The House of Arden · Chapter 2 (2/3)

“I can,” said Edred, superior. “You remember the scarlet toadstools in Hereward. Suppose those peppermint creams were enchanted⁠—to make us dream things.”

“They were good,” said Elfrida. “I say!”

“Well?”

“Have you made up any poetry to call the mole with?”

“Have you?”

“No; I’ve tried, though.”

“I’ve tried. And I’ve done it.”

“Oh, Edred, you are clever. Do say it.”

“If I do, do you think the mole will come?”

“Of course it will.”

“Well,” said Edred slowly, “of course I want to find the treasure and all that. But I don’t believe in it. It isn’t likely⁠—that’s what I think. Now is it likely?”

“Unlikelier things happened in ‘The Amulet,’ ” said Elfrida.

“Ah,” said Edred, “that’s a story.”

“The mole said we were in a story. I say, Edred, do say your poetry.”

Edred slowly said it⁠—

“ ‘Mole, mole,

Come out of your hole;

I know you’re blind,

But I don’t mind.’ ”

Elfrida looked eagerly round her. There was the short turf; the castle walls, ivied and grey, rose high above her; pigeons circled overhead, and in the arches of the windows and on the roof of the house they perched, preening their bright feathers or telling each other, “Coo, coo; cooroo, cooroo,” whatever that may mean. But there was no mole⁠—not a hint or a dream or idea of a mole.

“Edred,” said his sister.

“Well?”

“Did you really make that up? Don’t be cross, but I do think I’ve heard something like it before.”

“I⁠—I adopted it,” said Edred.

“?” said Elfrida.

“Haven’t you seen it in books, ‘Adopted from the French’? I altered it.”

“I don’t believe that’ll do. How much did you alter? What’s the real poetry like?”

“ ‘The mole, the mole,

He lives in a hole.

The mole is blind;

I don’t mind,’ ”

said Edred sulkily. “Auntie told me it the day you went to her with Mrs. Harrison.”

“I’m sure you ought to make it up all yourself. You see, the mole doesn’t come.”

“There isn’t any mole,” said Edred.

“Let’s both think hard. I’m sure I could make poetry⁠—if I knew how to begin.”

“If anyone’s got to make it, it’s me,” said Edred. “You’re not Lord Arden.”

“You’re very unkind,” said Elfrida, and Edred knew she was right.

“I don’t mind trying,” he said, condescendingly; “you make the poetry and I’ll say it.”

Elfrida buried her head in her hands and thought till her forehead felt as large as a mangel-wurzel, and her blood throbbed in it like a church clock ticking.

“Got it yet?” he asked, just as she thought she really had got it.

“Don’t!” said the poet, in agony.

Then there was silence, except for the pigeons and the skylarks, and the mooing of a cow at a distant red-roofed farm.

“Will this do?” she said at last, lifting her head from her hands and her elbows from the grass; there were deep dents and lines on her elbows made by the grass-stalks she had leaned on so long.

“Spit it out,” said Edred.

Thus encouraged, Elfrida said, very slowly and carefully, “ ‘Oh, Mouldiwarp’⁠—I think it would rather be called that than mole, don’t you?⁠—‘Oh, Mouldiwarp, do please come out and show us how to set about it’⁠—that means the treasure. I hope it’ll understand.”

“That’s not poetry,” said Edred.

“Yes, it is, if you say it right on⁠—

“ ‘Oh, Mouldiwarp, do please come out

And show us how to set about

It.’ ”

“There ought to be some more,” said Edred⁠—rather impressed, all the same.

“There is,” said Elfrida. “Oh, wait a minute⁠—I shall remember directly. It⁠—what I mean is, how to find the treasure and make Edred brave and wise and kind.”

“I’m kind enough if it comes to that,” said Lord Arden.

“Oh, I know you are; but poetry has to rhyme⁠—you know it has. I expect poets often have to say what they don’t mean because of that.”

“Well, say it straight through,” said Edred, and Elfrida said, obediently⁠—

“ ‘Oh, Mouldiwarp, do please come out

And show us how to set about

It. What I mean is how to find

The treasure, and make Edred brave and wise and kind.’

I’ll write it down if you’ve got a pencil.”

Edred produced a piece of pink chalk, but he had no paper, so Elfrida had to stretch out her white petticoat, put a big stone on the hem, and hold it out tightly with both hands, while Edred wrote at her dictation.

Then Edred studiously repeated the lines again and again, as he was accustomed to repeat “The Battle of Ivry,” till at last he was able to stand up and say⁠—

“ ‘Oh, Mouldiwarp, do please come out

And show me how to set about

It. What I mean is how to find

The treasure, and make me brave and wise⁠—’

If you don’t mind,” he added.

And instantly there was the white mole.

“What do you want now?” it said very crossly indeed. “And call that poetry?”

“It’s the first I ever made,” said Elfrida, of the hot ears. “Perhaps it’ll be better next time.”

“We want you to do what the spell says,” said Edred.

“Make you brave and wise? That can’t be done all in a minute. That’s a long job, that is,” said the mole viciously.

“Don’t be so cross, dear,” said Elfrida; “and if it’s going to be so long hadn’t you better begin?”

“I ain’t agoin’ to do no more’n my share,” said the mole, somewhat softened though, perhaps by the “dear.” “You tell me what you want, and p’raps I’ll do it.”

“I know what I want,” said Edred, “but I don’t know whether you can do it.”

“Ha!” laughed the mole contemptuously.

“I got it out of a book Elfrida got on my birthday,” Edred said. “The children in it went into the past. I’d like to go into the past⁠—and find that treasure!”

“Choose your period,” said the mole wearily.

“Choose⁠—?”

“Your period. What time you’d like to go back to. If you don’t choose before I’ve counted ten it’s all off. One, two, three, four⁠—”

It counted ten through a blank silence.

“Nine, ten,” it ended. “Oh, very well, den, you’ll have to take your luck, that’s all.”

“Bother!” said Edred. “I couldn’t think of anything except all the dates of all the kings of England all at once.”

“Lucky to know ’em,” said the mole, and so plainly not believing that he did know them that Edred found himself saying under his breath, “William the First, 1066; William the Second, 1087; Henry the First, 1100.”

The mole yawned, which, of course, was very rude of it.

“Don’t be cross, dear,” said Elfrida again; “you help us your own way.”

“Now you’re talking,” said the mole, which, of course, Elfrida knew. “Well, I’ll give you a piece of advice. Don’t you be nasty to each other for a whole day, and then⁠—”

“You needn’t talk,” said Edred, still under his breath.

“Very well,” said the mole, whose ears were sharper than his eyes. “I won’t.”

“Oh, don’t!” sighed Elfrida; “what is it we are to do when we’ve been nice to each other for a whole day?”

“Well, when you’ve done that,” said the mole, “look for the door.”

“What door?” asked Elfrida.

“The door,” said the mole.

“But where is it?” Edred asked.

“In the house it be, of course,” said the mole. “Where else to gracious should it be?”

And it ran with mouse-like quickness across the grass and vanished down what looked like a rabbit-hole.

“Now,” said Elfrida triumphantly, “you’ve got to believe in the mole.”

“Yes,” said Edred, “and you’ve got to be nice to me for a whole day, or it’s no use my believing.”

“Aren’t I generally nice?” the girl pleaded, and her lips trembled.

“Yes,” said her brother. “Yes, Lady Arden; and now I’m going to be nice, too. And where shall we look for the door?”

This problem occupied them till teatime. After tea they decided to paint⁠—with the new paintbox and the beautiful new brushes. Elfrida wanted to paint Mr. Millar’s illustrations in The Amulet, and Edred wanted to paint them, too. This could not be, as you will see if you have the book. Edred contended that they were his paints. Elfrida reminded him that it was her book. The heated discussion that followed ended quite suddenly and breathlessly.

“I wouldn’t be a selfish pig,” said Edred.

“No more would I,” said Elfrida. “Oh, Edred, is this being nice to each other for twenty-four hours?”

“Oh,” said Edred. “Yes⁠—well⁠—all right. Never mind. We’ll begin again tomorrow.”

But it is much more difficult than you would think to be really nice to your brother or sister for a whole day. Three days passed before the two Ardens could succeed in this seemingly so simple thing. The days were not dull ones at all. There were beautiful things in them that I wish I had time to tell you about⁠—such as climbings and discoveries and books with pictures, and a bureau with a secret drawer. It had nothing in it but a farthing and a bit of red tape⁠—secret drawers never have⁠—but it was a very nice secret drawer for all that.

And at last a day came when each held its temper with a strong bit. They began by being very polite to each other, and presently it grew to seem like a game.

“Let’s call each other Lord and Lady Arden all the time, and pretend that we’re no relation,” said Elfrida. And really that helped tremendously. It is wonderful how much more polite you can be to outsiders than you can to your relations, who are, when all’s said and done, the people you really love.

As the time went on they grew more and more careful. It was like building a house of cards. As hour after hour of blameless politeness was added to the score, they grew almost breathlessly anxious. If, after all this, some natural annoyance should spoil everything!

“I do hope,” said Edred, towards teatime, “that you won’t go and do anything tiresome.”

“Oh, dear, I do hope I shan’t,” said Elfrida.

And this was just like them both.

After tea they decided to read, so as to lessen the chances of failure. They both wanted the same book⁠—Treasure Island it was⁠—and for a moment the niceness of both hung in the balance. Then, with one accord, each said, “No⁠—you have it!” and the matter ended in each taking a quite different book that it didn’t particularly want to read.

At bedtime Edred lighted Elfrida’s candle for her, and she picked up the matches for him when he dropped them.

“Bless their hearts,” said Mrs. Honeysett, in the passage.

They parted with the heartfelt remark, “We’ve done it this time.”

Now, of course, in the three days when they had not succeeded in being nice to each other they had “looked for the door,” but as the mole had not said where it was, nor what kind of a door, their search had not been fruitful. Most of the rooms had several doors, and as there were a good many rooms the doors numbered fifty-seven, counting cupboards. And among these there was none that seemed worthy to rank above all others as the door. Many of the doors in the old part of the house looked as though they might be the one, but since there were many no one could be sure.

“How shall we know?” Edred asked next morning, through his egg and toast.

“I suppose it’s like when people fall in love,” said Elfrida, through hers. “You see the door and you know at once that it is the only princess in the world, for you⁠—I mean door, of course,” she added.

And then, when breakfast was over, they stood up and looked at each other.

“Now,” they said together.

“We’ll look at every single door. Perhaps there’ll be magic writing on the door come out in the night, like mushrooms,” said the girl.

“More likely that mole was kidding us,” said the boy.

“Oh, no,” said the girl; “and we must look at them on both sides⁠—every one. Oh, I do wonder what’s inside the door, don’t you?”

“Bluebeard’s wives, I shouldn’t wonder,” said the boy, “with their heads⁠—”

“If you don’t stop,” said the girl, putting her fingers in her ears, “I won’t look for the door at all. No, I don’t mean to be aggravating; but please don’t. You know I hate it.”

“Come on,” said Edred, “and don’t be a duffer, old chap.”

The proudest moments of Elfrida’s life were when her brother called her “old chap.”

So they went and looked at all the fifty-seven doors, one after the other, on the inside and on the outside; some were painted and some were grained, some were carved and some were plain, some had panels and others had none, but they were all of them doors⁠—just doors, and nothing more. Each was just a door, and none of them had any claim at all to be spoken of as the door. And when they had looked at all the fifty-seven on the inside and on the outside, there was nothing for it but to look again. So they looked again, very carefully, to see if there were any magic writing that they hadn’t happened to notice. And there wasn’t. So then they began to tap the walls to try and discover a door with a secret spring. And that was no good either.

“There isn’t any old door,” said Edred. “I told you that mole was pulling our leg.”

“I’m sure there is,” said Elfrida, sniffing a little from prolonged anxiety. “Look here⁠—let’s play it like the willing game. I’ll be blindfolded, and you hold my hand and will me to find the door.”

“I don’t believe in the willing game,” said Edred disagreeably.

“No more do I,” said Elfrida; “but we must do something, you know. It’s no good sitting down and saying there isn’t any door.”

“There isn’t, all the same,” said Edred. “Well, come on.”

So Elfrida was blindfolded with her best silk scarf⁠—the blue one with the hemstitched ends⁠—and Edred took her hands. And at once⁠—this happened in the library, where they had found the spell⁠—Elfrida began to walk in a steady and purposeful way. She crossed the hall and went through the green baize door into the other house; went along its corridor and up its dusty stairs⁠—up, and up, and up⁠—

“We’ve looked everywhere here,” said Edred, but Elfrida did not stop for that.

“I know I’m going straight to it,” she said. “Oh! do try to believe a little, or we shall never find anything,” and went on along the corridor, where the spiders had draped the picture-frames with their grey crape curtains. There were many doors in this corridor, and Elfrida stopped suddenly at one of them⁠—a door just like the others.

“This,” she said, putting her hand out till it rested on the panel, all spread out like a pink starfish⁠—“this is the door.”

She felt for the handle, turned it, and went in, still pulling at Edred’s hand and with the blue scarf still on her eyes. Edred followed.

“I say!” he said, and then she pulled off the scarf.

The door closed itself very softly behind them.

They were in a long attic room close under the roof⁠—a room that they had certainly, in all their explorings, never found before. There were no windows⁠—the roof sloped down at the sides almost to the floor. There was no ceiling⁠—old worm-eaten roof-beams showed the tiles between⁠—and old tie-beams crossed it so that as you stared up it looked like a great ladder with the rungs very far apart. Here and there through the chinks of the tiles a golden dusty light filtered in, and outside was the “tick, tick” of moving pigeon feet, the rustling of pigeon feathers, the “cooroocoo” of pigeon voices. The long room was almost bare; only along each side, close under the roof, was a row of chests, and no two chests were alike.

“Oh!” said Edred. “I’m kind and wise now. I feel it inside me. So now we’ve got the treasure. We’ll rebuild the castle.”

He got to the nearest chest and pushed at the lid, but Elfrida had to push too before he could get the heavy thing up. And when it was up, alas! there was no treasure in the chest⁠—only folded clothes.

So then they tried the next chest.

And in all the chests there was no treasure at all⁠—only clothes. Clothes, and more clothes again.

“Well, never mind,” said Elfrida, trying to speak comfortably. “They’ll be splendid for dressing up in.”

“That’s all very well,” said Edred, “but I want the treasure.”

“Perhaps,” said Elfrida, with some want of tact⁠—“perhaps you’re not ‘good and wise’ yet. Not quite, I mean,” she hastened to add. “Let’s take the things out and look at them. Perhaps the treasure’s in the pockets.”

But it wasn’t⁠—not a bit of it; not even a threepenny-bit.