Chapter XXXIII: Not Marjory!

"MISS RIVERS, if you please—there's a woman just come—"

Hermione turned upon Slade a face of such marble whiteness that he stopped, dumbfounded. She looked like one who has received some sharp blow. But she said only—

"Yes, go on. A woman has come—"

"The one who sometimes does a bit of weeding, Miss. She says her little boy saw Miss Mittie go into the meadows behind the Rectory this afternoon."

"She would not be there now, of course. Has any one been to look?"

"I don't know, Miss. I thought I should find Mrs. Trevor here. It did just come to my mind as Miss Mittie might have got hurt or been frightened. The banks are slippery down by the stream. And besides—"

"Yes?" Hermione said inquiringly.

"Mr. Haye has taken to putting that big bull of his in them meadows the last three days, Miss Rivers. And Miss Mittie's mortal afraid of cows. I don't know as he'd hurt anybody; they say he isn't so fierce as he looks. But he does run; and if Miss Mittie saw him coming, she might get a fright and tumble down somewhere."

This was a long speech for Slade to make. Hermione listened, with her pale face turned towards him.

"Yes—it might be something of that sort. I don't see how she—But we can find out. Don't say anything to anybody, Slade. You and I will go."

"Yes, Miss." Slade's manner showed none of his surprise.

"I must do something. I can't rest," said Hermione in a low voice. "Dinner is put off, is it not? There will be time. Besides—nothing matters. She must be found. Wait one moment, and I will come."

Slade obeyed, with only a look of sympathy. In two minutes Hermione appeared, wearing hat and ulster. Milton alone was told of their expedition. Hermione set off at such a pace that Slade could hardly keep up with her.

It was by this time quite dark, and many others were out searching. Even Harvey ventured a short distance, though very unfit for the exertion. Mrs. Trevor stayed indoors, with despairing tears and complaints.

Nobody seemed to have thought of the meadows behind the Rectory. Probably Marjory Fitzalan would have done so, but she and her father were absent still. Few knew so much as Marjory of Mittie's favourite resorts.

Slade had procured a lighted lantern during his two minutes of waiting, one used already in the search. But for its help they could hardly have followed the meadow-path.

An examination of the muddy bank of the stream proved fruitless, and they went on till the stile was reached leading into the next large field. "You'll catch cold, Miss," Slade said solicitously, noting a shiver. "I don't know as it's much use going farther. Miss Mittie isn't likely to be there."

"Hush! O hush!"

Hermione stood like a statue, listening.

"I can't hear nothing," Slade declared. He was too much excited for his usual careful choice of words.

"O hush!"

Slade obeyed, and there was another pause.

"Yes, it is her voice! A child crying! Oh, make haste!"

"Are you sure, Miss?" Slade's voice was more than dubious.

"Quite sure. Quick, Slade! she is somewhere near!"

Hermione sprang over the stile, and took the lead. She pressed forward eagerly, pausing from time to time to study the direction of the sounds, which grew more distinct as they advanced. Slade was soon obliged to admit that "there was something!"

"Not as I don't know that it isn't some sort of a creature caught in a trap," he added. "They do cry, some of 'em, wonderful like a child."

"But that is Miss Mittie's voice! Slade, can't you hear? She is sobbing and calling for help."

Slade's doubts were silenced. There could soon be no hesitation as to the nature of those wailing cries, and the very words became distinguishable. "Mother, mother! O Marjory, do come!" But no mention of "cousin Hermione!" A few hours earlier Hermione might not have noticed the omission. She did now, with a sharp pang.

"Hallo! That's the brute!" exclaimed Slade, with exultation over his own foresight, as a great creature retired promptly before the blaze of his lamp. He had not breath for much more. Hermione led at a run.

"The bull! Is it, really? Then you were right. Slade, come quickly. He will not touch us—and just hear that poor child! Mittie! Mittie! we are coming!" she cried cheerily, and her voice rang far ahead.

"Marjory! Marjory!" was the answering appeal. Poor little Mittie could hardly picture such an event as cousin Hermione coming to the rescue.

Half a minute more, and the wall was reached. Slade swung up his lantern. "She's on the—top—" he panted. "I'll get her—down."

"O Marjory! that dreadful dreadful bull!" wailed Mittie. "Slade, hold me tight; don't let him come! I'm so frightened, and so cold! O Marjory—"

But Hermione's arms, not Marjory's, received the little shivering figure lifted to the ground by Slade, folding her round in a protecting embrace, and Hermione's voice, not Marjory's, said pityingly, "Poor darling! No, he shall not hurt you—he shall not touch you, Mittie dear! you are quite safe now. Don't be frightened! Don't sob so! Slade, she is so terribly cold; I don't think she can stand! What can we do? Oh, there is this!" and she drew off a small shawl which she had thrown about her own shoulders, putting it round Mittie. "Poor little thing! but don't cry, darling. Try to walk, because it will warm you."

"Is it cousin Hermione?" came with an amazed gasp, and then Mittie put up her face. "I'll try—try not to cry. I don't want—want to be naughty. But oh, don't let the bull come!"

"He shall kill me first, Mittie. But you needn't be afraid. Slade is here, and the bull is frightened of the light."

"God sent you, didn't He?" came in an unexpected whisper, amid the sobs and shivers which the child had no power to control. "I thought— thought He would! Sweet cousin Hermione—you are so—so kind!"

"You'd best let me carry her, Miss," Slade said gravely.

No; Hermione could not resolve to unloose those little clinging arms. Her heart ached with bitter self-reproach at this loving response after all her past coldness. She was very strong, and Mittie was so small and slight. Hermione lifted her off the wet grass, and held her firmly, accepting such help as Slade could give, but refusing to part with the child. Mittie's cold face lay on her shoulder, and more than one tear fell upon it.

"Cousin Hermione, are you crying?" asked Mittie wonderingly. "Oh, I know you're tired. Mayn't I walk? Why, cousin Hermione, I didn't ever think you cared one scrap for me. Sweet cousin Hermione, I do love you so."

Hermione almost felt as if her heart would break under the childish tender words, coming so soon after the sharp stab of terrible truth given by the mother.