Chapter XI: “Rich in the simple worship of a day.”--Keats

Denis had awakened early that morning. He knew that it was Sunday, and that there was no hurry about getting up, so for a few minutes more he lay in a half dream, listening to a leaf that tapped softly against his window pane, listening to the sighing of the trees. And gradually his drowsiness slipped from him till he was quite wide awake, when he sprang out of bed. He breakfasted early and alone, long before any of the others were down, and as soon as he had finished went out into the garden where for a few minutes he wandered among the flowers, shaking the dew from heavy crimson roses, and burying his face among cool drenched leaves. He knew it was going to be a glorious day, and remembering that if he lingered near the house he would presently be marched off to church, he decided to take a holiday, though it would certainly mean getting into trouble afterwards. But it was worth it. The sunlight lay on the grass all around him; every living thing seemed gay and happy, and innumerable birds were singing ecstatic praises to the summer God. It reminded him of those old summers, set to music long ago by Chaucer, when the God of Love wandered through the daisied meadows, “his gilte heer corouned with a sonne.”

Whan that I here the smale foules singe,
And that the floures ginnen for to springe,
Farwel my book and my devocioun!

No; clearly, church was out of the question.

His heart was strangely uplifted as he ran across the lawn and down a wooded slope till he was hidden from the house and in safety. Beside a stream he sat down in the cool fresh green grass, hugging his chin against his knees and watching the water ripple past, dancing and sparkling in the sunshine. Above his head the branches of a willow dropped to the stream; the tips of the long slender leaves just touched the water as it passed. Denis rolled over and over in the long cool grass like a dog, the earth-smell in his nostrils, the earth-murmur in his ears. From time to time a faint rustle passed through the tree-tops like the whisper of a spirit, from time to time a pale-winged butterfly flitted across the stream and on into the dimmer heart of the wood. “To-day perhaps my messenger will come to me,” the boy whispered, for he was already far in the country of romance. And a bird passing overhead seemed to carry his words into the wood, and from a distance there came the answer of a voice, faint through the light rustle of the leaves: “Follow; follow!” it murmured. “Follow the wind and the water!”

Denis sat up and leaned his back against the grey, gnarled trunk of the willow. He drew a small flute from his pocket and began to blow into it softly and dreamily; and from time to time he smiled, and the notes he played died into silence as he built his castles in the air and watched them climb up toward the sky and melt away like smoke. He sat there for a long time, watching and waiting. Through the glimmering shadow of leaves he seemed to see the dim paleness of a god, he seemed to hear the low sound of words spoken in the sleepy noon-tide hum; and in the faint noise of splashing water his name was called. Then a deep, slumbrous quiet dropped into his soul.

He gazed up through the golden quivering heat at the sky, so soft, so pure, never so far-off as to-day; and he wondered just where in all that immensity--untroubled by mortal joys and mortal sorrows--lay the country of the gods. His brown thin hands rested on either side of him, motionless upon the green grass; and the sunlight grew heavier and heavier till at last it beat down through the sheltering boughs above him, like a rain of liquid gold. Again a dim white form gleamed through the trees, and this time a voice sounded just above his head, clear and low and unmistakable: “Follow; follow!” it said. “Follow the wind and the water!”

He shut his eyes tightly, and crushed the grass in his hands till his fingers were stained with its cool greenness. A sudden, rapid wind blew past his cheek and for a moment his spirit seemed to be drawn out from his body. When he opened his eyes he saw quite distinctly a figure before him, naked and beautiful, standing there on the other side of the stream in the hot, clear sunlight. Then as he gazed and gazed, it receded slowly, it faded back into a green dimness that the next moment was but the deep shadow of the wood beyond. Had his fancy deceived him? Had he been asleep? Had it been a dream? He sprang to his feet and crossed the brook by a couple of stepping-stones. The next moment he was where the vanished figure had been, and a few steps further brought him to the shadow into which he had watched it disappear. He was in the thickest part of the wood now. The trees were very close together, and their branches made a kind of roof above him, while the ground was covered with a dense brown mould of decayed leaves which had lain there undisturbed for a long long time. The light was dimmed, like the light in a church. He knew where he was, and yet it all seemed strange and different.

His progress was momentarily arrested by a thick clump of bushes and undergrowth through which he forced his way, utterly reckless of his clothes. He tore his trousers, and scratched his hands and wrists, and then, coming out on the other side, he found himself in the little open glade where the great hawthorn grew beside the pool. The pool lay there now, surrounded by green level banks--it lay there in the sunlight like a huge jewel, and the spring that fed it bubbled over on to the grassy brink. On the green grass, and on the water the sunlight rested like a golden fire. The water was a rain of precious stones when he splashed it up and up against the blue. After the dusk and gloom of the wood, the glade seemed to him wonderful and unearthly, and for a long time he lay looking into the water, watching the sky in it, the passing clouds, the flight of a bird, his own face, very white and strange, half unknown.

He drank a mouthful or two of the water and it was cool and pleasant in his throat. He lay there a little longer, and then he turned over on his back. He felt restless and vaguely expectant of undreamed mysteries. He felt that he was not alone, that there were invisible creatures all about him--creatures either more or less than human, watching him from hidden places. This pool was haunted and he had come into its power long, long ago. He thought of it as he had seen it in the white cold moonlight, with a wind in the dark trees. He pictured strange mysterious creatures fleeing down through the water on his approach. He could see them softly rising again so soon as his back was turned; rising, and looking after him--rising like the whiteness of a fountain. He saw the water itself rising under their spell to curve against the moon, or, in winter, against the dreary, naked trees, while the few remaining leaves floated down through the damp air--turning, turning, turning, till they reached the ground. There had been times when sitting in the drawing-room at home, or in the crowded school-room he had so disliked, everything had faded away before him, and through the chatter of voices he had heard a soft rustle like the sound of leaves, and had found himself back here--back where he was now, beside the pool, and the old hawthorn, and the half-buried altar with its faint and faded stain of blood. He stood up and shouted aloud. A kind of ecstasy seized him and drew him up into the sun. He was lost in the spirit of the universe: he seemed to live through endless ages in the opening and closing of his eyes....

Suddenly he heard the noise of someone approaching--someone who did not know the way and who was blundering through the bushes and the undergrowth, yet always getting nearer. A quick thought of flight came into his mind. Who could it be? No one had ever come here before: no one even knew of his hiding-place. And then suddenly he remembered his tutor. It annoyed him that Rusk should break in upon his privacy; it seemed to him like a betrayal of confidence; and he slipped away between the bushes as quietly as a shadow, and in the thicket close by lay still to watch.

Presently Rusk came blundering out into the open, looking flushed, and very hot and uncomfortable. He turned his head and the boy could see he was disappointed at finding no one. Then he began to call aloud as he parted the surrounding bushes with his hands, peering between them: “Denis--Denis--are you here?”

A half-mocking smile flitted across the face of the hidden boy, but he made no sign, and presently Rusk went away again. He could hear him crushing twigs and brambles and broken branches under his feet as he went. When the noise of his progress had ceased Denis crept out once more into the sunlight, like a cat, and lay down again by the pool. But the magic was gone; the spell was broken; he was back in an everyday world and very soon his hunger awakened him to the fact that it must be getting late.

The shadows were lengthening as he drew near the house. The others were sitting out on the lawn. He was dirty, torn, dishevelled, but he sauntered across the grass with his hands in his pockets and with a delightful air of unconcern. He smiled with a little friendly nod, as who should say, “Oh, you’re here, are you? You all look very comfortable.”

But there was a general outcry at his appearance.

“Where have you been, sir?” Mr. Bracknel asked sternly. “Are you aware what day it is, and of the condition you are in? Do you think I buy you clothes to have you go out and roll in the mud in them like a savage? If your mother is content to pass over such practices, I will teach you that I am not. Where have you been, sir? Don’t stand there grinning like a--a----”

Denis still smiled faintly; he still kept his hands in his pockets, and his head was slightly drooped. “I was out for a little!” he murmured with an exquisite sweetness. “Nice day it’s been, hasn’t it?”

“Come with me, sir,” Mr. Bracknel said, getting up solemnly. “We will talk about this inside.”

His wife laid her hand timidly on his arm. “James dear, let him get something to eat first: he must be starving!”

“I _am_ rather hungry,” Denis confessed. “Won’t it do a little later, papa--to talk, I mean.”

Mr. Bracknel’s face, which had been hot and shining before, now rivalled the sunset already flaming behind the trees. “Come with me, sir,” he said again, impressively.

Denis gave a little shrug and father and son went together toward the house.

The rest of the party sat on for some moments watching them till at last May murmured softly, “It is fortunate that papa’s bark is worse than his bite.”

She caught Rusk’s eye and the latter suddenly broke into a laugh. Mrs. Bracknel alone seemed anxious.

“He’s got the cheek of the mischief, you know,” Rusk ejaculated half-admiringly. “Did you ever see anything like it in your life? I wonder where he’s been? And why on earth didn’t he slip in by the back? He’s really amazing, you know--upon my word! He never turned a hair!”

“It wasn’t cheek,” May answered. “You don’t understand him. It was just a kind of beautiful unconsciousness. He never thinks of how he looks till somebody reminds him. Then he becomes quite sensitive till he forgets again.... And he was really very nervous though he talked in that way. Papa gets so violent. Why can’t he leave him alone: what matters about his clothes.”

“There was a piece out of his trousers about the size of my hand,” Rusk declared.

“Papa will never understand him either; and he gets so angry with him. It is stupid. There is nothing to be angry about.” The advent of Denis had had the effect of breaking up the party on the lawn, and May and Rusk were now strolling together across the grass away from the others.

“Oh, but I think I do understand him a little,” Rusk demurred. “After all, you must admit that he looked uncommonly cool. He’s a wonderful kid.”

“Mr. Rusk, I’m afraid I won’t be able to go out sketching to-morrow,” the girl suddenly said.

“Oh, well, the day after will do--or any day that suits you. I only suggested to-morrow because I thought it was going to be fine and I didn’t see any particular point in waiting.”

May was silent for a moment: then she pursued, “I don’t know that I shall really take it up again at all.”

“At all?” There was something in her tone that made him look at her.

The girl smiled. “I haven’t done anything for so long that I shouldn’t know how to begin.”

“Oh, if that is all, you’ll soon get into it. You only want a little practice.”

“I don’t think I can come all the same.”

A vague suspicion entered Rusk’s mind. “Why?” he asked. “I thought you were quite on for it this morning!”

“So I was--but----”

Rusk was disappointed. “You seem to have changed your mind very quickly,” he brought out in a rather injured tone. “Of course if it will only bore you----”

May coloured. “I haven’t changed my mind,” she answered. “I mean, I don’t want you to think me changeable. I hate changeable people.”

“I don’t know what you call it then,” Rusk grumbled.

She smiled again. “I am still interested in _your_ sketches. I shall see that you do a dozen a week.”

They had drawn close to the others once more and he could say nothing further.

“We thought you were going for a walk,” Amy cried with a peculiar laugh. “Your backs looked so confidential!--as if you had heaps and heaps to tell each other.”

No one made any reply to this remark.