It is scarcely necessary to say that Austin knew nothing whatever
about his aunt's preoccupation, and that even if she had taken him
into her confidence, he would have paid little or no attention to the
matter. I am afraid that his ideas about finance were crude in the
extreme, being limited to a sort of vague impression that capital was
what you put into a bank, and interest was what you took out; while
the difference between the par value of a security and the price you
could get for it on the market, would have been to him a hopelessly
unfathomable mystery. Aunt Charlotte, therefore, was very wise in
abstaining from any reference, in conversation, to the great
enterprise for extracting gold from sea-water, in which she hoped to
purchase shares; for one could never have told what foolish remark he
might have made, though it was quite certain that he would have said
something foolish, and probably very exasperating. So she kept her
secret locked up in her own breast, and silently counted the hours
till she could get a reply from her bankers.
Of course Austin had to give his aunt an account, at breakfast-time
next morning, of the pageant of the previous night; and as he confined
himself to saying that the scenery and dresses were very fine, and
that Mr Buskin was quite unrecognisable, and that all the performers
knew their parts, and that he had walked part of the way home with
Roger St Aubyn afterwards, the impression left on the good lady's mind
was that he had enjoyed himself very much. This inevitable duty
accomplished, Austin straightway banished the whole subject from his
memory and gave himself up more unreservedly than ever to his garden
and his thoughts. How fresh and sweet and welcoming the garden looked
on that calm, lovely summer day! How brightly the morning dewdrops
twinkled on the leaves, like a sprinkling of liquid diamonds! Every
flower seemed to greet him with silent laughter: "Aha, you've been
playing truant, have you? Straying into alien precincts, roving in
search of something newer and gaudier than anything you have here?
Sunlight palls on you; gas is so much more festive! The scents of the
fields are vulgar; finer the hot smells of the playhouse, more meet
for a cultured nostril!" Of course Austin made all this nonsense up
himself, but he felt so happy that it amused him to attribute the
words to the dear flower-friends who were all around him, and to whom
he could never be really faithless. Faugh! that playhouse! He would
never enter one again. Be an actor! Lubin was a cleaner gentleman than
any painted Buskin on the stage. Here, in the clear, pure splendour of
the sunlit air, the place where he had been last night loomed up in
his consciousness as something meretricious and unwholesome. Yet he
was glad he had been, for it made everything so much purer and sweeter
by contrast. Never had the garden looked more meetly set, never had
the sun shone more genially, and the air impelled the blood and sent
it coursing more joyously through his veins, than on that morning of
the rejuvenescence of all his high ideals.
Then he drew a small blue volume out of his pocket, and lay down on
the grass with his back against the trunk of an apple-tree. Austin's
theory--or one of his theories, for he had hundreds--was that one's
literature should always be in harmony with one's surroundings; and
so, intending to pass his morning in the garden, he had chosen 'The
Garden of Cyrus' as an appropriate study. He opened it reverently, for
it was compact of jewelled thoughts that had been set to words by one
of the princes of prose. He, the young garden-lover, sat at the feet
of the great garden-mystic, and began to pore wonderingly over the
inscrutable secrets of the quincunx. His fine ear was charmed by the
rhythm of the sumptuous and stately sentences, and his pulses throbbed
in response to every measured phrase in which the lore of garden
symmetry and the principles of garden science were set forth. He read
of the hanging gardens of Babylon, first made by Queen Semiramis,
third or fourth from Nimrod, and magnificently renewed by
Nabuchodonosor, according to Josephus: "_from whence, overlooking
Babylon, and all the region about it, he found no circumscription to
the eye of his ambition; till, over-delighted with the bravery of this
Paradise, in his melancholy metamorphosis he found the folly of that
delight, and a proper punishment in the contrary habitation--in wild
plantations and wanderings of the fields_." Austin shook his head over
this; he did not think it possible to love a garden too much, and
demurred to the idea that such a love deserved any punishment at all.
But that was theology, and he had no taste for theological
dissertations. So he dipped into the pages where the quincunx is
"naturally" considered, and here he admired the encyclopædic learning
of the author, which appeared to have been as wide as that attributed
to Solomon; then glanced at the "mystic" part, which he reserved for
later study. But one paragraph riveted his attention, as he turned
over the leaves. Here was a mine of gold, a treasure-house of
suggestiveness and wisdom.
_"Light, that makes things seen, makes some things invisible; were it
not for darkness and the shadow of the earth, the noblest part of the
creation had remained unseen, and the stars in heaven as invisible as
on the fourth day, when they were created above the horizon with the
sun, or there was not an eye to behold them. The greatest mystery of
religion is expressed by adumbration, and in the noblest part of
Jewish types, we find the cherubim shadowing the mercy-seat. Life
itself is but the shadow of death, and souls departed but the shadows
of the living. All things fall under this name. The sun itself is but
the dark simulacrum, and light but the shadow of God."_
Austin delighted in symbolism, and these apparent paradoxes fascinated
him. But was it all true? He loved to think that life was the shadow,
and death--what we call death--the substance; he had always felt that
the reality of everything was to be sought for on the other side. But
he could not see why departed souls should be regarded as the shadows
of living men. Rather it was we who lived in a vain show, and would
continue to do so until the spirit, the true substance of us, should
be set free. Well, whatever the truth of it might be, it was all a
charming puzzle, and we should learn all about it some day, and
meantime he had been furnished with an entirely new idea--the
revealing power of darkness. He loved the light because it was
beautiful, and now he loved the darkness because it was mysterious,
and held such wondrous secrets in its folds. He had never been afraid
of the dark even when a child. It had always been associated in his
mind with sleep and dreams, and he was very fond of both.
Of course it would have been no use attempting to instruct Lubin in
the cryptic properties of the quincunx, or any other theories of
garden arrangement propounded by Sir Thomas Browne. And Aunt Charlotte
would have proved a still more hopeless subject. She had no head for
mysticism, poor dear, and Austin often told her she was one of the
greatest sceptics he had ever known. "You believe in nothing but your
dinner, your bank-book, and your Bible, auntie; I declare it's
perfectly shocking," he said to her one day. "And a very good creed
too," she replied; "it wouldn't be a bad thing for you either, if you
had a little more sound religion and practical common-sense." Just now
it was the bank-book phase that was uppermost, and when a letter was
brought in to her at breakfast-time next morning bearing the London
postmark, she clutched it eagerly and opened it with evident
anticipation. But as she read the contents her brow clouded and her
face fell. Clearly she was disappointed and surprised, but made no
remark to Austin.
A couple of days passed without anything of importance happening,
except that she wrote again to her bankers and looked out anxiously
for their reply. But none came, and she grew irritable and disturbed.
It really was most extraordinary; she had always thought that bankers
were so shrewd, and prompt, and business-like, and yet here they were,
treating her as though she were of no account whatever, and actually
leaving her second letter without an answer. The affair was pressing,
too. There was certain to be a perfect rush for shares in so
exceptional an undertaking, and when once they were all allotted, of
course up they'd go to an enormous premium, and all her chances of
investing would be lost. It was too exasperating for words. What were
the men thinking of? Why were they so neglectful of her interests? She
had always been an excellent customer, and had never overdrawn her
account--never. And now they were leaving her in the lurch. However,
she determined she would not submit. She fumed in silence for yet
another day, and then, at dinner in the evening, came out with a most
unexpected declaration.
"Austin," she said suddenly, after a long pause, "I'm going to town
to-morrow by the 10.27 train."
Austin was peeling an apple, intent on seeing how long a strip he
could pare off without breaking it. "Won't it be very hot?" he asked
absently.
"Hot? Well, perhaps it will," said Aunt Charlotte, rather nettled at
his indifference. "But I can't help that. The fact is that my bankers
are giving me a great deal of annoyance just now, and I'm going up to
London to have it out with them."
"Really?" replied Austin, politely interested. "I hope they haven't
been embezzling your money?"
"Do, for goodness sake, pull yourself together and try not to talk
nonsense for once in your life," retorted Aunt Charlotte, tartly.
"Embezzling my money, indeed!--I should just like to catch them at it.
Of course it's nothing of the kind. But I've lately given them certain
instructions which they virtually refuse to carry out, and in a case
of that sort it's always better to discuss the affair in person."
"I see," said Austin, beginning to munch his apple. "I wonder why they
won't do what you want them to. Isn't it very rude of them?"
"Rude? Well--I can't say they've been exactly rude," acknowledged Aunt
Charlotte. "But they're making all sorts of difficulties, and hint
that they know better than I do----"
"Which is absurd, of course," put in Austin, with his very simplest
air.
Aunt Charlotte glanced sharply at him, but there was not the faintest
trace of irony in his expression. "I fancy they don't quite understand
the question," she said, "so I intend to run up and explain it to
them. One can do these things so much better in conversation than by
writing. I shall get lunch in town, and then there'll be time for me
to do a little shopping, perhaps, before catching the 4.40 back. That
will get me here in ample time for dinner at half-past seven."
"And what train do you go by in the morning?" enquired Austin.
"The 10.27," replied his aunt. "I shall take the omnibus from the
Peacock that starts at a quarter to ten."
It cannot be said that Aunt Charlotte's projected trip to town
interested Austin much. Business of any sort was a profound mystery to
him, and with regard to speculations, investments, and such-like
matters his mind was a perfect blank. He had a vague notion that
perhaps Aunt Charlotte wanted some money, and that the bankers had
refused to give her any; though whether she had a right to demand it,
or they a right to withhold it, he had no more idea than the man in
the moon. So he dismissed the whole affair from his mind as something
with which he had nothing whatever to do, and spent the evening in the
company of Sir Thomas Browne. At ten o'clock he went forth into the
garden, and became absorbed in an attempt to identify the different
colours of the flowers in the moonlight. It proved a fascinating
occupation, for the pale, cold brightness imparted hues to the
flowers that were strange and weird, so that it was a matter of real
difficulty to say what the colours actually were. Then he wondered how
it was he had never before discovered what an inspiring thing it was
to wander all alone at night about a garden illuminated by a brilliant
moon. The shadows were so black and secret, the radiance so spiritual,
the shapes so startlingly fantastic, it was like being in another
world. And then the silence. That was the most compelling charm of
all. It helped him to feel. And he felt that he was not alone, though
he heard nothing and saw nobody. The garden was full of
flower-fairies, invisible elves and sprites whose mission it was to
guard the flowers, and who loved the moonlight more than they loved
the day; dainty, diaphanous creatures who were wafted across the
smooth lawns on summer breezes, and washed the thirsty petals and
drooping leaves in the dew which the clear blue air of night diffuses
so abundantly. He had a sense--almost a knowledge--that the garden he
was in was a dream-garden, a sort of panoramic phantasm, and that the
real garden lay _behind_ it somehow, hidden from material eyesight,
eluding material touch, but there all the same, unearthly and elysian,
more beautiful a great deal than the one in which he was standing,
and teeming with gracious presences. It seemed a revelation to him,
this sudden perception of a real world underlying the apparent one;
and for nearly half-an-hour he sauntered to and fro in a reverie,
leaning sometimes against the old stone fountain, and sometimes
watching the pale clouds as they began flitting together as though to
keep a rendezvous in space, until they concealed the face of the moon
entirely from view and left the garden dark.
* * * * *
Whether Austin had strange dreams that night or no, certain it is that
when he came down to breakfast in the morning his face was set and
there was a look of unusual preoccupation in his eyes. Aunt Charlotte,
being considerably preoccupied with her own affairs, noticed nothing,
and busied herself with the teapot as was her wont. Austin chipped his
egg in silence, while his auntie, helping herself generously to fried
bacon, made some remark about the desirability of laying a good
foundation in view of her journey up to town. Thereupon Austin said:
"Is it absolutely necessary for you to go to town this morning,
auntie?"
"Of course it is," replied Aunt Charlotte, munching heartily. "I told
you so last night."
"Why can't you go to-morrow instead?" asked Austin, tentatively.
"Would it be too late?"
"I've arranged to go _to-day_," said Aunt Charlotte, with decision.
"The sooner this business is settled the better. What should I gain by
waiting?"
"I don't see any particular hurry," said Austin. "It's only giving
yourself trouble for nothing. If I were you I'd write what you want to
say, and then go up to see these people if their answer was still
unsatisfactory."
"But you see you don't know anything about the matter," retorted Aunt
Charlotte, beginning to wonder at the boy's persistency. "What in the
world makes you want me not to go?"
"Oh--I only thought it might prove unnecessary," replied he, rather
lamely. "It's going to be very hot, and after all----"
"It'll be quite as hot to-morrow," said Aunt Charlotte, as she stirred
her tea.
"Well, why not go by a later train, then?" suggested Austin. "Look
here; go by the 4.20 this afternoon, and take me with you. We'll go to
a nice quiet hotel, and have a beautiful dinner, and see some of the
sights, and then you'd have all to-morrow morning to do your business
with these horrid old gentlemen at the bank. Now don't you think
that's rather a good idea?"
"I--dare--_say_!" cried Aunt Charlotte, in her highest key. "So that's
what you're aiming at, is it? Oh, you're a cunning boy, my dear, if
ever there was one. But your little project would cost at least four
times as much as I propose to spend to-day, and for that reason alone
it's not to be thought of for a moment. What in creation ever put such
an idea into your head?"
"I don't want to come with you in the very least, really--especially
as you don't want to have me," replied Austin. "But I do wish you'd
give up your idea of going to London by the 10.27 this morning. If
you'll only do that I don't care for anything else. Take the same
train to-morrow, if you like, but not to-day. That's all I have to ask
you."
"But why--why--why?" demanded Aunt Charlotte, in not unnatural
amazement.
"I can't tell you why," said Austin. "It wouldn't be any use."
"You are the very absurdest child I ever came across!" exclaimed Aunt
Charlotte. "I've often had to put up with your fancies, but never with
any so outrageously unreasonable as this. Now not another word. I'm
going to travel by the 10.27 this morning, and if you like to come and
see me off, you're at perfect liberty to do so."
Austin made no reply, and breakfast proceeded in silence. Then he
glanced at the clock, and saw that it was ten minutes to nine. As soon
as the meal was finished, he rose from his chair and moved slowly
towards the door.
"You still intend to go by the----"
"Hold your tongue!" snapped his aunt. Whereupon Austin left the room
without another word. Then he stumped his way upstairs and was not
seen again. Aunt Charlotte, meanwhile, began preparations for her
journey. It was now close on nine o'clock, and she had to order the
dinner, see that she had sufficient money for her expenses, choose a
bonnet for travelling in, and look after half-a-dozen other important
trifles before setting out to catch the railway omnibus at the
Peacock. At last Austin, waiting behind a door, heard her enter her
room to dress. Very gently he stole out with something in his pocket,
and two minutes afterwards was standing on the lawn with his straw
hat tilted over his eyes, chattering with Lubin about tubers, corms,
and bulbs, potting and bedding-out, and other pleasant mysteries of
garden-craft.
It was not very long, however, before a singular bustle was heard on
the first floor. Maids ran scuttling up and down stairs, voices
resounded through the open windows, and then came the sound of thumps,
as of somebody vigorously battering at a door. Austin turned round,
and began walking towards the house. He was met by old Martha, who
seemed to be in a tremendous fluster about something.
"Master Austin! Master Austin! Oh, here you are. What in the world is
to be done? Your aunt's locked up in her bedroom, and nobody can find
the key!"
"Is that all?" answered Austin calmly. "Then she'll have to stay there
till it turns up, evidently."
"But the mistress says she's sure you know all about it," panted
Martha, in great distress, "and she's in a most terrible taking. Now,
Master Austin, I do beseech you--'tain't no laughing matter, for the
omnibus starts in a few minutes, and your aunt----"
A terrific banging was now heard from the locked-up room, accompanied
by shouts and cries from the imprisoned lady. Austin advanced to the
foot of the staircase, looking rather white, and listened.
"Austin! Austin! Where are you? What have you done with the key?"
shrieked Aunt Charlotte, in a tempest of despair and rage. "Let me
out, I say, let me out at once! It's you who have done this, I know it
is. Open the door, or I shall lose the train!" A fresh bombardment
from the lady's fists here followed. "Where _is_ Austin, Martha? Can't
you find him anywhere?"
"He's here, ma'am," cried back Martha, in quavering tones, "but he
don't seem as if----"
"Call Lubin with a ladder!" interrupted the desperate lady. "I must
catch the omnibus, if I break all my bones in getting out of the
window. Where's Lubin? Isn't there a ladder tall enough? Austin!
Austin! Where _is_ Austin, and why doesn't he open the door?"
"He was here not a moment ago," replied Martha, tremulously, "but
where he's got to now, or where he's put the key, the Lord only knows.
Perhaps he's gone to see about a ladder. Lubin! have you seen Master
Austin anywhere?"
But Austin, unobserved in the confusion, having stealthily glanced at
his watch, had slipped out at the garden gate, and now stood looking
down the road. The omnibus had just started, and for about thirty
seconds he remained watching it as it lumbered and clattered along in
a cloud of dust until it was lost to view. Then he went back to the
house, and handed the key to Martha. "There's the key," he said. "Tell
Aunt Charlotte I'm going for a walk, and I'll let her know all about
it when I come back to lunch."
He was out of the house in a twinkling, stumping along as hard as he
could go until he reached the moors. He had played a daring game, but
felt quite satisfied with the result so far, as he knew that there
were no cabs to be had in the village, and that, even if his aunt were
mad enough to brave a two-mile tramp along the broiling road, she
could not possibly reach the station in time to catch the train. Now
that the deed was done, a sensation of fatigue stole over him, and
with a sigh of relief he flung himself down on the soft tussocks of
purple heather, and covered his eyes with his straw hat. For
half-an-hour he lay there motionless and deep in thought. No suspicion
that he had acted wrongly disturbed him for a moment. Of course it was
a pity that poor Aunt Charlotte should have been disappointed, and
certainly that locking of her up in her bedroom had been a very
painful duty; but if it was necessary--as it was--what else could he
have done? No doubt she would forgive him when she understood his
reasons; and, after all, it was really her own fault for having been
so obstinate.
It was now half-past ten, and Austin had no intention of getting home
before it was time for lunch. He had thus the whole morning before
him, and he spent it rambling about the moors, struggling up hills,
revelling in the heat tempered by cool grass, and wondering how
Daphnis would have behaved if he had had an unreasonable old aunt to
take care of; for Aunt Charlotte was really a great responsibility,
and dreadfully difficult to manage. Then, coming on a deep, clear
rivulet which ran between two meadows, he yielded to a sudden impulse,
and, stripping himself to the skin, plunged into it, wooden leg and
all. There he floated luxuriously for a while, the sun blazing
fiercely overhead, and the cool waters playing over his white body.
When he emerged, covered with sparkling drops, he remembered that he
had no towel; so there was nothing to be done but to stagger about and
disport himself like a naked faun among the buttercups and bulrushes,
until the sun had dried him. As soon as he was dressed, he looked at
his watch, and found that it was nearly twelve. Then he consulted a
little time-table, and made a rapid calculation. It would take him
just half-an-hour to reach the station from where he was, and
therefore it was high time to start.
Off he set, and arrived there, as it seemed, at a moment of great
excitement. The station-master was on the platform, in the act of
posting up a telegram, around which a number of people--travellers,
porters, and errand-boys--were crowding eagerly. Austin joined the
group, and read the message carefully and deliberately twice through.
He asked no questions, but listened to the remarks he heard around
him. Then he passed rapidly through the booking-office, and struck out
on his way home.
Meantime Aunt Charlotte had passed the hours fuming. To her, Austin's
extraordinary behaviour was absolutely unaccountable, except on the
hypothesis that he was not responsible for his actions. Her rage was
beyond control. That the boy should have had the unheard-of audacity
to lock her up in her own bedroom in order to gratify some mad whim,
and so have upset her plans for the entire day, was an outrage
impossible to forgive. If he was not out of his mind he ought to be,
for there was no other excuse for him that she could think of. What
_was_ to be done with such a boy? He was too old to be whipped, too
young to be sent to college, too delicate to be placed under
restraint. But she would let him feel the full force of her
indignation when he returned. He should apologise, he should eat his
fill of humble pie, he should beg for mercy on his knees. She had put
up with a good deal, but this last escapade was not to be overlooked.
Even Martha, when she came in to lay the cloth for lunch, could think
of nothing to say in extenuation of his offence.
It was certainly two hours before her excitement allowed her to sit
down and begin to knit. Even then--and naturally enough--while she was
musing the fire burned. It never occurred to her to reflect that there
must have been some _reason_ for Austin's extraordinary prank, and
that the first thing to be done was to discover what that was. She was
too angry to take this obvious fact into consideration, and so, when
Austin at last appeared, his eyes full of suppressed excitement and
his forehead bathed in sweat, her pent-up wrath found vent and she
flamed out at him in a rage.
For some minutes Austin stood quite silent while she stormed. If it
made her feel better to storm, well, let her do it. Half-a-dozen times
she demanded what he meant by his behaviour, and how he dared, and
whether he had suddenly gone crazy, and then went on storming without
waiting for his reply. Once, when he opened his mouth to speak, she
sharply told him to shut it again. It was clear, even to Martha, that
if Austin's conduct had been inexplicable, his aunt's was utterly
absurd.
"You've asked me several times what made me lock you up this morning,"
he said at last, when she paused for breath, "and each time you've
refused to let me answer you. That's not very reasonable, you know.
Now I've got something to tell you, but if you want to do any more
raving please do it at once and get it over, and then I'll have my
turn."
"Will you go to your room this instant and stay there?" cried Aunt
Charlotte, pointing to the door.
"Certainly not," replied Austin. "And now I'll ask you to listen to me
for a minute, for you must be tired with all that shouting." Aunt
Charlotte took up her work with trembling hands, ostentatiously
pretending that Austin was no longer in the room. "You wanted to go to
town by the 10.27 train, and I took forcible measures to prevent you.
It may therefore interest you to know what became of that train, and
what you have escaped. There's been a frightful collision. The down
express ran into it at the curve just beyond the signal station at
Colebridge Junction, owing to some mistake of the signalman, I
believe. Anyhow, in the train you wanted to go by there were five
people killed outright, and fourteen others crunched up and mangled in
a most inartistic style. And if I hadn't locked you up as I did you'd
probably be in the County Hospital at this moment in an exceedingly
unpleasant predicament."
Dead silence. Then, "The Lord preserve us!" ejaculated Martha, who
stood by, in awe-struck tones. Aunt Charlotte slowly raised her eyes
from her knitting, and fixed them on Austin's face. "A collision!" she
exclaimed. "Why, what do you know about it?"
"I called at the station and read the telegram myself. There was a
crowd of people on the platform all discussing it," returned Austin,
briefly.
"Your life has been saved by a miracle, ma'am, and it's Master Austin
as you've got to thank for it," cried Martha, her eyes full of tears,
"though how it came about, the good Lord only knows," she added,
turning as though for enlightenment to the boy himself.
Then Aunt Charlotte sank back in her chair, looking very white. "I
don't understand it, Austin," she said tremulously. "It's terrible to
think of such a catastrophe, and all those poor creatures being
killed--and it's most providential, of course, that--that--I was kept
from going. But all that doesn't explain what share _you_ had in it.
You don't expect me to believe that you knew what was going to happen
and kept me at home on purpose? The very idea is ridiculous. It was a
coincidence, of course, though a most remarkable one, I must admit. A
collision! Thank God for all His mercies!"
"If it was only a coincidence I don't exactly see what there is to
thank God for," remarked Austin, very drily.
"'Twarn't no coincidence," averred old Martha, solemnly. "On that I'll
stake my soul."
"What was it, then?" retorted Aunt Charlotte. "Anyhow, Austin, there
seems no doubt that, under God, it was what you did that saved my life
to-day. But what made you do it? How could you possibly tell that you
were preventing me from getting killed?"
"I should have told you all that long ago if you weren't so hopelessly
illogical, auntie," he replied. "But you never can see the connection
between cause and effect. That was the reason I couldn't explain why I
didn't want you to go, even before I locked you up. It wouldn't have
been any use. You'd have simply laughed in my face, and have gone to
London all the same."
"I don't know what you mean. Don't beat about the bush, Austin, and
worry my head with all this vague talk about cause and effect and such
like. What has my being illogical got to do with it?"
"Well--if you want me to explain, of course I'll do so; but I don't
suppose it'll make any difference," said Austin. "Some time ago, I
told you that just as I was going to get over a stile, I felt
something push me back, and so I came home another way. You'll
recollect that if I _had_ got over that stile I should have come
across a rabid dog where there was no possibility of escape, and no
doubt have got frightfully bitten. But when I told you how I was
prevented, you scoffed at the whole story, and said that I was
superstitious.--Stop a minute! I haven't finished yet.--Then, only
the other day, my life was saved from all those bricks tumbling on me
when I was asleep by just the same sort of interposition. Again you
jeered at me, and when I told you I had heard raps in the wall you
ridiculed the idea, and--do you remember?--the words were scarcely out
of your mouth when you heard the raps yourself, and then you got
nearly beside yourself with fright and anger, and said it was the
devil. And now for the third time the same sort of thing has happened.
What is the good of telling you about it? You'd only scoff and jeer as
you did before, although on this occasion it is your own life that has
been saved, not mine."
Certainly Master Austin was having his revenge on Aunt Charlotte for
the torrent of abuse she had poured upon him a few minutes previously.
For a short time she sat quite still, the picture of perplexity and
irritation. The facts as Austin stated them were incontrovertible, and
yet--probably because she lacked the instinct of causality--she could
not accept his explanation of them. There are some people in the world
who are constituted like this. They create a mental atmosphere around
them which is as impenetrable to conviction in certain matters as a
brick wall is to a parched pea. They will fall back on any loophole
of a theory, however imbecile and far-fetched, rather than accept some
simple and self-evident solution that they start out by regarding as
impossible. And Aunt Charlotte was a very apposite specimen of the
class.
"I'll not scoff, at anyrate, Austin," she said at last. "I cannot
forget--and I never will forget--that it's to you I owe it that I am
sitting here this moment. Tell me what moved you to act as you did
this morning. I may not share your belief, but I will not ridicule it.
Of that you may rest assured."
"It is all simple enough," he said. "I had a horrid dream just before
I woke--nothing circumstantial, but a general sense of the most awful
confusion, and disaster, and terror. I fancy it was that that woke me.
And as I was opening my eyes, a voice said to me quite distinctly, as
distinctly as I am speaking now, '_Keep auntie at home this morning._'
The words dinned themselves into my ears all the time I was dressing,
and then I acted upon them as you know. But what would have been the
good of telling you? None whatever. So I tried persuasion, and when
that failed I simply locked you in."
Now there are two sorts of superstition, each of which is the very
antithesis of the other. The victim of one believes all kinds of
absurdities blindfold, oblivious of evidence or causality. The
upsetting of a salt-cellar or the fall of a mirror is to him a
harbinger of disaster, entirely irrespective of any possible
connection between the cause and the effect. A bit of stalk floating
on his tea presages an unlooked-for visitor, and the guttering of a
candle is a sign of impending death. All this he believes firmly, and
acts upon, although he would candidly acknowledge his inability to
explain the principle supposed to underlie the sequence between the
omen and its fulfilment. It is the irrationality of the belief that
constitutes its superstitious character, the contented acquiescence in
some inconceivable and impossible law, whether physical or
metaphysical, in virtue of which the predicted event is expected to
follow the wholly unrelated augury. The other sort of superstition is
that of which, as we have seen, Aunt Charlotte was an exemplification.
Here, again, there is a splendid disregard of evidence, testimony, and
causal laws. But it takes the form of scepticism, and a scepticism so
blindly partial as to sink into the most abject credulity. The wildest
sophistries are dragged in to account for an unfamiliar happening, and
scientific students are accused, now of idiocy, now of fraud, rather
than the fact should be confessed that our knowledge of the universe
is limited. If Aunt Charlotte, for instance, had seen a table rise
into the air of itself in broad daylight she would have said, "I
certainly saw it happen, and as an honest woman I can't deny it; but I
don't believe it for all that." The succession of abnormal
occurrences, however, of which Austin had been the subject, had begun
to undermine her dogmatism; and this last event, the interposition of
something, she knew not what, to save her from a horrible accident,
appealed to her very strongly. There was a pathos, too, about the part
played in it by Austin which touched her to the quick, and she
reproached herself keenly for the injustice with which she had treated
him in her unreasoning anger.
She felt a great lump come in her throat as he ceased speaking, and
for a moment or two found it impossible to answer. "A voice!" she
uttered at last. "What sort of a voice, Austin?"
"It sounded like a woman's," he replied.