Chapter XXV: An Alarming Experience

THE warm July evening was drawing in; heavy clouds were rising in the west, leaden in hue, portending a storm; and scarcely a breath of air stirred the leaves on the branches of the beech trees which completely overshadowed the narrow lane along which Dora and Gilbert Mickle were making their homeward way, the former's arms laden with bulrushes which she and her brother had obtained from a pond at a short distance from Wreyford for their mother, who had expressed a desire for some wherewith to decorate an ugly corner in the staircase.

"I am afraid your arms must be aching, Dora," Gilbert said; "those bulrushes are heavy, I know. I wish I could help carry them."

"Oh, never mind!" she replied cheerfully; "my arms do ache a little, but when we come to the next gateway we'll rest for a bit, shall we?"

"Certainly we will. How dark it's getting. It must be later than I thought; or perhaps it's only the branches keeping out the light."

The gateway reached, Dora put down her bundle of bulrushes on the ground, and perched herself on the top of the five-barred gate, against which Gilbert leaned whilst he surveyed the view—a stretch of pasture land, and beyond that the old disused clay pits, the water in which, being stagnant, appeared green and unwholesome even at that distance.

"See how dark the clouds are over there!" Dora exclaimed, pointing to the horizon. "It looks like a storm, doesn't it? I wonder if it's coming this way!"

"Perhaps it is; but, if so, it won't reach Wreyford for some time yet."

"Oh, Gilbert, there are two boys fishing in that clay pit—the one nearest here, I mean. I wonder if we can make out who they are. Yes—no—yes —I know!"

"I don't!" Gilbert replied. "What sharp eyes you must have, Dora. I can see two figures, but I can't recognize either. Your sight is better than mine. Who are they?"

"Reginald Hope and Gerald Willis."

"Hope and Willis? Are you sure?"

"Quite, quite sure."

"I believe Willis has been forbidden to go to the clay pits, and he certainly told me he had promised to remain at home evenings whilst his father was away."

"Do you think Mr. Willis can have returned?" Dora suggested.

"No. I wonder— Oh, what is that?" Shriek upon shriek from the direction of the clay pits fell upon their startled ears. Gilbert strained his eyes to see what was happening, but it was Dora who was the first to grasp the situation.

"Oh, one of them is gone!" she cried. "He has fallen into the water, I do believe! Oh, how horrible! He will be drowned!"

Gilbert's face was ashen, for he knew that the water in the clay pits was fearfully deep. Seizing his crutches, he swung himself over the gate, and hastened across the meadow, Dora following. The shrieks continued, mingled with cries of "Help! help!" from the solitary figure standing helplessly on the brink of the pit where the two boys had been fishing side by side but a few minutes before.

"That's Hope!" Gilbert exclaimed presently. They had come at a great rate, and by this time had nearly reached the scene of the accident. "Then it's Willis who's fallen in! See! he's clinging to the rushes! If he can hold on a little longer we may be able to save him. What is Hope thinking of, that he isn't doing anything to help him." Then, raising his voice, he shouted, "Hold on, Willis, I'm coming!"

Poor Gerald, who had slipped on the slimy bank above the pit, had, in falling, fortunately managed to grasp some of the rushes which grew around the edge of the pit, and so was enabled to keep his head and shoulders above the water. When Dora and Gilbert appeared in sight he was despairing of being rescued, for Hope, instead of coming to his assistance, was standing calling for help, afraid to stretch out a hand to the aid of his companion, lest he should share his fate.

"Oh, Mickle, save me!" Gerald cried imploringly. "Oh, I shall be drowned! I can't hold on much longer!"

This piteous appeal was too much for Dora. Never pausing to consider if she was acting wisely or not, she ran past Gilbert, and reaching the pit knelt down on the bank, and extended a hand to the terrified boy. He grasped it at once, and the next moment there was a splash, and the little girl was in the water too.

Afterwards Gilbert had always a very hazy idea of what followed. Everything happened so quickly that he had no time for reflecting on the horror of the situation. He was conscious of a sickening sensation when he saw the two struggling forms in the water, but he did not lose his presence of mind.

"God help us! God help us!" he cried; then, "Oh, God, show me what to do!"

Gerald had again succeeded in clutching the rushes; and, flinging himself flat on the bank, Gilbert caught him by the collar, and with a great effort pulled him to the edge of the pit, where Hope, ashamed of his cowardice, lent his assistance, and in a very short while the terrified boy was on dry land.

Dora had gone under, but she rose again only a short distance from the bank. Gilbert saw by the look of appeal in her eyes, though her lips uttered no sound, that she was not unconscious. Taking one of his crutches, he extended it towards her, telling her to catch hold of it. At first, he feared she was too frightened and bewildered to obey him; but, to his intense joy and relief, she succeeded in gripping it, and slowly he drew her by that means to the bank. Oh, how thankful he was at that moment for the infirmity which made his crutches a necessity! But for his lameness he would certainly not have been able to save Dora's life. His heart was full of exultation as he lifted the little form of his dearly-loved sister out of the water. He covered her pale, cold face with kisses as he held her in his arms, and implored her to speak to him. But Dora was quite unconscious now; her blue eyes were closed, and she showed no signs of life.

"Surely she is not dead!" Reginald exclaimed, as Gilbert laid her on the bank and began gently to chafe her hands. "She was not in the water very long. She can't be dead!"

"Dead!" echoed Gerald in a hollow tone. He was sitting on the bank, a miserable, dripping object, when the dread word fell upon his ears. Rising, he went to Dora's side, and gazed at her with a growing horror upon his face. "Oh, it is true," he wailed; "she is dead! And I have killed her!"

"No, no," Gilbert replied soothingly, "she is not dead. I can feel her heart beating. Oh, Dora, darling, open your eyes and look at me! Oh, my little sister!" And poor Gilbert's tears fell hotly, whilst he vainly tried to repress his emotion.

Perhaps his imploring voice reached Dora's dulled ears, for she really did open her eyes for a moment, and smiled faintly as she saw her brother; but she relapsed into unconsciousness, and Gilbert looked at the others despairingly, no whit ashamed of his tears, big boy as he was.

"What can we do?" he asked. "We ought to get her home as soon as we can. Oh, here comes some one! What a blessing! I know the man by sight; he's a farm labourer, I believe."

A big, good-natured looking countryman now appeared, and stood staring at the little group wonderingly, his ruddy countenance expressive of much concern. He had been going home from Work, he explained, and passing the gateway where Dora had left her bulrushes, he had paused to see if the owner of them was anywhere about; then he had become aware that something was amiss at one of the clay pits, and had hurried there to ascertain if he could be of any assistance. Gilbert briefly told him what had happened, and added that he was anxious to get his sister at home as soon as possible.

The man said he would gladly carry the "brave little maid," and lifting Dora in his strong arms, he bore her away without more to-do, whilst the boys followed in silence, each occupied with his own thoughts. Gerald found some difficulty in keeping up with the others, for his legs trembled and his clothes were heavy with water, besides which, he was getting colder and colder.

Reginald Hope was the first to speak, and certainly his words were an astonishment to his companions, coming as they did from one who had always held a wonderfully good opinion of himself.

"I am a coward," he said briefly, but with conviction in his tone. "I never even guessed it till to-day. I was afraid to go to Willis' assistance, but your little sister wasn't, Mickle. I'm a selfish brute. How you must despise me!"

"I don't despise you at all," Gilbert answered, "but—well, you were very frightened, and you lost your head."

At this moment Gerald, who was feeling very shaky, and whose nerves had received a shock, burst into a flood of tears.

"It would have been my fault if Dora had been drowned," he sobbed. "I never ought to have gone to the clay pits at all."

"Why did you, when you had been forbidden to go there?" Gilbert very naturally inquired.

"I made him," Reginald Hope acknowledged; "it was entirely my doing."

After that no more was said upon the subject. The high road was reached at length, where the party divided, Gilbert hurrying on ahead of the sturdy labourer, who carried his light burden with no apparent effort, whilst Reginald accompanied Gerald home, and thoughtfully promised, before parting with him at the gate of Haresdown House, to return later on and inform him what his father thought of Dora, for he felt certain the Mickles would send for Dr. Hope at once.

The storm, which had been gathering all the evening, now broke. The rain began to descend in torrents, and streaks of lightning lit up the angry sky, whilst the thunder pealed overhead.

Angel, growing very anxious at her brother's absence, for she had not the least idea where he had gone, and a little nervous at the storm, had sought company in the kitchen, when the front door was opened, and Gerald himself staggered into the house. The little girl ran into the hall to meet him, and her startled cry brought Mrs. Vallance and Polly upon the scene.

At first Gerald was utterly incapable of giving an account of what had occurred, and it was not until he was safely in bed, and the hot milk the housekeeper had insisted on his drinking was beginning to bring warmth back to his chilled frame, that he was able to enter into any explanations.

Angel shuddered and turned pale as she listened to his tale; Mrs. Vallance made no comments, but her face expressed plainly what she thought of his conduct. She carried off his wet clothes to dry, and left the children by themselves for a while. When she was alone with her brother, Angel sat down on a chair by his bedside, and, laying her head on his pillow, wept without restraint. She was so disappointed in him; and beyond the fact that he had broken his word to her, and again been disobedient, was the thought that he had brought trouble upon the Mickles.

"Oh, poor, dear little Dora!" she cried presently. "How brave of her to try to save you! Oh, Gerald, how I wish I knew how she was! She was quite unconscious, you say?"

"Yes. Hope promised faithfully to come back and let me know what his father thought about her," Gerald replied; "but perhaps he won't," he added, with a miserable sob. "Oh, how the Mickles will all hate me if Dora dies!"

"Oh, don't talk like that! I can't bear to hear you."

"Can't you pray for her?" Gerald asked suddenly. "I daren't pray myself. I'm too wicked."

"Oh no! You must pray with me, Gerald."

Angel knelt down by the bedside, and put her earnest petition that Dora's life might be spared into simple words; then she repeated the Lord's prayer, and Gerald, though he uttered no sound, joined with her in his heart.

The storm increased in fury, so that the children thought it extremely doubtful if Reginald Hope would keep his word and return to Haresdown House that night. At last, when they had given up expecting him, there was a ring at the front door bell, and Polly went to answer it.

It was not Reginald, however, but his father, who explained that Mrs. Mickle had asked him to call and see Gerald, for she felt very anxious about him, especially as Mr. Willis was from home.

"How's Dora?" asked Gerald, almost breathless with suspense, as the doctor entered his room.

"Better," was the prompt response, "and sleeping peacefully, I'm pleased to say. And how are you after your ducking, my boy? That son of mine ought not to have taken you to the clay pits. I had warned him not to go there."

"I had been forbidden to go there too," Gerald admitted.

"Humph!"

The doctor made no other comment. He felt Gerald's pulse, took his temperature, administered a dose of soothing medicine which he had brought with him, and then went downstairs, followed by Mrs. Vallance, who thanked him for calling.

"The boy will most probably be all right to-morrow," he told her; "you have done everything that was necessary under the circumstances; he is not in the least feverish, and very likely will not even have a cold as punishment for his disobedience. I shall send Reginald to a good, strict boarding-school next term, where I hope he will be taught to obey." And the doctor went out into the storm again, whilst the housekeeper returned to Gerald's room.

Now that his mind was easy about Dora, the boy was inclined to rest, so Mrs. Vallance and Angel left him to himself, and ten minutes later he had forgotten all his troubles in a deep, dreamless sleep. It was hours before Angel slept that night. She lay awake listening to the thunder in the distance, for the storm was passing away, and watching the lightning as it occasionally illuminated her room, whilst her tender conscience reproached her that she had not told her father of Gerald's disobedience when he had first gone fishing in the clay pits, and Mrs. Mickle had acquainted her with the truth. By holding her peace when she ought to have spoken, she had allowed Gerald to disobey a second time, and thereby nearly brought about the loss of his own and another's precious life. Mrs. Mickle had warned her that she was wrong in shielding her brother from blame; but she had never fully understood till now the harm she had been unconsciously doing. She was greatly troubled at the thought of what her father would say when he returned home and found that his son was not to be trusted. How astonished and grieved he would be when he heard of that evening's work! And, kind and good as Mrs. Mickle had been in sending Dr. Hope to see Gerald that night, how she must blame the boy in her heart.

Bitter tears bedewed Angel's pillow as she turned these matters over in her mind; she tossed restlessly and wearily about, and could not rest. The storm had died away altogether, and the first pale streaks of daybreak were appearing in the eastern sky before she at last fell into a troubled sleep.