For the first time that evening the ticking of the clock was also audible. But the new sound, though somewhat in league with the ticking, and equally remorseless, did not come from the clock. It was a human sound, the most awful known to childhood. It was footsteps on the stairs!
Both the children and the story-teller heard it, but with different results. The latter stirred and looked about him, as though new hope and strength had come to him. The former, led by Tim and Judy, broke simultaneously into anxious speech. Maria, having slept profoundly since the first mention of the mouse in its cosy pocket, gave no sign at all.
“Oh, quick! quick! What did the squirrel whisper in his good right ear?
What was it? DO hurry, please!”
“It whispered two simple words, each of one syllable,” continued the reanimated figure, his voice lowered and impressive. “It said—the sea!”
The announcement made by the squirrel was so entirely unexpected that the surprise of it buried all memory of the disagreeable sound. The children sat up and stared into the figure’s face questioningly. Surely he had made a slight mistake. How could the sea have anything to do with it? But no word was spoken, no actual question asked. This overwhelming introduction of the sea left him poised far beyond their reach. His stories were invariably marvellous. He would somehow justify himself.
“The Sea!” whispered Tim to Judy, and there was intense admiration in his voice and eyes.
“From the top of its tree,” resumed the figure triumphantly, “the squirrel had seen what was happening, and made its great discovery. It realised why the ground was wetter and wetter every day, and also why the island was small and growing smaller. For it understood the awful fact that—the sea was rising! A little longer and the entire island would be under water, and everybody on it would be drowned!” “Couldn’t none of them swim or anything?” asked Judy with keen anxiety.
“Hush!” put in Tim. “It’s what did they do? And who thought of it first?”
The question last but one was chosen for solution.
“The rabbit,” announced the figure recklessly. “The rabbit saved them; and in saving them it saved the Island too. It founded Ingland, this very Ingland on which we live to-day. In fact, it started the British Empire by its action. The rabbit did it.”
“How? How?”
“It heard the squirrel’s whisper half-way down its hole. It forgot about its front teeth, and the moment it forgot them they, of course, stopped growing. It recovered all its courage. A grand idea had come to it. It came bustling out of its hiding-place, stood on its hind legs, poked its bright eyes over the window-ledge, and told them how to escape. It said, ‘I’ll dig my hole deeper and we’ll empty the sea into it as it rises. We’ll pour the water down my hole!’”
The figure paused and fixed his eyes upon each listener in turn, challenging disapproval, yet eager for sympathy at the same time. In place of criticism, however, he met only silence and breathless admiration. Also—he heard that distant sound they had forgotten, and realised it had come much nearer. It had reached the second floor. He made swift and desperate calculations. He decided that it was just possible … with ordinary good luck …
“So they all went out and began to deepen the rabbit’s hole. They dug and dug and dug. The man took off both his coats; the rabbit scraped with its four paws, using its tail as well—it had a nice long tail in those days; the mouse crept out of his pocket and made channels with its little pointed toes; and the squirrel brushed and swept the water in with its bushy, mop-like tail. The rising sea poured down the ever-deepening hole. They worked with a will together; there was no complaining, though the rabbit wore its tail down till it was nothing but a stump, and the mouse stood ankle-deep in water, and the squirrel’s fluffy tail looked like a stable broom. They worked like heroes without stopping even to talk, and as the water went pouring down the hole, the level of the sea, of course, sank lower and lower and lower, the shores of the tiny island stretched farther and farther and farther, till there were reaches of golden sand like Margate at low tide, and as the level sank still lower there rose into view great white cliffs of chalk where before there had been only water—until, at last, the squirrel, scampering down from the tree where it had gone to see what had been accomplished, reported in a voice that chattered with stammering delight, ‘We’re saved! The sea’s gone down! The land’s come up!’”
The steps were audible in the passage. A gentle knock was heard. But no one answered, for it seemed that no one was aware of it. The figure paused a moment to recover breath.
“And then, and then? What happened next? Did they thank the rabbit?”
“They all thanked each other then. The man thanked the rabbit, and the rabbit thanked the squirrel, and the mouse woke up, and—”
No one noticed the slip, which proved that their attention was already painfully divided. For another knock, much louder than before, had interrupted the continuation of the story. The figure turned its head to listen. “It’s nothing,” said Tim quickly. “It’s only a sound,” said Judy. “What did the mouse do? Please tell us quickly.”
“I thought I heard a knock,” the figure murmured. “Perhaps I was mistaken. The mouse—er—the mouse woke up—”
“You told us that.”
The figure continued, speaking with greater rapidity even than before:
“And looked about it, and found the view so lovely that it said it would never live in a pocket again, but would divide its time in future between the fields and houses. So it pricked its whiskers up, and the squirrel curled its tail over its back to avoid any places that still were damp, and the rabbit polished its big front teeth on the grass and said it was quite pleased to have a stump instead of a tail as a memento of a memorable occasion when they had all been nearly drowned together, and—they all skipped up to the top of the high chalk cliffs as dry as a bone and as happy as—”
He broke off in the middle of the enormous sentence to say a most ridiculous and unnecessary thing. “Come in,” he said, just as though there was some one knocking at the door. But no single head was turned. If there was an entry it was utterly ignored.
“Happy as what?”
“As you,” the figure went on faster than ever. “And that’s why England to-day is an island of quite a respectable size, and why everybody pretends it’s dry and comfortable and cosy, and why people never leave it except to go away for holidays that cannot possibly be avoided.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” began an awful voice behind the chair.
“And why to this day,” he continued as though he had not heard, “a squirrel always curls its tail above its back, why a rabbit wears a stump like a pen wiper, and why a mouse lives sometimes in a house and sometimes in a field, and—”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” clanged the slow, awful voice in a tone that was meant to be heard distinctly, “but it’s long gone ‘arf-past six, and—”
“Time for bed,” added the figure with a sound that was like the falling of an executioner’s axe. And, as if to emphasise the arrival of the remorseless moment, the clock just then struck loudly on the mantelpiece—seven times.
But for several minutes no one stirred. Hope, even at such moments, was stronger than machinery of clocks and nurses. There was a general belief that somehow or other the moment that they dreaded, the moment that was always coming to block their happiness, could be evaded and shoved aside. Nothing mechanical like that was wholly true. Daddy had often used queer phrases that hinted at it: “Some day—A day is coming—A day will come”; and so forth. Their belief in a special Day when no one would say “Time” haunted them already. Yet, evidently this evening was not the momentous occasion; for when Tim mentioned that the clock was fast, the figure behind the chair replied that she was half an hour overdue already, and her tone was like Thompson’s when he said, “Dinner’s served.” There was no escape this time.
Accordingly the children slowly disentangled themselves; they rose and stret
ched like animals; though all still ignored the figure behind the chair. A ball of stuff unrolled and became Maria. “Thank you, Daddy,” she said. “It was just lovely,” said Judy. “But it’s only the beginning, isn’t it?” Tim asked. “It’ll go on to-morrow night?” And the figure, having escaped failure by the skin of its teeth, kissed each in turn and said, “Another time—yes, I’ll go on with it.” Whereupon the children deigned to notice the person behind the chair. “We’re coming up to bed now, Jackman,” they mentioned casually, and disappeared slowly from the room in a disappointed body, robbed, unsatisfied, but very sleepy. The clock had cheated them of something that properly was endless. Maria alone made no remark, for she was already asleep in Jackman’s comfortable arms. Maria was always carried.
“Time’s up,” Tim reflected when he lay in bed; “time’s always up. I do wish we could stop it somehow,” and fell asleep somewhat gratified because he had deliberately not wound up his alarum-clock. He had the delicious feeling—a touch of spite in it—that this would bother Time and muddle it.
Yet Time, as a monster, chased him through a hundred dreams and thus revenged itself. It pursued him to the very edge of the daylight, then mocked him with a cold bath, lessons, and a windy sleet against the windows. It was “time to get up” again.
Yet, meanwhile, Time helped and pleased the children by showing them its pleasanter side as well. It pushed them, gently but swiftly, up the long hill of months and landed them with growing excitement into the open country of another year. Since the rabbit, mouse, and squirrel first woke in their hearts the wonder of common things, they had all grown slightly bigger. Time tucked away another twelve months behind their backs: each of them was a year older; and that in itself was full of a curious and growing wonder.
For the birth of wonder is a marvellous, sweet thing, but the recognition of it is sweeter and more marvellous still. Its growth, perhaps, shall measure the growth and increase of the soul to whom it is as eyes and hands and feet, searching the world for signs of hiding Reality. But its persistence—through the heavier years that would obliterate it—this persistence shall offer hints of something coming that is more than marvellous. The beginning of wisdom is surely—Wonder.
CHAPTER III: DEATH OF A MERE FACT
..................
THERE WAS A MAN NAMED Jinks. In him was neither fancy, imagination, nor a sign of wonder, and so he—died.
But, though he appears in this chapter, he disappears again so quickly that his being mentioned in a sentence all by himself should not lead any one astray. Jinks made a false entry, as it were. The children crossed him out at once. He became illegible. For the trio had their likes and dislikes; they resented liberties being taken with them. Also, when there was no one to tell them stories, they were quite able to amuse themselves. It was the inactive yet omnipotent Maria who brought about indirectly the obliteration of Mr. Jinks.
And it came about as follows:
Maria was a podgy child of marked individuality. It was said that she was seven years old, but she declared that eight was the figure, because some uncle or other had explained, “you’re in your eighth year.” Wandering uncles are troublesome in this kind of way. Every time her age was mentioned she corrected the informant. She had a trick of moving her eyes without moving her head, as though the round face was difficult to turn; but her big blue eyes slipped round without the least trouble, as though oiled. The performance gave her the sly and knowing aspect of a goblin, but she had no objection to that, for it saved her trouble, and to save herself trouble—according to nurses, Authorities, and the like—was her sole object in existence.
Yet this seemed a mistaken view of the child. It was not so much that she did not move unnecessarily as that it was not necessary for her to move at all, since she invariably found herself in the middle of whatever was going on. While life bustled anxiously about her, hurrying to accomplish various ends, she remained calm and contented at the centre, completely satisfied, mistress of it all. And her face was symbolic of her entire being; whereas so many faces seem unfinished, hers was complete—globular like the heavenly bodies, circular like the sun, arms and legs unnecessary. The best of everything came to her because she did not run after it. There was no hurry. Time did not worry her. Circular and self-sustaining, she already seemed to dwell in Eternity.
“And this little person,” one of these inquisitive, interfering visitors would ask, smiling fatuously; “how old is she, I wonder?”
“Seven,” was the answer of the Authority in charge.
Maria’s eyes rolled sideways, and a little upwards. She looked at the foolish questioner; the Authority who had answered was not worth a glance.
“No,” she said flatly, with sublime defiance, “I’m more. I’m in my eighth year, you see.”
And the visitor, smiling that pleasant smile that makes children distrust, even dislike them, and probably venturing to pinch her cheek or pat her on the shoulder into the bargain, accepted the situation with another type of smile—the Smile-that-children-expect. As a matter of fact, children hate it. They see through its artificial humbug easily. They prefer a solemn and unsmiling face invariably. It’s the latter that produces chocolates and sudden presents; it’s the stern-faced sort that play hide-and-seek or stand on their heads. The Smilers are bored at heart. They mean to escape at the first opportunity. And the children never catch their sleeves or coattails to prevent them going.
“So you’re in your eighth year, are you?” this Smiler chuckled with a foolish grin. He patted her cheek kindly. “Why, you’re almost a grown-up person. You’ll be going to dinner-parties soon.” And he smiled again. Maria stood motionless and patient. Her eyes gazed straight before her. Her podgy face remained expressionless as dough.
“Answer the kind gentleman,” said the Authority reprovingly.
Maria did not budge. A finger and thumb, both dirty, rolled a portion of her pinafore into a pointed thing like a string, distinctly black. She waited for the visitor to withdraw. But this particular visitor did not withdraw.
“I knew a little girl—” he began, with a condescending grin that meant that her rejection of his advances had offended him, “a little girl of about your age, who—”
But the remainder of the rebuke-concealed-in-a-story was heard only by the Authority. For Maria, relentless and unhumbugged, merely walked away. In the hall she discovered Tim, discreetly hiding. “What’s he come for?” the brother inquired promptly, jerking his thumb towards the hall.
Maria’s eyes just looked at him.
“To see Mother, I suppose,” he answered himself, accustomed to his sister’s goblin manners, “and talk about missions and subshkiptions, and all that. Did he give you anything?”
“No, nothing.”
“Did he call us bonny little ones?” His face mentioned that he could kill if necessary, or if his sister’s honour required it.
“He didn’t say it.”
“Lucky for him,” exclaimed Tim gallantly, rubbing his nose with the palm of his hand and snorting loudly. “What did he say, then—the old Smiler?”
“He said,” replied Maria, moving her head as well as her eyes, “that I wasn’t really old, and that he knew another little girl who was nicer than me, and always told the truth, and—”
“Oh, come on,” cried Tim, impatiently interrupting. “My trains are going in the schoolroom, and I want a driver for an accident. We’ll put the Smiler in the luggage van, and he’ll get smashed in the collision, and all the wheels will go over his head. Then he’ll find out how old you really are. We’ll fairly smash him.”
They disappeared. Judy, who was reading a book on the Apocalypse, in a corner of the room, looked up a moment as they entered.
“What’s up?” she asked, her mind a little dazed by the change of focus from stars, scarlet women, white horses, and mysterious “Voices,” to dull practical details of everyday existence. “What’s on?” she repeated.
“Trains,” replied Tim. “W
e’re going to have an accident and kill a man dead.”
“What’s he done?” she inquired.
“Humbugged Maria with a lot of stuff—and gave her nothing—and didn’t believe a single word she told him.”
Judy glanced without much interest at the railway laid out upon the floor, murmured “Oh, I see,” and resumed her reading of the wonderful book she had purloined from the top shelf of a neglected bookcase outside the gun-room. It absorbed her. She loved the tremendous words, the atmosphere of marvel and disaster, and especially the constant suggestion that the end of the world was near. Antichrist she simply adored. No other hero in any book she knew came near him.
“Come and help,” urged Tim, picking up an engine that lay upon its side. “Come on.”
“No, thanks. I’ve got an Apocalypse. It’s simply frightfully exciting.”
“Shall we break both legs?” asked Maria blandly, “or just his neck?”
“Neck,” said Tim briefly. “Only they must find the heart beneath the rubbish of the luggage van.”
Judy looked up in spite of herself. “Who is it?” she inquired, with an air of weighing conflicting interests.
“Mr. Jinks.” It was Maria who supplied the information.
“But he’s Daddy’s offiss-partner man,” Judy objected, though without much vim or heat.
Maria did not answer. Her eyes were glued upon the other engine.
“All black and burnt and—full of the very horridest diseases,” put in Tim, referring to the heart of the destroyed Mr. Jinks beneath the engine.
He glanced up enticingly at his elder sister, whom he longed to draw into the vindictive holocaust.
“He said things to Maria,” he explained persuasively, “and it’s not the first time either. Last Sunday he called me ‘his little man,’ and he’s never given me a single thing since ever I can remember, years and years ago.”
The Algernon Blackwood Collection Page 106