HARO!
A STRANGE thing befell me on my way home, which I would have avoided
describing if I could; for my adventures have but little interest,
except so far as they are concerned with Kitty. But this one unluckily
did concern her deeply, inasmuch as it brought great affliction on
her, and left her without my assistance, at a time when she stood in
especial need of it.
She had made me promise that I would not attempt to walk all the way
to Sunbury in such a bitter night, and with the storm increasing, till
no one could tell what might come of it. Accordingly I made my way to
Notting Hill, intending to get into an omnibus there, which would take
me at least as far as Richmond. There I meant to have a mutton chop or
two, and perhaps a pint of Mortlake ale, which is generally of good
substance, and thus be set up for the cold walk home. And if this had
been done, as was really intended, probably I might have been at home
in good time to tell my uncle all about it, before he had finished his
go-to-bed pipe.
But as it happened, when I came out at last, from all this brick and
mortar skittle-ground, into the broad Western road, and knew pretty
well where I was and how the land lay, not an omnibus was to be found
anywhere, except those that had travelled out before the storm began,
and were bound to get home again somehow. And these had some trouble
in getting along, with the snow clouding up in the horses’ faces, and
forming great balls on their feet, and clogging the dumb, heavy roll
of the frozen wheels. All the ’busses that should have been ploughing
and rolling towards Shepherd’s Bush and Turnham Green, had resolved to
remain in their yards for the night. Let other horses tug, and wallow,
and smoke like beds of mortar; let other coachmen flap their breasts
and scowl instead of answering; and let other threepenny fares look
blue and stamp in the straw to thaw their toes. It was worth much more
than the money would fetch, to cross their legs by the taproom fire, or
whisk their tails in stable.
At first I took it as a wholesome joke, that the fourteen miles of road
before me must be overcome by toe and heel. As for a cab, I had never
been inside any feminine bandbox of that name, and if I would have
condescended to it, there was no such thing to be got to-night. I was
young, and strong, and full of spirit, with the sweet words kindling
in my heart, as memory stirred it from time to time; and if any one
had bidden me look out for danger, I should have said, “Let me see it
first.” And in this humour, I strode on, without even turning my collar
up.
But the world became wrapped up more and more in deep white darkness,
as I trudged on. As the houses along the road grew scarcer, they seemed
to go by me more heavily and slowly, and with less and less power of
companionship. There was scarcely a man to say “Good-night” to; and
the one or two I met would not open mouth to answer. And when I came
through a great open space, with a white spire standing like a giant’s
ghost, I could hardly be sure that it was Turnham Green, so entirely
was distance huddled up with snow. But I ran into a white thing in the
middle of the road, and the gleam of an ostler’s lantern showed me that
it was a brewer’s dray, with the horses taken out, and standing with
their heads between their legs close by a sign-post. “You better turn
in, mate,” the ostler shouted; “you’re a fool if you go further, such a
night as this.” I saw a red steam in the bar, and knew that this must
be the _Old Pack-Horse Inn_, whose landlord had raised a famous apple;
and my better sense told me to follow advice. But the pride of fool’s
strength drove me on, and without slacking a foot I lost sight of it in
the solid daze.
There was nothing to be afraid of yet, and I felt no kind of misgiving,
but began to let my legs go on, instead walking consciously. At one
time I began to count, as if they were a machine of which I was no
longer master. I counted up to a thousand, and thought—“About seven
thousand more will do it, and that they can manage without much
trouble.” Then I gave up counting, and must have passed through
Brentford, as in a dream, and so to Twickenham, and through that again.
There were nearer ways in better weather; but although I could not
think clearly now (through cold, and clogging feet, and constant dazzle
of white fall around me) I had sense enough to stick to highways, as
long as they would stick to me. At Twickenham I had a mind to stop and
get something to eat, being faint with hunger, for I had seven and
sixpence in my waistcoat pocket. I cannot tell why I did not stop, and
only know that I went on.
The snow must have been ten inches deep on the level, and as many feet
in the drifts, for a strong wind urged it fiercely, when I came at
last to the _Bear_ at Hanworth, an old-established and good hotel. The
principal entrance was snowed up, from the sweep of the roads that meet
there, for every road running east and west was like a cannon exploding
snow. But I went in by the little door round the corner, and finding
only the barman there—for all neighbours had been glad to get home
while they could—I contrived, with some trouble, to ask for a glass of
hot brandy and water. So great was the change from the storm and the
whirl, that my brain seemed to beat like a flail in a barn, and the
chairs were all standing on the ceiling.
“Don’t you go no further, sir; you stop here,” said the man, who seemed
to know me, though I did not know him. “It would take a male helephant
to get to Sunbury to-night There’s been no such snow for six and forty
year; old Jim the ostler can call it to mind; and then it was over the
roof, he saith. You look uncommon queer already, seem to be standing on
your head a’most. Why, bless me, you be drinking from the empty glass!”
But I found the right glass with his help, and swallowed the hot brown
draught without knowing it. Then I asked him the time, and he said,
“Nigh on ten o’clock. You take my advice, and have a bed here. Well,
wilful will, and woeful won’t, when it’s too late to mend it.” He cast
this at me as I said “Good night,” and without sitting down, staggered
out again.
I believe that even now I should have reached home safely, not having
so very much further to go, if the roads had been wide and straight
as they were thus far. But two things were very much against me now,
and both of them made a great difference. I had turned from the main
road into twisting narrow lanes, and my course was across the wind
instead of right before it. Without that strong wind at my back I could
scarcely have reached Hanworth by that time, though it seemed a very
long time to take from Notting Hill, compared with the usual rate of
walking. But now the fierce wind was on my left side quite as often
as behind me, and it drove me from my line, as I grew more feeble,
and knocked my weary legs into one another. Moreover, it seemed to go
through me twice as much, and to rattle me like splinter shaken up, and
to drive the spikes of snow to my heart almost.
If I had walked as in a dream before, I was moving as in a deep sleep
now. I had some sort of sense of going on for ever, as a man has a
knowledge of his own snoring; and I have some weak remembrance of
beating with my hands—for my stick must have gone away long ago—to
keep off a blanket that was smothering me. Then I seemed to be lifted,
and set down somewhere, and it did not matter where it was. And what
happened after that was not to me, but to people who told me of it
afterwards.
For my Uncle Corny went to bed that night, in a very bad worry of mind,
and fitter to grumble at the Lord than to say his prayers. Not from
anxiety about his nephew, who was sure to turn up somehow; but because
he had frightful misgivings about his glass, and his trees, and his
premises at large. The roof of his long vinery was buckled in already,
when he went with a lantern to look at it; and many of his favourite
apple-trees, which he loved to go and gaze at on a Sunday, were bowed
with the wind and the snow, and hanging in draggles, like so much
mistletoe. He never swore much at the weather; because it seemed like
swearing at heaven, and he had found it grow worse under that sort of
treatment. But our Tabby Tapscott (who feared to go home, and tried
to sleep on two chairs in the kitchen) declared that he used some
expressions that night, which were quite enough to account for anything.
In the morning, however, there was no fault to find with him, as soon
as he had done a good hour’s work in the deep snow and the nipping
wind, and improved his circulation by convincing everybody that he was
still as young as he ever was. He relieved the laden trees, wherever it
was wise to do so, and with the back of a hay-rake fetched the white
incumbrance from the glass, and stamped his feet and shook his coat,
and had a path swept here and there, and told himself and Selsey Bill,
that a good old-fashioned winter was the thing to send all prices up.
But when he sat down to breakfast, he kept looking at the door, as if
for me; and at last he said to Mrs. Tapscott, who was shaking in her
apron—“Why, where’s that lazy Kit again? Is he frozen to his pillow? Go
and give him a good rattle up. He deserves cold victuals, and he shall
have nothing else.”
“Her bain’t coom home,” replied Tabby, looking as crossly as she dared
at him. “Much you care for the poor boy, measter. I rackon the znow be
his winding-shate. No more coortin’ for he, this zide of kingdom coom,
I’d lay a penny.”
“Kit not come home! Kit out all night, and you let me go on with my
trees and roofs! But you know where he is, or you would not take it so,
and you snoring away by the kitchen fire. None of your secrets about
him. Where is Kit?”
“The Lord A’mighty know’th where a’ be.” Poor Tabby began to whine and
cry. “The zecret be with Him, not me. A’ wor to coom home, but her
never didn’t. A vaine job for e’e to zake for ’un. Vaind un dade as a
stone, I reckon.”
“Nonsense! Kit can take care of himself. He is the strongest young
fellow for miles and miles, and accustomed to all sorts of weather.
What’s a bit of snow to a young man like Kit? You women always make the
worst of everything.”
“But her bain’t coom home;” answered Tabby with all reason. “Her would
’a coom home, if so be her worn’t drowned in the znow, I tull ’e, sir.
No more coortin’ for Measter Kit, in this laife. A’ may do what a’
wool, in kingdom coom.”
“Stuff!” cried my uncle, not caring to discuss this extreme test of
my constancy. “He has stopped at some house on the road, or up there.
Perhaps the Professor would not let him go, when he saw how bad the
weather was. There is nothing to be done, till the post comes in;
though I am not sure that the post will be able to get in. If the
letters are not here by ten o’clock, I shall go to Hampton to look for
them. They are pretty sure to get that far.”
The morning was fine, though bitterly cold after that very heavy fall;
and people began to get about again, though the drifts were too deep in
many places for a carriage to pass till they had been cleared. My uncle
set out on foot for Hampton, and there found the mail cart just come
in. The postmaster was in a state of flurry, and would not open the
Sunbury bag, but sent it on by special messenger, as the cart could get
no further. My uncle had the pleasure of walking with it as far as our
post-office; and after all that there was nothing for him. “Well, a man
must eat,” was his sound reflection. “I shall have a bit of dinner, and
consider what to do.”
It was getting on for two o’clock, as they told me, when a man who had
come from the Bear at Hanworth, upon some particular business in our
village, knocked at my uncle’s door on his return, to say that I had
forgotten (which was the truth) to pay for what I had the night before.
He was also to ask how I got home, because I looked “uncommon dickey,”
as he beautifully expressed it. In half an hour every man in Sunbury,
owning a good pair of legs, and even a number of women and boys, set
forth to search the roads and fields, for it was hard sometimes to
tell which was which, in the direction of Hanworth. This was no small
proof of the good-will and brave humanity of our neighbourhood; for any
of these people might have lost themselves in the numb frost, and the
depth of drift; and there were signs of another storm in the north-east.
My uncle, with a big shovel on his shoulder, and a bottle of brandy
in his pocket, put a guinea upon me at first, and then two, and then
jumped to five pounds, and even ten, as the hope of discovery waned;
and at last, when some had abandoned the search, and others were
muffling themselves against the new snowstorm, he mounted a gate and
with both hands to his mouth shouted—“Five and twenty pounds for my
nephew Kit—dead or alive; twenty-five pounds reward to any one who
finds Christopher Orchardson.”
This may appear a great deal of money for anybody to put me at (except
my own mother, if I had one), and the people who heard it were of that
opinion, none of them being aware perhaps that the reward would come
out of my mother’s property, which had no trustees to prevent it. And
for many years afterwards, if I dared to think anything said or done by
my uncle was anything short of perfection, the women, and even the men
would ask—as if I were made of ingratitude—“Who offered five and twenty
pounds for you?”
And they felt the effect of it now so strongly that a loud hurrah went
along the white plain, and several stout fellows who were turning home
turned back again, and flapped themselves, saying, “Never say die!”
With one accord a fresh pursuit began, though perhaps of a ghost even
whiter than the snow; and taking care to keep in sight of one another,
they began to poke more holes, wherever they could poke them. For some
had kidney-bean sticks, and some had garden forks, and some had sharp
pitch-forks from the stable; and if they had found me, I had surely
been riddled, and perhaps had both my eyes poked out. But the Lord was
good to me once more, and I escaped being trussed, as I might have been.
For just when it was growing dark, and another bitter night was setting
in, with spangles of hard snow driving, as they said, like a glazier’s
diamond into their eyes, and even the heartiest man was saying that
nothing more could be done for it; through the drifting of the white,
and the lowering of the gray, a high-mettled horse came churning. It
was beautiful, everybody thought, to see him scattering the snow like
highway dust, flinging from his nostrils scornful volumes, with his
great eyes flashing like a lighthouse in the foam. Men huddled aside,
lest he should spurn them like a drift, for his courage was roused, and
he knew no fear, but gloried in the power of his leap and plunge.
“Giving it over, are you all?” Sam Henderson shouted, as he drew the
rein, and his favourite stallion _Haro_ stood, and looked with the like
contempt at them. “Then a horse and dog shall shame your pluck.”
From beneath the short rough cloak he wore, a pair of sharp eyes shone
like jewels, and two little ears pricked up like thorns.
“_Spike_ is the best man here,” said Sam, as the wiseacres crowded
round him. “All you have done is to spoil the track. Keep behind me,
and let me see things for myself.”
My uncle, who never had been fond of Sam, said something disdainful and
turned away; but Henderson, without even looking at him, rode on, and
the best men followed him. He took them almost to the _Bear_ Hotel,
watching both sides of the road, as he went, and still keeping his dog
before him. Then he turned back, and said, “Keep you all on my left.
None of you tread any gap on the right. I saw the place as I came
along. When the moon gets clear, we shall find him.”
The snow-cloud in the east began to lift, and the moon came out with
a bronzy flush, as my uncle told me afterwards, and the broad expanse
of snow was flickered with wan light and with gliding shades. Then all
came back to the place where Sam, being mounted and able to command the
slope, had discovered certain dimples—for they were nothing more—which
might be the trace of footsteps snowed over. Here he gave his horse to
be held, and leaving the road with his little Scotch terrier _Spike_,
scooped the light surface from one of the marks, and found a hard clot
beneath it. He put the dog’s nose in, and patted him, and _Spike_ gave
a yelp, as if a rat were in prospect.
“Let him alone. Don’t say a word to him,” cried Sam, as our people grew
eager. “He don’t want you to teach him his business. If you knew your
own half as well, there’d be less money in London than in Sunbury. Keep
back, I say, all of you.”
The little dog led them across a broad meadow, two or three hundred
yards from the highway, yet in a straighter line towards Sunbury, and
nearly in the track of an old foot-path. Then he stopped in a dip,
where a great rise of snow, like a surge of ground-swell, swung away
from them, and combed over into the field beyond without breaking, like
the ground-swell frozen. They said that it was a most beautiful sight,
such as they never had seen before, and could scarcely hope to see
again in one lifetime; reminding them of the great wax-works, when the
wax is being bleached, at Teddington. But they could not stop to look
at it; and the little dog went round, and dived into the tunnel on the
further side.
Presently he yapped, as if in hot chase of a rabbit; and an active
young fellow jumped through the great wave, and was swallowed up,
leaving his hat behind. Then they heard him crying faintly, “Here he
is! Come round, and dig us out to this side.”
It is a strange thing, and I have not the smallest remembrance of
having done it; but I must have dragged my frozen body through the
hedge, in the cope of life with death, and got on the leeward side of
a stiff bulwark of newly bill-hooked ashplant, which stopped the sweep
of drift, and served to cast it like the lap of a counterpane over me.
In the bottom where I lay there was scarcely any snow, but a soft bed
of fallen leaves, upon which they found me lying like a gate-post flung
by, to season.
“Dead as a doornail!” said Rasp the baker.
“Stiff as a starfish!” cried Pluggs the grocer, who had spent his last
holidays at the seaside.
“Ay, and colder than a skinned eel!” added Jakes, the barrowman.
But my uncle said—“Out with you, coward lot of curs! Our Kit shall
outlive every one of you. The Lord hath not put him in that nest for
nothing.”
Then Sam Henderson pulled off his cloak, like the Good Samaritan, and
threw it over me. And taking me by the shoulders, with my uncle at the
feet, he helped to bear my stiff body back to the road; where they
set me upon _Haro_, with my head upon his mane; and the young man who
had jumped into the drift was sent ahead, to fetch Dr. Sippets to my
uncle’s house.