"As a matter of fact," said Crampfurl, "there did used to be one, but when I showed him where it was like, he didn't take no notice of it. Just stood there, waiting for me to go." Crampfurl laughed. "Two can play at that game, I thought, so I just sits m'self down. And there we were the two of us."
"And what happened?"
"Well, he had to go off in the end. Leaving his ferret. I waited a bit, but it never came out. I poked around a bit and whistled. Pity I never heard properly what he called it. Uncle something it sounded like—" Arrietty heard the sudden scrape of a chair. "Well," said Crampfurl, "I'd better get on now and shut up the chickens—"
The scullery door banged and there was a sudden clatter overhead as Mrs. Driver began to rake the stove. Arrietty replaced the stool and stole softly into the sitting room, where she found her mother alone.
Chapter Thirteen
HOMILY was ironing, bending and banging and pushing the hair back out of her eyes. All round the room underclothes hung airing on safety pins which Homily used like coathangers.
"What happened?" asked Homily. "Did you fall over?"
"Yes," said Arrietty, moving quietly into her place beside the fire.
"How's the feeling coming?"
"Oh, I don't know," said Arrietty. She clasped her knees and laid her chin on them.
"Where's your knitting?" asked Homily. "I don't know what's come over you lately. Always idle. You don't feel seedy, do you?"
"Oh," exclaimed Arrietty, "let me be!" And Homily for once was silent. "It's the spring," she told herself. "Used to take me like that sometimes at her age."
"I must see that boy," Arrietty was thinking—staring blindly into the fire. "I must hear what happened. I must hear if they're all right. I don't want us to die out. I don't want to be the last Borrower. I don't want"—and here Arrietty dropped her face on to her knees—"to live for ever and ever like this ... in the dark ... under the floor...."
"No good getting supper," said Homily, breaking the silence; "your father's gone borrowing. To Her room. And you know what that means!"
Arrietty raised her head. "No," she said, hardly listening; "what does it mean?"
"That he won't be back," said Homily sharply, "for a good hour and a half. He likes it up there, gossiping with Her and poking about on the dressing table. And it's safe enough once that boy's in bed. Not that there's anything we want special," she went on. "It's just these new shelves he's made. They look kind of bare, he says, and he might, he says, just pick up a little something..."
Arrietty suddenly was sitting bolt upright: a thought had struck her, leaving her breathless and a little shaky at the knees. "A good hour and a half," her mother had said and the gates would be open!
"Where are you going?" asked Homily as Arrietty moved toward the door.
"Just along to the storerooms," said Arrietty, shading with one hand her candle-dip from the draught. "I won't be long."
"Now don't you untidy anything!" Homily called out after her. "And be careful of that light!"
As Arrietty went down the passage she thought: "It is true. I am going to the storerooms—to find another hat pin. And if I do find a hat pin (and a piece of string—there won't be any name-tape) I still 'won't be long' because I'll have to get back before Papa. And I'm doing it for their sakes," she told herself doggedly, "and one day they'll thank me." All the same she felt a little guilty. "Artful"-that's what Mrs. Driver would say she was.
There was a hat pin—one with a bar for a top—and she tied on a piece of string, very firmly, twisting it back and forth like a figure of eight and, as a crowning inspiration, she sealed it with sealing wax.
The gates were open and she left the candle in the middle of the passage where it could come to no harm, just below the hole by the clock.
The great hall when she had climbed out into it was dim with shadows. A single gas jet, turned low, made a pool of light beside the locked front door and another faintly flickered on the landing halfway up the stairs. The ceiling sprang away into height and darkness and all around was space. The night-nursery, she knew, was at the end of the upstairs passage and the boy would be in bed—her mother had just said so.
Arrietty had watched her father use his pin on the chair, and single stairs, in comparison, were easier. There was a kind of rhythm to it after a while: a throw, a pull, a scramble, and an upward swing. The stair rods glinted coldly, but the pile of the carpet seemed soft and warm and delicious to fall back on. On the half-landing she paused to get her breath. She did not mind the semi-darkness; she lived in darkness; she was at home in it and, at a rime like this, it made her feel safe.
On the upper landing she saw an open door and a great square of golden light which like a barrier lay across the passage. "I've got to pass through that," Arrietty told herself, trying to be brave. Inside the lighted room a voice was talking, droning on. "...And this mare," the voice said, "was a five-year-old which really belonged to my brother in Ireland, not my elder brother but my younger brother, the one who owned Stale Mate and Oh My Darling. He had entered her for several point-to-points ... but when I say 'several' I mean three or at least two.... Have you ever seen an Irish point-to-point?"
"No," said another voice, rather absent-mindedly. "That's my father," Arrietty realized with a start, "my father talking to Great-Aunt Sophy or rather Great-Aunt Sophy talking to my father." She gripped her pin with its loops of string, and ran into the light and through it to the passage beyond. As she passed the open door she had a glimpse of firelight and lamplight and gleaming furniture and dark-red silk brocade.
Beyond the square of light the passage was dark again and she could see, at the far end, a half-open door. "That's the day-nursery," she thought, "and beyond that is the night-nursery."
"There are certain differences," Aunt Sophy's voice went on, "which would strike you at once. For instance..." Arrietty liked the voice. It was comforting and steady, like the sound of the clock in the hall, and as she moved off the carpet on to the strip of polished floor beside the skirting-board, she was interested to hear there were walls in Ireland instead of hedges. Here by the skirting she could run and she loved running. Carpets were heavy going—thick and clinging, they held you up. The boards were smooth and smelled of beeswax. She liked the smell.
The schoolroom, when she reached it, was shrouded in dust sheets and full of junk. Here too a gas jet burned, turned low to a bluish flame. The floor was linoleum, rather worn, and the rugs were shabby. Under the table was a great cavern of darkness. She moved into it, feeling about, and bumped into a dusty hassock higher than her head. Coming out again, into the half light, she looked up and saw the corner cupboard with the doll's tea service, the painting above the fireplace, and the plush curtain where her father had been "seen." Chair legs were everywhere and chair seats obscured her view. She found her way among them to the door of the night-nursery and there she saw, suddenly, on a shadowed plateau in the far corner, the boy in bed. She saw his great face, turned toward her on the edge of the pillow; she saw the gaslight reflected in his open eyes; she saw his hand gripping the bedclothes, holding them tightly pressed against his mouth.
She stopped moving and stood still. After a while, when she saw his fingers relax, she said softly: "Don't be frightened.... It's me, Arrietty."
He let the bedclothes slide away from his mouth and said: "Arri-what-y?" He seemed annoyed.
"Etty," she repeated gently. "Did you take the letter?"
He stared at her for a moment without speaking, then he said: "Why did you come creeping, creeping, into my room?"
"I didn't come creeping, creeping," said Arrietty. "I even ran. Didn't you see?"
He was silent, staring at her with his great, wide-open eyes.
"When I brought the book," he said at last, "you'd gone."
"I had to go. Tea was ready. My father fetched me."
He understood this. "Oh," he said matter-of-factly, and did not reproach her.
"Did you take the letter?" sh
e asked again.
"Yes," he said, "I had to go back twice. I shoved it down the badger's hole...." Suddenly he threw back the bedclothes and stood up in bed, enormous in his pale flannel night-shirt. It was Arrietty's turn to be afraid. She half turned, her eyes on his face, and began backing slowly toward the door. But he did not look at her; he was feeling behind a picture on the wall. "Here it is," he said, sitting down again, and the bed creaked loudly.
"But I don't want it back!" exclaimed Arrietty, coming forward again. "You should have left it there! Why did you bring it back?"
He turned it over in his fingers. "He's written on it," he said.
"Oh, please," cried Arrietty excitedly, "show me!" She ran right up to the bed and tugged at the trailing sheet. "Then they are alive! Did you see him?"
"No," he said, "the letter was there, just down the hole where I'd put it." He leaned toward her. "But he's written on it. Look!"
She made a quick dart and almost snatched the letter out of his great fingers, but was careful to keep out of range of his hand. She ran with it to the door of the schoolroom where the light, though dim, was a little brighter. "It's very faint," she said, holding it close to her eyes. "What's he written it with? I wonder. It's all in capitals—" She turned suddenly. "Are you sure you didn't write it?" she asked.
"Of course not," he began. "I write small—" But she had seen by his face that he spoke the truth and began to spell out the letters. "T—e—double l," she said. "Tell y—o—r—e." She looked up. "Yore?" she said.
"Yes," said the boy, "your."
"Tell your a—n—t, ant?" said Arrietty. "Ant? My ant?" The boy was silent, waiting. "Ant L—u— Oh, Aunt Lupy!" she exclaimed; "He says—listen, this is what he says: 'Tell your Aunt Lupy to come home'!"
There was silence. "Then tell her," said the boy after a moment.
"But she isn't here!" exclaimed Arrietty. "She's never been here! I don't even remember what she looked like!"
"Look," said the boy, staring through the door, "someone's coming!"
Arrietty whipped round. There was no time to hide: it was Pod, borrowing-bag in one hand and pin in the other. He stood in the doorway of the schoolroom. Quite still he stood, outlined against the light in the passage, his little shadow falling dimly in front of him. He had seen her.
"I heard your voice," he said, and there was a dreadful quietness about the way he spoke, "just as I was coming out of Her room." Arrietty stared back at him, stuffing the letter up her jersey. Could he see beyond her into the shadowed room. Could he see the tousled shape in bed?
"Come on home," said Pod, and turned away.
Chapter Fourteen
POD did not speak until they reached the sitting room. Nor did he look at her. She had had to scramble after him as best she might. He had ignored her efforts to help him shut the gates, but once, when she tripped, he had waited until she had got up again, watching her, it seemed, almost without interest while she brushed the dust off her knees.
Supper was laid and the ironing put away and Homily came running in from the kitchen, surprised to see them together.
Pod threw down his borrowing-bag. He stared at his wife.
"What's the matter?" faltered Homily, looking from one to the other.
"She was in the night-nursery," said Pod quietly, "talking to that boy!"
Homily moved forward, her hands clasped tremblingly against her apron, her startled eyes flicking swiftly to and fro. "Oh, no—" she breathed.
Pod sat down. He ran a tired hand over his eyes and forehead; his face looked heavy like a piece of dough. "Now what?" he said.
Homily stood quite still, bowed over her clasped hands, and stared at Arrietty. "Oh, you never—" she whispered.
"They are frightened," Arrietty realized; "they are not angry at all—they are very, very frightened." She moved forward. "It's all right—" she began.
Homily sat down suddenly on the cotton spool; she had begun to tremble. "Oh," she said, "whatever shall we do?" She began to rock herself, very slightly, to and fro.
"Oh, Mother, don't!" pleaded Arrietty. "It isn't so bad as that. It really isn't." She felt up the front of her jersey; at first she could not find the letter—it had slid round her side to the back—but at last she drew it out, very crumpled. "Look," she said, "here's a letter from Uncle Hendreary. I wrote to him and the boy took the letter—"
"You wrote to him!" cried Homily on a kind of suppressed shriek. "Oh," she moaned, and closed her eyes, "whatever next! Whatever shall we do?" and she fanned herself limply with her bony hand.
"Get your mother a drink of water, Arrietty," said Pod sharply. Arrietty brought it in a sawed-off hazel shell—it had been sawed off at the pointed end and was shaped like a brandy glass.
"But whatever made you do such a thing, Arrietty?" said Homily more calmly, setting the empty cup down on the table. "Whatever came over you?"
So Arrietty told them about being "seen"-that day under the cherry tree. And how she had kept it from them not to worry them. And what the boy said about "dying out." And how—more than important—how imperative it had seemed to make sure the Hendrearys were alive. "Do understand," pleaded Arrietty, "please understand! I'm trying to save the race!"
"The expressions she uses!" said Homily to Pod under her breath, not without pride.
But Pod was not listening. "Save the race!" he repeated grimly. "It's people like you, my girl, who do things sudden like with no respect for tradition, who'll finish us Borrowers once for all. Don't you see what you've done?"
Arrietty met his accusing eyes. "Yes," she said falteringly, "I've—I've got in touch with the only other ones still alive. So that," she went on bravely, "from now on we can all stick together...."
"All stick together!" Pod repeated angrily. "Do you think Hendreary's lot would ever come to live back here? Can you see your mother emigrating to a badger's set, two fields away, out in the open and no hot water laid on?"
"Never!" cried Homily in a full, rich voice which made them both turn and look at her.
"Or do you see your mother walking across two fields and a garden," went on Pod, "two fields full of crows and cows and horses and what—not, to take a cup of tea with your Aunt Lupy whom she never liked much anyway? But wait," he said as Arrietty tried to speak, "that's not the point—as far as all that goes we're just where we was—the point," he went on, leaning forward and speaking with great solemnity, "is this: that boy knows now where we live!"
"Oh no," said Arrietty, "I never told him that. I—"
"You told him," interrupted Pod, "about the kitchen pipe bursting; you told him how all our stuff got washed away to the grating." He sat back again glaring at her. "He's only got to think," he pointed out. Arrietty was silent and Pod went on: "That's a thing that has never happened before, never, in the whole long history of the Borrowers. Borrowers have been 'seen'—yes; Borrowers have been caught—maybe: but no human being has ever known where any Borrower lived. We're in very grave danger, Arrietty, and you've put us there. And that's a fact."
"Oh, Pod," whimpered Homily, "don't frighten the child."
"Nay, Homily," said Pod more gently, "my poor old girl! I don't want to frighten no one, but this is serious. Suppose I said to you pack up tonight, all our bits and pieces, where would you go?"
"Not to Hendreary's," cried Homily, "not there, Pod! I couldn't never share a kitchen with Lupy—"
"No," agreed Pod, "not to Hendreary's. And don't you see for why? The boy knows about that too!"
"Oh!" cried Homily in real dismay.
"Yes," said Pod, "a couple of smart terriers or a well-trained ferret and that'd be the end of that lot."
"Oh, Pod..." said Homily and began again to tremble. The thought of living in a badger's set had been bad enough, but the thought of not having even that to go to seemed almost worse. "And I dare say I could have got it nice in the end," she said, "providing we lived quite separate—."
"Well, it's no good thinking of it now," said Pod. He tu
rned to Arrietty: "What does your Uncle Hendreary say in his letter?"
"Yes," exclaimed Homily, "where's this letter?"
"It doesn't say much," said Arrietty, passing over the paper; "it just says 'Tell your Aunt Lupy to come home.'"
"What?" exclaimed Homily sharply, looking at the letter upside-down. "Come home? What can he mean?"
"He means," said Pod, "that Lupy must have set off to come here and that she never arrived."
"Set off to come here?" repeated Homily. "But when?"
"How should I know?" said Pod.
"It doesn't say when," said Arrietty.
"But," exclaimed Homily, "it might have been weeks ago!"
"It might," said Pod. "Long enough anyway for him to want her back."
"Oh," cried Homily, "all those poor little children!"
"They're growing up now," said Pod.
"But something must have happened to her!" exclaimed Homily.
"Yes," said Pod. He turned to Arrietty. "See what I mean, Arrietty, about those fields?"
"Oh, Pod," said Homily, her eyes full of tears, "I don't suppose none of us'll ever see poor Lupy again!"
"Well, we wouldn't have anyway," said Pod.
"Pod," said Homily soberly, "I'm frightened. Everything seems to be happening at once. What are we going to do?"
"Well," said Pod, "there's nothing we can do tonight. That's certain. But have a bit of supper and a good night's rest." He rose to his feet.
"Oh, Arrietty," wailed Homily suddenly, "you naughty wicked girl! How could you go and start all this? How could you go and talk to a human bean? If only—"
"I was 'seen,'" cried Arrietty. "I couldn't help being 'seen.' Papa was 'seen.' I don't think it's all as awful as you're trying to make out. I don't think human beans are all that bad—"