The Carbonels Part 18

Not till the shouts had died away in the distance did he venture out, and plodded once more into the darkness, under overhanging trees, meeting nothing, except one carriage, whose bright lamps came on like two fiery eyes, glowing more and more as they came nearer, and the black shadow of horses, driver, and close carriage rushed by, and left him again, deciding that it must be the doctor's chariot. Then came another long long spell, so long that he thought it must be near morning, and was surprised to hear behind him in the frosty air the church clock at Poppleby striking far too many strokes, and what he hoped had been one turned into either eleven or twelve! He hoped it was twelve.

There were the branching roads, and it was far too dark to read the sign-post, so that he could only take the one that seemed to him the most likely; but when he had gone what might be any distance on the road, it seemed to get narrower and rougher than he expected, and then came an opening as if on to a common, such as he was sure did not exist on the way to Minsterham. He must have got upon the Elchester road, and there was nothing for it but to turn back. However, there was a pale brightness showing in the sky, and the moon came up, an old moon without very much light in her, but she was a great comfort to him, and told him how the night was going.

On and on, and then there was a sound of trampling of horses and of wheels coming nearer, great light eyes growing larger and larger, and the mail-coach flashed and thundered by with the four horses, and presently, far-away he could hear the guard's horn announcing the approach to a wayside inn where the horses were changed; but by the time Johnnie had made his weary way up to the place, it was far-away on the road, indeed, he saw the lamps flash as it went up Wearyfoot Hill, but all the inn was silent again by that time even at the stables, and the hotel was a dark ma.s.s against the sky--the only light in it the moon reflected from the windows. A dog barked as he went past, but he kept far upon the other side of the road and was rea.s.sured by hearing the rattling of a chain.

Wearyfoot Hill! Yes, it was Wearyfoot to him, as he dragged up it. He could not remember whether it was four or five miles from Minsterham.

There was a milestone standing on the bank, and he tried to read it, but the moon would not reveal more than the large initial letters of L for London and M for Minsterham, and he sat down at last and leaned against the stone, trying to trace out the figure above Minsterham with his fingers.

Behold, though four and five were both ringing in his head, he must have fallen asleep, for he felt quite cold and stiff, the moon was much higher in the sky, the stars were paler, and there was a mist all round.

He rose up, ashamed, and shook himself, colder and more uncomfortable than before, but feeling it was a new day, and that, were it four miles or five, he was now near Minsterham. He said his morning prayers as he tramped along, stamping to warm his feet, and recollected that Aunt Judith would be lying awake praying for him. He found that when the first discomfort of awakening had pa.s.sed off, he really was the better for his short sleep, and marched on more vigorously, presently hearing a c.o.c.k begin to crow, and birds to twitter. Dawn was beginning, presently a lark sprang up and began to send down a wonderful cheerful song, that quite raised Johnnie's spirits; then over the quiet misty fields came the deep note of the great Minsterham clock pealing out, what was only a half hour, but John knew that it would be much louder in his ears next time it spoke.

A waggon lumbered by, and then a labourer or two going to their work, but John kept out of their way, not wanting to be asked questions; there began to be red in the eastern mist, the clock sounded again, and from the slope of the hill, the spires of the churches in the town seemed to be rising out of a great lake of woolly mist. The clock went through all the four quarters, then solemnly told out five strokes--Johnnie's weary night journey was over.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

THE ROYAL HOTEL.

"O haste to aid, ere aid be vain."

_Scott_.

Though Johnnie's journey was over, his troubles were not at an end.

When he came to the first houses, the way seemed still to lengthen out before him, and everything appeared to be still asleep, though the daylight was coming in as brightly as a foggy morning allowed. Nor did he know his way; he had only driven to a timber-yard once with his cousin, and dined with him at a little public-house close by, and had no more than a dim recollection of shops, which looked quite different now, with all their shutters up. Only a milk-cart, coming in with full tins, seemed to give a sign that people would want their breakfast some time or other; and next appeared a very black sweep with his cart, and two miserable little bare-footed boys running beside it, as black as the silhouette over Mrs Thorpe's chimney.

Half-past five struck, and charwomen began to come out of side alleys, baker's shops to take down their shutters. Johnnie ventured to ask one of the apprentice boys doing so the way to the Royal George Hotel.

"D'ye want to bespeak the best apartments?" was all the answer he got, as the lad stopped his whistling and looked superciliously at Johnnie's battered, dusty working dress, and old straw hat.

He found he should only be laughed at and walked on, renewing his question when he saw a good-natured-looking woman in a black bonnet and stout canvas ap.r.o.n, apparently going out for a day's was.h.i.+ng.

"Is it the Royal or the King George Tavern as you mean, my son?" she asked him.

"Oh! the Royal--the one where the gentlemen goes," said Johnnie. "I've got a message for one of 'em."

"Bless you, my lad, they won't never let you in at this time of morning," said the woman.

"It's very particular," returned John. "I came off at night to tell him."

She looked at him curiously. "And what might it be, young man! Some one taken very bad, no doubt."

"No--not that," said John, and she looked so kind, he could not help telling. "But he have got a machine, and Jack Swing is coming, and if he don't come home to see to the poor ladies--"

"Bless me, and who may it be?"

"Captain Carbonel--out at Uphill."

"Never heard tell of the place."

"It's out beyond Poppleby."

"My! And you've comed all that way to-night?"

"The ladies are very good. He's a right good gentleman. All one to the poor as to the rich."

"I say! You are a good young man, to be sure! I'd go with you and get to the speech of Lavinia Bull, the chambermaid, what I know right well; but if I'm not at Mrs Hurd's by six o'clock, she'll be flying at me like a wild cat. Mercy on me, there it goes six! Well, if that fine dandy, Boots, as is puffed up like a peac.o.c.k, won't heed you, ask for Lavinia Bull, and say Mrs Callendar sent you, and he will call her fast enough."

John thanked her and was going off at once, but she called out, "Bless the boy, he's off without even hearing where to go! Just opposite the City Cross, as they calls it."

It was not much like a cross to Johnnie's mind, being a sort of tower, all arches and pinnacles and mouldered statues, getting smaller up to the spiring top; but he knew it, and saw the hotel opposite with all its blinds down, nothing like astir yet, except that some one was about under the great open doorway leading into a yard, half entrance, to the hotel.

He could see a man brus.h.i.+ng a shoe, and went up with "Please, sir--" But he was met by, "Get off you young vagabond, we want none of your sort here."

"Please, sir, I have a message for Miss Bull;" he hesitated.

"She ain't down. Get off, I say. We don't have no idle lads here."

"It's very particular--from Mrs Callendar."

"Old witch! Have she been burning any one's s.h.i.+rt fronts. I say, Jem, you see if Lavinia is in the kitchen, and tell her old Callendar has been burning holes in her stockings or collars, and has sent a young scarecrow to tell her."

John opened his mouth to say it was no such thing; but the under s...o...b..ack, who was a sort of slave to Boots, made an ugly face at him, and was gone, turning coach wheels across the yard. In another minute Lavinia, a nice brisk looking young woman, had come up with, "Well, young man, what has Mrs Callendar been after now?"

"Please, ma'am, nothing; but she said as how I was to ask for you. It's for Captain Carbonel, ma'am, a message from Uphill--that's his home."

"Captain Carbonel--that's Number Seven," she said, consulting a slate that hung near the bar. "He was to be called at eight o'clock. Won't that do?"

"Oh no, no, ma'am," implored John, thinking that the captain was taking his rest away from home. "It's very particular, and I have come all night with it."

"You have got to call Number Five for the High Flier at half-past six,"

she said, turning to Boots. "Could not you take up word at the same time?"

"Catch me running errands for a jackanapes like that," said Boots, with a contemptuous shrug, turning away, and brus.h.i.+ng at his shoe.

"Never mind him," said good-natured Lavinia. "What shall I say, young man?"

"Oh, thank you, miss. Say that John Hewlett have brought him a message from Uphill."

"Jack Owlet! Oh my! Hoo! hoo!" exclaimed the blacking boy, as soon as Lavinia had disappeared up the stairs, dancing about with his hands on his hips. "Look here, Tom,"--to a boy with a pail, who had just come in--"here be an Owlet's just flown in out of the mud. Hoo! hoo! Where did you get that 'ere patch on your back."

"Where you never got none," responded the other boy. "Mother st.i.tched it for him."

"Ay, sitting under a hedge, with her pot hung up on three sticks and a hedgepig in it," added the younger Boots. "Come, own up, young gipsy!

Yer come to get a tanner out of Number Seven with your tales."

"I'm no gipsy," growled John; "but--"

"Come, come," called out Boots, "none of your row. And you, you impudent tramp, don't ye be larking about here, making the lads idle.