'Years must elapse before I should have mounted the first grades, and during that time I must be altogether dependent on you and your mother.'
This was said in so harsh and curt a tone that Edmund drew himself up quickly.
'Oswald, have I ever let you feel that?'
'You--never! But your very generosity makes me feel it more.'
'So here we are on the old ground again! You are capable of doing the most idiotic thing in the world, merely to shake off this so-called dependence. But what is the matter, I wonder? Why has the carriage stopped? I really believe we are fast in the snow here on the main-road.'
Oswald had already let down the window, and was looking out.
'What is up?' he asked.
'We are stuck,' was the phlegmatic reply of the post-boy, who seemed to consider the thing as perfectly natural.
'Oh, we are stuck, are we!' repeated Edmund, with an irritated laugh. 'And the man informs us of it with that sweet philosophic calm. Well, granted we are stuck. What is to be done?'
Oswald made no reply, but opened the carriage-door and stepped out. The situation could be taken in at a glance; agreeable it certainly was not. From the spot they had reached, the road descended in a steep incline, and the narrow defile through which they must pass was completely blocked by an enormous drift. There the snow lay several feet high, and presented so compact a mass that to get through it seemed impossible. The coachman and horses must have become aware of this simultaneously, for the latter ceased all exertion, and the former sat with drooping whip and reins, gazing at his two passengers as though he expected from them counsel or assistance.