WE were to go to Wildmoor the very next week, but still it seemed a long
time off. If it hadn't been for the packing, I don't know how we'd have
got over the time, for Miss Ellis's holiday began almost immediately,
and we hadn't anything to do. Only Eliza was to go with us, as there
were to be servants left in the house we were going to, but of course we
were very glad she was coming, as we liked her to go out walks with us;
she let us do whatever we took into our heads.
It was a nice day, though rather too hot to be pleasant for travelling,
when we at last started for Wildmoor. It wasn't a very long journey,
however, only about three hours in the railway, and the nicest part came
at the end. That was a drive of nearly six miles. Persis and I don't
count driving as travelling at all, and this drive was perfectly lovely.
Papa had ordered a sort of covered waggonette to meet us at the
station, and as it was a very fine evening he let us two go outside
beside the coachman, and he went inside with mamma and Eliza, though I'm
sure he'd much rather have been on the box. For some way the road was
very pretty, but just something like other country roads. But after
going about two miles or so we got on to the moor, and then it just was
lovely. We had never seen moorland before, and the air was so fresh and
breezy, Persis said it made her think of the sea. Indeed, I think a
great big moor, a _very_ big one, is rather like a rough sea; the ground
is all ups and downs like big waves, and when you look far on you could
almost fancy the green ridges were beginning to heave and roll about.
"Won't we have lovely walks here, Archie?" said Persis, and "I should
just think we would," I answered.
And after a bit it grew even prettier; the sun began to set, and all the
colours came out in the sky, and even the ground below seemed all
burning and glowing too. I never have seen any sunsets so beautiful as
those on the moor, and of course we remember this one the best as it was
the first we saw.
Just as it was fading off into gray we turned sharply to the left,
leaving the moor, and after five minutes' driving down a lane, we drew
up at the door of the little house that was to be our home for the next
few weeks. It was a dear little house, just exactly what we had wished
for. It had a good many creepers over the walls, roses and honeysuckle
and clematis, and the garden was beautifully neat. And inside there was
a tiny dining-room and a rather bigger drawing-room, and upstairs three
or four very neat bedrooms, besides those for the servants. Persis and I
had two little white rooms side by side. There were white curtains to
the beds and to the windows, and the furniture was light-coloured wood,
so they really looked white all over.
That first evening we thought most of the dining-room, or rather of the
tea that was spread out for us there. For we were so very hungry, and
the things to eat were so very good, and quite a change from London.
There were such very nice home-made bread, and tea-cakes, and
honey--honey is never so good as in moor country, you know, it has quite
a different taste.
And when we had eaten, if not quite as much as we _could_, any way quite
as much as was good for us, we went a little turn round the garden
while Eliza was getting our trunks open, and then we said good-night to
papa and mamma and went to bed as happy, or almost as happy, as we could
be. There was just one thought in both our minds that prevented our
being _quite_ happy, but we had fixed not to speak about it.
The next day and the days that followed were delightful. The weather
kept fine and the walks were endless. Papa enjoyed it as much as we did.
He took us out himself, and when it was not to be a very, very long
walk, mamma came too. Once or twice we carried our dinner with us and
didn't come home till evening, and several times we had tea on the moor
near our house.
After about a week papa told us one evening that he had to go to London
the next day to stay one night. He had ordered a carriage to come to
take him to the station early, and he said if it was fine Persis and I
and Eliza might drive with him and walk back across the moor, if we
didn't think we'd be tired. Of course we didn't, and though we were
sorry for him to go, we liked the idea of the drive. And as the morning
did turn out fine, it all happened as he had planned. We saw him off,
and then we started for our walk back. We had never been at this side
of the moor since the day we arrived, and papa told us we might vary the
walk by going down a lane that skirted it for some way.
"There is a farmhouse there," he said, "where I daresay they would give
you some milk if you are thirsty."
We thought it a very good idea, and after going about half a mile down
the lane we came upon the farmhouse just as he had said. A little girl
was feeding some chickens just in front, and when we asked her if we
could have a cup of milk, she said she would run in and see. While we
were waiting we heard a voice, a laughing merry voice it sounded,
calling out in a sort of orchard close by--
"Down, Rollo, down--oh, you naughty old dog," it said.
Just then the little girl came out to ask Eliza if she'd mind coming in
to fetch the milk, as she couldn't carry both the jug and the cups.
Eliza went in, and I suppose she stayed chatting to the farmer's wife,
who, she told us afterwards, was busy churning, for she was certainly
five minutes gone. While she was away, the gate into the orchard opened
and a girl--not a little girl, but a grown-up young lady--came running
out, followed by a beautiful big dog. He was really a splendid fellow,
and as she ran, he ran, half jumping against her--I think she had
something in her hand he wanted to get--and again we heard the laughing
voice call out--
"Down, Rollo--you naughty old fellow. You'll knock me over if you don't
take care, you great, clumsy darling."
They rushed across the road--the girl and the dog--and down a little
lane just opposite. They were gone like a flash, but we did, at least
_I_ did see them, the dog especially, quite clearly. Afterwards I tried
to fancy I hadn't, but that was not true. I did see the dog perfectly.
I turned to Persis.
"Did you ever see such a beauty?" I said. But just then Eliza came out
with the milk, and we didn't say any more about the dog. We both kept
thinking about it all the way home, I know, but somehow we didn't care
to talk about it before Eliza. The wish for a dog of our own had become
such a very deep-down thought in our hearts that we could not talk about
it easily or lightly--not even to each other always.
Papa came back from London the next day, but mamma was disappointed to
hear that he was obliged to return there again the end of the week, this
time to stay two nights. We did not drive with him again to the station
because it was a wet day, otherwise we should have wished it doubly, in
the chance of having another sight of the beautiful dog.
It was the very day after papa had gone this second time that a strange
thing happened. Persis and I were out in the garden rather late in the
evening before going to bed, and we had just gone a tiny bit out into
the lane to see if the sky looked red over the moor where the sun set,
when we heard a sort of rushing, pattering sound, and looking round,
what should be coming banging along towards us, as fast as he could, but
a great big dog. He stopped when he got up to us and began wagging his
tail and rubbing his head against us in the _sweetest_ way, and then we
saw that his tongue was hanging out, and that his coat was rough and
dusty, and he breathed fast and pantingly--he was evidently very tired,
and, above all, thirsty. I was off for a mug of water for him before we
said a word, and oh how glad he was of it! He really said "Thank you"
with his tail and his sweet nose as plainly as if he had spoken. And he
didn't seem to think of leaving us--he was alone, there was no one in
sight, and he seemed as if he was sure he had found friends in us.
[Illustration: LOST ROLLO
"He stopped when he got up to us and began wagging his tail and rubbing
his head against us in the ~sweetest~ way." P. 161]
"He is very like--he is just like----" Persis began at last. But I
interrupted her.
"There are lots of dogs like him," I said. "He is lost--we must take him
in for the night. Oh, Persis, just fancy--if he is really _quite_ lost,
we may have to keep him for good. Mamma might perhaps let us. Oh,
Persis!"
We took him in with us and called to mamma to come out to the door to
look at him. She saw what a beauty he was at once, and stroked his head
and called him "poor doggie," for, as I said, she is always kind to
animals, though she doesn't care for pets.
"We must take him in for the night any way," she said. "Perhaps in the
morning we may find out where he comes from."
There was an empty kennel in the yard, and we found some nice clean hay
in the hampers that we had brought with groceries from London. And the
cook gave us some scraps and one or two big bones. So "Bruno," as of
course we called him, was made very comfortable.
And you can fancy--no, I really--I don't think you _can_--the state of
excitement in which Persis and I went to bed.