by Edith Nesbit
“Here it is,” said Edmund, and the cockatrice woke up at once and asked the drakling very politely to sit down and wait. “Your mother will be here presently,” said the cockatrice, stirring up its fire.
The drakling sat down and waited, but it watched the fire with hungry eyes.
“I beg your pardon,” it said at last, “but I am always accustomed to having a little basin of fire as soon as I get up, and I feel rather faint. Might I?”
It reached out a claw toward the cockatrice’s basin.
“Certainly not,” said the cockatrice sharply. “Where were you brought up? Did they never teach you that ‘we must not ask for all we see’? Eh?”
“I beg your pardon,” said the drakling humbly, “but I am really very hungry.”
The cockatrice beckoned Edmund to the side of the basin and whispered in his ear so long and so earnestly that one side of the dear boy’s hair was quite burnt off. And he never once interrupted the cockatrice to ask why. But when the whispering was over, Edmund — whose heart, as I may have mentioned, was very tender — said to the drakling: “If you are really hungry, poor thing, I can show you where there is plenty of fire.” And off he went through the caves, and the drakling followed.
When Edmund came to the proper place he stopped.
There was a round iron thing in the floor, like the ones the men shoot the coals down into your cellar, only much larger. Edmund heaved it up by a hook that stuck out at one side, and a rush of hot air came up that nearly choked him. But the drakling came close and looked down with one eye and sniffed, and said: “That smells good, eh?”
“Yes,” said Edmund, “well, that’s the fire in the middle of the earth. There’s plenty of it, all done to a turn. You’d better go down and begin your breakfast, hadn’t you?”
So the drakling wriggled through the hole, and began to crawl faster and faster down the slanting shaft that leads to the fire in the middle of the earth. And Edmund, doing exactly as he had been told, for a wonder, caught the end of the drakling’s tail and ran the iron hook through it so that the drakling was held fast. And it could not turn around and wriggle up again to look after its poor tail, because, as everyone knows, the way to the fires below is very easy to go down, but quite impossible to come back on. There is something about it in Latin, beginning: “Facilis descensus.”
So there was the drakling, fast by the silly tail of it, and there was Edmund very busy and important and very pleased with himself, hurrying back to the cockatrice.
“Now,” said he.
“Well, now,” said the cockatrice. “Go to the mouth of the cave and laugh at the dragon so that she hears you.”
Edmund very nearly said “Why?” but he stopped in time, and instead, said: “She won’t hear me—”
“Oh, very well,” said the cockatrice. “No doubt you know best,” and he began to tuck himself up again in the fire, so Edmund did as he was bid.
And when he began to laugh his laughter echoed in the mouth of the cave till it sounded like the laughter of a whole castleful of giants.
And the dragon, lying asleep in the sun, woke up and said very crossly: “What are you laughing at?”
“That smells good, eh?”
“At you,” said Edmund, and went on laughing. The dragon bore it as long as she could, but, like everyone else, she couldn’t stand being made fun of, so presently she dragged herself up the mountain very slowly, because she had just had a rather heavy meal, and stood outside and said, “What are you laughing at?” in a voice that made Edmund feel as if he should never laugh again.
Then the good cockatrice called out: “At you! You’ve eaten your own drakling — swallowed it with the town. Your own little drakling! He, he, he! Ha, ha, ha!”
And Edmund found the courage to cry “Ha, ha!” which sounded like tremendous laughter in the echo of the cave.
“Dear me,” said the dragon. “I thought the town stuck in my throat rather. I must take it out, and look through it more carefully.” And with that she coughed — and choked — and there was the town, on the hillside.
Edmund had run back to the cockatrice, and it had told him what to do. So before the dragon had time to look through the town again for her drakling, the voice of the drakling itself was heard howling miserably from inside the mountain, because Edmund was pinching its tail as hard as he could in the round iron door, like the one where the men pour the coals out of the sacks into the cellar. And the dragon heard the voice and said: “Why, whatever’s the matter with Baby? He’s not here!” and made herself thin, and crept into the mountain to find her drakling. The cockatrice kept on laughing as loud as it could, and Edmund kept on pinching, and presently the great dragon — very long and narrow she had made herself — found her head where the round hole was with the iron lid. Her tail was a mile or two off — outside the mountain. When Edmund heard her coming he gave one last nip to the drakling’s tail, and then heaved up the lid and stood behind it, so that the dragon could not see him. Then he loosed the drakling’s tail from the hook, and the dragon peeped down the hole just in time to see her drakling’s tail disappear down the smooth, slanting shaft with one last squeak of pain. Whatever may have been the poor dragon’s other faults, she was an excellent mother. She plunged headfirst into the hole, and slid down the shaft after her baby. Edmund watched her head go — and then the rest of her. She was so long, now she had stretched herself thin, that it took all night. It was like watching a goods train go by in Germany. When the last joint of her tail had gone Edmund slammed down the iron door. He was a kindhearted boy, as you have guessed, and he was glad to think that dragon and drakling would now have plenty to eat of their favorite food, forever and ever. He thanked the cockatrice for his kindness, and got home just in time to have breakfast and get to school by nine. Of course, he could not have done this if the town had been in its old place by the river in the middle of the plain, but it had taken root on the hillside just where the dragon left it.
“Well,” said the master, “where were you yesterday?”
Edmund explained, and the master at once caned him for not speaking the truth.
“But it is true,” said Edmund. “Why, the whole town was swallowed by the dragon. You know it was—”
“Nonsense,” said the master. “There was a thunderstorm and an earthquake, that’s all.” And he caned Edmund more than ever.
“But,” said Edmund, who always would argue, even in the least favorable circumstances, “how do you account for the town being on the hillside now, instead of by the river as it used to be?”
“It was always on the hillside,” said the master. And all the class said the same, for they had more sense than to argue with a person who carried a cane.
“But look at the maps,” said Edmund, who wasn’t going to be beaten in argument, whatever he might be in the flesh. The master pointed to the map on the wall.
There was the town, on the hillside! And nobody but Edmund could see that of course the shock of being swallowed by the dragon had upset all the maps and put them wrong.
And then the master caned Edmund again, explaining that this time it was not for untruthfulness, but for his vexatious argumentative habits. This will show you what a prejudiced and ignorant man Edmund’s master was — how different from the revered Head of the nice school where your good parents are kind enough to send you.
The next day Edmund thought he would prove his tale by showing people the cockatrice, and he actually persuaded some people to go into the cave with him; but the cockatrice had bolted himself in and would not open the door — so Edmund got nothing by that except a scolding for taking people on a wild-goose chase.
“A wild goose,” said they, “is nothing like a cockatrice.”
And poor Edmund could not say a word, though he knew how wrong they were. The only person who believed him was his granny. But then she was very old and very kind, and had always said he was the best of boys.
Only one good thing came of all this lon
g story. Edmund has never been quite the same boy since. He does not argue quite so much, and he agreed to be apprenticed to a locksmith, so that he might one day be able to pick the lock of the cockatrice’s front door — and learn some more of the things that other people don’t know.
But he is quite an old man now, and he hasn’t gotten that door open yet!
THE LITERARY SENSE
CONTENTS
THE UNFAITHFUL LOVER
ROUNDING OFF A SCENE
THE OBVIOUS
THE LIE ABSOLUTE
THE GIRL WITH THE GUITAR
THE MAN WITH THE BOOTS
THE SECOND BEST
A HOLIDAY
THE FORCE OF HABIT
THE BRUTE
DICK, TOM, AND HARRY
MISS EDEN’S BABY
THE LOVER, THE GIRL, AND THE ONLOOKER
THE DUEL
CINDERELLA
WITH AN E
UNDER THE NEW MOON
THE LOVE OF ROMANCE
TO DOROTHEA DEAKI
WITH
THE AUTHOR’S LOVE
THE UNFAITHFUL LOVER
SHE was going to meet her lover. And the fact that she was to meet him at Cannon Street Station would almost, she feared, make the meeting itself banal, sordid. She would have liked to meet him in some green, cool orchard, where daffodils swung in the long grass, and primroses stood on frail stiff little pink stalks in the wet, scented moss of the hedgerow. The time should have been May. She herself should have been a poem — a lyric in a white gown and green scarf, coming to him through the long grass under the blossomed boughs. Her hands should have been full of bluebells, and she should have held them up to his face in maidenly defence as he sprang forward to take her in his arms. You see that she knew exactly how a tryst is conducted in the pages of the standard poets and of the cheaper weekly journals. She had, to the full limit allowed of her reading and her environment, the literary sense. When she was a child she never could cry long, because she always wanted to see herself cry, in the glass, and then of course the tears always stopped. Now that she was a young woman she could never be happy long, because she wanted to watch her heart’s happiness, and it used to stop then, just as the tears had.
He had asked her to meet him at Cannon Street; he had something to say to her, and at home it was difficult to get a quiet half-hour because of her little sisters. And, curiously enough, she was hardly curious at all about what he might have to say. She only wished for May and the orchard, instead of January and the dingy, dusty waiting-room, the plain-faced, preoccupied travellers, the dim, desolate weather. The setting of the scene seemed to her all-important. Her dress was brown, her jacket black, and her hat was home-trimmed. Yet she looked entrancingly pretty to him as he came through the heavy swing-doors. He would hardly have known her in green and white muslin and an orchard, for their love had been born and bred in town — Highbury New Park, to be exact. He came towards her; he was five minutes late. She had grown anxious, as the one who waits always does, and she was extremely glad to see him, but she knew that a late lover should be treated with a provoking coldness (one can relent prettily later on), so she gave him a limp hand and no greeting.
“Let’s go out,” he said. “Shall we walk along the Embankment, or go somewhere on the Underground?”
It was bitterly cold, but the Embankment was more romantic than a railway carriage. He ought to insist on the railway carriage: he probably would. So she said —
“Oh, the Embankment, please!” and felt a sting of annoyance and disappointment when he acquiesced.
They did not speak again till they had gone through the little back streets, past the police station and the mustard factory, and were on the broad pavement of Queen Victoria Street.
He had been late: he had offered no excuse, no explanation. She had done the proper thing; she had awaited these with dignified reserve, and now she was involved in the meshes of a silence that she could not break. How easy it would have been in the orchard! She could have snapped off a blossoming branch and — and made play with it somehow. Then he would have had to say something. But here — the only thing that occurred to her was to stop and look in one of the shops till he should ask her what she was looking at. And how common and mean that would be compared with the blossoming bough; and besides, the shops they were passing had nothing in the windows except cheap pastry and models of steam-engines.
Why on earth didn’t he speak? He had never been like this before. She stole a glance at him, and for the first time it occurred to her that his “something to say” was not a mere excuse for being alone with her. He had something to say — something that was trying to get itself said. The keen wind thrust itself even inside the high collar of her jacket. Her hands and feet were aching with cold. How warm it would have been in the orchard!
“I’m freezing,” she said suddenly; “let’s go and have some tea.”
“Of course, if you like,” he said uncomfortably; yet she could see he was glad that she had broken that desolate silence.
Seated at a marble table — the place was nearly empty — she furtively watched his face in the glass, and what she saw there thrilled her. Some great sorrow had come to him. And she had been sulking! The girl in the orchard would have known at a glance. She would gently, tenderly, with infinite delicacy and the fine tact of a noble woman, have drawn his secret from him. She would have shared his sorrow, and shown herself “half wife, half angel from heaven” in this dark hour. Well, it was not too late. She could begin now. But how? He had ordered the tea, and her question was still unanswered. Yet she must speak. When she did her words did not fit the mouth of the girl in the orchard — but then it would have been May there, and this was January. She said —
“How frightfully cold it is!”
“Yes, isn’t it?” he said.
The fine tact of a noble woman seemed to have deserted her. She resisted a little impulse to put her hand in his under the marble table, and to say, “What is it, dearest? Tell me all about it. I can’t bear to see you looking so miserable,” and there was another silence.
The waitress brought the two thick cups of tea, and looked at him with a tepid curiosity. As soon as the two were alone again he leaned his elbows on the marble and spoke.
“Look here, darling, I’ve got something to tell you, and I hope to God you’ll forgive me and stand by me, and try to understand that I love you just the same, and whatever happens I shall always love you.”
This preamble sent a shiver of dread down her spine. What had he done — a murder — a bank robbery — married someone else?
It was on the tip of her tongue to say that she would stand by him whatever he had done; but if he had married someone else this would be improper, so she only said, “Well?” and she said it coldly.
“Well — I went to the Simpsons’ dance on Tuesday — oh, why weren’t you there, Ethel? — and there was a girl in pink, and I danced three or four times with her — she was rather like you, side-face — and then, after supper, in the conservatory, I — I talked nonsense — but only a very little, dear — and she kept looking at me so — as if she expected me to — to — and so I kissed her. And yesterday I had a letter from her, and she seems to expect — to think — and I thought I ought to tell you, darling. Oh, Ethel, do try to forgive me! I haven’t answered her letter.”
“Well?” she said.
“That’s all,” said he, miserably stirring his tea.
She drew a deep breath. A shock of unbelievable relief tingled through her. So that was all! What was it, compared with her fears? She almost said, “Never mind, dear. It was hateful of you, and I wish you hadn’t, but I know you’re sorry, and I’m sorry; but I forgive you, and we’ll forget it, and you’ll never do it again.” But just in time she remembered that nice girls must not take these things too lightly. What opinion would he form of the purity of her mind, the innocence of her soul, if an incident like this failed to shock her deeply? He himself was evidently
a prey to the most rending remorse. He had told her of the thing as one tells of a crime. As the confession of a crime she must receive it. How should she know that he had only told her because he feared that she would anyhow hear it through the indiscretion of the girl in pink, or of that other girl in blue who had seen and smiled? How could she guess that he had tuned his confession to the key of what he believed would be an innocent girl’s estimate of his misconduct?
Following the tingle of relief came a sharp, sickening pinch of jealousy and mortification. These inspired her.
“I don’t wonder you were afraid to tell me,” she began. “You don’t love me — you’ve never loved me — I was an idiot to believe you did.”
“You know I do,” he said; “it was hateful of me — but I couldn’t help it.”
Those four true words wounded her more than all the rest.
“Couldn’t help it? Then how can I ever trust you? Even if we were married I could never be sure you weren’t kissing some horrid girl or other. No — it’s no use — I can never, never forgive you — and it’s all over. And I believed in you so, and trusted you — I thought you were the soul of honour.”
He could not say, “And so I am, on the whole,” which was what he thought. Her tears were falling hot and fast between face and veil, for she had talked till she was very sorry indeed for herself.
“Forgive me, dear,” he said.
Then she rose to the occasion. “Never,” she said, her eyes flashing through her tears. “You’ve deceived me once — you’d do it again! No, it’s all over — you’ve broken my heart and destroyed my faith in human nature. I hope I shall never see you again. Some day you’ll understand what you’ve done, and be sorry!”
“Do you think I’m not sorry now?”
She wished that they were at home, and not in this horrible tea-shop, under the curious eyes of the waitresses. At home she could at least have buried her face in the sofa cushions and resisted all his pleading, — at last, perhaps, letting him take one cold passive hand and shower frantic kisses upon it.