Algernon Blackwood (30 page)

Two hours later, while Jane Ann and Mother prepared the tea in the
Den, Daddy, Jimbo, and Cousin Henry went in a procession to the
carpenter's house carrying the piles of clothing in their arms to the
astonishment of half the village. They were to be re-sorted there in
privacy by the 'men,' where the 'children' could not interfere. The
things they could not use were distributed later among the
governesses; the Pension and the village also, got their share. And
the Postmaster got his hat—a black Trilby. He loved its hue.

And for days afterwards the children hoarded their treasures with
unholy joy. What delighted them as much as anything, perhaps, were the
coronets upon the pyjamas and the shirts. They thought it was a London
or Edinburgh laundry mark. But Jimbo told them otherwise: 'It means
that 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 that
night and discussed how much this opportune Magic Box had saved them,
may be better imagined than described. The sum ran into many, many
francs. Edward had suits now for at least two years. 'He's stopped
growing,' said his mother; 'thank goodness,' said his father.

And to the long list he prayed for twice a day Jimbo added of his
accord, 'Ceux qui ont envoye la grosse caisse.'

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 full
of complaints. Her poor old memory seemed broken beyond repair. She
offered Madame Jequier her weekly payment twice within ten minutes,
and was quite snappy about it when the widow declined the second
tender.

'But you had the receipt in your hand wizin ten minutes ago, Mees
Wag'orn. You took it upstairs. The ink can hardly be now already yet
dry.' But nothing would satisfy her that she had paid until they went
up to her room together and found it after much searching between her
Bible and her eternal novel on the writing-table.

'Forgive me, Madame, but you do forget sometimes, don't you?' she
declared with amusing audacity. 'I like to make quite sure—
especially where money is concerned.' On entering the room she had
entirely forgotten why they came there. She began complaining,
instead, about the bed, which had not yet been made. A standing source
of grumbling, this; for the old lady would come down to breakfast many
a morning, and then go up again before she had it, thinking it was
already late in the day. She worried the
pensionnaires
to death,
too. It was their duty to keep the salon tidy, and Miss Waghorn would
flutter into the room as early as eight o'clock, find the furniture
still unarranged, and at once dart out again to scold the girls. These
interviews were amusing before they became monotonous, for the old
lady's French was little more than 'nong pas' attached to an
infinitive verb, and the girls' Swiss-German explanations of the
alleged neglect of duty only confused her. 'Nong pas faire la
chambre,' she would say, stamping her foot with vexation. 'You haven't
done the room, though it's nearly dejooner time!' Or else—'Ten
minutes ago it was tidy. Look at it now!' while she dragged them in
and forced them to put things straight, until some one in authority
came and explained gently her mistake. 'Oh, excuse me, Madame,' she
would say then, 'but they do forget
so
often.' Every one was very
patient with her as a rule.

And of late she had been peculiarly meddlesome, putting chairs
straight, moving vases, altering the lie of table-cloths and the angle
of sofas, opening windows because it was 'so stuffy,' and closing them
a minute later with complaints about the draught, forcing occupants of
arm-chairs to get up because the carpet was caught, fiddling with
pictures because they were crooked either with floor or ceiling, and
never realising that in the old house these latter were nowhere
parallel. But her chief occupation was to prevent the children
crossing their legs when they sat down, or pulling their dresses
lower, with a whispered, 'You
must
not cross your legs like that; it
isn't ladylike, dear.'

She had been very exasperating and interfering. Tempers had grown
short. Twice running she had complained about the dreadful noise the
pensionnaires
made at seven o'clock in the morning. 'Nong pas creer
comme ca!' she called, running down the passage in her dressing-gown
and bursting angrily into their rooms without knocking—to find them
empty. The girls had left the day before.

But to-day (the morning after the Star Cave adventure) the old lady
was calmer, almost soothed, and at supper she was composed and gentle.
Sleep, for some reason, had marvellously refreshed her. Attacks that
opened as usual about Cornish Cream or a Man with a long Beard, she
repelled easily and quietly. 'I've told you that story before, my
dear; I know I have.' It seemed her mind and memory were more orderly
somehow. And the Widow Jequier explained how sweet and good-natured
she had been all day—better than for years. 'When I took her drops
upstairs at eleven o'clock I found her tidying her room; she was
sorting her bills and papers. She read me a letter she had written to
her nephew to come out and take her home—well written and quite
coherent. 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 when
everything goes right and easily. One wakes up happy in the morning
and sees only the bright side of things. Hope is active, and one has
new courage somehow.' She spoke with feeling, her face was brighter,
clearer, her mind less anxious. She had planned a visit to the Bank
Manager about the mortgages. It had come as an inspiration. It might
be fruitless, but she was hopeful, and so knew a little peace. 'I
wonder why it is,' she added, 'and what brings these changes into the
heart so suddenly.'

'Good sleep and sound digestion,' Mrs. Campden thought. She expressed
her views deliberately like this in order to counteract any growth of
fantasy in the children.

'But it is strange,' her husband said, remembering his new story; 'it
may be much deeper than that. While the body sleeps the spirit may get
into touch with helpful forces—' His French failed him. He wumbled
painfully.

'Thought-forces possibly from braver minds,' put in Rogers. 'Who
knows? Sleep and dreaming have never really been explained.' He
recalled 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 looked
round the table with challenge in her eager old eyes. But no one took
her up. It involved such endless repetition of well-known stories. The
Postmaster might have said a word—he looked prepared—but, not
understanding English, he went on with his salad instead.

'Life is a dream,' observed Monkey, while Jinny seemed uncertain
whether she should laugh or take it seriously.

The Widow Jequier overheard her. There was little she did not
overhear.

'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 all
down the long table.

'I'm sure dreams have significance,' she went on. 'There's more in
dreaming than one thinks. They come as warnings or encouragement. All
the saints had dreams. I always pay attention to mine.'

'Madame,
I
dream a great deal,' repeated Miss Waghorn, anxious not
to be left out of a conversation in which she understood at least the
key-word
reve
; 'a very great deal, I may say.'

Several looked up, ready to tell nightmares of their own at the least
sign of encouragement. The Postmaster faced the table, laying down his
knife and fork. He took a deep breath. This time he meant to have his
say. 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 that
confused her a little. She loved to define her position. She had
defined it. And the Postmaster had lost his chance. Mlle. Sandoz, a
governess who was invited to supper as payment for a music lesson
given 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 the
Postmaster sharply, vexed that he had not told his own.

But no one applauded, for it was the fashion to ignore his
observations, unless they had to do with stamps and weights of
letters, parcels, and the like. A clatter of voices rose, as others,
taking courage, decided to tell experiences of their own; but it was
the Postmaster's wife in the hall who won. She had her meals outside
with the kitchen maid and her niece, who helped in the Post Office,
and she always tried to take part in the conversation from a distance
thus. She plunged into a wordy description of a lengthy dream that had
to do with clouds, three ravens, and a mysterious face. All listened,
most of them in mere politeness, for as cook she was a very important
personage who could furnish special dishes on occasion—but her sister
listened as to an oracle. She nodded her head and made approving
gestures, and said, 'Aha, you see,' or 'Ah, voila!' as though that
helped 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. She
stood there in her apron, her face hot and flushed still from the
kitchen.

At length it came to an end, and she looked round her, hoping for a
little sympathetic admiration, or at least for expressions of wonder
and interest. All waited for some one else to speak. Into the pause
came her husband's voice, 'Je n'ai pas de sel.'

There was no resentment. It was an everyday experience. The spell was
broken instantly. The cook retired to her table and told the dream all
over again with emphatic additions to her young companions. The
Postmaster got his salt and continued eating busily as though dreams
were only fit for women and children to talk about. And the English
group began whispering excitedly of their Magic Box and all it had
contained. They were tired of dreams and dreaming.

Tante Jeanne made a brave effort to bring the conversation back to the
key 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 kind
of dream that comes,' she said into the air. 'The last thought before
going to sleep is very important. It influences the adventures of the
soul when it leaves the body every night.'

For this was a tenet of her faith, although she always forgot to act
upon it. Only Miss Waghorn continued the train of ideas this started,
with a coherence that surprised even herself. Somehow the jabber about
dreams, though in a language that only enabled her to catch its
general drift, had interested her uncommonly. She seemed on the verge
of remembering something. She had listened with patience, a look of
peace upon her anxious old face that was noticed even by Jane Anne.
'It smoothed her out,' was her verdict afterwards, given only to
herself 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 the
Magic Box, and while the talk in the hall went on and on, re-hashing
the details of the cook's marvellous experience, and assuming entirely
new proportions, Miss Waghorn glanced about her seeking whom she might
devour—and her eye caught Henry Rogers, listening as usual in
silence.

'Ah,' she said to him, 'but
I
look forward to sleep. I might say I
long for it.' She sighed very audibly. It was both a sigh for release
and a faint remembrance that last night her sleep had been somehow
deep and happy, strangely comforting.

'It is welcome sometimes, isn't it?' he answered, always polite and
rather gentle with her.

'Sleep unravels, yes,' she said, vaguely as to context, yet with a
querulous intensity. It was as if she caught at the enthusiasm of a
connected 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 the
Brother with the Beard, he wondered? 'Untied knots' would inevitably
start her off. He made up his mind to listen to the tale with interest
for the twentieth time if it came. But it didn't come.

'I am very old and lonely, and
I
need the best,' she went on
happily, 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 thought
running loose like wireless messages to be picked up by all who were
in tune for acceptance?