by E. Nesbit
CHAPTER IX
GROWN UP
Cyril had once pointed out that ordinary life is full of occasions onwhich a wish would be most useful. And this thought filled his mind whenhe happened to wake early on the morning after the morning after Roberthad wished to be bigger than the baker's boy, and had been it. The daythat lay between these two days had been occupied entirely by gettingthe governess-cart home from Benenhurst.
Cyril dressed hastily; he did not take a bath, because tin baths are sonoisy, and he had no wish to rouse Robert, and he slipped off alone, asAnthea had once done, and ran through the dewy morning to the sand-pit.He dug up the Psammead very carefully and kindly, and began theconversation by asking it whether it still felt any ill effects fromthe contact with the tears of Robert the day before yesterday. ThePsammead was in good temper. It replied politely.
"And now, what can I do for you?" it said. "I suppose you've come hereso early to ask for something for yourself--something your brothers andsisters aren't to know about, eh? Now, do be persuaded for your owngood! Ask for a good fat Megatherium and have done with it."
"Thank you--not to-day, I think," said Cyril cautiously. "What I reallywanted to say was--you know how you're always wishing for things whenyou're playing at anything?"
"I seldom play," said the Psammead coldly.
"Well, you know what I mean," Cyril went on impatiently. "What I want tosay is: won't you let us have our wish just when we think of it, andjust where we happen to be? So that we don't have to come and disturbyou again," added the crafty Cyril.
"It'll only end in your wishing for something you don't really want, asyou did about the castle," said the Psammead, stretching its brown armsand yawning. "It's always the same since people left off eating reallywholesome things. However, have it your own way. Good-bye."
"Good-bye," said Cyril politely.
"I'll tell you what," said the Psammead suddenly, shooting out its longsnail's eyes,--"I'm getting tired of you--all of you. You have no moresense than so many oysters. Go along with you!"
And Cyril went.
"What an awful long time babies _stay_ babies," said Cyril after theLamb had taken his watch out of his pocket while he wasn't noticing, andwith coos and clucks of naughty rapture had opened the case and used thewhole thing as a garden spade, and when even immersion in a wash basinhad failed to wash the mould from the works and make the watch go again.Cyril had said several things in the heat of the moment; but now he wascalmer, and had even consented to carry the Lamb part of the way tothe woods. Cyril had persuaded the others to agree to his plan, and notto wish for anything more till they really did wish it. Meantime itseemed good to go to the woods for nuts, and on the mossy grass under asweet chestnut tree the five were sitting. The Lamb was pulling up themoss by fat handfuls, and Cyril was gloomily contemplating the ruins ofhis watch.
He opened the case and used the whole thing as a gardenspade]
"He does grow," said Anthea. "Doesn't 'oo, precious?"
"Me grow," said the Lamb cheerfully--"me grow big boy, have guns' an'mouses--an'--an'"---- Imagination or vocabulary gave out here. Butanyway it was the longest speech the Lamb had ever made, and it charmedeveryone, even Cyril, who tumbled the Lamb over and rolled him in themoss to the music of delighted squeals.
"I suppose he'll be grown up some day," Anthea was saying, dreamilylooking up at the blue of the sky that showed between the long straightchestnut-leaves. But at that moment the Lamb, struggling gaily withCyril, thrust a stout-shod little foot against his brother's chest;there was a crack!--the innocent Lamb had broken the glass of father'ssecond-best Waterbury watch, which Cyril had borrowed without leave.
"Grow up some day!" said Cyril bitterly, plumping the Lamb down on thegrass. "I daresay he will--when nobody wants him to. I wish to goodnesshe would"--
"_Oh_, take care!" cried Anthea in an agony of apprehension. But it wastoo late--like music to a song her words and Cyril's came out together--
Anthea--"Oh, take care!"
Cyril--"Grow up now!"
The faithful Psammead was true to its promise, and there, before thehorrified eyes of its brothers and sisters, the Lamb suddenly andviolently grew up. It was the most terrible moment. The change was notso sudden as the wish-changes usually were. The Baby's face changedfirst. It grew thinner and larger, lines came in the forehead, the eyesgrew more deep-set and darker in colour, the mouth grew longer andthinner; most terrible of all, a little dark mustache appeared on thelip of one who was still--except as to the face--a two-year-old baby ina linen smock and white open-work socks.
"Oh, I wish it wouldn't! Oh, I wish it wouldn't! You boys might wish aswell!"
They all wished hard, for the sight was enough to dismay the mostheartless. They all wished so hard, indeed, that they felt quite giddyand almost lost consciousness; but the wishing was quite vain, for, whenthe wood ceased to whirl round, their dazed eyes were riveted at once bythe spectacle of a very proper-looking young man in flannels and a strawhat--a young man who wore the same little black mustache which justbefore they had actually seen growing upon the Baby's lip. This, then,was the Lamb--grown up! Their own Lamb! It was a terrible moment. Thegrown-up Lamb moved gracefully across the moss and settled himselfagainst the trunk of the sweet chestnut. He tilted the straw hat overhis eyes. He was evidently weary. He was going to sleep. The Lamb--theoriginal little tiresome beloved Lamb often went to sleep at odd timesand in unexpected places. Was this new Lamb in the grey flannel suit andthe pale green necktie like the other Lamb? or had his mind grown uptogether with his body?
That was the question which the others, in a hurried council held amongthe yellowing brake-fern a few yards from the sleeper, debated eagerly.
"Whichever it is, it'll be just as awful," said Anthea. "If his insidesenses are grown up too, he won't stand our looking after him; and ifhe's still a baby inside of him how on earth are we to get him to doanything? And it'll be getting on for dinner-time in a minute."
"And we haven't got any nuts," said Jane.
"Oh bother nuts!" said Robert, "but dinner's different--I didn't havehalf enough dinner yesterday. Couldn't we tie him to the tree and gohome to our dinner and come back afterwards?"
"A fat lot of dinner we should get if we went back without the Lamb!"said Cyril in scornful misery. "And it'll be just the same if we go backwith him in the state he is now. Yes, I know it's my doing; don't rub itin! I know I'm a beast, and not fit to live; you can take that forsettled, and say no more about it. The question is, what are we going todo?"
"Let's wake him up, and take him into Rochester or Maidstone and getsomething to eat at a baker's shop," said Robert hopefully.
"Take him?" repeated Cyril. "Yes--do! It's all my fault--I don't denythat--but you'll find you've got your work cut out for you if you try totake that young man anywhere. The Lamb always was spoilt, but now he'sgrown up he's a demon--simply. I can see it. Look at his mouth."
"Well then," said Robert, "let's wake him up and see what _he'll_ do.Perhaps _he'll_ take _us_ to Maidstone and stand treat. He ought to havea lot of money in the pockets of those extra-special pants. We _must_have dinner, anyway."
They drew lots with little bits of brake fern. It fell to Jane's lot towaken the grown-up Lamb.
She did it gently by tickling his nose with a twig of honeysuckle. Hesaid "Bother the flies!" twice, and then opened his eyes.
She did it gently by tickling his nose with a twig ofhoneysuckle]
"Hullo, kiddies!" he said in a languid tone, "still here? What's thegiddy hour? You'll be late for your grub!"
"I know we shall," said Robert bitterly.
"Then cut along home," said the grown-up Lamb.
"What about your grub, though?" asked Jane.
"Oh, how far is it to the station, do you think? I've a sort of a notionthat I'll run up to town and have some lunch at the club."
Blank misery fell like a pall on the four others. TheLamb--alone--unattended--would go to town and have lunch at a
club!Perhaps he would also have tea there. Perhaps sunset would come upon himamid the dazzling luxury of club-land, and a helpless cross sleepybaby would find itself alone amid unsympathetic waiters, and would wailmiserably for "Panty" from the depths of a club arm-chair! The picturemoved Anthea almost to tears.
"Oh no, Lamb ducky, you mustn't do that!" she cried incautiously.
The grown-up Lamb frowned. "My dear Anthea," he said, "how often am I totell you that my name is Hilary or St. Maur or Devereux?--any of mybaptismal names are free to my little brothers and sisters, but _not_'Lamb'--a relic of foolishness and far-off childhood."
This was awful. He was their elder brother now, was he? Well of coursehe was, if he was grown-up--since they weren't. Thus, in whispers,Anthea and Robert.
But the almost daily adventures resulting from the Psammead's wisheswere making the children wise beyond their years.
"Dear Hilary," said Anthea, and the others choked at the name, "you knowfather didn't wish you to go to London. He wouldn't like us to be leftalone without you to take care of us. Oh, deceitful thing that I am!"she added to herself.
"Look here," said Cyril, "if you're our elder brother, why not behave assich and take us over to Maidstone and give us a jolly good blow-out,and we'll go on the river afterwards?"
"I'm infinitely obliged to you," said the Lamb courteously, "but Ishould prefer solitude. Go home to your lunch--I mean your dinner.Perhaps I may look in about tea-time--or I may not be home till afteryou are in your beds."
Their beds! Speaking glances flashed between the wretched four. Much bedthere would be for them if they went home without the Lamb.
"We promised mother not to lose sight of you if we took you out," Janesaid before the others could stop her.
"Look here, Jane," said the grown-up Lamb, putting his hands in hispockets and looking down at her, "little girls should be seen and notheard. You kids must learn not to make yourselves a nuisance. Run alonghome now--and perhaps, if you're good, I'll give you each a pennyto-morrow."
"Look here," said Cyril, in the best "man to man" tone at his command,"where are you going, old man? You might let Bobs and me come withyou--even if you don't want the girls."
This was really rather noble of Cyril, for he never did care much aboutbeing seen in public with the Lamb, who of course after sunset would bea baby again.
The "man to man" tone succeeded.
"I shall run over to Maidstone on my bike," said the new Lamb airily,fingering the little black mustache. "I can lunch at The Crown--andperhaps I'll have a pull on the river; but I can't take you all on themachine--now, can I? Run along home, like good children."
The position was desperate. Robert exchanged a despairing look withCyril. Anthea detached a pin from her waistband, a pin whose withdrawalleft a gaping chasm between skirt and bodice, and handed it furtively toRobert--with a grimace of the darkest and deepest meaning. Robertslipped away to the road. There, sure enough, stood a bicycle--abeautiful new one. Of course Robert understood at once that if the Lambwas grown up he _must_ have a bicycle.
There, sure enough, stood a bicycle]
This had always been one of Robert's own reasons for wishing to begrown-up. He hastily began to use the pin--eleven punctures in the backtyre, seven in the front. He would have made the total twenty-two butfor the rustling of the yellow hazel-leaves, which warned him of theapproach of the others. He hastily leaned a hand on each wheel, and wasrewarded by the "whish" of the what was left of air escaping fromeighteen neat pin-holes.
"Your bike's run down," said Robert, wondering how he could so soon havelearned to deceive.
"So it is," said Cyril.
"It's a puncture," said Anthea, stooping down, and standing up againwith a thorn which she had got ready for the purpose.
"Look here."
The grown-up Lamb (or Hilary, as I suppose one must now call him) fixedhis pump and blew up the tyre. The punctured state of it was soonevident.
The punctured state of it was soon evident]
"I suppose there's a cottage somewhere near--where one could get a pailof water?" said the Lamb.
There was; and when the number of punctures had been made manifest, itwas felt to be a special blessing that the cottage provided "teas forcyclists." It provided an odd sort of tea-and-hammy meal for the Lamband his brothers. This was paid for out of the fifteen shillings whichhad been earned by Robert when he was a giant--for the Lamb, itappeared, had unfortunately no money about him. This was a greatdisappointment for the others; but it is a thing that will happen, evento the most grown-up of us. However, Robert had enough to eat, and thatwas something. Quietly but persistently the miserable four took it inturns to try and persuade the Lamb (or St. Maur) to spend the rest ofthe day in the woods. There was not very much of the day left by thetime he had mended the eighteenth puncture. He looked up from thecompleted work with a sigh of relief, and suddenly put his tie straight.
"There's a lady coming," he said briskly,--"for goodness' sake, get outof the way. Go home--hide--vanish somehow! I can't be seen with a packof dirty kids." His brothers and sisters were indeed rather dirty,because, earlier in the day, the Lamb, in his infant state, hadsprinkled a good deal of garden soil over them. The grown-up Lamb'svoice was so tyrant-like, as Jane said afterwards, that they actuallyretreated to the back garden, and left him with his little mustache andhis flannel suit to meet alone the young lady, who now came up the frontgarden wheeling a bicycle.
The woman of the house came out, and the young lady spoke to her,--theLamb raised his hat as she passed him,--and the children could not hearwhat she said, though they were craning round the corner and listeningwith all their ears. They felt it to be "perfectly fair," as Robertsaid, "with that wretched Lamb in that condition."
When the Lamb spoke, in a languid voice heavy with politeness, theyheard well enough.
"A puncture?" he was saying. "Can I not be of any assistance? If youcould allow me----?"
There was a stifled explosion of laughter and the grown-up Lamb(otherwise Devereux) turned the tail of an angry eye in its direction.
"You're very kind," said the lady, looking at the Lamb. She lookedrather shy, but, as the boys put it, there didn't seem to be anynonsense about her.
"But oh," whispered Cyril, "I should have thought he'd had enoughbicycle-mending for one day--and if she only knew that really and trulyhe's only a whiny-piny, silly little baby!"
"He's _not_," Anthea murmured angrily. "He's a dear--if people only lethim alone. It's our own precious Lamb still, whatever silly idiots mayturn him into--isn't he, Pussy?"
Jane doubtfully supposed so.
Now, the Lamb--whom I must try to remember to call St. Maur--wasexamining the lady's bicycle and talking to her with a very grown-upmanner indeed. No one could possibly have supposed, to see and hear him,that only that very morning he had been a chubby child of two yearsbreaking other people's Waterbury watches. Devereux (as he ought to becalled for the future) took out a gold watch when he had mended thelady's bicycle, and all the hidden onlookers said "Oh!"--because itseemed so unfair that the Baby, who had only that morning destroyed twocheap but honest watches, should now, in the grown-upness to whichCyril's folly had raised him, have a real gold watch--with a chain andseals!
Hilary (as I will now term him) withered his brothers and sisters with aglance, and then said to the lady--with whom he seemed to be quitefriendly--
"If you will allow me, I will ride with you as far as the Cross Roads;it is getting late, and there are tramps about."
No one will ever know what answer the young lady intended to give tothis gallant offer, for, directly Anthea heard it made, she rushed out,knocking against a swill pail, which overflowed in a turbid stream, andcaught the Lamb (I suppose I ought to say Hilary) by the arm. The othersfollowed, and in an instant the four dirty children were visible beyonddisguise.
"Don't let him," said Anthea to the lady, and she spoke with intenseearnestness; "he's not fit to go with anyone!"
"Go away, little girl!" said St. Maur (as we will now call him) in aterrible voice.
"Go home at once!"
"You'd much better not have anything to do with him," the now recklessAnthea went on. "He doesn't know who he is. He's something verydifferent from what you think he is."
"What do you mean?" asked the lady, not unnaturally, while Devereux (asI must term the grown-up Lamb) tried vainly to push Anthea away. Theothers backed her up, and she stood solid as a rock.
"You just let him go with you," said Anthea, "you'll soon see what Imean! How would you like to suddenly see a poor little helpless babyspinning along downhill beside you with its feet up on a bicycle it hadlost control of?"
The lady had turned rather pale.
"Who are these very dirty children?" she asked the grown-up Lamb(sometimes called St. Maur in these pages).
"I don't know," he lied miserably.
"Oh, Lamb! how _can_ you?" cried Jane,--"when you know perfectly wellyou're our own little baby brother that we're so fond of. We're his bigbrothers and sisters," she explained, turning to the lady, who withtrembling hands was now turning her bicycle towards the gate, "and we'vegot to take care of him. And we must get him home before sunset, or Idon't know whatever will become of us. You see, he's sort of under aspell--enchanted--you know what I mean!"
Again and again the Lamb (Devereux, I mean) had tried to stop Jane'seloquence, but Robert and Cyril held him, one by each leg, and no properexplanation was possible. The lady rode hastily away, and electrifiedher relatives at dinner by telling them of her escape from a family ofdangerous lunatics. "The little girl's eyes were simply those of amaniac. I can't think how she came to be at large," she said.
When her bicycle had whizzed away down the road, Cyril spoke gravely.
"Hilary, old chap," he said, "you must have had a sunstroke orsomething. And the things you've been saying to that lady! Why, if wewere to tell you the things you've said when you are yourself again,say to-morrow morning, you wouldn't ever understand them--let alonebelieve them! You trust to me, old chap, and come home now, and ifyou're not yourself in the morning we'll ask the milkman to ask thedoctor to come."
The poor grown-up Lamb (St. Maur was really one of his Christian names)seemed now too bewildered to resist.
"Since you seem all to be as mad as the whole worshipful company ofhatters," he said bitterly, "I suppose I _had_ better take you home. Butyou're not to suppose I shall pass this over. I shall have something tosay to you all to-morrow morning."
"Yes, you will, my Lamb," said Anthea under her breath, "but it won't beat all the sort of thing you think it's going to be."
In her heart she could hear the pretty, soft little loving voice of thebaby Lamb--so different from the affected tones of the dreadful grown-upLamb (one of whose names was Devereux)--saying, "Me love Panty--wants tocome to own Panty."
"Oh, let's go home, for goodness' sake," she said. "You shall saywhatever you like in the morning--if you can," she added in a whisper.
It was a gloomy party that went home through the soft evening. DuringAnthea's remarks Robert had again made play with the pin and the bicycletyre, and the Lamb (whom they had to call St. Maur or Devereux orHilary) seemed really at last to have had his fill of bicycle-mending.So the machine was wheeled.
The sun was just on the point of setting when they arrived at the WhiteHouse. The four elder children would have liked to linger in the lanetill the complete sunsetting turned the grown-up Lamb (whose Christiannames I will not further weary you by repeating) into their own deartiresome baby brother. But he, in his grown-upness, insisted on goingon, and thus he was met in the front garden by Martha.
Now you remember that, as a special favour, the Psammead had arrangedthat the servants in the house should never notice any change broughtabout by the wishes of the children. Therefore Martha merely saw theusual party, with the baby Lamb, about whom she had been desperatelyanxious all the afternoon, trotting beside Anthea, on fat baby legs,while the children, of course, still saw the grown-up Lamb (never mindwhat names he was christened by), and Martha rushed at him and caughthim in her arms, exclaiming--
"Come to his own Martha, then--a precious poppet!"
The grown-up Lamb (whose names shall now be buried in oblivion)struggled furiously. An expression of intense horror and annoyance wasseen on his face. But Martha was stronger than he. She lifted him up andcarried him into the house. None of the children will ever forget thatpicture. The neat grey-flannel-suited grown-up young man with the greennecktie and the little black mustache--fortunately, he was slightlybuilt, and not tall--struggling in the sturdy arms of Martha, whobore him away helpless, imploring him, as she went, to be a good boynow, and come and have his nice bremmink! Fortunately, the sun set asthey reached the doorstep, the bicycle disappeared, and Martha was seento carry into the house the real live darling sleepy two-year-old Lamb.The grown-up Lamb (nameless henceforth) was gone for ever.
The grown-up Lamb struggled]
"For ever," said Cyril, "because, as soon as ever the Lamb's old enoughto be bullied, we must jolly well begin to bully him, for his ownsake--so that he mayn't grow up like _that_."
"You shan't bully him," said Anthea stoutly,--"not if I can stop it."
"We must tame him by kindness," said Jane.
"You see," said Robert, "if he grows up in the usual way, there'll beplenty of time to correct him as he goes along. The awful thing to-daywas his growing up so suddenly. There was no time to improve him atall."
"He doesn't want any improving," said Anthea as the voice of the Lambcame cooing through the open door, just as she had heard it in her heartthat afternoon--
"Me loves Panty--wants to come to own Panty!"
