The House of Arden E. Nesbit (top android ebook reader TXT) 📖

“Where are you going?” Elfrida asked.

“Home too, of course,” it said, and this time it really did go.

The two children turned towards the lights of Ardenhurst Station in perfect silence. Only as they reached the place where the down-turf ends and the road begins Edred said, in tones of awe, “I say!”

And Elfrida answered, “Yes⁠—isn’t it?”

Then they walked, still without talking, to the station.

The lights there, and the voices of porters and passengers, the rattle of signal-wires and the “ping, ping” of train signals, had on them the effect of a wet sponge passed over the face of a sleeper by some “already up” person. They seemed to awaken from a dream, and the moment they were in the train, which fortunately came quite soon, they began to talk. They talked without stopping till they got to Cliffville Station, and then they talked all the way home, and by the time they reached the house with the green balconies and the smooth, pale, polished doorknocker they had decided, as children almost always do in cases of magic adventure, that they had better not say anything to anyone. As I am always pointing out, it is extremely difficult to tell your magic experiences to people who not only will not, but cannot believe you. This is one of the drawbacks of really wonderful happenings.

Aunt Edith had not come home, but she came as they were washing their hands and faces for supper. She brought with her presents for Edred’s birthday⁠—nicer presents, and more of them, than he had had for three years.

She bought him a box of wonderfully varied chocolate and a box of tools, a very beautiful bat and a cricket-ball and a set of stumps, and a beetle-backed paintbox in which all the colours were whole pans, and not half ones, as they usually are in the boxes you get as presents. In this were beautiful paintbrushes⁠—two camel’s-hair ones and a sable with a point as fine as fine.

“You are a dear, auntie,” he said, with his arms very tight round her waist. He was very happy, and it made him feel more generous than usual. So he said again, “You are a dear. And Elfrida can use the paintbox whenever I’m out, and the camel’s-hair brushes. Not the sable, of course.”

“Oh, Edred, how jolly of you!” said Elfrida, quite touched.

“I’ve got something for Elfrida too,” said Aunt Edith, feeling among the rustling pile of brown paper, and tissue paper, and string, and cardboard, and shavings, that were the husks of Edred’s presents. “Ah, here it is!”

It was a book⁠—a red book with gold pictures on back and cover⁠—and it was called The Amulet. So then it was Elfrida’s turn to clasp her aunt round the waist and tell her about her dearness.

“And now to supper,” said the dear. “Roast chicken. And gooseberry pie. And cream.”

To the children, accustomed to the mild uninterestingness of bread and milk for supper, this seemed the crowning wonder of the day. And what a day it had been!

And while they ate the brown chicken, with bread sauce and gravy and stuffing, and the gooseberry pie and cream, the aunt told them of her day.

“It really is a ship,” she said, “and the best thing it brings is that we shan’t let lodgings any more.”

“Hurrah!” was the natural response.

“And we shall have more money to spend and be more comfortable. And you can go to a really nice school. And where do you think we’re going to live?”

“Not,” said Elfrida, in a whisper⁠—“not at the castle?”

“Why, how did you guess?”

Elfrida looked at Edred. He hastily swallowed a large mouthful of chicken to say, “Auntie, I do hope you won’t mind. We went to Arden today. You said we might go this year.”

Then the whole story came out⁠—yes, quite all, up to the saying of the spell.

“And did anything happen?” Aunt Edith asked. The children were thankful to see that she was only interested, and did not seem vexed at what they had done.

“Well,” said Elfrida slowly, “we saw a mole⁠—”

Aunt Edith laughed, and Edred said quickly⁠—

“That’s all the story, auntie. And I am Lord Arden, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” the aunt answered gravely. “You are Lord Arden.”

“Oh, ripping!” cried Edred, with so joyous a face that his aunt put away a little sermon she had got ready in the train on the duties of the English aristocracy⁠—that would keep, she thought⁠—and turned to say, “No, dear,” to Elfrida’s eager question, “Then I’m Lady Arden, aren’t I?”

“If he’s lord I ought to be lady,” Elfrida said. “It’s not fair.”

“Never mind, old girl,” said Edred kindly. “I’ll call you Lady Arden whenever you like.”

“How would you like,” asked the aunt, “to go over and live at the castle now?”

“Tonight?”

“No, no,” she laughed; “next week. You see, I must try to let this house, and I shall be very busy. Mrs. Honeysett, the old lady who used to keep house for your great-uncle, wrote to the lawyers and asked if we would employ her. I remember her when I was a little girl; she is a dear, and knows heaps of old songs. How would you like to be there with her while I finish up here and get rid of the lodgers? Oh, there’s that bell again! I don’t think we’ll have any bells at the castle, shall we?”

So that was how it was arranged. The aunt stayed at the bow-windowed house to arrange the new furniture⁠—for the house was to be let furnished⁠—and to pack up the beautiful old things that were real Arden things, and the children went in the carrier’s cart, with their clothes and their toys in two black boxes, and in their hearts a world of joyous anticipations.

Mrs. Honeysett received them with a pretty, old-fashioned curtsey, which melted into an embrace.

“You’re welcome to your home, my lord,” she said, with an arm round each child, “and you too, miss, my dear. Anyone can see you’re Ardens, both two