"WAS THAT ALL RIGHT?" GODFREY FAIRFAX ASKED GREGORY.
"FIRST-RATE," HE SAID. "I CAN'T THINK WHY YOUR BOOKS DON'T SUCCEED."
"PERHAPS THIS IS THE BEST OF THEM," ROBERT SUGGESTED.
"BARBARA IS VERY BRAVE," SAID JANET. "I ADMIRE HER TREMENDOUSLY."
"AND PHILIP, TOO," SAID HESTER.
"OH, BUT JACK AND THE STONE IS BEST," SAID GREGORY. "I COULD HAVE DONE THAT."
"SO COULD I," SAID HORACE CAMPBELL; "IT'S JUST WHAT I WANT TO DO—THINGS LIKE THAT."
"YOU'RE RATHER BLOOD-THIRSTY LITTLE BOYS," SAID GODFREY FAIRFAX. "PERHAPS I HAD BETTER BEGIN AGAIN. IT IS GOING TO BE QUIETER NOW."
Once in the kitchen, Barbara and Philip and the blacksmith took rapid counsel together as to the best course of action. It was now late in the afternoon; the Captain might be back with another bodyguard at any time, and, once he returned, there would be no chance of getting the stranger away. It was therefore important to furnish him with the disguise—Rupert's clothes—and spirit him out of the house at once. On the other hand, as he did not count upon being at sea till midnight, this would simply mean exchanging one hiding-place for another; but, all things considered, it was imperative that he should stay no longer at the Hall.
This decided, Rupert was called in to divest himself of his clothes, and soon afterwards he sent down the bundle, and with it Barbara sought the stranger, while Matthew, feeling very well satisfied with the day's work, sauntered to the stables to examine the wounds of the Roundhead soldiers. He found them groaning, but in a way to recover, and then, calling the boys, he set them to prepare the horses against their journey. It was approaching evening, but the month being June, there was no chance of a dark departure, even if they waited as late as half-past eight, so that one hour of leaving was almost as safe as another.
Barbara found her prisoner very tired of his confinement, and very hungry. She explained the cause of her delay, and, leaving him to change into the clothes as quickly as he might, she hurried off for food. When she came back, the young man, looking for all the world like a darker Rupert, was standing in the library with his own clothes in his hand.
"My brother will tell you what has been devised for you," Barbara said.
"Thank you," he replied, putting out his hand. "Thank you, sweet preserver. I shall see you again, I know; but it may be long, very long. Will you keep this ring? Show it to your father when he returns, and guard it carefully till we meet in the future. Then you shall give it me once more." He slipped the ring on her finger and kissed it.
A moment later he stood in the courtyard beside Rupert's horse, where the others were waiting.
"Heavens!" said Hugh to Philip; "what's happened to Rupe?"
"Yes," echoed Vernon, "who's that in old Rupe's clothes?"
"Shut up!" Philip hissed, fixing them with a meaning glance. "Say another word, and I'll flay you! That's Rupert Ommaney, and no one else, and I warn you to remember it."
"Come along, Rupert," he cried cheerily, aloud to the stranger. "It's time we were off."
With that they swung into the saddle, and rattled out of the courtyard, the stranger in the midst. As he rounded the corner of the house he looked back and smiled farewell to Barbara and the smith and Jack, who stood together watching the departure. Barbara waved her hand, and a moment later her fugitive was out of sight.
"THAT'S NOT ALL, IS IT?" HESTER INQUIRED ANXIOUSLY, AS MISS REDSTONE STOPPED.
"ISN'T IT A GOOD ENDING?" SHE ASKED.
"NO," SAID GREGORY, "OF COURSE NOT. I WANT TO KNOW IF HE GOT TO THE HARBOUR ALL RIGHT, AND WHO HE WAS."
"OH, I THINK WE KNOW WHO HE WAS," JANET SAID.
"WHO?" GREGORY ASKED. "I DON'T KNOW." "WELL, IT'S NOT THE END," SAID MISS REDSTONE; "BUT THE END IS VERY NEAR, AND THAT WILL EXPLAIN EVERYTHING." AND SHE BEGAN AGAIN.
The boys and their companion had not been gone an hour when in rode the Captain and his two soldiers with a terrible clatter. The Captain leaped from his horse, and strode into the house, roaring for the men he had left on guard. Barbara, who was in the library with Rupert, heard the noise and divined its meaning.
"Rupert," she said swiftly, on a sudden inspiration, "will you add one more kindness to your long list? Will you hide in here for a few minutes?" So saying, she showed him the secret chamber.
Rupert hesitated not a moment, but swung himself up and was lost to view. The picture hardly descended when the Captain entered.
"Ha!" he cried, casting a quick glance at Barbara. "So you have escaped my soldiers' vigilance. A nice story of traitorous mutiny I shall have to report to London! Three of the Parliament's men beaten and bound, and rebels here in hiding. For there is a hiding-place here, I will lay my life, and by the look in your eyes, mistress, the bird is still in it."
So saying, he set his men once more to work on the walls, and himself attacked the portrait. Barbara stood by watching them. After five minutes' fumbling the spring was touched. The Captain leaped into the cavity, and they heard him utter a cry of triumph. A moment later he came forth, leading Rupert. But his expression of joy vanished when he gained the light, dim though it was, and found that his captive was but a schoolboy, and a laughing one at that.
"Tricked again!" he cried, as he flung the lad off and dashed from the room.
His men followed, and in a moment they were all in the saddle.
Barbara turned to Rupert with a smile. "Thank you!" she said.
"You are splendid!" was all he could say in reply.
"If you will bring me a candle," said Barbara, "I will look at the little room again."
Bidding Rupert remain exactly where he was, she entered the secret room. "The Captain was too impetuous," she remarked, picking up a letter addressed to herself; "he ought to have gone on after discovering Rupert." "To Mistress Myddelton," the superscription ran, and she opened it with trembling fingers.
"Thank you," was all it said, but the signature struck her dizzy. It was the signature of the exiled Prince.
"I KNEW IT!" HESTER EXCLAIMED.
"BUT IT DOESN'T HURT THE STORY TO KNOW IT?" MISS REDSTONE ASKED ANXIOUSLY.
"OH, NO, NOT AT ALL," SAID JANET AND MARY. "PLEASE GO ON."
MISS REDSTONE RESUMED.
On leaving the Hall the boys and their companion had turned at once down the highroad in the direction of Mr. Fullarton's at Framshott, which was precisely the opposite direction to Portallan and the sea, Philip's idea being to ride for a few miles as if on the journey back to school, and to be seen by as many people who knew them by sight as possible, then to branch off into a sheltering wood, wait there till dark, and start again, refreshed, in a bee-line for the harbour. In this way the Captain would, if he were to return and follow them, be put on a wrong scent, and give up any chase as a waste of effort.
But Barbara's trick in hiding Rupert undid the plan, for the first person whom the Captain and his men met on leaving the Hall for the second time swore so positively to having seen the FOUR schoolboys that the Roundhead's suspicions were at once aroused, and, turning his horse's head, he led the way at all speed towards Portallan.
"Then there was a man there all the time," he cried bitterly to himself, "and he has escaped in that puppy's clothes! 'Sdeath, if I catch him now...!" He ground his teeth together in his rage, and dug the rowels of his spurs into the horse's side. Without another word they rode at the gallop through the growing darkness.
The boys were riding together at a good swinging pace, the stranger, in Rupert's clothes, leading the way by a neck, Philip beside him, and the other two behind. It was not a dark night, but a mist rolling inland from the sea—one of those white mists well known along the south coast, which predicate hot weather—enveloped them impenetrably except at very short range.
"Halt!" they heard the Captain cry, halfway down the hill.
"Ay, it is likely we shall halt for that," said the stranger, with a laugh. "I'll show him," and, turning in his saddle, he discharged a pistol down the road. "That's for our enemies," he remarked grimly, "and may it hit someone!"
A few moments later came an answering shot, whistling past their heads ominously.
"Break for the nearest copse," replied the stranger, promptly, "for a council of war. Quick, now's the time! The top of the hill is cover for us." So saying, he put his horse to the bank, cleared it, and galloped over the field to the trees which loomed grey and indefinite before them.
The others followed. In two minutes they were under the boughs. Not daring to breathe, they heard the troopers thunder along the highroad, all unconscious for the moment of the trick that had been played them.
"Now," said the stranger briefly, "we must divide. I shall proceed to Portallan alone very warily."
The faces of the boys fell at these words. Relinquish their duty before a blow had been struck? It was humiliating—impossible. Philip first found voice. "No, sir," he cried emphatically; "nothing of the kind! My sister bade me not leave your side until you embarked for France, and her word is my law."
"And we stand by Phil," said Vernon, with equal emphasis.
"You are brave boys," the stranger answered, "but you must do to-night as I say. There is no time to argue here, and if I miss the tide I am undone, for loyal captains are rare birds, I promise you. There may be not another safe ship this fortnight."
"But the enemy," said Philip,—"you will have to pass them. How can you do that single-handed?"
"Besides," Hugh interpolated, "is it fair to rob us of our sport like this?"
"Yes," said Vernon, supporting him, "it is seldom enough one has any chance of striking a blow for the cause. We are well armed. We are four to their three."
The young man made a gesture of impatience.
"Peace," he said. "I have told you we must separate; let that be final. You, Philip, shall accompany me part of the way, at any rate—I owe you that; but the others will ride each towards the sea by different but fairly direct ways. They will probably each be pursued, but must do the best they can, avoiding bloodshed if possible. The captain has two men with him, and Vernon and Hugh must each decoy one of them away in pursuit. That will leave merely the captain, who is certain to ride to the port. You, Philip, will divert him, and the way will thus be clear and open to me to get on board. Please God, we all get through safely!"
So saying, the stranger shook hands with Hugh and Vernon, who were convinced by something in his voice that this was their master and nothing more was to be said, and in a moment he and Philip were gone.
Events happened precisely as the stranger had foretold. Vernon and Hugh, riding full tilt towards Portallan, attracted each a Roundhead soldier, and each boy used his knowledge of the country to lead the men a wild-goose chase. Vernon's pursuer succumbed first, for he and his horse fell into a small but sufficient chalk-pit a mile or two from Framshott just as dawn was breaking. As for Hugh's man, after three hours' zigzag riding through the mist he was deftly persuaded to gallop into the Worminglore bog, and there Hugh, flinging a parting word of derision, left him floundering. The man fired a bullet in the direction of the boy's voice, but it did no harm except to his hat, and only served to increase Hugh's reputation among his companions at school as a desperate fellow. It is not every boy who has a bullet-hole in his hat.
Meanwhile Philip and the stranger spurred to the sea by a devious course. They rode silently, the stranger's hand alert to seize his pistol. Suddenly, when only a mile or two from the harbour, a light or two being visible on the ships riding at anchor, he reined in with a jerk before a shepherd's hut which stood at the edge of a sheepfold on the naked down, a yard from the road.
"Just the thing!" he cried; "we have still an hour."
Bidding Philip stay there and keep watch, he leaped from his horse and opened the door of the hut.
"Who's there?" growled the voice of the shepherd.
"A friend, if you hold your peace," said the young man; "otherwise a foe, and a strong one, I can promise you." He clicked a pistol as he spoke, and the shepherd stood up and pulled his forelock.
"I want no words," said the stranger, "and no delay. Do as I tell you, in the King's name."
"Ay, marry!" cried the shepherd; "in the King's name I'll do anything."
"Good fellow," said the stranger, "well said. Take off that smock and those legcasings."
The man took them off. The stranger divested himself of Rupert's clothes at the same time, and hastily donned those of the shepherd. "Tie mine in a bundle," he said to the man. "I shall leave you cold to-night, I fear, but here is money. Lie close in a blanket till the morrow, and then send for your wife to buy other clothes. But keep your tongue from wagging."
So saying, the stranger shouldered his bundle, and, taking the shepherd's crook in his hand, he left the hut and rejoined Philip. "My dear boy," he said, "I must leave you now. I shall creep into the town under cover of this disguise, safely enough, and be on board in half an hour. Farewell. I shall never forget your services to me, as you will be reminded some day, and from a quarter you least expect." With these words he shook the boy's hand and was lost in the mist.
Philip waited irresolutely for some minutes. Then a plan came to him which, if successful, would make the humiliation of the Roundhead complete. "Yes," he said "I'll do it;" and forthwith he urged his horse towards the town at a smart trot leading the other by the reins and talking loudly with its imaginary rider. The ruse was successful. The Roundhead Captain was, as Philip had suspected, in ambush just at the outskirts, all ready to dart forth and at last make the capture. When within a dozen yards of his form, dimly outlined in the fog, Philip loosed the led horse, and lashing it sharply over the flanks, turned his own steed, and rode off at full gallop which he did not slacken till he reached home. He glowed as he rode.
Barbara's head appeared at the window in response to his clatter. Calling the single word "Safe!" from the gate, he spurred on to Framshott.
"Outwitted clean!" said the Captain to himself, as he came up at last with the riderless animal two hours after. "Outwitted, discredited, and by a parcel of children! However, let's make the best of it;" and so saying, he urged his horse towards Myddelton Hall, leading the stranger's by the bridle.
At three in the morning, when the sun was rising, and the air was sweet and cool, and songs of birds made music all around him, Philip rode into the yard of the school-house. He found Rupert waiting for him.
"Hugh and Vernon are in the kitchen making a famine," said Master Ommaney. "Old Full's down there with them, and he's as pleased as a Merry Andrew about it all! He keeps shaking hands with us."
"It's been grand," said Philip, as he shut the stable door on his horse. "I'm so sorry you couldn't come, too, Rupe, old boy."
At about the same time the Captain thundered on the Hall door. The blacksmith very deliberately descended the stairs to unlock it. Barbara followed.
"You must give me lodging to-night," the Captain said curtly. "My men will be here soon, and there are three good fellows to be cared for to whom your servants have done serious mischief."
Barbara, looking contrite, told the Captain that a room was at his service, and there was food in the kitchen. He attended first to his horse, and then she set a brave supper before him and the smith.
"Well, young lady," said the Captain at length, "I must compliment you on your cleverness. You nested your bird well, and you saw to it that he flew well, too. All we have to show for it is a broken nose, a broken shoulder, and a broken back. It is a sad business for us all; bad for you, when head quarters come to hear of it, and bad for me, in not being sharper. But it might have been worse," he added; "why, the fugitive might have been the Prince himself, instead of this twopenny-halfpenny spy!" Barbara smiled.
In conclusion it may be said that, as it turned out, no more was heard of the matter by Colonel Myddelton. The Roundhead Captain felt that the day's work did not sufficiently redound to his credit, and he shrank from the chaff that would follow when it was known that a girl and some schoolboys had outwitted him. He therefore kept silence.
Some years had to pass before Barbara and Philip received their reward; but one of the first acts of the Merry Monarch on ascending the throne was to make Philip a knight and to send Barbara a pair of very beautiful horses and a carriage.
THERE WAS A SILENCE AFTER GODFREY FAIRFAX HAD FINISHED.
THEN, "IS IT TRUE?" GREGORY ASKED.
"IS IT A GOOD STORY?" THE AUTHOR INQUIRED, BY WAY OF REPLY.
"OH, YES," SAID GREGORY. "RIPPING!"
"THEN LET'S CONSIDER IT TRUE," SAID MISS REDSTONE.
"OF COURSE IT'S TRUE," SAID HESTER.
"DO YOU LIKE IT AS WELL AS 'FOR THE GOOD CAUSE?" MISS REDSTONE ASKED HORACE.
"NOT QUITE," HE SAID, "BUT VERY NEARLY."
"AND YOU?" SHE INQUIRED OF JACK.
"IT'S JOLLY INTERESTING," HE SAID, "ANYWAY."
"WELL, I'M VERY MUCH OBLIGED TO YOU FOR LISTENING TO ME SO LONG," MISS REDSTONE SAID. "YOU'VE BEEN VERY KIND, AND YOU'VE CHEERED ME UP EXTREMELY. GOOD-BYE. I SHALL NEVER FORGET YOUR KINDNESS, AND I SHALL SEND YOU THE STORY WHEN IT IS PRINTED."
AND AFTER GIVING HER THEIR ADDRESS, THEY RESUMED THEIR JOURNEY, AND DISCUSSED THE ROMANCE AT INTERVALS ALL THE WAY TO BREDON HILL.
The distance from Evesham to Elmley Castle, a little village under Bredon Hill, is only five or six miles, and the Slowcoaches were comfortably encamped in a field there by six o'clock, for at Evesham they did no more than walk through the churchyard to the beautiful square Bell Tower with its little company of spires on the roof. Mary bought a guide at a shop at the corner of the market-place and read the story.
This Bell Tower, with a gateway and a wall or so, is all that remains of a Benedictine abbey which was built by the Bishop of Worcester in the reign of Ethelred. The Bishop, it seems, had a swineherd named Eoves, who one day, while wandering in the Forest of Arden ("In which the scene of 'As You Like It' is laid, Hester, and which used to cover all the ground where Evesham now stands"), was visited in a vision by three radiant damsels. He returned at once and told the Bishop, who, on being led to the same spot, after a preparation of fasting and prayer, had the same vision, and at once recognized the damsels as the Virgin Mary and two Angels.
At that time the meaning of such heavenly visitations was plain, and the Bishop at once set about building an abbey on the spot. He appointed himself the first abbot and named it after his swineherd Eoves—Eoves'ham.
The abbey was large and prosperous, but the Danes destroyed it in one of their raids, and it had to be rebuilt on a more splendid scale. Then came Henry VIII. and his quarrel with the Church of Rome, and the abbey was confiscated and given as a grant to Sir Philip Hoby, one of his friends, who at once (being a man of the type of the Rev. Francis Gastrell) raised what money he could on it by turning it into a quarry for stones. And that is why so many old houses in this neighbourhood have carved stones in their walls.
The party then returned to the marketplace and walked down to the bridge, where they joined Kink and set out for their goal.
Elmley Castle is one street, with a ruined cross at one end and the church at the other, and the great hill over all. The cottages are as white as snowdrops, and they have heavy thatch roofs. The women wear large blue Worcestershire sunbonnets. The only shop is a post-office too, so that Robert was able to send his telegrams very easily.
After supper some of them walked through the churchyard (which has a very curious sun-dial in it) to the meadows beyond, in search of the castle, the site of which is mentioned on the map, but is quite undiscoverable now; while Robert made friends with an old labourer smoking his pipe outside the great tithe barn, and asked him about the road up Bredon' as it was his project to sleep on the very top of the hill the next night.
But the old man changed their plans completely; for he convinced Robert that the Slowcoach would never get to the top without at least two more horses to help, and even then it would be an unwise course to take, because there was no proper road, and it might be badly shaken.
It was therefore arranged that the older and stronger children should take their lunch to the top of the hill and eat it there, and that Kink, with Hester and Gregory, should go round the hill? which rises all alone from the plain like a great sleeping monster, on the flat roads, and meet them on the other, or south side, at Beckford, in the afternoon; and they should then go on for five or six miles farther to their campingground near Oxenton.
The night was uneventful except for a rather startling visit from a peacock, which stood just inside the boys' tent and uttered such sounds as only a peacock can.
Both parties started early the next morning. Gregory and Hester, being for the first time alone as owners of the Slowcoach, were very proud and excited, and Gregory insisted upon Janet giving him two shillings in case of any emergency, although Kink had plenty of money. The nice old women in the Worcestershire sunbonnets came to see them start, and, well supplied with stone gingerbeer from the Queen's Head—Queen Elizabeth's head, as it happens—off they went, Gregory beside Kink, and Hester inside reading Hans Andersen's story of the nightingale.
The others, after waving good-bye, set their feet bravely towards the slopes of Bredon Hill—no small undertaking, for it is very steep and the day was hot. But the pathway is pleasant, first passing by the gardens of the great house, where, burning blue on the wall, they saw their visitor of the night; and then through a deep lane to a hillocky meadow, and so up to the turf of the higher slopes, where the views begin, and where it is very agreeable to rest.
But Robert urged them on. "It is quite flat at the top," he said, "and there is a tower at the very edge, and a perfect place for a picnic."
Here we will leave them, climbing pantingly up, and follow the Slowcoach, as Moses drew it steadily along the lanes at the base of the hill, between the high hedges. At first, as I said, Kink and Gregory walked; but after a while they both sat in front, just over the shafts, and Gregory held the reins (he called it driving), and they discussed life—which means that Gregory asked a thousand questions and Kink did his best to answer or ignore them.
"It's not true, is it, that when all the cows in a field stand up it's going to rain?"
"Don't you think Bredon Hill would be a ripping place to start to fly from?"
"Shall we stop and cook our dinner, or have cold things?"
"It's not true, is it, that whenever you see a white horse you see a red-haired girl? I suppose that means only in London, where there are so many people?"
"Do you know that you can't walk over London Bridge without seeing a white horse?"
"Do you think that Moses is ever going to have a stone in his shoe so that I can get it out with my knife? Couldn't we drive him over a very stony place?"
"You can't really tell the time by dandelions, can you?"
And so forth, till Kink's head would have ached if he had not trained it not to.
Gregory was rattling on in this way when suddenly they heard a screaming and scrambling and thudding behind them, and a moment later a chaise with a little girl in it, drawn by a pair of grey ponies, dashed past at a fearful pace, only just avoiding the caravan, and disappeared in a cloud of dust; and then after a minute or so came a tremendous shattering crash, and all was still.
"It's a smash-up," said Kink, urging Moses into a trot. "We must help them;" and at the same time Hester's white face appeared at the window and implored Kink to drive faster.
In a minute or so they saw a moving mass at the side of the road, which they knew to be the broken chaise, and a farm labourer holding the head of the one pony that was on its feet. Kink tied Moses to a gate-post, and ran to the man's help, telling the children to wait a moment. Both were rather frightened, and they stood hand in hand by Moses and watched.
They saw Kink lift something from the chaise and lay it on the grass. Then they saw him hacking at the harness with his pruning-knife until the pony was free, when the man led it to another gate-post and tied it there. Then Kink hacked again, and drew the carriage away from the pony that was lying on the ground; and then he and the man lifted the bundle once more and came with it very carefully to the Slowcoach, Kink calling out to Gregory to open the door and put some pillows on the floor.
When Kink and the man reached the Slowcoach, Hester saw that they were carrying a girl of about her own age, who was lying in their arms quite still, with her eyes closed.
They placed her gently on the cushions, and Kink dashed a little water on her face.
After a moment or so she opened her eyes and asked where she was.
"You're all right," said Hester. "You've had an accident. We're taking care of you."
Then the little girl remembered. "The ponies!" she cried. "Are they hurt?"
"I'm afraid one of them is," said Kink. "But never mind now. The great thing is that you weren't thrown out. Keep quiet now, missie, and we'll look after everything."
But the little girl would not be silenced.
"Which one is hurt?" she asked. "Which one? Is it Marshall or Snelgrove?"
"I don't know," said Kink. "They're both alike."
"Oh, no, they're not," said the little girl. "Marshall has a white star between his eyes. Oh, do say Marshall's all right! Marshall's my very own."
"I'll go and see," said Gregory; and he ran off, and came back to say that Marshall was the one that seemed to be all right, but Snelgrove had broken his leg and couldn't move.
"Oh, I'm so glad about Marshall," said the girl; "but poor Tommy, how sorry he'll be!"
"See if you can get up, missie," said Kink. "I want to know if you're hurt anywhere."
The little girl sat up and then stood up. "I feel all right," she said, "only very giddy."
Kink uttered a sigh of relief. "Drink this cold water," he said. "That will make you much better. And now tell us all about the accident, because we shall have to let your people know."
"Well," said the little girl, "mother and I were driving to Ashton to see Aunt May; and mother had just got out to leave theBritish Workmanat old Mr. Dimmock's, when the ponies took fright and ran away. I held the reins as long as I could, and when I saw your caravan in front I screamed to warn you, and then there was a terrible crash, and I don't remember anything else."
"And what will your poor mamma be doing?" said Kink.
"Oh, poor mother!" said the little girl. "She'll be so nervous! But she'll be coming after us as fast as she can, because she saw them start off."
"Then I think," said Kink, "the best thing to do is for us to leave this man here to mind the ponies and tell your mamma you're all right; and we'll go on to Ashton as quick as we can, and send back some help. We'll take you to your aunt's, missie, and the man will tell your mamma when she comes up what we've done. I'm so glad you're not hurt."
So Hester and Gregory were left with the little girl, who told them her name was Patricia Mordan, and she was ten, and they lived near Fladbury, and she had a King Charles spaniel; while Kink urged Moses towards Ashton, which was only a mile or so away.
Hester put the kettle on the Beatrice stove, thinking that tea was the best thing, and Gregory sat down and looked at their guest, and thought what a splendid adventure it was to tell the others about when they met them later.
Patricia, who was now in a deck-chair, examined the caravan in a kind of ecstasy. "What a lovely place it is!" she said. "Do you really live here? How scrumptiously exciting!"
"My bed's over there," said Gregory.
"Where do you stop at night?" Patricia asked.
"I have to go to the farmers and get leave to camp on their land," said Gregory.
"And is it just you two and the driver?" Patricia asked.
"Oh, no," said Gregory; "there are five others, but they are walking over Bredon Hill. They said we could not walk so far, which is rot, of course; but I'm glad we didn't, because then we shouldn't have been here to save your life."
"Mother will be very grateful to you for being so kind," said Patricia. "Poor mother! she'll be so frightened about me. And Tommy—how dreadful for him to lose Snelgrove!"
"Who's Tommy?" Gregory asked.
"Tommy's my brother," said Patricia. "He's twelve. Aunt May gave Snelgrove to him and Marshall to me last Christmas. They've never run away before. I wish we had a caravan."
"Caravans are very jolly," said Gregory. "Things are always happening, too."
"I'd rather have a sweet grey pony than a caravan," said Hester, bringing a cup of tea.
Gregory, who was looking out of the door and meditating an escape from so much dampness, and a conversation on the whole matter with Kink, exclaimed suddenly, "Hello, I guess this is your mother."
"Yes, it is," cried Patricia, standing up and waving her handkerchief to a lady seated in a milk-cart, which was being driven after them at a tremendous pace. "I wondered who she'd get to bring her here, and it's young Daniel Wilson. Tell your man to stop, please."
Mrs. Mordan, whom Gregory thought both a nice and a pretty lady, leapt out of the milk-cart and ran up the steps of the Slowcoach, and mother and daughter hugged each other for quite two minutes, while Gregory looked at young Daniel Wilson, and Patricia began to cry afresh—this time because she was happy.
Mrs. Mordan was happy too. The grief she had felt for the accident and the injury to poor Snelgrove, whom she had left in agony by the road, passed away when she found her little daughter unhurt.
She sat holding Patricia's hand, and asked Hester a number of questions, and gave her a number of thanks all together.
Gregory meanwhile had got out, and was asking young Daniel Wilson how ponies are shot; and what he did about getting milk to the station when the snow was two feet thick; and if the cows often kicked the buckets over.
"It's not us," said Hester, "it's Kink who was so useful."
"Who is Kink?" Mrs. Mordan asked.
"Our gardener," said Hester, "but he drives the caravan for us;" and gradually she told the whole Slowcoach story.
By this time they were at Ashton, and, after giving instructions about looking after the ponies,—sending for a veterinary surgeon and so forth,—Mrs. Mordan showed Kink the way to Aunt May's house, which they reached just before two.
Aunt May was standing by the gate? with five black spaniels about her, looking anxiously down the road—a tall lady with grey hair and top-boots, and a little whip in her hand.
"No," she said, as Kink stopped at the gate, "I don't want any chairs or kettles mended, or, indeed, anything from you at all."
Kink, however, said nothing, but went to the back of the caravan and helped Mrs. Mordan and Patricia down.
"My precious Lina!" exclaimed Aunt May, when she saw them. "Whatever has happened?"
"I'll tell you about it indoors," said Mrs. Mordan. "These kind people are going to stop here for lunch, if you've got enough."
"Of course there's enough," said Aunt May; "but I thought you were gipsies, or tinkers, or something objectionable. You're not a tinker, are you?" she said to Gregory.
"No," he said, "but I'd like to be a gypsy."
And so they reached the house, which was an old-fashioned one, all among dark trees, with a very soft lawn in front of it.
Aunt May told Kink to go round to the back and be sure not to let Diogenes and the dogs fight, and then she began to call at the top of her voice for Simpkins.
After a while Simpkins appeared—an elderly bald man in a dress suit, who was evidently the butler.
"Simpkins," said Aunt May, "there will be two more to lunch, and there's a caravan at the back belonging to this gentleman here,"—indicating Gregory, who immediately grew three inches all over,—"and please give the driver a good dinner."
"Yes, my lady," said Simpkins; and Hester and Gregory at once began to look at her with round eyes, for they had never before met anyone who was titled—I mean to speak to, although they had seen the Lord Mayor (who is of course a baronet) in his carriage only last November 9.
"And, Simpkins," said Aunt May, "take Mr. What is your name?" she asked Gregory.
"Gregory Bruce Avory," said he.
"Take Mr. Bruce Avory to the Pink Room, and get him some hot water."
"Yes, my lady," said Simpkins, and Gregory grew another inch all over.
And then Aunt May led the others upstairs.
Gregory finished his washing first, and walked to the dining-room, which opened on to the lawn, and was very bright and sweet-smelling. The walls were covered with pictures, and there were roses in blue bowls wherever a place could be found for them.
By the wall, in a row, were five round baskets, and directly Aunt May came in the five black spaniels, who were with her, went each to his basket, and lay there quietly, with his head resting on the edge and his eyes fixed on his mistress. Their names were Mars, Saturn, Orion, Mercury, and Jupiter; and from time to time Aunt May called one to her and gave it a little piece of food, while the others glittered with expectation.
"Now," said Aunt May, "let's get on with our eatin', for I'm sure you're all hungry, and I know I am. Patricia dear, do you think you can eat solid things, or shall we get something else?"
Patricia, however, declared that she could eat anything.
"Mr. Bruce Avory," said Aunt May, "you're drinkin' nothing. Would you rather have lemonade or barley-water?"
Poor Gregory! he knew what he wanted—lemonade—but he didn't know whether he ought to address Aunt May as "My Lady" or "Your Ladyship" or "Lady Rusper." He had tried to get a moment with Hester to ask about it, but without success.
"If she was only our aunt!" he thought, and then said, without using any name at all, that he would like lemonade.
Lady Rusper made them tell her the story all through once again, "right from the beginnin'," as she called it; and just as Hester had got to the end of her part of it a boy arrived leading Marshall, and Patricia leaped up and rushed across the lawn to fondle her pony. Then she dashed back for a piece of sugar, and was off again. The boy said that the blacksmith, who was also a farrier, had seen Marshall, and declared he was quite sound; but Snelgrove was done for completely, and the trap was too badly smashed ever to be much use.
"Put Marshall in the stable," said Aunt May, "and have the trap brought here."
At the news about Snelgrove Patricia began to cry again.
"Well," said Aunt May, "we must see what can be done. I dare say there are more ponies in the world. But I suppose we shall all be driven to motors before long. It's a great shame. I spend most of my time detestin' the things; but they've got to come. And now," she said to Hester, "tell me all about your home and your caravan;" and Hester again told the story, saying "Lady Rusper" with an ease that made Gregory gasp.
After lunch they all went to the stables, where, in a loose-box, beautifully snug in the straw, lay another black spaniel, Venus, with three puppies ("Oh, the darlings!" cried Hester) snuggling to her.
"Do you think your mother would let you keep a spaniel?" Aunt May asked.
"Oh, yes, now we've got Diogenes as a start," she answered.
"Very well, then," said Aunt May, "if you'd like one of these, you shall have it directly it's old enough to be sent away—as a memory of to-day, and as a thankofferin', too. Which would you like," she added, "Psyche, Cicero, or Circe? This is Cicero, this is Circe, and this is Psyche."
"Why do all their names begin with 'S'?" Gregory asked; and it was not till he told Janet about it that he understood why it was that everyone had laughed so.
"And if you may keep two," Aunt May went on, speaking to Gregory, "I shall send you one of the next litter. Vesta is going to have puppies soon. You must write and let me know. And now, if your man has finished, I expect you'd like to be gettin' on, or the others will be nervous about you."
And so, after Hester had chosen Circe, they all said very affectionate farewells, and the Slowcoach rumbled forth again.
Meanwhile, what of Janet and Robert and Mary and Jack and Horace? They had had no adventures at all—nothing but scenery and a pleasant picnic.
Robert had been rightly told about the summit of Bredon Hill, for there the grass is as short as on the South Downs, and there is a deep fosse in which to shelter from the wind.
The hill at this western point ends suddenly, at a kind of precipice, and you look right over the valley of the Avon and the Severn to the Malverns. Just below on the south-west is Tewkesbury, where the Severn and the Avon meet, after that becoming the Severn only all the way to Bristol and the sea. In the far south-west rises the point of the Sugar Loaf at Abergavenny, and the blue distance is Wales—the country of King Arthur and Malory.
To the north-west is the smoke of Worcester, and immediately beneath the hill, winding shiningly about, is the Avon, running by Bredon village and the Combertons and Pershore, past Cropthorne (where Mr. MacAngus was perhaps even now painting) and Wood Norton (where the Duke of Orleans, who ought, Hester held, to be King of France to-day, lives) to Evesham, and the weir where they had rowed about, and so on to Stratford.
Robert's maps, fortified by what he had picked up from the old man last night, told them all these things, and told them also, more or less, what the "coloured counties" were that they could see; for of course Mary wanted to know that: Warwickshire, Gloucestershire, Oxfordshire, Worcestershire, Herefordshire, Monmouthshire. After lunch Mary sang the beautiful Bredon Hill song to them; and so they descended to the level ground and to Kink and Hester and Gregory, little expecting to find them with such exciting things to tell.
From Beckford to Oxenton the great story lasted, eked out with questions and answers as it proceeded. Thus, Horace wanted to know why Kink had not sprung to the horses' heads and checked them in their wild career.
"We couldn't see them," said Gregory; "they were coming up behind, and we were sitting in front."
Horace was dissatisfied.
"What frightened them?" Jack wanted to know; but Gregory could not say. Patricia had not explained.
"Fancy not knowing what frightened them!" said Jack.
The fact was that both Jack and Horace were a little overtired, and perhaps a little jealous of the eventfulness of the Slowcoach's day.
They had been talking so hard that they had not noticed the sky; and the splashing of raindrops was the first knowledge they had that a storm was coming. It was nearly seven, and suddenly they all knew that they were very tired and hungry and rather chilly. Kink stopped Moses and suggested camping at once.
"Where?" said Robert.
"Here," said Kink. "Under these trees. There'll be a downpour soon: better get your supper at once."
They therefore did not make any effort to find a farm, but instantly unpacked. Hitherto everything had gone smoothly, but this was a bad evening. Nothing seemed to be in its place, and Hester, whose duty it was to get enough dry wood, had forgotten all about it, and by the time a new bundle could be brought it was damp. Then the matches blew out, and then, when at last the fire was alight, the wind scattered the flames so that there was no heat under the pot for more than a moment at a time. This often happens when you are on caravan excursions.
Mary had arranged for a stew, but she soon discovered that there was no chance of its being done for hours unless it could be moved into the Slowcoach and cooked over the Beatrice stove; but when they got Beatrice out, she was found to be empty, and no more oil was in the can.
"Who is the Keeper of the Oil?" Mary asked severely.
"I am," said Jack.
"Then where is it?" they asked.
"I had it filled at Stratford," said Jack. "Why," he exclaimed, "there's a hole in it! It's all run away! How ghastly! It will be all over everything."
And so it was; and the worst of it was that it had leaked into the biscuits, too. Janet came to the rescue. "We must make it a tongue and banana meal," she said.
"I hate bananas," said Gregory.
"Now, Horace," said Janet, "where's the tin-opener?"
How is it that everything goes wrong at once? Horace had to hunt for the tinopener for twenty minutes, and turn the whole place upside down before he could find it, and then it was too late.
Meanwhile the rain was steadily falling, and Kink and Robert were busy getting up the tents before the ground underneath was too wet. Robert was the only happy one. A few difficulties seemed to him to make the expedition more real.
He came dripping into the Slowcoach and asked for his supper; but Horace was still hunting for the tin-opener.
"Never mind about it," said Robert. "I'll open the thing with the hammer and a knife. But what you want, Horace, is system."
"No; what I want is food," said Horace. "I'm dying."
"So am I," said Gregory.
"Well, eat a crust to go on with," said Janet. "There's the bread."
"I hate crusts," said Gregory.
"Surely crusts are better than dying of starvation," said Mary.
"No," said Gregory, who was prepared to be thoroughly unpleasant. "No, I'd much rather die. I think I shall go to bed."
"Yes," said Robert, "do. People who can't stand a little hunger are no good in caravans."
"Janet," said Gregory, "how can I go to bed with my boots on?"
"Then take them off," said Janet.
"There's a knot," said Gregory.
"Well, you must wait," said Janet. "I can't leave what I'm doing."
"I hate waiting," said Gregory.
Robert, however, became suddenly very stern. He advanced on Gregory with a knife in his hand, and, swooping on the boot, cut both laces. "There," he said, "get into bed, and you must buy some more laces at Cheltenham."
"I hate Cheltenham," said Gregory. But he said no more; he saw that Robert was cross.
When, a little later, Janet took a plate of tongue over to his bunk, he was fast asleep. The others had a dismal, grumpy meal, and they were glad when the washing-up was done and it was bedtime. But no one had a good night. The rain dropped from the trees on to the Slowcoach's roof with loud thuds, and at midnight the thunder and lightning began, and Janet got up and splashed out in the wet to the tent to ask Robert if they ought not to move from under the trees. Robert had been lying awake thinking the same thing, but Kink had gone off with Moses to the nearest farm, and the Slowcoach was far too heavy to move without the horse. Diogenes whimpered on his chain. If he could have spoken, he would have said, like Gregory, "I hate thunder."
"Perhaps it won't get very near us," said Robert. "We must chance it, anyway."
But neither he nor Janet had any sleep until it was nearly time to get up, when the sun began to shine again, and the miseries of the evening and night before were forgotten.
Hester, however, had slept all through it, and had dreamed that ponies were running away with her towards a country entirely peopled by black spaniels and governed by a grey queen in top-boots.
As for Gregory, his dream was that he was Lord Bruce.