A NIGHT ON THE DOWNS
The two girls stood and looked at each other in dismayed silence.
Kitty thought rapidly.
"If she _has_ come this way, it must have been in the last half-hour.
I remember seeing her leave the tea-table when the other girls did,
and thought she was with them when they went to get their bikes. I
wasn't more than twenty minutes mending that puncture, so that we
weren't more than half-an-hour behind when we left. And we've most
likely reduced that, for we've covered the ground quicker than she
could, I bet."
"Then, if she has not passed here," Duane demanded, "where is she?"
"There's only one turning she could possibly have mistaken for the
Frattenton road. You remember the one where that cottage was."
She turned to one of the men.
"Where does the road to the right, a little way back, go to?"
"That!" replied the man. "That don't lead to nowhere, miss. That be
only a road fur th' farm carts. It ends in a sheep track across th'
downs."
"And how far on is Frattenton?" inquired Duane.
"Barely two miles, miss."
"Well, if she has passed here she's there by now all right," remarked
Kitty. "Only, supposing she's taken the wrong road and is wandering
over the downs now? I know what downs are."
"We'd better make inquiries at the cottage," said Duane briefly.
So they hurriedly pedalled back to the little thatched cottage, and
after some trouble succeeded in routing out an old woman with a
sweet, quavering voice and some difficulty in hearing distinctly.
However, when they had explained their errand, she was most eager and
voluble in giving them information.
Why yes, to be sure, a little lady on a bicycle had come to the door,
maybe half an hour back, and asked if she were on the right road to
Frattenton. The kindly old soul had invited her in to rest a minute
by the fire and have a glass of milk, "for she had looked so
tired-like, and 'twas a long pull along the Frattenton road." The
offer had evidently been too much for Erica to resist, for she had
left her bicycle outside and gone in.
"And how long has she been gone?" interrupted Duane quickly.
"A matter o' ten minutes or perhaps a quarter of an hour, I should
say, miss," quavered the old lady.
"And did you see which road she took?"
"Why no, miss. I didn't go down to th' gate wi' she. You see, my
rheumatics is that bad----"
But Kitty and Duane, with a hurried thanks, were already outside the
door and running down to their bikes.
"Just missed her at the turn here, then," said Duane. "Jove, but
it's getting thick!"
"Better light up," said Kitty quietly, and they lit their lamps with
fingers that trembled with impatience.
"What luck for us those road-menders were there," said Kitty as they
pedalled forward. "Or else we should have been nearly in Frattenton
by now. Bother it, it's uphill again!"
"And getting jolly rough too," added Duane, as she bumped violently
over a big stone.
The road was certainly getting rough. Presently great ruts appeared
in it and the two cyclists had to go very warily. To add to their
difficulties a thick, chill mist was settling over the downs in
addition to the falling darkness. Soon it would be impossible to see
many yards ahead, even with their lamps.
"One thing," observed Kitty, "if our progress is slow, so is Erica's.
She can't be very far ahead. In fact, I wonder she hasn't turned
back by now, realizing that this can't be the main road."
"I wonder if she has any lamps," said Duane uneasily.
The next minute her front wheel ran into a rut; the bicycle skidded
sharply and threw her off.
Kitty dismounted. "Hurt?" she inquired.
"Oh no," replied Duane with a laugh. "Came off on my feet all right.
But I guess we'd better walk, and wheel our bikes. It'll be just as
quick in this awful mist and darkness."
The two girls pressed forward with dogged courage. They were neither
of them timid or nervous, each had confidence in the other, and no
doubt, but for the anxiety of Erica's safety, would have enjoyed it
as a "real adventure."
"Hallo! What's this?" Kitty came to an abrupt halt.
"Erica's bike. She's left it by the roadside and gone forward on
foot. There's her front lamp on it, unlit--but perhaps she had no
matches," a surmise they afterwards found out to be fact.
"We'd better leave ours here too. They're more nuisance than use now
we can't ride them. We can take the front lamps with us."
So they propped their bicycles by the side of the road, which was now
little more than a track. The dense mist had settled down thicker
than ever, so that they could hardly make out the ground at their
feet, and the lamps only seemed to light up and reveal a few yards of
greyish vapour. It all felt very weird and mysterious.
To go on now had become a matter of real danger. But Erica was
somewhere ahead, in the darkness, alone, and to go back was
impossible.
The two girls shouted and halloed at the top of their voices, but the
mist only returned the echoes of their own cries.
"Coming on?" asked Duane curtly.
"Of course," returned Kitty as briefly.
"We must keep to the track though. Won't do to get lost ourselves."
They stumbled forward again, neither of them daring to voice their
secret fear that Erica, frightened and lonely and without a light,
had wandered off the track when the mist and the darkness had
descended so quickly, and was lost on the downs. Such a possibility
made them both shiver. They stopped at brief intervals and shouted,
Kitty raising piercing calls of "Coo-ee!" and then listening
intently, but with no result.
It would be hard to say how far they had gone--their only guide was
the track, which they dared not leave and which they followed mainly
by the feel of it beneath their feet--when at last Kitty's sharp ears
caught a faint, answering call. They advanced, shouting again, and
again came the faint answer from the darkness.
Kitty halted. "It's from our left somewhere, not ahead. Come on."
They turned to their left and by the light of their lamps advanced
cautiously over the down turf, guided by the voice. Before long, a
dark mass loomed up with startling suddenness in the pale rays of
their lamps. It was a shepherd's hut, and inside, crouched in a
forlorn heap upon the hard, bare floor, they found the runaway.
[Illustration: "Crouched in a forlorn heap upon the floor, they found
the runaway."]
"Oh, I'm so glad you've come. I'm so c-cold and t-tired."
"However did you find this place?" asked Kitty, peering around.
"You see, the road got so rough," Erica replied in a tired voice. "I
left my bike and walked, and then I knew I must have taken the wrong
road; but I was so tired, I didn't want to go all the way back. I
thought perhaps it would lead to some houses or a village if I kept
on. But it got so dark and I was frightened. I couldn't see my way
and then I was wandering about and I ran right into this hut. Oh, I
wish I was home. I heard you calling at last, but there's a big
blister on my heel, and I--I c-can't walk any more."
The child was worn out and exhausted; moreover, she was shaking with
cold. Duane slipped off her heavy coat with its big fur collar and
cuffs. "Just put this on a minute," she said, "and it'll warm you,
for I was simply boiling after the rate we've pounded along to catch
you up."
She glanced at Kitty, who was investigating their little shelter by
the light of a lamp. The place had evidently been quite recently
inhabited, for it was in excellent repair and as dry as a bone. On
the other hand, it was quite bare, consisting of absolutely nothing
but walls, roof and door. True, there was a fireplace, but as Kitty
remarked, it was no good without any fuel, and of fuel, wet or dry,
there was not a stick to be had anywhere, and they had no implements
with which they could break away any of the boarding of the hut.
"If we could only get a fire," sighed Kitty wistfully, "we'd stay
here the night. It would be quite jolly. But we should simply
freeze otherwise. I'm sure it'll freeze if it gets much colder."
Duane went to the door and peered out. The mist was covering
everything with icy drops of water, and it was densely black
everywhere. She drew back with a shiver.
"I say, Kitty, do you think we should find the track again? Then, of
course, we could get back to the Frattenton road. We could carry the
kid between us."
"The point is," replied Kitty, somewhat grimly, "that if we risked
the chance of finding the track and failed, ten chances to one if we
should be able to find the hut again. In that case we should be
wandering about the downs in this icy mist, and Erica, for one, isn't
in a fit condition to do much wandering. On the other hand, if we
stay here for the night,"--she looked at Duane with a faint
smile--"I've no doubt we shall need all our courage if we are going
to stick it."
"Oh, your courage is all right," said Duane carelessly.
"And--I sort of--believe you've got plenty too," muttered Kitty under
her breath. Then aloud, "Well, let's have a little rest and make up
our minds what to do."
It was the discovery of the straw that settled the matter--a big
truss of it in the corner, dry as a bone, and clean and fragrant.
They did not waste time considering the reason for its being there,
but decided to settle down in the hut, now that they had something
that might keep the warmth in their bodies. They spread it on the
floor and curled up on it, wishing that there was twice the quantity
so that they might burrow right in. They were all wearing their big
coats, and Kitty and Duane were quite warm from their hard cycling
and walking; but Erica was shivering with cold. So Kitty and Duane
set to work vigorously to rub her arms and legs until the blood began
to circulate again.
They huddled up together on the straw, with Erica in the middle. It
was to Duane, Kitty noted with some surprise, that the child turned
for comfort and protection, and the bigger girl seemed to respond
with a queer, sympathizing tenderness that Kitty had never dreamed
her capable of.
"I thought you two were ancient and bitter enemies," she said with a
laugh.
"I thought I hated Duane once," responded the child with quaint
gravity. "But I don't now. It was very silly of me. Duane is a
dear," with an affectionate, almost passionate hug.
"Duane is an ass," said that person herself, "and Kitty is one too,
to let two lamps go on burning when one would do."
"You made a rhyme," murmured Erica sleepily.
"Oh, there's nothing I can't do if I like to try," said Duane
modestly. "You know, I didn't say what kind of an ass I was, did I?"
"No. What kind are you?"
"A geni-ass."
"Oh! You are silly!" A gleam of fun struggled with the sadness in
the child's face. "And I'm a horrid little pig, that's what I am."
"What rubbish!" said Duane hastily. "I say, Kitty, you haven't gone
to sleep, have you? Do you know it's not much past seven o'clock?"
"Is that all? How awful! No, I don't feel a bit sleepy." She tried
to imitate Duane's gay, careless flippancy. "What shall us do?"
"Well, something fairly primitive. Not even as elaborate as 'noughts
and crosses,' seeing we've neither pencil nor paper."
"Nor much light to see with," added Kitty. "We shall have to pretend
we're Indians in a wigwam."
"Or Eskimos in a snow hut. I hope you're warm enough, little Eskimo?"
"Oh, yes, I'm lovely and warm now," replied Erica.
"We are disciples of the Simple Life," continued Duane. "What could
be a simpler way of living than this? Erica, think how years hence
you'll tell your grandchildren and your great-grandchildren how you
were lost on the downs and spent the night in a wooden hut with the
howling of savage wolves outside, thirsting for your blood."
"But that would be an awful whopper," objected Erica. "There aren't
any wolves left in England."
"Aren't there? What a pity! However, to come back to our original
question. What shall we do to pass away the time?"
"You and Kitty can tell stories," suggested Erica brilliantly.
"Good gracious! But I don't know any," protested Kitty in alarm.
"Can't you tell one out of your head?"
"But how can I, when there aren't any in there?"
"Well, Duane will, then."
"Very well," said Duane resignedly. "What sort of a story do you
want?"
"I don't mind."
"It'll have to be a nonsensical one then. I couldn't tell a sensible
one in a senseless place like this. No genius could. Let me see,"
thoughtfully, "did I tell you the story of my uncle?"
"No."
"I'm afraid it's rather sad, but never mind. It was something most
extraordinary that happened to my Uncle Bill--or was it my Uncle
John? Never mind, it was one of them. It must have been, because
they're the only two uncles I've got. Well, he was standing one day
in front of his fire, when a dreadful thing occurred. His backbone
melted."
"What!" gasped Erica.
"His backbone melted. Of course, that made him very ill, but
fortunately the doctors knew what to do. They packed him round in
ice and it froze again, and now he's walking about just the same as
ever."
"I don't believe it," cried Erica scornfully. "It couldn't happen."
"I don't know about that. I'm telling you just what he told me."
"Then your uncle was only telling you stories."
"I think that depends on which uncle it was. You see, Uncle John is
a very truthful man. But my Uncle Bill probably doesn't always tell
the truth."
"Then it was your Uncle Bill who told you about it," said Erica
conclusively.
Kitty had been struggling to repress her mirth. At last she said:
"Can't you tell us something a bit less gruesome than that?"
"Oh yes," cried Erica, "a happy-ever-after one."
"In that case it'll have to be a fairy story," decided Duane. "Very
well then."
She began her story while the other two listened, the light of the
bicycle lamp flickering on the little group, picking out in
particular the clear-cut, aristocratic profile of the narrator.
Kitty lay looking at it dreamily and finding a curious pleasure in
doing so, never realizing until now what a fascinating face it could
be to watch, not exactly for any particular beauty of feature, nor
even for the vividness of the light grey eyes in their dark setting,
but for something elusive in its rather sleepy expression.
"Once upon a time," she began, "there was a king over a far Eastern
land, and this king had three tall, brave sons. The two eldest were
said to be the handsomest men in the whole kingdom, but though the
youngest was just as big and strong, and his hair was just as golden
and his eyes as blue, he had a thorn in the flesh----"
"Like St. Paul," interrupted Erica eagerly.
"Yes. Only we don't know what St. Paul's was, but we do know the
prince's----"
"Then what was it?" put in Kitty.
"Don't interrupt or you'll mix me up," said the narrator severely.
"Let me see, where was I?"
"At the beginning, I should say," said Kitty.
"One day there came a herald from the neighbouring kingdom. Everyone
knew he came from the neighbouring kingdom because he wore his
master's coat-of-arms----"
"What was the coat-of-arms like?"
"Oh--er--two lions couchant and one pard rampant upon a field of
azure. He stood on the steps of the king's palace, blew his
thingummyjig--I mean his trumpet, and shouted, 'Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!
To all busybodies whom it may concern. Anyone bringing back the
stolen princess to her sorrowing father, King Baldhead, will be given
her hand in marriage and half her father's kingdom.' At that, there
was great commotion everywhere. The three princes sent for the
herald and asked him how the princess had been stolen. He told them
that she had been carried off in the wink of an eye by a dreadful
witch disguised as a whirlwind. The princess's father had consulted
her fairy godmother and she said that he who wished to rescue the
princess must follow his nose until he found her.
"'That is an easy matter,' quoth the eldest prince. 'I will set out
at once,' and he called for his finest horse and his ten
body-servants and rode out in state, giving orders that no one else
was to set forth on the quest. Because he was so handsome he was
vain, and because he was vain he was selfish.
"A year passed away and he did not return. Then the second prince
set out in the same manner, for he also was vain and selfish, and at
the end of a year he had not returned either.
"Then the youngest prince, who was neither vain nor selfish, told his
father that he too would try his luck. He, however, set out alone
and on foot, for he said he thought he could follow his nose better
thus. And when he had walked and walked without stopping for three
days, the earth suddenly opened in front of him and out stepped the
princess. She smiled radiantly upon him, and said, 'Dear prince, you
have broken the witch's spell and set me free,' and they went back to
her father hand in hand."
"And what about the other two princes? What had happened to them?"
"Oh, they were never heard of for seven years, and then the eldest
one came riding along. He had followed his nose right round the
world until he got back to the place from where he started. And
exactly a year later, the other one turned up."
"But I don't see," objected Erica in a drowsy voice, and opening one
sleepy eye, "why the youngest prince found her and they didn't."
"Oh well, you see, that's just where the point of the 'thorn' comes
in. The two oldest princes had Grecian noses, but the youngest
prince had a crooked one. Consequently he'd been going round and
round in a circle, and when he'd gone round twelve times that broke
the spell, you know, and the earth opened. Don't you remember the
fairy rings?"
"But how could the princess marry a prince with a crooked nose?"
murmured Erica, with a last effort.
"Oh, I've no doubt the fairy godmother could put that straight. I
don't see the use of having a fairy godmother if she couldn't do
little jobs like that," replied Duane. Erica, however, had not
heard. She was fast asleep. "Supposing one of them had had a
retroussé nose," remarked Kitty meditatively. "What would have
happened then?"
"He'd have made a journey to heaven, doubtless," retorted the
story-teller.
There was silence for a little while, save for Erica's steady
breathing. Then Kitty said softly, so as not to disturb her:
"How do you do it?"
"Do what?"
"Talk--like that."
"Talk rubbish, do you mean?"
"If you like to put it that way. Just as if you hadn't a serious
thought or a care in the world--as if our situation
wasn't--well--decidedly an uncomfortable one?"
"Oh, I don't know. Because I'm a geni-ass, I suppose."
"Shall I tell you what I think? You just do it to keep everybody's
spirits up and be cheerful."
"You mean, to make out to people I'm not afraid or I don't care?
Yes, perhaps I do," replied Duane, with a note of thoughtfulness in
her voice.
"But I don't mean that a bit. You do it just because you aren't
afraid."
"Oh, am I not? I feel in an awful funk at times, but I should feel
frightfully humiliated if I let anyone see or guess it."
There was another pause. Duane was evidently in a thoughtful and
unusually serious mood, for she went on:
"I've an unfortunate manner, I believe, but I've been brought up to
think it correct and couldn't get rid of it now if I wanted to try.
I always ambled along here happily and serenely enough till all the
Carslake Sixth-formers took it into their heads to leave and Prinny
sent for me and informed me that she intended giving me the honour of
the head prefectship. I funked it horribly, but Prinny was a dear
and I had to take it on. Honestly, I meant to do my best, though I
felt rather crushed. Do you remember that frightfully serious jaw
Prinny gave us, the beginning of last term? But I'm terribly lazy, I
know, and as I said, I've an unfortunate manner and I'm afraid I made
a hopeless mess of things."
Duane gave her explanations with matter-of-fact, almost impersonal
simplicity. Kitty's thoughts were in such a jumble that she hardly
knew what to say. She felt she must say something of what was in her
mind, though, so she blurted out:
"That's all nonsense. A mess, indeed! Look at Sports Day--look at
the hockey match----"
"Oh well, I do happen to be fairly decent at hockey," said Duane
curtly. "It's the one thing I'm proud of. But that doesn't make me
a success as a head prefect, does it?"
"Success or not," returned Kitty, "the house has pulled itself
together again, and taken up its proper place in the school, and the
head prefect takes the glory as well as the responsibility. That's
only fair."
Duane grunted.
"By the by, I've some news to tell you. I had a letter from Hilary
this morning. The doctors think she had better not come back after
all. Say she wants a complete rest from studies for at least a year,
if her headaches are to be cured. Rough luck on Hilary, isn't it?
She's keen on her work."
"Yes. I'm awfully sorry," said Kitty sincerely. "She was clever
too, and a good sort."
"Oh yes, Hilary was always decent. Though I fancy she didn't quite
approve of me. It's rather hard lines on you too, having your
study-mate taken away. A pity!" with a mocking note in her voice,
and the drawl back again. "But perhaps you can still put up with
France and me."
"Yes. I'm sorry we took a dislike to each other at the beginning,"
said Kitty in a low voice.
"You did, you mean. I never disliked you."
Kitty looked surprised.
"Why yes, you did. Besides, don't you remember how I squeezed a
sponge over you?"
"Oh, that! I thought it was frightful cheek on your part, but then,
I've plenty of cheek myself."
"And when I challenged you to tennis?"
"And beat me? Did I look so furious?"
"You never turned a hair. But I thought you were simply wild,
inwardly."
"Perhaps I was. But I hope I'm sportsman enough not to show it."
"Oh, you're a sportsman all right," said Kitty with conviction. "But
if you didn't dislike me extremely, how did you feel about me?"
"Oh, I rather liked you when I first saw you. I thought you looked a
decent sort and a thorough sport, and I said to myself that you'd
make a welcome addition to the house. And then I saw that you
disliked me for some reason or other--in fact, rather despised
me--and so I just didn't care. I was rather sorry, but I wouldn't
have let you see it for worlds. Perhaps, too, my pride was hurt."
"Yes, I did dislike you and feel rather--contemptuous," confessed
Kitty, laughing under her breath. "You see, I'd never met anyone
like you before. You were quite a new experience. It began when I
first saw your name painted right across your trunk, 'The Hon. Duane
l'Estrange Estevan,' and I said to myself, 'What a name!' I had a
horror of anything aristocratic and a great contempt for laziness in
any form whatever, and I thought you were both. I'm beginning to
have my doubts about the laziness, however."
"We'll put it down to my 'unfortunate manner,'" conceded Duane
generously, "though I won't deny it."
"Your manner is all that it should be," declared Kitty firmly, "so
don't try to alter it. You couldn't be you without it. I was a
silly fool."
"Then you really think that we might become quite good friends in
time?"
Kitty flushed. "I'd be proud," she said in a low voice.
"And the Richoter? Have you forgotten that?"
Kitty's flush faded. Yes, strange to say, she had forgotten all
about it. It had never once entered her head.
"Yes, I have. I don't care a hang about the Richoter," she replied
sturdily.
Duane ran a gentle hand over the fair silky head nestling so
confidingly against her shoulder, and a smile lit her eyes and then
hovered on her lips--a smile that was strangely sweet.
"Yes, hang the Richoter!" she repeated softly.
A little later and all three girls were sleeping soundly. But the
time when they needed all they had of pluck and endurance was yet to
come. As the hours passed, the chill, raw, penetrating cold crept
through the thin covering of straw and through their thick overcoats.
They awoke in the early hours of the morning when it was still inky
dark, cramped and cold right through. By the feeble light of the
remaining lantern the mist could be seen hovering in greyish wisps in
the bare hut. They tramped up and down the narrow space at their
disposal and went through all the drill tables they could remember,
to keep circulation flowing. The two older girls looked after the
younger as best they could, realizing that she was not only the
youngest but the frailest physically of the three. As Duane remarked
cheerfully, she and Kitty were "as hard as nails."
The colder they grew, the higher Duane's spirits seemed to rise, and
the more nonsense she talked. Kitty and Erica had not her aptitude
in that way, but they showed their grit by their readiness to laugh.
Kitty came to a better realization of the head prefect's character in
those three hours before the dawn. The Australian had as much
courage as any one, but the other girl's was of a kind she had not
understood till now; it sprang from a pride that would meet danger or
death with a laugh and a jest rather than a prayer; the same pride of
race that sent the old French aristocrats to the guillotine as if
they were driving to the King's levee at Versailles.
Erica, too, never murmured. Duane and Kitty declared she was a
little brick.
The three hours seemed like years. At last, however, a faint grey
light began to filter into hut. The girls crept out, with chattering
teeth, and taking it in turns to carry the crippled Erica pick-a-back
until they should find their bicycles, set off in search of the cart
track that was their only guide.