“Sorry to disturb you,” he said, in a gentlemanly voice. “It is a terrible night, and I’ve missed my way. I ought to have been at Hopeworth by now, perhaps you can kindly direct me.”
“Nay,” said the farmer, “you mustn’t be off again to-night: we’ll manage to take you in: we’ll find you a bed, and you’re welcome to such as we have to eat and drink: it is plain, but it is wholesome.”
“A thousand thanks, kind friends,” replied the other; “but I feel sure that I am intruding. These ladies—”
“We are driven in here like yourself by the storm,” said Mrs Franklin. “I’m sure I should be the very last to wish any one to expose himself again to such a night on our account.”
Mr Tankardew had not spoken since the stranger’s entrance; he was sitting rather in shadow and the new-comer had scarcely noticed him. But now the old man leant forward, and looked at the new guest as though his whole soul was going out of his eyes; it was but for a moment, and then he leant back again. The stranger glanced from one to another, and then his eyes rested for a moment admiringly on Mary’s face—and who could wonder! A sweeter picture and one more full of harmonious contrast could hardly be seen than the young girl with her hair somewhat negligently and yet neatly turned back from her forehead, her dress partly her own and partly the coarser garments of her hostess’s daughter, sitting in that plain old massive kitchen, giving refinement and gaining simplicity, with the mingled glow of health and bashfulness lending a special brilliancy to her fair complexion. This was no ordinary man’s child the stranger saw, and again he expressed his willingness to retire and make his way to the town rather than intrude his company on those who might prefer greater privacy.
“Sit ye down, man, sit ye down,” said Hodges; “the ladies ’ll do very well, the kitchen’s a good big un, so there’s room for ye all. Have you crossed the brook? You’d find it no easy matter unless you came over the foot bridge.”
“I’m sorry, my friend, to say,” was the reply, “that I have both crossed the brook and been in it. I was about to go over by a little bridge a mile or so farther down, when I thought I saw some creature or other struggling in the water. I stooped down, and to my surprise and consternation found that it was a man. I plunged into the stream and contrived to drag him to the bank, but he was evidently quite dead. What I had taken for struggling was only the force of the stream swaying him about against the supports of the bridge. His dress was that of a coachman or driver of some public conveyance. I got help from a neighbouring cottage, and we carried him in, and I sent someone off for the nearest doctor, and then I thought to take a short cut into the road, and I’ve been wandering about for a long time now, and am very thankful to find any shelter.”
During this account Mrs Franklin and her daughter turned deadly pale, and then the former exclaimed:
“I fear it was our poor driver—I heard a splash while our omnibus was struggling in the water. Oh! I fear, I fear it must have been the unfortunate man; and oh! Poor man, I’m afraid he wasn’t in a fit state to die.”
“If he was like your young friend at the forge, I fear not indeed,” said Mr Tankardew.