HE did not like the job; but it had to be undertaken. That came home to
Norman.
True, an alternative plan existed as a possibility. He might go for
additional help. Two men, or three, would find the work of rescue
easier and safer than one acting alone. For himself, undoubtedly, this
would be the pleasanter line to follow.
But—to leave the unhappy Dewsbury here alone, to leave him for at least
another hour and a half, unaided, suffering, delirious! The thing
seemed scarcely possible, at least in Norman's present softened mood.
What if the ex-agent should die before his return? He would never
forgive himself for having made no attempt to set him free.
He knew what he would feel in Dewsbury's position. It would be awfully
hard to bear, if the other man should go away, leaving him alone in
his misery. "I've been a coward already to-night! I'll not show the
white-feather again," he said resolutely. "I'll do what I can, and let
consequences take care of themselves."
Then he realized a better mode—to leave consequences in the Hands of
God, while simply doing his duty.
He was silent, and a short fervent prayer went up for help: not the
first prayer that he had prayed within the last three hours, following
upon many a prayerless year.
The moaning in the chimney went on monotonously. It acted as a
continuous call to Norman for help.
"I say, man! Wake up and tell me, is there room for me beside you?" he
shouted, putting his face to the opening.
Moans only came in reply: and without further parley, he began his
ascent.
The chimney had been built in old style, and there was room enough
within for a boy or slenderly made man to mount, but in its present
half-ruined condition, the feat was not easy. Bracing himself firmly
across from side to side, his feet against one wall, his back and
shoulders against that opposite, he raised himself inch by inch, moving
with extreme caution, listening with intense anxiety. At any moment,
a further fall of bricks or rubbish might put an end to his exertions
on behalf of Dewsbury—might indeed put an end to his own life. He knew
this and he was afraid, yet he went steadily on.
"I'm coming. Keep quiet. Don't stir," he called repeatedly.
And Dewsbury seemed to understand. The moaning ceased.
Still inch by inch upward, feeling, not seeing; and the way in darkness
and uncertainty seemed long, though really short. Sooner than he knew,
he reached the awkward bend where Dewsbury was wedged in with the fall
of rubble. Norman, setting himself resolutely, could touch the other
man, and the touch brought no response. Had Dewsbury fainted? Was he
dying—or dead? Norman's heart stood still at the suggestion. It would
be a weird position, alone in this chimney with a dead man.
"Anyhow, I've got to clear a way and get him down," he muttered and he
began cautiously pulling away the débris.
Stone after stone, and loose masses of material, went rattling down.
Further loosening proved necessary, before he could feel that it
was possible to move Dewsbury. Then he did his best to rouse the
unconscious man, spoke to him, chafed his hands, and at length, when he
had begun almost to despair, success came. Dewsbury groaned, sighed,
and tried to move.
"Wake up, man. Pull yourself together. We can't stay here all night.
I've got to get you down."
"I—I—how did I come here?" The voice showed confusion. "I—oh, ah—I
know—climbing the cliff—had a fall—"
"Not a cliff, but a chimney. You must have got a blow on the head, I
suspect. Better now, eh? Yes—a chimney!" as the word was repeated.
"Yes, yes,—I—remember—" with an effort. "But—but—you—you're not—Hurst!"
"Yes, I am. A mercy I happened to come too. All right. I'll soon have
you down."
"Hurst! The last man I'd have looked for—" Norman just caught the
murmured words.
"Never mind that. You're better now—eh?"
"I'm pretty well done for and my own fault, too!"
"Nut a bit of it. You're no more done for than I am. You're free now.
It's only a matter of a dozen feet."
"But—but—the stones up above—"
"I've cleared away all I can reach, and I don't believe there's more to
come. You'll have to move cautiously. Now—ready? Hold fast, and don't
hurry. I'll have you down in no time."
He was almost as good as his word. A few anxious seconds, and the older
man had reached firm ground below. Norman dropped easily after, to find
him lying in a heap, barely conscious.
A slight search in the ex-agent's pockets resulted to Norman's delight,
and as he had hoped—in the discovery of a box of matches. Now he knew
what to be at. Finding tokens of a heavy blow on the old man's head, he
bathed it with a handkerchief soaked in dew, then carefully bound it up.
Dewsbury seemed stupefied, and in the midst of these operations fell
fast asleep. Norman decided to let him sleep, and sat patiently by his
side, troubled only by the thought of Dulcie's anxiety at his long
absence. But nothing could be done. He had to stay.
Soon after daybreak, he again bathed and dressed the hurt, and Dewsbury
awoke to full consciousness. At first, he asked no questions, but
watched the other steadily, remorsefully, it might be.
"Come, you're getting on now," Norman remarked. "You'll be able to move
soon."
"Yes: I'm better. I didn't think it would be 'you' that would have
saved my life, Mr. Hurst!"
"O come!—Not so bad as that. Though you had a bad time of it, I'm sure."
"It was quite as bad as that. I've been awake longer than you know.
I've been thinking! And I know what I owe to you. If you hadn't come, I
should have died there, like a rat in a hole. I couldn't have held out
many hours longer. I know what I'm saying. And you saved me at risk to
yourself too! I know that."
"I'm glad to have been able to help you. And if you're well enough now
to be alone for a bit, I'll go and get help. You can't walk."
"Yes, I can. If you'll lend me an arm. I shall do well enough. But I've
got to get something off my mind first. I've done you a wrong, and I'm
sorry. I'd give a good deal if I could undo it."
"Have you? O well, it can't be helped." Norman had never fell so
strangely at peace with all the world as he did this hour.
"I've done you a wrong. I've misjudged you!"
"No. Things have not gone as they should."
"It was no business of mine to meddle. I'll tell you the truth. I wrote
to Mr. Kennedy, and said to him that the place was being mismanaged.
That's why he is coming home."
"It 'has' been mismanaged."
"I wasn't the one to write. I ought to have let it alone. You're
heaping coals of fire on my head, doing this for me. You are new to the
work, and I might have made excuses."
"No." Norman looked towards the east, where a glow was creeping into
the grey dawn. "No. Things have been worse than you thought."
"It'll all come right. You'll do better now."
"I shall not keep the agency. You will have it again." He thought of
what the old man had said in delirium.
"Why, Mr. Hurst! That's nonsense. You'll keep it, of course. And if
you'd just let me help you now and then, I'd do it and welcome."
"If I'd had any sense, I should have gone to you before. Dulcie, my
sister, wished it, and I wouldn't. But that is not all, not nearly all.
There is much worse." In a scarcely audible voice, he told his sad tale.
"I meant to go away last night: never to be seen again. It was Dulcie
who stopped me. And now I shall stay and tell Kennedy everything. Then
I shall leave Apthorne, and you—he will give you back the agency."
"No, he won't. I shall not take it. And you are not going. You've done
wrong, Hurst, but you won't go any farther that way. It'll be once and
for all! You'll pull up sharp, and take warning, and get straight. Now,
look here. I'm a solitary man, without wife or child, and I've got more
than I need. I'll get an advance to-morrow morning from my bank for
the full amount—four hundred odd, is it?—and you shall pay it in to
Mr. Kennedy's account. See? It will mean selling out for me, and I'm
willing, so you needn't say another word. You shall give me an I.O.U.
and when you can pay me back, you shall; and I'll wait till then.
"You've done wrongly, it's true—very wrongly!—but you are going to
live another sort of life. And you've been my friend this night, and
most likely saved 'my' life, which I shall never forget, for I'm not
one of the forgetting sort. I'm sorry for that nice sister of yours,
to whom I've been none too polite in the past. I don't say it wasn't
right of somebody to give Mr. Kennedy a word of warning, as things have
been, but that somebody shouldn't have been me. However, this will
make everything fair and square between us, eh? And I don't doubt Mr.
Kennedy will consent to overlook it, if you can square up the account,
and promise you'll never speculate again."
[Illustration: "I have something of importance to say to you."]
Norman tried to speak, and produced only a wordless sound.
"All right! All right! Thanks will keep. I've got more thanks for you
first after this night. And now I've got to think about walking home.
I'm shaky still."
Norman found his voice. "I can't thank you enough. It's a noble offer.
But I feel I mustn't avail myself of it. Kennedy must know everything.
I couldn't stay here under any sort of false pretences. I shall tell
him the whole, from first to last, let what may come of it. God bless
you for your kind thought, Dewsbury. It can do no harm if I tell
Kennedy that you wanted to lend me the money. But I'd rather—do you
mind?—I'd rather you said nothing about this night's adventure. It's
nothing really—nothing to talk about; and I don't want any little help
I've given you to be used as a set-off to what I've been guilty of! You
see what I mean."
To Norman's relief, perhaps also a little to his surprise, the other
promptly agreed.
"Well, yes, I've a reason too for not talking just now about this," the
ex-agent said rather hesitatingly. "By-and-by, it may be different. But
just now, to tell the truth, I'd rather it shouldn't be known. I shall
say I've had a slight accident, a stone falling on my head. You see!"
"You may trust me to say nothing."
"Yes, yes. I'm sure I may. I've a reason." Then, after a pause—"And you
haven't asked what it was that took me up the chimney."
"You were wandering in your head when I first heard you, and you said
one or two things which gave me a notion. I thought perhaps you'd gone
up in hopes of finding—something."
Norman spoke with deliberation, and the other looked keenly at him.
"That was all?"
"Not quite all. You spoke as if you thought there might be money hidden
away."
"If you'd left me there to die, nobody would have known it but
yourself. There 'may' be!"
Norman laughed. "I'm bad enough, but I'm not that sort!"
"No, you're not. Well, I don't mind saying to you that I've reason to
think there is—perhaps. I met a chap the other day who'd known Thring,
and he told me he was a miser, and had a hoard somewhere, and it's as
likely as not it may be here. But nobody else knows. If it's there,
it's mine by right."
"Thank you for trusting me, Mr. Dewsbury. It won't go any farther, you
may be sure of that."
Dewsbury looked straight at him. "Yes. I'm sure. You and I will have
another hunt, some day, perhaps."
"Do you think you could make a start soon? We ought to get home. I'll
give you my arm."
And the walk, though difficult, was accomplished.