A STRANGE NIGHT.
The youths had not left the city a mile behind, when a thick snowstorm came on.It did not last long, however, and they fought their way through it into a glimpse of sun.To Robert, healthy, powerful, and except at rare times, hopeful, it added to the pleasure of the journey to contend with the storm, and there was a certain steely indifference about Ericson that carried him through.
They trudged on steadily for three hours along a good turnpike road, with great black masses of cloud sweeping across the sky, which now sent them a glimmer of sunlight, and now a sharp shower of hail.The country was very dreary--a succession of undulations rising into bleak moorlands, and hills whose heather would in autumn flush the land with glorious purple, but which now looked black and cheerless, as if no sunshine could ever warm them.Now and then the moorland would sweep down to the edge of the road, diversified with dark holes from which peats were dug, and an occasional quarry of gray granite.At one moment endless pools would be shining in the sunlight, and the next the hail would be dancing a mad fantastic dance all about them: they pulled their caps over their brows, bent their heads, and struggled on.
At length they reached their first stage, and after a meal of bread and cheese and an offered glass of whisky, started again on their journey.They did not talk much, for their force was spent on their progress.
After some consultation whether to keep the road or take a certain short cut across the moors, which would lead them into it again with a saving of several miles, the sun shining out with a little stronger promise than he had yet given, they resolved upon the latter.But in the middle of the moorland the wind and the hail came on with increased violence, and they were glad to tack from one to another of the huge stones that lay about, and take a short breathing time under the lee of each; so that when they recovered the road, they had lost as many miles in time and strength as they had saved in distance.They did not give in, however, but after another rest and a little more refreshment, started again.
The evening was now growing dusk around them, and the fatigue of the day was telling so severely on Ericson, that when in the twilight they heard the blast of a horn behind them, and turning saw the two flaming eyes of a well-known four-horse coach come fluctuating towards them, Robert insisted on their getting up and riding the rest of the way.
'But I can't afford it,' said Ericson.
'But I can,' said Robert.
'I don't doubt it,' returned Ericson.'But I owe you too much already.'
'Gin ever we win hame--I mean to the heart o' hame--ye can pay me there.'
'There will be no need then.'
'Whaur's the need than to mak sic a wark aboot a saxpence or twa atween this and that? I thocht ye cared for naething that time or space or sense could grip or measure.Mr.Ericson, ye're no half sic a philosopher as ye wad set up for.--Hillo!'
Ericson laughed a weary laugh, and as the coach stopped in obedience to Robert's hail, he scrambled up behind.
The guard knew Robert, was pitiful over the condition of the travellers, would have put them inside, but that there was a lady there, and their clothes were wet, got out a great horse-rug and wrapped Robert in it, put a spare coat of his own, about an inch thick, upon Ericson, drew out a flask, took a pull at it, handed it to his new passengers, and blew a vigorous blast on his long horn, for they were approaching a desolate shed where they had to change their weary horses for four fresh thorough-breds.
Away they went once more, careering through the gathering darkness.
It was delightful indeed to have to urge one weary leg past the other no more, but be borne along towards food, fire, and bed.But their adventures were not so nearly over as they imagined.Once more the hail fell furiously--huge hailstones, each made of many, half-melted and welded together into solid lumps of ice.The coachman could scarcely hold his face to the shower, and the blows they received on their faces and legs, drove the thin-skinned, high-spirited horses nearly mad.At length they would face it no longer.At a turn in the road, where it crossed a brook by a bridge with a low stone wall, the wind met them right in the face with redoubled vehemence; the leaders swerved from it, and were just rising to jump over the parapet, when the coachman, whose hands were nearly insensible with cold, threw his leg over the reins, and pulled them up.One of the leaders reared, and fell backwards; one of the wheelers kicked vigorously; a few moments, and in spite of the guard at their heads, all was one struggling mass of bodies and legs, with a broken pole in the midst.The few passengers got down;and Robert, fearing that yet worse might happen and remembering the lady, opened the door.He found her quite composed.As he helped her out,'What is the matter?' asked the voice dearest to him in the world--the voice of Miss St.John.
He gave a cry of delight.Wrapped in the horse-cloth, Miss St.John did not know him.
'What is the matter?' she repeated.
'Ow, naething, mem--naething.Only I doobt we winna get ye hame the nicht.'
'Is it you, Robert?' she said, gladly recognizing his voice.
'Ay, it's me, and Mr.Ericson.We'll tak care o' ye, mem.'
'But surely we shall get home!'
Robert had heard the crack of the breaking pole.
''Deed, I doobt no.'
'What are we to do, then?'
'Come into the lythe (shelter) o' the bank here, oot o' the gait o'
thae brutes o' horses,' said Robert, taking off his horse-cloth and wrapping her in it.
The storm hissed and smote all around them.She took Robert's arm.
Followed by Ericson, they left the coach and the struggling horses, and withdrew to a bank that overhung the road.As soon as they were out of the wind, Robert, who had made up his mind, said,'We canna be mony yairds frae the auld hoose o' Bogbonnie.We micht win throu the nicht there weel eneuch.I'll speir at the gaird, the minute the horses are clear.We war 'maist ower the brig, I heard the coachman say.'