“But why does it turn about?”
“When I’ve ploughed to one end of a field, I turn the plough so as to run back.”
“But this isn’t a real plough.”
“I know nothing about it,” said Pooke desperately; “and, what is more, I won’t stand questioning. This is a ferry-boat, not a National School, and you are Kitty Quarm, not Mr. Puddicombe. I haven’t anything more of learning to go through the rest of my days, thankful to say.”
The night crept along, slow, chilly as a slug; the time seemed interminable. Benumbed by cold, Kate finally dozed without knowing that she was slipping out of consciousness. Sleep she did not--she was in a condition of uneasy terror, shivering with cold, cramped by her position, bruised by the ribs of the boat, with the smell of mud and new cloth in her nose, and with occasionally a brass button touching her cheek, and with its cold stabbing as with a needle. The wind, curling and whistling in the boat as it came over the side, bored into the marrow of the bones, the muscles became hard, the flesh turned to wax.
Kate discovered that she had been unconscious only by the confusion of her intellect when Pooke roused her by a touch, and told her that the boat was afloat. She staggered to her knees, brushed the scattered hair out of her dazed eyes, rose to her feet, and seated herself on the bench. Her wits were as though curdled in her brains. They would not move. Every limb was stiff, every nerve ached. Her teeth chattered; she felt sick and faint. Sleepily she looked around.
No lights were twinkling from the windows on the banks. In every house candles had long ago been extinguished. All the world slept.
The clouds overhead had been brushed away, and the lights of heaven looked down and were reflected in the water. The boat was as it were floating between two heavens besprent with stars, the one above, the other below, and across each was drawn the silvery nebulous Milky Way. The constellation of the Great Bear--the Plough, as Pooke called it--was greatly changed in position since Kate had commented on it. Cassiopēa’s silver chair was planted in the great curve of the Milky Way. To the south the hazy tangle of Berenice’s Hair was faintly reflected in the inflowing tide.
Although the boat was lifted from the bank, yet it was by no means certain that Coombe Cellars could be reached for at least another half-hour. The tide, that had raced out, seemed to return at a crawl. Nevertheless, it was expedient to restore circulation by the exercise of the arms. Kate assumed one oar, John the other, and began to row; she at first with difficulty, then with ease, as warmth returned and her blood resumed its flow. The swelling tide carried the boat up with it, and the oars were leisurely dipped, breaking the diamonds in the water into a thousand brilliants.
As they approached the reach where lay Coombe-in-Teignhead, John Pooke said: “There is a light burning in your house. They are all up, anxious, watching for you, and in trouble. On my word, will not my father be in a condition of fright and distress concerning me if he hears that I am out? I went off without saying anything to anybody. I intended to be back all right in the evening by the Atmospheric. But there’s no telling, father may have been asking after me. Then, as I didn’t turn up at supper, he may have sent about making inquiries, and have heard at the Cellars that I’d gone over the water, and given command to be met by the last train. Then they will be in a bad state of mind, father and sister Sue. Hulloa! what is that light? It comes from our place.”