A PRISONER IN FAIRYLAND (THE BOOK THAT 'UNCLE PAUL' WROTE) BY ALGERNON BLACKWOOD Author of 'Jimbo, ' 'John Silence, ''The Centaur, ' 'Education of Uncle Paul, ' Etc. 1913 TO M. S. -K. 'LITTLE MOUSE THAT, LOST IN WONDER, FLICKS ITS WHISKERS AT THE THUNDER!' "Les Pensees!O leurs essors fougueux, leurs flammes dispersees, Leur rouge acharnement ou leur accord vermeil!Comme la-haut les etoiles criblaient la nue, Elles se constellaient sur la plaine inconnue;Elles roulaient dans l'espace, telles des feux, Gravissaient la montagne, illuminaient la fleuveEt jetaient leur parure universelle et neuveDe mer en mer, sur les pays silencieux. " Le Monde, EMILE VERHAEREN CHAPTER I Man is his own star; and the soul that can Render an honest and a perfect man Commands all light, all influence, all fate, Nothing to him falls early, or too late. Our acts our angels are, or good or ill, Our fatal shadows that walk by us still. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. Minks--Herbert Montmorency--was now something more than secretary, even than private secretary: he was confidential-private-secretary, adviser, friend; and this, more because he was a safe receptacle forhis employer's enthusiasms than because his advice or judgment had anyexceptional value. So many men need an audience. Herbert Minks was afine audience, attentive, delicately responsive, sympathetic, understanding, and above all--silent. He did not leak. Also, hisapplause was wise without being noisy. Another rare quality hepossessed was that he was honest as the sun. To prevaricate, even bygesture, or by saying nothing, which is the commonest form of untruth, was impossible to his transparent nature. He might hedge, but he couldnever lie. And he was 'friend, ' so far as this was possible betweenemployer and employed, because a pleasant relationship of years'standing had established a bond of mutual respect under conditions ofbusiness intimacy which often tend to destroy it. Just now he was very important into the bargain, for he had a secretfrom his wife that he meant to divulge only at the proper moment. Hehad known it himself but a few hours. The leap from being secretary inone of Henry Rogers's companies to being that prominent gentleman'sconfidential private secretary was, of course, a very big one. Hehugged it secretly at first alone. On the journey back from the Cityto the suburb where he lived, Minks made a sonnet on it. For hisemotions invariably sought the safety valve of verse. It was a wisersafety valve for high spirits than horse-racing or betting on thefootball results, because he always stood to win, and never to lose. Occasionally he sold these bits of joy for half a guinea, his wifepasting the results neatly in a big press album from which he oftenread aloud on Sunday nights when the children were in bed. They weresigned 'Montmorency Minks'; and bore evidence of occasional pencilcorrections on the margin with a view to publication later in avolume. And sometimes there were little lyrical fragments too, in awild, original metre, influenced by Shelley and yet entirely his own. These had special pages to themselves at the end of the big book. Butusually he preferred the sonnet form; it was more sober, moredignified. And just now the bumping of the Tube train shaped hisemotion into something that began with Success that poisons many a baser mind With thoughts of self, may lift-- but stopped there because, when he changed into another train, thejerkier movement altered the rhythm into something more lyrical, andhe got somewhat confused between the two and ended by losing both. He walked up the hill towards his tiny villa, hugging his secret andanticipating with endless detail how he would break it to his wife. Hefelt very proud and very happy. The half-mile trudge seemed like a fewyards. He was a slim, rather insignificant figure of a man, neatly dressed, the City clerk stamped plainly over all his person. He envied hisemployer's burly six-foot stature, but comforted himself always withthe thought that he possessed in its place a certain delicacy that wasmore becoming to a man of letters whom an adverse fate prevented frombeing a regular minor poet. There was that touch of melancholy in hisfastidious appearance that suggested the atmosphere of frustrateddreams. Only the firmness of his character and judgment decreedagainst the luxury of longish hair; and he prided himself uponremembering that although a poet at heart, he was outwardly a Cityclerk and, as a strong man, must permit no foolish compromise. His face on the whole was pleasing, and rather soft, yet, owing tothis warring of opposing inner forces, it was at the same timecuriously deceptive. Out of that dreamy, vague expression shot, whenleast expected, the hard and practical judgment of the City--or viceversa. But the whole was gentle--admirable quality for an audience, since it invited confession and assured a gentle hearing. No harshnesslay there. Herbert Minks might have been a fine, successful motherperhaps. The one drawback to the physiognomy was that the mild blueeyes were never quite united in their frank gaze. He squintedpleasantly, though his wife told him it was a fascinating cast ratherthan an actual squint. The chin, too, ran away a little from themouth, and the lips were usually parted. There was, at any rate, thisair of incompatibility of temperament between the features which, madeall claim to good looks out of the question. That runaway chin, however, was again deceptive. It did, indeed runoff, but the want of decision it gave to the countenance seemedcontradicted by the prominent forehead and straight eyebrows, heavilymarked. Minks knew his mind. If sometimes evasive rather thanoutspoken, he could on occasion be surprisingly firm. He saw life veryclearly. He could certainly claim the good judgment stupid peoplesometimes have, due perhaps to their inability to see alternatives--just as some men's claim to greatness is born of an audacity due totheir total lack of humour. Minks was one of those rare beings who may be counted on--a qualitybetter than mere brains, being of the heart. And Henry Rogersunderstood him and read him like an open book. Preferring the steadydevotion to the brilliance a high salary may buy, he had watched himfor many years in every sort of circumstance. He had, by degrees, hereand there, shown an interest in his life. He had chosen his privatesecretary well. With Herbert Minks at his side he might accomplishmany things his heart was set upon. And while Minks bumped down in histhird-class crowded carriage to Sydenham, hunting his evasive sonnet, Henry Rogers glided swiftly in a taxi-cab to his rooms in St. James'sStreet, hard on the trail of another dream that seemed, equally, tokeep just beyond his actual reach. It would certainly seem that thought can travel across space betweenminds sympathetically in tune, for just as the secretary put hislatch-key into his shiny blue door the idea flashed through him, 'Iwonder what Mr. Rogers will do, now that he's got his leisure, with afortune and--me!' And at the same moment Rogers, in his deep arm-chairbefore the fire, was saying to himself, 'I'm glad Minks has come tome; he's just the man I want for my big Scheme!' And then--'Pity he'ssuch a lugubrious looking fellow, and wears those dreadful fancywaistcoats. But he's very open to suggestion. We can change all that. I must look after Minks a bit. He's rather sacrificed his career forme, I fancy. He's got high aims. Poor little Minks!' 'I'll stand by him whatever happens, ' was the thought the slamming ofthe blue door interrupted. 'To be secretary to such a man is alreadysuccess. ' And again he hugged his secret and himself. As already said, the new-fledged secretary was married and wrotepoetry on the sly. He had four children. He would make an idealhelpmate, worshipping his employer with that rare quality of beinginterested in his ideas and aims beyond the mere earning of a salary;seeing, too, in that employer more than he, the latter, supposed. For, while he wrote verses on the sly, 'my chief, ' as he now preferred tocall him, lived poetry in his life. 'He's got it, you know, my dear, ' he announced to his wife, as hekissed her and arranged his tie in the gilt mirror over the plushmantelpiece in the 'parlour'; 'he's got the divine thing in him rightenough; got it, too, as strong as hunger or any other naturalinstinct. It's almost functional with him, if I may say so'--whichmeant 'if you can understand me'--'only, he's deliberately smotheredit all these years. He thinks it wouldn't go down with other businessmen. And he's been in business, you see, from the word go. He meant tomake money, and he couldn't do both exactly. Just like myself---' Minks wandered on. His wife noticed the new enthusiasm in his manner, and was puzzled by it. Something was up, she divined. 'Do you think he'll raise your salary again soon?' she askedpractically, helping him draw off the paper cuffs that protected hisshirt from ink stains, and throwing them in the fire. 'That seems tobe the real point. ' But Herbert evaded the immediate issue. It was so delightful to watchher and keep his secret a little longer. 'And you _do_ deserve success, dear, ' she added; 'you've been asfaithful as a horse. ' She came closer, and stroked his thick, lighthair a moment. He turned quickly. Had he betrayed himself already? Had she read itfrom his eyes or manner? 'That's nothing, ' he answered lightly. 'Duty is duty. ' 'Of course, dear, ' and she brought him his slippers. He would not lether put them on for him. It was not gallant to permit menial servicesto a woman. 'Success, ' he murmured, 'that poisons many a baser mind---' and thenstopped short. 'I've got a new sonnet, ' he told her quickly, determined to prolong his pleasure, 'got it in the train coming home. Wait a moment, and I'll give you the rest. It's a beauty, with realpassion in it, only I want to keep it cold and splendid if I can. Don't interrupt a moment. ' He put the slippers on the wrong feet andstared hard into the fire. Then Mrs. Minks knew for a certainty that something had happened. Hehad not even asked after the children. 'Herbert, ' she said, with a growing excitement, 'why are you so fullof poetry to-night? And what's this about success and poison all of asudden?' She knew he never drank. 'I believe Mr. Rogers has raisedyour salary, or done one of those fine things you always say he'sgoing to do. Tell me, dear, please tell me. ' There were new, unpaidbills in her pocket, and she almost felt tempted to show them. Shepoked the fire fussily. 'Albinia, ' he answered importantly, with an expression that broughtthe chin up closer to the lips, and made the eyebrows almost stern, 'Mr. Rogers will do the right thing always--when the right time comes. As a matter of fact'--here he reverted to the former train of thought--'both he and I are misfits in a practical, sordid age. We shouldhave been born in Greece---' 'I simply love your poems, Herbert, ' she interrupted gently, wonderinghow she managed to conceal her growing impatience so well, 'butthere's not the money in them that there ought to be, and they don'tpay for coals or for Ronald's flannels---' 'Albinia, ' he put in softly, 'they relieve the heart, and so make me ahappier and a better man. But--I should say he would, ' he added, answering her distant question about the salary. The secret was almost out. It hung on the edge of his lips. A momentlonger he hugged it deliciously. He loved these little conversationswith his wife. Never a shade of asperity entered into them. And thisone in particular afforded him a peculiar delight. 'Both of us are made for higher things than mere money-making, ' hewent on, lighting his calabash pipe and puffing the smoke carefullyabove her head from one corner of his mouth, 'and that's what firstattracted us to each other, as I have often mentioned to you. Butnow'--his bursting heart breaking through all control--'that he hassold his interests to a company and retired into private life--er--myown existence should be easier and less exacting. I shall have lessroutine, be more my own master, and also, I trust, find time perhapsfor---' 'Then something _has_ happened!' cried Mrs. Minks, springing to herfeet. 'It has, my dear, ' he answered with forced calmness, though his voicewas near the trembling point. She stood in front of him, waiting. But he himself did not rise, norshow more feeling than he could help. His poems were full of sceneslike this in which the men--strong, silent fellows--were fine andquiet. Yet his instinct was to act quite otherwise. One eye certainlybetrayed it. 'It has, ' he repeated, full of delicious emotion. 'Oh, but Herbert---!' 'And I am no longer that impersonal factor in City life, meresecretary to the Board of a company---' 'Oh, Bertie, dear!' 'But private secretary to Mr. Henry Rogers--private and confidentialsecretary at---' 'Bert, darling---!' 'At 300 pounds a year, paid quarterly, with expenses extra, and long, regular holidays, ' he concluded with admirable dignity andself-possession. There was a moment's silence. 'You splendour!' She gave a little gasp of admiration that wentstraight to his heart, and set big fires alight there. 'Your rewardhas come at last! My hero!' This was as it should be. The beginning of an epic poem flashed withtumult through his blood. Yet outwardly he kept his admirable calm. 'My dear, we must take success, like disaster, quietly. ' He said itgently, as when he played with the children. It was mostly put on, ofcourse, this false grandiloquence of the prig. His eyes alreadytwinkled more than he could quite disguise. 'Then we can manage the other school, perhaps, for Frank?' she cried, and was about to open various flood-gates when he stopped her with alook of proud happiness that broke down all barriers of furtherpretended secrecy. 'Mr. Rogers, ' was the low reply, 'has offered to do that for us--as astart. ' The words were leisurely spoken between great puffs of smoke. 'That's what I meant just now by saying that he lived poetry in hislife, you see. Another time you will allow judgment to wait onknowledge---' 'You dear old humbug, ' she cried, cutting short the sentence thatneither of them quite understood, 'I believe you've known this forweeks---' 'Two hours ago exactly, ' he corrected her, and would willingly haveprolonged the scene indefinitely had not his practical better halfprevented him. For she came over, dropped upon her knees beside hischair, and, putting both arms about his neck, she kissed his foolishsentences away with all the pride and tenderness that filled her tothe brim. And it pleased Minks hugely. It made him feel, for themoment at any rate, that he was the hero, not Mr. Henry Rogers. But he did not show his emotion much. He did not even take his pipeout. It slipped down sideways into another corner of his wanderinglips. And, while he returned the kiss with equal tenderness andpleasure, one mild blue eye looked down upon her soft brown hair, andthe other glanced sideways, without a trace of meaning in it, at theoleograph of Napoleon on Elba that hung upon the wall. . .. Soon afterwards the little Sydenham villa was barred and shuttered, the four children were sound asleep, Herbert and Albinia Minks bothlost in the world of happy dreams that sometimes visit honest, simplefolk whose consciences are clean and whose aims in life arecommonplace but worthy. CHAPTER II When the creation was new and all the stars shone in their firstsplendour, the gods held their assembly in the sky and sang 'Oh, thepicture of perfection! the joy unalloyed!' But one cried of a sudden--'It seems that somewhere there is a breakin the chain of light and one of the stars has been lost. ' The golden string of their harp snapped, their song stopped, and theycried in dismay--'Yes, that lost star was the best, she was the gloryof all heavens!' From that day the search is unceasing for her, and the cry goes onfrom one to the other that in her the world has lost its one joy! Only in the deepest silence of night the stars smile and whisper amongthemselves--'Vain is this seeking! Unbroken perfection is over all!' RABINDRANATH TAGORE. (Prose translation by Author from his originalBengali. ) It was April 30th and Henry Rogers sat in his rooms after breakfast, listening to the rumble of the traffic down St. James's Street, andfound the morning dull. A pile of letters lay unopened upon the table, waiting the arrival of the discriminating Mr. Minks with his shorthandnote-book and his mild blue eyes. It was half-past nine, and thesecretary was due at ten o'clock. He smiled as he thought of this excellent fellow's first morning inthe promoted capacity of private secretary. He would come in verysoftly, one eye looking more intelligent than the other; the air ofthe City clerk discarded, and in its place the bearing that belongedto new robes of office worn for the first time. He would bow, say'Good morning, Mr. Rogers, ' glance round with one eye on his employerand another on a possible chair, seat himself with a sigh that meant'I have written a new poem in the night, and would love to read it toyou if I dared, ' then flatten out his oblong note-book and look up, expectant and receptive. Rogers would say 'Good morning, Mr. Minks. We've got a busy day before us. Now, let me see---' and would meet hisglance with welcome. He would look quickly from one eye to the other-to this day he did not know which one was right to meet-and wouldwonder for the thousandth time how such an insignificant face could gowith such an honest, capable mind. Then he smiled again as heremembered Frank, the little boy whose schooling he was paying for, and realised that Minks would bring a message of gratitude from Mrs. Minks, perhaps would hand him, with a gesture combining dignity andhumbleness, a little note of thanks in a long narrow envelope of palemauve, bearing a flourishing monogram on its back. And Rogers scowled a little as he thought of the air of gruffness hewould assume while accepting it, saying as pleasantly as he couldmanage, 'Oh, Mr. Minks, that's nothing at all; I'm only too delightedto be of service to the lad. ' For he abhorred the expression ofemotion, and his delicate sense of tact would make pretence of helpingthe boy himself, rather than the struggling parents. Au fond he had a genuine admiration for Minks, and there was somethinglofty in the queer personality that he both envied and respected. Itmade him rely upon his judgment in certain ways he could not quitedefine. Minks seemed devoid of personal ambition in a sense that wasnot weakness. He was not insensible to the importance of money, norneglectful of chances that enabled him to do well by his wife andfamily, but--he was after other things as well, if not chiefly. With achildlike sense of honesty he had once refused a position in a companythat was not all it should have been, and the high pay thus rejectedpointed to a scrupulous nicety of view that the City, of course, deemed foolishness. And Rogers, aware of this, had taken to him, seeking as it were to make this loss good to him in legitimate ways. Also the fellow belonged to leagues and armies and 'things, ' quixoticsome of them, that tried to lift humanity. That is, he gave of hisspare time, as also of his spare money, to help. His Saturdayevenings, sometimes a whole bank holiday, he devoted to the welfare ofothers, even though the devotion Rogers thought misdirected. For Minks hung upon the fringe of that very modern, new-fashioned, butalmost freakish army that worships old, old ideals, yet insists uponnew-fangled names for them. Christ, doubtless, was his model, but itmust be a Christ properly and freshly labelled; his Christianity mustsomewhere include the prefix 'neo, ' and the word 'scientific' mustalso be dragged in if possible before he was satisfied. Minks, indeed, took so long explaining to himself the wonderful title that he wassometimes in danger of forgetting the brilliant truths it so vulgarlyconcealed. Yet never quite concealed. He must be up-to-date, that wasall. His attitude to the world scraped acquaintance with nobilitysomewhere. His gift was a rare one. Out of so little, he gave hismite, and gave it simply, unaware that he was doing anything unusual. This attitude of mind had made him valuable, even endeared him, to thesuccessful business man, and in his secret heart Rogers had once ortwice felt ashamed of himself. Minks, as it were, knew actualachievement because he was, forcedly, content with little, whereas he, Rogers, dreamed of so much, yet took twenty years to come within reachof what he dreamed. He was always waiting for the right moment tobegin. His reflections were interrupted by the sunlight, which, pouring in aflood across the opposite roof, just then dropped a patch of softApril glory upon the black and yellow check of his carpet slippers. Rogers got up and, opening the window wider than before, put out hishead. The sunshine caught him full in the face. He tasted the freshmorning air. Tinged with the sharp sweetness of the north it had afragrance as of fields and gardens. Even St. James's Street could notsmother its vitality and perfume. He drew it with delight into hislungs, making such a to-do about it that a passer-by looked up to seewhat was the matter, and noticing the hanging tassel of a flamboyantdressing-gown, at once modestly lowered his eyes again. But Henry Rogers did not see the passer-by in whose delicate mind apoint of taste had thus vanquished curiosity, for his thoughts hadflown far across the pale-blue sky, behind the cannon-ball clouds, upinto that scented space and distance where summer was already wingingher radiant way towards the earth. Visions of June obscured his sight, and something in the morning splendour brought back his youth andboyhood. He saw a new world spread about him--a world of sunlight, butterflies, and flowers, of smooth soft lawns and shaded gravelpaths, and of children playing round a pond where rushes whispered ina wind of long ago. He saw hayfields, orchards, tea-things spread upona bank of flowers underneath a hedge, and a collie dog leaping andtumbling shoulder high among the standing grass. .. . It was allcuriously vivid, and with a sense of something about it unfading anddelightfully eternal. It could never pass, for instance, whereas. .. . 'Ain't yer forgotten the nightcap?' sang out a shrill voice frombelow, as a boy with a basket on his arm went down the street. He drewback from the window, realising that he was a sight for all admirers. Tossing the end of his cigarette in the direction of the cheekyurchin, he settled himself again in the arm-chair before the glowinggrate-fire. But the fresh world he had tasted came back with him. For Henry Rogersstood this fine spring morning upon the edge of a new life. A longchapter had just closed behind him. He was on the threshold ofanother. The time to begin had come. And the thrill of his freedom nowat hand was very stimulating to his imagination. He was forty, and arich man. Twenty years of incessant and intelligent labour had broughthim worldly success. He admitted he had been lucky, where so many toilon and on till the gates of death stand up and block their way, fortunate if they have earned a competency through years where hopeand disappointment wage their incessant weary battle. But he, for somereason known only to the silent Fates, had crested the difficult hilland now stood firm upon the top to see the sunrise, the dreadful gatesnot even yet in sight. At yesterday's Board meeting, Minks had handedhim the papers for his signature; the patents had been transferred tothe new company; the cheque had been paid over; and he was now agentleman of leisure with a handsome fortune lying in his bank toawait investment. He was a director in the parent, as well as thesubsidiary companies, with fees that in themselves alone were morethan sufficient for his simple needs. For all his tastes _were_ simple, and he had no expensive hobbies ordesires; he preferred two rooms and a bath to any house that he hadever seen; pictures he liked best in galleries; horses he could hirewithout the trouble of owning; the few books worth reading would gointo a couple of shelves; motors afflicted, even confused him--he wasold-fashioned enough to love country and walk through it slowly on twovigorous legs; marriage had been put aside with a searingdisappointment years ago, not forgotten, but accepted; and of travelhe had enjoyed enough to realise now that its pleasures could be foundreasonably near home and for very moderate expenditure indeed. And thevery idea of servants was to him an affliction; he loathed theirprying closeness to his intimate life and habits, destroying theprivacy he loved. Confirmed old bachelor his friends might call him ifthey chose; he knew what he wanted. Now at last he had it. Theambition of his life was within reach. For, from boyhood up, a single big ambition had ever thundered throughhis being--the desire to be of use to others. To help his fellow-kindwas to be his profession and career. It had burned and glowed in himever since he could remember, and what first revealed it in him wasthe sight--common enough, alas--of a boy with one leg hobbling alongon crutches down the village street. Some deep power in his youthfulheart, akin to the wondrous sympathy of women, had been touched. Likea shock of fire it came home to him. He, too, might lose his dearestpossession thus, and be unable to climb trees, jump ditches, risk hisneck along the edge of the haystack or the roof. '_That might happento me too!_' was the terrible thing he realised, and had burst intotears. .. . Crutches at twelve! And the family hungry, as he later learned!Something in the world was wrong; he thought every one had enough toeat, at least, and only the old used crutches. 'The Poor was a sort ofcomposite wretch, half criminal, who deserved to be dirty, suffering, punished; but this boy belonged to a family that worked and did itsbest. Something in the world-machinery had surely broken loose andcaused violent disorder. For no one cared particularly. The''thorities, ' he heard, looked after the Poor--''thorities in law, ' ashe used to call the mysterious Person he never actually saw, stern, but kindly in a grave impersonal way; and asked once if some relation-in-law or other, who was mentioned often but never seen, had, therefore, anything to do with the poor. Dropping into his heart from who knows what far, happy star, thispassion had grown instead of faded: to give himself for others, tohelp afflicted folk, to make the world go round a little more easily. And he had never forgotten the deep thrill with which he heard hisfather tell him of some wealthy man who during his lifetime had givenaway a million pounds--anonymously. . .. His own pocket-money just thenwas five shillings a week, and his expectations just exactly--nothing. But before his dreams could know accomplishment, he must have means. To be of use to anybody at all he must make himself effective. Theprocess must be reversed, for no man could fight without weapons, andweapons were only to be had as the result of steady, concentratedeffort--selfish effort. A man must fashion himself before he can beeffective for others. Self-effacement, he learned, was rather a futilevirtue after all. As the years passed he saw his chances. He cut short a promisingUniversity career and entered business. His talents lay that way, ashis friends declared, and unquestionably he had a certain genius forinvention; for, while scores of futile processes he first discoveredremained mere clever solutions of interesting problems, he at lengthdevised improvements in the greater industries, and, patenting themwisely, made his way to practical results. But the process had been a dangerous one, and during the long businessexperience the iron had entered his soul, and he had witnessed atclose quarters the degrading influence of the lust of acquisition. Theself-advertising humbug of most philanthropy had clouded something inhim that he felt could never again grow clear and limpid as before, and a portion of his original zest had faded. For the City hardlyencouraged it. One bit of gilt after another had been knocked off hisbrilliant dream, one jet of flame upon another quenched. The singleeye that fills the body full of light was a thing so rare that itspossession woke suspicion. Even of money generously given, so littlereached its object; gaping pockets and grasping fingers everywherelined the way of safe delivery. It sickened him. So few, moreover, were willing to give without acknowledgment in at least one morningpaper. 'Bring back the receipt' was the first maxim even of theoffice-boys; and between the right hand and the left of every one werespecial 'private wires' that flashed the news as quickly as possibleabout the entire world. Yet, while inevitable disillusion had dulled his youthful dreams, itsglory was never quite destroyed. It still glowed within. At times, indeed, it ran into flame, and knew something of its originalsplendour. Women, in particular, had helped to keep it alive, fanningits embers bravely. For many women, he found, dreamed his own dream, and dreamed it far more sweetly. They were closer to essentialrealities than men were. While men bothered with fuss and fury aboutempires, tariffs, street-cars, and marvellous engines for destroyingone another, women, keeping close to the sources of life, knew, likechildren, more of its sweet, mysterious secrets--the things of valueno one yet has ever put completely into words. He wondered, a littlesadly, to see them battling now to scuffle with the men in managingthe gross machinery, cleaning the pens and regulating ink-pots. Didthey really think that by helping to decide whether rates should riseor fall, or how many buttons a factory-inspector should wear upon hisuniform, they more nobly helped the world go round? Did they neverpause to reflect who would fill the places they thus vacated? Withsomething like melancholy he saw them stepping down from their thronesof high authority, for it seemed to him a prostitution of their sweetprerogatives that damaged the entire sex. 'Old-fashioned bachelor, no doubt, I am, ' he smiled quietly tohimself, coming back to the first reflection whence his thoughts hadtravelled so far--the reflection, namely, that now at last hepossessed the freedom he had longed and toiled for. And then he paused and looked about him, confronted with a difficulty. To him it seemed unusual, but really it was very common. For, having it, he knew not at first what use to make of it. Thisdawned upon him suddenly when the sunlight splashed his tawdryslippers with its gold. The movement to the open window was reallyinstinctive beginning of a search, as though in the free, wonderfulspaces out of doors he would find the thing he sought to do. Now, settled back in the deep arm-chair, he realised that he had not foundit. The memories of childhood had flashed into him instead. He renewedthe search before the dying fire, waiting for the sound of Minks'ascending footsteps on the stairs. . .. And this revival of the childhood mood was curious, he felt, almostsignificant, for it was symbolical of so much that he haddeliberately, yet with difficulty, suppressed and put aside. Duringthese years of concentrated toil for money, his strong will hadneglected of set purpose the call of a robust imagination. He hadstifled poetry just as he had stifled play. Yet really thatimagination had merely gone into other channels--scientific invention. It was a higher form, married at least with action that producedpoetry in steel and stone instead of in verse. Invention has everimagination and poetry at its heart. The acquirement of wealth demanded his entire strength, and alllighter considerations he had consistently refused to recognise, untilhe thought them dead. This sudden flaming mood rushed up and showedhim otherwise. He reflected on it, but clumsily, as with a mind toolong trained in the rigid values of stocks and shares, buying andselling, hard figures that knew not elasticity. This softer subjectled him to no conclusion, leaving him stranded among misty woods andfields of flowers that had no outlet. He realised, however, clearlythat this side of him was not atrophied as he thought. Its unusedpowers had merely been accumulating--underground. He got no further than that just now. He poked the fire and litanother cigarette. Then, glancing idly at the paper, his eye fell uponthe list of births, and by merest chance picked out the name ofCrayfield. Some nonentity had been 'safely delivered of a son' atCrayfield, the village where he had passed his youth and childhood. Hesaw the Manor House where he was born, the bars across the night-nursery windows, the cedars on the lawn, the haystacks just beyond thestables, and the fields where the rabbits sometimes fell asleep asthey sat after enormous meals too stuffed to move. He saw the oldgravel-pit that led, the gardener told him, to the centre of theearth. A whiff of perfume from the laurustinus in the drive came back, the scent of hay, and with it the sound of the mowing-machine goingover the lawn. He saw the pony in loose flat leather shoes. The beeswere humming in the lime trees. The rooks were cawing. A blackbirdwhistled from the shrubberies where he once passed an entire day inhiding, after emptying an ink-bottle down the German governess'sdress. He heard the old family butler in his wheezy voice calling invain for 'Mr. 'Enery' to come in. The tone was respectful, seductiveas the man could make it, yet reproachful. He remembered throwing alittle stone that caught him just where the Newgate fringe met theblack collar of his coat, so that his cry of delight betrayed hishiding-place. The whacking that followed he remembered too, and howhis brother emerged suddenly from behind the curtain with, 'Father, may I have it instead of Henry, please?' That spontaneous offer ofsacrifice, of willingness to suffer for another, had remained in hismind for a long time as a fiery, incomprehensible picture. More dimly, then, somewhere in mist behind, he saw other figuresmoving--the Dustman and the Lamplighter, the Demon Chimneysweep inblack, the Woman of the Haystack--outposts and sentries of a largerfascinating host that gathered waiting in the shadows just beyond. Thecreations of his boy's imagination swarmed up from their temporarygraves, and made him smile and wonder. After twenty years of strenuousbusiness life, how pale and thin they seemed. Yet at the same time howextraordinarily alive and active! He saw, too, the huge Net of Starshe once had made to catch them with from that night-nursery window, fastened by long golden nails made out of meteors to the tops of thecedars. . .. There had been, too, a train--the Starlight Express. Italmost seemed as if _they_ knew, too, that a new chapter had begun, and that they called him to come back and play again. . .. Then, with a violent jump, his thoughts flew to other things, and heconsidered one by one the various philanthropic schemes he hadcherished against the day when he could realise them. That day hadcome. But the schemes seemed one and all wild now, impracticable, already accomplished by others better than he could hope to accomplishthem, and none of them fulfilling the first essential his practicalmind demanded--knowing his money spent precisely as he wished. Dreams, long cherished, seemed to collapse one by one before him just when heat last came up with them. He thought of the woman who was to havehelped him, now married to another who had money without working forit. He put the thought back firmly in its place. He knew now a greaterlove than that--the love for many. . .. He was embarking upon other novel schemes when there was a ring at thebell, and the charwoman, who passed with him for servant, ushered inhis private secretary, Mr. Minks. Quickly readjusting the machinery ofhis mind, Rogers came back to the present, 'Good morning, Mr. Rogers. I trust I am punctual. ' 'Good morning, Minks; yes, on the stroke of ten. We've got a busy day. Let's see now. How are you, by the by?' he added, as an afterthought, catching first one eye, then the other, and looking finally betweenthe two. 'Very well, indeed, thank you, Mr. Rogers. ' He was dressed in a blacktail-coat, with a green tie neatly knotted into a spotless turn-downcollar. He glanced round him for a chair, one hand already in hispocket for the note-book. 'Good, ' said Rogers, indicating where he might seat himself, andreaching for the heap of letters. The other sighed a little and began to look expectant and receptive. 'If I might give you this first, please, Mr. Rogers, ' he said, suddenly pretending to remember something in his breast-pocket andhanding across the table, with a slight flush upon his cheeks, a long, narrow, mauve envelope with a flourishing address. 'It was a red-letter day for Mrs. Minks when I told her of your kindness. She wishedto thank you in person, but--I thought a note--I knew, ' he stammered, 'you would prefer a letter. It is a tremendous help to both of us, ifI may say so again. ' 'Yes, yes, quite so, ' said Rogers, quickly; 'and I'm glad to be ofservice to the lad. You must let me know from time to time how he'sgetting on. ' Minks subsided, flattening out his oblong notebook and examining thepoints of his pencil sharpened at both ends as though the fate ofEmpires depended on it. They attacked the pile of correspondenceheartily, while the sun, watching them through the open window, dancedgorgeously upon the walls and secretly put the fire out. In this way several hours passed, for besides letters to be dictated, there were careful instructions to be given about many things. Minkswas kept very busy. He was now not merely shorthand clerk, and he hadto be initiated into the inner history of various enterprises in whichhis chief was interested. All Mr. Rogers's London interests, indeed, were to be in his charge, and, obviously aware of this, he borehimself proudly with an air of importance that had no connection witha common office. To watch him, you would never have dreamed thatHerbert Minks had ever contemplated City life, much less known tenyears of drudgery in its least poetic stages. For him, too, as for hisemployer, anew chapter of existence had begun--'commenced' he wouldhave phrased it--and, as confidential adviser to a man of fortunewhose character he admired almost to the point of worship, he was nowa person whose importance it was right the world should recognise. Andhe meant the world to take this attitude without delay. He dressedaccordingly, knowing that of every ten people nine judge value fromclothes, and hat, and boots--especially boots. His patent leather, buttoned boots were dazzling, with upper parts of soft grey leather. And his shiny 'topper' wore a band of black. Minks, so far as he knew, was not actually in mourning, but somebody for whom he ought to be inmourning might die any day, and meanwhile, he felt, the band conveyeddistinction. It suited a man of letters. It also protected the hat. 'Thank'ee, ' said his chief as luncheon time drew near; 'and now, ifyou'll get those letters typed, you might leave 'em here for me onyour way home to sign. That's all we have to-day, isn't it?' 'You wanted, I think, to draft your Scheme for Disabled---' began thesecretary, when the other cut him short. 'Yes, yes, but that must wait. I haven't got it clear yet in my ownmind. You might think it out a bit yourself, perhaps, meanwhile, andgive me your ideas, eh? Look up what others have done in the sameline, for instance, and tell me where they failed. What the weaknessof their schemes was, you know--and--er--so forth. ' A faint smile, that held the merest ghost of merriment, passed acrossthe face of Minks, leaping, unobserved by his chief, from one eye tothe other. There was pity and admiration in it; a hint of pathosvisited those wayward lips. For the suggestion revealed the weaknessthe secretary had long ago divined--that the practical root of thematter did not really lie in him at all, and Henry Rogers foreverdreamed of 'Schemes' he was utterly unable and unsuited to carry out. Improvements in a silk machine was one thing, but improvements inhumanity was another. Like the poetry in his soul they could neverknow fulfilment. He had inspiration, but no constructive talent. Forthe thousandth time Minks wondered, glancing at his employer's face, how such calm and gentle features, such dreamy eyes and a Vandykebeard so neatly trimmed, could go with ambitions so lofty and sounusual. This sentence he had heard before, and was destined often tohear again, while achievement came no nearer. 'I will do so at the first opportunity. ' He put the oblong note-bookcarefully in his pocket, and stood by the table in an attitude of 'anyfurther instructions, please?' while one eye wandered to the unopenedletter that was signed 'Albinia Minks, with heartfelt gratitude. ' 'And, by the by, Minks, ' said his master, turning as though a new ideahad suddenly struck him and he had formed a hasty plan, 'you mightkindly look up an afternoon train to Crayfield. Loop line from CharingCross, you know. Somewhere about two o'clock or so. I have to--er--Ithink I'll run down that way after luncheon. ' Whereupon, having done this last commission, and written it down upona sheet of paper which he placed with care against the clock, besidethe unopened letter, the session closed, and Minks, in his mourninghat and lavender gloves, walked up St. James's Street apparently_en route_ for the Ritz, but suddenly, as with carelessunconsciousness, turning into an A. B. C. Depot for luncheon, wellpleased with himself and with the world, but especially with hisconsiderate employer. Ten minutes later Mr. Rogers followed him on his way to the club, andjust when Minks was reflecting with pride of the well-turned phraseshe had dictated to his wife for her letter of thanks, it passed acrossthe mind of its recipient that he had forgotten to read it altogether. And, truth to tell, he never yet has read it; for, returning late thatevening from his sentimental journey down to Crayfield, it stood nolonger where he had left it beside the clock, and nothing occurred toremind him of its existence. Apart from its joint composers, no onecan ever know its contents but the charwoman, who, noticing thefeminine writing, took it back to Lambeth and pored over it with acandle for full half an hour, greatly disappointed. 'Things likethat, ' she grumbled to her husband, whose appearance suggested that hewent for bigger game, 'ain't worth the trouble of taking at all, whichever way you looks at it. ' And probably she was right. CHAPTER III And what if All of animated nature Be but as Instruments diversely framed That tremble into thought, as o'er them sweeps One infinite and intellectual Breeze, At once the Soul of each, and God of all? _The AEolian Harp_, S. T. COLERIDGE. In the train, even before St. John's was passed, a touch of inevitablereaction had set in, and Rogers asked himself why he was going. For asentimental journey was hardly in his line, it seemed. But nosatisfactory answer was forthcoming--none, at least, that a Board or aShareholders' Meeting would have considered satisfactory. There was an answer in him somewhere, but he couldn't quite get downto it. The spring glory had enticed him back to childhood. The journeywas symbolical of escape. That was the truth. But the part of him thatknew it had lain so long in abeyance that only a whisper flittedacross his mind as he sat looking out of the carriage window at thefields round Lee and Eltham. The landscape seemed hauntingly familiar, but what surprised him was the number of known faces that rose andsmiled at him. A kind of dream confusion blurred his outer sight; At Bexley, as he hurried past, he caught dimly a glimpse of an oldnurse whom he remembered trying to break into bits with a hop-pole hecould barely lift; and, most singular thing, on the Sidcup platform, agroup of noisy schoolboys, with smudged faces and ridiculously smallcaps stuck on the back of their heads, had scrambled viciously to getinto his compartment. They carried brown canvas satchels full ofcrumpled books and papers, and though the names had mostly escapedhim, he remembered every single face. There was Barlow--big, bony chapwho stammered, bringing his words out with a kind of whistling sneeze. Barlow had given him his first thrashing for copying his stammer. There was young Watson, who funked at football and sneaked to a masterabout a midnight supper. He stole pocket-money, too, and was expelled. Then he caught a glimpse of another fellow with sly face and laughingeyes; the name had vanished, but he was the boy who put jalap in themusic-master's coffee, and received a penny from five or six otherswho thus escaped a lesson. All waved their hands to him as the trainhurried away, and the last thing he saw was the station lamp where hehad lit the cigar that made three of them, himself included, deadlysick. Familiar woods and a little blue-eyed stream then hid the vision. .. And a moment later he was standing on the platform of hischildhood's station, giving up his first-class ticket (secretlyashamed that it was not third) to a station-master-ticket-collectorperson who simply was not real at all. For he had no beard. He was small, too, and insignificant. The way hehad dwindled, with the enormous station that used to be a mile or soin length, was severely disappointing. That STATION-MASTER with thebeard ought to have lived for ever. His niche in the Temple of Famewas sure. One evening he had called in full uniform at the house andasked to see Master Henry Rogers, the boy who had got out 'WHILE-THE-TRAIN-WAS-STILL-IN-MOTION, ' and had lectured him gravely with a facelike death. Never again had he left a train 'whilestillinmotion, 'though it was years before he discovered how his father had engineeredthat awful, salutary visit. He asked casually, in a voice that hardly seemed his own, about theservice back to town, and received the answer with a kind of wonder. It was so respectful. The porters had not found him out yet; but themoment they did so, he would have to run. He did not run, however. Hewalked slowly down the Station Road, swinging the silver-knobbed canethe office clerks had given him when he left the City. Leisurely, without a touch of fear, he passed the Water Works, where the hugeiron crank of the shaft rose and fell with ominous thunder against thesky. It had once been part of that awful hidden Engine which moved theworld. To go near it was instant death, and he always crossed the roadto avoid it; but this afternoon he went down the cinder pathway soclose that he could touch it with his stick. It was incredible that soterrible a thing could dwindle in a few years to the dimensions of amotor piston. The crank that moved up and down like a bending, gigantic knee looked almost flimsy now. . .. Then the village street came into view and he suddenly smelt thefields and gardens that topped the hill beyond. The world turned goldand amber, shining beneath a turquoise sky. There was a rush offlaming sunsets, one upon another, followed by great green moons, andhosts of stars that came twinkling across barred windows to his verybedside . .. That grand old Net of Stars he made so cunningly. Cornhilland Lombard Street flashed back upon him for a second, then dived awayand hid their faces for ever, as he passed the low grey wall besidethe church where first he had seen the lame boy hobbling, and hadrealised that the whole world suffered. A moment he stood here, thinking. He heard the wind sighing in the yewtrees beside the dark brown porch. Rooks were cawing among the elmsacross the churchyard, and pigeons wheeled and fluttered about thegrey square tower. The wind, the tower, the weather-stained old porch--these had not changed. This sunshine and this turquoise sky werestill the same. The village stopped at the churchyard--significant boundary. No singlebuilding ventured farther; the houses ran the other way instead, pouring down the steep hill in a cataract of bricks and roofs towardsthe station. The hill, once topped, and the churchyard left behind, heentered the world of fields and little copses. It was just like goingthrough a gateway. It was a Gateway. The road sloped gently down forhalf-a-mile towards the pair of big iron gates that barred the driveup to the square grey house upon whose lawns he once had chasedbutterflies, but from whose upper windows he once had netted--stars. The spell came over him very strongly then as he went slowly down thatroad. The altered scale of distance confused him; the road hadtelescoped absurdly; the hayfields were so small. At the turn lay thepond with yellow duckweed and a bent iron railing that divided it tokeep the cows from crossing. Formerly, of course, that railing hadbeen put to prevent children drowning in its bottomless depths; allponds had been bottomless then, and the weeds had spread to entice thechildren to a watery death. But now he could have jumped across it, weed and railing too, without a run, and he looked in vain for theshores that once had been so seductively far away. They were meredirty, muddy edges. This general shrinkage in space was very curious. But a similarcontraction, he realised, had taken place in time as well, for, looking back upon his forty years, they seemed such a little thingcompared to the enormous stretch they offered when he had stood besidethis very pond and looked ahead. He wondered vaguely which was thereality and which the dream. But his effort was not particularlysuccessful, and he came to no conclusion. Those years of strenuousbusiness life were like a few weeks, yet their golden results were inhis pockets. Those years of childhood had condensed into a jumble ofsunny hours, yet their golden harvest was equally in his heart. Timeand space were mere bits of elastic that could stretch or shrink asthought directed, feeling chose. And now both thought and feelingchose emphatically. He stepped back swiftly. His mind seemed filledwith stars and butterflies and childhood's figures of wonder. Childhood took him prisoner. It was curious at first, though, how the acquired nature made astruggle to assert itself, and the practical side of him, developed inthe busy markets of the world, protested. It was automatic rather, andat best not very persistent; it soon died away. But, seeing the graveleverywhere, he wondered if there might not be valuable clay about, what labour cost, and what the nearest stations were for haulage; and, seeing the hop-poles, he caught himself speculating what wood theywere made of, and what varnish would best prevent their buried pointsfrom going rotten in this particular soil. There was a surge ofpractical considerations, but quickly fading. The last one was stirredby the dust of a leisurely butcher's cart. He had visions of a pastefor motor-roads, or something to lay dust . .. But, before the dust hadsettled again through the sunshine about his feet, or the rumble ofthe cart died away into distance, the thought vanished like anightmare in the dawn. It ran away over the switchback of the years, uphill to Midsummer, downhill to Christmas, jumping a ditch at Easter, and a hedge at that terrible thing known as ''Clipse of the Moon. ' Theleaves of the elm trees whispered overhead. He was moving through anavenue that led towards big iron gates beside a little porter's lodge. He saw the hollies, and smelt the laurustinus. There lay the triangleof uncut grass at the cross-roads, the long, grey, wooden palingsbuilt upon moss-grown bricks; and against the sky he just caught aglimpse of the feathery, velvet cedar crests, crests that once heldnails of golden meteors for his Net of Stars. Determined to enjoy his cake and eat it at the same time as long aspossible, he walked down the road a little distance, eyeing the lawnsand windows of the house through narrow gaps between the boarding ofthe fence. He prolonged the pleasures of anticipation thus, and, besides, he wished to see if the place was occupied or empty. Itlooked unkempt rather, the gardens somewhat neglected, and yet therehung an air of occupancy about it all. He had heard the house hadchanged hands several times. But it was difficult to see clearly; thesunshine dazzled; the lilac and laburnum scattered sheets of colourthrough which the shadows wove themselves an obscuring veil, He keptseeing butterflies and chasing them with his sight. 'Can you tell me if this house is occupied?' he asked abruptly of anold gentleman who coughed suddenly behind him. It was an explanation as well as a question, for the passer-by hadsurprised him in a remarkable attitude. He was standing on tiptoe uponthe parapet of brick, pulling himself up above the fence by his hands, and his hat had fallen into the road. 'The shrubberies are so dense I can't see through them, ' he added, landing upon his feet with a jump, a little breathless. He felt ratherfoolish. He was glad the stranger was not Minks or one of his fellowdirectors. 'The fact is I lived here as a boy. I'm not a burglar. ' But the old gentleman--a clergyman apparently--stood there smilingwithout a word as he handed him the fallen hat. He was staring ratherintently into his eyes. 'Ahem!' coughed Mr. Rogers, to fill an awkward gap. 'You're very kind, sir, ' and he took the hat and brushed the dust off. Something brushedoff his sight and memory at the same time. 'Ahem' coughed the other, still staring. 'Please do not mention it---'adding after a second's pause, to the complete amazement of hislistener, 'Mr. Rogers. ' And then it dawned upon him. Something in the charming, peace-lit facewas strangely familiar. 'I say, ' he exclaimed eagerly, 'this is a pleasure, ' and then repeatedwith even greater emphasis, 'but this is a pleasure, indeed. Who everwould have thought it?' he added with delicious ambiguity. He seizedthe outstretched hand and shook it warmly--the hand of the old vicarwho had once been his tutor too. 'You've come back to your boyhood, then. Is that it? And to see theold place and--your old friends?' asked the other with his beautiful, kindly smile that even false quantities had never been able to spoil. 'We've not forgotten you as you've forgotten us, you see, ' he added;'and the place, though empty now for years, has not forgotten youeither, I'll be bound. ' They stood there in the sunshine on the dusty road talking of ahundred half-forgotten things, as the haze of memory lifted, andscenes and pictures, names and faces, details of fun and mischiefrained upon him like flowers in a sudden wind of spring. The voice andface of his old tutor bridged the years like magic. Time had stoodstill here in this fair Kentish garden. The little man in black whocame every Saturday morning with his dingy bag had forgotten to windthe clocks, perhaps. . .. 'But you will like to go inside and see it all for yourself--alone, 'the Vicar said at length. 'My housekeeper has the keys. I'll send aboy with them to the lodge. It won't take five minutes. And then youmust come up to the Vicarage for tea--or dinner if you're kept--andstay the night. My married daughter-you remember Joan and May, ofcourse?--is with us just now; she'll be so very glad to see you. Youknow the way. ' And he moved off down the country road, still vigorous at seventy, with his black straw hat and big square-toed boots, his shouldershardly more bent than when his mischievous pupil had called everymorning with Vergil and Todhunter underneath one arm, and in his hearta lust to hurry after sleepy rabbits in the field. 'My married daughter--you remember May?' The blue-eyed girl of his boyhood passion flitted beside hisdisappearing figure. He remembered the last time he saw her--refusingto help her from a place of danger in the cedar branches--when he puthis love into a single eloquent phrase: 'You silly ass!' then cast heradrift for ever because she said 'Thanks awfully, ' and gave him agreat wet kiss. But he thought a lot of her all the same, and thethoughts had continued until the uproar in the City drowned them. Thoughts crowded thick and fast. How vital thinking was after all! Nothing seemed able to kill itseternal pictures. The coincidence of meeting his old tutor again waslike a story-book, though in reality likely enough; for his own facewas not so greatly altered by the close brown beard perhaps; and theVicar had grown smaller, that was all. Like everything else, he hadshrunk, of course-like road and station-master and water-works. He hadalmost said, 'You, too, have shrunk'--but otherwise was the same oldfluffy personality that no doubt still got sadly muddled in hissermons, gave out wrong hymns, and spent his entire worldly substanceon his scattered parish. His voice was softer too. It rang in his earsstill, as though there had been no break of over two decades. The humof bees and scythes was in it just as when it came through the openstudy window while he construed the _Georgics_. . .. But, most clearlyof all, he heard two sentences-- 'You have come back to your boyhood, ' and 'The empty place has notforgotten you, I'll be bound. ' Both seemed significant. They hummedand murmured through his mind. That old net of starlight somehowcaught them in its golden meshes. CHAPTER IV A Spirit gripped him by the hair and carried him far away, Till he heard as the roar of a rain-fed ford the roar of the Milky Way: Till he heard the roar of the Milky Way die down and drone and cease. Tomlinson, R. KIPLING. The boy presently came up in a cloud of dust with the key, and ran offagain with a shilling in his pocket, while Henry Rogers, buddingphilanthropist and re-awakening dreamer, went down the hill ofmemories at high speed that a doctor would have said was dangerous, aphilosopher morbid, and the City decreed unanimously as waste of time. He went over the house from cellar to ceiling. .. And finally he passed through a back door in the scullery and came outupon the lawn. With a shock he realised that a long time hadintervened. The dusk was falling. The rustle of its wings was alreadyin the shrubberies. He had missed the tea hour altogether. And, as hewalked there, so softly that he hardly disturbed the thrushes thatbusily tapped the dewy grass for supper, he knew suddenly that he wasnot alone, but that shadowy figures hid everywhere, watching, waiting, wondering like himself. They trooped after him, invisible and silent, as he went about the old familiar garden, finding nothing changed. They were so real that once he stopped beneath the lime trees, whereafternoon tea was served in summer, and where the Long Walk began itshaunted, shadowy existence--stood still a moment and called to them-- 'Is any one there? Come out and show yourselves. .. . !' And though his voice fell dead among the foliage, winning echoes fromspots whence no echoes possibly could come, and rushing back upon himlike a boomerang, he got the curious impression that it had penetratedinto certain corners of the shrubberies where it had been heard andunderstood. Answers did not come. They were no more audible than thetapping of the thrushes, or the little feet of darkness that rantowards him from the eastern sky. But they were there. The troop ofPresences drew closer. They had been creeping on all fours. They nowstood up. The entire garden was inhabited and alive. _'He has come back!'_ It ran in a muted whisper like a hush of wind. The thrill of it passedacross the lawn in the dusk. The dark tunnel of the Long Walk filledsuddenly to the brim. The thrushes raised their heads, peepingsideways to listen, on their guard. Then the leaves opened a littleand the troop ventured nearer. The doors and windows of the silent, staring house had also opened. From the high nursery windowsespecially, queer shapes of shadow flitted down to join the others. For the sun was far away behind the cedars now, and that Net ofStarlight dropped downwards through the air. So carefully had he wovenit years ago that hardly a mesh was torn. .. . _'He has come back again. .. !'_ the whisper ran a second time, and helooked about him for a place where he could hide. But there was no place. Escape from the golden net was nowimpossible. .. . Then suddenly, looming against the field that held the Gravel-Pit andthe sleeping rabbits, he saw the outline of the Third Class RailwayCarriage his father bought as a Christmas present, still standing onthe stone supports that were borrowed from a haystack. That Railway Carriage had filled whole years with joy and wonder. Theyhad called it the Starlight Express. It had four doors, real lamps inthe roof, windows that opened and shut, and big round buffers. Itstarted without warning. It went at full speed in a moment. It wasnever really still. The footboards were endless and very dangerous. He saw the carriage with its four compartments still standing there inthe hay field. It looked mysterious, old, and enormous as ever. Thereit still stood as in his boyhood days, but stood neglected and unused. The memory of the thrilling journeys he had made in this StarlightExpress completed his recapture, for he knew now who the troop ofPresences all about him really were. The passengers, still waitingafter twenty years' delay, thinking perhaps the train would neverstart again, were now impatient. They had caught their engine-driveragain at last. Steam was up. Already the blackbirds whistled. Andsomething utterly wild and reckless in him passionately broke itsbonds with a flood of longings that no amount of years or 'Cities'could ever subdue again. He stepped out from the dozing lime trees andheld his hat up like a flag. 'Take your seats, ' he cried as of old, 'for the Starlight Express. Take your seats! No luggage allowed! Animals free! Passengers withspecial tickets may drive the engine in their turn! First stop theMilky Way for hot refreshments! Take your seats, or stay at home forever!' It was the old cry, still remembered accurately; and the response wasimmediate. The rush of travellers from the Long Walk nearly took himoff his feet. From the house came streams of silent figures, familiesfrom the shrubberies, tourists from the laurels by the scullerywindows, and throngs of breathless oddities from the kitchen-garden. The lawn was littered with discarded luggage; umbrellas dropped onflower-beds, where they instantly took root and grew; animals ranscuttling among them--birds, ponies, dogs, kittens, donkeys, and whitemice in trailing swarms. There was not a minute to spare. One bigNewfoundland brought several Persian kittens on his back, their tailsbehind them in the air like signals; a dignified black retriever helda baby in his mouth; and fat children by the score, with unfastenedclothes and smudged faces, many of them in their nightclothes, pouredalong in hurrying, silent crowds, softer than clouds that hide acrescent moon in summer. 'But this is impossible, ' he cried to himself. 'The multiplicationtables have gone wrong. The City has driven me mad. No shareholderwould stand such a thing for a minute!' While, at the same time, that other voice in him kept shouting, evermore loudly-- 'Take your seats! Take your seats! The Starlight Express is off toFairyland! Show your tickets! Show your tickets!' He laughed with happiness. The throng and rush were at first so great that he recognised hardlyany of the passengers; but, the first press over, he saw severalbringing up the rear who were as familiar as of yesterday. They noddedkindly to him as they passed, no sign of reproach for the long delayin their friendly eyes. He had left his place beside the lime trees, and now stood at the carriage door, taking careful note of each one ashe showed his ticket to the Guard. And the Guard was the blue-eyedgirl. She did not clip the tickets, but merely looked at them. Shelooked, first at the ticket, then into the face of the passenger. Theglance of the blue eyes was the passport. Of course, he rememberednow--both guard and engine-driver were obliged to have blue eyes. Blueeyes furnished the motor-power and scenery and everything. It was thespell that managed the whole business--the Spell of the Big Blue eyes--blue, the colour of youth and distance, of sky and summer flowers, ofchildhood. He watched these last passengers come up one by one, and as they filedpast him he exchanged a word with each. How pleased they were to seehim! But how ashamed he felt for having been so long away. Not one, however, reminded him of it, and--what touched him most of all--notone suspected he had nearly gone for good. All knew he would comeback. What looked like a rag-and-bone man blundered up first, his face aperfect tangle of beard and hair, and the eyebrows like bits of towstuck on with sealing-wax. It was The Tramp--Traveller of the World, the Eternal Wanderer, homeless as the wind; his vivid personality hadhaunted all the lanes of childhood. And, as Rogers nodded kindly tohim, the figure waited for something more. 'Ain't forgot the rhyme, 'ave yer?' he asked in a husky voice thatseemed to issue from the ground beneath his broken boots. 'The rhymewe used to sing together in the Noight-Nursery when I put my faiceagin' the bars, after climbin' along 'arf a mile of slippery slaitesto git there. ' And Rogers, smiling, found himself saying it, while the pretty Guardfixed her blue eyes on his face and waited patiently:-- I travel far and wide, But in my own inside! Such places And queer races! I never go to them, you see, _Because they always come to me!_ 'Take your seat, please, ' cried the Guard. 'No luggage, you know!' Shepushed him in sideways, first making him drop his dirty bundle. With a quick, light step a very thin man hurried up. He had noluggage, but carried on his shoulder a long stick with a point of goldat its tip. 'Light the lamps, ' said the Guard impatiently, 'and then sit on theback buffers and hold your pole out to warn the shooting stars. ' He hopped in, though not before Rogers had passed the time of nightwith him first:-- I stand behind the sky, and light the stars, -- Except on cloudy nights; And then my head Remains in bed, And takes along the ceiling--easier flights! Others followed quickly then, too quickly for complete recognition. Besides, the Guard was getting more and more impatient. 'You've clean forgotten _me_, ' said one who had an awful air ofdarkness about him; 'and no wonder, because you never saw me properly. On Sundays, when I was nicely washed up you couldn't 'ardly reckerniseme. Nachural 'nuff, too!' He shot by like a shadow, then pulled up a window with a rattle, popped his dirty head out, and called back thickly as if his mouth wasfull of smoke or pudding:-- The darkness suits _me_ best, For my old face Is out of place, Except in chimney stacks! Upon my crown The soot comes down Filling my eyes with blacks. Don't light the fire, Or I'd--. 'Stop it!' cried the Guard, shutting the window with a snap, so thatRogers never knew whether the missing word used to be 'expire' or'perspire'; 'and go on to your proper place on the tender. ' Then sheturned quickly to fix her big blue eyes upon the next comer. And howthey did come, to be sure! There was the Gypsy, the Creature of theGravel-Pit, the long-legged, long-armed thing from the Long Walk--shecould make her arm stretch the whole length like elastic--the enormousWoman of the Haystack, who lived beneath the huge tarpaulin cover, theowner of the Big Cedar, and the owner of the Little Cedar, alltreading fast upon one another's heels. From the Blue Summer-house came the Laugher. Rogers rememberedpretending once that he was going to faint. He had thrown himself uponthe summer-house floor and kicked, and the blue-eyed girl, instead ofbeing thrilled as both anticipated, had laughed abominably. 'Painters don't kick!' she had said with scorn, while he had answered, though without conviction, 'Men-fainters do--kick dreadfully. ' And shehad simply laughed till her sides ached, while he lay there kickingtill his muscles were sore, in the vain hope of winning her belief. He exchanged a glance with her now, as the Laugher slipped in pastthem. The eyes of the Guard were very soft. He was found out andforgiven at the same time. Then came the very mysterious figure of authority--the Head Gardener, a composite being who included all the lesser under-gardeners as well. His sunburned face presented a resume of them all. He was the man whoburned the hills of dead leaves in autumn. 'Give me of your fire, please, ' whispered Rogers, something betweenjoy and sadness in his heart, 'for there are hills of leaves that Iwould burn up quickly--' but the man hurried on, tossing his trowelover the Guard's head, and nearly hitting another passenger whofollowed too close. This was the Woman of the Haystack, an enormous, spreading traveller who utterly refused to be hurried, and onlysqueezed through the door because Rogers, the Guard, and severalothers pushed behind with all their might, while the Sweep, the Tramp, and those already in tugged breathlessly at the same time. .. . Last of all, just as the train was starting, came a hurrying shadowything with dreamy eyes, long hair like waving grass, and open handsthat he spread like wings, as though he were sowing something throughthe air. And he was singing softly as he came fumbling along thebyeways of the dusk. 'Oh, but I know _you_ well, ' cried Rogers, watching him come with athrill of secret wonder, 'and I love you better than all the resttogether. ' The face was hidden as he wafted silently past them. A delicious odourfollowed him. And something, fine as star-dust, as he scattered it allabout him, sifted down before the other's sight. The Dustman enteredlike a ghost. 'Oh, give me of your dust!' cried Rogers again, 'for there are eyesthat I would blind with it--eyes in the world that I would blind withit--your dust of dreams and beauty. .. !' The man waved a shadowy hand towards him, and his own eyes filled. Heclosed the lids a moment; and when he opened them again he saw twomonster meteors in the sky. They crossed in two big lines of gloryabove the house, dropping towards the cedars. The Net of Stars wasbeing fastened. He remembered then his old Star Cave--cave where loststarlight was stored up by these sprites for future use. He just had time to seize the little hand the Guard held out, and todrop into a seat beside her, when the train began to move. It rosesoundlessly with lightning speed. It shot up to a tremendous height, then paused, hovering in the night. The Guard turned her big blue eyes upon him. 'Where to?' she whispered. And he suddenly remembered that it wasalways he who decided the destination, and that this time he was at aloss what to say. 'The Star Cave, of course, ' he cried, 'the cave where the loststarlight gathers. ' 'Which direction?' she asked, with the yellow whistle to her lipsready to signal the driver. 'Oh, out there--to the north-west, ' he answered, 'to the mountains of--across the Channel. ' But this was not precise enough. Formerly he had always given veryprecise directions. 'Name, please, ' she urged, 'but quickly. The Interfering Sun, youknow--there's no time to lose. We shall be meeting the Morning Spiderssoon. ' The Morning Spiders! How it all came back! The Morning Spiders thatfly over the fields in the dawn upon their private threads of gossamerand fairy cotton. He remembered that, as children, they had never actually found thisStar Cave, for the Interfering Sun had always come too soon and spoiltit all. 'Name, please, and do hurry up. We can't hover here all night, ' rangin his ears. And he made a plunge. He suddenly thought of Bourcelles, the littlevillage in the Jura mountains, where he and his cousin had spent ayear learning French. The idea flashed into him probably because itcontained mountains, caves, and children. His cousin lived there nowto educate his children and write his books. Only that morning he hadgot a letter from him. 'Bourcelles, of course, Bourcelles!' he cried, 'and steer for theslopes of Boudry where the forests dip towards the precipices of theAreuse. I'll send word to the children to meet us. ' 'Splendid!' cried the Guard, and kissed him with delight. The whistleshrieked, the train turned swiftly in a tremendous sweeping curve, andvanished along the intricate star-rails into space, humming andbooming as it went. It flew a mane of stars behind it through the sky. CHAPTER V Oh! thou art fairer than the evening air Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars. Doctor Famtus, CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. The plop of a water-rat in the pond that occupied the rock-garden inthe middle of the lawn brought him back to earth, and the Vicar'sinvitation to tea flashed across his mind. 'Stock Exchange and typewriters!' he exclaimed, 'how rude he'll thinkme!' And he rubbed something out of his eyes. He gave one long, yearning glance at the spangled sky where an inquisitive bat dartedzigzag several times between himself and the Pleiades, that bunch ofstar-babies as yet unborn, as the blue-eyed guard used to call them. 'And I shall miss my supper and bed into the bargain!' He turned reluctantly from his place beside the lime trees, andcrossed the lawn now wet with dew. The whole house seemed to turn itshooded head and watch him go, staring with amusement in its manylidless eyes. On the front lawn there was more light, for it faced thedying sunset. The Big and Little Cedar rose from their pools ofshadow, beautifully poised. Like stately dowagers in voluminous skirtsof velvet they seemed to curtsey to him as he passed. Stars likeclusters of sprinkled blossoms hung upon their dignified old heads. The whole place seemed aware of him. Glancing a moment at the uppernursery windows, he could just distinguish the bars through which hislittle hands once netted stars, and as he did so a meteor shot acrossthe sky its flashing light of wonder. Behind the Little Cedar it divedinto the sunset afterglow. And, hardly had it dipped away, whenanother, coming crosswise from the south, drove its length of molten, shining wire straight against the shoulder of the Big Cedar. The whole performance seemed arranged expressly for his benefit. TheNet was loosed--this Net of Stars and Thoughts--perhaps to goelsewhere. For this was taking out the golden nails, surely. It wouldhardly have surprised him next to see the Starlight Express he hadbeen dreaming about dart across the heavens overhead. That cool airstealing towards him from the kitchen-garden might well have been thewind of its going. He could almost hear the distant rush and murmur ofits flying mass. 'How extraordinarily vivid it all was!' he thought to himself, as hehurried down the drive. 'What detail! What a sense of reality! Howcarefully I must have _thought_ these creatures as a boy! Howthoroughly! And what a good idea to go out and see Jack's children atBourcelles. They've never known these English sprites. I'll introduce'em!' He thought it out in detail, very vividly indeed. His imaginationlingered over it and gave it singular reality. Up the road he fairly ran. For Henry Rogers was a punctual man; theselast twenty years he had never once been late for anything. It hadbeen part of the exact training he had schooled himself with, and theVicar's invitation was not one he desired to trifle with. He made hispeace, indeed, easily enough, although the excuses sounded a littlethin. It was something of a shock, too, to find that the marrieddaughter after all was not the blue-eyed girl of his boyhood'spassion. For it was Joan, not May, who came down the gravel pathbetween the roses to greet him. On the way up he had felt puzzled. Yet 'bemused, ' perhaps, is the wordthat Herbert Minks would have chosen for one of his poems, to describea state of mind he, however, had never experienced himself. And hewould have chosen it instinctively--for onomatopoeic reasons--becauseit hums and drones and murmurs dreamily. 'Puzzled' was too sharp aword. Yet Henry Rogers, who felt it, said 'puzzled' without more ado, although mind, imagination, memory all hummed and buzzed pleasantlyabout his ears even while he did so. 'A dream is a dream, ' he reflected as he raced along the familiardusty road in the twilight, 'and a reverie is a reverie; but that, I'dswear, went a bit further than either one or t'other. It puzzles me. Does vivid thinking, I wonder, make pictures everywhere?. .. And--canthey last?' For the detailed reality of the experience had been remarkable, andthe actuality of those childhood's creations scarcely belonged todream or reverie. They were certainly quite as real as the sleekDirectors who sat round the long Board Room table, fidgeting with fatquill pens and pewter ink-pots; more alive even than the LeadingShareholder who rose so pompously at Annual Meetings to second theresolution that the 'Report and Balance Sheet be adopted withoutcriticism. ' And he was conscious that in himself rose, too, a deep, passionatewillingness to accept the whole experience, also 'without criticism. 'Those picturesque passengers in the Starlight Express he knew sointimately, so affectionately, that he actually missed them. He feltthat he had said good-bye to genuine people. He regretted theirdeparture, and was keenly sorry he had not gone off with them--such amerry, wild, adventurous crew! He must find them again, whateverhappened. There was a yearning in him to travel with that blue-eyedguard among the star-fields. He would go out to Bourcelles and tellthe story to the children. He thought very hard indeed about it all. And now, in the Vicarage drawing-room after dinner, his bemusementincreased rather than grew less. His mind had already confused a faceand name. The blue-eyed May was not, after all, the girl of hisboyhood's dream. His memory had been accurate enough with thepassengers in the train. There was no confusion there. But this gentlemarried woman, who sang to her own accompaniment at her father'srequest, was not the mischievous, wilful creature who had teased andtortured his heart in years gone by, and had helped him construct thesprites and train and star-trips. It was, surely, the other daughterwho had played that delicious role. Yet, either his memory was atfault, or the Vicar had mixed the names up. The years had played thislittle unimportant trick upon him anyhow. And that was clear. But if with so-called real people such an error was possible, howcould he be sure of anything? Which after all, he asked himself, wasreal? It was the Vicar's mistake, he learned later, for May was now ateacher in London; but the trivial incident served to point thisconfusion in his mind between an outer and an inner world--to thedisadvantage, if anything, of the former. And over the glass of port together, while they talked pleasantly ofvanished days, Rogers was conscious that a queer, secret amusementsheltered in his heart, due to some faint, superior knowledge thatthis Past they spoke of had not moved away at all, but listened withfun and laughter just behind his shoulder, watching them. The oldgentleman seemed never tired of remembering his escapades. He toldthem one after another, like some affectionate nurse or mother, Rogersthought, whose children were--to her--unique and wonderful. For he hadreally loved this good-for-nothing pupil, loved him the more, asmothers and nurses do, because of the trouble he had given, andbecause of his busy and fertile imagination. It made Rogers feelridiculously young again as he listened. He could almost have played atrick upon him then and there, merely to justify the tales. And onceor twice he actually called him 'Sir. ' So that even the conversationhelped to deepen this bemusement that gathered somewhat tenderly abouthis mind. He cracked his walnuts and watched the genial, peace-liteyes across the table. He chuckled. Both chuckled. They spoke of hisworldly success too--it seemed unimportant somehow now, although hewas conscious that something in him expected, nay demanded tribute--but the former tutor kept reverting to the earlier days beforeachievement. 'You were indeed a boy of mischief, wonder, and mystery, ' he said, hiseyes twinkling and his tone almost affectionate; 'you made the wholeplace alive with those creatures of your imagination. How Joan helpedyou too--or was it May? I used to wonder sometimes--' he glanced uprather searchingly at his companion a moment--' whether the people whotook the Manor House after your family left did not encounter themsometimes upon the lawn or among the shrubberies in the dusk--thosesprites of yours. Eh?' He passed a neatly pared walnut across thetable to his guest. 'These ghosts that people nowadays explainscientifically--what are they but thoughts visualised by vividthinking such as yours was--creative thinking? They may be justpictures created in moments of strong passionate feeling that persistfor centuries and reach other minds direct They're not seen with theouter eye; that's certain, for no two people ever see them together. But I'm sure these pictures flame up through the mind sometimes justas clearly as some folk see Grey Ladies and the rest flit down thestairs at midnight. ' They munched their walnuts a moment in silence. Rogers listened verykeenly. How curious, he reflected, that the talk should lie this way. But he said nothing, hoping that the other would go on. 'And if you really believed in your things, ' the older man continuedpresently, 'as I am sure you did believe, then your old Dustman andSweep and Lamplighter, your Woman of the Haystack and your Net ofStars and Star Train--all these, for instance, must still be living, where you left them, waiting perhaps for your return to lead theirfresh adventures. ' Rogers stared at him, choking a little over a nut he had swallowed toohurriedly. 'Yet, ' mused on the other, 'it's hardly likely the family thatsucceeded you met them. There were no children!' 'Ah, ' exclaimed the pupil impulsively, 'that's significant, yes--nochildren. ' He looked up quickly, questioningly. 'Very, I admit. ' 'Besides, the chief Magician had gone away into the City. Theywouldn't answer to anybody's call, you know. ' 'True again. But the Magician never forgot them quite, I'll be bound, 'he added. 'They're only in hiding till his return, perhaps!' And hisbright eyes twinkled knowingly. 'But, Vicar, really, you know, that is an extraordinary idea you havethere-a wonderful idea. Do you really think--?' 'I only mean, ' the other replied more gravely, 'that what a manthinks, and makes with thinking, is the real thing. It's in the heartthat sin is first real. The act is the least important end of it--grave only because it is the inevitable result of the thinking. Actionis merely delayed thinking, after all. Don't think ghosts and bogeys, I always say to children, or you'll surely see them. ' 'Ah, in _that_ sense--!' 'In any sense your mind and intuition can grasp. The thought thatleaves your brain, provided it be a real thought strongly fashioned, goes all over the world, and may reach any other brain tuned to itsacceptance. _You_ should understand that!' he laughed significantly. 'I do, ' said Rogers hastily, as though he felt ashamed of himself orwere acknowledging a fault in his construing of Homer. 'I understandit perfectly. Only I put all those things--imaginative things--asidewhen I went into business. I had to concentrate my energies uponmaking money. ' 'You did, yes. Ah!' was the rejoinder, as though he would fain haveadded, 'And was that wise?' 'And I made it, Vicar; you see, I've made it. ' He was not exactlynettled, but he wanted a word of recognition for his success. 'But youknow why, don't you?' he added, ashamed the same moment. There was apause, during which both looked closely at their broken nuts. From oneof the men came a sigh. 'Yes, ' resumed the older man presently, 'I remember your great dreamperfectly well, and a noble one it was too. Its fulfilment now, Isuppose, lies well within your reach? You have the means to carry itout, eh? You have indeed been truly blessed. ' He eyed him again withuncommon keenness, though a smile ran from the eyes and mouth even upto the forehead and silvery hair. 'The world, I see, has not yetpoisoned you. To carry it out as you once explained it to me would beindeed success. If I remember rightly, ' he added, 'it was a--er--aScheme for Disabled--' Rogers interrupted him quickly. 'And I am full of the same big dreamstill, ' he repeated almost shyly. 'The money I have made I regard aslent to me for investment. I wish to use it, to give it away as onegives flowers. I feel sure--' He stopped abruptly, caught by the glow of enthusiasm that had leapedinto the other's face with a strangely beautiful expression. 'You never did anything by halves, I remember, ' the Vicar said, looking at him proudly. 'You were always in earnest, even in yourplay, and I don't mind telling you that I've often prayed forsomething of that zeal of yours--that zeal for others. It's aremarkable gift. You will never bury it, will you?' He spoke eagerly, passionately, leaning forward a little across the table. 'Few have itnowadays; it grows rarer with the luxury and self-seeking of the age. It struck me so in you as a boy, that even your sprites worked not forthemselves but for others--your Dustman, your Sweep, your absurdLamplighter, all were busy doing wonderful things to help theirneighbours, all, too, without reward. ' Rogers flushed like a boy. But he felt the thrill of his dream coursethrough him like great fires. Wherein was any single thing in theworld worth doing, any object of life worth following, unless as meansto an end, and that end helping some one else. One's own littlepersonal dreams became exhausted in a few years, endeavours for selfsmothered beneath the rain of disappointments; but others, and workfor others, this was endless and inexhaustible. 'I've sometimes thought, ' he heard the older man going on, 'that inthe dusk I saw'--his voice lowered and he glanced towards the windowswhere the rose trees stood like little figures, cloaked and bonnetedwith beauty beneath the stars--'that I saw your Dustman scattering hisgolden powder as he came softly up the path, and that some of itreached my own eyes, too; or that your swift Lamplighter lent me amoment his gold-tipped rod of office so that I might light fires ofhope in suffering hearts here in this tiny world of my own parish. Your dreadful Head Gardener, too! And your Song of the Blue-EyesFairy, ' he added slyly, almost mischievously, 'you remember that, Iwonder?' 'H'm--a little, yes--something, ' replied Rogers confusedly. 'It was adreadful doggerel. But I've got a secretary now, ' he continuedhurriedly and in rather a louder voice, ' a fellow named Minks, a jewelreally of a secretary he is--and he, I believe, can write real--' 'It was charming enough for us all to have remembered it, anyhow, ' theVicar stopped him, smiling at his blushes, ' and for May--or was itJoan? dear me, how I do forget names!--to have set it to music. Shehad a little gift that way, you may remember; and, before she took upteaching she wrote one or two little things like that. ' 'Ah, did she really?' murmured the other. He scarcely knew what he wassaying, for a mist of blue had risen before his eyes, and in it he wasseeing pictures. 'The Spell of Blue, wasn't it, or something likethat?' he said a moment later, 'blue, the colour of beauty in flowers, sea, sky, distance--the childhood colour par excellence?' 'But chiefly in the eyes of children, yes, ' the Vicar helped him, rising at the same time from the table. 'It was the spell, thepassport, the open sesame to most of your adventures. Come now, if youwon't have another glass of port, and we'll go into the drawing-room, and Joan, May I mean--no, Joan, of course, shall sing it to you. Forthis is a very special occasion for us, you know, ' he added as theypassed across the threshold side by side. 'To see you is to go backwith you to Fairyland. ' The piano was being idly strummed as they went in, and the player waseasily persuaded to sing the little song. It floated through the openwindows and across the lawn as the two men in their corners listened. She knew it by heart, as though she often played it. The candles werenot lit. Dusk caught the sound and muted it enchantingly. And somehowthe simple melody helped to conceal the meagreness of the childishwords. Everywhere, from sky and lawn and solemn trees, the Past camesoftly in and listened too. There's a Fairy that hides in the beautiful eyes Of children who treat her well; In the little round hole where the eyeball lies She weaves her magical spell. Oh, tell it to me, Oh, how can it be, This Spell of the Blue-Eyes Fairy. Well, --the eyes must be blue, And the heart must be true, And the child must be _better_ than gold; And then, if you'll let her, The quicker the better, She'll make you forget that you're old, That you're heavy and stupid, and--old! So, if such a child you should chance to see, Or with such a child to play, No matter how weary and dull you be, Nor how many tons you weigh; You will suddenly find that you're young again, And your movements are light and airy, And you'll try to be solemn and stiff in vain-- It's the Spell of the Blue-Eyes Fairy! Now I've told it to you, And you _know_ it is true-- It's the Spell of the Blue-Eyes Fairy! 'And it's the same spell, ' said the old man in his corner as the lastnotes died away, and they sat on some minutes longer in the fragrantdarkness, 'that you cast about us as a boy, Henry Rogers, when youmade that wonderful Net of Stars and fastened it with your comets'nails to the big and little cedars. The one catches your heart, yousee, while the other gets your feet and head and arms till you're ahopeless prisoner--a prisoner in Fairyland. ' 'Only the world to-day no longer believes in Fairyland, ' was thereply, 'and even the children have become scientific. Perhaps it'sonly buried though. The two ought to run in harness really--oppositeinterpretations of the universe. One might revive it--here and thereperhaps. Without it, all the tenderness seems leaking out of life--' Joan presently said good-night, but the other two waited on a littlelonger; and before going to bed they took a turn outside among theflower-beds and fruit-trees that formed the tangled Vicarage garden atthe back. It was uncommonly warm for a night in early spring. Thelilacs were in bud, and the air most exquisitely scented. Rogers felt himself swept back wonderfully among his early years. Itseemed almost naughty to be out at such an hour instead of asleep inbed. It was quite ridiculous--but he loved the feeling and let himselfgo with happy willingness. The story of 'Vice Versa, ' where a manreally became a boy again, passed through his mind and made him laugh. And the old Vicar kept on feeding the semi-serious mood with whatseemed almost intentional sly digs. Yet the digs were not intentional, really; it was merely that his listener, already prepared by hisexperience with the Starlight Express, read into them these searchingmeanings of his own. Something in him was deeply moved. 'You might make a great teacher, you know, ' suggested his companion, stooping to sniff a lilac branch as they paused a moment. 'I thoughtso years ago; I think so still. You've kept yourself so simple. ' 'How not to do most things, ' laughed the other, glad of the darkness. 'How to do the big and simple things, ' was the rejoinder; 'and do themwell, without applause. You have Belief. ' 'Too much, perhaps. I simply can't get rid of it. ' 'Don't try to. It's belief that moves the world; people want teachers--that's my experience in the pulpit and the parish; a world inminiature, after all--but they won't listen to a teacher who hasn'tgot it. There are no great poets to-day, only great discoverers. Thepoets, the interpreters of discovery, are gone--starved out of life byridicule, and by questions to which exact answers are impossible. Withyour imagination and belief you might help a world far larger thanthis parish of mine at any rate. I envy you. ' Goodness! how the kind eyes searched his own in this darkness. Thoughlittle susceptible to flattery, he was aware of something huge thewords stirred in the depths of him, something far bigger than he yethad dreamed of even in his boyhood, something that made his cherishedScheme seem a little pale and faded. 'Take the whole world with you into fairyland, ' he heard the low voicecome murmuring in his ear across the lilacs. And there was starlightin it--that gentle, steady brilliance that steals into people whilethey sleep and dream, tracing patterns of glory they may recognisewhen they wake, yet marvelling whence it came. 'The world wants itsfairyland back again, and won't be happy till it gets it. ' A bird listening to them in the stillness sang a little burst of song, then paused again to listen. 'Once give them of your magic, and each may shape his fairyland as hechooses. .. ' the musical voice ran on. The flowers seemed alive and walking. This was a voice of beauty. Somelilac bud was singing in its sleep. Sirius had dropped a ray acrossits lips of blue and coaxed it out to dance. There was a murmur and astir among the fruit-trees too. The apple blossoms painted thedarkness with their tiny fluttering dresses, while old Aldebarantrimmed them silently with gold, and partners from the Milky Way sweptrustling down to lead the violets out. Oh, there was revelry to-night, and the fairy spell of the blue-eyed Spring was irresistible. .. . 'But the world will never dance, ' he whispered sadly, half to himselfperhaps; 'it's far too weary. ' 'It will follow a leader, ' came the soft reply, 'who dances well andpipes the true old music so that it can hear. Belief inspires italways. And that Belief you have. ' There was a curious vibration inhis voice; he spoke from his heart, and his heart was evidently moved. 'I wonder when it came to me, then, and how?' The Vicar turned and faced him where they stood beneath the limetrees. Their scent was pouring out as from phials uncorked by thestars. 'It came, ' he caught the answer that thrilled with earnestness, 'whenyou saw the lame boy on the village hill and cried. As long ago asthat it came. ' His mind, as he listened, became a plot of fresh-turned earth the HeadGardener filled with flowers. A mass of covering stuff the years hadlaid ever thicker and thicker was being shovelled away. The flowers hesaw being planted there were very tiny ones. But they would grow. Aleaf from some far-off rocky mount of olive trees dropped flutteringthrough the air and marvellously took root and grew. He felt for amoment the breath of night air that has been tamed by an eastern sun. He saw a group of men, bare-headed, standing on the slopes, and infront of them a figure of glory teaching little, simple things theyfound it hard to understand. .. . 'You have the big and simple things alive in you, ' the voice carriedon his pictured thought among the flowers. 'In your heart they lie allwaiting to be used. Nothing can smother them. Only-you must give themout. ' 'If only I knew how--!' 'Keep close to the children, ' sifted the strange answer through thefruit-trees; 'the world is a big child. And catch it when it liesasleep--not thinking of itself, ' he whispered. 'The time is so short--' 'At forty you stand upon the threshold of life, with values learnedand rubbish cleared away. So many by that time are already dead--inheart. I envy your opportunities ahead. You have learned already onefoundation truth--the grandeur of toil and the insignificance ofacquisition. The other foundation thing is even simpler--you have aneighbour. Now, with your money to give as flowers, and your Belief tosteer you straight, you have the world before you. And--keep close tothe children. ' 'Before there are none left, ' added Rogers under his breath. But theother heard the words and instantly corrected him-- 'Children of any age, and wherever you may find them. ' And they turned slowly and made their way in silence across thesoaking lawn, entering the house by the drawing-room window. 'Good-night, ' the old man said, as he lit his candle and led him tohis room; 'and pleasant, happy, inspiring dreams. ' He seemed to say it with some curious, heartfelt meaning in the commonwords. He disappeared slowly down the passage, shading the candle withone hand to pick his way, and Rogers watched him out of sight, thenturned and entered his own room, closing the door as softly aspossible behind him. It had been an astonishing conversation. All his old enthusiasm wasstirred. Embers leaped to flame. No woman ever had done as much. Thisold fellow, once merely respected tutor, had given him back his firstoriginal fire and zeal, yet somehow cleansed and purified. And ithumbled him at the same time. Dead leaves, dropped year by year in hisCity life, were cleared away as though a mighty wind had swept him. The Gardener was burning up dead leaves; the Sweep was cleaning outthe flues; the Lamplighter waving his golden signal in the sky--farahead, it is true, but gleaming like a torch and beacon. The StarlightExpress was travelling at top speed among the constellations. He stoodat the beginning of the important part of life. .. . And now, as he lay in bed and heard the owls hooting in the woods, andsmelt the flowers through the open window, his thoughts followedstrongly after that old Star Train that he used to drive about thesky. He was both engine-driver and passenger. He fell asleep to dreamof it. And all the vital and enchanting thoughts of his boyhood flowed backupon him with a rush, as though they had never been laid aside. Heremembered particularly one singular thing about them--that they hadnever seemed quite his own, but that he had either read or heard themsomewhere else. As a child the feeling was always strong that these'jolly thoughts, ' as he called them, were put into him by some oneelse--some one who whispered to him--some one who lived close behindhis ears. He had to listen very hard to catch them. It was _not_dreams, yet all night long, especially when he slept tightly, as hephrased it, this fairy whispering continued, and in the daytime heremembered what he could and made up his stories accordingly. He stolethese ideas about a Star Net and a Starlight Express. One day he wouldbe caught and punished for it. It was trespassing upon the preservesof some one else. Yet he could never discover who this some one else was, except that itwas a 'she' and lived among the stars, only coming out at night. Heimagined she hid behind that little dusty constellation called thePleiades, and that was why the Pleiades wore a veil and were so dim--lest he should find her out. And once, behind the blue gaze of theguard-girl, who was out of his heart by this time, he had known amoment of thrilling wonder that was close to awe. He saw another pairof eyes gazing out at him They were ambery eyes, as he called them--just what was to be expected from a star. And, so great was the shock, that at first he stood dead still and gasped, then dashed up suddenlyclose to her and stared into her face, frightening her so much thatshe fell backwards, and the amber eyes vanished instantly. It was the'some one else' who whispered fairy stories to him and lived behindhis ear. For a second she had been marvellously close. And he had losther! From that moment, however, his belief in her increased enormously, andhe never saw a pair of brown-ambery eyes without feeling sure that shewas somewhere close about him. The lame boy, for instance, had thesame delicate tint in his sad, long, questioning gaze. His own colliehad it too! For years it was an obsession with him, haunting andwonderful--the knowledge that some one who watched close beside him, filling his mind with fairy thoughts, might any moment gaze into hisface through a pair of ordinary familiar eyes. And he was certain thatall his star-imagination about the Net, the Starlight Express, and theCave of Lost Starlight came first into him from this hidden 'some oneelse' who brought the Milky Way down into his boy's world of fantasy. 'If ever I meet her in real life, ' he used to say, 'I'm done for. Sheis my Star Princess!' And now, as he fell asleep, the old atmosphere of that Kentish gardendrew thickly over him, shaking out clusters of stars about his bed. Dreams usually are determined by something more remote than the talkthat has just preceded going to bed, but to-night it was otherwise. And two things the old Vicar had let fall--two things sufficientlysingular, it seemed, when he came to think about them--influenced hisnight adventures. 'Catch the world when it's asleep, ' and 'Keep closeto the children'--these somehow indicated the route his dream shouldfollow. For he headed the great engine straight for the village in theJura pine woods where his cousin's children lived. He did not knowthese children, and had seen his cousin but rarely in recent years;yet, it seemed, they came to meet the train up among the mountainforests somewhere. For in this village, where he had gone to studyFrench, the moods of his own childhood had somehow known continuationand development. The place had once been very dear to him, and he hadknown delightful adventures there, many of them with this cousin. Nowhe took all his own childhood's sprites out in this Starlight Expressand introduced them to these transplanted children who had never madeacquaintance with the English breed. They had surprising, wildadventures all together, yet in the morning he could remember verylittle of it all. The interfering sun melted them all down in dew. Theadventures had some object, however; that was clear; though what theobject was, except that it did good somewhere to. Some one, was gone, lost in the deeps of sleep behind him. They scurried about the world. The sprites were very active indeed--quite fussily energetic. And hisScheme for Disabled Something-or other was not anywhere discoverablein these escapades. That seemed forgotten rather, as though they foundbigger, more important things to do, and nearer home too. Perhaps theVicar's hint about the 'Neighbour' was responsible for that. Anyhow, the dream was very vivid, even though the morning sun melted it awayso quickly and completely. It seemed continuous too. It filled theentire night. Yet the thing that Rogers took off with him to town next morning was, more than any other detail, the memory of what the old tutor had saidabout the living reality and persistence of figures that passionatethinking has created--that, and the value of Belief. CHAPTER VI Be thou my star, and thou in me be seen To show what source divine is, and prevails. I mark thee planting joy in constant fire. _To Sirius_, G. MEREDITH. And he rather astonished the imperturbable Minks next day by theannouncement that he was thinking of going abroad for a littleholiday. 'When I return, it will be time enough to take up the Schemein earnest, ' he said. For Minks had brought a sheaf of notes embodyingthe results of many hours' labour, showing what others had alreadydone in that particular line of philanthropy. 'Very good indeed, Minks, very good. I'll take 'em with me and make acareful study of the lot. I shall be only gone a week or so, ' headded, noticing the other's disappointment. For the secretary hadhoped to expound these notes himself at length. 'Take a week's holidayyourself, ' he added. 'Mrs. Minks might like to get to the sea, perhaps. There'll only be my letters to forward. I'll give you alittle cheque. ' And he explained briefly that he was going out toBourcelles to enjoy a few days' rest before they attacked greatproblems together. After so many years of application to business hehad earned it. Crayfield, it seemed, had given him a taste forsentimental journeys. But the fact was, too, the Tramp, the Dustman, the Lamplighter, and the Starlight Express were all in his thoughtsstill. And it was spring. He felt this sudden desire to see his cousin again, and make the acquaintance of his cousin's children. He remembered howthe two of them had tramped the Jura forests as boys. They had met inLondon at intervals since. He dictated a letter to him then and there--Minks taking it down like lightning--and added a postscript in hisown handwriting:-- 'I feel a longing, ' he wrote, 'to come out and see the little haven ofrest you have chosen, and to know your children. Our ways have gonevery far apart--too far--since the old days when we climbed out of thewindows of _la cure_ with a sheet, and tramped the mountains all nightlong. Do you remember? I've had my nose on the grindstone ever since, and you've worked hard too, judging by your name in publishers' lists. I hope your books are a great success. I'm ashamed I've never any timeto read now. But I'm "retired" from business at last and hope to dogreat things. I'll tell you about a great Scheme I have in hand whenwe meet. I should like your advice too. 'Any room will do--sunny aspect if possible. And please give my loveto your children in advance. Tell them I shall come out in theStarlight Express. Let me have a line to say if it's all right. ' In due course the line--a warm-hearted one--arrived. Minks came toCharing Cross to see him off, the gleam of the sea already in hispale-blue eyes. 'The Weather Report says "calm, " Mr. Rogers, ' he kept repeating. 'You'll have a good crossing, I hope and trust. I'm taking Mrs. Minksmyself---' 'Yes, yes, that's good, ' was the quick reply. 'Capital. And--let mesee-I've got your notes with me, haven't I? I'll draft out a generalplan and send it to you as soon as I get a moment. You think over ittoo, will you, while I'm away. And enjoy yourself at the same time. Put your children in the sea--nothing like the sea for children--seaand sun and sand and all that sort of thing. ' 'Thank you very much, Mr. Rogers, and I trust---' Somebody bumped against him, cutting short a carefully balancedsentence that was intended to be one-third good wishes, one-thirdweather remark, and the last third Mrs. Minks. Her letter of thankshad never been referred to. It rankled, though very slightly. 'What an absurd-looking person!' exclaimed the secretary to himself, following the aggressor with one eye, and trying to recapture the lostsentence at the same time. 'They really should not allow such peoplein a railway terminus, ' he added aloud. The man was ragged and unkemptto the last degree--a sort of tramp; and as he bought a ticket at thethird-class wicket, just beyond, he kept looking up slyly at Minks andhis companion. 'The way he knocked against me almost seemedintentional, ' Minks thought. The idea of pickpockets and cleverlydisguised detectives ran confusedly in his mind. He felt a littleflustered for some reason. 'I beg your pardon, ' Mr. Rogers was saying to a man who tried to pushin front of him. 'But we _must_ each take our turn, you know. ' Thethrong of people was considerable. This man looked like a dustman. He, too, was eagerly buying a ticket, but had evidently mistaken thewindow. 'Third-class is lower down I think, ' Mr. Rogers suggested witha touch of authority. 'What a lot of foreigners there are about, ' remarked Minks. 'Thesestations are full of suspicious characters. ' The notice aboutloitering flashed across him. He took the ticket Mr. Rogers handed to him, and went off to registerthe luggage, and when later he joined his chief at the carriage doorhe saw him talking to a couple of strangers who seemed anxious to getin. 'I took _this_ corner seat for you, Mr. Rogers, ' he explained, both toprove his careful forethought and to let the strangers know that hismaster was a person of some importance. They were such anextraordinary couple too! Had there been hop-pickers about he couldhave understood it. They were almost figures of masquerade; for whileone resembled more than anything else a chimney-sweep who hadforgotten to wash his face below the level of the eyes, the othercarried a dirty sack across his shoulders, which apparently he hadjust been trying to squeeze into the rack. They moved off when they saw Minks, but the man with the sack made agesture with one hand, as though he scattered something into thecarriage through the open door. The secretary threw a reproachful look at a passing guard, but therewas nothing he could do. People with tickets had a right to travel. Still, he resented these crowding, pushing folk. 'I'm sorry, Mr. Rogers, ' he said, as though he had chosen a poor train for hishonoured chief; 'there must be an excursion somewhere. There's a bigfete of Vegetarians, I know, at Surbiton to-day, but I can hardlythink these people---' 'Don't wait, Minks, ' said the other, who had taken his seat. 'I'll letyou hear from me, you know, about the Scheme and--other things. Don'twait. ' He seemed curiously unobservant of these strange folk, almostabsent-minded. The guard was whistling. Minks shut the door and gave the travelling-rug a last tuck-in about his feet. He felt as though he were packingoff a child. The mother in him became active. Mr. Rogers neededlooking after. Another minute and he would have patted him and toldhim what to eat and wear. But instead he raised his hat and smiled. The train moved slowly out, making a deep purring sound like flowingwater. The platform had magically thinned. Officials stood lonelyamong the scattered wavers of hats and handkerchiefs. As he steppedbackwards to keep the carriage window in sight until the last possiblemoment, Minks was nearly knocked over by a man who hurried along theplatform as if he still had hopes of catching the train. 'Really, sir!' gasped the secretary, stooping to pick up his newspaperand lavender glove--he wore one glove and carried the other--thecollision had sent flying. But the man was already far beyond thereach of his voice. 'He must be an escaped lamplighter, or something, 'he laughed good-naturedly, as he saw the long legs vanish down theplatform. He leaped on to the line. Evidently he was a railwayemploye. He seemed to be vainly trying to catch the departing buffers. An absurd and reckless fellow, thought Minks. But what caught the secretary's attention last, and made him wonder alittle if anything unusual was happening to the world, was the curiousfact that, as the last carriage glided smoothly past, he recognisedfour figures seated comfortably inside. Their feet were on thecushions--disgracefully. They were talking together, heads forward, laughing, even--singing. And he could have sworn that they were thetwo men who had watched himself and Mr. Rogers at the ticket window, and the strangers who had tried to force their way into Mr. Rogers'scarriage when he came up just in time to interfere. 'They got in somehow after all, then, ' he said to himself. 'Of course, I had forgotten. The Company runs third-class carriages on thecontinental trains now. Odd!' He mentally rubbed his eyes. The train swept round the corner out of sight, leaving a streamingcloud of smoke and sparks behind it. It went out with a kind of rushof delight, glad to be off, and conscious of its passengers' pleasure. 'Odd. ' This was the word that filled his mind as he walked home. 'Perhaps--our minds are in such intimate sympathy together--perhaps hewas thinking of--of that kind of thing--er--and some of his thoughtsgot into my own imagination. Odd, though, very, _very_ odd. ' He had once read somewhere in one of his new-fangled books that'thoughts are things. ' It had made a great impression on him. He hadread about Marconi too. Later he made a more thorough study of this'thinking business. ' And soon afterwards, having put his chief's papers in order at theflat, he went home to Mrs. Minks and the children with this otherthought--that he had possibly been overworking himself, and that itwas a good thing he was going to have a holiday by the sea. He liked to picture himself as an original thinker, not afraid of newideas, but in reality he preferred his world sober, ordinary, logical. It was merely big-sounding names he liked. And this little incidentwas somewhere out of joint. It was--odd. Success that poisons many a baser mind May lift--- But the sonnet had never known completion. In the space it hadoccupied in his mind another one abruptly sprouted. The first subjectafter all was banal. A better one had come to him-- Strong thoughts that rise in a creative mind May flash about the world, and carry joy--- Then it stuck. He changed 'may' to 'shall, ' but a moment later decidedthat 'do' was better, truer than either. After that inspiration failedhim. He retired gracefully upon prose again. 'Odd, ' he thought, 'very odd!' And he relieved his mind by writing a letter to a newspaper. He didnot send it in the end, for his better judgment prevented, but he hadto do something by way of protest, and the only alternative was totell his wife about it, when she would look half puzzled, half pained, and probably reply with some remark about the general cost of living. So he wrote the letter instead. For Herbert Minks regarded himself as a man with the larger view ofcitizenship, a critic of public affairs, and, in a measure, therefore, an item of that public opinion which moulded governments. Hence he hada finger, though but a little finger, in the destiny of nations and inthe polity--a grand word that!--of national councils. He wrotefrequent letters, thus, to the lesser weekly journals; these letterswere sometimes printed; occasionally--oh, joy!--they were answered byothers like himself, who referred to him as 'your esteemedcorrespondent. ' As yet, however, his following letter had never gotinto print, nor had he experienced the importance of that editorialdecision, appended between square brackets: 'This correspondence mustnow cease'--so vital, that is, that the editor and the entire officestaff might change their opinions unless it _did_ cease. Having drafted his letter, therefore, and carried it about with himfor several hours in his breast pocket, he finally decided not to sendit after all, for the explanation of his 'odd' experience, he wellknew, was hardly one that a newspaper office could supply, or thatpublic correspondence could illuminate. His better judgment always wonthe day in the end. Thinking _was_ creative, after all. CHAPTER VII . .. The sun, Closing his benediction, Sinks, and the darkening air Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night- Night with her train of stars And her great gift of sleep. W. E. HENLEY. In a southern-facing room on the first floor of La Citadelle theEnglish family sat after tea. The father, a spare, mild-eyed man, histhatch of brown hair well sprinkled with grey above the temples, waslighting his pipe for the tenth time-the tenth match, but the samepipeful of tobacco; and his wife, an ample, motherly woman, slightlyyounger than himself, was knitting on the other side of the openfireplace, in which still glowed a mass of peat ashes. From time totime she stirred them with a rickety pair of tongs, or with her footkicked into the grate the matches he invariably threw short upon thefloor. But these were adventures ill-suited to her. Knitting was hernatural talent. She was always knitting. By the open window stood two children, a boy and a girl of ten andtwelve respectively, gazing out into the sunshine. It was the end ofApril, and though the sun was already hot, there was a sharpness inthe air that told of snow still lying on the mountain heights behindthe village. Across vineyard slopes and patches of agricultural land, the Lake of Neuchatel lay blue as a southern sea, while beyond it, ina line of white that the sunset soon would turn to pink and gold, stretched the whole range of Alps, from Mont Blanc to where the Eigerand the Weisshorn signalled in the east. They filled the entirehorizon, already cloud-like in the haze of coming summer. The door into the corridor opened, and a taller child came in. A massof dark hair, caught by a big red bow, tumbled untidily down her back. She was sixteen and very earnest, but her eyes, brown like herfather's, held a curious puzzled look, as though life still confusedher so much that while she did her duties bravely she did not quiteunderstand why it should be so. 'Excuse me, Mother, shall I wash up?' she said at once. She always didwash up. And 'excuse me' usually prefaced her questions. 'Please, Jane Anne, ' said Mother. The entire family called her JaneAnne, although her baptismal names were rather fine. Sometimes sheanswered, too, to Jinny, but when it was a question of householdduties it was Jane Anne, or even 'Ria. ' She set about her duties promptly, though not with any specialdeftness. And first she stooped and picked up the last match herfather had dropped upon the strip of carpet that covered the linoleum. 'Daddy, ' she said reprovingly, 'you do make such a mess. ' She brushedtobacco ashes from his coat. Mother, without looking up, went ontalking to him about the bills-washing, school-books, boots, blouses, oil, and peat. And as she did so a puzzled expression was visible inhis eyes akin to the expression in Jane Anne's. Both enjoyed a similarmental confusion sometimes as to words and meanings and the import ofpractical life generally. 'We shan't want any more now, thank goodness, ' he said vaguely, referring to the peat, though Mother was already far ahead, wadingamong boots and shirts and blouses. 'But if we get a load in now, you see, it's _cheaper_, ' she said withemphasis on every alternate word, slowing up the pace to suit him. 'Mother, where _did_ you put the washing-up rag?' came the voice ofJinny in plaintive accents from the tiny kitchen that lay beyond theadjoining bedroom. 'I can't find it anywhere, ' she added, poking herhead round the door suddenly. 'Pet lamb, ' was Mother's answer, still bending over her knitting-shewas prodigal of terms like this and applied them indiscriminately, forJane Anne resembled the animal in question even less than did herfather--'I saw it last on the geranium shelf--you know, where thefuchsias and the-' She hesitated, she was not sure herself. 'I'll getit, my duckie, for you, ' she added, and began to rise. She was avoluminous, very stately woman. The operation took time. 'Let me, ' said Daddy, drawing his mind with difficulty from the peat, and rising too. They rose together. 'It's all right, I've got it, ' cried the child, who had disappearedagain. 'It was in the sink. That's Jimbo; he washed up yesterday. ' 'Pas vrai!' piped a little voice beside the open window, overhearinghis name, 'because I only dried. It was Monkey who washed up. ' Theytalked French and English all mixed up together. But Monkey was too busy looking at the Alps through an old pair ofopera-glasses, relic of her father's London days that served fortelescope, to think reply worth while. Her baptismal names were alsorather wonderful, though neither of her parents could have suppliedthem without a moment's reflection first. There was commotion by thatwindow for a moment but it soon subsided again, for things that Jinnysaid never provoked dissension, and Jimbo and Monkey just then werebusy with a Magic Horse who had wings of snow, and was making fearfulleaps from the peaks of the Dent du Midi across the Blumlisalp to theJungfrau. 'Will you please carry the samovar for me?' exclaimed Jane Anne, addressing both her parents, as though uncertain which of them wouldhelp her. 'You filled it so awfully full to-day, I can't lift it. Iadvertise for help. ' Her father slowly rose. 'I'll do it, child, ' he said kindly, but witha patience, almost resignation, in his tone suggesting that it wasabsurd to expect such a thing of him. 'Then do exactly as you thinkbest, ' he let fall to his wife as he went, referring to the chaos ofexpenses she had been discussing with him. 'That'll be all right. ' Forhis mind had not yet sorted the jumble of peat, oil, boots, school-books, and the rest. 'We can manage THAT at any rate; you see it'sfrancs, not shillings, ' he added, as Jane Anne pulled him by thesleeve towards the steaming samovar. He held the strings of an everempty purse. 'Daddy, but you've _always_ got a crumb in your beard, ' she wassaying, 'and if it isn't a crumb, it's ashes on your coat or a matchon the floor. ' She brushed the crumb away. He gave her a kiss. Andbetween them they nearly upset the old nickel-plated samovar that wasa present from a Tiflis Armenian to whom the mother once taughtEnglish. They looked round anxiously as though afraid of a scolding;but Mother had not noticed. And she was accustomed to the noise andlaughter. The scene then finished, as it usually did, by the motherwashing up, Jane Anne drying, and Daddy hovering to and fro in thebackground making remarks in his beard about the geraniums, the Chinatea, the indigestible new bread, the outrageous cost of thenecessaries of life, or the book he was at work on at the moment. Heoften enough gave his uncertain assistance in the little menial dutiesconnected with the preparation or removal of the tea-things, and hadeven been known to dry. Only washing-up he never did. Somehow hisvocation rendered him immune from that. He might bring the peat in, fill the lamps, arrange and dust the scanty furniture, but washing-upwas not a possibility even. As an author it was considered beneath hisdignity altogether, almost improper--it would have shocked thechildren. Mother could do anything; it was right and natural that sheshould---poor soul I But Daddy's profession set him in an enclosureapart, and there were certain things in this servantless menage hecould not have done without disgracing the entire family. Washing-upwas one; carrying back the empty basket of tea-things to the Pensionwas another. Daddy wrote books. As Jane Anne put it forcibly andfinally once, 'Shakespeare never washed up or carried a tea-basket inthe street!'--which the others accepted as a conclusive statement ofauthority. And, meantime, the two younger children, who knew how to amuse eachother for hours together unaided, had left the Magic Horse in itsstables for the night--an enormous snow-drift--and were sitting sideby side upon the sofa conning a number of _Punch_ some English aunthad sent them. The girl read out the jokes, and her brother pointedwith a very dirty finger to the pictures. None of the jokes wereseized by either, but Jimbo announced each one with, 'Oh! I say!' andtheir faces were grave and sometimes awed; and when Jimbo asked, 'Butwhat does THAT mean?' his sister would answer, 'Don't you see, Isuppose the cabman meant--' finishing with some explanation very farfrom truth, whereupon Jimbo, accepting it doubtfully, said nothing, and they turned another page with keen anticipation. They neverappealed for outside aid, but enjoyed it in their own dark, mysteriousway. And, presently, when the washing-up was finished, and the duskbegan to dim the landscape and conceal the ghostly-looking Alps, theyretired to the inner bedroom--for this was Saturday and there were noschool tasks to be prepared--and there, seated on the big bed in thecorner, they opened a book of _cantiques_ used in school, and sang onehymn and song after another, interrupting one another with jokes andlaughter and French and English sentences oddly mixed together. Jimbosang the tune, and Monkey the alto. It was by no means unpleasant tolisten to. And, upon the whole, it was a very grave businessaltogether, graver even than their attitude to "Punch. " Jane Anneconsidered it a foolish waste of time, but she never actually said so. She smiled her grave smile and went her own puzzled way alone. Usually at this hour the Den presented a very different appearance, the children, with slates and _cahiers_, working laboriously round thetable, Jane Anne and mother knitting or mending furiously, MereRiquette, the old cat, asleep before the fire, and a generalschoolroom air pervading the place. The father, too, tea oncefinished, would depart for the little room he slept in and used aswork-place over at the carpenter's house among the vineyards. He kepthis books there, his rows of pipes and towering little heap of half-filled match-boxes, and there he wrote his clever studies that yetwere unproductive of much gold and brought him little more thanpleasant notices and occasional letters from enthusiastic strangers. It seemed very unremunerative labour indeed, and the family had donewell to migrate from Essex into Switzerland, where, besides theexcellent schools which cost barely two pounds annually per head, thechildren learned the language and enjoyed the air of forest andmountain into the bargain. Life, for all that, was a severe problem tothem, and the difficulty of making both ends come in sight of eachother, let alone meeting, was an ever-present one. That they joggedalong so well was due more than the others realised to the untiringand selfless zeal of the Irish mother, a plucky, practical woman, anda noble one if ever such existed on this earth. The way she contrivedwould fill a book; her economies, so clever they hardly betrayedthemselves, would supply a comic annual with material for years, though their comedy involved a pathos of self-denial and sleeplessnights that only those similarly placed could have divined. Herself asilent, even inarticulate, woman, she never spoke of them, least ofall to her husband, whose mind it was her brave desire to keep freefrom unnecessary worries for his work. His studies she did notunderstand, but his stories she read aloud with patient resignation tothe children. She marked the place when the reading was interruptedwith a crimson paper-knife, and often Jimbo would move it severalpages farther on without any of them discovering the gap. Jane Anne, however, who made no pretence of listening to 'Daddy's muddle-stories, ' was beginning to realise what went on in Mother's mindunderground. She hardly seized the pathos, but she saw and understoodenough to help. And she was in many ways a little second edition--aphrase the muddle-stories never knew, alas!--of her mother, with thesame unselfishness that held a touch of grandeur, the same cleverdomestic instinct for contrivance, and the same careful ways that yetsat ill upon a boundless generosity of heart beneath. She loved to bethought older than she was, and she used the longest, biggest, grandest words she could possibly invent or find. And the village life suited them all in all respects, for, while therewas no degrading poverty anywhere, all the inhabitants, from thepasteur to the carpenter, knew the exact value of a centime; there wasno question of keeping up impossible appearances, but a generalfrankness with regard to the fundamental values of clothing, food, andeducation that all shared alike and made no pretence about. Anyfaintest sign of snobbery, for instance, would have been drummed outof the little mountain hamlet at once by Gygi, the gendarme, who spentmore time in his fields and vineyards than in his uniform. And, whileevery one knew that a title and large estates were a not impossiblefuture for the famille anglaise, it made no slightest difference inthe treatment of them, and indeed hardly lent them the flavour of afaintest cachet. They were the English family in La Citadelle, andthat was all there was about it. The peasants, however, rather pitied the hard-working author who 'hadto write all those books, ' than paid him honourable tribute for hiswork. It seemed so unnecessary. Vineyards produced wine a man coulddrink and pay for, but books---! Well, results spoke for themselves, and no one who lived in La Citadelle was millionaire. Yet the reputation of John Frederic Campden stood high enough, for allhis meagre earnings, and he was an ineffective author chiefly, perhaps, because he missed his audience. Somewhere, somehow, he fellbetween two stools. And his chagrin was undeniable; for though thepoet's heart in him kept all its splendid fires alight, his failurechilled a little the intellect that should fashion them alongeffective moulds. Now, with advancing years, the increasing cost ofthe children's growing-up, and the failing of his wife's health alittle, the burdens of life were heavier than he cared to think about. But this evening, as the group sat round the wide peat fire, cheerfuland jolly in the lamplight, there was certainly no sign of sadness. They were like a party of children in which the grave humour of theever-knitting mother kept the balance true between fun andfoolishness. 'Please, Daddy, a story at once, ' Jane Anne demanded, 'but a told one, not a read-aloud one. I like a romantic effort best. ' He fumbled in his pocket for a light, and Jimbo gravely produced a boxhe had secretly filled with matches already used, collectedlaboriously from the floor during the week. Then Monkey, full ofmischief, came over from the window where she had been watching themwith gasps of astonishment no one had heeded through the small end ofthe opera-glasses. There was a dancing brilliance in her movements, and her eyes, brown like her mother's, sparkled with fun andwickedness. Taking the knee Jimbo left unoccupied, and waiting tillthe diversion caused by the match-box had subsided, she solemnlyplaced a bread-crumb in his rather tangled beard. 'Now you're full-dress, ' she said, falling instantly so close againsthim that he could not tickle her, while Mother glanced up a seconduncertain whether to criticise the impertinence or let it pass. Shelet it pass. None of the children had the faintest idea what it meantto be afraid of their father. 'People who waste bread, ' he began, 'end by getting so thin themselvesthat they double up like paper and disappear. ' 'But _how_ thin, Daddy?' asked Jane Anne, ever literal to the death. 'And is it romantic or just silly?' He was puzzled for a moment what to reply. 'He doesn't know. He's making up, ' piped Jimbo. 'I _do_ know, ' came the belated explanation, as he put the crumb intothe bowl of his extinguished pipe with a solemnity that delightedthem, but puzzled Jane Anne, who suggested it would taste 'like toastsmelt. ' 'People who take bread that doesn't belong to them end byhaving no dinner---' 'But that isn't anything about thinness, ' interrupted Jinny, stilluncomforted. Some one wasted by love was in her mind perhaps. 'It is, child, because they get so frightfully thin, ' he went on, 'that they end by getting thinner than the thin end of a wedge. ' The eyes of Mother twinkled, but the children still stared, waiting. They had never heard of this phrase about the wedge. Indeed Jane Anneshared with Jimbo total ignorance of the word at all. Like theaudience who read his books, or rather ought to have read them, theyexpected something different, yet still hoped. 'It's a rhyme, and not a story though, ' he added, anticipating perhapstheir possible disappointment. For the recent talk about expenses hadchilled his imagination too much for an instantaneous story, whereasrhymes came ever to him easily. 'All right! Let's have it anyhow, ' came the verdict in sentences ofFrench and English. And in the breathless pause that followed, evenMother looking up expectantly from her busy fingers, was heard thisstrange fate of the Thin Child who stole another's bread-crumb:-- He then grew thinner than the thin, The thin end of the wedge; He grew so pitifully thin It set his teeth on edge; But the edge it set his teeth upon Was worse than getting thinner, For it was the edge of appetite, And his teeth were in no dinner! There was a deep silence. Mother looked as though she expected more, --the good part yet to come. The rhyme fell flat as a pancake, for ofcourse the children did not understand it. Its nonsense, cleverenough, escaped them. True nonsense is for grown-ups only. Jane Annestared steadily at him with a puzzled frown. Her face wore anexpression like a moth. 'Thank you, Daddy, _very_ much, ' she said, certain as ever that thefault if any was her own, since all that Daddy said and did was simplysplendid. Whereupon the others fairly screamed with delight, turningattention thereby from the dismal failure. 'She doesn't understand it, but she's always so polite!' cried Monkey. Her mother quickly intervened. 'Never mind, Jane Anne, ' she soothedher, lest her feelings should be ruffled; 'you shall never want adinner, lovey; and when all Monkey's teeth are gone you'll still beable to munch away at something. ' But Jinny's feelings were never ruffled exactly, only confused andpuzzled. She was puzzled now. Her confidence in her father's splendourwas unshakable. 'And, anyhow, Mother, you'll never be a thin wedge, ' she answered, meaning to show her gratitude by a compliment. She joined herself asloudly as anybody in the roar that followed this sally. Obviously, shehad said a clever and amusing thing, though it was not clear to herwhy it was so. Her flushed face was very happy; it even wore a touchof proud superiority. Her talents were domestic rather thanintellectual. 'Excuse me, Daddy, ' she said gravely, in a pause that followedpresently. 'But what is a wedge, exactly? And I think I'd like to copythat poetry in my book, please. ' For she kept a book in which hisefforts were neatly inscribed in a round copy-book handwriting, andcalled by Monkey 'The Muddle Book. ' There his unappreciated doggerelsfound fame, though misunderstood most of all by the affectionate childwho copied them so proudly. The book was brought at once. Her father wrote out the nonsense verseon his knee and made a funny little illustration in the margin. 'Oh, Isay!' said Jimbo, watching him, while Monkey, lapsing into French, contributed with her usual impudence, 'Pas tant mal!' They all lovedthe illustrations. The general interest, then, as the way is with children, puppies, andother young Inconsistencies, centred upon the contents of the book. They eagerly turned the pages, as though they did not know itscontents by heart already. They praised for the hundredth time thedrawing of the Muddle Animal who Hung its hopes upon a nail Or laid them on the shelf; Then pricked its conscience with its tail, And sat upon itself. They looked also with considerable approval upon the drawings anddescriptions of the Muddle Man whose manners towards the rest of theworld were cool; because He saw things with his naked eye, That's why his glance was chilly. But the explanation of the disasters he caused everywhere by hisdisagreeable sharpness of speech and behaviour did _not_ amuse them. They observed as usual that it was 'too impossible'; the drawings, moreover, did not quite convince:-- So cutting was his speaking tone Each phrase snipped off a button, So sharp his words, they have been known To carve a leg of mutton; He shaved himself with sentences, And when he went to dances, He made--Oh shocking tendencies!- Deep holes with piercing glances. But on the last page the Muddle Man behaved so badly, was sopositively indecent in his conduct, that he was persuaded to disappearaltogether; and his manner of extinguishing himself in theillustration delighted the children far more than the verse whose funagain escaped them:-- They observed he was indecent, But he said it wasn't true, For _he_ pronounced it 'in descent'-- Then disappeared from view! Mother's alleged 'second sight' was also attributed to the fact thatshe 'looked twice before she leaped'--and the drawing of that leapnever failed to produce high spirits. For her calm and steady way ofwalking--sailing--had earned her the name of the frigate--and this wasalso illustrated, with various winds, all coloured, driving her along. The time passed happily; some one turned the lamp out, and Daddy, regardless of expense--he had been grumbling about it ten minutesbefore--heaped on the bricks of peat. Riquette, a bit of movablefurniture without which the room seemed incomplete, deftly slipped inbetween the circle of legs and feet, and curled up upon Jinny's lap. Her snoring, a wheezy noise that made Jimbo wonder 'why it didn'tscrape her, ' was as familiar as the ticking of the clock. Old MereRiquette knew her rights. And she exacted them. Jinny's lap was one ofthese. She had a face like an old peasant woman, with a curious snubnose and irregular whiskers that betrayed recklessly the advance ofage. Her snores and gentle purring filled the room now. A hush cameover the whole party. At seven o'clock they must all troop over to thePension des Glycines for supper, but there was still an hour left. Andit was a magic hour. Sighs were audible here and there, as theexhausted children settled deeper into their chairs. A change came over the atmosphere. Would nothing exciting ever happen? 'The stars are out, ' said Jimbo in his soft, gentle little voice, turning his head towards the windows. The others looked too--allexcept Mother, whose attitude suggested suspiciously that she slept, and Riquette, who most certainly did sleep. Above the rampart of thedarkened Alps swung up the army of the stars. The brighter ones werereflected in the lake. The sky was crowded. Tiny, golden pathways sliddown the purple walls of the night. 'Some one in heaven is lettingdown the star-ladders. .. ' he whispered. Jimbo's sentence had marked the change of key. Enchantment was abroad--the Saturday evening spell was in the room. And suddenly a new enormous thing stirred in their father's heart. Whence it came, or why, he knew not. Like a fire it rose in him deepdown, from very far away, delightful. Was it an inspiration coming, hewondered? And why did Jimbo use that phrase of beauty about star-ladders? How did it come into the mind of a little boy? The phraseopened a new channel in the very depths of him, thence climbing up andoutwards, towards the brain. .. . And, with a thrill of curious highwonder, he let it come. It was large and very splendid. It came with arush--as of numerous whispering voices that flocked about him, urgingsome exquisite, distant sweetness in him to unaccustomed delivery. Asoftness of ten thousand stars trooped down into his blood. Someconstellation like the Pleiades had flung their fiery tackle acrossthe dusk upon his mind. His thought turned golden. .. . CHAPTER VIII We are the stars which sing. We sing with our light. We are the birds of fire. We fly across the heaven. Our light is a star. We make a road for Spirits, A road for the Great Spirit. Among us are three hunters Who chase a bear: There never was a time When they were not hunting; We look down on the mountains. This is the Song of the Mountains. _Red Indian_ (_Algonquin_) _Lyric_. Translator, J. D. PRINCE. 'A star-story, please, ' the boy repeated, cuddling up. They all drew, where possible, nearer. Their belief in their father's powers, rarelyjustified, was pathetic. Each time they felt sure he would make theadventures seem real, yet somehow he never quite did. They were awarethat it was invention only. These things he told about he had notexperienced himself. For they badly needed a leader, these children;and Daddy just missed filling the position. He was too 'clever, ' hisimagination neither wild nor silly enough, for children. And he feltit. He threw off rhymes and stories for them in a spirit of bravadorather--an expression of disappointment. Yet there was passion in themtoo--concealed. The public missed the heart he showed them in hisbooks in the same way. 'The stars are listening. .. . ' Jimbo's voice sounded far away, almostoutside the window. Mother now snored audibly. Daddy took his couragein both hands and made the plunge. 'You know about the Star Cavern, I suppose--?' he began. It was thesudden idea that had shot into him, he knew not whence. 'No. ' 'Never heard of it. ' 'Where is it, please?' 'Don't interrupt. That wasn't a _real_ question. Stories always beginlike that. ' It was Jane Anne who thus finally commanded order. 'It's not a story exactly, but a sort of adventure, ' he continued, hesitating yet undaunted. 'Star Caverns are places where the unusedstarlight gathers. There are numbers of them about the world, and oneI know of is up here in our mountains, ' he pointed through the northwall towards the pine-clad Jura, 'not far from the slopes of Boudrywhere the forests dip towards the precipices of the Areuse--' Thephrase ran oddly through him like an inspiration, or the beginning ofa song he once had heard somewhere. 'Ah, beyond le Vallon Vert? I know, ' whispered Jimbo, his blue eyesbig already with wonder. 'Towards the precipices on the farther side, ' came the explanation, 'where there are those little open spaces among the trees. ' 'Tell us more exactly, please. ' 'Star-rays, you see, ' he evaded them, 'are visible in the sky on theirway to us, but once they touch the earth they disappear and go outlike a candle. Unless a chance puddle, or a pair of eyes happens to beabout to catch them, you can't tell where they've gone to. They goreally into these Star Caverns. ' 'But in a puddle or a pair of eyes they'd be lost just the same, ' camethe objection. 'On the contrary, ' he said; 'changed a little--increased byreflection--but not lost. ' There was a pause; the children stared, expectantly. Here was mystery. 'See how they mirror themselves whenever possible, ' he went on, 'doubling their light and beauty by giving themselves away! What is apuddle worth until a Star's wee golden face shines out of it? Andthen--what gold can buy it? And what are your eyes worth until a starhas flitted in and made a nest there?' 'Oh, like that, you mean--!' exclaimed Jane Anne, remembering that thewonderful women in the newspaper stories always had 'starry eyes. ' 'Like that, yes. ' Daddy continued. 'Their light puts sympathy in you, and only sympathy makes you lovely and--and--' He stopped abruptly. He hesitated a moment. He was again most suddenlyaware that this strange idea that was born in him came from somewhereelse, almost from _some one_ else. It was not his own idea, nor had hecaptured it completely yet. Like a wandering little inspiration fromanother mind it seemed passing through him on uncertain, featheryfeet. He had suddenly lost it again. Thought wandered. He stared atJimbo, for Jimbo somehow seemed the channel. The children waited, then talked among themselves. Daddy so often gotmuddled and inattentive in this way. They were accustomed to it, expected it even. 'I always love being out at night, ' said Monkey, her eyes very bright;'it sort of excites and makes me soft and happy. ' 'Excuse me, Daddy, but have you been inside one? What's it like? TheCave, I mean?' Jinny stuck to the point. She had not yet travelledbeyond it. 'It all collects in there and rises to the top like cream, ' he wenton, 'and has a little tiny perfume like wild violets, and by walkingthrough it you get clothed and covered with it, and come out again allsoft-shiny--' 'What's soft-shiny, please?' 'Something half-primrose and half-moon. You're like a star--' 'But how--like a star?' 'Why, ' he explained gently, yet a little disappointed that hisadventure was not instantly accepted, 'you shine, and your eyestwinkle, and everybody likes you and thinks you beautiful--' 'Even if you're not?' inquired Jinny. 'But you _are_--' 'Couldn't we go there now? Mother's fast asleep!' suggested Jimbo in amysterious whisper. He felt a curious excitement. This, he felt, wasmore real than usual. He glanced at Monkey's eyes a moment. 'Another time, ' said Daddy, already half believing in the truth of hisadventure, yet not quite sure of himself. 'It collects, and collects, and collects. Sometimes, here and there, a little escapes and creepsout into yellow flowers like dandelions and buttercups. A little, too, slips below the ground and fills up empty cracks between the rocks. Then it hardens, gets dirty, and men dig it out again and call itgold. And some slips out by the roof--though very, very little--andyou see it flashing back to find the star it belongs to, and peoplewith telescopes call it a shooting star, and--' It came pouringthrough him again. 'But when you're in it--in the Cavern, ' asked Monkey impatiently;'what happens then?' 'Well, ' he answered with conviction, 'it sticks to you. It sticks tothe eyes most, but a little also to the hair and voice, and nobodyloves you unless you've got a bit of it somewhere on you. A girl, before any one falls in love with her, has always been there, andpeople who write stories and music and things--all have got some ontheir fingers or else nobody cares for what they write--' 'Oh, Daddy, then why don't you go there and get sticky all over withit?' Jinny burst out with sudden eagerness, ever thinking of othersbefore herself. 'I'll go and get some for you--lots and lots. ' 'I _have_ been there, ' he answered slowly, 'once long, long ago. Butit didn't stick very well with me. It wipes off so quickly in the day-time. The sunlight kills it. ' 'But you got _some_!' the child insisted. 'And you've got it still, Imean?' 'A little, perhaps, a very little. ' All felt the sadness in his voice without understanding it. There wasa moment's pause. Then the three of them spoke in a single breath-- 'Please show it to us--_now_, ' they cried. 'I'll try, ' he said, after a slight hesitation, 'but--er--it's only arhyme, you see'; and then began to murmur very low for fear of wakingMother: he almost sang it to them. The flock of tiny voices whisperedit to his blood. He merely uttered what he heard:-- Starlight Runs along my mind And rolls into a ball of golden silk-- A little skein Of tangled glory; And when I want to get it out again To weave the pattern of a verse or story, It must unwind. It then gets knotted, looped, and all up-jumbled, And long before I get it straight again, unwumbled, To make my verse or story, The interfering sun has risen And burst with passion through my silky prison To melt it down in dew, Like so much spider-gossamer or fairy-cotton. Don't you? _I_ call it rotten! A hushed silence followed. Eyes sought the fire. No one spoke forseveral minutes. There was a faint laughter, quickly over, butcontaining sighs. Only Jinny stared straight into her father's face, expecting more, though prepared at any stage to explode with unfeignedadmiration. 'But that "don't you" comes in the wrong place, ' she objectedanxiously. 'It ought to come after "I call it rotten"---' She wasdetermined to make it seem all right. 'No, Jinny, ' he answered gravely, 'you must always put others beforeyourself. It's the first rule in life and literature. ' She dropped her eyes to the fire like the others. 'Ah, ' she said, 'Isee; of course. ' The long word blocked her mind like an avalanche, even while she loved it. '_I_ call it rotten, ' murmured Monkey under her breath. Jimbo made noaudible remark. He crossed his little legs and folded his arms. He wasnot going to express an opinion until he understood better what it wasall about. He began to whisper to his sister. Another longish pauseintervened. It was Jinny again who broke it. 'And "wumbled, "' she asked solemnly as though the future of everybodydepended on it, 'what _is_ wumbled, really? There's no such thing, isthere?--In life, I mean?' She meant to add 'and literature, ' but theword stopped her like a hedge. 'It's what happens to a verse or story I lose in that way, ' heexplained, while Jimbo and Monkey whispered more busily still amongthemselves about something else. 'The bit of starlight that gets lostand doesn't stick, you see--ineffective. ' 'But there _is_ no such word, really, ' she urged, determined to clearup all she could. 'It rhymes--that's all. ' 'And there _is_ no verse or story, ' he replied with a sigh. 'There_was_--that's all. ' There was another pause. Jimbo and Monkey looked round suspiciously. They ceased their mysterious whispering. They clearly did not wish theothers to know what their confabulation was about. 'That's why your books are wumbled, is it?' she inquired, proud of anexplanation that excused him, yet left his glory somehow unimpaired. Her face was a map of puzzled wrinkles. 'Precisely, Jinny. You see, the starlight never gets through properlyinto my mind. It lies there in a knot. My plot is wumbled. I can'tdisentangle it quite, though the beauty lies there right enough---' 'Oh, yes, ' she interrupted, 'the beauty lies there still. ' She got upsuddenly and gave him a kiss. 'Never mind, Daddy, ' she whispered. 'I'll get it straight for you oneday. I'll unwumble it. I'll do it like a company promoter, I will. 'She used words culled from newspapers. 'Thank you, child, ' he smiled, returning her kiss; 'I'm sure you will. Only, you'd better let me know when you're coming. It might bedangerous to my health otherwise. ' She took it with perfect seriousness. 'Oh, but, excuse me, I'll comewhen you're asleep, ' she told him, so low that the others could nothear. 'I'll come to you when I'm dreaming. I dream all night like abusy Highlander. ' 'That's right, ' he whispered, giving her a hug. 'Come when I'm asleepand all the stars are out; and bring a comb and a pair of scissors---' 'And a hay-rake, ' added Monkey, overhearing. Everybody laughed. The children cuddled up closer to him. They pitiedhim. He had failed again, though his failure was as much a pleasure ashis complete success. They sat on his knees and played with him tomake up for it, repeating bits of the rhyme they could remember. ThenMother and Riquette woke up together, and the spell was broken. Theparty scattered. Only Jimbo and his younger sister, retiring into acorner by themselves, continued their mysterious confabulation. Theirfaces were flushed with excitement. There was a curious animation intheir eyes--though this may have been borrowed from the embers of thepeat. Or, it may have been the stars, for they were close to the openwindow. Both seemed soft-shiny somehow. _They_, certainly, were notwumbled. And several hours later, when they had returned from supper at thePension and lay in bed, exchanging their last mysterious whispersacross the darkness, Monkey said in French-- 'Jimbo, I'm going to find that Cavern where the star stuff lies, ' andJimbo answered audaciously, 'I've already been there. ' 'Will you show me the way, then?' she asked eagerly, and ratherhumbly. 'Perhaps, ' he answered from beneath the bedclothes, then added, 'Ofcourse I will. ' He merely wished to emphasise the fact that he wasleader. 'Sleep quickly, then, and join me--over there. ' It was their game tobelieve they joined in one another's dreams. They slept. And the last thing that reached them from the outer worldwas their mother's voice calling to them her customary warning: thatthe _ramoneur_ was already in the chimney and that unless they wereasleep in five minutes he would come and catch them by the tail. Forthe Sweep they looked upon with genuine awe. His visits to thevillage--once in the autumn and once in the spring--were times ofshivery excitement. Presently Mother rose and sailed on tiptoe round the door to peep. Anda smile spread softly over her face as she noted the characteristicevidences of the children beside each bed. Monkey's clothes lay in ascattered heap of confusion, half upon the floor, but Jimbo's garmentswere folded in a precise, neat pile upon the chair. They looked readyto be packed into a parcel. His habits were so orderly. His schoolblouse hung on the back, the knickerbockers were carefully folded, andthe black belt lay coiled in a circle on his coat and what he termedhis 'westkit. ' Beneath the chair the little pair of very dirty bootsstood side by side. Mother stooped and kissed the round plush-coveredhead that just emerged from below the mountainous _duvet_. He lookedlike a tiny radish lying in a big ploughed field. Then, hunting for a full five minutes before she discovered the shoesof Monkey, one beneath the bed and the other inside her petticoat, shepassed on into the little kitchen where she cleaned and polished bothpairs, and then replaced them by their respective owners. This done, she laid the table in the outer room for their breakfast at half-pastsix, saw that their school-books and satchels were in order, gave themeach a little more unnecessary tucking-up and a kiss so soft it couldnot have waked a butterfly, and then returned to her chair before thefire where she resumed the mending of a pile of socks and shirts, blouses and stockings, to say nothing of other indescribable garments, that lay in a formidable heap upon the big round table. This was her nightly routine. Sometimes her husband joined her. Thenthey talked the children over until midnight, discussed expenses thatthreatened to swamp them, yet turned out each month 'just manageablesomehow' and finally made a cup of cocoa before retiring, she to herself-made bed upon the sofa, and he to his room in the carpenter'shouse outside the village. But sometimes he did not come. He remainedin the Pension to smoke and chat with the Russian and Armenianstudents, who attended daily lectures in the town, or else went overto his own quarters to work at the book he was engaged on at themoment. To-night he did not come. A light in an attic window, justvisible above the vineyards, showed that he was working. The room was very still; only the click of the knitting needles or thesoft noise of the collapsing peat ashes broke the stillness. Riquettesnored before the fire less noisily than usual. 'He's working very late to-night, ' thought Mother, noticing thelighted window. She sighed audibly; mentally she shrugged hershoulders. Daddy had long ago left that inner preserve of her heartwhere she completely understood him. Sympathy between them, in thetrue sense of the word, had worn rather thin. 'I hope he won't overtire himself, ' she added, but this was the habitof perfunctory sympathy. She might equally have said, 'I wish he woulddo something to bring in a little money instead of earning next tonothing and always complaining about the expenses. ' Outside the stars shone brightly through the fresh spring night, whereApril turned in her sleep, dreaming that May was on the way to wakeher. CHAPTER IX Wrap thy form in a mantle gray, Star-inwrought! Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day; Kiss her until she be wearied out, Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land, Touching all with thine opiate wand- Come, long sought! To _Night_, SHELLEY. Now, cats are curious creatures, and not without reason, perhaps, arethey adored by some, yet regarded with suspicious aversion by others. They know so much they never dare to tell, while affecting that theyknow nothing and are innocent. For it is beyond question that severalhours later, when the village and the Citadelle were lost in slumber, Mere Riquette stirred stealthily where she lay upon the hearth, openedher big green eyes, and--began to wash. But this toilette was pretence in case any one was watching. Really, she looked about her all the time. Her sleep also had been that shamsleep of cats behind which various plots and plans mature--aquestionable business altogether. The washing, as soon as she madecertain no one saw her, gave place to another manoeuvre. She stretchedas though her bones were of the very best elastic. Gathering herselftogether, she arched her round body till it resembled a toy balloonstraining to rise against the pull of four thin ropes that held ittightly to the ground. Then, unable to float off through the air, asshe had expected, she slowly again subsided. The balloon deflated. Shelicked her chops, twitched her whiskers, curled her tail neatly roundher two front paws--and grinned complacently. She waited before thatextinguished fire of peat as though she had never harboured a singleevil purpose in all her days. 'A saucer of milk, ' she gave the worldto understand, c is the only thing _I_ care about. ' Her smile ofinnocence and her attitude of meek simplicity proclaimed this to theuniverse at large. 'That's me, ' she told the darkness, 'and I don'tcare a bit who knows it. ' She looked so sleek and modest that a mouseneed not have feared her. But she did not add, 'That's what I mean theworld to think, ' for this belonged to the secret life cats never talkabout. Those among humans might divine it who could, and welcome. Theywould be admitted. But the rest of the world were regarded with meretolerant disdain. They bored. Then, satisfied that she was unobserved, Mere Riquette abandoned allfurther pretence, and stalked silently about the room. The starlightjust made visible her gliding shadow, as first she visited the made-upsofa-bed where the exhausted mother snored mildly beneath the book-shelves, and then, after a moment's keen inspection, turned back andwent at a quicker pace into the bedroom where the children slept. There the night-light made her movements easily visible. The cat wasexcited. Something bigger than any mouse was coming into her life justnow. Riquette then witnessed a wonderful and beautiful thing, yet witnessedit obviously not for the first time. Her manner suggested no surprise. 'It's like a mouse, only bigger, ' her expression said. And by this shemeant that it was natural. She accepted it as right and proper. For Monkey got out of herself as out of a case. She slipped from herbody as a sword slips from its sheath, yet the body went on breathingin the bed just as before; the turned-up nose with the little platformat its tip did not cease from snoring, and the lids remained fastenedtightly over the brilliant brown eyes, buttoned down so securely forthe night. Two plaits of hair lay on the pillow; another rose and fellwith the regular breathing of her little bosom. But Monkey herselfstood softly shining on the floor within a paw's length. Riquette blinked her eyes and smiled complacently. Jimbo was closebehind her, even brighter than his sister, with eyes like stars. The visions of cats are curious things, no doubt, and few may guesstheir furry, silent pathways as they go winding along their length ofinconsequent development. For, softer than any mouse, the childrenglided swiftly into the next room where Mother slept beneath the book-shelves--two shining little radiant figures, hand in hand. They triedfor a moment to pull out Mother too, but found her difficult to move. Somewhere on the way she stuck. They gave it up. Turning towards the window that stood open beyond the head of thesofa-bed, they rose up lightly and floated through it out into thestarry night. Riquette leaped like a silent shadow after them, butbefore she reached the roof of red-brown tiles that sloped down to theyard, Jimbo and Monkey were already far away. She strained her biggreen eyes in vain, seeing nothing but the tops of the plane trees, thick with tiny coming leaves, the sweep of vines and sky, and thetender, mothering night beyond. She pattered softly back again, gave acontemptuous glance at Mother in passing, and jumped up at once intothe warm nest of sheets that gaped invitingly between the shoulder ofJimbo's body and the pillow. She shaped the opening to her taste, kneading it with both front paws, turned three times round, and thenlay down. Curled in a ball, her nose buried between her back feet, shewas asleep in a single moment. Her whiskers ceased to quiver. The children were tugging at Daddy now over in the carpenter's house. His bed was short, and his body lay in a kind of knot. On the chairbeside it were books and papers, and a candle that had burnt itselfout. A pencil poked its nose out among the sheets, and it was clear hehad fallen asleep while working. 'Wumbled!' sighed Jimbo, pointing to the scribbled notes. But Monkeywas busy pulling him out, and did not answer. Then Jimbo helped her. And Daddy came out magnificently--as far as the head--then stuck likeMother. They pulled in vain. Something in his head prevented completerelease. 'En voila un!' laughed Monkey. 'Quel homme!' It was her naturalspeech, the way she talked at school. 'It's a pity, ' said Jimbo with alittle sigh. They gave it up, watching him slide slowly back again. The moment he was all in they turned towards the open window. Hand inhand they sailed out over the sleeping village. And from almost everyhouse they heard a sound of weeping. There were sighs and prayers andpleadings. All slept and dreamed--dreamed of their difficulties anddaily troubles. Released in sleep, their longings rose to heavenunconsciously, automatically as it were. Even the cheerful and thehappy yearned a little, even the well-to-do whom the world judged sosecure--these, too, had their burdens that found release, and soperhaps relief in sleep. 'Come, and we'll help them, ' Jimbo said eagerly. 'We can change allthat a little. Oh, I say, what a lot we've got to do to-night. ' 'Je crois bien, ' laughed Monkey, turning somersaults for joy as shefollowed him. Her tendency to somersaults in this condition wasirresistible, and a source of worry to Jimbo, who classed it among thefoolish habits of what he called 'womans and things like that!' And the sound came loudest from the huddled little building by theChurch, the Pension where they had their meals, and where Jinny hadher bedroom. But Jinny, they found, was already out, off uponadventures of her own. A solitary child, she always went herindependent way in everything. They dived down into the first floor, and there, in a narrow bedroom whose windows stood open upon thewistaria branches, they found Madame Jequier--'Tante Jeanne, ' as theyknew the sympathetic, generous creature best, sister-in-law of thePostmaster--not sleeping like the others, but wide awake and prayingvehemently in a wicker-chair that creaked with every nervous movementthat she made. All about her were bits of paper covered with figures, bills, calculations, and the rest. 'We can't get at her, ' said Monkey, her laughter hushed for a moment. 'There's too much sadness. Come on! Let's go somewhere else. ' But Jimbo held her tight. 'Let's have a try. Listen, you silly, can'tyou!' They stood for several minutes, listening together, while thebrightness of their near approach seemed to change the woman's face alittle. She looked up and listened as though aware of something nearher. 'She's praying for others as well as herself, ' explained Jimbo. 'Ca vaut la peine alors, ' said Monkey. And they drew cautiouslynearer. .. . But, soon desisting, the children were far away, hoveringabout the mountains. They had no steadiness as yet. 'Starlight, ' Jimbo was singing to himself, 'runs along my mind. ' 'You're all up-jumbled, ' Monkey interrupted him with a laugh, turningrepeated somersaults till she looked like a catherine wheel ofbrightness. '. .. The pattern of my verse or story. .. ' continued Jimbo half aloud, '. .. A little ball of tangled glory. .. . ' 'You must unwind!' cried Monkey. 'Look out, it's the sun! It'll meltus into dew!' But it was not the sun. Out there beyond them, towards the purplewoods still sleeping, appeared a draught of starbeams like a broad, deep river of gold. The rays, coming from all corners of the sky, wovea pattern like a network. 'Jimbo!' gasped the girl, 'it's like a fishing-net. We've nevernoticed it before. ' 'It _is_ a net, ' he answered, standing still as a stone, though he hadnot thought of it himself until she said so. He instantly dressedhimself, as he always translated _il se dressait_ in his funny Franco-English. _Deja_ and _comme ca_, too, appeared everywhere. 'It is a netlike that. I saw it already before, once. ' 'Monkey, ' he added, 'do you know what it really is? Oh, I say!' 'Of course I do. ' She waited nevertheless for him to tell her, and hewas too gallant just then in his proud excitement for personalexultation. 'It's the Star Cave--it's Daddy's Star Cave. He said it was up here"where the Boudry forests dip below the cliffs towards the Areuse. ". .. ' He remembered the very words. His sister forgot to turn her usual somersaults. Wonder caught themboth. 'A pair of eyes, then, or a puddle! Quick!' she cried in adelighted whisper. She looked about her everywhere at once, makingconfused and rushing little movements of helplessness. 'Quick, quick!' 'No, ' said Jimbo, with a man's calm decision, 'it's when they_can't_ find eyes or puddles that they go in there. Don't interfere. ' She admitted her mistake. This was no time to press a petty advantage. 'I'll shut my eyes while you sponge up the puddles with a wedge ofmoss, ' she began. But her brother cut her short. He was very sure ofhimself. He was leader beyond all question. 'You follow me, ' he commanded firmly, 'and you'll get in somehow. We'll get all sticky with it. Then we'll come out again and help thosecrying people like Tante Jeanne and. .. . ' A list of names poured out. 'They'll think us wonderful---' 'We shall be wonderful, ' whispered Monkey, obeying, yet peeping withone big brown eye. The cataract of starbeams rushed past them in a flood of gold. They moved towards an opening in the trees where the limestone cliffsran into rugged shapes with pinnacles and towers. They found theentrance in the rocks. Water dripped over it, making little splashes. The lime had run into hanging pillars and a fringe of pointed fingers. Past this the river of starlight poured its brilliant golden stream. Its soft brightness shone yellow as a shower of primrose dust. 'Look out! The Interfering Sun!' gasped Monkey again, awed andconfused with wonder. 'We shall melt in dew or fairy cotton. Don'tyou? . .. I call it rotten . .. !' 'You'll unwind all right, ' he told her, trying hard to keep his headand justify his leadership. He, too, remembered phrases here andthere. 'I'm a bit knotted, looped, and all up-jumbled too, inside. Butthe sun is miles away still. We're both soft-shiny still. ' They stooped to enter, plunging their bodies to the neck in the silentflood of sparkling amber. Then happened a strange thing. For how could they know, these twoadventurous, dreaming children, that Thought makes images which, regardless of space, may flash about the world, and reach mindsanywhere that are sweetly tuned to their acceptance? 'What's that? Look out! _Gare!_ Hold tight!' In his sudden excitementJimbo mixed questions with commands. He had caught her by the hand. There was a new sound in the heavens above them--a roaring, rushingsound. Like the thunder of a train, it swept headlong through the sky. Voices were audible too. 'There's something enormous caught in the star-net, ' he whispered. 'It's Mother, then, ' said Monkey. They both looked up, trembling with anticipation. They saw a big, darkbody like a thundercloud hovering above their heads. It had a line ofbrilliant eyes. From one end issued a column of white smoke. Itsettled slowly downwards, moving softly yet with a great air of bustleand importance. Was this the arrival of a dragon, or Mother comingafter them? The blood thumped in their ears, their hands felt icy. Thething dipped slowly through the trees. It settled, stopped, began topurr. 'It's a railway train, ' announced Jimbo finally with authority thatonly just disguised amazement. 'And the passengers are getting out. 'With a sigh of immense relief he said it. 'You're not in any danger, Monkey, ' he added. He drew his sister back quickly a dozen steps, and they hid behind agiant spruce to watch. The scene that followed was like the holidayspectacle in a London Terminus, except that the passengers had noluggage. The other difference was that they seemed intent upon somepurpose not wholly for their own advantage. It seemed, too, they hadexpected somebody to meet them, and were accordingly rather confusedand disappointed. They looked about them anxiously. 'Last stop; all get out here!' a Guard was crying in a kind ofpleasant singing voice. 'Return journey begins five minutes before theInterfering Sun has risen. ' Jimbo pinched his sister's arm till she nearly screamed. 'Hear that?'he whispered. But Monkey was too absorbed in the doings of the busypassengers to listen or reply. For the first passenger that hurriedpast her was no less a person than--Jane Anne! Her face was notpuzzled now. It was like a little sun. She looked utterly happy andcontented, as though she had found the place and duties that belongedto her. 'Jinny!' whispered the two in chorus. But Jane Anne did not so much asturn her head. She slipped past them like a shaft of light. Her hairfell loose to her waist. She went towards the entrance. The flood roseto her neck. 'Oh! there she is!' cried a voice. 'She travelled with us instead ofcoming to meet us. ' Monkey smiled. She knew her sister's alien, unaccountable ways only too well. The train had settled down comfortably enough between the trees, andlay there breathing out a peaceable column of white smoke, panting alittle as it did so. The Guard went down the length of it, turning outthe lamps; and from the line of open doors descended the stream ofpassengers, all hurrying to the entrance of the cave. Each one stoppeda moment in front of the Guard, as though to get a ticket clipped, butinstead of producing a piece of pasteboard, or the Guard a punchinginstrument, they seemed to exchange a look together. Each one staredinto his face, nodded, and passed on. 'What blue eyes they've got, ' thought Monkey to herself, as she peeredinto each separate face as closely as she dared. 'I wish mine werelike that!' The wind, sighing through the tree-tops, sent a shower ofdew about their feet. The children started. 'What a lovely row!' Jimbowhispered. It was like footsteps of a multitude on the needles. Thefact that it was so clearly audible showed how softly all thesepassengers moved about their business. The Guard, they noticed then, called out the names of some of them;perhaps of all, only in the first excitement they did not catch themproperly. And each one went on at once towards the entrance of thecave and disappeared in the pouring river of gold. The light-footed way they moved, their swiftness as of shadows, theway they tossed their heads and flung their arms about--all this madethe children think it was a dance. Monkey felt her own legs twitch tojoin them, but her little brother's will restrained her. 'If you turn a somersault here, ' he said solemnly, 'we're simplylost. ' He said it in French; the long word had not yet dawned upon hisEnglish consciousness. They watched with growing wonder then, andsomething like terror seized them as they saw a man go past them witha very familiar look about him. He went in a cloud of sparkling, blackdust that turned instantly into shining gold when it reached theyellow river from the stars. His face was very dirty. 'It's _not_ the _ramoneur_, ' whispered Jimbo, uncertain whether theshiver he felt was his sister's or his own. 'He's much too springy. 'Sweeps always had a limp. For the figure shot along with a running, dancing leap as though hemoved on wires. He carried long things over his shoulders. He flashedinto the stream like a shadow swallowed by a flame. And as he went, they caught such merry words, half sung, half chanted:--, 'I'll mix their smoke with hope and mystery till they see dreams andfaces in their fires---' and he was gone. Behind him came a couple arm in arm, their movements equally light andspringy, but the one behind dragging a little, as though lazily. Theywore rags and torn old hats and had no collars to their shirts. Thelazy one had broken boots through which his toes showed plainly. Theother who dragged him had a swarthy face like the gypsies who once hadcamped near their house in Essex long, oh, ever so long ago. 'I'll get some too, ' the slow one sang huskily as he stumbled alongwith difficulty 'but there's never any hurry. I'll fill their journeyswith desire and make adventure call to them with love---' 'And I, ' the first one answered, 'will sprinkle all their days withthe sweetness of the moors and open fields, till houses choke theirlungs and they come out to learn the stars by name. Ho, ho!' They dipped, with a flying leap, into the rushing flood. Their ragsand filthy slouched hats flashed radiant as they went, all bathed andcleaned in glory. Others came after them in a continuous stream, some too outlandish tobe named or recognised, others half familiar, very quick and earnest, but merry at the same time, and all intent upon bringing backsomething for the world. It was not for themselves alone, or for theirown enjoyment that they hurried in so eagerly. 'How splendid! What a crew!' gasped Monkey. '_Quel spectacle_!' Andshe began a somersault. 'Be quiet, will you?' was the rejoinder, as a figure who seemed tohave a number of lesser faces within his own big one of sunburnedbrown, tumbled by them somewhat heavily and left a smell of earth andleaves and potting-sheds about the trees behind him. 'Won't my flowersjust shine and dazzle 'em? And won't the dead leaves crackle as I burn'em up!' he chuckled as he disappeared from view. There was a rush oflight as an eddy of the star-stream caught him, and somethingcertainly went up in flame. A faint odour reached the children thatwas like the odour of burning leaves. Then, with a rush, came a woman whose immensely long thin arms reachedout in front of her and vanished through the entrance a whole minutebefore the rest of her. But they could not see the face. Some one withhigh ringing laughter followed, though they could not see the outlineat all. It went so fast, they only heard the patter of light footstepson the moss and needles. Jimbo and Monkey felt slightly uncomfortableas they watched and listened, and the feeling became positiveuneasiness the next minute as a sound of cries and banging reachedthem from the woods behind. There was a great commotion going onsomewhere in the train. 'I can't get out, I can't get out!' called a voice unhappily. 'And ifI do, how shall I ever get in again? The entrance is so ridiculouslysmall. I shall only stick and fill it up. Why did I ever come? Oh, whydid I come at all?' 'Better stay where you are, lady, ' the Guard was saying. 'You're goodballast. You can keep the train down. That's something. Steadythinking's always best, you know. ' Turning, the children saw a group of figures pushing and tugging at adark mass that appeared to have stuck halfway in the carriage door. The pressure of many willing hands gave it a different outline everyminute. It was like a thing of india-rubber or elastic. The roofstrained outwards with ominous cracking sounds; the windows threatenedto smash; the foot-board, supporting the part of her that had emerged, groaned with the weight already. 'Oh, what's the good of _me_?' cried the queer deep voice withpetulance. 'You couldn't get a wisp of hay in there, much less all ofme. I should block the whole cave up!' 'Come out a bit!' a voice cried. 'I can't. ' 'Go back then!' suggested the Guard. 'But I can't. Besides I'm upside down!' 'You haven't got any upside down, ' was the answer; 'so that'simpossible. ' 'Well, anyhow, I'm in a mess and muddle like this, ' came the smotheredvoice, as the figures pulled and pushed with increasing energy. ' Andmy tarpaulin skirt is all askew. The winds are at it as usual. ' 'Nothing short of a gale can help you now, ' was somebody's verdict, while Monkey whispered beneath her breath to Jimbo. 'She's even biggerthan Mother. Quelle masse!' Then came a thing of mystery and wonder from the sky. A flying figure, scattering points of light through the darkness like grains of shiningsand, swooped down and stood beside the group. 'Oh, Dustman, ' cried the guard, 'give her of your dust and put her tosleep, please. She's making noise enough to bring the Interfering Sunabove the horizon before his time. ' Without a word the new arrival passed one hand above the part of herthat presumably was the face. Something sifted downwards. There was asound of gentle sprinkling through the air; a noise followed that washalf a groan and half a sigh. Her struggles grew gradually less, thenceased. They pushed the bulk of her backwards through the door. Spreadover many seats the Woman of the Haystack slept. 'Thank you, ' said several voices with relief. 'She'll dream she's beenin. That's just as good. ' 'Every bit, ' the others answered, resuming their interrupted journeytowards the cavern's mouth. 'And when I come out she shall have some more, ' answered the Dustmanin a soft, thick voice; 'as much as ever she can use. ' He flitted in his turn towards the stream of gold. His feet werealready in it when he paused a moment to shift from one shoulder tothe other a great sack he carried. And in that moment was heard a lowvoice singing dreamily the Dustman's curious little song. It seemed tocome from the direction of the train where the Guard stood talking toa man the children had not noticed before. Presumably he was theengine-driver, since all the passengers were out now. But it may havebeen the old Dustman himself who sang it. They could not tell exactly. The voice made them quite drowsy as they listened:-- The busy Dustman flutters down the lanes, He's off to gather star-dust for our dreams. He dusts the Constellations for his sack, Finding it thickest on the Zodiac, But sweetest in the careless meteor's track; _That_ he keeps only For the old and lonely, (And is very strict about it!) Who sleep so little that they need the best; The rest, -- The common stuff, -- Is good enough For Fraulein, or for Baby, or for Mother, Or any other Who likes a bit of dust, But yet can do without it If they _must_! The busy Dustman hurries through the sky The kind old Dustman's coming to _your_ eye! By the time the song was over he had disappeared through the opening. 'I'll show 'em the real stuff!' came back a voice--this time certainlyhis own--far inside now. 'I simply love that man, ' exclaimed Monkey. 'Songs are usually suchtwiddly things, but that was real. ' She looked as though a somersaultwere imminent. 'If only Daddy knew him, he'd learn how to writeunwumbled stories. Oh! we _must_ get Daddy out. ' 'It's only the head that sticks, ' was her brother's reply. 'We'llgrease it. ' They remained silent a moment, not knowing what to do next, when theybecame aware that the big man who had been talking to the Guard wascoming towards them. 'They've seen us!' she whispered in alarm. '_He's_ seen us. ' Aninexplicable thrill ran over her. 'They saw us long ago, ' her brother added contemptuously. His voicequavered. Jimbo turned to face them, getting in front of his sister forprotection, although she towered above him by a head at least. TheGuard, who led the way, they saw now, was a girl--a girl not mucholder than Monkey, with big blue eyes. 'There they are, ' the Guardsaid loudly, pointing; and the big man, looking about him as though hedid not see very clearly, stretched out his hands towards him. 'Butyou must be very quick, ' she added, 'the Interfering Sun---' 'I'm glad you came to meet us. I hoped you might. Jane Anne's gone inages ago. Now we'll all go in together, ' he said in a deep voice, 'andgather star-dust for our dreams. .. ' He groped to find them. His handsgrew shadowy. He felt the empty air. His voice died away even as he said it, and the difficulty he had inseeing seemed to affect their own eyes as well. A mist rose. It turnedto darkness. The river of starlight faded. The net had suddenly bigholes in it. They were slipping through. Wind whispered in the trees. There was a sharp, odd sound like the plop of a water-rat in apond. .. . 'We must be quick, ' his voice came faintly from far away. They justhad time to see his smile, and noticed the gleam of two gold teeth. .. . Then the darkness rushed up and covered them. The stream of tangled, pouring beams became a narrow line, so far away it was almost like thestreak of a meteor in the sky. .. . Night hid the world and everythingin it. .. . Two radiant little forms slipped past Riquette and slid feet firstinto the sleeping bodies on the beds. There came soon after a curious sound from the outer room, as Motherturned upon her sofa-bed and woke. The sun was high above theBlumlisalp, spreading a sheet of gold and silver on the lake. Birdswere singing in the plane trees. The roof below the open windows shonewith dew, and draughts of morning air, sweet and fresh, poured intothe room. With it came the scent of flowers and forests, of fields andpeaty smoke from cottage chimneys. .. . But there was another perfume too. Far down the sky swept some fleetand sparkling thing that made the world look different. It wasdelicate and many-tinted, soft as a swallow's wing, and full ofbutterflies and tiny winds. For, with the last stroke of midnight from the old church tower, Mayhad waked April; and April had run off into the mountains with thedawn. Her final shower of tears still shone upon the ground. AlreadyMay was busy drying them. That afternoon, when school was over, Monkey and Jimbo foundthemselves in the attics underneath the roof together. They hadabstracted their father's opera-glasses from the case that hung uponthe door, and were using them as a telescope. 'What can you see?' asked Jimbo, waiting for his turn, as they lookedtowards the hazy mountains behind the village. 'Nothing. ' 'That must be the opening, then, ' he suggested, 'just air. ' His sister lowered the glasses and stared at him. 'But it can't be areal place?' she said, the doubt in her tone making her words aquestion. 'Daddy's never been there himself, I'm sure--from the way hetold it. You only dreamed it. ' 'Well, anyhow, ' was the reply withconviction, 'it's there, so there must be _somebody_ who believes init. ' And he was evidently going to add that he had been there, whenMother's voice was heard calling from the yard below, 'Come down fromthat draughty place. It's dirty, and there are dead rats in it. Comeout and play in the sunshine. Try and be sensible like Jinny. ' They smuggled the glasses into their case again, and went off to thewoods to play. Though their union seemed based on disagreementschiefly they were always quite happy together like this, living in aworld entirely their own. Jinny went her own way apart always--everbusy with pots and pans and sewing. She was far too practical anddomestic for their tastes to amalgamate; yet, though they looked downupon her a little, no one in their presence could say a word againsther. For they recognised the child's unusual selflessness, and ratherstood in awe of it. And this afternoon in the woods they kept coming across places thatseemed oddly familiar, although they had never visited them before. They had one of their curious conversations about the matter--queertalks they indulged in sometimes when quite alone. Mother would havesquelched such talk, and Daddy muddled them with long words, whileJane Anne would have looked puzzled to the point of tears. 'I'm _sure_ I've been here before, ' said Monkey, looking across thetrees to a place where the limestone cliffs dropped in fantasticshapes of pointed rock. 'Have you got that feeling too?' Jimbo, with his hands in the pockets of his blue reefer overcoat andhis feet stuck wide apart, stared hard at her a moment. His littlemind was searching too. 'It's natural enough, I suppose, ' he answered, too honest to pretend, too proud, though, to admit he had not got it. They were rather breathless with their climb, and sat down on aboulder in the shade. 'I know all this awfully well, ' Monkey presently resumed, lookingabout her. 'But certainly we've never come as far as this. I think myunderneath escapes and comes to places by itself. I feel like that. Does yours?' He looked up from a bundle of moss he was fingering. This was ratherbeyond him. 'Oh, I feel all right, ' he said, 'just ordinary. ' He would have givenhis ten francs in the savings bank, the collection of a year, to haveanswered otherwise. 'You're always getting tummy-aches and things, ' headded kindly. 'Girls do. ' It was pride that made the sharp addition. But Monkey was not hurt; she did not even notice what he said. Theinsult thus ignored might seem almost a compliment Jimbo thought withquick penitence. 'Then, perhaps, ' she continued, more than a little thrilled by her ownaudacity, 'it's somebody else's thinking. Thinking skips about theworld like anything, you know. I read it once in one of Daddy'sbooks. ' 'Oh, yes--like that---' 'Thinking hard _does_ make things true, of course, ' she insisted. 'But you can't exactly see them, ' he put in, to explain his owninexperience. He felt jealous of these privileges she claimed. 'Theycan't last, I mean. ' 'But they can't be wiped out either, ' she saiddecidedly. 'I'm sure of that. ' Presently they scrambled higher and found among the rocks an openingto a new cave. The Jura mountains are riddled with caves which thestalactites turn into palaces and castles. The entrance was rathersmall, and they made no attempt to crawl in, for they knew that comingout again was often very difficult. But there was great excitementabout it, and while Monkey kept repeating that she knew it already, orelse had seen a picture of it somewhere, Jimbo went so far as to admitthat they had certainly found it _very_ easily, while suggesting thatthe rare good fortune was due rather to his own leadership and skill. But when they came home to tea, full of the glory of their discovery, they found that a new excitement made the announcement fall a littleflat. For in the Den, Daddy read a telegram he had just received fromEngland to say that Cousin Henry was coming out to visit them for abit. His room had already been engaged at the carpenter's house. Hewould arrive at the end of the week. It was the first of May! CHAPTER X One of the great facts of the world I hold to be the registration inthe Universe of every past scene and thought. F. W. M. No place worth knowing yields itself at sight, and those the leastinviting on first view may leave the most haunting pictures upon thewalls of memory. This little village, that Henry Rogers was thus to revisit after solong an interval, can boast no particular outstanding beauty to lurethe common traveller. Its single street winds below the pine forest;its tiny church gathers close a few brown-roofed houses; orchardsguard it round about; the music of many fountains tinkle summer andwinter through its cobbled yards; and its feet are washed by atumbling stream that paints the fields with the radiance of countlesswild-flowers in the spring. But tourists never come to see them. Thereis no hotel, for one thing, and ticket agents, even at the railwaystations, look puzzled a moment before they realise where this placewith the twinkling name can hide. .. . Some consult books. Yet, once youget there, it is not easy to get away again. Something catches thefeet and ears and eyes. People have been known to go with all theirluggage on Gygi's handcart to the station--then turn aside at the lastmoment, caught back by the purple woods. A traveller, glancing up at the little three-storey house with 'Posteet Telegraphe' above the door, could never guess how busy the worldthat came and went beneath its red-tiled roof. In spring the wistariatree (whence the Pension borrowed its brave name, Les Glycines) hangsits blossoms between 'Poste' and 'Telegraphe, ' and the perfume ofinvisible lilacs drenches the street from the garden at the back. Beyond, the road dips past the bee-hives of _la cure_; and Boudrytowers with his five thousand feet of blue pine woods over thehorizon. The tinkling of several big stone fountains fills the street. But the traveller would not linger, unless he chanced to pass attwelve o'clock and caught the stream of people going into their mid-day dinner at the Pension. And even then he probably would not see thepresiding genius, Madame Jequier, for as often as not she would be inher garden, busy with eternal bulbs, and so strangely garbed that ifshe showed herself at all, it would be with a shrill, plaintiveexplanation--'Mais il ne faut pas me regarder. Je suis invisible!'Whereupon, consistently, she would not speak again, but flit insilence to and fro, as though she were one of those spirits she sofirmly believed in, and sometimes talked to by means of an oldPlanchette. And on this particular morning the Widow Jequier was 'invisible' inher garden clothes as Gygi, the gendarme, came down the street to ringthe _midi_ bell. Her mind was black with anxiety. She was not thinkingof the troop that came to _dejeuner_, their principal meal of the day, paying a franc for it, but rather of the violent scenes with unpaidtradesmen that had filled the morning-tradesmen who were friends aswell (which made it doubly awkward) and often dropped in socially foran evening's music and conversation. Her pain darkened the sunshine, and she found relief in the garden which was her passion. For in threeweeks the interest on the mortgages was due, and she had nothing savedto meet it. The official notice had come that morning from the Bank. Her mind was black with confused pictures of bulbs, departed_pensionnaires_, hostile bankers, and--the ghastly _charite de laCommune_ which awaited her. Yet her husband, before he went into thewine-business so disastrously, had been pasteur here. He had preachedfrom this very church whose bells now rang out the mid-day hour. Thespirit of her daughter, she firmly believed, still haunted the garden, the narrow passages, and the dilapidated little salon where the ivytrailed along the ceiling. Twelve o'clock, striking from the church-tower clock, and the voice ofher sister from the kitchen window, then brought the Widow Jequierdown the garden in a flying rush. The table was laid and the soup wasalmost ready. The people were coming in. She was late as usual; therewas no time to change. She flung her garden hat aside and scrambledinto more presentable garments, while footsteps already sounded on thewooden stairs that led up from the village street. One by one the retired governesses entered, hung their cloaks upon thepegs in the small, dark hallway, and took their places at the table. They began talking among themselves, exchanging the little gossip ofthe village, speaking of their books and clothes and sewing, of therooms in which they lived, scattered down the street, of the heating, of barking dogs that disturbed their sleep, the behaviour of thepostman, the fine spring weather, and the views from their respectivewindows across the lake and distant Alps. Each extolled her ownposition: one had a garden; another a balcony; a third was on the topfloor and so had no noisy tenant overhead; a fourth was on the ground, and had no stairs to climb. Each had her secret romance, and hersecret method of cheap feeding at home. There were five or six ofthem, and this was their principal meal in the day; they meant to makethe most of it; they always did; they went home to light suppers oftea and coffee, made in their own _appartements_. Invitations wereissued and accepted. There were some who would not speak to eachother. Cliques, divisions, _societes a part_, existed in the littleband. And they talked many languages, learned in many lands--Russian, German, Italian, even Armenian--for all had laboured far from theircountry, spending the best of their years teaching children of foreignfamilies, many of them in important houses. They lived upon theirsavings. Two, at least, had less than thirty pounds a year betweenthem and starvation, and all were of necessity careful of everycentime. They wore the same dresses from one year's end to another. They had come home to die. The Postmaster entered with the cash-box underneath one arm. He bowedgravely to the assembled ladies, and silently took his seat at thetable. He never spoke; at meals his sole remarks were statements: 'Jen'ai pas de pain, ' 'Il me manque une serviette, ' and the like, whilehis black eyes glared resentfully at every one as though they had donehim an injury. But his fierceness was only in the eyes. He was a meekand solemn fellow really. Nature had dressed him in black, and herespected her taste by repeating it in his clothes. Even hisexpression was funereal, though his black eyes twinkled. The servant-girl at once brought in his plate of soup, and he tuckedthe napkin beneath his chin and began to eat. From twelve to two thepost was closed; his recreation time was precious, and no minute mustbe lost. After dinner he took his coat off and did the heavy work ofthe garden, under the merciless oversight of the Widow Jequier, hissister-in-law, the cash-box ever by his side. He chatted with his tame_corbeau_, but he never smiled. In the winter he did fretwork. On thestroke of two he went downstairs again and disappeared into thecramped and stuffy bureau, whose window on the street was framed bythe hanging wistaria blossoms; and at eight o'clock his day of labourended. He carried the cash-box up to bed at 8. 15. At 8. 30 his wifefollowed him. From nine to five he slept. Alone of all the little household the Widow Jequier scorned routine. She came and went with the uncertainty of wind. Her entrances andexits, too, were like the wind. With a scattering rush she scurriedthrough the years--noisy, ineffective, yet somewhere fine. Her brotherhad finished his plate of soup, wiped his black moustacheselaborately, and turned his head towards the kitchen door with thesolemn statement 'Je n'ai pas de viande, ' when she descended upon thescene like a shrill-voiced little tempest. 'Bonjour Mesdames, bonjour Mademoiselle, bonjour, bonjour, ' she bowedand smiled, washing her hands in the air; 'et comment allez-vous cematin?' as the little band of hungry governesses rose with one accordand moved to take their places. Some smiled in answer; others merelybowed. She made enemies as well as friends, the Widow Jequier. Withonly one of them she shook hands warmly-the one whose payments werelong overdue. But Madame Jequier never asked for her money; she knewthe old body's tiny income; she would pay her when she could. Onlylast week she had sent her food and clothing under the guise of abelated little Easter present. Her heart was bigger than her body. 'La famille Anglaise n'est pas encore ici, ' announced the Postmasteras though it were a funeral to come. He did not even look up. Hisprotests passed ever unobserved. 'But I hear them coming, ' said a governess, swallowing her soup with asound of many waters. And, true enough, they came. There was a thunderon the stairs, the door into the hall flew open, voices and laughterfilled the place, and Jimbo and Monkey raced in to take their places, breathless, rosy, voluble, and very hungry. Jane Anne followedsedately, bowing to every one in turn. She had a little sentence forall who cared for one. Smiles appeared on every face. Mother, like afrigate coming to anchor with a favourable wind, sailed into herchair; and behind her stumbled Daddy, looking absent-minded and pre-occupied. Money was uncommonly scarce just then--the usual Bourcellescomplaint. Conversation in many tongues, unmusically high-pitched, then at oncebroke loose, led ever by _la patronne_ at the head of the table. Thebig dishes of meat and vegetables were handed round; plates were piledand smothered; knives and forks were laid between mouthfuls uponplate-edges, forming a kind of frieze all round the cloth; the gossipof the village was retailed with harmless gusto. _Dejeuner_ at LesGlycines was in full swing. When the apples and oranges came round, most of the governesses took two apiece, slipping one or other intolittle black velvet bags they carried on their laps below the table. Some, it was whispered, put bread there too to keep them company. Butthis was probably a libel. Madame Jequier, at any rate, never saw itdone. She looked the other way. 'We all must live, ' was her invariableanswer to such foolish stories. 'One cannot sleep if one's supper istoo light. ' Like her body, her soul was a bit untidy--careless, thatis, with loose ends. Who would have guessed, for instance, the anxietythat just now gnawed her very entrails? She was a mixture of shamelessegotism, and of burning zeal for others. There was a touch of grandeurin her. At the end of the table, just where the ivy leaves dropped rather lowfrom their trailing journey across the ceiling, sat Miss Waghorn, hervigorous old face wrapped, apparently, in many apple skins. She waswell past seventy, thin, erect, and active, with restless eyes, andhooked nose, the poor old hands knotted with rheumatism, yet the voicesomehow retaining the energy of forty. Her manners were charming andold-fashioned, and she came of Quaker stock. Seven years before shearrived at the Pension for the summer, and had forgotten to leave. Forshe forgot most things within ten minutes of their happening. Hermemory was gone; she remembered a face, as most other things as well, about twenty minutes; introductions had to be repeated every day, andsometimes at supper she would say with her gentle smile, 'We haven'tmet before, I think, ' to some one she had held daily intercourse withfor many months. 'I was born in '37, ' she loved to add, 'the year ofQueen Victoria's accession'; and five minutes later you might hear herask, 'Now, guess how old I am; I don't mind a bit. ' She was as proudof her load of years as an old gentleman of his thick hair. 'Sayexactly what you think. And don't guess too low, mind. ' Her numerousstories were self-repeaters. Miss Waghorn's memory was a source of worry and anxiety to all exceptthe children, who mercilessly teased her. She loved the teasing, though but half aware of it. It was their evil game to extract as manyof her familiar stories as possible, one after another. They knew allthe clues. There was the Cornishman--she came from Cornwall--who hadseen a fairy; his adventure never failed to thrill them, though sheused the same words every time and they knew precisely what wascoming. She was particularly strong on family reminiscences:--herfather was bald at thirty, her brother's beard was so long that hetied it round his neck when playing cricket; her sister 'had theshortest arms you ever saw. ' Always of youth she spoke; it waspathetic, so determined was she to be young at seventy. Her familyseemed distinguished in this matter of extremes. But the superiority of Cornish over Devonshire cream was her _piecede resistance_. Monkey need merely whisper--Miss Waghorn's acutenessof hearing was positively uncanny--'Devonshire cream is what _I_like, ' to produce a spurt of explanation and defence that lasted agood ten minutes and must be listened to until the bitter end. Jimbo would gravely inquire in a pause--of a stranger, if possible, ifnot, of the table in general-- 'Have you ever seen a fairy?' 'No, but I've eaten Cornish cream--it's poison, you know, ' Monkeywould reply. And up would shoot the keen old face, preened for thefray. 'We haven't been introduced, I think'--forgetting the formalintroduction of ten minutes ago--'but I overheard, if you'll forgivemy interrupting, and I can tell you all about Cornish cream. I wasborn in '37'--with her eager smile--'and for years it was on ourtable. I have made quantities of it. The art was brought first by thePhoenicians----' 'Venetians, ' said Monkey. 'No, Phoenicians, dear, when they came to Cornwall for tin----' 'To put the cream in, ' from the same source. 'No, you silly child, to get tin from the mines, of course, and----' Then Mother or Daddy, noting the drift of things, would interfere, andthe youngsters would be obliterated--until next time. Miss Waghornwould finish her recital for the hundredth time, firmly believing itto be the first. She was a favourite with everybody, in spite of theanxiety she caused. She would go into town to pay her bill at thebootmaker's, and order another pair of boots instead, forgetting whyshe came. Her income was sixty pounds a year. She forgot in theafternoon the money she had received in the morning, till at last theWidow Jequier seized it for her the moment it arrived. And at nightshe would doze in her chair over the paper novel she had been "at"for a year and more, beginning it every night afresh, and rarelygetting beyond the opening chapter. For it was ever new. All wereanxious, though, what she would do next. She was so full of battle. Everybody talked at once, but forced conversation did not flourish. Bourcelles was not fashionable; no one ever had appendicitis there. Yet ailments of a milder order were the staple, inexhaustible subjectsat meals. Instead of the weather, _mon estomac_ was the inexhaustibletale. The girl brought in the little Cantonal newspaper, and the widowread out selections in a high, shrill voice, regardless who listened. Misfortunes and accidents were her preference. _Grand ciel_ and_quelle horreur_ punctuated the selections. 'There's Tante Jeannegrand-cieling as usual, ' Mother would say to her husband, who, being alittle deaf, would answer, 'What?' and Tante Jeanne, overhearing him, would re-read the accident for his especial benefit, while thegovernesses recounted personal experiences among themselves, and MissWaghorn made eager efforts to take part in it all, or tell her littletales of fairies and Cornish cream. .. . One by one the governesses rose to leave; each made a comprehensivebow that included the entire company. Daddy lit a cigarette or letJimbo light it for him, too wumbled with his thoughts of afternoonwork to notice the puff stolen surreptitiously on the way. Jane Annefolded her napkin carefully, talking with Mother in a low voice aboutthe packing of the basket with provisions for tea. Tea was included inthe Pension terms; in a small clothes-basket she carried bread, milk, sugar, and butter daily across to La Citadelle, except on Sundays whenshe wore gloves and left the duty to the younger children who wereless particular. The governesses, charged with life for another twenty-four hours atleast, flocked down the creaking stairs. They nodded as they passedthe Bureau window where the Postmaster pored over his collection ofstamps, or examined a fretwork pattern of a boy on a bicycle--therewas no heavy garden work that day--and went out into the street. Theystood in knots a moment, discussing unfavourably the food just eaten, and declaring they would stand it no longer. 'Only where else can wego?' said one, feeling automatically at her velvet bag to make surethe orange was safely in it. Upstairs, at the open window, MadameJequier overheard them as she filled the walnut shells with butter forthe birds. She only smiled. 'I wish we could help her, ' Mother was saying to her husband, as theywatched her from the sofa in the room behind. 'A more generouscreature never lived. ' It was a daily statement that lacked forceowing to repetition, yet the emotion prompting it was ever new andreal. 'Or a more feckless, ' was his reply. 'But if we ever come into ourestates, we will. It shall be the first thing. ' His mind alwayshovered after those distant estates when it was perplexed by immediatefinancial difficulty, and just now he was thinking of various billsand payments falling due. It was his own sympathetic link with thewidow--ways and means, and the remorseless nature of sheets of paperwith columns of figures underneath the horrible word _doit. _ 'So Monsieur 'Enry Rogairs is coming, ' she said excitedly, turning tothem a moment on her way to the garden. 'And after all these years! Hewill find the house the same, and the garden better--oh, wonderfullyimproved. But us, _helas!_ he will find old, oh, how old!' She did notreally mean herself, however. She began a long 'reminiscent' chapter, full of details of the dayswhen he and Daddy had been boys together, but in the middle of itDaddy just got up and walked out, saying, 'I must get over to my work, you know. ' There was no artificiality of manners at Bourcelles. Motherfollowed him, with a trifle more ceremony. 'Ah, c'est partir al'anglaise!' sighed the widow, watching them go. She was accustomed toit. She went out into her garden, full of excitement at the prospectof the new arrival. Every arrival for her meant a possible chance ofhelp. She was as young as her latest bulb really. Courage, hope, andgenerosity invariably go together. CHAPTER XI Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun! Romeo and Juliet. The announcement of Henry Rogers's coming was received--variously, forany new arrival into the Den circle was subjected to rigorouscriticism. This criticism was not intentional; it was the instinctivejudgment that children pass upon everything, object or person, likelyto affect themselves. And there is no severer bar of judgment in theworld. 'Who _is_ Cousinenry? What a name! Is he stiff, I wonder?' came fromMonkey, almost before the announcement had left her father's lips. 'What will he think of Tante Jeanne?' Her little torrent of questionsthat prejudged him thus never called for accurate answers as a rule, but this time she meant to have an answer. 'What is he exaccurately?'she added, using her own invention made up of 'exact' and 'accurate. ' Mother looked up from the typewritten letter to reply, but before shecould say, 'He's your father's cousin, dear; they were here as boystwenty years ago to learn French, ' Jinny burst in with an explosiveinterrogation. She had been reading _La Bonne Menagere_ in a corner. Her eyes, dark with conjecture, searched the faces of both parentsalternately. 'Excuse me, Mother, but is he a clergyman?' she askedwith a touch of alarm. 'Whatever makes you think that, child?' 'Clergymen are always called the reverundhenry. He'll wear black andhave socks that want mending. ' 'He shouldn't punt his letters, ' declared Monkey. 'He's not an author, is he?' Jimbo, busy over school tasks, with a huge slate-pencil his crumpledfingers held like a walking-stick, watched and listened in silence. Hewas ever fearful, perhaps, lest his superior man's knowledge might becalled upon and found wanting. Questions poured and crackled likegrapeshot, while the truth slowly emerged from the explanations theparents were occasionally permitted to interject. The personality ofCousin Henry Rogers grew into life about them--gradually. The resultwas a curious one that Minks would certainly have resented withindignation. For Cousinenry was, apparently, a business man withpockets full of sovereigns; stern, clever, and important; the sort ofman that gets into Governments and things, yet somewhere with theflavour of the clergyman about him. This clerical touch was JaneAnne's contribution to the picture; and she was certain that he woresilk socks of the most expensive description--a detail she had readprobably in some chance fragments of a newspaper. For Jinny selectedphrases in this way from anywhere, and repeated them on all occasionswithout the slightest relevancy. She practised them. She had a way ofgiving abrupt information and making startling statements _a propos_of nothing at all. Certain phrases stuck in her mind, it seemed, forno comprehensible reason. When excited she picked out the one thatfirst presented itself and fired it off like a gun, the more inapt thebetter. And 'busy' was her favourite adjective always. 'It's like a communication from a company, ' Mother was saying, as shehanded back the typewritten letter. 'Is he a company promoter then?' asked Jinny like a flash, certainlyignorant what that article of modern life could mean. 'Oh, I say!' came reproachfully from Jimbo, thus committing himselffor the first time to speech. He glanced up into several faces roundhim, and then continued the picture of Cousin Henry he was drawing onhis slate. He listened all the time. Occasionally he cocked an eye orear up. He took in everything, saying little. His opinions maturedslowly. The talk continued for a long time, questions and answers. 'I think he's nice, ' he announced at length in French. For intimatethings, he always used that language; his English, being uncertain, was kept for matters of unimportance. 'A gentle man. ' And it was Jimbo's verdict that the children then finally adopted. Cousin Henry was _gentil. _ They laughed loudly at him, yet agreed. Hisinfluence on their little conclaves, though never volubly expressed--because of that very fact, perhaps--was usually accepted. Jimbo was sodecided. And he never committed himself to impulsive judgments thatlater had to be revised. He listened in silence to the end, then wentplump for one side or the other. 'I think he'll be a nice man, ' wasthe label, therefore, then and there attached to Mr. Henry Rogers inadvance of delivery. Further than that, however, they would not go. Itwould have been childish to commit themselves more deeply till theysaw him. The conversation then slipped beyond their comprehension, or rathertheir parents used long words and circumventing phrases that made itdifficult to follow. Owing to lack of space, matters of importanceoften had to be discussed in this way under the children's eyes, unless at night, when all were safe in bed; for French, of course, wasof no avail for purposes of concealment. Long words were then made useof, dark, wumbled sentences spoken very quickly, with suggestivegestures and expressions of the eyes labelled by Monkey with, 'Look, Mother and Daddy are making faces--something's up!' But, none the less, all listened, and Monkey, whose intuitiveintelligence soaked up hidden meanings like a sponge, certainly caughtthe trend of what was said. She detailed it later to the others, whenJinny checked her exposition with a puzzled 'but Mother could neverhave said _that_, ' while Jimbo looked wise and grave, as though he hadunderstood it all along, and was even in his parents' councils. On this occasion, however, there was nothing very vital to retail. Cousin Henry was to arrive to-morrow by the express from Paris. He wasa little younger than Daddy, and would have the room above him in thecarpenter's house. His meals he would take at the Pension just as theydid, and for tea he would always come over to the Den. And this latterfact implied that he was to be admitted into intimacy at once, foronly intimates used the Den regularly for tea, of course. It was serious. It involved a change in all their lives. Jinnywondered if it 'would cost Daddy any more money, ' or whether'Cousinenry would bring a lot of things with him, ' though notexplaining whether by 'things' she meant food or presents or clothes. He was not married, so he couldn't be very old; and Monkey, suggestingthat he might 'get to love' one of the retired governesses who came tothe Pension for their mid-day dinner, was squelched by Jimbo with 'oldgovernesses _never_ marry; they come back to settle, and then theyjust die off. ' Thus was Henry Rogers predigested. But at any rate he was accepted. And this was fortunate; for a new arrival whom the children did not'pass' had been known to have a time that may best be described as notconducive to repose of body, mind, or spirit. The arrival of Mr. Henry Rogers in the village--in La Citadelle, thatis--was a red-letter day. This, however, seems a thin description ofits glory. For a more adequate description a well-worn phrase must beborrowed from the poems of Montmorency Minks--a 'Day of Festival, ' forwhich 'coronal' invariably lay in waiting for rhyming purposes alittle further down the sonnet. Monkey that afternoon managed to get home earlier than usual fromNeuchatel, a somewhat suspicious explanation as her passport. Her eyeswere popping. Jimbo was always out of the village school at three. Hecarried a time-table in his pocket; but it was mere pretence, since hewas a little walking Bradshaw, and knew every train by heart--theGeneva Express, the Paris Rapide, the 'omnibus' trains, and themountain ones that climbed the forest heights towards La Chaux deFonds and Le Locle. Of these latter only the white puffing smoke wasvisible from the village, but he knew with accuracy their times ofdeparture, their arrival, and the names of every station where theystopped. In the omnibus trains he even knew some of the guardspersonally, the engine-drivers too. He might be seen any day afterschool standing in the field beside the station, waiting for them topass; _mecanicien_ and _conducteur_ were the commonest words in hiswhole vocabulary. When possible he passed the time of day with both ofthese important personages, or from the field he waved his hand andtook his cap off. All engines, moreover, were 'powerful locomotives. 'The phrase was stolen from his father--a magnificent sound it had, taking several seconds to pronounce. No day was wholly lived in vainwhich enabled him to turn to some one with, 'There's the Paris Rapide;it's five minutes late'; or 'That's the Geneva omnibus. You see, ithas to have a very'--here a deep breath--'powerful locomotive. ' So upon this day of festival it was quite useless to talk of commonthings, and even the holidays acquired a very remote importance. Everybody in the village knew it. From Gygi, the solitary gendarme, toHenri Beguin, who mended boots, but had the greater distinction thathe was the only man Gygi ever arrested, for periodical wild behaviour--all knew that 'Cousin Henry, father's cousin, you know, ' wasexpected to arrive in the evening, that he was an important person inthe life of London, and that he was not exactly a _pasteur_, yetshared something of a clergyman's grave splendour. Clothed in asacerdotal atmosphere he certainly was, though it was the gravity ofJane Anne's negative description that fastened this wildecclesiastical idea upon him. 'He's not _exactly_ a clergyman, ' she told the dressmaker, who for twofrancs every Monday afternoon sat in the kitchen and helped with thepile of indiscriminate mending, ' because he has to do with rather bigcompanies and things. But he is a serious man all the same--and mostfearfully busy always. ' 'We're going to meet him in the town, ' said Jimbo carelessly. 'Yousee, the Paris Rapide doesn't stop here. We shall come back with himby the 6. 20. It gets here at 6. 50, so he'll be in time for supper, ifit's punctual. It usually is. ' And accordingly they went to Neuchatel and met the Paris train. Theymet their Cousin Henry, too. Powerful locomotives and everything elsewere instantly forgotten when they saw their father go up to a tallthin man who jumped--yes, jumped--down the high steps on to the levelplatform and at once began to laugh. He had a beard like their father. 'How _will_ they know which is which?' thought Jinny. They stood ineverybody's way and stared. He was so tall. Daddy looked no biggerthan little Beguin beside him. He had a large, hooked nose, brownskin, and keen blue eyes that took in everything at a single glance. They twinkled absurdly for so big a man. He wore rough brown tweedsand a soft felt travelling hat. He wore also square-toed Englishboots. He carried in one hand a shiny brown leather bag with hisinitials on it like a member of the Government. The clergyman idea was destroyed in a fraction of a second, never torevive. The company promoter followed suit. Jinny experienced anentirely new sensation in her life--something none but herself hadever felt before--something romantic. 'He's like a soldier--aGeneral, ' she said to anybody who cared to listen, and she said it soloudly that many did listen. But she did not care. She stood apartfrom the others, staring as though it were a railway accident. Thistall figure of a cousin she could fit nowhere as yet into her limitedscheme of life. She admired him intensely. Yet Daddy laughed andchatted with him as if he were nothing at all! She kept outside thecircle, wondering about his socks and underclothes. His beard was muchneater and better trimmed than her father's. At least no crumb or bitof cotton was in it. But Jimbo felt no awe. After a moment's hesitation, during which thepassers-by butted him this way and that, he marched straight up andlooked him in the face. He reached to his watch-chain only. 'I'll be your sekrity, too, ' he announced, interrupting Daddy'sfoolishness about 'this is my youngest lad, Rogers. ' Youngest ladindeed! And Henry Rogers then stooped and kissed the lot of them. One afterthe other he put his big arms round them and gave them a hug that waslike the hug of a bear standing on its hind legs. They took it, eachin his own way, differently. Jimbo proudly; Monkey, with a smackingreturn kiss that somehow conveyed the note of her personality--impudence; but Jane Anne, with a grave and outraged dignity, as thoughin a public railway station this kind of behaviour was slightlyinappropriate. She wondered for days afterwards whether she had beenquite correct. He was a cousin, but still he was--a man. And shewondered what she ought to call him. 'Mr. Rogers' was not quite right, yet 'Mr. Cousin Henry' was equally ill-chosen. She decided upon acombination of her own, a kind of code-word that was affectionate yetdistant: 'Cousinenry. ' And she used it with an explosive directnessthat was almost challenge--he could accept which half he chose. But all accepted him at once without fear. They felt, moreover, asecret and very tender thing; there was something in this big, important man that made them know he would love them for themselves;and more--that something in him had need of them. Here lay theexplanation of their instant confidence and acceptance. 'What a jolly bunch you are, to be sure!' he exclaimed. 'And you're tobe my secretary, are you?' he added, taking Jimbo by the shoulders. 'How splendid!' '_I'm_ not, ' said Monkey, with a rush of laughter already too longrestrained. Her manner suggested a somersault, only prevented byengines and officials. But Jimbo was a little shocked. This sort of thing disgraced them. 'Oh, I say!' he exclaimed reproachfully. 'Daddy, isn't she awful?' added Jane Anne under her breath, a sentenceof disapproval in daily use. Her life seemed made up of apologisingfor her impudent sister. 'The 6. 20 starts at 6. 20, you know, ' Jimbo announced. 'The LausanneExpress has gone. Are your "baggages" registered?' And the party movedoff in a scattered and uncertain manner to buy tickets and registerthe luggage. They went back second class--for the first time in theirlives. It was Cousin Henry who paid the difference. That sealed hisposition finally in their eyes. He was a millionaire. All Londonpeople went first or second class. But Jimbo and his younger sister had noticed something else about thenew arrival besides his nose and eyes and length. Even his luxurioushabit of travelling second class did not impress them half as much asthis other detail in his appearance. They referred to it in awhispered talk behind the shelter of the _conducteur's_ back whiletickets were being punched. 'You know, ' whispered Monkey, her eyes popping, 'I've seen CousinHenry before somewhere. I'm certain. ' She gave a little gasp. Jimbo stared, only half believing, yet undeniably moved. Even hisfriend, the Guard, was temporarily neglected. 'Where?' he asked; 'doyou mean in a picture?' 'No, ' she answered with decision, 'out here, I think. In the woods orsomewhere. ' She seemed vague. But her very vagueness helped him tobelieve. She was not inventing; he was sure of that. The _conducteur_ at that moment passed away along the train, andCousin Henry looked straight at the pair of them. Through the openwindow dusk fluttered down the sky with spots of gold already on itswings. 'What jolly stars you've got here, ' he said, pointing. 'They're likediamonds. Look, it's a perfect network far above the Alps. By gum--what beauties!' And as he said it he smiled. Monkey gave her brother a nudge thatnearly made him cry out. He wondered what she meant, but all the samehe returned the nudge significantly. For Cousin Henry, when he smiled, had plainly shown--two teeth of gold. The children had never seen gold-capped teeth. 'I'd like one for my collection, ' thought Jimbo, meaning a drawer thatincluded all his loose possessions of small size. But another thingstirred in him too, vague, indefinite, far away, something he had, asit were, forgotten. CHAPTER XII O star benignant and serene, I take the good to-morrow, That fills from verge to verge my dream, With all its joy and sorrow! The old sweet spell is unforgot That turns to June December; And, though the world remember not, Love, we would remember. _Life and Death_, W. E. HENLEY. And Rogers went over to unpack. It was soon done. He sat at his windowin the carpenter's house and enjoyed the peace. The spell of eveningstole down from the woods. London and all his strenuous life seemedvery far away. Bourcelles drew up beside him, opened her robe, letdown her forest hair, and whispered to him with her voice of manyfountains. .. . She lies just now within the fringe of an enormous shadow, for the sunhas dipped behind the blue-domed mountains that keep back France. Small hands of scattered mist creep from the forest, fingering thevineyards that troop down towards the lake. A dog barks. Gygi, thegendarme, leaves the fields and goes home to take his uniform from itspeg. Pere Langel walks among his beehives. There is a distant tinklingof cow-bells from the heights, where isolated pastures gleam like apatchwork quilt between the spread of forest; and farther down a trainfrom Paris or Geneva, booming softly, leaves a trail of smoke againstthe background of the Alps where still the sunshine lingers. But trains, somehow, do not touch the village; they merely pass it. Busy with vines, washed by its hill-fed stream, swept by the mountainwinds, it lies unchallenged by the noisy world, remote, un-noticed, half forgotten. And on its outskirts stands the giant poplar thatguards it--_la sentinelle_ the peasants call it, because its loftycrest, rising to every wind, sends down the street first warning ofany coming change. They see it bend or hear the rattle of its leaves. The _coup de Joran_, most sudden and devastating of mountain winds, ison the way from the precipice of the Creux du Van. It comes howlinglike artillery down the deep Gorges de l'Areuse. They run to fastenwindows, collect the washing from roof and garden, drive the cattleinto shelter, and close the big doors of the barns. The children claptheir hands and cry to Gygi, 'Plus vite! Plus vite!' The lake turnsdark. Ten minutes later it is raging with an army of white horses likethe sea. Darkness drapes the village. It comes from the whole long line ofJura, riding its troop of purple shadows--slowly curtaining out theworld. For the carpenter's house stands by itself, apart. Perched upona knoll beside his little patch of vineyard, it commands perspective. From his upper window Rogers saw and remembered. .. . High up against the fading sky ridges of limestone cliff shine outhere and there, and upon the vast slopes of Boudry--_l'immense geantde Boudry_--lies a flung cloak of forest that knows no single seam. The smoke from _bucheron_ fires, joining the scarves of mist, weavesacross its shoulder a veil of lace-like pattern, and at its feet, likesome great fastening button, hides the village of the same name, whereMarat passed his brooding youth. Its evening lights are alreadytwinkling. They signal across the vines to the towers of Colombier, rising with its columns of smoke and its poplars against the sheet ofdarkening water--Colombier, in whose castle _milord marechal Keith_had his headquarters as Governor of the Principality of Neuchatelunder the King of Prussia. And, higher up, upon the flank of woodedmountains, is just visible still the great red-roofed farm ofCotendard, built by his friend Lord Wemyss, another Jacobite refugee, who had strange parties there and entertained Jean Jacques Rousseau inhis exile. La Citadelle in the village was the wing of another castlehe began to build, but left unfinished. White in the gathering dusk, Rogers saw the strip of roadway wherepassed the gorgeous coach--_cette fameuse diligence du milord marshalKeith_--or more recent, but grimmer memory, where General Bourbaki'sdivision of the French army, 80, 000 strong, trailed in unspeakableanguish, hurrying from the Prussians. At Les Verrieres, upon thefrontier, they laid down their arms, and for three consecutive daysand nights the pitiful destitute procession passed down that strip ofmountain road in the terrible winter of 1870-71. Some among the peasants still hear that awful tramping in their sleep:the kindly old _vigneron_ who stood in front of his chalet from dawnto sunset, giving each man bread and wine; and the woman who nursedthree soldiers through black small-pox, while neighbours left foodupon the wall before the house. .. . Memories of his boyhood crowdedthick and fast. The spell of the place deepened about him with thedarkness. He recalled the village postman--fragment of anotherromance, though a tattered and discredited one. For this postman wasthe descendant of that audacious pale-frenier who married Lord Wemyss'daughter, to live the life of peasants with her in a yet tinier hamlethigher up the slopes. If you asked him, he would proudly tell you, with his bullet-shaped, close-cropped head cocked impertinently on oneside, how his brother, now assistant in a Paris shop, still owned thetitle of baron by means of which his reconciliated lordship soughteventually to cover up the unfortunate escapade. He would hand youEnglish letters--and Scotch ones too!--with an air of covert insolencethat was the joy of half the village. And on Sundays he was to beseen, garbed in knickerbockers, gaudy stockings, and sometimes high, yellowish spats, walking with his peasant girl along the very road hismore spirited forbear covered in his runaway match. .. . The night stepped down more quickly every minute from the heights. Deep-noted bells floated upwards to him from Colombier, bringing uponthe evening wind some fragrance of these faded boyhood memories. Thestars began to peep above the peaks and ridges, and the mountains ofthe Past moved nearer. A veil of gossamer rose above the tree-tops, hiding more and more of the landscape; he just could see the slim newmoon dip down to drink from her own silver cup within the darkeninglake. Workmen, in twos and threes, came past the little house fromtheir toil among the vines, and fragments of the Dalcroze songs roseto his ear--songs that the children loved, and that he had not heardfor nearly a quarter of a century. Their haunting refrains completedthen the spell, for all genuine spells are set to some peculiar musicof their own. These Dalcroze melodies were exactly right. .. . Thefigures melted away into the single shadow of the village street. Thehouses swallowed them, voices, footsteps, and all. And his eye, wandering down among the lights that twinkled against thewall of mountains, picked out the little ancient house, nestling soclose beside the church that they shared a wall in common. Twenty-fiveyears had passed since first he bowed his head beneath the wistariathat still crowned the Pension doorway. He remembered bounding up thecreaking stairs. He felt he could still bound as swiftly and with assure a step, only--he would expect less at the top now. More trulyput, perhaps, he would expect less for himself. That ambition of hislife was over and done with. It was for others now that his desiresflowed so strongly. Mere personal aims lay behind him in a faded heap, their seductiveness exhausted. .. . He was a man with a Big Scheme now--a Scheme to help the world. .. . The village seemed a dull enough place in those days, for the big Alpsbeckoned beyond, and day and night he longed to climb them instead ofreading dull French grammar. But now all was different. It dislocatedhis sense of time to find the place so curiously unchanged. The yearshad played some trick upon him. While he himself had altered, developed, and the rest, this village had remained identically thesame, till it seemed as if no progress of the outer world need everchange it. The very people were so little altered--hair grown a littlewhiter, shoulders more rounded, steps here and there a trifle slower, but one and all following the old routine he knew so well as a boy. Tante Jeanne, in particular, but for wrinkles that looked as though anight of good sound sleep would smooth them all away, was the samebrave woman, still 'running' that Wistaria Pension against the burdenof inherited debts and mortgages. 'We're still alive, ' she had said tohim, after greetings delayed a quarter of a century, 'and if wehaven't got ahead much, at least we haven't gone back!' There was nomore hint of complaint than this. It stirred in him a very poignantsense of admiration for the high courage that drove the ageing fighterforward still with hope and faith. No doubt she still turned thekitchen saucer that did duty for planchette, unconsciously pushing itsblunted pencil towards the letters that should spell out coming help. No doubt she still wore that marvellous tea-gown garment that did dutyfor so many different toilettes, even wearing it when she went withgoloshes and umbrella to practise Sunday's hymns every Saturday nighton the wheezy church harmonium. And most likely she still madeunderskirts from the silk of discarded umbrellas because she loved thesound of frou-frou thus obtained, while the shape of the silk exactlyadapted itself to the garment mentioned. And doubtless, too, she stillgave away a whole week's profits at the slightest call of sickness inthe village, and then wondered how it was the Pension did not pay. .. ! A voice from below interrupted his long reverie. 'Ready for supper, Henry?' cried his cousin up the stairs. 'It's pastseven. The children have already left the Citadelle. ' And as the two middle-aged dreamers made their way along the windingstreet of darkness through the vines, one of them noticed that thestars drew down their grand old network, fastening it to the heightsof Boudry and La Tourne. He did not mention it to his companion, whowas wumbling away in his beard about some difficult details of hisbook, but the thought slipped through his mind like the trail of aflying comet: 'I'd like to stay a long time in this village and getthe people straight a bit, '--which, had he known it, was anotherthought carefully paraphrased so that he should not notice it and feelalarm: 'It will be difficult to get away from here. My feet are inthat net of stars. It's catching about my heart. ' Low in the sky a pale, witched moon of yellow watched them go. .. . 'The Starlight Express is making this way, I do believe, ' he thought. But perhaps he spoke the words aloud instead of thinking them. 'Eh! What's that you said, Henry?' asked the other, taking it for acomment of value upon the plot of a story he had referred to. 'Oh, nothing particular, ' was the reply. 'But just look at those starsabove La Tourne. They shine like beacons burning on the trees. ' Minkswould have called them 'braziers. ' 'They are rather bright, yes, ' said the other, disappointed. 'The airhere is so very clear. ' And they went up the creaking wooden stairs tosupper in the Wistaria Pension as naturally as though the years hadlifted them behind the mountains of the past in a single bound--twenty-five years ago. CHAPTER XIII Near where yonder evening star Makes a glory in the air, Lies a land dream--found and far Where it is light always. There those lovely ghosts repair Who in sleep's enchantment are, In Cockayne dwell all things fair-- (But it is far away). Cockayne Country, Agnes Duclaux. The first stage in Cousinenry's introduction took place, as has beenseen, at a railway station; but further stages were accomplishedlater. For real introductions are not completed by merely repeatingnames and shaking hands, still less by a hurried kiss. The ceremonyhad many branches too--departments, as it were. It spread itself, withvarious degrees, over many days as opportunity offered, and includedGygi, the gendarme, as well as the little troop of retired governesseswho came to the Pension for their mid-day dinner. Before two days werepassed he could not go down the village street without lifting his capat least a dozen times. Bourcelles was so very friendly; no room forstrangers there; a new-comer might remain a mystery, but he could notbe unknown. Rogers found his halting French becoming rapidly fluentagain. And every one knew so much about him--more almost than he knewhimself. At the Den next day, on the occasion of their first tea together, herealised fully that introduction--to the children at any rate--involved a kind of initiation. It seemed to him that the room was full of children, crowds of them, an intricate and ever shifting maze. For years he had known nodealings with the breed, and their movements now were so light andrapid that it rather bewildered him. They were in and out between thekitchen, corridor, and bedroom like bits of a fluid puzzle. One momenta child was beside him, and the next, just as he had a suitablesentence ready to discharge at it, the place was vacant. A minutelater 'it' appeared through another door, carrying the samovar, or wason the roof outside struggling with Riquette. 'Oh, there you are!' he exclaimed. 'How you do dart about, to besure!' And the answer, if any, was invariably of the cheeky order-- 'One can't keep still here; there's not room enough. ' Or, worse still-- 'I must get past you somehow!' This, needless to say, from Monkey, whofirst made sure her parents were out of earshot. But he liked it, for he recognised this proof that he was accepted andmade one of the circle. These were tentative invitations to play. Itmade him feel quite larky, though at first he found his machinery oflarking rather stiff. The wheels required oiling. And his firstattempt to chase Miss Impudence resulted in a collision with Jane Annecarrying a great brown pot of home-made jam for the table. There was adreadful sound. He had stepped on the cat at the same time. His introduction to the cat was the immediate result, performedsolemnly by Jimbo, and watched by Jinny, still balancing the jar ofjam, with an expression of countenance that was half amazement andhalf shock. Collisions with creatures of his size and splendour were anew event to her. 'I must advertise for help if it occurs again!' she exclaimed. 'That's Mere Riquette, you know, ' announced Jimbo formally to hiscousin, standing between them in his village school blouse, handstucked into his belt. 'I heard her, yes. ' From a distance the cat favoured him with a singlecomprehensive glance, then turned away and disappeared beneath thesofa. She, of course, reserved her opinion. 'It didn't REALLY hurt her. She always squeals like that. ' 'Perhaps she likes it, ' suggested Rogers. 'She likes better tickling behind the ear, ' Jimbo thought, anxious tomake him feel all right, and then plunged into a description of hergeneral habits--how she jumped at the door handles when she wanted tocome in, slept on his bed at night, and looked for a saucer in aparticular corner of the kitchen floor. This last detail was acompliment. He meant to imply that Cousin Henry might like to see toit himself sometimes, although it had always been his own specialprerogative hitherto. 'I shall know in future, then, ' said Rogers earnestly, showing, bytaking the information seriously, that he possessed the correctinstinct. 'Oh yes, it's quite easy. You'll soon learn it, ' spoken with feet wideapart and an expression of careless importance, as who should say, 'What a sensible man you are! Still, these _are_ little things one hasto be careful about, you know. ' Mother poured out tea, somewhat laboriously, as though the exactproportions of milk, hot water, and sugar each child took weredifficult to remember. Each had a special cup, moreover. Her mind, ever crammed with a thousand domestic details which she seemed tocarry all at once upon the surface, ready for any sudden question, found it difficult to concentrate upon the teapot. Her mind was everworrying over these. Her husband was too vague to be of practicalhelp. When any one spoke to her, she would pause in the middle of theoperation, balancing a cup in one hand and a milk jug in the other, until the question was properly answered, every t crossed and every idotted. There was no mistaking what Mother meant--provided you had thetime to listen. She had that careful thoroughness which was no friendof speed. The result was that hands were stretched out for second cupslong before she had completed the first round. Her own tea beganusually when everybody else had finished--and lasted--well, some time. 'Here's a letter I got, ' announced Jimbo, pulling a very dirty scrapof paper from a pocket hidden beneath many folds of blouse. 'You'dlike to see it. ' He handed it across the round table, and Rogers tookit politely. 'Thank you very much; it came by this morning's post, didit?' 'Oh, no, ' was the reply, as though a big correspondence made the dateof little importance. 'Not by _that_ post. ' But Monkey blurted outwith the jolly laughter that was her characteristic sound, 'It cameages ago. He's had it in his pocket for weeks. ' Jimbo, ignoring the foolish interruption, watched his cousin's face, while Jinny gave her sister a secret nudge that every one could see. 'Darling Jimbo, ' was what Rogers read, 'I have been to school, and didstrokes and prickings and marched round. I am like you now. A fat kissand a hug, your loving---' The signature was illegible, lost amidseveral scratchy lines in a blot that looked as if a beetle hadexpired after violent efforts in a pool of ink. 'Very nice indeed, very well put, ' said Rogers, handing it gravelyback again, while some one explained that the writer, aged five, hadjust gone to a kindergarten school in Geneva. 'And have you answeredit?' 'Oh, yes. I answered it the same day, you see. ' It was, perhaps, afoolish letter for a man to have in his pocket. Still--it was aletter. 'Good! What a capital secretary you'll make me. ' And the boy's flushof pleasure almost made the dish of butter rosy. 'Oh, take another; take a lot, please, ' Jimbo said, handing the cakesthat Rogers divined were a special purchase in his honour; and whilehe did so, managed to slip one later on to the plates of Monkey andher sister, who sat on either side of him. The former gobbled it up atonce, barely keeping back her laughter, but Jinny, with a little bow, put hers carefully aside on the edge of her plate, not knowing quitethe 'nice' thing to do with it. Something in the transaction seemed atrifle too familiar perhaps. She stole a glance at mother, but motherwas filling the cups and did not notice. Daddy could have helped her, only he would say 'What?' in a loud voice, and she would have torepeat her question for all to hear. Later, she ate the cake in verysmall morsels, a little uncomfortably. It was a jolly, merry, cosy tea, as teas in the Den always were. Daddywumbled a number of things in his beard to which no one need replyunless they felt like it. The usual sentences were not heard to-day:'Monkey, what a mouthful! You _must_ not shovel in your food likethat!' or, 'Don't _gurgle_ your tea down; swallow it quietly, like alittle lady'; or, 'How often have you been told _not_ to drink withyour mouth full; this is not the servants' hall, remember!' There wereno signs of contretemps of any kind, nothing was upset or broken, andthe cakes went easily round, though not a crumb was left over. But the entire time Mr. Rogers was subjected to the keenest scrutinyimaginable. Nothing he did escaped two pairs of eyes at least. Signalswere flashed below as well as above the table. These signals were ofthe kind birds know perhaps--others might be aware of their existenceif they listened very attentively, yet might not interpret them. NoComanche ever sent more deft communications unobserved to his brotheracross a camp fire. Yet nothing was done visibly; no crumb was flicked; and the table hidthe pressure of the toe which, fortunately, no one intercepted. Monkey, at any rate, had eyes in both her feet, and Jimbo knew how tokeep his counsel without betrayal. But inflections of the voice didmost 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 brotherwhile 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 wipedthe 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 hercup of tea-hot-water-milk, 'when once we've got him "out" and taughthim'; and Jimbo offered and accepted his own resignation of thecoveted, long-held post by the way he let his eyelid twiddle in answerto her well-directed toe-nudge out of sight. This, in a brief resume, was the purport of the give and take ofnumerous despatches between them during tea, while outwardly Mother--and Father, too, when he thought about it--were delighted with theirperfect company manners. Jane Anne, outside all this flummery, went her own way upon an evenkeel. She watched him closely too, but not covertly. She stared him inthe face, and imitated his delicate way of eating. Once or twice shecalled him 'Mr. Rogers, ' for this had a grown-up flavour about it thatappealed to her, and 'Cousin Henry' did not come easily to her atfirst. 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 likeBourcelles?'--in a sudden pause that caught Mother balancing cup andteapot in mid-air--puzzled her a good deal. She liked his quiet answerthough--'Thank you, Miss Campden, I think both quite charming. ' He didnot laugh. He understood, whatever the others might think. She hadwished to correct the levity of the younger brother and sister, and heevidently appreciated her intentions. He seemed a nice man, a verynice man. Tea once over, she carried off the loaded tray to the kitchen to dothe washing-up. Jimbo and Monkey had disappeared. They always vanishedabout 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 takethe things away, ' was even issued. By the time they re-appeared Jinnywas halfway through it and did not want to be disturbed. 'Never mind, Mother, ' she said, 'they're chronic. They're only littlebusy Highlanders!' For 'chronic' was another catch-word at the moment, and sometimes by chance she used it appropriately. The source of 'busyHighlanders' was a mystery known only to herself. And resentment, likejealousy, was a human passion she never felt and did not understand. Jane Anne was the spirit of unselfishness incarnate. It was to herhonour, 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 onliterature or politics, while Mother picked a work-basket cleverlyfrom a dangerously overloaded shelf, and prepared to mend and sew. Thewindows were wide open, and framed the picture of snowy Alps, nowturning many-tinted in the slanting sunshine. (Riquette, gorged withmilk, appeared from the scullery and inspected knees and chairs andcushions that seemed available, selecting finally the best arm-chairand curling up to sleep. Rogers smoked a cigarette, pleased andsatisfied like the cat. ) A hush fell on the room. It was the hour ofpeace between tea and the noisy Pension supper that later broke thespell. So quiet was it that the mouse began to nibble in the bedroomwalls, and even peeped through the cracks it knew between the boards. It came out, flicked its whiskers, and then darted in again likelightning. Jane Anne, rinsing out the big teapot in the scullery, frightened it. Presently she came in softly, put the lamp ready forher 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 toher, and then went on tip-toe out of the room. She was bound for thevillage shop to buy methylated spirits, sugar, blotting-paper, and--a'plaque' of Suchard chocolate for her Cousinenry. The forty centimesfor this latter was a large item in her savings; but she gave nothought to that. What sorely perplexed her as she hurried down thestreet was whether he would like it 'milk' or 'plain. ' In the end shebought both. Down the dark corridor of the Citadelle, before she left, she did nothear the muffled laughter among the shadows, nor see the movement oftwo figures that emerged together from the farther end. 'He'll be on the sofa by now. Shall we go for him?' It was the voiceof Monkey. 'Leave it to me. ' Jimbo still meant to be leader so far as these twowere 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. Heunderstood 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 aboutafter 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 atthe station. Jimbo made up for ignorance by decision and sublime self-confidence. He answered no silly questions, but listened, made up hismind, 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 hismanner. Even now he's only half awake. ' The conversation was in French--school and village French. Her brotherignored the question with 'va te cacher!' He had no doubts himself. 'Just wait a moment while I tighten my belt, ' he observed. 'You cantell it by his eyes, ' he added, as Monkey urged him forward to thedoor. 'I know a good dreamer when I see one. ' Then fate helped them. The door against their noses opened and Daddycame out, followed by his cousin. All four collided. 'Oh, is the washing-up finished?' asked Monkey innocently, quick as aflash. 'How you startled me!' exclaimed Daddy. 'You really must try to beless impetuous. You'd better ask Mother about the washing, ' herepeated, 'she's in there sewing. ' His thoughts, it seemed, were justa trifle confused. Plates and linen both meant washing, and sometimeshair and other stuff as well. 'There's no light, you see, yet, ' whispered Jimbo. A small lampusually hung upon the wall. Jane Anne at that moment came out carryingit and asking for a match. 'No starlight, either, ' added Monkey quickly, giving her cousin alittle 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 onMonkey it had only slight effect. Her irrepressible little spiritconcealed springs few could regulate. Even avoir-dupois increasedtheir resiliency the moment it was removed. But Jimbo checked herbetter than most. She did look a trifle ashamed--for a second. 'Can't you wait?' he whispered. 'Daddy'll spoil it if you begin ithere. How you do fidget!' They passed all together out into the yard, the men in front, the twochildren just behind, walking warily. Then came the separation, yet none could say exactly how it wasaccomplished. For separations are curious things at the best of times, the forces that effect them as mysterious as wind that blows a pair ofbutterflies across a field. Something equally delicate was at work. One minute all four stood together by the fountain, and the next Daddywas walking downhill towards the carpenter's house alone, while theother three were already twenty metres up the street that led to thebelt 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--herrotundity ever suggested rolling rather than the taking of actualsteps--as if she led a prisoner. 'Don't bother your cousin, children, ' their father's voice was heardagain faintly in the distance. Then the big shoulder of La Citadellehid him from view and hearing. And so the sight was seen of these three, arm in arm, passing alongthe village street in the twilight. Gygi saw them go and raised hisblue, peaked cap; and so did Henri Favre, standing in the doorway ofhis little shop, as he weighed the possible value of the new customerfor matches, chocolate, and string--the articles English chieflybought; and likewise Alfred Sandoz, looking a moment through thewindow of his cabaret, the Guillaume Tell, saw them go past likeshadows towards the woods, and observed to his carter friend acrossthe table, 'They choose queer times for expeditions, these English, _ouah!_' 'It's their climate makes them like that, ' put in his wife, a touch ofpity 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 _DailySurprise_ she sometimes brought. Meanwhile the three travellers had crossed the railway line, whereJimbo detained them for a moment's general explanation, and passed theshadow of the sentinel poplar. The cluster of spring leaves rustledfaintly on its crest. The village lay behind them now. They turned amoment to look back upon the stretch of vines and fields that spreadtowards the lake. From the pool of shadow where the houses nestledrose the spire of the church, a strong dark line against the fadingsunset. Thin columns of smoke tried to draw it after them. Lightsalready twinkled on the farther shore, five miles across, and beyondthese rose dim white forms of the tremendous ghostly Alps. Dusk slowlybrought 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 questionthat had been buzzing inside her head the whole time-- 'How long are you going to stay?' she said, as they climbed higheralong the dusty road. 'Oh, about a week, ' he told her, giving the answer already used adozen times. 'I've just come out for a holiday--first holiday I've hadfor 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 wasconvicted of exaggeration. 'Besides, it's spring. ' 'There are millions of flowers here, ' Jimbo covered his mistakekindly, '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 itthemselves. And they told him how they picked clothes-baskets full ofthe wild lily of the valley that grew upon the Boudry slopes, hepaticas, periwinkles, jonquils, blue and white violets, as well ascountless anemones, and later, the big yellow marguerites. 'Then how long are you going to stay--_really_?' inquired Monkey onceagain, as though the polite interlude were over. It was a delicate wayof suggesting that he had told an untruth. She looked up straight intohis face. And, meeting her big brown eyes, he wondered a little--forthe 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, ' hesaid at length, giving the answer purposely. But he said it withoutconviction, haltingly. He felt that they divined the doubt in him. They guessed his thought along the hands upon his arm, as a horsefinds out its rider from the touch upon the reins. On either side bigeyes watched and judged him; but the brown ones put a positiveenchantment 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 eyesfixed upon his face till he felt the wonder in him become a littleunmanageable. '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 littlegust of curious laughter, as who should say 'He who laughs last, laughs best. ' They entered the edge of the forest. Hepaticas watched them with theireyes of blue. Violets marked their tread. The frontiers of thedaylight softly closed behind them. A thousand trees opened a way tolet them pass, and moss twelve inches thick took their footstepssilently as birds. They came presently to a little clearing where thepines stood in a circle and let in a space of sky. Looking up, allthree saw the first small stars in it. A wild faint scent of comingrain was in the air--those warm spring rains that wash the way forsummer. And a signal flashed unseen from the blue eyes to the brown. 'This way, ' said Jimbo firmly. 'There's an armchair rock where you canrest and get your wind a bit, ' and, though Rogers had not lost hiswind, he let himself be led, and took the great grey boulder for hischair. Instantly, before he had arranged his weight among the pointsand angles, both his knees were occupied. 'By Jove, ' flashed through his mind. 'They've brought me here onpurpose. 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 alreadypointing upwards to the space of sky. He saw the fringe of pine topsfencing it about with their feathery, crested ring, and in the centreshone faint, scattered stars. Over the fence of mystery that surroundscommon objects wonder peeped with one eye like a star. 'Cousinenry, ' he heard close to his ear, so soft it almost might havebeen those tree-tops whispering to the night, 'do you know anythingabout a Star Cave--a place where the starlight goes when there are noeyes or puddles about to catch it?' A Star Cave! How odd! His own boyhood's idea. He must have mentionedit to his cousin perhaps, and _he_ had told the children. And all thatwas in him of nonsense, poetry, love rose at a bound as he heard it. He felt them settle themselves more comfortably upon his knees. Heforgot to think about the points and angles. Here surely a gateway wasopening before his very feet, a gateway into that world of fairylandthe old clergyman had spoken about. A great wave of tenderness swepthim--a flood strong and deep, as he had felt it long ago upon the hillof that Kentish village. The golden boyhood's mood rushed over himonce more with all its original splendour. It took a slightlydifferent form, however. He knew better how to direct it for onething. 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 StarCave. ' And Jimbo said aloud the verses he had already learned by heart. Whilehis small voice gave the words, more than a little mixed, a bird highup among the boughs woke from its beauty sleep and sang. The twosounds mingled. But the singing of the bird brought back the sceneryof the Vicarage garden, and with it the strange, passionate things theold clergyman had said. The two scenes met in his mind, passed in andout of one another like rings of smoke, interchanged, and finallyformed a new picture all their own, where flowers danced upon a carpetof star-dust that glittered in mid-air. He knew some sudden, deep enchantment of the spirit. The Fairyland theworld 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--channelsthat fastened mind, heart, and soul together in a single intricatenetwork of soft belief. He remembered the dusk upon the Crayfieldlawns. 'Of course I know a Star Cave, ' he said at length, when Jimbo hadfinished his recitation, and Monkey had added the details their fatherhad told them. 'I know the very one your Daddy spoke about. It's notfar from where we're sitting. It's over there. ' He pointed up to themountain heights behind them, but Jimbo guided his hand in the rightdirection--towards the Boudry slopes where the forests dip upon theprecipices of the Areuse. 'Yes, that's it--exactly, ' he said, accepting the correctioninstantly; 'only _I_ go to the top of the mountains first so as toslide 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 findthe 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 afresh supply to take back to London with me. One needs a fearful lotin 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 awfullot before I go back. ' 'That'll take more than a week, ' she said triumphantly. They fastened themselves closer against him, like limpets on a rock. 'I told you there was lots to do here, ' whispered Monkey again. 'You'll never get it done in a week. ' 'And how will you take it back?' asked Jimbo in the same breath. Theanswer went straight to the boy's heart. 'In a train, of course. I've got an express train here on purpose----' 'The "Rapide"?' he interrupted, his blue eyes starting like flowersfrom the earth. 'Quicker far than that. I've got----' They stared so hard and so expectantly, it was almost like aninterruption. The bird paused in its rushing song to listen too. '----a Starlight Express, ' he finished, caught now in the full tide offairyland. 'It came here several nights ago. It's being loaded up asfull as ever it can carry. I'm to drive it back again when once it'sready. ' 'Where is it now?' 'Who's loading it?' 'How fast does it go? Are there accidents and collisions?' 'How do you find the way?' 'May I drive it with you?' 'Tell us exactly everything in the world about it--at once!' Questions poured in a flood about him, and his imagination leaped totheir answering. Above them the curtain of the Night shook out hermillion stars while they lay there talking with bated breath together. On every single point he satisfied them, and himself as well. He toldthem all--his visit to the Manor House, the sprites he found therestill alive and waiting as he had made them in his boyhood, theirsongs and characters, the Dustman, Sweep, and Lamplighter, theLaugher, and the Woman of the Haystack, the blue-eyed Guard---- 'But now her eyes are brown, aren't they?' Monkey asked, peering veryclose into his face. At the same moment she took his heart and hid itdeep away among her tumbling hair. 'I was coming to that. They're brown now, of course, because in thisdifferent atmosphere brown eyes see better than blue in the dark. Thecolours of signals vary in different countries. 'And I'm the _mecanicien_, ' cried Jimbo. 'I drive the engine. ' 'And I'm your stoker, ' he agreed, 'because here we burn wood insteadof coal, and I'm director in a wood-paving company and so know allabout it. ' They did not pause to dissect his logic--but just tore about fullspeed with busy plans and questionings. He began to wonder how in theworld he would satisfy them--and satisfy himself as well!--when thetime should come to introduce them to Express and Cave and Passengers. For if he failed in that, the reality of the entire business must fallto the ground. Yet the direct question did not come. He wondered moreand more. Neither child luckily insisted on immediate tangibleacquaintance. They did not even hint about it. So far the whole thinghad gone splendidly and easily, like floating a new company with therosiest prospectus in the world; but the moment must arrive whenprofits and dividends would have to justify mere talk. Concreteresults would be demanded. If not forthcoming, where would hisposition be? Yet, still the flood of questions, answers, explanations flowed onwithout the critical sentence making its appearance. He had led themwell--so far. How in the world, though, was he to keep it up, andprovide definite result at the end? Then suddenly the truth dawned upon him. It was not he who led afterall; it was they. He was being led. They knew. They understood. Thereins of management lay in their small capable hands, and he had neverreally held them at all. Most cleverly, with utmost delicacy, they hadconcealed from him his real position. They were Directors, he themerest shareholder, useful only for 'calls. ' The awkward question thathe feared would never come, but instead he would receive instructions. 'Keep close to the children; they will guide you. ' The words flashedback. He was a helpless prisoner; but had only just discovered thefact. He supplied the funds; they did the construction. Their plansand schemes netted his feet in fairyland just as surely as the weightof their little warm, soft bodies fastened him to the boulder where hesat. He could not move. He could not go further without their will andleadership. But his captivity was utterly delightful to him. .. . The sound of a deep bell from the Colombier towers floated in to thembetween the trees. The children sprang from his knees. He rose slowly, a little cramped and stiff. 'Half-past six, ' said Jimbo. 'We must go back for supper. ' He stood there a moment, stretching, while the others waited, staringup at him as though he were a tree. And he felt like a big tree; theywere two wild-flowers his great roots sheltered down below. And at that moment, in the little pause before they linked up arms andstarted home again, the Question of Importance came, though not in theway he had expected it would come. 'Cousinenry, do you sleep very tightly at night, please?' Monkey askedit, but Jimbo stepped up nearer to watch the reply. 'Like a top, ' he said, wondering. Signals he tried vainly to intercept flashed between the pair of them. 'Why do you ask?' as nothing further seemed forthcoming. 'Oh, just to know, ' she explained. 'It's all right. ' 'Yes, it's quite all right like that, ' added Jimbo. And without moreado they took his arms and pulled him out of the forest. And Henry Rogers heard something deep, deep down within himself echothe verdict. 'I think it is all right. ' On the way home there were no puddles, but there were three pairs ofeyes--and the stars were uncommonly thick overhead. The children askedhim almost as many questions as there were clusters of them betweenthe summits of Boudry and La Tourne. All three went floundering inthat giant Net. It was so different, too, from anything they had beenaccustomed to. Their father's stories, answers, explanations, and thelike, were ineffective because they always felt he did not quitebelieve them himself even while he gave them. He did not think hebelieved them, that is. But Cousin Henry talked of stars and star-stuff as though he had some in his pocket at the moment. And, ofcourse, he had. For otherwise they would not have listened. He couldnot have held their attention. They especially liked the huge, ridiculous words he used, because suchwords concealed great mysteries that pulsed with wonder andexquisitely wound them up. Daddy made things too clear. The bones ofimpossibility were visible. They saw thin nakedness behind theexplanations, till the sense of wonder faded. They were not babies tobe fed with a string of one-syllable words! Jimbo kept silence mostly, his instinct ever being to conceal hisignorance; but Monkey talked fifteen to the dozen, filling the pauseswith long 'ohs' and bursts of laughter and impudent observations. Yether cheeky insolence never crossed the frontier where it could beresented. Her audacity stopped short of impertinence. 'There's a point beyond which--' her cousin would say gravely, whenshe grew more daring than usual; and, while answering 'It'll stickinto you, then, not into me, ' she yet withdrew from the borders ofimpertinence at once. 'What is star-stuff really then?' she asked. 'The primordial substance of the universe, ' he answered solemnly, nowhit ashamed of his inaccuracy. 'Ah yes!' piped Jimbo, quietly. _Ecole primaire_ he understood. Thismust be something similar. 'But what does it do, I mean, and why is it good for people to have itin them--on them--whatever it is?' she inquired. 'It gives sympathy and insight; it's so awfully subtle and delicate, 'he answered. 'A little of it travels down on every ray and soaks downinto you. It makes you feel inclined to stick to other people andunderstand them. That's sympathy. ' '_Sympathie_, ' said Jimbo for his sister's benefit apparently, but inreality because he himself was barely treading water. 'But sympathy, ' the other went on, 'is no good without insight--whichmeans seeing things as others see them--from inside. That's insight---' 'Inside sight, ' she corrected him. 'That's it. You see, the first stuff that existed in the universe wasthis star-stuff--nebulae. Having nothing else to stick to, it stuck toitself, and so got thicker. It whirled in vortices. It grew togetherin sympathy, for sympathy brings together. It whirled and twirledround itself till it got at last into solid round bodies--worlds--stars. It passed, that is, from mere dreaming into action. And whenthe rays soak into you, they change your dreaming into action. Youfeel the desire to do things--for others. ' 'Ah! yes, ' repeated Jimbo, 'like that. ' 'You must be full of vorty seas, then, because you're so long, ' saidMonkey, 'but you'll never grow into a solid round body----' He took a handful of her hair and smothered the remainder of thesentence. 'The instant a sweet thought is born in your mind, ' he continued, 'theheavenly stables send their starry messengers to harness it for use. Aray, perhaps, from mighty Sirius picks it out of your heart at birth. ' 'Serious!' exclaimed Jimbo, as though the sun were listening. 'Sirius--another sun, that is, far bigger than our own--a perfectgiant, yet so far away you hardly notice him. ' The boy clasped his dirty fingers and stared hard. The sun _was_listening. 'Then what I _think_ is known--like that--all over the place?' heasked. He held himself very straight indeed. 'Everywhere, ' replied Cousinenry gravely. 'The stars flash yourthoughts over the whole universe. None are ever lost. Sooner or laterthey appear in visible shape. Some one, for instance, must havethought this flower long ago'--he stooped and picked a blue hepaticaat their feet--'or it couldn't be growing here now. ' Jimbo accepted the statement with his usual gravity. 'Then I shall always think enormous and tremendous things--powerfullocomotives, like that and--and----' 'The best is to think kind little sweet things about other people, 'suggested the other. 'You see the results quicker then. ' 'Mais oui, ' was the reply, 'je pourrai faire ca au meme temps, n'est-ce pas?' 'Parfaitemong, ' agreed his big cousin. 'There's no room in her for inside sight, ' observed Monkey as a portlydame rolled by into the darkness. 'You can't tell her front from herback. ' It was one of the governesses. 'We'll get her into the cave and change all that, ' her cousin saidreprovingly. 'You must never judge by outside alone. Puddings shouldteach you that. ' But no one could reprove Monkey without running a certain risk. 'We don't have puddings here, ' she said, 'we have dessert--souroranges and apples. ' She flew from his side and vanished down the street and into theCitadelle courtyard before he could think of anything to say. Ashooting star flashed at the same moment behind the church tower, vanishing into the gulf of Boudry's shadow. They seemed to go at thesame pace together. 'Oh, I say!' said Jimbo sedately, 'you must punish her for that, youknow. Shall I come with you to the carpenter's?' he added, as theystood a moment by the fountain. 'There's just ten minutes to wash andbrush your hair for supper. ' 'I think I can find my way alone, ' he answered, 'thank you all thesame. ' 'It's nothing, ' he said, lifting his cap as the village fashion was, and watching his cousin's lengthy figure vanish down the street. 'We'll meet at the Pension later, ' the voice came back, 'and in themorning I shall have a lot of correspondence to attend to. Bring yourshorthand book and lots of pencils, mind. ' 'How many?' 'Oh, half a dozen will do. ' The boy turned in and hurried after his sister. But he was so busycollecting all the pencils and paper he could find that he forgot tobrush his hair, and consequently appeared at the supper table with ahead like a tangled blackberry bush. His eyes were bright as stars. CHAPTER XIV O pure one, take thy seat in the barque of the Sun, And sail thou over the sky. Sail thou with the imperishable stars, Sail thou with the unwearied stars. _Pyramid Texts, Dynasty VI. _ But Henry Rogers ran the whole two hundred yards to his lodgings inthe carpenter's house. He ran as though the entire field of brilliantstars were at his heels. There was bewilderment, happiness, exhilaration in his blood. He had never felt so light-hearted in hislife. He felt exactly fifteen years of age--and a half. The half wasadded to ensure a good, safe margin over the other two. But he was late for supper too--later than the children, for first hejotted down some notes upon the back of an envelope. He wrote them athigh speed, meaning to correct them later, but the corrections werenever made. Later, when he came to bed, the envelope had been tidiedaway by the careful housewife into the dustbin. And he was ashamed toask for them. The carpenter's wife read English. 'Pity, ' he said to himself. 'I don't believe Minks could have done itbetter!' The energy that went to the making of those 'notes' would have rundown different channels a few years ago. It would have gone into someingenious patent. The patent, however, might equally have gone intothe dustbin. There is an enormous quantity of misdirected energypouring loose about the world! The notes had run something like this-- O children, open your arms to me, Let your hair fall over my eyes; Let me sleep a moment--and then awake In your Gardens of sweet Surprise! For the grown-up folk Are a wearisome folk, And they laugh my fancies to scorn, My fun and my fancies to scorn. O children, open your hearts to me, And tell me your wonder-thoughts; Who lives in the palace inside your brain? Who plays in its outer courts? Who hides in the hours To-morrow holds? Who sleeps in your yesterdays? Who tiptoes along past the curtained folds Of the shadow that twilight lays? O children, open your eyes to me, And tell me your visions too; Who squeezes the sponge when the salt tears flow To dim their magical blue? Who draws up their blinds when the sun peeps in? Who fastens them down at night? Who brushes the fringe of their lace-veined lids? Who trims their innocent light? Then, children, I beg you, sing low to me, And cover my eyes with your hands; O kiss me again till I sleep and dream That I'm lost in your fairylands; For the grown-up folk Are a troublesome folk, And the book of their childhood is torn, Is blotted, and crumpled, and torn! Supper at the Pension dissipated effectively the odd sense ofenchantment to which he had fallen a victim, but it revived again witha sudden rush when Jimbo and his sister came up at half-past eight tosay good-night. It began when the little fellow climbed up to plant aresounding kiss upon his lips, and it caught him fullest when Monkey'sarms were round his neck, and he heard her whisper in his ear-- 'Sleep as tightly as you can, remember, and don't resist. We'll comelater to find you. ' Her brown eyes were straight in front of his own. Goodness, how they shone! Old Sirius and Aldebaran had certainly lefta ray in each. 'Hope you don't get any longer when you're asleep!' she added, givinghim a sly dig in the ribs--then was gone before he could return it, orask her what she meant by 'we'll find you later. ' 'And don't say a word to Mother, ' was the last thing he heard as shevanished down the stairs. Slightly confused, he glanced down at the aged pumps he happened tohave on, and noticed that one bow was all awry and loose. He stoopedto fidget with it, and Mother caught him in the act. 'I'll stitch it on for you, ' she said at once. 'It won't take aminute. One of the children can fetch it in the morning. ' But he was ashamed to add to her endless sewing. Like some femaleSisyphus, she seemed always pushing an enormous needle through amountain of clothes that grew higher each time she reached the top. 'I always wear it like that, ' he assured her gravely, his thoughtsstill busy with two other phrases--' find you' and 'sleep tightly. 'What in the world could they mean? Did the children really intend tovisit him at night? They seemed so earnest about it. Of course it wasall nonsense. And yet----! 'You mustn't let them bother you too much, ' he heard their mothersaying, her voice sounding a long way off. 'They're so wildly happy tohave some one to play with. ' 'That's how I like them, ' he answered vaguely, referring half to thepumps and half to the children. 'They're no trouble at all, believeme. ' 'I'm afraid we've spoilt them rather----' 'But--not at all, ' he murmured, still confused. 'They're only a littleloose--er--lively, I mean. That's how they should be. ' And outside all heard their laughing voices dying down the street asthey raced along to the Citadelle for bed. It was Monkey's duty to seeher brother safely in. Ten minutes later Mother would follow to tellthem tuck-up stories and hear their prayers. 'Excuse me! Have you got a hot-water bottle?' asked a sudden jerkyvoice, and he turned with a start to see Jane Anne towering besidehim. 'I'm sorry, ' he answered, 'but I don't carry such things about withme. ' He imagined she was joking, then saw that it was very serious. She looked puzzled a moment. 'I meant--would you like one? Everybodyuses them here. ' She thought all grown-ups used hot-water bottles. He hesitated a second. The child looked as though she would produceone from her blouse like any conjurer. As yet, however, the article inquestion had not entered his scheme of life. He declined it with manythanks. 'I can get you a big one, ' she urged. But even that did not tempt him. 'Will you have a cold-water bandage then--for your head--or anything?' She seemed so afflicted with a desire to do something for him that healmost said 'Yes'; only the fear that she might offer next a beehiveor a gramophone restrained him. 'Thank you _so_ much, but really I can manage without it--to-night. ' Jane Anne made no attempt to conceal her disappointment. What a man hewas, to be sure! And what a funny place the world was! 'It's Jinny's panacea, ' said Mother, helping herself with recklessuncertainty to a long word. 'She's never happy unless she's doing forsomebody, ' she added ambiguously. 'It's her _metier_ in life. ' 'Mother, what _are_ you saying?' said the child's expression. Then shemade one last attempt. She remembered, perhaps, the admiring way hehad watched her brother and sister's antics in the Den before. She wasnot clever on her feet, but at least she could try. 'Shall I turn head over heels for you, then?' He caught her mother's grave expression just in time to keep hislaughter back. The offer of gymnastics clearly involved sacrificesomewhere. 'To-morrow, ' he answered quickly. 'Always put off till to-morrow whatyou're too old to do to-day. ' 'Of course; I see--yes. ' She was more perplexed than ever, as he meantthat she should be. His words were meaningless, but they helped thepoignant situation neatly. She could not understand why all her offerswere refused like this. There must be something wrong with herselection, perhaps. She would think of better ones in future. But, oh, what a funny place the world was! 'Good-night, then, Mr. --Cousin Rogers, ' she said jerkily withresignation. 'Perhaps to-morrow--when I'm older----' 'If it comes. ' He gravely shook the hand she held out primly, keepinga certain distance from him lest he should attempt to kiss her. 'It always comes; it's a chronic monster, ' she laughed, saying thefirst thing that came into her queer head. They all laughed. Jane Annewent out, feeling happier. At least, she had amused him. She marchedoff with the air of a grenadier going to some stern and difficultduty. From the door she flung back at him a look of speechlessadmiration, then broke into a run, afraid she might have been immodestor too forward. They heard her thumping overhead. And presently he followed her example. The Pension sitting-roomemptied. Unless there was something special on hand--a dance, a romp, a game, or some neighbours who dropped in for talk and music--it wasrarely occupied after nine o'clock. Daddy had already slipped home--hehad this mysterious way of disappearing when no one saw him go. Atthis moment, doubtless, a wumbled book absorbed him over at thecarpenter's. Old Miss Waghorn sat in a corner nodding over her novel, and the Pension cat, Borelle, was curled up in her sloping, inadequatelap. The big, worn velvet sofa in the opposite corner was also empty. Onromping nights it was the _train de Moscou_, where Jimbo sold ticketsto crowded passengers for any part of the world. To-night it was amere dead sofa, uninviting, dull. He went across the darkened room, his head scraping acquaintance withthe ivy leaves that trailed across the ceiling. He slipped through thelittle hall. In the kitchen he heard the shrill voice of Mme. Jequiertalking very loudly about a dozen things at once to the servant-girl, or to any one else who was near enough to listen. Luckily she did notsee him. Otherwise he would never have escaped without another offerof a hot-water bottle, a pot of home-made marmalade, or a rug andpillow for his bed. He made his way downstairs into the streetunnoticed; but just as he reached the bottom his thundering treadbetrayed him. The door flew open at the top. 'Bon soir, bonne nuit, ' screamed the voice; 'wait a moment and I'llget the lamp. You'll break your neck. Is there anything you want--ahot-water bottle, or a box of matches, or some of my marmalade foryour breakfast? Wait, and I'll get it in a moment----' She would havegiven the blouse off her back had he needed, or could have used it. She flew back to the kitchen to search and shout. It sounded like aquarrel; but, pretending not to hear, he made good his escape andpassed out into the street. The heavy door of the Post Office bangedbehind him, cutting short a stream of excited sentences. The peace andquiet of the night closed instantly about his steps. By the fountain opposite the Citadelle he paused to drink from thepipe of gushing mountain water. The open courtyard looked inviting, but he did not go in, for, truth to tell, there was a curiousexcitement in him--an urgent, keen desire to get to sleep as soon aspossible. Not that he felt sleepy--quite the reverse in fact, but thathe looked forward to his bed and to 'sleeping tightly. ' The village was already lost in slumber. No lights showed in anyhouses. Yet it was barely half-past nine. Everywhere was peace andstillness. Far across the lake he saw the twinkling villages. Behindhim dreamed the forests. A deep calm brooded over the mountains; butwithin the calm, and just below the surface in himself, hid theexcitement as of some lively anticipation. He expected something. Something was going to happen. And it was connected with the children. Jimbo and Monkey were at the bottom of it. They had said they wouldcome for him--to 'find him later. ' He wondered--quite absurdly hewondered. He passed his cousin's room on tiptoe, and noticed a light beneath thedoor. But, before getting into bed, he stood a moment at the openwindow and drew in deep draughts of the fresh night air. The world offorest swayed across his sight. The outline of the Citadelle mergedinto it. A point of light showed the window where the children alreadyslept. But, far beyond, the moon was loading stars upon the trees, anda rising wind drove them in glittering flocks along the heights. .. . Blowing out the candle, he turned over on his side to sleep, his mindcharged to the brim with wonder and curious under-thrills of thisanticipation. He half expected--what? Reality lay somewhere in thewhole strange business; it was not merely imaginative nonsense. Fairyland was close. And the moment he slept and began to dream, the thing took a livelyand dramatic shape. A thousand tiny fingers, soft and invisible, drewhim away into the heart of fairyland. There was a terror in him lesthe should--stick. But he came out beautifully and smoothly, like athread of summer grass from its covering sheath. 'I _am_ slippery after all, then--slippery enough, ' he rememberedsaying with surprised delight, and then---- CHAPTER XV Look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold. There's not the smallest orb which thou beholdest But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubims. _Merchant of Venice_. ----there came to him a vivid impression of sudden light in the room, and he knew that something very familiar was happening to him, yetsomething that had not happened consciously for thirty years and more--since his early childhood in the night-nursery with the bars acrossthe windows. He was both asleep and awake at the same time. Some part of him, rather, that never slept was disengaging itself--with difficulty. Hewas getting free. Stimulated by his intercourse with the children, this part of him that in boyhood used to be so easily detached, lightas air, was getting loose. The years had fastened it in very tightly. Jimbo and Monkey had got at it. And Jimbo and Monkey were in the roomat this moment. They were pulling him out. It was very wonderful; a glory of youth and careless joy rushedthrough him like a river. Some sheath or vesture melted off. It seemedto tear him loose. How in the world could he ever have forgotten it--let it go out of his life? What on earth could have seemed good enoughto take its place? He felt like an eagle some wizard spell hadimprisoned in a stone, now released and shaking out its crumpledwings. A mightier spell had set him free. The children stood besidehis bed! 'I can manage it alone, ' he said firmly. 'You needn't try to help me. ' No sound was audible, but they instantly desisted. This thought, thattook a dozen words to express ordinarily, shot from him into them theinstant it was born. A gentle pulsing, like the flicker of a flame, ran over their shining little forms of radiance as they received it. They shifted to one side silently to give him room. Thus had he seen asearchlight pass like lightning from point to point across the sea. Yet, at first, there was difficulty; here and there, in places, hecould not get quite loose and free. 'He sticks like Daddy, ' he heard them think. 'In the head it seems, too. ' There was no pain in the sensation, but a certain straining as ofunaccustomed muscles being stretched. He felt uncomfortable, thenembarrassed, then--exhilarated. But there were other exquisitesensations too. Happiness, as of flooding summer sunshine, pouredthrough him. 'He'll come with a rush. Look out!' felt Jimbo--'felt' expressing'thought' and 'said' together, for no single word can convey thedouble operation thus combined in ordinary life. The reality of it caught him by the throat. 'This, ' he exclaimed, 'is real and actual. It is happening to me now!' He looked from the pile of clothes taken off two hours ago--goodness, what a mass!--to the children's figures in the middle of the room. Andone was as real as the other. The moods of the day and evening, theirplay and nonsense, had all passed away. He had crossed a gulf thatstood between this moment and those good-nights in the Pension. Thiswas as real as anything in life; more real than death. Reality--hecaught the obvious thought pass thickly through the body on the bed--is what has been experienced. Death, for that reason, is not real, notrealised; dinner is. And this was real because he had been through it, though long forgotten it. Jimbo stood aside and 'felt' directions. 'Don't push, ' he said. 'Just think and wish, ' added Monkey with a laugh. It was her laugh, and perhaps the beauty of her big brown eyes aswell, that got him finally loose. For the laughter urged some queer, deep yearning in him towards a rush of exquisite accomplishment. Hebegan to slip more easily and freely. The brain upon the bed, oddlyenough, remembered a tradition of old Egypt--that Thoth created theworld by bursting into seven peals of laughter. It touched forgottensprings of imagination and belief. In some tenuous, racy vehicle histhought flashed forth. With a gliding spring, like a swooping birdacross a valley, he was suddenly--out. 'I'm out!' he cried. 'All out!' echoed the answering voices. And then he understood that first vivid impression of light. It waseverywhere, an evenly distributed light. He saw the darkness of thenight as well, the deep old shadows that draped the village, woods, and mountains. But in themselves was light, a light that somehowenabled them to see everything quite clearly. Solid things were alltransparent. Light even radiated from objects in the room. Two much-loved booksupon the table shone beautifully--his Bible and a volume of poems;and, fairer still, more delicate than either, there was a lustre onthe table that had so brilliant a halo it almost corruscated. Thesparkle in it was like the sparkle in the children's eyes. It camefrom the bunch of violets, gentians, and hepaticas, already faded, that Mother had placed there days ago on his arrival. And overhead, through plaster, tiles, and rafters he saw--the stars. 'We've already been for Jinny, ' Jimbo informed him; 'but she's gone asusual. She goes the moment she falls asleep. We never can catch her upor find her. ' 'Come on, ' cried Monkey. 'How slow you both are! We shan't getanywhere at this rate. ' And she made a wheel of coloured fire in theair. 'I'm ready, ' he answered, happier than either. 'Let's be off atonce. ' Through his mind flashed this explanation of their elder sister's day-expression--that expression of a moth she had, puzzled, distressed, only half there, as the saying is. For if she went out so easily atnight in this way, some part of her probably stayed out altogether. She never wholly came back. She was always dreaming. The entireinstinct of the child, he remembered, was for others, and she thoughtof herself as little as did the sun--old tireless star that shines forall. 'She's soaked in starlight, ' he cried, as they went off headlong. 'Weshall find her in the Cave. Come on, you pair of lazy meteors. ' He was already far beyond the village, and the murmur of the woodsrose up to them. They entered the meshes of the Star Net that spun itsgolden threads everywhere about them, linking up the Universe withtheir very hearts. 'There are no eyes or puddles to-night. Everybody sleeps. Hooray, hooray!' they cried together. There were cross-currents, though. The main, broad, shining streampoured downwards in front of them towards the opening of the Cave, amile or two beyond, where the forests dipped down among the precipicesof the Areuse; but from behind--from some house in the slumberingvillage--came a golden tributary too, that had a peculiar andastonishing brightness of its own. It came, so far as they could makeout, from the humped outline of La Citadelle, and from a particularroom there, as though some one in that building had a special sourceof supply. Moreover, it scattered itself over the village in separateswift rivulets that dived and dipped towards particular houses hereand there. There seemed a constant coming and going, one streamdriving straight into the Cave, and another pouring out again, yetneither mingling. One stream brought supplies, while the otherdirected their distribution. Some one, asleep or awake--they could nottell--was thinking golden thoughts of love and sympathy for the world. 'It's Mlle. Lemaire, ' said Jimbo. 'She's been in bed for thirtyyears---' His voice was very soft. 'The Spine, you know, ' exclaimed Monkey, a little in the rear. '----and even in the daytime she looks white and shiny, ' added theboy. 'I often go and talk with her and tell her things. ' He said itproudly. 'She understands everything--better even than Mother. ' Jimbohad told most. It was all right. His leadership was maintained andjustified. They entered the main stream and plunged downwards with ittowards the earth--three flitting figures dipped in this store ofgolden brilliance. A delicious and wonderful thing then happened. All three remembered. 'This was where we met you first, ' they told him, settling down amongthe trees together side by side. 'We saw your teeth of gold. You camein that train----' 'I was thinking about it--in England, ' he exclaimed, 'and about comingout to find you here. ' 'The Starlight Express, ' put in Jimbo. '----and you were just coming up to speak to us when we woke, or youwoke, or somebody woke--and it all went, ' said Monkey. 'That was when I stopped thinking about it, ' he explained. 'It all vanished anyhow. And the next time was'--she paused a moment--'you--we saw your two gold teeth again somewhere, and half recognisedyou----' It was the daylight world that seemed vague and dreamlike now, hard toremember clearly. 'In another train--' Jimbo helped her, 'the Geneva omnibus that startsat--at----' But even Jimbo could not recall further details. 'You're wumbled, ' said Rogers, helping himself and the others at thesame time. 'You want some starlight to put you in touch again. Comeon; let's go in. We shall find all the others inside, I suspect, hardat it. ' 'At what?' asked two breathless voices. 'Collecting, of course--for others. Did you think they ate the stuff, just to amuse themselves?' 'They glided towards the opening, cutting through the little tributarystream that was pouring out on its way down the sky to that room in LaCitadelle. It was brighter than the main river, they saw, and shonewith a peculiar brilliance of its own, whiter and swifter than therest. Designs, moreover, like crystals floated on the crest of everywave. 'That's the best quality, ' he told them, as their faces shone a momentin its glory. 'The person who deserves it must live entirely forothers. That he keeps only for the sad and lonely. The rest, thecommon stuff, is good enough for Fraulein or for baby, or for mother, or any other----' The words rose in him like flowers that he knew. 'Look out, _mon vieux_! 'It was Monkey's voice. They just had time tostand aside as a figure shot past them and disappeared into thedarkness above the trees. A big bundle, dripping golden dust, hungdown his back. 'The Dustman!' they cried with excitement, easily recognising hisenergetic yet stooping figure; and Jimbo added, 'the dear oldDustman!' while Monkey somersaulted after him, returning breathless aminute later with, 'He's gone; I couldn't get near him. He wentstraight to La Citadelle----' And then collided violently with the Lamplighter, whose pole of officecaught her fairly in the middle and sent her spinning like aconjurer's plate till they feared she would never stop. She kept onlaughing the whole time she spun--like a catherine wheel that laughsinstead of splutters. The place where the pole caught her, however--itwas its lighted end--shines and glows to this day: the centre of herlittle heart. 'Do let's be careful, ' pleaded Jimbo, hardly approving of these wildgyrations. He really did prefer his world a trifle more dignified. Hewas ever the grave little gentleman. They stooped to enter by the narrow opening, but were stopped again--this time by some one pushing rudely past them to get in. From thethree points of the compass to which the impact scattered them, theysaw a shape of darkness squeeze itself, sack and all, to enter. Anordinary man would have broken every bone in his body, judging by theportion that projected into the air behind. But he managed it somehow, though the discomfort must have been intolerable, they all thought. The darkness dropped off behind him in flakes like discarded clothing;he turned to gold as he went in; and the contents of his sack--hepoured it out like water--shone as though he squeezed a sponge justdipped in the Milky Way. 'What a lot he's collected, ' cried Rogers from his point of vantagewhere he could see inside. 'It all gets purified and clean in there. Wait a moment. He's coming out again--off to make another collection. ' And then they knew the man for what he was. He shot past them into thenight, carrying this time a flat and emptied sack, and singing like ablackbird as he went:-- Sweeping chimneys and cleaning flues, That is the work I love; Brushing away the blacks and the blues, And letting in light from above! I twirl my broom in your tired brain When you're tight in sleep up-curled, Then scatter the stuff in a soot-like rain Over the edge of the world. The voice grew fainter and fainter in the distance-- For I'm a tremendously busy Sweep, Catching the folk when they're all asleep, And tossing the blacks on the Rubbish Heap Over the edge of the world. .. ! The voice died away into the wind among the high branches, and theyheard it no more. 'There's a Sweep worth knowing, ' murmured Rogers, strong yearning inhim. 'There are no blacks or blues in _my_ brain, ' exclaimed Monkey, 'butJimbo's always got some on his face. ' The impudence passed ignored. Jimbo took his cousin's hand and led himto the opening. The 'men' went in first together; the other sex mightfollow as best it could. Yet somehow or other Monkey slipped betweentheir legs and got in before them. They stood up side by side in themost wonderful place they had ever dreamed of. And the first thing they saw was--Jane Anne. 'I'm collecting for Mother. Her needles want such a chronic lot, yousee. ' Her face seemed full of stars; there was no puzzled expressionin the eyes now. She looked beautiful. And the younger children staredin sheer amazement and admiration. 'I have no time to waste, ' she said, moving past them with a load inher spread apron that was like molten gold; 'I have to be up and awakeat six to make your porridge before you go to school. I'm a busymonster, I can tell you!' She went by them like a flash, and out intothe night. Monkey felt tears in her somewhere, but they did not fall. Somethingin her turned ashamed--for a moment. Jimbo stared in silence. 'What agirl!' he thought. 'I'd like to be like that!' Already the light wassticking to him. 'So this is where she always comes, ' said Monkey, soon recovering fromthe temporary attack of emotion. 'She's better out than in; she'ssafest when asleep! No wonder she's so funny in the daytime. ' Then they turned to look about them, breathing low as wild-flowersthat watch a rising moon. The place was so big for one thing--far bigger than they had expected. The storage of lost starlight must be a serious affair indeed if itrequired all this space to hold it. The entire mountain range wassurely hollow. Another thing that struck them was the comparativedimness of this huge interior compared with the brilliance of theriver outside. But, of course, lost things are ever dim, and thoseworth looking for dare not be too easily found. A million tiny lines of light, they saw, wove living, moving patterns, very intricate and very exquisite. These lines and patterns the threedrew in with their very breath. They swallowed light--the tenderestlight the world can know. A scent of flowers--something between aviolet and a wild rose--floated over all. And they understood thesepatterns while they breathed them in. They read them. Patterns inNature, of course, are fairy script. Here lay all their secretssweetly explained in golden writing, all mysteries made clear. Thethree understood beyond their years; and inside-sight, instead ofglimmering, shone. For, somehow or other, the needs of other peopleblazed everywhere, obliterating their own. It was most singular. Monkey ceased from somersaulting and stared at Jimbo. 'You've got two stars in your face instead of eyes. They'll neverset!' she whispered. 'I love you because I understand every bit ofyou. ' 'And you, ' he replied, as though he were a grande personne, 'have gothair like a mist of fire. It will never go out!' 'Every one will love me now, ' she cried, 'my underneath is gold. ' But her brother reproved her neatly:-- 'Let's get a lot--simply an awful lot'--he made a grimace to signifyquantity--'and pour it over Daddy's head till it runs from his eyesand beard. He'll write real fairy stories then and make a fortune. ' And Cousin Henry moved past them like a burning torch. They held theirbreath to see him. Jane Anne, their busy sister, alone excelled him inbrightness. Her perfume, too, was sweeter. 'He's an old hand at this game, ' Monkey said in French. 'But Jinny's never done anything else since she was born, ' replied herbrother proudly. And they all three fell to collecting, for it seemed the law of theplace, a kind of gravity none could disobey. They stooped--three semi-circles of tender brilliance. Each lost the least desire to gather forhimself; the needs of others drove them, filled them, made them eagerand energetic. 'Riquette would like a bit, ' cried Jimbo, almost balancing on his headin his efforts to get it all at once, while Monkey's shining fingersstuffed her blouse and skirts with sheaves of golden gossamer thatlater she meant to spread in a sheet upon the pillow of MademoiselleLemaire. 'She sleeps so little that she needs the best, ' she sang, realisingfor once that her own amusement was not the end of life. 'I'll makeher nights all wonder. ' Cousinenry, meanwhile, worked steadily like a man who knows his timeis short. He piled the stuff in heaps and pyramids, and thencompressed it into what seemed solid blocks that made his pocketsbulge like small balloons. Already a load was on his back that benthim double. 'Such a tiny bit is useful, ' he explained, 'if you know exactly howand where to put it. This compression is my own patent. ' 'Of course, ' they echoed, trying in vain to pack it up as cleverly ashe did. Nor were these three the only gatherers. The place was full ofmovement. Jane Anne was always coming back for more, deigning noexplanations. She never told where she had spent her former loads. Shegathered an apron full, sped off to spend and scatter it in places sheknew of, and then came bustling in again for more. And they alwaysknew her whereabouts because of the whiter glory that she radiatedinto the dim yellow world about them. And other figures, hosts of them, were everywhere--stooping, picking, loading one another's backs and shoulders. To and fro they shot andglided, like Leonids in autumn round the Earth. All were collecting, though the supply seemed never to grow less. An inexhaustible streampoured in through the narrow opening, and scattered itself at once inall directions as though driven by a wind. How could the world let somuch escape it, when it was what the world most needed every day. Itran naturally into patterns, patterns that could be folded and rolledup like silken tablecloths. In silence, too. There was no sound ofdrops falling. Sparks fly on noiseless feet. Sympathy makes no bustle. 'Even on the thickest nights it falls, ' a voice issued from a robustpatch of light beside them that stooped with huge brown hands allknotted into muscles; 'and it's a mistake to think different. ' Hisvoice rolled on into a ridiculous bit of singing:-- It comes down with the rain drops, It comes down with the dew, There's always 'eaps for every one-- For 'im and me and you. They recognised his big face, bronzed by the sun, and his great neckwhere lines drove into the skin like the rivers they drew with bluntpencils on their tedious maps of Europe. It was several faces in one. The Head Gardener was no stranger to their imaginations, for theyremembered him of old somewhere, though not quite sure exactly where. He worked incessantly for others, though these 'others' were onlyflowers and cabbages and fruit-trees. He did his share in the world, he and his army of queer assistants, the under-gardeners. Peals of laughter, too, sounded from time to time in a far away cornerof the cavern, and the laughter sent all the stuff it reached intovery delicate, embroidered patterns. For it was merry and infectiouslaughter, joy somewhere in it like a lamp. It bordered upon singing;another touch would send it rippling into song. And to that farcorner, attracted by the sound, ran numberless rivulets of light, weaving a lustrous atmosphere about the Laugher that, even while itglowed, concealed the actual gatherer from sight. The children onlysaw that the patterns were even more sweet and dainty than their own. And they understood. Inside-sight explained the funny little mystery. Laughter is magical--brings light and help and courage. They laughedthemselves then, and instantly saw their own patterns wave and trembleinto tiny outlines that they could squeeze later even into thedarkest, thickest head. Cousinenry, meanwhile, they saw, stopped for nothing. He was singingall the time as he bent over his long, outstretched arms. And it wasthe singing after all that made the best patterns--better even thanthe laughing. He knew all the best tricks of this Star Cave. Heremained their leader. And the stuff no hands picked up ran on and on, seeking a way ofescape for itself. Some sank into the ground to sweeten the body ofthe old labouring earth, colouring the roots of myriad flowers; somesoaked into the rocky walls, tinting the raw materials of hills andwoods and mountain tops. Some escaped into the air in tiny drops that, meeting in moonlight or in sunshine, instantly formed wings. Andpeople saw a brimstone butterfly--all wings and hardly any body. Allwent somewhere for some useful purpose. It was not in the nature ofstar-stuff to keep still. Like water that must go down-hill, the lawof its tender being forced it to find a place where it could fasten onand shine. It never could get wholly lost; though, if the place itsettled on was poor, it might lose something of its radiance. Buthuman beings were obviously what most attracted it. Sympathy must findan outlet; thoughts are bound to settle somewhere. And the gatherers all sang softly--'Collect for others, never mindyourself!' Some of it, too, shot out by secret ways in the enormous roof. Thechildren recognised the exit of the separate brilliant stream they hadencountered in the sky--the one especially that went to the room ofpain and sickness in La Citadelle. Again they understood. Thatunselfish thinker of golden thoughts knew special sources of supply. No wonder that her atmosphere radiated sweetness and upliftinginfluence. Her patience, smiles, and courage were explained. Passingthrough the furnace of her pain, the light was cleansed and purified. Hence the delicate, invariable radiation from her presence, voice, andeyes. From the bed of suffering she had not left for thirty years shehelped the world go round more sweetly and more easily, though fewdivined those sudden moments of beauty they caught flashing from herhalting words, nor guessed their source of strength. 'Of course, ' thought Jimbo, laughing, 'I see now why I like to go andtell her everything. She understands all before I've said it. She'ssimply stuffed with starlight--bursting with inside-sight. ' 'That's sympathy, ' his cousin added, hearing the vivid thought. And heworked away like an entire ant-heap. But he was growing ratherbreathless now. 'There's too much for me, ' he laughed as though hismouth were full. 'I can't manage it all!' He was wading to the waist, and his coat and trousers streamed with runnels of orange-colouredlight. 'Swallow it then!' cried Monkey, her hair so soaked that she keptsqueezing it like a sponge, both eyes dripping too. It was their first real experience of the joy of helping others, andthey hardly knew where to begin or end. They romped and played in thestuff like children in sand or snow--diving, smothering themselves, plunging, choking, turning somersaults, upsetting each other'scarefully reared loads, and leaping over little pyramids of gold. Then, in a flash, their laughter turned the destroyed heaps intowonderful new patterns again; and once more they turned sober andbegan to work. But their cousin was more practical. 'I've got all I can carrycomfortably, ' he sang out at length. 'Let's go out now and sow itamong the sleepers. Come on!' A field of stars seemed to follow him from the roof as he moved withdifficulty towards the opening of the cave. Some one shot out just in front of him. 'My last trip!' The wordsreached them from outside. His bulging figure squeezed somehow throughthe hole, layers of light scraping off against the sides. The childrenfollowed him. But no one stuck. All were beautifully elastic; thestarlight oiled and greased their daring, subtle star-bodies. Laden tothe eyes, they sped across the woods that still slept heavily. Thetips of the pines, however, were already opening a million eyes. Therewas a faint red glimmer in the east. Hours had passed while they werecollecting. 'The Interfering Sun is on the way. Look out!' cried some one, shooting past them like an unleashed star. 'I must get just a littlemore--my seventeenth journey to-night!' And Jane Anne, the puzzledlook already come back a little into her face, darted down towards theopening. The waking of the body was approaching. 'What a girl!' thought Jimbo again, as they hurried after their grown-up cousin towards the village. And here, but for the leadership of Cousin Henry, they must have goneastray and wasted half their stores in ineffective fashion. Besides, the east was growing brighter, and there was a touch of confusion intheir little star-bodies as sleep grew lighter and the moment of thebody's waking drew nearer. Ah! the exquisite adjustment that exists between the night and daybodies of children! It is little wonder that with the process ofgrowing-up there comes a coarsening that congeals the fluid passagesof exit, and finally seals the memory centres too. Only in a few canthis delicate adjustment be preserved, and the sources of inspirationknown to children be kept available and sweet--in the poets, dreamers, and artists of this practical, steel-girdled age. 'This way, ' called Cousinenry. 'Follow me. ' They settled down in agroup among Madame Jequier's lilacs. 'We'll begin with the Pension desGlycines. Jinny is already busy with La Citadelle. ' They perched among the opening blossoms. Overhead flashed by theSweep, the Dustman, and the Laugher, bound for distant ports, perhapsas far as England. The Head Gardener lumbered heavily after them tofind his flowers and trees. Starlight, they grasped, could be noseparate thing. The rays started, indeed, from separate points, butall met later in the sky to weave this enormous fairy network in whichthe currents and cross-currents and criss-cross-currents were soutterly bewildering. Alone, the children certainly must have got lostin the first five minutes. Their cousin gathered up the threads from Monkey's hair and Jimbo'seyes, and held them in one hand like reins. He sang to them a momentwhile they recovered their breath and forces:-- The stars in their courses Are runaway horses That gallop with Thoughts from the Earth; They collect them, and race Back through wireless space, Bringing word of the tiniest birth; Past old Saturn and Mars, And the hosts of big stars, Who strain at their leashes for joy. Kind thoughts, like fine weather, Bind sweetly together God's suns--with the heart of a boy. So, beware what you think; It is written in ink That is golden, and read by His Stars! 'Hadn't we better get on?' cried Monkey, pulling impatiently at thereins he held. 'Yes, ' echoed Jimbo. 'Look at the sky. The "rapide" from Paris comespast at six o'clock. ' CHAPTER XVI Aus den Himmelsaugen droben Fallen zitternd goldne Funken Durch die Nacht, und meine Seele Dehnt sich liebeweit und weiter. O ihr Himmelsaugen droben, Weint euch aus in meine Seele, Dass von lichten Sternentranen Uberfliesset meine Seele! Heine. They rose, fluttered a moment above the lilac bushes, and then shotforward like the curve of a rainbow into the sleeping house. The nextsecond they stood beside the bed of the Widow Jequier. She lay there, so like a bundle of untidy sticks that, but for thesadness upon the weary face, they could have burst out laughing. Theperfume of the wistaria outside the open window came in sweetly, yetcould not lighten the air of heavy gloom that clothed her like agarment. Her atmosphere was dull, all streaked with greys and black, for her mind, steeped in anxiety even while she slept, gave forthcloudy vapours of depression and disquietude that made impossible theapproach of--light. Starlight, certainly, could not force an entrance, and even sunlight would spill half its radiance before it reached herheart. The help she needed she thus deliberately shut out. Beforegoing to bed her mood had been one of anxious care and searchingworry. It continued, of course, in sleep. 'Now, ' thought their leader briskly, 'we must deal with this at once';and the children, understanding his unspoken message, approachedcloser to the bed. How brilliant their little figures were--Jimbo, asoft, pure blue, and Monkey tinged faintly here and there withdelicate clear orange. Thus do the little clouds of sunset gatherround to see the sun get into bed. And in utter silence; all theirintercourse was silent--thought, felt, but never spoken. For a moment there was hesitation. Cousinenry was uncertain exactlyhow to begin. Tante Jeanne's atmosphere was so very thick he hardlyknew the best way to penetrate it. Her mood had been so utterly blackand rayless. But his hesitation operated like a call for help thatflew instantly about the world and was communicated to the goldenthreads that patterned the outside sky. They quivered, flashed themessage automatically; the enormous network repeated it as far asEngland, and the answer came. For thought is instantaneous, and desireis prayer. Quick as lightning came the telegram. Beside them stood aburly figure of gleaming gold. 'I'll do it, ' said the earthy voice. 'I'll show you 'ow. For she loves'er garden. Her sympathy with trees and flowers lets me in. Alwayssend for _me_ when she's in a mess, or needs a bit of trimmin' andcleanin' up. ' The Head Gardener pushed past them with his odour of soil and burningleaves, his great sunburned face and his browned, stained hands. Thesemuscular, big hands he spread above her troubled face; he touched herheart; he blew his windy breath of flowers upon her untidy hair; hecalled the names of lilac, wistaria, roses, and laburnum. .. . The room filled with the little rushing music of wind in leaves; and, as he said 'laburnum, ' there came at last a sudden opening channelthrough the fog that covered her so thickly. Starlight, that was likea rivulet of laburnum blossoms melted into running dew, flowed downit. The Widow Jequier stirred in her sleep and smiled. Other channelsopened. Light trickled down these, too, drawn in and absorbed from thestore the Gardener carried. Then, with a rush of scattering fire, hewas gone again. Out into the enormous sky he flew, trailing goldenflame behind him. They heard him singing as he dived into the Network--singing of buttercups and cowslips, of primroses and marigolds anddandelions, all yellow flowers that have stored up starlight. And the atmosphere of Tante Jeanne first glowed, then shone; itchanged slowly from gloom to glory. Golden channels opened everywhere, making a miniature network of their own. Light flashed and corruscatedthrough it, passing from the children and their leader along the tinypipes of sympathy the Gardener had cleared of rubbish and decay. Alongthe very lines of her face ran tiny shining rivers; flooding acrossher weary eyelids, gilding her untidy hair, and pouring down into herheavy heart. She ceased fidgeting; she smiled in her sleep; peacesettled on her face; her fingers on the coverlet lost their touch ofstrain. Finally she turned over, stretched her old fighting body intoa more comfortable position, sighed a moment, then settled down into adeep and restful slumber. Her atmosphere was everywhere 'soft-shiny'when they left her to shoot next into the attic chamber above, whereMiss Waghorn lay among her fragments of broken memory, and the litterof disordered images that passed with her for 'thinking. ' And here, again, although their task was easier, they needed help toshow the right way to begin. Before they reached the room Jimbo hadwondered how they would 'get at' her. That wonder summoned help. Thetall, thin figure was already operating beside the bed as theyentered. His length seemed everywhere at once, and his slender pole, astar hanging from the end, was busy touching articles on walls andfloor and furniture. The disorder everywhere was the expression of herdishevelled mind, and though he could not build the ruins up again, atleast he could trace the outlines of an ordered plan that she mightuse when she left her body finally and escaped from the rebelliousinstrument in death. And now that escape was not so very far away. Obviously she was already loose. She was breaking up, as the worldexpresses it. And the children, watching with happy delight, soon understood hismethod. Each object that he touched emitted a tiny light. In her mindhe touched the jumble of wandering images as well. On waking she wouldfind both one and the other better assorted. Some of the lost thingsher memory ever groped for she would find more readily. She would seethe starlight on them. 'See, ' said their leader softly, as the long thin figure of theLamplighter shot away into the night, 'she sleeps so lightly becauseshe is so old--fastened so delicately to the brain and heart. Thefastenings are worn and loose now. Already she is partly out!' 'That's why she's so muddled in the daytime, ' explained Jimbo, for hissister's benefit. 'Exaccurately, I knew it already!' was the reply, turning a somersaultlike a wheel of twirling meteors close to the old lady's nose. 'Carefully, now!' said their leader. 'And hurry up! There's not muchwe can do here, and there's heaps to do elsewhere. We must rememberMother and Daddy--before the Interfering Sun is up, you know. ' They flashed about the attic chamber, tipping everything with light, from the bundle of clothes that strewed the floor to the confusedinterior of the black basket-trunk where she kept her money andpapers. There were no shelves in this attic chamber; no room forcupboards either; it was the cheapest room in the house. And the oldwoman in the bed sometimes opened her eyes and peered curiously, expectantly, about her. Even in her sleep she looked for things. Almost, they felt, she seemed aware of their presence near her, sheknew that they were there; she smiled. A moment later they were in mid-air on their way to the Citadelle, singing as they went:-- He keeps that only For the old and lonely, Who sleep so little that they need the best. The rest-- The common stuff-- Is good enough For Fraulein, or for baby, or for mother, Or any other Who likes a bit of dust, And yet can do without it-- If they must. .. Already something of the Dawn's faint magic painting lay upon theworld. Roofs shone with dew. The woods were singing, and the flowerswere awake. Birds piped and whistled shrilly from the orchards. Theyheard the Mer Dasson murmuring along her rocky bed. The rampart of theAlps stood out more clearly against the sky. 'We must be _very_ quick, ' Cousin Henry flashed across to them, 'quicker than an express train. ' 'That's impossible, ' cried Jimbo, who already felt the call of wakinginto his daily world. 'Hark! There's whistling already. .. . ' The next second, in a twinkling, he was gone. He had left them. Hisbody had been waked up by the birds that sang and whistled so loudlyin the plane tree outside his window. Monkey and her guide raced onalone into the very room where he now sat up and rubbed his eyes inthe Citadelle. He was telling his mother that he had just been'dreaming extraordinary. ' But Mother, sleeping like a fossil monsterin the Tertiary strata, heard him not. 'He often goes like that, ' whispered Monkey in a tone of proudsuperiority. 'He's only a little boy really, you see. ' But the sight they then witnessed was not what they expected. For Mademoiselle Lemaire herself was working over Mother like anengine, and Mother was still sleeping like the dead. The radiance thatemanated from the night-body of this suffering woman, compared totheir own, was as sunlight is to candle-light. Its soft glory wasindescribable, its purity quite unearthly, and the patterns that itwove lovely beyond all telling. Here they surprised her in the act, busy with her ceaseless activities for others, working for the worldby _thinking_ beauty. While her pain-racked body lay asleep in the bedit had not left for thirty years, nor would ever leave again this sideof death, she found her real life in loving sympathy for the pain ofothers everywhere. For thought is prayer, and prayer is the only trueeffective action that leaves no detail incomplete. She _thought_ lightand glory into others. Was it any wonder that she drew a special, brilliant supply from the Starlight Cavern, when she had so much togive? For giving-out involved drawing-in to fill the emptied spaces. Her pure and endless sources of supply were all explained. 'I've been working on her for years, ' she said gently, looking roundat their approach, 'for her life is so thickly overlaid with care, andthe care she never quite knows how to interpret. We were friends, yousee, in childhood. .. . You'd better hurry on to the carpenter's house. You'll find Jinny there doing something for her father. ' She did notcease her working while she said it, this practical mind so familiarwith the methods of useful thinking, this loving heart so versed inprayer while her broken body, deemed useless by the world, lay in thebed that was its earthly prison-house. '_He_ can give me all the helpI need, ' she added. She pointed, and they saw the figure of the Sweep standing in thecorner of the room among a pile of brimming sacks. His dirty face wasbeaming. They heard him singing quietly to himself under his breath, while his feet and sooty hands marked time with a gesture of quaintestdancing:-- _Such_ a tremendously busy Sweep, Catching the world when it's all asleep, And tossing the blacks on the Rubbish Heap Over the edge of the world! 'Come, ' whispered Cousin Henry, catching at Monkey's hair, 'we can dosomething, but we can't do _that_. She needs no help from us!' They sped across to the carpenter's house among the vineyards. 'What a splendour!' gasped the child as they went. 'My starlight seemsquite dim beside hers. ' 'She's an old hand at the game, ' he replied, noticing the tinge ofdisappointment in her thought. 'With practice, you know----' 'And Mummy must be pretty tough, ' she interrupted with a laugh, herelastic nature recovering instantly. '----with practice, I was going to say, your atmosphere will getwhiter too until it simply shines. That's why the saints have halos. ' But Monkey did not hear this last remark, she was already in herfather's bedroom, helping Jinny. Here there were no complications, no need for assistance from a Sweep, or Gardener, or Lamplighter. It was a case for pulling, pure andsimple. Daddy was wumbled, nothing more. Body, mind, and heart wereall up-jumbled. In making up the verse about the starlight he hadmerely told the truth--about himself. The poem was instinctive andinspirational confession. His atmosphere, as he lay there, gentlysnoring in his beauty sleep, was clear and sweet and bright, nodarkness in it of grey or ugliness; but its pattern was a muddle, orrather there were several patterns that scrambled among each other forsupremacy. Lovely patterns hovered just outside him, but none of themgot really in. And the result was chaos. Daddy was not clear-headed;there was no concentration. Something of the perplexed confusion thatafflicted his elder daughter in the daytime mixed up the patternsinextricably. There was no main pathway through his inner world. And the picture proved it. It explained why Jinny pulled in vain. Hisnight-body came out easily as far as the head, then stuck hopelessly. He looked like a knotted skein of coloured wools. Upon the paper wherehe had been making notes before going to sleep--for personalatmosphere is communicated to all its owner touches--lay the sameconfusion. Scraps of muddle, odds and ends of different patterns, hovered in thick blots of colour over the paragraphs and sentences. His own uncertainty was thus imparted to what he wrote, and hisstories brought no conviction to his readers. He was too much theDreamer, or too much the Thinker, which of the two was not quiteclear. Harmony was lacking. 'That's probably what I'M like, too, ' thought his friend, but sosoftly that the children did not hear it. That Scheme of his passedvaguely through his mind. Then he cried louder--a definite thought:-- 'There's no good tugging like that, my dears. Let him slip in again. You'll only make him restless, and give him distorted dreams. ' 'I've tugged like this every night for months, ' said Jinny, 'but themoment I let go he flies back like elastic. ' 'Of course. We must first untie the knots and weave the patterns intoone. Let go!' Daddy's night-body flashed back like a sword into its sheath. Theystood and watched him. He turned a little in his sleep, while abovehim the lines twined and wriggled like phosphorus on moving water, yetnever shaped themselves into anything complete. They saw suggestionsof pure beauty in them here and there that yet never joined togetherinto a single outline; it was like watching the foam against asteamer's sides in moonlight--just failing of coherent form. 'They want combing out, ' declared Jane Anne with a brilliant touch oftruth. 'A rake would be best. ' 'Assorting, sifting, separating, ' added Cousinenry, 'but it's noteasy. ' He thought deeply for a moment. 'Suppose you two attend to theother things, ' he said presently, 'while I take charge of the combing-out. ' They knew at once his meaning; it was begun as soon as thought, onlythey could never have thought of it alone; none but a leader with realsympathy in his heart could have discovered the way. Like Fairies, lit internally with shining lanterns, they flew abouttheir business. Monkey picked up his pencils and dipped their pointsinto her store of starlight, while Jinny drew the cork out of his ink-pot and blew in soft-shiny radiance of her own. They soaked his booksin it, and smoothed his paper out with their fingers of clean gold. His note-books, chair, and slippers, his smoking-coat and pipes andtobacco-tins, his sponge, his tooth-brush and his soap--everythingfrom dressing-gown to dictionary, they spread thickly with theirstarlight, and continued until the various objects had drunk in enoughto make them shine alone. Then they attacked the walls and floor and ceiling, sheets and bed-clothes. They filled the tin-bath full to the very brim, painted aswell the windows, door-handles, and the wicker chair in which theyknew he dozed after dejeuner. But with the pencils, pens, and ink-potsthey took most trouble, doing them very thoroughly indeed. And hisenormous mountain-boots received generous treatment too, for in thesehe went for his long lonely walks when he thought out his storiesamong the woods and valleys, coming home with joy upon his face--'Igot a splendid idea to-day--a magnificent story--if only I can get iton to paper before it's gone. .. !' They understood his difficulty now:the 'idea' was wumbled before he could fashion it. He could not getthe pattern through complete. And his older friend, working among the disjointed patterns, saw histrouble clearly too. It was not that he lacked this sympathy thatstarlight brings, but that he applied it without discernment. Thereceiving instrument was out of order, some parts moving faster thanothers. Reason and imagination were not exaccurately adjusted. Hegathered plenty in, but no clear stream issued forth again; there wasconfusion in delivery. The rays were twisted, the golden lines caughtinto knots and tangles. Yet, ever just outside him, waiting to betaken in, hovered these patterns of loveliness that might bring joy tothousands. They floated in beauty round the edges of his atmosphere, but the moment they sank in to reach his mind, there began thedistortion that tore their exquisite proportions and made designs meredisarrangement. Inspiration, without steady thought to fashion it, wasof no value. He worked with infinite pains to disentangle the mass of complicatedlines, and one knot after another yielded and slipped off intorivulets of gold, all pouring inwards to reach heart and brain. It wasexhilarating, yet disappointing labour. New knots formed themselves soeasily, yet in the end much surely had been accomplished. Channels hadbeen cleared; repetition would at length establish habit. But the line of light along the eastern horizon had been swiftlygrowing broader meanwhile. It was brightening into delicate crimson. Already the room was clearer, and the radiance of their bodies fadinginto a paler glory. Jane Anne grew clumsier, tumbling over things, andbutting against her more agile sister. Her thoughts became moremuddled. She said things from time to time that showed it--hints thatwaking was not far away. 'Daddy's a wumbled Laplander, you know, after all. Hurry up!' Thefoolish daylight speech came closer. 'Give his ink-pot one more blow, ' cried Monkey. Her body always sleptat least an hour longer than the others. She had more time for work. Jane Anne bumped into the washhand-stand. She no longer saw quiteclearly. 'I'm a plenipotentiary, that's what I am. I'm afraid of nothing. Butthe porridge has to be made. I must get back. .. . ' She vanished like a flash, just as her brother had vanished half anhour before. 'We'll go on with it to-morrow night, ' signalled Cousin Henry to hislast remaining helper. 'Meet me here, remember, when. .. The moon. .. Ishigh enough to. .. Cast. .. A. .. Shadow. .. . ' The opening and shutting of a door sounded through his sleep. Heturned over heavily. Surely it was not time to get up yet. That couldnot be hot water coming! He had only just fallen asleep. He plungedback again into slumber. But Monkey had disappeared. 'What a spanking dream I've had. .. !' Her eyes opened, and she saw herschool-books on the chair beside the bed. Mother was gently shakingher out of sleep. 'Six o'clock, darling. The bath is ready, andJinny's nearly got the porridge done. It's a lovely morning!' 'Oh, Mummy, I----' But Mummy lifted her bodily out of bed, kissed her sleepy eyes awake, and half carried her over to the bath. 'You can tell me all about thatlater, ' she said with practical decision; 'when the cold water'scleared your head. You're always fuzzy when you wake. ' Another day had begun. The sun was blazing high above the Blumlisalp. The birds sang in chorus. Dew shone still on the fields, but the menwere already busy in the vineyards. And presently Cousin Henry woke too and stared lazily about his room. He looked at his watch. 'By Jove, ' he murmured. 'How one does sleep in this place! And what adream to be sure--I who never dream!' He remembered nothing more. From the moment he closed his eyes, eighthours before, until this second, all was a delicious blank. He feltrefreshed and wondrously light-hearted, at peace with all the world. There was music in his head. He began to whistle as he lay among theblankets for half an hour longer. And later, while he breakfastedalone downstairs, he remembered that he ought to write to Minks. Heowed Minks a letter. And before going out into the woods he wrote it. 'I'm staying on a bit, ' he mentioned at the end. 'I find so much to dohere, and it's such a rest. Meanwhile I can leave everything safely inyour hands. But as soon as I get a leisure moment I'll send you thepromised draft of my Scheme for Disabled, etc. , etc. ' But the Scheme got no further somehow. New objections, for one thing, kept cropping up in his mind. It would take so long to build theplace, and find the site, satisfy County Councils, and all the rest. The Disabled, moreover, were everywhere; it was invidious to selectone group and leave the others out. Help the world, yes--but what was'the world'? There were so many worlds. He touched a new one every dayand every hour. Which needed his help most? Bourcelles was quite asimportant, quite as big and hungry as any of the others. 'That oldVicar knew a thing or two, ' he reflected later in the forest, while hegathered a bunch of hepaticas and anemones to take to Mlle. Lemaire. 'There are "neighbours" everywhere, the world's simply chock full of'em. But what a pity that we die just when we're getting fit and readyto begin. Perhaps we go on afterwards, though. I wonder. .. !' CHAPTER XVII The stars ran loose about the sky, Wasting their beauty recklessly, Singing and dancing, Shooting and prancing, Until the Pole Star took command, Changing each wild, disordered band Into a lamp to guide the land-- A constellation. And so, about my mind and yours, Thought dances, shoots, and wastes its powers, Coming and going, Aimlessly flowing, Until the Pole Star of the Will Captains them wisely, strong, and still, Some dream for others to fulfil With consecration. Selected Poems, Montmorency Minke. There was a certain air of unreality somewhere in the life atBourcelles that ministered to fantasy. Rogers had felt it steal overhim from the beginning. It was like watching a children's play inwhich the scenes were laid alternately in the Den, the Pension, andthe Forest. Side by side with the grim stern facts of existence ranthe coloured spell of fairy make-believe. It was the way they mingled, perhaps, that ministered to this spirit of fantasy. There were several heroines for instance--Tante Jeanne, MademoiselleLemaire, and Mother; each played her role quite admirably. There werethe worthy sterling men who did their duty dumbly, regardless ofconsequences--Daddy, the Postmaster, and the picturesque old clergymanwith failing powers. There was the dark, uncertain male character, whomight be villain, yet who might prove extra hero--the struttingpostman of baronial ancestry; there was the role of quaint pathetichumour Miss Waghorn so excellently filled, and there were the honestrough-and-tumble comedians--half mischievous, half malicious--theretired governesses. Behind them all, brought on chiefly in scenes ofdusk and moonlight, were the Forest Elves who, led by Puck, wereresponsible for the temporary confusion that threatened disaster, yetwas bound to have a happy ending--the children. It was all achildren's play set in the lovely scenery of mountain, forest, lake, and old-world garden. Numerous other characters also flitted in and out. There was the cat, the bird, the donkey as in pantomime; goblin caves and haunted valleysand talking flowers; and the queer shadowy folk who came to thePension in the summer months, then vanished into space again. Linkswith the outside world were by no means lacking. As in the theatre, one caught now and again the rumble of street traffic and the roar ofeveryday concerns. But these fell in by chance during quiet intervals, and served to heighten contrast only. And so many of the principal roles were almost obviously assumed, interchangeable almost; any day the players might drop their wigs, ruboff the paint, and appear otherwise, as they were in private life. TheWidow Jequier's husband, for instance, had been a _pasteur_ who hadgone later into the business of a wine-merchant. She herself was notreally the keeper of a Pension for Jeune Filles, but had drifted intoit owing to her husband's disastrous descent from pulpit into cellar--understudy for some one who had forgotten to come on. The Postmaster, too, had originally been a photographer, whose funereal aspect hadsealed his failure in that line. His customers could never smile andlook pleasant. The postman, again, was a baron in disguise--in privatelife he had a castle and retainers; and even Gygi, the gendarme, was amake-believe official who behind the scenes was a _vigneron_ andfarmer in a very humble way. Daddy, too, seemed sometimes but a tinselauthor dressed up for the occasion, and absurdly busy over books thatno one ever saw on railway bookstalls. While Mademoiselle Lemaire wasnot in fact and verity a suffering, patient, bed-ridden lady, but aprincess who escaped from her disguise at night into glory and greatbeneficent splendour. Mother alone was more real than the other players. There was no make-believe about Mother. She thundered across the stage and stood beforethe footlights, interrupting many a performance with her stubborncommon-sense and her grip upon difficult grave issues. 'Thisperformance will finish at such and such an hour, ' was her cry. 'Getyour wraps ready. It will be cold when you go out. And see that youhave money handy for your 'bus fares home!' Yes, Mother was real. Sheknew some facts of life at least. She knitted the children's stockingsand did the family mending. Yet Rogers felt, even with her, that she was merely waiting. She knewthe cast was not complete as yet. She waited. They all waited--forsome one. These were rehearsals; Rogers himself had dropped in alsomerely as an understudy. Another role was vacant, and it was theprincipal role. There was no one in the company who could play it, none who could understudy it even. Neither Rogers nor Daddy couldlearn the lines or do the 'business. ' The part was a very importantone, calling for a touch of genius to be filled adequately. And it wasa feminine role. For here was a Fairy Play without a Fairy Queen. There was not even a Fairy Princess! This idea of a representation, all prepared specially for himself, induced a very happy state of mind; he felt restful, calm, at peacewith all the world. He had only to sit in his stall and enjoy. But itbrought, too, this sense of delicate bewilderment that was continuallypropounding questions to which he found no immediate answer. With therest of the village, he stood still while Time flowed past him. Later, with Minks, he would run after it and catch it up again. Minks wouldpick out the lost clues. Minks stood on the banks--in London--notingthe questions floating by and landing them sometimes with a rod andnet. His master would deal with them by and by; but just now he couldwell afford to wait and enjoy himself. It was a holiday; there was nohurry; Minks held the fort meanwhile and sent in reports at intervals. And the sweet spring weather continued; days were bright and warm; thenights were thick with stars. Rogers postponed departure on theflimsiest reasons. It was no easy thing to leave Bourcelles. 'Nextweek the muguet will be over in the vallon vert. We must pick itquickly together for Tante Anna. ' Jinny brought every spring flower toMademoiselle Lemaire in this way the moment they appeared. Her roomwas a record of their sequence from week to week. And Jimbo knewexactly where to find them first; his mind was a time-table of flowersas well as of trains, dates of arrival, and stations where they grew. He knew it all exaccurately. This kind of fact with him was neverwumbled. 'Soon the sabot de Venus will be in flower at the Creux duVan, but it takes time to find it. It's most awfully rare, you see. You'll have to climb beyond the fontaine froide. That's past the FermeRobert, between Champ du Moulin and Noiraigue. The snow ought to begone by now. We'll go and hunt for it. I'll take you in--oh, in aboutdeux semaines--comme ca. ' Alone, those dangerous cliffs were out ofbounds for him, but if he went with Cousinenry, permission could notbe refused. Jimbo knew what he was about. And he took for granted thathis employer would never leave Bourcelles again. 'Thursday andSaturday would be the best days, ' he added. They were his half-holidays, but he did not say so. Secretaries, he knew, did not havehalf-holidays comme ca. 'Je suis son vrai secretaire, ' he had toldMademoiselle Lemaire, who had confirmed it with a grave mais oui. Noone but Mother heard the puzzled question one night when he was beingtucked into bed; it was asked with just a hint of shame upon a verypuckered little face--'But, Mummy, what really _is_ a sekrity?' And so Rogers, from day to day, stayed on, enjoying himself andresting. The City would have called it loafing, but in the City theschedule of values was a different one. Meanwhile the bewilderment hefelt at first gradually disappeared. He no longer realised it, thatis. While still outside, attacked by it, he had realised the softentanglement. Now he was in it, caught utterly, a prisoner. He was nolonger mere observer. He was part and parcel of it. 'What does a fewweeks matter out of a whole strenuous life?' he argued. 'It's all tothe good, this holiday. I'm storing up strength and energy for futureuse. My Scheme can wait a little. I'm thinking things out meanwhile. ' He often went into the forest alone to think his things out, and'things' always meant his Scheme . .. But the more he thought about itthe more distant and impracticable seemed that wondrous Scheme. He hadthe means, the love, the yearning, all in good condition, waiting tobe put to practical account. In his mind, littered more and more nowwith details that Minks not infrequently sent in, this great Scheme bywhich he had meant to help the world ran into the confusion of newissues that were continually cropping up. Most of these were caused bythe difficulty of knowing his money spent exactly as he wished, notwasted, no pound of it used for adornment, whether salaries, uniforms, fancy stationery, or unnecessary appearances, whatever they might be. Whichever way he faced it, and no matter how carefully thought outwere the plans that Minks devised, these leakages cropped up andmocked him. Among a dozen propositions his original clear idea wentlost, and floundered. It came perilously near to wumbling itself awayaltogether. For one thing, there were rivals on the scene--his cousin's family, the education of these growing children, the difficulties of the WidowJequier, some kind of security he might ensure to old Miss Waghorn, the best expert medical attendance for Mademoiselle Lemaire . .. Andhis fortune was after all a small one as fortunes go. Only his simplescale of personal living could make these things possible at all. Yethere, at least, he would know that every penny went exaccurately whereit was meant to go, and accomplished the precise purpose it wasintended to accomplish. And the more he thought about it, the more insistent grew the claimsof little Bourcelles, and the more that portentous Scheme for DisabledThingumabobs faded into dimness. The old Vicar's words kept singing inhis head: 'The world is full of Neighbours. Bring them all back toFairyland. ' He thought things out in his own way and at his leisure. He loved to wander alone among the mountains. .. Thinking in this way. His thoughts turned to his cousin's family, their expenses, theirdifficulties, the curious want of harmony somewhere. For theconditions in which the _famille anglaise_ existed, he had soondiscovered, were those of muddle pure and simple, yet of muddle on solarge a scale that it was fascinating and even exhilarating. It mustbe lovely, he reflected, to live so carelessly. They drifted. Chanceforces blew them hither and thither as gusts of wind blow autumnleaves. Five years in a place and then--a gust that blew themelsewhere. Thus they had lived five years in a London suburb, thinkingit permanent; five years in a lonely Essex farm, certain they wouldnever abandon country life; and five years, finally, in the Juraforests. Neither parent, though each was estimable, worthy, and entirely ofgood repute, had the smallest faculty for seeing life whole; eachstudied closely a small fragment of it, the fragment limited by theMonday and the Saturday of next week, or, in moments of optimistichealth, the fragment that lies between the first and thirty-first of asingle month. Of what lay beyond, they talked; oh, yes, they talkedvoluminously and with detail that sounded impressive to a listener, but somehow in circles that carried them no further than the starting-point, or in spirals that rose higher with each sentence and finallylifted them bodily above the solid ground. It was merely talk--ineffective--yet the kind that makes one feel it has accomplishedsomething and so brings the false security of carelessness again. Neither one nor other was head of the house. They took it in turns, each slipping by chance into that onerous position, supported butuncoveted by the other. Mother fed the children, mended everything, sent them to the dentist when their teeth ached badly, but neverbefore as a preventative, and--trusted to luck. 'Daddy, ' she would say in her slow gentle way, 'I do wish we could bemore practical sometimes. Life is such a business, isn't it?' And theywould examine in detail the grain of the stable door now that thehorse had escaped, then close it very carefully. 'I really must keep books, ' he would answer, 'so that we can seeexactly how we stand, ' having discovered at the end of laboriouscalculation concerning the cost of the proposed Geneva schooling forJinny that they had reckoned in shillings instead of francs. And then, with heads together, they selected for their eldest boy a professionutterly unsuited to his capacities, with coaching expenses far beyondtheir purses, and with the comforting consideration that 'there's apension attached to it, you see, for when he's old. ' Similarly, having planned minutely, and with personal sacrifice, tosave five francs in one direction, they would spend that amountunnecessarily in another. They felt they had it to spend, as though ithad been just earned and already jingled in their pockets. Daddy wouldannounce he was walking into Neuchatel to buy tobacco. 'Better takethe tram, ' suggested Mother, 'it's going to rain. You save shoeleather, too, ' she added laughingly. 'Will you be back to tea?' Hethought not; he would get a cup of tea in town. 'May I come, too?'from Jimbo. 'Why not?' thought Mother. 'Take him with you, he'll enjoythe trip. ' Monkey and Jane Ann, of course, went too. They _all_ hadtea in a shop, and bought chocolate into the bargain. The five francsmelted into--nothing, for tea at home was included in their Pensionterms. Saving is in the mind. There was no system in their life. 'It would be jolly, yes, if you could earn a little something regularbesides your work, ' agreed Mother, when he thought of learning atypewriter to copy his own books, and taking in work to copy forothers too. 'I'll do it, ' he decided with enthusiasm that was forgotten before heleft the room ten minutes later. It was the same with the suggestion of teaching English. He had muchspare time, and could easily have earned a pound a week by givinglessons, and a pound a week is fifty pounds a year--enough to dressthe younger children easily. The plan was elaborated laboriously. 'Ofcourse, ' agreed Daddy, with genuine interest. 'It's easily done. Iwonder we never thought of it before. ' Every few months they talkedabout it, but it never grew an inch nearer to accomplishment. Theydrifted along, ever in difficulty, each secretly blaming the other, yet never putting their thoughts into speech. They did not quiteunderstand each other's point of view. 'Mother really might have foreseen _that_!' when Jimbo, growing like afairy beanstalk, rendered his recent clothes entirely useless. 'Boysmust grow. Why didn't she buy the things a size or two larger?' 'It's rather thoughtless, almost selfish, of Daddy to go on writingthese books that bring in praise without money. He could writeanything if he chose. At least, he might put his shoulder to the wheeland teach, or something!' And so, not outwardly in spoken words or quarrels, but inwardly, owingto that deadliest of cancers, want of sympathy, these two excellentgrown-up children had moved with the years further and further apart. Love had not died, but want of understanding, not attended to in time, had frayed the edges so that they no longer fitted well together. Theyhave blown in here, thought Rogers as he watched them, like seeds thewind has brought. They have taken root and grown a bit. They thinkthey're here for ever, but presently a wind will rise and blow themoff again elsewhere. And thinking it is their own act, they will lookwisely at each other, as children do, and say, 'Yes, it _is_ time nowto make a move. The children are getting big. Our health, too, needs achange. ' He wondered, smiling a little, in what vale or mountain topthe wind would let them down. And a big decision blazed up in hisheart. 'I'm not very strong in the domestic line, ' he exclaimed, 'butI think I can help them a bit. They're neighbours at any rate. They'reall children too. Daddy's no older than Jimbo, or Mother than JaneAnne!' * * * In the spaces of the forest there was moss and sunshine. It was verystill. The primroses and anemones had followed the hepaticas andperiwinkles. Patches of lily of the valley filled the air withfragrance. Through openings of the trees he caught glimpses of thelake, deep as the Italian blue of the sky above his head. White Alpshung in the air beyond its farther shore line. Below him, already faraway, the village followed slowly, bringing its fields and vineyardswith it, until the tired old church called halt. And then it lay back, nestling down to sleep, very small, very cosy, mere handful of brownroofs among the orchards. Only the blue smoke of occasional peat firesmoved here and there, betraying human occupation. The peace and beauty sank into his heart, as he wandered higher acrossMont Racine's velvet shoulder. And the contrast stirred memories ofhis recent London life. He thought of the scurrying busy-bodies in the'City, ' and he thought of the Widow Jequier attacking life sorestlessly in her garden at that very minute. That other sentence ofthe old Vicar floated though his mind: 'the grandeur of toil and theinsignificance of acquisition. '. .. Far overhead two giant buzzardscircled quietly, ceaselessly watching from the blue. A brimstonebutterfly danced in random flight before his face. Two cuckoosanswered one another in the denser forest somewhere above him. Bellsfrom distant village churches boomed softly through the air, voicesfrom a world forgotten. And the contrast brought back London. He thought of the long busychapter of his life just finished. The transition had been so abrupt. As a rule periods fade into one another gradually in life, easily, divisions blurred; it is difficult on looking back to say where thechange began. One is well into the new before the old is realised asleft behind. 'How did I come to this?' the mind asks itself. 'I don'tremember any definite decision. Where was the boundary crossed?' Ithas been imperceptibly accomplished. But here the change had been sudden and complete, no shading anywhere. He had leaped a wall. Turmoil and confusion lay on that side; on thislay peace, rest and beauty. Strain and ugliness were left behind, andwith them so much that now seemed false, unnecessary, vain. Thegrandeur of toil, and the insignificance of acquisition--the phraseran through his mind with the sighing of the pine trees; it was likethe first line of a song. The Vicar knew the song complete. EvenMinks, perhaps, could pipe it too. Rogers was learning it. 'I musthelp them somehow, ' he thought again. 'It's not a question of moneymerely. It's that they want welding together more--more harmony--moresympathy. They're separate bits of a puzzle now, whereas they might bea rather big and lovely pattern. . .. ' He lay down upon the moss and flung his hat away. He felt that Lifestood still within him, watching, waiting, asking beautiful, deep, searching questions. It made him slightly uncomfortable. Henry Rogers, late of Threadneedle Street, took stock of himself, not of setintention, yet somehow deliberately. He reviewed another Henry Rogerswho had been unable to leap that wall. The two peered at one anothergravely. The review, however, took no definite form; precise language hardlycame to help with definite orders. A vague procession of feelings, half sad, half pleasurable, floated past his closing eyes. . .. Perhapshe slept a moment in the sunshine upon that bed of moss and pineneedles. . .. Such curious thoughts flowed up and out and round about, dancing likethe brimstone butterflies out of reach before he could seize them, calling with voices like the cuckoos, themselves all the time just outof sight. Who ever saw a cuckoo when it's talking? Who ever foretoldthe instant when a butterfly would shoot upwards and away? Suchdarting, fragile thoughts they were, like hints, suggestions. Still, they _were_ thoughts. Minks, dragging behind him an enormous Scheme, emerged from the darkvaults of a Bank where gold lay piled in heaps. Minks was looking forhim, yet smiling a little, almost pityingly, as he strained beneaththe load. It was like a comic opera. Minks was going down the noisy, crowded Strand. Then, suddenly, he paused, uncertain of the way. Froman upper window a shining face popped out and issued clear directions--as from a pulpit. 'That way--towards the river, ' sang the voice--andfar down the narrow side street flashed a gleam of flowing water withorchards on the farther bank. Minks instantly turned and went down itwith his load so fast that the scenery changed before the heavytraffic could get out of the way. Everything got muddled up withfields and fruit-trees; the Scheme changed into a mass of wild-flowers; a lame boy knocked it over with his crutch; gold fell in abrilliant, singing shower, and where each sovereign fell there sprangup a buttercup or dandelion. Rogers rubbed his eyes . .. And realisedthat the sun was rather hot upon his face. A dragon fly was perchedupon his hat three feet away. . .. The tea hour at the Den was close, and Jimbo, no doubt, was alreadylooking for him at the carpenter's house. Rogers hurried home amongthe silent forest ways that were sweet with running shadows andslanting sunshine. Oh, how fragrant was the evening air! And how thelily of the valley laughed up in his face! Normally, at this time, hewould be sitting in a taxi, hurrying noisily towards his Club, thoughts full of figures, politics, philanthropy cut to line andmeasure--a big Scheme standing in squares across the avenue of thefuture. Now, moss and flowers and little children took up all theavailable space. . .. How curiously out of the world Bourcelles was, tobe sure. Newspapers had no meaning any longer. Picture-papers andsmart weekly Reviews, so necessary and important in St. James'sStreet, here seemed vulgar, almost impertinent--ridiculous even. Bigbooks, yes; but not pert, topical comments issued with an absurdomnipotence upon things merely ephemeral. How the mind accumulatedrubbish in a city! It seemed incredible. He surely had climbed a walland dropped down into a world far bigger, though a world the 'city'would deem insignificant and trivial. Yet only because it had lessdetail probably! A loved verse flashed to him across the years:-- 'O to dream, O to awake and wander There, and with delight to take and render, Through the trance of silence, Quiet breath! Lo! for there among the flowers and grasses, Only the mightier movement sounds and passes; Only winds and rivers, Life and death. ' Bourcelles was important as London, yes, while simple as the nursery. The same big questions of life and death, of battle, duty, love, ruledthe peaceful inhabitants. Only the noisy shouting, the clatter ofsuperfluous chattering and feverish striving had dropped away. Heartsand minds wore fewer clothes among these woods and vineyards. Therewas no nakedness though . .. There were flowers and moss, blue sky andpeace and beauty. . .. Thought ran into confused, vague pictures. Hecould not give them coherence, shape, form. . .. He crossed the meadows and entered the village through the Pensiongarden. The Widow Jequier gave him a spray of her Persian lilac on theway. 'It's been growing twenty-five years for you, ' she said, 'only donot look at _me_. I'm in my garden things--invisible. ' He rememberedwith a smile Jane Anne's description--that 'the front part of thehouse was all at the back. ' Tumbling down the wooden stairs, he crossed the street and made forthe Citadelle, where the children opened the door for him even beforehe rang. Jimbo and Monkey, just home from school, pulled him by botharms towards the tea-table. They had watched for his coming. 'The samovar's just boiling, ' Mother welcomed him. Daddy was on thesofa by the open window, reading manuscript over to himself in amumbling voice; and Jane Anne, apron on, sleeves tucked up, faceflushed, poked her head in from the kitchen: 'Excuse me, Mother, the cupboard's all in distress. I can't find themarmalade anywhere. ' 'But it's already on the table, child. ' She saw her Cousin and popped swiftly back again from view. One heardfragments of her sentences--'wumbled . .. Chronic . .. Busy monster. . .. 'And two minutes later _la famille anglaise_ was seriously at tea. CHAPTER XVIII What art thou, then? I cannot guess; But tho' I seem in star and flower To feel thee some diffusive power, I do not therefore love thee less. _Love and Death, _ TENNYSON. In the act of waking up on the morning of the Star Cave experience, Henry Rogers caught the face of a vivid dream close against his own--but in rapid motion, already passing. He tried to seize it. There wasa happy, delightful atmosphere about it. Examination, however, wasimpossible; the effort to recover the haunting dream dispersed it. Hesaw the tip, like an express train flying round a corner; it flashedand disappeared, fading into dimness. Only the delightful atmosphereremained and the sense that he had been somewhere far away in veryhappy conditions. People he knew quite well, had been there with him;Jimbo and Monkey; Daddy too, as he had known him in his boyhood. Morethan this was mere vague surmise; he could not recover details. Othershad been also of the merry company, familiar yet unrecognisable. Whoin the world were they? It all seemed oddly real. 'How I do dream in this place, to be sure, ' he thought; 'I, whonormally dream so little! It was like a scene of my childhood--Crayfield or somewhere. ' And he reflected how easily one might bepersuaded that the spirit escaped in sleep and knew another order ofexperience. The sense of actuality was so vivid. He lay half dozing for a little longer, hoping to recover theadventures. The flying train showed itself once or twice again, butsmaller, and much, much farther away. It curved off into the distance. A deep cutting quickly swallowed it. It emerged for the last time, tiny as a snake upon a chess-board of far-off fields. Then it dippedinto mist; the snake shot into its hole. It was gone. He sighed. Ithad been so lovely. Why must it vanish so entirely? Once or twiceduring the day it returned, touched him swiftly on the heart and wasgone again. But the waking impression of a dream is never the dreamitself. Sunshine destroys the sense of enormous wonder. 'I believe I've been dreaming all night long, and going through allkinds of wild adventures. ' He dressed leisurely, still hunting subconsciously for fragments ofthat happy dreamland. Its aroma still clung about him. The sunshinepoured into the room. He went out on to the balcony and looked at theAlps through his Zeiss field-glasses. The brilliant snow upon theDiablerets danced and sang into his blood; across the broken teeth ofthe Dent du Midi trailed thin strips of early cloud. Behind him rosegreat Boudry's massive shoulders, a pyramid of incredible deep blue. And the limestone precipices of La Tourne stood dazzlingly white, catching the morning sunlight full in their face. The air had the freshness of the sea. Men were singing at their workamong the vineyards. The tinkle of cow-bells floated to him from theupper pastures upon Mont Racine. Little sails like sea-gulls dippedacross the lake. Goodness, how happy the world was at Bourcelles!Singing, radiant, careless of pain and death. And, goodness, how helonged to make it happier still! Every day now this morning mood had been the same. Desire to dosomething for others ran races with little practical schemes forcarrying it out. Selfish considerations seemed to have taken flight, all washed away while he slept. Moreover, the thought of his Schemehad begun to oppress him; a touch of shame came with it, almost asthough an unworthy personal motive were somewhere in it. Perhaps afterall--he wondered more and more now--there had been an admixture ofpersonal ambition in the plan. The idea that it would bring him honourin the eyes of the world had possibly lain there hidden all along. Ifso, he had not realised it; the depravity had been unconscious. Beforethe Bourcelles standard of simplicity, artificial elements dropped offautomatically, ashamed. . .. And a profound truth, fished somehow outof that vanished dreamland, spun its trail of glory through his heart. Kindness that is thanked-for surely brings degradation--a degradationalmost as mean as the subscription acknowledged in a newspaper, or theanonymous contribution kept secret temporarily in order that its lateradvertisement may excite the more applause. Out flashed this blazingtruth: kind acts must be instinctive, natural, thoughtless. One handmust be in absolute ignorance of the other's high adventures. . .. Andwhen the carpenter's wife brought up his breakfast tray, with thebunch of forest flowers standing in a tumbler of water, she caught himpondering over another boyhood's memory--that friend of his father'swho had given away a million anonymously. . .. In his heart plans shaped themselves with soft, shy eyes andhidden faces. .. . He longed to get _la famille anglaise_ straight. .. For one thing. . .. It was an hour later, while he still sat dreaming in the sunshine bythe open window, that a gentle tap came at the door, and Daddyentered. The visit was a surprise. Usually, until time for _dejeuner_, he kept his room, busily unwumbling stories. This was unusual. Andsomething had happened to him; he looked different. What was it thathad changed? Some veil had cleared away; his eyes were shining. Theygreeted one another, and Rogers fell shyly to commonplaces, whilewondering what the change exactly was. But the other was not to be put off. He was bursting with something. Rogers had never seen him like this before. 'You've stopped work earlier than usual, ' he said, providing theopening. He understood his diffidence, his shyness in speaking ofhimself. Long disappointments lay so thinly screened behind hisunfulfilled enthusiasm. But this time the enthusiasm swept diffidence to the winds. It hadbeen vitally stirred. 'Early indeed, ' he cried. 'I've been working four hours without abreak, man. Why, what do you think?--I woke at sunrise, a thing Inever do, with--with a brilliant idea in my head. Brilliant, I tellyou. By Jove, if only I can carry it out as I see it----!' 'You've begun it already?' 'Been at it since six o'clock, I tell you. It was in me when I woke--idea, treatment, everything complete, all in a perfect pattern ofBeauty. ' There was a glow upon his face, his hair was untidy; a white mufflerwith blue spots was round his neck instead of collar. One end stuck upagainst his chin. The safety pin was open. 'By Jove! I am delighted!' Rogers had seen him excited before over a'brilliant idea, ' but the telling of it always left him cold. Ittouched the intellect, yet not the heart. It was merely clever. Thistime, however, there was a new thing in his manner. 'How did you getit?' he repeated. Methods of literary production beyond his owndoggerels were a mystery to him. 'Sort of inspiration, eh?' 'Woke with it, I tell you, ' continued his cousin, twisting the mufflerso that it tickled his ear now instead of his chin. 'It must have cometo me in sleep----' 'In sleep, ' exclaimed the other; 'you dreamt it, then?' 'Kind of inspiration business. I've heard of that sort of thing, butnever experienced it----' The author paused for breath. 'What is it? Tell me. ' He remembered how ingenious details of hispatents had sometimes found themselves cleared up in the morning afterrefreshing slumber. This might be something similar. 'Let's hear it, 'he added; 'I'm interested. ' His cousin's recitals usually ended in sad confusion, so that all hecould answer by way of praise was--' You ought to make something goodout of that. I shall like to read it when you've finished it. ' Butthis time, he felt, there was distinctly a difference. There were newconditions. The older man leaned closer, his face alight, his manner shyly, eagerly confidential. The morning sunshine blazed upon his untidyhair. A bread crumb from breakfast still balanced in his beard. 'It's difficult to tell in a few words, you see, ' he began, theenthusiasm of a boy in his manner, 'but--I woke with the odd idea thatthis little village might be an epitome of the world. All the emotionsof London, you see, are here in essence--the courage and cowardice, the fear and hope, the greed and sacrifice, the love and hate andpassion--everything. It's the big world in miniature. Only--with onedifference. ' 'That's good, ' said Rogers, trying to remember when it was he had toldhis cousin this very thing. Or had he only _thought_ it? 'And what_is_ the difference?' 'The difference, ' continued the other, eyes sparkling, face alight, 'that here the woods, the mountains and the stars are close. They pourthemselves in upon the village life from every side--above, below, allround. Flowers surround it; it dances to the mountain winds; at nightit lies entangled in the starlight. Along a thousand imperceptiblechannels an ideal simplicity from Nature pours down into it, modifyingthe human passions, chastening, purifying, uplifting. Don't you see?And these sweet, viewless channels--who keeps them clean and open?Why, God bless you----. The children! _My_ children!' 'By Jingo, yes; _your_ children. ' Rogers said it with emphasis. But there was a sudden catch at hisheart; he was conscious of a queer sensation he could not name. Thiswas exactly what he had felt himself--with the difference that his ownthought had been, perhaps, emotion rather than a reasoned-out idea. His cousin put it into words and gave it form. A picture--had he seenit in a book perhaps?--flashed across his mind. A child, suspiciouslylike Monkey, held a pen and dipped it into something bright andflowing. A little boy with big blue eyes gathered this shining stuffin both hands and poured it in a golden cataract upon the eyelids of asleeping figure. And the figure had a beard. It was a man . .. Familiar. . .. A touch of odd excitement trembled through his undermind. .. Thrilled . .. Vanished. . .. All dived out of sight again with the swiftness of a darting swallow. His cousin was talking at high speed. Rogers had lost a great deal ofwhat he had been saying. '. .. It may, of course, have come from something you said the othernight as we walked up the hill to supper--you remember?--somethingabout the brilliance of our stars here and how they formed a shiningnetwork that hung from Boudry and La Tourne. It's impossible to say. The germ of a true inspiration is never discoverable. Only, Iremember, it struck me as an odd thing for _you_ to say. I was tellingyou about my idea of the scientist who married--no, no, it wasn'tthat, it was my story of the materialist doctor whom circumstancescompelled to accept a position in the Community of Shakers, and howthe contrast produced an effect upon his mind of--of--you remember, perhaps? It was one or the other; I forget exactly, '--then suddenly--'No, no, I've got it--it was the analysis of the father's mind when hefound----' 'Yes, yes, ' interrupted Rogers. 'We were just passing the Citadellefountain. I saw the big star upon the top of Boudry, and made a remarkabout it. ' His cousin was getting sadly wumbled. He tried to putseverity and concentration into his voice. 'That's it, ' the other cried, head on one side and holding up afinger, 'because I remember that my own thought wandered for a moment--thought will, you know, in spite of one's best effort sometimes--andyou said a thing that sent a little shiver of pleasure through me foran instant--something about a Starlight Train--and made me wonderwhere you got the idea. That's it. I do believe you've hit the nail onthe head. Isn't it curious sometimes how a practical mind may suggestvaluable material to the artist? I remember, several years ago----' 'Starlight Express, wasn't it?' said his friend with decision in hisvoice. He thumped the table vigorously with one fist. 'Keep to thepoint, old man. Follow it out. Your idea is splendid. ' 'Yes, I do believe it is. ' Something in his voice trembled. One sentence in particular Rogers heard, for it seemed plucked out ofthe talk he had with the children in the forest that day two weeksago. 'You see, all light meets somewhere. It's all one, I mean. And so withminds. They all have a common meeting-place. Sympathy is the name forthat place--that state--they feel with each other, see flash-like fromthe same point of view for a moment. And children are the conduits. They do not think things out. They feel them, eh?' He paused aninstant. 'For you see, along these little channels that the children--mychildren, as I think I mentioned--keep sweet and open, there mighttroop back into the village--Fairyland. Not merely a foolish fairylandof make-believe and dragons and princesses imprisoned in animals, buta fairyland the whole world needs--the sympathy of sweet endeavour, love, gentleness and sacrifice for others. The stars would bring it--starlight don't you see? One might weave starlight in and outeverywhere--use it as the symbol of sympathy--and--er--so on---' Rogers again lost the clue. Another strangely familiar picture, andthen another, flashed gorgeously before his inner vision; his mindraced after them, yet never caught them up. They were most curiouslyfamiliar. Then, suddenly, he came back and heard his cousin stilltalking. It was like a subtle plagiarism. Too subtle altogether, indeed, it was for him. He could only stare and listen in amazement. But the recital grew more and more involved. Perhaps, alone in hiswork-room, Daddy could unwumble it consistently. He certainly couldnot tell it. The thread went lost among a dozen other things. Theinterfering sun had melted it all down in dew and spider gossamer andfairy cotton. . .. 'I must go down and work, ' he said at length, rising and fumbling withthe door handle. He seemed disappointed a little. He had given out hisideas so freely, perhaps too freely. Rogers divined he had notsympathised enough. His manner had been shamefully absent-minded. Theabsent-mindedness was really the highest possible praise, but theauthor did not seem to realise it. 'It's glorious, my dear fellow, glorious, ' Rogers added emphatically. 'You've got a big idea, and you can write it too. You will. ' He saidit with conviction. 'You touch my heart as you tell it. I congratulateyou. Really I do. ' There was no mistaking the sincerity of his words and tone. The othercame back a step into the room again. He stroked his beard and feltthe crisp, hard crumb. He picked it out, examining it withoutsurprise. It was no unfamiliar thing, perhaps; at any rate, it was anexcuse to lower his eyes. Shyness returned upon him. 'Thank you, ' he said gently; 'I'm glad you think so. You see, Isometimes feel--perhaps--my work has rather suffered from--been alittle deficient in--the human touch. One must reach people's heartsif one wants big sales. So few have brains. Not that I care for money, or could ever write for money, for that brings its own punishment inloss of inspiration. But of course, with a family to support. . .. I_have_ a family, you see. ' He raised his eyes and looked out into thesunshine. 'Well, anyhow, I've begun this thing. I shall send it inshort form to the _X. Review_. It may attract attention there. Andlater I can expand it into a volume. ' He hesitated, examined the crumbclosely again, tossed it away, and looked up at his cousin suddenlyfull in the face. The high enthusiasm flamed back into his eyes again. 'Bring the world back to Fairyland, you see!' he concluded withvehemence, 'eh?' 'Glorious!' Surely thought ran about the world like coloured flame, ifthis was true. The author turned towards the door. He opened it, then stopped on thethreshold and looked round like a person who has lost his way. 'I forgot, ' he added, 'I forgot another thing, one of the chiefalmost. It's this: there must be a Leader--who shall bring it back. Without the Guide, Interpreter, Pioneer, how shall the world listen orunderstand, even the little world of Bourcelles?' 'Of course, yes--some big figure--like a priest or prophet, you mean?A sort of Chairman, President, eh?' 'Yes, ' was the reply, while the eyes flashed fires that almostrecaptured forgotten dreams, 'but hardly in the way you mean, perhaps. A very simple figure, _I_ mean, unconscious of its mighty role. Someone with endless stores of love and sympathy and compassion that havenever found an outlet yet, but gone on accumulating and accumulatingunexpressed. ' 'I see, yes. ' Though he really did not 'see' a bit. 'But who is therelike that here? You'll have to invent him. ' He remembered his ownthought that some principal role was vacant in his Children's FairyPlay. How queer it all was! He stared. 'Who is there?' he repeated. 'No one--now. I shall bring her, though. ' '_Her_!' exclaimed Rogers with surprise. 'You mean a woman?' 'A childless woman, ' came the soft reply. 'A woman with a millionchildren--all unborn. ' But Rogers did not see the expression of theface. His cousin was on the landing. The door closed softly on thewords. The steps went fumbling down the stairs, and presently he heardthe door below close too. The key was turned in it. 'A childless woman!' The phrase rang on long after he had gone. Whatan extraordinary idea! 'Bring her here' indeed! Could his cousin meanthat some such woman might read his story and come to claim theposition, play the vacant role? No, nothing so literal surely. Theidea was preposterous. He had heard it said that imaginative folk, writers, painters, musicians, all had a touch of lunacy in themsomewhere. He shrugged his shoulders. And what a job it must be, too, the writing of a book! He had never realised it before. A real book, then, meant putting one's heart into sentences, telling one's inmostsecrets, confessing one's own ideals with fire and lust and passion. That was the difference perhaps between literature and mere facileinvention. His cousin had never dared do this before; shynessprevented; his intellect wove pretty patterns that had no heat of lifein them. But now he had discovered a big idea, true as the sun, andable, like the sun, to warm thousands of readers, all ready for itwithout knowing it. . .. Rogers sat on thinking in the bright spring sunshine, smoking onecigarette after another. For the idea his cousin had wumbled over sofubsily had touched his heart, and for a long time he was puzzled tofind the reason. But at length he found it. In that startling phrase'a childless woman' lay the clue. A childless woman was like a vesselwith a cargo of exquisite flowers that could never make a port. Sweetening every wind, she yet never comes to land. No harbourwelcomes her. She sails endless seas, charged with her freight ofundelivered beauty; the waves devour her glory, her pain, her lovelysecret all unconfessed. To bring such a woman into port, evenimaginatively in a story, or subconsciously in an inner life, wasfulfilment of a big, fine, wholesome yearning, sacred in a way, too. 'By George!' he said aloud. He felt strange, great life pour throughhim. He had made a discovery . .. In his heart . .. Deep, deep down. Something in himself, so long buried it was scarcely recognisable, stirred out of sight and tried to rise. Some flower of his youth thattime had hardened, dried, yet never killed, moved gently towardsblossoming. It shone. It was still hard a little, like a crystal, glistening down there among shadows that had gathered with the years. And then it suddenly melted, running in a tiny thread of gold amonghis thoughts into that quiet sea which so rarely in a man may dare therelief of tears. It was a tiny yellow flower, like a daisy that hadforgotten to close at night, so that some stray starbeam changed itswhiteness into gold. Forgotten passion, and yearning long denied, stirred in him with thatphrase. His cousin's children doubtless had prepared the way. A fadedDream peered softly into his eyes across the barriers of the years. For every woman in the world was a mother, and a childless woman wasthe grandest, biggest mother of them all. And he had longed forchildren of his own; he, too, had remained a childless father. Avanished face gazed up into his own. Two vessels, making the same fairharbour, had lost their way, yet still sailed, perhaps, the emptyseas. Yet the face he did not quite recognise. The eyes, instead ofblue, were amber. . .. And did this explain a little the spell that caught him in this Juravillage, perhaps? Were these children, weaving a network so cunninglyabout his feet, merely scouts and pilots? Was his love for the worldof suffering folk, after all, but his love for a wife and children ofhis own transmuted into wider channels? Denied the little garden heonce had planned for it, did it seek to turn the whole big world intoa garden? Suppression was impossible; like murder, it must out. A bitof it had even flamed a passage into work and patents and 'City' life. For love is life, and life is ever and everywhere one. He thought andthought and thought. A man begins by loving himself; then, losinghimself, he loves a woman; next, that love spreads itself over a stillbigger field, and he loves his family, his wife and children, andtheir families again in turn. But, that expression denied, his loveinevitably, irrepressibly seeking an outlet, finds it in a Cause, aRace, a Nation, perhaps in the entire world. The world becomes his'neighbour. ' It was a great Fairy Story. . .. Again his thoughts returned to that one singular sentence . .. And herealised what his cousin meant. Only a childless Mother, some womancharged to the brim with this power of loving to which ordinaryexpression had been denied, could fill the vacant role in his greatChildren's Play. No man could do it. He and his cousin were mere'supers' on this stage. His cousin would invent her for his story. Hewould make her come. His passion would create her. That was what hemeant. Rogers smiled to himself, moving away from the window where thesunshine grew too fierce for comfort. What a funny business it allwas, to be sure! And how curiously every one's thinking hadintermingled! The children had somehow divined his own imaginings inthat Crayfield garden; their father had stolen the lot for his story. It was most extraordinary. And then he remembered Minks, and all hislunatic theories about thought and thought-pictures. The garden sceneat Crayfield came back vividly, the one at Charing Cross, in theorchard, too, with the old Vicar, when they had talked beneath thestars. Who among them all was the original sponsor? And which of themhad set the ball a-rolling? It was stranger than the story ofcreation. . .. It _was_ the story of creation. Yet he did not puzzle very long. Actors in a play are never puzzled;it is the bewildered audience who ask questions. And Henry Rogers wason the stage. The gauzy curtain hung between him and the outside pointof view. He was already deeply involved in Fairyland. . .. His feetwere in the Net of Stars. . .. He was a prisoner. And that woman he had once dreamed might mother his own children--where was she? Until a few years ago he had still expected, hoped tomeet her. One day they would come together. She waited somewhere. Itwas only recently he had let the dream slip finally from him, abandoned with many another personal ambition. Idly he picked up a pencil, and before he was aware of it the wordsran into lines. It seemed as though his cousin's mood, thought, inspiration, worked through him. Upon what flowering shore, 'Neath what blue skies She stands and waits, It is not mine to know; Only I know that shore is fair, Those skies are blue. Her voice I may not hear, Nor see her eyes, Yet there are times When in the wind she speaks. When stars and flowers Tell me of her eyes. When rivers chant her name. If ever signs were sure, I know she waits; If not, what means this sweetness in the wind, The singing in the rain, the love in flowers? What mean these whispers in the air, This calling from the hills and from the sea? These tendernesses of the Day and Night? Unless she waits! What in the world was this absurd sweetness running in his veins? He laughed a little. A slight flush, too, came and went its way. Thetip of the pencil snapped as he pressed too heavily on it. He haddrawn it through the doggerel with impatience, for he suddenlyrealised that he had told a deep, deep secret to the paper. It hadstammered its way out before he was aware of it. This was youth andboyhood strong upon him, the moods of Crayfield that he had set longago on one side--deliberately. The mood that wrote the Song of theBlue Eyes had returned, waking after a sleep of a quarter of acentury. 'What rubbish!' he exclaimed; 'I shall be an author next!' He tore itup and, rolling the pieces into a ball, played catch with it. 'Whatwaste of energy! Six months ago that energy would have gone intosomething useful, a patent--perhaps an improvement in the mechanismof--of--' he hesitated, then finished the sentence with a sigh ofyearning and another passing flush--'a perambulator!' He tossed it out of the window and, laughing, leaned out to watch itfall. It bounced upon a head of tousled hair beneath, then flew offsideways in the wind and rattled away faintly among the vines. Thehead was his cousin's. 'What are you up to?' cried the author, looking up. 'I'm not a waste-paper basket. ' There was a cigarette ash in his beard. 'Sending you ideas, he answered. 'I'm coming myself now. Look out!' Hewas in high spirits again. He believed in that Fairy Princess. 'All right; I've put you in already. Everybody will wonder whoCousinenry is. . .. ' The untidy head of hair popped in again. 'Hark!' cried Rogers, trying to look round the corner of the house. Heedged himself out at a dangerous angle. His ears had caught anothersound. There was music in the air. CHAPTER XIX The sweet spring winds came laughing down the street, bearing a voicethat mingled with their music. _Daddy! Daddy! vite; il y a un paquet!'_ sounded in a child's excitedcry. 'It arrives this afternoon. It's got the Edinburgh postmark. Hereis the notice. _C'est enorme!'_ The figure of Jimbo shot round the corner, dancing into view. He waveda bit of yellow paper in his hand. A curious pang tore its way intothe big man's heart as he saw him--a curious, deep, searching painthat yet left joy all along its trail. Positively moisture dimmed hiseyes a second. But Jimbo belonged to some one else. Daddy's wumbled head projected instantly again from the windowbeneath. 'A box?' he asked, equally excited. 'A box from Scotland? Why, we hadone only last month. Bless their hearts! How little they know whathelp and happiness. . .. 'The rest of the sentence disappeared with thehead; and a moment later Jimbo was heard scampering up the stairs. Both men went out to meet him. The little boy was breathless with excitement, yet the spirit of theman of affairs worked strongly in him. He deliberately suppressedhysterics. He spoke calmly as might be, both hands in his trouser-pockets beneath the blouse of blue cotton that stuck out like a balletskirt all round. The belt had slipped down. His eyes were never still. He pulled one hand out, holding the crumpled paper up for inspection. 'It's a _paquet_, ' he said, '_comme ca. _' He used French and Englishmixed, putting the latter in for his cousin's benefit. He had littleconsiderate ways like that. It's coming from Scotland, _et puis capese soixante-quinze kilos_. Oh, it's big. It's enormous. The last oneweighed, ' he hesitated, forgetful, 'much, much less, ' he finished. Hepaused, looking like a man who has solved a problem by stating it. 'One hundred and fifty pounds, ' exclaimed his father, just as eager asthe boy. 'Let me look, ' and he held his hand out for the advice fromthe railway. 'What _can_ be in it?' 'Something for everybody, ' said Jimbo decidedly. 'All the villageknows it. It will come by the two o'clock train from Bale, you know. 'He gave up the paper unwillingly. It was his badge of office. 'That'sthe paper about it, ' he added again. Daddy read out slowly the advice of consignment, with dates andweights and address of sender and recipient, while Jimbo corrected theleast mistake. He knew it absolutely by heart. 'There'll be dresses and boots for the girls this time, ' he announced, 'and something big enough for Mother to wear, too. You can tell---' 'How can you tell?' asked Daddy, laughing slyly, immensely pleasedabout it all. 'Oh, by the weight of the _paquet, comme ca_, ' was the reply. 'Itweighs 75 kilos. That means there must be something for Mummy in it. ' The author turned towards his cousin, hiding his smile. 'It's a box ofclothes, ' he explained, 'from my cousins in Scotland, Lady X you know, and her family. Things they give away--usually to their maids andwhat-not. Awfully good of them, isn't it? They pay the carriage too, 'he added. It was an immense relief to him. 'Things they can't wear, ' put in Jimbo, 'but _very_ good things--suits, blouses, shirts, collars, boots, gloves, and--oh, _toute sortede choses comme ca_. ' 'Isn't it nice of 'em, ' repeated Daddy. It made life easier for him--ever so much easier. 'A family like that has such heaps of things. Andthey always pay the freight. It saves me a pretty penny I can tellyou. Why, I haven't bought the girls a dress for two years or more. And Edward's dressed like a lord, I tell you, ' referring to his eldestboy now at an expensive tutor's. 'You can understand the excitementwhen a box arrives. We call it the Magic Box. ' Rogers understood. It had puzzled him before why the children'sclothes, Daddy's and Mummy's as well for that matter, were such anincongruous assortment of village or peasant wear, and smart, well-cutgarments that bore so obviously the London mark. 'They're very rich indeed, ' said Jimbo. 'They have a motor car. Theseare the only things that don't fit them. There's not much for meusually; I'm too little yet. But there's lots for the girls and theothers. ' And 'the others, ' it appeared, included the Widow Jequier, the Postmaster and his wife, the carpenter's family, and more than onehousehold in the village who knew the use and value of everycentimetre of ribbon. Even the retired governesses got their share. Noshred or patch was ever thrown away as useless. The assortment ofcast-off clothing furnished Sunday Bests to half the village for weeksto come. A consignment of bullion could not have given half thepleasure and delight that the arrival of a box produced. But _midi_ was ringing, and _dejeuner_ had to be eaten first. Like ameal upon the stage, no one ate sincerely; they made a brave pretence, but the excitement was too great for hunger. Every one was in thesecret--the Postmaster (he might get another hat out of it forhimself) had let it out with a characteristic phrase: 'Il y a unpaquet pour la famille anglaise!' Yet all feigned ignorance. Thechildren exchanged mysterious glances, and afterwards the governesseshung about the Post Office, simulating the purchase of stamps at twoo'clock. But every one watched Daddy's movements, for he it was whowould say the significant words. And at length he said them. 'Now, we had better go down to thestation, ' he observed casually, 'and see if there is anything for us. 'His tone conveyed the impression that things often arrived in thisway; it was an everyday affair. If there was nothing, it didn't mattermuch. His position demanded calmness. 'Very well, ' said Jimbo. 'I'll come with you. ' He strutted off, leading the way. 'And I, and I, ' cried Monkey and Jane Anne, for it was a half-holidayand all were free. Jimbo would not have appeared to hurry for akingdom. 'I think I'll join you, too, ' remarked Mother, biting her lips, 'onlyplease go slowly. ' There were hills to negotiate. They went off together in a party, and the governesses watched themgo. The Widow Jequier put her head out of the window, pretending shewas feeding the birds. Her sister popped out opportunely to post aletter. The Postmaster opened his _guichet_ window and threw a bit ofstring into the gutter; and old Miss Waghorn, just then appearing forher daily fifteen minutes' constitutional, saw the procession andasked him, 'Who in the world all those people were?' She hadcompletely forgotten them. 'Le barometre a monte, ' he replied, knowingno word of English, and thinking it was her usual question about theweather. He reported daily the state of the barometer. 'Vous n'aurezpas besoin d'un parapluie. ' 'Mercy, ' she said, meaning _merci_. The train arrived, and with it came the box. They brought it upthemselves upon the little hand-cart--_le char_. It might have weigheda ton and contained priceless jewels, the way they tugged and pushed, and the care they lavished on it. Mother puffed behind, hoping therewould be something to fit Jimbo this time. 'Shall we rest a moment?' came at intervals on the hill, till at lastMonkey said, 'Sit on the top, Mummy, and we'll pull you too. ' Andduring the rests they examined the exterior, smelt it, tapped it, tried to see between the cracks, and ventured endless and confusedconjectures as to its probable contents. They dragged the hand-cart over the cobbles of the courtyard, andheaved the box up the long stone staircase. It was planted at lengthon the floor beside the bed of Mlle. Lemaire, that she might witnessthe scene from her prison windows. Daddy had the greatest difficultyin keeping order, for tempers grow short when excitement is too longprotracted. The furniture was moved about to make room. Orders flewabout like grape-shot. Everybody got in everybody else's way. Butfinally the unwieldy packing-case was in position, and a silence fellupon the company. 'My gum, we've put it upside down, ' said Daddy, red in the face withhis exertions. It was the merest chance that there was no wisp ofstraw yet in his beard. 'Then the clothes will all be inside out, ' cried Monkey, 'and we shallhave to stand on our heads. ' 'You silly, ' Jane Anne rebuked her, yet half believing it was true, while Jimbo, holding hammer and chisel ready, looked unutterablecontempt. 'Can't you be serious for a moment?' said his staring blueeyes. The giant chest was laboriously turned over, the two men strainingevery muscle in the attempt. Then, after a moment's close inspectionagain to make quite sure, Daddy spoke gravely. Goodness, how calm hewas! 'Jimbo, boy, pass me the hammer and the chisel, will you?' In breathless silence the lid was slowly forced open and thesplintered pieces gingerly removed. Sheets of dirty brown paper andbundles of odorous sacking came into view. 'Perhaps that's all there is, ' suggested Jinny. 'Ugh! What a whiff!' said Monkey. 'Fold them up carefully and put them in a corner, ' ordered Mother. Jane Anne religiously obeyed. Oh dear, how slow she was about it! Then everybody came up very close, heads bent over, hands began tostretch and poke. You heard breathing--nothing more. 'Now, wait your turn, ' commanded Mother in a dreadful voice, 'and letyour Father try on everything first. ' And a roar of laughter made theroom echo while Daddy extracted wonder after wonder that were packedin endless layers one upon another. Perhaps what would have struck an observer most of all would have beenthe strange seriousness against which the comedy was set. The laughterwas incessant, but it was a weighty matter for all that. The bed-ridden woman, who was sole audience, understood that; the parentsunderstood it too. Every article of clothing that could be worn meanta saving, and the economy of a franc was of real importance. Thestruggles of _la famille anglaise_ to clothe and feed and educatethemselves were no light affair. The eldest boy, now studying for theconsular service, absorbed a third of their entire income. Thesacrifices involved for his sake affected each one in countless ways. And for two years now these magic boxes had supplied all his suits andshirts and boots. The Scotch cousins luckily included a boy of his ownsize who had extravagant taste in clothes. A box sometimes held asmany as four excellent suits. Daddy contented himself with one a year--ordered ready-made from the place they calledChasbakerinhighholborn. ' Mother's clothes were 'wropp in mystery'ever. No one ever discovered where they came from or how she madethem. She did. It seemed always the same black dress and velvetblouse. Gravity and laughter, therefore, mingled in Daddy's face as he drewout one paper parcel after another, opened it, tried the article onhimself, and handed it next to be tried on similarly by every one inturn. And the first extraction from the magic box was a curious lookingthing that no one recognised. Daddy unfolded it and placed it solemnlyon his head. He longed for things for himself, but rarely found them. He tried on everything, hoping it might 'just do, ' but in the endyielded it with pleasure to the others. He rarely got more than a pairof gloves or a couple of neckties for himself. The coveted suits justmissed his size. Grave as a judge he balanced the erection on his head. It made atowering heap. Every one was puzzled. 'It's a motor cap, ' venturedsome one at length in a moment of intuition. 'It's several!' cried Monkey. She snatched the bundle and handed it toMother. There were four motor caps, neatly packed together. Mother puton each in turn. They were in shades of grey. They became her well. 'You look like a duchess, ' said Daddy proudly. 'You'd better keep themall. ' 'I think perhaps they'll do, ' she said, moving to the glass, 'if noone else can wear them. ' She flushed a little and looked self-conscious. 'They want long pins, ' suggested Jinny. 'They'll keep the rain offtoo, like an umbrella. ' She laughed and clapped her hands. Motherpinned one on and left it there for the remainder of the afternoon. The unpacking of the case continued. The next discovery was gloves. The lid of the box looked like acounter in a glove shop. There were gloves of leather and chamois, gauntlets, driving-gloves, and gloves of suede, yellow, brown, andgrey. All had been used a little, but all were good. 'They'll wash, 'said Jane Anne. They were set aside in a little heap apart. No onecoveted them. It was not worth while. In the forests of Bourcellesgloves were at a discount, and driving a pleasure yet unknown. Jinny, however a little later put on a pair of ladies' suede that caught herfancy, and wore them faithfully to the end of the performance, just tokeep her mother's motor cap in countenance. The main contents of the box were as yet unbroached, however, and whennext an overcoat appeared, with velvet collar and smart, turned-upcuffs, Daddy beamed like a boy and was into it before any one couldprevent. He went behind a screen. The coat obviously did not fit him, but he tugged and pulled and wriggled his shoulders with an air of'things that won't fit must be made to fit. ' 'You'll bust the seams! You'll split the buttons! See what's in thepockets!' cried several voices, while he shifted to and fro like a manabout to fight. 'It may stretch, ' he said hopefully. 'I think I can use it. It's justwhat I want. ' He glanced up at his wife whose face, however, wasrelentless. 'Maybe, ' replied the practical mother, 'but it's more Edward's build, perhaps. ' He looked fearfully disappointed, but kept it on. Edward gotthe best of every box. He went on with the unpacking, giving the coatsly twitches from time to time, as he pulled out blouses, skirts, belts, queer female garments, boots, soft felt hats--the green Homburghe put on at once, as who should dare to take it from him--black andbrown Trilbys, shooting-caps, gaiters, flannel shirts, pyjamas, andheaven knows what else besides. The excitement was prodigious, and the floor looked like a bargainsale. Everybody talked at once; there was no more pretence of keepingorder Mlle. Lemaire lay propped against her pillows, watching thescene with feelings between tears and laughter. Each member of thefamily tried on everything in turn, but yielded the treasuresinstantly at a word from Mother--'That will do for so and so; thiswill fit Monkey; Jimbo, you take this, ' and so on. The door into the adjoining bedroom was for ever opening and shutting, as the children disappeared with armfuls and reappeared five minuteslater, marvellously apparelled. There was no attempt at sorting yet. Blouses and flannel trousers lay upon the floor with boots and motorveils. Every one had something, and the pile set aside for Edward grewapace. Only Jimbo was disconsolate. He was too small for everything;even the ladies' boots were too narrow and too pointed for his littlefeet. From time to time he rummaged with the hammer and chisel (stillheld _very_ tightly) among the mass of paper at the bottom. But, asusual, there was nothing but gaudy neckties that he could use. Andthese he did not care about. He said no word, but stood there watchingthe others and trying to laugh, only keeping the tears back with thegreatest difficulty. From his position in the background Rogers took it all in. He moved upand slipped a ten-franc piece into the boy's hand. 'Secretaries don'twear clothes like this, ' he whispered. 'We'll go into town to-morrowand get the sort of thing you want. ' Jimbo looked up and stared. He stood on tip-toe to kiss him. 'Oh, thank you so much, ' he said, fearful lest the others should see; andtucked the coin away into a pocket underneath his cotton blouse. Amoment later he came back from the corner where he had hid himself toexamine it. 'But, Cousin Henry, ' he whispered, utterly astonished, 'it's gold. ' He had thought the coin was a ten-centime piece such asDaddy sometimes gave him. He could not believe it. He had never seengold before. He ran up and told his parents. His sisters were tooexcited to be told just then. After that he vanished into the passagewithout being noticed, and when he returned five minutes later hiseyes were suspiciously red. But no one heard him say a word aboutgetting nothing out of the box. He stood aside, with a superior mannerand looked quietly on. 'It's very nice for the girls, ' his expressionsaid. His interest in the box had grown decidedly less. He could buyan entire shop for himself now. 'Mother, Daddy, everybody, ' cried an excited voice, 'will you look atme a minute, please! It all fits me perfectly, ' and Jinny emerged fromthe bedroom door. She had been trying on. A rough brown dress ofHarris tweed became her well; she wore a motor veil about her head, and another was tied round her neck; a white silk blouse, at least onesize too large for her, bulged voluminously from beneath the neattweed jacket. She wore her suede gloves still. 'And there's an outsidepocket in the skirt, you see. ' She pulled it up and showed a verypointed pair of brown boots; they were much too long; they lookedridiculous after her square village boots. 'I can waggle my toes inthem, ' she explained, strutting to and fro to be admired. 'I'm afashionable monster now!' But she only held the centre of the stage a minute, for Monkey enteredat her heels, bursting with delight in a long green macintosh thrownover another tweed skirt that hid her feet and even trailed behind. Apair of yellow spats were visible sometimes that spread fan-shapedover her boots and climbed half-way up the fat legs. 'It all fits me exaccurately, ' was her opinion. The sisters went armin arm about the room, dancing and laughing. 'We're busy blackmailers, ' cried Jinny, using her latest acquisitionwhich she practised on all possible occasions. 'We're in Piccadilly, going to see the Queen for tea. ' They tripped over Monkey's train and one of the spats came off in thestruggle for recovery. Daddy, in his Homburg hat, looked round andtold them sternly to make less noise. Behind a screen he was gettingsurreptitiously into a suit that Mother had put aside for Edward. Hetried on several in this way, hopeful to the last. 'I think this will fit me all right, ' he said presently, emerging witha grave expression on his puckered face. He seemed uncertain about it. He was solemn as a judge. 'You could alter the buttons here and there, you know, ' and he looked anxiously at his wife. The coat ran upbehind, the waistcoat creased badly owing to the strain, and thetrousers were as tight as those of a cavalry officer. Anywhere, andany moment, he might burst out into unexpected revelation. 'A littlealteration, ' he suggested hopefully, 'and it would be all right--don'tyou think?' And then he added 'perhaps. ' He turned and showed himself. Even the roar of laughter that greetedhis appearance did not quite convince him. He looked like a fat, impoverished bookmaker. 'I think it will fit Edward better, ' said Mother again without pity, for she did not like to see her husband look foolish before thechildren. He disappeared behind the screen, but repeated theperformance with two other suits. 'This striped one seems a littlelooser, ' he said; or, 'If you'd let out the trousers at the bottom, Ithink they would do. ' But in the end all he got from the box was twopairs of pink silk pyjamas, the Homburg hat, several pairs of gloves, spats, and gaiters, and half a dozen neckties that no one else wouldwear. He made his heap carefully in the corner of the room, and later, when the mess was all cleared up and everybody went off with theirrespective treasures, he entirely forgot them in his pleasure andadmiration of the others. He left them lying in the corner. Riquetteslept on them that night, and next morning Jimbo brought them over forhim to the carpenter's house. And Edward later magnanimously yieldedup two flannel shirts because he had so many left over from theprevious box. Also a pair of pumps. 'I've not done so badly after all, ' was his final matured opinion. 'Poor mother! She got nothing but motor caps. ' Jimbo, however, hadmade a final discovery of value for himself--of some value, at least. When the empty case was overturned as a last hope, he rummaged amongthe paper with his hammer and chisel, and found four pairs of golfstockings! The legs fitted him admirably, but the feet were much toobig. There was some discussion as to whether they had belonged to avery thin-legged boy with big feet or to a girl who had no calves. Luckily, the former was decided upon, for otherwise they would havegiven no pleasure to Jimbo. Even as it was, he adopted them chieflybecause it pleased his parents. Mother cut off the feet and knittednew ones a little smaller. But there was no mystery about thosestockings. No special joy went with them. He had watched Motherknitting too often for that; she could make stockings half asleep. Two hours later, while Jane Ann and Mother prepared the tea in theDen, Daddy, Jimbo, and Cousin Henry went in a procession to thecarpenter's house carrying the piles of clothing in their arms to theastonishment of half the village. They were to be re-sorted there inprivacy by the 'men, ' where the 'children' could not interfere. Thethings they could not use were distributed later among thegovernesses; the Pension and the village also, got their share. Andthe Postmaster got his hat--a black Trilby. He loved its hue. And for days afterwards the children hoarded their treasures withunholy joy. What delighted them as much as anything, perhaps, were thecoronets upon the pyjamas and the shirts. They thought it was a Londonor Edinburgh laundry mark. But Jimbo told them otherwise: 'It meansthat Daddy's Cousin is a Lord-and-Waiting, and goes to see the King. 'This explanation was generally accepted. The relief to the parents, however, as they sat up in the Den thatnight and discussed how much this opportune Magic Box had saved them, may be better imagined than described. The sum ran into many, manyfrancs. Edward had suits now for at least two years. 'He's stoppedgrowing, ' said his mother; 'thank goodness, ' said his father. And to the long list he prayed for twice a day Jimbo added of hisaccord, 'Ceux qui ont envoye la grosse caisse. ' CHAPTER XX Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far, Thro' all yon starlight keen, Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, In raiment white and clean. He lifts me to the golden doors; The flashes come and go; All heaven bursts her starry floors, And strews her lights below. _St. Agnes' Eve, Tennyson_. Miss Waghorn, of late, had been unusually trying, and especially fullof complaints. Her poor old memory seemed broken beyond repair. Sheoffered Madame Jequier her weekly payment twice within ten minutes, and was quite snappy about it when the widow declined the secondtender. 'But you had the receipt in your hand wizin ten minutes ago, MeesWag'orn. You took it upstairs. The ink can hardly be now already yetdry. ' But nothing would satisfy her that she had paid until they wentup to her room together and found it after much searching between herBible and her eternal novel on the writing-table. 'Forgive me, Madame, but you do forget sometimes, don't you?' shedeclared with amusing audacity. 'I like to make quite sure---especially where money is concerned. ' On entering the room she hadentirely forgotten why they came there. She began complaining, instead, about the bed, which had not yet been made. A standing sourceof grumbling, this; for the old lady would come down to breakfast manya morning, and then go up again before she had it, thinking it wasalready late in the day. She worried the _pensionnaires_ to death, too. It was their duty to keep the salon tidy, and Miss Waghorn wouldflutter into the room as early as eight o'clock, find the furniturestill unarranged, and at once dart out again to scold the girls. Theseinterviews were amusing before they became monotonous, for the oldlady's French was little more than 'nong pas' attached to aninfinitive verb, and the girls' Swiss-German explanations of thealleged neglect of duty only confused her. 'Nong pas faire lachambre, ' she would say, stamping her foot with vexation. 'You haven'tdone the room, though it's nearly dejooner time!' Or else--'Tenminutes ago it was tidy. Look at it now!' while she dragged them inand forced them to put things straight, until some one in authoritycame and explained gently her mistake. 'Oh, excuse me, Madame, ' shewould say then, 'but they do forget _so_ often. ' Every one was verypatient with her as a rule. And of late she had been peculiarly meddlesome, putting chairsstraight, moving vases, altering the lie of table-cloths and the angleof sofas, opening windows because it was 'so stuffy, ' and closing thema minute later with complaints about the draught, forcing occupants ofarm-chairs to get up because the carpet was caught, fiddling withpictures because they were crooked either with floor or ceiling, andnever realising that in the old house these latter were nowhereparallel. But her chief occupation was to prevent the childrencrossing their legs when they sat down, or pulling their dresseslower, with a whispered, 'You _must_ not cross your legs like that; itisn't ladylike, dear. ' She had been very exasperating and interfering. Tempers had grownshort. Twice running she had complained about the dreadful noise the_pensionnaires_ made at seven o'clock in the morning. 'Nong pas creercomme ca!' she called, running down the passage in her dressing-gownand bursting angrily into their rooms without knocking--to find themempty. The girls had left the day before. But to-day (the morning after the Star Cave adventure) the old ladywas calmer, almost soothed, and at supper she was composed and gentle. Sleep, for some reason, had marvellously refreshed her. Attacks thatopened as usual about Cornish Cream or a Man with a long Beard, sherepelled easily and quietly. 'I've told you that story before, mydear; I know I have. ' It seemed her mind and memory were more orderlysomehow. And the Widow Jequier explained how sweet and good-naturedshe had been all day--better than for years. 'When I took her dropsupstairs at eleven o'clock I found her tidying her room; she wassorting her bills and papers. She read me a letter she had written toher nephew to come out and take her home--well written and quitecoherent. I've not known her mind so clear for months. Her memory, too. She said she had slept so well. If only it would last, _helas_!' 'There _are_ days like that, ' she added presently, 'days wheneverything goes right and easily. One wakes up happy in the morningand sees only the bright side of things. Hope is active, and one hasnew courage somehow. ' She spoke with feeling, her face was brighter, clearer, her mind less anxious. She had planned a visit to the BankManager about the mortgages. It had come as an inspiration. It mightbe fruitless, but she was hopeful, and so knew a little peace. 'Iwonder why it is, ' she added, 'and what brings these changes into theheart so suddenly. ' 'Good sleep and sound digestion, ' Mrs. Campden thought. She expressedher views deliberately like this in order to counteract any growth offantasy in the children. 'But it is strange, ' her husband said, remembering his new story; 'itmay be much deeper than that. While the body sleeps the spirit may getinto touch with helpful forces----' His French failed him. He wumbledpainfully. 'Thought-forces possibly from braver minds, ' put in Rogers. 'Whoknows? Sleep and dreaming have never really been explained. ' Herecalled a theory of Minks. '_I_ dream a great deal, ' Miss Waghorn observed, eager to take part. 'It's delightful, dreaming--if only one could remember!' She lookedround the table with challenge in her eager old eyes. But no one tookher up. It involved such endless repetition of well-known stories. ThePostmaster might have said a word--he looked prepared--but, notunderstanding English, he went on with his salad instead. 'Life is a dream, ' observed Monkey, while Jinny seemed uncertainwhether she should laugh or take it seriously. The Widow Jequier overheard her. There was little she did notoverhear. 'Coquine!' she said, then quoted with a sentimental sigh:-- La vie est breve, Un peu d'amour. Un peu de rive Et puis--bonjour! She hung her head sideways a moment for effect. There was a pause alldown the long table. 'I'm sure dreams have significance, ' she went on. 'There's more indreaming than one thinks. They come as warnings or encouragement. Allthe saints had dreams. I always pay attention to mine. ' 'Madame, _I_ dream a great deal, ' repeated Miss Waghorn, anxious notto be left out of a conversation in which she understood at least thekey-word _reve_; 'a very great deal, I may say. ' Several looked up, ready to tell nightmares of their own at the leastsign of encouragement. The Postmaster faced the table, laying down hisknife and fork. He took a deep breath. This time he meant to have hissay. But his deliberation always lost him openings. _I_ don't, ' exclaimed Jinny, bluntly, five minutes behind the others. 'When I'm in bed, I sleep. ' The statement brought laughter thatconfused her a little. She loved to define her position. She haddefined it. And the Postmaster had lost his chance. Mlle. Sandoz, agoverness who was invited to supper as payment for a music lessongiven to his boy, seized the opening. 'Last night I dreamed that a bull chased me. Now what did _that_ mean, I wonder?' 'That there was no danger since it was only a dream!' said thePostmaster sharply, vexed that he had not told his own. But no one applauded, for it was the fashion to ignore hisobservations, unless they had to do with stamps and weights ofletters, parcels, and the like. A clatter of voices rose, as others, taking courage, decided to tell experiences of their own; but it wasthe Postmaster's wife in the hall who won. She had her meals outsidewith the kitchen maid and her niece, who helped in the Post Office, and she always tried to take part in the conversation from a distancethus. She plunged into a wordy description of a lengthy dream that hadto do with clouds, three ravens, and a mysterious face. All listened, most of them in mere politeness, for as cook she was a very importantpersonage who could furnish special dishes on occasion--but her sisterlistened as to an oracle. She nodded her head and made approvinggestures, and said, 'Aha, you see, ' or 'Ah, voila!' as though thathelped to prove the importance of the dream, if not its actual truth. And the sister came to the doorway so that no one could escape. Shestood there in her apron, her face hot and flushed still from thekitchen. At length it came to an end, and she looked round her, hoping for alittle sympathetic admiration, or at least for expressions of wonderand interest. All waited for some one else to speak. Into the pausecame her husband's voice, 'Je n'ai pas de sel. ' There was no resentment. It was an everyday experience. The spell wasbroken instantly. The cook retired to her table and told the dream allover again with emphatic additions to her young companions. ThePostmaster got his salt and continued eating busily as though dreamswere only fit for women and children to talk about. And the Englishgroup began whispering excitedly of their Magic Box and all it hadcontained. They were tired of dreams and dreaming. Tante Jeanne made a brave effort to bring the conversation back to thekey of sentiment and mystery she loved, but it was not a success. 'At any rate I'm certain one's mood on going to bed decides the kindof dream that comes, ' she said into the air. 'The last thought beforegoing to sleep is very important. It influences the adventures of thesoul when it leaves the body every night. ' For this was a tenet of her faith, although she always forgot to actupon it. Only Miss Waghorn continued the train of ideas this started, with a coherence that surprised even herself. Somehow the jabber aboutdreams, though in a language that only enabled her to catch itsgeneral drift, had interested her uncommonly. She seemed on the vergeof remembering something. She had listened with patience, a look ofpeace upon her anxious old face that was noticed even by Jane Anne. 'It smoothed her out, ' was her verdict afterwards, given only toherself though. 'Everything is a sort of long unfinished dream to her, I suppose, at _that_ age. ' While the _famille anglaise_ renewed noisily their excitement of theMagic Box, and while the talk in the hall went on and on, re-hashingthe details of the cook's marvellous experience, and assuming entirelynew proportions, Miss Waghorn glanced about her seeking whom she mightdevour--and her eye caught Henry Rogers, listening as usual insilence. 'Ah, ' she said to him, 'but _I_ look forward to sleep. I might say Ilong for it. ' She sighed very audibly. It was both a sigh for releaseand a faint remembrance that last night her sleep had been somehowdeep and happy, strangely comforting. 'It is welcome sometimes, isn't it?' he answered, always polite andrather gentle with her. 'Sleep unravels, yes, ' she said, vaguely as to context, yet with aquerulous intensity. It was as if she caught at the enthusiasm of aconnected thought somewhere. 'I might even say it unties, ' she added, encouraged by his nod, 'unties knots--if you follow me. ' 'It does, Miss Waghorn. Indeed, it does. ' Was this a precursor of theBrother with the Beard, he wondered? 'Untied knots' would inevitablystart her off. He made up his mind to listen to the tale with interestfor the twentieth time if it came. But it didn't come. 'I am very old and lonely, and _I_ need the best, ' she went onhappily, half saying it to herself. Instantly he took her up--without surprise too. It was like a dream. 'Quite so. The rest, the common stuff----' 'Is good enough----' she chimed in quickly-- 'For Fraulein, or for baby, or for mother, ' he laughed. 'Or any other, ' chuckled Miss Waghorn. 'Who needs a bit of sleep----' 'But yet can do without it----' she carried it on. Then both together, after a second's pause-- 'If they must----' and burst out laughing. Goodness, how did _she_ know the rhyme? Was it everywhere? Was thoughtrunning loose like wireless messages to be picked up by all who werein tune for acceptance? 'Well, I never!' he heard her exclaim, 'if that's not a nursery rhymeof my childhood that I've not heard for sixty years and more! Ideclare, ' she added with innocent effrontery, 'I've not heard it sinceI was ten years old. And I was born in '37--the year----' 'Just fancy!' he tried to stop her. 'Queen Victoria came to the throne. ' 'Strange, ' he said more to himself than to any one else. She did notcontradict him. 'You or me?' asked Monkey, who overheard. 'All of us, ' he answered. 'We all think the same things. It's a dream, I believe; the whole thing is a dream. ' 'It's a fact though, ' said Miss Waghorn with decision, 'and now I mustgo and write my letters, and then finish a bit of lace I'm doing. Youwill excuse me?' She rose, made a little bow, and left the table. Mother watched her go. 'What _has_ come over the old lady?' shethought. 'She seems to be getting back her mind and memory too. Howvery odd!' In the afternoon Henry Rogers had been into Neuchatel. It seemed hehad some business there of a rather private nature. He was verymysterious about it, evading several offers to accompany him, andafter supper he retired early to his own room in the carpenter'shouse. And, since he now was the principal attraction, a sort ofmagnet that drew the train of younger folk into his neighbourhood, thePension emptied, and the English family, deprived of their leader, went over to the Den. 'Partir a l'anglaise, ' laughed the Widow Jequier, as she saw them fileaway downstairs; and then she sighed. Some day, when the children wereolder and needed a different education, they would all go finally. Down these very stairs they would go into the street. She loved themfor themselves, but, also, the English family was a permanent sourceof income to her, and the chief. They stayed on in the winter, whenboarders were few and yet living expenses doubled. She sighed, andfluttered into her tiny room to take her finery off, finery that hadonce been worn in Scotland and had reached her by way of Cook and_la petite vitesse_ in the Magic Box. And presently she fluttered out again and summoned her sister. ThePostmaster had gone to bed; the kitchen girl was washing up the lastdishes; Miss Waghorn would hardly come down again. The salon wasdeserted. 'Come, Anita, ' she cried, yet with a hush of excitement in her voice, 'we will have an evening of it. Bring the _soucoupe_ with you, while Iprepare the little table. ' In her greasy kitchen apron Anita came. Zizi, her boy, came with her. Madame Jequier, with her flowing garmentthat was tea-gown, garden-dress, and dressing-gown all in one, lookedreally like a witch, her dark hair all askew and her eyes shining withmysterious anticipation. 'We'll ask the spirits for help andguidance, ' she said to herself, lest the boy should overhear. For Zizioften helped them with their amateur planchette, only they told him itwas electricity: _le magnetisme_, _le fluide_, was the term theygenerally made use of. Its vagueness covered all possible explanationswith just the needed touch of confusion and suggestion in it. They settled down in a corner of the room, where the ivy from theceiling nearly touched their heads. The small round table wasproduced; the saucer, with an arrow pencilled on its edge, wascarefully placed upon the big sheet of paper which bore the letters ofthe alphabet and the words _oui_ and _non_ in the corners. The lightbehind them was half veiled by ivy; the rest of the old room lay incomparative darkness; through the half-opened door a lamp shone uponthe oil-cloth in the hall, showing the stains and the worn, streakedpatches where the boards peeped through. The house was very still. They began with a little prayer--to _ceux qui ecoutent_, --and theneach of them placed a finger on the rim of the upturned saucer, waiting in silence. They were a study in darkness, those threepointing fingers. 'Zizi, tu as beaucoup de fluide ce soir, oui?' whispered the widowafter a considerable interval. 'Oh, comme d'habitude, ' he shrugged his shoulders. He loved thesemysterious experiments, but he never claimed much _fluide_ until thesaucer moved, jealous of losing his reputation as a storehouse ofthis strange, human electricity. Yet behind this solemn ritual, that opened with prayer and invariablyconcluded with hope renewed and courage strengthened, ran the tragicelement that no degree of comedy could kill. In the hearts of the twoold women, ever fighting their uphill battle with adversity, burnedthe essence of big faith, the faith that plays with mountains. Hiddenbehind the curtain, an indulgent onlooker might have smiled, but tearswould have wet his eyes before the smile could have broadened intolaughter. Tante Jeanne, indeed, _had_ heard that the subconscious mindwas held to account for the apparent intelligence that occasionallybetrayed itself in the laboriously spelled replies; she even made useof the word from time to time to baffle Zizi's too importunateinquiries. But after _le subconscient_ she always tacked on _fluide_, _magnetisme_, or _electricite_ lest he should be frightened, or sheshould lose her way. And of course she held to her belief that spiritsproduced the phenomena. A subconscious mind was a cold and comfortlessidea. And, as usual, the saucer told them exactly what they had desired toknow, suggested ways and means that hid already in the mind of one orother, yet in stammered sentences that included just enough surpriseor turn of phrase to confirm their faith and save their self-respect. It was their form of prayer, and with whole hearts they prayed. Moreover, they acted on what was told them. Had they discovered thatit was merely the content of their subconscious mind revealing thusits little hopes and fears, they would have lost their chief supportin life. God and religion would have suffered a damaging eclipse. Bigscaffolding in their lives would have collapsed. Doubtless, Tante Jeanne did not knowingly push the saucer, neither didthe weighty index finger of the concentrated cook deliberately exertmuscular pressure. Nor, similarly, was Zizi aware that the weight ofhis entire hand helped to urge the dirty saucer across the slipperysurface of the paper in whatever direction his elders thus indicated. But one and all knew 'subconsciously' the exact situation ofconsonants and vowels--that _oui_ lay in the right-hand corner and_non_ in the left. And neither Zizi nor his mother dared hint to theirleader not to push, because she herself monopolised that phrase, saying repeatedly to them both, 'mais il ne faut _pas_ pousser!Legerement avec les doigts, toujours tres legerement! Sans ca il n'y apas de valeur, tu comprends!' Zizi inserted an occasional electricalquestion. It was discreetly ignored always. They asked about the Bank payments, the mortgages, the future of theirmuch-loved old house, and of themselves; and the answers, so vagueconcerning any detailed things to come, were very positive indeedabout the Bank. They were to go and interview the Manager three daysfrom now. They had already meant to go, only the date was undecided;the corroboration of the spirits was required to confirm it. Thissettled it. Three days from to-night! 'Tu vois!' whispered Tante Jeanne, glancing mysteriously across thetable at her sister. 'Three days from now! That explains your dreamabout the three birds. Aha, tu vois!' She leaned back, supremelysatisfied. And the sister gravely bowed her head, while Zizi looked upand listened intently, without comprehension. He felt a little alarm, perhaps, to-night. For this night there _was_ indeed something new in the worn oldritual. There was a strange, uncalculated element in it all, unexpected, and fearfully thrilling to all three. Zizi for the firsttime 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, withpride and confidence, yet mystified. The other two exchanged frequentglances of surprise, of wonder, of keen expectancy and anticipation. There was certainly a new 'influence' at work to-night. They even felta touch of faint dread. The widow, her ruling passion strong evenbefore the altar, looked down anxiously once or twice at herdisreputable attire. It was vivid as that--this acute sense of anotherpresence that pervaded the room, not merely hung about the littletable. She could be 'invisible' to the Pension by the magic of old-established habit, but she could not be so to the true Invisibles. Andthey saw her in this unbecoming costume. She forgot, too, the need ofkeeping Zizi in the dark. He must know some day. What did it matterwhen? She tidied back her wandering hair with her free hand, and drew thefaded garment more closely round her neck. 'Are you cold?' asked her sister with a hush in her voice; 'you feelthe cold air--all of a sudden?' 'I do, _maman_, ' Zizi answered. 'It's blowing like a wind across myhand. What is it?' He was shivering. He looked over his shouldernervously. 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 meantthat the boy must come to bed. It was the sepulchral tone that madethem 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 overcoatthrown over his night things, led him away without another word. Andthe two women resumed their seance. The saucer moved more easily andswiftly 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 theproceedings, the familiar old routine was forgotten. Napoleon andMarie Antoinette were brushed aside to make room for this importantpersonage who suddenly descended upon the saucer from an unknown starwith the statement--it took half an hour to spell--'Je viens d'uneetoile tres eloignee qui n'a pas encore de nom. ' 'There _is_ a starry light in the room. It was above your head justnow, ' whispered the widow, enormously excited. 'I saw it plainly. ' Shewas trembling. 'That explains the clouds in my dream, ' was the tense reply, as theyboth peered round them into the shadows with a touch of awe. 'Now, give all your attention. This has an importance, but, you know, animportance--' She could not get the degree of importance into anywords. She looked it instead, leaving the sentence eloquentlyincomplete. For, certainly, into the quaint ritual of these two honest, troubledold women there crept then a hint of something that was uncommon anduplifting. That it came through themselves is as sure as that it speltout detailed phrases of encouragement and guidance with regard totheir coming visit to the Bank. That they both were carried away by itinto joy and the happiness of sincere relief of mind is equally afact. That their receptive mood attuned them to overhearsubconsciously messages of thought that flashed across the night fromanother mind in sympathy with their troubles--a mind hard at work thatvery moment in the carpenter's house--was not known to them; nor wouldit have brought the least explanatory comfort even if they had beentold of it. They picked up these starry telegrams of unselfishthinking that flamed towards them through the midnight sky from aneager mind elsewhere busily making plans for their benefit. And, reaching them subconsciously, their deep subconsciousness urged thedirty saucer to the spelling of them, word by word and letter byletter. The flavour of their own interpretation, of course, crept into mar, and sometimes to obliterate. The instruments were gravelyimperfect. But the messages came through. And with them came the greatfeeling that the Christian calls answered prayer. They had suchabsolute faith. They had belief. 'Go to the Bank. Help awaits you there. And I shall go with you todirect and guide. ' This was the gist of that message from 'une etoiletres eloignee. ' They copied it out in violet ink with a pen that scratched like thepoint of a pin. And when they stole upstairs to bed, long aftermidnight, there was great joy and certainty in their fighting oldhearts. There was a perfume of flowers, of lilacs and wistaria in theair, as if the whole garden had slipped in by the back door and wasunable 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 aflame. People came out of their way to steal a glance at the Pensionthat 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 thenarrow window in the church tower and watched the Widow Jequierplanting and digging recklessly in her garden. Several came runningdown the street, thinking it was a warning of fire. But the secret was well kept; no one discovered who had worked themiracle. Pride sealed the lips of the beneficiaries themselves, whilethe inhabitants of the Citadelle, who alone shared the knowledge, keptthe facts secret, as in honour bound. Every one wondered, however, forevery one knew the sum ran into several thousand francs; and athousand francs was a fortune; the rich man in the corner house, whoowned so many vineyards, and was reputed to enjoy an income of tenthousand 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 adegree of respect that sweetened her days till the end of life. She had come back from the Bank in a fainting condition, the suddenjoy too much for her altogether. A remote and inaccessible airpervaded her, for all the red of her inflamed eyes and tears. She wasaloof from the world, freed at last from the ceaseless, gnawinganxiety that for years had eaten her life out. The spirits hadjustified themselves, and faith and worship had their just reward. Butthis was only the first, immediate effect: it left her greater than itfound her, this unexpected, huge relief--brimming with new sympathyfor others. She doubled her gifts. She planned a wonderful new garden. That very night she ordered such a quantity of bulbs and seedlingsthat to this day they never have been planted. Her interview with Henry Rogers, when she called at the carpenter'shouse in all her finery, cannot properly be told, for it lay beyondhis powers of description. Her sister accompanied her; the Postmaster, too, snatched fifteen minutes from his duties to attend. The ancienttall hat, worn only at funerals as a rule, was replaced by the blackTrilby that had been his portion from the Magic Box, as he followedthe excited ladies at a reasonable distance. 'You had better showyourself, ' his wife suggested; 'Monsieur Rogairs would like to see youwith us--to know that you are there. ' Which meant that he was not tointerfere with the actual thanksgiving, but to countenance theoccasion with his solemn presence. And, indeed, he did not goupstairs. He paced the road beneath the windows during the interview, looking exactly like a professional mourner waiting for the arrival ofthe hearse. 'My dear old friend--friends, I mean, ' said Rogers in his fluent andvery 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 tookhis breath away as he poured it out. 'I was only afraid you wouldthink it unwarrantable interference. I am delighted that you let me doit. 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 statedofficially. '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 aboy years and years ago. ' Then, remembering that the sister was notknown to him in those far-away days, he added clumsily, 'and since--Icame back. .. . And now let's say no more, but just keep the littlesecret to ourselves. It is nobody's business but our own. ' 'A present!' gasped both ladies to one another, utterly overcome; andfinding nothing else to embrace, they flung their arms about eachother's necks and praised the Lord and wept more copiously thanever. .. . 'Grand ciel' was heard so frequently, and so loudly, thatMadame Michaud, the carpenter's wife, listening on the stairs, made upher mind it was a quarrel, and wondered if she ought to knock at thedoor 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 forme, do you think?' He bowed and waved his hand, smiling as thePostmaster looked up in answer to the tapping and gravely raised hisTrilby 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 thedoor. The farewells took some time, though they would meet an hourlater at _dejeuner_ as usual. 'At least you shall pay us no more _pension_, ' was the final sentenceas they flounced downstairs, so happy and excited that they nearlytumbled over each other, and sharing one handkerchief to dry theirtears. 'Then I shall buy my own food and cook it here, ' he laughed, andsomehow managed to close his door upon the retreating storm. Out ofthe window he saw the procession go back, the sombre figure of thePostmaster twenty yards behind the other two. And then, with joy in his heart, though a sigh of relief upon hislips--there may have been traces of a lump somewhere in his throat aswell, 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 somuch per acre--also that the County Council had made no difficulties. There was a hint, moreover--a general flavour of resentment andneglect at his master's prolonged absence--that it would not be a badthing for the great Scheme if Mr. Rogers could see his way to returnto 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 mortgagesout of capital, and the sum represented just about the cost of thesite 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. 'Thefoundation will go next, then the walls. But, at any rate, they neededit. 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 whoelse in the village needs a leg up. For these people are worthhelping, and I can see exactly where every penny goes. ' Bit by bit, as it would seem, the great Scheme for DisabledThingumagigs 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 colouredwonder spread itself about the entire village. Rogers had brought itwith him from that old Kentish garden somehow. His journey there hadopened doors into a region of imagination and belief whence fairylandpoured back upon his inner world, transfiguring common things. Andthis transfiguration he unwittingly put into others too. Through thisvery ordinary man swept powers that usually are left behind withchildhood. The childhood aspect of the world invaded all who came incontact with him, enormous, radiant, sparkling, charged with questionsof wonder and enchantment. And every one felt it according to theirability of reconstruction. Yet he himself had not the least idea thathe did it all. It was a reformation, very tender, soft, and true. For wonder, of course, is the basis of all inquiry. Interpretationvaries, facts remain the same; and to interpret is to recreate. Wonderleads to worship. It insists upon recreation, prerogative of all younglife. The Starlight Express ran regularly every night, Jimbo havingconstructed a perfect time-table that answered all requirements, andwas sufficiently elastic to fit instantly any scale that time andspace demanded. Rogers and the children talked of little else, andtheir adventures in the daytime seemed curiously fed by details ofinformation gleaned elsewhere. But where? The details welled up in one and all, though whence theycame 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 acomplete map of railway lines, with stations everywhere, in forests, sky, and mountains. He carried stations in his pocket, and justdropped one out of the carriage window whenever a passenger shouted, 'Let's stop here. ' But Monkey, more intellectual, declared it was 'allCousinenry's invention and make-up, ' although she asked more questionsthan all the others put together. Jinny, her sister, stared andlistened with her puzzled, moth-like expression, while Mother watchedand marvelled cautiously from a distance. In one and all, however, thefamished sense of wonder interpreted life anew. It named the worldafresh--the world of common things. It subdued the earth unto itself. What a mind creates it understands. Through the familiar theseadventurers trace lines of discovery into the unfamiliar. Theyunderstood. They were up to their waists in wonder. There was stilldisorder, of course, in their great reconstruction, but that was wherethe exciting fun came in; for disorder involves surprise. Any momentout might pop the unexpected--event or person. Cousin Henry was easily leader now. While Daddy remained absorbed withhis marvellous new story, enthusiastic and invisible, they ran aboutthe world at the heels of this 'busy engineer, ' as Jane Ann entitledhim. 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 spriteswere as familiar to them now as those of their own childhood. Theylittle knew that at night they met and talked with them. Daddy had putthem all into the Wumble Book, achieving mediocre success with therhymes, but amply atoning with the illustrations. The Woman of theHaystack was evidently a monster pure and simple, till Jinny announcedthat she merely had 'elephantitis, ' and thus explained hersatisfactorily. The Lamplighter, with shining feet, taking enormousstrides from Neuchatel to a London slum, putting fire into eyes andhearts _en route_, thrilled them by his radiant speed and ubiquitousactivity, while his doggerel left them coldly questioning. For therhymes did _not_ commend themselves to their sense of what was properin the use of words. His natural history left them unconvinced, thoughthe 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 'walkedsoftly as a saying' meant nothing, even when explained that 'thus thesaying 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 alwayshad an adventure up his sleeve--something their imaginations couldaccept and recreate. Each in their own way, they suppliedinterpretations 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 aconvincing compliment that should persuade him to take them out. Onlythe compliment never came quite as he hoped. 'Everybody's exciting somewhere, ' said Monkey, leading the way andknowing he would follow. 'We'll go to the Wind Wood. ' Jimbo took his hand then, and they went. Corners of the forest hadnames now, born of stories and adventures he had placed there--theWind Wood, the Cuckoo Wood, where Daddy could not sleep because 'thebeastly cuckoo made such a noise'; the Wood where Mother Fell, and soon. No walk was wholly unproductive. And so, one evening after supper, they escaped by the garden, crossedthe field where the standing hay came to their waists, and climbed byforest paths towards the Wind Wood. It was a spot where giant pinesstood thinly, allowing a view across the lake towards the Alps. Themoss was thick and deep. Great boulders, covered with lichen, layabout, and there were fallen trees to rest the back against. Here hehad told them once his vision of seeing the wind, and the name hadstuck; for the story had been very vivid, and every time they felt thewind or heard it stirring in the tree-tops, they expected to see ittoo. There were blue winds, black winds, and winds--violent these--ofpurple and flaming scarlet. They lay down, and Cousinenry made a fire. The smoke went up in thinstraight lines of blue, melting into the sky. The sun had set half anhour before, and the flush of gold and pink was fading into twilight. The glamour of Bourcelles dropped down upon all three. They ought tohave been in bed--hence the particular enjoyment. 'Are you getting excited now?' asked Monkey, nestling in against him. 'Hush!' he said, 'can't you hear it coming?' 'The excitement?' she inquired under her breath. 'No, the Night. Keep soft and silent--if you can. ' 'Tell us, please, at once, ' both children begged him instantly, forthe beauty of the place and hour demanded explanation, andexplanation, of course, must be in story or adventure form. The firecrackled faintly; the smell crept out like incense; the lines of smokecoiled upwards, and seemed to draw the tree-stems with them. Indeedthey formed a pattern together, big thick trunks marking the uprightsat the corners, and wavy smoke lines weaving a delicate structure inbetween them. It was a kind of growing, moving scaffolding. Sayingnothing, Cousin Henry pointed to it with his finger. He traced itsgeneral pattern for them in the air. 'That's the Scaffolding of the Night beginning, ' he whisperedpresently, feeling adventure press upon him. 'Oh, I say, ' said Jimbo, sitting up, and pretending as usual morecomprehension than he actually possessed. But his sister instantlyasked, 'What is it--the Scaffolding of the Night? A sort of cathedral, you mean?' How she divined his thought, and snatched it from his mind always, this nimble-witted child! His germ developed with a bound at once. 'More a palace than a cathedral, ' he whispered. 'Night is a palace, and has to be built afresh each time. Twilight rears the scaffoldingfirst, then hangs the Night upon it. Otherwise the darkness wouldsimply fall in lumps, and lie about in pools and blocks, unfinished--aruin instead of a building. Everything must have a scaffolding first. Look how beautifully it's coming now, ' he added, pointing, 'eachshadow in its place, and all the lines of grey and black fittingexaccurately together like a skeleton. Have you never noticed itbefore?' Jimbo, of course, _had_ noticed it, his manner gave them tounderstand, but had not thought it worth while mentioning until hisleader drew attention to it. 'Just as trains must have rails to run on, ' he explained acrossCousinenry's intervening body to Monkey, 'or else there'd be accidentsand things all the time. ' 'And night would be a horrid darkness like a plague in Egypt, ' shesupposed, adroitly defending herself and helping her cousin at thesame time. 'Wouldn't it?' she added, as the shadows drew magicallynearer from the forest and made the fire gradually grow brighter. Thechildren snuggled closer to their cousin's comforting bulk, shiveringa little. The woods went whispering together. Night shook her velvetskirts out. 'Yes, everything has its pattern, ' he answered, 'from the skeleton ofa child or a universe to the outline of a thought. Even a dream musthave its scaffolding, ' he added, feeling their shudder and leading ittowards fun and beauty. 'Insects, birds, and animals all make littlescaffoldings with their wee emotions, especially kittens andbutterflies. Engine-drivers too, ' for he felt Jimbo's hand steal intohis own and go to sleep there, 'but particularly little beasties thatlive in holes under stones and in fields. When a little mouse in wonder Flicks its whiskers at the thunder, it makes a tiny scaffolding behind which it hides in safety, shuddering. Same with Daddy's stories. Thinking and feeling does thetrick. Then imagination comes and builds it up solidly with bricks andwall-papers. .. . ' He told them a great deal more, but it cannot be certain that theyheard it all, for there were other Excitements about besides theircousin--the fire, the time, the place, and above all, this marvellouscoming of the darkness. They caught words here and there, but Thoughtwent its own independent way with each little eager mind. He hadstarted the machinery going, that was all. Interpretation varied;facts remained the same. And meanwhile twilight brought theScaffolding of Night before their eyes. 'You can see the lines already, ' he murmured sleepily, 'like veinsagainst the sunset. .. . Look!' All saw the shadowy slim rafters slip across the paling sky, mappingits emptiness with intricate design. Like an enormous spider's web offine dark silk it bulged before the wind. The trellis-work, slung fromthe sky, hung loose. It moved slowly, steadily, from east to west, trailing grey sheets of dusk that hung from every filament. The mazeof lines bewildered sight. In all directions shot the threads ofcoming darkness, spun from the huge body of Night that still hidinvisible below the horizon. 'They're fastening on to everything . .. Look!' whispered Cousin Henry, kicking up a shower of sparks with his foot. 'The Pattern's being madebefore your eyes! Don't you see the guy ropes?' And they saw it actually happen. From the summits of the distant Alpsran filmy lines of ebony that knotted themselves on to the crests ofthe pines beside them. There were so many no eye could follow them. They flew and darted everywhere, dropping like needles from the skyitself, sewing the tent of darkness on to the main supports, andthreading the starlight as they came. Night slowly brought her beautyand her mystery upon the world. The filmy pattern opened. There was atautness in the lines that made one feel they would twang withdelicate music if the wind swept its hand more rapidly across them. And now and again all vibrated, each line making an ellipse betweenits fastened ends, then gradually settling back to its thin, almostinvisible bed. Cables of thick, elastic darkness steadied them. How much of it all the children realised themselves, or how muchflashed into them from their cousin's mind, is of course a thing noteven a bat can tell. 'Is that why bats fly in such a muddle? Like a puzzle?' 'Of course, ' he said. The bats were at last explained. They built their little pictures for themselves. No living being canlie on the edge of a big pine forest when twilight brings the darknesswithout the feeling that everything becomes too wonderful for words. The children as ever fed his fantasy, while he thought he did it allhimself. Dusk wore a shroud to entangle the too eager stars, and makethem stay. 'I never noticed it before, ' murmured Monkey against his coat sleeve. 'Does it happen every night like this?' 'You only see it if you look very closely, ' was the low reply. 'Youmust think hard, very hard. The more you think, the more you'll see. ' 'But really, ' asked Jimbo, 'it's only--_crepuscule, comme ca, _ isn'tit?' And his fingers tightened on his leader's hand. 'Dusk, yes, ' answered Cousin Henry softly, 'only dusk. But peopleeverywhere are watching it like ourselves, and thinking featherthoughts. You can see the froth of stars flung up over the crest ofNight. People are watching it from windows and fields and countryroads everywhere, wondering what makes it so beautiful. It bringsyearnings and long, long desires. Only a few like ourselves can seethe lines of scaffolding, but everybody who thinks about it, and lovesit, makes it more real for others to see, too. Daddy's probablywatching it too from his window. ' 'I wonder if Jinny ever sees it, ' Monkey asked herself. But Jimbo knew. 'She's in it, ' he decided. 'She's always in placeslike that; that's where she lives. ' The children went on talking to each other under their breath, andwhile they did so Cousin Henry entered their little wondering minds. Or, perhaps, they entered his. It is difficult to say. Not even anowl, who is awfully wise about everything to do with night anddarkness, could have told for certain. But, anyhow, they all three sawmore or less the same thing. The way they talked about it afterwardsproves that. Their minds apparently merged, or else there was one bigmirror and two minor side-reflections of it. It was their cousin'sinterpretation, at any rate, that they remembered later. They broughtthe material for his fashioning. 'Look!' cried Monkey, sitting up, 'there are millions and millionsnow--lines everywhere--pillars and squares and towers. It's like acity. I can see lamps in every street----' 'That's stars, ' interrupted Jimbo. The stars indeed were peeping hereand there already. 'I feel up there, ' he added, 'my inside, I mean--upamong the stars and lines and sky-things. ' 'That's the mind wandering, ' explained the eldest child of the three. 'Always follow a wandering mind. It's quite safe. Mine's goingpresently too. We'll all go off together. ' Several little winds, released by darkness, passed them just then ontheir way out of the forest. They gathered half a dozen sparks fromthe fire to light them on their way, and brought cool odours with themfrom the deepest recesses of the trees--perfumes no sunlight everfinds. And just behind them came a big white moth, booming andwhirring softly. It darted to and fro to find the trail, thenvanished, so swiftly that no one saw it go. 'He's pushing it along, ' said Jimbo. 'Or fastening the lines, ' his sister thought, 'you see he hovers inone place, then darts over to another. ' 'That's fastening the knots, ' added Jimbo. 'No; he's either an Inspector or a Pathfinder, ' whispered CousinHenry, 'I don't know exactly which. They show the way the scaffoldinggoes. Moths, bats, and owls divide the work between them somehow. ' Hesat up suddenly to listen, and the children sat up with him. 'Hark!'he added, 'do you hear that?' Sighings and flutterings rose everywhere about them, and overhead thefluffy spires of the tree-tops all bent one way as the winds wentforaging across the night. Majestically the scaffolding reared up andtowered through the air, while sheets of darkness hung from everyline, and trailed across the earth like gigantic sails from someinvisible vessel. Loose and enormous they gradually unfolded, thensuddenly swung free and dropped with a silent dip and rush. Nightswooped down upon the leagues of Jura forest. She spread her tentacross the entire range. The threads were fastened everywhere now, and the uprights all inplace. Moths were busy in all directions, showing the way, while batsby the dozen darted like black lightning from corner to corner, makingsure that every spar and beam was fixed and steady. So exquisitelywoven was the structure that it moved past them overhead without thefaintest sound, yet so frail and so elastic that the whirring of themoths sent ripples of quivering movement through the entire framework. 'Hush!' murmured Rogers, 'we're properly inside it now. Don't think ofanything in particular. Just follow your wandering minds and wait. 'The children lay very close against him. He felt their warmth and thebreathing of their little bosoms. All three moved sympatheticallywithin the rhythm of the dusk. The 'inside' of each went floating upinto the darkening sky. The general plan of the scaffolding they clearly made out as theypassed among its myriad, mile-long rafters, but the completed temple, of course, they never saw. Black darkness hides that ever. Night'ssecret mystery lies veiled finally in its innermost chamber, whence itsteals forth to enchant the mind of men with its strange bewilderment. But the Twilight Scaffolding they saw clearly enough to make a map ofit. For Daddy afterwards drew it from their description, and gave itan entire page in the Wumble Book, Monkey ladling on the colour withher camel's-hair brush as well as she could remember. It was a page to take the breath away, the big conception blunderingclumsily behind the crude reconstruction. Great winds formed the base, winds of brown and blue and purple, piled mountainously upon eachother in motionless coils, and so soft that the upright columns of thestructure plunged easily and deeply into them. Thus the frameworkcould bend and curve and sway, moving with steady glide across thelandscape, yet never collapsing nor losing its exquisite proportions. The forests shored it up, its stays and bastions were the Juraprecipices; it rested on the shoulders of the hills. From vineyard, field, and lake vast droves of thick grey shadows trooped in tocurtain the lower halls of the colossal edifice, as chamber afterchamber disappeared from view and Night clothed the structure from theground-floors upwards. And far overhead a million tiny scarves, halfsunset and half dusk, wove into little ropes that lashed the topmostspars together, dovetailing them neatly, and fastening them at lastwith whole clusters of bright thin stars. 'Ohhhhh!' breathed Jimbo with a delicious shudder of giddiness. 'Let'sclimb to the very tip and see all the trains and railway stations inthe world!' 'Wait till the moon comes up and puts the silver rivets in, ' theleader whispered. 'It'll be safer then. My weight, you know--' 'There she is!' interrupted Monkey with a start, 'and there's no suchthing as weight--' For the moon that instant came up, it seemed with a rush, and the lineof distant Alps moved forward, blocked vividly against the silverycurtain that she brought. Her sight ran instantly about the world. Between the trees shot balls of yellowish white, unfolding like ribbonas they rolled. They splashed the rocks and put shining pools in thehollows among the moss. Spangles shone on Monkey's hair and eyes;skins and faces all turned faintly radiant. The lake, like a hugereflector, flashed its light up into the heavens. The moon laid acoating of her ancient and transfiguring paint upon the enormousstructure, festooning the entire sky. 'She's put the silver rivetsin, ' said Jimbo. 'Now we can go, ' whispered Rogers, 'only, remember, it's a giddybusiness, rather. ' All three went fluttering after it, floating, rising, falling, likefish that explore a sunken vessel in their own transparent medium. Theelastic structure bore them easily as it swung along. Its enormousrhythm lulled their senses with a deep and drowsy peace, and as theyclimbed from storey to storey it is doubtful if the children caughttheir leader's words at all. There were no echoes--the spaces were toovast for that--and they swung away from spar to spar, and from rafterto rafter, as easily as acrobats on huge trapezes. Jimbo and Monkeyshot upwards into space. 'I shall explore the lower storeys first, ' he called after them, hiswords fluttering in feathers of sound far up the vault. 'Keep the firein sight to guide you home again . .. ' and he moved slowly towards thevast ground-floor chambers of the Night. Each went his independent wayalong the paths of reverie and dream. He found himself alone. For he could not soar and float as they did; he kept closer to theearth, wandering through the under chambers of the travelling buildingthat swung its way over vineyards, woods, and village roofs. He keptmore in touch with earth than they did. The upper sections where thechildren climbed went faster than those lower halls and galleries, sothat the entire framework bent over, breaking ever into a crest offoaming stars. But in these under halls where he stood and watchedthere was far less movement. From century to century these remainedthe same. Between the bases of the mighty columns he watched the waveof darkness drown the world, leading it with a rush of silence towardssleep. For the children Night meant play and mischief; for himself itmeant graver reverie. .. . These were the chambers, clearly, of ancestral sleep and dream: theyseemed so familiar and well known. Behind him blinked the littlefriendly fire in the forest, link with the outer world he must notlose. He would find the children there when he went back, lively fromtheir scamper among the stars; and, meanwhile, he was quite content towander down these corridors in the floor of Night and taste their deeprepose. For years he had not visited or known them. The children hadled him back, although he did not realise it. He believed, on thecontrary, that it was he who led and they who followed. For trueleadership is ever inspired, making each follower feel that he goesfirst and of his own free will. .. . 'Jimbo, you flickery sprite, where are you now?' he called, suddenlynoticing how faint the little fire had grown with distance. A lonely wind flew down upon him with a tiny shout: 'Up here, at the very top, with Daddy. He's making notes in a tower-room all by himself!' Rogers could not believe his ears. Daddy indeed! 'Is Monkey with you? And is she safe?' 'She's helping Daddy balance. The walls aren't finished, and he's on afearful ledge. He's after something or other for his story, he says. ' It seemed impossible. Daddy skylarking on the roof of Night, andmaking notes! Yet with a moment's reflection the impossibilityvanished; surprise went after it; it became natural, right, and true. Daddy, of course, sitting by his window in the carpenter's house, hadseen the Twilight Scaffolding sweep past and had climbed into it. Itsbeauty had rapt him out and away. In the darkness his mind wandered, too, gathering notes subconsciously for his wonderful new story. 'Come down here to me, ' he cried, as a man cries in his sleep, makingno audible sound. 'There's less risk among the foundations. ' And downcame Daddy with an immediate rush. He arrived in a bundle, thenstraightened up. The two men stood side by side in these subterraneansof the night. 'You!' whispered Rogers, trying to seize his hand, while the otherevaded him, hiding behind a shadow. 'Don't touch me, ' he murmured breathlessly. 'You'll scatter my trainof thought. Think of something else at once, please. .. . ' He moved intothicker shadows, half disappearing. 'I'm after something that suddenlyoccurred to me for my story. ' 'What is it? I'll think it with you, ' his cousin called after him. 'You'll see it better if I do. Tell me. ' 'A train that carries Thought, as this darkness carries stars--astarlight express, ' was the quick reply, 'and a cavern where loststarlight gathers till it's wanted-sort of terminus of the railway. They belong to the story somewhere if only I can find them and fitthem in. Starlight binds all together as thought and sympathy bindminds. .. . ' Rogers thought hard about them. Instantly his cousin vanished. 'Thank you, ' ran a faint whisper among the pillars; 'I'm on theirtrail again now. I must go up again. I can see better from the top, 'and the voice grew fainter and higher and further off with each wordtill it died away completely into silence. Daddy went chasing hisinspiration through the scaffolding of reverie and dream. 'We did something for him the other night after all, then, ' thoughtRogers with delight. 'Of course, ' dropped down a wee, faint answer from above, as theauthor heard him thinking; 'you did a lot. I'm partly out at last. This is where all the Patterns hide. Awake, I only get their dimreflections, broken and distorted. This is reality, not that. Ha, ha!If only I can get it through, my lovely, beautiful pattern--' 'You will, you will, ' cried the other, as the voice went flutteringthrough space. 'Ask the children. Jimbo and Monkey are up theresomewhere. They're the safest guides. ' Rogers gave a gulp and found that he was coughing. His feet were cold. A shudder ran across the feathery structure, making it tremble fromthe foundations to the forest of spires overhead. Jimbo came slidingdown a pole of gleaming ebony. In a hammock of beams and rafters, swinging like a network of trapezes, Monkey swooped down after him, head first as usual. For the moon that moment passed behind a cloud, and the silver rivets started from their shadowy sockets. Clusters ofstar nails followed suit. The palace bent and tottered like a fallingwave. Its pillars turned into trunks of pine trees; its corridors werespaces through the clouds; its chambers were great dips between themountain summits. 'It's going too fast for sight, ' thought Rogers; 'I can't keep up withit. Even the children have toppled off. ' But he still heard Daddy'slaughter echoing down the lanes of darkness as he chased his patternwith yearning and enthusiasm. The huge structure with its towers and walls and platforms slid softlyout of sight. The moonlight sponged its outlines from the sky. Thescaffolding melted into darkness, moving further westwards as nightadvanced. Already it was over France and Italy, sweeping grandlyacross the sea, bewildering the vessels in its net of glamour, andfilling with wonder the eyes of the look-out men at the mast heads. 'The fire's going out, ' a voice was saying. Rogers heard it through amoment's wild confusion as he fell swiftly among a forest of rafters, beams, and shifting uprights. 'I'll get more wood. ' The words seemed underground. A mountain wind rose up and brought thesolid world about him. He felt chilly, shivered, and opened his eyes. There stood the solemn pine trees, thick and close; moonlight floodedthe spaces between them and lit their crests with silver. 'This is the Wind Wood, ' he remarked aloud to reassure himself. Jimbo was bending over the fire, heaping on wood. Flame leaped up witha shower of sparks. He saw Monkey rubbing her eyes beside him. 'I've had a dream of falling, ' she was saying, as she snuggled downcloser into his side. '_I_ didn't, ' Jimbo said. 'I dreamed of a railway accident, andeverybody was killed except one passenger, who was Daddy. It fell offa high bridge. We found Daddy in the _fourgon_ with the baggages, writing a story and laughing--making an awful row. ' 'What did _you_ dream, Cousinenry?' asked Monkey, peering into hiseyes in the firelight. 'That my feet were cold, because the fire had gone out, ' he answered, trying in vain to remember whether he had dreamed anything at all. 'And--that it's time to go home. I hear the curfew ringing. ' Some one whistled softly. They ought to have been in bed an hour ago. It was ten o'clock, and Gygi was sounding the _couvre feu_ from theold church tower. They put the fire out and walked home arm in arm, separating with hushed good-nights in the courtyard of the Citadelle. But Rogers did not hear the scolding Mother gave them when theyappeared at the Den door, for he went on at once to his own room inthe carpenter's house, with the feeling that he had lived always inBourcelles, and would never leave it again. His Scheme had movedbodily from London to the forest. And on the way upstairs he peeped a moment into his cousin's room, seeing a light beneath the door. The author was sitting beside theopen window with the lamp behind him and a note-book on his knees. Moonlight fell upon his face. He was sound asleep. 'I won't wake him, ' thought his cousin, going out softly again. 'He'sdreaming--dreaming of his wonderful new story probably. ' CHAPTER XXII Even as a luminous haze links star to star, I would supply all chasms with music, breathing Mysterious motions of the soul, no way To be defined save in strange melodies. _Paracelsus_, R. BROWNING. Daddy's story, meanwhile, continued to develop itself with wonder andenthusiasm. It was unlike anything he had ever written. His otherstudies had the brilliance of dead precious stones, perhaps, but thisthing moved along with a rushing life of its own. It grew, fed bysources he was not aware of. It developed of itself--changed and livedand flashed. Some creative fairy hand had touched him while he sleptperhaps. The starry sympathy poured through him, and he thought withhis feelings as well as with his mind. At first he was half ashamed of it; the process was so new andstrange; he even attempted to conceal his method, because he could notexplain or understand it. 'This is emotional, not intellectual, ' hesighed to himself; 'it must be second childhood. I'm old. They'll callit decadent!' Presently, however, he resigned himself to the deliciousflow of inspiration, and let it pour out till it flowed over into hisdaily life as well. Through his heart it welled up and bubbled forth, a thing of children, starlight, woods, and fairies. Yet he was shy about it. He would talk about the story, but would notread it out. 'It's a new _genre_ for me, ' he explained shyly, 'anattempt merely. We'll see what comes of it. My original idea, you see, has grown out of hand rather. I wake every morning with somethingfresh, as though'--he hesitated a moment, glancing towards his wife--'as if it came to me in sleep, ' he concluded. He felt her common sensemight rather despise him for it. 'Perhaps it does, ' said Rogers. 'Why not?' said Mother, knitting on the sofa that was her bed atnight. She had put her needles down and was staring at her husband; he staredat Rogers; all three stared at each other. Something each wished toconceal moved towards utterance and revelation. Yet no one of themwished to be the first to mention it. A great change had come of lateupon Bourcelles. It no longer seemed isolated from the big worldoutside as before; something had linked it up with the wholesurrounding universe, and bigger, deeper currents of life flowedthrough it. And with the individual life of each it was the same. Alldreamed the same enormous, splendid dream, yet dared not tell it--yet. Both parents realised vaguely that it was something their visitor hadbrought, but what could it be exactly? It was in his atmosphere, hehimself least of all aware of it; it was in his thought, his attitudeto life, yet he himself so utterly unconscious of it. It brought outall the best in everybody, made them feel hopeful, brighter, morecourageous. Yes, certainly, _he, _ brought it. He believed in them, inthe best of them--they lived up to it or tried to. Was that it? Was itbelief and vision that he brought into their lives, thoughunconsciously, because these qualities lay so strongly in himself?Belief is constructive. It is what people _are_ rather than what theypreach that affects others. Two strangers meet and bow and separatewithout a word, yet each has changed; neither leaves the other quiteas he was before. In the society of children, moreover, one believeseverything in the world--for the moment. Belief is constructive andcreative; it is doubt and cynicism that destroy. In the presence of achild these latter are impossible. Was this the explanation of theeffect he produced upon their little circle--the belief and wonder andjoy of Fairyland? For a moment something of this flashed through Daddy's mind. Mother, in her way, was aware of something similar. But neither of them spokeit. The triangular staring was its only evidence. Mother resumed herknitting. She was not given to impulsive utterance. Her husband oncedescribed her as a solid piece of furniture. She was. 'You see, ' said Daddy bravely, as the moment's tension passed, 'myoriginal idea was simply to treat Bourcelles as an epitome, aminiature, so to speak, of the big world, while showing how Naturesweetened and kept it pure as by a kind of alchemy. But that idea hasgrown. I have the feeling now that the Bourcelles we know is a mereshadowy projection cast by a more real Bourcelles behind. It is onlythe dream village we know in our waking life. The real one--er--weknow only in sleep. ' There!--it was partly out! Mother turned with a little start. 'You mean when we sleep?' sheasked. She knitted vigorously again at once, as though ashamed of thissudden betrayal into fantasy. 'Why not?' she added, falling back uponher customary non-committal phrase. Yet this was not the superiorattitude he had dreaded; she was interested. There was something shewanted to confess, if she only dared. Mother, too, had grown softer insome corner of her being. Something shone through her with a tinygolden radiance. 'But this idea is not my own, ' continued Daddy, dangerously near towumbling. 'It comes _through_ me only. It develops, apparently, whenI'm asleep, ' he repeated. He sat up and leaned forward. 'And, Ibelieve, ' he added, as on sudden reckless impulse, 'it comes from you, Henry. Your mind, I feel, has brought this cargo of new suggestion anddischarged it into me--into every one--into the whole blessed village. Man, I think you've bewitched us all!' Mother dropped a stitch, so keenly was she listening. A moment latershe dropped a needle too, and the two men picked it up, and handed itback together as though it weighed several pounds. 'Well, ' said Rogers slowly, 'I suppose all minds pour into one anothersomewhere--in and out of one another, rather--and that there's acommon stock or pool all draw upon according to their needs and powerto assimilate. But I'm not conscious, old man, of driving anythingdeliberately into you--' 'Only you think and feel these things vividly enough for me to getthem too, ' said Daddy. Luckily 'thought transference' was not actuallymentioned, or Mother might have left the room, or at least havebetrayed an uneasiness that must have chilled them. 'As a boy I imagined pretty strongly, ' in a tone of apology, 'butnever since. I was in the City, remember, twenty years--' 'It's the childhood things, then, ' Daddy interrupted eagerly. 'You'vebrought the great childhood imagination with you--the sort ofgorgeous, huge, and endless power that goes on fashioning of its ownaccord just as dreams do--' 'I _did, _ indulge in that sort of thing as a boy, yes, ' was the half-guilty reply; 'but that was years and years ago, wasn't it?' 'They have survived, then, ' said Daddy with decision. 'The sweetnessof this place has stimulated them afresh. The children'--he glancedsuspiciously at his wife for a moment--'have appropriated them too. It's a powerful combination. After a pause he added, 'I might developthat idea in my story--that you've brought back the sweet creations ofchildhood with you and captured us all--a sort of starry army. ' 'Why not?' interpolated Mother, as who should say there was no harm in_that_. 'They certainly have been full of mischief lately. ' 'Creation _is_ mischievous, ' murmured her husband. 'But since you havecome, ' he continued aloud, --'how can I express it exactly?--the dayshave seemed larger, fuller, deeper, the forest richer and moremysterious, the sky much closer, and the stars more soft and intimate. I dream of them, and they all bring me messages that help my story. Doyou know what I mean? There were days formerly, when life seemedempty, thin, peaked, impoverished, its scale of values horriblyreduced, whereas now--since you've been up to your nonsense with thechildren--some tide stands at the full, and things are alwayshappening. ' 'Well, really, Daddy!' said the expression on Mother's face and handsand knitting-needles, 'you _are_ splendid to-day'; but aloud she onlyrepeated her little hold-all phrase, 'Why not?' Yet somehow he recognised that she understood him better than usual. Her language had not changed--things in Mother worked slowly, fromwithin outwards as became her solid personality--but it held newmeaning. He felt for the first time that he could make her understand, and more--that she was ready to understand. That is, he felt newsympathy with her. It was very delightful, stimulating; he instantlyloved her more, and felt himself increased at the same time. 'I believe a story like that might even sell, ' he observed, with ahint of reckless optimism. 'People might recognise a touch of theirown childhood in it, eh?' He longed for her to encourage him and pat him on the back. 'True, ' said Mother, smiling at him, 'for every one likes to keep intouch with their childhood--if they can. It makes one feel young andhopeful--jolly; doesn't it? Why not?' Their eyes met. Something, long put aside and buried under a burden ofexaggerated care, flashed deliciously between them. Rogers caught itflying and felt happy. Bridges were being repaired, if not newlybuilt. 'Nature, you see, is always young really, ' he said; 'it's full ofchildren. The very meaning of the word, eh, John?' turning to hiscousin as who should say, 'We knew our grammar once. ' '_Natura_, yes--something about to produce. ' They laughed in theirsuperior knowledge of a Latin word, but Mother, stirred deeply thoughshe hardly knew why, was not to be left out. Would the bridge bearher, was perhaps her thought. 'And of the feminine gender, ' she added slyly, with a touch of pride. The bridge creaked, but did not give way. She said it very quickly. She had suddenly an air of bouncing on her sofa. 'Bravo, Mother, ' said her husband, looking at her, and there was afondness in his voice that warmed and blessed and melted down intoher. She had missed it so long that it almost startled her. 'There'sthe eternal old magic, Mother; you're right. And if I had more of youin me--more of the creative feminine--I should do better work, I'msure. You must give it to me. ' She kept her eyes upon her needles. The others, being unobservant'mere men, ' did not notice that the stitches she made must haveproduced queer kind of stockings if continued. 'We'll becollaborators, ' Daddy added, in the tone of a boy building on thesands at Margate. 'I will, ' she said in a low voice, 'if only I know how. ' 'Well, ' he answered enthusiastically, looking from one to the other, delighted to find an audience to whom he could talk of his new dream, 'you see, this is really a great jolly fairy-tale I'm trying to write. I'm blessed if I know where the ideas come from, or how they pour intome like this, but--anyhow it's a new experience, and I want to makethe most of it. I've never done imaginative work before, and--thoughit is a bit fantastical, mean to keep in touch with reality and showgreat truths that emerge from the commonest facts of life. Thecritics, of course, will blame me for not giving 'em the banal thingthey expect from me, but what of that?' He was dreadfully reckless. 'I see, ' said Mother, gazing open-mindedly into his face; 'but wheredoes _my_ help come in, please?' She leaned back, half-sighing, half-smiling. 'Here's my life'--sheheld up her needles--'and that's the soul of prosaic dulness, isn'tit?' 'On the contrary, ' he answered eagerly, 'it's reality. It's courage, patience, heroism. You're a spring-board for my fairy-tale, though I'dnever realised it before. I shall put you in, just as you are. You'llbe one of the earlier chapters. ' 'Every one'll skip me, then, I'm afraid. ' 'Not a bit, ' he laughed gaily; 'they'll feel you all through the book. Their minds will rest on you. You'll be a foundation. "Mother'sthere, " they'll say, "so it's all right. This isn't nonsense. We'llread on. " And they will read on. ' 'I'm all through it, then?' 'Like the binding that mothers the whole book, you see, ' put inRogers, delighted to see them getting on so well, yet amazed to hearhis cousin talk so openly with her of his idea. Daddy continued, unabashed and radiant. Hitherto, he knew, his wife'sattitude, though never spoken, had been very different. She almostresented his intense preoccupation with stories that brought in solittle cash. It would have been better if he taught English or gavelessons in literature for a small but regular income. He gave too muchattention to these unremunerative studies of types she never met inactual life. She was proud of the reviews, and pasted them neatly in abig book, but his help and advice on the practical details of thechildren's clothing and education were so scanty. Hers seemed ever themain burden. Now, for the first time, though she distrusted fantasy and deemed itdestructive of action, she felt something real. She listened with akind of believing sympathy. She noticed, moreover, with keen pleasure, that her attitude fed him. He talked so freely, happily about it all. Already her sympathy, crudely enough expressed, brought fuel to hisfires. Some one had put starlight into her. 'He's been hungry for this all along, ' she reflected; 'I neverrealised it. I've thought only of myself without knowing it. ' 'Yes, I'll put you in, old Mother, ' he went on, 'and Rogers and thechildren too. In fact, you're in it already, ' he chuckled, 'if youwant to know. Each of you plays his part all day long without knowingit. ' He changed his seat, going over to the window-sill, and staringdown upon them as he talked on eagerly. 'Don't you feel, ' he said, enthusiasm growing and streaming from him, 'how all this village lifeis a kind of dream we act out against the background of the sunshine, while our truer, deeper life is hidden somewhere far below in halfunconsciousness? Our daily doings are but the little bits that emerge, tips of acts and speech that poke up and out, masquerading ascomplete? In that vaster sea of life we lead below the surface lies mybig story, my fairy-tale--when we sleep. ' He paused and looked downquestioningly upon them. 'When we sleep, ' he repeated impressively, struggling with his own thought. 'You, Mother, while you knit and sew, slip down into that enormous under-sea and get a glimpse of thecoloured pictures that pass eternally behind the veil. I do the samewhen I watch the twilight from my window in reverie. Sunshineobliterates them, but they go just the same. _You_ call it day-dreaming. Our waking hours are the clothes we dress the spirit inafter its nightly journeys and activities. Imagination does not createso much as remember. Then, by transforming, it reveals. ' Mother sat staring blankly before her, utterly lost, while her husbandflung these lumps of the raw material of his story at her--of itsatmosphere, rather. Even Rogers felt puzzled, and hardly followed whathe heard. The intricacies of an artistic mind were indeed bewildering. How in the world would these wild fragments weave together into anyintelligible pattern? 'You mean that we travel when we sleep, ' he ventured, remembering aphrase that Minks had somewhere used, 'and that our real life is outof the body?' His cousin was taking his thought---or was it originallyMinks's?--wholesale. Mother looked up gratefully. 'I often dream I'm flying, ' she put insolemnly. 'Lately, in particular, I've dreamed of stars and funnythings like that a lot. ' Daddy beamed his pleasure. 'In my fairy-tale we shall all see stars, 'he laughed, 'and we shall all get "out. " For our thoughts willdetermine the kind of experience and adventure we have when the spiritis free and unhampered. And contrariwise, the kind of things we do atnight--in sleep, in dream--will determine our behaviour during theday. There's the importance of thinking rightly, you see. Out of thebody is eternal, and thinking is more than doing--it's more complete. The waking days are brief intervals of test that betray the characterof our hidden deeper life. We are judged in sleep. We last for everand ever. In the day, awake, we stand before the easel on which ouradventures of the night have painted those patterns which are the verystructure of our outer life's behaviour. When we sleep again we re-enter the main stream of our spirit's activity. In the day we forget, of course--as a rule, and most of us--but we follow the pattern justthe same, unwittingly, because we can't help it. It's the mould we'vemade. ' 'Then your story, ' Rogers interrupted, 'will show the effect in thedaytime of what we do at night? Is that it?' It amazed him to hear hiscousin borrowing thus the entire content of his own mind, sucking itout whole like a ripe plum from its skin. 'Of course, ' he answered; 'and won't it be a lark? We'll all get outin sleep and go about the village together in a bunch, helping, soothing, cleaning up, and putting everybody straight, so that whenthey wake up they'll wonder why in the world they feel so hopeful, strong, and happy all of a sudden. We'll put thoughts of beauty intothem--beauty, you remember, which "is a promise of happiness. "' 'Ah!' said Mother, seizing at his comprehensible scrap with energy. 'That _is_ a story. ' 'If I don't get it wumbled in the writing down, ' her husbandcontinued, fairly bubbling over. 'You must keep me straight, remember, with your needles--your practical aspirations, that is. I'll read itout to you bit by bit, and you'll tell me where I've dropped a stitchor used the wrong wool, eh?' 'Mood?' she asked. 'No, wool, ' he said, louder. There was a pause. 'But you see my main idea, don't you--that the sources of our life liehid with beauty very very far away, and that our real, big, continuouslife is spiritual--out of the body, as I shall call it. The waking-daylife uses what it can bring over from this enormous under-running seaof universal consciousness where we're all together, splendid, free, untamed, and where thinking is creation and we feel and know eachother face to face? See? Sympathy the great solvent? All linkedtogether by thought as stars are by their rays. Ah! You get my idea--the great Network?' He looked straight into his wife's eyes. They were opened very wide. Her mouth had opened a little, too. She understood vaguely that he wasusing a kind of shorthand really. These cryptic sentences expressed inemotional stenography mere odds and ends that later would drop intotheir proper places, translated into the sequence of acts that are thescaffolding of a definite story. This she firmly grasped--but no more. 'It's grand-a wonderful job, ' she answered, sitting back upon the sofawith a sigh of relief, and again bouncing a little in the process, sothat Rogers had a horrible temptation to giggle. The tension oflistening had been considerable. 'People, you mean, will realise howimportant thinking is, and that sympathy---er---' and she hesitated, floundering. 'Is the great way to grow, ' Rogers quickly helped her, 'because byfeeling with another person you add his mind to yours and so getbigger. And '--turning to his cousin--' you're taking starlight as thesymbol of sympathy? You told me that the other day, I remember. ' Butthe author did not hear or did not answer; his thought was far away inhis dream again. The situation was saved. All the bridges had borne well. Daddy, havingrelieved his overcharged mind, seemed to have come to a full stop. TheDen was full of sunlight. A delightful feeling of intimacy wove thethree humans together. Mother caught herself thinking of the far-offcourtship days when their love ran strong and clear. She felt at onewith her husband, and remembered him as lover. She felt in touch withhim all over. And Rogers was such a comfortable sort of person. Tactwas indeed well named--sympathy so delicately adjusted that itinvolved feeling-with to the point of actual touch. Daddy came down from his perch upon the window-sill, stretched hisarms, and drew a great happy sigh. 'Mother, ' he added, rising to go out, 'you shall help me, dearie. We'll write this great fairy-tale of mine together, eh?' He stoopedand kissed her, feeling love and tenderness and sympathy in his heart. 'You brave old Mother!' he laughed; 'we'll send Eddie to Oxford yet, see if we don't. A book like that might earn 100 pounds or even 200pounds. ' Another time she would have answered, though not bitterly, 'MeanwhileI'll go on knitting stockings, ' or 'Why not? we shall see what weshall see'--something, at any rate, corrective and rather sober, quenching. But this time she said nothing. She returned the kissinstead, without looking up from her needles, and a great big thinglike an unborn child moved near her heart. He had not called her'dearie' for so long a time, it took her back to their earliest daystogether at a single, disconcerting bound. She merely stroked hisshoulder as he straightened up and left the room. Her eyes thenfollowed him out, and he turned at the door and waved his hand. Rogers, to her relief, saw him to the end of the passage, and herhandkerchief was out of sight again before he returned. As he came inshe realised even more clearly than before that he somehow was thecause of the changing relationship. He it was who brought thissomething that bridged the years--made old bridges safe to use again. And her love went out to him. He was a man she could open her heart toeven. Patterns of starry beauty had found their way in and were working outin all of them. But Mother, of course, knew nothing of this. There wasa tenderness in him that won her confidence. That was all she felt. 'Oh, dear, ' she thought in her odd way, 'what a grand thing a man isto be sure, when he's got that!' It was like one of Jane Anne'sremarks. As he came in she had laid the stocking aside and was threading aneedle for darning and buttons, and the like. '"Threading the eye of a yellow star, " eh?' he laughed, 'and always atit. You've stirred old Daddy up this time. He's gone off to his story, simply crammed full. What a help and stimulus you must be to him!' 'I, ' she said, quite flabbergasted; 'I only wish it were true--again. 'The last word slipped out by accident; she had not meant it. But Rogers ignored it, even if he noticed it. 'I never can help him in his work. I don't understand it enough. Idon't understand it at all. ' She was ashamed to hedge with this man. She looked him straight in the eye. 'But he feels your sympathy, ' was his reply. 'It's not alwaysnecessary to understand. That might only muddle him. You help bywishing, feeling, sympathising--believing. ' 'You really think so?' she asked simply. 'What wonderful thoughts youhave I One has read, of course, of wives who inspired their husbands'work; but it seemed to belong to books rather than to actual life. ' Rogers looked at her thoughtful, passionate face a moment before heanswered. He realised that his words would count with her. Theyapproached delicate ground. She had an absurd idea of his importancein their lives; she exaggerated his influence; if he said a wrongthing its effect upon her would be difficult to correct. 'Well, ' he said, feeling mischief in him, 'I don't mind telling _you_that I should never have understood that confused idea of his storybut for one thing. ' 'What was that?' she asked, relieved to feel more solid ground atlast. 'That I saw the thing from his own point of view, ' he replied;'because I have had similar thoughts all my life. I mean that he'sbagged it all unconsciously out of my own mind; though, of course, ' hehastened to add, 'I could never, never have made use of it as he will. I could never give it shape and form. ' Mother began to laugh too. He caught the twinkle in her eyes. Shebounced again a little on the springy sofa as she turned towards him, confession on her lips at last. 'And I do believe you've felt it too, haven't you?' he asked quickly, before she could change her mind. 'I've felt something--yes, ' she assented; 'odd, unsettled; new thingsrushing everywhere about us; the children mysterious and up to allsorts of games and wickedness; and bright light over everything, like-like a scene in a theatre, somehow. It's exhilarating, but I can'tquite make it out. It can't be right to feel so frivolous and jumpy-about at my age, can it?' 'You feel lighter, eh? She burst out laughing. Mother was a prosaic person; that is, she hadstrong common-sense; yet through her sober personality there ran likea streak of light some hint of fairy lightness, derived probably fromher Celtic origin. Now, as Rogers watched her, he caught a flash ofthat raciness and swift mobility, that fluid, protean elasticity oftemperament which belonged to the fairy kingdom. The humour and pathosin her had been smothered by too much care. She accepted old agebefore her time. He saw her, under other conditions, dancing, singing, full of Ariel tricks and mischief--instead of eternally mendingstockings and saving centimes for peat and oil and washerwomen. Heeven saw her feeding fantasy--poetry--to Daddy like a baby with aspoon. The contrast made him laugh out loud. 'You've lived here five years, ' he went on, 'but lived too heavily. Care has swamped imagination. I did the same-in the City-for twentyyears. It's all wrong. One has to learn to live carelessly as well ascarefully. When I came here I felt all astray at first, but now I seemore clearly. The peace and beauty have soaked into me. ' He hesitatedan instant, then continued. Even if she didn't grasp his meaning nowwith her brains, it would sink down into her and come through later. 'The important things of life are very few really. They stand outvividly here. You've both vegetated, fossilised, atrophied a bit. Idiscovered it in my own case when I went back to Crayfield and--' He told her about his sentimental journey, and how he found all thecreations of his childhood's imagination still so alive and kicking ina forgotten backwater of his mind that they all hopped out and tookobjective form--the sprites, the starlight express, the boundlessworld of laughter, fun and beauty. 'And, without exactly knowing it, I suppose I've brought them all outhere, ' he continued, seeing that she drank it in thirstily, 'and--somehow or other--you all have felt it and responded. It's not mydoing, of course, ' he added; 'it's simply that I'm the channel as itwere, and Daddy, with his somewhat starved artist's hunger of mind, was the first to fill up. It's pouring through him now in a story, don't you see; but we're all in it--' 'In a way, yes, that's what I've felt, ' Mother interrupted. 'It's alla kind of dream here, and I've just waked up. The unchanging village, the forests, the Pension with its queer people, the Magic Box--' 'Like a play in a theatre, ' he interrupted, 'isn't it?' 'Exactly, ' she laughed, yet half-seriously. 'While your husband is the dramatist that writes it down in acts andscenes. You see, his idea is, perhaps, that life as we know it isnever a genuine story, complete and leading to a climax. It's all indisconnected fragments apparently. It goes backwards and forwards, upand down, in and out in a wumbled muddle, just anyhow, as it were. Thefragments seem out of their proper place, the first ones often last, and _vice versa_. It seems inconsequential, because we only see thescraps that break through from below, from the true inner, deeper lifethat flows on steadily and dramatically out of sight. That's what hemeans by "out of the body" and "sleep" and "dreaming. " The greatpattern is too big and hidden for us to see it whole, just as when youknit I only see the stitches as you make them, although the entirepattern is in your mind complete. Our daily, external acts are thestitches we show to others and that everybody sees. A spiritual personsees the whole. ' 'Ah!' Mother interrupted, 'I understand now. To know the whole patternin my mind you'd have to get in sympathy with my thought below. Isthat it?' 'Sometimes we look over the fence of mystery, yes, and see inside--seethe entire stage as it were. ' 'It _is_ like a great play, isn't it?' she repeated, grasping again atthe analogy with relief. 'We give one another cues, and so on---' 'While each must know the whole play complete in order to act his partproperly--be in sympathy, that is, with all the others. The tiniestdetails so important, too, ' he added, glancing significantly at theneedles on her lap. 'To act your own part faithfully you must carryall the others in your mind, or else--er--get your own part out ofproportion. ' 'It will be a wonderful story, won't it?' she said, after a pause inwhich her eyes travelled across the sunshine towards the carpenter'shouse where her husband, seen now in a high new light, labouredsteadily. There was a clatter in the corridor before he could reply, and Jimboand Monkey flew in with a rush of wings and voices from school. Theywere upon him in an instant, smelling of childhood, copy-books, ink, and rampagious with hunger. Their skins and hair were warm withsunlight. 'After tea we'll go out, ' they cried, 'and show yousomething in the forest---oh, an enormous and wonderful thing thatnobody knows of but me and Jimbo, and comes over every night fromFrance and hides inside a cave, and goes back just before sunrise witha sack full of thinkings---' 'Thoughts, ' corrected Jimbo. '---that haven't reached the people they were meant for, and then---' 'Go into the next room, wash yourselves and tidy up, ' said Mothersternly, 'and then lay the table for tea. Jinny isn't in yet. Put thecharcoal in the samovar. I'll come and light it in a moment. ' They disappeared obediently, though once behind the door there weresounds that resembled a pillow-fight rather than tidying-up; and whenMother presently went after them to superintend, Rogers sat by thewindow and stared across the vineyards and blue expanse of lake at thedistant Alps. It was curious. This vague, disconnected, rambling talkwith Mother had helped to clear his own mind as well. In trying toexplain to her something he hardly understood himself, his ownthinking had clarified. All these trivial scenes were little bits ofrehearsal. The Company was still waiting for the arrival of the StarPlayer who should announce the beginning of the real performance. Itwas a woman's role, yet Mother certainly could not play it. To get thefamily really straight was equally beyond his powers. 'I really musthave more common-sense, ' he reflected uneasily; 'I am getting out oftouch with reality somewhere. I'll write to Minks again. ' Minks, at the moment, was the only definite, positive object in theouter world he could recall. 'I'll write to him about---' His thoughtwent wumbling. He quite forgot what it was he had to say to him--'Oh, about lots of things, ' he concluded, 'his wife and children and--andhis own future and so on. ' The Scheme had melted into air, it seemed. People lost in Fairyland, they say, always forget the outer world of unimportant happenings. They live too close to the source of things to recognise theirclownish reflections in the distorted mirrors of the week-day level. Yes, it was curious, very curious. Did Thought, then, issue primarilyfrom some single source and pass thence along the channels of men'sminds, each receiving and interpreting according to his needs andpowers? Was the Message--the Prophet's Vision---merely the morereceipt of it than most? Had, perhaps, this whole wonderful story hiscousin wrote originated, not in his, Rogers's mind, nor in that ofMinks, but in another's altogether--the mind of her who was destinedfor the principal role? Thrills of absurd, electric anticipationrushed through him--very boyish, wildly impossible, yet utterlydelicious. Two doors opened suddenly--one from the kitchen, admitting Monkey witha tray of cups and saucers, steam from the hissing samovar wrappingher in a cloud, the other from the corridor, letting in Jane Anne, her arms full of packages. She had been shopping for thefamily in Neuchatel, and was arrayed in garments from the latest MagicBox. She was eager and excited. 'Cousinenry, ' she cried, dropping half the parcels in her fluster, 'I've had a letter!' It was in her hand, whereas the parcels had beenmerely under her arms. 'The postman gave it me himself as I came upthe steps. I'm a great correspondencer, you know. ' And she dartedthrough the steam to tell her mother. Jimbo passed her, carrying thetea-pot, the sugar-basin dangerously balanced upon spoons and knivesand butter-dish. He said nothing, but glanced at his younger sistersignificantly. Rogers saw the entire picture through the cloud ofsteam, shot through with sunlight from the window. It was like apicture in the clouds. But he intercepted that glance and knew thenthe writer of the letter. 'But did you get the mauve ribbon, child?' asked Mother. Instead of answer, the letter was torn noisily open. Jinny never hadletters. It was far more important than ribbons. 'And how much change have you left out of the five francs? Daddy willwant to know. ' Jimbo and Monkey were listening carefully, while pretending to lay thetable. Mother's silence betrayed that she was reading the letter withinterest and curiosity equal to those of its recipient. 'Who wrote it?Who's it from? I must answer it at once, ' Jinny was saying with greatimportance. 'What time does the post go, I wonder? I mustn't miss it. ' 'The post-mark, ' announced Mother, 'is Bourcelles. It's verymysterious. ' She tapped the letter with one hand, like the villain inthe theatre. Rogers heard her and easily imagined the accompanyingstage gesture. 'The handwriting on the envelope is like Tante Anna, 'he heard, 'but the letter itself is different. It's all capitals, andwrongly spelt. ' Mlle. Lemaire was certainly not the writer. Jimbo and Monkey were busy hanging the towel out of the window, signalto Daddy that tea was ready. But as Daddy was already coming down thestreet at a great pace, apparently excited too, they waved it instead. Rogers suddenly remembered that Jimbo that morning had asked him for atwo-centime stamp. He made no remark, however, merely wondering whatwas in the letter itself. 'It's a joke, of course, ' Mother was heard to say in an odd voice. 'Oh no, Mother, for how could anybody know? It's what I've beendreaming about for nights and nights. It's so aromantic, isn't it?' The louder hissing of the samovar buried the next words, and at thatmoment Daddy came into the room. He was smiling and his eyes werebright. He glanced at the table and sat down by his cousin on thesofa. 'I've done a lot of work since you saw me, ' he said happily, pattinghim on the knee, 'although in so short a time. And I want my cup oftea. It came so easily and fluently for a wonder; I don't believe Ishall have to change a word--though usually I distrust this sort ofrapid composition. ' 'Where are you at now?' asked Rogers. 'We're all "out, "' was thereply, 'and the Starlight Express is just about to start and--Mother, let me carry that for you, ' he exclaimed, turning round as his wifeappeared in the doorway with more tea-things. He got up quickly, butbefore he could reach her side Jinny flew into his arms and kissedhim. 'Did you get my tobacco, Jinny?' he asked. She thrust the letter underhis nose. What was tobacco, indeed, compared to an important letter!'You can keep the change for yourself. ' He read it slowly with a puzzled expression, while Mother and thechildren watched him. Riquette jumped down from her chair and rubbedherself against his leg while he scratched himself with his boot, thinking it was the rough stocking that tickled him. 'Eh? This is very queer, ' he muttered, slapping the open sheet just ashis wife had done, and reading it again at arm's-length. 'Somebody'--he looked suspiciously round the room--'has been reading my notes orpicking out my thoughts while I'm asleep, eh?' 'But it's a real letter, ' objected Jinny; 'it's correspondence, isn'tit, Daddy?' 'It is certainly a correspondence, ' he comforted her, and then, reading it aloud, he proceeded to pin it on the wall above themantelpiece:-- 'The Starlight Xpress starts to-night, Be reddy and punctuel. Sleeptitely and get out. ' That was all. But everybody exchanged glances. 'Odd, ' thought Mother, again remembering her dreams. Jimbo upset the milk-jug. Usually there would have been a rumpus overthis. To-day it seemed like something happening far away--somethingthat had not really happened at all. 'We must all be ready then, ' said Rogers, noticing vaguely thatMother's sleeve had smeared the butter as she mopped up the mess. Daddy was making a note on his shirt sleeve:-- The Sweep, the Laugher and the Tramp, The running man who lights the lamp, The Woman of the Haystack, too, The Gardener and Man of Dust Are passengers because they must Follow the Guard with eyes of blue. Over the forests and into the Cave That is the way we must all behave--- 'Please, Daddy, will you move? It's dripping on to your boot. ' They all looked down; the milk had splashed from the cloth and fallenupon the toe of his big mountain boots. It made a pretty, white star. Riquette was daintily lapping it up with her long pink Tongue. Ray byray the star set in her mysterious interior. 'Riquette must come too, ' said Rogers gravely. 'She's full of whitestarlight now. ' And Jimbo left his chair and went seriously over to the book-shelfabove Mother's sofa-bed to arrange the signals. For between thetightly-wedged books he had inserted all the available paper-knivesand book-markers he could find to represent railway-signals. Theystuck out at different angles. He altered several, putting some up, some down, and some at right angles. 'The line's all clear for to-night, ' he announced to Daddy with acovert significance he hardly grasped himself, then coming back tohome-made jam and crusty village bread. Jane Anne caught her father's answering glance-mysterious, full ofunguessed meanings. 'Oh, excuse me, Mother, ' she said, feeling thesame thing in herself and a little frightened; 'but I do believethey're conspiring, aren't they?' And Mother gave a sudden start, whose cause she equally failed toanalyse. 'Hush, dear, ' she said. 'Don't criticise your elders, andwhen you do, don't use long words you cannot possibly understand. ' And everybody understood something none of them understood-while teawent on as usual to the chatter of daily details of external life. CHAPTER XXIV All we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good shall exist; Not its semblance, but itself; no beauty, nor good, nor power Whose voice has gone forth, but each survives for the melodist When eternity affirms the conception of an hour. The high that proved too high, the heroic for earth too hard, The passion that left the ground to lose itself in the sky, Are music sent up to God by the lover and the bard; Enough that he heard it once: we shall hear it by and by. _Abt Vogler_, R. BROWNING. Some hours later, as Rogers undressed for bed in his room beneath theroof, he realised abruptly that the time had come for him to leave. The weeks had flown; Minks and the Scheme required him; other mattersneeded attention too. What brought him to the sudden decision was thefact that he had done for the moment all he could find to do, beginning with the Pension mortgages and ending with little EdouardTissot, the _vigneron's_ boy who had curvature of the spine and couldnot afford proper treatment. It was a long list. He was far fromsatisfied with results, yet he had done his best, in spite of manyclumsy mistakes. In the autumn he might return and have a further try. Finances were getting muddled, too, and he realised how small hiscapital actually was when the needs of others made claims upon it. Neighbours were as plentiful as insects. He had made all manner of schemes for his cousin's family as well, yetseemed to have accomplished little. Their muddled life defieddisentanglement, their difficulties were inextricable. With one son ata costly tutor, another girl in a Geneva school, the younger childrenjust outgrowing the local education, the family's mode of living soscattered, meals in one place, rooms in several others, --it was alltoo unmethodical and dispersed to be covered by their small uncertainincome. Concentration was badly needed. The endless talks andconfabulations, which have not been reported here because theirconfusion was interminable and unreportable, landed every one in amass of complicated jumbles. The solution lay beyond his power, asequally beyond the powers of the obfuscated parents. He would returnto England, settle his own affairs, concoct some practical scheme withthe aid of Minks, and return later to discuss its working out. Thetime had come for him to leave. And, oddly enough, what made him see it were things the children hadsaid that very evening when he kissed them all good-night. England hadbeen mentioned. 'You're here for always now, ' whispered Monkey, 'because you love meand can't get away. I've tied you with my hair, you know. ' 'You'll have no sekrity in London, ' said Jimbo. 'Who'll stick yourstamps on?' 'The place will seem quite empty if you go, ' Jane Anne contributed, not wishing to make her contribution too personal, lest she shouldappear immodest. 'You've made a memorandum of agreement. ' This meanthe had promised rashly once to stay for ever. The phrase lent anofficial tone besides. He fell asleep, devising wonderful plans, as usual, for the entireworld, not merely a tiny section of it. The saviour spirit was ever inhis heart. It failed to realise itself because the mind was unequal tothe strain of wise construction; but it was there, as the old vicarhad divined. He had that indestructible pity to which no living thingis outcast. But to-night he fell asleep so slowly, gradually, that he almostwatched the dissolving of consciousness in himself. He hovered a longtime about the strange, soft frontiers. He saw the barriers lowerthemselves into the great dim plains. Inch by inch the outer worldbecame remote, obscure, lit dubiously by some forgotten sun, and inchby inch the profound recesses of nightly adventure coaxed him down. Herealised that he swung in space between the two. The room and housewere a speck in the universe above him, his brain the mere outlet of atunnel up which he climbed every morning to put his horns out like asnail, and sniff the outer world. Here, in the depths, was theworkroom where his life was fashioned. Here glowed the mighty, hiddenfurnaces that shaped his tools. Drifting, glimmering figures streamedup round him from the vast under-world of sleep, called unconscious. 'I _am_ a spirit, ' he heard, not said or thought, 'and no spirit canbe unconscious for eight hours out of every twenty-four. .. !' Slowly the sea of dreamless sleep, so-called, flowed in upon him, down, round, and over; it submerged the senses one by one, beginningwith hearing and ending with sight. But, as each physical sense wasclosed, its spiritual counterpart--the power that exists apart fromits limited organ-opened into clear, divine activity, free as lifeitself. .. . How ceaseless was this movement of Dreams, never still, alwayschanging and on the dance, incessantly renewing itself inkaleidoscopic patterns. There was perpetual metamorphosis and richtransformation; many became one, one many; the universe was a singlething, charged with stimulating emotional shocks as each scrap ofinterpretation passed in and across the mind. .. . He was falling into deeper and deeper sleep, into that eternal regionwhere he no longer thought, but knew. .. Immense processions ofshifting imagery absorbed him into themselves, spontaneous, unfamiliar, self-multiplying, and as exquisitely baffling as God andall His angels. .. . The subsidence of the external world seemed suddenly complete. So deeply was he sunk that he reached that common pool of fluidessence upon which all minds draw according to their needs and powers. Relations were established, wires everywhere connected. The centralswitchboard clicked all round him; brains linked with brains, asleepor not asleep. He was so deep within himself that, as the children andthe Story phrased it, he was 'out. ' The air grew light and radiant. 'Hooray! I'm out!' and he instantly thought of his cousin. 'So am I!' That wumbled author shot immediately into connection withhim. 'And so is Mother--for the first time. Come on: we'll all gotogether. ' It was unnecessary to specify where, for that same second they foundthemselves in the room of Mlle. Lemaire. At this hour of the night itwas usually dark, except for the glimmer of the low-turned lamp thesufferer never quite extinguished. From dusk till dawn her windows in La Citadelle shone faintly for allto see who chanced to pass along the village street. 'There she lies, poor aching soul, as she has lain for twenty years, thinking good ofsome one, or maybe praying!' For the glimmer was visible from veryfar, and familiar as a lighthouse to wandering ships at sea. But, hadthey known her inner happiness, they would not have said 'poor soul!'They would have marvelled. In a Catholic canton, perhaps, they wouldhave crossed themselves and prayed. Just now they certainly would haveknown a singular, exalted joy. Caught in fairyland, they would havewondered and felt happy. For the room was crowded to the doors. Walls, windows, ceiling, hadmelted into transparency to let in the light of stars; and, caughtlike gold-fish in the great network of the rays, shone familiaroutlines everywhere--Jimbo, Monkey, Jinny, the Sweep, the Tramp, theGypsy, the Laugher up against the cupboard, the Gardener by the windowwhere the flower-pots stood, the Woman of the Haystack in thecorridor, too extensive to slip across the threshold, and, in themiddle of the room, motionless with pleasure-Mother! 'Like gorgeous southern butterflies in a net, I do declare!' gaspedDaddy, as he swept in silently with his companion, their coloursmingling harmoniously at once with the rest. And Mother turned. 'You're out, old girl, at last!' he cried. 'God bless my soul, I am!' she answered. Their sentences came bothtogether, and their blues and yellows swam into each other and made alovely green. 'It's what I've been trying to do all these yearswithout knowing it. What a glory! I understand now--understand myselfand you. I see life clearly as a whole. Hooray, hooray!' She glidednearer to him, her face was beaming. 'Mother's going to explode, ' said Monkey in a whisper. But, of course, everybody 'heard' it; for the faintest whisper of thought sent aripple through that sea of delicate colour. The Laugher bent behindthe cupboard to hide her face, and the Gardener by the window stoopedto examine his flower-pots. The Woman of the Haystack drew back alittle into the corridor again, preparatory to another effort tosqueeze through. But Mother, regardless of them all, swam on towardsher husband, wrapped in joy and light as in a garment. Hitherto, inher body, the nearest she had come to coruscating was once when shehad taken a course of sulphur baths. This was a very different matter. She fairly glittered. 'We'll never go apart again, ' Daddy was telling her. 'This innersympathy will last, you know. _He_ did it. It's him we have to thank, 'and he pointed at his cousin. 'It's starlight, of course, he hasbrought down into us. ' But Rogers missed the compliment, being busy in a corner with Monkeyand Jimbo, playing at mixing colours with startling results. Motherswam across to her old friend, Mile. Lemaire. For a quarter of acentury these two had understood one another, though never consciouslybeen 'out' together. She moved like a frigate still, gliding andstately, but a frigate that has snapped its hawsers and meant to sailthe skies. 'Our poor, stupid, sleeping old bodies, ' she smiled. But the radiant form of the other turned to her motionless cage uponthe bed behind her. 'Don't despise them, ' she replied, looking downupon the worn-out prison-house, while a little dazzle of brillianceflashed through her atmosphere. 'They are our means of spreading thisstarlight about the world and giving it to others. Our brains transmitit cunningly; it flashes from our eyes, and the touch of our fingerspasses it on. We gather it here, when we are "out, " but we cancommunicate it best to others when we are "in. "' There was sound of confusion and uproar in the room behind as some onecame tumbling in with a rush, scattering the figures in all directionsas when a gust of wind descends upon a bed of flowers. 'In at last!' cried a muffled voice that sounded as though a tarpaulinsmothered it, and the Woman of the Haystack swept into the room with akind of clumsy majesty. The Tramp and Gypsy, whose efforts had atlength dislodged her awkward bulk, came rolling after. They had beenpushing steadily from behind all this time, though no one had noticedthem slip out. '_We_ can do more than the smaller folk, ' she said proudly, sailing upto Mother. 'We can't be overlooked, for one thing'; and arm-in-arm, like a pair of frigates then, they sailed about the room, magnificentas whales that swim in a phosphorescent sea. The Laugher straightenedup to watch them, the Gardener turned his head, and Rogers and thechildren paused a moment in their artificial mixing, to stare withwonder. 'I'm in!' said the Woman. 'I'm out!' said Mother. And the children felt a trifle envious. Instantly their brilliancedimmed a little. The entire room was aware of it. 'Think always of the world in gold and silver, ' shot from Mile. Lemaire. The dimness passed as she said it. 'It was my doing, ' laughed Monkey, turning round to acknowledge herwickedness lest some one else should do it for her and thus increaseher shame. 'Sweep! Sweep!' cried Rogers. But this thought-created sprite was there before the message flashed. With his sack wide open, he stood by Monkey, full of importance. Amoment he examined her. Then, his long black fingers darting like ashuttle, he discovered the false colouring that envy had caused, picked it neatly out--a thread of dirty grey--and, winding it into atiny ball, tossed it with contempt into his sack. 'Over the edge of the world you go, With the mud and the leaves and the dirty snow!' he sang, skipping off towards the door. The child's star-body glowedand shone again, pulsing all over with a shimmering, dancing lightthat was like moonshine upon running water. 'Isn't it time to start now?' inquired Jinny; and as she said it allturned instinctively towards the corner of the room where they wereassembled. They gathered round Mlle. Lemaire. It was quite clear whowas leader now. The crystal brilliance of her whiteness shone like alittle oval sun. So sparkling was her atmosphere, that its purityscarcely knew a hint of colour even. Her stream of thought seemedundiluted, emitting rays in all directions till it resembled a wheelof sheer white fire. The others fluttered round her as lustrous mothsabout an electric light. 'Start where?' asked Mother, new to this great adventure. Her old friend looked at her, so that she caught a darting ray full inthe face, and instantly understood. 'First to the Cave to load up, ' flashed the answer; 'and then over thesleeping world to mix the light with everybody's dreams. Then backagain before the morning spiders are abroad with the interfering sun. ' She floated out into the corridor, and all the others fell into lineas she went. The draught of her going drew Mother into placeimmediately behind her. Daddy followed close, their respective coloursmaking it inevitable, and Jinny swept in after him, bright and eageras a little angel. She tripped on the edge of something he heldtightly in one hand, a woven maze of tiny glittering lines, exquisitely inter-threaded--a skeleton of beauty, waiting to be filledin and clothed, yet already alive with spontaneous fire of its own. Itwas the Pattern of his story he had been busy with in the corner. 'I won't step on it, Daddy, ' she said gravely. 'It doesn't matter if you do. You're in it, ' he answered, yet liftedit higher so that it flew behind him like a banner in the night. The procession was formed now. Rogers and the younger children cameafter their sister at a little distance, and then, flitting to and froin darker shades, like a fringe of rich embroidery that framed themoving picture, came the figures of the sprites, born by Imaginationout of Love in an old Kentish garden years and years ago. They rosefrom the tangle of the ancient building. Climbing the shoulder of abig, blue wind, they were off and away! It was a jolly night, a windy night, a night without clouds, when allthe lanes of the sky were smooth and swept, and the interstellarspaces seemed close down upon the earth. 'Kind thoughts, like fine weather, Link sweetly together God's stars With the heart of a boy, ' sang Rogers, following swiftly with Jimbo and his sister. For allmoved along as easily as light across the surfaces of polished glass. And the sound of Rogers's voice seemed to bring singing from everyside, as the gay procession swept onwards. Every one contributed linesof their own, it seemed, though there was a tiny little distant voice, soft and silvery, that intruded from time to time and made all wonderwhere it came from. No one could see the singer. At first very faraway, it came nearer and nearer. DADDY. 'The Interfering Sun has set!GARDENER. Now Sirius flings down the Net!LAMPLIGHTER. See, the meshes flash and quiver, As the golden, silent river SWEEP. Clears the dark world's troubled dream. DUSTMAN. Takes it sleeping, Gilds its weeping With a star's mysterious beam. Tiny, distant Voice. Oh, think Beauty! It's your duty! In the Cave you work for others, All the stars are little brothers; ROGERS. Think their splendour, Strong and tender;DADDY. Think their glory In the StoryMOTHER. Of each day your nights redeem?Voice (nearer). Every loving, gentle thought Of this fairy brilliance wrought, JANE ANNE. Every wish that you surrender, MONKEY. Every little impulse tender, JIMBO. Every service that you renderTANTE ANNA. Brings its tributary stream!TRAMP AND GYFSY. In the fretwork Of the network Hearts lie patterned and a-gleam! WOMAN OF THE Think with passion HAYSTACK. That shall fashion Life's entire design well-planned;Voice (still nearer). While the busy Pleiades, ROGERS. Sisters to the Hyades, Voice (quite close). Seven by seven, Across the heaven, ROGERS. Light desire With their fire!Voice (in his ear). Working cunningly together in a soft and tireless band, Sweetly linking All our thinking, In the Net of Sympathy that brings back Fairyland!' Mother kept close to her husband; she felt a little bewildered, anduncertain in her movements; it was her first conscious experience ofbeing out. She wanted to go in every direction at once; for she kneweverybody in the village, knew all their troubles and perplexities, and felt the call from every house. 'Steady, ' he told her; 'one thing at a time, you know. ' Her thoughts, he saw, had turned across the sea to Ireland where her strongest tieswere. Ireland seemed close, and quite as accessible as the village. Her friend of the Haystack, on the other hand, seemed a long way offby comparison. 'That's because Henry never realised her personality very clearly, 'said Daddy, seeing by her colour that she needed explanation. 'Whencreating all these Garden Sprites, he didn't _think_ her sharply, vividly enough to make her effective. He just felt that a haystacksuggested the elderly spread of a bulky and untidy old woman whoseframe had settled beneath too many clothes, till she had collapsedinto a field and stuck there. But he left her where he found her. Heassigned no duties to her. She's only half alive. As a rule, shemerely sits--just "stays put"--until some one moves her. ' Mother turned and saw her far in the rear, settling down comfortablyupon a flat roof near the church. She rather envied her amiabledisposition. It seemed so safe. Every one else was alive with suchdangerous activity. 'Are we going _much_ further--?' she began, when Monkey rushed by, caught up the sentence, and discharged herself with impudence intoDaddy. 'Which is right, "further" or "farther"?' she asked with a flash oflight. 'Further, of course, ' said unsuspecting Mother. 'But "further" sounds "farther, " she cried, with a burst of laughterthat died away with her passage of meteoric brilliance--into the bodyof the woods beyond. 'But the other Sprites, you see, are real and active, ' continuedDaddy, ignoring the interruption as though accustomed to it, becausehe thought out clearly every detail. 'They're alive enough to haunt ahouse or garden till sensitive people become aware of them and declarethey've seen a ghost. ' 'And _we_?' she asked. 'Who thought us out so wonderfully?' 'That's more than I can tell, ' he answered after a little pause. 'Godknows that, for He thought out the entire universe to which we belong. I only know that we're real, and all part of the same huge, singlething. ' He shone with increased brightness as he said it. 'There's noquestion about _our_ personalities and duties and the rest. Don't youfeel it too?' He looked at her as he spoke. Her outline had grown more definite. Asshe began to understand, and her bewilderment lessened, he noted thather flashing lines burned more steadily, falling into a more regular, harmonious pattern. They combined, moreover, with his own, and withthe starlight too, in some exquisite fashion he could not describe. She put a hand out, catching at the flying banner of his Story that hetrailed behind him in the air. They formed a single design, all three. His happiness became enormous. 'I feel joined on to everything, ' she replied, half singing it in herjoy. 'I feel tucked into the universe everywhere, and into you, dear. These rays of starlight have sewn us together. ' She began to tremble, but it was the trembling of pure joy and not of alarm. .. . 'Yes, ' he said, 'I'm learning it too. The moment thought gets awayfrom self it lets in starlight and makes room for happiness. To thinkwith sympathy of others is to grow: you take in their experience andadd it to your own--development; the heart gets soft and deep and widetill you feel the entire universe buttoning its jacket round you. Tothink of self means friction and hence reduction. ' 'And your Story, ' she added, glancing up proudly at the banner thatthey trailed. 'I have helped a little, haven't I?' 'It's nearly finished, ' he flashed back; 'you've been its inspirationand its climax. All these years, when we thought ourselves apart, you've been helping really underground--that's true collaboration. ' 'Our little separation was but a _reculer pour mieux sauter_. See howwe've rushed together again!' A strange soft singing, like the wind in firs, or like shallow waterflowing over pebbles, interrupted them. The sweetness of it turned thenight alive. 'Come on, old Mother. Our Leader is calling to us. We must work. ' They slid from the blue wind into a current of paler air that happenedto slip swiftly past them, and went towards the forest where Mlle. Lemaire waited for them. Mother waved her hand to her friend, settledcomfortably upon the flat roof in the village in their rear. 'We'llcome back to lean upon you when we're tired, ' she signalled. But shefelt no envy now. In future she would certainly never 'stay put. ' Workbeckoned to her--and such endless, glorious work: the whole Universe. 'What life! What a rush of splendour!' she exclaimed as they reachedthe great woods and heard them shouting below in the winds. 'I see nowwhy the forest always comforted me. There's strength here I can takeback into my body with me when I go. ' 'The trees, yes, express visibly only a portion of their life, ' hetold her. 'There is an overflow we can appropriate. ' Yet their conversation was never audibly uttered. It flashedinstantaneously from one to the other. All they had exchanged sinceleaving La Citadelle had taken place at once, it seemed. They wereawake in the region of naked thought and feeling. The dictum of thematerialists that thought and feeling cannot exist apart from matterdid not trouble them. Matter, they saw, was everywhere, though tootenuous for any measuring instrument man's brain had yet invented. 'Come on!' he repeated; 'the Starlight Express is waiting. It willtake you anywhere you please--Ireland if you like!' They found the others waiting on the smooth layer of soft purple airthat spread just below the level of the tree-tops. The creststhemselves tossed wildly in the wind, but at a depth of a few feetthere was peace and stillness, and upon this platform the band wasgrouped. 'The stars are caught in the branches to-night, ' a sensitivewalker on the ground might have exclaimed. The spires rose about themlike little garden trees of a few years' growth, and between them ranlanes and intricate, winding thoroughfares Mother saw long, darkthings like thick bodies of snakes converging down these passage-ways, filling them, all running towards the centre where the group hadestablished itself. There were lines of dotted lights along them. Theydid not move with the waving of the tree-tops. They looked uncommonlyfamiliar. 'The trains, ' Jimbo was crying. He darted to and fro, superintendingthe embarking of the passengers. All the sidings of the sky were full of Starlight Expresses. The loading-up was so quickly accomplished that Mother hardly realisedwhat was happening. Everybody carried sacks overflowing with drippinggold and bursting at the seams. As each train filled, it shot awayacross the starry heavens; for everyone had been to the Cave andgathered their material even before she reached the scene of action. And with every train went a _mecanicien_ and a _conducteur_ created byJimbo's vivid and believing thought; a Sweep, a Lamplighter, and aHead Gardener went, too, for the children's thinking multiplied these, too, according to their needs. They realised the meaning of theseSprites so clearly now--their duties, appearance, laws of behaviour, and the rest-that their awakened imaginations thought them instantlyinto existence, as many as were necessary. Train after train, eachwith its full complement of passengers, flashed forth across thatsummer sky, till the people in the Observatories must have thoughtthey had miscalculated strangely and the Earth was passing amid theshowering Leonids before her appointed time. 'Where would you like to go first?' Mother heard her friend asksoftly. 'It's not possible to follow all the trains at once, youknow. ' 'So I see, ' she gasped. 'I'll just sit still a moment, and think. ' The size and freedom of existence, as she now saw it, suddenlyoverwhelmed her. Accustomed too long to narrow channels, she foundspace without railings and notice-boards bewildering. She had neverdreamed before that thinking can open the gates to heaven and bringthe Milky Way down into the heart. She had merely knitted stockings. She had been practical. At last the key to her husband's being was inher hand. That key at the same time opened a door through him, intoher own. Hitherto she had merely criticised. Oh dear! Criticism, whenshe might have created! She turned to seek him. But only her old friend was there, floatingbeside her in a brilliant mist of gold and white that turned the tree-tops into rows of Burning Bushes. 'Where is he?' she asked quickly. 'Hush!' was the instant reply; 'don't disturb him. Don't think, oryou'll bring him back. He's filling his sack in the Star Cave. Menhave to gather it, --the little store they possess is soon crystallisedinto hardness by Reason, --but women have enough in themselves usuallyto last a lifetime. They are born with it. ' 'Mine crystallised long ago, I fear. ' 'Care and anxiety did that. You neglected it a little. But yourhusband's cousin has cleaned the channels out. He does itunconsciously, but he does it. He has belief and vision like a child, and therefore turns instinctively to children because they keep italive in him, though he hardly knows why he seeks them. The world, too, is a great big child that is crying for its Fairyland. .. . ' 'But the practical--' objected Mother, true to her type of mind-anecho rather than an effort. '--is important, yes, only it has been exaggerated out of all saneproportion in most people's lives. So little is needed, though thatlittle of fine quality, and ever fed by starlight. Obeyed exclusively, it destroys life. It bricks you up alive. But now tell me, ' she added, 'where would you like to go first? Whom will you help? There is timeenough to cover . The world if you want to, before the interfering sungets up. ' '_You_!' cried Mother, impulsively, then realised instantly that herfriend was already developed far beyond any help that she could give. It was the light streaming from the older, suffering woman that wasstimulating her own sympathies so vehemently. For years the processhad gone on. It was at last effective. 'There are others, perhaps, who need it more than I, ' flashed forth alovely ray. 'But I would repay, ' Mother cried eagerly, 'I would repay. ' Gratitudefor life rushed through her, and her friend must share it. 'Pass it on to others, ' was the shining answer. 'That's the bestrepayment after all. ' The stars themselves turned brighter as thethought flashed from her. Then Ireland vanished utterly, for it had been mixed, Mother nowperceived, with personal longings that were at bottom selfish. Therewere indeed many there, in the scenes of her home and childhood, whoselives she might ease and glorify by letting in the starlight whilethey slept; but her motive, she discerned, was not wholly pure. Therewas a trace in it, almost a little stain, of personal gratification--she could not analyse it quite--that dimmed the picture in herthought. The brilliance of her companion made it stand out clearly. Nearer home was a less heroic object, a more difficult case, some oneless likely to reward her efforts with results. And she turned insteadto this. 'You're right, ' smiled the other, following her thought; 'and youcouldn't begin with a better bit of work than that. Your old motherhas cut herself off so long from giving sympathy to her kind that nowshe cannot accept it from others without feeling suspicion anddistrust. Ease and soften her outlook if you can. Pour through hergloom the sympathy of stars. And remember, ' she added, as Mother rosesoftly out of the trees and hovered a moment overhead, 'that if youneed the Sweep or the Lamplighter, or the Gardener to burn away herdead leaves, you have only to summon them. Think hard, and they'll beinstantly beside you. ' Upon an eddy of glowing wind Mother drifted across the fields to thecorner of the village where her mother occupied a large single room insolitude upon the top floor, a solitude self-imposed and rigorouslyenforced. 'Use the finest quality, ' she heard her friend thinking far behindher, 'for you have plenty of it. The Dustman gave it to you when youwere not looking, gathered from the entire Zodiac. .. And from thecareless meteor's track. .. . ' The words died off into the forest. _That_ he keeps only For the old and lonely, (And is very strict about it) Who sleep so little that they need the best--' The words came floating behind her. She felt herself brimful--chargedwith loving sympathy of the sweetest and most understanding quality. She looked down a moment upon her mother's roof. Then she descended. CHAPTER XXV And also there's a little star-- So white, a virgin's it must be;-- Perhaps the lamp my love in heaven Hangs out to light the way for me. _Song_, THEOPHILE MARZIALS. In this corner of Bourcelles the houses lie huddled together with anair of something shamefaced; they dare not look straight at themountains or at the lake; they turn their eyes away even from theorchards at the back. They wear a mysterious and secret look, andtheir shoulders have a sly turn, as though they hid their heads in thedaytime and stirred about their business only after dark. They lie grouped about a cobbled courtyard that has no fountain in it. The fair white road goes quickly by outside, afraid to look infrankly; and the entrance to the yard is narrow. Nor does a singletree grow in it. If Bourcelles could have a slum, this would be it. Why the old lady had left her cosy quarters in Les Glycines andsettled down in this unpleasant corner of the village was a puzzle toeverybody. With a shrug of the shoulders the problem was generallyleft unsolved. Madame Jequier discussed it volubly a year ago when themove took place, then dismissed it as one of those mysteries of oldpeople no one can understand. To the son-in-law and the daughter, whogot nearer the truth, it was a source of pain and sadness beyond theirmeans of relief. Mrs. 'Plume'--it was a play in French upon her realname, --had been four years in the Pension, induced to come from alonely existence in Ireland by her daughter and throw in her lot withthe family, and at first had settled down comfortably enough. She wasover seventy, and possessed 80 pounds a year--a dainty, witty, amusingIrish lady, with twinkling eyes and a pernicketty strong will, and abrogue she transferred deliciously into her broken French. She lovedthe children, yet did not win their love in return, because they stoodin awe of her sarcastic criticisms. Life had gone hardly with her; shehad lost her fortune and her children, all but this daughter, withwhose marriage she was keenly disappointed. An aristocrat to thefinger-tips, she could not accept the change of circumstances;distress had soured her; the transplanting hastened her decline; therewas no sweetness left in her. She turned her heart steadily againstthe world. The ostensible cause of this hiding herself away with her sorrow anddisappointment was the presence of Miss Waghorn, with whom shedisagreed, and even quarrelled, from morning till night. They formed astorm-centre that moved from salon to dining-room, and they squabbledacutely about everything--the weather, the heating, the opening orshutting of windows, the details of the food, the arrangement of thefurniture, even the character of the cat. Miss Waghorn loved. Thebickerings were incessant. They only had to meet for hot disagreementto break out. Mrs. Plume, already bent with age, would strike thefloor with the ebony stick she always carried, and glare at the erect, defiant spinster--'That horrud, dirrty cat; its always in the room!'Then Miss Waghorn: 'It's a very nice cat, Madame'--she always calledher Madame--'and when _I_ was a young girl I was taught to be kind toanimals. '--'The drawing-room is _not_ the place for animals, ' came thepricking answer. And then the scuffle began in earnest. Miss Waghorn, owing to her want of memory, forgot the squabble fiveminutes afterwards, and even forgot that she knew her antagonist atall. She would ask to be introduced, or even come up sweetly andintroduce herself within half an hour of the battle. But Madame Plumeforgot nothing; her memory was keen and accurate. She did not believein the other's failing. 'That common old woman!' she exclaimed withangry scorn to her daughter. 'It's deliberate offensiveness, that's all it is at all!' And she leftthe Pension. But her attitude to the harmless old Quaker lady was really in smallher attitude to humanity at large. She drew away in disgust from aworld that had treated her so badly. Into herself she drew, growingsmaller every day, more sour, more suspicious, and more averse to herown kind. Within the restricted orbit of her own bitter thoughts sherevolved towards the vanishing point of life which is the total lossof sympathy. She felt _with_ no one but herself. She belonged to that, alas, numerous type which, with large expectations unrealised, cannotaccept disillusionment with the gentle laughter it deserves. Sheresented the universe. Sympathy was dead. And she had chosen this unsavoury corner to dwell in because 'thepoor' of the village lived there, and she wished to count herselfamong them. It emphasised the spite, the grudge, she felt againsthumanity. At first she came into _dejeuner_ and _souper_, butafterwards her meals were sent over twice a day from the Pension. Shediscovered so many reasons for not making the little journey of ahundred yards. On Sunday the 'common people' were in the streets; onSaturday it was cleaning-day and the Pension smelt of turpentine;Monday was for letter-writing, and other days were too hot or toocold, too windy or too wet. In the end she accomplished her heart'sdesire. Madame Cornu, who kept the grocer's shop, and lived on thefloor below with her husband, prepared the two principal meals andbrought them up to her on a tray. She ate them alone. Her breakfastcup of tea she made herself, Mme. Cornu putting the jug of milkoutside the door. She nursed her bitter grievance against life inutter solitude. Acidity ate its ugly pattern into her heart. The children, as in duty bound, made dolorous pilgrimages to thatupper floor from time to time, returning frightened, and Mother wentregularly twice a week, coming home saddened and distressed. Herhusband rarely went at all now, since the time when she told him tohis face he came to taunt her. She spent her time, heaven only knowshow, for she never left the building. According to Mother she wasexceedingly busy doing nothing. She packed, unpacked, and thenrepacked all her few belongings. In summer she chased bees in her roomwith a wet towel; but with venom, not with humour. The Morning Postcame daily from London. 'I read my paper, write a letter, and themorning's gone, ' she told her daughter, by way of complaint that timewas so scanty. Mme. Cornu often heard her walking up and down thefloor, tapping her ebony stick and talking softly to herself. Yet shewas as sane as any old body living in solitude with evil thinking wellcan be. She starved-because she neither gave nor _asked_. As Mother thought of her, thus finding the way in instantly, thechurch clock sounded midnight. She entered a room that was black ascoal and unsweetened as an airless cellar. The fair rays that had beenpouring out of her returned with a little shock upon themselves--repulsed. She felt herself reduced, and the sensation was sounpleasant at first that she almost gasped. It was like suffocation. She felt enclosed with Death. That her own radiance dimmed a momentwas undeniable, but it was for a moment only, for, thinking instantlyof her friend, she drew upon that woman's inexhaustible abundance, andfound her own stores replenished. Slowly, as a wintry sun pierces the mist in some damp hollow of thewoods, her supply of starlight lit up little pathways all about her, and she saw the familiar figure standing by the window. The figure wasalso black; it stood like an ebony statue in an atmosphere that wasthick with gloom, turgid, sinister, and wholly rayless. It was like alantern in a London fog. A few dim lines of sombre grey issued heavilyfrom it, but got no farther than its outer surface, then doubled backand plunged in again. They coiled and twisted into ugly knots. Hermother's atmosphere was opaque, and as dismal as a November fog. Therewas a speck of light in the room, however, and it came, the visitorthen perceived, from a single candle that stood beside the bed. Theold lady had been reading; she rarely slept before two o'clock in themorning. And at first, so disheartening, so hopeless seemed the task, thatMother wavered in her mission; a choking, suffocating sensationblocked all her channels of delivery. The very flowers on the window-sill, she noted, drooped in a languishing decline; they had a lifelessair as of flowers that struggle for existence in deep shadow and havenever known the kiss of sunshine. Through the inch of opened windowstole a soft breath of the night air, but it turned black and sluggishthe moment it came in. And just then, as Mother hovered there inhesitating doubt, the figure turned and moved across to the bed, supporting herself with the ebony cane she always used. Stiffly shesank upon her knees. The habit was as strong as putting her shoesoutside the door at night to be cleaned, -those shoes that never knewthe stain of roadway dust-and equally devoid of spiritualsignificance. Yet, for a moment, as the embittered mind gabbledthrough the string of words that long habit had crystallised into anempty formula, Mother noticed that the lines of grey grew slightlyclearer; the coil and tangle ceased; they even made an effort toemerge and leave the muddy cloud that obscured their knotted, intricate disorder. The formula Mother recognised; it had hardly changed, indeed, sinceshe herself had learned it at those very knees when days werebrighter; it began with wholesale and audacious requests for self, then towards the end passed into vague generalities for the welfare ofothers. And just here it was that the lines of grey turned brighterand tried to struggle out of the murky atmosphere. The sight waspathetic, yet deeply significant. Mother understood its meaning. Therewas hope. Behind the prayer for others still shone at least an echo ofpast meaning. 'I believe in you, old, broken, disappointed heart, ' flashed throughher own bright atmosphere, 'and, believing, I can help you!' Her skill, however, was slight, owing to lack of practice andexperience. She moved over to the bed, trying first to force her owndarting rays into the opaque, dull cloud surrounding the other; thenseeking a better way-for this had no results---she slipped somehowinside the mist, getting behind it, down at the very source. From hereshe forced her own light through, mixing her beams of colouredradiance with the thick grey lines themselves. She tried to feel andthink as her mother felt and thought, moving beside her mind's initialworking, changing the gloom into something brighter as she movedalong. This was the proper way, she felt-to clean the source itself, rather than merely untie knots at the outer surface. It was a stiflingbusiness, but she persisted. Tiny channels cleared and opened. Alittle light shone through. She felt-with her mother, instead ofarguing, as it were. .. The old lady presently blew the candle out and composed herself tosleep. Mother laboured on. .. . 'Oh dear, ' she sighed, 'oh dear!' as she emerged from the gloom amoment to survey her patient and note results. To her amazement shesaw that there was a change indeed, though a very curious one. Theentire outer surface of the cloud seemed in commotion, with here andthere a glimmering lustre as if a tiny lamp was at last alight within. She felt herself swell with happiness. Instantly, then, the grey linesshot out, fastening with wee loops and curves among her own. Somelinks evidently had been established. She had imparted something. 'She's dreaming! I do believe I've sown some dream of beauty in her!'she beamed to herself. Some golden, unaccustomed sleep had fallen over the old lady. Strayshreds of darkness loosened from the general mass and floated off, yetdid not melt entirely from sight. She was shedding some of her evilthoughts. 'The Sweep!' thought Mother, and turning, found him beside her in theroom. Her husband, to her astonishment, was also there. 'But I didn't think of _you_!' she exclaimed. 'Not a definite thought, ' he answered, 'but you needed me. I felt it. We're so close together now that we're practically one, you see. ' Hetrailed his Pattern behind him, clothed now with all manner of richnew colouring, 'I've collected such heaps of new ideas, ' he went on, 'and now I want her too. She's in the Story. I'll transfigure her aswell. ' He was bright as paint, and happy as a sand-boy. 'Well done, old Mother, ' he added, 'you've done a lot already. See, she's dreamingsmall, soft, tender things of beauty that your efforts have letthrough. ' He glided across and poured from his own store of sympathy into thatdry, atrophied soul upon the bed. 'It's a question how much she willbe able to transmit, though, ' he said doubtfully. 'The spiritualmachinery is so stiff and out of gear from long disuse. In MissWaghorn's case it's only physical--I've just been there--but this isspiritual blackness. We shall see to-morrow. Something will getthrough at any rate, and we must do this every night, you know. ' 'Rather!' echoed Mother. 'Her actual self, you see, has dwindled so that one can hardly findit. It's smaller than a flea, and as hard and black. ' They smiled alittle sadly. The Sweep, rushing out of the window with his heavy sack loaded to thebrim, interrupted their low laughter. He was no talker, but a man ofaction. Busily all this time he had been gathering up the loose, strayfragments that floated off from the cloud, and stuffing them into thesack. He now flew, singing, into the night, and they barely caught thelast words of his eternal song:-- '. .. A tremendously busy Sweep, Tossing the blacks in the Rubbish Heap Over the edge of the world. ' 'Come, ' whispered Daddy. 'It's getting late. The interfering sun is onthe way, and you've been hours here already. All the trains are back, and every one is waiting for us. ' Yet it had seemed so short a timereally. Wrapped together in the beauty of his Pattern, they left the old ladypeacefully asleep, and sped across the roofs towards the forest. But neither of them noticed, it seemed, the lovely little shiningfigure that hovered far in the air above and watched them go. Itfollowed them all the way, catching even at the skirts of the flyingPattern as they went. Was it the Spirit of some unknown Star they hadattracted from beyond the Milky Way? Or was it, perhaps, a Thoughtfrom some fair, exquisite heart that had been wakened by the rushingof the Expresses, and had flashed in to take a place in the wonderfulstory Daddy wove? It had little twinkling feet, and its eyes were of brown flame andamber. 'No, they did not notice the starry, fluttering figure. It overtookthem none the less, and with a flying leap was into the Pattern of hisstory--in the very centre, too!--as quickly as lightning passesthrough the foliage of the tree it strikes. Only the lightning stayed. The figure remained caught. The entire Pattern shivered to its outerfringes, then began to glow and shine all over. As the high harmoniccrowns the end of a long cadenza on a violin, fulfilling bars ofdifficult effort, this point of exquisite beauty flashed life into thePattern of the story, consummating the labour of construction with thetrue, inevitable climax. There was something of fairy insolence, bothcheeky and delicious, in the proprietary way it chose the principalplace, yet the only place still unoccupied, and sang 'I'm here. I'vecome!' It calmly fashioned itself a nest, as it were, curled up andmade itself at home. It _was_ at home. The audacity was justified. ThePattern seemed at last complete. Beauty and Truth shone at its centre. And the tiny voice continued singing, though no one seemed to knowexactly whence the sound proceeded:--- 'While the busy Pleiades, Sisters to the Hyades, Seven by seven, Across the heaven, Light desire With their fire, Flung from huge Orion's hand, Sweetly linking All our thinking In the Net of Sympathy that brings back Fairyland!' No--neither Mother nor Daddy were aware of what had happened thus inthe twinkling of an eye. Certainly neither guessed that another heart, far distant as the crow flies, had felt the stream of his vital, creative thinking, and had thus delicately responded and sent out asympathetic message of belief. But neither did Adams and Leverrier, measuring the heavens, and calculating through years of labour thedelicate interstellar forces, know that each had simultaneously caughtNeptune in their net of stars--three thousand million miles away. Hadthey been 'out, ' these two big, patient astronomers, they might haverealised that they really worked in concert every night. But historydoes not relate that they slept well or ill; their biographies make nomention of what their 'Underneaths' were up to while their brains layresting on the pillow; and private confession, if such exists, hasnever seen the light of print as yet. In that region, however, whereThinking runs and plays, thought dancing hand in hand with thoughtthat is akin to it, the fact must surely have been known andrecognised. They, too, travelled in the Starlight Express. Mother and Daddy realised it just then as little as children are awareof the loving thoughts of the parent that hovers protectingly aboutthem all day long. They merely acknowledged that a prodigious thrillof happiness pulsed through both of them at once, feeling proud as thegroup in the tree-tops praised their increased brightness and admiredthe marvellous shining of the completed Pattern they trailed abovetheir heads. But more than that they did not grasp. Nor have they evergrasped it perhaps. That the result came through later is proved, however, by the published story, and by the strange, sweet beauty itsreaders felt all over the world. But this belongs to the privateworking of inspiration which can never be explained, not even by theartist it has set on fire. He, indeed, probably understands it leastof all. 'Where are the trains, the Starlight Expresses?' asked Mother. 'Gone!' answered Jimbo. 'Gone to Australia where they're wanted. It'sevening now down there. ' He pointed down, then up. 'Don't you see? We must hurry. ' She lookedacross the lake where the monstrous wall of Alps was dimly visible. The sky was brightening behind them. Long strata of thin cloudglimmered with faintest pink. The stars were rapidly fading. 'Whatages you've been!' he added. 'And where's Tante Anna?' she inquired quickly, looking for herbrilliant friend. 'She's come and gone a dozen times while you've been skylarkingsomewhere else, ' explained Monkey with her usual exaggeration. 'She'sgone for good now. She sleeps so badly. She's always waking up, youknow. ' Mother understood. Only too well she knew that her friendsnatched sleep in briefest intervals, incessantly disturbed by rackingpain. A stream of light flashed past her, dashing like a meteor towards thevillage and disappearing before she could see the figure. 'There goes Jinny, ' cried some one, 'always working to the very last. The interfering sun'll catch her if she doesn't look out!' There was movement and hurry everywhere. Already the world ran looseand soft in colour. Birds, just awake, were singing in the treesbelow. Several passed swiftly overhead, raking the sky with a whirringrush of wings. Everybody was asking questions, urging return, yetlingering as long as possible, each according to his courage. To becaught 'out' by the sun meant waking with a sudden start that madegetting out of bed very difficult and might even cause a headache. Rogers alone seemed unperturbed, unhurried, for he was absorbed in adiscovery that made him tremble. Noting the sudden perfection of hiscousin's Pattern, he had gone closer to examine it, and had--seen thestarry figure. Instantly he forgot everything else in the world. Itseemed to him that he had suddenly found all he had ever sought. Hegazed into those gentle eyes of amber and felt that he gazed into theeyes of the Universe that had taken shape in front of him. Floating upas near as he could, he spoke-- 'Where do you come from--from what star?' he asked softly in anecstasy of wonder. The tiny face looked straight at him and smiled. 'From the Pleiades, of course, --that little group of star-babies asyet unborn. ' 'I've been looking for you for ever, ' he answered. 'You've found me, ' sang the tiny voice. 'This is our introduction. Now, don't forget. There was a lost Pleiad, you know. Try to rememberme when you wake. ' 'Then why are you here?' He meant in the Pattern. The star-face rippled with laughter. 'It's yours--your Scheme. He's given it perfect shape for you, that'sall. Don't you recognise it? But it's my Story as well. . .. ' A ray with crimson in it shot out just then across the shoulder of theBlumlisalp, and, falling full upon the tiny face, it faded out; thePattern faded with it; Daddy vanished too. On the little azure windsof dawn they flashed away. Jimbo, Monkey, and certain of the Spritesalone held on, but the tree-tops to which they clung were growing moreand more slippery every minute. Mother, loth to return, balancedbravely on the waving spires of a larch. Her sleep that night had beenso deep and splendid, she struggled to prolong it. She hated waking uptoo early. 'The Morning Spiders! Look out!' cried a Sprite, as a tiny spider onits thread of gossamer floated by. It was the Dustman's voice. Catching the Gypsy with one arm and the Tramp with the other, allthree instantly disappeared. 'But where's my Haystack friend?' called Mother faintly, almost losingher balance in the attempt to turn round quickly. 'Oh, she's all right, ' the Head Gardener answered from a littledistance where he was burning something. 'She just "stays put" andflirts with every wind that comes near her. She loves the winds. Theyknow her little ways. ' He went on busily burning up dead leaves he hadbeen collecting all night long--dead, useless thoughts he had foundclogging a hundred hearts and stopping outlets. 'Look sharp!' cried a voice that fell from the sky above them. 'Here come the Morning Spiders, On their gossamer outriders!' This time it was the Lamplighter flashing to and fro as he put thestars out one by one. He was in a frantic hurry; he extinguished wholegroups of them at once. The Pleiades were the last to fade. Rogers heard him and came back into himself. For his ecstasy hadcarried him even beyond the region of the freest 'thinking. ' He couldgive no account or explanation of it at all. Monkey, Jimbo, Mother, and he raced in a line together for home and safety. Above the fieldsthey met the spiders everywhere, the spiders that bring the dawn andride off into the Star Cave on lost rays and stray thoughts thatcareless minds have left scattered about the world. And the children, as they raced and told their mother to 'please movea little more easily and slipperily, ' sang together in chorus:-- 'We shall meet the Morning Spiders, The fairy-cotton riders, Each mounted on a star's rejected ray; With their tiny nets of feather They collect our thoughts together, And on strips of windy weather Bring the Day. . .. ' 'That's stolen from you or Daddy, ' Mother began to say to Rogers--butwas unable to complete the flash. The thought lay loose behind her inthe air. A spider instantly mounted it and rode it off. Something brushed her cheek. Riquette stood rover her, fingering herface with a soft extended paw. 'But it surely can't be time yet to get up!' she murmured. 'I've onlyjust fallen asleep, it seems. ' She glanced at her watch upon the chairbeside the bed, saw that it was only four o'clock, and then turnedover, making a space for the cat behind her shoulder. A tremendoushost of dreams caught at her sliding mind. She tried to follow them. They vanished. 'Oh dear!' she sighed, and promptly fell asleep again. But this time she slept lightly. No more adventures came. She did notdream. And later, when Riquette woke her a second time because it washalf-past six, she remembered as little of having been 'out' as thoughsuch a thing had never taken place at all. She lit the fire and put the porridge saucepan on the stove. It was aglorious July morning. She felt glad to be alive, and full of happy, singing thoughts. 'I wish I could always sleep like that!' she said. 'But what a pity one has to wake up in the end!' And then, as she turned her mind toward the coming duties of the day, another thought came to her. It was a very ordinary, almost a dailythought, but there seemed more behind it than usual. Her whole heartwas in it this time-- 'As soon as the children are off to school I'll pop over to mother, and see if I can't cheer her up a bit and make her feel more happy. Ohdear!' she added, 'life is a bag of duties, whichever way one looks atit!' But she felt a great power in her that she could face them easilyand turn each one into joy. She could take life more bigly, carelessly, more as a whole somehow. She was aware of some hugedirecting power in her 'underneath. ' Moreover, the 'underneath' of awoman like Mother was not a trifle that could be easily ignored. Thatgreat Under Self, resting in the abysses of being, rose and led. Thepettier Upper Self withdrew ashamed, passing over the reins of conductinto those mighty, shadowy hands. CHAPTER XXVI Canst thou bind the sweet influences of Pleiades, Or loose the bands of Orion? _Book of Job_. The feeling that something was going to happen--that odd sense ofanticipation--which all had experienced the evening before at tea-timehad entirely vanished, of course, next morning. It was a mood, and ithad passed away. Every one had slept it off. They little realised howit had justified itself. Jane Anne, tidying the Den soon after seveno'clock, noticed the slip of paper above the mantelpiece, read itover--'The Starlight Express will start to-night. Be reddy!'--and toreit down. 'How could that. Have amused us!' she said aloud, as shetossed it into the waste-paper basket. Yet, even while she did so, some stray sensation of delight clutched at her funny little heart, atouch of emotion she could not understand that was wild and verysweet. She went singing about her work. She felt important and grown-up, extraordinarily light-hearted too. The things she sang made uptheir own words--such odd snatches that came she knew not whence. Aninsect clung to her duster, and she shook it out of the window withthe crumbs and bits of cotton gathered from the table-cloth. 'Get out, you Morning Spider, You fairy-cotton rider!' she sang, and at the same minute Mother opened the bedroom door andpeeped in, astonished at the unaccustomed music. In her voluminousdressing-gown, her hair caught untidily in a loose net, her faceflushed from stooping over the porridge saucepan, she looked, thoughtJinny, 'like a haystack somehow. ' Of course she did not say it. Thedraught, flapping at her ample skirts, added the idea of a coveringtarpaulin to the child's mental picture. She went on dusting with ahalf-offended air, as though Mother had no right to interrupt her witha superintending glance like this. 'You won't forget the sweeping too, Jinny?' said Mother, retiringagain majestically with that gliding motion her abundant proportionsachieved so gracefully. 'Of course I won't, Mother, ' and the instant the door was closed shefell into another snatch of song, the words of which flowedunconsciously into her mind, it seemed-- 'For I'm a tremendously busy Sweep, Dusting the room while you're all asleep, And shoving you all in the rubbish heap, Over the edge of the tiles' --a little wumbled, it is true, but its source unmistakable. And all day long, with every one, it was similar, this curiousintrusion of the night into the day, the sub-conscious into theconscious--a kind of subtle trespassing. The flower of forgottendreams rose so softly to the surface of consciousness that they had anair of sneaking in, anxious to be regarded as an integral part ofnormal waking life. Like bubbles in water they rose, discharged theirpuff of fragrant air, and disappeared again. Jane Anne, in particular, was simply radiant all day long, and more than usually clear-headed. Once or twice she wumbled, but there was big sense in her even then. It was only the expression that evaded her. Her little brain was apoor transmitter somehow. 'I feel all endowed to-day, ' she informed Rogers, when hecongratulated her later in the day on some cunning act of attentionshe bestowed upon him. It was in the courtyard where they all satsunning themselves after _dejeuner_, and before the younger childrenreturned to afternoon school. 'I feel emaciated, you know, ' she added, uncertain whether emancipatedwas the word she really sought. 'You'll be quite grown-up, ' he told her, 'by the time I come back tolittle Bourcelles in the autumn. ' Little Bourcelles! It sounded, thecaressing way he said it, as if it lay in the palm of his big brownhand. 'But you'll never come back, because you'll never go, ' Monkey chimedin. 'My hair, remember---' '_My_ trains won't take you, ' said Jimbo gravely. 'Oh, a train may _take_ you, ' continued Monkey, 'but you can't leave. Going away by train isn't leaving. ' 'It's only like going to sleep, ' explained her brother. You'll comeback every night in a Starlight Express---' 'Because a Starlight Express takes passengers--whether they like it ornot. You take an ordinary train, but a starlight train takes you!'added Monkey. Mother heard the words and looked up sharply from her knitting. Something, it seemed, had caught her attention vividly, though untilnow her thoughts had been busy with practical things of quite anotherorder. She glanced keenly round at the faces, where all sat groupedupon the stone steps of La Citadelle. Then she smiled curiously, halfto herself. What she said was clearly not what she had first meant tosay. 'Children, you're not sitting on the cold stone, are you?' sheinquired, but a little absent-mindedly. 'We're quite warm; we've got our thick under-neathies on, ' was thereply. They realised that only part of her mind was in the, question, and that any ordinary answer would satisfy her. Mother resumed her knitting, apparently satisfied. But Jinny, meanwhile, had been following her own train of thought, started by her cousin's description of her as 'grown-up. ' The picturegrew big and gracious in her mind. 'I wonder what I shall do when my hair goes up?' she observed, apparently _a propos de bottes_. It was the day, of course, eagerly, almost feverishly, looked forward to. 'Hide your head in a bag probably, ' laughed her sister. Jinny flushed;her hair was not abundant. Yet she seemed puzzled rather thanoffended. 'Never mind, ' Rogers soothed her. 'The day a girl puts up her hair, athousand young men are aware of it, --and one among them trembles. ' Theidea of romance seemed somehow in the air. 'Oh, Cousinenry!' She was delighted, comforted, impressed; butperplexity was uppermost. Something in his tone of voice preventedimpudent comment from the others. 'And all the stars grow a little brighter, ' he added. 'The entireuniverse is glad. ' 'I shall be a regular company promoter!' she exclaimed, nearer to witthan she knew, yet with only the vaguest inkling of what he reallymeant. 'And draw up a Memorandum of Agreement with the Milky Way, ' he added, gravely smiling. He had just been going to say 'with the Pleiades, ' when somethingchecked him. A wave of strange emotion swept him. It rose from thedepths within, then died away as mysteriously as it came. Likeexquisite music heard from very far away, it left its thrill of beautyand of wonder, then hid behind the breath of wind that brought it. 'The whole world, you see, will know, ' he added under his breath tothe delighted child. He looked into her queer, flushed face. The blueeyes for a moment had, he thought, an amber tinge. It was a mereeffect of light, of course; the sun had passed behind a cloud. Something that he ought to have known, ought to have remembered, flashed mockingly before him and was gone. 'One among them trembles, 'he repeated in his mind. He himself was trembling. 'The Morning Spiders, ' said some one quietly and softly, 'are standingat their stable doors, making faces at the hidden sun. ' But he never knew who said it, or if it was not his own voice speakingbelow his breath. He glanced at Jimbo. The small grave face wore anair of man-like preoccupation, as was always the case when he felt alittle out of his depth in general conversation. He assumed it inself-protection. He never exposed himself by asking questions. Themusic of that under-voice ran on:-- 'Sweet thoughts, like fine weather, Bind closely together God's stars with the heart of a boy. ' But he said it aloud apparently this time, for the others looked upwith surprise. Monkey inquired what in the world he was talking about, only, not quite knowing himself, he could not answer her. Jimbo then, silent and preoccupied, found his thoughts still running on marriage. The talk about his sister's hair going up no doubt had caused it. He remembered the young schoolmistress who had her meals at thePension, and the Armenian student who had fallen in love with, andeventually married, her. It was the only courtship he had everwitnessed. Marriage and courtship seemed everywhere this morning. 'I saw it all with Mlle. Perette, ' he informed the party. 'It beganalready by his pouring out water for her and passing the salt andthings. It _always_ begins like that. He got shawls even when she washot. ' He looked so wise and grave that nobody laughed, and his sisters evenseemed impressed rather. Jinny waited anxiously for more. If Motherdid make an odd grimace, it was not noticed, and anyhow was cleverlyconverted into the swallowing of a yawn. There was a moment's silence. Jimbo, proudly conscious that more was expected of him, provided it inhis solemn little voice. 'But it must be horrid, ' he announced, 'to be married--always stickedto the same woman, like that. ' No sentence was complete without theinevitable 'already' or 'like that, ' translated from the language hewas more at home in. He thought in French. 'I shall never marry myself(_me marier_) he decided, seeing his older sister's eyes upon himwonderingly. Then, uncertain whether he had said an awfully wise or anawfully foolish thing, he added no more. Anyhow, it was the way a manshould talk--with decision. 'It's bad enough to be a wife, ' put in Monkey, 'but it must be worsestill to have one!' But Jane Anne seemed shocked. A man, Jimbo reflected, can never besure how his wisdom may affect the other sex; women are not meant toknow everything. She rose with dignity and went upstairs towards thedoor, and Monkey, rippling with laughter, smacked her as she went. This only shocked her more. 'That was a slight mistake behind, ' she said reprovingly, lookingback; 'you should have more reserve, I think, ' then firmly shut thedoor. All of which meant--so far as Jane Anne was concerned--that animportant standard of conduct--grown-up, dignified, stately in aspiritual sense--was being transferred to her present behaviour, buttransferred ineffectively. Elsewhere Jane Anne lived it, _was_ it. Sheknew it, but could not get at the part of her that knew it. Thetransmitting machinery was imperfect. Connecting links and switcheswere somehow missing. Yearning was strong in her, that yearning whichis common to all the world, though so variously translated. Once outof the others' sight, she made a curious face. She went into her roombetween the kitchen and the Den, flung herself on the bed, and burstinto tears. And the fears brought relief. They oiled the machineryperhaps. At any rate, she soon felt better. 'I felt so enormous and unsettled, ' she informed Mother later, whenthe redness of her eyes was noticed and she received breathlessly agreat comforting hug. I never get anything right. ' 'But you _are_ right, darling, ' Mother soothed her, little guessingthat she told the perfect truth. 'You are all right, only you don'tknow it. Everybody's wumbled somewhere. ' And she advised her--ah, Mother was profoundly wise instinctively--not to think so much, butjust go ahead as usual and do her work. For Mother herself felt a little queer that day, as though somethingvery big and splendid lay hiding just beyond her reach. It surged up, vanished, then surged up again, and it came closest when she was notthinking of it. The least effort of the mind to capture it merelyplunged her into an empty gulf where she could not touch bottom. Theglorious thing ran instantly underground. She never ceased to be awareof it, but any attempt to focus resulted in confusion. Analysis wasbeyond her powers, yet the matter was very simple really, for onlywhen thought is blank, and when the mind has forgotten to think, caninspiration come through into the heart. The intellect interpretsafterwards, sets in order, regulates, examines the wonder and beautythe heart distils alchemically out of the eternal stream in which lifeeverywhere dips its feet. If Reason interferes too soon, or duringtransmission, it only muddles and destroys. And Mother, hitherto, hadalways been so proud of being practical, prosaic, reasonable. She haddeliberately suppressed the other. She could not change in a singleday just because she had been 'out' and made discoveries last night. Oh, how simple it all was really, and yet how utterly most folkconvert the wonder of it into wumbling! Like Jane Anne, her miniature, she felt splendid all day long, butpuzzled too. It was almost like those religious attacks she hadexperienced in early youth. She had no definite creed by which shecould explain it. Though nominally Christian, like her husband, shecould not ascribe her joy to a 'Holy Spirit, ' or to a 'God' working inher. But she was reminded of her early 'religious attacks' because shenow experienced that large sensation of glorious peace and certaintywhich usually accompanies the phenomenon in the heart called'conversion. ' She saw life whole. She rested upon some unfailingcentral Joy. Come what might, she felt secure and 'saved. ' Somethingeverlasting lay within call, an ever-ready help in trouble; and allday she was vaguely conscious that her life lay hid with--with what?She never found the word exactly, for 'Joy' was but one aspect of it. She fell back upon the teachings of the big religions which are thepolice regulations of the world. Yet all creeds shared these, and herfeeling was far deeper than mere moral teachings. And then she gave upthinking about it. Besides, she had much knitting to do. 'It's come to stay anyhow; I feel in sympathy with everybody, ' shesaid, and so dismissed vain introspection, keeping the simplehappiness and peace. That was her strength, as it was also Jinny's. Are-formation had begun. Jimbo, too, felt something in his microcosmic way, only he said littleand asked no single question. It betrayed itself, however, to hisMother's widened vision. He was all stirred up. He came back againfrom school at three o'clock--for it was Thursday and he did not takethe singing lesson from three to four--put down his books with a verybusiness-like air, forgot to kiss his Mother--and went out. 'Where are you off to, Jimbo?' She scented mischief. He was so_affaire_. He turned obediently at once, the face grave and puckered. 'Going over to the carpenter's house, Mummy. ' 'What for, dear? Why don't you stay and play here?' She had thefeeling that her husband was absorbed in his work and would not liketo be disturbed. The boy's reply was evasive too. 'I want to have a long discuss withDaddy, ' he said. 'Can't you have your long discuss with me instead?' she asked. He shook his head. 'You see, ' he answered solemnly, 'it's aboutthings. ' 'But Daddy's working just now; he'll be over to tea at four. Can't itwait till then?' She understood too well to inquire what 'things' might be. The boywished to speak with one of his own sex--as one man to another man. 'When a man's at work, ' she added, 'he doesn't like to be disturbed. ' 'All right, ' was the reply. 'We can wait a little, ' and he settleddown to other things in a corner by himself. His mind, clearly, wasoccupied with grave considerations he could not discuss with anybody, least of all with women and children. But, of course, busy men mustnot be interrupted. For a whole hour in his corner he made no sound, and hardly any movement. But Daddy did not come at four o'clock. He was evidently deep in work. And Mother did not send for him. The carpenter's wife, she knew, wouldprovide a cup of tea. He came late to supper, too, at the Pension, nodded to Mother with anexpression which plainly said, 'I've finished the story at last';winked to his cousin, meaning, 'It came out all right, I'm satisfied, 'and took his seat between Jinny and Mlle. Vuillemot, the governess whohad earned her meal by giving a music lesson that afternoon to a_pensionnaire_. Jinny looked sideways at him in a spirit ofexamination, and picked the inevitable crumb deftly from his beard. 'Reminiscences!' she observed slyly. 'You did have some tea, then. 'Her long word was well chosen for once; her mind unusually logical, too. But Daddy made no reply; he went on eating whatever was set before himwith an air of complete detachment; he devoured cold ham and saladautomatically; and the children, accustomed to this absorption, ignored his presence. He was still in the atmosphere of his work, abstracted, lost to the outer world. They knew they would only, getwumbled answers to their questions and remarks, and they did not dareto tease him. From time to time he lifted his eyes--very bright theywere--and glanced round the table, dimly aware that he was in themidst of a stream of noisy chatter, but unable to enter itsuccessfully at any point. Mother, watching him, thought, 'He'ssitting on air, he's wrapped in light, he's very happy'; and ate anenormous supper, as though an insatiable hunger was in her. The governess, Mlle. Vuillemot, who stood in awe of the 'author' inhim, seized her opportunity. She loved to exchange a _mot_ with a realwriter, reading all kinds of unintended subtlety into his briefreplies in dreadful French. To-night she asked him the meaning of aword, title of a Tauchnitz novel she had been reading--Juggernaut;but, being on his deaf side, he caught 'Huguenot' instead, and gaveher a laboured explanation, strangled by appalling grammar. The historical allusions dazed her; the explanation ended on a date. She was sorry she had ventured, for it made her feel so ignorant. 'Shuggairnort, ' she repeated bravely. She had a vague idea he had notproperly heard before. But this time he caught 'Argonaut, ' and swamped her then withclassical exposition, during which she never took her eyes off him, and decided that he was far more wonderful than she had ever dreamed. He was; but not for the reasons she supposed. 'Thank you, ' she said with meek gratitude at the end, 'I thank you. ' 'Il n'y a pas de quar, ' replied Daddy, bowing; and the adventure cameto an end. The others luckily had not heard it in full swing; theyonly caught the final phrase with which he said adieu. But it servedits unwitting purpose admirably. It brought him back to the worldabout him. The spell was broken. All turned upon him instantly. 'Snay pas un morsow de bong. ' Monkey copied his accent, using asentence from a schoolboy's letter in _Punch_. 'It's not a bit ofgood. ' Mother squelched her with a look, but Daddy, even if he noticedit, was not offended. Nothing could offend him to-night. Impertinenceturned silvery owing to the way he took it. There was a marvellouslight and sweetness about him. 'He _is_ on air, ' decided Motherfinally. 'He's written his great Story--our story. It's finished!' 'I don't know, ' he said casually to the others, as they stood talkinga few minutes in the salon before going over to the Den, 'if you'dlike to hear it; but I've got a new creature for the Wumble Book. Itcame to me while I was thinking of something else---' 'Thinking of one thing while you were thinking of another!' criedMonkey. It described exaccurately his state of mind sometimes. '---and I jotted down the lines on my cuff. So it's not very perfectyet. ' Mother had him by the arm quickly. Mlle. Vuillemot was hovering in hisneighbourhood, for one thing. It seemed to her they floated over, almost flew. 'It's a Haystack Woman, ' he explained, once they were safely in theDen grouped about him. 'A Woman of the Haystack who is loved by theWind. That is to say, the big Wind loves her, but she prefers theyounger, handsomer little Winds, and---' He was not allowed to finish. The children laid his cuff back in atwinkling, drawing up the coat sleeve. 'But surely I know that, ' Mother was saying. 'I've heard of her beforesomewhere. I wonder where?' Others were saying the same thing. 'It'snot new. ' 'Impossible, ' said Daddy, 'for the idea only came to me this morningwhile I was---' 'Thinking of something else, ' Monkey again finished the sentence forhim. Mother felt that things were rushing about her from another world. Shewas vaguely conscious--deliciously, bewilderingly--of having heardthis all before. Imaginative folk have built the certainty of aprevious existence upon evidence as slight; for actual scenery camewith it, and she saw dim forest trees, and figures hovering in thebackground, and bright atmosphere, and fields of brilliant stars. Shefelt happy and shining, light as a feather, too. It all was justbeyond her reach, though; she could not recover it properly. 'It musthave been a dream _she_ told me, ' was her conclusion, referring toMlle. Lemaire. Her old friend was in it somewhere or other. She feltsure of that. She hardly heard, indeed, the silly lines her husband read aloud tothe children. She liked the sound of his voice, though; it suggestedmusic she had known far away--in her childhood. 'It's high spirits really, ' whispered Rogers, sitting beside her inthe window. 'It's a sort of overflow from his story. He can't do thatkind of rhyme a bit, but it's an indication---' 'You think he's got a fine big story this time?' she asked under herbreath; and Cousin Henry's eyes twinkled keenly as he gave asignificant nod and answered: 'Rather! Can't you feel the splendourall about him, the strength, the harmony!' She leaped at the word. Harmony exactly described this huge new thingthat had come into the family, into the village, into the world. Thefeeling that they all were separate items, struggling for existenceone against the other, had gone for ever. Life seemed now a singlewhole, an enormous pattern. Every one fitted in. There was effort--wholesome jolly effort, but no longer the struggle or fighting thatwere ugly. To 'live carelessly' was possible and right because thepattern was seen entire. It was to live in the whole. 'Harmony, ' she repeated to herself, with a great swelling happiness inher heart, 'that's the nunculus of the matter. ' 'The what?' he asked, overhearing her. 'The nunculus, ' she repeated bravely, seeing the word in her mind, yetunable to get it quite. Rogers did not correct her. 'Rather, ' was all he said. 'Of course it is. ' What did thepronunciation of a word matter at such a time? Her version evensounded better than the original. Mother saw things bigger! Alreadyshe was becoming creative! 'And you're the one who brought it, ' she continued, but this time solow that he did not catch the words. 'It's you, your personality, yourthinking, your atmosphere somehow that have brought this giganticsense of peace and calm security which are _au fond_ nothing but theconsciousness of harmony and the power of seeing ugly details in theirproper place--in a single _coup d'oeil_--and understanding them asparts of a perfect whole. ' It was her thought really running on; she never could have found thewords like that. She thought in French, too, for one thing. And, inany case, Rogers could not have heard her, for he was listening now tothe uproar of the children as they criticised Daddy's ridiculouseffusion. A haystack, courted in vain by zephyrs, but finally takencaptive by an equinoctial gale, strained nonsense too finely for theirsense of what was right and funny. It was the pictures he now drew inthe book that woke their laughter. He gave the stack a physiognomythat they recognised. 'But, Mother, he's making it look like you!' cried Monkey--only Motherwas too far away in her magnificent reverie to reply intelligently. I know her; she's my friend, ' she answered vaguely. 'So it's allright. ' 'Majestic Haystack'--it was the voice of the wind addressing her:-- 'Majestic Haystack, Empress of my life, Your ample waist Just fits the gown I fancy for my wife, And suits my taste; Yet there you stand, flat-footed, square and deep, An unresponsive, elephantine heap, Coquetting with the stars while I'm asleep, O cruel Stack! Coy, silent Monster, Matron of the fields, I sing to you; And all the fondest love that summer yields I bring to you; Yet there you squat, immense in your disdain, Heedless of all the tears of streaming rain My eyes drip over you--your breathless swain; O stony Stack! Stupendous Maiden, sweetest when oblong, Does inner flame Now smoulder in thy soul to hear my song Repeat thy name? Or does thy huge and ponderous heart object The advances of my passion, and reject My love because it's airy and elect? O wily Stack! O crested goddess, thatched and top-knotted, O reckless Stack! Of wives that to the Wind have been allotted There is no lack; You've spurned my love as though I were a worm; But next September when I see thy form, I'll woo thee with an equinoctial storm! I have that knack!' 'Far less wumbled than usual, ' thought Rogers, as the children dancedabout the room, making up new ridiculous rhymes, of which 'I'll giveyou a whack' seemed the most popular. Only Jane Anne was quiet. Acourtship even so remote and improbable as between the Wind and aHaystack sent her thoughts inevitably in the dominant direction. 'It must be nice when one is two, ' she whispered ambiguously to Motherwith a very anxious face, 'but I'm sure that if a woman can't cook, love flies out of the window. It's a positive calamity, you know. ' But it was Cousin Henry's last night in Bourcelles, and the spirit ofpandemonium was abroad. Neither parent could say no to anything, andmere conversation in corners was out of the question. The door wasopened into the corridor, and while Mother played her only waltz, Jimbo and Monkey danced on the splintery boards as though it were aparquet floor, and Rogers pirouetted somewhat solemnly with Jane Anne. She enjoyed it immensely, yet rested her hand very gingerly upon hisshoulder. 'Please don't hold me _quite_ so tight, ' she ventured. 'I'venever danced with a strange man before, you see'; and he no morelaughed at her than he had laughed at Mother's 'nunculus. ' Even JaneAnne, he knew, would settle down comfortably before long into thegreat big pattern where a particular nook awaited--aye, needed--herbizarre, odd brilliance. The most angular fragments would nest softly, neatly in. A little filing, a little polishing, and all would fittogether. To force would only be to break. Hurry was of the devil. Andlater, while Daddy played an ancient tune that was written originallyas a mazurka yet did duty now for a two-step, he danced with Mothertoo, and the children paused to watch out of sheer admiration. 'Fancy, Mother dancing!' they exclaimed with glee--except Jinny, whowas just a little offended and went to stand by the piano till it wasover. For Mother danced as lightly as a child for all her pride ofmeasurement, and no frigate ever skimmed the waves more gracefullythan Mother glided over those uneven boards. 'The Wind and the Haystack' of course, was Monkey's description. 'You'll wind and haystack to bed now, ' was the reply, as Mother satand fanned herself in the corner. The 'bed-sentence' as the childrencalled it, was always formed in this way. Whatever the child wassaying when the moment came, Mother adopted as her verb. 'Shall I putsome peat on, Mother?' became 'Peat yourself off to bed-it's nineo'clock'--and the child was sorry it had spoken. Good-byes had really been said at intervals all day long, and so to-night were slight enough; the children, besides, were so 'excitey-tired, ' as Monkey put it, that they possessed no more emotion of anykind. There were various disagreeable things in the immediate futureof To-morrow--getting up early, school, and so forth; and CousinHenry's departure they lumped in generally with the mass, accepted butunrealised. Jimbo could hardly keep his eyes alight, and Monkey's hairwas like a baby haystack the wind had treated to an equinoctial storm. Jinny, stiff, perplexed, and solemn with exhaustion, yet dared notbetray it because she was older, in measurable distance of her hairgoing up. 'Why don't you play with the others, child?' asked Mother, finding herupright on a sofa while the romp went on. 'Oh, to-night, ' Jinny explained, 'I sit indifferent and look on. Idon't always feel like skedivvying about!' To skedivvy was to chivvy and skedaddle--its authority not difficultto guess. 'Good-bye, Cousinenry, ' each gasped, as his big arms went round themand squeezed out the exclamation. 'Oh, thank you most awfully, ' camenext, with another kiss, produced by his pressing something hard andround and yellow into each dirty little hand. 'It's only a bit ofcrystallised starlight, ' he explained, 'that escaped long ago from theCave. And starlight, remember, shines for everybody as well as foryourselves. You can buy a stamp with it occasionally, too, ' he added, 'and write to me. ' 'We will. Of course!' Jimbo straightened up a moment before the final collapse of sleep. 'Your train leaves at 6. 23, ' he said, with the authority of exclusiveinformation. 'You must be at the station at six to get the _bagagesenregistrees_. It's a slow train to Pontarlier, but you'll find a_wagon direct_ for Paris in front, next to the engine. I shall beat the station to see you off. ' '_I_ shan't, ' said Monkey. Rogers realised with delight the true meaning of these brief andunemotional good-byes. 'They know I'm coming back; they feel that theimportant part of me is not going away at all. My thinking stays herewith them. ' Jinny lingered another ten minutes for appearance's sake. It was longpast her bed-time, too, but dignity forbade her retiring with theothers. Standing by the window she made conversation a moment, feelingit was the proper, grown-up thing to do. It was even expected of her. 'Look! It's full moon, ' she observed gravely, as though suggestingthat she could, if she liked, go out and enjoy the air. 'Isn't itlovely?' 'No, yesterday was full moon, ' Rogers corrected her, joining her andlooking out. 'Two nights ago, to be exact, I think. ' 'Oh, ' she replied, as solemnly as though politics or finance wereunder discussion, 'then it's bigger than full moon now. It goes on, does it, getting fuller and fuller, till--' 'Now, Jinny dear, it's very late, and you'd better full-moon off tobed, ' Mother interrupted gently. 'Yes, Mother; I'm just saying good-night. ' She held her hand out, asthough she was afraid he might kiss her, yet feared he would not. 'Good-bye, Mr. Cousin Henry, and I hope you'll have an exceedinglyhappy time in the train and soon come back and visit us again. ' 'Thank you, ' he said, 'I'm sure I shall. ' He gave her a bit of solidstarlight as he said it, then suddenly leaned forward and kissed heron the cheek. Making a violent movement like an experienced boxer whododges an upper cut, Jinny turned and fled precipitately from theroom, forgetting her parents altogether. That kiss, she felt, consumedher childhood in a flash of fiery flame. In bed she decided that shemust lengthen her skirts the very next day, and put her hair up too. She must do something that should give her protection and yet freedom. For a long time she did not sleep. She lay thinking it over. She feltsupremely happy--wild, excited, naughty. 'A man has kissed me; it wasa man; it was Mr. Rogers, Daddy's cousin. .. . He's not _my_ cousinexactly, but just "a man. "' And she fell asleep, wondering how sheought to begin her letter to him when she wrote, but, more perplexingstill, how she ought to--end it! That little backward brain sought thesolution of the problem all night long in dreams. She felt a criminal, a dare-devil caught in the act, awaiting execution. Light had beenflashed cruelly upon her dark, careful secret--the greatest and finestsecret in the world. The child lay under sentence indeed, only it wasa sentence of life, and not of death. CHAPTER XXVII _Asia_. . .. I feel, I see Those eyes which burn through smiles that fade in tears, Like stars half quenched in mists of silver dew. Prometheus Unbound, SHELLEY. It was only ten o'clock, really, and the curfew was ringing from everyvillage on the mountain-side. The sound of the bells, half musical, half ominous, was borne by the bise across the vineyards, for theeasterly wind that brings fine weather was blowing over lake andforest, and seemed to drive before it thin sheets of moonlight thatturned the whole world soft. The village lay cosily dreaming beneaththe sky. Once the curfew died away there was only the rustling of theplane trees in the old courtyard. The great Citadelle loomed above thesmaller houses, half in shadow half in silver, nodding heavily to thespire of the Church, and well within sight of the sentinelle poplarthat guarded the village from the forest and the mountains. Far away, these mountains now lowered their enormous shoulders to let night flowdown upon the sleeping world. The Scaffolding that brought it had longsince sailed over France towards the sea. .. . Mother, still panting from the ritual of fastening the youngerchildren into bed, had gone a moment down the passage to say good-night to Mlle. Lemaire, and when she returned, the three of them--herself, her husband, and Cousin Henry--dropped into chairs beside thewindow and watched the silvery world in silence for a time. None feltinclined to speak. There was drama somehow in that interval ofsilence--that drama which lurks everywhere and always behind life'scommonest, most ordinary moments. Actions reveal it--sometimes--but itmostly lies concealed, and especially in deep silences like this, whenthe ticking of a cuckoo clock upon the wall may be the sole hint ofits presence. It was not the good-byes that made all three realise it so near, though good-byes are always solemn and momentous things; it wassomething that stirred and rose upon them from a far deeper strata ofemotion than that caused by apparent separation. For no pain lay init, but a power much more difficult to express in the sounds andsyllables of speech--Joy. A great joy, creative and of bigsignificance, had known accomplishment. Each felt it, knew it, realised it. The moonlit night was aware of it. The entire universeknew it, too. The drama lay in that. There had been creation--of morelight. .. . The world was richer than it had been. Some one had caughtBeauty in a net, and to catch Beauty is to transform and recreate allcommon things. It is revelation. Through the mind of each of these three flowed the stream of casualthinking--images, reflections, and the shadowy scaffoldings of manynew emotions--sweeping along between the banks of speech and silence. And this stream, though in flood, did not overflow into words for along time. With eyes turned inwards, each watched the current pass. Clear and deep, it quietly reflected--stars. Each watched the samestream, the same calm depths, the same delicate reflections. They werein harmony with themselves, and therefore with the universe. .. . Then, suddenly, one of the reflections--it was the Pleiades--rose tothe surface to clasp its lovely original. It was the woman who nettedthe golden thought and drew it forth for all to see. 'Couldn't you read it to us, Daddy?' she whispered softly across thesilence. 'If it's not too long for you. ' He was so eager, so willing to comply. 'We will listen till the Morning Spiders take us home, ' his cousinsaid. 'It's only the shorter version, ' Daddy agreed shiningly, 'a sketch forthe book which, of course, will take a year to write. I might read_that_, perhaps. ' 'Do, ' urged Mother. 'We are all in it, aren't we? It's our story aswell as yours. ' He rose to get the portfolio from the shelf where he had laid it, andwhile Rogers lit the lamp, Riquette stole in at the window, pickingher way daintily across the wet tiles. She stood a moment, silhouettedagainst the sky; then shaking her feet rapidly each in turn like bitsof quivering wire, she stepped precisely into the room. 'I am in ittoo, ' she plainly said, curling herself up on the chair Daddy had justvacated, but resigning herself placidly enough to his scanty lap whenhe came back again and began to read. Her deep purring, while hestroked her absent-mindedly, became an undercurrent in the sound ofhis voice, then presently ceased altogether. .. . On and on he read, while the moon sailed over La Citadelle, biddingthe stars hush to listen too. She put her silvery soft hands acrosstheir eyes that they might hear the better. The blue wind of nightgathered up the meaning and spread it everywhere. The forest caughtthe tale from the low laughter in the crest of the poplar, and passedit on to the leagues of forest that bore it in turn across thefrontiers into France. Thence snowy Altels and the giant Blumlisalpflashed it south along the crowding peaks and down among the Italianchestnut woods, who next sent it coursing over the rustling waves ofthe Adriatic and mixed it everywhere with the Mediterranean foam. Inthe morning the shadows upon bare Grecian hills would whisper it amongthe ancient islands, and the East catch echoes of it in the winds ofdawn. The forests of the North would open their great gloomy eyes withwonder, as though strange new wild-flowers had come among them in thenight. All across the world, indeed, wherever there were gardenedminds tender enough to grow fairy seed, these flakes of thought wouldsettle down in sleep, and blossom in due season into a crop of magicbeauty. He read on and on. .. . The village listened too, the little shadowystreet, the familiar pine woods, the troubled Pension, each, as itsimage was evoked in the story, knew its soul discovered, and stirredin its sleep towards the little room to hear. And the desolate ridgesof La Tourne and Boudry, the clefts where the wild lily of the valleygrew unknown, high nooks and corners where the buzzards nested, thesealso knew and answered to the trumpet summons of the Thought that madethem live. A fire of creation ran pulsing from this centre. All werein the Pattern of the Story. To the two human listeners it seemed as familiar as a tale read, inchildhood long ago, and only half forgotten. They always knew a littleof what was coming next. Yet it spread so much further than merechildhood memories, for its golden atmosphere included all countriesand all times. It rose and sang and sparkled, lighting up strange deeprecesses of their unconscious and half-realised life, and almostrevealing the tiny silver links that joined them on to the universe atlarge. The golden ladders from the Milky Way were all let down. Theyclimbed up silvery ropes into the Moon. .. . 'It's not my own idea, ' he said; 'I'm convinced of that. It's allflocked into me from some other mind that thought it long ago, butcould not write it, perhaps. No thought is lost, you see--never can belost. Like this, somehow, I feel it:-- Now sinks to sleep the clamour of the day, And, million-footed, from the Milky Way, Falls shyly on my heart the world's lost Thought-- Shower of primrose dust the stars have taught To haunt each sleeping mind, Till it may find A garden in some eager, passionate brain That, rich in loving-kindness as in pain, Shall harvest it, then scatter forth again It's garnered loveliness from heaven caught. Oh, every yearning thought that holds a tear, Yet finds no mission, And lies untold, Waits, guarded in that labyrinth of gold, -- To reappear Upon some perfect night, Deathless--not old-- But sweet with time and distance, And clothed as in a vision Of starry brilliance For the world's delight. ' In the pauses, from time to time, they heard the distant thunder ofthe Areuse as it churned and tumbled over the Val de Travers boulders. The Colombier bells, as the hours passed, strung the sentencestogether; moonlight wove in and out of every adventure as theylistened; stars threaded little chapters each to each with theireternal golden fastenings. The words seemed written down in dew, butthe dew crystallised into fairy patterns that instantly flew about theworld upon their mission of deliverance. In this ancient Network ofthe Stars the universe lay fluttering; and they lay with it, allprisoners in Fairyland. For the key of it all was sympathy, and the' delicate soul of it wastender human love. Bourcelles, in this magic tale, was the starting-point whence the Starlight Expresses flashed into all the world, evenunto unvisited, forgotten corners that had known no service hitherto. It was so adaptable and searching, and knew such tiny, secret ways ofentrance. The thought was so penetrating, true, and simple. Even oldMother Plume would wake to the recovery of some hitherto forgottenfragrance in her daily life. .. Just as those Northern forests wouldwake to find new wild-flowers. For all fairytales issue first from theprimeval forest, thence undergoing their protean transformation; andin similar fashion this story, so slight but so tremendous, issuedfrom the forest of one man's underthinking--one deep, pure mind, wumbled badly as far as external things were concerned, yet realisingthat Bourcelles contained the Universe, and that he, in turn containedBourcelles. Another, it is true, had shown it to him, though allunwittingly, and had cleaned in his atmosphere the channels for theentrance of the glorious pattern. But the result was the same. In hisbrain--perhaps by Chance, perhaps by God--lay the machinery whichenabled him to give it out to others--the power and ability totransmit. It was a fairy-tale of the world, only the world hadforgotten it. He brought back its fairyland again. And this fairyland, what and where was it? And how could this tale ofits recovery bring into his listeners' hearts such a sense of peaceand joy that they felt suddenly secure in the world and safe mid allthe confusion of their muddled lives? That there were tears inMother's eyes seems beyond question, because the moonlight, reflectedfaintly from a wet cobble in the yard below, glistened like a tinysilver lantern there. They betrayed the fact that something in her hadmelted and flowed free. Yet there was no sadness in the fairy-tale tocause it; they were tears of joy. Surely it was that this tale of Starlight, Starlight Expresses andStar Caves, told as simply as running water, revealed the entireUniverse--as One, and that in this mighty, splendid thing each of themnested safe and comfortable. The world was really _thinking_, and alllay fluttering in the grand, magnificent old Net of Stars. What peoplethink, they are. All can think Beauty. And sympathy--to feel witheverything--was the clue; for sympathy is love, and to love a star wasto love a neighbour. To be without sympathy was to feel apart, and tothink apart was to cut oneself off from life, from the Whole, from Godand joy--it was Death. To work at commonplace duties because they wereduties to the Universe at large, this was the way to find courage, peace, and happiness, because this was genuine and successful work, noeffort lost, and the most distant star aware of it. Thinking wasliving, whether material results were visible or not; yearning wasaction, even though no accomplishment was apparent; thought andsympathy, though felt but for a passing moment, sweetened the Pleiadesand flashed along the Milky Way, and so-called tangible results thatcould prove it to the senses provided no adequate test ofaccomplishment or success. In the knowledge of belonging to this vastunderlying unity was the liberation that brings courage, carelessness, and joy, and to admit failure in anything, by thinking it, was toweaken the entire structure which binds together the planets and theheart of a boy. Thoughts were the fairies that the world believed inwhen it was younger, simpler, less involved in separation; and thegolden Fairyland recovered in this story was the Fairyland of lovelythinking. .. . In this little lamp-lit room of the Citadelle, the two listeners wereconscious of this giant, delicate network that captured every flyingthought and carried it streaming through the world. God became asimple thing: He fashioned Rogers's Scheme, even though it nevermaterialised in bricks and mortar. God was behind Mother, even whenshe knitted or lit the fire in the Den. All were prisoners in Hiseternal Fairyland. .. . And the symbolism of the story, the so-called fantasy, they alsoeasily understood, because they felt it true. To be 'out' of the bodywas merely to think and feel away from self. As they listened theyrealised themselves in touch with every nation and with every time, with all possible beliefs and disbeliefs, with every conceivable kindof thinking, that is, which ever has existed or ever shall exist. .. . The heat and radiance given out by the clear delivery of this'inspirational' fairy-tale must have been very strong; far-reaching itcertainly was. .. . 'Ah!' sighed Rogers to himself, 'if only I could be like that!' notrealising that he was so. 'Oh dear!' felt the Woman, 'that's what I've felt sometimes. I onlywish it were true of me!' unaware that it could be, and even by thefact of her yearning, _was_ so. 'If only I could get up and help the world!' passed like a flameacross the heart of the sufferer who lay on her sleepless bed nextdoor, listening to the sound of the droning voice that reached herthrough the wall, yet curiously ignorant that this very longing wasalready majestically effective in the world of definite action. And even Mother Plume, pacing her airless room at the further end ofthe village and tapping her ebony stick upon the floor, turnedsuspiciously, as at a passing flash of light that warmed her for asudden instant as it went. 'Perhaps, after all, they don't mean all these unkind things they doto me!' she thought; 'I live so much alone. Possibly I see things lessclearly than I used to do!' The spell was certainly very potent, though Daddy himself, reading outthe little shining chapters, guessed as little as the rest of them howstrong. So small a part of what he meant to say, it seemed, had beentransferred to the paper. More than he realised, far, far more, laybetween the lines, of course. There was conviction in it, becausethere was vision and belief. Not much was said when he put his rollof paper down and leaned back in his chair. Riquette opened her eyesand blinked narrowly, then closed them again and began to purr. Theticking of the cuckoo clock seemed suddenly very loud and noticeable. 'Thank you, ' said Mother quietly in an uncertain kind of voice. 'Theworld seems very wonderful now--quite different. ' She moved in her chair--the first movement she had made for over twohours. Daddy rubbed his eyes, stroked his beard, and lit a cigarette;it went out almost immediately, but he puffed on at it just the same, till his cousin struck a match and stood over him to see it properlyalight. 'You have caught Beauty naked in your net of stars, ' he murmured; 'butyou have left her as you found her--shining, silvery, unclothed. Others will see her, too. You have taken us all back into Fairyland, and I, for one, shall never get out again. ' 'Nor I, ' breathed some one in the shadows by the window. .. . The clock struck two. 'Odd, ' said Mother, softly, 'but I never heardit strike once while you were reading!' 'We've all been out, ' Rogers laughed significantly, 'just as you makethem get out in the story'; and then, while Riquette yawned and turneda moment from the window-sill to say thank you for her long, warmsleep, Mother lit the spirit-lamp and brewed the cups of chocolate. She tiptoed in next door, and as she entered the sick-room she sawthrough the steam rising from the cup she carried a curious thing--animpression of brilliance about the bed, as though shafts of lightissued from it. Rays pulsed and trembled in the air. There was aperfume of flowers. It seemed she stepped back into the atmosphere ofthe story for an instant. 'Ah, you're not asleep, ' she whispered. 'We've brewed some chocolate, and I thought you might like a cup. ' 'No, I'm not asleep, ' answered the other woman from the bed she neverwould leave until she was carried from it, 'but I have been dreaming. It seemed the stars came down into my room and sang to me; this bedbecame a throne; and some power was in me by which I could send mythoughts out to help the world. I sent them out as a king sendsmessengers--to people everywhere--even to people I've never heard of. Isn't it wonderful?' 'You've had no pain?' For Mother knew that these sleepless hours atnight brought usually intense suffering. She stared at her, noting howthe eyes shone and glistened with unshed moisture. 'None, ' was the answer, 'but only the greatest joy and peace I've everknown. ' The little glass of _calmant_ was untouched; it was not a drugthat had soothed the exhausted nerves. In this room at any rate thespell was working still. 'I was carried through the air by stars, asthough my ceaseless yearning to get up and work in the world for oncewas realised. ' 'You can do everything from your bed, ' her friend murmured, sittingdown beside her. 'You do. Your thoughts go out so strongly. I've oftenfelt them myself. Perhaps that's why God put you here in bed likethis, ' she added, surprised at the power in herself that made her saysuch things--'just to think and pray for the world. ' 'I do pray sometimes for others, ' the tortured woman answeredmodestly, 'but this time I was not conscious of praying at all. It allswept out of me of its own accord. The force in me seemed so free andinexhaustible that it overflowed. It was irresistible. I felt able tosave the world. ' 'You were out, ' said Mother softly, 'out of yourself, I mean, ' shecorrected it. 'And your lovely thoughts go everywhere. You do save theworld. ' There fell a long silence then between them. 'You've been reading aloud, ' Mlle. Lemaire said presently. 'I heardthe drone of the voice through the wall---' 'Daddy was reading his new story to us, ' the other said. 'It didn'tdisturb you?' 'On the contrary. I think it was the voice somehow that brought thevision. I listened vaguely at first, trying to sleep; then, opening myeyes suddenly, the room, as I told you, was full of stars. Their rayscaught hold of me and drew these forces out of my very heart. Iyielded, giving and giving and giving . .. Such life flowed from me, and they carried it away in streams. .. . Oh, it was really like adivine sensation. ' 'It was divine, ' said Mother, but whether she meantthe story or her friend's experience, she hardly knew herself. 'And the story--was it not about our little Bourcelles?' asked theother. Mother held her hands up as though words failed her. She opened herarms wide. She was not quite sure of her voice. 'It was, ' she said at length, 'but Bourcelles had grown into theuniverse. It's a fairy-tale, but it's like a great golden fire. Itwarmed my heart till my whole body seemed all heart, and I didn't knowwhether to laugh or cry. It makes you see that the whole world is_one_, and that the sun and moon and stars lie in so small andunimportant a thing as, say, Jimbo's mischief, or Monkey's impudence, or Jinny's backwardness and absurdity. All are in sympathy together, as in a network, and to feel sympathy with anything, even the mostinsignificant, connects you instantly with the Whole. Thought andsympathy _are_ the Universe--they are life. ' While Mother paused for breath, her old friend smiled a curious, meaning smile, as though she heard a thing that she had always known. 'And all of us are in the story, and all the things we _think_ arealive and active too, because we have created them. Our thoughtspopulate the world, flying everywhere to help or hinder others, yousee. ' The sound of a door opening was heard. Mother got up to go. Shafts oflight again seemed to follow her from the figure in the bed. 'Good-night, ' she whispered with a full heart, while her thought ransuddenly--'You possess the secret of life and of creation, forsuffering has taught it to you, and you have really known it always. But Daddy has put it into words for everybody. ' She felt proud as aqueen. There were whispered good-nights then in the corridor, for Rogers andher husband were on their way home to bed. 'Your chocolate is getting cold, ' said Daddy kindly. 'We thought you would probably stay in there. We're going over now. It's very late, ' Rogers added. They said good-night again. She closed and locked the great door of the Citadelle behind them, hearing their steps upon the cobbles in the yard, and for some timeafterwards upon the road. But their going away seemed the same ascoming nearer. She felt so close to everything that lived. Everythingdid live. Her heart included all that existed, that ever had existed, that ever could exist. Mother was alive all over. 'I have just beencreated, ' she laughed, and went back into the Den to drink her cup oftepid chocolate. CHAPTER XXVIII See, the busy Pleiades, Sisters to the Hyades, Seven by seven Across the heaven, Light desire With their fire, Working cunningly together in a soft and tireless band, Sweetly linking All our thinking In the Net of Sympathy that brings back Fairyland. _A Voice_. The prophecy of the children that Bourcelles was a difficult place toget away from found its justification next morning, for Rogers sleptso heavily that he nearly missed his train. It was six o'clock when hetumbled downstairs, too late for a real breakfast, and only just intime to get his luggage upon the little char that did duty for alltransport in this unsophisticated village. The carpenter pulled it forhim to the station. 'If I've forgotten anything, my cousin will send it after me, ' he toldMme. Michaud, as he gulped down hot coffee on the steps. 'Or we can keep it for you, ' was the answer. 'You'll be coming backsoon. ' She knew, like the others, that one always came back toBourcelles. She shook hands with him as if he were going away for anight or two. 'Your room will always be ready, ' she added. 'Ayez labonte seulement de m'envoyer une petite ligne d'avance. ' 'There's only fifteen minutes, ' interrupted her husband, 'and it'suphill all the way. ' They trundled off along the dusty road, already hot in the early Julysun. There was no breath of wind; swallows darted in the blue air; theperfume of the forests was everywhere; the mountains rose soft andclear into the cloudless sky. They passed the Citadelle, where theawning was already being lowered over the balcony for Mlle. Lemaire'sbed to be wheeled out a little later. Rogers waved his handkerchief, and saw the answering flutter inside the window. Riquette, on her wayin, watched him from the tiles. The orchards then hid the lowerfloors; he passed the tinkling fountain; to the left he saw the churchand the old Pension, the wistaria blossoms falling down its walls in acascade of beauty. The Postmaster put his head out and waved his Trilby hat with a solemnsmile. 'Le barometre est tres haut. .. ' floated down the villagestreet, instead of the sentence of good-bye. Even the Postmaster tookit for granted that he was not leaving. Gygi, standing in the door ofhis barn, raised his peaked hat and smiled. 'Fait beau, ce matin, ' hesaid, 'plus tard il fera rudement chaud. ' He spoke as if Rogers wereoff for a walk or climb. It was the same everywhere. The entirevillage saw him go, yet behaved as if he was not really leaving. Howfresh and sweet the morning air was, keen mountain fragrance in it, and all the delicious, delicate sharpness of wet moss and dewy fields. As he passed the courtyard near the Guillaume Tell, and glanced up atthe closed windows of Mother Plume's apartment, a pattering stepstartled him behind, and Jimbo came scurrying up. Rogers kissed himand lifted him bodily upon the top of his portmanteau, then helped thecarpenter to drag it up the hill. 'The barriers at the level crossingare down, the warning gongs are ringing. It's signalled fromAuvernier. ' They were only just in time. The luggage was registeredand the train panting up the steep incline, when Monkey, sleep stillthick in her eyes, appeared rolling along the white road. She was toobreathless to speak; she stood and stared like a stuffed creature in aMuseum. Jimbo was beside the engine, having a word with the_mecanicien_. 'Send a telegram, you know--like that, ' he shouted, as the carriageslid past him, 'and we'll bring the _char_. ' He knew his leader wouldcome back. He took his cap off politely, as a man does to a lady--theBourcelles custom. He did not wave his handkerchief or makeundignified signs. He stood there, watching his cousin to the last, and trying to see the working of the engine at the same time. He hadalready told him the times and stopping places, and where he had tochange; there was nothing more for a man to say. Monkey, her breath recovered now, shouted something impudent from theroad. 'The train will break down with you in it before it gets toPontarlier, and you'll be back for tea--worse luck!' He heard itfaintly, above the grinding of the wheels. She blew him a kiss; herhair flew out in a cloud of brown the sunshine turned half golden. Healmost saw the shining of her eyes. And then the belt of the foresthid her from view, hid Jimbo and the village too. The last thing hesaw of Bourcelles was the top of the church spire and the red roof ofthe towering Citadelle. The crest of the sentinel poplar topped themboth for a minute longer, waved a slight and stately farewell, thenlowered itself into the forest and vanished in its turn. And Rogers came back with a start and a bump to what is called reallife. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his corner, feeling he hadsuddenly left his childhood behind him for the second time, notgradually as it ought to happen, but all in one dreadful moment. Agreat ache lay in his heart. The perfect book of fairy-tales he hadbeen reading was closed and finished. Weeks had passed in thedelicious reading, but now the last page was turned; he came back toduty--duty in London--great, noisy, overwhelming London, with itsdisturbing bustle, its feverish activities, its complex, artificial, unsatisfying amusements, and its hosts of frantic people. He grewolder in a moment; he was forty again now; an instant ago, just on thefurther side of those blue woods, he had been fifteen. Life shrank anddwindled in him to a little, ugly, unattractive thing. He wasreturning to a flat in the dolorous edifice of civilisation. A greatpractical Scheme, rising in sombre bricks and mortar through adisfiguring fog, blocked all the avenues of the future. The picture seemed sordid somewhere, the contrast was so striking. Ina great city was no softness; hard, sharp angles everywhere, or atbest an artificial smoothness that veiled ugliness and squalor verythinly. Human relationship worked like parts of a machine, crampedinto definite orbits, each wheel, each pulley, the smallest deviationdeemed erratic. In Bourcelles, the mountain village, there was morelatitude, room for expansion, space. The heart leaped up spontaneouslylike a spring released. In the city this spring was held down rigidlyin place, pressed under as by a weight; and the weight, surely, wasthat one for ever felt compelled to think of self--self in a ratherpetty, shameful way--personal safety. In the streets, in the houses, in public buildings, shops, and railway stations, even where peoplemet to eat and drink in order to keep alive, were Notice Boards ofcaution and warning against their fellow kind. Instead of the kindlyand unnecessary, even ridiculous little Gygi, there were big, gravepolicemen by the score, a whole army of them; and everywhere grinnedthe Notice Boards, like automatic, dummy policemen, mocking joy withtheir insulting warnings. The heart was oppressed with this constantreminder that safety could only be secured by great care and trouble--safety for the little personal self; protection from all kinds ofrobbery, depredation, and attack; beware of pickpockets, theproprietor is not responsible for overcoats and umbrellas even! Andburglar alarms and doors of steel and iron everywhere--an organiseddefence from morning till night--against one's own kind. He had lived among these terrible conditions all his life, proud ofthe personal security that civilisation provided, but he had neverbefore viewed it from outside, as now he suddenly did. A spiritualbeing, a man, lives in a city as in a state of siege among his ownkind. It was deplorable, it was incredible. In little Bourcelles, amountain village most would describe pityingly as half civilised andout of the world, there was safety and joy and freedom as of theuniverse. .. . His heart contracted as he thus abruptly realised thedistressing contrast. Although a city is a unit, all classes neatlylinked together by laws and by-laws, by County Councils, Parliaments, and the like, the spirit of brotherhood was a mockery and a sham. There is organised charity, but there is not--Charity. In a LondonSquare he could not ring the bell and ask for a glass of milk. .. . InBourcelles he would walk into any house, since there were no bells, and sit down to an entire meal! He laughed as the absurd comparison darted across his mind, for herecognised the foolish exaggeration in it; but behind the laughterflamed the astonishing truth. In Bourcelles, in a few weeks, he hadfound a bigger, richer life than all London had supplied to him intwenty years; he had found wings, inspiration, love, and happiness; hehad found the universe. The truth of his cousin's story blazed uponhim like an inner sun. In this new perspective he saw that it was agrander fairy-tale than he had guessed even when close to it. What wasa Scheme for Disabled Thingumabobs compared to the endless, far-reaching schemes that life in Bourcelles suggested to him! There wasthe true centre of life; cities were accretions of disease upon thesurface merely! He was leaving Fairyland behind him. In sudden moments like this, with their synthetic bird's-eye view, themind sometimes sees more clearly than in hours of careful reflectionand analysis. And the first thing he saw now was Minks, his friendly, ridiculous little confidential secretary. From all the crowds of menand women he knew, respected, and enjoyed in London, as from the vastdeluge of human mediocrity which for him _was_ London, he picked outsuddenly--little Minks--Herbert Montmorency Minks. His mind, that is, darting forward in swift, comprehensive survey, and searchingautomatically for some means whereby it might continue the happinessand sweetness recently enjoyed, selected Minks. Minks was a clue. Minks possessed--no matter how absurd the proportions of their mixing--three things just left behind: Vision, Belief, Simplicity, allproducts of a spiritual imagination. And at first this was the single thought sent forward into the future. Rogers saw the fact, flash-like and true-then let it go, yielding tothe greater pull that drew reflection back into the past. And he found it rather dislocating, this abrupt stepping out of hisdelightful forest Fairyland. .. . Equilibrium was not recovered for along time, as the train went thundering over the Jura Mountains intoFrance, Only on the other side of Pontarlier, when the country grewunfamiliar and different, did harmony return. Among the deep blueforests he was still in Fairyland, but at Mouchard the scenery wasalready changing, and by the time Dole was reached it had completelychanged. The train ran on among the plains and vineyards of theBurgundy country towards Laroche and Dijon. The abrupt alteration, however, was pain. His thoughts streamed all backwards now tocounteract it. He roamed again among the star fields above theBourcelles woods. It was true--he had not really left Bourcelles. Hisbody was bumping into Dijon, but the important part of him--thought, emotion, love--lingered with the children, hovered above theCitadelle, floated through the dusky, scented forests. And the haunting picture was ever set in its framework of old burningstars. He could not get the Pleiades in particular out of his mind. The pictures swarmed past him as upon a boy returning to school afterthe holidays, and each one had a background of sky with stars behindit; the faces that he knew so well had starry eyes; Jimbo flunghandfuls of stars loose across the air, and Monkey caught them, fastening them like golden pins into her hair. Glancing down, he saw along brown hair upon his sleeve. He picked it off and held his fingerand thumb outside the window till the wind took it away. Some MorningSpider would ride it home--perhaps past his cousin's window while hecopied out that wonderful, great tale. But, instead--how in the worldcould it happen in clear daylight?--a little hand shot down from aboveand gathered it in towards the Pleiades. The Pleiades--the Seven Sisters--that most exquisite cluster of theeastern sky, soft, tender, lovely, clinging close together always likea group of timid children, who hide a little dimly for fear of beingsurprised by bolder stars upon their enormous journey--they now shonedown upon all he thought and remembered. They seemed always above thehorizon of his mind. They never set. In them lay souls of unbornchildren, children waiting to be born. He could not imagine why thisparticular constellation clung with such a haunting touch of beautyabout his mind, or why some passion of yearning unconfessed andthrobbing hid behind the musical name. Stars and unborn children hadgot strangely mixed! He tried to recall the origin of the name--he had learned it once inthe old Vicar's study. The Pleiades were attendants upon Artemis, thehuntress moon, he recalled vaguely, and, being pursued by Orion, wereset for safety among the stars. He even remembered the names of someof them; there was Maia, Tagete, Alcyone, but the other four lay inhis mental lumber room, whence they could not be evoked, althoughMerope, he felt sure, was one of them. Of Maia, however, he feltpositive. .. . How beautiful the names were! Then, midway, in thinking about them, he found himself, as Monkeysaid, thinking of something else: of his weeks at Bourcelles again andwhat a long holiday it had been, and whether it was wasted time orwell-used time-a kind of general stock-taking, as it were, but chieflyof how little he had accomplished after all, set down in black andwhite. He had enjoyed himself and let himself go, rather foolishlyperhaps, but how much after all had he actually accomplished? Heremembered pleasant conversations with Mother that possibly cheeredand helped her--or possibly were forgotten as soon as ended. Heremembered his cousin's passing words of gratitude--that he had helpedhim somehow with his great new story: and he remembered--this least ofall-that his money had done something to relieve a case or two ofsuffering. And this was all! The net result so insignificant! He feltdissatisfied, eager already to make new plans, something definite andthorough that should retrieve the wasted opportunities. With a littlethought and trouble, how easily he might have straightened out thetangle of his cousin's family, helped with the education of thegrowing children, set them all upon a more substantial footinggenerally. It was possible still, of course, but such things are donebest on the spot, the personal touch and presence of value; arrangedby correspondence it becomes another thing at once and losesspontaneity. The accent lies on the wrong details. Sympathy is wateredby the post. .. . Importance lodges in angles not intended for it. Master of his time, with certain means at his disposal, a modicum ofability as well, he was free to work hard on the side of the angelswherever opportunity might offer; yet he had wasted all these weeksupon an unnecessary holiday, frittering the time away in enjoymentwith the children. He felt ashamed and mortified as the meagre recordstared him in the face. Yet, curiously enough, when Reason had set down the figuresaccurately, as he fancied, and totted up the trifling totals, thereflitted before him something more that refused to be set down upon thepaper. The Ledger had no lines for it. What was it? Why was itpleasant, even flattering? Why did it mitigate his discontent andlessen the dissatisfied feeling? It passed hovering in and about histhoughts, though uncaught by actual words; and as his mind played withit, he felt more hopeful. He searched in vain for a definition, but, though fruitless, the search brought comfort somehow. Something _had_been accomplished and it was due to himself, because without hispresence it would never have been done. This hint slipped into desire, yearning, hope--that, after all, a result _had_ perhaps been achieved, a result he himself was not properly aware of--a result of thatincalculable spiritual kind that escapes the chains of definitedescription. For he recalled--yet mortified a little the memory shouldflatter--that his cousin had netted Beauty in his story, and thatMother had spoken of living with greater carelessness and peace, andthat each had thanked him as though he were the cause. And these memories, half thought, half feeling, were comforting anddelicious, so that he revelled in them lingeringly, and wished thatthey were really true. For, if true, they were immensely significant. Any one with a purse could build a hospital or pay an education fee, but to be helpful because of being oneself was a vast, incalculablepower, something direct from God. .. And his thoughts, wandering onthus between fact and fantasy, led him back with a deep inexplicablethrill again to--the Pleiades, whose beauty, without their being awareof it, shines nightly for all who can accept it. Here was the old, oldtruth once more-that the left hand must not know what the right isdoing, and that to be is of greater importance than to do. Here wasFairyland once more, the Fairyland he had just left. To think beautyand love is to become them, to shed them forth without realising it. AFairy blesses because she is a Fairy, not because she turns a pumpkininto a coach and four. .. . The Pleiades do not realise how theirloveliness may. .. . Rogers started. For the thought had borrowed a tune from the rhythm ofthe wheels and sleepers, and he had uttered the words aloud in hiscorner. Luckily he had the carriage to himself. He flushed. Again atender and very exquisite thing had touched him somewhere. .. . It wasin that involuntary connection his dreaming had found between a Fairyand the Pleiades. Wings of gauzy gold shone fluttering a moment beforehis inner sight, then vanished. He was aware of some one very dear andwild and tender, with amber eyes and little twinkling feet--some onewhom the Great Tale brought almost within his reach. .. . He literallyhad seen stars for an instant--_a_ star! Its beauty brimmed him up. Helaughed in his corner. This thing, whatever it was, had been comingnearer for some time. These hints of sudden joy that breathe upon asensitive nature, how mysterious, how wildly beautiful, howstimulating they are! But whence, in the name of all the stars, dothey come? A great happiness passed flaming through his heart, anextraordinary sense of anticipation in it--as though he were going tomeet some one who--who--well, what?--who was a necessity and a delightto him, the complement needed to make his life effective--some one heloved abundantly--who would love him abundantly in return. He recalledthose foolish lines he had written on sudden impulse once, then thrownaway. .. . Thought fluttered and went out. He could not seize the elusive causeof this delicious joy. It was connected with the Pleiades, but how, where, why? Above the horizon of his life a new star was swimming intoglory. It was rising. The inexplicable emotion thrilled tumultuously, then dived back again whence it came. .. It had to do with children andwith a woman, it seemed, for the next thing he knew was that he wasthinking of children, children of his own, and of the deep yearningBourcelles had stirred again in him to find their Mother. .. And, next, of his cousin's story and that wonderful detail in it that theprincipal role was filled at last, the role in the great Children'sPlay he himself had felt was vacant. It was to be filled by thatchildless Mother the writer's imagination had discovered or created. And again the Pleiades lit up his inner world and beckoned to him withtheir little fingers of spun gold; their eyes of clouded amber smiledinto his own. It was most extraordinary and delightful. There wassomething--come much closer this time, almost within reach ofdiscovery--something he ought to remember about them, something he hadpromised to remember, then stupidly forgotten. The lost, hidden joywas a torture. Yet, try as he would, no revelation came to clear thematter up. Had he read it somewhere perhaps? Or was it part of theStory his cousin had wumbled into his ear when he only partlylistened? 'I believe I dreamed it, ' he smiled to himself at last in despair. 'Ido believe it was a dream--a fragment of some jolly dream I had in myFairyland of little Bourcelles!' Children, stars, Fairyland, dreams--these brought it somehow. Hiscousin's story also had to do with it, chiefly perhaps after all--thisgreat story. 'I shall have to go back there to get hold of it completely, ' he addedwith conviction. He almost felt as if some one were thinking hardabout him--one of the characters in the story, it seemed. The mind ofsome one far away, as yet unknown, was searching for him in thought, sending forth strong definite yearnings which came to rest of theirown accord in his own being, a garden naturally suited to theirgrowth. The creations of his boyhood's imagination had survived, theSweep, the Dustman, and the Lamplighter, then why not the far morepowerful creations in the story. .. ? Thought was never lost! 'But no man in his senses can believe such a thing!' he exclaimed, asthe train ran booming through the tunnel. 'That's the point, ' whispered a voice beside him. 'You are _out_ ofyour senses. Otherwise you could not feel it!' He turned sharply. The carriage was empty; there was no one there. Itwas, of course, another part of himself that supplied the answer; yetit startled him. The blurred reflection of the lamp, he noticed, casta picture against the black tunnel wall that was like a constellation. The Pleiades again! It almost seemed as if the voice had issued fromthat false reflection in the shaking window-pane. .. . The train emerged from the tunnel. He rushed out into the blaze of theInterfering Sun. The lovely cluster vanished like a dream, and with itthe hint of explanation melted down in dew. Fields sped past with agroup of haystacks whose tarpaulin skirts spread and lifted in thegust of wind the train made. He thought abruptly of Mother. .. . Perhaps, after all, he had taught her something, shown her Existenceas a big, streaming, endless thing in which months and years, possiblyeven life itself, were merely little sections, each unintelligibleunless viewed as portions of the Whole, and not as separate, difficult, puzzling items set apart. Possibly he had drawn her map tobigger scale, increased her faith, given her more sense of repose andpeace, more courage therefore. She thought formerly of a day, but notof its relation to all days before and behind. She stuck her husband's'reviews' in the big book, afflicted by the poor financial resultsthey represented, but was unable to think of his work as a stage in along series of development and progress, no effort lost, no singlehope mislaid. And that was something--_if_ he had accomplished it. Only, he feared he had not. There was the trouble. There lay thesecret of a certain ineffectiveness in his character. For he did notrealise that fear is simply suppressed desire, vivid signs of life, and that desire is the ultimate causative agent everywhere and always. 'Behind Will stands Desire, ' and Desire is Action. And if he _had_ accomplished this, how was it done? Not by preaching, certainly. Was it, then, simply by being, thinking, feeling it? Aglorious thought, if true! For assuredly he had this faculty of seeinglife whole, and even in boyhood he had looked ahead over its entiremap. He had, indeed, this way of relating all its people, and all itsparts together, instead of seeing them separate, unintelligiblebecause the context was left out. He lived intensely in the present, yet looked backwards and forwards too at the same time. This largesympathy, this big comforting vision was his gift. Consequently hebelieved in Life. Had he also, then, the gift of making others feeland believe it too. .. ? There he was again, thinking in a circle, as Laroche flew past withits empty platforms, and warned him that Paris was getting close. Hebumped out of Fairyland, yet tumbled back once more for a finalreverie before the long ugly arms of the city snatched him finallyout. 'To see life whole, ' he reflected, 'is to see it glorious. Tothink one's self part of humanity at large is to bring the universedown into the heart. But to see life whole, a whole heart isnecessary. .. . He's done it in that splendid story, and he bagged theraw idea somehow from me. That's something at any rate. . .. So fewthink Beaaty. .. . But will others see it? That's the point!' 'No, it isn't, ' answered the voice beside him. 'The point is that hehas thought it, and the universe is richer. Even if others do not reador understand, what he has thought _is there now_, for ever and ever. ' 'True, ' he reflected, 'for that Beauty may float down and settle inother minds when they least are looking for it, and ignoring utterlywhence comes the fairy touch. Divine! Delicious! Heavenly!' 'The Beauty he has written came through you, yet was not yours, ' thevoice continued very faintly. 'A far more beautiful mind firstprojected it into that network which binds all minds together. 'Twasthence you caught it flying, and, knowing not how to give it shape, transferred it to another--who could use it--for others. .. . Thought isLife, and Sympathy is living. .. . ' The voice died away; he could not hear the remainder clearly; thepassing scenery caught his attention again; during his reverie it hadbeen unnoticed utterly. 'Thought is Life, but Sympathy is living---'it rolled and poured through him as he repeated it. Snatches ofanother sentence then came rising into him from an immense distance, falling upon him from immeasurable heights--barely audible:- '. .. From a mind that so loved the Pleiades she made their lovelinessand joy her own. .. Alcyone, Merope, Maia. .. ' It dipped away intosilence like a flower closing for the night, and the train, herealised, was slackening speed as it drew into the hideous Gare deLyon. 'I'll talk to Minks about it, perhaps, ' he thought, as he stoodtelling the Customs official that he had no brandy, cigarettes, orlace. 'He knows about things like that. At any rate, he'llsympathise. ' He went across Paris to the Gare du Nord, and caught the afternoonboat train to London. The sunshine glared up from the baking streets, but he never forgot that overhead, though invisible, the stars wereshining all the time--Starlight, the most tender and least suspectedlight in all the world, shining bravely even when obscured by theInterfering Sun, and the Pleiades, softest, sweetest little groupamong them all. And when at eleven o'clock he entered his St. James's flat, he took astore of it shining in his heart, and therefore in his eyes. Only thatwas no difficult matter, for all the lamps far up the heights were litand gleaming, and caught old mighty London in their gorgeous net. CHAPTER XXIX Think with passion That shall fashion Life's entire design, well planned. _Woman of the Haystack_. 'You are looking so wonderfully well, Mr. Rogers, ' Minks observed atCharing Cross Station, 'the passage across the Channel, I trust, wascalm. ' 'And yourself and Mrs. Minks?' asked Rogers, looking into the equallysunburned face of his secretary, remembering suddenly that he had beento the sea with his family; 'Frank, too, and the other children? Allwell, I hope?' 'All in excellent health, Mr. Rogers, thanks to your generous thought. My wife---' 'These are the small bags, ' the other interrupted, 'and here are thekeys for my portmanteaux. There's nothing dutiable. You might bringthem on to the flat while I run over to the Club for a bit of supper, Minks. ' 'Certainly, with pleasure, Mr. Rogers, ' was the beaming reply. 'AndMrs. Minks begged me to tell you---' Only Rogers was already in his taxi-cab and out of ear-shot. 'How well he looks!' reflected Minks, dangling the keys, accustomed tothese abrupt interruptions, and knowing that his message had beenunderstood and therefore duly delivered. These cut-off sentences werelike a secret code between them. 'And ten years younger! Almost like aboy again. I wonder if---' He did not permit himself to finish thethought. He tried to remember if he himself had looked like thatperhaps in the days of long ago when he courted Albinia Lucy--an airof joy and secrecy and an absent-minded manner that might any momentflame into vehement, concentrated action. For this was the impressionhis employer had made upon him. Only he could not quite remember thosefar-off, happy days. There was ecstasy in them; that he knew. Andthere was ecstasy in Henry Rogers now; that he divined. 'He oughtn't to, ' he reflected, as he hurried in another taxi with theluggage. 'All his yearnings would be satisfied if he did, his lifeflow into a single channel instead of into many. ' He did not think about his own position and his salary. 'He won't, ' he decided as the cab stopped at the door; 'he's not thatkind of man. ' Minks had insight; he knew men. 'No artist ever oughtto. We are so few, and the world has need of us. ' His own case was anexception that had justified itself, for he was but a man of talent, and talent did not need an exclusive asceticism; whereas his employerwas a man of genius, and no one woman had the right to monopolise whatwas intended to sweeten the entire universe. By the time the luggage had been taken up, he had missed the last tramhome, and his sleep that night must in any case be short. Yet he tookno note of that. One must live largely. A small sacrifice for such amaster was nothing at all. He lingered, glancing now and again at theheap of correspondence that would occupy them next morning, andsorting once more the little pile that would need immediate personalattention. He was picking a bit of disfiguring fluff from his coatsleeve when the door opened and Henry Rogers came upon him. 'Ah! I waited a moment, Mr. Rogers. I thought you might have somethingto say before I went, perhaps. ' 'I hoped you would, Minks. I have a great deal to say. It can waittill to-morrow, really--only I wanted--but, there now, I forgot; youhave to get down to Sydenham, haven't you? And it's late already---' 'That's nothing, Mr. Rogers. I can easily sleep in town. I cameprepared, indeed, to do so---' as though he, too, had his Club andwould take a bedroom in it. 'Clever and thoughtful of you, Minks!' 'Only you must be tired after your journey, ' suggested the secretary. 'Tired!' exclaimed the other vigorously, 'not a bit! I'm as fresh as ast--a daisy, I mean. Come, draw your chair up; we'll have a smoke anda little chat. I'm delighted to see you again. How are you? And how'severything?' Goodness! How bright his eyes were, how alert his manner! He looked soyoung, almost springy, thought Minks, as he obeyed decorously, feelingflattered and pleased, yet at the same time uneasy a little. Suchspirits could only proceed, he feared, from one cause. He was a closeobserver, as all poets had need to be. He would discover some cluebefore he went to bed, something that should betray the true state ofaffairs. In any case sleep would be impossible unless he did. 'You stayed away somewhat longer than you originally intended, ' heventured at length, having briefly satisfied his employer's question. 'You found genuine recreation. You needed it, I'm sure. ' He glancedwith one eye at the letters. 'Re-creation, yes; the very word. It was difficult to leave. The placewas so delightful, ' said Rogers simply, filling his pipe and lightingit. 'A wonderful mountain village, Minks, ' he added, between puffs ofsmoke, while the secretary, who had been waiting for the sign, thenlit his own Virginian and smoked it diffidently, and with just thedegree of respect he felt was becoming. He never presumed upon hismaster's genial way of treating him. He made little puffs and was verycareful with the ashes. 'Ah, yes, ' he said; 'I am sure it must have been--both delightful and--er--difficult to leave. ' He recalled the Margate sands, bathing withAlbinia and digging trenches with the children. He had written manylyrics during those happy weeks of holiday. 'Gave one, in fact, quite a new view of life--and work. There was suchspace and beauty everywhere. And my cousin's children simply would notlet me go. ' There was a hint of apology and excuse in the tone and words--themerest hint, but Minks noticed it and liked the enthusiasm. 'He's beenup to some mischief; he feels a little ashamed; his work--his Scheme--has been so long neglected; conscience pricks him. Ha, ha!' Thesecretary felt his first suspicion confirmed. 'Cousin's children, 'perhaps! But who else? 'He made a tactful reference--oh, very slight and tentative--to thedata he had collected for the Scheme, but the other either did nothear it, or did not wish to hear it. He brushed it aside, speakingthrough clouds of tobacco smoke. Minks enjoyed a bigger, braver puffat his own. Excitement grew in him. 'Just the kind of place you would have loved, Minks, ' Rogers went onwith zeal. 'I think you really must go there some day; cart yourfamily over, teach the children French, you know, and cultivate a bitof vineyard. Such fine big forests, too, full of wild flowers andthings--O such lovely hand-made things--why, you could almost see thehand that made 'em. ' The phrase had slipped suddenly into his mind. 'Really, really, Mr. Rogers, but how very jo--delightful it sounds. 'He thought of the stubble fields and treeless sea-coast where he hadbeen. The language, however, astonished him. Enthusiasm like thiscould only spring from a big emotion. His heart sank a little. 'And the people all so friendly and hospitable and simple that youcould go climbing with your bootmaker or ask your baker in to dine andsleep. No snobbery! Sympathy everywhere and a big free life flowing inyour veins. ' This settled it. Only a lover finds the whole worldlovable. 'One must know the language, though, ' said Minks, 'in order to enjoythe people and understand them, I suppose?' 'Not a bit, not a bit! One _feels_ it all, you see; somehow one feelsit and understands. A few words useful here and there, but one getsalong without even these. I never knew such a place. Every one seemedto be in sympathy together. They think it, as it were. It was regularfairyland, I tell you. ' 'Which means that _you_ felt and thought it, ' said Minks to himself. Aloud he merely remarked, though with conviction, for he was gettinginterested, 'Thinking is important, I know. ' Rogers laid his pipe aside and suddenly turned upon him--so abruptlythat Minks started. Was this the confession coming? Would he hear nowthat his chief was going to be married? His wandering eyes almost drewlevel in the excitement that he felt. He knocked a tiny ash from hiscigarette and waited. But the expected bomb did not explode. He heardinstead this curious question:-- 'And that's something--it reminds me now--something I particularlywanted to ask you about, my dear fellow. You are familiar, I know, with such things and theories--er--speculations, as it were. You readthat sort of stuff. You are in touch with the latest ideas, I mean, and up-to-date. You can tell me, if any one can. ' He paused, hesitating a moment, as Minks, listening in somebewilderment, gazed into his eager face. He said nothing. He onlycommitted himself to a deprecating gesture with his hands, letting hiscigarette slip from his fingers on to the carpet. 'About _thought_, ' continued Rogers, keeping his eyes fixed upon himwhile he rose with flushed face from the search to find the stump. 'What do you know about thought? Tell me what you hear about _that_--what theories are held--what people believe about it. I mean thought-transference, telepathy, or whatever it is called. Is it proved? Is ita fact?' His voice had lowered. There was mystery in his manner. He sat back inhis chair, picked up his pipe, replaced it in his mouth unlighted, andwaited. Minks pulled himself together. His admirable qualities as a privatesecretary now came in. Putting excitement and private speculations ofhis own aside, he concentrated his orderly mind upon replies thatshould be models of succinct statement. He had practised thought-control, and prided himself upon the fact. He could switch attentioninstantly from one subject to another without confusion. The replies, however, were, of course, drawn from his own reading. He neitherargued nor explained. He merely stated. 'Those who have taken the trouble to study the evidence believe, ' hebegan, 'that it is established, though its laws are as yet unknown. Personally, if I may quote myself, I do believe it. ' 'Quite so, quite so. Do quote yourself--that's what I want--facts. Butyou refer to deliberate experiments, don't you?' 'In my own case, yes, Mr. Rogers, although the most successfulthought-transference is probably unconscious and not deliberate---' 'Such as, for instance---' 'Public opinion, ' replied Minks, after a moment's search, 'which isthe result of waves of thought sent out by everybody--by a community;or by the joint thinking of a nation, again, which modifies every mindborn into that nation, the result of' centuries of common thinkingalong definite familiar channels. Thought-currents rush everywhereabout the world, affecting every one more or less, and--er--particularly lodging in minds receptive to them. ' 'Thought is dynamic, then, they hold?' 'An actual force, yes; as actual as electricity, and as littleunderstood, ' returned the secretary, proud that he had read thesetheories and remembered them. 'With every real thought a definiteforce goes forth from you that modifies every single person, andprobably every single object as well, in the entire world. Thought iscreative according to its intensity. It links everybody in the worldwith everybody else---' 'Objects too, you say?' Rogers questioned. Minks glanced up to make sure there was no levity in the question, butonly desire for knowledge. 'Objects too, ' he replied, apparently satisfied, 'for science tells usthat the movement of a body here affects the farthest star. Acontinuous medium--ether--transmits the vibrations without friction--and thought-force is doubtless similarly transmitted--er---' 'So that if I think of a flower or a star, my thought leaps into themand affects them?' the other interrupted again. 'More, Mr. Rogers, ' was the reply, 'for your thought, being creative, enriches the world with images of beauty which may float into anothermind across the sea, distance no obstacle at all. You make a mentalimage when you think. There's imagination in all real thinking--if Imake myself clear. "Our most elaborate thoughts, " to quote for amoment, "are often, as I think, not really ours, but have on a suddencome up, as it were, out of hell or down out of heaven. " So what onethinks affects everybody in the world. The noble thinkers lifthumanity, though they may never tell their thoughts in speech orwriting. ' His employer stared at him in silence through the cloud of smoke. Theclock on the mantelpiece struck half-past twelve. 'That is where the inspiration of the artist comes in, ' continued thesecretary after a moment's hesitation whether he should say it or not, 'for his sensitive soul collects them and gives them form. They lodgein him and grow, and every passionate longing for spiritual growthsets the whole world growing too. Your Scheme for Disabled---' 'Even if it never materialises---' Rogers brusquely interposed. 'Sweetens the world--yes--according to this theory, ' continued Minks, wondering what in the world had come over his chief, yet so pleased tostate his own views that he forgot to analyse. 'A man in a dungeonearnestly praying would accomplish more than an active man outside whomerely lived thoughtlessly, even though beneficently--if I make myselfclear. ' 'Yes, yes; you make yourself admirably clear, Minks, as I knew youwould. ' Rogers lit his pipe again and puffed hard through a minute'ssilence. The secretary held his peace, realising from the tone of thelast sentence that he had said enough. Mr. Rogers was leading up toother questions. Hitherto he had been clearing the ground. It came then, through the clouds of smoke, though Minks failed torealise exactly why it was--so important: 'So that if I thought vividly of anything, I should. Actually create amental picture which in turn might slip into another's mind, whilethat other would naturally suppose it was his own?' 'Exactly, Mr. Rogers; exactly so. ' Minks contrived to make theimpatience in his voice sound like appreciation of his master'squickness. 'Distance no obstacle either, ' he repeated, as though fondof the phrase. 'And, similarly, the thought I deemed my own might have come in itsturn from the mind of some one else?' 'Precisely; for thought binds us all together like a network, and tothink of others is to spread oneself about the universe. When we thinkthus we get out--as it were--into that medium common to all of uswhere spirit meets spirit---' 'Out!' exclaimed Rogers, putting down his pipe and staring keenly, first into one eye, then into the other. 'Out?' 'Out--yes, ' Minks echoed faintly, wondering why that particular wordwas chosen. He felt a little startled. This earnest talk, moreover, stirred the subconsciousness in him, so that he remembered thatunfinished sonnet he had begun weeks ago at Charing Cross. If he werealone now he could complete it. Lines rose and offered themselves bythe dozen. His master's emotion had communicated itself to him. Abreath of that ecstasy he had already divined passed through the airbetween them. 'It's what the Contemplative Orders attempt---' he continued, yet halfto himself, as though a little bemused. 'Out, by George! Out!' Rogers said again. So emphatic was the tone that Minks half rose from his chair to go. 'No, no, ' laughed his chief; 'I don't mean that you're to get out. Forgive my abruptness. The fact is I was thinking aloud a moment. Imeant--I mean that you've explained a lot to me I didn't understandbefore--had never thought about, rather. And it's rather wonderful, you see. In fact, it's _very_ wonderful. Minks, ' he added, with thegrave enthusiasm of one who has made a big discovery, 'this world _is_a very wonderful place. ' 'It is simply astonishing, Mr. Rogers, ' Minks answered withconviction, 'astonishingly beautiful. ' 'That's what I mean, ' he went on. 'If I think beauty, that beauty maymaterialise---' 'Must, will, does materialise, Mr. Rogers, just as your improvementsin machinery did. You first thought them out!' 'Then put them into words; yes, and afterwards into metal. Strongthought is bound to realise itself sooner or later, eh? Isn't it allgrand and splendid?' They stared at one another across the smoky atmosphere of the Londonflat at the hour of one in the morning in the twentieth century. 'And when I think of a Scaffolding of Dusk that builds the Night, 'Rogers went on in a lower tone to himself, yet not so low that Minks, listening in amazement, did not catch every syllable, 'or of aDustman, Sweep, and Lamplighter, of a Starlight Express, or a vastStar Net that binds the world in sympathy together, and when I weaveall these into a story, whose centre somehow is the Pleiades--all thisis real and actual, and--and---' 'May have been projected by another mind before it floated into yourown, ' Minks suddenly interposed almost in a whisper, charmed whollyinto the poet's region by these suggestive phrases, yet wondering alittle why he said it, and particularly how he dared to say it. His chief turned sharply upon him. 'My own thought exactly!' he exclaimed; 'but how the devil did youguess it?' Minks returned the stare with triumph. 'Unconscious transference!' he said. 'You really think _that_?' his master asked, yet not mockingly. Minks turned a shade pinker. 'I do, indeed, sir, ' he replied warmly. 'I think it probable that thethoughts of people you have never seen or heard of drop into your mindand colour it. They lodge there, or are rejected, according to yourmood and the texture of your longings--what you want to be, that is. What you want, if I may say so, is emptiness, and that emptinessinvites. The flying thought flits in and makes itself at home. Somepeople overflow with thoughts of kindness and beauty that radiate fromthem, of love and tenderness and desire to help. These thoughts, itmay be, find no immediate object; but they are not lost. They pourloose about the world of men and women, and sooner or later find theempty heart that needs them. I believe, sir, that to sit in a chairand think such things strongly brings comfort to thousands who havelittle idea whence comes the sudden peace and happiness. And any onewho happens to be praying for these things at the moment attracts theminstantly. The comfort, the joy, the relief come---' 'What a good idea, Minks, ' said Rogers gently, 'and how helpful if weall believed it. No one's life need be a failure then. Those who wantlove, for instance, need it, crave it, just think what an army theyare!' He stared thoughtfully a moment at his little secretary. 'You might write a book about it, you know--try and make peoplebelieve it--convince them. Eh? Only, you'd have to give your proofs, you know. People want proofs. ' Minks, pinker than before, hesitated a moment. He was not sure how farhe ought to, indulge his private theories in words. The expression inhis chief's blue eyes apparently encouraged him. 'But, indeed, Mr. Rogers, the proofs are there. Those moments ofsudden strength and joy that visit a man, catching him unawares andunexplained--every solitary man and woman knows them, for everysolitary man and woman in the world craves first of all--to _be_loved. To love another, others, an impersonal Cause, is not enough. Itis only half of life; to _be_ loved is the other half. If every singleperson--I trust, sir, I do not tire you?--was loved by some one, thehappiness of life would be enormously greater than it is, for each oneloved would automatically then give out from his own store, and toreceive love makes one overflow with love for every one else. It isso, is it not, sir?' Rogers, an odd thrill catching him unawares, nodded. 'It is, Minks, itis, ' he agreed. 'To love one person makes one half prepared to loveall, and to be loved in turn may have a similar effect. It is nice tothink so anyhow. ' 'It is true, sir----' and Minks sat up, ready with another deluge. 'But you were saying something just now, ' interrupted the other, 'about these sudden glimpses of joy and beauty that--er--come to one--er--inexplicably. What d'ye mean by that precisely?' Minks glowed. He was being listened to, and understood by his honouredchief, too! 'Simply that some one, perhaps far away--some sweet woman probably--has been thinking love, ' he replied with enthusiasm, yet in a low andmeasured voice, 'and that the burning thoughts have rushed into theemptiness of a heart that needs them. Like water, thought finds itslevel. The sudden gush--all feel it more or less at times, surely!--may rise first from her mind as she walks lonely upon the shore, pacing the decks at sea, or in her hillside rambles, thinking, dreaming, hoping, yearning--to pour out and find the heart that needsthese very things, perhaps far across the world. Who knows? Heartthrills in response to heart secretly in every corner of the globe, and when these tides flood unexplained into your soul---' 'Into _my_ soul---!' exclaimed his chief. 'I beg your pardon, sir, ' Minks hurried to explain; 'I mean to anylonely soul that happens to crave such comfort with real longing--itimplies, to my mind at least, that these two are destined to give andtake from one another, and that, should they happen to meet in actuallife, they will rush together instantly like a pair of flames---' 'And if they never--meet?' asked Rogers slowly, turning to the mantel-piece for the matches. 'They will continue to feed each other in this delicious spiritual wayfrom a distance, sir. Only--the chances are--that they will meet, fortheir thought already connects them vitally, though as yetunrealised. ' There was a considerable pause. Rogers lit his pipe. Minks, feeling heought to stand while his master did so, also rose from his chair. Theolder man turned; they faced each other for a moment, Rogers puttingsmoke violently into the air between them. 'Minks, my dear fellow, ' he observed, 'you are, as I have alwaysthought, a poet. You have ideas, and, whether true or not, they arerather lovely. Write them out for others to read. Use your spare timewriting them out. I'll see to it that you have more leisure. ' With a laugh the big man moved abruptly past his chair and knocked hispipe on the edge of the ash-bowl. His eye, as he did so, fell upon thepile of letters and papers arranged so neatly on the table. Heremembered the lateness of the hour--and other things besides. 'Well, well, ' he said vaguely with a sigh; 'so here we are again backat work in London. ' Minks had turned, too, realising that the surprising conversation wasover. A great excitement was in him. He did not feel in the leasttired. An unusual sense of anticipation was in the air. He could notmake it out at all. Reviewing a dozen possibilities at once, hefinally rejected the romantic one he had first suspected, and decidedthat the right moment had at last come to say something of the Scheme. He had worked so hard to collect data. All was in perfect order. Hischief could not feel otherwise than pleased. 'Then I'll be saying good-night, Mr. Rogers, ' he began, 'for you mustbe very tired, and I trust you will enjoy a long night's rest. Perhapsyou would like me to come a little later in the morning than usual. ' He stood looking affectionately at the formidable pile ofcorrespondence, and, as his chief made no immediate reply, he went on, with more decision in his voice: 'Here, ' he said, touching the papers he had carefully set on one side, 'are all the facts you wanted referring to your great Scheme---' He jumped. His master's fist had come down with a bang upon the table. He stepped back a pace. They stared at one another. 'Damn the Scheme!' cried Rogers. 'have done and finished with it. Tearup the papers. Cancel any arrangements already made. And never mentionthe thing again in my hearing. It's all unreal and wrong andunnecessary!' Minks gasped. The man was so in earnest. What could it mean? 'Wrong--unnecessary--done with!' he faltered. Then, noticing theflashing eyes that yet betrayed a hint of merriment in their fire, headded quickly, 'Quite so, Mr. Rogers; I understand. You've got animprovement, you mean?' It was not his place to ask questions, but he could not containhimself. Curiosity and disappointment rushed over him. 'A bigger and a better one altogether, Minks, ' was the vehement reply. He pushed the heap of papers towards the secretary. Minks took themgingerly, reluctantly. 'Burn 'em up, ' Rogers went on, 'and never speak to me again about theblessed thing. I've got a far bigger Scheme than that. ' Minks slowly gathered the papers together and put them in his biggestpocket. He knew not what to think. The suddenness of the affair dazedhim. Thought-transference failed this time; he was too perturbed, indeed, to be in a receptive state at all. It seemed a catastrophe, amost undesirable and unexpected climax. The romantic solution revivedin him--but only for a passing moment. He rejected it. Some bigdiscovery was in the air. He felt that extraordinary sense ofanticipation once again. 'Look here, my dear fellow, Minks, ' said Rogers, who had been watchinghis discomfiture with amusement, 'you may be surprised, but you neednot be alarmed. The fact is, this has been coming for a long time;it's not an impulsive decision. You must have felt it--from myletters. That Scheme was all right enough, only I am not the right manfor it. See? And our work, ' he added laughingly, 'won't go for nothingeither, because our thought will drop into another mind somewhere thatwill accomplish the thing far better than I could have accomplishedit. ' Minks made an odd gesture, as who should say this might not be true. He did not venture upon speech, however. This new plan must be verywonderful, was all he thought just then. His faith in his employer'sgenius was complete. 'And in due time you shall hear all about it. Have a little patience. Perhaps you'll get it out of my thoughts before I tell it to you, ' hesmiled, 'but perhaps you won't. I can only tell you just now that ithas beauty in it---a beauty of the stars. ' Yet what his bigger Scheme was he really had no clear idea. He felt itcoming-that was all! And with that Minks had to be content. This was dismissal. Good-nightswere said, and the secretary went out into the street. 'Go to a comfortable hotel, ' was the last thing he heard, 'and put itdown to me, of course. Sleep well, sleep well. To-morrow at twoo'clock will do. ' Minks strolled home, walking upon air. The sky was brilliant with itsgorgeous constellations--the beauty of the stars. Poems blazed uponhim. But he was too excited to compose. Even first lines evadedcapture. 'Stars, ' besides, was a dreadful word to rhyme with, for allits charm and loveliness. He knew of old that the only word was'wars, ' most difficult to bring in naturally and spontaneously, andwith the wrong sound in any case. 'He must have been writing poetry out there, ' he reflected finally, 'or else living it. Living it, probably. He's a grand fellow anyhow, grand as a king. ' Stars, wars, kings, thrones-=the words flew in andout among a maze of unaccomplished lines. But the last thing in his mind as he curled up to sleep in the strangebed was that he had delivered his wife's message, but that he couldnot tell her about this sudden collapse of the great, long-talked-ofScheme. Albinia would hardly understand. She might think less of hischief. He would wait until the new one dawned upon the horizon withits beauty of the stars. Then he would simply overwhelm her with it, as his temperament loved to do. CHAPTER XXX Lo, every yearning thought that holds a tear, Yet finds no mission And lies untold, Waits, guarded in that labyrinth of gold, -- To reappear Upon some perfect night, Deathless--not old-- But sweet with time and distance, And clothed as in a vision Of starry brilliance For the world's delight. JOHN HENRY CAMPDEN. Then, as the days passed, practical life again caught Henry Rogers inits wholesome grip. Fairyland did not fade exactly, but it dipped alittle below the horizon. Like hell and heaven, it was a state ofmind, open potentially to all, but not to be enjoyed merely for theasking. Like other desirable things, it was to be 'attained. ' Itsremoteness and difficulty of access lent to it a haunting charm; forthough its glory dimmed a little, there was a soft afterglow that shedits radiance even down Piccadilly and St. James's Street. He wasalways conscious of this land beyond the sunset; the stars shonebrightly, though clouds or sunlight interfered to blur their message. London life, however, by the sheer weight of its grinding dailymachinery, worked its slow effect upon him. He became less sensitiveto impressions. These duller periods were interrupted sometimes bystates of brilliant receptiveness, as at Bourcelles; but there was afence between the two--a rather prickly frontier, and the secret ofcombining them lay just beyond his reach. For his London mind, guidedby reason, acted in a logical plane of two dimensions, whileimagination, captained by childhood's fairy longings, cantered loosein all directions at once--impossibly. The first was the world; thesecond was the universe. As yet, he was unable to co-ordinate them. Minks, he was certain, could--and did, sailing therefore upon an evenkeel. There was this big harmony in little Minks that he envied. Minkshad an outlet. Sydenham, and even the City, for him were fairyland; amotor-bus fed his inspiration as surely as a starlit sky; moon alwaysrhymed with June, and forget with regret. But the inner world of HenryRogers was not yet properly connected with the outer. Passage from oneto the other was due to chance, it seemed, not to be effected at will. Moods determined the sudden journey. He rocked. But for his talks withlittle Minks, he might have wrecked. And the talks with Minks were about--well, he hardly knew what, butthey all played round this map of fairyland he sought to reduce to thescale of everyday life. They discussed thought, dreams, thepossibility of leaving the body in sleep, the artist temperament, thesource of inspiration as well as the process of the imaginativefaculty that created. They talked even of astronomy. Minks held thatthe life of practical, daily work was the bed-rock of all saneproduction, yet while preaching this he bubbled over with all thewild, entrancing theories that were in the air to-day. They werecomical, but never dangerous--did not upset him. They were almost aform of play. And his master, listening, found these conversations an outlet somehowfor emotions in himself he could not manage--a scaffolding thatprovided outlines for his awakening dreams to build upon. He foundrelief. For Minks, with his delightful tact, asked no awkwardquestions. He referred neither to the defunct Scheme, nor mentionedthe new one that held 'a beauty of the stars. ' He waited. Rogers alsowaited. And, while he waited, he grew conscious more and more of an enormousthing that passed, driving behind, _below_, his daily external life. He could never quite get at it. In there, down out of sight somewhere, he knew everything. His waking existence was fed invisibly from below. In the daytime he now frequently caught himself attempting to recoverthe memory of things that went on elsewhere, things he was personallyinvolved in, vital things. This daylight effort to recover them was asirksome as the attempt to draw a loose hair that has wound about thetongue. He spoke at length to Minks about it. 'Some part of you, ' replied the imperturbable secretary, afterlistening carefully to his master's vague description of the symptoms, 'is being engaged elsewhere--very actively engaged---' 'Eh?' asked Rogers, puzzled. 'Probably at night, sir, while your brain and body sleep, ' Minkselaborated, 'your energetic spirit is out--on the plane of causes---' The other gasped slightly, 'While my body lies unconscious?' 'Your spirit may be busy at all kinds of things. _That_ can never beunconscious, ' was the respectful answer. 'They say---' 'Yes, what do they say?' He recognised a fairy theory, and jumped atit. 'That in sleep, ' continued the other, encouraged, 'the spirit knows afar more concentrated life--dips down into the deep sea of being--ourwaking life merely the froth upon the shore. ' Rogers stared at him. 'Yes, yes, ' he answered slowly, 'that's verypretty, very charming; it's quite delightful. What ideas you have, mydear Minks! What jolly, helpful ideas!' Minks beamed with pleasure. 'Not my own, Mr. Rogers, not my own, ' he said, with as much pride asif they _were_ his own, 'but some of the oldest in the world, justcoming into fashion again with the turn of the tide, it seems. Ourdaily life--even the most ordinary--is immensely haunted, girdledabout with a wonder of incredible things. There are hints everywhereto-day, though few can read the enormous script complete. Here andthere one reads a letter or a word, that's all. Yet the best mindsrefuse to know the language, not even the ABC of it; they read anotherlanguage altogether---' 'The best minds!' repeated Rogers. 'What d'you mean by that!' Itsounded, as Minks said it, so absurdly like best families. 'The scientific and philosophical minds, sir. They think it's notworth learning, this language. That's the pity of it--ah, the greatpity of it!' And he looked both eager and resentful--his expressionalmost pathetic. He turned half beseechingly to his employer, asthough _he_ might alter the sad state of things. 'As with an iceberg, Mr. Rogers, ' he added, 'the greater part of everything--of ourselvesespecially--is invisible; we merely know the detail banked against animportant grand Unseen. ' The long sentence had been suffered to its close because the audiencewas busy with thoughts of his own instead of listening carefully. Behind the wild language stirred some hint of meaning that, he felt, held truth. For a moment, it seemed, his daylight searching wasexplained--almost. 'Well and good, my dear fellow, and very picturesque, ' he saidpresently, gazing with admiration at his secretary's neat blue tie andimmaculate linen; 'but thinking, you know, is not possible withoutmatter. ' This in a tone of '_Do_ talk a little sense. ' 'Even if thespirit does go out, it couldn't think apart from the brain, could itnow, eh?' Minks took a deep breath and relieved himself of the following: 'Ah, Mr. Rogers'--as much as to say 'Fancy _you_ believing that!'--'but it can experience and know _direct_, since it passes into theregion whence the material that feeds thought issues in the firstinstance--causes, Mr. Rogers, causes. ' 'Oho!' said his master, 'oho!' 'There is no true memory afterwards, ' continued the little dreamer, 'because memory depends upon how much the spirit can bring back intothe brain, you see. We have vague feelings, rather than actualrecollection--feelings such as you were kind enough to confess to meyou had been haunted by yourself---' 'All-overish feelings, ' Rogers helped him, seeing that he was losingconfidence a little, 'vague sensations of joy and wonder and--well--ina word, strength. ' 'Faith, ' said Minks, with a decision of renewed conviction, 'which isreally nothing but unconscious knowledge--knowledge unremembered. Andit's the half-memory of what you do at night that causes this sense of anticipation you now experience; for what isanticipation, after all, but memory thrown forward?' There was a pause then, during which Rogers lit a cigarette, whileMinks straightened his tie several times in succession. 'You are a greater reader than I, of course, ' resumed his employerpresently; 'still, I have come across one or two stories which dealwith this kind of thing. Only, in the books, the people alwaysremember what they've done at night, out of the body, in the spirit, or whatever you like to call it. Now, _I_ remember nothing whatever. How d'you account for that, pray?' Minks smiled a little sadly. 'The books, ' he answered very softly, 'are wrong there--mere inventions--not written from personalexperience. There can be no detailed memory unless the brain has been'out' too--which it hasn't. That's where inaccuracy and looseness ofthought come in. If only the best minds would take the matter up, yousee, we might---' Rogers interrupted him. 'We shall miss the post, Minks, if we go ondreaming and talking like this, ' he exclaimed, looking at his watchand then at the pile of letters waiting to be finished. 'It is verydelightful indeed, very--but we mustn't forget to be practical, too. ' And the secretary, not sorry perhaps to be rescued in time from thedepths he had floundered in, switched his mind in concentration uponthe work in hand again. The conversation had arisen from a chancecoincidence in this very correspondence--two letters that had crossedafter weeks of silence. Work was instantly resumed. It went on as though it had never beeninterrupted. Pride and admiration stirred the heart of Minks as henoticed how keenly and accurately his master's brain took up the lostthreads again. 'A grand fellow!' he thought to himself, 'a splendidman! He lives in both worlds at once, yet never gets confused, norlets one usurp his powers to the detriment of the other. If only Iwere equally balanced and effective. Oh dear!' And he sighed. And there were many similar conversations of this kind. London seemeddifferent, almost transfigured sometimes. Was this the beginning ofthat glory which should prove it a suburb of Bourcelles? Rogers found his thoughts were much in that cosy mountain village: thechildren capered by his side all day; he smelt the woods and flowers;he heard the leaves rustle on the poplar's crest; and had merely tothink of a certain room in the tumble-down old Citadelle for a wave ofcourage and high anticipation to sweep over him like a sea. A newfeeling of harmony was taking him in hand. It was very delightful; andthough he felt explanation beyond his reach still, his talks withMinks provided peep-holes through which he peered at the enormousthing that brushed him day and night. A great settling was taking place inside him. Thoughts certainly beganto settle. He realised, for one thing, that he had left the theatrewhere the marvellous Play had been enacted. He stood outside now, ableto review and form a judgment. His mind loved order. Undueintrospection he disliked, as a form of undesirable familiarity; abalanced man must not be too familiar with himself; it endangeredself-respect. He had been floundering rather. After years of methodical labour thefreedom of too long a holiday was disorganising. He tried to steadyhimself. And the Plan of Life, answering to control, grew smallerinstantly, reduced to proportions he could examine reasonably. Thiswas the beginning of success. The bewildering light of fairyland stillglimmered, but no longer so diffused. It focused into little definitekernels he could hold steady while he scrutinised them. And these kernels he examined carefully as might be: in the quiet, starry evenings usually, while walking alone in St. James's Park afterhis day of board meetings, practical work with Minks, and the like. Gradually then, out of the close survey, emerged certain things thatseemed linked together in an intelligible sequence of cause andeffect. There was still mystery, for subconscious investigation everinvolves this background of shadow. Question and Wonder watched him. But the facts emerged. He jotted them down on paper as best he could. The result looked likea Report drawn up by Minks, only less concise and--he was bound toadmit it--less intelligible. He smiled as he read them over. .. . 'My thoughts and longings, awakened that night in the little Crayfieldgarden, ' he summed it up to himself, having read the Report so far, 'went forth upon their journey of realisation. I projected them--according to Minks--vividly enough for that! I thought Beauty--andthis glorious result materialised! More--my deepest, oldest craving ofall has come to life again--the cry of loneliness that yearns to--thatseeks--er---' At this point, however, his analysis grew wumbled; the transference ofthought and emotion seemed comprehensible enough; though magical, itwas not more so than wireless telegraphy, or that a jet of steamshould drive an express for a hundred miles. It was conceivable thatDaddy had drawn thence the inspiration for his wonderful story. Whatbaffled him was the curious feeling that another was mixed up in thewhole, delightful business, and that neither he nor his cousin werethe true sponsors of the fairy fabric. He never forgot the descriptionhis cousin read aloud that night in the Den--how the Pattern of hisStory reached its climax and completeness when a little starry figurewith twinkling feet and amber eyes had leaped into the centre and madeitself at home there. From the Pleiades it came. The lost Pleiad wasfound. The network of thought and sympathy that contained the universehad trembled to its uttermost fastenings. The principal role wasfilled at last. It was here came in the perplexing thing that baffled him. His mindsat down and stared at an enormous, shadowy possibility that he wasunable to grasp. It brushed past him overhead, beneath, on all sides. He peered up at it and marvelled, unconvinced, yet knowing himself aprisoner. Something he could not understand was coming, was alreadyclose, was watching him, waiting the moment to pounce out, like aninvisible cat upon a bewildered mouse. The question he flung outbrought no response, and he recalled with a smile the verse thatdescribed his absurd position:-- Like a mouse who, lost in wonder, Flicks its whiskers at the thunder! For, while sprites and yearning were decidedly his own, theinterpretation of them, if not their actual origin, seemed another's. This other, like some dear ideal on the way to realisation, had takenhim prisoner. The queer sense of anticipation Bourcelles had fosteredwas now actual expectation, as though some Morning Spider had bornehis master-longing, exquisitely fashioned by the Story, across theUniverse, and the summons had been answered-from the Pleiades. Theindestructible threads of thought and feeling tightened. The more hethought about his cousin's interpretation the more he found in it aloveliness and purity, a crystal spiritual quality, that he couldcredit neither to the author's mind nor to his own. This soft andstarry brilliance was another's. Up to a point the interpretation camethrough Daddy's brain, just as the raw material came through his own;but there-after this other had appropriated both, as their originalcreator and proprietor. Some shining, delicate hand reached down fromits starry home and gathered in this exquisite form built up from themedley of fairy thought and beauty that were first its own. The ownerof that little hand would presently appear to claim it. 'We were but channels after all then--both of us, ' was the idea thatlay so insistently in him. 'The sea of thought sends waves in alldirections. They roll into different harbours. I caught the feeling, he supplied the form, but this other lit the original fire!' And further than this wumbled conclusion he could not get. He wentabout his daily work. However, with a secret happiness tugging at hismind all day, and a sense of expectant wonder glancing brightly overeverything he thought or did. He was a prisoner in fairyland, and whathe called his outer and his inner world were, after all, but differentways of looking at one and the same thing. Life everywhere was one. CHAPTER XXXI Es stehen unbeweglich Die Sterne in der Hoh' Viel tausend Jahr', und schauen Sich an mit Liebesweh. Sie sprechen eine Sprache, Die ist so reich, so schon; Doch keiner der Philologen Kann diese Sprache verstehen. Ich aber hab' sie gelernet, Und ich vergesse sie nicht; Mir diente als Grammatik Der Herzallerliebsten Gesicht. HEINE. One evening in particular the sense of expectation in him felt veryclose upon delivery. All day he had been aware of it, and a letterreceived that morning from his cousin seemed the cause. The story, inits shorter version, had been accepted. Its reality, therefore, hadalready spread; one other mind, at least, had judged it withunderstanding. Two months from now, when it appeared in print, hundreds more would read it. Its beauty would run loose in manyhearts. And Rogers went about his work that day as though the pleasurewas his own. The world felt very sweet. He saw the good in every onewith whom he came in contact. And the inner excitement due tosomething going to happen was continuous and cumulative. Yet London just then--it was August--was dull and empty, dusty, andbadly frayed at the edges. It needed a great cleaning; he would haveliked to pour sea water over all its streets and houses, bathed itspanting parks in the crystal fountains of Bourcelles. All day long histhoughts, indeed, left London for holidays in little Bourcelles. Hewas profoundly conscious that the Anticipation he first recognised inthat forest village was close upon accomplishment now. On the journeyback to England he recalled how urgent it had been. In London, eversince, it had never really left him. But to-day it now suddenly becamemore than expectation--he felt it in him as a certainty thatapproached fulfilment. It was strange, it was bewildering; it seemedto him as though something from that under-self he could neverproperly reach within him, pushed upwards with a kind of aggressiveviolence towards the surface. It was both sweet and vital. Behind the'something' was the 'some one' who led it into action. At half-past six he strolled down a deserted St. James's Street, passed the door of his club with no temptation to go in, and climbedthe stairs slowly to his rooms. His body was languid though his mindalert. He sank into an arm-chair beside the open window. 'I must_do_ something to-night, ' he thought eagerly; 'mere reading at theclub is out of the question. I'll go to a theatre or--or--. ' Heconsidered various alternatives, deciding finally upon Richmond Park. He loved long walks at night when his mind was restless thus; the airin Richmond Park was peculiarly fresh and scented after dark. He knewthe little gate that was never closed. He would dine lightly, and gofor a ten-mile stretch among the oaks, surprise the deer asleep, listen to the hum of distant London, and watch the fairy battlebetween the lurid reflection of its million lights and the littlestars. .. . There were places in the bracken where. .. . The rumbling clatter of a railway van disturbed the picture. His mindfollowed the noise instead. Thought flashed along the street to astation. He saw trains. .. 'Come at once! You're wanted here--some one calls you!' sounded abreathless merry voice beside him. 'Come quickly; aussi schnell quemoglich!' There was a great gulp of happiness in him; his spirit plunged in joy. He turned and looked about him swiftly. That singing voice, with itsimpudent mingling of languages was unmistakable. 'From the Pleiades. Look sharp! You've been further off than everlately, and further is further than farther--much! Over the forestsand into the cave, that is the way we must all behave---!' He opened an eye. Between him and a great gold sunset ran the wind. It was a slenderviolet wind. The sunset, however, was in the act of disappearing forthe Scaffolding of Dusk was passing through the air--he saw the slungtrellis-work about him, the tracery of a million lines, the guy-ropes, uprights, and the feathery threads of ebony that trailed the Nightbehind them like a mighty cloth. There was a fluttering as ofinnumerable wings. 'You needn't tug like that, ' he gasped. 'I'm coming all right. I'mout!' 'But you're so slow and sticky, ' she insisted. 'You've been stickylike this for weeks now!' He saw the bright brown eyes and felt the hair all over his face likea bath of perfume. They rushed together. His heart beat faster. .. . 'Who wants me in such a hurry?' he cried, the moment he wasdisentangled. Laughter ran past him on every side from the world oftrees. 'As if you didn't know! What _is_ the good of pretending any longer!You're both together in the Network, and you know it just as well asshe does!' Pretending! Just as well as _she_ does! As though he had eyes all over his body he saw the Net of Stars abovehim. Below were forests, vineyards, meadows, and the tiny lights ofhouses. In the distance shimmered the waters of a familiar lake. Greatpurple mountains rolled against the sky line. But immediately over hishead, close yet also distant, filling the entire heavens, there hung aglittering Pattern that he knew, grown now so vast that at first hescarcely recognised its dazzling loveliness. From the painted westernhorizon it stretched to other fastenings that dipped below the world, where the East laid its gulfs of darkness to surprise the sun. Itswung proudly down, as though hung from the Pole Star towards thenorth, and while the Great Bear 'pointers' tossed its embroideryacross Cassiopeia, the Pleiades, just rising, flung its furtherfringes down to Orion, waiting in wonder to receive them far below thehorizon. Old Sirius wore one breadth of it across his stupendousshoulder, and Aldebaran, with fingers of bronze and fire, drew itdelicately as with golden leashes over the sleeping world. When first he saw it, there was this gentle fluttering as of wingsthrough all its intricate parts, but the same moment four shootingstars pierced its outlying edges with flying nails of gold. Itsteadied and grew taut. 'There she is!' cried Monkey, flashing away like a comet towards theCave. 'You'll catch it now--and you deserve to!' She turned abrilliant somersault and vanished. Then, somehow, the vast Pattern settled into a smaller scale, so thathe saw it closer, clearer, and without confusion. Beauty and wonderfocused for his sight. The perfected design of Daddy's fairy storyfloated down into his heart without a hint of wumbling. Never had heseen it so luminous and simple. For others, of course, meanwhile hadknown and understood it. Others believed. Its reality was moreintense, thus, than before. He rose from the maze of tree-tops where he floated, and stretched hisarms out, no fear or hesitation in him anywhere. Perched in the verycentre of the Pattern, seated like a new-born star upon its throne, hesaw that tiny figure who had thrilled him months ago when he caught itin a passing instant, fluttering in the web of Daddy's story, --bothits climax and its inspiration. The twinkling feet were folded now. Hesaw the soft little eyes that shone like starlight through clearamber. The hands, palms upwards, were stretched to meet his own. 'You, of course, must come up--to me, ' he heard. And climbing the lace-like tracery of the golden web, he knelt beforeher. But, almost before both knees were bent, her hands had caughthim--the touch ran like a sheath of fire through every nerve--and hewas seated beside her in that shining centre. 'But why did it suddenly grow small?' he asked at once. He feltabsolutely at home. It was like speaking to a child who loved himutterly, and whom he, in his turn, knew intimately inside out. 'Because you suddenly understood, ' was the silvery, tiny answer. 'Whenyou understand, you bring everything into yourself, small as a toy. Itis size that bewilders. Men make size. Fairy things, like stars andtenderness, are always small. ' 'Of course, ' he said; 'as if I didn't know it already!' 'Besides, ' she laughed, half closing her brilliant eyes and peering athim mischievously, 'I like everything so tiny that you can find itinside a shell. That makes it possible to do big things. ' 'Am _I_ too big---?' he exclaimed, aware of clumsiness before thisexquisite daintiness. 'A little confused, that's all, ' her laughter rippled. 'You wantsmoothing down. I'll see to that. ' He had the feeling, as she said it, that his being included the entirePattern, even to its most distant edges where it fastened on to therim of the universe. From this huge sensation, he came back swiftly toits tiny correspondence again. His eyes turned to study her. But sheseemed transparent somehow, so that he saw the sky behind her, and init, strangely enough--just behind her face--the distant Pleiades, shining faintly with their tender lustre. They reached down into herlittle being, it seemed, as though she emanated from them. BigAldebaran guided strongly from behind. For an instant he lost sight ofthe actual figure, seeing in its place a radiant efflorescence, purified as by some spiritual fire--the Spirit of a Star. 'I'm here, quite close beside you, ' whispered the tiny voice. 'Don'tlet your sight get troublesome like your size. Inside-sight, remember, is the thing!' He turned, or rather he focused sight again to find her. He wasstartled a little. For a moment it seemed like his own voice speakingdeep down within himself. 'Make yourself at home, ' it continued, 'you belong here--almost asmuch as I do. ' And at the sound of her voice all the perplexities ofhis life lay down. It brushed him smooth, like a wind that sets roughfeathers all one way, He remembered again where he was, and what was going on. 'I do, ' he answered, happy as a boy. 'I am at home. It is perfect. ' 'Do you, indeed! You speak as though this story were your own!' And her laugh was like the tinkle of hare-bells in the wind. 'It is, ' he said; 'at least I had--I _have_, rather, a considerablehand in the making of it. ' 'Possibly, ' she answered, 'but the story belongs to the person whofirst started it. And that person is myself. The story is minereally!' 'Yours!' he gasped. 'Because--I am the story!' He stared hard to find the face that said this thing. Thought stoppeddead a moment, blocked by a marvel that was impossible, yet true. 'You mean---?' he stammered. 'You heard perfectly what I said; you understood it, too. There's nogood pretending, ' impatience as well as laughter in the little voice. 'I am the story, --the story that you love. ' A sudden joy burst over him in a flood. Struggle and search foldedtheir wings and slept. An immense happiness wrapped him into the verywoof of the pattern wherein they sat. A thousand loose and ineffectivemoods of his life found coherence, as a thousand rambling strands weregathered home and fastened into place. And the Pattern quivered and grew brighter. 'I am the story because I thought of it first. You, as a version ofits beauty--a channel for its delivery--belong utterly to me. You canno more resist me than a puddle can resist the stars' reflection. Youincrease me. We increase each other. ' 'You say you thought it first, ' he cried, feeling the light heradiated flow in and mingle with her own. 'But who are you? Where doyou come from?' 'Over there somewhere, I think, ' she laughed, while a ray like fireflashed out in the direction of the Pleiades that climbed the skytowards the East. 'You ought to know. You've been hunting for me longenough!' 'But who _are_ you?' he insisted again, 'for I feel it's you that havebeen looking for me--I've so often heard you calling!' She laughed again till the whole web quivered. Through her eyes thesoftness of all the seven Pleiades poured deliciously into him. 'It's absurd that such a big thing as you could hide so easily, ' shesaid. 'But you'll never hide again. I've got you fast now. And you'vegot me! It's like being reflected together in the same puddle, yousee!' The dazzling radiance passed as she said it into a clearer glow, andacross the fire of it he caught her eyes steadily a moment, though hecould not see the face complete. Two brilliant points of amber shoneup at him, as stars that peep from the mirror of a forest pool. Thatmental daylight-searching seemed all explained, only he could notremember now that there was any such thing at all as either searchingor daylight. When 'out' like this, waking was the dream---the sunlightworld forgotten. 'This Pattern has always been my own, ' she continued with infinitesoftness, yet so clearly that his whole body seemed a single earagainst her lips, 'for I've thought it ever since I can remember. I'velived it. This Network of Stars I made ages ago in a garden among farbigger mountains than these hills, a garden I knew vividly, yet couldnot always find--almost as though I dreamed it. The Net included the--oh, included everything there is, and I fastened it to four big pinesthat grew on the further side of the torrent in that mountain gardenof my dream--fastened it with nails of falling stars. And I made thePleiades its centre because I loved them best of all. Oh! Orion, Orion, how big and comforting your arms are! Please hold me tight forever and ever!' 'But I know it, too, that lovely dream, ' he cried. 'It all comes backto me. I, too, have dreamed it with you then somewhere--somewhere---!'His voice choked. He had never known that life could hold suchsweetness, wonder, joy. The universe lay within his arms. 'All the people I wanted to help I used to catch in my Net of Stars, 'she went on. 'There was a train that brought them up to its edges, andonce I got the passengers into the web, and hung them loose in it tillthey were soaked with starlight, I could send them back happier andbraver than they came. It's been my story ever since I can rememberanything--my adventure, my dream, my life. And when the great Netfaded a little and wanted brightening, we knew an enormous cavern inthe mountains where lost starlight collected, and we used to gatherthis in thousands of sacks, and wash and paint the entire web afresh. That made it sticky, so that the passengers hung in it longer. Don'tyou remember? They came back with starlight in their hair and eyes and voices--andin their hearts. ' 'And the way you--_we_ got them into the Net, ' he interruptedexcitedly, 'was by understanding them--by feeling with them---' 'Sympathy, ' she laughed, 'of course! Only there were so many I couldnot reach and could not understand, and so could never get in. Inparticular there was some one who ought to have been there to help me. If I could find that some one I could do twice as much. I searched andsearched. I hunted through every corner of the garden, through forest, cavern, sky, but never with success. Orion never overtook me! Mylonging cried every where, but in vain. Oh, Orion, my lost Orion, Ihave found you now at last!. .. The Net flashed messages in alldirections, but without response. This some one who could make my workcomplete existed--that I _knew_--only he was hidden somewhere out ofsight--concealed in some corner or other, veiled by a darkness that hewove about himself--as though by some funny kind of wrong thinkingthat obscured the light I searched for and made it too dim to reach meproperly. His life or mind--his thought and feeling, that is--werewumbled---' '_Wumbled!_' he cried, as the certainty burst upon him with thepassword. He stood close to her, opening his arms. Instantly she placed her golden palm upon his mouth, with fingers thatwere like soft star-rays. Her words, as she continued, were sweeterthan the footfalls of the Pleiades when they rise above the sea. 'Yet there were times when we were so close that we could feel eachother, and each wondered why the other did not actually appear. I havebeen trying, ' she whispered, oh so dearly, 'to find you always. Andyou knew it, too, for I've felt you searching too. .. . ' The outlying skirts of the Pattern closed in a little, till the edgesgathered over them like a tent of stars. Alone in the heart of theuniverse they told their secret very softly. .. . 'There are twin-stars, you know, ' she whispered, when he released her, 'that circle so close about each other that they look like one. Iwonder, oh, I wonder, do they ever touch!' 'They are apart in order to see one another better, ' he murmured. 'They watch one another more sweetly so. They play at separation forthe joy of coming together again. ' And once more the golden Pattern hid them for a moment from the otherstars. .. . The shafts of night-fire played round and above their secrettent in space. .. . Most marvellously their beings found each other inthe great whispering galleries of the world where Thought and Yearningknow that first fulfilment which is the source of action later. .. . 'So, now that I have found you, ' her voice presently went on, 'our Network shall catch everybody everywhere. For thePattern of my story, woven so long ago, has passed through you asthrough a channel--to another who can give it forth. It will spreadacross every sky. All, all will see it and climb up. ' 'My scheme---' he cried, with eager delight, yet not quite certainwhat he meant, nor whence the phrase proceeded. 'Was my thought first, ' she laughed, 'when you were a little boy and Iwas a little girl--somewhere in a garden very long ago. A ray from itspattern touched you into beauty. Though I could do nothing with itmyself, one little ray shot into the mirror of your mind and instantlyincreased itself. But then, you hid yourself; the channel closed---' 'It never died, though, ' he interrupted; 'the ray, I mean. ' 'It waited, ' she went on, 'until you found children somewhere, and thechannel cleared instantly. Through you, opened up and cleaned by them, my pattern rushed headlong into another who can use it. It could neverdie, of course. And the long repression--I never ceased to live it--made its power irresistible. ' 'Your story!' he cried. 'It _is_ indeed your story. ' The eyes were so close against his own that he made a movement thatwas like diving into a deep and shining sea to reach them. .. . ThePleiades rushed instantly past his face. .. . Soft filaments of goldentexture stroked his very cheeks. That slender violet wind rose intohis hair. He saw other larger winds behind it, deeply coloured. .. . Something made him tremble all over like a leaf in a storm. He saw, then, the crest of the sentinel poplar tossing between him and theearth far, far below. A mist of confusion caught him, so that he knewnot where he was. .. . He made an effort to remember. .. A violenteffort. .. . Some strange sense of heaviness oppressed him. .. . He wasleaving her. 'Quick!' he tried to cry; 'be quick! I am changing. I am drowsy withyour voice and beauty. Your eyes have touched me, and I am--fallingasleep!' His voice grew weaker as he said it. Her answer sounded faint, and far above him: 'Give me. .. Your. .. Hand. Touch me. Come away with me. .. To. .. My . .. Garden . .. In the mountains. .. . We may wake together . .. You arewaking now. .. !' He made an effort to find her little palm. But the wind swept coldlybetween his opened fingers. 'Waking!--what is it?' he cried thinly. He thought swiftly ofsomething vague and muddy--something dull, disordered, incomplete. Here it was all glass-clear. 'Where are you? I can't find you. I can'tsee!' A dreadful, searching pain shot through him. He was losing her, justwhen he had found her. He struggled, clung, fought frantically to holdher. But his fingers seized the air. 'Oh, I shall find you--even when you wake, ' he heard far away amongthe stars. 'Try and remember me--when I come. _Try and remember_. .. . ' It dipped into the distance. He had lost her. He caught a glimpse ofthe Pleiades as he fell at a fearful speed. Some one behind thempicked up stars and tossed them after him. They dimmed as they shotby--from gold to white, from white to something very pale. Behind themrose a wave of light that hurt his eyes. 'Look out! The Interfering Sun!' came a disappearing voice that wasfollowed by a peal of laughter. 'I hope you found her, and I hope youcaught it well. You deserved to. .. . ' There was a scent of hair that he loved, a vision of mischievous browneyes, an idea that somebody was turning a somersault beside him--andthen he landed upon the solid earth with a noise like thunder. The room was dark. At first he did not recognise it. Through the openwindow came the clatter of lumbering traffic that passed heavily downSt. James's Street. He rose stiffly from his chair, vexed with himselffor having dozed. It was more than a doze, though; he had slept somethirty minutes by his watch. No memory of any dreams was in him--nothing but a feeling of great refreshing lightness and peace. .. . It was wonderful, he reflected, as he changed into country clothes forhis walk in Richmond Park, how even the shortest nap revives the brainand body. There was a sense that an immense interval had elapsed, andthat something very big had happened or was going to happen to himvery soon. .. . And an hour later he passed through the Richmond Gate and found theopen spaces of the Park deserted, as they always were. The oaks andbracken rustled in a gentle breeze. The swishing of his boots throughthe wet grass was the only sound he heard, for the boom and purr ofdistant London reached him more as touch than as something audible. Seated on a fallen tree, he watched the stars and listened to thewind. That hum and boom of the city seemed underground, the flare ittossed into the sky rose from vast furnaces below the world. The starsdanced lightly far beyond its reach, secure and unafraid. He thoughtof children dancing with twinkling feet upon the mountains. .. . And in himself there was hum and light as well. Too deep, too farbelow the horizon for full discovery, he caught the echo, the faint, dim flashings of reflection that are called by men a Mood. These, rising to the surface, swept over him with the queer joy ofintoxicating wonder that only children know. Some great Secret he hadto tell himself, only he had kept it so long and so well that he couldnot find it quite. He felt the thrill, yet had forgotten what it was. Something was going to happen. A new footfall was coming across theworld towards him. He could almost hear its delicate, swift tread. Life was about to offer him this delicious, thrilling secret--verysoon. Looking up he saw the Pleiades, and the single footfall becamemany. He remembered that former curious obsession of the Pleiades. .. And as Thought and Yearning went roaming into space, they metAnticipation, who took them by the hand. It seemed, then, thatchildren came flocking down upon him from the sky, led by a littlefigure with starry eyes of clearest amber, a pair of tiny twinklingfeet, and a voice quite absurdly soft and tender. 'Your time is coming, ' he heard behind the rustling of the oak leavesoverhead, 'for the children are calling to you--children of your own. And this is the bravest Scheme in all the world. There is no bigger. How can there be? For all the world is a child that goes past yourwindows crying for its lost Fairyland. .. !' It was after midnight when at length he slipped through the Robin HoodGate, passed up Priory Lane, and walked rapidly by the shutteredhouses of Roehampton. And, looking a moment over Putney Bridge; he sawthe reflections of the stars in the muddy, dawdling Thames. Nothinganywhere was thick enough to hide them. The Net of Stars, being in hisheart, was everywhere. No prisoner could be more securely caught thanhe was. CHAPTER XXXII _Asia_. The point of one white star is quivering still Deep in the orange light of widening morn Beyond the purple mountains: through a chasm Of wind-divided mist the darker lake Reflects it: now it wanes: it gleams again As the waves fade, and as the burning threads Of woven cloud unravel in the pale air: 'Tis lost! and through yon peaks of cloud-like snow The roseate sunlight quivers: hear I not The AEolian music of her sea-green plumes Winnowing the crimson dawn? _Prometheus Unbound_, SHELLEY. August had blazed its path into September, and September had alreadytrimmed her successor's gown with gold and russet before Henry Rogersfound himself free again to think of holidays. London had kept itsgrip upon him all these weeks while the rest of the world was gay andirresponsible. He was so absurdly conscientious. One of his Companieshad got into difficulties, and he was the only man who could save theshareholders' money. The Patent Coal Dust Fuel Company, Ltd. , hadbought his invention for blowing fine coal dust into a furnace wherebyan intense heat was obtainable in a few minutes. The saving inmaterial, time, and labour was revolutionary. Rogers had received alarge sum in cash, though merely a nominal number of the commonshares. It meant little to him if the Company collapsed, and anordinary Director would have been content with sending counsel throughthe post in the intervals of fishing and shooting. But Henry Rogerswas of a different calibre. The invention was his child, born by hardlabour out of loving thought. The several thousand shareholdersbelieved in him: they were his neighbours. Incompetence andextravagance threatened failure. He took a room in the village nearthe Essex factories, and gave his personal energy and attention torestoring economical working of every detail. He wore overalls. He putintelligence into hired men and foremen; he spent his summer holidayturning a system of waste into the basis of a lucrative industry. Theshareholders would never know whose faithfulness had saved them loss, and at the most his thanks would be a formal paragraph in the Reportat the end of the year. Yet he was satisfied, and worked as though hisown income depended on success. For he knew--of late this certaintyhad established itself in him, influencing all he did--that faithfullabour, backed by steady thinking, must reach ten thousand waveringcharacters, merge with awakening tendencies in them, and slip thenceinto definite daily action. Action was thought materialised. He helpedthe world. A copybook maxim thus became a weapon of tempered steel. His Scheme was bigger than any hospital for disabled bodies. It wouldstill be cumulative when bodies and bricks were dust upon the wind. Itmust increase by geometrical progression through all time. It was largely to little Minks that he owed this positive convictionand belief, to that ridiculous, high-souled Montmorency Minks, who, while his master worked in overalls, took the air himself on ClaphamCommon, or pored with a wet towel round his brow beneath the oleographof Napoleon in the attempt to squeeze his exuberant emotion intotripping verse. For Minks admired intensely from a distance. Heattended to the correspondence in the flat, and made occasional visitsdown to Essex, but otherwise enjoyed a kind of extra holiday of hisown. For Minks was not learned in coal dust. The combustion was in hiseager brain. He produced an amazing series of lyrics and sonnets, though too high-flown, alas, to win a place in print. Love andunselfishness, as usual, were his theme, with a steady sprinkling of'the ministry of Thought, ' 'true success, unrecognised by men, yetnoted by the Angels, ' and so forth. His master's labour seemed to hima 'brilliant form of purity, ' and 'the soul's security' came inadmirably to close the crowded, tortuous line. 'Beauty' and 'Duty'were also thickly present, both with capitals, but the verse thatpleased him most, and even thrilled Albinia to a word of praise, wasone that ended--'Those active powers which are the Doves of Thought. 'It followed 'neither can be sold or bought, ' and Mrs. Minks approved, because, as she put it, 'there, now, is something you can _sell_; it'sstriking and original; no editor could fail to think so. ' Thenecessities of Frank and Ronald were ever her standard of praise orblame. Thus, it was the first week in October before Rogers found himselffree to leave London behind him and think of a change of scene. Noplanning was necessary. .. . Bourcelles was too constantly in his mindall these weary weeks to admit of alternatives. Only a few days ago aletter had come from Jinny, saying she was going to a Pension inGeneva after Christmas, and that unless he appeared soon he would notsee her again as she 'was, ' a qualification explained by thepostscript, 'My hair will be up by that time. Mother says I can put itup on Xmas Day. So please hurry up, Mr. Henry Rogers, if you want tosee me as I am. ' But another thing that decided him was that the great story was atlast in print. It was published in the October number of the Review, and the press had already paid considerable attention to it. Indeed, there was a notice at the railway bookstall on the day he left, to theeffect that the first edition was exhausted, and that a large secondedition would be available almost immediately. 'Place your orders atonce' was added in bold red letters. Rogers bought one of theseplacards for his cousin. 'It just shows, ' observed Minks, whom he was taking out with him. 'Shows what?' inquired his master. 'How many more thoughtful people there are about, sir, than one hadany idea of, ' was the reply. 'The public mind is looking for somethingof that kind, expecting it even, though it hardly knows what it reallywants. That's a story, Mr. Rogers, that must change the point of viewof all who read it--with understanding. It makes the commonest manfeel he is a hero. ' 'You've put our things into a non-smoker, Minks, ' the otherinterrupted him. 'What in the world are you thinking about?' 'I beg your pardon, I'm sure, sir; so I have, ' said Minks, blushing, and bundling the bags along the platform to another empty carriage, 'but that story has got into my head. I sat up reading it aloud toMrs. Minks all night. For it says the very things I have always longedto say. Sympathy and the transference of thought--to say nothing ofthe soul's activity when the body is asleep--have always seemed tome---' He wandered on while his companion made himself comfortable in acorner with his pipe and newspaper. But the first thing Rogers read, as the train went scurrying through Kent, was a summary of thecontents of this very Review. Two-thirds of the article was devoted tothe 'Star Story' of John Henry Campden, whose name 'entitled his workto a high standard of criticism. ' The notice was well written by someone evidently of intelligence and knowledge; sound judgment wasexpressed on style and form and general execution, but when it came tothe matter itself the criticism was deplorably misunderstanding. Thewriter had entirely missed the meaning. While praising the'cleverness' he asked plainly between the lines of his notice 'Whatdoes it mean?' This unconscious exposure of his own ignorance amusedhis reader while it also piqued him. The critic, expert in dealingwith a political article, was lamentably at sea over an imaginativestory. 'Inadequate receiving instrument, ' thought Rogers, smiling audibly. Minks, deep in a mysterious looking tome in the opposite corner, looked up over his cigarette and wondered why his employer laughed. Heread the article the other handed to him, thinking how much better hecould have done it himself. Encouraged by the expression in Mr. Rogers's eyes, he then imparted what the papers call 'a genuinecontribution to the thought upon the subject. ' 'The writer quarrels with him, ' he observed, 'for not giving what isexpected of him. What he has thought he must go on thinking, or becondemned. He must repeat himself or be uncomprehended. Hitherto'--Minks prided himself upon the knowledge--'he has writtenstudies of uncommon temperaments. Therefore to indulge in fantasy nowis wrong. ' 'Ah, you take it that way, do you?' 'Experience justifies me, Mr. Rogers, ' the secretary continued. 'Afriend of mine, or rather of Mrs. Minks's, once wrote a volume ofghost stories that, of course, were meant to thrill. His subsequentbook, with no such intention, was judged by the object of the first--as a failure. It must make the flesh creep. Everything he wrote mustmake the flesh creep. One of the papers, the best--a real thunderer, in fact--said "Once or twice the desired thrill comes close, butnever, alas, quite comes off. "' 'How wumbled, ' exclaimed his listener. 'It is indeed, ' said Minks, 'in fact, one of the thorns in the path ofliterature. The ordinary clever mind is indeed a desolate phenomenon. And how often behind the "Oxford manner" lurks the cultured prig, if Imay put it so. ' 'Indeed you may, ' was the other's rejoinder, 'for you put itadmirably. ' They laughed a little and went on with their reading in theirrespective corners. The journey to Paris was enlivened by many similardiscussions, Minks dividing his attentions between his master, hisvolume of philosophy, and the needs of various old ladies, to whomsuch men attach themselves as by a kind of generous, manly instinct. Minks was always popular and inoffensive. He had such tact. 'Ah! and that reminds me, Minks, ' said Rogers, as they paced the banksof the Seine that evening, looking at the starry sky over Paris. 'Whatdo you know about the Pleiades? Anything--eh?' Minks drew with pride upon his classical reading. 'The seven daughters of Atlas, Mr. Rogers, if I remember correctly, called therefore the Atlantides. They were the virgin companions ofArtemis. Orion, the great hunter, pursued them in Boeotia, and theycalled upon the gods for help. ' 'And the gods turned 'em into stars, wasn't it?' 'First into doves, sir--Peleiades means doves--and then set them amongthe Constellations, where big Orion still pursues, yet never overtakesthem. ' 'Beautiful, isn't it? What a memory you've got, Minks. And isn't oneof 'em lost or something?' 'Merope, yes, ' the delighted Minks went on. He knew it because he hadlooked it up recently for his lyric about 'the Doves of Thought. ' 'Shemarried a mortal, Sisyphus, the son of Aeolus, and so shines moredimly than the rest. For her sisters married gods. But there is onewho is more luminous than the others---' 'Ah! and which was that?' interrupted Rogers. 'Maia, ' Minks told him pat. 'She is the most beautiful of the seven. She was the Mother, too, of Mercury, the Messenger of the gods. Shegave birth to him in a cave on Mount Cyllene in Arcadia. Zeus was thefather---' 'Take care; you'll get run over, ' and Rogers pulled him from the pathof an advancing taxi-cab, whose driver swore furiously at the pair ofthem. 'Charming, all that, isn't it?' 'It is lovely, sir. It haunts the mind. I suppose, ' he added, 'that'swhy your cousin, Mr. Campden, made the Pleiades the centre of his StarNet in the story--a cluster of beautiful thoughts as it were. ' 'No doubt, no doubt, ' his tone so brusque suddenly that Minks decidedafter all not to mention his poem where the Pleiades made theirappearance as the 'doves of thought. ' 'What a strange coincidence, ' Rogers said as they turned towards thehotel again. 'Subconscious knowledge, probably, sir, ' suggested the secretary, scarcely following his meaning, if meaning indeed there was. 'Possibly! One never knows, does one?' 'Never, Mr. Rogers. It's all very wonderful. ' And so, towards six o'clock in the evening of the following day, having passed the time pleasantly in Paris, the train bore themswiftly beyond Pontarlier and down the steep gradient of the Gorges del'Areuse towards Neuchatel. The Val de Travers, through which therailway slips across the wooded Jura into Switzerland, is like awinding corridor cleft deep between savage and precipitous walls. There are dizzy glimpses into the gulf below. With steam shut off andbrakes partly on, the train curves sharply, hiding its eyes in manytunnels lest the passengers turn giddy. Strips of bright green meadow-land, where the Areuse flows calmly, alternate with places where theravine plunges into bottomless depths that have been chiselled out asby a giant ploughshare. Rogers pointed out the chosen views, while hissecretary ran from window to window, excited as a happy child. Suchscenery he had never known. It changed the entire content of his mind. Poetry he renounced finally before the first ten minutes were past. The descriptions that flooded his brain could be rendered only by the most dignified and stately prose, and he floundered among awelter of sonorous openings that later Albinia would read in Sydenhamand retail judiciously to the elder children from 'Father's foreignletters. ' 'We shall pass Bourcelles in a moment now! Look out! Be ready withyour handkerchief!' Rogers warned him, as the train emerged from thefinal tunnel and scampered between thick pine woods, emblazoned hereand there with golden beeches. The air was crystal, sparkling. Theycould smell the forests. They took their places side by side at the windows. The heights ofBoudry and La Tourne, that stand like guardian sentries on either sideof the mountain gateway, were already cantering by. The precipicesflew past. Beyond lay the smiling slopes of vineyard, field, andorchard, sprinkled with farms and villages, of which Bourcelles camefirst. The Areuse flowed peacefully towards the lake. The panorama ofthe snowy Alps rolled into view along the farther horizon, and theslanting autumn sunshine bathed the entire scene with a soft and ruddylight. They entered the Fairyland of Daddy's story. 'Voila la sentinelle deja!' exclaimed Rogers, putting his head out tosee the village poplar. 'We run through the field that borders thegarden of the Pension. They'll come out to wave to us. Be ready. ' 'Ah, oui, ' said Minks, who had been studying phrase books, 'je vwa. 'But in reality he saw with difficulty, for a spark had got into hiseye, and its companion optic, wandering as usual, was suffused withwater too. The news of their arrival had, of course, preceded them, and the rowof waving figures in the field gave them a welcome that went straightto Minks's heart. He felt proud for his grand employer. Here was ahuman touch that would modify the majesty of the impersonal mountainscenery in his description. He waved his handkerchief frantically asthe train shot past, and he hardly knew which attracted him most--theexpression of happiness on Mr. Rogers's face, or the line ofnondescript humanity that gesticulated in the field as though theywished to stop the Paris 'Rapide. ' For it was a _very_ human touch; and either Barnum's Circus or thebyeways and hedges of Fairyland had sent their picked representativeswith a dance seen usually only in shy moonlit glades. His master namedthem as the carriage rattled by. The Paris Express, of course, did notstop at little Bourcelles. Minks recognised each one easily from thedescriptions in the story. The Widow Jequier, with garden skirts tucked high, and wearing biggauntlet gloves, waved above her head a Union Jack that knocked herbonnet sideways at every stroke, and even enveloped the black triangleof a Trilby hat that her brother-in-law held motionless aloft asthough to test the wind for his daily report upon the condition of lebarometre. The Postmaster never waved. He looked steadily before himat the passing train, his small, black figure more than usuallydwarfed by a stately outline that rose above the landscape by hisside, and was undoubtedly the Woman of the Haystack. Telling linesfrom the story's rhymes flashed through Minks's memory as, chucklingwith pleasure, he watched the magnificent, ample gestures of Mother'swaving arms. She seemed to brush aside the winds who came a-courting, although wide strokes of swimming really described her movements best. A little farther back, in the middle distance, he recognised by hispeaked cap the gendarme, Gygi, as he paused in his digging and lookedup to watch the fun; and beyond him again, solid in figure as she wasunchanging in her affections, he saw Mrs. Postmaster, struggling witha bed sheet the _pensionnaires des Glycines_ helped her shake in theevening breeze. It was too close upon the hour of _souper_ for her totravel farther from the kitchen. And beside her stood Miss Waghorn, waving an umbrella. She was hatless. Her tall, thin figure, dressed inblack, against the washing hung out to dry, looked like a note ofexclamation, or, when she held the umbrella up at right angles, like acapital L the fairies had set in the ground upon its head. And the fairies themselves, the sprites, the children! They wereeverywhere and anywhere. Jimbo flickered, went out, reappeared, thenflickered again; he held a towel in one hand and a table napkin in theother. Monkey seemed more in the air than on the solid earth, for oneminute she was obviously a ball, and the next, with a motion like asomersault, her hair shot loose across the sunlight as though sheflew. Both had their mouths wide open, shouting, though the windcarried their words all away unheard. And Jane Anne stood apart. Herwelcome, if the gesture is capable of being described at all, was abow. She moved at the same time sedately across the field, as thoughshe intended to be seen separately from the rest. She wore hat andgloves. She was evidently in earnest with her welcome. But Mr. JohnHenry Campden, the author and discoverer of them all, Minks did notsee. 'But I don't see the writer himself!' he cried. 'I don't see Mr. Campden. ' 'You can't, ' explained Rogers, 'he's standing behind his wife. ' And the little detail pleased the secretary hugely. The true artist, he reflected, is never seen in his work. It all was past and over--in thirty seconds. The spire of the church, rising against a crimson sky, with fruit trees in the foreground and aline of distant summits across the shining lake, replaced the row ofwonderful dancing figures. Rogers sank back in his corner, laughing, and Minks, saying nothing, went across to his own at the other end ofthe compartment. It all had been so swift and momentary that it seemedlike the flash of a remembered dream, a strip of memory's pictures, avivid picture of some dazzling cinematograph. Minks felt as if he hadjust read the entire story again from one end to the other--in thirtyseconds. He felt different, though wherein exactly the difference laywas beyond him to discover. 'It must be the spell of Bourcelles, ' hemurmured to himself. 'Mr. Rogers warned me about it. It is a Fairylandthat thought has created out of common things. It is quite wonderful!'He felt a glow all over him. His mind ran on for a moment to anotherpicture his master had painted for him, and he imagined Albinia andthe family out here, living in a little house on the borders of theforest, a strip of vineyards, sunlight, mountains, happy scentedwinds, and himself with a writing-table before a window overlookingthe lake. .. Writing down Beauty. CHAPTER XXXIII We never meet; yet we meet day by day Upon those hills of life, dim and immense: The good we love, and sleep-our innocence. O hills of life, high hills! And higher than they, Our guardian spirits meet at prayer and play. Beyond pain, joy, and hope, and long suspense, Above the summits of our souls, far hence, An angel meets an angel on the way. Beyond all good I ever believed of thee Or thou of me, these always love and live. And though I fail of thy ideal of me, My angel falls not short. They greet each other. Who knows, they may exchange the kiss we give, Thou to thy crucifix, I to my mother. ALICE MCYNELL. The arrival at the station interrupted the reverie in which thesecretary and his chief both were plunged. 'How odd, ' exclaimed Minks, ever observant, as he leaped from thecarriage, 'there are no platforms. Everything in Switzerland seems onone level, even the people--everything, that is, except themountains. ' 'Switzerland _is_ the mountains, ' laughed his chief. Minks laughed too. 'What delicious air!' he added, filling his lungsaudibly. He felt half intoxicated with it. After some delay they discovered a taxi-cab, piled the luggage on toit, and were whirled away towards a little cluster of lights thattwinkled beneath the shadows of La Tourne and Boudry. Bourcelles layfive miles out. 'Remember, you're not my secretary here, ' said Rogers presently, asthe forests sped by them. 'You're just a travelling companion. ' 'I understand, ' he replied after a moment's perplexity. 'You have asecretary here already. ' 'His name is Jimbo. ' The motor grunted its way up the steep hill above Colombier. Belowthem spread the vines towards the lake, sprinkled with lights of farmsand villages. As the keen evening air stole down from forest andmountain to greet them, the vehicle turned into the quiet villagestreet. Minks saw the big humped shoulders of La Citadelle, thetapering church spire, the trees in the orchard of the Pension. Cudrefin, smoking a cigar at the door of his grocery shop, recognisedthem and waved his hand. A moment later Gygi lifted his peaked hat andcalled 'bon soir, bonne nuit, ' just as though Rogers had never goneaway at all. Michaud, the carpenter, shouted his welcome as hestrolled towards the Post Office farther down to post a letter, andthen the motor stopped with a jerk outside the courtyard where thefountain sang and gurgled in its big stone basin. Minks saw the planetree. He glanced up at the ridged backbone of the building. What aportentous looking erection it was. It seemed to have no windows. Hewondered where the famous Den was. The roof overlapped like a gianthood, casting a deep shadow upon the cobbled yard. Overhead the starsshone faintly. Instantly a troop of figures shot from the shadow and surrounded them. There was a babel of laughter, exclamations, questions. Minks thoughtthe stars had fallen. Children and constellations were mingled alltogether, it seemed. Both were too numerous to count. All were rushingwith the sun towards Hercules at a dizzy speed. 'And this is my friend, Mr. Minks, ' he heard repeated from time totime, feeling his hand seized and shaken before he knew what he wasabout. Mother loomed up and gave him a stately welcome too. 'He wears gloves in Bourcelles!' some one observed audibly to some oneelse. 'Excuse me! This is Riquette!' announced a big girl, hatless like therest, with shining eyes. 'It's a she. ' 'And this is my secretary, Mr. Jimbo, ' said Rogers, breathlessly, emerging from a struggling mass. Minks and Jimbo shook hands withdignity. 'Your room is over at the Michauds, as before. ' 'And Mr. Mix is at the Pension--there was no other room to be had---' 'Supper's at seven---' 'Tante Jeanne's been _grand-cieling_ all day with excitement. She'llburst when she sees you!' 'She's read the story, too. Elle dit que c'est le bouquet!' 'There's new furniture in the salon, and they've cleaned the sinkwhile you've been away!. .. ' The author moved forward out of the crowd. At the same moment anotherfigure, slight and shadowy, revealed itself, outlined against thewhite of the gleaming street. It had been hidden in the tangle of thestars. It kept so quiet. 'Countess, may I introduce him to you, ' he said, seizing the momentarypause. There was little ceremony in Bourcelles. 'This is my cousin Itold you about--Mr. Henry Rogers. You must know one another at once. He's Orion in the story. ' He dragged up his big friend, who seemed suddenly awkward, difficultto move. The children ran in and out between them like playingpuppies, tumbling against each in turn. 'They don't know which is which, ' observed Jinny, watching theintroduction. Her voice ran past him like the whir of a shooting starthrough space--far, far away. 'Excuse me!' she cried, as she cannonedoff Monkey against Cousinenry. 'I'm not a terminus! This is a regularshipwreck!' The three elder ones drew aside a little from the confusion. 'The Countess, ' resumed Daddy, as soon as they were safe fromimmediate destruction, 'has come all the way from Austria to see us. She is staying with us for a few days. Isn't it delightful? We callher the little Grafin. ' His voice wumbled a trifle thickly in hisbeard. 'She was good enough to like the story--our story, you know--and wrote to me---' 'My story, ' said a silvery, laughing voice. And Rogers bowed politely, and with a moment's dizziness, at twobright smiling eyes that watched him out of the little shadow standingbetween him and the children. He was aware of grandeur. He stood there, first startled, then dazed. She was so small. Butsomething about her was so enormous. His inner universe turned overand showed its under side. The hidden thing that so long had brushedhis daily life came up utterly close and took him in its giganticarms. He stared like an unmannered child. _Something had lit the world_. .. . 'This _is_ delicious air, ' he heard Minks saying to his cousin in thedistance--to his deaf side judging by the answer: 'Delicious here--yes, isn't it?' _Something had lit the stars. _. .. Minks and his cousin continued idly talking. Their voices twitteredlike birds in empty space. The children had scattered like marblesfrom a spinning-top. Their voices and footsteps sounded in the cobbledyard of La Citadelle, as they scampered up to prepare for supper. Mother sailed solemnly after them, more like a frigate than ever. Theworld, on fire, turned like a monstrous Catherine wheel within hisbrain. _Something had lit the universe. _. .. He stood there in the dusk beneath the peeping stars, facing theslender little shadow. It was all he saw at first--this tiny figure. Demure and soft, it remained motionless before him, a hint ofchildhood's wonder in its graceful attitude. He was aware of somethingmischievous as well--that laughed at him. .. . He realised then that shewaited for him to speak. Yet, for the life of him, he could find nowords, because the eyes, beneath the big-brimmed hat with itsfluttering veil, looked out at him as though some formidable wildcreature watched him from the opening of its cave. There was a glintof amber in them. The heart in him went thumping. He caught hisbreath. Out, jerked, then, certain words that he tried hard to makeordinary--- 'But surely--we have met before--I think I know you---' He just said it, swallowing his breath with a gulp upon the unfinishedsentence. But he said it--somewhere else, and not here in the twilightstreet of little Bourcelles. For his sight swam somehow far away, andhe was giddy with the height. The roofs of the houses lay in a sea ofshadow below him, and the street wound through them like a ribbon ofthin lace. The tree-tops waved very softly in a wind that purred andsighed beneath his feet, and this wind was a violet little wind, thatbent them all one way and set the lines and threads of gold a-quiverto their fastenings. For the fastenings were not secure; any minute hemight fall. And the threads, he saw, all issued like rays from twocentral shining points of delicate, transparent amber, radiating forthinto an exquisite design that caught the stars. Yet the stars were notreflected in them. It was they who lit the stars. .. . He _was_ dizzy. He tried speech again. 'I told you I _should_--' But it was not said aloud apparently. Two little twinkling feet were folded. Two hands, he saw, stretcheddown to draw him close. These very stars ran loose about him in acloud of fiery sand. Their pattern danced in flame. He picked outSirius, Aldebaran--the Pleiades! There was tumult in his blood, a wildand exquisite confusion. What in the world had happened to him that heshould behave in this ridiculous fashion? Yet he was doing nothing. Itwas only that, for a passing instant, the enormous thing his life hadbeen dimly conscious of so long, rose at last from its subterraneanhiding-place and overwhelmed him. This picture that came with it waslike some far-off dream he suddenly recovered. A glorious excitementcaught him. He felt utterly bewildered. 'Have we?' he heard close in front of him. 'I do not think I have hadthe pleasure'--it was with a slightly foreign accent--'but it is sodim here, and one cannot see very well, perhaps. ' And a ripple of laughter passed round some gigantic whispering galleryin the sky. It set the trellis-work of golden threads all trembling. He felt himself perched dizzily in this shaking web that swung throughspace. And with him was some one whom he knew. .. . He heard the wordsof a song: 'Light desire With their fire. ' _Something had lit his heart. _. .. He lost himself again, disgracefully. A mist obscured his sight, though with the eyes of his mind he still saw crystal-clear. Acrossthis mist fled droves and droves of stars. They carried him out ofhimself--out, out, out!. .. His upper mind then made a vehement effortto recover equilibrium. An idea was in him that some one wouldpresently turn a somersault and disappear. The effort had a result, itseemed, for the enormous thing passed slowly away again into thecaverns of his under-self, . .. And he realised that he was conductinghimself in a foolish and irresponsible manner, which Minks, inparticular, would disapprove. He was staring rudely--at a shadow, orrather, at two eyes in a shadow. With another effort--oh, how ithurt!--he focused sight again upon surface things. It seemed his turnto say something. 'I beg your pardon, ' he stammered, 'but I thought--it seemed to me fora moment--that I--remembered. ' The face came close as he said it. He saw it clear a moment. Thefigure grew defined against the big stone fountain--the little handsin summer cotton gloves, the eyes beneath the big brimmed hat, thestreaming veil. Then he went lost again--more gloriously than before. Instead of the human outline in the dusky street of Bourcelles, hestared at the host of stars, at the shimmering design of gold, at thePleiades, whose fingers of spun lustre swung the Net loose across theworld. .. . 'Flung from huge Orion's hand. .. ' he caught in a golden whisper, 'Sweetly linking All our thinking. .. . ' His cousin and Minks, he was aware vaguely, had left him. He was alonewith her. A little way down the hill they turned and called to him. Hemade a frantic effort--there seemed just time--to plunge away intospace and seize the cluster of lovely stars with both his hands. Headlong, he dived off recklessly. .. Driving at a fearful speed, . .. When--the whole thing vanished into a gulf of empty blue, and he foundhimself running, not through the sky to clutch the Pleiades, butheavily downhill towards his cousin and Minks. It was a most abrupt departure. There was a curious choking in histhroat. His heart ran all over his body. Something white and sparklingdanced madly through his brain. What must she think of him? 'We've just time to wash ourselves and hurry over to supper, ' hiscousin said, as he overtook them, flustered and very breathless. Minkslooked at him--regarded him, rather--astonishment, almost disapproval, in one eye, and in the other, apparently observing the vineyards, amild rebuke. He walked beside them in a dream. The sound of Colombier's bellsacross Planeyse, men's voices singing fragments of a Dalcroze songfloated to him, and with them all the dear familiar smells:-- Le coeur de ma mie Est petit, tout petit petit, J'en ai l'ame ravie. .. . It was Minks, drawing the keen air noisily into his lungs in greatdraughts, who recalled him to himself. 'I could find my way here without a guide, Mr. Campden, ' he was sayingdiffidently, burning to tell how the Story had moved him. 'It's all sovivid, I can almost see the Net. I feel in it, ' and he waved one handtowards the sky. The other thanked him modestly. 'That's your power of visualisingthen, ' he added. 'My idea was, of course, that every mind in the worldis related with every other mind, and that there's no escape--we areall prisoners. The responsibility is vast. ' 'Perfectly. I've always believed it. Ah! if only one could _live_ it!' Rogers heard this clearly. But it seemed that another heard it withhim. Some one very close beside him shared the hearing. He hadrecovered from his temporary shock. Only the wonder remained. Life wassheer dazzling glory. The talk continued as they hurried along theroad together. Rogers became aware then that his cousin was givinginformation--meant for himself. '. .. A most charming little lady, indeed. She comes from over there, 'and he pointed to where the Pleiades were climbing the sky towards theEast, 'in Austria somewhere. She owns a big estate among themountains. She wrote to me--I've had _such_ encouraging letters, youknow, from all sorts of folk--and when I replied, she telegraphed toask if she might come and see me. She seems fond of telegraphing, rather. ' And he laughed as though he were speaking of an ordinaryacquaintance. 'Charming little lady!' The phrase was like the flick of a lash. Rogers had known it applied to such commonplace women. 'A most intelligent face, ' he heard Minks saying, 'quite beautiful, _I_ thought--the beauty of mind and soul. ' '. .. Mother and the children took to her at once, ' his cousin's voicewent on. 'She and her maid have got rooms over at the Beguins. And, doyou know, a most singular coincidence, ' he added with some excitement, 'she tells me that ever since childhood she's had an idea like this--like the story, I mean--an idea of her own she always wanted to writebut couldn't-----' 'Of course, of course, ' interrupted Rogers impatiently; and then headded quickly, 'but how _very_ extraordinary!' 'The idea that Thought makes a network everywhere about the world inwhich we all are caught, and that it's a positive duty, therefore, tothink beauty--as much a duty as washing one's face and hands, becausewhat you think _touches_ others all day long, and all night long too--in sleep. ' 'Only she couldn't write it?' asked Rogers. His tongue was like athick wedge of unmanageable wood in his mouth. He felt like a man whohears another spoil an old, old beautiful story that he knows himselfwith intimate accuracy. 'She can telegraph, she says, but she can't write!' 'An expensive talent, ' thought the practical Minks. 'Oh, she's very rich, apparently. But isn't it odd? You see, shethought it vividly, played it, lived it. Why, she tells me she evenhad a Cave in her mountains where lost thoughts and lost starlightcollected, and that she made a kind of Pattern with them to representthe Net. She showed me a drawing of it, for though she can't write, she paints quite well. But the odd thing is that she claims to havethought out the main idea of my own story years and years ago with thefeeling that some day her idea was bound to reach some one who_would_ write it---' 'Almost a case of transference, ' put in Minks. 'A fairy tale, yes, isn't it!' 'Married?' asked Rogers, with a gulp, as they reached the door. Butapparently he had not said it out loud, for there was no reply. He tried again less abruptly. It required almost a physical effort todrive his tongue and frame the tremendous question. 'What a fairy story for her children! How _they_ must love it!' Thistime he spoke so loud that Minks started and looked up at him. 'Ah, but she has no children, ' his cousin said. They went upstairs, and the introductions to Monsieur and MadameMichaud began, with talk about rooms and luggage. The mist was overhim once more. He heard Minks saying:-- 'Oui, je comprongs un poo, ' and the clatter of heavy boots up and downthe stairs, . .. And then found himself washing his hands in stinginghot water in his cousin's room. 'The children simply adore her already, ' he heard, 'and she wonMother's confidence at the very start. They can't manage her longname. They just call her the Little Countess--die kleine Grafin. She'sdoing a most astonishing work in Austria, it seems, with children. .. The Montessori method, and all that. .. . ' 'By George, now; is it possible? Bourcelles accepted her at oncethen?' 'She accepted Bourcelles rather--took it bodily into herself--ourpoverty, our magic boxes, our democratic intimacy, and all the rest;it was just as though she had lived here with us always. And she keptasking who Orion was--that's you, of course--and why you weren'there---' 'And the Den too?' asked Rogers, with a sudden trembling in his heart, yet knowing well the answer. 'Simply appropriated it--came in naturally without being asked; Jimboopened the door and Monkey pushed her in. She said it was her StarCave. Oh, she's a remarkable being, you know, rather, ' he went on moregravely, 'with unusual powers of sympathy. She seems to feel at oncewhat you are feeling. Takes everything for granted as though she knew. I think she _does_ know, if you ask me---' 'Lives the story in fact, ' the other interrupted, hiding his facerather in the towel, 'lives her belief instead of dreaming it, eh?' 'And, fancy this!' His voice had a glow and softness in it as he saidit, coming closer, and almost whispering, 'she wants to take Jinny andMonkey for a bit and educate them. ' He stood away to watch the effectof the announcement. 'She even talks of sending Edward to Oxford, too!' He cut a kind of wumbled caper in his pleasure and excitement. 'She loves children then, evidently?' asked the other, with a coolnessthat was calculated to hide other feelings. He rubbed his face in therough towel as though the skin must come off. Then, suddenly droppingthe towel, he looked into his cousin's eyes a moment to ensure aproper answer. 'Longs for children of her own, I think, ' replied the author; 'onesees it, feels it in all she says and does. Rather sad, you know, that! An unmarried mother---' 'In fact, ' put in Rogers lightly, 'the very character you needed toplay the principal role in your story. When you write the longerversion in book form you'll have to put her in. ' 'And find her a husband too--which is a bore. I never write lovestories, you see. She's finer as she is at present--mothering theworld. ' Rogers's face, as he brushed his hair carefully before the twistedmirror, was not visible. There came a timid knock at the door. 'I'm ready, gentlemen, when you are, ' answered the voice of Minksoutside. They went downstairs together, and walked quickly over to the Pensionfor supper. Rogers moved sedately enough so far as the others saw, yetinwardly he pranced like a fiery colt in harness. There were goldenreins about his neck. Two tiny hands directed him from the Pleiades. In this leash of sidereal fire he felt as though he flew. Swiftthought, flashing like a fairy whip, cut through the air from animmense distance, and urged him forwards. Some one expected him and hewas late--years and years late. Goodness, how his companions crawledand dawdled! '. .. She doesn't come over for her meals, ' he heard, 'but she'll joinus afterwards at the Den. You'll come too, won't you, Mr. Minks?' 'Thank you, I shall be most happy--if I'm not intruding, ' was thereply as they passed the fountain near the courtyard of the Citadelle. The musical gurgle of its splashing water sounded to Rogers like avoice that sang over and over again, 'Come up, come up, come up! Youmust come up to me!' 'How brilliant your stars are out here, Mr. Campden, ' Minks was sayingwhen they reached the door of La Poste. He stood aside to let theothers pass before him. He held the door open politely. 'No wonder youchose them as the symbol for thought and sympathy in your story. ' Andthey climbed the narrow, creaking stairs and entered the little hallwhere the entire population of the Pension des Glycines awaited themwith impatience. The meal dragged out interminably. Everybody had so much to say. Minks, placed between Mother and Miss Waghorn, talked volubly to thelatter and listened sweetly to all her stories. The excitement of theBig Story, however, was in the air, and when she mentioned that shelooked forward to reading it, he had no idea, of course, that she hadalready done so at least three times. The Review had replaced hercustomary Novel. She went about with it beneath her arm. Minks, feeling friendly and confidential, informed her that he, too, sometimes wrote, and when she noted the fact with a deferential phrase about 'you men of letters, ' he rose abruptly to the seventh heaven ofcontentment. Mother meanwhile, on the other side, took him bodily intoher great wumbled heart. 'Poor little chap, ' her attitude saidplainly, 'I don't believe his wife half looks after him. ' Before theend of supper she knew all about Frank and Ronald, the laburnum treein the front garden, what tea they bought, and Albinia's plan formaking coal last longer by mixing it with coke. Tante Jeanne talked furiously and incessantly, her sister-in-law toldher latest dream, and the Postmaster occasionally cracked a solemnjoke, laughing uproariously long before the point appeared. It was amerry, noisy meal, and Henry Rogers sat through it upon a throne thatwas slung with golden ropes from the stars. He was in Fairyland again. Outside, the Pleiades were rising in the sky, and somewhere inBourcelles--in the rooms above Beguin's shop, to be exact--some onewas waiting, ready to come over to the Den. His thoughts flew wildly. Passionate longing drove behind them. 'You must come up to me, ' heheard. They all were Kings and Queens. He played his part, however; no one seemed to notice hispreoccupation. The voices sounded now far, now near, as though somewind made sport with them; the faces round him vanished andreappeared; but he contrived cleverly, so that none remarked upon hisabsent-mindedness. Constellations do not stare at one another much. 'Does your Mother know you're "out"?' asked Monkey once beside him--itwas the great joke now, since the Story had been read--and as soon asshe was temporarily disposed of, Jimbo had serious information toimpart from the other side. 'She's a real Countess, ' he said, speakingas man to man. 'I suppose if she went to London she'd know the King--visit him, like that?' Bless his little heart! Jimbo always knew the important things to talkabout. There were bursts of laughter sometimes, due usually to statementsmade abruptly by Jane Anne--as when Mother, discussing the garden withMinks, reviled the mischievous birds:-- 'They want thinning badly, ' she said. 'Why don't they take more exercise, then?' inquired Jinny gravely. And in these gusts of laughter Rogers joined heartily, as though heknew exactly what the fun was all about. In this way he deceivedeverybody and protected himself from discovery. And yet it seemed tohim that he shouted his secret aloud, not with his lips indeed, butwith his entire person. Surely everybody knew it. .. ! He was self-conscious as a schoolgirl. 'You must come up--to me, ' rang continuously through his head likebells. 'You must come up to me. ' CHAPTER XXXIV How many times do I love thee, dear? Tell me how many thoughts there be In the atmosphere Of a new fall'n year, Whose white and sable hours appear The latest flake of Eternity:-- So many times do I love thee, dear. How many times do I love again? Tell me how many beads there are In a silver chain Of evening rain, Unravelled from the tumbling main, And threading the eye of a yellow star:-- So many times do I love again. THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES. A curious deep shyness settled upon Henry Rogers as they all troopedover to the Den. The others gabbled noisily, but to him words camewith difficulty. He felt like a boy going up for some great test, examination, almost for judgment. There was an idea in him that hemust run and hide somewhere. He saw the huge outline of Orion tiltingup above the Alps, slanting with the speed of his eternal hunt toseize the Pleiades who sailed ever calmly just beyond his giant arms. Yet what that old Hunter sought was at last within his reach. He knewit, and felt the awe of capture rise upon him. 'You've eaten so much supper you can't speak, ' said Monkey, whose handwas in his coat-pocket for loose chicken-feed, as she called centimes. 'The Little Countess will _regler ton affaire_ all right. Just waittill she gets at you. ' 'You love her?' he asked gently, feeling little disposed to play. The child's reply was cryptic, yet uncommonly revealing:-- 'She's just like a relation. It's so funny she didn't know us long, long ago--find us out, I mean. ' 'Mother likes her awfully, ' added Jimbo, as though that establishedthe matter of her charm for ever. 'It's a pity she's not a man'--justto show that Cousinenry's position was not endangered. They chattered on. Rogers hardly remembers how he climbed the longstone steps. He found himself in the Den. It came about with a suddenjump as in dreams. _She_ was among them before the courtyard wascrossed; she had gone up the steps immediately in front of him. .. . Jinny was bringing in the lamp, while Daddy struggled with a load ofpeat for the fire, getting in everybody's way. Riquette stoodsilhouetted against the sky upon the window sill. Jimbo used thebellows. A glow spread softly through the room. He caught sight ofMinks standing rather helplessly beside the sofa talking to Jane Anne, and picking at his ear as he always did when nervous or slightly illat ease. He wondered vaguely what she was saying to him. He lookedeverywhere but at the one person for whose comfort the others were soenergetic. His eyes did not once turn in her direction, yet he knew exactly howshe was dressed, what movements she made, where she stood, the verywords, indeed, she used, and in particular the expression of her faceto each in turn. For he was guilty of a searching inner scrutiny hecould not control. And, above all, he was aware, with a divine, tumultuous thrill, that she, for her part, also neither looked at himnor uttered one sentence that he could take as intended for himself. Because, of course, all she said and did and looked _were_ meant forhim, and her scrutiny was even closer and more searching than his own. In the Den that evening there was one world within another, thoughonly these two, and probably the intuitive and diabolically observantMinks, perceived it. The deep furnaces of this man's inner being, banked now so long that mere little flames had forgotten their wayout, lay open at last to that mighty draught before whose fusing powerthe molten, fluid state becomes inevitable. 'You must come up to me' rang on in his head like a chime of bells. 'Othink Beauty: it's your duty. .. . ' The chairs were already round the open fireplace, when Monkey pushedhim into the big one with the broken springs he always used, andestablished herself upon his knee. Jimbo was on the other in atwinkling. Jane Anne plumped down upon the floor against him. Her hairwas up, and grown-ups might sit as they pleased. Minks in a hard, straight-backed chair, firmly assured everybody that he wasexceedingly comfortable and really preferred stiff chairs. He foundsafety next to Mother who, pleased and contented, filled one corner ofthe sofa and looked as though she occupied a pedestal. Beyond herperched Daddy, on the music stool, leaning his back against theunlighted fourneau. The Wumble Book was balanced on his knees, andbeside him sat the little figure of the visitor who, though at theend, was yet somehow the true centre of the circle. Rogers saw herslip into her unimportant place. She took her seat, he thought, assoftly as a mouse. For no one seemed to notice her. She was soperfectly at home among them. In her little folded hands the Den andall its occupants seemed cared for beyond the need of words ordefinite action. And, although her place was the furthest possibleremove from his own, he felt her closer to him than the very childrenwho nestled upon his knees. Riquette then finally, when all were settled, stole in to complete thecircle. She planted herself in the middle of the hearth before themall, looked up into their faces, decided that all was well, and beganplacidly to wash her face and back. A leg shot up, from the middle ofher back apparently, as a signal that they might talk. A moment latershe composed herself into that attitude of dignified security possibleonly to the feline species. She made the fourth that inhabited thisworld within a world. Rogers, glancing up suddenly from observing her, caught---for the merest fraction of an instant--a flash of starfire inthe air. It darted across to him from the opposite end of the horse-shoe. Behind it flickered the tiniest smile a human countenance couldpossibly produce. 'Little mouse who, lost in wonder, Flicks its whiskers at the thunder. ' It was Jane Anne repeating the rhyme for Minks's benefit. Howappropriately it came in, he thought. And voices were set instantly inmotion; it seemed that every one began to speak at once. Who finally led the conversation, or what was actually said at first, he has no more recollection than the man in the moon, for he onlyheard the silvery music of a single voice. And that came rarely. Hefelt washed in glory from head to foot. In a dream of happy starlighthe swam and floated. He hid his face behind the chair of Monkey, andhis eyes were screened below the welcome shelter of Jimbo's shoulder. The talk meanwhile flowed round the horse-shoe like a river thatcurves downhill. Life ran past him, while he stood on the banks andwatched. He reconstructed all that happened, all that was said anddone, each little movement, every little glance of the eye. Thesecommon things he recreated. For, while his body sat in the Den beforea fire of peat, with children, a cat, a private secretary, three veryordinary people and a little foreign visitor, his spirit floated highabove the world among the immensities of suns and starfields. He wasin the Den, but the Den was in the universe, and to the scale of theuniverse he set the little homely, commonplace picture. Life, herealised, _is_ thought and feeling; and just then he thought and feltlike a god. He was Orion, and Orion had at last overtaken thePleiades. The fairest of the cluster lay caught within his giant arms. The Enormous Thing that so long had haunted him with hints of itsapproach, rose up from his under-self, and possessed him utterly. And, oh, the glory of it, the splendour, the intoxication! In the dim corner where _she_ sat, the firelight scarcely showed herface, yet every shade of expression that flitted across her featureshe saw unobscured. The sparkling, silvery sentences she spoke fromtime to time were volumes that interpreted life anew. For years he hadpored over these thick tomes, but heavily and without understanding. The little things she said now supplied the key. Mind and brain playedno part in this. It was simply that he heard--and knew. He re-discovered her from their fragments, piece by piece. .. . The general talk flowed past him in a stream of sound, cut up intolengths by interrupting consonants, and half ruined by this arbitrarydivision; but what _she_ said always seemed the living idea that laybehind the sound. He could not explain it otherwise. With herself, and with Riquette, and possibly with little, dreaming Minks, he satfirmly at the centre of this inner world. The others, even thechildren, hovered about its edges, trying to get in. That tiny smilehad flashed its secret, ineffable explanation into him. Starlight wasin his blood. .. . Mother, for instance, he vaguely knew, was speaking of the years theyall had lived in Bourcelles, of the exquisite springs, of the fairy, gorgeous summers. It was the most ordinary talk imaginable, though itcame sincerely from her heart. 'If only you had come here earlier, ' she said, 'when the forest was sothick with flowers. ' She enumerated them one by one. 'Now, in theautumn, there are so few!' The little sparkling answer lit the forest glades afresh with colour, perfume, wonder:-- 'But the autumn flowers, I think, are the sweetest; for they have thebeauty of all the summer in them. ' A slight pause followed, and then all fell to explaining the shininglittle sentence until its lustre dimmed and disappeared beneath thesmother of their words. In himself, however, who heard them not, a newconstellation swam above the horizon of his inner world. Riquettelooked slyly up and blinked. She purred more deeply, but she made nostupid sign. .. . And Daddy mentioned then the forest spell that captured the entirevillage with its peace and softness--'all so rough and big andtumbled, and yet every detail so exquisitely finished and thought out, you know. ' Out slipped the softest little fairy phrase imaginable from her dimcorner then:-- 'Yes, like hand-made things--you can almost see the hand that madethem. ' And Rogers started so perceptibly that Jimbo shifted his weight alittle, thinking he must be uncomfortable. He had surely used thatvery phrase himself! It was familiar. Even when using it he rememberedwondering whence its sweetness had dropped into his clumsier mind. Minks uncrossed his legs, glanced up at him a moment, then crossedthem again. He made this sign, but, like Riquette, he said nothing. .. . The stream flowed on and on. Some one told a story. There was hushedattentive listening, followed suddenly by bursts of laughter anddelight. Who told it, or what it was about, Rogers had no notion. Monkey dug him in the ribs once because apparently he grunted at thewrong moment, and Jimbo chided her beneath his breath--'Let him have anap if he wants to; a man's always tired after a long journey likethat. .. !' Some one followed with another story--Minks, was it, thistime?--for Rogers caught his face, as through a mist, turningconstantly to Mother for approval. It had to do with a vision of greatthings that had come to a little insignificant woman on a bed ofsickness. He recognised the teller because he knew the tale of old. The woman, he remembered, was Albinia's grandmother, and Minks wasvery proud of it. 'That's a _very_ nice story, ' rippled from the dim corner when it wasover. 'For I like everything so tiny that you can find it inside ashell. That's the way to understand big things and to do them. ' And again the phrase was as familiar to him as though he had said ithimself--heard it, read it, dreamed it, even. Whatever its fairysource, he knew it. His bewilderment increased absurdly. The thingsshe said were so ordinary, yet so illuminating, though never quitebetraying their secret source. Where had he heard them? Where had hemet this little foreign visitor? Whence came the singular certaintythat she shared this knowledge with him, and might presently explainit, all clear as daylight and as simple? He had the odd impressionthat she played with him, delayed purposely the moment of revelation, even expected that _he_ would be the first to make it known. Thedisclosure was to come from himself! She provided him withopportunities--these little sparkling sentences! But he hid in hiscorner, silent and magically excited, afraid to take the lead. Thesesentences were addressed to him. There was conversation thus betweenthe two of them; but his replies remained inaudible. Thought makes nosound; its complete delivery is ever wordless. .. . He felt very big, and absurdly shy. It was gesture, however, that infallible shorthand of the mind, whichseemed the surest medium of this mute delightful intercourse. For eachlittle gesture that she made--unconsciously, of course--expressed morethan the swiftest language could have compassed in an hour. And henoted every one: the occasional flourish of the little hands, thebending of the graceful neck, the shadowy head turned sideways, thelift of one shoulder, almost imperceptible, and sometimes the attitudeof the entire body. To him they were, one and all, eloquentlyrevealing. Behind each little gesture loomed a yet larger one, thescale increasing strangely, till his thoughts climbed up them as up aladder into the region where her ideas lay naked before casualinterpretation clothed them. Those, he reflected, who are rich inideas, but find words difficult, may reveal themselves prodigally ingesture. Expression of one kind or another there must be; yet lavishaction, the language of big souls, seems a man's expression ratherthan a woman's. .. . He built up swiftly, surely, solidly hisinterpretation of this little foreign visitor who came to him thussuddenly from the stars, whispering to his inmost thought, 'You mustcome up to me. ' The whole experience dazed him. He sat in utterdumbness, shyer than a boy, but happier than a singing star!. .. TheJoy in his heart was marvellous. Yet how could he know all this? In the intervals that came to him like breathing spaces he askedhimself this childish question. How could he tell that this littlesoft being with the quiet unobtrusive manners had noble and greatbeauty of action in her anywhere? A few pretty phrases, a fewsignificant gestures, these were surely a slight foundation to buildso much upon! Was there, then, some absolute communion of thoughtbetween the two of them such as his cousin's story tried to show? Andhad their intercourse been running on for years, neither of them awareof it in the daytime? Was this intimate knowledge due to longacquaintance? Had her thought been feeding him perhaps since childhoodeven? In the pause of his temporary lunacy he asked himself a dozen similarquestions, but before the sign of any answer came he was off again, sweeping on outstretched wings among the stars. He drank her in. Heknew. What was the good of questions? A thirsty man does not stopmidway in his draught to ask when his thirst began, its cause, or whythe rush of liquid down his throat is satisfying. He knows, anddrinks. It seemed to Henry Rogers, ordinary man of business andpractical affairs, that some deep river which so long had flowed deepout of sight, hidden below his daily existence, rose now grandly atthe flood. He had heard its subterranean murmurs often. Here, in theDen, it had reached his lips at last. And he quenched his thirst. .. . His thought played round her without ceasing, like flowing water. .. . This idea of flux grew everywhere about him. There was fluid movementin this world within a world. All life was a flowing past of ceaselessbeauty, wonder, splendour; it was doubt and question that dammed therush, causing that stoppage which is ugly, petty, rigid. His beingflowed out to mingle with her own. It was all inevitable, and he neverreally doubted once. Only before long he would be compelled to act--tospeak--to tell her what he felt, and hear her dear, dear answer. .. . The excitement in him became more and more difficult to control. Already there was strain and tension below his apparent outercalmness. Life in him burst forward to a yet greater life than he hadever known. .. . The others--it was his cousin's voice this time--were speaking of theStory, and of his proposed treatment of it in its larger version as abook. Daddy was saying, apparently, that it must fail because he sawno climax for it. The public demanded a cumulative interest thatworked up to some kind of thrilling denouement that they called aclimax, whereas his tale was but a stretch of life, and of veryordinary life. And Life, for the majority, knew no such climax. Howcould he manage one without inventing something artificial? 'But the climax of life comes every day and every minute, ' he heardher answer--and how her little voice rang out above the others like abell!--'when you deny yourself for another, and that other does noteven know it. A day is lost that does not pin at least one sweetthought against each passing hour. ' And his inner construction took a further prodigious leap, as thesentence showed him the grand and simple motive of her being. It hadbeen his own as well, though he had stupidly bungled it in his searchto find something big enough to seem worth doing. She, he divined, found neighbours everywhere, losing no time. He had known a few rare, exquisite souls who lived for others, but here, close beside him atlast, was one of those still rarer souls who seem born to--die forothers. .. . They give so unsparingly of their best. .. . To hisimaginative interpretation of her he gave full rein. .. . And it wasinstantaneous as creation. .. . The voices of Minks and Mother renewed the stream of sound that sweptby him then, though he caught no words that were comparable in valueto these little singing phrases that she used from time to time. Jimbo, bored by the grown-up talk that took the place of expectedstories, had fallen asleep upon his shoulder; Monkey's hair, as usual, was in his eyes; he sat there listening and waiting with a heart thatbeat so loudly he thought the children must feel it and ask him whatwas the matter. Jinny stirred the peat from time to time. The room wasfull of shadows. But, for him, the air grew brighter every minute, andin this steady brilliance he saw the little figure rise and grow ingrandeur till she filled all space. 'You called it "getting out" while the body is asleep, ' came floatingthrough the air through the sound of Jimbo's breathing, 'whereas_I_ called it getting away from self while personal desire is asleep. But the idea is the same. .. . ' His cousin's words that called forth this criticism he had not heard. It was only her sentence that seemed to reach him. From the river of words and actions men call life she detained, itseemed to him, certain that were vital and important in somesymbolical sense; she italicised them, made them her own--then letthem go to join the main stream again. This selection was a kind ofgenius. The river did not overwhelm her as it overwhelms most, becausethe part of it she did not need for present action she ignored, whileyet she swam in the whole of it, shirking nothing. This was the way he saw her--immediately. And, whether it was his owninvention, or whether it was the divination of a man in the ecstasy ofsudden love, it was vital because he felt it, and it was real becausehe believed it. Then why seek to explain the amazing sense ofintimacy, the certainty that he had known her always? The thing was_there_; explanation could bring it no nearer. He let the explanationsgo their way; they floated everywhere within reach; he had only topocket them and take them home for study at his leisure afterwards--with her. 'But, we _shall_ come to it in time, ' he caught another flyingsentence that reached him through the brown tangle of Monkey's hair. It was spoken with eager emphasis. 'Does not every letter you writebegin with _dear_?. .. . ' All that she said added something to life, it seemed, like poetrywhich, he remembered, 'enriches the blood of the world. ' Theselections were not idle, due to chance, but belonged to some greatScheme, some fairy edifice she built out of the very stuff of her ownlife. Oh, how utterly he understood and knew her. The poison ofintellectuality, thank heaven, was not in her, yet she createdsomehow; for all she touched, with word or thought or gesture, turnedsuddenly alive in a way he had never known before. The world turnedbeautiful and simple at her touch. .. . Even the commonest things! It was miraculous, at least in its effectupon himself. Her simplicity escaped all signs of wumbling. She had nofavourite and particular Scheme for doing good, but did merely whatwas next her at the moment to be done. She _was_ good. In her littleperson glowed a great enthusiasm for life. She created neighbours. And, as the grandeur of her insignificance rose before him, his owngreat Scheme for Disabled Thingumabobs that once had filled theheavens, shrank down into the size of a mere mouse-trap that would gointo his pocket. In its place loomed up another that held the beautyof the Stars. How little, when announcing it to Minks weeks and weeksago, had he dreamed the form it was to take! And so, wrapped in this glory of the stars, he dreamed on in hiscorner, fashioning this marvellous interpretation of a woman he hadnever seen before, and never spoken with. It was all so different toordinary falling in love at sight, that the phrase never once occurredto him. It was consummated in a moment--out there, beside the fountainwhen he saw her first, shadowy, with brilliant, peering eyes. Itseemed perfect instantly, a recovery of something he had always known. And who shall challenge the accuracy of his vision, or call its suddenmaturity impossible? For where one sees the surface only, another seesthe potentialities below. To believe in these is to summon them intoactivity, just as to think the best of a person ever brings out thatbest. Are we not all potential splendours? Swiftly, in a second, he reviewed the shining sentences that revealedher to him: The 'autumn flowers'--she lived, then, in the Present, without that waste of energy which is regret! In 'a little shell' laythe pattern of all life, --she saw the universe in herself and lived, thus, in the Whole! To be 'out' meant forgetting self; and life'sclimax is at every minute of the day--she understood, that is, thegrowth of the soul, due to acceptance of what every minute brings, however practical, dull, uninteresting. By recreating the commonestthings, she found a star in each. And her world was made up ofneighbours--for 'every letter that one writes begins with_dear_!' The Pattern matured marvellously before his eyes; and its delicateembroideries, far out of sight, seemed the arabesques that yearnings, hitherto unfulfilled, had traced long long ago with the brush oftender thinking. Together, though at opposite ends of the world, thesetwo had woven the great Net of sympathy, thought, and longing in whichat last they both were prisoners . .. And with them all the earth. The figure of Jane Anne loomed before him like an ogress suddenly. 'Cousinenry, _will_ you answer or will you _not_? Daddy's alreadyasked you twenty times at least!' Then, below her breath, as she bentover him, 'The Little Countess will think you awf'ly rude if you go tosleep and snore like this. ' He looked up. He felt a trifle dazed. For a moment he had forgottenwhere he was. How dark the room had grown! Only--he was sure he hadnot snored. 'I beg your pardon, ' he stammered, 'but I was only thinking--howwonderful you--how wonderful it all is, isn't it? I was listening. Iheard perfectly. ' 'You were dozing, ' whispered Monkey. 'Daddy wants the Countess to tellyou how she knew the story long ago, or something. _Ecoute un peu, manvieux_!' 'I should love to hear it, ' he said, louder, sitting up so abruptly inhis chair that Jimbo tilted at a dangerous angle, though still withoutwaking. 'Please, please go on. ' And he listened then to the quiet, silvery language in which thelittle visitor described the scenery of her childhood, when, withoutbrothers or sisters, she was forced to play alone, and had amusedherself by imagining a Net of Constellations which she nailed byshooting stars to four enormous pine trees that grew across thetorrent. She described the great mountains that enclosed her father'sestate, her loneliness in this giant garden, due to his moroseseverity of character, her yearnings to escape and see the big worldbeyond the ridges. All her thought and longing went to the fashioningof this Net, and every night she flung it far across the peaks andvalleys to catch companions with whom she might play. The charactersin her fairy books came out of the pages to help her, and sometimeswhen they drew it in, it was so heavy with the people entangled in itsmeshes that they could scarcely move it. But the moment all were out, the giant Net, relieved of their weight, flew back into the sky. ThePleiades were its centre, because she loved the Pleiades best of all, and Orion pursued its bright shape with passion, yet could never quitecome up with it. 'And these people whom you caught, ' whispered Rogers from his corner, listening to a tale he knew as well as she did, 'you kept themprisoners?' 'I first put into them all the things I longed to do myself in the bigworld, and then flung them back again into their homes and towns andvillages---' 'Excepting one, ' he murmured. 'Who was so big and clumsy that he broke the meshes and so never gotaway. ' She laughed, while the children stared at their cousin, wondering how he knew as much as she did. 'He stayed with me, andshowed me how to make our prisoners useful afterwards by painting themall over with starlight which we collected in a cave. Then they wentback and dazzled others everywhere by their strange, alluringbrilliance. We made the whole world over in this way---' 'Until you lost him. ' 'One cloudy night he disappeared, yes, and I never found him again. There was a big gap between the Pleiades and Orion where he hadtumbled through. I named him Orion after that; and I would stand atnight beneath the four great pine trees and call and call, but invain. "You must come up to me! You must come up to me!" I called, butgot no answer---' 'Though you knew quite well where he had fallen to, and that he wasonly hiding---' 'Excuse me, but _how_ did she know?' inquired Jinny abruptly. The Little Countess laughed. 'I suppose--because the threads of theNet were so sensitive that they went on quivering long after hetumbled out, and so betrayed the direction---' 'And afterwards, when you got older, Grafin, ' interrupted Daddy, whowished his cousin to hear the details of the extraordinarycoincidence, 'you elaborated your idea---' 'Yes, that thought and yearning always fulfil themselves somewhere, somehow, sooner or later, ' she continued. 'But I kept the imagery ofmy Star Net in which all the world lies caught, and I used starlightas the symbol of that sympathy which binds every heart to every otherheart. At my father's death, you see, I inherited his property. Iescaped from the garden which had been so long my prison, and I triedto carry out in practical life what I had dreamed there as a child. Igot people together, where I could, and formed Thinkers' Guilds--people, that is, who agreed to think beauty, love, and tolerance atgiven hours in the day, until the habit, once formed, would runthrough all their lives, and they should go about as centres of light, sweetening the world. Few have riches, fewer still have talent, butall can think. At least, one would _think_ so, wouldn't one?'--with asmile and a fling of her little hands. She paused a moment, and then went on to describe her failure. Shetold it to them with laughter between her sentences, but among herlisteners was one at least who caught the undertone of sadness in thevoice. 'For, you see, that was where I made my mistake. People would doanything in the world rather than think. They would work, give money, build schools and hospitals, make all manner of sacrifices--only--theywould not think; because, they said, there was no visible result. ' Sheburst out laughing, and the children all laughed too. 'I should think not indeed, ' ventured Monkey, but so low that no oneheard her. 'And so you went on thinking it all alone, ' said Rogers in a lowvoice. 'I tried to write it first as a story, ' she answered softly, 'butfound that was beyond me; so I went on thinking it all alone, as yousay---' 'Until the Pattern of your thought floated across the world to me, 'said Daddy proudly. 'I imagined I was inspired; instead I was acommon, unoriginal plagiarist!' 'Like all the rest of us, ' she laughed. 'Mummie, what _is_ a plagiarist?' asked Jinny instantly; and asRogers, her husband, and even Minks came hurriedly to her aid, thespell of the strange recital was broken, and out of the turmoil ofvoices the only thing distinctly heard was Mother exclaiming withshocked surprise:-- 'Why, it's ten o'clock! Jimbo, Monkey, please plagiarise off to bed atonce!'--in a tone that admitted of no rejoinder or excuses. 'A most singular thing, isn't it, Henry?' remarked the author, comingacross to his side when the lamp was lit and the children had saidtheir good-nights. 'I really think we ought to report it to the Psychical Society as agenuine case of thought-transference. You see, what people neverproperly realise is---' But Henry Rogers lost the remainder of the sentence even if he heardthe beginning, for his world was in a state of indescribable turmoil, one emotion tumbling wildly upon the heels of another. He was elatedto intoxication. The room spun round him. The next second his heartsank down into his boots. He only caught the end of the words she wassaying to Mother across the room:-- '. .. But I must positively go to-morrow, I've already stayed too long. So many things are waiting at home for me to do. I must send atelegram and. .. . ' His cousin's wumbling drowned the rest. He was quite aware that Rogerswas not listening to him. '. .. Your great kindness in writing to him, and then coming yourself, 'Mother was saying. 'It's such an encouragement. I can't tell you howmuch he--we---' 'And you'll let me write to you about the children, ' she interrupted, 'the plans we discussed, you know. .. . ' Rogers broke away from his cousin with a leap. It felt at least like aleap. But he knew not where to go or what to say. He saw Minksstanding with Jane Anne again by the fourneau, picking at his ear. Bythe open window with Mother stood the little visitor. She was leavingto-morrow. A torturing pain like twisting knives went through him. Theuniverse was going out!. .. He saw the starry sky behind her. Daddywent up and joined them, and he was aware that the three of themtalked all at once for what seemed an interminable time, though all heheard was his cousin's voice repeating at intervals, 'But you _can't_send a telegram before eight o'clock to-morrow morning in any case;the post is closed. .. . ' And then, suddenly, the puzzle reeled and danced before his eyes. Itdissolved into a new and startling shape that brought him to hissenses with a shock. There had been a swift shuffling of the figures. Minks and his cousin were helping her into her cloak. She _was_ going. One of them--he knew not which--was offering politely to escort herthrough the village. It sounded like his own sentence of exile, almost of death. Was heforty years of age, or only fifteen? He felt awkward, tongue-tied, terrified. They were already in the passage. Mother had opened the door into theyard. 'But your way home lies down the hill, ' he heard the silver voice, 'and to go with me you must come up. I can easily---' Above the leaves of the plane tree he saw the stars. He saw Orion andthe Pleiades. The Fairy Net flung in and caught him. He found hisvoice. In a single stride he was beside her. Minks started at his suddenvehemence and stepped aside. '_I_ will take you home, Countess, if I may, ' and his tone was sounnecessarily loud and commanding that Mother turned and stared. 'Ourdirection lies together. I will come up--with you. ' She did not even look at him. He saw that tiny smile that was like theflicker of a star--no more. But he heard her answer. It seemed to fillthe sky. 'Thank you. I might lose my way alone. ' And, before he realised how she managed it, they had crossed thecobbled yard, Daddy was swinging away downhill towards thecarpenter's, and Minks behind them, at the top of the stone steps, wassaying his last good-night to Mother. With the little visitor besidehim, he passed the singing fountain and led her down the desertedvillage street beneath the autumn stars. Three minutes later they were out of sight. .. When Minks came down thesteps and picked his way among the shadows after Daddy, who had thelatch-key of the carpenter's house. He ran to overtake him. And he ran upon his toes As softly as a saying does, For so the saying goes! His thoughts were very active, but as clear as day. He was thinkingwhether German was a difficult language to acquire, and wonderingwhether a best man at a wedding ought to wear white gloves or not. Hedecided to ask Albinia. He wrote the letter that very night before hewent to sleep. And, while he slept, Orion pursued the Pleiades across the sky, andnumerous shooting stars fastened the great Net of thought and sympathyclose over little Bourcelles. THE END