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 tonight.”
“I will try very hard,” he said, venturing to take her hand. But in his heart he was doubtful.
VI
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.
“But what trees are these?” said Margaret, with a sudden change of tone as they reached the summit.
“I am afraid they are beeches,” said he. He ran forward, and found that they were. There were no firs. Margaret’s heart sank; the disappointment was very great.
“Look once more,” he said. “From this height there is a better view. See, there are three copses round us; is either like the Firs?”
“They are all just alike,” she said, in a troubled tone; then pleadingly, “Geoffrey—think.”
“There are the stars still,” he said.
“Ah, yes,” eagerly, and looking up. “I know the north star; there it is,” pointing to the faint sparkle that has been the lamp of hope to so many weary hearts on foaming ocean and trackless plain. “And the Great Bear; the men call it Dick and His Team; it shines every night opposite my window, over the dovecot. Why, of course, all we have to do is to turn our backs to it, and ride straight to Greene Ferne.”
“Not quite, I fear,” smiling at her impetuosity, for she was turning Kitty’s head. “You see we should start from a different base, and our straight line might be projected for eternity before it came to your window.”
“Then what’s the use of astronomy?” said Margaret promptly.
“Well—really,”—puzzled to give a direct reply, “the difficulty is the longitude. But tell me, are there any roads crossing the Downs?”
“One or two, I think.”
“Then we will go towards the north star; that will at least keep us in a straight line, and prevent us from going round in a circle. Sooner or later we must cross a road.”
“Is that all the stars can do for us?”
“Under present circumstances—yes.”
They descended the slope; on the level ground he began to run, urging the tired mare to trot.
“Do not do that,” she said; “you will be quite knocked up.”
“I do not mind in the least—for your sake. It is getting late, and we must hasten.”
He was now seriously anxious, for her sake, to seek a road, and pushed on as hard as he could. The mare, however, walked up the next rise; at the summit, Margaret pointed to the east.
“The clouds are coming up,” she said. Low down was a dark bank—a thicker night—rising swiftly, blotting out the stars one by one. Another burst forwards, and another walk, as Geoffrey began to feel the exertion.
The “messengers”—small detached clouds, that precede the rest—were already passing overhead. The white glow on the northern horizon, indicating the position of the summer sun just beneath, was covered. On three sides the edges of the cloud rose up and began to meet above. “I trust it will not rain,” thought Geoffrey.
“It is getting still warmer,” said Margaret presently; “the Great Bear is hidden now.” Under the
