She was aware that the children were tingling with excitement and that Rose was offering her a letter. “From Mummy,” she said. “The phone’s dead and so’s the Randalls’ phone and Mrs. Croft’s. But the vicarage phone’s all right. Daddy telephoned from there in the middle of the night.”
“It was morning,” said Edith. “It’s morning after twelve. Daddy telephoned at two-thirty.”
“Silly!” said Rose. “It’s night while it’s still dark.”
Edith no longer minded when Rose knew best and allowed this to be washed off her by the sparkling glory of the morning. “We’re spending the day with you,” she said joyously to Mary. “Meals and all. Daddy’s trying to get to work himself but wouldn’t risk taking us to school. Mummy’s at Orchard Cottage helping with the baby. It’s all in the letter.”
“It’s a boy,” said Jeremy. It was his first remark and even while she eagerly opened the envelope Mary was aware of his deep satisfaction. Counting Martha he had until now been outnumbered three to one. She looked down at him and smiled her congratulations but his thoughts had now been diverted in another direction by the aroma of toast and coffee and his nose quivered like a rabbit’s. “Breakfast?” he queried.
“Come along in,” said Mary.
“But we’ve had ours,” said Rose.
“I need help with mine,” said Mary. “Come into the kitchen and eat some more and tell me all about it.”
In the intervals of the children’s chatter Mary read Joanna’s letter. The words “quick and easy and all’s well,” were set to music in her mind, rippling up and down invisible harp strings. There was something special about this birth, she told herself. All birth was a miracle but this new life seemed to be shining out into the snow like light, and for a few extravagant moments the boy seemed to her the whiteness of the snow and the sparkle of the frost. She saw in her mind figures about the child, men and women of Appleshaw past and present and to come, and the light in their eyes was reflected from the child. Just another baby, she kept reminding herself, struggling after a modicum of common sense. But he was not just another baby. He was the future. She had come here to recapture the past and in so doing she found the future shining on her face. She got up eagerly from the table when the children had at last finished. “Come and pick flowers for Valerie,” she said. “My conservatory is full of them.”
Under the vine branches she and Edith and Rose stripped the chrysanthemums of their flowers, red and white, tawny and bright gold. She remembered Mr. Ambrose cutting the manor chrysanthemums for Cousin Mary and smiled to herself. Laughing and talking neither she nor the little girls noticed that Jeremy was no longer with them.
He had followed them no farther than the hall, where he put on his Wellingtons again and his coat and muffler. Then he opened the front door, turned right and plunged gloriously into the deep snow. It was the sea! He struck out for the bottom of the garden, using only his left arm to swim with because his right hand was deep in his pocket holding a treasure that he had there. He reached the rock where the boy who kept the lighthouse stood looking westward and climbed up beside him. Now he could see his good ship Neptune, and her sails were so white that they dazzled the eyes. Blinking, Jeremy turned away and looked in the direction of the other ship that he could not see from here, the Victory whose captain was away. For a moment he remembered Mr. Hepplewhite very vividly, and the nice smell of his library and the big books with the ships in them, and his hand tightened upon the treasure in his pocket. I will write a letter, he thought, and tell him to come home again. And I will tell him about the boy.
Then he said good-bye to the lighthouse boy, leapt off the rock and swam at great speed toward the door in the wall, for the excursion down to the lighthouse had been a digression, not the purpose of the present exercise.
Out on the green he considered that he was on dry land again and his swimming hand, now stiff and purple with cold, was thrust into the left-hand pocket of his coat. He went rather slowly across the green, kicking up glorious fountains of snow as he went but rather absently, his right hand gripping the thing in his pocket tighter and tighter, but as he approached Orchard Cottage eagerness came uppermost and he almost ran up the path. He removed his Wellingtons at the front door, then opened it and went inside. It was warm and cozy in the tiny hall and he stood listening. From the kitchen he could hear women talking, his mother and Mrs. Croft. He avoided them and went into the sitting room. Paul was there, asleep in the armchair. He shook him relentlessly awake and when he had got him thoroughly aroused laid his hand firmly on his knee and said, “I have come to see the boy.”
“What?” asked Paul.
“I am Jeremy and I have come to see the boy.”
“Not at this early hour,” said Paul.
“It is not early. I had two breakfasts hours and hours ago and I have come to see the boy.”
“But Valerie is asleep.”
“I have come to see the boy.”
As his wits returned, Paul gradually began to understand what this event, a thing of awe and glory to himself, promised Jeremy. There was no other boy in his home and such female companionship as was to hand he had possibly found somewhat lacking in understanding; as had Paul himself in the past. They were drawn together in sympathy but Paul was also dismayed. “The boy’s new, you know,” he explained to Jeremy. “Very new indeed. It will be some time before he can play with you.”
“Of course he’s new,” said Jeremy with a touch of scorn. “He only came last night. But he’ll grow and I’ve come to see him.”
Paul already knew that Jeremy had strength of character beneath his usually placid good humor but he had not realized before that his obstinate determination was of the corkscrew variety. It seemed to come boring down into his fatigue, withdrawing his resistance like a cork. “All right,” he said weakly, his heart pounding with trepidation at the thought of the two women in the kitchen. “But we must not wake Valerie. If you let out so much as a squeak I’ll skin you. Let’s take your wet coat off.”
This proved a difficult operation and tugging impatiently Paul found a cold balled-up fist stuck in one of the sleeves of the coat. “You’re growing out of this,” he said. “Open your fingers.”
“I am holding something,” said Jeremy gravely.
“Then pull hard. Now you’re out. Don’t make a sound or you’ll bring your mother and Mrs. Croft out on us.”
Hand in hand the man and boy crept up the stairs. Paul opened Valerie’s door a crack and heard her say cheerfully, “I’m awake, Paul.”
“Stay there a minute,” Paul whispered to Jeremy, and went in. Valerie’s voice had sounded as young as though she were a girl again.
“I’ve got him here. In bed with me. Nurse said I could have him for a few minutes while she was downstairs. I’m feeling fine now and I’m glad I’m not in the hospital, for you scarcely see your baby in the hospital. Come here and feel him. He’s wonderful. Small but perfect.” She took Paul’s hand and held it under the shawl against the warm baby, and just as her youthful voice showed him a picture of her happy face so the feel of the baby seemed to unite him with his son as closely as though at birth the boy had passed from Valerie’s body to his soul. When a few hours ago Mrs. Croft had given him the baby to hold he had been able to feel nothing but layers of impersonal wrappings, and mixed with relief a sense of agony because he would never see the boy. Now he no longer minded. This was his son, under his hand, and this was his wife united with him in adoration. “We mustn’t spoil him,” said Valerie at last. “But it will be hard not to.”
Suddenly Paul remembered Jeremy, patiently waiting outside, and told Valerie about him. She had always thought she did not like the Talbot children but now she laughed softly and called to him to come in.
Jeremy advanced and inspected the baby. He nodded once or twice as though confirming the newness. “I’ll have to wait,” he said with resignation, “but he’ll grow.” He placed his left forefinger within the baby’s minute h
and, which promptly closed upon it. His slow smile spread over his face and unclosing his right fist he disclosed a marvelous little crystal ship which he handed to Valerie. “It was mine but now it’s for him,” he told her, “but you’d better keep it.”
Valerie took it with an exclamation of delight and held it in her palm, trying to describe it to Paul. But how could she describe such a perfect thing? It sparkled on her hand like clear water momentarily caught by the frost and lit with its fires, and glowed with reflected color. She said to Paul, “It’s a new little ship sailing out on living water.”
The Author
ELIZABETH Goudge, born at the turn of the 20th century in England, was a gifted writer whose own life is reflected in most of the stories she wrote. Her father was an Anglican rector who taught theological courses in various cathedral cities across the country, eventually accepting a Professorship of Divinity at Oxford. The many moves during her growing-up years provided settings and characters that she developed and described with great care and insight.
Elizabeth’s maternal grandparents lived in the Channel Islands, and she loved her visits there. Eventually several of her novels were set in that charming locale. Her mother, a semi-invalid for much of her life, urged Elizabeth to attend The Art College for training as a teacher, and she appreciated the various crafts she learned. She said it gave her the ability to observe things in minute detail and stimulated her imagination.
Elizabeth’s first writing attempts were three screenplays which were performed in London as a charity fund-raiser. She submitted them to a publisher who told her to go away and write a novel. “We are forever in his debt,” writes one of her biographers.
Elizabeth Goudge, The Scent of Water
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