The films were quite dry by bedtime, when, after a delightful evening with no magic in it at all but the magic of undisturbed jolliness, Edred slipped away, unpinned them and hid them in Elfrida's corner drawer, which he rightly judged to be a cleaner resting-place for them than his own was likely to be. So there the precious films lay between Elfrida's best lace collar and the handkerchief-case with three fat buttercups embroidered on it that Aunt Edith had given her at Christmas. And Edred went back to the parlour for one last game of Proverbs before bed. As he took up his cards he thought how strange it was that he, who had been imprisoned in the Tower and had talked with Sir Walter Raleigh, should be sitting there quietly playing Proverbs with his aunt and his sister, just like any other little boy.
"Aha!" said Edred to himself, "I am living a double life, that's what I'm doing."
He had seen the expression in a book and the idea charmed him.
"How pleased Edred looks with himself!" said Aunt Edith; "I'm sure he's got a whole proverb, or nearly, in his hand already."
"You'll be looking pleased presently," he said; "you always win."
And win she did, for Edred's thoughts were wandering off after the idea how pleased Aunt Edith would look when he and Elfrida should come to her, take her by the hand, and lead her to the hiding-place of the treasure, and then say, "Behold the treasure of our home! Now we can rebuild the castle and mend the broken thatch on the cottages, and I can go to Eton and Oxford, and you can have a diamond tiara, and Elfrida can have a pony to ride, and so can I."
Elfrida's thoughts were not unlike his—so Aunt Edith won the game of Proverbs.
"You have been very good children, Mrs. Honeysett tells me," said Aunt Edith, putting the cards together.
"Not so extra," said Edred; "I mean it's easy to be good when everything's so jolly."
"We have quarrelled once or twice, you know," said Elfrida virtuously.
"Yes, we have," said Edred firmly.
They needn't, they felt, have confessed this—and that made them feel that they were good now, if never before.
"Well, don't quarrel any more. I shall be coming over for good quite soon, then we'll have glorious times. Perhaps we'll find the treasure. You've heard about the treasure?"
"I should jolly well think we had," Edred couldn't help saying. And Elfrida added—
"And looked for it, too—but we haven't found it. Did you ever look for it?"
"No," said Aunt Edith, "but I always wanted to. My grandfather used to look for it when he was a little boy."
"Was your grandfather Lord Arden?" Edred asked.
"No; he was the grandson of the Lord Arden who fought for King James the Third, as they called him—the Pretender, you know—when he was quite a boy. And they let him off because of his being so young. And then he mortgaged all the Arden lands to keep the Young Pretender—Prince Charlie, you know, in the ballads. He got money to send to him, and of course Prince Charlie was going to pay it back when he was king. Only he never was king," she sighed.
"And is that why the Tallow King got all the Arden land?"
"Yes, dear—that's why English people prefer Tallow kings to Stuart kings. And old Lord Arden mortgaged everything. That means he borrowed money, and if he didn't pay back the money by a certain time he agreed to let them take the land instead. And he couldn't pay; so they took the land—all except a bit in the village and Arden Knoll—that was fixed so that he couldn't part from it."
"When we get the treasure we'll buy back the land again," said Edred. "The Tallow King's going to sell it. He's got so tallowy that Arden land isn't good enough for him. Old Beale told us. And, I say, Auntie, we'll rebuild the castle, too, won't we, and mend the holes in the thatch—where the rain comes in—in people's cottages, I mean."
"Have you been much into people's cottages?" Aunt Edith asked anxiously—with the strange fear of infection which seems a part of a grown-up's nature.
"Every one in the village, I think," said Elfrida cheerfully. "Old Beale told us we ought to—in case we found the treasure—so as to know what to do. The people are such dears. I believe they like us because we're Ardens. Or is it because Edred's a lord?"
"We must find the treasure," said Edred, looking as he always did when he was very much in earnest, so like his father that Aunt Edith could hardly bear it—"so as to be able to look after our people properly."
"And to kick out the Tallow King," said Elfrida.
"But you won't be discontented if you don't find it," said Aunt Edith. "It's only a sort of game really. No one I ever knew ever found a treasure. And think what we've found already! Arden Castle instead of Sea View Terrace—and the lodgers. Good-night, chicks."
She was gone before they were up in the morning, and the morning's first business was the printing of the photographs.
They printed them in the kitchen, because Mrs. Honeysett was turning out the parlour, and besides the kitchen window was wide and sunny, and the old table, scoured again and again till the grain of the wood stood up in ridges, was a nice, big, clear place to stand toning dishes on. They printed on matt paper, because it seemed somehow less common, and more like a picture than the shiny kind. The printing took the whole morning, and they had only one frame. And when they had done there were eighteen brown prints of the castle from all sorts of points of the compass—north and south and—but I explained all this to you before. When the prints were dried—which, as you know, is best done by sticking them up on the windows—it became necessary to find a place to put them in. One could not gloat over them for ever, though for quite a long time it seemed better to look at them again and again, and to say, "That's how it ought to be—that's the way we'll have it," than to do anything else.
Elfrida and Edred took the prints into the parlour, which was now neat as a new pin, and smelt almost too much of beeswax and turpentine, spread them on the polished oval dining-table and gloated over them.
"You can see every little bit exactly right," said Elfrida. "They're a little tiny bit muzzy. I expect our distance wasn't right or something, but that only makes them look more like real pictures, and us having printed them on paper that's too big makes it more pictury too. And any one who knew how buildings are built would know how to set it up. It would be like putting bricks back into the box from the pattern inside the lid."
Here Mrs. Honeysett called from the kitchen, "You done with all this litter?" and both children shouted "Yes!" and went on looking at the pictures. It was well that the shout was from both. If only one had done it there might have been what Mrs. Honeysett called "words" about the matter later; for next moment both said, "The films!" and rushed to the kitchen—just in time to see the kitchen fire enlivened by that peculiar crackling flare which fire and films alone can produce. Mrs. Honeysett had thrown the films on the fire with the other "litter," and it was no one's fault but the children's, as Mrs. Honeysett pointed out.
"I ask you if you done with it all, an' you says 'Yes'—only yourselves to thank," she repeated again and again amid their lamentations, and they had to own that she was right.
"We must take extra special care of the prints, that's all," said Edred, and the "History of the Ardens" was chosen as a hiding-place both safe and appropriate.
"It doesn't matter so much about the films," said Elfrida, "because we could never have shown them to any one. If we find the treasure we'll arrange for Auntie to find these prints—leave the History about or something—and she'll think they're photographs of painted pictures. So that'll be all right."
As they arranged the prints between the leaves of the History Elfrida's eye was caught by the words "moat" and "water-supply," and she read on and turned the page.
"Don't stop to read," said Edred, but she waved him away.
"I say, listen," she said, turning back; and she read—
"'In ancient times Arden Castle was surrounded by a moat. The original architects of the venerable pile, with that ingenuity whose fruits the thinking world so much admires in the lasting monuments of their labours, diverted from its subterraneous course a stream which rose through the chalk in the hills of the vicinity, and is said to be debouch into the sea about fifty yards below high-water mark. The engineering works necessary for this triumph of mind over matter endured till 1647, when the castle was besieged by the troops of that monster in human form Oliver Cromwell. To facilitate his attack on the castle the officer in command gave orders that the stream should be 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 smuggler's 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,
"PS.—I don't know how lords sign letters because I have not been it long, but you'll know who it is.
"PSS.—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 adventure 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 some one 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 the door. And we did find the door. Perhaps it would tell us something new if we called it now—and if it came."
"And if it came," said Edred.
"Don't talk—make poetry," said Elfrida. But that was one of the things that Edred never could do. Trying to make poetry was, to him, like trying to remember a name you have never heard, or to multiply a number that you've forgotten by another number that you don't recollect.
But Elfrida, that youthful poet, frowned and bit her lip and twisted her hands, and reached out in her mind to words that she just couldn't quite think of, till the words grew tame and flew within reach, and she caught them and caged them behind the bars of rhyme. This was her poem—
"Dear Mouldiwarp, do come if you can,
And tell us if there is any plan
That you can tell us of for us two
To get into the past like we used to do.
Dear Mouldiwarp, we don't want to worry
You—but we are in a frightful hurry."
"So you be always," said the white Mouldiwarp, suddenly appearing between them on the yellowy dry grass. "Well, well! Youth's the season for silliness. What's to do now? I be turble tired of all this. I wish I'd only got to give ye the treasure and go my ways. You don't give a poor Mouldiwarp a minute's rest. You do terrify me same's flies, you do."
"Is there any other way," said Elfrida, "to get back into the past? We can't find the door now."
"Course you can't," said the mole. "That's a chance gone, and gone for ever.
"'He that will not when he may,
He shall not when he would-a.'
Well, tell me where you want to go, and I'll make you a backways-working white clock."
"Anywhere you like," said Edred incautiously.
"Tch, tch!" said the mole, rubbing its nose with vexation. "There's another chance gone, and gone for ever. You be terrible spending with your chances, you be. Now, answer sharp as weasel's nose. Be there any one in the past you'd like to see?
"'If you don't know,
Then you don't go.'
And that's poetry as good as yours any day of the week."
"Cousin Richard," said Elfrida and Edred together. This was the only name they could think of.
"Bide ye still, my dears," said the Mouldiwarp, "and I'll make you a white road right to where he is."
So they sat still, all but their tongues.
"Is he in the past?" said Elfrida; "because if he is, it wasn't much good our writing to him."
"You hold your little tongues," said the Mouldiwarp, "and keep your little mouths shut, and your little eyes open, and wish well to the white magic. There never was a magic yet," the mole went on, "that was the worse for being well-wished."
"May I say something," said Elfrida, "without its stopping the magic?"
"Put your white handkerchief over your face and talk through it, and then you may."
By a most fortunate and unusual chance, Elfrida's handkerchief was white: it was, in fact, still folded in the sixteen blameless squares into which the laundress had ironed it. She threw it over her face as she lay back on the turf and spoke through it.
"I'd like to see the nurse witch again," she said.
"Instead of Cousin Richard?"
"No: as well as."
"That's right," said the magic mole. "You shouldn't change your wishes; but there's no rule against enlarging them—on the contrary. Now look!"
Elfrida whisked away the handkerchief and looked.
Have you ever noticed the way the bath water runs away when you pull up the bath tap? Have you ever seen bottles filled through a funnel?
The white Mouldiwarp reached up its hands—its front feet I ought perhaps to say—towards the deep blue sky, where white clouds herded together like giant sheep.
And it spoke. At least, it did not speak, but it sang. Yet I don't know that you could call it singing either. It was more like the first notes that a violin yields to the bow wielded by the hand of a master musician. And the white clouds stooped to answer it. Round and round in the blue sky they circled, drawing together and swirling down, as the bath water draws and swirls when you pull up the knob labelled "Waste"—round and round till they showed like a vast white funnel whose neck hung, a great ring, above the group on the dry grass of the downs. It stooped and stooped. The ring fitted down over them, they were in a white tower, narrow at its base where that base touched the grass, but widening to the blue sky overhead.
"Take hands," cried the Mouldiwarp. "Always hold hands when there is magic about."
The children clasped hands.
"Both hands," said the Mouldiwarp; and each child reached out a hand, that was caught and held. Round and round, incredibly swifter and swifter, went the cloud funnel, and the voice of the mole at their feet sounded faint and far away.
"Up!" it cried, "up! Shall the very clouds dance for your delight, and you alone refrain and tread not a measure?"
The children leaped up—and through the cloud came something that was certainly music, though it was so vague and far away that the sharpest music-master you ever had could not have made out the tune. But the rhythm of it was there, an insistent beat, beat, beat—and a beat that made your feet long to keep time to it. And through the rhythm presently the tune pierced, as the sound of the pipes pierces the sound of the drums when you see the Church Brigade boys go by when you are on your holiday by the sea near their white-tented, happy camps. And that time the children's feet could not resist. They danced steps that they had not known they knew. And they knew, for the first time, the delight of real dancing: none of your waltzes, or even minuets, but the dancing that means youth and gaiety, and being out for a holiday, and determined to enjoy everything to the last breath.
And as they danced the white cloud funnel came down and closed about them, so that they danced, as it were, in a wrapping of white cotton wool too soft for them even to feel it. And there was a sweet scent in the air. They did not know in that cloudy, soft whiteness, what flower bore that scent, but they knew that it smelt of the spring, and of fields and hedges far away from the ugliness of towns. The cloud thinned as the scent thickened, and green lights showed through it.
The green lights grew, the cloud funnel lifted. And Edred and Elfrida, still dancing, found themselves but two in a ring of some thirty children, dancing on a carpet of green turf between walls of green branches. And every child wore a wreath of white May-blossoms on its head. And that was the magic scene that had come to them through the white cloud of the white Mouldiwarp's magic.
"What is it? Why are we dancing?" Edred incautiously asked of the little girl whose hand—and not Elfrida's—he found that his left hand was holding. The child laughed—just laughed, she did not answer. It was Elfrida who had his right hand, and her own right handy was clasped in that of a boy dressed in green.
"Oh!" she said, with a note of glad recognition. "It's you! I'm so glad! What is it? Why are we dancing?"
"It's May-day," said Cousin Richard, "and the King is coming to look on at the revels."
"What king?" she asked.
"Who but King Harry?" he said. "King Harry and his new Queen, that but of late was the Lady Anna Boleyn."
"I say, Dick," said Edred across his sister, "I am jolly glad to see you again. We—"
"Not now," said Dick earnestly; "not a word now. It is not safe. And besides—here comes the King!"