‘Then I shall have done what’s right,’ said she to the Phoenix; ‘and if she doesn’t believe me it won’t be my fault—will it?’
‘Not in the least,’ said the golden bird. ‘And she won’t, so you’re quite safe.’
Anthea chose a time when she was doing her home-lessons—they were Algebra3 and Latin, German, English, and Euclid—and she asked her mother whether she might come and do them in the drawing-room—‘so as to be quiet,’ she said to her mother; and to herself she said, ‘And that’s not the real reason. I hope I shan’t grow up a LIAR4.’
Mother said, ‘Of course, dearie,’ and Anthea started swimming through a sea of x’s and y’s and z’s. Mother was sitting at the mahogany bureau writing letters.
‘Mother dear,’ said Anthea.
‘Yes, love-a-duck,’ said mother.
‘About cook,’ said Anthea. ‘I know where she is.’
‘Do you, dear?’ said mother. ‘Well, I wouldn’t take her back after the way she has behaved.’
‘It’s not her fault,’ said Anthea. ‘May I tell you about it from the beginning?’
Mother laid down her pen, and her nice face had a resigned expression. As you know, a resigned expression always makes you want not to tell anybody anything.
‘It’s like this,’ said Anthea, in a hurry: ‘that egg, you know, that came in the carpet; we put it in the fire and it hatched into the Phoenix, and the carpet was a wishing carpet—and—’
‘A very nice game, darling,’ said mother, taking up her pen. ‘Now do be quiet. I’ve got a lot of letters to write. I’m going to Bournemouth to-morrow with the Lamb—and there’s that bazaar5.’
Anthea went back to x y z, and mother’s pen scratched busily.
‘But, mother,’ said Anthea, when mother put down the pen to lick an envelope, ‘the carpet takes us wherever we like—and—’
‘I wish it would take you where you could get a few nice Eastern things for my bazaar,’ said mother. ‘I promised them, and I’ve no time to go to Liberty’s now.’
‘It shall,’ said Anthea, ‘but, mother—’
‘Well, dear,’ said mother, a little impatiently, for she had taken up her pen again.
‘The carpet took us to a place where you couldn’t have whooping6-cough, and the Lamb hasn’t whooped7 since, and we took cook because she was so tiresome8, and then she would stay and be queen of the savages9. They thought her cap was a crown, and—’
‘Darling one,’ said mother, ‘you know I love to hear the things you make up—but I am most awfully10 busy.’
‘But it’s true,’ said Anthea, desperately11.
‘You shouldn’t say that, my sweet,’ said mother, gently. And then Anthea knew it was hopeless.
‘Are you going away for long?’ asked Anthea.
‘I’ve got a cold,’ said mother, ‘and daddy’s anxious about it, and the Lamb’s cough.’
‘He hasn’t coughed since Saturday,’ the Lamb’s eldest12 sister interrupted.
‘I wish I could think so,’ mother replied. ‘And daddy’s got to go to Scotland. I do hope you’ll be good children.’
‘We will, we will,’ said Anthea, fervently13. ‘When’s the bazaar?’
‘On Saturday,’ said mother, ‘at the schools. Oh, don’t talk any more, there’s a treasure! My head’s going round, and I’ve forgotten how to spell whooping-cough.’
Mother and the Lamb went away, and father went away, and there was a new cook who looked so like a frightened rabbit that no one had the heart to do anything to frighten her any more than seemed natural to her.
The Phoenix begged to be excused. It said it wanted a week’s rest, and asked that it might not be disturbed. And it hid its golden gleaming self, and nobody could find it.
So that when Wednesday afternoon brought an unexpected holiday, and every one decided to go somewhere on the carpet, the journey had to be undertaken without the Phoenix. They were debarred from any carpet excursions in the evening by a sudden promise to mother, exacted in the agitation14 of parting, that they would not be out after six at night, except on Saturday, when they were to go to the bazaar, and were pledged to put on their best clothes, to wash themselves to the uttermost, and to clean their nails—not with scissors, which are scratchy and bad, but with flat-sharpened ends of wooden matches, which do no harm to any one’s nails.
‘Let’s go and see the Lamb,’ said Jane.
But every one was agreed that if they appeared suddenly in Bournemouth it would frighten mother out of her wits, if not into a fit. So they sat on the carpet, and thought and thought and thought till they almost began to squint15.
‘Look here,’ said Cyril, ‘I know. Please carpet, take us somewhere where we can see the Lamb and mother and no one can see us.’
‘Except the Lamb,’ said Jane, quickly.
And the next moment they found themselves recovering from the upside-down movement—and there they were sitting on the carpet, and the carpet was laid out over another thick soft carpet of brown pine-needles. There were green pine-trees overhead, and a swift clear little stream was running as fast as ever it could between steep banks—and there, sitting on the pine-needle carpet, was mother, without her hat; and the sun was shining brightly, although it was November—and there was the Lamb, as jolly as jolly and not whooping at all.
‘The carpet’s deceived us,’ said Robert, gloomily; ‘mother will see us directly she turns her head.’
But the faithful carpet had not deceived them.
Mother turned her dear head and looked straight at them, and DID NOT SEE THEM!
‘We’re invisible,’ Cyril whispered: ‘what awful larks16!’
But to the girls it was not larks at all. It was horrible to have mother looking straight at them, and her face keeping the same, just as though they weren’t there.
‘I don’t like it,’ said Jane. ‘Mother never looked at us like that before. Just as if she didn’t love us—as if we were somebody else’s children, and not very nice ones either—as if she didn’t care whether she saw us or not.’
‘It is horrid17,’ said Anthea, almost in tears.
But at this moment the Lamb saw them, and plunged18 towards the carpet, shrieking19, ‘Panty, own Panty—an’ Pussy20, an’ Squiggle—an’ Bobs, oh, oh!’
Anthea caught him and kissed him, so did Jane; they could not help it—he looked such a darling, with his blue three-cornered hat all on one side, and his precious face all dirty—quite in the old familiar way.
‘I love you, Panty; I love you—and you, and you, and you,’ cried the Lamb.
It was a delicious moment. Even the boys thumped21 their baby brother joyously22 on the back.
Then Anthea glanced at mother—and mother’s face was a pale sea-green colour, and she was staring at the Lamb as if she thought he had gone mad. And, indeed, that was exactly what she did think.
‘My Lamb, my precious! Come to mother,’ she cried, and jumped up and ran to the baby.
She was so quick that the invisible children had to leap back, or she would have felt them; and to feel what you can’t see is the worst sort of ghost-feeling. Mother picked up the Lamb and hurried away from the pinewood.
‘Let’s go home,’ said Jane, after a miserable23 silence. ‘It feels just exactly as if mother didn’t love us.’
But they couldn’t bear to go home till they had seen mother meet another lady, and knew that she was safe. You cannot leave your mother to go green in the face in a distant pinewood, far from all human aid, and then go home on your wishing carpet as though nothing had happened.
When mother seemed safe the children returned to the carpet, and said ‘Home’—and home they went.
‘I don’t care about being invisible myself,’ said Cyril, ‘at least, not with my own family. It would be different if you were a prince, or a bandit, or a burglar.’
And now the thoughts of all four dwelt fondly on the dear greenish face of mother.
‘I wish she hadn’t gone away,’ said Jane; ‘the house is simply beastly without her.’
‘I think we ought to do what she said,’ Anthea put in. ‘I saw something in a book the other day about the wishes of the departed being sacred.’
‘That means when they’ve departed farther off,’ said Cyril. ‘India’s coral or Greenland’s icy, don’t you know; not Bournemouth. Besides, we don’t know what her wishes are.’
‘She SAID’—Anthea was very much inclined to cry—‘she said, “Get Indian things for my bazaar;” but I know she thought we couldn’t, and it was only play.’
‘Let’s get them all the same,’ said Robert. ‘We’ll go the first thing on Saturday morning.’
And on Saturday morning, the first thing, they went.
There was no finding the Phoenix, so they sat on the beautiful wishing carpet, and said—
‘We want Indian things for mother’s bazaar. Will you please take us where people will give us heaps of Indian things?’
The docile24 carpet swirled25 their senses away, and restored them on the outskirts26 of a gleaming white Indian town. They knew it was Indian at once, by the shape of the domes27 and roofs; and besides, a man went by on an elephant, and two English soldiers went along the road, talking like in Mr Kipling’s books—so after that no one could have any doubt as to where they were. They rolled up the carpet and Robert carried it, and they walked bodily into the town.
It was very warm, and once more they had to take off their London-in-November coats, and carry them on their arms.
The streets were narrow and strange, and the clothes of the people in the streets were stranger and the talk of the people was strangest of all.
‘I can’t understand a word,’ said Cyril. ‘How on earth are we to ask for things for our bazaar?’
‘And they’re poor people, too,’ said Jane; ‘I’m sure they are. What we want is a rajah or something.’
Robert was beginning to unroll the carpet, but the others stopped him, imploring28 him not to waste a wish.
‘We asked the carpet to take us where we could get Indian things for bazaars29,’ said Anthea, ‘and it will.’
Her faith was justified30.
Just as she finished speaking a very brown gentleman in a turban came up to them and bowed deeply. He spoke31, and they thrilled to the sound of English words.
‘My ranee, she think you very nice childs. She asks do you lose yourselves, and do you desire to sell carpet? She see you from her palkee. You come see her—yes?’
They followed the stranger, who seemed to have a great many more teeth in his smile than are usual, and he led them through crooked32 streets to the ranee’s palace. I am not going to describe the ranee’s palace, because I really have never seen the palace of a ranee, and Mr Kipling has. So you can read about it in his books. But I know exactly what happened there.
The old ranee sat on a low-cushioned seat, and there were a lot of other ladies with her—all in trousers and veils, and sparkling with tinsel and gold and jewels. And the brown, turbaned gentleman stood behind a sort of carved screen, and interpreted what the children said and what the queen said. And when the queen asked to buy the carpet, the children said ‘No.’
‘Why?’ asked the ranee.
And Jane briefly33 said why, and the interpreter interpreted. The queen spoke, and then the interpreter said—
‘My mistress says it is a good story, and you tell it all through without thought of time.’
And they had to. It made a long story, especially as it had all to be told twice—once by Cyril and once by the interpreter. Cyril rather enjoyed himself. He warmed to his work, and told the tale of the Phoenix and the Carpet, and the Lone34 Tower, and the Queen-Cook, in language that grew insensibly more and more Arabian Nightsy, and the ranee and her ladies listened to the interpreter, and rolled about on their fat cushions with laughter.
When the story was ended she spoke, and the interpreter explained that she had said, ‘Little one, thou art a heaven-born teller35 of tales,’ and she threw him a string of turquoises37 from round her neck.
‘OH, how lovely!’ cried Jane and Anthea.
Cyril bowed several times, and then cleared his throat and said—
‘Thank her very, very much; but I would much rather she gave me some of the cheap things in the bazaar. Tell her I want them to sell again, and give the money to buy clothes for poor people who haven’t any.’
‘Tell him he has my leave to sell my gift and clothe the naked with its price,’ said the queen, when this was translated.
But Cyril said very firmly, ‘No, thank you. The things have got to be sold to-day at our bazaar, and no one would buy a turquoise36 necklace at an English bazaar. They’d think it was sham38, or else they’d want to know where we got it.’
So then the queen sent out for little pretty things, and her servants piled the carpet with them.
‘I must needs lend you an elephant to carry them away,’ she said, laughing.
But Anthea said, ‘If the queen will lend us a comb and let us wash our hands and faces, she shall see a magic thing. We and the carpet and all these brass39 trays and pots and carved things and stuffs and things will just vanish away like smoke.’
The queen clapped her hands at this idea, and lent the children a sandal-wood comb inlaid with ivory lotus-flowers. And they washed their faces and hands in silver basins. Then Cyril made a very polite farewell speech, and quite suddenly he ended with the words—
‘And I wish we were at the bazaar at our schools.’
And of course they were. And the queen and her ladies were left with their mouths open, gazing at the bare space on the inlaid marble floor where the carpet and the children had been.
‘That is magic, if ever magic was!’ said the queen, delighted with the incident; which, indeed, has given the ladies of that court something to talk about on wet days ever since.
Cyril’s stories had taken some time, so had the meal of strange sweet foods that they had had while the little pretty things were being bought, and the gas in the schoolroom was already lighted. Outside, the winter dusk was stealing down among the Camden Town houses.
‘I’m glad we got washed in India,’ said Cyril. ‘We should have been awfully late if we’d had to go home and scrub.’
‘Besides,’ Robert said, ‘it’s much warmer washing in India. I shouldn’t mind it so much if we lived there.’
The thoughtful carpet had dumped the children down in a dusky space behind the point where the corners of two stalls met. The floor was littered with string and brown paper, and baskets and boxes were heaped along the wall.
The children crept out under a stall covered with all sorts of table-covers and mats and things, embroidered40 beautifully by idle ladies with no real work to do. They got out at the end, displacing a sideboard-cloth adorned41 with a tasteful pattern of blue geraniums. The girls got out unobserved, so did Cyril; but Robert, as he cautiously emerged, was actually walked on by Mrs Biddle, who kept the stall. Her large, solid foot stood firmly on the small, solid hand of Robert and who can blame Robert if he DID yell a little?
A crowd instantly collected. Yells are very unusual at bazaars, and every one was intensely interested. It was several seconds before the three free children could make Mrs Biddle understand that what she was walking on was not a schoolroom floor, or even, as she presently supposed, a dropped pin-cushion, but the living hand of a suffering child. When she became aware that she really had hurt him, she grew very angry indeed. When people have hurt other people by accident, the one who does the hurting is always much the angriest. I wonder why.
‘I’m very sorry, I’m sure,’ said Mrs Biddle; but she spoke more in anger than in sorrow. ‘Come out! whatever do you mean by creeping about under the stalls, like earwigs?’
‘We were looking at the things in the corner.’
‘Such nasty, prying42 ways,’ said Mrs Biddle, ‘will never make you successful in life. There’s nothing there but packing and dust.’
‘Oh, isn’t there!’ said Jane. ‘That’s all you know.’
‘Little girl, don’t be rude,’ said Mrs Biddle, flushing violet.
‘She doesn’t mean to be; but there ARE some nice things there, all the same,’ said Cyril; who suddenly felt how impossible it was to inform the listening crowd that all the treasures piled on the carpet were mother’s contributions to the bazaar. No one would believe it; and if they did, and wrote to thank mother, she would think—well, goodness only knew what she would think. The other three children felt the same.
‘I should like to see them,’ said a very nice lady, whose friends had disappointed her, and who hoped that these might be belated contributions to her poorly furnished stall.
She looked inquiringly at Robert, who said, ‘With pleasure, don’t mention it,’ and dived back under Mrs Biddle’s stall.
‘I wonder you encourage such behaviour,’ said Mrs Biddle. ‘I always speak my mind, as you know, Miss Peasmarsh; and, I must say, I am surprised.’ She turned to the crowd. ‘There is no entertainment here,’ she said sternly. ‘A very naughty little boy has accidentally hurt himself, but only slightly. Will you please disperse44? It will only encourage him in naughtiness if he finds himself the centre of attraction.’
The crowd slowly dispersed45. Anthea, speechless with fury, heard a nice curate say, ‘Poor little beggar!’ and loved the curate at once and for ever.
Then Robert wriggled46 out from under the stall with some Benares brass and some inlaid sandalwood boxes.
‘Liberty!’ cried Miss Peasmarsh. ‘Then Charles has not forgotten, after all.’
‘Excuse me,’ said Mrs Biddle, with fierce politeness, ‘these objects are deposited behind MY stall. Some unknown donor47 who does good by stealth, and would blush if he could hear you claim the things. Of course they are for me.’
‘My stall touches yours at the corner,’ said poor Miss Peasmarsh, timidly, ‘and my cousin did promise—’
The children sidled away from the unequal contest and mingled48 with the crowd. Their feelings were too deep for words—till at last Robert said—
‘That stiff-starched PIG!’
‘And after all our trouble! I’m hoarse49 with gassing to that trousered lady in India.’
‘The pig-lady’s very, very nasty,’ said Jane.
It was Anthea who said, in a hurried undertone, ‘She isn’t very nice, and Miss Peasmarsh is pretty and nice too. Who’s got a pencil?’
It was a long crawl, under three stalls, but Anthea did it. A large piece of pale blue paper lay among the rubbish in the corner.
She folded it to a square and wrote upon it, licking the pencil at every word to make it mark quite blackly: ‘All these Indian things are for pretty, nice Miss Peasmarsh’s stall.’ She thought of adding, ‘There is nothing for Mrs Biddle;’ but she saw that this might lead to suspicion, so she wrote hastily: ‘From an unknown donna,’ and crept back among the boards and trestles to join the others.
So that when Mrs Biddle appealed to the bazaar committee, and the corner of the stall was lifted and shifted, so that stout50 clergymen and heavy ladies could get to the corner without creeping under stalls, the blue paper was discovered, and all the splendid, shining Indian things were given over to Miss Peasmarsh, and she sold them all, and got thirty-five pounds for them.
‘I don’t understand about that blue paper,’ said Mrs Biddle. ‘It looks to me like the work of a lunatic. And saying you were nice and pretty! It’s not the work of a sane51 person.’
Anthea and Jane begged Miss Peasmarsh to let them help her to sell the things, because it was their brother who had announced the good news that the things had come. Miss Peasmarsh was very willing, for now her stall, that had been SO neglected, was surrounded by people who wanted to buy, and she was glad to be helped. The children noted52 that Mrs Biddle had not more to do in the way of selling than she could manage quite well. I hope they were not glad—for you should forgive your enemies, even if they walk on your hands and then say it is all your naughty fault. But I am afraid they were not so sorry as they ought to have been.
It took some time to arrange the things on the stall. The carpet was spread over it, and the dark colours showed up the brass and silver and ivory things. It was a happy and busy afternoon, and when Miss Peasmarsh and the girls had sold every single one of the little pretty things from the Indian bazaar, far, far away, Anthea and Jane went off with the boys to fish in the fishpond, and dive into the bran-pie, and hear the cardboard band, and the phonograph, and the chorus of singing birds that was done behind a screen with glass tubes and glasses of water.
They had a beautiful tea, suddenly presented to them by the nice curate, and Miss Peasmarsh joined them before they had had more than three cakes each. It was a merry party, and the curate was extremely pleasant to every one, ‘even to Miss Peasmarsh,’ as Jane said afterwards.
‘We ought to get back to the stall,’ said Anthea, when no one could possibly eat any more, and the curate was talking in a low voice to Miss Peas marsh43 about ‘after Easter’.
‘There’s nothing to go back for,’ said Miss Peasmarsh gaily53; ‘thanks to you dear children we’ve sold everything.’
‘There—there’s the carpet,’ said Cyril.
‘Oh,’ said Miss Peasmarsh, radiantly, ‘don’t bother about the carpet. I’ve sold even that. Mrs Biddle gave me ten shillings for it. She said it would do for her servant’s bedroom.’
‘Why,’ said Jane, ‘her servants don’t HAVE carpets. We had cook from her, and she told us so.’
‘No scandal about Queen Elizabeth, if YOU please,’ said the curate, cheerfully; and Miss Peasmarsh laughed, and looked at him as though she had never dreamed that any one COULD be so amusing. But the others were struck dumb. How could they say, ‘The carpet is ours!’ For who brings carpets to bazaars?
The children were now thoroughly54 wretched. But I am glad to say that their wretchedness did not make them forget their manners, as it does sometimes, even with grown-up people, who ought to know ever so much better.
They said, ‘Thank you very much for the jolly tea,’ and ‘Thanks for being so jolly,’ and ‘Thanks awfully for giving us such a jolly time;’ for the curate had stood fish-ponds, and bran-pies, and phonographs, and the chorus of singing birds, and had stood them like a man. The girls hugged Miss Peasmarsh, and as they went away they heard the curate say—
‘Jolly little kids, yes, but what about—you will let it be directly after Easter. Ah, do say you will—’
And Jane ran back and said, before Anthea could drag her away, ‘What are you going to do after Easter?’
Miss Peasmarsh smiled and looked very pretty indeed. And the curate said—
‘I hope I am going to take a trip to the Fortunate Islands.’
‘I wish we could take you on the wishing carpet,’ said Jane.
‘Thank you,’ said the curate, ‘but I’m afraid I can’t wait for that. I must go to the Fortunate Islands before they make me a bishop55. I should have no time afterwards.’
‘I’ve always thought I should marry a bishop,’ said Jane: ‘his aprons56 would come in so useful. Wouldn’t YOU like to marry a bishop, Miss Peasmarsh?’
It was then that they dragged her away.
As it was Robert’s hand that Mrs Biddle had walked on, it was decided that he had better not recall the incident to her mind, and so make her angry again. Anthea and Jane had helped to sell things at the rival stall, so they were not likely to be popular.
A hasty council of four decided that Mrs Biddle would hate Cyril less than she would hate the others, so the others mingled with the crowd, and it was he who said to her—
‘Mrs Biddle, WE meant to have that carpet. Would you sell it to us? We would give you—’
‘Certainly not,’ said Mrs Biddle. ‘Go away, little boy.’
There was that in her tone which showed Cyril, all too plainly, the hopelessness of persuasion58. He found the others and said—
‘It’s no use; she’s like a lioness robbed of its puppies. We must watch where it goes—and—Anthea, I don’t care what you say. It’s our own carpet. It wouldn’t be burglary. It would be a sort of forlorn hope rescue party—heroic and daring and dashing, and not wrong at all.’
The children still wandered among the gay crowd—but there was no pleasure there for them any more. The chorus of singing birds sounded just like glass tubes being blown through water, and the phonograph simply made a horrid noise, so that you could hardly hear yourself speak. And the people were buying things they couldn’t possibly want, and it all seemed very stupid. And Mrs Biddle had bought the wishing carpet for ten shillings. And the whole of life was sad and grey and dusty, and smelt59 of slight gas escapes, and hot people, and cake and crumbs60, and all the children were very tired indeed.
They found a corner within sight of the carpet, and there they waited miserably61, till it was far beyond their proper bedtime. And when it was ten the people who had bought things went away, but the people who had been selling stayed to count up their money.
‘And to jaw62 about it,’ said Robert. ‘I’ll never go to another bazaar as long as ever I live. My hand is swollen63 as big as a pudding. I expect the nails in her horrible boots were poisoned.’
Just then some one who seemed to have a right to interfere64 said—
‘Everything is over now; you had better go home.’
So they went. And then they waited on the pavement under the gas lamp, where ragged57 children had been standing65 all the evening to listen to the band, and their feet slipped about in the greasy66 mud till Mrs Biddle came out and was driven away in a cab with the many things she hadn’t sold, and the few things she had bought—among others the carpet. The other stall-holders left their things at the school till Monday morning, but Mrs Biddle was afraid some one would steal some of them, so she took them in a cab.
The children, now too desperate to care for mud or appearances, hung on behind the cab till it reached Mrs Biddle’s house. When she and the carpet had gone in and the door was shut Anthea said—
‘Don’t let’s burgle—I mean do daring and dashing rescue acts—till we’ve given her a chance. Let’s ring and ask to see her.’
The others hated to do this, but at last they agreed, on condition that Anthea would not make any silly fuss about the burglary afterwards, if it really had to come to that.
So they knocked and rang, and a scared-looking parlourmaid opened the front door. While they were asking for Mrs Biddle they saw her. She was in the dining-room, and she had already pushed back the table and spread out the carpet to see how it looked on the floor.
‘I knew she didn’t want it for her servants’ bedroom,’ Jane muttered.
Anthea walked straight past the uncomfortable parlourmaid, and the others followed her. Mrs Biddle had her back to them, and was smoothing down the carpet with the same boot that had trampled67 on the hand of Robert. So that they were all in the room, and Cyril, with great presence of mind, had shut the room door before she saw them.
‘Who is it, Jane?’ she asked in a sour voice; and then turning suddenly, she saw who it was. Once more her face grew violet—a deep, dark violet. ‘You wicked daring little things!’ she cried, ‘how dare you come here? At this time of night, too. Be off, or I’ll send for the police.’
‘Don’t be angry,’ said Anthea, soothingly68, ‘we only wanted to ask you to let us have the carpet. We have quite twelve shillings between us, and—’
‘How DARE you?’ cried Mrs Biddle, and her voice shook with angriness.
‘You do look horrid,’ said Jane suddenly.
Mrs Biddle actually stamped that booted foot of hers. ‘You rude, barefaced69 child!’ she said.
Anthea almost shook Jane; but Jane pushed forward in spite of her.
‘It really IS our nursery carpet,’ she said, ‘you ask ANY ONE if it isn’t.’
‘Let’s wish ourselves home,’ said Cyril in a whisper.
‘No go,’ Robert whispered back, ‘she’d be there too, and raving70 mad as likely as not. Horrid thing, I hate her!’
‘I wish Mrs Biddle was in an angelic good temper,’ cried Anthea, suddenly. ‘It’s worth trying,’ she said to herself.
Mrs Biddle’s face grew from purple to violet, and from violet to mauve, and from mauve to pink. Then she smiled quite a jolly smile.
‘Why, so I am!’ she said, ‘what a funny idea! Why shouldn’t I be in a good temper, my dears.’
Once more the carpet had done its work, and not on Mrs Biddle alone. The children felt suddenly good and happy.
‘You’re a jolly good sort,’ said Cyril. ‘I see that now. I’m sorry we vexed71 you at the bazaar to-day.’
‘Not another word,’ said the changed Mrs Biddle. ‘Of course you shall have the carpet, my dears, if you’ve taken such a fancy to it. No, no; I won’t have more than the ten shillings I paid.’
‘It does seem hard to ask you for it after you bought it at the bazaar,’ said Anthea; ‘but it really IS our nursery carpet. It got to the bazaar by mistake, with some other things.’
‘Did it really, now? How vexing72!’ said Mrs Biddle, kindly73. ‘Well, my dears, I can very well give the extra ten shillings; so you take your carpet and we’ll say no more about it. Have a piece of cake before you go! I’m so sorry I stepped on your hand, my boy. Is it all right now?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ said Robert. ‘I say, you ARE good.’
‘Not at all,’ said Mrs Biddle, heartily74. ‘I’m delighted to be able to give any little pleasure to you dear children.’
And she helped them to roll up the carpet, and the boys carried it away between them.
‘You ARE a dear,’ said Anthea, and she and Mrs Biddle kissed each other heartily.
‘WELL!’ said Cyril as they went along the street.
‘Yes,’ said Robert, ‘and the odd part is that you feel just as if it was REAL—her being so jolly, I mean—and not only the carpet making her nice.’
‘Perhaps it IS real,’ said Anthea, ‘only it was covered up with crossness and tiredness and things, and the carpet took them away.’
‘I hope it’ll keep them away,’ said Jane; ‘she isn’t ugly at all when she laughs.’
The carpet has done many wonders in its day; but the case of Mrs Biddle is, I think, the most wonderful. For from that day she was never anything like so disagreeable as she was before, and she sent a lovely silver tea-pot and a kind letter to Miss Peasmarsh when the pretty lady married the nice curate; just after Easter it was, and they went to Italy for their honeymoon75.
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phoenix
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| n.凤凰，长生(不死)鸟；引申为重生 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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algebra
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| n.代数学 | |
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liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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bazaar
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| n.集市，商店集中区 | |
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whooping
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| 发嗬嗬声的，发咳声的 | |
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whooped
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| 叫喊( whoop的过去式和过去分词 )； 高声说； 唤起 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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squint
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| v. 使变斜视眼, 斜视, 眯眼看, 偏移, 窥视; n. 斜视, 斜孔小窗; adj. 斜视的, 斜的 | |
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larks
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| n.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的名词复数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了v.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的第三人称单数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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pussy
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| n.(儿语)小猫，猫咪 | |
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thumped
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| v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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23
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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swirled
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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domes
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| n.圆屋顶( dome的名词复数 )；像圆屋顶一样的东西；圆顶体育场 | |
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imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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bazaars
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| （东方国家的）市场( bazaar的名词复数 )； 义卖； 义卖市场； （出售花哨商品等的）小商品市场 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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teller
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| n.银行出纳员；(选举)计票员 | |
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turquoise
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| n.绿宝石；adj.蓝绿色的 | |
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turquoises
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| n.绿松石( turquoise的名词复数 )；青绿色 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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wriggled
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的过去式和过去分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等） | |
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donor
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| n.捐献者；赠送人；(组织、器官等的)供体 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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55
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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aprons
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| 围裙( apron的名词复数 )； 停机坪，台口（舞台幕前的部份） | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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59
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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60
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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64
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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66
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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67
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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68
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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barefaced
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| adj.厚颜无耻的，公然的 | |
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raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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71
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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72
vexing
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| adj.使人烦恼的，使人恼火的v.使烦恼( vex的现在分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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73
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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74
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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75
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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