The Girls and I: A Veracious History

'Hebe,' I said, 'it's getting very dark.'

'Yes,' she said, 'it is, darker and darker, Jack'; and her voice sounded strange. 'Jack,' she went on, 'hold my hand, I'm rather frightened'; and I felt that she was shivering.

I think I was rather frightened myself, but I tried to comfort her up.

'Perhaps it'll get lighter again after a bit,' I said. 'I don't think the sun's set yet.'

'Hasn't it?' she said. 'I think it's just going to, though. Jack, can you say that verse about the shadows or the darkness? I can't remember it.'

But I couldn't remember it properly either; however I tried. I could only say, '"I will be with thee" – is it that, Hebe? – "I will be with thee."' And she squeezed my hand tighter, and I thought she said, 'Yes, that's it, Jack.'

And then again I fancied she pulled her hand out of mine, and ran on in front quite fast, calling joyfully, 'I see them, Jack. Come on quick – Jack, Jack.'

It was then I awoke, and I found I had been squeezing my own hand quite tight. But I felt sure Hebe had been calling me.

I sat up and listened, but there was no sound. I began to cry; I thought Hebe was dead, and then I remembered that the verse I couldn't get right in my dream was about the valley of the shadow of death, and at first that made me feel worse, till all of a sudden it came into my head that it wasn't 'the valley of death' but only 'the valley of the shadow of death,' And that seemed to mean that Hebe had been near it – near death, I mean, – 'near enough for the shadow of his wings to fall over her,' was the way mums said it when I told her my dream afterwards. That comforted me. I got out of bed very softly in the darkness and crept to the landing, where the balusters run round, and listened.

The gas lamp was burning faintly down below, and I heard a slight rustling as if people were moving about. And after a while the door of a room opened softly, and two men came out. It was father and the doctor. I couldn't have believed big men could have moved so quietly, and I listened as if I was all ears.

'I think, now – ' was the most I could catch of what Dr. Marshall said.

But then came much plainer – of course I know his voice so well – from father, 'Thank God.'

And I knew Hebe was better.

I shall always think of that night, always, even when I'm quite old, when I read that verse. Afterwards mother explained to me more about it. She said she thought that to good people – you know what I mean by 'good people' —Christians– it should always seem as if, after all, even when they really do have to die, it is only the shadow that they have to go through – 'the valley of the shadow of death'; that Death itself in any dreadful lasting way is not really there, because of the presence that is promised to us – 'I will be with thee.'

I can't say it anything like as nicely as mums did, but I do understand it pretty well all the same; and if ever I feel frightened of death in a wrong way, I think about it. Mother said we're meant to be afraid of death in one way, just as we would be afraid and are meant to be afraid of anything dark and unknown and very solemn. But that's different.

And dear little Hebe had really been some way into the valley of the shadow. When she got quite well, she told me about it – of the feelings and thoughts she had had that night when for some hours they thought she was going far away from us, out of this world altogether. For she had had all her senses. She thought about us all, and wished she could see us, and she wished she could hold my hand – 'your dear, rough, brown hand, Jack,' she said. (I'm not quite as particular to keep my hands very nice as I should be, I'm afraid!)

Wasn't it queer? I'm sure her feelings had come up to me through the floor and made me dream.

CHAPTER VII

FOUR 'IF'S' AND A COINCIDENCE

Now what happened next was this – in one way it was almost the nicest thing that we had ever had; that is to say, it would have been but for the pull-backs to it. Very jolly things generally do have pull-backs, I think.

This was it. Everybody who knows anything about children's illnesses knows that when they're getting better they should have change of air, especially after whooping-cough. Indeed, even before they're much better of whooping-cough they're often sent away, for change of air helps actually to cure it. And a week or two after Hebe had been so very bad, the doctor began to talk of the others going away.

It was the end of April now, and it was nice, fine weather, and promised to be a mild spring and early summer. Anne and Serry had really not been very ill in themselves, though they had been noisy enough with their coughing. Maud had been the worst next to Hebe, but as she had begun first she had got better first. And she got better in a very sensible way. She did everything in a sensible way, you know. She never fussed or fidgeted, and was very patient and cheerful. She took all her medicines, and even if nurse or mums forgot anything the doctor had said, you may be sure, if Maud herself had heard it, she wouldn't let it be forgotten. Yes, really, she was too 'old-fashioned' for anything, as old nurse said. She wasn't quite as sweet as Hebe – Hebe looked like a little crushed flower when she first began to be better; you could scarcely help kissing her every minute. She isn't so what people call 'clinging' as Hebe, but still she's a good, kind little girl, and it's not hard to get on with her. My life would be a very different affair if I had four sisters all like Hebe and Maud – wouldn't it just?

So Maud was pretty well again in herself, and the other two hadn't much the matter with them, and I of course was all right, though dear old mums said I was looking pale, and that I'd been such a comfort to her and knocked myself up. I think she said it partly to show that she wasn't thinking less of me than of the girls because I hadn't been ill.

And just as things were like that, Dr. Marshall said we should go away for change of air.

But unluckily 'we' only meant Anne and Serena and Maudie and I. Not Hebe – no, indeed. That was quite another story. We wanted 'bracing,' the doctor said – nice fresh hill or moor air, but for Hebe anything like cold or strong air was out of the question. In the first place she couldn't be moved for some time yet, and when she did go it must be to somewhere mild. He spoke of somewhere abroad first, but then he thought it would be getting too hot at the warm places, and as far as the others were concerned, there were just as good in England. So in a sort of a way it came to be settled that when Hebe did go, it should be to the Isle of Wight.

That didn't fix anything about the rest of us, however. And there were a good many things to think of.

I knew all about them. You see mums has always told me everything. She knows she can trust me. It's with it being so that I have anything to write. I'm behind the scenes. I don't see how children who are just told things straight off like, 'You're going to the seaside on Tuesday,' or 'Nurse is leaving to be married, and you're not going to have a regular nurse any more now you're so big' – I don't see how they could have anything interesting to write. It's the way things work out that I think makes life interesting, and children don't often look at things that way. But I couldn't have helped it, for I knew all about how things happened, and how mother planned and thought them over, and when she was happy and when she was anxious. It was all like pictures moving along – one leading into another.

Just now mother was anxious. I've said already that we're not rich – not as rich as we look. That's to say it's not father's and mother's money, but gran's. Of course you might say that's the same thing – father being an only child and gran so proud of him being so clever and distinguished, though not in ways that make much money. But it isn't the same, however kind gran is.

And just now it was specially not the same. For, of course, long before this, gran had had to be told about the sad loss of the diamond ornament, and it wasn't in nature for him to be pleased about it, now was it?

He'd very likely have been still more vexed if it hadn't been for the whooping-cough coming so soon upon the top of it. He didn't know that the one had brought the other, both thanks to Anne. Father and mother thought there was no need to tell him that part of it, for he was always ready to be down upon Anne. Her careless, thoughtless ways were just what worried him particularly.

But he was kind and loving in his own way. He never wrote another word of reproach about the diamond thing after he heard of the trouble we were in. He was very glad I didn't get the illness. I don't know that I am a special pet of his, but I'm the only boy and named after him. I daresay it's that, though, as far as real favourites go, I think it's Hebe he cares most for. He was terribly sorry about her, and wrote that if she needed anything expensive, mother wasn't to give two thoughts to the cost. That letter came just about the time Dr. Marshall said we should all go away, and mums and I had a talk over it.

'It's very good of gran,', said mums. 'I do think he's been wonderfully good. But still it doesn't show me what to do. You see, Jack, when Hebe goes away I must go with her – I think Rowley and I could manage without nurse – and that would be pretty expensive to begin with. Still, I shouldn't so much mind writing to him about that, but it's for the rest of you. I don't see how I'm to manage it, and I don't want to worry your father just now. He is so busy with his new book, and he's been so put back with the anxiety and bad nights while Hebe was so ill.'

For you know it isn't only writing books father does. He's busy all day with his other work. I don't think I should say exactly what his appointment is, for then you'd know who he was, but it's to do with Parliament and the Government.

'Why can't we go to Furzely?' I said stupidly. For I had been told all about it having been let for six months. Furzely is our – at least gran's – country-house. It's not bad, but we're rather tired of it, and the housekeeper is grumpy. 'That wouldn't cost much, would it?'

'My dear boy, you forget, the Wilmingtons are to be there till August.'

'Oh, of course,' I said.

'And besides, Furzely isn't the sort of air Dr. Marshall wants for you all just now,' she went on. 'It's healthy, but it's nothing particular; it's not hill air or moor air. Besides, it's out of the question. Strayling or Fewforest – those were the places he said, or somewhere in their neighbourhood. And I don't know either of them in the least. I've no idea if there are lodgings or houses to be got; besides a house would cost far too much, and I should have to send two or three servants. Oh dear, what troubles have come with gran's lending me that unlucky ornament!'

'I don't think that's quite fair, mums,' I couldn't help saying. 'The troubles have come through Anne's fault. I wish she would see it that way, but I don't believe she thinks about it much now.'

'I hope she does,' said mother. 'And of course,' she went on, 'it's wrong of me to grumble so. Illnesses come through nobody's fault! And I should be so thankful that Hebe is getting better that nothing else should seem anything. But it is real practical difficulty about money just now that I mind the most. You see, dear, I have to pay all your teachers just the same. It wouldn't be fair to Miss Stirling or any of them to stop just because the girls have got ill.'

I felt very sorry, and I didn't really know what to propose.

'Isn't there any one you could ask about those places?' I said. 'Mightn't we perhaps get lodgings at a farmhouse, where it wouldn't be at all dear? Not grand ones, you know, mums. And we'd all wait on ourselves a good deal, so that nurse could help the farmer's wife to cook for us if she needed. Nurse loves cooking.'

Mums' face cleared a little. She does worry sometimes more than she needs to.

'That would be very nice, Jack,' she said. 'I wonder if there's anybody who could tell us about where such a place is likely to be found.'

'We'd live quite plainly,' I went on. 'It would be fun to be almost like poor children for a while. I don't mean poor, poor children, but like rather well-off cottage children.'

'H-m,' said mother. 'I don't think you'd find it as amusing as you think. However, you would of course have to live plainly in some ways, but still it must be a comfortable sort of place. It would not do to run any risks for the girls after their illness.'

Just at that moment Alfred brought in a note that had come, and 'they,' he said – why do servants always say 'they' for a messenger when there's only one? – 'were waiting for an answer.'

The note was from young Mrs. Chasserton, Cousin Dorothea. She had just come back to London, she said, and she was so sorry to hear how ill "the children" had all been' – thank you, all but one, if you please. And would mother come to see her? She had got a horrid cold, and couldn't go out, but she wasn't a bit afraid of whooping-cough – she'd had it. 'Please come to tea this afternoon, and bring any child that's well enough to go out.'

'Oh, I can't,' said mother, 'I've too much on my mind!'

'Oh, do go,' I said, 'it'll do you good. You've not had the least little change for ever so long. And let me come with you, mums, as the others mayn't go out yet. I like Cousin Dorothea; and perhaps she could tell us of some farmhouse, as she's always lived in the country.'

So mother wrote a word to say she'd go.

And that afternoon we did go. I had never been in the Chassertons' house before. It was a nice little place, and it was all decked out like a doll's house with Dorothea's wedding presents. I amused myself very well by walking round the room looking at them all. They weren't very well arranged. There was a corner cupboard with glass doors, filled with china, and it was all mixty-maxty. Blue or plain-coloured china on the same shelf as many-coloured Dresden or oriental. (I know something about china, and I mean to know more before I've done with it.) The key was in the lock, and I couldn't resist opening the doors and moving one or two pieces to see how much better they might look.

But just then Dorothea called me over to tea. She was a sensible girl. She'd had some bread-and-butter and jam ready spread, thicker than those silly wafer slices ladies eat, and the jam was my favourite – strawberry. I felt very comfortable. I was glad I'd made mother come. She looked brighter.

I spoke to Cousin Dorothea about the bad way her china was arranged.

'Yes,' she said, 'I know it is.'

She spoke quite gravely, but still I thought I saw a kind of a smile go round the corners of her mouth. I suppose she was thinking it was very funny for a boy to care how china was arranged. I don't see why. Boys have got eyes, and some of them have got good taste – more than some girls.

'It was washed while we were away,' she said, 'and the housemaid put it all in, according to the size of the things, I suppose. Nothing to do with the colour or kinds.'

'I've moved a few of them,' I said; 'they look better already. You've got some nice bits; there are one or two very old; I think I saw some Worcester.'

'How learned you are, Jack!' said Dorothea.

But I didn't see it. Nothing's easier than to pick up a smattering – just enough to tell one cup from another, and to seem very wise about it. I didn't mean to do that.

'No,' I said; 'I'm not. There's one cup I can't make out at all.'

'Do you mean the one with the deep purplish flowers?' said she. 'Oh, it is sharp of you to have spotted that one! No one knows for certain what it is; it was given me by an old servant of ours who married and went to live up in Yorkshire; and once when we were at Harrogate we went to see her. She said there were a few old pieces of it in the cottage her husband and she lived at when they were first married, and she gave us each one for a keepsake.'

'Was she your nurse?' asked mother.

'No, only a housemaid; but she was a particularly nice woman, superior to her station. And she and her husband have got on very well. He was under-bailiff to Lord Uxfort up in the north, and then an uncle died and left him a small farm near – oh, where is it near? I forget, – but it's not so very far from London. I've always promised to go to see her some day.'

'That reminds me,' said mums. 'I haven't told you our present difficulty.'

Till now Dorothea had been hearing about the whooping-cough, and asking all about the diamond brooch losing. She had known about it, for father had written to Mr. Chasserton to ask if Cousin Dorothea could possibly throw any light upon it, – had she noticed it on their way home, or had she only noticed it going there, or when? – but she hadn't been able to remember anything at all.

She was sorry about it; she's very sweet, very sweet indeed, and nice to tell troubles to; she looks so sorry with her kind blue eyes, though I don't think she's a very clever girl.

'I feel quite guilty about it all,' she said; 'for it was for my sake you went to that unlucky Drawing-room, and that all these troubles came. But what was the new one you were going to tell me about, dear Valeria?'

'Oh, that isn't exactly a trouble, only a difficulty,' said mums. And she went on to explain about the change to the country and my idea of a farmhouse.

Cousin Dorothea listened, and tried to look very wise.

'I'm afraid nowhere near my home would be any good,' she said. 'Devonshire's not bracing at all.'

Suddenly a thought jumped into my head.

'That nice woman,' I said, 'the one who gave you the cup, is it bracing where she lives?'

Dorothea gave a little jump.

'Oh,' she said, 'she'd be the very person to take care of the children if she had rooms, and if her husband would let her take lodgers, and if the place is bracing, and if I could remember where it is!'

We couldn't help laughing.

'Four "if's" indeed,' said mother.

But Dorothea didn't laugh; she was too busy cudgelling her brains.

'I've a feeling,' she said, 'that it is a bracing place; that Homer – isn't it a funny name for a woman, it was her surname, and the boys used to call her all manner of nonsense because of it – "Iliad" and "Odyssey" of course, – I've a feeling that Homer wrote something about moors and fresh air. If I could but remember!'

'Would you know it if you heard it?' I said.

'Suppose we got a railway guide and looked at some names?' said mother.

'Is there a railway station there?' I asked.

'Oh yes, I know there is one near, for Homer wrote all that when she asked us to go down for a day. Stay, there's something about English history mixed up with it in my mind. I do believe it's coming. Ring the bell, Jack, dear, and we'll look through an A B C. It's something about putting the fires out at night, you know – the old law.'

'Curfew?' said mother.

'Ye-es, but it's not quite that. But – '

Just then the servant came, and we got the railway guide.

'Look at "f's," Jack,' said Dorothea.

I read some 'f's,' but she shook her head. Then I said to mother —

'Here's one of the places Dr. Marshall was speaking about. "Fewforest," it – '

Cousin Dorothea clapped her hands.

'That's it,' she said joyfully.

'What a coincidence!' said mother.

'I remember about it now,' said Dorothea. 'They were so afraid of fire there, because the village stands close to a thick wood – at least it did then – that the Curfew bell was rung there long after it had been given up in many places. And so it got from Curfew Forest to Fewforest.'

'It must be a jolly old place, mums,' I said. 'Do let's find out about it.'

CHAPTER VIII

MOSSMOOR FARM

And so we did. Dorothea wrote to her home, and got Mrs. Parsley's proper address. Mrs. Parsley was the farmer's wife who used to be 'Homer' – rather a come-down from 'Homer' to 'Parsley,' wasn't it? and it was near Fewforest. Then she wrote to Mrs. Parsley, 'sounding' her a little, and the day she got the answer she brought it straight off to us.

Mums and I were in the little drawing-room by ourselves, for the girls were still kept rather out of the way, as they coughed a good deal now and then. Hebe by this time was able to get up a little and lie on a sofa in her room, and the others used to go in and sit with her in turns, – Anne the most, of course, for she reads aloud nicely, and she's not at all stupid, and Hebe's very fond of her. I used to sit with her too a good deal, but really that spring I was very busy. I had some of my lessons. I went to Miss Stirling's house when the girls began to get better, instead of her coming to us, just for fear of infection, as she'd never had the whooping-cough. And I had heaps to do for mother, besides helping to amuse the two little ones.

My greatest rest was to be alone with mums sometimes for a bit in the afternoon. Now and then I had tea with her.

We were having tea that day when Cousin Dorothea came in, all in a fuss and quite eager. She had just got the letter.

'Such a nice answer from dear old Homer' she said. 'She'll be delighted to do anything for relations of mine, and she doesn't think you could find a healthier place. It's as bracing as anything, and yet not cold. She says there's a small convalescent Home not far from the farm, and that the place was chosen out of ever so many by some rich people who built it, just because of its healthiness. Now I come to think of it, I'm sure I've heard of that Home before, but I can't think from whom.'

'That's all very satisfactory indeed, and thank you very much, dear,' said mother. 'But – what about the possibility of lodgings?'

'I was coming to that,' said Dorothea, and indeed she was almost out of breath with such a lot to tell. 'Homer says there are really none to be had – '

'Oh dear!' exclaimed mums and I.

'But,' Dorothea went on, 'they have some spare rooms at the farm, and occasionally they have had thoughts of letting them – I mean, of taking lodgers. But they're very plainly furnished, and she's always busy, so her husband was rather afraid of beginning it. She wouldn't exactly like to offer them, but she says if my friends would go down to see the rooms, and thought they'd do, she would be pleased to do her best. I can guarantee they'd be beautifully clean.'

Dorothea looked quite excited about it. She was so proud of being able to help mums.

'I think it sounds charming,' said mother. 'How many rooms are there?'

'Two big bedrooms, and a tiny one, and a sort of best kitchen that could be made comfortable in a plain way as a sitting-room,' said Dorothea consulting the letter. 'You could take down a few sofa rugs, and two or three folding chairs and so on, I daresay?'

'Oh yes, easily,' said mother. 'But I quite agree with Mrs. Parsley that I had better see the rooms. How long does it take by train, and how far is the farm – what's the name of it, by the bye? – from the station?'

'About a mile and a half. But they have a pony-cart of some kind and could meet you. The name is Mossmoor – Mossmoor Farm, Fewforest.'

It seemed wonderfully lucky. We were all three as pleased as anything. There was only one thing I wanted to make sure of.

'Mums,' I whispered. I was just giving her her second cup of tea. I always make her tea when we're alone. 'Mums, if you do go down one day to see the farm, you'll take me with you, won't you?'

Cousin Dorothea has quick ears. She overheard.

'Oh yes, Valeria,' she said, 'you must take him. I consider it's more than half thanks to him that we've thought of it.'

I do like Dorothea.

Mums smiled.

'We must see what father says,' she answered. 'Of course there's the railway fare.'

'But you couldn't go alone, mums,' I reminded her; 'and you know I'm only half, still. Father would never have time to go, and if you took Rowley she'd cost full fare.'

'Oh, you old-fashioned child!' said Cousin Dorothea, laughing. 'Dear, you must take him.'

I felt sure mums would, after that.

'I know I could help you about the rooms and everything better than anybody,' I said.