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.