“We cannot hope to shift it?”

Hibbs shook his head in reply. “And with the nags run off—”

“Then we must fetch assistance from some neighbouring farm,” I said with authority, and cast about me into the gloom. Misfortune could not have chosen a more desolate place to befall us. As far as the gaze might reach, the high downs roiled unimpeded to the sea. But wait—

“Is not that a light, away there in the distance?”

The postboy shrugged, and his brows lowered. “Happen it is. But you'll not be finding help for the young lady at the Grange.”

“And why ever not?”

“They're queer folk.”

“Queer or no, they cannot refuse to help a lady in such distress,” I replied firmly, and turned to my father. Heedless of the rain that had completely soaked his hat, he stood at a little distance from my mother, who was bent over Cassandra in an attitude of despair. My sister's condition, I saw at a glance, was unchanged. With such burdens of infirmity and age parcelled out among them, they should none of them be left too long in darkness and storm.

“Sir,” I called, crossing to my father, “the postboy and I intend to seek aid from the farm whose lights you espy at a little distance. We shall hasten to return.”

“But, Jane — my dear — had not /better go?” my father enquired doubtfully, and when I would insist, he added in a lowered tone, “For it cannot be proper to send you off into the night in the company of such a man. A complete stranger, and a hapless one, 1 fear; only look to what an impasse he has brought us!”

“But thankfully, Father, he calls this country home; and may be of service in appealing to the inhabitants of the farm. And as to going yourself — would you leave three women alone and unprotected, on such a road, in such a state? Better that you should stand with my mother, and comfort her when you may.”

I turned from him before he could reply — for, in truth, help should be long in coming, did my father go in search of it. He is an elderly gentleman whose pace is slow on the smoothest of roads, and in the best of light; and I paled to think of him attempting the downs in the present hour.

“Come along, Hibbs,” 1 called to the postboy, who stood muttering under his breath over the ruin of his harness. ‘To the Grange it is, as fast as our feet may carry us.”

I SHALL PASS OVER IN SILENCE THE RIGOURS OF THAT DAMPENING walk; how endless it seemed, the lights of the Grange receding ever before us through the rain; how our ankles were turned, and our clothes snagged, and our legs thoroughly wearied, well before we came to the narrow track through the meadow that led to a neat gate, and a stone pathway running up to a massive oak door, lit only by a smoking lanthorn. High Down Grange — for so, I have learnt, is its full name — was at one time a modest farmhouse, though now turned country manor; the home of a gendeman, by all appearances, while maintaining still its purpose as a center of agricultural endeavour. The house was wrapt in quiet, despite the storm, the fierceness of which had driven all sensible folk within doors; and my relief was so great, upon gaining the stoop, that I nearly sank to my knees in gratitude.

The baying of a dog — nay, several dogs — announced our arrival, and then the beasts themselves rounded the corner of the house like a pack of wolves, slavering for our throats. I confess that I screamed, and clutched at poor Hibbs, who thrust me behind him and menaced the curs with a stout cudgel — taken up some time past as a walking stick, but performing now a dearer service.

“Jasper! Fang! You there, Beelzebub! Heel! Heel, I say!”

The commanding voice came from the doorway, now streaming with light as the sturdy oak was unbarred. A lanthorn held high revealed a gendeman's face — though a countenance most harshly-drawn, under a windswept mop of black hair. The master of High Down, I presumed; and masterly enough with his dark brows heavy and knit, his eyes glowing and fierce, and his nose as sharply hooked as a bird of prey's. A man of middlish age, perhaps five-and-thirty, arrayed in knee breeches and a white shirt quite open at the collar, his stock being put aside as though he were in the act of retiring. His countenance was suffused with a most ungentlemanly rage — the violence of his great dogs, it seemed, being mirrored in the spirits of their master.

“Who the Devil are you?” he cried, with a glower for the beasts, now cowering at his feet, and a glower for ourselves — and so Hibbs and I were welcomed to High Down Grange.

“Miss Jane Austen, of Bath,” I replied, in a tone that betrayed a quaver.

“Miss Jane Austen of Bath, and her merry man,” our host said caustically, with a look for poor Hibbs. “And what in God's name brings you out on such a night? Some unholy pilgrimage?”[7]

“A gentleman of better breeding and greater charity might have saved such questions for the comfort of his drawing-room,” I retorted, my patience thoroughly spent. The rain, though diminished to a fine drizzle, was still as wet; and its continued descent upon my drenched cap and shawl did nothing to improve my temper. “We are clearly driven to your door by the utmost extremity, sir, and if any alternative served, should never have troubled you longer — for you are undoubtedly lacking in the sensibilities of a true gentleman, and the assistance of a common labourer should be given with greater goodwill, I am sure.”

“Undoubtedly,” he said, and though his lip curled cynically at the word, my tart rebuke appeared to soften him a little. His choler drained away, and I thought him about to speak in a more measured tone, when a small sound caused him to turn, and the rings of light emanating from the lamp he held shifted and welled like a tide of water across the darkened courtyard. I turned, and started in fright, and reached again for Hibbs's arm; for we were held at bay by the business end of a very imposing blunderbuss, levelled in the hands of a stable boy — of malevolent intent, to judge by his aspect.

‘Put up the gun, Toby,” the master of High Down said gendy. “You need not be threatening a bedraggled woman. She looks harmless enough.”

“She ain't no woman, Mr. Sidmouth, sir. She's a lady to you.” Hibbs's hands were clenching and unclenching at his belt. That he kept a pistol there, for fear of highwaymen, I well knew; and that he had left it with my father, the better to safeguard the ladies, I surmised he very much regretted.

“Be off wi’ ye,’ the boy said menacingly; but he lowered the blunderbuss, with evident mistrust. “'re no more in a pack o’ spies, ye are. Be off, ‘fore I blows ye down the lane!”

“Toby!” Mr. Sidmouth — for so I assumed him to be, as Hibbs had named him — strode swiftly from the doorway to the boy's side, with nary a glance for ourselves. He pried the gun from Toby's hands and turned him towards the back of the house, from whence he had appeared. “Tell Mary we've company, and then fetch Miss Sera-phine, there's a good fellow.”

“Run ‘em off, Mr. Sid,” the boy said, by way of reply. “They're here as ‘formers, I'll lay my soul on't.”

A sound bussing on the bottom was his only answer, and the master of High Down turned once more to face us. “My apologies,” he told us. “The boy has yet to learn his manners.”

“You astonish me.” My tone was dry. “And with such a paragon as yourself for instruction?”

In the lamp's glow, Sidmouth's mouth tightened, and the black brows lowered over his eyes. I felt sure that in a moment he should drive us down the hill with the butt of the gun, but instead, he drew breath and managed a smile. “Your reproof is well-placed, Miss Jane Austen of Bath,” he said. “I fear I have shown myself to disadvantage upon first meeting. Do not, I beg of you, take the instant for a portrait of the man. And now, I trust, you will do me the honour of entering High Down Grange? For it rains” — at this, he cast a look towards the heavens — “undoubtedly it rains.” There was an air of immense satisfaction about the man, that I was at a loss to understand; but mindful of my sister's plight I wasted not another thought upon Mr. Sidmouth and his mysteries, and followed him into the house.