The Girls and I: A Veracious History

But nurse said we must wait, of course, till we were out of the church. Nurse has quite proper feelings about churches, though, when she was little, she belonged to the Scotch kirk, you know, which is different. She said she'd tell us the story either on the way home or after tea when we were all sitting together in our kitchen-parlour, for it was too damp an evening for us to go out again.

And at first we thought we'd have the story on the way home, but then we settled we'd wait till the evening. For there were plenty of things to amuse us going home; I had to show them the post office and the shops – we went farther down the village on purpose, – and I don't think stories are ever quite so nice when people are walking as when they're sitting still.

We all felt quite hungry when we got back to the farm, and we were very glad that it was nearly tea time. Nurse was very pleased, for Anne and Maud had never got back their good appetites since they'd been ill, though Serry had never lost hers all through – I don't much think anything would make Serry lose her good appetite, – and of course I'd kept all right.

After tea we helped nurse to clear away. We always did that at Mossmoor, for you see mums had promised Mrs. Parsley that we should give as little trouble as possible, – it wasn't as if she had been a lodging-house keeper, and she had only one servant who was rather rough and clumsy. We liked doing it too, and dear Mrs. Parsley was even better than her word about making us as comfortable as she possibly could. There was scarcely a day that she didn't do something 'extra' to please us. This very evening she had made us some lovely kind of scones for tea. She said they were a kind she had learnt to make up in the north, and she 'wanted to make us feel at home; it must be a bit lonely just at first, and such a wet day to begin.'

Wasn't it sweet of her?

Well, as I said, we did justice to the scones, and when tea was over and all nicely tidied up, we brought our chairs near the fire. For it was chilly after the rain, and we were glad of a fire. And nurse got out her knitting – nurse has always got socks for me or stockings for the girls on hand, – and we began to feel very jolly. We had felt a very little lonely, perhaps almost an atom homesick, I think, with the dull morning and the strangeness and the not having father and mother and Hebe, even though everything was so nice.

'Now for your story, nurse,' said I. 'I hope it's been growing into a very big one all this time we've been waiting for it.'

'No, indeed, Master Jack,' said nurse, 'it's nothing of the kind. It's scarce to be called a story at all, and but little worth listening to.'

But we made her tell it all the same. I'm not going to try to write it in Scotch words, for I don't know Scotch a bit, and I'm not sure that nurse knows much either, as she's been in England ever since she was very young. So I'll just tell it straight off; anyway it'll be the sense of what she said, though she did put in some extra Scotch words. I think she's rather proud when we have to ask her to explain them.

Nurse's Story

'It was my mother that told it me,' said nurse, 'for it happened to herself when she was a little girl. She lived at home with her father and mother and brothers in a good-sized cottage on the Muirness estate, for my grandfather was one of the head men on the place, which belonged to old Sir Patrick Muir. They were a good way – five miles or so – from even a village, and I daresay double as far from the nearest town, which was only a small one. But in those days people were content with stay-at-home lives, and they didn't feel dull or lonely even in very out-of-the-way places. It is a good while ago since my mother was a child. She was not young when she married, and she was nearly forty when I was born, and I'm getting on for that myself now. My grandmother had been rather above my grandfather, for she was the daughter of a well-to-do man who farmed his own land. When my mother was a child these old folk were still living, and their little place was very near Muirness; indeed, I believe it was bought several years ago by Sir Herbert, old Sir Patrick's grandson, and now belongs to the big estate.

'My mother was a great favourite with her grandfather and grandmother, for she was the only granddaughter, all the others being boys. She used often to go over to Oldbiggins Farm to stay for a day or two; and her grandmother was very fond of having her from a Saturday to a Monday to take her to church with them on Sunday, and send her back early on Monday morning in time to go to school. My mother didn't care for these visits as much as for week-day ones, for her grandmother used to take her to church on Sunday morning and keep her there straight on through the afternoon service too, which was really too much for a child. Her mother was not so strict, and understood better about children's feelings; and she used always to let mother and her brothers go home after the morning service, even if she stayed on for the afternoon herself. It was five miles away, so it was a long walk, but the old people used to drive in a cart there and back; for if they hadn't done so, they wouldn't have been able to go to church at all.

'One Saturday afternoon – it was late in the autumn – mother's grandmother sent over to say that she wanted Maggie, that was mother's name, to come to stay till Monday, and she should drive to church and back with her on the Sunday – the 'Sabbath-day' was what they called it always. Maggie didn't want much to go, but her mother didn't like to refuse; the old people were kind, and it wouldn't do to vex them. So the child was sent off. She was about eight years old.

'"Mayn't I come home with my brothers after the morning church is done?" she said. But her mother shook her head. For some reason they were not going till the afternoon. I think somebody was ill.

'"If I can get in the afternoon, I'll look out for you, and you can come home with me then, dearie," she said. "Tell your grandmother I'd like to have you back to-morrow evening if she doesn't mind."

'The Sunday evenings at Oldbiggins were rather hard upon a child too, for, on the top of the two long services, the old grandfather always read out a very long sermon, difficult for any one to understand, as he read very feebly, and the words were often puzzling.

'So, with the hope of getting home again before the Sunday evening, little Maggie started. She was a gentle, quiet child, and the old people had no idea but that she was quite happy and liked the long hours in the church as much as they did. She went to church alone with her grandmother and the farm-man who drove the cart, and they took with them a packet of bread-and-butter, or bread-and-jam maybe – what was called "a piece" – to eat outside the church between the two services. There was only an hour between them. Maggie looked out for her own people before she and her grandmother went back into the church again, but they must have been a little late, and the old lady liked to be in her place in good time, so the child did not see them. But she thought to herself she'd be sure to meet them after church, and this thought kept her quiet, though she couldn't possibly get a glimpse of them from her corner of the high pew, even if she had dared to look about. She must have been very tired, and she had cried in bed the night before, and I daresay the cold air outside made it feel warm in the church, anyway this was what happened. The poor little thing fell fast asleep. And her grandmother, who was very blind except with her glasses on – and she always took them off and put them away when the last psalm had been sung – went quietly out of the pew without a notion but that the child was beside her.

'When Maggie woke it was quite dark, the church had been shut up ever so long; there was no evening service. At first she thought she was in bed, and that the clothes had tumbled off her, then feeling about, she found she had her frock and cape and bonnet on, and everything near her was hard and cold, not like bed at all. And by bits it all came back to her mind – her last waking thoughts in church, and how she was hoping to see her mother, – and she began to take in where she was. I've always thought it was really dreadful for her, and she must have been a brave, sensible child – I know she grew up a brave, sensible woman. For, though she couldn't help crying at first with loneliness and cold and the queer sort of fear, she soon settled to do the best she could. There was some moonlight coming in at one window, though not much, but enough to make her see where the pulpit was, and up into the pulpit Maggie climbed, because she had an idea she'd be safer there; and it certainly was warmer, for it was a sort of little box with a door to it, and there were one or two stools and cushions and some red cloth hanging round the top, which Miss Maggie ventured to pull down and wrap round her. And there she composed herself to sleep, and sleep she did, in spite of her loneliness and hunger – oh, I forgot to say she found a wee bit of her "piece" still in her pocket, – till the sunshine woke her up the next morning, for luckily it was a bright mild day. Then down she came, and walked up and down the aisles as fast as she dared, considering it was a church, to get her cramped legs warm again, and just as she was thinking what she was to do to get out, the door opened, to her delight, and in came the man who had care of the church – what we call a verger – followed by the old body who cleaned and swept it.

'They were astonished, as you can fancy; such a thing had never happened before within the memory of man.

'Old Peter took her off with him to his cottage, and his wife gave her some hot breakfast, and then he borrowed a cart and drove Maggie home – straight home to Muirness, not to Oldbiggins. It was home Maggie wanted to go, you may be sure, and when Peter heard the story, he declared her granny deserved a good fright for not looking after her better.

"P'raps she thought I'd run off to mother and the boys," said Maggie.

'And that was just what it turned out to be.

'The old lady, instead of being frightened, was very angry. She had stayed talking to some friend at the church door, and somehow her daughter and the boys had fancied she and Maggie had driven off, not seeing them about. Maggie's mother was in a hurry to get home to the one that was ill, and just thought the little girl had gone back quietly with her grandmother till the next morning. And when the granny had missed the child, she thought Maggie had run off to her mother – for some one called out that Mistress Gray and her children had driven off, – and was too offended to send to Muirness to ask!

'And at home they hadn't missed her of course. So, after all, Maggie wasn't made much of a heroine of, for all she'd been so brave and sensible.

'But I'm sure she never minded that, so glad was she to be in her own dear home again, safe and sound. And you may be sure her mother petted her enough to make up all she could for the poor little thing's disagreeable adventure. It was talked of through the country-side for many a day after that. Maybe it is still.'

'And I hope they never let her go back to that horrid old grandmother again,' said Anne.

'Nay, my dear, she wasn't so bad as that. But old people have their ways.'

'I think our gran is much nicer than that,' said Maud in her clear little voice.

And I'm sure we all agreed with her.

But we all thanked nurse very nicely for telling us the story, which was really very interesting.

And it gave us a good deal to talk about.

CHAPTER XI

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.'