"Can't let anybody on to the platform when the train's in motion. You'll have to wait till the eight o'clock now," he observed, with aggravating calm.
On the outside of the railing, Dorothy almost wept with rage. To see the train steaming out of the station without her was too exasperating. There would have been quite time to catch it if the collector had not been so full of "red tape" notions. She felt angrier than she could express, especially at the cool way in which the man had told her to wait till eight o'clock. Eight o'clock! It was impossible. Why, Aunt Barbara would think she was lost or stolen! She was late enough as it was, and other two hours would be dreadful. Then, again, there was the question of her ticket. The official evidently would not accept her word for the contract if she could not produce the actual piece of pasteboard, and she had no money to book with. Should she run back to Lindenlea and ask Alison to lend her the fare? No; Mrs. Clarke might have returned by now, and it would make such a fuss. Dorothy always hated to ask favours, or put herself in a false position. She felt that to turn up at the house again, wanting to borrow a few pence, would be a most undignified proceeding, and would exhibit her in an unfavourable light 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 about four miles, and she would arrive at Hurford much sooner than if she waited for the train. To be sure, it was growing very dusk, but she was not in the least afraid. "I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself," she thought. "If I met a tramp and he attacked me, I'd belabour him with my umbrella. But I've nothing on me worth stealing; my brooch is only an eighteenpenny one, and I don't possess a watch."
Dorothy generally made up her mind quickly, so without further delay she walked down the station incline and turned on to the high road that led to Hurford. She had soon passed through the straggling village of Latchworth, where lights were already beginning to appear in cottage windows, and labourers were returning home from work. As she passed the last little stone-roofed dwelling she looked back almost regretfully, for it seemed like leaving civilization behind her. In front the road stretched straight and white between high hedges, without ever a friendly chimney to show that human beings were near.
Dorothy suddenly remembered all the tales that Martha had told her, in her childhood, of children who were stolen by gipsies and carried away in caravans to sell brooms or dance in a travelling circus. She knew that Martha had rubbed in the moral so as to deter her from straying out of the gate of Holly Cottage when she was left to play alone in the garden, and that the stories were probably made up for the occasion—Dorothy at fourteen did not mean to be frightened, as if she were seven—but, all the same, the old creepy horror which she used to feel came back and haunted her. The road was so very lonely, and it was growing dark so fast! Suppose a gipsy caravan appeared round the next corner, and a dark, hawk-visaged woman were to demand her hat and jacket! What would she do? The supposition made her shiver. She walked on steadily all the same, her footsteps sounding loud in her ears.
Then she stopped, for in front of her she heard the unmistakable creak of a cart. Was it a band of gipsies or travelling pedlars? At school, in daylight, 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 absurd and uncomfortable fashion. "I'm in a horrid scare," she thought. "I daren't meet whatever's coming, and that's the fact. I'm going to hide till it's passed."
There was a gate not very far away; she managed to open it, and crept into a field, concealing herself well behind the hedge. The creaking came nearer and nearer. Through a hole Dorothy could see down into the roadway. By a curious coincidence, it was a caravan that was passing slowly in the direction of Latchworth; the outside was hung with baskets, and there was a little black chimney that poured out a cloud of smoke. Two thin, tired horses paced wearily along, urged by an occasional prod with a stick from a rough-looking boy. A swinging lantern under the body of the vehicle revealed a couple of dogs, and in the rear slouched three men and a slipshod, untidy woman, who twisted up her straggling hair as she went. Hidden behind the hedge, Dorothy watched 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 anything they could lay hands on if they'd realized I was alone. I expect I've had quite an escape. I wonder if that's the whole of the tribe, or if there are any more caravans?"
The idea of more was discomfiting, yet it was possible that this was only the first of a travelling company. Dorothy remembered that there were some wakes at Coleminster about this time every year, which would no doubt attract van-dwellers from many parts of the country. To meet a succession of these undesirables along the road would be anything but pleasant. Yet what could she do? She certainly did not want to turn back either to the station or to Lindenlea. Time was passing rapidly, and she must push forward if she did not wish to be caught in the dark. Then she remembered that Martha had once spoken of a short cut between Hurford and Latchworth. Martha walked over occasionally on Sunday afternoons to see a cousin who lived in Latchworth village, and she had given a minute description of the route. Dorothy recollected quite well that, starting from Hurford, the maid had crossed some fields, gone through a wood, and come out by a path that led through a small, disused quarry on to the high road. She had said it cut off a long corner, and saved almost a mile.