“Into the rose and grey
Ecstasy of the moon.”--_Arthur Symons._
The moon-worshipper sat on his low white bed, hugging his knees. The
posture was a favourite one with him when he was deep in thought or
dreaming. He had only partially undressed, for though he had been lying
down on the bed he was going out again presently; he was just waiting
till he thought it would be quite safe to do so, and it seemed to him
that he had been waiting a long time. By looking out of the window, he
could see that Rusk’s light was still burning. He had heard Alfred
coming upstairs half an hour ago:--later, his father’s step, as he too
came up, the sound of the shutting of a door. It was past one o’clock;
Rusk would be going to bed soon; and even as he looked the light went
out. At last the coast was clear, but the boy lingered on for yet
another ten minutes. Then he got out on to the window-sill and with a
surprising agility, the result of much practice, let himself down by a
rope. He stood upon the grass below the window and looked up. The house,
so far as he could see, showed a blank and sleeping face to the night. A
white moonlight flooded the lawn. He ran on looking neither to right nor
left. On the border of the shrubbery was a weeping ash whose branches
swept the ground. He paused here and gazed down the low grass-grown hill
that separated him from the dim strange secrets of the wood and the
stream. The grass was faded and wan in the moonlight, and there were
dark mysterious shadows that were like crouching beasts. The boy was
lightly clad, and his feet and legs were bare, but the ground seemed
warm and soft beneath him in spite of the heavy dew. The night wind
stirred his hair, and a wonderful moon floated high and clear in the
sky. As he stood motionless a strange fear suddenly took possession of
him--an unreasoning dread of something that was there and yet not there.
He watched the shadows and they seemed to become alive. One of them was
like a huge sprawling sphynx, lying waiting for its prey, with curved,
cruel claws dug into the ground, and half-raised head, expectant,
listening. A wild excitement made the blood drum in the boy’s ears. His
fear passed and he ran lightly down the slope to the stream. He was
quite close now to the wood, yet still he lingered, dabbling his feet in
the water, conscious that he was approaching the innermost shrine, the
secret temple. He crossed the shallow brook, and in doing so seemed to
pass from one world to another. He stood for a moment upon the bank,
pale and still, and the water went murmuring away into the darkness.
* * * * *
He had been very quiet, he thought, but, for all that, not quiet enough.
Rusk at any rate had heard him, though the sound was but slight and he
hardly knew why he should connect it with Denis, since he had not even
been thinking of him. Nevertheless, he did so connect it, and lay
absolutely still, listening for a minute or two longer, but the sound
was not repeated. Still uncertain, he got out of bed and went to the
window. He was just in time--just in time to see what he believed to be
his pupil gaining the shadow of the trees. A few seconds more and Rusk
would have missed him. He hesitated, but not really for long. Obviously
it was better that he should learn once and for all what actually took
place on these nocturnal expeditions--it would set his mind more at
rest, no matter how the adventure should turn out; and then there was
always the chance of his discovering that the whole thing was merely a
strange kind of boyish prank, an elaborate and wonderful game. If he
_was_ to follow, however, there was no time to lose. He hastily put on a
few articles of clothing, and going straight to Denis’s room discovered
the rope just as the boy had left it. He had more or less expected
something of the kind, and he decided that it would be better to make
use of it than to risk waking anyone by going downstairs and letting
himself out in the ordinary way. In another minute he was on the grass
and moving rapidly in the direction where he had seen his pupil
disappear. His idea was to get to the moon-temple before Denis, for he
thought it quite possible that the boy would linger by the way. When he
reached the shrubbery he proceeded more cautiously, but almost at once
he caught sight of the fugitive, a slight dark figure, standing
motionless on the top of the hill. Here was his opportunity, and Rusk
made a rapid détour, approaching the boy’s hiding-place from a point
higher up. Fortune favoured him again, and in a much shorter time than
he could have expected he reached his destination, coming upon it simply
by chance, and actually before he had begun his search.
His next proceeding was to hide himself carefully in the brushwood, and
after that he had only to wait. Until now it had all been perfectly
plain sailing, but just here he became conscious of a check, an
unforeseen embarrassment, which presented itself in the shape of
conscientious misgivings--moral scruples as to the honourableness of
what he was about to do. It occurred to him that it was rather
shabby--was in fact as clear a case of spying as one could well imagine,
and such an idea was unpleasant to him. Of course there were plenty of
reasons why he should act in this secret way--wasn’t one of them, in
fact, just that no other was possible? And then, the essential gravity
of the case, the impossibility of really learning indirectly what
actually took place on these occasions, the heavy responsibility that
Doctor Birch, that everyone, for that matter, had thrown upon him--all
these things justified him immensely, to say nothing of the full
confession he intended to make to Denis afterwards. There was no doubt
in the world that here, if anywhere, was a case where the end would
vindicate the means, though so jesuitical a policy might not
particularly appeal to him. As the minutes passed indeed, it appealed
to him less and less, till in the end he was on the point of getting out
of his hiding-place, and going home, when a rustle close at hand sent
him crouching back into the brushwood, gazing in amazement at Denis, who
had emerged into the moonlight, moving through the dim, delicate beauty
of the darkened wood, like a figure in a dream.
For the boy was naked, and this simple fact, so unexpected and
astonishing, had in some inexplicable way the property of banishing from
Rusk’s mind all hope that the whole thing might be merely an elaborate
child’s-play. He lay still and watched, the strangeness of the
performance holding him more and more, as by the force of some
mysterious influence which drew his mind from its accustomed sphere.
Denis advanced into the middle of the grove, and there was something in
his movements, a kind of rhythmic precision and alacrity that was yet
not haste, which gave Rusk a momentary impression that he might perhaps
be walking in his sleep. The idea brought him a sudden hope, but of this
hope he was doomed to swift disappointment when he watched the boy
uncover the altar and place a large moon-shaped cake upon it. This cake,
Rusk saw, was decked with white tapers--tapers which Denis was now
lighting. When all were ablaze, he bowed low before them, as to some
unseen and ghostly presence, and then proceeded to go through as amazing
a ceremony as Rusk was ever likely to behold. He must surely have
invented it, and yet it suggested to Rusk an actual survival from a
half-forgotten pagan ritual. The boy poured out a libation. He burned
incense as he moved about, waving it up to the mysterious, pale divinity
that hung in the deep sky above him. The thin, aromatic smoke rose up in
slender spirals, while the young priest, like a white, sylvan creature
of a primeval world, performed his simple rites. Half an hour ago Rusk
had asked himself how far it was all real, how far a mere exploit of
boyish romance; but somehow, as he watched it now, alone, at this hour
and in this place, with the dimness of night and the stillness of
motionless trees all around stretching away into what might have been
the very womb of the past, he found it difficult to see it in the light
of anything childish or trivial. On the contrary, there was something in
it that imposed itself occultly, weirdly, upon his imagination, as if
indeed some baleful lunar influence were gaining upon his senses. It was
real--too real. What, then, was the relation of this naked pagan boy,
with body bared to the whiteness of the moon, to the young Presbyterian,
who sat Sunday by Sunday in his father’s pew? The thing was perplexing,
inexplicable, and innumerable disquieting suggestions passed through
Rusk’s mind, making him more and more uneasy. Suddenly, as Denis drew
closer to him, he had a clear view of his face, and his heart sank. That
strange, rapt, almost ecstatic expression was not the expression of a
boy playing a game. If he were to reveal himself now, would Denis
recognize him? A sudden chill came over him as he realized the import of
his question. But he could not watch the thing any longer; he had seen
enough; he must break the charm; he had already suffered it to go on for
too long; and he rose to his feet, coming out into the open, while at
sight of him the boy gave a low strange cry. Denis made no attempt to
hide himself, but stood perfectly still, trembling a little.
“It’s only me,” said Rusk, quietly. “Won’t you come back to the house?”
Denis looked at him doubtfully, distrustfully. Then a sudden
consciousness of the situation seemed to come upon him, and with it a
burst of anger against the intruder. It was the first and last time that
Rusk was ever to see him in a passion. He himself felt horribly in the
wrong, though his reasons for doing what he had done were surely good
enough. At all events the spell was broken, very effectually broken, and
Rusk knew he need have no further fear to leave Denis to himself. He
knew that the boy would follow him back to the house: he thought it
better not to wait, better to leave him alone, for the present at all
events. Such explanations as he had to offer would do well enough in the
morning, and he was conscious that they would sound particularly feeble.
He was afraid, indeed, that the episode might alter their whole relation
to each other. He was afraid it could hardly fail to do so, hardly fail
to make Denis suspicious of him, even if it did not make him actually
dislike him. Certainly the boy would have every reason to be
distrustful. No matter with what excellent intentions, Rusk had broken
his word to him, he had taken advantage of his confidence. He was very
sorry, but he felt he could do nothing save give his excuses for what
they were worth. Of course he knew Denis would not think he had been
actuated by any mere prying curiosity, still less by any unworthy
suspicion; but he might easily think, in fact he evidently _did_ think,
that he had been officious, secretive and interfering. Rusk, as he
considered the matter, was afraid he had made a serious mistake, which
might cost him all the ground that up to the present he had gained: but
it was too late now to draw back; what was done could not be undone.
And in the morning it was all right. Denis came down late, looking pale
and tired and with heavy black lines under his eyes, but otherwise much
as usual. He smiled somewhat listlessly at his tutor, but did not seem
to bear him any ill-will on account of the last night’s adventure. He
behaved as if he had forgotten the whole affair, though Rusk could
hardly believe that this was the case. Over his work he was languid and
indifferent--so much so that at the end of an hour Rusk suggested that
they should take the rest of the day as a holiday. The boy rose from the
table with a sigh of relief, and curled himself up in an armchair, where
he seemed to drop asleep over a book.
Outside it was raining heavily. The branches of the trees, soaked and
dark, stretched above the sodden grass, and from all around there rose a
continuous drip--drip--drip. To Rusk for some reason the melancholy
sound was soothing and pleasant; and the soft rush of the rain down the
window--the stillness it had brought into the air--all were in harmony
with his mood.
He felt relieved, immensely relieved, that Denis had taken the affair as
he had taken it. He was glad now that he had followed him, had watched
him; it was so much better that he should really know all. He began to
write a letter, and from time to time glanced at his charge with a kind
of doubtful anxiety, for he had an idea that he ought to speak to him,
that he in fact must speak to him sooner or later, of what was uppermost
in his mind, and yet he shrank from doing so. It was not very pleasant
to be perpetually forcing the boy to deliver an account of his doings.
But he had not forgotten Doctor Birch’s lecture. In fact, though he had
tried to forget it a little, it had kept cropping up pretty constantly
in his thoughts. His thoughts hovered about it as moths hover about a
lamp, and with as little beneficial effect; every now and then they
dropped down on singed wings, or wandered away into the darkness and
were lost. He would have liked to consult Doctor Birch about his recent
adventure, but here again, if he did so, would he not be breaking his
word to Denis? He could not make up his mind what his next step should
be. So between the sentences of his letter (Rusk had not a talent for
any branch of literary art, and his present effort was even more
disjointed than usual) he looked at the sleepy boy, and tried to decide
what he really ought to do.
It was possible that Denis was not wholly unaware of the psychological
problem he was giving rise to. This occurred to Rusk as he watched him.
He looked very young and delicate--almost a child--as he half sat, half
lay, in the big chair, with that big old book in his brown, slender
hands. Rusk felt that there were few things he would not do if there
were even a bare chance of helping him. The volume that Denis had taken
up was the second of the complete works of that exquisite and fanciful
divine, Jeremy Taylor, and he had come upon the passage in the “Life of
Jesus,” describing the flight into Egypt.
“‘Then he arose and took the young Child and his mother, by night, and
departed into Egypt.’ And they made their first abode in Hermopolis, in
the country of Thebais; whither, when they first arrived, the child
Jesus, being by design or providence carried into a temple, all the
statues of the idol-gods fell down, like Dagon at the presence of the
ark, and suffered their timely and just dissolution and dishonour,
according to the prophecy of Isaiah: ‘Behold, the Lord shall come into
Egypt, and the idols of Egypt shall be moved at his presence.’”
For some reason this passage had caught the boy’s fancy, and awakened
his imagination, which plumed its wings and spread them for a very
distant Egypt, where he became busy with a scene that curiously blended
the quaint picture of the learned bishop with a wilder wonder borrowed
from the “Arabian Nights.” He read no more except in his own fantasy,
and the heavy, calf-bound book slipped unheeded to the floor. To Rusk,
still watching him, his face just now seemed to have an extraordinarily
spiritual quality, and it sent a sharp pang of regret through him to
think that that spirit should ever be troubled, as surely it had been
troubled but a few hours since. A sudden tenderness for the boy swept
over him--a tenderness that almost from the beginning had been there,
but which now seemed to crystalize into a definite sense of sorrow at
what might be the waste of an exquisite intelligence, an intelligence so
fine, so rare, that it sometimes seemed to be capable of the very
highest things. Rusk was quite convinced that his pupil was made of a
clay finer than any other he had yet had the privilege of coming into
personal relation with. He was different--it was of his very essence to
be different--but the difference lay not so much in any superficial
peculiarities as in a greater delicacy, a rarer quality of spirit, a
more perfect sensitiveness, a higher, a subtler power of imagination.
And what was there, perhaps, in the most striking degree of all, though
hitherto it had somehow not occurred to him to take note of it, was an
astonishing, a complete absence of anything gross, of anything that
could, even with the passage of years, associate itself for a single
instant with vulgarity or sensuality.