Rusk was surprised, on his return to the house, to receive no intimation
from either Mr. or Mrs. Bracknel that they wished to speak to him. He
had taken it quite for granted that they would demand an immediate
explanation of his conduct, and he wondered what had actually occurred
between them all. Lunch, or rather dinner--for on Sundays the Bracknels
dined in the middle of the day--proved, in this undecided state of
affairs, a distinctly embarrassing repast. Amy was not present, which
was always something to be thankful for; but even without her, a kind of
forced naturalness was depressingly in evidence as the keynote of the
gathering.
Nobody lingered longer than was necessary, and as soon as he could Rusk,
too, escaped. He made his way to the library. Now was the time, he felt
sure, when he would be summoned to give an account of himself; but an
hour later, when he left the house with his pupil, Mr. Bracknel had not
yet given any sign of desiring an interview.
Their walk for the first mile or so was a singularly silent one. The boy
saw that his companion’s mind was occupied, and forebore to interrupt
him. Rusk, on his part, was thinking how he could best put to his pupil
what he had to say. He found it difficult, for there was a good deal
more in it than the mere announcement of his approaching departure,
though this in itself was not easy. To begin with, he did not wish to
leave Denis with a false impression, yet he did not see how, if he were
to avoid, as he assuredly must, any reference to Amy, it would be
possible to give him a true one. And, if he could not tell him the real
reason why he was going, on the other hand he did not want him to think
that it was simply to better himself, or because he had grown tired of
his present occupation. Their relation had been altogether too close to
admit of any light partings now, with the probability of their rarely or
never meeting again. After all, their homes were in different countries,
and Rusk could not tell to what far abode Fate, in the shape of stern
pecuniary necessity, might not lead him. Despite the disparity in their
ages, his friendship with Denis was the most intimate he had ever
formed, and it meant a great deal to him to have it broken off so
sharply, and with so little prospect of their taking up again, later on,
the snapped thread. His pupil had come to occupy a certain place in his
life--a place which it would be difficult for anyone else to fill. What
it would mean to the boy himself he, of course could only guess, but he
decided that, in any event, it would be better to tell him before they
returned to the house, and presently an opening seemed to be afforded
him when Denis suddenly asked, “Aren’t you very quiet? I hope there is
nothing the matter?”
Had he heard no rumour, Rusk wondered? Had he not heard the others
talking?
They had come down to the river and were following the brown, deserted
tow-path. The afternoon was grey and dull and cloudy. On one side lay a
marsh of coarse grass and reeds, with here and there a twisted, stunted
ash-tree, delicate and fantastic, like a decoration in a Japanese print.
On the other side the ground rose abruptly in a thickly-wooded slope.
The damp sodden grass was bleached to a greenish yellow, and drifted
over with fallen leaves, brown, yellow, and dull red, rotting slowly
into the soil. There were leaves floating on the dark, oily water, and a
shifting, waning light played over the whole landscape, filtering
between livid clouds that hung, sullen and motionless, ready to drop
down in rain.
Rusk had become conscious of these things while his young companion’s
question still remained unanswered. They seemed to draw them closer to
each other in a loneliness that might have been that of an unpeopled
world, and he felt an indescribable depression, which grew deeper and
deeper as they wandered on through the fading, soundless afternoon.
“There is something I must tell you,” he at length said, “something that
cannot be very pleasant to either of us.”
“You are going away,” the boy answered softly, and at once. He did not
look at Rusk, but kept his eyes fixed on the sandy path before him. A
quick flush passed across his face, fading as rapidly as it had come.
There was something in his voice, a kind of uncompromising fatalism,
which it was against all Rusk’s instincts to accept. “Oh come,” he said,
with a feeble attempt to be cheerful, “we’ll meet again before very
long--and you’ll come over to stay with me; we’ll have to arrange all
that before I leave.”
He had a vision, as he spoke, of their first meeting,--already it seemed
long ago,--of Denis being brought to speak to him--of the early summer
evening, the beautiful trees in the declining sunlight, the interrupted
game of tennis, the boy before him in his flannels, a little flushed,
his hair tossed, his eyes bright and delightfully friendly. And then,
even as he watched it, a veil dropped down, leaving them once more here
with the dim winter twilight, the sadness of naked trees and faded
fields, a dark sluggish river.
“You’ll come to stay with me,” he said again, but Denis met this
suggestion with a head-shake of immovable conviction.
“Papa wouldn’t allow me to,” he answered. “He’ll get someone else to
teach me, and that will be all.”
“I hope he’ll be nice,” said Rusk, weakly.
“I hope so.”
A silence followed these words, and Rusk unconsciously slackened his
pace, though they had been walking slowly before. The boy’s acquiescence
surprised him. He had expected to be questioned. Yet he was vaguely
aware that Denis understood, that he was, in a way, letting him off, and
that it would be better for him, too, to take it like this. “You must
write and tell me all about him. Perhaps he will be somebody I know.”
“Perhaps.” Denis lifted his head and their eyes met for a moment. The
boy’s face seemed to be blown across suddenly by a strange white light.
He smiled a little, and Rusk lowered his gaze.
The sound of falling water following them in the lonely place seemed to
exercise an almost narcotic influence upon his mind. He was haunted by
thoughts and images from the past, memories of hours he was loth to
leave behind him, and which he knew the sharp change he was about to
bring into his life would cut off from him for ever.
“When are you going?” Denis asked abruptly.
“Very soon. To-morrow night.”
The boy said nothing more.
It was rapidly getting dusk, yet still they wandered on, as if they felt
that this walk might well be their last together. Presently they paused
by a swinging wooden gate, set across the path to keep cattle from
straying. The sad, lonely cry of a bird seemed to draw down the darkness
about them, and in the gathering obscurity the shadowy trees and the
winding river grew faint and ghostly. They drew closer to each other.
They were absolutely alone. All suggestion of human life had been
blotted out from the scene. Everywhere was struck the strictly
impersonal note of nature--of earth, and water, and sky. A low sound
from the weir, a faint murmur in the trees, and the increasing darkness
of approaching night, all met and mingled.
At last, when they turned to retrace their steps, the path itself became
uncertain, and Rusk allowed the boy to guide him, while more than once
he stumbled over some unevenness in the way. The landscape in every
direction was now black and impenetrable. Twice the silence was broken
by a noise of falling water, and the sound followed them for a long
distance. All the way home they spoke but little, and among their few
words was no further allusion to their approaching separation. A faint
moon had floated out above the trees, diaphanous and pale, like a
slender wisp of luminous cloud.
When they reached the house Rusk was informed that Mr. Bracknel desired
to speak to him, and awaited him now, for that purpose, in the
drawing-room.