Chapter V: Home Again

"Thou wilt not be weary of me;
Thy promise my faith will sustain;
And soon, very soon I shall see
That I have not been asking in vain."
A. L. WARING.

Hours had passed at the Yews, and there was no sign of the seekers or of the sought. Alice and Mat had been making expeditions in all directions excepting that one which had been taken by Mark and the farm servants; but not a trace could they find. Old Ann had half buried herself in the snow in her attempts to reach the furthest of the Beck meadows, and had tottered home half dead with cold. Even Mr. Knibb had saddled Madam, and attended by young Mat, had made a bold dash at the road which led out of the dale at the end opposite to the Green Gap. But Madam's shoes had become so completely balled with snow, that it was with much ado, he had led her back to the farm; while Mat had bravely made his way to the little hamlet in the adjoining dale, along roads less blocked by snow than the taken by the schoolmaster and his party, but still formidable to any but a shepherd lad.

At last, the suspense had become intolerable to Alice, and watching her opportunity when she saw old Ann settled in by the warm fire beside her mother's rocking chair, she called Laddie, and set forth.

"Now Laddie," said she in a cheery voice, waving her hand around her, "we must find master."

The fine fellow pricked his ears, whined, and fawned upon her, in full comprehension of the duty laid upon him, and darted away before her.

"No, stop; keep beside me, Laddie, I say."

He leaped back to her side, in recognition of the second clause of his important commission.

"Master," said she, pointing at the snow.

He sniffed carefully about, and then set his face determinately towards Green Gap.

She thought it strange that Geordie and his party had failed to take the dog with them, as by far the most probable means of finding the lost one; until she recollected that there had been a great calling and whistling for the dogs at the time of their setting forth, that Laddie could no where be found because he was away on the lower fells with Mat, in full business looking after the sheep, and that Chance had been unaccountably missing all the day.

The young dog was now evidently following up a good scent, as his short, pleased barks and determined manner proceeding sufficiently testified. She plunged and plodded after him through the snow as fast as her limbs could carry her, but his chiding impatience at the slowness of the progress was painful to her to behold. They have passed Green Gap now, though nothing less than her own strong love and her stimulating fears could have carried the young girl through the perils of the pass.

"Which way, now?"

The way up the gorge to Scarf Beck without a doubt; Laddie has evidently no misgiving whatever; for he has tried the trampled road to the mountain, renounced it immediately, trying back for a few yards until, with a short cry, he showed he was in full scent again. On, then, by the side of the now roaring beck, for the snows were melting and the stream was becoming strong and loud.

Suddenly Laddie stops—ears pricked—head in the air. What can he hear beside the brawling of the stream? He breaks out into an almost human cry, and rushes on in spite of Alice's distressed calls and commands that he should not leave her. She certainly hears another voice besides his, no—yes, the joyful barking of two dogs—old Chance's full deep voice and Laddie's sharp treble. Look, Laddie is coming back to meet her, trembling all over with intense excitement.

A few more painful efforts, and the young girl sinks perfectly exhausted beside her senseless brother. But she has no leisure for fainting, no time for feeling: she has stern work in hand. Is he dead or alive? That is the only thought. Chance is still laboriously licking the face and the hands of his master. Alice lays her hand on his heart, and still—yes, still—she thinks there is a feeble beating and a little sense of vital warmth. That is enough for her.

"Off, Laddie," said she earnestly to the dog, waving her hand in the direction of Scarf Beck Farm; "off, and bring them here;" pointing to his master.

The dog understood and was off. What cannot a shepherd's dog understand, when, at his master's bidding, he will hunt up, collect and bring home, a whole flock of lost and scattered sheep, without missing a single one?

The party returning from the old Man were coming along the pathway which led to Scarf Beck Farm, when Laddie saw them at a distance—dark figures on the white snow—and rushed wildly up to them, entreating them by every argument, short of speech to follow him.

"What's to do with the young dog?" said old Geordie in an excited voice. "He has found out something for sure. Look at his ways."

They hurried along after him as though he were a human guide, and before long they came, sure enough, upon that sad group in the cave-like hollow which was scooped out of the side of the great snow-drift.

"She has found him," exclaimed Mark; "thank God for that."

Alice was sitting on the snow holding her brother in her arms and clasping him tight to her warm heart. She had wound her plaid around him besides; and the old dog was still leaning against him, licking his blue hands and wrists. Alice's face was buried in her brother's hair; but at the sound of Mark's exclamation, she looked up hastily, and saying:

"Oh, Mark," burst into an agony of tears, the first she had shed. "Oh, do something to save him. I know he is not dead. I am sure I can feel his breath."

They knelt around the seemingly lifeless figure, and Old Geordie took out a little flask of brandy, which he had put into his pocket on starting from home, saying to Old Ann, "I'll take this, however; no one knows but there may be sore need of it."

He now managed to get a little of the restorative within the livid lips; and after what seemed a long, long time, there was an evident attempt to swallow. It was more like a spasm of pain than a natural effort; but it showed that the living spark had not quite gone out. They all now set to work, rubbing the hands, chafing the feet, bathing the temples with brandy, and again contriving to get a little of the liquid swallowed.

"We must carry him home," said Geordie; "we shall never get him round here, in the cold wind. Sister will wrap him up right well, and we men will carry him."

And so the melancholy-looking procession moved away from the shining snow-cavern, the dogs trailing along behind in a state of deep depression, because they did not like the look of the long muffled figure helplessly borne along by the four silent men. Alice tried to get on in advance, to give warning to her mother, and to prepare the hot bed, hot blankets, and hot drinks, on which she rested her hopes. But with all her efforts, her spent strength could make small progress.

"Don't distress yourself so, Alice," said Mark Wilson, who was anxiously watching her spasmodic efforts; "we shall be there as soon as you."

"I must do something to help," she replied, with quivering lip.

"Thou go and help the lile maiden," said Geordie compassionately; "she'll drop soon, and we shall e'en have them both to carry home to mother. One is bad enough."

But for this encouragement from the old servant, Mark's shy reserve would have withheld him from aiding the poor girl. She had dropped behind by this time, in utter prostration of her over-strained powers. It was well that this strong and willing arm came to the rescue. How confidingly she leaned on him! How she trusted her weakness to his strength! She felt as if she could have done anything with that arm to aid, that voice to encourage, that look of understanding sympathy, tender and true, to comfort her. Will they ever forget that mournful walk? Never—as long as they live.

Young Mat had by this time returned from his bold but fruitless expedition to the distant hamlet, and had caught sight of the dark group of figures winding along over the white fields. He thought that all was indeed over. It looked like nothing but one of those mournful processions which he was accustomed to see creeping along the side of the hills, up out of one valley, and down into another, on the old paved pathways leading to the common centre in the church-yard which are expressively called in the language of the country, "corpse-roads."

"They are coming along, mother," said he, entering the kitchen, and gently going up to his mother's chair; "they have found Miles, I think, but I don't rightly know how."

The widow looked searchingly in the boy's face, and trembled all over. "Nevertheless," said she, "I'll have everything ready for life. In His hands are the issues. Warm the lad's bed, Ann, and heat the blankets—ay, roast them brown, if thou likest. Put the peppermint tea on the hob. Do thou try warmth, and I'll try prayer;" and the aged women betook themselves to their several offices.

The party soon entered in silence; for they dared not raise the mother's hopes over so very doubtful a case of revival.

"Take him straight to his own warm bed," she said, "and place me and my chair beside him. Who knows but the Lord may hear the cry of the destitute and not despise their prayer? It seems borne in upon my mind that it shall be well with the lad, and that his spirit shall come to him again."

Two long hours afterwards, Alice glided downstairs, and going to Mark, who was leaning his head on both his hands, with his elbows on the kitchen table, said with beaming eyes and glowing face, "Oh, Master Wilson, the color is come again into Miles' face, and he is quite warm, and sleeping like a child."

He started up, took both her hands in his, and pronounced a solemn thanksgiving.

"Alice," he added, "let us pray that our brother may in very truth be alive from the dead. Surely that was repentance last night. I thought I heard the sob of a broken and a contrite spirit. But his going out in that strange way is what puzzles me."

"Wait—wait, and see," said the loving sister; "I think it will all be made clear. He was so tender to mother last night; so very gentle and kind to me."

"That is no particular sign of good that I know of," said Mark, smiling at her flushed and eager defence of her brother; "how could he be anything else than kind, and loving to thee?"

"Oh, Master Wilson, you don't understand me at all."

"Master? We can never be master and pupil in that old distant way after having shared so much together yesterday and to-day. I shall never be able to separate the thought of thee from anything now, Alice."

But she was gone, fluttering away like a startled bird, before he had finished the sentence which it had cost him so much emotion to pronounce.

"She is gone," said he, despairingly. "I believe I don't understand women's minds as well as school-boys. Now, one would have thought that she would at least have waited to hear what I should say next."