“Our Village” in 1913.
The Village of Three Mile Cross—A general view looking towards Reading.
We can almost picture the scene with the heavy farm-wagon, broad-wheeled and lumbering, crunching its ponderous way along the carriage-drive and out through the gates, with some of the dogs prancing and bounding, now before and now behind, barking at the unusual sight. Having cleared the gates there would be a turn to the left, along a short stretch of narrow lane emerging into the road from the village, where a sharp turn again to the left would take them on beneath over-arching elms—leafless and gaunt—over a tiny bridge spanning a tributary of the Loddon, past an occasional cottage where twitching parlour-blinds would betray the stealthy interest of the inmates in the passing of the folk from the big house; on until the road branched, where the right-hand fork would be taken, and so, by a gentle curve, the wagon would emerge by the side of the George and Dragon into the Basingstoke Road. And now, with a crack of the whip—for the last few steps must be performed in good style—the wagon would sweep once more to the left, where the finger-post, by the pond opposite, pointed to Reading, and in a moment or two draw up in the fore-court of the Swan, there to unload into the cottage next door.
Mossy and Lucy would be waiting to receive the goods, and the cobbler opposite would watch the proceedings with more than usual interest, for to him, that night, the village gossips would surely repair for news, he being so favourably placed for the garnering of it.
While the wagon is being unloaded we will transfer ourselves again to Bertram House.
The dogs are scampering and scurrying in the undergrowth of the now neglected shrubbery, chasing leaves which the March winds scatter crisply. The house is gaunt and cheerless as houses always are on such occasions. Fitful gleams of watery sunshine streak through the trees across to the steps down which two sad women take their slow way. The dogs bound towards them and are greeted and stroked, the while they curve their sleek and graceful bodies in an ecstasy of delight.
Along the carriage-drive they walk, with its surface all overgrown with weeds and marked with the heavy wheels of the wagon, the tracks of which, deeply cut in the yielding road, they now follow. Once through the gates they turn for a backward glance of “My own cotemporary trees” and then a “long farewell to all.” At the end of the lane they cast one sad look back—there is pain in the eyes of both—then turning they follow the wheel-marks until the cottage is reached, the door flies open—for Mossy has been watching for them—and all that the cobbler sees of their arrival will force him to draw on his imagination if his inquisitive neighbours are not to be disappointed.
“Your delightful letter, my dear Sir William,” wrote Miss Mitford shortly afterwards, “arrived at the very moment when kindness was most needed and most welcome—just as we were leaving our dear old home to come to this new one. Without being in general very violently addicted to sentimentality, I was, as you may imagine, a little grieved to leave the spot where I had passed so many happy years. The trees, and fields, and sunny hedgerows, however little distinguished by picturesque beauty, were to me as old friends. Women have more of this natural feeling than the stronger sex; they are creatures of home and habit, and ill brook transplanting. We, however, are not quite transplanted yet—rather, as the gardeners say, ‘laid by the heels.’ We have only moved to a little village street, situate on the turnpike road, between Basingstoke and the illustrious and quarrelsome borough [Reading]. Our residence is a cottage—no, not a cottage—it does not deserve the name—a messuage or tenement, such as a little farmer who had made twelve or fourteen hundred pounds might retire to when he left off business to live on his means. It consists of a series of closets, the largest of which may be about eight feet square, which they call parlours and kitchens and pantries; some of them minus a corner, which has been unnaturally filched for a chimney; others deficient in half a side, which has been truncated by the shelving roof. Behind is a garden about the size of a good drawing-room, with an arbour which is a complete sentry-box of privet. On one side a public-house, on the other a village shop, and right opposite a cobbler’s stall.
“Notwithstanding all this, ‘the cabin,’ as Bobadil says, ‘is convenient.’ It is within reach of my dear old walks; the banks where I find my violets; the meadows full of cowslips; and the woods where the wood-sorrel blows. We are all beginning to get settled and comfortable, and resuming our usual habits. Papa has already had the satisfaction of setting the neighbourhood to rights by committing a disorderly person, who was the pest of the Cross, to Bridewell. Mamma has furbished up an old dairy, and made it into a not incommodious store room. I have lost my only key, and stuffed the garden with flowers. It is an excellent lesson of condensation—one which we all wanted. Great as our merits might be in some points, we none of us excelled in compression. Mamma’s tidiness was almost as diffuse as her daughter’s litter. I expect we shall be much benefited by this squeeze; though at present it sits upon us as uneasily as tight stays, and is just as awkward looking. Indeed, my great objection to a small room always was its extreme unbecomingness to one of my enormity. I really seem to fill it—like a blackbird in a goldfinch’s cage. The parlour looks all me.”