CHAPTER XLI

hire. “Isitavillage,please?” “Village!It’sMr.Wilcox’sprivatehouse—atleast,it’soneofthem.Mrs.Wilcoxkeepsherfurniturethere.Hiltonisthevillage.” “Yes.Andwhenwilltheybeback?” “Mr.Schlegeldoesn’tknow.Wecan’tknoweverything,canwe?”Sheshuthimout,andwenttoattendtothetelephone,whichwasringingfuriously. Heloiteredawayanothernightofagony.Confessiongrewmoredifficult.Assoonaspossiblehewenttobed.Hewatchedapatchofmoonlightcrosstheflooroftheirlodging,and,assometimeshappenswhenthemindisovertaxed,hefellasleepfortherestoftheroom,butkeptawakeforthepatchofmoonlight.Horrible!Thenbeganoneofthosedisintegratingdialogues.Partofhimsaid:“Whyhorrible?It’sordinarylightfromthemoon.”“Butitmoves.”“Sodoesthemoon.”“Butitisaclenchedfist.”“Whynot?”“Butitisgoingtotouchme.”“Letit.”And,seemingtogathermotion,thepatchranuphisblanket.Presentlyabluesnakeappearedthenanotherparalleltoit.“Istherelifeinthemoon?”“Ofcourse.”“ButIthoughtitwasuninhabited.”“NotbyTime,Death,Judgment,andthesmallersnakes.”“Smallersnakes!”saidLeonardindignantlyandaloud.“Whatanotion!”Byarendingeffortofthewillhewoketherestoftheroomup.Jacky,thebed,theirfood,theirclothesonthechair,graduallyenteredhisconsciousness,andthehorrorvanishedoutwards,likearingthatisspreadingthroughwater. “Isay,Jacky,I’mgoingoutforabit.” Shewasbreathingregularly.Thepatchoflightfellclearofthestripedblanket,andbegantocovertheshawlthatlayoverherfeet.Whyhadhebeenafraid?Hewenttothewindow,andsawthatthemoonwasdescendingthroughaclearsky.Hesawhervolcanoes,andthebrightexpansesthatagraciouserrorhasnamedseas.Theypaled,forthesun,whohadlitthemup,wascomingtolighttheearth.SeaofSerenity,SeaofTranquillity,OceanoftheLunarStorms,mergedintoonelucentdrop,itselftoslipintothesempiternaldawn.Andhehadbeenafraidofthemoon! Hedressedamongthecontendinglights,andwentthroughhismoney.Itwasrunninglowagain,butenoughforareturntickettoHilton.Asitclinked,Jackyopenedhereyes. “Hullo,Len!Whatho,Len!” “Whatho,Jacky!seeyouagainlater.” Sheturnedoverandslept. Thehousewasunlocked,theirlandlordbeingasalesmanatCoventGarden.Leonardpassedoutandmadehiswaydowntothestation.Thetrain,thoughitdidnotstartforanhour,wasalreadydrawnupattheendoftheplatform,andhelaydowninitandslept.WiththefirstjolthewasindaylighttheyhadleftthegatewaysofKing’sCross,andwereunderbluesky.Tunnelsfollowed,andaftereachtheskygrewbluer,andfromtheembankmentatFinsburyParkhehadhisfirstsightofthesun.Itrolledalongbehindtheeasternsmokes—awheel,whosefellowwasthedescendingmoon—andasyetitseemedtheservantofthebluesky,notitslord.Hedozedagain.OverTewinWateritwasday.TotheleftfelltheshadowoftheembankmentanditsarchestotherightLeonardsawupintotheTewinWoodsandtowardsthechurch,withitswildlegendofimmortality.Sixforesttrees—thatisafact—growoutofoneofthegravesinTewinchurchyard.Thegrave’soccupant—thatisthelegend—isanatheist,whodeclaredthatifGodexisted,sixforesttreeswouldgrowoutofhergrave.ThesethingsinHertfordshireandfartherafieldlaythehouseofahermit—Mrs.Wilcoxhadknownhim—whobarredhimselfup,andwroteprophecies,andgaveallhehadtothepoor.Whil