THE MOON RISES.
DOWN hill was pleasanter, and the bay mare did wonders, and my Aunt, who was not more unjust than the rest of her sex, soon forgave her companion, and talked affably enough with fat old Winnie Dobbs.
About two miles beyond the foot of the hill, in a pretty hollow, lies the pleasant little town of Dramworth, with old red brick gables and many tall poplars, where at the small inn, the party changed horses.
It was not far from three o’clock in the afternoon when they arrived there. One horse they found in the inn stable, but nothing less than a post-chaise, and no driver on the premises, men and vehicles being away on other travels.
Tom being well known there, and fortunately being well esteemed, there was no great hesitation in trusting the horse in his hands. So the bay mare took her place in the stable, and the Dramworth steed was put to in her place. It was a long drive — three-and-twenty miles — still to Winderbrooke, and the horse and the roads indifferent The season was pretty well on in the autumn, and the evenings were not so long as they had been at midsummer, and as it was some time past three when they started, Tom could not undertake to reach their destination before nightfall.
From Dram worth to Winderbrooke was by no means so familiar a route to Tom Teukesbury as the road they had travelled hitherto. He conferred, however, with mine host under the porch, and gathered in brief hints and notes, the landmarks of his journey, and resumed the whip and reins with a serious but tolerably confident countenance.
Tom being under promise to spare the horse, drove drowsily. It is a very pretty country, though but thinly inhabited. The sun was by this time at the verge of those low hills that lie to the westward. They had just crossed a narrow old bridge over a little stream, and there was an ascent at the other side, which their horse refused to mount until the ladies had descended. In fact he was an unsatisfactory brute and, Tom feared, had been out that morning.
My Aunt and Winnifred got down and trudged on, this time in front of the vehicle, which came tinkling up the slope, in the slanting light, with Tom at the horse’s head. In this lonely region a solitary little boy came over a stile by the roadside, and looking back, Aunt Margaret saw Tom at a standstill, conversing with the urchin, and pointing in various directions in illustration of his discourse, or his questioning.
“Well, Tom, what does he say? How far is it to Winderbrooke?”
“He is a stoopid, that boy, and knows nout — no more than that post, ma’am — he doan’t.”
I think Tom was uneasy by this time, for he did not know the country. He was gaping about him vainly for a sight of a human being, and standing up in the “dickey” and beckoning with his whip whenever he fancied he saw one. But each in succession turned out to be a horse or a goat, or a post Sometimes he got up a brisk trot, and sometimes subsided almost to a walk, as his doubts or his hopes prevailed. But though he affected in replying to my Aunt’s queries through the front window, a confidence as to their whereabouts, and promised the early appearance of certain landmarks which he named, yet I think by this time honest Tom was strongly of opinion that he had lost his way.
By the time the sun went down they had got upon a wild moorland with patches of stunted old wood, and heathy undulations, and distant boundaries of low hills, crowned irregularly with trees.
“Get on a little faster, please; I don’t like being out in the dark,” urged my Aunt who, as a spinster, and in charge beside of Winnie Dobbs, felt her responsibilities duly.
Tom muttered to himself, and got into a trot which, however, soon abated. Twilight was deepening and a round harvest moon soon began to shine solemnly over the broad and solitary landscape.
“How many miles now, Tom?” asked my Aunt sharply from the window.
“It’ll be about five from Winderbrooke, ma’am.”
“And what’s this place?”
“Well, it’s the moor, I suppose.”
“I’d like a glass of water. Is there a house near?”
“We’ll be soon at the cross-mills — round that bit of a clump o’ trees there.”
But when they passed the dump there was neither river nor mills, and Tom stood up uneasily in the dickey, and made a dreary survey.
“Are we at the mills, Tom?”
“Not yet a bit, ma’am — I’m a looking if there’s a house near.”
But there was no friendly red twinkle from cottage window, and Tom, with his two maidens in charge, was growing very uncomfortable.