“Rebecca afore, an’ th’ father ahint,” he said to himself, “an’ we canna hide th’ trap; we maun chance it. Come up, Polly!--Hark!--Ay, yon’s Beeswing; I ken her trot; thou canna leave Beeswing, Polly, poor lass; we can but go forrard. Polly’s my own, but I ha’ borrowed th’ trap. Come closer, Bess.”
“Oh, Harry, ha’ a care; we were a’most i’ th’ dike then! Sitha, how th’ hills swing!--Yon leet’s growin’ breeter.”
“We’se see at th’ next turn,” he said between his teeth.
Again he touched the mare; the sombre fell seemed to close in on them, and then to open out again into a further fold. The luminousness ahead grew brighter, and an outlying barn flashed past. They took the dip at Litton village and the rise on the other side without a check; two of the trap wheels left the ground at the turn, touching again twenty yards further on; the light leaped; they saw the blazing toll-bar and the figures that moved about it; and Harry muttered, “We can but go forrard--nay, we maun stop. I could ha’ ta’en yon burnin’ yett alone, but wi’ lass and trap--we’re done!”
He drew up within a dozen yards of the blazing toll-house.
“Where are ye for?” the shape of a woman demanded, laying a man’s hand on the bridle.
“Horton--Sedbergh--Carlisle. For God’s sake, fling yon yett back!”
“Th’ leave o’ Rebecca--aught--oppen th’ yett! ’Tisna th’ likes o’ us ye want to keep. We’re poorer nor ye, an’ followed. Fling th’ yett back, an’ let’s be on!”
“A tidy trap an’ mare for a poor man! Followed, are ye? Down ye get, both on ye--a lass, begow! We’re that mony lasses to-neet a man gits mixed ameng ’em.--Followed, are ye? I’m none so capped at that; poor men doesn’t drive traps an’ mares like yon; we arena thieves.--Tak’ th’ mare out.”
The mare was fastened to a tree, and Harry--Bessie wide-eyed at his side--watched the spectacle. Cattle gazed over walls, and moths and buzzards fluttered here and there. The ceiling-baulks of the toll-house bulged beneath the weight of the flagged roof, and the red glare of the fire lighted the filthy faces on which the sweat had trickled and run into the soot. Sparks and flame streamed straight upwards, and a fierce crackling mingled with the shouts of the men. The old toll-keeper on his heap of furniture held his head in his hands and moaned, “My garden, my garden!”