The
Enchanted Castle
by
E. Nesbit
Illustrated by H.R. Millar
To
Margaret Ostler
With Love From
E. Nesbit
Peggy, you came from the heath and moor,
And you brought their airs through my open door;
You brought the blossom of youth to blow
In the Latin Quarter of Soho.
For the sake of that magic I send you here
A tale of enchantments, Peggy dear, —
A bit of my work, and a bit of my heart...
The bit that you left when we had to part.
September 25, 1907.
Royalty Chambers, Soho, W.
Chapter I
There were three of them — Jerry, Jimmy, and Kathleen. Of course, Jerry’s name was Gerald, and not Jeremiah, whatever you may think; and Jimmy’s name was James; and Kathleen was never called by her name at all, but Cathy, or Catty, or Puss Cat, when her brothers were pleased with her, and Scratch Cat when they were not pleased. And they were at school in a little town in the West of England — the boys at one school, of course, and the girl at another, because the sensible habit of having boys and girls at the same school is not yet as common as I hope it will be some day. They used to see each other on Saturdays and Sundays at the house of a kind maiden lady; but it was one of those houses where it is impossible to play. You know the kind of house, don’t you? There is a sort of a something about that kind of house that makes you hardly able even to talk to each other when you are left alone, and playing seems unnatural and affected. So they looked forward to the holidays, when they should all go home and be together all day long, in a house where playing was natural and conversation possible, and where the Hampshire forests and fields were full of interesting things to do and see. Their Cousin Betty was to be there too, and there were plans. Betty’s school broke up before theirs, and so she got to the Hampshire home first, and the moment she got there she began to have measles, so that my three couldn’t go home at all. You may imagine their feelings. The thought of seven weeks at Miss Hervey’s was not to be borne, and all three wrote home and said so. This astonished their parents very much, because they had always thought it was so nice for the children to have dear Miss Hervey’s to go to. However, they were “jolly decent about it,” as Jerry said, and after a lot of letters and telegrams, it was arranged that the boys should go and stay at Kathleen’s school, where there were now no girls left and no mistresses except the French one.
“It’ll be better than being at Miss Hervey’s,” said Kathleen, when the boys came round to ask Mademoiselle when it would be convenient for them to come; “and, besides, our school’s not half so ugly as yours. We do have tablecloths on the tables and curtains at the windows, and yours is all deal boards, and desks, and inkiness.”
When they had gone to pack their boxes Kathleen made all the rooms as pretty as she could with flowers in jam jars, marigolds chiefly, because there was nothing much else in the back garden. There were geraniums in the front garden, and calceolarias and lobelias; of course, the children were not allowed to pick these.
“We ought to have some sort of play to keep us going through the holidays,” said Kathleen, when tea was over, and she had unpacked and arranged the boys’ clothes in the painted chests of drawers, feeling very grown-up and careful as she neatly laid the different sorts of clothes in tidy little heaps in the drawers. “Suppose we write a book.”
“You couldn’t,” said Jimmy.
“I didn’t mean me, of course,” said Kathleen, a little injured; “I meant us.”
“If we wrote a book,” Kathleen persisted, “about what the insides of schools really are like, people would read it and say how clever we were.”
“More likely expel us,” said Gerald. “No; we’ll have an out-of-doors game — bandits, or something like that. It wouldn’t be bad if we could get a cave and keep stores in it, and have our meals there.”
“There aren’t any caves,” said Jimmy, who was fond of contradicting every one. “And, besides, your precious Mamselle won’t let us go out alone, as likely as not.”
“Oh, we’ll see about that,” said Gerald. “I’ll go and talk to her like a father.”
“Like that?” Kathleen pointed the thumb of scorn at him, and he looked in the glass.
“To brush his hair and his clothes and to wash his face and hands was to our hero but the work of a moment,” said Gerald, and went to suit the action to the word.
It was a very sleek boy, brown and thin and interesting-looking, that knocked at the door of the parlour where Mademoiselle sat reading a yellow-covered book and wishing vain wishes. Gerald could always make himself look interesting at a moment’s notice, a very useful accomplishment in dealing with strange grown-ups. It was done by opening his grey eyes rather wide, allowing the corners of his mouth to droop, and assuming a gentle, pleading expression, resembling that of the late little Lord Fauntleroy — who must, by the way, be quite old now, and an awful prig.
“Entrez!” said Mademoiselle, in shrill French accents. So he entered.
“Eh bien?” she said rather impatiently.
“I hope I am not disturbing you,” said Gerald, in whose mouth, it seemed, butter would not have melted.
“But no,” she said, somewhat softened. “What is it that you desire?”
“I thought I ought to come and say how do you do,” said Gerald, “because of you being the lady of the house.”
He held out the newly-washed hand, still damp and red. She took it.
“You are a very polite little boy,” she said.
“Not at all,” said Gerald, more polite than ever. “I am so sorry for you. It must be dreadful to have us to look after in the holidays.”
“But not at all,” said Mademoiselle in her turn. “I am sure you will be very good childrens.”
Gerald’s look assured her that he and the others would be as near angels as children could be without ceasing to be human.
“We’ll try,” he said earnestly.
“Can one do anything for you?” asked the French governess kindly.
“Oh, no, thank you,” said Gerald. “We don’t want to give you any trouble at all. And I was thinking it would be less trouble for you if we were to go out into the woods all day to-morrow and take our dinner with us — something cold, you know — so as not to be a trouble to the cook.”
“You are very considerate,” said Mademoiselle coldly. Then Gerald’s eyes smiled; they had a trick of doing this when his lips were quite serious. Mademoiselle caught the twinkle, and she laughed and Gerald laughed too.
“Little deceiver!” she said. “Why not say at once you want to be free of surveillance, how you say — overwatching — without pretending it is me you wish to please?”
“You have to be careful with grown-ups,” said Gerald, “but it isn’t all pretence either. We don’t want to trouble you — and we don’t want you to — ”
“Little deceiver!” she said.
“To trouble you. Eh bien! Your parents, they permit these days at woods?”
“Oh, yes,” said Gerald truthfully.
“Then I will not be more a dragon than the parents. I will forewarn the cook. Are you content?”
“Rather!” said Gerald. “Mademoiselle, you are a dear.”
“A deer?” she repeated — “a stag?”
“No, a — a chérie,” said Gerald — “a regular A1 chérie. And you shan’t repent it. Is there anything we can do for you — wind your wool, or find your spectacles, or — ?”
“He thinks me a grandmother!” said Mademoiselle, laughing more than ever. “Go then, and be not more naughty than you must.”
“Well, what luck?” the others asked.
“It’s all right,” said Gerald indifferently. “I told you it would be. The ingenuous youth won the regard of the foreign governess, who in her youth had been the beauty of her humble village.”
“I don’t believe she ever was. She’s too stern,” said Kathleen.
“Ah!” said Gerald, “that’s only because you don’t know how to manage her. She wasn’t stern with me.”
“I say, what a humbug you are though, aren’t you?” said Jimmy.
“No, I’m a dip — what’s-its-name? Something like an ambassador. Dipsoplomatist — that’s what I am. Anyhow, we’ve got our day, and if we don’t find a cave in it my name’s not Jack Robinson.”
Mademoiselle, less stern than Kathleen had ever seen her, presided at supper, which was bread and treacle spread several hours before, and now harder and drier than any other food you can think of. Gerald was very polite in handing her butter and cheese, and pressing her to taste the bread and treacle.
“Bah! it is like sand in the mouth — of a dryness! Is it possible this pleases you?”
“No,” said Gerald, “it is not possible, but it is not polite for boys to make remarks about their food!”
She laughed, but there was no more dried bread and treacle for supper after that.
“How do you do it?” Kathleen whispered admiringly as they said good-night.
“Oh, it’s quite easy when you’ve once got a grown-up to see what you’re after. You’ll see, I shall drive her with a rein of darning cotton after this.”
