"Is not that a very favourable statement of the case?"
"Let us take an observation," said he, pulling up at the top of the hill. "There is the west, by the sun. We have kept our backs upon Tanfield generally; it must lie well to the south, and a little to the east of us. I am going to take the first turning that promises to bring us round, and back by another road. There is the railway!—do you see, yonder, its straight level line? Now I know where we are. That is the Tanfield railway, running on to the north. We must come about and meet it, somewhere."
The coming about, however, proved to be a long and gradual process. The first turning they took did not lead immediately in the desired direction, only as it were inclined towards it; the second turning was not more satisfactory. Meanwhile they got deeper among the hills; the ground was more and more rough; farming land disappeared; rocks and woodland filled the eye, look where it would; the roads were less travelled and by no means smooth going any longer. Even so, they were prettier; the changes of hill and valley, sudden and varied as they were, gave interest to every foot of the way. All this took time; but nobody was in a hurry. Rotha was thinking that perhaps it was her last drive with Mr. Southwode; and Mr. Southwode was thinking, I do not know what; nor perhaps did he.
The point was found at last where they could turn their faces towards Tanfield; they were sure of their way when they reached the top of a hill and saw, spread out before them for many a square mile, the plain country in which the town stood, and far away in the midst of it could discern the glinting of the light upon its spires and houses. The sun was very low; its level rays gave an exquisite illumination to the whole scene, lighting every rise of ground and every tuft of woodland, and even coming back from scattered single trees with beautiful defining effect. Mr. Southwode drew up his horses; and for a few minutes he and Rotha fed their eyes with what was before them. The sun was just kissing the horizon.
"That is worth coming all the way for!" he said.
"And we shall not have it but just half a minute longer," said Rotha. "There—the light is going now. O what a sight it is!—There! now it is all gone. How far are we from home, do you suppose?"
"By the roads, I do not know; but once at the bottom of this hill we shall have nothing but level travelling, and the horses go pretty well."
"Pretty well!" said Rotha laughing. "I am wondering then what you would call very well? We have got to cross the railway, Mr. Southwode. It runs by the foot of the hill."
"There is no train near," he answered as he put his horses in motion.
They went slowly down the hill, which was rough and steep. The horses behaved well, setting down their feet carefully, and holding back the carnage with the instinct or training which seems to be aware what would be the consequence of letting themselves and it go. But then happened one of those things against which instinct is no protection and training cannot provide. Just as a sharp turn in the road was reached, from which it went on turning round a shoulder of the hill till it reached the lower ground, this thing happened. It was the worst possible place for an accident; the descent was steep and rough and winding, the road disappearing from view behind the turn; and crossed evidently, just a little further below, by the railway track. The horses at this point came to a sudden stop. Mr. Southwode alone saw why. Some buckle or pin or strap, which had to do with the secure holding of the end of the carriage pole to the harness, was broken or had given way, and the pole had fallen to the ground. The horses had made an astonished pause, but he knew this pause would be followed the next instant by a mad headlong rush down the hill and a swallowing of the plain with their hoofs, if they ever reached it; which was in u high degree unlikely for them and impossible for the carriage. Rotha only knew that the horses quietly stopped, and that Mr. Southwode said quietly,