CHAPTER VII

A STERN CHASE

WITH concealed rapture Phyllys heard of the promised visit to Castle Hill; and nothing was further from her expectations than to set eyes again on Giles before going. She hardly even wished to do so. There was so much to do and to think about during the next three weeks.

With Giles things were otherwise. He found himself unable to rest without another glimpse.

He did not yet say to himself that Phyllys might be more than cousin. He only knew that he could not get her out of his thoughts; that no sooner was he away from Midfell than he wanted to get back.

For five days he held out, determined not to act upon impulse. Then a member of his host's family fell seriously ill; and visitors took themselves off. Giles had a shooting engagement in the Highlands a week later, and nothing between. He resolved to spend the time at Midfell, asking no man's leave. The grandmother and cousin might not be delighted, but that he would risk; and he posted a line to Mrs. Wyverne, stating his intentions, remarking on the pleasure it would be to see them again.

The letter brought dismay. Mrs. Wyverne said nothing to Phyllys, still looking on her younger grand-daughter as a child; but she consulted with Barbara. Both recognised that nothing could be done. Giles had as clear a right as any human being to put up at the village Inn, if he chose, and to study the country. Though Mrs. Wyverne might demur, and Barbara might frown, they could not interfere.

"But of course you will not have him in and out all day long, turning everything upside down," the latter said with disgust. "Phyllys will be completely upset. Better to get her out of the way this afternoon, so that you can have a few words alone with him. You will have to be firm!" The speaker set her teeth. "I will make an errand for Phyllys, and we will say nothing to her, or she may refuse to go. You see, he intends to call directly he arrives."

Mrs. Wyverne made no objection, and Phyllys, to her surprise, was asked to take a long walk to an outlying farm, where she loved to go, but was not often permitted. She had been only once without a companion, and the idea was charming. Barbara seldom suggested anything so much to her taste. To fetch a warm shawl, left there, was the ostensible motive. Phyllys laughingly remarked that she would have a good "forenoon drinking," the local colloquialism for a mid-morning lunch, and would get something to eat at the farm. Barbara objected, not wishing her to get back early. After "dinner" would be best, she said. The days were long, and Phyllys could do her morning tasks.

"All right," agreed the girl. "I shall have a rest, and come back by the moor. It will be fun, won't it, Wiggles?"

Wiggles wagged an appreciative tail.

Not till she had left the house did Barbara note an ominous thickness upon the surrounding fells. It occurred to her that she ought to have warned Phyllys to return by the road, but it was now too late; so she dismissed the question from her mind. After all, Phyllys was old enough to be sensible.

Early in the afternoon, as Barbara had predicted, Giles Randolph walked in.

He greeted his great-aunt kindly, his cousin politely; and his eyes went in search of some one else.

"Where is Phyllys?" came soon.

And Barbara thrust in a reply before Mrs. Wyverne could speak. "Gone on the moors," she said, purposely vague, under a suspicion that he would wish to follow.

She over-reached herself.

"The moors—to-day? With whom, may I ask?"

"Phyllis goes everywhere. She is used to it, and the dog is ample protection."

"You do not mean that she is alone!"

His concern annoyed Barbara.

"Of course, she will not go far. Phyllys knows what she is about. She merely meant to cross part of a hill on her way back."

"From where?"

He had to put the question a second time, and facts were dragged out with difficulty. "Thackers' Farm. Yes, I know the direction. I had better go after her. The moors will be foggy."

"A touch of mist." Barbara spoke in vexed accents.

"It will be more than a touch of mist in an hour or two."

His manner aroused Mrs. Wyverne to uneasiness. She was too old an inhabitant of Midfell not to understand what a fog on the fells meant. "I did not know it," she said; "or that Phyllys meant to cross the moor. Surely you told her not to do so, Barbara. Not—alone!"

"She ought to have sense enough to judge for herself." Barbara frowned and bit her lips.

"The child is so fearless," murmured Mrs. Wyverne.

"I will start at once, and I hope to reach the farm before she leaves it. You may trust me to look after her. If I do not meet her on the road, I shall overtake her on the moor. The fog perhaps is not much now, but it may thicken." As he reached the door, he turned. "You told Phyllys I was coming?"

The direct words claimed a direct answer. Mrs. Wyverne, forgetful in small matters, looked at Barbara, who had to admit that Phyllys did not know. A slight smile stirred Giles' lips. Phyllys had not of her own free will avoided him.

One or two inquiries in the village as to the route made all clear, and he was off at his best pace—a pace few men could rival. By road the distance was over five miles; and he made little of them, spurred by observation of the grey-capped fells. He knew enough of moorland to be aware that a fog, exceptional in density, covered the heights; and he was anxious, if possible, to intercept Phyllys at the farm. But on arrival, he found she had started fifteen minutes earlier; and since he had not met her, she must have gone the other way. The old farmer heard this with a shake of his head.

"Noa, I doan't knaw," he said. "I'm a negligent lad not to ha' ma-ade her go by t' ro-ad. Miss Phyllys ought to ha' knawed better."

"Miss Phyllys is not easily frightened," remarked Giles. "Will you tell me the way she has gone?"

He wasted no time, and was off again. A rough lane, besprinkled with stones, led to the edge of the moor; after which he had a grass track to guide him. It led upward, crossing a high spur, shortening the distance to Midfell by more than a mile.

No mistake here about the "mistiness." Every dozen yards the air grow thicker, as he widened his distance from the edge.

That Phyllys should not have retreated on finding the state of things perplexed him. Yet, had she done so, he must have met her. He wondered, was she one of those people who, once resolved on a course of action, stick to that course, whatever happens? He would not have credited her with obstinacy. He did credit her with unusual fearlessness.

The track, though faint, was distinct; visible by different shades of colouring in the turf, the impress of passing feet. It was clearer than many such tracks, being used a good deal in fine weather between Midfell and a village on the other side. Here and there it was broken by a rough outcrop of rock; but despite the fog, Giles had no difficulty in picking it up again. And Phyllis was accustomed to such walking. She might have thought it wiser to keep steadily on, rather than to retrace her steps.

No voice of man or beast, of bird or insect, interrupted the silence. No stir in the air moved the heavy white curtain which hung around, shutting him in a contracted circle which moved with him as he went. The great moor-billows stretched away, he knew, for miles; but he could not see them. Landscape and sky were blotted out.

And Phyllys was alone in this! He walked rapidly, expecting every minute to descry a slim figure ahead. Not far ahead, for beyond a few yards, he could make out nothing. Now and again a shadowy form heaved into view, raising his hopes; and each time it grew into a furze-bush, dank and wet.

Moro than once he stopped, noting what looked like a short-cut to the lower level over Midfell, though no track was apparent. Phyllys might have ventured on some such short-cut. Yet, no—acquainted as she was with the country, she would understand the risk of quitting her path. The farmer had assured him that there was but the one way. He thought less of faint side-tracks, branching at right angles towards upper heights. These plainly led from Midfell, and would not have tempted Phyllys.

Still no signs of her! He pressed on, in deepening uneasiness; and sooner than might have seemed possible, he reached the verge, where a steep descent led downward to the top of a hill behind the village.

Here, being nearer the moor-edge, the air was clearer, and he could see some way. But—no Phyllys!

She could not so far have distanced him. No girl, even with the start she had had, could have failed to be overtaken at the pace he had come. With sickening dread, he realised that she was still upon the moors, that she had left the track.

"Nonsense!" he said, pulling himself together. "Too soon to be sure. She may have come faster than I imagine. She 'may' have missed her way, and be waiting near."

He turned to retrace his steps. If indeed she had advanced so far as this, she would easily manage to get home. His business now was to be sure that she had not failed; and while he encouraged himself his heart sank anew.

To be lost on the moor in a dense fog! Too well he knew what that would imply. Fifty men, searching, might search in vain. A night alone on the moors for 'her!' The thought brought a stab of actual pain.

Walking more slowly, he called at intervals in his strong base voice, listening with the hope that she might respond.

No sound, no whisper, reached his ears. It was deadly still. As he went farther, the fog again grew dense, more dense than before, since the afternoon was advanced. The dank white curtain closed him in.

He made up his mind to return most of the way, shouting at intervals. Then he would again traverse the path to Midfell, and would see whether she had reached home. If not, a party of men including himself should scour the hills.

For this those who knew the country were necessary. To quit the track now, with nothing to guide him, would only mean losing himself also, being powerless to help her.

Yet if indeed she were here, alone on these desolate moors!—the very idea was unendurable.

He felt this keenly, as he paced the turf, raising his cry of "Phyllys! Are you there, Phyllys?"

How familiar, how dear the name seemed! He could hardly believe that ten days earlier she had been nothing to him or he to her. Was he anything to her now? Perhaps not—yet. She had been ready to like him, as cousin and friend. But Phyllys and he would not be "friends" only. They would be much more or much less.

On this deserted and fog-robed fell, he seemed to be growing intimate with her, as he might not in weeks of common acquaintance. He was shut out from all the world, except Phyllys; but she too was here. Though apart, they were together; both on the moor; she needing him; he bent on helping her. He did not now say that "perhaps" she was there. It had grown to be a certainty.

Were their spirits in touch, though bodily they were separate? He was by no means an imaginative or sentimental man. But, looking at the white wall, he saw her face—not smiling or mischievous; full of distress; imploring his aid.

He made a forward start, half distracted. She was on the moor. She "was" lost. And how was he to know where?

"Phyllys! Phyllys!" again he shouted, with the full strength of his lungs.

Something clammy touched his hand.

"Wiggles!" with an immense revulsion of joy. Where Wiggles was, Phyllys could not be far.

"Where is she, Wiggles? Phyllys, where are you?"

No human voice made reply. Wiggles whined, jumping on him, licking his hand, taking hold of his trouser.

"Where is she, Wiggles?" he asked, every nerve in him tense. There could no longer be any doubt. She would not have left Wiggles behind. That Wiggles should have left her seemed singular; but he might be a dog prone to wander. He might—this flashed up, as Wiggles again laid hold upon his trouser—have come for help.

"You must take me to her," he said, addressing the dog as he might have addressed a child. He drew a cord from his pocket, and passed it through the collar. "Now—lead!"

Wiggles seemed uncertain what to do. He sniffed the air, and whined afresh. Was it that he did not know Phyllys' whereabouts? Or was he stupid? Many affectionate little dogs are not brilliant in an emergency.

Giles put matters to the test. He set off at a resolute pace, as if for Midfell.

That settled it. Wiggles refused to go. He struggled, protested, howled, sat down. He might be dragged, but he would not walk. Giles ceased to pull, and Wiggles moved in a new direction, gaining confidence as he found Giles with him. He led away from the track, across the turf, and Giles followed, urging him on, trying to keep note of his bearings, though unsuccessfully. That troubled him little. If he could reach Phyllys, all else was of small importance.

"Phyllys—Phyllys!" he called again.

And out of the dead stillness rang an agonised cry. He knew the voice.

"I'm here! Where are you?"

"O come! O save me!" she screamed, her bell-like tones for once thin and shrill with horror.

He dashed headlong in the direction whence the sound travelled.