EVENING.

"Aw, aim for th' Tump, measter; aim for th' Tump," said the carter,

slanting his whip to indicate the direction. "When you gets thur,

look'ee, go for th' Cas'l; and when you gets thur, go athwert the Vuzz

toward th' Virs; and when you gets drough thaay, thur be Akkern Chace,

and a lane as goes down to Warren. Tchek! Woaght!"

At the foot of the Downs, along whose base the highway road wound,

Geoffrey had paused to take counsel of a carter, who had just descended

with a load of flints, before venturing across the all-but-trackless

hills. The man very civilly stopped his waggon and named the various

landmarks by which he would have guided his own course to Andrew

Fisher's. Geoffrey had started early in the evening, intending to go

all the way to Warren House, for he carried with him the rug (strapped

to the saddle) which Margaret and May had forgotten, and for which the

rude old man had written. This rug, which Mrs Estcourt gave him, was

in fact his passport, for he scarcely knew how Margaret would take his

coming to fetch her in that rather abrupt way. Guessing what the man

meant more by the slant of his whip than his words, he turned off the

road on to the sward, and ascended the hill.

A long narrow shadow of man and horse, disproportionately stretched out,

raced before him along the slope. The hoofs of the grey hardly cut the

firm turf, dry with summer heat; the vivid green of spring had already

gone, and a faint brown was just visible somewhere in the grass. Dark

boulder stones--sarsens--bald and smooth, thrust their shoulders out of

the sward here and there; hollowed out into curious cuplike cavities, in

which, after a shower, the collected raindrops remained imprisoned in

tiny bowls hard as the fabled adamant of mediaeval story. Round white

bosses--white as milk, and globular like cannon-shot--dotted the turf,

fungi not yet ripened into the dust of the puff-ball. Now and again the

iron shoes dashed an edible mushroom to pieces, turning the pink gills

upwards to shrivel and blacken in the morrow's sun. The bees rose with

a shrill buzz from the white clover, which is the shepherd's sign of

midsummer. Swiftly the grey sped along the slopes, the shadow racing

before grew longer and fainter as the beams of the sun came nearly

horizontally. Already the ridges cast a shadow into the hollows--into

the narrow coombes, where great flints and chalk fragments had rolled

down and strewed the ground as with the wreck of a titanic skirmish.

Thickets of green furze tipped with yellow bloom, and beneath, peeping

out, the pale purple heath-flower. On the stunted hawthorn bushes

standing alone, stern sentinels in summer's heat and winter's storm,

green peggles hardening, which autumn would redden and ripen for the

thrush. Odorous thyme and yellow-bird's-foot lotus embroidering the

grassy carpet; wide breadths of tussocky grass, tall and tough, which

the sheep had left untouched, and where the hare crouched in her form,

hearkening to the thud of the hoofs.

On past the steep wall of an ancient chalk-quarry, spotted with red

streaks and stains as of rusty iron, where the plough-boys search for

pyrites, and call them thunderbolts and "gold," for when broken the

radial metallic fibres glisten yellow. Past a field of oats, rising

hardly a foot high in the barren soil--in the corner an upturned plough

with rusty share and wooden handles painted red. Down below in the

plains between the hills squares of drooping barley and bold upstanding

wheat, whose tender green the sun had invaded with advancing hues of

gold. Over all the brooding silence of the summer eve, one brown lark

alone singing in the air above the plain, far away from the distant

ridge the faint tinkle of a sheep-bell. Now the sun was down the lower

eastern atmosphere thickened with a dull red; the shepherds discerned

the face of the sky, and said to-morrow would be fine.

Up the steep side of the "Tump" at last, slackening speed perforce, and

checking the grey on the summit. It was a great round hill, detached,

and somewhat like a huge bowl inverted, with a small circular level

space, on what at a distance seemed an almost pointed apex, a space bare

of aught but close-cropped herbage. Westwards was the dim vale, a faint

mist blotting out steeple and tower--a mist blending with the sky at the

horizon, and there all aglow. Eastwards, ridge upon ridge, hill after

hill, with spurs running out into the narrow plains between, and deep

coombes. He gazed earnestly over these, looking for signs and

landmarks, but found none. The rough trail was lost--the hoof marks cut

in the winter when the earth was soft were filled up by the swelling

turf, and covered over with thyme. Those who laboured by day in the

plains, weeding the fields, were gone down to their homes in the hamlets

hidden in the valleys. At a venture he struck direct for the east,

anxious to lose no time; for he began to fear he should miss Margaret,

and soon afterwards luckily crossed the path of a shepherd-lad,

whistling as he and his shaggy dog wended for "whoam."

"Which is the way to Mr Fisher's?" asked Geoffrey.

"Thaay be goin' into th' Mash to-morrow," answered the boy, whose

thoughts were differently engaged.

"Tell me the way to Mr Fisher's--the Warren."

"We be got shart o' keep; wants zum rain, doan't 'ee zee?"

"Can't you answer a question?"

"Thur's a main sight o' tackle in the Mash vor um."

He was so used to being stopped and asked about his sheep that he took

it for granted Geoffrey was putting the same accustomed interrogatories.

Every farmer cross-examines his neighbour's shepherd when he meets him.

The "Mash" was doubtless a meadow reclaimed from a marsh. "Land be

terrable dry, zur."

"Will you listen to me?" angrily. "Where's the Warren?"

"Aw, mebbe you means ould Fisher's?"

"I mean Mr Fisher's."

"A' be auver thur," pointing north-east.

"How far?"

"Aw, it be a akkerd road," doubtfully, as he looked Geoffrey up and

down, and it dawned on him slowly that it was a stranger.

"I'll give you a quart if you will show me."

"Wull ee? Come on." The beer went at once right to the nervous centre

and awoke all his faculties. He led Geoffrey across the plain and up a

swelling shoulder of down, on whose ridge was a broad deep fosse and

green rampart.

"This be th' Cas'l," said the guide, meaning entrenchments--earthworks

are called "castles." In one spot the fosse was partly filled up, and

an opening cut in the rampart, by which he rode through and found the

"castle," a vast earthwork of unknown antiquity.

"Mind thaay vlint-pits," said the boy.

The flint-diggers had been at work here long ago--deep gullies and holes

encumbered the way, half-hidden with thistles and furze. The place was

honeycombed; it reminded Geoffrey of the Australian gold-diggings. He

threaded his way slowly between these, and presently emerged on the

slope beyond the "castle."

"Now which way is it?" he asked, glancing doubtfully at the hills still

rolling away in unbroken succession.

"Yellucks," said the boy, meaning "Look here," and he pointed at a dark

object on a distant ridge, which Geoffrey made out to be a copse.

"Thur's Moonlight Virs."

"Well, and when I get to Moonlight Firs, which way then?"

"Thee foller th' ruts--thaay'll take ee to Akkern Chace."

"The ruts?"

"Eez, th' waggon ruts; thaay goes drough Akkern Chace down to Warren.

Be you afeared?" seeing Geoffrey hesitated. "Thaay'll lead ee drough

th' wood; it be main dark under th' pollard oaks:

Akkern Chace

Be a unkid place,

When th' moon do show hur face.

"Wur be my quart?"

Geoffrey gave him sixpence; he touched his forelock, called his dog, and

whistled down the hill. Geoffrey pushed on as rapidly as his horse, now

a little weary, would go for the firs. In half an hour he reached it,

and found a waggon track which, as the boy had said, after a while led

him into a wood--scattered pollard oaks, hawthorn bushes, and fir

plantations. Now two fresh difficulties arose: the grey first limped

and then went lame; and the question began to arise, Would Margaret

after all come this way? In the gathering twilight, might she not take

the circuitous, but safer, highway? She might even have already passed.

By this time he was well into the wood--it consisted of firs there.

The grey went so lame he resolved to go no farther, but to wait. He

dismounted, threw himself at length upon the grass beside the green

track, and the grey immediately applied himself to grazing with steady

contentment.

The tall green trees shut out all but a narrow lane of sky, azure, but

darkening; not the faintest breath of moving air relieved the sultry

brooding heat of the summer twilight. From the firs came a fragrance,

filling the atmosphere with a sweet resinous odour. The sap exuding

through the bark formed in white viscous drops upon the trunks.

Indolently reclining, half drowsy in the heat, he could see deep into

the wood, along on the level ground between the stems, for the fallen

"needles" checked vegetation. A squirrel gambolled hither and thither

in this hollow space; with darting rapid movements it came towards him,

and then suddenly shot up a fir and was instantly out of sight among the

thick foliage. In the stillness he could hear the tearing of the fibres

of grass as the grey fed near. A hare came stealing up the track, with

the peculiar shuffling, cunning gait they have when rambling as they

deem unwatched. Limping slowly, "Wat" stayed to choose tit-bits among

the grass--so near that when an insect tickled him and he shook his head

Geoffrey heard the tips of his ears flap together. Daintily he pushed

his nose among the tussocks, then craned his neck and looked into the

thickets. Where the track turned at the bend the shadows crept out,

toning down the twilight with mystic uncertainty.

Suddenly the hare rose, elevated his ears--Geoffrey could see the

nostrils working--and then, with one thrust as it were of his lean

flanks, flung himself into the wood. The grey ceased feeding, raised

his head, and listened. In a few moments came the slow thud of hoofs

walking. From behind the bushes Geoffrey watched the bend of the track.

Then the sweet voice he knew so well floated towards him. Margaret was

singing, little thinking any one was near:

"And as she went along the high-road,

The weather being hot and dry,

She sat her down upon a green bank,

And her true love came riding by."

Her chestnut whinnied, seeing the other horse on turning the corner.

"Margaret!"

"Sir!" blushing, and resentful that he should have surprised her. She

had been thinking of him. She felt as though he had caught her and

discovered her secret. She instantly took refuge in hauteur.

"I came to meet you."

"Thank you," extremely coldly; she was passing on.

"You do not mind?" he took hold of her bridle.

"Mr Newton!" angrily. Her countenance became suffused with a burning

red. He felt he had blundered.

"At least you will let me ride back with you," he said humbly, dropping

the bridle.

She immediately struck the chestnut--the mare sprang forward and

cantered down the lane. Quite beside himself, half with annoyance with

her, half with himself, he ran to the grey, mounted, and tried to

follow. But the horse was lame. He did his best, limped, stumbled,

recovered himself, and shambled after painfully. When Geoffrey reached

the edge of the wood, Margaret, a long distance ahead, was riding out

upon the Downs--horse and horsewoman a dark figure, indistinct in the

gloaming. Fearful of losing her, he called on the grey; but she glided

away from him swiftly over the darkening plain and up the opposite hill.

For a moment he saw her clear against the sky-line, then she was over

the ridge and gone.

He thrashed the grey, and forced him rather than rode him up the hill,

but there the long-suffering animal stayed his wretched shamble and

walked. Wild with anger, Geoffrey dismounted, ran to the edge of the

hill, and looked for Margaret.

Deep in the wide hollow lay a white mist, covering all things with its

cloak. Beyond was a black mass, with undulating ridge against the sky.

"The chestnut _must_ walk up that," he thought; and, without a moment's

pause, dropped his whip, and raced down the slope headlong. What he

should say or do if he overtook her he did not stay to think; but

overtake her he would. His long stride carried him quickly to the

bottom. He imagined he should find a thick fog there as it had looked

from above; but now that he was in it there was nothing more than an

impalpable mist, through which he could see for some distance. But

upwards the mist thickened, and the hill above was hidden now.

He listened--not a sound; then rushed across the level, and threw

himself against the next ascent. Panting, he reached the summit; it was

but a narrow ridge, and over it another coombe. Instead of a sea of

mist here, one long streak, like a cloud, hung midway. No horse

visible. Again he dashed forward, and passed through the stratum of

mist-cloud as he went down, and the second time as he climbed the

opposite rise--more slowly, for these Downs pull hard against the

strongest chest. Then there was a gradually rising plateau--dusky,

dotted with ghostly hawthorn bushes, but nothing moving that his

straining eyes could discern.

But as he stood, and his labouring heart beat loudly, there came the

faint sound of iron-shod hoofs that clicked upon stray flints, far away

to the right. Like an arrow he rushed there--unthinking, and therefore

baffled. For instead of crossing the steep ridges, she had ridden round

on the slope; and he, running on the chord of the arc, had not only

caught her up, but got some distance in front. If he had remained where

he was, she would have passed close by him. But running thus to the

right in his wild haste, he lost great part of his advantage. Suddenly

he stopped short, and saw in the dim light a shadowy figure stretching

swiftly into the mist.

"Margaret!" he called, involuntarily. The earth-cloud of mist closed

round her, and the shadowy figure faded away. On he went again,

stumbling in the ruts left by wheels in winter, nearly thrown by the

tough heath, and the crooked furze stems holding his foot, and fast

losing his wind. He struggled up the slope, and finally, perforce, came

to a striding walk. Suddenly he stopped--a low neigh floated in the

stillness up from a vale on his left. Her path turned there, then; he

would cut across the angle. But, taught by experience, he paused at the

edge of the descent, and listened before going down. In a minute or two

another faint clicking of flints sounded behind him. "By Jove, I begin

to think--aha!" The flints clicked in the stillness away on his right.

Then after a brief while a dark indistinct object crossed in front of

him. "All round me," said Geoffrey, aloud. "I understand." He bounded

forward, refreshed by his short pause. In three minutes the dark object

resolved itself into the chestnut, standing still now on the verge of a

gloomy hollow.

Then, close upon his quarry, the hunter slackened speed. It was his

turn now; he strolled slowly, halted, even turned his back upon her, and

looked up at the sky. The stars were shining; till that moment he had

not realised that it was night. By-and-by he went nearer.

"Geoffrey!" she called, faintly. No reply.

"Geoffrey!"--louder--"is that you?"

"Yes, dear." The first time he had used the word to her.

"Do come to me!" in a tone of distress. He ran eagerly to her side.

"It is dark," she said, in a low voice, "and--and I have lost the way."

"I thought you had; you rode all round me."

"Did I? O, then I am lost, indeed; that is what people always do when

they are lost on the hills--they go round and round in a circle. Where

is your horse?"

"I left him lame, a long way behind."

"How unfortunate! And `Kitty'"--stroking the mare's neck--"is weary

too. But perhaps you know the way--try and look."

He did look round to please her, but with little hope. It was not

indeed dark--unless there are clouds, the nights of summer are not

dark--but the dimness that results from uncertain definition was equally

bewildering. The vales were full of white mist; the plains visible near

at hand grew vague as the eye tried to trace a way across. The hills,

just where the ridges rose high, could be seen against the sky, but the

ranges mingled and the dark slopes faded far away into the mist. Each

looked alike--there was no commanding feature to fix the vision; hills

after hills, grey shadowy plains, dusky coombes and valleys, dimly seen

at hand and shapeless in the distance. Then he stooped and searched in

vain for continuous ruts or hoof marks or any sign of track. She

watched him earnestly.

"It is difficult to make out," he said. "You know I am a stranger to

these Downs."

"Yes, yes; what shall we do? I shall not reach Greene Ferne to-night."

"I will try very hard," he said, venturing to take her hand. But in his

heart he was doubtful.