the day before, does it? You said we were too little last summer, and we should this, and now it is this and I have grown two inches and Elf’s grown three, so we’re five inches taller than when you said we weren’t big enough.’
‘Now you see how useful arithmetic is,’ said the aunt. ‘Very well, you shall. Only wear your old clothes, and always keep in sight of the road. Yes; you can have a whole holiday. And now to bed. Oh, there’s that bell again! Poor, dear Eliza.’
A Clapham cub, belonging to one of the lodgers, happened to be going up to bed just as Edred and Elfrida came through the baize door that shut off the basement from the rest of the house. He put his tongue out through the banisters at the children of the house and said, ‘Little slaveys.’ The cub thought he could get up the stairs before the two got round the end of the banisters, but he had not counted on the long arm of Elfrida, whose hand shot through the banisters and caught the cub’s leg and held on to it till Edred had time to get round. The two boys struggled up the stairs together and then rolled together from top to bottom, where they were picked up and disentangled by their relations. Except for this little incident, going to bed was uneventful.
* * *
Next morning Aunt Edith went off by the eight-thirty train. The children’s school satchels were filled, not with books, but with buns; instead of exercise-books there were sandwiches; and in the place of inky pencil-boxes were two magnificent boxes of peppermint creams which had cost a whole shilling each, and had been recklessly bought by Aunt Edith in the agitation of the parting hour when they saw her off at the station.
They went slowly up the red-brick-paved sidewalk that always looks as though it had just been washed, and when they got to the top of the hill they stopped and looked at each other.
‘It can’t be wrong,’ said Edred.
‘She never told us not to,’ said Elfrida.
‘I’ve noticed,’ said Edred, ‘that when grownup people say “they’ll see about” anything you want it never happens.’
‘I’ve noticed that, too,’ said Elfrida. ‘Auntie always said she’d see about taking us there.’
‘Yes, she did.’
‘We won’t be mean and sneaky about it,’ Edred insisted, though no one had suggested that he would be mean and sneaky. ‘We’ll tell auntie directly she gets back.’
‘Of course,’ said Elfrida, rather relieved, for she had not felt at all sure that Edred meant to do this.
‘After all,’ said Edred, ‘it’s our castle. We ought to go and see the cradle of our race. That’s what it calls it in “Cliffgate and its Environs.” I say, let’s call it a pilgrimage. The satchels will do for packs, and we can get halfpenny walking-sticks with that penny of yours. We can put peas in our shoes, if you like,’ he added generously.
‘We should have to go back for them, and I don’t expect the split kind count, anyhow. And perhaps they’d hurt,’ said Elfrida doubtfully. ‘And I want my penny for—’ She stopped, warned by her brother’s frown. ‘All right, then,’ she ended; ‘you can have it. Only give me half next time you get a penny; that’s only fair.’
‘I’m not usually unfair,’ said Edred coldly. ‘Don’t let’s be pilgrims.’
‘But I should like to,’ said Elfrida.
Edred was obstinate. ‘No,’ he said, ‘we’ll just walk.’
So they just walked, rather dismally.
The town was getting thinner, like the tract of stocking that surrounds a hole; the houses were farther apart and had large gardens. In one of them a maid was singing to herself as she shook out the mats – a thing which, somehow, maids don’t do much in towns.
‘Good luck!’ says I to my sweetheart,
‘For I will love you true;
And all the while we’ve got to part,
My luck shall go with you.’
‘That’s lucky for us,’ said Elfrida amiably.
‘We’re not her silly sweetheart,’ said Edred.
‘No; but we heard her sing it, and he wasn’t here, so he couldn’t. There’s a sign-post. I wonder how far we’ve gone? I’m getting awfully tired.’
‘You’d better have been pilgrims,’ said Edred. ‘They never get tired, however many peas they have in their shoes.’
‘I will now,’ said Elfrida.
‘You can’t,’ said Edred; ‘it’s too late. We’re miles and miles from the stick shop.’
‘Very well, I shan’t go on,’ said Elfrida. ‘You got out of bed the wrong side this morning. I’ve tried to soft-answer you as hard as ever I could all the morning, and I’m not going to try any more, so there.’
‘Don’t, then,’ said Edred bitterly. ‘Go along home if you like. You’re only a girl.’
‘I’d rather be only a girl than what you are,’ said she.
‘And what’s that, I should like to know?’
Elfrida stopped and shut her eyes tight.
‘Don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t!’ she said. ‘I won’t be cross, I won’t be cross, I won’t be cross! Pax. Drop it. Don’t let’s!
‘Don’t let’s what?’
‘Quarrel about nothing,’ said Elfrida, opening her eyes and walking on very fast. ‘We’re always doing it. Auntie says it’s a habit. If boys are so much splendider than girls, they ought to be able to stop when they like.’
‘Suppose they don’t like?’ said he, kicking his boots in the thick, white dust.
‘Well,’ said she, ‘I’ll say I’m sorry first. Will that do?’
‘I was just going to say it first myself,’ said Edred, in aggrieved tones. ‘Come on,’ he added more generously, ‘here’s the sign-post. Let’s see what it says.’
It said, quite plainly and without any nonsense about it, that they had come a mile and three-quarters, adding, most unkindly, that it was eight miles to Arden Castle. But, it said, it was a quarter of a mile to Ardenhurst Station.
‘Let’s go by train,’ said Edred grandly.
‘No money,’ said Elfrida, very forlornly indeed.
‘Aha!’ said Edred; ‘now you’ll see. I’m not mean about money. I brought my new florin.’
‘Oh, Edred,’ said the girl, stricken with remorse, ‘you are noble.’
‘Pooh!’ said the boy, and his ears grew red with mingled triumph
