The tone of the man which, hitherto, though mocking had been in the main indulgent, had suddenly, harshly, changed. The wife dropped into the corner of the carriage among her furs and wraps, and said no more.
In another quarter of an hour the carriage turned a corner of the road, and came upon a tall building, of which the high irregular outline was just visible through the growing darkness. In front of it stood a group of men with lanterns, and the carriage stopped beside them.
A noise of tongues arose, and Mr. Melrose let down the window.
"Is this where the road is flooded?" he asked of a stout man in a whitish coat and cap who had come forward to speak to the coachman.
"Aye, sir—but you'll get through. In an hour's time, mebbe ye couldn't do it. The water fro' the mill-race is over t' road, but it's nobbut a foot deep as yet. Yo'll do it varra well—but yo'd best not lose time!"
"Edmund!"—screamed the voice from inside—"Edmund!—let me out—let me out at once—I shall stay here with baby for the night."
Mr. Melrose took no notice whatever.
"Can you send those men of yours alongside us—in case there is any danger of the coachman losing the road?" he said, addressing the man.
"Aye, they'll keep along t' bank with the lanterns. Noa fear, missis, noa fear!"
Another scream from inside. Mr. Melrose shut the window abruptly, and the coachman whipped up his horses.