by E. Nesbit
CHAPTER III
LOST
Philip went to sleep, and dreamed that he was at home again and thatHelen had come to his bedside to call him, leading a white pony that wasto be his very own. It was a pony that looked clever enough foranything, and he was not surprised when it shook hands with him; butwhen it said, 'Well, we must be moving,' and began to try to put onPhilip's shoes and stockings, Philip called out, 'Here, I say, stopthat,' and awoke to a room full of sunshine, but empty of ponies.
'Oh, well,' said Philip, 'I suppose I'd better get up.' He looked at hisnew silver watch, one of Helen's parting presents, and saw that itmarked ten o'clock.
'I say, you know,' said he to the watch, 'you can't be right.' And heshook it to encourage it to think over the matter. But the watch stillsaid 'ten' quite plainly and unmistakably.
Now the Grange breakfast time was at eight. And Philip was certain hehad not been called.
'This is jolly rum,' he remarked. 'It must be the watch. Perhaps it'sstopped.'
But it hadn't stopped. Therefore it must be two hours past breakfasttime. The moment he had thought this he became extremely hungry. He gotout of bed as soon as he knew exactly how hungry he was.
There was no one about, so he made his way to the bath-room and spent ahappy hour with the hot water and the cold water, and the brown Windsorsoap and the shaving soap and the nail brush and the flesh brush and theloofahs and the shower bath and the three sponges. He had not, so far,been able thoroughly to investigate and enjoy all these things. But nowthere was no one to interfere, and he enjoyed himself to that degreethat he quite forgot to wonder why he hadn't been called. He thought ofa piece of poetry that Helen had made for him, about the bath; and whenhe had done playing he lay on his back in water that was very hotindeed, trying to remember the poetry. The water was very nearly cold bythe time he had remembered the poetry. It was called Dreams of a GiantLife, and this was it.
DREAMS OF A GIANT LIFE
What was I once--in ages long ago? I look back, and I see myself. We grow So changed through changing years, I hardly see How that which I look back on could be me?[1]
Glorious and splendid, giant-like I stood On a white cliff, topped by a darkling wood. Below me, placid, bright and sparkling, lay The equal waters of a lovely bay. White cliffs surrounded it--and calm and fair It lay asleep, in warm and silent air.
I stood alone--naked and strong, upright My limbs gleamed in the clear pure golden light. I saw below me all the water lie Expecting something, and that thing was I.[2]
I leaned, I plunged, the waves splashed over me. I lay, a giant in a little sea.
White cliffs all round, wood-crowned, and as I lay I saw the glories of the dying day; No wind disturbed my sea; the sunlight was As though it came through windows of gold glass. The white cliffs rose above me, and around The clear sea lay, pure, perfect and profound; And I was master of the cliffs, the sea, And the gold light that brightened over me.
Far miles away my giant feet showed plain, Rising, like rocks out of the quiet main. On them a lighthouse could be built, to show Wayfaring ships the way they must not go.
I was the master of that cliff-girt sea. I splashed my hands, the waves went over me, And in the dimples of my body lay Little rock-pools, where small sea-beasts might play.
I found a boat, its deck was perforate; I launched it, and it dared the storms of fate. Its woollen sail stood out against the sky, Supported by a mast of ivory.
Another boat rode proudly to my hand, Upon its deck a thousand spears did stand; I launched it, and it sped full fierce and fast Against the boat that had the ivory mast And woollen sail and perforated deck. The two went down in one stupendous wreck!
Beneath the waves I chased with joyous hand Upon the bed of an imagined sand The slippery brown sea mouse, that still escaped, Where the deep cave beneath my knee was shaped. Caught it at last and caged it into rest Upon the shallows of my submerged breast.
Then, as I lay, wrapped as in some kind arm By the sweet world of waters soft and warm, A great voice cried, from some far unseen shore, And I was not a giant any more.
'Come out, come out,' cried out the voice of power, 'You've been in for a quarter of an hour. The water's cold--come, Master Pip--your head 'S all wet, and it is time you were in bed.'
I rose all dripping from the magic sea And left the ships that had been slaves to me-- The soap-dish, with its perforated deck, The nail-brush, that had rushed to loss and wreck, The flannel sail, the tooth-brush that was mast, The sleek soap-mouse--I left them all at last.
I went out of that magic sea and cried Because the time came when I must be dried And leave the splendour of a giant's joy And go to bed--a little well-washed boy.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Never mind grammar.
[2] This is correct grammar, but never mind.
When he had quite remembered the poetry he had another shower-bath, andthen when he had enjoyed the hot rough towels out of the hot cupboard hewent back to his room to dress. He now felt how deeply he wanted hisbreakfast, so he dressed himself with all possible speed, evenforgetting to fasten his bootlaces properly. He was in such a hurry thathe dropped his collar-stud, and it was as he stooped to pick it up thathe remembered his dream. Do you know that was really the first time hehad thought of it. The dream--that indeed would be something to thinkabout.
Breakfast was the really important thing. He went down very hungryindeed. 'I shall ask for my breakfast directly I get down,' he said. 'Ishall ask the first person I meet.' And he met no one.
There was no one on the stairs, or in the hall, or in the dining-room,or in the drawing-room. The library and billiard-room were empty ofliving people, and the door of the nursery was locked. So then Philipmade his way into the regions beyond the baize door, where the servants'quarters were. And there was no one in the kitchen, or in the servants'hall, or in the butler's pantry, or in the scullery, or the washhouse,or the larder. In all that big house, and it was much bigger than itlooked from the front because of the long wings that ran out on eachside of its back--in all that big house there was no one but Philip. Hefelt certain of this before he ran upstairs and looked in all thebedrooms and in the little picture gallery and the music-room, and thenin the servants' bedrooms and the very attics. There were interestingthings in those attics, but Philip only remembered that afterwards. Nowhe tore down the stairs three at a time. All the room doors were open ashe had left them, and somehow those open doors frightened him more thananything else. He ran along the corridors, down more stairs, past moreopen doors and out through the back kitchen, along the moss-grown walkby the brick wall and so round by the three yew trees and the mountingblock to the stable-yard. And there was no one there. Neither coachmannor groom nor stable-boys. And there was no one in the stables, or thecoach-house, or the harness-room, or the loft.
Philip felt that he could not go back into the house. Something terriblemust have happened. Was it possible that any one could want the Grangeservants enough to kidnap them? Philip thought of the nurse and feltthat, at least as far as she was concerned, it was _not_ possible. Orperhaps it was magic! A sort of Sleeping-Beauty happening! Only everyone had vanished instead of just being put to sleep for a hundred years.
He was alone in the middle of the stable-yard when the thought came tohim.
'Perhaps they're only made invisible. Perhaps they're all here andwatching me and making fun of me.'
He stood still to think this.
It was not a pleasant thought.
Suddenly he straightened his little back, and threw back his head.
'They shan't see I'm frightened anyway,' he told himself. And then heremembered the larder.
'I haven't had any breakfast,' he explained aloud, so as to be plainlyheard by any invisible people who might be about. 'I ought to have mybreakfast. If nobody gives it to me I shall take my breakfast.'
He waited for an answer. But none came. It was very quiet in thestable-yard. Only the rattle of a halter ring against a manger, thesound of a hoof on stable stones, the cooing of pigeons and the rustleof straw in the loose-box broke the silence.
'Very well,' said Philip. 'I don't know what _you_ think I ought to havefor breakfast, so I shall take what _I_ think.'
He drew a long breath, trying to draw courage in with it, threw back hisshoulders more soldierly than ever, and marched in through the back doorand straight to the larder. Then he took what he thought he ought tohave for breakfast. This is what he thought:
1 cherry pie, 2 custards in cups, 1 cold sausage, 2 pieces of cold toast, 1 piece of cheese, 2 lemon cheese-cakes, 1 small jam tart (there was only one left), Butter, 1 pat.
'What jolly things the servants have to eat,' he said. 'I never knew. Ithought that nothing but mutton and rice grew here.'
He put all the food on a silver tray and carried it out on to theterrace, which lies between the two wings at the back of the house. Thenhe went back for milk, but there was none to be seen so he got a whitejug full of water. The spoons he couldn't find, but he found acarving-fork and a fish-slice. Did you ever try to eat cherry pie with afish-slice?
'Whatever's happened,' said Philip to himself, through the cherry pie,'and whatever happens it's as well to have had your breakfast.' And hebit a generous inch off the cold sausage which he had speared with thecarving-fork.
And now, sitting out in the good sunshine, and growing less and lesshungry as he plied fish-slice and carving-fork, his mind went back tohis dream, which began to seem more and more real. Suppose it really_had_ happened? It might have; magic things did happen, it seemed. Lookhow all the people had vanished out of the house--out of the world too,perhaps.
'Suppose every one's vanished,' said Philip. 'Suppose I'm the onlyperson left in the world who hasn't vanished. Then everything in theworld would belong to me. Then I could have everything that's in all thetoy shops.' And his mind for a moment dwelt fondly on this beautifulidea.
Then he went on. 'But suppose I vanished too? Perhaps if I were tovanish I could see the other people who have. I wonder how it's done.'
He held his breath and tried hard to vanish. Have you ever tried this?It is not at all easy to do. Philip could not do it at all. He held hisbreath and he tried and he tried, but he only felt fatter and fatter andmore and more as though in one more moment he should burst. So he lethis breath go.
'No,' he said, looking at his hands; 'I'm not any more invisible than Iwas before. Not so much I think,' he added thoughtfully, looking at whatwas left of the cherry pie. 'But that dream----'
He plunged deep in the remembrance of it that was, to him, like swimmingin the waters of a fairy lake.
He was hooked out of his lake suddenly by voices. It was like waking up.There, away across the green park beyond the sunk fence, were peoplecoming.
'So every one hasn't vanished,' he said, caught up the tray and took itin. He hid it under the pantry shelf. He didn't know who the people werewho were coming and you can't be too careful. Then he went out and madehimself small in the shadow of a red buttress, heard their voices comingnearer and nearer. They were all talking at once, in that quickinterested way that makes you certain something unusual has happened.
He could not hear exactly what they were saying, but he caught thewords: 'No.'
'Of course I've asked.'
'Police.'
'Telegram.'
'Yes, of course.'
'Better make quite sure.'
Then every one began speaking all at once, and you could not hearanything that anybody said. Philip was too busy keeping behind thebuttress to see who they were who were talking. He was glad _something_had happened.
'Now I shall have something to think about besides the nurse and mybeautiful city that she has pulled down.'
But what was it that had happened? He hoped nobody was hurt--or had doneanything wrong. The word police had always made him uncomfortable eversince he had seen a boy no bigger than himself pulled along the road bya very large policeman. The boy had stolen a loaf, Philip was told.Philip could never forget that boy's face; he always thought of it inchurch when it said 'prisoners and captives,' and still more when itsaid 'desolate and oppressed.'
'I do hope it's not _that_,' he said.
And slowly he got himself to leave the shelter of the red-brick buttressand to follow to the house those voices and those footsteps that hadgone by him.
He followed the sound of them to the kitchen. The cook was there intears and a Windsor arm-chair. The kitchenmaid, her cap all on one side,was crying down most dirty cheeks. The coachman was there, very red inthe face, and the groom, without his gaiters. The nurse was there, neatas ever she seemed at first, but Philip was delighted when a morecareful inspection showed him that there was mud on her large shoes andon the bottom of her skirt, and that her dress had a largethree-cornered tear in it.
'I wouldn't have had it happen for a twenty-pun note,' the coachman wassaying.
'George,' said the nurse to the groom, 'you go and get a horse ready.I'll write the telegram.'
'You'd best take Peppermint,' said the coachman. 'She's the fastest.'
The groom went out, saying under his breath, 'Teach your grandmother,'which Philip thought rude and unmeaning.
Philip was standing unnoticed by the door. He felt that thrill--if itisn't pleasure it is more like it than anything else--which we all feelwhen something real has happened.
But what _had_ happened. What?
'I wish I'd never come back,' said the nurse. 'Then nobody could pretendit was _my_ fault.'
'It don't matter what they pretend,' the cook stopped crying to say.'The thing is what's happened. Oh, my goodness. I'd rather have beenturned away without a character than have had this happen.'
'And I'd rather _any_thing,' said the nurse. 'Oh, my goodness me. I wishI'd never been born.'
And then and there, before the astonished eyes of Philip, she began tobehave as any nice person might--she began to cry.
'It wouldn't have happened,' said the cook, 'if the master hadn't beenaway. He's a Justice of the Peace, he is, and a terror to gipsies. Itwouldn't never have happened if----'
Philip could not bear it any longer.
'_What_ wouldn't have happened if?' he asked, startling everybody to aquick jump of surprise.
The nurse stopped crying and turned to look at him.
'Oh, _you_!' she said slowly. 'I forgot _you_. You want your breakfast,I suppose, no matter what's happened?'
'No, I don't,' said Philip, with extreme truth. 'I want to know what_has_ happened?'
'Miss Lucy's lost,' said the cook heavily, 'that's what's happened. Sonow you know. You run along and play, like a good little boy, and don'tmake extry trouble for us in the trouble we're in.'
'Lost?' repeated Philip.
'Yes, lost. I expect you're glad,' said the nurse, 'the way you treatedher. You hold your tongue and don't let me so much as hear you breathethe next twenty-four hours. I'll go and write that telegram.'
Philip thought it best not to let any one hear him breathe. By thismeans he heard the telegram when nurse read it aloud to the cook.
'Peter Graham, Esq., Hotel Wagram, Brussels.
Miss Lucy lost. Please come home immediately.
PHILKINS.
That's all right, isn't it?'
'I do
n't see why you sign it Philkins. You're only the nurse--I'm thehead of the house when the family's away, and my name's Bobson,' thecook said.
There was a sound of torn paper.
'There--the paper's tore. I'd just as soon your name went to it,' saidthe nurse. 'I don't want to be the one to tell such news.'
'Oh, my good gracious, what a thing to happen,' sighed the cook. 'Poorlittle darling!'
Then somebody wrote the telegram again, and the nurse took it out tothe stable-yard, where Peppermint was already saddled.
'I thought,' said Philip, bold in the nurse's absence, 'I thought Lucywas with her aunt.'
'She came back yesterday,' said the cook. 'Yes, after you'd gone to bed.And this morning that nurse went into the night nursery and she wasn'tthere. Her bed all empty and cold, and her clothes gone. Though how thegipsies could have got in without waking that nurse is a mystery to meand ever will be. She must sleep like a pig.'
'Or the seven sleepers,' said the coachman.
'But what would gipsies want her _for_?' Philip asked.
'What do they ever want anybody for?' retorted the cook. 'Look at theheirs that's been stolen. I don't suppose there's a titled family inEngland but what's had its heir stolen, one time and another.'
'I suppose you've looked all over the house,' said Philip.
'I suppose we ain't deaf and dumb and blind and silly,' said the cook.'Here's that nurse. You be off, Mr. Philip, without you want a flea inyour ear.'
And Philip, at the word, _was_ off. He went into the long drawing-room,and shut the door. Then he got the ivory chessmen out of the Buhlcabinet, and set them out on that delightful chess-table whose chequersare of mother-of-pearl and ivory, and tried to play a game, right handagainst left. But right hand, who was white, and so moved first, alwayswon. He gave up after awhile, and put the chessmen away in their properplaces. Then he got out the big book of photographs of pictures, butthey did not seem interesting, so he tried the ivory spellicans. But hishand shook, and you know spellicans is a game you can't play when yourhand shakes. And all the time, behind the chess and the pictures and thespellicans, he was trying not to think about his dream, about how he hadclimbed that ladder stair, which was really the yard-stick, and goneinto the cities that he had built on the tables. Somehow he did not wantto remember it. The very idea of remembering made him feel guilty andwretched.
He went and looked out of the window, and as he stood there his wish notto remember the dream made his boots restless, and in their shufflinghis right boot kicked against something hard that lay in the folds ofthe blue brocade curtain.
He looked down, stooped, and picked up little Mr. Noah. The nurse musthave dropt it there when she cleared away the city.
And as he looked upon those wooden features it suddenly becameimpossible not to think of the dream. He let the remembrance of it come,and it came in a flood. And with it the remembrance of what he had done.He had promised to be Lucy's noble friend, and they had run together toescape from the galloping soldiers. And he had run faster than she. Andat the top of the ladder--the ladder of safety--_he had not waited forher_.
'Any old hero would have waited for her, and let her go first,' he toldhimself. 'Any gentleman would--even any _man_--let alone a hero. And Ijust bunked down the ladder and forgot her. I _left_ her there.'
Remorse stirred his boots more ungently than before.
'But it was only a dream,' he said. And then remorse said, as he hadfelt all along that it would if he only gave it a chance:
'But suppose it wasn't a dream--suppose it was real. Suppose you _did_leave her there, my noble friend, and that's why she's lost.'
Suddenly Philip felt very small, very forlorn, very much alone in theworld. But Helen would come back. That telegram would bring her.
Yes. And he would have to tell her that perhaps it was his fault.
It was in vain that Philip told himself that Helen would never believeabout the city. He felt that she would. Why shouldn't she? She knewabout the fairy tales and the Arabian Nights. And she would know thatthese things _did_ happen.
'Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?' he said, quite loud. And therewas no one but himself to give the answer.
'If I could only get back into the city,' he said. 'But that hatefulnurse has pulled it all down and locked up the nursery. So I can't evenbuild it again. Oh, what _shall_ I do?'
And with that he began to cry. For now he felt quite sure that the dreamwasn't a dream--that he really _had_ got into the magic city, hadpromised to stand by Lucy, and had been false to his promise and to her.
He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles and also--rather painfully--withMr. Noah, whom he still held. 'What shall I do?' he sobbed.
And a very very teeny tiny voice said:
'~Put me down.~'
'Eh?' said Philip.
'~Put me down~,' said the voice again. It was such a teeny tiny voicethat he could only just hear it. It was unlikely, of course, that thevoice could have been Mr. Noah's; but then whose else could it be? Onthe bare chance that it _might_ have been Mr. Noah who spoke--moreunlikely things had happened before, as you know--Philip set the littlewooden figure down on the chess-table. It stood there, wooden as ever.
'Put _who_ down?' Philip asked. And then, before his eyes, the littlewooden figure grew alive, stooped to pick up the yellow disc of wood onwhich Noah's Ark people stand, rolled it up like a mat, put it under hisarm and began to walk towards the side of the table where Philip stood.
He knelt down to bring his ears nearer the little live moving thing.
'_What_ did you say?' he asked, for he fancied that Mr. Noah had againspoken.
'~I said, what's the matter?~' said the little voice.
'It's Lucy. She's lost and it's my fault. And I can only just hear you.It hurts my ears hearing you,' complained Philip.
'~There's an ear-trumpet in a box on the middle of the cabinet~,' hecould just hear the teeny tiny voice say; '~it belonged to a great-aunt.Get it out and listen through it~.'
Philip got it out. It was an odd curly thing, and at first he could notbe sure which end he ought to put to his ear. But he tried both ends,and on the second trial he heard quite a loud, strong, big voice say:
'That's better.'
'Then it wasn't a dream last night,' said Philip.
'Of course it wasn't,' said Mr. Noah.
'Then where is Lucy?'
'In the city, of course. Where you left her.'
'But she _can't_ be,' said Philip desperately. 'The city's all pulleddown and gone for ever.'
'The city you built in this room is pulled down,' said Mr. Noah, 'butthe city you went to wasn't in this room. Now I put it to you--how couldit be?'
'But it _was_,' said Philip, 'or else how could I have got into it.'
'It's a little difficult, I own,' said Mr. Noah. 'But, you see, youbuilt those cities in two worlds. It's pulled down in _this_ world. Butin the other world it's going on.'
'I don't understand,' said Philip.
'I thought you wouldn't,' said Mr. Noah; 'but it's true, for all that.Everything people make in that world goes on for ever.'
'But how was it that I got in?'
'Because you belong to both worlds. And you built the cities. So theywere yours.'
'But Lucy got in.'
'She built up a corner of your city that the nurse had knocked down.'
He heard quite a loud, strong, big voice say, 'That'sbetter.']
'But _you_,' said Philip, more and more bewildered. 'You're here. So youcan't be there.'
'But I _am_ there,' said Mr. Noah.
'But you're here. And you're alive here. What made you come alive?'
'Your tears,' said Mr. Noah. 'Tears are very strong magic. No, don'tbegin to cry again. What's the matter?'
'I want to get back into the city.'
'It's dangerous.'
'I don't care.'
'You were glad enough to get away,' said Mr. Noah.
'I know: that's the worst of it,' s
aid Philip. 'Oh, isn't there any wayto get back? If I climbed in at the nursery windows and got the bricksand built it all up and----'
'Quite unnecessary, I assure you. There are a thousand doors to thatcity.'
'I wish I could find _one_,' said Philip; 'but, I say, I thought timewas all different there. How is it Lucy is lost all this time if timedoesn't count?'
'It does count, now,' said Mr. Noah; 'you made it count when you ranaway and left Lucy. That set the clocks of the city to the time of thisworld.'
'I don't understand,' said Philip; 'but it doesn't matter. Show me thedoor and I'll go back and find Lucy.'
'Build something and go through it,' said Mr. Noah. 'That's all. Yourtears are dry on me now. Good-bye.' And he laid down his yellow mat,stepped on to it and was just a little wooden figure again.
Philip dropped the ear-trumpet and looked at Mr. Noah.
'I _don't_ understand,' he said. But this at least he understood. ThatHelen would come back when she got that telegram, and that before shecame he must go into the other world and find the lost Lucy.
'But oh,' he said, 'suppose I _don't_ find her. I wish I hadn't builtthose cities so big! And time will go on. And, perhaps, when Helen comesback she'll find _me_ lost _too_--as well as Lucy.'
But he dried his eyes and told himself that this was not how heroesbehaved. He must build again. Whichever way you looked at it there wasno time to be lost. And besides the nurse might occur at any moment.
He looked round for building materials. There was the chess-table. Ithad long narrow legs set round it, rather like arches. Something mightbe done with it, with books and candlesticks and Japanese vases.
Something _was_ done. Philip built with earnest care, but also withconsiderable speed. If the nurse should come in before he had made adoor and got through it--come in and find him building again--she wasquite capable of putting him to bed, where, of course, building isimpossible. In a very little time there was a building. But how to getin. He was, alas, the wrong size. He stood helpless, and once more tearspricked and swelled behind his eyelids. One tear fell on his hand.
'Tears are a strong magic,' Mr. Noah had said. And at the thought thetears stopped. Still there _was_ a tear, the one on his hand. He rubbedit on the pillar of the porch.
And instantly a queer tight thin feeling swept through him. He feltgiddy and shut his eyes. His boots, ever sympathetic, shuffled on thecarpet. Or was it the carpet? It was very thick and---- He opened hiseyes. His feet were once more on the long grass of the illimitableprairie. And in front of him towered the gigantic porch of a vastbuilding and a domino path leading up to it.
'Oh, I am so glad,' cried Philip among the grass. 'I couldn't have borneit if she'd been lost for ever, and all my fault.'
The gigantic porch lowered frowningly above him. What would he find onthe other side of it?
The gigantic porch lowered frowningly above him.]
'I don't care. I've simply got to go,' he said, and stepped out bravely.'If I can't _be_ a hero I'll try to behave like one.'
And with that he stepped out, stumbling a little in the thick grass, andthe dark shadow of the porch received him.
. . . . . . .
'Bother the child,' said the nurse, coming into the drawing-room alittle later; 'if he hasn't been at his precious building game again! Ishall have to give him a lesson over this--I can see that. And I willtoo--a lesson he won't forget in a hurry.'
She went through the house, looking for the too bold builder that shemight give him that lesson. Then she went through the garden, still onthe same errand.
Half an hour later she burst into the servants' hall and threw herselfinto a chair.
'I don't care what happens now,' she said. 'The house is bewitched, Ithink. I shall go the very minute I've had my dinner.'
'What's up now?' the cook came to the door to say.
'Up?' said the nurse. 'Oh, nothing's _up_. What should there be?Everything's all right and beautiful, and just as it should be, ofcourse.'
'Miss Lucy's not found yet, of course, but that's all, isn't it?'
'All? And enough too, I should have thought,' said the nurse. 'But as ithappens it's _not_ all. The boy's lost now. Oh, I'm not joking. He'slost I tell you, the same as the other one--and I'm off out of this bythe two thirty-seven train, and I don't care who knows it.'
'Lor!' said the cook.
. . . . . . .
Before starting for the two thirty-seven train the nurse went back tothe drawing-room to destroy Philip's new building, to restore to theirproper places its books, candlesticks, vases, and chessmen.
There we will leave her.