Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
THE EXTRA DAY
BY
ALGERNON BLACKWOOD
AUTHOR OF "THE CENTAUR," "A PRISONER IN FAIRYLAND," "INCREDIBLE
ADVENTURES," ETC.
New York
1915
Set up and electrotyped. Published September, 1915. Reprinted November,
1915.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I THE MATERIAL
II FANCY--SEED OF WONDER
III DEATH OF A MERE FACT
IV FACT--EDGED WITH FANCY
V THE BIRTH OF WONDER
VI THE GROWTH OF WONDER
VII IMAGINATION WAKES
VIII WHERE WONDER HIDES
IX A PRIEST OF WONDER
X FACT AND WONDER--CLASH
XI JUDY'S PARTICULAR ADVENTURE
XII TIM'S PARTICULAR ADVENTURE
XIII TIME HESITATES
XIV MARIA STIRS
XV "A DAY WILL COME"
XVI TIME HALTS
XVII A DAY HAS COME
XVIII TIME GOES ON AGAIN--
XIX --AS USUAL
XX --BUT DIFFERENTLY!
CHAPTER I
THE MATERIAL
Judy, Tim, and Maria were just little children. It was impossible to
say exactly what their ages were, except that they were just the usual
age, that Judy was the eldest, Maria the youngest, and that Tim,
accordingly, came in between the two.
Their father did his best for them; so did their mother; so did Aunt
Emily, the latter's sister. It is impossible to say very much about
these three either, except that they were just Father, Mother, and Aunt
Emily. They were the Authorities-in-Chief, and they knew respectively
everything there was to be known about such remote and difficult
subjects as London and Money; Food, Health and Clothing; Conduct,
Behaviour and Regulations, both general and particular. Into these
three departments of activity the children, without realising that they
did so, classed them neatly. Aunt Emily, besides the special duties
assigned to her, was a living embodiment of No. While Father allowed
and permitted, while Mother wobbled and hesitated, Aunt Emily shook her
head with decision, and said distinctly No. She was too full of
warnings, advice, and admonitions to get about much. She wore gold
glasses, and had an elastic, pointed nose. From the children's point of
view she must be classed as invalid. Somewhere, deep down inside them,
they felt pity.
The trio loved them according to their just deserts; they grasped that
the Authorities did their best for them. This "best," moreover, was
done in different ways. Father did it with love and tenderness, that
is, he spoilt them; Mother with tenderness and love, that is, she felt
them part of herself and did not like to hurt herself; Aunt Emily with
affectionate and worthy desire to see them improve, that is, she
trained them. Therefore they adored their father, loved their mother,
and thought highly--from a distance preferably--of their aunt.
This was the outward and visible household that an ordinary person,
say, a visitor who came to lunch on Sunday after church, would have
noticed. It was the upper layer; but there was an under layer too.
There was Thompson, the old pompous family butler; they trusted him
because he was silent and rarely smiled, winked at their mischief,
pretended not to see them when he caught them in his pantry, and never
once betrayed them. There was Mrs. Horton, the fat and hot-tempered
family cook; they regarded her with excitement including dread, because
she left juicy cakes (still wet) upon the dresser, yet denied them the
entry into her kitchen. Her first name being Bridget, there was
evidently an Irish strain in her, but there was probably a dash of
French as well, for she was an excellent cook and _recipe_ was her
master-word--she pronounced it "recipee." There was Jackman, the nurse,
a mixture of Mother and Aunt Emily; and there was Weeden, the Head
Gardener, an evasive and mysterious personality, who knew so much about
flowers and vegetables and weather that he was half animal, half bird,
and scarcely a human being at all--vaguely magnificent in a sombre way.
His power in his own department was unquestioned. He said little, but
it "meant an awful lot"--most of which, perhaps, was not intended.
These four constituted the under layer of the household, concealed from
visitors, and living their own lives apart behind the scenes. They were
the Lesser Authorities.
There were others too, of course, neighbours, friends, and visitors,
who dwelt outside the big iron gates in the Open World, and who entered
their lives from various angles, some to linger, some merely to show
themselves and vanish into mist again. Occasionally they reappeared at
intervals, occasionally they didn't. Among the former were Colonel
William Stumper, C.B., a retired Indian soldier who lived in the Manor
House beyond the church and had written a book on Scouting; a nameless
Station-Master, whom they saw rarely when they accompanied Daddy to the
London train; a Policeman, who walked endlessly up and down the muddy
or dusty lanes, and came to the front door with a dirty little book in
his big hands at Christmas-time; and a Tramp, who slept in barns and
haystacks, and haunted the great London Road ever since they had once
handed him a piece of Mrs. Horton's sticky cake in paper over the old
grey fence. Him they regarded with a special awe and admiration, not
unmixed with tenderness. He had smiled so nicely when he said "Thank
you" that Judy, wondering if there was any one to mend his clothes, had
always longed to know him better. It seemed so wonderful. How could he
live without furniture, house, regular meals--without possessions, in a
word? It made him so real. It was "real life," in fact, to live that
way; and upon Judy especially the impression was a deep one.
In addition to these occasional intruders, there was another person, an
Authority, but the most wonderful Authority of all, who came into their
lives a little later with a gradual and overwhelming effect, but who
cannot be mentioned more definitely just now because he has not yet
arrived. The world, in any case, speaking generally, was enormous; it
was endless; it was always dropping things and people upon them without
warning, as from a clear and cloudless sky. But this particular
individual was still climbing the great curve below their horizon, and
had not yet poked his amazing head above the edge.
Yet, strange to say, they had always believed that some such person
would arrive. A wonderful stranger was already on the way. They rarely
spoke of it--it was just a great, passionate expectancy tucked away in
the deepest corner of their hearts. Children possess this sense of
anticipation all the world over; grown-ups have it too in the form of
an unquenchable, though fading hope: the feeling that some day or other
a Wonderful Stranger will come up the pathway, knock at the door, and
enter their lives, making life worth living, full of wonder, beauty,
and delight, because he will make all things new.
This wonderful stranger, Judy had a vague idea, would be--be like at
least--the Tramp; Tim, following another instinct, was of the opinion
he would be a "soldier-explorer-hunter kind of man"; Maria, if she
thought anything at all about him, kept her decision securely hidden in
her tight, round body. But Judy qualified her choice by the hopeful
assertion that he would "come from the air"; and Tim had a secret
notion that he would emerge from a big, deep hole--pop out like a
badger or a rabbit, as it were--and suddenly declare himself; while
Maria, by her non-committal, universal attitude, perhaps believed that,
if he came at all, he would "just come from everywhere at once." She
believed everything, always, everywhere. But to assert that belief was
to betray the existence of a doubt concerning it. She just lived it.
For the three children belonged to three distinct classes, without
knowing that they did so. Tim loved anything to do with the ground,
with earth and soil, that is, things that made holes and lived in them,
or that did not actually make holes but just grubbed about; mysterious,
secret things, such as rabbits, badgers, hedgehogs, mice, rats, hares,
and weasels. In all his games the "earth" was home.
Judy, on the other hand, was indubitably an air person--birds amazed
her, filling her hungry heart with high aspirations, longings, and
desires. She looked, with her bright, eager face and spidery legs,
distinctly bird-like. She flitted, darted, perched. She had what Tim
called a "tweaky" nose, though whether he meant that it was beak-like
or merely twitched, he never stated; it was just "tweaky," and Judy
took it as a compliment. One could easily imagine her shining little
face peeping over the edge of a nest, the rest of her sitting warmly
upon half a dozen smooth, pink eggs. Her legs certainly seemed stuck
into her like pencils, as with a robin or a seagull. She adored
everything that had wings and flew; she was of the air; it was her
element.
Maria's passions were unknown. Though suspected of being universal,
since she manifested no deliberate likes or dislikes, approving all
things with a kind of majestic and indifferent omnipotence, they
remained quiescent and undeclared. She probably just loved the
universe. She felt at home in it. To Maria the entire universe
belonged, because she sat still and with absolute conviction--claimed
it.