Complete Novels of E Nesbit

by Edith Nesbit

  No reader who understands justice and the real rightness of things, and who is to blame for what, will ever think it could have been Oswald’s fault that the two other boys got along down by rolling over and over each other, and bursting the door at the bottom of the stairs open by their revolving bodies. And I should like to know whose fault it was that Mrs. Pettigrew was just on the other side of that door at that very minute? The door burst open, and the impetuous bodies of Noël and Denny rolled out of it into Mrs. Pettigrew, and upset her and the tea-tray. Both revolving boys were soaked with tea and milk, and there were one or two cups and things smashed. Mrs. Pettigrew was knocked over, but none of her bones were broken. Noël and Denny were going to be sent to bed, but Oswald said it was all his fault. He really did this to give the others a chance of doing a refined, golden deed by speaking the truth and saying it was not his fault. But you cannot really count on any one. They did not say anything, but only rubbed the lumps on their late-revolving heads. So it was bed for Oswald, and he felt the injustice hard.

  But he sat up in bed and read the Last of the Mohicans, and then he began to think. When Oswald really thinks he almost always thinks of something. He thought of something now, and it was miles better than the idea we had decided on in the secret staircase, of advertising in the Kentish Mercury and saying if Albert’s uncle’s long-lost grandmother would call at the Moat House she might hear of something much to her advantage.

  What Oswald thought of was that if we went to Hazelbridge and asked Mr. B. Munn, grocer, that drove us home in the cart with the horse that liked the wrong end of the whip best, he would know who the lady was in the red hat and red wheels that paid him to drive us home that Canterbury night. He must have been paid, of course, for even grocers are not generous enough to drive perfect strangers, and five of them too, about the country for nothing.

  Thus we may learn that even unjustness and sending the wrong people to bed may bear useful fruit, which ought to be a great comfort to every one when they are unfairly treated. Only it most likely won’t be. For if Oswald’s brothers and sisters had nobly stood by him, as he expected, he would not have had the solitudy reflections that led to the great scheme for finding the grandmother.

  Of course when the others came up to roost they all came and squatted on Oswald’s bed and said how sorry they were. He waived their apologies with noble dignity, because there wasn’t much time, and said he had an idea that would knock the council’s plan into a cocked hat. But he would not tell them what it was. He made them wait till next morning. This was not sulks, but kind feeling. He wanted them to have something else to think of besides the way they hadn’t stood by him in the bursting of the secret staircase door and the tea-tray and the milk.

  Next morning Oswald kindly explained, and asked who would volunteer for a forced march to Hazelbridge. The word volunteer cost the young Oswald a pang as soon as he had said it, but I hope he can bear pangs with any man living. “And mind,” he added, hiding the pang under a general-like severeness, “I won’t have any one in the expedition who has anything in his shoes except his feet.”

  This could not have been put more delicately and decently. But Oswald is often misunderstood. Even Alice said it was unkind to throw the pease up at Denny. When this little unpleasantness had passed away (it took some time, because Daisy cried, and Dora said, “There now, Oswald!”) there were seven volunteers, which, with Oswald, made eight, and was, indeed, all of us. There were no cockle-shells, or tape-sandals, or staves, or scrips, or anything romantic and pious about the eight persons who set out for Hazelbridge that morning, more earnestly wishful to be good and deedful — at least Oswald, I know was — than ever they had been in the days of the beastly Wouldbegood Society. It was a fine day. Either it was fine nearly all last summer, which is how Oswald remembers it, or else nearly all the interesting things we did came on fine days.

  With hearts light and gay, and no pease in any one’s shoes, the walk to Hazelbridge was perseveringly conducted. We took our lunch with us, and the dear dogs. Afterwards we wished for a time that we had left one of them at home. But they did so want to come, all of them, and Hazelbridge is not nearly as far as Canterbury, really, so even Martha was allowed to put on her things — I mean her collar — and come with us. She walks slowly, but we had the day before us, so there was no extra hurry.

  At Hazelbridge we went into B. Munn’s grocer’s shop and asked for ginger-beer to drink. They gave it us, but they seemed surprised at us wanting to drink it there, and the glass was warm — it had just been washed. We only did it, really, so as to get into conversation with B. Munn, grocer, and extract information without rousing suspicion. You cannot be too careful.

  However, when we had said it was first-class ginger-beer, and paid for it, we found it not so easy to extract anything more from B. Munn, grocer; and there was an anxious silence while he fiddled about behind the counter among the tinned meats and sauce bottles, with a fringe of hob-nailed boots hanging over his head.

  H. O. spoke suddenly. He is like the sort of person who rushes in where angels fear to tread, as Denny says (say what sort of person that is). He said:

  “I say, you remember driving us home that day. Who paid for the cart?”

  Of course B. Munn, grocer, was not such a nincompoop (I like that word, it means so many people I know) as to say right off. He said:

  “I was paid all right, young gentleman. Don’t you terrify yourself.”

  People in Kent say terrify when they mean worry.

  So Dora shoved in a gentle oar. She said:

  “We want to know the kind lady’s name and address, so that we can write and thank her for being so jolly that day.”

  B. Munn, grocer, muttered something about the lady’s address being goods he was often asked for. Alice said, “But do tell us. We forgot to ask her. She’s a relation of a second-hand uncle of ours, and I do so want to thank her properly. And if you’ve got any extra strong peppermints at a penny an ounce, we should like a quarter of a pound.”

  This was a master-stroke. While he was weighing out the peppermints his heart got soft, and just as he was twisting up the corner of the paper bag, Dora said, “What lovely fat peppermints! Do tell us.”

  And B. Munn’s heart was now quite melted, and he said:

  “It’s Miss Ashleigh, and she lives at The Cedars — about a mile down the Maidstone Road.”

  We thanked him, and Alice paid for the peppermints. Oswald was a little anxious when she ordered such a lot, but she and Noël had got the money all right, and when we were outside on Hazelbridge Green (a good deal of it is gravel, really), we stood and looked at each other.

  Then Dora said:

  “Let’s go home and write a beautiful letter and all sign it.”

  Oswald looked at the others. Writing is all very well, but it’s such a beastly long time to wait for anything to happen afterwards.

  The intelligent Alice divined his thoughts, and the Dentist divined hers — he is not clever enough yet to divine Oswald’s — and the two said together:

  “Why not go and see her?”

  “She did say she would like to see us again some day,” Dora replied. So after we had argued a little about it we went.

  And before we had gone a hundred yards down the dusty road Martha began to make us wish with all our hearts we had not let her come. She began to limp, just as a pilgrim, who I will not name, did when he had the split pease in his silly, palmering shoes.

  So we called a halt and looked at her feet. One of them was quite swollen and red. Bulldogs almost always have something the matter with their feet, and it always comes on when least required. They are not the right breed for emergencies.

  There was nothing for it but to take it in turns to carry her. She is very stout, and you have no idea how heavy she is. A half-hearted, unadventurous person (I name no names, but Oswald, Alice, Noël, H. O., Dicky, Daisy, and Denny will understand me) said, why not go straight home and come another day without Marth
a? But the rest agreed with Oswald when he said it was only a mile, and perhaps we might get a lift home with the poor invalid. Martha was very grateful to us for our kindness. She put her fat white arms round the person’s neck who happened to be carrying her. She is very affectionate, but by holding her very close to you you can keep her from kissing your face all the time. As Alice said, “Bulldogs do give you such large, wet, pink kisses.”

  A mile is a good way when you have to take your turn at carrying Martha.

  At last we came to a hedge with a ditch in front of it, and chains swinging from posts to keep people off the grass and out of the ditch, and a gate with “The Cedars” on it in gold letters. All very neat and tidy, and showing plainly that more than one gardener was kept. There we stopped. Alice put Martha down, grunting with exhaustedness, and said:

  “Look here, Dora and Daisy, I don’t believe a bit that it’s his grandmother. I’m sure Dora was right, and it’s only his horrid sweetheart. I feel it in my bones. Now, don’t you really think we’d better chuck it; we’re sure to catch it for interfering. We always do.”

  “The cross of true love never did come smooth,” said the Dentist. “We ought to help him to bear his cross.”

  “But if we find her for him, and she’s not his grandmother, he’ll marry her,” Dicky said, in tones of gloominess and despair.

  Oswald felt the same, but he said, “Never mind. We should all hate it, but perhaps Albert’s uncle might like it. You can never tell. If you want to do a really unselfish action and no kid, now’s your time, my late Wouldbegoods.”

  No one had the face to say right out that they didn’t want to be unselfish.

  But it was with sad hearts that the unselfish seekers opened the long gate and went up the gravel drive between the rhododendrons and other shrubberies towards the house.

  I think I have explained to you before that the eldest son of anybody is called the representative of the family if his father isn’t there. This was why Oswald now took the lead. When we got to the last turn of the drive it was settled that the others were to noiselessly ambush in the rhododendrons, and Oswald was to go on alone and ask at the house for the grandmother from India — I mean Miss Ashleigh.

  So he did, but when he got to the front of the house and saw how neat the flower-beds were with red geraniums, and the windows all bright and speckless with muslin blinds and brass rods, and a green parrot in a cage in the porch, and the doorstep newly whited, lying clean and untrodden in the sunshine, he stood still and thought of his boots and how dusty the roads were, and wished he had not gone into the farmyard after eggs before starting that morning. As he stood there in anxious uncertainness he heard a low voice among the bushes. It said, “Hist! Oswald, here!” and it was the voice of Alice.

  So he went back to the others among the shrubs, and they all crowded round their leader, full of impartable news.

  “She’s not in the house; she’s here,” Alice said, in a low whisper that seemed nearly all S’s. “Close by — she went by just this minute with a gentleman.”

  “And they’re sitting on a seat under a tree on a little lawn, and she’s got her head on his shoulder, and he’s holding her hand. I never saw any one look so silly in all my born,” Dicky said.

  “It’s sickening,” Denny said, trying to look very manly with his legs wide apart.

  “I don’t know,” Oswald whispered. “I suppose it wasn’t Albert’s uncle?”

  “Not much,” Dicky briefly replied.

  “Then don’t you see it’s all right. If she’s going on like that with this other fellow, she’ll want to marry him, and Albert’s uncle is safe. And we’ve really done an unselfish action without having to suffer for it afterwards.” With a stealthy movement Oswald rubbed his hands as he spoke in real joyfulness. We decided that we had better bunk unnoticed. But we had reckoned without Martha. She had strolled off limping to look about her a bit in the shrubbery. “Where’s Martha?” Dora suddenly said.

  “She went that way,” pointingly remarked H. O.

  “Then fetch her back, you young duffer! What did you let her go for?” Oswald said; “and look sharp. Don’t make a row.”

  He went. A minute later we heard a hoarse squeak from Martha — the one she always gives when suddenly collared from behind — and a little squeal in a lady-like voice, and a man say “Hallo!” and then we knew that H. O. had once more rushed in where angels might have thought twice about it. We hurried to the fatal spot, but it was too late. We were just in time to hear H. O. say:

  “ARE YOU GOING TO MARRY THE LADY?”

  “I’m sorry if she frightened you. But we’ve been looking for you. Are you Albert’s uncle’s long-lost grandmother?”

  “No,” said our lady, unhesitatingly.

  It seemed vain to add seven more agitated actors to the scene now going on. We stood still. The man was standing up. He was a clergyman, and I found out afterwards he was the nicest we ever knew, except our own Mr. Bristow at Lewisham, who is now a canon, or a dean, or something grand that no one ever sees. At present I did not like him. He said: “No, this lady is nobody’s grandmother. May I ask in return how long it is since you escaped from the lunatic asylum, my poor child, and where your keeper is?”

  H. O. took no notice of this at all, except to say: “I think you are very rude, and not at all funny, if you think you are.”

  The lady said: “My dear, I remember you now perfectly. How are all the others, and are you pilgrims again to-day?”

  H. O. does not always answer questions. He turned to the man and said:

  “Are you going to marry the lady?”

  “Margaret,” said the clergyman, “I never thought it would come to this: he asks me my intentions!”

  “If you are,” said H. O., “it’s all right; because if you do, Albert’s uncle can’t — at least, not till you’re dead. And we don’t want him to.”

  “Flattering, upon my word,” said the clergyman, putting on a deep frown. “Shall I call him out, Margaret, for his poor opinion of you, or shall I send for the police?”

  Alice now saw that H. O., though firm, was getting muddled and rather scared. She broke cover and sprang into the middle of the scene.

  “Don’t let him rag H. O. any more,” she said, “it’s all our faults. You see, Albert’s uncle was so anxious to find you, we thought perhaps you were his long-lost heiress sister or his old nurse who alone knew the secret of his birth, or something, and we asked him, and he said you were his long-lost grandmother he had known in India. And we thought that must be a mistake and that really you were his long-lost sweetheart. And we tried to do a really unselfish act and find you for him. Because we don’t want him to be married at all.”

  “It isn’t because we don’t like you,” Oswald cut in, now emerging from the bushes; “and if he must marry, we’d sooner it was you than any one. Really we would.”

  “A generous concession, Margaret,” the strange clergyman uttered, “most generous, but the plot thickens. It’s almost pea-soup-like now. One or two points clamor for explanation. Who are these visitors of yours? Why this Red Indian method of paying morning calls? Why the lurking attitude of the rest of the tribe which I now discern among the undergrowth? Won’t you ask the rest of the tribe to come out and join the glad throng?”

  Then I liked him better. I always like people who know the same songs we do, and books and tunes and things.

  The others came out. The lady looked very uncomfy, and partly as if she was going to cry. But she couldn’t help laughing, too, as more and more of us came out.

  “And who,” the clergyman went on—”who in fortune’s name is Albert? And who is his uncle? And what have they or you to do in this galère — I mean garden?”

  We all felt rather silly, and I don’t think I ever felt more than then what an awful lot there were of us.

  “Three years’ absence in Calcutta or elsewhere may explain my ignorance of these details, but still—”

  “I think we�
�d better go,” said Dora. “I’m sorry if we’ve done anything rude or wrong. We didn’t mean to. Good-bye. I hope you’ll be happy with the gentleman, I’m sure.”

  “I hope so too,” said Noël, and I know he was thinking how much nicer Albert’s uncle was. We turned to go. The lady had been very silent compared with what she was when she pretended to show us Canterbury. But now she seemed to shake off some dreamy silliness, and caught hold of Dora by the shoulder.

  “No, dear, no,” she said, “it’s all right, and you must have some tea — we’ll have it on the lawn. John, don’t tease them any more. Albert’s uncle is the gentleman T told you about. And, my dear children, this is my brother that I haven’t seen for three years.”

  “Then he’s a long-lost too,” said H. O.

  The lady said, “Not now,” and smiled at him. And the rest of us were dumb with confounding emotions. Oswald was particularly dumb. He might have known it was her brother, because in rotten grown-up books if a girl kisses a man in a shrubbery that is not the man you think she’s in love with; it always turns out to be a brother, though generally the disgrace of the family and not a respectable chaplain from Calcutta.

  The lady now turned to her reverend and surprising brother and said: “John, go and tell them we’ll have tea on the lawn.”

  When he was gone she stood quite still a minute. Then she said: “I’m going to tell you something, but I want to put you on your honor not to talk about it to other people. You see it isn’t every one I would tell about it. He, Albert’s uncle, I mean, has told me a lot about you, and I know I can trust you.”

  We said “Yes,” Oswald with a brooding sentiment of knowing all too well what was coming next.

  The lady then said: “Though I am not Albert’s uncle’s grandmother, I did know him in India once, and we were going to be married, but we had a — a — misunderstanding.”