The Story of the Amulet by E. Nesbit (best free novels .txt) 📗

If I only had time I could tell you lots of things. For instance, how, in spite of the advice of the Psammead, the four children did, one very wet day, go through their Amulet Arch into the golden desert, and there find the great Temple of Baalbec and meet with the Phœnix whom they never thought to see again. And how the Phœnix did not remember them at all until it went into a sort of prophetic trance—if that can be called remembering. But, alas! I haven’t time, so I must leave all that out though it was a wonderfully thrilling adventure. I must leave out, too, all about the visit of the children to the Hippodrome with the Psammead in its travelling bag, and about how the wishes of the people round about them were granted so suddenly and surprisingly that at last the Psammead had to be taken hurriedly home by Anthea, who consequently missed half the performance. Then there was the time when, Nurse having gone to tea with a friend out Ivalunk way, they were playing “devil in the dark”—and in the midst of that most creepy pastime the postman’s knock frightened Jane nearly out of her life. She took in the letters, however, and put them in the back of the hat-stand drawer, so that they should be safe. And safe they were, for she never thought of them again for weeks and weeks.

One really good thing happened when they took the Psammead to a magic-lantern show and lecture at the boys’ school at Camden Town. The lecture was all about our soldiers in South Africa. And the lecturer ended up by saying, “And I hope every boy in this room has in his heart the seeds of courage and heroism and self-sacrifice, and I wish that every one of you may grow up to be noble and brave and unselfish, worthy citizens of this great Empire for whom our soldiers have freely given their lives.”

And, of course, this came true—which was a distinct score for Camden Town.

As Anthea said, it was unlucky that the lecturer said boys, because now she and Jane would have to be noble and unselfish, if at all, without any outside help. But Jane said, “I daresay we are already because of our beautiful natures. It’s only boys that have to be made brave by magic”—which nearly led to a first-class row.

And I daresay you would like to know all about the affair of the fishing rod, and the fish-hooks, and the cook next door—which was amusing from some points of view, though not perhaps the cook’s—but there really is no time even for that.

The only thing that there’s time to tell about is the Adventure of Maskelyne and Cooke’s, and the Unexpected Apparition—which is also the beginning of the end.

It was Nurse who broke into the gloomy music of the autumn rain on the window panes by suggesting a visit to the Egyptian Hall, England’s Home of Mystery. Though they had good, but private reasons to know that their own particular personal mystery was of a very different brand, the four all brightened at the idea. All children, as well as a good many grown-ups, love conjuring.

“It’s in Piccadilly,” said old Nurse, carefully counting out the proper number of shillings into Cyril’s hand, “not so very far down on the left from the Circus. There’s big pillars outside, something like Carter’s seed place in Holborn, as used to be Day and Martin’s blacking when I was a gell. And something like Euston Station, only not so big.”

“Yes, I know,” said everybody.

So they started.

But though they walked along the left-hand side of Piccadilly they saw no pillared building that was at all like Carter’s seed warehouse or Euston Station or England’s Home of Mystery as they remembered it.

At last they stopped a hurried lady, and asked her the way to Maskelyne and Cooke’s.

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” she said, pushing past them. “I always shop at the Stores.” Which just shows, as Jane said, how ignorant grown-up people are.

It was a policeman who at last explained to them that England’s Mysteries are now appropriately enough enacted at St George’s Hall. So they tramped to Langham Place, and missed the first two items in the programme. But they were in time for the most wonderful magic appearances and disappearances, which they could hardly believe—even with all their knowledge of a larger magic—was not really magic after all.

“If only the Babylonians could have seen this conjuring,” whispered Cyril. “It takes the shine out of their old conjurer, doesn’t it?”

“Hush!” said Anthea and several other members of the audience.

Now there was a vacant seat next to Robert. And it was when all eyes were fixed on the stage where Mr Devant was pouring out glasses of all sorts of different things to drink, out of one kettle with one spout, and the audience were delightedly tasting them, that Robert felt someone in that vacant seat. He did not feel someone sit down in it. It was just that one moment there was no one sitting there, and the next moment, suddenly, there was someone.

Robert turned. The someone who had suddenly filled that empty place was Rekh-marā, the Priest of Amen!

Though the eyes of the audience were fixed on Mr David Devant, Mr David Devant’s eyes were fixed on the audience. And it happened that his eyes were more particularly fixed on that empty chair. So that he saw quite plainly the sudden appearance, from nowhere, of the Egyptian Priest.

“A jolly good trick,” he said to himself, “and worked under my own eyes, in my own hall. I’ll find out how that’s done.” He had never seen a trick that he could not do himself if he tried.

By this time a good many eyes in the audience had turned on the clean-shaven, curiously-dressed figure of the Egyptian Priest.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Mr Devant, rising to the occasion, “this is a trick I have never before performed. The empty seat, third from the end, second row, gallery—you will now find occupied by an Ancient Egyptian, warranted genuine.”

He little knew how true his words were.

And now all eyes were turned on the Priest and the children, and the whole audience, after a moment’s breathless surprise, shouted applause. Only the lady on the other side of Rekh-marā drew back a little. She knew no one had passed her, and, as she said later, over tea and cold tongue, “it was that sudden it made her flesh creep.”

Rekh-marā seemed very much annoyed at the notice he was exciting.

“Come out of this crowd,” he whispered to Robert. “I must talk with you apart.”

“Oh, no,” Jane whispered. “I did so want to see the Mascot Moth, and the Ventriloquist.”

“How did you get here?” was Robert’s return whisper.

“How did you get to Egypt and to Tyre?” retorted Rekh-marā. “Come, let us leave this crowd.”

“There’s no help for it, I suppose,” Robert shrugged angrily. But they all got up.

“Confederates!” said a man in the row behind. “Now they go round to the back and take part in the next scene.”

“I wish we did,” said Robert.

“Confederate yourself!” said Cyril. And so they got away, the audience applauding to the last.

In the vestibule of St George’s Hall they disguised Rekh-marā as well as they could, but even with Robert’s hat and Cyril’s Inverness cape he was too striking a figure for foot-exercise in the London streets. It had to be a cab, and it took the last, least money