The House of Arden, E. Nesbit [best historical fiction books of all time TXT] 📗

But when she said it aloud nothing happened. “I wonder,” said Elfrida, “whether it’s because we quarrelled, or because it just says he let me out and doesn’t ask him to, or because I had to say Elfrida, to make it sound right, or because it’s such dreadful nonsense. I’ll try again.”

She tried again. This time she got⁠—

“ ‘Behind the secret panel’s lines
The pensive Elfrida, reclines
And wishes she was at home.
At least I am at home, of course,
But things are getting worse and worse.
Dear Mole, come, come, come, come!’ ”

She said it aloud, and when she came to the last words there was the white Mouldiwarp sitting on the floor at her feet and looking up at her with eyes that blinked.

“You are good to come,” Elfrida said.

“Well, what do you want now?” said the Mole.

“I⁠—I ought to tell you that I oughtn’t to ask you to do anything, but I didn’t think you’d come if it really counted as a quarrel. It was only a little one, and we were both sorry quite directly.”

“You have a straightforward nature,” said the Mouldiwarp. “Well, well, I must say you’ve got yourself into a nice hole!”

“It would be a very nice hole,” said Elfrida eagerly, “if only the panel were open. I wouldn’t mind how long I stayed here then. That’s funny, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said the Mole. “Well, if you hadn’t quarrelled I could get you into another time⁠—some time when the panel was open⁠—and you could just walk out. You shouldn’t quarrel. It makes everything different. It puts dust into the works. It stops the wheels of the clock.”

“The clock!” said Elfrida slowly. “Couldn’t that work backwards?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said the Mole.

“I don’t know that I quite know myself,” Elfrida explained; “but the daisy-clock. You sit on the second hand and there isn’t any time⁠—and yet there’s lots where you’re not sitting. If I could sit on the daisy-clock the time wouldn’t be anything before someone comes to let me out. But I can’t get to the daisy-clock, even if you’d make it for me. So that’s no good.”

“You are a very clever little girl,” said the Mouldiwarp, “and all the clocks in the world aren’t made of daisies. Move the tables and chairs back against the wall; we’ll see what we can do for you.”

While Elfrida was carrying out this order⁠—the white Mole stood on its hind feet and called out softly in a language she did not understand. Others understood it though, it seemed, for a white pigeon fluttered in through the window, and then another and another, till the room seemed full of circling wings and gentle cooings, and a shower of soft, white feathers fell like snow.

Then the Mole was silent, and one by one the white pigeons sailed back through the window into the blue and gold world of out-of-doors.

“Get up on a chair and keep out of the way,” said the Mouldiwarp. And Elfrida did.

And then a soft wind blew through the little room⁠—a wind like the wind that breathes softly in walled gardens and shakes down the rose-leaves on sparkling summer mornings. And the white feathers on the floor were stirred by the sweet wind, and drifted into little heaps and lines and curves till they made on the dusty floor the circle of a clock-face, with all its figures and its long hand and its short hand and its second hand. And the white Mole stood in the middle.

“All white things obey me,” it said. “Come, sit down on the minute hand, and you’ll be there in no time.”

“Where?” asked Elfrida, getting off the chair.

“Why, at the time when they open the panel. Let me get out of the clock first. And give me the key of the parlour door. It’ll save time in the end.”

So Elfrida sat down on the minute hand, and instantly it began to move round⁠—faster than you can possibly imagine. And it was very soft to sit on⁠—like a cloud would be if the laws of nature ever permitted you to sit on clouds. And it spun round so that it seemed no time at all before she found herself sitting on the floor and heard voices, and knew that the secret panel was open.

“I see,” she said wisely, “it does work backwards, doesn’t it?”

But there was no one to answer her, for the Mouldiwarp was gone. And the white pigeons’ feathers were in heaps on the floor. She saw them, as she stood up. And there wasn’t any clock-face any more.

Edred soon got tired of Red Cotton Nightcap Country, which really is not half such good fun as it sounds, even for grownups, and he tried several other books. But reading did not seem amusing, somehow. And the house was so much too quiet, and the clock outside ticked so much too loud⁠—and Elfrida was shut up, and there were bars to the windows, and the door was locked. He walked about, and sat in each of the chairs in turn, but no one of them was comfortable. And his thoughts were not comfortable either. Suppose no one ever came to let them out! Supposing the years rolled on and found him still a prisoner, when he was a white-haired old man, like people in the Bastille, or in Iron Masks? His eyes filled with tears at the thought. Fortunately it did not occur to him that unless someone came pretty soon he would be unlikely to live to a great age, since people cannot live long without eating. If he had thought of this he would have been even more unhappy than he was⁠—and he was quite unhappy enough. Then he began to wonder if “anything had happened” to Elfrida. She was dreadfully quiet inside there behind the panel. He wished he had not quarrelled with her. Everything was very miserable. He