‘Oh, Eliza’s never answered it,’ cried Anthea; ‘she never does. Oh, I must go.’
And she went.
Her heart beat bumpingly as she climbed the stairs. Mother would be certain to notice her eyes – well, her hand would account for that. But the Lamb—
‘No, I must not think of the Lamb,’ she said to herself, and bit her tongue till her eyes watered again, so as to give herself something else to think of. Her arms and legs and back, and even her tear-reddened face, felt stiff with her resolution not to let Mother be worried if she could help it.
She opened the door softly.
‘Yes, Mother?’ she said.
‘Dearest,’ said Mother, ‘the Lamb—’
Anthea tried to be brave. She tried to say that the Lamb and Robert were out. Perhaps she tried too hard. Anyway, when she opened her mouth no words came. So she stood with it open. It seemed easier to keep from crying with one’s mouth in that unusual position.
‘The Lamb,’ Mother went on; ‘he was very good at first, but he’s pulled the toilet-cover off the dressing-table with all the brushes and pots and things, and now he’s so quiet I’m sure he’s in some dreadful mischief. And I can’t see him from here, and if I’d got out of bed to see I’m sure I should have fainted.’
‘Do you mean he’s here?’ said Anthea.
‘Of course he’s here,’ said Mother, a little impatiently. ‘Where did you think he was?’
Anthea went round the foot of the big mahogany bed. There was a pause.
‘He’s not here now,’ she said.
That he had been there was plain, from the toilet-cover on the floor, the scattered pots and bottles, the wandering brushes and combs, all involved in the tangle of ribbons and laces which an open drawer had yielded to the baby’s inquisitive fingers.
‘He must have crept out, then,’ said Mother; ‘do keep him with you, there’s a darling. If I don’t get some sleep I shall be a wreck when Father comes home.’
Anthea closed the door softly. Then she tore downstairs and burst into the nursery, crying:
‘He must have wished he was with Mother. He’s been there all the time, “Aggety dag”—’
The unusual word was frozen on her lip, as people say in books.
For there, on the floor, lay the carpet, and on the carpet, surrounded by his brothers and by Jane, sat the Lamb. He had covered his face and clothes with vaseline and violet powder, but he was easily recognisable in spite of this disguise.
‘You are right,’ said the Phoenix, who was also present; ‘it is evident that, as you say, “Aggety dag” is Bosh for “I want to be where my mother is,” and so the faithful carpet understood it.’
‘But how,’ said Anthea, catching up the Lamb and hugging him – ‘how did he get back here?’
‘Oh,’ said the Phoenix, ‘I flew to the Psammead and wished that your infant brother were restored to your midst, and immediately it was so.’
‘Oh, I am glad, I am glad!’ cried Anthea, still hugging the baby. ‘Oh, you darling! Shut up, Jane! I don’t care how much he comes off on me! Cyril! You and Robert roll that carpet up and put it in the beetle-cupboard. He might say “Aggety dag” again, and it might mean something quite different next time. Now, my Lamb, Panther’ll clean you a little. Come on.’
‘I hope the beetles won’t go wishing,’ said Cyril, as they rolled up the carpet.
Two days later Mother was well enough to go out, and that evening the coconut matting came home. The children had talked and talked, and thought and thought, but they had not found any polite way of telling the Phoenix that they did not want it to stay any longer.
The days had been days spent by the children in embarrassment, and by the Phoenix in sleep.
And, now the matting was laid down, the Phoenix awoke and fluttered down on to it.
It shook its crested head.
‘I like not this carpet,’ it said; ‘it is harsh and unyielding, and it hurts my golden feet.’
‘We’ve jolly well got to get used to its hurting our golden feet,’ said Cyril.
‘This, then,’ said the bird, ‘supersedes the Wishing Carpet.’
‘Yes,’ said Robert, ‘if you mean that it’s instead of it.’
‘And the magic web?’ inquired the Phoenix, with sudden eagerness.
‘It’s the rag-and-bottle man’s day tomorrow,’ said Anthea, in a low voice; ‘he will take it away.’
The Phoenix fluttered up to its favourite perch on the chair-back.
‘Hear me!’ it cried, ‘o youthful children of men, and restrain your tears of misery and despair, for what must be must be, and I would not remember you, thousands of years hence, as base ingrates and crawling worms compact of low selfishness.’
‘I should hope not, indeed,’ said Cyril.
‘Weep not,’ the bird went on; ‘I really do beg that you won’t weep. I will not seek to break the news to you gently. Let the blow fall at once. The time has come when I must leave you.’
All four children breathed forth a long sigh of relief.
‘We needn’t have bothered so about how to break the news to it,’ whispered Cyril.
‘Ah, sigh not so,’ said the bird, gently. ‘All meetings end in partings. I must leave you. I have sought to prepare you for this. Ah, do not give way!’
‘Must you really go – so soon?’ murmured Anthea. It was what she had often heard her mother say to calling ladies in the afternoon.
‘I must, really; thank you so much, dear,’ replied the bird, just as though it had been one of the ladies.
‘I am weary,’ it went on. ‘I desire to rest – after all the happenings of this last moon I do desire greatly to rest, and I ask of you one last boon.’
‘Any little thing we can do,’ said Robert.
Now that it had really come to parting with the Phoenix, whose favourite he had always been, Robert did feel almost as miserable as the Phoenix thought they all did.
‘I ask but the relic designed for the rag-and-bottle man. Give me what is left of the carpet and let me go.’
‘Dare we?’ said Anthea. ‘Would Mother mind?’
‘I have dared greatly for your sakes,’ remarked the bird.
‘Well, then, we will,’ said Robert.
The Phoenix fluffed out its feathers joyously.
‘Nor shall you regret it, children of golden hearts,’ it said. ‘Quick – spread the carpet and leave me alone; but first pile high the fire. Then, while I am immersed in the sacred preliminary rites, do ye prepare sweet-smelling woods and spices for the last act of parting.’
The children spread out what was left of the carpet. And, after all, though this was just what they would have wished to have happened, all hearts were sad. Then they put half a scuttle of coal on the fire and went out, closing the door on the Phoenix – left, at last, alone with the carpet.
‘One of us must keep watch,’ said Robert, excitedly, as soon as they were all out of the room, ‘and the others can go and buy sweet woods and spices. Get the very best that money can buy, and plenty of them. Don’t let’s stand to a threepence or so. I want it to have a jolly good send-off. It’s the only thing that’ll make us feel less horrid inside.’
It