The Old Pincushion Part 8

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.'

[Ill.u.s.tration: HE SAT DOWN ON THE FLOOR OF THE CART, AND TOOK KATHIE HALF INTO HIS ARMS.]

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 b.u.mped, 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 pa.s.s.

'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 s.p.a.ce 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-fas.h.i.+oned 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!'

[Ill.u.s.tration: A FIGURE WAS STANDING IN THE DOORWAY.]

She bustled about and soon got a little blaze to show. Kathie had sunk down on one of the old-fas.h.i.+oned 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 b.u.t.ter.'