WEEDEN'S SIGN
VII
John WEEDEN--the children always saw his surname in capitals--wasprobably the most competent Head Gardener of his age, or of any otherage: he supplied the household with fruit and vegetables withoutgrumbling or making excuses. When asked to furnish flowers at shortnotice for a dinner-party he made no difficulty, but just producedthem. Neither did he complain about the weather; wet or dry, it wasalways exactly what his garden needed. All weather to him was FineWeather. He believed in his garden, loved it, lived in it, was almostpart of it. To make excuses for it was to make excuses for himself.WEEDEN was a genius.
But he was mysterious too. He was one-eyed, and the loss endeared himto the children, relating him also, once or twice removed, to Come-BackStumper; it touched their imaginations. Being an artist, too, he nevertold them how he lost it, a pitchfork and a sigh were all he vouchsafedupon the exciting subject. He understood the value of restraint, andleft their minds to supply what details they liked best. But this winkof pregnant suggestion, while leaving them divinely unsatisfied, sentthem busily on the search. They imagined the lost optic roaming theuniverse without even an attendant eyelid, able to see things on itsown account--invisible things. "Weeden's lost eye's about," was adelightful and mysterious threat; while "I can see with the Gardener'slost eye," was a claim to glory no one could dispute, for no one coulddeny it. Its chief duty, however, was to watch the "froot and vegebles"at night and to keep all robbers--two-foot, four-foot, winged, orwriggling robbers--from what Aunt Emily called "destroying everything."
A source of wonder to the children, this competent official was at thesame time something of an enigma to the elders. His appearance, tobegin with, was questionable, and visitors, being shown round thegarden, had been known to remark upon it derogatively sometimes. It wasboth in his favour and against him. For, either he looked like anuntidy parcel of brown paper, loose ends of string straggling out ofhim, or else--in his Sunday best--was indistinguishable from arose-bush wrapped up carefully in matting against the frost. Yet, ineither aspect, no one could pretend that he looked like anything but agenuine Head Gardener, the spirit of the kitchen-garden and thepotting-shed incarnate.
It was the way he answered questions that earned for him the title ofenigma--he avoided a direct reply. (He was so cautious that he wouldhesitate even when he came to die.) He would think twice about it. Thedecision to draw the final breath would incapacitate him. He would feelworse--and probably continue alive instead, from sheer inability tomake his mind up. In all circumstances, owing to his calling doubtless,he preferred to hedge. If Mrs. Horton asked for celery, he wouldintimate "I'll have a look." When Daddy enquired how the asparagus wasdoing, he obtained for reply, "Won't you come and see it for yourself,sir?" Upon Mother's anxious enquiry if there would be enoughstrawberries for the School Treat, WEEDEN stated "It's been a grandyear for the berries, mum." Then, just when she felt relieved, headded, "on the 'ole."
For the children, therefore, the Gardener was a man of mystery andpower, and when they saw his figure in the distance, their imaginationleaped forward with their bodies, and WEEDEN stood wrapped in a gloryhe little guessed. He was bent double, digging (as usual in his sparetime) for truffles beneath the beech trees. These mysterious delicacieswith the awkward name he never found, but he liked looking for them.
At first he was so intent upon his endless quest that he did not hearthe approach of footsteps.
"No hurry," said the Tramp, as they collected round the stooping figureand held their feathers up to warn his back. For the wandering eye hada way of seeing what went on behind him. An empty sack, waiting for thetruffles, lay beside him. He looked like an untidy parcel, so he was_not_ in his Sunday clothes.
At the sound of voices he straightened slowly and looked round. Heseemed pleased with everything, judging by the expression of his eye,yet doubtful of immediate success.
"Good mornin'," he said, touching his speckled cap to the authorities.
"Found any?" enquired Uncle Felix, sympathetically.
"It seems a likely spot, maybe," was the reply. "I'm looking." And heclosed the mouth of the sack with his foot lest they should see itsemptiness.
But the use of the verb set the children off at once.
"I say," Tim exploded eagerly, "we're looking too--for somebody who'shiding. Have you seen any one?"
"Some one very wonderful?" said Judy. "Has he passed this way? It'sHide-and-Seek, you know."
WEEDEN looked more mysterious at once. It was strange how a one-eyedface could express so big a meaning. He scratched his head and smiled.
"All my flowers and vegitubles is a-growin' nicely," he said at length."It is a lovely mornin' for a game." His eye closed and opened. Theanswer was more direct than usual. It meant volumes. WEEDEN was in theknow. They felt him somehow related to their leader--a kind oforganised and regulated tramp.
"You _have_ seen him, then?" cried Judy.
"With your gone eye!" exclaimed Tim. "Which way? And what signs haveyou got?"
"Flowers, beetles, snail-shells, caterpillars--anything beautiful is asign, you know," went on Judy, breathlessly.
"Deep, tender, kind and beautiful," interposed the Tramp, laying theaccent significantly on the first adjective, as if for Weeden's specialbenefit.
WEEDEN looked up. "Sounds like my garden things," he said darkly, moreto himself than to the others. He gazed down into the hole he had beendigging. The moist earth glistened in the sunlight. He sniffed thesweet, rich odour of it, and scratched his head in the same spot asbefore--just beneath the peak of his speckled cap. His nose wrinkledup. Then he looked again into the faces, turning his single eye slowlyupon each in turn. The Tramp's remark had reached his cautious brain.
"There's no sayin' where anybody sich as you describe him to be mighthide hisself a day like this," he observed deliberately, his opticranging the sunny landscape with approval. "I never saw sich abeautiful day before--not like to-day. It's endless sort of. Seems tome as if I'd been at this 'ole for weeks."
He paused. The others waited. WEEDEN was going to say something realany moment now, they felt.
"No hurry," the Tramp reminded him. "Everything's light and careless,and so are we. There is no longer any Time--to lose."
His voice half sang, half chanted in the slow, windy way he had, andthe Gardener looked up as if a falling apple had struck him on thehead. He shifted from one leg to the other; he seemed excited, moved.His single eye was opened--to the sun. He looked as if his body wasfull of light.
"_You_ was the singer, was you?" he asked wonderingly, the tone low andquiet. "It was you I heard a-singin'--jest as dawn broke!" He scratchedhis head again. "And me thinkin' all the time it was a bird!" he addedto himself.
The Tramp said nothing.
WEEDEN then resumed his ordinary manner; he went on speaking as before.But obviously--somewhere deep down inside himself--he had come to a bigdecision.
"Gettin' nearer and nearer," he resumed his former conversation exactlywhere he had left it off, "but never near enough to getdisappointed--ain't it? When you gets to the end of anything, you see,it's over. And that's a pity."
Uncle Felix glanced at Stumper; Stumper glanced down at the end of his"wooden" leg; the Tramp still said nothing, smiling in his beard, nowcombed out much smoother than before.
"It comes to this," said Weeden, "my way of thinkin' at least." Hescratched wisdom from another corner of his head. "There's a lot of'iding goin' on, no question about _that_; and the great thing is--myway of thinkin' at any rate--is--jest to keep on lookin'."
The children met him eagerly at this point, using two favourite wordsthat Aunt Emily strongly disapproved of: "deslidedly," said one;"distinkly," exclaimed the other.
"That's it," continued WEEDEN, pulling down his cap to hide, perhaps,the spot where wisdom would leak out. "And, talking of signs, Isay--find out yer own pertickler sign, then follow it blindly--till theend."
He straightened up and looked with an air of respec
tful candour at theothers. The decision of his statement delighted them. The children feltsomething of awe in it. Something of their Leader's knowledge evidentlywas in him.
"Miss Judy, she gets 'er signs from the air," he said, as no one spoke."Master Tim goes poking along the ground, looking for something withhis feet. He feels best that way, feels the earth--things a-growin' upor things wot go down into 'oles. Colonel Stumper--and no offence toyou, sir--chooses dark places where the sun forgets to shine--"
"Dangerous, jungly places," whispered Tim, admiringly.
"And Mr. Felix--" he hesitated. Uncle Felix's easiest way of searchingseemed to puzzle him. "Mr. Felix," he went on at length, "jest messesabout all over the place at once, because 'e sees signs everywhere anddon't know what to foller in partickler for fear of losin' hisself."
Come-Back Stumper chuckled audibly, but Uncle Felix asked at once--"Andyou, WEEDEN? What about yourself, I wonder?"
The Gardener replied without his usual hesitation. It was probably themost direct reply he had ever made. No one could guess how much it costhim. "Underground," he said. "My signs lies underground, sir. Where therain-drops 'ides theirselves on getting down and the grubs keeps secrettill they feel their wings. Where the potatoes and the reddishes is,"he added, touching his cap with a respectful finger. He went on with ahint of yearning in his tone that made it tremble slightly: "If I couldfind igsackly where and 'ow the potatoes gets big down there"--hepointed to the earth--"or how my roses get colour out of the dirt--I'dknow it, wouldn't I, sir? I'd--'ave him, fair!"
The effort exhausted him, it seemed. So deeply was he moved that he hadalmost gone contrary to his own nature in making such an explicitstatement. But he had said something very real at last. It was clearthat he was distinctly in the know. Living among natural growingthings, he was in touch with life in a deeper sense than they were.
"And me?" the Tramp mentioned lightly, smiling at his companion of theoutdoor life. "Don't leave me out, please. I'm looking like the rest ofyou."
WEEDEN turned round and gazed at him. He wore a strange expression thathad respect in it, but something more than mere respect. There was atouch of wonder in his eye, a hint of worship almost. But he did notanswer; no word escaped his lips. Instead of speaking he moved upnearer; he took three cautious steps, then halted close beside thegreat burly figure that formed the centre of the little group.
And then he did a curious and significant little act; he held out bothhis hands against him as a man might hold out his hands to warm thembefore a warm and comforting grate of blazing coals.
"Fire," he said; then added, "and I'm much obliged to you."
He wore a proud and satisfied air, grateful and happy too. He put hiscap straight, picked up his spade, and prepared without another word togo on digging for truffles where apparently none existed. He seemedquite content with--looking.
A pause followed, broken presently by Tim: a whisper addressed to all.
"He never finds any. That shows how real it is."
"They're somewhere, though," observed Judy.
They stood and watched the spade; it went in with a crunching sound; itcame out slowly with a sort of "pouf," and a load of rich, black earthslid off it into the world of sunshine. It went in again, it came outagain; the rhythm of the movement caught them. How long they watched itno one knew, and no one cared to know: it might have been a moment, itmay have been a year or two; so utterly had hurry vanished out of lifeit seemed to them they stood and watched for ever...when they becameaware of a curious sensation, as though they felt the whole earthturning with them. They were moving, surely. Something to which theybelonged, of which they formed a part--was moving. A windy voice wassinging just in front of them. They looked up. The words wereinaudible, but they knew it was a bit of the same old song that everyone seemed singing everywhere as though the Day itself were singing.
The Tramp was going on.
"Hark!" said Tim. "The birds are singing. Let's go on and look."
"The world is wild with laughter," Judy cried, snatching the words fromthe air about her. "We can fly--" She darted after him.
"Among the imprisoned hours as we choose," boomed the voice of UncleFelix, as he followed, rolling in behind her.
"We can play," growled Stumper, hobbling next in the line. "_My_ lifehas just begun."
Their Leader waited till they all came up with him. They caught him up,gathering about him like things that settled on a sunny bush. It almostseemed they were one single person growing from the earth and air andwater. The Tramp glowed there between them like a heart of burning fire.
"_He_ ought to be with us, too," said Judy, looking back.
"No hurry," replied the Tramp. "Let him be; he's following _his_ sign.When he's ready, he'll come along. It's a lovely day."
They moved with the rhythm of a flock of happy birds across the fieldof yellow flowers, singing in chorus something or other about an "extraday." A hundred years flowed over them, or else a single instant. Itmattered not. They took no heed, at any rate. It was so enormous thatthey lost themselves, and yet so tiny that they held it between afinger and a thumb. The important thing was--that they were gettingwarmer.
Then Judy suddenly nudged Tim, and Tim nudged Uncle Felix, and UncleFelix dug his elbow into Come-Back Stumper, and Stumper somehow orother caught the attention of the Tramp--a sort of panting sound,half-whistle and half-gasp. They paused and looked behind them.
"He's ready," remarked their Leader, with a laughing chuckle in hisbeard. "He's coming on!"
WEEDEN, sure enough, had quietly shouldered his shovel and empty sack,and was making after them, singing as he came. Judy was on the point ofsaying to her brother, "Good thing Aunt Emily isn't here!" when shecaught a look in his eyes that stopped her dead.