Margery Sharp - The Rescuers

“Well, as a matter of fact,” said Miss Bianca modestly, “I write.”

Bernard gaped. He had never met a writer before! Though he was terribly afraid of wasting time, he couldn’t help asking What.

“Poetry,” confessed Miss Bianca.

How Bernard’s heart leapt!

For so was the Norwegian prisoner a poet!

What a wonderful, fortunate coincidence! The very thing to make Miss Bianca change her mind! Without giving himself time to think, and without any transition, Bernard blurted it all out – all about the Prisoners’ Aid Society, all about the great enterprise, all about Miss Bianca’s part in it, all about everything.

The result was exactly what might have been expected. Miss Bianca fainted clean away.

Desperately Bernard slapped her hands, fanned her face, leapt to the hidden spring, turned on the fountain, with incredible agility leapt again and caught a drop of water before it subsided, sprinkled Miss Bianca’s forehead. (Oh for the chairwoman, he thought!) Seconds passed, a long minute, before the dark eyelashes fluttered and Miss Bianca came to.

“Where am I?” she murmured faintly.

“Here, in your own porcelain pagoda,” reassured Bernard. “I am Bernard from the pantry—”

“Go away!” shrieked Miss Bianca.

“If you’ll only listen quietly—”

“I won’t hear any more!” cried Miss Bianca. “I don’t want anything to do with you! Go away, go away, go away!”

Greatly daring, Bernard caught both her hands and pressed them between his own. The action seemed to steady her. She stopped trembling.

“Dear, dearest Miss Bianca,” said Bernard fervently, “if I could take your place, do you think I wouldn’t? To spare you the least inconvenience, I’d walk into cat baskets! But I can’t travel by Diplomatic Bag, I can’t get to Norway in twenty-four hours. Nor can anyone else. You, and you alone, can be this poor chap’s saviour.”

At least she was listening, and at least she didn’t push Bernard away. She even left her hands in his.

“And a poet!” went on Bernard. “Only consider, dear Miss Bianca – a poet like yourself! How can you bear to think of him, alone in a deep dark dungeon, when one word from you—”

“Is that really all?” whispered Miss Bianca. “Just one word?”

“Well, of course you’ve got to say it to the right mouse,” admitted Bernard honestly. “And to find him I dare say you’ll have to go into pretty rough quarters. I tell you my blood boils when I think of it—”

“Why?” whispered Miss Bianca. “Why does your blood boil?”

“Because you’re so beautiful!” cried Bernard recklessly. “It’s not fair to ask you to be brave as well! You should be protected and cherished and loved and honoured, and I for my part ask nothing better than to lie down and let you walk on me!”

Miss Bianca rested her head lightly against his shoulder.

“You give me such a good opinion of myself,” she said softly, “perhaps I could be brave as well …”

Poem by Miss Bianca, written that night

“Though timid beats the female heart,

Tempered by only Cupid’s fires,

The touch of an heroic hand

With unaccustomed bravery inspires.”

M.B.

THREE DAYS LATER, Miss Bianca was in Norway.

The journey, as usual, had given her not the least trouble. She travelled as usual in the Diplomatic Bag, where she amused herself by reading secret documents while the great aeroplane flew smoothly and swiftly over mountain and forest, river, and finally, sea. (To be accurate, there was a slight bumpiness of the mountain part, but Miss Bianca was too absorbed in a very Top Secret to notice.) Precisely twenty-four hours after departure she was reinstalled in her porcelain pagoda in the Boy’s new schoolroom in Oslo, the capital of Norway.

It was then her mission really began; with, in Miss Bianca’s opinion, far too much left to her own initiative. She was simply to seek out the bravest mouse in Norway! Without the slightest idea where he was to be found – or indeed where any mice were to be found! For Miss Bianca’s life had been so remarkably sheltered, she really didn’t know anything at all about how other mice lived. Except for Bernard, she had never even spoken to one.

Except for Bernard … Miss Bianca’s thoughts flew to him so readily, she felt quite angry with herself. Now that the excitement of their midnight meeting was past, she couldn’t help recognising that good and brave as Bernard was, he was also completely undistinguished. Yet how kind and resourceful, when she fainted! How understanding, when she came to, of all her doubts and fears! And how lost in admiration, how absolutely overcome, when she finally accepted her heroic task!

“I must be worthy,” thought Miss Bianca. And mentally added – “Of the Prisoners’ Aid Society.”

So the very first night in her new quarters, she set out.

No one knew she was so slim that she could squeeze between the gilded palings of her pleasure-ground. Certainly the Boy didn’t know it. But she could.

The door of the new schoolroom didn’t quite fit. In the morning no doubt someone would see to it; in the meantime, Miss Bianca slipped under. Outside, immediately, she still felt pretty well at home – all embassies being much of a muchness. There was first a broad corridor, then a broad landing, then a grand staircase leading down to a great grand entrance hall. (Miss Bianca, who had an eye for carpets, even recognised everywhere familiar patterns.) But she hadn’t so far encountered any other mouse. “The pantry!” thought Miss Bianca – remembering Bernard again. “But where on earth are the pantries?”

However sheltered, all women have certain domestic instincts. Miss Bianca was pretty sure she ought to get lower down.

She also knew about service lifts. Passing from the entrance hall into the dining room, and observing a gap in its panelling (left open by a careless footman), up Miss Bianca ran to investigate. There inside, sure enough, were the proper ropes. “Obviously connected with the pantry,” thought Miss Bianca, climbing on. When after two or three minutes nothing happened, she boldly ran down – quite enjoying the easy exercise, and quite confident of finding herself in a pantry below.

Actually this particular service lift ran straight down to the embassy cellars. Which was fortunate as it turned out, though Miss Bianca didn’t immediately think so.

For what a sight, as she emerged, met her eyes!

Remember it was well after midnight, it must have been nearly two o’clock in the morning, the hour at which mice feel themselves most secure. In the embassy cellar there was evidently some kind of bachelor party going on. At least fifty Norwegian mice were gathered there – singing and shouting and drinking beer. The most part wore sea boots and stocking caps; some had gold earrings in their ears, some a patch over one eye. Some had a wooden leg. It was in fact the most piratical-looking party imaginable, and how any one of them ever got into an embassy, Miss Bianca really couldn’t imagine.

Never had she felt more uncomfortable. It is always trying to enter a room full of strangers – and such strangers! What a racket they made! The singing and shouting almost deafened her ears, there wasn’t a moment of repose. (Miss Bianca had frequently assisted, from the Boy’s pocket, at diplomatic soirées. There , always, was a moment of repose; in fact sometimes the moments ran into each other and made hours of repose.) Even if she shouted she couldn’t have made herself heard, and Miss Bianca had never shouted in her life! She stood utterly at a loss, trembling with dismay; until at last a mouse nearby turned and saw her, and immediately uttered a long, low whistle. It was vulgar, but it did the trick. Head after head turned in Miss Bianca’s direction; and so spectacular was her fair beauty, silence fell at last like a refreshing dew.