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

that bell was answered. The sound of a bell is quite different, somehow, when there is anyone inside the house who hears it. I can’t tell you why that is⁠—but so it is.

“I expect they’re changing their dresses,” said Jane.

“Too late,” said Anthea, “it must be past five. I expect Eliza’s gone to post a letter, and cook’s gone to see the time.”

Cyril rang again. And the bell did its best to inform the listening children that there was really no one human in the house. They rang again and listened intently. The hearts of all sank low. It is a terrible thing to be locked out of your own house, on a dark, muggy January evening.

“There is no gas on anywhere,” said Jane, in a broken voice.

“I expect they’ve left the gas on once too often, and the draught blew it out, and they’re suffocated in their beds. Father always said they would some day,” said Robert cheerfully.

“Let’s go and fetch a policeman,” said Anthea, trembling.

“And be taken up for trying to be burglars⁠—no, thank you,” said Cyril. “I heard father read out of the paper about a young man who got into his own mother’s house, and they got him made a burglar only the other day.”

“I only hope the gas hasn’t hurt the Phoenix,” said Anthea. “It said it wanted to stay in the bathroom cupboard, and I thought it would be all right, because the servants never clean that out. But if it’s gone and got out and been choked by gas⁠—And besides, directly we open the door we shall be choked, too. I knew we ought to have gone to Aunt Emma, at Croydon. Oh, Squirrel, I wish we had. Let’s go now.”

“Shut up,” said her brother, briefly. “There’s someone rattling the latch inside.” Everyone listened with all its ears, and everyone stood back as far from the door as the steps would allow.

The latch rattled, and clicked. Then the flap of the letter-box lifted itself⁠—everyone saw it by the flickering light of the gas-lamp that shone through the leafless lime-tree by the gate⁠—a golden eye seemed to wink at them through the letter-slit, and a cautious beak whispered⁠—

“Are you alone?”

“It’s the Phoenix,” said everyone, in a voice so joyous, and so full of relief, as to be a sort of whispered shout.

“Hush!” said the voice from the letter-box slit. “Your slaves have gone a-merry-making. The latch of this portal is too stiff for my beak. But at the side⁠—the little window above the shelf whereon your bread lies⁠—it is not fastened.”

“Righto!” said Cyril.

And Anthea added, “I wish you’d meet us there, dear Phoenix.”

The children crept round to the pantry window. It is at the side of the house, and there is a green gate labelled “Tradesmen’s Entrance,” which is always kept bolted. But if you get one foot on the fence between you and next door, and one on the handle of the gate, you are over before you know where you are. This, at least, was the experience of Cyril and Robert, and even, if the truth must be told, of Anthea and Jane. So in almost no time all four were in the narrow gravelled passage that runs between that house and the next.

Then Robert made a back, and Cyril hoisted himself up and got his knicker-bockered knee on the concrete windowsill. He dived into the pantry head first, as one dives into water, and his legs waved in the air as he went, just as your legs do when you are first beginning to learn to dive. The soles of his boots⁠—squarish muddy patches⁠—disappeared.

“Give me a leg up,” said Robert to his sisters.

“No, you don’t,” said Jane firmly. “I’m not going to be left outside here with just Anthea, and have something creep up behind us out of the dark. Squirrel can go and open the back door.”

A light had sprung awake in the pantry. Cyril always said the Phoenix turned the gas on with its beak, and lighted it with a waft of its wing; but he was excited at the time, and perhaps he really did it himself with matches, and then forgot all about it. He let the others in by the back door. And when it had been bolted again the children went all over the house and lighted every single gas-jet they could find. For they couldn’t help feeling that this was just the dark dreary winter’s evening when an armed burglar might easily be expected to appear at any moment. There is nothing like light when you are afraid of burglars⁠—or of anything else, for that matter.

And when all the gas-jets were lighted it was quite clear that the Phoenix had made no mistake, and that Eliza and cook were really out, and that there was no one in the house except the four children, and the Phoenix, and the carpet, and the blackbeetles who lived in the cupboards on each side of the nursery fireplace. These last were very pleased that the children had come home again, especially when Anthea had lighted the nursery fire. But, as usual, the children treated the loving little blackbeetles with coldness and disdain.

I wonder whether you know how to light a fire? I don’t mean how to strike a match and set fire to the corners of the paper in a fire someone has laid ready, but how to lay and light a fire all by yourself. I will tell you how Anthea did it, and if ever you have to light one yourself you may remember how it is done. First, she raked out the ashes of the fire that had burned there a week ago⁠—for Eliza had actually never done this, though she had had plenty of time. In doing this Anthea knocked her knuckle and made it bleed. Then she laid the largest and handsomest cinders in the bottom of the grate. Then she took a sheet of old newspaper (you ought never to light