The Splendid Spur<br />Being Memoirs of the Adventures of Mr. John Marvel, a Servant of His Late Maj, Arthur Quiller-Couch [books suggested by elon musk TXT] 📗

She unwound the kerchief from her neck, and making me sit on the stile, bound up my knee skillfully, twisting a short stick in the bandage to stop the bleeding.

I thank'd her, and we hurried on into the depths of the wood, treading silently on the deep carpet of pine needles. The ground rose steeply all the way: and all the way, tho' the light grew feebler, the roar and outcries in the valley follow'd us.

Toward the hill's summit the trees were sparser. Looking upward, I saw that the sky had grown thickly overcast. We cross'd the ridge, and after a minute or so were in thick cover again.

'Twas here that Sir Deakin's strength gave out. Almost without warning, he sank down between our hands, and in a second was taken with that hateful cough, that once already this night had frightened me for his life.

“Ah, ah!” he groaned, between the spasms, “I'm not fit—I'm not fit for it!” and was taken again, and roll'd about barking, so that I fear'd the sound would bring all Settle's gang on our heels. “I'm not fit for it!” he repeated, as the cough left him, and he lay back helpless, among the pine needles.

Now, I understood his words to bear on his unfitness for death, and judg'd them very decent and properly spoken: and took occasion to hint this in my attempts to console him.

“Why, bless the boy!” he cried, sitting up and staring, “for what d'ye think I'm unsuited?”

“Why, to die, sir—to be sure!”

“Holy Mother!” he regarded me with surprise, contempt and pity, all together: “was ever such a dunderhead! If ever man were fit to die, I am he—and that's just my reasonable complaint. Heart alive! 'tis unfit to live I am, tied to this absurd body!”

I suppose my attitude express'd my lack of comprehension, for he lifted a finger and went on—

“Tell me—can you eat beef, and drink beer, and enjoy them?”

“Why, yes.”

“And fight—hey? and kiss a pretty girl, and be glad you've done it? Dear, dear, how I do hate a fool and a fool's pity! Lift me up and carry me a step. This night's work has kill'd me: I feel it in my lungs. 'Tis a pity, too; for I was just beginning to enjoy it.”

I lifted him as I would a babe, and off we set again, my teeth shutting tight on the pain of my hurt. And presently, coming to a little dingle, about half a mile down the hillside, well hid with dead bracken and blackberry bushes, I consulted with the girl. The place was well shelter'd from the wind that rock'd the treetops, and I fear'd to go much further, for we might come on open country at any moment and so double our peril. It seem'd best, therefore, to lay the old gentleman snugly in the bottom of this dingle and wait for day. And with my buff-coat, and a heap of dried leaves, I made him fairly easy, reserving my cloak to wrap about Mistress Delia's fair neck and shoulders. But against this at first she protested.

“For how are you to manage?” she ask'd.

“I shall tramp up and down, and keep watch,” answer'd I, strewing a couch for her beside her father: “and 'tis but fair exchange for the kerchief you gave me from your own throat.”

At last I persuaded her, and she crept close to her father, and under the edge of the buff-coat for warmth. There was abundance of dry bracken in the dingle, and with this and some handfuls of pine needles, I cover'd them over, and left them to find what sleep they might.

For two hours and more after this, I hobbled to and fro near them, as well as my wound would allow, looking up at the sky through the pine tops, and listening to the sobbing of the wind. Now and then I would swing my arms for warmth, and breathe on my fingers, that were sorely benumb'd; and all the while kept my ears on the alert, but heard nothing.

'Twas, as I said, something over two hours after, that I felt a soft cold touch, and then another, like kisses on my forehead. I put up my hand, and looked up again at the sky. As I did so, the girl gave a long sigh, and awoke from her doze—-

“Sure, I must have dropp'd asleep,” she said, opening her eyes, and spying my shadow above her: “has aught happened?”

“Aye,” replied I, “something is happening that will wipe out our traces and my bloody track.”

“And what is that?”

“Snow: see, 'tis falling fast.”

She bent over, and listen'd to her father's breathing.

“'Twill kill him,” she said simply.

I pull'd some more fronds of the bracken to cover them both. She thank'd me, and offer'd to relieve me in my watch: which I refus'd. And indeed, by lying down I should have caught my death, very likely.

The big flakes drifted down between the pines: till, as the moon paled, the ground about me was carpeted all in white, with the foliage black as ink above it. Time after time, as I tramp'd to and fro, I paus'd to brush the fresh-forming heap from the sleepers' coverlet, and shake it gently from the tresses of the girl's hair. The old man's face was covered completely by the buff-coat: but his breathing was calm and regular as any child's.

Day dawn'd. Awaking Mistress Delia, I ask'd her to keep watch for a time, while I went off to explore. She crept out from her bed with a little shiver of disgust.

“Run about,” I advis'd, “and keep the blood stirring.”

She nodded: and looking back, as I strode down the hill, I saw her moving about quickly, swinging her arms, and only pausing to wave a hand to me for goodspeed.

'Twas an hour before I return'd: and plenty I had to tell. Only at the entrance to the dingle the words failed from off my tongue. The old gentleman lay as he had lain throughout the night. But the bracken had been toss'd aside, and the girl was kneeling over him. I drew near, my step not arousing her. Sir Deakin's face was pale and calm: but on the snow that had gather'd by his head, lay a red streak of blood. 'Twas from his lungs, and he was quite dead.