Chapter XXIII

It was dark as pitch when they reached the house. The rain Rusk had prophesied had already begun to fall, and the wind was rising steadily.

The son of a neighbour, a boy who was supposed to have looked after Denis--or who at any rate had been requested to do so--during the latter’s brief period at school, was present at dinner. He had ridden over, the bearer of a message, and had been persuaded to stay.

Mrs. Bracknel introduced him to Rusk as a friend of her son’s, and Rusk could guess just how far the friendship went. He had a chat with this youth later on in the evening, when Denis was out of the room, and while the girls and their mother were discussing some bazaar they had promised to help at. They talked a little of football, and then by a question or two Rusk brought their conversation round to his pupil. One of the first things he learned was that Skinny was “a freak,” and could never be much improved. Not a bad soul when you got to know him, but “an awful wee fool.” “He did the maddest kind of things--you’d hardly believe! And he was always getting into rows--silly kinds of rows that no one else ever got into. There was no harm in anything he did, you know, but it was all just senseless, childish stuff: he seemed to think he was living in a fairy-tale. And the masters couldn’t stand him. They had an idea half the time that he was ‘rotting’ them, but they could never quite tell. You see, he’s a facetious little beast in his own way. I’ve known him give the most frightful cheek even to quite big chaps, without realizing what he was doing. He has cheeked me before now; and of course that sort of thing doesn’t do.”

“But how did he get on with the other boys? Was he liked at all?” Rusk inquired.

“Oh, he was liked all right in a sort of a way. After all there’s nothing much to _dislike_ about him, is there, even though he’s pretty rotten at everything? He can hardly help that, though, as he didn’t make himself. The only thing was that most of the boys couldn’t quite get the hang of him. Of course, if he had stayed on a bit longer he _might_ have learned some sense; but I don’t think myself it would have made much difference. As it was, he hadn’t any chance. He seemed to me to be getting along fairly well in his own way, and then, after he got ill, it came out that everything had been wrong from the first--one or two beasts had been giving him no end of a bad time. I needn’t tell you I didn’t know anything about it before. Neither did anybody else, for that matter. He never told a soul. Queer enough, for a little chap like that! And then, I didn’t really see very much of him. When a fellow is younger than you are, and is no use at anything, you can’t see much of him, can you? And Skinny was always loafing about in an aimless sort of way. A boy like him shouldn’t be sent to school at all. He’s bound to have a rotten time, and the chances are he’ll get into bad ways and go to the mischief.”

“I don’t think there was much danger of that, at all events,” said Rusk.

“No, I don’t suppose there was. He’s about as straight as they’re made. I like him, you know; I really do; there’s something nice about him; only he’s too queer for anything. I must tell you a thing he did one day. It was on the Sunday before he took ill, I believe, and before all the row----”

But Rusk was never to hear the remainder of the tale, for at that moment Denis himself entered the room. He held a long, narrow, green volume in his hand, and as Rusk and the young guest came over to join the little group by the fire he opened it and began to read aloud slowly and gravely, with a little upward wrinkle of his delicate eyebrows:

“‘What is your favourite musical instrument?’

‘The harp.’

‘Who is your favourite hero in fiction?’

‘Donovon.’

‘What do you consider to be the most beautiful thing in nature?’

‘Ruins by moonlight.’”

But May by this time had begun to recognize a smack of familiarity in these remarks, and she now made a sudden grab at the book. Her brother was too quick for her and dodged behind his mother’s chair.

“Where did you get it?” she demanded indignantly.

“I got it in the bookcase. ‘What is your opinion of the young man of the period?’ This is for you, Mr. Rusk, ‘My opinion is that----’”

“Stop. Mamma make him stop. I wrote it ages and ages ago, and I don’t want him to read it.”

She made another attempt to get the book, but Denis again eluded her. “I wasn’t going to tell whose it was,” he said.

“Don’t read it, dear, if she doesn’t want you to,” Mrs. Bracknel interposed.

“But it is only her modesty,” Denis insisted.

“You wouldn’t like anybody to read your things,” cried May, catching him by the jacket, and beginning a noisy struggle.

“I would, if they were nearly as good as this. And at any rate I can’t leave Mr. Rusk in suspense about the young man of the period. ‘My opinion----’”

“No--no. Mamma, make him give me the book. It is mine. Mr. Rusk, make him give it to me.”

Rusk caught his pupil’s hands and the book fell to the floor, where May pounced upon it. As soon as it was safely in her own possession she began to laugh. “Aunt Lizzie gave it to me one Christmas; I’d forgotten all about it. It’s a Confession Album. I must get you to write in it, Mr. Rusk, as soon as I’ve taken mine out.”

“Jimmy Temple has done a humorous one,” said Denis. “Let me read _it_.”

“No.”

“Do, it’s frightfully clever. ‘What coloured eyes and hair do you most admire?’ ‘Strawberry ice and jugged hare.’ That’s only a sample, there are other things just as good. For May’s benefit he has put the puns in brackets and underlined them. I wonder how long it took him to sweat it out. About a month?”

“It’s not half-bad,” said May. “And it was quite decent of Jimmy to write at all.”

“Half-bad! It’s ripping. It’s the only really serious one in the book. Mr. Rusk, ‘What do you consider to be the most beautiful thing in nature?’ Come now, you oughtn’t to have to go very far afield for that! May, stand up----” But his sister’s hand was clapped over his mouth, and the rest of his speech was lost in a splutter.

Mrs. Bracknel watched them with a gentle smile.

“They’re burning nuts and doing all kinds of things in the kitchen,” said Denis, when he could free himself. “Don’t you think we had better go down? Cook was going through some mysterious rite with a red-herring when I was there. I couldn’t make out what it was, but she got mad with Johnson, because he spoiled it. It’s the greatest lark. Let us go. I’m going. I’m going to burn myself with cook. She’s very fond of me: a _grande passion_, mamma.”

* * * * *

In the ebb and flow of his present existence Rusk had now for some time been conscious of what appeared to be a favourable current, but never had it so strongly revealed itself as on this particular evening. Amy seemed in quite a normal mood again, and her relation with her sister was more natural and friendly than it had been since the day of his arrival. In fact when he retired that night to his bedroom it was with a reassuring sense that things had after all worked out all right--an idea which gave a pleasant encouragement to his naturally easy optimism, to his innate conviction that in the long run, if you only let them, they invariably do. To-night, up in his own room, while the wind was rocking the trees outside and coming in gusty blasts against his window with a hard sweep and rattle of driving rain, he had been thinking of these things, and at last had taken up a novel, an old-fashioned novel by Le Fanu, which promised to be full of mystery and suspense. It was a little past midnight, and he was just beginning to abandon himself to the spell of his book, when suddenly, above the rush and moaning of the wind outside, coming almost like an echo to the passage he was reading, he heard a cry. At this hour, when he believed everyone but himself to be in bed, the thing was somehow startling and unpleasant. Rusk listened intently for a few seconds but he could hear nothing further. Then he got up and opened his door, going some little way along the passage, still listening.

Evidently he had not been mistaken, for the next moment Denis, too, in his sleeping-suit and looking rather white and scared, came out. They stood together, uncertain as to the direction the sound had proceeded from, but almost immediately the door of May’s room, at the very end of the passage, opened, and Amy appeared. She remained for perhaps a quarter of a minute motionless and in silence on the threshold. She held a lamp above her head and its light shone on her pale face and on her red hair. She was extraordinarily white it seemed to Rusk--he had never seen her so white before. He took a step forward, but there was something in her eyes that brought him up again on the instant.

“What do you want?” she asked sharply, in a clear, cold voice, that rang out with a metallic distinctness in the silence of the house. “And what is Denis doing there, prowling about at this hour?”

Rusk felt somewhat foolish but he began to explain. “I thought I heard someone calling,” he said awkwardly, “so I came to see.”

“Were you frightened? You seem to be very easily alarmed! I suppose you heard May calling to me. I am sorry we frightened you.”

She spoke with a kind of deliberate contempt, and Rusk coloured as he drew back with a murmured apology. The next moment, closing the door sharply in their faces, she had disappeared once more into May’s room, leaving them to return to their own quarters or to continue standing in the passage, whichever they pleased.

“I told you they would be trying things,” Denis murmured, with a queer little smile. Rusk, however, felt rather sore and angry. They might cry out as much as they pleased in future, but it would be a long time before he would trouble himself again about any of them. Shortly after he had returned to his room, however, his indignation began to cool. What he had heard still sounded in his ears, and he was now persuaded that it had been a cry of fear. As he thought of it, in spite of Amy’s lofty attitude he did not feel altogether satisfied. He had been very easily put off. But, on the other hand, what _could_ have happened? And even granting that something had, why should she be so anxious to conceal it? He resolved not to trouble himself with the matter any further, and placing his reading-lamp on a table near his pillow he undressed and got into bed, taking up his novel again at the point where he had left it.

He read several chapters before he began to feel drowsy. He had heard the clock strike one some time ago, and he had closed his book and was about to put out his lamp when a slight sound reached him, coming from the direction of Denis’s room. The next moment there was a tap at his door.

“Come in,” Rusk called out. Then:

“What is the matter?” he asked, as in response to his bidding the boy entered the room.

Denis approached the side of the bed. His face had a curious expression and his eyes seemed unnaturally bright. “Will you let me sleep with you?” he asked hurriedly. “I will tell you----”

Rusk turned out the lamp and made room for the boy beside him. Five--ten minutes passed, and still they lay in silence, for he did not want to question Denis, in case he should prefer not to answer. But the boy spoke at length of his own accord:

“It was a thing I heard,” he began suddenly in a half-whisper. “I heard it last night, too, and it kept me awake till morning. To-night, about half-an-hour ago, I woke up, and it had begun again. I had just had the most horrible dream and I could not stand it somehow. I lay for a bit, and then I thought I would come in to you. Do you mind?”

“Of course I don’t mind,” said Rusk kindly. “I am very glad if it makes you more comfortable.... What was it?” he went on gently, for he could tell from the boy’s voice that he was still extraordinarily nervous. “Perhaps you were only dreaming. It wasn’t what we heard before, was it?”

“No, it wasn’t that. It was ... I heard the death-watch.”

Rusk lay still a moment. “I don’t understand,” he then said.

“I heard it ticking--somewhere at the head of the bed.... The last time I heard it was about four years ago--two or three weeks before my grandfather’s death.”

“Oh,--I know what you mean now.... But it is only a little insect that gets into the woodwork of a bed.” He spoke on purpose very quietly.

“There isn’t any woodwork,” said Denis.

“Well, into the wall, then. We’ll have a hunt for him in the morning.”

Denis said nothing further, but Rusk knew that he was unconvinced. He had no other explanation to offer, however, and indeed he felt that just at present there was little use in trying to reason with the boy. His nerves were over-strung--the combined effects of the cry they had heard, of his bad dream, and of this last sound, had been too much for him. He put out his arm, and Denis lay with his head against his shoulder. It suddenly occurred to him, and he wondered that he had never thought of it before, that possibly it was not a very uncommon thing for his pupil to be nervous at night. He remembered certain things that Miss Anna Birch had told him about his childhood, and he wondered if he had altogether outgrown his old weakness.

“Do you often have bad dreams?” he asked. And then as he spoke a sudden sense of the strangeness of life came over him--of its peculiar isolation, the insurmountable loneliness of each separate soul as it floats swiftly on into darkness....

“Sometimes,” the boy replied. “Not nearly so often as I used to: I used to hate going to bed. I used to dread it for an hour before the time--and sometimes it was horrible--I could see things even after I woke up. I don’t know how I came through it. There was one thing that I used to see standing beside me when I woke up. It came back and back again, the same thing; very tall, and with a long, white, horrible, grinning, cruel face. And its teeth, I remember its teeth when it smiled. I used to be frightened of meeting it after dark in some empty room, on the stairs, even outside in the black avenue behind the house, for it seemed to hover about here, never to go very far away.... There are times even now when I have feelings like that, but--but not often.”

“Would you like to have your bed brought in here? The room is quite large enough for both of us. Tell me really. It wouldn’t disturb _me_ in the very least, you know. That is absolutely true. It won’t make the smallest difference so far as I am concerned, and, if you would like it, you might just as well be here as not.”

Denis waited, but not for very long. Then he said: “I would like to come.”

“I wonder I didn’t think of it sooner,” Rusk murmured. “It was stupid of me, but I never understand anything unless it is half pushed down my throat.”

“You do understand,” said Denis quickly. “There is nobody else understands so well. You didn’t think I was such a baby. How could you?”

“My dear boy, it is all just a matter of temperament, of imagination; you aren’t in the least a baby.”

Denis made no reply, and Rusk thought he must have fallen asleep, when he suddenly said, “Don’t mention it before papa, will you? He wouldn’t allow it.” He was silent again for some moments till he added, “I’m afraid it won’t do. The others would find it out, and they’d think me cowardly and babyish, I know they’d be horrid. It’s just the kind of thing they’d think it funny to be always alluding to. They’re not like you.”

“Will you _leave_ it to me?” asked Rusk.

“But what will you do about it?”

“You don’t call that leaving it, do you? I’ll speak to your mother. At any rate, if nothing else, you can always come in as you have done to-night, without anybody knowing.”

A little later he could tell from his low, regular breathing that Denis had dropped asleep. Rusk himself lay awake for some time longer. He was again busy with the idea of taking the boy away, and just now, curiously enough, the difficulties to be surmounted did not seem to be nearly so formidable as they had appeared before. He determined at any rate to do his best in the matter, and not to give in without a hard struggle.