THE NOBLE DEED
WHEN Lord Arden and Elfrida and Edred reached the castle and found that
Dickie had not come back, the children concluded that Beale had
persuaded him to stay the night at the cottage. And Lord Arden thought
that the children must be right. He was extremely annoyed both with
Beale and with Dickie for making such an arrangement without consulting
him.
"It is impertinent of Beale and thoughtless of the boy," he said; "and I
shall speak a word to them both in the morning."
But when Edred and Elfrida were gone to bed Lord Arden found that he
could not feel quite sure or quite satisfied. Suppose Dickie was not at
Beale's? He strolled up to the cottage to see. Everything was dark at
the cottage. He hesitated, then knocked at the door. At the third knock
Beale, very sleepy, put his head out of the window.
"Who's there?" said he.
"I am here," said Lord Arden. "Richard is asleep, I suppose?"
"I suppose so, my lord," said Beale, sleepy and puzzled.
"You have given me some anxiety. I had to come up to make sure he was
here."
"But 'e _ain't_ 'ere," said Beale. "Didn't you pick 'im up with the
dog-cart, same as you said you would?"
"No," shouted Lord Arden. "Come down, Beale, and get a lantern. There
must have been an accident."
The bedroom window showed a square of light, and Lord Arden below heard
Beale blundering about above.
"'Ere's your coat," Mrs. Beale's voice sounded; "never mind lacing up of
your boots. You orter gone a bit of the way with 'im."
"Well, I offered for to go, didn't I?" Beale growled, blundered down the
stairs and out through the wash-house, and came round the corner of the
house with a stable lantern in his hand. He came close to where Lord
Arden stood--a tall, dark figure in the starlight--and spoke in a voice
that trembled.
"The little nipper," he said; and again, "the little nipper. If
anything's happened to 'im! Swelp me! gov'ner--my lord, I mean. What I
meanter say, if anything's 'appened to _'im_! One of the best!"
The two men went quickly towards the gate. As they passed down the
quiet, dusty road Beale spoke again.
"I wasn't no good--I don't deceive you, guv'ner--a no account man I
was, swelp me! And the little 'un, 'e tidied me up and told me tales and
kep' me straight. It was 'is doing me and 'Melia come together. An' the
dogs an' all. An' the little one. An' 'e got me to chuck the cadgin'.
An' worse. 'E don't know what I was like when I met 'im. Why, I set out
to make a blighted burglar of 'im--you wouldn't believe!"
And out the whole story came as Lord Arden and he went along the gray
road, looking to right and left where no bushes were nor stones, only
the smooth curves of the down, so that it was easy to see that no little
boy was there either.
They looked for Dickie to right and left and here and there under
bushes, and by stiles and hedges, and with trembling hearts they
searched in the little old chalk quarry, and the white moon came up very
late to help them. But they did not find him, though they roused a dozen
men in the village to join in the search, and old Beale himself, who
knew every yard of the ground for five miles round, came out with the
spaniel who knew every inch of it for ten. But True rushed about the
house and garden whining and yelping so piteously that 'Melia tied him
up, and he stayed tied up.
And so, when Edred and Elfrida came down to breakfast, Mrs. Honeysett
met them with the news that Dickie was lost and their father still out
looking for him.
"It's that beastly magic," said Edred as soon as the children were
alone. "He's done it once too often, and he's got stuck some time in
history and can't get back."
"And we can't do anything. We can't get to him," said Elfrida. "Oh! if
only we'd got the old white magic and the Mouldiwarp to help us, we
could find out what's become of him."
"Perhaps he has fallen down a disused mine," Edred suggested, "and is
lying panting for water, and his faithful dog has jumped down after him
and broken all its dear legs."
Elfrida melted to tears at this desperate picture, melted to a
speechless extent.
"We can't do anything," said Edred again; "don't snivel like that, for
goodness' sake, Elfrida. This is a man's job. Dry up. I can't think,
with you blubbing like that."
"I'm not," said Elfrida untruly, and sniffed with some intensity.
"If you could make up some poetry now," Edred went on, "would that be
any good?"
"Not without the dresses," she sniffed. "You know we always had dresses
for our magic, or nearly always; and they have to be dead and gone
people's dresses, and you'll only go to the dead and gone people's time
when the dresses were worn. Oh! dear Dickie, and if he's really down a
mine, or things like that, what's the good of anything?"
"I'm going to try, anyway," said Edred, "at least you must too. Because
I can't make poetry."
"No more can I when I'm as unhappy as this. Poetry's the last thing you
think of when you're mizzy."
"We could dress up, anyway," said Edred hopefully. "The bits of armor
out of the hall, and the Indian feather head-dresses father brought
home, and I have father's shooting-gaiters and brown paper tops, and you
can have Aunt Edith's Roman sash. It's in the right-hand corner drawer.
I saw it on the wedding day when I went to get her prayer-book."
"I don't want to dress up," said Elfrida; "I want to find Dickie."
"I don't want to dress up either," said Edred; "but we must do
something, and perhaps, I know it's just only perhaps, it might help if
we dressed up. Let's try it, anyway."
Elfrida was too miserable to argue. Before long two most miserable
children faced each other in Edred's bedroom, dressed as Red Indians so
far as their heads and backs went. Then came lots of plate armor for
chest and arms; then, in the case of Elfrida, petticoats and Roman sash
and Japanese wickerwork shoes and father's shooting-gaiters made to
look like boots by brown paper tops. And in the case of Edred, legs
cased in armor that looked like cricket pads, ending in jointed
foot-coverings that looked like chrysalises. (I am told the correct
plural is chrysalides, but life would be dull indeed if one always used
the correct plural.) They were two forlorn faces that looked at each
other as Edred said--
"Now the poetry."
"I can't," said Elfrida, bursting into tears again; "I _can't_! So
there. I've been trying all the time we've been dressing, and I can only
think of--
"Oh, call dear Dickie back to me,
I cannot play alone;
The summer comes with flower and bee,
Where is dear Dickie gone?
And I know that's no use."
"I should think not," said Edred. "Why, it isn't your own poetry at all.
It's Felicia M. Hemans'. I'll try." And he got a pencil and paper and
try he did, his very hardest, be sure. But there are some things that
the best and bravest cannot do. And the thing Edred couldn't do was to
make poetry, however bad. He simply couldn't do it, any more than you
can fly. It wasn't in him, any more than wings are on you.
"Oh, Mouldiwarp, you said we must
Not have any more magic. But we trust
You won't be hard on us, because Dickie is lost
And we don't know how to find him."
That was the best Edred could do, and I tell it to his credit, he really
did feel doubtful whether what he had so slowly and carefully written
was indeed genuine poetry. So much so, that he would not show it to
Elfrida until she had begged very hard indeed. At about the thirtieth
"Do, please! Edred, do!" he gave her the paper. No little girl was ever
more polite than Elfrida or less anxious to hurt the feelings of others.
But she was also quite truthful, and when Edred said in an ashamed,
muffled voice, "Is it all right, do you think?" the best she could find
by way of answer was, "I don't know much about poetry. We'll try it."
And they did try it, and nothing happened.
"I knew it was no good," Edred said crossly; "and I've made an ass of
myself for nothing."
"Well, I've often made one of myself," said Elfrida comfortingly, "and I
will again if you like. But I don't suppose it'll be any more good than
yours."
Elfrida frowned fiercely and the feathers on her Indian head-dress
quivered with the intensity of her effort.
"Is it coming?" Edred asked in anxious tones, and she nodded
distractedly.
"Great Mouldiestwarp, on you we call
To do the greatest magic of all;
To show us how we are to find
Dear Dickie who is lame and kind.
Do this for us, and on our hearts we swore
We'll never ask you for anything more."
"I don't see that it's so much better than mine," said Edred, "and it
ought to be _swear_, not _swore_."
"I don't think it is. But you didn't finish yours. And it couldn't be
'swear,' because of rhyming," Elfrida explained. "But I'm sure if the
Mouldiestwarp hears it he won't care tuppence whether it's swear or
swore. He is much too great. He's far above grammar, I'm sure."
"I wish every one was," sighed Edred, and I dare say you have often felt
the same.
"Well, fire away! Not that it's any good. Don't you remember you can
only get at the Mouldiestwarp by a noble deed? And wanting to find
Dickie isn't noble."
"No," she agreed; "but then if we could get Dickie back by doing a noble
deed we'd do it like a shot, wouldn't we?"
"Oh! I suppose so," said Edred grumpily; "fire away, can't you?"
Elfrida fired away, and the next moment it was plain that Elfrida's
poetry was more potent than Edred's; also that a little bad grammar is a
trifle to a mighty Mouldiwarp.
For the walls of Edred's room receded further and further, till the
children found themselves in a great white hall with avenues of tall
pillars stretching in every direction as far as you could see. The hall
was crowded with people dressed in costumes of all countries and all
ages--Chinamen, Indians, Crusaders in armor, powdered ladies, doubleted
gentlemen, Cavaliers in curls, Turks in turbans, Arabs, monks, abbesses,
jesters, grandees with ruffs round their necks, and savages with kilts
of thatch. Every kind of dress you can think of was there. Only all the
dresses were white. It was like a _redoute_, which is a fancy-dress ball
where the guests may wear any dress they choose, only all the dresses
must be of one color.
Elfrida saw the whiteness all about her and looked down anxiously at her
clothes and Edred's, which she remembered to have been of rather odd
colors. Everything they wore was white now. Even the Roman sash, instead
of having stripes blue and red and green and black and yellow, was of
five different shades of white. If you think there are not so many
shades of white, try to paper a room with white paper and get it at five
different shops.
The people round the children pushed them gently forward. And then they
saw that in the middle of the hall was a throne of silver, spread with a
fringed cloth of checkered silver and green, and on it, with the
Mouldiwarp standing on one side and the Mouldierwarp on the other, the
Mouldiestwarp was seated in state and splendor. He was much larger than
either of the other moles, and his fur was as silvery as the feathers of
a swan.
Every one in the room was looking at the two children, and it seemed
impossible for them not to advance, though slowly and shyly, right to
the front of the throne.
Arrived there, it seemed right to bow, very low. So they did it.
Then the Mouldiwarp said--
"What brings you here?"
"Kind magic," Elfrida answered.
And the Mouldierwarp said--
"What is your desire?"
And Edred said, "We want Dickie, please."
Then the Mouldiestwarp said, and it was to Edred that he said it--
"Dickie is in the hands of those who will keep him from you for many a
day unless you yourself go, alone, and rescue him. It will be difficult,
and it will be dangerous. Will you go?"
"Me? Alone?" said Edred rather blankly. "Not Elfrida?"
"Dickie can only be ransomed at a great price, and it must be paid by
you. It will cost you more to do it than it would cost Elfrida, because
she is braver than you are."
Here was a nice thing for a boy to have said to him, and before all
these people too! To ask a chap to do a noble deed and in the same
breath to tell him he is a coward!
Edred flushed crimson, and a shudder ran through the company.
"Don't turn that horrible color," whispered a white toreador who was
close to him. "This is the _white_ world. No crimson allowed."
Elfrida caught Edred's hand.
"Edred is quite as brave as me," she said. "He'll go. Won't you?"
"Of course I will," said Edred impatiently.
"Then ascend the steps of the throne," said the Mouldiestwarp, very
kindly now, "and sit here by my side."
Edred obeyed, and the Mouldiestwarp leaned towards him and spoke in his
ear.
So that neither Elfrida nor any of the great company in the White Hall
could hear a word, only Edred alone.
"If you go to rescue Richard Arden," the Mouldiestwarp said, "you make
the greatest sacrifice of your life. For he who was called Richard
Harding is Richard Arden, and it is he who is Lord Arden and not you or
your father. And if you go to his rescue you will be taking from your
father the title and the Castle, and you will be giving up your place as
heir of Arden to your cousin Richard who is the rightful heir."
"But how is he the rightful heir?" Edred asked, bewildered.
"Three generations ago," said the Mouldiestwarp, "a little baby was
stolen from Arden. Death came among the Ardens and that child became the
heir to the name and the lands of Arden. The man who stole the child
took it to a woman in Deptford, and gave it in charge to her to nurse.
She knew nothing but that the child's clothes were marked Arden, and
that it had, tied to its waist, a coral and bells engraved with a coat
of arms. The man who had stolen the child said he would return in a
month. He never returned. He fought in a duel and was killed. But the
night before the duel he wrote a letter saying what he had done and put
it in a secret cupboard behind a picture of a lady who was born an
Arden, at Talbot Court. And there that letter is to this day."
"I hope I shan't forget it all," said Edred.
"None ever forgets what I tell them," said the Mouldiestwarp. "Finding
that the man did not return, the Deptford woman brought up the child as
her own. He grew up, was taught a trade and married a working girl. The
name of Arden changed itself, as names do, to Harding. Their child was
the father of Richard whom you know. And he is Lord Arden."
"Yes," said Edred submissively.
"You will never tell your father this," the low, beautiful voice went
on; "you must not even tell your sister till you have rescued Dickie and
made the sacrifice. This is the one supreme chance of all your life.
Every soul has one such chance, a chance to be perfectly unselfish,
absolutely noble and true. You can take this chance. But you must take
it alone. No one can help you. No one can advise you. And you must keep
the nobler thought in your own heart till it is a noble deed. Then,
humbly and thankfully in that you have been permitted to do so fine and
brave a thing and to draw near to the immortals of all ages who have
such deeds to do and have done them, you may tell the truth to the one
who loves you best, your sister Elfrida."
"But isn't Elfrida to have a chance to be noble too?" Edred asked.
"She will have a thousand chances to be good and noble. And she will
take them all. But she will never know that she has done it," said the
Mouldiestwarp gravely. "Now--are you ready to do what is to be done?"
"It seems very unkind to daddy," said Edred, "stopping his being Lord
Arden and everything."
"To do right often seems unkind to one or another," said the
Mouldiestwarp, "but think. How long would your father wish to keep his
house and his castle if he knew that they belonged to some one else?"
"I see," said Edred, still doubtfully. "No, of course he wouldn't. Well,
what am I to do?"
"When Dickie's father died, a Deptford woman related to Dickie's mother
kept the child. She was not kind to him. And he left her. Later she met
a man who had been a burglar. He had entered Talbot Court, opened a
panel, and found that old letter that told of Dickie's birth. He and she
have kidnapped Dickie, hoping to get him to sign a paper promising to
pay them money for giving him the letter which tells how he is heir to
Arden. But already they have found out that a letter signed by a child
is useless and unlawful. And they dare not let Richard go for fear of
punishment. So, if you choose to do nothing your father is safe and you
will inherit Arden."
"What am I to do?" Edred asked again--"to get Dickie back, I mean."
"You must go alone and at night to Beale's cottage, open the door and
you will find Richard's dog asleep before the fire. You must unchain the
dog and take him to the milestone by the crossroads. Then go where the
dog goes. You will need a knife to cut cords with. And you will need
all your courage. Look in my eyes."
Edred looked in the eyes of the Mouldiestwarp and saw that they were no
longer a mole's eyes but were like the eyes of all the dear people he
had ever known, and through them the soul of all the brave people he had
ever read about looked out at him and said, "Courage, Edred. Be one of
us."
"Now look at the people on the Hall," said the Mouldiestwarp.
Edred looked. And behold, they were no longer strangers. He knew them
all. Joan of Arc and Peter the Hermit, Hereward and Drake, Elsa whose
brothers were swans, St. George who killed the dragon, Blondel who sang
to his king in prison, Lady Nithsdale who brought her husband safe out
of the cruel Tower. There were captains who went down with their ships,
generals who died fighting for forlorn hopes, patriots, kings, nuns,
monks, men, women, and children--all with that light in their eyes which
brightens with splendor the dreams of men.
And as he came down off the throne the great ones crowded round him,
clasping his hand and saying--
"Be one of us, Edred. Be one of us."
Then an intense white light shone so that the children could see nothing
else. And then suddenly there they were again within the narrow walls
of Edred's bedroom.
"Well," said Elfrida in tones of brisk commonplace, "what did it say to
you? I say, you do look funny."
"Don't!" said Edred crossly. He began to tear off the armor. "Here, help
me to get these things off."
"But what did it say?" Elfrida asked, helpfully.
"I can't tell you. I'm not going to tell any one till it's over."
"Oh, just as you like," said Elfrida; "keep your old secrets," and left
him.
That was hard, wasn't it?
"I can't help it, I tell you. Oh! Elfrida, if _you're_ going to bother
it's just a little bit too much, that's all."
"You really mustn't tell me?"
"I've told you so fifty times," he said. Which was untrue. You know he
had really only told her twice.
"Very well, then," she said heroically, "I won't ask you a single thing.
But you'll tell me the minute you can, won't you? And you'll let me
help?"
"Nobody can help, no one can advise me," Edred said. "I've got to do it
off my own bat if I do it at all. Now you just shut up, I want to
think."
This unusual desire quite awed Elfrida. But it irritated her too.
"Perhaps you'd like me to go away," she said ironically.
And Edred's wholly unexpected reply was, "Yes, please."
So she went.
And when she was gone Edred sat down on the box at the foot of his bed
and tried to think. But it was not easy.
"I ought to go," he told himself.
"But think of your father," said something else which was himself too.
He thought so hard that his thoughts got quite confused. His head grew
very hot, and his hands and feet very cold. Mrs. Honeysett came in,
exclaimed at his white face, felt his hands, said he was in a high
fever, and put him to bed with wet rags on his forehead and hot-water
bottles to his feet. Perhaps he was feverish. At any rate he could never
be sure afterwards whether there really had been a very polite and
plausible black mole sitting on his pillow most of the day saying all
those things which the part of himself that he liked least agreed with.
Such things as--
"Think of your father.
"No one will ever know.
"Dickie will be all right somehow.
"Perhaps you only dreamed that about Dickie being shut up somewhere and
it's not true.
"Anyway, it's not your business, is it?" And so on. You know the sort of
thing.
Elfrida was not allowed to come into the room for fear Edred should be
ill with something catching. So he lay tossing all day, hearing the
black mole, or something else, say all these things and himself saying,
"I must go.
"Oh! poor Dickie.
"I promised to go.
"Yes, I will go."
And late that night when Lord Arden had come home and had gone to bed,
tired out by a long day's vain search for the lost Dickie, and when
everybody was asleep, Edred got up and dressed. He put his bedroom
candle and matches in his pocket, crept down-stairs and out of the house
and up to Beale's. It was a slow and nervous business. More than once on
the staircase he thought he heard a stair creak behind him, and again
and again as he went along the road he fancied he heard a soft footstep
pad-padding behind him, but of course when he looked round he could see
no one was there. So presently he decided that it was cowardly to keep
looking round, and besides, it only made him more frightened. So he kept
steadily on and took no notice at all of a black patch by the sweetbrier
bush by Beale's cottage door just exactly as if some one was crouching
in the shadow.
He pressed his thumb on the latch and opened the door very softly.
Something moved inside and a chain rattled. Edred's heart gave a soft,
uncomfortable jump. But it was only True, standing up to receive
company. He saw the whiteness of the dog and made for it, felt for the
chain, unhooked it from the staple in the wall, and went out again,
closing the door after him, and followed very willingly by True. Again
he looked suspiciously at the shadow of the great sweetbrier, but the
dog showed no uneasiness, so Edred knew that there was nothing to be
afraid of. True, in fact, was the greatest comfort to him. He told
Elfrida afterwards that it was all True's doing; he could never, he was
sure, have gone on without that good companion.
True followed at the slack chain's end till they got to the milestone,
and then suddenly he darted ahead and took the lead, the chain stretched
taut, and the boy had all his work cut out to keep up with the dog. Up
the hill they went on to the downs, and in and out among the furze
bushes. The night was no longer dark to Edred. His eyes had got used to
the gentle starlight, and he followed the dog among the gorse and
brambles without stumbling and without hurting himself against the
million sharp spears and thorns.
Suddenly True paused, sniffed, sneezed, blew through his nose and began
to dig.
"Come on, come on, good dog," said Edred, "come on, True," for his fancy
pictured Dickie a prisoner in some lonely cottage, and he longed to get
to it and set him free and get safe back home with him. So he pulled at
the chain. But True only shook himself and went on digging. The spot he
had chosen was under a clump of furze bigger than any they had passed.
The sharp furze-spikes pricked his nose and paws, but True was not the
dog to be stopped by little things like that. He only stopped every now
and then to sneeze and blow, and then went on digging.
Edred remembered the knife he had brought. It was the big pruning-knife
out of the drawer in the hall. He pulled it out. He would cut away some
of the furze branches. Perhaps Dickie was lying bound, hidden in the
middle of the furze bush.
"Dickie," he said softly, "Dickie."
But no one answered. Only True sneezed and snuffed and blew and went on
digging.
So then Edred took hold of a branch of furze to cut it, and it was loose
and came away in his hand without any cutting. He tried another. That
too was loose. He took off his jacket and threw it over his hands to
protect them, and seizing an armful of furze pulled, and fell back, a
great bundle of the prickly stuff on top of him. True was pulling like
mad at the chain. Edred scrambled up; the furze he had pulled away
disclosed a hole, and True was disappearing down it. Edred saw, as the
dog dragged him close to the hole, that it was a large one, though only
part of it had been uncovered. He stooped to peer in, his foot slipped
on the edge, and he fell right into it, the dog dragging all the time.
"Stop, True; lie down, sir!" he said, and the dog paused, though the
chain was still strained tight.
Then Edred was glad of his bedroom candle. He pulled it out and lighted
it and blinked, perceiving almost at once that he was in the beginning
of an underground passage. He looked up; he could see above him the
stars plain through a net of furze bushes. He stood up and True went on.
Next moment he knew that he was in the old smugglers' cave that he and
Elfrida had so often tried to find.
The dog and the boy went on, along a passage, down steps cut in the
rock, through a rough, heavy door, and so into the smugglers' cave
itself, an enormous cavern as big as a church. Out of an opening at the
upper end a stream of water fell, and ran along the cave clear between
shores of smooth sand.
And, lying on the sand near the stream, was something dark.
True gave a bound that jerked the chain out of Edred's hand, and leaped
upon the dark thing, licking it, whining, and uttering little dog moans
of pure love and joy. For the dark something was Dickie, fast asleep. He
was bound with cords, his poor lame foot tied tight to the other one.
His arms were bound too. And now he was awake.
"Down, True!" he said. "Hush! Ssh!"
"Where are they--the man and woman?" Edred whispered.
"Oh, Edred! You! You perfect brick!" Dickie whispered back. "They're in
the further cave. I heard them snoring before I went to sleep."
"Lie still," said Edred; "I've got a knife. I'll cut the cords."
He cut them, and Dickie tried to stand up. But his limbs were too stiff.
Edred rubbed his legs, while Dickie stretched his fingers to get the
pins and needles out of his arms.
Edred had stuck the candle in the sand. It made a ring of light round
them. That was why they did not see a dark figure that came quietly
creeping across the sand towards them. It was quite close to them before
Edred looked up.
[Illustration: "'ELFRIDA!' SAID BOTH BOYS AT ONCE"
_Page_ 272]
"Oh!" he gasped, and Dickie, looking up, whispered, "It's all up--_run_.
Never mind me. I shall get away all right."
"No," said Edred, and then with a joyous leap of the heart perceived
that the dark figure was Elfrida in her father's ulster.
("I hadn't time to put on my stockings," she explained later. "You'd
have known me a mile off by my white legs if I hadn't covered them up
with this.")
"Elfrida!" said both boys at once.
"Well, you didn't think I was going to be out of it," she said. "I've
been behind you all the way, Edred. Don't tell me anything. I won't ask
any questions, only come along out of it. Lean on me."
They got him up to the passage, one on each side, and by that time
Dickie could use his legs and his crutch. They got home and roused Lord
Arden, and told him Dickie was found and all about it, and he roused the
house, and he and Beale and half-a-dozen men from the village went up to
the cave and found that wicked man and woman in a stupid sleep, and tied
their hands and marched them to the town and to the police-station.
When the man was searched the letter was found on him which the man--it
was that redheaded man you have heard of--had taken from Talbot
Court.
"I wish you joy of your good fortune, my boy," said Lord Arden when he
had read the letter. "Of course we must look into things, but I feel no
doubt at all that you _are_ Lord Arden!"
"I don't want to be," said Dickie, and that was true. Yet at the same
time he did want to be. The thought of being Richard, Lord Arden, he who
had been just little lame Dickie of Deptford, of owning this glorious
castle, of being the master of an old name and an old place, this
thought sang in his heart a very beautiful tune. Yet what he said was
true. There is so often room in our hearts for two tunes at a time. "I
don't want to be. You ought to be, sir. You've been so kind to me," he
said.
"My dear boy," said the father of Edred and Elfrida, "I did very well
without the title and the castle, and if they're yours I shall do very
well without them again. You shall have your rights, my dear boy, and I
shan't be hurt by it. Don't you think that."
Dickie thought several things and shook the other's hand very hard.
The tale of Dickie's rescue from the cave was the talk of the
countryside. True was praised much, but Edred more. Why had no one else
thought of putting the dog on the scent? Edred said that it was mostly
True's doing. And the people praised his modesty. And nobody, except
perhaps Elfrida, ever understood what it had cost Edred to go that night
through the dark and rescue his cousin.
Edred's father and Mrs. Honeysett agreed that Edred had done it in the
delirium of a fever, brought on by his anxiety about his friend and
playmate. People do, you know, do odd things in fevers that they would
never do at other times.
The redheaded man and the woman were tried at the assizes and punished.
If you ask me how they knew about the caves which none of the country
people seemed to know of, I can only answer that I don't know. Only I
know that every one you know knows lots of things that you don't know
they know.
When they all went a week later to explore the caves, they found a
curious arrangement of brickwork and cement and clay, shutting up a hole
through which the stream had evidently once flowed out into the open
air. It now flowed away into darkness. Lord Arden pointed out how its
course had been diverted and made to run down underground to the sea.
"We might let it come back to the moat," said Edred. "It used to run
that way. It says so in the 'History of Arden.'"
"We must decide that later," said his father, who had a long blue
lawyer's letter in his pocket.