Complete Novels of E Nesbit

by Edith Nesbit

  “... The degradation of the language,” Mr. Rochester was saying. “The depraved Cockney accent of half-educated teachers replacing the sturdy local dialects...”

  The girls leaned forward, attitude and expression alike designed to convey the impression of rapt attention. “If he’ll only keep on till he’s had his second cup,” Jane told herself, “it won’t be so bad.” He finished the first and accepted the second. There was a pause, which both girls were afraid to break.

  “What,” he asked suddenly, “do you call the article of food which is baked in an earthenware dish, rather deep and usually of an oval form, though sometimes round or oblong: outside is pastry, within are apples, cloves and sugar? What do you call it?”

  “Is it a riddle? “Jane asked.

  “No, no,” he said impatiently; “a perfectly plain question. You recognise the thing from my description? Well, what do you call it?”

  “An apple-pie, of course,” said Lucilla and Jane almost together.

  “Good,” said Mr. Rochester, actually rubbing his hands, “but, believe me there are young women — yes, and women old enough to know better — who think that they show refinement by calling an apple-pie an apple-tart. Why don’t they consult their dictionaries? A tart is an open piece of pastry with jam, apple, or what-not on it. In the pie the apple or other adjunct is covered.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “Of course it is,” repeated Mr. Rochester; “and now,” he went on, putting down his cup and speaking quite mildly, “perhaps you will tell me...”

  They looked at each other and felt that the hour had struck. They must tell the truth about the panelling.

  “... Tell me,” he ended unexpectedly, “how you managed to get into the house again?”

  “But we didn’t,” said Jane. “You said we weren’t to and we didn’t. Of course we didn’t.”

  “Then how did you get these things out?”

  “The chairs and tables — the tea-things — the flower-vases — the Belgian pottery?”

  Again, and now really startled, they looked at each other. Was it possible that their benefactor could be insane?

  “You put them here for us — don’t you remember? “said Jane gently.

  “It won’t do, my dear,” he answered with almost equal gentleness. “I may be absent-minded — in fact I am. I may be forgetful — of trifles — but I am not so silly as you suppose. Come — why deny it, when here the things are? Own up! How did you get into the house?”

  “We didn’t,” said Jane with extreme coldness. “Please don’t doubt our word. We shouldn’t have dreamed of doing anything so dishonourable.”

  “We found the things here, you know,” Lucilla explained quietly. “Don’t you think you must have given orders for the place to be made nice for us, and then forgotten about it? We found it all ready for us, and the looking-glass and the jug and basin” — she swung open the door of the further cupboard as she spoke—”and all the beautiful jugs and vases. The other cupboard opened at her touch, confirming her words. “And the new tap by the front door — all so convenient and so lovely. And we did think it so frightfully nice of you; and we have been so grateful and thought about you such a lot — and wished you luck, and that you might find whatever you were looking for in Spain. You are absent-minded, you know. You must have ordered it, and forgotten, Do try to remember. And don’t be so cross,” she added, with a sudden inspiration of courage, “because we really haven’t done anything to deserve it.”

  “I apologise for having doubted a lady’s word,” said Mr. Rochester with blighting courtesy, “but my position is a difficult one. The age of miracles is past. And I know that I did not give any such order as you suggest, because I remember perfectly a sudden sense of remissness which overcame me between Tours and Bordeaux, just because I had not given such an order. I wondered how you would get on, and whether you would have to disarrange Hope Cottage in order to make the garden room possible even as a living-room for part of the day.”

  All the while, through his talking and their own, they had been listening for the footfall of Mr. Dix. And now at last it sounded on the gravel. They were almost grateful. They felt that they could trust Mr. Rochester not to scold them before Mr. Dix. And if only Mr. Dix would not talk about his prison life...

  “I’m rather early, I’m afraid,” said the newcomer apologetically, “but — Hullo, uncle!”

  Again it was not Mr. Dix. It was the younger Mr. Rochester.

  “You are just in time to solve a trifling mystery for us,” said his uncle, when the little bustle of greetings had died down. “Can you suggest any way in which the chairs and tables and tea-cups out of the house can have transferred themselves into the garden room?”

  Men should not blush, but Mr. Rochester did it; he tried, however, to conceal the blush by instant speech.

  “I did, uncle, of course. I knew you’d wish it. I felt certain you’d have done it yourself, or given orders about it, if you hadn’t left in such a hurry. I hope you approve my choice,” he added, taking up a tea-cup and putting it down again.

  “So the miracle’s explained,” said old Mr. Rochester; “and the explanation’s like that of all miracles, quite simple when you know it.”

  “I knew it, of course,” said Lucilla, “directly you said it wasn’t you who put the things here.”

  “Oh, you did, did you?” said the old gentleman.

  “Why, of course,” said Jane; “but we couldn’t give Mr. Rochester away, could we? We didn’t know whether you would approve his choice,” she added, looking up at the old gentleman under her eyelashes in a way which the young gentleman thought might have charmed the most savage breast. “But you do, don’t you? You said you thought of it between Tours and Bordeaux, and wished you had.”

  “So I did. You were quite right, my boy. Thank you.”

  “And now we may thank you,” said Lucilla. “It wouldn’t have done for us to thank you until we were quite sure that your uncle approved, would it?” she turned on the uncle a glance half-timid, half arch.

  “We do thank you — both of you, as much as ever you’ll let us,” said Jane. “I didn’t think there were such kind people in the world — people who aren’t your relations or anything, I mean. I think it’s wonderful. And, dear Mr. Rochester, it was our fault that the paint was scraped off the panelling; we thought you’d like it, and Lucy and I tried to do it ourselves, and then Mr. Rochester — your nephew I mean — came and helped, and Mr. Simmons helped, and it really does seem as if everybody is ready to help us, and if you’re not pleased I really don’t know what we shall do.

  We did so very much want to please you. You are pleased, aren’t you? It does look nice, doesn’t it?”

  “I’m more pleased than I can say,” said old Mr. Rochester most unexpectedly. “I can’t imagine why you thought I wasn’t pleased.”

  “Why, the way you asked who’d been messing about with the panelling.”

  “Oh, that was before I’d seen what had happened. Coming in out of the sun, in the half light, I thought someone had repainted everything brown. But when I saw the grain of the wood — why, I was delighted.”

  “Oh,” said Lucilla, “I do wish you’d said so! We’ve been so afraid you were cross! And now it’s all right.” And Jane was saying to herself: “Yes — it’s all right. Everything turns out lucky for us. I believe we are born lucky. Mr. Dix can come when he likes! Who’s afraid? Let him come!”

  But Mr. Dix did not come.

  CHAPTER XIII

  WHEN the new brew of tea had been made for young Mr. Rochester, when he had drunk three cups and had helped to wash up the tea-things and put them away in the cupboard, when the garden room and the gate had been fastened up for the night, and the girls had parted from the always friendly nephew and the now completely placated uncle, they had leisure, as they walked back to Hope Cottage in the golden-rayed evening, to exchange conjectures as to what had become of Mr. Dix.

  “Lost the add
ress, I suppose,” said Jane.

  “More likely he didn’t want to come,” said Lucilla. “I expect he thought we were insane — inviting him to tea in that sudden way and promising to engage him without a character.”

  “Perhaps he’s a clairvoyant, a thought-reader; perhaps he felt how much we didn’t want him to come while old Mr. Rochester was there.”

  “Yes — wasn’t it awful! I kept wondering what Uncle James would do when Mr. Dix said how nice Cedar Court was after the horrors of prison life. It’s just what Mr. Dix would have done, you know — as soon as look at him. It’s certainly all for the best that Mr. Dix didn’t come — whatever his reasons were.”

  “I don’t feel happy about him, all the same,” said Jane. “I can’t get him out of my head. Did you notice his right boot?”

  “His right boot? No — why?”

  “Well, I did. It was cracked right across. I believe that young man’s at his last penny. Why on earth didn’t we make him give us his address? Perhaps he’s starving. He may die — and we shall never know — and we might have helped him. No, Lucy, it’s no comfort to me to think that I can find a suffering charwoman and help her. I wanted to help Mr. Dix.”

  “Yes, I know, dear,” said Lucilla meaningly.

  “Cat! “said Jane, but without malice. “It isn’t because he’s a good-looking young man. At least,” she added, with one of her flashes of candour, “if it is, I can’t help it. Perhaps it’s natural for us to be more interested in good-looking young men than in plain old charwomen. Yes, I’m sure it’s natural. It would be, if you come to think of it. I’m not ashamed of it. And people can be interested in good-looking young men without any Romeo nonsense too. I know they can. Because I am.”

  “Yes,” said Lucilla dryly. “I see you are. Yes.”

  “Yes — and so are you, Luce, so don’t pretend! Only you’re ashamed of it and I’m not! I can’t exactly express... but I will... Let me see. It’s like this. This is why I’m so annoyed at our losing Mr. Dix. It’s as if we’d lost a stray dog. No — not that exactly. But you see you can’t take a tremendous interest in a young man just because he is a young man. Look at the organist at school — and all the awful young men that Gladys used to go out with. But when he’s nice, and a gentleman, and when you’ve frightened each other into screams, and when he wants to be a gardener and you’ve got a garden that wants to be gardened — well, it all seems so heaven-sent — so expressly arranged by Fate, so that you shall be interested — and then — down comes the curtain — it’s all over.”

  “Oh well,” said Lucilla, “if you put it like that.. and, basket-laden, they reached the gate of Hope Cottage.

  It was not till ten o’clock that they found out that they bad left the silver tea-pot and milk-jug and sugar-basin and spoons and sugar-tongs in the cupboard with the other tea-things in the garden room at the Cedars. To continue to leave them there was unthinkable — though the fine rain which had followed the golden sunset made the rescue party anything but a party of pleasure.

  “We must change our shoes and put on mackers,” said Jane. “Bother! I thought of course you’d got them. And you thought I had. But we can’t leave them there. Cedar Court’s just the place to be burgled. I’m sure I wonder it hasn’t been ten times over. Come on.”

  Cedar Court and its trees loomed dark through the rain. The one gas-lamp nearly opposite its gate gave light for the fitting of the key to the padlock. But no key was needed. The padlock was undone.

  “I thought you fastened it,” said Jane.

  “No — don’t you remember? Old Mr. Rochester did it: at least, I hope he didn’t do it. I hope it’s only that, and not a burglar who has opened it with a skeleton key.”

  “Don’t talk about skeletons,” said Jane. “It’s quite bad enough as it is.”

  “You’re not frightened?” Lucilla asked, in a voice that was not quite steady.

  “No — and I don’t want to be,” Jane answered firmly. “Come on.”

  The door of the garden room was well and truly fastened. But when they had undone it and crossed the threshold Jane suddenly shut the door and bolted it.

  “Draw the curtains,” she said, “before we strike a light.”

  Lucilla obeyed. Then by the irresolute glimmer of a newly-lighted candle they looked round the room.

  It was empty of any human presence except their own.

  “So that’s all right,” said Jane.

  “Oh, Jane,” said Lucy, “suppose there had been a burglar in here, and we’d locked ourselves in with him! How frightful!”

  “Yes, dear,” said Jane. “I thought of that, the minute I’d bolted the door. However, it’s all right, so far.” She opened the cupboard, held the candle to its dark depths and closed the door again quickly.

  “The silver’s there all right. Now, look here. Do you really believe the padlock was left undone? Suppose it wasn’t. Suppose someone opened it, and we disturbed them before they could get in here? If we go out carrying the silver they might attack us — to get it.”

  “They wouldn’t know we’d got it. We could put it under our mackers.”

  “We should look lumpy. Yes, I know it’s dark — but they may have electric torches and flash them at us. We mustn’t take the silver away — we must hide it.”

  “Where?”

  “Up the chimney, of course. It’s the only place. I’ve been thinking. Put the candle down on the floor behind the table. Now then — hand me the things. No — one at a time. Don’t let them chink.”

  She reached her hand up the chimney, holding the silver tea-pot. “Talk about chinking!” exclaimed Lucilla, not without some reason, for, with a devastating clatter, the teapot, which Jane imagined herself to be placing on a safe ledge in the obscurity of the chimney, escaped from her hand and fell into the hollow depths behind the iron grate.

  “Well,” said Jane, forcing a laugh, “it’s safe now, anyway. We shall have to have the fireplace taken out to get it back. It’s in a perfectly burglar-proof spot.”

  “It’ll be awfully dented, I’m afraid,” said Lucilla anxiously. “All the same, I’m going to send the other things after it,” said Jane. “It’ll be no more trouble to get out the lot than the one.”

  “Well, wrap them in dusters, then, or they’ll be dented to pieces.”

  The milk-jug and sugar-basin followed the tea-pot with what is sometimes called a sickening thud.

  “And now,” said Jane, standing up and rubbing her sooty hands on a third duster, “let’s get out of it as quick as we can. Let’s talk and laugh all the way to the gate, so that if there are burglars in hiding in the shrubbery they may not think we’re frightened.”

  So they locked up the garden room, and went through the rain to the gate, beginning their progress by a very artistically-tuned laugh from Lucilla, and another, not nearly so good, from Jane.

  “It is absurd,” said Lucilla, very distinctly, “to have come at this hour of the night to fetch the work-bag. But with all that sewing to do before breakfast, it was much better to come now.”

  “Much — ha-ha!” laughed Jane, unconvincingly.

  “It’ll be quite a funny adventure to write to Miss Graves about,” said Lucilla.

  “Yes, won’t it?” Jane agreed with enthusiasm, and laughed mechanically.

  “The dear old thing will think it quite recklessly amusing,” said Lucilla, laughing again. Really, anyone in the bushes would have been quite sure that the speaker, who had now reached the gate, was wholly free from fear or care and very much amused. “It will fill up our weekly letter beautifully... Oh! “ she ended, fumbling with the padlock.

  “What’s up?”

  “It’s locked. It is, really.”

  “Nonsense,” said Jane, “let me.” She pushed away Lucilla’s fingers, and something fell, rattling against the iron of the gate and resounding on stone.

  “It is, though,” said Jane. “What was that you dropped?”

  “Only the key of the garden
room. I’ll pick it up directly. The padlock is locked, though, isn’t it?”

  It was — beyond a doubt.

  “Did you leave the key in it?”

  “Of course not. You know it wasn’t locked.”

  “Then where is the key?”

  “I must have put it down inside,” said Lucilla. “Let’s find the other key and go back and get it.”

  But they could not find the other key, though they felt all about along the wet gravel — and all the time the rain came down, more and more earnestly and searchingly.

  “Oh, bother!” said Jane. “And it’s no good trying to strike a match in this waterfall.”

  “Jane,” said Lucilla, pointing, “what’s that?”

  “What?”

  “Out there on the footpath.”

  “It’s a key,” said Jane. “It’s the key.”

  It was.

  In falling from Lucilla’s hand it must have struck the horizontal iron of the gate and rebounded out towards the road — well beyond their reach.

  “We’re locked in,” said Lucilla.

  “And we’re locked out,” said Jane.

  “If we’d only got an umbrella!” sighed Lucilla.

  “Someone else’s, then, with a crook handle. Ours are both knobs, you know.”

  “Couldn’t we cut a crooked stick in the shrubbery?”

  “Nothing easier,” said Jane bitterly, “if we had a knife.”

  “Couldn’t we break one off?”

  “If we knew where to find the kind of stick we want, and could find it in this pitch-dark Niagara.”

  “We must wait; perhaps someone will go by and we can ask them to pick it up for us.”

  “We may wait,” said Jane. “It must be past midnight — everyone about here goes to bed at nine, I believe. Let me think.”

  Lucilla was obediently silent. There was no sound but the patter-patter of the rain on stone and gravel and dripping leaves and mackintoshes. The lost key lay before them glistening in the light of the lonely gas-lamp — perfectly visible, wholly unattainable. At last Lucilla giggled softly but naturally.