“Yes, ma’am—he started to ride to Appleton about half-past one o’clock”—
“To ride in such weather!”
“Yes, ma’am—he would go—and the Squire not being at home I could not hinder him—and now the pony’s just galloped into the yard, and”—
“Mary, dearest, don’t look so frightened!” cries Mildred, fearing her cousin is going to faint. “I daresay he got off to walk and warm himself, and the pony broke away—Bertie rides so well, he would not be likely to have a fall”—
“But the snow! Isn’t it quite deep in some places, James?”
“Yes, ma’am—six or seven feet they say in the drifts, though most part of the road was pretty clear this morning. But it’s been snowing heavily these two hours and more, and nearly as dark as night—and Grey Plover must have been down some time or other, for when he came in the saddle was all over snow!”
Mrs. Chetwynd gives a gasp, and for a moment her cousin thinks her senses are going, but with a brave struggle she rallied her powers.
“James, you and the gardeners had better go off at once, two of you try each road to Appleton, to meet Master Bertie. Alice dear, run up to the house, and fill father’s flask with a cordial—and see that they take it, and—and a blanket—and tell some one to go and meet your father—he will know best what to do—I must go myself to look for my boy—God help me—what shall I do if he has come to harm?”
“You cannot walk, darling,” and Mildred tenderly leads her to one of the open seats, and strokes her hands in loving but vain efforts at encouragement—“don’t imagine anything bad till it comes—Bertie is sure to have taken some of the dogs with him, and they would have come home to tell us if anything were wrong!”