The Greatest Fantasy Tales of Edith Nesbit (Illustrated Edition). Ðдит ÐеÑбит
and nothing to do but stick straws in your hair all day, and listen to the howlings and ravings of the other maniacs? Make up your minds to it, all of you. It's no use telling mother."
"But it's true," said Jane.
"Of course it is, but it's not true enough for grown-up people to believe it," said Anthea.
"Cyril's right. Let's put flowers in all the vases, and try not to think about the diamonds. After all, everything has come right in the end all the other times."
So they filled all the pots they could find with flowers—asters and zinnias, and loose-leaved late red roses from the wall of the stableyard, till the house was a perfect bower.
And almost as soon as dinner was cleared away mother arrived, and was clasped in eight loving arms. It was very difficult indeed not to tell her all about the Psammead at once, because they had got into the habit of telling her everything. But they did succeed in not telling her.
Mother, on her side, had plenty to tell them—about Granny, and Granny's pigeons, and Auntie Emma's lame tame donkey. She was very delighted with the flowery-boweryness of the house; and everything seemed so natural and pleasant, now that she was home again, that the children almost thought they must have dreamed the Psammead.
But, when mother moved towards the stairs to go up to her bedroom and take off her bonnet, the eight arms clung round her just as if she only had two children, one the Lamb and the other an octopus.
She was clasped in eight loving arms
"Don't go up, mummy darling," said Anthea; "let me take your things up for you."
"Or I will," said Cyril.
"We want you to come and look at the rose-tree," said Robert.
"Oh, don't go up!" said Jane helplessly.
"Nonsense, dears," said mother briskly, "I'm not such an old woman yet that I can't take my bonnet off in the proper place. Besides I must wash these black hands of mine."
So up she went, and the children, following her, exchanged glances of gloomy foreboding.
Mother took off her bonnet,—it was a very pretty hat, really, with white roses in it,—and when she had taken it off she went to the dressing-table to do her pretty hair.
On the table between the ring-stand and the pin-cushion lay a green leather case. Mother opened it.
"Oh, how lovely!" she cried. It was a ring, a large pearl with shining, many-lighted diamonds set round it. "Wherever did this come from?" mother asked, trying it on her wedding finger, which it fitted beautifully. "However did it come here?"
"I don't know," said each of the children truthfully.
"Father must have told Martha to put it here," mother said. "I'll run down and ask her."
"Let me look at it," said Anthea, who knew Martha would not be able to see the ring. But when Martha was asked, of course she denied putting the ring there, and so did Eliza and cook.
Mother came back to her bedroom, very much interested and pleased about the ring. But, when she opened the dressing-table drawer and found a long case containing an almost priceless diamond necklace, she was more interested still, though not so pleased. In the wardrobe, when she went to put away her "bonnet," she found a tiara and several brooches, and the rest of the jewellery turned up in various parts of the room during the next half-hour. The children looked more and more uncomfortable, and now Jane began to sniff.
Mother looked at her gravely.
"Jane," she said, "I am sure you know something about this. Now think before you speak, and tell me the truth."
"We found a Fairy," said Jane obediently.
"No nonsense, please," said her mother sharply.
"Don't be silly, Jane," Cyril interrupted. Then he went on desperately. "Look here, mother, we've never seen the things before, but Lady Chittenden at Peasmarsh Place lost all her jewellery by wicked burglars last night. Could this possibly be it?"
All drew a deep breath. They were saved.
"But how could they have put it here? And why should they?" asked mother, not unreasonably. "Surely it would have been easier and safer to make off with it?"
"Suppose," said Cyril, "they thought it better to wait for—for sunset—nightfall, I mean, before they went off with it. No one but us knew that you were coming back to-day."
"I must send for the police at once," said mother distractedly. "Oh, how I wish daddy were here!"
"Wouldn't it be better to wait till he does come?" asked Robert, knowing that his father would not be home before sunset.
"No, no; I can't wait a minute with all this on my mind," cried mother. "All this" was the heap of jewel-cases on the bed. They put them all in the wardrobe, and mother locked it. Then mother called Martha.
"Martha," she said, "has any stranger been into my room since I've been away? Now, answer me truthfully."
"No, mum," answered Martha; "leastways, what I mean to say"—
She stopped.
"Come," said her mistress kindly, "I see someone has. You must tell me at once.
Don't be frightened. I'm sure you haven't done anything wrong."
Martha burst into heavy sobs.
"I was a-goin' to give you warning this very day, mum, to leave at the end of my month, so I was,—on account of me being going to make a respectable young man happy. A gamekeeper he is by trade, mum—and I wouldn't deceive you—of the name of Beale. And it's as true as I stand here, it was your coming home in such a hurry, and no warning given, out of the kindness of his heart it was, as he says, 'Martha, my beauty,' he says,—which I ain't, and never was, but you know how them men will go on,—'I can't see you a-toiling and a-moiling and not lend a 'elping 'and; which mine is a strong arm, and it's yours Martha, my dear,' says he. And so he helped me a-cleanin' of the windows—but outside, mum, the whole time, and me in; if I never say another breathing word it's gospel truth."
"Were you with him the whole time?" asked her mistress.
"Him outside and me in, I was," said Martha; "except for fetching up a fresh pail and the leather that that slut of a Eliza 'd hidden away behind the mangle."
"That will do,"' said the children's mother. "I am not pleased with you, Martha, but you have spoken the truth, and that counts for something."
When Martha had gone, the children clung round their mother.
"Oh, mummy darling," cried Anthea, "it isn't Beale's fault, it isn't really! He's a great dear; he is, truly and honourably, and as honest as the day. Don't let the police take him, mummy! Oh, don't, don't, don't!"
It was truly awful. Here was an innocent man accused of robbery through that silly wish of Jane's, and it was absolutely useless to tell the truth. All longed to, but they thought of the straws in the hair and the shrieks of the other frantic maniacs, and they could not do it.
"Is there a cart hereabouts?" asked the mother feverishly. "A trap of any sort? I must drive in to Rochester and tell the police at once."
All the children sobbed, "There's a cart at the farm, but, oh, don't go!—don't go!—oh, don't go!—wait till daddy comes home!"
Mother took not the faintest notice. When she had set her mind on a thing she always went straight through with it; she was rather like Anthea in this respect.
"Look here, Cyril," she said, sticking on her hat with long sharp violet-headed pins, "I leave you in charge. Stay in the dressing-room. You can pretend to be swimming boats in the