THE LIBATION MAN
Between Nestley and Riversham, after the village school was passed,
were only one or two large houses standing well back from the road,
consequently the children felt free to give themselves up to the
joyous freshness of the morning and step out to meet adventure with a
song not only in their hearts, but on their lips.
Fortunately, Modestine not only liked music, but seemed invigorated
by it and set out so briskly at times that Nancy and Billy had much
ado to keep pace with her. If the song died away she would fall into
her usual jog-trot, but Billy had simply to run in front and sing his
lustiest and Modestine would respond with pricked-up ears and a
quickened pace.
Presently, however, they drew near to Riversham and the singing
ceased.
"Let's get through as quickly as possible," Billy said, "and let's
hope Modestine behaves herself. If she sits down in the middle of
the street as she did that time when we brought her in the cart--you
remember?--well, there'll be a crowd and good-bye to our adventure!"
With beating hearts they approached the sleepy little country town.
The church stood on a hill to the right and they glanced up anxiously
at the clock. Not quite nine o'clock--good--people would not be
abroad shopping yet.
"I forgot to wind my watch up last night," Mavis said. "It's
stopped."
With much pride she wound up the watch, for it was one that she had
recently won at Billy's school sports; the only watch between them,
too, and they were depending on it. There might not always be church
clocks and somehow, even on an adventure, it would seem strange to be
timeless.
Riversham consisted mainly of one broad street stretching from one
end of the town to the other. What activity there was amongst the
inhabitants was apparently taking place indoors; a few small boys
were scattered about; the butcher, like all butchers, was dashing
recklessly down the centre of the street; the milkman ambled after
him. An assistant in the draper's shop under the trees glanced up
idly, but curiosity evidently not being her strong point, she
scarcely gave them a second glance.
"_Do_ let's rest soon," Nancy said, "I'm getting a little tired,
aren't you?"
Billy would not admit that he was, but he owned that he was ready to
justify Aunt Hewlett's belief in him, so, when at the further end of
the town they found a narrow lane branching off to the left, they
decided to take it; it might have a suitable halting place tucked
away in some unobtrusive corner.
"But we'll get back on to the Gleambridge road presently, won't we?"
Nancy said. "This is a forest road and it's the hills, not the
forest we want, isn't it?"
"Yes, we know _all_ about the forest," Billy replied, "inside and
out, so of _course_ it's the hills we'll make for."
This, in spite of the fact that every step was taking them nearer to
the deep heart of the forest, to a beauty and grandeur that was
constantly changing. This great friendly forest, with its harmonies
of sound and colour, this sheltering forest, with its unseen yet
familiar voices, how were they to know that in rejecting it, they
were rejecting something that was a part of themselves, just as Daddy
Petherham was a part of Nestcombe?
In a little while they came to a meadow, and beyond the meadow, with
a gate leading invitingly into it, was a wood; a very suitable
halting-place, they decided, and without a second thought--for
trespassing never troubled our young adventurers--entered it.
Billy paused as they were shutting the gate and looked at the little
town in the valley and the peeps of golden river between its
chimney-pots. Just across that river were the hills and to reach
them they must tramp all the way to Gleambridge first.
"Wish we could have gone by the Riversham ferry," he said
regretfully, "it'd have cut off miles, but the old man might ask
questions--p'raps he wouldn't take us. Better stick to the road, I
s'pose, though it's another sixteen miles."
"Shall we get there to-day?" Mavis asked. "'Course you must both
take turns in riding Modestine, 'cos I'm nearly seven and needn't
ride _all_ the way. Shall we sleep at Gleambridge or in a wood?" she
added, as they made their way across the meadow.
"I don't know," Nancy replied. "'Sides, a lot depends on Modestine."
Modestine, when they reached the wood, stood with her most angelic
expression while they removed the blankets and provision basket to
ease her for a while.
"Don't forget to take the bit out of her mouth, Billy," Nancy
reminded him as he was loosening her girth, while she and Mavis
unpacked the provisions.
It did not take two hungry little girls very long to spread out the
breakfast for which they were all longing.
"Oh, Modestine! Look out, both of you!"
Nancy and Mavis turned at Billy's cry to see Modestine dashing
towards them, and they too uttered a cry as she took a flying leap
over the food they had spread on the grass.
"An' she hasn't even knocked the lemonade over!" Mavis cried, and
there was a little secret admiration in her voice; Modestine, you
see, in spite of her naughtiness was so dear.
"A jolly good thing for her!" Billy said. "And now we've got to
catch her!" he added ruefully.
They looked longingly at the tempting food and hesitated. Should
they let her roam until they had satisfied their hunger? It was a
lonely spot and nobody was likely to come, and yet--well, though they
never had the slightest fear of trespassing, it was an unwritten rule
with them that gates should always be closed after them, and that no
damage should be done in any way.
"An' if we let her roam you never know what might happen!" They
sighed, and gave themselves up to a breathless quarter of an hour's
coaxing and cajoling. At the end of that time, Modestine, apparently
tired of the game, submitted herself to Nancy, rubbing herself
affectionately against the child as she tethered her to the gate
leading into the wood.
"And now we can have breakfast!" Billy said with a sigh of
contentment.
How good the food tasted up here on the forest road--the first
breakfast they had eaten in a meadow--so different from _ordinary_
out-of-doors meals. Picnics lead you nowhere--this meal----
"It's kind of the beginning of the adventure, isn't it?" Nancy said.
"The christening feast. No--no, don't laugh at me, I didn't mean
that. What's the word I want? Celebration, no, not 'xactly. Don't
talk to me for a minute, I'll see it inside me presently. I do wish
words wouldn't run away just when you want them. Initiation? No,
that doesn't sound quite right." She shook her head and frowned.
"Can't you think of it, Billy?"
"Me?" Billy asked, with a chuckle. "No, _I_ don't know long words,
an' I'm far too hungry to bother about them. Don't you want some
more to eat, Nancy?"
Nancy took the huge slice of bread and butter Mavis passed her and
ate it absently.
"I'll have to let it go just now," she sighed. "But don't you think
we should offer up something to the God of Adventure? There's a word
for that, too; what you offer, I mean. Li--li----Oh, I wish Aunt
Letty were here, she'd know both words. Li---- I've got it!
Libation!"
"Oh, look!" whispered Mavis hurriedly. "Look behind you!"
"BY Jingo!" Billy exclaimed.
Nancy came down to earth with a start to see coming towards them
through the wood, two men, and a dog which evidently belonged to the
younger of the two. The elder man was a gamekeeper, Nancy decided
swiftly, but his companion--was he a farmer and would he be cross and
turn them out? She studied his face intently as he approached, and
read there not only surprise but interest. Nancy liked him
immediately and instinctively she felt that, if he was a farmer, he
was something more besides; his interests extended beyond sheep and
the price of corn she was sure--not, of course, that she got as far
as expressing the thought quite as definitely as this. She just knew.
Billy, meanwhile, had whistled to the dog, who, after sniffing round
the boy was evidently satisfied that he was a person one could know,
and allowed himself to be fed with biscuits.
Now, if you were a gamekeeper and you came suddenly upon three
children and a donkey calmly settled upon the preserves for which you
were responsible, the one idea in your mind would be to turn the
whole party out as speedily as might be with perhaps a lengthy and
fear-raising monologue thrown in, as to the inadvisability of
trespassing. And if you were a gamekeeper and _alone_, that is what
you would do; that is what your duty as a gamekeeper told you you
should do; that is what you were absolutely tingling to do in spite
of the restraining hand of a youthful master.
But if you were the owner of the preserves, and, if on a summer
morning with happy, laughing skies above you, you came upon a picture
of startling interest and beauty, if the youth dancing in your veins
shouted to you that the picture was a part of the glory of the
morning? If the picture dissected resolved itself into a dainty,
golden-haired fairy with a bloom on her cheeks like that of a ripe
peach; a boy with mischievous, laughing eyes, and a dreamy child with
chestnut hair who had searched the recesses of an apparently not
empty little mind and brought forth in triumph the word "libation"!
And last, but not least, a donkey tethered to the gate through which
you were intending to pass? If, too, you were more interested in
human nature than in your preserves; if there was about each child
something that suggested more than an everyday picnic, if an intense
desire burned in you for enlightenment?
Mavis leaned forward and stroked the dog.
"Isn't he a dear and isn't he friendly? Is he your little dog?" she
asked, smiling up into the gamekeeper's taciturn face.
"No," he replied laconically.
Meanwhile, the owner was standing with his hand on the gate in a
tentative attitude.
"Oh, Billy, Modestine's in the way!" Nancy exclaimed. "Do move him.
I'm sorry," she added, smiling apologetically at the owner. "We
thought we'd better tether her, you see. She's generally good, but
one never can be sure of her."
"I see," the owner replied gravely. "And has anyone given you
permission to picnic here, may I ask?"
"We're not picnicking," she replied promptly, "were just----" She
paused at a warning glance from Billy. "Why no," she continued,
"there was nobody to ask; but, you see, it was pretty and we were
tired and hungry, and we don't ever do any damage when we trespass,
do we?" she added, appealing to Billy and Mavis.
"No, and we always shut gates," Billy replied, as he opened the gate.
The gamekeeper, with a grumble all over his face, passed through
without a "thank you." His companion followed, but seemed in no
hurry to leave the little group.
"Isn't it rather early to be tired and hungry?" he enquired, with a
puzzled glance at the remains of the meal.
"Not if you're adventurers," Nancy replied. "You see, you get too
excited to eat anything before you start."
"And what exactly is an adventurer?" the owner asked, digging his
stick into the ground and leaning comfortably on it. "And what does
an adventurer do?"
Nancy hesitated.
"Why," she replied, looking over Riversham to the hills beyond the
river, "isn't it somebody who wants to find something? Something
they've wanted and wanted an' at last they feel they have to go and
find it, don't they, Billy?"
"Yes," said Billy, throwing back his head, "they have to go!"
"But what do they do?" the owner repeated.
"Oh, lots of things," Billy responded eagerly. "Just anything. They
don't mind what it is as long as it's part of the adventure."
"Only it mustn't be an everyday kind of thing, you know," Nancy
explained.
The gamekeeper was growing impatient and was clearly in a hurry to be
off. Since the children were not to be turned out he could see
little use in standing there talking to them; such absurd talk, too.
His master, seeing his impatience, signed to him to go, and then
turned again to the children.
"And how long do adventures last?" he enquired.
"Oh, a long time," Billy replied vaguely. He liked the stranger
immensely, but he was a grown-up and--well, it was safer not to enter
into details.
Now, the gamekeeper on his dismissal, instead of crossing the meadow
into the lane as he had originally intended, turned back into the
wood. Had he not done so; had he and his master gone straight down
to Riversham as they had previously planned, the children's adventure
would have ended abruptly, and this story would never have been
written.
For a car, containing a worried and unhappy father and mother was
passing through the town towards Gleambridge, whither they gleaned
from the children's letter they were bound.
Up in the meadow the children could only see the chimney pots and
roofs of Riversham, so they did not know that the sleepy little town
was in an unusual tumult. They did not see the crowd gradually
collecting round the car; they knew nothing of the enquiries that
were being made, or of the relief when, at last, the shop assistant
who had glanced up idly as they passed joined the crowd. Yes, three
children and a donkey had gone through the town, she said, some time
ago--nearly an hour, in fact. Yes, they would soon be found for a
car travels just a _little_ quicker than a donkey, and the donkey
seemed in no hurry.
Up in the meadow the children heard the car speeding out to the
Gleambridge road, but they gave it no second thought, for the
stranger was engrossing them.
"Would it," he was asking, "be an adventure to be prosecuted for
trespassing?"
His voice was grave, but Nancy's quick eyes detected a little twitch
at the corners of his mouth, and something at the back of his eyes
that was not in accordance with his mouth.
"I don't think you would prosecute us," she replied, with a smile
that was half-shy, half-frank.
"Why not? Don't you think I ought to?"
"No, I don't think you need. We told you we never hurt anything when
we trespass. 'Sides, I b'lieve----" She hesitated.
"Yes, what do you believe?" he encouraged her.
"I b'lieve you kind of understand."
"Why do you think that?" he asked. In his interest he dropped all
pretence of severity.
"Oh, I can't s'plain." Nancy regarded him frankly for a moment.
"It's something in your eyes; they're whim--whimsical."
"That's a long word for a little girl," was his reply.
"She can't help it," Billy interrupted with a teasing sigh and grin.
"What was the long word we were to offer up to the God of Adventure,
Nancy?" Mavis asked, suddenly returning to the conversation that had
been interrupted long, long ago, and joining in the general laugh
when the owner hoped they were going to offer up something more
substantial than a word.
"Is libation what you offer?" Nancy asked anxiously. "We weren't
quite sure. And can you do it in lemonade--that's all we've got?"
"And will it matter us having eaten our meal first?" Billy enquired.
"We didn't think about it till just as you came along."
"Is there _really_ a God of Adventure?" Mavis chimed in eagerly.
"And if we give him a libation will he really and truly help us to
have lots of nice things happen?"
"Not really-truly like you and me and Billy," Nancy replied. "Is
it?" she asked, turning confidentially to the owner. "But
really-truly--oh, yes! Don't you remember what Aunt Letty and
'nearly-uncle Jim' told us? _Anything_ can happen if you have an
inner vision, and if you think there is a God of Adventure, then
there is, and he'll help you. And, oh, do you think," she added,
turning again to the stranger who yet seemed no stranger, "_do_ you
think we may offer him lemonade as we haven't got wine, and shall we
do it now, and--and would you like to help us?"
Now, a property owner ought to be too busy attending to his duties to
play with children in the young hours of the day. He ought,
moreover, firmly, if politely to point out to trespassers that he
cannot have his meadow turned into a sort of heathen temple. And the
presumption of it! They inviting _him_, the owner to join in heathen
rites! Why, he should be in a frenzy of indignation!
But the owner was twenty-one and trespassers such as these three
little people, who apparently recognized him as a comrade, interested
him immensely. And, curiously enough, though twenty-one is a
fearfully important age and has all sorts of delightful possibilities
hovering round it, Dick Frampton had an instinctive feeling that it
was a privilege to be allowed to assist in, what to the children, was
a solemn affair.
So, feeling that unseen hands were pushing adventure towards him, he
replied by picking up the lemonade bottle and taking charge of the
rites.
Yes, in the circumstances, lemonade would do, but had they salt?
Sacred salt must be sprinkled on the meat. A pity they had had their
meal, gods preferred their offerings to be given first. Well, they
had better forget that meal and, after the offerings, they would all
eat together. Had they any meat on which the salt could be sprinkled?
"There's veal and ham pie," they replied anxiously. "Will it do?"
They gathered round with silent, eager interest while he cut off a
very tiny portion of the pie. Was that enough, they asked, rather
shocked to offer a god so little.
"Yes, he'll understand. Come now, and think hard about him and tell
him inside yourselves what you want."
With almost a feeling of being in church they followed him to the
hedge and watched while he placed the corner of pie on a little
grassy mound and sprinkled it with salt. With slow, solemn movements
of his hands he appeared to be blessing the pie, at the same time
murmuring something in a language the children could not understand.
The libation of lemonade, too, was a small one, but a God of
Adventure who could not understand and forgive a shortage would not
be worth approaching. An intense silence held the children as the
slow drops trickled on to the mound. Modestine, a few yards off, was
quietly cropping the grass; a lazy bird-chatter came from the little
wood, and across the meadow a yellowhammer was singing his
bread-and-butter song. The sounds of everyday human life came up
from Riversham, but faintly, so that they seemed to accentuate the
silence.
Little half-thoughts that would not form themselves into words came
to Nancy as they stood there. How funny that they should be standing
here with this stranger. And then again, how natural it seemed--and
why did he not seem like a stranger to them? How wonderful the
sunlight was! How could one think when sunlight was bathing one
through and through. It caught the salt and made it alive with
beauty. Surely sun-kissed salt must be acceptable to a god?
Adventures now _must_ come to them.
Leaving their humble offering on the mound, they, the three children
and Dick Frampton, each solemnly ate a fragment of pie.
"Ours must be smaller, of course, than the sacred offering," Dick
said.
What little lemonade was left he also divided between them. Nancy
instinctively turned her eyes to the hills as she drank; _would_ they
get there, and would adventure come out to meet them, and, above all,
would they know it for adventure?
"And now," said Dick, "I must go."
There was reluctance in his voice, yet he knew this was to be no
final farewell; these little people had come into his life to
stay--he would see to that, and seeing his own reluctance reflected
in their faces, he told them his name. Just for a second Billy
hesitated before he would allow Nancy to tell of their home at
Nestcombe and invite Mr. Frampton to come and see them some day.
Yet, after all, if they told him, what possible effect could it have
on their plans?
"I'm going over there this evening," Dick said, nodding towards the
hills, "so I shan't be able to come for a day or two."
"Going to the hills?" Nancy began impulsively. "Why----" A warning
glance from Billy restrained her, and Dick who simply imagined this
adventure as some extra-special all-day picnic, a grand make-believe
affair, had no suspicions that they would be journeying in the same
direction.
With a wave of the hand he left them, and the children began to
gather up their blankets and prepare to set forth again.
"I do hope we see him again soon," Nancy said, as, with a somewhat
reluctant Modestine, they crossed the meadow.
That the God of Adventure, in accepting their offerings, had laid his
spell on them and Dick Frampton she could not guess; that Dick was to
play a very big part in their adventures, well, how could they
possibly know this?