“I hope I shan’t forget it all,” said Edred.
“None ever forgets what I tell them,” said the Mouldiestwarp. “Finding that the man did not return, the Deptford woman brought up the child as her own. He grew up, was taught a trade and married a working girl. The name of Arden changed itself, as names do, to Harding. Their child was the father of Richard whom you know. And he is Lord Arden.”
“Yes,” said Edred submissively.
“You will never tell your father this,” the low, beautiful voice went on; “you must not even tell your sister till you have rescued Dickie and made the sacrifice. This is the one supreme chance of all your life. Every soul has one such chance, a chance to be perfectly unselfish, absolutely noble and true. You can take this chance. But you must take it alone. No one can help you. No one can advise you. And you must keep the nobler thought in your own heart till it is a noble deed. Then, humbly and thankfully in that you have been permitted to do so fine and brave a thing and to draw near to the immortals of all ages who have such deeds to do and have done them, you may tell the truth to the one who loves you best, your sister Elfrida.”
“But isn’t Elfrida to have a chance to be noble too?” Edred asked.
“She will have a thousand chances to be good and noble. And she will take them all. But she will never know that she has done it,” said the Mouldiestwarp gravely. “Now—are you ready to do what is to be done?”
“It seems very unkind to daddy,” said Edred, “stopping his being Lord Arden and everything.”
“To do right often seems unkind to one or another,” said the Mouldiestwarp, “but think. How long would your father wish to keep his house and his castle if he knew that they belonged to someone else?”
“I see,” said Edred, still doubtfully. “No, of course he wouldn’t. Well, what am I to do?”
“When Dickie’s father died, a Deptford woman related to Dickie’s mother kept the child. She was not kind to him. And he left her. Later she met a man who had been a burglar. He had entered Talbot Court, opened a panel, and found that old letter that told of Dickie’s birth. He and she have kidnapped Dickie, hoping to get him to sign a paper promising to pay them money for giving him the letter which tells how he is heir to Arden. But already they have found out that a letter signed by a child is useless and unlawful. And they dare not let Richard go for fear of punishment. So, if you choose to do nothing your father is safe and you will inherit Arden.”
“What am I to do?” Edred asked again—“to get Dickie back, I mean.”
“You must go alone and at night to Beale’s cottage, open the door and you will find Richard’s dog asleep before the fire. You must unchain the dog and take him to the milestone by the crossroads. Then go where the dog goes. You will need a knife to cut cords with. And you will need all your courage. Look in my eyes.”
Edred looked in the eyes of the Mouldiestwarp and saw that they were no longer a mole’s eyes but were like the eyes of all the dear people he had ever known, and through them the soul of all the brave people he had ever read about looked out at him and said, “Courage, Edred. Be one of us.”
“Now look at the people on the Hall,” said the Mouldiestwarp.
Edred looked. And behold, they were no longer strangers. He knew them all. Joan of Arc and Peter the Hermit, Hereward and Drake, Elsa whose brothers were swans, St. George who killed the dragon, Blondel who sang to his king in prison, Lady Nithsdale who brought her husband safe out of the cruel Tower. There were captains who went down with their ships, generals who died fighting for forlorn hopes, patriots, kings, nuns, monks, men, women, and children—all with that light in their eyes which brightens with splendor the dreams of men.
And as he came down off the throne the great ones crowded round him, clasping his hand and saying—
“Be one of us, Edred. Be one of us.”
Then an intense white light shone so that the children could see nothing else. And then suddenly there they were again within the narrow walls of Edred’s bedroom.
“Well,” said Elfrida in tones of brisk commonplace, “what did it say to you? I say, you do look funny.”
“Don’t!” said Edred crossly. He began to tear off the armor. “Here, help me to get these things off.”
“But what did it say?” Elfrida asked, helpfully.
“I can’t tell you. I’m not going to tell anyone till it’s over.”
“Oh, just as you like,” said Elfrida; “keep your old secrets,” and left him.
That was hard, wasn’t it?
“I can’t help it, I tell you. Oh! Elfrida, if you’re going to bother it’s just a little bit too much, that’s all.”
“You really mustn’t tell me?”
“I’ve told you so fifty times,” he said. Which was untrue. You know he had really only told her twice.
“Very well, then,” she said heroically, “I won’t ask you a single thing. But you’ll tell me the minute you can, won’t you? And you’ll let me help?”
“Nobody can help, no one can advise me,” Edred said. “I’ve got to do it off my own bat if I do it at all. Now you just shut up, I want to think.”
This unusual desire quite awed Elfrida. But it irritated her too.
“Perhaps you’d like me to go away,” she said ironically.
And Edred’s wholly unexpected reply was, “Yes, please.”
So she went.
And when she was gone
