The E. Nesbit Megapack: 26 Classic Novels and Stories

by E. Nesbit

  Dicky made him shake hands, and Oswald did the same.

  Then we had to go back to the others and tell them. It was hard. But it was ginger-ale and seed-cake compared to having to tell Father, which was what it came to in the end. For we all saw, though Noël happened to be the one to say it first, that the only way we could really make it up to James Johnson and his poor girl and his poor girl’s father, and the baby that was only three weeks old, was to send them a hamper with all the things in it—real things, that we had put on the list in the revengeful hamper. And as we had only six-and-sevenpence among us we had to tell Father. Besides, you feel better inside when you have. He talked to us about it a bit, but he is a good Father and does not jaw unduly. He advanced our pocket-money to buy a real large Turk-and-chains. And he gave us six bottles of port wine, because he thought that would be better for the poor girl who had the baby than rum or sherry or even sparkling champagne.

  We were afraid to send the hamper by Carter Pat. for fear they should think it was another Avenging Take-in. And that was one reason why we took it ourselves in a cab. The other reason was that we wanted to see them open the hamper, and another was that we wanted—at least Dicky wanted—to have it out man to man with the porter and his wife, and tell them himself how sorry he was.

  So we got our gardener to find out secretly when that porter was off duty, and when we knew the times we went to his house at one of them.

  Then Dicky got out of the cab and went in and said what he had to say. And then we took in the hamper.

  And the old man and his daughter and the porter were most awfully decent to us, and the porter’s wife said, “Lor! let bygones be bygones is what I say! Why, we wouldn’t never have had this handsome present but for the other. Say no more about it, sir, and thank you kindly, I’m sure.”

  And we have been friends with them ever since.

  We were short of pocket-money for some time, but Oswald does not complain, though the Turk was Dicky’s idea entirely. Yet Oswald is just, and he owns that he helped as much as he could in packing the Hamper of the Avenger. Dora paid her share, too, though she wasn’t in it. The author does not shrink from owning that this was very decent of Dora.

  This is all the story of—

  THE TURK IN CHAINS;

  or, RICHARD’S REVENGE.

  (His name is really Richard, the same as Father’s. We only call him Dicky for short.)

  THE GOLDEN GONDOLA

  Albert’s uncle is tremendously clever, and he writes books. I have told how he fled to Southern shores with a lady who is rather nice. His having to marry her was partly our fault, but we did not mean to do it, and we were very sorry for what we had done. But afterwards we thought perhaps it was all for the best, because if left alone he might have married widows, or old German governesses, or Murdstone aunts, like Daisy and Denny have, instead of the fortunate lady that we were the cause of his being married by.

  The wedding was just before Christmas, and we were all there. And then they went to Rome for a period of time that is spoken of in books as the honeymoon. You know that H.O., my youngest brother, tried to go too, disguised as the contents of a dress-basket—but was betrayed and brought back.

  Conversation often takes place about the things you like, and we often spoke of Albert’s uncle.

  One day we had a ripping game of hide-and-seek-all-over-the-house-and-all-the-lights-out, sometimes called devil-in-the-dark, and never to be played except when your father and uncle are out, because of the screams which the strongest cannot suppress when caught by “he” in unexpectedness and total darkness. The girls do not like this game so much as we do. But it is only fair for them to play it. We have more than once played doll’s tea-parties to please them.

  Well, when the game was over we were panting like dogs on the hearthrug in front of the common-room fire, and H.O. said—

  “I wish Albert’s uncle had been here; he does enjoy it so.”

  Oswald has sometimes thought Albert’s uncle only played to please us. But H.O. may be right.

  “I wonder if they often play it in Rome,” H.O. went on. “That post-card he sent us with the Colly-whats-its-name-on—you know, the round place with the arches. They could have ripping games there——”

  “It’s not much fun with only two,” said Dicky.

  “Besides,” Dora said, “when people are first married they always sit in balconies and look at the moon, or else at each other’s eyes.”

  “They ought to know what their eyes look like by this time,” said Dicky.

  “I believe they sit and write poetry about their eyes all day, and only look at each other when they can’t think of the rhymes,” said Noël.

  “I don’t believe she knows how, but I’m certain they read aloud to each other out of the poetry books we gave them for wedding presents,” Alice said.

  “It would be beastly ungrateful if they didn’t, especially with their backs all covered with gold like they are,” said H.O.

  “About those books,” said Oswald slowly, now for the first time joining in what was being said; “of course it was jolly decent of Father to get such ripping presents for us to give them. But I’ve sometimes wished we’d given Albert’s uncle a really truly present that we’d chosen ourselves and bought with our own chink.”

  “I wish we could have done something for him,” Noël said; “I’d have killed a dragon for him as soon as look at it, and Mrs. Albert’s uncle could have been the Princess, and I would have let him have her.”

  “Yes,” said Dicky; “and we just gave rotten books. But it’s no use grizzling over it now. It’s all over, and he won’t get married again while she’s alive.”

  This was true, for we live in England which is a morganatic empire where more than one wife at a time is not allowed. In the glorious East he might have married again and again and we could have made it all right about the wedding present.

  “I wish he was a Turk for some things,” said Oswald, and explained why.

  “I don’t think she would like it,” said Dora.

  Oswald explained that if he was a Turk, she would be a Turquoise (I think that is the feminine Turk), and so would be used to lots of wives and be lonely without them.

  And just then… You know what they say about talking of angels, and hearing their wings? (There is another way of saying this, but it is not polite, as the present author knows.)

  Well, just then the postman came, and of course we rushed out, and among Father’s dull letters we found one addressed to “The Bastables Junior.” It had an Italian stamp—not at all a rare one, and it was a poor specimen too, and the post-mark was Roma.

  That is what the Italians have got into the habit of calling Rome. I have been told that they put the “a” instead of the “e” because they like to open their mouths as much as possible in that sunny and agreeable climate.

  The letter was jolly—it was just like hearing him talk (I mean reading, not hearing, of course, but reading him talk is not grammar, and if you can’t be both sensible and grammarical, it is better to be senseless).

  “Well, kiddies,” it began, and it went on to tell us about things he had seen, not dull pictures and beastly old buildings, but amusing incidents of comic nature. The Italians must be extreme Jugginses for the kind of things he described to be of such everyday occurring. Indeed, Oswald could hardly believe about the soda-water label that the Italian translated for the English traveller so that it said, “To distrust of the Mineral Waters too fountain-like foaming. They spread the shape.”

  Near the end of the letter came this:—

  “You remember the chapter of ‘The Golden Gondola’ that I wrote for the People’s Pageant just before I had the honour to lead to the altar, &c. I mean the one that ends in the subterranean passage, with Geraldine’s hair down, and her last hope gone, and th
e three villains stealing upon her with Venetian subtlety in their hearts and Toledo daggers (specially imported) in their garters? I didn’t care much for it myself, you remember. I think I must have been thinking of other things when I wrote it. But you, I recollect, consoled me by refusing to regard it as other than ‘ripping.’ ‘Clinking’ was, as I recall it, Oswald’s consolatory epithet. You’ll weep with me, I feel confident, when you hear that my Editor does not share your sentiments. He writes me that it is not up to my usual form. He fears that the public, &c., and he trusts that in the next chapter, &c. Let us hope that the public will, in this matter, take your views, and not his. Oh! for a really discerning public, just like you—you amiable critics! Albert’s new aunt is leaning over my shoulder. I can’t break her of the distracting habit. How on earth am I ever to write another line? Greetings to all from

  “Albert’s Uncle and Aunt.

  “PS.—She insists on having her name put to this, but of course she didn’t write it. I am trying to teach her to spell.”

  “PSS.—Italian spelling, of course.”

  “And now,” cried Oswald, “I see it all!”

  The others didn’t. They often don’t when Oswald does.

  “Why, don’t you see!” he patiently explained, for he knows that it is vain to be angry with people because they are not so clever as—as other people. “It’s the direct aspiration of Fate. He wants it, does he? Well, he shall have it!”

  “What?” said everybody.

  “We’ll be it.”

  “What?” was the not very polite remark now repeated by all.

  “Why, his discerning public.”

  And still they all remained quite blind to what was so clear to Oswald, the astute and discernful.

  “It will be much more useful than killing dragons,” Oswald went on, “especially as there aren’t any; and it will be a really truly wedding present—just what we were wishing we’d given him.”

  The five others now fell on Oswald and rolled him under the table and sat on his head so that he had to speak loudly and plainly.

  “All right! I’ll tell you—in words of one syllable if you like. Let go, I say!” And when he had rolled out with the others and the tablecloth that caught on H.O.’s boots and the books and Dora’s workbox, and the glass of paint-water that came down with it, he said—

  “We will be the public. We will all write to the editor of the People’s Pageant and tell him what we think about the Geraldine chapter. Do mop up that water, Dora; it’s running all under where I’m sitting.”

  “Don’t you think,” said Dora, devoting her handkerchief and Alice’s in the obedient way she does not always use, “that six letters, all signed ‘Bastable,’ and all coming from the same house, would be rather—rather——”

  “A bit too thick? Yes,” said Alice; “but of course we’d have all different names and addresses.”

  “We might as well do it thoroughly,” said Dicky, “and send three or four different letters each.”

  “And have them posted in different parts of London. Right oh!” remarked Oswald.

  “I shall write a piece of poetry for mine,” said Noël.

  “They ought all to be on different kinds of paper,” said Oswald. “Let’s go out and get the paper directly after tea.”

  We did, but we could only get fifteen different kinds of paper and envelopes, though we went to every shop in the village.

  At the first shop, when we said, “Please we want a penn’orth of paper and envelopes of each of all the different kinds you keep,” the lady of the shop looked at us thinly over blue-rimmed spectacles and said, “What for?”

  And H.O. said, “To write unonymous letters.”

  “Anonymous letters are very wrong,” the lady said, and she wouldn’t sell us any paper at all.

  But at the other places we did not say what it was for, and they sold it us. There were bluey and yellowy and grey and white kinds, and some was violetish with violets on it, and some pink, with roses. The girls took the florivorous ones, which Oswald thinks are unmanly for any but girls, but you excuse their using it. It seems natural to them to mess about like that.

  We wrote the fifteen letters, disguising our handwritings as much as we could. It was not easy. Oswald tried to write one of them with his left hand, but the consequences were almost totally unreadable. Besides, if any one could have read it, they would only have thought it was written in an asylum for the insane, the writing was so delirious. So he chucked it.

  Noël was only allowed to write one poem. It began—

  “Oh, Geraldine! Oh, Geraldine!

  You are the loveliest heroine!

  I never read about one before

  That made me want to write more

  Poetry. And your Venetian eyes,

  They must have been an awful size;

  And black and blue, and like your hair,

  And your nose and chin were a perfect pair.”

  and so on for ages.

  The other letters were all saying what a beautiful chapter “Beneath the Doge’s Home” was, and how we liked it better than the other chapters before, and how we hoped the next would be like it. We found out when all too late that H.O. had called it the “Dog’s Home.” But we hoped this would pass unnoticed among all the others. We read the reviews of books in the old Spectators and Athenæums, and put in the words they say there about other people’s books. We said we thought that chapter about Geraldine and the garters was “subtle” and “masterly” and “inevitable”—that it had an “old-world charm,” and was “redolent of the soil.” We said, too, that we had “read it with breathless interest from cover to cover,” and that it had “poignant pathos and a convincing realism,” and the “fine flower of delicate sentiment,” besides much other rot that the author can’t remember.

  When all the letters were done we addressed them and stamped them and licked them down, and then we got different people to post them. Our under-gardener, who lives in Greenwich, and the other under-gardener, who lives in Lewisham, and the servants on their evenings out, which they spend in distant spots like Plaistow and Grove Park—each had a letter to post. The piano-tuner was a great catch—he lived in Highgate; and the electric-bell man was Lambeth. So we got rid of all the letters, and watched the post for a reply. We watched for a week, but no answer came.

  You think, perhaps, that we were duffers to watch for a reply when we had signed all the letters with fancy names like Daisy Dolman, Everard St. Maur, and Sir Cholmondely Marjoribanks, and put fancy addresses on them, like Chatsworth House, Loampit Vale, and The Bungalow, Eaton Square. But we were not such idiots as you think, dear reader, and you are not so extra clever as you think, either. We had written one letter (it had the grandest Spectator words in it) on our own letter-paper, with the address on the top and the uncle’s coat-of-arms outside the envelope. Oswald’s real own name was signed to this letter, and this was the one we looked for the answer to. See?

  But that answer did not come. And when three long days had passed away we all felt most awfully stale about it. Knowing the great good we had done for Albert’s uncle made our interior feelings very little better, if at all.

  And on the fourth day Oswald spoke up and said what was in everybody’s inside heart. He said—

  “This is futile rot. I vote we write and ask that editor why he doesn’t answer letters.”

  “He wouldn’t answer that one any more than he did the other,” said Noël. “Why should he? He knows you can’t do anything to him for not.”

  “Why shouldn’t we go and ask him?” H.O. said. “He couldn’t not answer us if we was all there, staring him in the face.”

  “I don’t suppose he’d see you,” said Dora; “and it’s ‘were,’ not ‘was.’”

  “The other editor did when I g
ot the guinea for my beautiful poems,” Noël reminded us.

  “Yes,” said the thoughtful Oswald; “but then it doesn’t matter how young you are when you’re just a poetry-seller. But we’re the discerning public now, and he’d think we ought to be grown up. I say, Dora, suppose you rigged yourself up in old Blakie’s things. You’d look quite twenty or thirty.”

  Dora looked frightened, and said she thought we’d better not.

  But Alice said, “Well, I will, then. I don’t care. I’m as tall as Dora. But I won’t go alone. Oswald, you’ll have to dress up old and come too. It’s not much to do for Albert’s uncle’s sake.”

  “You know you’ll enjoy it,” said Dora, and she may have wished that she did not so often think that we had better not. However, the dye was now cast, and the remainder of this adventure was doomed to be coloured by the dye we now prepared. (This is an allegory. It means we had burned our boats. And that is another.)

  We decided to do the deed next day, and during the evening Dicky and Oswald went out and bought a grey beard and moustache, which was the only thing we could think of to disguise the manly and youthful form of the bold Oswald into the mature shape of a grown-up and discerning public character.

  Meanwhile, the girls made tiptoe and brigand-like excursions into Miss Blake’s room (she is the housekeeper) and got several things. Among others, a sort of undecided thing like part of a wig, which Miss Blake wears on Sundays. Jane, our housemaid, says it is called a “transformation,” and that duchesses wear them.

  We had to be very secret about the dressing-up that night, and to put Blakie’s things all back when they had been tried on.

  Dora did Alice’s hair. She twisted up what little hair Alice has got by natural means, and tied on a long tail of hair that was Miss Blake’s too. Then she twisted that up, bun-like, with many hairpins. Then the wiglet, or transformation, was plastered over the front part, and Miss Blake’s Sunday hat, which is of a very brisk character, with half a blue bird in it, was placed on top of everything. There were several petticoats used, and a brown dress and some stockings and hankies to stuff it out where it was too big. A black jacket and crimson tie completed the picture. We thought Alice would do.