MISCHIEF IN THE AIR
Yes, it gave us a good deal to talk about. Stories that do that are much
the nicest; they seem to make themselves over and over, and to last so
long. We talked for some days after that, about what we'd each of us do
if _we_ were locked up all night alone in a church, and we made ever so
many plans. And the next Sunday--that was our first one at
Mossmoor,--when we all came home from church and were at dinner, Serena
astonished us very much, when nurse said she'd been a very good girl,
for she's generally a dreadful fidget, by saying quite coolly--
'Oh, I didn't mind the sermon a bit to-day, though it was very long. For
I was settling all the time what I'd do if I was like Maggie in _that_
church. And I know quite well, only I won't tell any of you. So if ever
_I'm_ lost on a Sunday you'll have a nice hunt.'
She tossed back her head the way she does when she means to be
aggravating.
'You silly girl,' said Maud in her superior way, 'you couldn't hide in
that church not to be found. You're so boasty. And if you did, there'd
be no fun in it.'
Serry gave another toss, and a particular sort of a smile. That smile
meant mischief.
'Miss Serena's certainly very clever at hiding places,' said nurse. 'But
there couldn't be very much cleverness wanted to hide in a church; it's
not like finding out queer places you'd never think of in a house. Now,
I daresay, Miss Serry, if it came a very wet day again while we're here
and Mrs. Parsley let you have a good game, as I've no doubt she would, I
daresay you'd keep us hunting like anything.'
'I daresay I could,' said Serry.
But I knew by her voice that _she_ knew that nurse was speaking that way
on purpose to put hiding in the church out of her head. For, as I've
said, Serry's very queer; for all she's so changeable and flighty, there
are times that if she takes up a thing, _nothing_ will get it from
her--make her drop it, I mean,--till she's done it. And she'd gone on so
about hiding in the church that I think nurse was a little
uncomfortable. Perhaps she began to wish she hadn't told us the story
of her mother, but I wouldn't say so, for I didn't want to vex her.
She'd been really so very kind.
After that Sunday, however, for some weeks nothing more was said about
it, and we left off talking of the Maggie story. We had so many other
things to do and to speak about. The weather got all right again, even
better than before, for every day now was getting us nearer and nearer
into the real summer; though, of course, even in the middle of summer
there do come cold wet bits, just like our first day at Mossmoor. But
for some time we had nothing but lovely weather.
It's a very drying soil all about Fewforest; after two or three fine
days, even in the woods, the ground is so dry that you'd think it hadn't
rained since the world was made. It's partly with the trees being mostly
firs which are so neat and bare low down--no mess of undergrowth about
them. And the soil is very nice, so beautifully clean and crunchy to
walk on, for it's made of the pricks that fall off the firs, in great
part. It's perfectly splendid to lie on--springy and yielding and not a
bit dirty--your things don't get soiled in the least.
They say, too, that the scent or breath of pines and firs--I think it's
rather nice to think it's the sweet breath of the trees, don't you?--is
awfully good for coughs or illnesses to do with coughs. So it suited us
very well indeed to spend a great part of our time in the woods. And
certainly the girls' coughs soon went quite away. I was glad. I really
could _hardly_ help hitting them sometimes when they would go on barking
and whooping, even though I suppose they couldn't stop it. They still
coughed a little if they ran too fast, or if they got excited or angry.
I do believe Serry pretended it sometimes just to be aggravating, for
she was in rather an aggravating humour at that time. I think it was
partly from not having Hebe, who has such a good way with her, and as
Anne and Maud always stick together, you see Serena was rather left to
me, and I don't pretend to have a good way with her at all, she makes me
so angry. Though we get on a good deal better now than we did then.
Still, on the whole, we were very happy indeed. We did a little
lessons--at least Anne and I did regularly. Miss Stirling had set me
some Latin and French, and Anne didn't want to get behind me in Latin,
so she did it with me, and she was very good in helping me with my
French, for she's much farther on than me in French.
That was in the mornings, for an hour or so. Then we used to go what
nurse calls a 'good bracing walk,' right over the heath that edges the
woods, for two or three miles sometimes. We used to come in for dinner
pretty hungry, I can tell you. But Mrs. Parsley didn't mind how much she
had to cook for us. She was as pleased as if you'd given her a present
when nurse said she never had known our appetites so good.
Sometimes we met the getting-well children from the Home. But I rather
fancy the people there had heard about the whooping-cough; for though
the young lady who was with them smiled at us very nicely always, she
rather shoo'd them away from us. And it was always the same round-faced,
beamy-looking girl--not Miss Cross-at-first, certainly.
Then in the afternoons we mostly played or sat about the woods, coming
in for tea, and sometimes, when it was very fine and mild, nurse let us
go out again a little after tea. But if it was the least chilly or windy
or anything, she wouldn't let the girls go out, and then we sat all
together playing games, or now and then telling stories till bed-time.
Very often dear Mrs. Parsley would come in, and we always made her sit
down and talk to us. And sometimes I'd go out a stroll by myself in the
evening--towards the village generally, for there was often a letter to
post or some little message for nurse to the shop. And then I got
another reason for walking that way in the evening, which I'll tell you
about directly.
We had been five weeks at the farm when one day we got very jolly news
from mums. The news had been pretty jolly all the time; Hebe had gone on
getting better, though the doctor at Ventnor had thought her very weak
at first, and so she and mums had stayed on longer than they'd expected
they would. But this letter told that they had really fixed a day for
coming back to London, and that the nice Ventnor doctor said no air
could be better for Hebe now than Fewforest, and so mums was going to
bring her down the very next Friday to be with us for the last three
weeks. Mums was coming herself too, to stay from Friday to Monday, for
father had to be away with gran those two days. Gran was at Brighton, I
think, but he was coming back now mums would be there. There was a
postscript to the letter--it was to Anne,--in which mums said she might
perhaps want nurse to come up to London for a few hours to see about
clothes or something. 'If I do,' she wrote, 'do you think I can trust
you and Jack to take care of the two little ones? I am sure Mrs. Parsley
would be most kind, but of course I do not want to give her more trouble
than we can help.'
'Oh,' said Serena, when Anne had read all that aloud--I wished she had
stopped before the postscript--'that would be fun. We'd lead old Jack a
dance wouldn't we, Maud? As for Anne, we'd find her a new book, and then
she wouldn't trouble us.'
Maud looked at her with scorn, but would not condescend to speak. I do
believe from that moment Serry settled to play some kind of trick if we
_were_ left alone. But when I said to Anne that I hoped to goodness we
shouldn't be left in charge of Serry, she only said it would be all
right; Serry made herself out worse than she was, and so on. Anne _is_
so easygoing.
Now I must tell you why I liked strolling down to the church in the
evenings. It only began the week before Hebe and mums were to come. I
happened to have gone to the village rather late with a letter, and,
coming back, I noticed that there was some light in the church, even
though it wasn't the time for any service. And, standing still for a
moment, suddenly I heard the organ begin. Some one was playing it. The
door was a little open, and I went inside the porch and found I could
hear quite well. It was beautiful, far nicer than on Sundays, and after
a while I heard singing too. Such lovely singing--it was a woman's
voice--and she sang some of the things I liked best, and I stayed there
listening as long as I dared. The next evening I couldn't come, but the
one after that I did, and she was there again, and I listened ever so
long. After that I came whenever I could; sometimes she was there and
sometimes not,--it was rather fun wondering if she would be. I told Anne
about it, and she said she'd like awfully to come with me one evening,
but we didn't know how to manage it, for we really couldn't tell Serry.
She'd have teased so to come too, and she'd have spoilt it all with her
fidgeting, and if we'd told nurse and asked her to let us go without the
little ones, Serry would have made some sort of a fuss I'm sure. So I
just kept on going whenever I could, though very often there was no
music. And I promised Anne that the first chance I could see I'd take
her too.
Mums wrote for nurse to go up to London on the Thursday--just the day
before she and Hebe were coming. Nurse was to go up by an afternoon
train, and she'd get back about nine in the evening, mums wrote; and
we--Anne and I--might help to put the little ones to bed, and then we
might sit up till nurse came back. There was really nothing to be
anxious about, Mrs. Parsley was so kind, and really we were old enough
to be left an hour or two by ourselves. Still nurse seemed a little
uneasy. I'm sure it was all about Serena. Anne and I promised her we'd
be awfully careful and good.
'I know I can depend upon you, Master Jack,' said nurse. We were alone
at the time--she and I--'and really Miss Anne is wonderfully improved.
Since the diamond ornament was lost, and it being partly through her
fault, she's hardly like the same young lady. It's an ill wind that does
nobody any good, they say; perhaps Miss Serry will take a sensible turn
after a while.'
'I hope it won't have to cost another diamond ornament, and us all
having whooping-cough again--no, I suppose you can't have it twice, but
I daresay there are plenty of other illnesses just as horrid or
horrider,' I said rather grumpily.
'I hope not,' said nurse, 'though I would really be thankful if Miss
Serry would take thought. There's never any saying what she'll be after
next. The rest of the nursery work all put together isn't above half
what the mending and tidying up of her things alone is.'
Serry could take thought if she chose; she had an uncommonly, good
memory when it suited her.
This was the day before nurse was going. I had found out by now that the
music at the church was mostly every other evening, and as I'd heard it
the night before, very likely the lady would be playing and singing
again the next day. So all of a sudden I thought I'd better tell nurse
about it, and get leave to go if it was a fine evening with Anne, and
Mrs. Parsley would take care of the little ones.
Nurse wasn't sure about it, but when I told her very likely Serry would
be better alone with Maud and Mrs. Parsley than if we were all together
the whole long evening, she gave in.
'Very well,' she said, 'but don't you and Miss Anne stay out late--not
above half an hour.'
I promised her we wouldn't.
Anne was very pleased, only she said wouldn't it perhaps be better if we
all four went; it would be a little treat for Serry to look forward to,
and perhaps it would keep her good the rest of the time.
I thought afterwards Anne had been right, but I wouldn't agree with her
when she said it. I didn't want Serry at all; I wouldn't have minded
Maud, but I knew Serry would spoil it all. So I said to Anne it would
never do; they'd fidget or make a noise, and the lady who was playing
might hear us and be vexed, and it would be horrid to have any fuss in a
church, we might get scolded by the verger or possibly even the
clergyman,--what _would_ father and mother and gran think of such a
thing?
Anne gave in. But I gave in to her a bit too. She said it was much best
to make no mystery about it. Serry was as sharp as a needle about
mysteries, and she'd only set herself to find out. So that Thursday
morning at breakfast--the day nurse was to be away--I said quietly,
'Anne and I are going to church this evening for half an hour. Nurse,
please tell Serry that she and Maud may stay with Mrs. Parsley in her
kitchen while we're out.'
'Yes,' said nurse. 'You hear, Miss Serry and Miss Maud. It'll make a
little change for you.'
'I like being in Mrs. Parsley's kitchen for a while in the evening very
much, don't you, Serry?' said Maud.
But Serry did not answer. I think she pretended not to hear. Still she
couldn't make out now that she hadn't been properly told.
Well, with many charges and warnings, poor nurse set off. The red-eared
boy drove her to the station, and we ran over the fields by a short cut
to a stile on to the road, where we could see her pass, and there we
shouted out again all our messages to mums and Hebe--nurse couldn't
possibly have remembered all the things we told her to say, and it
didn't matter certainly, considering we were going to see them the very
next day.
The first part of the afternoon we got on all right. We'd had dinner
earlier than usual, so that nurse should be in time for the train, and
after she was fairly off we went out into the woods with baskets to get
all the flowers we could for mums and Hebe--I mean to make the rooms
look nice for them.
There weren't very many, for of course the spring flowers were over, and
it was too early for the regular summer ones. Besides, the spring is
always the best time for flowers that grow in the woods. Still we got
some, pretty nice, and some trails of ivy and these pretty reddy leaves
that you can find most of the year. And we got a lot of fir cones
too--mums does so love the scent of them in the fire, and as people
often feel a little chilly when they first come out to the country, we
fixed we'd have a nice fire in the evening, and make it nearly all of
the cones.
After that we went in and arranged our flowers; there's always lots of
moss in the woods, and with moss you can make a good show even with very
little.
Then there came tea-time. We were a good while over tea, for even though
Serry had been all right so far, both Anne and I felt a little fidgety--
Serry was almost _too_ good, if you understand.
It was half-past five, or nearer six than that, I daresay, when we had
finished tea. Anne and I wanted to go to the church about a quarter to
seven, meaning to be back before half-past, which was the two little
ones' bed-time, so that we could help Mrs. Parsley if she needed us.
Mrs. Parsley looked rather worried when she came in to take away the tea
things--not _crossly_ worried, for she was as kind as could be, but just
troubled. And afterwards we knew that the reason was that an old aunt of
theirs who lived a mile or two off was very ill, and had sent for her,
but she didn't like to go because of leaving us. She didn't tell us; I
almost think it would have been better if she had, for then Anne and I
would have given up going out and have looked after Serry and Maud till
nurse came back. Only, if we _had_ done that, very likely nothing would
have happened the same, and the wond----no, I must go straight on.
Well, we played 'patience,' and did everything we could to please Serry
till about half-past six. Did I tell you that there's a very jolly old
clock in the Parsley's summer kitchen?--so we always know the time. Then
I said to Anne I thought she might go and get ready, and we might as
well start, and 'you two,' I said to Serry and Maud, 'can go to Mrs.
Parsley till we come back.'
Maud began gathering up the cards and counters and things we'd been
playing with, and putting them together tidily--she's always so
tidy,--but Serry had got a 'patience' half set out.
'Do let me finish this,' she said, 'and then I promise you I'll go into
Mrs. Parsley's kitchen.'
'You promise,' I said. By this time Anne had come downstairs with her
hat and jacket on, and I was standing by the door with my cap in my
hand.
'Promise,' said Serena, 'word of honour.'
Well, she's not a story-teller after all, and she wouldn't break a
right-down promise like that, so I thought it was all right.
'We shan't be long,' I said, and off we set, Anne and I, thinking we had
managed beautifully.
It was very nice and peaceful outside; Anne is really very jolly when
you get her alone and she isn't thinking of some book or other she's
reading, and we quite enjoyed the little walk. The church was open as
usual, but there was no sound of music yet, only there was a light up in
the organ loft, which I was sure showed the lady was coming, though Anne
thought it was perhaps only a reflection of the evening light through
the window. But I knew by this time that it was always pretty dark up by
the organ, except perhaps in the very middle of the day in very bright
weather.
We didn't stay in the porch like I'd done at first. I had found a nice
little corner just inside, where we could hear beautifully, and yet slip
out in a moment, _in case_ any one came and found fault. And there we
sat quite happily, and in a minute or two we heard a hum beginning and
then some notes, and then the playing started properly. It was
beautiful. Anne squeezed my hand, and I felt quite proud of having
found it out--like a showman, you know. But 'wait till you hear her
singing,' I whispered.
She was still only playing, _luckily_, when, what _do_ you think
happened? The big door behind us was slowly pushed openly, and in
walked, as cool as twenty cucumbers, two small figures, giving us--no
that was only Serry--a condescending little nod and smile as they
slipped into a seat almost alongside ours.