The Phoenix and the Carpet E. Nesbit (read more books .TXT) 📖

“So it did, sir,” said Cyril, “and so did you.”

“It really⁠—Allow me.”

A bell was rung. The porter appeared.

“Mackenzie,” said the gentleman, “you see that golden bird?”

“Yes, sir.”

The other breathed a sigh of relief.

“It is real, then?”

“Yes, sir, of course, sir. You take it in your hand, sir,” said the porter, sympathetically, and reached out his hand to the Phoenix, who shrank back on toes curved with agitated indignation.

“Forbear!” it cried; “how dare you seek to lay hands on me?”

The porter saluted.

“Beg pardon, sir,” he said, “I thought you was a bird.”

“I am a bird⁠—the bird⁠—the Phoenix.”

“Of course you are, sir,” said the porter. “I see that the first minute, directly I got my breath, sir.”

“That will do,” said the gentleman. “Ask Mr. Wilson and Mr. Sterry to step up here for a moment, please.”

Mr. Sterry and Mr. Wilson were in their turn overcome by amazement⁠—quickly followed by conviction. To the surprise of the children everyone in the office took the Phoenix at its word, and after the first shock of surprise it seemed to be perfectly natural to everyone that the Phoenix should be alive, and that, passing through London, it should call at its temple.

“We ought to have some sort of ceremony,” said the nicest gentleman, anxiously. “There isn’t time to summon the directors and shareholders⁠—we might do that tomorrow, perhaps. Yes, the boardroom would be best. I shouldn’t like it to feel we hadn’t done everything in our power to show our appreciation of its condescension in looking in on us in this friendly way.”

The children could hardly believe their ears, for they had never thought that anyone but themselves would believe in the Phoenix. And yet everyone did; all the men in the office were brought in by twos and threes, and the moment the Phoenix opened its beak it convinced the cleverest of them, as well as those who were not so clever. Cyril wondered how the story would look in the papers next day. He seemed to see the posters in the streets:

Phoenix Fire Office.

The Phoenix at Its Temple.

Meeting to Welcome It.

Delight of the Manager and Everybody.

“Excuse our leaving you a moment,” said the nice gentleman, and he went away with the others; and through the half-closed door the children could hear the sound of many boots on stairs, the hum of excited voices explaining, suggesting, arguing, the thumpy drag of heavy furniture being moved about.

The Phoenix strutted up and down the leather-covered table, looking over its shoulder at its pretty back.

“You see what a convincing manner I have,” it said proudly.

And now a new gentleman came in and said, bowing low⁠—

“Everything is prepared⁠—we have done our best at so short a notice; the meeting⁠—the ceremony⁠—will be in the boardroom. Will the Honourable Phoenix walk⁠—it is only a few steps⁠—or would it like to be⁠—would it like some sort of conveyance?”

“My Robert will bear me to the boardroom, if that be the unlovely name of my temple’s inmost court,” replied the bird.

So they all followed the gentleman. There was a big table in the boardroom, but it had been pushed right up under the long windows at one side, and chairs were arranged in rows across the room⁠—like those you have at schools when there is a magic lantern on “Our Eastern Empire,” or on “The Way We Do in the Navy.” The doors were of carved wood, very beautiful, with a carved Phoenix above. Anthea noticed that the chairs in the front rows were of the kind that her mother so loved to ask the price of in old furniture shops, and never could buy, because the price was always nearly twenty pounds each. On the mantelpiece were some heavy bronze candlesticks and a clock, and on the top of the clock was another image of the Phoenix.

“Remove that effigy,” said the Phoenix to the gentlemen who were there, and it was hastily taken down. Then the Phoenix fluttered to the middle of the mantelpiece and stood there, looking more golden than ever. Then everyone in the house and the office came in⁠—from the cashier to the women who cooked the clerks’ dinners in the beautiful kitchen at the top of the house. And everyone bowed to the Phoenix and then sat down in a chair.

“Gentlemen,” said the nicest gentleman, “we have met here today⁠—”

The Phoenix was turning its golden beak from side to side.

“I don’t notice any incense,” it said, with an injured sniff. A hurried consultation ended in plates being fetched from the kitchen. Brown sugar, sealing-wax, and tobacco were placed on these, and something from a square bottle was poured over it all. Then a match was applied. It was the only incense that was handy in the Phoenix office, and it certainly burned very briskly and smoked a great deal.

“We have met here today,” said the gentleman again, “on an occasion unparalleled in the annals of this office. Our respected Phoenix⁠—”

“Head of the House,” said the Phoenix, in a hollow voice.

“I was coming to that. Our respected Phoenix, the Head of this ancient House, has at length done us the honour to come among us. I think I may say, gentlemen, that we are not insensible to this honour, and that we welcome with no uncertain voice one whom we have so long desired to see in our midst.”

Several of the younger clerks thought of saying “Hear, hear,” but they feared it might seem disrespectful to the bird.

“I will not take up your time,” the speaker went on, “by recapitulating the advantages to be derived from a proper use of our system of fire insurance. I know, and you know, gentlemen, that our aim has ever been to be worthy of that eminent bird whose name we bear, and who now adorns our mantelpiece with his presence. Three cheers, gentlemen, for the winged Head of the House!”

The cheers rose, deafening. When they had died away the Phoenix was asked to say a few words.

It expressed in graceful phrases the