"GRANNIE, HERE IS GILES RANDOLPH."
Giles used so few words that it was remarkable how much he conveyed. Mrs. Wyverne was not glad to see him, and she refrained from saying that she was; but her charming smile served in place of that which she would have condemned as an untruth. Barbara, declining to smile, waited in glum silence.
"I am sorry that we cannot offer to take you in here," observed Mrs. Wyverne; and the involuntary word "sorry" caused her some after-twinges. "The Cottage is small, and we have no spare room. But you will be comfortable at the inn." Then she weighed carefully her conflicting duties, and decided to remain at home. Barbara and Phyllys would go without her to the meeting.
There was no escape for Phyllys. Her face fell; but it was evident that the old lady wished for a tête-à-tête with Giles. Barbara, curtly nodding goodbye, marched off, and Phyllys followed. She had learnt obedience in a strict school, and though inwardly rebellious she made no outward sign.
Then Giles bent his faculties to the task of winning the old lady. Now that he had seen Phyllys, he was anxious for his own sake, at least as much as for the sake of gratifying Mrs. Keith, to bring about the proposed visit. He did not know that the path to success had been made smoother by Mr. Dugdale; but he did realise that it might be a difficult path.
However, when Giles chose to be liked, he did not often fail in his aim.
CHAPTER V
THE MIDFELL ATMOSPHERE
BREAKFAST over, Mrs. Wyverne sat in her usual place, darning a tablecloth and entertaining a terribly early caller. Miss Robins faced her solemnly. She was a solemn individual, impressed with the importance of directing the duties of other people. In appearance she had not much to boast of; but, as she was wont to ask, "Who cares for looks?" Some unkind critics had been known to remark that Miss Robins "had no looks."
Despite her superiority, she had not cast off the shackles of a mundane curiosity about her neighbours; and she was bent on finding out what the old lady meant to do with Phyllys. "So very Important, for the sake of that poor empty-headed child, that she should act with wisdom," she observed to her devotee, Barbara. "If she does not hold that man at arm's length, who can foretell the consequences?" Miss Robins was nothing if not emphatic.
From an abstract point of view, Mrs. Wyverne would have supported Miss Robins' opinion; but she never could lose sight of the fact that she was herself one of the Randolphs of Castle Hill, being only sister to Giles' grandfather. And though, as a matter of theory, she would have maintained that questions of descent like questions of "looks" were unimportant, it gave her no small pleasure to see again the head of her family, and to find him in many respects what she would have wished.
"A singularly fine-looking man," she observed. "He gives the impression of one who may be trusted."
Barbara, who, in imitation of her friend, was a systematic man-hater, spoke tartly, "No men are to be trusted—least of all men without religion."
"How do you know Giles has no religion?" asked Phyllys.
"He may make a profession. There is no reality in it."
"No. He carries the hall-mark of an essentially worldly nature." Miss Robins was so pleased with the wording of her own sentence that she made mental note of it for future use.
Phyllys opened indignant lips and shut them again. What was the use of remonstrance? Nothing ever shook Barbara or Miss Robins in their judgments upon others. Moreover, the latter was delivering herself of an exhortation.
"He may be outwardly fine-looking, but what of that? What of mere looks?" she inquired. "What signifies the body? That poor miserable husk! The handsomest men in feature, the most agreeable in manner, are often the most depraved. Dear Mrs. Wyverne, 'you' know the world well enough to understand. Mere appearance—face, manner, dress,—how unimportant these things!"
Mrs. Wyverne assented as in duty bound, though not without an inward reservation.
"We are called upon to ignore the body. 'I' have learnt to ignore it," declared Miss Robins, with an air of fervent conviction. "All that signifies is the spiritual part of one's self. The rest is dust and ashes—'mere' dust and ashes."
She swayed impressively on her chair.
"If the body isn't of consequence, I wonder why one should care whether one has hot or cold tea, or whether one's dinner is nicely cooked," questioned Phyllys, laying her finger on the other's weak point.
Miss Robins inspected her from a moral pinnacle. "That is different. To care for one's health is a duty. I am speaking of the vanity of minding about bodily appearance—whether one is good-looking or plain—seeking to be admired. What do such things matter?"
"I should have said they mattered a good deal," declared Phyllys, standing up. "I 'love' beautiful people. The world is beautiful, and God made people as well as things. I can't see why He should like 'things' to be lovely, and not care if people are hideous and disagreeable." Then she fled, not escaping the comment, "Really, Phyllys is sadly irrev—"
Ten minutes later she stood, lost in a dream, beside the stream as it flowed through a field, three hundred yards distant from the house. It swept here round a curve, its course being partly arrested by a bank of shingle; and beyond the shingle, in its détour, it poured in a rustling flow, bubbling soft whispers and singing to itself.
This hour after breakfast was Phyllys' most free time. At eleven o'clock, if not sooner, Barbara would remorselessly summon her to practise and read and darn. Time spent in the open air was wasted in the elder cousin's estimation. Barbara believed in a brisk constitutional, to and from a given point within a given time, for health; but she never lounged under a tree, never dallied by a stream, in dreamy thought. That with her meant "idleness."
With Phyllys it neither meant nor was idleness. She was not idle, standing on the grass bank, motionless, her hands clasped behind her back. She wore no hat, and a breeze stirred her hair, bringing forth reddish gleams.
Her mind was at work. She loved Nature, loved the beauty of flower and fell; read meanings in the voices of running water, rustling leaves, singing birds. These things appealed to her artist-nature, and drew her on to deeper thought. When she could escape from home and its restraints, she was happy in what is called solitude, because in touch with her surroundings.
Yet, even in her happiest hours, she was conscious of a want. She craved for some one to understand what she felt, to enjoy the beauty with her. She craved to find the inner meanings of life. There was such an infinitude that she could not fathom; and clues were lacking.
This morning her thoughts were chiefly occupied with Giles.
Once before she had seen him, when a child of nine; and then for years she had been abroad, travelling with her widowed mother, in search of lost health, never to be regained. Since her mother's death she had lived at Midfell, paying an occasional visit to friends of her grandmother, but secluded from other influences. Often she had heard of Giles and Colin, though not in terms of praise. Mrs. Wyverne had rather implied than asserted condemnation; but according to Barbara, Giles and his friends were one and all to be avoided, as a dainty person shuns pitch; and to withhold Phyllys from their influence was a matter of duty.
Which opinion, naturally, made Phyllys want to know them! For years her dream of impossible delights had been—a visit to Castle Hill.
Now the unlikely had come about. She had seen Giles, had talked with him had felt that she and he might become friends. She felt it still, though vexed with herself for letting the thought so soon slip into words.
And she might be again invited to Castle Hill. "If only I could go! To know what it is to live! This is existence! And oh! to get away from Barbara and Miss Robins. Even—for a time—from Grannie!"
The tinkle of a bell aroused her. She was often thus recalled. But already! She did not realise how long she had stood there. Was the whole of this lovely day to be wasted indoors? She walked back with a lagging step.
Within doors the cloud on her face vanished. Barbara was not visible; the grandmother wore a smile; and Giles stood waiting.
"Put on your stout boots, child, and have a wrap. Your cousin wishes to take you for a walk."
The black fringes widened with delight.
"He does not know his way about, and Barbara is too busy," explained Mrs. Wyverne, apologising to herself. She felt uneasy, but, the managing grand-daughter being out of reach, her resolution had not been proof against his will. After all, the two were cousins; and since she had just granted her consent to three weeks at Castle Hill, a walk now could make little difference. The decision seemed lifted out of her hands; and despite her bewilderment, she looked with gratified eyes upon the great-nephew whom she had so long refused to see.
"Must I be back at eleven, Grannie?"
"Not to-day, for once. Giles wishes to go to the head of the dale, if you can walk so far."
"Oh, of course I can. That will be splendid. I have not been there for ages upon ages."
"My dear, you should not make use of such exaggerated expressions."
Phyllys tried to wear a penitent face as she fled. "If Barbara should come in!" was the fear. Barbara might upset all.
"Phyllys is a dear child, but too impulsive," the old lady remarked. "It is desirable that she should be trained in habits of self-restraint."
Giles refrained from saying what he thought.
Fortunately Barbara failed to appear, and the two set off at a brisk rate. Phyllys was a quick walker, and she easily kept up with the pace adopted by Giles. She was in a state of jubilant but veiled exultation. While lacing her boots, she had resolved to behave with dignity; not to allow her friendship to be regarded by him as a thing to be lightly won.
But miles of happiness lay before her, miles of fresh air, of freedom, exercise, pleasant companionship. No need to dwell on what might lie beyond. No need to anticipate Barbara's comments. When the time came for their acidity, she would have had her day of delights; and none could rob her of the memory.
Phyllys, as in duty bound, talked to interest her companion, perhaps more from inclination than from duty; and she found in him an excellent listener. She named for his information the various fells; those near at hand, then more distant outlines, as they mounted higher. She described the long cold winters and the deep snowdrifts. She chatted of the sturdy self-respecting farmers, and of the welcome she had from them and theirs.
"None of the people about are very poor," she remarked. "They work hard and live carefully and lay by. That is the way in these northern villages. People say how different it is in the south."
"When you come to Castle Hill, you will see for yourself."
"They will never let me go."
Then she did not yet know! He kept his counsel.
"The farmers and their wives really are my friends, and they are so good and true—so real. Blunt, of course, but that is their way. I know all the cottagers. No, not district-visiting. When I go to see them, it is because I love to go, not because I ought. Barbara and Miss Robins call because they want to do the people good. But when I go, they do 'me' good—without any trying."
"That might seem the better way." He was interested, but he wanted to get her out of this sedate mood, to see again the long lashes mischievously drooped.
"Barbara says one ought to be always trying to do good to somebody. Don't you hate being done good to as a duty?"
"I'm not sure that I have had experience in that line."
"How nice! But I've had any amount. There's Mr. Timkins. He's not a Yorkshireman; he is from the south, and he mends old shoes. He thinks he can mend people too!" with a gleam of fun. "Miss Robins says she has 'the very highest opinion of him.' But I dislike his prosy preachings."
Phyllys stopped to pluck a flower, and surveyed it with eyes of loving admiration.
"I suppose Mr. Timkins really is 'good,'" she remarked, with the air of one unravelling a perplexity. "But so are other people who don't think as he does. I never can understand why all good people must have exactly the same opinions about every single thing. Can you?"
"Good gracious, no!"
"I've never been allowed to go to Castle Hill, because all of you don't see things just the same as Grannie and Barbara. I'm hardly ever allowed to know strangers who come to Midfell in the summer, for fear they should do me harm. And I'm not a child now. It is time I should begin to think for myself."
"You have not always lived here?"
"About ten years. Since I was thirteen. Of course I was old enough then to understand, and not to forget afterwards. When people talk as they do, and say all sorts of hard things about those who think differently from themselves, I always know that my father and mother would have felt with those people, and not with people here. Don't you see, it rubs me the wrong way awfully sometimes."
CHAPTER VI
A BURNISHED STREAM
"IS this what you call the Dale-head?" asked Giles.
"Perhaps more properly higher up. But I think we mean the whole of the valley, as far as you can see, and beginning here. Isn't it pretty?"
It was more than pretty. She used a word inadequate.
They were seated by the river, on its grass bank. Not the little Midfell stream, but a more important watercourse; a river to which the Midfell stream was a tributary.
It flowed between steep banks; and the colour of the water was that of a burnished red-brown chestnut. Hundreds of stones, large enough to act as small breakwaters, lay scattered on the river-bed; and around each separate stone curled a perpetual wave, foam-white, with a gleam of golden light shining as from a fairy-lamp at its centre. This was repeated times without number.
Behind them and in front were rounded fells, like a series of land-waves struck into immobility, forming the sides of the valley; and every fell differed from its neighbour. Here was one shaded in purple and brown; there another bright grassy-green; yet another dark from base to summit with masses of bracken; a fourth clad in patches of dull red, purple rather than crimson, from early heather-bloom; and a round-topped hill which had donned a veil of blue gauze. To the left, higher up, might be seen a solitary farmhouse; a rough pathway, deluged with stones, winding thither.
"They would give us milk at the farm," remarked Phyllys. But, with a smile, he produced sandwiches and a cup.
"I don't know any place like this," murmured Phyllys, after their simple luncheon. She was in a state of measureless content.
Giles said little, and she hardly looked at him; yet she knew that he felt with her. That was the one thing she had lacked and longed for; and it made all the difference.
"Nor I." He had been thinking how like her hair was to the burnished chestnut of the water. "One hardly expects such a spot in England. Few of us know our own country."
Phyllys lay back, resting her head on folded arms, and looking at the sky. It gave Giles a fuller view than he had yet gained of her eyes. He forgot fell and river in the contemplation.
"I wonder," she murmured, "whether other worlds are half as lovely as this. I wonder whether they have stuffy meetings in Jupiter and Mars—and horrid good people making speeches about the badness of other good people?"
"Jupiter is probably too warm."
She went into a chime of laughter.
"I forgot! I ought to have known." She sat up suddenly. "Tell me about your home."
"You would find it flat." He refrained still from letting her know how soon she would see for herself. "No fells. No mountain-torrents."
"And the house?"
"Respectably old. There was a castle—once. Only a wall of it remains."
"And Mrs. Keith and 'Colin' live there with you. He is not really your cousin, I suppose?"
Giles explained the connection. Thomas Randolph, his grandfather, had one son and one daughter, James and Annie. The son, James, married; and his wife died soon after the birth of their only child—"myself," interjected Giles—the widower dying a little later, thus leaving an infant possessor of the Castle Hill property. The daughter, Annie, married Geoffry Keith, and she too died early; after which her husband married again, his second wife being a Miss Cecil Reeves. They had one little boy, named Colin.
"So at best he can only be called my step-cousin. But when my mother was taken, Mrs. Keith had entire charge of me; and on the death of my father that arrangement became permanent. Colin and I have been brothers from babyhood."
"I understand now. It always puzzled me. And was he not ill for a long time? Somebody said he had an accident when he was a boy, and didn't get over it for years."
"Yes." A stern set came to Giles' face, darkening it as a landscape is darkened by a cloud passing over the sun.
Phyllys was perplexed.
"Barbara is as much your cousin as I am," she remarked, saying the first thing that came into her head. "I suppose you would have asked her first to visit Castle Hill!"—"Heaven forbid!" was on Giles' lips—"But she never goes anywhere, so I come next."
"I think you come first," he said drily, and she laughed.
"If only I had the least hope of going!"
"I don't think it will be long before we meet again." His manner said that he intended it should not be. "Till then, I hope you will remember that you offered me your friendship."
Her colour went up. "But that was silly. We were strangers. I spoke without thinking."
"It would disappoint me if you took your words back."
"It was too soon. I am always saying things in a hurry, and then wishing I had not." She twisted a grass-blade round her fingers. "Does one ever quite get over doing that?"
He ignored the question. "Don't you think we know one another well enough now?"
"Of course I've rather wanted a friend—sometimes," she admitted. "The only one I had went away. There are Mr. and Mrs. Hazel, but Barbara tries to keep me from them. And they are much older. But people ought to wait till they are sure."
"You do not feel sure yet?"
The steady purposefulness of his gaze held her spellbound. It was not that he saw deeply, but that he stirred deep feeling in her. For a moment he had a curious sense that he might do what he willed with Phyllys.
It did not last. She dropped her eyes, and the spell was broken. He did not really as yet will anything further. Their mutual knowledge each of the other was small; and he only felt that he wished to know her better. Besides, he was a man of punctilious honour, and she had been confided to his care.
So they reverted to surface topics, and no more was said about friendship. The word to Giles meant little. If he wanted anything, he wanted more; but it served as a stepping-stone to intimacy. To Phyllys it meant, for the moment, a good deal—more than would have been guessed from her next careless remark—"I was afraid this morning it was going to be a wet day. That would have been provoking."
"There was an early shower, I believe."
"Just the Pride o' the Morning."
He looked an inquiry.
"It's a saying about here. When a little early shower comes, not meaning a wet day, they say, 'Oh, it's just the Pride o' the Morning.' Mr. Hazel sometimes calls 'me' that!"—smiling.
The name sounded far from inappropriate, yet he was conscious of revolt, as he inquired, "Who is Mr. Hazel?"
"Our Vicar. Such a kind man. But I know why he calls me so. It was one day—"
"Yes."
"I don't very often give in, but things were worrying. And I had a silly little cry in the meadow. He came upon me, and he said it was just an early shower—'just the pride o' the morning.' He told me one must not expect to have everything always smooth, but he hoped mine was going to be a happy life. And since then when we meet, he often says, 'Well, little Pride of the Morning, how goes the world with you now?'"
"I should like to know your Vicar."
"Would you? Barbara doesn't like him. And Grannie—sometimes—says he's too fond of ceremonies."
"I am sure I should like him."
Not till well on in the afternoon did they once more stand at the garden gate of Burn Cottage, within which sat the handsome old lady, with a look of trouble on her face. She had been during the interim sedulously lectured by her elder grand-daughter for lapse of principle; and her own conscience was not happy.
After all these years keeping the undesirable nephew out of reach, and tabooing his acquaintance for Phyllys, it was a degree startling that she should have succumbed at the first touch. To Barbara, over whom Giles had exercised no attraction—perhaps could not if he would!—the change of front was inexplicable. She had no imagination, and she could not picture those memories of Phyllys' father, first stirred by Mr. Dugdale, then called into life by Giles. In her eyes the consent was simply an act of weakness and folly. She neither knew nor cared what her grandmother's motives might be. She disliked the idea of Phyllys going to Castle Hill, and she never dreamt of searching into her own sub-surface workings, to find the hidden jealousy.
Having been long used to submit to the joint dictum of Barbara and Miss Robins, Mrs. Wyverne could not meet their condemnation with indifference. She took herself seriously to task for allowing the walk and consenting to the visit.
Still, consent was consent. When, after Giles' departure, a fresh attack was made upon her by the combined forces of the two women, she refused to withdraw permission.
"I cannot alter now," she said. "The matter is settled and I have given my word. If I have yielded wrongfully, I trust I may be forgiven. And I hope that Phyllys, when away from home, will not be led into evil."
Phyllys kissed her grandmother, in token of right intentions. What could she say? The idea of being "led into evil" by Giles was absurd. Though she did not yet know him well, she had not a particle of doubt as to his goodness.
CHAPTER VII
A STERN CHASE
WITH concealed rapture Phyllys heard of the promised visit to Castle Hill; and nothing was further from her expectations than to set eyes again on Giles before going. She hardly even wished to do so. There was so much to do and to think about during the next three weeks.
With Giles things were otherwise. He found himself unable to rest without another glimpse.
He did not yet say to himself that Phyllys might be more than cousin. He only knew that he could not get her out of his thoughts; that no sooner was he away from Midfell than he wanted to get back.
For five days he held out, determined not to act upon impulse. Then a member of his host's family fell seriously ill; and visitors took themselves off. Giles had a shooting engagement in the Highlands a week later, and nothing between. He resolved to spend the time at Midfell, asking no man's leave. The grandmother and cousin might not be delighted, but that he would risk; and he posted a line to Mrs. Wyverne, stating his intentions, remarking on the pleasure it would be to see them again.
The letter brought dismay. Mrs. Wyverne said nothing to Phyllys, still looking on her younger grand-daughter as a child; but she consulted with Barbara. Both recognised that nothing could be done. Giles had as clear a right as any human being to put up at the village Inn, if he chose, and to study the country. Though Mrs. Wyverne might demur, and Barbara might frown, they could not interfere.
"But of course you will not have him in and out all day long, turning everything upside down," the latter said with disgust. "Phyllys will be completely upset. Better to get her out of the way this afternoon, so that you can have a few words alone with him. You will have to be firm!" The speaker set her teeth. "I will make an errand for Phyllys, and we will say nothing to her, or she may refuse to go. You see, he intends to call directly he arrives."
Mrs. Wyverne made no objection, and Phyllys, to her surprise, was asked to take a long walk to an outlying farm, where she loved to go, but was not often permitted. She had been only once without a companion, and the idea was charming. Barbara seldom suggested anything so much to her taste. To fetch a warm shawl, left there, was the ostensible motive. Phyllys laughingly remarked that she would have a good "forenoon drinking," the local colloquialism for a mid-morning lunch, and would get something to eat at the farm. Barbara objected, not wishing her to get back early. After "dinner" would be best, she said. The days were long, and Phyllys could do her morning tasks.
"All right," agreed the girl. "I shall have a rest, and come back by the moor. It will be fun, won't it, Wiggles?"
Wiggles wagged an appreciative tail.
Not till she had left the house did Barbara note an ominous thickness upon the surrounding fells. It occurred to her that she ought to have warned Phyllys to return by the road, but it was now too late; so she dismissed the question from her mind. After all, Phyllys was old enough to be sensible.
Early in the afternoon, as Barbara had predicted, Giles Randolph walked in.
He greeted his great-aunt kindly, his cousin politely; and his eyes went in search of some one else.
"Where is Phyllys?" came soon.
And Barbara thrust in a reply before Mrs. Wyverne could speak. "Gone on the moors," she said, purposely vague, under a suspicion that he would wish to follow.
She over-reached herself.
"The moors—to-day? With whom, may I ask?"
"Phyllis goes everywhere. She is used to it, and the dog is ample protection."
"You do not mean that she is alone!"
His concern annoyed Barbara.
"Of course, she will not go far. Phyllys knows what she is about. She merely meant to cross part of a hill on her way back."
"From where?"
He had to put the question a second time, and facts were dragged out with difficulty. "Thackers' Farm. Yes, I know the direction. I had better go after her. The moors will be foggy."
"A touch of mist." Barbara spoke in vexed accents.
"It will be more than a touch of mist in an hour or two."
His manner aroused Mrs. Wyverne to uneasiness. She was too old an inhabitant of Midfell not to understand what a fog on the fells meant. "I did not know it," she said; "or that Phyllys meant to cross the moor. Surely you told her not to do so, Barbara. Not—alone!"
"She ought to have sense enough to judge for herself." Barbara frowned and bit her lips.
"The child is so fearless," murmured Mrs. Wyverne.
"I will start at once, and I hope to reach the farm before she leaves it. You may trust me to look after her. If I do not meet her on the road, I shall overtake her on the moor. The fog perhaps is not much now, but it may thicken." As he reached the door, he turned. "You told Phyllys I was coming?"
The direct words claimed a direct answer. Mrs. Wyverne, forgetful in small matters, looked at Barbara, who had to admit that Phyllys did not know. A slight smile stirred Giles' lips. Phyllys had not of her own free will avoided him.
One or two inquiries in the village as to the route made all clear, and he was off at his best pace—a pace few men could rival. By road the distance was over five miles; and he made little of them, spurred by observation of the grey-capped fells. He knew enough of moorland to be aware that a fog, exceptional in density, covered the heights; and he was anxious, if possible, to intercept Phyllys at the farm. But on arrival, he found she had started fifteen minutes earlier; and since he had not met her, she must have gone the other way. The old farmer heard this with a shake of his head.
"Noa, I doan't knaw," he said. "I'm a negligent lad not to ha' ma-ade her go by t' ro-ad. Miss Phyllys ought to ha' knawed better."
"Miss Phyllys is not easily frightened," remarked Giles. "Will you tell me the way she has gone?"
He wasted no time, and was off again. A rough lane, besprinkled with stones, led to the edge of the moor; after which he had a grass track to guide him. It led upward, crossing a high spur, shortening the distance to Midfell by more than a mile.
No mistake here about the "mistiness." Every dozen yards the air grow thicker, as he widened his distance from the edge.
That Phyllys should not have retreated on finding the state of things perplexed him. Yet, had she done so, he must have met her. He wondered, was she one of those people who, once resolved on a course of action, stick to that course, whatever happens? He would not have credited her with obstinacy. He did credit her with unusual fearlessness.
The track, though faint, was distinct; visible by different shades of colouring in the turf, the impress of passing feet. It was clearer than many such tracks, being used a good deal in fine weather between Midfell and a village on the other side. Here and there it was broken by a rough outcrop of rock; but despite the fog, Giles had no difficulty in picking it up again. And Phyllis was accustomed to such walking. She might have thought it wiser to keep steadily on, rather than to retrace her steps.
No voice of man or beast, of bird or insect, interrupted the silence. No stir in the air moved the heavy white curtain which hung around, shutting him in a contracted circle which moved with him as he went. The great moor-billows stretched away, he knew, for miles; but he could not see them. Landscape and sky were blotted out.
And Phyllys was alone in this! He walked rapidly, expecting every minute to descry a slim figure ahead. Not far ahead, for beyond a few yards, he could make out nothing. Now and again a shadowy form heaved into view, raising his hopes; and each time it grew into a furze-bush, dank and wet.
Moro than once he stopped, noting what looked like a short-cut to the lower level over Midfell, though no track was apparent. Phyllys might have ventured on some such short-cut. Yet, no—acquainted as she was with the country, she would understand the risk of quitting her path. The farmer had assured him that there was but the one way. He thought less of faint side-tracks, branching at right angles towards upper heights. These plainly led from Midfell, and would not have tempted Phyllys.
Still no signs of her! He pressed on, in deepening uneasiness; and sooner than might have seemed possible, he reached the verge, where a steep descent led downward to the top of a hill behind the village.
Here, being nearer the moor-edge, the air was clearer, and he could see some way. But—no Phyllys!
She could not so far have distanced him. No girl, even with the start she had had, could have failed to be overtaken at the pace he had come. With sickening dread, he realised that she was still upon the moors, that she had left the track.
"Nonsense!" he said, pulling himself together. "Too soon to be sure. She may have come faster than I imagine. She 'may' have missed her way, and be waiting near."
He turned to retrace his steps. If indeed she had advanced so far as this, she would easily manage to get home. His business now was to be sure that she had not failed; and while he encouraged himself his heart sank anew.
To be lost on the moor in a dense fog! Too well he knew what that would imply. Fifty men, searching, might search in vain. A night alone on the moors for 'her!' The thought brought a stab of actual pain.
Walking more slowly, he called at intervals in his strong base voice, listening with the hope that she might respond.
No sound, no whisper, reached his ears. It was deadly still. As he went farther, the fog again grew dense, more dense than before, since the afternoon was advanced. The dank white curtain closed him in.
He made up his mind to return most of the way, shouting at intervals. Then he would again traverse the path to Midfell, and would see whether she had reached home. If not, a party of men including himself should scour the hills.
For this those who knew the country were necessary. To quit the track now, with nothing to guide him, would only mean losing himself also, being powerless to help her.
Yet if indeed she were here, alone on these desolate moors!—the very idea was unendurable.
He felt this keenly, as he paced the turf, raising his cry of "Phyllys! Are you there, Phyllys?"
How familiar, how dear the name seemed! He could hardly believe that ten days earlier she had been nothing to him or he to her. Was he anything to her now? Perhaps not—yet. She had been ready to like him, as cousin and friend. But Phyllys and he would not be "friends" only. They would be much more or much less.
On this deserted and fog-robed fell, he seemed to be growing intimate with her, as he might not in weeks of common acquaintance. He was shut out from all the world, except Phyllys; but she too was here. Though apart, they were together; both on the moor; she needing him; he bent on helping her. He did not now say that "perhaps" she was there. It had grown to be a certainty.
Were their spirits in touch, though bodily they were separate? He was by no means an imaginative or sentimental man. But, looking at the white wall, he saw her face—not smiling or mischievous; full of distress; imploring his aid.
He made a forward start, half distracted. She was on the moor. She "was" lost. And how was he to know where?
"Phyllys! Phyllys!" again he shouted, with the full strength of his lungs.
Something clammy touched his hand.
"Wiggles!" with an immense revulsion of joy. Where Wiggles was, Phyllys could not be far.
"Where is she, Wiggles? Phyllys, where are you?"
No human voice made reply. Wiggles whined, jumping on him, licking his hand, taking hold of his trouser.
"Where is she, Wiggles?" he asked, every nerve in him tense. There could no longer be any doubt. She would not have left Wiggles behind. That Wiggles should have left her seemed singular; but he might be a dog prone to wander. He might—this flashed up, as Wiggles again laid hold upon his trouser—have come for help.
"You must take me to her," he said, addressing the dog as he might have addressed a child. He drew a cord from his pocket, and passed it through the collar. "Now—lead!"
Wiggles seemed uncertain what to do. He sniffed the air, and whined afresh. Was it that he did not know Phyllys' whereabouts? Or was he stupid? Many affectionate little dogs are not brilliant in an emergency.
Giles put matters to the test. He set off at a resolute pace, as if for Midfell.
That settled it. Wiggles refused to go. He struggled, protested, howled, sat down. He might be dragged, but he would not walk. Giles ceased to pull, and Wiggles moved in a new direction, gaining confidence as he found Giles with him. He led away from the track, across the turf, and Giles followed, urging him on, trying to keep note of his bearings, though unsuccessfully. That troubled him little. If he could reach Phyllys, all else was of small importance.
"Phyllys—Phyllys!" he called again.
And out of the dead stillness rang an agonised cry. He knew the voice.
"I'm here! Where are you?"
"O come! O save me!" she screamed, her bell-like tones for once thin and shrill with horror.
He dashed headlong in the direction whence the sound travelled.
CHAPTER VIII
MR. DUGDALE'S OUTSPOKENNESS
THE model village of Castlemere had a fine aged church of grey stone, with solid square tower and the sweetest chime of bells in the county. A comfortable Rectory adjoined the churchyard; and picture cottages, inhabited by well-to-do tenants, clustered around. Giles Randolph was a liberal landlord.
Castle Hill House, half-a-mile distant, was united to the village by a private road, running through park and avenue; and nearly two miles from Castlemere, in the other direction, flourished a country town, Market Oakley by name.
At the better end of the town, its "west-end," so to speak, was the parish of S. John's, impinging in one direction on the extensive parish of Castlemere. Outside Market Oakley, in this direction, was Brook-End Grange, the home of Mr. Dugdale's daughter, Kathleen Alyn, a young widow, with one little boy.
She stood on the lawn, her gown flowing round her in a fashion peculiar to herself. Whatever she wore flowed, and did not hang or drag. The gown was perfect in make, for she never employed a second-rate dressmaker; and her fair hair was equally perfect in arrangement, for she always had a first-rate maid. Though she owned no good looks worth mentioning, few people observed her once only. There was repose in her bearing; and she was markedly graceful.
No hat sheltered her head. She would run out thus—though "run" is hardly the word for her gradual movements—into the charming, old-fashioned garden, at any moment, at any time of the year, even in winter with deep snow upon the ground. Now the stiff box hedges contrasted with abundant leafage; and the quaint borders were crammed with flowers.
She was intently observing; a queer little smile on her lips.
Some yards off was a small boy in knickerbockers, red-haired, snub-nosed, extremely pleased with himself. Beside him on the gravel path lay a birdtrap, and in front, on his own private bed or "garden," reposed the dead bodies of three birds, two sparrows and a chaffinch.
It seemed that a funeral function was in progress. He had dug five neat graves in a row, and had deposited two birds in two of them. As Mrs. Alyn watched, he took a third, consigned it to receptacle number three, shovelled in the earth, and chanted a short requiem—
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
What the little worms can't eat the big ones must."
A variety of feelings struggled on the mother's face, amusement among them. The boy, absorbed in his occupation, saw nothing. Bird number four was laid to rest, and again came the chant—
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
What the little worms—"
"Gordon," she said.
Gordon dropped his trowel, and turned.
"What is all this, sonny?"
"Gardener said the birds was just eating everything up."
"Where did you find so many dead ones?"
"I didn't. I caught 'em."
"Killed them! In the trap?"
Gordon's under-lip pouted.
"And the words you were singing—who told you them?"
"Nobody. It's a funeral."
She found it difficult to keep her face serious. Stooping to pick up Number Five, she said, "Poor little bird! And it might be still alive and happy, enjoying the sunshine. I wouldn't have believed that my boy could be cruel."
She upset the trap with her foot, and walked away, her skirt swaying in undulatory style. Gordon stared after her. The worst thing that could happen in his little life was to have his mother displeased.
He shovelled the earth into the untenanted fifth hole; then, with a careless six-foot air, he marched towards the house, where Mrs. Alyn stood in the porch, still handling the hapless bundle of feathers.
"Going out, mum?"
"No, sonnie."
"Won't you take me for a walk?"
"No, sonnie."
Gordon's under-lip quivered.
"I didn't mean to be cruel—course! I promise, I won't kill no more birds."
For Gordon to give in without a struggle meant much. She bent down, and he flung two arms round her neck, anxiously glancing to make sure of no witnesses.
But witnesses there were, and he pulled himself erect.
Mr. Dugdale and Mrs. Keith came up the path; the former, as usual, bland, neat, precise; the latter excited.
"How do you do, Kathleen? I am on my way to the station, to change my books, and I thought I would look in on you for a few minutes. I have left the carriage outside—your father was just coming in, so I got out to walk with him. I suppose you would not care to drive to the station. You don't subscribe to Smith's."
"Certainly I should like it." Kathleen always enjoyed what other people wanted; and part of her attractiveness was due to this fact. "Shall I get my hat?"
"Well, on second thoughts I hardly know if it is worth while. I shall have to go straight home. Has Colin told you about his absurd fad? I wish Giles would not encourage it."
"Modelling?"
"Messing about with wet clay. Such ridiculous nonsense! Four huge packing-cases have come from Italy, with casts that he bought there. He never said a word in writing. I can't conceive why he should be so secretive; and I can't imagine what put the notion into his head."
"Nature!" spoke Mr. Dugdale at her side. "It is inborn."
She turned with a nervous movement of her hands, as if repudiating something.
"I never had the smallest taste that way. Nor any of my family."
"That may be. A genius is often a family freak—not to be accounted for by ordinary rules of heredity. No doubt traceable, if one had the means of tracing it, to some distant ancestor. You ought to be thankful for Colin's gift—no matter how he came by it."
She asked "Why?" Her fine eyes going to his face, as if in search for some sub-meaning. She was handsomer than Kathleen Alyn; yet the greater charm rested with the younger woman. There was a lack of repose in Mrs. Keith; and she seemed to be perpetually on the watch for something to controvert.
"At the least it is a harmless occupation; and he needs something to do. Desk-work, of course, is out of the question."
"I don't see it, now he is stronger. Besides—" She stopped.
"He will never be strong enough for head-work. I don't mean strength in the muscular sense. His brain wouldn't stand the tension. You were going to say—besides—what?"
"There is no need that he should work."
"I don't agree with you. No self-respecting man will consent to be a burden on another."
"Colin is not a burden." Her eyes flashed resentfully. "It is Giles' delight to give him a home."
Kathleen made danger-signals from behind, but Mr. Dugdale failed to read them. Although himself a man prone to take offence, he was apt to say the wrong thing, thereby giving offence to others; and he never could imagine why offence should be taken.
"My dear lady, it may be Giles' delight to support half the neighbourhood; but half the neighbourhood has no right to be supported by him. Neither has Colin. The two are not related; and if they were, I should still say he ought to work for himself. Eh, Kathleen? Yes?"
Mrs. Keith drew up a haughty head.
"I suppose you consider me to be living on charity too," she said coldly.
"Certainly not; that is different," Mr. Dugdale interposed; but she went on, refusing to listen—
"I am extremely obliged! All those years that I lived for Giles do not count! Goodbye, Kathleen. It is later than I thought. I must go on."
Mrs. Alyn offered no protest. She signed to her father to remain where he was, slipped an affectionate arm within Mrs. Keith's, and walked down the carriage-drive. When she returned, a slight smile was on her lips.
"Now you 'have' put your foot in it, father!"
"Eh? Have I? My dear, I merely spoke the truth. I merely suggested what everybody is saying. Colin ought to do something. His choice is circumscribed; but really there is no reason why he should live a life of dependence. I'm glad he has the spirit to refuse it for himself."
"Colin has any amount of spirit. I only hope he will not bring on another breakdown. It would be a thousand pities."
"He will do well enough if he isn't fussed. I never can fathom Mrs. Keith," mused Mr. Dugdale, with knitted brows. "Whatever one expects her to do, she is certain to do the opposite. I should have thought, with her proud nature—Proud! Yes! A pikestaff isn't 'in' it beside her!—I should have thought she would be charmed at the most distant prospect of Colin making his own way in life. I'd have staked my credit on it! Yet all she wants, apparently, is to keep him in blissful idleness! Can't understand it, for my part. I imagined I knew something of women: but they are a riddle and a delusion to the end of the chapter."
"I hope you don't count me a delusion."
He looked oddly at her. "I had the training of you."
Kathleen could not help laughing.
"There's another puzzle. Why has Mrs. Keith set her mind on getting Phyllys to Castle Hill? You wish it, and I wish it. Her father and I were friends. Giles might wish it too. But Mrs. Keith has talked and worried, bothered and insisted! And why? She has no connection with the girl."
"Perhaps she thinks it will add to the liveliness of Castle Hill."
"If that were all, she could invite a dozen young women. Giles never says No to her—"
"He has gone against her in the modelling."
Mr. Dugdale waved a protesting hand.
"You are a woman too, my dear! Even you cannot let a man finish his sentence before springing an opposite view. I was about to say that Giles never says No to Mrs. Keith, unless saying Yes to her means No to Colin."
"Perhaps she has an idea that Phyllys might make a good wife for Colin."
"Absurd! She has never seen the girl."
"According to Giles 'the girl' is worth seeing."
"That is recent. Mrs. Keith set her mind years ago on getting hold of her. However, I give it up. Woman's ways are beyond me."
He spread forth deprecating hands; then made a new start. "'Lived for Giles!' Nonsense! She lived for herself and Colin. Took care of Giles by the way—and was well paid for it too! The allowance was absurd! It has been a paying concern for Mrs. Keith from first to last."
"At any rate she did her best for Giles."
"Mrs. Keith knows on which side of her bread lies the butter. I don't blame her. There are advantages in worldly wisdom—for its possessor. But when she talks in the high-falutin' style of all she has been and done, as if, forsooth, 'she' were the family benefactor and Giles her humble debtor—no, I can't stand that. Some day I shall speak out."
"Better not. Giles would not thank you. So long as things go smoothly, why stir up the mud?"
Mr. Dugdale struck his hands together.
"I have it! I vow, it never occurred to me before. Phyllys is the next in succession. If anything happened to Giles, she would sooner or later reign here. Unless Giles should have made provision for Mrs. Keith in his will—"
"Which of course he has done!"
"There is no 'of course' in connection with any man's will. The most unlikely arrangements are made; the most likely are left unmade. Mrs. Keith means to provide for contingencies. Gloriously far-sighted!" Then he turned to inspect a hairy caterpillar, reposing on the grubby palm of his little grandson.
Mrs. Keith, driving to the station, smoothed her ruffled plumage as best she might. Mr. Dugdale had a knack of ruffling her.
When Giles' mother died, and he was given over into the care of Mrs. Keith, then a young newly-made widow with one baby-boy, Mr. Randolph undertook to pay her, so long as she should have charge of his child, a yearly income of eight hundred pounds. On the death soon after of the father, the boy's guardian continued the payment; and Giles himself, since coming of age, although she could no longer be reckoned "in charge" of him, had made her the same allowance. These facts were known to Mr. Dugdale; and Mrs. Keith knew that he knew them. She did not really suspect him of having meant to say anything unkind. She had lost her temper, because his manner ruffled her.
Nobody, who observed this handsome well-dressed woman, seated in a luxurious landau, would have imagined her to be in any sense "living upon charity."
And she was not, in her own opinion. She had for years been a "mother" to Giles. She had given the best of her time, thought, and affection to both boys; to Giles not less than Colin. She had earned an income, now hers so long that she seemed to possess a right to it. Charity, indeed! But the word had been foolishly her own, not Mr. Dugdale's; and this she now recognised, regretting her unreasonable annoyance.
As regarded Colin, she knew that Mr. Dugdale had only "voiced" what everybody would think. A young man should certainly endeavour to make his own way in life. In the present case there were, it is true, peculiar circumstances which, if known to Mr. Dugdale, would tend to put a different complexion on the whole. But Mr. Dugdale did not know these circumstances—never would know them, she said to herself! It would have been more sensible if she had fallen in with his utterances. Of course she too wished Colin to do something, to find some pursuit, even though she knew that it was Giles' greatest pleasure to provide for him.
Some pursuit,—only, "not" modelling!—"not" sculpture! Anything, rather!
CHAPTER IX
A MOORLAND DEATH-TRAP
THOUGH Phyllys could hardly be called obstinate, she liked to carry out her intentions. On the way to Thacker's farm she saw a thickness clothing the fells, but it made no great impression on her mind. From morning to night she thought now of little but the promised visit to Castle Hill.
After tea and a chat with the farmer and his wife, she spoke of return.
"I should like to stay for hours," she said, "if it were only to see the cows 'provened.'" She loved to use local colloquialisms, and the old man chuckled, pleased with her pretty ways. "Oh, and I must go along the fother'em and take a look at the stalls. Have you any calves?—Any stirks? You see, I know all about it!"—merrily.
At length she was off; and rather by a mechanical movement, than of intent, she turned towards the moor, carrying over one shoulder the heavy shawl.
Not till on the lower slopes of the fell did she note how heavy was the grey pall that hid the heights. As yet she approached only its dragging fringes, but she had to ascend, and it was getting on for five o'clock. The fog would thicken as evening advanced.
But, as Giles had said, she was not easily frightened. She found the shawl heavy; and she would have to go all the way back to the farm before beginning the long round by the road. She had only to keep to the track. When she reached the other side, descending towards Midfell, she would soon leave fog behind.
"Shall we go on, Wiggles?" she asked. "It looks rather horrid up there. But turning back would be still more horrid. Shall we make a dash for it?"
Wiggles wagged his tail.
"Ready for anything, are you not, you old dear? I'll try!" And she murmured, touching in turn each coat-button, "Will go!—Won't go!—Will go!—Won't go!" Till the last was reached. "The 'will' has it. Come along."
Having decided, she pressed forward, and was surprised to find how much farther the way seemed in these conditions than in sunlight.
Still, she was on the path, and she was all right.
The fog at first was not so dense as when, later, Giles retraced his steps, but it was dense enough to be unpleasant; and more than once she regretted not having chosen the road. She met no human being, and heard no voice. Dim outlines of bushes dawned as she walked, and disappeared again. She advanced at a good pace; and presently, growing used to the gloom, she fell into a muse upon the coming joys of Castle Hill.
Giles would be there; and to know more of Giles would be charming. She liked him. He was just the sort of friend she wanted; caring for the things she cared for; ready to hear, prompt to understand. Then there would be Mrs. Keith and Colin. She might not like the latter so much as Giles; still the fact that Giles thought much of Colin proved that there was good in him. About Mrs. Keith she was doubtful. Giles had been reserved; but she had detected a something in his manner which suggested lack of admiration.
However, since Mrs. Keith had wanted Phyllys to go to Castle Hill, she would be grateful.
It would be such an escape! She would be in a new world, free to see with her own eyes, to hear with her own ears, to form her own ideas, to observe, to learn, to feel, without home trammels. She would be no longer in a stiff groove, where everybody was expected to think the same as everybody else, under penalty of condemnation.
How dense the fog was! Absorbed in anticipations, she had not noted surroundings, but had followed the track in a mechanical fashion. Now she realised that it was time to have reached the brow of the fell.
Wiggles drew her attention. He was close to heel, not running about as was his wont. When she looked, he sat down, as if unwilling to go farther.
"Why, Wiggles, are you tired?"
She went on, and he followed, then again sat down, with a whine.
Phyllys knew that in keeping to the track she was all right, fog or no fog. She had but to go on. But a doubt assailed her. This "was" the track, of course—this shadowy line. She bent to look more closely, and stood up, grave in face.
Not the right path. It was a mere sheep-track, probably leading to the top of the fell. In sheer absence of mind she had quitted the path to Midfell—perhaps at one of the rocky breaks—and had turned along this instead.
Vexed at her carelessness, she hurriedly retraced her steps, following the feeble little line. Soon she was brought to a standstill; for it died out, and she searched in vain for a continuation. The ground here was stony, and doubtless a continuation did exist; but she could not find it.
Phyllys kept her head. She stood still, striving to grasp her situation.
No easy matter this, to the most experienced man, in such a fog, with all landmarks blotted out. She did not understand fully the risks involved. Had she felt more afraid, she might have allowed Wiggles to act as her guide; but she was naturally confident, and the idea did not so much as occur to her. Wiggles, satisfied that she no longer aimed for the summit, awaited her pleasure.
"All right," she said aloud, having made up her mind whereabouts she stood. She pictured the way that she had—must have—come. She placed the hills mentally, localised Midfell, and decided on her direction. Then she started briskly, and Wiggles followed—reluctantly still, as if not happy.
No sign of the vanished track appeared, but she went on in good spirits, convinced that she was nearing the ridge behind Midfell, expecting each minute to find the path. According to her reasoning, this was a certainty. If the top of the fell lay "there," and the village of Midfell "there," then the track along the hillside "must" cut across somewhere in front.
She failed to gauge the momentous character of that word "if."
That she should have lost all count of the true positions of hill-top and of village; that north and south, east and west, should be as one to her consciousness; that in the fog she should not know whether she was going uphill or downhill; that when she supposed herself to be following a straight line, she was describing a semi-circle which brought her indeed within half-a-mile of the lost track, but to a part of the fell which beyond every other ought to have been avoided—all this was miles from her imagination.
It did occur as curious that the fog should thicken instead of lessening as she—according to her belief—neared the moor-edge. But the advance of evening might account for so much. The track must now be close, and she hurried on, shivering with the clammy atmosphere. The heavy shawl still hung over her left shoulder; and lifting its front folds she flung them over her right shoulder, for warmth.
She was growing anxious, and because she would not give in to the feeling, she hurried on more recklessly, not noting how Wiggles hung back.
Ah, here was boggy ground. "I must keep clear of that," she thought, being used to such patches on the moors. Many a time she had crossed them, springing from root to root of heather, deftly avoiding insecure parts.
A yelp made her glance round. Nose in air, with cocked ear, Wiggles had made out something which failed to reach her duller senses. Then he was off, regardless of her recall. Perhaps he knew that disobedience had become a duty.
Phyllys hesitated, but she could not follow, for he was out of sight, swallowed up in the white curtain. She supposed that he had caught sight of some small creature, and had started in chase. He would be back directly, and would find her.
She scanned her limited circle of visibility. In front and to the right lay an expanse of green—bright green, so far as anything could be bright in such an atmosphere. It was mottled with red and yellow, variegated moss-hues; and dotted with clumps of rushes. Here and there grew the white-tufted cotton-grass; and wiry bog-grass of an olive-green with red tintings might be seen in abundance. Despite the dulness, these colours, which in sunshine would have been ominously brilliant, suggested a need for caution.
She could not see far. She did not suspect that this was no mere patch of boggy soil—that a wide reach of treacherous slime, with only a thin coating of moss and grass, a death-trap for the unwary, lay around. On a clear day she would have read tokens of peril in the very brightness of colouring, which alike concealed and revealed the deadly danger. But though she had been in sunshine to this place, and had been warned of the trap which that fair surface offered, she never dreamt that she was now on its verge.
It was just a bit of "saft" ground, as they call it in Scotland, and she was not troubled. She went on again, more swiftly than before, eager to cross it, then to wait for Wiggles. One moment later she would have heard Giles' voice shouting—but—
A false step; and she plunged in, over both ankles. It took her by surprise. The effort to save herself might have proved successful, had she been going cautiously. But the impetus of her run made it impossible to stop; and as she tried to leap to what looked like a firm spot, she caught her foot in a tangle of rushes.
She fell far forward, spread-eagle fashion, sliding on with the struggle to save herself, down into the horrible slimy bog, which yielded beneath her.
Phyllys was a girl of high courage, but in that moment of terrible helplessness and sinking, the soft, sucking, sticky grip upon her limbs and the sense of nothing to cling to, nothing to hold by, nothing to pull against, brought a sickening agony of terror.
CHAPTER X
DIREFUL REALISATIONS
SHE knew what it meant. Thought at such a time is rapid; and as she went down, as she felt the black slime rising around her, she knew she was in a quaking bog, that bog upon the fell against which she had been often warned; that bog which, had she been questioned one minute sooner, she would have averred to be at least half-a-mile away, in the most unfrequented part of the moor.
And she was in it—lying face downward upon its treacherous surface; the bright deceptive moss giving way like paper under her weight, the dark half-liquid peat covering her limbs.
Had this been winter, had the accident happened after any spell of heavy rain, no hope for Phyllys could have existed. At such seasons the whole swamp was a lake of foul watery mud, in which she would have instantly sunk, and from the first plunge nothing more would have been seen or heard of the hapless girl. Strong men, lost on the moors after dark, had so met their end; and as she fell, she remembered the last—a traveller who had inadvertently leaped upon the smooth surface, and had disappeared from sight.
But the weather lately had been dry, and the peat-mud was in a semi-liquid, tenacious condition, capable of bearing up a prone body for at least several minutes.
One other pressing peril was met. Falling thus, she might have met with immediate suffocation, but that her heavy shawl, thrown from the front over both shoulders, dropped upon the bog outspread below her face, guarding nose and mouth from the smothering grip of the mud.
At the first moment, as she realised what had occurred, she fought wildly, desperately, to escape. But she had gone too far, sliding beyond reach of firm ground, and she had nothing to hold by. She was powerless to drag her feet from the gripping black stuff. She had nothing to grasp, nothing which would give her a purchase, and each effort sent her deeper. It seemed that she was being slowly dragged under.
She tried to shriek for help, but voice was gone. Breath and strength failed with horror. Again she strove to raise herself, and again she sank lower. Her only hope lay in keeping still.
The position in which she lay was the best she could have chosen—her weight distributed, the shawl under her face. But she could not long remain thus. In a little while the black mud would rise up and overpower her.
Afraid to stir, prone and helpless, every nerve was alive, every faculty wide awake. Thoughts flashed like lightning one upon another; past, present, future intermingled. She strove to be calm, to pray for help. She knew that death meant life beyond, and she was conscious of a definite clinging to the One Great Name, which alone has power in man's last extremity. She tried to think of re-union with the father and mother whom she loved. But she was so young, and life in this world held much of promise, and she wanted to learn more, to do more, to understand more, before the final passage. She shrank from such a passage as this. Suffocation, alone in a horrible bog, mantled over by the white fog-pall, was ghastly.
"O God, save me!—Save!" she panted.
A shout reached her ears. Somebody was coming. She tried to call, and it seemed that her voice went no distance. If she could keep up till help came!—but the slime was creeping higher. She saw it, felt it. It was making its way round the borders of her shawl. She watched with fascinated eyes. Soon the shawl would be sucked under; then the mud would reach her lips; then—nobody would know what had become of her.
Would Giles be sorry? She thought so, and she sobbed a little. The man whose voice she had heard must have gone by; it seemed hours since the sound reached her. Had she been told that not five minutes had passed since her fall, she would have counted the words wild.
Another shout roused her from despair. She called, "O come! O save me!" And the mud began to pour in a slow stream over the shawl.
Led by Wiggles, Giles had aimed for the swamp, and suddenly Phyllys knew his voice. Her courage revived, for if anybody could save her, he could. She felt no surprise at his appearance.
"Where are you?" he called.
"In the bog. Take care; don't get in too!"
He had to approach with caution; but he made her out, lying nearly submerged, head and shoulders alone visible above the dark surface.
Had he not been compelled to give his whole mind to the problem of rescue, the horror of her condition would have overwhelmed him. He realised how awfully critical it was, how great the need for action. But he also realised that to rush recklessly in would only seal her fate.
"Keep still; don't move," he urged. "I'll have you out. Don't be afraid."
He measured the space at a glance, and tested the boggy earth with his stick, to find a spot which would bear his weight. Whatever he felt, he was composed, and she now made no sound, but lay motionless on her loathsome bed. The white brave face—so much as he could see of it, which was little—went to his heart.
Three steps, taken in a direct line, would have carried him within reach; but those steps were impossible. A few feet farther he found a tongue of firm ground jutting into the bog, and this brought him nearer to where she lay. Not yet within touch—a single long step would do the business, but he sought in vain for standing ground.
She was sinking—visibly—and his dread was that she might go under. Few though the moments were since his arrival, he saw a change.
The mud here was drier, less soft than farther out. He pulled off his coat, spread it upon the boggy surface, and went down full length, creeping gingerly towards her.
"Don't struggle; keep still and trust yourself to me," he said.
Never in after-life would Phyllys forget what the first grip of his hand meant after the past interminable horror. She obeyed him, and did not struggle—at what a cost of will she alone knew. For still the slime was around, and during one terrible moment it seemed that Giles was sinking, that her last hope was gone.
But slowly he drew her towards himself; then worked his way to firmer turf, where his feet rested; and as he went, he pulled her with him.
He was on it at last, kneeling deep sunk in "saft" earth, but not drawn under. Another moment, and he had regained his feet; another, and they were on solid ground.
"Come this way—farther," he said.
He stood still, breathing hard, and Phyllys said nothing. She could not speak at first, the awfulness of what she had escaped rendering her dumb. She was a mass of black mud, except the head; and Giles was clothed in the same.