They tried several other farms, but at those where there were no dogs the people were far too frightened to do anything but scream; and at last, when it was nearly four o'clock, and their wings were getting miserably stiff and tired, they alighted on a church-tower and held a council of war.
"We can't possibly fly all the way home without dinner or tea," said Robert with desperate decision.
"And nobody will give us any dinner, or even lunch, let alone tea," said Cyril.
"Perhaps the clergyman here might," suggested Anthea. "He must know all about angels"—
"Anybody could see we're not that," said Jane. "Look at Robert's boots and Squirrel's plaid necktie."
"Well," said Cyril firmly, "if the country you're in won't sell provisions, you take them. In wars I mean. I'm quite certain you do. And even in other stories no good brother would allow his little sisters to starve in the midst of plenty."
"Plenty?" repeated Robert hungrily; and the others looked vaguely round the bare leads of the church-tower, and murmured, "In the midst of?"
"Yes," said Cyril impressively. "There is a larder window at the side of the clergyman's house, and I saw things to eat inside—custard pudding and cold chicken and tongue—and pies—and jam. It's rather a high window—but with wings"—
"How clever of you!" said Jane.
"Not at all," said Cyril modestly; "any born general—Napoleon or the Duke of Marlborough—would have seen it just the same as I did."
"It seems very wrong," said Anthea.
"Nonsense," said Cyril. "What was it Sir Philip Sidney said when the soldier wouldn't give him a drink?—'My necessity is greater than his.'"
"We'll club together our money, though, and leave it to pay for the things, won't we?" Anthea was persuasive, and very nearly in tears, because it is most trying to feel enormously hungry and unspeakably sinful at one and the same time.
"Some of it," was the cautious reply.
Everyone now turned out its pockets on the lead roof of the tower, where visitors for the last hundred and fifty years had cut their own and their sweethearts' initials with penknives in the soft lead. There was five-and-seven-pence halfpenny altogether, and even the upright Anthea admitted that that was too much to pay for four people's dinners. Robert said he thought eighteenpence.
And half-a-crown was finally agreed to be "handsome."
So Anthea wrote on the back of her last term's report, which happened to be in her pocket, and from which she first tore her own name and that of the school, the following letter:—
"Dear Reverend Clergyman,—We are very hungry indeed because of having to fly all day, and we think it is not stealing when you are starving to death. We are afraid to ask you for fear you should say 'No,' because of course you know about angels, but you would not think we were angels. We will only take the necessities of life, and no pudding or pie, to show you it is not grediness but true starvation that makes us make your larder stand and deliver. But we are not highwaymen by trade."
"Cut it short," said the others with one accord. And Anthea hastily added—
"Our intentions are quite honourable if you only knew. And here is half-a-crown to show we are sinseer and grateful.
"Thank you for your kind hospitality.
"From Us Four."
The half-crown was wrapped in this letter, and all the children felt that when the clergyman had read it he would understand everything, as well as anyone could who had not even seen the wings.
"Now," said Cyril, "of course there's some risk; we'd better fly straight down the other side of the tower and then flutter low across the churchyard and in through the shrubbery. There doesn't seem to be anyone about. But you never know. The window looks out into the shrubbery. It is embowered in foliage, like a window in a story. I'll go in and get the things. Robert and Anthea can take them as I hand them out through the window; and Jane can keep watch,—her eyes are sharp,—and whistle if she sees anyone about. Shut up, Robert! she can whistle quite well enough for that, anyway. It ought not to be a very good whistle—it'll sound more natural and birdlike. Now then—off we go!"
I cannot pretend that stealing is right. I can only say that on this occasion it did not look like stealing to the hungry four, but appeared in the light of a fair and reasonable business transaction. They had never happened to learn that a tongue,—hardly cut into,—a chicken and a half, a loaf of bread, and a syphon of soda-water cannot be bought in the stores for half-a-crown. These were the necessaries of life, which Cyril handed out of the larder window when, quite unobserved and without hindrance or adventure, he had led the others to that happy spot. He felt that to refrain from jam, apple pie, cake, and mixed candied peel, was a really heroic act—and I agree with him. He was also proud of not taking the custard pudding,—and there I think he was wrong,—because if he had taken it there would have been a difficulty about returning the dish; no one, however starving, has a right to steal china pie-dishes with little pink flowers on them. The soda-water syphon was different. They could not do without something to drink, and as the maker's name was on it they felt sure it would be returned to him wherever they might leave it. If they had time they would take it back themselves. The man appeared to live in Rochester, which would not be much out of their way home.
Everything was carried up to the top of the tower, and laid down on a sheet of kitchen paper which Cyril had found on the top shelf of the larder. As he unfolded it, Anthea said, "I don't think that's a necessity of life."
"Yes, it is," said he. "We must put the things down somewhere to cut them up; and I heard father say the other day people got diseases from germans in rain-water. Now there must be lots of rain-water here,—and when it dries up the germans are left, and they'd get into the things, and we should all die of scarlet fever."
"What are germans?"
"Little waggly things you see with microscopes," said Cyril, with a scientific air. "They give you every illness you can think of. I'm sure the paper was a necessary, just as much as the bread and meat and water. Now then! Oh, I'm hungry!"
I do not wish to describe the picnic party on the top of the tower. You can imagine well enough what it is like to carve a chicken and a tongue with a knife that has only one blade and that snapped off short about half-way down. But it was done. Eating with your fingers is greasy and difficult—and paper dishes soon get to look very spotty and horrid. But one thing you can't imagine, and that is how soda-water behaves when you try to drink it straight out of a syphon—especially a quite full one. But if imagination will not help you, experience will, and you can easily try it for yourself if you can get a grown-up to give you the syphon. If you want to have a really thorough experience, put the tube in your mouth and press the handle very suddenly and very hard. You had better do it when you are alone—and out of doors is best for this experiment.
However you eat them, tongue and chicken and new bread are very good things, and no one minds being sprinkled a little with soda-water on a really fine hot day. So that everyone enjoyed the dinner very much indeed, and everyone ate as much as it possibly could: first, because it was extremely hungry; and secondly, because, as I said, tongue and chicken and new bread are very nice.
Now, I daresay you will have noticed that if you have to wait for your dinner till long after the proper time, and then eat a great deal more dinner than usual, and sit in the hot sun on the top of a church-tower—or even anywhere else—you become soon and strangely sleepy. Now Anthea and Jane and Cyril and Robert were very like you in many ways, and when they had eaten all they could, and drunk all there was, they became sleepy, strangely and soon—especially Anthea, because she had gotten up so early.
One by one they left off talking and leaned back, and before it was a quarter of an hour after dinner they had all curled round and tucked themselves up under their large soft warm wings and were fast asleep. And the sun was sinking slowly in the west. (I must say it was in the west, because it is usual in books to say so, for fear careless people should think it was setting in the east. In point of fact, it was not exactly in the west either—but that's near enough.) The sun, I repeat, was sinking slowly in the west, and the children slept warmly and happily on—for wings are cosier than eider-down quilts to sleep under. The shadow of the church-tower fell across the churchyard, and across the Vicarage, and across the field beyond; and presently there were no more shadows, and the sun had set, and the wings were gone. And still the children slept. But not for long. Twilight is very beautiful, but it is chilly; and you know, however sleepy you are, you wake up soon enough if your brother or sister happens to be up first and pulls your blankets off you. The four wingless children shivered and woke. And there they were,—on the top of a church-tower in the dusky twilight, with blue stars coming out by ones and twos and tens and twenties over their heads,—miles away from home, with three shillings and three-halfpence in their pockets, and a doubtful act about the necessities of life to be accounted for if anyone found them with the soda-water syphon.
They looked at each other. Cyril spoke first, picking up the syphon—
"We'd better get along down and get rid of this beastly thing. It's dark enough to leave it on the clergyman's doorstep, I should think. Come on."
There was a little turret at the corner of the tower, and the little turret had a door in it. They had noticed this when they were eating, but had not explored it, as you would have done in their place. Because, of course, when you have wings and can explore the whole sky, doors seem hardly worth exploring.
Now they turned towards it.
"Of course," said Cyril "this is the way down."
It was. But the door was locked on the inside!
And the world was growing darker and darker. And they were miles from home. And there was the soda-water syphon.
I shall not tell you whether anyone cried, nor, if so, how many cried, nor who cried. You will be better employed in making up your minds what you would have done if you had been in their place.
CHAPTER V
NO WINGS
Whether anyone cried or not, there was certainly an interval during which none of the party was quite itself. When they grew calmer, Anthea put her handkerchief in her pocket and her arm round Jane, and said—
"It can't be for more than one night. We can signal with our handkerchiefs in the morning. They'll be dry then. And someone will come up and let us out"—
"And find the syphon," said Cyril gloomily; "and we shall be sent to prison for stealing"—
"You said it wasn't stealing. You said you were sure it wasn't."
"I'm not sure now" said Cyril shortly.
"Let's throw the thing away among the trees," said Robert, "then no one can do anything to us."
"Oh yes,"—Cyril's laugh was not a light-hearted one,—"and hit some chap on the head, and be murderers as well as—as the other thing."
"But we can't stay up here all night," said Jane; "and I want my tea."
"You can't want your tea," said Robert; "you've only just had your dinner."
"But I do want it," she said; "especially when you begin talking about stopping up here all night. Oh, Panther—I want to go home! I want to go home!"
"Hush, hush," Anthea said. "Don't, dear. It'll be all right, somehow. Don't, don't"—
"Let her cry," said Robert desperately; "if she howls loud enough, someone may hear and come and let us out."
"And see the soda-water thing," said Anthea swiftly. "Robert, don't be a brute. Oh, Jane, do try to be a man! It's just the same for all of us."
Jane did try to "be a man"—and reduced her howls to sniffs.
There was a pause. Then Cyril said slowly, "Look here. We must risk that syphon. I'll button it up inside my jacket—perhaps no one will notice it. You others keep well in front of me. There are lights in the clergyman's house. They've not gone to bed yet. We must just yell as loud as ever we can. Now all scream when I say three. Robert, you do the yell like a railway engine, and I'll do the coo-ee like father's. The girls can do as they please. One, two, three!"
A four-fold yell rent the silent peace of the evening, and a maid at one of the Vicarage windows paused with her hand on the blind-cord.
"One, two, three!" Another yell, piercing and complex, startled the owls and starlings to a flutter of feathers in the belfry below. The maid flew from the Vicarage window and ran down the Vicarage stairs and into the Vicarage kitchen, and fainted as soon as she had explained to the man-servant and the cook and the cook's cousin that she had seen a ghost. It was quite untrue, of course, but I suppose the girl's nerves were a little upset by the yelling.
"One, two, three!" The Vicar was on his doorstep by this time, and there was no mistaking the yell that greeted him.
"Goodness me," he said to his wife, "my dear, someone's being murdered in the church! Give me my hat and a thick stick, and tell Andrew to come after me. I expect it's the lunatic who stole the tongue."
The children had seen the flash of light when the Vicar opened his front door. They had seen his dark form on his doorstep, and they had paused for breath, and also to see what he would do.
When he turned back for his hat, Cyril said hastily—
"He thinks he only fancied he heard something. You don't half yell! Now! One, two, three!"
It was certainly a whole yell this time, and the Vicar's wife flung her arms round her husband and screamed a feeble echo of it.
"You shan't go!" she said, "not alone. Jessie!"—the maid unfainted and came out of the kitchen,—"send Andrew at once. There's a dangerous lunatic in the church, and he must go immediately and catch him."
"I expect he will catch it too," said Jessie to herself as she went through the kitchen door. "Here, Andrew," she said, "there's someone screaming like mad in the church, and the missus says you're to go along and catch it."
"Not alone, I don't," said Andrew in low firm tones. To his master he merely said, "Yis sir."
"You heard those screams?"
"I did think I noticed a sort of something," said Andrew.
"Well, come on, then," said the Vicar. "My dear, I must go!" He pushed her gently into the sitting-room, banged the door, and rushed out, dragging Andrew by the arm.
A volley of yells greeted them. Then as it died into silence Andrew shouted, "Hullo, you there! Did you call?"
"Yes," shouted four far-away voices.
"They seem to be in the air," said the Vicar. "Very remarkable."
"Where are you?" shouted Andrew; and Cyril replied in his deepest voice, very slow and loud—
"CHURCH! TOWER! TOP!"
"Come down, then!" said Andrew; and the same voice replied—
"Can't! Door locked!"
"My goodness!" said the Vicar. "Andrew, fetch the stable lantern. Perhaps it would be as well to fetch another man from the village."
"With the rest of the gang about, very likely. No, sir; if this 'ere ain't a trap—well, may I never! There's cook's cousin at the back door now. He's a keeper, sir, and used to dealing with vicious characters. And he's got his gun, sir."
"Hullo there!" shouted Cyril from the church-tower; "come up and let us out."
"We're a-coming," said Andrew. "I'm a-going to get a policeman and a gun."
"Andrew, Andrew," said the Vicar, "that's not the truth."
"It's near enough, sir, for the likes of them."
So Andrew fetched the lantern and the cook's cousin; and the Vicar's wife begged them all to be very careful.
They went across the churchyard—it was quite dark now—and as they went they talked. The Vicar was certain a lunatic was on the church-tower—the one who had written the mad letter, and taken the cold tongue and things. Andrew thought it was a "trap"; the cook's cousin alone was calm. "Great cry, little wool," said he; "dangerous chaps is quieter." He was not at all afraid. But then he had a gun. That was why he was asked to lead the way up the worn, steep, dark steps of the church-tower. He did lead the way, with the lantern in one hand and the gun in the other. Andrew went next. He pretended afterwards that this was because he was braver than his master, but really it was because he thought of traps and he did not like the idea of being behind the others for fear someone should come softly up behind him and catch hold of his legs in the dark. They went on and on, and round and round the little corkscrew staircase—then through the bell-ringers' loft, where the bell-ropes hung with soft furry ends like giant caterpillars—then up another stair into the belfry, where the big quiet bells are—and then on up a ladder with broad steps—and then up a little stone stair. And at the top of that there was a little door. And the door was bolted on the stair side.
The cook's cousin, who was a gamekeeper, kicked at the door, and said—
"Hullo, you there!"
The children were holding on to each other on the other side of the door, and trembling with anxiousness—and very hoarse with their howls. They could hardly speak, but Cyril managed to reply huskily—
"Hullo, you there!"
"How did you get up there?"
It was no use saying "We flew up," so Cyril said—
"We got up—and then we found the door was locked and we couldn't get down. Let us out—do."
"How many of you are there?" asked the keeper.
"Only four," said Cyril.
"Are you armed?"
"Are we what?"
"I've got my gun handy—so you'd best not try any tricks," said the keeper. "If we open the door, will you promise to come quietly down, and no nonsense?"
"Yes—oh YES!" said all the children together.
"Bless me," said the Vicar, "surely that was a female voice?"
"Shall I open the door, sir?" said the keeper. Andrew went down a few steps, "to leave room for the others" he said afterwards.
"Yes," said the Vicar, "open the door. Remember," he said through the keyhole, "we have come to release you. You will keep your promise to refrain from violence?"
"How this bolt do stick," said the keeper; "anyone 'ud think it hadn't been drawed for half a year." As a matter of fact it hadn't.
When all the bolts were drawn, the keeper spoke deep-chested words through the keyhole.
"I don't open," said he, "till you've gone over to the other side of the tower. And if one of you comes at me I fire. Now!"
"We're all over on the other side," said the voices.
The keeper felt pleased with himself, and owned himself a bold man when he threw open that door, and, stepping out into the leads, flashed the full light of the stable lantern on the group of desperadoes standing against the parapet on the other side of the tower.
He lowered his gun, and he nearly dropped the lantern.
"So help me," he cried, "if they ain't a pack of kiddies!"
The Vicar now advanced.
"How did you come here?" he asked severely. "Tell me at once."
"Oh, take us down," said Jane, catching at his coat, "and we'll tell you anything you like. You won't believe us, but it doesn't matter. Oh, take us down!"
The others crowded round him, with the same entreaty. All but Cyril. He had enough to do with the soda-water syphon, which would keep slipping down under his jacket. It needed both hands to keep it steady in its place.
But he said, standing as far out of the lantern light as possible—
"Please do take us down."
So they were taken down. It is no joke to go down a strange church-tower in the dark, but the keeper helped them—only, Cyril had to be independent because of the soda-water syphon. It would keep trying to get away. Half-way down the ladder it all but escaped. Cyril just caught it by its spout, and as nearly as possible lost his footing. He was trembling and pale when at last they reached the bottom of the winding stair and stepped out on to the stones of the church-porch.
Then suddenly the keeper caught Cyril and Robert each by an arm.
"You bring along the gells, sir," said he; "you and Andrew can manage them."
"Let go!" said Cyril; "we aren't running away. We haven't hurt your old church. Leave go!"
"You just come along," said the keeper; and Cyril dared not oppose him with violence, because just then the syphon began to slip again.
So they were marched into the Vicarage study, and the Vicar's wife came rushing in.
"Oh, William, are you safe?" she cried.
Robert hastened to allay her anxiety.
"Yes," he said, "he's quite safe. We haven't hurt them at all. And please, we're very late, and they'll be anxious at home. Could you send us home in your carriage?"
"Or perhaps there's a hotel near where we could get a carriage," said Anthea. "Martha will be very anxious as it is."
The Vicar had sunk into a chair, overcome by emotion and amazement.
Cyril had also sat down, and was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees because of the soda-water syphon.
"But how did you come to be locked up in the church-tower?" asked the Vicar.
"We went up," said Robert slowly, "and we were tired, and we all went to sleep, and when we woke up we found the door was locked, so we yelled."
"I should think you did!" said the Vicar's wife. "Frightening everybody out of their wits like this! You ought to be ashamed of yourselves."
"We are," said Jane gently.
"But who locked the door?" asked the Vicar.
"I don't know at all," said Robert, with perfect truth. "Do please send us home."
"Well, really," said the Vicar, "I suppose we'd better. Andrew, put the horse to, and you can take them home."
"Not alone, I don't," said Andrew to himself.
And the Vicar went on, "let this be a lesson to you"– He went on talking, and the children listened miserably. But the keeper was not listening. He was looking at the unfortunate Cyril. He knew all about poachers, of course, so he knew how people look when they're hiding something. The Vicar had just got to the part about trying to grow up to be a blessing to your parents, and not a trouble and disgrace, when the keeper suddenly said—
"Arst him what he's got there under his jacket;" and Cyril knew that concealment was at an end. So he stood up, and squared his shoulders and tried to look noble, like the boys in books that no one can look in the face of and doubt that they come of brave and noble families, and will be faithful to the death, and he pulled out the syphon and said—
"Well, there you are, then."
There was silence. Cyril went on—there was nothing else for it—
"Yes, we took this out of your larder, and some chicken and tongue and bread. We were very hungry, and we didn't take the custard or jam. We only took bread and meat and water,—and we couldn't help its being soda kind,—just the necessaries of life; and we left half-a-crown to pay for it, and we left a letter. And we're very sorry. And my father will pay a fine and anything you like, but don't send us to prison. Mother would be so vexed. You know what you said about not being a disgrace. Well, don't you go and do it to us—that's all! We're as sorry as we can be. There!"
"However did you get up to the larder window?" said Mrs. Vicar.
"I can't tell you that," said Cyril firmly.
"Is this the whole truth you've been telling me?" asked the clergyman.
"No," answered Jane suddenly; "it's all true, but it's not the whole truth. We can't tell you that. It's no good asking. Oh, do forgive us and take us home!" She ran to the Vicar's wife and threw her arms round her. The Vicar's wife put her arms round Jane, and the keeper whispered behind his hand to the Vicar—
"They're all right, sir—I expect it's a pal they're standing by. Someone put 'em up to it, and they won't peach. Game little kids."
"Tell me," said the Vicar kindly, "are you screening someone else? Had anyone else anything to do with this?"
"Yes," said Anthea, thinking of the Psammead; "but it wasn't their fault."
"Very well, my dears," said the Vicar, "then let's say no more about it. Only just tell us why you wrote such an odd letter."
"I don't know," said Cyril. "You see, Anthea wrote it in such a hurry, and it really didn't seem like stealing then. But afterwards, when we found we couldn't get down off the church-tower, it seemed just exactly like it. We are all very sorry"—
"Say no more about it," said the Vicar's wife; "but another time just think before you take other people's tongues. Now—some cake and milk before you go home?"
When Andrew came to say that the horse was put to, and was he expected to be led alone into the trap that he had plainly seen from the first, he found the children eating cake and drinking milk and laughing at the Vicar's jokes. Jane was sitting on the Vicar's wife's lap.
So you see they got off better than they deserved.
The gamekeeper, who was the cook's cousin, asked leave to drive home with them, and Andrew was only too glad to have someone to protect him from that trap he was so certain of.
When the wagonette reached their own house, between the chalk-quarry and the gravel-pit, the children were very sleepy, but they felt that they and the keeper were friends for life.
Andrew dumped the children down at the iron gate without a word.
"You get along home," said the Vicarage cook's cousin, who was a gamekeeper. "I'll get me home on shanks' mare."
So Andrew had to drive off alone, which he did not like at all, and it was the keeper that was cousin to the Vicarage cook who went with the children to the door, and, when they had been swept to bed in a whirlwind of reproaches, remained to explain to Martha and the cook and the housemaid exactly what had happened. He explained so well that Martha was quite amicable the next morning.
After that he often used to come over and see Martha, and in the end—but that is another story, as dear Mr. Kipling says.
Martha was obliged to stick to what she had said the night before about keeping the children indoors the next day for a punishment. But she wasn't at all ugly about it, and agreed to let Robert go out for half an hour to get something he particularly wanted.
This, of course, was the day's wish.
Robert rushed to the gravel-pit, found the Psammead, and presently wished for—
But that, too, is another story.