“Rich in the simple worship of a day.”--_Keats._
Denis had awakened early that morning. He knew that it was Sunday, and
that there was no hurry about getting up, so for a few minutes more he
lay in a half dream, listening to a leaf that tapped softly against his
window pane, listening to the sighing of the trees. And gradually his
drowsiness slipped from him till he was quite wide awake, when he sprang
out of bed. He breakfasted early and alone, long before any of the
others were down, and as soon as he had finished went out into the
garden where for a few minutes he wandered among the flowers, shaking
the dew from heavy crimson roses, and burying his face among cool
drenched leaves. He knew it was going to be a glorious day, and
remembering that if he lingered near the house he would presently be
marched off to church, he decided to take a holiday, though it would
certainly mean getting into trouble afterwards. But it was worth it. The
sunlight lay on the grass all around him; every living thing seemed gay
and happy, and innumerable birds were singing ecstatic praises to the
summer God. It reminded him of those old summers, set to music long ago
by Chaucer, when the God of Love wandered through the daisied meadows,
“his gilte heer corouned with a sonne.”
Whan that I here the smale foules singe,
And that the floures ginnen for to springe,
Farwel my book and my devocioun!
No; clearly, church was out of the question.
His heart was strangely uplifted as he ran across the lawn and down a
wooded slope till he was hidden from the house and in safety. Beside a
stream he sat down in the cool fresh green grass, hugging his chin
against his knees and watching the water ripple past, dancing and
sparkling in the sunshine. Above his head the branches of a willow
dropped to the stream; the tips of the long slender leaves just touched
the water as it passed. Denis rolled over and over in the long cool
grass like a dog, the earth-smell in his nostrils, the earth-murmur in
his ears. From time to time a faint rustle passed through the tree-tops
like the whisper of a spirit, from time to time a pale-winged butterfly
flitted across the stream and on into the dimmer heart of the wood.
“To-day perhaps my messenger will come to me,” the boy whispered, for he
was already far in the country of romance. And a bird passing overhead
seemed to carry his words into the wood, and from a distance there came
the answer of a voice, faint through the light rustle of the leaves:
“Follow; follow!” it murmured. “Follow the wind and the water!”
Denis sat up and leaned his back against the grey, gnarled trunk of the
willow. He drew a small flute from his pocket and began to blow into it
softly and dreamily; and from time to time he smiled, and the notes he
played died into silence as he built his castles in the air and watched
them climb up toward the sky and melt away like smoke. He sat there for
a long time, watching and waiting. Through the glimmering shadow of
leaves he seemed to see the dim paleness of a god, he seemed to hear the
low sound of words spoken in the sleepy noon-tide hum; and in the faint
noise of splashing water his name was called. Then a deep, slumbrous
quiet dropped into his soul.
He gazed up through the golden quivering heat at the sky, so soft, so
pure, never so far-off as to-day; and he wondered just where in all
that immensity--untroubled by mortal joys and mortal sorrows--lay the
country of the gods. His brown thin hands rested on either side of him,
motionless upon the green grass; and the sunlight grew heavier and
heavier till at last it beat down through the sheltering boughs above
him, like a rain of liquid gold. Again a dim white form gleamed through
the trees, and this time a voice sounded just above his head, clear and
low and unmistakable: “Follow; follow!” it said. “Follow the wind and
the water!”
He shut his eyes tightly, and crushed the grass in his hands till his
fingers were stained with its cool greenness. A sudden, rapid wind blew
past his cheek and for a moment his spirit seemed to be drawn out from
his body. When he opened his eyes he saw quite distinctly a figure
before him, naked and beautiful, standing there on the other side of the
stream in the hot, clear sunlight. Then as he gazed and gazed, it
receded slowly, it faded back into a green dimness that the next moment
was but the deep shadow of the wood beyond. Had his fancy deceived him?
Had he been asleep? Had it been a dream? He sprang to his feet and
crossed the brook by a couple of stepping-stones. The next moment he was
where the vanished figure had been, and a few steps further brought him
to the shadow into which he had watched it disappear. He was in the
thickest part of the wood now. The trees were very close together, and
their branches made a kind of roof above him, while the ground was
covered with a dense brown mould of decayed leaves which had lain there
undisturbed for a long long time. The light was dimmed, like the light
in a church. He knew where he was, and yet it all seemed strange and
different.
His progress was momentarily arrested by a thick clump of bushes and
undergrowth through which he forced his way, utterly reckless of his
clothes. He tore his trousers, and scratched his hands and wrists, and
then, coming out on the other side, he found himself in the little open
glade where the great hawthorn grew beside the pool. The pool lay there
now, surrounded by green level banks--it lay there in the sunlight like
a huge jewel, and the spring that fed it bubbled over on to the grassy
brink. On the green grass, and on the water the sunlight rested like a
golden fire. The water was a rain of precious stones when he splashed it
up and up against the blue. After the dusk and gloom of the wood, the
glade seemed to him wonderful and unearthly, and for a long time he lay
looking into the water, watching the sky in it, the passing clouds, the
flight of a bird, his own face, very white and strange, half unknown.
He drank a mouthful or two of the water and it was cool and pleasant in
his throat. He lay there a little longer, and then he turned over on his
back. He felt restless and vaguely expectant of undreamed mysteries. He
felt that he was not alone, that there were invisible creatures all
about him--creatures either more or less than human, watching him from
hidden places. This pool was haunted and he had come into its power
long, long ago. He thought of it as he had seen it in the white cold
moonlight, with a wind in the dark trees. He pictured strange mysterious
creatures fleeing down through the water on his approach. He could see
them softly rising again so soon as his back was turned; rising, and
looking after him--rising like the whiteness of a fountain. He saw the
water itself rising under their spell to curve against the moon, or, in
winter, against the dreary, naked trees, while the few remaining leaves
floated down through the damp air--turning, turning, turning, till they
reached the ground. There had been times when sitting in the
drawing-room at home, or in the crowded school-room he had so disliked,
everything had faded away before him, and through the chatter of voices
he had heard a soft rustle like the sound of leaves, and had found
himself back here--back where he was now, beside the pool, and the old
hawthorn, and the half-buried altar with its faint and faded stain of
blood. He stood up and shouted aloud. A kind of ecstasy seized him and
drew him up into the sun. He was lost in the spirit of the universe: he
seemed to live through endless ages in the opening and closing of his
eyes....
Suddenly he heard the noise of someone approaching--someone who did not
know the way and who was blundering through the bushes and the
undergrowth, yet always getting nearer. A quick thought of flight came
into his mind. Who could it be? No one had ever come here before: no one
even knew of his hiding-place. And then suddenly he remembered his
tutor. It annoyed him that Rusk should break in upon his privacy; it
seemed to him like a betrayal of confidence; and he slipped away between
the bushes as quietly as a shadow, and in the thicket close by lay still
to watch.
Presently Rusk came blundering out into the open, looking flushed, and
very hot and uncomfortable. He turned his head and the boy could see he
was disappointed at finding no one. Then he began to call aloud as he
parted the surrounding bushes with his hands, peering between them:
“Denis--Denis--are you here?”
A half-mocking smile flitted across the face of the hidden boy, but he
made no sign, and presently Rusk went away again. He could hear him
crushing twigs and brambles and broken branches under his feet as he
went. When the noise of his progress had ceased Denis crept out once
more into the sunlight, like a cat, and lay down again by the pool. But
the magic was gone; the spell was broken; he was back in an everyday
world and very soon his hunger awakened him to the fact that it must be
getting late.
The shadows were lengthening as he drew near the house. The others were
sitting out on the lawn. He was dirty, torn, dishevelled, but he
sauntered across the grass with his hands in his pockets and with a
delightful air of unconcern. He smiled with a little friendly nod, as
who should say, “Oh, you’re here, are you? You all look very
comfortable.”
But there was a general outcry at his appearance.
“Where have you been, sir?” Mr. Bracknel asked sternly. “Are you aware
what day it is, and of the condition you are in? Do you think I buy you
clothes to have you go out and roll in the mud in them like a savage? If
your mother is content to pass over such practices, I will teach you
that I am not. Where have you been, sir? Don’t stand there grinning like
a--a----”
Denis still smiled faintly; he still kept his hands in his pockets, and
his head was slightly drooped. “I was out for a little!” he murmured
with an exquisite sweetness. “Nice day it’s been, hasn’t it?”
“Come with me, sir,” Mr. Bracknel said, getting up solemnly. “We will
talk about this inside.”
His wife laid her hand timidly on his arm. “James dear, let him get
something to eat first: he must be starving!”
“I _am_ rather hungry,” Denis confessed. “Won’t it do a little later,
papa--to talk, I mean.”
Mr. Bracknel’s face, which had been hot and shining before, now
rivalled the sunset already flaming behind the trees. “Come with me,
sir,” he said again, impressively.
Denis gave a little shrug and father and son went together toward the
house.
The rest of the party sat on for some moments watching them till at last
May murmured softly, “It is fortunate that papa’s bark is worse than his
bite.”
She caught Rusk’s eye and the latter suddenly broke into a laugh. Mrs.
Bracknel alone seemed anxious.
“He’s got the cheek of the mischief, you know,” Rusk ejaculated
half-admiringly. “Did you ever see anything like it in your life? I
wonder where he’s been? And why on earth didn’t he slip in by the back?
He’s really amazing, you know--upon my word! He never turned a hair!”
“It wasn’t cheek,” May answered. “You don’t understand him. It was just
a kind of beautiful unconsciousness. He never thinks of how he looks
till somebody reminds him. Then he becomes quite sensitive till he
forgets again.... And he was really very nervous though he talked in
that way. Papa gets so violent. Why can’t he leave him alone: what
matters about his clothes.”
“There was a piece out of his trousers about the size of my hand,” Rusk
declared.
“Papa will never understand him either; and he gets so angry with him.
It is stupid. There is nothing to be angry about.” The advent of Denis
had had the effect of breaking up the party on the lawn, and May and
Rusk were now strolling together across the grass away from the others.
“Oh, but I think I do understand him a little,” Rusk demurred. “After
all, you must admit that he looked uncommonly cool. He’s a wonderful
kid.”
“Mr. Rusk, I’m afraid I won’t be able to go out sketching to-morrow,”
the girl suddenly said.
“Oh, well, the day after will do--or any day that suits you. I only
suggested to-morrow because I thought it was going to be fine and I
didn’t see any particular point in waiting.”
May was silent for a moment: then she pursued, “I don’t know that I
shall really take it up again at all.”
“At all?” There was something in her tone that made him look at her.
The girl smiled. “I haven’t done anything for so long that I shouldn’t
know how to begin.”
“Oh, if that is all, you’ll soon get into it. You only want a little
practice.”
“I don’t think I can come all the same.”
A vague suspicion entered Rusk’s mind. “Why?” he asked. “I thought you
were quite on for it this morning!”
“So I was--but----”
Rusk was disappointed. “You seem to have changed your mind very
quickly,” he brought out in a rather injured tone. “Of course if it will
only bore you----”
May coloured. “I haven’t changed my mind,” she answered. “I mean, I
don’t want you to think me changeable. I hate changeable people.”
“I don’t know what you call it then,” Rusk grumbled.
She smiled again. “I am still interested in _your_ sketches. I shall see
that you do a dozen a week.”
They had drawn close to the others once more and he could say nothing
further.
“We thought you were going for a walk,” Amy cried with a peculiar laugh.
“Your backs looked so confidential!--as if you had heaps and heaps to
tell each other.”
No one made any reply to this remark.