OUT ON THE MOOR
Uncle Ted was on the look-out for them when they got home.
'It's cold, isn't it?' he said. 'Still I don't think we shall have snow
just yet,' and he glanced up at the sky. 'I want you, as soon as you can
spare me a few minutes, Mattie, to look over these letters we were
speaking about.'
'I shall be down directly,' said Mrs. Caryll. 'Run off, Rosamond dear,
and get ready for your tea. It is pretty sure to be ready for you.'
And so it was. Everything seemed to fit in for the little girl's plans.
The maid who waited on her was not in Rosamond's own room when she went
upstairs, so Miss Mouse contented herself with taking off her hat and
jacket, keeping on her boots to be ready for her expedition to meet Bob.
She also got out a fur-lined cloak, which had been put away as too
shabby for anything but a wrap, and a little close-fitting fur cap to
match. These she carried downstairs and hid them in a corner of the sofa
in the small breakfast-room which was considered her own quarters. And
safe in her pocket nestled her oldest purse--Miss Mouse liked to have
'best' and 'common' among nearly all her possessions--containing the
exact sum, six shillings, which she had promised Bob.
She ate her tea quickly; her little heart was beating faster than usual
with excitement, some fear, and a good deal of real regret at having to
part with her precious savings, though, on the other hand, there was a
feeling of great pleasure at being able to get poor Bob out of trouble,
and to save his kind old grandmother the distress of mind she would
certainly have felt.
For, as I have said before, Miss Mouse was a very sensible little girl.
She quite understood that any trouble of the kind would have done
special harm to poor Nance and her grandson, on account of the prejudice
already felt against them.
Her heart began to beat still more quickly when she found herself out of
doors, and though she was so warmly wrapped up, a queer cold feeling
ran down her back, and her arms seemed all shivery.
'I'll take a good run,' she thought. 'That will make me feel better, and
I've scarcely walked or run at all to-day.'
So it did. She was a strong little girl in many ways, and accustomed to
plenty of exercise, and the keen fresh air soon made her glow all over,
as she ran along the smooth, hard road.
Bob had fixed on a certain corner as the best meeting-place. This was
the end of a short lane, which led on to the moor at a point Rosamond
had never come out at. But it was easy to find, and a short distance
farther on, by following one of the small paths in a line with the lane,
the boy had explained to her that she would soon come to a sort of dip
in the ground, where there was a thick clump of shrubs.
'And there, missie, if I don't meet you before, you'll be certain sure
to see me a-comin' over from the other side, as fast as I can get along.
It won't be dark by then--and p'raps it'll be a moonlight night, unless
the clouds thicken up for snow.'
It did seem, all the same, rather gloomy in the lane--'because of the
trees and the hedges,' thought Miss Mouse--and certainly when she got
to the end and came out on the moor, it looked a little lighter.
She stood still and looked about her, drawing a deep breath. But she
felt a little disappointed; the moor here seemed quite different from up
at Moor Edge--it was so much lower, more like a rough field.
'I don't care for it a bit down here,' she thought. 'And then it's so
much, much farther to get to, than at the boys'. Why, there you run
almost straight out of the garden on to the dear real moor. I quite know
the way Archie and the others feel about it.'
She trotted on--straight on, as Bob had directed, and before very long
she came to the little hollow with the clump of bushes in the centre
which he had described. But there was no Bob there, and at first her
heart went down a little--supposing he had not been able to come,
supposing the people he owed the money to had refused after all to wait
till to-morrow morning, and had done something dreadful--put him in
prison, perhaps, for Miss Mouse's ideas as to what might or might not be
done to people, poor boys especially, who owed money, were very vague,
or gone to frighten old Nance--oh dear, dear, what a pity it was,
thought the little girl, that she had not taken her purse and all her
riches with her to Weadmere that afternoon. Then she might have given
Bob the six shillings at once, and not run any risk of delay, or have
needed to come out to meet him in the--yes, it was almost getting to be
the dark--and Rosamond gave a little shiver. But at that moment a
welcome sound fell on her ears--the sound of rapidly running feet. She
heard the boy before she saw him, but he it was. A small dark figure,
darker than the dusky ground, soon became visible, running as fast as he
could, and, as soon as he caught sight of her, calling out breathlessly,
'O miss, O miss, have you been waiting long?' and as soon as he came
nearer, out poured a torrent of explanations as to how they had kept him
waiting and waiting for the things he had been at Weadmere to fetch for
the 'missus' at the farm where he worked.
'Well, never mind now,' said sensible Miss Mouse, 'I've got the money
all right. Here it is, Bob, just exactly six shillings. I did it up into
a little packet inside my purse, but you can count it if you like.'
'No, no, thank you, miss,' said the boy. 'I'm sure it's all right, and
as like's not if we undid it, it'd drop out, and we'd have hard work to
find it again in this brushwood. No, it's sure to be all right--and I'll
never be able to thank you enough, that I won't, not if I live to be as
old as gran herself.'
He was intensely grateful, there was no mistake about that, and already
the little girl felt rewarded for the sacrifice she had made. Bob was
evidently anxious too to get off, as he was still carrying the packages
he had been to fetch, having come by this very roundabout way from the
town, and he was anxious, too, to get 'miss' home, for fear of her being
'scolded' through what she had so kindly done for him.
They turned to go.
'I wish you could come home with me, Bob,' said Rosamond, 'it does look
so dark. I don't mind here or on the road. It's the bit of lane that's
so dark.'
Bob looked about and considered.
'I'm afraid I just dursn't go round by your place, miss,' he said. 'I
must run all the way or the missus'll be terrible put out, though----'
'No, no,' interrupted the little lady. 'I wouldn't let you. Why, it
would be worse than owing the money for the ferrets if you got scolded
and lost your place perhaps----'
'I have it,' exclaimed the boy. 'If you don't mind comin' out a bit
farther up the road, you needn't have no lane at all. And I daresay
it'll be quicker in the end, for you'd almost have to _feel_ your way
along the lane by now--it is a very dark bit, I know. And I can run with
you till I put you on the straight path to the road.'
'Oh yes,' said Rosamond gladly, 'I'd far rather do that. Come along
quick then, Bob.'
He set off, running, though not nearly as fast as before, in front of
her, looking back every moment or two to see if she was following all
right. Neither spoke, as Rosamond did not want to waste either her own
or her companion's breath.
'I shall have to run as fast as ever I can when I get on to the smooth
road,' she thought.
So for upwards of a quarter of a mile the two trotted on in silence,
till Bob pulled up.
'Miss,' he said, 'this is where I have to turn.' As a matter of fact he
had been out of his way till now. 'If you go straight on, you can't miss
now. See,' and he pointed before him in the gloom, 'the hedge stops a
bit farther on, and there's a clear piece of grass on to the road.'
'Ye-es,' said Miss Mouse, peering before her, 'I think I see.'
'Anyway you'll see it all right as soon as you come to it, and you go
straight till then.'
'Yes, yes,' said Rosamond, anxious to see him off. 'Take care of the
money, Bob, and the first time we go to see your grandmother I shall
expect to hear from you that it's all right. Now, run off as fast as you
can and I will too.'
He started at a good pace, and as Miss Mouse trotted in the opposite
direction, from time to time she looked over her shoulder, till the
ever-lessening black speck that she knew to be Bob had altogether melted
into the gloom. Bob's eyes were keener than hers; as he ran, he too kept
glancing backwards to watch the little figure of the child towards whom
his wild but true heart was bursting with gratitude. He distinguished
her for some distance, and when he lost sight of her it seemed to be
rather suddenly, and for a moment or two, hurried though he was, he
stood still with a slight misgiving.
'I saw her half a minute ago,' he thought. 'She must have set to
running very fast. I hope nothing's wrong. She can't have fallen and
hurt herself,' and at the mere idea he had to put force on himself not
to rush back again to see. 'Oh no, it can't be that--why, if she'd hurt
herself, she'd have called out and I'd have heard her. It's got so
still--and oh, my, it's cold. I shouldn't wonder if it started snowing
before morning.'
And off set Bob again, with a lighter heart than if he had yielded to
his impulse and run back, setting his 'missus's' scolding at defiance,
to see that no misadventure had happened to his generous little lady.
Alas! this was what had happened--in the gloom, fast turning into night,
even out here on the open ground it was impossible to see clearly where
one was going. It was even more dangerous in a sense than if it had been
quite dark, for then Miss Mouse would have stepped more cautiously. But
as all was open before her she ran fearlessly, forgetting that here and
there across the white sandy path the low-growing little plants which
mingled with the heather and bracken sent a trail across to the other
side, in which nothing was easier than to catch one's foot. Once or
twice she nearly did so, but no harm coming of it, she paid no
attention to the momentary trip up, and ran on again fearlessly, even
faster than before. So that when a worse catch came--a long, sturdy
branch sprawling right across, which clutched at the dainty little foot,
refusing to let it go--she fell, poor darling, with a good deal of
violence, twisting her ankle as she did so in a way which hurt her
terribly. At first she thought she had broken her leg, but the pain went
off a little after she had lain still for a few minutes, and she began
to take heart again and managed to get up. It was really not a bad
sprain--scarcely a sprain at all--but she was tired and cold and a
little frightened, for it was now so dark, and the fall had jarred her
all over; her head felt giddy and confused.
What happened was not, I think, to be wondered at--poor Miss Mouse took
a wrong path, and instead of keeping straight on in the line Bob had
started her, she turned, without knowing it, almost directly sideways.
For two of the little paths crossed each other, as ill-luck would have
it, close to where she had fallen.
Her ankle was not so very painful; with care not to turn her foot in one
particular way, she found she could hobble on pretty well. But, oh dear,
how far off the road seemed! And Bob had told her she would reach it
in a few minutes. And _how_ cold it was--were those flakes of snow
falling on her face? She wished now that she had called out very loudly
when she fell-- Bob might have heard her; but she had been afraid of
getting him into great trouble at the farm if he had run back to her and
made himself so late. Now she began to feel as if that wouldn't have
mattered--Uncle Ted would have put it right somehow for him--nothing
would matter much if she _could_ but get to the road and know that home
was straight before her. Perhaps some cart would come past and she would
get the man to stop and take her in--for oh, she _was_ so tired! She
walked more and more slowly, and at last--
[Illustration: AND--WERE THOSE SNOW-FLAKES AGAIN?]
'I _must_ sit down and rest for a minute,' she thought, 'even if it is
cold, and p'raps if I can unfasten my boot, it wouldn't hurt so.'
Yes--it was delicious to sit still, even for a minute, and--were those
snow-flakes again, or leaves? No--it couldn't be leaves; there were no
trees about here--how stupid of her to think--to think what? Of course
it couldn't be leaves, or flakes--she was in bed. They--they couldn't
get in through the window, could they? She must be dreaming--how silly
she was--how----
* * * * *
'What is the matter? What do you say?' asked Mr. Hervey that evening
about eight o'clock, when, with a startled face, the footman came into
the drawing-room, where he and Mrs. Hervey and the three elder boys were
sitting.
'It's a groom from Caryll Place, if you please, sir,' the man replied.
'They've sent over to say as Miss Rosamond, little Miss Caryll, can't be
found, and do the young gentlemen know anything about it?'
All the Herveys started to their feet, with different exclamations of
distress.
'_Rosamond_, little Rosamond,' cried Mrs. Hervey.
'Miss Mouse _lost_!' exclaimed the boys, while Mr. Hervey went to the
door, and called to the Caryll Place groom, who was standing, anxious
and uneasy, at the door which led to the offices.
'What's all this?' he inquired.
The man came forward and told all there was to tell. Miss Rosamond had
been at Weadmere with Mrs. Caryll that afternoon, had driven home, had
her tea as usual, etc. All that we know already. But when the time came
for her to be dressed to go down to the dining-room, she was not to be
found. They had searched the house through, thinking she might be
playing some trick, though it wasn't like her to do so; then the
grounds, making inquiries at the cottages about--all in vain; and now he
had been sent off here with some hope--what, he did not know--that at
Moor Edge he might hear something.
'Of course not,' Mr. Hervey replied impatiently, for he was very
troubled and it made him cross, 'we should not have kept her here
without sending word at once.'
He glanced at the boys--they were all three standing there, pale-faced
and open-mouthed, Archie on the point of tears.
'Go back at once, and say we know nothing,' Mr. Hervey went on, 'but
that I am following with Mr. Justin to help in the search.'
'Papa, papa, mayn't we come too?' Pat and Archie entreated, but their
father shook his head, and in five minutes he and Jus were off in the
dog-cart to Caryll.
Justin was very silent.
'Can you think of anywhere she can be?' asked his father, 'or any
explanation? The child can't be stolen--what good would it do any one to
steal her?'
Justin was in some ways a slow-witted boy.
'I can't think of anything, I'm sure,' he said. But a confused feeling
was working at the back of his mind. _Could_ it have anything to do with
Bob and the ferrets? He knew that Bob was getting anxious as to paying
the rest of the money, though he did not know how bad this anxiety had
become--he knew, too, that he himself had been selfish and to some
extent deceitful in the matter. But he could not see clearly how the two
troubles could be mixed up, so he put the idea out of his mind, not
sorry to do so--that was Justin's way.
'No, I can't think of anything,' he repeated.
It had been snowing lightly, and now again a few flakes began to fall.
'Do you think it's coming on to snow, papa?' he inquired, partly to
change the subject, partly because it came into his mind--for he was not
a heartless boy--that _if_ Miss Mouse was lost anywhere out of doors a
snowstorm would certainly not mend matters.
Mr. Hervey looked up with some anxiety.
'No,' he said, 'I think not, and I certainly hope not if that poor child
is by any chance out of doors.'
They were soon at Caryll Place. Here all was miserable anxiety, for so
far no traces of the poor little girl were to be found, though there
were men out in all directions. Mr. Caryll had been out some distance
himself, but had just come back for a moment to see Aunt Mattie before
driving off to Weadmere to speak to the police. Aunt Mattie, choking
down her tears, repeated to Justin's father all there was to tell--how
Miss Mouse must have gone out of her own accord, as her warm cloak and
cap were missing, and how she had evidently not wanted any one to know,
adding, 'The _only_ thing at all unusual to-day was our meeting Bob Crag
in the town, and Rosamond may have been talking to him while I was in
the shop. _Can_ he have anything to do with it? Justin, you know him
well?'
She looked keenly at Justin, and she fancied he grew red. He hesitated
before answering.
'I-- I don't see how, auntie,' he said at last. Then he went on more
courageously. 'Bob is quite a good boy--he really is, though people
speak against him. I'm sure he _never_ would have tried to get money
from--from Miss Mouse, in any naughty way, or anything like that,' and,
in spite of himself, his voice faltered as he uttered the pet name of
their little friend.
His father turned upon him sharply.
'Get money from her,' he repeated. 'What do you mean? What put such a
thing in your head?'
'I-- I don't----' Justin was beginning, when Uncle Ted interrupted.
'I think we are wasting time,' he said; 'the whys and wherefores can be
gone into afterwards--the thing to do first is to find our poor darling.
If there is the least chance of the Crags knowing anything about her
some one had better go there at once. Mattie, I wonder you did not
mention the boy, Bob, having spoken to her this afternoon, before?'
'It only now came into my mind,' she replied gently. She was too unhappy
to feel hurt at Uncle Ted's tone; she knew he was so terribly unhappy
himself. Justin felt himself growing more and more miserable.
'Uncle Ted,' he exclaimed, 'may I go to the Crags? I can run very
quickly, and----.' But his uncle and father had already left the hall,
where they had all been standing, and had gone off again, probably to
give fresh orders in the stables. Only Aunt Mattie was still there, and
she had sat down on a chair by the large fire and was shading her eyes
with her hand. She was feeling dreadfully tired and more and more
wretched.
'If the darling has been out in the cold all this time,' she was saying
to herself, 'it is enough to kill her, even if no accident has happened
to her,' and all sorts of miserable thoughts came into her mind--of the
letters that might have to be written to Rosamond's father and mother,
telling--oh, it was too dreadful to think of _what_ might not have to be
told! She sat there motionless, except that now and then she shivered,
though not with cold. Justin saw that she was not thinking of or
noticing him at all, and he suddenly made up his mind to wait no longer.
He crossed the hall softly, and in another moment was out in the dark
drive in front of the house, unseen by any one. But once there, he
turned quickly, and ran, at the top of his speed, his eyes, as he went,
growing accustomed to the gloom, in the direction of the bit of lane
leading towards the moor, which Miss Mouse had traversed a few hours
earlier. Thence--as Justin knew well, even by the little light there
was--he could, by careful noticing of some landmarks, make his way to
the 'real' moor, as the boys called it, for the more or less grassy part
nearer Caryll Place they did not think worthy of the name, and reach the
Crags' cottage more quickly than it could be got to by the road.
He ran, steadily and not too fast, for he had a good deal of common
sense and did not want to exhaust his 'wind' before he had reached his
goal. And well it was that he kept his pace moderate and was able to
look about him as he ran, for it was lighter out here and he had good
eyes. What was that? A dark thick clump of--of what? No, there was
something different about this object, and, eager as he was to get to
his destination, the boy slackened his pace, hesitated, then dashed off,
at full speed this time, in the direction of the something that had
caught his sight.
Some snow had fallen, and now again flakes began to show themselves on
his jacket. There were white dashes, too, on the strange, motionless
shape he was making for. Was it setting in for a snowstorm? the boy
asked himself with a curious anxiety, for there are times at which our
thoughts seem to run before our reason. If so--and if--no, he would not
think of such dreadful things; he would first--he was running now too
fast to think--and--a minute more and he was stooping over the silent,
dead-still figure of the faithful little girl. For it was Miss Mouse,
her face as white as the snow, which, had it fallen already, as it was
now beginning to do, would have covered her more completely than the
robins covered the long-ago baby pair in the old forest; would have
hidden her till it was indeed too late.
'Thank God,' whispered Justin, as he thought this; and perhaps it was
the very first time he had _felt_ what these two words mean. But then
terror seized him again, was it already too late?
He rubbed her little hands, he called her by name, his hot boy's tears
fell on her cold white face. He did not yet understand how it had all
come about, but something seemed to tell him that his selfish
thoughtlessness had to do with it. But there was no answer, no movement.
'She will die,' he thought, 'if she is not dead. I must carry her.'
He lifted her, though with difficulty, and glanced about him. Oh, joy!
they were nearer Bob's cottage than he had thought; he stood still and
whistled, the peculiar 'call' his brothers and he used for each other,
and that Bob, too, knew. Then he moved on again, though but slowly--now
and then it seemed scarcely more than a totter, his legs trembled so,
and Rosamond was so strangely heavy. But it was not for long in reality,
though it seemed to him hours, before help reached him. A figure came
rushing across the moor, and a voice called out loudly,
'Who is it? What is the matter? It's not--oh, Master Justin, is it you?
And--no, no, don't say it's the little lady-- I've killed her, I've
killed her. It's all my fault.'
* * * * *
It was in kind old Nance's cottage that the little girl came back to
consciousness. Bob's grandmother was clever and skilful, and, though
sadly alarmed at first, soon saw that the two boys' very natural terror
was greater than need be. The child was in a sort of stupor from cold
and fright and pain too, for her ankle had swelled badly by this time,
from the pressure of her boot. But careful management brought her round,
and she was soon able to look about her and to drink the wonderful herb
tea of some kind which Nance prepared. And then she sat up and explained
what she could of how the misadventure had come to pass, helped by Bob,
whom she glanced at doubtfully, till he said out manfully,
'Tell it all, miss, tell it all. It's me that's to blame, only me.'
But no, it was not only at poor Bob's door that lay the blame, and so
Justin well knew, and so Justin had the honesty to confess when the
anxiety and distress were to some extent past, though for a few days
great care had to be taken of little Rosamond.
It would be difficult to describe the joy with which Uncle Ted carried
her off to the carriage waiting at the nearest point on the road,
wrapped up in his strong arms so that she _couldn't_ get chilled again,
or Aunt Mattie and the Herveys' delight at the happy news of the little
lost one being found. These things are more difficult to _tell_ than to
picture to oneself.
So, too, it would be difficult to relate the change in Justin which
those who cared for him always dated from the night on which Miss Mouse
was lost--the night of which, had worse come of it to the kind little
girl, he would never have been able to think without misery beyond
words.
The ferrets were paid for, of course, though not with Rosamond's money,
which was now happily spent on her Christmas presents. But though paid
for, Justin's pets were soon sold again, and replaced by some more
lovable and attractive creatures, whom his mother and Miss Mouse and
everybody could take pleasure in too. I rather think the new treasures
were some particularly pretty guinea-pigs--curly-haired ones; though to
be quite sure of this I should have to apply to some boys and girls of
my acquaintance whose grandfather has often told them the long-ago story
of Miss Mouse and the good that came of her gentle influence on him and
his brothers when they were all children together.
And dear Miss Mouse herself--what of her? Where is she now? It is so
many years ago, is she still alive?
Yes. I have nothing sad with which to end my little story. She is now,
what most of you, I daresay, would consider a very old lady, for her
hair is quite white, though her pretty gray eyes are as clear as ever.
Not that they have not known tears, those kind eyes, many tears, I
daresay, for the sorrows of others more than for her own, perhaps. Life
would not be what it has to be, what God means it to be, without tears
as well as smiles.
And Bob Crag. You will not be surprised to hear that Uncle Ted took him
thoroughly in hand, and that the wild but affectionate boy grew up to be
a good and useful man.
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Patteson for the Young.) Globe 8vo. 2s. 6d.
MACMILLAN AND CO., LTD., LONDON.
End of Project Gutenberg's Miss Mouse and Her Boys, by Mrs. Molesworth