'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.'