'Telegraph--we might as well telegraph to the devil as to an old b.o.o.by and a d.a.m.ned scheming young widow. I very much question if we shall do anything in the matter, even if we get there. But I suppose we had better go on now?'

'You can do as you like. I shall go on, if I have to walk every step o't.'

'That's not necessary. I think the best posting-house at this end of the town is Tempett's--we must knock them up at once. Which will you do--attempt supper here, or break the back of our journey first, and get on to Anglebury? We may rest an hour or two there, unless you feel really in want of a meal.'

'No. I'll leave eating to merrier men, who have no sister in the hands of a cursed old Vandal.'

'Very well,' said Mountclere. 'We'll go on at once.'

An additional half-hour elapsed before they were fairly started, the lateness and abruptness of their arrival causing delay in getting a conveyance ready: the tempestuous night had apparently driven the whole town, gentle and simple, early to their beds. And when at length the travellers were on their way the aspect of the weather grew yet more forbidding. The rain came down unmercifully, the booming wind caught it, bore it across the plain, whizzed it against the carriage like a sower sowing his seed. It was precisely such weather, and almost at the same season, as when Picotee traversed the same moor, stricken with her great disappointment at not meeting Christopher Julian.

Further on for several miles the drive lay through an open heath, dotted occasionally with fir plantations, the trees of which told the tale of their species without help from outline or colour; they spoke in those melancholy moans and sobs which give to their sound a solemn sadness surpa.s.sing even that of the sea. From each carriage-lamp the long rays stretched like feelers into the air, and somewhat cheered the way, until the insidious damp that pervaded all things above, around, and underneath, overpowered one of them, and rendered every attempt to rekindle it ineffectual. Even had the two men's dislike to each other's society been less, the general din of the night would have prevented much talking; as it was, they sat in a rigid reticence that was almost a third personality. The roads were laid hereabouts with a light sandy gravel, which, though not clogging, was soft and friable. It speedily became saturated, and the wheels ground heavily and deeply into its substance.

At length, after crossing from ten to twelve miles of these eternal heaths under the eternally drumming storm, they could discern eyelets of light winking to them in the distance from under a nebulous brow of pale haze. They were looking on the little town of Havenpool. Soon after this cross-roads were reached, one of which, at right angles to their present direction, led down on the left to that place. Here the man stopped, and informed them that the horses would be able to go but a mile or two further.

'Very well, we must have others that can,' said Mountclere. 'Does our way lie through the town?'

'No, sir--unless we go there to change horses, which I thought to do. The direct road is straight on. Havenpool lies about three miles down there on the left. But the water is over the road, and we had better go round.

We shall come to no place for two or three miles, and then only to Flychett.'

'What's Flychett like?'

'A trumpery small bit of a village.'

'Still, I think we had better push on,' said Sol. 'I am against running the risk of finding the way flooded about Havenpool.'

'So am I,' returned Mountclere.

'I know a wheelwright in Flychett,' continued Sol, 'and he keeps a beer- house, and owns two horses. We could hire them, and have a bit of sommat in the shape of victuals, and then get on to Anglebury. Perhaps the rain may hold up by that time. Anything's better than going out of our way.'

'Yes. And the horses can last out to that place,' said Mountclere. 'Up and on again, my man.'

On they went towards Flychett. Still the everlasting heath, the black hills bulging against the sky, the barrows upon their round summits like warts on a swarthy skin. The storm blew huskily over bushes of heather and furze that it was unable materially to disturb, and the travellers proceeded as before. But the horses were now far from fresh, and the time spent in reaching the next village was quite half as long as that taken up by the previous heavy portion of the drive. When they entered Flychett it was about three.

'Now, where's the inn?' said Mountclere, yawning.

'Just on the knap,' Sol answered. ''Tis a little small place, and we must do as well as we can.'

They pulled up before a cottage, upon the whitewashed front of which could be seen a square board representing the sign. After an infinite labour of rapping and shouting, a cas.e.m.e.nt opened overhead, and a woman's voice inquired what was the matter. Sol explained, when she told them that the horses were away from home.

'Now we must wait till these are rested,' growled Mountclere. 'A pretty muddle!'

'It cannot be helped,' answered Sol; and he asked the woman to open the door. She replied that her husband was away with the horses and van, and that they could not come in.

Sol was known to her, and he mentioned his name; but the woman only began to abuse him.

'Come, publican, you'd better let us in, or we'll have the law for't,'

rejoined Sol, with more spirit. 'You don't dare to keep n.o.bility waiting like this.'

'n.o.bility!'

'My mate hev the t.i.tle of Honourable, whether or no; so let's have none of your slack,' said Sol.

'Don't be a fool, young chopstick,' exclaimed Mountclere. 'Get the door opened.'

'I will--in my own way,' said Sol testily. 'You mustn't mind my trading upon your quality, as 'tis a case of necessity. This is a woman nothing will bring to reason but an appeal to the higher powers. If every man of t.i.tle was as useful as you are to-night, sir, I'd never call them lumber again as long as I live.'

'How singular!'

'There's never a bit of rubbish that won't come in use if you keep it seven years.'

'If my utility depends upon keeping you company, may I go to h--- for lacking every atom of the virtue.'

'Hear, hear! But it hardly is becoming in me to answer up to a man so much older than I, or I could say more. Suppose we draw a line here for the present, sir, and get indoors?'

'Do what you will, in Heaven's name.'

A few more words to the woman resulted in her agreeing to admit them if they would attend to themselves afterwards. This Sol promised, and the key of the door was let down to them from the bedroom window by a string.

When they had entered, Sol, who knew the house well, busied himself in lighting a fire, the driver going off with a lantern to the stable, where he found standing-room for the two horses. Mountclere walked up and down the kitchen, mumbling words of disgust at the situation, the few of this kind that he let out being just enough to show what a fearfully large number he kept in.

'A-calling up people at this time of morning!' the woman occasionally exclaimed down the stairs. 'But folks show no mercy upon their flesh and blood--not one bit or mite.'

'Now never be stomachy, my good soul,' cried Sol from the fireplace, where he stood blowing the fire with his breath. 'Only tell me where the victuals bide, and I'll do all the cooking. We'll pay like princes--especially my mate.'

'There's but little in house,' said the sleepy woman from her bedroom.

'There's pig's fry, a side of bacon, a conger eel, and pickled onions.'

'Conger eel?' said Sol to Mountclere.

'No, thank you.'

'Pig's fry?'

'No, thank you.'

'Well, then, tell me where the bacon is,' shouted Sol to the woman.

'You must find it,' came again down the stairs. ''Tis somewhere up in chimley, but in which part I can't mind. Really I don't know whether I be upon my head or my heels, and my brain is all in a spin, wi' being rafted up in such a larry!'

'Bide where you be, there's a dear,' said Sol. 'We'll do it all. Just tell us where the tea-caddy is, and the gridiron, and then you can go to sleep again.'

The woman appeared to take his advice, for she gave the information, and silence soon reigned upstairs.

When one piece of bacon had been with difficulty cooked over the newly- lit fire, Sol said to Mountclere, with the rasher on his fork: 'Now look here, sir, I think while I am making the tea, you ought to go on griddling some more of these, as you haven't done nothing at all?'

'I do the paying. . . . Well, give me the bacon.'

'And when you have done yours, I'll cook the man's, as the poor feller's hungry, I make no doubt.'