_The Rescue._
When Philip's almost lifeless body was flung over the cliff it rushed
down through the summer air feet foremost. Then, in obedience to the law
of gravity, it spun round until, at the moment of impact with the water,
the head and shoulders plunged first into the waves.
At that point the depth of the sea was sixty feet at the very base of
the rock. At each half-tide, and especially in stormy weather, an
irresistible current swept away all sand deposit, and sheered off
projecting masses of stone so effectually, that, in the course of time,
the overhanging cliff must be undermined and fall into the sea.
High tide or low, there was always sufficient water to float a
battleship, and the place was noted as a favorite nook for salmon, at
that season preparing for their annual visit to the sylvan streams of
the moorland valleys.
The lordly salmon is peculiar in his habits. Delighting, at one period
of the year, to roam through the ocean wilds, at another he seeks
shallow rivers, in whose murmuring fords he scarce finds room to turn
his portly frame.
And the law protects him most jealously.
In the river he is guarded like a king, and when he clusters at its
mouth, lazily making up his mind to try a change of water, as a monarch
might visit Homburg for a change of air, he can only be caught under
certain severe restrictions.
He must not be netted within so many yards of the seaward limit of the
estuary; he may not be caught wholesale; the nets must have a maximum
length of four hundred feet; they must not be set between 7 P. M. on a
Friday and 7 A. M. on a Monday.
Viewed in every aspect, the salmon is given exceptional chances of
longevity. His price is high as his culinary reputation, and the obvious
sequel to all these precautions is that certain nefarious persons known
as poachers try every artifice to defeat the law and capture him.
A favorite dodge is to run out a large quantity of nets in just such a
tideway as the foot of the cliff crowned by Grange House. None can spy
the operations from the land, while a close watch seaward gives many
chances of escape from enterprising water bailiffs, who, moreover, can
sometimes be made conveniently drunk.
When Philip hurtled into the placid sea his naked body shone white, like
the plumage of some gigantic bird.
Indeed, a man who was leisurely pulling a coble in a zigzag
course--while two others paid out a net so that its sweeping curves
might embarrass any wandering salmon who found himself within its
meshes--marked the falling body in its instantaneous passage, and
thought at first that some huge sea fowl had dived after its prey.
But the loud splash startled the three men. Not so did a cormorant or a
white-winged solan plunge to secure an unwary haddock.
The net attendants straightened their backs; the oarsman stood up. The
disturbance was so near, so unexpected, that it alarmed them. They
looked aloft, thinking that a rock had fallen; they looked to the small
eddy caused by Philip's disappearance to see if any sign would be given
explanatory of an unusual occurrence.
Were Philip thrown from such a height when in full possession of his
senses, in all likelihood such breath as was in his lungs at the moment
of his fall would have been expelled by the time he reached the water.
He must have resisted the rush of air, uttered involuntary cries,
struggled wildly with his limbs.
But, as it chanced, Mason's rough handling in carrying him to the
balcony made active the vital forces that were restoring him to
consciousness.
He was on the very threshold of renewed life when he fell, and the
downward flight helped rather than retarded the process. Indeed, the
rush of air was grateful. He drank in the vigorous draught, and inflated
his lungs readily. His sensations were those of a man immersed in a warm
bath, and the shock of his concussion with the surface of the sea in
nowise retarded the recuperative effect of the dive.
Of course he was fortunate, after falling from such a height, in
striking the water with his right shoulder. No portion of the human body
is so fitted to bear a heavy blow as the shoulders and upper part of the
back. Had he dropped vertically on his head or his feet he might have
sustained serious injury. As it was, after a tremendous dive, and a
curve of many yards beneath the sea, he bobbed up inside the salmon net
within a few feet of the boat.
Instantly the fishermen saw that it was a man, an absolutely naked man,
who had thus dropped from the sky.
They were amazed, very frightened indeed, but they readily hauled at the
dragging net and brought Philip nearer the boat. Even at this final
stage of his adventure he incurred a terrible risk.
Unable to help himself in the least degree, and swallowing salt water
rapidly now, he rolled away inertly as the net rose under the energetic
efforts of his rescuers. There was grave danger that he should drop back
into the depths, and then he must sink like a stone.
Wearing their heavy sea boots, none of the fishermen, though each was an
expert swimmer, dared to jump into the water. But the oarsman, being a
person of resource, and reasoning rapidly that not the most enthusiastic
salmon bailiff in England would pursue him in such manner, grabbed a
boathook and caught Philip with it beneath the arm.
He only used the slight force needful to support him until another could
grasp him.
Then they lifted the half-drowned man on board, turned him on his face
to permit the water to flow out of his lungs, and, instantly reversing
him, began to raise his elbows and press them against his sides
alternately.
Soon he breathed again, but he remained unconscious, and a restored
circulation caused blood to flow freely from the back of his head.
Of course the men were voicing their surprise throughout this
unparalleled experience.
"Whea is he?"
"Where did he coom frae?"
"Nobbut a loony wad hae jumped off yon crag."
"He's neaked as when he was born."
At last one of them noticed his broken scalp. He pointed out the wound
to his companions.
"That was never dean by fallin' i' t' watter," he said.
They agreed. The thing was mysteriously serious. Philip's youth, his
stature, his delicate skin, the texture of his hands, the cleanliness of
his teeth and nails, were quick tokens to the fisherman that something
quite beyond the common run of seaside accidents had taken place. The
oarsman, a man of much intelligence, hit on an explanation.
"He was swarmin' doon t' cliff after t' birds," he cried. "Mebbe
fotygraffin' 'em. I've heerd o' sike doin's."
"Man alive," cried one of his mates, "he wouldn't strip te t' skin for
that job."
This was unanswerable. Not one gave a thought to the invisible Grange
House.
They held a hasty consultation. One man doffed his jersey for Philip's
benefit, and then they hastily covered him with oilskin coat and
overalls.
It was now nearly dark, so they ran out a marking buoy for their net,
shipped oars, and pulled lustily to their remote fishing hamlet, three
miles away from the outlet of the river which flowed through Scarsdale.
Arrived there, they carried Philip to the house of one who was the proud
owner of a "spare" bed.
And now a fresh difficulty arose. A doctor, and eke a policeman, should
be summoned. A messenger was dispatched at once for the nearest medical
man--who lived a mile and a half away, but the policeman, who dwelt in
the village, was a bird of another color.
These men were poachers, lawbreakers. At various times they had all been
fined for illegal fishing. The policeman was of an inquiring turn of
mind. He might fail to understand the mystery of the cliff, but he would
most certainly appreciate every detail of their presence in that
particular part of the sea which lapped its base.
So they smoked, and talked, and tried rough remedies until the doctor
arrived.
To him they told the exact truth; he passed no comment, examined his
patient, cut away the hair from the scalp wound, shook his head over it,
bound it up, administered some stimulant, and sat down to await the
return of consciousness.
But this was long delayed, and when, at last, Philip opened his eyes, he
only rallied sufficiently to sleep.
The doctor promised to come early next day, and left.
Throughout Wednesday and Thursday Philip was partly delirious, waking at
times to a vague consciousness of his surroundings, but mostly asking
vacantly for "Evelyn."
Often he fought with a person named "Jocky Mason," and explained that
"Sir Philip" was not in Yorkshire at all.
The wife of one of his rescuers was assiduous in her attentions. Most
fortunately, for these fisherfolk were very poor, that lure spread
beneath the cliff inveigled an unprecedented number of salmon, so she
could afford to buy eggs and milk in abundance, and the doctor brought
such medicines as were needed.
Gradually Philip recovered, until, at nine o'clock, on Thursday night,
he came into sudden and full use of his senses.
Then the doctor was sent for urgently; Philip insisted on getting up at
once. He was kept in bed almost by main force.
With the doctor's arrival there was a further change. Here was an
educated man, who listened attentively to his patient's story, and did
not instantly conclude that he was raving.
He helped, too, by his advice. It was utterly impossible to send a
telegram to London that night. No matter what the sufferings of anxious
friends concerning him, they could not be assuaged until the morning.
Yes, he would find money and clothes, accompany him, if need be, on the
journey if he were able to travel to-morrow--attend to all things, in
fact, in his behalf--for millionaires are scarce birds in secluded
moorland districts. But, meanwhile, he must take a drink of milk and
beef essence, rest a little while, take this draught, in a small bottle
indicated, and sleep.
Sleep was quite essential. He would awake in the morning very much
better. The knock on the head was not so serious as it looked at first
sight. Probably he would not even feel it again if he wore a soft cap
for some days. The broken skin was healing nicely, and concussion of the
brain had as many gradations as fever, which ranges from a slight cold
to Yellow Jack.
In his case he was suffering from two severe shocks, but the crisis was
passed, and he was able, even now, to get up if it could serve any
possible purpose.
All this, save the promise of help, the doctor said with his tongue in
his cheek. He had not the slightest intention of permitting Philip to
travel next day. It was out of the question. Better reason with him in
the morning, and, if needful, bring his friends to Yorkshire rather than
send him to London.
But--the police must be informed at once. It was more than likely the
criminals had left the Grange House soon after the attempted murder.
Yet, if Philip did not object, a policeman should be summoned, and the
tale told to him. The man should be warned to keep the story out of the
papers.
The arrival of the constable at a late hour created consternation in the
household. But the doctor knew his people.
"Have no fear, Mrs. Verril," he whispered to the fisherman's wife, "your
husband caught a fine fish when he drew Mr. Anson into his net. He will
not need to poach salmon any more."
The doctor sat by Philip's bed while the policeman made clumsy notes of
that eventful Tuesday night's occurrences.
Then, in his turn, he amazed his hearers.
He described his encounter with another Philip Anson in the highroad, at
an hour when the real personage of that name was unquestionably being
attended to by the doctor himself in the fisherman's cottage.
"Ay," he said, in his broad Yorkshire dialect, "he was as like you, sir,
as twea peas, on'y, now that I see ye, he wasn't sike a--sike a
gentleman as you, an' he talked wi' a queer catch in his voice. T'uther
chap 'ud be Jocky Mason, 'cordin' te your discription; soa it seems to
me 'at this 'ere Dr. Williams, 'oo druv' you frae t' station, must ha'
took yer clothes, an' twisted his feace te luke as mich like you as he
could."
The doctor cut short further conversation. He insisted on his patient
seeking rest, but in response to Philip's urgent request, he wrote a
long telegram, which he promised would be handed in when the Scarsdale
telegraph office opened next morning.
And this was Philip's message to Evelyn:
"I have suffered detention since Tuesday night at the hands of
Jocky Mason, whose name you will recollect, and another man,
unknown. I am now cared for by friends, and recovering rapidly from
injuries received in a struggle. I return to London to-day." The
doctor smiled, but said nothing. "My only fear is that you must
have endured terrible uncertainty, if by any chance you imagined I
was missing. Tell Abingdon.
"PHILIP ANSON."
And then followed his address, care of the doctor.
"Is that all?" said Anson's new-found friend.
Philip smiled feebly, for he was very weak.
"There is one matter, small in many ways, but important, too. You might
add: 'I hope you have not lost Blue Atom by this mischance.'"
He sank back exhausted.
It was on the tip of the doctor's tongue to ask:
"What in the world is a Blue Atom?"
But he forbore. The sleeping potion was taking effect, and he would not
retard it. He subsequently wrote a telegram on his own account:
"Mr. Anson is convalescing, but a journey to-day is impossible. A
reassuring message from you will save him from impatience, and help
his recovery. He has been delirious until last night. Now all he
needs is rest and freedom from worry."
His man waited at Scarsdale post office until a reply came next day.
Then he rode with it to the village where Philip was yet sleeping
peacefully. Indeed, the clatter of hoofs without aroused him, and he
opened his eyes to find the doctor sitting as though he had never
quitted his side.
Evelyn's message must have caused much speculation as to its true
significance in the minds of those telegraphic officials through whose
hands it passed.
It read:
"Am absolutely bewildered. Cannot help feeling sure that news
received to-day really comes from you. In that case, who is it who
has been wiring repeatedly, in your name, from Station Hotel, York?
Do not know what to think. Am going immediately to Abingdon. Please
send more information. Suspense unbearable.
"EVELYN."
If ever there was need for action it was needed now. Anson's strenuous
energy brought forth the full strength of his indomitable will. The
pallor fled from his cheeks, the dullness from his eyes.
"Dr. Scarth," he cried, "you must not keep me here in view of that
telegram from the woman I love. Believe me, I will be worse, not better,
if you force me to remain inactive, chained almost helpless in this
village, and miles away from even a telegraph office. Help me now, and
you will never regret it. I ask you----"
The doctor cut short his excited outburst.
"Very well," he said. "Whatever you do, try and cease from troubling
yourself about circumstances which a few hours will put right. I must
return to my dispensary for one hour. Then I will come for you, bring
some clothes and the necessary money, and we will leave Scarsdale for
York at 2.30 P. M. That is the best I can promise. It must satisfy
you."
He gave hasty directions as to his patient's food, and left him.
Another telegram arrived, with it the policeman, in the dogcart of the
Fox and Hounds Inn.
"Abingdon went to Devonshire yesterday. His wife says he suspected
that something had gone wrong. Unhappily we do not know his
address, but he wires that he is not to be expected home to-day. Do
ask Dr. Scarth to send further news if unable yourself.
"EVELYN."
Philip hesitated to be explicit as to the real nature of the outrage
inflicted on him by Jocky Mason and his unknown accomplice. He hastily
determined that the best assurance he could give to the distracted girl
was one of his immediate departure from the village.
The policeman helped him as to local information, and he wrote the
following:
"Leaving Scarsdale at 2.30 P. M. Passing through Malton at four
o'clock, and reach York five-ten. Dr. Scarth permits journey, and
accompanies me. Send any further messages care of respective
station masters prior to hours named. Accept statement implicitly
that I will reach London to-night. Will wire you from York certain;
earlier if necessary. As for identity, you will recall May 15th,
Hyde Park, near Stanhope Gate, four o'clock."
Evelyn and he alone knew that at that spot on the day and hour named,
they became engaged.
The policeman valiantly lent the few shillings necessary, and the sturdy
horse from the Fox and Hounds tore back to Scarsdale.
But the constable was of additional value. His researches in Scarsdale
provided a fairly accurate history and description of the two denizens
of the Grange House.
Philip himself had, of course, seen "Dr. Williams" in broad daylight and
undisguised--not yet could he remember where he heard that
smooth-tongued voice. Jocky Mason he only pictured hazily after the
lapse of years, but the policeman's details of his personal appearance
coincided exactly with Philip's recollection, allowing for age and the
hardships of convict life.
At last came the doctor, with a valise.
"I am sorry," he laughed, "but all the money I can muster at such short
notice is twelve pounds."
"I began life once before with three halfpence," was the cheery reply.
The few inhabitants of the hamlet gathered to see them off, and the
fisherman's wife was moved to screw her apron into her eyes when Philip
shook hands with her, saying that she would see him again in a few days.
"Eh, but he's a bonny lad," was her verdict. "'Twas a fair sham' te
treat him soa."
At Scarsdale and at Malton again came loving words from Evelyn. Now she
knew who it was who telegraphed to her.
And the mysterious Philip Anson at York remained dumb.
"The wretch!" she said to her mother. "To dare to open my letter and
send me impudent replies."
More than once she thought of going to York to meet her lover, but she
wisely decided against this course. Mr. Abingdon was out of town, and
Philip might need some one he could trust to obey his instructions in
London.
At ten minutes past five Anson and Dr. Scarth arrived in York.
A long discourse in the train gave them a plan. They would not appeal at
once to the police. Better clear the mist that hid events before the aid
of the law was invoked. There were two of them, and the assistance of
the hotel people could be obtained if necessary.
They hurried first to the station master's office. Anything for Anson?
Yes. Only a few words of entreaty from Evelyn to avoid further risk.
Then to the hotel. They sought the manager.
"Is there a man staying here who represents that his name is Philip
Anson?"
The question was unusual in its form, disturbing in its innuendo. The
man who asked it was pale, with unnaturally brilliant brown eyes, a
gentleman in manner, but attired in ill-fitting garments, and beneath
his tweed cap he wore a surgical bandage.
And Philip Anson, the millionaire, of whom he spoke thus contemptuously,
was staying in the hotel, and paying for its best rooms.
But the manager was perfectly civil. The presence of Dr. Scarth, a
reputable-looking stranger, gave evidence that something important was
afoot. Mr. Anson was in his rooms at the moment. Their names would be
sent up.
Dr. Scarth, quick to appreciate the difficulties of the situation,
intervened quietly.
"Is he alone?"
"Yes."
"Then it will be better if you accompany us in person. An unpleasant
matter can be arranged without undue publicity."
This was alarming. The manager went with them instantly. They paused at
the door indicated.
"Come with me," said Philip, turning the handle without knocking.
Grenier, intent on the perusal of a letter he had just written, looked
up quickly.
He was face to face with Philip Anson.