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.
"Thank God I was in time!" he faltered, and the break in his voice made
her look up.
"I can't thank you—" she tried to say, and because a lump in her throat
choked her, she laughed. "What a state we are both in!"
The laugh grated on her own hearing, but not on his, for he read in the
strain of its unnatural tone a fresh effort of her undaunted courage.
She stood gazing towards where she had fallen. "If you had not come
just when you did, I should have been—"
"Don't!" he entreated.
She gave him a wistful glance. "Isn't it strange? Just one step wrong,
and everything nearly at an end. No going to Castle Hill!"
He knew this was not lightness. Her limbs shook, and she was ashen.
"Come," he said, and he led her farther. "The question is how we are to
get to Midfell."
"I know about where we are. There's a path near—if we could find it. It
leads straight to the village,—and to a farm half way, where we might
stop."
"A good plan. Wiggles will lead us; he brought me to you."
"Did he?" in surprise. "I shouldn't have thought he could." A cold
nose was thrust into her hand, and she surprised herself by bursting
into tears. "Dear old Wiggles," she sobbed, and then—"I'm sorry to be
stupid."
"It's all right; don't mind. Try not to think about things yet."
He slipped the string once more through Wiggles' collar, and looked at
her with solicitude. "You are sure you can walk?"
"Of course I can!" indignantly. "Please don't tell Barbara I cried.
It's only—if you knew what it was—"
"I know. Not many girls would have shown such pluck," and the
admiration in his voice brought a smile to her lips. "You were
splendidly brave. Of course you are shaken now. Suppose you try to make
Wiggles understand that we want to go home."
This acted as a diversion, and she was soon her usual self, though
pale. Giles explained how it was that he had come to Midfell; and
Wiggles proved a reliable guide, so that in no long time they reached
the farm, where they were glad to get rid of encasing mud. A man was
despatched to bring clean clothing for both, and later they reached
Burn Cottage, where extreme anxiety had reigned.
The old lady listened in agitated thankfulness to the tale of her
grandchild's narrow escape; and her gratitude to Giles knew no bounds.
She held his hand in her soft withered palms, tears in her eyes, words
trembling on her lips. She folded her restored darling in a close
embrace—no common action for one so undemonstrative—and prayed and
wept over her. Phyllys shed tears also, and realised how dear the old
grandmother was, despite certain misunderstandings.
What Barbara felt at this outcome of her scheming did not so fully
appear. A word of blame with regard to Phyllys' "stupidity" in not
keeping clear of the bog received settlement at the hand of Giles.
"Phyllys ought not to have been allowed to go at all," he said; and
Barbara understood. She fumed, but was silent.
This event put the presence of Giles in Midfell on a new footing.
The cousin to whom Mrs. Wyverne owed Phyllys' life could not be held
at arms' length. Let his opinions be what they might, he had earned
a right to come in and out. For once, Barbara and Miss Robins were
powerless to touch the old lady's determination. Her thankful joy was
too deep not to find expression.
During his week at the Inn, he made the best of his opportunity. He and
Phyllys strolled about the fields together, had long walks together,
talked together endlessly,—though in such talks hers was the lion's
share, and he acted the part of charmed listener. He was not a man of
many words.
These days of intercourse settled the question for him. Before the week
ended, he loved Phyllys, loved her with his whole being. She was not,
perhaps, his first fancy, but she was his first true love. She might be
his last.
He had no thought, however, of showing in haste what he felt. His
attentions were simple and cousin-like in kind; and no one guessed the
truth. He knew that he had to win Phyllys, and that the winning might
not prove easy.
She was friendly, even affectionate, and delighted with his
companionship. He could see that she never forgot what she owed to him;
but he had no wish that she should marry out of gratitude; and he would
not take her at a disadvantage.
With all her frankness, Phyllys was not easy to read. The very
readiness with which she had taken to him, and the easy gladness with
which day after day she met him, were, he knew, not hopeful symptoms.
Had she been more shy, less responsive, he might have felt more
sanguine. Hopeful he did feel, but hardly of immediate results; and his
chief fear was lest he should be drawn into a too hasty betrayal of his
love.
That she liked him as a cousin he saw. Whether she would like him
equally as a lover was another question. He had to proceed cautiously.