That night, for the first time in their residence on the island, the girls were awakened by a patter of rain. Only once before had rain fallen, and that was during the tornado. Now the sound of it upon the thatch of the hut was very slight, but the girls slept so lightly that a whisper was almost enough to disturb them.
"I hope we are not in for another smash up," said Elizabeth, finding that her sisters were both awake.
"There's no wind at present," returned Mary. "Rain alone won't hurt us. I expect it's the rainy season beginning, and we shall have weeks of it."
"How disgusting!" exclaimed Tommy. "I always hated having to stay indoors, and it will be worse than ever here, with no cosy fire and nice story-book. What's the time, Bess?"
She leant over towards Elizabeth, who lay next to her, and showed a light with her match-lighter. Elizabeth looked at her watch, which she never forgot to wind.
"It's about four o'clock," she said.
"Time for another snooze before daylight," said Tommy, snuggling down again into her wraps. In a minute or two she was fast asleep.
The other girls remained wide awake, and talked quietly together.
"I wish we knew our whereabouts better," said Elizabeth. "If we only knew what those islands are that we have seen in the distance, we might perhaps row to one of them and find friends."
"Yes; of course there are missionaries," said Mary. "Don't you remember Uncle Ben told us of a friend of his who was returning to his station? What was his name, Bess?"
"I forget. We can't venture across the sea, can we?"
"Oh, no! There are thousands of islands, and I believe some have never been visited by white people at all. We might land among cannibals!"
"We are certainly better off here. I can't believe there are any people on this island, in spite of Tommy, or why haven't we seen something of them? We'll go to the ridge after breakfast, as we said, and settle the matter once for all."
"Supposing therearepeople?" said Mary.
"As I said before, I think we ought to try and make friends with them, and if they seem inclined to be unfriendly, perhaps we could make them afraid of us. Tommy's match-lighter would startle them, wouldn't it?"
"It might, but I don't like to think of having to rely on that sort of thing for our safety. They would soon find out our real weakness, and then—— Oh! I do hope we shall not see anybody. We should be so much more uncomfortable."
"Tommy's birthday is somewhere about now. We can't be quite sure of the date, because we didn't begin to cut notches at once; but we should be right within a day or two. The present she would like best would be some oranges from beyond the ridge, and certain news that the island is uninhabited."
"How strange it seems to hope that there are no human beings near us! Do you know, Bess, I think the people of these islands must be very melancholy."
"Why should you think that? I have always supposed them to be a happy, light-hearted folk, with not a care in the world."
"But they have nothing to do. Their food grows for them without work, and they don't need many clothes. They've no books to read, no amusements——"
"How do you know that?"
"Well, what amusements can they have? Isn't it only civilized people who play games?"
"I don't know. I seem to remember that even savages gamble, if that is amusement; it wouldn't be to me if I lost."
"Then you're no sport, Bess," said Tommy, who had awakened and caught the last few words. "It's the excitement they like, whether they win or lose. I should be a dreadful gambler, I know, if I had the chance."
"Then I hope you will never have it, dear," said Elizabeth. "It is an unhealthy excitement, I am sure. We were talking about your birthday, Tommy. It might be yesterday, to-day, or to-morrow, but you are fourteen. We'll wish you many happy returns now."
"Oh, I wish you hadn't reminded me," cried Tommy. "Think of being fifteen and sixteen, and twenty, and getting old on this island! I don't want to grow old at all, and it would be dreadful here. I'd be a scullery maid, or a beggar girl—anything in England, rather than stay here. Shall we ever get away?"
And Tommy nestled to Elizabeth's side, and as she lay encompassed by her elder sister's arms she prayed with all her heart that God would send help to them soon.
When dawn broke and they got up, it was a dreary world upon which they looked. Sea and earth were covered with a clinging mist. A drizzle was falling. Everything was sodden and forlorn. The fire was out, and there were no dry sticks for re-lighting it. They had to content themselves with a breakfast of cocoanuts, and then they sat inside the hut, too much depressed in spirit to go out, or do anything but watch the rain.
Presently the drizzle became a downpour, which, went on for an hour or two, then suddenly ceased, the sun bursting through the leaden sky. They took advantage of this to gather a quantity of twigs, which they carried into the hut to dry there. Elizabeth had just suggested that Mary and she should start on their expedition to the ridge, when a sharp shower drove them again to shelter. So it went on all day—heavy showers that lasted for a few minutes alternating with brief, bright intervals.
There was no doubt that the rainy season had begun. The girls were practically confined to the hut for many days in succession, only sallying forth to catch fish, which they cooked at a new stove built nearer the hut. The showers were sometimes light, sometimes very heavy, and at last the rain began to drip through the thatched roof, and the girls had to sit in their macintoshes. Though the sun appeared every now and then, it did not shine long enough to dry the ground before another downpour soaked it. They all became very low-spirited, and could not find any occupation to pass away the time, for even weaving was impossible with the sodden grass.
Their troubles came to a climax one day when Mary complained of a racking headache. Feeling her hot brow, Elizabeth feared she had taken a fever, no doubt owing to the exhalation from the damp earth working on a lowered system. She and Tommy felt much concern, which became real alarm when they found Mary rapidly becoming worse. She could not eat, and lay on her mat bed covered with the macintoshes and wraps of the other girls, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright and glassy. Towards evening, when Elizabeth had left the hut to fetch water for the night, and Tommy sat by the invalid, she was startled to hear Mary talking in a very strange way.
"No milk to-day—there's something wrong with Dapple—Jane, Uncle Ben's coming to-morrow. Don't forget the——" Then her voice died away into an indistinguishable muttering. Presently Tommy caught more phrases: "Oh, no, no! They'll eat us: don't let Tommy go. Bess! Bess! they're coming after me!—Dan will carry the luggage, Uncle!"
So she raved on, in her delirium babbling about the farm, the ship, her friends, a word every now and again showing how much the fear of cannibals had occupied the background of her mind. Tommy was terrified. She had never seen any one delirious except her father just before he died, and she was smitten with an agonizing fear that Mary would not recover.
"Oh, Bess, she's out of her mind!" she cried piteously, as Elizabeth returned. "What shall we do?"
Elizabeth went quickly to the bed, dipped a handkerchief in the water she had brought, and laid it on Mary's fevered head.
"We must sit up with her to-night," she said. "Don't give way, Tommy dear. She will soon be better. The fever came on so suddenly that I am sure it is one of those sharp attacks that don't last long. But it will leave her very weak, and we must be very careful of her. I do so wish we had some oranges; the juice is so cooling."
But it was too late to think of looking for oranges, and they had to be satisfied with water and cocoanut milk, which they gave Mary in sips. All night long they remained at her side, watching her with distress as her teeth chattered as if with cold, and then next moment she tossed about on her little mat bed, and flung the macintoshes off as if she could not bear the heat. Elizabeth tried to induce Tommy to lie down for a little, but the young girl refused, saying that she could not rest until she knew that Mary was better.
"I will get some oranges to-morrow," said Elizabeth. "I am sure they will do her good."
Towards morning Mary dropped off to sleep, and then Tommy was persuaded to lie down. The sun had risen when she awoke to find Elizabeth still watching over her sleeping sister.
"I'll just run down to the stream and bathe my face," said Elizabeth. "She is still asleep. Give her a little water if she wakes; I shan't be long. Luckily, it's a fine morning."
She returned in a few minutes.
"Now you run down and wash, Tommy," she said; "it'll freshen you. I've put in some fish to bake for breakfast."
Tommy rose and left the hut. During Elizabeth's absence she had strung herself up to a great resolution. Mary must have oranges, but the one to fetch them should not be Elizabeth. She was so calm and steady and capable that she would do far better to stay and look after Mary. "I can be best spared," thought Tommy, "but I know Bess won't let me go if I propose it. I shall just do it without telling her. It won't take long to scamper to the orange grove and back again."
She had not forgotten her former fright; but she told herself that perhaps she might get to the oranges without being observed, and she was ready to do anything for Mary, of whom she was very fond, though they sparred sometimes. So, after bathing her face in the stream, she went to the stove and scratched on the sand in front of it with her knife the words, "Gone to the orange grove." Then, without waiting, for fear her courage failed, she ran swiftly along the bank of the stream, munching a piece of cocoanut as she went.
In the hut Mary had awakened perfectly sensible, and wondering why she felt so weak. Elizabeth bathed her face and hands, smoothed her hair, and having tried to make her a little more comfortable, gave her a drink of cocoanut milk.
"What's the matter with me, Bess?" she asked.
"You've had a touch of fever. You'll soon be all right again. I'm going to get you some oranges presently. You will enjoy them."
"Yes, I shall. Have I been ill long? I feel as weak as anything."
"Only one night, dear. We shall have to feed you up. You ought to have beef tea or chicken broth, of course; but we shall have to do the best we can. I think we must try to snare a bird of some sort."
"Where's Tommy?"
"Just run down to wash. I dare say she'll bring back the fish with her. I put some to bake. You could eat a little, couldn't you?"
"I'll try, but I don't feel much like eating. I want to go to sleep again."
And, indeed, in a few minutes she was sleeping. "The very best thing she could do," said Elizabeth to herself.
A quarter of an hour passed and Tommy had not returned. "I wonder why she is lagging," thought Elizabeth. She went to the entrance of the hut and looked down towards the shore. The trees hid the stove from her, and she did not call out for fear of waking Mary. She went back into the hut and sat down; but after five minutes, when there was still no Tommy, her vague wonder grew into a slight feeling of alarm. Seeing that Mary was still asleep, she went out again, and ran swiftly down towards the stove, glancing to the left with a half expectation of discovering Tommy fishing on the rocks. But Tommy was not in sight, and Elizabeth soon learnt why, as her eye caught the scribble on the sand.
"How plucky!" she thought. "But the child will be terrified before she gets there; I had better fetch her back."
But with a moment's reflection she saw that she could not expect to catch Tommy before she reached the top of the ridge. If there was any danger Tommy would have run into it by the time she could be overtaken. Mary was so weak that Elizabeth did not care to leave her for long; but she ran some distance up the stream, as far as the broad, bare avenue made by the storm, and then was on the point of giving a shrill call when she checked herself. The sound might cause the very harm she wished to avoid. Perturbed, and somewhat vexed as well, she hastened back, feeling that at present Mary must be her chief care. She reflected that, after all, though they had been now more than two months on the island, they had never met any other person, and had no real reason to think it was inhabited. Surely if the object Tommy had seen was actually a human being, they would by this time have had other evidence of his existence. Thus reassuring herself, she hurried back, took out of the oven the fish that was already over-baked, and regained the hut. To her great relief Mary was still fast asleep. Elizabeth dreaded the effect upon her if she suspected that anything had happened to Tommy.
As she ate her breakfast, reserving some of the fish for Tommy, she felt decidedly annoyed at the young girl's escapade. Tommy ought to have mentioned what she intended, thought Elizabeth. But Tommy had been from her earliest years impulsive and heedless, so that her present disobedience—for so Elizabeth had come to regard it, forgetting that no instructions had been given—was quite apiece with former instances. Then Elizabeth made amends to Tommy in her heart. "She has been very good all this time," she thought. "I do wish she would come back."
But the hours dragged by, and still Tommy had not appeared. Mary awoke, and looking round the hut, inquired again for Tommy.
"She has run up to get some oranges," said Elizabeth, as calmly as she could, though she felt very troubled.
"Tommy has?" said Mary, in surprise. "Gone alone to where she saw the face? Oh, you shouldn't have let her, Bess."
"I wouldn't have, only I did not know. She scrawled on the sand to say that she had gone. I suppose she thought I would make a better nurse than she."
"She's a dear, brave girl," said Mary, "and I shall like the oranges all the better."
Elizabeth got her to eat a little fish, cold as it now was, and presently she dropped off to sleep again. It was past dinner-time; the sun was very hot, and Elizabeth, thoroughly alarmed at Tommy's protracted absence, wondered if, after her trying night, she had been overcome by the heat, and was, perhaps, lying helpless somewhere. She felt that she must try to find her; so, slipping out of the hut, she ran as fast as her feet would carry her up through the woods, never pausing until she had crossed the ridge and come to the orange grove. She had looked about her as she ran, and, now regardless of consequences, had called Tommy several times, but she saw neither her nor any living person, and there was no answer to her calls.
At the grove there were oranges and bananas scattered here and there on the ground, so that Tommy's absence could not be due to any difficulty in obtaining what she came for. And then Elizabeth's heart stood still as she noticed at one spot, a strange collection of objects. There were four or five oranges on the ground close together, and with them Tommy's knife, the little stick she had fed her parrot with, a piece of hair-ribbon, and a wedge of cocoanut. What had happened? These objects were obviously the contents of Tommy's pocket; why had she placed them there, and where was she? Had she been startled? Had some natives come stealthily upon her, and seized her? Would they not at least have taken the knife at the same time?
Elizabeth felt a shiver of fear, along with utter bewilderment. But she crushed down her uneasy imaginings and, placing Tommy's belongings in her pocket, began to search among the trees, shouting from time to time, no matter who might hear her. Suddenly her eye was caught by the flutter of a small coloured object at some distance among the bushes. With a thrill of hope she hastened towards it, but long before she reached it, she realized that her hope was vain; the object was only a bit of tattered cloth attached to one of the line of poles they had seen on their former visit. Retracing her steps to the orange grove, she went in and out among the trees, shouting Tommy's name again and again. Her distress at Tommy's disappearance was coupled with anxiety about Mary. It was now a considerable time since she had left the hut, and she felt that, with Mary so weak and helpless, she could not stay to search any longer. Thrusting a few oranges into her pocket for the invalid, she hastened back, conscious that she herself was weak and shaky. The long, anxious search in the fierce sunlight, following a sleepless night, had been almost too much for her strength.
She tried to enter the hut unconcernedly, with a dim hope that Tommy might have returned before her. Mary was awake.
"Why did you leave me?" she said, in the querulous tone of an invalid, her eyes filling with tears. "I've called and called for you and Tommy, but you wouldn't come. I am so miserable."
"Here are some oranges, dear," said Elizabeth gently. "I will squeeze the juice into a cup for you. It will do you good."
"Thank you so much. I'm a wretched bad patient, Bess dear, but I got it into my silly head that you had deserted me. Ridiculous, wasn't it? This is delicious. It was kind of Tommy to get them for me. Where is she?"
Elizabeth was in a quandary. Mary seemed a little better; her querulousness was a good sign; but it would not further her recovery to tell her that Tommy was missing. On the other hand, Elizabeth herself was so much distressed that she would have liked to pour out her troubles to a sympathetic ear. But she thought it best to keep the bad news to herself for the present, and said—-
"She must have quite recovered her courage, and gone roaming. You are getting on, aren't you, dear?"
"Yes, only rather weak still. But these oranges are delicious. I feel much refreshed. Don't sit up with me to-night, Bess; I am sure I shall be all right, and you mustn't wear yourself out. Put some oranges near me, so that I can get one in the night without disturbing you."
She soon fell asleep again, and did not awaken until it was quite dark. She was careful not to disturb her sister, and so did not become aware until the morning that Tommy had not returned. Elizabeth had spent a sleepless night, and felt quite worn out when day broke. Mary was quick to notice her distress, of which she knew she could not be the cause, since she was so much better.
"You are hiding something, Bess. Tell me; has something happened to Tommy?"
Elizabeth, on the verge of a breakdown, was glad to pour out the whole story.
"Oh, why didn't you tell me before!" cried Mary. "You must go at once and look for her again. There is really nothing the matter with me now. Do, please, go, Bess. It is awful to think of what may have happened."
Hastily getting Mary a little food, Elizabeth set out for the orange grove, and searched it and the neighbourhood through and through, calling Tommy's name until she was hoarse. Once in response to her shouts, she thought she heard a faint cry, and hurried in the direction from which she supposed it to have come.
At that moment she felt that she would have welcomed the appearance of a native; the sight of any human face would have been a comfort. But her search was still fruitless; neither Tommy nor any one else appeared; and Elizabeth thought she must have been mistaken. The birds were trilling and chattering in the woods, and among so many sounds it was easy to deceive oneself.
At length, when she had been several hours absent, she felt that she must return in case Mary should be wondering whether she too had disappeared. She could hardly drag herself home. At the entrance of the hut she found Mary looking anxiously towards the ridge.
"You shouldn't have got up," she said. "Oh, Mary, I can't find her, and I am so tired."
For a moment it looked as if she would break down utterly, but she controlled herself, and in response to Mary's entreaty, lay down to rest. Fatigue even overcame her distress of mind, and for an hour or two she slept heavily. Then she awoke with a start, and declared that she must go and search again. Swallowing a little food, she set off, and thoroughly hunted over a wider area than before, not returning until the evening.
"It's no good," she said, despairing. "Poor Tommy's gone."
"Don't say so," said Mary. "You haven't seen any one, have you?"
"Nobody."
"Then she may only be lost. You know how venturesome she is, and having found no one to be afraid of perhaps she has gone right over the island, and sprained her ankle or something. Have a good sleep, Bess. To-morrow we'll both go. I'm sure I shall be strong enough."
Next morning, after a breakfast of bananas and oranges—for there was, of course, no fish—the girls set off together. Mary, although a little "tottery," as she said, was able to walk slowly, and she declared it was much better for her to go too, than to remain at home wondering what was happening. Elizabeth had to support her, and she stopped for frequent rests; but they came at length to the orange grove.
"Now, I'll stay here," she said, "in the shade of the trees, while you go round and round; and if you don't find her here, go right over the ridge and cooee every few seconds. I won't stir until you come back."
When Tommy left the hut she ran with all the fleetness of her young legs up towards the ridge. All the way she said to herself, "I won't be afraid, I won't, I won't," keeping up her courage also with the thought of the surprise she would give her sisters when she returned laden with fruit.
The morning was somewhat misty, but the mist was not so thick as to hide the general features of the country. As before, she followed the course of the stream, and when she came to the swamp she turned to the right, and continued as nearly as possible in a straight line with the crest. Arriving at the top, she stopped for a few moments rather puzzled. The appearance of the country was unfamiliar; the spot she had reached was certainly not the place to which she, with her sisters, had come on the former excursion. It was clear that she had wandered somewhat from the proper route.
She went on, the very difficulty in which she found herself helping to strengthen her determination. There were trees on all sides, but for some time she discovered none that were bearing oranges. At length, however, as the mist lifted, she perceived some golden spots among the foliage, and ran towards them. She hoped that this was not the orange grove in which she had been so much frightened, and a return of her nervousness made her quicken her pace and gather, in a kind of frantic haste, a number of oranges that bespattered the ground.
In order to turn her journey to the utmost advantage she meant to fill her pocket with oranges and take as many as possible in her hands as well. But remembering that her pocket was usually full of all sorts of odds and ends, she knelt down to empty it and throw away what was useless, so as to have more room for the oranges. She had just laid on the ground her knife and a few oddments when, throwing in spite of herself a nervous glance around, she noticed a slight movement in the bushes on her right—the direction in which she had come. She could not help looking again, and then she sprang to her feet transfixed with terror. There was the same little brown face peering out from among the background of foliage. For a few seconds the two pairs of eyes remained staring at each other; then, scarcely knowing what she did, but in an instinctive movement of defence, Tommy waved her arms towards the bush.
The face instantly disappeared, but Tommy in her agitation forgot her errand, forgot the things she had placed beside her, and took to her heels, flying in a blind panic from the spot. She did not even stay to make sure she was going in the right direction; she had quite lost command of herself, and regardless of thorns and creepers that tore her skirts and tripped her steps, she plunged through the undergrowth. Every sound seemed to her excited imagination to be made by pursuers following upon her track. Suddenly the earth gave way beneath her, she felt herself sinking, sinking. "Bess! Bess!" she screamed, and then she knew no more.
When she regained consciousness she found herself in semi-darkness. For a moment she was simply bewildered; she was half smothered with twigs, leaves and earth; then she remembered all that had happened and sprang to her feet. But an excruciating pain in her left ankle caused her to fall back, and the agony was so intense that she remained for some time in a half-fainting condition. Presently she recovered. A second attempt to rise gave her such a twinge that she knew her ankle was seriously sprained; to move without help was impossible.
Her fear of the little brown face was overcome by a still greater anxiety. Where was she? She looked about her. Some distance above her head, considerably higher than the rooms at the farm, was a wide opening. She must have fallen into a pit. But it seemed to her a strange pit, for, her eyes becoming accustomed to the dimness, she saw that the floor upon which she lay was much broader than the opening at the top.
An insect touching her hand made her jump: and with a feeling of horror she wondered if the pit was infested with noxious creatures that would sting her to death. She shouted, frantically, again and again, but her voice only seemed to be thrown back at her; and when she remembered how far off her sisters were, she realized that her cries, if they were heard above, could bring only the savages from whom she had fled.
For a time she cowered among the trash, overwhelmed with despair. Then, when she was calm enough to think, it was only to recognize more fully the seriousness of her plight. Her sisters could never guess what had become of her. If they took alarm at her absence, and Elizabeth came in search of her, it was quite likely that she would never discover the spot. Perhaps even she might be captured by the natives, for the sight of the little brown face had convinced Tommy that beyond the ridge the island was overrun with cannibals. It was nothing to her that they had never appeared on her side of the island; she told herself that they had simply waited until they could catch one girl alone. Nor did it seem to her ridiculous that a tribe of bloodthirsty savages should be so timorous as to refrain from openly attacking three defenceless girls.
The dreadful thought occurred to her, "Am I to die in this prison?" The prospect of such a fate made her shiver. She felt that even to fall into the hands of cannibals was preferable to a lingering death in this pit, and again she raised her voice in wild cries for help, repeating them until she was exhausted. For some time she remained in a state of stupor: but when she was able to collect herself she wondered whether, in spite of her injured foot, she could, by any exertion of her own, escape. She crept on hands and knees to the side of the pit; but even if she had been able to use her foot she saw that she could never climb up those sloping walls.
Glancing round, however, she saw that in the wall to her right there was an opening yawning black. She crawled to it, and peered in. It was so dark that she could see nothing beyond a yard. But she felt a faint hope that it might be a passage leading somehow to the level ground. Recollecting her automatic match-box, which, fortunately, she kept attached to her belt, she threw its small flickering light on the scene. She saw now that she was indeed at the entrance of a tunnel. It could not be a short one if it led to the outer air, for there was no glimmer of light from its black depths. But it was worth trying; so, the light, small as it was, giving her a sense of security, she began to creep slowly along the dark passage, every now and again wincing as a pang shot through her injured foot.
It was a strange tunnel; not rounded and of regular shape like the railway tunnels at home, but varying in width and height. In some places the roof was beyond the range of Tommy's feeble light; at others it came so low that she could not have stood upright. The floor was uneven, the walls were rugged, a recess here, a protuberance there. Clearly it had not been cut by the hands of men, but must be attributed to a freak of nature.
To Tommy, crawling inch by inch along the ground, it seemed that the tunnel would never end. How long it was, how many minutes or hours this painful progress continued, she was quite unable to guess. At last, with a cry of gladness, she saw a faint gleam of light beyond, and tried to advance more quickly, so as to gain liberty and fresh air. The light came through an aperture in the wall that appeared to be the end of the passage. It was high above the ground, and Tommy, standing on one foot, was just able to look through it. She thought that if she could only manage to heave herself up to it, the aperture was just wide enough to let her body through.
But first of all she must make sure that it led to safety. It was not full daylight outside; beyond the wall there appeared to be, not open space, but another confined chamber. Supposing she climbed up and got through, how far would she have to drop to reach the ground on the other side? and what if she should find herself only in another place from which escape would be no easier than from the pit?
To stand on one foot was fatiguing, and Tommy had to sit down and rest for a little. She had now recovered from her panic, and was ready to bend all her young wits upon the problem of escape. Presently a means occurred to her of discovering at least whether it would be safe for her to make an attempt to clamber through the aperture. She felt along the floor for a piece of rock, and standing up again, dropped it over the ledge. In an instant there came a faint thud, and immediately afterwards a great whirring and screaming. She was quick to infer that the ground was at some depth below the opening, and that the falling rock had disturbed a colony of birds of some kind. "Can I be at the top of a cliff?" she thought.
Plainly it was impossible to escape in this direction. The dashing of her hope almost made Tommy weep. She had done no good; indeed had only wasted time. There was nothing for it but to crawl back to the pit; and as she wearily crept through the passage despair seized upon her heart; she felt the choking sensation of helpless misery.
Her terror was even deepened when, on getting back to the pit, she found that it was now quite dark. Through the opening she could see the stars overhead, but there was no pleasure in watching them as she had many times watched them from the hut. She crouched upon the leaves, scarcely able to bear the throbbing pain in her foot; and when presently she fell asleep from sheer exhaustion, it was with a prayer on her lips: "God help me, and let me see my sisters again."
Pain and thirst awakened her several times before dawn. A slight shower fell during the night, and by catching the raindrops in her outspread palm she was able to moisten her parched lips. She also wetted her handkerchief and bound it about her inflamed ankle, thus easing the pain a little. When it was quite light overhead she began to shout again, her voice sounding very cracked and hoarse. Soon she had to give up even this; her tongue and the roof of her mouth were so dry that she could not utter a word. Then she lost all hope, and lying down sobbed herself to sleep.
When she awoke it was again dark. Her foot was much less painful, but she felt more hungry and thirsty than ever before in her life. If only she had filled her pocket with oranges before she saw that little brown face! Again the idea came to her of attempting to climb the side of the pit by cutting steps in the earth; but on feeling in her pocket she remembered that she had dropped her knife on the ground. Hobbling across the pit she felt along the walls, only to find, as before, that their slope made it quite impossible to clamber up. Then feeling that starvation must be her doom, she sank back and lay in a state of dreamy somnolence.
All at once she was startled into wakefulness by a faint sound somewhere above her. She sprang up. Sunlight was streaming through the opening; the sound came again. It was some one calling. Tommy tried to shout in answer, but the feeble croak that was all she could utter dismayed her. With help at hand, she might not be heard! The call above was now quite clear. It was coming nearer. She heard her own name. But the more she tried to call the less she seemed able to make a sound. The voice above began to recede. Then with a last desperate effort she did manage to produce a hoarse cry that she could scarcely believe came from her own throat, so strange it was. It seemed to have used up all the little strength she had left, and she fell exhausted to the ground, believing that the last chance of rescue had now utterly vanished.
Some little time after Elizabeth had left her, Mary fancied that she caught a faint cry. She shouted to her sister, who was out of sight, but whose voice she heard calling at intervals. The feeble sound seemed to have come from a patch of woodland not a great distance from the track which Elizabeth had taken. But as the wind was blowing from that quarter, Mary realized that although she could hear Elizabeth it was probably impossible for Elizabeth to hear her. She felt very tired after her long walk, and doubted whether she could go far without her sister's sustaining arm; but the thought that Elizabeth might wander out of reach while Tommy was in danger near at hand gave her an artificial strength. She rose from the ground and tottered in the direction from which the cry had appeared to come. Every now and then she stopped, listening for a repetition of the sound; but she heard nothing except the rustle of the wind and Elizabeth's shouts, growing fainter and fainter in the distance.
In a few moments she had passed beyond the orange grove, and felt that she was in danger of losing her way. Even Elizabeth's voice soon ceased to guide her. She stumbled along, shouting every few steps, with no other result than to disturb the birds in the trees. Becoming alarmed at the possibility of being lost and her strength failing, she was on the point of trying to find her way back, and gave one last call, when she was electrified by hearing a strange hoarse sound apparently coming from some distance to the left. It was little like a human voice; yet it was not the cry of a bird, and Mary hurried with uneven steps towards it.
The ground rose steeply, leading up to the ridge far to the left. But with the new strength lent by excitement Mary was not conscious of the slope. She came to a number of straggling bushes edged by an irregular circle of small trees. Here she looked eagerly around her, peering through the bushes and between the trunks of the trees, listening for that strange cry to be repeated.
There was no sound, but as her eyes travelled over the circuit she noticed what seemed to be a small landslip in the bank. Following this downward, her glance discovered a hole in the ground several feet wide. Moved by a sudden impulse, and the instinctive feeling that here was the explanation of Tommy's disappearance, she stumbled forward, hardly conscious of her trembling limbs. Throwing herself flat on the ground at the edge of the hole, she gazed into the pit beneath. It was some moments before her eyes became used to the half-light; but then she saw something white; she distinguished it as part of an object huddled on the ground immediately beneath the opening; and she knew that Tommy was found.
But an agonizing fear seized her. Was Tommy dead? She called down in a low voice. There was no answer. She called again and still again, her tones growing louder as she became more alarmed. At length, after what seemed an age of suspense, her strained gaze noticed a slight movement in the figure below, and a faint whisper came up to her. "Thank God!" her heart cried out, and she eagerly called to Tommy, saying that she would soon be safe. But Tommy made no reply; she had relapsed into unconsciousness.
Mary was at her wits' end what to do. It was clear that Tommy was helpless. A pang shot through Mary's heart as she remembered that the girl had been without food for two days and two nights. The hole was so deep that even if Tommy had been conscious Mary could not have helped her, at the utmost stretch of her arms, to get out. Elizabeth was beyond hearing: she might return to the orange grove: what would she do if she found Mary missing? Mary dared not leave the neighbourhood of the pit now that Tommy was found: but she wanted to run after Elizabeth and bring her to the spot.
While she was still undecided she heard Elizabeth's voice in the far distance. She shouted in reply, though she still felt that against the wind her voice could not be heard. But in a few moments she was gladdened to know from the growing loudness of the shouts that Elizabeth was returning. There was a chance that as she drew nearer she would hear a shrill call, so Mary every few moments formed a trumpet with her hands, and let forth a prolonged "Cooee!" Presently she knew by the tone of Elizabeth's call that her voice had been heard; but, so confusing are sounds amid woods and thickets, it was a long time before Elizabeth discovered where she was, and came hurrying through the trees.
"Have you found her?" she asked eagerly.
"She is down there," replied Mary, pointing to the mouth of the pit. "Oh, Bess, I'm afraid she is very much hurt, perhaps dying!"
Elizabeth, with an exclamation of dismay, threw herself down and peered into the hole.
"Tommy! Tommy dear!" she called.
But there was no answer. Elizabeth measured with her eye the depth of the pit; she felt tempted to spring down and see if Tommy were alive or dead.
"Will you stay here while I run back and get the painter?" she asked. At that moment neither of the girls thought of savages: fear for Tommy had banished every other fear.
"It will take so long," murmured Mary. "You would be gone an hour at least, and——"
"I know a way," Elizabeth interrupted; "we'll make a rope of creepers. It won't take us long."
She darted off into the forest. In building the hut she had become expert in selecting strong tendrils for binding their lattice-work, and in a few moments she had cut, among the dense undergrowth, a considerable quantity of tough material with which she hurried back to the pit. The two girls at once set to work with nimble fingers plaiting the tendrils together.
"She must be famished, and dead with thirst," said Mary. "If we could only give her some water."
"There's a little brook not far away," said Elizabeth. "When we have done the rope we'll make a cup of leaves, and I'll fetch some water. Then you must let me down into the pit."
"I could never do it," said Mary, "I am not strong enough."
"Not by yourself, but I'll fasten one end of the rope to that tree you see there; then we'll pass it round that little one near us, and you will be strong enough to pay it out. That's the only way."
They worked very quickly, and finished a long, stout rope in little more time than the journey home would have taken. While Mary made several cups from the large spreading leaves of a plant like rhubarb, Elizabeth wound one end of the rope tightly about the tree trunk she had pointed out. In the other end she made a loop to cling to.
"The rope is not long enough," said Mary.
"Not to reach the bottom, but that doesn't matter. I can drop a few feet. When you have let me down, run down that slope, Mary, and you'll find the brook a little way to the right. Bring two of the leaves filled with water, and let them down by the rope. Pierce a hole in each side of the cups near the top, and pass the rope through: you'll see how to do it. Now take the rope firmly. I'll slip over the edge, and when I give the word let it run out gently around the tree."
Pale with anxiety and weakness, Mary took up her position at the tree. She made a determined effort to obey Elizabeth's instructions. Inch by inch the rope slipped through her hands, at last so fast that she held her breath in terror lest Elizabeth should be dashed to the ground. The rope was stretched to its extreme tension; then it suddenly relaxed; and next moment she heard the welcome cry from the pit: "I'm safe. Now for the water."
Gathering herself together, Mary sped off to the brook, carrying the two leaf cups. Eagerness to help lent her strength. She returned with them brimming, drew up the rope, and unfastened the loop at the end. Then passing two of the strands through the holes made in the cup, she let it down slowly into the pit. Some of the water was spilled in the descent; but Elizabeth said that enough was left for the moment.
"How is she?" asked Mary, dreading to hear that Tommy was past help.
"She is unconscious, but breathing," said Elizabeth. "I'll give her some water."
For some little time Mary heard no more. Elizabeth bathed Tommy's head and moistened her lips. At length the young girl gave a long sigh and moan.
"I'm here, dear," said Elizabeth gently. "Mary is above. You are safe now."
"The face!" moaned Tommy, her mind leaping back over all that had happened since she had seen those eyes staring at her.
"Hush!" said Elizabeth, stroking her head. "There is nothing to harm you. Drink a little water; we must see about getting you out of this pit, you know."
Tommy drank eagerly, holding Elizabeth's hands in a tight clasp.
"We are getting on famously," Elizabeth called to reassure Mary.
Tommy lay still, taking a sip of water every now and again, too weak to move or to speak. Meanwhile Elizabeth was beating her brain for some means of getting her to the surface. It was clear that Tommy for some time would be unable to do anything for herself. Lightly built though she was, her dead weight was far more than Elizabeth could hope to sustain, hanging on to the rope, and with no one but Mary to assist from above. The rope was too short by several feet; the first necessity was to lengthen it. Presently, therefore, when Tommy was more recovered, Elizabeth asked Mary to cut some more creepers and throw them down. Now her practice in splicing on board her uncle's ship was very useful. She quickly added three or four feet to the rope's length.
"Tommy dear, I'm going to leave you for a little," she said. "You are quite safe now. I'm going to arrange about lifting you out of this horrid place. You must be hungry, poor thing. I'll get a few oranges; you can reach them if we throw them down, can't you? and bananas too; they're more substantial. By the time I am ready to lift you out you'll be heaps stronger."
"Mary won't go?" said Tommy quiveringly.
"No, she'll stay with you. You can hear her when she speaks to you: but don't try to talk yourself; just eat the fruit I shall give you and get strong."
She then told Mary to come to the edge of the pit and be ready to help her.
"But take care you don't overbalance," she said. "It mustn't be a case of three girls in a pit."
Tired as Elizabeth had been, the joy of discovering Tommy alive had braced her, and she felt equal to any exertion. But she had not had Tommy's practice in tree-climbing, nor in clambering up the rigging on the barque; and when she clasped the rope and tried to draw herself up she slipped down again and again. For a time she felt baffled, but a means of overcoming the difficulty occurred to her.
"Pull up the rope, Mary," she said, "and make knots in it about two feet apart. I shall be able to manage it then, I think."
When the knots were made she tried again. It was a terrible strain on her wrists, and she got no assistance for her feet from the shelving sides of the pit. But the knots gave a firm hold, and she managed to climb hand over hand to the edge, where, with Mary's help, she heaved herself on to the level ground.
"Do rest," said Mary, noticing the signs of strain on her sister's face.
"I am not a bit tired. Look, Mary, I want you to plait another rope. I'll get the stuff for you."
She hastened into the undergrowth, and returned with her arms full of creepers.
"Now I'm going to get Tommy some food, and then run back to the hut. I'll be as quick as I can. Talk to her while I am away to keep her spirits up."
Soon she was flinging an armful of bananas and oranges, one by one, into the pit.
"There's a feast for you," she said cheerfully. "Now in about an hour you'll be released. Eat slowly, that's the rule after fasting, isn't it?"
"You are a dear," said Mary, hugging her. "What should we have done without you?"
"My dear girl, without me you wouldn't have been here at all, we all came together. Good-bye for an hour."
She flitted off as lightly as a bird, overflowing with happiness. Reaching the hut she took up the longest of the mat beds, her own, and without waiting for a moment to rest, hurried back to her sister, announcing herself from a distance by a cheerful cooee.
"All well?" she said.
"Tommy has been telling me all about it," said Mary. "She saw the little brown face again."
"Bother the little brown face!" said Elizabeth. "Really, I should like to smack it. Tommy's well enough to talk, is she?"
"Yes, but she has sprained her ankle."
"Poor girl! it will be hoppety-hop when we get her up, then. Now see how we'll manage it. You've finished that rope? We'll make a cradle of my bed."
She made two holes at each end of the mat large enough for the ropes to pass through. In this way she formed a rough cradle upon which Tommy could be drawn up, for the girl's weight would keep it steady if the ropes were placed far enough apart. The cradle was soon ready for lowering.
"Can you manage to get on to it yourself, Tommy?" asked Elizabeth, "or shall I come down again and help you?"
"I can manage," answered Tommy. "I am ever so much better. Are you sure it's strong enough?"
"Certain, I'd trust myself on it. All you will have to do will be to clutch a rope at each end and hold tight. Call out when you are ready."
She and Mary then each took the end of a rope and passed it round a tree, the two trees being not quite so far apart as the length of the mat. Tommy gave the word. They began to haul. The trees relieved them of all strain, and making a succession of short pulls, with rests in between, they drew the cradle inch by inch to the surface. Elizabeth was afraid that Mary's strength might give way, or that Tommy would lose her grip of the ropes; but neither of these mishaps occurred, and with a final pull they hauled Tommy and cradle over the brink of the pit.