by Edith Nesbit
“What King?” said Cousin Richard.
“King James the First,” said Elfrida. “Why–what–” for Cousin Richard had sprung to his feet, and old Parrot-nose had Elfrida by the wrist.
He sat down on the seat and drew her gently till she stood in front of him–gently, but it was like the hand of iron in the velvet glove (of which, no doubt, you have often read).
“Now, Mistress Arden,” he said softly, “tell me over again this romance that you tell your cousin.”
Elfrida told it.
“And where did you hear this pretty story?” he asked.
“OLD PARROT-NOSE HAD ELFRIDA BY THE WRIST.”
“Where are we now?” gasped Elfrida, who was beginning to understand.
“Here in the garden–where else?” said Cousin Richard, who seemed to understand nothing of the matter.
“Here–in my custody,” said the tutor, who thought he understood everything. “Now tell me all–every name, every particular–or it will be the worse for thee and thy father.”
“Come, sir,” said Cousin Richard, “you frighten my cousin. It is but a tale she told. She is always merry, and full of many inventions.”
“It is a tale she shall tell again before those of higher power than I,” said the tutor, in a thoroughly disagreeable way, and his hand tightened on Elfrida’s wrist.
“But–but–it’s history,” cried Elfrida, in despair. “It’s in all the books.”
“Which books?” he asked keenly.
“I don’t know–all of them,” she sullenly answered; sullenly, because she now really did understand just the sort of adventure in which her unusual knowledge of history, and, to do her justice, her almost equally unusual desire to show off, had landed her.
“Now,” said the hateful tutor, for such Elfrida felt him to be, “tell me the names of the conspirators.”
“It can’t do any harm,” Elfrida told herself. “This is James the First’s time, and I’m in it. But it’s three hundred years ago all the same, and it all has happened, and it can’t make any difference what I say, so I’d better tell all the names I know.”
The hateful tutor shook her.
“Yes, all right,” she said; and to herself she added, “It’s only a sort of dream; I may as well tell.” Yet when she opened her mouth to tell all the names she could remember of the conspirators of the poor old Gunpowder Plot that didn’t come off, all those years ago, she found herself not telling those names at all. Instead, she found herself saying–
“I’m not going to tell. I don’t care what you do to me. I’m sorry I said anything about it. It’s all nonsense–I mean, it’s only history, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself, listening behind doors–I mean, out of doors behind stone seats, when people are talking nonsense to their own cousins.”
Elfrida does not remember very exactly what happened after this. She was furiously angry, and when you are furiously angry things get mixed and tangled up in a sort of dreadful red mist. She only remembers that the tutor was very horrid, and twisted her wrists to make her tell, and she screamed and tried to kick him; that Cousin Richard, who did not scream, did, on the other hand, succeed in kicking the tutor; that she was dragged indoors and shut up in a room without a window, so that it was quite dark.
“If only I’d got Edred here,” she said to herself, with tears of rage and mortification, “I’d try to make some poetry and get the Mouldiwarp to come and fetch us away. But it’s no use till he comes home.”
When he did come home–after the bear-baiting and the cock-fighting and the banquet and the masque–Lord and Lady Arden came with him, of course. And they found their house occupied by an armed guard, and in the dark little room a pale child exhausted with weeping, who assured them again and again that it was all nonsense, it was only history, and she hadn’t meant to tell–indeed she hadn’t. Lady Arden took her in her arms and held her close and tenderly, in spite of the grand red velvet and the jewels.
“Thou’st done no harm,” said Lord Arden; “a pack of silly tales. To-morrow I’ll see my Lord Salisbury and prick this silly bubble. Go thou to bed, sweetheart,” he said to his wife, “and let the little maid lie with thee–she is all a-tremble with tears and terrors. To-morrow, my Lord Secretary shall teach these popinjays their place, and Arden House shall be empty of them, and we shall laugh at this fine piece of work that a solemn marplot has made out of a name or two and a young child’s fancies. By to-morrow night all will be well, and we shall lie down in peace.”
But when to-morrow night came it had, as all nights have, the day’s work behind it. Lord Arden and his lady and the little children lay, not in Arden House in Soho, not in Arden Castle on the downs by the sea, but in the Tower of London, charged with high treason and awaiting their trial.
“THEY FOUND THEIR HOUSE OCCUPIED BY AN ARMED GUARD.”
For my Lord Salisbury had gone to those vaults under the Houses of Parliament, and had found that bold soldier of fortune, Guy Fawkes, with his dark eyes, his dark lantern, and his dark intent; and the names of those in the conspiracy had been given up, and King James was saved, and the Parliaments–but the Catholic gentlemen whom he had deceived, and who had turned against him and his deceits, were face to face with the rack and the scaffold.
And I can’t explain it at all–because, of course, Elfrida knew as well as I do that it all happened three hundred years ago–or, if you prefer to put it that way, that it had never happened, and that anyway, it was Mr. Tresham’s letter to Lord Monteagle, and not Elfrida’s singing of that silly rhyme, that had brought the Ardens and all these other gentlemen to the Tower and to the shadow of death. And yet she felt that it was she who had betrayed them. She felt also that if she had betrayed a base plot, she ought to be glad, and she was not glad. She had taken advantage of having been born so much later than all these people, and of having been rather good at history to give away the lives of all these nobles and gentlemen. That they were traitors to King and Parliament made no manner of difference. It was she, as she felt but too bitterly, who was the traitor. And in the thick-walled room in the Tower, where the name of Raleigh was still fresh in its carving, Elfrida lay awake, long after Lady Arden and Edred were sleeping peacefully, and hated herself, calling herself a Traitor, a Coward, and an Utter Duffer.
CHAPTER IX. THE PRISONERS IN THE TOWER
IMPRISONED in the Tower of London, accused of high treason, and having confessed to a too intimate knowledge of the Gunpowder Plot, Elfrida could not help feeling that it would be nice to be back again in her own time, and at Arden, where, if you left events alone, and didn’t interfere with them by any sort of magic mouldiwarpiness, nothing dangerous, romantic or thrilling would ever happen. And yet, when she was there, as you know, she never could let events alone. She and Edred could not be content with that castle and that house which, even as they stood, would have made you and me so perfectly happy. They wanted the treasure, and they–Elfrida especially–wanted adventures. Well, now they had got an adventure, both of them. There was no knowing how it would turn out either, and that, after all, is the essence of adventures. Edred was lodged with Lord Arden and several other gentlemen in the White Tower, and Elfrida and Lady Arden were in quite a different part of the building. And the children were not allowed to meet. This, of course, made it impossible for either of them to try to get back to their own times. For though they sometimes quarrelled, as you know, they were really fond of each other, and most of us would hesitate to leave even a person we were not very fond of alone a prisoner in the Tower in the time of James I. and the Gunpowder Plot.
Elfrida had to wait on her mother and to sew at the sampler, which had been thoughtfully brought by the old nurse with her lady’s clothes, and the clothes Elfrida wore. But there were no games, and the only out-of-doors Elfrida could get was on a very narrow terrace where dead flower-stalks stuck up out of a still narrower border, beside a flagged pathway where there was just room for one to walk, and not for two. From this terrace you
could see the fat, queer-looking ships in the river, and the spire of St. Paul’s.
Edred was more fortunate. He was allowed to play in the garden of the Lieutenant of the Tower. But he did not feel much like playing. He wanted to find Elfrida and get back to Arden. Every one was very kind to him, but he had to be very much quieter than he was used to being, and to say Sir and Madam, and not to speak till he was spoken to. You have no idea how tiresome it is not to speak till you are spoken to, with the world full, as it is, of a thousand interesting things that you want to ask questions about.
One day–for they were there quite a number of days–Edred met some one who seemed to like answering questions, and this made more difference than perhaps you would think.
Edred was walking one bright winter morning in the private garden of the Lieutenant of the Tower, and he saw coming towards him a very handsome old gentleman dressed in very handsome clothes, and, what is more, the clothes blazed with jewels. Now, most of the gentlemen who were prisoners in the Tower at that time thought that their very oldest clothes were good enough to be in prison in, so this splendour that was coming across the garden was very unusual as well as very dazzling, and before Edred could remember the rules about not speaking till you’re spoken to, he found that he had suddenly bowed and said–
“Your servant, sir;” adding, “you do look ripping!”
“I do not take your meaning,” said the gentleman, but he smiled kindly.
“I mean, how splendid you look!”
The old gentleman looked pleased.
“I am happy to command your admiration,” he said.
“I mean your clothes;” said Edred, and then feeling with a shock that this was not the way to behave, he added, “Your face is splendid too–only I’ve been taught manners, and I know you mustn’t tell people they’re handsome in their faces. ‘Praise to the face is open disgrace,’–Mrs. Honeysett says so.”
“Praise to my face isn’t open disgrace,” said the gentleman, “it is a pleasant novelty in these walls.”
“Is it your birthday or anything?” Edred asked.
“It is not my birthday,” said the gentleman smiling. “But why the question?”
“Because you’re so grand,” said Edred. “I suppose you’re a prince then?”
“No, not a prince–a prisoner.”
“Oh, I see,” said Edred, as people so often do when they don’t; “and you’re going to be let out to-day, and you’ve put on your best things to go home in. I am so glad. At least, I’m sorry you’re going, but I’m glad on your account.”
“Thou’rt a fine, bold boy,” said the gentleman. “But no. I am a prisoner, and like to remain so. And for these gauds,” he swelled out his chest so that his diamond buttons and ruby earrings and gem-set collar flashed in the winter sun,–”for these gauds, never shall it be said that Walter Raleigh let the shadow of his prison tarnish his pride in the proper arraying of a body that has been honoured to kneel before the Virgin Queen.” He took off his hat at the last words and swept it, with a flourish, nearly to the ground.
“Oh!” cried Edred, “are you really Sir Walter Raleigh? Oh, how splendid! And now you’ll tell me all about the golden South Americas, and sea-fights, and the Armada and the Spaniards, and what you used to play at when you were a little boy.”
“Ay,” said Sir Walter, “I’ll tell thee tales enow. They’ll not let me from speaking with thee, I warrant. I would,” he said, looking round impatiently, “that I could see the river again. From my late chamber I saw it, and the goodly ships coming in and out–the ships that go down into the great waters.” He sighed, was silent a moment, then spoke. “And so thou didst not know thine old friend Raleigh? He was all forgot, all forgot! And yet thou hast rid astride my sword ere now, and I have played with thee in the courtyard at Arden. When England forgets so soon, who can expect more from a child?”
“I’m sorry,” said Edred humbly.
“Nay,” said Sir Walter, pinching his ear gently, “’tis two years agone, and short years have short memories. Thou shall come with me to my chamber and I will show thee a chart and a map of Windargocoa, that Her Dear Glorious Majesty permitted me to rename Virginia, after her great and gracious self.”
So Edred, very glad and proud, went hand in hand with Sir Walter Raleigh to his apartments, and saw many strange things from overseas–dresses of feathers from Mexico, and strange images in gold from strange islands, and the tip of a narwhal’s horn from Greenland, and many other things. And Sir Walter told him of his voyages and his fights, and of how he and Humphrey Gilbert, and Adrian Gilbert, and little Jack Davis used to sail their toy boats in the Long Stream, and how they used to row in and out among the big ships down at the Port, and look at the great figure-heads, standing out high above the water, and wonder about them and about the strange lands they came from.
“And often,” said Walter, “we found a sea-captain that would tell us lads travellers’ tales like these I have told thee. And we sailed our little ships, and then we sailed our big ships–and here I lie in dock, and shall never sail again. But it’s oh! to see the Devon moors, and the clear reaches of the Long Stream again! And that I never shall.” And with that he leaned his arm on the windowsill, and if he had not been the great Sir Walter Raleigh, who is in all the history books, Edred would have thought he was crying.
“Oh, do cheer up–do!” said Edred awkwardly. “I don’t know whether they’ll let you go to Devonshire–but I know they’ll let you go back to America some day. With twelve ships. I read about it only yesterday; and your ship will be called the Destiny, and you’ll sail from the Thames, and Lord Arden will see you off and kiss you for farewell, and give you a medal for a keepsake. Your son will go with you. I know it’s true. It’s all in the book?”
“The book?” Sir Walter asked. “A prophecy, belike?”
“You can call it that if you want to,” said Edred cautiously; “but, anyhow, it’s true.”
He had read it all in the History of Arden.
“If it should be true,” said Sir Walter, and the smile came back to his merry eyes, “and if I ever sail to the Golden West again, shrew me but I will sack a Spanish town, and bring thee a collar of gold and pieces of eight–a big bag-full.”
“Thank you, very much,” said Edred, “it is very kind of you: but I shall not be there.”
And all Sir Walter’s questions did not make him say how he knew this, or what he meant by it.
After this he met Sir Walter every day in the lieutenant’s garden, and the two prisoners comforted each other. At least Edred was comforted, and Sir Walter seemed to be. But no one could be sure if it was more than seeming. This was one of the questions that always puzzled the children–and they used to talk it over together till their heads seemed to be spinning round. The question of course was: Did their being in past times make any difference to the other people in past times? In other words, when you were taking part in historical scenes, did it matter what you said or did? Of course, it seemed to matter extremely–at the time. But then if this going into the past was only a sort of dream, then, of course, the people in the past would know nothing about it, unless they had dreamed the same sort of dream–which, as Elfrida often pointed out, was quite likely, especially if time didn’t count, or could be cheated by white clocks. On the other hand, if they really went into the real past–well, then, of course, what they did must count for real too, as Edred so often said. And yet how could it, since they took with them into the past all that they learned here? And with that knowledge they could have revealed plots, shown the issue of wars and the fate of kings, and, as Elfrida put it, “made history turn out quite different.” You see the difficulties, don’t you? And Betty Lovell’s having said that they could leave no trace on times past did not seem to make much difference somehow, one way or the other.
However, just now Elfrida and Edred were in the Tower, and not able to see each other, so they could not discuss that or any other question. And they always
hoped that they would meet, but they never did.
But by and by the Queen thought of Lady Arden, and decided that she and her son Edred ought to be let out of the Tower, and she told the King so, and he told Lord Somebody or other, who told the Lieutenant of the Tower, and behold Lady Arden and Edred were abruptly sent home in their own coach, which had been suddenly sent for from Arden House; but Elfrida was left in charge of the wife of the Lieutenant of the Tower, who was a very kind lady. So now Elfrida was in the Tower, and Edred was at Arden House in Soho, and they had not been able to speak to each other or arrange any plan for getting back to 1908 and Arden Castle by the sea.
Of course Elfrida was kept in the Tower because she had sung the rhyme about–
“Please to remember
The fifth of November
The Gunpowder Treason and Plot,”
and this made people think–or seem to think–that she knew all about the Gunpowder Plot. And so of course she did, though it would have been very difficult for her to show any one at that time how she knew it, without being a traitor.
She was now allowed to see Lord Arden every day, and she grew very fond of him. He was curiously like her own daddy, who had gone away to South America with Uncle Jim, and had never come back to his little girl. Lord Arden also seemed to grow fonder of her very day. “Thou’rt a bold piece,” he’d tell her, “and thou growes bolder with each day. Hast thou no fear that thy daddy will have thee whipped for answering him so pert?”
“No!” Elfrida would say, hugging him as well as she could for his ruff. “I know you wouldn’t beat your girl, don’t I, daddy?” And as she hugged him it felt almost like hugging her own daddy, who would never come home from America.
So she was almost contented. She knew that Lord Arden was not one of those to suffer for the Gunpowder Plot. She knew from the History of Arden that he would just be banished from the Court, and end his days happily at Arden, and she was almost tempted just to go on and let what would happen, and stay with this new daddy who had lived three hundred years before, and pet him and be petted by him. Only she felt that she must do something because of Edred. The worst of it was that she could not think of anything to do. She did not know at all what was happening to Edred–whether he was being happy or unhappy.