The House of Arden · Chapter 2 (1/3)

II

The Mouldiwarp

And it was⁠—it was the living image of the little pig-like animal that was stamped in gold above the chequered shield on the cover of the white book in which they had found the spell. And as on the yellowy white of the vellum book-cover, so here on the thymy grass of the knoll it shone golden. The children stood perfectly still. They were afraid to move lest they should scare away this little creature which, though golden, was alive and moved about at their feet, turning a restless nose to right and left.

“It is,” said Elfrida again, very softly, so as not to frighten it.

“What?” Edred asked, though he knew well enough.

“Off the book that we got the spell out of.”

“That was our crest on the top of our coat-of-arms, like on the old snuffbox that was great-grandpapa’s.”

“Well, this is our crest come alive, that’s all.”

“Don’t you be too clever,” said Edred. “It said badge; I don’t believe badge is the same thing as crest. A badge is leeks, or roses, or thistles⁠—something you can wear in your cap. I shouldn’t like to wear that in my cap.”

And still the golden thing at their feet moved cautiously and without ceasing.

“Why,” said Edred suddenly, “it’s just a common old mole.”

“It isn’t; it’s our own crest, that’s on the spoons and things. It’s our own old family mole that’s our crest. How can it be a common mole? It’s all golden.”

And, even as she spoke, it left off being golden. For the last bit of sun dipped behind the shoulder of the downs, and in the grey twilight that was left the mole was white⁠—anyone could see that.

“Oh!” said Elfrida⁠—but she stuck to her point. “So you see,” she went on, “it can’t be just a really-mole. Really-moles are black.”

“Well,” said Edred, “it’s very tame. I will say that.”

“Well⁠—” Edred was beginning; but at that same moment the mole also, suddenly and astonishingly, said, “Well?”

There was a hushed pause. Then⁠—

“Did you say that?” Elfrida whispered.

“No,” said Edred, “you did.”

“Don’t whisper, now,” said the mole; “ ’tain’t purty manners, so I tells ’ee.”

With one accord the two children came to their knees, one on each side of the white mole.

“I say!” said Edred.

“Now, don’t,” said the mole, pointing its nose at him quite as disdainfully as any human being could have pointed a finger. “Don’t you go for to pretend you don’t know as Mouldiwarps ’as got tongues in dere heads same’s what you’ve got.”

“But not to talk with?” said Elfrida softly.

“Don’t you tell me,” said the Mouldiwarp, bristling a little. “Hasn’t no one told you e’er a fairy tale? All us beastes has tongues, and when we’re dere us uses of en.”

“When you’re where?” said Edred, rather annoyed at being forced to believe in fairy tales, which he had never really liked.

“Why, in a fairy tale for sure,” said the mole. “Wherever to goodness else on earth do you suppose you be?”

“We’re here,” said Edred, kicking the ground to make it feel more solid and himself more sure of things, “on Arden Knoll.”

“An’ ain’t that in a fairy tale?” demanded the Mouldiwarp triumphantly. “You do talk so free. You called me, and here I be. What d’you want?”

“Are you,” said Elfrida, thrilling with surprise and fear, and pleasure and hope, and wonder, and a few other things which, taken in the lump, are usually called “a thousand conflicting emotions,”⁠—“are you the ‘badge of Arden’s house’?”

“Course I be,” said the mole⁠—“what’s left of it; and never did I think to be called one by the Arden boy and gell as didn’t know their own silly minds. What do you want, eh?”

“We told you in the spell,” said Elfrida.

“Oh, be that all?” said the mole bitterly; “nothing else? I’m to make him brave and wise and show him de treasure. Milksop!” it said, so suddenly and fiercely that it almost seemed to spit the words in poor Edred’s face.

“I’m not,” said Edred, turning turkey-red. “I got into the house and found the spell, anyway.”

“Yes; and who did all the looking for it? She did. Bless you, I was there; I know all about it. If it was showing her the treasure, now, there’d be some sense in it.”

“I think you’re very unfair,” said Elfrida, as earnestly as though she had been speaking to a grown-up human being; “if he was brave and wise we shouldn’t want you to make him it.”

“You ain’t got nothing to do with it,” said the mole crossly.

“Yes, she has,” said Edred. “I mean to share and share with her⁠—whatever I get. And if you could make me wise I’d teach her everything you taught me. But I don’t believe you can. So there!”

“Do you believe I can talk?” the mole asked, and Edred quite definitely and surprisingly said⁠—

“No, I don’t. You’re a dream, that’s all you are,” he said, “and I’m dreaming you.”

“And what do you think?” the mole asked Elfrida, who hesitated.

“I think,” she said at last, “that it’s getting very dark, and Aunt Edith will be anxious about us; and will you meet us another day? There isn’t time to make us brave and wise tonight.”

“That there ain’t, for sure,” said the mole meaningly.

“But you might tell us where the treasure is,” said Edred.

“That comes last, greedy,” said the mole. “I’ve got to make you kind and wise first, and I see I’ve got my work cut out. Good night.”

It began to move away.

“Oh, don’t go!” said Elfrida; “we shall never find you again. Oh, don’t! Oh, this is dreadful!”

The mole paused.

“I’ve got to let you find me again. Don’t upset yourself,” it said bitterly. “When you wants me, come up on to the knoll and say a piece of poetry to call me, and I’ll come,” and it started again.

“But what poetry?” Edred asked.

“Oh, anything. You can pick and choose.”

Edred thought of “The Lays of Ancient Rome.”

“Only ’tain’t no good without you makes it up yourselves,” said the Mouldiwarp.

“Oh!” said the two, much disheartened.

“And course it must be askin’ me to kindly come to you. Get along home.”

“Where are you going?” Elfrida asked.

“Home too, of course,” it said, and this time it really did go.

The two children turned towards the lights of Ardenhurst Station in perfect silence. Only as they reached the place where the down-turf ends and the road begins Edred said, in tones of awe, “I say!”

And Elfrida answered, “Yes⁠—isn’t it?”

Then they walked, still without talking, to the station.

The lights there, and the voices of porters and passengers, the rattle of signal-wires and the “ping, ping” of train signals, had on them the effect of a wet sponge passed over the face of a sleeper by some “already up” person. They seemed to awaken from a dream, and the moment they were in the train, which fortunately came quite soon, they began to talk. They talked without stopping till they got to Cliffville Station, and then they talked all the way home, and by the time they reached the house with the green balconies and the smooth, pale, polished doorknocker they had decided, as children almost always do in cases of magic adventure, that they had better not say anything to anyone. As I am always pointing out, it is extremely difficult to tell your magic experiences to people who not only will not, but cannot believe you. This is one of the drawbacks of really wonderful happenings.

Aunt Edith had not come home, but she came as they were washing their hands and faces for supper. She brought with her presents for Edred’s birthday⁠—nicer presents, and more of them, than he had had for three years.

She bought him a box of wonderfully varied chocolate and a box of tools, a very beautiful bat and a cricket-ball and a set of stumps, and a beetle-backed paintbox in which all the colours were whole pans, and not half ones, as they usually are in the boxes you get as presents. In this were beautiful paintbrushes⁠—two camel’s-hair ones and a sable with a point as fine as fine.

“You are a dear, auntie,” he said, with his arms very tight round her waist. He was very happy, and it made him feel more generous than usual. So he said again, “You are a dear. And Elfrida can use the paintbox whenever I’m out, and the camel’s-hair brushes. Not the sable, of course.”

“Oh, Edred, how jolly of you!” said Elfrida, quite touched.

“I’ve got something for Elfrida too,” said Aunt Edith, feeling among the rustling pile of brown paper, and tissue paper, and string, and cardboard, and shavings, that were the husks of Edred’s presents. “Ah, here it is!”

It was a book⁠—a red book with gold pictures on back and cover⁠—and it was called The Amulet. So then it was Elfrida’s turn to clasp her aunt round the waist and tell her about her dearness.

“And now to supper,” said the dear. “Roast chicken. And gooseberry pie. And cream.”

To the children, accustomed to the mild uninterestingness of bread and milk for supper, this seemed the crowning wonder of the day. And what a day it had been!

And while they ate the brown chicken, with bread sauce and gravy and stuffing, and the gooseberry pie and cream, the aunt told them of her day.

“It really is a ship,” she said, “and the best thing it brings is that we shan’t let lodgings any more.”

“Hurrah!” was the natural response.

“And we shall have more money to spend and be more comfortable. And you can go to a really nice school. And where do you think we’re going to live?”

“Not,” said Elfrida, in a whisper⁠—“not at the castle?”

“Why, how did you guess?”

Elfrida looked at Edred. He hastily swallowed a large mouthful of chicken to say, “Auntie, I do hope you won’t mind. We went to Arden today. You said we might go this year.”

Then the whole story came out⁠—yes, quite all, up to the saying of the spell.

“And did anything happen?” Aunt Edith asked. The children were thankful to see that she was only interested, and did not seem vexed at what they had done.

“Well,” said Elfrida slowly, “we saw a mole⁠—”

Aunt Edith laughed, and Edred said quickly⁠—

“That’s all the story, auntie. And I am Lord Arden, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” the aunt answered gravely. “You are Lord Arden.”

“Oh, ripping!” cried Edred, with so joyous a face that his aunt put away a little sermon she had got ready in the train on the duties of the English aristocracy⁠—that would keep, she thought⁠—and turned to say, “No, dear,” to Elfrida’s eager question, “Then I’m Lady Arden, aren’t I?”

“If he’s lord I ought to be lady,” Elfrida said. “It’s not fair.”

“Never mind, old girl,” said Edred kindly. “I’ll call you Lady Arden whenever you like.”

“How would you like,” asked the aunt, “to go over and live at the castle now?”

“Tonight?”

“No, no,” she laughed; “next week. You see, I must try to let this house, and I shall be very busy. Mrs. Honeysett, the old lady who used to keep house for your great-uncle, wrote to the lawyers and asked if we would employ her. I remember her when I was a little girl; she is a dear, and knows heaps of old songs. How would you like to be there with her while I finish up here and get rid of the lodgers? Oh, there’s that bell again! I don’t think we’ll have any bells at the castle, shall we?”

So that was how it was arranged. The aunt stayed at the bow-windowed house to arrange the new furniture⁠—for the house was to be let furnished⁠—and to pack up the beautiful old things that were real Arden things, and the children went in the carrier’s cart, with their clothes and their toys in two black boxes, and in their hearts a world of joyous anticipations.

Mrs. Honeysett received them with a pretty, old-fashioned curtsey, which melted into an embrace.

“You’re welcome to your home, my lord,” she said, with an arm round each child, “and you too, miss, my dear. Anyone can see you’re Ardens, both two of you. There was always a boy and a girl⁠—a boy and a girl.” She had a sweet, patient face, with large, pale blue eyes that twinkled when she smiled, and she almost always smiled when she looked at the children.

Oh, but it was fine, to unpack one’s own box⁠—to lay out one’s clothes in long, cedarwood drawers, fronted with curved polished mahogany; to draw back the neat muslin blinds from lattice-paned windows that had always been Arden windows; to look out, as so many Ardens must have done, over land that, as far as one could see, had belonged to one’s family in old days. That it no longer belonged hardly mattered at all to the romance of hearts only ten and twelve years old.

Then to go down one’s own shallow, polished stairs (where portraits of old Ardens hung on the wall), and to find the cloth laid for dinner in one’s own wainscoted parlour, laid for two. I think it was nice of Edred to say, the moment Mrs. Honeysett had helped them to toad-in-the-hole and left them to eat it⁠—

“May I pass you some potatoes, Lady Arden?”

Elfrida giggled happily.

The parlour was furnished with the kind of furniture they knew and loved. It had a long, low window that showed the long, narrow garden outside. The walls were panelled with wood, browny-grey under its polish.

“Oh,” said Elfrida, “there must be secret panels here.”

And though Edred said, “Secret fiddlesticks!” he in his heart felt that she was right.

After dinner, “May we explore?” Elfrida asked, and Mrs. Honeysett, most charming of women, answered heartily⁠—

“Why not? It’s all his own, bless his dear heart.”

So they explored.

The house was much bigger than they had found it on that wonderful first day when they had acted the part of burglars. There was a door covered with faded green baize. Mrs. Honeysett pointed it out to them with, “Don’t you think this is all: there’s the other house beyond;” and at the other side of that door there was, indeed, the other house.

The house they had already seen was neat, orderly, “bees-whacked,” as Mrs. Honeysett said, till every bit of furniture shone like a mirror or a fond hope. But beyond the baize door there were shadows, there was dust, windows draped in cobwebs, before which hung curtains tattered and faded, drooping from their poles like the old banners that, slowly rotting in great cathedrals, sway in the quiet air where no wind is⁠—stirred, perhaps, by the breath of Fame’s invisible trumpet to the air of old splendours and glories.

The carpets lay in rags on the floors; on the furniture the dust lay thick, and on the boards of corridor and staircase; on the four-post beds in the bedchambers the hangings hung dusty and rusty⁠—the quilts showed the holes eaten by moths and mice. In one room a cradle of carved oak still had a coverlet of tattered silk dragging from it. From the great kitchen-hearth, where no fire had been this very long time, yet where still the ashes of the last fire lay grey and white, a chill air came. The place smelt damp and felt⁠—

“Do you think it’s haunted?” Elfrida asked.

“Rot!” was her brother’s brief reply, and they went on.

They found long, narrow corridors hung crookedly with old, black-framed prints, which drooped cobwebs, like grey-draped crape. They found rooms with floors of grey, uneven oak, and fireplaces in whose grates lay old soot and the broken nests of starlings hatched very long ago.

Edred’s handkerchief⁠—always a rag-of-all-work⁠—rubbed a space in one of the windows, and they looked out over the swelling downs. This part of the house was not built within the castle, that was plain.

When they had opened every door and looked at every roomful of decayed splendour they went out and round. Then they saw that this was a wing built right out of the castle⁠—a wing with squarish windows, with carved drip-stones. All the windows were yellow as parchment, with the inner veil laid on them by Time and the spider. The ivy grew thick round the windows, almost hiding some of them altogether.

“Oh!” cried Elfrida, throwing herself down on the turf, “it’s too good to be true. I can’t believe it.”

“What I can’t believe,” said Edred, doing likewise, “is that precious mole.”

“But we saw it,” said Elfrida; “you can’t help believing things when you’ve seen them.”