‘But how to get at you, now I have found you!’ added Lord Harrogate in some perplexity, after a pause. It was provoking, to be baffled by the eleven feet of sheer black emptiness that lay between the wet outer grotto and the dry inner compartment of the cave.
‘Some one will perhaps arrive before long. A plank put across the gap would set us free,’ said Ethel, advancing to the edge of the chasm.
‘I wanted to jump it, but Miss Gray would not let me try,’ called out Lady Alice.
‘And Miss Gray was quite right, Miss Madcap,’ answered her brother, scanning the width of the abyss. ‘An uglier jump, or a less inviting, I never saw—at all events for a young lady to venture on. The worst of it is, that nobody excepting myself and this excellent Betty Mudge here, is in the secret of the Hunger Hole; so nobody is coming with ropes or planks or civilised contrivances of any sort. I have tied my horse to a bush below, just by the dead alder-tree; but I can’t well make a suspension-bridge out of reins and saddle-girths, after all.’
‘Please ye, my lord,’ put in Betty, who had by this time recovered her breath—‘please ye, I might run across to Farmer Fletcher’s town, and ask him to get chaise ready for the ladies, and send some of his men with things ’cross Swamp.’
This was a very sensible proposition, for Mr Fletcher was the farmer who dwelt on the ridge, and at whose ‘town’ or farm-house, clustered round by cottages for the labourers who tilled the fields of that little oasis in the desert, the pony and wagonette had been left. The pony and wagonette had long since returned to High Tor in charge of the lad in the Earl’s livery, who had sounded the first note of alarm as to the probable fate of the missing ones; but the farmer possessed a green chaise and a serviceable cob to draw it, and would of course send over all that was needed.
‘Better ask him then, from me, to send his chaise to the Crossroads, at the north end of the Heronmere. Bitternley Swamp will not be dry walking after the rain,’ said Lord Harrogate.
Betty vanished on her errand like a fog-wreath at sunrise.
‘Now let me see what I can do single-handed towards the good work,’ said Lord Harrogate. ‘It strikes me that the withered tree I spoke of, close to which my nag is tethered, might do good service now. There is something ignominious in being balked by a ditch like that.’