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.
CHAPTER IV.
PERTURBATION.
They drove very slowly. Tom was groping in a geographical chaos, and paused every now and then. My Aunt inquired angrily, demanding the production of the cross-mills. Tom asked ten minutes, and half a mile more, and promised the profert; but after half an hour’s driving, with no result, my Aunt grew extremely frightened and exasperated, and Tom sulkily admitted that he had his doubts as to their topographical position.
Tom halted, and stood up in the dickey, as before. My Aunt Margaret descended, and looking at the moonlit prospect from the bank by the roadside, harangued the troubled driver in strong and shrill language; and Winnie, whose grief was more sedentary, sat in the vehicle, and spoke not but stared through the window, with a fat and fatigued sadness, in vague apprehension.
There were plenty of old stories of highwaymen afloat through their scared fancies; and here was a lonely heath — two helpless maidens also, with a trunk, a basket of “prog,” and four pounds seven and sixpence in a purse, and a driver without small or back-sword, and no pistols!
“We’ll, sure get on the London road in two miles more or less, and then we’re all right,” said Tom.
“London, fiddle! It’s my belief, Thomas Teukesbury, you nave not the faintest idea where we are; you haven’t, sir, no more than myself.”
“There isn’t a light nor a house.
D — n the place!” retorted Tom, bitterly.
“Don’t curse — we’re bad enough. No impiety, please. You should command yourself, I think, if I do, while we are in this helpless and utterly unprotected situation.”
“There’s a man coming,” said Tom, hopefully.
Good gracious!” cried my Aunt “No, there ain’t,” said Tom, dejectedly.
“Heaven be praised!” said my Aunt, with a gasp. “I look on it sir, we’re in danger here on this dreadful moor, to which you, sir, have brought us. What a shame, Thomas, to pretend you knew the way! Winnie, Winnie Dobbs, we’re lost — lost on a heath! Tom has lost us!”
Winnie’s fat, forlorn face filled the back window of the vehicle.
“Lost on a heath, Winnie, in the middle of the night!”
“What’ll we best do ma’am?” imploringly asked Winnie, who was accustomed to derive her stock of wisdom in all emergencies from my Aunt Margaret’s inspiration.
“Ask Thomas Teukesbury up there — he’s our guide. He brought us here, though he does not seem to know a way out Ask him. I don’t know, no more than the man in the moon there.”
“I dessay we’re all right enough, after all,” said Tom, “only I don’t know it by this light Will you get in, ma’am, and well git on a bit, and we’ll, sure, light on a hinn or a public afore long.”
Well, she did get in. The horse was unmistakably fatigued, with a disposition to draw up every now and then, by an old tree, or under a steep bank, or sometimes without any special landmark to invite.
Tom got down, and walked by the brute’s adjected head; and my Aunt, who had given up the sarcastic and ironical mood as her alarms deepened, scolded him occasionally from the front window. As the back of his head and shoulders were presented, Tom walked on, not caring to turn about to reply, but, I am afraid, making some disrespectful remarks in the dark.
In fact, the poor horse, who, if he had but understood and spoken our language, could, probably, have saved them and himself a world of trouble, was so evidently done up that Tom insisted he must have his oats, and accordingly, he partook of that refreshment in a nosebag. Here was another delay. My Aunt’s watch had been frequently consulted, by the moonlight, during that anxious journey. It was now out again. The night was a little sharp, too; and the whole party, who had made no provision for such a climate and such hours, were rather cold. You may be sure my Aunt’s temper was not growing more agreeable.
There was just the alternative of a bivouac where they stood, or following, on chance, the road they had been pursuing. My Aunt adopted the latter. Affairs had grown so serious that she now never removed her face from the little front window, through which she looked ahead, with hope deferred, and a sick heart.
She had been so often deceived by marly banks and thickets, that it was not until they had almost reached it, to her inexpressible relief, she plainly saw the whitewashed front of a low, two-storied public, standing back from the road a few yards, and snugly sheltered among some thick and stunted trees.
My Aunt held the reins through the window, and Tom got down and summoned mine host A red streak of candlelight shot out through the door of the pot-house, and there was a parley which she could not hear.
CHAPTER V.
“THE GOOD WOMAN.”
Tom returned sl
owly. My Aunt’s heart sank.
“Well?”
“Only two rooms, ma’am, and lofts above, and the house full o’ tipsy colliers, dancing. But there’s an inn, called “The Good Woman,” only half a mile on, and lots o’ room.”
My Aunt breathed a sigh of relief, and was silently thankful. Then she repeated the news to Winnie, who joined in the jubilation.
About ten minutes more brought them, after a slight ascent, on a sudden, to a hollow, expanding to an amphitheatrical plain, encompassed by wooded, rising grounds, and near the centre of which rose two abrupt and oddly-shaped hillocks, like islands from a lake, and a very large pond from under a thick screen of trees, and the clustered gables and chimneys of “The Good Woman” shone mistily in the moonlight They drew up before the door of the inn. Oldfashioned and weather-stained it looked in the faint beams. The door was closed — it was past ten o’clock — but a glimmer of candle or firelight shone through the shutter chink at the right My Aunt did not wait. There was no need to hold the reins of the timid horse, who coughed, snorted, and shook himself, with his nose near the ground.
My Aunt Margaret ran up the three broad steps, the dingy “Good Woman,” without a head, sarcastically swinging between the sign-posts at her left With the carpet-bag in one hand, she hammered lustily at the knocker with the other. Tom, a little in the rear, with one foot on the steps, rested the trunk on his knee; and Winnie, with the basket of “prog” on her arm, stood dejectedly beside him.
There was some delay about opening the door, and when it was done, it was with a chain across, and a woman, with a coarse voice, and strong Irish accent, asked, not pleasantly, who was there.
“Travellers,” said my Aunt, “who have been led astray by the driver.”
“Where are yez from?”
“From Dramworth to Winderbrooke.”
“From Dhramworth to Windherbrooke! an’ he dhruv yez here! How many iv yez is in it?”
“Two ladies, a horse, a vehicle, and the driver.” Tom, the culprit, was degraded, and my Aunt placed him after the vehicle.
The maid of the inn, with high-cheek bones, and a determined countenance, was looking over the chain.
“Did yez come through the village, or over the moor?”
“Over the moor, I suppose; from that direction,” answered my Aunt “And why didn’t yez stop at “The Cat and Fiddle?”
“You mean the small ale-house near this. It was full of inebriated men,” answered Aunt Margaret, with dignity.
Well, you may come in, ma’am, and the leedy that’s widge ye; but we can’t Accommodate yer man, and he must only take the horse an’ carriage back to ‘The Cat an’ Fiddle,’ an’ if that’ll answer, yez may come in; if not, yez must all go on, for we won’t let a man in after ten o’clock.”
My Aunt expostulated, but the portress was inexorable.
“We won’t let a man in after ten o’clock for Saint Payther, and that’s the holy all iv it,” she answered, firmly.
So, my Aunt submitted, and softening at the parting, gave Tom some shillings on account, and wished him goodnight; and when he had got upon the box, and started afresh for “The Cat and Fiddle,” and had made some way in his return, the door was shut in the faces of the spinsters, who stood, with their modest luggage, upon the steps, in the moonlight. The chain was withdrawn, and the hall of “The Good Woman” stood open to receive them.
I don’t know whether my Aunt had read “Ferdinand Count Fathom,” or ever seen the “Bleeding Nun” performed on any stage; bat if she had I venture to say she was reminded of both before morning.
The woman with high-cheek bones, and somewhat forbidding face, stood before them on their entrance, with a brass candlestick raised in her hand, so that the light fell from above her head on the faces of the guests. She had allowed them without a helping hand to pull in their luggage, and was now maxing a steady and somewhat scowling scrutiny of my Aunt and Winnie.
“And yez come from Windberbrooke?” she said, after an interval, with a jealous glance still upon them.
My Aunt nodded.
“Yer mighty tall, the two o’ yez, I’m thinkin (another pause.) “Will I help yez off widge yer cloaks?”
My Aunt would nave probably been tart enough upon this uncivil damsel, had it not been that her attention was a little called of! by the sound of female lamentation indistinctly audible from a chamber near the hall.
She proceeded to remove their mantles., eyeing them, at the same time, with a surly sort of curiosity.
“We are cold, my good woman; we can sit for a while by the kitchen fire,” said my Aunt, recollecting herself.
“The kitchen’s all through other wid the sutt that’s tumbled down the chimbley; bud I’ll light yez a bit o’ fire in a brace o’ shakes in your bedroom. Is it dinner yez’ill be wanting?”
“Tea, please,” said my Aunt, “and Lend a hand i’ ye plase, Missess, wid them things,” said she to Winnie, whom, with the quick instinct of her kind, she discovered to be the subordinate.
CHAPTER VI.
THE WHITE CHAMBER.
A FAT slatternly woman, by no means young, with a face swollen and red with weeping, pushed open a side door, and standing behind the portress, gaped on them, and asked— “Is it them, Nell?”
“Arra, ma’am, can’t ye keep quite. No it isn’t no one, but here’s two leedies ye see, that wants a bed an’ a fire, and a cup o’ tay in the white room. Come along i’ ye plase, my leedy.”
And in an’ aside, as she passed, my Aunt heard her say, close in the blubbered face of the fat woman— “Arrah, ma’am, dear, will ye get in out o’ that, an’ shut the doore.
The stout woman complied; and as they mounted the broad stairs, they again heard the sounds of crying.
This certainly savoured in no wise of the warm welcome for which inns are famous. The mansion, too, old wainscoted, and palpably altogether too large for its business. They met Boots coming down the stairs with a dingy kitchen candle and a hammer in his hand; a pallid fellow, with the sort of inquiring hang-dog look that seemed to belong to the staff of “The Good Woman.” He stood close by the wall in the corner of the lobby as they passed by, and did not offer to carry up the trunk.
“Bring a guvvaul o’ wudd, will ye. Barney, jewel, to the white room?” said the handmaid over her shoulder.
My Aunt and Winnie followed her to the head of the stairs, where she placed the trunk, and this slight circumstance I mention, because it was immediately connected with my Aunt’s adventure, and she took a coalscuttle instead, and conducting by two turns into a long wainscoted gallery, she opened a door on the right, and they entered a large square room, with a recess near one angle, two tall narrow windows, with white curtains rather yellow, and one very capacious bed, with curtains of the same. There was a skimpy bit of carpet near the hearth, and very scant and plain furniture.
The wood having arrived, Nell made a good fire, placed the deal table and two chairs near it, lighted a large mould of four to the pound, such as Molly Dumpling sported on the night of her dreadful adventure with William Gardner, and altogether the room began to put on its cheeriest looks. And when the teathings, eggs, and battered toast arrived, my Aunt and Winnie being well warmed by this time, sat down with their feet on the fender, the one mollified and the other consoled.
After tea, my Aunt, who was a fidgety person, made a tour of the room, and a scrutiny of the open cupboard and drawers, but she found nothing, except an old black glove for the left hand, in one of the drawers.
When this was over she sat by the fire again, and speculated for Winnie’s instruction upon their geographical probabilities. But Winnie was growing sleepy.
“A double-bedded room would have been more comme il faut; but it is plainly a poor place, and after all the bed is unusually large,” thought my Aunt.
And so, indeed, it was, extraordinarily large, and of an oldfashioned construction.
My Aunt, who was of an active inquiring genius, opened a bit of one of
the shutters and peeped out It showed a view of the inn yard. The side next her had been formed by a wing of the house; but that now stood up a gaunt roofless wall, with the broad moon shining through its sashless windows. On the left was a row of tall and dingy stables and offices, and opposite, another ruined building, a shed, and a tall arched gate. The pavement was grass-grown and rutty, and the whole thing looked awfully seedy, and not the less gloomy for some great trees that darkly overhung the buildings from the outside.
Having made her survey, my Aunt would have closed the shutter, but that she saw a man walk lazily from the side beneath her, his hands in his pockets, across the yard, casting an undulating and misshapen shadow over the uneven pavement.
When he reached the gate at the other side, he took a key from his pocket, and unlocked a wicket in it, and setting his foot on the plank beneath, leaned his elbow on the side, and lazily looked out, as if on the watch for somebody. A huge dog came pattering out of a kennel in the shadow, and placing his great head by the man’s leg, sniffed gloomily into the darkness.
“Are ye expectin’ any friends, ma’am?” asked Nell’s coarse voice over my Aunt’s shoulder, so sharply and suddenly that the start brought the blood to her thin cheeks.
“Not very likely to see friends here,” replied my Aunt, Very tartly. “What do you mean, woman, by talking that way over my shoulder?”
The grim chambermaid by this time had seen the man, and was eyeing him under her projecting and somewhat shrewish brows.
“An’ ye come from Hoxton?” she said rather slowly and sharply.
“I told you so, woman.”
“It wasn’t from Westerton, ye’re sure?”
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 845