The House of Arden · Chapter 6 (2/2)

When she had told Betty what had happened everything seemed suddenly to be not worth while; she did not feel as though she cared to stay any longer in that part of the past⁠—so she ran upstairs, through the attic and the pigeon noises, back into her own times, and went down and found Edred sitting on the second hand of the daisy-clock; and he did not believe that she had been away at all. For all the time she had been away seemed no time to him, because he had been sitting on that second hand.

So when the Mouldiwarp told them to go along in, they went; and the way they went was not in, but out, and round under the castle wall to the corner from which you could see the sea. And there they lay on the warm grass, and Elfrida told Edred the whole story, and at first he did not believe a word of it.

“But it’s true, I tell you,” said she. “You don’t suppose I should make up a whole tale like that, do you?”

“No,” said Edred. “Of course, you’re not clever enough. But you might have read it in a book.”

“Well, I didn’t,” said Elfrida⁠—“so there!”

“If it was really true, you might have come back for me. You know how I’ve always wanted to meet a highwayman⁠—you know you do.”

“How could I come back? How was I to get off the horse and run home and get in among the chests and the pigeon noises and come out here and take you back? The highwayman⁠—Talbot, I mean⁠—would have been gone long before we got back.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” said Edred obstinately. “You forget I was sitting on the clock and stopping it. There wasn’t any time while you were gone⁠—if you were gone.”

“There was with me,” said Elfrida. “Don’t you see⁠—”

“There wouldn’t have been if you’d come back where I was,” Edred interrupted.

“How can you be so aggravating?” Elfrida found suddenly that she was losing her temper. “You can’t be as stupid as that, really.”

“Oh, can’t I?” said Edred. “I can though, if I like. And stupider⁠—much stupider,” he added darkly. “You wait.”

“Edred,” said his sister slowly and fervently, “sometimes I feel as if I must shake you.”

“You daren’t!” said Edred.

“Do you dare me to?”

“Yes,” said Edred fiercely.

Of course, you are aware that after that, by all family laws, Elfrida was obliged to shake him. She did, and burst into tears. He looked at her for a moment and⁠—but no⁠—tears are unmanly. I would not betray the weakness of my hero. Let us draw a veil, or take a turn round the castle and come back to them presently.

It is just as well that we went away when we did, for we really turned our backs on a most unpleasant scene. And now that we come back to them, though crying is still going on, Elfrida is saying that she is very sorry, and is trying to find her handkerchief to lend to Edred, whose own is unexpectedly mislaid.

“Oh, all right,” he says, “I’m sorry too. There! But us saying we’re sorry won’t make us unquarrel. That’s the worst of it. We shan’t be able to find The Door for three days now. I do wish we hadn’t. It is sickening.”

“Never mind,” said Elfrida; “we didn’t have a real I’ll-never-speak-to-you-again-you-see-if-I-do quarrel, did we?”

“I don’t suppose it matters what sort of quarrel you had,” said the boy in gloom. “Look here⁠—I’ll tell you what⁠—you tell me all about it over again and I’ll try to believe you. I really will, on the honour of an Arden.”

So she told him all over again.

“And where,” said Edred, when she had quite finished⁠—“where did you put the jewels?”

“I⁠—they⁠—he put them in the corner cupboard in the secret room,” said Elfrida.

“If you’d taken me and not been in such a hurry⁠—no, I’m not quarrelling, I’m only reasoning with you like Aunt Edith⁠—if I’d been there I should have buried those jewels somewhere and then come back for me, and we’d have dug them up, and been rich beyond the dreams of⁠—what do they call it?”

“But I never told Betty where they were. Perhaps they’re there now. Let’s go and look.”

“If they are,” said he, “I’ll believe everything you’ve been telling me without trying at all.”

“You’ll have to do that⁠—if there’s a secret room, won’t you?”

“P’r’aps,” said Edred; “let’s go and see. I expect I shall have got a headache presently. You didn’t ought to have shaken me. Mrs. Honeysett says it’s very bad for people to be shaken⁠—it mixes up their brains inside their heads so that they ache, and you’re stupid. I expect that’s what made you say I was stupid.”

“Oh, dear,” said Elfrida despairingly. “You know that was before I shook you, and I did say I was sorry.”

“I know it was, but it comes to the same thing. Come on⁠—let’s have a squint at your old secret room.”

But, unfortunately it was now dinnertime. If you do happen to know the secret of a carved panel with a staircase hidden away behind it, you don’t want to tell that secret lightly⁠—as though it were the day of the week, or the date of the Battle of Waterloo, or what nine times seven is⁠—not even to a grownup so justly liked as Mrs. Honeysett. And, besides, a hot beefsteak pudding and greens do not seem to go well with the romances of old days. To have looked for the spring of that panel while that dinner smoked on the board would have been as unseemly as to try on a new gold crown over curl-papers. Elfrida felt this. And Edred did not more than half believe in the secret, anyway. And besides he was very hungry.

“Wait till afterwards,” was what they said to each other in whispers, while Mrs. Honeysett was changing the plates.

“You do do beautiful cooking,” Edred remarked, as the gooseberry-pie was cut open and revealed its chrysoprase-coloured contents.

“You do the beautiful eating then,” said Mrs. Honeysett, “and you be quick about it. You ain’t got into no mischief this morning, have you? You look as though butter wouldn’t melt in either of your mouths, and that’s always a sign of something being up with most children.”

“No, indeed we haven’t,” said Elfrida earnestly, “and we don’t mean to either. And our looking like that’s only because we brushed our hairs with wet brushes, most likely. It does make you look good, somehow; I’ve often noticed it.”

“I’ve been flying round this morning,” Mrs. Honeysett went on, “so as to get down to my sister’s for a bit this afternoon. She’s not so well again, poor old dear, and I might be kept late. But my niece Emily’s coming up to take charge. She’s a nice lively young girl; she’ll get you your teas, and look after you as nice as nice. Now don’t you go doing anything what you wouldn’t if I was behind of you, will you? That’s dears.”

Nothing could have happened better. Both children felt that Emily, being a young girl, would be more easy to manage than Mrs. Honeysett. As soon as they were alone they talked it over comfortably, and decided that the best thing would be to ask Emily if she would go down to the station and see if there was a parcel there for Master Arden or Miss Arden.

“And if there isn’t,” Elfrida giggled, “we’ll say she’d better wait till it comes. We’ll run down and fetch her as soon as we’ve explored the secret chamber.”

“I say,” Edred remarked thoughtfully, “we haven’t bothered much about finding the treasure, have we? I thought that was what we were going into history for.”

“Now, Edred,” said his sister, “you know very well we didn’t go into history on purpose.”

“No; but,” said Edred, “we ought to have. Suppose the treasure is really those jewels. We’d sell them and rebuild Arden Castle like it used to be, wouldn’t we?”

“We’d give Auntie Edith a few jewels, I think, wouldn’t we? She is such a dear, you know.”

“Yes; she should have first choice. I do believe we’re on the brink, and I feel just exactly like as if something real was going to happen⁠—not in history, but here at Arden⁠—Now-Arden.”

“I do hope we find the jewels,” said Elfrida. “Oh, I do! And I do hope we manage the lively young girl all right.”

Mrs. Honeysett’s best dress was a nice bright red⁠—the kind of colour you can see a long way off. They watched it till it disappeared round a shoulder of the downs, and then set about the task of managing Emily.

The lively young girl proved quite easy to manage. The idea of “popping on her hat” and running down to the station was naturally much pleasanter to her than the idea of washing the plates that had been used for beefsteak pudding and gooseberry-pie, and then giving the kitchen a thorough scrub out⁠—which was the way Mrs. Honeysett had meant her to spend the afternoon.

Her best dress⁠—she had slipped the skirt over her print gown so as to look smart as she came up through the village⁠—was a vivid violet, another good distance colour. It also was watched till it dipped into the lane.

“And now,” cried Elfrida, “we’re all alone, and we can explore the great secret!”

“But suppose somebody comes,” said Edred, “and interrupts, and finds it out, and grabs the jewels, and all is lost. There’s tramps, you know, and gipsy-women with baskets.”

“Yes⁠—or drink of water, or to ask the time. I’ll tell you what⁠—we’ll lock up the doors, back and front.”

They did. But even this did not satisfy the suddenly cautious Edred.

“The parlour door, too,” he said.

So they locked the parlour door, and Elfrida put the key in a safe place, “for fear of accidents,” she said. I do not at all know what she meant, and when she came to think it over she did not know either. But it seemed all right at the time.

They had provided themselves with a box of matches and a candle⁠—and now the decisive moment had come, as they say about battles.

Elfrida fumbled for the secret spring.

“How does it open?” asked the boy.

“I’ll show you presently,” said the girl. She could not show him then, because, in point of fact, she did not know. She only knew there was a secret spring, and she was feeling for it with both hands among the carved wreaths of the panels, as she stood with one foot on each of the arms of a very high chair⁠—the only chair in the room high enough for her to be able to reach all round the panel. Suddenly something clicked and the secret door flew open⁠—she just had time to jump to the floor, or it would have knocked her down.

Then she climbed up again and got into the hole, and Edred handed her the candle.

“Where’s the matches?” she asked.

“In my pocket,” said he firmly. “I’m not going to have you starting off without me⁠—again.”

“Well, come on, then,” said Elfrida, ignoring the injustice of this speech.

“All right,” said Edred, climbing on the chair. “How does it open?”

He had half closed the door, and was feeling among the carved leaves, as he had seen her do.

“Oh, come on,” said Elfrida, “oh, look out!”

Well might she request her careless brother to look out. As he reached up to touch the carving, the chair tilted, he was jerked forward, caught at the carving to save himself, missed it, and fell forward with all his weight against the half-open door. It shut with a loud bang. Then a resounding crash echoed through the quiet house as Edred and the big chair fell to the floor in, so to speak, each other’s arms.

There was a stricken pause. Then Elfrida from the other side of the panel beat upon it with her fists and shouted⁠—

“Open the door! You aren’t hurt, are you?”

“Yes, I am⁠—very much,” said Edred, from the outside of the secret door, and also from the hearthrug. “I’ve twisted my leg in the knickerbocker part, and I’ve got a great bump on my head, and I think I’m going to be very poorly.”

“Well, open the panel first,” said Elfrida rather unfeelingly. But then she was alone in the dark on the other side of the panel.

“I don’t know how to,” said Edred, and Elfrida heard the sound of someone picking himself up from among disordered furniture.

“Feel among the leaves, like I did,” she said. “It’s quite easy. You’ll soon find it.”

Silence.