CHAPTER VIII
A Short Cut
When Dorothy left Lindenlea she had exactly three minutes in which tocatch her train. Her long legs raced down the drive and along the roadto the station. Panting and out of breath, she rushed up the incline tothe little gate. The train had come in; she could see the smoke from theengine. It generally only waited for about a minute, but there was stilltime to get in, if she were extremely quick.
"Ticket, please," said the collector at the gate.
"Contract!" cried Dorothy, trying to rush past; but the man put out hisarm to bar the way.
"Show it, please; I must see all contracts," he said curtly.
Chafing at the delay, Dorothy felt in her pocket; then to her dismay sheremembered that she had left her contract at home. The officials atHurford and Coleminster knew her so well by sight that when once theyhad seen her season ticket on the first day of the term, they neverasked to look at it again, but simply let her pass unchallenged. As shewas not required to produce it daily, she had grown careless, and oftenforgot to take it with her. The collector at Latchworth had not seen herbefore, and of course could not tell that she possessed a season ticketat all.
"I've left it at home, but it's a contract between Hurford andColeminster. You'll find it's quite right. Please let me through. I mustcatch this train," she urged.
"Can't let anyone pass without a ticket," answered the man. "If youhaven't your contract you must book an ordinary fare. Booking office isround that corner."
Dorothy stamped with impatience.
"I haven't any money with me, and there isn't time either. Let me pass,quick! The train's going!"
In reply, the man shut the gate and locked it.
"Can't let anybody on to the platform when the train's in motion. You'llhave to wait till the eight o'clock now," he observed, with aggravatingcalm.
On the outside of the railing, Dorothy almost wept with rage. To see thetrain steaming out of the station without her was too exasperating.There would have been quite time to catch it if the collector had notbeen so full of "red tape" notions. She felt angrier than she couldexpress, especially at the cool way in which the man had told her towait till eight o'clock. Eight o'clock! It was impossible. Why, AuntBarbara would think she was lost or stolen! She was late enough as itwas, and other two hours would be dreadful. Then, again, there was thequestion of her ticket. The official evidently would not accept her wordfor the contract if she could not produce the actual piece ofpasteboard, and she had no money to book with. Should she run back toLindenlea and ask Alison to lend her the fare? No; Mrs. Clarke mighthave returned by now, and it would make such a fuss. Dorothy alwayshated to ask favours, or put herself in a false position. She felt thatto turn up at the house again, wanting to borrow a few pence, would be amost undignified proceeding, and would exhibit her in an unfavourablelight to her school-mate's mother.
"I'd rather walk home than do that," she said to herself.
The idea was a good one. Why should she not walk home? It was only aboutfour miles, and she would arrive at Hurford much sooner than if shewaited for the train. To be sure, it was growing very dusk, but she wasnot in the least afraid. "I'm perfectly capable of taking care ofmyself," she thought. "If I met a tramp and he attacked me, I'd belabourhim with my umbrella. But I've nothing on me worth stealing; my broochis only an eighteenpenny one, and I don't possess a watch."
Dorothy generally made up her mind quickly, so without further delayshe walked down the station incline and turned on to the high road thatled to Hurford. She had soon passed through the straggling village ofLatchworth, where lights were already beginning to appear in cottagewindows, and labourers were returning home from work. As she passed thelast little stone-roofed dwelling she looked back almost regretfully,for it seemed like leaving civilization behind her. In front the roadstretched straight and white between high hedges, without ever afriendly chimney to show that human beings were near.
Dorothy suddenly remembered all the tales that Martha had told her, inher childhood, of children who were stolen by gipsies and carried awayin caravans to sell brooms or dance in a travelling circus. She knewthat Martha had rubbed in the moral so as to deter her from straying outof the gate of Holly Cottage when she was left to play alone in thegarden, and that the stories were probably made up for theoccasion--Dorothy at fourteen did not mean to be frightened, as if shewere seven--but, all the same, the old creepy horror which she used tofeel came back and haunted her. The road was so very lonely, and it wasgrowing dark so fast! Suppose a gipsy caravan appeared round the nextcorner, and a dark, hawk-visaged woman were to demand her hat andjacket! What would she do? The supposition made her shiver. She walkedon steadily all the same, her footsteps sounding loud in her ears.
Then she stopped, for in front of her she heard the unmistakable creakof a cart. Was it a band of gipsies or travelling pedlars? At school, indaylight, she would have mocked at herself for having any fears at all,but now she found her heart was beating and throbbing in the most absurdand uncomfortable fashion. "I'm in a horrid scare," she thought. "Idaren't meet whatever's coming, and that's the fact. I'm going to hidetill it's passed."
There was a gate not very far away; she managed to open it, and creptinto a field, concealing herself well behind the hedge. The creakingcame nearer and nearer. Through a hole Dorothy could see down into theroadway. By a curious coincidence, it was a caravan that was passingslowly in the direction of Latchworth; the outside was hung withbaskets, and there was a little black chimney that poured out a cloud ofsmoke. Two thin, tired horses paced wearily along, urged by anoccasional prod with a stick from a rough-looking boy. A swinginglantern under the body of the vehicle revealed a couple of dogs, and inthe rear slouched three men and a slipshod, untidy woman, who twisted upher straggling hair as she went. Hidden behind the hedge, Dorothywatched them go by.
"I'm most thankful I came up here and didn't meet them," she thought."They look a disreputable set. I believe they'd have stolen anythingthey could lay hands on if they'd realized I was alone. I expect I'vehad quite an escape. I wonder if that's the whole of the tribe, or ifthere are any more caravans?"
The idea of more was discomfiting, yet it was possible that this wasonly the first of a travelling company. Dorothy remembered that therewere some wakes at Coleminster about this time every year, which wouldno doubt attract van-dwellers from many parts of the country. To meet asuccession of these undesirables along the road would be anything butpleasant. Yet what could she do? She certainly did not want to turn backeither to the station or to Lindenlea. Time was passing rapidly, and shemust push forward if she did not wish to be caught in the dark. Then sheremembered that Martha had once spoken of a short cut between Hurfordand Latchworth. Martha walked over occasionally on Sunday afternoons tosee a cousin who lived in Latchworth village, and she had given a minutedescription of the route. Dorothy recollected quite well that, startingfrom Hurford, the maid had crossed some fields, gone through a wood, andcome out by a path that led through a small, disused quarry on to thehigh road. She had said it cut off a long corner, and saved almost amile.
"If I can only find the quarry," thought Dorothy, "I'll try that shortcut. I don't suppose I can go wrong if I follow the path through thewood. I shall be glad to get off the road, at any rate."
The caravan had passed out of sight, so she came down from herhiding-place and hurried on in search of the quarry. She had not walkedvery far before she found it--a craggy little ravine, with heathergrowing over the rocks, and heaps of stones and shale lying about. Thismust surely be the place, so she turned at once off the high road intoit. There was not a soul about. Some agitated blackbirds, annoyed at hervicinity, went fluttering out of the bushes, tweeting a warning toother feathered friends; and something small--either a rat or arabbit--scuttled away into the grass and dried fern in a great panic atthe sight of her. The sun had set some time ago, and the last tinge ofred had faded from the sky. The grey, chilly dusk was changing from aneutral tint to black.
A landscape on an evening at the beginning ofNovember is never very cheerful, and Dorothy felt the depressinginfluence of the scene. The few wind-swept trees at the head of theravine stretched long, bare branches, which looked like fingers preparedto clutch her as she passed. The grass was damp and sodden, and here andthere a pool of water lay across the path. She was quite glad when shewas out of the quarry, and found herself in an open field. It was acomfort to see the sky all round, even though the light was failing.
"I'm sure it's grown dark to-night much quicker than it did yesterday,"she exclaimed. "How fearfully overcast it is, too! I believe there'll berain in a few minutes. Here's the wood. It looks quite thick andfairy-tale-y--the sort of place to meet a giant or an ogre!"
A stile led from the field into the wood. Dorothy scrambled over, andbegan to follow a path through the trees. It was very dark indeed, formost of the oaks still kept their leaves, and shut out the littleremaining light overhead. She could just see to stumble along, and hadthe greatest difficulty to trace her way. It was wet under foot; theground was marshy in places, and strewn with dead leaves. After a littlewhile she came to a place where the path seemed to branch in twodirections. Which to choose she could not tell; both seemed equally badand indistinguishable. Reckoning that Hurford must lie to the left sideof her, she turned to the left, almost feeling her way among the trees.
"If I don't get out of the wood soon, I shan't be able to see at all. Ihope it's not far," she thought. The path grew a trifle better; therewere a few stones put down on it. Was she at last coming to a stile?What was that dark patch in front of her? She stopped short suddenly,drawing back just in time to avoid stepping into water. Why, it must bea well! It was a deep pool, edged round with stones, and with a hedge ofholly surrounding it on three sides.
Perhaps the path led by the back of it. No; the bushes were so thicklymatted with a tangle of brambles that it would be impossible to pushthrough. Evidently the path only led to the well, and she must havetaken the wrong turning where it had branched. Almost crying, she beganto retrace her steps, and hurried faster and faster through thegathering darkness. She was back at last at the spot where she had madethe mistake, and this time she turned to the right. The trees seemed tobe even nearer together than before, and there was a thick undergrowthwhich sent out long blackberry trails that caught and tore her coat asshe scurried by. She had slung her school satchel on her back, and asshe ran it bumped her shoulder almost like somebody hitting her frombehind.
IN DISCREET HIDING]
It grew so dark at last that Dorothy stopped in despair. It seemedabsolutely impossible to find her way, and the horrible truth dawnedupon her that she was lost--lost as thoroughly and effectually as anyknight of romance; while it seemed extremely unlikely that she wouldfind the convenient pilgrim's cell or hermit's cave that generally turnsup in story-books to shelter the adventurer. To add to her misery, therain that had been threatening for some time came on, and descended in atorrent. She put up her umbrella and sheltered herself as well as shecould behind a tree, but her boots and skirt were already sopping withwet. She felt chilly and cold, and her spirits had descended to the verylowest ebb. Would she be obliged to stay there the whole night, until itwas light enough to find her way? The prospect was appalling.
"What a horrid pickle and hobble I've got myself into!" she thought. Therain came down faster than ever, and suddenly there was a vivid streakof lightning and a loud crash of thunder. Dorothy screamed aloud, forthunder held terrors for her; yet even in the midst of her fright therewas a grain of comfort--the bright flash had lit up the wood like anelectric lamp, and had shown her, almost within a few yards, the stilefor which she was seeking. Off she went in the direction where she hadseen it, groping her way anyhow, and tearing her clothes on thorns andbrambles.
She seemed to have arrived at a hedge, and she began to feel her wayalong it carefully, hoping to reach the stile. At last her hand toucheda wooden bar; it was either the stile itself or a hurdle, she did notcare which, if only she could climb over. It looked equally dark,however, on the other side; and even if she got into the field how wasshe ever to find the path to the high road? At this juncture she saw asmall, rather flickering light moving through the gloom a littledistance off. It must be a lantern, she thought; and whether the bearerwere poacher, gipsy, or thief, she would summon him to help her out ofher difficulty. She gave a lusty shriek, and went on calling at the topof her voice. The lantern stopped still for a moment, then, to herintense joy, began to move in her direction. At first she could seenothing but a yellow ring of light, then she made out a dark figurebehind; and presently, as it came quite near, she recognized the ruddyface and stubby grey beard of Dr. Longton, who lived in Hurford village,nearly opposite the church. Dorothy's amazement at seeing the doctor wasonly equalled by his astonishment at finding her in such a predicament.
"My blessed child! What are you doing here?" he exclaimed.
"Oh, Dr. Longton, I'm so thankful it's you! I was sure you were a tramp,or a poacher, or somebody dreadful!" cried Dorothy hysterically.
"Nothing half so interesting; only a common or garden practitionercoming back from visiting a patient," he laughed. "You haven't told mewhat you're doing here. Give me your hand, and I'll help you over thefence."
"Trying to find a short cut, and losing my way," confessed Dorothy. "Ithought I'd have to spend the night in the wood."
"A very unpleasant camping ground at this time of year! I've slept underthe stars myself once or twice, but not in November. That was a loudpeal of thunder! I think the storm's passing over--the rain has almoststopped."
With his lantern to guide them, the doctor escorted Dorothy to the doorof Holly Cottage, and said good-bye with a twinkle in his eye.
"I won't ask inconvenient questions, but it strikes me you've been up tosomething, you young puss!" he said. "Take my advice, and stick to the4.30 train in future. If your aunt scolds you, tell her I say youdeserve it!"
Aunt Barbara did not scold--she was too relieved at her bairn's safereturn to do anything except welcome and cosset the prodigal; but thelook in her sweet eyes hurt Dorothy more than any reprimand.
"I didn't know she cared so much as that," thought the girl. "I won'tstop away another time, not for a thousand invitations. It isn't thehorrid walk, and getting lost, and the darkness, and spoiling one'sclothes I mind, it's--well--oh, Dorothy Greenfield, you're a nasty,thoughtless, selfish wretch to make Aunt Barbara look so, and if you dosuch a thing again I shan't be friends with you any more--so there!"
A Pair of Schoolgirls: A Story of School Days Page 9
