Complete Novels of E Nesbit

by Edith Nesbit

  Edred and Elfrida did not say a word. They couldn’t. What they were looking at was far too thrilling. But in each heart the same words were uttered–

  “That’s the treasure!” And each mind held the same thought.

  “If it only goes on till the treasure’s hidden, we shall see where they put it, and then we can go and find it.”

  I think myself that the white Mouldiwarp was anxious to help a little. I believe it had arranged the whole of this exhibition so that the children might get an idea of the whereabouts of the treasure, and so cease to call on it at all hours of the day and night with the sort of poetry which even a mole must see not to be so very good. However this may be, it was a wonderful show. One seemed to see things better somehow like that, through the window that looked into the past, than one did who was really in the past taking an active part in what was going on.

  There appeared, at any rate, to be no doubt that this really was the treasure, and still less that it was a treasure both plentiful and picturesque. Quickly and more quickly the beautiful rich things were being packed into the chests. More and more pale looked the lady; more and more anxious the gentleman.

  The lady was taking from her waiting-woman little boxes and bundles with which the woman’s apron was filled, and the chest before which she was kneeling was nearly full when the door at the end of the gallery opened suddenly, and Elfrida and Edred, in the dark in the still-room, were confronted with the spectacle of themselves coming down the long picture-gallery towards that group of chests and treasure, and hurried human people. They saw themselves in blue silk and lace and black velvet, and they saw on their own faces fear and love, and the wonder what was to happen next. They saw themselves embraced by the grown-ups, who were quite plainly father and mother–they saw themselves speak, and the grown-ups reply.

  “I’d give all my pocket-money for a year to hear what they’re saying,” Edred told himself.

  “That daddy’s just like my daddy,” Elfrida was telling herself; “and just like the daddy in the Tower that was so like my own daddy.”

  Then the children in the picture kneeled down, and the daddy in the picture laid his hands on their heads, and the children out of the picture bent their own heads there in the dark still-room, for they knew what was happening in the picture. Elfrida even half held out her arms; but it was no good.

  Again the scene changed. A chest was being carried by four men, who strained and staggered under its weight. They were carrying it along a vaulted passage by ropes that passed under the chest and over their shoulders. Every now and then they set it down and stretched, and wiped their faces. And the picture kept on changing so that the children seemed to be going with the men down a flight of stairs into a spacious hall full of men, all talking, and very busy with armour and big boots, and then across the courtyard, full of more men, very busy too, polishing axes and things that looked like spears, cleaning muskets and fitting new flints to pistols and sharpening swords on a big grindstone. Edred would have loved to stay and watch them do these things, but they and their work were gone quite quickly, and the chest and the men who carried it were going under an archway. Here one of the men wanted to rest again, but the others said it was not worth while–they were almost there. It was quite plain that they said this, though no sound could be heard.

  “Now we shall really know,” said Edred to himself. Elfrida squeezed his hand. That was just what she was thinking, too.

  The men stopped at a door, knocked, knocked again, and yet once more. And, curiously enough, the children in the still-room could hear the sound of the knocking quite plainly, though they heard nothing else.

  The men looked at each other across the chest that they had set down. Then one man set his shoulder to the door. There was a scrunching sound and the picture disappeared–went out; and there were the shutters with the film pinned across them, and behind them the door, open, and Mrs. Honeysett telling them that dinner–which was roast rabbit and a boiled hand of pork–would be cold if they didn’t make haste and come along.

  “Oh, Mrs. Honeysett,” said Elfrida, with deep feeling, “you are too bad–you really are!”

  “I hope I’ve not spoiled the photos,” said Mrs. Honeysett; “but I did knock three times, and you was that quiet I was afraid something had happened to you–poisoned yourselves without thinking, or something of that.”

  “It’s too bad,” said Edred bitterly; “it’s much too bad. I don’t want any dinner; I don’t want anything. Everything’s spoiled.”

  “Perhaps,” said Mrs. Honeysett patiently, “I might ha’ gone on knocking longer, only I thought the door was bolted–you did so keep on a-bolting of it at the beginning, didn’t you? So I just got hold of the handle to try, and it come open in my hand. Come along, lovey; don’t bear malice now. I didn’t go for to do it. An’ I’ll get you some more of whatever it is that’s spoiled, and you can take some more photos to-morrow.”

  “You might have known we were all right,” said Edred, still furious; but both thought it only fair to say, “It wasn’t the photographs that were spoiled”–and they said it at the same moment.

  “Then what was it?” said Mrs. Honeysett. “And do come along, for goodness’ sake, and eat your dinner while it’s hot.”

  “It was–it was a different sort of picture,” said Elfrida, with a gulp, “and it was a pity.”

  “Never mind, love,” said Mrs. Honeysett, who was as kind as a grandmother, and I can’t say more than that; “there’s a lovely surprise coming by and by for good little gells and boys, and the rabbit’ll be stone cold if you don’t make haste–leastways, it would have been if I hadn’t thought to pop it in the oven when I came to call you, knowing full well what your hands would be like after all that messing about with poison in dishes; and if I was your aunt I’d forbid it downright. And now come along and wash your hands, and don’t let’s have any more nonsense about it. Do you hear?”

  I daresay you notice that Mrs. Honeysett was quite cross at the end of this speech and quite coaxing and kind at the beginning. She had just talked herself into being cross. It’s quite easy. I daresay you have often done it.

  It was a silent dinner–the first silent meal since the children had come to Arden Castle. You can judge of Edred’s feelings when I tell you that he felt as though the rabbit would choke him, and refused a second helping of gooseberry pie with heartfelt sincerity. Elfrida did not eat so much as usual either. It really was a bitter disappointment. To have been so near seeing where the treasure was, and then–just because they hadn’t happened to bolt the door that last time–all was in vain. Mrs. Honeysett thought they were sulking about a silly trifle, and nearly said so when Edred refused the pie.

  It was at the end of dinner that Elfrida, as she got down from her chair, saw Mrs. Honeysett’s face, and saw how different it looked from the kind face that she usually wore. She went over to her very slowly, and very quickly threw her arms round her and kissed her.

  “I’m sorry we’ve been so piggy,” she said. “It’s not your fault that you’re not clever enough to know about pictures and things, is it?”

  If Mrs. Honeysett hadn’t been a perfect dear, this apology would have been worse than none. But she was a perfect dear, so she laughed and hugged Elfrida, and somehow Edred got caught into the hug and the laugh, and the three were friends again. The sky was blue and the sun began to shine.

  And then the two children went down to old Beale’s.

  There were roses in his garden now, and white English flags and lupins and tall foxgloves bordering the little brick path. Old Beale was sitting “on a brown Windsor chair,” as Edred said, in the sun by his front door. Over his head was a jackdaw in a wicker cage, and Elfrida did not approve of this till she saw the cage door was open, and that the jackdaw was sitting in the cage because he liked it, and not because he must. She had been in prison in the Tower, you remember, and people who have been in prison never like to see live things in cages. There was a tabby and whi
te cat of squarish shape sitting on the wooden threshold. (Why are cats who live in country cottages almost always tabby and white and squarish?) The feathery tail of a brown spaniel flogged the flags lazily in the patch of shade made by the water-butt. It was a picture of rural peace, and old Beale was asleep in the middle of it. I am glad to tell you that Lord Arden and his sister were polite enough to wait till he awoke of his own accord, instead of shouting “hi!” or rattling the smooth brown iron latch of the gate, as some children would have done.

  They just sat down on the dry, grassy bank, opposite his gate, and looked at the blue and white butterflies and the flowers and the green potato-tops through the green-grey garden palings.

  And while they sat there Elfrida had an idea–so sudden and so good that it made her jump. But she said nothing, and Edred said–

  “Pinch the place hard, and if it’s still there you’ll kill it perhaps”–for he thought she had jumped because she had been bitten by an ant.

  When they finished looking at the butterflies and the red roses and the green-growing things, they looked long and steadily at old Beale, and, of course, he awoke, as people always do if you look at them long enough and hard enough. And he got up, rather shaking, and put his hand to his forehead, and said–

  “My lord–”

  “How are you?” said Elfrida. “We haven’t found the treasure yet.”

  “But ye will, ye will,” said old Beale. “Come into the house now; or will ye come round along to the arbour and have a drink of milk?”

  “We’d as soon stay here,” said Edred–they had come through the gate now, and Edred was patting the brown spaniel, while Elfrida stroked the squarish cat. “Mrs. Honeysett said you knew all the stories.”

  “Ah,” said old Beale, “a fine girl, Mrs. Honeysett. Her father had Sellinge Farm, where the fairies churn the butter for the bride so long as there’s no cross words. They don’t ever get too much to do, them fairies.” He chuckled, sighed, and said–

  “I know a power of tales. And I know, always I do, which it is that people want. What you’re after’s the story of the East House. Isn’t it now? Is the old man a-failing of his wits, or isn’t he?”

  “We want to know,” said Edred, companionably sharing the flagstone with the feather-tailed spaniel, “the story about why that part of the house in the castle is shut up and all cobwebby and dusty and rusty and musty, and whether there’s any reason why it shouldn’t be all cleaned up and made nice again, if we find the treasure so that we’ve got enough money to pay for new curtains and carpets and things?”

  “It’s a sad tale, that,” said old Beale, “a tale for old folks–or middle-aged folks, let’s say–not for children. You’d never understand it if I was to tell it you, likely as not.”

  “We like grown-up stories,” said Elfrida, with dignity; and Edred added–

  “We can understand anything that grown-ups understand if it’s told us properly. I understand all about the laws of gravitation, and why the sun doesn’t go round the earth but does the opposite; I understood that directly Aunt Edith explained it, and about fixed stars, and the spectroscope, and microbes, and the Equator not being real, and–and heaps of things.”

  “Ah,” said old Beale admiringly, “you’ll be a-busting with book-larnin’ afore you come to your twenty-one, I lay. I only hope the half of it’s true and they’re not deceiving of you, a trusting innocent. I never did hold myself with that about the sun not moving. Why, you can see it a-doin’ of it with your own naked eyes any day of the week.”

  “You wouldn’t deceive any one,” said Elfrida gently. “Do tell us the story.”

  So old Beale began, and he began like this–

  “It was a long time ago–before my time even, it was, but not so long afore, ‘cause I can recomember my father talking about it. He was coachman at the castle when it all happened, so, of course, he knew everything there was to know, my mother having been the housekeeper and gone through it all with the family. There was a Miss Elfrida then, same as there is now, only she was older’n what you are missy. And the gentlemen lads from far and near they come a-courting her, for she was a fine girl–a real beauty–with hair as black as a coal and eyes like the sea when it’s beating up for a storm, before the white horses comes along. So I’ve heard my father say–not that I ever see her myself. And she kept her pretty head in the air and wouldn’t turn it this way or that for e’er a one of them all. And the old lord he loved her too dear to press her against her wish and will, and her so young. So she stayed single and watched the sea.”

  “‘AH,’ SAID OLD BEALE ADMIRINGLY, ‘YOU’LL BE A-BUSTIN’ WITH BOOK-LARNIN’ AFORE YOU COME TO YOUR TWENTY-ONE, I LAY.’”

  “What did she do that for?” Edred asked.

  “To see if her sweetheart’s ship wasn’t a-coming home. For she’d got a sweetheart right enough, she had, unbeknown to all. It was her cousin Dick–a ne’er-do-well, if ever there was one–and it turned out afterwards she’d broken the sixpence with him and swore to be ever true, and he’d gone overseas to find a fortune. And so she watched the sea every day regular, and every day regular he didn’t come. But every day another young chap used to come a-riding–a fine young gentleman and well-to-do, but he was the same kidney as Master Dick, only he’d got a fine fortune, so his wild oats never got a chance to grow strong like Dick’s.”

  “Poor Dick!” said Elfrida.

  “Not so fast, missy,” said the old man. “Well, her father and mother, they said, ‘Have him that’s here and loves you, dear,’ as the saying is–a Frewin he was, and his christened name Arnold. And she says ‘No.’ But they keeps on saying ‘Yes,’ and he keeps on saying ‘Do!’ So they wears her down, telling her Dick was drowned dead for sure, and I don’t know what all. And at last she says, ‘Very well, then, I’ll marry you–if you can stand to marry a girl that’s got all her heart in the sea along of a dead young chap as she was promised to.’ And the wedding was set for Christmas. Miss Elfrida, she slep’ in the room in the East House that looks out towards Arden Knoll, and the servants in the attics, and the old people in the other part of the house.

  “And that night, when all was asleep, I think she heard a tap, tap at her window, and at first she’d think it was the ivy–but no. So presently she’d take heart to go to the window, and there was a face outside that had climbed up by the ivy, and it was her own true love that they’d told her was drowned.”

  “How splendid!” said Edred.

  “How dreadful for Mr. Frewin,” said Elfrida.

  “That’s what she thought, miss, and she couldn’t face it. So she puts on her riding-coat and she gets out of window and down the ivy with him, and off to London. And in the morning, when the bells began to ring for her wedding, and the bridegroom came, there wasn’t no bride for him. She left a letter to say she was very sorry, but it had to be. So then they shut up the East House.”

  “So that’s the story,” said Elfrida.

  “Half of it, miss,” said old Beale, and he took out a black clay pipe and a screw of tobacco, and very slowly and carefully filled the pipe and lighted it, before he went on. “They shut up the East House, where she’d been used to sleep; but it was kep’ swep’ and dusted, and the old folks was broken-hearted, for never a word come from Miss Elfrida. An’ if I know anything of the feelings of a parent, they kept on saying to each other, ‘She might ha’ trusted us. She might ‘a’ known we’d never ‘a’ denied her nothing.’ And then one night there was a knock at the door, and there was Miss Elfrida that was–Mrs. Dick now–with her baby in her arms. Mr. Dick was dead, sudden in a accident, and she’d come home to her father and mother. They couldn’t make enough of the poor young thing and her baby. She had her old rooms and there she lived, and she was getting a bit happier and worshipping of her baby and the old people worshipping it and her too. And then one night some one comes up the ivy, same as Master Dick did, and takes away–not her–but the baby.”

  “How dreadful!” breathed
Elfrida. “Did they get it back?”

  “Never. And never a word was ever found out about who took it, or why, or where they took it to. Only a week or two after Mr. Frewin was killed in the hunting-field, and as they picked him up he said, ‘Elfrida; tell Elfrida–’ and he was trying to say what they was to tell her, when he died. Some folks hold as ’twas him stole the baby, to be even with her for jilting of him, or else to pretend to find it and get her to marry him out of gratitude. But no one’ll ever know. And the baby’s mother, she wore away bit by bit, to a shadow, and then she died, and after that the East House was shut up for good and all, to fall into rot and ruin like it is now. Don’t you cry, missie. I know’d you wouldn’t like the story, but you would have it; but don’t you cry. It’s all long ago, and she and her baby and her young husband’s all been happy together in heaven this long time now, I lay.”

  “I do like the story,” said Elfrida, gulping, “but it is sad, isn’t it?”

  “Thank you for telling it,” Edred said; “but I don’t think it’s any good, really, being unhappy about things that are so long ago, and all over and done with.”

  “I wish we could go back into the past and find the baby for her,” Elfrida whispered–and Edred whispered back–