BEYOND THE HILLS

BY

MAYSEL JENKINSON

FREDERICK WARNE & CO. LTD. LONDON AND NEW YORK

COPYRIGHT FREDERICK WARNE & CO. LTD. LONDON

Printed in Great Britain

To "MARIE" (Founder of the Sunshine Guild) who with kindly beckoning hand has led these and many other of my little Travellers towards the Enchanted Unknown Hills

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. The Beckoning Hills II. Great-Aunt Hewlett III. The Libation Man IV. Montague Francis de Vere V. The Other Side VI. The Prior VII. Lionel and Dorothy VIII. Matins and Breakfast IX. The Rose-Vicar X. An Encounter on the Hills XI. The Fight XII. "Fairest Masons" XIII. Exploring with Dick XIV. The Race XV. Half-Confessions XVI. The Derelict Car XVII. Awakening

Beyond the Hills

CHAPTER I THE BECKONING HILLS

Just across the water they lay, such a little way beyond the opposite bank of the broad, golden river. If you sat on the old wall at the foot of the garden you could see the whole long range of them, so tantalizingly near, so altogether unattainable. True, you always had the river; you had merely to run down the hill, scramble across a meadow and through a gap in the hedge, and it was there, with all its many moods, awaiting you. True, also, a very little walk would bring you to the hilly forest country, but then both river and forest were part of the everyday life and how can you find romance or adventure except you go out to seek it in the Unknown?

For it was the Unknown that attracted the three children, more especially the two elder ones. Not only the hills themselves in their shadowy, mystic beauty, but what lay beyond them—the great open, unexplored world where adventure would surely come leaping towards you. To find the open world, to know Adventure! For how could anything interesting ever happen if you just played in a garden or a paddock, or strained your eyes down the river or across the hills, simply wondering, wondering?

There was more than one influence at work on the children to stir them to action. To begin with, there was that wander-blood in their veins that had sent their young Uncle Val wandering over the face of the earth. And then there was the river, the broad, gleaming river—an everyday river, of course, but was it not rushing swiftly to the sea and the open world? Had not Uncle Val himself told them how it had called men to great adventures? Sir Walter Raleigh, for instance. Sir Walter Raleigh, Billy's hero, was perhaps the biggest influence of all at work on the children. For, though this was not Devonshire, he had at one time inhabited the beautiful old house above the Gleam in which the children lived. Probably it was he who had whispered to Uncle Val of the Unknown, but whether that was so or not Uncle Val, in his brief home visits, was never tired of telling the children of the noble gentleman who had left his presence in the riverside house. He would make them see pictures of Sir Walter seated in the oak-panelled dining-room with perhaps Sir Francis Drake and other

adventurers as his guests, planning their expeditions into the unexplored world; or again, sauntering slowly down the drive and pausing at the white gate to look with half-closed eyes down the Gleam towards the sea, sniffing the salt in the wind that blew up the river, hearing its call to him as it soughed through the tall elms along the drive.

And then there was Stevenson. It was Aunt Letty who was responsible for introducing them to him and inspiring them with love and admiration for the man who was known in Samoa by that pretty name Tusitala. At least, Nancy, whose imagination quickly leaped towards any word that had poetry in it, any new and interesting word, found it pretty; indeed, there were many words in the passages Aunt Letty read to them from Stevenson that appealed to her. Caryatides! That was a word to make poetry of inside yourself and repeat over and over again until you had made it your very own.

Billy, on the other hand was more interested in Stevenson the man than in Stevenson the writer. His adventures in the Arethusa, his wanderings with Modestine, above all, perhaps, his life in those fascinating South Sea Islands appealed strongly to Billy. And the chief charm about all the adventures lay in the fact that they were real; they were not just a story book; Stevenson had actually lived what he described, had gone out to meet adventure just as he, Billy, longed so passionately to do.

Things came to a head one evening, while they were watching old Daddy Petherham drifting down the tide towards the sea.

"Wouldn't you think he'd get tired of fishing round here every day?" said Billy. "Wouldn't you s'pose he'd just have to go a little further and a little further and then right out to sea? Wouldn't you think he'd want to know what it's like out there and sail away till he came to other countries and foreign people? I should if I were Daddy Petherham."

"No, not if you were Daddy Petherham you wouldn't," Nancy replied. "I'm sure he wouldn't like not to sit in his doorway and smoke and watch his grandchildren playing. And wouldn't it be funny not to see him sitting sometimes on the bench outside the 'Anchor' shaking his head in that funny way of his at the young fishermen? It's queer, but I always think of Daddy Petherham as part of Nestcombe; he's kind of grown into it."

"Well," Billy replied, "I shouldn't want to live in a village till I'd grown to be one of the fixtures, would you?"

"No," Nancy replied thoughtfully, "I don't think I should. I—I want, I want—oh, it's not easy to put into words just what I want."

"I know what I want," Billy replied, decidedly. "I want to have adventure, lots of it, and how can we if we just stay here? Don't you both feel," he added eagerly, "that we must have one? Let's go somewhere. We haven't got a boat so we can't sail away as Daddy Petherham could if he wanted to, but—but how shall we go, Nancy?"

Nancy, who had been seeing visions of the wants that would not go into words ("dweaming dweams," as she used to call them when she was a little girl), came back to earth and stared at Billy.

"Do you mean it really, Billy?" she asked slowly.

"Do you mean a long, long way?" little Mavis added. "And see lots and lots of pretty places?"

"Yes, really and truly, a long, long way—where we've never been before!"

Now, it is quite probable that neither Nancy nor Mavis felt at that moment any imperative need in them to leave their happy home, for Mavis was a "home" child and Nancy, with her vivid imagination, could leave it at will to wander in a "Never Never Land," but if Billy wanted to go, why, then of course they wanted to go, too, for that one should do anything important without the other two was as impossible as for old Daddy Petherham not to sit year in, year out, smoking by his cottage door.

And, since it was decided that something must be done, both the girls entered with eager interest into Billy's plans.

"Would it do for us to have kind of travels with a donkey?" Nancy asked. "We've got Ladybird. There aren't any mountains, but there are the hills over there. Oh, Billy, I would like to see the other side of the hills; I kind of feel there's some wonderful land hidden away behind them. Could we get as far, do you think? It's a long way, isn't it? We'd have to go to Gleambridge and cross the river there and then we'd begin to be in the hills, wouldn't we? Oh, Billy, could we ever get there?"

Gleambridge, the county town, was a quite familiar place to the children. It is one thing to go there by train with grown-ups on shopping expeditions, but to go by road through unexplored country towards a city that is the gateway of the land of your dreams—that is something quite different. The train journey leads you to tailors and drapers and dentists, well, and perhaps to cakes and ice-creams, and yes, of course, the cathedral; but the dusty, winding road leads you straight to a world of romance, out of which rises the fair tower of the cathedral, and beyond it and above it and around it the entrancing hills. Should they, could they go?

Thus it was decided. They would go for a week; not longer, as little Mavis thought that quite long enough to be away from "Muvee." They would leave a note of explanation assuring the grown-ups that there was no need to worry, and they would take Ladybird, their very own donkey, with them. This, of course, would occasion a re-christening ceremony, for though "Ladybird" was the nicest name imaginable for a little home donkey, for one who was to seek with them the open world nothing but "Modestine" would satisfy the young adventurers.

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."