CHAPTER VI
THE GROWTH OF WONDER
The story of the dragon-fly marked a turning-point in their lives; theyrealised that life was crammed with things that nobody couldunderstand. Daddy's reign was over, and Uncle Felix had ascended thethrone. Wonder--but a growing wonder--ruled the world. The greatStranger they had always been vaguely expecting had drawn nearer; itwas not Uncle Felix, yet he seemed the forerunner somehow. That "SomeDay" of Daddy's--they had almost forgotten its existence--became moreand more a possibility. Life had two divisions now: Before Uncle Felixcame--and Now. To Maria alone there seemed no interval. To her it wasalways Now. She had so much wonder in her that she _knew_.
Outwardly the household ran along as usual, but inwardly this enormouschange was registered in three human hearts. The adventures they hadbefore Uncle Felix came were the ordinary kind all children know; theyinvented them themselves. Their new adventures were of a differentorder--impossible but true. Their uncle had brought a key that openedheaven and earth.
He did not know that he had brought this key. It was just natural--helet himself in because it was his nature so to do; the others merelywent in with him. He worked away in his room, covering reams of paperwith nonsense out of his big head; and the trio never disturbed him orknocked at his door, or even looked for him: they knew that his reallife ran with theirs, and the moment he had covered so many dozensheets he would appear and join them. All people had their duties; hisduty was to fill so many sheets a day for printers; but his importantlife belonged to them and they just lived it naturally together. Hewould never leave the Old Mill House. The funny thing was--whatever hadhe done with himself before he came there!
Everything he said and did lit up the common things of daily life withthis strange, big wonder that was his great possession. Yet his methodwas simple and instinctive; he never thought things out; he just--knew.
And the effect of his presence upon the other Authorities wassignificant. Not that the Authorities admitted or even were aware ofit, but that the children saw them differently. Aunt Emily, forinstance, whom they used to dread, they now felt sorry for. She was socareful and particular that she was afraid of life, afraid of living.Prudence was slowly killing her. Everything must be done in a certainway that made it safe; only, by the time it was safe it was no longerinteresting. They saw clearly how she missed everything owing to theexcessive caution and preparation in her: by the time she was ready,the thing had simply left. Instead of coming into the hayfield at onceand enjoying it, she uttered so many warnings and gave so much adviceagainst disaster--"better take this," and "better not take that"--thatby the time they got there the hayfield had lost all its wonder. It wasjust a damp, untidy hayfield.
Daddy, however, gained in glory. He approved of his big brother. On hisreturn from London every evening the first thing he asked was, "Whathave you all been up to to-day? Has Uncle Felix given you the moon orrolled the sun and stars into a coloured ball?" Weeden, too, had grownin mystery--he made the garden live, and understood the secret life ofevery growing thing; while Thompson and Mrs. Horton, each in theirseparate ways, led lives of strange activity in the lower regions ofthe house till the kitchen seemed the palace of an ogress and thepantry was its haunted vestibule. "Mrs. Horton's kitchen" was a phraseas powerful as "Open Sesame"; and "the butler's pantry" edged the worldof mighty dream.
Above all, Mother occupied a new relationship towards them that madeher twice as splendid as before. Until Uncle Felix came, she was simply"Mother," who loved them whatever they did and made allowances foreverything. That was her duty, and unless they provided her withsomething to make allowances for they had failed in what was expectedof them. Her absorption in servants and ordering of meals, in choosingtheir clothes and warning Jackman about their boots--all this was achief reason for her existence, and if they didn't eat too muchsometimes and wear their boots out and tear their clothes, Mother wouldhave been without her normal occupation. Whereas now they saw her inanother light, touched with the wonder of the sun and stars. It wasproper, of course, for her to have children, but they realised now thatshe contrived to make the whole world work somehow for their benefit.Mother not only managed the entire Household, from the dinner-orderingslate at breakfast-time to the secret whisperings with Jackman behindthe screen at bedtime, or the long private interviews with Daddy in hisstudy after tea: she led a magnificent and stupendous life thatregulated every smallest detail of their happiness. She was for everthinking of them and slaving for their welfare. The wonder of herenormous love stole into their discerning hearts. They loved herfrightfully, and told her all sorts of little things that before theyhad kept concealed. There were heaps and heaps of mothers in the world,of course; they were knocking about all over the place; but there wasonly one single Mother, and that was theirs.
Yet, in his own peculiar way, it was Uncle Felix who came first. Daddybelieved in a lot of things; Mother believed in many things; Aunt Emilybelieved in certain things done at certain times and in a certain way.But Uncle Felix believed in everything, everywhere and always. To himnothing was ever impossible. He held, that is, their own eternal creed.He was akin to Maria, moreover, and Maria, though silent, was hisspokesman often.
"Why _does_ a butterfly fly so dodgy?" inquired Tim, having vainlytried to catch a Painted Lady on the lawn.
Daddy made a grimace and shrugged his shoulders, yet left the insectquite as wonderful as it was before. Mother looked up from her knittingwith a gentle smile and said, "Does it, darling? I hadn't noticed."Aunt Emily, balancing her parasol to keep the sun away, observed in aneducational tone of voice, "My dear Tim, what foolish questions youask! It's because its wings are so large compared to the rest of itsbody. It can't help itself, you see." She belittled the insect and tookaway its wonder. She explained.
Tim, unsatisfied, moved over to the wicker chair where Uncle Felix satdrowsily smoking his big meerschaum pipe. He pointed to the vanishingPainted Lady and repeated his question in a lower voice, so that theothers could not hear:
"Why does it fly like that--all dodgy?" Whatever happened, the boy knewhis Uncle would leave the butterfly twice as wonderful as he found it.
But no immediate answer came. They watched it for a moment together insilence. It behaved in the amazing way peculiar to its kind. Nothing inthe world flies like a butterfly. Birds and other things fly straight,or sweep in curves, or rise and drop in understandable straight lines.But the Painted Lady obeyed no such rules. It dodged and darted, itjerked and shot, it was everywhere and anywhere, least of all where itought to have been. The swallows always missed it. It simplydoubled--and disappeared round the corner of the building.
Then, puffing at his pipe, Uncle Felix looked at Tim and said, "Icouldn't tell you. It's one of the things nobody can understand, Ithink."
"Yes," agreed Tim, "it must be."
There was a considerable pause.
"But there must be some way of finding out," the boy said presently. Hehad been thinking over it.
"There is." The man rose slowly from his chair.
"What is it?" came the eager question.
"Try it ourselves, and see if we can do the same!"
And they went off instantly, hand in hand, and vanished round thecorner of the building.
The adventures they had since Uncle Felix came were of this impossibleand marvellous order. That strange and lovely cry, "There's some onecoming," ran through the listening world. "I believe there is," saidUncle Felix. "Some day he'll come and a tremendous thing will happen,"was another form of it, to which the answer was, "I know it will."
It was much nearer to them than before. It was just below the edge ofthe world, the edge of life. It was in the air. Any morning they mightwake and find the great thing was there--arrived in the night whilethey were sound asleep. So many things gave hints. A book _might_ tellof it between the lines; each time a new book was opened a thrillslipped out from the pages in advance. Yet no book they knew had evertold it really. Out of doors, indeed, was the mo
re likely place toexpect it. The tinkling stream either ran towards it, or else came fromit; that was its secret, the secret it was always singing about day andnight. But it was impossible to find the end or beginning of anystream. Wind, moreover, announced it too, for wind didn't tear aboutand roar like that for nothing. Spring, however, with its immense hopeand expectation, gave the clearest promise of all. In winter it hidinside something, or at least went further away; yet even in winter themarvellous something or some one lay waiting underneath the snow,behind the fog, above the clouds. One day, some day, next day, or theday after to-morrow--and it would suddenly be there beside them.
Whence came this great Expectancy they never questioned, nor what itwas exactly, nor who had planted it. This was a mystery, one of thethings that no one can understand. They felt it: that was all theyknew. It was more than Wonder, for Wonder was merely the sign and proofthat they were seeking. It was faint and exquisite in them, like somefar, sweet memory they could never quite account for, nor wholly, evenonce, recapture. They remembered almost--almost before they were born.
"We'll have a look now," Uncle Felix would say every walk they took;but before they got very far it was always time to come in again."That's the bother of everything," he agreed with them. "Time alwaysprevents, doesn't it? If only we could make it stop--get behind time,as it were--we might have a chance. Some day, perhaps, we shall."
He left the matter there, but they never forgot that pregnant remarkabout stopping time and getting in behind it. No, they never forgotabout it. At Christmas, Easter, and the like, it came so near that theycould almost smell it, but when these wonderful times were past theylooked back and knew it had not really come. The holidays cheated themin a similar way. Yet, when it came, they knew it would be as naturaland simple as eating honey, though at the same time with immensesurprise in it. And all agreed that it was somehow connected with theDawn, for the Dawn, the opening of a new day, was something they hadheard about but never witnessed. Dawn must be exceedingly wonderful,because, while it happened daily, none of them had ever seen it happen.A hundred times they had agreed to wake and have a look, but the Dawnhad always been too quick and quiet. It slipped in ahead of them eachtime. They had never seen the sun come up.
In some such sudden, yet quite natural way, this stupendous thing theyexpected would come up. It would suddenly be there. Everybody,moreover, expected it. Grown-ups pretended they didn't, but they did.Catch a grown-up when he wasn't looking, and he _was_ looking. Hedidn't like to be caught, that's all, for as often as not he wassmiling to himself, or just going to--cry.
They shared, in other words, the great, common yearning of the world;only they knew they yearned, whereas the rest of the world forgets.
"I think," announced Judy one day--then stopped, as though unsure ofherself.
"Yes?" said her Uncle encouragingly.
"I think," she went on, "that the Night-Wind knows an awful lot, ifonly--" she stopped again.
"If only," he helped her.
"We," she continued.
"Could," he added.
"Catch it!" she finished with a gasp, then stared at him expectantly.
And his answer formed the subject of conversation for fully half anhour in the bedroom later, and for a considerable time after Jackmanhad tucked them up and taken the candle away. They watched the shadowsrun across the ceiling as she went along the passage outside; theyheard her steps go carefully downstairs; they waited till she hadsafely disappeared, for the door was ajar, and they could hear herrumbling down into the lower regions of Mrs. Horton's kitchen--and thenthey sat up in bed, hugged their knees, shuddered with excitement, andresumed the conversation exactly where it had been stopped.
For Uncle Felix had given a marvellous double-barrelled answer. He hadsaid, "We can." And then he had distinctly added, "We will!"
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