Part 31 (2/2)

j.a.phra would advise in that quiet way of his that made one see things as altogether different from the appearance they seemed to present. If only it were j.a.phra!

II

It was j.a.phra!

As Percival came quickly through the trees that enclosed the water he caught a glimpse of the yellow van. As he emerged he heard j.a.phra's voice: ”Watch where he comes!” and he pulled up short and cried delightedly: ”You knew! You were expecting me!”

Clearly they had known! Not surprise, but welcome all ready for him, was in j.a.phra's keen little eyes that glinted merrily, and on Ima's face, that was flushed beneath its dusky skin, her lips parted expectantly. Even old Pilgrim, the big white horse that drew the van, had its head up from its cropping and looked with stretched neck and seemed to know. Even tiny Toby, that was Dog Toby when the Punch and Judy show was out, was hung forward on his short legs like a pointer at mark, and now came bounding forward in a whirl of noisy joy.

j.a.phra was astride of a box, a piece of harness between his legs, a cobbler's needle in his right hand, and the short pipe still the same fixture in the corner of his mouth. Ima was on one knee, about to rise from the fire whose smoke had signalled.

”You knew! You were expecting me!” Percival cried again, and went eagerly to them as they rose to greet him, his hands outstretched.

”Father knew thee before I heard thy footsteps,” Ima told him. ”The fire crackled at my ears or I had known.”

She seemed to be excusing herself, as though not to have heard were short of courtesy; and j.a.phra, who had Percival's hand, gave a twist of his face as if to bid him see fun, and teased her with: ”Thou didst doubt, though, Ima, for look how I had to bid thee 'watch where he comes.'”

Percival thought she would toss her head and protest indignantly as when he used to tease her when they had trifled together. Instead, her eyes steadily upon his face, ”Nay, for I knew it was he,” she replied simply.

He no more than heard her. At a later period he found that the words had gone to the backwaters of his mind, where trifles lie up to float unexpectedly into the main stream. Years after he recalled distinctly her tone, her words, and the look in her eyes when she spoke them.

Now he laughed. ”You two can hear the world go round, I believe.” He turned to j.a.phra: ”But how on earth you could tell--”

”Footsteps are voices, little master, when a man has lived in the stillness.”

Percival laughed again--laughed for pure happiness to hear himself still given that familiar t.i.tle, and for pure happiness to be again with j.a.phra's engaging ideas. ”You're the same as ever, j.a.phra--the same ideas that other people don't have.”

”Ah, but 'tis true,” j.a.phra answered him. ”Footsteps have tongues, and cleaner tongues than ever the mouth holds. Look how a man may oil his voice to mask his purpose--never his feet. Thine called to me, how eagerly they brought thee.”

”Eagerly!--I should think they did! You're just the one I want. I've not seen you for a year--more. Eagerly--oh, eagerly!”

j.a.phra's bright eyes showed his delight. ”And we were eager, too. We have spoken often of little master, eh, Ima? Not right to call him that now, though. Scarcely reckoned to see him so grown. Why, thou'rt a full man, little master--there slips the name again!”

He twinkled appreciatively at Percival's protest that to no other name would he answer, and he went on: ”A full man. Ten stone in the chair, I would wager to it. What of the boxing?”

”Pretty good, j.a.phra. The gloves you gave me are worn, I can tell you.”

”That's well. Never lose the boxing. It is the man's game. Ay, thou hast the boxer's build, ripe on thee now as I knew would be when I saw it in thee as a boy. The man's game--never lose it.”

”I'm keener than ever on it,” Percival told him. ”I'm glad you think I've grown. I've got a punch in my left hand, I believe.” His spirits were run high from his former despondency, and he hit with his left and sparkled to see j.a.phra nod approvingly and to hear him: ”Ay, the look of a punch there.”

”Yes, I've grown,” he said. ”You've not changed, j.a.phra--not a sc.r.a.p.”

j.a.phra nodded his head towards the fir trees. ”Nor are the old limbs yonder. They stay so till the sap dries, then drop. Nary change.

Only the young shoots change. What of Ima?”

She had turned away while they talked. She was back at the fire, and Percival turned towards where she stood, about to lift from its hook the cooking pot that hung from the tripod of iron rods. As he looked, she swung it with an easy action to the gra.s.s. The pot was heavy: she stooped from the waist, lifted and swung it to the gra.s.s with a graceful action that belonged to her supple form, and, as the steam came pouring up and was taken by a puff of breeze to her face, went back a step and looked down at her cooking from beneath her left forearm, bare to the elbow, raised to s.h.i.+eld her eyes.

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