A NIGHT JOURNEY
As the wagon-wheels creaked nearer and nearer, and the singing of the
merry-makers came past him, Charles had all the work in the world to
keep himself from leaping up out of the hole to join them, they seemed
so happy. He himself did not feel anything like so happy as he had
expected. He could not have laughed in that light-hearted way as the
children did, chasing each other in and out of the gorse-bushes so near
the edge of the hole that he could have caught them by the ankles as
they ran.
At last all had passed by, and the only sound to be heard was the
distant rumbling of the heavy-laden wagon-wheels down the hilly lane,
or could it be the roll of distant thunder? for as he peeped over the
edges of the hole he saw that the sun was setting in a bank of nearly
black clouds. When he thought, that he was quite safe from being seen
he scrambled up to the top of the hole, and a strange sight he looked,
for his velvet breeches and his shirt and his face and hands were
all one grimy drab color with the cobwebby dust and dirt he had gone
through. Really, if anybody had spied him, there would have been no
small difficulty in recognizing the little Prince who always went so
richly and tastefully attired. No one, however, saw him as, taking one
sharp look round, he sped like a lapwing with bent head through the
thick tall furze-bushes covering the waste ground to the edges of the
thicket beyond. At the other side of the thicket ran the bright stream
whose course he intended to follow, as he knew that some miles ahead it
joined the river Thames.
There, at the bottom of the broad steep-sloping bank he soon reached,
lay a largish boat tied by a rope to the stem of an elm-tree.
Charles’s heart leapt within him: that was just the thing he wanted.
Surely some kind woodland fairy must have placed it there, as fairies
do in story-books, for his convenience. The next minute his delight
faded out: another glance showed that the craft was loaded rather
heavily for its size with some wicker-baskets and a small cask and a
sack which peeped out from beneath a big canvas covering, and of course
to get in and row off, with all that cargo aboard, would make him like
a thief, so the plan was impossible. While he was cogitating on this
most difficult question he heard voices, and voices that he knew well,
too. No less than those of Lady Chauncy and Wynkin, who seemed to be
coming through the trees. Charles turned all gooseflesh with dismay.
To make a run for it would, likely as not, land him right into her
ladyship’s stiff brocade skirts. There was not a minute to think, and
so he ran the other way down the bank faster than a rabbit, and hey
presto! with one leap he was at the bottom of the boat, and, creeping
under the canvas among the sacks.
Feeling as if his heart was really in his mouth, he listened to what
the lady and her serving-man were saying, and her ladyship, who spoke
first, seemed in one of her pleasantest humors.
“And so you are off, Wynkin,” said she; “well, the sooner the better
perchance, for I believe there will be a storm before morning, and you
have a long way to go, and your good father and mother are, I doubt
not, wearying to give you a welcome. You must tell them that when
his Highness hath been delivered safe back to his Majesty out of our
charge, you will tarry with them a longer time. But now I shall look
for you at midday to-morrow. Meantime I shall wait upon the Prince
entirely myself, since my husband desires it. And so a good journey to
you, and make my remembrances to your parents, and I trust they will
have good enjoyment of the gallimaufries and the what-nots I beg their
acceptance of, and that your mother will find the red cloak warm and a
good fit. Is all well and securely packed in the boat, Wynkin?”
“Yes, madam,” replied Wynkin, making a low bow to his mistress, though,
of course, Charles was only able to imagine that. “I have placed the
cloak and the fresh butter, and the new-laid eggs, and the manchets,
all in their baskets between the sacks,” and, stepping into the punt,
he loosed the rope from the tree, struck out into midstream, and away
glided the punt to the music of the river ripples.
[Illustration: “And so you are off, Wynkin; well, the sooner the better
perchance, for I believe there will be a storm before morning.”]
If Wynkin had only known what he was carrying away from the Manor House
along with his sacks and what-nots, as my lady called them, he might
have whistled other sort of tunes than the jolly ones he indulged in
as he punted on, on, till twilight darkened into night, and Charles,
cooped up between the sacks, could no longer discern hedges from
banks through the peephole he could keep open for himself only with
difficulty.
All of a sudden, just as he heard the distant church clocks striking
eight, a brilliant flash of lightning covered all he could see,
followed by a crash of thunder, and then down upon the canvas covering
pattered rain-drops as heavily as if they were crown pieces. For a
short time the hurly-burly was so terrific that he almost, if not
quite, wished himself back in the Cedar Room.
Just as the hurricane began to calm a little, Wynkin punted towards the
bank, which was now fringed by a row of pollard willows, and he shouted
to a man who was standing under them, “Is it you, Dickon lad?”
“Ay,” answered the man, as he lent a hand to the punt, while Wynkin
jumped out of it. “A nice storm you be come in, brother Wynkin.”
“Yes,” laughed Wynkin, “but ’tis giving over a bit now. Have you got
the cart?”
“Nay,” said Dickon; “old Dobbin’s so mortal afeard o’ lightning that I
wouldn’t bring him out, and I’ve trundled down the garden wheel-barrer
mysen, just to load with any small odds and ends you may have with you,
and in the mornin’ we can come down and fetch the sacks, eh?”
“Right,” said Wynkin, “and here you are—catch,” and, stretching his arm
under the canvas without removing it, he drew out the neatly packed
baskets of good things which Lady Chauncy had sent as presents to his
parents. “Now then, help me to tow the punt up alongside under the
trees, and then we’ll be starting, for I’m as wet through as a fish.”
Then in a few minutes they had the punt safely tied up to the
willow-stems, and away they went chatting cheerily as they trundled
the barrow over the bank into the wet road beyond. For the first time
Charles ventured to stir, creeping out from among the sacks as quickly
as his cramped limbs permitted, into the body of the punt. He was
chilled to the bone, and very hungry, and thought longingly of that
roast beef he had despised so much some hours before, and he almost
wished he had not left his doublet behind him. Fortunately, however, in
groping along, he tumbled right down over something soft. It turned out
to be the crimson frieze cloak, which in the darkness and in the hurry
must have dropped out of the basket. How beautifully soft and warm and
dry it felt! And with a cry of delight, Charles wrapped himself round
in it from his head to his little ice-cold feet, and then, as luck
would have it, out fell a manchet of the white bread, which must have
caught in among the folds of the cloak, and without more ado Charles
took a deep bite into it as he sat down in the bottom of the punt,
huddled up warmly in the cloak. “And then I must be on the march,”
he said to himself, cheered a little by the warmth and the food, but
before he had swallowed three mouthfuls, his eyelids drooped heavily,
his weary limbs slackened, and he was fast asleep.
[Illustration]
When he awoke, dawn was just breaking fair and rosy over the distant
hills. He sprang to his feet in affright, quite unconscious for the
moment where he was, but his wits soon came back to him, and he looked
cautiously round across the still, shadowy, low-lying banks. He could
now see that beyond the trees stretched a gorse-covered common, and
between, alongside the stream, wound a road.
[Illustration]
Drawing off the cloak, he placed it back under the canvas, though
rather reluctantly, for the air was chilly. Then, having made short
work of the morsel of the white bread he found in his fingers when he
first opened his eyes, he mounted to the edge of the punt and sprang
to the bank. Reaching the road, he walked on a little way, looking
cautiously every step he took, but for a good mile he did not see
a single human creature, though the birds were singing lustily and
the bees and gnats were skimming and skipping in the sunshine, for
the morning was lovely. But before long, however, the field and farm
workers began to be about, and in spite of his best endeavors to dodge
them by dropping in among the hedgerows and the gorse-clumps, he was
forced to face some of them. They took little heed, however, of the
little ragged boy, for ragged enough he was in his down-trodden and
sodden shoes, and his fine white shirt and finest cloth gray breeches
all gone to about the same mud color. With his dark locks and swarthy
cheeks smudged with dirt and the juice of the blackberries he plucked
and ate hungrily as he hastened on, the good folk, if they noticed him
at all, took him for some gipsy boy. But his heart was beginning to
grow as heavy as his limbs, which were so weary that he could hardly
put one bruised and bleeding foot before the other. All his merry
adventure-loving thoughts were fading fast, and in their place rose
up the terrible fear that when he reached London the King, instead of
being rejoiced to see him, might be displeased. It was just possible,
and the more tired he got, the more possible somehow it seemed, till at
last he became terrified, for when his father was angry, his frown made
the hearts of even grown-up great lords quake. All at once he fancied
he heard voices calling, and overwhelmed with terror and fatigue, he
had just strength enough left to hobble away into the wood which now
ran along the roadside, till he seemed quite hidden, and, huddling
together into the hollow of an old oak-tree, he sank down, sobbing
bitterly.
[Illustration]