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.
And I knew I could.
I did go. Father laughed and said I was the proper person to take his
place, as he couldn't possibly go. So it was settled, and one fine
morning off we set.
It was really a fine morning,--I don't mean it only as an expression. It
was really a lovely morning. Let me see, it must have been May by then.
I'll look it up in my diary of that year, and fill in the exact date
afterwards. It was sunny and mild, though there was a little nice wind
too. Mums and I felt like two children out of school, or two captives
out of prison, when we found ourselves in a jolly comfortable railway
carriage all alone, flying along through the bright green fields with
the trees in their new spring dresses and the sky as blue as blue,--all
so jolly, you know, after the long winter in our London square and all
the troubles we'd had.
Everything seemed at last to be going to begin to come right.
'I feel in such much better spirits,' said mums. 'Hebe does seem to be
improving so fast now, and the weather is so nice.'
Dear little mums, she was looking so pretty. She had a brown dress with
very soft, fussy trimming, and a brown bonnet, with something pink--just
a tiny bit of pink. She generally wears bonnets, except when we're
regularly in the country. They suit her, and I like them better than
hats for her. I hate those mothers who are always trying to look young.
And I think mums looks all the younger because she dresses like a mother
and not like a girl. I've got ideas about dressing though I am a boy. I
can't help having them.
'I do hope Mossmoor Farm will be nice,' she went on again. 'The only
thing is I wish we were going to be all together there.'
'So do I,' I said. I hate being away from mums, and then I've a feeling
she may be wanting me always.
'Perhaps, if Hebe gets much stronger at Ventnor, after two or three
weeks there, the doctor may let us join you all at this place,' said
mother.
That was a nice idea.
'It would be awfully jolly,' I said. 'We'd have nothing left to wish for
then, would we, mums, except--if only the diamond thing could be
found!'
I don't know what put it in my head just then; we hadn't spoken of it
for ever so long. I was almost sorry I had said it, for mums' face
clouded over a little.
'Yes, indeed,' she said. 'But I fear there's no chance of that now. And
really gran has been _so_ good about it. He might have been very, very
angry; for, after all, it _was_ a sort of carelessness of mine. I should
have made sure it was firm the very last moment before I put it on.'
But I began to talk of other things to put it out of her head. And
before long--at least it didn't seem long, railway journeys do so depend
on how you're feeling--we pulled up at a pretty little station, and we
saw that the name of it was Fewforest.
We got out, feeling rather important, and perhaps mums was a tiny bit
nervous. You see she's very seldom had to do things like looking for
houses, by herself. She's always nearly had father or gran. She was
rather proud of it, too, and so was I. I was determined she shouldn't
feel lonely or bothered if I could help it.
And everything went wonderfully right. It is like that sometimes.
To begin with, I never saw a jollier railway station. It seems in the
middle of a wood, and the station-master's house is like a Swiss
cottage. I've never been in Switzerland-- I've never been out of
England--but mother has, lots, and of course I've seen pictures. And
everybody says Fewforest is quite as pretty as heaps of places people
travel miles and miles over the sea to visit.
There was a little kind of a phaeton standing outside, and a rather fat
boy with red cheeks on the box.
He touched his cap as we came out, and, getting still redder, he mumbled
something about 'Measter Parsley,' and 'Mossmoor.'
'Yes,' said mother, 'we are going to Mossmoor Farm. Are you to drive
us?'
He touched his cap again, and tried to explain that his master was very
sorry he couldn't come himself; something or other unexpected, we
couldn't make out what, having happened to prevent him.
I wasn't sorry. If the farmer had come, we'd have had to talk to him,
for civility's sake, and it would have been a great bore, when we
wanted to talk to each other and to look about us. We certainly didn't
need to talk to the fat boy. He looked most thankful when we were
settled in our places behind, and he didn't have to see us at all,
though his ears kept red all the way to Mossmoor, I could see, just from
shyness. I got to know him quite well afterwards, and his ears weren't
generally redder than other people's. He was a nice boy; his name was
Simon Wanderer; it didn't suit him, for he'd never been farther away
from his home at Mossmoor than six miles. I don't believe he has yet,
though he must be seventeen by now.
It was a lovely drive. I have been it lots of times since of course, and
I always like it; but that first time there was something extra about
it. It was all new to us, and then we did so enjoy being in the country
again, and there was a nice feeling as if we were having an adventure
too.
Part of the way is all through woods; then after that comes a heathy
bit, and then a clear bit of common, and then you go up for a while with
trees thick at one side of the road and at the other a beautiful sort of
stretching-to-the-sky view. _Then_ you turn sharp down a lane, and at a
corner where another lane--quite a short one--leads on to a heath
again, is the Farm.
We got out at the gate. There's no drive to the front of the house, and
this first time Mrs. Parsley wouldn't have thought it 'manners' to meet
us in the stable-yard. She was standing at the gate. I saw in a minute
she was nice. She had a pleasant face, not too smiley, and no make up
about it.
'I _am_ pleased to see you, ma'am,' she said, 'and Master Warwick too,
and I'm so glad it's a fine day. Real May weather, isn't it, ma'am?'
'Yes, indeed,' said mums. 'We couldn't see your pretty home to greater
advantage, Mrs. Parsley.'
Then Mrs. Parsley smiled more than she had done yet.
'I can't deny, ma'am, that it's a sweet spot,' she said, '_and_ a
healthy. It's coldish in winter, it's true, but then it's a cold that
you don't feel in the same piercing way as when it's damp. The air's
that bracing about here, ma'am.'
'So they tell me,' said mother. 'And that's just what we're looking
for.' Then she went on to tell about the whooping-cough, and though
Cousin Dorothea had written about it already, Mrs. Parsley seemed as
interested as could be. People like that--I mean people you can't call
gentlemen and ladies, though they're not poor, and regular poor people,
too--do love talking about illnesses--other people's as well as their
own. And she had a lot of questions to ask about 'Miss Dorothea' too.
She 'did hope as she'd come down to Mossmoor some day.'
All this time we were going towards the house. But it was rather a slow
business, doing so much talking by the way, and I _was_ in a fidget to
see the rooms and find out if they'd do. There was no hall or passage;
we went straight into a large kitchen, a very large one. You didn't see
at first how big it was, because just round the door--to keep out the
draught, I suppose--there was a fixed wooden screen, like what you see
in lots of cottages. I was a little surprised that there was no hall,
for, outside, the house looked really rather grand; it might have been
called 'Mossmoor Grange,' for it was built of nice dull red old bricks
and the windows were very pretty--out-jutting, you know, and with tiny
panes. But once you were well inside the kitchen you couldn't have
wished it any different. It was so jolly; not a bit messy, you know, as
if plates and dishes were washed there, or potatoes peeled, or anything
like that, for there was a good-sized back kitchen where all that was
done. The floor was tiled, with good thick rugs here and there, and
there was a regular old grandfather's clock and bright brass pans and
things on the wall.
I wondered at first if this could be the kitchen we were to have as a
sitting-room. But Mrs. Parsley soon explained.
'Won't you sit down and rest a bit, ma'am,' she said, 'before I show you
the rooms?'
But mums and I both said we weren't at all tired.
'Well, then,' she said, 'if you'll be so good, we'll step through this
way,' and she opened a door at quite the other side of the kitchen.
'You'll have a little lunch, I _hope_,' said the kind woman, 'after
we've seen the rooms,' and she nodded towards a table, which was all
spread with a white cloth and on it two or three dishes, one with a cold
ham, and another with some kind of a pie or tart, and a big jug of milk.
I was getting hungry, but still I cared most of all to see the rooms.
Through the door there _was_ a tiny hall. It had a nice window, and a
door stood open at the other end.
'This is the summer kitchen, as we always call it,' said Mrs. Parsley.
'I had a little fire lighted just for you to see, it's nice and
comfortable,'--she called it 'com,' not _cum_-fortable,'--'even if the
weather's chilly.'
It was a dear room--beautiful deep windows with seats round them, and
nice old cupboards, one with glass doors, and a queer kind of sofa with
a straight-up back and a long red cushion. The chairs were plain wood
and everything was plain, but not a bit common; ever so much nicer than
lodgings, you know, like what there are sometimes at the seaside with
horrid flowery carpets all staring, and mirrors with gilt frames, and
shaky little chiffoniers that won't hold anything. Here it was all solid
and comfortable; there was nothing we could break supposing we did
'rampage' about, as nurse calls it. Even the kitchen fireplace was nice;
I thought to myself what jolly toffy we could make on a wet day.
'Oh, this _is_ a nice room,' said mums; 'nothing could be better.'
Mrs. Parsley did look pleased, and in a minute or two she opened a door
we hadn't noticed. It looked like a part of the wooden panels, and there
was a funny little stair.
'This leads to the small bedroom, ma'am,' she said. 'There's a door
through it to the other two, but there's also doors to them on the
landing over the big kitchen, which you get to up the regular staircase.
But if the young gentleman was to have this room it might be a
convenience for him to get to it without having to go all the way round
and pass through the other bedrooms.'
It was a funny little room--very jolly though,--just a bed and a chest
of drawers, a toilet-table, and a shelf across a corner for a
washhand-stand, and two chairs. But I liked it very much, and the two
big bedrooms that we got into through it were really very nice--carpets
in the middle, and in one a regular polished bedstead with curtains. _I_
wouldn't have liked it, but, as it turned out, Anne did. And it was very
big; plenty of room for her and Maud too. In the other room there were
two smaller beds; one would do for Serry, and the other for nurse.
And everything was as clean as clean--lavendery too--not a bit fusty or
musty.
'Really,' said mums, 'nothing could be nicer. I suppose these are all
the rooms you have to spare, Mrs. Parsley?'
There was one other, as tiny as mine, but it was at the opposite side of
the house. Still mother thought it would do for me _if_ Hebe was able
to come at the end of the time, and then nurse could have mine.
'And if I could run down myself for a night or so,' she said, 'I daresay
Serry and Maud could sleep together; there'd be plenty of room for me
beside Anne.'
Then she and Mrs. Parsley went on to talk about sheets and pillow-cases,
and stupid things like that, so I took out my notebook--I always have a
notebook--and went poking about to see what things we'd better bring
down with us from London. I made quite a tidy list, though mums wouldn't
let me bring all I wanted; and some of the things Mrs. Parsley had
already when I spoke about them, only she hadn't put them out.
Then we went down again by the big staircase--all old brown wood and
nobbly balusters: mother said it was really beautiful--which ran down to
a kind of hall behind the kitchen, and then we had luncheon. I'll never
forget it. Either I was awfully hungry, or the things were extra
good--perhaps both--but I don't think I ever tasted such nice ham, or
such a splendid home-made cake.