"Ye seem to be doing right well to-day, judging by your face,"
exclaimed the hearty voice of Farmer Jarrett, as he encountered Mrs.
McDougall in the market-place.
"Yes, I'm thankful to say it," Mrs. McDougall replied. "I was just
about to go and buy a thing or two. Ye're no waiting for me, are
you?"
"No, not that," the farmer returned. "I've a bit of business myself
to be looking after. But we'd best be on our road before long. The
sky doesna look so very well."
Mrs. McDougall packed up her baskets one in the other, and stowed
them away in the cart. She had sold everything but a few bundles of
beans, and was well content. So she trudged off to buy some yarn and
some homespun tweed where she could get the most for her money.
When she returned, she found the horse harnessed, and Farmer Jarrett
seated in his cart. She jumped up with a word or two of apology, and
they started on their homeward way.
"I've been a bit extravagant," she said presently. "I've bought a
book for Elsie's birthday next month, and a pretty silk tie."
"The wee bit lassie'll be just wild with delight," the farmer said,
kindly.
"She's getting a big lassie, and she's over-proud of her appearance,"
Mrs. McDougall said, not without a touch of pride. "It does no good
to encourage vanity, but I wouldn't have her always longing for
pretty things, so she shall just wear this tie to the kirk on the
Sabbath Day. Her grannie would just give in to the bairn, and let her
gang her own way altogether."
"The old are apt to be foolish with their grandchildren," the farmer
replied. "Yet your mother was a strict woman, and a good mother."
"That's a true word," Mrs. McDougall replied.
"And the poor old wifie must be just contented and happy, spending
her last days with you and the bairns. With Nannie dead, and Dugald
in a far land, she might have come to want. You've had your troubles,
but you're not without a recompense. The brave and industrious find
many a blessing."
For to a Scottish woman few things would seem more dreadful than for
her mother to come to want--the tie of relationship is so strong and
sacred.
Talking in this sober fashion, the farmer and his neighbour jogged on
until they reached the skirts of the moor, soon after six o'clock.
"We've escaped the rain," said the farmer; "but to all appearance, it
won't hold off much longer."
Presently Mrs. McDougall alighted, and with a few words of thanks,
turned up the pathway leading to her own cottage. To her surprise,
she found grannie and Robbie standing at the gate, peering along the
road.
"Am I late?" she exclaimed. "You weren't thinking I was lost, were
you?"
"It's the bairns we were looking for," quavered the old woman.
"They're not home from school yet, an' there's no milk for your
supper, for I would no trust Robbie alone."
"Of course not," Mrs. McDougall said, hastily; "but they should ha'
been home long ago. They would not loiter on the way all this time,
surely."
"That's what I've been thinking," the old woman returned. "Could any
harm come to them?"
"Of course it could. Ye need not doubt that," said Mrs. McDougall. "I
must go right away, and see after them; but I am just tired, and
that's the truth."
"You'll sit down, Meg, and have a bit o' something first," the old
woman said anxiously, hovering round in speechless sympathy.
"No, no; I'll just go at once," Mrs. McDougall returned, setting down
her baskets.
She tramped off quickly along the dusty road in the direction of
Dunster. Presently some great drops of rain began to fall, and in a
few minutes it came down in a perfect torrent. Still she trudged on,
her heart filled with dim foreboding fears. Such a thing had never
happened before. It would soon be getting dark. Could it be possible
they had kept the children at school as a punishment? If so, it was
shameful to leave them to come along that lonely road at such an
hour, and she would not use mild words in telling them so.
At last she arrived at the school-house. It was closed and dark. She
knocked at the mistress's cottage, and then learnt, to her horror and
dismay, that the children had never been to school at all that day.
The poor creature stood for a moment in utter bewilderment.
What was the next thing to be done? Ah! that was a difficulty indeed.
It was not far to the village. She would go there, and inquire of her
few acquaintances if they could help her. So she turned away and
started off again in the rain, quite forgetting now that she was
tired, and hungry, and wet.
It was dark by the time she reached the village shop. Her friend who
kept it had not seen the children since yesterday, when she gave them
a piece of pudding. There was nothing for it but to tramp home, in
the hope that they had returned.
But only disappointment awaited her. They were not there. Then she
went up into their little rooms, and found that they had worn their
best clothes, and had taken all their pennies out of their
money-boxes. For the first time then the dreadful suspicion entered
her head that they had run away.
But for what purpose? That was what she could not make out. The only
thing that occurred to her was that they might have wanted to go and
see the market, and spend their money--that they had walked there,
and perhaps--who could tell?--lost their way.
The more she thought of it, the more she felt sure that this could be
the only solution to the mystery.
It was a certain amount of comfort to have some definite idea to go
to work upon, but even then there were so many possibilities of
danger that the poor woman shuddered as she thought of it.
Well, there was nothing to be done but to start off again. It was now
quite dark, and pouring with rain. Mrs. McDougall was already very
wet, but she never gave it a thought. She walked briskly along the
road leading in the opposite direction from the one to Dunster. Every
now and then she stopped and listened intently, peering among the
trees that skirted the road or across the expanse of moor. She only
met one person, an old woman, trudging along in the rain, and at last
she had arrived at the town she had left only a few hours before,
which lay ten miles distant from her own cottage.
Only to find fresh disappointment. No one could give her the least
information. They had not been seen in the place, so far as she could
learn, and so there was nothing to be done but to tramp back again
all that weary ten miles.
Yes, one thing. It seemed a dreadful step, but it must be done. She
was face to face with the fact that the children were lost, and the
chance of finding them that night was now small indeed. With a few
inquiries she found her way to the police-station, and there she told
her story--told it with a grim soberness on her face that might have
passed for unconcern with those stupid people, who think that what
they cannot read has no existence.
"They'll be found, never fear," said a kindly policeman. "To-morrow
morning the description will be telegraphed to every town in the
country. There'll be posters out everywhere, and they can't fail to
be found by some one."
"To-morrow morning! And what about to-night?" Mrs. McDougall asked.
"Nothing can be done to-night! it's nearly eleven now," the man
replied. "You just go home, and don't worry. They're safe somewhere,
I'll be bound--perhaps nearer at hand than you have any idea of."
It was true enough: there was nothing further to be done--nothing but
to tramp back with that heavy load of care and the dread of terrors
too great to put into words.
So she took her way home again. It was long past midnight when she
reached the cottage. Grannie was waiting up, crooning to herself over
the fire. On the table lay the book and the tie bought for Elsie's
birthday.
Mrs. McDougall took them up hastily, and put them out of sight. "Go
to bed, mother," she said; "they'll be home to-morrow."
"I'm glad o' that; it's all well, then," she said, quite
unsuspiciously. "You're upset, Meg. It's been a shock to you."
"I'm tired. I'll get a bit of supper and rest a bit," Mrs. McDougall
returned. Her eyes were red and ringed, and had a look in them worse
than the look of tears.
The old woman went off to bed, and Mrs. McDougall sat down by the
fire, though not to eat. All night she sat listening, and many a time
she got up and walked out to the gate, peering through the darkness,
in the fancy that she had caught some sound.
Still the rain poured down, the night dragged on, and the children
were, as we know, far enough away.