AN ENCOUNTER ON THE HILLS
Now a strange thing happened on the top of the hills. It will be
remembered that the children's great desire was not only to climb and
explore the hills, but to see beyond them, and that the seeing beyond
them was perhaps more important than the hills themselves. It will
be remembered, too, that the forest country belonged to the familiar
everyday life, that until that glimpse they had had of it on the
lower hill the previous day, they had never even remotely associated
it with romance. Nevertheless, when, by happy leaps and bounds they
finally reached the top of the hill, only one child out of the four
had eyes for the Unknown, the others, Nancy, Billy, and Mavis turned
instinctively towards the distant forest! Think of it! To have
travelled so many long, long miles, to have had the desire burning in
your heart ever since you could remember, to see beyond the hills,
then, when at last the big world was before you to reject it for what
you could see any day of your life. Ah, but _could_ you? Could you,
when it was all around you, see it in all its beauty, could you see
it as the hill people saw it? Surely, if you were a hill person you
could not rest until you had explored that forest; reached to the
very heart of it. A curious pride in their forest country, in the
golden river at its feet awoke in the children's hearts--it was
theirs, their very own and they loved it. Was it possible that Daddy
Petherham loved it like this and that was why---- Ah, but they
_couldn't_ be like Daddy Petherham, who wanted only one thing! And
so, with very mixed feelings three young adventurers turned at last
to the world beyond the hills.
"Come and see!" Montague called eagerly. "There's hills and _hills_
over there! An' it's so funny--'cross on the other side of the
valley there's a village, and all the houses are climbing up the
hill. See, the people in one house can stand at their front door and
look down into the chimneys of the houses below."
The forest influence, however, was still hanging over the three
children. Why, that was nothing, they said, it was like that in the
forest, too; yes, and it was so steep that the coalman couldn't get
up to the houses; he just dumped the coal down on the cart-track that
ran through the forest and the people had to carry it up themselves
as best they could. Montague should see for himself when they got
home. So, after all, it was the Suffolk boy, just in these first
moments, who was most thrilled by the Unknown. Yet, gradually as
they stood taking in the scene, the magic of the hills asserted
itself again. The spaciousness around them, yes, this, indeed, was
something different from the forest country. And hills encircling
you, always hills. Beyond the village across the valley distant
wooded hills, densely wooded, yet, somehow, different from the hilly
forest. Yes, and, after all, there was a certain inexpressible
difference between the village where the houses grew one above the
other and the villages up in the forest. _What_ was the difference
and why, in spite of your love for your home country, did you feel
that you must go on exploring, penetrating further into the Unknown?
And would the hills want them, Nancy wondered? Suddenly, she
realized that they were strangers in a strange country. What, after
all, did they know of the hills? They might be cold and heartless
hills; they might not want children to come poking their noses into
their secrets. _Would_ they resent their coming, or would they open
their hearts in friendly fashion just as the dear forest country did,
just as the restless river did, year in year out?
Nancy's dreams (being Nancy she could not help getting beyond the
actual; everything had to be received into the imagination part of
her) were disturbed by Montague, who announced that he was so hungry
he knew he could not walk another step until they had had dinner.
Hungry? Even Nancy found that she was ravenous, and, settling where
they were, they immediately attacked the good things Mrs. White had
packed for them.
They discussed the roses while they ate. They were still quite
fresh, for, further down the hill, they had again found a tiny spring
and had drenched the stalks in it. They must cross the valley and
try to get a box at the village and post them to the Prior. Yes,
Nancy said, a pity to have to do that, for now that the hills were
attained her next desire was to see Gleambridge cathedral from this
side, and to do so, they knew they should keep straight ahead.
However, the flowers _must_ be sent; they were of first importance.
How hungry the hill air made you, how fortunate you had plenty to
eat. Impossible, however, for Nancy to concentrate entirely on the
food; not even on Mrs. White's delicious cheesecake.
"I think the wind's got inside me," she announced. "I feel like a
bird. Oh, it's a glorious thrilly feeling!"
Forgetting the cheesecake in her hand and Billy's proximity, she
stretched out her arms--the result was disastrous!
"It's a beastly sticky feeling," Billy giggled, "not a thrilly one!"
"These spasms come at such awkward times," Nancy apologized, as she
wiped Billy's head, first with paper, and then with her own
handkerchief. "I wish they would not make me do such bothersome
things."
"So do I!" Billy grinned. "I'll take jolly good care not to sit near
you next time I see a thrill coming."
Montague interrupted them.
"There's a car coming. Hear it? Let's see who can tell the make
first, Billy. Bet you _I_ will!"
"Bet you _I_ will!" Billy replied, taking up the challenge. "It's
coming up from that valley. Now! It's a--it's a----"
They all scrambled to their feet in their excitement.
"It's Mr. Frampton's!" Nancy cried. "I know it, 'cos it's the one I
saw this morning! Let's wave and stop him!"
She ran eagerly towards the car, which drew up immediately. A look
of intense relief replaced an anxious, worried frown on Dick
Frampton's face.
"Oh," he began, "I thought I should never----" He stopped abruptly.
"What are you little people doing here?" he added.
"Oh, just exploring the hills," Nancy explained carelessly. "And
this," she added, turning to Montague, "is a friend of ours." She
paused, as she saw the recognition between Dick and Montague. "Oh,
do you know him?" she added.
"I think we do, don't we, old chap? In fact, anybody who has lived
in Riversham during the last few months could hardly fail to know
him, eh, Montague?"
"'Tisn't _my_ fault I got to live there," was the reply, "an' _I_
don't want everybody to know me. I don't know them, an' I don't want
to, some of 'em--they're nearly as bad as aunts," he added bitterly.
Mavis looked at Montague somewhat anxiously. Mr. Frampton seemed to
hint at doings that had gained him notoriety. Was it possible that
this troublesome boy could have been naughty to their "libation"
friend? There was gentle reproach when she put the question to
Montague, and the latter hung his head in shame when he remembered
poaching expeditions with the blacksmith's son on Mr. Frampton's
estate.
Mavis turned to Dick with a fat little sigh. "I don't _think_ he
means to be quite so naughty," she explained. "He hasn't been
ti'some once since he's been with us. I s'pect it's Riversham makes
him naughty."
"I expect that's it." Dick's voice was grave, and he hid his
amusement at the motherly proprietorship in the child's voice.
"However," he added, "Mont and I are the best of friends. Nothing
really very terrible happened, you know."
Montague's eyes shone with gratitude to Dick for clearing his
character (though he realized he scarcely deserved it) before Mavis.
"Yes, we _are_ friends," he muttered, "and he's the only person in
Riversham I'll be sorry to leave--'cept the blacksmith's son."
Nancy, remembering their neglected lunch, enquired whether Mr.
Frampton had had any. No? Then would he join them? They had nearly
finished, but there was plenty left. Very readily Dick accepted the
invitation. He explained, as he settled down to Mrs. White's good
fare, that he had been too worried about some friends whom he had
missed to bother about lunch.
"I thought you looked bothered about something when I saw you," Nancy
exclaimed. "And didn't you find them?"
"Yes, I found them, but I spent the whole morning searching for
them--can't think how I missed them."
Nancy wondered why, if he had found them he should still have looked
worried, but she did not like to press the question.
"Are you having a holiday over here?" Montague enquired.
"Not exactly a holiday. I've just got a new job. I've been
appointed Warden of the Hills."
"Warden of the Hills? How interesting that sounds!" Nancy said.
"What does a warden have to do?"
"Keep an eye on the travellers in the neighbourhood. I suppose it
would have been more correct if I had said Warden of the Travellers
of the Hills."
"'Case they get into mischief, I s'pose?" Montague sighed.
"Well, that, of course. But more especially I have to place my car
and myself at their disposal. If they need help or advice or
guidance of any kind it's my job to be on the spot."
"What a ripping kind of life!" Billy exclaimed.
"But a little difficult," Nancy said thoughtfully. "How can you know
who's a traveller and who's a hill person? And how can you know when
they're in trouble?"
"It's my job to find out," Dick replied. "Now you, for instance," he
added carelessly, "are travellers, aren't you?"
"Yes," Billy replied guardedly. "But we're travellers with a
donkey," he added.
Dick nodded. Yet, as it was clearly impossible for everybody to ride
the donkey, he said, it was his duty as Warden to give some of them a
lift.
"But we're not going your way." Nancy's voice expressed a wish that
they were. "We want to see Gleambridge cathedral from the hills."
"That could be arranged quite easily," Dick replied. "I shall
probably be going that way presently." He paused. It was not as
easy as he had supposed to keep an eye on these little travellers.
He wished to goodness he could persuade them to leave the donkey at
the village opposite and let him take them about in the car. He made
the suggestion diplomatically, baiting it with proposals that should
have brought ready acceptance to the lips of little adventurers who
wanted to see the world; wonderful descriptions he gave them of
places they should see. They hesitated, of course. What else could
they do when the sound of those places, their very names made you hot
to see them? The thought, too, of travelling with their "libation"
friend--oh, it was hard to resist! Yet, when you had said "Travels
with a donkey"? Besides, would flying about in a car really be
adventuring? _Could_ adventure find you in a car? Ah, no, they
decided, cars belonged to the everyday world. And again, there was
poor little Ladybird-Modestine. Imagine leaving her at an unknown
stable. They shook their heads sorrowfully. Twice in one day to
have had to refuse tempting proposals! Life, they began to think,
was not as simply straightforward and easy as they had imagined it.
There were decisions to be made. How curious that the difficulties
should be kind of _nice_ difficulties.
They compromised by promising to accept short lifts occasionally if
Mr. Frampton happened to be going their way.
"You won't think it's because we wouldn't like to travel with you,
will you?" Nancy asked. "But, you see--oh, it's not easy to explain."
"I quite understand," Dick assured her, for he had scarcely hoped
that they would accept his offer. "Still, the car is there,
remember, if ever you should need it--and so am I. Do you know," he
continued, changing the subject, "I seem to have been smelling roses
all the time. Is it my imagination?"
"No, it's real roses." Mavis unfolded her cloak and held out the
roses for Dick to smell. "A Rose-Vicar gave us them."
"A Rose-Vicar?"
They explained their meeting with him, and how he had taken them
round his garden.
"Ah, that accounts for it!" Dick's face expressed the clearing up of
some mystery.
"'Counts for what?" Nancy was mystified.
"Oh--er--nothing much. But what on earth are you going to do with
these glorious roses? They'll die in this heat."
And then a bright idea came to Nancy. As Mr. Frampton was evidently
going in the direction of the Priory, why not, instead of having them
hanging about in the post all night, ask him to take them to the
Prior? Would it be too presumptuous?
"You said, didn't you, that you had to help travellers?" she began
somewhat hesitatingly.
"Certainly I did," Dick replied promptly. He listened hopefully.
"Well, it's the roses. Last night we stopped at a Priory and the
Prior was so dear and kind to us--not a scrap preachy or religious,
'cept in a nice way, and the Priory rules are that you pay only what
you put in the offertory-bag on Sundays, and, you see, if you're
children it's so little."
"And we ate lots!" Billy interrupted.
"Yes, we did, and Mrs. White, that's a nurse who lives there, simply
crammed our basket with that d'licious lunch we've eaten. But it's
not _only_ that, it's the Prior. He made us so happy and he's lost
his little daughter, Dorothy, and we thought p'raps he'd like the
roses for her grave, an' so, please, if you're going that way, would
you mind taking them to him with our love and tell him they're for
Dorothy?"
Now what was Dick to do? He had had no intention whatever of
returning to the Priory. His idea was, since they would not travel
in his car, to keep as close to them as possible without hampering
them or interfering with that sense of freedom and adventure that was
evidently so important to them. To be sure it would be a slow game;
he would have to spend hours sitting in the car by the roadside, but
what did that matter? It would all be part of _his_ adventure? And
now here was Nancy herself frustrating his plans, for how could he
refuse her appeal? To be sure he could get to the Priory and back in
a very short time; nevertheless, he would have been better satisfied
not to have lost sight of them again.
However, the children must not know of the difficulty they had placed
him in. Yes, certainly he would deliver them to the Prior with their
message; better tuck them up in the car at once out of this scorching
sun, he suggested. While he and Nancy wrapped them up in leaves and
put them away in the car the others packed up the remains of the
lunch--not that there was much to pack now! And then what next to do?
"Let's stay a little longer," Nancy suggested.
Why hurry? It was hot and they had been tramping all the morning.
And, after all, were they not now in the very heart of the hills,
with hills and hills and hills unfolding all around them? And here,
too, was a companion who didn't worry you with questions, who
accepted just what you chose to tell him, who, in fact, seemed to
think it the most natural thing in the world that you should want to
seek adventure; should want to explore. And how interesting he was;
different from the Prior, of course. The latter raced you all over
the world at a delightfully breathless speed; Mr. Frampton told you
jolly things about Oxford; he took you, too, to France and
Switzerland and Italy. This Wardenship job, they thought, must be
his first one, perhaps a kind of holiday job to help towards his
Oxford expenses, for evidently he was returning there in the autumn.
However, they could not question him; besides, they were too
interested listening to the stories he had to tell them of funny
little out-of-the-way places in Switzerland and Italy, of people and
grottos and glaciers and mountains. Oh, would they _ever_ grow up,
Billy groaned, and be able to see for themselves? The world seemed
to be simply chock full of interest, and you had just to sit quietly
at home and wait.
"Will there be time to get it _all_ in before we're old?" he sighed.
Heaps of time, Dick assured him (as to the "sitting quietly at home,"
he said nothing, but smiled). The years would slip away. Why, it
seemed only the other day that he himself was a boy of their
age--getting into all sorts of mischief, he added, with a smile for
Montague.
"An' living with an aunt who only liked good boys?"
"Well, no, but even parents can't stand too much mischief, you know.
They sometimes wonder how you ever came to be their child."
"Do they?" Montague asked with interest. "'Spect boys'd get on best
without any grown-ups at all," he added. "Then nobody'd be
worried--not the grown-ups or the boys."
"Boarding-school," Dick replied thoughtfully, "isn't a bad place, you
know."
"I'm going to boarding-school next term," Billy announced proudly.
"Wish I could come with you," Montague muttered. "Then my guardian
wouldn't have to learn about boys and how to be a parent to them.
Guess he'll have his hands full enough with Jocelyne."
If only this might happen, and if he might return with Billy to
Nestcombe for the holidays, life would indeed be worth living.
However, the hours were slipping away, and here they were forgetting
the world that lay before them. They made their preparations for
departure hastily.
"If you're taking the Gleambridge road you must keep to the left,"
Dick said. "You'll get down into a valley again a little further on,
then you'll come to a village called Barsdon. Why not stay the night
there--or had you any other plans?"
They confessed that nothing definite had been arranged. They had not
decided whether to sleep out of doors or to find some cottage. Did
Mr. Frampton think there would be a nice one at Barsdon?
"I know the very place," was Dick's reply. "Look here, leave
Modestine at the inn--it's this end of the village--then keep
straight on, and at the corner of the next street you'll find a
cottage standing back from the road. A Mrs. Charsfield lives there;
just tell her I've sent you and she'll take you in."
They thanked him, and, with a wave of the hand, set off in the
direction indicated.
"See you again soon, perhaps!" they shouted.
"Quite soon, I hope," Dick called in reply. "I'll be in Barsdon this
evening. Look out for me!" Reluctantly he turned towards his car.
"Wish I could go with them now," he thought. "They're such little
people to wander about alone--and so trusting. However, they're
pretty independent, so probably no harm will come to them."