THE OTHER SIDE
The little procession, with its reinforcement, set off down the hill.
Mavis, who was still dissatisfied with Montague's appearance, made
him take off his coat and shake it as they went along. If she had
not been so fascinatingly pretty and if there had not been that
irresistible motherliness in her voice, Montague would have been
inclined to class her with Jocelyne.
"But Jocelyne _she_ wouldn't go on an adventure," he told himself.
"She'd want to go in a car and stop at swanky hotels."
For there were to be no hotels, the children informed him. There
would be sleeping out of doors, or perhaps sometimes in a cottage if
it was wet.
"An' there ought," they told him, "to be a monastery 'cos Stevenson
slept at one one night."
They had turned now into the Gleambridge road.
"Why are we going this way?" Montague asked suddenly.
"We told you. We're going to the hills, we want to see the other
side of them. And we've got to go to Gleambridge first, you know, to
get there."
"Gleambridge!" Montague repeated slowly. "Then I can't come!"
He stood in the middle of the road, disappointment written all over
him.
"Why not?" they asked, in surprise.
"'Cos my two crosses are there," he replied bitterly.
"Your two crosses?"
"Yes, Jocelyne an' Aunt. They've gone by car, an' we'd be sure to
meet them an' they'd bring me back."
The children understood at once; they did not like the thought of the
poor boy turning back or being brought back ignominiously by his
aunt, yet what were they to do?
"We can't swim the river with a donkey and blankets and things,"
Billy said. '"Course there's the ferry, but the ferryman, well, he
_might_ not want to take us, or he _might_ ask questions--and it'd be
the end of everything."
Montague thought a moment.
"We _could_ go by the ferry-boat," he said. "He's up in the forest
to-day, I know, 'cos Jim Virgo--he's his son an' a _great_ friend of
mine--he told me he'll have charge of the boat all day, an' if I
could slip away for a bit I could have a ride in it, he said. I was
just thinking of going when you came. Aunt and Jocelyne," he added
with a chuckle, "they don't like me talking to the village people,
but my guardian he says I can if I like."
The children considered hard. Should they venture? Would it be too
great a risk? Nancy's eyes sparkled and she suddenly felt queer
inside. Think of it; the hills _to-day_!
"Oh, let's chance it, Billy!" she cried.
They had already passed the turning that led down to the river, and
it meant going back a little, but what did that matter when perhaps
some time to-day they would be in the heart of the hills?
The river road was deserted, but they hurried somewhat nervously
along it, for the Riversham gardens sloped down to it and people
_might_ appear.
"You'd better go first, Mont," Billy said, "and see if the coast is
clear. Wave to us if Jim Virgo is there alone. We won't risk it if
his father's there."
Montague ran down to the riverside and the children waited
breathlessly. In a moment, however, they saw a hand waving
violently, and with hope high in their hearts, they reached the
ferry. Jim Virgo, a fair-haired youth who was sucking a straw,
greeted them with a sheepish grin.
"I've told him it's a secret an' he's promised not to tell," Montague
announced.
Nancy slipped off Modestine and led her to the wide ferry-boat.
Modestine, however, did not like the look of it and planted herself
firmly on the bank.
Nancy pleaded with her and Jim Virgo stepped forward to take her
bridle.
Modestine glanced at him, saw that he was wearing corduroy
trousers--for some unexplainable reason she objected strongly to
them--and immediately sat down on the bank, assuming her most angelic
expression.
Billy, for a moment, abused her angrily, then his usually sunny face
cleared.
"I expect," he said, "this is one of the not-nice things adventurers
have to put up with."
Suddenly, Montague, pulling his hat down over his eyes, lurched up to
Modestine and, planting himself in front of her, regarded her with a
most diabolical expression.
"You donkey, you, just you get up or I'll have yer life!" he muttered
hoarsely. "D'yer want to _die_, minion, eh?" he added, thrusting his
face close to Modestine's.
For one brief second Modestine regarded him in angelic surprise,
then, rising hastily, walked demurely towards the boat.
The children, shaking with laughter, followed, and Billy and Nancy
ran forward and led her on to the boat. Jim Virgo followed, and, a
moment later, there was the swish of oars being dipped into the
water, and the boat was heading for the opposite bank.
"Hurrah!" cried Billy. "We've started; we're really on our way to
the hills now! Isn't it ripping?"
Nancy for reply, took hold of a tiny portion of Mavis' dress and
twisted it in her fingers. "A Nancy-spasm," the proceeding was known
as, in the family, a spasm that told of a turmoil within that small
person.
In such a little while now they would have crossed the broad river.
How lovely it looked to-day, what a pity to be leaving it behind.
What a dear river it was, almost like a friend. Hadn't the sound of
it been in their ears and hearts all their lives; was it absurd to
fancy that a little bit of it had got into themselves--some of its
restlessness. And there would be water where they were going? There
must be. Not even the hills could be perfect for Nancy if there was
not the sound of water murmuring either big or little talk, it
scarcely mattered which, somewhere in their midst.
How near they were getting. Oh, this excitement made you feel almost
sick! Just a thin strip of water--now a bump! They were there!
Montague was the only person, when they had bidden good-bye to Jim
Virgo, who did not realize the solemnity of the moment.
"Well, we're here!" they said simply, and nobody could think of
anything else to say.
That they felt just a little small and lonely with the broad Gleam
dividing them from home and all the familiar home places not one of
them would admit. It was so wonderful to be here, just at the foot
of the hills. Curious how far away it made yesterday seem, yesterday
and all the other yesterdays with their little everyday happenings.
How important those happenings had seemed at the time and now how
small they seemed! Nancy had a curious feeling that something bigger
than just half a day had grown up between them and the present
moment. Nothing certainly had happened yet, no adventure had come;
there had simply been the meeting with Mr. Frampton and the finding
of Montague, nevertheless she felt, now they had really crossed the
river, that they were not quite the same children they were yesterday.
And now that they were at the foot of the hills, adventure might
begin at any moment. They discussed it as they tramped up a pretty
lane leading from the river. What would it be like? Lions and
tigers, Montague thought, but was promptly squashed by Billy. Lions
and tigers in England! Lions and tigers belonging to a travelling
circus, Montague explained doggedly. He wanted it to be something in
the wild animal line so that he could have the joy of rescuing Mavis,
and to be able to shine in her eyes.
At the end of the lane they came suddenly upon the village of
Hampton. A few houses and a shop or two were scattered on either
side of a long, wide green.
They eyed it dubiously.
"At Nestley," Mavis said, "all the houses snuggle together, don't
they. _This_ isn't very cosy, is it?"
Somehow, it seemed impossible that anybody could love so wide a
village, such an apart kind of village. Never had they seen so large
a green.
"But _I_ have," Montague informed them. "Near us in Suffolk there
was ever such a long green with crowds of huge trees on it. I like
it better'n this," he added.
But after all, the village did not matter; they must decide which
road to take. Which road would lead them quickest to the hills? A
signpost a little further on pointed to the left for Gleambridge, and
they decided to take it till they should find one branching off up to
the hills.
Nancy, who was rested now, wanted Mavis to ride again, but the child
was not yet tired and insisted on Nancy riding a little further.
Montague, trudging along by Mavis, felt extraordinarily happy,
happier than he had been for the last three months. Something inside
him seemed to be expanding; feelings he could not understand surged
up within him, feelings that had been dead, or dormant for a long
time. Long, long ago, when there had been a mother to be loved and
protected he had felt like this; when it had been his happy privilege
to wait on her and attend to her wants. To bring her cushions, to
sit on a little stool at her feet, why, yes, this queer feeling had
often come to him then. And again when his father had been home,
just before he died--but three long, desolate, empty months lay
between him and those happy days when someone had been glad of his
service; three months brightened only by flying visits from a
guardian who, if one saw more of him, one might learn to love; three
months of rebellion against discipline; three months' loathing of a
primness that shouted in every corner. And, so long are three months
in the life of a small boy, that in even less than that time in such
an atmosphere, feeling that he is uncared for, the finer instincts in
him will shrink and shrivel; he will become a little animal caring
for nobody.
And now he was tramping along, unrestricted, with three children who
liked him, whom he liked.
"I could carry you if you're tired!" he growled suddenly to Mavis.
"I'm strong. Will you let me?"
Mavis shook her head with a smile.
"No, thank you, Monty, I'll walk," she replied with decision.
"You're not _much_ bigger'n me either."
"I'm ten!" he replied proudly.
"An' I'm seven, an' I can walk a long way. At Nestcombe we always
walk lots."
"Presently you'll be tired," he suggested hopefully.
"Then I can ride Modestine. Nancy said I could."
Poor Montague with this strange desire to serve and guard, and Mavis
would have none of it!
Presently he spoke again.
"Could I hold your hand if you're just a _little_ tired, but not
tired enough to ride? It 'ud help you along."
Mavis looked at his hand. It was rather grubby still in between the
fingers, but, somehow, in spite of the dirt, she had a motherly
feeling towards her unkempt companion. Poor boy, he had no mother.
Well, she would let him hold her hand just a little way, though she
hoped there would be a brook presently where she could free herself
from any dirt that might find its way from Montague's hand to hers.
Montague took the little hand reverently into his grubby paw. What a
tiny hand it was and what a pretty shape. His mother's, he
remembered, had been pretty and so very white. Mavis's was tanned,
but it was a clean tan. Yes, after all, it was nice for girls to
have clean hands. How warm the little fingers were, not a sticky
warmth, but something that seemed to come from inside the child, a
warmth that seemed to speak of friendliness and confidence.
Montague's frozen young heart that had been gradually expanding under
the influence of happy comradeship simply thrilled at the human
contact. Yet he marvelled at himself. Imagine him, Montague, until
to-day liking to hold anybody's hand! How he would have wriggled if
the hand had been Jocelyne's--but then, Jocelyne thought him a terror
and a nuisance, and Mavis, though she might not admire him as he
would like to have been admired by her, was kind to him. Just how
much this friendship was meaning to him none of the children, not
even Nancy with her quick intuition, could understand. How should
they when life had held nothing so far but sheltering love for them?
Montague's thoughts strayed to his aunt and Jocelyne in Gleambridge.
They had left him at home because he was not an altogether desirable
person to take shopping, they considered. Montague, remembering a
shopping expedition with Jocelyne, suddenly chuckled wickedly.
"What's the joke?" Billy enquired.
"Nothin' really. Only I was thinking Aunt and Jocelyne wouldn't have
been pleased to see me if we had gone to Gleambridge."
"Why not?" Mavis enquired.
"Oh, only 'cos something happened there once." Again he chuckled
with impish enjoyment.
"Do tell us about it, Monty!" Nancy pleaded. The road was flat and
not very interesting, and the turning up to the hills seemed a long
time coming, and Nancy was ready for any distraction from the
straightness of the road.
"There isn't much to tell, only Jocelyne and me and some of her
friends went to Gleambridge. Stupid, giggling things those girls
were, an' Jocelyne was sillier than any of them."
"Why? What did she do?" Mavis asked.
"Oh, I dunno. She talked silly--an' she's a proud thing, too!"
"Proud?"
"Yes. I met a great friend of mine--he's the blacksmith's son, and
once he gave me a horseshoe, and sometimes he lets me help blow the
bellows, and him and me were talking at the station and Jocelyne said
I shouldn't talk to a village boy."
"Not talk to village boys!" Billy repeated. "Why we know everybody
in our village. Jimmy Petherham, old Daddy Petherham's grandson, and
I, often go fishing together."
"Well, you're luckier'n me," Montague replied bitterly. "I mustn't
talk to any of them--but I do," he added, with a grin.
"An' _then_ what happened?" Mavis prompted.
"Oh, nothing 'cept I'd forgot to put my garters on, and Jocelyne got
cross and said I'd disgrace her and her friends."
"Well, _I_ think sloppy socks or stockings are ugly," Mavis said.
"_Do_ you?" Montague looked at her in a troubled way. Was she going
to side with Jocelyne always? And yet--no---there was something so
different in the way this little person said things. It was as
though she really cared about you being clean and tidy, not as though
she said the things to hurt you.
Billy, however, grinned sympathetically.
"Garters get lost, don't they?" he chuckled.
"Yes, they do," Montague growled. "An' sometimes you want to use
them for other things--same as you do handkerchiefs." He paused.
"It's not _your_ fault," he continued, "if you're made to get ready
all in a hurry an' you've been using your handkerchief just before to
collect worms in for chickens, an' you can't help it if you put it in
your pocket and forget all about it and when you are in the train and
you want to use it and earth and worms tumble on the floor."
Billy roared with laughter, but the girls were horrified.
"No wonder Jocelyne got cross!" they said.
"She didn't, not then," Montague replied. "I thought she meant to,
but her friends, they just giggled and giggled, and she giggled,
too--only a lady in the corner with glasses on a stick an' me didn't
laugh. _We_ thought them all silly, I can tell you! An' then in
Gleambridge--well, _I_ wouldn't have giggled like that in a town."
"Why did they giggle there?" Mavis enquired.
"Well, first," Montague replied, "Jocelyne was cross. She tried to
hold my hand 'cos she didn't like the way I walked--_I_ think it a
nice way."
"Was it like when we first saw you?" Mavis asked. "I 'spect it was,"
she added, with a sigh.
"Me and the blacksmith's son _like_ to walk like that," Montague
muttered, "sometimes, anyway," he added, realizing that a lurching
gait at the present moment would mean the withdrawal of the small
hand he still held. "Then they went into the china shop," he
continued, "and Jocelyne said I must stay outside, an' some of 'em
said silly things about bulls and china shops, an' then I got tired
an' so I just sat down on the pavement and went to sleep. And that
was all," he ended abruptly.
"S'pose you got into hot-water for that?" Billy enquired
sympathetically.
"No, I didn't--but they talked sillier than ever. If you'd seen them
all standing round me giggling and giggling and 'tracting everybody's
attention you'd have been ashamed, _I_ can tell you. _I_ was! An'
the stupid things they said, too! Straws and camels' backs they
talked about--I didn't know what they meant. _You_ wouldn't like
being in Gleambridge with Jocelyne," he finished bitterly.
"I don't think I should," Billy agreed.
"Perhaps she's a little bit nice," Nancy suggested hopefully.
"_I_ don't think so," Montague replied emphatically. "My guardian he
says there are possibilities in Jocelyne--or something like that. He
says I can't see them yet, but I may later on--but I don't think I
shall."
"I say, look! We're coming to a turning to the right," Billy cried
excitedly, and even Montague caught the excitement, and forgetting
Jocelyne, quickened his pace towards the road that should lead them
up into the hills.
In a very little while the turning was reached, and they looked
eagerly for the beginning of the hills. The road, however, was
perfectly flat, and the hills, for they could see them quite plainly,
were still some way off. Billy suddenly stopped dead in the middle
of the road.
"Why, we've got the canal to cross--it's _this_ side of the river, so
we've a long way to go yet. Let's hope there will be a bridge across
it, else we're done for to-day."
A little disappointed that they had forgotten the Gleambridge Canal
and that the hills were still some way off, they hurried along. The
road was hot and dusty, but soon they came to the canal, and, to
their great relief, found that there was a bridge across it. At any
other time they would have lingered, for the canal was nearly as
pretty as a river, and water, almost any water, fascinated them.
They paused only to watch the canal-man catch a packet of letters
that someone threw from a passing steamer--a most extraordinary kind
of post, they thought, and worth pausing for, because it was
something they had never witnessed before.
And presently the road really began to rise, but so gradually that
they did not at first realize that the hills were beginning at last.
There were curves too, now, and great shady trees and walls splashed
all over with crimson Herb Robert--low, inviting walls.
"We have hedges at home in Suffolk," Montague said, as he stared in
surprise at the huge slabs of white stone piled on the top of each
other.
"So do we in the forest," Billy said, "but Dad has told us about
these walls. He said they kind of belong here and are part of the
picture because they are hill stones."
They had to stand on the wall and peep through the trees.
"Why! There's our forest over there across the river!" Nancy
exclaimed. "Isn't it funny to look at it from this side?"
The thought struck her that if it had not been their home forest they
would have wanted to go straightway and explore it--it looked so
beautiful from here, so different somehow. How grand and noble it
was! Such lovely lights there were on the trees--and the coolness!
Nancy could almost feel it. Yet how stupid, she thought, pulling
herself together, to be lingering here gazing at a place one could
visit any day in the year, when at last they were beginning to touch
the hills.
Montague, too, was fascinated by the forest. At Riversham, though he
lived on the fringe of it, he had never been actually in it, and in
Suffolk, he explained there were only woods, not forests.
"We'll take you there when we go back," Billy said. "We know some
ripping places for playing Robin Hood."
"When we go back!"
All the joy went out of Montague's life when he thought of returning
to Riversham. _Need_ they go back?
"Why, of course!" Mavis replied. "There's Muvee and Daddy and Aunt
Letty." Then noticing his miserably face, "But there'll be us now
for you to play with," she added kindly.
Mavis scrambled down from the wall, but rejected Montague's hand.
The road with its pretty banks and walls was offering such lovely
surprises in flowers and ferns that she wanted to be free to dart
hither and thither like a joyous little butterfly.
"I could run, too," Montague grumbled.
"But not as quick as me, Monty, dear," she replied lightly, dancing
swiftly along in front of the others. Presently she stopped and
beckoned excitedly; they found her kneeling by the roadside drinking,
with her hands for a cup, from a little stream that gushed from the
bank.
"It's icy cold!" she gasped. "Come and drink and bathe your faces."
Modestine, of course, had to share in the happy find and very
unwillingly she left the refreshing stream when the children were
ready to take the road again. To rest her, Nancy led her up the hill
and she ambled sulkily along, not appreciating the delights of the
way that spurred the happy children on.
Presently they came to a high road running along the top. There was
nothing particularly attractive about it, and a long belt of trees
shut out the real hills, but behind them they could still see the
river and forest and far away the blue mountains.
"I'm just dying with hunger," Billy announced. "I vote we have
dinner here."
It was past one o'clock by Mavis's watch so, as the others were
equally hungry, they decided to camp on a stretch of green near the
belt of trees.
They unpacked the basket and remembered they had nothing to drink.
How foolish not to have filled their bottle at the stream. However,
in the distance was a farm, and the boys volunteered to go and beg
some water, while the girls tethered Modestine and cut the bread and
the pie.
In a very short time they returned with a bottle of milk which the
farmer's wife had pressed on them, refusing any payment.
"They've got a cider-press there," Montague announced when they were
all deep in veal and ham pie.
"He says he's never seen one before," Billy explained.
Not seen a cider-press? How strange! Well, they would certainly
have to take him to see one working when the apples were ready.
"An' he says he's never been in a fishing-boat," Billy said, helping
himself to a second slice of pie.
"Not been in a fishing-boat!" Nancy exclaimed. "Oh, you must come
with us and Aunt Letty in Daddy Petherham's boat."
"Need the aunt come?" Montague enquired doubtfully.
"Why, yes, of course! You'll love Aunt Letty--she helps us
'make-believe.'"
Montague said nothing, but so intense was his dislike even of the
word "aunt" that he found it impossible to work up any enthusiasm
even for an Aunt Letty.
"And have you ever been shrimping, Monty?" Mavis asked.
He confessed that he had not.
The three children sat and looked at him in wonder. What kind of a
place was this Suffolk he was always talking about? Was it a kind of
foreign country? All the everyday things that seemed actually a part
of their existence were unknown to Montague. They began to feel
almost eager for the day that would see them back at Nestcombe, when
they could introduce him to everything and everybody. People,
places, and things suddenly took on a new interest in the thought of
showing them to someone who knew nothing about them. Almost a pity
it could not be to-day--but how absurd; fancy even _thinking_ of
home-places when you were on the fringe of the land of your dreams.
All the same, it was strange how sometimes you wanted to be in two
places at once. So troublesome, they sighed.
Montague, for his part, was feeling rather ashamed of his ignorance
of everything that seemed so much a matter of course with his
companions. Was there nothing he could tell them of Suffolk that
they would find attractive? He remembered Mavis's delight in flowers.
"I've seen flax growing," he began hopefully. "It's like a field of
blue sky, and afterwards it's silky like Mavis's hair, only not so
goldy."
"Have you seen them cutting it?" Billy asked with interest.
Now was Montague's turn to score.
"They _pull_ it!" he replied, feeling big.
They must know more about this Suffolk of his, they said. What else
had they there? Well, there was the moat round their house with
water-lilies growing in it, and he and Jocelyne had had a little
canoe on it. And in the next village there was a house as big as a
castle, _lots_ of turrets and towers, and a huge moat and probably
dungeons. As to the dungeons, Montague was drawing on his
imagination, but he need not have done, for Suffolk, though so
different from their home-places sounded romantic, the children
agreed--almost like a story-book place.
Somehow, after the meal was finished nobody seemed inclined to move.
After all, why hurry now, why not rest awhile, why not give one's
self up for a moment to the drowsiness of the afternoon? Such a
stillness there was in the air, such a fragrance, too, from all the
sweet things that were tucked away in the short hill grass, such a
musical murmur from myriads of unseen insects. How the heat and
music and fragrance seemed to grow into each other out here on the
hill top, how pleasant to close one's eyes----
In a little while four tired children were asleep. Modestine,
cropping the grass near by, saw that stillness had come upon her
talkative companions. There was loneliness in the silence, the grass
lost its savour for her; better, she thought, get a little nearer to
them, if the rope would allow it, and sleep, too. Very daintily she
stepped amongst them and stood with Mavis between her legs. Ah, this
was better than cropping grass alone. Modestine blinked a little,
nodded, and then she, too, became part of the sleeping afternoon.