CHAPTER XVII
A DAY HAS COME
MARIA'S PARTICULAR ADVENTURE
The day was hardly born, and still unsure of itself, when a robin withits tail cocked up stood up alertly on the window-sill of Uncle Felix'sbedroom, peeped in through the open sash, and noticed the objects infront of it with a certain deliberation.
These objects were half in shadow, but, unlike those it was mostfamiliar with, they did not move in the breeze that stirred the worldoutside. The robin had just swung up from a lilac branch below. Itstoes were spread to their full extent for balancing purposes. It peepedbusily in all directions. Then, suddenly, a big object at the far endof the darkened room moved slowly underneath a mass of white, as UncleFelix, aware that some one was watching him, rolled over in his bed,opened his sleepy eyes, and stared. At the same moment the robintwitched, and fixed its brilliant glance upon him. It had found theparticular object that it sought.
Uncle Felix, somewhat dazed by sleep and dreams, saw the tight, fatbody of the bird outlined against the open sky, but thought at first itwas an eagle or a turkey, until perspective righted itself, and enabledhim to decide that it was a robin only. He saw its scut tail pointing.And, from the attitude of the bird, of its cocked-up tail, the angle ofits neck and head, to say nothing of the inquisitive way it peepedsideways at him over the furniture, he realised that it had come inwith a definite purpose--a purpose that concerned himself. In a word,it had something to communicate.
"Odd!" he thought drowsily, as he met its piercing eye. "A robin in myroom at dawn! I wonder what it's up to?"
Then, remembering vaguely that he expected somebody or something out ofthe ordinary, he made a peculiar noise that seemed to meet the case: hetried to whistle at it. But his lips, being rather dry, made instead ahissing sound that would have frightened most robins out of the room atonce. On this particular bird, however, the effect was just theopposite. It hopped self-consciously on to the dressing-table,fluttered next to the arm-chair, and the same second dropped out ofsight behind the end of the four-poster bed. It acted, that is, withdecision; it was making distinct advances.
He sat up then in order to see it better, and discovered it perchedsaucily upon the toe of his evening shoe, looking deliberately into hisface as it rose above the bed-clothes.
"Come along," he said, making his voice as soft as possible, "and tellme what you want."
His expression tried to convey that he was harmless, and he smiled tocounteract the effect of his bristling hair which stuck out at rightangles as it only can stick out on waking. He felt complimented by thevisit of the bird, and did not wish to frighten it. But the Robin,accustomed to seeing scarecrows in the dawn, showed not the slightestfear; on the contrary, it showed interest and a simple, innocentaffection too. It fluttered up on to the rail between the bed-posts,almost within reach of his stretched-out hand; its flexible toesclutched the bar as though it were a twig; it moved first two inches tothe right, then two inches to the left again, then held steady. It nextflicked its tail, and cocked its small head sideways, as if about todeliver a speech or message it had learned by heart; stared intentlyinto the bearded human visage close in front of it; abruptly opened itswings; whirred them with a rapidity that made a sound like a shower ofpeas striking a taut sheet; and then, with a single, exquisitely-chosencurve--vanished through the open window and was gone.
"Well," murmured the confused and astonished man, "if anything meansanything, that does. Only, I wonder what it _does_ mean!"
He was a little startled, and he remained in a sitting position forsome minutes, staring at the open window, and hoping the robin wouldreturn. Somehow he did not think it would, but he hoped it might. Therobin, however, made no sign. And, meanwhile, the dawn slipped higherup the sky, showing the groups of trees with greater sharpness. Adraught of morning air came in.
"The dawn!" he thought; "how marvellous! Perhaps the robin came to showme that." He sniffed the fresh perfume of dew and leaves and earth thatrise for a moment with the early light, then fade away. "Or that!" headded, pausing to enjoy the delicate fragrance. "But for the bird Ishould have slept, and missed them both. I wonder!"
He wished he were dressed and out upon the lawn; but the bed wasenticing, and it was no easy thing to get up and wash and put on elevenseparate articles of clothing. What a pity he was not dressed like abird in one garment only! What a pity he could not wash himself byflying through a rushing shower of sweet rain! By the time his clotheswere on, and he had made his way downstairs, and unlocked the bigchained doors, all this strange, wild emotion would have evaporated. Ifonly he could have landed with a single curve among the flower-beds, asthe robin did! Besides, he would feel hungry, and a worm...!
The warmth of the bed crept upwards towards his eyes; the eyelidsdropped of their own accord; his weight sank slowly downwards; thepillow was smooth as cream. He remembered Judy saying once that, if awar came, she would go out and "soothe pillows." A pillow was, indeed,a very soothing thing. His head sank backwards into a mass of featherysensations like a flock of dreams. He drew a long, deep breath. Hebegan to forget a number of things, and to remember a number of otherthings. They mingled together, they became indistinguishable. What werethey? He could make a selection--choose those he liked best, and leavethe others--couldn't he? Why not, indeed? Why not?
One was that the clocks had stopped for twenty-four hours and that anextra, unused day was dawning; another, that To-day was Sunday. Hecould make his choice. Yet all days, surely, were unused till theycame! True; but clocks decreed and regulated their length. _This_ ExtraDay, having been overlooked long ago, was beyond the reach of measuringclocks. No clocks had ever ticked it into passing. It could never pass.Only the present passed. The Past, to which this day belonged, remainedwhere it was, endless, beginningless, self-repeating. He chose itwithout more ado. And the robin had come to mention something about it.Its small round body was full, its head tight packed with what it hadto tell. It was bursting with information. But what--?
And then he realised abruptly another thing: It _had_ delivered itsmessage.
The presence of the bird had announced a change of conditions in theroom, a change in his heart and brain as well. But how? He was toodrowsy to decide quite; yet in some way the robin had brought in withit the dawn of an unusual day, a kind of bird-day, light as a feather,swift as a flashing wing, spontaneous--air, freedom, escape, sweetbrilliance, a thing of flowers, winds, and beauty, a thing of innocenceand captivating loveliness, a happy, dancing day. He felt a new sort ofknowledge pass darting through him, a new point of view, almost abird's-eye aspect of old familiar things--joy. That neat, sharp beakhad pricked his imagination into swifter life. The meaning of thebird's announcement flowed with delicate power all through his drowsybody. It summed itself up in this:--Somebody, Something, long expected,at last was coming....
And then he incontinently fell asleep. He lost consciousness. But,while he lay heavily upon his soothing pillow, the marvellous Dawn slidhigher up the sky, and the robin popped up once upon the window-sillagain, glanced sideways at him with approval, then flashed away soclose above the soaking lawn that the dew-drops quivered as it passed.Apparently, it was satisfied.
At the same moment, in another part of the old house, Tim found hissleep disturbed in a similar fashion; a shrill twittering beneath theeaves mingled with his dreams. He shook a toe and wrinkled up his nose.He woke. His bedroom, being on the top floor, was lighter than thosebelow; there were no trees to cast shadows or obstruct the dawn.
Tim rubbed his eyes, yawned, scratched, then pattered over to thewindow to see what all the noise was about. In his night-shirt helooked like a skinny bird with folded wings of white, as he leanedforward and stuck his head out into the morning air. Upon the strip ofback-lawn below, the swallows, who had been chattering so loudlyoverhead, stood in an active group. Clutching the cold iron bars, andresting his chin upon the topmost one, he watched them. He had neverbefore seen swallows on the ground like that; he associated
them withthe upper sky. It was odd to see them standing instead of flying; theirbehaviour seemed not quite normal; there was commotion of an unusualkind among them. A grey cat, stalking them warily down the stable path,came near yet did not trouble them; they felt no alarm. They struttedabout like a lot of black-frocked parsons at a congress; they looked asif they had hands tucked behind their pointed coat-tails. They weretalking among themselves--discussing something. And from time to timethey shot upward glances at the window just above them--at himself.
"I believe they want me to look at something or other," the boy thoughtvaguely. It seemed as if he had picked them out of a dream and put themthere upon the lawn. He felt dazed and happy; he had been dreaming ofcurious wild things. Where was he? What had happened? "It feels justlike something coming," he decided, "or somebody. Some one's about inthe grounds, perhaps...!"
It was very exciting to be awake at such an unearthly hour; the sun wasstill below the edge of the gigantic earth! A great, slow thrill stoleup into his heart. He noticed the streaks of colour in the sky, andfelt the chilly wind. "It's sunrise!" he exclaimed, rubbing one nakedfoot against the other; "that's what it is. And I'm up to see it!"
The thrill merged into a deep, huge sense of wonder that enthralledhim. At the same moment the swallows, disturbed by his voice, looked upwith one accord, then rose in a single sweep and whirled off into theupper air, wings faintly tinged with gold. They scattered. Tim watchedthem for a little while, dimly aware that he watched something"perfectly magnificent." His eyes followed one bird after another,caught in a sudden little rapture he could not understand... thenturned and saw his bed, flushed with early pink, across the room. Witha running jump he landed among the sheets, rolled himself up into aball, and promptly fell asleep again. It was not yet four o'clock.
Across the landing, meanwhile, Judy, wakened by a brush of featherywind, was at her window too. She felt very sure of something, althoughshe didn't in the least know what. It was the same thing that Tim andUncle Felix knew, only they knew they didn't know it, whereas shedidn't know she knew it. Her knowledge, therefore, was greater thantheirs.
The room was touched with soft grey light; it was to the west, and thenight still clung about the furniture. Like a ball in a saucer, Marialay asleep in bed against the opposite wall, her neutrality to all thatwas going on absolute as usual. But Judy did not wake her, shepreferred to live alone; she knew that she was alive in her night-gownbetween night and morning, and that was an unusual pleasure she wishedto enjoy without interference. For months she had not waked beforehalf-past seven. The excitement of the unfamiliar was in her heart. Shehad caught the earth asleep--surprised it. For the first time in herlife she saw "the Earth." She discovered it.
She knelt on a chair beside the open window, peering out, and as shedid so, a strange, wild cry came sounding through the stillness. It waslike a bugle-call, but she knew no human lips had made it. She glancedquickly in the direction whence it came--the pond--and the next instantthe reeds about the edge parted and the thing that had emitted thecurious wild cry emerged plainly into view. It was a pompous-lookingcreature. It came out waddling.
"It's the up-and-under bird," exclaimed Judy in a whisper. "Something'shappening!"
It was a water-fowl, a creature whose mysterious habit of living uponthe surface of the pond as well as underneath made the children'snick-name a necessity. And now it was attempting a raid on land aswell. But land was not its natural place. Something certainly hadhappened, or was going to happen.
"It's a snopportunity," decided Judy instantly. Far more than anopportunity, a snopportunity was something to be snapped up quickly,the sort of thing that ordinarily happened behind one's back, usuallydiscovered too late to be made use of. "I've caught it!" She rememberedthat the clocks had stopped, yet not knowing why she remembered it. Itwas the thing she didn't know she knew. She knew it before it happened.That was a snopportunity.
She watched the heavy bird for a considerable time as it slowlyappropriated the land it had no right to. It moved, she thought, like atwisted drum on very short drumsticks. It had a water-loggedappearance. It was bird and fish ordinarily, but now it was pretendingto be animal as well--a thing that flew, swam, walked. Its webbed feetpatted the ground complacently. It came laboriously towards the wall ofthe house, then halted. It paused a moment, then turned its eyes up,while Judy turned hers down. The pair of creatures looked at oneanother steadily for several seconds.
"You're not out for nothing," exclaimed Judy audibly. "So now I know!"
The reply was neither in the affirmative nor in the negative. Theup-and-under bird said nothing. It made no sign. It just turned away,stalked heavily back across the lawn without once looking either toright or left, launched itself upon the water, uttered its queerbugle-call for the last and second time, and promptly disappearedbelow. The tilt of its vanishing tail expressed sublime indifference toeverything on land. And Judy, reflecting vaguely that she, too, wassomething of an up-and-under creature, followed its example, thoughwithout the same dispatch or neatness of execution. She tumbledsideways into bed and disappeared beneath the sheets, aware that thebird had left her richer than it found her. It had communicatedsomething that lay beyond all possible explanation. She had no tail,nor did she express indifference. On the contrary, she hugged herself,making sounds of pleasurable anticipation in her throat that layplunged among depths of soothing pillows.
It seems, then, that the entire household, the important portion of it,at any rate, had been duly notified that something unusual was afoot,and that the dawn of the day just breaking through a ghostly sky wasdistinctly out of the ordinary. The birds, always the first to wake,and provided with the most sensitive apparatus for recording changes,had caught the mysterious whisper from the fading night; they hadinstantly communicated it to the best of their ability to theirestablished friends. The robin, the swallows, and the up-and-underbird, having accomplished their purpose, disappeared from view in orderto attend to breakfast and the arrangement of their own subsequentadventures. Earth, air, and water had delivered messages. The news hadbeen flashed. Those who deserved it had been warned. The day could nowbegin.
Maria, alone, meanwhile, slept on soundly, secure in that stodgyimmobility that takes no risks. Oblivious, apparently, of all secretwarnings of excitement or alarm, she lay in a tight round ball,inactive, undisturbed. Even her breathing revealed her peculiaridiosyncrasy: no actual movement on her surface was discernible. Herbreathing involved the least possible disturbance of the pink and whitecontours that bulged the sheets and counterpane. Her face was calm,expressionless, and even dull, yet wore a certain look as though sheknew so much that she had no need to maintain her position by the leastassertion. Exertion would have been a denial of her right to exist. Andexist she certainly did. The weight of her personality lent balance tothe quivering uncertainty of this mysterious dawn. Maria remained anunassailable reality, an immovable centre round which anything mighthappen, yet never end, and certainly no disaster come. And Judy,glancing at her as she disappeared below her own sheets, noted thisfact without understanding that she did so. This was another aspect ofthe thing she didn't know she knew.
"Maria's asleep," she felt, "so there's no need to get up yet. It's allright!" In spite of the marvellous thing she knew was coming, that is,she felt herself anchored safely to the firm reality of calm Maria,soundly, peacefully asleep. And five minutes later she was in the samedesirable condition herself.
But, hardly were they all asleep, than a figure none of them hadnoticed, yet all perhaps had vaguely felt, rose out of the little ditchthis side of the laurel shrubberies, and advanced slowly towards theold Mill House. The shape was shadowy and indeterminate at first; itmight have been a bush, a sheaf of straw, a clump of high-grown weeds,for birds fluttered just above it, and the swallows darted down withoutalarm. A shaggy thing, it seemed part of the natural landscape.
Half-way across the lawn, however, it paused and stretched itself; itrubbed its eyes; it yawned; and, as
it shook the sleep from face andbody, the outline grew distinctly clearer. The thing that had lookedlike a bundle of hay or branches resolved itself into a human being;the loose untidiness gave place to definite shape, as leaves, grass,twigs, and wisps of straw fell fluttering from it to the ground. It wasa pathetic and yet wonderful sight, beauty, happiness, and peace aboutit somewhere, together with a soft and tender sweetness that temperedthe wildness of its aspect. Indescribably these qualities proclaimedthemselves. It was a man.
"They've seen me twice," he mentioned to the dipping swallows. "This ismy third appearance. They'll recognise me without a word. The Day hascome."
He stood a moment, shaking the extras of the night from hair andclothing, then laughed with a sound like running water as the birdsswooped down and carried the straws and twigs away with a greatbusiness of wings. Next, glancing up at the open windows of the house,he started forward with a light but steady step. "They will not besurprised," he said, "for they have always believed in me. They knewthat some day I should come, and in the twinkling of an eye!" He pausedand chuckled in his beard. "I'm not _the_ one thing they're expecting,but I'm next door to it, and I can show them how to look at any rate."
And he began softly humming the words of a little song he had evidentlymade up himself, and therefore liked immensely. He neared the walls;the sunrise tipped a happy, glorious face; he disappeared from view asthough he had melted through the old grey stone. And a flight ofswallows, driven by the fresh dawn wind, passed high overhead acrossthe heavens, leading the night away. They swung to the rhythm of hislittle song:
My secret's in the wind and open sky, There is no longer any Time--to lose; The world is young with laughter; we can fly Among the imprisoned hours as we choose.
The rushing minutes pause; an unused day Breaks into dawn and cheats the tired sun; The birds are singing. Hark! Come out and play! There is no hurry! Life has just begun!