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

know it isn’t, but I feel it is,” said Anthea, “and that’s just as bad.”

“It’s worse,” said Robert; “if you knew it and didn’t feel it, it wouldn’t matter so much.”

“That’s being a hardened criminal, father says,” put in Cyril, and he picked up mother’s letter and wiped its corners with his handkerchief, to whose colour a trifle of bacon-fat and marmalade made but little difference.

“We’re going tomorrow, anyhow,” said Robert. “Don’t,” he added, with a good-boy expression on his face⁠—“don’t let’s be ungrateful for our blessings; don’t let’s waste the day in saying how horrid it is to keep secrets from mother, when we all know Anthea tried all she knew to give her the secret, and she wouldn’t take it. Let’s get on the carpet and have a jolly good wish. You’ll have time enough to repent of things all next week.”

“Yes,” said Cyril, “let’s. It’s not really wrong.”

“Well, look here,” said Anthea. “You know there’s something about Christmas that makes you want to be good⁠—however little you wish it at other times. Couldn’t we wish the carpet to take us somewhere where we should have the chance to do some good and kind action? It would be an adventure just the same,” she pleaded.

“I don’t mind,” said Cyril. “We shan’t know where we’re going, and that’ll be exciting. No one knows what’ll happen. We’d best put on our outers in case⁠—”

“We might rescue a traveller buried in the snow, like St. Bernard dogs, with barrels round our necks,” said Jane, beginning to be interested.

“Or we might arrive just in time to witness a will being signed⁠—more tea, please,” said Robert, “and we should see the old man hide it away in the secret cupboard; and then, after long years, when the rightful heir was in despair, we should lead him to the hidden panel and⁠—”

“Yes,” interrupted Anthea; “or we might be taken to some freezing garret in a German town, where a poor little pale, sick child⁠—”

“We haven’t any German money,” interrupted Cyril, “so that’s no go. What I should like would be getting into the middle of a war and getting hold of secret intelligence and taking it to the general, and he would make me a lieutenant or a scout, or a hussar.”

When breakfast was cleared away, Anthea swept the carpet, and the children sat down on it, together with the Phoenix, who had been especially invited, as a Christmas treat, to come with them and witness the good and kind action they were about to do.

Four children and one bird were ready, and the wish was wished.

Everyone closed its eyes, so as to feel the topsy-turvy swirl of the carpet’s movement as little as possible.

When the eyes were opened again the children found themselves on the carpet, and the carpet was in its proper place on the floor of their own nursery at Camden Town.

“I say,” said Cyril, “here’s a go!”

“Do you think it’s worn out? The wishing part of it, I mean?” Robert anxiously asked the Phoenix.

“It’s not that,” said the Phoenix; “but⁠—well⁠—what did you wish⁠—?”

“Oh! I see what it means,” said Robert, with deep disgust; “it’s like the end of a fairy story in a Sunday magazine. How perfectly beastly!”

“You mean it means we can do kind and good actions where we are? I see. I suppose it wants us to carry coals for the cook or make clothes for the bare heathens. Well, I simply won’t. And the last day and everything. Look here!” Cyril spoke loudly and firmly. “We want to go somewhere really interesting, where we have a chance of doing something good and kind; we don’t want to do it here, but somewhere else. See? Now, then.”

The obedient carpet started instantly, and the four children and one bird fell in a heap together, and as they fell were plunged in perfect darkness.

“Are you all there?” said Anthea, breathlessly, through the black dark. Everyone owned that it was there.

“Where are we? Oh! how shivery and wet it is! Ugh!⁠—oh!⁠—I’ve put my hand in a puddle!”

“Has anyone got any matches?” said Anthea, hopelessly. She felt sure that no one would have any.

It was then that Robert, with a radiant smile of triumph that was quite wasted in the darkness, where, of course, no one could see anything, drew out of his pocket a box of matches, struck a match and lighted a candle⁠—two candles. And everyone, with its mouth open, blinked at the sudden light.

“Well done, Bobs,” said his sisters, and even Cyril’s natural brotherly feelings could not check his admiration of Robert’s foresight.

“I’ve always carried them about ever since the lone tower day,” said Robert, with modest pride. “I knew we should want them some day. I kept the secret well, didn’t I?”

“Oh, yes,” said Cyril, with fine scorn. “I found them the Sunday after, when I was feeling in your Norfolks for the knife you borrowed off me. But I thought you’d only sneaked them for Chinese lanterns, or reading in bed by.”

“Bobs,” said Anthea, suddenly, “do you know where we are? This is the underground passage, and look there⁠—there’s the money and the moneybags, and everything.”

By this time the ten eyes had got used to the light of the candles, and no one could help seeing that Anthea spoke the truth.

“It seems an odd place to do good and kind acts in, though,” said Jane. “There’s no one to do them to.”

“Don’t you be too sure,” said Cyril; “just round the next turning we might find a prisoner who has languished here for years and years, and we could take him out on our carpet and restore him to his sorrowing friends.”

“Of course we could,” said Robert, standing up and holding the candle above his head to see further off; “or we might find the bones of a poor prisoner and take them to his friends to be buried properly⁠—that’s always a kind action in books, though I never could see what bones matter.”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” said