The E. Nesbit Megapack: 26 Classic Novels and Stories (60 page)

The children fell into each other’s arms, sobbing and laughing.

“Their scalps are ours,” chanted the chief; “ill-rooted were their ill-fated hairs! They came off in the hands of the victors—witho
ut struggle, without resistance, they yielded their scalps to the conquering Rock-dwellers! Oh, how little a thing i
s a scalp so lightly won!”

“They’ll take our real ones in a minute; you see if they don’t,” said Robert, trying to rub some of the red ochre off his face and hands on to his hair.

“Cheated of our just and fiery revenge are we,” the chant went on,—“but there are other torments than the scalping-knife and the flames. Yet is the slow fire the correct thing. O strange unnatural country, wherein a man may find no wood to burn his enemy!—Ah for the boundless forests of my native land, where the great trees for thousands of miles grow but to furnish firewood wherewithal to burn our foes. Ah, would we were but in our native forest once more!”

Suddenly like a flash of lightning, the golden gravel shone all round the four children instead of the dusky figures. For every single Indian had vanished on the instant at their leader’s word. The Psammead must have been there all the time. And it had given the Indian chief his wish.

* * * *

Martha brought home a jug with a pattern of sto
rks and long grasses on it. Also she brought back all Anthea’s money.

“My cousin, she gave me the jug for luck; she said it was an odd one what the basin of had got smashed.”

“Oh, Martha, you are a dear!” sighed Anthea, throwing her arms round her.

“Yes,” giggled Martha, “you’d better make the most of me while you’ve got me. I shall give your ma notice directly minute she comes back.”

“Oh, Martha, we haven’t been so
very
horrid to you, have we?” asked Anthea, aghast.

“Oh, it isn’t that, miss.” Martha giggled more than ever. “I’m a-goin’ to be married. It’s Beale the gamekeeper. He’s been a-proposin’ to me off and on ever since you come home from the clergyman’s where you got locked up on the church-tower. And today I said the word an’ made him a happy man.”

Anthea put the seven-and-fourpence back in the missionary-box, and pasted paper over the place where the poker had broken it.
She was very glad to be able to do this, and she does not know to this day whether breaking open a missionary-box is or is not a hanging matter!

CHAPTER XI (AND LAST)

THE LAST WISH

Of course you, who see above that this is the eleventh (and last) chapter, know very well that the day of which this chapter tells must be the last on which Cyril, Anthea, Robert, and Jane will have a chance of ge
tting anything out of the Psammead, or Sand-fairy.

But the children themselves did not know this. They were full of rosy visions, and, whereas on the other days they had often found it extremely difficult to think of anything really nice to wish for, their brains were now full of the most beautiful and sensible ideas. “This,” as Jane remarked afterwards, “is always the way.” Everyone was up extra early that morning, and these plans were hopefully discussed in the garden before breakfast. The old idea of one hundred pounds in modern florins was still first favourite, but there were others that ran it close—the chief of these being the “pony-each” idea. This had a great advantage. You could wish for a pony each during the morning, ride it all day, have it vanish a
t sunset, and wish it back again next day. Which would be an economy of litter and stabling. But at breakfast two things happened. First, there was a letter from mother. Granny was better, and mother and father hoped to be home that very afternoon. A cheer arose. And of course this news at once scattered all the before-breakfast wish-ideas. For everyone saw quite plainly that the wish of the day must be something to please mother and not to please themselves.

“I wonder what she
would
like,” pondered Cyril.

“She’d like us all to be good,” said Jane primly.

“Yes—but that’s so dull for us,” Cyril rejoined; “and besides, I should hope we could be that without sand-fairies to help us. No; it must be something splendid, that we couldn’t possibly get without wishing for.”

“Look out,” said Anthea in a warning voice; “don’t forget yesterday. Remember, we get our wishes now just wherever we happen to be when we say ‘I wish.’ Don’t let’s let o
urselves in for anything silly—today of all days.”

“All right,” said Cyril. “You needn’t talk so much.”

Just then Martha came in with a jug full of hot water for the tea-pot—and a face full of importance for the children.

“A blessing we’re all alive to eat our breakfast!” she said darkly.

“Why, whatever’s happened?” everybody asked.

“Oh, nothing,” said Martha, “only it seems nobody’s safe from being murdered in their beds nowadays.”

“Why,” said Jane as an agreeable thrill of horror ran down her back and legs and out at her toes, “
has
anyone been murdered in their beds?”

“Well—not exactly,” said Martha; “but they might just as well. There’s been burglars over at Peasemarsh Place—Beale’s just told me—and they’ve took every single one of Lady Chittenden’s diamonds and jewels and things, and she’s a-goin out of one fainting
fit into another, with hardly time to say ‘Oh, my diamonds!’ in between. And Lord Chittenden’s away in London.”

“Lady Chittenden,” said Anthea; “we’ve seen her. She wears a red-and-white dress, and she has no children of her own and can’t abide other folkses’.”

“That’s her,” said Martha. “Well, she’s put all her trust in riches, and you see how she’s served. They say the diamonds and things was worth thousands of pounds. There was a necklace and a river—whatever that is—and no end of bracelets; and a tarrer and ever so many rings. But there, I mustn’t stand talking and all the place to clean down afore your ma comes home.”

“I don’t see why she should ever have had such lots of diamonds,” said Anthea when Martha had flounced off. “She was not at all a nice lady, I thought. And mother hasn’t any diamonds, and hardly any jewels—the topaz necklace, and the sapphire ring daddy gave her when they were engaged, and the garnet star, and the little pearl brooch with g
reat-grandpapa’s hair in it,—that’s about all.”

“When I’m grown up I’ll buy mother no end of diamonds,” said Robert, “if she wants them. I shall make so much money exploring in Africa I shan’t know what to do with it.”

“Wouldn’t it be jolly,” said Jane dreamily, “if mother could find all these lovely things, necklaces and rivers of diamonds and tarrers?”

“
Ti—aras
,” said Cyril.

“Ti—aras, then,—and rings and everything in her room when she came home. I wish she would—”

The others gazed at her in horror.

“Well, she
will
,” said Robert; “you’ve wished, my good Jane—and our only chance now is to find the Psammead, and if it’s in a good temper it
may
take back the wish and give us another. If not—well—goodness knows what we’re in for!—the police of course, and— Don’t cry, silly! We’ll stand by you. Father says we need never to be afraid if we don’t
do anything wrong and always speak the truth.”

But Cyril and Anthea exchanged gloomy glances. They remembered how convincing the truth about the Psammead had been once before when told to the police.

It was a day of misfortunes. Of course the Psammead could not be found. Nor the jewels, though every one of the children searched the mother’s room again and again.

“Of course,” Robert said, “
we
couldn’t find them. It’ll be mother who’ll do that. Perhaps she’ll think they’ve been in the house for years and years, and never know they are the stolen ones at all.”

“Oh yes!” Cyril was very scornful; “then mother will be a receiver of stolen goods, and you know jolly well what
that’s
worse than.”

Another and exhaustive search of the sand-pit failed to reveal the Psammead, so the children went back to the house slowly and sadly.

“I don’t care,” said Anthea stoutly, “we’ll tell mother the truth, and she’ll give back the jewels—and make everything all right.”

“Do yo
u think so?” said Cyril slowly. “Do you think she’ll believe us? Could anyone believe about a Sammyadd unless they’d seen it? She’ll think we’re pretending. Or else she’ll think we’re raving mad, and then we shall be sent to the mad-house. How would you like it?”—he turned suddenly on the miserable Jane,—“how would you like it, to be shut up in an iron cage with bars and padded walls, and nothing to do but stick straws in your hair all day, and listen to the howlings and ravings of the other maniacs? Make up your minds to it, all of you. It’s no use telling mother.”

“But it’s true,” said Jane.

“Of course it is, but it’s not true enough for grown-up people to believe it,” said Anthea.

“Cyril’s right. Let’s put flowers in all the vases, and try not to think about the diamonds. After all, everything has come right in the end all the other times.”

So they filled all the pots they could find with flowers—asters and zinnias, and loose-leaved late red roses fr
om the wall of the stable-yard, till the house was a perfect bower.

And almost as soon as dinner was cleared away mother arrived, and was clasped in eight loving arms. It was very difficult indeed not to tell her all about the Psammead at once, because they had got into the habit 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 chil
dren 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 th
ink 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 wicke
d 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 today.”

“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 t
rade, 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.”