Complete Novels of E Nesbit

by Edith Nesbit

  “Being in ballast we were very light and drove well up towards the shore. The great seas plunged across us, and at every crash of the water we expected the ship to break her back. And break her back she did. She went in two. All of us were on the after-part of the ship. And still the water dashed over us, and the wind screamed and tore at us, and the snow and rain blinded us and the sea thundered all round.

  “No lifeboat could get to us. Our only hope was the rockets. Fireworks? Nonsense. They fire a big rocket from the shore, with a thin rope tied to it, and if the rope falls across the wrecked ship those on board haul it in, and there’s another heavier rope tied to it, and they make this fast, and then a sort of round chair comes, slung on the rope, and one by one the wrecked men get into this and are hauled ashore through the sea and the spray.

  “The people on shore saw the flare we lit as a signal of distress, and they fired the rocket.’ And then we knew if what was left of the ship could hold together long enough, we were saved. So one by one the crew went ashore in the swinging rickety-looking chair — the ‘breeches’ they called it. Jim Mason, who’d been ashore in the breeches before, off Dungeness, he went first, to show the men how it was done, for some of them were scared of it. Then the cabin-boy went. Then the crew.

  “Several of them wanted old Jack to go with them, but he made himself as stiff as a board and clung alongside my leg as if he was glued to it. And when the mate tried to haul him away he actually snapped at him. He wouldn’t go; he wasn’t going; he didn’t go. He didn’t go till the last man left the ship.

  “Who was the last man? Why me, of course, being Captain. I went ashore with old Jack, heavy and lumpy on my lap, and my arm round him, and his old rough head jammed against my neck under my ear. As we went the breeches going low with our weight, we dipped into the sea and out again, and I thought we’d never get ashore. And it was hours since we struck the sandbank, and the dawn was breaking, grey, like ashes.

  “And so all the crew of the Thomas Lee got ashore, and not a single hand lost or hurt except Jack. For when they pulled us ashore I felt him heavier in my arms than he’d been at the start, and I knew in my heart what the end was going to be.

  “I carried him into the coastguards’ room, and dried him as well as I could, and laid him by the fire on a blanket, and some of the chaps got him warm milk, but he wouldn’t take it. And we tried brandy, but it was no good. He just turned his eyes round, looking first at one and then at another, as though he was counting us up, to make sure we were all there.

  “Everyone was safe and sound, except him. Except him. I got his head on my knee and my hand on his side. He was dry now, but he wasn’t warm, for all the fire. And after a bit he turned his head and licked my hand. And that was the end of Jack.

  “You think he liked me best? You think he stayed with me because he thought I was his master? Well, the crew thought so too, and they had him stuffed and gave me that. It’s only his picture, but I’m glad I’ve got it. But as to his thinking I was his master — I don’t think he thought about masters. I think he just thought about doing his duty to the ship. And he did it.

  “A sad story? Well, we’ve all got to die some day, you know, and how can you die better than doing your duty, same as old Jack did?”

  * * * * *

  The first time Captain Cargill told us this story Martin got straight up and went out of the cottage without even saying, “Thank you,” and he went off so fast that he was half-way home before I caught him up. Of course, Clifford is too old to cry about a dog, but he owns to feeling very glad that the two girls were not there. Having to explain to Captain Cargill that his young brother had suddenly remembered an engagement he had that afternoon was quite bad enough. Besides, I know the girls would have blubbed right out, and then what could I have done?

  CHAPTER FOUR. RUNNING AWAY

  I must tell you at once that Clifford is not the hero of this story. He is but the humble author, because he is better fitted for the task than any of the others. If anyone is the hero, it is Olive — heroine, I mean — but she has not a logical mind like Clifford and cannot narrate a story straight from beginning to end as he can.

  Clifford does not say this to brag. He knows that people must be different. And it is not Olive’s fault that she has a muddly mind. An author with a muddly mind is an awful thing. I know some like this, and you can never tell what they are driving at until you have finished the story, and not always then.

  This story is about what happened to the others while Martin and I were away at

  Lymchurch. It never would have happened if Clifford had been at home, because he wouldn’t have stood it. He is the eldest, and knows his duty to his little brothers and sisters.

  He would have explained to Miss Knox, gently but firmly, just what Mother and Father would think of her if they knew she was going to leave her suffering charges to the mercy of complete strangers: which is, indeed, what she did. But you will see....

  Miss Knox had an invitation to be a companion to a lady who was going to Switzerland for a month. I do not understand, myself, how anyone could want Miss Knox to be a companion to go anywhere, but this lady did; and I suppose it was the chance of a lifetime to Miss Knox, and she could not resist it. She knew that Martin and I were fixed up all right for a month at Lymchurch, but at first she did not know what to do with the others. Then she saw an advertisement in some rotten paper she used to take. The advertisement said that two ladies were willing to undertake the temporary care and education of small children whose parents were abroad. She wrote to the advertisement-ladies, and when they answered she read the letter to Olive, and said it sounded ideal and the very thing, and she was sure Mother would approve. But she never went to see the ladies. She just packed up their clothes and shoved the children into the train in the care of the guard, and then rushed off to buy boots, and mufflers, and thick stockings, and alpenstocks, which are things quite necessary to Swiss travellers, I believe.

  Clifford will not say what he thinks of Miss Knox for this. He is only the author, and he knows that an author must not let family feeling enter. He will try to tell the story as if he was someone else. A partial observer is what it is called, I think.

  Olive and Alan and Carlie enjoyed travelling just by their three selves. It was jolly, as well as being rather grand. A lady with a tight mouth like a letter-box slit met them at the station. She said: “I am Miss Minto. I hope you will be good children,” quite out loud and right before the passengers and the porter, and the guard who had been so nice and talked to them at every station. Then she gave them her horrid hand to shake, and it was like a cold fish in a black kid skin.

  She did not say a word in the cab, and when they got to Litchfield House she paid the cabman less than he expected, and he said some things that, later on, Alan wanted to say.

  There was not enough furniture in Litchfield House, and what there was looked naked. There was linoleum instead of carpets, and in the bedrooms the boards were bare. There were no flowers put about the house as there were at home, and all the pictures in the schoolroom were maps. The schoolroom was long and narrow, and more naked than the rest of the house. It had no curtains and no comfy chairs. Only plain little desks and forms.

  “It’s the most beastly place that ever was,” said Alan.

  “You mustn’t say beastly,” said Olive gently. “It’s a horrid word.”

  “You’ve said it yourself now,” said Alan, triumphantly, “and anyway it is.”

  There were no other children, because term had not begun yet. Miss Minto explained this, and said again that she hoped they would be good. She introduced them to Miss Margy Minto, whose hands were like hot goldfishes, red and wet. She was very fat.

  There was only milk-and-water and bread-and-scrape for the children’s tea.

  The grown-ups had buttered toast and potted meat.

  “No talking allowed at meals,” said Miss Minto, and then she and Miss Margy talked all the time, through the buttered toa
st, about people the children didn’t know.

  The children were very hungry, but no one dared to ask for any of the potted meat.

  The evening seemed as if it would last for ever. It was only when Carlie fell out of her chair with tiredness that Miss Minto took them to their rooms, three rooms.

  “You will sleep in my room,” she said to Olive, “and Carlotta in Miss Margy’s. Alan will sleep alone.”

  “But Carlie can’t undress herself yet,” said Olive. “I always—”

  “She will have to learn to undress herself,” said Miss Minto. “She is five, is she not? I must request you not to interfere. And Carlie is a ridiculous name. While she is under may care she will be called Lottie.”

  Olive felt furious, but she was too frightened to say anything. Only she noted where Miss Margy’s room was, and when she thought all was safe she crept along the bare passage to see how far Carlie had got in learning to undress herself. Carlie had given it up quite soon. She had pulled off one sandal without undoing the buckle — you know how difficult they are — and was fast asleep on the bare boards. Olive undressed her baby sister and put her to bed. When she turned to go back to her own room her heart gave one jump and seemed to stand still — for there, close behind her, stood Miss Minto.

  “Disobedience already?” she said. “Go to your room. To-morrow before breakfast you will write out the whole of the multiplication tables.”

  So it happened that Olive got no breakfast till past twelve, and then it was only dry bread. The others had had porridge, Alan whispered, with lumps in it. In leaning over to whisper this Alan blotted his copybook.

  “You will write this out again twice before teatime,” said Miss Minto.

  “I won’t,” said Alan, and flung the book across the schoolroom.

  He got no dinner till he had picked it up, and begged Miss Minto’s pardon and written it all out again twice.

  “I’ll break your spirit, my boy,” said Miss Minto.

  Carlie was the only one who got all her meals that day — but when she went to bed she cried for Olive to undress her Instead of which Miss Minto slapped her, and put her to bed herself.

  Perhaps these ladies were not really monsters of cruelty, but had just been brought up very strictly themselves, and thought that all children ought to be treated in the same way. They had no children of their own or perhaps they would have known better.

  The children’s breath was quite taken away by so much unhappiness, coming so suddenly, and right on top of their other misfortunes. Alan and Olive wrote and told Mother in France how miserable they were and how horrid Miss Minto and Miss Margy were, and Miss Minto opened the letters and read them out loud at breakfast. Then she tore them up and put the pieces in the slop-basin.

  “You’ve no right to read our letters,” said Alan boldly.

  “No, you haven’t,” said Olive, quaking, but determined to back up her brother.

  “No, you hasn’t,” said Carlie; “horrid thing, you are....”

  The remainder of the day was spent by the three in disgrace and in separate rooms. Next day they were made to write neat letters to Mother on ruled paper, saying they hoped she was getting better, and that they were already making progress in their studies.

  So the miserable days went on — the children were never left alone together for more than a few moments. They had no chance of comforting each other. Alan no longer spoke his mind. Carlie was getting thin. Olive, being the eldest, lay awake for a long time — quite half an hour — every night, wondering and wondering what she ought to do.

  Then came an evening when the children were sent to bed in broad daylight, at six o’clock. This often happened, but usually as a punishment for some of the many wrong things that you so easily do in a house where nobody loves you. This time they had been good in a crushed bewildered way — but they were sent to bed early because Miss Minto and Miss Margy were going to a Bazaar.

  The minute the big front-door had banged behind Miss Minto Olive leaped up in her bed and listened. There was no sound in the house but the ticking of the clock on the stairs. She ran on soft, silent, bare feet to Alan’s room. He was at the window in his nightgown, trying to catch flies.

  “Alan,” she said, and he jumped.

  “They’ll catch you,” he said gloomily, “and it’ll be dry bread again.”

  “Look here,” said Olive desperately. “We can’t go on like this.”

  “We’ve got to,” said Alan.

  “No, we haven’t,” said Olive. “We’ll run away — now — to-night.”

  “They’d only catch us,” said Alan, for his spirit was by this time broken, as Miss Minto said it would be.

  “No, they won’t. We’ve got the pound Daddy sent us. It’s a good thing my desk has got a secret drawer. They’d have taken it like they did our half-crowns, ‘to take care of’ for us. We’ll go to the station and take a ticket for the nearest place to Uncle Edward’s. We’ll put our pillows in our beds to look like us — and they’ll not find out till they tell us to get up in the morning, and we don’t.”

  Alan giggled at the pleasant thought.

  “They will be in a wax,” he said delightedly.

  “You see,” said Olive earnestly, “it isn’t only us. Perhaps we could go on bearing it. But it’s Carlie. She’s getting thin. She cries half the time. Oh, Alan, I can’t sleep at night. Suppose she was to die.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t,” said Alan fretfully. “And what places are there between here and London? I don’t believe you know.”

  Olive didn’t.

  “But we can find out at the station,” she said. “I know we passed Uncle Edward’s place coming down. I shall know the place’s name directly I hear it.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better,” said Alan, “if we just wrote a letter to Mother to tell her we aren’t quite well, and aren’t making any progress in our lessons and don’t want to neither? Then she’d write to Uncle Edward and get him to come and fetch us away.”

  “It wouldn’t be any good,” Olive assured him. “I expect the hateful Mintos are friends of the Post Office people. They’d get the letters and open them, and then it would begin all over again. Dress, Alan, and I will, too, and then we’ll get Carlie up.”

  “But the servants?”

  “They’ve all gone to tea with Jane’s young man. Jane told me this morning, only it’s a great secret — they slipped out the back way directly the old Cats had gone out in front. Jane said they would.”

  And Alan’s broken spirit could find no further objections to offer. They were soon dressed except for their boots, which had been taken down to be cleaned.

  “We must go and look for them,” said Olive. “They’ll be in the kitchen.”

  The kitchen was, of course, forbidden ground, but they had been there more than once — a place delightful because Jane was so much nicer than Miss Minto. Besides, there was a canary in a cage, and a geranium in the window, and Jane’s workbox with the picture of Tunbridge Wells on the top.

  They found their boots in the wash-house and put them on. It was still quite light out of doors, but the wash-house was shadowy. The last boot but one — Carlie’s right — was being laced when a sudden sound shattered the sleepy silence. Olive, as she said later, was turned to stone with the very bootlace in her hand.

  “Go on — lacey up,” said Carlie aloud.

  “Sh!” said Olive and Alan together. They held their breaths. A footstep came along the flagged path, and somebody fumbled at the lock of the back door.

  “Quick — behind the copper,” whispered Olive, dragging Carlie towards that ambush. There was room for all three, and a convenient clothes-horse, hung with drying dusters, made a perfect screen.

  The lock creaked and the wash-house door opened. A man came in. The Mintos kept no manservant. This man had no right here. He passed through the kitchen — and the children heard the sound of a drawer pulled out and the rattle of knives and forks.

  “It’s a burglar,�
�� Alan whispered.

  “He’ll help Us,” said Olive confidently. Of course she had read many stories in which the burglar saves the house from fire or fetches the doctor for the sick baby.

  “He won’t. He’ll tell,” said Alan.

  “Silly — he can’t tell about us without telling about his burgling, too. He’s sure to know the names of the stations. You must know heaps of geography if you’re a burglar — because of hiding your booty in different spots.”

  “Shut up!” said Alan. “Wait till he’s cleared out and we’ll bunk.”

  It was then that Carlie sneezed. The next minute the clothes-horse was pushed aside and they were face to face with the burglar — a large young man with a round, jolly face, quite nice clothes, and a geranium in his buttonhole.

  “Hullo,” he said, and then he laughed. “Why, if I didn’t think for a minute it was the tabbies. You did give me a turn.”

  “Don’t be afraid,” said Olive earnestly; “we won’t betray you.”

  “Very handsome of you, Miss, I’m sure,” said the burglar.

  “And you won’t betray us,” she went on more earnestly. “But you won’t take anything, will you?”

  “Nothing, thank you, Miss. But I thought you was in bed.”

  “I’m sorry if we disappointed you,” said Alan; “but if you’ll help us to escape we’ll give you some of our money, and then you can get a new start and begin to lead a new life, and give up your present dreadful one, can’t you?”

  “What’s that?” said the young man with the geranium in his buttonhole. “Say that again.”

  “You look quite nice,” said Olive. “Don’t be a burglar any more: our uncle will help you to find some honest work — he often helps people when they come out of prison.”

  “A burglar? Prison? Me?” said the young man. “Well — if ever I thought to see the day.” And then he sat down on the copper-edge on purpose to laugh. At least that’s what it looked like.