by Edith Nesbit
Everyone was very hungry, and more bread and butter had to be fetched. Cook grumbled when the plate was filled for the third time.
“I tell you what,” said Jimmy; “I did want my tea.”
“I tell you what,” said Gerald; “it’ll be jolly difficult to give Mabel any breakfast. Mademoiselle will be here then. She’d have a fit if she saw bits of forks with bacon on them vanishing, and then the forks coming back out of vanishment, and the bacon lost for ever.”
“We shall have to buy things to eat and feed our poor captive in secret,” said Kathleen.
“Our money won’t last long,” said Jimmy, in gloom. “Have you got any money?”
He turned to where a mug of milk was suspended in the air without visible means of support.
“I’ve not got much money,” was the reply from near the milk, “but I’ve got heaps of ideas.”
“We must talk about everything in the morning,” said Kathleen. “We must just say good night to Mademoiselle, and then you shall sleep in my bed, Mabel. I’ll lend you one of my nightgowns.”
“I’ll get my own tomorrow,” said Mabel cheerfully.
“You’ll go back to get things?”
“Why not? Nobody can see me. I think I begin to see all sorts of amusing things coming along. It’s not half bad being invisible.”
It was extremely odd, Kathleen thought, to see the Princess’s clothes coming out of nothing. First the gauzy veil appeared hanging in the air. Then the sparkling coronet suddenly showed on the top of the chest of drawers. Then a sleeve of the pinky gown showed, then another, and then the whole gown lay on the floor in a glistening ring as the unseen legs of Mabel stepped out of it. For each article of clothing became visible as Mabel took it off. The nightgown, lifted from the bed, disappeared a bit at a time.
“Get into bed,” said Kathleen, rather nervously.
The bed creaked and a hollow appeared in the pillow. Kathleen put out the gas and got into bed; all this magic had been rather upsetting, and she was just the least bit frightened, but in the dark she found it was not so bad. Mabel’s arms went round her neck the moment she got into bed, and the two little girls kissed in the kind darkness, where the visible and the invisible could meet on equal terms.
“Good night,” said Mabel. “You’re a darling, Cathy; you’ve been most awfully good to me, and I shan’t forget it. I didn’t like to say so before the boys, because I know boys think you’re a muffcv if you’re grateful. But I am. Good night.”
Kathleen lay awake for some time. She was just getting sleepy when she remembered that the maid who would call them in the morning would see those wonderful Princess clothes.
“I’ll have to get up and hide them,” she said. “What a bother!”
And as she lay thinking what a bother it was she happened to fall asleep, and when she woke again it was bright morning, and Eliza was standing in front of the chair where Mabel’s clothes lay, gazing at the pink Princess-frock that lay on the top of her heap and saying, “Law!”cw
“Oh, don’t touch, please!” Kathleen leaped out of bed as Eliza was reaching out her hand.
“Where on earth did you get hold of that?”
“We’re going to use it for acting,” said Kathleen, on the desperate inspiration of the moment. “It’s lent me for that.”
“You might show me, miss,” suggested Eliza.
“Oh, please not!” said Kathleen, standing in front of the chair in her nightgown. “You shall see us act when we are dressed up. There! And you won’t tell anyone, will you?”
“Not if you’re a good little girl,” said Eliza. “But you be sure to let me see when you do dress up. But where—”
Here a bell rang and Eliza had to go, for it was the postman, and she particularly wanted to see him.
“And now,” said Kathleen, pulling on her first stocking, “we shall have to do the acting. Everything seems very difficult.”
“Acting isn’t,” said Mabel; and an unsupported stocking waved in the air and quickly vanished. “I shall love it.”
“You forget,” said Kathleen gently, “invisible actresses can’t take part in plays unless they’re magic ones.”
“Oh,” cried a voice from under a petticoat that hung in the air, “I’ve got such an idea!”
“Tell it us after breakfast,” said Kathleen, as the water in the basin began to splash about and to drip from nowhere back into itself. “And oh! I do wish you hadn’t written such whoppers to your aunt. I’m sure we oughtn’t to tell lies for anything.”
“What’s the use of telling the truth if nobody believes you?” came from among the splashes.
“I don’t know,” said Kathleen, “but I’m sure we ought to tell the truth.”
“You can, if you like,” said a voice from the folds of a towel that waved lonely in front of the wash-hand stand.
“All right. We will, then, first thing after brekcx—your brek, I mean. You’ll have to wait up here till we can collar something and bring it up to you. Mind you dodge Eliza when she comes to make the bed.”
The invisible Mabel found this a fairly amusing game; she further enlivened it by twitching out the corners of tucked-up sheets and blankets when Eliza wasn’t looking.
“Drat the clothes!” said Eliza; “anyone ’ud think the things was bewitched.”
She looked about for the wonderful Princess clothes she had glimpsed earlier in the morning. But Kathleen had hidden them in a perfectly safe place—under the mattress, which she knew Eliza never turned.
Eliza hastily brushed up from the floor those bits of fluff which come from goodness knows where in the best regulated houses. Mabel, very hungry and exasperated at the long absence of the others at their breakfast, could not forbear to whisper suddenly in Eliza’s ear:
“Always sweep under the mats.”
The maid started and turned pale. “I must be going silly,” she murmured; “though it’s just what mother always used to say. Hope I ain’t going dotty, like Aunt Emily. Wonderful what you can fancy, ain’t it?” .
She took up the hearth-rug all the same, swept under it, and under the fender. So thorough was she, and so pale, that Kathleen, entering with a chunk of bread raided by Gerald from the pantry window, exclaimed:
“Not done yet. I say, Eliza, you do look ill! What’s the matter?”
“I thought I’d give the room a good turn-out,” said Eliza, still very pale.
“Nothing’s happened to upset you?” Kathleen asked. She had her own private fears.
“Nothing—only my fancy, miss,” said Eliza. “I always was fanciful from a child—dreaming of the pearly gates and them little angels with nothing on only their heads and wings—so cheap to dress, I always think, compared with children.”
When she was got rid of, Mabel ate the bread and drank water from the tooth-mug.
“I’m afraid it tastes of cherry tooth-paste rather,” said Kathleen apologetically.
“It doesn’t matter,” a voice replied from the tilted mug; “it’s more interesting than water. I should think red wine in ballads was rather like this.”
“We’ve got leave for the day again,” said Kathleen, when the last bit of bread had vanished, “and Gerald feels like I do about lies. So we’re going to tell your aunt where you really are.”
“She won’t believe you.”
“That doesn’t matter, if we speak the truth,” said Kathleen primly.
“I expect you’ll be sorry for it,” said Mabel; “but come on—and, I say, do be careful not to shut me in the door as you go out. You nearly did just now.”
In the blazing sunlight that flooded the High Street four shadows to three children seemed dangerously noticeable. A butcher’s boy looked far too earnestly at the extra shadow, and his big, liver-coloured lurcher snuffed at the legs of that shadow’s mistress and whined uncomfortably.
“Get behind. me,” said Kathleen; “then our two shadows will look like one.”
But Mabel’s shadow, very visible, fel
l on Kathleen’s back, and the ostlercy of the Davenant Arms looked up to see what big bird had cast that big shadow.
A woman driving a cart with chickens and ducks in it called out:
“Halloa, missy, ain’t you blacked yer back, neither!”
“Halloa, missy, ain’t you blacked yer back, neither! What you been leaning up against?”
Everyone was glad when they got out of the town.
Speaking the truth to Mabel’s aunt did not turn out at all as anyone—even Mabel—expected. The aunt was discovered reading a pink novelette at the window of the housekeeper’s room, which, framed in clematis and green creepers, looked out on a nice little courtyard to which Mabel led the party.
“Excuse me,” said Gerald, “but I believe you’ve lost your niece?”
“Not lost, my boy,” said the aunt, who was spare and tall, with a drab fringe and a very genteel voice.
“We could tell you something about her,” said Gerald.
“Now,” replied the aunt, in a warning voice, “no complaints, please. My niece has gone, and I am sure no one thinks less than I do of her little pranks. If she’s played any tricks on you it’s only her light-hearted way. Go away, children, I’m busy.”
“Did you get her note?” asked Kathleen.
The aunt showed rather more interest than before, but she still kept her finger in the novelette.
“Oh,” she said, “so you witnessed her departure? Did she seem glad to go?”
“Quite,” said Gerald truthfully.
“Then I can only be glad that she is provided for,” said the aunt. “I dare say you were surprised. These romantic adventures do occur in our family. Lord Yalding selected me out of eleven applicants for the post of housekeeper here. I’ve not the slightest doubt the child was changed at birth and her rich relatives have claimed her.”
“But aren’t you going to do anything—tell the police, or—”
“Shish!” said Mabel.
“I won’t shish,” said Jimmy. “Your Mabel’s invisible—that’s all it is. She’s just beside me now.”
“I detest untruthfulness,” said the aunt severely, “in all its forms. Will you kindly take that little boy away? I am quite satisfied about Mabel.”
“Well,” said Gerald, “you are an aunt and no mistake! But what will Mabel’s father and mother say?”
“Mabel’s father and mother are dead,” said the aunt calmly, and a little sob sounded close to Gerald’s ear.
“All right,” he said, “we’ll be off But don’t you go saying we didn’t tell you the truth, that’s all.”
“You have told me nothing,” said the aunt, “none of you, except that little boy, who has told me a silly falsehood.”
“We meant well,” said Gerald gently. “You don’t mind our having come through the grounds, do you? We’re very careful not to touch anything.”
“No visitors are allowed,” said the aunt, glancing down at her novel rather impatiently.
“Ah! but you wouldn’t count us visitors,” said Gerald in his best manner. “We’re friends of Mabel’s. Our father’s Colonel of the—th.”
“Indeed!” said the aunt.
“And our aunt’s Lady Sandling, so you can be sure we wouldn’t hurt anything on the estate.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t hurt a fly,” said the aunt absently. “Good-bye. Be good children.”
And on this they got away quickly.
“Why,” said Gerald, when they were outside the little court, “your aunt’s as mad as a hatter. Fancy not caring what becomes of you, and fancy believing that rot about the motor lady!”
“I knew she’d believe it when I wrote it,” said Mabel modestly. “She’s not mad, only she’s always reading novelettes. I read the books in the big library. Oh, it’s such a jolly room—such a queer smell, like boots, and old leather books sort of powdery at the edges. I’ll take you there some day. Now your consciences are all right about my aunt, I’ll tell you my great idea. Let’s get down to the Temple of Flora. I’m glad you got aunt’s permission for the grounds. It would be so awkward for you to have to be always dodging behind bushes when one of the gardeners came along.”
“Yes,” said Gerald modestly, “I thought of that.”
The day was as bright as yesterday had been, and from the white marble temple the Italian-looking landscape looked more than ever like a steel engraving coloured by hand, or an oleographiccz imitation of one of Turner’s pictures.
When the three children were comfortably settled on the steps that led up to the white statue, the voice of the fourth child said sadly: “I’m not ungrateful, but I’m rather hungry. And you can’t be always taking things for me through your larder window. If you like, I’ll go back and live in the castle. It’s supposed to be haunted. I suppose I could haunt it as well as anyone else. I am a sort of ghost now, you know. I will if you like.”
“Oh no,” said Kathleen kindly; “you must stay with us.”
“But about food. I’m not ungrateful, really I’m not, but breakfast is breakfast, and bread’s only bread.”
“If you could get the ring off, you could go back.”
“Yes,” said Mabel’s voice, “but you see, I can’t. I tried again last night in bed, and again this morning. And it’s like stealing, taking things out of your larder—even if it’s only bread.”
“Yes, it is,” said Gerald, who had carried out this bold enterprise.
“Well, now, what we must do is to earn some money.”
Jimmy remarked that this was all very well. But Gerald and Kathleen listened attentively.
“What I mean to say,” the voice went on, “I’m really sure it’s all for the best, me being invisible. We shall have adventures—you see if we don’t.”
“ ‘Adventures,’ said the bold buccaneer, ‘are not always profitable.’ ” It was Gerald who murmured this.
“This one will be, anyhow, you see. Only you mustn’t all go. Look here, if Jerry could make himself look common—”
“That ought to be easy,” said Jimmy. And Kathleen told him not to be so jolly disagreeable.
“I’m not,” said Jimmy, “only—”
“Only he has an inside feeling that this Mabel of yours is going to get us into trouble,” put in Gerald. “Like La Belle Dame Sans Merci, and he does not want to be found in future ages alone and palely loitering in the middle of sedge and things.”4
“I won’t get you into trouble, indeed I won’t,” said the voice. “Why, we’re a band of brothers for life, after the way you stood by me yesterday. What I mean is—Gerald can go to the fair and do conjuring.”
“He doesn’t know any,” said Kathleen.
“I should do it really,” said Mabel, “but Jerry could look like doing it. Move things without touching them and all that. But it wouldn’t do for all three of you to go. The more there are of children, the younger they look, I think, and the more people wonder what they’re doing all alone by themselves.”
“The accomplished conjurer deemed these the words of wisdom,” said Gerald; and answered the dismal “Well, but what about us?” of his brother and sister by suggesting that they should mingle unsuspected with the crowd. “But don’t let on that you know me,” he said; “and try to look as if you belonged to some of the grown-ups at the fair. If you don’t, as likely as not you’ll have the kind policemen taking the little lost children by the hand and leading them home to their stricken relations—French governess, I mean.”
“Let’s go now,” said the voice that they never could get quite used to hearing, coming out of different parts of the air as Mabel moved from one place to another. So they went.
The fair was held on a waste bit of land, about half a mile from the castle gates. When they got near enough to hear the steam-organ of the merry-go-round, Gerald suggested that as he had ninepence he should go ahead and get something to eat, the amount spent to be paid back out of any money they might make by conjuring. The others waited in the shadows of a deep-banked
lane, and he came back, quite soon, though long after they had begun to say what a long time he had been gone. He brought some Barcelona nuts, red-streaked apples, small sweet yellow pears, pale pasty gingerbread, a whole quarter of a pound of peppermint bullseyes, and two bottles of ginger-beer.
“It’s what they call an investment,” he said, when Kathleen said something about extravagance. “We shall all need special nourishing to keep our strength up, especially the bold conjurer.”
They ate and drank. It was a very beautiful meal, and the far-off music of the steam-organ added the last touch of festivity to the scene. The boys were never tired of seeing Mabel eat, or rather of seeing the strange, magic-looking vanishment of food which was all that showed of Mabel’s eating. They were entranced by the spectacle, and pressed on her more than her just share of the feast, just for the pleasure of seeing it disappear.
“My aunt!” said Gerald, again and again; “that ought to knock em!”
It did.
Jimmy and Kathleen had the start of the others, and when they got to the fair they mingled with the crowd, and were as unsuspected as possible.
They stood near a large lady who was watching the coconut shies, and presently saw a strange figure with its hands in its pockets strolling across the trampled yellowy grass among the bits of drifting paper and the sticks and straws that always litter the ground of an English fair. It was Gerald, but at first they hardly knew him. He had taken off his tie, and round his head, arranged like a turban, was the crimson school-scarf that had supported his white flannels. The tie, one supposed, had taken on the duties of the handkerchief And his face and hands were a bright black, like very nicely polished stoves!
Everyone turned to look at him.
“He’s just like a conjurer!” whispered Jimmy. “I don’t suppose it’ll ever come off, do you?”
They followed him at a distance, and when he went close to the door of a small tent, against whose door-post a long-faced melancholy woman was lounging, they stopped and tried to look as though they belonged to a farmer who strove to send up a number by banging with a big mallet on a wooden block.
