Next day he put his work aside and devoted himself whole-heartedly to
the lonely child. It was not only duty now. She had stirred his love
and pity from the first. They would get on together. Unconsciously, by
saying the very thing to win him--‘Uncle, _how_ the Place must love
you!’--she had struck the fundamental tone that made the three of them
in harmony, and set the whole place singing. The sense of an intruding
trespasser had vanished. The Place accepted her.
It was only later that he realised this completely and in detail,
though on looking back he saw clearly that the verdict had been given
instantly. For no revision changed it. ‘I’m all right here with
Uncle,’ was the child’s quick intuition, meeting his own halfway:--‘We
three are all right here together.’ For she leaped upon his beloved
dream-estate and made it seem twice as wild and living as before. She
delighted in its loneliness and mystery. She clapped her hands and
laughed, pointed and asked questions, made her eyes round with wonder,
and, in a word, put her own feelings from the start into each nook
and corner where he took her. There was no shyness, no confusion; she
made herself at home with a little air of possession that, instead of
irritating as it might have done, was utterly enchanting. It was like
the chorus of approval that increases a man’s admiration for the woman
he has chosen.
She brought her own interpretations, too, yet without destroying his
own. They even differed from his own, yet only by showing him points
and aspects he had not realised. The child saw things most oddly from
another point of view. From the very first she began to say astonishing
things. They piqued and puzzled him to the end, these things she said.
He felt they unravelled something. In his own mind the personality of
the Place and the memory of his wife had become confused and jumbled,
as it were. Mánya’s remarks and questions disentangled something. Her
child’s divination cleared his perceptions with a singular directness.
She had strong in her that divine curiosity of children which is as far
removed from mere inquisitiveness as gold-dust from a vulgar-finished
ornament. Wonder in her was vital and insatiable, and some of these
questions that he could not answer stirred in him, even on that first
day of acquaintance, almost the sense of respect.
Morning and afternoon they spent together in visiting every corner
of the woods and valleys; no inch was left without inspection; they
followed the stream from the moorlands to the Mill, plunged through
the bracken, leaped the high tufts of heather, and scrambled together
down the precipitous sand-pits. She did not jump as well as he did,
but showed equal recklessness. And the depths of shadowy pinewood made
her hushed and silent like himself. In her childish way she _felt_ the
wild charm of it all deeply. Not once did she cry ‘How lovely’ or ‘How
wonderful’; but showed her happiness and pleasure by what she did.
‘Better than yesterday, eh?’ he suggested once, to see what she would
answer, yet sure it would be right.
She darted to his side. ‘That was all stuffed,’ she said, laconically
as himself, and making a wry face. And then she added with a grave
expression, half anxious and half solemn, ‘Fancy, if _that_ got in! Oh,
Uncle!’
‘Couldn’t,’ he comforted himself and her, delighted secretly.
But it was on their way home to tea in the dusk, feeling as if they
had known one another all their lives, so quickly had friendship been
cemented, that she said her first genuinely strange thing. For a long
time she had been silent by his side, apparently tired, when suddenly
out popped this little criticism that showed her mind was actively
working all the time.
‘Uncle, you _have_ been busy--keeping it so safe. I suppose you did
most of it at night.’
He started. His own thoughts had been travelling in several directions
at once.
‘I don’t walk in my sleep,’ he laughed.
‘I mean when the stars are shining,’ she said. She felt it as
delicately as that, then! She felt the dream quality in it. ‘I mean, it
loves you best when the sun has set and it comes out of its hole,’ she
added, as he said nothing.
‘Mánya, it loves you too--already,’ he said gently.
Then came the astonishing thing. The voice was curious; the words
seemed to come from a long way off, taking time to reach him. They took
time to reach her too, as though another had first whispered them. It
almost seemed as though she listened while she said them. A sense of
the uncanny touched him here in the shadowy dark wood:
‘It’s a woman, you see, really, and that’s why you’re so fond of it.
That’s why it likes me too, and why I can play with it.’
The amazing judgment gave him pause at once, for he felt no child
ought to know or say such things. It savoured of precociousness, even
of morbidity, both of which his soul loathed. But reflection brought
clearer judgment. The sentence revealed something he had already been
very quick to divine, namely, that while the ordinary mind in her was
undeveloped, backward, almost stunted, by her bringing up, another part
of her was vividly aware. And this other part was taught of Nature;
it was the fairy thing that children had the right to know. She stood
close to the earth. Landscape and scenery brought her vivid impressions
that fairy-tales, rather stupidly, translate into princes and
princesses, ogres, giants, dragons. Mánya, having been denied the fairy
books, personified these impressions after her own fashion. What was
it after all but the primitive instinct of early races that turned the
moods of Nature into beings, calling them gods, or the instinct of a
later day that personified the Supreme, calling it God? He himself had
‘felt’ in very imaginative moments that bits of scenery, as with trees
and even the heavenly bodies, could actually express such differences
of temperament, seem positive or negative, almost male or female. And
perhaps, in her original, child’s fashion, she felt it too.
Then Mánya interrupted his reflections with a further observation that
scattered his philosophising like an explosion. Something, as he heard
it, came up close and brushed him. It made him start.
‘In some places, you see, Uncle, I feel shy all over. But here I could
run about naked. I could undress.’
He burst out laughing. Instinctively he felt this was the best thing he
could do. A sympathetic answer might have meant too much, yet silence
would have made her feel foolish. His laughter turned the idea in her
little mind all wholesome and natural.
‘Play here to your heart’s content, for there’s no one to disturb
you,’ he cried. ‘And when I’m too busy,’ he added, thinking it a happy
inspiration, ‘Mrs. Coove can----’
‘Oh,’ she interrupted like a flash, ‘but she’s too bulgey. She could
never jump like you, for one thing.’
‘True.’
‘Or play hide-and-seek. She couldn’t fit in anywhere. She’d never be
able to hide, you see.’
And so they reached the house, like two friends who had found suddenly
a new delight in life, and sat down to an enormous tea, with jam,
buttered muffins, and a stodgy indigestible cake straight from the
oven. His tea hitherto had consisted of one cup and two pieces of thin
bread and butter. But the appetite of twenty-five had come back again.
A new joy of life had come back with it. After so many years of
brooding, dreaming, solitary working, he had grown over solemn, the
sense of fun and humour atrophying. He had erected barriers between
himself and all his kind, hedged himself in too much. The arrival of
this child brought new impetus into the enclosure. Without destroying
what imagination had prized so long, she shifted the old values into
slightly different keys. Already he caught his thoughts running forward
to construct her future--what she might become, how he might help her
to develop spiritually and materially--yes, materially as well. His
thoughts had hitherto run chiefly backwards.
This need not, indeed could not, involve being unfaithful to the past.
But it did mean looking ahead instead of always looking back. It was
more wholesome.
Yet what dawned upon him--rather, what chiefly struck him out of his
singular observations perhaps, was this: not only that the Place had
whole-heartedly accepted her, but that she had instantly established
some definite relation with it that was different to his own. It was
even deeper, truer, more vital than his own; for it was somehow more
natural. It had been discovered, though already there; and it was not,
like his own, built up by imaginative emotion. Hence came his notion
that she disentangled something; hence the respect he felt for her from
the start; hence, too, the original, surprising things she sometimes
said.