At this point, the old gentleman is understood to be bawling something from the back.  By the utter morosity of Algy’s face—­faintly seen in the distance—­I conjecture that it is a joke; and, by the chuckling agony of zest with which the old man is delivered of it, I further conclude that it is something slightly unclean, but, thanks to the wind, none of us overtake a word of it.  The wind’s spirits are rising.  Its play is becoming ever more and more boisterous.  It would be difficult to imagine any thing disagreeabler than it is making itself; but perhaps it will keep off the rain.  Thinking this, I try to bear its blows and buffets—­ its slaps on the face—­its boxes on the ear—­with greater patience, We have left the broad and safe high-road; Mr. Parker having, in an evil moment, bethought himself of a short-cut.  We are, therefore, entangled in a labyrinth of cross-roads—­finger-postless, guideless, solitary. So solitary, indeed, that we meet only one vacant boy of tender years, of whom, when we inquire the way, the wind absolutely refuses to allow us to hear a word of the broad Doric of his answer.  At last—­after many bold and stout declarations on the part of Mr. Parker, that he will not be beaten—­that he knows the way as well as he does his ABC—­and that he will find it if he stays till midnight—­he is compelled, by the joint and miserable clamor of us all, to turn back—­(a frightful process, as the road is narrow, and the coach will not lock)—­to retrace our steps, and take up again the despised high-road, where we had left it.  These manoeuvres have naturally taken some time.  It is three o’clock in the afternoon before we at length reach the great spread of desolate, broad, moorland, which is our destination.  For more than an hour, absolute silence has fallen upon us.  Like poor Yorick, we are “quite, quite chapfallen!” Even the gallant old gentleman could not make a dirty jest if he were to be shot for it.  Mr. Parker alone maintains his exasperating good spirits.  We find Roger and Mrs. Huntley sitting on the heather waiting for us.  There is a good deal of relief—­as it seems to me—­in the former’s eye, as he sees us appear on the scene; and a good deal of another expression, as he watches the masterly manner in which we pull up:  all the four horses floundering together on their haunches; the leaders, moreover, exhibiting a mysterious desire to turn round and look in the wheelers’ faces.

“Here we are!” cries Mr. Parker, joyously; “I have brought you along capitally, have not I?—­but I am afraid we are a little late—­eh, Mrs. Huntley?  I hope we have not kept you long.”

“Is it late?” she replies, with a smile and a fine hypocrisy—­for she looks hungry—­“I did not know; we have been quite happy!”