Chapter Sixteen.A Brush near Kandahar.While Raby that night dreamed troublously of the events of the day, a soldier was sitting in his tent near Kandahar, some four thousand or more miles away, reading a letter. He was an officer; his sword lay beside him on the table, his boots were off, and a flannel coat took the place of the regimental jacket which lay beside his saddle on the floor. If these signs were not sufficient to prove that for the time being he was off duty, his attitude as he lolled back in his camp-chair, with his feet on the table considerably above the level of his chin, reading his letter by the uncertain light of a lamp, would have left little doubt on the subject. So engrossed indeed was he that he was unaware of the presence of his native servant in the tent preparing supper, and read aloud to himself. The envelope of the letter, which lay on the table, was a foreign one with an English stamp, and addressed in a feminine hand.The soldier, having completed his first perusal, turned back to the beginning, reading partly to himself, partly aloud.“‘October 4’—three months ago or more!—before she heard of this business. ‘You poor dull darling’—nice names to call one’s father, true enough, though, at the time, it was brutally dull at Simla—‘I can fancy how you hate loafing about all day with nothing to do but try and keep cool and find a place to sleep in where the flies can’t worry you.’ Hum! Picture of a soldier’s life! A little different from the usual impression, but not very wide of the mark after all.”Then he read to himself for a bit something which made his weather-beaten face soften, and brought a sparkle to his eyes.“Bless the child!” he murmured; “she doesn’t forget her old father! ‘How glad I shall be if you get sent to the front, for I know how you hate doing nothing. If you are, I shall be foolish, of course, and imagine all sorts of horrors whenever I see a letter.’ That’s the way girls back their fathers up! ‘Oh, why couldn’t I be a soldier too, and ride behind you into action, instead of dawdling here doing no good to anybody, and living like a fine young lady instead of a simple soldier’s daughter?’ Whew! what a fine little colour-sergeant she’d make! Wouldn’t Mrs Grundy sit up if she read that?“Hum!” he went on, after reading a little further. “‘I oughtn’t to grumble. Uncle Rimbolt is the kindest of protectors, and lets me have far too many nice things. Aunt has a far better idea of what a captain’s daughter should be. She doesn’t spoil me. She’s like a sort of animated extinguisher, and whenever I flicker up a bit she’s down on me. I enjoy it, and I think she is far better pleased that I give her something to do than if I was awfully meek. It all helps to pass the time till my dear old captain comes home.’ Heigho! that means she’s miserable, and I’m not to guess it! I had my doubts of Charlotte Rimbolt when I let her go to Wildtree. Poor little Raby! she’s no match for an animated extinguisher!“‘Percy,’ continued the letter, ‘is as lively and full of “dodges” as ever. He soon got over his kidnapping adventure. Indeed, the only difference it has made is that we have now one, or rather two, new inmates at Wildtree, for Uncle Rimbolt has employed Percy’s rescuer as his librarian, and the dog has, of course, taken up his abode here too. He is a perfect darling! so handsome and clever! He took to me the first moment I saw him, and he would do anything for me.’ Really!” said the father; “that’s coming it rather strong, isn’t it, with the new librar— Oh, perhaps she means the dog! Ha, ha! ‘Aunt Rimbolt gets some fine extinguisher practice with this newcomer, against whom she has a most unaccountable prejudice. He is very shy and gentlemanly, but I am sure Percy never had a better friend. He has become ever so much steadier.’ Did you ever know such letter-writers as these girls are? Which newcomer does she mean, the fellow who’s a perfect darling, or the fellow who’s shy and gentlemanly? and which, in the name of wonder, is the man and which the dog? Upon my word, something awful might be going on, and I should be none the wiser! ‘Julius nearly always escorts me in my walks. He issucha dear friendly fellow, and always carries my bag or parasol. Aunt, of course, doesn’t approve of our being so devoted to one another, for she looks upon Julius as an interloper; but it doesn’t matter much to us. Percy often comes with us, but Julius rather resents a third person. He thinks—so do I, much as I like Percy—that two are company and three are none.’”Major Atherton—for the soldier was no other—leaned back in his chair, and fanned himself with the letter.“Howon eartham I to know who or what she is talking about? If it’s not the dog, upon my honour, Aunt Rimbolt— It can’t be the dog, though. She calls him Julius; and why should she take the boy along with them if it wasn’t the librarian puppy she walked with? Rimbolt ought to look after things better than that!“‘Uncle Rimbolt thinks very highly of his newprotégé. He is so quiet; it is quite painful sometimes talking to him. I’m sure he has had a lot of trouble; he has a sort of hunted look sometimes which is quite pathetic. Aunt hardly ever lets him come into the drawing-room, and when she does it is generally in order to snub him. I fancy he feels his anomalous position in this house very much.’”“My patience! That’s a mild way of putting it!” exclaimed the major; “the anomalous position of this hunted-looking, shy librarian who carries her parasol and escorts her about, and suggests to Percy that two are company and three are none! All I can say is the sooner we get into Kandahar and are paid off home the better!”“What’s that you’re saying about Kandahar, old man?” said a voice at the door of the tent, and there entered a handsome jaunty-looking officer of about Atherton’s age.“That you, Forrester? Come in. I’ve just had a letter from my little girl.”A shade crossed Captain Forrester’s cheery face.“Your luck, my dear boy. I haven’t had a line.”“Perhaps there’s a letter for you at head-quarters.”“I doubt it. But don’t talk about it. How’s your girl flourishing?”“Upon my honour, she seems to be a little too flourishing,” said the major, taking up his letter with a look of puzzled concern. “You may be a better English scholar than I am, Forrester, and be able to make head or tail of this. As far as I can make it out, Raby is flourishing very decidedly. Here, read this second sheet.”Captain Forrester took the letter, and read the part indicated carefully.The major watched him anxiously till he had done.“Well?” he asked, as his comrade handed it back.“It seems to be a case,” said the latter.“That’s what I thought. I don’t like that carrying her parasol, and telling the boy that two are company—”Captain Forrester burst into a loud laugh.“Why, you glorious old donkey, that’s the dog!”“Nonsense; she’d never say a dog was shy and gentlemanly, and looked as if he’d had a lot of trouble.”“No,” said the captain holding his sides, “that’s the librarian.”“Who—the fellow Julius she talks about?” asked the major, beginning to feel very warm.“The fellow Julius! Why, Julius is the dog!”The major rose from his seat in agitation, and stood before his friend.“Forrester,” said he solemnly, “as soon as I see the joke I’ll laugh. Meanwhile tell me this. Who in the name of mystery is it who feels his anomalous position at Wildtree, the man or the dog?”Captain Forrester held gallantly on to his chair to prevent falling off; and the native without, hearing his shouts, looked in at the door to see what the sahib wanted.“My dear fellow,” said he at last, “I begin to think I know more than you. Can’t you see this daughter of yours is decidedly interested in this youngprotégéof her uncle?”“Most decidedly I see that.”“And that in order to throw dust in your fatherly old eyes, she makes a great gush about the dog Julius, and says hardly a word about the master, whose name does not appear.”Major Atherton took up the letter again and glanced through it, and a light began to break on his puzzled countenance.“Then,” said he, “the fellow who’s handsome and clever and a perfect darling is—”“Is the bow-wow. And the fellow who’s hunted-looking and not allowed in the drawing-room is his master.”Major Atherton resumed his chair, and once more planted his feet on the table.“That is a way of putting it, certainly. If so, it’s a relief.”“My dear boy, keep your eye on that librarian, or he may change places with his dog in double-quick time.”The major laughed, and a pause ensued. Then Forrester said—“Two or three days more, and we ought to be in Kandahar.”“We are to have a stiff brush or two before we get there,” said the major; “any hour now may bring us to close quarters.”There was another pause. Captain Forrester fidgeted about uneasily, and presently said—“It’s possible, old man, only one of us may get through. If I am the one who is left behind, will you promise me something?”“You know I will.”“That boy of mine, Atherton, is somewhere, I’m as sure of it as that I’m sitting here. He’s vanished. My letters to Grangerham cannot all have miscarried, and they certainly have none of them been answered. My mother-in-law, as I told you, died in the south of England. The boy may have been with her, or left behind in Grangerham, or he may be anywhere. I told you of the letter I had from the school?”“Yes; he had had an accident and gone home damaged—crippled, in fact.”“Yes,” said Captain Forrester, with a groan, “crippled—and perhaps left without a friend.”“You want me to promise to find him if you are not there to do it, and be a father to him. You needn’t ask it, old man, for I promise.”“I’ve nothing to leave him,” said Captain Forrester, “except my sword and this watch—”“And the good name of a gallant soldier. I will, if it is left to me to do it, take the boy all three.”“Thanks, Atherton. You know that I would do the same by you, old fellow.”“You may have the chance. That girl of mine, you know,” added the major, with a tremble in his voice, “would have what little I have saved, which is not much. She’s a good girl, but she would need a protector if I was not there.”“She shall have it,” said his friend.“I’m not sure that she’s happy at Wildtree,” continued the father, with a smile, “despite the dog and his master. Rimbolt’s a bookworm, and doesn’t see what goes on under his nose, and her aunt, as she says, is an animated extinguisher. It always puzzled me how Rimbolt came to marry Charlotte Halgrove.”“Halgrove? Was she the sister of your old college friend?”“Yes. Rimbolt, Halgrove, and I were inseparable when we were at Oxford. Did I ever tell you of our walking tour in the Lakes? We ruled a bee-line across the map with a ruler and walked along it, neck or nothing. Of course you know about it. We’ve sobered down since then. Rimbolt married Halgrove’s sister, and I married Rimbolt’s. I had no sister, so Halgrove remained a bachelor.”“What became of him?”“I fancy he made a mess of it, poor fellow. He went in for finance, and it was too much for him. Not that he lost his money; but he became a little too smart. He dropped a hundred or two of mine, and a good deal more of Rimbolt’s—but he could spare it. The last I heard of him was about twelve years ago. He had a partner called Jeffreys; a stupid honest sort of fellow who believed in him. I had a newspaper sent me with an account of an inquest on poor Jeffreys, who had gone out of his mind after some heavy losses. There was no special reason to connect Halgrove with the losses, except that Jeffreys would never have dreamed of speculating if he hadn’t been led on. And it’s only fair to Halgrove to say that after the event he offered to take charge of Jeffreys’ boy, at that time eight years old. That shows there was some good in him.”“Unless,” suggested Captain Forrester, “there was some money along with the boy.”“Well, I dare say if he’s alive still, Rimbolt will know something of him; so I may come across him yet,” said the major; and there the conversation ended.Major Atherton’s prophecy of a brush with the enemy was not long in being fulfilled.Early next day the expeditionary force was ordered forward, the cavalry regiment in which the two friends were officers being sent ahead to reconnoitre and clear the passes.The march lay for some distance along a rocky valley, almost desolate of habitations, and at parts so cumbered with rocks and stones as to be scarcely passable by the horses, still less by the artillery, which struggled forward in front of the main body. The rocks on the right bank towered to a vast height, breaking here and there into a gorge which admitted some mountain stream down into the river below, and less frequently falling back to make way for a wild saddle-back pass into the plains above.Along such a course every step was perilous, for the enemy had already been reported as hovering at the back of these ugly rocks, and might show their teeth at any moment.For an hour or two, however, the march continued uninterrupted. The few scattered Afghans who had appeared for a moment on the heights above had fallen back after exchanging shots, with no attempt at serious resistance. The main body had been halted in the valley, awaiting the return of the scouts. The horses had been unharnessed from the guns, and the officers were snatching a hurried meal, when Captain Forrester at the head of a few troopers scampered into the lines. The news instantly spread that the enemy had been seen ahead, and was even then being chased by the cavalry up one of the defiles to the right.Instantly, and without even waiting for the word of command, every man was in his place ready to go on. The guns, with Captain Forrester’s troop as escort, dashed forward to hold the defile; while the main body, divided into two divisions—one to follow the guns, the other to reach the plain above by a nearer pass—started forward into action.The cavalry, meanwhile, with Major Atherton at their head, were already engaged in a hot scrimmage.Following their usual tactics, the Afghans, after exchanging shots at the entrance of the pass, had turned tail and dashed through the defile, with the English at their heels. Then, suddenly turning as they reached the plain beyond, they faced round on their pursuers, not yet clear of the rocky gorge. In the present instance, however, when within about a hundred yards of the head of the column, they wheeled round again, and once more bolted into the open.A stern chase ensued over the rough broken ground, the enemy now and then making a show of halting, but as often giving way and tempting the cavalry farther out into the plain.The Afghans numbered only about two hundred horsemen, but it was quite evident from their tactics that they had a much larger body in reserve, and Major Atherton was decidedly perplexed as to what he should do. For if he pursued them too far, he might be cut off from his own men; if, on the other hand, he made a dash and rode them down before they could get clear, he might cut them off from their main body, and so clip the enemy’s wings.The enemy settled the question for him. Just as he was looking round for the first sign of Forrester and the guns in the pass, the plain suddenly swarmed with Afghans. From every quarter they bore down on him, horse and foot, and even guns, seeming almost to spring, like the teeth of Cadmus, from the earth.It was no time for hesitation or doubt. Retreat was out of the question. Equally hopeless was it to warn the troops who were coming up. There was nothing for it but to stand at bay till the main body came up, and then, if they were left to do it, fight their way out and join forces.The major therefore brought his men to a corner of the rocks, where on two sides, at any rate, attack would be difficult; and there, ordering them to dismount and form square, stood grimly.A cruel half-hour followed. Man after man of that little band went down before the dropping fire of the enemy. Had the guns been able to command the position, they would have fallen by tens and scores. Major Atherton, in the middle of the square, had his horse shot under him before five minutes were past. Alas! there was no lack of empty saddles to supply the loss, for before a quarter of an hour had gone by, out of a dozen officers scarcely half remained.Still they stood, waiting for the first boom of the guns at the head of the pass, and often tempted to break away from their posts and die fighting. For of all a soldier’s duties, that of standing still under fire is the hardest.Captain Forrester, dashing up the defile at the head of the artillery, had been prepared to find a lively skirmish in progress between his own comrades and the handful of Afghans who were luring them on. But when, on emerging on to the plain, he found himself and the guns more than half surrounded by the enemy, and no sign anywhere of Atherton, he felt that the “brush” was likely to be a very stiff one.The Afghans had set their hearts on those guns; that was evident by the wild triumphant yell with which they charged down on them. Forrester had barely time to order a halt and swing the foremost gun into action when a pell-mell scrimmage was going on in the very midst of the gunners. The first shot fired wildly did little or no execution, but it warned Atherton that his time was come, and signalled to the troops still toiling up the pass what to expect when they got through.That fight round the guns was the most desperate of the day. The Afghans knew that to capture them as they stood, meant the certain annihilation of the British troops as they defiled into the plain. Forrester knew it, too.Unlike Atherton, he had no protected sides. The enemy was all round him. The little troop at his command was barely able to cover one side of the square; and the gunners, obliged to fight hand to hand where they stood, were powerless to advance a step. Every moment was golden. Already a distant bugle-note announced that Atherton’s horse had broken loose, and were somewhere within reach—probably cutting their way through the guns. And within a few minutes the head of the column ascending the defile would also come upon the scene. Hold the guns till then, and all might yet be safe.So decided Captain Forrester, as with a cheery smile on his handsome face he shouted to his men to hold out, and fought like a lion beside the foremost gun.The Afghans, baffled by the stubborn resistance, and aware of the danger of delay, hurled themselves upon that devoted little bond with a fury before which nothing could stand. Man after man dropped across his gun; but still Forrester shouted to his men and swung his sabre. It was no time for counting heads. He hardly knew whether, when he shouted, thirty, or twenty, or only ten shouted back. All he knew was the enemy had not got the guns yet, and that was sufficient!A bugle! Five minutes more, and they might still laugh at the foe. The bugle-note came from Atherton’s men, who at the first sound of the gun had vaulted with a cheer to their horses and dashed towards the sound. Many a brave comrade they left behind them, and many more dropped right and left as they cut their way forward. Atherton, at their head, peered eagerly through the dust and smoke. All he could see was a surging mass of human beings, in the midst of which it was impossible to discern anything but the flash of sabres, and at one spot a few British helmets among the turbans of the enemy. That was enough for Major Atherton. Towards that spot he waved on his men, and ordered his bugler to sound a rousing signal. The bugler obeyed, and fell at the major’s side before the note had well ceased! The struggle round the guns increased and blackened. One after another the British helmets went down, and the wild shouts of the Afghans rose triumphantly above them.At length Atherton saw a tall figure, bareheaded and black with smoke, spring upon a gun-carriage, and with the butt end of a carbine fell two or three of the enemy who scrambled up to dislodge him.Atherton knew that form among a thousand, and he knew too that Forrester was making his last stand.“Cheer, men, and come on!” cried he to his men, rising in his stirrups and leading the shout.The head of the column, just then emerging from the gorge, heard that shout, and answered it with a bugle flourish, as they fixed bayonets and rushed forward to charge. At the same moment, a cheer and the boom of a gun on the left proclaimed that the other half of the column had at that moment reached the plain, and were also bearing down on the enemy’s flank.But Atherton saw and heeded nothing but that tall heroic figure on the carriage. At the first sound of the troopers’ shout Forrester had turned his head, smiling, and raised his carbine aloft, as though to wave answer to the cheer. So he stood for a moment. Then he reeled and fell back upon the gun he had saved.
While Raby that night dreamed troublously of the events of the day, a soldier was sitting in his tent near Kandahar, some four thousand or more miles away, reading a letter. He was an officer; his sword lay beside him on the table, his boots were off, and a flannel coat took the place of the regimental jacket which lay beside his saddle on the floor. If these signs were not sufficient to prove that for the time being he was off duty, his attitude as he lolled back in his camp-chair, with his feet on the table considerably above the level of his chin, reading his letter by the uncertain light of a lamp, would have left little doubt on the subject. So engrossed indeed was he that he was unaware of the presence of his native servant in the tent preparing supper, and read aloud to himself. The envelope of the letter, which lay on the table, was a foreign one with an English stamp, and addressed in a feminine hand.
The soldier, having completed his first perusal, turned back to the beginning, reading partly to himself, partly aloud.
“‘October 4’—three months ago or more!—before she heard of this business. ‘You poor dull darling’—nice names to call one’s father, true enough, though, at the time, it was brutally dull at Simla—‘I can fancy how you hate loafing about all day with nothing to do but try and keep cool and find a place to sleep in where the flies can’t worry you.’ Hum! Picture of a soldier’s life! A little different from the usual impression, but not very wide of the mark after all.”
Then he read to himself for a bit something which made his weather-beaten face soften, and brought a sparkle to his eyes.
“Bless the child!” he murmured; “she doesn’t forget her old father! ‘How glad I shall be if you get sent to the front, for I know how you hate doing nothing. If you are, I shall be foolish, of course, and imagine all sorts of horrors whenever I see a letter.’ That’s the way girls back their fathers up! ‘Oh, why couldn’t I be a soldier too, and ride behind you into action, instead of dawdling here doing no good to anybody, and living like a fine young lady instead of a simple soldier’s daughter?’ Whew! what a fine little colour-sergeant she’d make! Wouldn’t Mrs Grundy sit up if she read that?
“Hum!” he went on, after reading a little further. “‘I oughtn’t to grumble. Uncle Rimbolt is the kindest of protectors, and lets me have far too many nice things. Aunt has a far better idea of what a captain’s daughter should be. She doesn’t spoil me. She’s like a sort of animated extinguisher, and whenever I flicker up a bit she’s down on me. I enjoy it, and I think she is far better pleased that I give her something to do than if I was awfully meek. It all helps to pass the time till my dear old captain comes home.’ Heigho! that means she’s miserable, and I’m not to guess it! I had my doubts of Charlotte Rimbolt when I let her go to Wildtree. Poor little Raby! she’s no match for an animated extinguisher!
“‘Percy,’ continued the letter, ‘is as lively and full of “dodges” as ever. He soon got over his kidnapping adventure. Indeed, the only difference it has made is that we have now one, or rather two, new inmates at Wildtree, for Uncle Rimbolt has employed Percy’s rescuer as his librarian, and the dog has, of course, taken up his abode here too. He is a perfect darling! so handsome and clever! He took to me the first moment I saw him, and he would do anything for me.’ Really!” said the father; “that’s coming it rather strong, isn’t it, with the new librar— Oh, perhaps she means the dog! Ha, ha! ‘Aunt Rimbolt gets some fine extinguisher practice with this newcomer, against whom she has a most unaccountable prejudice. He is very shy and gentlemanly, but I am sure Percy never had a better friend. He has become ever so much steadier.’ Did you ever know such letter-writers as these girls are? Which newcomer does she mean, the fellow who’s a perfect darling, or the fellow who’s shy and gentlemanly? and which, in the name of wonder, is the man and which the dog? Upon my word, something awful might be going on, and I should be none the wiser! ‘Julius nearly always escorts me in my walks. He issucha dear friendly fellow, and always carries my bag or parasol. Aunt, of course, doesn’t approve of our being so devoted to one another, for she looks upon Julius as an interloper; but it doesn’t matter much to us. Percy often comes with us, but Julius rather resents a third person. He thinks—so do I, much as I like Percy—that two are company and three are none.’”
Major Atherton—for the soldier was no other—leaned back in his chair, and fanned himself with the letter.
“Howon eartham I to know who or what she is talking about? If it’s not the dog, upon my honour, Aunt Rimbolt— It can’t be the dog, though. She calls him Julius; and why should she take the boy along with them if it wasn’t the librarian puppy she walked with? Rimbolt ought to look after things better than that!
“‘Uncle Rimbolt thinks very highly of his newprotégé. He is so quiet; it is quite painful sometimes talking to him. I’m sure he has had a lot of trouble; he has a sort of hunted look sometimes which is quite pathetic. Aunt hardly ever lets him come into the drawing-room, and when she does it is generally in order to snub him. I fancy he feels his anomalous position in this house very much.’”
“My patience! That’s a mild way of putting it!” exclaimed the major; “the anomalous position of this hunted-looking, shy librarian who carries her parasol and escorts her about, and suggests to Percy that two are company and three are none! All I can say is the sooner we get into Kandahar and are paid off home the better!”
“What’s that you’re saying about Kandahar, old man?” said a voice at the door of the tent, and there entered a handsome jaunty-looking officer of about Atherton’s age.
“That you, Forrester? Come in. I’ve just had a letter from my little girl.”
A shade crossed Captain Forrester’s cheery face.
“Your luck, my dear boy. I haven’t had a line.”
“Perhaps there’s a letter for you at head-quarters.”
“I doubt it. But don’t talk about it. How’s your girl flourishing?”
“Upon my honour, she seems to be a little too flourishing,” said the major, taking up his letter with a look of puzzled concern. “You may be a better English scholar than I am, Forrester, and be able to make head or tail of this. As far as I can make it out, Raby is flourishing very decidedly. Here, read this second sheet.”
Captain Forrester took the letter, and read the part indicated carefully.
The major watched him anxiously till he had done.
“Well?” he asked, as his comrade handed it back.
“It seems to be a case,” said the latter.
“That’s what I thought. I don’t like that carrying her parasol, and telling the boy that two are company—”
Captain Forrester burst into a loud laugh.
“Why, you glorious old donkey, that’s the dog!”
“Nonsense; she’d never say a dog was shy and gentlemanly, and looked as if he’d had a lot of trouble.”
“No,” said the captain holding his sides, “that’s the librarian.”
“Who—the fellow Julius she talks about?” asked the major, beginning to feel very warm.
“The fellow Julius! Why, Julius is the dog!”
The major rose from his seat in agitation, and stood before his friend.
“Forrester,” said he solemnly, “as soon as I see the joke I’ll laugh. Meanwhile tell me this. Who in the name of mystery is it who feels his anomalous position at Wildtree, the man or the dog?”
Captain Forrester held gallantly on to his chair to prevent falling off; and the native without, hearing his shouts, looked in at the door to see what the sahib wanted.
“My dear fellow,” said he at last, “I begin to think I know more than you. Can’t you see this daughter of yours is decidedly interested in this youngprotégéof her uncle?”
“Most decidedly I see that.”
“And that in order to throw dust in your fatherly old eyes, she makes a great gush about the dog Julius, and says hardly a word about the master, whose name does not appear.”
Major Atherton took up the letter again and glanced through it, and a light began to break on his puzzled countenance.
“Then,” said he, “the fellow who’s handsome and clever and a perfect darling is—”
“Is the bow-wow. And the fellow who’s hunted-looking and not allowed in the drawing-room is his master.”
Major Atherton resumed his chair, and once more planted his feet on the table.
“That is a way of putting it, certainly. If so, it’s a relief.”
“My dear boy, keep your eye on that librarian, or he may change places with his dog in double-quick time.”
The major laughed, and a pause ensued. Then Forrester said—
“Two or three days more, and we ought to be in Kandahar.”
“We are to have a stiff brush or two before we get there,” said the major; “any hour now may bring us to close quarters.”
There was another pause. Captain Forrester fidgeted about uneasily, and presently said—
“It’s possible, old man, only one of us may get through. If I am the one who is left behind, will you promise me something?”
“You know I will.”
“That boy of mine, Atherton, is somewhere, I’m as sure of it as that I’m sitting here. He’s vanished. My letters to Grangerham cannot all have miscarried, and they certainly have none of them been answered. My mother-in-law, as I told you, died in the south of England. The boy may have been with her, or left behind in Grangerham, or he may be anywhere. I told you of the letter I had from the school?”
“Yes; he had had an accident and gone home damaged—crippled, in fact.”
“Yes,” said Captain Forrester, with a groan, “crippled—and perhaps left without a friend.”
“You want me to promise to find him if you are not there to do it, and be a father to him. You needn’t ask it, old man, for I promise.”
“I’ve nothing to leave him,” said Captain Forrester, “except my sword and this watch—”
“And the good name of a gallant soldier. I will, if it is left to me to do it, take the boy all three.”
“Thanks, Atherton. You know that I would do the same by you, old fellow.”
“You may have the chance. That girl of mine, you know,” added the major, with a tremble in his voice, “would have what little I have saved, which is not much. She’s a good girl, but she would need a protector if I was not there.”
“She shall have it,” said his friend.
“I’m not sure that she’s happy at Wildtree,” continued the father, with a smile, “despite the dog and his master. Rimbolt’s a bookworm, and doesn’t see what goes on under his nose, and her aunt, as she says, is an animated extinguisher. It always puzzled me how Rimbolt came to marry Charlotte Halgrove.”
“Halgrove? Was she the sister of your old college friend?”
“Yes. Rimbolt, Halgrove, and I were inseparable when we were at Oxford. Did I ever tell you of our walking tour in the Lakes? We ruled a bee-line across the map with a ruler and walked along it, neck or nothing. Of course you know about it. We’ve sobered down since then. Rimbolt married Halgrove’s sister, and I married Rimbolt’s. I had no sister, so Halgrove remained a bachelor.”
“What became of him?”
“I fancy he made a mess of it, poor fellow. He went in for finance, and it was too much for him. Not that he lost his money; but he became a little too smart. He dropped a hundred or two of mine, and a good deal more of Rimbolt’s—but he could spare it. The last I heard of him was about twelve years ago. He had a partner called Jeffreys; a stupid honest sort of fellow who believed in him. I had a newspaper sent me with an account of an inquest on poor Jeffreys, who had gone out of his mind after some heavy losses. There was no special reason to connect Halgrove with the losses, except that Jeffreys would never have dreamed of speculating if he hadn’t been led on. And it’s only fair to Halgrove to say that after the event he offered to take charge of Jeffreys’ boy, at that time eight years old. That shows there was some good in him.”
“Unless,” suggested Captain Forrester, “there was some money along with the boy.”
“Well, I dare say if he’s alive still, Rimbolt will know something of him; so I may come across him yet,” said the major; and there the conversation ended.
Major Atherton’s prophecy of a brush with the enemy was not long in being fulfilled.
Early next day the expeditionary force was ordered forward, the cavalry regiment in which the two friends were officers being sent ahead to reconnoitre and clear the passes.
The march lay for some distance along a rocky valley, almost desolate of habitations, and at parts so cumbered with rocks and stones as to be scarcely passable by the horses, still less by the artillery, which struggled forward in front of the main body. The rocks on the right bank towered to a vast height, breaking here and there into a gorge which admitted some mountain stream down into the river below, and less frequently falling back to make way for a wild saddle-back pass into the plains above.
Along such a course every step was perilous, for the enemy had already been reported as hovering at the back of these ugly rocks, and might show their teeth at any moment.
For an hour or two, however, the march continued uninterrupted. The few scattered Afghans who had appeared for a moment on the heights above had fallen back after exchanging shots, with no attempt at serious resistance. The main body had been halted in the valley, awaiting the return of the scouts. The horses had been unharnessed from the guns, and the officers were snatching a hurried meal, when Captain Forrester at the head of a few troopers scampered into the lines. The news instantly spread that the enemy had been seen ahead, and was even then being chased by the cavalry up one of the defiles to the right.
Instantly, and without even waiting for the word of command, every man was in his place ready to go on. The guns, with Captain Forrester’s troop as escort, dashed forward to hold the defile; while the main body, divided into two divisions—one to follow the guns, the other to reach the plain above by a nearer pass—started forward into action.
The cavalry, meanwhile, with Major Atherton at their head, were already engaged in a hot scrimmage.
Following their usual tactics, the Afghans, after exchanging shots at the entrance of the pass, had turned tail and dashed through the defile, with the English at their heels. Then, suddenly turning as they reached the plain beyond, they faced round on their pursuers, not yet clear of the rocky gorge. In the present instance, however, when within about a hundred yards of the head of the column, they wheeled round again, and once more bolted into the open.
A stern chase ensued over the rough broken ground, the enemy now and then making a show of halting, but as often giving way and tempting the cavalry farther out into the plain.
The Afghans numbered only about two hundred horsemen, but it was quite evident from their tactics that they had a much larger body in reserve, and Major Atherton was decidedly perplexed as to what he should do. For if he pursued them too far, he might be cut off from his own men; if, on the other hand, he made a dash and rode them down before they could get clear, he might cut them off from their main body, and so clip the enemy’s wings.
The enemy settled the question for him. Just as he was looking round for the first sign of Forrester and the guns in the pass, the plain suddenly swarmed with Afghans. From every quarter they bore down on him, horse and foot, and even guns, seeming almost to spring, like the teeth of Cadmus, from the earth.
It was no time for hesitation or doubt. Retreat was out of the question. Equally hopeless was it to warn the troops who were coming up. There was nothing for it but to stand at bay till the main body came up, and then, if they were left to do it, fight their way out and join forces.
The major therefore brought his men to a corner of the rocks, where on two sides, at any rate, attack would be difficult; and there, ordering them to dismount and form square, stood grimly.
A cruel half-hour followed. Man after man of that little band went down before the dropping fire of the enemy. Had the guns been able to command the position, they would have fallen by tens and scores. Major Atherton, in the middle of the square, had his horse shot under him before five minutes were past. Alas! there was no lack of empty saddles to supply the loss, for before a quarter of an hour had gone by, out of a dozen officers scarcely half remained.
Still they stood, waiting for the first boom of the guns at the head of the pass, and often tempted to break away from their posts and die fighting. For of all a soldier’s duties, that of standing still under fire is the hardest.
Captain Forrester, dashing up the defile at the head of the artillery, had been prepared to find a lively skirmish in progress between his own comrades and the handful of Afghans who were luring them on. But when, on emerging on to the plain, he found himself and the guns more than half surrounded by the enemy, and no sign anywhere of Atherton, he felt that the “brush” was likely to be a very stiff one.
The Afghans had set their hearts on those guns; that was evident by the wild triumphant yell with which they charged down on them. Forrester had barely time to order a halt and swing the foremost gun into action when a pell-mell scrimmage was going on in the very midst of the gunners. The first shot fired wildly did little or no execution, but it warned Atherton that his time was come, and signalled to the troops still toiling up the pass what to expect when they got through.
That fight round the guns was the most desperate of the day. The Afghans knew that to capture them as they stood, meant the certain annihilation of the British troops as they defiled into the plain. Forrester knew it, too.
Unlike Atherton, he had no protected sides. The enemy was all round him. The little troop at his command was barely able to cover one side of the square; and the gunners, obliged to fight hand to hand where they stood, were powerless to advance a step. Every moment was golden. Already a distant bugle-note announced that Atherton’s horse had broken loose, and were somewhere within reach—probably cutting their way through the guns. And within a few minutes the head of the column ascending the defile would also come upon the scene. Hold the guns till then, and all might yet be safe.
So decided Captain Forrester, as with a cheery smile on his handsome face he shouted to his men to hold out, and fought like a lion beside the foremost gun.
The Afghans, baffled by the stubborn resistance, and aware of the danger of delay, hurled themselves upon that devoted little bond with a fury before which nothing could stand. Man after man dropped across his gun; but still Forrester shouted to his men and swung his sabre. It was no time for counting heads. He hardly knew whether, when he shouted, thirty, or twenty, or only ten shouted back. All he knew was the enemy had not got the guns yet, and that was sufficient!
A bugle! Five minutes more, and they might still laugh at the foe. The bugle-note came from Atherton’s men, who at the first sound of the gun had vaulted with a cheer to their horses and dashed towards the sound. Many a brave comrade they left behind them, and many more dropped right and left as they cut their way forward. Atherton, at their head, peered eagerly through the dust and smoke. All he could see was a surging mass of human beings, in the midst of which it was impossible to discern anything but the flash of sabres, and at one spot a few British helmets among the turbans of the enemy. That was enough for Major Atherton. Towards that spot he waved on his men, and ordered his bugler to sound a rousing signal. The bugler obeyed, and fell at the major’s side before the note had well ceased! The struggle round the guns increased and blackened. One after another the British helmets went down, and the wild shouts of the Afghans rose triumphantly above them.
At length Atherton saw a tall figure, bareheaded and black with smoke, spring upon a gun-carriage, and with the butt end of a carbine fell two or three of the enemy who scrambled up to dislodge him.
Atherton knew that form among a thousand, and he knew too that Forrester was making his last stand.
“Cheer, men, and come on!” cried he to his men, rising in his stirrups and leading the shout.
The head of the column, just then emerging from the gorge, heard that shout, and answered it with a bugle flourish, as they fixed bayonets and rushed forward to charge. At the same moment, a cheer and the boom of a gun on the left proclaimed that the other half of the column had at that moment reached the plain, and were also bearing down on the enemy’s flank.
But Atherton saw and heeded nothing but that tall heroic figure on the carriage. At the first sound of the troopers’ shout Forrester had turned his head, smiling, and raised his carbine aloft, as though to wave answer to the cheer. So he stood for a moment. Then he reeled and fell back upon the gun he had saved.
Chapter Seventeen.An Official Report.Scarfe, on the return of the skating party to Wildtree, found himself the hero of the hour. Whether the risk he ran in rescuing his old schoolfellow from his icy bath had been great or small, it had resulted in saving Jeffreys’ life, and that was quite sufficient to make a hero of him. Percy, easily impressed by the daring of any one else, and quite overlooking his own share in the rescue, was loud in his praises.“How jolly proud you must feel!” said he. “I know I should if I’d saved a fellow’s life. That’s never my luck!”“You lent a hand,” said Scarfe, with the complacency of one who can afford to be modest.And, to do Scarfe justice, until he heard himself credited with the lion’s share of the rescue, he had been a little doubtful in his own mind as to how much of it he might justly claim.“Oh,” said Percy, “a lot I did! You might as well say Raby lent a hand by lending Jeff her shawl.”“I was the cause of it all,” said Raby. “But you forget dear old Julius; I’m sure he lent a hand.”“The dog was rather in the way than otherwise,” said Scarfe; “dogs always are on the ice.”Jeffreys, as he walked silently beside them, could afford to smile at this last remark. But in other respects he found little cause for smiling. He was not yet a purified being, and even the peril he had been in had not cast out the fires of pride and temper that lurked within him.It now stung him with an unspeakable misery to find that he was supposed to owe his life to one whom he so thoroughly mistrusted and dreaded as Scarfe. He persuaded himself that it was all a delusion—that he could easily have extricated himself without anybody’s aid but that of the faithful Julius; that Scarfe had run absolutely no risk in crawling out to him on the ladder; that, in short, he owed him nothing—if, indeed, he did not owe him resentment for allowing himself to be credited with a service which he had no right to claim.Ungrateful and unreasonable, you will say, and certainly not betokening a proper spirit in one so recently in great danger. Jeffreys, as he walked moodily along, was neither in a grateful nor reasonable mood, nor did he feel chastened in spirit; and that being so, he was too honest to pretend to be what he was not.To any one less interested, there was something amusing in the manner in which Scarfe took his new and unexpected glory. At first he seemed to regard it doubtfully, and combated it by one or two modest protestations. Then, becoming more used to the idea, it pleased him to talk a little about the adventure, and encourage the others to recall the scene. After that it seemed natural to him to be a little languid and done-up by his exertions, and, as a hero, to establish a claim on Raby’s admiration. And finally, being quite convinced he was a hero of the first water, he regarded Jeffreys with condescension, and felt a little surprise that he should remain both silent and apparently disdainful.As Raby was beforehand with her in blaming herself, the wind was taken out of Mrs Rimbolt’s sails in that quarter, even had she been disposed to let out in that direction. But it was so much more convenient and natural to blame Jeffreys, that the good lady was never in a moment’s doubt upon the subject.“How excessively careless of him!” said she; “the very one of the party, too, whom we expected to keep out of danger. It is a mercy every one of you was not drowned.”“It’s a mercy he wasn’t drowned himself,” said Percy; “so he would have been if it hadn’t been for Scarfe.”“It was a very noble thing of Mr Scarfe,” said Mrs Rimbolt. “I’m sure, Louisa, my dear, you must be proud of your boy.”“He jolly well deserves a Royal Humane medal, and I mean to write and get him one.”“Don’t be a young duffer,” said the hero, by no means displeased at the threat; “they would laugh at the notion.”“Would they? If they didn’t give you one, we’d make them laugh on the wrong side of their faces. I know that,” replied the boy.“You know, auntie, it was I broke the ice,” said Raby. “Mr Jeffreys did not come to that part till he heard it crack.”“That is the ridiculously foolish part of it; he might have known that he ought to keep off when he heard it crack. Any sensible person would.”“Perhaps,” said Raby, colouring, “he imagined I was in danger.”“You are a foolish child, Raby, to talk such nonsense, and should be thankful it was not you who fell in. I hope, Mr Scarfe,” added she, “that Mr Jeffreys is grateful to you for your heroic service to him.”“There is nothing to be grateful for,” said Scarfe, in an off-hand way; “indeed, I am afraid Jeffreys is rather offended with me for what I have done than otherwise.”“He could not be so base, my boy,” said his mother, “when he owes you his life.”“After all,” said Scarfe, with interesting resignation, “it really does not matter. All I know is, if it were all to happen over again I should do just the same thing.”With which noble sentiment the hero was borne off to his room, where a hot bath, warm clothing, a rousing fire, and steaming cordials somewhat consoled him for his self-sacrificing exertions.After dinner Mrs Rimbolt could not resist the gratification of seeing honour done to her guest by the object of his devotion; a project which was the more easy of accomplishment as Mr Rimbolt was from home on that particular evening.Jeffreys, just beginning to recover himself by the aid of a little hard work, was petrified by Walker’s announcement that “the mistress desired that Mr Jeffreys would step into the drawing-room.”His good breeding was sorely taxed to find an excuse. He was indisposed, certainly; but if he could work in the library, he could bow and scrape in the drawing-room. Mr Rimbolt, too, was away, and to insult his lady in his absence seemed both cowardly and mean.“I’ll come presently,” said he to Walker, and nerved himself desperately for the ordeal.For he knew what was coming, and was resolved on the part he would play. Whatever he ought to feel, he knew exactly what he did feel; and he was determined he would not be hypocrite enough to pretend anything more.Whereupon he walked defiantly forth and opened the drawing-room door, this time without knocking.“Mr Jeffreys,” said Mrs Rimbolt, feeling that the present was an “occasion,” and worked up accordingly, “I have sent for you, as I have no doubt you will wish to express to Mrs Scarfe the feelings you entertain with regard to her son’s brave conduct on the ice to-day.”“Hear, hear, ma!” cried the irreverent Percy, with mock-heroic applause. “I beg leave to second that.”“Percy, be silent, sir! Louisa, my dear, this is Mr Jeffreys, whose life your son saved.”Mrs Scarfe put up her glasses and inclined her head languidly in response to Jeffreys’ stiff bow.An awkward silence ensued—so awkward that Percy began to whistle. Mrs Rimbolt having made a wrong start, had not the tact to mend matters.“Mrs Scarfe would be interested to hear, Mr Jeffreys,” said she, after a minute or two, “your impressions of the accident.”“The only impression I had,” said Jeffreys solemnly—and he too was worked up, and the master of his nervousness—“was that the water was very cold.”Percy greeted this with a boisterous laugh, which his mother instantly rebuked.“Surely, Mr Jeffreys,” said she severely, “this is hardly an occasion for a joke.”“It was no joke,” replied he with dismal emphasis.Again Percy enjoyed the sport.“I should rather think it wasn’t by the looks of you when you were fished out!” said he; “you were as blue as salmon!”“Percy, cease your vulgar talk in this room, please!” said Mrs Rimbolt, whose equanimity was beginning to evaporate. “Mr Jeffreys, as we are not likely to be amused by your levity—”“Excuse me, madam, I am quite serious,” said Jeffreys, on whom the apparent jocularity of his last remark had suddenly dawned; “I had no intention of being rude, or treating your question as a joke.”“Then,” said Mrs Rimbolt, slightly appeased in the prospect of gaining her object, “when I tell you Mrs Scarfe is kind enough to desire to hear about the accident from your own lips, perhaps your good manners will permit you to tell her about it.”“Get upon the chair and give us a speech, Jeff,” said the irrepressible Percy; “that’s what ma wants.”Jeffreys proceeded to give his version of the affair, distributing the credit of his rescue in the order in which he considered it to be due, and greatly disappointing both Mrs Rimbolt and her guest by his evident blindness to the heroism of Scarfe. He acknowledged warmly Percy’s readiness to come to his help, and his promptitude in going for the ladder, and he did full justice to Julius’s share in the affair. As to Scarfe’s part, he stated just what had happened, without emotion and without effusiveness.He despised himself for feeling so chilly on the subject, and would have been glad, for Mrs Scarfe’s sake, had he felt more warmly his obligations to her son. But he spoke as he felt.“You have had a narrow escape from a watery grave,” said Mrs Scarfe, anxious to sum up in the hero’s favour, “and my son, I am sure, is thankful to have been the means of saving your life.”Jeffreys bowed.“I am glad he escaped falling in,” said he.“He had no thought of himself, I am sure,” said Mrs Rimbolt severely, “and claims no thanks beyond that of his good conscience.”“We’re going to get him a Royal Humane medal, Jeff,” added Percy; “a lot of fellows get it for a good deal less.”“I hope he may get one,” said Jeffreys. “You and Julius should have one, too. I thank you all.”This was all that could be extracted from this graceless young man, and the unsatisfactory interview was shortly afterwards terminated by Mrs Rimbolt’s requesting him to go and tell Walker to bring some more coals for the fire.His conduct was freely discussed when he was gone. Mrs Rimbolt looked upon it as a slight put upon herself, and was proportionately wrathful. Mrs Scarfe, more amiable, imagined that it was useless to look for gratitude among persons of Jeffreys’ class in life. Scarfe himself said that, from what he knew of Jeffreys, he would have been surprised had he shown himself possessed of any good feelings. Percy, considerably puzzled, suggested that he was “chawed up with his ducking.” And Raby, still more perplexed, said nothing, and hardly knew what to think.The next day, as Scarfe was smoking in the park, Jeffreys overtook him. A night’s rest had a good deal softened the librarian’s spirit. He was ashamed of himself for not having done his rescuer common justice, and had followed him now to tell him as much.“Scarfe,” said he, “you will have considered I was ungrateful yesterday.”“You were just what I expected you would be.”“I am sorry,” said Jeffreys, now beginning to feel he had better far have said nothing, yet resolved, now he had begun, to go through with it, “and I wish to thank you now.”Scarfe laughed.“It is I who should be grateful for this condescension,” said he sneeringly. “So disinterested, too.”“What do you mean? How could it be otherwise?”“You have a short memory, Cad Jeffreys. Possibly you have forgotten a little event that happened at Bolsover?”“I have not forgotten it.”“I dare say you have not thought it worth while to mention it to your employer, Mr Rimbolt.”“I have not mentioned it.”“Quite so. That is what I mean when I say it is disinterested in you to come and make friends with me.”“That is false,” said Jeffreys glowing. “I neither want nor expect that.”“Kind again. At the same time you are not particularly anxious that people here should hear the tragical history of young Forrester?”“For heaven’s sake be silent, Scarfe!” said Jeffreys, to whom the mention of the name, after so many months, came like a blow. “I cannot bear it.”Scarfe laughed.“Apparently not. All I want to say is, that I believe less in your gratitude than in your fear, and you can spare yourself the trouble of keeping up that farce.”“I am not afraid of you,” said Jeffreys, drawing himself up. “Of my own conscience I am; and of the memory of poor young Forrester—”“Hold your tongue. I have no wish to hear my friend’s name on your lips.”Jeffreys turned to go.“Look here,” said Scarfe, calling him back, “I want to say one word. I am sufficiently interested in Percy Rimbolt to dislike the influence you use upon him. Your influence upon young boys is not to be trusted, and I warn you to let Percy alone. You are doing him no good as it is.”“Is that all you want to say?” said Jeffreys. “No. I have my own reason for choosing that you cease to offend Miss Atherton by your attentions. You are no fit companion for her; and she and I—”Jeffreys turned on his heel, and did not hear the end of the sentence. He marvelled at himself that he had not struck the fellow contemptuously to the ground; and he absolutely smiled in the midst of his misery at the idea of Scarfe taking upon himself the moral upbringing of Percy and the protector-ship of Raby! In the midst of these reflections he became aware of the presence of Raby in the walk in front of him.The rencontre was unexpected on both sides, and promised to be embarrassing for Jeffreys. Raby, however, came to the rescue.“Mr Jeffreys,” said she, holding out her hand, “I do hope you are none the worse for yesterday. I was greatly afraid you would catch cold.”“You took the kindest possible way of preventing it,” said Jeffreys. “I never enjoyed a meal as much as the one Walker brought me yesterday, and I thank the kind sender.”Raby blushed.“It was a shame no one else thought of it. But, Mr Jeffreys, you are thanking me, when it is I who ought to thank you for risking your life for me.”“That is a new version of the story,” said Jeffreys. “It was somebody else who risked his life for me, and I know you despise me for appearing so churlish about it.”“I was very sorry indeed for you in the drawing-room last night.”“I deserved no sympathy.”“I fancied you might have gushed a little when you saw how much auntie’s heart and Mrs Scarfe’s were set on it. It would not have hurt you.”“I cannot gush, Miss Atherton; but I can value your kindness to me, and I do.”Raby smiled one of her pleasantest smiles.“I wish I had half your honesty, Mr Jeffreys. I am always pretending to be something here which I am not, and I get sick of it. I wish I were a man.”“Why? Is honesty confined to the male sex?”“No; I suppose we can be honest too. But if I was a man I could go and be of some use somewhere; I’m no good to anybody here.”Jeffreys coloured up furiously, and looked as if he would run from the spot. Then, apparently thinking better of it, he looked down at her and said—“Excuse me, you are.”They walked on a little in silence, then Raby said—“I am so glad, Mr Jeffreys, you managed Percy so well about that smoking yesterday; and how well he took it!”“Of course; he’s a gentleman and a fine fellow.”“He forgets how much older Mr Scarfe is than he, and he imagines it is a fine thing to do whatever others do. But I think it is such a pity he should waste so much time as he does now in the billiard-room and over the fire. Don’t you think it is bad for him?”“I do. The day on the ice yesterday made a new man of him.”“Do try to coax him out, Mr Jeffreys, you always do him good; and you may be able to pull him up now before he becomes an idler.”“I promise you I will do what I can.”“He ought to be my brother, and not my cousin,” said Raby, “I feel so jealous on his account.”“He is fortunate—may I say so?—in his cousin. Here is Mr Rimbolt.”Mr Rimbolt had papers in his hand, and looked rather anxious.Raby, with a daughter’s instinct, rushed to him.“Uncle, have you news from the war? Is anything wrong?”“Nothing wrong,” said her uncle reassuringly; “I brought you this paper to see. It reports that there has been an encounter with the Afghans near Kandahar, with complete success on the British side and comparatively trifling loss. Particulars are expected almost immediately. I telegraphed to town to get the earliest possible details. Meanwhile, Raby, don’t alarm yourself unduly.”“I won’t, uncle; but where exactly was the battle?”“You will see the names mentioned in the telegram. Jeffreys can show you the exact spot in the atlas; we were looking at it the other evening.”Jeffreys thankfully accepted the task. He and Raby spent an hour over the map, talking of the absent soldier, and trying, the one to conceal, the other to allay, the anxiety which the incomplete telegram had aroused.At the end of the hour Scarfe walked into the library. His face darkened as he saw the two who sat there.“Miss Atherton,” said he, looking not at her, but at Jeffreys, “have you forgotten we were to have a ride this morning?”“I am so sorry, Mr Scarfe, but I have a headache, and don’t feel as if I could ride to-day. You will excuse me, won’t you?”“Oh, certainly,” replied Scarfe; “don’t you think a turn in the park will do you good? May I have the pleasure of escorting you?”Raby said, “Thank you.” She was very sorry to disappoint any one, and had no valid excuse against a walk.“Miss Atherton,” said Scarfe, when they had gone some distance, chatting on indifferent topics, “I am anxious just to say a word to you, not in my own interest at all, but your own. Will you forgive me if I do?”“What is it?” said Raby, mystified.“I wish to put you on your guard against Jeffreys, who, I see, presumes on his position here to annoy you. You may not perhaps know, Miss Atherton, that not two years ago—”“Excuse me, Mr Scarfe,” said Raby quietly, stopping in her walk, “I hate talking of people behind their backs. Mr Jeffreys has never annoyed me; he has been kind to me. Shall we talk of something else?”“Certainly,” said Scarfe, startled at her decided tone. He had laid his plan for a little revelation, and it disconcerted him to see it knocked on the head like this.However, just then he was not in the humour for making himself obnoxious to Miss Atherton, of whom, being a susceptible youth, he was decidedly enamoured. It was a deprivation, certainly, to find his tongue thus unexpectedly tied with regard to Jeffreys, of whose stay at Wildtree he had calculated on making very short work.The one comfort was, that there was little enough danger of her seeing in the ill-favoured Bolsover cad anything which need make him—Scarfe—jealous. Doubtless she took a romantic interest in this librarian; many girls have whims of that sort. But the idea of her preferring him to the smart Oxford hero was preposterous.Jeffreys would still believe in the sword of Damocles which hung above him, and the time might come when Raby would cease to stand between him and his Nemesis.
Scarfe, on the return of the skating party to Wildtree, found himself the hero of the hour. Whether the risk he ran in rescuing his old schoolfellow from his icy bath had been great or small, it had resulted in saving Jeffreys’ life, and that was quite sufficient to make a hero of him. Percy, easily impressed by the daring of any one else, and quite overlooking his own share in the rescue, was loud in his praises.
“How jolly proud you must feel!” said he. “I know I should if I’d saved a fellow’s life. That’s never my luck!”
“You lent a hand,” said Scarfe, with the complacency of one who can afford to be modest.
And, to do Scarfe justice, until he heard himself credited with the lion’s share of the rescue, he had been a little doubtful in his own mind as to how much of it he might justly claim.
“Oh,” said Percy, “a lot I did! You might as well say Raby lent a hand by lending Jeff her shawl.”
“I was the cause of it all,” said Raby. “But you forget dear old Julius; I’m sure he lent a hand.”
“The dog was rather in the way than otherwise,” said Scarfe; “dogs always are on the ice.”
Jeffreys, as he walked silently beside them, could afford to smile at this last remark. But in other respects he found little cause for smiling. He was not yet a purified being, and even the peril he had been in had not cast out the fires of pride and temper that lurked within him.
It now stung him with an unspeakable misery to find that he was supposed to owe his life to one whom he so thoroughly mistrusted and dreaded as Scarfe. He persuaded himself that it was all a delusion—that he could easily have extricated himself without anybody’s aid but that of the faithful Julius; that Scarfe had run absolutely no risk in crawling out to him on the ladder; that, in short, he owed him nothing—if, indeed, he did not owe him resentment for allowing himself to be credited with a service which he had no right to claim.
Ungrateful and unreasonable, you will say, and certainly not betokening a proper spirit in one so recently in great danger. Jeffreys, as he walked moodily along, was neither in a grateful nor reasonable mood, nor did he feel chastened in spirit; and that being so, he was too honest to pretend to be what he was not.
To any one less interested, there was something amusing in the manner in which Scarfe took his new and unexpected glory. At first he seemed to regard it doubtfully, and combated it by one or two modest protestations. Then, becoming more used to the idea, it pleased him to talk a little about the adventure, and encourage the others to recall the scene. After that it seemed natural to him to be a little languid and done-up by his exertions, and, as a hero, to establish a claim on Raby’s admiration. And finally, being quite convinced he was a hero of the first water, he regarded Jeffreys with condescension, and felt a little surprise that he should remain both silent and apparently disdainful.
As Raby was beforehand with her in blaming herself, the wind was taken out of Mrs Rimbolt’s sails in that quarter, even had she been disposed to let out in that direction. But it was so much more convenient and natural to blame Jeffreys, that the good lady was never in a moment’s doubt upon the subject.
“How excessively careless of him!” said she; “the very one of the party, too, whom we expected to keep out of danger. It is a mercy every one of you was not drowned.”
“It’s a mercy he wasn’t drowned himself,” said Percy; “so he would have been if it hadn’t been for Scarfe.”
“It was a very noble thing of Mr Scarfe,” said Mrs Rimbolt. “I’m sure, Louisa, my dear, you must be proud of your boy.”
“He jolly well deserves a Royal Humane medal, and I mean to write and get him one.”
“Don’t be a young duffer,” said the hero, by no means displeased at the threat; “they would laugh at the notion.”
“Would they? If they didn’t give you one, we’d make them laugh on the wrong side of their faces. I know that,” replied the boy.
“You know, auntie, it was I broke the ice,” said Raby. “Mr Jeffreys did not come to that part till he heard it crack.”
“That is the ridiculously foolish part of it; he might have known that he ought to keep off when he heard it crack. Any sensible person would.”
“Perhaps,” said Raby, colouring, “he imagined I was in danger.”
“You are a foolish child, Raby, to talk such nonsense, and should be thankful it was not you who fell in. I hope, Mr Scarfe,” added she, “that Mr Jeffreys is grateful to you for your heroic service to him.”
“There is nothing to be grateful for,” said Scarfe, in an off-hand way; “indeed, I am afraid Jeffreys is rather offended with me for what I have done than otherwise.”
“He could not be so base, my boy,” said his mother, “when he owes you his life.”
“After all,” said Scarfe, with interesting resignation, “it really does not matter. All I know is, if it were all to happen over again I should do just the same thing.”
With which noble sentiment the hero was borne off to his room, where a hot bath, warm clothing, a rousing fire, and steaming cordials somewhat consoled him for his self-sacrificing exertions.
After dinner Mrs Rimbolt could not resist the gratification of seeing honour done to her guest by the object of his devotion; a project which was the more easy of accomplishment as Mr Rimbolt was from home on that particular evening.
Jeffreys, just beginning to recover himself by the aid of a little hard work, was petrified by Walker’s announcement that “the mistress desired that Mr Jeffreys would step into the drawing-room.”
His good breeding was sorely taxed to find an excuse. He was indisposed, certainly; but if he could work in the library, he could bow and scrape in the drawing-room. Mr Rimbolt, too, was away, and to insult his lady in his absence seemed both cowardly and mean.
“I’ll come presently,” said he to Walker, and nerved himself desperately for the ordeal.
For he knew what was coming, and was resolved on the part he would play. Whatever he ought to feel, he knew exactly what he did feel; and he was determined he would not be hypocrite enough to pretend anything more.
Whereupon he walked defiantly forth and opened the drawing-room door, this time without knocking.
“Mr Jeffreys,” said Mrs Rimbolt, feeling that the present was an “occasion,” and worked up accordingly, “I have sent for you, as I have no doubt you will wish to express to Mrs Scarfe the feelings you entertain with regard to her son’s brave conduct on the ice to-day.”
“Hear, hear, ma!” cried the irreverent Percy, with mock-heroic applause. “I beg leave to second that.”
“Percy, be silent, sir! Louisa, my dear, this is Mr Jeffreys, whose life your son saved.”
Mrs Scarfe put up her glasses and inclined her head languidly in response to Jeffreys’ stiff bow.
An awkward silence ensued—so awkward that Percy began to whistle. Mrs Rimbolt having made a wrong start, had not the tact to mend matters.
“Mrs Scarfe would be interested to hear, Mr Jeffreys,” said she, after a minute or two, “your impressions of the accident.”
“The only impression I had,” said Jeffreys solemnly—and he too was worked up, and the master of his nervousness—“was that the water was very cold.”
Percy greeted this with a boisterous laugh, which his mother instantly rebuked.
“Surely, Mr Jeffreys,” said she severely, “this is hardly an occasion for a joke.”
“It was no joke,” replied he with dismal emphasis.
Again Percy enjoyed the sport.
“I should rather think it wasn’t by the looks of you when you were fished out!” said he; “you were as blue as salmon!”
“Percy, cease your vulgar talk in this room, please!” said Mrs Rimbolt, whose equanimity was beginning to evaporate. “Mr Jeffreys, as we are not likely to be amused by your levity—”
“Excuse me, madam, I am quite serious,” said Jeffreys, on whom the apparent jocularity of his last remark had suddenly dawned; “I had no intention of being rude, or treating your question as a joke.”
“Then,” said Mrs Rimbolt, slightly appeased in the prospect of gaining her object, “when I tell you Mrs Scarfe is kind enough to desire to hear about the accident from your own lips, perhaps your good manners will permit you to tell her about it.”
“Get upon the chair and give us a speech, Jeff,” said the irrepressible Percy; “that’s what ma wants.”
Jeffreys proceeded to give his version of the affair, distributing the credit of his rescue in the order in which he considered it to be due, and greatly disappointing both Mrs Rimbolt and her guest by his evident blindness to the heroism of Scarfe. He acknowledged warmly Percy’s readiness to come to his help, and his promptitude in going for the ladder, and he did full justice to Julius’s share in the affair. As to Scarfe’s part, he stated just what had happened, without emotion and without effusiveness.
He despised himself for feeling so chilly on the subject, and would have been glad, for Mrs Scarfe’s sake, had he felt more warmly his obligations to her son. But he spoke as he felt.
“You have had a narrow escape from a watery grave,” said Mrs Scarfe, anxious to sum up in the hero’s favour, “and my son, I am sure, is thankful to have been the means of saving your life.”
Jeffreys bowed.
“I am glad he escaped falling in,” said he.
“He had no thought of himself, I am sure,” said Mrs Rimbolt severely, “and claims no thanks beyond that of his good conscience.”
“We’re going to get him a Royal Humane medal, Jeff,” added Percy; “a lot of fellows get it for a good deal less.”
“I hope he may get one,” said Jeffreys. “You and Julius should have one, too. I thank you all.”
This was all that could be extracted from this graceless young man, and the unsatisfactory interview was shortly afterwards terminated by Mrs Rimbolt’s requesting him to go and tell Walker to bring some more coals for the fire.
His conduct was freely discussed when he was gone. Mrs Rimbolt looked upon it as a slight put upon herself, and was proportionately wrathful. Mrs Scarfe, more amiable, imagined that it was useless to look for gratitude among persons of Jeffreys’ class in life. Scarfe himself said that, from what he knew of Jeffreys, he would have been surprised had he shown himself possessed of any good feelings. Percy, considerably puzzled, suggested that he was “chawed up with his ducking.” And Raby, still more perplexed, said nothing, and hardly knew what to think.
The next day, as Scarfe was smoking in the park, Jeffreys overtook him. A night’s rest had a good deal softened the librarian’s spirit. He was ashamed of himself for not having done his rescuer common justice, and had followed him now to tell him as much.
“Scarfe,” said he, “you will have considered I was ungrateful yesterday.”
“You were just what I expected you would be.”
“I am sorry,” said Jeffreys, now beginning to feel he had better far have said nothing, yet resolved, now he had begun, to go through with it, “and I wish to thank you now.”
Scarfe laughed.
“It is I who should be grateful for this condescension,” said he sneeringly. “So disinterested, too.”
“What do you mean? How could it be otherwise?”
“You have a short memory, Cad Jeffreys. Possibly you have forgotten a little event that happened at Bolsover?”
“I have not forgotten it.”
“I dare say you have not thought it worth while to mention it to your employer, Mr Rimbolt.”
“I have not mentioned it.”
“Quite so. That is what I mean when I say it is disinterested in you to come and make friends with me.”
“That is false,” said Jeffreys glowing. “I neither want nor expect that.”
“Kind again. At the same time you are not particularly anxious that people here should hear the tragical history of young Forrester?”
“For heaven’s sake be silent, Scarfe!” said Jeffreys, to whom the mention of the name, after so many months, came like a blow. “I cannot bear it.”
Scarfe laughed.
“Apparently not. All I want to say is, that I believe less in your gratitude than in your fear, and you can spare yourself the trouble of keeping up that farce.”
“I am not afraid of you,” said Jeffreys, drawing himself up. “Of my own conscience I am; and of the memory of poor young Forrester—”
“Hold your tongue. I have no wish to hear my friend’s name on your lips.”
Jeffreys turned to go.
“Look here,” said Scarfe, calling him back, “I want to say one word. I am sufficiently interested in Percy Rimbolt to dislike the influence you use upon him. Your influence upon young boys is not to be trusted, and I warn you to let Percy alone. You are doing him no good as it is.”
“Is that all you want to say?” said Jeffreys. “No. I have my own reason for choosing that you cease to offend Miss Atherton by your attentions. You are no fit companion for her; and she and I—”
Jeffreys turned on his heel, and did not hear the end of the sentence. He marvelled at himself that he had not struck the fellow contemptuously to the ground; and he absolutely smiled in the midst of his misery at the idea of Scarfe taking upon himself the moral upbringing of Percy and the protector-ship of Raby! In the midst of these reflections he became aware of the presence of Raby in the walk in front of him.
The rencontre was unexpected on both sides, and promised to be embarrassing for Jeffreys. Raby, however, came to the rescue.
“Mr Jeffreys,” said she, holding out her hand, “I do hope you are none the worse for yesterday. I was greatly afraid you would catch cold.”
“You took the kindest possible way of preventing it,” said Jeffreys. “I never enjoyed a meal as much as the one Walker brought me yesterday, and I thank the kind sender.”
Raby blushed.
“It was a shame no one else thought of it. But, Mr Jeffreys, you are thanking me, when it is I who ought to thank you for risking your life for me.”
“That is a new version of the story,” said Jeffreys. “It was somebody else who risked his life for me, and I know you despise me for appearing so churlish about it.”
“I was very sorry indeed for you in the drawing-room last night.”
“I deserved no sympathy.”
“I fancied you might have gushed a little when you saw how much auntie’s heart and Mrs Scarfe’s were set on it. It would not have hurt you.”
“I cannot gush, Miss Atherton; but I can value your kindness to me, and I do.”
Raby smiled one of her pleasantest smiles.
“I wish I had half your honesty, Mr Jeffreys. I am always pretending to be something here which I am not, and I get sick of it. I wish I were a man.”
“Why? Is honesty confined to the male sex?”
“No; I suppose we can be honest too. But if I was a man I could go and be of some use somewhere; I’m no good to anybody here.”
Jeffreys coloured up furiously, and looked as if he would run from the spot. Then, apparently thinking better of it, he looked down at her and said—
“Excuse me, you are.”
They walked on a little in silence, then Raby said—
“I am so glad, Mr Jeffreys, you managed Percy so well about that smoking yesterday; and how well he took it!”
“Of course; he’s a gentleman and a fine fellow.”
“He forgets how much older Mr Scarfe is than he, and he imagines it is a fine thing to do whatever others do. But I think it is such a pity he should waste so much time as he does now in the billiard-room and over the fire. Don’t you think it is bad for him?”
“I do. The day on the ice yesterday made a new man of him.”
“Do try to coax him out, Mr Jeffreys, you always do him good; and you may be able to pull him up now before he becomes an idler.”
“I promise you I will do what I can.”
“He ought to be my brother, and not my cousin,” said Raby, “I feel so jealous on his account.”
“He is fortunate—may I say so?—in his cousin. Here is Mr Rimbolt.”
Mr Rimbolt had papers in his hand, and looked rather anxious.
Raby, with a daughter’s instinct, rushed to him.
“Uncle, have you news from the war? Is anything wrong?”
“Nothing wrong,” said her uncle reassuringly; “I brought you this paper to see. It reports that there has been an encounter with the Afghans near Kandahar, with complete success on the British side and comparatively trifling loss. Particulars are expected almost immediately. I telegraphed to town to get the earliest possible details. Meanwhile, Raby, don’t alarm yourself unduly.”
“I won’t, uncle; but where exactly was the battle?”
“You will see the names mentioned in the telegram. Jeffreys can show you the exact spot in the atlas; we were looking at it the other evening.”
Jeffreys thankfully accepted the task. He and Raby spent an hour over the map, talking of the absent soldier, and trying, the one to conceal, the other to allay, the anxiety which the incomplete telegram had aroused.
At the end of the hour Scarfe walked into the library. His face darkened as he saw the two who sat there.
“Miss Atherton,” said he, looking not at her, but at Jeffreys, “have you forgotten we were to have a ride this morning?”
“I am so sorry, Mr Scarfe, but I have a headache, and don’t feel as if I could ride to-day. You will excuse me, won’t you?”
“Oh, certainly,” replied Scarfe; “don’t you think a turn in the park will do you good? May I have the pleasure of escorting you?”
Raby said, “Thank you.” She was very sorry to disappoint any one, and had no valid excuse against a walk.
“Miss Atherton,” said Scarfe, when they had gone some distance, chatting on indifferent topics, “I am anxious just to say a word to you, not in my own interest at all, but your own. Will you forgive me if I do?”
“What is it?” said Raby, mystified.
“I wish to put you on your guard against Jeffreys, who, I see, presumes on his position here to annoy you. You may not perhaps know, Miss Atherton, that not two years ago—”
“Excuse me, Mr Scarfe,” said Raby quietly, stopping in her walk, “I hate talking of people behind their backs. Mr Jeffreys has never annoyed me; he has been kind to me. Shall we talk of something else?”
“Certainly,” said Scarfe, startled at her decided tone. He had laid his plan for a little revelation, and it disconcerted him to see it knocked on the head like this.
However, just then he was not in the humour for making himself obnoxious to Miss Atherton, of whom, being a susceptible youth, he was decidedly enamoured. It was a deprivation, certainly, to find his tongue thus unexpectedly tied with regard to Jeffreys, of whose stay at Wildtree he had calculated on making very short work.
The one comfort was, that there was little enough danger of her seeing in the ill-favoured Bolsover cad anything which need make him—Scarfe—jealous. Doubtless she took a romantic interest in this librarian; many girls have whims of that sort. But the idea of her preferring him to the smart Oxford hero was preposterous.
Jeffreys would still believe in the sword of Damocles which hung above him, and the time might come when Raby would cease to stand between him and his Nemesis.
Chapter Eighteen.Wild Pike.Before breakfast on the following morning, Scarfe, in fulfilment of a long-standing engagement with a college friend to spend a day with him, rode off to catch the train at Overstone, and consequently was not present when the post arrived, and with it a telegram from London for Mr Rimbolt. Raby, who had been on the watch, could scarcely allow her uncle time to examine its contents before claiming it; and had it contained bad news, the chance of breaking them would have been out of the question. But it did not contain bad news. On the contrary, as Raby devoured the few official lines she became radiant with pride and happiness. The telegram was a copy of a dispatch received the evening before at the War Office:—“News is to hand of a sharp brush with the Afghans on the 4th inst. at —, two days’ march from Kandahar. About mid-day the—Hussars, commanded by Major Atherton, in advance of the main body, encountered and dislodged from a defile on the right bank of the river a considerable body of the enemy, who fled to the plain. It becoming evident the enemy was at hand in force, a battery of field guns was pushed forward, under the escort of a troop of Hussars; and the main body followed in two columns. The cavalry meanwhile, having cleared the defile and chased the enemy into the plain beyond, became involved in a desperate scrimmage, the Afghans having descended in full force into the plain with the evident intention of cutting them off from the main body. Major Atherton, completely hemmed in, made a desperate stand, in which upwards of twenty of his men perished, the gallant officer himself having his horse shot under him. The guns meanwhile, escorted by Captain Forrester, of the—Hussars, gained the head of the defile, where they were immediately surrounded by the enemy. A brilliant resistance here ensued, in which more than half of the escort were killed in their effort to save the guns. Towards the end, Captain Forrester nearly single-handed kept the enemy at bay until the cavalry, breaking through, and joining forces with the two columns of the main body as they emerged on the plain, effectually turned the position and saved the guns. The loss of the enemy was very considerable, and it is considered that this action clears the way to Kandahar, which the troops are expected to occupy in two days without further resistance. Our loss, considering the perilous position of the cavalry and gunners, was comparatively slight. Captain Forrester at the last moment fell after a resistance as heroic as any witnessed in the course of the campaign. Major Atherton received a scratch on the wrist; which, however, is not likely to disable him even temporarily. The main body never came into action at all, and suffered no casualties. A full list of the killed and wounded is appended.”Jeffreys, who found himself almost as eager for news as if he had been personally interested, found it difficult to wait patiently until Mr Rimbolt came after breakfast to the library.“Is there news from the war?” he asked.“Yes—good news, Miss Atherton has the telegram. Her father took part in a very brilliant engagement a day or two ago, which appears to have cleared the way to Kandahar. He was scratched, but not seriously.”Jeffreys received this good news with great satisfaction. It was a relief to him to hear it in the first instance not from Raby’s lips, for he never knew what to do or say on such occasions.“Miss Atherton must be very proud,” said he, returning to his work.He was not, however, destined to remain long undisturbed. Raby, radiant and excited, entered the library a few minutes later.“Mr Jeffreys,” said she, “such splendid news. Has uncle told you? I thought you would like to read the telegram; here it is.”Jeffreys looked his congratulations as he took the paper.“Read it aloud, Mr Jeffreys,” said the happy girl, “I should like to hear how it sounds.” Jeffreys smiled and began to read; Raby, who knew it all by heart, seeming to check off every word.Suddenly, however, in the middle of the narrative the reader started and changed colour, and became unaccountably breathless.“The guns meanwhile, escorted by—” he had got so far.“‘Captain Forrester of the—Hussars.’ Go on,” said Raby.It needed all his self-command to finish the reading, and when he came to the end and handed back the paper, Raby perceived that his hand shook and his face was deadly pale.“Why, what is the matter, Mr Jeffreys?” said she, suddenly alarmed herself; “it is good news, isn’t it? and he has only got a scratch!”“Yes, it is good news; and I congratulate you.”“But you look—perhaps you know some one who has been killed. You never told me you had any friend out there.”“I have not. I think I must be not quite well; will you excuse me?”And he went out into the open air, leaving Raby very much perplexed and concerned. She was relieved, however, to see him half an hour later starting off with Percy for what, to judge by their mountain boots and the luncheon box strapped across Jeffreys’ shoulders, promised to be a long walk.Jeffreys’ first sensations on finding himself alone had been those of stupefaction. Although all that he knew of Forrester’s father was that he had been in India, it never occurred to him now for a moment that the gallant officer mentioned in the telegram could be any other than the father whom he had so cruelly and irreparably wronged. And now once more he seemed suddenly face to face with his crime. He saw before him that fatal scene in the Bolsover meadow; he heard his comrades’ howl of execration and saw the boy’s white face on the grass turned up to meet his. It seemed but yesterday. Nay, it seemed all to be there that moment; he could feel the keen breeze on his cheek; his eye rested on the boy’s cap where he had flung it; he was conscious of Mr Freshfield’s look of horror—he could even see twenty yards away the football lying idle between the goals.Strange, that the doubtful mention of an officer’s name should call it all up thus! But so it was. He even seemed half guilty of that gallant death in Afghanistan. Had he not wronged him worse than death? and now if anywhere the friendless boy, whose whole hope was in his father, should read those lines and find himself orphaned as well as crippled!Jeffreys in his misery groaned aloud.“Hullo,” said Percy, in the path before him, “you in the blues too! What a jolly sell! Here am I as miserable as an owl, and everybody I meet’s miserable too. Scarfe’s gone to Sharpfield, and won’t be back till late. Raby’s so taken up with her precious telegram that she won’t look at me. Ma and Mrs Scarfe, have bagged the pony trap and Appleby, and now you’re looking as if you’d just been hung.”“What are you in the blues about?” said Jeffreys, brightening up a bit.“Oh, everything. It’s so slow here, nothing to do. Can’t play games all day, and you won’t let me smoke, and the library hasn’t a single story worth reading, and it’s beastly cold; and upon my word,” said the boy, who was genuinely miserable, “I’d as soon go and sit on the top of Wild Pike as fool about here.”“The best thing you could do—I’ll go and sit with you,” said Jeffreys.“What!” said the boy, “do you mean it? Will you come?”“Of course I will; I have nothing special to do to-day, and I’ve never been up a mountain in winter before.”“We shall get a splendid view. Sure it won’t grind you?” said the boy, who, under Scarfe’s influence, had come to look upon every exertion as a thing to be shirked.“My dear fellow, I shall enjoy it, especially with you,” said Jeffreys.“Hurrah—bring Julius too—and I’ll get some grub to take. It’s only ten now, and it’s not dark till after four, so we have a good six hours.”A few minutes later they started, Percy leaving word for his mother that they were going for a long tramp, and would be back for dinner.It was a perfect winter’s day. The air was keen and frosty and promised magnificent views. The wind was not strong enough to be benumbing, and the sun overhead was cheering and now and then even warm.“Hadn’t we better take overcoats, in case it comes on cold at the top?” said Jeffreys as they were starting.“Oh no—they’re a frightful grind to carry, and we are sure to be baked before we get up.”“I think I will take mine,” said Jeffreys, “and it will be no bother to carry yours.”Percy protested, but, luckily for them, Jeffreys carried his point.Wild Pike was one of those mountains, not uncommon in that district, which are approached from the back by a long gradual slope, but on the front present a scooped-out precipitous face, as if broken in half on that side.It was this steeper side which faced Wildtree, and Percy would have scorned to approach the monster from any other quarter. From where they stood the narrow path zigzagged for about one thousand feet onto one of the upper shoulders of the mountain. Following this, the track brought them to what seemed like the basin of some old volcano hollowed out under the summit.It was necessary to cross this depression, and by a narrow ledge at the foot of the great cliff gain the other side, where another zigzag ascent brought them onto the rocky slope leading over a quarter of a mile of huge boulders to the summit.The passage across the face of the mountain was the most difficult part of the ascent. It lay along a narrow ledge hanging, so it seemed, half-way down the perpendicular cliff which rose out of the hollow, crater-like basin sheer up to the summit.It was tolerably level, but the narrowness of the track and the precipitous height above and below called for a cool head and a steady foot. In frosty weather like the present it needed special caution, and every step had to be carefully judged on the treacherous path. However, they passed it safely. Julius alone seemed to find it difficult. The dog was strangely awkward to-day.He slid about where the others walked steadily, and whimpered at obstacles which they seemed scarcely to heed.“Now for the grub,” cried Percy, as they landed safely on the other side. “I say, Jeff, I call that something like a mountain, don’t you? I’m quite sorry we’re over the worst of it, aren’t you?”“We’ve got the view to see yet,” responded Jeffreys.“We shall be up in half an hour.”“And it will take us as long to come down as to go up to-day,” said Jeffreys, “so we ought not to lose much time.”Off they started again after a hurried but highly appreciated meal, in which the dog took only a very moderate share. The remaining portion of the ascent was simple enough. The zigzag onto the top shoulder was if anything less steep than the lower one, and the path, being rougher underfoot, was less treacherous.The scramble over the loose rocks at the top onto the cairn was not altogether plain sailing. In summer it was easy enough, but now, with the surface of the great boulders as slippery as glass, it was hardly to be traversed except on the hands and knees.Poor Julius floundered about pitifully, unable to keep his feet, and disappearing bodily now and then among the interstices of the rocky way. Even Percy and Jeffreys stumbled once or twice awkwardly, and reached the summit with bruised limbs. Butfinis coronat opus, especially on a mountain.As they sprang up the cairn a view unequalled in grandeur broke upon them. The frosty air was without haze in any quarter. The Scotch hills beyond the border and the broad heaving sea lay apparently equally within reach, and on the farthest western horizon even the fairy-like outline of the distant Irish hills, never visible except in the clearest winter weather, shone out distinctly.“Isn’t it scrumptious?” exclaimed Percy, as he flung himself breathless onto the cairn. “If we had waited a year we couldn’t have picked out such a day. Why, that must be Snowdon we see over there, and the high ground out at sea, Holyhead?”Thus they went on, delightedly recognising the landmarks north, south, east, and west, and forgetting both the hour and the rising breeze.“Why, it’s two o’clock!” cried Percy presently, looking at his watch, and shivering at the same time.“Put on your coat,” said Jeffreys; “the wind’s getting up a bit, and we shall have it in our faces going down.”As they started to descend they became aware of a sudden change in the hitherto cloudless day. The western horizon, which had just now been unfolding its distant beauties, seemed lost in a fine haze, which spread north and south, blotting out one after another the glories of landscape on which they had scarcely ceased to feast their eyes.“There’s a mist out there,” said Percy, as they scrambled down the boulders; “I hope to goodness it will keep away from us.”“The wind is a little north-west; it may drive it south of us, but it is spreading at a great rate.”“Never mind; it will be rather a joke if it comes. I could find the way down with my eyes shut, and I’ve often wanted to be in a regular fog up here,” said Percy.“I don’t know what you feel,” responded Jeffreys; “but I’m rather glad we brought our coats. Isn’t it cold?”The wind which met them seemed charged with cold, and after a while began to scatter a feathery sleet in their faces.Percy whistled.“We didn’t bargain for that, I say,” said he. “I hope it shuts up before we cross over the ledge down there.”Julius howled dismally. He, too, guessed what this blinding shower-bath foreboded, and stumbled along, miserable and shivering.The higher zigzag, which had seemed easy enough two hours ago, tried them sorely now. The sleet half blinded them, and the fresh moisture, freezing as it fell, caused them to slip and slide at every step. Still they got down it somehow, and turned to face the narrow track along the cliff. Percy, much as he repined at the change in the elements, felt no doubt as to the possibility of getting over.“We may have to crawl a bit of the way if this sort of thing goes on,” said he, “but it’s straight enough sailing.”“Would it be better,” suggested Jeffreys, “to go to the top again and get down by the Sharpenholme track?”“We shouldn’t get home till midnight if we did; besides, I don’t know the way. We’re all right this way if we look sharp.”The wind had now increased to a tempest, and beat against the side of the great cliff with a sound like the sea breaking on an iron-bound shore. They could scarcely hear one another speak; and poor Julius’s whines were drowned in the great clamour.“Do you mind my going first?” said Percy; “I know the path better than you.”Jeffreys nodded, and they started. The first step they took on that ledge threatened for a moment to be their last. The wind, gathering fury every moment, beat Percy to his knees, and nearly sent Jeffreys staggering over the ledge.“We shall have to crawl,” said Percy. “It’s no use waiting. The wind and sleet are going to make a night of it, and we shall gain nothing by waiting.”The start was begun again—this time cautiously and on all-fours. Even so the wind seemed once or twice as if it would sweep them from the ledge. Yard by yard they crawled on. The driving mist fell like a pall over the mountain, and in a few minutes they could not even see a yard in front of them. Had the wind blown crosswise, or in any other way than that in which it came, they would have been swept off before twenty yards were accomplished. As it was, they were almost pinned to the cliff by the fury of the blast.They must have proceeded a quarter of the way across, and had reached a spot where the ledge rose slightly. Even up this slight incline, with the mist freezing under them, it was impossible to crawl; and Percy, drawing himself cautiously to his feet, attempted to stand.As he did so, the wind, gathering itself into a furious blast, caught him and hurled him against the rocky wall. He recoiled with a sharp cry of pain, and next moment would have fallen into the abyss beneath, had not Jeffreys’ strong arm caught him and held him. His legs were actually off the ledge, and for a moment it seemed as if both he and his protector were doomed. But with a tremendous effort the prostrate Jeffreys swung him back onto the track.“Are you hurt?” he called.“My arm,” said Percy. “I’m afraid I can’t get on. I’ll try.”But the attempt only called up a fresh exclamation of pain.“We must wait,” said Jeffreys. “Try to sit up, old fellow. I’ll help you.”It was evident that the boy’s arm, if not broken, was so severely damaged as to render it powerless.“I could stay here, I think,” said he, “if you went on, Jeff.”“Nonsense!” said Jeffreys; “we’ll send Julius to fetch help. Here, Julius, good dog,” said he, patting the dog’s head and pointing down to the valley, “go and fetch them here. Fetch Appleby, and Walker, and Mr Rimbolt. Go along, good fellow.”The dog, who had been crawling behind them, looked wistfully at his master and licked the hand that caressed him. Then, stepping carefully across them as they sat with their backs to the rock and their feet beyond the edge of the path, he departed.He was out of sight almost a yard away, but they heard him whine once as the wind dashed him against the cliff.“Julius, good dog, fetch them!” shouted Jeffreys into the mist.A faint answering bark came back.Next moment, through the storm, came a wild howl, and they heard him no more.Jeffreys guessed only too well what that howl meant; but he never stirred, as with his arm round Percy, and his cloak screening him from the wind, he looked hopelessly out into the night and waited.
Before breakfast on the following morning, Scarfe, in fulfilment of a long-standing engagement with a college friend to spend a day with him, rode off to catch the train at Overstone, and consequently was not present when the post arrived, and with it a telegram from London for Mr Rimbolt. Raby, who had been on the watch, could scarcely allow her uncle time to examine its contents before claiming it; and had it contained bad news, the chance of breaking them would have been out of the question. But it did not contain bad news. On the contrary, as Raby devoured the few official lines she became radiant with pride and happiness. The telegram was a copy of a dispatch received the evening before at the War Office:—
“News is to hand of a sharp brush with the Afghans on the 4th inst. at —, two days’ march from Kandahar. About mid-day the—Hussars, commanded by Major Atherton, in advance of the main body, encountered and dislodged from a defile on the right bank of the river a considerable body of the enemy, who fled to the plain. It becoming evident the enemy was at hand in force, a battery of field guns was pushed forward, under the escort of a troop of Hussars; and the main body followed in two columns. The cavalry meanwhile, having cleared the defile and chased the enemy into the plain beyond, became involved in a desperate scrimmage, the Afghans having descended in full force into the plain with the evident intention of cutting them off from the main body. Major Atherton, completely hemmed in, made a desperate stand, in which upwards of twenty of his men perished, the gallant officer himself having his horse shot under him. The guns meanwhile, escorted by Captain Forrester, of the—Hussars, gained the head of the defile, where they were immediately surrounded by the enemy. A brilliant resistance here ensued, in which more than half of the escort were killed in their effort to save the guns. Towards the end, Captain Forrester nearly single-handed kept the enemy at bay until the cavalry, breaking through, and joining forces with the two columns of the main body as they emerged on the plain, effectually turned the position and saved the guns. The loss of the enemy was very considerable, and it is considered that this action clears the way to Kandahar, which the troops are expected to occupy in two days without further resistance. Our loss, considering the perilous position of the cavalry and gunners, was comparatively slight. Captain Forrester at the last moment fell after a resistance as heroic as any witnessed in the course of the campaign. Major Atherton received a scratch on the wrist; which, however, is not likely to disable him even temporarily. The main body never came into action at all, and suffered no casualties. A full list of the killed and wounded is appended.”
Jeffreys, who found himself almost as eager for news as if he had been personally interested, found it difficult to wait patiently until Mr Rimbolt came after breakfast to the library.
“Is there news from the war?” he asked.
“Yes—good news, Miss Atherton has the telegram. Her father took part in a very brilliant engagement a day or two ago, which appears to have cleared the way to Kandahar. He was scratched, but not seriously.”
Jeffreys received this good news with great satisfaction. It was a relief to him to hear it in the first instance not from Raby’s lips, for he never knew what to do or say on such occasions.
“Miss Atherton must be very proud,” said he, returning to his work.
He was not, however, destined to remain long undisturbed. Raby, radiant and excited, entered the library a few minutes later.
“Mr Jeffreys,” said she, “such splendid news. Has uncle told you? I thought you would like to read the telegram; here it is.”
Jeffreys looked his congratulations as he took the paper.
“Read it aloud, Mr Jeffreys,” said the happy girl, “I should like to hear how it sounds.” Jeffreys smiled and began to read; Raby, who knew it all by heart, seeming to check off every word.
Suddenly, however, in the middle of the narrative the reader started and changed colour, and became unaccountably breathless.
“The guns meanwhile, escorted by—” he had got so far.
“‘Captain Forrester of the—Hussars.’ Go on,” said Raby.
It needed all his self-command to finish the reading, and when he came to the end and handed back the paper, Raby perceived that his hand shook and his face was deadly pale.
“Why, what is the matter, Mr Jeffreys?” said she, suddenly alarmed herself; “it is good news, isn’t it? and he has only got a scratch!”
“Yes, it is good news; and I congratulate you.”
“But you look—perhaps you know some one who has been killed. You never told me you had any friend out there.”
“I have not. I think I must be not quite well; will you excuse me?”
And he went out into the open air, leaving Raby very much perplexed and concerned. She was relieved, however, to see him half an hour later starting off with Percy for what, to judge by their mountain boots and the luncheon box strapped across Jeffreys’ shoulders, promised to be a long walk.
Jeffreys’ first sensations on finding himself alone had been those of stupefaction. Although all that he knew of Forrester’s father was that he had been in India, it never occurred to him now for a moment that the gallant officer mentioned in the telegram could be any other than the father whom he had so cruelly and irreparably wronged. And now once more he seemed suddenly face to face with his crime. He saw before him that fatal scene in the Bolsover meadow; he heard his comrades’ howl of execration and saw the boy’s white face on the grass turned up to meet his. It seemed but yesterday. Nay, it seemed all to be there that moment; he could feel the keen breeze on his cheek; his eye rested on the boy’s cap where he had flung it; he was conscious of Mr Freshfield’s look of horror—he could even see twenty yards away the football lying idle between the goals.
Strange, that the doubtful mention of an officer’s name should call it all up thus! But so it was. He even seemed half guilty of that gallant death in Afghanistan. Had he not wronged him worse than death? and now if anywhere the friendless boy, whose whole hope was in his father, should read those lines and find himself orphaned as well as crippled!
Jeffreys in his misery groaned aloud.
“Hullo,” said Percy, in the path before him, “you in the blues too! What a jolly sell! Here am I as miserable as an owl, and everybody I meet’s miserable too. Scarfe’s gone to Sharpfield, and won’t be back till late. Raby’s so taken up with her precious telegram that she won’t look at me. Ma and Mrs Scarfe, have bagged the pony trap and Appleby, and now you’re looking as if you’d just been hung.”
“What are you in the blues about?” said Jeffreys, brightening up a bit.
“Oh, everything. It’s so slow here, nothing to do. Can’t play games all day, and you won’t let me smoke, and the library hasn’t a single story worth reading, and it’s beastly cold; and upon my word,” said the boy, who was genuinely miserable, “I’d as soon go and sit on the top of Wild Pike as fool about here.”
“The best thing you could do—I’ll go and sit with you,” said Jeffreys.
“What!” said the boy, “do you mean it? Will you come?”
“Of course I will; I have nothing special to do to-day, and I’ve never been up a mountain in winter before.”
“We shall get a splendid view. Sure it won’t grind you?” said the boy, who, under Scarfe’s influence, had come to look upon every exertion as a thing to be shirked.
“My dear fellow, I shall enjoy it, especially with you,” said Jeffreys.
“Hurrah—bring Julius too—and I’ll get some grub to take. It’s only ten now, and it’s not dark till after four, so we have a good six hours.”
A few minutes later they started, Percy leaving word for his mother that they were going for a long tramp, and would be back for dinner.
It was a perfect winter’s day. The air was keen and frosty and promised magnificent views. The wind was not strong enough to be benumbing, and the sun overhead was cheering and now and then even warm.
“Hadn’t we better take overcoats, in case it comes on cold at the top?” said Jeffreys as they were starting.
“Oh no—they’re a frightful grind to carry, and we are sure to be baked before we get up.”
“I think I will take mine,” said Jeffreys, “and it will be no bother to carry yours.”
Percy protested, but, luckily for them, Jeffreys carried his point.
Wild Pike was one of those mountains, not uncommon in that district, which are approached from the back by a long gradual slope, but on the front present a scooped-out precipitous face, as if broken in half on that side.
It was this steeper side which faced Wildtree, and Percy would have scorned to approach the monster from any other quarter. From where they stood the narrow path zigzagged for about one thousand feet onto one of the upper shoulders of the mountain. Following this, the track brought them to what seemed like the basin of some old volcano hollowed out under the summit.
It was necessary to cross this depression, and by a narrow ledge at the foot of the great cliff gain the other side, where another zigzag ascent brought them onto the rocky slope leading over a quarter of a mile of huge boulders to the summit.
The passage across the face of the mountain was the most difficult part of the ascent. It lay along a narrow ledge hanging, so it seemed, half-way down the perpendicular cliff which rose out of the hollow, crater-like basin sheer up to the summit.
It was tolerably level, but the narrowness of the track and the precipitous height above and below called for a cool head and a steady foot. In frosty weather like the present it needed special caution, and every step had to be carefully judged on the treacherous path. However, they passed it safely. Julius alone seemed to find it difficult. The dog was strangely awkward to-day.
He slid about where the others walked steadily, and whimpered at obstacles which they seemed scarcely to heed.
“Now for the grub,” cried Percy, as they landed safely on the other side. “I say, Jeff, I call that something like a mountain, don’t you? I’m quite sorry we’re over the worst of it, aren’t you?”
“We’ve got the view to see yet,” responded Jeffreys.
“We shall be up in half an hour.”
“And it will take us as long to come down as to go up to-day,” said Jeffreys, “so we ought not to lose much time.”
Off they started again after a hurried but highly appreciated meal, in which the dog took only a very moderate share. The remaining portion of the ascent was simple enough. The zigzag onto the top shoulder was if anything less steep than the lower one, and the path, being rougher underfoot, was less treacherous.
The scramble over the loose rocks at the top onto the cairn was not altogether plain sailing. In summer it was easy enough, but now, with the surface of the great boulders as slippery as glass, it was hardly to be traversed except on the hands and knees.
Poor Julius floundered about pitifully, unable to keep his feet, and disappearing bodily now and then among the interstices of the rocky way. Even Percy and Jeffreys stumbled once or twice awkwardly, and reached the summit with bruised limbs. Butfinis coronat opus, especially on a mountain.
As they sprang up the cairn a view unequalled in grandeur broke upon them. The frosty air was without haze in any quarter. The Scotch hills beyond the border and the broad heaving sea lay apparently equally within reach, and on the farthest western horizon even the fairy-like outline of the distant Irish hills, never visible except in the clearest winter weather, shone out distinctly.
“Isn’t it scrumptious?” exclaimed Percy, as he flung himself breathless onto the cairn. “If we had waited a year we couldn’t have picked out such a day. Why, that must be Snowdon we see over there, and the high ground out at sea, Holyhead?”
Thus they went on, delightedly recognising the landmarks north, south, east, and west, and forgetting both the hour and the rising breeze.
“Why, it’s two o’clock!” cried Percy presently, looking at his watch, and shivering at the same time.
“Put on your coat,” said Jeffreys; “the wind’s getting up a bit, and we shall have it in our faces going down.”
As they started to descend they became aware of a sudden change in the hitherto cloudless day. The western horizon, which had just now been unfolding its distant beauties, seemed lost in a fine haze, which spread north and south, blotting out one after another the glories of landscape on which they had scarcely ceased to feast their eyes.
“There’s a mist out there,” said Percy, as they scrambled down the boulders; “I hope to goodness it will keep away from us.”
“The wind is a little north-west; it may drive it south of us, but it is spreading at a great rate.”
“Never mind; it will be rather a joke if it comes. I could find the way down with my eyes shut, and I’ve often wanted to be in a regular fog up here,” said Percy.
“I don’t know what you feel,” responded Jeffreys; “but I’m rather glad we brought our coats. Isn’t it cold?”
The wind which met them seemed charged with cold, and after a while began to scatter a feathery sleet in their faces.
Percy whistled.
“We didn’t bargain for that, I say,” said he. “I hope it shuts up before we cross over the ledge down there.”
Julius howled dismally. He, too, guessed what this blinding shower-bath foreboded, and stumbled along, miserable and shivering.
The higher zigzag, which had seemed easy enough two hours ago, tried them sorely now. The sleet half blinded them, and the fresh moisture, freezing as it fell, caused them to slip and slide at every step. Still they got down it somehow, and turned to face the narrow track along the cliff. Percy, much as he repined at the change in the elements, felt no doubt as to the possibility of getting over.
“We may have to crawl a bit of the way if this sort of thing goes on,” said he, “but it’s straight enough sailing.”
“Would it be better,” suggested Jeffreys, “to go to the top again and get down by the Sharpenholme track?”
“We shouldn’t get home till midnight if we did; besides, I don’t know the way. We’re all right this way if we look sharp.”
The wind had now increased to a tempest, and beat against the side of the great cliff with a sound like the sea breaking on an iron-bound shore. They could scarcely hear one another speak; and poor Julius’s whines were drowned in the great clamour.
“Do you mind my going first?” said Percy; “I know the path better than you.”
Jeffreys nodded, and they started. The first step they took on that ledge threatened for a moment to be their last. The wind, gathering fury every moment, beat Percy to his knees, and nearly sent Jeffreys staggering over the ledge.
“We shall have to crawl,” said Percy. “It’s no use waiting. The wind and sleet are going to make a night of it, and we shall gain nothing by waiting.”
The start was begun again—this time cautiously and on all-fours. Even so the wind seemed once or twice as if it would sweep them from the ledge. Yard by yard they crawled on. The driving mist fell like a pall over the mountain, and in a few minutes they could not even see a yard in front of them. Had the wind blown crosswise, or in any other way than that in which it came, they would have been swept off before twenty yards were accomplished. As it was, they were almost pinned to the cliff by the fury of the blast.
They must have proceeded a quarter of the way across, and had reached a spot where the ledge rose slightly. Even up this slight incline, with the mist freezing under them, it was impossible to crawl; and Percy, drawing himself cautiously to his feet, attempted to stand.
As he did so, the wind, gathering itself into a furious blast, caught him and hurled him against the rocky wall. He recoiled with a sharp cry of pain, and next moment would have fallen into the abyss beneath, had not Jeffreys’ strong arm caught him and held him. His legs were actually off the ledge, and for a moment it seemed as if both he and his protector were doomed. But with a tremendous effort the prostrate Jeffreys swung him back onto the track.
“Are you hurt?” he called.
“My arm,” said Percy. “I’m afraid I can’t get on. I’ll try.”
But the attempt only called up a fresh exclamation of pain.
“We must wait,” said Jeffreys. “Try to sit up, old fellow. I’ll help you.”
It was evident that the boy’s arm, if not broken, was so severely damaged as to render it powerless.
“I could stay here, I think,” said he, “if you went on, Jeff.”
“Nonsense!” said Jeffreys; “we’ll send Julius to fetch help. Here, Julius, good dog,” said he, patting the dog’s head and pointing down to the valley, “go and fetch them here. Fetch Appleby, and Walker, and Mr Rimbolt. Go along, good fellow.”
The dog, who had been crawling behind them, looked wistfully at his master and licked the hand that caressed him. Then, stepping carefully across them as they sat with their backs to the rock and their feet beyond the edge of the path, he departed.
He was out of sight almost a yard away, but they heard him whine once as the wind dashed him against the cliff.
“Julius, good dog, fetch them!” shouted Jeffreys into the mist.
A faint answering bark came back.
Next moment, through the storm, came a wild howl, and they heard him no more.
Jeffreys guessed only too well what that howl meant; but he never stirred, as with his arm round Percy, and his cloak screening him from the wind, he looked hopelessly out into the night and waited.