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.