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.'