“How unfortunate! And ‘Kitty’”—stroking the mare’s neck—“is weary too. But perhaps you know the way—try and look.”
He did look round to please her, but with little hope. It was not indeed dark—unless there are clouds, the nights of summer are not dark—but the dimness that results from uncertain definition was equally bewildering. The vales were full of white mist; the plains visible near at hand grew vague as the eye tried to trace a way across. The hills, just where the ridges rose high, could be seen against the sky, but the ranges mingled and the dark slopes faded far away into the mist. Each looked alike—there was no commanding feature to fix the vision; hills after hills, grey shadowy plains, dusky coombes and valleys, dimly seen at hand and shapeless in the distance. Then he stooped and searched in vain for continuous ruts or hoof marks or any sign of track. She watched him earnestly.
“It is difficult to make out,” he said. “You know I am a stranger to these Downs.”
“Yes, yes; what shall we do? I shall not reach Greene Ferne to-night.”
“I will try very hard,” he said, venturing to take her hand. But in his heart he was doubtful.
Chapter Six.
Night.
Margaret did not remove her hand from Geoffrey’s grasp, partly because her mind was occupied with the difficulties of the position, partly because she naturally relied upon him. That position, trying to her, was pleasurable enough to Geoffrey, but he was too loyal to prolong it.