"I said it was coming down," remarked the schoolmaster. But he did not improve in value much by the observation, for upon inquiry it seemed that every one in the room had ventured upon a similar prophecy—all had agreed that it would come down hard before morning; they had said so quite early in the day, by the look of the sky.
"Like a blanket. Can't hardly see before yer." What a time William ostler was lighting his pipe!—surely his eyes were roaming from mug to mug, rather enviously.
"Here, William," says Mrs. Joyce; "it must be bitter cold in stable." She hands him a jug of something smoking hot, and strong in flavour. A smile stars his face all over with lines and creases. He does not smile simply with his mouth; he brings his forehead, his cheeks, his eyebrows and eyes, even his shock head of hair, into the business. He stands in a curved attitude, with his head well out from his body, for fear any soiling drops should fall upon his chess-board patterned velveteen waistcoat. He raises his shoulders and squares his elbows. The process of drinking seems with him to need nothing so much as free play of the arms. He waves the jug three times, perhaps as a sort of incantation to secure luck; perhaps, to mix well together its contents. He seems rather inclined to make a speech, or drink the health of the company; but he evidently does not quite see his way comfortably through either of these formulae; so he abandons further ceremony, and empties the jug.
He draws a long breath. Tears are in his eyes. Tears of joy, of gratitude, not of sorrow; or perhaps it is the excessive heat of his libation that has acted as an irritant upon his lachrymal glands.
"Groom Frank's outside," he remarks, applying the back of his hand violently to his lips, as though to rub well into his skin the flavour of his drink. "Come down from Grange."
"What for? Why don't he come in?" says Mrs. Joyce; "he's never standing out in the cold?"
"No; he's under cover—brought horses down. Master Stephen bid him."
"To meet Mr. Wilford?"
William ostler nodded. The whole room was listening, and he seemed rather pleased at being so greatly an object of interest. It was a novel position for him, quite. Why, at that moment, Mr. and Mrs. Joyce were mere cyphers compared to William ostler; while the schoolmaster—bah! he was out of the question altogether. William went on:
"Old gentleman's very bad." It was the latest intelligence from the Grange, and was received with breathless interest.
"All say he's going fast as he can; but he's sensible, groom Frank says—so the housekeeper told 'em in the kitchen. He's asked again for Master Wilford—keeps on asking for him. So Master Stephen sends down groom Frank with horses to meet him, 'cause, if this snaw goes on, he'll have a job to get through Chingley Bottom; and as for going on to Grange with same horses, with that road what it is, and what I've known to be any winter these last twelve years, why it's more than horseflesh can do—that's what it is. A horse can't do no more than a horse can, and if you goes for to try—" But he stopped short, listening attentively.
"Wheels!" he cried.
All the room listened. Some declared it was fancy; others, no such thing. They could hear them quite well. The schoolmaster said he could hear nothing, but then he was a little hard of hearing on one side; yet, he said, with an air of philosophy, that he had often noticed that when people particularly wanted to hear a particular sound, then they were always given to think that they did hear it. The remark was not thought much of, especially as the schoolmaster was wrong. The sound of wheels was now distinctly audible. William, ostler, ran out with a lanthorn. Somebody drew the red curtains from before the long low window of the George. The heat of the room had clouded the glass. Many were occupied in rubbing clear a diamond pane of glass here and there, so that they might look out at the night and see what happened, as through peep-holes.
"Lord! how it was snowing!" "Why, the ground was quite white—the snow an inch thick already!" "What a draught there was with that front-door open!" O! how cold!" "Who was that man outside there, beyond the trough and the sign-post?" "Why, groom Frank, of course, with the change of horses."
"Yo-ho! Yo-ho! O! O!"
"Yo-ho! Yo-ho! O! O!"
The postilion from afar off echoes William ostler's cry. Now you can plainly hear the dull thumping of the wheels over the rough road muffled by the snow. You can see the red carriage-lights gleaming through the clouds of steam rising from the horses. The carriage makes slow progress in spite of all the whipping and spurring and the shrill threats and encouragement of the postboys. Indeed the horses are nearly dead-beat,—you can hear their pantings through all the noise. What a ghastly look about the carriage, white with snow on all one side where the wind has been blowing—a thick cake of snow on the roof, snow on the lamps even, half melting—snow on the harness, on the horses—on every slightest projection to which it can cling by any possibility. Snow, too, on the cap of the traveller—on his shoulders, on his flowing jet-black beard. He has been leaning out of the window, passionately urging on the postboys.
"Why are you stopping, d—n you!" he cries out savagely.
Groom Frank is at the window in a minute, touching his hat. "The horses are quite done up—there's no going on further with them to-night. He has brought down fresh from the Grange. They'll be put to in two minutes. There's a good fire in the large room of the George. They can start again in two minutes."
"Is he alive?" the traveller asks in a husky whisper.
"Yes, sir;" and groom Frank touches his hat, "but—"
"But what?"