Complete Novels of E Nesbit

by Edith Nesbit

  ‘What worse?

  ‘The being alone.’

  ‘Well, anyhow,’ said Caroline, coming round to sit on the other side of him, ‘you’re not alone now. What’s up? Who is he?’

  ‘He’s a schoolmaster. I should have thought you could have seen that.’

  ‘We thought he was like Mr. Murdstone.’

  ‘He is,’ said the strange boy; ‘exactly.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Charlotte joyously, ‘then you’ve read David. I say!’

  They were all delighted. There is no bond like the bond of having read and liked the same books. A tide of friendliness swept over the party, and when they found that he had also read Alice in Wonderland, Wild Animals! Have Known, and Hereward the Wake, as well as E. Nesbit’s stories for children in the Strand Magazine, they all felt that they had been friends for years.

  ‘But tell us all about it, quick, before he comes back,’ urged Charles. ‘Perhaps we could help you — bring you jam tarts and apples with a rope ladder or something. We are yours to the death — you won’t forget that, will you? And what’s your name? And where do you live? And where are you going? Tell us all about it, quick!’ he urged.

  Then out it all came. The strange boy’s name was Rupert Wix, and he was at a school — not half bad the school was — and old Filon — he was the classical chap — was going to take Rupert and two other chaps to Wales for the holidays — and now the other chaps had got measles, and so had old Filon. And old Mug’s brother — his name wasn’t really Mug, of course, but Macpherson, and the brother was the Rev. William Macpherson — yes, that was him, the Murdstone chap — he was going to take Rupert to his beastly school in the country.

  ‘And there won’t be any other chaps,’ said Rupert, ‘because, of course, it’s vac — just old Mug’s beastly brother and me, for days and weeks and years — until the rest of the school comes back. I wish I was dead!’

  ‘Oh, don’t!’ said Caroline; ‘how dreadful! They’ve got scarlet fever at our school, that’s why our holidays have begun so early. Do cheer up! Have some nut-chocolate.’ A brief struggle with her pocket ended in the appearance of a packet — rather worn at the edges — the parting gift of Aunt Emmeline.

  ‘Is old Mug’s brother as great a pig as he looks?’ Charles asked, through Rupert’s ‘Thank-yous.

  ‘Much greater,’ said Rupert cordially.

  ‘Then I know what I’d do,’ said Charlotte. ‘I’d run away from school, like a hero in a book, and have some adventures, and then go home to my people.’

  ‘That’s just it,’ said Rupert. ‘I haven’t got anywhere to run to. My people are in India. That’s why I have to have my hols at a beastly school. I’d rather be a dog in a kennel — much.’

  ‘Oh, so would I,’ said Charlotte. ‘But then I’d almost rather be a dog than anything. They’re such dears. I do hope there’ll be dogs where we’re going to.’

  ‘Where’s that?’ Rupert asked, more out of politeness than because he wanted to know.

  ‘I’ll write it down for you,’ said Caroline, and did, on a page of the new grey leather pocket-book Uncle Percival had given her. ‘Here, put it in your pocket, and you write and tell us what happens. Perhaps it won’t be so bad. Here he comes — quick!’

  She stuffed the paper into Rupert’s jacket pocket as the tall Murdstone - like figure advanced towards them. The three children left Rupert and walked up the platform.

  ‘I’m glad we gave him the chock,’ said Charles, and the word was hardly out of his mouth before a cold, hard hand touched his shoulder (and his cheek as he turned quickly) and a cold, hard voice said:

  ‘Little boy, I do not allow those under my charge to accept sweetmeats from strange children, especially dirty ones.’

  And with that the Murdstone gentleman pushed the chocolate into Charles’s hand and went back to his prey.

  ‘Beast! Brute! Beast!’ said Charles.

  After this it was mere forlorn-hopishness and die-on-the-barricade courage, as Charlotte said later, that made the children get into the same carriage with Rupert and his captor. They might as well have saved themselves the trouble. The Murdstone gentleman put Rupert in a corner and sat in front of him with a newspaper very widely opened. And at the next station he changed carriages, taking Rupert by the hand as though he had been, as Charles put it, ‘any old baby-girl.’

  But as Rupert went out Caroline whispered to him ‘You get some borage and eat it,’ and Rupert looked ‘Why?’

  ‘Borage gives courage, you know,’ she said, too late, for he was whisked away before he could hear her, and they saw him no more.

  They talked about him, though, till the train stopped at East Farleigh, which was their station.

  There was a waggonette to meet them and a cart for their luggage, and the coachman said he would have known Caroline anywhere, because she was so like her mother, whom he remembered when he was only gardener’s boy; and this made every one feel pleasantly as though they were going home.

  It was a jolly drive, across the beautiful bridge and up the hill and through the village and along a mile or more of road, where the green hedges were powdered with dust, and tufts of hay hung, caught by the brambles from the tops of passing waggons. These bits of hay made one feel that one really was in the country — not just the bare field-country of the suburb where Aunt Emmeline and Uncle Percival lived, where one could never get away from the sight of red and yellow brick villas.

  And then the boy who was driving the luggage cart got down and opened a gate, and they drove through and along a woodland road where ferns and blossoming brambles grew under trees very green and not dusty at all.

  From the wood they came to a smooth, green, grassy park dotted with trees, and in the middle of it, standing in a half-circle of chestnuts and sycamores, was the house.

  It was a white, bow-windowed house, with a balcony at one end, and a porch, with white pillars and two broad steps; and the grass grew right up to the very doorsteps, which is unusual and very pretty. There was not a flower to be seen — only grass. The waggonette, of course, kept to the drive, which ran round to a side door — half glass.

  And here Mrs. Wilmington the housekeeper received them. She was a pale, thin person — quite kind, but not at all friendly.

  ‘I don’t think she has time to think of anything but being ladylike,’ said Charlotte.

  ‘She ought to wear mittens.’

  This was while they were washing their hands for tea.

  ‘I suppose if you’re a housekeeper you have to be careful people don’t think you’re a servant,’ said Caroline. ‘What drivel it is! I say, isn’t this something like?’

  She was looking out of the bow window of the big room spread with a blue rose-patterned carpet, at the green glory of the park, lying in the sun like another and much more beautiful carpet with a pattern of trees on it.

  Then they went down to tea. Such a house — full of beautiful things! But the children hadn’t time to look at them then, and I haven’t time to tell you about them now.

  I will only say that the dining-room was perfect in its Turkey-carpet-and-mahogany comfort, and that it had red curtains.

  ‘Will you please pour the tea, Miss Caroline?’ said Mrs. Wilmington, and went away.

  ‘I’m glad we haven’t got to have tea with her, anyway,’ said Charles.

  And then Uncle Charles came in. He was not at all what they expected. He could not have been what anybody expected. He was more shadowy than you would think anybody could be. He was more like a lightly printed photograph from an insufficiently exposed and imperfectly developed negative than anything else I can think of. He was as thin and pale as Mrs. Wilmington, but there was nothing hard or bony about him. He was soft as a shadow — his voice, his hand, his eyes.

  ‘And what are your names?’ he said, when he had shaken hands all round.

  Caroline told him, and Charles added:

  ‘How funny of you not to know, uncle, when we’re all named after you! />
  ‘Caroline, Charles, Charlotte,’ he repeated. ‘Yes, I suppose you are. I like my tea very weak, please, with plenty of milk and no sugar.’ Caroline nervously clattered among the silver and china. She was not used to pouring out real tea for long-estranged uncles.

  ‘I hope you will enjoy yourselves here,’ said Uncle Charles, taking his cup; ‘and excuse me if I do not always join you at meals. I am engaged on a work — I mean I am writing a book,’ he told them.

  ‘What fun!’ said every one but Caroline, who had just burnt herself with the urn; and Charles added:

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘Magic,’ said the Uncle, ‘or, rather, a branch of magic. I thought of calling it “A Brief Consideration of the Psychological and Physiological Part played by Suggestion in So-called Magic.”’

  ‘It sounds interesting; at least I know it would if I knew anything about it,’ said Caroline, trying to be both truthful and polite.

  ‘It’s very long,’ said Charles. ‘How would you get all that printed on the book’s back?’

  ‘And don’t say “so-called,”’ said Charlotte. ‘It looks as if you didn’t believe in magic.’

  ‘If people thought I believed in magic they wouldn’t read my books,’ said Uncle Charles. ‘They’d think I was mad, you know.’

  ‘But why?’ Charlotte asked. ‘We aren’t mad, and we believe in it. Do you know any spells, uncle? We want awfully to try a spell. It’s the dream of our life. It is, really.’

  The ghost of a smile moved the oyster-shell-coloured face of Uncle Charles.

  ‘So you take an interest in magic?’ he said. ‘We shall have at least that in common.’

  ‘Of course we do. Every one does, only they’re afraid to say so. Even servants do. They tell fortunes and dreams. Did you ever read about the Amulet, or the Phoenix, or the Words of Power? Bread and butter, please,’ said Charles.

  ‘You have evidently got up the subject,’ said Uncle Charles. ‘Who told you about Words of Power?’

  ‘It’s in The Amulet,’ said Charlotte. ‘I say, uncle, do tell us some spells.’

  ‘Ah!’ Uncle Charles sighed. ‘I am afraid the day of spells has gone by — except, perhaps, for people of your age. She could have told you spells enough — if all the stories of her are true.’

  He pointed to a picture over the mantelpiece — a fair-haired, dark-eyed lady in a ruff.

  ‘She was an ancestress of ours,’ he said; ‘she was wonderfully learned.’

  ‘What became of her?’ Charlotte asked. ‘They burned her for a witch. It is sometimes a mistake to know too much,’ said the Uncle.

  This contrasted agreeably with remembered remarks of Uncle Percival and Aunt Emmeline, such as ‘Knowledge is power’ and ‘There is no darkness but ignorance.’

  The children looked at the lady in the white ruff and black velvet dress, and they liked her face.

  ‘What a shame!’ they said.

  ‘Yes,’ said the Uncle. ‘You see she’s resting her hand on two books. There’s a tradition that those books contain her magic secret. I used to look for the books when I was young, but I never found them — I never found them.’ He sighed again.

  ‘We’ll look, uncle,’ said Charlotte eagerly. ‘We may look, mayn’t we? Young heads are better than old shoulders, aren’t they? At least, that sounds rude, but you know I mean two heads are better than yours — No, that’s not it. Too many cooks spoil the ——

  No, that’s not it either. We wouldn’t spoil anything. Too many hands make light work. That’s what I meant.’

  ‘Your meaning was plain from the first,’ said the Uncle, finishing his tea and setting down his cup — a beautiful red and blue and gold one — very different from Aunt Emmeline’s white crockery. ‘Certainly you may look. But you’ll respect the field of your search.’

  ‘Uncle,’ said Caroline, from behind the silver tea-tray, ‘your house is the most lovely, splendid, glorious, beautiful house we’ve ever seen, and—’

  ‘We wouldn’t hurt a hair of its head,’ said Charles.

  Again the Uncle smiled. ‘Well, well,’ he said, and faded away like a shadow.

  ‘We’ll find those books or perish,’ said Charlotte firmly.

  ‘Ra-ther,’ said Charles.

  ‘We’ll look for them, anyway,’ said Caroline. ‘Now let’s go and pick an ivy leaf and put it in a letter for poor dear Aunt Emmeline. I’ll tell you something.’

  ‘Well?’ said the others.

  ‘This is the sort of house I’ve always dreamed of when it said luxury — in books, you know.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Charlotte.

  ‘And me,’ said Charles.

  CHAPTER III. THE WONDERFUL GARDEN

  It was very glorious to wake up the next morning in enormous soft beds — four-posted, with many-folded silk hangings, and shiny furniture that reflected the sunlight as dark mirrors might do. And breakfast was nice, with different sorts of things to eat, in silver dishes with spirit-lamps under them, — bacon and sausages and scrambled eggs, and as much toast and marmalade as you wanted; not just porridge and apples, as at Aunt Emmeline’s. There were tea and coffee and hot milk. They all chose hot milk.

  ‘I feel,’ said Caroline, pouring it out of a big silver jug with little bits of ivory between the handle and the jug to keep the handle from getting too hot, ‘I feel that we’re going to enjoy every second of the time we’re here.’

  ‘Rather,’ said Charles, through sausage. ‘Isn’t Uncle Charles a dear,’ he added more distinctly. ‘I dreamed about him last night — that he painted his face out of the paint-box I gave Caro, and then we blew him out with the bellows to make him fatter.”

  ‘And did it?’ Caroline asked.

  ‘He burst,’ said Charles briefly, ‘and turned into showers of dead leaves.’

  There was an interval of contented silence. Then —

  ‘What shall we do first?’ said Charles. And his sisters with one voice answered, ‘Explore, of course.’

  And they finished their breakfast to dreams of exploring every hole and corner of the wonderful house.

  But when they rang to have breakfast taken away it was Mrs. Wilmington who appeared.

  ‘Your uncle desired me to say that he thinks it’s healthy for you to spend some hours in the hopen — open air,’ she said, speaking in a small distinct voice. ‘He himself takes the air of an afternoon. So will you please all go out at once,’ she ended in a burst of naturalness, ‘and not come ‘ome, home, till one o’clock.’

  ‘Where are we to go?’ asked Charlotte, not pleased.

  ‘Not beyond the park and grounds,’ said the housekeeper. ‘And,’ she added reluctantly, ‘Mr. Charles said if there was any pudding you liked to mention—’

  A brief consultation ended in, ‘Treacle hat, please’; and when Mrs. Wilmington had minced off, they turned to each other and said: ‘The brick!’

  ‘The old duck!’ and ‘Something like an uncle.’

  Then they went out, as they had been told to do. And they took off their shoes and stockings, which they had not been told to do — but, on the other hand, had not been told not to — and walked barefooted in the grass still cool and dewy under the trees. And they put on their boots again and explored the park, and explored the stable-yard, where a groom was rubbing bright the silver buckles of the harness and whistling as he rubbed. They explored the stables and the harness-room and the straw-loft and the hay-loft. And then they went back to the park and climbed trees — a little way, because though they had always known that they would climb trees if ever they had half a chance, they had not, till now, had any chance at all.

  And all the while they were doing all this they were looking — at the back of their minds, even when they weren’t doing it with the part you think with — for the garden.

  And there wasn’t any garden!

  That was the plain fact that they had to face after two hours of sunshine and green out-of-doors.

  ‘And I’m certain
mother said there was a garden,’ Caroline said, sitting down suddenly on the grass; ‘a beautiful garden and a terrace.’

  ‘Perhaps the Uncle didn’t like it, and he’s had it made not garden again—”Going back to Nature” that would be, like Aunt Emmeline talks about,’ Charles suggested.

  ‘And it’s dreadful if there’s no garden,’ said Caroline, ‘because of the flowers we were going to send in letters. Wild flowers don’t have such deep meanings, I’m certain.’

  ‘And besides we haven’t seen any wild flowers,’ said Caroline. ‘Oh, bother!’

  ‘Never mind,’ Charles said, ‘think of exploring the house — and finding the book, perhaps. We’ll ask the Elegant One, when we go in, why there isn’t a garden.’

  ‘We won’t wait till then,’ said Charlotte; ‘let’s go and ask that jolly man who’s polishing the harness. He looked as if he wouldn’t mind us talking to him.’

  ‘It was him drove us yesterday,’ Charles pointed out.

  So they went as to an old friend. And when they asked William why there wasn’t a garden he answered surprisingly and rather indignantly:

  ‘Ain’t they shown you, Miss? Not a garden? There ain’t a garden to beat it hereabouts. Come on, I’ll show you.’

  And, still more surprisingly, he led the way to the back door.

  ‘We aren’t to go indoors till dinner-time,’ said Caroline; ‘and besides, we should like to see the garden — if there really is one.’

  ‘Of course there is one, Miss,’ said William.

  ‘She’ll never see you if you’re quick. She’ll be in her room by now — at her accounts and things. And the Master’s never about in these back parts in the morning.’

  ‘I suppose it’s a lock-up garden and he’s going to get the key,’ said Charles in a whisper. But William wasn’t.

  He led them into a whitewashed passage that had cupboards and larders opening out of it and ended in a green baize door. He opened this, and there they were in the hall.

  ‘Quick,’ he said, and crossed it, unlatched another door and held it open. ‘Come in quiet,’ he said, and closed the door again. And there they all were in a little square room with a stone staircase going down the very middle of it, like a well. There was a wooden railing round three sides of the stairway, and nothing else in the room at all, except William and the children.