Chapter Twenty One.
A Mountain Mist.
Three days later a wagonette was chartered from Rew, to drive the diminished party to the scene of the haunted castle. Margot felt rather shy in the position of the only lady, but a mild proposition that she should stay at home had been so vigorously vetoed that she had nothing more to say.
“If one clergyman, plus one brother, plus one bald-headed veteran, aren’t sufficient chaperons for one small girl, things are coming to a pretty pass indeed!” protested the Chieftain vigorously. “If you stay at home, we all stay, so that’s settled, and the disappointment and upset will be on your head. Why all this fuss, I should like to know? One might think you were shy.”
Margot pouted, and wriggled her shoulders inside her white blouse.
“I am shy!”
“You are, are you? Hadn’t noticed it before. Of whom, if one may ask?”
She turned at that, and walked back to the inn, nose in air, but thereafter there were no more demurs.
It was indeed a very decorous little party which sat in two rows of three, facing each other in the wagonette during the eight-mile drive. The clergyman and the Chieftain, with Margot between them; and opposite, the three dreamers: the Editor, Ron, and young Mr Menzies,—each apparently too much immersed in his own thoughts to care for conversation. Margot was quite thankful when the drive came to an end, outside castle walls, grim and grey, but imposing as ever, though they were in reality but a shell, surrounding a plot of innocent green grass. There were isolated towers still standing, however, approached by winding stone stairways, and short lengths of walks along the ramparts, and quaint little barred windows through which one could view the surrounding country. When Margot thrust her pretty laughing face through one of these latter to greet her friends below, every photographer among them insisted upon snap-shotting her then and there, and for a good half-hour she was kept busy, posing in various attitudes, to give the desired touch of life to the pictures.
Photography over, the next duties were to partake of lunch and to wander round the small, and it must be confessed somewhat uninteresting little village; then,—since the return home counted as one of the chief attractions in the programme—the little party broke up into two, the clergyman and his son preferring the longer route, round by the roads, the other four to take the short—cut across the moors.
A five-mile walk across the moors! Given health, settled skies, and congenial society, it would be difficult to name a more exhilarating occupation for a summer afternoon; but, truth to tell, the weather had taken a decided turn for the worse since midday, and it needed some optimism to set forth on a long exposed walk.
The subject had been discussed at lunch with special reference to Margot, as the only lady of the party; but, as she aptly observed, she was bound to get back somehow, and, as a choice of evils, preferred to walk through rain, rather than sit still to be soaked through and through on the seat of the wagonette. It was therefore decided to make an early start, and allow no loitering by the way; but when the village had been left about a mile behind an unexpected delay occurred. The Chieftain thrust his hands into his pockets, and stopped short in the middle of the road, with an expression of dismay.
“Eh, what! Here’s a fine kettle of fish! Where’s my bunch of keys? They were here as safe as houses, a few minutes back. I was jingling tunes on them as we passed the school. You heard me jingling ’em! Dropped them on the road, I suppose, and walked on like a blind bat. Serves me right to have to turn back to find ’em. Can’t lose my keys, you know. Got to find them somehow, or there’ll be the mischief to pay. You’ll have to go on, George, and take Miss Vane with you. There’s no time for conundrums, if you want to get home dry.” He looked towards Ron with questioning eyebrows. “Feel inclined to keep me company? I don’t fancy that walk by my lonesome.”
“Of course I do. I should not think of leaving you behind by yourself, sir,” returned Ron eagerly. “We can’t have far to go, and we can soon catch up the others, if we make a sprint for it. Go on, Margot. We’ll be after you in no time.”
In the circumstances there was nothing else to be done, nor indeed, after a long morning spent in wandering about as a party, was Margot inclined to quarrel with the fate which provided an interesting tête-à-tête for the walk home. She contented herself with expressing profuse sympathy for the Chieftain’s loss, and with prophesying cheerfully that the keys were certain to be found, then promptly dismissed the subject from her mind, and gave herself up to the enjoyment of the moment.
“I really think we are wise not to wait about,” George Elgood said, in accents of self-vindication, as they moved on together. “The glass is high, but I don’t like the look of things, all the same, and for your sake shall be glad when we are nearer home. Are you pretty warmly dressed, if the rain should come on?”
“Don’t I look it? I couldn’t possibly have anything more suitable than this tweed coat and skirt. It doesn’t matter how wet it gets. It won’t spoil.”
“I was thinking about your own comfort, not of the clothes. You never carry an umbrella with you, I notice!”
“I can’t be bothered! Showers are such an everyday occurrence up here, that one would be doing nothing else. I rather like the feel of the rain on my face, and besides,”—she laughed mischievously, “it’s good for the complexion!”
“Is that so?” he asked gravely, his dark eyes dwelling on the soft, rounded cheeks, which grew a shade more pink beneath his gaze. Suddenly his lips twitched, with the one-sided, humorous smile which brought the youth into his face. “I don’t think the need in that direction is so pressing that it could not be postponed with advantage, for to-day at least. Do you mind walking fairly quickly? I shall feel more comfortable when we are nearer home.”
Margot was serenely indifferent whether it rained or not, but none the less she appreciated the Editor’s care for her welfare, which showed itself in a dozen little graceful acts during the first part of their walk. For one unaccustomed to women’s society he was marvellously observant, and Margot felt a sweeter satisfaction in being so protected than in all her former independence. They climbed the hillside which led to the moor and set out radiantly to traverse the grey expanse; grey and cheerless to-day in very deed, with a thick, blanket-like dampness in the atmosphere of which dwellers in southern climes are happily ignorant.
George Elgood turned up the collar of his coat, and Margot thrust her hands into her pockets, shivering slightly the while, but neither made any complaint in words. As usual, it was left to Margot to do most of the talking; but though her companion’s responses were short, they were yet so sympathetic and appreciative, that there was never any difficulty in finding a fresh subject. Like most couples with whom friendship is fast making way for a warmer emotion, personal topics were the most appreciated, and what was happening in the world—the discoveries of science, the works of the great writers—palled in interest before sentences beginning with, “I think,” and, “Do you think?”
“I wish—”
“Have you ever wished—?”
They looked at each other as they spoke, with bright, questioning glances, which seemed ever to hail some precious new discovery of mind, drawing them closer and closer together. The hour of
enchantment had come, when they moved in a world of their own, unconscious of external accidents. The moisture hung in dewdrops on the Editor’s cap, Margot’s hair curled damply on her forehead; but they felt neither cold nor discomfort. It was unusually dark for the time of day, and had grown mysteriously darker during the last half-hour; but visitors to the Highlands become philosophically resigned to sudden and unpleasant atmospheric changes, and fall into the way of ignoring them as far as possible.
It was only when they reached a point in the moor from whence the ground sloped sharply downward towards the Glen that they awoke to the consciousness of danger, for instead of a rolling stretch of green surrounded by purple hills, they seemed to be looking down into a cauldron of floating mist and steam, blocking out the view, confusing the eyes, and slowly but surely concealing the familiar landmarks.
Margot and the Editor stopped short with simultaneous exclamations of dismay, then wheeled quickly round, to see what lay behind. Here indeed the fog was much less dense, but the distance was already obliterated, while long, smoke-like tendrils of mist were closing in on every hand. The signs which they had noted had portended something worse than rain; something which the dwellers in moorland regions learn to fear and dread above all other phenomena,—a mountain mist!
George Elgood’s face was eloquent with self-reproach.
“This is my fault! Where were my eyes, that I did not see what was happening? The darkness should have warned me long ago. I am horribly ashamed of myself, Miss Vane!”
“You needn’t be. It’s as much my fault as yours. I did notice the damp on my face, but I thought it was rain. What are we to do?”
It was a simple question, but terribly difficult to answer. With every moment those rolling masses of mist settled down more densely over the hillsides. To walk forward was to walk blindfold over a treacherous country; to return seemed hardly more propitious, though as a choice of evils it was the one to be preferred.
“We must go back. We can’t have come more than two or three miles. We must get back, and drive round by the road. Probably we shall meet Geoffrey and your brother en route!”
Even as he spoke the Editor turned and led the way towards the little village which had been left behind less than an hour before. There was no time to waste, for the darkness was increasing, and the clammy dankness of the air struck to the very marrow.
“I shall never forgive myself if you suffer through this. It was my business to look after you. There’s only this slight excuse—that we were mounting towards the highest part of the moor, which was naturally the clearest. The mist seems to have gathered from all around.”
Margaret looked and shivered, but hastened to appease his anxiety.
“I think we did notice, but as we were expecting rain, a little mistiness was natural. We could not tell that it was going to spread like this. Never mind! It will be quite an adventure to brag about when we are back in town. ‘Lost on the Scotch moors! Tourists disappear in a mist!’ It would make a thrilling headline, wouldn’t it?”
She laughed as she spoke, but the laugh had rather a forced tone. Suddenly she became conscious that she was tired and chilled, that her coat was soaked, and her boots heavy with damp. Though only a few paces away, the figure of her companion was wreathed with tendrils of mist; they were floating round her also; blinding her eyes, catching her breath, sending fresh shivers down her back. A pang of fear shot through her at the thought of what might lie ahead.
Like two grey ghosts they struggled onward through the gloom.