The Girls and I: A Veracious History

CHAPTER VI
THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW

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 she does have 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 been then, though she's ever so much better now about 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 if his fingers 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 so very much 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 that don't happen.'

Just then there came a knock at the door.

'Bother!' thought I. I don't think I said it, 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 had run 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 still hoped they – 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 back looking 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'd have 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 afraid she 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'd all got 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's all you 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 separating me. 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 start coughing and whooping too – I did, I give you my word. But I just wouldn'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 know she'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. And a 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 even me– 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 all of a sudden it came into my head that it wasn't 'the valley of death' but only 'the valley of the shadow of death,' And that seemed to mean that Hebe had been near it – 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. She said 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 the shadow that 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 got quite well, 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,' she said. (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.

CHAPTER VII
FOUR 'IF'S' AND A COINCIDENCE

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 enough with 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, she wouldn'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. We wanted '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' – I don'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 be pleased about 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 one had 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 I must go 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 the rest 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 I don'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 wish she would 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. Illnesses come 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 mean poor, 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.'

Just at that moment Alfred brought in a note that had come, and 'they,' he said – why do servants always say 'they' for a messenger when there's only one? – 'were waiting for an answer.'

The note was from young Mrs. Chasserton, Cousin Dorothea. She had just come back to London, she said, and she was so sorry to hear how ill "the children" had all been' – thank you, all but one, if you please. And would mother come to see her? She had got a horrid cold, and couldn't go out, but she wasn't a bit afraid of whooping-cough – she'd had it. 'Please come to tea this afternoon, and bring any child that's well enough to go out.'

'Oh, I can't,' said mother, 'I've too much on my mind!'

'Oh, do go,' I said, 'it'll do you good. You've not had the least little change for ever so long. And let me come with you, mums, as the others mayn't go out yet. I like Cousin Dorothea; and perhaps she could tell us of some farmhouse, as she's always lived in the country.'

So mother wrote a word to say she'd go.

And that afternoon we did go. I had never been in the Chassertons' house before. It was a nice little place, and it was all decked out like a doll's house with Dorothea's wedding presents. I amused myself very well by walking round the room looking at them all. They weren't very well arranged. There was a corner cupboard with glass doors, filled with china, and it was all mixty-maxty. Blue or plain-coloured china on the same shelf as many-coloured Dresden or oriental. (I know something about china, and I mean to know more before I've done with it.) The key was in the lock, and I couldn't resist opening the doors and moving one or two pieces to see how much better they might look.

But just then Dorothea called me over to tea. She was a sensible girl. She'd had some bread-and-butter and jam ready spread, thicker than those silly wafer slices ladies eat, and the jam was my favourite – strawberry. I felt very comfortable. I was glad I'd made mother come. She looked brighter.

I spoke to Cousin Dorothea about the bad way her china was arranged.

'Yes,' she said, 'I know it is.'

She spoke quite gravely, but still I thought I saw a kind of a smile go round the corners of her mouth. I suppose she was thinking it was very funny for a boy to care how china was arranged. I don't see why. Boys have got eyes, and some of them have got good taste – more than some girls.

'It was washed while we were away,' she said, 'and the housemaid put it all in, according to the size of the things, I suppose. Nothing to do with the colour or kinds.'

'I've moved a few of them,' I said; 'they look better already. You've got some nice bits; there are one or two very old; I think I saw some Worcester.'

'How learned you are, Jack!' said Dorothea.

But I didn't see it. Nothing's easier than to pick up a smattering – just enough to tell one cup from another, and to seem very wise about it. I didn't mean to do that.

'No,' I said; 'I'm not. There's one cup I can't make out at all.'

'Do you mean the one with the deep purplish flowers?' said she. 'Oh, it is sharp of you to have spotted that one! No one knows for certain what it is; it was given me by an old servant of ours who married and went to live up in Yorkshire; and once when we were at Harrogate we went to see her. She said there were a few old pieces of it in the cottage her husband and she lived at when they were first married, and she gave us each one for a keepsake.'

'Was she your nurse?' asked mother.

'No, only a housemaid; but she was a particularly nice woman, superior to her station. And she and her husband have got on very well. He was under-bailiff to Lord Uxfort up in the north, and then an uncle died and left him a small farm near – oh, where is it near? I forget, – but it's not so very far from London. I've always promised to go to see her some day.'

'That reminds me,' said mums. 'I haven't told you our present difficulty.'

Till now Dorothea had been hearing about the whooping-cough, and asking all about the diamond brooch losing. She had known about it, for father had written to Mr. Chasserton to ask if Cousin Dorothea could possibly throw any light upon it, – had she noticed it on their way home, or had she only noticed it going there, or when? – but she hadn't been able to remember anything at all.