CHAPTER VII
IMAGINATION WAKES
For the Night-Wind already had a definite position in the mythology ofthe Old Mill House, and since Uncle Felix had taken to reading aloudcertain fancy bits from the storicalnovul he was writing at the moment,it had acquired a new importance in their minds.
These fancy bits were generally scenes of action in which theNight-Wind either dropped or rose unexpectedly. He used the children asa standard. "Thank you very much, Uncle," meant failure, theimagination was not touched; but questions were an indication ofsuccess, the audience wanted further details. For he knew it was thechild in his audience that enjoyed such scenes, and if Tim and Judyfelt no interest, neither would Mr. and Mrs. William Smith of Peckham.To squeeze a question out of Maria raised hopes of a second edition!
A Duke, disguised as a woman or priest, landing at night; a dark manstealing documents from a tapestried chamber of some castle, where batsand cobwebs shared the draughty corridors--such scenes were incompleteunless a Night-Wind came in audibly at critical moments. It wailed,moaned, whistled, cried, sang, sighed, soughed or--sobbed. Keyholes andchimneys were its favourite places, but trees and rafters knew it too.The sea, of course, also played a large part in these adventures, forwater above all was the element Uncle Felix loved and understood, butthis Night-Wind, being born at sea, was also of distinct importance.The sea was terrible, the wind was sad.
To the children it grew more and more distinct with each appearance. Ithad a personality, and led a curious and wild existence. It hadprivileges and prerogatives. Owing to its various means of vocalexpression--singing, moaning, and the rest--a face belonged to it withlips and mouth; teeth too, since it whistled. It ran about the world,and so had feet; it flew, so wings pertained to it; it blew, and thatmeant cheeks of sorts. It was a large, swift, shadowy being whose wayswere not the ordinary ways of daylight. It struck blows. It hadgigantic hands. Moreover, it came out only after dark--an ominous andsuspicious characteristic rather.
"Why isn't there a day-wind too?" inquired Judy thoughtfully.
"There is, but it's _quite_ a different thing," Uncle Felix answered."You might as well ask why midday and midnight aren't the same becausethey both come at twelve o'clock. They're simply different things."
"Of course," Tim helped him unexpectedly; "and a man can't be a woman,can it?"
The Night-Wind's nature, accordingly, remained a mystery rather, andits sex was also undetermined. Whether it saw with eyes, or just feltits way about like a blind thing, wandering, was another secret matterundetermined. Each child visualised it differently. Its hiding-place inthe daytime was equally unknown. Owls, bats, and burglars guessed itshabits best, and that it came out of a hole in the sky was, perhaps,the only detail all unanimously agreed upon. It was a pathetic beingrather.
This Night-Wind used to come crying round the bedroom windowssometimes, and the children liked it, although they did not understandall its melancholy beauty. They heard the different voices in it,although they did not catch the meaning of the words it sang. Theyheard its footsteps too. Its way of moving awed them. Moreover, it wasfor ever trying to get in.
"It's wings," said Judy, "big, dark wings, very soft and feathery."
"It's a woman with sad, black eyes," thought Tim, "that's how I likeit."
"It's some one," declared Maria, who was asleep before it came, sorarely heard it at all. And they turned to Uncle Felix who knew allthat sort of thing, or at any rate could describe it. He found thewords. They lay hidden in his thick back hair apparently--there waslittle on the top!--for he always scratched his head a good deal whenthey asked him questions about such difficult matters. "What is it_really_--the Night-Wind?" they asked gravely; "and why does it soundso _very_ different from the wind in the morning or the afternoon?"
"There _is_ a difference," he replied carefully. "It's a quick, dark,rushing thing, and it moves like--like anything."
"We know _that_," they told him.
"And it has long hair," he added hurriedly, looking into Tim's staringeyes. "That's what makes it swish. The swishing, rushing, hushing soundit makes--that's its hair against the walls and tiles, you see."
"It _is_ a woman, then?" said Tim proudly. All looked up, wondering. Anextraordinary thing was in the air. A mystery that had puzzled them forages was about to be explained. They drew closer round the sofa, andMaria blundered against the table, knocking some books off with aresounding noise. It was their way of reminding him that he hadpromised. "Hush, hush!" said Uncle Felix, holding up a finger andglancing over his shoulder into the darkened room. "It may be comingnow... Listen!"
"Yes, but it is a woman, isn't it?" insisted Tim, in a hurried whisper.He had to justify himself before his sisters. Uncle Felix must see tothat first.
The big man opened his eyes very wide. He shuddered. "It's a--Thing,"was the answer, given in a whisper that increased the excitement ofanticipation. "It certainly is a--Thing! Now hush! It's coming!"
They listened then intently. And a sound _was_ heard. Out of the starrysummer night it came, quite softly, and from very far away--upondiscovery bent, upon adventure. Reconnoitering, as from some deepambush in the shrubberies where the blackbirds hid and whistled, itflew down against the house, stared in at the nursery windows,fluttered up and down the glass with a marvellous, sweet humming--andwas gone again.
"Listen!" the man's voice whispered; "it will come back presently. Itsaw us. It's awfully shy--"
"Why is it awfully shy?" asked Judy in an undertone.
"Because people make it mean so much more than it means to mean," hereplied darkly. "It never gets a chance to be just itself and play itsown lonely game--"
"We've called it things," she stated.
"But we haven't written books about it and put it into poetry," UncleFelix corrected her with an audacity that silenced them. "We play ourgame; it plays its."
"It plays its," repeated Tim, amused by the sound of the words.
"And that's why it's shy," the man held them to the main point, "anddislikes showing itself--"
"But why is its game lonely?" some one asked, and there was a generalfeeling that Uncle Felix had been caught this time without an answer.For what explanation could there possibly be of that? Their faces werehalf triumphant, half disappointed already.
He smiled quietly. He knew everything--everything in the world. "It'sunhappy as well as shy," he sighed, "because nothing will play with it.Everything is asleep at night. It comes out just when other things aregoing in. Trees answer it, but they answer in their sleep. Birds,tucked away in nests and hiding-places, don't even answer at all. Thebutterflies are gone, the insects lost. Leaves and twigs don't careabout being blown when there's no one there to see them. They hide too.If there are clouds, they're dark and sulky, keeping their jolly sidestowards the stars and moon. Nothing will play with the Night-Wind. Soit either plays with the tiles on the roof and the telegraphwires--dead things that make a lot of noise, but never leave theirplaces for a proper game--or else just--plays with itself. Since thebeginning of the world the Night-Wind has been shy and lonely andunhappy."
It was unanswerable. They understood. Their sense of pity was greatlytouched, their love as well.
"Do pigs really see the wind, as Daddy says?" inquired Maria abruptly,feeling the conversation beyond her. She merely obeyed the laws of hernature. But no one answered her; no one even heard the question.Another sound absorbed their interest and attention. There was a low,faint tapping on the window-pane. A hush, like church, fell uponeverybody.
And Uncle Felix stood up to his full height suddenly, and opened hisarms wide. He drew a long, deep breath.
"Come in," he said splendidly.
The tapping, however, grew fainter and fainter, till it finally ceased.Everybody waited expectantly, but it was not repeated. Nothinghappened. Nobody came in. The tapper had retreated.
"It was a twig," whispered Judy, after a pause. "The Virgin Creeper--"
"But it was the wind that shook it," e
xclaimed Uncle Felix, stillstanding and waiting as though he expected something. "TheNight-Wind--Look out!"
A roaring sound over the roof drowned his words; it rose and fell likelaughter, then like crying. It dropped closer, rushed headlong past thewindow, rattled and shook the sash, then dived away into the darkness.Its violence startled them. A deep lull followed instantly, and thelittle tapping of the twig was heard again. Odd! Just when theNight-Wind seemed furthest off it was all the time quite near. It hadnot really gone at all; it was hiding against the outside walls. It waswatching them, trying to get in. The tapping continued for half aminute or more--a series of hurried, gentle little knocks as from achild's smallest finger-tip.
"It wants to come in. It's trying," whispered some one.
"It's awfully shy."
"It's lonely and frightfully unhappy."
"It likes us and wants to play."
There was another pause and silence. No one knew quite what to do."There's too much light. Let's put the lamp out," said a genius, usingthe voice of Judy.
As though by way of answer there followed instantly a sudden burst ofwind. The torrent of it drove against the house; it boomed down thechimney, puffing an odour of soot into the room; it shook the door intothe passage; it lifted an edge of carpet, flapping it. It shouted,whistled, sang, using a dozen different voices all at once. The roarfell into syllables. It was amazing. A great throat uttered words. Theycould scarcely believe their ears.
The wind was shouting with a joyful, boisterous shout: "Open thewindow! _I'll_ put out the light!"
All heard the wonderful thing. Yet it seemed quite natural in a way.Uncle Felix, still standing and waiting as though he knew not exactlywhat was going to happen, moved forward at once and boldly opened thewindow's lower sash. In swept the mighty visitor, the stranger from theair. The lamp gave one quick flicker and went out. Deep stillnessfollowed. There was a silence like the moon.
The shy Night-Wind had come into the room.
Ah, there was awe and wonder then! The silence was so unexpected. Thewhole wind, not merely part of it, was in. It had come so gently,softly, delicately too! In the darkness the outline of the window-framewas visible; Uncle Felix's big figure blocked against the stars. Judy'shead could be seen in silhouette against the other window, but Tim andMaria, being smaller, were merged in the pool of shadow below the levelof the sill. A large, spread thing passed flutteringly up and down theroom a moment, then came the rest. It settled over everything at once.A rustle was audible as of trailing, floating hair.
"It's hiding in the corners and behind the furniture," whispered UncleFelix; "keep quiet. If you frighten it--whew!"--he whistledsoftly--"it'll be off above the tree-tops in a second!"
A low soft whistle answered to his own; somewhere in the room itsounded; there was no mistaking it, though the exact direction wasdifficult to tell, for while Tim said it was through the keyhole, Judydeclared positively that it came from the door of the big, brokencupboard opposite. Maria stated flatly, "Chimney."
"Hush! It's talking." It was Uncle Felix's voice breathing very low."It likes us. It feels we're friendly."
A murmur as of leaves was audible, or as of a pine bough sighing in abreeze. Yet there were words as well--actual spoken words:
"Don't look for me, please," they heard. "I do not want to be seen. Butyou may touch me. I like that."
The children spread their hands out in the darkness, groping,searching, feeling.
"Ah, your touch!" the sighing voice continued.
"It's like my softest lawn. Your hair feels as my grass feels on thehill-tops, and the skin of your cheeks is smooth and cool as thewater-surface of my lily ponds at midnight. I know you"--it raised itstones to singing. "You are children. I kiss you all!"
"I feel you," Judy said in her clear, quiet voice. "But you're cold."
"Not really," was the answer that seemed all over the room at once."That's only the touch of space. I've come from very high up to-night.There's been a change. The lower wind was called away suddenly to thesea, and I dropped down with hardly a moment's warning to take itsplace. The sun has been very tiresome all day--overheating thecurrents."
"Uncle, _you_ ask it everything," whispered Tim, "simply everything!"
"Say how we love it, please," sighed Judy. "I feel it closing both myeyes."
"It's over all my face," put in Maria, drawing her breath in loudly.
"But my hair's lifting!" Judy exclaimed. "Oh, it's lovely, lovely!"
Uncle Felix straightened himself up in the darkness. They could hearhim breathing with the effort. "Please tell us what you do," he said."We all can feel you touching us. Play with us as you play with treesand clouds and sleeping flowers along the hedgerows."
A singing, whistling sound passed softly round the room; there was awhirr and a flutter as when a flight of bees or birds goes down thesky, and a voice, a plaintive yet happy voice, like the plover who cryto each other on the moors, was audible:
"I run about the world at night, Yet cannot see; My hair has grown so thick these millions years, It covers me. So, like a big, blind thing I run about, And know all things by touching them. I touch them with my wings; I know each one of you By touching you; I touch your _hearts_!"
"I feel you!" cried Judy. "I feel you touching me!"
"And I, and I!" the others cried. "It's simply wonderful!"
An enormous sigh of happiness went through that darkened room.
"Then play with me!" they heard. "Oh, children, play with me!"
The wild, high sweetness in the windy voice was irresistible. Thechildren rose with one accord. It was too dark to see, but they flewabout the room without a fault or slip. There was no stumbling; theyseemed guided, lifted, swept. The sound of happy, laughing voicesfilled the air. They caught the Wind, and let it go again; they chasedit round the table and the sofa; they held it in their arms until itpanted with delight, half smothered into silence, then marvellouslyescaping from them on the elastic, flying feet that tread on forests,clouds, and mountain tops. It rushed and darted, drove them, struckthem lightly, pushed them suddenly from behind, then met their faceswith a puff and shout of glee. It caught their feet; it blew theireyelids down. Just when they cried, "It's caught! I've got it in myhands!" it shot laughing up against the ceiling, boomed down thechimney, or whistled shrilly as it escaped beneath the crack of thedoor into the passage. The keyhole was its easiest escape. It grewboisterous, singing with delight, yet was never for a moment rough. Itcushioned all its blows with feathers.
"Where are you now? I felt your hair all over me. You've gone again!"It was Judy's voice as she tore across the floor.
"You're whacking me on the head!" cried Tim. "Quick, quick! I've gotyou in my hands!" He flew headlong over the sofa where Maria satclutching the bolster to prevent being blown on to the carpet.
They felt its soft, gigantic hands all over them; its silky coils ofhair entangled every movement; they heard its wings, its rushing,sighing voice, its velvet feet. The room was in a whirr and uproar.
"Uncle! Can't _you_ help? You're the biggest!"
"But it's blown me inside out," he answered, in a curiously muffledvoice. "My fingers are blown off. It's taken all my breath away."
The pictures rattled on the wall; loose bits of paper flutteredeverywhere; the curtains flapped out horizontally into the air.
"Catch it! Hold it! Stop it!" cried the breathless voices.
"Join hands," he gasped. "We'll try." And, holding hands, they racedacross the floor. They managed to encircle something with their spreadarms and legs. Into the corner by the door they forced a great, loose,flowing thing against the wall. Wedged tight together like a fence,they stooped. They pounced upon it.
"Caught!" shouted Tim. "We've got you!"
There was a laughing whistle in the keyhole just behind them. It wasgone.
The window shook. They heard the wild, high laughter. It was out of theroom. The next minute it passed shouting
above the cedar tops and upinto the open sky. And their own laughter went out to follow it acrossthe night.
The room became suddenly very still again. Some one had closed thewindow. The twig no longer tapped. The game was over. Uncle Felixcollected them, an exhausted crew, upon the sofa by his side.
"It was very wonderful," he whispered. "We've done what no one has everdone before. We've played with the Night-Wind, and the Night-Wind'splayed with us. It feels happier now. It will always be our friend."
"It was awfully strong," said Tim in a tone of awe. "It fairly bangedme."
"But awfully gentle," Judy sighed. "It kissed me hundreds of times."
"I felt it," announced Maria.
"It's only a child, really," Uncle Felix added, half to himself, "agreat wild child that plays with itself in space--"
He went on murmuring for several minutes, but the children hardly heardthe words he used. They had their own sensations. For the wind hadtouched their hearts and made them think. They heard it singing nowabove the cedars as they had never heard it sing before. It was aliveand lovely, it meant a new thing to them. For they had their littleaching sorrows too; it had taken them all away: they had their littlepassionate yearnings and desires; it had prophesied fulfilment. Thedreamy melancholy of childhood, the long, long days, the hauntednights, the everlasting afternoons--all these were in its wild, great,windy voice, the sighing, the mystery, the laughter too. The joy ofstrange fulfilment woke in their wind-kissed hearts. The Night-Wind wastheir friend; they had played with it. Now everything could come true.
And next day Maria, lost to the Authorities for over an hour, was atlength discovered by the forbidden pigsties in a fearful state of mess,but very pleased and happy about something. She was watching the pigswith eyes brimful of questioning wonder and excitement. She waslistening intently too. She wanted to find out for certain whether pigsreally--really and truly--saw--anything unusual!