Harding’s Luck, E. Nesbit [summer reads .TXT] 📗

green courtyard, and wondered whether they could possibly be Edred and Elfrida, the little cousins whom he had met in King James the First’s time, and who, the nurse said, really belonged to the times of King Edward the Seventh, or Nowadays, just as he did himself. It seemed as though it could hardly be true; but, if it were true, how splendid! What games he and they could have! And what a play-place it was that spread out before him⁠—green and glorious, with the sea on one side and the downs on the other, and in the middle the ruins of Arden Castle.

But as they went on through the furze bushes Dickie perceived that Mr. Beale was growing more and more silent and uneasy.

“What’s up?” Dickie asked at last. “Out with it, farver.”

“It ain’t nothing,” said Mr. Beale.

“You ain’t afraid those Talbots will know you again?”

“Not much I ain’t. They never see my face; and I ’adn’t a beard that time like what I’ve got now.”

“Well, then?” said Dickie.

“Well, if you must ’ave it,” said Beale, “we’re a-gettin’ very near my ole dad’s place, and I can’t make me mind up.”

“I thought we was settled we’d go to see ’im.”

“I dunno. If ’e’s under the daisies I shan’t like it⁠—I tell you straight I shan’t like it. But we’re a long-lived stock⁠—p’raps ’e’s all right. I dunno.”

“Shall I go up by myself to where he lives and see if he’s all right?”

“Not much,” said Mr. Beale; “if I goes I goes, and if I stays away I stays away. It’s just the not being able to make me mind up.”

“If he’s there,” said Dickie, “don’t you think you ought to go, just on the chance of him being there and wanting you?”

“If you come to oughts,” said Beale, “I oughter gone ’ome any time this twenty year. Only I ain’t. See?”

“Well,” said Dickie, “it’s your lookout. I know what I should do if it was me.”

Remembrance showed him the father who had leaned on his shoulder as they walked about the winding walks of the pleasant garden in old Deptford⁠—the father who had given him the little horse, and insisted that his twenty gold pieces should be spent as he chose.

“I dunno,” said Beale. “What you think? Eh, matey?”

“I think let’s,” said Dickie. “I lay if he’s alive it ’ud be as good as three Sundays in the week to him to see you. You was his little boy once, wasn’t you?”

“Ay,” said Beale; “he was wagoner’s mate to one of Lord Arden’s men. ’E used to ride me on the big carthorses. ’E was a fine setup chap.”

To hear the name of Arden on Beale’s lips gave Dickie a very odd, half-pleasant, half-frightened feeling. It seemed to bring certain things very near.

“Let’s,” he said again.

“All right,” said Beale, “only if it all goes wrong it ain’t my fault⁠—an’ there used to be a footpath a bit further on. You cut through the copse and cater across the eleven-acre medder, and bear along to the left by the hedge an’ it brings you out under Arden Knoll, where my old man’s place is.”

So they cut and catered and bore along, and came out under Arden Knoll, and there was a cottage, with a very neat garden full of gay flowers, and a brick pathway leading from the wooden gate to the front door. And by the front door sat an old man in a Windsor chair, with a brown spaniel at his feet and a bird in a wicker cage above his head, and he was nodding, for it was a hot day, and he was an old man and tired.

“Swelp me, I can’t do it!” whispered Beale. “I’ll walk on a bit. You just arst for a drink, and sort of see ’ow the land lays. It might turn ’im up seeing me so sudden. Good old dad!”

He walked quickly on, and Dickie was left standing by the gate. Then the brown spaniel became aware of True, and barked, and the old man said, “Down, Trusty!” in his sleep, and then woke up.

His clear old eyes set in many wrinkles turned full on Dickie by the gate.

“May I have a drink of water?” Dickie asked.

“Come in,” said the old man.

And Dickie lifted the latch of smooth, brown, sun-warmed iron, and went up the brick path, as the old man slowly turned himself about in the chair.

“Yonder’s the well,” he said; “draw up a bucket, if thy leg’ll let thee, poor little chap!”

“I draws water with my arms, not my legs,” said Dickie cheerfully.

“There’s a blue mug in the washhouse window-ledge,” said the old man. “Fetch me a drop when you’ve had your drink, my lad.”

Of course, Dickie’s manners were too good for him to drink first. He drew up the dripping oaken bucket from the cool darkness of the well, fetched the mug, and offered it brimming to the old man. Then he drank, and looked at the garden ablaze with flowers⁠—blush-roses and damask roses, and sweet-williams and candytuft, white lilies and yellow lilies, pansies, larkspur, poppies, bergamot, and sage.

It was just like a play at the Greenwich Theatre, Dickie thought. He had seen a scene just like that, where the old man sat in the sun and the Prodigal returned.

Dickie would not have been surprised to see Beale run up the brick path and throw himself on his knees, exclaiming, “Father, it is I⁠—your erring but repentant son! Can you forgive me? If a lifetime of repentance can atone⁠ ⁠…” and so on.

If Dickie had been Beale he would certainly have made the speech, beginning, “Father, it is I.” But as he was only Dickie, he said⁠—

“Your name’s Beale, ain’t it?”

“It might be,” old Beale allowed.

“I seen your son in London. ’E told me about yer garden.”

“I should a thought ’e’d a-forgot the garden same as ’e’s forgot me,” said the old man.

“ ’E ain’t forgot you, not ’e,” said Dickie; “ ’e’s come to see you, an ’e’s waiting outside now to