Algernon Blackwood (57 page)

'Why, it's ten o'clock! Jimbo, Monkey, please plagiarise off to bed at
once!'—in a tone that admitted of no rejoinder or excuses.

'A most singular thing, isn't it, Henry?' remarked the author, coming
across to his side when the lamp was lit and the children had said
their good-nights.

'I really think we ought to report it to the Psychical Society as a
genuine case of thought-transference. You see, what people never
properly realise is—'

But Henry Rogers lost the remainder of the sentence even if he heard
the beginning, for his world was in a state of indescribable turmoil,
one emotion tumbling wildly upon the heels of another. He was elated
to intoxication. The room spun round him. The next second his heart
sank down into his boots. He only caught the end of the words she was
saying to Mother across the room:—

'... but I must positively go to-morrow, I've already stayed too long.
So many things are waiting at home for me to do. I must send a
telegram and....'

His cousin's wumbling drowned the rest. He was quite aware that Rogers
was not listening to him.

'... your great kindness in writing to him, and then coming yourself,'
Mother was saying. 'It's such an encouragement. I can't tell you how
much he—we—'

'And you'll let me write to you about the children,' she interrupted,
'the plans we discussed, you know....'

Rogers broke away from his cousin with a leap. It felt at least like a
leap. But he knew not where to go or what to say. He saw Minks
standing with Jane Anne again by the fourneau, picking at his ear. By
the open window with Mother stood the little visitor. She was leaving
to-morrow. A torturing pain like twisting knives went through him. The
universe was going out!... He saw the starry sky behind her. Daddy
went up and joined them, and he was aware that the three of them
talked all at once for what seemed an interminable time, though all he
heard was his cousin's voice repeating at intervals, 'But you
can't
send a telegram before eight o'clock to-morrow morning in any case;
the post is closed....'

And then, suddenly, the puzzle reeled and danced before his eyes. It
dissolved into a new and startling shape that brought him to his
senses with a shock. There had been a swift shuffling of the figures.

Minks and his cousin were helping her into her cloak. She
was
going.

One of them—he knew not which—was offering politely to escort her
through the village.

It sounded like his own sentence of exile, almost of death. Was he
forty years of age, or only fifteen? He felt awkward, tongue-tied,
terrified.

They were already in the passage. Mother had opened the door into the
yard.

'But your way home lies down the hill,' he heard the silver voice,
'and to go with me you must come up. I can easily—'

Above the leaves of the plane tree he saw the stars. He saw Orion and
the Pleiades. The Fairy Net flung in and caught him. He found his
voice.

In a single stride he was beside her. Minks started at his sudden
vehemence and stepped aside.

'
I
will take you home, Countess, if I may,' and his tone was so
unnecessarily loud and commanding that Mother turned and stared. 'Our
direction lies together. I will come up—with you.'

She did not even look at him. He saw that tiny smile that was like the
flicker of a star—no more. But he heard her answer. It seemed to fill
the sky.

'Thank you. I might lose my way alone.'

And, before he realised how she managed it, they had crossed the
cobbled yard, Daddy was swinging away downhill towards the
carpenter's, and Minks behind them, at the top of the stone steps, was
saying his last good-night to Mother. With the little visitor beside
him, he passed the singing fountain and led her down the deserted
village street beneath the autumn stars.

Three minutes later they were out of sight... when Minks came down the
steps and picked his way among the shadows after Daddy, who had the
latch-key of the carpenter's house. He ran to overtake him.

And he ran upon his toes
As softly as a saying does,
For so the saying goes!

His thoughts were very active, but as clear as day. He was thinking
whether German was a difficult language to acquire, and wondering
whether a best man at a wedding ought to wear white gloves or not. He
decided to ask Albinia. He wrote the letter that very night before he
went to sleep.

And, while he slept, Orion pursued the Pleiades across the sky, and
numerous shooting stars fastened the great Net of thought and sympathy
close over little Bourcelles.