Chapter XXIV

It was about half an hour before lunch. From the study window Rusk had seen Mrs. Bracknel leave the house, and thinking this to be probably his best chance of getting her alone, had sallied forth in pursuit. She was only going as far as the lodge, he discovered, but his offer to accompany her thither was accepted, and they paced slowly down the drive together, Rusk asking after May, who had not appeared at breakfast, and whose absence he had guessed to be in some way connected with the mysterious alarm of the previous night. He had said nothing about this, thinking it better to avoid a further defiance from Amy, and Amy on her side had also kept silence--an unaccustomed discretion, not tending in any way to allay the young man’s suspicions. A moment later, Mrs. Bracknel’s rejoinder to his inquiry seemed amply to justify this distrust.

“I don’t understand what is wrong with May,” she softly complained. “I wanted her to stay in bed, but she is getting up for lunch. She says she fainted last night, and indeed she looks quite strange this morning. She got a very bad fright, it seems; a sudden shock--they will try those senseless tricks! Just think, Mr. Rusk, at midnight, she shut herself up in her room, in the dark, and began to comb her hair before the looking-glass. It is an old Hallow Eve custom, but I’m sure people ought to know better than to keep up such things. After a time you are supposed to see the reflection of a face--the face of a person who is to be in some way bound up with your future life. I think it is wrong to try such things. If one _did_ see anything, how could it be anything good? May says now that she only tried it because she knew it was all nonsense. Just after twelve she locked her door and began to comb her hair before the looking-glass while she looked into it and waited. The room was nearly dark, but she says that after a few minutes she distinctly saw a most horrible white face glaring at her over her shoulder. That is all she remembers, and when she opened her eyes again she was lying on her bed and Amy was in the room with her. This morning she declares that it was Amy, wearing some kind of mask, who looked over her shoulder on purpose to frighten her. Of course that is nonsense: Amy would never do such a wicked thing. But she won’t listen to me when I say so. She says Amy knew what she was going to do, and that she must have hidden herself in the room and then crept out while she was looking into the glass.”

“But----” Rusk began, and then he paused.

Mrs. Bracknel turned to him. As he did not say anything further, she went on: “Amy has explained how it really happened. She was not feeling sleepy, and had been sitting up doing something. A little after twelve o’clock, when she was going to bed, she heard May give a scream and ran to her room to find her lying on the floor, with the looking-glass broken in pieces beside her. She says you and Denis heard the noise too.”

Rusk reflected. He did not for a moment doubt that Amy was telling a lie. For one thing, he thought it hardly possible that she could have got into May’s room without his hearing her; for another, she would not even have had time to do so without his seeing her; but he thought it better not to interfere in the matter, so he merely replied that both he and Denis had heard a cry, and, not knowing what had caused it, had come out into the passage to listen.

Mrs. Bracknel’s large, dark eyes rested on him a moment, while she seemed to ponder something. “But how could Amy get into May’s room if the door was locked?” she suddenly asked. “I didn’t think of that before.... They’re all so strange,” she went on piteously. “I’m sure I never know what to do nor what to think!”

Rusk was equal to the occasion. “Miss May probably was a little excited and forgot to lock the door.”

Mrs. Bracknel turned away. “Oh, I’m sure I don’t know,” she said plaintively. “If the door _was_ locked then Amy must be telling an untruth.... I don’t know why they should want to do such things,” she went on. “A few years ago people would have thought it wicked, and I can’t see how any good can come of it. It seems to me like trying to evoke evil spirits, and I’m sure there is enough natural evil in the world without that. But they only laugh at me when I speak to them. It is Rebecca--that old woman at the back lodge--who puts these ideas into their heads. I know she does. I have often tried to get Mr. Bracknel to send her away, but he won’t listen to me.”

It occurred to Rusk that all this was not exactly leading up to what he had himself desired to talk about, but he sympathized with his companion and acquiesced in the view that Rebecca was an undesirable person. As he did so, he reflected on the curious fact that it was almost impossible to agree with any one member of the Bracknel family without at the same time tacitly condemning some other. But he had grown accustomed to the position, and latterly had begun to disregard it, saying on every occasion what he actually thought. Meanwhile they had reached the lodge, and he waited for Mrs. Bracknel while she spoke with the gardener’s wife.

“I wanted to talk to you about Denis,” he began, as soon as they had turned back toward the house. He told her of his idea of having his pupil’s bed brought into his room; and then, carrying his plan still further:

“Don’t you think it would be good for him to get away for a bit, to have a--a change of scene--to travel for a year, two years perhaps?”

“To travel?” Mrs. Bracknel ejaculated, looking at him as if he had said something most extraordinary. But Rusk, nothing daunted, continued to enlarge on his idea:

“Yes. I should be most happy to look after him. Of course I only mention it because I suppose that the matter of expense would not be of much importance to Mr. Bracknel.”

“But matters of expense are always of importance to my husband,” said Mrs. Bracknel naïvely.

Rusk laughed. “I am convinced that it would be the best thing for Denis. It is really just what he needs. It would set him on his feet; the good it would do him would never be lost.”

“What is the matter with him?” Mrs. Bracknel asked.

“Well, this nervousness is the main thing. He needs something to take him out of himself a little, something to--to interest him and amuse him.”

“To amuse him?” Mrs. Bracknel echoed, her gentle eyes resting on the tutor’s face with an almost alarmed expression.

Rusk returned her gaze with his frank, boyish smile. “You know what I mean--something that will make him look round him--that will give him a new interest in life, in people, in places. I know myself exactly what it would do for him. It would take everything that is morbid and unhealthy out of his nature. If you give him to me for a year now, you will never regret it later.”

The note of conviction in his voice would have been more than sufficient to overcome any objections that might have existed in Mrs. Bracknel’s own mind, but she had not herself principally to take into account, since her acquiescence would mean nothing in the face of her husband’s certain refusal.

“Mr. Bracknel would never agree to such a thing,” she murmured, as if a little frightened at Rusk’s audacity in even thinking of it. She had herself perfect confidence in the young Englishman; she had come to look upon him almost as Denis’s elder brother; but she also knew that this fact would have counted for very little in any decision her husband might eventually arrive at.

“I will speak to him,” said Rusk, “or rather I will get Doctor Birch to speak to him; that will be better.” He had a sudden assurance of success. “We will all speak to him,” he cried enthusiastically. “After all, anyone must _see_ that it is an excellent plan.” It suddenly occurred to him, however, that he was possibly displaying over much jubilation at the thought of leaving his present abode, so he moderated his tone though he continued to press the point.

Mrs. Bracknel’s imagination had all along taken a lower flight. “He won’t see it at all,” she persisted. “He might possibly agree to his going away for a month. Do you think that a month----?”

“Oh, a month is no good,” exclaimed Rusk impatiently. His last night’s impression of his pupil was still fresh in his mind, and it left him in no mood for half-measures. “I’ll go and see Doctor Birch myself this afternoon.”

“Don’t count on Mr. Bracknel’s consent, Mr. Rusk,” the boy’s mother softly repeated. “I think you are almost certain to be disappointed. And, in the meantime, I think you had better not mention anything about it to Denis.”

“To Denis! Of course not. But if everybody knows it is the right thing, I don’t see why----”

“He can’t go without his father’s consent, Mr. Rusk,” Mrs. Bracknel reminded him with some firmness. “Until he has that, there is little use discussing the matter. My husband will tell us what he thinks.”

Rusk could push the thing no further, though it irritated him to leave it like this. Why should there be any difficulty about it, when it was so easily within their power? To refuse to _try_ it, even to hesitate about trying it--it was that that exasperated him.

And full of his project, of a determination to fight for it, he called that afternoon to have a chat with Doctor Birch. Denis waited for him in the drawing-room, but Rusk did not keep him long. Doctor Birch at once fell in with the idea, thought it excellent, and promised to come round without delay and discuss it with Mr. Bracknel. They talked about it for a minute or two and then Rusk returned to the drawing-room for Denis, whom he had left alone there, the Miss Birches being out. They went for a walk round by the river and home again across the fields. Mrs. Bracknel and the girls were having tea when they came back. Amy evidently had been in charge of the ceremony, and she rose again as they entered. She was talking rapidly and rather loudly to her mother, and, if she had been pale the night before, it struck Rusk now that her colour was higher than usual. She took a step toward him to give him his tea, but as she did so her hand trembled so violently that she actually dropped the cup. She gave a little cry. The blood had suddenly retreated from her face, leaving it white and strange. Mrs. Bracknel rang the bell to have the carpet wiped at once so that there might not be a stain left.

“How stupid of me! It slipped out of my hand!” Amy exclaimed. She looked down, still holding the saucer tightly grasped, making no movement of any kind.

Rusk meanwhile had picked up the cup, which was not broken, and replaced it on the tea-table. A servant entered and was sent off for a cloth and hot water, while Mrs. Bracknel continued to express anxiety about the stain that might be left.

“And the pot’s empty,” said May, lifting the cosy off and peeping in. “I’ll ring for some fresh.”

“But, thanks, I don’t want any,” Rusk assured her. “I’m not in the least thirsty.”

“As if one required to be thirsty! Denis, ring the bell.”

“But really I don’t want it;” Rusk insisted. “I only took the other because it happened to be poured out for me.”

“Oh, of course, if you’d rather not!”

Amy had disappeared from the room, but she came back while the maid was still scrubbing the carpet under the supervision of Mrs. Bracknel and May. Rusk had walked to the window and stood with his back to the room; Denis was not there. Amy took all this in as she moved from the door to the fireplace. She began to poke the fire, then, glancing quickly round, she dropped into the middle of the flames a small box that had been hidden in her pocket-handkerchief. She watched it while it burned; she even tapped it with the poker to make sure that its contents also were destroyed. After this she breathed a little sigh of relief. “Well, that’s over at any rate!” she murmured inaudibly as she turned round to the others. Nobody had noticed her, and she knew it would have given them scant information even if they had.