Margaret did not remove her hand from Geoffrey's grasp, partly because
her mind was occupied with the difficulties of the position, partly
because she naturally relied upon him. That position, trying to her,
was pleasurable enough to Geoffrey, but he was too loyal to prolong it.
"I was told to look for the Tump," he said. "Other landmarks were the
Castle and Moonlight Firs. I think I should know the Tump, or the
Castle, but cannot see either. Can you recognise Moonlight Firs?"
"Every hill seems to have a Folly," she said, looking round. "I mean a
clump of trees on the top. Yes,"--after a second searching gaze--"I
believe that must be the Firs; it is larger than the rest."
He took Kitty's bridle, and led the chestnut in the direction of the
copse. The distance was increased by the undulation of the ground, but
in twenty minutes it grew more distinct.
"Yes, I am sure it is Moonlight Firs," she said hopefully. "We shall
find the track there."
Kitty laboured up the steep slope wearily; Geoffrey patted and
encouraged the mare.
"But what trees are these?" said Margaret, with a sudden change of tone
as they reached the summit.
"I am afraid they are beeches," said he. He ran forward, and found that
they were. There were no firs. Margaret's heart sank; the
disappointment was very great.
"Look once more," he said. "From this height there is a better view.
See, there are three copses round us; is either like the Firs?"
"They are all just alike," she said, in a troubled tone; then
pleadingly, "Geoffrey--_think_."
"There are the stars still," he said.
"Ah, yes," eagerly, and looking up. "I know the north star; there it
is," pointing to the faint sparkle that has been the lamp of hope to so
many weary hearts on foaming ocean and trackless plain. "And the Great
Bear; the men call it Dick and His Team; it shines every night opposite
my window, over the dovecot. Why, of course, all we have to do is to
turn our backs to it, and ride straight to Greene Ferne."
"Not quite, I fear," smiling at her impetuosity, for she was turning
Kitty's head. "You see we should start from a different base, and our
straight line might be projected for eternity before it came to your
window."
"Then what's the use of astronomy?" said Margaret promptly.
"Well--really,"--puzzled to give a direct reply, "the difficulty is the
longitude. But tell me, are there any roads crossing the Downs?"
"One or two, I think."
"Then we will go towards the north star; that will at least keep us in a
straight line, and prevent us from going round in a circle. Sooner or
later we must cross a road."
"Is that all the stars can do for us?"
"Under present circumstances--yes."
They descended the slope; on the level ground he began to run, urging
the tired mare to trot.
"Do not do that," she said; "you will be quite knocked up."
"I do not mind in the least--for your sake. It is getting late, and we
must hasten."
He was now seriously anxious, for her sake, to seek a road, and pushed
on as hard as he could. The mare, however, walked up the next rise; at
the summit, Margaret pointed to the east.
"The clouds are coming up," she said. Low down was a dark bank--a
thicker night--rising swiftly, blotting out the stars one by one.
Another burst forwards, and another walk, as Geoffrey began to feel the
exertion.
The "messengers"--small detached clouds, that precede the rest--were
already passing overhead. The white glow on the northern horizon,
indicating the position of the summer sun just beneath, was covered. On
three sides the edges of the cloud rose up and began to meet above. "I
trust it will not rain," thought Geoffrey.
"It is getting still warmer," said Margaret presently; "the Great Bear
is hidden now." Under the mass of vapour the temperature, warm before,
became sultry and oppressive.
"Stand up!" said Geoffrey sharply to the mare, as they descended a
steeper slope, and she stumbled. Then to Margaret, "The mist is gone."
It had insensibly disappeared as the clouds came over; they had now
covered the sky, and it was dark.
"Will it thunder?" she asked anxiously. "It is very hot, and I believe
I felt a drop of rain--and another."
"Only heat-drops," said Geoffrey, but his mind misgave him. The clouds
swept over at a rapid pace, yet there was no breeze; they were carried
on an aerial current far above the earth. The pole star was hidden;
still Geoffrey kept on walking as fast as he could, trying to keep a
straight line. He spoke to and cheered the mare frequently; she
stumbled, and seemed nervous. There was an intense electrical tension
in the atmosphere.
"Oh, where are we now?" said Margaret, as Kitty's knees rustled against
something, and she stopped and dragged at the bridle. "What is this?"
In the gloom a white shimmering surface stretched out.
"A wheat field," said Geoffrey; "we must go round it." Kitty resisted,
wanting to nibble at the succulent stalks, not yet dried into straw by
the sun.
"If it is wheat we are certainly wrong," said Margaret. "We ought not
to get on the plain among the ploughed fields; our proper road is on the
turf somewhere. Pluck me a wheat-ear, please; the stalk is sweet, and I
am thirsty."
He did so. Crushed by the teeth, the stalk yielded a pleasant sweetness
to the parched mouth. "It is the wine of the corn," she said. He
wanted to lead the mare round the field; but beyond was another of
barley, and Margaret was so certain that it was the wrong direction that
he gave it up, and felt his way back to the hill as he thought.
Proceeding along the ridge, a clump of trees loomed large close at hand.
"Moonlight Firs!" cried Margaret joyfully, urging the mare. "Please go
and see what trees they are," she said. "It is difficult to
distinguish."
He ran forward, and in two minutes returned, silent. "Yes?" she said
impatiently.
"Beeches," he replied; "the same beeches."
"We have toiled round in a circle. What shall we do?--now we are lost
indeed!" Her voice went straight to his heart, and roused him to fresh
exertions.
"It is strange that we see no lights," he said; "there must be
farmhouses or cottages somewhere."
"They all go to bed by daylight in summer--to save candles. Do let us
go on--somewhere." He easily understood her nervous desire to move.
The darkness seemed to increase; but he led the mare slowly. Every now
and then a lark rose from the turf--they could not see, but heard the
wings--and fluttered away into the gloom.
"Hush!" whispered Margaret suddenly. "What was that? I thought I heard
footsteps."
"It was nothing," said he, peering into the darkness. He had himself
heard steps distinctly, but he would not let her be alarmed if he could
help it.
"There!" she caught fast hold of his arm and drew him close. The heavy
steps were distinctly audible for a moment, and then stopped.
"Who goes there?" shouted Geoffrey, startling her with the sudden noise.
His voice sounded hollow and dead in the vastness of the mighty hills.
They listened: no answer.
"Let us go on quick," she said. Kitty moved again, painfully; her rider
glanced back.
"I am sure I saw something far off moving," she whispered.
"Nothing but a hawthorn bush," said Geoffrey; yet he had himself
discerned a shadowy something. Margaret had heard of the shepherds'
stories of the weird shapes that haunted the desolate places on the
Downs. Kitty, obeying her impulse, pushed on more rapidly; when they
looked back again there was nothing. But almost suddenly the darkness
increased; it seemed to thicken and fall on them. In a few moments it
was so intensely black that they could barely see each other. With it
came a strange sense of oppression--a difficulty of breathing. Her hand
on his shoulder trembled; even the man felt a sense of something
unusual, bent his brow, and steeled himself to meet it. With her other
hand she covered her face. In that pitch-black darkness, that almost
sulphurous air, it seemed as if a thunderbolt must fall. The mare stood
still.
In a minute there came a rushing sound--a rumbling of the ground; it
swept by on their left at a short distance. A faint "baa" told what it
was. "A flock of sheep," said Geoffrey. "They have leapt the hurdles."
"They always do when the clouds come down," said Margaret, recollecting
what the shepherds said. "It will thunder."
But it did not. The noise of the frightened flock grew less as they
raced headlong away. Shortly afterwards the extreme blackness lifted a
little. Presently something like a copse came indistinctly into view
ahead. This roused Margaret's fainting hope; it might be Moonlight
Firs, and they advanced again slowly. After a short while Kitty stood
stock-still and would not move, neither for word nor blow; she backed
instead.
"There must be something there," said Geoffrey, leaving the bridle and
walking forward. His feet caught in some bushy heath; he went on his
knees and felt. In a yard his hand slipped into space--there was a
chasm; he drew it back, then put his hand again and took up some earth
from the side. It was white; then, dimly, he saw a white wall as it
were beneath. An old chalk-quarry. "Thank Heaven for Kitty's
instinct!" he muttered. "We should have walked into it." He did not
tell Margaret that it was a quarry; he said it was a steep place. She
wanted to go on to the copse; with regret he noticed the weariness of
her voice; she was tired. He led Kitty far on one side of the quarry,
giving it a wide berth, and taking the line of the sheep, who had
avoided the precipice more by luck than any sense they possess in that
way. The extreme darkness had now passed; but the clouds remained, and
it was gloomy. He walked slowly, thinking now of possible flint-pits.
Suddenly Margaret drew rein, and slipped out of the saddle.
"I can't ride any longer," she said. "I am so tired; let me walk."
She took his arm; in a few minutes she began to lean heavily upon it.
With the other hand he upheld the mare; thus the woman and the animal
relied upon the man. But Margaret's spirit was unbroken--she walked as
fast as she could.
"Ah, this is not the Firs either!" she cried, as they reached some low
underwood--nut-tree and hawthorn and thick bramble, overtopped by some
stunted beeches, with but two or three firs among them. Passing round
the small copse they came to an opening, and in the dimness saw some
large grey stones inside. Utterly wearied and disappointed she left his
arm, sat down on the soft turf, and leaned against a boulder. He looked
closer.
"There is a dolmen under the trees," he said. "Margaret dear, have you
ever heard of this place?"
"These are Grey Wethers," she said, in a low tone. "And no doubt what
you call the dolmen is the Cave."
"Then you know where we are?"
"Oh, no; just the reverse. I have only heard people talk of it; I have
never been here before; all I know is we must have been going right away
from Millbourne, just the opposite direction."
"Do not trouble, dear; it seems a little lighter. Stay here while I go
out of the copse and look round."
"You will not go far away?" She could not help saying it.
"No, indeed I will not." He went out some thirty yards, and then
stopped, finding the ground began to decline. As she sat on the turf
she could see his form against the sky; it was certainly lighter. In a
rude circle the great grey boulders crouched around her; just opposite
was the dolmen. It was built of three large flat stones set on edge,
forming the walls, and over these an immense flat one--the table-stone--
made the roof, which sloped slightly aside. A dwarf house, of
Cyclopaean masonry; a house of a single chamber, the chamber of the
dead. The place, she had heard, was the sepulchre of an ancient king--
of a nameless hero. This Cave, as the shepherds called it, was a tomb.
They had a dim tradition of the spirits haunting such magic circles of
the Past. A sense of loneliness came over her--the silence of the vast
expanse around weighed upon her; an unwonted nervousness took possession
of her, as it naturally might in that dreary gloom. She tried to smile
at herself, and yet put out her hand, and touched the mare's neck--she
was grazing near: it was companionship.
"Margaret!" Her name startled her in the oppressive stillness; she was
glad to rise and go to him, away from that shadowy place.
"The clouds are breaking fast," he said. "It will not rain; I am going
to light a fire."
"A fire! Why, it is too warm now."
"Not for heat, but as a beacon. Some shepherd may see it, and come to
us."
"Indeed he would not,"--a little petulantly, for she was overtired. "He
would be afraid, and say it was Jack o' the Lanthorn."
"Well, I will try; possibly a farmer may see it."
"But where is your fuel? You cannot see to pick up sticks in the
copse."
"I stumbled on two hurdles just now; one has been thatched with straw."
"I know; that is what the shepherds prop up with a stake, and sit behind
as a shelter from the wind."
"And the furze-bush here will burn." She watched him tear some leaves
out of his pocket-book, and place the fragments under the furze; then he
added a little straw from the thatched hurdle, and a handful of dry
grass.
"The stars are coming out again," said Margaret, looking round; "and
what is that glow of light yonder?" There was a white reflection above
the eastern horizon where she pointed.
"It must be the moon rising," he said, and applied a match to his
bonfire. A blue tongue of flame curled upwards, an odour of smoke
arose, and then a sharp crackling, and a sudden heat, that forced them
to stand away. The bush burned fiercely, hissing and crackling as the
fibres of the green wood and the pointed needles shrivelled up. By the
light of the tawny flames he now saw the weary expression of her face;
she must rest somewhere and somehow.
"Quick, Geoffrey! it is going out; throw your hurdles on."
"On second thoughts I will not burn the hurdles." Nothing flares so
swiftly or sinks so soon as furze; in a few minutes the beacon was out.
"I must rest," she said, and went back to the trees and sat on a
boulder. Opposite, the pale glow in the east shot up into the sky; as
it rose it became thinner and diffused. Slowly the waning moon came up
over the ridge of a distant hill, whose top was brought out by the light
behind it, as a well-defined black line against the sky. Vast shadows
swept along and filled the narrow vales--dark as the abyss of space; the
slopes that faced eastwards shone with a faint grey. The distorted
gibbous disk lifted itself above the edge--red as ruddle and enlarged by
the refraction: a giant coppery moon, weird and magical. The forked
branches of a tree on the hill stretched upwards across it, like the
black arms of some gibbering demon.
"Look round once more," he said, as the disk cleared the ridge.
"Perhaps you may recognise some landmark, and I will run and bring
assistance."
"And leave me here alone!" reproachfully.
"No, I will never leave you." There was an intense pleasure in feeling
how thoroughly she relied upon him. They went outside the copse and
looked round. The dim moonlight was even more indefinite than the
former mist and starlight. She saw nothing but hills, grey where the
moonbeams touched them, black elsewhere; great cavernous coombes; behind
them a shadowy plain. Here and there a hawthorn bush, fantastic in the
faint light. It seemed as if a lengthened gaze might perhaps
distinguish strange shapes flickering to and fro in the mystic waste.
"I see nothing but hills," she said. "I do not like to look; let us go
back to the trees."
She sat down again on the sunken boulder, where only a part of the space
around and its spectral shadows was visible.
"I feel so sleepy," she said. Doubtless the warmth made her drowsy as
well as weariness. "I think I shall lie down." She sat on the sward
and leaned against the stone; Geoffrey felt the short grass, it was
perfectly dry.
"If only I had something to wrap round you!" he said. "How foolish I
have been! Mr Fisher's rug that was strapped on my horse would have
been the very thing! I am so angry with myself--I ought to have thought
of it."
"But how could you anticipate?"
"At least, wrap your handkerchief about your neck."
"I do not want it; it is too warm. But I will, as you wish me to."
An idea suddenly occurred to him; he went on his knees and crawled right
under the table-stone of the dolmen--into the tomb. She watched him
with a sleepy horror of the place. In a minute he emerged triumphant.
"I have found it--this is it. It is a house built on purpose for you."
"Oh, I hope not," shuddering; "though, of course, we must all die."
"Why--what do you mean?"
"That is a tomb."
"A tomb!" laughing; "oh, yes, perhaps it was once, two thousand years
ago, before Pisces became Aries."
"I do not understand," petulantly. "Do let me sleep."
"I mean before the precession of the equinoxes had changed the position
of the stars; it was so very long ago--"
"Please don't talk to me."
"But I want you to come in here."
"In there! Impossible!"
"But do, Margaret; it is quite empty; only like a room. The ground
inside is as dry as a floor, and the roof will shelter you from the
night air, and, perhaps, save you from illness."
"I couldn't--no; please."
"Well, just come and look."
"I won't--there!" quite decidedly.
"Margaret!"
He took her arm; notwithstanding her declaration, she rose and followed
him. She did not resent his making her do it in that wild and desolate
place; had he tried to compel her in civilisation, he would have failed.
Once inside it, the Cave was not at all dreadful; she could sit
upright, and, as he said, it was merely a chamber, open on one side. He
then went to fetch the hurdles to make her a rough couch--it was with
some thought of this that he had not burned them--knowing anything
between the sleeper and the bare ground will prevent stiffness or chill.
He saw that the moon had illuminated a valley on the right hand, and
walked to the edge, thinking that perhaps a cottage might be in the
hollow. There was nothing, but this caused him to be a little longer
gone. Now Margaret was just in that state between waking and sleeping
when shadows take shape and the silence speaks, nor could she forget
that the Cave had once been a tomb. She looked out and involuntarily
uttered a cry. Among the boulders stood a shapeless whiteness--a form
rather than a thing, in the midst of the circle. She covered her face
with her hands. Geoffrey returning heard the cry, and came running.
"What! How fortunate!" he exclaimed. She looked again--it was the
grey, Geoffrey's horse; in her nervous dread she had not recognised it
in the shadow.
"This is fortunate," he said, ignoring her alarm. "The poor fellow must
have hobbled after us--perhaps not so very far, as we went round in a
circle. Why, this must have been what we heard--the heavy steps, don't
you remember? I can make a couch now,"--unstrapping the rug, and
removing the saddle, and also from Kitty. Then he took the thatched
hurdle, and placed it on the floor of the Cave, straw uppermost. It was
perfectly clean; the straw bleached white by the wind of the hills. The
saddles made a rude support for her shoulders. She stood up, and he
wound the rug--which was a large one--about her till she was swathed in
it, and a kind of hood came round her head. She reclined upon the
hurdle, leaning against the saddles; and lastly, at his wish, adjusted
the handkerchief lightly over her face, so that she might breathe
easily, and yet so as to keep the night air away. Then he placed the
second hurdle, which was not thatched, across the open side of the Cave,
partly closing it like a door, but not too completely.
"Why, I am quite comfortable," she said. "Only it is too warm."
"That is a good fault; good-night."
"Good-night." A long pause.
"Geoffrey--where are you?"
"Sitting by the door of your chamber."
"You have been very kind."
"I have done nothing."
"You have no shelter; what shall you do?"
"I do not mind in the least; you forget I have been used to the bush."
A second long silence.
"Geoffrey!" very gently.
"I am here, dear."
"Do not go far away."
"Rest assured I will not."
Silence again--this time not broken.
By-and-by he approached and listened; the low regular breathing
convinced him that she slept at last. "She must be very, very weary,"
he thought, "and I--" Scarce a word had been said that might not have
been uttered before the world, and yet he felt a secret assurance that
her heart was turning towards him.