as my old friend phil brand has asked me to do this, i suppose i must. brand is a right good fellow and a clever fellow, but has plenty of crotchets of his own. the worst i know of him is that he insists upon having his own with people. with those who differ from him he is as obstinate as a mule. anyhow, he has always had his own way with me. this custom, so far as i am concerned, commenced years ago when we were boys at school together, and i have never been able to shake off the bad habit of giving in to him. he has promised to see that my queen’s english is presentable: for, to tell the truth, i am more at home across country than across foolscap, and my fingers know the feel of the reins or the trigger better than that of the pen.
all the same i hope he won’t take too many liberties with my style, bad though it may be; for old brand at times is apt to get—well, a bit prosy. to hear him on the subject of hard work and the sanctity thereof approaches the sublime!
what freak took me to the little god-forsaken village of midcombe in the depth of winter is entirely between myself and my conscience. the cause having[268] no bearing upon the matters i am asked to tell you about, is no one’s business but mine. i will only say that now i would not stay in such a place at such a time of the year for the sake of the prettiest girl in the world, let alone the bare chance of meeting her once or twice. but one’s ideas change. i am now a good bit older, ride some two stones heavier, and have been married ever so many years. perhaps, after all, as i look back i can find some excuse for being such an ass as to endure for more than a fortnight all the discomforts heaped upon me in that little village inn.
a man who sojourns in such a hole as midcombe must give some reason for doing so. my ostensible reason was hunting. i had a horse with me, and a second-rate subscription pack of slow-going mongrels did meet somewhere in the neighborhood, so no one could gainsay my explanation. but if hunting was my object, i got precious little of it. a few days after my arrival a bitter, biting frost set in—a frost as black as your hat and as hard as nails. yet still i stayed on.
from private information received—no matter how, when or where—i knew that some people in the neighborhood had organized a party to go skating on a certain day at lilymere, a fine sheet of water some distance from midcombe. i guessed that some one whom i particularly desired to meet would be there, and as the skating at lilymere was free to any one who chose to take the trouble of getting to such an out-of-the-way place, i hired a horse and an apology for a dog-cart, and at ten in the morning started to drive the twelve miles to the pond. i took no one with me. i had been to lilymere once before, in bright summer weather, so fancied i knew the way well enough.
the sky when i started was cloudy; the wind was chopping round in a way which made the effete rustic old hostler predict a change of weather. he was right. before i had driven two miles light snow began to fall, and by the time i reached a little wretched wayside inn, about a mile from the mere, a film of white covered the whole country. i stabled my horse as well as i could, then taking my skates with me walked down to the pond.
now, whether i had mistaken the day, or whether the threatening fall of snow had made certain people change their minds, i don’t know; but, to my annoyance and vexation, no skaters were to be seen, and moreover, the uncut, white surface told me that none had been on the pond that morning. still hoping they might come in spite of the weather, i put on my skates and went outside-edging and grape-vining all over the place. but as there was no person in particular—in fact, no one at all—to note my powers, i soon got tired. it was, indeed, dreary, dreary work. but i waited and hoped until the snow came down so fast and furiously that i felt sure that waiting was in vain, and that i had driven to lilymere for nothing.
back i went to the little inn, utterly disgusted with things in general, and feeling that to break some one’s head would be a relief to me in my present state of mind. of course a sensible man would at once have got his horse between the shafts and driven home. but whatever i may be now, in those days i was not a sensible man—brand will, i know, cordially indorse this remark—the accommodation of the inn was not[270] such as to induce one to linger within its precincts; but the fire was a right good one, and a drink, which i skilfully manufactured out of some hot beer, not to be despised, and proved warming to the body and soothing to the ruffled temper. so i lingered over the big fire until i began to feel hungry, and upon the landlady assuring me that she could cook a rasher, decided it would be wiser to stay where i was until the violence of the snowstorm was over; for coming down it was now, and no mistake.
and it kept on coming down. about half-past three, when i sorrowfully decided i was bound to make a move, it was snowing faster than ever. i harnessed my horse, and laughing at the old woman’s dismal prophecy that i should never get to midcombe in such weather, gathered up the reins, and away i went along the white road.
i thought i knew the way well enough. in fact i had always prided myself upon remembering any road once driven over by me; but does any one who has not tried it really know how a heavy fall of snow changes the aspect of the country, and makes landmarks snares and delusions? i learned all about it then, once and for all. i found, also, that the snow lay much deeper than i thought could possibly be in so short a time, and it still fell in a manner almost blinding. yet i went on bravely and merrily for some miles. then came a bit of uncertainty—
which of those two roads was the right one? this one, of course—no, the other. there was no house near; no one was likely to be passing in such weather, so i was left to exercise my free, unbiased choice; a privilege i would willingly have dispensed with.[271] however, i made the best selection i could, and followed it for some two miles. then i began to grow doubtful, and soon persuading myself that i was on the wrong track, retraced my steps. i was by this time something like a huge white plaster of paris figure, and the snow which had accumulated on the old dog-cart made it run heavier by half-a-ton, more or less. by the time i came to that unlucky junction of roads at which my misfortune began it was almost dark; the sky as black as a tarpaulin, yet sending down the white feathery flakes thicker and faster than ever. i felt inclined to curse my folly in attempting such a drive, at any rate i blamed myself for not having started two or three hours earlier. i’ll warrant that steady-going old brand never had to accuse himself of such foolishness as mine.
well, i took the other road; went on some way; came to a turning which i seemed to remember; and, not without misgivings, followed it. my misgivings increased when, after a little while, i found the road grew full of ruts, which the snow and the darkness quite concealed from me until the wheels got into them. evidently i was wrong again. i was just thinking of making the best of my way out of this rough and unfrequented road, when—there, i don’t know how it happened, such things seldom occur to me—a stumble, a fall on the part of my tired horse sent me flying over the dashboard, with the only consoling thought that the reins were still in my hand.
luckily the snow had made the falling pretty soft. i soon picked myself up and set about estimating damages. with some difficulty i got the horse out of the harness, and then felt free to inspect the dog-cart. alas! after the manner of the two-wheel kind whenever a horse thinks fit to fall, one shaft had snapped off like a carrot; so here was i, five miles apparently from anywhere, in the thick of a blinding snow-storm, left standing helpless beside a jaded horse and a broken cart—i should like to know what brand would have done under the circumstances.
as for me, i reflected for some minutes—reflection in a snow-storm is weary work. i reasoned, i believe logically, and at last came to this decision: i would follow the road. if, as i suspected, it was but a cart-track, it would probably soon lead to a habitation of some kind. anyway i had better try a bit further. i took hold of the wearied horse, and with snow under my feet, snow-flakes whirling round me, and a wind blowing right into my teeth, struggled on.
it was a journey! i think i must have been three-quarters of an hour going about a quarter of a mile. i was just beginning to despair, when i saw a welcome gleam of light. i steered toward it, fondly hoping that my troubles were at an end. i found the light stole through the ill-fitting window-shutters of what seemed, so far as i could make out in the darkness, to be a small farm-house. tying to a gate the knotted reins by which i had been leading the horse, i staggered up to the door and knocked loudly. upon my honor, until i leaned against that door-post i had no idea how tired i was—until that moment i never suspected that the finding of speedy shelter meant absolutely saving my life. covered from head to foot with snow, my hat crushed in, i must have been a pitiable object.
no answer came to my first summons. it was only after a second and more imperative application of my heel that the door deigned to give way a few inches. through the aperture a woman’s voice asked who was there?
“let me in,” i said. “i have missed my way to midcombe. my horse has fallen. you must give me shelter for the night. open the door and let me in.”
“shelter! you can’t get shelter here, mister,” said a man’s gruff voice. “this ain’t an inn, so you’d best be off and go elsewhere.”
“but i must come in,” i said, astonished at such inhospitality; “i can’t go a step further. open the door at once!”
“you be hanged,” said the man. “’tis my house, not yours.”
“but, you fool, i mean to pay you well for your trouble. don’t you know it means death wandering about on such a night as this? let me in.”
“you won’t come in here,” was the brutal and boorish reply. the door closed.
that i was enraged at such incivility may be easily imagined; but if i said i was thoroughly frightened i believe no one would be surprised. as getting into that house meant simply life or death to me, into that house i determined to get, by door or window, by fair means or by foul. so, as the door closed, i hurled myself against it with all the might i could muster. although i ride much heavier now than i did then, all my weight at that time was bone and muscle. the violence of my attack tore from the lintel the staple which held the chain; the door went back with a bang, and i fell forward into the house, fully resolved to stay there whether welcome or unwelcome.