Kitabı oxu: «The Old Pincushion: or, Aunt Clotilda's Guests», səhifə 4

'Do you see her?' asked Kathie, as he handed her down.

Neville shook his head.

'It's raining so awfully,' he said. 'She may be in the waiting-room' – for the station was only a half covered-in one – 'or, she may not have come herself on account of the weather, and may have sent some one. I'll see in a minute. Just you get under shelter while I look after the luggage.'

But when the luggage was got, and the train had moved on again, leaving the little station all but deserted, the two children looked round in bewilderment and perplexity. It was too evident that no one had come to meet them. What was to be done? The terribly heavy rain seemed to make it much worse, and above all, the information the old farmer had given them as to the distance of Ty-gwyn from the station. It was impossible, quite impossible to think of waiting; but yet again, where were they to get the fly, or how were they to pay it if they did get one?

'I have only five shillings over our fares,' said Neville. 'Mr. Fanshaw thought it was quite enough, as we were sure to be met. And I should not like Aunt Clotilda to have to pay any extra for us when we know she has so little.'

'But we can't stay here all night,' said Kathleen impatiently; which was certainly true enough. 'And it's her own fault for not coming to meet us. Neville, you must do something.'

Neville looked round in a sort of despair. There were two or three vehicles still standing just outside the gate of the station. A cart or two, and a queer sort of canvas-hooded van, into which the porter was hoisting some parcels, though it seemed already pretty full of sacks of flour or grain of some kind. Neville opened his umbrella and went to where these carts were standing, looking about him for some promising sort of person to apply to in his distress.

'Can you tell me,' he began to the porter, but the porter was shouting in Welsh to the man in the van, and did not hear him. Neville thought he had better wait a minute, and he stood still, shivering with cold and vexation, the rain pouring down as surely never before rain had poured. Suddenly a voice beside him made him turn round; it was that of the old farmer, who had till now been engaged in the stationmaster's room, talking about the horse which was coming the next day.

'Is the lady not come? Is there no one to meet you?' he asked.

'No, indeed,' said Neville, 'and I don't know what to do.'

The old man looked sorry and perplexed, but Neville's face brightened at having found a friend. Just then the porter emerged again from the van.

'Hi, John Williams!' the farmer called out, and then followed some colloquy in Welsh, amid which Neville distinguished the words 'Hafod' and 'Ty-gwyn.'

The farmer turned to the boy.

'This is the Hafod carrier,' he said. 'He is going there now. He is very full, but he says as it is for Ty-gwyn he will make a push and take you and the young lady. But he can't take your boxes, not to-day. Still, it's a chance to get him to take yoursel's, and if you can make shift to do till to-morrow' —

'Of course,' said Neville; 'it's the only thing to do, and thank you very much indeed, Mr.' —

'John Davis, sir, John Davis of Dol-bach, if you please.'

'Mr. Davis,' continued Neville. 'Kathie,' – for by this time Kathie's anxiety had drawn her out into the rain too, – 'you hear?' And he rapidly explained the state of matters.

'If it hadn't been for Mr. Davis, the carrier wouldn't have taken us.'

'No,' said the farmer, looking pleased. 'I can't say as I think he would.'

But Kathleen could not join in thanking him. She was tired and cross, and not a little annoyed at having to make their appearance at Ty-gwyn in such ignominious fashion.

'It's really a shame of Aunt Clotilda,' she said. 'I do wish we hadn't come. I hate Wales already.'

CHAPTER VI.
THE WHITE HOUSE AT LAST

Neville and the old farmer and the carrier all helped Kathleen up into the van, where John Williams had made her as comfortable a place as he could on the bench that was fixed at one end, with some of the sacks to lean against, and some to put her feet upon. Neville undid his railway rug and wrapped it round her, for the rain had made the air very chilly. The trunks were given into the charge of the porter to be fetched the next day, as Miss Clotilda might direct, and with repeated thanks from Neville to the old farmer, and a cordial shake of the hand at parting, off they set.

At another time, on a fine day perhaps, and not at the end of a tiring railway journey, Kathleen might have found it amusing. And as a rule, she was far merrier and high-spirited than Neville, though, to see them now, one would scarcely have believed it. But Neville had learnt to think of others more than of himself. There was the difference. Kathleen could be bright and laughing when all went well with her, but it never occurred to her that it may be a duty to be cheerful and even merry when one is not inclined to be so, so she just yielded to her feelings of fatigue and depression, and sat silently in her place, thinking herself, to tell the truth, very good indeed not to grumble aloud. Neville did his best. He was tired too – tired and cold, for he had given his rug to Kathie, and hungry, perhaps hungrier than Kathie, for she had had the lion's share of their dinner. He was anxious and uneasy as well, – blaming himself for not having decided to wait till Friday, by which day there would have been time for an answer from their aunt, – blaming himself vaguely for the whole affair, which he felt from first to last had been his doing. And he was afraid as to what might yet be before them. It seemed impossible that Miss Clotilda should not have got the letter fixing for Wednesday. So what could be the matter? Had she fallen ill? Had Mr. Wynne-Carr suddenly changed his mind, and turned her out of the house? What might they not find when they got to Ty-gwyn? If, indeed, they ever got there! It did not seem very like it just then, certainly. They were going up a hill at a foot's pace, and they seemed to have been doing so, with very rare intervals, ever since they left the station. How the van lurched and jolted! and, oh, how it did rain!

'Kathleen,' said Neville timidly.

'Well,' she replied, in a very unpromising tone. It was so dark in the depths of the van – and, indeed, it was getting dusk outside already – that they could scarcely see each other's faces.

'I'm so very sorry for you, Kathie,' Neville went on. 'I'm afraid it's somehow my fault.'

'It's no good saying that now,' Kathleen replied, and her voice sounded a little mollified. 'Of course it isn't your fault. It's all Aunt Clotilda. Neville, I'm sure she can't be nice. If she had had anything to gain by hiding it, I declare I should have believed she herself had hidden the will – or burnt it, or something. Just fancy her letting us – her brother's own children – arrive like this! I daresay it was just selfishness, because it was such a bad day, that kept her from coming.'

'Oh, Kathie!' said Neville. He felt sure in his heart that Miss Clotilda was not the least like what Kathleen said, but in her present humour he knew that it was worse than useless to contradict or even disagree with his sister. 'I wish there was something to eat,' he said. 'If we could but have had some tea at the station, but there was no sort of refreshment-room.'

'Wales is horrid,' said Kathleen, with great emphasis. 'If papa had got that place I should have made him sell it.'

'I do wish the man would drive a little faster,' said Neville, rather with a view to changing the subject, as he could not agree with Kathie.

The wish in this case proved father to the deed. Scarcely had the words passed his lips when, with a crack of his whip and some mysterious communication to his horse in Welsh, Mr. John Williams's van began to move forward at what, in comparison with their former rate of progression, seemed to the children break-neck speed. For a minute or so their spirits rose.

'We've got up the hill now, I suppose,' said Neville cheerily. 'If we go on like this we'll soon be there.'

But an exclamation from Kathie – 'Oh, Neville! I shall die if we go on like this. It does shake me, and knock me about so. I'm all black and blue already!' – made him change.

'I'm so sorry, Kathie,' he repeated. 'Stay; is there nothing I can put on the seat to make it softer? Or supposing you sit right down among the sacks? I do think that would be better.'

It did seem so for a little while. But, after all, there was not much need for the precautions. Scarcely was Kathie settled among the sacks when the jogging and rattling came to an untimely end, and the slow grind and creak began again. Another hill, doubtless. Alas! it was so – another and yet another; the bits of level road seemed so few and far between, that long before the end of the journey Kathie would have borne the jolts and the bruises with philosophy, just for the sake of feeling they were getting over the ground.

It grew into a sort of nightmare – the still pouring rain, the darkness, just rendered more visible by the faint flicker from the lantern which John Williams had now lighted, and which hung from the top of the van in front, the creaking and groaning of the wheels, the queer sounds Williams addressed from time to time to his horse – it came to seem at last to the children, as they every now and then fell asleep in a miserable half-awake kind of way, only to start up again giddy and confused – it came to seem as if they had always been grinding along like that, and as if it would never come to an end.

'Neville,' whispered Kathie more than once, – a very subdued Kathie now, far too worn out to be cross even, – 'Neville, I feel as if I should die before we get there.'

Neville did all he could. He sat down on the floor of the cart, and took Kathie half into his arms, so that she could lean her head on his shoulder and not be so bumped, for every now and then they would go quickly for a few minutes, and Kathie was too weak and stiff now to be able to hold on to anything. In this way she managed to get a little sleep, and at last, at last, John Williams grunted out from the front of the van,

'Close to, now, master. I've come round by Ty-gwyn a-purpose, afore going through the village.'

And in a few minutes he drew up, and got down to open a gate. Then on they went again, slowly and softly. Neville could feel they were on a gravel drive, though it was far too dark to see anything. How Williams had found his way in the pouring rain, with only the flickering light of the lantern, was really wonderful.

The drive seemed to be a long one, and the wheels made very little sound on the soft slushy gravel. When they stopped altogether, Neville would not have known they were near a house at all, but for what the man had said. There was no light visible, no sound, not even the barking of a dog to be heard, nothing but the drip, drip of the rain.

Kathleen sat up – the stopping had awakened her.

'Where are we?' she said. 'Are we, oh, are we there?'

But before Neville had time to reply she began to tremble and shake. 'Oh, Neville,' she said, 'we can't be there. It's all dark. Oh, I believe we're in some dreadful forest, and that the man's going to murder us.'

Fortunately, John Williams was out of the van by this time. He had got down and was fumbling about to find a bell or a knocker; but when he reached up to unhook the lantern, finding it impossible to see anything without it, Kathie almost screamed. It was all Neville could do to quiet her, and at last he had to speak quite sharply.

'Be quiet, Kathie,' he said. 'They will be opening the door and will hear you. It's all right. Don't be silly.'

And gradually she grew calm, and sat anxiously listening. It was some minutes before John Williams's loud knocking brought any response. And no wonder – Miss Clotilda and Martha had been comfortably asleep for the last three if not four hours, for it was now one o'clock, the heavy roads having made the journey from Frewern Bay quite a third longer than usual for the carrier's cart, and their dreams were undisturbed by visions of any such arrival as had come to pass.

'I do trust it will be fine to-morrow,' were Miss Clotilda's last words ere she went off to bed. 'It would be such a cheerless welcome for the dear children if it were such a day as this has been, even though Mr. Mortimer is kindly sending the covered waggonette. Wake me early, Martha. There are still several little things to see to, and I must start by twelve. It will take more than three hours to Frewern Station with the roads so wet – and the horses should have three or four hours' rest, he said. The train is due at seven.'

'But it's often late, miss. You mustn't worry even if it's half an hour or more late. I'll wake you in good time, never fear.'

They were both tired and slept soundly, for they had been working hard at all the preparations for the expected guests. It was Miss Clotilda who first heard through her sleep the loud knocking at the door. She sat up in bed and listened; then, as John Williams had for a minute or two desisted, to wait the effect of his last volley, she lay down again, thinking her fancy had deceived her.

'A small sound seems so loud through one's sleep,' she said. 'I daresay it was only the tapping of the branches against the window. Besides, what else could it be? Dear, dear, how it does rain!'

But scarcely had her head touched the pillow, when she again started up. There was no mistake this time – somebody was knocking, banging at the front door. Miss Clotilda's heart was in her mouth, she could scarcely speak for trembling when she found her way to Martha's door! Good old Martha – she had heard it too now, and in an incredibly short space of time made her appearance in a much less eccentric costume, by the way, than Miss Clotilda.

'I'll see who it is. Don't ye be frightened, miss. Just stay you at the stairs-top till I call out.'

But Miss Clotilda, in her old-fashioned flowered muslin-de-laine dressing-gown, and lace-frilled nightcap, followed tremulously behind; she was only half-way downstairs, however when Martha was at the door.

'Who's there? Speak out, and say who you are and what you want – waking up decent folk at this hour of the night,' shouted the old woman, as if the unseen person behind the door, could have told their business before.

'It's me, John Williams, carrier,' a gruff voice replied. 'And you should know what I've brought you – a young gentleman and lady for Ty-Gwyn.'

He spoke English, as Martha had done so. The question and reply were therefore quite intelligible to poor Miss Clotilda.

'Oh, Martha!' she exclaimed, with something between a scream and a sob, 'the children! What an arrival! – oh dear, dear – what a disappointment!'

She stood there half wringing her hands, till Martha gently pushed her towards the stairs.

'Up with you, miss – get yourself dressed as well as you can, not to let them see you like you are – you make yourself look sixty with them caps. I'll take them into the kitchen and make up a fire, and then I'll call you. It'll be all right; but bless me,' – 'pless me,' she really said with her funny Welsh accent, – 'how ever has there been such a mistake?'

She was busy unbolting and unbarring by now, and Miss Clotilda had disappeared. There was but one candle in the hall, but to the children's dazzled eyes it looked at first like a blaze of light. Neville was already on the doorstep, and somehow or other Kathleen was got out of the van without falling. Both started when they caught sight of Martha.

'Can she be Aunt Clotilda,' whispered Kathie, feeling that if it were so it would but be of a piece with everything else. And for a moment or two even Neville felt some misgiving.

'Are you – ? We are' – and again he hesitated.

'To be sure, to be sure. Your aunty'll be down in a moment, sir; but to be sure there has indeed been some great mistake. Now, John Williams, good-night to you, and off with you. 'Tis no time for talking.' She added something to the effect that he might call the next day to be paid, but as she spoke Welsh, the children did not understand.

'I can't have him bothering about,' she said, as she closed the door.

'But our trunks,' said Neville. 'They're left at the station;' on which Martha opened the door again, and began scolding the poor man for not having told her so.

'It wasn't his fault,' said Neville, who could tell by her tone that poor John Williams was getting small thanks for his good-nature in bringing themselves, though without their luggage; 'he only brought us because we didn't know what else to do.'

And in the end it was settled that the carrier should call the next morning for orders about the trunks.

Then Martha led the children into the kitchen.

'You'll excuse it,' she said. 'The fire will soon light up again, and you must be near dead with cold – dear – dear!'

She bustled about and soon got a little blaze to show. Kathie had sunk down on one of the old-fashioned wooden chairs, too tired to speak, almost to think, when a little sound made both her and Neville look round. A figure was standing in the doorway, peering in with anxious face and short-sighted eyes, – a tall, thin figure in a dark dress and with smooth dark hair, and a gentle voice was saying —

'Are they here, Martha? My poor dear children! Are they really here?'

Neville darted forward.

'Aunt Clotilda!' he exclaimed.

In a moment her arms were round him, and she was kissing him fondly.

'Neville,' she said, 'my own dear boy! David's boy! And where is little Kathleen? Oh, my poor children! What an arrival! – what a journey! How can I have made such a mistake?'

'Kathie,' said Neville, and Kathleen slowly got up from her seat and came forward. 'She is half dead, Aunt Clotilda,' said Neville apologetically. But Miss Clotilda wanted no apologies. Her heart was far too unselfish and tender to think of anything but the children themselves.

'Kathleen!' she exclaimed. 'Can this be little Kathie? Why, my darling, you will soon be as tall as your old aunt. But all the more you must be dreadfully tired – you cannot be very strong, my dear, growing so fast. Oh, I shall never, never forgive myself. What can we give them to eat, Martha?'

Martha was already concocting something in a little pan on the fire.

'I'm heating up some milk, miss, and I'll have an egg beat in a moment, and we'd better add a spoonful of sherry wine. And there's the plum-cake, or some nice bread and butter.'

'Which would you rather have, dear children?' said Miss Clotilda.

Neville decided in favour of bread and butter, and though Kathleen said she was too tired to eat, she succeeded in the end in getting through two good slices of the delicious home-made bread and fresh butter. Thanks to this and the cup of hot milk, her spirits began to revive, and she even got the length of smiling graciously when poor Miss Clotilda's self-reproaches grew too vehement, and assuring her aunt that she would be all right again to-morrow. Indeed, it would have required a much harder heart than childish, impulsive Kathie's to have resisted any one so affectionate and devoted as their father's sister, and already Neville's eyes sparkled with pleasure as he said to himself it felt almost like having a mother again.

Then old Martha, who had been busy up-stairs, came back to say the rooms were ready, – so far ready, that is to say, as they could be on such short notice.

'Not but that they were nearly ready,' said Miss Clotilda, as she led the way; 'we were looking for you to-morrow without fail. But it was all my fault for saying I would expect you on Thursday if I did not hear to the contrary. I should have asked you to write again.'

'But I did write,' cried Neville. 'I wrote at once, and sent on the letter to Kathie to post. You should have had it yesterday morning.'

'Yes,' said Kathie, 'I – I gave it to Miss Fraser with my note to Neville, saying, that I could be ready on Wednesday. You got my note, of course, Neville. And I – yes, I am sure I gave the one for Aunt Clotilda to be posted at the same time.'

But Aunt Clotilda had never got it. So, she, at any rate, was undeserving of all the blame Kathleen had been heaping upon her in the last few hours.

'It must be that careless old John Parry,' said Miss Clotilda. 'I must speak to him in the morning. No doubt he will be bringing the letter, and say it had been overlooked or something. And, my dear children, you must forgive all deficiencies. I had arranged all so nicely. Our neighbour, Mr. Mortimer, was to lend me his covered waggonette to go to meet you in. It is too provoking!'

There were no deficiencies, however, so far, that the children were conscious of, excepting the want of their luggage. Their rooms were charming – so quaint and country-like, with a pleasant odour of lavender and dried rose leaves pervading everything. And Miss Clotilda got out her keys and opened an old wardrobe in Kathie's room, whence she chose a little nightdress of the finest material trimmed with 'real' lace, which Martha aired at the kitchen fire by way of precaution against damp, though the whole house was so dry, she assured them, that such care was really not necessary.

'It is one of Mrs. Wynne's – one of a set that she never wore,' explained Miss Clotilda, 'and it will be just about right for you, Kathie dear, for, tall as you are, you will have to grow some inches yet to be up to me. Mrs. Wynne was quite one of the old school; she had linen enough laid by to have lasted her another twenty years. And Mr. Wynne-Carr wishes all such things to be considered mine,' she added, with a little sigh, 'so I am free to give you the use of it, you see.'

This was the first allusion to the great disappointment. Tired as she was, Kathie could not help thinking of it as she was falling asleep. And her dreams were haunted by fancies about the lost will – it turned up in all sorts of places. The queerest dream of all was that she found it boiling in the pan in which Martha had heated the milk!