CHAPTER II

GREAT-AUNT HEWLETT

With fingers that trembled because of his excitement Billy fastened the strap of Modestine's girth.

"That's right! Now let's fix the blankets on. You help me, Nancy--I don't quite know how they should go."

Nancy handed the basket of provisions to Mavis and ran to Billy's assistance. It was one thing to harness a donkey you had tended and coddled for two years, but to fasten a not very tidy bundle of blankets on to the saddle when you were almost dancing with excitement was not quite so easy. Nancy when she had finished, eyed her work doubtfully. Somehow, it did not look exactly professional.

"We really ought to have had sleeping sacks like Stevenson," she said; "but then, he had more money to buy them with than we had, I s'pect."

With only nineteen shillings to feed and sleep three of you--and a donkey--for a whole week, sleeping sacks were a luxury not to be indulged in.

Their simple preparations did not take long to complete, yet many anxious glances were cast at the house while they were in progress. Supposing they were discovered? Supposing Modestine should bray, supposing----

"Oh, quick! Let's start right away!" Billy whispered. "I'll haul you into the saddle now, Mavis. Are you ready, Nancy? Come on!"

Very quietly the little procession crept down the drive and passed out into the road. Nancy and Mavis each gave one wistful glance back at the house where all was so still. If only the grown-ups could have come, too! Was it too late even now to go back and ask them to come? Why, up to this moment had there been that quite definite though unspoken thought in each child's mind that adventure such as they were seeking was something those belonging to the grown-up world could not understand, would not appreciate? Their grown-ups were all such pals. After all----

Nancy glanced hesitatingly at Billy, but she said nothing, for his unyielding back, his steady, plodding walk, and the way his head was thrown back told her that he was pushing every bit of feeling and regret away from him. They had planned the adventure, they must be brave and go on--they must find what lay beyond the hills; all this Nancy read in Billy's attitude, and, knowing her brother, she fell into step by Modestine and buried her own regrets.

It was not yet six o'clock, but they pushed on hurriedly as, until they were the other side of Riversham, a small country town a few miles off on the Gleambridge road, they were likely to encounter people who knew them. Better, they decided, to get beyond familiar places while folks were yet a-bed.

"See! We're nearly at Nestcombe," Nancy said. "Modestine, dear," she continued, addressing the donkey, "please don't do anything naughty until we are past the cottages. There's people up, I know, 'cos there's smoke coming out of the chimneys, so _don't_ 'tract their attention, will you?"

Modestine plodded on, wearing her most angelic expression. She was a creature of vagaries; at least, that is how a man who used to come to see Aunt Letty--our "nearly-Uncle Jim" as the children called him--described her, and the children, though the word hitherto had been an unfamiliar one, felt that it described their Ladybird exactly--so naughty and yet so lovable.

This morning, so far, the quiet, innocent mood was uppermost, whether because she felt the honour of her new name or because these early-in-the-morning happenings had taken her by surprise the children could not decide.

Nestcombe, the lovely little fishing hamlet on the outskirts of which their home was situated, consisted of a row of about a dozen cottages, a few outlying farms, and another handful of cottages in a lane branching off from the main road down to the riverside.

"Look!" Mavis whispered, as they passed the top of this lane, "there's old Daddy Petherham going down to the river. He's too deaf to hear us, but I do hope he doesn't look round."

The old man, however, shuffled slowly and unheedingly down the lane, his eyes turned towards the river, and, a moment later, the children were through the village making their way towards Nestley.

"Wasn't the river sparkly and golden!" Nancy said. "And, oh, isn't the morning sparkly, too! At least, I think it's going to be--look at that bit of goldy-pink in the sky."

"It's cold, though," Mavis said, shivering a little. "I'm glad we wore our knitted frocks."

Nancy's face puckered with contrition. She had forgotten that Mavis would be cold riding and insisted on stopping while the child put on her waterproof cloak.

"That's it. You'll soon be warm now, won't you? Come on, Modestine, we're ready, old lady."

Modestine, who had rested her head on Billy's shoulder during the halt, was annoyed at being disturbed and planted her legs firmly where she stood.

"Come on, Modestine, dear," Billy urged anxiously. "Ladybird, gee-up! Oh, do hurry, Ladybird! We won't even get to Nestley, leave alone Riversham, before lots of people are about, at this rate. Could you _make_ her move, Mavis?"

Mavis did her best, but when Modestine's mind was made up it took more than the little girl's feeble strength to budge her. On each side of the obstinate creature Nancy and Billy pulled with no result. Next, Nancy pulled and Billy pushed from behind; they gained a few inches, but that was all. They pleaded and coaxed, they told her their frank opinion of her, they wished they had not allowed her to share in their adventure, they even threatened to leave her there in the middle of the road, still Modestine stood immovable.

Suddenly, she lifted up her head and gave forth a terrific bray. All the troubles of every donkey in the world seemed to be voiced in that bray.

"Now you've done it!" Billy cried indignantly. "Be quiet, for goodness' sake, Ladybird. Shut up, I say!"

Almost before the words were out of his mouth Mavis had whipped off her cloak and flung it over the traitor's head. Modestine, surprised at the interruption, hesitated, shook the cloak off, and then suddenly trotted gently down the road.

Mavis turned in the saddle and waved her hand.

"She's all right now. I'll wait for you on the Riversham road if she keeps this up. Good-bye!"

Billy picked up the cloak and together he and Nancy briskly followed the fast-disappearing donkey.

They would only have one house to pass now before reaching Nestley, and though they glanced round occasionally to see whether anyone was in sight, they felt that they might safely give themselves up to the thrill of having really started out on their adventure.

And what a morning on which to set out towards the Unknown! The pink and gold was spreading across the sky, the birds were rhapsodizing, and the air had that clean taste that belongs to the early morning.

Ah, here was Mill End, and there were the vast orchards of Brook House, with the brook meandering through them. Not far to Nestley now!

The church clock was striking a quarter to seven as they turned into the village street.

"Look! Mavis is nearly at the top of the street," Nancy whispered. "I do hope she gets past Aunt Hewlett's safely."

Great-Aunt Hewlett's trim white house stood at the top of the village, just beyond the church. It was the last house they would pass before the road forked off to Riversham.

The children watched Modestine anxiously, fearing that she might want to stop at the gate; for though Great-Aunt Hewlett was far too stern an old lady to coax a donkey with luxuries there were those of her household who spoiled the pretty animal. Would Modestine remember and refuse to pass the house?

Their fears, however, were groundless, and Mavis turned and waved a triumphant hand before she disappeared round the high wall of Aunt Hewlett's garden.

"Doesn't the bread smell good?" Billy said, sniffing in the delicious scent that came from the bakehouse across the road. "I could eat a huge chunk of new bread--I'm fearfully hungry."

They both were, for though they had drunk some milk before starting they had all been too excited to eat more than a couple of biscuits each and such meagre fare could not sustain healthy children in the fresh morning air for very long.

The good, wholesome scent followed them as they hurried up the street, and I am afraid it occupied so large a place in their thoughts that they had none to give to the pretty village through which they were passing. Probably, however, in any case, they would have been blind to the beauties of the place; for Nestley was familiar ground and was something to be left behind as soon as might be. That they were hurrying with unseeing eyes through one of the prettiest villages in England they did not know. Indeed, what would it have mattered to them if it had been the prettiest village in the world? Were they not out to seek adventure, and how could it begin until you had left every trace of everyday places and people behind you?

Nestley, snuggling in the heart of rich meadows and orchards, with the brook gurgling down the centre of the street, and the houses growing over the brook, and the forest rising up beyond the village; oh, yes, it was all dear and pretty, but it was a home-place, just as Daddy Petherham was a home person. Just how pretty the home village is you cannot know until you have travelled away from it and have seen it with your imagination eyes. Just how dear it is you cannot realize, if you are an adventure-person, until far away from it you feel its influence and your heart aches for the familiar things that are Home.

And so, with more appreciation of Nestley's bakery than of its beauties, Nancy and Billy proceeded up the steep little street, glancing anxiously at Aunt Hewlett's trim windows. Aunt Hewlett, unfortunately, was a very early riser--_would_ they get by safely?

"There she is!" Billy groaned.

Yes, there was Aunt Hewlett, tall and neat and stately and uncompromisingly stern, in a stiff black frock and white cuffs and collar and apron.

And she was beckoning them.

True, she was used to their early morning rambles and might not suspect anything, but Mavis was waiting for them and, besides, every moment of these early morning hours before they were likely to be missed, counted.

Wishing they could have pretended not to see her, and trying not to look too terribly guilty, they advanced up the path.

"Good-morning, Aunt," they said meekly.

The old lady looked down at them.

"Another of these morning walks!" she ejaculated, with a sniff. "Ridiculous nonsense!" She paused, and looked at Nancy.

Now most people knew her for a very severe old lady; nevertheless, behind her outward severity there was a very big spark of kindness, a large share of which she gave to Nancy. There was something about the child's face that bothered the shrewd old lady.

"Too tender, too sympathetic," she would blurt out to Nancy's mother. "Too interested in other people and their troubles--bothers herself too much about them--let the world take care of itself, I say!"

Yet, though she might leave the world to look after itself, Great-Aunt Hewlett often went out of her way to spoil Nancy.

"Could you eat a hot buttered batch cake?" she asked in her severest tone. "Suppose the boy would like one, too! Come in, both of you--and wipe your shoes well; Lizzie's just washed the tiles."

"Oh, please, Aunt, I don't think we _could_ eat one this morning, could we, Billy?" Nancy replied hastily. "You see, we had some milk and biscuits before we started."

"Eh?" Aunt Hewlett cried in astonishment. "Not eat one of Lizzie's batch cakes? What's the matter with the children? Aren't they good enough for you?"

"Oh, Aunt Hewlett, they're the nicest batch cakes we've ever tasted, but we're just not hungry this morning, thank you."

"Not hungry? Stuff and nonsense! Come along in and let's hear no more about it."

The children, realizing that the safest and quickest plan would be to accept the batch cakes, followed Aunt Hewlett down the wide, cool hall to the kitchen. As a rule, Aunt Hewlett's house held a great fascination for them. It was so silent, so awe-inspiring, so altogether different from their own jolly home. Even the stately Persian cat was different from their own mongrel cats and kittens. And there was a scent, too, about the house that you could hardly define. You could not be sure whether it was beeswax or whether it belonged to the creepers on the tiled verandah, or to the scented geraniums, or the blue and gold potpourri bowl in the drawing-room where you always felt afraid of smashing the spindly legs of the chairs.

This morning, however, the children even forgot to walk on tip-toe (you _always_ walked tip-toe in that tiled hall), so engrossed were they in planning how to get away quickly without arousing Aunt Hewlett's suspicions or offending her.

Lizzie, Aunt Hewlett's old maid, and, incidentally the children's and Ladybird's friend, was putting the last loaf into the oven as they entered the kitchen, and, on the table, were half a dozen golden oven or batch cakes just asking to be eaten. If the scent from Mr. Philpott's bakery had been tantalizingly fragrant, the scent here was a hundred times more so. Yet, though less than five minutes had passed since they had been aching for new bread, now that they could eat their fill all desire for it had fled.

Very deliberately Aunt Hewlett split open a couple of the golden bread cakes and spread them generously with butter.

"One between us would be enough, thank you, Aunt," Nancy ventured meekly, but Aunt Hewlett waved the suggestion aside.

"It's over two miles home if you're going back round by Etley, and if you can't eat a batch cake a-piece and be ready for a hearty breakfast when you reach home, well, all I can say is that the modern child is made of poorer stuff than the children of _my_ generation. In _my_ young days we'd have said 'thank you' and no more words about it."

Aunt Hewlett tossed her proud old head and her eyes flashed as she thought of the splendid stock the world produced eighty years ago. "Nothing finicky about us, I can assure you, my dear."

"Oh, Aunt," Nancy pleaded, fearing that she had hurt her, "we're not finicky, really, are we, Billy? Only----" She paused tremulously.

Billy glanced at her anxiously. _Would_ she be a sport and play her part bravely? Knowing her tender heart he was a little doubtful. Suddenly, he threw back his head just as he had done when he had closed the home gate behind them. Here, at the very outset of their adventures was something that called forth his fighting instincts. Billy met it with ready response--_he_ would take charge of the situation.

He took a huge bite out of his batch cake and, to his own surprise, as well as Aunt Hewlett's, grinned up at her with an adorable cheekiness.

"_Looks_ as though we like them, doesn't it, Aunt? And can I have another, please, when I've finished this? Lizzie shouldn't make them so nice. Or shall I take it for Mavis--she's just on in front, and p'raps we'd better hurry else she'll think we're lost or something."

Mentioning Mavis he felt was thrillingly dangerous. Aunt Hewlett _might_ make enquiries, and somehow or other the enquiries would have to be avoided, but the spirit of adventure was awakened in him, and he was ready to tackle any difficulty.

"Hum! So _that's_ why you weren't hungry, I suppose," Aunt Hewlett replied. "Been quarrelling with her, have you? Six to one and half a dozen to the other, of course!"

"Oh, no, Aunt," Billy replied, "we've not quarrelled--she just went quicker, that's all. I've finished my batch cake," he added with an insinuating grin. "It was ripping!"

Aunt Hewlett, pleased that the batch cakes should be so appreciated, split open the remaining three, and, telling Lizzie to bring a paper bag, set to and buttered them.

Nancy, meanwhile, was struggling hard with hers. As Aunt Hewlett's back was turned Billy signed to her to break off the bigger portion and slip it under Mavis' cloak.

"Well," said Aunt Hewlett, "here you are, and those that think they won't spoil their breakfast can eat them going along. Nancy seems to have lost both her appetite and her tongue to-day--and William," she added, "seems to have found both."

The half-hurt, half-puzzled look on the stern old face worried Nancy. She wished with all her heart that she could explain matters, but that was impossible she knew, without giving Billy away. Yet, what must Aunt Hewlett think of her? Usually it was she, Nancy, who chattered freely and confidingly to the old lady whose sternness she could see behind while Mavis and Billy stood by in awed silence. And now to-day----

She ran toward her aunt and kissed her impulsively.

"Auntie dear, I do love you," she said, "and I love the batch cakes and next time I'll talk lots and lots to you. _Please_ don't not love me. Good-bye!" and, with tears very near her eyes, she fled from the house, Billy following.

"Well!" ejaculated Aunt Hewlett. For quite three minutes she stood where they had left her, thinking--and feeling again a pair of little arms round her neck. "Well, well!" she added, and then left the kitchen to go about her household duties.

Meanwhile, Nancy and Billy were flying round the corner to the Riversham road with all sorts of thoughts and feelings, jogging against each other as they ran.

They found Mavis seated on the top of a high stone stile, her arms round Modestine, her head pillowed on her neck. She opened her eyes very sleepily when they approached, and smiled.

"You seemed such a long time," she explained, "so I just closed my eyes. Why, what have you got there, Billy. It smells like new bread!"

"It is," Billy replied, "and some of it's for you."

They explained the cause of their delay to Mavis, a delay of which the child had fortunately been unconscious, as she had been longer in the Land of Nod than she had at all realized, as they trudged along the Riversham road, munching some of the delicious batch cakes.

"Let's keep the other two until we get through Riversham," Nancy suggested. "P'raps we might stop for a little rest then."

"Yes, and have our breakfast. 'Cording to Aunt Hewlett we ought to be jolly well ready for it!" Billy replied, with a grin. "'Sides," he added, "I didn't get the full benefit of the one I ate in the kitchen, I'm sure--didn't I bolt it just!"