Chapter XXI

“Into the rose and grey
Ecstasy of the moon.”--_Arthur Symons._

The moon-worshipper sat on his low white bed, hugging his knees. The posture was a favourite one with him when he was deep in thought or dreaming. He had only partially undressed, for though he had been lying down on the bed he was going out again presently; he was just waiting till he thought it would be quite safe to do so, and it seemed to him that he had been waiting a long time. By looking out of the window, he could see that Rusk’s light was still burning. He had heard Alfred coming upstairs half an hour ago:--later, his father’s step, as he too came up, the sound of the shutting of a door. It was past one o’clock; Rusk would be going to bed soon; and even as he looked the light went out. At last the coast was clear, but the boy lingered on for yet another ten minutes. Then he got out on to the window-sill and with a surprising agility, the result of much practice, let himself down by a rope. He stood upon the grass below the window and looked up. The house, so far as he could see, showed a blank and sleeping face to the night. A white moonlight flooded the lawn. He ran on looking neither to right nor left. On the border of the shrubbery was a weeping ash whose branches swept the ground. He paused here and gazed down the low grass-grown hill that separated him from the dim strange secrets of the wood and the stream. The grass was faded and wan in the moonlight, and there were dark mysterious shadows that were like crouching beasts. The boy was lightly clad, and his feet and legs were bare, but the ground seemed warm and soft beneath him in spite of the heavy dew. The night wind stirred his hair, and a wonderful moon floated high and clear in the sky. As he stood motionless a strange fear suddenly took possession of him--an unreasoning dread of something that was there and yet not there. He watched the shadows and they seemed to become alive. One of them was like a huge sprawling sphynx, lying waiting for its prey, with curved, cruel claws dug into the ground, and half-raised head, expectant, listening. A wild excitement made the blood drum in the boy’s ears. His fear passed and he ran lightly down the slope to the stream. He was quite close now to the wood, yet still he lingered, dabbling his feet in the water, conscious that he was approaching the innermost shrine, the secret temple. He crossed the shallow brook, and in doing so seemed to pass from one world to another. He stood for a moment upon the bank, pale and still, and the water went murmuring away into the darkness.

* * * * *

He had been very quiet, he thought, but, for all that, not quiet enough. Rusk at any rate had heard him, though the sound was but slight and he hardly knew why he should connect it with Denis, since he had not even been thinking of him. Nevertheless, he did so connect it, and lay absolutely still, listening for a minute or two longer, but the sound was not repeated. Still uncertain, he got out of bed and went to the window. He was just in time--just in time to see what he believed to be his pupil gaining the shadow of the trees. A few seconds more and Rusk would have missed him. He hesitated, but not really for long. Obviously it was better that he should learn once and for all what actually took place on these nocturnal expeditions--it would set his mind more at rest, no matter how the adventure should turn out; and then there was always the chance of his discovering that the whole thing was merely a strange kind of boyish prank, an elaborate and wonderful game. If he _was_ to follow, however, there was no time to lose. He hastily put on a few articles of clothing, and going straight to Denis’s room discovered the rope just as the boy had left it. He had more or less expected something of the kind, and he decided that it would be better to make use of it than to risk waking anyone by going downstairs and letting himself out in the ordinary way. In another minute he was on the grass and moving rapidly in the direction where he had seen his pupil disappear. His idea was to get to the moon-temple before Denis, for he thought it quite possible that the boy would linger by the way. When he reached the shrubbery he proceeded more cautiously, but almost at once he caught sight of the fugitive, a slight dark figure, standing motionless on the top of the hill. Here was his opportunity, and Rusk made a rapid détour, approaching the boy’s hiding-place from a point higher up. Fortune favoured him again, and in a much shorter time than he could have expected he reached his destination, coming upon it simply by chance, and actually before he had begun his search.

His next proceeding was to hide himself carefully in the brushwood, and after that he had only to wait. Until now it had all been perfectly plain sailing, but just here he became conscious of a check, an unforeseen embarrassment, which presented itself in the shape of conscientious misgivings--moral scruples as to the honourableness of what he was about to do. It occurred to him that it was rather shabby--was in fact as clear a case of spying as one could well imagine, and such an idea was unpleasant to him. Of course there were plenty of reasons why he should act in this secret way--wasn’t one of them, in fact, just that no other was possible? And then, the essential gravity of the case, the impossibility of really learning indirectly what actually took place on these occasions, the heavy responsibility that Doctor Birch, that everyone, for that matter, had thrown upon him--all these things justified him immensely, to say nothing of the full confession he intended to make to Denis afterwards. There was no doubt in the world that here, if anywhere, was a case where the end would vindicate the means, though so jesuitical a policy might not particularly appeal to him. As the minutes passed indeed, it appealed to him less and less, till in the end he was on the point of getting out of his hiding-place, and going home, when a rustle close at hand sent him crouching back into the brushwood, gazing in amazement at Denis, who had emerged into the moonlight, moving through the dim, delicate beauty of the darkened wood, like a figure in a dream.

For the boy was naked, and this simple fact, so unexpected and astonishing, had in some inexplicable way the property of banishing from Rusk’s mind all hope that the whole thing might be merely an elaborate child’s-play. He lay still and watched, the strangeness of the performance holding him more and more, as by the force of some mysterious influence which drew his mind from its accustomed sphere. Denis advanced into the middle of the grove, and there was something in his movements, a kind of rhythmic precision and alacrity that was yet not haste, which gave Rusk a momentary impression that he might perhaps be walking in his sleep. The idea brought him a sudden hope, but of this hope he was doomed to swift disappointment when he watched the boy uncover the altar and place a large moon-shaped cake upon it. This cake, Rusk saw, was decked with white tapers--tapers which Denis was now lighting. When all were ablaze, he bowed low before them, as to some unseen and ghostly presence, and then proceeded to go through as amazing a ceremony as Rusk was ever likely to behold. He must surely have invented it, and yet it suggested to Rusk an actual survival from a half-forgotten pagan ritual. The boy poured out a libation. He burned incense as he moved about, waving it up to the mysterious, pale divinity that hung in the deep sky above him. The thin, aromatic smoke rose up in slender spirals, while the young priest, like a white, sylvan creature of a primeval world, performed his simple rites. Half an hour ago Rusk had asked himself how far it was all real, how far a mere exploit of boyish romance; but somehow, as he watched it now, alone, at this hour and in this place, with the dimness of night and the stillness of motionless trees all around stretching away into what might have been the very womb of the past, he found it difficult to see it in the light of anything childish or trivial. On the contrary, there was something in it that imposed itself occultly, weirdly, upon his imagination, as if indeed some baleful lunar influence were gaining upon his senses. It was real--too real. What, then, was the relation of this naked pagan boy, with body bared to the whiteness of the moon, to the young Presbyterian, who sat Sunday by Sunday in his father’s pew? The thing was perplexing, inexplicable, and innumerable disquieting suggestions passed through Rusk’s mind, making him more and more uneasy. Suddenly, as Denis drew closer to him, he had a clear view of his face, and his heart sank. That strange, rapt, almost ecstatic expression was not the expression of a boy playing a game. If he were to reveal himself now, would Denis recognize him? A sudden chill came over him as he realized the import of his question. But he could not watch the thing any longer; he had seen enough; he must break the charm; he had already suffered it to go on for too long; and he rose to his feet, coming out into the open, while at sight of him the boy gave a low strange cry. Denis made no attempt to hide himself, but stood perfectly still, trembling a little.

“It’s only me,” said Rusk, quietly. “Won’t you come back to the house?”

Denis looked at him doubtfully, distrustfully. Then a sudden consciousness of the situation seemed to come upon him, and with it a burst of anger against the intruder. It was the first and last time that Rusk was ever to see him in a passion. He himself felt horribly in the wrong, though his reasons for doing what he had done were surely good enough. At all events the spell was broken, very effectually broken, and Rusk knew he need have no further fear to leave Denis to himself. He knew that the boy would follow him back to the house: he thought it better not to wait, better to leave him alone, for the present at all events. Such explanations as he had to offer would do well enough in the morning, and he was conscious that they would sound particularly feeble. He was afraid, indeed, that the episode might alter their whole relation to each other. He was afraid it could hardly fail to do so, hardly fail to make Denis suspicious of him, even if it did not make him actually dislike him. Certainly the boy would have every reason to be distrustful. No matter with what excellent intentions, Rusk had broken his word to him, he had taken advantage of his confidence. He was very sorry, but he felt he could do nothing save give his excuses for what they were worth. Of course he knew Denis would not think he had been actuated by any mere prying curiosity, still less by any unworthy suspicion; but he might easily think, in fact he evidently _did_ think, that he had been officious, secretive and interfering. Rusk, as he considered the matter, was afraid he had made a serious mistake, which might cost him all the ground that up to the present he had gained: but it was too late now to draw back; what was done could not be undone.

And in the morning it was all right. Denis came down late, looking pale and tired and with heavy black lines under his eyes, but otherwise much as usual. He smiled somewhat listlessly at his tutor, but did not seem to bear him any ill-will on account of the last night’s adventure. He behaved as if he had forgotten the whole affair, though Rusk could hardly believe that this was the case. Over his work he was languid and indifferent--so much so that at the end of an hour Rusk suggested that they should take the rest of the day as a holiday. The boy rose from the table with a sigh of relief, and curled himself up in an armchair, where he seemed to drop asleep over a book.

Outside it was raining heavily. The branches of the trees, soaked and dark, stretched above the sodden grass, and from all around there rose a continuous drip--drip--drip. To Rusk for some reason the melancholy sound was soothing and pleasant; and the soft rush of the rain down the window--the stillness it had brought into the air--all were in harmony with his mood.

He felt relieved, immensely relieved, that Denis had taken the affair as he had taken it. He was glad now that he had followed him, had watched him; it was so much better that he should really know all. He began to write a letter, and from time to time glanced at his charge with a kind of doubtful anxiety, for he had an idea that he ought to speak to him, that he in fact must speak to him sooner or later, of what was uppermost in his mind, and yet he shrank from doing so. It was not very pleasant to be perpetually forcing the boy to deliver an account of his doings. But he had not forgotten Doctor Birch’s lecture. In fact, though he had tried to forget it a little, it had kept cropping up pretty constantly in his thoughts. His thoughts hovered about it as moths hover about a lamp, and with as little beneficial effect; every now and then they dropped down on singed wings, or wandered away into the darkness and were lost. He would have liked to consult Doctor Birch about his recent adventure, but here again, if he did so, would he not be breaking his word to Denis? He could not make up his mind what his next step should be. So between the sentences of his letter (Rusk had not a talent for any branch of literary art, and his present effort was even more disjointed than usual) he looked at the sleepy boy, and tried to decide what he really ought to do.

It was possible that Denis was not wholly unaware of the psychological problem he was giving rise to. This occurred to Rusk as he watched him. He looked very young and delicate--almost a child--as he half sat, half lay, in the big chair, with that big old book in his brown, slender hands. Rusk felt that there were few things he would not do if there were even a bare chance of helping him. The volume that Denis had taken up was the second of the complete works of that exquisite and fanciful divine, Jeremy Taylor, and he had come upon the passage in the “Life of Jesus,” describing the flight into Egypt.

“‘Then he arose and took the young Child and his mother, by night, and departed into Egypt.’ And they made their first abode in Hermopolis, in the country of Thebais; whither, when they first arrived, the child Jesus, being by design or providence carried into a temple, all the statues of the idol-gods fell down, like Dagon at the presence of the ark, and suffered their timely and just dissolution and dishonour, according to the prophecy of Isaiah: ‘Behold, the Lord shall come into Egypt, and the idols of Egypt shall be moved at his presence.’”

For some reason this passage had caught the boy’s fancy, and awakened his imagination, which plumed its wings and spread them for a very distant Egypt, where he became busy with a scene that curiously blended the quaint picture of the learned bishop with a wilder wonder borrowed from the “Arabian Nights.” He read no more except in his own fantasy, and the heavy, calf-bound book slipped unheeded to the floor. To Rusk, still watching him, his face just now seemed to have an extraordinarily spiritual quality, and it sent a sharp pang of regret through him to think that that spirit should ever be troubled, as surely it had been troubled but a few hours since. A sudden tenderness for the boy swept over him--a tenderness that almost from the beginning had been there, but which now seemed to crystalize into a definite sense of sorrow at what might be the waste of an exquisite intelligence, an intelligence so fine, so rare, that it sometimes seemed to be capable of the very highest things. Rusk was quite convinced that his pupil was made of a clay finer than any other he had yet had the privilege of coming into personal relation with. He was different--it was of his very essence to be different--but the difference lay not so much in any superficial peculiarities as in a greater delicacy, a rarer quality of spirit, a more perfect sensitiveness, a higher, a subtler power of imagination. And what was there, perhaps, in the most striking degree of all, though hitherto it had somehow not occurred to him to take note of it, was an astonishing, a complete absence of anything gross, of anything that could, even with the passage of years, associate itself for a single instant with vulgarity or sensuality.