Part 10 (2/2)

”But Atheist,” I said, ”_that_ acid little man, did he indeed walk there alone?”

”I have heard,” muttered Superst.i.tion, putting out his hand, ”'tis fear only that maketh afraid. Atheist has no fear.”

”But what of Cruelty,” I said, ”and Liveloose?”

”Why,” answered Superst.i.tion, ”Cruelty works cunningest when he is afraid; and Liveloose never talks about himself. None the less there's not a tree but casts a shadow. I met once an earnest yet very popular young gentleman of the name of Science, who explained almost everything on earth to me so clearly, and patiently, and fatherly, I thought I should evermore sleep in peace. But we met at noon. Believe me, sir, I would have followed Christian and his friend Hopeful very willingly long since; for as for Cruelty and Obstinate and all that clumsy rabble, I heed them not. Indeed my cousin Mistrust _did_ go, and as you see returned with a caution; and a poor young school-fellow of mine, Jack Ignorance, came to an awful end. But it is because I owe partly to Christian and not all to myself this horrible solitude in which I walk that I dare not risk a deeper. It would be, I feel sure.

And so I very willingly beheld Faithful burned; it restored my confidence. And here, sir,” he added, almost with gaiety, ”lives my friend Mrs. Simple, a widow. She enjoys my company and my old fables, and we keep the blinds down against these mountains, and candles burning against the brighter lightnings.”

So saying, Superst.i.tion bade us good-night and pa.s.sed down a little by-lane on our left towards a country cottage, like a dreaming bower of roses beneath the moon.

But Reverie and I continued on as if the moon herself as patiently pursued us. And by-and-by we came to a house called Gloom, whose gardens slope down with plas.h.i.+ng fountains and glimmering banks of flowers into the shadow and stillness of a broad valley, named beneath the hills of Silence, Peace.

XI

_His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, And be among her cloudy trophies hung._

--JOHN KEATS.

Even as we entered the gates of Mr. Reverie's house beneath embowering chestnuts, there advanced across the moonlit s.p.a.ces to meet us a figure on foot like ourselves, leading his horse. He was in armour, yet unarmed. His steel glittered cold and blue; his fingers hung ungauntleted; and on his pale face dwelt a look never happy warrior wore yet. He seemed a man Mars lends to Venus out of war to unhappy idleness. The disillusionment of age was in his face: yet he was youthful, I suppose; scarce older than Mercutio, and once, perhaps, as light of wit.

He took my hand in a grasp cold and listless, and smiled from mirthless eyes.

Yet there was something strangely taking in this solitary knight-at-arms. She for whom he does not fight, I thought, must have somewhat of the immortals to grace her warrior with. And if it were only shadows that beset him and obscured his finer heart, shadows they were of myrtle and rhododendron, with voices shrill and small as the sparrows', and eyes of the next-to-morning stars.

Indeed, these gardens whispered, and the wind at play in the air seemed to bear far-away music, dying and falling.

We entered the house and sat down to supper in a low room open to the night. Reverie recounted our evening's talk. ”I wish,” he said, turning to his friend, ”you would accompany Mr. Brocken and me one night to the 'World's End' to hear these fellows talk. Such arrogance, such a.s.surance, such bigotry and blindness and foxiness!--yet, on my word, a kind of gravity with it all, as if the scarecrows had some real interest in the devil's tares they guard. Come now, let it be a bargain between us, and leave this endless search awhile.”

But the solitary knight shook his head. ”They would jeer me out of knowledge,” he said. ”Why, Reverie, the children cease their play when I pa.s.s, and draw their tops and marbles out of the dust, and gaze till I am hid from sight.”

”It is fancy, only fancy,” replied Reverie; ”children stare at all things new to them in the world. How else could they recognise and learn again--how else forget? But as for this rabble's mockery, there is a she-bear left called Oblivion which is their mistress, and will some day silence every jeer.”

The solitary knight shook his head again, eyeing me solemnly as if in hope to discern in my face the sorcery that held himself in thrall.

The few wax tapers gave but light enough to find the way from goblet to mouth. As for Reverie's wine, I ask no other, for it had the poppy's scarlet, and overcame weariness so subtly I almost forgot these were the hours of sleep we spent in waking; forgot, too, as if of the lotus, all thought of effort and hope.

After all, thought I as I sipped, effort is the flaw that proves men mortal; while as for hope, who would seek a seed that floats on every wind and smothers the world with weeds that bear no fruit? It was, in fact, fare very different from the ale and cheese of the ”World's End.”

”But you yourself,” I said to Mr. Reverie presently; ”in all the talk at the inn you kept a very scrupulous silence--discreet enough, I own.

But now, what truly _was_ this Christian of whom we heard so much? and why, may I ask, do his neighbours slander the dead? You yourselves, did you ever meet with him?” I turned from one to the other of my companions as they glanced uneasily each at each.

”Well, sir,” said Reverie rather deliberately, ”I have met him and talked with him. I often think of him, in spite of myself. Yet he was a man of little charm. He certainly had a remarkable gift for estranging his friends. He was a foe to the most innocent compromise.

For myself, I found not much humour in him, no eye for grace or art, and a limited imagination that was yet his absolute master.

Nevertheless, as you hint, these fellows, no more than I, can forget him. Nor you?” He turned to the other.

<script>