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

“Then ’e oughter know better,” said the old man, and shouted in a thin, high voice, “Jim, Jim, come along in this minute!”

Even then Beale didn’t act a bit like the prodigal in the play. He just unlatched the gate without looking at it⁠—his hand had not forgotten the way of it, for all it was so long since he had passed through that gate. And he walked slowly and heavily up the path and said, “Hullo, dad!⁠—how goes it?”

And the old man looked at him with his eyes half shut and said, “Why, it is James⁠—so it is,” as if he had expected it to be someone quite different.

And they shook hands, and then Beale said, “The garden’s looking well.”

And the old man owned that the garden ’ud do all right if it wasn’t for the snails.

That was all Dickie heard, for he thought it polite to go away. Of course, they could not be really affectionate with a stranger about. So he shouted from the gate something about “back presently,” and went off along the cart track towards Arden Castle and looked at it quite closely. It was the most beautiful and interesting thing he had ever seen. But he did not see the children.

When he went back the old man was cooking steak over the kitchen fire, and Beale was at the sink straining summer cabbage in a colander, as though he had lived there all his life and never anywhere else. He was in his shirtsleeves too, and his coat and hat hung behind the backdoor.

So then they had dinner, when the old man had set down the frying-pan expressly to shake hands with Dickie, saying, “So this is the lad you told me about. Yes, yes.” It was a very nice dinner, with cold gooseberry pastry as well as the steak and vegetables. The kitchen was pleasant and cozy though rather dark, on account of the white climbing rose that grew round the window. After dinner the men sat in the sun and smoked, and Dickie occupied himself in teaching the spaniel and True that neither of them was a dog who deserved to be growled at. Dickie had just thrown back his head in a laugh at True’s sulky face and stiffly planted paws, when he felt the old man’s dry, wrinkled hand under his chin.

“Let’s ’ave a look at you,” he said, and peered closely at the child. “Where’d you get that face, eh? What did you say your name was?”

“Harding’s his name,” said Beale. “Dickie Harding.”

“Dickie Arden, I should a-said if you’d asked me,” said the old man. “Seems to me it’s a reg’lar Arden face he’s got. But my eyes ain’t so good as wot they was. What d’you say to stopping along of me a bit, my boy? There’s room in the cottage for all five of us. My son James here tells me you’ve been’s good as a son to him.”

“I’d love it,” said Dickie. So that was settled. There were two bedrooms for Beale and his father, and Dickie slept in a narrow, whitewashed slip of a room that had once been a larder. The brown spaniel and True slept on the rag hearthrug in the kitchen. And everything was as cozy as cozy could be.

“We can send for any of the dawgs any minute if we feel we can’t stick it without ’em,” said Beale, smoking his pipe in the front garden.

“You mean to stay a long time, then,” said Dickie.

“I dunno. You see, I was born and bred ’ere. The air tastes good, don’t it? An’ the water’s good. Didn’t you notice the tea tasted quite different from what it does anywhere else? That’s the soft water, that is. An’ the old chap⁠ ⁠… Yes⁠—and there’s one or two other things⁠—yes⁠—I reckon us’ll stop on ’ere a bit.”

And Dickie was very glad. For now he was near Arden Castle, and could see it any time that he chose to walk a couple of hundred yards and look down. And presently he would see Edred and Elfrida. Would they know him? That was the question. Would they remember that he and they had been cousins and friends when James the First was King?

And now New Cross seemed to go backwards and very far away, its dirty streets, its sordid shifts, its crowds of anxious, unhappy people, who never had quite enough of anything, and Dickie’s home was in a pleasant cottage from whose windows you could see great green rolling downs, and the smooth silver and blue of the sea, and from whose door you stepped, not on to filthy pavements, but on to a neat brick path, leading between beds glowing with flowers.

Also, he was near Arden, the goal of seven months’ effort. Now he would see Edred and Elfrida again, and help them to find the hidden treasure, as he had once helped them to find their father.

This joyful thought put the crown on his happiness.

But he presently perceived that though he was so close to Arden Castle he did not seem to be much nearer to the Arden children. It is not an easy thing to walk into the courtyard of a ruined castle and ring the bell of a strange house and ask for people whom you have only met in dreams, or as good as dreams. And I don’t know how Dickie would have managed if Destiny had not kindly come to his help, and arranged that, turning a corner in the lane which leads to the village, he should come face to face with Edred and Elfrida Arden. And they looked exactly like the Edred and Elfrida whom he had played with and quarrelled with in the dream. He halted, leaning on his crutch, for them to come up and speak to him. They came on, looking hard at him⁠—the severe might have called it staring⁠—looked, came up to