CHAPTER XXXI
WHINNYATES FARM
Ten days after Kit left the tank he got down at a quiet station in the North of England. The train rolled on across a bridge, and by contrast with the trains in Canada, he thought it ridiculously small. A few country people crossed the platform, and a farmer’s gig and a battered car waited at the gate. Although Kit had telegraphed from Liverpool, the Netherhall car had not arrived and he saw nobody he knew.
Putting his bag and coat on a bench he looked about. The evening was cold, and in the west yellow light shone behind lead-colored clouds. Bleak moors, in dark silhouette, cut the ominous glow; a flooded river brawled under the railway bridge, and the road that went up-hill was wet. At the top of the hill a ragged firwood loomed indistinctly in rolling mist. Kit smiled. It was summer in the north, and all he saw threatened storm.
Netherhall was eight miles off, and the nearest inn was at the village in the dale. Before long heavy rain would sweep the moors and Kit doubted if the car would arrive. It did not look as if his relations were very keen to welcome him, but he reflected with rather grim humor that he had gone away in disgrace, and although he was perhaps entitled to claim he came back in triumph, nobody yet knew. To some extent, he had been afraid to boast; to some extent he admitted he had indulged his rather boyish pride.
Then he began to think about Evelyn. Where others doubted she believed in him; she had stuck to him nobly and for his sake had borne some strain. After a time, perhaps, she got daunted, but she had grounds for disappointment, and the news he sent had not helped her much. Well, in two or three hours she would know he had made good; but he must take the road.
The wind was cold and Kit put on his coat and seized his bag. He set off briskly, but when he got to the top of the long hill he admitted the bag was heavier than he had thought, and he speculated about the Netherhall car. Mrs. Carson had got his telegram, but perhaps her husband had not. Kit’s mouth curved in a crooked smile, but he would not trouble Mrs. Carson for long. Her fastidiousness accounted for his carrying the bag, although he doubted if she would approve the dinner-jacket he bought at Montreal.
By and by he heard an engine throb and he stepped on the grass. A car stopped, and Kit looked up. Two or three large dusty sacks occupied the back, a wing was broken and the shabby paint was scratched. The engine rattled noisily and Kit knew the rattle. In Canada he had used cars like that. A brown-skinned young fellow held the wheel.
“Are you going far?” he inquired. Kit said he was bound for Netherdale, and the other told him to jump up.
“I’ll give you a lift for three or four miles. Don’t know, but I might go by village and over gap. I’m carrying some calf meal for Tyson o’ Whinnyates; my farm’s not far from his. We’s see when we get to water-splash.”
“Mrs. Tyson was ill,” said Kit when the car rolled ahead. “Do you know if she’s better?”