Stories by English Authors: England | Page 6

frequent excursions
to the front door would end in a bad cold.
"I can't help fearing that something has happened to Reu," said the
mother; "he is always so true to time."

"There are so many things to keep a man late, mother."
"Not to keep Reuben. If he said what hour he'd be back--he 's like his
father, my poor brother--he'd do it to the minute, even if there weren't
any reason for his hurry."
"Which there is," said Sophie, archly.
"Which there is, Sophie. And why you are so quiet over this I don't
know. I am sure when poor Mr. Tarne was out late--and he was often
very, very late, and the Lord knows where he'd been, either!--I couldn't
keep a limb of me still till he came home again. I was as bad as your
aunt indoors there till I was sure he was safe and sound."
"But he always came home safe and sound, mother."
"Nearly always. I mind the time once, though--bless us and save us,
what a gust!" she cried, as the wind came swooping down the hill at
them, swirling past them into the dark passage and puffing the lights
out in the big pantry beyond, where the maids began to scream. "I hope
he hasn't been blown off his horse."
"Not very likely that," said Sophie, "and Reuben the best horseman in
the county. But come in out of the gale, mother; the sleet cuts like a
knife too, and he will not come home any the sooner for your letting
the wind into the house. And--why, here he comes after all. Hark!"
There was a rattling of horses' hoofs on the frost-bound road; it was a
long way in the distance, but it was the unmistakable signal of a
well-mounted traveller approaching--of more than one well-mounted
traveller, it became quickly apparent, the clattering was so loud and
incessant and manifold.
"Soldiers!" said Sophie. "What can bring them this way?"
"It's the farmers coming the same way as Reuben for protection's sake
these winter nights, child."

"Protection?"
"Haven't you heard of the highwaymen about, and how a single
traveller is never safe in these parts? Or a double one either--or--"
"Perhaps these are highwaymen."
"Oh, good gracious! Let us get indoors and bar up," cried Mrs. Tarne,
wholly forgetful of Reuben Pemberthy's safety after this suggestion.
"Yes, it's as likely to be highwaymen as soldiers."
It was more likely. It was pretty conclusive that the odds were in favour
of highwaymen when, five minutes afterward, eight mounted men rode
up to the Maythorpe farm-house, dismounted with considerable noise
and bustle, and commenced at the stout oaken door with the butt-ends
of their riding-whips, hammering away incessantly and shouting out
much strong language in their vehemence. This, being fortunately
bawled forth all at once was incomprehensible to the dwellers within
doors, now all scared together and no longer cool and self-possessed.
"Robbers!" said Mrs. Tarne.
"We've never been molested before, at least not for twenty years or
more," said Mrs. Pemberthy; "and then I mind--"
"Is it likely to be any of Reuben's friends?" asked Sophie, timidly.
"Oh no; Reuben has no bellowing crowd like that for friends. Ask who
is there--somebody."
But nobody would go to the door save Sophie Tarne herself. The maids
were huddled in a heap together in a corner of the dairy, and refused to
budge an inch, and Mrs. Tarne was shaking more than Mrs. Pemberthy.
Sophie, with the colour gone from her face, went boldly back to the
door, where the hammering on the panels continued and would have
split anything of a less tough fibre than the English oak of which they
were constructed.

"Who is there? What do you want?" she gave out in a shrill falsetto; but
no one heard her till the questions were repeated about an octave and a
half higher.
"Hold hard, Stango; there's a woman calling to us. Stop your row, will
you?"
A sudden cessation of the battering ensued, and some one was heard
going rapidly backward over cobblestones amid the laughter of the rest,
who had dismounted and were standing outside in the cold, with their
hands upon their horses' bridles.
"Who is there?" asked Sophie Tarne again.
"Travellers in need of assistance, and who--" began a polite and even
musical voice, which was interrupted by a hoarse voice:
"Open in the king's name, will you?"
"Open in the fiend's name, won't you?" called out a third and hoarser
voice; "or we'll fire through the windows and burn the place down.'
"What do you want?"
"Silence!" shouted the first one again; "let me explain, you dogs, before
you bark again."
There was a pause, and the polite gentleman began again in his
mellifluous voice:
"We are travellers belated. We