Dick o' the Fens Part 39

"I hope not, father."

"And I hope it will, my boy! I like to get the cold now, not when the young trees are budding and blossoming."

They went in, to find the ample supper spread upon its snowy cloth and the empty jug standing ready for the ale to be drawn to flank the pinky ham, yellow b.u.t.ter, and well-browned young fowl.

"No, wife, no! Can't see any sign of him yet," said the squire. "d.i.c.k, get me my pipe. I'll have just one while we're waiting. Hope he has not taken the wrong road!"

"Do you think he has?" said Mrs Winthorpe anxiously. "It would be very dangerous for him now it is growing dark."

"No, no; nonsense!" said the squire, filling his pipe from the stone tobacco-jar d.i.c.k had taken from the high chimney-piece of the cosy, low, oak-panelled room.

It was a curious receptacle, having been originally a corbel from the bottom of a groin of the old building, and represented an evil-looking grotesque head. This the squire had had hollowed out and fitted with a leaden lid.

"Think we ought to go and meet him, father?" said d.i.c.k, after watching the supper-table with the longing eyes of a young boy, and then taking them away to stare at his mother's glistening needle and the soft grey clouds from his father's pipe.

"No, d.i.c.k, we don't know which way to go. If we knew we would. Perhaps he will not come at all, and I'm too tired to go far to-night."

d.i.c.k bent down and stroked Tibb, the great black cat, which began to purr.

"Put on a few more turves, d.i.c.k, and a bit or two of wood," said his mother. "Mr Marston may be cold."

d.i.c.k laid a few pieces of the resinous pine-root from the fen upon the fire, and built up round it several black squares of well-dried peat where the rest glowed and fell away in a delicate creamy ash. Then the fir-wood began to blaze, and he returned to his seat.

"'Tatoes is done!" said a voice at the door, and the red-armed maid stood waiting for orders to bring them in.

"Put them in a dish, Sarah, and keep them in the oven with the door open. When Mr Marston comes you can put them in the best wooden bowl, and cover them with a clean napkin before you bring them in," said Mrs Winthorpe.

"Oh, I say, mother, I am so hungry! Mayn't I have one baked potato?"

"Surely you can wait, my boy, till our visitor comes," said Mrs Winthorpe quietly.

d.i.c.k stared across at the maid as she was closing the door, and a look of intelligence pa.s.sed between them, one which asked a question and answered it; and d.i.c.k knew that if he went into the great kitchen there would be a mealy potato ready for him by the big open fireplace, with b.u.t.ter _ad libitum_, and pepper and salt.

d.i.c.k sat stroking the cat for a few minutes and then rose, to go to the long low cas.e.m.e.nt bay-window, draw aside the curtain, and look out over the black fen.

"Can't see him," he said with a sigh; and then, as no notice was taken of his remark, he went slowly out and across the square stone-paved hall to the kitchen, where, just as he expected, a great potato was waiting for him by the peat-fire, and hot plate, b.u.t.ter, pepper, and salt were ready.

"Oh, I say, Sarah, you are a good one!" cried d.i.c.k.

"I thought you'd come, Mester d.i.c.k," said the maid; and then, with a start, "Gracious! what's that?"

"Sea-bird," said d.i.c.k shortly, and then he dropped the knife and ran back to the parlour, for another cry came from off the fen.

"Hear that, father!" cried d.i.c.k.

"Hear it! yes, my lad. Quick! get your cap. My staff, mother," he added. "Poor fellow's got in, p'r'aps."

The squire hurried out after d.i.c.k, who had taken the lead, and as they pa.s.sed out of the great stone porch the lad uttered a hail, which was answered evidently from about a couple of hundred yards away.

"He has been coming across the fen path," said the squire. "Ahoy! don't stir till we come."

"Shall we want the lantern, father?" cried d.i.c.k.

"No, no, my lad; we can see. Seems darker first coming out of the light."

A fresh cry came from off the fen, and it was so unmistakably the word "Help!" that the squire and his son increased their pace.

"Ahoy, there!" cried a big gruff voice.

"Hickathrift?"

"Ay, mester! Hear that! some un's in trouble over yonder."

The wheelwright's big figure loomed up out of the darkness and joined them as they hurried on.

"Yes, I heard it. I think it must be Mr Marston missed his way."

"What! the young gent at the dreeaning! Hey, bud he'd no call to be out theer."

"Where are you?" shouted d.i.c.k, who was ahead now and hurrying along the track that struck off to the big reed-beds and then away over the fen to the sea-bank.

"Here! help!" came faintly.

"Tak' care, Mester d.i.c.k!" cried Hickathrift as he and the squire followed. "Why, he is reight off the path!"

"I'll take care!" shouted d.i.c.k. "Come on! All right; it isn't very soft here!"

Long usage had made him so familiar with the place that he was able to leave the track in the darkness and pick his way to where, guided by the voice, he found their expected visitor, not, as he expected, up to his middle in the soft peat, but lying p.r.o.ne.

"Why, Mr Marston, you're all right!" cried d.i.c.k. "You wouldn't have hurt if you had come across here."

"Help!" came faintly from the prostrate traveller, and d.i.c.k caught his arm, but only to elicit a groan.

"Well, he is a coward!" thought d.i.c.k. "Here, father! Hicky!"

"Rather soft, my boy!" said the squire.

"Ay, not meant for men o' our weight, mester," said the wheelwright; and they had to flounder in the soft bog a little before they reached the spot where d.i.c.k stood holding the young man's cold hand.

"He has fainted with fright, father," said d.i.c.k, who felt amused at anyone being so alarmed out there in the darkness.

"Let me tackle him, mester," said the wheelwright.

"No; each take a hand, my lad," said the squire, "and then let's move together for the path as quickly as possible."

"Reight!" cried Hickathrift, laconically; and, stooping down, they each took a hand, and half ran half waded through the black boggy mud, till they reached the path from which the young man had strayed.

"Poor chap! he were a bit scar'd to find himself in bog."