‘Oh, bother mother!’ cried the boy. ‘We can’t at our age be always stopping to consider what an old lady thinks.’
‘Mother’s not an old lady, Tom.’
‘She’s a great deal older than we are, or she couldn’t be our mother. Come, Jan, are you game for a long spin? It’s almost the last time these holidays. Hurrah, then, off we go!’ And off they went in a wild career, Janet following breathless, gasping, her dark hair flying behind her, her hat often in danger, wherever he led. She would not allow that she had any fear; but it was a long ride, and the way was confused by the cross cuts which Tom knew only imperfectly, and which made it longer, besides leading them over moors and across fields which excited their horses and kept the young riders at a full strain, to which Janet’s immature powers were quite unaccustomed. She was dreadfully dishevelled and shaken to pieces upon their arrival at the large rough establishment to which her brother had already paid many visits, and where they were received by a chorus of innumerable dogs and lounging men whose appearance was very alarming to Janet. They looked like keepers, she thought, or grooms, not like people who would naturally be greeted as friends, which was what Tom was doing, shaking hands with the big and bearded master of the house and the younger man, presumably his son, and calling out salutations in as good an imitation of the broad country dialect as he could accomplish to the others. Janet was aware that her own aspect was very wild, and she was very tired; but she clung to her saddle when that big gamekeeper approached with a mixture of pride and shame. ‘So this is your sister, Maister Tom? Charlie, cry on your mother,’ cried the man; ‘the mistress will be here in a moment, missie. Let me lift ye down.’
‘No, no,’ Janet said, ‘we can’t wait long. We must soon go back, it will be dark. Oh, Tom, we must get back.’
‘Nonsense, Jan! Now I’ve got here I mean to stay awhile. And Blackmore’s awfully jolly; he’ll take you through the stables. Come, jump down.’
‘Cry upon your mother, Charlie,’ said Blackmore again. ‘The young leddy thinks we’re a’ men folk here, and she’s frichtened. But ye must not be frichtened, my bonnie doo. Hey, Marget, where’s the mistress? And the powney’s a’ in a lather. Pit your hand upon my shoulder if you’ll no let me lift ye down.’
When Janet saw a woman appear at the door hurrying out in a cap and a white apron, she allowed herself to be lifted from her horse, feeling all the time as if she had fallen into some strange adventures such as were described in books, not anything that would happen to girls like herself in common life. She did not know that she might not be detained, locked up somewhere, forced to sign something, or to come under some fatal obligation as happened to the heroines of some old-fashioned novels which she had found in the library at the Towers. The mist of fatigue and alarm in her eyes made her even more confused than it was natural she should be in so new and unexpected a scene. And the rough and dingy house, the clamour of the dogs, the heavy steps of the man who followed her in, the sense of her own dishevelled and disorderly condition, and of the distance from home, quite overcame poor Janet. ‘Oh, Tom, let us go home,’ she cried, in an agony of compunction and fear.
‘Is it Miss Torrance from the Towers? Dear me, but it’s a long ride for her—over long—and a wild road. But you must rest a little now you’re here, and I’ll get you a cup of tea,’ said the woman of the house. She was a fresh-coloured, buxom woman, not at all like a brigand’s housekeeper, and she smiled upon Janet with encouraging kindly looks. ‘I’m real glad to see your sister, Maister Tom; but you’re a thoughtless laddie to bring her so far, and her not accustomed to rough riding. Marget, is the kettle boiling—for the young leddie must have some tea?’
‘And you can bring in the hot water, and a’ the rest of it,’ said Blackmore, ‘for us that are no so fond of tea—eh, Maister Tom? After your ride a good glass will do ye nae harm.’
Janet sat still and gazed while these hospitable preparations were going on. The large table was covered with oilcloth, not unconscious of stains. And the men gathered round one side upon which a tray with ‘the hot water’ and a black bottle and a strange array of glasses, big and little, had been placed. This seemed the first thing thought of in the house; for Marget, the big servant-woman (everything was big), brought the tray, pushing open the door with it as she bore it in in front of her before the order had been given. And presently the fumes of the hot ‘toddy’ filled the room, pungent and strong, making Janet feel faint and sick. The men flung themselves into chairs or stood about, filling the other end of the room—a small, rough, dark crowd, with Tom in the midst. They were all very ‘kind’ to Tom, patting him on the shoulder, addressing him by name, filling his glass for him, while Janet, alone at the end of the table, looked on alarmed. The mistress was bringing out from a cupboard cups and saucers, a basin of sugar, and other preparations for tea.