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

diverted once more into its original channel. This order was accordingly executed by his myrmidons, and the moat was left dry, this assisting materially the treacherous designs of the detestable regicides. It is rumoured that the stream, despite the lapse of centuries, still maintains its subterranean course; but the present author, on visiting, during the autumn of 1821, the residence of the present Earl of Arden, and by his permission, most courteously granted, exploring the site thoroughly, was unable to find any trace of its existence. The rural denizens of the district denied any knowledge of such a stream, but they are sunk in ignorance and superstition, and have no admiration for the works of philosophy or the awe-inspiring beauties of Nature.’ ”

“What a dull chap he is!” said Edred. “But, I say, when was it printed⁠—1822?⁠ ⁠… I believe I know why the rural What’s-his-names wouldn’t let on about the stream. Don’t you see, it’s the stream that runs through the smugglers’ cave? and they were smuggling then for all they were worth.”

“That’s clever of you,” said Elfrida.

“Well, I bet we find traces of its existence, when we’ve found the treasure. Come on; let’s try the chests again. We’ll put on the first things we find, and chance it, this time. There’s nothing to stop us. We haven’t quarrelled or anything.”

They had not quarrelled, but there was something to stop them, all the same. And that something was the fact that they could not find The Door. It simply was not there.

“And we haven’t quarrelled or anything,” said Elfrida, despairing when they had searched the East House again and again, and found no door that would consent to lead them to the wonderful attic where the chests stood in their two wonderful rows. She sat down on the top step of the attic stairs, quite regardless of the dust that lay there thick.

“It’s all up⁠—I can see that,” said Edred. “We’ve muffed it somehow. I wonder whether we oughtn’t to have taken those photographs.”

“Do you think perhaps⁠ ⁠… could we have dreamed it all?”

“No,” said Edred, “there are the prints⁠—at least, I suppose they’re there. We’ll go down and see.”

Miserably doubting, they went down and saw that the photographs were where they had put them, in between the pages of the History of Arden.

“I don’t see what we can do. Do you?” said Edred forlornly. It was a miserable ending to the happenings that had succeeded each other in such a lively procession ever since they had been at Arden. It seemed as though a door had been shut in their faces, and “Not any more,” written in very plain letters across the chapter of their adventures.

“I wish we could find the witch again,” said Elfrida; “but she said she couldn’t come into these times more than once.”

“I wonder why,” said Edred, kicking his boots miserably against the leg of the table on which he sat. “That Dicky chap must have been here pretty often, to have an address at New Cross. I say, suppose we wrote to him. It would be something to do.”

So they wrote. At least Elfrida did, and they both signed it. This was the letter:⁠—

Dear Cousin Richard⁠—You remember meeting us at the Gunpowder Plot. If you are at these modern times again we should like to know you and to know how you get into the future. Perhaps we could get into the past the same way, because the way we used to get we can’t any more.

Perhaps you could come here next time instead of New Cross.

Your affectionate friends at a distance,

(Miss) Elfrida Arden

(Lord) Edred Arden.

P.S.⁠—I don’t know how lords sign letters because I have not been it long, but you’ll know who it is.

P.S.S.⁠—Remember old Parrot-nose.

They walked down to the post with this, and as they went they remembered how they had gone to the “George” with old Lady Arden’s letter in Boney’s time; and Edred remarked, listlessly, that it would be rather fun to find the smugglers’ cave. So when they had bought a stamp and licked it and put it on the letter they went up on the cliff and looked among the furze-bushes for the entrance to the smugglers’ cave. But they did not find it. Nothing makes you hotter than looking for things that you can’t find⁠—and there is no hotter place to look for things than a furze forest on the downs on a sunny summer afternoon. The children were glad to sit down on a clean, smooth, grassy space and look out at the faint blue line of the sea.

They had not really enjoyed looking for the smugglers’ cave. Vain regrets were busy in each breast. Edred gave voice to them when he said⁠—

“Oh, if only we had put those gold clothes on when we had the chance!”

And Elfrida echoed the useless heartfelt wail with, “Oh, if we only had!”

And then they sat in silence and looked at the sea for quite a long time.

Now, if you sit perfectly silent for a long time and look at the sea, or the sky, or the running water of a river, something happens to you⁠—a sort of magic. Not the violent magic that makes the kind of adventures that I have been telling you about, but a kind of gentle but very strong inside magic, that makes things clear, and shows you what things are important, and what are not. You try it next time you are in a very bad temper, or when you think someone has been very unjust to you, or when you are very disappointed and hurt about anything.

The magic worked in Edred and Elfrida till Edred said⁠—

“After all, we’ve got the castle;” and Elfrida said⁠—

“And we have had some ripping times.”

And then they looked at the sea in more silence, during which Hope came and whispered to Elfrida, who instantly said⁠—

“The Mouldiwarp! Perhaps it’s not all over. It told us to find