BURIED TREASURE
AND then, as he stood there in the sunshine, he suddenly knew.
Having succeeded in dreaming once again the dream which he had so longed
to dream, Dickie Harding looked out of the window of the dream-house in
Deptford into the dream-garden with its cut yew-trees and box avenues
and bowling-greens, and perceived without doubt that this was no dream,
but real--as real as the other Deptford where he had sown Artistic Bird
Seed and gathered moonflowers and reaped the silver seeds of magic, for
it _was_ magic. Dickie was sure of it now. He had not lived in the time
of the First James, be sure, without hearing magic talked of. And it
seemed quite plain to him that if this that had happened to him was not
magic, then there never was and never would be any magic to happen to
any one. He turned from the window and looked at the tapestry-hung
room--the big bed, the pleasant, wrinkled face of the nurse--and he knew
that all this was as real as anything that had happened to him in that
other life where he was a little lame boy who took the road with a
dirty tramp for father, and lay in the bed with green curtains.
"Was thy friend well, in thy dream?" the nurse asked.
"Yes, oh, yes," said Dickie, "and I carved boxes in my dream, and sold
them, and I want to learn a lot more things, so that when I go back
again--I mean when I dream that dream again--I shall be able to earn
more money."
"'Tis shame that one of thy name should have to work for money," said
the nurse.
"It _isn't_ my name there," said Dickie; "and old Sebastian told me
every one ought to do some duty to his country, or he wasn't worth his
meat and ale. And you don't know how good it is having money that you've
_earned yourself_."
"I ought to," she said; "I've earned mine long enough. Now haste and
dress--and then breakfast and thy fencing lesson."
When the fencing lesson was over, Dickie hesitated. He wanted, of
course, to hurry off to Sebastian and to go on learning how to make a
galleon. But also he wanted to learn some trade that he could teach
Beale at Deptford, and he knew, quite as surely as any master craftsman
could have known it, that nothing which required delicate handling, such
as wood-carving or the making of toy boats, could ever be mastered by
Beale. But Beale was certainly fond of dogs. Dickie remembered how
little True had cuddled up to him and nestled inside his coat when he
lay down to sleep under the newspapers and the bits of sacking in
Lavender Terrace, Rosemary Lane.
So Dickie went his way to the kennels to talk to the kennelman. He had
been there before with Master Roger Fry, his fencing master, but he had
never spoken to the kennelman. And when he got to the kennels he knocked
on the door of the kennelman's house and called out, "What ho! within
there!" just as people do in old plays. And the door was thrown open by
a man in a complete suit of leather, and when Dickie looked in that
man's face he saw that it was the face of the man who had lived next
door in Lavender Terrace, Rosemary Lane--the man who dug up the garden
for the parrot seed.
"Why," said Dickie, "it's you!"
"Who would it be but me, little master?" the man asked with a respectful
salute, and Dickie perceived that though this man had the face of the
Man Next Door, he had not the Man Next Door's memories.
"Do you live here?" he asked cautiously--"always, I mean."
"Where else should I live?" the man asked, "that have served my lord,
your father, all my time, boy and man, and know every hair of every dog
my lord owns."
Dickie thought that was a good deal to know--and so it was.
He stayed an hour at the kennels and came away knowing very much more
about dogs than he did before, though some of the things he learned
would surprise a modern veterinary surgeon very much indeed. But the
dogs seemed well and happy, though they were doctored with herb tea
instead of stuff from the chemist's, and the charms that were said over
them to make them swift and strong certainly did not make them any the
less strong and swift.
When Dickie had learned as much about dogs as he felt he could bear for
that day, he felt free to go down to the dockyard and go on learning how
ships were built. Sebastian looked up at the voice and ceased the blows
with which his axe was smoothing a great tree trunk that was to be a
mast, and smiled in answer to his smile.
"Oh, what a long time since I have seen thee!" Dickie cried.
And Sebastian, gently mocking him, answered, "A great while indeed--two
whole long days. And those thou'st spent merrymaking in the King's water
pageant. Two days--a great while, a great, great while."
"I want you to teach me everything you know," said Dickie, picking up
an awl and feeling its point.
[Illustration: "'OH, WHAT A LONG TIME SINCE I HAVE SEEN THEE!' DICKIE
CRIED"
[_Page 147_]
"Have patience with me," laughed Sebastian; "I will teach thee all thou
canst learn, but not all in one while. Little by little, slow and sure."
"You must not think," said Dickie, "that it's only play, and that I do
not need to learn because I am my father's son."
"Should I think so?" Sebastian asked; "I that have sailed with Captain
Drake and Captain Raleigh, and seen how a gentleman venturer needs to
turn his hand to every guess craft? If thou's so pleased to learn as
Sebastian is to teach, then he'll be as quick to teach as thou to learn.
And so to work!"
He fetched out from the shed the ribs of the little galleon that he and
Dickie had begun to put together, and the two set to work on it. It was
a happy day. And one happiness was to all the other happinesses of that
day as the sun is to little stars--and that happiness was the happiness
of being once more a little boy who did not need to use a crutch.
And now the beautiful spacious life opened once more for Dickie, and he
learned many things and found the days all good and happy and all the
nights white and peaceful, in the big house and the beautiful garden on
the slopes above Deptford. And the nights had no dreams in them, and in
the days Dickie lived gaily and worthily, the life of the son of a
great and noble house, and now he had no prickings of conscience about
Beale, left alone in the little house in Deptford. Because one day he
said to his nurse--
"How long did it take me to dream that dream about making the boxes and
earning the money in the ugly place I told you of?"
"Dreams about that place," she answered him, "take none of _our_ time
here. And dreams about this place take none of what is time in that
other place."
"But my dream endured all night," objected Dickie.
"Not so," said the nurse, smiling between her white cap frills. "It was
_after_ the dream that sleep came--a whole good nightful of it."
So Dickie felt that for Beale no time at all had passed, and that when
he went back--which he meant to do--he would get back to Deptford at the
same instant as he left it. Which is the essence of this particular kind
of white magic. And thus it happened that when he did go back to Mr.
Beale he went because his heart called him, and not for any other reason
at all.
Days and weeks and months went by and it was autumn, and the apples were
ripe on the trees, and the grapes ripe on the garden walls and
trellises. And then came a day when all the servants seemed suddenly to
go mad--a great rushing madness of mops and brooms and dusters and pails
and everything in the house already perfectly clean was cleaned anew,
and everything that was already polished was polished freshly, and when
Dickie had been turned out of three rooms one after the other, had
tumbled over a pail and had a dish-cloth pinned to his doublet by an
angry cook, he sought out the nurse, very busy in the linen-room, and
asked her what all the fuss was about.
"It can't be a spring-cleaning," he said, "because it's the wrong time
of year."
"Never say I did not tell thee," she answered, unfolding a great
embroidered cupboard cloth and holding it up critically. "To-morrow thy
father and mother come home, and thy baby-brother, and to-day sennight
thy little cousins come to visit thee."
"How perfectly glorious!" said Dickie. "But you _didn't_ tell me."
"If I didn't 'twas because you never asked."
"I--I didn't dare to," he said dreamily; "I was so afraid. You see, I've
never seen them."
"Afraid?" she said, laying away the folded cloth and taking out another
from the deep press, oaken, with smooth-worn, brown iron hinges and
lock; "never seen thy father and mother, forsooth!"
"Perhaps it was the fever," said Dickie, feeling rather deceitful. "You
said it made me forget things. I don't remember them. Not at all, I
don't."
"Do not say that to them," the nurse said, looking at him very gravely.
"I won't. Unless they ask me," he added. "Oh, nurse, let me do something
too. What can I do to help?"
"Thou canst gather such flowers as are left in the garden to make a
nosegay for thy mother's room; and set them in order in fair water. And
bid thy tutor teach thee a welcome song to say to them when they come
in."
Gathering the flowers and arranging them was pleasant and easy. Asking
so intimate a favor from the sour-faced tutor whom he so much disliked
was neither easy nor pleasant. But Dickie did it. And the tutor was
delighted to set him to learn a particularly hard and uninteresting
piece of poetry, beginning--
"Happy is he
Who, to sweet home retired,
Shuns glory so admired
And to himself lives free;
While he who strives with pride to climb the skies
Falls down with foul disgrace before he dies."
Dickie could not help thinking that the father and mother who were to be
his in this beautiful world might have preferred something simpler and
more affectionate from their little boy than this difficult piece whose
last verse was the only one which seemed to Dickie to mean anything in
particular. In this verse Dickie was made to remark that he hoped people
would say of him, "He died a good old man," which he did _not_ hope, and
indeed had never so much as thought of. The poetry, he decided, would
have been nicer if it had been more about his father and mother and less
about fame and trees and burdens. He felt this so much that he tried to
write a poem himself, and got as far as--
"They say there is no other
Can take the place of mother.
I say there is no one I'd rather
See than my father."
But he could not think of any more to say, and besides, he had a
haunting idea that the first two lines--which were quite the best--were
not his own make-up. So he abandoned the writing of poetry, deciding
that it was not his line, and painfully learned the dismal verses
appointed by his tutor.
But he never got them said. When the bustle of arrival had calmed a
little, Dickie, his heart beating very fast indeed, found himself led by
his tutor into the presence of the finest gentleman and the dearest lady
he had ever beheld. The tutor gave him a little push so that he had to
go forward two steps and to stand alone on the best carpet, which had
been spread in their honor, and hissed in a savage whisper--
"Recite your song of welcome."
"'Happy the man,'" began Dickie, in tones of gloom, and tremblingly
pronounced the first lines of that unpleasing poem.
But he had not got to "strive with pride" before the dear lady caught
him in her arms, exclaiming, "Bless my dear son! how he has grown!" and
the fine gentleman thumped him on the back, and bade him "bear himself
like a gentleman's son, and not like a queasy square-toes." And they
both laughed, and he cried a little, and the tutor seemed to be blotted
out, and there they were, all three as jolly as if they had known each
other all their lives. And a stout young nurse brought the baby, and
Dickie loved it and felt certain it loved him, though it only said, "Goo
ga goo," exactly as your baby-brother does now, and got hold of Dickie's
hair and pulled it and would not let go.
There was a glorious dinner, and Dickie waited on this new father of
his, changed his plate, and poured wine out of a silver jug into the
silver cup that my lord drank from. And after dinner the dear
lady-mother must go all over the house to see everything, because she
had been so long away, and Dickie walked in the garden among the ripe
apples and grapes with his father's hand on his shoulder, the happiest,
proudest boy in all Deptford--or in all Kent either.
His father asked what he had learned, and Dickie told, dwelling,
perhaps, more on the riding, and the fencing, and the bowls, and the
music than on the sour-faced tutor's side of the business.
"But I've learned a lot of Greek and Latin, too," he added in a hurry,
"and poetry and things like that."
"I fear," said the father, "thou dost not love thy book."
"I do, sir; yet I love my sports better," said Dickie, and looked up to
meet the fond, proud look of eyes as blue as his own.
"Thou'rt a good, modest lad," said his father when they began their
third round of the garden, "not once to ask for what I promised thee."
Dickie could not stand this. "I might have asked," he said presently,
"but I have forgot what the promise was--the fever----"
"Ay, ay, poor lad! And of a high truth, too! Owned he had forgot! Come,
jog that poor peaked remembrance."
Dickie could hardly believe the beautiful hope that whispered in his
ear.
"I almost think I remember," he said. "Father--did you promise----?"
"I promised, if thou wast a good lad and biddable and constant at thy
book and thy manly exercises, to give thee, so soon as thou should'st
have learned to ride him----"
"A little horse?" said Dickie breathlessly; "oh, father, not a little
horse?" It was good to hear one's father laugh that big, jolly laugh--to
feel one's father's arm laid like that across one's shoulders.
The little horse turned round to look at them from his stall in the big
stables. It was really rather a big horse.
What colored horse would you choose--if a horse were to be yours for the
choosing? Dickie would have chosen a gray, and a gray it was.
"What is his name?" Dickie asked, when he had admired the gray's every
point, had had him saddled, and had ridden him proudly round the pasture
in his father's sight.
"We call him Rosinante," said his father, "because he is so fat," and he
laughed, but Dickie did not understand the joke. He had not read "Don
Quixote," as you, no doubt, have.
"I should like," said Dickie, sitting square on the gray, "to call him
Crutch. May I?"
"_Crutch?_" the father repeated.
"Because his paces are so easy," Dickie explained. He got off the horse
very quickly and came to his father. "I mean even a lame boy could ride
him. Oh! father, I am so happy!" he said, and burrowed his nose in a
velvet doublet, and perhaps snivelled a little. "I am so glad I am not
lame."
"Fancy-full as ever," said his father; "come, come! Thou'rt weak yet
from the fever. Be a man. Remember of what blood thou art. And thy
mother--she also hath a gift for thee--from thy grandfather. Hast thou
forgotten that? It hangs to the book learning. A reward--and thou hast
earned it."
"I've forgotten that, too," said Dickie. "You aren't vexed because I
forget? I can't help it, father."
"That I'll warrant thou cannot. Come, now, to thy mother. My little son!
The Earl of Scilly chid me but this summer for sparing the rod and
spoiling the child. But thy growth in all things bears out in what I
answered him. I said: 'The boys of our house, my lord, take that pride
in it that they learn of their own free will what many an earl's son
must be driven to with rods.' He took me. His own son is little better
than an idiot, and naught but the rod to blame for it, I verily
believe."
They found the lady-mother and her babe by a little fire in a wide
hearth.
"Our son comes to claim the guerdon of learning," the father said. And
the lady stood up with the babe in her arms.
"Call the nurse to take him," she said. But Dickie held out his arms.
"Oh, mother," he said, and it was the first time in all his life that he
had spoken that word to any one. "Mother, do let me hold him."
A warm, stiff bundle was put into his careful arms, and his little
brother instantly caught at his hair. It hurt, but Dickie liked it.
The lady went to one of the carved cabinets and with a bright key from a
very bright bunch unlocked one of the heavy panelled doors. She drew out
of the darkness within a dull-colored leather bag embroidered in gold
thread and crimson silk.
"He has forgot," said Sir Richard in an undertone, "what it was that the
grandfather promised him. Though he has well earned the same. 'Tis the
fever."
The mother put the bag in Dickie's hands.
"Count it out," she said, taking her babe from him; and Dickie untied
the leathern string, and poured out on to the polished long table what
the bag held. Twenty gold pieces.
"And all with the image of our late dear Queen," said the mother; "the
image of that incomparable virgin Majesty whose example is a beacon for
all time to all virtuous ladies."
[Illustration: "IT HURT, BUT DICKIE LIKED IT"
[_Page 157_]
"Ah, yes, indeed," said the father; "put them up in the bag, boy. They
are thine own to thee, to spend as thou wilt."
"Not unwisely," said the mother gently.
"As he wills," the father firmly said; "wisely or unwisely. As he wills.
And none," he added, "shall ask how they be spent."
The lady frowned; she was a careful housewife, and twenty gold pieces
were a large sum.
"I will not waste it," said Dickie. "Mother, you may trust me not to
waste it."
It was the happiest moment of his life to Dickie. The little horse--the
gold pieces.... Yes, but much more, the sudden, good, safe feeling of
father and mother and little brother; of a place where he belonged,
where he loved and was loved. And by his equals. For he felt that, as
far as a child can be the equal of grown people, he was the equal of
these. And Beale was not his equal, either in the graces of the body or
in the inner treasures of mind and heart. And hitherto he had loved only
Beale; had only, so far as he could remember, been loved by Beale and by
that shadowy father, his "Daddy," who had died in hospital, and dying,
had given him the rattle, his Tinkler, that was Harding's Luck. And in
the very heart of that happiest moment came, like a sharp dagger
prick, the thought of Beale. What wonders could be done for Beale with
those twenty-five gold sovereigns? For Dickie thought of them just as
sovereigns--and so they were.
And as these people who loved him, who were his own, drew nearer and
nearer to his heart--his heart, quickened by love of them, felt itself
drawn more and more to Mr. Beale. Mr. Beale, the tramp, who had been
kind to him when no one else was. Mr. Beale, the tramp and housebreaker.
So when the nurse took him, tired with new happinesses, to that
beautiful tapestried room of his, he roused himself from his good soft
sleepiness to say--
"Nurse, you know a lot of things, don't you?"
"I know what I know," she answered, undoing buttons with speed and
authority.
"You know that other dream of mine--that dream of mine, I mean, the
dream of a dreadful place?"
"And then?"
"Could I take anything out of this dream--I mean out of this time into
the other one?"
"You could, but you must bring it back when you come again. And you
could bring things thence. Certain things: your rattle, your moon-seeds,
your seal."
He stared at her.
"You _do_ know things," he said; "but I want to take things there and
leave them there."
She knitted thoughtful brows.
"There's three hundred thick years between now and then," she said. "Oh,
yes, I know. And if you held it in your hand, you'd lose it like as not
in some of the years you go through. Money's mortal heavy and travels
slow. Slower than the soul of you, my lamb. Some one would have time to
see it and snatch it and hold to it."
"Isn't there any way?" Dickie asked, insisting to himself that he wasn't
sleepy.
"There's the way of everything--the earth," she said; "bury it, and lie
down on the spot where it's buried, and then, when you get back into the
other dream, the kind, thick earth will have hid your secret, and you
can dig it up again. It will be there ... unless other hands have dug
there in the three hundred years. You must take your chance of that."
"Will you help me?" Dickie asked. "I shall need to dig it very deep if I
am to cheat three hundred years. And suppose," he added, struck by a
sudden and unpleasing thought, "there's a house built on the place. I
should be mixed up with the house. Two things can't be in the same place
at the same time. My tutor told me that. And the house would be so much
stronger than me--it would get the best of it, and where should I be
then?"
"I'll ask where thou'd be," was the very surprising answer. "I'll ask
some one who knows. But it'll take time--put thy money in the great
press, and I'll keep the key. And next Friday as ever is, come your
little cousins."
They came. It was more difficult with them than it was with the
grown-ups to conceal the fact that he had not always been the Dickie he
was now; but it was not so difficult as you might suppose. It was no
harder than not talking about the dreams you had last night.
And now he had indeed a full life: head-work, bodily exercises, work,
home life, and joyous hours of play with two children who understood
play as the poor little, dirty Deptford children do not and cannot
understand it.
He lived and learned, and felt more and more that this was the life to
which he really belonged. And days and weeks and months went by and
nothing happened, and that is the happiest thing that can happen to any
one who is already happy.
Then one night the nurse said--
"I have asked. You are to bury your treasure under the window of the
solar parlor, and lie down and sleep on it. You'll take no harm, and
when you're asleep I will say the right words, and you'll wake under the
same skies and not under a built house, like as you feared."
She wrapped him in a warm cloth mantle of her own, when she took him
from his bed that night after all the family were asleep, and put on his
shoes and led him to the hole she had secretly dug in below the window.
They had put his embroidered leather bag of gold in a little
wrought-iron coffer that Sebastian had given him, and the nurse had
tightly fastened the join of lid and box with wax and resin. The box was
wrapped in a silk scarf, and the whole packet put into a big earthenware
jar with a lid, and the join of lid and jar was smeared with resin and
covered with clay. The nurse had shown him how to do all this.
"Against the earth spirits and the three hundred years," she said.
Now she lifted the jar into the hole, and together they filled the hole
with earth, treading it in with their feet.
"And when you would return," said the nurse, "you know the way."
"Do I?"
"You lay the rattle, the seal, and the moon-seeds as before, and listen
to the voices."
And then Dickie lay down in the cloth cloak, and the nurse sat by him
and held his hand till he fell asleep. It was June now, and the scent of
the roses was very sweet, and the nightingales kept him awake awhile.
But the sky overhead was an old friend of his, and as he lay he could
see the shining of the dew among the grass blades of the lawn. It was
pleasant to lie again in the bed with the green curtains.
When he awoke there was his old friend the starry sky, and for a moment
he wondered. Then he remembered. He raised himself on his elbow. There
were houses all about--little houses with lights in some of the windows.
A broken paling was quite close to him. There was no grass near, only
rough trampled earth; the smell all about him was not of roses, but of
dust-bins, and there were no nightingales--but far away he could hear
that restless roar that is the voice of London, and near at hand the
foolish song and unsteady footfall of a man going home from the "Cat and
Whistle." He scratched a cross on the hard ground with a broken bit of a
plate to mark the spot, got up and crept on hands and knees to the
house, climbed in and found the room where Beale lay asleep.
* * * * *
"Father," said Dickie, next morning, as Mr. Beale stretched and grunted
and rubbed sleepy eyes with his unwashed fists in the cold daylight that
filled the front room of 15, Lavender Terrace, Rosemary Lane. "You got
to take this house--that's what you got to do; you remember."
"Can't say I do," said Beale, scratching his head; "but if the nipper
says so, it _is_ so. Let's go and get a mug and a door-step, and then
we'll see."
"You get it--if you're hungry," said Dickie. "I'd rather wait here in
case anybody else was to take the house. You go and see 'im now. 'E'll
think you're a man in reg'lar work by your being up so early."
"P'raps," said Beale thoughtfully, running his hand over the rustling
stubble of his two days' beard--"p'raps I'd best get a wash and brush-up
first, eh? It might be worth it in the end. I'll 'ave to go to the doss
to get our pram and things, any'ow."
The landlord of the desired house really thought Mr. Beale a quite
respectable working man, and Mr. Beale accounted for their lack of
furniture by saying, quite truthfully, that he and his nipper had come
up from Gravesend, doing a bit of work on the way.
"I could," he added, quite untruthfully, "give you the gentleman I
worked with for me reference--Talbott, 'is name is--a bald man with a
squint and red ears--but p'raps this'll do as well." He pulled out of
one pocket all their money--two pounds eighteen shillings--except six
pennies which he had put in the other pocket to rattle. He rattled them
now. "I'm anxious," he said, confidentially, "to get settled on account
of the nipper. I don't deceive you; we 'oofed it up, not to waste our
little bit, and he's a hoppy chap."
"That's odd," said the landlord; "there was a lame boy lived there along
of the last party that had it. It's a cripple's home by rights, I should
think."
Beale had not foreseen this difficulty, and had no story ready. So he
tried the truth.
"It's the same lad, mister," he said; "that's why I'm rather set on the
'ouse. You see, it's 'ome to 'im like," he added sentimentally.
"You 'is father?" said the landlord sharply. And again Beale was
inspired to truthfulness--quite a lot of it.
"No," he said cautiously, "wish I was. The fact is, the little chap's
aunt wasn't much class. An' I found 'im wandering. An' not 'avin' none
of my own, I sort of adopted 'im."
"Like Wandering Hares at the theatre," said the landlord, who had been
told by Dickie's aunt that the "ungrateful little warmint" had run away.
"I see."
"And 'e's a jolly little chap," said Beale, warming to his subject and
forgetting his caution, "as knowing as a dog-ferret; and his
patter--enough to make a cat laugh, 'e is sometimes. And I'll pay a week
down if you like, mister--and we'll get our bits of sticks in to-day."
"Well," said the landlord, taking a key from a nail on the wall, "let's
go down and have a look at the 'ouse. Where's the kid?"
"'E's there awaitin' for me," said Beale; "couldn't get 'im away."
Dickie was very polite to the landlord, at whom in unhappier days he had
sometimes made faces, and when the landlord went he had six of their
shillings and they had the key.
"So now we've got a 'ome of our own," said Beale, rubbing his hands when
they had gone through the house together; "an Englishman's 'ome is 'is
castle--and what with the boxes you'll cut out and the dogs what I'll
pick up, Buckingham Palace'll look small alongside of us--eh, matey?"
They locked up the house and went to breakfast, Beale gay as a lark and
Dickie rather silent. He was thinking over a new difficulty. It was all
very well to bury twenty sovereigns and to know exactly where they were.
And they were his own beyond a doubt. But if any one saw those
sovereigns dug up, those sovereigns would be taken away from him. No one
would believe that they were his own. And the earthenware pot was so
big. And so many windows looked out on the garden. No one could hope to
dig up a big thing like that from his back garden without attracting
_some_ attention. Besides, he doubted whether he were strong enough to
dig it up, even if he could do so unobserved. He had not thought of this
when he had put the gold there in that other life. He was so much
stronger then. He sighed.
"Got the 'ump, mate?" asked Beale, with his mouth full.
"No, I was just a-thinkin'."
"We'd best buy the sticks first thing," said Beale; "it's a cruel world.
'No sticks, no trust' is the landlord's motto."
Do you want to know what sticks they bought? I will tell you. They
bought a rusty old bedstead, very big, with laths that hung loose like a
hammock, and all its knobs gone and only bare screws sticking up
spikily. Also a flock mattress and pillows of a dull dust color to go on
the bed, and some blankets and sheets, all matching the mattress to a
shade. They bought a table and two chairs, and a kitchen fender with a
round steel moon--only it was very rusty--and a hand-bowl for the sink,
and a small zinc bath, "to wash your shirt in," said Mr. Beale. Four
plates, two cups and saucers, two each of knives, forks, and spoons, a
tin teapot, a quart jug, a pail, a bit of Kidderminster carpet, half a
pound of yellow soap, a scrubbing-brush and broom, two towels, a
kettle, a saucepan and a baking-dish, and a pint of paraffin. Also there
was a tin lamp to hang on the wall with a dazzling crinkled tin
reflector. This was the only thing that was new, and it cost tenpence
halfpenny. All the rest of the things together cost twenty-six shillings
and sevenpence halfpenny, and I think they were cheap.
But they seemed very poor and very little of them when they were dumped
down in the front room. The bed especially looked far from its best--a
mere heap of loose iron.
"And we ain't got our droring-room suit, neither," said Mr. Beale.
"Lady's and gent's easy-chairs, four hoccasionals, pianner, and foomed
oak booreau."
"Curtains," said Dickie--"white curtains for the parlor and short blinds
everywhere else. I'll go and get 'em while you clean the winders. That
old shirt of mine. It won't hang through another washing. Clean 'em with
that."
"You don't give your orders, neither," said Beale contentedly.
The curtains and a penn'orth of tacks, a hammer borrowed from a
neighbor, and an hour's cheerful work completed the fortification of the
Englishman's house against the inquisitiveness of passers-by. But the
landlord frowned anxiously as he went past the house.
"Don't like all that white curtain," he told himself; "not much be'ind
it, if you ask me. People don't go to that extreme in Nottingham lace
without there's something to hide--a house full of emptiness, most
likely."
Inside Dickie was telling a very astonished Mr. Beale that there was
money buried in the garden.
"It was give me," said he, "for learning of something--and we've got to
get it up so as no one sees us. I can't think of nothing but build a
chicken-house and then dig inside of it. I wish I was cleverer. Here
Ward would have thought of something first go off."
"Don't you worry," said Beale; "you're clever enough for this poor
world. _You're_ all right. Come on out and show us where you put it.
Just peg with yer foot on the spot, looking up careless at the sky."
They went out. And Dickie put his foot on the cross he had scratched
with the broken bit of plate. It was close to the withered stalk of the
moonflower.
"This 'ere garden's in a poor state," said Beale in a loud voice; "wants
turning over's what _I_ think--against the winter. I'll get a spade and
'ave a turn at it this very day, so I will. This 'ere old artichook's
got some roots, I lay."
The digging began at the fence and reached the moonflower, whose roots
were indeed deep. Quite a hole Mr. Beale dug before the tall stalk
sloped and fell with slow dignity, like a forest tree before the axe.
Then the man and the child went in and brought out the kitchen table and
chairs, and laid blankets over them to air in the autumn sunlight.
Dickie played at houses under the table--it was not the sort of game he
usually played, but the neighbors could not know that. The table
happened to be set down just over the hole that had held the roots of
the moonflower. Dickie dug a little with a trowel in the blanket house.
After dark they carried the blankets and things in. Then one of the
blankets was nailed up over the top-floor window, and on the iron
bedstead's dingy mattress the resin was melted from the lid of the pot
that Mr. Beale had brought in with the other things from the garden.
Also it was melted from the crack of the iron casket. Mr. Beale's eyes,
always rather prominent, almost resembled the eyes of the lobster or the
snail as their gaze fell on the embroidered leather bag. And when Dickie
opened this and showered the twenty gold coins into a hollow of the drab
ticking, he closed his eyes and sighed, and opened them again and said--
"_Give_ you? They give you that. I don't believe you."
"You got to believe me," said Dickie firmly. "I never told you a lie,
did I?"
"Come to think of it, I don't know as you ever did," Beale admitted.
"Well," said Dickie, "they was give me--see?"
"We'll never change 'em, though," said Beale despondently. "We'd get
lagged for a cert. They'd say we pinched 'em."
"No, they won't. 'Cause I've got a friend as'll change 'em for me, and
then we'll 'ave new clobber and some more furniture, and a carpet and a
crockery basin to wash our hands and faces in 'stead of that old tin
thing. And a bath we'll 'ave. And you shall buy some more pups. And I'll
get some proper carving tools. And our fortune's made. See?"
"You nipper," said Beale, slowly and fondly, "the best day's work ever I
done was when I took up with you. You're straight, you are--one of the
best. Many's the boy would 'ave done a bunk and took the shiners along
with him. But you stuck to old Beale, and he'll stick to you."
"That's all right," said Dickie, beginning to put the bright coins back
into the bag.
"But it ain't all right," Beale insisted stubbornly; "it ain't no good.
I must 'ave it all out, or bust. I didn't never take you along of me
'cause I fancied you like what I said. I was just a-looking out for a
nipper to shove through windows--see?--along of that redheaded chap what
you never set eyes on."
"I've known that a long time," said Dickie, gravely watching the candle
flicker on the bare mantel-shelf.
"I didn't mean no good to you, not at first I didn't," said Beale, "when
you wrote on the sole of my boot. I'd bought that bit of paper and
pencil a-purpose. There!"
"You ain't done me no 'arm, anyway," said Dickie.
"No--I know I ain't. 'Cause why? 'Cause I took to you the very first
day. I allus been kind to you--you can't say I ain't." Mr. Beale was
confused by the two desires which make it difficult to confess anything
truthfully--the desire to tell the worst of oneself and the desire to do
full justice to oneself at the same time. It is so very hard not to
blacken the blackness, or whiten the whiteness, when one comes to trying
to tell the truth about oneself. "But I been a beast all the same," said
Mr. Beale helplessly.
"Oh, stow it!" Dickie said; "now you've told me, it's all square."
"You won't keep a down on me for it?"
"Now, should I?" said Dickie, exasperated and very sleepy. "Now all is
open as the day and we can pursue our career as honorable men and
comrades in all high emprise. I mean," he explained, noticing Mr.
Beale's open mouth and eyes more lobster-like than ever--"I mean that's
all right, farver, and you see it don't make any difference to me. I
knows you're straight now, even if it didn't begin just like that. Let's
get to bed, shan't us?"
Mr. Beale dreamed that he was trying to drown Dickie in a pond full of
stewed eels. Dickie didn't dream at all.
* * * * *
You may wonder why, since going to the beautiful other world took no
time and was so easy, Dickie did not do it every night, or even at odd
times during the day.
Well, the fact was he dared not. He loved the other life so much that he
feared that, once again there, he might not have the courage to return
to Mr. Beale and Deptford and the feel of dirty clothes and the smell of
dust-bins. It was no light thing to come back from that to this. And now
he made a resolution--that he would not set out the charm of Tinkler and
seal and moon-seeds until he had established Mr. Beale in an honorable
calling and made a life for him in which he could be happy. A great
undertaking for a child? Yes. But then Dickie was not an ordinary child,
or none of these adventures would ever have happened to him.
The pawnbroker, always a good friend to Dickie, had the wit to see that
the child was not lying when he said that the box and the bag and the
gold pieces had been given to him.
He changed the gold pieces stamped with the image of Queen Elizabeth for
others stamped with the image of Queen Victoria. And he gave five pounds
for the wrought-iron box, and owned that he should make a little--a very
little--out of it. "And if your grand society friends give you any more
treasures, you know the house to come to--the fairest house in the
trade, though I say it."
"Thank you very much," said Dickie; "you've been a good friend to me. I
hope some day I shall do you a better turn than the little you make out
of my boxes and things."
The Jew sold the wrought-iron box that very week for twenty guineas.
And Dickie and Mr. Beale now possessed twenty-seven pounds. New clothes
were bought--more furniture. Twenty-two pounds of the money was put in
the savings bank. Dickie bought carving tools and went to the
Goldsmiths' Institute to learn to use them. The front bedroom was fitted
with a bench for Dickie. The back sitting-room was a kennel for the dogs
which Mr. Beale instantly began to collect. The front room was a
parlor--a real parlor. A decent young woman--Amelia by name--was
engaged to come in every day and "do for" them. The clothes they wore
were clean; the food they ate was good. Dickie's knowledge of an ordered
life in a great house helped him to order life in a house that was
little. And day by day they earned their living. The new life was fairly
started. And now Dickie felt that he might dare to go back through the
three hundred years to all that was waiting for him there.
"But I will only stay a month," he told himself, "a month here and a
month there, that will keep things even. Because if I were longer there
than I am here I should not be growing up so fast here as I should
there. And everything would be crooked. And how silly if I were a grown
man in that life and had to come back and be a little boy in this!"
I do not pretend that the idea did not occur to Dickie, "Now that Beale
is fairly started he could do very well without me." But Dickie knew
better. He dismissed the idea. Besides, Beale had been good to him and
he loved him.
The white curtains had now no sordid secrets to keep--and when the
landlord called for the rent Mr. Beale was able to ask him to step
in--into a comfortable room with a horsehair sofa and a big, worn
easy-chair, a carpet, four old mahogany chairs, and a table with a clean
blue-and-red checked cloth on it. There was a bright clock on the
mantelpiece, and vases with chrysanthemums in them, and there were red
woollen curtains as well as the white lace ones.
"You're as snug as snug in here," said the landlord.
"Not so dusty," said Beale, shining from soap; "'ave a look at my
dawgs?"
He succeeded in selling the landlord a pup for ten shillings and came
back to Dickie sitting by the pleasant firelight.
"It's all very smart," he said, "but don't you never feel the fidgets in
your legs? I've kep' steady, and keep steady I will. But in the
spring--when the weather gets a bit open--what d'you say to shutting up
the little 'ouse and taking the road for a bit? Gentlemen do it even,"
he added wistfully. "Walking towers they call 'em."
"I'd like it," said Dickie, "but what about the dogs?"
"Oh! Amelia'd do for them a fair treat, all but Fan and Fly, as 'ud go
along of us. I dunno what it is," he said, "makes me 'anker so after the
road. I was always like it from a boy. Couldn't get me to school, so
they couldn't--allus after birds' nests or rabbits or the like. Not but
what I liked it well enough where I was bred. I didn't tell you, did I,
we passed close longside our old 'ome that time we slep' among the furze
bushes? I don't s'pose my father's alive now. But 'e was a game old
chap--shouldn't wonder but what he'd stuck it out."
"Let's go and see him some day," said Dickie.
"I dunno," said Beale; "you see, I was allus a great hanxiety to 'im.
And besides, I shouldn't like to find 'im gone. Best not know nothing.
That's what I say."
But he sighed as he said it, and he filled his pipe in a thoughtful
silence.