It was now time to go home. Mysie gave each an equally warm good-night
and thanks, Mr. Lindsay accompanied them to the door, and the students
stepped into the moonlight. Across the links the sound of the sea came
with a swell.
As they went down the garden, Ericson stopped. Robert thought he was
looking back to the house, and went on. When Ericson joined him, he was
pale as death.
'What is the maitter wi' ye, Mr. Ericson?' he asked in terror.
'Look there!' said Ericson, pointing, not to the house, but to the sky.
Robert looked up. Close about the moon were a few white clouds. Upon
these white clouds, right over the moon, and near as the eyebrow to
an eye, hung part of an opalescent halo, bent into the rude, but
unavoidable suggestion of an eyebrow; while, close around the edge
of the moon, clung another, a pale storm-halo. To this pale iris and
faint-hued eyebrow the full moon itself formed the white pupil: the
whole was a perfect eye of ghastly death, staring out of the winter
heaven. The vision may never have been before, may never have been
again, but this Ericson and Robert saw that night.
CHAPTER XV. THE LAST OF THE COALS.
The next Sunday Robert went with Ericson to the episcopal chapel, and
for the first time in his life heard the epic music of the organ. It was
a new starting-point in his life. The worshipping instrument flooded
his soul with sound, and he stooped beneath it as a bather on the shore
stoops beneath the broad wave rushing up the land. But I will not linger
over this portion of his history. It is enough to say that he sought
the friendship of the organist, was admitted to the instrument; touched,
trembled, exulted; grew dissatisfied, fastidious, despairing;
gathered hope and tried again, and yet again; till at last, with
constantly-recurring fits of self-despite, he could not leave the grand
creature alone. It became a rival even to his violin. And once before
the end of March, when the organist was ill, and another was not to
be had, he ventured to occupy his place both at morning and evening
service.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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