The Algernon Blackwood Collection

by Algernon Blackwood

  For this night there was indeed something new in the worn old ritual. There was a strange, uncalculated element in it all, unexpected, and fearfully thrilling to all three. Zizi for the first time had his doubts about its being merely electricity.

  ‘C’est d’une puissance extraordinaire,’ was the widow’s whispered, eager verdict.

  ‘C’est que j’ai enormement de fluide ce soir,’ declared Zizi, with pride and confidence, yet mystified. The other two exchanged frequent glances of surprise, of wonder, of keen expectancy and anticipation. There was certainly a new ‘influence’ at work to-night. They even felt a touch of faint dread. The widow, her ruling passion strong even before the altar, looked down anxiously once or twice at her disreputable attire. It was vivid as that—this acute sense of another presence that pervaded the room, not merely hung about the little table. She could be ‘invisible’ to the Pension by the magic of old- established habit, but she could not be so to the true Invisibles. And they saw her in this unbecoming costume. She forgot, too, the need of keeping Zizi in the dark. He must know some day. What did it matter when?

  She tidied back her wandering hair with her free hand, and drew the faded garment more closely round her neck.

  ‘Are you cold?’ asked her sister with a hush in her voice; ‘you feel the cold air—all of a sudden?’

  ‘I do, maman,’ Zizi answered. ‘It’s blowing like a wind across my hand. What is it?’ He was shivering. He looked over his shoulder nervously.

  There was a heavy step in the hall, and a figure darkened the doorway.

  All three gave a start.

  ‘J’ai sommeil,’ announced the deep voice of the Postmaster. This meant that the boy must come to bed. It was the sepulchral tone that made them jump perhaps. Zizi got up without a murmur; he was glad to go, really. He slept in the room with his parents. His father, an overcoat thrown over his night things, led him away without another word. And the two women resumed their seance. The saucer moved more easily and swiftly now that Zizi had gone. ‘C’est done toi qui as le fluide,’ each said to the other.

  But in the excitement caused by this queer, new element in the proceedings, the familiar old routine was forgotten. Napoleon and Marie Antoinette were brushed aside to make room for this important personage who suddenly descended upon the saucer from an unknown star with the statement—it took half an hour to spell—’Je viens d’une etoile tres eloignee qui n’a pas encore de nom.’

  ‘There is a starry light in the room. It was above your head just now,’ whispered the widow, enormously excited. ‘I saw it plainly.’ She was trembling.

  ‘That explains the clouds in my dream,’ was the tense reply, as they both peered round them into the shadows with a touch of awe. ‘Now, give all your attention. This has an importance, but, you know, an importance—’ She could not get the degree of importance into any words. She looked it instead, leaving the sentence eloquently incomplete.

  For, certainly, into the quaint ritual of these two honest, troubled old women there crept then a hint of something that was uncommon and uplifting. That it came through themselves is as sure as that it spelt out detailed phrases of encouragement and guidance with regard to their coming visit to the Bank. That they both were carried away by it into joy and the happiness of sincere relief of mind is equally a fact. That their receptive mood attuned them to overhear subconsciously messages of thought that flashed across the night from another mind in sympathy with their troubles—a mind hard at work that very moment in the carpenter’s house—was not known to them; nor would it have brought the least explanatory comfort even if they had been told of it. They picked up these starry telegrams of unselfish thinking that flamed towards them through the midnight sky from an eager mind elsewhere busily making plans for their benefit. And, reaching them subconsciously, their deep subconsciousness urged the dirty saucer to the spelling of them, word by word and letter by letter. The flavour of their own interpretation, of course, crept in to mar, and sometimes to obliterate. The instruments were gravely imperfect. But the messages came through. And with them came the great feeling that the Christian calls answered prayer. They had such absolute faith. They had belief.

  ‘Go to the Bank. Help awaits you there. And I shall go with you to direct and guide.’ This was the gist of that message from ‘une etoile tres eloignee.’

  They copied it out in violet ink with a pen that scratched like the point of a pin. And when they stole upstairs to bed, long after midnight, there was great joy and certainty in their fighting old hearts. There was a perfume of flowers, of lilacs and wistaria in the air, as if the whole garden had slipped in by the back door and was unable to find its way out again. They dreamed of stars and starlight.

  CHAPTER XXI

  ..................

  La vie est un combat qu’ils ont change en fete. Lei Elus, E. VERHAIREN.

  The excitement a few days later spread through the village like a flame. People came out of their way to steal a glance at the Pension that now, for the first time in their—memory, was free of debt. Gygi, tolling the bell at midi, forgot to stop, as he peered through the narrow window in the church tower and watched the Widow Jequier planting and digging recklessly in her garden. Several came running down the street, thinking it was a warning of fire.

  But the secret was well kept; no one discovered who had worked the miracle. Pride sealed the lips of the beneficiaries themselves, while the inhabitants of the Citadelle, who alone shared the knowledge, kept the facts secret, as in honour bound. Every one wondered, however, for every one knew the sum ran into several thousand francs; and a thousand francs was a fortune; the rich man in the corner house, who owned so many vineyards, and was reputed to enjoy an income of ten thousand francs a year, was always referred to as ‘le million naire.’ And so the story spread that Madame Jequier had inherited a fortune, none knew whence. The tradespeople treated her thereafter with a degree of respect that sweetened her days till the end of life.

  She had come back from the Bank in a fainting condition, the sudden joy too much for her altogether. A remote and inaccessible air pervaded her, for all the red of her inflamed eyes and tears. She was aloof from the world, freed at last from the ceaseless, gnawing anxiety that for years had eaten her life out. The spirits had justified themselves, and faith and worship had their just reward. But this was only the first, immediate effect: it left her greater than it found her, this unexpected, huge relief—brimming with new sympathy for others. She doubled her gifts. She planned a wonderful new garden. That very night she ordered such a quantity of bulbs and seedlings that to this day they never have been planted.

  Her interview with Henry Rogers, when she called at the carpenter’s house in all her finery, cannot properly be told, for it lay beyond his powers of description. Her sister accompanied her; the Postmaster, too, snatched fifteen minutes from his duties to attend. The ancient tall hat, worn only at funerals as a rule, was replaced by the black Trilby that had been his portion from the Magic Box, as he followed the excited ladies at a reasonable distance. ‘You had better show yourself,’ his wife suggested; ‘Monsieur Rogairs would like to see you with us—to know that you are there.’ Which meant that he was not to interfere with the actual thanksgiving, but to countenance the occasion with his solemn presence. And, indeed, he did not go upstairs. He paced the road beneath the windows during the interview, looking exactly like a professional mourner waiting for the arrival of the hearse.

  ‘My dear old friend—friends, I mean,’ said Rogers in his fluent and very dreadful French, ‘if you only knew what a pleasure it is to me—It is I who should thank you for giving me the opportunity, not you who should thank me.’ The sentence broke loose utterly, wandering among intricacies of grammar and subjunctive moods that took his breath away as he poured it out. ‘I was only afraid you would think it unwarrantable interference. I am delighted that you let me do it. It’s such a little thing to do.’

  Both ladies instantly wept. The Widow came closer
with a little rush. Whether Rogers was actually embraced, or no, it is not stated officially.

  ‘It is a loan, of course, it is a loan,’ cried the Widow.

  ‘It is a present,’ he said firmly, loathing the scene.

  ‘It’s a part repayment for all the kindness you showed me here as a boy years and years ago.’ Then, remembering that the sister was not known to him in those far-away days, he added clumsily, ‘and since—I came back…. And now let’s say no more, but just keep the little secret to ourselves. It is nobody’s business but our own.’

  ‘A present!’ gasped both ladies to one another, utterly overcome; and finding nothing else to embrace, they flung their arms about each other’s necks and praised the Lord and wept more copiously than ever…. ‘Grand ciel’ was heard so frequently, and so loudly, that Madame Michaud, the carpenter’s wife, listening on the stairs, made up her mind it was a quarrel, and wondered if she ought to knock at the door and interfere.

  ‘I see your husband in the road,’ said Rogers, tapping at the window.

  ‘I think he seems waiting for you. Or perhaps he has a telegram for

  me, do you think?’ He bowed and waved his hand, smiling as the

  Postmaster looked up in answer to the tapping and gravely raised his

  Trilby hat.

  ‘There now, he’s calling for you. Do not keep him waiting—I’m sure—’ he didn’t know what to say or how else to get them out. He opened the door. The farewells took some time, though they would meet an hour later at dejeuner as usual.

  ‘At least you shall pay us no more pension,’ was the final sentence as they flounced downstairs, so happy and excited that they nearly tumbled over each other, and sharing one handkerchief to dry their tears.

  ‘Then I shall buy my own food and cook it here,’ he laughed, and somehow managed to close his door upon the retreating storm. Out of the window he saw the procession go back, the sombre figure of the Postmaster twenty yards behind the other two.

  And then, with joy in his heart, though a sigh of relief upon his lips—there may have been traces of a lump somewhere in his throat as well, but if so, he did not acknowledge it—he turned to his letters, and found among them a communication from Herbert Montmorency Minks, announcing that he had found an ideal site, and that it cost so and so much per acre—also that the County Council had made no difficulties. There was a hint, moreover—a general flavour of resentment and neglect at his master’s prolonged absence—that it would not be a bad thing for the great Scheme if Mr. Rogers could see his way to return to London ‘before very long.’

  ‘Bother the fellow!’ thought he; ‘what a nuisance he is, to be sure!’

  And he answered him at once. ‘Do not trouble about a site just yet,’ he wrote; ‘there is no hurry for the moment.’ He made a rapid calculation in his head. He had paid those mortgages out of capital, and the sum represented just about the cost of the site Minks mentioned. But results were immediate. There was no loss, no waste in fees and permits and taxes. Each penny did its work.

  ‘There’s the site gone, anyhow,’ he laughed to himself. ‘The foundation will go next, then the walls. But, at any rate, they needed it. The Commune Charity would have had ‘em at the end of the month. They’re my neighbours after all. And I must find out from them who else in the village needs a leg up. For these people are worth helping, and I can see exactly where every penny goes.’

  Bit by bit, as it would seem, the great Scheme for Disabled

  Thingumagigs was being undermined.

  CHAPTER XXII

  ..................

  And those who were good shall be happy.

  They shall sit in a golden chair;

  They shall splash at a ten-league canvas

  With brushes of comets’ hair.

  They shall have real saints to paint from—

  Magdalene, Peter, and Paul;

  They shall work for an age at a sitting

  And never get tired at all.

  And only the Master shall praise them,

  And only the Master shall blame;

  And no one shall work for money,

  And no one shall work for fame;

  But each for the joy of the working,

  And each in his separate star,

  Shall draw the thing as he sees it

  For the God of things as they are,

  R. KIPLING.

  And meanwhile, as May ran laughing to meet June, an air of coloured wonder spread itself about the entire village. Rogers had brought it with him from that old Kentish garden somehow. His journey there had opened doors into a region of imagination and belief whence fairyland poured back upon his inner world, transfiguring common things. And this transfiguration he unwittingly put into others too. Through this very ordinary man swept powers that usually are left behind with childhood. The childhood aspect of the world invaded all who came in contact with him, enormous, radiant, sparkling, charged with questions of wonder and enchantment. And every one felt it according to their ability of reconstruction. Yet he himself had not the least idea that he did it all. It was a reformation, very tender, soft, and true.

  For wonder, of course, is the basis of all inquiry. Interpretation varies, facts remain the same; and to interpret is to recreate. Wonder leads to worship. It insists upon recreation, prerogative of all young life. The Starlight Express ran regularly every night, Jimbo having constructed a perfect time-table that answered all requirements, and was sufficiently elastic to fit instantly any scale that time and space demanded. Rogers and the children talked of little else, and their adventures in the daytime seemed curiously fed by details of information gleaned elsewhere.

  But where? The details welled up in one and all, though whence they came remained a mystery. ‘I believe we dream a lot of it,’ said Jimbo. ‘It’s a lot of dreams we have at night, comme fa.’ He had made a complete map of railway lines, with stations everywhere, in forests, sky, and mountains. He carried stations in his pocket, and just dropped one out of the carriage window whenever a passenger shouted, ‘Let’s stop here.’ But Monkey, more intellectual, declared it was ‘all Cousinenry’s invention and make-up,’ although she asked more questions than all the others put together. Jinny, her sister, stared and listened with her puzzled, moth-like expression, while Mother watched and marvelled cautiously from a distance. In one and all, however, the famished sense of wonder interpreted life anew. It named the world afresh—the world of common things. It subdued the earth unto itself. What a mind creates it understands. Through the familiar these adventurers trace lines of discovery into the unfamiliar. They understood. They were up to their waists in wonder. There was still disorder, of course, in their great reconstruction, but that was where the exciting fun came in; for disorder involves surprise. Any moment out might pop the unexpected—event or person.

  Cousin Henry was easily leader now. While Daddy remained absorbed with his marvellous new story, enthusiastic and invisible, they ran about the world at the heels of this ‘busy engineer,’ as Jane Ann entitled him. He had long ago told them, with infinite and exaccurate detail, of his journey to the garden and his rediscovery of the sprites, forgotten during his twenty years of business life. And these sprites were as familiar to them now as those of their own childhood. They little knew that at night they met and talked with them. Daddy had put them all into the Wumble Book, achieving mediocre success with the rhymes, but amply atoning with the illustrations. The Woman of the Haystack was evidently a monster pure and simple, till Jinny announced that she merely had ‘elephantitis,’ and thus explained her satisfactorily. The Lamplighter, with shining feet, taking enormous strides from Neuchatel to a London slum, putting fire into eyes and hearts en route, thrilled them by his radiant speed and ubiquitous activity, while his doggerel left them coldly questioning. For the rhymes did not commend themselves to their sense of what was proper in the use of words. His natural history left them unconvinced, though the anatomy of the drawing fascinated them.

 
; He walked upon his toes

  As softly as a saying does,

  For so the saying goes.

  That he ‘walked upon his toes’ was all right, but that he ‘walked softly as a saying’ meant nothing, even when explained that ‘thus the saying goes.’

  ‘Poor old Daddy,’ was Jinny’s judgment; ‘he’s got to write something.

  You see, he is an author. Some day he’ll get his testimonial.’

  It was Cousin Henry who led them with a surer, truer touch. He always had an adventure up his sleeve—something their imaginations could accept and recreate. Each in their own way, they supplied interpretations as they were able.

  Every walk they took together furnished the germ of an adventure.

  ‘But I’m not exciting to-day,’ he would object thirsting for a convincing compliment that should persuade him to take them out. Only the compliment never came quite as he hoped.

  ‘Everybody’s exciting somewhere,’ said Monkey, leading the way and knowing he would follow. ‘We’ll go to the Wind Wood.’

  Jimbo took his hand then, and they went. Corners of the forest had names now, born of stories and adventures he had placed there—the Wind Wood, the Cuckoo Wood, where Daddy could not sleep because ‘the beastly cuckoo made such a noise’; the Wood where Mother Fell, and so on. No walk was wholly unproductive.

  And so, one evening after supper, they escaped by the garden, crossed the field where the standing hay came to their waists, and climbed by forest paths towards the Wind Wood. It was a spot where giant pines stood thinly, allowing a view across the lake towards the Alps. The moss was thick and deep. Great boulders, covered with lichen, lay about, and there were fallen trees to rest the back against. Here he had told them once his vision of seeing the wind, and the name had stuck; for the story had been very vivid, and every time they felt the wind or heard it stirring in the tree-tops, they expected to see it too. There were blue winds, black winds, and winds—violent these—of purple and flaming scarlet.