He hesitated, gave the dish-cover an extra polish, then called through the door to Mrs. Horton:
“There’s a tramp in the garden, Bridget, and Mr. Weeden’s with him. Mr.
Felix is halso taking the air, and Master Tim—”
He stopped, hearing a step in the pantry. Mrs. Horton stood behind him with a shawl about her shoulders. Her red face was smiling.
“Alfred, let’s go out and take a look,” she said. “Mary can see to the shepherd’s-pie. I’ve been as quick as I could,” she added, as if excusing herself. Moreover, she said distinctly, “shepherd’s-poie.”
“I haven’t been ‘calling,’” replied the butler, “except only just now—just this minute.” He spoke as though he was being scolded for not answering a bell. But he cast an admiring glance, half wild, half reckless, at the cook.
“An’ you shouting to me to come this last ‘arf hour and more!” cried
Mrs. Horton. She, too, apparently, was in a “state.”
“You are mistaken, Bridget, I have been singing, as I often do when attending to the silver, but as for—”
“You can do without a hat,” she interrupted. “Come on! I want to go and look for—for—” She broke off, taking his arm as though they were going down the Strand or Oxford Street. Her red face beamed. She looked very proud and happy. She wanted to look for something too, but she could not believe the moment had really come. She had put it away so long—like a special dish in a cupboard.
“I don’t know what’s come over me,” she went on very confidentially, as she moved beside him through the scullery door, “but—but I don’t feel satisfied—not satisfied with meself as I used to be.”
“No, Bridget?” It was in his best “7:30″ manner. There was a struggle in him.
“No,” said Mrs. Horton, with decision. “I give satisfaction—that I know—”
“We both do that,” said Thompson proudly. “And no one can do a suet pudding to a turn as you can. Only the other day I heard Sir William a-speaking of it—”
She held his arm more tightly. They were on the lawn by now. The flood of sunlight caught them, showed up the worn and shabby places in his suit of broadcloth, gleamed on her bursting shoes she “fancied” for her kitchen work. They heard the birds, they smelt the flowers, the air bathed them all over like a sea.
“And the silver, Alfred,” she said in a lower tone. “Who in the world can make it look as you do? But what I’ve been feeling lately—since this morning, that is to say—and feeling for the first time in me life, so to speak—”
“Bridget, dear, you’ve got it!” he interrupted with excitement, “I’ve felt it too. Felt it this morning first, when I woke up and remembered that nobody wanted hot-water nor early tea, and I said to myself, ‘There’s more than that in it. I’m not doing all this just only for a salary. I’m doing it for something else. What is it?’”
He spoke very rapidly for a butler. He looked down at her red and smiling face.
“What is it?” he repeated, curiously moved.
She looked up at him without a word.
“It’s something ‘idden,” he said, after a pause. “That’s what it is.”
“That’s it,” agreed Mrs. Horton. “Like a recipe.”
There was another pause. The butler broke it. They stood together in the middle of the field, flowers and birds and sunshine all about them.
“A mystery—inside of us,” he said, “I think—”
“Yes, Alfred,” the cook murmured softly.
“I think,” he continued, “it’s a song and dance we want. A little life.” He broke off abruptly, noticing the sudden movement of her bursting shoes. She took a long step forwards, then sideways. She opened her arms to the air and sun. She almost pirouetted.
“Life!” she cried, “‘ot and fiery. Life! That’s it. Hark, Alfred, d’ye hear that singing far away?” She felt the Irish break out of her. “Listen!” she cried, trying to drag him faster. “Listen, will ye? It makes me wild entirely! Give me yer hand! Come on and dance wid me! It’s in me hearrt I feel it, in me blood. To the devil with me suet puddings and shepherd-poies—that singing’s real, that’s loife, that’s lovely as a dhream! It’s what I’ve been looking for iver since I can remember. I’ve got it!”
And Thompson felt himself spinning through the air. Old families were forgotten. The world was young with laughter. They could fly. They did.
The silver was beautifully cleaned. He had earned his holiday.
“That singing!” he gasped, feeling his heart grow big. He followed her across the flowered world. “I believe it is a bird! It would not surprise me to be told—”
“A birrd!” cried Mrs. Horton, turning him round and round. “It’s a birrd from Heaven then! I’ve heard it all the morning. It’s been singing in me heart for ages. Now it’s out! Come follow it wid me! We’ll go to the end of the wurrld to foinde it.”
Her kitchen energy—some called it temper—had discovered a greater scope than puddings.
“There is no hurry,” the butler panted, moving along with her, and trying hard to keep his balance. “We’ll look together. We’ll find it!” And as they raced across the field among the flowers after the line of disappearing figures, the Tramp looked back at them and waved his hand.
“It’s a lovely morning,” he said, as they came up with the rest of the party. “So you’re looking too?”
Too much out of breath to answer, they just nodded, and the group accepted them without more to-do. Their object evidently was the same. Aunt Emily glanced up from her ferns, nodded and said, “Good morning, it’s a lovely day"—and resumed her digging again. It was like shaking hands! They all went forward happily, eagerly, across the wide, wide world together.
The absence of surprise the children knew had now become a characteristic everybody shared. All were in the same state together. The whole day flowed, there were no limitations or conditions, least of all surprise. Even WEEDEN had forgotten hedges and artificial boundaries. No one, therefore, ejaculated nor exclaimed when they ran across the Policeman. He, too, was looking for some one, but, having mislaid his notebook and pencil stub, was unable to mention any names, and was easily persuaded to join the body of eager seekers. Being a policeman, he was naturally a seeker by profession; he was always looking for somebody somewhere—somebody who was going in the wrong direction.
“That’s just it,” he said, the moment he saw the Tramp, taking his helmet off as though an odd respect was in him. “That’s just what I’ve always felt,” he went on vaguely. “I’m looking for some one wot’s a’looking for something else—only looking wrong.”
“In the wrong places,” suggested Stumper, remembering his Indian scouting days.
“In the wrong way,” put in Uncle Felix, full of experience by now.
The Policeman listened attentively, as though by rights he ought to enter these sentences laboriously in his notebook.
“That’s it, per’aps,” he stated. “It takes ‘em longer, but they finds out in the end. If I was to show ‘em the right way of looking instead of arresting ‘em—I’d be reel!” And then he added, as if he were giving evidence in a Court of Justice and before a County Magistrate, “There’s no good looking for anything where it ain’t, now is there?”
“Precisely,” agreed Colonel Stumper, remembering happily that his pockets were full of snail-shells. He knew his sign.
Thompson, Mrs. Horton, Weeden, and the Policeman glanced at him gratefully. But it was the last mentioned who replied:
“Because every one,” he said with conviction at last, “has his own way of looking, and even the burgular is only looking wrong.” He, too, it seemed, had found himself.
Their search, their endless hunt, their conversation and adventures thus might be reported endlessly, if only the book-shelves of the world were built more stoutly, and everybody could find an Extra Day lying about in which to read it all. Each seeker held true to his or her first love, obeying an infallibl
e instinct. The adventure and romance that hid in Tim and Judy, respectively, sent them headlong after anything that offered signs of these two common but seductive qualities. Judy lived literally in the air, her feet, her heart, her eyes all off the ground; Tim, filled with an equally insatiable curiosity, found adorable danger in every rabbit-run, and rescued things innumerable. Off the ground he felt unsafe, unsure, and lost himself. Stumper, faithful to his scouting passion, disappeared into all kinds of undesirable places no one else would have dreamed of looking in, yet invariably—came back; and while Uncle Felix tried a little of everything and found “copy” in a puddle or a dandelion, Weeden carried his empty sack without a murmur, knowing it would be filled with truffles at the end. Aunt Emily, exceedingly particular, but no longer interfering with the others, was equally sure of herself. A touch of fluid youth ran in her veins again, and in her heart grew a fern that presently she would find everywhere outside as well—a maiden-hair.
Each, however, in some marvellous way, shared the adventures of the others, as though the Tramp merged all seven of them into one single being, unified them, at any rate, into this one harmonious, common purpose with himself. For, while everybody had a different way of looking, everybody’s way—for that particular individual—was exactly right.
“Smell, then follow,” was the secret. “Find your own sign and stick to it,” the clue. Each sign, though by different routes, led straight towards the marvellous hiding-place. To urge one’s own sign upon another was merely to delay that other; but to point out better signs of his own particular kind was to send him on faster than before. Thus there was harmony among them all, for every seeker, knowing this, had—found himself.
REALITY
..................
X
BUT, WHILE THERE WAS NO hurry, no passing, and, most certainly of all, no passing away, there was a sense of enormous interval. There were epochs, there were interludes, there was—duration.
Though everything had only just begun, it was yet complete, if not completed.
At any point of an adventure that adventure could be taken over from the very start, the experience holding all the thrill and wonder of the first time.
Cake could be had and eaten too. Tim, half-way down a rabbit-hole, could instantly find himself at the opening again, bursting with all the original excitement of trembling calculations. With the others it was similar.
There was no end to anything. Yet—there was this general consciousness of gigantic interval. It turned in a circle round them—everywhere….
They came together, then, all eight of them, into that place of singular enchantment known as the End of the World, sitting in a group about the prostrate elm that on ordinary days was Home. What they had been doing each one knew assuredly, even if no one mentioned it. Tim, who had been to India with Come-Back Stumper, had a feeling in his heart that expressed itself in one word, “everywhere,” accompanied by a sigh of happy satisfaction; Judy felt what she knew as “Neverness”; she had seen the Metropolis inside out, with Uncle Felix apparently. And these two couples now sat side by side upon the tree, gazing contentedly at the colony of wallflowers that flamed in the sunshine just above their heads. WEEDEN, cleaning his spade with a great nailed boot, turned his good eye affectionately upon the sack that lay beside him, full now to bursting. Aunt Emily breathed on her gold-rimmed glasses, rubbed them, and put them on her elastic nose, then looked about her peacefully yet expectantly, ready, it seemed, to start again at any moment—anywhere. She guarded carefully a mossy bundle in her black silk lap. A little distance from her Thompson was fastening a flower into Mrs. Horton’s dress, and close to the gate stood the Policeman, smoking a pipe and watching everybody with obvious contentment. His belt was loose; both hands stuck into it; he leaned against the wooden fence.
On the ground, between the tree and the fence, the Tramp had made a fire. He lay crouched about it. He and the fire belonged to one another. It seemed that he was dozing.
And this sense of lying in the heart of an enormous circular interval touched everybody with delicious peace; each had apparently found something real, and was content merely to lie and—be with it. All came gradually to sitting or reclining postures. Yet there was no sense of fatigue; any instant they would be up again and looking.
Occasionally one or other of them spoke, but it was not the kind of speech that struggled to express difficult ideas with tedious sentences of many words. There was very little to say: mere statements of indubitable reality could be so easily and briefly made.
“Now,” said Tim, unafraid of contradiction.
“Then,” said Judy, equally certain of herself.
“Now then,” declared Uncle Felix, positive at last of something.
“Naturally,” affirmed Aunt Emily.
“Of course,” growled Come-Back Stumper. And while WEEDEN, looking contentedly at his bursting sack, put in “Always,” the Policeman, without referring to his notebook, added from the fence, “That’s right.” The remarks of Thompson and Mrs. Horton were not audible, for they were talking to one another some little distance away beside the Rubbish Heap, but their conversation seemed equally condensed and eloquent, judging by the satisfied expression on their faces. Thompson probably said, “Well,” the cook adding, “I never!”
The Tramp, stretched out beside his little fire of burning sticks, however, said more than any of them. He also said it shortly—as shortly as the children. There was never any question who was Leader.
“Yes,” he mentioned in a whisper that flowed about them with a sound like singing wind.
It summed up everything in a single word. It made them warm, as though a little flame had touched them. All the languages of the world, using all their sentences at once, could have said no more than that consummate syllable—in the way he said it: “Yes!” It was the word the whole Day uttered.
For this was perfectly plain: Each of the group, having followed his or her particular sign to the end of the world, now knew exactly where the hider lay. The supreme discovery was within reach at last. They were merely waiting, waiting in order to enjoy the revelation all the more, and—waiting in an ecstasy of joy and wonder. Seven or eight of them were gathered together; the hiding-place was found. It was now, and then, and natural, and always, and right: it was Yes, and life had just begun….
There happened, then, a vivid and amazing thing—all rose as one being and stood up. The Tramp alone remained lying beside his little fire. But the others stood—and listened.
The precise nature of what had happened none of them, perhaps, could explain. It was too marvellous; it was possibly the thing that nobody understands, and possibly the thing they didn’t know they knew; yet they both knew and understood it. To each, apparently, the hiding-place was simultaneously revealed. Their Signs summoned them. The hider called!
Yet all they heard was the singing of a little bird. Invisible somewhere above them in the sea of blazing sunshine, it poured its heart out rapturously with a joy and a passion of life that seemed utterly careless as to whether it was heard or not. It merely sang because it was—alive.
To Judy, at any rate, this seemed what they heard. To the others it came, apparently—otherwise. Their interpretations, at any rate, were various.
Thompson and Mrs. Horton were the first to act. The latter looked about her, sniffing the air. “It’s burning,” she said. “Mary don’t know enough. That’s my job, anyhow!” and moved off in the direction of the house with an energy that had nothing of displeasure nor of temper in it. It was apparently crackling that she heard. Thompson went after her, a willing alacrity in his movements that yet showed no sign of undignified hurry. “I’ll be at the door in no time,” he was heard to say, “before it’s stopped ringing, I should not wonder!” There was a solemn joy in him, he spoke as though he heard a bell. WEEDEN turned very quietly and watched their disappearing figures. He shouldered his heavy sack of truffles and his spade. No one asked him anything aloud, but, in answer
to several questioning faces, he mumbled cautiously, though in a satisfied and pleasant voice, “My garden wants me—maybe; I’ll have a look"—obviously going off to water the apricots and rose trees. He heard the dry leaves rustling possibly.
“Keep to the gravel paths,” began Aunt Emily, adjusting her gold glasses; “they’re dry"—then changed her sentence, smiling to herself: “They’re so beautifully made, I mean.” And gathering up her bundle of living ferns, she walked briskly over the broken ground, then straight across the lawn, waving her trowel at them as she vanished in the shade below the lime trees. The shade, however, seemed deeper than before. It concealed her quickly.
“I’ll be moving on now,” came the deep voice of the Policeman. He opened the gate in the fence and consulted a notebook as he did so. He passed slowly out of sight, closing the gate behind him carefully. His heavy tramp became audible on the road outside, the road leading to the Metropolis. “There’s some one asking the way—” his voice was audible a moment, before it died into the distance. The road, the gateway, the fence were not so clear as hitherto—a trifle dim.
These various movements took place so quickly, it seemed they all took place at once; Judy still heard the bird, however. She heard nothing else. It was singing everywhere, the sky full of its tender and delicious song. But the notes were a little—just a little—further away she thought, nor could she see it anywhere.
And it was then that Come-Back Stumper, limping a trifle as usual, approached them. He looked troubled rather, and though his manner was full of confidence still, his mind had mild confusion in it somewhere. He joined Uncle Felix and the children, standing in front of them.
“Listen!” he said in low, gruff voice. He held out an open palm, three snail-shells in it, signifying that they should take one each. “Listen!” he repeated, and put the smallest shell against his own ear. “D’you hear that curious sound?” His head was cocked sideways, one ear pressed tight against the shell, the other open to the sky. “The Ganges…” he mumbled to himself after an interval, “but the stones are moving—moving in the river bed…. That long, withdrawing roar!” He was just about to add “down the naked shingles of the world,” when Uncle Felix interrupted him.
The Algernon Blackwood Collection Page 130