Bill rode close by in case she needed help, but she didn’t. The four children, of course, would have scorned any help. They were all used to riding horses, and the donkeys were very easy to manage.
“Now we’ll turn back,” called Bill. So they all turned and went homewards. Snowy came too, of course, having leapt and bounded ahead of them all the way, apparently under the impression that he was leading them.
“That was fun,” said Lucy-Ann, as they trotted homewards, the donkeys going faster now that they were on a downhill road. Mrs. Mannering didn’t like the trotting so much as the ambling.
“My donkey is a very bumpy one,” she said to Bill. “When I go down he comes up and when I go up he goes down, so we keep meeting with a bump!”
Everyone laughed. They were all sorry when they reached the farm-house, for by that time they felt as if they could go trotting on forever. But a meal was ready for them on the table, and Mrs. Evans was beaming at the door, so they didn’t lose much time in taking the donkeys to the field and carrying their harness to the stables.
“You’ll be quite used to riding a donkey by next week,” Bill said to Mrs. Mannering. “By the time Wednesday comes you’ll be ready to set off and you’ll feel as if you’d ridden a donkey all your life!”
“Oh yes, I’m sure I shall,” said Mrs. Mannering. She felt something pecking at her foot and looked under the table. She saw a fat brown hen there and pushed it away. “Shoo! Stop pecking my foot!”
The hen shooed, only to be replaced by Snowy, who, pushed off Philip’s knee as he sat at table, was amusing himself by trying to eat shoe-laces under the table. Mrs. Mannering pushed him away too, and Snowy went to chew the hem of Mrs. Evans’ dress. She never noticed things like that, so Snowy had a nice long chew.
The next day the girls and Mrs. Mannering were so stiff with their donkey-ride that they could hardly walk. The boys and Bill were all right, but Mrs. Mannering groaned as she came down the stairs.
“Good gracious! I feel like an old old lady! I’ll never be able to ride a donkey again!” she said.
But the stiffness wore off, and the six of them soon got used to riding their donkeys day after day into the mountains. There were some lovely rides and magnificent views. Snowy came with them always, never tired, leaping along gaily. Kiki rode on Jack’s shoulder, occasionally taking a flight into the air to scare any bird that happened to be flying overhead. They flew off quickly, full of astonishment when Kiki told them to wipe their feet.
“Two days more and it’s Wednesday,” said Lucy-Ann happily. “We’ll be quite ready then — able to ride for hours and hours.”
“Yes — off to the Vale of Butterflies!” said Jack. “I wonder what it’s like! I imagine it to be full of wings of all colours. Lovely!”
“Oh, hurry up and come, Wednesday!” said Dinah. “Only forty-eight hours — and then, off we go!”
But something unexpected happened in that forty-eight hours — something that quite upset their lovely plans!
Chapter 6
OFF TO THE VALE OF BUTTERFLIES
IT happened the very next day. It was when Mrs. Mannering had gone with Mrs. Evans to the big barn. The door suddenly blew shut, and caught her hand in it, trapping it tightly.
Mrs. Mannering screamed. Mrs. Evans ran to open the door, but poor Mrs. Mannering’s hand was badly bruised and crushed.
Bill was very concerned. “I must take you down to the doctor,” he said. “I’ll get the car. Where are the children? Out on their donkeys? Tell them where we’ve gone, Mrs. Evans, when they come back. They needn’t worry. I’ll have Mrs. Mannering’s hand seen to, and properly bandaged. I don’t expect it will be very much, but I’d like her to have it X-rayed in case any small bone is broken.”
Looking rather white, Mrs. Mannering was driven off by Bill, down the steep mountain road to the town that lay some way off in the next valley. It was about fifteen miles and soon Mrs. Mannering was in hospital having her hand X-rayed and bound up.
The children were very upset when they heard what had happened. “Poor Mother!” said Philip. “It must have hurt dreadfully when her hand got caught in that heavy door.”
“Indeed to gootness, it did,” said Mrs. Evans, who looked quite upset too. “She gave one scream, poor soul, and then made not a sound, whateffer. Now don’t look so sadly — she’ll be back tonight.”
“Will she be able to go off to the mountains tomorrow?” asked Lucy-Ann. “How can she ride with a bad hand?”
“Well, there now, she can’t,” said Mrs. Evans. “But she can stay here with me and I’ll look after her for you. You can go with Mr. Cunningham and David.”
“But will Bill go if Mother’s hurt?” wondered Philip. “He thinks the world of her. Oh, blow! It’s bad luck for this to happen just when we had such a lovely plan. Poor Mother! I do hope her hand’s better now.”
Mrs. Mannering arrived back in Bill’s car that evening, just before high tea. She looked better, and made light of her hand.
“We’ve had it X-rayed,” said Bill. “She’s broken a tiny bone just here,” and he showed them where, on the back of his hand. “It’s got to be bandaged and kept at rest. I’m to take her down to have it seen again in three days’ time.”
“I’m so sorry, dears,” said Mrs. Mannering. “And Bill, you don’t need to take me down, you know. I’m quite able to drive myself down even with an injured hand. Take the children on their trip tomorrow. I can’t bear to have them disappointed.”
“What! And leave you like this!” said Bill. “Don’t be silly, Allie. I shall take you down myself in the car on Friday. The children can go with David, if he’ll take them on by himself. It’s a perfectly ordinary trip, and they’ll be back in a few days’ time. They can all ride their donkeys as easily as David — and probably they’ll enjoy a trip without us!”
“We’d much rather you and Aunt Allie came,” said Jack. “But as you can’t, it’s decent of you to let us go alone. We’ll be perfectly all right, Bill. David knows the way, and we can all look after ourselves.”
So it was settled that the four children should go by themselves on the donkeys with their guide David, taking with them tents, bedding and food. Philip questioned Bill to make sure that his mother’s hand was not seriously hurt.
“Oh, no — it will soon be right,” said Bill. “But I want to be sure she doesn’t use it, and I want to take her down to the doctor in three days’ time. I’m sorry not to come with you — but you’ll be all right by yourselves. I don’t see that you can get into any trouble, or any startling adventure, going donkey-riding in the mountains with David. Maybe we can all go together, later on.”
The children were very excited that night, getting ready the things they wanted to take. They had two small tents, a sleeping-bag each, two ground-sheets, cameras, field-glasses, a change of clothes — and food.
The food was Mrs. Evans’ care. Bill watched her packing up what she thought they would eat in the next few days.
“I didn’t like to stop her,” he told the others. “But, honestly, she’s packed enough for a month. She’s put in a whole ham!”
“Golly!” said Jack. “What else?”
“A tongue or two, hard-boiled eggs, tins of all kinds, plum-cake and goodness knows what!” said Philip. “We shall feast like kings.”
“Well,” began Lucy-Ann, “I always think that we eat twice as much in the open air, because food tastes so . . .”
“Much nicer!” chorused everyone. Lucy-Ann always said that at least a dozen times each holiday. She laughed.
“Well, anyway, it will be nice to have as much as ever we can eat. There’s David too — we’ve got to take food for him as well.”
“He doesn’t look as if he’d eat much,” said Dinah. “Skinny little fellow, whateffer!”
“You’d better go to bed early, children,” said Mrs. Mannering a little later. “You’ll have a long ride tomorrow, according to Effans.”
“All right. It’ll make tomorrow come all the sooner!” said Lucy-Ann. “How’s your hand feel, Aunt Allie?”
“It’s quite comfortable, thank you,” said Mrs. Mannering. “I’m sure I could have gone with you tomorrow, really!”
“Well, you couldn’t,” said Bill hastily, half afraid that Mrs. Mannering would try to be foolish and go with the others after all. She laughed.