LITMIR.BIZ

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no,’ said the curate, hastily. ‘I opened the box myself. This morning I found I had not enough small change for the Mothers’ Independent Unity Measles and Croup Insurance payments. I suppose this is not a dream, is it?’

      ‘Dream? No, indeed. Search the house. I insist upon it.’

      The curate, still pale and trembling, searched the house, which, of course, was blamelessly free of burglars.

      When he came back he sank wearily into his chair.

      ‘Aren’t you going to let us go?’ asked Robert, with furious indignation, for there is something in being held by a strong lady that sets the blood of a boy boiling in his veins with anger and despair. ‘We’ve never done anything to you. It’s all the carpet. It dropped us on the leads. We couldn’t help it. You know how it carried you over to the island, and you had to marry the burglar to the cook.’

      ‘Oh, my head!’ said the curate.

      ‘Never mind your head just now,’ said Robert; ‘try to be honest and honourable, and do your duty in that state of life!’

      ‘This is a judgement on me for something, I suppose,’ said the Reverend Septimus, wearily, ‘but I really cannot at the moment remember what.’

      ‘Send for the police,’ said Miss Selina.

      ‘Send for a doctor,’ said the curate.

      ‘Do you think they are mad, then,’ said Miss Amelia.

      ‘I think I am,’ said the curate.

      Jane had been crying ever since her capture. Now she said:

      ‘You aren’t now, but perhaps you will be, if – And it would serve you jolly well right, too.’

      ‘Aunt Selina,’ said the curate, ‘and Aunt Amelia, believe me, this is only an insane dream. You will realise it soon. It has happened to me before. But do not let us be unjust, even in a dream. Do not hold the children; they have done no harm. As I said before, it was I who opened the box.’

      The strong, bony hands unwillingly loosened their grasp. Robert shook himself and stood in sulky resentment. But Jane ran to the curate and embraced him so suddenly that he had not time to defend himself.

      ‘You’re a dear,’ she said. ‘It is like a dream just at first, but you get used to it. Now do let us go. There’s a good, kind, honourable clergyman.’

      ‘I don’t know,’ said the Reverend Septimus; ‘it’s a difficult problem. It is such a very unusual dream. Perhaps it’s only a sort of other life – quite real enough for you to be mad in. And if you’re mad, there might be a dream-asylum where you’d be kindly treated, and in time restored, cured, to your sorrowing relatives. It is very hard to see your duty plainly, even in ordinary life, and these dream-circumstances are so complicated—’

      ‘If it’s a dream,’ said Robert, ‘you will wake up directly, and then you’d be sorry if you’d sent us into a dream-asylum, because you might never get into the same dream again and let us out, and so we might stay there for ever, and then what about our sorrowing relatives who aren’t in the dreams at all?’

      But all the curate could now say was, ‘Oh, my head!’

      And Jane and Robert felt quite ill with helplessness and hopelessness. A really conscientious curate is a very difficult thing to manage.

      And then, just as the hopelessness and the helplessness were getting to be almost more than they could bear, the two children suddenly felt that extraordinary shrinking feeling that you always have when you are just going to vanish. And the next moment they had vanished, and the Reverend Septimus was left alone with his aunts.

      ‘I knew it was a dream,’ he cried, wildly. ‘I’ve had something like it before. Did you dream it too, Aunt Selina, and you, Aunt Amelia? I dreamed that you did, you know.’

      Aunt Selina looked at him and then at Aunt Amelia. Then she said boldly:

      ‘What do you mean? We haven’t been dreaming anything. You must have dropped off in your chair.’

      The curate heaved a sigh of relief.

      ‘Oh, if it’s only I,’ he said; ‘if we’d all dreamed it I could never have believed it, never!’

      Afterwards Aunt Selina said to the other aunt:

      ‘Yes, I know it was an untruth, and I shall doubtless be punished for it in due course. But I could see the poor dear fellow’s brain giving way before my very eyes. He couldn’t have stood the strain of three dreams. It was odd, wasn’t it? All three of us dreaming the same thing at the same moment. We must never tell dear Seppy. But I shall send an account of it to the Psychical Society, with stars instead of names, you know.’

      And she did. And you can read all about it in one of the society’s fat Blue-books.

      Of course, you understand what had happened?

      The intelligent Phoenix had simply gone straight off to the Psammead, and had wished Robert and Jane at home. And, of course, they were at home at once. Cyril and Anthea had not half finished mending the carpet.

      When the joyful emotions of reunion had calmed down a little, they all went out and spent what was left of Uncle Reginald’s sovereign in presents for Mother. They bought her a pink silk handkerchief, a pair of blue and white vases, a bottle of scent, a packet of Christmas candles, and a cake of soap shaped and coloured like a tomato, and one that was so like an orange that almost any one you had given it to would have tried to peel it – if they liked oranges, of course. Also they bought a cake with icing on, and the rest of the money they spent on flowers to put in the vases.

      When they had arranged all the things on a table, with the candles stuck up on a plate ready to light the moment Mother’s cab was heard, they washed themselves thoroughly and put on tidier clothes.

      Then Robert said, ‘Good old Psammead,’ and the others said so too.

      ‘But, really, it’s just as much good old Phoenix,’ said Robert. ‘Suppose it hadn’t thought of getting the wish!’

      ‘Ah!’ said the Phoenix, ‘it is perhaps fortunate for you that I am such a competent bird.’

      ‘There’s Mother’s cab,’ cried Anthea, and the Phoenix hid and they lighted the candles, and next moment Mother was home again.

      She liked her presents very much, and found their story of Uncle Reginald and the sovereign easy and even pleasant to believe.

      ‘Good old carpet,’ were Cyril’s last sleepy words.

      ‘What there is of it,’ said the Phoenix, from the cornice-pole.

Chapter XI.

       The Beginning of the End

       Table of Contents

      ‘Well, I must say,’ Mother said, looking at the wishing carpet as it lay, all darned and mended and backed with shiny American oilcloth, on the floor of the nursery – ‘I must say I’ve never in my life bought such a bad bargain as that carpet.’

      A soft ‘Oh!’ of contradiction sprang to the lips of Cyril, Robert, Jane, and Anthea. Mother looked at them quickly, and said:

      ‘Well, of course, I see you’ve mended it very nicely, and that was sweet of you, dears.’

      ‘The boys helped too,’ said the dears, honourably.

      ‘But, still – twenty-two and ninepence! It ought to have lasted for years. It’s simply dreadful now. Well, never mind, darlings, you’ve done your best. I think we’ll have coconut matting next time. A carpet doesn’t have an easy life of it in

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