THE doctor went early to his tent that night, for the Sinclairs were worn out and they were going to bed. He sat for some time smoking at his tent door and watching the stars, which were quite unusually brilliant, and seemed to look down upon him with bright and friendly eyes. Then he said his evening prayer, and felt glad that at least he could help his friends by pleading that strength and comfort might be given them in this heavy bereavement.
He fell asleep almost as soon as he laid his head on the pillow, and he slept much more soundly than the night before. He was thoroughly tired, for he had walked miles during the last two days, and needed rest as much, or more, than any of the others. But though he slept heavily he was suddenly awakened.
He was dreaming that he was walking along the shore with Doris, that she was talking to him about Jack, and that he was trying to seem interested and pleased, when he was alarmed by a huge piece of rock falling down with a tremendous crash from the cliff above, and rolling almost to their feet.
Forester jumped up in bed, aroused and startled. Was it only a dream, or had there really been a noise? Oh, it was only a dream, of course; he would turn over and go to sleep again. But this was not easy, for sitting up in bed had made him so wide awake that sleep would not return to him. He tossed about on his pillow, thinking of all manner of things for some little time. Then he struck a match and looked his watch. It was just two o’clock.
It was a hot, sultry night, and he thought he would open the tent door for a few minutes, to let in the fresh air; perhaps if it was cooler he would be able to sleep again. He untied the strings that fastened it and looked outside, and then he saw that the noise he had heard in his dream had not been an imaginary one. Some dark object had fallen against the side of his tent, and was now lying huddled up against it. He stooped to discover what it was, and he found that it was a man, lying on his face, with nothing on but an old shirt, the sleeves of which were torn and hanging in rags, and a pair of rough corduroy trousers. He had no shoes or stockings on, and his bare feet seemed to be bleeding.
The doctor bent over him and tried to raise him, and then, to his utter astonishment, he saw that it was Dick, quite unconscious and apparently dead. He put his arms round him and dragged him into the tent. Had he found him only to have to break the news of his death, for a second time, to his father and mother?
But no, thank God, he was not dead; he had his finger on his pulse, and could feel it faintly beating. He lighted his lamp, and then carefully and tenderly lifted the unconscious lad upon his bed. Then he bent down over him. What was that odor that he perceived? Ah! he knew it well; it was chloroform! What was that awful wound across the temple? What did it all mean? His former suspicions crowded back upon him with terrible rapidity. He knew now that he had been quite right in entertaining them before. There had been foul play of some kind. Yet what about the boat, and the tie found in it? What was the solution of this awful, inexplicable mystery?
But there was no time to consider this now; he must do what he could for the poor lad. He trembled to think it might be too late. Had he crept back from some place of imprisonment, only to die on the very threshold of help and safety?
The doctor heated water, and washed and dressed the wound. He had brought with him a little parcel of lint and strapping and other things necessary for such work. He knew that he was going fourteen miles from a chemist’s shop, and he had said to himself that he might find it useful, in case of any accident. How glad he was that he had done so! How little he thought when he was packing it up that he should need that parcel so sorely! He also remembered that his thermometer was in its usual place in the breast pocket of his coat, and he took Dick’s temperature. He found that it was extremely high, and that his pulse, which was now more easily discernible, was rapid and feeble.
He examined him carefully, and decided that he was not now under the influence of chloroform, but that he had undoubtedly been drugged a short time ago. Had he been under the power of an anesthetic, he could not have come, as he had done, to the tent. He had evidently recovered from its effects, set out to return home, and then fainted from utter exhaustion, just as he reached the spot where he had been found.
Forester at once did all he could to revive him, and presently was relieved to see him open his eyes and look at him; but there was no sign of recognition in his face, and he soon closed his eyes again. The doctor warmed some milk and managed to make him swallow a very little of it, and then he waited for a time, and thought out carefully what was his best course of action. He felt that it was useless to call the Sinclairs at that early hour. In all probability they were asleep, and he knew that he would need their help later on; besides which he did not like, for many reasons, to leave Dick alone. He needed constant care and watching, and moreover it was possible that if he left him he might no longer be safe.
Who knew whether, supposing him to have escaped from some place of imprisonment, he might not be pursued; and if he were found alone, the ruffians who had ill-treated him so shamefully might not scruple even to take his life? That he was very ill, Forester had no manner of doubt, and if he was to recover from his present condition it would only be by the greatest care and most diligent nursing. So he sat beside him, feeling his pulse from time to time, and listening to the rambling mutterings of the poor boy, who was evidently quite unconscious again.
What a long night it seemed, and how thankful he was when it began to grow light! Now the farm servants would soon be at work, and he would be able to get help; someone was sure to be passing by to whom he could call.
But it was not until six o’clock that he heard footsteps coming up the lane. He looked out, and to his great relief saw Rupert coming towards him. He went to meet him and told him what had happened, and left him to watch beside Dick whilst he went to tell them at the Castle. He stood underneath Val’s window, and threw pebbles at it until he woke him.
‘Val, I want you; come out.’
In a few minutes Val joined him. ‘Has it been found?’ he asked, with a white face. ‘No, Val, no; nothing has come ashore; it is better news than that.’
‘Better than that?’
‘Yes, much better. Dick is alive. Very ill, Val, but still living.’
‘What has happened to him? Tell me quickly!’ said Val, in an agitated voice.
Forester told him of his finding poor Dick close to his tent in the middle of the night, but he said that what had happened to him was still a mystery, for Dick was too ill to give any explanation at present.
‘Now, Val, you must tell your father.’
Val ran to do this, and Forester waited in the Castle courtyard. The old man came out, and was delighted to hear that Dick had returned, and the doctor and he conferred together as to the next steps to be taken. A farm servant was to be sent at once for the nearest doctor, for Dick would need medicine and other things which Forester could not obtain; besides which he would be glad to consult with someone tire as to the best course to pursue.
Forester also obtained information from Mr. Norris as to the nearest police station, for he felt that enquiries ought most certainly to be made at once about the outrage that had been committed, so that the guilty parties might be found, and at once arrested and called upon to answer for their conduct.
Mr. Sinclair soon joined them, and he and Val walked back with Forester to the tent. They came inside, and poor Mr. Sinclair was overcome when he saw his boy. Dick looked so fearfully ill, his face was so ghastly and drawn, that it did not appear possible that he could recover. The poor father, who had kept up bravely through the awful strain of the last two days, now quite broke down, and sobbed aloud, as he bent over the unconscious form on the bed. Val too stood looking sorrowfully at his brother with tears in his eyes.
The doctor did his best to cheer them and to give them hope, and he urged them to return soon to the Castle, that they might see that every effort was made at once to discover the mystery, and he also told them that, should consciousness return, it was of the utmost importance that, for some hours, Dick should be kept perfectly quiet, and should, if possible, see no one but himself.
Mr. Sinclair was only too thankful to leave his poor boy entirely in the doctor’s hands, and he promised that they would be guided in all things by his opinion, in which they had the greatest possible confidence.
So all the morning Forester watched in the quiet tent. When Dr. Taylor came, they thoroughly examined poor Dick, and found several severe bruises upon him in different parts of his body. The wound on the head appeared to have been caused by his falling heavily forward upon some sharp surface, and they also discovered the marks of a severe blow upon the back of the head.
‘I should say,’ said Dr. Taylor, ‘that someone came behind him and felled him to the ground, that in falling forward upon something his head was cut open, and that he must have been completely stunned by the blow, and unconscious for a long time afterwards.’
Forester quite agreed with him in this opinion, and they consulted together as to the treatment of the case. There was evidently concussion of the brain, which accounted for many of the symptoms which were present, and they both felt that, if Dick were to recover, he would need the very greatest care.
That care Forester was quite prepared to give; never was any patient nursed with greater skill or tenderness. He had consulted with Dr. Taylor as to the advisability of moving Dick into the Castle; but they agreed that at present perfect quiet was absolutely necessary, and that it would be running a great risk to attempt to carry him so far in the present state of affairs.
In the afternoon Mrs. Sinclair came to the tent, and Forester left her and Val in charge, whilst he went to get a little fresh air and exercise. The night had been a great strain upon him, and as he was going to sit up again that night, he felt that he would be the better for a little rest and change, and Mrs. Sinclair was only too glad to take his place.
He sauntered down to the shore, and saw Jack and Don and the three girls sitting under the breakwater. They all came to meet him, anxious to hear the latest news of Dick, and they told him that the police officers had arrived, and had been going round the village making enquiries about what had happened. They had also been at the Castle, and Mr. Sinclair had told them about Clegg and De Jersey, and how Dick had declared he should keep an eye upon them; and they both agreed that it was possible that they had looked upon him as a spy, and had taken their revenge by inflicting upon him the serious injuries which he seemed to have sustained. One problem, however, was still unsolved. What was Dick doing that night, and how had he come into contact with these men?
‘Where are the police now?’ asked Forester.
‘They have gone round the promontory to see that fellow Dan, and to hear what he has to say about it. Someone in the village told them that he has been seen, more than once, talking to those men, and they think that he probably knows where they are.’
The doctor then proposed that they should all walk along the shore in that direction, that they might meet the police officers and hear what they had discovered, and they all agreed to do so. After a time, they left the rocks and climbed the hill, and, by crossing over the common at the top, they arrived at the cottage only a few minutes after the police.
The cottage door stood open, and they went in, but Dan was not there. The two policemen were standing looking round the room, but no one else was to be seen. There was no fire in the grate; the whole place seemed deserted. Some empty glasses, smelling of whisky, stood on the table; an old pair of boots was lying on the hearth; a pack of dirty playing cards was scattered over the old horse-hair couch. There was a curious faint odor about the whole place. They were glad to get outside and sit on the rocks whilst the policemen searched the house further, endeavoring to find out some clue to the mystery they were trying to discover.
Presently, one of the men came to the door and called to Forester.
‘Look here, doctor,’ he said, for Jack had explained that he was the doctor who was looking after the poor injured lad.
Forester went to the cottage door.
‘Well, have you found anything?’
‘Yes, sir; come and see.’
The doctor followed them into the small outhouse at the back, from which he had fetched coal on the night which he spent in the cottage, and the policeman pointed to the floor. It was stained with blood.
‘What do you make of that, doctor?’
Forester went down on his knees, and carefully examined the bloodstains.
‘Human blood, I should say, by the look of it.’
‘Now, doctor,’ said the other man, ‘if you and your party will clear off, me and my mate will watch for the return of this gentleman as lives here. He’s not gone far, or he wouldn’t have left his door wide open; and when he comes back we’ll hear what he has to say about these blood marks.’
They, therefore, left the cove as quickly as possible, and as it was low tide they walked back by the shore. Forester kept well ahead with Mab and Dolly, leaving Jack and Don to follow with Doris.
‘Now, if Don had any sense he would come with us!’ he said to himself.
When they came to the church they rested a little on the rocks, and the three who were behind joined them. Forester looked at his watch.
‘I must go now,’ he said. ‘I told Mrs. Sinclair I would be back at five, in time to give Dick his medicine.’
They all walked on together till they came to the wad leading to the village. At the corner Doris stopped.
‘Father wants Billy and Joyce to come to us for tea,’ she said. ‘I’m just going to fetch them. Do you mind my walking up the hill with you, Dr. Forster?’
Did he mind? His heart gave a great bound of joy at the thought of it. And yet—and yet—But there was no getting out of it now, so they walked on together, not speaking at all at first.
‘I feel sure Dick will get better,’ she said at length.
‘I hope so; he is certainly better this afternoon.’
‘Oh! I know he will; we have so prayed for it.’
‘Yes, we have.’
‘And I know what care you are taking of him; but you must be so tired. Do you think you ought to sit up another night?’
‘Doctors are accustomed to do without much sleep,’ he said.
‘Are they?’
‘Yes; I never know when I go to bed how long I shall stay there; the night-bell has a knack of ringing just when I’m falling off to sleep.’
There was silence again, and all the time Forester was feeling that he ought to congratulate her on her engagement with Jack; but somehow or other the words would not come. He measured the distance they had yet to walk before reaching the Castle; he tried to settle what he should say and how he should say it; but still he kept putting it off from moment to moment. At last he thought he would lead up to the subject by saying— ‘What a splendid fellow Jack is!’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘he is; and you’ve known him so long. Jack was telling me last night all about the time you were at school together, and what friends you were.’
‘I’m so glad he’s so happy, so very glad.’
‘Oh! Jack’s always happy,’ she said; ‘I’ve never known him depressed or gloomy.’
‘But I know how specially happy he is just now. He told me as we came up the hill the other night. You see he is such an old friend of mine, and he knew I would keep his secret, and I wanted you to know how glad I am.’
‘I knew you would be glad,’ she said.
And just then Joyce came running down the hill with her dogs to meet them, and he had no opportunity to say anything more. Well, she would understand all that he meant to say, and he was glad that he had made the attempt, in however feeble a manner, to express his good wishes for them both. He would feel more easy and natural now when he met her, as he would be sure to do from time to time during the next few days, for he had fully determined not to leave Hildick till Dick was out of danger.
Forester went back to the tent, and found his patient cooler and better; his pulse was more quiet, there had been no sickness, and although he was still unconscious, he felt much more hopeful about him. He told Mrs. Sinclair this, and she went back to the Castle greatly cheered.
Dick was very quiet now; the incoherent rambling talk had ceased, and, soon after he took his medicine, he appeared to be sleeping peacefully. Forester boiled his kettle, ate his tea beside him, and then sat quietly watching him. How busy his thoughts were that evening, how madly they seemed to be racing through his tired brain! He thought of Jack and Doris; he wondered what they would be doing then, how happy they would be, how they would be reveling in each other’s presence, and in the joy of knowing that they were all in all to each other. And then his thoughts raced back to that great trouble he had experienced before leaving home, and which now seemed so long gone by. What a terrible mistake he had nearly made, and how foolish he had been to mourn that God’s Hand had been put out to save him from his own folly.
And then, with lightning rapidity, his thoughts flew on into the future, and he planned and pictured out the life he would live when he went back to London. How lonely it would be, as far as earthly companionship was concerned! He remembered how Joyce had pitied him for this, and he felt that he would realize this loneliness all the more, going as he would from this large and happy party, and finding himself with no one to whom he could speak except his poor old housekeeper.
‘But with my God to guide my way,
‘Tis equal joy to go or stay.’
He seemed to hear Doris’ voice saying these two lines to him. Was she saying them, or was she singing them? He gave himself a shake; he was falling asleep, and he must not do that. He got up and moved about the tent, and as he did so, he heard a whisper outside—
‘Forester, can you come here a minute?’
It was Val.
‘I thought you were both asleep,’ he said ‘all was so quiet.’
‘Dick is sleeping beautifully, and I think I did doze a little. Well, what about the police?’
‘One of them has just been to the Castle to say that Dan has never returned; they are of opinion that he will not come back now, and they are going to try to discover where he has gone. I do hope they’ll catch him, the rascal! Forester, I came to ask you to let me sit with you tonight. Do, there’s a good fellow! I’m not much good,’ continued poor Val; ‘but I could boil the kettle and hand you things, and I should so like to stay.’
Forester was glad to accept this offer, and then Val persuaded him to go to the Castle for supper, leaving him in charge. About an hour after this they settled down for the night. Val had brought milk and beef-tea, and all they would need in the way of nourishment for Dick, and the two young men lay back in camp-chairs to watch beside him and to face together the long hours of the night.
It was a great comfort to Forester to have a companion with him; now and again they spoke softly to each other, and it was touching to him to see Val’s great desire to be of use and to save him trouble in every way.
‘If you fall asleep, Forester, never mind,’ he said; ‘I’ll wake you if he stirs the least little bit, and I’m not at all sleepy.’
Forester protested that he was not tired, but his face told another tale, and soon, when Val looked up from his book, he saw that the doctor was fast asleep in his chair. Val was very glad of this, for he knew how worn out Forester was. He looked at his book again, and was just turning over a fresh page when he heard his own name. He looked up in surprise, to see Dick looking at him with a steady, conscious gaze.
‘Val, dear old boy, where am I?’
‘You’re all right, Dick; you’re in Forester’s tent, and he and I are both with you.’
Forester heard the voices and woke with a start. He was delighted beyond measure to see the change in his patient; but he would not allow him to speak another word till he had had some nourishment. Now Val’s quick fingers poured the beef-tea into the sauce pan, lighted the stove, heated and then poured out the beef-tea and brought it to the doctor to administer.
Dick smiled his own bright, cheery smile as they bent over him, Val gently raising his pillow with his arm, and the doctor feeding him from an invalid cup.
‘Have they gone? Are you sure?’ he asked.
‘Who, Dick?’
‘Those men.’
‘Oh quite sure; they’re miles away now.’
That seemed to content him, and he turned a little to one side, and fell asleep again. Forester and Val exchanged glances, but said nothing.
Once again in the night he woke, and at once looked anxiously round the tent.
‘What is it, Dick?’
‘Oh! nothing; only I thought I saw someone standing there.’
‘There is no one here; no one but Val.’
‘You’ll keep them out; won’t you?’
‘Of course we will. Take your milk, Dick, and then go to sleep again.’
So the night wore away, and in the morning he was so much better that Forester allowed his mother to come and see him and to sit with him. But he absolutely forbade all conversation, and warned Mrs. Sinclair that the consequences might be most serious if he were allowed to dwell on what had happened to him during those two days of which as yet they knew nothing.