by Mira Stables
In the end there was only one decent and honourable course left to him. He must let her go. And freely—unshackled by any hint of his own love, his own desolation. Perhaps she would not be sorry. He would not lightly forget the quivering hurt in her face when he had spoken so unkindly, nor had he missed today’s sober looks, the gaiety quenched, the laughter fled. He had meant to beg her forgiveness, but with Mr. Fortune forever on his heels there had been no opportunity, and now it would be better not. Let her go in her present disillusionment. It would ease the parting. And since he must ride into Dent early to arrange for the gig to be sent for the travellers, he could probably avoid anything in the nature of a private farewell. He went back to the parlour to write a short note for Mr. Fortune.
That gentleman counted early rising among his virtues and, the day being fair, went out for a before-breakfast stroll and met Ann on her way back from the poultry yard. He lost no time in acquainting her with the contents of Patrick’s note and a truthful, if carefully edited, account of the previous night’s conversation.
It was enough. No further persuasion was needed to win her consent to leave with him that day. She even shared Patrick’s hope that there would be no opportunity for prolonged leave-taking. As it was the lamentations of the twins were painful enough. Philip, who had been grooming Jigs, came late to breakfast and was promptly informed of the impending blow. He refused to believe until Ann herself confirmed it. Then great tears began to slide down his cheeks and he flung himself at her, clutching desperately, burrowing his hard little head into her breast and sobbing out his sorrow for yesterday’s naughtiness with hiccuppy promises of impossible virtue in the future. Ann hugged him close and tried to calm him, assuring him that it was not his fault, that she wasn’t a bit cross and loved him dearly. But since she could not add a promise that she would stay after all, his sobs only grew louder. Finally Janet took him from her, suggesting that she had better start on her preparations, with a significant jerk of her head to indicate packing, and rocked him on her lap until he sobbed himself out.
Then she talked to him, quietly and sensibly, reminding him that winter was coming with frost and snow, much too cold for a young lady like Miss Beverley, from which she led gently to the delights of winter as seen by a small boy, and eventually had him quieted, and, she hoped, resigned. He clambered down, with a pathetic resumption of the manhood proper to his seven years, looked with revulsion at his neglected breakfast, and muttered huskily that he was going to talk to Jigs. Janet let him go. She could do no more for him. He must learn acceptance in his own way.
Ann spent a miserable morning, finishing her packing as quickly as possible only to find that Meg had all the preparations for dinner well in hand. Robert Alder had ridden in just after breakfast having met Patrick and heard that they were still short-handed, and Meg was eager to show how well she could manage on her own. Philip had vanished, and Papa Fortune was sitting glumly in the parlour glancing at a week-old copy of the Intelligencer. He showed no desire for her company and was obviously sadly put out by the failure of his mission. She was reduced to wandering about the place bidding a sorrowful goodbye to objects grown familiar and dear until Janet took pity on her forlorn appearance and asked her to help polish the silver. She was thankful to have her hands occupied, to feel Janet’s affection reaching out to her, though the old woman did not talk much. At any other time she would have been full of eager questions about the silver, a rather motley collection which Janet had produced from some hiding place, but today she rubbed mechanically at tarnished spoons and a baby’s porringer and did not even question the origin of the crest which adorned a handsome epergne. Janet, watching her beneath lowered lids, made no comment.
“And a waste of time that is,” was all she said, packing each item carefully away again when they had done. “Never used these days, nor like to be.”
Ann, apathetically watching the gnarled hands as they tucked a baby’s rattle into one corner of the box, noticed that the handle of this toy could be detached to form a whistle. She thrust a hand into her pocket and said sharply, “Oh dear! I forgot Philip’s whistle. I must give it back to him. Have you seen him since breakfast?”
“He went off to the stable to tell his troubles to Jigs, but it’s close on dinner time so he’ll be coming in.”
Ann nodded. “I’ll go and fetch him,” she said.
But the stable was empty, save for Donna, who turned a friendly head and had to be suitably acknowledged. Going back to the house she felt vaguely uneasy. There was no sign of child or pony in their own fields, and Philip was not supposed to venture further without permission. Besides, it was growing late and the child had eaten no breakfast. Surely hunger should have brought him home by now?
Throughout the meal she was listening for the sound of the pony’s hooves, her answers to such remarks as were addressed to her, brief and abstracted, until a happy suggestion from Robert that the little boy had ridden out to meet his brother allayed her anxiety. But when dinner was done, and Meg’s beef pudding duly praised, there was still no sign of the absentees. High Garth was so situated that it commanded a view of the north-bound lane for over two miles, but no horseman showed on all that winding track. Ann could not know that Patrick, lingering deliberately in Dent to avoid the possibility of a tête-á-tête, had then been further detained by the arrival of a messenger from Will, and her anxiety grew with every dragging minute until action of some kind became imperative. She shrank from the notion of riding out to meet Patrick, however valid her reason, but there was the possibility that Philip, in sullen defiance of the authority that this morning had so lamentably failed him, had ridden over into Kingsdale. In that case it was possible that some accident had befallen him. And at least, from the head of the dale, she could command a wider view.
Robert was perfectly willing to lend her Donna, and though Mr. Fortune thought she was making a fuss about nothing, Janet admitted that she, for one, would be relieved if that dangerous area could be ruled out of account. She further promised the runaway a hearty spanking when he did return, for putting them all to so much trouble and worry. Mr. Fortune heartily agreed to this, but could not see that it was any business of Ann’s to go seeking the child.
Ann said quietly, “The charge of Philip is very much my business. It was to ensure his safety as much as to further his education that Mr. Delvercourt employed me; and warned me most particularly of the dangers of letting him wander off alone.” She saw the protest in Mr. Fortune’s face and went on firmly, “Until I leave the shelter of his roof, I cannot hold myself absolved of that responsibility.”
She would not wait to change into riding dress. It was packed at the bottom of her trunk and would take too long. If Philip had been thrown, enough time had been wasted already. And there would be no one in that bleak, savage valley to be shocked by kilted skirts and a display of ankle. Donna was fresh, enjoying the sympathy of the light hands on the rein, and made nothing of the first steep climb. Ann gazed about her eagerly but only steadily browsing sheep and one or two rather scrawny looking cows were to be seen. It was not until she had crossed White Shaw Moss that, with a leap of the heart, she noticed a pony tethered to a tree about half a mile away. She could not see it very clearly because of the tree, but it was about the size and colour of Jigs. She urged Donna to greater effort.
Jigs it was. A forlorn and drooping Jigs who seemed very grateful for their arrival. Of Philip there was no sign. But there was only one place where he could be. Unless he had walked on to one of the farms—and why should he do that, since Jigs was not injured in any way—he must be in one of the caves. There were several in this area, and some of them extremely dangerous. If Philip had met with an accident underground—She shivered, and felt slightly sick.
She called his name, her voice sounding thin and futile, blown away by the wind. There was no answer. No help for it, then. She must master her fear of the subterranean world and go after him.
It seemed reasonable to suppo
se that he had tethered Jigs as close as possible to his chosen goal, since there were plenty of other small scrubby trees that would have served just as well, so she would explore the nearest cave first. Her knowledge of the caves and their entrances was only from hearsay. She had never actually ventured into them. But the entrance to this one was plain to be seen.
It was not so bad as she had feared. Once her eyes grew accustomed to the dim light she could see that it was a huge place. Cold and dank, but not oppressive. She called again, her voice echoing oddly in the enclosed space. But though she listened intently there was no reply. Somewhere she could hear the sound of running water. Cautiously—for the floor of the cave was anything but smooth—she edged her way forward, calling Philip’s name from time to time but without evoking any response. Was he in the cave at all? Perhaps he was just playing a trick on her—a punishment for what he felt was her betrayal—and would come home when hunger and the darkening brought him. He might be hiding somewhere outside—might even have watched her own timorous approach to the entrance. But somehow she felt that he was here. He would never have deserted Jigs. Something was wrong.
She shook herself impatiently. No use becoming fanciful. Near the back of the cave it was so dark that she had to feel the way ahead with outspread hands. She wondered if Philip had planned his escapade far enough ahead to bring a lantern. The water noises were growing louder. Her outstretched hands struck rock, smooth and wet. She had reached the back of the cave. She stopped, perforce, and looked back. The sunlight at the entrance beckoned enticingly. And Philip was not here.
But where was the water that she could hear so plainly? There must be some other outlet to the cave, some crevice or passage that she had missed. She stood perfectly still for a moment, trying to subdue even the sound of her own breathing as she listened, trying to decide the exact direction of the water noises. Then she began to feel her way along the rocky wall to her right. She moved cautiously, a few inches at a time, for it was very dark and at this point the floor of the cave was littered with shale and small boulders, and presently she found what she was seeking. There was an opening in the rock, perhaps three feet high, a little more than three feet wide, and here the clamour of the water was deafening. She guessed at a sizeable waterfall not far away. On hands and knees she crawled forward a yard or two. Useless to call here. The thunder of the tumbling water would drown any lesser sound. And surely, surely not even a venturesome small boy would have crawled into so awesome and constricted a place.
Even on the thought, her outstretched hand touched something soft. It was a child’s woollen cap. Not even the almost palpable blackness of the passage could prevent instant identification. Her own hands had stitched the jaunty pheasant’s feathers into place, her own work-box furnished the gilded clasp that held them secure. There was no room for further doubt. Philip had gone this way before her and somehow she must find the courage to follow him along that hideous passage.
She never knew how she did it. Certainly she prayed, if not very coherently. As the passage narrowed and the roof seemed to press down on her with all the weight of the hillside above it she found herself muttering scraps of psalms through gritted teeth. She clutched Philip’s cap as though it was some precious talisman. And she went on. She dragged her terrified, shivering body over the wet shale, sometimes on hands and knees, sometimes crawling, so low was the roof, her senses numbed by the roar of the waterfall so that she scarcely felt hands rubbed raw by the rough shale or the pain from sundry cuts and bruises.
The passage seemed to go on for ever. She felt that she had been struggling through nightmare for hours. But presently, through her terror and her desperate determination she became aware of some change. She rested for a moment, trying to identify the difference, and realized that she had left the thunder of the waterfall behind. Probably this passage was some sort of drain, an overflow from the main stream. Wearily now, she set off again, scarcely realizing that the passage was widening until she reached a place where she could no longer touch both walls. The left hand one had vanished, and the rock beneath her hand, though smooth and water-worn, was dry.
She hauled herself out of the stream bed and lay breathless for a moment, wondering how much longer this macabre game of hide and seek was destined to last—and heard the sobbing of a child. For a moment she thought she had imagined it. She said fearfully, hopefully, “Philip?”
The sobbing stopped. He made an odd little whimpering sound, heart-breaking in its mixture of despair and tremulous hope.
She said quickly, clearly, “Philip! I can’t see you, but I can hear you. Stay where you are, and I’ll come to you. Could you make a noise—clap your hands perhaps—to guide me?”
She waited, straining her ears, and after an anxious moment while a terrified little boy tried to grasp what was required of him, heard a feeble patter that was sweeter than music in her ears. Fatigue, and the dangers that yet might lie ahead were all forgotten as she crawled towards the sound. He was not very far away, huddled in a soaking, shivering heap, too numb with cold and fear to do more than flop against her as her eager searching hands found him. She pulled him into her arms and hugged him close. He was shaking with cold and she tried to rub his limbs to get some warmth back into him. And as she rubbed she talked, inconsequent cheerful chatter that might, she hoped, lessen the impact of his shocking experience and make his world seem normal again. It appeared to be a losing battle. He did not answer, indeed showed no sign of vitality at all save for his desperate clutch on the front of her dress. Then a happy reference to Jigs and a mention of leaving Donna to keep him company, turned the trick. A husky little voice asked if the pony was all right and upon being assured that he was quite all right but had seemed very pleased to see them, a much more Philip-like voice announced, “So was I very pleased to see you. Except I can’t see you.”
Once having turned the corner his recovery was steady. But he was still very cold, and Ann knew that hot drinks and a warm bed were urgently needed if he was not to take a serious chill. She had no idea how long he had been in the cavern and he was in no state to be questioned. Instead she told him how frightened she had been in the darkness of the passage and how much braver she would feel going back now that there were two of them. Privately she was desperately anxious as to her ability to negotiate the passage at all, encumbered by a dazed and weakened child. But the attempt must be made. Already the warmth created by her exertions was dying, the deadly, insidious chill of the place seeping into her bones. And intense cold, she had read somewhere, dulled the mind, caused one to abandon the effort to survive and to yield to a languor that could swiftly prove fatal. They had better start soon.
Philip said slowly, “But we can’t go back. Not without a lantern. And I d-dropped it and it went out.” And at long last the tears came and he sobbed bitterly in her arms.
She fondled him like a baby, crooning nonsense words, rubbing her cheek against his soft hair until eventually he quieted. The tears had done him good, she thought, for now he snuggled contentedly into her hold and even put up a tentative hand to feel for her face, while his words, when they did come, were a sensible explanation of their position.
“We must wait till Patrick comes for us. There are lots of passages, and in the dark you could make a mistake. Some of them are very dangerous. Patrick said, ‘If ever you are lost, sit still and wait till I come for you.’ So I did. But it was such a long time, and I was so cold and hungry. And then it was only you.”
Chilled and anxious as she was, Ann chuckled. One didn’t expect polished courtesy from small boys, but really! Even Philip seemed to feel that something was amiss, for he added in extenuation, “You see he knows the passages and you don’t.”
“But of course,” agreed Ann, smiling to herself in the darkness. “And they’re bound to find us pretty soon, because of Jigs and Donna. So all we have to do is keep as warm as we can till the rescue party arrives!”
Nevertheless it seemed a very long time before
that blessed glimpse of light wavered towards them from the mouth of the passage. They had clapped and stamped and waved their arms like windmills. They had played guessing games and sung all the nursery rhymes that they knew. Ann had discovered Philip’s whistle still in her pocket, and from time to time he blew on it to indicate their whereabouts to the rescue party. She was racking her brain for further ways of distracting his mind from his increasing miseries when his shriek of delight informed her that help had arrived.
There were two lanterns bobbing towards them. Robert was only a yard or two behind Patrick. Philip struggled up and hobbled stiffly towards his brother, to be scooped up in one arm. But Patrick’s other hand lifted the lantern so that its light could sweep the shelf on which the two had been huddled. There was a sharp exclamation. He put down the lantern, turned and handed the child to Robert and strode towards Ann, catching her in his arms and kissing her with a savage intensity that sprang more from his great fear for her and its relief than from his adoring love.
“Ann! My darling!” he said hoarsely. “Thank God! If harm had come to you”—and he shuddered and gulped convulsively as he thought of the hideous death that she had escaped, it seemed, by divine providence. There, in the flickering lantern light, under the gaze of an admiring Robert and a slightly shocked Philip, he proceeded to kiss her again. Very comprehensively, but so gently, so lightly, lips scarcely brushing her brow, her cheek, her mouth, that his actions seemed more in the nature of a heartfelt thanksgiving than of lovemaking. It was not until Ann, who found this treatment remarkably effective in overcoming fatigue and shock, put her arms round his neck and returned his kisses with what could only be described as enthusiasm, that he seemed to realize what he was doing. He put her from him with an odd shaken little laugh, and still keeping one arm about her as though he could not bear to let her go.
