The E. Nesbit Megapack: 26 Classic Novels and Stories (172 page)

‘Let’s get the easiest parts of the dresses ready first.’ Alice said—‘the pilgrims’ staffs and hats and the cockles.’

So Oswald and Dicky braved the fury of the elements and went into the wood beyond the orchard to cut ash-sticks. We got eight jolly good long ones. Then we took them home, and the girls bothered till we changed our clothes, which were indeed sopping with the elements we had faced.

Then we peeled the sticks. They were nice and white at first, but they soon got dirty when we carried them. It is a curious thing: however often you wash your hands they always seem to come off on anything white. And we nailed paper rosettes to the tops of them. That was the nearest we could get to cockle-shells.

‘And we may as well have them there as on our hats,’ Alice said. ‘And let’s call each other by our right names today, just to get into it. Don’t you think so, Knight?’

‘Yea, Nun-Priest,’ Oswald was replying, but Noël said she was only half the Nun-Priest, and again a threat of unpleasantness darkened the air. But Alice said—

‘Don’t be a piggy-wiggy, Noël, dear; you can have it all, I don’t want it. I’ll just be a plain pilgrim, or Henry who killed Becket.’

So she was called the Plain Pilgrim, and she did not mind.

We thought of cocked hats, but they are warm to wear, and the big garden hats that make you look like pictures on the covers of plantation songs did beautifully. We put cockle-shells on them. Sandals we did try, with pieces of oil-cloth cut the shape of soles and fastened with tape, but the dust gets into your toes so, and we decided boots were better for such a long walk. Some of the pilgrims who were very earnest decided to tie their boots with white tape crossed outside to pretend sandals. Denny was one of these earnest palmers. As for dresses, there was no time to make them properly, and at first we thought of nightgowns; but we decided not to, in case people in Canterbury were not used to that sort of pilgrim nowadays. We made up our minds to go as we were—or as we might happen to be next day.

You will be ready to believe we hoped next day would be fine. It was.

Fair was the morn when the pilgrims arose and went down to breakfast. Albert’s uncle had had brekker early and was hard at work in his study. We heard his quill pen squeaking when we listened at the door. It is not wrong to listen at doors when there is only one person inside, because nobody would tell itself secrets aloud when it was alone.

We got lunch from the housekeeper, Mrs Pettigrew. She seems almost to
like
us all to go out and take our lunch with us. Though I should think it must be very dull for her all alone. I remember, though, that Eliza, our late general at Lewisham, was just the same. We took the dear dogs of course. Since the Tower of Mystery happened we are not allowed to go anywhere without the escort of these faithful friends of man. We did not take Martha, because bull-dogs do not like walks. Remember this if you ever have one of those valuable animals.

When we were all ready, with our big hats and cockle-shells, and our staves and our tape sandals, the pilgrims looked very nice.

‘Only we haven’t any scrips,’ Dora said. ‘What is a scrip?’

‘I think it’s something to read. A roll of parchment or something.’

So we had old newspapers rolled up, and carried them in our hands. We took the Globe and the Westminster Gazette because they are pink and green. The Dentist wore his white sandshoes, sandalled with black tape, and bare legs. They really looked almost as good as bare feet.

‘We
ought
to have peas in our shoes,’ he said. But we did not think so. We knew what a very little stone in your boot will do, let alone peas.

Of course we knew the way to go to Canterbury, because the old Pilgrims’ Road runs just above our house. It is a very pretty road, narrow, and often shady. It is nice for walking, but carts do not like it because it is rough and rutty; so there is grass growing in patches on it.

I have said that it was a fine day, which means that it was not raining, but the sun did not shine all the time.

‘’Tis well, O Knight,’ said Alice, ‘that the orb of day shines not in undi—what’s-its-name?—splendour.’

‘Thou sayest sooth, Plain Pilgrim,’ replied Oswald. ‘’Tis jolly warm even as it is.’

‘I wish I wasn’t two people,’ Noël said, ‘it seems to make me hotter. I think I’ll be a Reeve or something.’

But we would not let him, and we explained that if he hadn’t been so beastly particular Alice would have been half of him, and he had only himself to thank if being all of a Nun-Priest made him hot.

But it
was
warm certainly, and it was some time since we’d gone so far in boots. Yet when H. O. complained we did our duty as pilgrims and made him shut up. He did as soon as Alice said that about whining and grizzling being below the dignity of a Manciple.

It was so warm that the Prioress and the wife of Bath gave up walking with their arms round each other in their usual silly way (Albert’s uncle calls it Laura Matildaing), and the Doctor and Mr Bath had to take their jackets off and carry them.

I am sure if an artist or a photographer, or any person who liked pilgrims, had seen us he would have been very pleased. The paper cockle-shells were first-rate, but it was awkward having them on the top of the staffs, because they got in your way when you wanted the staff to use as a walking-stick.

We stepped out like a man all of us, and kept it up as well as we could in book-talk, and at first all was merry as a dinner-bell; but presently Oswald, who was the ‘very perfect gentle knight,’ could not help noticing that one of us was growing very silent and rather pale, like people are when they have eaten something that disagrees with them before they are quite sure of the fell truth.

So he said, ‘What’s up, Dentist, old man?’ quite kindly and like a perfect knight, though, of course, he was annoyed with Denny. It is sickening when people turn pale in the middle of a game and everything is spoiled, and you have to go home, and tell the spoiler how sorry you are that he is knocked up, and pretend not to mind about the game being spoiled.

Denny said, ‘Nothing,’ but Oswald knew better.

Then Alice said, ‘Let’s rest a bit, Oswald, it
is
hot.’

‘Sir Oswald, if you please, Plain Pilgrim,’ returned her brother dignifiedly. ‘Remember I’m a knight.’

So then we sat down and had lunch, and Denny looked better. We played adverbs, and twenty questions, and apprenticing your son, for a bit in the shade, and then Dicky said it was time to set sail if we meant to make the port of Canterbury that night. Of course, pilgrims reck not of ports, but Dicky never does play the game thoughtfully.

We went on. I believe we should have got to Canterbury all right and quite early, only Denny got paler and paler, and presently Oswald saw, beyond any doubt, that he was beginning to walk lame.

‘Shoes hurt you, Dentist?’ he said, still with kind striving cheerfulness.

‘Not much—it’s all right,’ returned the other.

So on we went—but we were all a bit tired now—and the sun was hotter and hotter; the clouds had gone away. We had to begin to sing to keep up our spirits. We sang ‘The British Grenadiers’ and ‘John Brown’s Body,’ which is grand to march to, and a lot of others. We were just starting on ‘Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching,’ when Denny stopped short. He stood first on one foot and then on the other, and suddenly screwed up his face and put his knuckles in his eyes and sat down on a heap of stones by the roadside. When we pulled his hands down he was actually crying. The author does not wish to say it is babyish to cry.

‘Whatever is up?’ we all asked, and Daisy and Dora petted him to get him to say, but he only went on howling, and said it was nothing, only would we go on and leave him, and call for him as we came back.

Oswald thought very likely something had given Denny the stomach-ache, and he did not like to say so before all of us, so he sent the others away and told them to walk on a bit.

Then he said, ‘Now, Denny, don’t be a young ass. What is it? Is it stomach-ache?’

And Denny stopped crying to say ‘No!’ as loud as he could.

‘Well, then,’ Oswald said, ‘look here, you’re spoiling the whole thing. Don’t be a jackape, Denny. What is it?’

‘You won’t tell the others if I tell you?’

‘Not if you say not,’ Oswald answered in kindly tones.

‘Well, it’s my shoes.’

‘Take them off, man.’

‘You won’t laugh?’

‘
No
!’ cried Oswald, so impatiently that the others looked back to see why he was shouting. He waved them away, and with humble gentleness began to undo the black-tape sandals.

Denny let him, crying hard all the time.

When Oswald had got off the first shoe the mystery was made plain to him.

‘Well! Of all the—’ he said in proper indignation.

Denny quailed—though he said he did not—but then he doesn’t know what quailing is, and if Denny did not quail then Oswald does not know what quailing is either.

For when Oswald took the shoe off he naturally chucked it down and gave it a kick, and a lot of little pinky yellow things rolled out. And Oswald look closer at the interesting sight. And the little things were
split
peas.

‘Perhaps you’ll tell me,’ said the gentle knight, with the politeness of despair, ‘why on earth you’ve played the goat like this?’

‘Oh, don’t be angry,’ Denny said; and now his shoes were off, he curled and uncurled his toes and stopped crying. ‘I
knew
pilgrims put peas in their shoes—and—oh, I wish you wouldn’t laugh!’

‘I’m not,’ said Oswald, still with bitter politeness.

‘I didn’t want to tell you I was going to, because I wanted to be better than all of you, and I thought if you knew I was going to you’d want to too, and you wouldn’t when I said it first. So I just put some peas in my pocket and dropped one or two at a time into my shoes when you weren’t looking.’

In his secret heart Oswald said, ‘Greedy young ass.’ For it
is
greedy to want to have more of anything than other people, even goodness.

Outwardly Oswald said nothing.

‘You see’—Denny went on—‘I do want to be good. And if pilgriming is to do you good, you ought to do it properly. I shouldn’t mind being hurt in my feet if it would make me good for ever and ever. And besides, I wanted to play the game thoroughly. You always say I don’t.’

The breast of the kind Oswald was touched by these last words.

‘I think you’re quite good enough,’ he said. ‘I’ll fetch back the others—no, they won’t laugh.’

And we all went back to Denny, and the girls made a fuss with him. But Oswald and Dicky were grave and stood aloof. They were old enough to see that being good was all very well, but after all you had to get the boy home somehow.

When they said this, as agreeably as they could, Denny said—

‘It’s all right—someone will give me a lift.’

‘You think everything in the world can be put right with a lift,’ Dicky said, and he did not speak lovingly.

‘So it can,’ said Denny, ‘when it’s your feet. I shall easily get a lift home.’

‘Not here you won’t,’ said Alice. ‘No one goes down this road; but the high road’s just round the corner, where you see the telegraph wires.’

Dickie and Oswald made a sedan chair and carried Denny to the high road, and we sat down in a ditch to wait. For a long time nothing went by but a brewer’s dray. We hailed it, of course, but the man was so sound asleep that our hails were vain, and none of us thought soon enough about springing like a flash to the horses’ heads, though we all thought of it directly the dray was out of sight.

So we had to keep on sitting there by the dusty road, and more than one pilgrim was heard to say it wished we had never come. Oswald was not one of those who uttered this useless wish.

At last, just when despair was beginning to eat into the vital parts of even Oswald, there was a quick tap-tapping of horses’ feet on the road, and a dogcart came in sight with a lady in it all alone.

We hailed her like the desperate shipwrecked mariners in the long-boat hail the passing sail.

She pulled up. She was not a very old lady—twenty-five we found out afterwards her age was—and she looked jolly.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘what’s the matter?’

‘It’s this poor little boy,’ Dora said, pointing to the Dentist, who had gone to sleep in the dry ditch, with his mouth open as usual. ‘His feet hurt him so, and will you give him a lift?’

‘But why are you all rigged out like this?’ asked the lady, looking at our cockle-shells and sandals and things. We told her.

‘And how has he hurt his feet?’ she asked. And we told her that.

She looked very kind. ‘Poor little chap,’ she said. ‘Where do you want to go?’

We told her that too. We had no concealments from this lady.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I have to go on to—what is its name?’

‘Canterbury,’ said H. O.

‘Well, yes, Canterbury,’ she said; ‘it’s only about half a mile. I’ll take the poor little pilgrim—and, yes, the three girls. You boys must walk. Then we’ll have tea and see the sights, and I’ll drive you home—at least some of you. How will that do?’

We thanked her very much indeed, and said it would do very nicely.

Then we helped Denny into the cart, and the girls got up, and the red wheels of the cart spun away through the dust.

‘I wish it had been an omnibus the lady was driving,’ said H. O., ‘then we could all have had a ride.’

‘Don’t you be so discontented,’ Dicky said. And Noël said—

‘You ought to be jolly thankful you haven’t got to carry Denny all the way home on your back. You’d have had to if you’d been out alone with him.’

When we got to Canterbury it was much smaller than we expected, and the cathedral not much bigger than the Church that is next to the Moat House. There seemed to be only one big street, but we supposed the rest of the city was hidden away somewhere. There was a large inn, with a green before it, and the red-wheeled dogcart was standing in the stable-yard and the lady, with Denny and the others, sitting on the benches in the porch, looking out for us. The inn was called the ‘George and Dragon,’ and it made me think of the days when there were coaches and highwaymen and foot-pads and jolly landlords, and adventures at country inns, like you read about.

‘We’ve ordered tea,’ said the lady. ‘Would you like to wash your hands?’

We saw that she wished us to, so we said yes, we would. The girls and Denny were already much cleaner than when we parted from them.

There was a courtyard to the inn and a wooden staircase outside the house. We were taken up this, and washed our hands in a big room with a four-post wooden bed and dark red hangings—just the sort of hangings that would not show the stains of gore in the dear old adventurous times.

Then we had tea in a great big room with wooden chairs and tables, very polished and old.

It was a very nice tea, with lettuces, and cold meat, and three kinds of jam, as well as cake, and new bread, which we are not allowed at home.

While tea was being had, the lady talked to us. She was very kind.