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 n.o.bbly bal.u.s.ters: 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.

CHAPTER IX

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 pa.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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 pa.s.sed 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: '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 Cha.s.serton; 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.