THE WHITE HOUSE AT LAST.
[Illustration: Decorative N]
eville 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.'
[Illustration: 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 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!'
[Illustration: 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-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!