Chapter IV

The motor which had met Rusk at the train brought him to the office at half-past six, in order that they might all drive home together. Before they started he was introduced to Alfred; but Alfred was sullen and silent, and in the car he sat staring into vacancy and an imaginary Switzerland, while Mr. Bracknel himself seemed scarcely more talkative. Between them the unfortunate young Englishman’s attempts at conversation were allowed to pass practically unheeded, or, at most, to receive but a curt word or two in reply. “What extraordinary manners they have!” Rusk thought, as he leaned his fair head back against the cushion and wondered what the other members of the family would be like. He decided not to trouble himself any further just at present in an obviously hopeless attempt to make himself agreeable, but all the same he felt not a little disheartened. He was very young, and among strange people in a strange country, and for the first time in a dependent position. He began to speculate as to how he should get on with his pupil, and pictured some surly, stolid boy of unpleasant appearance, rude speech, and uncouth ways. Then he remembered that Denis was delicate, and wondered if this would make things easier. Alfred struck him as singularly unprepossessing, as belonging to a type he had never hitherto been obliged to associate with, and Alfred’s brother might very possibly resemble him. He hoped for better luck, however, and began to think of other things. He regretted that he was going to miss his long vacation. It had been the offer of this post that had so tempted his impecuniosity, but he was half sorry now that he had accepted it. He would have done better to have stayed in his own country, among people rather more civilized. He had an idea that a very little of this sort of thing would prove sufficient. After all he had expected to be treated with ordinary civility. So he leaned back in silence and waited for what might follow. He was tall and well-built, fair-haired and fresh-complexioned, with blue eyes, and an honest, kind expression. He laughed easily, and he liked to put his hands in his pockets and to stretch his long legs. At school and at the University he had been fairly good at games and fairly good at work, but not particularly brilliant in either department. On the other hand, he had been decidedly popular. He had never had much money to spend, but he had never missed it greatly. He had gone abroad once or twice in his vacations, and had discovered that foreigners were, taking them all round, a rather rum lot, but in their own ways not half bad. It may be added that these journeys had not been given over to any very strenuous sight-seeing, and that churches and galleries, on the whole, had not proved sufficiently absorbing to prevent him from lounging away a good many idle mornings and afternoons in delightful and unexacting places.

His forebodings in regard to his pupil were largely relieved on his introduction to that youngster, which took place as soon as they reached the house. At all events Denis was not like either Alfred or his father. The boy’s share of personal beauty was meagre, but there was something pleasant about him. He was thin and sallow, with straight, black, coarse hair tumbling about a broad forehead. His grey eyes were dark and very peculiar, of a narrow, elongated oval, and set wide apart and slightly obliquely in his face, beneath thin black eyebrows, giving him, to Rusk’s sense, a most strange, an almost Oriental, look. Neither his mouth nor his ears were small, and his nose was too broad to be at all aristocratic; nevertheless, after due consideration, Rusk came to the conclusion that he looked rather charming. His second impression was that though he was thin he did not seem particularly delicate. He had been playing tennis and was dressed in white flannels, with a loose red and black striped blazer, and a crimson tie which happened to go particularly well with his dark complexion. Then, as Rusk shook his thin brown hand, he noticed that the boy’s queer, narrow, slanting eyes had the deep grey of an autumn sky, and that he had a singularly pleasant smile. “I expect he’s all right,” he thought. “There’s something nice about him.”

He had a further opportunity to examine his pupil a little later, for he found himself sitting opposite him at dinner. The boy seemed very quiet and decidedly shy; only now and then, when he glanced across the table at his new tutor, he smiled, as if he were prepared to be very friendly. Rusk thought him curiously different from the other members of the family. He asked himself just in what the difference consisted. It lay not so much in his appearance, he decided, as in something subtle and more difficult to seize. Then it occurred to him that the others were more or less overshadowed by the spirit of their father, and that Mr. Bracknel was frankly impossible. It was true he was not quite so surly as he had showed himself to be during the drive home, and that he even made several spasmodic efforts to be agreeable; but these attempts were a little overpowering, and did not tend to set our young friend at his ease. Rusk watched him with a certain curiosity, and wondered why he had never taken the trouble to learn the distinctive uses of a knife and a fork. And somehow the father, by some effect of association, influenced, he felt, one’s impression of the children--of all save the boy, who sat there in a kind of exquisite detachment, as complete, in its way, as that of the cat asleep in the window-seat.

Presently he noticed Denis’s expression change. His eyes were lowered, and he seemed to be gazing fixedly into a tumbler of water beside him. Mr. Bracknel was in the midst of a ponderous anecdote of the kind that develops slowly. But he told it well, with a boisterous sort of humour one would hardly have expected. May, who was sitting beside Rusk, saw that the latter was watching her brother. “Don’t take any notice,” she warned him in a rapid whisper, which unfortunately her father overheard. As he perceived the cause of the interruption his face grew dark.

He was silent for a moment as if he were gathering breath. “Denis!” he suddenly shouted, and the boy jumped. “How often have I to tell you that I won’t have these tricks? If you can’t behave like a gentleman you will get your meals given you in the kitchen. I’m not going to put up with it--d’ye hear--sitting down with the manners of a stable-boy. What are you doing with that tumbler?”

Denis met his tutor’s eyes for a second, and he smiled again, though a quick deep flush came into his face. He made no reply.

“What are you doing with that tumbler?”

“Nothing.”

Rusk looked away. Exhibitions of violence never appealed to him, and Mr. Bracknel seemed to be always violent, whether in good or bad humour.

“Denis dear!” the boy’s mother softly interposed.

Denis lowered his head, the blush slowly dying from his cheeks.

The tutor observed that Alfred now for the first time showed signs of mental animation: his small dull eyes were wide open, and he was watching the scene with a broad grin. Mr. Bracknel proceeded with his story and Rusk was only just in time to show the proper amount of amusement when the point was reached, for he was occupied with something quite different.

“Papa hates anything of that sort,” May murmured in a half-explanatory, half-apologetic way; and later on she repeated her remark in the drawing-room.

“Of what sort?” Rusk then ventured to ask. He was seated beside her, near an open window through which they could have stepped out into the dim, rustling garden.

“Anything--well, I can’t exactly explain--but anything that he calls superstitious. Denis and Amy are forever putting their foot in it. Amy does it on purpose, but Denis is quite different.... I hope you will not be cross with him, Mr. Rusk.”

“With whom? With your brother?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sure I hope not, but why should I be? Do you think I look cross?” He liked her now. There was something pleasant in her manner. Besides, the way she had spoken of her brother had been rather nice.

“Oh no,” said May quickly, “I think just the opposite. But Denis is----” She paused, and they both looked across the room at the object of her remarks, who was sitting in a corner, with his hands in the pockets of his trousers and his head sunk a little forward on his breast. “Oh, well, you know, Denis is rather queer.”

“Queer?” echoed Rusk. “In what way?”

“You’ll see for yourself. He’s very nice. He’s rather a dear, really. He’s very--I don’t exactly know the right word--very unworldly. Of course it must sound a little silly to say that about a boy, but you’ll find out what I mean later on.”

“Shall I? I’ve an idea I’m rather unworldly myself.”

“Then perhaps you’ll understand him.”

“You are very fond of him, aren’t you?” asked Rusk, glancing at her.

“What makes you say that? Because I called him a dear?”

“No. It was the way you said it.”

He watched her, and his fine young face expressed the interest he had begun to feel. He could see her better now than he had been able to during dinner, and he had corrected his earlier impression. There was a certain almost boyish quality about her, though she was not in the least masculine. Still Rusk imagined that, had she been playing in an Elizabethan comedy, she would have made up excellently well as a boy. He could hardly have believed that she was older than her sister. In contrast with Amy she seemed slight and immature. He saw that she was pleased by what he had said. He also saw that she had beautiful teeth, very small and white and even. He himself was pleased to find that he was getting on so well with her. He stretched his legs, and leaned back more comfortably in his chair. He looked remarkably ingenuous and youthful, and Amy, who was holding some wool for her mother, thought him very handsome and wished May would not monopolise his attention.

“Is there anything in it?” Rusk asked presently, “in the crystal-gazing, I mean. It _was_ crystal-gazing, wasn’t it?” He turned to her with his boyish smile.

“It was supposed to be. Denis got hold of some book about it. He discovers the most extraordinary books.”

“And does he see anything--any pictures, or visions, or whatever they’re called?”

“He says he does. He described the most wonderful thing to us the other day, but I’m sure he made it all up.”

“And have you tried?”

“I’ve tried, but I’ve never seen anything. We’ve all tried for that matter--all, that is, except papa and Alfred. Even mamma has tried, though she seemed to think it almost wicked to do so. You’d better not say anything about it, however. You saw how angry papa got at dinner. I don’t know why Denis should have begun experimenting just then!--it was so like him!”

“And he really does see things?” Rusk persisted.

“No, I don’t think so.” She hesitated. “You can never tell with Denis whether he is making fun or not. It doesn’t do to take everything he says too seriously.... Look; he knows we are talking about him.”

Denis’s eyes were in fact fixed on them, and, as Rusk looked over, he coloured slightly. He appeared to hesitate for a moment or two: then he rose and walked across the room to where they sat.

“Well, it’s very interesting,” Rusk murmured as his pupil approached.

“What has May been telling you?” the boy asked. He stood before them smiling a little, his hands deep in his trousers pockets, his manner an odd mixture of shyness and assurance. He spoke rather slowly and in a soft and pleasant voice that suggested a peculiar sweetness of temper.

“She has been telling me about you,” Rusk replied.

The boy turned his head slightly away. “Ah, I knew that,” he murmured. “You mustn’t believe her too much though. You must judge for yourself.”

“I shall be delighted to, if you will help me.”

Denis laughed. “Oh, I’ll help you. I’ll do anything.” His bright, intelligent eyes met Rusk’s frankly. “_En attendant_, I’m going into the garden to avoid papa.”

These last words were added as Mr. Bracknel appeared in the doorway, and a moment later the boy had stepped out through the open window. Rusk looked after him. Then he broke into a sudden laugh which he immediately checked.

Mr. Bracknel had approached his wife, and had begun to talk to her in a carefully lowered voice, so that his words should be inaudible to anyone else. Rusk noticed how she seemed to hang upon all he was saying, how her eyes were fixed on him, and how once she made a movement as if to caress his hand. The sight somehow struck him as singularly unpleasant and he turned away. It had made him feel uncomfortable, almost as if he had witnessed something gross or indecent, as if he had discovered her to be the victim of some depraved taste. He had had the impression that she was distinctly refined, and he was quite sure that her husband was very much the opposite. And somehow to imagine her caring for him in the particular manner that everything in her attitude toward him just now appeared to indicate shocked him, jarred upon him, offended in him some peculiar sense of delicacy, of appropriateness. He told himself that his powers of observation must be quickening wonderfully in his strange surroundings, and that they must be making him horribly morbid. He looked again at the girl beside him, and she no longer seemed quite so attractive.

May, however, chattered on, unconscious of the little shadow that her parents had cast upon the scene; and presently, indeed, the shadow was removed, for Mr. Bracknel, having finished what he had to say, took up a position before the fire-place, where he stood, his hands nursing the tails of his coat, surveying his drawing-room and his daughters. The room was ugly, but he was not aware that it was so, for it was bright, and contained lots of things that had cost a good deal of money. There was a general impression of rich upholstery, of padded velvet and soft carpets, of crimson and gilt.

“Do you play or sing, Mr. Rusk?” Amy suddenly inquired, with the purpose of getting him away from her sister.

Rusk gave a slight grimace. “I sing a little--very badly--so badly that I suppose I ought to say I don’t.”

“Ah, it’s too late now,” Amy cried, and both girls became at once tremendously interested.

“I wonder if we have any of your songs?” said May. “But perhaps you play your own accompaniments?”

“I’m afraid I don’t--not even with one finger. But I can get my songs in a moment if you like. The people I was staying with in Dublin made me sing a lot. I ought to tell you that they weren’t at all musical.”

“Oh, do get them; you must,” the girls cried.

“I can play your accompaniments if they’re not frightfully difficult,” May declared. “At any rate, we can try how we get on.”

Rusk went off and presently returned with half a dozen songs. Amy tried to take them, but May was too quick for her, and having gained possession of them began to turn them over, making various comments and asking Rusk innumerable questions. She chose Tosti’s “My Dreams,” and seated herself at the piano, while Rusk made the usual excuses and apologies. He had a tenor voice, not very strong, and with an incurable tendency to flatness, but rather sweet. At all events, he looked remarkably handsome as he stood beside May at the piano, singing the sentimental words with a certain amount of feeling, which the girls found exquisite, and which Denis and Mrs. Bracknel too enjoyed. At the first note of music the boy had come in again, and was standing now by the window, half-hidden behind the curtain.

“I dream of the day I met you,
I dream of the light divine
That shone in your tender eyes, love,
When first they looked into mine.
I dream of the flowers that made me
A path for my longing feet,
I dream of the star that led me
To your chamber window, sweet.

I dream of the words you whispered
In the hush of that magic hour,
With your eyes like the stars above me
And your heart like an opening flower;
I dream of the rose you gave me,
I think of our last farewell;
I dream of the silent longing
That only the heart can tell.

Alas! Alas! I have lost my star
In a world of glaring light,
And only a few poor ashes
Remain of my rose to-night;
But I dream of my rose and my star and you,
And, whether we part or meet,
I shall love you the same for ever,
As long as my heart may beat.”

When he had finished, he knew that he had pleased them. They thanked him enthusiastically, and the girls were loud in their praises, begging him to sing again. They thought his voice was delightful, and Mrs. Bracknel was reminded of an Italian tenor she had heard, extremely well-known, if one could but recall his name. It was all very flattering, and of course Rusk was pleased. Naturally he insisted on the girls doing their share. May did not sing, but she would play something if he liked. Chopin’s second Nocturne? It was a thing she simply loved! She rattled it off with wonderful cheerfulness, and then Amy sang, May playing her accompaniment. At this, Mr. Bracknel--who, his wife explained, was not musical--took the opportunity to leave the room.

Amy had chosen the Flower Song from _Faust_, but it did not go very well, partly because, though she had not a bad voice, she could not keep in tune, and partly because, about half-way through, May in turning the page turned the song on to the floor. It had to be begun all over again, and this time May, though she turned her page all right, skipped a line in the accompaniment, and the song again came to a standstill. The effect was sudden and amazing. Crimson with rage, Amy seized the music and tore it in two, flinging the pieces across the room.

“Amy, dear!” Mrs. Bracknel murmured, but Amy was in a towering passion.

“She did it on purpose. Anyone could see she did it on purpose. She did it to make me sing badly before Mr. Rusk, to make a fool of me. You can see the way she’s been monopolising him all the evening, and she did this just out of spite.” Then, choking with suppressed tears, she rushed from the room.

Poor Rusk had turned very red. He didn’t quite know what to do, and tried hard to look as if nothing unusual had happened. May had picked up the torn music and stood there holding it in her hand.

“Hadn’t you better go after her, dear?” Mrs. Bracknel suggested, meekly.

“I’m sure I’ll do nothing of the sort,” May declared. “If she chooses to behave like that she can look after herself. _I’m_ not going to bother about her at any rate.”

It was Denis, in the end, who came to the rescue. He left his position by the window. “Well, I think I’ll go to bed,” he murmured. “If you are tired, Mr. Rusk, I can show you your room.”

Rusk glanced at the clock hypocritically. “I suppose it _is_ getting rather late,” he made answer. He loitered about for a minute or two longer and then said good-night, leaving the room under the guidance of his pupil.

Denis conducted him in silence. After they had reached the bedroom he still lingered. “It’s not a bad room,” he said quietly. “It looks out over the lawn, and there’s a rather nice view through the trees, though of course you can’t see it now. I hope you’ll be quite comfortable. If you think of anything you want, just give a thump on the wall. No one will hear it but me. I’m next door to you.” He walked over to the window and back again as if he were hesitating about something, as if there were something on his mind, but apparently in the end he decided not to speak. He simply held out his hand. “Well, good-night,” he said. “Be sure to let me know if you want anything. It usually takes me ages to get to sleep, so that you needn’t be afraid of disturbing me,” and he turned away.