CHAPTER XXXII. THE SCHOOLBOY AND THE WOOD-NYMPH.

ndssweptontosighoverlandsfaraway.BehindNovembercamedeepwinter—clearness,stillness,frostaccompanying. Acalmdayhadsettledintoacrystallineevening.TheworldworeaNorthPolecolouringallitslightsandtintslookedliketherefletsofwhite,orviolet,orpalegreengems.Thehillsworealilacbluethesettingsunhadpurpleinitsredtheskywasice,allsilveredazurewhenthestarsrose,theywereofwhitecrystal,notgoldgray,orcerulean,orfaintemeraldhues—cool,pure,andtransparent—tingedthemassofthelandscape. Whatisthisbyitselfinawoodnolongergreen,nolongerevenrusset,awoodneutraltint—thisdarkbluemovingobject?Why,itisaschoolboy—aBriarfieldgrammar-schoolboy—whohaslefthiscompanions,nowtrudginghomebythehighroad,andisseekingacertaintree,withacertainmossymoundatitsroot,convenientasaseat.Whyishelingeringhere?Theairiscoldandthetimewearslate.Hesitsdown.Whatishethinkingabout?DoeshefeelthechastecharmNaturewearsto-night?Apearl-whitemoonsmilesthroughthegraytreesdoeshecareforhersmile? Impossibletosayforheissilent,andhiscountenancedoesnotspeak.Asyetitisnomirrortoreflectsensation,butratheramasktoconcealit.Thisboyisastriplingoffifteen—slight,andtallofhisyears.Inhisfacethereisaslittleofamenityasofservility,hiseyeseemspreparedtonoteanyincipientattempttocontroloroverreachhim,andtherestofhisfeaturesindicatefacultiesalertforresistance.Wiseushersavoidunnecessaryinterferencewiththatlad.Tobreakhiminbyseveritywouldbeauselessattempttowinhimbyflatterywouldbeaneffortworsethanuseless.Heisbestletalone.Timewilleducateandexperiencetrainhim. ProfessedlyMartinYorke(itisayoungYorke,ofcourse)tramplesonthenameofpoetry.Talksentimenttohim,andyouwouldbeansweredbysarcasm.Hereheis,wanderingalone,waitingduteouslyonNature,whilesheunfoldsapageofstern,ofsilent,andofsolemnpoetrybeneathhisattentivegaze. Beingseated,hetakesfromhissatchelabook—nottheLatingrammar,butacontrabandvolumeoffairytales.Therewillbelightenoughyetforanhourtoservehiskeenyoungvision.Besides,themoonwaitsonhimherbeam,dimandvagueasyet,fillsthegladewherehesits. Hereads.Heisledintoasolitarymountainregionallroundhimisrudeanddesolate,shapeless,andalmostcolourless.Hehearsbellstinkleonthewind.Forth-ridingfromtheformlessfoldsofthemistdawnsonhimthebrightestvision—agreen-robedlady,onasnow-whitepalfrey.Heseesherdress,hergems,andhersteed.Shearrestshimwithsomemysteriousquestion.Heisspell-bound,andmustfollowherintofairyland. Asecondlegendbearshimtothesea-shore.Theretumblesinastrongtide,boilingatthebaseofdizzycliffs.Itrainsandblows.Areefofrocks,blackandrough,stretchesfarintothesea.Allalong,andamong,andabovethesecragsdashandflash,sweepandleap,swells,wreaths,driftsofsnowyspray.Somelonewandererisoutontheserocks,treadingwithcautiousstepthewet,wildseaweedglancingdownintohollowswherethebrineliesfathomsdeepandemeraldclear,andseeingtherewilderandstrangerandhugervegetationthanisfoundonland,withtreasureofshells—somegreen,somepurple,somepearly—clusteredinthecurlsofthesnakyplants.Hehearsacry.Lookingupandforward,hesees,atthebleakpointofthereef,atall,palething—shapedlikeman,butmadeofspray—transparent,tremulous,awful.Itstandsnotalone.Theyareallhumanfiguresthatwantonintherocks—acrowdoffoam-women—abandofwhite,evanescentNereids. Hush!Shutthebookhideitinthesatchel.Martinhearsatread.Helistens.No—yes.Oncemorethedeadleaves,lightlycrushed,rustleonthewoodpath.Martinwatchesthetreespart,andawomanissuesforth. Sheisaladydressedindarksilk,aveilcoveringherface.Martinnevermetaladyinthiswoodbefore—noranyfemale,save,nowandthen,avillagegirlcometogathernuts.To-nighttheapparitiondoesnotdispleasehim.Heobserves,assheapproaches,thatsheisneitheroldnorplain,but,onthecontrary,veryyouthfuland,butthathenowrecognizesherforonewhomhehasoftenwilfullypronouncedugly,hewoulddeemthathediscoveredtraitsofbeautybehindthethingauzeofthatveil. Shepasseshimandsaysnothing.Heknewshewould.Allwomenareproudmonkeys,andheknowsnomoreconceiteddollthanthatCarolineHelstone.Thethoughtishardlyhatchedinhismindwhentheladyretracesthosetwostepsshehadgotbeyondhim,andraisingherve