The E. Nesbit MEGAPACK ®: 26 Classic Novels and Stories. E. Nesbit
I’ll always act like a noble friend to you, and I’ll try my best to like you. Of course if you can’t like me you can’t, but you ought to try. Say it after me, won’t you?”
Her tone was so kind and persuading that he found himself saying after her, “I, Philip, agree to try and like you, Lucy, and to stand by you till we’re out of this, and always to act the part of a noble friend to you. And it’s real Pax. Shake hands.”
“Now then,” said he when they had shaken hands, and Lucy uttered these words:
“Don’t you see? It’s your own city that we’re in, your own city that you built on the tables in the drawing-room? It’s all got big by magic, so that we could get in. Look,” she pointed out of the window, “see that great golden dome, that’s one of the brass finger-bowls, and that white building’s my old model of St. Paul’s. And there’s Buckingham Palace over there, with the carved squirrel on the top, and the chessmen, and the blue and white china pepper-pots; and the building we’re in is the black Japanese cabinet.”
Philip looked and he saw that what she said was true. It was his city.
“But I didn’t build insides to my buildings,” said he; “and when did you see what I built anyway?”
“The insides are part of the magic, I suppose,” Lucy said; “and I saw the cities you built when Auntie brought me home last night, after you’d been sent to bed. And I did love them. And oh, Philip, I’m so glad it’s Pax because I do think you’re so frightfully clever, and Auntie thought so too, building those beautiful things. And I knew nurse was going to pull it all down. I begged her not to, but she was addymant, and so I got up and dressed and came down to have another look by moonlight. And one or two of the bricks and chessmen had fallen down. I expect nurse knocked them down. So I built them up again as well as I could—and I was loving it all like anything; and then the door opened and I hid under the table, and you came in.”
“Then you were there—did you notice how the magic began?”
“No, but it all changed to grass; and then I saw you a long way off, going up a ladder. And so I went after you. But I didn’t let you see me. I knew you’d be so cross. And then I looked in at the guard-room door, and I did so want some of the cocoa-nut milk.”
“When did you find out it was my city?”
“I thought the soldiers looked like my lead ones somehow. But I wasn’t sure till I saw the judge. Why he’s just old Noah, out of the Ark.”
“So he is,” cried Philip; “how wonderful! How perfectly wonderful! I wish we weren’t prisoners. Wouldn’t it be jolly to go all over it—into all the buildings, to see what the insides of them have turned into? And all the other people. I didn’t put them in.”
“That’s more magic, I expect. But—Oh, we shall find it all out in time.”
She clapped her hands. And on the instant the door opened and the gaoler appeared.
“A visitor for you,” he said, and stood aside to let some one else come in, some one tall and thin, with a black hooded cloak and a black half-mask, such as people wear at carnival time.
When the gaoler had shut the door and gone away the tall figure took off its mask and let fall its cloak, showing to the surprised but recognising eyes of the children the well-known shape of Mr. Noah—the judge.
“How do you do?” he said. “This is a little unofficial visit. I hope I haven’t come at an inconvenient time.”
“We’re very glad,” said Lucy, “because you can tell us—”
“I won’t answer questions,” said Mr. Noah, sitting down stiffly on his yellow mat, “but I will tell you something. We don’t know who you are. But I myself think that you may be the Deliverer.”
“Both of us,” said Philip jealously.
“One or both. You see the prophecy says that the Destroyer’s hair is red. And your hair is not red. But before I could get the populace to feel sure of, that my own hair would be grey with thought and argument. Some people are so wooden-headed. And I am not used to thinking. I don’t often have to do it. It distresses me.”
The children said they were sorry. Philip added:
“Do tell us a little about your city. It isn’t a question. We want to know if it’s magic. That isn’t a question either.”
“I was about to tell you,” said Mr. Noah, “and I will not answer questions. Of course it is magic. Everything in the world is magic, until you understand it.
“And as to the city. I will just tell you a little of our history. Many thousand years ago all the cities of our country were built by a great and powerful giant, who brought the materials from far and wide. The place was peopled partly by persons of his choice, and partly by a sort of self-acting magic rather difficult to explain. As soon as the cities were built and the inhabitants placed here the life of the city began, and it was, to those who lived it, as though it had always been. The artisans toiled, the musicians played, and the poets sang. The astrologers, finding themselves in a tall tower evidently designed for such a purpose, began to observe the stars and to prophesy.”
“I know that part,” said Philip.
“Very well,” said the judge. “Then you know quite enough. Now I want to ask a little favour of you both. Would you mind escaping?”
“If we only could,” Lucy sighed.
“The strain on my nerves is too much,” said Mr. Noah feelingly. “Escape, my dear children, to please me, a very old man in indifferent health and poor spirits.”
“But how—”
“Oh, you just walk out. You, my boy, can disguise yourself in your dressing-gown which I see has been placed on yonder chair, and I will leave my cloak for you, little girl.”
They both said “Thank you,” and Lucy added: “But how?”
“Through the door,” said the judge. “There is a rule about putting prisoners on their honour not to escape, but there have not been any prisoners for so long that I don’t suppose they put you on honour. No? You can just walk out of the door. There are many charitable persons in the city who will help to conceal you. The front-door key turns easily, and I myself will oil it as I go out. Good-bye—thank you so much for falling in with my little idea. Accept an old man’s blessing. Only don’t tell the gaoler. He would never forgive me.”
He got off his mat, rolled it up and went.
“Well!” said Lucy.
“Well!” said Philip.
“I suppose we go?” he said. But Lucy said, “What about the gaoler? Won’t he catch it if we bolt?”
Philip felt this might be true. It was annoying, and as bad as being put on one’s honour.
“Bother!” was what he said.
And then the gaoler came in. He looked pale and worried.
“I am so awfully sorry,” he began. “I thought I should enjoy having you here, but my nerves are all anyhow. The very sound of your voices. I can’t write a line. My brain reels. I wonder whether you’d be good enough to do a little thing for me? Would you mind escaping?”
“But won’t you get into trouble?”
“Nothing could be worse than this,” said the gaoler, with feeling. “I had no idea that children’s voices were so penetrating. Go, go. I implore you to escape. Only don’t tell the judge. I am sure he would never forgive me.”
After that, what prisoner would not immediately have escaped?
The two children only waited till the sound of the gaoler’s keys had died away on the stairs, to open their door, run down the many steps and slip out of the prison gate. They walked a little way in silence. There