Catharine cried out—
"It's hers! It's Hester's!"
She took the bag from Mary, and shook the snow from it. It was a small dressing-bag of green leather and on it appeared the initials—"H. F.-W."
They looked at each other speechless. The old man hastened to explain that on opening the gate which led to the house from the lane his foot had stumbled against something on the path. By the light of his lantern he had seen it was a bag of some sort, had picked it up and brought it in.
"She was in the carriage!" said Mary, under her breath, "and must have just pushed this inside the gate before—"
Before she went to her death? Was that what would have to be added? For there was horror in both their minds. The mountains at the head of Long Whindale run up to no great height, but there are plenty of crags on them with a sheer drop of anything from fifty to a hundred feet. Ten or twenty feet would be quite enough to disable an exhausted girl. Five hours since she was last seen!—and since the storm began; four hours, at least, since thick darkness had descended on the valley.
"We must do something at once." Catharine addressed the old man in quick, resolute tones. "We must get a party together."
But as she spoke there were further sounds outside—of trampling feet and voices—vying with the storm. Mary ran into the hall. Two figures appeared in the porch in the light of the lamp as she held it up, with a third behind them, carrying luggage. In front stood Meynell, and an apparently fainting woman, clinging to and supported by his arm.
"Help me with this lady, please!" said Meynell, peremptorily, not recognizing who it was holding the light. "This last little climb has been too much for her. Alice!—just a few steps more!"
And bending over his charge, he lifted the frail form over the threshold, and saw, as he did so, that he was placing her in Mary's arms.