CHAPTER X

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."