Collected Works of Algernon Blackwood

by Algernon Blackwood

  And the real, long-buried, deeply-hidden Aunt Emily had emerged accordingly. All her life she had been hiding — from herself. She had found herself at last. It was the biggest sign of all.

  Tim caught her hand and dragged her after him. “Come on,” he cried, “we’re getting frightfully warm. Look at Aunty! Listen, will you?”

  Aunt Emily, a little way in front of them, was digging busily with her dirty trowel. Her bonnet was crooked, her skirts tucked up, her white worsted stockings splashed with mud, her elastic-sided boots scratched and plastered. And she was singing to herself in a thin but happy voice that was not unlike an old and throaty corncrake: “The birds are singing….Hark! Come out and play….Life is an endless search….I’ve just begun…!”

  They listened for a little while, and then ran headlong up to join her.

  SIGNS EVERYWHERE!

  IX

  And it was somewhere about here and now — the exact spot impossible to determine, since it was obviously a circular experience without beginning, middle or end — that the gigantic character of the Day declared itself in all its marvellous simplicity. For as they dived deeper and deeper towards its centre, they discovered that its centre, being everywhere at once, existed — nowhere. The sun was always rising — somewhere.

  In other words, each seeker grasped, in his or her own separate way, that the Splendour hiding from them lay actually both too near and far away for any individual eye to see it with completeness. Someone, indeed, had come; but this Someone, as Judy told herself, was “simply all over the place.” To see him “distinkly is an awful job,” according to Uncle Felix; or as Come-Back Stumper realised in the middle of another clump of bramble bushes, “Perspective is necessary to proper vision.” “He” lay too close before their eyes to be discovered fully. Tim had long ago described it instinctively as “an enormous hide,” but it was more than that; it was a universal hide.

  Alone, perhaps, Weeden’s lost optic, wandering ubiquitously and enjoying the bird’s-eye view, possessed the coveted power. But, like the stars, though somewhat about, it was invisible. WEEDEN made no reference to it. He attended to one thing at a time, he lived in the present; one eye was gone; he just looked for truffles — with the other.

  Yet this did not damp their ardour in the least; increased it rather: the gathering of the clues became more and more absorbing. Though not seen, the hider was both known and felt; his presence was a certainty. There was no real contradiction.

  For signs grew and multiplied till the entire world seemed overflowing with them, and hardly could the earth contain them. They brimmed the sunny air, flooded the ponds and streams, lay thick upon the fields, and almost choked the woods to stillness. They trickled out, leaked through, dripped over everywhere in colour, shape, and sound. The hider had passed everywhere, and upon everything had left his exquisite and deathless traces. The inanimate, as well as the animate world had known the various touch of his great passing. His trail had blazed the entire earth about them. For the very clouds were dipped in snow and gold, and the meanest pebble in the lane wore a self-conscious gleam of shining silver. So-called domestic creatures also seemed aware that a stupendous hiding-place was somewhere near — the browsing cow, contented and at ease, the horse that nuzzled their hands across the gate, the very pigs, grubbing eternally for food, yet eternally unsatisfied; all these, this endless morning, wore an unaccustomed look as though they knew, and so were glad to be alive. Some knew more than others, of course. The cat, for instance, defending its kittens single-pawed against the stable-dog who pretended to be ferocious; the busy father-blackbird, passing worms to his mate for the featherless mites, all beak and clamour in the nest; the Clouded Yellow, sharing a spray of honeysuckle with a Bumble-bee, and the honeysuckle offering no resistance — one and all, they also were aware in their differing degrees. And the seekers, noting the signs, grew warmer and ever warmer. An ordinary day these signs, owing to their generous profusion, might have called for no remark. They would, probably, have drawn no attention to themselves, merely lying about unnoticed, undiscovered because familiar. But this was not an ordinary day. It was unused, unspoilt and unrecorded. It was the Some Day of humanity’s long dream — an Extra Day. Time could not carry it away; it could not end; all it contained was of eternity. The great hider at the heart of it was real. These signs — deep, tender, kind and beautiful — were part of him, and in knowing, recognising them, they knew and recognised him too. They drew near, that is, brushed up closer, to his hiding-place from which he saw them. They approached within knowing distance of a Reality that each in his or her particular way had always yearned for. They held — oh, distinkly held — that they were winning. They won the marvellous game as soon as it began. They never had a doubt about the end.

  But their supreme, superb discovery was this: They had always secretly longed to find the elusive hider; they now realised that he — wanted them to find him, and that from his hiding-place he saw them easily. That was the most wonderful thing of all….

  To describe the separate adventures of each seeker would involve a series of bulky trilogies no bookshelves in the world could carry; they can, besides, be adequately told in three simple words that Tim used — shouted with intense enthusiasm when he tripped over a rabbit-hole and tumbled headlong against that everlasting Tramp: “I’m still looking!” He dived away into another hole. “I’m looking still.” “So am I,” the Tramp answered, also in three words. “I’m very warm,” growled Stumper; “I’m getting on,” Aunt Emily piped; and while Judy was for ever shouting out “I’ve found him!” Uncle Felix, puffing and panting, could only repeat with rapture each time he met another seeker: “A lovely day! A lovely day!” They said so little — experienced and felt so much!

  From time to time, too, others joined them in the tremendous game. It seemed the personality of the Tramp attracted them. Something about him — his sincerity, perhaps, or his simplicity — made them realise suddenly what they were about: as though they had not noticed it before, not understood it quite, at any rate. They found themselves. He did and said so little. But he possessed the unique quality of a Leader — natural persuasion.

  Thompson, for instance, cleaning the silver at the pantry window, looked up and saw them pass. They caught him unawares. His pompous manner hung like a discarded mask on a nail beside his livery. He wore his black and white striped waistcoat, and an apron. Of course he looked proper, as an old family servant ought to look, but he looked cheerful too. He was humming to himself as he polished up the covers and the candelabra.

  “Well, I never!” he exclaimed, as the line of them filed by. “I never did. And Mr. Weeden with ’em too!”

  The Tramp passed singing and looked through the open window at the butler. No more than that. Their eyes met between the bars. They exchanged glances. But something incalculable happened in that instant, just as it had happened to Stumper, Aunt Emily, and the rest of them. Thompson put several questions into his look of sheer astonishment.

  “Why not?” the Tramp replied, chuckling as he caught the butler’s eye.

  “It’s a lovely morning. We’re just looking!”

  Thompson was flabbergasted — as if all the old-fashioned families of the world had suddenly praised him. All his life he had never done anything but his ordinary duty.

  “It’s ‘oliday time,” said Weeden, coming next, “and all my flowers and vegitubles is a-growin’ nicely.” He too seemed singing, dancing. Something had happened. The whole world seemed out and playing.

  Thompson forgot himself in a most unusual way, forgot that he was an old family servant, that the apron-string met round his middle with difficulty, that the Authorities were away and his responsibilities increased thereby; forgot too, that for twenty years he had been answering bells, over-hearing conversations without pretending to do so, and that visitors wanted hot water and early tea at “7:30 sharp.” He remembered suddenly that he was a man — and that he was very fond of some one. The birds were sin
ging, the sun was shining, the flowers were out upon the lawn, and it was Spring.

  An amazing longing in him woke and stirred to life. There was a singular itching in his feet. Something in his butler-heart began to purr. “Looking, eh!” he thought. “There’s something I’ve been looking for too. I’d forgot about it.”

  “No one can make the silver shine as I can,” he mumbled, watching the retreating figures, “but it is about finished now,” — he glanced down at it with pride— “and fit to set on the table. Why shouldn’t I take a turn in the garden too?”

  He looked out a moment. The magic of the spring came upon him suddenly like a revelation. He knew he was alive, that there was something he wanted somewhere, something real and satisfying — if only he could find it — find out what it was. For twenty years he had been living automatically. Alfred Thompson suddenly felt free and careless. The butler — yearned!

  He hesitated, gave the dish-cover an extra polish, then called through the door to Mrs. Horton:

  “There’s a tramp in the garden, Bridget, and Mr. Weeden’s with him. Mr.

  Felix is halso taking the air, and Master Tim—”

  He stopped, hearing a step in the pantry. Mrs. Horton stood behind him with a shawl about her shoulders. Her red face was smiling.

  “Alfred, let’s go out and take a look,” she said. “Mary can see to the shepherd’s-pie. I’ve been as quick as I could,” she added, as if excusing herself. Moreover, she said distinctly, “shepherd’s-poie.”

  “I haven’t been ‘calling,’” replied the butler, “except only just now — just this minute.” He spoke as though he was being scolded for not answering a bell. But he cast an admiring glance, half wild, half reckless, at the cook.

  “An’ you shouting to me to come this last ‘arf hour and more!” cried

  Mrs. Horton. She, too, apparently, was in a “state.”

  “You are mistaken, Bridget, I have been singing, as I often do when attending to the silver, but as for—”

  “You can do without a hat,” she interrupted. “Come on! I want to go and look for — for—” She broke off, taking his arm as though they were going down the Strand or Oxford Street. Her red face beamed. She looked very proud and happy. She wanted to look for something too, but she could not believe the moment had really come. She had put it away so long — like a special dish in a cupboard.

  “I don’t know what’s come over me,” she went on very confidentially, as she moved beside him through the scullery door, “but — but I don’t feel satisfied — not satisfied with meself as I used to be.”

  “No, Bridget?” It was in his best “7:30” manner. There was a struggle in him.

  “No,” said Mrs. Horton, with decision. “I give satisfaction — that I know—”

  “We both do that,” said Thompson proudly. “And no one can do a suet pudding to a turn as you can. Only the other day I heard Sir William a-speaking of it—”

  She held his arm more tightly. They were on the lawn by now. The flood of sunlight caught them, showed up the worn and shabby places in his suit of broadcloth, gleamed on her bursting shoes she “fancied” for her kitchen work. They heard the birds, they smelt the flowers, the air bathed them all over like a sea.

  “And the silver, Alfred,” she said in a lower tone. “Who in the world can make it look as you do? But what I’ve been feeling lately — since this morning, that is to say — and feeling for the first time in me life, so to speak—”

  “Bridget, dear, you’ve got it!” he interrupted with excitement, “I’ve felt it too. Felt it this morning first, when I woke up and remembered that nobody wanted hot-water nor early tea, and I said to myself, ‘There’s more than that in it. I’m not doing all this just only for a salary. I’m doing it for something else. What is it?’”

  He spoke very rapidly for a butler. He looked down at her red and smiling face.

  “What is it?” he repeated, curiously moved.

  She looked up at him without a word.

  “It’s something ‘idden,” he said, after a pause. “That’s what it is.”

  “That’s it,” agreed Mrs. Horton. “Like a recipe.”

  There was another pause. The butler broke it. They stood together in the middle of the field, flowers and birds and sunshine all about them.

  “A mystery — inside of us,” he said, “I think—”

  “Yes, Alfred,” the cook murmured softly.

  “I think,” he continued, “it’s a song and dance we want. A little life.” He broke off abruptly, noticing the sudden movement of her bursting shoes. She took a long step forwards, then sideways. She opened her arms to the air and sun. She almost pirouetted.

  “Life!” she cried, “‘ot and fiery. Life! That’s it. Hark, Alfred, d’ye hear that singing far away?” She felt the Irish break out of her. “Listen!” she cried, trying to drag him faster. “Listen, will ye? It makes me wild entirely! Give me yer hand! Come on and dance wid me! It’s in me hearrt I feel it, in me blood. To the devil with me suet puddings and shepherd-poies — that singing’s real, that’s loife, that’s lovely as a dhream! It’s what I’ve been looking for iver since I can remember. I’ve got it!”

  And Thompson felt himself spinning through the air. Old families were forgotten. The world was young with laughter. They could fly. They did.

  The silver was beautifully cleaned. He had earned his holiday.

  “That singing!” he gasped, feeling his heart grow big. He followed her across the flowered world. “I believe it is a bird! It would not surprise me to be told—”

  “A birrd!” cried Mrs. Horton, turning him round and round. “It’s a birrd from Heaven then! I’ve heard it all the morning. It’s been singing in me heart for ages. Now it’s out! Come follow it wid me! We’ll go to the end of the wurrld to foinde it.”

  Her kitchen energy — some called it temper — had discovered a greater scope than puddings.

  “There is no hurry,” the butler panted, moving along with her, and trying hard to keep his balance. “We’ll look together. We’ll find it!” And as they raced across the field among the flowers after the line of disappearing figures, the Tramp looked back at them and waved his hand.

  “It’s a lovely morning,” he said, as they came up with the rest of the party. “So you’re looking too?”

  Too much out of breath to answer, they just nodded, and the group accepted them without more to-do. Their object evidently was the same. Aunt Emily glanced up from her ferns, nodded and said, “Good morning, it’s a lovely day” — and resumed her digging again. It was like shaking hands! They all went forward happily, eagerly, across the wide, wide world together.

  The absence of surprise the children knew had now become a characteristic everybody shared. All were in the same state together. The whole day flowed, there were no limitations or conditions, least of all surprise. Even WEEDEN had forgotten hedges and artificial boundaries. No one, therefore, ejaculated nor exclaimed when they ran across the Policeman. He, too, was looking for some one, but, having mislaid his notebook and pencil stub, was unable to mention any names, and was easily persuaded to join the body of eager seekers. Being a policeman, he was naturally a seeker by profession; he was always looking for somebody somewhere — somebody who was going in the wrong direction.

  “That’s just it,” he said, the moment he saw the Tramp, taking his helmet off as though an odd respect was in him. “That’s just what I’ve always felt,” he went on vaguely. “I’m looking for some one wot’s a’looking for something else — only looking wrong.”

  “In the wrong places,” suggested Stumper, remembering his Indian scouting days.

  “In the wrong way,” put in Uncle Felix, full of experience by now.

  The Policeman listened attentively, as though by rights he ought to enter these sentences laboriously in his notebook.

  “That’s it, per’aps,” he stated. “It takes ’em longer, but they finds out in the end. If I was to show ’em the right way o
f looking instead of arresting ’em — I’d be reel!” And then he added, as if he were giving evidence in a Court of Justice and before a County Magistrate, “There’s no good looking for anything where it ain’t, now is there?”

  “Precisely,” agreed Colonel Stumper, remembering happily that his pockets were full of snail-shells. He knew his sign.

  Thompson, Mrs. Horton, Weeden, and the Policeman glanced at him gratefully. But it was the last mentioned who replied:

  “Because every one,” he said with conviction at last, “has his own way of looking, and even the burgular is only looking wrong.” He, too, it seemed, had found himself.

  Their search, their endless hunt, their conversation and adventures thus might be reported endlessly, if only the book-shelves of the world were built more stoutly, and everybody could find an Extra Day lying about in which to read it all. Each seeker held true to his or her first love, obeying an infallible instinct. The adventure and romance that hid in Tim and Judy, respectively, sent them headlong after anything that offered signs of these two common but seductive qualities. Judy lived literally in the air, her feet, her heart, her eyes all off the ground; Tim, filled with an equally insatiable curiosity, found adorable danger in every rabbit-run, and rescued things innumerable. Off the ground he felt unsafe, unsure, and lost himself. Stumper, faithful to his scouting passion, disappeared into all kinds of undesirable places no one else would have dreamed of looking in, yet invariably — came back; and while Uncle Felix tried a little of everything and found “copy” in a puddle or a dandelion, Weeden carried his empty sack without a murmur, knowing it would be filled with truffles at the end. Aunt Emily, exceedingly particular, but no longer interfering with the others, was equally sure of herself. A touch of fluid youth ran in her veins again, and in her heart grew a fern that presently she would find everywhere outside as well — a maiden-hair.