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!"