Five Children and It
of telling her everything. But they did succeed in not telling her.
Mother, on her side, had plenty to tell them--about Granny, and Granny's
pigeons, and Auntie Emma's lame tame donkey. She was very delighted with
the flowery-boweryness of the house; and everything seemed so natural
and pleasant, now that she was home again, that the children almost
thought they must have dreamed the Psammead.
But, when mother moved towards the stairs to go up to her bedroom and
take off her bonnet, the eight arms clung round her just as if she only
had two children, one the Lamb and the other an octopus.
"Don't go up, mummy darling," said Anthea; "let me take your things up
for you."
"Or I will," said Cyril.
"We want you to come and look at the rose-tree," said Robert.
"Oh, don't go up!" said Jane helplessly.
"Nonsense, dears," said mother briskly, "I'm not such an old woman yet
that I can't take my bonnet off in the proper place. Besides I must wash
these black hands of mine."
So up she went, and the children, following her, exchanged glances of
gloomy foreboding.
Mother took off her bonnet,--it was a very pretty hat, really, with
white roses in it,--and when she had taken it off she went to the
dressing-table to do her pretty hair.
On the table between the ring-stand and the pin-cushion lay a green
leather case. Mother opened it.
"Oh, how lovely!" she cried. It was a ring, a large pearl with shining
many-lighted diamonds set round it. "Wherever did this come from?"
mother asked, trying it on her wedding finger, which it fitted
beautifully. "However did it come here?"
"I don't know," said each of the children truthfully.
"Father must have told Martha to put it here," mother said. "I'll run
down and ask her."
"Let me look at it," said Anthea, who knew Martha would not be able to
see the ring. But when Martha was asked, of course she denied putting
the ring there, and so did Eliza and cook.
Mother came back to her bedroom, very much interested and pleased about
the ring. But, when she opened the dressing-table drawer and found a
long case containing an almost priceless diamond necklace, she was more
interested still, though not so pleased. In the wardrobe, when she went
to put away her "bonnet," she found a tiara and several brooches, and
the rest of the jewellery turned up in various parts of the room during
the next half-hour. The children looked more and more uncomfortable, and
now Jane began to sniff.
Mother looked at her gravely.
"Jane," she said, "I am sure you know something about this. Now think
before you speak, and tell me the truth."
"We found a Fairy," said Jane obediently.
"No nonsense, please," said her mother sharply.
"Don't be silly, Jane," Cyril interrupted. Then he went on desperately.
"Look here, mother, we've never seen the things before, but Lady
Chittenden at Peasmarsh Place lost all her jewellery by wicked burglars
last night. Could this possibly be it?"
All drew a deep breath. They were saved.
"But how could they have put it here? And why should they?" asked
mother, not unreasonably. "Surely it would have been easier and safer to
make off with it?"
"Suppose," said Cyril, "they thought it better to wait for--for
sunset--nightfall, I mean, before they went off with it. No one but us
knew that you were coming back to-day."
"I must send for the police at once," said mother distractedly. "Oh, how
I wish daddy were here!"
"Wouldn't it be better to wait till he _does_ come?" asked Robert,
knowing that his father would not be home before sunset.
"No, no; I can't wait a minute with all this on my mind," cried mother.
"All this" was the heap of jewel-cases on the bed. They put them all in
the wardrobe, and mother locked it. Then mother called Martha.
"Martha," she said, "has any stranger been into my room since I've been
away? Now, answer me truthfully."
"No, mum," answered Martha; "leastways, what I mean to say"--
She stopped.
"Come," said her mistress kindly, "I see someone has. You must tell me
at once. Don't be frightened. I'm sure _you_ haven't done anything
wrong."
Martha burst into heavy sobs.
"I was a-goin' to give you warning this very day, mum, to leave at the
end of my month, so I was,--on account of me being going to make a
respectable young man happy. A gamekeeper he is by trade, mum--and I
wouldn't deceive you--of the name of Beale. And it's as true as I stand
here, it was your coming home in such a hurry, and no warning given, out
of the kindness of his heart it was, as he says, 'Martha, my beauty,' he
says,--which I ain't, and never was, but you know how them men will go
on,--'I can't see you a-toiling and a-moiling and not lend a 'elping
'and; which mine is a strong arm, and it's yours Martha, my dear,' says
he. And so he helped me a-cleanin' of the windows--but outside, mum, the
whole time, and me in; if I never say another breathing word it's gospel
truth."
"Were you with him the whole time?" asked her mistress.
"Him outside and me in, I was," said Martha; "except for fetching up a
fresh pail and the leather that that slut of a Eliza'd hidden away
behind the mangle."
"That will do," said the children's mother. "I am not pleased with you,
Martha, but you have spoken the truth, and that counts for something."
When Martha had gone, the children clung round their mother.
"Oh, mummy darling," cried Anthea, "it isn't Beale's fault, it isn't
really! He's a great dear; he is, truly and honourably, and as honest as
the day. Don't let the police take him, mummy! Oh, don't, don't, don't!"
It was truly awful. Here was an innocent man accused of robbery through
that silly wish of Jane's, and it was absolutely useless to tell the
truth. All longed to, but they thought of the straws in the hair and the
shrieks of the other frantic maniacs, and they could not do it.
"Is there a cart hereabouts?" asked the mother feverishly. "A trap of
any sort? I must drive in to Rochester and tell the police at once."
All the children sobbed, "There's a cart at the farm, but, oh, don't
go!--don't go!--oh, don't go!--wait till daddy comes home!"
Mother took not the faintest notice. When she had set her mind on a
thing she always went straight through with it; she was rather like
Anthea in this respect.
"Look here, Cyril," she said, sticking on her hat with long sharp
violet-headed pins, "I leave you in charge. Stay in the dressing-room.
You can pretend to be swimming boats in the bath, or something. Say I
gave you leave. But stay there, with the door on the landing open; I've
locked the other. And don't let anyone go into my room. Remember, no one
knows the jewels are there except me, and all of you, and the wicked
thieves who put them there. Robert, you stay in the garden and watch the
windows. If anyone tries to get in you must run and tell the two farm
men that I'll send up to wait in the kitchen. I'll tell them there are
dangerous characters about--that's true enough. Now remember, I trust
you both. But I don't think they'll try it till after dark, so you're
quite safe. Good-bye, darlings."
And she locked her bedroom door and went off with the key in her pocket.
The children could not help admiring the dashing and decided way in
which she had acted. They thought how useful she would have been in
organising escape from some of the tight places in which they had found
themselves of late in consequence of their ill-timed wishes.
"She's a born general," said Cyril,--"but _I_ don't know what's going to
happen to us. Even if the girls were to hunt for that old Sammyadd and
find it, and get it to take the jewels away again, mother would only
think we hadn't looked out properly and let the burglars sneak in and
get them--or else the police will think _we've_ got them--or else that
she's been fooling them. Oh, it's a pretty decent average ghastly mess
this time, and no mistake!"
He savagely made a paper boat and began to float it in the bath, as he
had been told to do.
Robert went into the garden and sat down on the worn yellow grass, with
his miserable head between his helpless hands.
Anthea and Jane whispered together in the passage downstairs, where the
cocoanut matting was--with the hole in it that you always caught your
foot in if you were not careful. Martha's voice could be heard in the
kitchen,--grumbling loud and long.
"It's simply quite too dreadfully awful," said Anthea. "How do you know
all the diamonds are there, too? If they aren't, the police will think
mother and father have got them, and that they've only given up some of
them for a kind of desperate blind. And they'll be put in prison, and we
shall be branded outcasts, the children of felons. And it won't be at
all nice for father and mother either," she added, by a candid
after-thought.
"But what can we _do_?" asked Jane.
"Nothing--at least we might look for the Psammead again. It's a very,
_very_ hot day. He may have come out to warm that whisker of his."
"He won't give us any more beastly wishes to-day," said Jane flatly. "He
gets crosser and crosser every time we see him. I believe he hates
having to give wishes."
Anthea had been shaking her head gloomily--now she stopped shaking it so
suddenly that it really looked as though she were pricking up her ears.
"What is it?" asked Jane. "Oh, have you thought of something?"
"Our one chance," cried Anthea dramatically; "the last lone-lorn forlorn
hope. Come on."
At a brisk trot she led the way to the sand-pit. Oh, joy!--there was the
Psammead, basking in a golden sandy hollow and preening its whiskers
happily in the glowing afternoon sun. The moment it saw them it whisked
round and began to burrow--it evidently preferred its own company to
theirs. But Anthea was too quick for it. She caught it by its furry
shoulders gently but firmly, and held it.
"Here--none of that!" said the Psammead. "Leave go of me, will you?"
But Anthea held him fast.
"Dear kind darling Sammyadd," she said breathlessly.
"Oh yes--it's all very well," it said; "you want another wish, I expect.
But I can't keep on slaving from morning till night giving people their
wishes. I must have _some_ time to myself."
"Do you hate giving wishes?" asked Anthea gently, and her voice trembled
with excitement.
"Of course I do," it said. "Leave go of me or I'll bite!--I really
will--I mean it. Oh, well, if you choose to risk it."
Anthea risked it and held on.
"Look here," she said, "don't bite me--listen to reason. If you'll only
do what we want to-day, we'll never ask you for another wish as long as
we live."
The Psammead was much moved.
"I'd do anything," it said in a tearful voice. "I'd almost burst myself
to give you one wish after another, as long as I held out, if you'd only
never, never ask me to do it after to-day. If you knew how I hate to
blow myself out with other people's wishes, and how frightened I am
always that I shall strain a muscle or something. And then to wake up
every morning and know you've _got_ to do it. You don't know what it
is--you don't know what it is, you don't!" Its voice cracked with
emotion, and the last "don't" was a squeak.
Anthea set it down gently on the sand.
"It's all over now," she said soothingly. "We promise faithfully never
to ask for another wish after to-day."
"Well, go ahead," said the Psammead; "let's get it over."
"How many can you do?"
"I don't know--as long as I can hold out."
"Well, first, I wish Lady Chittenden may find she's never lost her
jewels."
The Psammead blew itself out, collapsed, and said, "Done."
"I wish," said Anthea more slowly, "mother mayn't get to the police."