GREAT-AUNT HEWLETT
With fingers that trembled because of his excitement Billy fastened
the strap of Modestine's girth.
"That's right! Now let's fix the blankets on. You help me, Nancy--I
don't quite know how they should go."
Nancy handed the basket of provisions to Mavis and ran to Billy's
assistance. It was one thing to harness a donkey you had tended and
coddled for two years, but to fasten a not very tidy bundle of
blankets on to the saddle when you were almost dancing with
excitement was not quite so easy. Nancy when she had finished, eyed
her work doubtfully. Somehow, it did not look exactly professional.
"We really ought to have had sleeping sacks like Stevenson," she
said; "but then, he had more money to buy them with than we had, I
s'pect."
With only nineteen shillings to feed and sleep three of you--and a
donkey--for a whole week, sleeping sacks were a luxury not to be
indulged in.
Their simple preparations did not take long to complete, yet many
anxious glances were cast at the house while they were in progress.
Supposing they were discovered? Supposing Modestine should bray,
supposing----
"Oh, quick! Let's start right away!" Billy whispered. "I'll haul
you into the saddle now, Mavis. Are you ready, Nancy? Come on!"
Very quietly the little procession crept down the drive and passed
out into the road. Nancy and Mavis each gave one wistful glance back
at the house where all was so still. If only the grown-ups could
have come, too! Was it too late even now to go back and ask them to
come? Why, up to this moment had there been that quite definite
though unspoken thought in each child's mind that adventure such as
they were seeking was something those belonging to the grown-up world
could not understand, would not appreciate? Their grown-ups were all
such pals. After all----
Nancy glanced hesitatingly at Billy, but she said nothing, for his
unyielding back, his steady, plodding walk, and the way his head was
thrown back told her that he was pushing every bit of feeling and
regret away from him. They had planned the adventure, they must be
brave and go on--they must find what lay beyond the hills; all this
Nancy read in Billy's attitude, and, knowing her brother, she fell
into step by Modestine and buried her own regrets.
It was not yet six o'clock, but they pushed on hurriedly as, until
they were the other side of Riversham, a small country town a few
miles off on the Gleambridge road, they were likely to encounter
people who knew them. Better, they decided, to get beyond familiar
places while folks were yet a-bed.
"See! We're nearly at Nestcombe," Nancy said. "Modestine, dear,"
she continued, addressing the donkey, "please don't do anything
naughty until we are past the cottages. There's people up, I know,
'cos there's smoke coming out of the chimneys, so _don't_ 'tract
their attention, will you?"
Modestine plodded on, wearing her most angelic expression. She was a
creature of vagaries; at least, that is how a man who used to come to
see Aunt Letty--our "nearly-Uncle Jim" as the children called
him--described her, and the children, though the word hitherto had
been an unfamiliar one, felt that it described their Ladybird
exactly--so naughty and yet so lovable.
This morning, so far, the quiet, innocent mood was uppermost, whether
because she felt the honour of her new name or because these
early-in-the-morning happenings had taken her by surprise the
children could not decide.
Nestcombe, the lovely little fishing hamlet on the outskirts of which
their home was situated, consisted of a row of about a dozen
cottages, a few outlying farms, and another handful of cottages in a
lane branching off from the main road down to the riverside.
"Look!" Mavis whispered, as they passed the top of this lane,
"there's old Daddy Petherham going down to the river. He's too deaf
to hear us, but I do hope he doesn't look round."
The old man, however, shuffled slowly and unheedingly down the lane,
his eyes turned towards the river, and, a moment later, the children
were through the village making their way towards Nestley.
"Wasn't the river sparkly and golden!" Nancy said. "And, oh, isn't
the morning sparkly, too! At least, I think it's going to be--look
at that bit of goldy-pink in the sky."
"It's cold, though," Mavis said, shivering a little. "I'm glad we
wore our knitted frocks."
Nancy's face puckered with contrition. She had forgotten that Mavis
would be cold riding and insisted on stopping while the child put on
her waterproof cloak.
"That's it. You'll soon be warm now, won't you? Come on, Modestine,
we're ready, old lady."
Modestine, who had rested her head on Billy's shoulder during the
halt, was annoyed at being disturbed and planted her legs firmly
where she stood.
"Come on, Modestine, dear," Billy urged anxiously. "Ladybird,
gee-up! Oh, do hurry, Ladybird! We won't even get to Nestley, leave
alone Riversham, before lots of people are about, at this rate.
Could you _make_ her move, Mavis?"
Mavis did her best, but when Modestine's mind was made up it took
more than the little girl's feeble strength to budge her. On each
side of the obstinate creature Nancy and Billy pulled with no result.
Next, Nancy pulled and Billy pushed from behind; they gained a few
inches, but that was all. They pleaded and coaxed, they told her
their frank opinion of her, they wished they had not allowed her to
share in their adventure, they even threatened to leave her there in
the middle of the road, still Modestine stood immovable.
Suddenly, she lifted up her head and gave forth a terrific bray. All
the troubles of every donkey in the world seemed to be voiced in that
bray.
"Now you've done it!" Billy cried indignantly. "Be quiet, for
goodness' sake, Ladybird. Shut up, I say!"
Almost before the words were out of his mouth Mavis had whipped off
her cloak and flung it over the traitor's head. Modestine, surprised
at the interruption, hesitated, shook the cloak off, and then
suddenly trotted gently down the road.
Mavis turned in the saddle and waved her hand.
"She's all right now. I'll wait for you on the Riversham road if she
keeps this up. Good-bye!"
Billy picked up the cloak and together he and Nancy briskly followed
the fast-disappearing donkey.
They would only have one house to pass now before reaching Nestley,
and though they glanced round occasionally to see whether anyone was
in sight, they felt that they might safely give themselves up to the
thrill of having really started out on their adventure.
And what a morning on which to set out towards the Unknown! The pink
and gold was spreading across the sky, the birds were rhapsodizing,
and the air had that clean taste that belongs to the early morning.
Ah, here was Mill End, and there were the vast orchards of Brook
House, with the brook meandering through them. Not far to Nestley
now!
The church clock was striking a quarter to seven as they turned into
the village street.
"Look! Mavis is nearly at the top of the street," Nancy whispered.
"I do hope she gets past Aunt Hewlett's safely."
Great-Aunt Hewlett's trim white house stood at the top of the
village, just beyond the church. It was the last house they would
pass before the road forked off to Riversham.
The children watched Modestine anxiously, fearing that she might want
to stop at the gate; for though Great-Aunt Hewlett was far too stern
an old lady to coax a donkey with luxuries there were those of her
household who spoiled the pretty animal. Would Modestine remember
and refuse to pass the house?
Their fears, however, were groundless, and Mavis turned and waved a
triumphant hand before she disappeared round the high wall of Aunt
Hewlett's garden.
"Doesn't the bread smell good?" Billy said, sniffing in the delicious
scent that came from the bakehouse across the road. "I could eat a
huge chunk of new bread--I'm fearfully hungry."
They both were, for though they had drunk some milk before starting
they had all been too excited to eat more than a couple of biscuits
each and such meagre fare could not sustain healthy children in the
fresh morning air for very long.
The good, wholesome scent followed them as they hurried up the
street, and I am afraid it occupied so large a place in their
thoughts that they had none to give to the pretty village through
which they were passing. Probably, however, in any case, they would
have been blind to the beauties of the place; for Nestley was
familiar ground and was something to be left behind as soon as might
be. That they were hurrying with unseeing eyes through one of the
prettiest villages in England they did not know. Indeed, what would
it have mattered to them if it had been the prettiest village in the
world? Were they not out to seek adventure, and how could it begin
until you had left every trace of everyday places and people behind
you?
Nestley, snuggling in the heart of rich meadows and orchards, with
the brook gurgling down the centre of the street, and the houses
growing over the brook, and the forest rising up beyond the village;
oh, yes, it was all dear and pretty, but it was a home-place, just as
Daddy Petherham was a home person. Just how pretty the home village
is you cannot know until you have travelled away from it and have
seen it with your imagination eyes. Just how dear it is you cannot
realize, if you are an adventure-person, until far away from it you
feel its influence and your heart aches for the familiar things that
are Home.
And so, with more appreciation of Nestley's bakery than of its
beauties, Nancy and Billy proceeded up the steep little street,
glancing anxiously at Aunt Hewlett's trim windows. Aunt Hewlett,
unfortunately, was a very early riser--_would_ they get by safely?
"There she is!" Billy groaned.
Yes, there was Aunt Hewlett, tall and neat and stately and
uncompromisingly stern, in a stiff black frock and white cuffs and
collar and apron.
And she was beckoning them.
True, she was used to their early morning rambles and might not
suspect anything, but Mavis was waiting for them and, besides, every
moment of these early morning hours before they were likely to be
missed, counted.
Wishing they could have pretended not to see her, and trying not to
look too terribly guilty, they advanced up the path.
"Good-morning, Aunt," they said meekly.
The old lady looked down at them.
"Another of these morning walks!" she ejaculated, with a sniff.
"Ridiculous nonsense!" She paused, and looked at Nancy.
Now most people knew her for a very severe old lady; nevertheless,
behind her outward severity there was a very big spark of kindness, a
large share of which she gave to Nancy. There was something about
the child's face that bothered the shrewd old lady.
"Too tender, too sympathetic," she would blurt out to Nancy's mother.
"Too interested in other people and their troubles--bothers herself
too much about them--let the world take care of itself, I say!"
Yet, though she might leave the world to look after itself,
Great-Aunt Hewlett often went out of her way to spoil Nancy.
"Could you eat a hot buttered batch cake?" she asked in her severest
tone. "Suppose the boy would like one, too! Come in, both of
you--and wipe your shoes well; Lizzie's just washed the tiles."
"Oh, please, Aunt, I don't think we _could_ eat one this morning,
could we, Billy?" Nancy replied hastily. "You see, we had some milk
and biscuits before we started."
"Eh?" Aunt Hewlett cried in astonishment. "Not eat one of Lizzie's
batch cakes? What's the matter with the children? Aren't they good
enough for you?"
"Oh, Aunt Hewlett, they're the nicest batch cakes we've ever tasted,
but we're just not hungry this morning, thank you."
"Not hungry? Stuff and nonsense! Come along in and let's hear no
more about it."
The children, realizing that the safest and quickest plan would be to
accept the batch cakes, followed Aunt Hewlett down the wide, cool
hall to the kitchen. As a rule, Aunt Hewlett's house held a great
fascination for them. It was so silent, so awe-inspiring, so
altogether different from their own jolly home. Even the stately
Persian cat was different from their own mongrel cats and kittens.
And there was a scent, too, about the house that you could hardly
define. You could not be sure whether it was beeswax or whether it
belonged to the creepers on the tiled verandah, or to the scented
geraniums, or the blue and gold potpourri bowl in the drawing-room
where you always felt afraid of smashing the spindly legs of the
chairs.
This morning, however, the children even forgot to walk on tip-toe
(you _always_ walked tip-toe in that tiled hall), so engrossed were
they in planning how to get away quickly without arousing Aunt
Hewlett's suspicions or offending her.
Lizzie, Aunt Hewlett's old maid, and, incidentally the children's and
Ladybird's friend, was putting the last loaf into the oven as they
entered the kitchen, and, on the table, were half a dozen golden oven
or batch cakes just asking to be eaten. If the scent from Mr.
Philpott's bakery had been tantalizingly fragrant, the scent here was
a hundred times more so. Yet, though less than five minutes had
passed since they had been aching for new bread, now that they could
eat their fill all desire for it had fled.
Very deliberately Aunt Hewlett split open a couple of the golden
bread cakes and spread them generously with butter.
"One between us would be enough, thank you, Aunt," Nancy ventured
meekly, but Aunt Hewlett waved the suggestion aside.
"It's over two miles home if you're going back round by Etley, and if
you can't eat a batch cake a-piece and be ready for a hearty
breakfast when you reach home, well, all I can say is that the modern
child is made of poorer stuff than the children of _my_ generation.
In _my_ young days we'd have said 'thank you' and no more words about
it."
Aunt Hewlett tossed her proud old head and her eyes flashed as she
thought of the splendid stock the world produced eighty years ago.
"Nothing finicky about us, I can assure you, my dear."
"Oh, Aunt," Nancy pleaded, fearing that she had hurt her, "we're not
finicky, really, are we, Billy? Only----" She paused tremulously.
Billy glanced at her anxiously. _Would_ she be a sport and play her
part bravely? Knowing her tender heart he was a little doubtful.
Suddenly, he threw back his head just as he had done when he had
closed the home gate behind them. Here, at the very outset of their
adventures was something that called forth his fighting instincts.
Billy met it with ready response--_he_ would take charge of the
situation.
He took a huge bite out of his batch cake and, to his own surprise,
as well as Aunt Hewlett's, grinned up at her with an adorable
cheekiness.
"_Looks_ as though we like them, doesn't it, Aunt? And can I have
another, please, when I've finished this? Lizzie shouldn't make them
so nice. Or shall I take it for Mavis--she's just on in front, and
p'raps we'd better hurry else she'll think we're lost or something."
Mentioning Mavis he felt was thrillingly dangerous. Aunt Hewlett
_might_ make enquiries, and somehow or other the enquiries would have
to be avoided, but the spirit of adventure was awakened in him, and
he was ready to tackle any difficulty.
"Hum! So _that's_ why you weren't hungry, I suppose," Aunt Hewlett
replied. "Been quarrelling with her, have you? Six to one and half
a dozen to the other, of course!"
"Oh, no, Aunt," Billy replied, "we've not quarrelled--she just went
quicker, that's all. I've finished my batch cake," he added with an
insinuating grin. "It was ripping!"
Aunt Hewlett, pleased that the batch cakes should be so appreciated,
split open the remaining three, and, telling Lizzie to bring a paper
bag, set to and buttered them.
Nancy, meanwhile, was struggling hard with hers. As Aunt Hewlett's
back was turned Billy signed to her to break off the bigger portion
and slip it under Mavis' cloak.
"Well," said Aunt Hewlett, "here you are, and those that think they
won't spoil their breakfast can eat them going along. Nancy seems to
have lost both her appetite and her tongue to-day--and William," she
added, "seems to have found both."
The half-hurt, half-puzzled look on the stern old face worried Nancy.
She wished with all her heart that she could explain matters, but
that was impossible she knew, without giving Billy away. Yet, what
must Aunt Hewlett think of her? Usually it was she, Nancy, who
chattered freely and confidingly to the old lady whose sternness she
could see behind while Mavis and Billy stood by in awed silence. And
now to-day----
She ran toward her aunt and kissed her impulsively.
"Auntie dear, I do love you," she said, "and I love the batch cakes
and next time I'll talk lots and lots to you. _Please_ don't not
love me. Good-bye!" and, with tears very near her eyes, she fled
from the house, Billy following.
"Well!" ejaculated Aunt Hewlett. For quite three minutes she stood
where they had left her, thinking--and feeling again a pair of little
arms round her neck. "Well, well!" she added, and then left the
kitchen to go about her household duties.
Meanwhile, Nancy and Billy were flying round the corner to the
Riversham road with all sorts of thoughts and feelings, jogging
against each other as they ran.
They found Mavis seated on the top of a high stone stile, her arms
round Modestine, her head pillowed on her neck. She opened her eyes
very sleepily when they approached, and smiled.
"You seemed such a long time," she explained, "so I just closed my
eyes. Why, what have you got there, Billy. It smells like new
bread!"
"It is," Billy replied, "and some of it's for you."
They explained the cause of their delay to Mavis, a delay of which
the child had fortunately been unconscious, as she had been longer in
the Land of Nod than she had at all realized, as they trudged along
the Riversham road, munching some of the delicious batch cakes.
"Let's keep the other two until we get through Riversham," Nancy
suggested. "P'raps we might stop for a little rest then."
"Yes, and have our breakfast. 'Cording to Aunt Hewlett we ought to
be jolly well ready for it!" Billy replied, with a grin. "'Sides,"
he added, "I didn't get the full benefit of the one I ate in the
kitchen, I'm sure--didn't I bolt it just!"