“Then what was it?” said Mrs. Honeysett. “And do come along, for goodness’ sake, and eat your dinner while it’s hot.”
“It was—it was a different sort of picture,” said Elfrida, with a gulp, “and it was a pity.”
“Never mind, love,” said Mrs. Honeysett, who was as kind as a grandmother, and I can’t say more than that; “there’s a lovely surprise coming by and by for good little gells and boys, and the rabbit’ll be stone cold if you don’t make haste—leastways, it would have been if I hadn’t thought to pop it in the oven when I came to call you, knowing full well what your hands would be like after all that messing about with poison in dishes; and if I was your aunt I’d forbid it downright. And now come along and wash your hands, and don’t let’s have any more nonsense about it. Do you hear?”
I daresay you notice that Mrs. Honeysett was quite cross at the end of this speech and quite coaxing and kind at the beginning. She had just talked herself into being cross. It’s quite easy. I daresay you have often done it.
It was a silent dinner—the first silent meal since the children had come to Arden Castle. You can judge of Edred’s feelings when I tell you that he felt as though the rabbit would choke him, and refused a second helping of gooseberry pie with heartfelt sincerity. Elfrida did not eat so much as usual either. It really was a bitter disappointment. To have been so near seeing where the treasure was, and then—just because they hadn’t happened to bolt the door that last time—all was in vain. Mrs. Honeysett thought they were sulking about a silly trifle, and nearly said so when Edred refused the pie.
It was at the end of dinner that Elfrida, as she got down from her chair, saw Mrs. Honeysett’s face, and saw how different it looked from the kind face that she usually wore. She went over to her very slowly, and very quickly threw her arms round her and kissed her.
“I’m sorry we’ve been so piggy,” she said. “It’s not your fault that you’re not clever enough to know about pictures and things, is it?”
If Mrs. Honeysett hadn’t been a perfect dear, this apology would have been worse than none. But she was a perfect dear, so she laughed and hugged Elfrida, and somehow Edred got caught into the hug and the laugh, and the three were friends again. The sky was blue and the sun began to shine.
And then the two children went down to old Beale’s.
There were roses in his garden now, and white English flags and lupins and tall foxgloves bordering the little brick path. Old Beale was sitting “on a brown Windsor chair,” as Edred said, in the sun by his front door. Over his head was a jackdaw in a wicker cage, and Elfrida did not approve of this till she saw the cage door was open, and that the jackdaw was sitting in the cage because he liked it, and not because he must. She had been in prison in the Tower, you remember, and people who have been in prison never like to see live things in cages. There was a tabby and white cat of squarish shape sitting on the wooden threshold. (Why are cats who live in country cottages almost always tabby and white and squarish?) The feathery tail of a brown spaniel flogged the flags lazily in the patch of shade made by the water-butt. It was a picture of rural peace, and old Beale was asleep in the middle of it. I am glad to tell you that Lord Arden and his sister were polite enough to wait till he awoke of his own accord, instead of shouting “hi!” or rattling the smooth brown iron latch of the gate, as some children would have done.