CHAPTER III
As the young man staggered to his feet, he had somehow a sense ofdetachment, as though he were commencing a new life, or had suddenlycome into a new existence. Yet his immediate surroundings were chargedwith ugly reminiscences. Through a great gap in the ruined side of thesaloon the rain was tearing in. As he stood up, his head caught thefragments of the roof. He was able to push back the wreckage with easeand step out. For a moment he reeled, as he met the violence of thestorm. Then, clutching hold of the side of the wreck, he steadiedhimself. A light was moving back and forth, close at hand. He cried outweakly: "Hullo!"
A man carrying a lantern, bent double as he made his way against thewind, crawled up to them. He was a porter from the station close athand.
"My God!" he exclaimed. "Any one alive here?"
"I'm all right," Gerald muttered, "at least, I suppose I am. What's itall--what's it all about? We've had an accident."
The porter caught hold of a piece of the wreckage with which to steadyhimself.
"Your train ran right into three feet of water," he answered. "The railshad gone--torn up. The telegraph line's down."
"Why didn't you stop the train?"
"We were doing all we could," the man retorted gloomily. "We weren'texpecting anything else through to-night. We'd a man along the line witha lantern, but he's just been found blown over the embankment, with hishead in a pool of water. Any one else in your carriage?"
"One gentleman travelling with me," Gerald answered. "We'd better try toget him out. What about the guard and engine-driver?"
"The engine-driver and stoker are both alive," the porter told him."I came across them before I saw you. They're both knocked sort ofsillylike, but they aren't much hurt. The guard's stone dead."
"Where are we?"
"A few hundred yards from Wymondham. Let's have a look for the othergentleman."
Mr. John P. Dunster was lying quite still, his right leg doubled up, anda huge block of telegraph post, which the saloon had carried with itin its fall, still pressing against his forehead. He groaned as theydragged him out and laid him down upon a cushion in the shelter of thewreckage.
"He's alive all right," the porter remarked. "There's a doctor on theway. Let's cover him up quick and wait."
"Can't we carry him to shelter of some sort?" Gerald proposed.
The man shook his head. Speech of any sort was difficult. Even with hislips close to the other's ears, he had almost to shout.
"Couldn't be done," he replied. "It's all one can do to walk alone whenyou get out in the middle of the field, away from the shelter of theembankment here. There's bits of trees flying all down the lane. Neverwas such a night! Folks is fair afraid of the morning to see what'shappened. There's a mill blown right over on its side in the next field,and the man in charge of it lying dead. This poor chap's bad enough."
Gerald, on all fours, had crept back into the compartment. The bottleof wine was smashed into atoms. He came out, dragging the smalldressing-case which his companion had kept on the table before him. Oneside of it was dented in, but the lock, which was of great strength,still held.
"Perhaps there's a flask somewhere in this dressing-case," Gerald said."Lend me a knife."
Strong though it had been, the lock was already almost torn out from itsfoundation. They forced the spring and opened it. The porter turned hislantern on the widening space. Just as Gerald was raising the lid veryslowly to save the contents from being scattered by the wind, the manturned his head to answer an approaching hail. Gerald raised the lid alittle higher and suddenly closed it with a bang.
"There's folks coming at last!" the porter exclaimed, turning aroundexcitedly. "They've been a time and no mistake. The village isn't aquarter of a mile away. Did you find a flask, sir?"
Gerald made no answer. The dressing-case once more was closed, and hishand pressed upon the lid. The porter turned the light upon his face andwhistled softly.
"You're about done yourself, sir," he remarked. "Hold up."
He caught the young man in his arms. There was another roar in Gerald'sears besides the roar of the wind. He had never fainted in his life, butthe feeling was upon him now--a deadly sickness, a swaying of the earth.The porter suddenly gave a little cry.
"If I'm not a born idiot!" he exclaimed, drawing a bottle from thepocket of his coat with his disengaged hand. "There's whisky here. I wastaking it home to the missis for her rheumatism. Now, then."
He drew the cork from the bottle with his teeth and forced some of theliquid between the lips of the young man. The voices now were comingnearer and nearer. Gerald made a desperate effort.
"I am all right," he declared. "Let's look after him."
They groped their way towards the unconscious man, Gerald still grippingthe dressing-case with both hands. There were no signs of any changein his condition, but he was still breathing heavily. Then they heard ashout behind, almost in their ears. The porter staggered to his feet.
"It's all right now, sir!" he exclaimed. "They've brought blankets and astretcher and brandy. Here's a doctor, sir."
A powerful-looking man, hatless, and wrapped in a great ulster, movedtowards them.
"How many are there of you?" he asked, as he bent over Mr. Dunster.
"Only we two," Gerald replied. "Is my friend badly hurt?"
"Concussion," the doctor announced. "We'll take him to the village. Whatabout you, young man? Your face is bleeding, I see."
"Just a cut," Gerald faltered; "nothing else."
"Lucky chap," the doctor remarked. "Let's get him to shelter of somesort. Come along. There's an inn at the corner of the lane there."
They all staggered along, Gerald still clutching the dressing-case,and supported on the other side by an excited and somewhat incoherentvillager.
"Such a storm as never was," the latter volunteered. "The telegraphwires are all down for miles and miles. There won't be no trains runningalong this line come many a week, and as for trees--why, it's as thoughsome one had been playing ninepins in Squire Fellowes's park. When themorning do come, for sure there will be things to be seen. This way,sir. Be careful of the gate."
They staggered along down the lane, climbing once over a tree which layacross the lane and far into the adjoining field. Soon they were joinedby more of the villagers, roused from their beds by rumours of terriblehappenings. The little, single-storey, ivy-covered inn was all lit upand the door held firmly open. They passed through the narrow entranceand into the stone-flagged barroom, where the men laid down theirstretcher. As many of the villagers as could crowd in filled thepassage. Gerald sank into a chair. The sudden absence of wind was almostdisconcerting. He felt himself once more in danger of fainting. He wasonly vaguely conscious of drinking hot milk, poured from a jug by ared-faced and sympathetic woman. Its restorative effect, however, wasimmediate and wonderful. The mist cleared from before his eyes, hisbrain began to work. Always in the background the horror and theshame were there, the shame which kept his hand pressed with unnaturalstrength upon the broken lock of that dressing-case. He sat a littleapart from the others and listened. Above the confused murmur of voiceshe could hear the doctor's comment and brief orders, as he rose to hisfeet after examining the unconscious man.
"An ordinary concussion," he declared. "I must get round and see theengine-driver now. They have got him in a shed by the embankment. I'llcall in again later on. Let's have one more look at you, young man."
He glanced at the cut on Gerald's forehead, noted the access of colourin his cheeks, and nodded.
"Born to be hanged, you were," he pronounced. "You've had a marvellousescape. I'll be in again presently. No need to worry about your friend.He looks as though he'd got a mighty constitution. Light my lantern,Brown. Two of you had better come with me to the shed. It's no night fora man to be wandering about alone."
He departed, and many of the villagers with him. The landlady sat downand began to weep.
"Such a night! Such a night!" she exclaimed, wringing h
er hands. "Andthere's the doctor talks about putting the poor gentleman to bed! Why,the roof's off the back part of the house, and not a bedroom in theplace but mine and John's, and the rain coming in there in torrents.Such a night! It's the judgment of the Lord upon us! That's what itis--the judgment of the Lord!"
"Judgment of the fiddlesticks!" her husband growled. "Can't you lightthe fire, woman? What's the good of sitting there whining?"
"Light the fire," she repeated bitterly, "and the chimney lying out inthe road! Do you want to suffocate us all, or is the beer still in yourhead? It's your evil doings, Richard Budden, and others like you, thathave brought this upon us. If Mr. Wembley would but come in and pray!"
Her husband scoffed. He was dressed only in his shirt and trousers, hishair rough, his braces hanging down behind.
"Come in and pray!" he repeated. "Not he! Not Mr. Wembley! He's safetucked up in his bed, shivering with fear, I'll bet you. He's notgetting his feet wet to save a body or lend a hand here. Souls are hisjob. You let the preacher alone, mother, and tell us what we're going todo with this gentleman."
"The Lord only knows!" she cried, wringing her hands.
"Can I hire a motor-car from anywhere near?" Gerald asked.
"There's motor-cars, right enough," the innkeeper replied, "but not manyas would be fools enough to take one out. You couldn't see the road, andI doubt if one of them plaguey things would stir in this storm."
"Such nonsense as you talk, Richard Budden!" his wife exclaimed sharply."It's twenty minutes past three of the clock, and there's light comingon us fast. If so be as the young gentleman knows folks round abouthere, or happens to live nigh, why shouldn't he take one of themmotor-cars and get away to some decent place? It'll be better for thepoor gentleman than lying here in a house smitten by the Lord."
Gerald rose stiffly to his feet. An idea was forming in his brain. Hiseyes were bright. He looked at the body of John Dunster upon the floor,and felt once more in his pocket.
"How far off is the garage?" he asked.
"It's right across the way," the innkeeper replied, "a speculation ofNeighbour Martin's, and a foolish one it do seem to me. He's two carsthere, and one he lets to the Government for delivering the mails."
Gerald felt in his pocket and produced a sovereign.
"Give this," he said, "to any man you can find who will go acrossthere and bring me a car--the most powerful they've got, if there's anydifference. Tell them I'll pay well. This--my friend will be much betterat home with me than in a strange place when he comes to his senses."
"It's sound common sense," the woman declared. "Be off with you,Richard."
The man was looking at the coin covetously, but his wife pushed himaway.
"It's not a sovereign you'll be taking from the gentleman for a littleerrand like that," she insisted sharply. "He shall pay us for what he'shad when he goes, and welcome, and if so be that he's willing to make ita sovereign, to include the milk and the brandy and the confusion we'vebeen put to this night, well and good. It's a heavy reckoning, maybe,but the night calls for it. We'll see about that afterwards. Get alongwith you, I say, Richard."
"I'll be wet through," the man muttered.
"And serve you right!" the woman exclaimed. "If there's a man in thisvillage to-night whose clothes are dry, it's a thing for him to beashamed of."
The innkeeper reluctantly departed. They heard the roar of the wind asthe door was opened and closed. The woman poured out another glass ofmilk and brought it to Gerald.
"A godless man, mine," she said grimly. "If so happen as Mr. Wembley hadcome to these parts years ago, I'd have seen myself in my grave beforeI'd have married a publican. But it's too late now. We're mostly toolate about the things that count in this world. So it's your friendthat's been stricken down, young man. A well-living man, I hope?"
Gerald shivered ever so slightly. He drank the milk, however. He feltthat he might need his strength.
"What train might you have been on?" the woman continued. "There's nonedue on this line that we knew of. David Bass, the station-master, washere but two hours ago and said he'd finished for the night, and praisedthe Lord for that. The goods trains had all been stopped at Ipswich, andthe first passenger train was not due till six o'clock."
Gerald shook his head with an affectation of weariness.
"I don't know," he replied. "I don't remember anything about it. We werehours late, I think."
The woman was looking down at the unconscious man. Gerald rose slowly tohis feet and stood by her side. The face of Mr. John P. Dunster, even inunconsciousness, had something in it of strength and purpose. The shapeof his head, the squareness of his jaws, the straightness of his thicklips, all seemed to speak of a hard and inflexible disposition. His hairwas coal black, coarse, and without the slightest sprinkling of grey. Hehad the neck and throat of a fighter. But for that single, livid, bluemark across his forehead, he carried with him no signs of his accident.He was a little inclined to be stout. There was a heavy gold chainstretched across his waist-coat. From where he lay, the shining handleof his revolver protruded from his hip, pocket.
"Sakes alive!" the woman muttered, as she looked down. "What does hecarry a thing like that for--in a peaceful country, too!"
"It was just an idea of his," Gerald answered. "We were going abroad ina day or two. He was always nervous. If you like, I'll take it away."
He stooped down and withdrew it from the unconscious man's pocket. Hestarted as he discovered that it was loaded in every chamber.
"I can't bear the sight of them things," the woman declared. "It's themen of evil ways, who've no trust in the Lord, who need that sort ofprotection."
They heard the door pushed open, the howl of wind down the passage,and the beating of rain upon the stone flags. Then it was softly closedagain. The landlord staggered into the room, followed by a young man.
"This 'ere is Mr. Martin's chaffer," he announced. "You can tell himwhat you want yerself."
Gerald turned almost eagerly towards the newcomer.
"I want to go to the other side of Holt," he said, "and get myfriend--get this gentleman away from here--get him home, if possible.Can you take me?"
The chauffeur looked doubtful.
"I'm afraid of the roads, sir," he replied. "There's talk about manybridges down, and trees, and there's floods out everywhere. There'shalf a foot of water, even, across the village street now. I'm afraid weshouldn't get very far."
"Look here," Gerald begged eagerly, "let's make a shot at it. I'll payyou double the hire of the car, and I'll be responsible for any damage.I want to get out of this beastly place. Let's get somewhere, at anyrate, towards a civilised country. I'll see you don't lose anything.I'll give you a five pound note for yourself if we get as far as Holt."
"I'm on," the young man agreed shortly. "It's an open car, you know."
"It doesn't matter," Gerald replied. "I can stick it in front with you,and we can cover--him up in the tonneau."
"You'll wait until the doctor comes back?" the landlord asked.
"And why should they?" his wife interposed sharply. "Them doctors areall the same. He'll try and keep the poor gentleman here for the sakeof a few extra guineas, and a miserable place for him to open hiseyes upon, even if the rest of the roof holds, which for my part I'mbeginning to doubt. They'd have to move him from here with the daylight,anyhow. He can't lie in the bar parlour all day, can he?"
"It don't seem right, somehow," the man complained doggedly. "Thedoctor didn't say anything about having him moved."
"You get the car," Gerald ordered the young man. "I'll take the wholeresponsibility."
The chauffeur silently left the room. Gerald put a couple of sovereignsupon the mantelpiece.
"My friend is a man of somewhat peculiar temperament," he said quietly."If he finds himself at home in a comfortable room when he comes to hissenses, I am quite sure that he will have a better chance of recovery.He cannot possibly be made comfortable here, and he will feel the shockof what ha
s happened all the more if he finds himself still in theneighbourhood when he opens his eyes. If there is any change in hiscondition, we can easily stop somewhere on the way."
The woman pocketed the two sovereigns.
"That's common sense, sir," she agreed heartily, "and I'm sure we arevery much obliged to you. If we had a decent room, and a roof above it,you'd be heartily welcome, but as it is, this is no place for a sickman, and those that say different don't know what they are talkingabout. That's a real careful young man who's going to take you along inthe motor-car. He'll get you there safe, if any one will."
"What I say is," her husband protested sullenly, "that we ought to waitfor the doctor's orders. I'm against seeing a poor body like that joltedacross the country in an open motor-car, in his state. I'm not sure thatit's for his good."
"And what business is it of yours, I should like to know?" the womandemanded sharply. "You get up-stairs and begin moving the furniture fromwhere the rain's coming sopping in. And if so be you can remember whileyou do it that this is a judgment that's come upon us, why, so much thebetter. We are evil-doers, all of us, though them as likes the easy waysgenerally manage to forget it."
The man retreated silently. The woman sat down upon a stool and waited.Gerald sat opposite to her, the battered dressing-case upon his knees.Between them was stretched the body of the unconscious man.
"Are you used to prayer, young sir?" the woman asked.
Gerald shook his head, and the woman did not pursue the subject. Onlyonce her eyes were half closed and her words drifted across the room.
"The Lord have mercy on this man, a sinner!"