CHAPTER XXIII

JAMES AND JIMMY

Macartney found him lying very still; nothing, in fact, seemed to be

alive but his eyes, which were wide open and missed nothing.

"You're hurt, I'm afraid. Can you tell me anything?"

Urquhart spoke in a curiously level tone. It seemed to give

impartiality to what he said, as if he had been discussing the

troubles of a man he hardly knew.

"Back broken, I believe. Anyhow, I can't feel anything. I'm sorry you

came down after me."

"My dear fellow," said James, "what do you take me for?"

Those bright, all-seeing, steady eyes were fixed upon him. They had

the air of knowing everything.

"Well, you knew what I _did_ take you for, anyhow, and so it would

have been reasonable--"

"We won't talk about all that," James said. "Let me cover you up with

something--and then I'll see what can be done about moving you."

Urquhart spoke indifferently about that. "I doubt if you can get

down--and it's a good step to Odde. Four hours, I dare say."

"Yes, but there would be a house nearer than Odde. If I could get some

bearers--we'd get you comfortable before dark."

"Oh, I'm comfortable enough now," Urquhart said. James thought that a

bad sign.

He unpacked the rucksacks, got out the brandy-flask, a mackintosh, a

sweater and a cape. "Now, my dear man, I'm going to hurt you, I'm

afraid; but I must have you on a dry bed; and you must drink some of

this liquor. Which will you have first?"

"The brandy," said Urquhart, "and as soon as you like."

He helped as much as he could, groaned once or twice, sweated with the

effort; but the thing was done. He lay on the mackintosh, his head on

a rucksack, the cape and sweater over him. Macartney went to the edge

of the plateau to prospect. A billowy sea of white stretched out to a

blue infinity. The clouds had lifted or been vaporised. He could see

nothing of Odde; but he believed that he could make out a thread of

silver, which must be the fiord. It would take him too long to get out

there and back--and yet to stay here! That meant that the pair of them

would die. It is but just to him to say that no alternative presented

itself to him. The pair of them would die? Well, yes. What else was

there? He returned. Urquhart was waiting for him, intensely awake to

everything.

"Old chap," said James, "that's no go. I didn't try the snow; but I

can judge distances. It's a deuce of a way down, even if there _is_ a

way, and--"

"It's all right," Urquhart said, "there isn't a way. I'm cornered this

time. But there's just a chance for you--if you work at it. It'll

begin to freeze--in fact, it has begun already. Now if you can find

the shovel, you might employ yourself finely, digging a stairway.

You'll be up by midnight."

"Never mind about me," James said. "I'm going to keep you warm first."

But Urquhart was fretting. He frowned and moved his head about. "No,

no, don't begin that. It's not worth it--and I can't have you do it.

You ought to know who I am before you begin the Good Samaritan stunt.

I want to talk to you while I can. I've got a good deal to tell you.

That will be better for me than anything." Jimmy was prepared for

something of the kind.

"I believe it will," he said. "Go on, then, and get it over."

It had been his first impulse to assure the poor chap that he knew all

about it; but a right instinct stopped him. He would have to hear it.

So Urquhart began his plain tale, and as he got into it the contrast

between it and himself became revolting, even to him. A hale man might

have brazened it out with a better air. A little of the romance with

which it had begun, which indeed alone made it tolerable, would have

been about it still. A sicker man than Urquhart, who made a hard death

for himself, would have given up the battle, thrown himself at James's

feet and asked no quarter. Urquhart was not so far gone as that; a

little bluster remained. He did it badly. He didn't mean to be brutal;

he meant to be honest; but it sounded brutal, and James could hardly

endure it.

He saw, too, as the poor chap went on, that he was getting angry, and

doing himself harm. That was so. Every step he took in his narrative

sharpened the edge of the fate which cut him off. He would have made

a success of it if he could--but he had been really broken before he

broke his back, and the knowledge exasperated him.

So he took refuge in bluster, made himself out worse than he was, and

in so doing distorted Lucy. James was in torment, remembering what he

must. He felt her arms close about his neck; he felt the rush of her

words: "And oh, darling, I thought it was you--of course I thought

so--and I was proud and happy--that you should like me so much! I

looked at myself in the glass afterwards. I thought, 'You must be

rather pretty.' ..." Oh, Heaven, and this mocking, dying devil, with

his triumphs!

"Say no more, man, say no more," broke from him. "I understand the

rest. I have nothing to say to you. You did badly--you did me a

wrong--and her too. But it's done with, and she (God bless her!) can

take no harm. How can she? She acted throughout with a pure mind. She

thought that you were me, and when she found that you weren't--well,

well, take your pride in that. I give it up to you. Why shouldn't I?

She gave you her innocent heart. I don't grudge you."

"You needn't," said Urquhart, "since I'm a dead man. But if I had been

a living one, who knows--?" He laughed bitterly, and stung the other.

"You forget one thing," said James, with something of his old frozen

calm. "For all that you knew, ten minutes after you had left my house

that day--the first of them--I might have benefited by your act--and

you been none the wiser, nor I any the worse off. And there would have

been an end of it."

Urquhart considered the point. James could have seen it working in his

poor, wicked, silly mind, but kept his face away.

"Yes," Urquhart said, "you might; but you didn't." Then he laughed

again--not a pleasant sound.

"Man," said James indignant, "don't you see? What robs me of utterance

is that I _have_ benefited by what you have done."

"It's more than you have deserved, in my opinion," Urquhart retorted.

"I'll ask you not to forget that she has loved me, and doesn't blame

me. And I'll ask you not to forget that it is I who am telling you all

this, and not she." It was his last bite.

The retort was easy, and would have crushed him; but James did not

make it. Let him have his pitiful triumph. He was not angry any more;

he couldn't be--and there was Lucy to be thought of. What would

Urquhart think of a Lucy who could have revealed such things as these?

He would have judged her brazen, little knowing the warm passion of

her tears. Ah, not for him these holy moments. No, let him die

thinking honour of her--honour according to his own code. He put his

hand out and touched Urquhart's face with the back of it.

"Let us leave it at this," he said; "we both love her. We are neither

of us fit. She would have taken either of us. But I came first, and

then came Lancelot--and she loves the law. Put it no other way."

"The law, the law!" said the fretful, smitten man.

"The law of her nature," said James.

He felt Urquhart's piercing eyes to be upon him and schooled himself

to face them and to smile into them. To his surprise he saw them fill

with tears.

"You are a good chap," Urquhart said. "I never knew that before."

Macartney blew his nose.

No more was said, but the sufferer now allowed him to do what he

would. He chafed his hands and arms with brandy; took off his boots

and chafed his feet. He succeeded in getting a certain warmth into

him, and into himself too. He began to be hopeful.

"I think I shall pull you through," he told him. "You ought to be a

pretty hard case. I suppose you don't know how you came to fall so

badly."

"Well, I do," Urquhart said.

"Don't tell me if you'd rather not."

"Oh, what does it matter now? It was a whim."

James smiled. "Another whim?"

"Yes--and another fiasco. You see, in a way, I had dared you to come."

"I admit that."

"Well, I hadn't played fair. I knew, and you didn't, that it was a bad

job. You can't get down this way--not when the snow's like this."

"Oh, can't you?"

"I think not. Well, I ought to have told you. I was tempted. That's

the worst thing I ever did. I ask your pardon for that."

"You have it, old chap," said James.

"You can afford to be magnanimous," Urquhart snapped out fiercely.

"Damn it, you have everything. But I felt badly about it as I was

going down, and I thought, 'They'll feel the break, and know it's all

over. So I cut the painter--do you see?"

"Yes," said James, "I see." He did indeed see.

Urquhart began to grow drowsy and to resent interference. He was too

far gone to think of anything but the moment's ease. James, on the

other hand, was entirely absorbed in his patient. "I'm not going to

let you sleep," he said. "It's no good making a fuss. I've got the

kinch on you now." It was as much as he had. The air was biting cold,

and the colder it got the more insistent on sleep Urquhart became.

James stared about him. Was this the world that he knew? Were kindly

creatures moving about somewhere in it, helping each other? Was Lucy

in this place? Had she lain against his heart two nights ago? Had he

been so blessed? Had life slipped by--and was this the end? Which was

the reality, and which the dream? If both had been real, and this was

the end of men's endeavour--if this were death--if one slipped out in

this cur's way, the tail between the legs--why not end it? He could

sleep himself, he thought. Suppose he lay by this brother cur of his

and slept? Somewhere out beyond this cold there were men by firelight

kissing their wives. Poor chaps, they didn't know the end. This was

the end--loneliness and cold. Yes, but you could sleep!...

* * * * *

Suddenly he started, intent and quivering. He had heard a cry. Every

fibre of him claimed life. He listened, breathlessly. Above the

knocking of his own heart he heard it again. No doubt at all. He

turned to Urquhart and shook him. "They are coming--they are

coming--we are going to be saved!" He was violently moved; tears were

streaming down his face. Urquhart, out of those still, aware,

dreadfully intelligent eyes, seemed to see them coming--whoever they

were. He too, and his pitiful broken members, were calling on life.

James, on his feet, shouted with might and main, and presently was

answered from near at hand. Then he saw Lingen and the guide wading

through the snow. "They have found us," he told Urquhart; "it's

Francis Lingen and the guide. How they've done it I don't pretend to

guess."

"They've got around the cornice," Urquhart said. "It can be done I

know." He seemed indifferent again, even annoyed again that he

couldn't be allowed to sleep. James thought it a pose, this time.

Lingen, out of breath but extremely triumphant, met James.

"Thank God," he said. James with lifted brows waved his head backward

to indicate the sufferer.

"He's very bad," he said. "How did you get him to come?" He meant the

guide.

Flaming Lingen said, "I made him. I was desperate. I've never done

such a thing before, but I laid hands on him."

"You are a brick," said James.

Lingen said, "It's something to know that you can throttle a man when

you want to badly enough. I hadn't the slightest idea. It's a thing I

never did before. I rather like it."

Throttled or not, the guide saved the situation. He saved it,

undisguisedly, for his own sake; for he had no zest for helping to

carry a bier over the Folgefond. They made a litter of alpen-stocks

and the mackintosh, and so between them carried Urquhart down the

mountain. No need to dwell on it. They reached the hotel at Odde about

midnight, but halfway to it they found help.