"Well, and when I get to Moonlight Firs, which way then?"

"Thee foller th' ruts--thaay'll take ee to Akkern Chace."

"The ruts?"

"Eez, th' waggon ruts; thaay goes drough Akkern Chace down to Warren.

Be you afeared?" seeing Geoffrey hesitated. "Thaay'll lead ee drough th' wood; it be main dark under th' pollard oaks:

Akkern Chace Be a unkid place, When th' moon do show hur face.

"Wur be my quart?"

Geoffrey gave him sixpence; he touched his forelock, called his dog, and whistled down the hill. Geoffrey pushed on as rapidly as his horse, now a little weary, would go for the firs. In half an hour he reached it, and found a waggon track which, as the boy had said, after a while led him into a wood--scattered pollard oaks, hawthorn bushes, and fir plantations. Now two fresh difficulties arose: the grey first limped and then went lame; and the question began to arise, Would Margaret after all come this way? In the gathering twilight, might she not take the circuitous, but safer, highway? She might even have already pa.s.sed.

By this time he was well into the wood--it consisted of firs there.

The grey went so lame he resolved to go no farther, but to wait. He dismounted, threw himself at length upon the gra.s.s beside the green track, and the grey immediately applied himself to grazing with steady contentment.

The tall green trees shut out all but a narrow lane of sky, azure, but darkening; not the faintest breath of moving air relieved the sultry brooding heat of the summer twilight. From the firs came a fragrance, filling the atmosphere with a sweet resinous odour. The sap exuding through the bark formed in white viscous drops upon the trunks.

Indolently reclining, half drowsy in the heat, he could see deep into the wood, along on the level ground between the stems, for the fallen "needles" checked vegetation. A squirrel gambolled hither and thither in this hollow s.p.a.ce; with darting rapid movements it came towards him, and then suddenly shot up a fir and was instantly out of sight among the thick foliage. In the stillness he could hear the tearing of the fibres of gra.s.s as the grey fed near. A hare came stealing up the track, with the peculiar shuffling, cunning gait they have when rambling as they deem unwatched. Limping slowly, "Wat" stayed to choose t.i.t-bits among the gra.s.s--so near that when an insect tickled him and he shook his head Geoffrey heard the tips of his ears flap together. Daintily he pushed his nose among the tussocks, then craned his neck and looked into the thickets. Where the track turned at the bend the shadows crept out, toning down the twilight with mystic uncertainty.

Suddenly the hare rose, elevated his ears--Geoffrey could see the nostrils working--and then, with one thrust as it were of his lean flanks, flung himself into the wood. The grey ceased feeding, raised his head, and listened. In a few moments came the slow thud of hoofs walking. From behind the bushes Geoffrey watched the bend of the track.

Then the sweet voice he knew so well floated towards him. Margaret was singing, little thinking any one was near:

"And as she went along the high-road, The weather being hot and dry, She sat her down upon a green bank, And her true love came riding by."

Her chestnut whinnied, seeing the other horse on turning the corner.

"Margaret!"

"Sir!" blushing, and resentful that he should have surprised her. She had been thinking of him. She felt as though he had caught her and discovered her secret. She instantly took refuge in hauteur.

"I came to meet you."

"Thank you," extremely coldly; she was pa.s.sing on.

"You do not mind?" he took hold of her bridle.

"Mr Newton!" angrily. Her countenance became suffused with a burning red. He felt he had blundered.

"At least you will let me ride back with you," he said humbly, dropping the bridle.

She immediately struck the chestnut--the mare sprang forward and cantered down the lane. Quite beside himself, half with annoyance with her, half with himself, he ran to the grey, mounted, and tried to follow. But the horse was lame. He did his best, limped, stumbled, recovered himself, and shambled after painfully. When Geoffrey reached the edge of the wood, Margaret, a long distance ahead, was riding out upon the Downs--horse and horsewoman a dark figure, indistinct in the gloaming. Fearful of losing her, he called on the grey; but she glided away from him swiftly over the darkening plain and up the opposite hill.

For a moment he saw her clear against the sky-line, then she was over the ridge and gone.

He thrashed the grey, and forced him rather than rode him up the hill, but there the long-suffering animal stayed his wretched shamble and walked. Wild with anger, Geoffrey dismounted, ran to the edge of the hill, and looked for Margaret.

Deep in the wide hollow lay a white mist, covering all things with its cloak. Beyond was a black ma.s.s, with undulating ridge against the sky.

"The chestnut _must_ walk up that," he thought; and, without a moment's pause, dropped his whip, and raced down the slope headlong. What he should say or do if he overtook her he did not stay to think; but overtake her he would. His long stride carried him quickly to the bottom. He imagined he should find a thick fog there as it had looked from above; but now that he was in it there was nothing more than an impalpable mist, through which he could see for some distance. But upwards the mist thickened, and the hill above was hidden now.

He listened--not a sound; then rushed across the level, and threw himself against the next ascent. Panting, he reached the summit; it was but a narrow ridge, and over it another coombe. Instead of a sea of mist here, one long streak, like a cloud, hung midway. No horse visible. Again he dashed forward, and pa.s.sed through the stratum of mist-cloud as he went down, and the second time as he climbed the opposite rise--more slowly, for these Downs pull hard against the strongest chest. Then there was a gradually rising plateau--dusky, dotted with ghostly hawthorn bushes, but nothing moving that his straining eyes could discern.

But as he stood, and his labouring heart beat loudly, there came the faint sound of iron-shod hoofs that clicked upon stray flints, far away to the right. Like an arrow he rushed there--unthinking, and therefore baffled. For instead of crossing the steep ridges, she had ridden round on the slope; and he, running on the chord of the arc, had not only caught her up, but got some distance in front. If he had remained where he was, she would have pa.s.sed close by him. But running thus to the right in his wild haste, he lost great part of his advantage. Suddenly he stopped short, and saw in the dim light a shadowy figure stretching swiftly into the mist.

"Margaret!" he called, involuntarily. The earth-cloud of mist closed round her, and the shadowy figure faded away. On he went again, stumbling in the ruts left by wheels in winter, nearly thrown by the tough heath, and the crooked furze stems holding his foot, and fast losing his wind. He struggled up the slope, and finally, perforce, came to a striding walk. Suddenly he stopped--a low neigh floated in the stillness up from a vale on his left. Her path turned there, then; he would cut across the angle. But, taught by experience, he paused at the edge of the descent, and listened before going down. In a minute or two another faint clicking of flints sounded behind him. "By Jove, I begin to think--aha!" The flints clicked in the stillness away on his right.

Then after a brief while a dark indistinct object crossed in front of him. "All round me," said Geoffrey, aloud. "I understand." He bounded forward, refreshed by his short pause. In three minutes the dark object resolved itself into the chestnut, standing still now on the verge of a gloomy hollow.

Then, close upon his quarry, the hunter slackened speed. It was his turn now; he strolled slowly, halted, even turned his back upon her, and looked up at the sky. The stars were shining; till that moment he had not realised that it was night. By-and-by he went nearer.

"Geoffrey!" she called, faintly. No reply.

"Geoffrey!"--louder--"is that you?"

"Yes, dear." The first time he had used the word to her.

"Do come to me!" in a tone of distress. He ran eagerly to her side.

"It is dark," she said, in a low voice, "and--and I have lost the way."

"I thought you had; you rode all round me."

"Did I? O, then I am lost, indeed; that is what people always do when they are lost on the hills--they go round and round in a circle. Where is your horse?"

"I left him lame, a long way behind."

"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.

"I was told to look for the Tump," he said. "Other landmarks were the Castle and Moonlight Firs. I think I should know the Tump, or the Castle, but cannot see either. Can you recognise Moonlight Firs?"

"Every hill seems to have a Folly," she said, looking round. "I mean a clump of trees on the top. Yes,"--after a second searching gaze--"I believe that must be the Firs; it is larger than the rest."

He took Kitty's bridle, and led the chestnut in the direction of the copse. The distance was increased by the undulation of the ground, but in twenty minutes it grew more distinct.

"Yes, I am sure it is Moonlight Firs," she said hopefully. "We shall find the track there."

Kitty laboured up the steep slope wearily; Geoffrey patted and encouraged the mare.