The Second Ghost Story MEGAPACK®. M.R. James

ripple-cradled and inert. His eyes were shut, and between half-parted lips he talked gently to himself.

      “I am one with it,” he said to himself, “the river and I, I and the river. The coolness and splash of it is I, and the water-herbs that wave in it are I also. And my strength and my limbs are not mine but the river’s. It is all one, all one, dear Fawn.”

      * * * *

      A quarter of an hour later he appeared again at the bottom of the lawn, dressed as before, his wet hair already drying into its crisp short curls again. There he paused a moment, looking back at the stream with the smile with which men look on the face of a friend, then turned towards the house. Simultaneously his servant came to the door leading on to the terrace, followed by a man who appeared to be some half-way through the fourth decade of his years. Frank and he saw each other across the bushes and garden-beds, and each quickening his step, they met suddenly face to face round an angle of the garden walk, in the fragrance of syringa.

      “My dear Darcy,” cried Frank, “I am charmed to see you.”

      But the other stared at him in amazement.

      “Frank!” he exclaimed.

      “Yes, that is my name,” he said laughing, “what is the matter?”

      Darcy took his hand.

      “What have you done to yourself?” he asked. “You are a boy again.”

      “Ah, I have a lot to tell you,” said Frank. “Lots that you will hardly believe, but I shall convince you—”

      He broke off suddenly, and held up his hand.

      “Hush, there is my nightingale,” he said.

      The smile of recognition and welcome with which he had greeted his friend faded from his face, and a look of rapt wonder took its place, as of a lover listening to the voice of his beloved. His mouth parted slightly, showing the white line of teeth, and his eyes looked out and out till they seemed to Darcy to be focused on things beyond the vision of man. Then something perhaps startled the bird, for the song ceased.

      “Yes, lots to tell you,” he said. “Really I am delighted to see you. But you look rather white and pulled down; no wonder after that fever. And there is to be no nonsense about this visit. It is June now, you stop here till you are fit to begin work again. Two months at least.”

      “Ah, I can’t trespass quite to that extent.”

      Frank took his arm and walked him down the grass.

      “Trespass? Who talks of trespass? I shall tell you quite openly when I am tired of you, but you know when we had the studio together, we used not to bore each other. However, it is ill talking of going away on the moment of your arrival. Just a stroll to the river, and then it will be dinner-time.”

      Darcy took out his cigarette case, and offered it to the other.

      Frank laughed.

      “No, not for me. Dear me, I suppose I used to smoke once. How very odd!”

      “Given it up?”

      “I don’t know. I suppose I must have. Anyhow I don’t do it now. I would as soon think of eating meat.”

      “Another victim on the smoking altar of vegetarianism?”

      “Victim?” asked Frank. “Do I strike you as such?”

      He paused on the margin of the stream and whistled softly. Next moment a moor-hen made its splashing flight across the river, and ran up the bank. Frank took it very gently in his hands and stroked its head, as the creature lay against his shirt.

      “And is the house among the reeds still secure?” he half-crooned to it. “And is the missus quite well, and are the neighbors flourishing? There, dear, home with you,” and he flung it into the air.

      “That bird’s very tame,” said Darcy, slightly bewildered.

      “It is rather,” said Frank, following its flight.

      * * * *

      During dinner Frank chiefly occupied himself in bringing himself up-to-date in the movements and achievements of this old friend whom he had not seen for six years. Those six years, it now appeared, had been full of incident and success for Darcy; he had made a name for himself as a portrait painter which bade fair to outlast the vogue of a couple of seasons, and his leisure time had been brief. Then some four months previously he had been through a severe attack of typhoid, the result of which as concerns this story was that he had come down to this sequestered place to recruit.

      “Yes, you’ve got on,” said Frank at the end. “I always knew you would. A.R.A. with more in prospect. Money? You roll in it, I suppose, and, O Darcy, how much happiness have you had all these years? That is the only imperishable possession. And how much have you learned? Oh, I don’t mean in Art. Even I could have done well in that.”

      Darcy laughed.

      “Done well? My dear fellow, all I have learned in these six years you knew, so to speak, in your cradle. Your old pictures fetch huge prices. Do you never paint now?”

      Frank shook his head.

      “No, I’m too busy,” he said.

      “Doing what? Please tell me. That is what every one is for ever asking me.”

      “Doing? I suppose you would say I do nothing.”

      Darcy glanced up at the brilliant young face opposite him.

      “It seems to suit you, that way of being busy,” he said. “Now, it’s your turn. Do you read? Do you study? I remember you saying that it would do us all—all us artists, I mean—a great deal of good if we would study any one human face carefully for a year, without recording a line. Have you been doing that?”

      Frank shook his head again.

      “I mean exactly what I say,” he said, “I have been doing nothing. And I have never been so occupied. Look at me; have I not done something to myself to begin with?”

      “You are two years younger than I,” said Darcy, “at least you used to be. You therefore are thirty-five. But had I never seen you before I should say you were just twenty. But was it worth while to spend six years of greatly-occupied life in order to look twenty? Seems rather like a woman of fashion.”

      Frank laughed boisterously.

      “First time I’ve ever been compared to that particular bird of prey,” he said. “No, that has not been my occupation—in fact I am only very rarely conscious that one effect of my occupation has been that. Of course, it must have been if one comes to think of it. It is not very important. Quite true my body has become young. But that is very little; I have become young.”

      Darcy pushed back his chair and sat sideways to the table looking at the other.

      “Has that been your occupation then?” he asked.

      “Yes, that anyhow is one aspect of it. Think what youth means! It is the capacity for growth, mind, body, spirit, all grow, all get stronger, all have a fuller, firmer life every day. That is something, considering that every day that passes after the ordinary man reaches the full-blown flower of his strength, weakens his hold on life. A man reaches his prime, and remains, we say, in his prime, for ten years, or perhaps twenty. But after his primest prime is reached, he slowly, insensibly weakens. These are the signs of age in you, in your body, in your art probably, in your mind. You are less electric than you were. But I, when I reach my prime—I am nearing it—ah, you shall see.”

      The stars had begun to appear in the blue velvet of the sky, and to the east the horizon seen above the black silhouette of the village was growing dove-colored with the approach of moon-rise. White moths hovered dimly over the garden-beds, and the footsteps of night tip-toed through the bushes. Suddenly Frank rose.

      “Ah, it is the supreme moment,” he said softly. “Now more than at any other time the