SPYING THE LAND
After luncheon we had still an hour and a half before we needed to start
for the station. Mrs. Parsley asked us if we would like to stroll about
the garden and the farm a little, but mums was tired. She did go outside
the house to a nice sheltered corner where there was a rustic bench, and
there she said she would enjoy the air and rest at the same time.
But I wasn't the least tired. I wanted to enjoy the air without resting.
So mums asked Mrs. Parsley to tell me where I could go without any fear
of losing my way, or coming back too late.
Mrs. Parsley considered.
'There's a beautiful path through the wood,' she said, 'that brings you
out at the end of what we call our village. It's "Fewforest, South End,"
by rights, for Fewforest is very straggly. It's divided into north end
and south end, and houses between, here and there. The old church is at
South End, I'm glad to say, for it makes it nice and convenient for us;
no excuses for staying away if it's a bad day, though, indeed, I think
our folk love their church. We've been very favoured in the clergy here
for a many years.'
'I'd like to see the church,' I said. I always like to see churches.
'Will it be open, Mrs. Parsley?'
'Oh yes, sir, bless you, sure to be. We've all the new ways here. Mr.
Joyce would never hold with a church that was kept locked.'
Mother smiled a little.
'The _old_ ways, I like to call them, Mrs. Parsley,' she said. 'The old
ways we're coming back to, I'm glad to say, after putting them aside for
so long that people had almost forgotten they were the really old
original ones.'
Mrs. Parsley didn't mind her saying that, I could see.
'True, ma'am, that's just as Mr. Joyce puts it,' she said.
Then she explained to me exactly how I should go. I was to make a round,
coming back by the high road. In this way I should pass up the village,
and see the post office, which was also a telegraph office, and the
doctor's house. It's always a good thing in a new place to see all you
can.
'And some little distance behind the church, so to say,' added Mrs.
Parsley, 'standing on rather high ground, you'll see the Convalescent
Home, Master Jack. We're quite proud of it now, though at the beginning
some folk were silly enough to think it'd bring infections and illnesses
to the place. But them as has charge of it know better than that; every
care's taken. And there's some sweet young ladies who come down turn
about, one with another, to help with the children. It's a pretty sight,
I can tell you, to see the poor dears picking up as they do here.
They'll get quite rosy before they go, some of them, and they poor
peakit-like faces they come with.'
'Peakit-like' means pinched and miserable-looking. It is a north country
expression, mums says, for Mrs. Parsley belonged to the north when she
was young.
Well, off I set. I hadn't any adventures--that was for afterwards. I
found my way quite well, and I enjoyed the walk very much. The church
was rather queer. It was very old; there were strange tablets on the
walls and monuments in the corners, and part of the pavement was
gravestones--the side parts, not the middle. But it was new too. There
weren't any pews, and it was all open and airy. But still it had the
feeling of being very old. I don't know much about architecture--it's
one of the things I mean to learn. I know pews are all wrong, still
they're rather fun. At one church near Furzely, where we sometimes go in
wet weather, there are some square ones with curtains all round, and the
two biggest pews have even fireplaces in them--they're exactly like tiny
rooms. I daresay there were pews like that once in Fewforest church, for
it certainly is very old.
I stood in front of the chancel some time looking at the high painted
window behind the altar; it was very old. I could see it by the cracks
here and there where you could tell it had been mended. I couldn't help
thinking what lots and lots of people must have looked at that
window--at those very figures in it and the patterns round the
edge--since it was first put up there. Lots of children as little as me,
who grew up to be men and women, and then got old and died. Isn't it
queer to think how men and women _must_ die, and that bits of glass that
anybody could break with a touch can last on for hundreds of years? I
daresay some of the children I was thinking of, the long long ago ones,
kept on looking at that window every Sunday, and saints' days too--for
people long ago went much oftener to church on saints' days, you
know,--all through their lives; for before there were railways, or even
coaches, and travelling cost so dear, lots of country people never went
farther away than a few miles from their own village at all. It is
strange to think of. I thought to myself I'd like to show Anne the
church. She'd understand all these feelings it gave me--perhaps she'd
make poetry about it. She does make poetry sometimes. I was sure she'd
like the church.
But I was afraid of being late for mother, or making her fidgety that I
was _going_ to be late, so I turned to go.
Just as I was leaving the church, I saw that there was some one there
beside myself. I hadn't noticed her before, but she must have been there
all the time. It was a lady. She had been kneeling, but she got up and
passed out quickly. I had only time to catch a very little glimpse of
her face, but even in that tiny glimpse I felt as if I had seen it
before. But I couldn't think where. She didn't see me, I was a little
in shadow, and she looked eager and hurried, as if she had plenty to do,
and had only run in to say her prayers for a minute.
Where had I seen that rather frowning, eager look in a face before? It
did bother me so, but I _couldn't_ remember.
That was a tiny bit of an adventure, after all. I shouldn't have said I
hadn't any at all that day.
[Illustration: 'I just stood still ... and looked well round at the view
and everything.' c. ix. p. 130.]
I walked home through the village--that end of it, that's to say, the
south end--past the doctor's house, with a big plate on the door, 'Dr.
Hepland,' and the one or two everything shops (don't you _love_
'everything' shops? I do. I stood at the door of one of them, to sniff
the jolly mixty-maxty, regular country shop smell), and the post office.
And then I felt I knew the place pretty tidily for a beginning. There
was lots of time. I'd seen what o'clock it was at the church, so I
strolled along comfortably. Some of the people stared at me a bit. It
was rather early in the season for visitors, you see. But I didn't mind.
I just stood still, with my hands behind me, and looked well round at
the view and everything.
Behind the church the ground rises, and up there, there was a house,
standing by itself and looking rather new. I remembered what Mrs.
Parsley had said.
'That must be the getting-well Home for children,' I thought. 'I'd like
to see through it. Perhaps we might have some of the children to tea one
day, when we're at the farm. The wellest ones; it would be rather fun.'
I'd a good deal to tell the girls about when we got home, hadn't I?
But, after all, we didn't tell them very much that night. For both mums
and I were pretty tired, though everything had been so nice. The train
going home was a much slower one. When we got near London, it seemed to
stop at every station. My goodness! it _was_ tiresome. And we were
hungry too, for we'd only had luncheon at Mossmoor; we had to leave too
soon for tea, and, besides, mother didn't want to give Mrs. Parsley so
much trouble.
Father was going to be late that night. He wasn't coming in to dinner at
all. I didn't much mind, for it was all the nicer for me. Mums and I had
a sort of picnic dinner--with tea, you know, like what people often have
when they arrive very late after a journey. And we talked over about the
rooms and everything quietly. The girls were all in bed. We just went
in to see them. Hebe was the widest awake; and she was so pleased to
hear that perhaps there'd be room for her too at Mossmoor if she was a
good girl, and got nearly quite well at Ventnor.
And the next morning we told all of them everything about it. I had to
begin at the beginning, and tell about the railway, and how pretty the
fields looked, and what a lovely station there was at Fewforest, and the
drive in the pony phaeton, and how red the fat boy's ears were; and then
about the house and Mrs. Parsley, and the rooms, and everything.
I hadn't time to tell about my walk through the village till
luncheon--mum's luncheon, I mean, which is our dinner. And then I began
about the nice old church; they were very pleased, Anne most of all. But
just as I was telling about the lady I'd seen, and how I couldn't
remember how I seemed to know her face, all of a sudden it plumped into
my mind. I threw down my knife and fork on my plate. I'm afraid they
made a clatter, for mums jumped. It was partly perhaps that I called out
so.
'I _know_ who it was. It's that girl--Miss Cross-at-first, you know,
Anne,' for that was the name we'd given her, and, indeed, I didn't
remember her real name.
'Miss _what_, Jack?' said mums; while Anne said quietly, 'Oh yes, I
know. How funny!'
Then we explained what we meant.
'Judith,' said mother; 'Judith Merthyr. What a very queer name for her,'
and she couldn't help laughing. 'It may have been her, for I know she
works among poor children. Perhaps she's one of the girls who come down
in turns to the Convalescent Home--the ladies Mrs. Parsley told us of. I
must ask Dorothea Chasserton; she's sure to know. It would be nice if
Judith were there, they say she's such a very kind girl.'
'Yes,' I said, 'we found that out. It's only the way her face is
made--she can't help it.'
But somehow we all forgot to ask Cousin Dorothea. For one thing, there
soon began to be a good deal of bustle getting ready to go away, for
with this horrid whooping-cough nurse and Rowley had been so extra busy
that there was a lot of sewing to do. Not for me, of course. My sailor
suits all come from the man at Devonport, and, except for darning my
stockings, I don't think I give much mending to do. But of course
_girls_ are always wanting things made for them at home. Then to add to
all the fuss, gran took it into his head to come back all of a sudden.
Mother hadn't counted on his coming at all till after she'd got back
from Ventnor with Hebe, and by then she thought if Hebe was well enough
to be with the rest of us at Mossmoor, she herself would be free to
devote herself to gran. She wanted to be _extra_ good to him, you see,
to make up for the worry about the diamond ornament.
But gran's often rather changeable; and of course, as mums always says,
'It's his own house: who has a better right to come to it whenever it
suits him?'
Only it _was_ rather inconvenient, and mother looked pretty blank the
morning she got the letter. He wasn't going to stay long--he had some
other visits to pay before he settled down for his usual two months or
so of the season in town. He would only stay about ten days.
'_Just_ till we are all leaving,' said poor mums. 'And I know he will
want me all day,--and I'd gladly be with him all day--but I _am_ so
busy.'
'So am I,' said father, looking rather flabbergasted himself. 'But we
must just do the best we can, Valeria. You tell him frankly that you are
and must be very busy, and I will tell him that my new book is
announced, and yet I have a good deal to do to it still.'
'Yes,' sighed mums,' I must do my best. But it is a pity. He says he is
anxious to see the children for himself--to make sure they are coming
round satisfactorily. Poor gran, and he doesn't say one word about that
unlucky brooch. He has been very good about it.'
'Perhaps he thinks every one concerned has been sufficiently punished
about it,' said father.
And Anne, who was down at breakfast with us, grew very red, and looked
down at her plate.
Well, gran came, and I think mums managed beautifully, though she must
have been pretty tired. _We_ rather went to the wall. That's to say _I_
did, for there was an end of all my nice quiet times with
mums--afternoon teas in the little drawing-room, and driving out with
her to shop. The doctor ordered drives for the girls now--for Anne, and
Serena, and Maud, that's to say,--so they took turns of it in the
victoria every fine afternoon. I didn't envy them the days gran went
too, for if there's one thing I hate it's the back seat of a victoria,
and it gives such a messy look to the turn-out, _I_ think.
Those days I was a good deal with Hebe, reading to her in the
afternoons, and sitting with her to make up for mums being so little
with her. Gran used to come sometimes, and I had to go on reading aloud
just the same, with him listening. I didn't like it at all.
But he was very kind. He never went out scarcely without bringing in
some present for some of us, especially Hebe--either fruit, or cakes,
not too rich, but very good, or new story-books, or some kind of puzzle
or game. He was really very jolly that time.
We were awfully pleased though when the day came at last for us all to
start. _We_ were to go first--the three girls, and nurse, and I,--and
mums, and Hebe, and Rowley were to go down to Ventnor the next day.
Father was to take them, for poor Hebe could scarcely walk yet Gran went
off on his visit the afternoon of _our_ day. He said he couldn't leave
till he had seen us off, and he actually came to the station with us--he
and his man. Fancy that!
And it was rather lucky for us, for he would have us travel first-class,
and mums had only meant us to go second. I must say first is ever so
much nicer, and it's rubbish of people to say they like second better.
It's only silly people, who are ashamed to say they do it for saving
reasons. I can't understand that sort of being ashamed.
Then gran tipped the guard, so that he came at every station to ask if
we wanted anything. We never did, but it felt rather grand. Altogether,
the journey was very nice, and we hadn't time to feel very sad at
leaving dear mums and Hebe, though all the way I kept thinking of my
last going there with mother.
It was a fine day, though not so bright as the other time. When we got
to Fewforest there was a big fly waiting for us, and a spring cart from
the farm for the luggage. And no sooner did Serry catch sight of it than
she tugged my arm, and said quite loud--
'Is that the red-eared boy, Jack?'
She _is_ so silly, I wonder he didn't hear her.
It _was_ he, sure enough, as red as ever, and grinning now as well, like
an old acquaintance. The driver of the fly, on the contrary, was a
rather grumpy man. I had been thinking of asking nurse to let me go
outside, but when I saw his face I didn't. No chance of _him_ letting me
drive part of the way, even though the horse was about a hundred years
old, and went jog-jogging along as if it meant to take a month to get to
Mossmoor. I can generally tell something about people by the look of
their faces.
So we all squashed inside--nurse and us four. It wasn't a very great
squash, for the fly was a regular old-fashioned roomy one. Once upon a
time I daresay it had been some lady's grand 'coach' in which she drove
about paying all her visits. I happened to say this to Anne, and she
liked the idea. She said she thought she would write a story, and call
it _The History of a Chariot_. I don't know if she ever has.
When we got to Mossmoor the stupid coachman was going to drive us into
the stable-yard, which would quite have stopped the niceness of our
first arriving, especially as I caught sight of dear old Mrs. Parsley
standing at the front door with her best cap on, all in a flutter to
welcome us. (I didn't call her 'dear old Mrs. Parsley' to myself _then_:
it's since I've got to know her. And I couldn't have told it was her
best cap; it wasn't for some time that we got to understand her caps.
They were like degrees of comparison, both upwards and downwards, for
she had always about six going at a time.) So I holloaed out to the
driver to stop at the little gate, and he did, though he growled and
grumbled. He _is_ so surly; his name's Griffin, and he and the fly
belong to the 'Yule Log' at Fewforest, North end. There's no inn at
South end. I was only just in time, for you can't turn, farther up the
lane, unless you drive on a bit, _or_ turn in the stable-yard. You see
it was a good thing for the girls that I'd been there before, and knew
all the ins and outs of the place, wasn't it?
It _was_ fun showing them the rooms and everything. And even though I
had described them as particularly as I could, they all declared--nurse
too--that I hadn't made them out half nice enough. I was glad of that.
We had plenty of time to poke about, because the luggage hadn't yet
come. And Mrs. Parsley had tea set out all ready; she wasn't one of
those horrid landladies who won't give anything at the first start for
fear they should possibly not be paid back for it. I'm sure she never
charged anything for the cake she'd made us, and the jam and honey, that
first night, though there was precious little over of any of them when
we'd finished.