It's funny to think what came of our going to that first dancing class. If Anne hadn't run down to the pantry, the note wouldn't have been found—perhaps not for months, if ever. And though Mrs. Liddell would have written again the next week most likely, it wouldn't have been in time for us to go to the first class, and everything would have come different.
We did go—all five of us. Father was quite willing for Maud to come too. I think he would have said yes to anything mother asked just then, he was so sorry for her; and he was beginning himself, as the days went on, to feel less hopeful about the diamond ornament being found. And you see mums couldn't put it off her mind, as she kept telling Annesheshould do, for it was quite dreadful to her to think of grandfather's having to hear about it. She was so really sorry for him to bevexed, for she had thought it so kind of him to lend it to her.
There were several children we knew at the dancing class. Some, like the little Liddells themselves, that we hadn't seen for a good long while, as they always stayed in the country till after Christmas, and some that we didn't know as friends, only just at the dancing, you see.
It was rather fun. We always found time for a good deal of talking and laughing between the exercises and the dances, for they took us in turns—the little ones, like Serena and Maud, who were just beginning, and the older ones who could dance pretty well, and one or two dances at the end for the biggest of all or the furthest on ones. Anne and Hebe were among these, but Hebe danced much better than Anne. Most of the exercises and the marching we did all together. And the mammas or governesses sat at the other end of the room from all of us.
There were some children there called Barry that we didn't know except meeting them there. But I was glad to see them again, because two of them were boys, one a little older and the other a little younger than me. And they had a sister who was atwin to the younger one. They were nice children, and I liked talking to them, and the girl—her name was Flossy—was nice to dance with. I could manage much better with her than with our girls somehow.
They put me to dance the polka with Flossy. She's not at all a shy girl, and I'm not shy either, so we talked a good deal between times, and after the polka was done we sat down beside Anne and Hebe, and I went on talking. I was telling Flossy about losing the diamond thing, and she wassointerested. It wasn't a secret, you see. Father said the more we told it the better; there was no saying how it might be traced through talking about it.
Only I was sorry for Anne. I had rather forgotten about her when I begun about it to Flossy, and I hadn't told about Anne's having meddled with the pin; and when Flossy went on talking, I felt as if Anne would think me unkind.
But Anne's not like that. She only sat looking very grave, and when I had answered Flossy's questions, she just said—
'I'd give anything, I'd almost give myself, to find it.'—c. iv. p. 48.'I'd give anything, I'd almost give myself, to find it.'—c. iv. p. 48.
'Isn't it dreadful to have lost it? I'd give anything, I'd almost give myself, to find it.'
That's the queer sort of way Anne talks sometimes when she's very tremendously in earnest.
Flossy looked rather surprised.
'What a funny girl you are,' she said. 'I don't think your mother would agree to giveyou, even to get back her brooch! But, do you know, there's something running in my head about losings and findings that I've been hearing. What can it be? Oh yes; it was some of our cousins yesterday— Ludo,' and she called her brother, the twin one, 'Ludo, do you remember what the little Nearns were telling us, about something they'd found?'
'It wasn't they that found it. It was lying on their doorstep the day ofthe Drawing-room; they'd had a party, and it must have dropped off some lady's dress. But their mother had sent to all the ladies that had been there, and it wasn't theirs.'
Anne was listening so eagerly that her eyes almost looked as if they were going to jump out of her head.
'What is it like—the brooch, I mean—didn't you say it was a brooch?' she asked in a panting sort of voice.
Ludovic Barry stared at her.
'It's because they've lost one,' said Flossy quickly, 'at least their mother has, and they would give anything to find it. It's a—I forget the word—a family treasure, you know.'
'An heirloom,' I said. 'Yes, that's the worst of it. But, Anne, don't look so wild about it,' I went on, laughingly. 'What is the brooch like, that your cousins have found? Is it diamonds?' I went on to the Barrys.
'I think so,' said Ludo. 'It's some kind of jewels. But the Nearns are quite small children; they wouldn't know, and I don't suppose they've seen it. They'd only heard their mother and the servants talking about it. We can easily find out, though. I'll run round there—they live in our Square—when we go home.'
'No, Ludo, I'm afraid you can't, for mamma heard this morning that——'
At that very moment we were interrupted by another dance beginning. And when it was over it was time for us all to go. Flossy Barry didn't finish her sentence. I saw her saying something to her brother, and then she came up to us.
'I'll find out about the found brooch,' she said. 'I won't forget. And if it's the least likely to be yours, I'll ask mamma to write to your mamma. That'll be the best.'
'Thank you,' I said. She was a nice, kind little girl, and I was sure she wouldn't forget. But Anne looked disappointed.
'I don't see why she tried to stop her brother going about it at once,' she said.
'Perhaps there was some reason,' I said. 'And Anne, if I were you, I wouldn't say anything about it to mums. Raising her hopes, you know, very likely for nothing, for it's such achancethat it's our brooch—ours has been advertised so, these people would have seen the notices.'
Anne did not answer.
Flossy had a reason, and a good one, for what she said to her brother. But she had been told not to speak of what her mother had heard, as Mrs. Barry said it was not certain. The 'it' was that these little cousins of theirs had got the whooping-cough, or rather Lady Nearn, their mother, was afraid they had, and so she had told the Barrys they mustn't come to the house.
Of course we only heard all that afterwards.
We walked home from the dancing with Miss Stirling. She came with us sometimes, and sometimes mother, and now and then only nurse. For as the class was on Saturday afternoon, it wouldn't have done for Miss Stirling always to take us, as it was giving up part of her holiday. That first day mother was busy or engaged, otherwise she would have come herself.
It was getting dusk already as we went home; it was a dull afternoon, looking as if it was going to rain.
'I do hope it's not going to be wet to-morrow,' said Hebe. 'I like it to be fine on Sunday.'
Anne started at this. She had been walking very silently, scarcely talking at all.
'Is to-morrow Sunday?' she said. 'I'd quite forgotten. Oh, I do wish it wasn't. There's no post on Sunday, you know, Jack.'
She was next me, and I don't think any one else heard what she said.
'What do you mean?' I said. 'There's never any post on Sunday in London. What does it matter?'
'About the brooch, of course,' she answered. 'You see, if Flossy tells her mother what we said, and they send to find out,perhapsMrs. Barry would write to mums to-night; and if it wasn't Sunday, the letter would come to-morrow morning.'
I felt quite provoked with her.
'Anne,' I said, and I daresay I spoke rather crossly, 'you're really silly. It's just as unlikely as it can be that it's mums' thing, and you'd much better put out of your head that it could be. You'llget yourself into a fidget, and then mums will think there's something new the matter, and——'
'I'm not going to tell her anything about it, I've said so already,' interrupted Anne, rather crossly too. 'I'm always being told to put things out of my head now; it would have been better if they hadn't been so much putinmy head. I wouldn't have been half so miserable all this time if you hadn't all gone on so about it's being my fault that the horrid thing was lost,' and she gave a little sob, half of anger, half of unhappiness.
I was very sorry for her, and I was vexed with myself for having begun about it at the dancing class just when Anne might have forgotten it a little.
'If—justsupposingMrs. Barry thought it was it, she'd very likely send a note round to say; Rodney Square is quite near us,' said Hebe, who always thought of something cheering to say.
'Rodney Square,' Anne repeated, 'yes, that's close to here.'
For by this time we were almost at our own house.
Miss Stirling said good-bye to us as soon as the door was opened, and we all five went in together.
Mother was out; we knew she was, but yet it seemed rather dull to be told she hadn't come in. I always think it's dreadfully dull to come home and find one's mother out.
I didn't go upstairs. I had some lessons to finish, though it was Saturday afternoon, and so had Hebe, because you see we'd been longer at the dancing than if we'd just gone a walk. So we two went straight into the schoolroom, and Hebe took off her hat and jacket and put them down on a chair. The other three went on upstairs, and we didn't think any more about them.
What happened when they got up to the nursery we heard afterwards. Nurse was not there, and the room was rather dark.
'Why isn't the gas lighted?' said Maud. 'It looks so dull,' and she ran out of the room and down the passage to nurse's own room, calling out, 'Nurse, nurse, where are you? We've come in.'
Maud was very fond of nurse, and of course being the youngest she was nurse's pet. She's married now—our old nurse, I mean. She left us last Christmas, and we've got a schoolroom-maid instead, who doesn't pet Maud at all of course, but I don't think Maud minds.
'Nurse, where are you?' she called out.
Nurse was in her room; she had a fire, and she was ironing some things.
'Come in here, dearie,' she answered. 'I didn't think it was so late. I'll have done in a moment, and then I'll light the gas and see about tea.'
So Maud went in to nurse's room and began telling her about the dancing. And thus Anne and Serena were left by themselves in the half-dark nursery.
Anne stood staring in the fire for a minute without speaking. All this, you understand, they told us afterwards.
'Won't you come and take your things off, Anne?' said Serry.
But, instead of answering, Anne asked her another question.
'Do you know the number of the Barrys' house in Rodney Square?' it was.
'No,' said Serena. 'But I know the house. It is a corner one, and it has blue and white flower-boxes. What do you want to know about it for?'
Anne looked round—no, there was no sign of nurse; she and Serena were alone.
'Serry,' she said in a whisper, 'I've thought ofsomething,' and then she went on to tell Serry what it was.
That's all I'll tell just now; the rest will come soon. Till you try, you've no idea how difficult it is to tell a story—or even not a regular story, just an account of simple things that really happened—at all properly. The bits of it get so mixed. It's like a tangle of thread—the ends you don't want keep coming up the wrong way, and putting themselves in front of the others. I must just go on as well as I can, and put down the things as straight as they'll come.
Well, Hebe and I had about finished the lessons we wanted to get done. It was partly that Monday was going to be mother's birthday, and we wanted to have a clear evening. Hebe and I always agree about things like that; we like to look forward and arrange comfortably. Well, we had just about finished, and I was getting up to begin putting away the books, when the door opened and nurse came in looking just the least little bit vexed. For she is good-natured.
She glanced round the room before she spoke, as if she was looking for some one not there.
'The child's right,' she said, as if speaking to herself. 'I must say she generally is. Master Jack,'she went on, 'and Miss Hebe, my dears, tea's ready. But where are Miss Warwick and Miss Serry?'
We stared.
'Anne and Serry,' I said. 'I'm sure I don't know. Upstairs, I suppose. They went straight up with Maudie when we came in, ever so long ago.'
'But indeed they're not upstairs,' said nurse, her face growing very uneasy. 'That's what Miss Maud said too. She saw them go into the nursery when she ran along to my room. But they are not there, nor in any of the bedrooms; I've looked everywhere, and called too.'
'They may be reading in the little drawing-room,' I said, and both Hebe and I jumped up to go and help nurse in her search. She had not thought of the drawing-room, knowing mother had not come in.
'Have they taken off their hats and jackets?' asked Hebe.
Nurse shook her head.
'I've not seen them anywhere about, and Miss Anne and Miss Serry are not young ladies that ever think of putting away their out-door things as you do sometimes, Miss Hebe.'
Hebe hung back a little. We were following nurse upstairs.
'Jack,' she whispered,'do you know, while you and I were busy in the schoolroom, I am sure I heard the front door shut. I hadn't heard the bell ring, and I wondered for a moment why Alfred was opening when no one had rung. But, you see, it may have been some one going out. Jack,doyou think Anne and Serry can have gone out by themselves?'
'They'd never do such a thing,' I said. 'Why, it's almost quite dark, and they know mother would be really very angry if they did!'
But Hebe did not seem satisfied.
'The door was shutverysoftly,' she said.
We were at the drawing-room by this time. There was no light in the two big rooms, but there were two lamps in the little one where mums sits when she's alone. No sign of Anne or Serena, however. And no sign of them in the other rooms either. Alfred brought up a candle, and we called to them to come out if they were hiding, and said we were really frightened; but there was no answer.
'They can't be there,' said nurse; 'Miss Anne has far too kind a heart not to come out, even if they had begun by playing a trick on me. Come up to the nursery, my dears, and have your tea. I'll go downand speak to Mr. Barstow. Maybe he can throw some light on it.'
'They must have gone out, nurse,' I said boldly. There was no use not telling her all we knew.
She turned upon me quite sharply.
'Gone out, Master Jack? Nonsense, Miss Anne is far too good and obedient to do such a wild thing, knowing how it would displease your dear mamma too.'
But Maud, whom we met on the staircase, suddenly thought of an explanation of the mystery.
'Come in here,' she said, pulling us all three into the nursery and closing the door. 'Listen, I do believe I know where they've gone. It's about the diamond brooch. I believe Anne's gone to those children's house where they've found a brooch that might be it.'
Hebe and I jumped.
'I believe you're right, Maud,' I said.
'How stupid of us not to have thought of it!' exclaimed Hebe.
But nurse, of course, only stared.
Then we explained to her what Maud meant. Even then she could scarcely believe Anne had really done such a thing.
'It would have been so much better to wait till your mamma came in,' she said. 'Alfred could have been sent with a note in a minute.'
'Anne didn't want mother to know about it. At least, I said to her it would be a pity to raise mother's hopes, and it was all nicely settled that Flossy Barry was to find out and ask her mother to write if it seemed possible itwasour diamond thing,' I said. 'It is all Anne's impatience, and you see, nurse, she knew she shouldn't have gone alone with Serry, or she wouldn't have crept out that way without telling any one.'
'I don't know how they can have gone to those people's house,' said Hebe. 'I'm not even sure of the name, though I heard it, and I've a better memory than Anne. I only know it's in Rodney Square.'
'They'll have gone to Flossy Barry's to ask for the redress,' said Maud.
We couldn't help smiling; it is so funny when Maud says words wrong, for she is so wonderfully clever and sensible.
'Yes,' exclaimed Hebe. 'I'm sure they'll have done that. Maud always thinks of the right thing.'
But what wereweto do?
Every moment we hoped to hear the front-door bell ring, followed by our sisters' pattering stepsrunning upstairs. We didn't seem to care much about the diamond brooch. Even if I had heard Anne's voice calling out, 'Itisit. We've got it!' I think my first words would have been, 'Oh, Anne, howcouldyou go out and frighten us so?'
And of course, even if it had been the brooch, they would never have given it to two children to bring back. Mums would have had to vow it was hers, and all sorts of fuss, I daresay.
Nurse poured out our three cups of tea. She was very sensible; I think she wanted to stop us getting too excited, though she told me afterwards she had been as frightened as frightened: it had been all she could do to keep quiet and not go off just as she was to look for them.
'I'll just go down and have a word with Mr. Barstow,' she said. 'I daresay he'll send round to Mrs. Barry's to see if the young ladies have been there, as Miss Maudie says, dear child. We'll find Mrs. Barry's number in the red book. And you don't know the other family's name?'
'It's a Lady something,' said Hebe. 'Not Mrs., and not Lady Mary or Lady Catharine, but Lady —— the name straight off.'
'That won't help so very much, I'm afraid,' saidnurse. 'Not in Rodney Square. But they'll be sure to know the name at Mrs. Barry's. I shouldn't wonder if Mr. Barstow steps round himself. Now go on with your tea, my dears, while I go downstairs for a minute. Of course there's nothing at all to be really frightened about.'
We pretended to go on with our tea, but we were very unhappy.
It seemed a long time till nurse came back again. We had finished our tea—it was really rather a pretence one, as I said—when we thought we heard her coming upstairs, and ran out to meet her.
It was her: she was coming up the big front staircase, for she still, as she told me afterwards, had a half-silly idea thatperhapsthe two girls were still hiding somewhere in the drawing-rooms, and might be going to jump out to surprise her. When we looked over the balusters and saw it was nurse, we ran down to the first landing towards her.
'Mr. Barstow has gone himself,' she said. 'We've been looking out Rodney Square in the red book; we found Mr. Barry's—it's No. 37—fast enough, but we can't say which is the other lady's, as you've no idea of the name. There's ever so many might do for it; the very next door is a Sir Herbert Mortimer's.'
'No, it was a short name, I'm sure of that. Aren't you, Hebe?' I said.
'Now, my dears, why didn't you say so before?' said nurse. 'A short name would have been some guide.'
'But it was far the best to go straight to the Barrys,' said Maud, which was certainly quite true.
Just then the front bell rang.
'Oh,' said nurse, 'if only it could be the young ladies before your mamma comes in!'
But no, it was not Anne and Serena. It was mums herself.
She seemed to know by instinct that there was something wrong. She glanced up and saw our heads all looking over the railing.
'What is it?' she said. 'Are you all there, dears?'
Nurse and we three looked at each other. It was no use hiding it. So we went on downstairs to the hall.
'It's nothing really wrong, mums, darling,' I said. 'It's only——' but nurse interrupted me.
'It's Miss Warwick and Miss Serena, ma'am, haven't come in yet,' she said. 'We hoped it was them when the bell rang.'
Mother looked bewildered.
'Anne and Serry,' she said. 'What do you mean? Didn't they go to the dancing with the rest of you?'
'Yes, of course; they've been in since then,' said Hebe. 'Miss Stirling brought us all to the door. But they've gone out again, we're afraid;' and seeing mother looking more and more puzzled, she turned to Maud. 'You tell mums, Maud,' she said. 'You know most.'
Mother sat down on a chair in the hall. She seemed quite shaky and frightened. Nurse ran off to get a glass of water, and Maud told her all we knew or guessed in her quiet little particular way. She toldall—about the ornament that had been found, and everything—it was no use hiding anything.
'Oh,' said poor mums at the end, 'I do wish gran had never thought of lending me his diamonds,' and she gave a great sigh. 'But after all,' she went on, 'I don't think we need be very frightened, though it was exceedingly, reallyverywrong of Anne to go, whatever her motive was. I only hope the Barrys sent some one with them to these cousins of theirs; they must have thought it extraordinary for two little girls to be out alone so late.'
Still, on the whole, she did not seem so very frightened now. She drank the water nurse brought, and went into the library, where the lamp was lit, and the fire burning cheerfully.
'Barstow will be back immediately, no doubt?' she said to nurse.
'He'll be as quick as he can, I'm sure,' said nurse. 'But perhaps—if he has gone on to the other house—it may be some little time.'
At that moment, however, we heard the area bell ring, and almost immediately Barstow appeared. His face was rather red, and he seemed out of breath—poor Barstow is getting pretty fat.
'Are they back?' he exclaimed. Then seeing mother, 'I beg your pardon, ma'am. I just ran in to see if the young ladies were returned, for they've not been at Mrs. Barry's—no one there has heard anything of them. I got the address of the other lady's—Lady Nearn's——'
'Oh yes,' Hebe and I interrupted; 'that's the name.'
——'Just in case,' Barstow continued, 'they hadn't come in. But I really begin to think we're on the wrong tack. Perhaps Miss Anne has only gone to some shop, and it seemed making such a hueand cry to go round toanotherhouse, and not of our own acquaintances, you see, ma'am,' he went on, 'and asking for the young ladies. I quite hoped to find they were home.'
Mother considered. She kept her presence of mind, but I could see she was growing really frightened.
'Could they have gone to get cakes for tea, for a surprise,' she said suddenly, 'and have lost their way coming back? There's that German shop in —— Street, where there are such nice cakes.'
It was possible, but after all —— Street was not very far off, and Anne had sense enough to ask the way. And as the minutes went on, and no ring came to the bell, we all looked at each other in increasing trouble.
'You'd better go to Lady Nearn's, Barstow,' said mums at last, 'though it seems such a mere chance. How could they have known what house it was, scarcely having heard the name, and certainly not having been told the number!'
That was what we all thought.
But Barstow was off—like a shot, I was going to say, but it wouldn't be a very good description,—as like a shot as a stout elderly butlercouldbe, we'll say.
And poor mums began walking up and down the room, squeezing her hands together in a way she has when she's awfully worried.
'If only Alan were at home,' I heard her say. 'Oh dear! is it a punishment to me for having made too much of the loss of that unlucky brooch? It would seem less, far less than nothing, in comparison with any harm to the children. Oh, if only Anne were less thoughtless and impulsive, what a comfort it would be!'
And I must say, when I saw the poor, dear little thing— I can't help calling mums a little thing sometimes, though of course she's twice as tall as I am, but she's so sweet and soft, and seems to need to be taken care of—when I saw her, I say, so dreadfully upset, it was all I could do not to feelveryangry with Anne; and yet, you understand, till I could see with my own eyes that she and Serry were all right, I didn'tdareto feel angry.
And all sorts of things began to come into my head, and I am sure they were in mother's already. The one that seemed the plainest was that they had been run over: the streets are not at all well lighted about where we live; there are no shops, and the London gas is horribly dull. Still, it wasn't likelythat they'd both been run over and hurt so badly that they couldn't speak to tell who they were or where they lived. There was some comfort in that. But— I looked at the library clock, which always keeps good time: father sees to it himself—it was getting on for two hours since they had been out! Wherecouldthey be?
Suddenly there came a ring at the bell—rather a sharp ring—and as Alfred flew to open the door, we heard the sort of little bustle that there always is if it is a carriage or cab arriving—tiny clickings of the harness and the coachman's voice. Yes, it was a carriage. We ran out into the hall and saw a footman in a buff greatcoat standing on the steps, up which came two little dark figures, who ran in past him. Then the door was shut, the carriage drove off, and we saw that it was Anne and Serry.
'Oh, children! oh, Anne!' cried mother. 'Wherehaveyou been?'
And we all called out in different voice, 'Oh, Anne!oh, Serry!'
But before she said anything else Anne rushed up to mother.
'Oh, mums, itwasn'tit after all. It was a star with a pearl in the middle. I wassodisappointed!'
That shows how silly Anne is. She had planned, you know, to say nothing about it to mother, and then she bursts out as if mums had sent her to find out about it! Indeed, for that matter, it was only thanks to clever little Maud that any of us knew where they had been, or had any idea rather. For as toknowing, we had not known; we had only guessed.
'Then youwerethere, after all,' said Maud. 'I thought so.'
'But how did you get the address without going to the Barrys for it?' said Hebe. 'We sent there. Barstow went himself. Oh, Anne, you have frightened us so, especially poor darling mums!'
Then at last Anne and Serry began to look rather ashamed of themselves. Mother, after the first exclamation, had not spoken. She went back into the library, looking whiter than before almost, and I felt too disgusted with Anne's thoughtlessness to ask any questions. Still, Iwasvery curious to know all about it, and so were we all.
Anne followed mums into the library—she was really frightened by this time, I think.
'Tell me all about it,' said mother.
So they did—Anne first, of course, and Serenaputting in her word now and then. It was just as we had thought about the first part of it. They had gone to find out about the brooch. Rodney Square wasn't far off, and Anne was sure she knew the way there, and would be back directly. But after all, it wasn't so easy to find as she expected. It makes a great difference when it's dark—the turnings are so like each other, especially where there are no shops. They did get to Rodney Square at last, but they must have gone a very roundabout way, and when theywerethere, there was a new difficulty: they knew the Barrys' house by sight, or they thought they did, but they didn't know the number, only that it was a corner one. They came to one corner, one that looked something like it, and Anne thought they'd better try. So they went up the steps and rang the bell, and a footman opened.
'Does Mrs. Barry live here?' asked Anne.
'No,' he said,' that's not our name.' But he must have been good-natured, for he went on to say he'd get the red book if they liked, and look for it.
'Bury—was that the name?' he said when he had got the book.
'Barry,' Anne was just going to say, when a new thought struck her. It was no good going to twohouses when she might get the information she wanted at one. 'It isn't really Mrs. Barry's house I need,' she said. 'I was only going to ask there for another address—Lady Nern, or some name like that.'
'Oh,' said the man, 'Lady Nearn's!—that's next door, miss. I don't need to look it up.'
They thanked him and set off again, thinking they had been very lucky, thoughIthought if Anne had remembered the name as close as that, she might have looked it up in our own red book at home before starting.
They rang again next door, and again a footman opened; but he wasn't so good-natured as the other, and he was stupid too.
'Is Lady Nearn at home? Can I see her?' asked Anne quite coolly. Anne is as cool as anything when she's full of some idea. Nothing puts her out or frightens her.
It was rather dark, and of course no one expects littleladiesto be walking about alone so late. So it wasn't much wonder the man thought they were errand girls, or beggars of some kind possibly.
'No,' he said, 'my lady's not at home; and if she was she wouldn't be to no tiresome children likeyou.' (We made Anne and Serry tell us exactly all that was said.) 'She leaves word if she's expecting any of her school brats, but she's said nothing this time, so it's no use your teasing.'
IfI'dbeen Anne I'd have been in a fury, but Serry said she didn't seem to mind.
'Oh, please,' she said, 'we're not school-children, and we've come about something very particular indeed. Don't you think Lady Nearn will be in soon?'
That was Anne all over. She'd no intention of giving up now she had got so far.
I suppose the footman heard by her voice that she wasn't a common child.
'Can't you leave a message?' he said rather more civilly.
'No,' said Anne. 'It's something I must see Lady Nearn herself about.'
She had the sense not to speak of the found ornament to him. Of course it would have been no use, as Lady Nearn wouldn't have left it with a servant.
'We're friends of—at least we know Mrs. Barry's children,' Anne went on. 'Can't you let us come in and wait, if Lady Nearn will be in soon?'
For it was very chilly on the doorstep, and indeedboth Anne and Serry were very tired by this time—coming straight from the dancing, and losing their way to Rodney Square, and it being past tea-time and all.
The footman seemed to consider.
'Step inside,' he said at last; 'I'll see what—somebody—says,' They didn't catch the name.
It wasn't nearly such a grand house as the one next door. The hall was quite small, and there was no fireplace in it.
'You can take a seat,' said the man, and he went off. 'Somebody' musthave taken a good while to find, for he didn't come back for ever so long. I suppose once he saw them in the light, he was satisfied they weren't beggars or anything like that.
They were glad to sit down, and it felt warm in the hall compared to outside. There was a door close to where they were. It was one of those houses that have the dining-room at the back and the library to the front, you know, and the door was the library door.
'The door opened a little wider, and two faces appeared.'—c. v. p. 74.'The door opened a little wider, and two faces appeared.'—c. v. p. 74.
After a moment it opened, very slowly and softly, and some one peeped out; then Anne and Serena heard some whispering, and the door opened a little wider, and two faces appeared. It was two children—aboy and a girl, though their heads looked much the same, as they had both short, dark, curly hair, and they both wore sailor tops. They gradually opened the door still more till they could be seen quite well. They were about six or seven, and they stood smiling at the girls, half shy and half pleased.
'Won't you come in here?' said one of them. 'It must be so cold out there. We're having tea in here all by ourselves. It's such fun.'
'We're to stay here till mamma comes home,' said the other. 'We've been by ourselves all day, because Lilly and Tom are ill—we mustn't be in the nursery to disturb them.'
Anne and Serry walked in. 'They didn't see why they shouldn't,' said Serry, and these dear little children were so kind and polite. They handed them the cake and bread-and-butter, and they would have given them tea, only they hadn't cups enough, and they didn't seem quite sure about ringing for more.
George, the footman, was rather cross sometimes, they said. But it wasn't often he was so rude as to leave any one in the cold hall. They'd tell mamma when she came in.
She did come in very soon. The bell rang, andthe children ran to the door to peep out, and when Lady Nearn hurried in, there she found the four as happy as could be—Anne and Serry so amused by the children that they had quite forgotten all about how frightened nurse and all of us would be getting; indeed, they'd almost forgotten what they had come to this strange house about at all.
Lady Nearn did look astonished. For half a minute she took Serena for Flossy Barry.
'Flossy,' she said, 'I wrote to your——' but then she stopped, and just stared in surprise.
Anne had got back her wits by then, and she explained it all—how it was partly, anyway, her fault about the brooch being lost, and how pleased she'd be to find it, and all about what Flossy had told them, and how she and Serry had come off by themselves, not even knowing the name, or the number of the house.
Lady Nearn was very kind, but I don't think she quite took in that it was really naughty of them to have come out without leave. You see, Anne hadn't got to think it naughty herself, yet. She fetched the brooch just to show Anne—though, indeed, from the way Anne spoke of it, she was sure it wasn't it, and of course it wasn't!
Anne could nearly have cried with disappointment.
Then it did strike Lady Nearn to ask how they were going home again. It was quite dark by now. She couldn't send a servant with them, for the house was rather upset—three of the children were ill.
'Indeed,' she said, 'I must write to Mrs. Warwick to explain. I hope no harm will come of it, as you have only seen the twins, who are quite well, so far, and separated from the others.'
But all the same she seemed anxious to get them away, and she suddenly rang the bell and told George—who must have looked rather astonished to see the 'school brats' such friends with his mistress—to run round to the stables and tell the coachman to call at the house on his way to fetch Lord Nearn from somewhere or other. That was how Anne and Serry came home in a carriage.
We didn't hear the whole ins and outs of the story at once, but we made the girls tell it us over afterwards.
Just now Anne could hardly get through with it; for she began crying when she understood how frightened mums had been, and begging her to forgive her.
Mums did, of course—she always does. And thenshe sent us upstairs to finish our tea. But as we left the library I heard her say to herself—
'I wonder what Lady Nearn can be going to write to me about.'
Serena was quite jolly, and as hungry as anything.
'All's well that ends well,' she said, tossing her hair.
Anne turned upon her pretty sharply. I wasn't sorry.
'Serry,' she said, 'I know you're not to blame like me, for I made you come. But you might see now how wrong it was, as I do. And "ends well" indeed! Why, we've given mums and all of them a dreadful fright, and we haven't found the brooch.'
And—but I must tell that in a new chapter. No, it wasn't 'ends well'yet, by a long way.
'If only you'd askedme, Anne,' said Miss Maud Wisdom.
I was alone with mums in her room the next morning when her letters were brought up. The poor little thing had a headache and was very tired, and, for once, she hadn't got up to breakfast. She had not been able to go to sleep the night before—really she had had a lot of worries lately—and then when she did, it was so nearly morning that she slept on ever so much longer than usual. For she's not a bit lazy, like some mothers I know.
When shedoeshave breakfast in bed, she lets me look after her. It's awfully jolly. Father is sure to say as he goes off, 'You'll see to your mother, Jack.'
The girls don't mind. Anne wouldn't be much good at anything like that—at least, she wouldn't have beenthen, though she's ever so much betternowabout forgetting things, and spilling things, and seeming as if all her fingers were thumbs, you know.Hebe is very handy, and she always was. But she never put herself before Anne, and so we got in the way of me being the one to do most for mums. I told you at the beginning—didn't I?—that some people might think me rather a girl-y boy, but I don't mind one scrap of an atom if they do. I have my own ideas. I know the splendidest cricketer and footballer you ever saw is a fellow whose sister's a cripple, and she can't bear any one to lift her but him, because he's so gentle. And I've seen a young doctor in our village doing up a baby that was burnt nearly to death, as ifhisfingers were fairy's, and afterwards I heard that he'd been the bravest of the brave in some awful battles in Burmah, or somewhere like that. Indeed, he got so wounded with cutting in to carry out the men as they dropped—it was what they call a skirmish, I think, not a proper battle where they have ambulances and carrying people and everything ready, I suppose—that he's had to leave off being a soldier-doctor for good.
And now that the girls know it can't be for long, except in holidays, that I can look after mums, they're very good about letting me be with her as much as I can. And I've got them into pretty good ways. I don't think she'll miss me soverymuch when I go.
Well, I settled the breakfast tray with Rowley, and nothing was forgotten. I let Rowley carry it up, because I knew it was safer for her to do it, and there's no sense in bragging you're bigger than you are, and can carry things that need long arms when you know you can't. But I walked beside her, opening the doors and watching that the things didn't slide about; that's how I always do. And then when the tray was safe on the bed, and I had arranged the 'courses,' first the roll and butter and ham and egg—I cracked the top of the egg and got it ready—and then the muffin and marmalade, my nice time began. I squatted at the foot of the bed, near enough to reach mums anything she wanted, and then we talked.
We talk of lots of things when we're alone like that. Mums tells me of anything that's on her mind, and I comfort her up a bit. Of course we talked about the unlucky brooch, and about Anne, and how easily she and Serry might have been run over, or something like that.
'Yes, indeed,' said mums, 'I often think we're not half thankful enough for the misfortunes thatdon'thappen.'
Just then there came a knock at the door.
'Bother!' thought I. I don't think Isaidit, for mums thinks it's such an ugly word.
It was Rowley again.
'Your letters, ma'am,' she said. 'They were forgotten when I brought up the tray.'
There were only three. Two were nothing particular—accounts or something. But the third was in a strange handwriting, and mums opened it quickly.
'It's from Lady Nearn,' she said. 'I think it was rather me to write to her. It's very kind of her, but——'
She began reading it, and her face got very grave.
'Do leave it till you've finished your breakfast, mums,' I said. 'You've not even finished the first course.'
But she scarcely listened to me.
'Oh, Jack!' she said, 'I'm afraid we haven't got to the end of the troubles caused by poor gran's diamonds yet. Oh dear, I shall be so uneasy for some days to come!'
I couldn't make out what she meant, and when she saw my puzzled face she went on to explain. Lady Nearn's letter was very kind, but she thought it right to tell mother that Anne and Serena hadrun into some risk by coming to her house the night before, for it was quite decided that three of her children had got whooping-cough. Not the two they had seen; at least she stillhopedthey—the twins—wouldn't get it, for they were very delicate, and they had been separated from the others. But still there was no telling how infection might be caught, and she advised mother to be prepared for her little girls having perhaps got the illness.
Mums did look worried.
'It's a most tiresome and trying thing,' she said; 'and neither Hebe nor Maud is very strong. Perhaps I shouldn't have told you, Jack. You must be sure not to speak of it to any of them.'
I promised, of course. And then poor mums, instead of having a nice rest, declared she must get up at once, and go off to catch the doctor before he went out. Wasn't it too bad? She wanted to know what to do—whether it was any good trying to separate Anne and Serry from the rest of us, and how soon it would show, and a lot of things like that. For mother was an only child herself, and she always says she isn't at all experienced about children. She's had to learn everything by us, you see.
Well, she did catch the doctor, and came backlooking rather jollier. He had comforted her up. There were ten chances to one against the girls having got it, he said; and as for separating them, now they had been with us all, it would be nonsense.
Ah, well! doctors don't know everything.I'dhave separated them fast enough, I know; and it would have been a good punishment for Anne and Serena to have been shut up for a day or two; perhaps it would have made them think twice before doing some wild, silly thing again.
So mums and I kept our own counsel. She told father, of course, but no one else, not even nurse—it would only have made her nervous. We sent round once or twice to ask how the little Nearns were—mums wrote notes, I think, as she didn't want the servants chattering. And we were very sorry to hear that the poor twins had got it after all, and rather badly.
'So you see, Jack,' said mother, 'it wasn't any good separating them. Dr. Marshall must know.'
I think this was rather a comfort to her. If the doctor had been right about one thing, there was more chance of his being right about another.
And for two or three days we all kept quite well, and mother began to breathe freely.
But, alas! I think it was about the fourth morning after that evening, when I ran into the nursery on my way down to prayers, I found mother there, talking to nurse. Mother looked very grave, much worse than nurse, who didn't seem particularly put out.
'It's only a cold, ma'am, I'm sure,' she was saying. 'A cold soon makes a child feverish and heavy. I don't think, indeed, there's any need for the doctor; but it's just as you like, of course.'
Then 'it' had come. Poor mums! I stole up to her and slipped my hand into hers. I understood, though nurse didn't. It was rather nice to feel that I was mother's sort of confi—— I'm not sure of the word. But who was it that was ill? My heart did go down when I heard it was not Anne or Serry—really, I think I'd have said they deserved it—but poor old Maudie! Sensible, good little Maud, who never did naughty, silly things, or teased anybody. It did seem too bad.
'May I run in to see her?' I asked.
Nurse would have said, 'Yes, of course, Master Jack,' in a moment, but mother shook her head.
'Not till Dr. Marshall has been, dear,' she said; and she gave my hand a little squeeze. I'm afraidshe began to wish she had separated the girls after all.
I could see that nurse thought mums very funny, as she went on asking ever so many questions about Maud—above all, was she coughing?
'A little,' said nurse; 'rather a croupy, odd-sounding sort of cough.' But she was too old for croup, of course. It was just cold.
'I must go down to prayers now,' said mother. 'I will come up immediately after breakfast, and I will send for Dr. Marshall. I am sure it will be best.'
Just then there came the sound of a cough from Maud's room—a queer, croaky sort of cough—and we heard the poor little thing call out—
'Oh, mums, is that you? Do come to see me. I does feel so funny.'
'Yes, darling, I will come very soon,' said mother. It was so queer to hear Maudie talking babyishly—she always did if she was at all ill. As we went downstairs I was sure mums was crying a little.
Well, that was the beginning of it all. When the doctor came, of course he looked very owly, and said he couldn't say for a day or two; and pretended to be jolly, and told mother she wasn't to be so silly,and all that kind of talk. But after his 'day or two'—no, indeed, before they were over—he had to allow there was some cause for grave looks. For by then they'dallgot it—all except me! Just fancy, all four of them! The nursery was like a menagerie, for no sooner did one cough than all the others started too, and they all coughed different ways. If it hadn't been really horrid it would have been rather absurd—something like the mumps, you know. It'sallyou can do not to laugh at each other when you've got the mumps. I'll never forget Serry's face,—never, as long as I live, and she's the prettiest of us, I suppose. I saw my own once in the glass, but I wouldn't look again. And yet it's awfully horrid. It hurts—my goodness! doesn't it just?
There was no good separatingme. I made mums see that, and I promised her I'd do my very best not to get the whooping-cough; and I didn't! That was something to be proud of, now, wasn't it? You mightn't think so, but it was; for I really believe I stopped myself having it. Ever so often, when I heard them all crowing and choking, and holding on to the table, and scolding—how Serry did scold sometimes—over it, I felt as if I was going to startcoughing and whooping too— I did, I give you my word. But I justwouldn't. I said to myself it was all fancy and nonsense—though I don't a bit believe it was—and I drank some water, and got all right again. And after a week or two, the catchy feeling in my throat went off.
It was a good thing I kept well, for mums did need some comfort. The worst of it didn't come for a good while—that's the tiresome part of the whooping-cough, you never know where you are with it, it lasts such a time; and when you think it's about over, very often you find children have got some other illness from it—I mean something the matter with their chests or throats, or bothers like that.
It was Maud that got it first, and seemed the worst for a good while; but then she took a turn and got hungry again, and the doctor began to speak of our soon going away somewhere for change of air; and we were getting jollier, and mums looking less worried, when all at once Hebe got very bad indeed. It was partly her own fault, though she hadn't meant it. She had been feeling very ill indeed, but she didn't like to say so, for she thought most likely the others felt just as bad, and you knowshe's dreadfully unselfish. Often and often she'd get up in the middle of the night if Serry called out she was thirsty or anything—very often it was only that she fancied the clothes were slipping off, or some nonsense like that—and Hebe may have caught cold by that. Anyway, there came one morning that poor Hebe couldn't get up at all; indeed, she could scarcely speak. We all ran in to see what was the matter, and she just smiled a tiny little smile, and put out her poor little hand—it was burning hot—and whispered, 'I daresay I'll be better soon.'
Nurse was frightened; but she's very good and sensible. She just told me to go down to mother's room and ask her to come up, as Hebe had had a bad night, and perhaps we'd better send for the doctor to come early. And, of course, I knew how to do it without startling mums more than could be helped.
All the same, if she had been dreadfully startled it couldn't have been worse than had to be. For it was the beginning of Hebe's being awfully ill. I can't tell you properly what it was; it was something about her lungs, so bad that she was wrapped in blankets and carried down to a room beside mother's, where she could be perfectly quiet. Anda strange nurse came—one with a cap and an apron, like you see in pictures of children in hospitals; she was rather pretty and not old at all, and she and mums took turns of watching Hebe; and the air of the room had to be kept exactly the same hotness, like a vinery, you know. And there was a queer, strange, solemn feeling all about, that I can't explain. We all felt it, even though they didn't tell us—not evenme—how bad the poor little sweet was. The angel of death came very near us that time, mums told us afterwards, and I know it was true. One night I almost felt it myself. I woke all of a sudden, and sat bolt up in bed. I had thought I heard Hebe calling me—I was sure I did—and then I remembered I'd been dreaming about her. I thought we were walking in a wood. It was evening, or afternoon, and it seemed to be getting dark, and I fancied we were looking for the others—it was muddled up with their having gone out that night, you see—and I felt very worried and unhappy.
'Hebe,' I said, 'it's getting very dark.'
'Yes,' she said, 'it is, darker and darker, Jack'; and her voice sounded strange. 'Jack,' she went on, 'hold my hand, I'm rather frightened'; and I felt that she was shivering.
I think I was rather frightened myself, but I tried to comfort her up.
'Perhaps it'll get lighter again after a bit,' I said. 'I don't think the sun's set yet.'
'Hasn't it?' she said. 'I think it's just going to, though. Jack, can you say that verse about the shadows or the darkness? I can't remember it.'
But I couldn't remember it properly either; however I tried. I could only say, '"I will be with thee"—is it that, Hebe?—"I will be with thee."' And she squeezed my hand tighter, and I thought she said, 'Yes, that's it, Jack.'
And then again I fancied she pulled her hand out of mine, and ran on in front quite fast, calling joyfully, 'I see them, Jack. Come on quick— Jack, Jack.'
It was then I awoke, and I found I had been squeezing my own hand quite tight. But I felt sure Hebe had been calling me.
I sat up and listened, but there was no sound. I began to cry; I thought Hebe was dead, and then I remembered that the verse I couldn't get right in my dream was about the valley of the shadow of death, and at first that made me feel worse, till allof a sudden it came into my head that it wasn't 'the valley ofdeath' but only 'the valley of theshadowof death,' And that seemed to mean that Hebe had beennearit—near death, I mean,—'near enough for the shadow of his wings to fall over her,' was the way mums said it when I told her my dream afterwards. That comforted me. I got out of bed very softly in the darkness and crept to the landing, where the balusters run round, and listened.
The gas lamp was burning faintly down below, and I heard a slight rustling as if people were moving about. And after a while the door of a room opened softly, and two men came out. It was father and the doctor. I couldn't have believed big men could have moved so quietly, and I listened as if I was all ears.
'I think, now——' was the most I could catch of what Dr. Marshall said.
But then came much plainer—of course I know his voice so well—from father, 'Thank God.'
And I knew Hebe was better.
I shall always think of that night, always, even when I'm quite old, when I read that verse. Afterwards mother explained to me more about it. Shesaid she thought that to good people—you know what I mean by 'good people'—Christians—it should always seem as if, after all, even when they really do have to die, it is only theshadowthat they have to go through—'the valley of the shadow of death'; that Death itself in any dreadful lasting way is not really there, because of the presence that is promised to us—'I will be with thee.'
I can't say it anything like as nicely as mums did, but I do understand it pretty well all the same; and if ever I feel frightened of death in a wrong way, I think about it. Mother said we're meant to be afraid of death in one way, just as we would be afraid and are meant to be afraid of anything dark and unknown and very solemn. But that's different.
And dear little Hebe had really been some way into the valley of the shadow. When she gotquitewell, she told me about it—of the feelings and thoughts she had had that night when for some hours they thought she was going far away from us, out of this world altogether. For she had had all her senses. She thought about us all, and wished she could see us, and she wished she could hold my hand—'your dear, rough, brown hand, Jack,' shesaid. (I'm not quite as particular to keep my hands very nice as I should be, I'm afraid!)
Wasn't it queer? I'm sure her feelings had come up to me through the floor and made me dream.
Now what happened next was this—in one way it was almost the nicest thing that we had ever had; that is to say, it would have been but for the pull-backs to it. Very jolly things generally do have pull-backs, I think.
This was it. Everybody who knows anything about children's illnesses knows that when they're getting better they should have change of air, especially after whooping-cough. Indeed, even before they're much better of whooping-cough they're often sent away, for change of air helps actually to cure it. And a week or two after Hebe had been so very bad, the doctor began to talk of the others going away.
It was the end of April now, and it was nice, fine weather, and promised to be a mild spring and early summer. Anne and Serry had really not been very ill in themselves, though they had been noisy enoughwith their coughing. Maud had been the worst next to Hebe, but as she had begun first she had got better first. And she got better in a very sensible way. She did everything in a sensible way, you know. She never fussed or fidgeted, and was very patient and cheerful. She took all her medicines, and even if nurse or mums forgot anything the doctor had said, you may be sure, if Maud herself had heard it,shewouldn't let it be forgotten. Yes, really, she was too 'old-fashioned' for anything, as old nurse said. She wasn't quite as sweet as Hebe— Hebe looked like a little crushed flower when she first began to be better; you could scarcely help kissing her every minute. She isn't so what people call 'clinging' as Hebe, but still she's a good, kind little girl, and it's not hard to get on with her. My life would be a very different affair if I had four sisters all like Hebe and Maud—wouldn't it just?
So Maud was pretty well again in herself, and the other two hadn't much the matter with them, and I of course was all right, though dear old mums said I was looking pale, and that I'd been such a comfort to her and knocked myself up. I think she said it partly to show that she wasn't thinking less of me than of the girls because I hadn't been ill.
And just as things were like that, Dr. Marshall said we should go away for change of air.
But unluckily 'we' only meant Anne and Serena and Maudie and I. Not Hebe—no, indeed. That was quite another story.Wewanted 'bracing,' the doctor said—nice fresh hill or moor air, but for Hebe anything like cold or strong air was out of the question. In the first place she couldn't be moved for some time yet, and when she did go it must be to somewhere mild. He spoke of somewhere abroad first, but then he thought it would be getting too hot at the warm places, and as far as the others were concerned, there were just as good in England. So in a sort of a way it came to be settled that when Hebe did go, it should be to the Isle of Wight.
That didn't fix anything about the rest of us, however. And there were a good many things to think of.
I knew all about them. You see mums has always told me everything. She knows she can trust me. It's with it being so that I have anything to write. I'm behind the scenes. I don't see how children who are just told things straight off like, 'You're going to the seaside on Tuesday,' or 'Nurse is leaving to be married, and you're not going to have a regular nurse any more now you're so big'— Idon't see how they could have anything interesting to write. It's the way things work out that I think makes life interesting, and children don't often look at things that way. But I couldn't have helped it, for I knew all about how things happened, and how mother planned and thought them over, and when she was happy and when she was anxious. It was all like pictures moving along—one leading into another.
Just now mother was anxious. I've said already that we're not rich—not as rich as we look. That's to say it's not father's and mother's money, but gran's. Of course you might say that's the same thing—father being an only child and gran so proud of him being so clever and distinguished, though not in ways that make much money. But it isn't the same, however kind gran is.
And just now it was specially not the same. For, of course, long before this, gran had had to be told about the sad loss of the diamond ornament, and it wasn't in nature for him to bepleasedabout it, now was it?
He'd very likely have been still more vexed if it hadn't been for the whooping-cough coming so soon upon the top of it. He didn't know that the onehad brought the other, both thanks to Anne. Father and mother thought there was no need to tell him that part of it, for he was always ready to be down upon Anne. Her careless, thoughtless ways were just what worried him particularly.
But he was kind and loving in his own way. He never wrote another word of reproach about the diamond thing after he heard of the trouble we were in. He was very glad I didn't get the illness. I don't know that I am a special pet of his, but I'm the only boy and named after him. I daresay it's that, though, as far as real favourites go, I think it's Hebe he cares most for. He was terribly sorry about her, and wrote that if she needed anything expensive, mother wasn't to give two thoughts to the cost. That letter came just about the time Dr. Marshall said we should all go away, and mums and I had a talk over it.
'It's very good of gran,', said mums. 'I do think he's been wonderfully good. But still it doesn't show me what to do. You see, Jack, when Hebe goes away Imustgo with her—I think Rowley and I could manage without nurse—and that would be pretty expensive to begin with. Still, I shouldn't so much mind writing to him about that, but it's for therest of you. I don't see how I'm to manage it, and I don't want to worry your father just now. He is so busy with his new book, and he's been so put back with the anxiety and bad nights while Hebe was so ill.'
For you know it isn't only writing books father does. He's busy all day with his other work. I don't think I should say exactly what his appointment is, for then you'd know who he was, but it's to do with Parliament and the Government.
'Why can't we go to Furzely?' I said stupidly. For I had been told all about it having been let for six months. Furzely is our—at least gran's—country-house. It's not bad, but we're rather tired of it, and the housekeeper is grumpy. 'That wouldn't cost much, would it?'
'My dear boy, you forget, the Wilmingtons are to be there till August.'
'Oh, of course,' I said.
'And besides, Furzely isn't the sort of air Dr. Marshall wants for you all just now,' she went on. 'It's healthy, but it's nothing particular; it's not hill air or moor air. Besides, it's out of the question. Strayling or Fewforest—those were the places he said, or somewhere in their neighbourhood. And Idon't know either of them in the least. I've no idea if there are lodgings or houses to be got; besides a house would cost far too much, and I should have to send two or three servants. Oh dear, what troubles have come with gran's lending me that unlucky ornament!'
'I don't think that's quite fair, mums,' I couldn't help saying. 'The troubles have come through Anne's fault. I wishshewould see it that way, but I don't believe she thinks about it much now.'
'I hope she does,' said mother. 'And of course,' she went on, 'it's wrong of me to grumble so.Illnessescome through nobody's fault! And I should be so thankful that Hebe is getting better that nothing else should seem anything. But it is real practical difficulty about money just now that I mind the most. You see, dear, I have to pay all your teachers just the same. It wouldn't be fair to Miss Stirling or any of them to stop just because the girls have got ill.'
I felt very sorry, and I didn't really know what to propose.
'Isn't there any one you could ask about those places?' I said. 'Mightn't we perhaps get lodgings at a farmhouse, where it wouldn't be at all dear?Not grand ones, you know, mums. And we'd all wait on ourselves a good deal, so that nurse could help the farmer's wife to cook for us if she needed. Nurse loves cooking.'
Mums' face cleared a little. She does worry sometimes more than she needs to.
'That would be very nice, Jack,' she said. 'I wonder if there's anybody who could tell us about where such a place is likely to be found.'
'We'd live quite plainly,' I went on. 'It would be fun to be almost like poor children for a while. I don't meanpoor, poor children, but like rather well-off cottage children.'
'H-m,' said mother. 'I don't think you'd find it as amusing as you think. However, you would of course have to live plainly in some ways, but still it must be a comfortable sort of place. It would not do to run any risks for the girls after their illness.'