“Arst him what he’s got there under his jacket”; and Cyril knew that concealment was at an end. So he stood up, and squared his shoulders and tried to look noble, like the boys in books that no one can look in the face of and doubt that they come of brave and noble families and will be faithful to the death, and he pulled out the soda-water siphon and said:
“Well, there you are, then.”
There was a silence. Cyril went on—there was nothing else for it:
“Yes, we took this out of your larder, and some chicken and tongue and bread. We were very hungry, and we didn’t take the custard or jam. We only took bread and meat and water—and we couldn’t help its being the soda kind—just the necessaries of life; and we left half-a-crown to pay for it, and we left a letter. And we’re very sorry. And my father will pay a fine or anything you like, but don’t send us to prison. Mother would be so vexed. You know what you said about not being a disgrace. Well, don’t you go and do it to us—that’s all! We’re as sorry as we can be. There!”
“However did you get up to the larder window?” said Mrs. Vicar.
“I can’t tell you that,” said Cyril firmly.
“Is this the whole truth you’ve been telling me?” asked the clergyman.
“No,” answered Jane suddenly; “it’s all true, but it’s not the whole truth. We can’t tell you that. It’s no good asking. Oh, do forgive us and take us home!” She ran to the Vicar’s wife and threw her arms round her. The Vicar’s wife put her arms round Jane, and the keeper whispered behind his hand to the Vicar:
“They’re all right, sir—I expect it’s a pal they’re standing by. Someone put ’em up to it, and they won’t peach. Game little kids.”
“Tell me,” said the Vicar kindly, “are you screening someone else? Had anyone else anything to do with this?”
“Yes,” said Anthea, thinking of the Psammead; “but it wasn’t their fault.”
“Very well, my dears,” said the Vicar, “then let’s say no more about it. Only just tell us why you wrote such an odd letter.”
“I don’t know,” said Cyril. “You see, Anthea wrote it in such a hurry, and it really didn’t seem like stealing then. But afterwards, when we found we couldn’t get down off the church-tower, it seemed just exactly like it. We are all very sorry—”
“Say no more about it,” said the Vicar’s wife; “but another time just think before you take other people’s tongues. Now—some cake and milk before you go home?”
When Andrew came to say that the horse was put to, and was he expected to be led alone into the trap that he had plainly seen from the first, he found the children eating cake and drinking milk and laughing at the Vicar’s jokes. Jane was sitting on the Vicar’s wife’s lap.
So you see they got off better than they deserved.
The gamekeeper, who was the cook’s cousin, asked leave to drive home with them, and Andrew was only too glad to have someone to protect him from the trap he was so certain of.
When the wagonette reached their own house, between the chalk-quarry and the gravel-pit, the children were very sleepy, but they felt that they and the keeper were friends for life.
Andrew dumped the children down at the iron gate without a word.
“You get along home,” said the Vicarage cook’s cousin, who was a gamekeeper. “I’ll get me home on Shanks’ mare.”
So Andrew had to drive off alone, which he did not like at all, and it was the keeper that was cousin to the Vicarage cook who went with the children to the door, and, when they had been swept to bed in a whirlwind of reproaches, remained to explain to Martha and the cook and the housemaid exactly what had happened. He explained so well that Martha was quite amiable the next morning.
After that he often used to come over and see Martha, and in the end—but that is another story, as dear Mr. Kipling says.
Martha was obliged to stick to what she had said the night before about keeping the children indoors the next day for a punishment. But she wasn’t at all snarky about it, and agreed to let Robert go out for half an hour to get something he particularly wanted.
This, of course, was the day’s wish.
Robert rushed to the gravel-pit, found the Psammead, and presently wished for—
But that, too, is another story.
CHAPTER VI
A CASTLE AND NO DINNER
The others were to be kept in as a punishment for the misfortunes of the day before. Of course Martha thought it was naughtiness, and not misfortune—so you must not blame her. She only thought she was doing her duty. You know grown-up people often say they do not like to punish you, and that they only do it for your own good, and that it hurts them as much as it hurts you-and this is really very often the truth.
Martha certainly hated having to punish the children quite as much as they hated to be punished. For one thing, she knew what a noise there would be in the house all day. And she had other reasons.
“I declare,” she said to the cook, “it seems almost a shame keeping of them indoors this lovely day; but they are that audacious, they’ll be walking in with their heads knocked off some of these days, if I don’t put my foot down. You make them a cake for tea tomorrow, dear. And we’ll have Baby along of us soon as we’ve got a bit forrard with our work. Then they can have a good romp with them beds. Here’s ten o’clock nearly, and no rabbits caught!”
People say that in Kent when they mean “and no work done.”
So all the others were kept in, but Robert, as I have said, was allowed to go out for half an hour to get something they all wanted. And that, of course, was the day’s wish.
He had no difficulty in finding the Sand-fairy, for the day was already so hot that it had actually, for the first time, come out of its own accord, and it was sitting in a sort of pool of soft sand, stretching itself, and trimming its whiskers, and turning its snail’s eyes round and round.
“Ha!” it said when its left eye saw Robert; “I’ve been looking out for you. Where are the rest of you? Not smashed themselves up with those wings, I hope?”
“No,” said Robert; “but the wings got us into a row, just like all the wishes always do. So the others are kept indoors, and I was only let out for half an hour—to get the wish. So please let me wish as quickly as I can.”
“Wish away,” said the Psammead, twisting itself round in the sand. But Robert couldn’t wish away. He forgot all the things he had been thinking about, and nothing would come into his head but little things for himself, like toffee, a foreign stamp album, or a clasp-knife with three blades and a corkscrew. He sat down to think better, but it was no use. He could only think of things the others would not have cared for—such as a football, or a pair of leg-guards, or to be able to lick Simpkins minoras thoroughly when he went back to school.
“Well,” said the Psammead at last, “you’d better hurry up with that wish of yours. Time flies.”
“I know it does,” said Robert. “I can’t think what to wish for. I wish you could give one of the others their wish without their having to come here to ask for it. Oh, don’t!”
But it was too late. The Psammead had blown itself out to about three times its proper size, and now it collapsed like a pricked bubble, and with a deep sigh leaned back against the edge of its sand-pool, quite faint with the effort.
“There!” it said in a weak voice; “it was tremendously hard—but I did it. Run along home, or they’re sure to wish for something silly before you get there.”
They were—quite sure; Robert felt this, and as he ran home his mind was deeply occupied with the sort of wishes he might find they had wished in his absence. They might wish for rabbits, or white mice, or chocolate, or a fine day tomorrow, or even—and that was most likely—someone might have said, “I do wish to goodness Robert would hurry up.” Well, he was hurrying up, and so they would have their wish, and the day would be wasted. Then he tried to think what they could wish for—something that would be amusing indoors. That had been his own difficulty f
rom the beginning. So few things are amusing indoors when the sun is shining outside and you mayn’t go out, however much you want to.
Robert was running as fast as he could, but when he turned the corner that ought to have brought him within sight of the architect’s nightmare—the ornamental iron-work on the top of the house—he opened his eyes so wide that he had to drop into a walk; for you cannot run with your eyes wide open. Then suddenly he stopped short, for there was no house to be seen. The front-garden railings were gone too, and where the house had stood—Robert rubbed his eyes and looked again. Yes, the others had wished—there was no doubt about that—and they must have wished that they lived in a castle; for there the castle stood black and stately, and very tall and broad, with battlements and lancet windows, and eight great towers; and, where the garden and the orchard had been, there were white things dotted like mushrooms. Robert walked slowly on, and as he got nearer he saw that these were tents, and men in armour were walking about among the tents—crowds and crowds of them.
“Oh, crikey!” said Robert fervently. “They have! They’ve wished for a castle, and it’s being besieged! It’s just like that Sand-fairy! I wish we’d never seen the beastly thing!”
At the little window above the great gateway, across the moat that now lay where the garden had been but half an hour ago, someone was waving something pale dust-coloured. Robert thought it was one of Cyril’s handkerchiefs. They had never been white since the day when he had upset the bottle of “Combined Toning and Fixing Solution” into the drawer where they were. Robert waved back, and immediately felt that he had been unwise. For his signal had been seen by the besieging force, and two men in steel-caps were coming towards him. They had high brown boots on their long legs, and they came towards him with such great strides that Robert remembered the shortness of his own legs and did not run away. He knew it would be useless to himself, and he feared it might be irritating to the foe. So he stood still—and the two men seemed quite pleased with him.
“By my halidom,” said one, “a brave varlet this!”
Robert felt pleased at being called brave, and somehow it made him feel brave. He passed over the “varlet.” It was the way people talked in historical romances for the young, he knew, and it was evidently not meant for rudeness. He only hoped he would be able to understand what they said to him. He had not always been able quite to follow the conversations in the historical romances for the young.
It had turned into a stately castle
“His garb is strange,” said the other. “Some outlandish treachery, belike.”
“Say, lad, what brings thee hither?”
Robert knew this meant, “Now then, youngster, what are you up to here, eh?”—so he said:
“If you please, I want to go home.”
“Go, then!” said the man in the longest boots; “none hindereth, and nought lets us to follow. Zooks!” he added in a cautious undertone, “I misdoubt me but he beareth tidings to the besieged.”
“Where dwellest thou, young knave?” inquired the man with the largest steel-cap.
“Over there,” said Robert; and directly he had said it he knew he ought to have said “Yonder!”
“Ha—sayest so?” rejoined the longest boots. “Come hither, boy. This is a matter for our leader.”
And to the leader Robert was dragged forthwith—by the reluctant ear.
The leader was the most glorious creature Robert had ever seen. He was exactly like the pictures Robert had so often admired in the historical romances. He had armour, and a helmet, and a horse, and a crest, and feathers, and a shield, and a lance, and a sword. His armour and his weapons were all, I am almost sure, of quite different periods. The shield was thirteenth-century, while the sword was of the pattern used in the Peninsular War.at The cuirass was of the time of Charles I,au and the helmet dated from the Second Crusade.av The arms on the shield were very grand—three red running lions on a blue ground. The tents were of the latest brand and the whole appearance of camp, army, and leader might have been a shock to some. But Robert was dumb with admiration, and it all seemed to him perfectly correct, because he knew no more of heraldry or archaeology than the gifted artists who usually drew the pictures for the historical romances. The scene was indeed “exactly like a picture.” He admired it all so much that he felt braver than ever.
Robert was dragged forthwith by the reluctant ear
“Come hither, lad,” said the glorious leader, when the men in Cromwellian steel-capsaw had said a few low eager words. And he took off his helmet, because he could not see properly with it on. He had a kind face, and long fair hair. “Have no fear; thou shalt take no scathe,”ax he said.
Robert was glad of that. He wondered what “scathe” was, and if it was nastier than the sennaay tea which he had to take sometimes.
“Unfold thy tale without alarm,” said the leader kindly. “Whence comest thou, and what is thine intent?”
“My what?” said Robert.
“What seekest thou to accomplish? What is thine errand, that thou wanderest here alone among these rough men-at-arms? Poor child, thy mother’s heart aches for thee e’en now, I’ll warrant me.”
“I don’t think so,” said Robert; “you see, she doesn’t know I’m out.”
The leader wiped away a manly tear, exactly as a leader in a historical romance would have done, and said:
“Fear not to speak the truth, my child; thou hast nought to fear from Wulfric de Talbot.”
Robert had a wild feeling that this glorious leader of the besieging party—being himself part of a wish—would be able to understand better than Martha, or the gipsies, or the policeman in Rochester, or the clergyman of yesterday, the true tale of the wishes and the Psammead. The only difficulty was that he knew he could never remember enough “quothas” and “beshrew me’s,” and things like that, to make his talk sound like the talk of a boy in a historical romance. However, he began boldly enough, with a sentence straight out of Ralph de Courcy; or, The Boy Crusader.4 He said:
“Grammercyazfor thy courtesy, fair sir knight. The fact is, it’s like this—and I hope you’re not in a hurry, because the story’s rather a breather. Father and mother are away, and when we were down playing in the sand-pits we found a Psammead.”
“I cry thee mercy! A Sammyadd?” said the knight.
“Yes, a sort of—of fairy, or enchanter—yes, that’s it, an enchanter; and he said we could have a wish every day, and we wished first to be beautiful.”
The leader wiped away a manly tear
“Thy wish was scarce granted,” muttered one of the men-at-arms, looking at Robert, who went on as if he had not heard, though he thought the remark very rude indeed.
“And then we wished for money—treasure, you know; but we couldn’t spend it. And yesterday we wished for wings, and we got them, and we had a ripping time to begin with—”
“Thy speech is strange and uncouth,” said Sir Wulfric de Talbot. “Repeat thy words—what hadst thou?”
“A ripping—I mean a jolly—no—we were contented with our lot—that’s what I mean; only, after that we got into an awful fix.”
“What is a fix? A fray, mayhap?”
“No—not a fray. A—a—a tight place.”
“A dungeon? Alas for thy youthful fettered limbs!” said the knight, with polite sympathy.
“It wasn’t a dungeon. We just—just encountered undeserved misfortunes,” Robert explained, “and today we are punished by not being allowed to go out. That’s where I live,”—he pointed to the castle. “The others are in there, and they’re not allowed to go out. It’s all the Psammead’s—I mean the enchanter’s fault. I wish we’d never seen him.”
“He is an enchanter of might?”
“Oh yes—of might and main. Rather!”
“And thou deemest that it is the spells of the enchanter whom thou hast angered that have lent strength to the besieging party,” said the gallant leader; “but know thou that Wulfric de Talbot needs no encha
nter’s aid to lead his followers to victory.”
“No, I’m sure you don‘t,” said Robert, with hasty courtesy; “of course not—you wouldn’t, you know. But, all the same, it’s partly his fault, but we’re most to blame. You couldn’t have done anything if it hadn’t been for us.”
“How now, bold boy?” asked Sir Wulfric haughtily. “Thy speech is dark, and ekeba scarce courteous. Unravel me this riddle!”
“Oh,” said Robert desperately, “of course you don’t know it, but you’re not real at all. You’re only here because the others must have been idiots enough to wish for a castle—and when the sun sets you’ll just vanish away, and it’ll be all right.”
The captain and the men-at-arms exchanged glances, at first pitying, and then sterner, as the longest-booted man said, “Beware, noble my lord; the urchin doth but feign madness to escape from our clutches. Shall we not bind him?”
“I’m no more mad than you are,” said Robert angrily, “perhaps not so much—only, I was an idiot to think you’d understand anything. Let me go—I haven’t done anything to you.”
“Whither?” asked the knight, who seemed to have believed all the enchanter story till it came to his own share in it. “Whither wouldst thou wend?”
“Home, of course.” Robert pointed to the castle.
“To carry news of succour? Nay!”
“All right then,” said Robert, struck by a sudden idea; “then let me go somewhere else.” His mind sought eagerly among his memories of the historical romance.
“Sir Wulfric de Talbot,” he said slowly, “should think foul scorn to—to keep a chap—I mean one who has done him no hurt—when he wants to cut off quietly—I mean to depart without violence.”
The Enchanted Castle and Five Children and It Page 13
