Chapter Twenty Two.
Lost on the Moor.
George Elgood’s haste to reach the end of the moor gave wings to his feet, so that Margot had much ado to keep pace. Contrary to expectation, the fog did not lessen as they advanced, but closed in upon them thicker and thicker, so that the ground beneath their feet became invisible, and progress was broken by sundry trips and stumbles over projecting mounds of heather. The air seemed to reek with moisture, and a deadly feeling of oppression, almost of suffocation, affected the lungs, as the curling wreath of mist closed overhead.
Half an hour earlier Margot had felt that any sort of adventure (if experienced in George Elgood’s company) must of necessity be enjoyable, but during that swift silent retreat she was conscious of a dawning of something perilously like fear. Her breath came in quickened pants, she kept her eyes fixed in a straining eagerness on the tall figure looming darkly ahead. If she once lost sight of him, what would become of her? It made her shudder to think of being left alone upon that shrouded moor!
Every now and then as he walked, the Editor gave voice to a loud “coo-ee,” in hope that the echoes might reach the ears of his brother and Ronald, who should by now be approaching in the same direction; but no reply floated back to his anxious ears.
“Perhaps they have gone round by the road,” he suggested tentatively. “If they were some time in following, they may have seen the fog, and come to the conclusion that discretion was the better part of valour.”
“Ron wouldn’t go another way if he thought I was in danger! He promised father to take care of me. I know he will come.”
“Then we are bound to meet; unless—” George Elgood stopped short hurriedly. It was not for him to open his companion’s eyes to the fact that the direction which they were taking had become a matter of speculation, as one after another the familiar landmarks faded from view.
The two brothers might pass by within a few yards, or their paths might diverge by miles, but in either case they would be equally invisible. The only hope was to go on sending out the familiar cry, which would at once prove their identity. “Not that we should be any better off with them than without!” he told himself dolefully.
Margot did not ask for a completion of the unfinished sentence, perhaps because she guessed only too truly its import. A few steps farther on her foot came in contact with a stone hidden beneath a clump of furze; she stumbled, tried in vain to recover herself, and fell forward on her knees. The shock and the severe pricking which ensued forced a cry of dismay, and the Editor turned back hurriedly, and uttered a startled inquiry.
“Miss Vane, where are you?”
“I’m here!” replied a doleful voice, and a dark form stirred at his feet. “I—fell! On a horrid bush! My hands are full of prickles.”
“I’ll light a match while you get them out. It’s my fault. I might have guessed what would happen. I’d like to kick myself for being so thoughtless.”
“Please don’t! We don’t want any more tribulations. I—I’m quite all right!” cried Margot, with tremulous bravery. The flicker of a match showed a pale face, and two little hands grimed with dust and earth. She brushed them hastily together, and peered up into his face. “It’s pretty thick, isn’t it?”
“Abominably thick! I have heard of the sudden way in which these mountain mists come on, but I’ve never been in one before. I could kick myself once more for not having noticed it sooner. I suppose I was too much absorbed in our conversation.”
The match died out, and there was a moment’s silence, in which Margot seemed to hear the beating of her own heart. Then in the darkness a hand lifted hers, and placed it against an arm which felt reassuringly solid.
“You must let me help you along. A moor is not the easiest place in the world to cross in the dark. You won’t mind my shouts? I want to let the other fellows know where we are, if they are within hearing.”
“Oh, I don’t mind. I’ll shout, too! They must be near. It seems ridiculous that we can’t see each other.”
But still no answering cry came back, and Margot’s sense of comfort in the supporting arm gradually gave place to a revival of her first dread. She shivered, and swallowed a lump in her throat before daring a fateful question.
“Mr Elgood, do you know—have you the faintest idea where we are going?”
His arm tightened over her hand, but he made no attempt at prevarication.
“No, I haven’t! For the last five or ten minutes it has been purely guess-work.”
“We may be going in the wrong direction, or round and round in a circle!”
“We may—I am afraid it is more than probable. I have been thinking that it might be better to stay where we are. We can’t have strayed very far out of the course as yet, but—” Again he stopped, and this time Margot completed the sentence.
“I know! It’s not safe to wander about when we can’t see what is ahead. I’ve been thinking the same thing. We had better sit down and wait. They will come to look for us. I’m sure they will come, and there’s a cottage somewhere near, where we have been for milk. That’s another chance. If we keep calling the people, they may hear us.”
“Oh yes, yes! Some one will hear, or the mist will rise as suddenly as it fell. It will be only for a short time,” returned the Editor sturdily. “Now look here—the ground is soaking—you can’t possibly sit on it without something underneath. If you could spare your cape it would serve us both as a rug, and I’m going to wrap you up in my coat.”
He loosened his arm, as if to take off the said coat forthwith, but Margot’s fingers tightened their grasp in very determined fashion.
“You are not! I won’t wear it. I absolutely refuse to do any such thing. How can you suggest such a horridly selfish arrangement—I to wear your coat, while you sit shivering in shirt-sleeves? Never! I’d rather freeze!”
“Put it the other way. Am I, a man, to hug my coat, and let a girl sit on the soaking grass? How do you suppose I should feel? I’d rather freeze, too!”
Margot gave a quavering little laugh.
“It seems to me we have a pretty good chance of doing it—coat or no coat. If I am a girl, I’m a healthy one, and I must take my chance. Did you happen to put your newspaper in your pocket this morning? That would be better than nothing.”
“Of course I did! That will do capitally. What a blessing you thought of it! There! Sit down quickly, and I’ll pull a bit down under your feet. Can’t I wrap that cape more tightly round you? And the hood? Hadn’t you better have the hood up?”
“Yes, please! I had forgotten the hood. That will be cosy!”
Margot’s cold cheeks flamed with sudden colour as she felt the touch of careful fingers settling the hood round head and face, and fumbling for the hook under the chin. At that moment at least cold was not the predominant sensation! There was a short silence while the Editor seated himself by her side, and felt in his pockets.
“You won’t mind if I smoke?”
“I shall like it, especially if you have fusees. I love the smell of fusees! You don’t ask me to have a cigarette, I notice, and yet it is fashionable for girls to smoke nowadays. How did you know that I didn’t?”
“I did know! I can hardly tell why, but I am thankful for it, all the same. I am too old-fashioned to care for smoking women. A girl loses her charm when she apes a man’s habits.”
“Yes. I agree. I am sorry I am not a man, but as I’m a girl I prefer to be a real one, and have my clothes smelling sweet and violety, instead of like a fusty railway carriage. But men seem to find smoke soothing at times. I wish I had a feminine equivalent of it just now. It’s a little bit frightening to sit still and stare into this blank white wall. Couldn’t you tell me something interesting to pass the time?”
“It’s a little difficult to be ‘interesting’ to order. What particular kind of narrative would distract you best?”
“Oh—something about yourself. Something you have done, or felt, or planned for another day. I’m so interested in people!” returned Margot, wrapping the folds of her cloak more closely round her, and slipping her hands deep down into the inside pockets. “Have you had any thrilling experiences or adventures that you don’t mind speaking about? The more thrilling the better, please, for my feet are so cold!”
She shivered, in involuntary childish fashion, and George Elgood sighed profoundly.
“This is about the biggest adventure I’ve had. I was once snowed up for a night in a rest-house on one of the Swiss mountains, but we had every ordinary comfort, and knew exactly where we were, so that it didn’t amount to much, after all. I was going up with my guide, and met another party of two brothers and a sister coming down, and we all took shelter together, while one of the guides returned to the village, to let the people in the hotel know of our safety. When the door was open the prospect was sufficiently eerie, but we made a fire and brewed tea, and passed the time pleasantly enough. The worst part of it was that I had to give up the ascent next day, as there was too much snow to make it prudent to go on.”
“Oh! Yes! Was she pretty?”
She felt, rather than saw, his start of surprise.
“Who?”
“The sister. You said there was a girl in the other party.”
“I’m sure I don’t know! I didn’t notice.”
“Don’t you care how people look?”
“It doesn’t interest me, unless I am already attracted in other ways. At least—” he hesitated conscientiously. “I used not to be. I think I am growing more noticing. Geoff always said I needed to be awakened to the claims of beauty. I understand now that it may be a great additional charm.”
How did he understand? Who or what had increased his power of observation? Margot hoped that she knew; longed to be certain, yet dreaded the definite information. In a little flurry of nervousness she began to talk volubly on her own account, hoping thereby to ward off embarrassing explanations.
“I seem fated to come in for adventures. I went over to Norway one summer, and the engines broke down half-way across the North Sea, and at the same time all the electric lights went out. It was terribly rough, and we rolled for a couple of hours—the longest hours I have ever known! The partitions of the cabins did not quite reach to the roof, and you could hear the different conversations going on all round. In a dreary kind of way I realised that they were very funny, and that I should laugh over them another day. Quite near us were two jolly English schoolboys, who kept ordering meals all the next day, and shouting out details to a poor sister who was lying terribly ill in the next cabin ‘Monica, we are having bacon! Have a bit of bread soaked in fat?’ Then Monica would groan—a heartrending groan, and they would start afresh. ‘Buck up, Monica—try a muffin!’ At lunch-time they pressed roast beef and Yorkshire pudding upon her, and she groaned louder than ever. She was ill, poor girl. In Norway there was an alarm of fire in one of those terrible wooden hotels, and we all jumped on each other’s balconies to get to the outside staircases. It was soon extinguished, but it was a very bad scare. And now this is the third. Mr Elgood, do coo-ee again! Ron must be looking for me, unless he is lost himself.”
The Editor put his hands to his mouth and sent forth a succession of long-drawn-out calls, which seemed as though they must surely be heard for miles around, but in the silence which followed no note of reply could be heard. In the face of such continued disappointment, Margot had not the courage to go on making conversation, but relapsed into a dreary silence, which was broken only by the gentle puff-puff of the Editor’s pipe. In the darkness and silence neither took note of time, or realised how it sped along. Only by physical sensations could it be checked, but gradually these became disagreeably pressing.
Margot’s feet were like ice, her fingers so cold as to be almost powerless; but as the minutes passed slowly by the active discomfort was replaced by a feeling of drowsy indifference. She seemed to have been sitting for years staring into a blank white wall, and had no longer any desire to move from her position. It was easier to sit still, and wait upon Fate.
Beneath the veil of darkness her head drooped forward, and she swayed gently from side to side. For some time these movements were so slight as to pass unnoticed by her companion, but as the drowsiness increased the muscles seemed to lose control, the swayings became momentarily more pronounced, until she tilted violently over, to recover herself with a jerk and a groan. Then indeed George Elgood was startled into anxious attention.
“What is it? What is the matter? Are you in pain?”
The inarticulate murmur which did duty for reply seemed only to whet anxiety still further.
“Miss Vane, are you ill? For pity’s sake tell me what is wrong!”
Another murmur sounded faintly in his ear, followed by an incoherent—“I’m only—asleep! So—very—tired!”
With a sharp exclamation the Editor leapt upwards, and the drowsy Margot felt herself suddenly hoisted to her feet by a pair of strong arms. The arms retained their hold of her even after she was erect, shaking her to and fro with almost painful energy.
“But you must not sleep! Margot, Margot, awake! I can’t let you sleep. It is the worst thing you could do. Speak to me, Margot. Tell me you understand. Margot! Darling! Oh, do rouse yourself, and try to understand!”
Margot never forgot that moment, or the wonder of it. She seemed to herself to be wandering in a strange country, far, far away from the solid tangible earth—a land of darkness and dreams, of strange, numbing unreality. Her eyes were open, yet saw nothing: impalpable chains fettered her limbs, so that they grew stiff and refused to move; an icy coldness crept around her heart. Hearing, like the other senses, was dulled, yet through the throbbing silence a sound had penetrated, bringing with it a thrill of returning life. Some one had called “Margot” in a tone she had never heard before. Some one had said, “Darling!”
Back through the fast-closing mists of unconsciousness Margot’s soul struggled to meet her mate. Her fingers tightened feebly on his, and her cold lips breathed a reply.
“Yes—I am here! Do you want me?”
Something like a sob sounded in the Editor’s throat.
“Do I want you? My little Margot! Did I ever want anything before? Come, I will warm your little cold hands. I will lead you every step of the way. You can’t sit here any longer to perish of cold. We will walk on, and ask God to guide our feet. Lean on me. Don’t be afraid!”
Then the dream became a moving one, in which she was borne forward encircled by protecting arms; on and on; unceasingly onward, with ever-increasing difficulty and pain.
George Elgood never knew whether he hit, as he supposed, a straight road forward, or wandered aimlessly over the same ground. His one care was to support his companion, and to test each footstep before he took it; for the rest, he had put himself in God’s hands, with a simple faith which expected a reply; and when at last the light of the cottage windows shone feebly through the mist his thankfulness was as great as his relief.
As for Margot, she was too completely exhausted to realise relief; she knew only a shrinking from the light, from the strange watching face; a deathly sensation as of falling from a towering height, before darkness and oblivion overpowered her, and she lay stretched unconscious upon the bed.