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 noncommittal, 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.
The country house, so ancient that it seemed part of the landscape,
settled down secretively into the wintry darkness and watched the
night with eyes of yellow flame. The thick December gloom hid it
securely from attack. Nothing could find it out. Though crumbling in
places, the mass of it was solid as a fortress, for the old oak beams
had resisted Time so long that the tired years had resigned themselves
to siege instead of assault, and the protective hills and woods
rendered it impregnable against the centuries. The beleaguered
inhabitants felt safe. It was a delightful, cosy feeling, yet
excitement and surprise were in it too. Anything might happen,
and at any moment.
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