman Wall."
He made no reply, gazing into the fire and wondering what he ought to
say or refrain from saying.
Her voice was heard after a long pause. "It can hardly be necessary for
me to assure you that our being out last night in such a way was sheer
accident."
With a start he made some confused apologies. "I am perhaps intrusive
in saying even so much," he concluded, "but I wish it had not
happened--not with that man."
"I might have agreed with you ... yesterday," she whispered faintly.
He flashed a keen look. "Yesterday?"
"But this morning I think ... I am sure ... there could not be a more
perfect companion than Mr. Guyse for such an uncomfortable adventure."
To this he made no reply for some time, but at last, as if he could not
withhold the comment, he remarked, "A man would have to be triply a
brute had he been otherwise than considerate when you were so badly
hurt."
She had no reply to make, and they sat on silently in the warm kitchen.
Old Mrs. Barcombe trudged to and fro with deep sighs and some audible
speculation as to the difficulty of getting the "corp" to the churchyard
in such weather. She invited the girl to go upstairs and have a look at
"feyther," an invitation which the doctor hastily explained that the
young lady was far too ill to accept.
After an interval, when they had the kitchen to themselves, he said
quietly, "Am I to conclude that you intend to remain at the Pele?"
"Why not?" she asked in sudden alarm. "What do you mean?"
A sound without had taken him to the window, and he turned with a grave
face and the news that Mr. Guyse had already returned with the sleigh.
"Oh, I expect he met Ezra come to fetch us," cried Olwen quite eagerly.
"Is he--the man--there too?"
"Yes, fortunately," replied Balmayne coldly, as he turned to her and
began to wrap up her feet in a voluminous red flannel petticoat
belonging to Mrs. Barcombe and to secure this swaddling with a bit of
string.
By the time that Ninian entered the room he had wrapped her, head and
all, in a huge plaid; and without a word he lifted her in his arms and
stood looking at the other man across his burden.
"I conclude you will start for home at once?" he said. "If so, I will
put Miss Innes in the sleigh. Not a moment should be lost in getting
her to bed. I have not written a prescription for her, because it is
not possible for you to have it made up. I will come myself this
evening and bring it with me. Meanwhile, ask Mrs. Guyse to give her
some nitre, if she has any, to keep her warm, and let her have hot milky
food--nothing else until I see her again."
So saying, he bore Olwen out of the room and the house, leaving Guyse to
take farewell of Mrs. Barcombe and remunerate her for her services.
This was quickly done, and as Ninian was snatching up his cap from the
table to hurry out and see how the patient was bestowed he saw lying
across the table a gleaming tress of hair. The bulk looked soft, misty
brown, but all the tips, which stood up and glittered in the light, were
burnished gold. He took it up, folded it with care, and bestowed it in
an inner pocket. Then he walked out of the door with a devil-may-care
smile, and noted with a curl of the lip that Balmayne had laid the
patient right across the front seat, so that he would have not only to
sit behind with Ezra, but to drive from that inconvenient position.
However, he had the justice to admit that if Miss Innes had to lie down
this was the only plan. His own, of holding her upon his knees, would,
in his mind, have been immensely preferable.