Beyond the hills

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."

Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner Ltd., Frome and London
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