The House of Arden - E. Nesbit (i am malala young readers edition .TXT) 📗

which had all just had measles. And the third was the letter, which is really the seed, and beginning, and backbone, and rhyme, and reason of this story.

Edred had got the letters from the postman, and he stood and waited while Aunt Edith read them. He collected postmarks, and had not been able to make out by the thick half-light of the hall gas whether any of these were valuable.

The third letter had a very odd effect on Aunt Edith. She read it once, and rubbed her hand across her eyes. Then she got up and stood under the chandelier, which wanted new burners badly, and so burned with a very unlighting light, and read it again. Then she read it a third time, and then she said, “Oh!”

“What is it, auntie?” Elfrida asked anxiously; “is it the taxes?” It had been the taxes once, and Elfrida had never forgotten. (If you don’t understand what this means ask your poorest relations, who are also likely to be your nicest, and if they don’t know, ask the washerwoman.)

“No; it’s not the taxes, darling,” said Aunt Edith; “on the contrary.”

I don’t know what the contrary (or opposite) of taxes is, any more than the children did⁠—but I am sure it is something quite nice⁠—and so were they.

“Oh, auntie, I am so glad,” they both said, and said it several times before they asked again, “What is it?”

“I think⁠—I’m not quite sure⁠—but I think it’s a ship come home⁠—oh, just a quite tiny little bit of a ship⁠—a toy boat⁠—hardly more than that. But I must go up to London tomorrow the first thing, and see if it really is a ship, and, if so, what sort of ship it is. Mrs. Blake shall come in, and you’ll be good as gold, children, won’t you?”

“Yes⁠—oh, yes,” said the two.

“And not make booby traps for the butcher, or go on the roof in your nightgowns, or play Red Indians in the dustbin, or make apple-pie beds for the lodgers?” Aunt Edith asked, hastily mentioning a few of the little amusements which had lately enlivened the spare time of her nephew and niece.

“No, we really won’t,” said Edred; “and we’ll truly try not to think of anything new and amusing,” he added, with real self-sacrifice.

“I must go by the eight-thirty train. I wish I could think of some way of⁠—of amusing you,” she ended, for she was too kind to say “of keeping you out of mischief for the day,” which was what she really thought. “I’ll bring you something jolly for your birthday, Edred. Wouldn’t you like to spend the day with nice Mrs. Hammond?”

“Oh, no,” said Edred; and added, on the inspiration of the moment, “Why mayn’t we have a picnic⁠—just Elf and me⁠—on the downs, to keep my birthday? It doesn’t matter it being the day before, does it? You said we were too little last summer, and we should this, and now it is this and I have grown two inches and Elf’s grown three, so we’re five inches taller than when you said we weren’t big enough.”

“Now you see how useful arithmetic is,” said the aunt. “Very well, you shall. Only wear your old clothes, and always keep in sight of the road. Yes; you can have a whole holiday. And now to bed. Oh, there’s that bell again! Poor, dear Eliza.”

A Clapham cub, belonging to one of the lodgers, happened to be going up to bed just as Edred and Elfrida came through the baize door that shut off the basement from the rest of the house. He put his tongue out through the banisters at the children of the house and said, “Little slaveys.” The cub thought he could get up the stairs before the two got round the end of the banisters, but he had not counted on the long arm of Elfrida, whose hand shot through the banisters and caught the cub’s leg and held on to it till Edred had time to get round. The two boys struggled up the stairs together and then rolled together from top to bottom, where they were picked up and disentangled by their relations. Except for this little incident, going to bed was uneventful.

Next morning Aunt Edith went off by the eight-thirty train. The children’s school satchels were filled, not with books, but with buns; instead of exercise-books there were sandwiches; and in the place of inky pencil-boxes were two magnificent boxes of peppermint creams which had cost a whole shilling each, and had been recklessly bought by Aunt Edith in the agitation of the parting hour when they saw her off at the station.

They went slowly up the redbrick-paved sidewalk that always looks as though it had just been washed, and when they got to the top of the hill they stopped and looked at each other.

“It can’t be wrong,” said Edred.

“She never told us not to,” said Elfrida.

“I’ve noticed,” said Edred, “that when grown-up people say ‘they’ll see about’ anything you want it never happens.”

“I’ve noticed that, too,” said Elfrida. “Auntie always said she’d see about taking us there.”

“Yes, she did.”

“We won’t be mean and sneaky about it,” Edred insisted, though no one had suggested that he would be mean and sneaky. “We’ll tell auntie directly she gets back.”

“Of course,” said Elfrida, rather relieved, for she had not felt at all sure that Edred meant to do this.

“After all,” said Edred, “it’s our castle. We ought to go and see the cradle of our race. That’s what it calls it in Cliffgate and Its Environs. I say, let’s call it a pilgrimage. The satchels will do for packs, and we can get halfpenny walking-sticks with that penny of yours. We can put peas in our shoes, if you like,” he added generously.

“We should have to go back for them, and I don’t expect the split kind count, anyhow. And perhaps they’d hurt,” said Elfrida doubtfully. “And I want my penny for⁠—” She stopped, warned by her brother’s frown.