Yet nothing was done visibly; no crumb was flicked; and the table hid the pressure of the toe which, fortunately, no one intercepted. Monkey, at any rate, had eyes in both her feet, and Jimbo knew how to keep his counsel without betrayal. But inflections of the voice did most of the work—this, with flashes of brown and blue lights, conveyed the swift despatches.
‘My underneath goes out to him,’ Monkey telegraphed to her brother while she asked innocently for ‘jam, please, Jimbo’; and he replied, ‘Oh, he’s all right, I think, but better not go too fast,’ as he wiped the same article from his chin and caught her big brown eye upon him. ‘He’ll be our Leader,’ she conveyed later by the way she stirred her cup of tea-hot-water-milk, ‘when once we’ve got him “out” and taught him’; and Jimbo offered and accepted his own resignation of the coveted, long-held post by the way he let his eyelid twiddle in answer to her well-directed toe-nudge out of sight.
This, in a brief resume, was the purport of the give and take of numerous despatches between them during tea, while outwardly Mother— and Father, too, when he thought about it—were delighted with their perfect company manners.
Jane Anne, outside all this flummery, went her own way upon an even keel. She watched him closely too, but not covertly. She stared him in the face, and imitated his delicate way of eating. Once or twice she called him ‘Mr. Rogers,’ for this had a grown-up flavour about it that appealed to her, and ‘Cousin Henry’ did not come easily to her at first. She could not forget that she had left the ecole secondaire and was on her way to a Geneva Pension where she would attend an ecole menagere. And the bursts of laughter that greeted her polite ‘Mr. Rogers, did you have a nice journey, and do you like Bourcelles?’—in a sudden pause that caught Mother balancing cup and teapot in mid-air—puzzled her a good deal. She liked his quiet answer though—’Thank you, Miss Campden, I think both quite charming.’ He did not laugh. He understood, whatever the others might think. She had wished to correct the levity of the younger brother and sister, and he evidently appreciated her intentions. He seemed a nice man, a very nice man.
Tea once over, she carried off the loaded tray to the kitchen to do the washing-up. Jimbo and Monkey had disappeared. They always vanished about this time, but once the unenvied operation was safely under way, they emerged from their hiding-places again. No one ever saw them go. They were gone before the order, ‘Now, children, help your sister take the things away,’ was even issued. By the time they re-appeared Jinny was halfway through it and did not want to be disturbed.
‘Never mind, Mother,’ she said, ‘they’re chronic. They’re only little busy Highlanders!’ For ‘chronic’ was another catch-word at the moment, and sometimes by chance she used it appropriately. The source of ‘busy Highlanders’ was a mystery known only to herself. And resentment, like jealousy, was a human passion she never felt and did not understand. Jane Anne was the spirit of unselfishness incarnate. It was to her honour, but made her ineffective as a personality.
Daddy lit his big old meerschaum—the ‘squelcher’ Jinny called it, because of its noise—and mooned about the room, making remarks on literature or politics, while Mother picked a work-basket cleverly from a dangerously overloaded shelf, and prepared to mend and sew. The windows were wide open, and framed the picture of snowy Alps, now turning many-tinted in the slanting sunshine. (Riquette, gorged with milk, appeared from the scullery and inspected knees and chairs and cushions that seemed available, selecting finally the best arm-chair and curling up to sleep. Rogers smoked a cigarette, pleased and satisfied like the cat.) A hush fell on the room. It was the hour of peace between tea and the noisy Pension supper that later broke the spell. So quiet was it that the mouse began to nibble in the bedroom walls, and even peeped through the cracks it knew between the boards. It came out, flicked its whiskers, and then darted in again like lightning. Jane Anne, rinsing out the big teapot in the scullery, frightened it. Presently she came in softly, put the lamp ready for her mother’s needle, in case of need later, gave a shy queer look at ‘Mr. Rogers’ and her father, both of whom nodded absent-mindedly to her, and then went on tip-toe out of the room. She was bound for the village shop to buy methylated spirits, sugar, blotting-paper, and—a ‘plaque’ of Suchard chocolate for her Cousinenry. The forty centimes for this latter was a large item in her savings; but she gave no thought to that. What sorely perplexed her as she hurried down the street was whether he would like it ‘milk’ or ‘plain.’ In the end she bought both.
Down the dark corridor of the Citadelle, before she left, she did not hear the muffled laughter among the shadows, nor see the movement of two figures that emerged together from the farther end.
‘He’ll be on the sofa by now. Shall we go for him?’ It was the voice of Monkey.
‘Leave it to me.’ Jimbo still meant to be leader so far as these two were concerned at any rate. Let come later what might.
‘Better get Mother out of the way first, though.’
‘Mother’s nothing. She’s sewing and things,’ was the reply. He understood the conditions thoroughly. He needed no foolish advice.
‘He’s awfully easy. You saw the two gold teeth. It’s him, I’m sure.’
‘Of course he’s easy, only a person doesn’t want to be pulled about after tea,’ in the tone of a man who meant to feel his way a bit.
Clearly they had talked together more than once since the arrival at the station. Jimbo made up for ignorance by decision and sublime self- confidence. He answered no silly questions, but listened, made up his mind, and acted. He was primed to the brim—a born leader.
‘Better tell him that we’ll come for him to-night,’ the girl insisted. ‘He’ll be less astonished then. You can tell he dreams a lot by his manner. Even now he’s only half awake.’
The conversation was in French—school and village French. Her brother ignored the question with ‘va te cacher!’ He had no doubts himself.
‘Just wait a moment while I tighten my belt,’ he observed. ‘You can tell it by his eyes,’ he added, as Monkey urged him forward to the door. ‘I know a good dreamer when I see one.’
Then fate helped them. The door against their noses opened and Daddy came out, followed by his cousin. All four collided.
‘Oh, is the washing-up finished?’ asked Monkey innocently, quick as a flash.
‘How you startled me!’ exclaimed Daddy. ‘You really must try to be less impetuous. You’d better ask Mother about the washing,’ he repeated, ‘she’s in there sewing.’ His thoughts, it seemed, were just a trifle confused. Plates and linen both meant washing, and sometimes hair and other stuff as well.
‘There’s no light, you see, yet,’ whispered Jimbo. A small lamp usually hung upon the wall. Jane Anne at that moment came out carrying it and asking for a match.
‘No starlight, either,’ added Monkey quickly, giving her cousin a little nudge. ‘It’s all upwumbled, or whatever Daddy calls it.’
The look he gave her might well have suppressed a grown-up person— ‘grande personne,’ as Jimbo termed it, translating literally—but on Monkey it had only slight effect. Her irrepressible little spirit concealed springs few could regulate. Even avoir-dupois increased their resiliency the moment it was removed. But Jimbo checked her better than most. She did look a trifle ashamed—for a second.
‘Can’t you wait?’ he whispered. ‘Daddy’ll spoil it if you begin it here. How you do fidget!’
They passed all together out into the yard, the men in front, the two children just behind, walking warily.
Then came the separation, yet none could say exactly how it was accomplished. For separations are curious things at the best of times, the forces that effect them as mysterious as wind that blows a pair of butterflies across a field. Something equally delicate was at work. One minute all four stood together by the fountain, and the next Daddy was walking downhill towards the carpenter’s house alone, while the other three were already twenty metres up the street that led to the belt of forest.
/> Jimbo, perhaps, was responsible for the deft manoeuvring. At any rate, he walked beside his big cousin with the air of a successful aide-de- camp. But Monkey, too, seemed flushed with victory, rolling along—her rotundity ever suggested rolling rather than the taking of actual steps—as if she led a prisoner.
‘Don’t bother your cousin, children,’ their father’s voice was heard again faintly in the distance. Then the big shoulder of La Citadelle hid him from view and hearing.
And so the sight was seen of these three, arm in arm, passing along the village street in the twilight. Gygi saw them go and raised his blue, peaked cap; and so did Henri Favre, standing in the doorway of his little shop, as he weighed the possible value of the new customer for matches, chocolate, and string—the articles English chiefly bought; and likewise Alfred Sandoz, looking a moment through the window of his cabaret, the Guillaume Tell, saw them go past like shadows towards the woods, and observed to his carter friend across the table, ‘They choose queer times for expeditions, these English, ouah!‘
‘It’s their climate makes them like that,’ put in his wife, a touch of pity in her voice. Her daughter swept the Den and lit the fourneau for la famille anglaise in the mornings, and the mother, knowing a little English, spelt out the weather reports in the Daily Surprise she sometimes brought.
Meanwhile the three travellers had crossed the railway line, where Jimbo detained them for a moment’s general explanation, and passed the shadow of the sentinel poplar. The cluster of spring leaves rustled faintly on its crest. The village lay behind them now. They turned a moment to look back upon the stretch of vines and fields that spread towards the lake. From the pool of shadow where the houses nestled rose the spire of the church, a strong dark line against the fading sunset. Thin columns of smoke tried to draw it after them. Lights already twinkled on the farther shore, five miles across, and beyond these rose dim white forms of the tremendous ghostly Alps. Dusk slowly brought on darkness.
Jimbo began to hum the song of the village he had learned in school—
P’tit Bourcelles sur sa colline
De partout a gentille mine;
On y pratique avec success
L’exploitation du francais,
and the moment it was over, his sister burst out with the question that had been buzzing inside her head the whole time—
‘How long are you going to stay?’ she said, as they climbed higher along the dusty road.
‘Oh, about a week,’ he told her, giving the answer already used a dozen times. ‘I’ve just come out for a holiday—first holiday I’ve had for twenty years. Fancy that! Pretty long time, eh?’
They simply didn’t believe that; they let it pass—politely.
‘London’s stuffy, you know, just now,’ he added, aware that he was convicted of exaggeration. ‘Besides, it’s spring.’
‘There are millions of flowers here,’ Jimbo covered his mistake kindly, ‘millions and millions. Aren’t there, Monkey?’
‘Oh, billions.’
‘Of course,’ he agreed.
‘And more than anywhere else in the whole world.’
‘It looks like that,’ said Cousin Henry, as proudly as they said it themselves. And they told him how they picked clothes-baskets full of the wild lily of the valley that grew upon the Boudry slopes, hepaticas, periwinkles, jonquils, blue and white violets, as well as countless anemones, and later, the big yellow marguerites.
‘Then how long are you going to stay—really?’ inquired Monkey once again, as though the polite interlude were over. It was a delicate way of suggesting that he had told an untruth. She looked up straight into his face. And, meeting her big brown eyes, he wondered a little—for the first time—how he should reply.
‘Daddy came here meaning to stay only six months—first.’
‘When I was littler,’ Jimbo put in.
‘——and stayed here all this time—four years.’
‘I hope to stay a week or so—just a little holiday, you know,’ he said at length, giving the answer purposely. But he said it without conviction, haltingly. He felt that they divined the doubt in him. They guessed his thought along the hands upon his arm, as a horse finds out its rider from the touch upon the reins. On either side big eyes watched and judged him; but the brown ones put a positive enchantment in his blood. They shone so wonderfully in the dusk.
‘Longer than that, I think,’ she told him, her own mind quite made up.
‘It’s not so easy to get away from.’
‘You mean it?’ he asked seriously. ‘It makes one quite nervous.’
‘There’s such a lot to do here,’ she said, still keeping her eyes fixed upon his face till he felt the wonder in him become a little unmanageable. ‘You’ll never get finished in a week.’
‘My secretary,’ he stammered, ‘will help me,’ and Jimbo nodded, fastening both hands upon his arm, while Monkey indulged in a little gust of curious laughter, as who should say ‘He who laughs last, laughs best.’
They entered the edge of the forest. Hepaticas watched them with their eyes of blue. Violets marked their tread. The frontiers of the daylight softly closed behind them. A thousand trees opened a way to let them pass, and moss twelve inches thick took their footsteps silently as birds. They came presently to a little clearing where the pines stood in a circle and let in a space of sky. Looking up, all three saw the first small stars in it. A wild faint scent of coming rain was in the air—those warm spring rains that wash the way for summer. And a signal flashed unseen from the blue eyes to the brown.
‘This way,’ said Jimbo firmly. ‘There’s an armchair rock where you can rest and get your wind a bit,’ and, though Rogers had not lost his wind, he let himself be led, and took the great grey boulder for his chair. Instantly, before he had arranged his weight among the points and angles, both his knees were occupied.
‘By Jove,’ flashed through his mind. ‘They’ve brought me here on purpose. I’m caught!’
A tiny pause followed.
‘Now, look here, you little Schemers, I want to know what——’
But the sentence was never finished. The hand of Monkey was already pointing upwards to the space of sky. He saw the fringe of pine tops fencing it about with their feathery, crested ring, and in the centre shone faint, scattered stars. Over the fence of mystery that surrounds common objects wonder peeped with one eye like a star.
‘Cousinenry,’ he heard close to his ear, so soft it almost might have been those tree-tops whispering to the night, ‘do you know anything about a Star Cave—a place where the starlight goes when there are no eyes or puddles about to catch it?’
A Star Cave! How odd! His own boyhood’s idea. He must have mentioned it to his cousin perhaps, and he had told the children. And all that was in him of nonsense, poetry, love rose at a bound as he heard it. He felt them settle themselves more comfortably upon his knees. He forgot to think about the points and angles. Here surely a gateway was opening before his very feet, a gateway into that world of fairyland the old clergyman had spoken about. A great wave of tenderness swept him—a flood strong and deep, as he had felt it long ago upon the hill of that Kentish village. The golden boyhood’s mood rushed over him once more with all its original splendour. It took a slightly different form, however. He knew better how to direct it for one thing. He pressed the children closer to his side.
‘A what?’ he asked, speaking low as they did. ‘Do I know a what?’
‘A cave where lost starlight collects,’ Monkey repeated, ‘a Star
Cave.’
And Jimbo said aloud the verses he had already learned by heart. While his small voice gave the words, more than a little mixed, a bird high up among the boughs woke from its beauty sleep and sang. The two sounds mingled. But the singing of the bird brought back the scenery of the Vicarage garden, and with it the strange, passionate things the old clergyman had said. The two scenes met in his mind, passed in and out of one another like rings of smoke, interchanged, and finally formed
a new picture all their own, where flowers danced upon a carpet of star-dust that glittered in mid-air.
He knew some sudden, deep enchantment of the spirit. The Fairyland the world had lost spread all about him, and—he had the children close. The imaginative faculty that for years had invented ingenious patents, woke in force, and ran headlong down far sweeter channels—channels that fastened mind, heart, and soul together in a single intricate network of soft belief. He remembered the dusk upon the Crayfield lawns.
‘Of course I know a Star Cave,’ he said at length, when Jimbo had finished his recitation, and Monkey had added the details their father had told them. ‘I know the very one your Daddy spoke about. It’s not far from where we’re sitting. It’s over there.’ He pointed up to the mountain heights behind them, but Jimbo guided his hand in the right direction—towards the Boudry slopes where the forests dip upon the precipices of the Areuse.
‘Yes, that’s it—exactly,’ he said, accepting the correction instantly; ‘only I go to the top of the mountains first so as to slide down with the river of starlight.’
‘We go straight,’ they told him in one breath.
‘Because you’ve got more star-stuff in your eyes than I have, and find the way better,’ he explained.
That touched their sense of pity. ‘But you can have ours,’ they cried, ‘we’ll share it.’
‘No,’ he answered softly, ‘better keep your own. I can get plenty now. Indeed, to tell the truth—though it’s a secret between ourselves, remember—that’s the real reason I’ve come out here. I want to get a fresh supply to take back to London with me. One needs a fearful lot in London——’
‘But there’s no sun in London to melt it,’ objected Monkey instantly.
‘There’s fog though, and it gets lost in fog like ink in blotting- paper. There’s never enough to go round. I’ve got to collect an awful lot before I go back.’
The Algernon Blackwood Collection Page 75