'You are surprised to see me here,' said Noel, not taking any notice of
the furious looks of the rest of us. 'I am an infant prodigy. I play the
violin at concerts; I play it beautifully. They take me to London to
play in a closed carriage, so that I can't tell anyone my woes on the
way.'
'My poor child!' said one of the outsiders; 'tell us all about it. We
must rescue you.'
'Born of poor but honest parents,' said Noel--and this was what nurse
had read out to us--'my musical talent early manifested itself on a toy
violin, the gift of a devoted great-aunt. Torn from my home----I say, do
fetch the police. If the monsters who live on my violin-playing return
and find you here, they will brain you with the tools of their trade,
and I shall be lost.'
'Their trade?' said one of them. 'What trade?'
'They are coiners,' said Noel, 'as well as what they do to me to make me
play.'
'But if we leave you?'
'Oh, they won't hurt _me_,' cried Noel, 'because I have to play to-night
at Exeter Hall. Fly--fly for the police! They may come up behind you any
moment and cleave you to the chine.'
And they actually flew. The present author would have known instantly
that it was rot that about cleaving chines, but the man who wanted to
let the Disenchanteried House and the man who wanted to have it let to
him were of other mettle.
We had remained perfectly still and silent. Of course, if the outsiders
had attacked Noel, his brothers would have rushed to his rescue.
As soon as the retreating boots of the outsiders grew fainter on the
stairs, Noel turned green, and had to be revived by splashings from the
brotherly coal-scuttle full of water. He got better directly, and we all
scooted home to old nurse's, leaving our coining plant without a pang.
All great generals say that a retreat is best conducted without
impediments.
Noel was so ill he had to go to bed and stay there. This was as well,
because of the neighbourhood being scoured for the ill-used infant
prodigy that had been imprisoned in the Enchanceried House. He got all
right again in time to go home when father came up for us. While he was
in bed he wrote a long poem in six different coloured chalks, called
'The Enchanceried Coiners, or the Liar's Remorse.' So I know he was
sorry for what he had done. He told me he could not think what made him,
and of course it was very wrong, but it did save our bacon, and preserve
us from the noisome cells and bread and water that I am sure are the
real meaning of the 'utmost rigour of the law.'
Really the worst of it all was that while we were trembling in the
coiners' den, with the two outside gentlemen snorting and whispering on
the other side of the gate-door, H. O. had got up out of his bed at home
and answered the door. (Old nurse had gone out to get a lettuce and an
aerated loaf for tea.) He answered it to a butcher's bill for fifteen
and sevenpence that the butcher's little girl had brought, and he paid
it with six of the pennies that we had disguised as half-crowns, and
told the little girl to call for the sevenpence in the morning. I
believe many people have been hanged for less. It was lucky for H. O.
that old nurse was a friend of the butcher's, and able to persuade him
that it was only a joke. In sterner times, like the French Revolution
... but Alice does not like to think what would have happened then. As
this is the twentieth century, and not the eighteenth, our all going
down to the butcher and saying we were sorry made it all right. But
suppose it had been in other dates!
The butcher's wife gave us cake and ginger wine, and was very jolly. She
asked us where we had got the false half-crowns. Oswald said they had
been given us. This was true, but when they were given us they were
pennies.
Did Oswald tell a lie to the butcher? He has often wondered. He hopes
not. It is easy to know whether a thing is a lie or not when nothing
depends on it. But when events are happening, and the utmost rigour of
the law may be the result of your making a mistake, you have to tell the
truth as carefully as you can.
No English gentleman tells a lie--Oswald knows that, of course. But an
Englishman is not obliged to criminalate himself. The rules of honour
and the laws of your country are very puzzling and contradictory.
But the butcher got paid afterwards in real money--a half-sovereign and
two half-crowns, and seven unsilvered pennies. So nobody was injured,
and the author thinks that is the great thing after all.
All the same, if ever he goes to stay with old nurse again, he thinks he
will tell the butcher. All in confidence. He does not like to have any
doubts about such a serious thing as the honour of a Bastable.