Bindloss Harold
Blake's Burden

CHAPTER XIV
THE CURE

It was noon when Harding returned to camp, ragged and exhausted, with Clarke limping after him in an even more pitiable state. The latter had suffered badly from the hurried march, but his conductor would brook no delay and the grim hints he had been given encouraged him to the utmost exertion he was capable of. Blake was alive, but when Harding bent over him he feared that help had come too late. His skin looked harsh and dry, his face had grown hollow, and his thick strong hair had turned lank and was falling out. His eyes were vacant and unrecognizing when he turned them upon Harding.

"Here's your patient," the American said to Clarke. "We expect you to cure him, and you had better get to work at once." Then his face grew troubled as he asked Benson: "How long has he been like that?"

"The last two days," said Benson. "I'm afraid he's very bad."

Harding sat down with a smothered groan. Every muscle seemed to ache, he could scarcely hold himself upright, and his heart was heavy. He would miss Blake terribly; it was hard to think of going on without him, but he feared that this was inevitable. He was filled with a deep pity for the helpless man, but after a few moments his weary face grew stern. He had done all that he was able, and now Clarke, whom he believed to be a man of high medical skill, must do his part. If he were unsuccessful, it would be the worse for him.

"Had you much trouble?" Benson asked as he laid out a meal.

"No," said Harding; "I suppose I was fortunate, because the thing was surprisingly easy. Of course, Clarke did not want to come."

"Then I don't see how you overcame his objections."

Harding broke into a dry smile. "In the kind of game I played with the doctor your strength depends upon how much you're willing to lose, and I put down all I had upon the table. That beat him, because he wasn't willing to stake as much."

"You mean your life?" said Benson. "I've no doubt you were in some danger, but was it so serious?"

"It would have been if I'd shot him, and I think he saw I meant that. What's more, I may have to do so yet."

Harding's tone was quietly matter of fact, but Benson no longer wondered at Clarke's submission. He had been a soldier and had faced grave risks, but he was inclined to think that even before he had weakened it by excess his nerve had never been so good as this city drummer's.

"Well," he said, "I'm fond of Blake and recognize my debt to him, while we were once comrades in an adventure that was more dangerous than this, but I'm not sure that I'd have been ready to go as far as you. In a way, though, you were quite justified; the fellow no doubt set a trap for us, but if he's to have a fair chance, we had better give him something to eat. If he's as hungry as you are, he needs it."

He called Clarke, who had been busy examining Blake, to join them by the fire. Weariness had deepened the lines on the doctor's face and there were puffy pouches under his eyes. He was obviously exhausted and scarcely able to move, but there was something malignant in his look. He ate greedily without speaking, and then glanced up at the others.

"Well," said Benson, "what's your opinion?"

"Your friend's state is dangerous, and he was right in his conclusions about what was the matter with him. How he came to suffer from a severe attack of malaria in this bracing climate I can't determine, and after all it's not an important point. He can't live much longer at his present temperature."

"And the remedy?"

"One of two is indicated, and the choice is difficult, because both are risky."

"Then they're risky to you as well as to your patient," Harding grimly reminded him.

Clarke made a contemptuous gesture which was not without a touch of dignity. His manner was now severely professional.

"One course would be to put him into the coldest water we can find; it's drastic treatment and sometimes effective, but there's a strong probability of its killing him."

"You had better mention the other."

"The administration of a remedy of my own, which I'll admit few doctors would venture to use. It's almost as dangerous as the first course, and in case of success recovery is slower."

Harding pondered this for a moment or two. He distrusted the man and believed he would feel no compunction about poisoning Blake, should he consider it safe to do so, but he thought he had convinced him of the contrary.

"I must leave you to decide, but if the result's unfortunate I'll hold you responsible," he said.

"If you doubt my professional skill or good faith why do you put your partner in my charge?"

"I've some confidence in your sense of self-interest," Harding rejoined. "You'll serve the latter best by curing Blake."

After giving him a curious glance Clarke got up. "I'll try the draught, and it had better be done now. There is no time to lose."

He moved towards Blake, who lay with half-closed eyes, breathing with apparent difficulty and making feeble restless movements. Stooping beside him, he took out a very small bottle, and after carefully letting a few drops fall into a spoon, with some trouble got the sick man to swallow them. Then he sat down and turned to Harding.

"I can't predict the result. We must wait an hour; then I may be able to form some opinion."

Harding lighted his pipe and though he found it strangely hard to sit still smoked steadily. His mouth grew dry with the strain he was bearing, but he refilled the pipe as it emptied and bit savagely on its stem, crushing the wood between his teeth. There was, so far as he could see, no change in Blake, and he was stirred by a deep pity and a daunting sense of loneliness. He knew now that he had grown to love the man; Blake's quick resourcefulness had overcome many of the obstacles they had met with, his whimsical humour had lightened the toilsome march, and often when they were wet and worn out he had banished their dejection by a jest. Now it looked as if they would hear his cheerful laugh no more, and Harding felt that if the worst came, he would, in a sense, be accountable for his partner's death. It was his sanguine expectations that had drawn Blake into the wilds.

Benson, who seemed to find the suspense equally trying, made no remark, and there was nothing to be learned from Clarke's impassive face. Harding could only wait with all the fortitude he could muster, but he long remembered that momentous hour. They were all perfectly still; there was no wind, a heavy grey sky overhung them, and the smoke of the fire went straight up. The gurgle of running water came softly through the silence. At length, when Harding felt the tension becoming unendurable, Clarke, who glanced at his watch, reopened the small bottle.

"We'll try again," he said gravely, and Harding thought he detected anxiety in his tone.

The dose was given and Harding, feeling the urgent need of action if he were to continue calm, got up and wandered about the muskeg. Coming back after a time, he looked at Clarke, who merely shook his head, though his face now showed signs of uneasiness. Harding sat down again and refilled his pipe, noticing that the stem was nearly bitten through. He gathered from the doctor's expression that they would soon know what to expect and he feared the worst. Now, however, he was growing cool; his eyes were very stern and his lips had set in an ominously determined fashion. Benson, who glanced at him once or twice, thought it boded trouble for the doctor if things went badly. The American had a ruthless air.

At length Clarke, moving silently but quickly, bent over his patient, felt his pulse, and listened to his breathing; and Harding leaned eagerly forward. Blake seemed less restless, his face, which had been furrowed, was relaxing; there was a faint damp on it. He moved and sighed, but the sigh was somehow reassuring, and then turning his head weakly, closed his eyes. A few moments later Clarke stood up, stretching out his arms with a gesture of deep weariness.

"I believe your partner has turned the corner," he said. "He must sleep as long as he is able."

Harding crept away, conscious of a relief so overpowering that he was afraid he might do something foolish and disturb his comrade if he remained. Scarcely noticing where he was going, he plunged into the swamp and ploughed through it, smashing down the reeds and splashing in the pools. Quick movement was balm to his raw-edged nerves, for the suspense of the last two hours had tried him very hard. When he returned to camp, rather wet and muddy, Clarke, who made him a sign demanding silence, was sitting by his patient's side, and Harding saw that Blake was sound asleep. Then with a sense of thankfulness too deep for expression he set about preparing the evening meal. Now he could eat with appetite.

Before he and Benson had finished their repast Clarke joined them and, answering a question, said, "I believe the worst danger's over, though there's a possibility of a relapse. He'll need careful attention for several days."

"Longer I think," said Harding. "Anyhow, you'll have to make up your mind to stop while it strikes us as necessary."

"My time's valuable and you run some risk in keeping me. You must recognize that there's a likelihood of the Stonies picking up my trail."

"If they get here, they'll run up against all the trouble they'll have any use for," Harding rejoined. "However, I told our guide, who seems pretty smart at such matters, to take precautions, and I understand he fixed things so it would be hard to follow our tracks. You may remember that he took us across all the bare rocks he could find and made us wade up a creek. Besides, as you seem to have played on your friends' superstitions, they mayn't find anything remarkable in your disappearing mysteriously."

"You're a capable man," Clarke told him with an air of resignation. "Anyway, I find this case appeals to my professional interest. For one thing, it's curious that the malaria should attack him in a severe form after a lengthy absence from the tropical jungles where he caught it. By the way, how long is it since he left India?"

Harding shrewdly returned an evasive answer. He did not think it desirable that Clarke should learn too much about his comrade's connexion with India.

"I can't fix the date, but it's some time. However, I understand he was afterwards in an unhealthy part of Africa, which may account for the thing. I don't think he's been in this country more than a year or two."

"Did he ever speak of having malaria here? It is apt to return within a rather elastic period."

"Not so far as I can recollect," said Harding.

Seeing that he could extract no useful information from him, Clarke abandoned the attempt and discussed the case from a medical point of view. Then he said, "As we're not out of the wood yet, and I don't expect I'll be needed for a while, I'd better get some sleep. You must waken me if there's any sign of a change."

Drawing his blanket round him, he lay down on a bed of branches and reeds and when his deep, regular breathing indicated that he was asleep Harding looked at Benson.

"I guess he'll do all that's possible, for his own sake. It strikes me he's a pretty good doctor."

"I understand he once promised to become a famous one," Benson replied. "Though I left you to deal with the matter, I kept my eye on him, and my idea is that while he wouldn't have scrupled much about letting Blake die if it had suited his purpose, as soon as you showed him the danger of that course his professional feelings came uppermost. In fact, I believe Blake couldn't have got better treatment in Montreal or London. Now the fellow has taken his case up, he'll make a cure. But I'll keep the first watch; you need a rest."

In a few minutes Harding was fast asleep and when he relieved Benson late at night he found Clarke at his post. Shortly afterwards Blake opened his eyes and asked a few intelligent questions in a weak voice before he went to sleep again. Next morning he was obviously improving, but although a strong man often recovers rapidly from an attack of malarial fever, Clarke stayed several days and gave Harding a number of careful instructions on parting.

"I don't think that can do much harm," said Harding, looking him in the face.

"Your suspicions die hard," Clarke rejoined with a mocking laugh.

"That's so," said Harding coolly. "As soon as you leave this camp I lose my hold on you. However, I've given you the Indian as guide, and he'll see you safe to about a day's march from your friends' village, and I've put up food enough for the journey. Considering everything, that's all the fee I need offer you."

"There wouldn't be much use in urging my claim," Clarke acquiesced.

"Then what about Benson? I noticed you didn't seem particularly anxious to renew your acquaintance. Are you willing to leave him with us?"

Clarke smiled in an ironical manner. "Why do you ask, when you mean to keep him? So far as I'm concerned, you're welcome to the man; I make you a present of him. Have you had enough of this trip yet, or are you going on?"

"We're going ahead; you can do what you like about it. And now, while I admire the way you pulled my partner through, there's not much more to say. I wish you a safe journey and good-morning."

He waved his hand and turned back towards the fire, while Clarke, following the Indian, moved forward across the muskeg. A week later they broke camp and, finding a somewhat better path along the hillside, went on by easy stages towards the north.

CHAPTER XV
MRS. CHUDLEIGH FINDS A CLUE

On a dark November morning when a blustering wind drove the rain against the windows Thomas Foster sat stripping the lock of a favourite gun in the room he called his study at Hazlehurst in Shropshire. The shelves on the handsome panelled walls contained a few works on agriculture, horse-breeding, and British natural history, but two racks were filled with guns and fishing rods and the table Foster was seated at had a vice clamped to its edge. He had once had a commodious gunroom, but had given it up, under pressure from his wife, who thought she could make a better use of it, since Hazlehurst was small and she had numerous guests, but the study was his private retreat. A hacksaw, a few files, a wire brush, and a bottle of Rangoon oil were spread out in front of him, the latter standing, for the sake of cleanliness, on the cover of the Field.

Foster was a red-faced country gentleman who found his greatest interest in outdoor sports and was characterized by some native shrewdness and a genial but rather abrupt manner. He laid down his tools and looked up with an air of humorous resignation as his wife came in. Mrs. Foster was a slender, vivacious woman, fond of society.

"Put that greasy thing away for a few minutes and listen to me," she said, sitting down opposite him.

"I am listening; I'm inclined to think it's my normal state," Foster answered with a smile. "The greasy thing cost forty guineas, and I wouldn't trust it to Jenkins after young Jimmy dropped it in a ditch. Jenkins can rear pheasants with any keeper I've met, but he's no good at a gun."

"You shouldn't have taken Jimmy out; he's not strong enough yet."

"So it seems; he gave us some trouble in getting him back to the cart after he collapsed in the wood, but it wasn't my fault. He was keen on coming."

Mrs. Foster made a sign of agreement. Jimmy was her cousin, Lieutenant Walters, lately invalided home from India.

"Perhaps you were not so much to blame, but that was not what I came to talk about," she said.

"Then I suppose you want my approval of some new plans. Go ahead with any arrangements you wish to make, but as far as possible, leave me out. Though it was a very wet spring, I never saw the pheasants more plentiful; glad I stuck to the hand-rearing, though Jenkins wanted to leave the birds alone in the higher woods. Of course, now we've cleared out the vermin – "

"Oh! never mind," his wife broke in. "You would talk about such things all day. The question is – "

"It strikes me it's – When are we going to have the house to ourselves? Though I don't interfere much, I've lately felt that I'm qualifying for a hotel-keeper."

"You have been unusually patient, and I'm getting rather tired of entertaining people, but Margaret Keith says she'd like to come down. You don't mind her?"

"Not a bit, if she doesn't insist on bringing a menagerie. It was cats last time, but I hear she's now gone in for wild animals. If she turns up with her collection, we'll probably lose Pattinson; he had all he could stand on the last occasion. Still, Meg's good fun; ready to meet you on any ground, keen as a razor. But what about Mrs. Chudleigh? Is she going?"

"She hasn't mentioned it. In fact, I was wondering – "

"Whether she'd stop if you pressed her? Try it and see. Anyhow, she's not in my way and the place seems to meet with her approval. But what's she after? It can't be young Jimmy; he's hardly worth powder and shot from her point of view."

"You're rather coarse, but I agree," Mrs. Foster answered. "Jimmy's too young and hasn't much beside his pay. His admiration's respectfully platonic, but it's largely on his account I thought of asking her to remain. I'm grateful to her for amusing the poor fellow, because, as he can't get about with the others, he'd have been left a good deal to himself if she hadn't taken him up. She's excellent company when she exerts herself, and she talks and reads to him with great good-nature."

"Do what you wish. Perhaps I shouldn't have spoken so freely about a friend of yours."

"I don't know whether I quite consider her a friend or not," Mrs. Foster thoughtfully replied. "She was staying at Mabel's when I was there, but we didn't become intimate. In fact, I think I asked her down because she made me feel she wanted to come."

"A delicate hint sometimes goes a long way. Still, there's no doubt she has brightened Jimmy up, and one feels sorry for him."

Mrs. Foster went out, and, finding her guest, asked her to stay on, which, after a few demurs, Mrs. Chudleigh agreed to do, and on being left alone smiled in a satisfied manner. She had played her cards cleverly in obtaining a footing at Hazlehurst, which was a pleasant house to stay at, and thought that with good luck she might win the game she had begun. She was a hard and somewhat unscrupulous woman, but a tender look crept into her eyes as she thought of the man whose prospects she meant to improve.

Left a widow at an early age by the death of an elderly Anglo-Indian whom she had married under pressure from her parents, she had spent some years in social enjoyments before she met Sedgwick, with whom she fell in love. She was clever enough to recognize his faults, but she liked his bold, ambitious nature. Though he had no private means and she was rich, she knew her money would not count for much against the prospects of a brilliant career. The man had real ability and meant to make his mark, and in this she was anxious to assist him. She was even willing to defer their marriage until he had had an opportunity of displaying his talents in the administration of the West African territory he had lately returned to, and her object was to secure his appointment to the post left vacant by the retirement of his superior.

During the evening she sat with Lieutenant Walters in the conservatory. There were other guests at Hazlehurst, and Mrs. Foster had asked some of her neighbours to join them in an informal dance. Coloured lamps hung among the plants, throwing a soft light upon clustering blossoms and forcing up delicate foliage in black silhouette. Here and there lay belts of shadow, out of which came voices and a smell of cigar smoke; but near where Mrs. Chudleigh sat screened by a palm a French window opened into the hall. The half-light that fell sideways upon her face suited her, for it failed to reveal the hardness of her lips and eyes, and made her look gentler. Walters, who was charmed with her, had no suspicion that she had cultivated his society merely because she thought he might prove useful. On hearing what regiment he belonged to, she had marked him down for study.

"I'm afraid I'm selfish in keeping you here, though I know how good-natured you are," he said by and by. "You might have been enjoying yourself instead of letting me bore you."

Mrs. Chudleigh gave him a gracious smile. "I've lost my enthusiasm for dancing and need a rest now and then. Besides, I like a talk with interesting people."

"That's a thing I'm seldom credited with being. You're making fun of me."

"Far from it," she assured him. "If you are very modest, I'll confess that your knowing places and people I've seen in past days enhances the interest. Were you long in India?"

"Three years. In some respects, I was sorry to leave, but the doctors decided it would be twelve months before I was fit for work again, and I felt very much at a loose end when I got home. I can't dance, I can't ride, and I mustn't walk far; in fact, there seems to be nothing that I am allowed to do. I'd have found my helplessness harder only that you have taken pity on me."

"But you are getting stronger; I've noticed a marked improvement, since I came. But we were speaking of India. You were on the North-West frontier, were you not?"

"Yes," he said and looked round as a man passed the window. "Who's that? I've seen most of Lucy's neighbours, but I don't know him."

The man moved into the light and stood gazing towards them absent-mindedly, as if thinking of something. Walters noticed his white hair and thin face, the keenness of his blue eyes, the firmness of his mouth, and the erectness of his figure.

"That is Colonel Challoner," Mrs. Chudleigh replied.

"Ah!" said Walters; "I thought I recognized the stamp. Foster told me he lived a few miles off, but I'll have to move on if he comes in here."

"Why?" Mrs. Chudleigh asked in well-simulated surprise, though she saw the opportunity she had been waiting for was now offered her.

"I knew his son and nephew; served with them in India for a time," Walters answered with some embarrassment. "That's why Foster warned me to keep out of Challoner's way. He seemed to think it would be considerate."

Challoner passed on, and Mrs. Chudleigh fixed her eyes on Walters. "I see. You must have taken part in a certain unfortunate affair on the frontier in which the hill men get the best of it."

The blood crept into Walters' face, but he answered simply: "I did. It is not a subject one talks about."

"That's natural; one can understand the feelings of the mess, but the thing isn't quite a secret, and I daresay you break through your reserve now and then. Surely you don't refuse your confidence to your friends?"

Her manner was reproachful, as though she felt hurt because he could not trust her, and he looked confused.

"I couldn't doubt that anything I said would be safe with you, but it's a painful subject. Besides, you obviously know something about the matter."

"I do, but not much. I knew Bertram Challoner and have met Richard Blake. Then at one time I heard a good deal about the frontier and that makes me curious." She paused, and gave him a look he could not resist. "I want to know what really happened; won't you tell me? You can rely upon my treating it in the strictest confidence."

Walters felt reluctant, but he was grateful to her, and flattered by her preference. She was a handsome woman and much sought after, but she had often devoted an hour to enlivening his forced idleness when there were more exciting occupations open to her.

"I couldn't refuse you anything after the way you have helped me through a rather trying time," he declared. "When one has been pretty active, it isn't easy to resign oneself to being laid upon the shelf, and you cheered me up when I most needed it. Well, I was with the expedition and we had shelled an old hill fort to bits and laid a heavy fire on two or three villages, with the object of keeping their inhabitants quiet, but it hadn't that effect. All their friends came down to help in cutting us off as we went home and I'm still surprised that they didn't succeed. They sniped our camp every night and had a number of brushes with the rearguard as we hurried back through the hills; but it wasn't until we were nearly clear that things got badly threatening and we had to make a stand. I believe the idea was that we must hold our ground until help arrived. But am I boring you?"

"Oh! no," said Mrs. Chudleigh. "Please don't stop."

"Well, we were awkwardly placed in the bottom of a pass, but there was a small steep hill that strengthened our position and Blake made the trenches. He did it well, in the daylight, because there was no time to lose, with marksmen we couldn't see firing at him from among the rocks. I must say that although they made very good shooting and got several of his men he never flinched."

"He was not a nervous man, was he?"

"One wouldn't have imagined so after seeing him coolly doing his work with the bullets flattening on the stones all round; but I'll confess I could never understand what happened afterwards. The orders were that the hill must be held at any cost, but as our line was long we couldn't send up many men. Blake stayed with his few sappers, we had a gun from the mule battery, and there was Challoner, myself, and two more officers with a handful of native infantry. It was about two in the morning when the fellows made their rush, a band of Ghazees leading it, and I'll own that we were all a little overstrung. Forced marches on half rations and lying awake night after night expecting an attack are wearing. For all that, it was a strong position, and though there were not many of them we felt we could trust the men. The hill was hard to climb except by a ravine the gun did not command and Blake had laid a mine there. Challoner held the ridge immediately above."

"What is your opinion of Bertram Challoner? Is he a good officer?"

"One of the best. He's what you could call conscientious; took his duties seriously and knew more about the scientific side of his business than any of us. In a way, that was curious, because I imagine that he hadn't much natural aptitude for soldiering and while he was cool in action one felt he had to work himself up to it. Nobody doubted his pluck, but I've seen him looking rather white after a hot brush."

"A nervous temperament, held well in hand," Mrs. Chudleigh suggested. "But go on; I'm sorry I interrupted you."

"There was a challenge, a yell from the stabbed sentry, and the beggars were upon us. No time to think; the face of the hill swarmed with them. The gunners only fired one round before they were cut down, and the mine did not explode. It was a thick, dark night, and we were horribly outnumbered, but the orders were to hold on – we could send for support if very hard pressed, but we mustn't yield a yard of ground. It was hot work in front of the trench upon the ridge – they poured into it at one end, but for a time we stayed as well. Then – "

Walters broke off and looked at his companion with appeal. "I've been talking too freely; said more than I should have done, in fact. You had better admit that you don't find all this interesting."

"It wouldn't be true," Mrs. Chudleigh declared, determined not to be put off. "I'm extremely interested, and you must keep your promise. Tell me all you can."

He made a gesture of resignation. "Well, there was an order given – in a white man's voice – and the bugle called us off. Somebody had ventured to disobey instructions, and after that the fight was over; we got away as best we could. They rolled over us like a wave as we went downhill and there were not many of us when we reached the bottom. Then some Gurkhas came up and held them a bit with the steel, a gun opened, and somehow the main camp was saved, though our ranks were thin at the next muster."

"There was an inquiry, of course. Did you give evidence?"

"I had to," said Walters ruefully. "I confined my answers as much as possible to 'Yes, sir,' and 'No,' but one can make a good deal out of these if the questions are judiciously framed. The bugler was killed, so they could learn nothing from him, but Watson was forced to declare that the order came from near the ravine where Blake should have fired the mine. After some badgering from the Colonel I had to admit that that was my opinion. There were other points against Blake and he did not try to clear himself. It was a very bad business, and I remember that Challoner broke down after his examination."

"But Blake was not cashiered."

"No; to tell the truth, I think some influence was at work. Colonel Challoner was known and respected on the frontier and he had powerful friends, though, of course, that sort of thing is not supposed to count. Anyhow, the official verdict was, 'Not guilty,' but nobody had much confidence in it and Blake had to leave us. In spite of everything, I was sorry for the man and felt that he might have made things look better if he had tried."

"It was very sad," said Mrs. Chudleigh. "You have my thanks for the story. I can understand that it was painful to tell."

Then she changed the subject and soon afterwards a man came in and claimed her for a dance.