by Edith Nesbit
Chloe was looking at the bars. Suddenly she took her hat off.
“I’m not so very big,” she said. “You called me a shrimp only yesterday.”
The bottom of the window was level with the leads. She twisted her skirt round her ankles as she sat down, and pushed both feet between the bars.
“You can hold on to my arm if you like till I feel the floor. Oh, don’t be silly. I must.”
She twisted herself like an eel through the bars.
“Right. Let go,” and the next moment she was laughing at me out of the dark window.
“Mind the stairs,” I said.—”Open the door at the top, and I can come in, too.”
She disappeared. The little door shook to her withdrawal of the rust-locked bolts. I bent my head and stepped in. A kiss met my face in the dark.
“Welcome to your house,” she said.
We went down the little, dark, rickety staircase. At the bottom was a door. Locked.
“Oh, this is too much!” said Chloe.
“Go back a few steps,” I said, for my blood was up now, and, besides, the door did not feel very firm.
“Broad shoulders are useful sometimes,” she said, when the door had given way to the pressure of mine, and we found ourselves standing in the great, dark kitchen, where the thin, dusty shafts of yellow sunlight shot through the shuttercracks.
We had down those shutters, and looked out through the dingy windows on the moat.
“Oh, Len, what a place!” she said, and kissed me again. “Just look at the roasting-jack, and the rack for guns, and the hooks in the roof to hang hams and things — and, oh — there’s a great bacon-rack. It is too beautiful!”
We explored the pantry and the servants’ hall, the little bedrooms above, and then along the flagged passage to the great hall, tiled with white and red marble, with the oak staircase winding up out of it.
We explored the living-rooms that led from it, and before we had climbed the first flight of stairs to the great drawing-room, my wife was breathless with enthusiasm. She kissed me in every room—”for luck,” as she explained — and when at last even the great attics held nothing concealed from us, I calculated that I had received twenty-nine kisses.
“It ought to let for a good bit,” I said, thoughtfully, when at last I had replaced all the shutters, and had persuaded her to come out and let me bang the big door after us.
“It’ll want some doing up, won’t it?” said Chloe. “That’s a very dangerous hole in the staircase. Come, let’s go round the garden.”
We went. The old garden had always been beautiful to me, even in the days when I used secretly to eat gooseberries there, and plums, and peaches in an unripe state; and it was beautiful now, even as I remembered it, only now its trees and bushes were incredibly grown — moss- cushioned its paths. Its fountains were dry and weed grown, and its sun-dial was covered with briony and woody nightshade. I put aside the green trails to show Chloe the motto, Horas numero nisi serenas (“I chronicle only the sunny hours”).
She leaned her elbows on the top of the sundial, and looked at me.
“There now, you see,” she said. “We must live here! We simply must. Only sunny hours!”
“My dear, it’s madness. We can’t live here. We can let it for two hundred pounds a year.”
“I don’t care if we could let it for two thousand,” said she.
“And our furniture would about fill the servants’ hall and the kitchen.”
“Then we’ll live in the servants’ hall and the kitchen.”
“And we could never keep up the garden. It would take three men all their time.”
“It wouldn’t. And I’d get up at three in the morning and weed.”
“But you promised to be reasonable.”
“I am; it’s you who aren’t; and if I did I don’t care. It’s what I’ve wanted all my life. Oh, Len, you must.”
“If you’re so keen on the place we might live in one of the cottages.” There were four on the estate.
“I hate the cottages. Poky little things.”
“They’re bigger than the Bandbox,” I said.
“I hate the Bandbox,” she said, mutinously. Then I laughed.
“After that heresy,” I said, “I shall take you home. My darling lunatic, come away. The Red House has turned your brain.”
Chloe mounted in silence, and in silence we rode away. In the village I stopped at the plumber’s — he is also a builder and a house agent, and though it was Saturday, he was, after all, at home — and rather hurriedly told him to try and let the Red House.
Chloe said nothing, but stood beside me pale with the strain of her inward protest.
We rode on.
“How could you?” she said, presently. “When shall we ever have such a chance again? That glorious green garden, and the orchard, all pinky and white, and the drawing-room — it must be forty feet long — and the cottages, and the still-room, and the dear, darling, little apple-room. The whole place is like a picture out of Silas Marner. I’m sure that long, low room where you have to go down two steps was called the white parlor. It’s like all the houses I’ve ever dreamed of. And after I’ve kissed you in every room for luck, too, and everything! Oh, Len, you don’t really love me, or you’d let me live there!”
“You certainly put a great strain on my love, madam,” I said, “when you cry for the moon in this disgraceful manner on the king’s high-road. Cheer up! Perhaps you’ll feel saner in the morning. If not, we’ll send for the doctor.”
“Well, you’ll never let it,” she said, riding faster and faster in her indignation. “That’s one comfort! If you do, I shall never believe in anything again. It’s the most beautiful place in the world — and it’s ours — our very own. You’ll see; no one will dare to take it.”
What spells she worked I don’t know, nor how she worked them. But, curiously enough, no one did take the house. City gentleman after city gentleman approached and retreated after a parley, that always ended in suggestions for repairs to the tune of from four to five hundred pounds. At first each new applicant was to me an object of interest, and to Chloe an object of jealous detestation. But as time wore on, and each new candidate told the same unflattering tale of the shocking state of repairs at the Red House, the hour came when at the accustomed formula I merely smiled. But Chloe laughed, a laugh of triumph and delight.
We used to ride over there every day to see if the house was let, and it never was; and more and more flowers came out in the garden — old, small sweet tulips and forget-me-nots and hearts-ease, and the roses were in tiny bud.
And never for a day did Chloe cease to cry for the moon.
The 27th of May is her birthday. It is also the anniversary of the day on which I first met her. So that when, on that day, she held her hand up to look at her new turquoises, and said, “It is a lovely ring, and you’re a dear, reckless, extravagant millionaire, and I love you; but oh, Len, I wish you’d give me the Red House instead” — I could hold out no longer.
“Very well,” I said, “you shall have the moon, since you won’t give up crying for it. But don’t blame me if you find it’s only green cheese, after all.”
“Oh, you darling!” she cried. “But I knew all the time you would — if I only kept on—”
“This revelation of your methods of government—” I began, with proper severity.
But she stopped my mouth quite irresistibly.
“Now, don’t growl when I’m so happy,” she said. “We shall never have any horrid rent to pay again. We are just being economical, that’s all. We can’t afford to keep a great house eating its head off in the stable; and, anyway, we sha’n’t dun ourselves for repairs.”
“There will be rates,” I said.
“And roses,” said she.
“And the expense of moving.”
“And the economy of moving.”
“And we can’t afford a gardener.”
“And we don’t want one.”
“And we’ve got
no furniture.”
“Yes, we have; a whole Bandbox full.”
“And there’s a ghost.”
“We sha’n’t see it—”
“And if you do?”
“I’ll train it to run on errands and clean the windows.”
“No servant will stay with us.”
“They won’t as it is.”
“There’s a condition,” I said.
“Anything on earth,” said she.
“If I give you the Red House for a dear little birthday present, I must insist on being allowed to put my shaving-brush down anywhere in it; just anywhere I choose.”
“You shall. There’s room enough,” she said, but even at that moment she sighed.
“When do you wish to move in?”
“On your birthday, of course.”
And so it was decided. The blow I had dreaded had fallen. My own hands had guided it. On the 6th of June we were to take possession of an immense mansion, standing in its own grounds, replete with every possible inconvenience. Chloe dropped her work and sewed curtains all day. I had never known her so happy. And indeed, now that the die was cast, I myself felt that our new experiment had in it at least all the elements of interest. I owned as much.
“Ah,” said Chloe, “I knew you hid a kindly heart under that mask of indifference. Interesting? Oh, my dear boy, you haven’t the faintest idea of the interesting things that are going to happen to us at the Red House.”
Nor had she. Had either of us even faintly imagined a tenth part of what was to befall us in that house — And yet I don’t know. Chloe says now that she would have left the safe shelter of the Bandbox just the same. And I — well, as you see, if Chloe only “keeps all on,” I am foolish enough for anything.
II. IN THE RED HOUSE
“YOU look like a historical picture,” Chloe said. “What’s-his-name weeping over the ruins of Somewhere or other.”
“I am weeping, over the ruins of my happy home,” I replied, as I sat on a packing-case and stirred with my boot-toe a tangle of brown paper, string, dust, and empty bottles on the dining-room floor.
“Nonsense!” she said. “Your happy home’s where I am, isn’t it?”
“That’s just what I say. This adorable Bandbox of ours contained my heart’s one treasure, and therefore—”
“If you mean me,” she said, briskly, “your treasure is not going to be kept in a Bandbox any longer. It is going to live in a palace—”
“Unfurnished — replete with—”
“Historic associations and other delights,” she interrupted. “And not quite unfurnished, either. Poor, dear boy — was it unhappy at the nasty flitting, then? And was it like a cat, and did it hate to leave its own house? It shall have its paws buttered — its boots, I mean — the minute we get into the new house!”
She came and sat beside me on the packing-case, and I absently put my arm round her.
“Allow me a moment for natural regrets,” I said. “It is not fair to distract my mind with undue influence when I’m watching the dark waters of time close over the wreck of that good ship, the Bandbox.”
“That’s fine writing,” she said, contemptuously. “Talk sensibly, there’s a good boy.”
Acquiescing, I pinched her ears softly. What my wife terms sensible conversation is unworthy to be reported.
The Bandbox lay before us, so to speak, in little bits. All the curtains were down, and all the pictures. The crockery was packed up, so were the wedding-presents. The saucepans and kettles sat in a forlorn group on the sitting-room floor. Our comfortable beds were now nothing but rolls of striped ticking and long, iron bands — lying about where one could best trip over them. The wall-papers, which had looked so bright and pleasant with our books and pictures on them, now showed, in patches of aggressively unfaded color, the outlines of the shelves and frames that had hung against them. The fire that had boiled our breakfast-kettle had gone out, and the cold ashes looked inexpressibly desolate.
As we sat awaiting the arrival of our green-grocer, who had undertaken to “move” us, I pointed out the ashes to Chloe.
“I believe you would like to put some on your head,” said she.
The green-grocer had promised to come at nine o’clock. That was why we had got up in the middle of the night, and finished our packing before eight o’clock. It was now past ten.
“He has thought better of it,” said I. “He is a far-seeing man, and a kindly. He knows it cannot be for our real good to leave our Bandbox. Let’s set to work and put all the things back in their places!”
“Here he is,” said Chloe, jumping off the packing-case at the squeaking sound which ever preludes any weak effort on the part of the Bandbox door-knocker. “Oh, Len,” she whispered, in awestruck tones, “it isn’t the men! I can see through the door-glass, and it’s a lady, and look at me!”
“Life hardly offers a dearer pleasure!” said I, and indeed, in her white gown and blue pinafore, with her brown hair loose and ruffled, she made so pretty a picture that I could not help thinking how a really high-toned green-grocer might well have refused base coin as the price of “moving” us, counting himself well paid by the sight of her.
“I’ll go, if you like,” I said, and went. Chloe hid herself behind the kitchen door, where the jack-towel used to hang. Even its roller had been unscrewed and packed now.
“Chloe!” I called, “it’s all right. It’s only Yolande.”
“Only, indeed!” Miss Riseborough echoed. “Oh, here you are! What on earth’s all this? A spring cleaning?”
“Yolande?” Chloe cried. “But I thought you were in Italy!”
“So I am. At least I was last week, and shall be again next. I’ve just run over for a few days on business, and I slipped away to the Bandbox to rest my eyes with a look at the turtle-doves. But they don’t look restful at all.”
She was taking the long, pearl-headed pins out of her hat as she spoke.
“Oh!” said my wife, again. “Sit down — no — not on that — it’s crocks and newspapers — and the chairs are all packed. Try the packing-case.”
But murmuring, “The divan for me!” Yolande sank down on a roll of bedding.
“I’ve yards to tell you, only I thought you were in that horrid Italy, and I’ve been too busy to write. We’re moving into a house with twenty-nine rooms in it.”
Then the whole story came out — of Chloe’s folly and of my madness. Yolande listened intently, her bright, gray eyes taking in Chloe’s transports, and my all too moderate enthusiasm, as well as the devastated state of the Bandbox.
“You poor, dear things,” she said. “I wish I wasn’t going back to Italy to-morrow. I should like to lend a hand.”
“I know you would,” said I, with intent.
“Oh yes, but you can’t wound me with your sneers. I own I love to have a finger in my neighbors’ pies, and the more I love my neighbor, the more I long to infest her house on baking-days. But look here, I wish you’d do me a good turn. If your house is that awful size, you will certainly have a couple of spare rooms in it.”
“More like five-and-twenty,” I said.
“Well, I’ve let my flat, unfurnished. Could you, would you, can you, will you be angels enough to take in my poor, homeless furniture, and give it board and lodging and the comforts of a home for a month or two?”
Of course we would, gladly, and we said so. And then we talked — always of the Red House.
“You’ll have a good deal of fun for your money in your new house,” Yolande said, at last, “but, oh, you make me feel as if you were the Babes in the Wood and I were the wicked uncle. I do wish I could stay and help you, but I’ve three pupils waiting in Florence with their mouths wide open, and a mere temporary chaperon guarding them, and I must scurry back to fill those gaping beaks with fat plums of learning. It’s a dreadful trade, a crammer’s — almost as bad as the samphire-gatherers’.”
“Wish the pie luck, anyhow,” said I, drawing the cork of the ginger-ale,
“though you can’t have your fingers in it this time. But I dare say there’ll be a bit of cold pie left for you when you come back.” So we stood up solemnly and raised our glasses to my toast,
“Here’s luck to the Red House!”
Then said Yolande,
“And to the Babes in the Wood!”
And to Chloe’s toast, “Here’s to the wicked uncle — I mean the fairy godmother,” we emptied the glasses.
Then Yolande said good-bye, and pinned her hat on to her bright hair. At the door she turned to say:
“By-the-way, you won’t mind my asking you to keep my things aired, will you? The furniture-warehouse people always let them get mothy, and give the piano a cold in its head. You might hang up the pictures, if you don’t mind the trouble; they’ve all got cords, and they keep better hung up, like meat or game, you know. And furniture keeps best when it’s being used. You’ll sit on my chairs now and then, for the sake of the absent, won’t you? My settle would go awfully well with your gate-table, and my oak press would do in those ‘marble halls’ you were talking about. I must rush, or miss my train. Good-bye. I’ll send the furniture down to-morrow.”
And she was gone.
Chloe turned to me with wide-open, sparkling eyes.
“Oh, Len, isn’t she a darling? Just because she saw how our Bandboxful of furniture would rattle about in that big house like a peanut in a cocoanut shell, to lend us all hers! She is a darling.”
“She is,” I admitted, “and her hair is the real Venetian red. But you’ll miss the furniture horribly when she takes it away.”
“Don’t grumble,” said Chloe. “We shall have all her lovely things for months and months, and by the time she comes back we shall have made some money to buy things. I’m going to work like a nigger directly we get settled. And so must you. Oh, here are the men at last. Two hours late!”
“Perhaps it is as well,” I said. “Harriet is only just ready.”
Our fat-faced maid-servant, who had rigidly refused during the whole morning to assist us in the least, on the ground that she “had her packing to see to,” now descended the stairs, bearing her whole wardrobe in two brown-paper parcels and a tin hat-box.