Afterwards Part 55

"Ah, but you haven't heard the plan Garnett and I have evolved!" He spoke more lightly, though his voice was still low. "Listen, and tell me if you approve of our strategy!"

He rapidly outlined their plan of campaign, making as light of the perils of the undertaking as possible; and Iris listened breathlessly, her eyes on his face the while.

When he had finished she spoke very quietly.

"Dr. Anstice, I think it is a terribly reckless thing to attempt, and if I thought only of myself--or of you--I should beg you not to go. But as you say, there are the others--the child for one--and if help should be delayed the lack of water would be--serious."

"So you approve the plan?" He felt unreasonably glad that she did not altogether condemn the idea, since, as go he must, he would certainly go more happily with her approval.

"I shall be terribly anxious all the while," she said simply, "but you are a brave man. Dr. Anstice, and I do not believe G.o.d will let you suffer for your courage."

"Then I am to go? You will not mind being left alone?"

"No. I think--perhaps--I shall be a little--afraid--if Bruce dies while you are gone"--a shiver pa.s.sed through her as she spoke the fatal words--"but I will try to be brave."

"Mrs. Wood will come and sit here with you," said Anstice quickly; but Iris shook her head.

"No, she is asleep just now, and I won't awaken her. You know she has been so anxious about poor little Molly to-day." The child had indeed been feverish and ailing of late. "But after all, we may be alarming ourselves unnecessarily, mayn't we? You--you're not _certain_ that Bruce will die?"

And because he could not bear to see the terror in her face, hear the quiver of dread in her voice, Anstice lied at last.

"No--I may be wrong after all," he said. "In any case I am not going yet. I will stay here till the last possible moment. Look--his eyes are open--come and sit here, where he can see you without moving his head."

And as she obeyed without a word Anstice took up his own position opposite to her where he could watch every change in the grey face of the man who had once been his enemy, but was now only a fellow-creature in the grip of the mightiest enemy of all.

It was nearly ten o'clock before Anstice started on his perilous adventure.

Shortly before the time fixed for his departure little Molly Wood had been taken alarmingly ill, with severe pains in her head and a high temperature, and Anstice had spent an anxious hour beside her improvised bed before he had the satisfaction of seeing her sink into a quiet sleep beneath the remedies he employed, and when, leaving the distracted mother to watch her slumbers, he had crept into Cheniston's room, he had found Bruce still desperately ill, and Iris paler and yet more wan beneath the stress of the position in which she found herself.

It was only the imperative need of water which nerved Anstice to leave her alone, but he knew perfectly well that it would be impossible to procure any water in daylight, and though Mr. Wood would certainly have volunteered to make the attempt in his place, had he known the circ.u.mstances, Anstice had discovered, by a casual word let drop by his wife, that the clergyman suffered from a long-standing weakness of the heart which would have prevented him carrying through the project successfully.

Plainly he must be the one to go, for Ha.s.san, whom they had been forced, through stress of circ.u.mstance, to take into their confidence, had absolutely refused to brave the perils of the journey and the dangling rope, and since he must be back at his post as soon after midnight as possible, Anstice steeled his heart and bade Iris good-bye with a stoical calm which did not deceive her in the least.

"Keep up your courage, Mrs. Cheniston." He laid his hand gently on her arm. "I'll be back in an hour or so--and in the meantime, if there should be any change, you will do exactly as I have told you." He had already given her full directions. "Remember, no one but Mr. Garnett and Ha.s.san knows of my absence, so don't be surprised if I'm supposed to be asleep somewhere."

"No. But"--she put her own right hand over his as he gently clasped her arm--"you're sure there is no one but you to go? Is Mr. Wood too old?"

"No--but his heart is affected, and the climb would be dangerous. And Ha.s.san, though he's behaved like a brick up to now, funks the climb."

His tone was good-naturedly contemptuous. "As for Garnett, he's longing to go--can't quite forgive me for shoving him out--but his arm won't stand it; so plainly I am the one to go."

"Then go--and G.o.d be with you," she said very gently, and in her eyes Anstice saw once again the look of mingled strength and tenderness whose possibility he had divined long ago on the occasion of their first meeting on that sunlit morning on the steps of Cherry Orchard.

And with the words ringing in his ears he set forth upon his quest.

CHAPTER V

It was a perfect moonlight night, and as he swung himself out over the rocky precipice, which was surely more formidable at close quarters than it had appeared from above, Anstice was conscious of a sudden wild exhilaration which sent the blood coursing like quicksilver through his veins.

He knew very well that he was embarking upon a perilous adventure which might easily end in disaster, for he had no delusions on the subject of his probable fate did he fall into the hands of the vengeful Bedouins.

But somehow, as he swung between earth and heaven, the rope slipping with almost uncomfortable rapidity through his fingers, he felt no fear, only a joyous thrill which strongly resembled the boyish glee with which, in his school-days, he had taken part in many midnight adventures strictly hidden from the notice of the authorities.

His former proficiency in gymnastics and his natural love of climbing stood him in good stead. He had never been addicted to nerves, had never known what it was to experience any vertigo or attacks of giddiness when exploring some dizzy height or negotiating some mountain ledge, and he swung down the rope which was his only support as coolly as though he were practising in a gymnasium, with no risk, did he fall, of being dashed to death against the unfriendly rocks below.

In an incredibly short s.p.a.ce of time he reached the ground, and after giving three gentle tugs upon the rope--the preconceived signal that all was well with him--he looked cautiously round him to take his bearings before proceeding on his journey.

He stood now in a kind of rocky valley, ringed round with caves--whether tombs or not he could not pretend to judge--but beyond the valley lay the desert over which he must pa.s.s, and he lost no time in clambering over the rooks and setting foot on the firm brown sand without.

By the aid of his small compa.s.s he located the direction in which the well lay, and then, restoring it to his pocket and making certain that the goat-skin water-bottle was firmly slung over his shoulder, he set off at a brisk pace which should, if possible, shorten the time of his absence from the Fort by a few precious moments at least.

He had never before been alone in the desert at night, and the strangeness of it gripped him by the throat as he strode steadily onwards. He could not believe, at first, that he was really alone. It seemed incredible that in all that huge expanse of sand he should be the only moving, living being, yet, though he knew that there _were_ living creatures in the desert--jackals and other prowling things, and a whole host of bats and tiny insects--they gave no sign of their presence, and it seemed to him that he was the only live thing in a dead world....

Yet the air, as it blew gently round him, was soft and sweet. A group of palm trees rustled deliciously as he pa.s.sed by; and above his head the big silver stars seemed to look down on him with a friendly, benignant gaze as though they knew and approved the errand which brought him out there, alone in the moonlit desert.

When once he had conquered the instinctive feeling of something like nervousness which made him look now and again half fearfully over his shoulder as he walked, he began to enjoy this uncommon pilgrimage.

His spirits rose, he felt a wild inclination to sing and shout with glee--an inclination hastily checked by the remembrance that after all the Bedouin village was not far away, though hidden for the moment by the merciful palm trees--and he told himself exultantly that the devilish revenge of the Bedouins who had poisoned the well in the courtyard of the Fort was only an empty menace after all.

Only when he thought of Bruce Cheniston, dying in that barely-furnished room, far away from any of the luxuries and ease-bringing contrivances with which civilization smooths the path of her children to the grave, did his leaping exultation die down in his heart, and he walked more soberly as he told himself that it was probable he would not see Bruce Cheniston alive again.

It was in the moment in which he realized this fact that another thought struck Anstice for the first time, and the sheer blinding radiance of that thought made him catch his breath and stand still in the desert, absolutely oblivious to any risks which he might run from Bedouins or other prowling marauders were he to be observed.

He had suddenly realized that were Cheniston to die Iris would once more be free--free to marry another man did she so desire; and the very idea of that freedom set his heart knocking against his ribs in a positive fury of wild and tumultuous feeling.

Never--he was thankful to remember it now--never had the thought so much as crossed his mind as he ministered to Cheniston, doing all in his power to defeat the grim foe who held the young man so firmly in his clutches. He had spared no pains, had given himself up body and soul to the task of saving Bruce Cheniston's life, were it possible for that life to be saved, and he was glad to know, looking back, that he had never for one second contemplated the possibility of any benefit accruing to himself through the other man's death. Even should he find, on his return, that Cheniston had indeed slipped into another world during his absence, he could always a.s.sure himself that he had not sullied the last strenuous hours in which he had fought for his patient's life with all his might by so much as one underhand or dishonourable thought.

And then, by a natural corollary, his thoughts reverted to Hilda Ryder; and for the first time since her death he began to feel that now, after all these years, he might surely be considered to have atoned for his too hasty carrying-out of the promise he had made her in that rose-coloured dawn of a bygone Indian morning.

Never had man regretted an impulsive deed more than he had regretted the thing which had been done that day. The years which had elapsed since then had been indeed years of penance--a penance more cruel and far more hard to bear than any penalty inflicted by man could possibly have been.

He had been a prisoner indeed, bound fast in the captivity of his own remorse; but now it seemed to him as though the long black night of his imprisonment were breaking, as though a light, as yet very far off and faint, showed upon some distant horizon with a promise of another and more radiant day which should surely dawn ere long.

Whence came this blessed lightening of his gloom? He could not say. Was it perhaps due to the fact that even now he was risking his life in the service of another woman--it is to be feared he forgot all but Iris in this strangely exalted moment--that to him her life had been confided by the father who adored her, and that to him and to him alone could she look for comfort and for help in the bitter hour which he foresaw was even now at hand for the girl who loved Bruce Cheniston--and must see him die....

And as his thoughts played, lightning-wise, round the figure of the beloved woman, his footsteps led him on, more and more blithely as his spirit rose, ph[oe]nix-like, above the ashes of his burnt-out tragedy, and in an incredibly short s.p.a.ce of time he approached the well whence he might draw the precious water for lack of which the little garrison he had left must perish and die.

It was a peaceful spot, this well. Just such a place as that to which Rachel and the daughters of Jacob must, long ago, have come to fill their pitchers--a quiet, palm-guarded spot where doubtless, in days gone by, the village women had congregated in search of water and of news--the chattered gossip of the East, punctuated by the tinkling of native bangles as the beautifully-moulded arms raised the pitchers to the finely-carried heads.

The well was deserted now, but the water was as clear and pure as ever, and with a sigh of relief Anstice set about filling his goat-skin water-bottle, and then, anxious to lose no time, he retraced his steps over the moonlit desert without delay.