下载掌阅APP，畅读海量书库
立即打开
CHAPTER XXI
He moved stealthily about the upper story of the house, trying this door and that. He did not wish to disturb his companions, for he knew that a sound in the dark would startle them, especially after they had been told of the rumor that the house was haunted.
The first and second doors he tried opened into empty rooms. The third and fourth, into closets. But the fifth opened to a narrow staircase; and ascending this on tip-toe, he presently found himself in the attic.
It was a very solemn place. The eaves sloped down closely as if they were a sort of hood, meant to hide something evil. There was one window at the gable end: a broken window, with fragments of glass lying about it. The light of the moon penetrated the window, making the fragments of glass glisten, and forming a pale avenue across the dusty floor.
There were old chests here and there, all mysteriously closed—perhaps locked. There were old garments hanging in obscure places. They made you think of persons lurking there in the dark. Outside the broken window an owl in a dark tree hooted mournfully.
Everychild crossed the attic cautiously. Timbers creaked beneath his feet. The smell of old, abandoned things arose. And suddenly he stopped short and clinched his hands. Beyond a pale haze of moonbeams he saw some one sitting on one of the closed chests.
That form in the gloom was perfectly motionless; and for a time Everychild tried to convince himself that here was simply another delusion—that certain old articles of furniture or clothing had been so arranged as to suggest the form of a human being.
But no, this could scarcely be. Every outline of the figure was too real. And besides, the person on the chest now moved slightly.
Everychild forced himself to advance a step, to move to right and to left, that he might learn something of that person who sat there in mysterious silence. And suddenly he found himself smiling and relaxing.
It was Will o'Dreams who sat there!
The giant had seen him at last, and he called out pleasantly, "You here too, Everychild? Come and sit down. There's room for two here on this old chest."
"I didn't know you were here," said Everychild.
"It's the very sort of place I like to visit," was the reply. "If ever you miss me, you've only to hunt for an old attic near by, and there you'll find me."
"I wonder why?" asked Everychild.
"Ah, I scarcely know. But a great many lovely persons come up into old attics—mostly children, or else quite old men or women—and I think they like to find me at such times."
"And do you never frighten them?"
The giant laughed. "I've no doubt I do, sometimes. But mostly I am of real help to them. The old things that are left in attics seem somehow different if I'm about. Some day you'll understand what I mean. And the sounds you hear in an attic, and the thoughts that come to you, seem pleasant in a way, as long as I'm near by."
Everychild realized immediately that this was true; for at that very moment the owl in the dark tree outside the broken window hooted—and the sound was not at all what it had been only a little while ago.
"It's fine to hear the owl make a noise like that, isn't it?" he asked of the giant.
"Is it?" replied Will o'Dreams with a kindly taunt in his voice. "Suppose you tell me why."
"I'm not sure I can. But you know it makes you think of so many wonderful and strange things."
"Of what?" persisted the giant.
Everychild pondered a little, and then it seemed that he saw a sort of vision. "It makes you think of dark forests," he said, "—the very middle of them. And it makes you think of old ruined castles, with nothing living about them any more but the ivy climbing up on the broken walls."
The giant's eyes were shining in the gloom. "And what else?" he asked softly.
"And then you think of the castles as they used to be, long ago. When there were bright lights in them, and knights and ladies, and music, and maybe a—what do you call them?—a harper to come in out of the storm to sit beside the fireplace and tell tales." He seemed unable to fill in the picture more completely, but Will o'Dreams began where he had left off:
"And do you know what is true, as long as you think of the knights and ladies? It means that they are still living. That's what thinking of things means—it means keeping them alive. Most persons die when their children are all dead: at the very latest, when their grandchildren die. But as long as you think of knights and ladies, and picture their ways, why, that keeps them alive. It means that they will never die. That is, as long as there are owls to hoot." He added with a hidden smile, "And as long as I idle about in old attics."
"It is very strange," said Everychild, not clearly understanding.
"It just needs a little thinking about," declared the giant. "And it's not only in attics that I'm able to help. That old garden we played in to-day … do you know what would happen, if certain persons came into it while I was there?"
As Everychild did not know, the giant continued: "They would see the columbine growing; and straightway they would think of a poor lady named Ophelia; and then they would think of Shakespeare; and then they would think of the river Avon; and then they would think of lovely English meadows, and then they would think of the sea—because the Avon finally reaches it, you know—and then they would think of ships, and then of Columbus, and then of America, and then of millions of new gardens where the columbine of England found new homes."
Everychild was trying to see the pictures as they passed; but he could not quite keep up. And after Will o'Dreams had finished he remained silent, going over it all in his mind.
But the giant interrupted him. "There," he said, "we ought not to stay up too late. You know we want to make an early start to-morrow."
Everychild's heart prompted him to say impulsively, "And you'll go on with us? You'll not get tired and leave us on the way?"
The giant pondered a moment, and then he replied: "No. My search will carry me as far as your search is to carry you."
"You haven't told me what it is you're searching for," said Everychild.
There was a long silence, and then the giant replied: "I scarcely liked to speak of it; yet if we are to be friends, perhaps I may do so. The truth is, I am seeking my mother."
Everychild felt a little thrilled. He recalled what Mr. Literal had said of the giant—how he had been driven away from home because of the evil he had done. He had refused to believe what Mr. Literal had said; yet what was the meaning of what the giant was now saying?
"I lost my mother long ago," the giant resumed. "I can't explain just how it was. But there were many who mistrusted me in my childhood and believed I wasn't up to any good. They said I was made up of lies. They drove me from their houses and closed their doors on me. And my mother and I got lost from each other. From that day to this I have had bad days when I've feared that all my enemies ever said about me was true. But it is only occasionally I have a bad day. You see, I remember my mother's ways so well that it seems almost as if she were with me, much of the time. But I know well that if I could find her, never to lose her again, I should never have another evil thought. And so it is that I constantly dream of finding her, and go about the world seeking her. And I never see a beautiful lady without stopping to ask myself in a whisper, 'Can it be she?'"
"Was she so beautiful, then?" asked Everychild.
"Ah, I cannot tell you how beautiful. So straight and tall and brave, yet with a great tenderness a little hidden from sight. Her lips curved a little, mournfully, as if she had been singing a sad song; yet there was an expression in her eyes—a soft, calm expression, which made everything seem right when you looked into them. There are even now moments when I feel … I scarcely know how to explain it to you. It's as if she were near by, whispering, and I couldn't think just where to look for her."
"I'll help you to look for her," said Everychild heartily. And then together they quit the attic and went cautiously down the narrow staircase.
Only a few moments later they had taken their places among their companions and had fallen asleep.