Part 8 (2/2)

”Oh, no. I raced. I met a man who took me out beyond to a race-course.

You run, and there are dolphins out at sea.”

”Indeed. Do you remember the man's name?”

”Achilles. No; he was later. Tom Jones.”

Mr. Bons sighed heavily. ”Well, my lad, you have made a miserable mess of it. Think of a cultured person with your opportunities! A cultured person would have known all these characters and known what to have said to each. He would not have wasted his time with a Mrs. Gamp or a Tom Jones. The creations of Homer, of Shakespeare, and of Him who drives us now, would alone have contented him. He would not have raced. He would have asked intelligent questions.”

”But, Mr. Bons,” said the boy humbly, ”you will be a cultured person. I told them so.”

”True, true, and I beg you not to disgrace me when we arrive. No gossiping. No running. Keep close to my side, and never speak to these Immortals unless they speak to you. Yes, and give me the return tickets.

You will be losing them.”

The boy surrendered the tickets, but felt a little sore. After all, he had found the way to this place. It was hard first to be disbelieved and then to be lectured. Meanwhile, the rain had stopped, and moonlight crept into the omnibus through the cracks in the blinds.

”But how is there to be a rainbow?” cried the boy.

”You distract me,” snapped Mr. Bons. ”I wish to meditate on beauty. I wish to goodness I was with a reverent and sympathetic person.”

The lad bit his lip. He made a hundred good resolutions. He would imitate Mr. Bons all the visit. He would not laugh, or run, or sing, or do any of the vulgar things that must have disgusted his new friends last time. He would be very careful to p.r.o.nounce their names properly, and to remember who knew whom. Achilles did not know Tom Jones--at least, so Mr. Bons said. The d.u.c.h.ess of Malfi was older than Mrs.

Gamp--at least, so Mr. Bons said. He would be self-conscious, reticent, and prim. He would never say he liked any one. Yet when the Wind flew up at a chance touch of his head, all these good resolutions went to the winds, for the omnibus had reached the summit of a moonlit hill, and there was the chasm, and there, across it, stood the old precipices, dreaming, with their feet in the everlasting river. He exclaimed, ”The mountain! Listen to the new tune in the water! Look at the camp fires in the ravines,” and Mr. Bons, after a hasty glance, retorted, ”Water? Camp fires? Ridiculous rubbish. Hold your tongue. There is nothing at all.”

Yet, under his eyes, a rainbow formed, compounded not of sunlight and storm, but of moonlight and the spray of the river. The three horses put their feet upon it. He thought it the finest rainbow he had seen, but did not dare to say so, since Mr. Bons said that nothing was there. He leant out--the window had opened--and sang the tune that rose from the sleeping waters.

”The prelude to Rhinegold?” said Mr. Bons suddenly. ”Who taught you these _leit motifs_?” He, too, looked out of the window. Then he behaved very oddly. He gave a choking cry, and fell back on to the omnibus floor. He writhed and kicked. His face was green.

”Does the bridge make you dizzy?” the boy asked.

”Dizzy!” gasped Mr. Bons. ”I want to go back. Tell the driver.”

But the driver shook his head.

”We are nearly there,” said the boy, ”They are asleep. Shall I call?

They will be so pleased to see you, for I have prepared them.”

Mr. Bons moaned. They moved over the lunar rainbow, which ever and ever broke away behind their wheels. How still the night was! Who would be sentry at the Gate?

”I am coming,” he shouted, again forgetting the hundred resolutions. ”I am returning--I, the boy.”

”The boy is returning,” cried a voice to other voices, who repeated, ”The boy is returning.”

”I am bringing Mr. Bons with me.”

Silence.

”I should have said Mr. Bons is bringing me with him.”

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