Freda was too much agitated to answer except by a long-drawn breath. The Abbey! Her father’s home! A terrible presentiment, natural enough after the scant experience she had had of his care, told her that there was no welcome waiting. She crouched down in the cart and clung to the farmer’s arm.
“Barnabas,” she whispered, “I’m afraid to go on. Drive slowly; oh, do drive slowly!”
But the robust farmer only laughed and jogged on at the same pace. The road, however, grew in a few minutes so steep that they could only proceed very slowly, and Barnabas got down to lead the horse and lighten his burden as he ploughed his way up. Traffic between the little town of Presterby and its neighbours had been so much hindered by the blockade of snow, that there were no wheel-marks on the white mass before them.
“Soomun’s been riding oop a horseback, though,” said Barnabas, as he looked at the print of hoofs.
“Perhaps the man Blewitt from the farm,” suggested Freda. “He said he was going to ride to the Abbey.”
“Oh, ay,” said the farmer with interest. “If he was cooming, noa doubt it’s him. Hey,” he went on, in a different tone, “Ah think Ah hear his voice oop top theer! He’s fell aht wi’ soomun by t’ sounds, Ah fancy.”
He stopped the cart a moment to listen. Plainly both Freda and he could hear the voices of men in angry discussion, the one coarse and loud, the other lower and less distinguishable.
“My father!” cried Freda, trembling.
“A’ reeght, lass, a’ reeght; doan’t ye be afraid. We’ll be oop wi ’em in a breace o’ sheakes.”
“Barnabas! Make haste, make haste! They’re quarrelling, fighting perhaps!” cried the girl in passionate excitement.