It will readily be understood that Austin was in no hurry to confide
anything about his experiences in the Banqueting Hall to his Aunt
Charlotte. The way in which she had received his straightforward,
simple account of the curious impressions which had determined his
choice of a route in coming home was enough, and more than enough, to
seal his tongue. He was sensitive in the extreme, and any lack of
sympathy or comprehension made him retire immediately into his shell.
His aunt's demeanour imparted an air of reserve even to the
description he gave her of the attractions of Moorcombe Court. Perhaps
the good lady was a trifle sore at never having been invited there
herself. One never knows. At any rate, her attitude was chilling. So
as regarded the incident in the Banqueting Hall he preserved entire
silence. Her scepticism was too complacent to be attacked.
He was aroused next morning by the sweetest of country sounds--the
sound of a scythe upon the lawn. Then there came the distant call of
the street flower-seller, "All a-growing, all a-blowing," which he
remembered as long as he could remember anything. The world was waking
up, but it was yet early--not more than half-past six at the very
latest. So he lay quietly and contentedly in his white bed, lazily
wondering how it would feel in the Banqueting Hall at that early hour,
and what it would be like there in the dead of night, and how soon it
would be proper for him to go and leave a card on Mr St Aubyn, and
what Lubin would think of it all, and how it was he had never before
noticed that great crack in the ceiling just above his head. At last
he slipped carefully out of bed without waiting for Martha to bring
him his hot water, and hopped as best he could to the open window and
looked out. There was Lubin, mowing vigorously away, and the air was
full of sweet garden scents and the early twittering of birds. He
could not go back to bed after that, but proceeded forthwith to dress.
After a hurried toilet, he bumped his way downstairs; intercepted the
dairyman, from whom he extorted a great draught of milk, and then
went into the garden. How sweet it was, that breath of morning air!
Lubin had just finished mowing the lawn, and the perfume of the cool
grass, damp with the night's dew, seemed to pervade the world. No one
else was stirring; there was nothing to jar his nerves; everything was
harmonious, fresh, beautiful, and young. And the harmony of it all
consisted in this, that Austin was fresh, and beautiful, and young
himself.
"Well, and how did ye fare at the Court?" asked Lubin, as Austin
joined him. "Was it as fine a place as you reckoned it would be?"
"Oh, Lubin, it was lovely!" cried Austin, enthusiastically. "I do wish
you could see it. And the garden! Of course this one's lovely too, and
I love it, but the garden at the Court is simply divine. It's on a
great scale, you know, and there are huge orchid-houses, and flaming
carnations, and stained tulips, and gilded lilies, and a wonderful
grass terrace, and--"
"Ay, ay, I've heard tell of all that," interrupted Lubin. "But how
about the ghosts? Did you see any o' them, as you was so anxious
about?"
"No--I didn't see any; but they're there all the same," returned
Austin. "I felt them, you know. But only in one place; that great
room, they say, was a Banqueting Hall once upon a time. You know,
Lubin, I'm going back there before long. Mr St Aubyn asked me to come
again, and I intend to go into that room again to see if I feel
anything more. It was the very queerest thing! I never felt so strange
in my life. The place seemed actually full of them. I could feel them
all round me, though I couldn't see a thing. And the strangest part of
it is that I've never felt quite the same since."
"How d'ye mean?" asked Lubin, looking up.
"I don't know--but I fancy I may still be surrounded by them in some
sort of way," replied Austin. "It's possibly nothing but imagination
after all. However, we shall see. Now this morning I want to go a long
ramp into the country--as far as the Beacon, if I can. It's going to
be a splendid day, I'm sure."
"I'm not," said Lubin. "The old goose was dancing for rain on the
green last night, and that's a sure sign of a change."
"Dancing for rain! What old goose?" asked Austin, astonished.
"The geese always dance when they want rain," replied Lubin, "and what
the goose asks for God sends. Did you never hear that before? It's a
sure fact, that is. It'll rain within four-and-twenty hours, you mark
my words."
"I hope it won't," said Austin. "And so your mother keeps geese?"
"Ay, that she does, and breeds 'em, and fattens 'em up against
Michaelmas. And we've a fine noise o' ducks on the pond, too. They
pays their way too, I reckon."
"A noise o' ducks? What, do they quack so loud?"
"Lor' bless you, Master Austin, where was you brought up? Everybody
hereabouts know what a noise o' ducks is. Same as a flock o' geese,
only one quacks and the other cackles. Well, now I'm off home, for its
peckish work mowing on an empty belly, and the mother'll be looking
out for me. Geese for me, ghosts for you, and in the end we'll see
which pans out the best."
So Lubin trudged away to his breakfast and left Austin to his
reflections. The predicted rain held off in spite of the terpsichorean
importunity of Lubin's geese, and Austin passed a lovely morning on
the moors; but next day it came down with a vengeance, and for six
hours there was a regular deluge. However, Austin didn't mind. When it
was fine he spent his days in the fields and woods; if it rained, he
sat at a window where he could watch the grey mists, and the driving
clouds, and the straight arrows of water falling wonderfully through
the air. His books, too, were a resource that never failed, and if he
was unable personally to participate in beautiful scenes, he could
always read about them, which was the next best thing after all.
The weather continued unsettled for some days, and then it cleared up
gloriously, so that Austin was able to lead what he called his Daphnis
life once more. The rains had had rather a depressing effect upon his
general health, and once or twice he had fancied that something was
troubling him in his stump; but with the return of the sun all such
symptoms disappeared as though by magic, and he felt younger and
lighter than ever as he stepped forth again into the glittering air.
More than a week had elapsed since his day at the Court, and he began
to think that now he really might venture to go and call. So off he
set one sunny afternoon, and with rather a beating heart presented
himself at the park gates.
Here, however, a disappointment awaited him. The lodge-keeper shook
his head, and announced that Mr St Aubyn was away and wouldn't be back
till night. Austin could do nothing but leave a card, and hope that he
might be lucky enough to meet him by accident before long.
So he turned back and made for the meadow by the river side, feeling
sure that he would be safe from rabid dogs that time at any rate. And
certainly no mysterious influences intervened to prevent him sitting
on the stile for a rest, and indulging in pleasant thoughts. Then he
pulled out his pocket-volume of the beloved Eclogues, and read the
musical contest between Menalcas and Damætas with great enjoyment.
Why, he wondered, were there no delightful shepherd-boys now-a-days,
who spent their time in lying under trees and singing one against the
other? Lubin was much nicer than most country lads, but even Lubin was
not equal to improvising songs about Phyllis, and Delia, and the
Muses. Then he looked up, and saw a stranger approaching him across
the field.
He was a big, stoutish man, with a fat face, a frock-coat tightly
buttoned up, a large umbrella, and a rather shabby hat of the shape
called chimney-pot. A somewhat incongruous object, amid that rural
scene, and not a very prepossessing one; but apparently a gentleman,
though scarcely of the stamp of St Aubyn. At last he came quite near,
and Austin moved as though to let him pass.
"Don't trouble yourself, young gentleman," said the newcomer, in a
good-humoured, offhand way. "Can you tell me whether I'm anywhere near
a place called Moorcombe Court?"
"Yes--it's not far off," replied Austin, immediately interested. "I've
just come from there myself."
"Really, now!" was the gentleman's rejoinder. "And how's me friend St
Aubyn?"
So he was Mr St Aubyn's friend--or claimed to be. "I really
suspected," said Austin to himself, "that he must be a bailiff." From
which it may be inferred that the youth's acquaintance with bailiffs
was somewhat limited. Then he said, aloud:
"I believe he's quite well, thank you, but I'm afraid you'll not be
able to see him. He's gone out somewhere for the day."
"Dear me, now, that's a pity!" exclaimed the stranger, taking off his
hat and wiping his hot, bald head. "Dear old Roger--it's years since
we met, and I was quite looking forward to enjoying a chat with him
about old times. Well, well, another day will do, no doubt. You don't
live at the Court, do you?"
"I? Oh, no," said Austin. "I only visit there. It is such a charming
place!"
"Shouldn't wonder," remarked the other, nodding. "Our friend's a rich
man, and can afford to gratify his tastes--which are rather expensive
ones, or used to be when I knew him years ago. I must squeeze an hour
to go and see him some time or other while I'm here, if I can only
manage it."
"Then you are not here for long?" asked Austin, wondering who the man
could be.
"Depends upon business, young gentleman," replied the stranger.
"Depends upon how we draw. We shall have a week for certain, but after
that----"
"How you draw?" repeated Austin, politely mystified.
"Yes, draw--what houses we draw, to be sure," explained the stranger.
"What, haven't you seen the bills? I'm on tour with 'Sardanapalus'!"
A ray of light flashed upon Austin's memory. "Oh! I think I
understand," he ventured hesitatingly. "Are you--can you perhaps
be--er--Mr Buckskin?"
"For Buckskin read Buskin, and you may boast of having hazarded a
particularly shrewd guess," replied the gentleman. "Bucephalus Buskin,
at your service; and, of course, the public's."
"Ah, now I know," exclaimed Austin. "The greatest actor in Europe, on
or off the stage."
"Oh come, now, come; spare my blushes, young gentleman, draw it a
_little_ milder!" cried the delighted manager, almost bursting with
mock modesty. "Greatest actor in Europe--oh, very funny, very good
indeed! Off the stage, too! Oh dear, dear, dear, what wags there are
in the world! And pray, young gentleman, from whom did you pick up
that?"
"I think it must have been the milkman," replied Austin simply.
"The milkman, eh? A most discriminating milkman, 'pon my word. Well,
it's always encouraging to find appreciation of high art, even among
milkmen," observed Mr Buskin. "Only shows how much we owe the growing
education of the masses to the drama. Talk of the press, the pulpit,
the schoolroom----"
"I believe he was quoting an advertisement," interpolated Austin.
"An ad., eh?" said the mummer, somewhat disconcerted. "Oh, well, I
shouldn't be surprised. Of course _I_ have nothing to do with such
things. That's the business of the advance-agent. And did he really
put in that? I positively must speak to him about it. A good fellow,
you know, but rather inclined to let his zeal outrun his discretion.
It's not good business to raise too great expectations, is it, now?"
Austin, in his innocence, scarcely took in the meaning of all this.
But it was clear enough that Mr Buskin was a great personage in his
way, and extremely modest into the bargain. His interest was now very
much excited, and he awaited eagerly what the communicative gentleman
would say next.
"I should think it would take," continued Mr Buskin, warming to his
subject. "It's a most magnificent spectacle when it's properly done--as
we do it. There's a scene in the third act--the Banquet in the Royal
Palace--that's something you won't forget as long as you live. A
gorgeous hall, brilliantly illuminated--the whole Court in glittering
costumes--the tables covered with gold and silver plate. Peals of
thunder, and a frightful tempest raging outside. In the midst of the
revels a conspiracy breaks out--enter Pania, bloody--Sardanapalus
assumes a suit of armour, and admires himself in a looking-glass--and
then the rival armies burst in, and a terrific battle ensues----"
"What, in the dining-room?" asked the astonished Austin.
"Well, well, the poet allows himself a bit of licence there, I admit;
but that only gives us an opportunity of showing what fine
stage-management can do," said Mr Buskin complacently. "It's a
magnificent situation. You'll say you never saw anything like it since
you were born, you just mark my words."
"It certainly must be very wonderful," remarked Austin. "But I'm
afraid I'm rather ignorant of such matters. What _is_ 'Sardanapalus,'
may I ask?"
"What, never heard of Byron's 'Sardanapalus'?" exclaimed the actor,
throwing up his hands. "Why, it's one of the finest things ever put
upon the boards. Full of telling effects, and not too many bothering
lengths, you know. The Poet Laureate, dear good man, worried my life
out a year ago to let him write a play upon the subject especially for
me. The part of Sardanapalus was to be devised so as to bring out all
my particular--er--capabilities, and any little hints that might occur
to me were to be acted upon and embodied in the text. But I wouldn't
hear of it. 'Me dear Alfred,' I said, 'it isn't that I underrate your
very well-known talents, but Byron's good enough for _me_. Hang it
all, you know, an artist owes something to the classics of his
country.' So now, if that uneasy spirit ever looks this way from the
land of the eternal shades, he'll see something at least to comfort
him. He'll see that one actor, at least, not unknown to Europe, has
vindicated his reputation as a playwright in the face of the British
public."
Austin felt immensely flattered at such confidences being vouchsafed
to him by the eminent exponent of Lord Byron, and said he was certain
that the theatre would be crammed. Mr Buskin shrugged his shoulders,
and replied he was sure he hoped so.
"And now," he added, "I think I'll be walking back. And look you here,
young gentleman. We've had a pleasant meeting, and I'd like to see
you again. Just take this card"--scribbling a few words on it in
pencil--"and the night you favour us with your presence in the house,
come round and see me in me dressing-room between the acts. You've
only to show that, and they'll let you in at once. I'd like your
impressions of the thing while it's going on."
Austin accepted the card with becoming courtesy, and offered his own
in exchange. Mr Buskin shook hands in a very cordial manner, and the
next moment was making his way rapidly in the direction of the town.
"What a very singular gentleman," thought Austin, when he was once
more alone. "I wonder whether all actors are like that. Scarcely, I
suppose. Well, now I'm to have a glimpse of another new world. Mr St
Aubyn has shown me one or two; what will Mr Buskin's be like? It's all
extremely interesting, anyhow."
Then he stumped along to the river side, giving a majestic twirl to
his wooden leg with every step he took through the long grass. How he
would have loved a bathe! The pool where he had so enjoyed himself
with Lubin was not far off--the pool of Daphnis, as he had christened
it; but he hesitated to venture in alone. So he lay down on the bank
and watched the yellow water-lilies from afar, dreaming of many
things. How clever Lubin was, and what a lot he knew! Why geese should
dance for rain he couldn't even imagine; but the rain had actually
come, and it was all a most suggestive mystery. How many other curious
connections there must be among natural occurrences that nobody ever
dreamt of! It was in the country one learnt about such things; in the
fields and woods, and by the side of rivers. Nature was the great
school, after all. History and geography were all very well in their
way, but what food for the soul was there in knowing whether Norway
was an island or a peninsula, or on what date some silly king had had
his crown put on? What did it matter, after all? Those were the facts
he despised; facts that had no significance for him whatever, that
left him exactly as they found him first. The sky and the birds and
the flowers taught him lessons that were worth more than all the
histories and geographies that were ever written. The schoolroom was a
desert, arid and unsatisfying; whereas the garden, the enclosed space
which held stained cups of beauty and purple gold-eyed bells, that was
a jewelled sanctuary. Lubin was nearer the heart of things than
Freeman and Macaulay, though they would have disdained him as a clod.
Virgil and Theocritus were greater philosophers than either Comte or
Hegel. Daphnis and Corydon represented the finest flower, the purest
type of human evolution, and Herbert Spencer was nothing better than a
particularly silly old man.
Having disposed of the education question thus conclusively, it
occurred to Austin that it must be about time for tea; so he struggled
to his legs and turned his footsteps homeward. Just as he arrived at
the house he met Lubin outside the gate with a wheelbarrow.
"Off already?" he asked.
"Ay," said Lubin. "I say, Master Austin, there's something I want to
tell you. I see a magpie not an hour ago!"
"A magpie? I don't think I ever saw one in my life. What was it like?"
enquired Austin.
"Don't matter what it was like," replied Lubin, sententiously. "But it
was just outside your bedroom window. You'd better be on the
look-out."
"What for?" asked Austin. "Did it say it was coming back?"
"'Tain't nothing to laugh at," said Lubin, nodding his head. "A magpie
bodes ill-luck. That's well known, that is. So you just keep your eye
open, that's all I've got to say. It's a warning, you see. Did ye
never hear that before?"
Austin's first impulse was to laugh; then he remembered the dancing
goose, and the rain which followed in due course. "All right, Lubin,"
he said cheerfully. "I'm not afraid of magpies; I don't think they're
very dangerous. But I _have_ heard that they've a fancy for silver
spoons, so I'll tell Aunt Charlotte to lock the plate up safely before
she goes to bed."
As he had expected, Aunt Charlotte was much pleased at hearing of his
encounter with Mr Buskin, who, she thought, must be a most delightful
person. It would be so good, too, for Austin to see something of the
gay world instead of always mooning about alone; and then he would be
sure to meet other young people at the performance, friends from the
neighbouring town, with whom he could talk and be sociable. Austin, on
his side, was quite willing to go and be amused, though he felt,
perhaps, more interested in what promised to be an entirely new
experience than excited at the prospect of a treat. He wanted to see
and to study, and then he would be able to judge.
"By the way, Austin," said his aunt, as they were separating for the
night a few hours later, "I want you to go into the town to-morrow and
tell Snewin to send a man up at once to look at the roof. I'm afraid
it's been in rather a bad state for some time past, and those heavy
rains we had last week seem to have damaged it still more. Be sure you
don't forget. It won't do to have a leaky roof over our heads; it
might come tumbling down, and cost a mint of money to put right
again."
Austin gave the required promise, and thought no more about it. He
also forgot entirely to tell his aunt she had better lock up the
spoons with particular care that night because Lubin had seen a magpie
in suspicious proximity to his window. He went straight up to his
room, feeling rather sleepy, and bent on getting between the sheets as
soon as possible. But just as he was putting on his nightgown, a light
pattering sound attracted his attention, and he immediately became all
ears.
"Rain?" he exclaimed. "Why, there wasn't a sign of it an hour ago!"
He drew up the blind and looked out. The sky was perfectly clear, and
a brilliant moon was shining.
"That's queer!" he murmured. "I could have sworn I heard it raining.
What in the world could it have been?"
He turned away and put out the candle. As he approached the bed a
curious disinclination to get into it came over him. Then he heard the
same pattering noise again. He stopped short, and listened more
attentively. It seemed to come from the walls.
A shower of raps, rather like tiny explosions, now sounded all around
him. He leant his head against the wall, and the sound became
distincter. This time there was no mistake about it. He had never
heard anything like it in his life. He was quite cool, not in the
least frightened, and very much on the alert. The raps continued at
intervals for about five minutes. Then, seeing that it was impossible
to solve the mystery, he suddenly jumped into bed. At that moment the
raps ceased.
For nearly an hour he lay awake, wondering. Certainly he had not been
the victim of hallucination. He was in perfect health, and in full
possession of all his faculties. Indeed his faculties were
particularly alive; he had been thinking of something else altogether
when the raps first forced themselves upon his consciousness, and
afterwards he had listened to them for several minutes with close and
critical attention. No explanation of the strange phenomenon suggested
itself in spite of endless theories and speculations. Could it be
mice? But mice only gnawed and scuttled about; they did not rap. It
was more like crackling than anything else; the noise produced by
thousands of faint discharges. No, it was inexplicable, and he
wondered more and more.
Gradually he fell asleep. How long he slept he didn't know, but he
awoke with a sensation of cold. Instinctively he put out his hand to
pull the coverings closer over him, and found that they seemed to have
slipped down somehow, leaving his chest exposed. Then, warm again, he
dozed off once more and dreamt that he was at the pool of Daphnis with
Lubin. How cool and blue the water looked, and how lovely the plunge
would be! But when he was stripped the weather suddenly changed; a
chill wind sprang up which made his teeth chatter; and then Lubin--who
somehow wasn't Lubin but had unaccountably turned into Mr
Buskin--insisted on throwing him into the water, which now looked cold
and black. He struggled furiously, and awoke shivering.
There was not a rag upon him. Again he stretched out his hand to feel
for the clothes, but they had disappeared. Instinctively he threw
himself out of bed and flung open the shutters. The moon had set, and
the first faint gleams of approaching dawn filtered into the room,
showing, to his amazement, the bedclothes drawn completely away from
the mattress and hanging over the rail at the foot, so as to be quite
out of the reach of his hand as he had lain there. What on earth was
the matter with the bed? Was it bewitched? Who had uncovered him in
that unceremonious way, leaving him perished with cold? No wonder he
had dreamt of that chilly wind, numbing his body as he stood naked by
the pool. Had he by any chance kicked the coverlet off in his sleep,
as he engaged in that dream-struggle with the absurdly impossible
Buskin-Lubin who had attempted to pitch him into the dark water?
Clearly not; for that would not account for the sheet and blanket
being dragged so carefully out of the range of his hands, and hung
over the foot-rail so that they touched the floor.
Such were the thoughts that flashed through his mind as he stood
motionless by the window, with wide open eyes, in the chill morning
light. Suddenly a rending, bursting noise was heard in the ceiling.
The crack widened into a chasm, and then, with a heavy thud, down fell
a confused mass of old bricks, crumbling mortar, and rotten,
worm-eaten wood full on the mattress he had just relinquished,
scattering pulverised rubble in all directions, and covering the bed
with a layer of horrible dust and _débris_.