AT THE WINDOW
‘And a boy leans over a lighted window-sill,
... his head on his arm.
Like a white moth his thought flies into the night.’
――_John Alford._
There was no moon, and the last faint glimmer of a prolonged twilight
concealed more than it revealed.
Pan and Syrinx, the two stable cats, glided like ghosts from their
hiding-place, pausing guiltily, every yard or two, as they crossed
the lawn, bent on secret deeds that would never be divulged, seeking
the shadows and moving forward stealthily, vanishing at last into
the darkness. Presently from that darkness there arose two unearthly
screams――blood-chilling, horrible:――then silence, sinister and
profound. Those dreadful shrieks had brought a watchful, astonished
Pouncer to the window. Indignant at suspected immoralities, and
lawless, possibly criminal joys, his round eyes searched the night but
could discover nothing. Pouncer was on the side of respectability and
the police: he could never have even superficial dealings with Pan or
Syrinx....
* * * * *
Light shone in the windows of three rooms, two on the ground floor, and
one higher up. It was not the blazing light of gas, but the subdued,
ruddy glow of shaded lamps. In one of these lower rooms Canon Annesley
sat at a table littered with books and papers. Before him was a volume
of _The Golden Bough_, and he turned the leaves rapidly, looking for a
marked passage which, when he found it, was not the one he wanted....
* * * * *
In another room Aunt Caroline was writing a letter to her sister,
telling of the arrival of the children, of all the events of the past
day. Her pen raced on almost without a pause, and sometimes a smile
flickered across her face. She enjoyed writing letters, and made a
hobby of it. Certain of her correspondents were even slightly irritated
by the promptitude with which she replied to their epistles――a
promptitude that left them in the perpetual condition of ‘owing
Caroline a letter,’ no matter how frequently they might discharge their
debt....
* * * * *
The third lighted room was that of Miss Johnson, and Miss Johnson was
in bed. Beside her on a table was a large pile of manuscript. The
manuscript was entitled _Be True, Fond Heart_, and Miss Johnson was
lingering over that portion of it which dealt with the final explosion
of the long-concealed passion of her hero. Miss Johnson, deeply
attached to propriety, was indeed wondering if Reginald were not a
little _too_ passionate. Of course, he was dying, and on death-beds,
if anywhere, surely one might let oneself go. But what would Canon
Annesley think? Miss Johnson turned again to the passages which had
awakened these doubts, and the only drawback to her enjoyment was the
fact that the lamp was smelling....
* * * * *
Barbara and Ann were asleep, but in the boys’ room Edward lay on his
back and talked into the darkness. To him out of the darkness came the
reluctant voice of Palmer, growing drowsier and drowsier, and sometimes
ceasing altogether.
“I wonder if they’d allow us to have a little cricket practice on the
lawn? We might be able to rig up some kind of net――what?”
“Um――ff.”
“What do you say?”
“Nothing.... Spoil――ground....”
“I say, Dorset.”
No answer.
“Dorset――Palmer! Wake up!”
“Not asleep. What d’you want?”
“Lazy brute! I don’t feel a bit sleepy. I’m going to have a smoke.”
There was a scratching sound, the flare of a match, and then the red
glow of a cigarette.
“What about slinging hammocks and sleeping outside if this weather
keeps up? Rather a lark, don’t you think?... I say, you _are_ a rotter!
I believe you’ve gone off to sleep again.... Oh, of course if you don’t
want to talk!...”
* * * * *
In the room from which Pouncer had looked out a minute or two ago Grif
now was at the window. He leaned across the sill, listening to the
strange sounds of the night. From somewhere far away came the harsh,
monotonous cry of a corncrake. There was a slight rustle in the ivy
below him――perhaps a bird――perhaps a rat. Then came a low whisper that
might have been the wind, but that seemed to come from miles and miles
away. It was like the sigh of a sleeper bound by enchantment, scarce
distinguishable from silence.
Grif was extraordinarily sensitive to sounds. The whole of life seemed
to come to him in a woven pattern of music. Even through sleep the
slightest noise could reach him, and a very little noise would awaken
him. The values of these sounds altered. Now and then they ceased
to be mere patterns, became articulate, and he listened to what they
said. Words that were not actual words, but only the spirits of words,
for he could never have written them down, impressed themselves, as if
secretly, upon a portion of his brain, and gave birth to all kinds of
thoughts.
And now, when every one had gone to bed, the old house had awakened,
and he could hear it creaking and murmuring, as if each brick and
board had found a restless tongue. Outside there were other voices,
weaving thin, whistling tunes, which detached themselves from the low
ground hum that never ceased. That flapping, leathery noise came from
the wings of a bat. It was very low, but, while it lasted, it was
loud enough to blot out completely this other ghostly sound moving in
the air about him, now high up, now passing close to the ground, now
receding, and again drawing near. And at last he could make out many
voices singing together, the green, slender voices of the wood, and
this is what they seemed to say:
What is this coming that troubles our ancient peace
With faint thrillings of spring, of music and joy?
Who has found old-time power to awake, to release
The spirits of earth? Who is this human boy――
He who would lead us to shake off old memories of grief,
And a life that had wavered and sunk, like a failing well,
Back in the darkness of earth, like the sap in the leaf
That yellows and withers in autumn? What is the spell
He has found? Ancient gods of dim woodland places,
Rise from your long, sad sleep; ye spirits of water and land!
Shake out the dead leaves from your hair; rise and unveil your faces.
The frozen winter is past; the spring is at hand.
Not these dull words certainly, but something of which they are but
a weak and uncouth symbol, he heard; though whether the voices were
within him or without he did not know.
Pouncer, who had already retired to bed half a dozen times and made a
great show of falling asleep, was secretly intrigued by this curious
vigil of his master, and came again to the window. He, also, leaned
over the sill, but there was really nothing to be seen. He gave a very
small bark in order to scare away imaginary robbers should Grif be
thinking of that; then returned to his slumbers, sleeping with eyes and
mouth and nose, but with ears wide enough awake.
A clock chimed midnight, and Grif, he knew not why, began to think of
Mr. Bradley. He wondered if he were playing now in the church, and he
could see him, in imagination, his wild silver hair floating loose in
the starlight, while the organ sang and thundered. The idea appealed
to him. If only he had been certain that Mr. Bradley was really there,
he would have crept out of the house at once. The thought stirred in
him a spirit of adventure which the plans of Edward, Jim, and the
others, left cold. He was haunted by something vaguely sinister,
something fantastic and a little mad which the organist’s appearance
had suggested to him. What it was he could not tell, but that afternoon
it had made him uneasy――a very little uneasy――without being actually
afraid.
He felt wakeful and rather restless. He had a curious, excited sense
of being surrounded by marvellous things. If Pouncer had begun to
talk, if the mirror on the wall, which still glimmered dimly in the
half-darkness, had begun to sing its reedy silvery rhymes, he would
perhaps not have been greatly astonished.
At any rate, he thought he would not. The cool summer night seemed to
stream into his soul. He loved it. He loved the dim shadowy trees, the
stars, the sky――loved them in a way he loved people at certain moments,
with a desire to put his arms about them and kiss them. Unconsciously,
he loved the spirit that was behind them――that great eternal mother
who sang to him while he was waking, and through his dreams.
He knew the story of Tobias and his dog and the angel, and he longed
for the angel to come. The angel, with a great rustling of splendid
wings! But he would rather have a smaller angel, one about his own
size, one like Tobias himself in the Perugino picture at home, from
which he had learned the story. He would play on his silver flute for
a signal, and Grif would go down to meet him. He wondered what his
name would be? The only angel names he knew were Michael and Raphael
and Gabriel. It was Raphael who had come to Tobias. _His_ angel would
perhaps be Michael. The story was written somewhere in the Bible,
though he had never been able to find it. His mother had told him that
it was only in old Bibles, and he had never found one old enough. To
be sure, his dog was not a bit like the dog in the picture, and _he_
was not like Tobias: but what matter? He wondered if the angel would
be frightened of Pouncer, supposing he were a very young angel. Most
people _were_, at first: and he laughed a little as he imagined their
meeting, for Pouncer would be sure to want to examine the wings. Then
he yawned, stretched himself, and making a bound on to the bed slid
between the cool white sheets.
Next moment there was another bound, and a dull thud.
“Oh!” said Grif, for most of the breath had been knocked out of him.
“You can’t get under, you know,” he expostulated, as Pouncer pulled
at the bed-clothes with his fore-paws, “we’ll be far too hot!” A
compromise was effected by everything but a sheet sliding on to the
floor.
And very soon Grif grew drowsy. The wind had arisen a little, and he
could hear the faint soughing of the trees――a lulling, dreamy music.
Then, just as he was dropping asleep, he heard another music quite
distinctly, and if it had not been that something seemed to hold him
back he would have sprung out of bed. For what he had heard――whether
dreaming or waking――was the low clear note of a flute.