"When we get to the pike," said Uncle Beamish, "you can't miss it, for this road doesn't cross it. All you've got to do is to turn to the left, and in ten minutes you will see the lights in my sister's house. And I'll tell you, doctor, if you would like to stop there for the night, she'd be mighty glad to have you.""Much obliged," replied I, "but I shall go on. It's not late yet, and I can reach the Collingwoods' in good time."We now drove on in silence, our horse actually arching his neck as he thumped through the snow. Drifts had begun to form across the road, but through these he bravely plunged.
"Stayin' power is what we want, doctor!" exclaimed Uncle Beamish. "Where would your fast trotter be in drifts like these, I'd like to know? We got the right horse when we got this one, but I wish we had been goin' this fast all the time."It grew darker and darker, but at last we saw, not far in front of us, a light.
"That beats me," said Uncle Beamish. "I don't remember no other house so near the road. It can't be we ain't passed Crocker's yit! If we ain't got no further than that, I'm in favor of stoppin'. I'm not afraid of a snow-storm, but I ain't a fool nuther, and if we haven't got further than Crocker's it will be foolhardy to try to push on through the dark and these big drifts, which will be gettin' bigger."I did not give it up so easily. I greatly wished to`reach my destination that night. But there were three wills in the party, and one of them belonged to the horse. Before I had any idea of such a thing, the animal made a sudden turn,--too sudden for safety,--passed through a wide gateway, and after a few rapid bounds which, to my surprise, I could not restrain, he stopped suddenly.
"Hello!" exclaimed Uncle Beamish, peering forward, "here's a barn door." And he immediately began to throw off the far robe that covered our knees.
"What are you going to do?" I asked.
"I'm goin' to open the barn door and let the horse go in,"said he. "He seems to want to. I don't know whether this is Crocker's barn or not. It don't look like it, but I may be mistaken. Anyway, we will let the horse in, and then go to the house. This ain't no night to be travellin' any further, doctor, and that is the long and the short of it. If the people here ain't Crockers, I guess they are Christians!"I had not much time to consider the situation, for while he had been speaking, Uncle Beamish had waded through the snow, and finding the barn door unfastened, had slid it to one side.
Instantly the horse entered the dark barn, fortunately finding nothing in his way.
"Now," said Uncle Beamish, "if we can get somethin' to tie him with, so that he don't do no mischief, we can leave him here and go up to the house." I carried a pocket lantern, and quickly lighted it. "By George!" said Uncle Beamish, as I held up the lantern, "this ain't much of a barn--it's no more than a wagon-house. It ain't Crocker's--but no matter; we'll go up to the house. Here is a hitchin'-rope."We fastened the horse, threw a robe over him, shut the barn door behind us, and slowly made our way to the back of the house, in which there was a lighted window. Mounting a little portico, we reached a door, and were about to knock when it was opened for us. A woman, plainly a servant, stood in a kitchen, light and warm.
"Come right in," she said. "I heard your bells. Did you put your horse in the barn?""Yes," said Uncle Beamish, "and now we would like to see--""All right," interrupted the woman, moving toward an inner door. "Just wait here for a minute. I'm going up to tell her.""I don't know this place," said Uncle Beamish, as we stood by the kitchen stove, "but I expect it belongs to a widow woman.""What makes you think that?" I asked.
"'Cause she said she was goin' to tell HER. If there had been a man in the house, she would have gone to tell HIM."In a few moments the woman returned.
"She says you are to take off your wet things and then go into the sitting-room. She'll be down in a minute."I looked at Uncle Beamish, thinking it was his right to make explanations, but, giving me a little wink, he began to take off his overcoat. It was plain to perceive that Uncle Beamish desired to assume that a place of refuge would be offered us.
"It's an awful bad night," he said to the woman, as he sat down to take off his arctic overshoes.
"It's all that," said she. "You may hang your coats over them chairs. It won't matter if they do drip on this bare floor.
Now, then, come right into the sitting-room."In spite of my disappointment, I was glad to be in a warm house, and hoped we might be able to stay there. I could hear the storm beating furiously against the window-panes behind the drawn shades. There was a stove in the sitting-room, and a large lamp.
"Sit down," said the woman. "She will be here in a minute.""It strikes me," said Uncle Beamish, when we were left alone, "that somebody is expected in this house, most likely to spend Christmas, and that we are mistook for them, whoever they are.""I have the same idea," I replied, "and we must explain as soon as possible.""Of course we will do that," said he, "but I can tell you one thing: whoever is expected ain't comin', for he can't get here.
But we've got to stay here tonight, no matter who comes or doesn't come, and we've got to be keerful in speakin' to the woman of the house. If she is one kind of a person, we can offer to pay for lodgin's and horse-feed; but if she is another kind, we must steer clear of mentionin' pay, for it will make her angry. You had better leave the explainin' business to me."I was about to reply that I was more than willing to do so when the door opened and a person entered--evidently the mistress of the house. She was tall and thin, past middle age, and plainly dressed. Her pale countenance wore a defiant look, and behind her spectacles blazed a pair of dark eyes, which, after an instant's survey of her visitors, were fixed steadily upon me. She made but a step into the room, and stood holding the door. We both rose from our chairs.
