Complete Novels of E Nesbit

by Edith Nesbit

  And all the time the car was worming its swift, gliding way through strange crowded streets, between unfamiliar rows of gloomy houses and brilliant shops. It crossed the Thames, and the roads became sordid. It left the sordidness behind and passed among villas whose gardens grew larger as they slipped past. Then came trees — fields — more villas.

  “It’s almost real country,” said Lucilla. “I hope Hope Cottage is bowered in roses and jasmine. It must be a big cottage to have a garage.”

  “I should like it thatched,” said Jane, “but I suppose that’s too much to expect.”

  More big gardens — a road that was almost a lane, with fields on one side and cabbage-fields on the other — some half-built houses — some trees — another cabbage-field — and then suddenly the motor stopped, purring, before a little yellow brick house as square as the rabbit-hutch itself and almost as small.

  The chauffeur got down and opened the door. He had quite a nice face, Lucilla thought.

  “This is Hope Cottage,” he said. And, indeed, a black inscription on its white gate said so in plain capitals.

  They gathered their belongings together and got out. The chauffeur unlatched the gate for them, and they passed! up a tiled path to a narrow green door.

  Oh, Jane, this can’t be right!” Lucilla whispered.

  “Where’s the key?” said Jane.

  A large key-hole invited it. It turned easily, and the door opening showed a vision of a narrow carpeted passage and steeply-rising stairs.

  “Good afternoon, miss,” said the chauffeur; “the taxi is paid for.”

  “But here — I say, stop a minute!” said Lucilla.

  “Sorry — another appointment,” he said. “You’ll find it s quite all right. This is Hope Cottage,” and he turned to his machine still pulsing loudly.

  “No, you don’t! “ cried Jane, and, springing to the gate, caught him by the arm. A look of positive terror came over his face.

  “My dear young lady,” he said, “surely you won’t detain me by force?”

  “Yes, I will,” said Jane. “You can’t go off and leave us like this.”

  “Mr. Panton told me to bring you here, miss. I assure you it’s all quite as he arranged. You need be under no apprehension.”

  “I’m not,” she said shortly. “But I’m not going to let you go till you’ve helped to get the boxes in. How on earth do you suppose that taxi man’s going to get all those boxes up these stairs? Or do you expect us to do it?”

  “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I never thought of that. Of course I will,” and he turned to the waiting taxi and began to haul at a suit-case.

  “You must take them all upstairs. There’s no room in this passage for luggage.”

  “Certainly,” said the chauffeur; “ please don’t worry. I’ll manage everything.”

  He did. When motor and taxi had died away into silence Jane said:

  “That chauffeur was a gentleman. Did you notice his voice? And towards the end he quite forgot to call us ‘ miss.’ I thought he had an awfully nice face, didn’t you?”

  “We’ve got something to think of besides chauffeurs’ laces,” said Lucilla. “There are no shops for miles, I expect, and I’m absolutely starving.”

  “Perhaps there’s something to eat in the house.”

  “Not likely,” said Lucilla.

  “Well, let’s look over the house. It’s no use standing n the passage all night saying how hungry you are,” said Jane impatiently.

  There were two little sitting-rooms, one on each side of the front door. The first was furnished primly in Middle-Victorian walnut and faded satin. It had a piano with a fluted yellow silk front, and glass lustres to the mantelpiece. A vase of roses stood on a table in the window.

  “Nothing to eat here!” said Lucilla bitterly.

  But Jane had opened the door of the other room.

  “Oh, Lucy!” she called. “ Come here!”

  The second room was a little dining-room, with mahogany cheffonier and maple-framed engravings of the Monarch of the Glen, the Maid of Saragossa, and Bolton Abbey in the olden time. In the middle of the room stood a table — almost it seemed to beckon, with its white cloth, its gleams of silver and glass.

  “Cold chicken!” said Lucilla. “Salad — raspberries — tea-things — milk — bread, butter, jam — everything! Oh, and cream! Oh, Jane!”

  “Here’s a letter,” said Jane. It wasn’t really a letter; just a slip of paper in the well-known handwriting of Mr. Arthur Panton.

  “Unavoidably called away. Please make yourselves completely at home. — A. P.

  “P.S. — Kettle and spirit-stove in the kitchen. Tea in caddy in cheffonier.”

  The two girls looked at each other.

  “Well!” they said simultaneously, and Lucilla added “Never mind about tea. Can you carve a chicken?”

  “I can try.”

  “Try, then, in the name of the Prophet!” said Lucilla “I can cut bread. If you can’t carve, chop; our lives are saved. I prefer the liver wing. I’ve never had one, but the important people in books always have the liver wing You can have all the legs. Oh, our guardian is really a gem Isn’t it the loveliest supper? He must be a man of per feet taste and sensibility. Pass the salad, please. This doesn’t look like a wing, it looks all bone; give me some off the top — yes, that white part. No, I don’t want to wash my hands first. I don’t want to do anything but eat for quite a long time.” —

  When they had eaten, they went all over the little house and found a tiny kitchen and scullery, and upstairs three small bedrooms choked with their luggage. From the windows they saw a large garden, painted with many bright flowers and rich with the promise of fruit-trees.

  “It’s rather a dear little bandbox,” said Lucilla. “I wonder if our mysterious guardian will come to-night or to-morrow?”

  When they had explored every hole and corner and shelf and cupboard, and had tried the piano and gone all over the garden, they sat down to wait.

  “We won’t go to bed till twelve,” said Jane, “in case he comes. And if he doesn’t, it will be rather a lark to sit up till twelve anyway.”

  But by twelve o’clock he had not come, so they went to bed. They were roused at eight o’clock by a knocking at the door, which repeated itself as they hastily dressed after shouting “Coming!” through the window. Through the glass of the hall door they saw a manly figure.

  “Here he is!” they both said. And so he was. But he was only the postman. He had one letter — a very large, fat, registered one. It was addressed to Miss Jane Quested and Miss Lucilla Craye, and they both signed the green receipt for it.’

  “It’s his writing,” said Lucilla, as the postman stumped away. “You open it.”

  The stout envelope yielded several long, legal-looking papers and a bank pass book. Also a letter.

  “DEAR JANE AND LUCILLA, “Enclosed with other papers of less interest are the title-deeds of Hope Cottage, which is the property of Lucilla. Also a bank-book for Jane. I have paid £500 into Jane’s account at Barclay’s Bank.

  “This, my dear Jane and my dear Lucilla, is, I very much fear, all that you will ever see of the fortune bequeathed to you by your late aunt. I have been unfortunate in speculation, and I have decided, rather than face the bankruptcy and other courts, to fly the scene.

  “I am leaving you the house, which I cannot take with me, and £500, which I hope may enable you to start in some business that will keep you. A dressmaking business? Horticulture? A bonnet-shop? Duchesses do it, you know, nowadays.

  “I can ill spare the £500, but I cannot bear to leave you penniless. And I feel that I am the most unfortunate of men in having to leave you at all. But I have no alternative.

  “You have often begged me to take you away from school. Well, now I have done it. And to let you lead your own lives. Well — lead them.

  “And accept the warmest wishes for your success in every department of life, from your unfortunate and absolutely dish
ed and done-for trustee, “ARTHUR PANTON.”

  The girls looked at each other.

  “Whatever shall we do?” said Lucilla breathlessly.

  “Well, first of all,” said Jane, very pale but steady, “ I think we ought to do what we ought to have done last night.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Feed that rabbit. There’s no reason why he should starve.”

  CHAPTER III

  WHEN Fortune suddenly upsets the coach and tumbles you on to the hard, dusty road, you can, of course, sit where you are and weep. If you do, something will certainly run over you and your distress will be increased. Or you can move to the side of the road and sit down and cry here in comparative safety. Or you can go your way afoot, cursing the coach and the driver and your own beggarly luck. Or you can pick yourself up with a laugh, protesting that you are not at all hurt and that walking is much better fun than riding. The last is, on every count, the course to be recommended, but it is not everyone who has the qualities needed for such a snapping of the fingers at Fate. To do the thing convincingly you must have courage, a light heart, and, above all, presence of mind. The gesture of “I don’t care “ must not come as a second thought. You must not cry out and then protest that you are not hurt. The laugh must follow the smash without an instant’s pause, to be followed as quickly by insistence on the charms of walking — so much superior to carriage exercise. Afterwards you can talk things over with your fellow-victims, if you have any, and decide how fast you shall walk and how far, what shoes are best for walking, and which road you shall walk on.

  Jane, spilled out of the quite luxurious carriage of a comfortable income, had at least the presence of mind to laugh and to feed the rabbit.

  “And now,” she said firmly, turning away from his green munchings. “Then there’s nothing to do but to go for a walk. Come along in and put on thick boots, Lucy. We’re going to walk miles.”

  “All right,” said Lucilla shortly. And they went in. “And look here,” said Jane, “don’t let’s talk.”

  “I’m not the one who usually wants to talk,” said Lucilla, busy with bootlaces.

  “No. I know. It’s me. But not this time. This time I want to think. Really to think. I’m not sure, but I don’t believe I ever have really thought yet. I’ve only dreamed and imagined and planned. Now I’m going to try to think. Come on — how horribly narrow these stairs are! Latch the gate; it looks tidier. Now we’ll step out. Which way? It doesn’t matter a bit. What was I saying? Oh, that I meant to try to think. And you try to, too. It won’t be easy, because I don’t believe you’ve ever done it before either. And when we get home we’ll tell each other what we think. If we begin to talk about everything now we shall only get confused. We want to see it clearly and see it whole, and—”

  “I thought we weren’t going to talk?” Lucilla put in. “No more we are. I’ll shut up like a knife in a minute. I want to say one thing, though.”

  “So do I,” said Lucilla. “I want to say I think it’s a beastly shame.”

  “No, no!” said Jane eagerly. “Don’t start your thinking with that, or you’ll never get anywhere. It isn’t a shame and it isn’t beastly. I’ll tell you what it is, Lucy. And that’s where we must start our thinking from. Everything that’s happening to us — yes, everything — is to be regarded as a lark. See? This is my last word. This. Is. Going. To. Be. A. Lark.”

  “Is it?” said Lucilla. “And that’s my last word.” They walked on in silence. The houses grew fewer. There were fields instead of market-gardens. Trees; hedges. A lonely, tumble-down cottage. A big deserted house, with windows boarded up, standing in a walled garden. A lane; a stile; more trees, and along stretch of white grass-bordered road — real country. They walked sturdily along the dusty road. The sun was warm and grew warmer. The road rose and fell in gentle undulations. Still in perfect silence the girls walked on. But their pace was not so good as at first — one might almost indeed have said that their footsteps lagged.

  A turn of the road brought to view a village green, a duck-pond, a pleasant-looking inn. In front of this Lucilla stopped.

  “Look here, Jane,” she said.

  “We said we wouldn’t talk,” said Jane rather faintly. “Who wants to talk?” Lucilla asked. “ What I want isn’t talk, it’s something to eat. Do you realise that you dragged me out without breakfast?”

  “It was silly,” said Jane; “very. At the same time, I’m quite sure we couldn’t have eaten a proper breakfast just after reading that letter.”

  “Perhaps not,” Lucilla admitted, “but I want my breakfast, and I’m going to have it here — in these tea-gardens at the side of the inn.”

  “I’m hungry too,” said Jane; “at least, I feel as if I’d been for hours in a swing-boat. I suppose that’s what people mean when they say they feel faint for want of food. But oh, Lucy, I’m so sorry. I didn’t bring any money!”

  “I did,” said Lucilla grimly, and led the way to the green-latticed tea-gardens.

  In a tumble-down arbour, with faded blue seats and a faded blue, warped table, breakfast was presently served to them.

  “Oh, Lucilla, you are It!” Jane admitted. “Doesn’t the bacon smell lovely? And the coffee? Sweeter than roses in their prime.... And real toast in a proper toast-rack!...”

  “Don’t talk,” said Lucilla; “eat.”

  After a silence full of emotion Jane spoke again.

  “I never had breakfast out of doors before — and all by our two selves, too.... Surely even you will admit that this is a lark?”

  “It would be,” said Lucilla, “if ——

  “No ifs,” said Jane. “It is a lark, unconditionally and without qualification. And I’ve been thinking — at least I haven’t really till this moment, but I’m thinking now. Bacon is an admirable brain tonic. Don’t speak for a minute. I am evolving what they call a philosophy of life.”

  “More coffee, please,” said Lucilla.

  “Well,” said Jane, putting in far too much milk, “it’s like this. If we’re going to worry all the time about the past and the future we shan’t have any time at all. We must take everything as it comes and enjoy everything that is — well, that is enjoyable; like this very lovely breakfast. Live for the moment — and do all you can to make the next moment jolly too, as Carlyle says, or is it Emerson?”

  “It may be Plato or Aristotle,” said Lucilla, cutting more bread, “but I think not.”

  “It’s common sense,” insisted Jane. “We’ve got to try to make our livings somehow. We’ll try all sorts of things, and we’ll get fun out of them if we don’t worry and grouse. But we shall never do anything if we think of ourselves as two genteel spinsters who have seen better days. We must think of ourselves as adventurers with the whole world before us. Frightfully interesting.”

  “There’s something in what you say,” said Lucilla. “There’s much more in what I am going to say,” Jane rejoined; “it’s wonderful how bacon clears the mind. Have you ever thought seriously about marriage?”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Lucilla.

  “There — that’s exactly what I mean,” said Jane cryptically. “Now I have thought about marriage — a good deal; and I believe that one reason why so many married people don’t get on together — well, you know they don’t, don’t you? is that they’re not polite to each other. They think they know each other well enough to say, ‘Don’t be silly,’ and things like that. No, of course I’m not offended. It was all right to rag each other when we were just cousins with nothing to do but play the fool. But now we’re partners, my dear; almost as much as if we were a married couple.

  And don’t you think it would be a good scheme to try to be polite, and drop ragging each other?”

  “You can’t,” said Lucilla.

  “Well, anyhow, I think we shall have to try; at any rate, not to say, ‘ Don’t be silly’ before we know what the other one’s going to say.”

  “I apologise,” said Lucilla, “and leave th
e omnibus.”

  “Nonsense,” said Jane. “I didn’t mean that; it might just as well have been me. And now I’m going to tell you something.”

  “I beg your pardon,” said a voice, “but can you tell me how far it is to Leabridge?”

  They turned, to find at Lucilla’s elbow a young man in knee-breeches. He held in one hand a panama hat and in the other a glass of gingerbeer.

  “Oh! “ said Lucilla, with what was almost a cry.

  “I am sorry if I startled you,” he said.

  “Not at all,” said Lucilla; “at least, you did rather, but it doesn’t matter — and we don’t know anything about Leabridge. I’m sorry. But they’d know in the inn, wouldn’t they?”

  “I suppose they would,” said the young man, as though this were a completely new idea. “They’re sensible people, I suppose?”

  “I don’t know,” said Lucilla; “we aren’t staying here. We just came to have breakfast” — she indicated the greasy plates and sloppy cups. “But they’ll be sure to know, of course.”

  “Yes. Thank you so much,” said the stranger. “You see, I’ve been in the Red Sea for over four years, and I don’t seem to know where anything is. It’s wonderful how different Kent is to the Red Sea.”

  “It must be,” said Lucilla, rather stiffly. “I’m sorry we can’t help you.”

  “Not at all,” said he vaguely. “Thank you so much.” And with that he retreated to the furthest of the green tables.

  “We’d better go,” said Jane. “Whatever did you want to snub him so for?”

  “He didn’t really want to know about Leabridge. He just wanted to talk to us.”

  “I should think he did! After four years of the Red Sea anybody would want to talk to anybody. But that wasn’t it. Don’t you see, he came into the garden just when I was saying I was going to tell you something. He had to let us know he was there. I think it was very, very nice of him. Now, Lucy, you must bow as we go by.”

  “We won’t go by,” said Lucilla; “we’ll go round the other way, and turn our backs on him at once.”