The Project Gutenberg eBook of Beyond the hills
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Title: Beyond the hills
Author: Maysel Jenkinson
Release date: August 3, 2025 [eBook #76628]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Frederick Warne & Co. Ltd, 1926
Credits: Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BEYOND THE HILLS ***
[Illustration: Dust cover]
[Frontispiece: Her gaze followed Dick's pointing finger. _p._ 177]
BEYOND THE HILLS
BY
MAYSEL JENKINSON
FREDERICK WARNE & CO. LTD.
LONDON AND NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT
FREDERICK WARNE & CO. LTD.
LONDON
_Printed in Great Britain_
To
"MARIE"
(_Founder of the Sunshine Guild_)
who
with kindly beckoning hand
has led these and many other of my little Travellers
towards the
Enchanted Unknown Hills
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. The Beckoning Hills
II. Great-Aunt Hewlett
III. The Libation Man
IV. Montague Francis de Vere
V. The Other Side
VI. The Prior
VII. Lionel and Dorothy
VIII. Matins and Breakfast
IX. The Rose-Vicar
X. An Encounter on the Hills
XI. The Fight
XII. "Fairest Masons"
XIII. Exploring with Dick
XIV. The Race
XV. Half-Confessions
XVI. The Derelict Car
XVII. Awakening
Beyond the Hills
CHAPTER I
THE BECKONING HILLS
Just across the water they lay, such a little way beyond the opposite
bank of the broad, golden river. If you sat on the old wall at the
foot of the garden you could see the whole long range of them, so
tantalizingly near, so altogether unattainable. True, you always had
the river; you had merely to run down the hill, scramble across a
meadow and through a gap in the hedge, and it was there, with all its
many moods, awaiting you. True, also, a very little walk would bring
you to the hilly forest country, but then both river and forest were
part of the everyday life and how can you find romance or adventure
except you go out to seek it in the Unknown?
For it was the Unknown that attracted the three children, more
especially the two elder ones. Not only the hills themselves in
their shadowy, mystic beauty, but what lay beyond them--the great
open, unexplored world where adventure would surely come leaping
towards you. To find the open world, to know Adventure! For how
could anything interesting ever happen if you just played in a garden
or a paddock, or strained your eyes down the river or across the
hills, simply wondering, wondering?
There was more than one influence at work on the children to stir
them to action. To begin with, there was that wander-blood in their
veins that had sent their young Uncle Val wandering over the face of
the earth. And then there was the river, the broad, gleaming
river--an everyday river, of course, but was it not rushing swiftly
to the sea and the open world? Had not Uncle Val himself told them
how it had called men to great adventures? Sir Walter Raleigh, for
instance. Sir Walter Raleigh, Billy's hero, was perhaps the biggest
influence of all at work on the children. For, though this was not
Devonshire, he had at one time inhabited the beautiful old house
above the Gleam in which the children lived. Probably it was he who
had whispered to Uncle Val of the Unknown, but whether that was so or
not Uncle Val, in his brief home visits, was never tired of telling
the children of the noble gentleman who had left his presence in the
riverside house. He would make them see pictures of Sir Walter
seated in the oak-panelled dining-room with perhaps Sir Francis Drake
and other adventurers as his guests, planning their expeditions into
the unexplored world; or again, sauntering slowly down the drive and
pausing at the white gate to look with half-closed eyes down the
Gleam towards the sea, sniffing the salt in the wind that blew up the
river, hearing its call to him as it soughed through the tall elms
along the drive.
And then there was Stevenson. It was Aunt Letty who was responsible
for introducing them to him and inspiring them with love and
admiration for the man who was known in Samoa by that pretty name
Tusitala. At least, Nancy, whose imagination quickly leaped towards
any word that had poetry in it, any new and interesting word, found
it pretty; indeed, there were many words in the passages Aunt Letty
read to them from Stevenson that appealed to her. Caryatides! That
was a word to make poetry of inside yourself and repeat over and over
again until you had made it your very own.
Billy, on the other hand was more interested in Stevenson the man
than in Stevenson the writer. His adventures in the _Arethusa_, his
wanderings with Modestine, above all, perhaps, his life in those
fascinating South Sea Islands appealed strongly to Billy. And the
chief charm about all the adventures lay in the fact that they were
_real_; they were not just a story book; Stevenson had actually lived
what he described, had gone out to meet adventure just as he, Billy,
longed so passionately to do.
Things came to a head one evening, while they were watching old Daddy
Petherham drifting down the tide towards the sea.
"Wouldn't you think he'd get tired of fishing round here every day?"
said Billy. "Wouldn't you s'pose he'd just have to go a little
further and a little further and then right out to sea? Wouldn't you
think he'd want to know what it's like out there and sail away till
he came to other countries and foreign people? _I_ should if I were
Daddy Petherham."
"No, not if you were Daddy Petherham you wouldn't," Nancy replied.
"I'm sure he wouldn't like not to sit in his doorway and smoke and
watch his grandchildren playing. And wouldn't it be funny not to see
him sitting sometimes on the bench outside the 'Anchor' shaking his
head in that funny way of his at the young fishermen? It's queer,
but I always think of Daddy Petherham as part of Nestcombe; he's kind
of grown into it."
"Well," Billy replied, "_I_ shouldn't want to live in a village till
I'd grown to be one of the fixtures, would you?"
"No," Nancy replied thoughtfully, "I don't _think_ I should. I--I
want, I want--oh, it's not easy to put into words just what I want."
"I know what _I_ want," Billy replied, decidedly. "I want to have
adventure, lots of it, and how can we if we just stay here? Don't
you both feel," he added eagerly, "that we must have one? Let's go
somewhere. We haven't got a boat so we can't sail away as Daddy
Petherham could if he wanted to, but--but _how_ shall we go, Nancy?"
Nancy, who had been seeing visions of the wants that would not go
into words ("dweaming dweams," as she used to call them when she was
a little girl), came back to earth and stared at Billy.
"Do you mean it _really_, Billy?" she asked slowly.
"Do you mean a long, long way?" little Mavis added. "And see lots
and lots of pretty places?"
"Yes, really and truly, a long, long way--where we've never been
before!"
Now, it is quite probable that neither Nancy nor Mavis felt at that
moment any imperative need in them to leave their happy home, for
Mavis was a "home" child and Nancy, with her vivid imagination, could
leave it at will to wander in a "Never Never Land," but if Billy
wanted to go, why, then of course they wanted to go, too, for that
one should do anything important without the other two was as
impossible as for old Daddy Petherham not to sit year in, year out,
smoking by his cottage door.
And, since it was decided that something must be done, both the girls
entered with eager interest into Billy's plans.
"Would it do for us to have kind of travels with a donkey?" Nancy
asked. "We've got Ladybird. There aren't any mountains, but there
are the hills over there. Oh, Billy, I would _like_ to see the other
side of the hills; I kind of feel there's some wonderful land hidden
away behind them. Could we get as far, do you think? It's a long
way, isn't it? We'd have to go to Gleambridge and cross the river
there and _then_ we'd begin to be in the hills, wouldn't we? Oh,
Billy, could we ever get there?"
Gleambridge, the county town, was a quite familiar place to the
children. It is one thing to go there by train with grown-ups on
shopping expeditions, but to go by road through unexplored country
towards a city that is the gateway of the land of your dreams--that
is something quite different. The train journey leads you to tailors
and drapers and dentists, well, and perhaps to cakes and ice-creams,
and yes, of course, the cathedral; but the dusty, winding road leads
you straight to a world of romance, out of which rises the fair tower
of the cathedral, and beyond it and above it and around it the
entrancing hills. Should they, could they go?
Thus it was decided. They would go for a week; not longer, as little
Mavis thought that quite long enough to be away from "Muvee." They
would leave a note of explanation assuring the grown-ups that there
was no need to worry, and they would take Ladybird, their very own
donkey, with them. This, of course, would occasion a re-christening
ceremony, for though "Ladybird" was the nicest name imaginable for a
little home donkey, for one who was to seek with them the open world
nothing but "Modestine" would satisfy the young adventurers.
CHAPTER II
GREAT-AUNT HEWLETT
With fingers that trembled because of his excitement Billy fastened
the strap of Modestine's girth.
"That's right! Now let's fix the blankets on. You help me, Nancy--I
don't quite know how they should go."
Nancy handed the basket of provisions to Mavis and ran to Billy's
assistance. It was one thing to harness a donkey you had tended and
coddled for two years, but to fasten a not very tidy bundle of
blankets on to the saddle when you were almost dancing with
excitement was not quite so easy. Nancy when she had finished, eyed
her work doubtfully. Somehow, it did not look exactly professional.
"We really ought to have had sleeping sacks like Stevenson," she
said; "but then, he had more money to buy them with than we had, I
s'pect."
With only nineteen shillings to feed and sleep three of you--and a
donkey--for a whole week, sleeping sacks were a luxury not to be
indulged in.
Their simple preparations did not take long to complete, yet many
anxious glances were cast at the house while they were in progress.
Supposing they were discovered? Supposing Modestine should bray,
supposing----
"Oh, quick! Let's start right away!" Billy whispered. "I'll haul
you into the saddle now, Mavis. Are you ready, Nancy? Come on!"
Very quietly the little procession crept down the drive and passed
out into the road. Nancy and Mavis each gave one wistful glance back
at the house where all was so still. If only the grown-ups could
have come, too! Was it too late even now to go back and ask them to
come? Why, up to this moment had there been that quite definite
though unspoken thought in each child's mind that adventure such as
they were seeking was something those belonging to the grown-up world
could not understand, would not appreciate? Their grown-ups were all
such pals. After all----
Nancy glanced hesitatingly at Billy, but she said nothing, for his
unyielding back, his steady, plodding walk, and the way his head was
thrown back told her that he was pushing every bit of feeling and
regret away from him. They had planned the adventure, they must be
brave and go on--they must find what lay beyond the hills; all this
Nancy read in Billy's attitude, and, knowing her brother, she fell
into step by Modestine and buried her own regrets.
It was not yet six o'clock, but they pushed on hurriedly as, until
they were the other side of Riversham, a small country town a few
miles off on the Gleambridge road, they were likely to encounter
people who knew them. Better, they decided, to get beyond familiar
places while folks were yet a-bed.
"See! We're nearly at Nestcombe," Nancy said. "Modestine, dear,"
she continued, addressing the donkey, "please don't do anything
naughty until we are past the cottages. There's people up, I know,
'cos there's smoke coming out of the chimneys, so _don't_ 'tract
their attention, will you?"
Modestine plodded on, wearing her most angelic expression. She was a
creature of vagaries; at least, that is how a man who used to come to
see Aunt Letty--our "nearly-Uncle Jim" as the children called
him--described her, and the children, though the word hitherto had
been an unfamiliar one, felt that it described their Ladybird
exactly--so naughty and yet so lovable.
This morning, so far, the quiet, innocent mood was uppermost, whether
because she felt the honour of her new name or because these
early-in-the-morning happenings had taken her by surprise the
children could not decide.
Nestcombe, the lovely little fishing hamlet on the outskirts of which
their home was situated, consisted of a row of about a dozen
cottages, a few outlying farms, and another handful of cottages in a
lane branching off from the main road down to the riverside.
"Look!" Mavis whispered, as they passed the top of this lane,
"there's old Daddy Petherham going down to the river. He's too deaf
to hear us, but I do hope he doesn't look round."
The old man, however, shuffled slowly and unheedingly down the lane,
his eyes turned towards the river, and, a moment later, the children
were through the village making their way towards Nestley.
"Wasn't the river sparkly and golden!" Nancy said. "And, oh, isn't
the morning sparkly, too! At least, I think it's going to be--look
at that bit of goldy-pink in the sky."
"It's cold, though," Mavis said, shivering a little. "I'm glad we
wore our knitted frocks."
Nancy's face puckered with contrition. She had forgotten that Mavis
would be cold riding and insisted on stopping while the child put on
her waterproof cloak.
"That's it. You'll soon be warm now, won't you? Come on, Modestine,
we're ready, old lady."
Modestine, who had rested her head on Billy's shoulder during the
halt, was annoyed at being disturbed and planted her legs firmly
where she stood.
"Come on, Modestine, dear," Billy urged anxiously. "Ladybird,
gee-up! Oh, do hurry, Ladybird! We won't even get to Nestley, leave
alone Riversham, before lots of people are about, at this rate.
Could you _make_ her move, Mavis?"
Mavis did her best, but when Modestine's mind was made up it took
more than the little girl's feeble strength to budge her. On each
side of the obstinate creature Nancy and Billy pulled with no result.
Next, Nancy pulled and Billy pushed from behind; they gained a few
inches, but that was all. They pleaded and coaxed, they told her
their frank opinion of her, they wished they had not allowed her to
share in their adventure, they even threatened to leave her there in
the middle of the road, still Modestine stood immovable.
Suddenly, she lifted up her head and gave forth a terrific bray. All
the troubles of every donkey in the world seemed to be voiced in that
bray.
"Now you've done it!" Billy cried indignantly. "Be quiet, for
goodness' sake, Ladybird. Shut up, I say!"
Almost before the words were out of his mouth Mavis had whipped off
her cloak and flung it over the traitor's head. Modestine, surprised
at the interruption, hesitated, shook the cloak off, and then
suddenly trotted gently down the road.
Mavis turned in the saddle and waved her hand.
"She's all right now. I'll wait for you on the Riversham road if she
keeps this up. Good-bye!"
Billy picked up the cloak and together he and Nancy briskly followed
the fast-disappearing donkey.
They would only have one house to pass now before reaching Nestley,
and though they glanced round occasionally to see whether anyone was
in sight, they felt that they might safely give themselves up to the
thrill of having really started out on their adventure.
And what a morning on which to set out towards the Unknown! The pink
and gold was spreading across the sky, the birds were rhapsodizing,
and the air had that clean taste that belongs to the early morning.
Ah, here was Mill End, and there were the vast orchards of Brook
House, with the brook meandering through them. Not far to Nestley
now!
The church clock was striking a quarter to seven as they turned into
the village street.
"Look! Mavis is nearly at the top of the street," Nancy whispered.
"I do hope she gets past Aunt Hewlett's safely."
Great-Aunt Hewlett's trim white house stood at the top of the
village, just beyond the church. It was the last house they would
pass before the road forked off to Riversham.
The children watched Modestine anxiously, fearing that she might want
to stop at the gate; for though Great-Aunt Hewlett was far too stern
an old lady to coax a donkey with luxuries there were those of her
household who spoiled the pretty animal. Would Modestine remember
and refuse to pass the house?
Their fears, however, were groundless, and Mavis turned and waved a
triumphant hand before she disappeared round the high wall of Aunt
Hewlett's garden.
"Doesn't the bread smell good?" Billy said, sniffing in the delicious
scent that came from the bakehouse across the road. "I could eat a
huge chunk of new bread--I'm fearfully hungry."
They both were, for though they had drunk some milk before starting
they had all been too excited to eat more than a couple of biscuits
each and such meagre fare could not sustain healthy children in the
fresh morning air for very long.
The good, wholesome scent followed them as they hurried up the
street, and I am afraid it occupied so large a place in their
thoughts that they had none to give to the pretty village through
which they were passing. Probably, however, in any case, they would
have been blind to the beauties of the place; for Nestley was
familiar ground and was something to be left behind as soon as might
be. That they were hurrying with unseeing eyes through one of the
prettiest villages in England they did not know. Indeed, what would
it have mattered to them if it had been the prettiest village in the
world? Were they not out to seek adventure, and how could it begin
until you had left every trace of everyday places and people behind
you?
Nestley, snuggling in the heart of rich meadows and orchards, with
the brook gurgling down the centre of the street, and the houses
growing over the brook, and the forest rising up beyond the village;
oh, yes, it was all dear and pretty, but it was a home-place, just as
Daddy Petherham was a home person. Just how pretty the home village
is you cannot know until you have travelled away from it and have
seen it with your imagination eyes. Just how dear it is you cannot
realize, if you are an adventure-person, until far away from it you
feel its influence and your heart aches for the familiar things that
are Home.
And so, with more appreciation of Nestley's bakery than of its
beauties, Nancy and Billy proceeded up the steep little street,
glancing anxiously at Aunt Hewlett's trim windows. Aunt Hewlett,
unfortunately, was a very early riser--_would_ they get by safely?
"There she is!" Billy groaned.
Yes, there was Aunt Hewlett, tall and neat and stately and
uncompromisingly stern, in a stiff black frock and white cuffs and
collar and apron.
And she was beckoning them.
True, she was used to their early morning rambles and might not
suspect anything, but Mavis was waiting for them and, besides, every
moment of these early morning hours before they were likely to be
missed, counted.
Wishing they could have pretended not to see her, and trying not to
look too terribly guilty, they advanced up the path.
"Good-morning, Aunt," they said meekly.
The old lady looked down at them.
"Another of these morning walks!" she ejaculated, with a sniff.
"Ridiculous nonsense!" She paused, and looked at Nancy.
Now most people knew her for a very severe old lady; nevertheless,
behind her outward severity there was a very big spark of kindness, a
large share of which she gave to Nancy. There was something about
the child's face that bothered the shrewd old lady.
"Too tender, too sympathetic," she would blurt out to Nancy's mother.
"Too interested in other people and their troubles--bothers herself
too much about them--let the world take care of itself, I say!"
Yet, though she might leave the world to look after itself,
Great-Aunt Hewlett often went out of her way to spoil Nancy.
"Could you eat a hot buttered batch cake?" she asked in her severest
tone. "Suppose the boy would like one, too! Come in, both of
you--and wipe your shoes well; Lizzie's just washed the tiles."
"Oh, please, Aunt, I don't think we _could_ eat one this morning,
could we, Billy?" Nancy replied hastily. "You see, we had some milk
and biscuits before we started."
"Eh?" Aunt Hewlett cried in astonishment. "Not eat one of Lizzie's
batch cakes? What's the matter with the children? Aren't they good
enough for you?"
"Oh, Aunt Hewlett, they're the nicest batch cakes we've ever tasted,
but we're just not hungry this morning, thank you."
"Not hungry? Stuff and nonsense! Come along in and let's hear no
more about it."
The children, realizing that the safest and quickest plan would be to
accept the batch cakes, followed Aunt Hewlett down the wide, cool
hall to the kitchen. As a rule, Aunt Hewlett's house held a great
fascination for them. It was so silent, so awe-inspiring, so
altogether different from their own jolly home. Even the stately
Persian cat was different from their own mongrel cats and kittens.
And there was a scent, too, about the house that you could hardly
define. You could not be sure whether it was beeswax or whether it
belonged to the creepers on the tiled verandah, or to the scented
geraniums, or the blue and gold potpourri bowl in the drawing-room
where you always felt afraid of smashing the spindly legs of the
chairs.
This morning, however, the children even forgot to walk on tip-toe
(you _always_ walked tip-toe in that tiled hall), so engrossed were
they in planning how to get away quickly without arousing Aunt
Hewlett's suspicions or offending her.
Lizzie, Aunt Hewlett's old maid, and, incidentally the children's and
Ladybird's friend, was putting the last loaf into the oven as they
entered the kitchen, and, on the table, were half a dozen golden oven
or batch cakes just asking to be eaten. If the scent from Mr.
Philpott's bakery had been tantalizingly fragrant, the scent here was
a hundred times more so. Yet, though less than five minutes had
passed since they had been aching for new bread, now that they could
eat their fill all desire for it had fled.
Very deliberately Aunt Hewlett split open a couple of the golden
bread cakes and spread them generously with butter.
"One between us would be enough, thank you, Aunt," Nancy ventured
meekly, but Aunt Hewlett waved the suggestion aside.
"It's over two miles home if you're going back round by Etley, and if
you can't eat a batch cake a-piece and be ready for a hearty
breakfast when you reach home, well, all I can say is that the modern
child is made of poorer stuff than the children of _my_ generation.
In _my_ young days we'd have said 'thank you' and no more words about
it."
Aunt Hewlett tossed her proud old head and her eyes flashed as she
thought of the splendid stock the world produced eighty years ago.
"Nothing finicky about us, I can assure you, my dear."
"Oh, Aunt," Nancy pleaded, fearing that she had hurt her, "we're not
finicky, really, are we, Billy? Only----" She paused tremulously.
Billy glanced at her anxiously. _Would_ she be a sport and play her
part bravely? Knowing her tender heart he was a little doubtful.
Suddenly, he threw back his head just as he had done when he had
closed the home gate behind them. Here, at the very outset of their
adventures was something that called forth his fighting instincts.
Billy met it with ready response--_he_ would take charge of the
situation.
He took a huge bite out of his batch cake and, to his own surprise,
as well as Aunt Hewlett's, grinned up at her with an adorable
cheekiness.
"_Looks_ as though we like them, doesn't it, Aunt? And can I have
another, please, when I've finished this? Lizzie shouldn't make them
so nice. Or shall I take it for Mavis--she's just on in front, and
p'raps we'd better hurry else she'll think we're lost or something."
Mentioning Mavis he felt was thrillingly dangerous. Aunt Hewlett
_might_ make enquiries, and somehow or other the enquiries would have
to be avoided, but the spirit of adventure was awakened in him, and
he was ready to tackle any difficulty.
"Hum! So _that's_ why you weren't hungry, I suppose," Aunt Hewlett
replied. "Been quarrelling with her, have you? Six to one and half
a dozen to the other, of course!"
"Oh, no, Aunt," Billy replied, "we've not quarrelled--she just went
quicker, that's all. I've finished my batch cake," he added with an
insinuating grin. "It was ripping!"
Aunt Hewlett, pleased that the batch cakes should be so appreciated,
split open the remaining three, and, telling Lizzie to bring a paper
bag, set to and buttered them.
Nancy, meanwhile, was struggling hard with hers. As Aunt Hewlett's
back was turned Billy signed to her to break off the bigger portion
and slip it under Mavis' cloak.
"Well," said Aunt Hewlett, "here you are, and those that think they
won't spoil their breakfast can eat them going along. Nancy seems to
have lost both her appetite and her tongue to-day--and William," she
added, "seems to have found both."
The half-hurt, half-puzzled look on the stern old face worried Nancy.
She wished with all her heart that she could explain matters, but
that was impossible she knew, without giving Billy away. Yet, what
must Aunt Hewlett think of her? Usually it was she, Nancy, who
chattered freely and confidingly to the old lady whose sternness she
could see behind while Mavis and Billy stood by in awed silence. And
now to-day----
She ran toward her aunt and kissed her impulsively.
"Auntie dear, I do love you," she said, "and I love the batch cakes
and next time I'll talk lots and lots to you. _Please_ don't not
love me. Good-bye!" and, with tears very near her eyes, she fled
from the house, Billy following.
"Well!" ejaculated Aunt Hewlett. For quite three minutes she stood
where they had left her, thinking--and feeling again a pair of little
arms round her neck. "Well, well!" she added, and then left the
kitchen to go about her household duties.
Meanwhile, Nancy and Billy were flying round the corner to the
Riversham road with all sorts of thoughts and feelings, jogging
against each other as they ran.
They found Mavis seated on the top of a high stone stile, her arms
round Modestine, her head pillowed on her neck. She opened her eyes
very sleepily when they approached, and smiled.
"You seemed such a long time," she explained, "so I just closed my
eyes. Why, what have you got there, Billy. It smells like new
bread!"
"It is," Billy replied, "and some of it's for you."
They explained the cause of their delay to Mavis, a delay of which
the child had fortunately been unconscious, as she had been longer in
the Land of Nod than she had at all realized, as they trudged along
the Riversham road, munching some of the delicious batch cakes.
"Let's keep the other two until we get through Riversham," Nancy
suggested. "P'raps we might stop for a little rest then."
"Yes, and have our breakfast. 'Cording to Aunt Hewlett we ought to
be jolly well ready for it!" Billy replied, with a grin. "'Sides,"
he added, "I didn't get the full benefit of the one I ate in the
kitchen, I'm sure--didn't I bolt it just!"
CHAPTER III
THE LIBATION MAN
Between Nestley and Riversham, after the village school was passed,
were only one or two large houses standing well back from the road,
consequently the children felt free to give themselves up to the
joyous freshness of the morning and step out to meet adventure with a
song not only in their hearts, but on their lips.
Fortunately, Modestine not only liked music, but seemed invigorated
by it and set out so briskly at times that Nancy and Billy had much
ado to keep pace with her. If the song died away she would fall into
her usual jog-trot, but Billy had simply to run in front and sing his
lustiest and Modestine would respond with pricked-up ears and a
quickened pace.
Presently, however, they drew near to Riversham and the singing
ceased.
"Let's get through as quickly as possible," Billy said, "and let's
hope Modestine behaves herself. If she sits down in the middle of
the street as she did that time when we brought her in the cart--you
remember?--well, there'll be a crowd and good-bye to our adventure!"
With beating hearts they approached the sleepy little country town.
The church stood on a hill to the right and they glanced up anxiously
at the clock. Not quite nine o'clock--good--people would not be
abroad shopping yet.
"I forgot to wind my watch up last night," Mavis said. "It's
stopped."
With much pride she wound up the watch, for it was one that she had
recently won at Billy's school sports; the only watch between them,
too, and they were depending on it. There might not always be church
clocks and somehow, even on an adventure, it would seem strange to be
timeless.
Riversham consisted mainly of one broad street stretching from one
end of the town to the other. What activity there was amongst the
inhabitants was apparently taking place indoors; a few small boys
were scattered about; the butcher, like all butchers, was dashing
recklessly down the centre of the street; the milkman ambled after
him. An assistant in the draper's shop under the trees glanced up
idly, but curiosity evidently not being her strong point, she
scarcely gave them a second glance.
"_Do_ let's rest soon," Nancy said, "I'm getting a little tired,
aren't you?"
Billy would not admit that he was, but he owned that he was ready to
justify Aunt Hewlett's belief in him, so, when at the further end of
the town they found a narrow lane branching off to the left, they
decided to take it; it might have a suitable halting place tucked
away in some unobtrusive corner.
"But we'll get back on to the Gleambridge road presently, won't we?"
Nancy said. "This is a forest road and it's the hills, not the
forest we want, isn't it?"
"Yes, we know _all_ about the forest," Billy replied, "inside and
out, so of _course_ it's the hills we'll make for."
This, in spite of the fact that every step was taking them nearer to
the deep heart of the forest, to a beauty and grandeur that was
constantly changing. This great friendly forest, with its harmonies
of sound and colour, this sheltering forest, with its unseen yet
familiar voices, how were they to know that in rejecting it, they
were rejecting something that was a part of themselves, just as Daddy
Petherham was a part of Nestcombe?
In a little while they came to a meadow, and beyond the meadow, with
a gate leading invitingly into it, was a wood; a very suitable
halting-place, they decided, and without a second thought--for
trespassing never troubled our young adventurers--entered it.
Billy paused as they were shutting the gate and looked at the little
town in the valley and the peeps of golden river between its
chimney-pots. Just across that river were the hills and to reach
them they must tramp all the way to Gleambridge first.
"Wish we could have gone by the Riversham ferry," he said
regretfully, "it'd have cut off miles, but the old man might ask
questions--p'raps he wouldn't take us. Better stick to the road, I
s'pose, though it's another sixteen miles."
"Shall we get there to-day?" Mavis asked. "'Course you must both
take turns in riding Modestine, 'cos I'm nearly seven and needn't
ride _all_ the way. Shall we sleep at Gleambridge or in a wood?" she
added, as they made their way across the meadow.
"I don't know," Nancy replied. "'Sides, a lot depends on Modestine."
Modestine, when they reached the wood, stood with her most angelic
expression while they removed the blankets and provision basket to
ease her for a while.
"Don't forget to take the bit out of her mouth, Billy," Nancy
reminded him as he was loosening her girth, while she and Mavis
unpacked the provisions.
It did not take two hungry little girls very long to spread out the
breakfast for which they were all longing.
"Oh, Modestine! Look out, both of you!"
Nancy and Mavis turned at Billy's cry to see Modestine dashing
towards them, and they too uttered a cry as she took a flying leap
over the food they had spread on the grass.
"An' she hasn't even knocked the lemonade over!" Mavis cried, and
there was a little secret admiration in her voice; Modestine, you
see, in spite of her naughtiness was so dear.
"A jolly good thing for her!" Billy said. "And now we've got to
catch her!" he added ruefully.
They looked longingly at the tempting food and hesitated. Should
they let her roam until they had satisfied their hunger? It was a
lonely spot and nobody was likely to come, and yet--well, though they
never had the slightest fear of trespassing, it was an unwritten rule
with them that gates should always be closed after them, and that no
damage should be done in any way.
"An' if we let her roam you never know what might happen!" They
sighed, and gave themselves up to a breathless quarter of an hour's
coaxing and cajoling. At the end of that time, Modestine, apparently
tired of the game, submitted herself to Nancy, rubbing herself
affectionately against the child as she tethered her to the gate
leading into the wood.
"And now we can have breakfast!" Billy said with a sigh of
contentment.
How good the food tasted up here on the forest road--the first
breakfast they had eaten in a meadow--so different from _ordinary_
out-of-doors meals. Picnics lead you nowhere--this meal----
"It's kind of the beginning of the adventure, isn't it?" Nancy said.
"The christening feast. No--no, don't laugh at me, I didn't mean
that. What's the word I want? Celebration, no, not 'xactly. Don't
talk to me for a minute, I'll see it inside me presently. I do wish
words wouldn't run away just when you want them. Initiation? No,
that doesn't sound quite right." She shook her head and frowned.
"Can't you think of it, Billy?"
"Me?" Billy asked, with a chuckle. "No, _I_ don't know long words,
an' I'm far too hungry to bother about them. Don't you want some
more to eat, Nancy?"
Nancy took the huge slice of bread and butter Mavis passed her and
ate it absently.
"I'll have to let it go just now," she sighed. "But don't you think
we should offer up something to the God of Adventure? There's a word
for that, too; what you offer, I mean. Li--li----Oh, I wish Aunt
Letty were here, she'd know both words. Li---- I've got it!
Libation!"
"Oh, look!" whispered Mavis hurriedly. "Look behind you!"
"BY Jingo!" Billy exclaimed.
Nancy came down to earth with a start to see coming towards them
through the wood, two men, and a dog which evidently belonged to the
younger of the two. The elder man was a gamekeeper, Nancy decided
swiftly, but his companion--was he a farmer and would he be cross and
turn them out? She studied his face intently as he approached, and
read there not only surprise but interest. Nancy liked him
immediately and instinctively she felt that, if he was a farmer, he
was something more besides; his interests extended beyond sheep and
the price of corn she was sure--not, of course, that she got as far
as expressing the thought quite as definitely as this. She just knew.
Billy, meanwhile, had whistled to the dog, who, after sniffing round
the boy was evidently satisfied that he was a person one could know,
and allowed himself to be fed with biscuits.
Now, if you were a gamekeeper and you came suddenly upon three
children and a donkey calmly settled upon the preserves for which you
were responsible, the one idea in your mind would be to turn the
whole party out as speedily as might be with perhaps a lengthy and
fear-raising monologue thrown in, as to the inadvisability of
trespassing. And if you were a gamekeeper and _alone_, that is what
you would do; that is what your duty as a gamekeeper told you you
should do; that is what you were absolutely tingling to do in spite
of the restraining hand of a youthful master.
But if you were the owner of the preserves, and, if on a summer
morning with happy, laughing skies above you, you came upon a picture
of startling interest and beauty, if the youth dancing in your veins
shouted to you that the picture was a part of the glory of the
morning? If the picture dissected resolved itself into a dainty,
golden-haired fairy with a bloom on her cheeks like that of a ripe
peach; a boy with mischievous, laughing eyes, and a dreamy child with
chestnut hair who had searched the recesses of an apparently not
empty little mind and brought forth in triumph the word "libation"!
And last, but not least, a donkey tethered to the gate through which
you were intending to pass? If, too, you were more interested in
human nature than in your preserves; if there was about each child
something that suggested more than an everyday picnic, if an intense
desire burned in you for enlightenment?
Mavis leaned forward and stroked the dog.
"Isn't he a dear and isn't he friendly? Is he your little dog?" she
asked, smiling up into the gamekeeper's taciturn face.
"No," he replied laconically.
Meanwhile, the owner was standing with his hand on the gate in a
tentative attitude.
"Oh, Billy, Modestine's in the way!" Nancy exclaimed. "Do move him.
I'm sorry," she added, smiling apologetically at the owner. "We
thought we'd better tether her, you see. She's generally good, but
one never can be sure of her."
"I see," the owner replied gravely. "And has anyone given you
permission to picnic here, may I ask?"
"We're not picnicking," she replied promptly, "were just----" She
paused at a warning glance from Billy. "Why no," she continued,
"there was nobody to ask; but, you see, it was pretty and we were
tired and hungry, and we don't ever do any damage when we trespass,
do we?" she added, appealing to Billy and Mavis.
"No, and we always shut gates," Billy replied, as he opened the gate.
The gamekeeper, with a grumble all over his face, passed through
without a "thank you." His companion followed, but seemed in no
hurry to leave the little group.
"Isn't it rather early to be tired and hungry?" he enquired, with a
puzzled glance at the remains of the meal.
"Not if you're adventurers," Nancy replied. "You see, you get too
excited to eat anything before you start."
"And what exactly is an adventurer?" the owner asked, digging his
stick into the ground and leaning comfortably on it. "And what does
an adventurer do?"
Nancy hesitated.
"Why," she replied, looking over Riversham to the hills beyond the
river, "isn't it somebody who wants to find something? Something
they've wanted and wanted an' at last they feel they have to go and
find it, don't they, Billy?"
"Yes," said Billy, throwing back his head, "they have to go!"
"But what do they do?" the owner repeated.
"Oh, lots of things," Billy responded eagerly. "Just anything. They
don't mind what it is as long as it's part of the adventure."
"Only it mustn't be an everyday kind of thing, you know," Nancy
explained.
The gamekeeper was growing impatient and was clearly in a hurry to be
off. Since the children were not to be turned out he could see
little use in standing there talking to them; such absurd talk, too.
His master, seeing his impatience, signed to him to go, and then
turned again to the children.
"And how long do adventures last?" he enquired.
"Oh, a long time," Billy replied vaguely. He liked the stranger
immensely, but he was a grown-up and--well, it was safer not to enter
into details.
Now, the gamekeeper on his dismissal, instead of crossing the meadow
into the lane as he had originally intended, turned back into the
wood. Had he not done so; had he and his master gone straight down
to Riversham as they had previously planned, the children's adventure
would have ended abruptly, and this story would never have been
written.
For a car, containing a worried and unhappy father and mother was
passing through the town towards Gleambridge, whither they gleaned
from the children's letter they were bound.
Up in the meadow the children could only see the chimney pots and
roofs of Riversham, so they did not know that the sleepy little town
was in an unusual tumult. They did not see the crowd gradually
collecting round the car; they knew nothing of the enquiries that
were being made, or of the relief when, at last, the shop assistant
who had glanced up idly as they passed joined the crowd. Yes, three
children and a donkey had gone through the town, she said, some time
ago--nearly an hour, in fact. Yes, they would soon be found for a
car travels just a _little_ quicker than a donkey, and the donkey
seemed in no hurry.
Up in the meadow the children heard the car speeding out to the
Gleambridge road, but they gave it no second thought, for the
stranger was engrossing them.
"Would it," he was asking, "be an adventure to be prosecuted for
trespassing?"
His voice was grave, but Nancy's quick eyes detected a little twitch
at the corners of his mouth, and something at the back of his eyes
that was not in accordance with his mouth.
"I don't think you would prosecute us," she replied, with a smile
that was half-shy, half-frank.
"Why not? Don't you think I ought to?"
"No, I don't think you need. We told you we never hurt anything when
we trespass. 'Sides, I b'lieve----" She hesitated.
"Yes, what do you believe?" he encouraged her.
"I b'lieve you kind of understand."
"Why do you think that?" he asked. In his interest he dropped all
pretence of severity.
"Oh, I can't s'plain." Nancy regarded him frankly for a moment.
"It's something in your eyes; they're whim--whimsical."
"That's a long word for a little girl," was his reply.
"She can't help it," Billy interrupted with a teasing sigh and grin.
"What was the long word we were to offer up to the God of Adventure,
Nancy?" Mavis asked, suddenly returning to the conversation that had
been interrupted long, long ago, and joining in the general laugh
when the owner hoped they were going to offer up something more
substantial than a word.
"Is libation what you offer?" Nancy asked anxiously. "We weren't
quite sure. And can you do it in lemonade--that's all we've got?"
"And will it matter us having eaten our meal first?" Billy enquired.
"We didn't think about it till just as you came along."
"Is there _really_ a God of Adventure?" Mavis chimed in eagerly.
"And if we give him a libation will he really and truly help us to
have lots of nice things happen?"
"Not really-truly like you and me and Billy," Nancy replied. "Is
it?" she asked, turning confidentially to the owner. "But
really-truly--oh, yes! Don't you remember what Aunt Letty and
'nearly-uncle Jim' told us? _Anything_ can happen if you have an
inner vision, and if you think there is a God of Adventure, then
there is, and he'll help you. And, oh, do you think," she added,
turning again to the stranger who yet seemed no stranger, "_do_ you
think we may offer him lemonade as we haven't got wine, and shall we
do it now, and--and would you like to help us?"
Now, a property owner ought to be too busy attending to his duties to
play with children in the young hours of the day. He ought,
moreover, firmly, if politely to point out to trespassers that he
cannot have his meadow turned into a sort of heathen temple. And the
presumption of it! They inviting _him_, the owner to join in heathen
rites! Why, he should be in a frenzy of indignation!
But the owner was twenty-one and trespassers such as these three
little people, who apparently recognized him as a comrade, interested
him immensely. And, curiously enough, though twenty-one is a
fearfully important age and has all sorts of delightful possibilities
hovering round it, Dick Frampton had an instinctive feeling that it
was a privilege to be allowed to assist in, what to the children, was
a solemn affair.
So, feeling that unseen hands were pushing adventure towards him, he
replied by picking up the lemonade bottle and taking charge of the
rites.
Yes, in the circumstances, lemonade would do, but had they salt?
Sacred salt must be sprinkled on the meat. A pity they had had their
meal, gods preferred their offerings to be given first. Well, they
had better forget that meal and, after the offerings, they would all
eat together. Had they any meat on which the salt could be sprinkled?
"There's veal and ham pie," they replied anxiously. "Will it do?"
They gathered round with silent, eager interest while he cut off a
very tiny portion of the pie. Was that enough, they asked, rather
shocked to offer a god so little.
"Yes, he'll understand. Come now, and think hard about him and tell
him inside yourselves what you want."
With almost a feeling of being in church they followed him to the
hedge and watched while he placed the corner of pie on a little
grassy mound and sprinkled it with salt. With slow, solemn movements
of his hands he appeared to be blessing the pie, at the same time
murmuring something in a language the children could not understand.
The libation of lemonade, too, was a small one, but a God of
Adventure who could not understand and forgive a shortage would not
be worth approaching. An intense silence held the children as the
slow drops trickled on to the mound. Modestine, a few yards off, was
quietly cropping the grass; a lazy bird-chatter came from the little
wood, and across the meadow a yellowhammer was singing his
bread-and-butter song. The sounds of everyday human life came up
from Riversham, but faintly, so that they seemed to accentuate the
silence.
Little half-thoughts that would not form themselves into words came
to Nancy as they stood there. How funny that they should be standing
here with this stranger. And then again, how natural it seemed--and
why did he not seem like a stranger to them? How wonderful the
sunlight was! How could one think when sunlight was bathing one
through and through. It caught the salt and made it alive with
beauty. Surely sun-kissed salt must be acceptable to a god?
Adventures now _must_ come to them.
Leaving their humble offering on the mound, they, the three children
and Dick Frampton, each solemnly ate a fragment of pie.
"Ours must be smaller, of course, than the sacred offering," Dick
said.
What little lemonade was left he also divided between them. Nancy
instinctively turned her eyes to the hills as she drank; _would_ they
get there, and would adventure come out to meet them, and, above all,
would they know it for adventure?
"And now," said Dick, "I must go."
There was reluctance in his voice, yet he knew this was to be no
final farewell; these little people had come into his life to
stay--he would see to that, and seeing his own reluctance reflected
in their faces, he told them his name. Just for a second Billy
hesitated before he would allow Nancy to tell of their home at
Nestcombe and invite Mr. Frampton to come and see them some day.
Yet, after all, if they told him, what possible effect could it have
on their plans?
"I'm going over there this evening," Dick said, nodding towards the
hills, "so I shan't be able to come for a day or two."
"Going to the hills?" Nancy began impulsively. "Why----" A warning
glance from Billy restrained her, and Dick who simply imagined this
adventure as some extra-special all-day picnic, a grand make-believe
affair, had no suspicions that they would be journeying in the same
direction.
With a wave of the hand he left them, and the children began to
gather up their blankets and prepare to set forth again.
"I do hope we see him again soon," Nancy said, as, with a somewhat
reluctant Modestine, they crossed the meadow.
That the God of Adventure, in accepting their offerings, had laid his
spell on them and Dick Frampton she could not guess; that Dick was to
play a very big part in their adventures, well, how could they
possibly know this?
CHAPTER IV
MONTAGUE FRANCIS DE VERE
"I expect there's a lovely view just round that bend at the top,"
Nancy said, when they arrived at the road. "Should we take just a
peep? It won't take five minutes."
Billy hesitated. When he had made up his mind to go to a certain
place he preferred to make steadily for it and not wander off into
side roads, but as Mavis added her entreaties to Nancy's he gave way
reluctantly.
Nancy mounted Modestine and the little procession set off up the
hill. To the left, they caught sight of the chimney-pots of a house,
but that was all, until they reached the bend. And then such a view.
A long stretch of the Gleam was visible, and the hills, rising out of
a mist so faint that it seemed like a veil of light, were more
alluring than ever. On their own home side of the river, far, far
away beyond the mouth, were mountains peeping out from a dense blue
curtain.
Mavis, the artist of the family, was enraptured by the blueness.
"It's like that picture we saw once--you 'member--some little girls
with lots of autumn leaves heaped up, and a basket, and the blueness
all behind them!" she cried excitedly.
"Yes," Nancy responded, "an' it was so blue I thought it couldn't be
real. Now we _know_ it's all right."
They both sighed with delight and satisfaction.
"I say, do look at that boy!" Billy interrupted. "See, over there in
the garden!"
The view had entirely absorbed Nancy and Mavis, but they turned with
ready interest to learn the cause of that in Billy's voice that
promised something worth while.
Standing back from the road they saw the primmest house imaginable,
with a garden to correspond. Not a weed was to be seen; not a plant
or bush or tree grew there that had any inclination to riot or
sprawl. There were neat little rose bushes, but no ramblers; there
were stocks, and geraniums, and lobelias in prim little lozenge beds,
but no pretty sprawling clarkia or love-in-a-mist or joyous
Californian poppy. A neat little laurel hedge divided the flowers
from the kitchen garden, where again everything was
congruous--everything, that is, except the boy.
He was standing by a bed of beetroots, leaning on a hoe, with his
profile towards them. They could not see his eyes, but his face, and
indeed, his whole attitude, expressed solemn dejection. Yet that was
not the reason why he seemed so utterly out of place in the picture.
"Isn't he dirty!" whispered Mavis, in disgust, for she had a horror
of dirt, as Billy knew to his cost. "An' untidy!"
His hands, if he was supposed to be hoeing, might, of course, have
been allowed a thin coating of earth, but there was earth on his
face, earth on his knees, earth on his clothes. He was about Billy's
age, and was wearing a grey flannel suit, grey felt hat, and grey
stockings, all very much like Billy's, but, although Billy had no
special reputation for either cleanliness or tidiness, he was not to
be compared with the little object in the garden whose stockings were
slopping over his boots, and whose hat was thrust defiantly at the
back of his head.
The children stared in puzzled wonderment. There was something about
him that suggested he was not just the gardener's boy, yet what
possible connection could such a ragamuffin have with so prim a place?
At this moment the boy dived into his pocket and pulled out a
handkerchief that was the colour of his hands.
"Isn't he awful?" Mavis whispered, in horror.
"Yes, but I don't believe he's very happy," Nancy replied. "He looks
so sad."
Billy giggled.
"'Spect he doesn't like hoeing!" he said. "_I_ don't!"
Nancy shook her head.
"No, it's not that kind of sadness. I know how _you_ look when you
have to do weeding; his is more than that--it's _all_ of him that's
unhappy."
Just then the boy looked up and met Billy's eye. Neither boy moved
or spoke for a moment, then suddenly the young ragamuffin jerked his
hat over his eyes, thrust forward his chin, assumed a "Bill Sikes"
expression, and lurched defiantly towards the palings.
"What cher want?" he growled, in a voice that sounded volcanic.
"Nothing!" Billy replied, with a grin. "I say, are you fed-up with
hoeing?"
The boy hesitated, a little surprised at Billy's friendly tone.
"_You'd_ be," he rumbled, "if you hoed as much as I do. It's weed,
weed, weed, and hoe, hoe, hoe, morning, noon, and night. A boy has
no play here," he added bitterly. "_She_ says a boy like me needs
discipline--an' this is what she gives me!" He paused and looked
thoughtful. "'Tisn't _his_ fault," he added, as though talking to
himself, "he's sorry for me, but he says it's silly to mind doin' it.
Only----" and here his voice grew particularly volcanic, "I wish he
wouldn't always be talkin' about courage."
"Courage?" Billy enquired, wondering what it had to do with hoeing.
"Yes. He said there was a boy in a book who heard a man say,
''Tisn't life that matters, but the courage you bring to it.' _I_
dunno what he wants to keep talkin' about it for, and I dunno what
it's got to do with weeding." He paused. "Courage!" he added
darkly, "guess I know what courage is, as I'd show any boy! I don't
need to weed to know _that_!"
Now, hitherto, he had not looked beyond Billy, but, at that moment,
his eye fell on Mavis, who was standing with her hand on Modestine's
bridle. He stood as though spellbound, with wonder in his big,
solemn eyes.
"Don't stare!" Mavis said, in a reproving voice, "it's rude!"
"I'm only just lookin' at you!" he replied, in a voice that was
surprisingly humble. "You're very pretty," he added. Silence again.
"Would you like an apple? There's an early tree over there," he
blurted out.
Mavis looked at his grubby hands.
"No, thank you," she replied promptly. Then fearing that perhaps she
had hurt him, "What is your name?" she asked in a kind, fat little
voice.
"Montague Francis de Vere," he replied, with a defiant eye on Billy.
"Once," he added, reminiscently, "there was a boy who said I'd better
add Plantagenet while I was about it. Montague Francis Plantagenet
de Vere he called me, just that once, but _not again_!" His eye was
still fixed firmly on Billy, who, instead of quailing as apparently
he was intended to, merely grinned pleasantly. The ragamuffin leaned
over the palings. "And there was another boy," he continued, "who
called me Monty--and he was sorry afterwards!"
"Why?" asked Mavis innocently.
"'Cos I _made_ him sorry!" the boy growled.
"Oh, but if I knew you I should call you Monty," Mavis replied.
"Well, _you_ can--sometimes!" Montague growled. "An' so, perhaps,
can _she_," with a jerk of his head towards Nancy. "But anybody
else," here he again fixed Billy with a defiant eye, "anybody else
has to call me Montague or Mont, else they'll be sorry."
Billy chuckled.
"Well, Mont's all right," he said. "I'll call you that."
"What does your mother call you?" asked Nancy.
"I've not got a mother," he replied simply, "nor a father."
"Oh, poor, poor Monty!" the two girls whispered kindly, and Billy
sidled up to the boy in a friendly, protective way.
"Ah, now I see why you don't belong to the picture," Nancy added.
"It's a horrid, prim picture and it's hurting you, isn't it?"
Montague looked up at her in surprise.
"How d'you know?" he asked. The way in which he said it told so much
that their hearts ached for him.
"'Cos I kind of _feel_ it about you--we said so before you turned and
saw us. Who do you live with, and how long--how long have you had to
live here?" She could not bring herself to ask how long he had been
without a father or mother.
"Three months," he replied, in a voice that suggested that the three
months had been as three centuries to him. "He's sorry for me to be
here; he said he'd hoped to have had a home for Jocelyne and me with
somebody who would have been a mother-person to us, but he said they
couldn't agree about something or other, an' so there was no
mother-person and no home--not yet."
"But who is 'he'?" asked Billy.
"My guardian," Montague replied.
"Is he nice?" asked Mavis.
"Yes, I like him--we're friends. He's going to let me live with him
in London in the winter and p'raps Jocelyne, but _she_ doesn't mind
being here."
"Who's Jocelyne?" asked Nancy.
"She's my sister." he replied, in a resigned voice. "Sisters are
not very nice people," he added bitterly. "They get grown-up and
don't mind being prim, and they hate you being a bit dirty, an' it's
wash, wash, wash morning, noon an' night."
"_I_ don't like dirty people either," Mavis said. "Billy has to wash
_properly_."
Billy giggled, and Montague gazed solemnly first at him and then at
Mavis.
"Don't you like _me_?" he growled wistfully.
"I don't know you," Mavis replied. "P'raps I might like you if you
were clean," she added kindly.
"Oh, but we do like him, Mavis! We're sorry for him, aren't we?"
Nancy said impulsively.
"Yes, of course we're sorry and p'raps you'd be clean if you had a
'mother," Mavis replied gently. "Wouldn't you, Monty?" she added
with such a winning smile in her blue eyes that Montague suddenly
felt an overwhelming desire to wash and wash until he was as white as
snow. Yet, though he would have given much to do so, he could not
truthfully own to absolute cleanliness even under his mother's
influence. He grew solemn and thoughtful once more.
"Mothers, when they're dead, try to help boys," he began. "There's a
boy I know," he went on in his queer, rumbling way, "a boy what
sometimes uses bad words an' his mother is an angel an' she comes to
him sometimes at night looking all shiny and sorry, an' she says
she'll help him not to use 'em."
"And does he manage not to now?" Nancy enquired sympathetically.
"Well, he doesn't use the _very_ bad ones. Mothers," he added
abruptly, "are different from aunts. _They_ punish you if you use
'em." His voice grew vindictive. "When I'm grown-up I shall have a
son ten years old, and he shall go without cake and jam for a month
if he uses them, an' if he slides down banisters or along slippery
floors, _then_ he'll be sorry!"
"Oh, but aunts are nice," Mavis interrupted him. "We all love our
Aunt Letty; she plays with us and tells us stories--an' she's pretty."
"Well," replied Montague, "great-aunts are different then. _They_
don't ever play with you, neither are they pretty. An' if you have
boots that sound nice then they try to make you sorry about them.
But," and here his brown eyes suddenly sparkled impishly, "if you've
got to wear slippers downstairs you can put your boots on in your
bedroom and stride up and down s'much as you like and nobody'll hear
you."
"I don't think that sounds very exciting," Mavis said. "I don't like
clumsy boots."
Montague looked crestfallen as he gazed first at his own thick-soled
boots and then at the trim little shoes Mavis was wearing.
"And is it your great-aunt you live with?" asked Nancy. "Is this her
house and is that why it's so prim and neat?"
Montague nodded.
"Yes, it's hers an' she says there won't be much of it left if I'm
here much longer. _I_ can't help it if things get in the way. But
my guardian says I've got to try and stand it a bit longer; he says
he wants to study up the 'responsibilities of parenthood,' or
somethin' like that. He says it's all very well to learn gradually
to be a parent, but a boy of ten and a girl of fifteen, and him a
bachelor of thirty he says isn't an easy situation. He says there
should be lectures to meet the case. He's more afraid of Jocelyne
than me 'cos women, he says, are unaccountable. He talks to me a
lot--he likes talking. Some of it's queer kind of talk, but anyway
he likes boys an' that's more'n great-aunts do. An' he plays with
me."
"Our Uncle Val plays with us when he's in England, and there was
another, a nearly-uncle, who used to play with us," said Mavis.
"Uncle Val's in Egypt now," Billy, who was never tired of talking of
his uncle's wanderings, informed Montague. "He's been to Russia,
too--he's an adventurer, and so are we!" he added proudly.
"Adventurers?" Montague repeated with interest.
"Yes, we're going to travel with a donkey. We're going to the hills
over there." Billy nodded in the direction of the hills.
Montague's interest increased.
"When do you start?" he asked.
"We've started. We've come miles already, an' we're going on for
days--_p'raps_ a week."
Montague gazed at the three adventurers with undisguised admiration
and respect.
"An' are you going on _now_?" he asked wistfully.
"Yes, an' we'd better hurry. We kind of forgot while we were talking
to you. We've miles to go!" Billy was in a tremendous hurry now to
be moving.
"An' me here hoeing and weedin' all the summer holidays! Me stuck in
this garden with nobody to play with!" Montague's voice was so sad
and his words called up so gloomy a picture that instinctively the
same thought swept through each of the three children. Billy voiced
it.
"I say, come with us!"
"Do come!" added Nancy.
"Yes, we'd like you to come, Monty," Mavis added sweetly, "only you
will wash yourself first, won't you?"
Montague's usually solemn eyes literally danced with joy.
"I'll be ready in less'n a minute!" he cried, and dropping the hoe,
he ran swiftly down the garden. A moment later, they saw him on the
other side of the laurel hedge running along a path in the flower
garden.
"He's going to that gold-fish pond in the middle of the lawn there!
Oh, do look!" Billy chuckled in enjoyment. "If the great-aunt saw
him now wouldn't her hair fly!"
Montague was kneeling on the stone edge of the pond dipping his
earthy hands into the clear water. Next he pulled out the grimy
handkerchief, swished it about amongst the goldfish, and smeared it
over his face. Satisfied with the result, he thrust the handkerchief
back into his pocket and came bounding towards them.
"Now I'm ready!" he cried joyfully. "Let's start!"
Mavis eyed him critically.
"Oh, you awful, awful boy," she sighed. "You're worse than before.
You _can't_ come like that."
Montague sighed, too.
"You're never pleased with me," he rumbled unhappily, "an' _I_ think
you're so pretty."
Mavis felt a little ashamed. She thought a moment.
"Here, quick," she said, pulling out her own dainty little
handkerchief. "Run and dip that in the pond and bring it to me.
_I'll_ wash your face."
Montague hesitated miserably. Washing was bad enough in itself, but
could he possibly submit to the terrible indignity of being washed by
a girl--even if she did happen to be the prettiest little girl he had
ever seen. Was it, after all, worth while?
"Hurry, Monty, there's a good boy, else somebody may come and stop
us," Mavis said anxiously.
The adorable motherliness behind the anxiety half decided Montague.
He glared hard at Billy, defying him to laugh.
"_I've_ been through it," Billy sighed, with his happy grin. "Girls
are tyrants--specially sisters!"
Montague, with a mixture of defiance and subjection in his walk,
returned to the pond, dipped the tiny handkerchief in the water and
brought it back to Mavis.
"I won't hurt you," she said kindly, as she wiped away the
water-marks.
Not hurt him? Montague writhed inwardly under the hurt to his pride.
Why he submitted he hardly knew; certainly, it was the last thing he
would have imagined himself doing.
"Why, you're quite nice-looking now you're clean!" Mavis said,
surveying her handiwork with pride. "Run an' wash my handky
quick--then we're ready."
Montague departed with glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes.
"She said I'm nice-looking!" he told himself joyfully as he flew to
the pond. Why, it was almost worth while to be clean after all.
CHAPTER V
THE OTHER SIDE
The little procession, with its reinforcement, set off down the hill.
Mavis, who was still dissatisfied with Montague's appearance, made
him take off his coat and shake it as they went along. If she had
not been so fascinatingly pretty and if there had not been that
irresistible motherliness in her voice, Montague would have been
inclined to class her with Jocelyne.
"But Jocelyne _she_ wouldn't go on an adventure," he told himself.
"She'd want to go in a car and stop at swanky hotels."
For there were to be no hotels, the children informed him. There
would be sleeping out of doors, or perhaps sometimes in a cottage if
it was wet.
"An' there ought," they told him, "to be a monastery 'cos Stevenson
slept at one one night."
They had turned now into the Gleambridge road.
"Why are we going this way?" Montague asked suddenly.
"We told you. We're going to the hills, we want to see the other
side of them. And we've got to go to Gleambridge first, you know, to
get there."
"Gleambridge!" Montague repeated slowly. "Then I can't come!"
He stood in the middle of the road, disappointment written all over
him.
"Why not?" they asked, in surprise.
"'Cos my two crosses are there," he replied bitterly.
"Your two crosses?"
"Yes, Jocelyne an' Aunt. They've gone by car, an' we'd be sure to
meet them an' they'd bring me back."
The children understood at once; they did not like the thought of the
poor boy turning back or being brought back ignominiously by his
aunt, yet what were they to do?
"We can't swim the river with a donkey and blankets and things,"
Billy said. '"Course there's the ferry, but the ferryman, well, he
_might_ not want to take us, or he _might_ ask questions--and it'd be
the end of everything."
Montague thought a moment.
"We _could_ go by the ferry-boat," he said. "He's up in the forest
to-day, I know, 'cos Jim Virgo--he's his son an' a _great_ friend of
mine--he told me he'll have charge of the boat all day, an' if I
could slip away for a bit I could have a ride in it, he said. I was
just thinking of going when you came. Aunt and Jocelyne," he added
with a chuckle, "they don't like me talking to the village people,
but my guardian he says I can if I like."
The children considered hard. Should they venture? Would it be too
great a risk? Nancy's eyes sparkled and she suddenly felt queer
inside. Think of it; the hills _to-day_!
"Oh, let's chance it, Billy!" she cried.
They had already passed the turning that led down to the river, and
it meant going back a little, but what did that matter when perhaps
some time to-day they would be in the heart of the hills?
The river road was deserted, but they hurried somewhat nervously
along it, for the Riversham gardens sloped down to it and people
_might_ appear.
"You'd better go first, Mont," Billy said, "and see if the coast is
clear. Wave to us if Jim Virgo is there alone. We won't risk it if
his father's there."
Montague ran down to the riverside and the children waited
breathlessly. In a moment, however, they saw a hand waving
violently, and with hope high in their hearts, they reached the
ferry. Jim Virgo, a fair-haired youth who was sucking a straw,
greeted them with a sheepish grin.
"I've told him it's a secret an' he's promised not to tell," Montague
announced.
Nancy slipped off Modestine and led her to the wide ferry-boat.
Modestine, however, did not like the look of it and planted herself
firmly on the bank.
Nancy pleaded with her and Jim Virgo stepped forward to take her
bridle.
Modestine glanced at him, saw that he was wearing corduroy
trousers--for some unexplainable reason she objected strongly to
them--and immediately sat down on the bank, assuming her most angelic
expression.
Billy, for a moment, abused her angrily, then his usually sunny face
cleared.
"I expect," he said, "this is one of the not-nice things adventurers
have to put up with."
Suddenly, Montague, pulling his hat down over his eyes, lurched up to
Modestine and, planting himself in front of her, regarded her with a
most diabolical expression.
"You donkey, you, just you get up or I'll have yer life!" he muttered
hoarsely. "D'yer want to _die_, minion, eh?" he added, thrusting his
face close to Modestine's.
For one brief second Modestine regarded him in angelic surprise,
then, rising hastily, walked demurely towards the boat.
The children, shaking with laughter, followed, and Billy and Nancy
ran forward and led her on to the boat. Jim Virgo followed, and, a
moment later, there was the swish of oars being dipped into the
water, and the boat was heading for the opposite bank.
"Hurrah!" cried Billy. "We've started; we're really on our way to
the hills now! Isn't it ripping?"
Nancy for reply, took hold of a tiny portion of Mavis' dress and
twisted it in her fingers. "A Nancy-spasm," the proceeding was known
as, in the family, a spasm that told of a turmoil within that small
person.
In such a little while now they would have crossed the broad river.
How lovely it looked to-day, what a pity to be leaving it behind.
What a dear river it was, almost like a friend. Hadn't the sound of
it been in their ears and hearts all their lives; was it absurd to
fancy that a little bit of it had got into themselves--some of its
restlessness. And there would be water where they were going? There
must be. Not even the hills could be perfect for Nancy if there was
not the sound of water murmuring either big or little talk, it
scarcely mattered which, somewhere in their midst.
How near they were getting. Oh, this excitement made you feel almost
sick! Just a thin strip of water--now a bump! They were there!
Montague was the only person, when they had bidden good-bye to Jim
Virgo, who did not realize the solemnity of the moment.
"Well, we're here!" they said simply, and nobody could think of
anything else to say.
That they felt just a little small and lonely with the broad Gleam
dividing them from home and all the familiar home places not one of
them would admit. It was so wonderful to be here, just at the foot
of the hills. Curious how far away it made yesterday seem, yesterday
and all the other yesterdays with their little everyday happenings.
How important those happenings had seemed at the time and now how
small they seemed! Nancy had a curious feeling that something bigger
than just half a day had grown up between them and the present
moment. Nothing certainly had happened yet, no adventure had come;
there had simply been the meeting with Mr. Frampton and the finding
of Montague, nevertheless she felt, now they had really crossed the
river, that they were not quite the same children they were yesterday.
And now that they were at the foot of the hills, adventure might
begin at any moment. They discussed it as they tramped up a pretty
lane leading from the river. What would it be like? Lions and
tigers, Montague thought, but was promptly squashed by Billy. Lions
and tigers in England! Lions and tigers belonging to a travelling
circus, Montague explained doggedly. He wanted it to be something in
the wild animal line so that he could have the joy of rescuing Mavis,
and to be able to shine in her eyes.
At the end of the lane they came suddenly upon the village of
Hampton. A few houses and a shop or two were scattered on either
side of a long, wide green.
They eyed it dubiously.
"At Nestley," Mavis said, "all the houses snuggle together, don't
they. _This_ isn't very cosy, is it?"
Somehow, it seemed impossible that anybody could love so wide a
village, such an apart kind of village. Never had they seen so large
a green.
"But _I_ have," Montague informed them. "Near us in Suffolk there
was ever such a long green with crowds of huge trees on it. I like
it better'n this," he added.
But after all, the village did not matter; they must decide which
road to take. Which road would lead them quickest to the hills? A
signpost a little further on pointed to the left for Gleambridge, and
they decided to take it till they should find one branching off up to
the hills.
Nancy, who was rested now, wanted Mavis to ride again, but the child
was not yet tired and insisted on Nancy riding a little further.
Montague, trudging along by Mavis, felt extraordinarily happy,
happier than he had been for the last three months. Something inside
him seemed to be expanding; feelings he could not understand surged
up within him, feelings that had been dead, or dormant for a long
time. Long, long ago, when there had been a mother to be loved and
protected he had felt like this; when it had been his happy privilege
to wait on her and attend to her wants. To bring her cushions, to
sit on a little stool at her feet, why, yes, this queer feeling had
often come to him then. And again when his father had been home,
just before he died--but three long, desolate, empty months lay
between him and those happy days when someone had been glad of his
service; three months brightened only by flying visits from a
guardian who, if one saw more of him, one might learn to love; three
months of rebellion against discipline; three months' loathing of a
primness that shouted in every corner. And, so long are three months
in the life of a small boy, that in even less than that time in such
an atmosphere, feeling that he is uncared for, the finer instincts in
him will shrink and shrivel; he will become a little animal caring
for nobody.
And now he was tramping along, unrestricted, with three children who
liked him, whom he liked.
"I could carry you if you're tired!" he growled suddenly to Mavis.
"I'm strong. Will you let me?"
Mavis shook her head with a smile.
"No, thank you, Monty, I'll walk," she replied with decision.
"You're not _much_ bigger'n me either."
"I'm ten!" he replied proudly.
"An' I'm seven, an' I can walk a long way. At Nestcombe we always
walk lots."
"Presently you'll be tired," he suggested hopefully.
"Then I can ride Modestine. Nancy said I could."
Poor Montague with this strange desire to serve and guard, and Mavis
would have none of it!
Presently he spoke again.
"Could I hold your hand if you're just a _little_ tired, but not
tired enough to ride? It 'ud help you along."
Mavis looked at his hand. It was rather grubby still in between the
fingers, but, somehow, in spite of the dirt, she had a motherly
feeling towards her unkempt companion. Poor boy, he had no mother.
Well, she would let him hold her hand just a little way, though she
hoped there would be a brook presently where she could free herself
from any dirt that might find its way from Montague's hand to hers.
Montague took the little hand reverently into his grubby paw. What a
tiny hand it was and what a pretty shape. His mother's, he
remembered, had been pretty and so very white. Mavis's was tanned,
but it was a clean tan. Yes, after all, it was nice for girls to
have clean hands. How warm the little fingers were, not a sticky
warmth, but something that seemed to come from inside the child, a
warmth that seemed to speak of friendliness and confidence.
Montague's frozen young heart that had been gradually expanding under
the influence of happy comradeship simply thrilled at the human
contact. Yet he marvelled at himself. Imagine him, Montague, until
to-day liking to hold anybody's hand! How he would have wriggled if
the hand had been Jocelyne's--but then, Jocelyne thought him a terror
and a nuisance, and Mavis, though she might not admire him as he
would like to have been admired by her, was kind to him. Just how
much this friendship was meaning to him none of the children, not
even Nancy with her quick intuition, could understand. How should
they when life had held nothing so far but sheltering love for them?
Montague's thoughts strayed to his aunt and Jocelyne in Gleambridge.
They had left him at home because he was not an altogether desirable
person to take shopping, they considered. Montague, remembering a
shopping expedition with Jocelyne, suddenly chuckled wickedly.
"What's the joke?" Billy enquired.
"Nothin' really. Only I was thinking Aunt and Jocelyne wouldn't have
been pleased to see me if we had gone to Gleambridge."
"Why not?" Mavis enquired.
"Oh, only 'cos something happened there once." Again he chuckled
with impish enjoyment.
"Do tell us about it, Monty!" Nancy pleaded. The road was flat and
not very interesting, and the turning up to the hills seemed a long
time coming, and Nancy was ready for any distraction from the
straightness of the road.
"There isn't much to tell, only Jocelyne and me and some of her
friends went to Gleambridge. Stupid, giggling things those girls
were, an' Jocelyne was sillier than any of them."
"Why? What did she do?" Mavis asked.
"Oh, I dunno. She talked silly--an' she's a proud thing, too!"
"Proud?"
"Yes. I met a great friend of mine--he's the blacksmith's son, and
once he gave me a horseshoe, and sometimes he lets me help blow the
bellows, and him and me were talking at the station and Jocelyne said
I shouldn't talk to a village boy."
"Not talk to village boys!" Billy repeated. "Why we know everybody
in our village. Jimmy Petherham, old Daddy Petherham's grandson, and
I, often go fishing together."
"Well, you're luckier'n me," Montague replied bitterly. "I mustn't
talk to any of them--but I do," he added, with a grin.
"An' _then_ what happened?" Mavis prompted.
"Oh, nothing 'cept I'd forgot to put my garters on, and Jocelyne got
cross and said I'd disgrace her and her friends."
"Well, _I_ think sloppy socks or stockings are ugly," Mavis said.
"_Do_ you?" Montague looked at her in a troubled way. Was she going
to side with Jocelyne always? And yet--no---there was something so
different in the way this little person said things. It was as
though she really cared about you being clean and tidy, not as though
she said the things to hurt you.
Billy, however, grinned sympathetically.
"Garters get lost, don't they?" he chuckled.
"Yes, they do," Montague growled. "An' sometimes you want to use
them for other things--same as you do handkerchiefs." He paused.
"It's not _your_ fault," he continued, "if you're made to get ready
all in a hurry an' you've been using your handkerchief just before to
collect worms in for chickens, an' you can't help it if you put it in
your pocket and forget all about it and when you are in the train and
you want to use it and earth and worms tumble on the floor."
Billy roared with laughter, but the girls were horrified.
"No wonder Jocelyne got cross!" they said.
"She didn't, not then," Montague replied. "I thought she meant to,
but her friends, they just giggled and giggled, and she giggled,
too--only a lady in the corner with glasses on a stick an' me didn't
laugh. _We_ thought them all silly, I can tell you! An' then in
Gleambridge--well, _I_ wouldn't have giggled like that in a town."
"Why did they giggle there?" Mavis enquired.
"Well, first," Montague replied, "Jocelyne was cross. She tried to
hold my hand 'cos she didn't like the way I walked--_I_ think it a
nice way."
"Was it like when we first saw you?" Mavis asked. "I 'spect it was,"
she added, with a sigh.
"Me and the blacksmith's son _like_ to walk like that," Montague
muttered, "sometimes, anyway," he added, realizing that a lurching
gait at the present moment would mean the withdrawal of the small
hand he still held. "Then they went into the china shop," he
continued, "and Jocelyne said I must stay outside, an' some of 'em
said silly things about bulls and china shops, an' then I got tired
an' so I just sat down on the pavement and went to sleep. And that
was all," he ended abruptly.
"S'pose you got into hot-water for that?" Billy enquired
sympathetically.
"No, I didn't--but they talked sillier than ever. If you'd seen them
all standing round me giggling and giggling and 'tracting everybody's
attention you'd have been ashamed, _I_ can tell you. _I_ was! An'
the stupid things they said, too! Straws and camels' backs they
talked about--I didn't know what they meant. _You_ wouldn't like
being in Gleambridge with Jocelyne," he finished bitterly.
"I don't think I should," Billy agreed.
"Perhaps she's a little bit nice," Nancy suggested hopefully.
"_I_ don't think so," Montague replied emphatically. "My guardian he
says there are possibilities in Jocelyne--or something like that. He
says I can't see them yet, but I may later on--but I don't think I
shall."
"I say, look! We're coming to a turning to the right," Billy cried
excitedly, and even Montague caught the excitement, and forgetting
Jocelyne, quickened his pace towards the road that should lead them
up into the hills.
In a very little while the turning was reached, and they looked
eagerly for the beginning of the hills. The road, however, was
perfectly flat, and the hills, for they could see them quite plainly,
were still some way off. Billy suddenly stopped dead in the middle
of the road.
"Why, we've got the canal to cross--it's _this_ side of the river, so
we've a long way to go yet. Let's hope there will be a bridge across
it, else we're done for to-day."
A little disappointed that they had forgotten the Gleambridge Canal
and that the hills were still some way off, they hurried along. The
road was hot and dusty, but soon they came to the canal, and, to
their great relief, found that there was a bridge across it. At any
other time they would have lingered, for the canal was nearly as
pretty as a river, and water, almost any water, fascinated them.
They paused only to watch the canal-man catch a packet of letters
that someone threw from a passing steamer--a most extraordinary kind
of post, they thought, and worth pausing for, because it was
something they had never witnessed before.
And presently the road really began to rise, but so gradually that
they did not at first realize that the hills were beginning at last.
There were curves too, now, and great shady trees and walls splashed
all over with crimson Herb Robert--low, inviting walls.
"We have hedges at home in Suffolk," Montague said, as he stared in
surprise at the huge slabs of white stone piled on the top of each
other.
"So do we in the forest," Billy said, "but Dad has told us about
these walls. He said they kind of belong here and are part of the
picture because they are hill stones."
They had to stand on the wall and peep through the trees.
"Why! There's our forest over there across the river!" Nancy
exclaimed. "Isn't it funny to look at it from this side?"
The thought struck her that if it had not been their home forest they
would have wanted to go straightway and explore it--it looked so
beautiful from here, so different somehow. How grand and noble it
was! Such lovely lights there were on the trees--and the coolness!
Nancy could almost feel it. Yet how stupid, she thought, pulling
herself together, to be lingering here gazing at a place one could
visit any day in the year, when at last they were beginning to touch
the hills.
Montague, too, was fascinated by the forest. At Riversham, though he
lived on the fringe of it, he had never been actually in it, and in
Suffolk, he explained there were only woods, not forests.
"We'll take you there when we go back," Billy said. "We know some
ripping places for playing Robin Hood."
"When we go back!"
All the joy went out of Montague's life when he thought of returning
to Riversham. _Need_ they go back?
"Why, of course!" Mavis replied. "There's Muvee and Daddy and Aunt
Letty." Then noticing his miserably face, "But there'll be us now
for you to play with," she added kindly.
Mavis scrambled down from the wall, but rejected Montague's hand.
The road with its pretty banks and walls was offering such lovely
surprises in flowers and ferns that she wanted to be free to dart
hither and thither like a joyous little butterfly.
"I could run, too," Montague grumbled.
"But not as quick as me, Monty, dear," she replied lightly, dancing
swiftly along in front of the others. Presently she stopped and
beckoned excitedly; they found her kneeling by the roadside drinking,
with her hands for a cup, from a little stream that gushed from the
bank.
"It's icy cold!" she gasped. "Come and drink and bathe your faces."
Modestine, of course, had to share in the happy find and very
unwillingly she left the refreshing stream when the children were
ready to take the road again. To rest her, Nancy led her up the hill
and she ambled sulkily along, not appreciating the delights of the
way that spurred the happy children on.
Presently they came to a high road running along the top. There was
nothing particularly attractive about it, and a long belt of trees
shut out the real hills, but behind them they could still see the
river and forest and far away the blue mountains.
"I'm just dying with hunger," Billy announced. "I vote we have
dinner here."
It was past one o'clock by Mavis's watch so, as the others were
equally hungry, they decided to camp on a stretch of green near the
belt of trees.
They unpacked the basket and remembered they had nothing to drink.
How foolish not to have filled their bottle at the stream. However,
in the distance was a farm, and the boys volunteered to go and beg
some water, while the girls tethered Modestine and cut the bread and
the pie.
In a very short time they returned with a bottle of milk which the
farmer's wife had pressed on them, refusing any payment.
"They've got a cider-press there," Montague announced when they were
all deep in veal and ham pie.
"He says he's never seen one before," Billy explained.
Not seen a cider-press? How strange! Well, they would certainly
have to take him to see one working when the apples were ready.
"An' he says he's never been in a fishing-boat," Billy said, helping
himself to a second slice of pie.
"Not been in a fishing-boat!" Nancy exclaimed. "Oh, you must come
with us and Aunt Letty in Daddy Petherham's boat."
"Need the aunt come?" Montague enquired doubtfully.
"Why, yes, of course! You'll love Aunt Letty--she helps us
'make-believe.'"
Montague said nothing, but so intense was his dislike even of the
word "aunt" that he found it impossible to work up any enthusiasm
even for an Aunt Letty.
"And have you ever been shrimping, Monty?" Mavis asked.
He confessed that he had not.
The three children sat and looked at him in wonder. What kind of a
place was this Suffolk he was always talking about? Was it a kind of
foreign country? All the everyday things that seemed actually a part
of their existence were unknown to Montague. They began to feel
almost eager for the day that would see them back at Nestcombe, when
they could introduce him to everything and everybody. People,
places, and things suddenly took on a new interest in the thought of
showing them to someone who knew nothing about them. Almost a pity
it could not be to-day--but how absurd; fancy even _thinking_ of
home-places when you were on the fringe of the land of your dreams.
All the same, it was strange how sometimes you wanted to be in two
places at once. So troublesome, they sighed.
Montague, for his part, was feeling rather ashamed of his ignorance
of everything that seemed so much a matter of course with his
companions. Was there nothing he could tell them of Suffolk that
they would find attractive? He remembered Mavis's delight in flowers.
"I've seen flax growing," he began hopefully. "It's like a field of
blue sky, and afterwards it's silky like Mavis's hair, only not so
goldy."
"Have you seen them cutting it?" Billy asked with interest.
Now was Montague's turn to score.
"They _pull_ it!" he replied, feeling big.
They must know more about this Suffolk of his, they said. What else
had they there? Well, there was the moat round their house with
water-lilies growing in it, and he and Jocelyne had had a little
canoe on it. And in the next village there was a house as big as a
castle, _lots_ of turrets and towers, and a huge moat and probably
dungeons. As to the dungeons, Montague was drawing on his
imagination, but he need not have done, for Suffolk, though so
different from their home-places sounded romantic, the children
agreed--almost like a story-book place.
Somehow, after the meal was finished nobody seemed inclined to move.
After all, why hurry now, why not rest awhile, why not give one's
self up for a moment to the drowsiness of the afternoon? Such a
stillness there was in the air, such a fragrance, too, from all the
sweet things that were tucked away in the short hill grass, such a
musical murmur from myriads of unseen insects. How the heat and
music and fragrance seemed to grow into each other out here on the
hill top, how pleasant to close one's eyes----
In a little while four tired children were asleep. Modestine,
cropping the grass near by, saw that stillness had come upon her
talkative companions. There was loneliness in the silence, the grass
lost its savour for her; better, she thought, get a little nearer to
them, if the rope would allow it, and sleep, too. Very daintily she
stepped amongst them and stood with Mavis between her legs. Ah, this
was better than cropping grass alone. Modestine blinked a little,
nodded, and then she, too, became part of the sleeping afternoon.
CHAPTER VI
THE PRIOR
The afternoon was well advanced when the children awoke. Montague
was horrified to see Modestine standing over Mavis, but the child
merely laughed and stretched a lazy hand to tickle Modestine's nose.
"She likes to be near us," she explained. "'Sides, she feels she had
to look after us, you see."
Montague thought it a somewhat dangerous way of looking after
anybody, but nobody else seemed to agree with him.
Once again they set out, Mavis riding. For a mile or so the road
stretched along the top of the low ridge, then it began to descend
inland. The belt of trees was no longer there to hide the view, and
hills and valleys, sometimes wooded, sometimes with houses scattered
about them, were revealed to their delighted eyes. Near the foot of
the ridge they were descending, they could see a small village.
"We can buy something to eat there," said Nancy, "and I think we'll
see if there's a nice cottage to stay at--just for the first night,"
she added apologetically.
For, somehow, the long rest in the afternoon did not seem to have
been enough, and a comfortable bed seemed more inviting than the hard
ground. Such a pity one had to get tired, such a trial that one's
body would not let one do as much as one would like to do.
There were so many twists and curves in the road that they found the
village was much further off than they had imagined. It was a pretty
road, prettier even than the road that had so delighted them in the
morning, and always now there were the great shoulders of the higher
hills beckoning them. Yet, somehow, prettiness did not seem as
important as it had done earlier in the day--even the hills were
beginning to lose a little of their charm. Sleep and a clean white
bed for to-night, and to-morrow a re-awakened enthusiasm.
At last they drew near the village. At the entrance was a huge
saw-mill, and beyond it a few cottages and one small general shop.
Here they bought their bread and butter.
The woman who served them looked at them curiously, but she asked no
questions. They hesitated whether to enquire here about sleeping
accommodation.
"Does--where does that road opposite lead to, please?" Nancy asked.
"That? Oh, that's just a private road to the Priory," the woman
replied.
"The Priory!"
The children looked at each other and hurried out of the shop.
A Priory! Why, surely, this was the very place for them to seek a
night's rest at. A monastery, of course, would have been the correct
thing, but a Priory surely would do.
"Let's go and enquire," Nancy said. "I don't s'pose monks or priors
would charge very much."
They hurried eagerly up the road, and very soon saw in front of them
a pair of huge iron gates, and through some tall beech trees, the
chimney-pots of the Priory. The Priory itself was hidden by a high
wall, and until they reached the gates they were unable to see it.
They stood with their faces pressed against the gates, staring with
admiration, mingled with nervousness. It was the most beautiful
building they had ever seen--except the cathedral--the windows and
the great front door looked, they thought, as though they belonged to
a church. But it was so large, almost as large, Montague admitted,
as the place with the turrets in Suffolk. Would it be too bold to
seek a lodging here? No monks or priors were to be seen--were they
all at their prayers? If only the place were not quite so imposing,
if it were not so silent, if a monk would only appear!
"There's a man!" whispered Montague. "Over there, across the lawn."
The others looked and saw an elderly man coming up a little winding
path beyond a lawn in front of the house. They studied him
anxiously. They were a little surprised that he was not wearing the
kind of dressing-gown affair that they supposed monks usually wore.
Perhaps, however, he was the prior and could dress as he liked. And
_if_ he was the prior could they summon up courage to speak to him?
Nancy noticed that his beard was soft and curly, and that he was
bronzed; but what attracted her were his eyes.
"They're like two brown fires," she thought, "dancing fires."
His walk, too, re-assured her. It was so intensely alive, so young.
"He's kind," Nancy whispered, "I'll go and speak to him."
But the sharp eyes had already found the little group at the gates.
For just one second their owner hesitated, then, with eager interest
he darted towards them.
"Don't forget to raise your hat, Billy," Nancy reminded him hastily.
"You, too, Monty," Mavis whispered. For a moment Montague felt
rebellious at the idea of raising his hat to a man, it was bad enough
to have to do it to women; but when a little person _trusts_ you to
do a thing, well, you simply have to give in.
The man opened the gates, and, to Montague's amazement, raised his
hat as courteously as though they had been grown-ups in a car instead
of four travel-stained children with a donkey.
"You are wanting something? Tell me!" His voice and smile were so
encouraging that immediately they felt at their ease.
Nancy was the spokesman.
"Please, we are travellers," she explained, "an' we are too tired to
sleep out of doors to-night, and we were going to look for a nice
cottage, but a Priory is better. It _should_ be a monastery really,
but we thought a Priory would be about the same. And so _could_ you
let us be boarders, do you think? We're quite respectable--it's only
travelling that's made us a little untidy."
At first the stranger looked a little astonished, then a kind of
waiting-to-hear-what-would-come-next expression settled on his face.
"How long would you want to stay?" he enquired.
"Oh, only one night, 'cos we're going on again to-morrow--we haven't
time to stay long in one place." She hesitated. She wanted to
enquire how much they would have to pay, yet somehow it seemed
difficult to mention money to this distinguished-looking man.
_Would_ he understand that if you're only children you could not
afford to stay at expensive places? "Could you--would you mind
telling me what the charge is, please?" she faltered, flushing a
little. "We should only just want some tea and a bed, and we'd be
leaving before breakfast 'cos we've really got our tea in the basket,
but it can be breakfast instead."
The Prior, if he was the prior, made a wide, sweeping gesture as
though to push their breakfast-basket miles away.
"No visitor leaves the Priory without breakfast," he said
emphatically. "It's one of the rules and can't be broken. Can you
obey rules?" he asked abruptly.
"Yes, sir," Billy replied, not without some inward trepidation. The
rules at a Priory might be terribly severe.
"Good. Well then, all visitors are requested to retire at seven
o'clock and to attend matins behind the nuns' screen at 8.45 the
following morning. After matins a collection will be taken and each
visitor is expected to put in the bag exactly the amount he or she
would put in the offertory bag on Sundays at home. _Exactly_,
mind--neither more nor less."
The children breathed freely when the Prior got to the end of the
rules. After all, there was nothing terrible for them to do. They
_might_ have had to sleep on stone floors or rise in the middle of
the night for prayers. Nevertheless, one of the rules troubled
Nancy, and she spoke of it to the Prior. Did he know, she enquired,
that children only put a _little_ money in the offertory bag? Should
they put what they would give at Harvest Festival?
The Prior shook an admonishing finger at her.
"Not a penny more or a penny less than the usual Sunday offering," he
said. "That is the rule."
His voice certainly was stern, but the children were not in the least
afraid of him, for he beamed kindness upon them and Nancy was sure
she saw flashes of fun in his eyes.
"But what about Modestine? What shall we give for her?" Billy
enquired.
"Modestine! Modestine!" The Prior's quick eyes searched the
children's anxious, upturned faces. Then he laughed.
"Capital--capital!" he cried. "A donkey with so classical a name
must receive free board and lodging. It is an honour to have her
under one's roof--or rather one's stable-roof. I take off my hat to
Modestine!" With that he took off his hat and made the little animal
a sweeping bow. Modestine was unimpressed, but the children were
delighted. "And now," continued the Prior, "come, my dears. There's
a good woman here of the name of White, into whose hands I will put
you to have those travel-stains (he looked whimsically at the earth
that still clung to Montague's knickers) removed. And then for tea!"
"Oh, but can we just see to Modestine before we wash?" Billy asked.
"She's dreadfully thirsty, and we must rub her down and give her a
feed."
"Don't worry about Modestine, my boy," said the Prior. "There's a
man of the name of Monk hanging about the stables with nothing
particular to do. Time will hang less heavily on his hands with
Modestine to occupy it."
"But would he do it properly?" Nancy enquired anxiously.
"Have no fears, my dear," said the Prior. "Monk has had a good deal
of experience of donkeys in Egypt."
"Well," Billy replied, "if he finds he can't manage her I'll come and
help him. It all depends on her mood, you see."
"Exactly. I'll tell Monk what you say. Ah, there he is. I'll take
Modestine to him. Wait here one moment."
Modestine suffered herself to be led away, though nothing would
induce her to allow the Prior to indulge in his quick, eager stride.
The children looked at the man called Monk with interest. So that
was a monk. He looked quite ordinary; he was even wearing ordinary
clothes, but perhaps, they decided, they were allowed not to wear a
robe when they were working.
The Prior came dashing back across the lawn to them.
"Now, my children, come!" He held out a hand to each of the girls,
and with confidence they took it. The boys followed.
"Does he wear his gown when he tells his beads?" Mavis enquired.
"Who?" For just the fraction of a second there was bewilderment in
the Prior's eyes, but it quickly vanished. "Probably, my child," he
replied.
"But don't you _know_?" Nancy asked. "Aren't you the head of the
Priory, and don't they have to do what you tell them?"
The Prior laughed.
"Oh, yes, I'm the head of the place," he replied. "But I'm not a
very strict person. I allow them all a certain amount of freedom.
Freedom is good for the soul, you know. It helps it to
expand--restriction contracts."
The children did not quite understand, but they thought it sounded
nice.
"_I_ should like to be a monk here," Montague rumbled. "_I'd_ like
freedom--if Mavis and the others could be here, too," he added.
The Prior pricked up his ears at the volcanic note in Montague's
voice, and, pausing, turned to look at the boy. What he saw in the
love-starved face hurt him. He dropped Nancy's hand and waved his
own impetuously as though to push something painful away.
"Restriction and starvation of soul written all over the boy," he
thought indignantly. Aloud he said, "You shall all live here for
ever if you like," and the smile he gave Montague warmed the boy's
heart towards him.
"I'm glad Mavis made me raise my hat to him," he thought.
Ah, but, Nancy said in reply to the Prior, though they would love him
there were other people they loved, too--people who wanted them.
"There's nobody wants me at Riversham," Montague growled, "and nobody
_I_ want--'cept when my Guardian comes--so _I_ could stay here."
They had reached the house now, and the Prior pushed open the great
door, the most beautiful door they had ever seen. The children, with
thrills of excitement running through them, followed him into a vast
hall. Now, all four of them, Montague in his Suffolk home, the
others in their dear old Nestcombe home were used to spacious,
beautiful halls, yet, large though they were, both of them could have
been put inside the one they had entered. It was paved with great
slabs of stone, and the rugs and skins that were scattered about in
profusion looked like little islands. A carriage might easily have
been driven up the wide staircase, which wound its way to a gallery
above; a beautiful staircase it was, too, with its carvings of the
heads of many different saints. In a distant corner of the hall was
some armour, and all the walls were hung with portraits--dozens of
them, every period for centuries back being represented. Nancy
thought they looked like ancestors, yet she was puzzled to find them
here in a Priory, expecting rather that there would have been only
madonnas and other sacred pictures.
The Prior had gone in search of Mrs. White, and presently he returned
with a grand person in a rustling silk dress. He introduced her to
them.
"And now," he said, "I am going to hand these little people over to
you, Mrs. White. Just a little cleansing and brushing, you
know--then tea on the lawn."
"Very good, sir," Mrs. White replied.
"Oh, and Mrs. White, will you see that Master Lionel's room is ready
by seven o'clock? Put another small bed in there. The boys will
like to share a room, I'm sure. And for the little girls----" He
hesitated and his eyes swept the two little faces turned expectantly
towards him, "prepare Miss Dorothy's room."
Mrs. White knew her master thoroughly. Nothing that he did, as a
rule, surprised her, but at the mention of "Miss Dorothy's room" her
surprise was visible. "Miss Dorothy's room," that had not been slept
in since the "blessed lamb" had become an angel! Surely these little
girls were very special friends of her master, for such a thing to
happen. However, she pulled herself together, and assuring her
master that everything should be as he wished, conducted the children
upstairs.
Who, the children wondered as they followed Mrs. White, were Lionel
and Dorothy? Were they the Prior's children? But _did_ priors
marry? And why was he here alone, and why did they not see more
monks?
What a huge, huge house this was; how easily one could get lost
here--what a ripping place for hide-and-seek! Ah, here were the
pictures that should have been in the hall; saints and madonnas and
holy families, all of them wearing the shiny plates round their heads
that people called "halos." What lots of them, and what a lovely
picture gallery, and what delightful window-seats. Nancy simply had
to stop to scramble into one of them and gaze at the view of the
hills. If they were beautiful seen from outside, how much more so
looking through these wonderful mullioned windows that seemed to
radiate green and gold lights. A feeling of worship swept over
Nancy's impressionable young soul; depths that, so far, only the
sound of the organ at the cathedral had touched, were stirred. But
Mrs. White was waiting and she must follow.
The boys were left at a huge bathroom, and Mrs. White conducted Nancy
and Mavis to her own room--a room that surely was made for no other
person than Mrs. White, for everything about it was just as neat and
sedate and unsurprised-looking as Mrs. White herself. Hats and hair
ribbons must not be flung about here!
After supplying them with towels and hot water she left them for a
few moments. They hoped she would not be long away, for the big,
silent place somewhat overawed them. Such lots and lots of doors
they had passed. Were they the cells, Mavis wondered; was a monk
praying silently in each, and weren't they themselves going to sleep
in cells? It seemed not, from what the Prior had said, yet were
there ordinary rooms in a priory?
"I can't make things out a bit," Nancy replied. "It doesn't seem
nice to ask lots of questions when you're kind of guests, but I
_would_ like to know about Dorothy. D'you s'pose she's a nun?
P'raps she's at another priory or convent now."
"Couldn't we ask just that?"
"No, I think not, but p'raps we'll find out later. Let's wait and
see, 'cos, after all, it's awfully exciting, isn't it? We don't know
_what_ will happen next! An' if we don't see the monks to-night we
shall have to see them at matins to-morrow."
Two perfectly clean and tidy little girls awaited Mrs. White on her
return. At the bathroom they picked up two passably clean boys, and
Mrs. White led the whole party to the Prior, who was awaiting them
under a great beech tree of beautiful proportions on the lawn.
"And now for tea!" said the Prior, beaming on the children. "A good
substantial tea for hungry travellers."
He led them to a tea-table that was heaped with good things. A tall
and solemn-looking man was hovering near it.
"That's all, Monk, thank you. We'll manage alone to-day, eh,
children?"
Another monk, they thought with interest, as they gathered round the
table, and again an ungowned one! Well, of course, the Vicar did not
wear his cassock in private life; perhaps the same rule applied to
monks. Yet why was there a kind of twinkle in the Prior's eyes when
they questioned him as to why he called each one "Monk" and not
"Brother so-and-so"? And why did he evade the question?
The tea was a delightful one. Chicken in aspic, cold ham, honey, and
scones. "Grown-up" cake, too, with lots of currants in it, and
raspberries and cream. Each of them you may be sure did ample
justice to it. The Prior insisted that Nancy should act as hostess.
The honour of it! To pour out with a grown-up there and such a
distinguished grown-up, too; one, moreover, who treated you with as
much deference as though you had been a duchess seated there behind
the beautiful tea equipage instead of just a small girl. Nancy found
herself trying to live up to the position; she thrilled to the
importance of it, so that her hands moved gracefully amongst the
tea-things, and she felt that she really was a hostess sharing the
responsibilities of that tea with the Prior.
And while they ate the Prior talked. There was nothing religious
about his conversation; it was mostly stories of travels. Yes, and
that was another curious thing. He seemed to have lived abroad far
more than at the Priory, but, perhaps, they thought, he had other
priories out there, for apparently he was a kind of head-person
always. Governor was the word he used, probably that was what they
called priors abroad.
And yet he did not seem to have to shut himself up in any of these
priories. Also he had parties there, children's parties with no
other grown-up person there. He wanted the children to himself, he
said; other grown-ups spoilt things.
And then there were stories of big game shooting that thrilled the
boys. Stories, too, of snakes. They regarded with respect and
admiration the man who had actually found a snake popping up through
a hole in a bedroom floor; who had lived in a house haunted by
vampire bats--crowds of them, and you heard weird flapping sounds, he
said, when you were alone at night and suddenly--sizz! out would go
the lamp and you were in darkness alone with that horrible dark
flying thing!
Thrillingly interesting stories, all of them, but now tea was
finished, and the Prior suggested that they should sit in the Sunk
Garden till bedtime. The children followed him willingly along a
broad walk on the further side of the house, where masses of flowers
were blazing in the hot sunshine. Two youths and a man were at work,
and they touched their caps as the Prior and the children passed.
"And are they monks?" Mavis asked, and again the Prior twinkled as he
replied in the affirmative.
"And are they too busy to pray in the day-time?" asked Nancy. "I
s'pose they have to pray longer at night to make up for it? They
must be awfully tired doing both."
"I don't think," the Prior replied, "that they any of them spend long
enough over their prayers for them to become a burden to them.
Besides," he added. "there's nothing to prevent them doing the two
things together. A man who can grow flowers such as these," he waved
his hand towards the blaze of colour, "who can teach his sons to grow
them, too, should have a prayer of gratitude to the good God
continually in his heart and on his lips."
"Oh, are they his sons? _Can_ monks have sons?" Billy asked.
"These Monks can," the Prior replied, and again, they were mystified
by the fun in his eyes.
"Do they have specially long prayers for penance?" Nancy asked.
"Pray in penance?" the Prior's eyes flashed a protest. "Certainly
not--not here! Prayer should be offered from the fullness of the
heart, child. Prayer should be--joy! Prayer should be, not the
gabbling of a few sentences, but the act of living, living joyously.
Anything less is an insult to the good God. But my tongue is running
away with me," he added with a smile. "You will think that I am
going to preach."
Well, if this was preaching, the children thought, it was much more
interesting than the dull sermons the Vicar preached on Sundays.
They felt a little uncomfortable, however, when they remembered their
own gabbled prayers. Had they insulted God? They hadn't meant to,
of course, but it was not always easy to realize that God was
listening to them. Certainly, the Prior's way of praying sounded
much nicer--so alive and _real_.
They passed another youth who was busy hoeing. Montague eyed him
with interest.
"When I'm a man," he growled, "I shall have a son an' a daughter.
An' the daughter shall be fifteen, and she shall cotton peas all day,
and the son _he_ shall hoe and weed and pick up sticks. An' if he
doesn't, well, he'll be _sorry_. An' he'll be sorry lots of other
times, too--sorry all the time. If he fights with the village boys,
or if he plays with them, or gives himself and them the best
strawberries, and leaves none for the grown-ups' tea, _then_ he won't
like it--he'll wish he'd never seen a strawberry." Evidently
something connected with strawberries rankled, for his voice was
particularly bitter as he spoke of them. "And there will be a
great-aunt to look after him," he continued, "an' _I_ shall stay here
and be a monk--_not_ a gardening one--or live with my wife in a house
by a wood, or p'raps go and kill lions by myself. And while I'm away
the aunt will see if the boy wants punishing; she'll know how to do
it, 'cos," and here his voice sank to a scarcely audible rumble,
"she'll have had lots of experience."
He paused, but something in the curiously intent way in which the
Prior was listening spurred him on.
"Well, if in a little while that boy forgets what happened about the
strawberries and gives himself and the blacksmith's son a raspberry
tart and a jug of cream that was meant for a dinner party an' a piece
of duck each--well, _I'll_ not be there--but the aunt will!"
The Prior said nothing when, at last, Montague came to an end, but he
walked thoughtfully, his hands behind his back, and there was pity
and indignation, and, well, perhaps a little amusement in his eyes as
he studied the boy.
But now the Sunk Garden was reached. Instinctively everyone paused
at the top of the steps. Something, before entering that peaceful
garden, must be put away, left behind. Something that was alien to
the gentleness that seemed to play about the sun-dial and the subdued
colouring of the flowers; to the quiet sunlight flickering amongst
the leaves on the tall trellis-work that enclosed the garden. The
Prior put his hand affectionately on Montague's shoulder and
rebellion suddenly seemed a little thing, so unimportant. The scent
of heliotrope, the swooping of swallows, the lazy cawing of rooks
seemed all that mattered.
The Prior led them to a stone seat round the sun-dial. Nancy
immediately felt the atmosphere of the place and gave herself up to
it. The swallows, too, attracted her. She watched them dropping and
falling down the air; against the blue of the sky; their swift
shadows on sun-dial or paving. Aunt Letty once said that the soul of
a swallow was in its flight. Now, as she sat in the Sunk Garden, a
garden that must have had swallows' shadows flickering over it for
centuries, she began to understand what Aunt Letty had meant. Every
movement of the blue and white speck was graceful, whether it flashed
across the garden, or slid down the air or climbed up towards the
sky, all was grace and all was joy. Suddenly, she looked at the
Prior and he caught her glance with a smile and a question.
"What is it, child?" he asked.
"Only----" she hesitated. "P'raps you won't like me saying it, but
suddenly I thought you're like the swallows."
"I--like the swallows?" He looked at her in surprise.
"Yes! You see, they're joy, every bit of them is joy--they kind of
can't go fast enough to splash it out of them, an' that's like you.
You _won't_ mind, will you?" She slipped her hand into his and
looked at him anxiously.
"Mind? Of course not, my darling! And do _I_ splash joy about?" he
added, his eyes shining like two brown stars.
"'Yes, indeed, it's all over you, and you kind of splash it all over
us and over the garden, too."
"That's the nicest compliment I've ever had paid me in my life,
child," and, lifting his hat, the Prior raised Nancy's hand to his
lips.
"But it's not a compliment," Nancy protested, "it's the truth. We
all love you, don't we?" she added, turning to the others.
"Yes, indeed!" Mavis cried, scrambling on to the Prior's knee.
Montague looked at the happy group and sighed.
"When I am a man," he began, "I shall find a little girl with gold
hair and I shall buy her a golden chair to sit in, but _sometimes_ I
shall ask her not to sit in the chair, but on my knee, and I will
tell her lots of lovely stories. And nobody," he continued, warming
to his subject, "shall ever hurt that little girl or be unkind to
her, 'cos there'll be _me_ to look after her. And she shall be like
a princess, and I shall do all the work for her and not let her carry
things; an' if she doesn't like lessons, well, she needn't do 'em
'cos _I_ shall say she needn't. An' if there's only _one_ nice ripe
pear she shall have it, and I shall wait till she's had all she wants
before I have one. An' if she's tired there'll be me to carry her,
'cos I shall be big and strong then. An' I shall earn a pound a week
and give it all to her, 'cept just enough to buy the food, an' she
shall _never_ have schoolroom cake or rice pudding!"
"Not boiled rice!" said Mavis. "Oh, _I_ wouldn't like to be that
little girl--I love boiled rice. An' wouldn't a gold chair be
awfully hard?"
Montague, whose eyes had been fixed dreamily on a bed of heliotrope
during his recital, looked up at Mavis with wonder in his eyes. Was
it possible that a little girl whom he regarded almost as a princess
could like boiled rice?
"With jam?" Perhaps it was the jam that appealed to her.
"No. Sugar and milk."
"Well, she should have it." There was resignation in his voice.
"An' she could have a cushion on the chair if it was too hard."
The Prior, meanwhile, was wearing his
waiting-to-hear-what-would-come-next expression. He called Montague
and drew him to his knee.
"So you are going to be a champion of little girls, are you, my boy?"
"One little girl," Montague corrected him, "with gold hair. P'raps,"
he added, looking at Nancy, "there could be another with brown hair."
"What colour hair," asked the Prior, "had that unfortunate daughter
who was to cotton peas?"
"Black!" Montague replied. "Thick black hair. The kind," he
muttered, forgetting that he was in the Sunk Garden, "that you can
pull!"
"Oh!" said the Prior, looking at him thoughtfully. "Why pull the
black hair and not the gold or chestnut? Why not be a champion of
them all? Why pull the hair of one and give the others golden
chairs, and the best fruit? Why not let them _all_ have gold chairs?
Think of it, boy, just think of it, if you gave her a gold chair how
she'd love you!"
"She wouldn't," growled Montague, "she would _never_ love me, not if
I was to give her a gold throne!"
"Well, try it and see the result," the Prior encouraged him.
A gold throne for Jocelyne? The Prior didn't know her or he could
not have suggested it.
"And what are you going to do when you are a man, Billy?" the Prior
asked.
"Me? Oh, I'm going to be a traveller like you and my Uncle Val,"
Billy replied unhesitatingly. "Only," he added, "there's such a long
time to wait; it seems an awful waste of time going to school when
you might be _doing_ things."
"Yes, yes, but make the best of it, Billy-boy. It's not quite as
wasted, perhaps, as you imagine. Preparation is needed, you know,
before you can attack anything as difficult as the life of a
traveller. For it _is_ a hard life."
"Yes, I know. Uncle Val says if there's grit in you it brings it
out, and he says you've got to have grit in you to stick to it. _He_
sticks to it, and _I_ shall stick to it too." Billy threw back his
head and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. "Uncle Val and I
can't help going. He says it's Sir Walter Raleigh's fault."
"Sir Walter Raleigh's?"
"Yes. You see, when Uncle Val was a little boy there was always Sir
Walter Raleigh calling him, calling him to look down the river away
out to sea till he couldn't wait any longer. He made him join up
when he was only seventeen, and after the war he made him go abroad.
And now Sir Walter Raleigh hasn't got Uncle Val, so he's calling me
instead--we live in his house, you see."
The Prior looked at Billy rather strangely, as though he were trying
to see something in his face.
"Where is your Uncle Val now?"
"In Egypt," Billy replied.
The Prior's eyes danced unaccountably with pleasure. He put Mavis
down and rose abruptly. There was something in the library, he said,
that might interest them.
The children followed readily. They returned to the house by way of
the kitchen and fruit garden, beyond which were the stables. Ah,
might they just go and say good-night to Modestine, they begged. The
Prior remained outside while they went in to Modestine. Scraps of
his conversation with the Monk who had charge of their donkey reached
them, though at the time they paid but little heed to them.
"Yes, he's coming by ferry. You'll take the car--no, I can't come
after all." The children appeared in the doorway. "Ah, ready,
children? Now for the library."
CHAPTER VII
LIONEL AND DOROTHY
They entered the house by a side door and followed the Prior down a
short passage that led straight to the library. The wide, mullioned
windows of the room faced that part of the garden where the flowers
made such a pageant of colour. What a delightful room it was, the
children thought; so different from the great, cold, silent hall
where you felt such an insignificant atom. Here, with the wide
windows letting in all the colour and sunshine of the garden, here,
with the deep chairs and sinky-in carpet and the books and the curios
and pictures you felt immediately at home.
The curios seemed to have come from all over the world, and you
scarcely knew which to look at first.
"Just wander round and look at what attracts you most," the Prior
said, seeing their bewilderment. "Anything you want to know about
them I'll explain to you."
And for the next quarter of an hour he was busy answering questions.
"This? I got it in India. That's a Chinese junk--look at the
carving. Yes, that's an exact model of a Japanese house. That head
was carved by a Red Indian from the root of a tree. Those spears? I
got them in the Sudan. Yes, these are panther skins. Yes, really, I
shot the animals myself."
The children's interest was unabating. They tried to push away the
unwelcome thought that seven o'clock must be nearly here.
Presently, Billy wandered over to a table that held some books and
photos. Suddenly, he paused.
"Nancy, Mavis, come here!" he cried. "There's a photo of Uncle Val's
friend, Mr. Pringle, here, just like the photo he brought with him
last summer."
Nancy and Mavis, too interested in Billy's discovery to notice the
smile of triumph on the Prior's face, flew across the room.
"Oh! It's him! Do you know him?" Nancy asked, turning eagerly to
the Prior. "He's Uncle Val's greatest friend, and next time he comes
home he's coming to see us. We don't know him yet 'cept what Uncle
Val tells us about him. _Do_ you know him?"
"Yes, I know him," the Prior replied.
"Have you known him long?" Billy asked.
"Nearly twenty-five years." The children did not know what to make
of that baffling, teasing smile of the Prior's.
"An' is it long since you've seen him?" Mavis asked.
"I saw him when I came home from India in the spring. I stopped in
Egypt especially to see him, because," he paused dramatically, "he's
my son, you know!"
"Your son!" they shouted. "Then he's the Lionel who has a room here!
Oh, isn't it wonderful."
Suddenly, a new thought struck Billy.
"You didn't see Uncle Val, too?" he asked slowly. "Uncle Val," he
added, "is like me--only he's twenty-four and I'm ten."
The Prior still wore the teasing smile as he studied Billy.
"Let me see! Someone in Egypt like you? A grown-up edition of you,
eh? Why, now I come to think of it, Lionel insisted on dragging
along a certain Val Stafford with him. Could that be your Uncle Val?"
"Yes, yes!" they shrieked. "That's Uncle Val! And you've _seen_
him! Oh, it's the God of Adventure that brought us here!"
The excitement was intense. When at length it subsided somewhat,
Nancy enquired what the Prior thought of her uncle. Did he mind
Lionel bringing him along? Did he like him?
The Prior turned and looked at Billy.
"If that young man over there grows up anything like his uncle he'll
be a brother you can be proud of. _I_ am proud that Lionel should
have him for a friend."
"Oh, doesn't it make you kind of belong to us?" Nancy cried
impulsively. She replaced Lionel's photo on the table and, as she
did so, caught sight of another one. It was of a little girl of
about her own age, a little girl who looked at her with Lionel's
laughing eyes.
"Oh!"
She looked up quickly and caught the Prior's glance--no need to ask
any questions, what she wanted to know was written on the Prior's
face. She slipped her hand into his.
"An' you're letting Mavis and me have _her_ room?"
"Yes, dear," he replied, his hand on her head. "You are just the
kind of little girls she would have liked to share it with. My
little Dorothy was an open-air child, just as you are."
"Was she--was she ill a long time?"
"No, dear. She was following the hounds and was thrown from her
horse. Lionel, poor boy, found her. But--listen, children!"
Seven o'clock! Oh, what a waste of time bed would be at such a place
as this!
A knock at the door and Mrs. White entered.
"Ah, Mrs. White! Hot baths, sponge cake and milk, and bed, please!"
He kissed Nancy and Mavis very tenderly and pressed an affectionate
hand on the boys' shoulders.
"Good-night, and thank you for letting us have Dorothy's room," Nancy
whispered.
They followed Mrs. White upstairs, each child busy with his or her
own thoughts about this wonderful place and all that had happened
there. Lionel's room came first, a real boy's room, into which the
girls took a peep while Mrs. White was showing the boys where they
should take their bath.
"Now, my dears, Miss Dorothy's room is down this corridor if you are
ready."
They kissed Billy good-night and then, quite naturally first Nancy
then Mavis turned to Montague and kissed him in turn, and, waving
good-night, followed Mrs. White to Dorothy's room.
Montague for quite half a minute stood in the doorway. Nancy and
Mavis had kissed him--just as they had kissed Billy. They had kissed
him, not pecked him as Jocelyne did--how he writhed under those
pecks! This had happened to him, Montague. Feelings he could not
understand pounded away at the starved little heart; thoughts and
words--comradeship, comradeship, that was it, that was how the Prior
had touched him, that was what had been behind their kiss.
"If anybody ever hurts them I'll _kill_ them," he growled inwardly.
"Come on, old chap, I'm half-undressed."
Comradeship again in Billy's jolly voice. How Montague responded to
it, how wonderful it was. Later on, when after the baths and sponge
cake and milk, the Prior's last injunction had been obeyed, and they
lay in the two small beds side by side, Montague asked Billy a
question.
"Do you _love_ your sisters?"
"Why, of course!"
"I wish," Montague muttered, "I had a sister _I_ loved."
"But why not love Jocelyne?"
"Love Jocelyne? You don't know her! 'Sides, she doesn't love me--we
quarrel!"
"Well, so do we sometimes," Billy admitted. "Why, we used to fight
like anything when we were little kids. Course we don't now 'cos
boys don't hit girls when they're big, though sometimes they'd jolly
well like to. But quarrels don't really make any difference--you can
always make it up again."
"Not with Jocelyne," Montague protested mournfully.
And yet, and yet, had there not been a time long, long ago when their
mother was alive when he and Jocelyne _had_ loved each other? Why
then did they not love each other now? Montague did not know, he
could not remember when they had stopped caring.
"Listen! There's a car!" murmured Billy sleepily. "Another boarder,
I s'pose. _He_ won't be able to keep the rule of going to bed at
seven--p'raps the Prior will excuse him."
"Well, we'll see him at matins or breakfast, I s'pose," Montague
replied. And then silence fell between them, and a minute later two
small boys were fast asleep.
* * * * * *
An hour or more later, while the children slept, the Prior and the
new "boarder," who, apparently, was allowed to break rules, were
walking up and down the beech lawn smoking and talking and thinking
and planning.
"It's the boy Montague I'm thinking of," the Prior was saying. "The
other three would certainly be bitterly disappointed if we sent them
home to-morrow, Billy especially, for he's a sticker--he and Val
Stafford are made of the stuff that does pioneer work, the finest
stuff in the world, but they love their home and their parents, and
the going back would have no sting in it apart from the fact of
giving up their adventure. But Montague! That acidulated aunt
should be made to suffer, the boy's spirit is cramped and starved,
and these three little people, quite unconsciously, are having the
right influence on him. A week or so with them, wandering about
amongst the hills, forgetting himself in looking after little
Mavis--what a difference it would make to the boy! What can you
suggest, Dick?"
Dick Frampton, whom the God of Adventure had brought to this Priory
of Adventures to-day of all days, smoked in silence for a few minutes
before replying.
"Wait a moment, Uncle, I believe we can arrange something. But, I
say, don't you think we should let Montague's guardian know that the
boy is all right and leave it to him to tell the aunt if he wishes
to. I can 'phone him up."
The Prior agreed, and the two fell to further discussions, both of
them entering with the zest of schoolboys into the plans for the
children's further travels.
It was at dinner that the Prior had first mentioned to his nephew
(who had come to spend a few days with him) about the unexpected
little guests who were asleep upstairs. Dick, whose thoughts had
been with the children most of the day, though he had imagined them
safely at Nestcombe long ere this, knew instinctively that the
Prior's guests were his "libation" children. He was annoyed with
himself for not guessing from the fact that they had blankets with
them, that the adventure was to be of more than one day's duration.
He was dismayed at the thought of what might have happened to them
through his stupidity.
"Do you know how long they intend travelling?" he asked.
The Prior shook his head and laughed like a boy.
"I've asked no questions--not one. It was Billy telling me about his
Uncle Val that put me on the scent; the name, you know, and then the
strong likeness between the boy and Val. I took them into the
library on the chance that their uncle might have shown them Lionel's
photograph and that they would recognize it--and they did!"
The Prior was delighted with himself.
"And I've wired to their people," he continued gleefully.
To Dick's enquiry as to how he knew the address, oh, that was a
simple matter, he replied. Didn't Val Stafford live at Nestcombe,
when he was in England, and hadn't Billy told him how Sir Walter
Raleigh had influenced them both. Simple enough to guess that they
shared the same home.
"And their people will fetch them to-morrow, I suppose?"
"No." The Prior wore the air of a conspirator. "I told them to do
nothing until they heard from me again--I wanted first to consult
you. Also I wanted to know what, if anything, you knew about the
small boy they had picked up at Riversham--I felt sure you must know
something about him."
And Dick, seated there at the dinner-table, was able to tell the
Prior that the great-aunt was one of his pet aversions. The guardian
was the novelist, James Cradock. Dick had met him several times
lately and liked him. Montague's mother had been dead two or three
years, and the father had died a few months ago, from the result of
wounds received in the war; he had suffered terribly for some time,
Dick had gathered from Mr. Cradock.
"And this sister, what of her?" the Prior asked. "Montague seems to
have no love for her."
"Jocelyne? Oh, she's at the age when small boys of Montague's type
grate. A handsome girl, but, of course, Montague doesn't appreciate
her beauty--he couldn't, they're both at the wrong age. What they
need, I suppose, is some influence to bring out the best in each of
them. It's there all right, though they would neither of them
believe it of the other."
And it was this that had set the Prior--or Mr. Pringle, as everybody
except the children called him--thinking, this obvious need of
Montague's for something that had so evidently been denied him
lately. It was this that had caused him to wire as he did to the
Staffords. Why should the children not continue their travels for a
few more days? Why not let the influence of the hills and the free,
roving life and the comradeship of the other children do their work
with the boy? Why not? Yet how to persuade the parents to
countenance the plan? How persuade them that no harm could come to
them amongst these friendly hills? And, was he altogether sure
himself that they would be perfectly safe with nobody at hand to
protect them?
"Look here," said Dick, and this was the "further discussion" that
had taken place while they smoked their after-dinner cigars on the
beech-lawn, "I've got an idea."
The idea was that Dick should return home at once, motor over to
Nestcombe from Riversham and explain matters to Mr. and Mrs.
Stafford. And if they consented to allow the children to go on he
would act as a kind of warden to them and follow them about in his
car.
"It would be quite simple," he added, "and I should like it--it would
be an adventure for _me_. What do you think of the idea?"
The Prior (for though he is not a prior, we, like the children, will
call him that--there being nothing about his character to suggest the
stiffness of "Mr. Pringle") was all enthusiasm for it. Mrs. White,
he said, should pack their baskets with good things, and they should
set off soon after breakfast unless he heard from Dick to the
contrary.
"But what about money?" Dick enquired. "Shall we give them
something?"
The Prior shook his head.
"I imagine they have some money," he said, "quite enough to last them
a few days. Better not give them any more--they'd be safer without
it--also I think they prefer their independence. Let them get
through it and then use your judgment."
And so the matter was settled.
As the two conspirators strolled back to the house together Dick fell
to marvelling at the extraordinary coincidence of the day. Would the
children, he wondered, if they knew all, regard the happenings in the
light of an adventure?
"They are out to seek it, you know," he explained.
The Prior nodded.
"I gathered so--there was some mention of the God of Adventure in the
library, though I imagine their idea of _real_ adventure is something
more definite, more actual than what has happened to-day. But, after
all, my boy, there's nothing extraordinary about these happenings.
Life is all adventure, it's always the unexpected that happens.
That, at any rate, has been my experience all the world over."
Dick agreed. Yes, of course, his uncle was right. Was not adventure
waiting round the corner for us always? Was it not our own fault if
we let it pass by? Well, here were he and his uncle in the thick of
an adventure that _they_ had not let slip past them. The sleeping
children upstairs, his uncle who could never grow old, he himself
with the joy of youth throbbing in his veins, which of them all would
most eagerly stretch out responsive hands to the beckoning god?
The Prior ordered the car when they reached the house and they waited
in the Library while William Monk, the butler, sent the order to his
brother, John Monk, the chauffeur. The appearance of William Monk
reminded the Prior of yet one other bit of fun he had to share with
Dick, namely, the children's mistake regarding him and the other
members of the Monk family.
"I'm indulging in a bit of make-believe that some day they and I will
laugh over together," he explained. "Why not let them believe, at
least till their adventure is over, that Monk and his brother and
cousin and nephews are monks in very truth? It adds to the romance
of things for them. This ought, they said, to have been a monastery,
but a priory, they thought, might be nearly as good. Imagine their
hurt pride if they knew that they had asked to be taken in at a
private house? Ah, but _some day_, as I said, they shall hear their
Prior's side of the question and learn the happiness they have given
him."
CHAPTER VIII
MATINS AND BREAKFAST
When Nancy and Mavis awoke the following morning it was almost eight
o'clock by the latter's watch. Eight o'clock! How strange to sleep
so late. Usually they were up and dressed soon after seven. Yet how
sleepy they still felt. They did not understand that such a day as
yesterday--the fresh air, the tramping, and the various excitements
that had followed one after another--such a day demands extra hours
of sleep for tired little brains and bodies.
They lay for a little while looking drowsily round Dorothy's room.
Last night they had fallen asleep almost as soon as their heads had
touched the pillow, and the room, though attractive even to two weary
little girls, had not revealed itself to them as it did now, with the
sunlight pouring in through the windows. How Dorothy must have loved
it. What pretty pictures; one, a range of snow-capped Indian
mountains particularly attracted them.
"Why, p'raps Dorothy lived in India when she was a tiny girl," Nancy
exclaimed. "How interesting."
They were longing to see the world beyond those hills they could see
as they lay in bed; Dorothy, perhaps, had seen the world beyond those
towering, snowy ranges.
They thought a great deal about Dorothy and Dorothy's treasures as
they scrambled into their clothes. To have had all this, to have had
this beautiful room with its books and toys and dolls--dolls that
certainly were not bought in England--and then one winter's day to
have gone out lightheartedly and never to have returned. Nancy
shuddered as, in her imagination, she saw the laughing, joyous, eager
face of the child in the photograph downstairs, saw her flying after
the hounds and then--the accident and never, never any more sparkle
in the closed eyes. It was the nearest she had ever come to Death,
at least as regarded anyone young (old people, she thought, were
different), and her sensitive spirit recoiled from the cruelty of it.
"Poor, poor Dorothy," she thought. "_Why_ did it have to happen?"
And then she thought of the Prior, who evidently cared so much for
children. How he must have missed Dorothy. Ah, they would have to
love him very dearly to make up to him for his loss. When they got
home again he must come very, very often to visit them.
A few minutes later they were startled by the solemn clanging of a
bell.
"The chapel bell!" they cried together, and a delightful thrill of
awe and expectation swept over them. The bell sounded so exactly
like what one imagined a priory or monastery bell should be. And at
last they would see all the monks, proper gowned monks! Matins and
monks! Feeling that they were stepping into a world absolutely
remote from the ordinary everyday world they ran hand in hand down
the corridor and found the boys coming to meet them. Billy, as they
descended the stairs, told them of the arrival of the new boarder.
"We shall see him at matins," he said. "Hope he's a decent sort."
The Prior, who was waiting for them in the great hall, came forward
to meet them, but there was no sign of the new boarder. He conducted
them down a corridor and across an open quadrangle, beyond which was
the chapel.
"Visitors are not allowed in the chapel itself," he said, as they
approached the beautiful building, "you will listen behind the
grating."
The grating? Ah, yes, yesterday he had said something about a
grating, but they had given no further thought to it. What was a
grating, and why were they not allowed in the chapel? Oh, certainly
they were getting far, far, beyond the confines of the everyday world.
Feeling decidedly mystified they followed the Prior through a tiny
door in the north wall and along a narrow passage that led to a tiny
chamber, where they found Mrs. White awaiting them. She rose to
receive them and the Prior hurried away with his usual impetuous
stride.
The children were puzzled. Could this tiny room possibly be part of
a chapel? A nuns' grating, the Prior had mentioned yesterday. Used
there to be nuns here as well as monks, and had they to squeeze into
this bit of a place? Why, there was scarcely room for themselves and
Mrs. White. If the other boarder should turn up, it certainly would
be a tight squeeze.
The grating was so high in the wall that although Mrs. White, if she
had wished, could have seen into the chapel quite easily it was
impossible for any of the children to do so, unless they had stood on
chairs, and, with Mrs. White there, they hardly liked to do that.
How tiresomely sedate and unthrilled she looked, thought Nancy. Did
nothing ever excite her? Didn't she understand the romance of
listening to the distant singing of monks in a priory chapel--had she
no imagination?
For the chanting or singing had started soon after their arrival. It
had a curiously muffled sound coming through the narrow grating, and
the children could not be sure whether the words were English or
Latin. To be sure the tunes sounded familiar, but, after all, was
that anything extraordinary? The Prior, if he liked a tune, was not
the person to reject it because it was sung in the Church of England.
Ah, there were boys singing, too; probably acolytes. It was just a
little disappointing not to be able to see; a wall was not the most
interesting thing to gaze at, at the best of times, and when it was
shutting out monks and acolytes it was certainly very annoying. And
the Prior would be wearing his gown. Ah, someone was praying. Was
it the Prior? The voice sounded like his--oh, what a troublesome
rule this was, that shut you up in a little box where you could see
nothing! But, after all, was it not the very first rule that had
been even a little disagreeable? They felt somewhat ashamed as they
thought of the heaped-up kindnesses they had received at the Priory.
But Mrs. White was speaking.
"Matins are over." She rose as she spoke. "The offertory bag," she
added, "is on that table behind you."
Was there just the suspicion of a smile hovering round the usually
sedate mouth?
Billy passed the bag first to Mrs. White and then to the children.
"Shall I put it back on the table?" he whispered, after he had added
his own small offering, wishing with all his heart that it could have
been bigger. It was so absurdly disproportionate to all they had
received.
"No, I will give it to--to the Prior presently. He sets special
store by these offerings, he says."
"Do they--do they help keep up the Priory?" Nancy asked as they left
the chapel. It must cost so much, she thought, to keep up this huge
place. And then there was the food for all the monks.
"Not exactly," was Mrs. White's evasive reply; "the Prior has a
special use for them."
Crossing the quadrangle, Mavis ventured to enquire whether Mrs. White
had known Lionel and Dorothy. Imagine their delight when they
learned that not only had she known them, but that she had been their
nurse. Such questions then had they to ask her about the childhood
of her charges. And did she know that her "Master Lionel" was their
uncle's special friend, that probably at this very moment they were
together?
The Prior and breakfast awaited them on the beech lawn. The boarder
they decided must have been allowed to break yet another rule, for
the table was laid for only five people.
They seated themselves, Nancy again presiding, and the Prior again
entertaining them with delightful stories. They had not quite
finished their bacon and eggs when Monk appeared with a telegram for
the Prior. The latter opened it eagerly, and, as he read, a look of
pleasure settled on his face.
"No answer, Monk, thank you," he said, and then turned to his young
guests with an apology.
"Excuse me, my dears, but the telegram, I knew, referred to an
important matter. Arranging other people's affairs," he added,
passing his cup for more coffee, "is a terrible responsibility."
"I s'pose a Prior has lots to do for other people," Nancy remarked.
"Does it worry you?"
"Sometimes, my child. But in this case the pleasure I have
experienced in arranging for the happiness of certain--certain people
in whom I am interested has far outweighed any trouble their affairs
have occasioned me."
"Does a Prior have to look after everybody and make them happy?"
asked Mavis.
The Prior laughed.
"It's his _privilege_ to dispense happiness, my darling."
Montague, after he had helped himself to honey, regarded the Prior
thoughtfully.
"Does a Prior like everybody?" he asked. "Does he have to?"
The Prior shook his head.
"No, no, my boy, he doesn't have to. Usually, however, he is too
busy to bother about the people who are--well, antipatica."
"Oh, what is 'antipatica'?" asked Nancy, interested at once in the
new word.
The Prior beamed on her.
"A new word that, eh, Nancy? You, I think, have not experienced the
meaning of it yet. It means someone you cannot get in contact with,
someone, in fact, who rubs you up the wrong way."
"Aunts is anti--antipatica," growled Montague, stumbling a little
over the long word, "They do lots of rubbing. They wake up in the
morning, with rub, rub, rub, in their minds, and it goes on all day
steady." He paused to take a bite of bread and honey. Nobody spoke,
for they felt there was more to come, for, once Montague got started,
he seemed to have to get quite to the end of his subject before he
could break off. "They've got wide-open beady eyes," he continued,
"all round their heads they've got 'em, an' the eyes help them to
rub. Rub? I tell you it's nothing but rub, rub, rub till, if you're
a boy an' you live with them, you kind of feel as though you're sore
inside--just the same as if sheets and sheets of emery paper had been
used on you. Aunts," he added gravely, "aunts is best living alone,
then they couldn't be--be, well, that word you said."
A giggle broke from Billy. Montague looked up sharply.
"What cher laughing at?" he growled ominously, but Billy, far from
being intimidated, giggled again, and the two little girls and even
the Prior seemed decidedly amused. Montague was hurt. "_You'd_ all
think aunts was that if you lived with one, least, if she was like
the aunt I know," he added, remembering that the children's
experience of an aunt seemed to differ from his own.
"It's not the aunt, Mont," Billy explained, "it's you. You're so
funny with your 'rub, rub, rub.'"
"Well, being rubbed by aunts isn't a bit funny, _I_ can tell you."
"Oh, we know, Monty dear," Nancy exclaimed. "We think she's horrid.
It's only the way you looked and the way you said it all."
The Prior wore a somewhat inscrutable expression. The boy was
evidently from his own showing a handful, and probably it was his,
the Prior's, duty to point out to him the necessity for such as he to
undergo a certain amount of discipline.
"Discipline tempered by love, yes," he mused, "but discipline
dispensed by an acidulated aunt----"
And so he delivered no homily to the small volcanic person seated at
his table, but led the conversation away from the things that hurt.
Why, when life was so short, when summer was in its prime, let the
happy hours of sunlight slip away darkened by hurts that are best
forgotten? In a very little while he had the children laughing and
joking together over delightful nothings. He seemed to throw out
sparkles of fun and joy and the children picked them up and tossed
them to each other. Montague's dark eyes lost their brooding
sorrows, and the small face expanded with laughter.
And there were more stories. Stories of earthquakes in India, of
moonlight picnics in the West Indies, of canons ablaze with flowers
in South America. Stories, too, of Lionel and Dorothy's childhood.
Yes and most of it _had_ been spent in India; Dorothy _had_ seen
behind those towering ranges. Oh, the wonder and the bigness of the
childhood of those two; surely no day could ever have been just
ordinary everyday. And could either of them _ever_ have found time,
with adventure heaped all about them, to even think of doing those
things that, to grown-ups, were known as "being naughty"; to
yourself, as "just wanting to know--just finding out." Surely the
days had just slipped away, just as now in the Priory garden, time
was slipping away unheeded.
"Boys," said Montague thoughtfully, when, at last, they rose from the
table, "boys could always be good if a Prior told them stories all
day--an' if a little girl with gold hair could be there listening
too. B'lieve it's _work_ that makes them do things aunts hate."
The Prior put his head on one side and regarded Montague with a smile.
"It is quite possible," he said, "that if a small boy lived with me
_I_ might ask him to work. I might find quite a number of things
that I should like nobody but the small boy to do for me. And the
results, if I ventured to ask him, you think would prove disastrous?"
"There wouldn't be _no_ disaster," Montague replied decidedly. You
might loathe hoeing for an aunt who continually rubbed you up the
wrong way, but to work for the Prior--Montague got excited. "Why, I
could do _lots_ of things for you," he continued eagerly. "I know
how to make things and I could mend anything. My guardian he calls
me 'The Flaming Tin-man' (that's somebody in a book), 'cos I can
tinker. Me and the blacksmith's son tinker together. I can use a
saw; I wouldn't hurt it if you'd lend me one, and I'd make you a
table or a thing to hold your pipes. Work sometimes," he concluded,
"is _nice_."
"Well, some day you shall come and stay here, and we will work
together. How about that?"
Montague's face expressed his approval. He would have discussed the
happy prospect further, but Billy was getting restless. Could he, he
enquired, go and get Modestine ready now?
The Prior looked at him tentatively.
"The rules of the Priory," he said, "would permit you all to stay to
luncheon."
Ready acceptance was written on three small faces, but Billy
hesitated.
"Why not," the Prior continued, "explore the country round here?
Take lunch with you and come back to tea and stay the night. Yes,
another night would be allowed; even a week or more in special cases.
Why not do this, unless of course," he added, "you have some settled
plans that must be carried out."
Montague and the girls looked at Billy for, somehow, they felt that
it was for him to decide. A troubled look crossed his face. What
the Prior offered sounded so jolly, and yet, and yet hadn't they said
they wanted to see beyond the hills, and this, after all, was merely
the beginning of the hills?
"I'd like to stay awfully," he said slowly, "but we _did_ have a
settled plan an'--an' I think we'd better go on, thank you. You
won't mind, will you, or think we don't _want_ to stay?"
The Prior, knowing Billy, understood.
"But remember," he said, "if anything should happen to prevent you
carrying out your plans, or if at any time you need a night's rest,
the Priory gates are always open to you. You won't forget?"
"Indeed we won't," Billy replied warmly, "and we're ever so grateful
to you."
The Prior brushed away their thanks.
"Now run and ask Monk to help you saddle Modestine while I see Mrs.
White. I believe she wants to replenish that basket of yours."
CHAPTER IX
THE ROSE-VICAR
Half-an-hour later the Prior bade his little guests a reluctant
good-bye at the foot of the lane leading into the village street.
"Good-bye, my dears, remember what I told you. And, Billy, put this
safely in your pocket. It's a telegram addressed to me. If you are
in--well, if you happen to need me just send that off, giving the
name of the village or town where I can find you, and I'll come in
the car immediately." Nothing, of course, _could_ happen, he knew,
with Dick there to keep watch over them. However, no harm in taking
all precautions.
Hat in hand, he stood at the corner until they were out of sight,
and, until they could no longer see him, the children turned
frequently and waved.
Each small heart was too full for speech for a long time.
"I b'lieve," Nancy said presently, "he was just as sorry to lose us
as we were to leave him."
So keen indeed was their regret at having parted with their kind and
interesting friend, that for a long while their thoughts centred
about him and the Priory to the exclusion of the hills. To be
content to stick to one's original plans was not altogether easy,
even Billy found, yes, even when they were such delightful plans.
Nobody quite knew how hard it had been for him to refuse the Prior's
invitation and all that it embraced.
"Wasn't it nice of him not to ask lots of questions?" Nancy said as
they turned into the lane that evidently led up into the hills.
"Most people would have wanted to know all about us, but _he_ treated
us just as though we were grown-ups."
"If aunts were like that to you, you mightn't hate 'em so," Montague
rumbled. "When I'm a man----" He broke off suddenly, for his
companions were convulsed with laughter. "_Now_ what are you
laughing at?" he growled. He could have wished to be treated with
considerably more respect.
"It's only your voice sounds so funny, Monty, dear, when you talk
about aunts or when you're a man," Mavis explained. "It sounds as
though----"
"As though something inside you is fizzling," Nancy finished. "But
go on, Monty. We love you to talk to us. Please go on."
"Well, _you'd_ fizzle if you were me. You'd fizzle and fizzle and
_fizzle_ till you burst. My guardian," he began reminiscently, "he
says----"
"Yes, Monty, what does he say?" Mavis (she was riding Modestine)
leaned down towards him expectantly.
"_I_ think what he says is silly, 'cos you don't have beards till
you're men. He says I mumble volcanically into my beard when I talk
of aunts. _He_ thinks it's funny--_I_ don't. 'Sides, well, if he
lived with her much I guess he'd mumble into his beard--he'd grow one
specially to do it."
"I like your guardian," Mavis said. "Wouldn't it be nice if you
could bring him to see us when we go home?"
"Guess he wouldn't come," Montague said. "I don't know why, but he
never will go that way for walks. He says that side of Riversham's
too painful now."
"Too painful? What does he mean?" asked Nancy.
"_I_ don't know. B'lieve he used to come down before I came to aunt;
said he'd got the pain then, and it's still there, and it'd be worse
if he put a foot the other side of Riversham. S'pose it's corns or
something. Is the road bad your way?"
"Not particularly," Nancy replied. "But I don't think it sounds like
corns. Sounds _almost_ as though he's meaning something he can't
tell you plain."
The conversation came to an end abruptly. Modestine, who, refreshed
by her long rest, had hitherto been in her most amiable mood,
suddenly decided to give trouble. The little lane had opened out
into a broad road and the children saw that, by turning to the left,
they would begin to climb towards a shoulder of the hills that had
had a particular fascination for them ever since they had left the
Priory. Modestine, however, for some reason known only to herself,
decided that she preferred the turn to the right, and, as the
children very well knew, once Modestine had made a decision it was
difficult to turn her from it.
"Don't give in, Mavis," Billy said. "Keep her head turned to the
left. Oh, I say, are you getting giddy? You'd better jump down and
I'll lead her."
Nancy helped Mavis to dismount, while Billy clung to the bridle,
laughing. Round and round he and Modestine went. Round and round,
each determined not to give in. They might have continued making
circles there for the rest of the day had not a Good Samaritan in the
shape of a clergyman come to their rescue.
"Trouble here with a donkey, eh?" he asked genially, seeing the
situation. "Suppose I see what can be done."
Billy very readily allowed him to take charge of Modestine.
"She's awfully strong, you know," he explained. "And _fearfully_
obstinate."
"Most donkeys are," the clergyman replied. "I've met them before."
He, however, was big and strong, and it was not very long before
Modestine was conquered.
"Thank you ever so much," Billy said gratefully. "She'll be all
right now; she soon gets over things, you know."
"She gets ideas and likes to carry them out, I suppose? And
generally they clash with your ideas, is that it?"
"Yes, that's it!" Billy replied with a grin, as he helped Mavis to
mount. "But she can't help it, of course, as she's a donkey."
"Of course not. If you are born a donkey why not live up to your
reputation, eh?" He continued walking with them as they began to
climb the hill, and chatted pleasantly.
Presently, he paused by the gate of a house that stood back from the
road, evidently his Vicarage, for at the side of the house was a
little church.
"Are you in a hurry?" he asked. "I was wondering whether you would
like to see some roses--I have a few. Bring the donkey and we'll
tether her to that little gate up the drive."
Mavis dismounted and they followed their new friend with ready
interest; seeing somebody else's garden was always interesting, no
matter how few the roses--it was something new, it was unknown
territory.
As they turned into the drive a car came flying along the road.
Nancy, the last of the little procession, paused with the instinct of
the country-bred child to glance at it. She gave an exclamation of
surprise.
"Billy," she said, "I believe that was Mr. Frampton."
Well, after all, had he not mentioned that he was coming to the
hills? Such a pity though to have missed him. Nancy was almost
sorry they had accepted the Vicar's invitation to see the roses.
The latter, after fastening Modestine to the gate he had mentioned,
led them past a shrubbery towards his roses.
"Oh! Oh!"
All they could do was to stand still and gasp at the unexpected glory
of the sight before them. A few roses, the Vicar had said! Why,
there must be hundreds of them, thousands even! Roses of every shape
and colour, tiny bushes simply covered with huge blossoms--beds and
beds of them and, enclosing the beds, great trellised crimson roses,
the sweetest and loveliest of them all.
The Vicar was delighted at their pleasure.
"You love roses?" he asked. "_I_, you know, shouldn't be happy
without a few--I've more over there, but these are the best. That's
a bed of cuttings through that arch. How many? Oh, about a
thousand, I think. That ground," he added, with a guilty sigh,
"should be growing potatoes, but--well, I'm a terror for roses, a
terror, my friends tell me."
He led them round the beds.
"That's a Hugh Dickson!" Nancy exclaimed. "Isn't he a beauty?"
The Vicar caught up her enthusiasm, marking with delight her human
interest. How many children would have cared enough to say "he"?
"You know him? You know something about roses?"
"Oh, no!" Nancy's tone was deprecating. "Only, we've got a few,
_really_ a few, at home. We've got a little garden each, and I have
'Hugh' and Billy has 'Independence Day' and Mavis has 'Betty.'"
The Vicar looked as though he could embrace them all.
"Splendid! Splendid!" he cried.
Then he slowly pulled out a knife and stood looking first at his
'Hugh Dickson,' then at Nancy, then again at the rose.
"It's my very best, my prize 'Hugh,' but you know something about
roses. Yes, you must have just one off him," and he stooped and cut
off a great crimson velvet fellow and handed it as though it had been
a pearl of great price to Nancy.
Nancy who could see what the gift had cost him could scarcely express
her thanks. She felt indeed that it was priceless; part of the
Vicar's self was surely there; so much of him must have been expended
on the growing of these roses.
"And now," he said, "a bunch from some of the others!"
Here and there amongst the rose beds he went with his knife. Red and
white and pink roses, lemon roses, apricot roses, sunset roses were
heaped into the children's outstretched arms. How could mere words
express what was in their hearts? Nancy and Mavis buried their faces
in the treasures they held. The Vicar stood and looked at the
picture. "The consummation of beauty!" he muttered. Then the
astonished children saw him pull out a pencil and scribble on his
cuff.
"A thought for my next sermon," he explained, noticing their
undisguised curiosity. "Dear me, I should be writing now! Ah, these
roses, these roses--they are apt to lead one astray from one's duty.
I must go. Come again any time you are passing, while there are
roses you shall have some."
Nancy, as she watched him walk reluctantly to the house, wondered
whether their own Vicar's sermons might not be less dull if he took
thoughts with him from a rose garden as this Vicar had done instead
of droning uninterestingly about lifeless things one could not
understand.
But now, what to do with the roses? That was their difficulty, as
they took the hot road again. To have refused them would have been
impossible, to let them wither in the sunshine would be wicked. They
wrapped them in Mavis' cloak and the child carried them in front of
her.
"I wish," said Nancy, "we could send them to the Prior and ask him to
put them on Dorothy's grave."
The very nicest thing possible to do with them, the others agreed.
They could buy a cardboard box when they came to a village.
So far, however, no village was in sight, nothing now but the steep
hill mounting higher and higher. Curious how often their thoughts
had strayed from the hills, from what they hoped to find beyond them,
but if interesting things cropped up what were you to do? Now,
however, as they slowly climbed, as the summit drew near, they felt
again in all its intensity, that great longing that had lured them
from their home. Oh, such a little while now and there would be
never, never any more longing--they would have at last _seen_!
CHAPTER X
AN ENCOUNTER ON THE HILLS
Now a strange thing happened on the top of the hills. It will be
remembered that the children's great desire was not only to climb and
explore the hills, but to see beyond them, and that the seeing beyond
them was perhaps more important than the hills themselves. It will
be remembered, too, that the forest country belonged to the familiar
everyday life, that until that glimpse they had had of it on the
lower hill the previous day, they had never even remotely associated
it with romance. Nevertheless, when, by happy leaps and bounds they
finally reached the top of the hill, only one child out of the four
had eyes for the Unknown, the others, Nancy, Billy, and Mavis turned
instinctively towards the distant forest! Think of it! To have
travelled so many long, long miles, to have had the desire burning in
your heart ever since you could remember, to see beyond the hills,
then, when at last the big world was before you to reject it for what
you could see any day of your life. Ah, but _could_ you? Could you,
when it was all around you, see it in all its beauty, could you see
it as the hill people saw it? Surely, if you were a hill person you
could not rest until you had explored that forest; reached to the
very heart of it. A curious pride in their forest country, in the
golden river at its feet awoke in the children's hearts--it was
theirs, their very own and they loved it. Was it possible that Daddy
Petherham loved it like this and that was why---- Ah, but they
_couldn't_ be like Daddy Petherham, who wanted only one thing! And
so, with very mixed feelings three young adventurers turned at last
to the world beyond the hills.
"Come and see!" Montague called eagerly. "There's hills and _hills_
over there! An' it's so funny--'cross on the other side of the
valley there's a village, and all the houses are climbing up the
hill. See, the people in one house can stand at their front door and
look down into the chimneys of the houses below."
The forest influence, however, was still hanging over the three
children. Why, that was nothing, they said, it was like that in the
forest, too; yes, and it was so steep that the coalman couldn't get
up to the houses; he just dumped the coal down on the cart-track that
ran through the forest and the people had to carry it up themselves
as best they could. Montague should see for himself when they got
home. So, after all, it was the Suffolk boy, just in these first
moments, who was most thrilled by the Unknown. Yet, gradually as
they stood taking in the scene, the magic of the hills asserted
itself again. The spaciousness around them, yes, this, indeed, was
something different from the forest country. And hills encircling
you, always hills. Beyond the village across the valley distant
wooded hills, densely wooded, yet, somehow, different from the hilly
forest. Yes, and, after all, there was a certain inexpressible
difference between the village where the houses grew one above the
other and the villages up in the forest. _What_ was the difference
and why, in spite of your love for your home country, did you feel
that you must go on exploring, penetrating further into the Unknown?
And would the hills want them, Nancy wondered? Suddenly, she
realized that they were strangers in a strange country. What, after
all, did they know of the hills? They might be cold and heartless
hills; they might not want children to come poking their noses into
their secrets. _Would_ they resent their coming, or would they open
their hearts in friendly fashion just as the dear forest country did,
just as the restless river did, year in year out?
Nancy's dreams (being Nancy she could not help getting beyond the
actual; everything had to be received into the imagination part of
her) were disturbed by Montague, who announced that he was so hungry
he knew he could not walk another step until they had had dinner.
Hungry? Even Nancy found that she was ravenous, and, settling where
they were, they immediately attacked the good things Mrs. White had
packed for them.
They discussed the roses while they ate. They were still quite
fresh, for, further down the hill, they had again found a tiny spring
and had drenched the stalks in it. They must cross the valley and
try to get a box at the village and post them to the Prior. Yes,
Nancy said, a pity to have to do that, for now that the hills were
attained her next desire was to see Gleambridge cathedral from this
side, and to do so, they knew they should keep straight ahead.
However, the flowers _must_ be sent; they were of first importance.
How hungry the hill air made you, how fortunate you had plenty to
eat. Impossible, however, for Nancy to concentrate entirely on the
food; not even on Mrs. White's delicious cheesecake.
"I think the wind's got inside me," she announced. "I feel like a
bird. Oh, it's a glorious thrilly feeling!"
Forgetting the cheesecake in her hand and Billy's proximity, she
stretched out her arms--the result was disastrous!
"It's a beastly sticky feeling," Billy giggled, "not a thrilly one!"
"These spasms come at such awkward times," Nancy apologized, as she
wiped Billy's head, first with paper, and then with her own
handkerchief. "I wish they would not make me do such bothersome
things."
"So do I!" Billy grinned. "I'll take jolly good care not to sit near
you next time I see a thrill coming."
Montague interrupted them.
"There's a car coming. Hear it? Let's see who can tell the make
first, Billy. Bet you _I_ will!"
"Bet you _I_ will!" Billy replied, taking up the challenge. "It's
coming up from that valley. Now! It's a--it's a----"
They all scrambled to their feet in their excitement.
"It's Mr. Frampton's!" Nancy cried. "I know it, 'cos it's the one I
saw this morning! Let's wave and stop him!"
She ran eagerly towards the car, which drew up immediately. A look
of intense relief replaced an anxious, worried frown on Dick
Frampton's face.
"Oh," he began, "I thought I should never----" He stopped abruptly.
"What are you little people doing here?" he added.
"Oh, just exploring the hills," Nancy explained carelessly. "And
this," she added, turning to Montague, "is a friend of ours." She
paused, as she saw the recognition between Dick and Montague. "Oh,
do you know him?" she added.
"I think we do, don't we, old chap? In fact, anybody who has lived
in Riversham during the last few months could hardly fail to know
him, eh, Montague?"
"'Tisn't _my_ fault I got to live there," was the reply, "an' _I_
don't want everybody to know me. I don't know them, an' I don't want
to, some of 'em--they're nearly as bad as aunts," he added bitterly.
Mavis looked at Montague somewhat anxiously. Mr. Frampton seemed to
hint at doings that had gained him notoriety. Was it possible that
this troublesome boy could have been naughty to their "libation"
friend? There was gentle reproach when she put the question to
Montague, and the latter hung his head in shame when he remembered
poaching expeditions with the blacksmith's son on Mr. Frampton's
estate.
Mavis turned to Dick with a fat little sigh. "I don't _think_ he
means to be quite so naughty," she explained. "He hasn't been
ti'some once since he's been with us. I s'pect it's Riversham makes
him naughty."
"I expect that's it." Dick's voice was grave, and he hid his
amusement at the motherly proprietorship in the child's voice.
"However," he added, "Mont and I are the best of friends. Nothing
really very terrible happened, you know."
Montague's eyes shone with gratitude to Dick for clearing his
character (though he realized he scarcely deserved it) before Mavis.
"Yes, we _are_ friends," he muttered, "and he's the only person in
Riversham I'll be sorry to leave--'cept the blacksmith's son."
Nancy, remembering their neglected lunch, enquired whether Mr.
Frampton had had any. No? Then would he join them? They had nearly
finished, but there was plenty left. Very readily Dick accepted the
invitation. He explained, as he settled down to Mrs. White's good
fare, that he had been too worried about some friends whom he had
missed to bother about lunch.
"I thought you looked bothered about something when I saw you," Nancy
exclaimed. "And didn't you find them?"
"Yes, I found them, but I spent the whole morning searching for
them--can't think how I missed them."
Nancy wondered why, if he had found them he should still have looked
worried, but she did not like to press the question.
"Are you having a holiday over here?" Montague enquired.
"Not exactly a holiday. I've just got a new job. I've been
appointed Warden of the Hills."
"Warden of the Hills? How interesting that sounds!" Nancy said.
"What does a warden have to do?"
"Keep an eye on the travellers in the neighbourhood. I suppose it
would have been more correct if I had said Warden of the Travellers
of the Hills."
"'Case they get into mischief, I s'pose?" Montague sighed.
"Well, that, of course. But more especially I have to place my car
and myself at their disposal. If they need help or advice or
guidance of any kind it's my job to be on the spot."
"What a ripping kind of life!" Billy exclaimed.
"But a little difficult," Nancy said thoughtfully. "How can you know
who's a traveller and who's a hill person? And how can you know when
they're in trouble?"
"It's my job to find out," Dick replied. "Now you, for instance," he
added carelessly, "are travellers, aren't you?"
"Yes," Billy replied guardedly. "But we're travellers with a
donkey," he added.
Dick nodded. Yet, as it was clearly impossible for everybody to ride
the donkey, he said, it was his duty as Warden to give some of them a
lift.
"But we're not going your way." Nancy's voice expressed a wish that
they were. "We want to see Gleambridge cathedral from the hills."
"That could be arranged quite easily," Dick replied. "I shall
probably be going that way presently." He paused. It was not as
easy as he had supposed to keep an eye on these little travellers.
He wished to goodness he could persuade them to leave the donkey at
the village opposite and let him take them about in the car. He made
the suggestion diplomatically, baiting it with proposals that should
have brought ready acceptance to the lips of little adventurers who
wanted to see the world; wonderful descriptions he gave them of
places they should see. They hesitated, of course. What else could
they do when the sound of those places, their very names made you hot
to see them? The thought, too, of travelling with their "libation"
friend--oh, it was hard to resist! Yet, when you had said "Travels
with a donkey"? Besides, would flying about in a car really be
adventuring? _Could_ adventure find you in a car? Ah, no, they
decided, cars belonged to the everyday world. And again, there was
poor little Ladybird-Modestine. Imagine leaving her at an unknown
stable. They shook their heads sorrowfully. Twice in one day to
have had to refuse tempting proposals! Life, they began to think,
was not as simply straightforward and easy as they had imagined it.
There were decisions to be made. How curious that the difficulties
should be kind of _nice_ difficulties.
They compromised by promising to accept short lifts occasionally if
Mr. Frampton happened to be going their way.
"You won't think it's because we wouldn't like to travel with you,
will you?" Nancy asked. "But, you see--oh, it's not easy to explain."
"I quite understand," Dick assured her, for he had scarcely hoped
that they would accept his offer. "Still, the car is there,
remember, if ever you should need it--and so am I. Do you know," he
continued, changing the subject, "I seem to have been smelling roses
all the time. Is it my imagination?"
"No, it's real roses." Mavis unfolded her cloak and held out the
roses for Dick to smell. "A Rose-Vicar gave us them."
"A Rose-Vicar?"
They explained their meeting with him, and how he had taken them
round his garden.
"Ah, that accounts for it!" Dick's face expressed the clearing up of
some mystery.
"'Counts for what?" Nancy was mystified.
"Oh--er--nothing much. But what on earth are you going to do with
these glorious roses? They'll die in this heat."
And then a bright idea came to Nancy. As Mr. Frampton was evidently
going in the direction of the Priory, why not, instead of having them
hanging about in the post all night, ask him to take them to the
Prior? Would it be too presumptuous?
"You said, didn't you, that you had to help travellers?" she began
somewhat hesitatingly.
"Certainly I did," Dick replied promptly. He listened hopefully.
"Well, it's the roses. Last night we stopped at a Priory and the
Prior was so dear and kind to us--not a scrap preachy or religious,
'cept in a nice way, and the Priory rules are that you pay only what
you put in the offertory-bag on Sundays, and, you see, if you're
children it's so little."
"And we ate lots!" Billy interrupted.
"Yes, we did, and Mrs. White, that's a nurse who lives there, simply
crammed our basket with that d'licious lunch we've eaten. But it's
not _only_ that, it's the Prior. He made us so happy and he's lost
his little daughter, Dorothy, and we thought p'raps he'd like the
roses for her grave, an' so, please, if you're going that way, would
you mind taking them to him with our love and tell him they're for
Dorothy?"
Now what was Dick to do? He had had no intention whatever of
returning to the Priory. His idea was, since they would not travel
in his car, to keep as close to them as possible without hampering
them or interfering with that sense of freedom and adventure that was
evidently so important to them. To be sure it would be a slow game;
he would have to spend hours sitting in the car by the roadside, but
what did that matter? It would all be part of _his_ adventure? And
now here was Nancy herself frustrating his plans, for how could he
refuse her appeal? To be sure he could get to the Priory and back in
a very short time; nevertheless, he would have been better satisfied
not to have lost sight of them again.
However, the children must not know of the difficulty they had placed
him in. Yes, certainly he would deliver them to the Prior with their
message; better tuck them up in the car at once out of this scorching
sun, he suggested. While he and Nancy wrapped them up in leaves and
put them away in the car the others packed up the remains of the
lunch--not that there was much to pack now! And then what next to do?
"Let's stay a little longer," Nancy suggested.
Why hurry? It was hot and they had been tramping all the morning.
And, after all, were they not now in the very heart of the hills,
with hills and hills and hills unfolding all around them? And here,
too, was a companion who didn't worry you with questions, who
accepted just what you chose to tell him, who, in fact, seemed to
think it the most natural thing in the world that you should want to
seek adventure; should want to explore. And how interesting he was;
different from the Prior, of course. The latter raced you all over
the world at a delightfully breathless speed; Mr. Frampton told you
jolly things about Oxford; he took you, too, to France and
Switzerland and Italy. This Wardenship job, they thought, must be
his first one, perhaps a kind of holiday job to help towards his
Oxford expenses, for evidently he was returning there in the autumn.
However, they could not question him; besides, they were too
interested listening to the stories he had to tell them of funny
little out-of-the-way places in Switzerland and Italy, of people and
grottos and glaciers and mountains. Oh, would they _ever_ grow up,
Billy groaned, and be able to see for themselves? The world seemed
to be simply chock full of interest, and you had just to sit quietly
at home and wait.
"Will there be time to get it _all_ in before we're old?" he sighed.
Heaps of time, Dick assured him (as to the "sitting quietly at home,"
he said nothing, but smiled). The years would slip away. Why, it
seemed only the other day that he himself was a boy of their
age--getting into all sorts of mischief, he added, with a smile for
Montague.
"An' living with an aunt who only liked good boys?"
"Well, no, but even parents can't stand too much mischief, you know.
They sometimes wonder how you ever came to be their child."
"Do they?" Montague asked with interest. "'Spect boys'd get on best
without any grown-ups at all," he added. "Then nobody'd be
worried--not the grown-ups or the boys."
"Boarding-school," Dick replied thoughtfully, "isn't a bad place, you
know."
"I'm going to boarding-school next term," Billy announced proudly.
"Wish I could come with you," Montague muttered. "Then my guardian
wouldn't have to learn about boys and how to be a parent to them.
Guess he'll have his hands full enough with Jocelyne."
If only this might happen, and if he might return with Billy to
Nestcombe for the holidays, life would indeed be worth living.
However, the hours were slipping away, and here they were forgetting
the world that lay before them. They made their preparations for
departure hastily.
"If you're taking the Gleambridge road you must keep to the left,"
Dick said. "You'll get down into a valley again a little further on,
then you'll come to a village called Barsdon. Why not stay the night
there--or had you any other plans?"
They confessed that nothing definite had been arranged. They had not
decided whether to sleep out of doors or to find some cottage. Did
Mr. Frampton think there would be a nice one at Barsdon?
"I know the very place," was Dick's reply. "Look here, leave
Modestine at the inn--it's this end of the village--then keep
straight on, and at the corner of the next street you'll find a
cottage standing back from the road. A Mrs. Charsfield lives there;
just tell her I've sent you and she'll take you in."
They thanked him, and, with a wave of the hand, set off in the
direction indicated.
"See you again soon, perhaps!" they shouted.
"Quite soon, I hope," Dick called in reply. "I'll be in Barsdon this
evening. Look out for me!" Reluctantly he turned towards his car.
"Wish I could go with them now," he thought. "They're such little
people to wander about alone--and so trusting. However, they're
pretty independent, so probably no harm will come to them."
CHAPTER XI
THE FIGHT
Meanwhile, the children were travelling towards Barsdon. They were
in high spirits, for the long rest had refreshed them, while the
invigorating air exhilarated them. There was no shade whatever now
from the heat of the sun, but what did that matter when the hill air
swept through you? It set your feet dancing along the road, and the
miles would have been left swiftly behind had not Modestine willed
otherwise.
"Can't you feel it dancing through you, Modestine?" Nancy
expostulated. "Anybody'd think you were an old lady of about a
hundred to see you plodding along."
To this and other entreaties Modestine turned a deaf ear. Why hurry
over the hills, she seemed to say--it was the hills you wanted to
come to, well, here they are. And wasn't it views you wanted? Well,
where can you hope to find anything more beautiful than the country
that is sweeping in hill and dale around you? Adventure you ask for?
Well, let adventure come over the hills to meet you; why go forth to
seek it? Oh, Modestine, you who have youth in your veins, do you not
know that youth cannot stand still? It is old age, Modestine, that
sits with folded hands awaiting that which may happen.
On and on over the hills, each child taking a turn with the
troublesome little animal while the others raced on ahead. Then, in
the late afternoon they came to the road that led down into the
valley.
Nancy offered to ride Modestine down the hill, and the others decided
to have a race. Montague was for giving Mavis a start, but Billy
advised him not to.
"She'd leave you a mile behind, nobody can run as fast as Mavis.
'Sides, it's too far to have a proper race; let's run just as we want
to, and never mind about winning."
Montague agreed to this, for the thought of being beaten by a little
girl was not pleasant, especially when you wanted to shine yourself
in the eyes of that small person.
"We'll wait for you at the bottom, Nancy," Mavis shouted, "'nless
Modestine changes her mind and decides to run, too!"
"All right," Nancy replied, waving her hand as, with a shout, they
set off down the hill.
Modestine's gentle amble fitted in with her mood. She was in no
hurry to leave the hill top, and now that she was alone the
imagination part of her gently pushed aside the everyday, practical
side of her nature and led her across this lovely hill country. And
presently she began to feel no longer a stranger in a strange land;
seeing the hills with her imagination eyes she began to feel near to
them. Would she some day understand them as she did her own dear
forest and river? The shouts and laughter of the other children
coming distantly seemed to be a part of the joyousness of the hills.
The hills, she told herself fancifully, were laughter. The winds
that blew across them voiced that laughter, and she and the others
were just little wild creatures of the earth who echoed the laughter
brimming all around them.
She no longer questioned the hills as she jogged happily down the
road. She wanted to laugh, but to laugh alone would be too stupid
she thought, so instead, a song that Aunt Letty had taught her
bubbled from her lips:
"I will arise and go now and go to Inisfree,
And a small cabin build there of clay and wattles made
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee
And live alone in the bee-loud glade."
"I'd love the bee-loud glade," she thought, "but I don't _think_ I'd
live alone--I couldn't just talk to bees _all_ day."
She continued humming the song.
"And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes
dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the
cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer and noon a purple glow.
And evening full of the linnets' wings."
"I've seen a _blue_ glow," Nancy thought, "but not a purple one. And
it was swallows' wings the evening was full of, last night, not
linnets'. 'Spect the man who wrote that would have made a song last
night if he'd been with us in the Priory garden. I think I'll try to
make one myself about--about the swallows and children picking up the
joy-drops splashed about by a Prior. I'd like to stop and write it
now--'spect I'd better not. They would think I was lost, so
"I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand in the roadway, or on the pavements grey
I hear it in the deep heart's core."
Nancy suddenly pulled up Modestine sharply. In spite of her delight
in the hills, all day she had felt that there was something missing.
Now, as she sang of one whose heart ached for the sound of water
while he trod the dull pavements of London, she suddenly knew what
was lacking in this hill country.
"Oh," she thought passionately, "it's the sound of the dear old Gleam
I miss. _I_ can hear it in my heart's core, I can hear the tide
coming in, I can hear the wind playing with the waves."
How she loved water, how even the memory of the sound of it stirred
her. With a laugh at herself she shook the reins and Modestine
jogged slowly on. Nancy's thoughts wandered back to the song she had
been singing. Curious how little the words had conveyed to her until
to-day; singing it here in the hills had made it alive for her.
"I shall call it my Hill Song," she told herself. "I'll tell Aunt
Letty about it."
Ah no, she could not do that she remembered, for since Aunt Letty had
ceased to be engaged to Uncle Jim she had not sung it, for it was one
that he had given her. Nancy remembered too how they used to laugh
over the song together.
"Nine lovely scenty bean rows they were going to have between them,"
she sighed, "and we were all going to stay with them in the little
clay cabin, though Uncle Jim said it might end in some of us having
to sleep in the bee-loud glade, else we'd be a bit congested."
Ah yes, _that_ verse had always been "alive." Nancy sighed as she
remembered the happy days when Aunt Letty had sung it.
"I wish," she thought, "people wouldn't go and be miserable and not
marry when they really want to--it's so worrying. I do wish I could
let Uncle Jim know Aunt Letty wants him--I _know_ he'd come like a
shot."
A bend in the road showed her that the foot of the hill was near; the
children, scampering along, had almost reached it. Crossing the
valley was a little ford, and near the water Nancy could see a couple
of big lads crouching one on either side of the road. She strained
forward, puzzled as to what they could possibly be doing.
Instinctively she felt that they were up to no good. A moment later
she knew.
Mavis, who, of course, was the first to reach the ford, disregarding
the stepping-stones, was about to leap over it when the lads pulled a
rope they had stretched across the road. Nancy saw the child trip
and fall full length across the ford. Fortunately the water was
shallow, but Nancy in her anger and indignation, and fearing that her
little sister might be hurt, cried out so fiercely that Modestine
literally bounded down the hill.
Mavis, with her handkerchief held to her pretty shapely little nose,
ran towards her with tears in her eyes.
"It's my nose that's bleeding, an' my dress is all filthy and
muddy--nasty, horrid boys!"
"Beastly skunking cads!" Nancy's words expressed what she was
feeling as she slipped from Modestine to comfort the child. "But
see, Billy's settling them, and Monty's helping!"
Billy, indeed, was "settling them."
"You rotten dirty hounds!" he cried. "Come on!"
"Ought we to--to let them fight? They're ever so much bigger than
Billy and Monty," Mavis sobbed.
"We can't stop Billy, you know we can't, once he begins. And he does
know about proper fighting, and I daresay they don't."
Billy, usually so sunny tempered, so good-natured, was a difficult
person to deal with once his slow temper was roused, and that it was
thoroughly roused to-day was evident. Both he and Montague had
witnessed the cowardly trick played on Mavis, though they were too
far off to save her.
"We'll take one each," he had cried, as together they dashed forward.
"I'll take that biggest lout----"
"No, me--I'll take the biggest." Montague was just one fierce desire
to hurt terribly those who had hurt his little friend.
"No--me!" Billy panted. "I can fight."
"So can I," Montague persisted.
Billy, however, was quickest, and made for the taller lad, who stood
waiting with a smile of derision on his face, for the small boy
dashing on to him with a challenge bursting angrily from his lips.
Nancy and Mavis clung together watching the fight. Each boy had
thrown off his coat and was fighting desperately. Montague slogged
into and pummelled his opponent, but, though all his passionate young
heart was in the fight, it was clearly not a fair one. Billy, on the
other hand, to his adversary's evident surprise and chagrin, was by
no means getting the worst of it, for, thanks to his father, who had
taught him both boxing and Ju Jitsu, he had science to help him,
whereas the country lad had nothing but brute strength. Every
movement of Billy's lithe young body was prejudged, every thrust was
true. Presently, watching his opportunity, with a sudden swift
movement of arm and leg, he brought his opponent heavily to the
ground. The lad lay on the ground howling with rage and pain, but as
he made no effort to renew the contest Billy left him and ran to
Montague's assistance.
"Go away!" Montague panted. "_I'll_ manage him!"
Billy hesitated. Clearly Montague could _not_ manage the lad, yet,
understanding his spirit, he was loth to interfere. The lad,
however, decided the matter. Through the tail of his eye he had
watched Billy's performance, and was in no mind to suffer the
treatment the youngster had meted out to his confederate, so with a
last cuff at Montague's head he slunk away.
The four coats lay jumbled together at the side of the ford. The lad
lurched towards them, picked up his own and was about to turn away
when something lying on the ground near Billy's attracted his
attention. He glanced round furtively. Nobody was watching him so,
stooping hurriedly, he picked up what he had seen, and, thrusting it
into his pocket, called his companion and bolted. Something in his
voice aroused the latter, and, pausing only for his coat, he, too,
slunk away and the children were once more alone.
The next quarter of an hour was a busy time for Nancy, what with
Mavis' bleeding nose and two gory and dishevelled boys to be attended
to.
"It's my fwock I mind more'n my nose," Mavis said pathetically, while
Nancy was bathing the latter with the clear water from the ford.
"It's a horrid, muddy patch, and I'll be the only dirty one now."
For Mrs. White had seen to it that Montague started out that morning
with spotless clothes.
It would probably brush off, Nancy assured her, when it was dry, and,
having done the best she could for Mavis, she turned her attention to
the boys.
Poor Montague was a sorry spectacle, and Billy was little better.
Nancy washed away the blood and cleansed the broken skin, but for the
bruises she could do nothing.
Billy, who had regained his happy spirits, began to laugh at himself
and Montague.
"We don't look handsome, either of us, but we'll just have to pull
our hats down over our eyes and glare at anybody who stares at us!"
Montague, however, was unaccountably silent, and it was not until
they had started off again and Barsdon was in sight that he voiced
his trouble.
"Billy beat the fellow he was fighting an' _I_ didn't," he rumbled in
a voice so low that they could scarcely hear it. "But," he added,
and here apparently lay the sting, "he needn't have offered to help
me." Oh, it was like gall to have your pride so wounded when you
felt just one fierce, primitive impulse to hurt the cad who had
injured Mavis.
"Oh, but, Monty, you were awfully brave!" Mavis cried impulsively.
"Billy, you see, has been taught how to fight--but look how you
slogged into that creature! I 'spect he had some bruises."
"Was he _bleeding_?" Montague asked hopefully.
"Yes, he was," Mavis replied with a little shudder.
"Bleeding as much as me?"
"Well--nearly," Mavis temporized.
Montague's face cleared. Mavis had said that he was brave, and if
she thought well of him nothing else mattered. Nevertheless he found
himself longing for the day when he could fight as Billy had done,
and when Billy offered either to teach him boxing himself "when they
got home" (how persistently that little phrase seemed to crop up!),
or to ask his father to do so, Montague's momentary bitterness
vanished, and he began to take an interest in life again.
And now the village was reached, and the children began to look about
for the inn. They saw the sign swinging slightly in the breeze a
short way down the street, but at the entrance to the village was
something more attractive in children's eyes than an inn, and that
was a sweet shop.
Suddenly, Billy, who was feeling parched and thirsty after the fight,
felt an overwhelming desire for acid drops.
"I haven't bought my weekly sweets yet," he said. "I should think we
could spare twopence, couldn't we?"
The others agreeing that twopence would not be an impossible
extravagance, Billy entered the tiny shop and Nancy accompanied him.
"I've got threepence loose in my pocket," he whispered, "but hadn't I
better change half a crown? I may want the coppers to tip the ostler
at the inn."
Nancy nodded and Billy dived into his coat pocket for his purse, but
no purse was to be found. The poor boy's face went white.
"Nancy, I can't find the purse," he whispered hurriedly. "I put it
in this pocket, didn't I?"
"Yes, you did. Let me feel," Nancy replied anxiously. She slipped
her hand into his pocket, but could find no purse; she felt in all
his other pockets, but in none of them was a purse to be found.
So far the woman who was serving them had not noticed their
consternation, for she had been busy digging out the acid drops, but
now as she handed the sweets to Billy she was struck by the two
white, agitated little faces. Was anything the matter, she enquired
kindly? Were they ill?
"No, thank you," Billy replied in confusion. "It's--it's nothing
very much."
His fingers trembled as they extricated two pennies from the usual
medley a boy's trousers pocket contains, but he was too proud to
share his trouble with a total stranger. Fearing further questions
he flung the money down and hurried out of the shop.
"Let's get into a side road quick," he said, "so I can take my coat
off and shake it."
Mavis and Montague looked at him in surprise, and Nancy explained
matters as they hurried after Billy. Suddenly Mavis paused and
called to Billy. "Oh, Billy," she said, her voice trembling with
indignation, "I know who's got it--it's that wicked boy, the one who
fought Monty. I saw him pick up something, and I 'member he looked
kind of scared--oh, I know it's him!"
The children looked at each other. No use to hurry now in order to
turn the coat inside out, it was all too evident that Mavis was
right, and that a search would be fruitless.
"I've just one penny left," Billy replied simply. "_Now_ what is to
be done?"
"I've got some money!" Montague dived into his pocket and produced
fivepence-halfpenny.
"An' I've twopence in my pocket!" said Nancy.
"An' I've twopence, too, in mine!" Mavis added.
Tenpence-halfpenny all told! What a sum for four little people to
face the world with. Well, no use taking Modestine to the inn now;
impossible, too, to present yourselves as prospective boarders at
Mrs. Charsfield's pretty cottage (they knew it at once from Dick's
description) with only tenpence-halfpenny in your pockets.
They turned reluctantly up a narrow lane and even Billy's heart was
heavy within him. Here they were, four children and a donkey in
unknown country, almost penniless. The thought of sleeping out of
doors, of course did not trouble them; but for Dick's suggestion they
would probably have slept out to-night in any case. But to sleep out
of doors from choice was one thing, to sleep out because you had only
the price of one very meagre meal between you was something quite
different.
And then what a tremendous sum of money to have lost! Practically
seventeen shillings, for, thanks to well-filled baskets, their
expenses during the two days had been very small. And seventeen
shillings was a small fortune in the eyes of these children, whose
weekly pocket-money was limited because their parents held the belief
that the modern habit of giving the child an unlimited allowance
robbed it of a certain happiness that is known only to those children
who have to think twice before they indulge themselves. A blasé
child who was unable to enjoy the simple pleasures they had taught
their children to enjoy was the pet abomination of Mr. and Mrs.
Stafford, and the children's little hoard of nineteen shillings had
been the result of much combined savings of presents from relatives,
saved, not originally for this adventure, but "Just in _case_ we
should want to do anything nice with it."
And now it had gone, every penny of it, and if they were to continue
their travels they would have to contrive some means of raising
money. To be sure there was Mr. Frampton, and to whom should you
turn if not to the Warden of the Travellers in the Hills? If they
hung about the village they would be sure to meet him presently; he
would be glad to see them they knew, but, well, if they confided in
him would he not either advise them to return home or else offer to
pay their expenses himself?
"I don't see how we _can_ tell him," Billy said. "It'd look like
cadging."
"But he said he had to help travellers. Wouldn't he be hurt if we
didn't let him help us in some way--not to _give_ us money, of
course, but just, but just----"
"There'd be _no_ way he could help us out of this 'cept with money or
paying for us everywhere, which would be the same thing," Billy
persisted. "And I'm sure he's not meant to help in that way if he is
Warden--it's lifts and accidents and things of that kind he's here
for. We've got to find a way out ourselves or go back home."
And so the matter was left while they looked about for a camping
place. Presently, a wood at the end of a narrow cart-track on the
right seemed to suggest itself, and here they decided to spend the
night. Their spirits began to rise a little as they entered the
wood. After all, there was an excitement about camping out of doors,
and they would build a fire and have tea. Tea? How stupid, why had
nobody thought of buying a loaf in Barsdon? They could at least run
to that. Billy volunteered to go back and buy one while the others
were unpacking. Bread and acid drops for tea, and the scraps left
over from lunch! They laughed at the novelty of the fare. They
began to think after all, their plight was not so utterly desperate
while even a few pence stood between them and--well, not perhaps
starvation, but giving up that which they had set their hearts upon.
"We'll find a way out," Billy called back to them, "so don't any of
you worry!" He paused as he reached the road. "Guess we'll have to
call it part of our adventure; it's the kind of thing that
adventurers have to put up with, isn't it?" and with a laugh he set
off down the hill.
CHAPTER XII
"FAIREST MASONS"
Billy did not take long to fetch the bread. He arrived at the wood
in a somewhat breathless condition.
"I ran," he explained, "'cos I saw Mr. Frampton's car outside the
inn."
Nancy was troubled. She wished Billy did not think it so necessary
to avoid him. She was quite sure she would have lingered rather than
hurried if she had known he was near, for after the troubles of the
afternoon a grown-up friend would have been so comforting. Besides,
he had evidently hoped to meet them in Barsdon. To be sure they had
not promised anything definite, but Nancy was quite sure that he
would be disappointed at missing them.
"Billy, _do_ say that if he comes this way we may stop him," she
pleaded. "We needn't tell him about the purse."
Billy, after she had pointed out her reasons, agreed.
"He's sure _not_ to come though--that lane would be the limit for a
car."
Meanwhile, tea, such as it was, awaited them. They divided up the
remains of the lunch before they attacked the loaf, as they would
need as much of the latter as their present hunger would allow for
breakfast. Acid drops, they found, filled up corners, though
everyone still owned to a dreadful thirst after the meal was
finished. Further up the hill they could see the chimneys of a
cottage, and the boys volunteered to go for water, while the girls
were unpacking blankets ready for the night. A whole brimming,
welcome pailful they brought on their return, and after they had
drunk their fill and had replenished the lemonade bottle there was
still a deep draught for poor little Modestine, who sighed her
contentment when she had sucked up the last cool drop.
Then, after the pail had been returned, they sat round and discussed
things. Wonderful what a difference a meal makes. On the other side
of it there had been terror for some of them at the thought of their
penniless condition; now, with bread and acid drops between them and
their loss, they could turn their thoughts from it and think only of
how best to overcome the difficulty.
"If we could spare a penny for tin-tacks," Montague said, "I could
make some little picture-frames out of that young elm-wood over
there. I used to make frames for Jocelyne and me for our cigarette
cards in Suffolk, but she's too grown-up for them now. I could use a
stone for a hammer."
"Oh, and I've thought of something!" Mavis cried. "I can run in a
race!"
"Run in a race?" Nancy repeated.
"Yes. While you and Billy were in the sweet shop, Monty and me were
reading a bill in the window about a Flower Show at Barsdon. It's
to-morrow, and there's a race for little girl visitors, _an' the
prize is seven and sixpence_!"
Seven and sixpence! Why, it was a fortune! But would Mavis mind
running? Of course she would get the prize.
"Yes, I'll do it," Mavis replied. "But can we spare sixpence for the
entrance fee?"
Certainly they could. The loaf had cost fourpence and that left them
with sixpence-halfpenny. Mavis should have the sixpence, and the
halfpenny--well, one _could_ not ask for a halfpennyworth of
tin-tacks; they must be bought after the race; nevertheless, the
halfpenny must not be despised; it was something, they felt, to have
at least that to face the world with.
Everybody's spirits rose considerably. With the almost certain
prospect of seven-and-sixpence in view what was there to worry about
now? Seven-and-sixpence, carefully spent, would last a long time,
especially if they gave up all idea of sleeping in cottages. Was not
a blanket in a wood or near a haystack good enough for anybody?
Would you not be robbing yourselves of many adventurous hours if you
slept under a stuffy roof when the big night-world awaited you?
Montague returned to the subject of the frames. He would prepare
them, he said, in the morning; it would take very little time to tack
them together later in the day.
"Someday," he added, looking at Mavis, "I'll make you some for your
dolls' house. Would you like them?"
For her dolls' house? Indeed she would. With the mention of the
dolls' house a shadow crossed the little girl's mind. It suddenly
seemed so long since she had played with it; since she had touched
any of her dear toys. It would be so nice--but, with a little sigh,
she pushed the regret away from her.
Nancy began to think of sleeping arrangements.
"Shall we just sleep on the ground?" she asked. "Nicolette, you
remember, builded herself a lodge of leaves and branches."
"Who's Nicolette?" Montague enquired.
"Nicolette? Oh, she's in a book. She and Aucassin were in love with
each other, only he's a king's son and she's poor, so they can't
marry at first. We think Aucassin a bit of a muff--he weeps too
much, but Nicolette was brave. She had all sorts of adventures and
she lived in a wood."
"She had a much worse time than we've had," Billy interrupted.
"Prisons and all sorts of things."
"Yes, she did. But she escaped and builded the lodge of saplings and
made a tapestry of leaves and flowers. There's such a pretty picture
of her building it in Aunt Letty's book."
"Does an aunt let you read her books--_touch_ 'em?" Montague enquired
with awe.
"Why, of course she does! We all go into her room on Sunday mornings
and have lots of fun. Sometimes she tells us stories, but if she's
sleepy then we each have a book. You have to have _very_ clean hands
'cos it's generally her special books you like best."
Montague stared in silence. This Aunt Letty of whom they talked so
much sounded so altogether different from his conception of an aunt
that he found it difficult to picture her. Indeed, if she had not
been an aunt he might almost have felt enough interest in her to wish
to see her some day.
"An' you _like_ going into her room?" he asked presently. "Why, of
course!" Mavis spoke a little impatiently. "She's our Aunt Letty!"
So tiresome of Monty not to understand what that implied.
Again Montague grew silent. Would he want to go to _his_ aunt's
room? Would she want him? Wouldn't she be horrified if he touched
any of her possessions? And this aunt played with them--that meant
there might be a noise in the house before breakfast.
"If there's a noise comes from my room before eight o'clock, well, I
know it!" he growled.
Poor Montague! How different his life had been from theirs, they
thought, and, until they had met him, they had simply accepted all
the love and happiness that made up their days as their natural
right. Now they were beginning to wonder--a little.
However, they were straying from the point; sleeping arrangements had
not yet been decided. Montague voted eagerly for the lodge, or
bower, for the girls; he and Billy would build them one--one as good
as Nicolette's. But she and Nancy must help, too, Mavis declared;
the boys could make the framework of boughs while she and Nancy wove
a tapestry of leaves.
Now indeed was sleeping out of doors transformed into an adventure.
Romance, with the building of that bower that was to rival fair
Nicolette's, entered into the little wood; each in their different
way felt it as they gathered armfuls of dry bracken or cut down
slender saplings; but Montague most of all. To build a bower for
Mavis! Why, it was like being a knight serving a princess. And he
would guard her; he would sleep near her door presently and guard her
from enemies just as a real knight would do. Not for a moment would
he compare himself with Aucassin, who sat at home and wept; he was
sure, however, that Nicolette was not more fairly beautiful than his
little princess. "Fairest mason," Nancy said they called Nicolette
in the book; well, that was what Mavis was, he thought stoutly, as he
watched her artistic little fingers skilfully weaving a covering of
leaves for the framework. "Very pretty it was and very dainty and
well furnished, both outside and in, with a tapestry of flowers and
of leaves." That, Nancy said, was Nicolette's bower. Yes, but
nobody, not Nicolette herself (though she did turn out to be a
princess after all) could wish for a daintier bower than this that
had been "builded" by four modern children who knew how to find
romance or adventure in the most trivial incident.
Time had passed rapidly during the building of the lodge. Evening
was coming on, yet, though the trees shut out much of the daylight,
it was still too light for them to sleep. And now that their
preparations for the night were completed they all began to realize
how very, very tired they were. The girls lay down in their dainty
bower, and the boys sprawled together on a bed of bracken outside,
yet nobody felt that bedtime had come. The evening was so warm that
blankets were not needed yet; indeed, had it not been for an
occasional breeze, the girls would have found their lodge almost
stifling.
Though they could not sleep everybody was too tired to bother to
talk. Nancy's imagination, scarcely ever at rest, carried her to
Nestcombe and Nestley. Suddenly, a great longing for the familiar
places swept over her. Their playroom, the paddock, the garden with
its beloved trees, the high wall at the bottom of the garden, where
they so often sat and gazed across the river--the river itself. How
dear every corner of the home-place was. And yet, when they had had
home all around them they had accepted it just as they accepted the
love and happiness that was theirs. Why should coming to the hills
awaken your heart to these things? When you were in the Land of your
Desire, oh, it was curious that home should jostle that longed-for
country into the background. And then there was the forest that
would not let you forget it. Nancy closed her eyes, and saw it as it
would be now in the twilight hour and in her imagination she listened
to the great silence that was as much a part of the forest as the
trees themselves. A wonderful silence that was filled with little
still sounds and whispers, the stirring of night things, the
breathing of sleepers, oh, a friendly, home-like silence. She seemed
to hear too the sharp metallic clot-clot of the horse's hoofs ringing
on the forest road--that, too, was simply part of the friendly
silence.
And then again there was the smoke from the lime kilns high up in the
forest, yes, and the smell of the smoke, the smell of the forest, oh,
it was all home. What comfort even in the thought of those forest
scents and sounds. To be sure, there was a whispering here amongst
the tree-tops, yet it was not the familiar whispering of the forest;
there was, indeed, almost a loneliness about it. Yes, deep in her
heart Nancy owned to loneliness (Mavis, too, was feeling it, Nancy
knew from the way the little fingers clung to hers), and remembering
the troubles of the evening--she had forgotten the prospective
seven-and-sixpence--disappointment came to keep the loneliness
company. These hills that they had come out to see with hope so high
in their hearts, what had they offered them more than the forest?
They were lovely, oh yes; this afternoon they had seemed all
laughter, but what a long, long time ago that seemed. And was there
not a kind of mockery in the laughter? Would the forest, if children
had come adventuring into its heart as they had come to the hills,
would the forest have been so cruel? To offer so much, to pretend to
take you right into its secret heart, then to thrust you out again.
Ah, surely the forest would not do that!
And yet, and yet, there was Monty. What had the forest given to him?
Wasn't it there, at the foot of the forest, that he had been so
unhappy? Love abounded for them up and down the forest, besides in
their own home, but Monty--why, wasn't it here in the hills that he
was finding happiness? Wasn't there a kind of different look about
him--something Nancy did not in the least know how to describe except
by the word "happiness." Though his poor little body had been so
battered about, some other more important part was receiving healing.
What an April girl was Nancy, what a child of moods. Disappointment
and depression left her when she arrived at this stage in her
reflections. She sat up suddenly and peeped out of the bower.
"Monty, tell me again what your guardian said about courage and
life?" she demanded.
"He said, 'it's not life that matters, but the courage you bring to
it,' an' he said he'd have to make a personal application of that
sentence when he'd got Jocelyne and me living with him. _I_ dunno
what he means."
"Do you think, Billy," Nancy said, "it means _us_ an' our travels?
Could it mean that we mustn't mind losing our money?"
Yes, Billy replied, that certainly was his interpretation of the
quotation. Not to mind things going wrong, or, at least, not to be
turned from your purpose by the first difficulties that arose, that
in his eyes was courage. Nevertheless, Billy was feeling somewhat
uncomfortable in his mind. Ought they, he was wondering, to go on?
If he had been alone he would have had no doubts or hesitations;
little setbacks could not even have suggested giving in. But there
were the girls. Was it fair to ask them to go on, perhaps to face
worse things than had happened this afternoon? He even had a slight
twinge of conscience concerning Mavis running in the race; he would
have preferred to run himself, but he knew quite well that there was
less certainty of him carrying off the much needed prize--besides,
the race was for little girls. Yet, what ought he to do?
"I've been thinking," he blurted out presently. "If there's anyone
of us doesn't want to go on, if--if anybody would rather go home,
I'll send that telegram to the Prior to-morrow, or if we see Mr.
Frampton ask him to take us home. If one goes then we'll all go.
Let's decide now at once."
Nobody spoke a word in reply.
"Say quick if you'd like to go home. I'll not blame anybody if you
do--you've been so plucky all the time, and I promise I'll never say
you weren't sports not to go on. Which shall we do, Nancy?"
It was sleepy little Mavis, however, who decided. "Let's wait until
after the race, an' if I don't win the prize, then we'd better go
home, hadn't we?"
"But you know you'll win it. You always do!"
"Well then, if we've got seven-and-sixpence we'll be rich, and it'll
be all right."
Billy sighed with relief, and again silence fell between them. And
again their thoughts went wandering. To the hills and the big open
world? No, not when the night is pushing loneliness towards you.
"When the young eyes of the day
Open on the dusk, and see
All the shadows fade away
Till the sun shines merrily,
Then I leave my bed and run
Out to frolic in the sun.
Through the sunny hours I play
Where the grass is warm and long;
I pluck the daisies, and the gay
Buttercups, or join the song
Of the birds that here and there
Sing upon the sunny air.
But when night comes, cold and slow.
When the sad moon climbs the sky,
When the whispering wind says, 'Boh,
Little Boy,' and makes me cry,
By my mother I am led
To my home and to my bed."
The daylight called them to the Unknown, but the night sounds
whispered in each little adventurer's heart the one word "Mother."
Just to see her, how comforting it would be. Yet, though they longed
for her, none of them, not even Nancy, had yet awakened to _her_
point of view--that awakening was to come later.
In Montague's heart, too, there must have been loneliness, for,
presently, the other three heard a small voice speaking:
"I wish I had a mother."
He voiced his need so simply that the children's hearts ached for
him. He should share their mother, Mavis said kindly, and never go
back to that horrid aunt.
"There's three of you," Montague replied sadly; "she wouldn't have
room for me."
Well, there was Aunt Letty. Now that she wasn't going to be married
she would have lots of room for him. He could be her little boy.
"If she wasn't an _aunt_," Montague murmured doubtfully.
"She can't help being an aunt, you know, Monty dear," Nancy replied
gently.
"No, an' I'd _like_ you to love her," Mavis added.
"If I could think of her as not an aunt p'raps I might like her a
little." Could he, even for Mavis, overcome his prejudice? Well, if
she wished it he must certainly try.
Silence again and then, at last, the gentle breathing of four
sleeping children.
For an hour perhaps they slept. Suddenly, their dreams were
disturbed by a terrific sobbing sound--the sobbing of giants, it
seemed. They awoke with a start to find that Modestine, who was used
to either a comfortable stable or roaming at large in the paddock,
was voicing her disapproval of her night-quarters, voicing it as only
a donkey knows how. Billy sleepily admonished her.
"Come over here if you're feeling as bad as all that, but for
goodness' sake don't make that row again," he said.
Sleep did not come again immediately, and while they were still lying
awake the sound of a car in the lane broke on their ears. Then such
a honking of a horn as they had never heard before! Honk, honk,
honk, honk! The Barsdon people must have heard it and wondered, but
the children did not wonder for they knew!
"Mr. Frampton! It's him!" they cried in one voice, and, being now
wide awake, they sprang up and ran along the cart-track to the road.
Honk, honk, honk, honk!
Slowly, very slowly the car drew near.
"It's us he's honking for!" Nancy cried, and there was relief in her
voice. "'Spect he heard Modestine, so knew where we were."
They stood where Dick could not fail to see them and waited
breathlessly for the creeping car. At last it was here!
"Mr. Frampton! Oh, Mr. Frampton, we're so glad to see you," Nancy
cried. "Have you been looking for us?"
Now, Dick was feeling both worried and annoyed. Worried because he
had searched the country for miles, and could find no trace of the
children until he heard Modestine's voice; annoyed because they had
not waited for him in Barsdon. Even if they had decided to sleep out
of doors after all, they might have let him know, he argued with
himself, knowing nothing of the lost purse. To be sure they had not
promised, yet in the afternoon they had seemed so friendly, so glad
of his company that he could not understand their action. And he was
quite prepared when he sighted his elusive charges to show his
annoyance, but the reproach that was on his lips was checked by
something in the children's voices. He was quite sure there was
relief in their eager, welcoming shout; something in their attitude,
too, as they stood there in the moonlight seemed to suggest
forlornness. What could have happened? As he sprang from the car he
noticed the boys' puffy, battered faces. Ah, there had been a fight,
that was it; the details he would find out diplomatically later on.
"We did so hope you would come this way," Nancy said.
"But why didn't you wait for me in Barsdon?"
"We--couldn't," Billy replied awkwardly. "But we were awfully sorry
not to."
Dick noticed his confusion but let the subject drop for the time
being. Well, never mind, he said, but now could they tell him how to
dispose of the car; clearly it could not be left in the road all
night. They showed him the gate leading into the cart-track and he
backed the car through it.
"Aren't you going to sleep at the inn?" Nancy asked, as he followed
them into the wood.
"I'm not!" Dick replied decidedly. Lose sight of them now that,
after his long search, he had found them? Not if he could help it!
"I'm sleeping here. Besides, the inn is closed--it's nearly
half-past eleven, and, do you know, I'm hungry, dreadfully hungry.
I've had nothing to eat since that excellent lunch you gave me, and I
shall have to ask you to take pity on me again."
The children flushed uncomfortably. The thought of offering dry
bread to someone who had evidently gone without his dinner, in order
to keep what he had considered an appointment with them, who had
apparently spent hours searching for them, was humiliating. And it
was all they had for breakfast! Well, they would have to go without
any, for a Warden who was so conscientious in looking after
travellers must certainly be fed.
"I--I'm sorry we've nothing to go with it," Nancy faltered, as she
handed him the portion of loaf that was left. "We ate everything
else up."
Dick smiled to himself at what he supposed was simply a
happy-go-lucky kind of housekeeping and wondered whether they had
even given a thought to breakfast. He accepted the bread gratefully,
however; he was too hungry, he assured them, to need luxuries, in
fact, never had anything tasted more delicious, and his enjoyment as
he munched steadily through the loaf was apparent to the children.
"I am indebted to you little people for two meals," he laughed
apologetically as he dug his teeth into the last crust. "To-morrow,
please, it's _my_ turn, and if you don't let me be responsible for
the catering for the whole day I shall be more than hurt. Is it a
bargain?"
How could they refuse such an offer? In making it Dick had not the
remotest idea that otherwise they would have been foodless, that he
himself had eaten their very last crust. Yet, for a moment Billy
eyed him suspiciously. Could he possibly know that they were
penniless? In the ordinary course of events he would simply have
accepted Dick's offer without further thought, but poverty,
unfortunately, has a way of making you think. Sixpence-halfpenny
between you and charity was a miserable sum to a proud young person
like Billy, and his thoughts of the lad who had stolen their money
were by no means gentle. That Dick might have helped them recover
the lost purse, had they confided in him, never occurred to him. The
purse was gone, and that was the end of the matter.
Dick, meanwhile, had finished the last crumb and was feeling in his
pocket for his pipe.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed, "what an ass I am! Your Prior has sent you
some chocolates--I'd forgotten them!"
He produced four huge packets of chocolate. The children were glad
of it, for being awake, they found, made you hungry. And how nice to
be able to offer Mr. Frampton something more than dry bread! How
grateful they were to the Prior.
And while they all munched, Dick told them how overwhelmed the Prior
had been at the thought behind their gift. An unrepayable and
unforgettable gift, he had said, and Nancy could just picture him
saying it. She wanted to question Dick further about their kind
friend, but seeing Mavis' sleepy little face he insisted on bed for
them all immediately.
"We can talk to-morrow," he said, "so now good-night!"
And now they really settled down finally for the night. How
comforting, Nancy thought, as she snuggled down with Mavis in the
bower, how comforting to have a grown-up person near at hand (Dick
was sleeping in the car); what a difference it made to the
night-sounds! Somehow, all the loneliness vanished and Nancy was
aware only of the beauty of the stars in the blue vaulted sky. Stars
seen through tree-tops and you a little atom in the arms of Mother
Earth! What a discovery, what an adventure in an unknown world of
beauty for an imaginative child.
"Thank you, God," she murmured drowsily, "for the lovely star-world."
And the Prior, I think, would not have called _that_ little prayer
"the gabbling of empty words."
CHAPTER XIII
EXPLORING WITH DICK
The children awoke the following morning to find Dick looking as
well-groomed as though he had not spent the night in a car. He was
gathering sticks and whistling softly to himself.
The children apologized for being so late.
"It was my fault for disturbing you last night," Dick protested.
Then he went on to tell them that the woman at the cottage up the
road would allow them to wash there and that she was going to supply
them with breakfast.
"But we'll cook it ourselves," he added. "It'll be more fun; she's
going to lend us a kettle and a frying-pan. So hurry up, please, I'm
simply ravenous! Sleeping out of doors gives you an appetite, I
find."
It certainly did, the children agreed. They ran off to the cottage,
taking their brush and comb with them--four dishevelled little people
they were, too, but when a quarter of an hour later they returned to
the wood, even Montague presented a fairly respectable appearance.
And then followed the preparing of breakfast. Dick already had the
fire burning, a somewhat smoky one--but what did that matter, wasn't
it the inevitable, almost the correct thing at a picnic? They hung
the kettle over it (the children had brought the breakfast things
with them on their return from the cottage), and Dick made himself
stoker-in-chief. Would the boys gather more sticks? he said, and
would the girls spread the cloth, and after that, would Nancy fry the
eggs and bacon? Would they not, indeed! How eagerly those four
little people threw themselves into their allotted tasks! Mavis
arranged the tea-cups and plates and gathered some scabious flowers
for the cloth while Nancy cut stacks of bread and butter. Then came
the frying of the bacon--and here Nancy began to feel her
responsibilities. To fry eggs and bacon for a grown-up person made
you feel as important as when you poured out coffee for a prior.
"Could you rake the wood away for me?" she enquired, looking gravely
at the uneven heap of burning sticks. "I could fry better on the
ashes I think."
"That's a good idea," Dick said, as he hastened to do her bidding.
How good the bacon smelt as it sizzled in the pan. Nancy felt a
little nervous as to the eggs--would she make a horrid mess of them?
Fortunately, however, they were so new-laid that the yolks simply had
to remain whole, and it was a flushed and excited little girl who in
a few minutes announced that breakfast was ready and would everybody
please gather round at once and eat it while it was hot?
Nobody needed a second bidding, and very soon the whole party was
deep in eggs and bacon, and rather smoky-tasting tea. There was no
salt, for they had finished their own and had forgotten to bring any
from the cottage, but who cared?
"'Tisn't a libation feast, so it doesn't matter, does it?" Billy said.
Everybody was out to make light of any difficulty that should present
itself that morning. They chipped each other in a friendly spirit
that hitherto had been unknown to Montague; at first he was scarcely
sure whether they were joking or serious, but so infectious was the
good-natured banter that, presently, he found himself being drawn
into it and taking laughingly from Billy what he had taken from no
other boy before. And Dick, glancing at his happy face and
remembering the Montague of Riversham, marvelled that so short a time
should so have transformed the boy. Certainly, as regarded him, the
Prior was right to have suggested allowing them to continue their
adventuring.
Billy, teasing, cheeky Billy, was the leader of the fun. Impossible
this morning, he found, to be serious and worry yourself about ways
and means and whether you ought to do this or that. Yesterday it had
rankled with him that there should be real necessity for Dick's
return of their own hospitality, but to-day, in the jolly sunlight,
it seemed a small thing to worry about. Besides, was not a person
who had offered up a libation with you a comrade, and between
comrades was there not always give and take? When _your_ luck
happened to be in, it was your turn to give freely; why grudge the
other fellow the pleasure of doing the honours? So Billy was just
his happy irresponsible self, and it must be confessed he ate his
full share of the fast-diminishing stack of food.
While they were gathering up the breakfast things after the meal was
finished, Dick made a casual reference to the condition of the boys'
faces.
"It was 'cos of me they got smashed about," Mavis explained. "Some
big horrid boys tripped me up, and Billy and Monty settled them!"
"Oh!" Dick could see that the "settling" had been no easy matter,
but he hesitated to question them further, for something in Billy's
attitude suggested that the subject was one he did not wish to
discuss. Curious they should be so reticent about the affair, he
thought. However, no bones were broken, and they were in his care
again now, so there was nothing to worry about.
"And what are your plans for to-day?" he enquired carelessly.
Nancy and Billy looked at each other.
"Why," said Nancy, "we haven't any for this morning. We--we thought
we wouldn't travel to-day."
"Then why not come for a ride in the car? I'm sure those people at
the cottage would let Modestine graze in the paddock for an hour or
so. I wish you'd come--one gets tired of one's own company, you
know."
The children looked at each other again. Why not go? Adventuring
was out of the question until after Mavis had won the prize; besides,
if you were flying along in a car there would not be the long, slow
hours of waiting for the race. With their eyes they signalled "yes"
to each other.
"Thank you ever so much," Nancy replied, "we should like it awfully.
Only, please, could we be quite sure to be back here by two o'clock?"
Dick assented readily, again asking no questions. He could not fail
to notice, however, that there was something behind this desire to
return by two o'clock. There was something, too, behind this hanging
about in one place when yesterday they were all for penetrating
further into the hills. What could be the reason, and why were they
so reticent about it? Dick was finding them a little difficult to
understand. Their characters seemed so frank and open; their manner
to him was so full of comradeship and yet every now and then a wall
of reserve would seem to be between them. As to their engagement for
the afternoon, was it, he wondered, connected with the fight? Ah,
that must be it; hostilities very likely were to be renewed. Well,
he would know this afternoon for he was fully determined not to let
them out of his sight.
However, it was about time to be starting, and everybody bustled
about. There were all the things to be returned to the cottage,
their own blankets to be left there, and Modestine to be taken to her
fresh quarters--a willing Modestine, for the grass along the edge of
the wood had been scanty.
And now that their own adventure was at a standstill everybody began
to take an eager interest in the ride. The hills towards Gleambridge
they wanted to keep for their travels, but would it be possible,
Nancy enquired, to go to that highest hill across the valley, the one
in the far distance?
"Quite possible," was Dick's reply.
"And be back by two o'clock?"
"Yes, and be back by two o'clock."
And with this assurance everybody scrambled into the car and Dick set
out for Birdstone, the highest point in the hills.
Nancy and Mavis sat with him in the front seat, and during that ride
he learned a great deal about the family, about their home, about
Nestcombe and the river and forest. Here, at least, they showed no
reticence. That they worshipped every inch of those home-places was
evident. Their father and mother, Aunt Letty and Uncle Val, how
proud they were of them all, how they adored them, how endless was
their chatter about them. Dick, as he listened, marvelled how they
had ever come to leave such a home.
"The spirit of adventure and the blindness of childhood, I suppose,"
he thought. "By Jove! when they realize what they have done how
miserable they will be, poor kiddies."
Presently they came to a small town that seemed to scramble down the
hill towards the valley; a town of quaint old nooks and corners,
while on the opposite side of the valley, the Gleambridge side, the
loveliest little village they had ever seen, except, of course,
Nestley, played "bo-peep" amongst some pines on the side of the hill.
Nancy indulged in a "spasm" on Mavis when she remembered that
to-morrow, perhaps, they might explore it.
Then on and on again, gradually getting away from the Gleambridge
country. The miles flew past with hills piled up about them. Such
tonic, too, in the air! The children responded to the exhilaration
of it and forgot their troubles, forgot, almost, that Mavis was to
run in the race, for both troubles and race seemed to belong to some
far-off, unreal world.
They were on the main road now and the running was splendid. Yet,
though they were so thoroughly enjoying the ride, in their secret
hearts they were glad that their own private travels did not lie in
this direction. Motoring along good, well-kept roads was one thing,
but to seek adventure or romance here with civilization shouting at
you--no, that would have been impossible.
Presently, they began to climb. Up and up, with deep wooded valleys
dropping away to the right, and yet other hills stretching leftward.
A lonely farm, a cottage here and there, a house; that was all
apparently between them and the very heart of nature. All except
that well-kept road that wound right up here into the loneliness of
the hills, robbing them, for Nancy at least, of the charm she had
found when trudging along the dusty roads across the valley.
Yet, though part of Nancy's mixed little mind disapproved of
civilized hill-roads, another part of her was thoroughly enjoying
itself. Mr. Frampton was so easy to talk to and seemed so interested
in all they told him about themselves. And then again, flying
through the air in a car always intoxicated Nancy. Had Dick been
guided entirely by her wishes he would have exceeded the speed limit
on the lower roads; up here in the hills the going, of course, was
slower.
Quite suddenly, as it seemed to the children, the road opened out on
to a wide plain. A neat, civilized-looking village was spread over
it in orderly fashion, and when they arrived at a somewhat
imposing-looking hotel Dick stopped the car.
"We've reached the top of the hill," he explained. "I'll go in and
make arrangements for lunch, and then we'll explore a bit--there's
plenty of time," he added, noticing anxious puckers in the children's
faces. He knew, of course, that they were thinking about that
mysterious engagement for the afternoon. He began to wonder as he
entered the hotel whether he was right in imagining it to be a fight.
Surely there was something more important to account for what he had
seen in their faces at that moment. Besides (how stupid of him not
to think of this before), Nancy and Mavis would not wish for the
renewal of hostilities. Well, this afternoon he would know.
He rejoined the children after he had made arrangements for an early
lunch, and then they began to explore. The village itself was too
prim to interest them, but what amazed Montague was that there should
be one at all up here. Being used only to the gently undulating
hills of East Anglia, this hill was a mountain to him. How could
they possibly get food for a whole village to such a height, he
wondered? Even the other children, used as they were to finding
houses tucked away in the heights of the forest, even they owned to a
little astonishment at finding so large a village so far away from
the world. They certainly must be glad of the good road that brought
civilization nearer to them. Well-kept roads, even Nancy admitted,
had their uses after all.
However, though the village was not interesting, Dick had something
to show them, he said, that would delight Nancy. He led them off the
main road down a lane where hill-flowers unknown even to the forest
children were rioting along the steep banks. The girls were
enchanted with them, but Dick assured them with a laugh that it was
not flowers he had to show them. He scanned the landscape anxiously.
"Come here, Nancy," he said (Mavis was still picking flowers, and the
boys were scrambling about on the banks), "you can just see them, but
you'll have to look hard--they're barely visible."
Nancy knew by the way Dick spoke that it was something she would like
very much.
"Oh, what is it?" she cried.
Her gaze followed Dick's pointing finger, and there, down in the
valley to the left she saw, very faintly, the fair laced tower of
Gleambridge Cathedral. But that was not all. For, following the
pointing finger, she made out with a great deal of eye-straining and
perhaps a little imagination, the towers of two other cathedrals, one
to the north, and the other to the north-east.
Three cathedrals! Three fair towers! Why, one alone sent poetry
dancing through you. Three cathedrals rising out of the mist--a
beautiful valley held in the keeping of three white towers! Nancy's
imagination wanted to get to work at once on a poem. Oh, indeed,
civilized roads were not to be despised if they brought you to this.
And nothing romantic could happen, she had thought, on a motor ride.
Why, that valley was alive with romance for those who had
"imagination eyes"!
Dick watched the animated little face with pleasure. How "alive" the
child was; what an interest she took in everything and everybody.
She dreamed her dreams, but because of this intense "aliveness" she
would never, he knew, develop into a mere dreamer--never could the
word "mooney" be applied to her--except perhaps by a teasing
brother--and, indeed, the quaint mixture that made up her character,
the Aprilness of it was what interested Dick in her. Having no
little sisters of his own, he hoped the future was going to give him
a good deal of Nancy's company.
However, it was time now to be returning to the hotel, and everybody
confessed that they were quite ready for luncheon. This out-of-doors
life made one ravenously hungry, they found.
Fortunately, a generous meal awaited them. Dick led them to a table
laid for five that had been reserved for them. Very grown-up and
important these little people felt as they seated themselves, for it
was the first time any of them had lunched at an hotel. And a waiter
to attend to your wants, too; instinctively they straightened
themselves and tried to live up to the occasion. Oh, indeed, there
was a certain glamour about this civilization, especially the bits
that belonged to the never-before-experienced world.
Immediately after lunch they started on the return journey. Dick
took them another, and shorter, way, yet though the scenery was if
anything more beautiful than that on the morning ride, the children
could take no real delight in it, for the thought of the coming race
crowded out all else. And supposing they should have a puncture, and
not be there in time--the very thought of it made them sick with
apprehension. To be sure they had allowed a good margin, for the
races did not begin until three o'clock, nevertheless they began to
wish that they had not asked Dick to bring them so far.
However, all their fears proved to be groundless, for the clock on
Barsdon church struck two as they climbed the lane that led to their
wood.
What a glorious ride it had been. A shame that part of it had been
spoiled by the thought of the race. Oh, if their misfortune were
only as unreal as it had seemed on their way to Birdstone; if they
could just have spent the afternoon in the wood with kind Mr.
Frampton. They heaped their thanks upon him, but he waived them
aside. The pleasure had been his, he said, and, indeed, secretly he
had rejoiced to have them safely under his eye for so long.
Nancy and Mavis, directly they jumped out of the car, turned to go to
the cottage to wash and do their hair before going down to Barsdon.
"Are you going to Mrs. Hale's?" Dick enquired. "You might tell her
we should like tea at five o'clock, unless," he added, "you would
like to have it at the inn down in Barsdon?"
The wood, they all agreed, would be nicest, and Nancy promised to
deliver Dick's message.
Their preparations were simple, and soon two somewhat nervous-looking
little girls might have been seen hurrying down a field path at the
back of the wood--a short cut to Barsdon of which Mrs. Hale had told
them. "Do you really think I'll win?" Mavis enquired anxiously.
"Why, yes, of course. You always do, so don't worry, Babs!"
"I wish I'd got a better frock on," Mavis continued. "Everybody else
will be dressed up. 'Sides, the mud did stain this one."
Again Nancy consoled her. Nobody would know her and people would be
thinking too much about her pretty way of running to notice her dress.
Mavis was somewhat comforted. Nothing would have induced her to have
appeared in a public place at home in a stained frock, but because
they needed the money so badly she would try not to mind strangers
seeing her in so sorry a garb.
"I'm glad we're miles and miles from home, though," she said, as they
turned into the village. "I'm glad forest people don't come to hill
Flower Shows."
CHAPTER XIV
THE RACE
The Flower Show, they found, was being held in the Rectory meadow,
and thither, after someone had shown them the direction, they bent
their steps.
"I wish you could have come in with me," Mavis said wistfully, when
they reached the gate.
"So do I," Nancy replied, "but I can't as we've only one sixpence,
but I'll stay quite near."
She turned to the man at the entrance and asked whether he could tell
her about what time the race for little girl visitors would take
place. The man looked at his watch.
"In about half an hour," he replied.
Nancy thanked him and drew Mavis away from the fast-gathering crowd
at the gate.
"Let's walk round the outside of the meadow," she whispered, "and see
if there's a hole in the hedge that I can watch through. Then you'll
know just where I am, and it will be nicer for you."
The meadow was a large one. Presently, along the further side of it
they found a small opening where it was possible to see all that was
happening. Here they stayed till the half-hour was nearly up,
watching the crowds round the swings and roundabouts, and thinking
how, at any other time, they would have loved to be in the thick of
all the fun.
When it was time for Mavis to go, Nancy took her as far as the gate.
She watched the lonely little figure--with the sixpence clasped tight
in her hand--advance timidly towards the race-course and then ran
back to her opening on the other side of the meadow.
The next five minutes were five of the longest Nancy had ever known.
Far across the race-course she could just see her little sister
waiting with a group of other girls. Mavis would be wearing that
dear little smile that made everybody love her and nobody would know
how bad she was feeling inside. But Nancy knew. And as she waited
her conscience began to trouble her. _Ought_ she to have let a
little girl of seven, the pet of the family, do this thing? To let
her be there alone in that crowd of strangers--what would Mother say?
Nancy pressed her hands tight together, and if it had been possible
would have called the child back.
"Oh, I didn't think! I didn't think!" she cried with passionate
regret. "Oh, why didn't Billy and I think?"
Suddenly, the whistle sounded, and the race started. Nancy scrambled
further up the bank, and almost pushed herself through the hedge in
her anxiety to see. About a dozen girls were running, all of them
but Mavis wearing garden-party frocks. Most of them seemed to be
about Mavis' own age, but three of them were almost as tall as Nancy
herself. _Could_ Mavis possibly beat them? After the first
breathless second or so Nancy knew there was no need to fear, for
Mavis was skimming over the ground so swiftly that the other girls,
though some of them, apparently, were using far more energy, were
left far behind. Nancy saw people craning forward to watch her
little sister; she almost _felt_ their admiration as the small figure
skimmed bird-like over the ground. The applause when Mavis reached
the rope was deafening. Nancy's heart swelled with pride as she
listened to it and for the moment self-reproach slipped into the
background.
She scrambled down into the road again and waited eagerly for Mavis
to come to her. A few minutes later she saw her coming round the
bend in the road and ran forward to meet her. Then she paused in
consternation, for in that little figure coming slowly towards her,
in the drooping head there was nothing of the conqueror. What could
possibly have happened? With outstretched arms she flew towards the
sad little figure that advanced so reluctantly.
"Mavis dear, what is the matter? Tell me," she cried, as she held
her close. "You won the race--I saw you. Are you hurt? Do tell me,
dear!"
Mavis clung passionately to her.
"Oh," she sobbed, "that horrid Margaret Seaton was there--I saw her
just as I was coming away. And she saw me and she looked at my dirty
frock and she'd got on her best knitted mauve silk. An' she'll tell
everybody I ran for seven-and-sixpence! Oh, Nancy, let's go
away--let's go home! I _can't_ wait and take the prize in front of
everybody looking like a tramp!"
Margaret Seaton, the most snobbish girl in Nestley, here in the
hills! And only just before the race they had been comforted by the
thought that forest people did not go to the hill Flower Shows. What
could possibly have brought her here? Oh, of course! It was the
holidays, and she was probably visiting friends in the neighbourhood.
But that of all people it should have been Margaret Seaton! Nancy,
knowing the girl, and knowing Mavis, was overwhelmed now with the
remorse that had been tugging at her conscience while she waited for
the race to begin. She hugged Mavis close and stroked her hair.
"No, dear, you shan't wait to take the prize. We ought never to have
let you go in for the race. Mummy would say it was a dreadful thing
for us to let our baby earn the money. Billy and I ought to have
thought. If we can't earn it some other way we must go home."
"Oh, but are you sure you and Billy won't hate me? Billy will be so
disappointed."
"Yes, but he'll understand--you know he will. I'll explain to him.
Don't worry any more, dear. See, we'll sit down here together till
your eyes are dry, 'cos you won't want people to see you've been
crying; then we'll go."
And so together they sat down on the bank till the storm of tears
should have subsided.
What was to happen now, Nancy wondered? The seven-and-sixpence
belonged to Mavis, but even if the child should presently change her
mind and be willing to go up to receive it, she was determined not to
allow her to make the sacrifice. Poor old Billy, how disappointed he
would be! She must call him aside and talk things over with him
before anything could be decided.
"Look!" whispered Mavis, her voice trembling with agitation, "there's
Billy coming along the road! Oh, Nancy, you _will_ explain, won't
you?"
Nancy re-assured her and stood up to wave to Billy, who had not yet
seen them. He ran forward eagerly, and then he, too, paused as Nancy
had done. No need to ask questions; he knew at once that they were
still penniless. Poor little Mavis, how sorry she seemed. Ah, but
she mustn't be--he must pretend that he, at least, did not care!
"Hullo!" he said. "No go, eh, old girl? Well, never mind--you were
a little brick to try; you've been jolly sporty!"
"Oh, but I haven't!" Mavis wailed, her tears starting afresh. "I'm
not a tiny bit sporty! I won the prize an'----"
"_I'll_ tell him," Nancy interrupted.
And then she explained everything to Billy, telling also of her own
remorse.
"Say something to cheer her up," she whispered. "She's feeling so
bad about it."
For answer Billy slipped down on to the bank by Mavis and put his
arms round her.
"It's all my fault," he said contritely. "I--I never thought till a
little while ago up in the wood, at least, not properly. That's why
I came to find you."
"Are Mr. Frampton and Monty still there?" Nancy asked, seating
herself on the other side of Mavis.
"Yes. I said we'd be back to tea, but--but don't let's hurry. Let's
sit here together a bit, just the three of us, shall we?"
Just the three of them in a fellowship that even Dick or Monty could
not quite enter into yet because it required more even than the
intimacy of the last few days to belong fully to the comradeship that
existed between these three.
For a long while they sat there, saying nothing, but with
understanding between them. Nobody passed them. Once a lady and a
little girl came towards a house on the other side of the road. They
watched them idly, noticing the daintiness of the child and the
youngness of her mother, yet none of them was really interested,
though at any other time they would have been struck by the music in
the child's laugh.
"Billy," Mavis whispered presently, "p'raps I _will_ go and take the
prize. I--I could shut my eyes tight and not see anybody. P'raps
Margaret Seaton will have gone."
"You'll do nothing of the land," Billy replied emphatically. "I'd
rather starve than let you do it No! I've been thinking, and I can't
see any way out but to go home. I left Mont cutting down wood for
his frames, but he'd never sell enough to keep us all. 'Sides----"
He broke off abruptly, not liking to remind Mavis that the sixpence
for her entrance fee had left them with only a halfpenny. "So shall
I ask Mr. Frampton to take us home or send the telegram to the Prior?"
They couldn't send the wire, Nancy said, for she had noticed that it
was early closing day when they passed through the village.
"Then we must ask Mr. Frampton to take us home, and we'll have to
have poor old Ladybird sent on somehow. We shall have to tell
everything to Mr. Frampton 'cos we can't borrow money from him
without letting him know that we can pay him back. We shall have to
take it out of the Savings Bank."
"Yes," Nancy replied thoughtfully. "But need we go to-night, Billy?"
For herself the glamour had gone out of the hills, for the time
being, at least, but she knew what giving in would mean to Billy.
"Couldn't we wait till to-morrow and just see if we can think of some
plan?"
Billy shook his head.
"No, we can't. We can't sponge on Mr. Frampton. To-day was
different, 'cos we thought--I mean--oh, it's difficult to explain."
Though he found it difficult to express his idea he knew quite well
where the difference lay. To-day was not sponging, but to-morrow, if
they stayed, would be. No, it would not be "cricket" to keep their
penniless condition hidden any longer from Mr. Frampton. He must
know everything.
"Shall we go and tell him now?" he asked. The explanation was not
going to be easy, and the sooner it was over the better.
Three sad and forlorn little people set off dejectedly down the road.
Sounds of merriment came from the meadow. The children heard them,
but they would not turn their heads in the direction of a place that
was now so hateful to them; as long as they lived, Flower Shows and
all the jolly things attached to them that they had used to love
would recall the bitterness of this day.
And so they walked along with their eyes fixed on the dusty road
until a gurgle of laughter caused them to look up. Instinctively
they paused, arrested by what they saw. Instinctively, too, they
crept towards the fence that stood between them and that which had
attracted them and stood with their noses pressed to it, their
troubles for the moment forgotten, their interest thoroughly aroused.
"Oh, the darling!" Nancy whispered. "See! It's the little girl we
saw go into this house this afternoon. Isn't she sweet?"
In a paddock at the side of the house was a pond with a willow tree
drooping over it, and near the pond, with her back to the road was
the little girl they had seen earlier in the afternoon. She was
dancing, and as she danced she crooned a little song. Indeed, it was
the song that seemed to suggest the dance. She sang of the "p'itty
ripple" in the water, and as she danced her arms rippled through the
air. She sang of the slow fluttering of leaves from the willow into
the pond--again her fingers moved lightly as though she were
scattering leaves. She sang of the "p'itty, p'itty sunshine that
makes 'ittle girls happy," and as she sang she became the very
embodiment of joy--as joyous as the swallows that had splashed their
happiness about the Prior's garden. And then she paused for a moment
and seemed lost in thought. With a nod of satisfaction she again
took up the song and dance. She was a little mother now singing her
dolly to sleep--a troublesome dolly who needed much crooning to
before she would sink to rest on the grass by the pond.
The children watched with breathless interest. They were spellbound,
fascinated. Never before had they even imagined anything like the
dancing of this fairy of five. A grown-up person would have said
that the child was the embodiment of poetry, that she spilt it from
her beautiful little fingers. They would have said, too, if they
happened to be gifted with artistic perception, that rhythm was
perfected in the movements and crooning of the tiny person.
Something of the kind Nancy herself would have said had she had the
words at her command to express what she felt. As it was, she could
only stand there with the other two children, each of them absorbed
in the entrancing picture that certainly did not belong to the
everyday world.
Time passed unheeded while they stood with their faces pressed to the
fence and the child danced. Presently, however, she paused and
seemed to be considering. Then a little gurgle of delight escaped
her, and, clapping her hands, she ran swiftly towards the tree that
hung over the pond. She stood by the edge of the water watching with
delight something that evidently fascinated her.
"Is it a dragon-fly?" Mavis whispered.
Billy nodded.
"B'lieve there are lots of them, but I can't quite see. Wish she
wouldn't get so near the water!"
The child talked and crooned to the dragon-flies. Stray words
reached the children.
"P'itty sky things! Dear dancy things! Nonie loves 'oo--Nonie not
hurt 'ittle sparkly things. Nonie dance like 'oo."
They saw her poise herself tiptoe with arms outspread, then, with a
gurgle of laughter, skim with light flitting movements along the edge
of the pond.
"Nonie sky thing, too, now," she gurgled. "But, oh, so sad, Nonie
can't dance on water like 'oo."
Now, a root of the willow tree hung over the pond on a level with the
bank like a great arm. The child saw the root and, in her desire to
get closer to the fascinating dragon-flies, she tip-toed along it and
stood, with hands clasped together, on the very edge of the arm.
The children gazed in horror.
"She'll fall! Oh, she'll fall!" Mavis whispered.
"Hush! We mustn't frighten her," Nancy replied. "But, oh, I wish
she'd come off it! If we call her she'd fall in, I 'spect."
Billy said nothing, but his face went white with the tension of
watching. He dared not move lest he should scare the child, but he
was ready to vault the fence at the first hint of real danger.
For five long minutes they stood gripping the palings, while Nonie,
regardless of her danger, crooned low and tenderly her delight in the
flashes of blue life at her feet.
Suddenly, a dog entered the paddock from the garden and barking with
joy rushed towards his little mistress. So absorbed was the child
that she did not hear him until he reached the tree.
"Nikko!" she cried, "go back! Naughty--go back!"
The dog, however, was so delighted to see her that he ran along the
root of the tree barking joyously, and then, reaching his beloved
little mistress, jumped up to lick her face. Just a touch of his
paw, just a touch of love, and with a frightened scream Nonie fell,
her dress catching on the root of the tree and holding her just above
the water.
Billy, however, had not waited to see the end. Before the dog had
reached the tree he had vaulted the fence and was running towards the
pond. He saw the child fall, he saw the little muslin garments catch
on the jagged roots and hoped passionately that they would not give
way before he could reach the suspended, frightened little girl.
"I'm coming!" he yelled. "Don't be frightened, Nonie!"
Pushing the excited dog out of the way he ran along the arm of the
tree, and, kneeling down, reached for the screaming child. Then,
regardless of the damage to her pretty clothes, he slipped his hands
under her and dragged her away from the roots that had proved her
salvation.
"Don't cry, dear," he panted. "You're safe now; wait just a minute
and I'll crawl along to the bank with you. It's going to be jolly
awkward, though!" he added to himself.
His arms ached from the strain of lifting the child, and his legs
were cramped, for there was very little room for a big boy on the
narrow ledge. Exactly how he should crawl back without dropping his
precious burden he did not know, but Nancy solved the problem.
"Billy, wait a moment," she cried, as she and Mavis came running
towards the tree. "I'll slither along sideways towards you, then I
can take her from you and pass her on to Mavis. Now, are you ready?"
It was no easy matter for Billy to twist himself round and pass the
frightened little girl to Nancy, but somehow or other he managed it.
Nancy held the child tenderly a moment before passing her on to
Mavis, and did her best to quieten her sobs.
"Oh, see!" Mavis cried, relief in her voice, "here's her mother
running across the meadow. She'd better take her, hadn't she--she's
stronger than me."
Nonie's mother reached the scene a moment later. Nancy smiled
re-assuringly when she saw the alarm and agitation in her face.
"She's all right," she said. "But will you get where Mavis is,
please, an' hold out your arms so I can pass her to you?"
Nonie's mother did not wait to be enlightened as to the cause of the
tear-stained face and torn clothes, or the presence of the three
little strangers, but simply held out her arms at Nancy's request,
assured by her comforting smile that they, at least, were not
responsible for the accident.
Nonie, when she saw that she was once more on firm ground, clasped
her arms round her mother's neck.
"Nonie naughty 'ittle girl," she wailed repentantly.
"I rather think she is," her mother replied, holding her very, very
close. "What is the naughty thing that my little girl has done this
time?"
The children, who had scrambled to the bank, stood round watching the
mother and child with undisguised interest. Nancy interrupted.
"It was really the dog," she explained. "He was so pleased to see
Nonie an' he jumped up and pawed her and she fell, and, oh, wasn't it
a good thing her dress got caught? Billy _might_ not have got her
out of the water in time if he'd had to jump in for her. He had to
tear her clothes fearfully when he pulled her up, but he couldn't
help it."
Couldn't help it? As though torn clothes mattered a scrap when Nonie
was safe! Nonie's mother had listened gravely to Nancy's
explanation, but now her hazel eyes lit up with a lovely smile as she
looked at Billy over Nonie's head. Such a wonderful smile that
Billy's young heart went out to her in worship. Again she turned to
Nonie.
"I am still afraid that Nonie was right when she said she had been
naughty. What, I wonder, was she doing on that narrow root? I seem
to remember telling a little girl not to go near the water!"
Nonie looked up fearlessly into her mother's eyes and nodded.
"Yes, Nonie very naughty girl. It was the bits of sky things, they
were _ever_ pretty, an' I just wanted to know how to dance like them,
an' so I forgotted, Mummy."
"I see. But now what is going to happen about it? How am I to
punish you?"
"Oh!"
The cry broke involuntarily from the three children. _Must_ this
fairy-like little dancer who had held them so enthralled suffer
ordinary, everyday punishment? Must she perhaps be _smacked_? It
was unthinkable.
Nonie's mother seemed to take them into her confidence as she looked
up at them with a sorry smile.
"You see," she explained, "little girls of five are not too young to
learn to obey. Nonie has been told not to go near the pond."
Nonie suddenly looked up hopefully.
"But 'oo never said 'pwomiss,' did 'oo? Could honour do 'stead of
punis'ment?"
The children listened incredulously. What could this baby thing
possibly know of honour?
Nonie's mother remained thoughtful for a moment. The children
fancied they saw relief in her eyes.
"Very well," she replied. "We will try."
She put Nonie down on the ground and immediately the baby thing
straightened herself like a soldier and stood with head erect gazing
fearlessly at her mother, who looked down at her gravely and tenderly.
"Nonie Brimscombe," she said solemnly, "do you know what honour is?"
"Yes, Mummy."
"And truth?"
"Yes, Mummy."
"Can you promise on your word of honour never to go near the pond
alone again--not even to see a dragonfly?"
"_Yes_, Mummy."
"Can I rely on you to keep this promise?"
"Yes, Mummy, Nonie'll not bweak her word." Then she relaxed and held
out her arms to her mother with a winning smile. "Are I forgived,
Mummy dear? I are ever, ever sorry."
Mrs. Brimscombe stooped and kissed the child.
"Yes, and now we must go and change that frock. But we haven't yet
thanked these little people for rescuing you, have we?"
She turned towards the children, who, during the little scene between
Nonie and her mother, had been listening and watching intently. Was
it a kind of "make-believe"? Ah, yes, it was that surely, and yet
behind the "make-believe" they felt something real and big, something
that made them each instinctively straighten themselves just as Nonie
had done. Whether it was the words or the way in which Mrs.
Brimscombe spoke them they hardly knew, yet all that was best in them
responded to the little scene. If Flower Shows were henceforth to
have a sting behind them the word "honour" was always to awaken the
memory of this poignant little scene in the paddock. Yet _why_ had
Mrs. Brimscombe played this "make-believe" with Nonie and _what_ was
behind it? And again, why did the name "Brimscombe" seem, well, not
familiar perhaps, but to stir up some memory? Suddenly, Billy
remembered. This was the Mrs. Brimscombe whose husband had been
drowned in a boating accident at Gleambridge the previous summer. He
recollected it all; a friend of Aunt Letty's knew her and had told
them all about it, how splendid she had been about it, how she had
never forgotten the creed of the Guides to smile bravely through
trouble. Ah, of course, she was the head of the Girl Guides in that
district, Aunt Letty's friend had told them; and though Nonie was too
young to belong to the Guides her mother evidently was training her
to be one--that, of course, accounted for what they had just
witnessed.
But Mrs. Brimscombe was speaking.
"I am wondering," she said, and her voice was tremulous with emotion,
"how I am ever going to thank you. It is--difficult," she added, and
her smile as she glanced from them to Nonie was so unspeakably
tender, so alight with something that came from her very soul that
not only Billy's, but the girls' hearts, too, went out to her. Then
she pushed emotion from her and turned to Nonie. "I wonder, if we
asked them very nicely, if our little friends would stay and have tea
with us?" Now, so far Mavis had been somewhat in the background, and
it was Billy, her Nonie's rescuer, of whom Mrs. Brimscombe had taken
special notice. Suddenly, however, she looked at Mavis with eyes of
recognition. "Why!" she exclaimed, "aren't you the little girl who
won the Visitors' Race?"
Mavis, looking flushed and uncomfortable, hardly knew what to reply.
"Yes, I _did_ win it," she began. "But--but----" She paused and
threw an appealing glance at Nancy and Billy.
"Ah, then you certainly _must_ stay and have tea with Nonie. The
prizes won't be distributed until about six o'clock. Stay and play
with Nonie till then, will you, dears? That is, if you can," she
added.
"Thank you very much," Billy began bravely, "but--but I don't think
Mavis is going back to the Flower Show. We--we don't need the money
very much."
"And we promised Mr. Frampton and Montague we'd be back for tea,"
Nancy added. "But we _would_ like to have been able to play with
Nonie," she added regretfully.
Mrs. Brimscombe looked at the children thoughtfully. Now what, she
wondered, lay behind their reluctance to take the prize? Mavis had
won it fairly, she was entitled to it. Yet the child's instinctive
glance at her soiled frock had not escaped her or the tear-stains
round her eyes. Something clearly was wrong. What were they doing
here alone and where were the Mr. Frampton and Montague they had
mentioned? Not at the Flower Show apparently, else they themselves
would have been returning there. No, evidently they were alone in
Barsdon. Was it possible they had come specially for the race? For
Billy's denial of their need of the money set her wondering. Could
it be that they needed it, and that some hurt to their young pride
(for she knew from her wide experience the sensitiveness of a child's
heart) prevented them from taking it? The children's growing
embarrassment troubled her. In some way or other she must help them
out of their difficulty.
"You know," she said, turning to Nancy confidentially, "I think your
little sister ought to have that money. The Committee simply won't
know what to do with it if it's left on their hands. They get rather
fuddled, poor dears, if things don't go just by clockwork. You see,
it's a great day with them, _lots_ of preparation beforehand, and
to-day hard work since before seven o'clock. I've got a prize for
Table Decoration, and I simply daren't not take it. I wonder if you
would let me take yours at the same time, as you have to rejoin your
friends for tea? I'll give you the money now, and you can give me a
receipt for it that I can show the Committee. Just in case," she
added, with a laugh, "they think I'm trying to get it unlawfully.
Come along into the house and I'll get it for you," and she moved
across the paddock without waiting for a reply.
"Boy, give Nonie pick-a-back," demanded Nonie, who had been making
overtures of friendship to the responsive children. "Nonie like 'oo!"
Billy stooped and picked up the child very readily, yet still his
conscience troubled him as he galloped towards the house with her.
It seemed so mean to take the money when they hadn't the courage to
go up and receive it themselves. When they reached the house he put
Nonie down and stood in the porch, hesitating uncomfortably. _What_
should he do? What ought he to do? The money would make such a
difference--just exactly how hard it would be to give up the
adventure he had not realized until Mrs. Brimscombe's suggestion had
seemed to make it possible to go on. And yet that the money should
come so easily----
"Won't it--won't it bother you?" he asked awkwardly, looking up at
Mrs. Brimscombe, who, seeing his indecision, had waited behind while
Nonie took the girls into the house. "If you'd rather, I'll go and
get it if the Committee would give it to me. The others could go on
and tell Mr. Frampton I'm coming later. You see, we _can't_ let
Mavis take it herself 'cos, well, 'cos it was mean of us to let her
go in for the race--only, we didn't think. And--and it wasn't true
that we don't want it, least not quite true. We needn't be poor,
it's not anybody's fault but our own--only----"
Billy paused, hardly knowing how to proceed without telling the whole
story, and this he could not do, not even to this lovely lady. And
yet----
Mrs. Brimscombe had listened with interest and sympathy to Billy's
half-confession, filling in with ready intuition the gaps in his
story. _Why_ they needed the money, she hardly felt it necessary to
enquire. Probably it was for some little private purpose, some
secret between the three of them. From their conversation they were
evidently in the care of some responsible person, and their
appearance, except for the stain on Mavis's frock, gave no indication
of poverty. Nevertheless, knowing so well the hearts of children,
she was now more anxious than ever to help them in their difficulty.
She put both her hands on Billy's shoulders and looked down into his
eyes. For a moment she did not speak, and in that silent communion
each read the truth and honesty in the other, oh, and a whole world
of other things besides.
"Won't you let me do this for you?" she pleaded. "You saved my Nonie
and--she is all I have."
How could Billy resist such an appeal? That smile that could conquer
tragedy, a smile that with most people would have been tears, was in
her eyes, and, because of it and the restrained sadness in her voice,
all that was chivalrous in Billy went out to her. And there was a
good deal of chivalry in Billy. A boy who has grown to ten years of
age with a Raleigh for his hero, who has walked with that noble
gentleman in imagination not once but hundreds of times under stately
trees that have probably swayed above the real Raleigh, who has felt
his influence all around him, such a boy could not fail to have
something chivalrous in his own composition. Raleigh had spread his
cloak for a queen to tread on; Billy's whole soul was at the service
of his Queen. Nevertheless, being a normal, healthy-minded boy he
found it difficult to express what was passing in his mind.
"Her dress is spoilt though, an' all her other clothes."
That was all he could find to say.
Mrs. Brimscombe laughed (she had read the surrender in his eyes, and
that protective sympathy for her that he found it impossible to
express did not escape her). "Yes, and I ought to go and put her
into something respectable, oughtn't I? It's her _best_ frock, too."
Again a low rich gurgle that was so like Nonie's escaped her. What
were a few torn clothes when your one earthly treasure was safe, her
laughter seemed to say. "And so," she added, pressing Billy's
shoulder affectionately, "it's a bargain, isn't it?"
Billy nodded.
"An'--an' thank you awfully." He hesitated, and she waited, knowing
that he had more to say. "Could I some day write and tell you what
we wanted it for?" he asked, looking up into her face. "I can't tell
you now but--but I'd like you to know. It's awfully important and
interesting, and it means not having to give in about something."
"Yes, write and tell me all you can, and be very sure I shall be
interested in anything that concerns you--always. Tell me just one
thing," she added, looking straight into his eyes, "are you more than
seven-and-sixpence poor?"
Billy returned her look squarely. He could not possibly resent the
implied suggestion behind her words, and he thought the matter out
carefully before replying. Sleeping out of doors had become a
fascination, therefore nothing would be required for lodgings.
Surely seven-and-sixpence should feed them for three or four days
longer?
"No," he replied, "I think we're not, but--thank you very much."
Mrs. Brimscombe was satisfied that he spoke the truth.
"Come in for a moment," she said; "I must have that receipt, you
know!"
Nonie, regardless of her rags, was playing hostess to Nancy and Mavis
in the drawing-room.
"Oh, she's sweet!" Nancy whispered to Mrs. Brimscombe, when she and
Billy entered the room. "She's pretending to be you, talking
'grown-up afternoon-tea talk'--so funny and quaint! I wish we could
see her again some day."
"You are going to," Mrs. Brimscombe replied simply. "Nonie and I are
not going to lose sight of you, are we, Nonie? Shall we ask them if
they will come and stay with us some day?"
To come and stay here with Nonie's mother? Billy, as he watched
Mavis sign the receipt and drink the milk Mrs. Brimscombe insisted on
them having before leaving, thrilled with pride at the thought of it.
Aunt Letty's friend had said that it was a privilege to serve under
her (she herself was a captain in the Guides). Well, what of the
privilege of staying in her house and perhaps being allowed to be her
protector, since she had no one now to look after her? Oh, this hill
country, what endless wonders it held? Who could possibly prefer an
everyday garden to adventuring here?
CHAPTER XV
HALF-CONFESSIONS
And while life was pressing adventure towards the three children down
in Barsdon, Dick and Montague were having a dull and miserable time
up in the wood.
Dick was not greatly troubled at first at the absence of the two
girls; they were probably lingering in the paddock petting Modestine.
He lay on the ground smoking, waiting for some move on the part of
the boys, for that they should have no share in the mysterious
engagement had never occurred to him. To his surprise, however,
neither of them for quite a long time showed the slightest
inclination to leave the wood. But, presently, through half-closed
eyes, he noticed a growing restlessness in Billy. There was an
anxious, troubled look on the usually sunny face, and, presently,
apparently unable to keep his anxiety to himself, he drew Montague to
the edge of the wood and a whispered consultation took place between
them. Dick sat up and watched them. Was it the girls Billy was
concerned about? Surely in that case he would have consulted with
him rather than Montague. Yet they certainly had been gone a long
time. He was about to join the two and make casual enquiries
regarding the girls' absence when Billy disappeared and Montague,
looking depressed and unhappy, re-entered the wood. Now what was to
be done? Should he question Montague or wait for further
developments? And why should Montague wear that air of depression?
And then again, what was he doing with that neat little bundle of
wood; why was he cutting it into such short lengths? Apparently the
boy had forgotten that he was not alone for, as he worked, he began
to talk to himself.
"Hope Billy remembers the tacks if he finds the girls. Wish I'd got
'em now, so I could go down to the Flower Show and sell to the people
as they came out. Oh dear, I'm feeling rather lonely; wish _I_ could
have gone to find Mavis, but Billy said stay here. Wonder if they'll
meet those ruffians who stole the money? P'raps Billy'll take it
from them again--then we _shall_ be rich!"
Dick was not near enough to catch all the rumblings, but he had heard
enough to arouse his curiosity and some anxiety. He thought it high
time to recall himself to Montague's memory.
"Hullo, old chap, what are you doing?" he enquired, rising and
sauntering towards him.
"Just making picture frames," Montague replied.
"Picture frames?" Dick repeated. "Won't they be rather in the way on
your travels?"
"They're not going on our travels." Then an idea came to Montague.
Why not ask Mr. Frampton to buy some? Billy wouldn't let them borrow
money from him, but to sell something to him was surely different.
"Do you want to buy some?" he asked. "When they're finished, I mean.
I can't tack them together till Mavis----"
"Yes?" said Dick. "'Till Mavis----'?"
"Oh, nothing!" Montague replied uncomfortably.
"Look here, old chap," Dick said, seating himself on a log near the
boy, "I've not yet heard the full story of yours and Billy's battered
faces. I wish you'd tell me all about it. Did anything happen
to--well, to make it necessary for you to sell picture-frames?"
Montague, wishing fervently that the others were there to support
him, eyed Dick dubiously, but made no reply.
"Don't you trust me?" asked Dick.
Montague nodded.
"Yes, but Billy said----"
"Yes--what did Billy say?"
"Oh, nothing, 'cept that you'd p'raps make us go back if you knew,
an' if you didn't do that we'd be sponging on you. But it's all
right now--least, it will be when Mavis comes back. I--I wish she'd
come--I _wish_ we hadn't let her!"
Montague paused. He was wishing with all his heart that he had not
promised Billy to stay in the wood. They ought to have gone
together; the anxiety of waiting was becoming almost unendurable, and
he would have given much to have been able to share his fears with
Dick. Supposing something had happened to little Mavis? Oh, it was
terrible to be left behind!
Dick slowly filled his pipe, thinking hard while he pressed the
tobacco into the bowl, and glancing from time to time at Montague's
troubled face.
"Look here, old chap," Dick began, "you're worried about them, I
know. Now, suppose we give them another quarter-of-an-hour, and then
if they haven't returned I think you had better tell me where they
have gone and we will talk the matter over together and see what can
be done. I'm worried, too, you know," he added.
"Are you fond of them?" Montague asked. "Would you mind if anything
happened to them?"
"I should mind very much indeed," Dick replied, "if anything happened
to any of you four youngsters--but it isn't going to! Now, is it a
bargain?" He pulled out his watch and looked at Montague
questioningly.
"Yes, if I needn't tell you what Billy wouldn't like me to tell you."
Montague himself would have been quite ready to confess the whole
adventure from the very beginning to Dick, feeling sure that the
friend who had stood by him so often in the dreadful aunt-days that
were already beginning to fade into the remote past, would
understand. And, after all, if he insisted on a return, as far as
he, Montague, was concerned, it would not greatly matter. Nothing
would induce him to return to Riversham, but the children had offered
to share their home with him, and he was secretly awaiting with eager
interest the day when he should be initiated into the delights of
their beloved Nestcombe. The grown-ups? Well, he would tolerate
them for the children's sake; yes, even the aunt, since Mavis loved
her. Nevertheless, though practically any place would be home for
him if the children were there, for Billy's sake he hoped he would
not be led to tell Mr. Frampton too much. Billy cared so
tremendously about this adventure (that he was the leader Montague
had recognized from the beginning), and because Billy had been such a
good chum to him, because, moreover, he was beginning to care for him
as he had never yet cared for another boy he wanted to stand loyally
by his friend and not let him down.
He spent the next fifteen minutes wondering just how little he could
tell Dick and hoping against hope that the children would turn up and
relieve him of the necessity of saying anything at all. But the
fifteen minutes dragged slowly by and they did not come.
"Now," said Dick, glancing at his watch, "the time is up, so let's
see what can be done. Tell me--are they in Barsdon?"
"Yes."
"That's all right--then we haven't far to go. Why didn't you go with
them?"
"I dunno. I _wanted_ to. It was just Mavis and Nancy really who
were to go, and Billy and me were to wait here, only Billy got
worried and wished he'd not let Mavis--not let them go and I wished
it too, and I wanted to go and fetch them back, and just do the
picture-frames, but Billy said no, she was his sister, and he would
go and find her and would I wait here 'case they came back another
way."
"Yes--but what _is_ it that Mavis went to do?"
"Well, to run in a race at the Flower Show!"
Dick showed his astonishment.
"Run in a race at the Flower Show?" he repeated.
"Yes, for seven-and-sixpence," Montague growled, "'cos nearly all our
money was stolen."
Dick began to see daylight, but he looked down at Montague gravely.
"And you boys allowed little Mavis to do that rather than treat me as
a comrade?"
Montague said nothing, but he felt horribly ashamed, and very, very
unhappy. He began to realize that as he knew Mr. Frampton so much
better than the others he ought to have persuaded them to trust him.
Very miserably he looked up at Dick.
"It's--it's not exactly _you_--it's your grown-upness, I b'lieve."
Ah, yes, that indeed was it. Dick knew it, and, for the first time
in his twenty-one years, hated this barrier he had regarded hitherto
as something very wonderful and very desirable. Yet--twenty-one--was
it so far from the world of childhood? And what exactly was the
barrier; how could it be defined? He had roughed it with them, had
shared their picnics, had, he thought, dropped his "grown-upness"
entirely. They were fond of him, there was no doubt of that, just as
they were of Montague, yet, because of a nameless barrier, they had
left him out in the cold, while the penniless boy (for Dick was sure
Montague was not worth more than a few pence when he joined the
adventurers) they had taken into their entire comradeship. It was
impossible, of course, to be either hurt or angry, nevertheless, Dick
regretted deeply that these care-free irresponsible little
adventurers should think it necessary to shut him out.
"That's it!" he thought. "Irresponsible! The irresponsibility of
childhood--these little people knew instinctively that one loses it
when manhood comes." Dick suddenly felt very lonely and sighed for
that lost boyhood that he had cast off so willingly.
Well, no use wasting time over vain regrets, something must be done
immediately. He must run down. to Barsdon in the car; probably,
after all, the children were merely waiting for Mavis to receive the
prize.
"Wait here for me, Mont, in case I should miss them. And if I find
them we'll all go to the Show together this evening."
Montague looked round at the silent wood and the loneliness smote him
to the heart.
"You won't be _very_ long, will you?"
"No. If I don't see them soon I'll come back for you and we'll
search together. Make a fire and get the kettle boiling," he added,
thinking the time would drag less if the boy were occupied, "and
don't worry, old chap. I'll find them, or we'll find them together."
For a moment their eyes met, and through the chilling loneliness in
the boy's heart there swept a sudden surge of affection and gratitude
and trust.
"You an' the Prior," he muttered, "an' my guardian aren't like
ordinary grown-ups. I s'pose men are better'n women. I'm _glad_
you're my friend."
Dick, as he drove rapidly down the lane to Barsdon felt absurdly
happy at the boy's confidence. Need there be an insurmountable
barrier, he wondered?
"Well, at least we're necessary to them sometimes," he thought, "and
that is something."
He was just about to make enquiries as to where the Flower Show was
being held when, hurrying along the village street towards him he
caught sight of three well-known little figures.
"Mr. Frampton!"
Again Dick forgave these troublesome little people the anxiety they
had caused him because of that unmistakable ring of gladness in their
voices. Again he felt an absurd happiness when they scrambled into
the car as though it were their right.
"Where's Monty?" Mavis asked, as Dick turned the car in the direction
of the wood.
"Keeping his promise to Billy." Dick spoke somewhat shortly, for he
wanted them to realize something of Montague's loneliness without
them. "We began to think, you know, that our comrades had deserted
us."
"Oh, but we couldn't do that!" Nancy exclaimed impulsively. "We
_couldn't_ come sooner--Monty will understand when we explain. And
you----" She paused and looked questioningly at Billy. If only she
might tell Mr. Frampton _some_ part of the doings of the
afternoon--it was hateful to be so secretive. To her delight and
surprise Billy nodded consent, and turning again to Dick she began to
tell him of Billy's rescue of Nonie.
"I didn't mean that part," Billy broke in. "I meant about us having
the money stolen. We _couldn't_ tell you yesterday, Mr. Frampton,
and a little while ago we thought we'd _have_ to tell you, 'cos it
seemed to be the end of our travels. But it isn't the end after all
and yet--oh, well, we just hate not telling you, 'cos we're all kind
of chums together, aren't we?"
Very, very slowly Dick drove up the stoney lane, his heart thrilling
with happiness as between them (Billy and Mavis who were in the back
hanging over the seat) they told the full story of the fight and the
lost purse, their shame at having only dry bread to offer him,
Mavis's suggestion that she should enter for the race and even (with
Mavis's consent) her encounter with the girl from Nestcombe.
Not quite all the story was told in the car. It was a shout of joy
from Montague that interrupted the narrative. Poor, poor Monty, how
sorry they were to have left him so long; how glad they were to see
him again. Oh, it was good to be with these two dear comrades again.
And tea was waiting for them? How nice of Mr. Frampton and Monty to
have waited for them; they didn't deserve it and yet--and yet, oh, it
was not at all easy, they were beginning to find, to know what was
the right thing to do. Mr. Frampton and Montague had been worried
about them, yes, and lonely, too--this they found out from Monty
when, after tea, they were all sitting together quietly near the
bower. And they were their comrades, both of them and--and should
one hurt one's comrades? But then, it was unthinkingly. Yet again,
_why_ not have trusted Mr. Frampton? Wasn't it somehow different
between a little band of friends, between out-of-doors comrades? How
sorry he seemed that they had not trusted him--yes, there was _his_
point of view.
"I'm sorry," Billy said, "I--I wish we'd told you."
"And, oh, we were so unhappy about Mavis," Nancy added. "That was
why Billy left you and Monty alone. But we ought to have told you."
She was silent for a moment, then suddenly she asked Dick a question.
"What is 'obligations'?" she demanded. "Do you have them towards
people--people you like?"
"Yes," Dick replied, wondering what was coming, "sometimes."
Nancy's eyes glowed.
"Oh, do you know," she continued, "I'm just beginning to _feel_ that
word--it's getting inside me, and I can hear a song in it. _Some_
words, you know, dance inside me like music--pretty words, I mean,
but I never thought 'obligations' would! I thought it was a cold,
ugly grown-up word, but it isn't. It's thrilly and--and chummy!
I--I can't explain it better than that. _Do_ you understand?"
Yes, Dick understood well enough. How dear these children were, how
grateful he was to them for this comradeship they were extending to
him. The invisible barrier still was there, they still had not made
full confession, nevertheless Dick was convinced that as far as it
was possible for them to take a "grown-up" into their childhood's
world, they had taken him and he was satisfied.
"And yet," he thought, as he sat watching them, "though 'obligations'
has become a living word for Nancy, none of them has even yet
realized their obligations to their own people. I wonder when they
will?"
CHAPTER XVI
THE DERELICT CAR
After breakfast the following morning they gathered at the edge of
the wood and scanned a grey, unpromising sky anxiously. What did Mr.
Frampton think of the weather? Did he think it would be possible for
them to sleep out-of-doors to-night?
Dick shook his head.
"It will rain before the day is out," he replied. "The wind will
keep it off for a time, I think, but you'll certainly have to find a
cottage this evening."
Billy and Nancy exchanged troubled glances. Seven-and-sixpence would
not go very far, they knew, if some of it had to be used for sleeping
accommodation, for they could not hope to find another Priory.
Dick, of course, knew that they were worried, and just before they
were about to set out on their travels he made a proposal to them.
"I wonder," he began, as he lifted Mavis into the saddle, "if you
would strike a bargain with me to-day? You invite me to lunch, and
let me invite you to tea at a cottage I know at a gem of a village
called Omberley. Probably we could stay there for the night, if need
be, and that," he added with a smile, "I should like to be _my_ part
of the programme. Will you let your big chum do this?"
How could they refuse when he seemed to wish it so much? Was he not
now one of themselves--almost? For the quiet, happy hours spent
together in the wood last night had strengthened the bond of
comradeship between them; Dick and the two elder children had been
keenly alive to it, and it was this that had made it possible for him
to make his suggestion.
"But can you spare the time to be with us so much?" Nancy enquired.
"Oughtn't you to be looking after other travellers?"
Dick re-assured her. It was children that he was mainly responsible
for. Of course, when anybody needed a hand with a car he must give
it, but otherwise he was at their service. In fact he had mentioned
them in his report to his employers, and they were fully satisfied
that he was doing his job in looking after them.
"But where is Omberley?" they asked. "Is it on the Gleambridge road?"
Dick gave them the direction. They could easily reach it by the
afternoon, he said, and once there he was sure they would not want to
leave it. And then there was the common up above it--such a common!
And beyond the village on the edge of the common _perhaps_ a glimpse
of the cathedral! The cathedral? Nancy responded instantly. To see
it from this side of the hills--had that not been the desire of her
heart for the last two days? The Birdstone glimpse, being so shadowy
and remote did not count, she said--though it had resulted in a poem!
"Don't make too sure of seeing it," Dick advised her. "It will
probably be blotted out to-day even if the rain keeps off."
He arranged a time for lunch in case they should not meet before
then, and at the same time fixed tea at Omberley for about six
o'clock. He meant, of course, to keep a casual eye on them in
between whiles, but because of the new comradeship between them,
because of their trust in him he did not wish to hamper their
movements or rob their adventure of any of its charm.
The children set off down the hill to Barsdon in high spirits.
Modestine, refreshed by her long rest, was in her most angelic mood,
and seemed glad to be with the children again after her lonely day in
the meadow.
Montague, before they reached the village, put his hand in his pocket
and produced five shining shillings. The other children looked at
them in blank astonishment.
"It's for picture-frames," he explained. "Mr. Frampton ordered five
while you were getting Modestine ready this morning, and he's going
to take a photo of each of us and of Modestine and keep them in the
frames _always_. So we've twelve-and-sixpence now," he added
proudly, handing the money over to Billy. "Twelve-and-fivepence when
we've bought the tin-tacks."
"How ripping!" Billy exclaimed, accepting the money unhesitatingly.
"Let's get a really decent lunch, shall we? We can buy it in
Barsdon."
Barsdon shops, however, had nothing very exciting to offer them.
Bread and cheese, some rather dry-looking corned beef, a large bag of
buns and dough-nuts and some sour-looking apples was the best they
could do. As far as they themselves were concerned, it was good
enough, but they would certainly have liked something better to have
offered Mr. Frampton.
They passed very near to the Brimscombes' house and looked about
eagerly for some sign of Nonie or her mother, but neither of them was
to be seen. Reluctantly they passed on down the Gleambridge road and
soon Barsdon lay behind them. Just a cluster of houses amidst the
hills it seemed now as they looked back, nevertheless to the children
it was unforgettable. So much had happened there, such a mixture of
trouble and happiness, yet, somehow, the troubles seemed to have
faded into unimportance, and their thoughts lingered about the
happiness. Nonie and her mother and "When we come to stay at
Barsdon"--that was all the talk now, and the hills piled up about
them were simply excluded by the vision. And adventure? Well, of
course, there had been no _real_ adventure in Barsdon, but _could_
adventure, they wondered, be more thrilling, more interesting than
the finding of Nonie and Mrs. Brimscombe?
There was a chilliness in the air this morning that sent them
hurrying on. The sun came out fitfully, but whether it was there or
not seemed to make very little difference to-day. How could you be
anything but care-free when you felt yourselves to be almost
millionaires? Once or twice Dick passed them and paused each time
for a chat. How nice to meet someone you knew, they thought; what a
friendliness it gave to the hills.
Presently Nancy's imagination found a way through the fun and
laughter and pointed out to her the beauty of the hills on this grey,
gleamy day. Being so much a child of sunshine and shadows herself
she loved a day such as this; it exhilarated her, and the hills, with
their intense, dusky curtain of mist against the silver of the sky,
were to her even more attractive than in the clear sunlight.
The morning slipped happily by, and just before one o'clock they
found Dick waiting for them half-way up a gentle slope.
"I was beginning to feel hungry," he announced when they came up with
him, "and I thought this bit of grass would make a decent
camping-ground; it would be colder on the top. Is anybody else ready
for lunch?" he enquired, with a smile.
Were they not? Who would not be in this keen hill air? Even Aunt
Hewlett would have been satisfied with their capacity for putting
away food to-day.
"We _always_ seem to eat a lot out of doors," Nancy sighed, as after
the last bun had disappeared they attacked a bag of chocolates Dick
had provided. "We're just as bad at picnics at home, and when we go
fishing in Daddy Petherham's boat--well!"
"Some day," said Dick, "you must come on the river with me."
"When we get home?" Nancy exclaimed. "How lovely! Oh, but," she
added, remembering his wardenship, "what about your work?"
"It's only a temporary job," Dick replied.
"How rotten!" said Billy. "That'll mean finding another one, won't
it?"
"Oh, I shall do that easily enough," Dick replied lightly, as he
helped them fix their blankets on to the saddle.
They felt, when presently they turned to wave good-bye, that they
were leaving an old friend behind them.
"It must be because it's an out-of-doors friendship," Nancy said, "it
makes a difference, just as it does to one's appetite!"
The road at the top of the hill opened out into a wide, sweeping
common, much more interesting-looking than the flat plain they had
found at the top of Birdstone. However, there was no time for even
Nancy to set her imagination at work upon the view, for a car just
ahead with someone lying under it, evidently busy with repairs,
attracted their attention. Exactly why someone lying under a car
should prove more attractive than the hills that had lured them from
home they could not have explained. People and things and happenings
always seemed to be pushing themselves in front of the hills--that
was all they knew about the matter.
"We'd better see if they want help," Billy said. "I could run back
and call Mr. Frampton."
When they came up with the car they discovered that the person who
was lying under it was a girl. In the car was a thin, elderly
person, who was leaning out and abusing the girl in a shrill,
high-pitched voice She had evidently worked herself up into a
decidedly bad temper.
"She's an aunt!" Montague whispered. "A great-aunt!"
He stared at the girl who was grappling with the repairs, less in
sympathy, it must be confessed, than curiosity; he was experiencing a
certain unholy satisfaction that someone else, not he, was the
sufferer this time.
"That's the kind of thing _I_ had to put up with," he whispered
bitterly to Mavis. "'Spect she's feeling jolly miserable!"
At this moment the girl wriggled out from under the car. To
Montague's utter astonishment, however, the crushed, miserable
expression he had expected to see was not there. The girl was
actually smiling kindly and good-humouredly (almost as one would
smile at a troublesome child) at the bad-tempered aunt-person.
"Don't stand staring, Monty dear," Mavis whispered hastily. "It's
not polite."
Meanwhile, Billy, feeling far more scared than he ever had done of
Aunt Hewlett, advanced towards the occupant of the car.
"Have you had a breakdown?" he asked politely. "'Cos the Warden of
the Hills is only a little way down the hill, and we could call him
for you if you would like us to."
"The what?" shrieked the old lady.
"The Warden of the Travellers in the Hills!" Billy repeated.
"Mr. Frampton, you know," Nancy further explained. "He has to help
travellers when things go wrong."
The young lady looked interested, but the old lady after
staring--very rudely, the children thought--shouted:
"Warden fiddlesticks! Some infamous wretch, I'll be bound!"
Now Montague, though his own aunt might occasionally be too much for
him, felt a strong desire working within him to battle with this
"stranger-aunt," as he called her to himself, and before either of
the others could defend their friend he had stepped forward.
"Mr. Frampton's no more a wretch than you are," he growled, glaring
at the old lady with all his old, impish defiance, "an' nobody'd
better say he is to me--that's all! He's my friend; he's the friend
of us all, isn't he, Nancy?"
Nancy was about to reply, but the old lady interrupted her.
"Go on, boy!" she cried. "Let me hear the fate of anyone who
persists in calling him the names he deserves!"
"Well, they'd better _not_ persist!" Montague rumbled darkly. "It's
lies if they do!"
The old lady cackled out her enjoyment of what she considered,
apparently, a joke, and whispered something to the girl about
"delightful subterranean rumblings," then, suddenly her mood changed
again, and, regardless of the children's offer, she bade the girl get
to work again on the car, abusing her peevishly for her incapability
and enquiring what time she proposed to arrive at Gleambridge.
The girl, with a hopeless shake of her head and a smile for the
children, again slid under the car, and the old lady, to their
surprise, subsided into her seat and closed her eyes.
Montague leaned down to the girl behind the car.
"Do you hate that aunt?" he whispered.
The girl raised herself and shook her head.
"No--I like her. But she's not my aunt--I'm her companion."
"Oh!" Montague was decidedly disappointed.
"Why is she so horrid to you?" Nancy whispered. "Don't you mind it?"
"Not in the least," the girl replied. "She can't help it, poor dear.
It's nerves. Besides, I've been a Red Cross nurse, and had
experience with matrons and things!"
They looked mystified.
"She's a lamb compared with hospital matrons," the girl explained.
"Besides, she's fond of me. To-morrow she'll give me a spanking box
of 'chocs' or a new frock to make up for this."
"How queer!" Nancy exclaimed.
"You see," the girl whispered, "this car is a good old 'has-been,'
and she knows it, but nothing on earth will induce her to admit as
much, because her only son who was killed in the war bought it.
She'll keep it till it drops to pieces, and continue abusing the
roads and me--but she knows I understand."
"Here's Mr. Frampton!" cried Mavis, who was waiting patiently near by
with Modestine.
"Oh," Nancy sighed in relief, "I'm so glad! He'll make it go if
anyone can."
Dick, seeing the children, drew up and waited expectantly. Nancy ran
to him and whispered an explanation of the affair.
"Do make it go for her and if the old lady is horrid to you don't
mind--it's only nerves! We told her you were the Warden and she
wasn't very nice."
"All right," Dick replied, "I'll see what can be done. But don't
wait for me," he added. "It's time you were getting on to Omberley."
He feared that the tactless old lady might give him away, and this he
would not have had happen just now for the world.
The children reluctantly bade the girl good-bye.
"Just when you get interested, on you always go again," Nancy sighed.
"If she'd been an aunt," Montague growled, "then she wouldn't have
been sorry to-morrow. Aunts aren't ever sorry--not _great_-aunts,"
he added hastily, seeing protest in Mavis's attitude.
CHAPTER XVII
AWAKENING
In after days, Nancy found that her sub-conscious self (she did not,
of course, call it that) had stored up impressions of the spacious
view. Grey, ineffaceable impressions that seemed a fitting prelude
to tragedy. Nevertheless, her conscious self was still occupied with
the strange couple they had left behind on the common; for people,
especially if they were somewhat out of the ordinary, never failed to
rouse her interest.
"There's so much to wonder about them," she would say.
And she was wondering a great deal about those two when presently
Dick came up with them. Nancy noticed immediately that he was
troubled about something.
"It's that car," he explained, in answer to her enquiry. "The bally
thing ought to be on the scrap-heap, but the old lady won't part with
it, as you know."
Then he went on to explain the obsolete mechanism of the thing, and
how he had promised to run into Gleambridge to see if it was possible
to get some new parts that would fix them up for a time. Of his very
interesting interview with the old lady, of her pointed remarks about
the condition of his roads--if he was in truth Warden of the
Hills--of her enjoyment of his discomfiture, and her demands that he
should get them out of their predicament he said nothing.
Demands apart, however, he could not, in common humanity, leave her
and her companion stranded. He knew that he must go to Gleambridge,
yet what was to be done about the children? He did not at all care
about leaving them for so long--besides, he was anxious to see them
settled at Omberley before the rain came; it could not hold off much
longer, he was sure. If only he could have persuaded them all to
accompany him to Gleambridge--but then, of course, there was
Modestine. No, he must think of some other plan.
He talked the matter over with the children and finally Billy made a
suggestion. If Mr. Frampton would take the girls in the car as far
as Omberley he could show them where to stay for the night. They
could then meet the boys at the entrance to the village and take them
to the rooms where they would await tea for him.
"That's an excellent idea," said Dick. "If I can't get that derelict
fixed up by six o'clock it will have to be abandoned." He helped
Nancy and Mavis into the car. "Better tumble the blankets in, too,
Billy, in case the rain comes before you reach Omberley."
It seemed to Nancy as they sped over the wide, sweeping common that
they were on the very top of the world.
"Are there _really_ places higher than this?" she gasped, for the
clean, cold air took her breath away.
"Much, much higher!" Dick replied, with an amused laugh. "Are you
enjoying it?"
"Oh, it's 'toxicating!" she laughed, "isn't it, Mavis? It makes one
feel 'spasmy.'"
"What a wild little creature she is," thought Dick, glancing down at
the excited little face. He was glad that the forest and river that
he loved so dearly had had a hand in the making of Nancy.
Quite suddenly the road swung round to the left and they came upon
Omberley snuggling against the hillside. Nancy, of course, did some
"sky-climbing" when she saw it. "Sky-climbing," Mavis explained to
Dick, was a family word for Nancy's enthusiasms.
"Well, I can't help it," Nancy replied, "if he brings me suddenly
from the top of the world to a lovely baby village nestling in its
mother's arms. 'Sides, he says lots of artists come to paint
it--p'raps you will when you're bigger!" for already little Mavis was
showing promise of being an artist.
Dick stopped the car at a pretty little house half-way down the
village. He left the children outside while he went in to make
arrangements; these, apparently, did not take long, for he soon
returned followed by a pleasant-faced woman.
"Mrs. Halliday has come to take the blankets in and to be introduced
to you," he explained. "She's going to get us a splendid tea, and
you are all to come here as soon as you like. The sooner the
better," he added. "You'd get drenched up on that common in the
rain. You'll be happy and comfortable here; won't they, Mrs.
Halliday?"
Mrs. Halliday replied that it would not be her fault if they were
not, and, after a few final directions, they bade her good-bye "for a
little while." At the top of the village Dick pointed out an hotel
where they could leave Modestine and then, very reluctantly, set out
for Gleambridge.
Nancy and Mavis sauntered slowly back across the common. As yet
there was no sign of the boys, so, keeping one eye on the road, they
explored some of the many fascinating little paths amongst the
bushes. It was a wonderful common, quite different from anything
they had ever seen before and seemed to offer endless possibilities.
The "make-believe" games that might be played there! After tea, if
it was fine, they simply _must_ come here to play. So interested
were they both that they almost forgot to keep an eye on the road,
and it was not until they heard a frantic shout of recognition that
they realized how far they had strayed.
They flew back across the common, but, before they could reach the
boys, large drops of rain began to fall. Billy, seeing some
possibility of shelter behind the bushes, urged Modestine across the
grass to join them.
"We'd better wait a little while," he shouted to the girls. "Daddy
Petherham," he added, turning to Montague, "would say it's only going
to be a shower if he saw that sky. But he'd say there's lots more
coming presently--worse luck!"
The girls were waiting for them by a large hawthorn bush, and they
all huddled together, with Modestine, who hated getting wet, in their
midst.
"Jolly good thing we've arranged to sleep indoors to-night," Billy
said, as he watched the driving rain. "Did Mr. Frampton manage to
fix things up?"
"Yes, indeed, and at the dinkiest little cottage, too, and you'll
simply _love_ Omberley!" Nancy replied, enthusiastically.
"_And_ this common!" Mavis added eagerly. "We just had to explore a
little. I _wish_ you'd both been here!"
Presently, the rain ceased and, for the first time during the
afternoon, the sun shone brilliantly.
"It's going to be fine for a little while anyway!" they cried
hopefully, but they had spent too many hours in wise old Daddy
Petherham's company to mistake that brilliance. The boys, however,
had been looking about them while they were sheltering and they too
found delightful possibilities tucked away behind those alluring
common paths.
"There'd be time just to go down there," Billy said eagerly, pointing
to a path that led towards what seemed to be a kind of fort.
"Mr. Frampton said not to hang about too long," Nancy replied
doubtfully. "I b'lieve he worries rather about us, you know."
"Well, we won't stay long, but it's not nearly six yet, and 'sides
we'd be miserable stuffed up in a cottage for hours. Just down this
_one_ path, then we'll go straight to the cottage."
There seemed no immediate prospect of another shower, so Nancy gave
in, and four eager children and one somewhat reluctant donkey set out
on a voyage of discovery across the common. The fort was further off
than they had imagined, but nobody thought of turning back for they
did not come upon anything so interesting every day!
A real fort! How did it get there? Was it ever used? They could
see no sign of soldiers, nor even a sentry. A fort with no
defenders, with no enemy to storm it? Oh, impossible!
"Just _one_ little game!" Billy cried eagerly. "Modestine can graze;
there's lots of cows and horses over there so she'll be quite happy."
"Well, just five minutes!" Nancy conceded.
Five minutes when you have to defend your country with your very life
against a persistent enemy? Who could think of paltry minutes, who
could have eyes for gathering storm-clouds when all your resources
are being called upon to defend your hearth and home from a merciless
enemy?
And so half an hour or more slipped away, and a grey mist crept up
and shut out the Gleambridge valley and the distant hills. Great,
piled-up storm-clouds rolled nearer and nearer, but it was not until
a terrific clap of thunder, that might almost have been the booming
of one of their own imaginary guns, brought them back to earth with a
start that they realized what was happening.
"Oh!" cried Nancy in dismay, "what _will_ Mr. Frampton say? We ought
to have gone long ago."
"Yes," Billy replied guiltily. "Here comes the rain! It's no use
sheltering; it's going to be a terrific thunder-storm. We'd better
fly."
They looked round for Modestine, but she was nowhere in sight.
Horses and cows were huddled together under a high wall beyond the
fort, but Modestine was not amongst them. Now what was to be done?
They could not possibly leave the poor little animal out in the
storm; they would have to stay and find her.
"Oh, I hope we find her quick," Mavis said, in a frightened little
voice. "I hate this horrid thunder and lightning."
Nancy could tell by the way she clung to her hand that she was
thoroughly frightened, and was not surprised, for she herself felt
suddenly small and helpless up here on the top of the world exposed
to all the fury of the storm.
"Monty," she said, "you and Mavis run on to Jessamine Cottage and
Billy and I'll look for Modestine. Tell Mrs. Halliday we won't be
long, Mavis."
For a moment Mavis clung to Nancy as though unwilling to leave her.
"It's all right, Mavis," Montague said soothingly, "I'll take care of
you, dear."
He took her hand firmly in his, and, for once, Mavis did not trouble
to see whether it was clean or not.
"Don't be long, will you?" she pleaded, as Nancy turned away to join
Billy in his search.
"No, I s'pect she's just behind some of the bushes. Take care of
her, Monty," and, feeling that the proudest moment in his life had
arrived, Montague ran with his little charge in the direction of
Omberley.
Nancy joined Billy in his search. The rain was coming down with such
force and the wind was beating so pitilessly across the open common
that they found it difficult to hold up against it. Neither of them
would own that they were scared when the lightning zigzagged about
them, but each wished devoutly that Modestine would appear soon.
Suddenly, through the fury of the storm they heard a welcome,
familiar sound--the sound of a most pathetic braying. They lifted up
their heads and listened.
"Why, she's just over there!" Billy cried. "I can just see her
sticking out of that kind of shelter arrangement. I'll ran on and
fetch her; don't bother to come all the way."
Feeling very much relieved, Billy ran towards Modestine. He ran with
eyes half-closed and head lowered to avoid the blinding rain, and
thus it was that he did not see a forlorn, draggled-looking cow
drawing near to the shelter.
"Ladybird! Modestine! Come on, old girl, we're waiting for you, and
we're drenched through. Hurry!"
Modestine, hearing her little master's voice, looked up, but instead
of seeing his familiar face she encountered that of the cow. Now,
whether it was the storm that scared her or the harmless face of the
cow Billy could never say; all that he knew at the time was that
Modestine flew past him in terror. After that he knew very little,
for suddenly all was confusion.
Nancy could never be sure, either, exactly how the accident occurred.
She was not near enough to see more than a jumble of Billy, cow, and
donkey; then, the mad rush of Modestine, and her brother lying very
still just outside the shelter.
She flew, terrified, towards him, and, flinging herself on the wet
grass at his side, leaned over him. Whenever action was demanded of
her, Nancy's imagination was always thrust into the background, and
so, though Billy's face was deathly white, she did not pause to
indulge in the Biggest Fear of All. She unfastened his collar and
tie and then raised his head gently on to her knee. What else could
she do? There was no need for water, for the rain was beating down
on the boy's upturned face. Was there nothing to be done? Had she
just to sit here patiently waiting for life to return. Oh, it was
unbearable! Why did she not know what to do? If only she had not
sent the other two on, she thought regretfully, Monty could have run
to the village for help. She looked about her, but the common, as
much of it as was in sight, was deserted. Back on the road she could
hear the sound of a car, but it would be gone before she could get
near enough to wave to the occupants. It was not Mr. Frampton's car
she knew, for it was coming from the wrong direction. If only he
would come along--ah, what a relief that would be.
Nobody came, however, and she remained sitting there in the rain
watching Billy's face with anxious, passionate love in her eyes.
At length, after what seemed an eternity to Nancy, Billy opened his
eyes and looked about him vaguely.
"I think I've hurt my head a bit," he said, "it feels rather rotten.
Why, you're sitting on the wet grass, Nancy! I'll get up."
He tried to rise, but fell back with a sharp cry of pain.
"It's my leg," he groaned. "Is it broken, Nancy?"
"I don't know, Billy dear--I couldn't see what happened. Shall I
look and see?"
Billy shook his head.
"I--I couldn't bear to have it touched," he whispered, for he was
almost too exhausted with the pain to speak. He closed his eyes.
Apparently he had forgotten that Nancy was still sitting on the damp
grass, for he rested his head on her lap and held her hand tight.
Nancy looked down at him in despair. It was awful to see him
suffering so horribly and not be able to relieve him. She dared not
even suggest lifting him into the cattle-shelter out of the rain for
fear she might further injure his leg.
"If someone doesn't come along soon I shall have to leave him and run
for help," she thought.
The thunder still rolled amongst the surrounding hills, but only
distantly now; she was glad of this, for the horrid thunder seemed to
add terror to the accident.
"Nancy!" Billy spoke feebly, and Nancy leaned down to catch his
words. "How shall we tell Mother? She'll be awfully worried about
it."
Now, there was an unwritten law amongst the three children that their
mother must be saved as far as possible from all trouble. Their
quarrels were suspended at the first whisper of "Mother's coming!"
because it hurt them to see a certain sad, grieved expression that
was always on Mother's face if she caught them at it unawares. They
wanted to ward off all sorrow, all grief; they hated it to come
anywhere near that beloved mother; they hated anyone who caused her
suffering. Dick, realizing from their conversation something of this
protective love of theirs, had, as before mentioned, dreaded the
awakening for them when they should realize the anxiety she had
suffered after their disappearance. _That_ anxiety they could never
wholly realize; they had left a letter of explanation, so why should
anyone worry? Were they not used to wandering about the forest with
Modestine? Only in the daytime, of course; but still everybody knew
they were not helpless babies who could not be trusted.
Nevertheless, because of that unwritten law, both Billy and Nancy
were beginning to realize that they ought never to have come.
"It was all my fault," Billy whispered. "I'll tell her it was me,
Nancy."
"You won't!" Nancy replied passionately. "I'm older, an' I ought to
have thought more, and not just gone on dreaming stupid dreams about
hills that aren't a bit nicer'n our forest. I ought to have known
we're too young to go off like this. When you're older you know what
to do with accidents, an' all _I_ can do is to sit here and wait for
a grown-up!" Nancy leaned down and pressed her lips to Billy's hot
forehead. "I _wish_ it had been me," she added.
Billy half opened his eyes.
"No, it's right for it to be me," he persisted, "it was my fault,
Nan." He was silent for a moment. "Tell Mr. Frampton
_everything_--from the beginning. And--and--oh, I wish he'd come!"
He turned his head away, and if there were tears in his eyes Nancy
was not allowed to see them. She knew that they were there, however,
and felt desperately that something must be done. She thought of the
Prior's telegram, but could one send telegrams from so small a
village as Omberley? She feared not. Well, if she did not meet Mr.
Frampton she must get help from the village and send Monty back along
the road to fetch the girl who belonged to the derelict car. If she
had been a nurse in the war she would surely know what to do for a
broken leg.
"Shall you mind being left just for a little while?" she asked Billy
gently.
He shook his head.
"No. But you'll come straight back yourself, won't you? I--I want
you, Nan."
Nancy tenderly re-assured him. Then she rose, and, making a pillow
of her raincoat (fortunately Dick had insisted on both the girls
keeping their raincoats with them), she slipped it under Billy's
head. She was just about to turn away when she caught sight of
Modestine coming towards them.
"Oh!" she cried, with relief, "here's Modestine, Billy. She'll take
care of you while I'm away. She'd be sorry if she understood,
wouldn't she?"
"Yes--it wasn't her fault really. I'm glad she's come." For neither
of them could feel the slightest resentment towards the little
animal, who was indirectly responsible for the accident, knowing that
the blame rested primarily with themselves.
The rain had now stopped. Nancy felt glad of this as she flew across
the common for there had seemed something so relentless in the steady
downpour with Billy lying there entirely at its mercy. She looked to
right and left when she reached the road, but not a soul was in sight.
"I'll have to go to that hotel," she thought. "It's the nearest
place."
She turned into the village street, and to her surprise and joy what
should she see standing outside the hotel but the derelict car! Ah,
_now_ she could get help! Utterly regardless of her dishevelled
appearance, she ran up the steps and burst into the lounge. It was
full of people, but that did not trouble Nancy, for the person she
wanted was there--that was all that mattered. She brushed past
several astonished tea drinkers and ran straight to the erratic old
lady and her companion.
"Oh," she cried breathlessly, "please will you come at once? Billy's
broken his leg and Mr. Frampton isn't back from Gleambridge yet, and
he's out on the common with only Modestine. Could you _hurry_,
please, and bring someone to help carry him? It hurts him terribly,
an' so does his head."
The girl rose instantly and glanced at the old lady.
"Everything that's necessary," the latter replied tersely, in answer
to an enquiry in the girl's eyes. "And no expense to be spared.
She'll be ready--with somebody else's car--in about three minutes,
child," she added, turning to Nancy, for the girl had already
disappeared.
Nancy looked up at her and quite suddenly a special instinct she had
for seeing _behind_ people told her that the old lady was to be
trusted.
"Billy wants me to go back at once with them," she said hurriedly,
"and Mavis and Monty are at a place called Jessamine Cottage, and
don't know anything about the accident----"
"No need to worry about them--I'll go immediately. And you can trust
Miss Hammond, child--keep her as long as you need her. She managed
to get the car here and here it and I can stay. Here she comes!
Now, off you go!"
Nancy's eyes brimmed with gratitude as she followed Miss Hammond and
two strangers towards a car that was awaiting them. Now, just as she
was about to step into it Dick came dashing along the common road,
and glancing down the street saw and recognized her. He drew up
instantly and shouted to her.
"Oh," she cried, her voice trembling with relief, "there's Mr.
Frampton! Please, he'll take me to Billy. But you'll come too,
won't you?" she asked, turning to Miss Hammond.
"We'll all come," one of the men said kindly. "Your friend may need
us to help carry the little chap."
Dick held Nancy close while Miss Hammond briefly made the necessary
explanations and she nestled to him, knowing that their dear, big
comrade would take over all responsibility now.
"We'll never, never go away by ourselves again," she thought. "It's
an awful, awful world when you've got to try and manage and no
grown-ups to help you to think what to do. Everything'll be better
now Mr. Frampton's come. How glad Billy will be."
* * * * *
Three days later Nancy was sitting on the stone seat in the Sunk
Garden of the Priory, awaiting the Prior. Billy was settled for the
night in the charge of the new nurse who had come to relieve Miss
Hammond in order that she might return to her duties as companion,
and Mother was resting.
The swallows swooped and circled around her, but this evening she had
no thoughts to spare for them. There was so much to think about;
things to puzzle out--big, important things.
Nothing could ever efface the sadness behind Mother's forgiveness;
the half-hour with her when she had sobbed out her contrition was one
Nancy could never forget; Mother's few, gently-spoken words had
opened up a new world of responsibility to her. And then the memory
of Billy's face when they had lifted him into the car; the memory,
too, of his suffering during the ride to the Priory (Dick had taken
them there not only because it was so much nearer than Nestcombe, but
because he knew that his uncle would feel his responsibility in the
matter and would wish to bear, as far as possible, both the trouble
and expense), and the awful thought of four long months of
imprisonment for out-of-doors Billy; all these things forced
themselves upon Nancy and overwhelmed her with bitter regret.
"An' 'tisn't as if he could let off steam and do some grumblings
sometimes," she thought miserably. "He'll feel he's got to try to
keep them in as well as the pain, when Mother's there specially, 'cos
it's all our fault."
And yet, bitterly as she regretted ever having listened to the voice
of the hills, she could not help but wonder whether that adventure of
theirs was wholly wrong. For instance, there was Nonie. She must
surely have been drowned if Billy had not been there to save her.
And then again, there were Monty and Jocelyne, and Aunt Letty and
Uncle Jim. Surely the adventuring was going to be responsible for a
good deal of happiness where those four were concerned! Nancy,
clasping her hands round her knees, smiled a little tearfully as she
recalled the scene that had taken place under the Prior's beeches the
day after the accident.
First, there had been Jocelyne, a beautiful, eager, impulsive
Jocelyne running across the lawn with outstretched arms to Monty.
"Oh, Monty," she had cried, "I thought I didn't love you because
you're so naughty and troublesome, but I find I do! I've missed you
awfully, and it's been hateful living with aunt without you."
Montague stared at her in surprise.
"I haven't missed you," he replied slowly. "I've been happy."
"But won't you be friends now?" Jocelyne pleaded, all her pride
humbled for, perhaps, the first time in her life. "I'll be good to
you, Monty."
Montague hesitated and it was Mavis who decided the matter.
"She's nice, Monty, I like her. Be quick and make it up with her,
then we can all be friends together."
What could Montague do but obey his kind little tyrant? And then,
while the four of them were talking together, three of them at least
wishing that Billy had been there with them, across the lawn with the
Prior and Aunt Letty had come no less a person than "nearly-Uncle
Jim."
"That's my guardian," Montague growled; "s'pose he's come to fetch
me, but I'm not going back to Aunt's."
"Your guardian!" they echoed. "But it's someone who nearly married
Aunt Letty!"
"Oh!" cried Nancy, her ready imagination grasping the situation,
"that's why the Nestley side of Riversham hurt him! I _said_ it
wasn't just an ordinary ache!"
But Mavis, too, had grasped the situation, and while they were
talking and wondering she had run towards Aunt Letty and thrown her
arms around her.
"Aunt Letty, dear, please won't you hurry up and be friends with
Uncle Jim again and marry him? You see, I promised Monty he should
have you to be his mother 'cos he hasn't got one. He hates aunts,
but if he forgets you're one he thinks he could love you and, oh, he
does need someone to keep him clean and love him. But he can't be
your little boy, can he, if you hate his guardian?"
"I don't hate him!" Aunt Letty replied hastily, and Nancy, who had
drawn near with Jocelyne and Monty, thought how pretty her eyes
looked as she spoke.
"Then you'll marry him quick and be Monty's mother-guardian?" Mavis
cried, clasping her hands eagerly.
"And mine!" Jocelyne broke in impulsively.
"The guardian-angel of us all," said Uncle Jim, and Nancy knew by the
happy assurance in his voice that he and Aunt Letty must have made up
their quarrel before joining them on the lawn.
"'Spect the Prior made them," she thought, looking up affectionately
at the latter's twinkling face.
"But what does Monty say?" asked Aunt Letty, kneeling down by the boy
and taking his hands in hers. "There won't be much 'angel' about it,
I'm afraid. Just pals, you know, who love and trust each other.
Will you risk it, Monty dear?"
Montague stared silently at the young, kind face before him. Was
this an aunt? Why, she seemed friendly--just like Mr. Frampton.
"I didn't know aunts was like you," he said simply. Aunt Letty
smiled and waited questioningly. Then, perceiving that she was not
fully satisfied, Montague leaned forward and, for the first time
since his mother's death, voluntarily kissed a "grown-up." "It isn't
going to be any risk--not for _me_," he replied. "Nor for you
either--you'll see!" he added, and though his voice rumbled
volcanically, it was because of the strange new fire of happiness
that was burning within him.
And so, as she recalled that scene, Nancy could not but feel happy
that some good at least had come out of their thoughtless adventure.
And there was the Prior, too--how glad he seemed of their love, yes,
and even Uncle Val would be glad that they were fond of Lionel's
father. Oh, that hill country that had seemed so remote, those hill
people who had seemed almost foreigners, how near they were, how
closely linked, after all, with the forest and forest people.
Well, the adventure, if adventure it might be called, was over,
unless staying on at the Priory with Mother and Billy could be called
a continuation of it. For Mavis and Monty, at least, it was
finished, Nancy thought, for they had gone home with Aunt Letty
yesterday. Modestine, too, was probably cropping grass
unadventurously in the home paddock, for she had been sent back in
the charge of one of the monks. Nancy smiled as she recalled the
Prior's confession of his "make-believe" monks. It was dear of him,
she thought, to have entered into the spirit of their adventure as he
had done; she loved him for it. Well, the monks were just ordinary
gardeners and butlers after all, but the Prior himself would never be
anything but "Prior dear" to them.
Above the Priory wall the evening sunlight was bathing the distant
hills. Nancy watched it, the imagination part of her drinking it in
rapturously. Somewhere tucked away in the heart of those sun-kissed
hills were Nonie and her mother. Strange, she thought, how all the
very nicest happenings had been connected with people. Grown-ups, of
course, would think "adventure" too big a word to be applied to those
happenings. At the time, she herself and Billy had doubted whether
they might be called such, but, now, in looking back, Nancy was not
so sure. The encounter with Dick (they were all to call him that
now), the finding of Monty, the rescuing of Nonie, the Prior's
courteous reception of them, and the thrill of finding that he was
Lionel's father, above all the reconciliation of Aunt Letty and Uncle
Jim, surely there was adventure in all these happenings!
"Oh, if only it needn't have turned out so cruelly for Billy," Nancy
thought. "Well, we've promised Mother to settle down to everyday
life until we're grown-up, so there won't be any more adventure now
for years and years."
Footsteps aroused her from her reverie, and, looking up, she saw the
Prior coming towards her. She ran to meet him eagerly, and together
they paced up and down the old Sunk Garden.
"Making poems, little girl?" asked the Prior.
"No," Nancy replied, "I've just been thinking."
"Important thoughts?"
"Well, I don't know," she replied slowly. "It's only that we've
promised to settle down quietly till we're grown-up and it seems such
a long time to wait for any more adventure. It's Billy who will mind
most, I'm afraid. You see, he must do things, but we never, never
will go away again however tired we get of playing in the garden.
'Sides----"
The Prior looked down at her questioningly.
"Yes?"
"Oh, only that the garden and the river and the forest, I b'lieve,
are the nicest places in the world, after all. If--if only something
would _happen_ there--if only one didn't just meet people in an
ordinary, everyday way, if only adventure could be at home 'stead of
you having to go and find it!"
"But you don't!" the Prior re-assured her. "If you want adventure it
will come to you whether you go out to meet it or stay at home. Take
my advice, little girl. Let adventure seek _you_--it's waiting for
you round every corner. You've only to beckon, and it will come
dancing towards you."
"Really and truly?" Nancy asked breathlessly. "But how? I don't
quite see _how_!"
"You will some day. Did Dick or I or Monty or Nonie and her mother
or your Rose-Vicar seek you little people? And yet you have been
adventure, the Biggest Adventure of All for every one of us."
"_We_ have been adventure for _you_?" Nancy repeated slowly. "Why, I
never thought of that, and I'm sure Billy didn't."
She looked up into the Prior's face incredulously. How could three
children bring adventure to grown-up people? Surely he was mistaken?
Surely the Rose-Vicar, at least, would not agree with him? The
Biggest Adventure of All!
"What _is_ the Biggest Adventure of All?" she asked, as they climbed
the steps to return to the house. The Prior smiled inscrutably.
"Ah, _that_ you must find out for yourselves," he replied. "You will
know some day."
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