“And what have you been doing?” I asked when we were nearly there.
“Nothing much,” answered Philippa, quite cheerfully. “Just sitting!”
I glanced at her in surprise, for she was not speaking in her usual whiny, self-pitying voice. She looked at me straight in the eyes and pursed her lips to whisper. “I want to tell you something when we’re alone,” she said mysteriously, and I nodded and winked, for I liked secrets.
“Oh,” cried Philippa as we turned the corner to the campsite, “there they are, and look, there’s a lake. Oh, Elaine, what a beautiful place!”
Mr. Owen put on the brakes rather suddenly, for the five children had come to meet us and were standing with joined hands across the road, sunburned, laughing, and dishevelled. Then, with a whoop of delight, they were off, pelting over the springy turf in an effort to race the car. But Mr. Owen pressed on the accelerator, and in a few moments we’d left them far behind, and Philippa and I stuck our heads out of the window and yelled with triumph.
There was a bed of bracken and heather arranged on the hillside for Philippa, and Mr. Owen carried her up over the rough ground and laid her down gently by the camp. Dinner was almost ready, and it was a real feast for the occasion—sausages, potatoes baked in the ashes then split open and stuffed with butter, and a huge plum pie made by Mrs. Davies.
Feeling very full, we all lay on the ground eating sweets, which Philippa had brought. Mrs. Owen started reading The Wind in the Willows to us. She had only finished one chapter when Mrs. Thomas pointed rather anxiously to the far end of the lake. A strange white mist was creeping through a gap in the hills, like a thief with cold hands. The trees were looking dim and ghostly, and a chill seemed to be creeping over the face of the sun.
A Shock and a Meeting
I think we should be going home,” said Mrs. Thomas. “I don’t want Philippa to get cold. It’s been such a lovely treat for both of us.”
“Oh, Mummy,” pleaded Philippa, “just wait five minutes. The mist’s coming ever so slowly, and I want to talk to Elaine for a minute. I won’t see her for another five whole days.”
“Very well, darling,” said Mrs. Thomas, “just five minutes. I’m going with Francie and Robin to see the baby calf.”
Peter, Janet, and Johnny went off to do the washing up in the lake, and I sprawled on the grass beside Philippa’s bracken nest. She was bursting with her secret and came straight to the point.
“Elaine,” she began, “do you remember what Mrs.Owen said about begging at the door or going in?”
“Yes,” I answered, “of course I do. Have you gone in, Phil?”
“Yes, I think so,” replied Philippa rather shyly. “I thought about it so much. And one night, instead of saying, ‘Please make my legs better,’ I said, ‘Please, can I come inside and be Your own little girl?’ And from that day I’ve had a sort of feeling that I might be happy even if my legs didn’t get any better. I’ve asked Jesus to change me and stop me being selfish and cross, and now I keep having new ideas about what I could do. It’s rather fun. I’d never thought of them before because I used to think there was nothing nice to do if you couldn’t walk. Only I’m longing for you to come home and help me with them.”
“What sort of ideas?” I asked, deeply interested.
“Oh, things like helping Mummy, and making things for people,” said Philippa, “and seeing how long I can go without grumbling and making a fuss about my lessons. I haven’t time to explain now, but I keep on thinking about your verse. If it was my path of life to be unable to walk, it says I could still be happy, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said firmly. “Fullness of joy, anywhere, if we are walking the path of life with Jesus. Mr. Owen has explained it to me lots of times.”
“Philippa,” called Mrs. Thomas, “we really must be going, or we shall be caught in the mist.”
The next moment Mr. Owen bounded up the slope and picked Philippa up in his arms. There was just time to show her the calf on the way down, and then she was lifted into the car. A delighted Frances peeped out from between the grown-ups in the middle of the front seat. She was going to drive back alone with her father, and they were going to stop off at a tea shop.
The car set off into the cold, creeping white mist. Peter and I followed as far as the trees at the top of the lane. It was going to be an evening for Mrs. Davies’s kitchen and the cozy fireside.
“I’ve never seen such a thick mist before,” said Peter, looking around. “I can’t see the lake at all. Look, there’s someone coming down that path, Elaine. A man! I wonder where he’s going. Not many people come this way.”
The man did not see us, but we could see him quite clearly. He had a bag slung over his shoulder that clattered a little, as though he were carrying pots and pans, and the moment I saw him, I knew him. A chill ran through me that had nothing to do with the mist. Peter stood rigid and uncertain beside me; he, too, had caught a glimpse of that wild, unshaven face under the old hat.
“Elaine,” he whispered, backing behind the rock, “is it him?”
I nodded.
“Are you absolutely sure?”
“Absolutely certain.”
“Well, then, this time we mustn’t lose him!” Peter’s eyes were bright with adventure. “He can’t see us in that mist, and we can track him by that funny clatter and his boots on the stones. We must follow him, Elaine, and see where he goes. Come on!”
There was nothing to do but follow, for I was far too frightened to go home alone; also, I did not want to desert Peter. So I set off behind him, shivering with cold and fear. The man did not go down the lane. He turned off to the left across the boggy uplands, which made things far more difficult and dangerous, for there were no covering trees, and we had to keep a good distance away. We could just see his dim, shambling figure striding along, and we knew that if he turned around he would certainly see us.
He was walking very fast, for he was wearing big boots that squelched through the mud and bog moss, but for me in my small sandals it was much harder going. Twice I sank right down into black water over my ankles and, to my terror, Peter seemed to be getting ahead of me. I dared not call in case the man should hear and turn around.
Thicker and thicker grew the mist; it seemed to be building white walls all around us. I began to panic and to run wildly to catch up with Peter, but it was treacherous ground to run on. I caught my foot in a clump of thick heather and fell headlong. For a moment I was too stunned to move, and when at last I scrambled up again, I was quite alone in a white, silent world. Peter and the man had completely disappeared.
Well, he couldn’t be far ahead. Surely all I had to do was run fast for a few minutes, and Peter’s sturdy figure would loom up in front of me. But I forgot that we were following no road, and I’d lost all sense of direction. Peter might have gone anywhere, and the more I ran, the farther away from him I might be going, out into the lonely night to be swallowed up by the thick darkness and the mist. I stretched out my hand in front of me and found I could hardly see it.
There was only one thing to do, and that was to turn around and try to find my way back to camp. So I turned around and trotted off, shivering and crying, in the direction I thought I had come from. I suppose I walked for hours, and I realized that I must have gone around and around in circles. I was almost too tired to feel frightened anymore, and at last I sat down hopelessly on a little rock and gave myself up for lost.
The ghostly white mist was changing into gray, and I knew that night was falling over the hills. I wondered dully what had happened to Peter, and I tried to think what to do next. If I sat still on that wet rock, I was sure I would freeze to death. It seemed years since I’d sat on the sunny slope with Philippa. We had talked about the path of life. It wasn’t the path of life I wanted just then—it was the path back to camp! It was the first time since being lost that I had been able to think properly, for I had been stupid with cold and panic before. But now into my weary, numbed brain came a
new thought. Was the Lord Jesus still there beside me in the mist? Was I still in His presence? If so, why was I so dreadfully afraid?
“Show me the path, Lord Jesus,” I whispered, and just saying His name seemed to warm and strengthen me and give me new courage. I got up and went on walking, not knowing where I was going, but with a strong feeling of being led. I felt the presence of the Good Shepherd with me, who long ago, I remembered, had gone out to the mountains to seek for one lost sheep, and how much more now would He seek for a lost child? New peace came into my heart, and I suddenly felt safe.
I could not say how long I walked. Sometimes I called out, but my voice sounded so small in the blackness that I gave it up. At last I found myself scrambling on loose stones and I realized I was back in the old quarry, near the ruined house with the blackened walls and the empty, staring windows.
My heart gave a leap of terror, which passed quite quickly. According to Johnny, someone lived in these ruins, but anyone at that moment was better than no one. Surely anyone on a night like this would take pity on a lost little girl and take her home.
I seemed to have reached the top of the stone pile, and my eyes, peering in the darkness, could make out a solid mass ahead of me. The next moment I slipped and, because there was nothing but loose stones to hold on to, I went on slipping and slipping, faster and faster. The next thing I knew I was lying half in the water and half out of it, with my leg all twisted around the wrong way.
I tried to move, but the pain made me feel sick. Once again, in desperation, I cupped my hands around my mouth and called, “Help! Help! Oh, please help me!” And in my heart I cried, Oh, Lord Jesus, I can’t go on any longer. Please send someone now!
I lay holding my breath and listening. At first I could hear nothing but the wind and the water, but after a few minutes I heard the noise of slow, shuffling footsteps coming from inside the ruined house. “Help!” I shouted again. “Oh, please, help me!”
I saw the glow of a lantern framed in one of the window gaps and heard the creaking of the broken door. Someone was certainly coming, and whoever it was, it was an answer to my desperate cry for help. I had not been forsaken. I had been led to this strange place, and now someone was being led, slowly, stumbling over the stone toward me. I could hear the heavy boots kicking the stones and splashing through the water, and a voice I had heard before said, “Who’s there?”
Why did that voice send shivers down my spine? I caught my breath and seemed to lose the power to answer. The next moment he had raised the lantern above his head and was looking down into my face, and I was looking up into his—a haggard, sick, unshaven face—a face that I knew.
The Rescue
Well, I’ll be!” said the man, as we stared at each other by the eerie light of the lantern. “Seems as though I can’t shake you off, doesn’t it? And what are you doing here?”
I could not speak at first, I was so terrified. Was this the answer to my prayer? Had I been left to the mercy of this dreadful thief? I could only gaze up at him, my body rigid with fear.
Perhaps he understood how I felt, for he spoke again quite gently, and the wild look seemed to fade out. “Now, now,” he said. “There’s no need to look like that. I’m not going to hurt you. You’re hurt already, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I whispered between dry lips. “I think . . . I think I’ve broken my leg.”
“Is that so?” he said, kneeling down beside me and scanning me again with the lantern. “Well, I’m going to carry you into my house, and then you can tell me what you’re doing here.”
I screamed with pain as he lifted me out of the stream, and clung to him desperately. He smelled of beer, and the weight of me seemed to exhaust him, for he breathed heavily as he plodded back to the ruin. He had left his lantern outside, but I felt myself being lowered very gently onto a mattress, and it was not pitch dark, for some ashes still glowed red in the stone fireplace.
He left me and returned in a moment with the lantern. His face looked white and weary. He sat for a moment at the bottom of the mattress, holding his head in his hands. Then he turned around and stared at me again.
“Well,” he said at last, “what do you think you are doing, spying on me like that?”
“I wasn’t spying,” I whispered pleadingly. “I . . . I didn’t know you lived here. I got lost in the mist, and I fell over in the quarry.”
“You were following me,” said the man, “you and that boy up on the moor. I saw you before you saw me. The boy followed me right up to the pub.”
I was silent, for I had nothing to say. I just lay there, wondering if he would kill me.
A wave of anger suddenly seemed to pass through him. “I could do away with you here, now, if I liked,” he said, shaking his fist at me. Then, seeing my terror, his anger seemed to pass as quickly as it had come. “But you needn’t be frightened. I’m not going to hurt you at all. I had a little girl myself once. She turned out bad, and God only knows where she is now, but she was an innocent little thing like you once. Now I suppose if you’re lost, every policeman in the district is out on the mountains looking for you. Got me into a pretty fix, haven’t you?” He sat staring into space, as though trying to make up his mind what to do.
“If you could go and get Mr. Owen from the Davies’s farm,” I faltered at last, “he’d take me home. I promise I’ll never, never tell. No one would ever know I knew you.”
“Oh, the boy’s seen to that,” said the man flatly. “I watched him and that parson chap go up to the police station together. I thought I’d be safe here one more night. It was too dark for a getaway just then. Besides, I’ve nowhere to get away to. I’m finished . . . down and out. I’ll be better off in prison when the bad weather comes, so here goes.”
He rose to his feet but still seemed uncertain what to do next. He made sure I was as comfortable as possible. “So long,” he said. “Put in a good word for me when I’m taken. Remember I did my best for you.” Then he was gone.
The pain in my leg was dreadful. I lay in the dark, staring at the tiny glowing patch of ashes. I was not afraid of this man any longer, for if he was a thief, he was a kind thief, and I did not want him to go to prison. But I realized that by saving me he was giving himself up, and I felt terribly sorry about it.
I must have lain for a long time half dozing. A storm had blown up. Fortunately the corner in which I lay was roofed over and dry, but the wind howled through the spaces in the wall. I was first shivering, then burning, and not very sure where I was. I was parched with thirst and lost in great blackness. I had somehow forgotten about Jesus, but He was still there, and I realized that not for one minute had I been alone. The rain was still beating down, and the night was pitch black, but the love of God shone around me like light. “Fullness of joy,” I whispered to myself. “I’m not afraid anymore . . . and I believe someone’s coming.”
I strained my ears to listen. Above the rain and the rushing water, I could hear men’s voices, and the next moment I saw the steady glow of a storm lantern through a window gap. The old door creaked, and the room was aglow with lantern light, and there was Mr. Owen looking almost as ill and haggard as the man who followed him.
“Elaine, my poor little girl!” he cried, kneeling down beside me. “Thank God I’ve found you! Are you hurt? Can you tell me?”
I nodded. “My leg,” I murmured. “And I’m thirsty. Please, can I have a drink of water?”
He had already pulled a knapsack off his back containing warm clothes and food and a flask of tea. I could not eat anything, but the tea was delicious. Now that he was here, I wanted nothing in the world but to go to sleep. The storm was still raging outside, and there was nothing to be done but stay there till morning.
I slept fitfully, as the pain kept waking me. I lay drowsily watching Mr. Owen and the man. They had blown up the dying ashes into a warm blaze and were sitting talking.
“You’ll always be a hunted man, even if you do get away,” I heard Mr. Owen say earnestly. “
Far better to get it over with. They’re after you now, and if they catch you running away, they’ll be hard on you. If you give yourself up, they’ll be easier on you. And I’ll stand by you and tell them what you did for our little girl. It won’t be as it was before. I’ll be waiting at the end of it, with a job for you, and a home for you to come to. Get it over, man, and start again. You’re starving, aren’t you? Have a sandwich.”
I drifted back into an uneasy sleep, and when I woke again a pale light was stealing into the wretched room. The rain had stopped, and the sky over the stone heaps was faintly golden. The man lay fast asleep on the floor in front of the fire, and Mr. Owen sat with his head in his hands, keeping watch over both of us.
Hearing me stir, he rose stiffly to his feet and came over to me. He looked worn out with sleeplessness and anxiety. He had more hot tea ready and fed me like a baby. Examining my leg very gently, he said, “We will have to get hold of a stretcher and an ambulance, Elaine. I think your leg is broken.”
I shut my eyes. I cannot remember clearly what happened after that, but after a time I realized that Mrs. Owen was sitting beside me, and Mr. Owen had gone. Then there seemed to be a great many people in the ruin, and I felt a sharp stab of pain as I was lifted onto a stretcher, and after that I knew I was being carried downhill, for it bumped and jolted, and I felt the sunshine on my face. Then we were all going somewhere in a car, but I was too tired to ask where. I was conscious of being carried indoors and seeing nurses gathering around me, and I kept putting out my hand to make sure Mrs. Owen was still there, and she always was, and I wondered what the family was doing without her. And then I felt a prick in my arm and knew nothing more for a very long time.
I was very, very ill, so I learned later, and nearly died. Not only was my leg badly broken, but the long hours spent running in wet clothes, the cold, the fall, and the fright had all been too much for me.
Patricia St John Series Page 42