The E. Nesbit Megapack: 26 Classic Novels and Stories

by E. Nesbit

In her heart she could hear the pretty, soft little loving voice of the baby Lamb—so different from the affected tones of the dreadful grown-up Lamb (one of whose names was Devereux)—saying, “Me love Panty—wants to come to own Panty.”

  “Oh, let’s go home, for goodness’ sake,” she said. “You shall say whatever you like in the morning—if you can,” she added in a whisper.

  It was a gloomy party that went home through the soft evening. During Anthea’s remarks Robert had again made play with the pin and the bicycle tyre, and the Lamb (whom they had to call St. Maur or Devereux or Hilary) seemed really at last to have had his fill of bicycle-mending. So the machine was wheeled.

  The sun was just on the point of setting when they arrived at the White House. The four elder children would have liked to linger in the lane till the complete sunsetting turned the grown-up Lamb (whose Christian names I will not further weary you by repeating) into their own dear tiresome baby brother. But he, in his grown-upness, insisted on going on, and thus he was met in the front garden by Martha.

  Now you remember that, as a special favour, the Psammead had arranged that the servants in the house should never notice any change brought about by the wishes of the children. Therefore Martha merely saw the usual party, with the baby Lamb, about whom she had been desperately anxious all the afternoon, trotting beside Anthea, on fat baby legs, while the children, of course, still saw the grown-up Lamb (never mind what names he was christened by), and Martha rushed at him and caught him in her arms, exclaiming—

  “Come to his own Martha, then—a precious poppet!”

  The grown-up Lamb (whose names shall now be buried in oblivion) struggled furiously. An expression of intense horror and annoyance was seen on his face. But Martha was stronger than he. She lifted him up and carried him into the house. None of the children will ever forget that picture. The neat grey-flannel-suited grown-up young man with the green necktie and the little black mustache—fortunately, he was slightly built, and not tall—struggling in the sturdy arms of Martha, who bore him away helpless, imploring him, as she went, to be a good boy now, and come and have his nice bremmink! Fortunately, the sun set as they reached the doorstep, the bicycle disappeared, and Martha was seen to carry into the house the real live darling sleepy two-year-old Lamb. The grown-up Lamb (nameless henceforth) was gone for ever.

  “For ever,” said Cyril, “because, as soon as ever the Lamb’s old enough to be bullied, we must jolly well begin to bully him, for his own sake—so that he mayn’t grow up like that.”

  “You shan’t bully him,” said Anthea stoutly,—“not if I can stop it.”

  “We must tame him by kindness,” said Jane.

  “You see,” said Robert, “if he grows up in the usual way, there’ll be plenty of time to correct him as he goes along. The awful thing today was his growing up so suddenly. There was no time to improve him at all.”

  “He doesn’t want any improving,” said Anthea as the voice of the Lamb came cooing through the open door, just as she had heard it in her heart that afternoon—

  “Me loves Panty—wants to come to own Panty!”

  CHAPTER X

  SCALPS

  Probably the day would have been a greater success if Cyril had not been reading The Last of the Mohicans. The story was running in his head at breakfast, and as he took his third cup of tea he said dreamily, “I wish there were Red Indians in England—not big ones, you know, but little ones, just about the right size for us to fight.”

  Everyone disagreed with him at the time and no one attached any importance to the incident. But when they went down to the sand-pit to ask for a hundred pounds in two-shilling pieces with Queen Victoria’s head on, to prevent mistakes—which they had always felt to be a really reasonable wish that must turn out well—they found out that they had done it again! For the Psammead, which was very cross and sleepy, said—

  “Oh, don’t bother me. You’ve had your wish.”

  “I didn’t know it,” said Cyril.

  “Don’t you remember yesterday?” said the Sand-fairy, still more disagreeably. “You asked me to let you have your wishes wherever you happened to be, and you wished this morning, and you’ve got it.”

  “Oh, have we?” said Robert. “What is it?”

  “So you’ve forgotten?” said the Psammead, beginning to burrow. “Never mind; you’ll know soon enough. And I wish you joy of it! A nice thing you’ve let yourselves in for!”

  “We always do somehow,” said Jane sadly.

  And now the odd thing was that no one could remember anyone’s having wished for anything that morning. The wish about the Red Indians had not stuck in anyone’s head. It was a most anxious morning. Everyone was trying to remember what had been wished for, and no one could, and everyone kept expecting something awful to happen every minute. It was most agitating; they knew from what the Psammead had said, that they must have wished for something more than usually undesirable, and they spent several hours in most agonizing uncertainty. It was not till nearly dinner-time that Jane tumbled over The Last of the Mohicans,—which had of course, been left face downwards on the floor,—and when Anthea had picked her and the book up she suddenly said, “I know!” and sat down flat on the carpet.

  “Oh, Pussy, how awful! It was Indians he wished for—Cyril—at breakfast, don’t you remember? He said, ‘I wish there were Red Indians in England,’—and now there are, and they’re going about scalping people all over the country, as likely as not.”

  “Perhaps they’re only in Northumberland and Durham,” said Jane soothingly. It was almost impossible to believe that it could really hurt people much to be scalped so far away as that.

  “Don’t you believe it!” said Anthea. “The Sammyadd said we’d let ourselves in for a nice thing. That means they’ll come here. And suppose they scalped the Lamb!”

  “Perhaps the scalping would come right again at sunset,” said Jane; but she did not speak so hopefully as usual.

  “Not it!” said Anthea. “The things that grow out of the wishes don’t go. Look at the fifteen shillings! Pussy, I’m going to break something, and you must let me have every penny of money you’ve got. The Indians will come here, don’t you see? That Spiteful Psammead as good as said so. You see what my plan is? Come on!”

  Jane did not see at all. But she followed her sister meekly into mother’s bedroom.

  Anthea lifted down the heavy water-jug—it had a pattern of storks and long grasses on it, which Anthea never forgot. She carried it into the dressing-room, and carefully emptied the water out of it into the bath. Then she took the jug back into the bedroom and dropped it on the floor. You know how a jug always breaks if you happen to drop it by accident. If you happen to drop it on purpose, it is quite different. Anthea dropped that jug three times, and it was as unbroken as ever. So at last she had to take her father’s boot-tree and break the jug with that in cold blood. It was heartless work.

  Next she broke open the missionary-box with the poker. Jane told her that it was wrong, of course, but Anthea shut her lips very tight and then said—

  “Don’t be silly—it’s a matter of life and death.”

  There was not very much in the missionary-box,—only seven-and-fourpence,—but the girls between them had nearly four shillings. This made over eleven shillings, as you will easily see.

  Anthea tied up the money in a corner of her pocket-handkerchief. “Come on, Jane!” she said, and ran down to the farm. She knew that the farmer was going into Rochester that afternoon. In fact it had been arranged that he was to take the four children with him. They had planned this in the happy hour when they believed that they we’re going to get that hundred pounds, in two-shilling pieces, out of the Psammead. They had arranged to pay the farmer two shillings each for the ride. Now Anthea hastily explained to him that they could not go, but would he take Martha and
the Baby instead? He agreed, but he was not pleased to get only half-a-crown instead of eight shillings.

  Then the girls ran home again. Anthea was agitated, but not flurried. When she came to think it over afterwards, she could not help seeing that she had acted with the most far-seeing promptitude, just like a born general. She fetched a little box from her corner drawer, and went to find Martha, who was laying the cloth and not in the best of tempers.

  “Look here,” said Anthea. “I’ve broken the water jug in mother’s room.”

  “Just like you—always up to some mischief,” said Martha, dumping down a salt-cellar with a bang.

  “Don’t be cross, Martha dear,” said Anthea. “I’ve got enough money to pay for a new one—if only you’ll be a dear and go and buy it for us. Your cousins keep a china-shop, don’t they? And I would like you to get it today, in case mother comes home tomorrow. You know she said she might perhaps.”

  “But you’re all going into town yourselves,” said Martha.

  “We can’t afford to, if we get the new jug,” said Anthea; “but we’ll pay for you to go, if you’ll take the Lamb. And I say, Martha, look here—I’ll give you my Liberty box, if you’ll go. Look, it’s most awfully pretty—all inlaid with real silver and ivory and ebony, like King Solomon’s temple.”

  “I see,” said Martha,—“no, I don’t want your box, miss. What you want is to get the precious Lamb off your hands for the afternoon. Don’t you go for to think I don’t see through you!”

  This was so true that Anthea longed to deny it at once. Martha had no business to know so much. But she held her tongue.

  Martha set down the bread with a bang that made it jump off its trencher.

  “I do want the jug got,” said Anthea softly. “You will go, won’t you?”

  “Well, just for this once, I don’t mind; but mind you don’t get into none of your outrageous mischief while I’m gone—that’s all!”

  “He’s going earlier than he thought,” said Anthea eagerly. “You’d better hurry and get dressed. Do put on that lovely purple frock, Martha, and the hat with the pink cornflowers, and the yellow-lace collar. Jane’ll finish laying the cloth, and I’ll wash the Lamb and get him ready.”

  As she washed the unwilling Lamb and hurried him into his best clothes, Anthea peeped out of the window from time to time; so far all was well—she could see no Red Indians. When with a rush and a scurry and some deepening of the damask of Martha’s complexion she and the Lamb had been got off, Anthea drew a deep breath.

  “He’s safe!” she said, and, to Jane’s horror, flung herself down on the floor and burst into floods of tears. Jane did not understand at all how a person could be so brave and like a general, and then suddenly give way and go flat like an air-balloon when you prick it. It is better not to go flat, of course, but you will observe that Anthea did not give way till her aim was accomplished. She had got the dear Lamb out of danger—she felt certain that the Red Indians would be round the White House or nowhere—the farmer’s cart would not come back till after sunset, so she could afford to cry a little. It was partly with joy that she cried, because she had done what she meant to do. She cried for about three minutes, while Jane hugged her miserably and said at five-second intervals, “Don’t cry, Panther dear!”

  Then she jumped up, rubbed her eyes hard with the corner of her pinafore, so that they kept red for the rest of the day, and started to tell the boys. But just at that moment cook rang the dinner-bell, and nothing could be said till they had been helped to minced beef. Then cook left the room, and Anthea told her tale. But it is a mistake to tell a thrilling tale when people are eating minced beef and boiled potatoes. There seemed somehow to be something about the food that made the idea of Red Indians seem flat and unbelievable. The boys actually laughed, and called Anthea a little silly.

  “Why,” said Cyril, “I’m almost sure it was before I said that, that Jane said she wished it would be a fine day.”

  “It wasn’t,” said Jane briefly.

  “Why, if it was Indians,” Cyril went on,—“salt, please, and mustard—I must have something to make this mush go down,—if it was Indians, they’d have been infesting the place long before this—you know they would. I believe it’s the fine day.”

  “Then why did the Sammyadd say we’d let ourselves in for a nice thing?” asked Anthea. She was feeling very cross. She knew she had acted with nobility and discretion, and after that it was very hard to be called a little silly, especially when she had the weight of a burglared missionary-box and about seven-and-fourpence, mostly in coppers, lying like lead upon her conscience.

  There was a silence, during which cook took away the mincy plates and brought in the pudding. As soon as she had retired, Cyril began again.

  “Of course I don’t mean to say,” he admitted, “that it wasn’t a good thing to get Martha and the Lamb out of the way for the afternoon; but as for Red Indians—why, you know jolly well the wishes always come that very minute. If there was going to be Red Indians, they’d be here now.”

  “I expect they are,” said Anthea; “they’re lurking amid the undergrowth, for anything you know. I do think you’re most unkind.”

  “Indians almost always do lurk, really, though, don’t they?” put in Jane, anxious for peace.

  “No, they don’t,” said Cyril tartly. “And I’m not unkind, I’m only truthful. And I say it was utter rot breaking the water-jug; and as for the missionary-box, I believe it’s a treason-crime, and I shouldn’t wonder if you could be hanged for it, if any of us was to split—”

  “Shut up, can’t you?” said Robert; but Cyril couldn’t. You see, he felt in his heart that if there should be Indians they would be entirely his own fault, so he did not wish to believe in them. And trying not to believe things when in your heart you are almost sure they are true, is as bad for the temper as anything I know.

  “It’s simply idiotic,” he said, “talking about Indians, when you can see for yourself that it’s Jane who’s got her wish. Look what a fine day it is—OH!—”

  He had turned towards the window to point out the fineness of the day—the others turned too—and a frozen silence caught at Cyril, and none of the others felt at all like breaking it. For there, peering round the corner of the window, among the red leaves of the Virginia creeper, was a face—a brown face, with a long nose and a tight mouth and very bright eyes. And the face was painted in coloured patches. It had long black hair, and in the hair were feathers!

  Every child’s mouth in the room opened, and stayed open. The pudding was growing white and cold on their plates. No one could move.

  Suddenly the feathered head was cautiously withdrawn, and the spell was broken. I am sorry to say that Anthea’s first words were very like a girl.

  “There, now!” she said. “I told you so!”

  The pudding had now definitely ceased to charm. Hastily wrapping their portions in a Spectator of the week before the week before last, they hid them behind the crinkled paper stove-ornament, and fled upstairs to reconnoitre and to hold a hurried council.

  “Pax,” said Cyril handsomely when they reached their mother’s bedroom. “Panther, I’m sorry if I was a brute.”

  “All right,” said Anthea; “but you see now!”

  No further trace of Indians, however, could be discerned from the windows.

  “Well,” said Robert, “what are we to do?”

  “The only thing I can think of,” said Anthea, who was now generally admitted to be the heroine of the day, “is—if we dressed up as like Indians as we can, and looked out of the windows, or even went out. They might think we were the powerful leaders of a large neighbouring tribe, and—and not do anything to us, you know, for fear of awful vengeance.”

  “But Eliza, and the cook?” said Jane.

  “You forget—they can’t notice any
thing,” said Robert. “They wouldn’t notice anything out of the way, even if they were scalped or roasted at a slow fire.”

  “But would they come right at sunset?”

  “Of course. You can’t be really scalped or burned to death without noticing it, and you’d be sure to notice it next day, even if it escaped your attention at the time,” said Cyril. “I think Anthea’s right, but we shall want a most awful lot of feathers.”

  “I’ll go down to the hen-house,” said Robert. “There’s one of the turkeys in there—it’s not very well. I could cut its feathers without it minding much. It’s very bad—doesn’t seem to care what happens to it. Get me the cutting-out scissors.”

  Earnest reconnoitring convinced them all that no Indians were in the poultry-yard. Robert went. In five minutes he came back—pale, but with many feathers.

  “Look here,” he said, “this is jolly serious. I cut off the feathers, and when I turned to come out there was an Indian squinting at me from under the old hen-coop. I just brandished the feathers and yelled, and got away before he could get the coop off top of himself. Panther, get the coloured blankets off our beds, and look slippy, can’t you?”

  It is wonderful how like an Indian you can make yourself with blankets and feathers and coloured scarves. Of course none of the children happened to have long black hair, but there was a lot of black calico that had been bought to cover school-books with. They cut strips of this into a sort of fine fringe, and fastened it round their heads with the amber-coloured ribbons off the girls’ Sunday dresses. Then they stuck turkeys’ feathers in the ribbons. The calico looked very like long black hair, especially when the strips began to curl up a bit.

  “But our faces,” said Anthea, “they’re not at all the right colour. We’re all rather pale, and I’m sure I don’t know why, but Cyril is the colour of putty.”

  “I’m not,” said Cyril.