Enchanted Castle and Five Children and It (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Edith Nesbit

  “I don’t know—as long as I can hold out.”

  “Well, first, I wish Lady Chittenden may find she’s never lost her jewels.”

  The Psammead blew itself out, collapsed, and said, “Done.”

  “I wish,” said Anthea more slowly, “mother mayn’t get to the police.”

  “Done,” said the creature after the proper interval.

  “I wish,” said Jane suddenly, “mother could forget all about the diamonds.”

  “Done,” said the Psammead; but its voice was weaker.

  “Wouldn’t you like to rest a little?” asked Anthea considerately..

  “Yes, please,” said the Psammead; “and, before we go further, will you wish something for me?”

  “Can’t you do wishes for yourself?”

  “Of course not,” it said; “we were always expected to give each other our wishes—not that we had any to speak of in the good old Megatherium days. Just wish, will you, that you may never be able, any of you, to tell anyone a word about Me.”

  “Why?” asked Jane.

  “Why, don’t you see, if you told grown-ups I should have no peace of my life. They’d get hold of me, and they wouldn’t wish silly things like you do, but real earnest things; and the scientific people would hit on some way of making things last after sunset, as likely as not; and they’d ask for a graduated income-tax, and old-age-pensions and manhood suffrage, and free secondary education, and dull things like that; and get them, and keep them, and the whole world would be turned topsy-turvy Do wish it! Quick!”

  Anthea repeated the Psammead’s wish, and it blew itself out to a larger size than they had yet seen it attain.

  “And now,” it said as it collapsed, “can I do anything more for you?”

  “Just one thing; and I think that clears everything up, doesn’t it, Jane? I wish Martha to forget about the diamond ring, and mother to forget about the keeper cleaning the windows.”

  “It’s like the ‘Brass Bottle,’ ” said Jane. 7

  “Yes, I’m glad we read that or I should never have thought of it.”

  “Now,” said the Psammead faintly, “I’m almost worn out. Is there anything else?”

  “No; only thank you kindly for all you’ve done for us, and I hope you’ll have a good long sleep, and I hope we shall see you again some day.”

  “Is that a wish?” it said in a weak voice.

  “Yes, please,” said the two girls together.

  Then for the last time in this story they saw the Psammead blow itself out and collapse suddenly. It nodded to them, blinked its long snail’s eyes, burrowed, and disappeared, scratching fiercely to the last, and the sand closed over it.

  “I hope we’ve done right?” said Jane.

  “I’m sure we have,” said Anthea. “Come on home and tell the boys.”

  Anthea found Cyril glooming over his paper boats, and told him. Jane told Robert. The two tales were only just ended when mother walked in, hot and dusty. She explained that as she was being driven into Rochester to buy the girls’ autumn school-dresses the axle had broken, and but for the narrowness of the lane and the high soft hedges she would have been thrown out. As it was, she was not hurt, but she had had to walk home. “And oh, my dearest dear chicks,” she said, “I am simply dying for a cup of tea! Do run and see if the kettle boils!”

  “So you see it’s all right,” Jane whispered. “She doesn’t remember.”

  “No more does Martha,” said Anthea, who had been to ask after the state of the kettle.

  As the servants sat at their tea, Beale the gamekeeper dropped in. He brought the welcome news that Lady Chittenden’s diamonds had not been lost at all. Lord Chittenden had taken them to be re-set and cleaned, and the maid who knew about it had gone for a holiday. So that was all right.

  “I wonder if we ever shall see the Psammead again,” said Jane wistfully as they walked in the garden, while mother was putting the Lamb to bed.

  “I’m sure we shall,” said Cyril, “if you really wished it.”

  “We’ve promised never to ask it for another wish,” said Anthea.

  “I never want to,” said Robert earnestly.

  They did see it again, of course, but not in this story. And it was not in a sand-pit either, but in a very, very, very different place. It was in a—But I must say no more.

  EXPLICIT

  THE ENCHANTED CASTLE

  The hall in which the children found themselves

  To MARGARET OSTLER

  WITH LOVE FROM

  E. NESBIT

  Peggy, you came from the heath and moor,

  And you brought their airs through my open door;

  You brought the blossom of youth to blow

  In the Latin Quarter of Soho.

  For the sake of that magic I send you here

  A tale of enchantments, Peggy dear,

  -A bit of my work, and a bit of my heart ...

  The bit that you left when we had to part.

  Royalty Chambers, Soho, W

  25 September 1907

  CHAPTER I

  There were three of them—Jerry, Jimmy, and Kathleen. Of course, Jerry’s name was Gerald, and not Jeremiah, whatever you may think; and Jimmy’s name was James; and Kathleen was never called by her name at all, but Cathy, or Catty, or Puss Cat, when her brothers were pleased with her, and Scratch Cat when they were not pleased. And they were at school in a little town in the West of England—the boys at one school, of course, and the girl at another, because the sensible habit of having boys and girls at the same school is not yet as common as I hope it will be some day. They used to see each other on Saturdays and Sundays at the house of a kind maiden lady; but it was one of those houses where it is impossible to play. You know the kind of house, don’t you? There is a sort of a something about that kind of house that makes you hardly able even to talk to each other when you are left alone, and playing seems unnatural and affected. So they looked forward to the holidays, when they should all go home and be together all day long, in a house where playing was natural and conversation possible, and where the Hamp-shire forests and fields were full of interesting things to do and see. Their Cousin Betty was to be there too, and there were plans. Betty’s school broke up before theirs, and so she got to the Hampshireci home first, and the moment she got there she began to have measles, so that my three couldn’t go home at all. You may imagine their feelings. The thought of seven weeks at Miss Hervey’s was not to be borne, and all three wrote home and said so. This astonished their parents very much, because they had always thought it was so nice for the children to have dear Miss Hervey’s to go to. However, they were “jolly decent about it,” as Jerry said, and after a lot of letters and telegrams, it was arranged that the boys should go and stay at Kathleen’s school, where there were now no girls left and no mistresses except the French one.

  “It’ll be better than being at Miss Hervey’s,” said Kathleen, when the boys came round to ask Mademoiselle when it would be convenient for them to come; “and, besides, our school’s not half so ugly as yours. We do have tablecloths on the tables and curtains at the windows, and yours is all deal boards, and desks, and inkiness.”

  When they had gone to pack their boxes Kathleen made all the rooms as pretty as she could with flowers in jam jars—marigolds chiefly, because there was nothing much else in the back garden. There were geraniums in the front garden, and calceolarias and lobelias ; of course, the children were not allowed to pick these.

  “We ought to have some sort of play to keep us going through the holidays,” said Kathleen, when tea was over, and she had unpacked and arranged the boys’ clothes in the painted chests of drawers, feeling very grown-up and careful as she neatly laid the different sorts of clothes in tidy little heaps in the drawers. “Suppose we write a book.”

  “You couldn’t,” said Jimmy

  “I didn’t mean me, of course,” said Kathleen, a little injured; “I meant us.”

  “Too much fag,”cj said Gerald
briefly.

  “If we wrote a book,” Kathleen persisted, “about what the insides of schools really are like, people would read it and say how clever we were”.

  “More likely expel us,” said Gerald. “No; we’ll have an out-of-doors game—bandits, or something like that. It wouldn’t be bad if we could get a cave and keep stores in it, and have our meals there.”

  “There aren’t any caves,” said Jimmy, who was fond of contradicting everyone. “And, besides, your precious Mam’selle won’t let us go out alone, as likely as not.”

  “Oh, we’ll see about that,” said Gerald. “I’ll go and talk to her like a father.”

  “Like that?” Kathleen pointed the thumb of scorn at him, and he looked in the glass.

  “To brush his hair and his clothes and to wash his face and hands was to our hero but the work of a moment,” said Gerald, and went to suit the action to the word.

  It was a very sleek boy, brown and thin and interesting-looking, that knocked at the door of the parlour where Mademoiselle sat reading a yellow-covered book and wishing vain wishes. Gerald could always make himself look interesting at a moment’s notice, a very useful accomplishment in dealing with strange grown-ups. It was done by opening his grey eyes rather wide, allowing the corners of his mouth to droop, and assuming a gentle, pleading expression, resembling that of the late little Lord Fauntleroy—who must, by the way, be quite old now, and an awful prig. 1 “Entrez!” said Mademoiselle, in shrill French accents. So he entered.

  “Eh bien?”ck she said rather impatiently.

  “I hope I am not disturbing you,” said Gerald, in whose mouth, it seemed, butter would not have melted.

  “But no,” she said, somewhat softened. “What is it that you desire?”

  “I thought I ought to come and say how do you do,” said Gerald, “because of you being the lady of the house.”

  He held out the newly-washed hand, still damp and red. She took it.

  “You are a very polite little boy,” she said.

  “Not at all,” said Gerald, more polite than ever. “I am so sorry for you. It must be dreadful to have us to look after in the holidays.”

  “But not at all,” said Mademoiselle in her turn. “I am sure you will be very good childrens.”

  Gerald’s look assured her that he and the others would be as near angels as children could be without ceasing to be human.

  “We’ll try,” he said earnestly.

  “Can one do anything for you?” asked the French governess kindly.

  “Oh, no, thank you,” said Gerald. “We don’t want to give you any trouble at all. And I was thinking it would be less trouble for you if we were to go out into the woods all day tomorrow and take our dinner with us—something cold, you know—so as not to be a trouble to the cook.”

  “Little deceiver!” she said

  “You are very considerate,” said Mademoiselle coldly. Then Gerald’s eyes smiled; they had a trick of doing this when his lips were quite serious. Mademoiselle caught the twinkle, and she laughed and Gerald laughed too.

  “Little deceiver!” she said. “Why not say at once you want to be free of surveillance, how you say—overwatching—without pretending it is me you wish to please?”

  “You have to be careful with grown-ups,” said Gerald, “but it isn’t all pretence either. We don’t want to trouble you—and we don’t want you to—”

  “To trouble you. Eh bien! Your parents, they permit these days at woods?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Gerald truthfully.

  “Then I will not be more a dragon than the parents. I will forewarn the cook. Are you content?”

  “Rather!” said Gerald. “Mademoiselle, you are a dear.”

  “A deer?” she repeated—“a stag?”

  “No, a—a chérie,”cl said Gerald—“a regular A1 chérie. And you shan’t repent it. Is there anything we can do for you—wind your wool, or find your spectacles, or—?”

  “He thinks me a grandmother!” said Mademoiselle, laughing more than ever. “Go then, and be not more naughty than you must.”

  “Well, what luck?” the others asked.

  “It’s all right,” said Gerald indifferently. “I told you it would be. The ingenuous youth won the regard of the foreign governess, who in her youth had been the beauty of her humble village.”

  “I don’t believe she ever was. She’s too stern,” said Kathleen.

  “Ah!” said Gerald, “that’s only because you don’t know how to manage her. She wasn’t stern with me.”

  “I say, what a humbug you are though, aren’t you?” said Jimmy.

  “No, I’m a dip—what’s-its-name? Something like an ambassador. Dipsoplomatist—that’s what I am. Anyhow, we’ve got our day, and if we don’t find a cave in it my name’s not Jack Robinson.”

  Mademoiselle, less stern than Kathleen had ever seen her, presided at supper, which was bread and treacle spread several hours before, and now harder and drier than any other food you can think of Gerald was very polite in handing her butter and cheese, and pressing her to taste the bread and treacle.

  “Bah! it is like sand in the mouth—of a dryness! Is it possible this pleases you?”

  “No,” said Gerald, “it is not possible, but it is not polite for boys to make remarks about their food!”

  She laughed, but there was no more dried bread and treacle for supper after that.

  “How do you do it?” Kathleen whispered admiringly as they said good night.

  “Oh, it’s quite easy when you’ve once got a grown-up to see what you’re after. You’ll see, I shall drive her with a rein of darning cotton after this.”

  Next morning Gerald got up early and gathered a little bunch of pink carnations from a plant which he found hidden among the marigolds. He tied it up with black cotton and laid it on Mademoiselle’s plate. She smiled and looked quite handsome as she stuck the flowers in her belt.

  “Do you think it’s quite decent,” Jimmy asked later—“sort of bribing people to let you do as you like with flowers and things and passing them the salt?”

  “It’s not that,” said Kathleen suddenly. “I know what Gerald means, only I never think of the things in time myself. You see, if you want grown-ups to be nice to you the least you can do is to be nice to them and think of little things to please them. I never think of any myself. Jerry does; that’s why all the old ladies like him. It’s not bribery. It’s a sort of honesty—like paying for things.”

  “Well, anyway,” said Jimmy, putting away the moral question, “we’ve got a ripping day for the woods.”

  They had.

  The wide High Street, even at the busy morning hour almost as quiet as a dream-street, lay bathed in sunshine; the leaves shone fresh from last night’s rain, but the road was dry, and in the sunshine the very dust of it sparkled like diamonds. The beautiful old houses, standing stout and strong, looked as though they were basking in the sunshine and enjoying it.

  “But are there any woods?” asked Kathleen as they passed the market-place.

  “It doesn’t much matter about woods,” said Gerald dreamily, “we’re sure to find something. One of the chaps told me his father said when he was a boy there used to be a little cave under the bank in a lane near the Salisbury Road; but he said there was an enchanted castle there too, so perhaps the cave isn’t true either.”

  “If we were to get horns,” said Kathleen, “and to blow them very hard all the way, we might find a magic castle.”

  “If you’ve got the money to throw away on horns ...” said Jimmy contemptuously.

  “Well, I have, as it happens, so there!” said Kathleen. And the horns were bought in a tiny shop with a bulging window full of a tangle of toys and sweets and cucumbers and sour apples.

  And the quiet square at the end of the town where the church is, and the houses of the most respectable people, echoed to the sound of horns blown long and loud. But none of the houses turned into enchanted castles.

  So they went alo
ng the Salisbury Road, which was very hot and dusty, so they agreed to drink one of the bottles of ginger-beer.

  “We might as well carry the ginger-beer inside us as inside the bottle,” said Jimmy, “and we can hide the bottle and call for it as we come back.”

  Presently they came to a place where the road, as Gerald said, went two ways at once.

  “That looks like adventures,” said Kathleen; and they took the right-hand road, and the next time they took a turning it was a lefthand one, so as to be quite fair, Jimmy said, and then a right-hand one and then a left, and so on, till they were completely lost.

  “Completely,” said Kathleen; “how jolly!”

  And now trees arched overhead, and the banks of the road were high and bushy. The adventurers had long since ceased to blow their horns. It was too tiring to go on doing that, when there was no one to be annoyed by it.

  “Oh, kriky!” observed Jimmy suddenly, “let’s sit down a bit and have some of our dinner. We might call it lunch, you know,” he added persuasively.

  So they sat down in the hedge and ate the ripe red gooseberries that were to have been their dessert.

  And as they sat and rested and wished that their boots did not feel so full of feet, Gerald leaned back against the bushes, and the bushes gave way so that he almost fell over backward. Something had yielded to the pressure of his back, and there was the sound of something heavy that fell.

  “Oh, Jimminy!” he remarked, recovering himself suddenly; “there’s something hollow in there—the stone I was leaning against simply went!”

  “I wish it was a cave,” said Jimmy; “but of course it isn’t.”

  “If we blow the horns perhaps it will be,” said Kathleen, and hastily blew her own.

  Gerald reached his hand through the bushes. “I can’t feel anything but air,” he said; “it’s just a hole full of emptiness.” The other two pulled back the bushes. There certainly was a hole in the bank. “I’m going to go in,” observed Gerald.