CHAPTER III.

And now at last the parting was over, and the new life fairly begun. Esther, Penelope, Angela, and Poppy sat alone in a third-class carriage, looking out with blurred and smarting eyes at the fields and hedges rushing past them, at telegraph wires bowing and rising, at people and cattle and houses, and wondered if it could all be real or if they were only dreaming.

They had been very sad for the last few days, for the parting had been a painful wrench. In spite of all its drawbacks, the little house at Framley was their home, and they shed many bitter tears when they bade good-bye to it, and the woods and the walks, and all their well-known play-places. They wept, too, at leaving their mother, and even Lydia, cross, careless Lydia, for, after all, their mother and Lydia were the only two beings they knew well, and to be obliged to leave them and go entirely to utter strangers, in a quite unknown place, was very alarming.

"No one knows what it may be like at Dorsham," said Esther tragically, "and we—and we are not like children accustomed to going about. We don't know what are the right things to do—you know what I mean, we don't know how to behave, at least I don't. I hate having to meet any one in the street, for I never know what to say or do; and if I don't speak I know I am rude, and they think all sorts of things about me, and then I am miserable, and—and it'll be like that all the time at Cousin Charlotte's."

The other children looked awed until Penelope brightened up a little. "Never mind," she said hopefully, "we will go on just as we do now. After all, we can't be so very very dreadful, for mother is a lady, and knows, and we aren't wild savages; and Cousin Charlotte must tell us if we don't do things right, and we must remember for another time. Don't you think that will be all right, Esther?"

"I wish I could remember all the things Aunt Julia used to tell us," sighed Angela regretfully. "If we could we should know exactly what to do; but she was always telling me things and I've got them all mixed up."

"Will Tousin Charlotte whip us if we don't do right?" asked Poppy, in an awe-stricken voice.

"No one knows," said Esther, still in the same tragic, woebegone manner. "She may. I believe schoolmistresses are very strict. We shall know when we get there." Poppy's face grew longer and longer. "Mother says she is a dear old lady, but—but mother forgets, and she never had to live with her, as we've got to."

So their hearts were heavy with mingled dread and shyness, as well as sadness and a sense of desertion, as they took their seats in the train which was to convey them to Dorsham. In the luggage van were two small trunks containing their four scanty wardrobes, and all their toys and other treasures. In her hand Esther carried a large old purse of her mother's, containing their four tickets, and a sovereign which her mother had at the last moment given her to provide them all with stamps and notepaper and pocket-money for the next twelve months.

To children who had been in the habit of doing without pocket-money at all it seemed as though unbounded wealth were theirs, and they could never know want again.

Penelope carried a basket of provisions, which Lydia, with unusual care, had insisted on their taking. Penelope consented because she did not like to refuse Lydia's last request, but neither it nor its contents held the slightest interest for them until quite a long stretch of their journey had been covered. They were too unhappy to feel hungry. They would never care for food again, or for any one or anything but Framley and their mother and Lydia; and while they were in this frame of mind two or three hours and many miles passed by.

But the lapse of time brought some relief and a lightening of their depression. They became able to take a growing interest in their surroundings, and a sensation of hunger began to assert itself; so did a savoury odour from Lydia's basket, an odour so delicious that, in spite of themselves, they became interested.

"I wonder what Lydia put in here," said Penelope, looking down at the despised basket for the first time. "Something smells rather nice." They had left home before nine, and the meal they ate before starting was hardly worthy the name, and as it was now past twelve they began to feel very empty and rather faint, and the savoury whiffs which floated out from the basket grew more and more appealing.

Poppy slipped from her seat at last and pressed her small nose close to the cover. "I believe it's patties, and gooseberries, and—and—"

Lydia had her faults as to temper, but there was no denying she could cook when she chose to, and her meat patties were the joy of the children's hearts on the rare occasions when she could find time to make them.

Without more delay the basket was unpacked, and Poppy's sense of smell was amply justified. Four meat patties, some hard-boiled eggs and slices of bread and butter, cakes, biscuits, milk, gooseberries, and apples, made a lunch fit for four queens. And the children fairly squealed with delight as they unrolled packet after packet.

"We will have a table," cried Esther, springing up and spreading a newspaper on the seat for a tablecloth, "and lay everything out on it. I only hope no one else will want to come into this carriage."

It was not very easy to keep on their feet with the train swaying and jerking them as it did, but it made it all the more amusing, and when all was spread it looked so nice it made them feel very grand and grown-up. It was a wonderful new experience, and their spirits rose quite high under it.

"I wish we could go on and on like this always," said Esther. "Wouldn't it be jolly! There would be no one to worry us, and no strangers to face."

Penelope looked up quickly, her eyes alight with a sudden idea. "Oh, Esther, let's do it! Let's go on and not get out at Dorsham," she cried wickedly.

"But could we go on much further?" asked practical Angela. "Isn't there any end to the railway?"

"I don't know. Perhaps it just goes on and on all round England, and in and out until it comes to where it started from, and then goes on again," said Penelope, her mind busy over the problem.

"But the poor engine-drivers must get down sometimes and go to bed, mustn't they?" asked Poppy. "They don't sleep on the engine, do they?"

"I wish I knew," said Penelope. "It would be so lovely just to go on and on and not know where we were, or anything, and—"

"But what should we do for food?" asked Esther quietly. "The meat patties are gone already," throwing the last crumbs out of window, "and we couldn't get any more, and—and—" At that moment the train drew up at a station, and a ticket-collector, flinging open the door, came in and demanded to see their tickets. Trembling with nervousness, certain that he must have heard what they had been saying, Esther fumblingly undid her purse and produced them. The man looked at the tickets closely, clipped bits out of them, and handed them back again, giving at the same time a keen, curious look at the four young travellers.

It was not until the train had steamed on again, and he was left behind on the platform, that either one of them recovered from the shock sufficiently to speak.

"He must have heard us," breathed Angela, with wide frightened eyes. "He must have, and—oh! he must have seen all that," pointing to the remains of the feast spread out on the seat.

"I expect he is used to it," said Penelope consolingly. "Most people do eat when they are travelling, I expect. But it is no use for us to try to travel on beyond Dorsham, that is certain. They would find us out by looking at our tickets, and—and p'r'aps we should be sent to jail!"

Agreeing, reluctantly, that their plan for a life of perpetual travel must be abandoned, they settled down again to face the more monotonous future that had been arranged for them. Tired at last of talking, they tried to read, but no book could enthral them for long, while there was so much to see and take note of, as they rushed through the beautiful country all bathed in June sunshine, or stopped at the big bustling stations, and the funny little country ones. Oddly enough, though they stopped so often no one got into their carriage, which was very nice, they thought. By and by, though, they began to grow very weary, the carriage was very hot, and they grew tired of their own company. It might have been better for them, perhaps, had they had some fellow-passengers.

"Only three o'clock!" sighed Penelope, catching sight of a clock at the station they were drawn up in. "We have two and a half more hours yet. Oh dear, what a long day it is! I believe I shall be almost glad to get there, though I do dread it so."

"I wonder if Cousin Charlotte is nervous, too," remarked Angela, who had been very quiet for some time.

Poppy woke up from an uncomfortable nap, looking and feeling very cross. "Oh, I am so thirsty," she cried. "Esther, mayn't I have an apple?"

Esther roused herself from her study of the landscape. "Of course you may, dear—let us all have another meal now, and call it tea. You see, if we get there at half-past five we are sure to have something to eat soon after, so it will be better to eat up what we have here soon, unless we mean to waste it."

There was complete agreement of opinion on this point, so Esther tidied their tablecloth and rearranged the remaining food as well as she could, and they set to work to demolish everything with keen appetites—a task they accomplished without any great effort; and it is only to be hoped that Lydia heard of the appreciation the contents of her basket met with.

Try, though, as they would to spin out the meal, it was not yet four when the last crumb and drop had vanished; and, finding nothing else to do, they nestled down in their four corners again with the quiet melancholy of a dying day settling down on them once more. Though it was June, the land outside seemed already to take on a look of evening, the wind had changed, and little dark clouds had come up and hidden the sun. The children were reminded of the woods at home, and the curious air of gloom they wore, as though there were a storm outside, even when the sun was shining brightly.

Poppy crept from her corner and nestled up close to Esther.

"Essie, let's tell stories that will make us feel happy," she said, wistfully, with just the faintest quiver of her baby lip. "Something that will make me not think about mummy and Lydia and home."

"Pen, you tell us one, will you?" said Esther, lifting her little sister on to her lap, and holding her very close. "You can tell stories better than I can."

Angela in her corner kept her back turned to them, looking out of window very persistently, and winking very hard. But when the story was fairly begun she too crept up and nestled close to Esther, with her face well hidden behind Poppy's back and Esther's encircling arm.

The request roused Penelope from her own depression. She loved to tell stories. Usually she made up her own, for she had read but few to repeat; and the children always preferred hers, for, somehow, she seemed to know exactly what they liked. Now it seemed as though she understood perfectly just what would cheer them, and what to avoid, and they listened in perfect silence, drinking in comfort.

"Don't stop, don't stop!" pleaded Poppy, when the obvious end had been reached. But at that moment the train drew up, and Esther's eyes, wandering idly over the little station to see what place they had reached, read 'Dorsham' on the signboard, and sprang to her feet with such energy as to send Angela and Poppy tottering across the carriage.

"We are come," she gasped. "Oh girls, we are come! What shall we do?"

"Dorsham, Do-orsham," shouted a porter outside, in confirmation of her words, and the carriage immediately became a scene of wild confusion and excitement.

"I wonder if there is any one here to meet us," said Esther, as she tidied Poppy's dark hair and put on her hat. "Perhaps some of us had better get out and see, or they'll think we have not come."

They were all almost breathless with nervous excitement, and Esther was just popping her head out of the window to try to open the carriage door when a little lady came hurrying along the platform, her cheeks very pink, her eyes bright with anxiety. When she saw Esther she stopped, her face brightening with an expectant smile. When her eye fell on the three other little faces gazing out through the side windows with eager curiosity, her face brightened still more.

"Oh," she gasped, "are you—I think you must be the little Carrolls from Framley, my young cousins. I am Miss Charlotte Ashe, Cousin Charlotte— and I've come to meet you—are you Esther? I think you must be."

Esther's face had brightened too, with relief. This gentle little lady was so unlike the formidable stranger she had been dreading so, she felt quite at ease at once.

In another moment they were all on the platform being introduced.

"This is Penelope, and this is Poppy, the youngest of us, and this is Angela, the third," she said with the air of a proprietor, "and I am the eldest."

"I am delighted to see you all, my dears," said Miss Ashe warmly, kissing each in turn. She felt a little nervous under the fire of four pairs of enquiring eyes; there was nothing rude, though, in their stare; it was simply full of a wistful, half-incredulous pleasure. They could scarcely believe their eyes and ears that things were turning out so much less dreadful than they expected.

Then followed a moment of bustle, while the station-master and the one porter went in search of the luggage, and the children were led up to identify the various things as they should be lifted out. When they were told that the two shabby trunks were all there were to identify, disappointment was only too plainly written on the men's faces.

Seeing how little it was, the porter readily promised "to wheel it along by and by," and Miss Ashe turned away with a sigh of relief.

"Now then, chicks," she said cheerily, "we will start for home. You won't mind a walk, I hope, dears. My house is only fifteen minutes from the station. Are you very tired?" looking anxiously from one to the other, but most anxiously at Poppy.

"Oh no," they assured her politely. "We would like to walk, Cousin Charlotte," added Esther; "after sitting still so long it will be very nice," and her sisters supported her eagerly.

The engine, with a good deal of puffing and snorting, glided on its way again. The children stood to watch it, but they saw it depart without any of the regret they had expected to feel, and then the little party turned out of the station, on the last stage of their pilgrimage to their new home.

They were accustomed to the country, of course, so that their first view of Dorsham did not affect them as it would have affected a town child, but even they exclaimed with delight at the weird, wild beauty which opened out before them. The station appeared to have sprung up in the heart of a little forest of firs, as being the most sheltered spot it could alight upon in that open country, and it was not until they had walked a little way along the white road which skirted the woods, and came to the other road which led at right angles to Dorsham, that the real beauty of the place they had come to burst upon them.

Then, "Oh!" they gasped. "Oh! oh! Cousin Charlotte, how perfectly lovely! We did not think it would be a bit like this."

Angela alone did not speak; she gazed, and shivered as she gazed. She was too awed by the rugged wildness to be able to find any words—awed and rather frightened. In the beautiful evening light of the summer's day there lay before them an immense stretch of wild and rugged moorland, sloping down on either side till it met a winding silver streak at the bottom of the valley, and rolling upwards, away and away, rising and dipping, with every here and there rough boulders and tors, single or in groups, standing upon its brown bosom like rocks out of a brown sea, until in the distance high rock-crowned hills bounded and closed it in.

Then would the eye travel from the wilder beauty back to rest on the gleaming, gliding river in its rocky bed, and the group of little houses which stood about so irregularly as to give the impression that they had been dropped down promiscuously and allowed to remain as they fell; while close about each house were large gardens snatched from the wealth of wildness outside and enclosed within sturdy walls, as though to protect them from the encroaching brown sea outside.

"Oh, Cousin Charlotte," gasped Angela, "aren't you afraid to live here? It looks so—so wild and—and sad?"

Cousin Charlotte smiled. "Oh no," she cried, "it is not as lonely as it looks. There is quite a village just on beyond, but you cannot see it from here." Then noticing the look on Angela's face, "You will not be afraid, will you, children?" she asked anxiously.

"Oh no," said Esther, replying for them all. "I am sure we shall like it, Cousin Charlotte. I don't think it is as lonely as a wood really, because here you can look all about you, and can see if any one is coming. Angela is tired, I expect, and I think every place looks rather sad when night is coming on. I think she will like it soon, when she is more used to it."

"The village looks more lonely than it is really," said Cousin Charlotte. "From here it seems as though we are quite unprotected, but when we are at home that feeling will be gone. It seems then as though the moor is protecting us. There are other villages just beyond us in each direction, too, so we are not quite deserted."

"Oh, I love it, I love it!" gasped Penelope, who had been silent from the intensity of her emotion all this time. It was almost as though the sight was too much for her. She felt bewildered, overcome, full of awe and love, and a feeling she could not describe. She stood still in the wide white road, and gazed and gazed with her heart in her eyes. The others walked briskly on, Angela keeping close to Esther, her hand thrust through Esther's arm, Poppy holding Miss Ashe by one hand and Esther by the other. The road wound down in almost a straight line, until they could hear the murmuring of the river, like a welcoming voice, as it hurried along over the stones. The nearer they drew to the house and the river, the less did the moor and the hills seem to dominate them, and the feeling of home grew on them.

Just before they reached the house Penelope overtook them.

"Oh," she cried enthusiastically, "it is so lovely. I—I am sorry I have lived all my life away from it. I might have had nearly twelve more years here."

Miss Ashe laughed, well pleased. "I am so glad, children, that you think you will like it. Anna and I thought it might be dull for you. Well, here we are at last, and very glad you must be, I am sure, after your long, tiring day. This is Moor Cottage, dears, and I hope you will all be very, very happy here as long as I am allowed to keep you. It shall not," she added gravely, pausing as she stood in the porch with her hand on the latch, "be my fault if you are not."

"I am sure we shall be happy, Cousin Charlotte," said Esther earnestly, longing to throw her arms about the dear little lady, and kiss her, but feeling too shy. "I know we shall."

Angela did not only long, but she acted. "And I hope we shall make you happy, too," she cried, and throwing her arms about Miss Ashe's neck kissed her lovingly.

Cousin Charlotte's eyes were dim as she opened the door wide. "Welcome home," she cried. Then in a louder, brisker voice, "Anna, Anna," she called, "where are you? Here are our young ladies come, and neither of you out to meet and welcome them! I am ashamed."

A wild scratching was heard at the back of the little stone-paved hall, then a door was flung wide, revealing for a moment a pretty, cosy kitchen with firelight gleaming on a dresser laden with dainty china; but only for a moment, for the doorway was almost immediately blocked by a figure which blotted out every other view—the big, broad figure of Anna, white-capped, white-aproned, red-faced and smiling.

"Well I never!" she kept exclaiming, "and to think of me never hearing you coming. Well I never!" but all further talk was put a stop to by a yelp of joy, and the wild rush from somewhere of a creature that, for the moment, Poppy was quite sure was a bear. The creature flung himself on Miss Ashe so impetuously as to very nearly topple her over.

"Guard, Guard," she protested, recovering her footing with a laugh, "behave yourself, sir." But the great dog would not be quiet until she had given him her hand to kiss and her purse to hold; with that in his mouth he contented himself with wriggling joyfully at her feet, making little muffled sounds of welcome.

"Now come and speak to your visitors," she said, "and shake hands like a gentleman." But he had to return her purse to her own safe keeping before he could be induced to do anything more, after which he went round and solemnly shook hands with each of the girls, smiling very wide with pleasure at the pats and caresses he got, until, on coming to Poppy, she flung her baby arms about his great rough neck, crying, "Oh, you darling, you darling," and kissed his soft brown cheek, upon which he looked up at her adoringly, and seated himself beside her. Then Anna came forward and seemed quite pleased when they all shook hands with her; and Guard, seeing every one else so hearty, began to dash round and round again as he looked ecstatically from one to the other, making little low cries of pleasure.