We must now go back a little.
Standing there on the mountain side, enveloped in the thick mist,
nothing visible but a few yards of wet ground, Hilda Clive felt as
though she were turned into stone.
How far had she come? how retrace her steps? It occurred to her that
she had better not move until she had thoroughly made up her mind which
direction to take. To this end she lifted up her voice in a loud, clear
call. No answer.
Again she lifted up her voice, and on the principle that a person will
more readily catch his own name than any other word she called to her
companion by his. Still no answer.
She tried another plan. She thought of every kind of call that she
could sound on the highest of notes, so as to produce the most carrying
effects. All useless. Still, no answer.
Should she move, or would not her best plan be to remain exactly where
she was? The mist might lift, and then she could find her way back,
whereas if she began wandering about she might lose her bearings
entirely. She knew she was in a mountain cloud, and such lift as
suddenly as they come down. On the other hand, they are apt to hang
about the slopes for days. And as though to emphasise this side of the
question the dark folds seemed to close in around her darker and darker.
She tried her voice again, this time turning to every point of the
compass as she sent forth her clear, high-pitched calls. Then her heart
seemed to hammer within her as though it would burst. She heard an
answer.
Faint and far away it sounded, coming from a little above her.
Impulsively she took a few steps in that direction then called again.
The answer came this time louder and more distinct.
Poor Hilda! She could have sunk to the ground with sheer heart sickness
and despair as she stood there listening. The answer was the mere echo
of her own voice. She tried it again and again to make sure of this,
and then two or three tears forced themselves from her eyes, and a sob
escaped her. It was too terrible, too heart-breaking altogether.
No. It was clearly of no use standing still; besides, she felt the cold
and damp. She must move if only to keep off the deadly shivers which
were creeping upon her. But in what direction? And as though the
bewildering effect of the mist was not enough she remembered that in
trying to catch the horse she had been drawn to describe a complete
circle, and that three times: in fact the perverse brute had done for
her exactly what is done for the blindfolded one in blind man's buff,
when he or she is started upon his or her quest, and with exactly the
same effect.
Darker it grew. Night was coming on, and far down in the valley beneath
a wolf howled--then another and another. Hilda remembered how they had
listened to the cry of the ravening beasts there in the lighted security
of the camp, could almost have smiled to herself as she pictured Mrs
Tarleton, or any other woman of her acquaintance, here, in her own
plight, with the certainty before her of a night in the awful loneliness
of these savage mountain solitudes, surrounded, for all she could tell,
by prowling beasts of prey. That such would hardly do less than simply
expire she firmly believed, and in truth the situation was fraught with
every terrifying and exhausting element even for her.
Yet Hilda Clive thought but little of herself in the matter. What would
become of her companion, left alone on the wet hill side--ill, fainting,
fever-stricken? and this was the idea that caused her to raise her hand
to her head and press her brows hard as though to control the working of
the busy brain within the limits of coherency.
What should she do, and how do it? Again and again all sorts of
expedients would suggest themselves. She would walk a given distance in
each direction--not down, for she had been descending slightly in her
pursuit of the horse--then retrace her steps, and try another. She
would walk all night if necessary--but she would find him. And then,
with a terrible heart sinking, two considerations occurred to her--one
that she might pass him within a few yards in the darkness and mist, the
other that she herself was beginning to feel faint with fatigue and
hunger. No matter. If will power could carry anyone through, it should
her.
Then an idea came to her--swept in upon her mind like a lighthouse flash
in the gloom; for it seemed just the idea she had been groping after.
The quarter of the wind!
It had blown upon her right ear she remembered during her pursuit of the
horse--yet rather from behind. She remembered it because of an escaped
tress of hair which had played about her cheek. Now by getting it upon
her left ear from in front, and keeping it there, she would be able to
retrace her steps. Thrilling with renewed thankfulness and hope she
started to put this plan into immediate execution.
But alas! for poor Hilda. There was now no wind at all, or but faint
breaths of it, and these she thought to perceive were coming from any
and every direction. Then she remembered that in following the horse
the rise of the slope was on her right. By keeping it on her left she
might find her way. Anything rather than remain inactive.
It was quite dark now, but the cloud showed no disposition to lift.
Stumbling onward, every now and then lifting her voice in a call, Hilda
pressed on, with a determination and endurance well-nigh superhuman.
Twice she fell, bruising herself among the stones, then up and on again.
He would die if he were not found, would die, fever-stricken, helpless,
alone. Die! The word seemed ringing in her brain, and then--and then--
what was this? She was beginning to go _downhill_.
Downhill! That could not be. She had kept steadily upward, and yet,
without swerving in the least from the course she had been following,
she was plainly and unmistakably walking downhill, and this fact once
established, the significance of the situation became clear. She was
hopelessly and entirely out of her reckoning, and had no more idea as to
where she had left Herbert Raynier than she had as to where she herself
now stood. And then nature asserted itself over mind. Overwhelmed with
despair and hunger and exhaustion poor Hilda sank to the ground in a
faint that was more than half slumber.
When she awoke the mist had entirely disappeared, and the sun was well
up in the blue sky. A shadow was between it and her, and she started
somewhat as her eyes rested on a dark face, crowned by a voluminous
turban. A man was bending over her, a man clothed in the loose garments
of the Gularzai, and armed with a sword and rifle, and the startled look
gave place to one of intense relief as she recognised Mehrab Khan.
"Where is the _Huzoor_?" was her first question in the best Hindustani
she could command. Then Mehrab Khan proceeded to explain the situation,
partly by signs, partly in Hindustani, of which latter Hilda understood
a good deal more than she could talk. The _Huzoor_ had been found by a
party of Gularzai, lying ill upon the mountain side. They had not
harmed him, but had carried him away--probably to the Nawab's village;
which intimation filled poor Hilda with unspeakable relief and
thankfulness. For Herbert Raynier had the highest opinion of Mushim
Khan and his brother. He had often talked to her about them, and
promised she should see them on the occasion of the next _jirga_ at
Mazaran. If he was the Nawab's prisoner, he was safe, she decided. But
if Mehrab Khan knew otherwise, his Oriental inscrutability did not
betray the fact.
The Baluchi was reproachful, however, that they had left their
hiding-place before his return, and he managed to convey to his hearer
that he had got in with some people whom it had been impossible to leave
at his own convenience without exciting suspicion. When he had found
the place deserted he had followed on their track, but the cloud had
baffled him, even as it had them. He had found the runaway steed, and
now his plan was to take the Miss Sahib into Mazaran at once. The way
was clear just now and they ought to take advantage of it.
Refreshed with some food, which Mehrab Khan produced, Hilda felt almost
light-hearted. And then, going back over her wanderings now in the
clear sunny daylight, she saw that, though the direction taken was not
so greatly at fault, she had ascended much too high, and had gained a
kotal over which she was passing into another valley, when she had
detected the declivity of the ground.
Mazaran made a great deal of Hilda Clive when she returned safe and
sound. What an experience she had had, and that poor Mr Raynier, gushed
the feminine side of Mazaran. Well, he would soon be back among them
again. Mushim Khan had too much to lose to incur deposition, if not
destruction, by allowing harm to happen to so important a representative
of the Government as the Political Agent, pronounced Mazaran, and
especially Colonel Polwarth C.O., who was not in a position to weaken
the garrison by a single man, it being none too strong as it was.
Indeed the station was in a state of siege, its European inhabitants
spending each night within the fort, and the bearded, long-haired
tribesmen, formerly conspicuous in the streets and bazaar, were now
conspicuous by their absence. Meanwhile, reinforcements were anxiously
awaited, and it looked as if they might be so for long, for a very large
force was in the field further along the border, where, according to the
reports that came in, fighting was abundant and brisk.
Tarleton was somewhat subdued since his return, and whereas Haslam was
rather fond of expatiating upon their adventures, the Civil Surgeon was
more inclined to shelve the subject when it was broached. It wasn't a
thing to _bukh_ about, he declared, nor could he understand how that
fellow Haslam could _bukh_ about nothing else. They had neither of them
cut so great a figure in it for the matter of that, and he for his part
didn't seem to care if he never heard it mentioned again. Inwardly he
was relieved that so far no harm had come to Raynier through the
disclosure wrung from him by Murad Afzul.
"Just fancy, dear," Mrs Tarleton exclaimed, when she had fussed over
Hilda enough by way of welcome back. "Who do you think has arrived,
just as poor Mr Raynier is away too? Isn't it sad?--and he not here to
welcome her?"
"To welcome whom?" said Hilda, tranquilly.
"Why, his _fiancee_, of course."
"I didn't know he'd got one."
"No more did we, no more did any of us," rejoined Mrs Tarleton, glancing
curiously at the girl, yet feeling intensely relieved at the nonchalance
of her reply, for she too had noticed, in common with Haslam, how
Raynier and her guest had been getting, as the Forest Officer put it,
uncommonly thick together. "He was remarkably close on the subject, I
must say."
"Well, he naturally would be. That trick of gushing on the subject and
running about showing the latest photograph and all that, is idiotic,
and I can't imagine Mr Raynier being idiotic. Who is she?"
"A Miss Daintree. Rather a stylish-looking girl, handsome too. She's
staying with the Croftons."
"Yes? Well, they'll have a happy reunion and live happy ever after."
Mrs Tarleton felt more relieved than ever. The light laughing badinage
of the girl's tone could never have been assumed, she decided. There
was nothing between them, then.
But Hilda Clive was putting two and two together. She remembered
Raynier's absence of mind and unwonted depression the day they had set
forth on their ride which had ended so tragically. This, then, was the
news which had disconcerted him. The impending arrival of the girl to
whom he was engaged gave him no pleasure--rather the reverse--and if so,
why? The puzzle was no difficult one to piece together; indeed, to her
perceptions, it constituted no puzzle at all.