Five Children and It, E. Nesbit [good summer reads TXT] 📗

Martha would not be able to see the ring. But when Martha was asked, of course she denied putting the ring there, and so did Eliza and cook.

Mother came back to her bedroom, very much interested and pleased about the ring. But, when she opened the dressing-table drawer and found a long case containing an almost priceless diamond necklace, she was more interested still, though not so pleased. In the wardrobe, when she went to put away her “bonnet,” she found a tiara and several brooches, and the rest of the jewellery turned up in various parts of the room during the next half-hour. The children looked more and more uncomfortable, and now Jane began to sniff.

Mother looked at her gravely.

“Jane,” she said, “I am sure you know something about this. Now think before you speak, and tell me the truth.”

“We found a Fairy,” said Jane obediently.

“No nonsense, please,” said her mother sharply.

“Don’t be silly, Jane,” Cyril interrupted. Then he went on desperately. “Look here, mother, we’ve never seen the things before, but Lady Chittenden at Peasmarsh Place lost all her jewellery by wicked burglars last night. Could this possibly be it?”

All drew a deep breath. They were saved.

“But how could they have put it here? And why should they?” asked mother, not unreasonably. “Surely it would have been easier and safer to make off with it?”

“Suppose,” said Cyril, “they thought it better to wait for⁠—for sunset⁠—nightfall, I mean, before they went off with it. No one but us knew that you were coming back today.”

“I must send for the police at once,” said mother distractedly. “Oh, how I wish daddy were here!”

“Wouldn’t it be better to wait till he does come?” asked Robert, knowing that his father would not be home before sunset.

“No, no; I can’t wait a minute with all this on my mind,” cried mother. “All this” was the heap of jewel-cases on the bed. They put them all in the wardrobe, and mother locked it. Then mother called Martha.

“Martha,” she said, “has any stranger been into my room since I’ve been away? Now, answer me truthfully.”

“No, mum,” answered Martha; “leastways, what I mean to say⁠—”

She stopped.

“Come,” said her mistress kindly, “I see someone has. You must tell me at once. Don’t be frightened. I’m sure you haven’t done anything wrong.”

Martha burst into heavy sobs.

“I was a-goin’ to give you warning this very day, mum, to leave at the end of my month, so I was⁠—on account of me being going to make a respectable young man happy. A gamekeeper he is by trade, mum⁠—and I wouldn’t deceive you⁠—of the name of Beale. And it’s as true as I stand here, it was your coming home in such a hurry, and no warning given, out of the kindness of his heart it was, as he says, ‘Martha, my beauty,’ he says⁠—which I ain’t and never was, but you know how them men will go on⁠—‘I can’t see you a-toiling and a-moiling and not lend a ’elping ’and; which mine is a strong arm and it’s yours, Martha, my dear,’ says he. And so he helped me a-cleanin’ of the windows⁠—but outside, mum, the whole time, and me in; if I never say another breathing word it’s the gospel truth.”

“Were you with him the whole time?” asked her mistress.

“Him outside and me in, I was,” said Martha; “except for fetching up a fresh pail and the leather that that slut of a Eliza ’d hidden away behind the mangle.”

“That will do,” said the children’s mother. “I am not pleased with you, Martha, but you have spoken the truth, and that counts for something.”

When Martha had gone, the children clung round their mother.

“Oh, mummy darling,” cried Anthea, “it isn’t Beale’s fault, it isn’t really! He’s a great dear; he is, truly and honourably, and as honest as the day. Don’t let the police take him, mummy! oh, don’t, don’t, don’t!”

It was truly awful. Here was an innocent man accused of robbery through that silly wish of Jane’s, and it was absolutely useless to tell the truth. All longed to, but they thought of the straws in the hair and the shrieks of the other frantic maniacs, and they could not do it.

“Is there a cart hereabouts?” asked mother feverishly. “A trap of any sort? I must drive in to Rochester and tell the police at once.”

All the children sobbed, “There’s a cart at the farm, but, oh, don’t go!⁠—don’t go!⁠—oh, don’t go!⁠—wait till daddy comes home!”

Mother took not the faintest notice. When she had set her mind on a thing she always went straight through with it; she was rather like Anthea in this respect.

“Look here, Cyril,” she said, sticking on her hat with long sharp violet-headed pins, “I leave you in charge. Stay in the dressing-room. You can pretend to be swimming boats in the bath, or something. Say I gave you leave. But stay there, with the landing door open; I’ve locked the other. And don’t let anyone go into my room. Remember, no one knows the jewels are there except me, and all of you, and the wicked thieves who put them there. Robert, you stay in the garden and watch the windows. If anyone tries to get in you must run and tell the two farm men that I’ll send up to wait in the kitchen. I’ll tell them there are dangerous characters about⁠—that’s true enough. Now remember, I trust you both. But I don’t think they’ll try it till after dark, so you’re quite safe. Goodbye, darlings.”

And she locked her bedroom door and went off with the key in her pocket.

The children could not help admiring the dashing and decided way in which she had acted. They thought how useful she would have been in organizing escape from some of the tight places in which they had found themselves of late in consequence of their ill-timed wishes.

“She’s a born general,” said Cyril⁠—“but I don’t know what’s going to happen to us. Even if the