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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2d0aae7 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #55484 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/55484) diff --git a/old/55484-0.txt b/old/55484-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 439e490..0000000 --- a/old/55484-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9033 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Lucian the dreamer, by J. S. Fletcher - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Lucian the dreamer - -Author: J. S. Fletcher - -Release Date: September 4, 2017 [EBook #55484] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LUCIAN THE DREAMER *** - - - - -Produced by Suzanne Shell, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - - - - - LUCIAN THE DREAMER - - _This is the Story_ - - -This is the study of an artistic temperament in a generation not so far -removed from our own as the hurried events of the last two decades would -make it appear--the generation which fought in the Boer War. Mr. -Fletcher has told us the life story of a boy, a “thinker” rather than a -“doer”--Lucian the Dreamer. We follow with great interest his many love -affairs while under the care of his uncle and aunt in the country. We -enjoy with him the simple rustic beauties of Wellsby, and from the -moment he arrives at the little village station until that final tragic -scene in the dry-bed of a South African river we are held as in a vice. - - -/* - _Also by J. S. Fletcher_ - - THE DIAMONDS THE KANG-HE VASE - - THE TIME-WORN TOWN THE GOLDEN VENTURE - - THE MILL OF MANY WINDOWS - - THE CARTWRIGHT GARDENS MURDER - - THE RAVENS WOOD MYSTERY AND OTHER STORIES -*/ - - - - -/* - LUCIAN - - THE DREAMER - - _by_ - - J. S. FLETCHER - - Author of “The Cartwright Gardens Murder,” - “The Kang-He Vase,” etc. - - [Illustration: colophon] - - LONDON 48 PALL MALL - W. COLLINS SONS & CO LTD - GLASGOW SYDNEY AUCKLAND - - Copyright - - _Printed in Great Britain._ -*/ - - - - -/* - TO - - SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE - - IN SOME SLIGHT RECOGNITION - OF A KINDLY SERVICE - KINDLY RENDERED -*/ - - - - -CHAPTER I - - -The railway station stood in the midst of an apparent solitude, and from -its one long platform there was no sign of any human habitation. A -stranger, looking around him in passing that way, might well have -wondered why a station should be found there at all; nevertheless, the -board which figured prominently above the white palings suggested the -near presence of three places--Wellsby, Meadhope, and Simonstower--and a -glance at a map of the county would have sufficed to show him that three -villages of the names there indicated lay hidden amongst the surrounding -woods, one to the east and two to the west of the railway. The line was -a single one, served by a train which made three out-and-home journeys a -day between the market-town of Oakborough and the village of Normanford, -stopping on its way at seven intermediate stations, of which Wellsby was -the penultimate one. These wayside stations sometimes witnessed arrivals -and departures, but there were many occasions on which the train neither -took up passengers nor set them down--it was only a considerable traffic -in agricultural produce, the extra business of the weekly market-day, -and its connection with the main line, that enabled the directors to -keep the Oakborough and Normanford Branch open. At each small station -they maintained a staff consisting of a collector or station-master, a -booking-clerk, and a porter, but the duties of these officials were -light, and a good deal of spare time lay at their disposal, and was -chiefly used in cultivating patches of garden along the side of the -line, or in discussing the news of the neighbourhood. - -On a fine April evening of the early eighties the staff of this -particular station assembled on the platform at half-past six o’clock in -readiness to receive the train (which, save on market-days, was -composed of an engine, two carriages, and the guard’s van), as it made -its last down journey. There were no passengers to go forward towards -Normanford, and the porter, according to custom, went out to the end of -the platform as the train came into view, and held up his arms as a -signal to the driver that he need not stop unless he had reasons of his -own for doing so. To this signal the driver responded with two sharp -shrieks of his whistle, on hearing which the porter turned away, put his -hands in his pockets, and slouched back along the platform. - -‘Somebody to set down, anyway, Mr. Simmons,’ said the booking-clerk with -a look at the station-master. ‘I wonder who it is--I’ve only booked one -up ticket to-day; James White it was, and he came back by the 2.30, so -it isn’t him.’ - -The station-master made no reply, feeling that another moment would -answer the question definitely. He walked forward as the train drew up, -and amidst the harsh grinding of its wheels threw a greeting to the -engine-driver, which he had already given four times that day and would -give again as the train went back two hours later. His eyes, straying -along the train, caught sight of a hand fumbling at the handle of a -third-class compartment, and he hastened to open the door. - -‘It’s you, is it, Mr. Pepperdine?’ he said. ‘I wondered who was getting -out--it’s not often that this train brings us a passenger.’ - -‘Two of us this time,’ answered the man thus addressed as he quickly -descended, nodding and smiling at the station-master and the -booking-clerk; ‘two of us this time, Mr. Simmons. Ah!’ He drew a long -breath of air as if the scent of the woods and fields did him good, and -then turned to the open door of the carriage, within which stood a boy -leisurely attiring himself in an overcoat. ‘Come, my lad,’ he said -good-humouredly, ‘the train’ll be going on--let’s see now, Mr. Simmons, -there’s a portmanteau, a trunk, and a box in the van--perhaps Jim -there’ll see they’re got out.’ - -The porter hurried off to the van; as he turned away the boy descended -from the train, put his gloved hands in the pockets of his overcoat, and -stared about him with a deliberate and critical expression. His glance -ran over the station, the creeping plants on the station-master’s house, -the station-master, and the booking-clerk; his companion, meanwhile, was -staring hard at a patch of bright green beyond the fence and smiling -with evident enjoyment. - -‘I’ll see that the things are all right,’ said the boy suddenly, and -strode off to the van. The porter had already brought out a portmanteau -and a trunk; he and the guard were now struggling with a larger obstacle -in the shape of a packing-case which taxed all their energies. - -‘It’s a heavy ’un, this is!’ panted the guard. ‘You might be carrying -all the treasure of the Bank of England in here, young master.’ - -‘Books,’ said the boy laconically. ‘They are heavy. Be careful, -please--don’t let the box drop.’ - -There was a note in his voice which the men were quick to recognise--the -note of command and of full expectancy that his word would rank as law. -He stood by, anxious of eye and keenly observant, while the men lowered -the packing-case to the platform; behind him stood Mr. Pepperdine, the -station-master, and the booking-clerk, mildly interested. - -‘There!’ said the guard. ‘We ha’n’t given her a single bump. Might ha’ -been the delicatest chiny, the way we handled it.’ - -He wiped his brow with a triumphant wave of the hand. The boy, still -regarding the case with grave, speculative eyes, put his hand in his -pocket, drew forth a shilling, and with a barely perceptible glance at -the guard, dropped it in his hand. The man stared, smiled, pocketed the -gift, and touched his cap. He waved his green flag vigorously; in -another moment the train was rattling away into the shadow of the woods. - -Mr. Pepperdine stepped up to the boy’s side and gazed at the -packing-case. - -‘It’ll never go in my trap, lad,’ he said, scratching his chin. ‘It’s -too big and too heavy. We must send a horse and cart for it in the -morning.’ - -‘But where shall we leave it?’ asked the boy, with evident anxiety. - -‘We’ll put it in the warehouse, young master,’ said the porter. ‘It’ll -be all right there. I’ll see that no harm comes to it.’ - -The boy, however, demanded to see the warehouse, and assured himself -that it was water-tight and would be locked up. He issued strict -mandates to the porter as to his safe-keeping of the packing-case, -presented him also with a shilling, and turned away unconcernedly, as if -the matter were now settled. Mr. Pepperdine took the porter in hand. - -‘Jim,’ he said, ‘my trap’s at the Grange; maybe you could put that trunk -and portmanteau on a barrow and bring them down in a while? No need to -hurry--I shall have a pipe with Mr. Trippett before going on.’ - -‘All right, sir,’ answered the porter. ‘I’ll bring ’em both down in an -hour or so.’ - -‘Come on, then, lad,’ said Mr. Pepperdine, nodding good-night to the -station-master, and leading the way to the gate. ‘Eh, but it’s good to -be back where there’s some fresh air! Can you smell it, boy?’ - -The boy threw up his face, and sniffed the fragrance of the woods. There -had been April showers during the afternoon, and the air was sweet and -cool: he drew it in with a relish that gratified the countryman at his -side. - -‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘I smell it--it’s beautiful.’ - -‘Ah, so it is!’ said Mr. Pepperdine; ‘as beautiful as--as--well, as -anything. Yes, it is so, my lad.’ - -The boy looked up and laughed, and Mr. Pepperdine laughed too. He had -no idea why he laughed, but it pleased him to do so; it pleased him, -too, to hear the boy laugh. But when the boy’s face grew grave again Mr. -Pepperdine’s countenance composed itself and became equally grave and -somewhat solicitous. He looked out of his eye-corners at the slim figure -walking at his side, and wondered what other folk would think of his -companion. ‘A nice, smart-looking boy,’ said Mr. Pepperdine to himself -for the hundredth time; ‘nice, gentlemanlike boy, and a credit to -anybody.’ Mr. Pepperdine felt proud to have such a boy in his company, -and prouder still to know that the boy was his nephew and ward. - -The boy thus speculated upon was a lad of twelve, somewhat tall for his -age, of a slim, well-knit figure, a handsome face, and a confidence of -manner and bearing that seemed disproportionate to his years. He walked -with easy, natural grace; his movements were lithe and sinuous; the turn -of his head, as he looked up at Mr. Pepperdine, or glanced at the -overhanging trees in the lane, was smart and alert; it was easy to see -that he was naturally quick in action and in perception. His face, which -Mr. Pepperdine had studied a good deal during the past week, was of a -type which is more often met with in Italy than in England. The forehead -was broad and high, and crowned by a mass of thick, blue-black hair that -clustered and waved all over the head, and curled into rings at the -temples; the brows were straight, dark, and full; the nose and mouth -delicately but strongly carved; the chin square and firm; obstinacy, -pride, determination, were all there, and already stiffening into -permanence. But in this face, so Italian, so full of the promise of -passion, there were eyes of an essentially English type, almost violet -in colour, gentle, soft, dreamy, shaded by long black lashes, and it was -in them that Mr. Pepperdine found the thing he sought for when he looked -long and wistfully at his dead sister’s son. - -Mr. Pepperdine’s present scrutiny passed from the boy’s face to the -boy’s clothes. It was not often, he said to himself, that such a -well-dressed youngster was seen in those parts. His nephew was clothed -in black from head to foot; his hat was surrounded by a mourning-band; a -black tie, fashioned into a smart knot, and secured by an antique -cameo-pin, encircled his spotless man’s collar: every garment was shaped -as if its wearer had been the most punctilious man about town; his neat -boots shone like mirrors. The boy was a dandy in miniature, and it -filled Mr. Pepperdine with a vast amusement to find him so. He chuckled -inwardly, and was secretly proud of a youngster who, as he had recently -discovered, could walk into a fashionable tailor’s and order exactly -what he wanted with an evident determination to get it. But Mr. -Pepperdine himself was a rustic dandy. Because of the necessities of a -recent occasion he was at that moment clad in sober black--his -Sunday-and-State-Occasion’s suit--but at home he possessed many -wonderful things in the way of riding-breeches, greatcoats ornamented -with pearl buttons as big as saucers, and sprigged waistcoats which were -the despair of the young country bucks, who were forced to admit that -Simpson Pepperdine knew a thing or two about the fashion and was a man -of style. It was natural, then, Mr. Pepperdine should be pleased to find -his nephew a _petit-maître_--it gratified an eye which was never at any -time indisposed to regard the vanities of this world with complaisance. - -Mr. Pepperdine, striding along at the boy’s side, presented the cheerful -aspect of a healthy countryman. He was a tall, well-built man, rosy of -face, bright of eye, a little on the wrong side of forty, and rather -predisposed to stoutness of figure, but firm and solid in his tread, and -as yet destitute of a grey hair. In his sable garments and his high -hat--bought a week before in London itself, and of the latest -fashionable shape--he looked very distinguished, and no one could have -taken him for less than a churchwarden and a large ratepayer. His air of -distinction was further improved by the fact that he was in uncommonly -good spirits--he had spent a week in London on business of a sorrowful -nature, and he was glad to be home again amongst his native woods and -fields. He sniffed the air as he walked, and set his feet down as if the -soil belonged to him, and his eyes danced with satisfaction. - -The boy suddenly uttered a cry of delight, and stopped, pointing down a -long vista of the woods. Mr. Pepperdine turned in the direction -indicated, and beheld a golden patch of daffodils. - -‘Daffy-down-dillies,’ said Mr. Pepperdine. ‘And very pretty too. But -just you wait till you see the woods about Simonstower. I always did say -that Wellsby woods were nought to our woods--ah, you should see the -bluebells! And as for primroses--well, they could stock all Covent -Garden market in London town with ’em, and have enough for next day into -the bargain, so they could. Very pretty is them daffies, very pretty, -but I reckon there’s something a deal prettier to be seen in a minute or -two, for here’s the Grange, and Mrs. Trippett has an uncommon nice way -of setting out a tea-table.’ - -The boy turned from the glowing patch of colour to look at another -attractive picture. They had rounded the edge of the wood on their right -hand, and now stood gazing at a peculiarly English scene--a green -paddock, fenced from the road by neat railings, painted white, at the -further end of which, shaded by a belt of tall elms, stood a many-gabled -farmhouse, with a flower-garden before its front door and an orchard at -its side. The farm-buildings rose a little distance in rear of the -house; beyond them was the stackyard, still crowded with wheat and -barley stacks; high over everything rose a pigeon-cote, about the -weather-vane of which flew countless pigeons. In the paddock were ewes -and lambs; cattle and horses looked over the wall of the fold; the soft -light of the April evening lay on everything like a benediction. - -‘Wellsby Grange,’ said Mr. Pepperdine, pushing open a wicket-gate in -the white fence and motioning the boy to enter. ‘The abode of Mr. and -Mrs. Trippett, very particular friends of mine. I always leave my trap -here when I have occasion to go by train--it would be sent over this -morning, and we shall find it all ready for us presently.’ - -The boy followed his uncle up the path to the side-door of the -farmhouse, his eyes taking in every detail of the scene. He was staring -about him when the door opened, and revealed a jolly-faced, red-cheeked -man with sandy whiskers and very blue eyes, who grinned delightedly at -sight of Mr. Pepperdine, and held out a hand of considerable -proportions. - -‘We were just looking out for you,’ said he. ‘We heard the whistle, and -the missis put the kettle on to boil up that minute. Come in, -Simpson--come in, my lad--you’re heartily welcome. Now then, -missis--they’re here.’ - -A stout, motherly-looking woman, with cherry-coloured ribbons in a -nodding cap that crowned a head of glossy dark hair, came bustling to -the door. - -‘Come in, come in, Mr. Pepperdine--glad to see you safe back,’ said she. -‘And this’ll be your little nevvy. Come in, love, come in--you must be -tired wi’ travelling all that way.’ - -The boy took off his hat with a courtly gesture, and stepped into the -big, old-fashioned kitchen. He looked frankly at the farmer and his -wife, and the woman, noting his beauty with quick feminine perception, -put her arm round his neck and drew him to her. - -‘Eh, but you’re a handsome lad!’ she said. ‘Come straight into the -parlour and sit you down--the tea’ll be ready in a minute. What’s your -name, my dear?’ - -The boy looked up at her--Mrs. Trippett’s memory, at the sight of his -eyes, went back to the days of her girlhood. - -‘My name is Lucian,’ he answered. - -Mrs. Trippett looked at him again as if she had scarcely heard him reply -to her question. She sighed, and with a sudden impetuous tenderness -bent down and kissed him warmly on the cheek. - -‘Off with your coat, my dear,’ she said cheerily. ‘And if you’re cold, -sit down by the fire--if it is spring, it’s cold enough for fires at -night. Now I’ll be back in a minute, and your uncle and the master’ll be -coming--I lay they’ve gone to look at a poorly horse that we’ve got just -now--and then we’ll have tea.’ - -She bustled from the room, the cherry-coloured ribbons streaming behind -her. The boy, left alone, took off his overcoat and gloves, and laid -them aside with his hat; then he put his hands in the pockets of his -trousers, and examined his new surroundings. - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -Never before had Lucian seen the parlour of an English farmhouse, nor -such a feast as that spread out on the square dinner-table. The parlour -was long and wide and low-roofed, and the ceiling was spanned by beams -of polished oak; a bright fire crackled in the old-fashioned grate, and -a lamp burned on the table; but there were no blinds or curtains drawn -over the latticed windows which overlooked the garden. Lucian’s -observant eyes roved about the room, noting the quaint old pictures on -the walls; the oil paintings of Mr. Trippett’s father and mother; the -framed samplers and the fox’s brush; the silver cups on the sideboard, -and the ancient blunderbuss which hung on the centre beam. It seemed to -him that the parlour was delightfully quaint and picturesque; it smelled -of dried roses and lavender and sweetbriar; there was an old sheep-dog -on the hearth who pushed his muzzle into the boy’s hand, and a -grandfather’s clock in one corner that ticked a solemn welcome to him. -He had never seen such an interior before, and it appealed to his sense -of the artistic. - -Lucian’s eyes wandered at last to the table, spread for high tea. That -was as new to him as the old pictures and samplers. A cold ham of -generous proportions figured at one side of the table; a round of cold -roast-beef at the other; the tea-tray filled up one end; opposite it -space was left for something that was yet to come. This something -presently appeared in the shape of a couple of roast fowls and a stand -of boiled eggs, borne in by a strapping maid whose face shone like the -setting sun, and who was sharply marshalled by Mrs. Trippett, carrying a -silver teapot and a dish of hot muffins. - -‘Now then, my dear,’ she said, giving a final glance over the table, ‘we -can begin as soon as the gentlemen come, and I lay they won’t be long, -for Mr. Pepperdine’ll be hungry after his journey, and so I’m sure are -you. Come and sit down here and help yourself to an egg--they’re as -fresh as morning dew--every one’s been laid this very day.’ - -The boy sat down and marvelled at the bountiful provision of Mrs. -Trippett’s tea-table; it seemed to him that there was enough there to -feed a regiment. But when Mr. Trippett and Mr. Pepperdine entered and -fell to, he no longer wondered, for the one had been out in the fields -all day, and the other had been engaged in the unusual task of -travelling, and they were both exceptional trenchermen at any time. Mr. -Trippett joked with the boy as they ate, and made sundry references to -Yorkshire pudding and roast-beef which seemed to afford himself great -satisfaction, and he heaped up his youthful visitor’s plate so -generously that Lucian grew afraid. - -‘Cut and come again,’ said Mr. Trippett, with his mouth full and his -jaws working vigorously. ‘Nothing like a good appetite for growing -lads--ah, I was always hungry when I was a boy. Never came amiss to me, -didn’t food, never.’ - -‘But I’ve never eaten so much before,’ said Lucian, refusing his host’s -pressing entreaty to have another slice off the breast, or a bit of cold -ham. ‘I was hungry, too, or I couldn’t have eaten so much now.’ - -‘He’ll soon get up an appetite at Simonstower,’ said Mrs. Trippett. -‘You’re higher up than we are, Mr. Pepperdine, and the air’s keener with -you. To be sure, our children have good enough appetites here--you -should see them at meal times!--I’m sure I oft wonder wherever they put -it all.’ - -‘It’s a provision of nature, ma’am,’ said Mr. Pepperdine. ‘There’s some -wonderful things in Nature.’ - -‘They’re wanting to see you, my dear,’ said Mrs. Trippett, ignoring her -elder guest’s profound remark and looking at her younger one. ‘I told -them Mr. Pepperdine was going to bring a young gentleman with him. You -shall see them after tea--they’re out in the orchard now--they had their -teas an hour ago, and they’ve gone out to play. There’s two of -them--John and Mary. John’s about your own age, and Mary’s a year -younger.’ - -‘Can’t I go out to them?’ said Lucian. ‘I will, if you will please to -excuse me.’ - -‘With pleasure, my dear,’ said Mrs. Trippett. ‘Go by all means, if you’d -like to. Go through the window there--you’ll hear them somewhere about, -and they’ll show you their rabbits and things.’ - -The boy picked up his hat and went out. Mrs. Trippett followed him with -meditative eyes. - -‘He’s not shy, seemingly,’ she said, looking at Mr. Pepperdine. - -‘Not he, ma’am. He’s an old-fashioned one, is the lad,’ answered -Lucian’s uncle. ‘He’s the manners of a man in some things. I reckon, you -see, that it’s because he’s never had other children to play with.’ - -‘He’s a handsome boy,’ sighed the hostess. ‘Like his father as I -remember him. He was a fine-looking man, in a foreign way. But he’s his -mother’s eyes--poor Lucy!’ - -‘Yes,’ said Mr. Pepperdine. ‘He’s Lucy’s eyes, but all the rest of him’s -like his father.’ - -‘Were you in time to see his father before he died?’ asked Mr. Trippett, -who was now attacking the cold beef, after having demolished the greater -part of a fowl. ‘You didn’t think you would be when you went off that -morning.’ - -‘Just in time, just in time,’ answered Mr. Pepperdine. ‘Ay, just in -time. He went very sudden and very peaceful. The boy was very brave and -very old-fashioned about it--he never says anything now, and I don’t -mention it.’ - -‘It’s best not,’ said Mrs. Trippett. ‘Poor little fellow!--of course, -he’ll not remember his mother at all?’ - -‘No,’ said Mr. Pepperdine, shaking his head. ‘No, he was only two years -old when his mother died.’ - -Mr. Trippett changed the subject, and began to talk of London and what -Mr. Pepperdine had seen there. But when the tea-table had been cleared, -and Mrs. Trippett had departed to the kitchen regions to bustle amongst -her maids, and the two farmers were left in the parlour with the spirit -decanters on the table, their tumblers at their elbows and their pipes -in their mouths, the host referred to Mr. Pepperdine’s recent mission -with some curiosity. - -‘I never rightly heard the story of this nephew of yours,’ he said. ‘You -see, I hadn’t come to these parts when your sister was married. The -missis says she remembers her, ’cause she used to visit hereabouts in -days past. It were a bit of a romance like, eh?’ - -Mr. Pepperdine took a pull at his glass and shook his head. - -‘Ah!’ said he oracularly. ‘It was. A romance like those you read of in -the story-books. I remember the beginning of it all as well as if it -were yesterday. Lucy--that was the lad’s mother, my youngest sister, you -know, Trippett--was a girl then, and the prettiest in all these parts: -there’s nobody’ll deny that.’ - -‘I always understood that she was a beauty,’ said Mr. Trippett. - -‘And you understood rightly. There wasn’t Lucy’s equal for beauty in all -the county,’ affirmed Mr. Pepperdine. ‘The lad has her eyes--eh, dear, -I’ve heard high and low talk of her eyes. But he’s naught else of -hers--all the rest his father’s--Lucy was fair.’ - -He paused to apply a glowing coal to the tobacco in his long pipe, and -he puffed out several thick clouds of smoke before he resumed his story. - -‘Well, Lucy was nineteen when this Mr. Cyprian Damerel came along. You -can ask your missis what like he was--women are better hands at -describing a man’s looks than a man is. He were a handsome young man, -but foreign in appearance, though you wouldn’t ha’ told it from his -tongue. The boy’ll be like him some day. He came walking through -Simonstower on his way from Scarhaven, and naught would content him but -that he must set up his easel and make a picture of the village. He -found lodgings at old Mother Grant’s, and settled down, and he was one -of that sort that makes themselves at home with everybody in five -minutes. He’d an open face and an open hand; he’d talk to high and low -in just the same way; and he’d a smile for everybody.’ - -‘And naturally all the lasses fell in love with him,’ suggested Mr. -Trippett, with a hearty laugh. ‘I’ve heard my missis say he’d a way with -him that was taking with the wenches--specially them as were inclined -that way, like.’ - -‘Undoubtedly he had,’ said Mr. Pepperdine. ‘Undoubtedly he had. But -after he’d seen her, he’d no eyes for any lass but our Lucy. He fell in -love with her and she with him as naturally as a duckling takes to -water. Ah! I don’t think I ever did see two young people quite so badly -smitten as they were. It became evident to everybody in the place. But -he acted like a man all through--oh yes! My mother was alive then, you -know, Trippett,’ Mr. Pepperdine continued, with a sigh. ‘She was a -straight-laced ’un, was my mother, and had no liking for foreigners, and -Damerel had a livelyish time with her when he came to th’ house and -asked her, bold as brass, if he might marry her daughter.’ - -‘I’ll lay he wo’d; I’ll lay he wo’d,’ chuckled Mr. Trippett. - -‘Ay, and so he had,’ continued Mr. Pepperdine. ‘She was very stiff and -stand-off, was our old lady, and she treated him to some remarks about -foreigners and papists, and what not, and gave him to understand that -she’d as soon seen her daughter marry a gipsy as a strolling artist, -’cause you see, being old-fashioned, she’d no idea of what an artist, if -he’s up to his trade, can make. But he was one too many for her, was -Damerel. He listened to all she had to say, and then he offered to give -her references about himself, and he told her who he was, the son of an -Italian gentleman that had come to live in England ’cause of political -reasons, and what he earned, and he made it clear enough that Lucy -wouldn’t want for bread and butter, nor a silk gown neither.’ - -‘Good reasoning,’ commented Mr. Trippett. ‘Very good reasoning. -Love-making’s all very well, but it’s nowt wi’out a bit o’ money at th’ -back on’t.’ - -‘Well, there were no doubt about Damerel’s making money,’ said Mr. -Pepperdine, ‘and we’d soon good proof o’ that; for as soon as he’d -finished his picture of the village he sold it to th’ Earl for five -hundred pound, and it hangs i’ the dining-room at th’ castle to this -day. I saw it the last time I paid my rent there. Mistress Jones, th’ -housekeeper, let me have a look at it. And of course, seeing that the -young man was able to support a wife, th’ old lady had to give way, and -they were married. Fifteen year ago that is,’ concluded Mr. Pepperdine -with a shake of the head. ‘Dear-a-me! it seems only like yesterday since -that day--they made the handsomest bride and bridegroom I ever saw.’ - -‘She died soon, didn’t she?’ inquired Mr. Trippett. - -‘Lived a matter of four years after the marriage,’ answered Mr. -Pepperdine. ‘She wasn’t a strong woman, wasn’t poor Lucy--there was -something wrong with her lungs, and after the boy came she seemed to -wear away. He did all that a man could, did her husband--took her off to -the south of Europe. Eh, dear, the letters that Keziah and Judith used -to have from her, describing the places she saw--they read fair -beautiful! But it were no good--she died at Rome, poor lass, when the -boy was two years old.’ - -‘Poor thing!’ said Mr. Trippett. ‘And had all that she wanted, -seemingly.’ - -‘Everything,’ said Mr. Pepperdine. ‘Her life was short but sweet, as you -may say.’ - -‘And now he’s gone an’ all,’ said Mr. Trippett. - -Mr. Pepperdine nodded. - -‘Ay,’ he said, ‘he’s gone an’ all. I don’t think he ever rightly got -over his wife’s death--anyway, he led a very restless life ever after, -first one place and then another, never settling anywhere. Sometimes it -was Italy, sometimes Paris, sometimes London--he’s seen something, has -that boy. Ay, he’s dead, is poor Damerel.’ - -‘Leave owt behind him like?’ asked Mr. Trippett sententiously. - -Mr. Pepperdine polished the end of his nose. - -‘Well,’ he said, ‘there’ll be a nice little nest-egg for the boy when -all’s settled up, I dare say. He wasn’t a saving sort of man, I should -think, but dear-a-me, he must ha’ made a lot of money in his time--and -spent it, too.’ - -‘Easy come and easy go,’ said Mr. Trippett. ‘I’ve heard that’s the way -with that sort. Will this lad take after his father, then?’ - -‘Nay,’ said Mr. Pepperdine, ‘I don’t think he will. He can’t draw a -line--doesn’t seem to have it in him. Curious thing that, but it is so. -No--he’s all for reading. I never saw such a lad for books. He’s got a -great chest full o’ books at the station yonder--wouldn’t leave London -without them.’ - -‘Happen turn out a parson or a lawyer,’ suggested Mr. Trippett. - -‘Nay,’ said Mr. Pepperdine. ‘It’s my impression he’ll turn out a poet, -or something o’ that sort. They tell me there’s a good living to be made -out o’ that nowadays.’ - -Mr. Trippett lifted the kettle on to the brightest part of the fire, -mixed himself another glass of grog, and pushed the decanter towards his -friend. - -‘There were only a poorish market at Oakbro’ t’other day,’ he said. -‘Very low prices, and none so much stuff there, nayther.’ - -Mr. Pepperdine followed his host’s example with respect to the grog, -and meditated upon the market news. They plunged into a discussion upon -prices. Mrs. Trippett entered the room, took up a basket of stockings, -planted herself in her easy-chair, and began to look for holes in toes -and heels. The two farmers talked; the grandfather’s clock ticked; the -fire crackled; the whole atmosphere was peaceful and homelike. At last -the talk of prices and produce was interrupted by the entrance of the -stout serving-maid. - -‘If you please’m, there’s Jim Wood from the station with two trunks for -Mr. Pepperdine, and he says is he to put ’em in Mr. Pepperdine’s trap?’ -she said, gazing at her mistress. - -‘Tell him to put them in the shed,’ said Mr. Pepperdine. ‘I’ll put ’em -in the trap myself. And here, my lass, give him this for his trouble,’ -he added, diving into his pocket and producing a shilling. - -‘And give him a pint o’ beer and something to eat,’ said Mr. Trippett. - -‘Give him some cold beef and pickles, Mary,’ said Mrs. Trippett. - -Mary responded ‘Yes, sir--Yes’m,’ and closed the door. Mr. Pepperdine, -gazing at the clock with an air of surprise, remarked that he had no -idea it was so late, and he must be departing. - -‘Nowt o’ th’ sort!’ said Mr. Trippett. ‘You’re all right for another -hour--help yourself, my lad.’ - -‘The little boy’s all right,’ said Mrs. Trippett softly. ‘He’s soon made -friends with John and Mary--they were as thick as thieves when I left -them just now.’ - -‘Then let’s be comfortable,’ said the host. ‘Dang my buttons, there’s -nowt like comfort by your own fireside. And how were London town -looking, then, Mr. Pepperdine?--mucky as ever, I expect.’ - -Mr. Pepperdine, with a replenished glass and a newly charged pipe, -plunged into a description of what he had seen in London. The time -slipped away--the old clock struck nine at last, and suddenly reminded -him that he had six miles to drive and that his sisters would be -expecting his arrival with the boy. - -‘Time flies fast in good company,’ he remarked as he rose with evident -reluctance. ‘I always enjoy an evening by your hospitable fireside, Mrs. -Trippett, ma’am.’ - -‘You’re in a great hurry to leave it, anyhow,’ said Mr. Trippett, with a -broad grin. ‘Sit ye down again, man--you’ll be home in half an hour with -that mare o’ yours, and it’s only nine o’clock, and ten to one th’ owd -clock’s wrong.’ - -‘Ay, but my watch isn’t,’ answered Mr. Pepperdine. ‘Nay, we must -go--Keziah and Judith’ll be on the look-out for us, and they’ll want to -see the boy.’ - -‘Ay, I expect they will,’ said Mr. Trippett. ‘Well, if you must you -must--take another glass and light a cigar.’ - -Mr. Pepperdine refused neither of these aids to comfort, and lingered a -few minutes longer. But at last they all went out into the great -kitchen, Mrs. Trippett leading the way with words of regret at her -guest’s departure. She paused upon the threshold and turned to the two -men with a gesture which commanded silence. - -The farmhouse kitchen, quaint and picturesque with its old oak -furniture, its flitches of bacon and great hams hanging from the -ceiling, its bunches of dried herbs and strings of onions depending from -hooks in the corners, its wide fireplace and general warmth and -cheeriness, formed the background of a group which roused some sense of -the artistic in Mrs. Trippett’s usually matter-of-fact intellect. On the -long settle which stretched on one side of the hearth sat four -shock-headed ploughboys, leaning shoulder to shoulder; in an easy-chair -opposite sat the red-cheeked maid-servant; close to her, on a low stool, -sat a little girl with Mrs. Trippett’s features and eyes, whose sunny -hair fell in wavy masses over her shoulders; behind her, hands in -pockets, sturdy and strong, stood a miniature edition of Mr. Trippett, -even to the sandy hair, the breeches, and the gaiters; in the centre of -the floor, at a round table on which stood a great oil lamp, sat the -porter, busy with a round of beef, a foaming tankard of ale, and a -crusty loaf. Of these eight human beings a similar peculiarity was -evident. Each one sat with mouth more or less open--the ploughboys’ -mouths in particular had revolved themselves into round O’s, while the -porter, struck as it were in the very act of forking a large lump of -beef into a cavernous mouth, looked like a man who has suddenly become -paralysed and cannot move. The maid-servant’s eyes were wider than her -mouth; the little girl shrank against the maid’s apron as if afraid--it -was only the sturdy boy in the rear who showed some symptoms of a faint -smile. And the object upon which all eyes were fixed was Lucian, who -stood on the hearth, his back to the fire, his face glowing in the -lamplight, winding up in a low and thrilling voice the last passages of -what appeared to be a particularly blood-curdling narrative. - -Mr. Trippett poked Mr. Pepperdine in the ribs. - -‘Seems to ha’ fixed ’em,’ he whispered. ‘Gow--the lad’s gotten the gift -o’ the gab!--he talks like a book.’ - -‘H’sh,’ commanded Mrs. Trippett. - -‘And so the body hung on the gibbet,’ Lucian was saying, ‘through all -that winter, and the rain, and the hail, and the snow fell upon it, and -when the spring came again there remained nothing but the bones of the -brigand, and they were bleached as white as the eternal snows; and -Giacomo came and took them down and buried them in the little cemetery -under the cypress-trees; but the chain still dangles from the gibbet, -and you may hear it rattle as you pass that way as it used to rattle -when Luigi’s bones hung swaying in the wind.’ - -The spell was broken; the porter sighed deeply, and conveyed the -interrupted forkful to his mouth; the ploughboys drew deep breaths, and -looked as if they had arisen from a deep sleep; the little girl, -catching sight of her mother, ran to her with a cry of ‘Is it true? Is -it true?’ and Mr. Trippett brought everybody back to real life by loud -calls for Mr. Pepperdine’s horse and trap. Then followed the putting on -of overcoats and wraps, and the bestowal of a glass of ginger-wine upon -Lucian by Mr. Trippett, in order that the cold might be kept out, and -then good-nights and Godspeeds, and he was in the dogcart at Mr. -Pepperdine’s side, and the mare, very fresh, was speeding over the six -miles of highway which separated Mr. Trippett’s stable from her own. - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -While Mr. Pepperdine refreshed himself at his friend’s house, his -sisters awaited the coming of himself and his charge with as much -patience as they could summon to their aid. Each knew that patience was -not only necessary, but inevitable. It would have been the easiest thing -in the world for Mr. Pepperdine to have driven straight home from the -station and supped in his own parlour, and that, under the -circumstances, would have seemed the most reasonable thing to do. But -Mr. Pepperdine made a rule of never passing the gates of the Grange -Farm, and his sisters knew that he would tarry there on his homeward -journey, accept Mrs. Trippett’s invitation to tea, and spend an hour or -two afterwards in convivial intercourse with Mr. Trippett. That took -place every market-day and every time Mr. Pepperdine had occasion to -travel by train; and the Misses Pepperdine knew that it would go on -taking place as long as their brother Simpson and his friends at the -Grange Farm continued to exist. - -At nine o’clock Miss Pepperdine, who had been knitting by the parlour -fire since seven, grew somewhat impatient. - -‘I think Simpson might have come home straight from the station,’ she -said in sharp, decided tones. ‘The child is sure to be tired.’ - -Miss Judith Pepperdine, engaged on fancy needlework on the opposite side -of the hearth, shook her head. - -‘Simpson never passes the Grange,’ she said. ‘That night I came with him -from Oakborough last winter, I couldn’t get him to come home. He coaxed -me to go in for just ten minutes, and we had to stop four hours.’ - -Miss Pepperdine sniffed. Her needles clicked vigorously for a few -minutes longer; she laid them down at a quarter past nine, went across -the parlour to a cupboard, unlocked it, produced a spirit-case and three -glasses, and set them on the table in the middle of the room. At the -same moment a tap sounded on the door, and a maid entered bearing a jug -of hot water, a dish of lemons, and a bowl of sugar. She was about to -leave the room after setting her tray down when Miss Pepperdine stopped -her. - -‘I wonder what the boy had better have, Judith?’ she said, looking at -her sister. ‘He’s sure to have had a good tea at the Grange--Sarah -Trippett would see to that--but he’ll be cold. Some hot milk, I should -think. Bring some new milk in the brass pan, Anne, and another -glass--I’ll heat it myself over this fire.’ - -Then, without waiting to hear whether Miss Judith approved the notion of -hot milk or not, she sat down to her knitting again, and when the maid -had brought the brass pan and the glass and withdrawn, the parlour -became hushed and silent. It was an old-world room--there was not an -article of furniture in it that was less than a hundred years old, and -the old silver and old china arranged in the cabinets and on the -side-tables were as antiquated as the chairs, the old bureau, and the -pictures. Everything was old, good, and substantial; everything smelled -of a bygone age and of dried rose-leaves. - -The two sisters, facing each other across the hearth, were in thorough -keeping with the old-world atmosphere of their parlour. Miss Keziah -Pepperdine, senior member of the family, and by no means afraid of -admitting that she had attained her fiftieth year, was tall and -well-built; a fine figure of a woman, with a handsome face, jet-black -hair, and eyes of a decided keenness. There was character and decision -in her every movement; in her sharp, incisive speech; in her quick -glance; and in the nervous, resolute click of her knitting needles. As -she knitted, she kept her lips pursed tightly together and her eyes -fixed upon her work: it needed little observation to make sure that -whatever Miss Pepperdine did would be done with resolution and -thoroughness. She was a woman to be respected rather than loved; feared -more than honoured; and there was a flash in her hawk’s eyes, and a -grimness about her mouth, which indicated a temper that could strike -with force and purpose. Further indications of her character were seen -in her attire, which was severely simple--a gown of black, unrelieved by -any speck of white, hanging in prim, straight folds, and utterly -unadorned, but, to a knowing eye, fashioned of most excellent and costly -material. - -Judith Pepperdine, many years younger than her sister, was dressed in -black too, but the sombreness of her attire was relieved by white cuffs -and collar, and by a very long thin gold chain, which was festooned -twice round her neck ere it sought refuge in the watch-pocket at her -waist. She had a slender figure of great elegance, and was proud of it, -just as she was proud of the fact that at forty years of age she was -still a pretty woman. There was something of the girl still left in her: -some dreaminess of eye, a suspicion of coquetry, an innate desire to -please the other sex and to be admired by men. Her cheek was still -smooth and peach-like; her eyes still bright, and her brown hair glossy; -old maid that she undoubtedly was, there were many good-looking girls in -the district who had not half her attractions. To her natural good looks -Judith Pepperdine added a native refinement and elegance; she knew how -to move about a room and walk the village street. Her smile was -famous--old Dr. Stubbins, of Normanfold, an authority in such matters, -said that for sweetness and charm he would back Judith Pepperdine’s -smile against the world. - -There were many people who wondered why the handsome Miss Pepperdine had -never married, but there was scarcely one who knew why she had remained -and meant to remain single. Soon after the marriage of her sister Lucy -to Cyprian Damerel, Judith developed a love-affair of her own with a -dashing cavalry man, a sergeant of the 13th Hussars, then quartered at -Oakborough. He was a handsome young man, the son of a local farmer, and -his ambition had been for soldiering from boyhood. Coming into the -neighbourhood in all his glory, and often meeting Judith at the houses -of mutual friends, he had soon laid siege to her and captured her -susceptible heart. Their engagement was kept secret, for old Mrs. -Pepperdine had almost as great an objection to soldiers as to -foreigners, and would have considered a non-commissioned officer beneath -her daughter’s notice. The sergeant, however, had aspirations--it was -his hope to secure a commission in an infantry regiment, and his -ambition in this direction seemed likely to be furthered when his -regiment was ordered out to India and presently engaged in a frontier -campaign. But there his good luck came to an untimely end--he performed -a brave action which won him the Victoria Cross, but he was so severely -wounded in doing it that he died soon afterwards, and Judith’s romance -came to a bitter end. She had had many offers of marriage since, and had -refused them all--the memory of the handsome Hussar still lived in her -sentimental heart, and her most cherished possession was the cross which -he had won and had not lived to receive. Time had healed the wound: she -no longer experienced the pangs and sorrows of her first grief. -Everything had been mellowed down into a soft regret, and the still -living affection for the memory of a dead man kept her heart young. - -That night Judith for once in a while had no thought of her dead -lover--she was thinking of the boy whom Simpson was bringing to them. -She remembered Lucy with wondering thoughts, trying to recall her as she -was when Cyprian Damerel took her away to London and a new life. None of -her own people had ever seen Lucy again--they were stay-at-home folk, -and the artist and his wife had spent most of their short married life -on the Continent. Now Damerel, too, was dead, and the boy was coming -back to his mother’s people, and Judith, who was given to dreaming, -speculated much concerning him. - -‘I wonder,’ she said, scarcely knowing that she spoke, ‘I wonder what -Lucian will be like.’ - -‘And I wonder,’ said Miss Pepperdine, ‘if Damerel has left any money for -him.’ - -‘Surely!’ exclaimed Judith. ‘He earned such large sums by his -paintings.’ - -Miss Pepperdine’s needles clicked more sharply than ever. - -‘He spent large sums too,’ she said. ‘I’ve heard of the way in which he -lived. He was an extravagant man, like most of his sort. That sort of -money is earned easily and spent easily. With his ideas and his tastes, -he ought to have been a duke. I hope he has provided for the boy--times -are not as good as they might be.’ - -‘You would never begrudge anything to Lucy’s child, sister?’ said Judith -timidly, and with a wistful glance at Miss Pepperdine’s stern -countenance. ‘I’m sure I shouldn’t--he is welcome to all I have.’ - -‘Umph!’ replied Miss Pepperdine. ‘Who talked of begrudging anything to -the child? All I say is, I hope his father has provided for him.’ - -Judith made no answer to this remark, and the silence which followed was -suddenly broken by the sound of wheels on the drive outside the house. -Both sisters rose to their feet; each showed traces of some emotion. -Without a word they passed out of the room into the hall. The -maid-servant had already opened the door, and in the light of the -hanging lamp they saw their brother helping Lucian out of the dogcart. -The sisters moved forward. - -‘Now, then, here we are!’ said Mr. Pepperdine. ‘Home again, safe and -sound, and no breakages. Lucian, my boy, here’s your aunts Keziah and -Judith. Take him in, lassies, and warm him--it’s a keenish night.’ - -The boy stepped into the hall, and lifted his hat as he looked up at the -two women. - -‘How do you do?’ he said politely. - -Miss Pepperdine drew a quick breath. She took the outstretched hand and -bent down and kissed the boy’s cheek; in the lamplight she had seen her -dead sister’s eyes look out of the young face, and for the moment she -could not trust herself to speak. Judith trembled all over; as the boy -turned to her she put both arms round him and drew him into the parlour, -and there embraced him warmly. He looked at her somewhat wonderingly and -critically, and then responded to her embrace. - -‘You are my Aunt Judith,’ he said. ‘Uncle Pepperdine told me about you. -You are the handsome one.’ - -Judith kissed him again. She had fallen in love with him on the spot. - -‘Yes, I am your Aunt Judith, my dear,’ she said. ‘And I am very, very -glad to see you--we are all glad.’ - -She still held him in her arms, looking at him long and hungrily. Miss -Pepperdine came in, businesslike and bustling; she had lingered in the -hall, ostensibly to give an order to the servant, but in reality to get -rid of a tear or two. - -‘Now, then, let me have a look at him,’ she said, and drew the boy out -of Judith’s hands and turned him to the light. ‘Your Aunt Judith,’ she -continued as she scanned him critically, ‘is the handsome one, as I -heard you say just now--I’m the ugly one. Do you think you’ll like me?’ - -Lucian stared back at her with a glance as keen and searching as her -own. He looked her through and through. - -‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I like you. I think----’ He paused and smiled a -little. - -‘You think--what?’ - -‘I think you might be cross sometimes, but you’re good,’ he said, still -staring at her. - -Miss Pepperdine laughed. Judith knew that she was conquered. - -‘Well, you’ll find out,’ said Miss Pepperdine. ‘Now, then, off with your -coat--are you hungry?’ - -‘No,’ answered Lucian. ‘I ate too much at Mrs. Trippett’s--English -people have such big meals, I think.’ - -‘Give him a drop of something warm,’ said Mr. Pepperdine, entering with -much rubbing of hands and stamping of feet. ‘’Tis cold as Christmas, -driving through them woods ’twixt here and Wellsby.’ - -Miss Pepperdine set the brass pan on the fire, and presently handed -Lucian a glass of hot milk, and produced an old-fashioned biscuit-box -from the cupboard. The boy sat down near Judith, ate and drank, and -looked about him, all unconscious that the two women and the man were -watching him with all their eyes. - -‘I like this room better than Mrs. Trippett’s,’ he said suddenly. ‘Hers -is a pretty room, but this shows more taste. And all the furniture is -Chippendale!’ - -‘Bless his heart!’ said Miss Pepperdine, ‘so it is. How did you know -that, my dear?’ - -Lucian stared at her. - -‘I know a lot about old furniture,’ he said; ‘my father taught me.’ He -yawned and looked apologetic. ‘I think I should like to go to bed,’ he -added, glancing at Miss Pepperdine. ‘I am sleepy--we have been -travelling all day.’ - -Judith rose from her chair with alacrity. She was pining to get the boy -all to herself. - -‘I’ll take him to his room,’ she said. ‘Come along, dear, your room is -all ready for you.’ - -The boy shook hands with Aunt Keziah. She kissed him again and patted -his head. He crossed over to Mr. Pepperdine, who was pulling off his -boots. - -‘I’ll go riding with you in the morning,’ he said. ‘After breakfast, I -suppose, eh?’ - -‘Ay, after breakfast,’ answered Mr. Pepperdine. ‘I’ll tell John to have -the pony ready. Good-night, my lad; your Aunt Judith’ll see you’re all -comfortable.’ - -Lucian shook hands with his uncle, and went cheerfully away with Judith. -Miss Pepperdine sighed as the door closed upon them. - -‘He’s the very image of Cyprian Damerel,’ she said; ‘but he has Lucy’s -eyes.’ - -‘He’s a fine little lad,’ said Mr. Pepperdine. ‘An uncommon fine little -lad, and quite the gentleman. I’m proud of him.’ - -He had got into his slippers by this time, and he cast a longing eye at -the spirit-case on the table. Miss Pepperdine rose, produced an -old-fashioned pewter thimble, measured whisky into it, poured it into a -tumbler, added lemon, sugar, and hot water, and handed it to her -brother, who received it with an expression of gratitude, and sipped it -critically. She measured a less quantity into two other glasses and -mixed each with similar ingredients. - -‘Judith won’t be coming down again,’ she said. ‘I’ll take her tumbler up -to her room; and I’m going to bed myself--we’ve had a long day with -churning. You’ll not want any news to-night, Simpson; it’ll keep till -to-morrow, and there’s little to tell--all’s gone on right.’ - -‘That’s a blessing,’ said Mr. Pepperdine, stretching his legs. - -Miss Pepperdine put away her knitting, removed the spirit-case into the -cupboard, locked the door and put the key in her pocket, and took up the -little tray on which she had placed the tumblers intended for herself -and her sister. But on the verge of leaving the room she paused and -looked at her brother. - -‘We were glad you got there in time, Simpson,’ she said. ‘And you did -right to bring the child home--it was the right thing to do. I hope -Damerel has made provision for him?’ - -Mr. Pepperdine was seized with a mighty yawning. - -‘Oh ay!’ he said as soon as he could speak. ‘The lad’s all right, -Keziah--all right. Everything’s in my hands--yes, it’s all right.’ - -‘You must tell me about it afterwards,’ said Miss Pepperdine. ‘I’ll go -now--I just want to see that the boy has all he wants. Good-night, -Simpson.’ - -‘Good-night, my lass, good-night,’ said the farmer. ‘I’ll just look -round and be off to bed myself.’ - -Miss Pepperdine left the room and closed the door; her brother heard the -ancient staircase creak as she climbed to the sleeping-chambers. He -waited a few minutes, and then, rising from his chair, he produced a key -from his pocket, walked over to the old bureau, unlocked a small -cupboard, and brought forth a bottle of whisky. He drew the cork with a -meditative air and added a liberal dose of spirit to that handed to him -by his sister. He replaced the bottle and locked up the cupboard, poured -a little more hot water into his glass, and sipped the strengthened -mixture with approbation. Then he winked solemnly at his reflection in -the old mirror above the chimney-piece, and sat down before the fire to -enjoy his nightcap in privacy and comfort. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -Lucian went to sleep in a chamber smelling of lavender. He was very -tired, and passed into a land of gentle dreams as soon as his head -touched the pillow. Almost before he realised that he was falling asleep -he was wide awake again and it was morning. Broad rays of sunlight -flooded the room; he heard the notes of many birds singing outside the -window; it was plain that another day was already hastening to noon. He -glanced at his watch: it was eight o’clock. Lucian left his bed, drew up -the blind, and looked out of the window. - -He had seen nothing of Simonstower on the previous evening: it had -seemed to him that after leaving Mr. Trippett’s farmstead he and Mr. -Pepperdine had been swallowed up in deep woods. He had remarked during -the course of the journey that the woods smelled like the pine forests -of Ravenna, and Mr. Pepperdine had answered that there was a deal of -pine thereabouts and likewise fir. Out of the woods they had not emerged -until they drove into the lights of a village, clattered across a bridge -which spanned a brawling stream, and climbed a winding road that led -them into more woods. Then had come the open door, and the new faces, -and bed, and now Lucian had his first opportunity of looking about him. - -The house stood halfway up a hillside. He saw, on leaning out of the -window, that it was stoutly fashioned of great blocks of grey stone and -that some of the upper portions were timbered with mighty oak beams. -Over the main doorway, a little to the right of his window, a slab of -weather-worn stone exhibited a coat of arms, an almost illegible motto -or legend, of which he could only make out a few letters, and the -initials ‘S. P.’ over the date 1594. The house, then, was of a -respectable antiquity, and he was pleased because of it. He was -pleased, too, to find the greater part of its exterior half obscured by -ivy, jessamine, climbing rose-trees, honeysuckle, and wistaria, and that -the garden which stretched before it was green and shady and -old-fashioned. He recognised some features of it--the old, moss-grown -sun-dial; the arbour beneath the copper-beech; the rustic bench beneath -the lilac-tree--he had seen one or other of these things in his father’s -pictures, and now knew what memories had placed them there. - -Looking further afield Lucian now saw the village through which they had -driven in the darkness. It lay in the valley, half a mile beneath him, a -quaint, picturesque place of one long straggling street, in which at -that moment he saw many children running about. The houses and cottages -were all of grey stone; some were thatched, some roofed with red tiles; -each stood amidst gardens and orchards. He now saw the bridge over which -Mr. Pepperdine’s mare had clattered the night before--a high, single -arch spanning a winding river thickly fenced in from the meadows by -alder and willow. Near it on rising ground stood the church, -square-towered, high of roof and gable, in the midst of a green -churchyard which in one corner contained the fallen masonry of some old -abbey or priory. On the opposite side of the river, in a small square -which seemed to indicate the forum of the village, stood the inn, easily -recognisable even at that distance by the pole which stood outside it, -bearing aloft a swinging sign, and by the size of the stables -surrounding it. This picture, too, was familiar to the boy’s eyes--he -had seen it in pictures a thousand times. - -Over the village, frowning upon it as a lion frowns upon the victim at -its feet, hung the grim, gaunt castle which, after all, was the -principal feature of the landscape on which Lucian gazed. It stood on a -spur of rocky ground which jutted like a promontory from the hills -behind it--on three sides at least its situation was impregnable. From -Lucian’s point of vantage it still wore the aspect of strength and -power; the rustic walls were undamaged; the smaller towers and turrets -showed little sign of decay; and the great Norman keep rose like a -menace in stone above the skyline of the hills. All over the giant mass -of the old stronghold hung a drifting cloud of blue smoke, which -gradually mingled with the spirals rising from the village chimneys and -with the shadowy mists that curled about the pine-clad uplands. And over -everything--village, church, river, castle, meadow, and hill, man and -beast--shone the spring sun, life-giving and generous. Lucian looked and -saw and understood, and made haste to dress in order that he might go -out and possess all these things. He had a quick eye for beauty and an -unerring taste, and he recognised that in this village of the grey North -there was a charm and a romance which nothing could exhaust. His father -had recognised its beauty before him and had immortalised it on canvas; -Lucian, lacking the power to make a picture of it, had yet a keener -æsthetic sense of its appeal and its influence. It was already calling -to him with a thousand voices--he was so impatient to revel in it that -he grudged the time given to his breakfast. Miss Pepperdine expressed -some fears as to the poorness of his appetite; Miss Judith, -understanding the boy’s eagerness somewhat better, crammed a thick slice -of cake into his pocket as he set out. He was in such haste that he had -only time to tell Mr. Pepperdine that he would not ride the pony that -morning--he was going to explore the village, and the pony might wait. -Then he ran off, eager, excited. - -He came back at noon, hungry as a ploughman, delighted with his -morning’s adventures. He had been all over the village, in the church -tower, inside the inn, where he had chatted with the landlord and the -landlady, he had looked inside the infants’ school and praised the red -cloaks worn by the girls to an evidently surprised schoolmistress, and -he had formed an acquaintance with the blacksmith and the carpenter. - -‘And I went up to the castle, too,’ he said in conclusion, ‘and saw the -earl, and he showed me the picture which my father painted--it is -hanging in the great hall.’ Lucian’s relatives betrayed various -emotions. Mr. Pepperdine’s mouth slowly opened until it became -cavernous; Miss Pepperdine paused in the act of lifting a potato to her -mouth; Miss Judith clapped her hands. - -‘You went to the castle and saw the earl?’ said Miss Pepperdine. - -‘Yes,’ answered Lucian, unaware of the sensation he was causing. ‘I saw -him and the picture, and other things too. He was very kind--he made his -footman give me a glass of wine, but it was home-made and much too -sweet.’ - -Mr. Pepperdine winked at his sisters and cut Lucian another slice of -roast-beef. - -‘And how might you have come to be so hand-in-glove with his lordship, -the mighty Earl of Simonstower?’ he inquired. ‘He’s a very nice, affable -old gentleman, isn’t he, Keziah? Ah--very--specially when he’s got the -gout.’ - -‘Oh, I went to the castle and rang the bell, and asked if the Earl of -Simonstower was at home,’ Lucian replied. ‘And I told the footman my -name, and he went away, and then came back and told me to follow him, -and he took me into a big study where there was an old, very -cross-looking old gentleman in an old-fashioned coat writing letters. He -had very keen eyes....’ - -‘Ah, indeed!’ interrupted Mr. Pepperdine. ‘Like a hawk’s!’ - -‘...and he stared at me,’ continued Lucian, ‘and I stared at him. And -then he said, “Well, my boy, what do you want?” and I said, “Please, if -you are the Earl of Simonstower, I want to see the picture you bought -from my father some years ago.” Then he stared harder than ever, and he -said, “Are you Cyprian Damerel’s son?” and I said “Yes.” He pointed to -a chair and told me to sit down, and he talked about my father and his -work, and then he took me out to look at the pictures. He wanted to know -if I, too, was going to paint, and I had to tell him that I couldn’t -draw at all, and that I meant to be a poet. Then he showed me his -library, or a part of it--I stopped with him a long time, and he shook -hands with me when I left, and said I might go again whenever I wished -to.’ - -‘Hear, hear!’ said Mr. Pepperdine. ‘It’s very evident there’s a soft -spot somewhere in the old gentleman’s heart.’ - -‘And what did his lordship talk to you about?’ asked Miss Pepperdine, -who had sufficiently recovered from her surprise to resume her dinner. -‘I hope you said “my lord” and “your lordship” when you spoke to him?’ - -‘No, I didn’t, because I didn’t know,’ said Lucian. ‘I said “sir,” -because he was an old man. Oh, we talked about Italy--fancy, he hasn’t -been in Italy for twenty years!--and he asked me a lot of questions -about several things, and he got me to translate a letter for him which -he had just received from a professor at Florence--his own Italian, he -said, is getting rusty.’ - -‘And could you do it?’ asked Miss Pepperdine. - -Lucian stared at her with wide-open eyes. - -‘Why, yes,’ he answered. ‘It is my native tongue. I know much, much more -Italian than English. Sometimes I cannot find the right word in -English--it is a difficult language to learn.’ - -Lucian’s adventures of his first morning pleased Mr. Pepperdine greatly. -He chuckled to himself as he smoked his after-dinner pipe--the notion of -his nephew bearding the grim old earl in his tumble-down castle was -vastly gratifying and amusing: it was also pleasing to find Lucian -treated with such politeness. As the Earl of Simonstower’s tenant Mr. -Pepperdine had much respect but little affection for his titled -neighbour: the old gentleman was arbitrary and autocratic and totally -deaf to whatever might be said to him about bad times. Mr. Pepperdine -was glad to get some small change out of the earl through his nephew. - -‘Did his lordship mention me or your aunties at all?’ he said, puffing -at his pipe as they all sat round the parlour fire. - -‘Yes,’ answered Lucian, ‘he spoke of you.’ - -‘And what did he say like? Something sweet, no doubt,’ said Mr. -Pepperdine. - -Lucian looked at Miss Judith and made no answer. - -‘Out with it, lad!’ said Mr. Pepperdine. - -‘It was only about Aunt Judith,’ answered Lucian. ‘He said she was a -very pretty woman.’ - -Mr. Pepperdine exploded in bursts of hearty laughter; Miss Judith -blushed like any girl; Miss Pepperdine snorted with indignation. She was -about to make some remark on the old nobleman’s taste when a diversion -was caused by the announcement that Lucian’s beloved chest of books had -arrived from Wellsby station. Nothing would satisfy the boy but that he -must unpack them there and then; he seized Miss Judith by the hand and -dragged her away to help him. For the rest of the afternoon the two were -arranging the books in an old bookcase which they unearthed from a -lumber-room and set up in Lucian’s sleeping chamber. Mr. Pepperdine, -looking in upon them once or twice and noting their fervour, retired to -the parlour or the kitchen with a remark to his elder sister that they -were as throng as Throp’s wife. Judith, indeed, had some taste in the -way of literature--in her own room she treasured a collection of volumes -which she had read over and over again. Her taste was chiefly for Lord -Byron, Moore, Mrs. Hemans, Miss Landon, and the sentimentalists; she -treasured a steel-plate engraving of Byron as if it had been a sacred -picture, and gazed with awe upon her nephew when he told her that he had -seen the palazzo in which Byron lived during his residence in Pisa, and -the house which he had occupied in Venice. Her own romance had given -Judith a love of poetry: she told Lucian as she helped him to unpack his -books and arrange them that she should expect him to read to her. Modern -literature was an unexplored field in her case; her knowledge of letters -was essentially early Victorian, and her ideas those of the age in which -a poet was most popular when most miserable, and young ladies wore white -stockings and low shoes with ankle-straps. She associated fiction with -high waists, and essays with full-bottomed wigs, and it seemed the most -natural thing to her to shed the tear of sympathy over the Corsair and -to sigh with pity for Childe Harold. - - - - -CHAPTER V - - -Lucian settled down in his new surroundings with a readiness and -docility that surprised his relatives. He rarely made any allusion to -the loss of his father--he appeared to possess a philosophic spirit that -enabled him, even at so early an age, to accept the facts of life as -they are. He was never backward, however, in talking of the past. He had -been his father’s constant companion for six years, and had travelled -with him wherever he went, especially in Italy, and he brought out of -his memory stores of reminiscences with which to interest and amuse his -newly found relatives. He would talk to Mr. Pepperdine of Italian -agriculture; to Keziah of Italian domestic life; to Judith of the -treasures of Rome and Naples, Pisa and Florence, of the blue skies and -sun-kissed groves of his native land. He always insisted on his -nationality--the accident of his connection with England on the maternal -side seemed to have no meaning for him. - -‘I am Italian,’ he would say when Mr. Pepperdine slyly teased him. ‘It -does not matter that I was born in England. My real name is Luciano -Damerelli, and my father’s, if he had used it, was Cypriano.’ - -Little by little they began to find out the boy’s qualities and -characteristics. He was strangely old-fashioned, precocious, and -unnaturally grave, and cared little for the society of other children, -at whom he had a trick of staring as if they had been insects impaled -beneath a microscope and he a scientist examining them. He appeared to -have two great passions--one for out-door life and nature; the other for -reading. He would sit for hours on the bridge watching the river run by, -or lie on his back on the lawn in front of the house staring at the -drifting clouds. He knew every nook of the ruinous part of the castle -and every corner of the old church before he had been at Simonstower -many weeks. He made friends with everybody in the village, and if he -found out that an old man had some strange legend to tell, he pestered -the life out of him until it was told. And every day he did so much -reading, always with the stern concentration of the student who means to -possess a full mind. - -When Lucian had been nearly two months at the farm it was borne in upon -Miss Pepperdine’s mind that he ought to be sent to school. She was by no -means anxious to get rid of him--on the contrary she was glad to have -him in the house: she loved to hear him talk, to see him going about, -and to watch his various proceedings. But Keziah Pepperdine had been -endowed at birth with the desire to manage--she was one of those people -who are never happy unless they are controlling, devising, or -superintending. Moreover, she possessed a very strict sense of -justice--she believed in doing one’s duty, especially to those people to -whom duty was owing, and who could not extract it for themselves. It -seemed to her that it was the plain duty of Lucian’s relatives to send -Lucian to school. She was full of anxieties for his future. Every -attempt which she had made to get her brother to tell her anything about -the boy’s affairs had resulted in sheer failure--Simpson Pepperdine, -celebrated from the North Sea to the Westmoreland border as the -easiest-going and best-natured man that ever lived, was a past master in -the art of evading direct questions. Keziah could get no information -from him, and she was anxious for Lucian’s sake. The boy, she said, -ought to be fitted out for some walk in life. - -She took the vicar into her confidence, seizing the opportunity when he -called one day and found no one but herself at home. - -‘Of course,’ she said, ‘the boy is a great book-worm. Reading is all -that he seems to care about. He brought a quantity of books with him--he -has bought others since. He reads in an old-fashioned sort of way--not -as you would think a child would. I offered him a child’s book one -night--it was one that a little boy who once stayed here had left in the -house. He took it politely enough, and pretended to look at it, but it -was plain to see that he was amused. He is a precocious child, Mr. -Chilverstone.’ - -The vicar agreed. He suggested that he might be better able to judge the -situation, and to advise Miss Pepperdine thereon, if he were allowed to -inspect Lucian’s library, and Keziah accordingly escorted him to the -boy’s room. Mr. Chilverstone was somewhat taken aback on being -confronted by an assemblage of some three or four hundred volumes, -arranged with great precision and bearing evidences of constant use. He -remarked that the sight was most interesting, and proceeded to make a -general inspection. A rapid survey of Lucian’s books showed him that the -boy had three favourite subjects--history, mediæval romance, and poetry. -There were histories of almost every country in Europe, and at least -three of the United States of America; there were editions of the -ancient chronicles; the great Italian poets were all there in the -original; the English poets, ancient and modern, were there too, in -editions that bespoke the care of a book-lover. There was nothing of a -juvenile, or even a frivolous nature from the top of the old bookcase to -the bottom--the nearest approach to anything in the shape of light -literature was found in the presence of certain famous historical -romances of undoubted verisimilitude, and in much-thumbed copies of -_Robinson Crusoe_ and _The Pilgrim’s Progress_. - -Mr. Chilverstone was puzzled. As at least one-half of the books before -him were in Italian, he concluded that Lucian was as well acquainted -with that language as with English, and said so. Miss Pepperdine -enlightened him on the point, and gave him a rapid sketch of Lucian’s -history. - -‘Just so, just so,’ said he. ‘No doubt the boy’s father formed his -taste. It is really most interesting. It is very evident that the child -has an uncommon mind--you say that he reads with great attention and -concentration?’ - -‘You might let off a cannon at his elbow and he wouldn’t take any -notice,’ said Miss Pepperdine. - -‘It is evident that he is a born student. This is a capital collection -of modern histories,’ said Mr. Chilverstone. ‘If your nephew has read -and digested them all he must be well informed as to the rise and -progress of nations. I should like, I think, to have an opportunity of -conversing with him.’ - -Although he did not say so to Miss Pepperdine, the vicar was secretly -anxious to find out what had diverted the boy’s attention from the usual -pursuits of childhood into these paths. He contrived to waylay Lucian -and to draw him into conversation, and being a man of some talent and of -considerable sympathy, he soon knew all that the boy had to tell. He -found that Lucian had never received any education of the ordinary type; -had never been to school or known tutor or governess. He could not -remember who taught him to read, but cherished a notion that reading and -writing had come to him with his speech. As to his choice of books, that -had largely had its initiative in his father’s recommendation; but there -had been a further incentive in the fact that the boy had travelled a -great deal, was familiar with many historic scenes and places, and had a -natural desire to re-create the past in his own imagination. For six -years, in short, he had been receiving an education such as few children -are privileged to acquire. He talked of mediæval Italy as if he had -lived in its sunny-tinted hours, and of modern Rome as though it lay in -the next parish. But Mr. Chilverstone saw that the boy was in no danger -of becoming either prig or pedant, and that his mind was as normal as -his body was healthy. He was the mere outcome of an exceptional -environment. He had lived amongst men who talked and worked and thought -but with one object--Art--and their enthusiasm had filled him too. ‘I -am to be a poet--a great poet,’ he said, with serious face and a -straight stare from the violet eyes whose beauty brought everybody -captive to his feet. ‘It is my destiny.’ - -Mr. Chilverstone had a sheaf of yellow papers locked away in a secret -drawer which he had never exhibited to living man or woman--verses -written in long dead college days. He was sentimental about them still, -and the sentiment inclined him to tenderness with youthful genius. He -assured Lucian that he sincerely trusted that he might achieve his -heart’s desire, and added a word of good advice as to the inadvisability -of writing too soon. But he discovered that some one had been beforehand -with the boy on that point--the future poet, with a touch of worldly -wisdom which sounded as odd as it was quaint, assured the parson that he -had a horror of immaturity and had been commanded by his father never to -print anything until it had stood the test of cool-headed reflection and -twelve months’ keeping. - -The vicar recognised that here was material which required careful -nursing and watchful attention. He soon found that Lucian knew nothing -of mathematics, and that his only desire in the way of Greek and Latin -was that he might be able to read the poets of those languages in the -originals. Of the grammar of the English language he knew absolutely -nothing, but as he spoke with an almost too extreme correctness, and in -a voice of great refinement, Mr. Chilverstone gave it as his opinion -that there was no necessity to trouble him with its complexities. But in -presenting his report to Miss Pepperdine the vicar said that it would do -the boy good to go to school. He would mix with other boys--he was -healthy and normal enough, to be sure, and full of boyish fun in his -way, but the society of lads of his own age would be good for him. He -recommended Miss Pepperdine to send him to the grammar-school at -Saxonstowe, the headmaster of which was a friend of his and would gladly -give special attention to any boy whom he recommended. He volunteered, -carrying his kindness further, to go over to Saxonstowe and talk to Dr. -Babbacombe; for Lucian, he remarked, was no ordinary boy, and needed -special attention. - -Miss Pepperdine, like most generals who conceive their plans of campaign -in secret, found that her troubles commenced as soon as she began to -expose her scheme to criticism. Mr. Pepperdine, as a lifelong exponent -of the art of letting things alone, wanted to know what she meant by -disturbing everything when all was going on as comfortably as it could -be. He was sure the boy had as much book-learning as the archbishop -himself--besides, if he was sent away to school, he, Simpson Pepperdine, -would have nobody to talk to about how they farmed in foreign countries. -Judith, half recognising the force of her sister’s arguments, was still -angry with Keziah for allowing them to occur to her--she knew that the -boy had crept so closely into her heart and had so warmed it with new -fire that she hated the thought of his leaving her, even though -Saxonstowe was only thirty miles away. Consequently Miss Pepperdine -fought many pitched battles with her brother and sister, and Simpson and -Judith, who knew that she had more brains in her little finger than they -possessed in their two heads, took to holding conferences in secret in -the vain hope of circumventing her designs. - -It came as a vast surprise to these two conspirators that Lucian -himself, on whose behalf they basely professed to be fighting, deserted -to, or rather openly joined, the enemy as soon as the active campaign -began. Miss Pepperdine, like the astute woman she was, gained the boy’s -ear and had talked him over before either Simpson or Judith could -pervert his mind. He listened to all she had to say, showed that he was -impressed, and straightway repaired to the vicarage to seek Mr. -Chilverstone’s advice. That evening, in the course of a family council, -shared in by Mr. Pepperdine with a gloomy face and feelings of silent -resentment against Keziah, and by Judith with something of the emotion -displayed by a hen who is about to be robbed of her one chicken, Lucian -announced that he would go to school, adding, however, that if he found -there was nothing to be learnt there he would return to his uncle’s -roof. Mr. Pepperdine plucked up amazingly after this announcement, for -he cherished a secret conviction that his nephew already knew more than -any schoolmaster could teach him; but Judith shed tears when she went to -bed, and felt ill-disposed towards Keziah for the rest of the week. - -Lucian went to Saxonstowe presently with cheerfulness and a businesslike -air, and the three middle-aged Pepperdines were miserable. Mr. -Pepperdine took to going over to the Grange at Wellsby nearly every -night, and Judith was openly rebellious. Miss Pepperdine herself felt -that the house was all the duller for the boy’s absence, and wondered -how they had endured its dumb monotony before he came. There was much of -the Spartan in her, however, and she bore up without sign; but the -experience taught her that Duty, when actually done, is not so pleasing -to the human feelings as it seems to be when viewed from a distance. - -No word came from Lucian for two weeks after his departure; then the -postman brought a letter addressed to Mr. Pepperdine, which was opened -amidst great excitement at the breakfast table. Mr. Pepperdine, however, -read it in silence. - -/# - ‘My dear Uncle Simpson Pepperdine,’ wrote Lucian, ‘I did not wish - to write to you until I had been at school quite two weeks, so that - I could tell you what I thought of it, and whether it would suit - me. It is a very nice school, and all the boys are very nice too, - and I like Dr. Babbacombe, and his wife, and the masters. We have - very good meals, and I should be quite content in that respect if - one could sometimes have a cup of decent coffee, but I believe that - is impossible in England. They have a pudding here, sometimes, - which the boys call Spotted Dog--it is very satisfying and I do not - remember hearing of it before--it has what English people call - plums in it, but they are in reality small dried raisins. - - ‘I am perfectly content with my surroundings and my new friends, - but I greatly fear that this system of education will not suit me. - In some subjects, such as history and general knowledge, I find - that I already know much more than Dr. Babbacombe usually teaches - to boys. As regards other subjects I find that it is not _en règle_ - to permit discussion or argument between master and pupil. I can - quite see the reasonableness of that, but it is the only way in - which I have ever learnt everything. I am not quick at learning - anything--I have to read a thing over and over again before I - arrive at the true significance. It may be that I would spend a - whole day in accounting to myself why a certain cause produces a - certain effect--the system of education in use here, however, - requires one to learn many things in quite a short time. It reminds - me of the man who taught twelve parrots all at once. In more ways - than one it reminds me of this, because I feel that many boys here - learn the sound of a word and yet do not know what the word means. - That is what I have been counselled to avoid. - - ‘I am anxious to be amenable to your wishes, but I think I shall - waste time here. If I could have my own way I should like to have - Mr. Chilverstone for a tutor, because he is a man of understanding - and patience, and would fully explain everything to me. I am not - easy in my mind here, though quite so in my body. Everybody is very - kind and the life is comfortable, but I do not think Dr. Babbacombe - or his masters are great _savants_, though they are gracious and - estimable gentlemen. - - ‘I send my love to you and my aunts, and to Mr. Chilverstone and - Mr. and Mrs. Trippett. I have bought a cricket-bat for John - Trippett and a doll for Mary, which I shall send in a box very - soon.--And I am your affectionate kinsman, - -/* - ‘LUCIAN DAMEREL. -*/ - - -#/ - -As the greater part of this remarkable epistle was pure Greek to Mr. -Pepperdine, he repaired to the vicarage with it and laid it before Mr. -Chilverstone, who, having duly considered it, returned with Lucian’s -kinsman to the farm and there entered into solemn conclave with him and -his sisters. The result of their deliberations was that the boy was soon -afterwards taken from the care of the gracious and estimable gentlemen -who were not _savants_, and placed, so far as his education was -concerned, under the sole charge of the vicar. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - - -Mr. Chilverstone was one of those men upon whom many sorrows and -disappointments are laid. He had set out in life with a choice selection -of great ambitions, and at forty-five not one of them had fructified. -Ill-health had always weighed him down in one direction; ill-luck in -another; the only piece of good fortune which had ever come to him came -when the Earl of Simonstower, who had heard of him as an inoffensive man -content to serve a parish without going to extremes in either of the -objectionable directions, presented him to a living which even in bad -times was worth five hundred pounds a year. But just before this -preferment came in his way Mr. Chilverstone had the misfortune to lose -his wife, and the enjoyment of the fit things of a country living was -necessarily limited to him for some time. He was not greatly taxed by -his pastoral duties, for his flock, from the earl downwards, loved that -type of parson who knows how to keep his place, and only insists on his -professional prestige on Sundays and the appointed days, and he had no -great inclination to occupy himself in other directions. As the -bitterness of his great sorrow slipped away from him he found his life -resolving itself into a level--his time was passed in reading, in -pottering about his garden, and, as she grew up, in educating his only -child, a girl who at the time of her mother’s death was little more than -an infant. At the time of Lucian’s arrival in the village Mr. -Chilverstone’s daughter was at school in Belgium--the boy’s first visits -to the vicarage were therefore made to a silent and lonely house, and -they proved very welcome to its master. - -Lucian’s experience at the grammar-school was never repeated under the -new _régime_. The vicar had been somewhat starved in the matter of -conversation for more years than he cared to remember, and it was a -Godsend to him to have a keen and inquiring mind opposed to his own. His -pupil’s education began and was continued in an unorthodox fashion; -there was no system and very little order in it, but it was good for man -and boy. They began to spend much time together, in the field as much as -in the study. Mr. Chilverstone, encouraged thereto by Lucian, revived an -ancient taste for archæology, and the two made long excursions to the -ruined abbeys, priories, castles, and hermitages in their neighbourhood. -Miss Pepperdine, to whom Lucian invariably applied for large supplies of -sandwiches on these occasions, had an uncomfortable suspicion that the -boy would have been better employed with a copy-book or a slate, but she -had great faith in the vicar, and acknowledged that her nephew never got -into mischief, though he had certainly set his room on fire one night by -a bad habit of reading in bed. She had become convinced that Lucian was -an odd chicken, who had got into the brood by some freak of fortune, and -she fell into the prevalent fashion of the family in regarding him as -something uncommon that was not to be judged by ordinary rules of life -or interfered with. To Mr. Pepperdine and to Judith he remained a -constant source of wonder, interest, and amusement, for his tongue never -ceased to wag, and he communicated to them everything that he saw, -heard, and thought, with a freedom and generosity that kept them in a -perpetual state of mental activity. - -Towards the end of June, when Lucian had been three months at -Simonstower, he walked into the vicar’s study one morning to find him in -a state of mild excitement. Mr. Chilverstone nodded his head at a letter -which lay open on his desk. - -‘The day after to-morrow,’ he said, ‘you will see my daughter. She is -coming home from school.’ - -Lucian made no answer. It seemed to him that this bare announcement -wrought some subtle change. He knew nothing whatever of girls--they had -never come into his life, and he was doubtful about them. He stared -hard at the vicar. - -‘Will you be glad to see her?’ he asked. - -‘Why, surely!’ exclaimed Mr. Chilverstone. ‘Yes--I have not seen her for -nearly a year, and it is two years since she left home. Yes--Millie is -all I have.’ - -Lucian felt a pang of jealousy. It was part of his nature to fall in -love with every new friend he made; in return, he expected each new -friend to devote himself to him. He had become very fond of the vicar; -they got on together excellently; it was not pleasant to think that a -girl was coming between them. Besides, what Mr. Chilverstone said was -not true. This Millie was not all he had--he had some of him, Lucian. - -‘You will like my little girl,’ the vicar went on, utterly oblivious of -the fact that he was making the boy furiously jealous. ‘She is full of -life and fun--a real ray of sunshine in a house.’ He sighed heavily and -looked at a portrait of his wife. ‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘she is quite a -lively girl, my little Millie. A sort of tomboy, you know. I call her -Sprats; it seems to fit her, somehow.’ - -Lucian almost choked with rage and grief. All the old, pleasant -companionship; all the long talks and walks; all the disputations and -scholarly wrangles were to be at an end, and all because of a girl whose -father called her Sprats! It was unbelievable. He gazed at the -unobservant clergyman with eyes of wonder; he had come to have a great -respect for him as a scholar, and could not understand how a man who -could make the Greek grammar so interesting could feel any interest in a -girl, even though that girl happened to be his own daughter. For women -like his aunts, and Mrs. Trippett, and the housekeeper at the castle, -Lucian had a great liking; they were all useful in one way or another, -either to get good things to eat out of, or to talk to when one wanted -to talk; but girls--whatever place had they in the economy of nature! He -had never spoken to a girl in his life, except to little Mary Trippett, -who was nine, and to whom he sometimes gave sweets and dolls. Would he -be expected to talk to this girl whose father called her Sprats? He -turned hot and cold at the thought. - -His visit to the vicarage that morning was a dead failure. Mr. -Chilverstone’s behaviour was foolish and ridiculous: he would talk of -Sprats. He even went as far as to tell Lucian of some of Sprats’s -escapades. They were mostly of the practical-joke order, and seemed to -afford Mr. Chilverstone huge amusement--Lucian wondered how he could be -so silly. He endeavoured to be as polite as possible, but he declined an -invitation to stay to lunch. He would cheerfully listen to Mr. -Chilverstone on the very dryest points of an irregular verb, but Mr. -Chilverstone on Sprats was annoying--he almost descended to futility. - -Lucian refused two invitations that afternoon. Mr. Pepperdine offered to -take him with him to York, whither he was proceeding on business; Miss -Judith asked him if he would like to go with her to the house of a -friend in whose grounds was a haunted hermitage. He declined both -invitations with great politeness and went out in solitude. Part of the -afternoon he spent with an old man who mended the roads. The old man was -stone-deaf and needed no conversational effort on the part of a friend, -and when he spoke himself he talked of intelligent subjects, such as -rheumatism, backache, and the best cure for stone in the bladder. Lucian -thought him a highly intelligent man, and presented him with a screw of -tobacco purchased at the village shop--it was a tacit thankoffering to -the gods that the old man had avoided the subject of girls. His spirits -improved after a visit to the shoemaker, who told him a brand-new ghost -story for the truth of which he vouched with many solemn asseverations, -and he was chatty with his Aunt Keziah when they took tea together. But -that night he did not talk so much as usual, and he went to bed early -and made no attempt to coax Miss Pepperdine into letting him have the -extra light which she had confiscated after he had set his bed on fire. - -Next day Lucian hoped to find the vicar in a saner frame of mind, but to -his astonishment and disgust Mr. Chilverstone immediately began to talk -of Sprats again, and continued to do so until he became unbearable. -Lucian was obliged to listen to stories which to him seemed inept, -fatuous, and even imbecile. He was told of Sprats’s first distinct -words; of her first tooth; of her first attempts to walk; of the -memorable occasion upon which she placed her pet kitten on the fire in -order to warm it. The infatuated father, who had not had an opportunity -of retailing these stories for some time, and who believed that he was -interesting his listener, continued to pour forth story after story, -each more feeble and ridiculous than the last, until Lucian could have -shrieked with the agony which was tearing his soul to pieces. He pleaded -a bad headache at last and tried to slip away--Mr. Chilverstone detained -him in order to give him an anti-headache powder, and accompanied his -researches into the medicine cupboard with a highly graphic description -of a stomach-ache which Sprats had once contracted from too lavish -indulgence in unripe apples, and was cured by himself with some simple -drug. The vicar, in short, being a disingenuous and a simple-minded man, -had got Sprats on the brain, and he imagined that every word he said was -meeting with a responsive thrill in the boy’s heart. - -Lucian escaped the fatuous father at last. He rushed out into the -sunlight, almost choking with rage, grief, and disappointment. He flung -the powder into the hedge-bottom, sat down on a stone-heap at the side -of the road, and began to swear in Italian. He swore freely and fluently -until he had exhausted that eloquent vocabulary which one may pick up in -Naples and Venice and in the purlieus of Hatton Garden, and when he had -finished he began it all over again and repeated it with as much fervour -as one should display, if one is honest, in reciting the Rosary. This -saved him from apoplexy, but the blood grew black within him and his -soul was scratched. It had been no part of Lucian’s plans for the future -that Sprats should come between him and his friend. - -He slept badly that night, and while he lay awake he said to himself -that it was all over. It was a mere repetition of history--a woman -always came between men. He had read a hundred instances--this was one -more. Of course, the Sprats creature would oust him from his -place--nothing would ever be as it had been. All was desolate, and he -was alone. He read several pages of the fourth canto of _Childe Harold_ -as soon as it was light, and dropped asleep with the firm conviction -that life is a grey thing. - -All that day and the next Lucian kept away from the vicarage. The -domestic deities wondered why he did not go as usual; he invented -plausible excuses with facile ingenuity. He neglected his books and -betrayed a suspicious interest in Mr. Pepperdine’s recent purchases of -cattle; he was restless and at times excited, and Miss Keziah looked at -his tongue and felt his forehead and made him swallow a dose of a -certain home-made medicine by which she set great store. On the third -day the suppressed excitement within him reached boiling-point. He went -out into the fields mad to work it off, and by good or ill luck lighted -upon an honest rustic who was hoeing turnips under a blazing midsummer -sun. Lucian looked at the rustic with the eye of a mocking and -mischievous devil. - -‘Boggles,’ he said, with a Mephistophelian coaxing, ‘would you like to -hear some Italian?’ Boggles ruminated. - -‘Why, Master Lucian,’ he said, ‘I don’t know as I ever did hear that -language--can’t say as I ever did, anyhow.’ - -‘Listen, then,’ said Lucian. He treated Boggles to a string of -expletives, delivered with native force and energy, making use of his -eyes and teeth until the man began to feel frightened. - -‘Lord sakes, Master Lucian!’ he said, ‘one ’ud think you was going to -murder somebody--you look that fierce. It’s a queer sort o’ language -that, sir--I never heard nowt like it. It flays a body.’ - -‘It is the most delightful language in the world when you want to -swear,’ said Lucian. ‘It....’ - -‘Nonsense! It isn’t a patch on German. You wait till I get over the -hedge and I’ll show you,’ cried a ringing and very authoritative voice. -‘I can reel off twice as much as that.’ - -Lucian turned round with an instinctive feeling that a critical moment -was at hand. He caught sight of something feminine behind the hedgerow; -the next instant a remarkably nimble girl came over a half-made gap. The -turnip-hoeing man uttered an exclamation which had much joy in it. - -‘Lord sakes if it isn’t Miss Millie!’ he said, touching his cap. ‘Glad -to see ’ee once again, missie. They did tell me you was coming from them -furrineerin’ countries, and there you be, growed quite up, as one might -say.’ - -‘Not quite, but nearly, Boggles,’ answered Miss Chilverstone. ‘How’s -your rheumatics, as one might call ’em? They were pretty bad when I went -away, I remember.’ - -‘They’re always bad i’ th’ winter, miss,’ said Boggles, leaning on his -hoe and evincing a decided desire to talk, ‘and a deal better in summer, -allus providing the Lord don’t send no rain. Fine, dry weather, miss, is -what I want--the rain ain’t no good to me.’ - -‘A little drop wouldn’t hurt the turnips, anyway,’ said Miss -Chilverstone, looking about her with a knowing air. ‘Seem pretty well -dried up, don’t they?’ She looked at Lucian. Their eyes met: the boy -stared and blushed; the girl stared and laughed. - -‘Did it lose its tongue, then?’ she said teasingly. ‘It seemed to have a -very long and very ready one when it was swearing at poor old Boggles. -What made him use such bad language to you, Boggles?’ - -‘Lord bless ’ee, missie,’ said Boggles hurriedly, ‘he didn’t mean no -harm, didn’t Master Lucian--he was telling me how they swear in -Eye-talian. Not but what it didn’t sound very terrible--but he wouldn’t -hurt a fly, wouldn’t Master Lucian, miss, he wouldn’t indeed.’ - -‘Dear little lamb!’ she said mockingly, ‘I shouldn’t think he would.’ -She turned on the boy with a sudden twist of her shoulders. ‘So you are -Lucian, are you?’ she asked. - -‘I am Lucian, yes,’ he answered. - -‘Do you know who I am?’ she asked, with a flashing look. - -Lucian stared back at her, and the shadow of a smile stole into his -face. - -‘I think,’ he said musingly, ‘I think you must be Sprats.’ - -Then the two faced each other and stared as only stranger children can -stare. - -Mr. Boggles, his watery old eyes keenly observant, leaned his chin upon -his hoe and stared also, chuckling to himself. Neither saw him; their -eyes were all for each other. The girl, without acknowledging it, -perhaps without knowing it, recognised the boy’s beauty and hated him -for it in a healthy fashion. He was too much of a picture; his clothes -were too neat; his collar too clean; his hands too white; he was -altogether too much of a fine and finicking little gentleman; he ought, -she said to herself, to be stuck in a velvet suit, and a point-lace -collar, and labelled. The spirit of mischief entered into her at the -sight of him. - -Lucian examined this strange creature with care. He was relieved to find -that she was by no means beautiful. He saw a strong-limbed, -active-looking young damsel, rather older and rather taller than -himself, whose face was odd, rather than pretty, and chiefly remarkable -for a prodigality of freckles and a healthy tan. Her nose was pugnacious -and inclined to be of the snub order; her hair sandy and anything but -tidy; there was nothing beautiful in her face but a pair of brown eyes -of a singularly clear and honest sort. As for her attire, it was not in -that order which an exacting governess might have required: she wore a -blue serge frock in which she had evidently been climbing trees or -scrambling through hedgerows, a battered straw hat wherein she or -somebody had stuck the long feathers from a cock’s tail; there was a -rent in one of her stockings, and her stout shoes looked as if she had -tramped through several ploughed fields in them. All over and round her -glowed a sort of aureole of rude and vigorous health, of animal spirits, -and of a love of mischief--the youthful philosopher confronting her -recognised a new influence and a new nature. - -‘Yes,’ she said demurely, ‘I’m Sprats, and you’ve a cheek to call me -so--who gave you leave, I’d like to know? What would you think if I told -you that you’d look nice if you had a barrel-organ and a monkey on it? -Ha! ha! had him there, hadn’t I, Boggles? Well, do you know where I am -going, monkey-boy?’ - -Lucian sighed resignedly. - -‘No,’ he answered. - -‘Going to fetch you,’ she said. ‘You haven’t been to your lessons for -two days, and you’re to go this instant minute.’ - -‘I don’t think I want any lessons to-day,’ replied Lucian. - -‘Hear him!’ she said, making a grimace. ‘What do they do with little -boys who won’t go to school, Boggles--eh?’ - -If Lucian had known more of a world with which he had never, poor child, -had much opportunity of making acquaintance, he would have seen that -Sprats was meditating mischief. Her eyes began to glitter: she smiled -demurely. - -‘Are you coming peaceably?’ she asked. - -‘But I’m not coming at all,’ replied Lucian. - -‘Aren’t you, though? We’ll soon settle that, won’t we, Boggles?’ she -exclaimed. ‘Now then, monkey--off you go!’ - -She was on him with a rush before he knew what was about to happen, and -had lifted him off his feet and swung him on to her shoulder ere he -could escape her. Lucian expostulated and beseeched; Sprats, shouting -and laughing, made for a gap in the hedgerow; Boggles, hugely delighted, -following in the wake. At the gap a battle royal ensued--Lucian fighting -to free himself, the girl clinging on to him with all the strength of -her vigorous young arms. - -‘Let me go, I say!’ cried Lucian. ‘Let me down!’ - -‘You’d best to go quiet and peaceable, Master Lucian,’ counselled -Boggles. ‘Miss Millie ain’t one to be denied of anything.’ - -‘But I won’t be carried!’ shouted Lucian, half mad with rage. ‘I -won’t....’ - -He got no further. Sprats, holding on tight to her captive, caught her -foot in a branch as she struggled over the gap, and pitched headlong -through. There was a steep bank at the other side with a wide ditch of -water at its foot: Boggles, staring over the hedge with all his eyes, -beheld captor and captive, an inextricable mass of legs and arms, turn a -series of hurried somersaults and collapse into the duck-weed and -water-lilies with a splash that drowned their mutual screams of rage, -indignation, and delight. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - - -It followed as a matter of inevitable consequence that Lucian and Sprats -when they emerged from the waters of the wayside ditch had become fast -friends for life; from that time forward they were as David and -Jonathan, loving much, and having full confidence in each other. They -became inseparable, and their lives were spent together from an early -hour of the morning until the necessary bedtime. The vicar was to a -certain degree shelved: his daughter possessed the charm of youth and -high spirits which was wanting in him. He became a species of elder -brother, who was useful in teaching one things and good company on -occasions. He, like the philosopher which life had made him, accepted -the situation. He saw that the devotion which Lucian had been about to -pour out at his own feet had by a sudden whim of fate been diverted to -his daughter, and he smiled. He took from these two children all that -they gave him, and was sometimes gorged to satiety and sometimes kept on -short commons, according to their vagaries and moods. Like all young and -healthy things, they believed that the world had been made for their own -particular benefit, and they absorbed it. Perhaps there had never been -such a close companionship as that which sprang up between these two. -The trifling fact that one was a boy and the other a girl never seemed -to strike them: they were sexless and savage in their freedom. Under -Sprats’s fostering care Lucian developed a new side of his character: -she taught him to play cricket and football, to climb trees and -precipices, to fish and to ride, and to be an out-of-door boy in every -way. He, on his part, repaid her by filling her mind with much of his -own learning: she became as familiar with the scenes of his childhood as -if she had lived in them herself. - -For three years the vicar, Sprats, and Lucian lived in a world of their -own, with the Pepperdines as a closely fitting environment. Miss -Pepperdine was accustomed to remark that she did not know whether Lucian -really lived at the farm or at the vicarage, but as the vicar often made -a similar observation with respect to his daughter, things appeared to -be equalised. It was true that the two children treated the houses with -equal freedom. If they happened to be at the farm about dinner-time they -dined there, but the vicarage would have served them equally well if it -had harboured them when the luncheon-bell rang. Mr. Pepperdine was -greatly delighted when he found them filling a side of his board: their -remarks on things in general, their debates, disputes, and more than -all, their quarrels, afforded him much amusement. They were not so well -understood by Miss Pepperdine, who considered the young lady from the -vicarage to be something of a hoyden, and thought it the vicar’s duty to -marry again and provide his offspring with a mother. - -‘And a pretty time she’d have!’ remarked Mr. Pepperdine, to whom this -sage reflection was offered. ‘A nice handful for anybody, is that young -Sprats--as full of mischief as an egg is full of meat. But a good ge’l, -a good ge’l, Keziah, and with a warm heart, you make no mistake.’ - -Sprats’s kindness of heart, indeed, was famous throughout the village. -She was her father’s almoner, and tempered charity with discrimination -in a way that would have done credit to a professional philanthropist. -She made periodical visits through the village, followed by Lucian, who -meekly carried a large basket containing toothsome and seasonable doles, -which were handed out to this or that old woman in accordance with -Sprats’s instructions. The instinct of mothering something was strong -within her. From the moment of her return from school she had taken her -father in hand and had shaken him up and pulled him together. He had -contracted bad habits as regards food and was becoming dyspeptic; he -was careless about his personal comfort and neglectful of his -health--Sprats dragooned him into the paths of rectitude. But she -extended her mothering instincts to Lucian even more than to her father. -She treated him at times as if he were a child with whom it was -unnecessary to reason; there was always an affectionate solicitude in -her attitude towards him which was, perhaps, most marked when she -bullied him into subjection. Once when he was ill and confined to his -room for a week or two she took up her quarters at the farm, summarily -dismissed Keziah and Judith from attendance on the invalid, and nursed -him back to convalescence. It was useless to argue with her on these -occasions. Sprats, as Boggles had truly said, was not one to be denied -of anything, and every year made it more manifest that when she had -picked Lucian up in the turnip-field and had fallen headlong into the -ditch with him, it had been a figure of her future interest in his -welfare. - -It was in the fourth summer of Lucian’s residence at Simonstower, and he -was fifteen and Sprats nearly two years older, when the serpent stole -into their Paradise. Until the serpent came all had gone well with them. -Sprats was growing a fine girl; she was more rudely healthy than ever, -and just as sunburned; her freckles had increased rather than decreased; -her hair, which was growing deeper in colour, was a perpetual nuisance -to her. She had grown a little quieter in manner, but would break out at -times; the mere fact that she wore longer skirts did not prevent her -from climbing trees or playing cricket. And she and Lucian were still -hand-in-glove, still David and Jonathan; she had no friends of her own -sex, and he none of his; each was in a happy state of perfect content. -But the stage of absolute perfection is by no means assured even in the -Arcadia of childhood--it may endure for a time, but sooner or later it -must be broken in upon, and not seldom in a rudely sudden way. - -The breaking up of the old things began one Sunday morning in summer, -in the cool shade of the ancient church. Nothing heralded the momentous -event; everything was as placid as it always was. Lucian, sitting in the -pew sacred to the family of Pepperdine, looked about him and saw just -what he saw every Sunday. Mr. Pepperdine was at the end of the pew in -his best clothes; Miss Pepperdine was gorgeous in black silk and bugles; -Miss Judith looked very handsome in her pearl-grey. In the vicarage pew, -all alone, sat Sprats in solemn state. Her freckled face shone with much -polishing; her sailor hat was quite straight; as for the rest of her, -she was clothed in a simple blouse and a plain skirt, and there were no -tears in either. All the rest was as usual. The vicar’s surplice had -been newly washed, and Sprats had mended a bit of his hood, which had -become frayed by hanging on a nail in the vestry, but otherwise he -presented no different appearance to that which always characterised -him. There were the same faces, and the same expressions upon them, in -every pew, and that surely was the same bee that always buzzed while -they waited for the service to begin, and the three bells in the tower -droned out. ‘_Come_ to church--_come_ to church--_come_ to church!’ - -It was at this very moment that the serpent stole into Paradise. The -vicar had broken the silence with ‘When the wicked man turneth away from -his wickedness,’ and everybody had begun to rustle the leaves of their -prayer-books, when the side-door of the chancel opened and the Earl of -Simonstower, very tall, and very gaunt, and very irascible in -appearance, entered in advance of two ladies, whom he marshalled to the -castle pew with as much grace and dignity as his gout would allow. -Lucian and Sprats, with a wink to each other which no one else -perceived, examined the earl’s companions during the recitation of the -General Confession, looking through the slits of their hypocritical -fingers. The elder lady appeared to be a woman of fashion: she was -dressed in a style not often seen at Simonstower, and her attire, her -lorgnette, her vinaigrette, her fan, and her airs and graces formed a -delightful contrast to the demeanour of the old earl, who was famous for -the rustiness of his garments, and stuck like a leech to the fashion of -the ‘forties.’ - -But it was neither earl nor simpering madam at which Lucian gazed at -surreptitious moments during the rest of the service. The second of the -ladies to enter into the pew of the great house was a girl of sixteen, -ravishingly pretty, and gay as a peacock in female flaunts and fineries -which dazzled Lucian’s eyes. She was dark, and her eyes were shaded by -exceptionally long lashes which swept a creamy cheek whereon there -appeared the bloom of the peach, fresh, original, bewitching; her hair, -curling over her shoulders from beneath a white sun-bonnet, artfully -designed to communicate an air of innocence to its wearer, was of the -same blue-black hue that distinguished Lucian’s own curls. It chanced -that the boy had just read some extracts from _Don Juan_: it seemed to -him that here was Haidee in the very flesh. A remarkably strange -sensation suddenly developed in the near region of his heart--Lucian for -the first time in his life had fallen in love. He felt sick and queer -and almost stifled; Miss Pepperdine noticed a drawn expression on his -face, and passed him a mint lozenge. He put it in his mouth--something -nearly choked him, but he had a vague suspicion that the lozenge had -nothing to do with it. - -Mr. Chilverstone had a trick of being long-winded if he found a text -that appealed to him, and when Lucian heard the subject of that -morning’s discourse he feared that the congregation was in for a sermon -of at least half an hour’s duration. The presence of the Earl of -Simonstower, however, kept the vicar within reasonable bounds, and -Lucian was devoutly thankful. He had never wished for anything so much -in all his life as he then wished to be out of church and safely hidden -in the vicarage, where he always lunched on Sunday, or in some corner of -the woods. For the girl in the earl’s pew was discomposing, not merely -because of her prettiness but because she would stare at him, Lucian. -He, temperamentally shy where women were concerned, had only dared to -look at her now and then; she, on the contrary, having once seen him -looked at nothing else. He knew that she was staring at him all through -the sermon. He grew hot and uncomfortable and wriggled, and Miss Judith -increased his confusion by asking him if he were not quite well. It was -with a great sense of relief that he heard Mr. Chilverstone wind up his -sermon and begin the Ascription--he felt that he could not stand the -fire of the girl’s eyes any longer. - -He joined Sprats in the porch and seemed in a great hurry to retreat -upon the vicarage. Sprats, however, had other views--she wanted to speak -to various old women and to Miss Pepperdine, and Lucian had to remain -with her. Fate was cruel--the earl, for some mad reason or other, -brought his visitors down the church instead of taking them out by the -chancel door; consequently Haidee passed close by Lucian. He looked at -her; she raised demure eyelids and looked at him. The soul within him -became as water--he was lost. He seemed to float into space; his head -burned, his heart turned icy-cold, and he shut his eyes, or thought he -did. When he opened them again the girl, a dainty dream of white, was -vanishing, and Sprats and Miss Judith were asking him if he didn’t feel -well. New-born love fostered dissimulation: he complained of a sick -headache. The maternal instinct was immediately aroused in Sprats: she -conducted him homewards, stretched him on a comfortable sofa in a -darkened room, and bathed his forehead with eau-de-cologne. Her care and -attention were pleasant, but Lucian’s thoughts were of the girl whose -eyes had smitten him to the heart. - -The sick headache formed an excellent cloak for the shortcomings of the -afternoon and evening. He recovered sufficiently to eat some lunch, and -he afterwards lay on a rug in the garden and was tended by the faithful -Sprats with a fan and more eau-de-cologne. He kept his eyes shut most of -the time, and thought of Haidee. Her name, he said to himself, must be -Haidee--no other name would fit her eyes, her hair, and her red lips. He -trembled when he thought of her lips; Sprats noticed it, and wondered if -he was going to have rheumatic fever or ague. She fetched a clinical -thermometer out of the house and took his temperature. It was quite -normal, and she was reassured, but still a little puzzled. When tea-time -came she brought his tea and her own out into the garden--she observed -that he ate languidly, and only asked twice for strawberries. She -refused to allow him to go to church in the evening, and conducted him -to the farm herself. On the way, talking of the events of the day, she -asked him if he had noticed the stuck-up doll in the earl’s pew. Lucian -dissembled, and replied in an indifferent tone--it appeared from his -reply that he had chiefly observed the elder lady, and had wondered who -she was. Sprats was able to inform him upon this point--she was a Mrs. -Brinklow, a connection, cousin, half-cousin, or something, of Lord -Simonstower’s, and the girl was her daughter, and her name was Haidee. - -Lucian knew it--it was Fate, it was Destiny. He had had dreams that some -such mate as this was reserved for him in the Pandora’s box which was -now being opened to him. Haidee! He nearly choked with emotion, and -Sprats became certain that he was suffering from indigestion. She had -private conversation with Miss Pepperdine at the farm on the subject of -Lucian’s indisposition, with the result that a cooling draught was -administered to him and immediate bed insisted upon. He retired with -meek resignation; as a matter of fact solitude was attractive--he wanted -to think of Haidee. - -In the silent watches of the night--disturbed but twice, once by Miss -Pepperdine with more medicine, and once by Miss Judith with nothing but -solicitude--he realised the entire situation. Haidee had dawned upon -him, and the Thing was begun which made all poets mighty. He would be -miserable, but he would be great. She was a high-born maiden, who sat in -the pews of earls, and he was--he was not exactly sure what he was. She -would doubtless look upon him with scorn: well, he would make the world -ring with his name and fame; he would die in a cloud of glory, fighting -for some oppressed nation, as Byron did, and then she would be sorry, -and possibly weep for him. By eleven o’clock he felt as if he had been -in love all his life; by midnight he was asleep and dreaming that Haidee -was locked up in a castle on the Rhine, and that he had sworn to release -her and carry her away to liberty and love. He woke early next morning, -and wrote some verses in the metre and style of my Lord Byron’s famous -address to a maiden of Athens; by breakfast-time he knew them by heart. - -It was all in accordance with the decrees of Fate that Lucian and Haidee -were quickly brought into each other’s company. Two days after the -interchange of glances in the church porch the boy rushed into the -dining-room at the vicarage one afternoon, and found himself confronted -by a group of persons, of whom he for the first bewildering moment -recognised but one. When he realised that the earth was not going to -open and swallow him, and that he could not escape without shame, he saw -that the Earl of Simonstower, Mrs. Brinklow, Mr. Chilverstone, and -Sprats were in the room as well as Haidee. It was fortunate that Mrs. -Brinklow, who had an eye for masculine beauty and admired pretty boys, -took a great fancy to him, and immediately began to pet him in a manner -which he bitterly resented. That cooled him, and gave him -self-possession. He contrived to extricate himself from her caresses -with dignity, and replied to the questions which the earl put to him -about his studies with modesty and courage. Sprats conducted Haidee to -the garden to inspect her collection of animals; Lucian went with them, -and became painfully aware that for every glance which he and Haidee -bestowed on rabbits, white mice, piebald rats, and guinea-pigs, they -gave two to each other. Each glance acted like an electric thrill--it -seemed to Lucian that she was the very spirit of love, made flesh for -him to worship. Sprats, however, had an opinion of Miss Brinklow which -was diametrically opposed to his own, and she expressed it with great -freedom. On any other occasion he would have quarrelled with her: the -shame and modesty of love kept him silent; he dared not defend his lady -against one of her own sex. - -It was in the economy of Lucian’s dream that he and Haidee were to be -separated by cruel and inexorable Fate: Haidee, however, had no -intention of permitting Fate or anything else to rob her of her just -dues. On the afternoon of the very next day Lord Simonstower sent for -Lucian to read an Italian magazine to him; Haidee, whose mother loved -long siestas on summer days, and was naturally inclined to let her -daughter manage her own affairs, contrived to waylay the boy with the -beautiful eyes as he left the Castle, and as pretty a piece of comedy -ensued as one could wish to see. They met again, and then they met in -secret, and Lucian became bold and Haidee alluring, and the woods by the -river, and the ruins in the Castle, might have whispered of romantic -scenes. And at last Lucian could keep his secret no longer, and there -came a day when he poured into Sprats’s surprised and sisterly ear the -momentous tidings that he and Haidee had plighted their troth for ever -and a day, and loved more madly and despairingly than lovers ever had -loved since Leander swam to Hero across the Hellespont. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - - -Sprats was of an eminently practical turn of mind. She wanted to know -what was to come of all this. To her astonishment she discovered that -Lucian was already full of plans for assuring bread and butter and many -other things for himself and his bride, and had arranged their future on -a cut-and-dried scheme. He was going to devote himself to his studies -more zealously than ever, and to practise himself in the divine art -which was his gift. At twenty he would publish his first volume of -poems, in English and in Italian; at the same time he would produce a -great blank verse tragedy at Milan and in London, and his name would be -extolled throughout Europe, and he himself probably crowned with laurel -at Rome, or Florence, or somewhere. He would be famous, and also rich, -and he would then claim the hand of Haidee, who in the meantime would -have waited for him with the fidelity of a Penelope. After that, of -course, there would follow eternal bliss--it was not necessary to look -further ahead. But he added, with lordly condescension, that he and -Haidee would always love Sprats, and she, if she liked, might live with -them. - -‘Did Haidee tell you to tell me so?’ asked Sprats, ‘because the prospect -is not exactly alluring. No, thank you, my dear--I’m not so fond of -Haidee as all that. But I will teach her to mend your clothes and darn -your socks, if you like--it will be a useful accomplishment.’ - -Lucian made no reply to this generous offer. He knew that there was no -love lost between the two girls, and could not quite understand why, any -more than he could realise that they were sisters under their skins. He -understood the Sprats of the sisterly, maternal, good-chum side; but -Haidee was an ethereal being though possessed of a sound appetite. He -wished that Sprats were more sympathetic about his lady-love; she was -sympathetic enough about himself, and she listened to his rhapsodies -with a certain amount of curiosity which was gratifying to his pride. -But when he remarked that she too would have a lover some day, Sprats’s -rebellious nature rose up and kicked vigorously. - -‘Thank you!’ she said, ‘but I don’t happen to want anything of that -sort. If you could only see what an absolute fool you look when you are -anywhere within half a mile of Haidee, you’d soon arrive at the -conclusion that spooniness doesn’t improve a fellow! I suppose it’s all -natural, but I never expected it of you, you know, Lucian. I’m sure I’ve -acted like a real pal to you--just look what a stuck-up little monkey -you were when I took you in hand!--you couldn’t play cricket nor climb a -tree, and you used to tog up every day as if you were going to an old -maid’s muffin-worry. I did get you out of all those bad ways--until the -Dolly came along (she _is_ a Dolly, and I don’t care!). You didn’t mind -going about with a hole or two in your trousers and an old straw hat and -dirty hands, and since then you’ve worn your best clothes every day, and -greased your hair, and yesterday you’d been putting scent on your -handkerchief! Bah!--if lovers are like that, I don’t want one--I could -get something better out of the nearest lunatic asylum. And I don’t -think much of men anyhow--they’re all more or less babies. You’re a -baby, and so is his Vicarness’ (this was Sprats’s original mode of -referring to her father), ‘and so is your uncle Pepperdine--all babies, -hopelessly feeble, and unable to do anything for yourselves. What would -any of you do without a woman? No, thank you, I’m not keen about -men--they worry one too much. And as for love--well, if it makes you go -off your food, and keeps you awake at night, and turns you into a -jackass, I don’t want any of it--it’s too rotten altogether.’ - -‘You don’t understand,’ said Lucian pityingly, and with a deep sigh. - -‘Don’t want to,’ retorted Sprats. ‘Oh, my--fancy spending your time in -spooning when you might be playing cricket! You have degenerated, -Lucian, though I expect you can’t help it--it’s inevitable, like measles -and whooping-cough. I wonder how long you will feel bad?’ - -Lucian waxed wroth. He and Haidee had sworn eternal love and -faithfulness--they had broken a coin in two, and she had promised to -wear her half round her neck, and next to the spot where she believed -her heart to be, for ever; moreover, she had given him a lock of her -hair, and he carried it about, wrapped in tissue paper, and he had -promised to buy her a ring with real diamonds in it. Also, Haidee -already possessed fifteen sonnets in which her beauty, her soul, and a -great many other things pertaining to her were praised, after love’s -extravagant fashion--it was unreasonable of Sprats to talk as if this -were an evanescent fancy that must needs pass. He let her see that he -thought so. - -‘All right, old chap!’ said Sprats. ‘It’s for life, then. Very well; -there is, of course, only one thing to be done. You must act on the -square, you know--they always do in these cases. If it’s such a serious -affair, you must play the part of a man of honour, and ask the -permission of the young lady’s mamma, and of her distinguished relative -the Earl of Simonstower--mouldy old ass!--to pay your court to her.’ - -Lucian seemed disturbed and uneasy. - -‘Yes--yes--I know!’ he answered hurriedly. ‘I know that’s the right -thing to do, but you see, Sprats, Haidee doesn’t wish it, at present at -any rate. She--she’s a great heiress, or something, and she says it -wouldn’t do. She wishes it to be kept secret until I’m twenty. -Everything will be all right then, of course. And it’s awfully easy to -arrange stolen meetings at present; there are lots of places about the -Castle and in the woods where you can hide.’ - -‘Like a housemaid and an under-footman,’ remarked Sprats. ’Um--well, I -suppose that’s inevitable, too. Of course the earl would never look at -you, and it’s very evident that Mrs. Brinklow would be horrified--she -wants the Dolly kid to marry into the peerage, and you’re a nobody.’ - -‘I’m not a nobody!’ said Lucian, waxing furious. ‘I am a gentleman--an -Italian gentleman. I am the earl’s equal--I have the blood of the -Orsini, the Odescalchi, and the Aldobrandini in my veins! The -earl?--why, your English noblemen are made out of tradesfolk--pah! It is -but yesterday that they gave a baronetcy to a man who cures bacon, and a -peerage to a fellow who brews beer. In Italy we should spit upon your -English peers--they have no blood. I have the blood of the Cæsars in -me!’ - -‘Your mother was the daughter of an English farmer, and your father was -a macaroni-eating Italian who painted pictures,’ said Sprats, with -imperturbable equanimity. ‘You yourself ought to go about with a -turquoise cap on your pretty curls, and a hurdy-gurdy with a monkey on -the top. _Tant pis_ for your rotten old Italy!--anybody can buy a -dukedom there for a handful of centesimi!’ - -Then they fought, and Lucian was worsted, as usual, and came to his -senses, and for the rest of the day Sprats was decent to him and even -sympathetic. She was always intrusted with his confidence, however much -they differed, and during the rest of the time which Haidee spent at the -Castle she had to listen to many ravings, and more than once to endure -the reading of a sonnet or a canzonet with which Lucian intended to -propitiate the dark-eyed nymph whose image was continually before him. -Sprats, too, had to console him on those days whereon no sight of Miss -Brinklow was vouchsafed. It was no easy task: Lucian, during these -enforced abstinences from love’s delights and pleasures, was -preoccupied, taciturn, and sometimes almost sulky. - -‘You’re like a bear with a sore head,’ said Sprats, using a homely -simile much in favour with the old women of the village. ‘I don’t -suppose the Dolly kid is nursing her sorrows like that. I saw Dicky -Feversham riding up to the Castle on his pony as I came in from taking -old Mother Hobbs’s rice-pudding.’ - -Lucian clenched his fists. The demon of jealousy was aroused within him -for the first time. - -‘What do you mean?’ he cried. - -‘Don’t mean anything but what I said,’ replied Sprats. ‘I should think -Dickie has gone to spend the afternoon there. He’s a nice-looking boy, -and as his uncle is a peer of the rel-lum, Mrs. Brinklow doubtless loves -him.’ - -Lucian fell into a fever of rage, despair, and love. To think that -Another should have the right of approaching His Very Own!--it was -maddening; it made him sick. He hated the unsuspecting Richard -Feversham, who in reality was a very inoffensive, fun-loving, -up-to-lots-of-larks sort of schoolboy, with a deadly hatred. The thought -of his addressing the Object was awful; that he should enjoy her society -was unbearable. He might perhaps be alone with her--might sit with her -amongst the ruined halls of the Castle, or wander with her through the -woods of Simonstower. But Lucian was sure of her--had she not sworn by -every deity in the lover’s mythology that her heart was his alone, and -that no other man should ever have even a cellar-dwelling in it? He -became almost lachrymose at the mere thought that Haidee’s lofty and -pure soul could ever think of another, and before he retired to his -sleepless bed he composed a sonnet which began-- - -/p - ‘Thy dove-like soul is prisoned in my heart - With gold and silver chains that may not break,’ -p/ - -and concluded-- - -/p - ‘While e’er the world remaineth, thou shalt be - Queen of my heart as I am king of thine.’ -p/ - -He had an assignation with Haidee for the following afternoon, and was -looking forward to it with great eagerness, more especially because he -possessed a new suit of grey flannel, a new straw hat, and new brown -boots, and he had discovered from experience that the young lady loved -her peacock to spread his tail. But, as ill-luck would have it, the -earl, with the best intention in the world, spoiled the whole thing. -About noon Lucian and Sprats, having gone through several pages of -Virgil with the vicar, were sitting on the gate of the vicarage garden, -recreating after a fashion peculiar to themselves, when the earl and -Haidee, both mounted, came round the corner and drew rein. The earl -talked to them for a few minutes, and then asked them up to the Castle -that afternoon. He would have the tennis-lawn made ready for them, he -said, and they could eat as many strawberries as they pleased, and have -tea in the garden. Haidee, from behind the noble relative, made a _moue_ -at this; Lucian was obliged to keep a straight face, and thank the earl -for his confounded graciousness. Sprats saw that something was wrong. - -‘What’s up?’ she inquired, climbing up the gate again when the earl had -gone by. ‘You look jolly blue.’ - -Lucian explained the situation. Sprats snorted. - -‘Well, of all the hardships!’ she said. ‘Thank the Lord, I’d rather play -tennis and eat strawberries and have tea--especially the Castle -tea--than go mooning about in the woods! However, I suppose I must -contrive something for you, or you’ll groan and grumble all the way -home. You and the Doll must lose yourselves in the gardens when we go -for strawberries. I suppose ten minutes’ slobbering over each other -behind a hedge or in a corner will put you on, won’t it?’ - -Lucian was overwhelmed at her kindness. He offered to give her a -brotherly hug, whereupon she smacked his face, rolled him into the dust -in the middle of the road, and retreated into the garden, bidding him -turn up with a clean face at half-past two. When that hour arrived she -found him awaiting her in the porch; one glance at him showed that he -had donned the new suit, the new hat, and the new boots. Sprats shrieked -with derision. - -‘Lord have mercy upon us!’ she cried. ‘It might be a Bank Holiday! Do -you think I am going to walk through the village with a thing like that? -Stick a cabbage in your coat--it’ll give a finishing touch to your -appearance. Oh, you miserable monkey-boy!--wouldn’t I like to stick you -in the kitchen chimney and shove you up and down in the soot for five -minutes!’ - -Lucian received this badinage in good part--it was merely Sprats’s way -of showing her contempt for finicking habit. He followed her from the -vicarage to the Castle--she walking with her nose in the air, and from -time to time commiserating him because of the newness of his boots; he -secretly anxious to bask in the sunlight of Haidee’s smiles. And at last -they arrived, and there, sprawling on the lawn near the basket-chair in -which Haidee’s lissome figure reposed, was the young gentleman who -rejoiced in the name of Richard Feversham. He appeared to be very much -at home with his young hostess; the sound of their mingled laughter fell -on the ears of the newcomers as they approached. Lucian heard it, and -shivered with a curious, undefinable sense of evil; Sprats heard it too, -and knew that a moral thunderstorm was brewing. - -The afternoon was by no means a success, even in its earlier stages. -Mrs. Brinklow had departed to a friend’s house some miles away; the earl -might be asleep or dead for all that was seen of him. Sprats and Haidee -cherished a secret dislike of each other; Lucian was proud, gloomy, and -taciturn; only the Feversham boy appeared to have much zest of life left -in him. He was a somewhat thick-headed youngster, full of good nature -and high spirits; he evidently did not care a straw for public or -private opinion, and he made boyish love to Haidee with all the -shamelessness of depraved youth. Haidee saw that Lucian was jealous, and -encouraged Dickie’s attentions--long before tea was brought out to them -the materials for a vast explosion were ready and waiting. After -tea--and many plates of strawberries and cream--had been consumed, the -thick-headed youth became childishly gay. The tea seemed to have mounted -to his head--he effervesced. He had much steam to let off: he suggested -that they should follow the example of the villagers at the -bun-struggles and play kiss-in-the-ring, and he chased Haidee all round -the lawn and over the flower-beds in order to illustrate the way of the -rustic man with the rustic maid. The chase terminated behind a hedge of -laurel, from whence presently proceeded much giggling, screaming, and -confused laughter. The festive youngster emerged panting and triumphant; -his rather homely face wore a broad grin. Haidee followed with highly -becoming blushes, settling her tumbled hair and crushed hat. She -remarked with a pout that Dickie was a rough boy; Dickie replied that -you don’t play country games as if you were made of egg-shell china. - -The catastrophe approached consummation with the inevitableness of a -Greek tragedy. Lucian waxed gloomier and gloomier; Sprats endeavoured, -agonisingly, to put things on a better footing; Haidee, now thoroughly -enjoying herself, tried hard to make the other boy also jealous. But the -other boy was too full of the joy of life to be jealous of anything; he -gambolled about like a young elephant, and nearly as gracefully; it was -quite evident that he loved horseplay and believed that girls were as -much inclined to it as boys. At any other time Sprats would have fallen -in with his mood and frolicked with him to his heart’s content; on this -occasion she was afraid of Lucian, who now looked more like a young -Greek god than ever. The lightning was already playing about his eyes; -thunder sat on his brows. - -At last the storm burst. Haidee wanted to shoot with bow and arrow at a -target; she despatched the two youngsters into the great hall of the -Castle to fetch the materials for archery. Dickie went off capering and -whistling; Lucian followed in sombre silence. And inside the vaulted -hall, mystic with the gloom of the past, and romantic with suits of -armour, tattered banners, guns, pikes, bows, and the rest of it, the -smouldering fires of Lucian’s wrath burst out. Master Richard Feversham -found himself confronted by a figure which typified Wrath, and -Indignation, and Retribution. - -‘You are a cad!’ said Lucian. - -‘Cad yourself!’ retorted Dickie. ‘Who are _you_ talking to?’ - -‘I am talking to you,’ answered Lucian, stern and cold as a stone figure -of Justice. ‘I say you are a cad--a cad! You have grossly insulted a -young lady, and I will punish you.’ - -Dickie’s eyes grew round--he wondered if the other fellow had suddenly -gone off his head, and if he’d better call for help and a strait -waistcoat. - -‘Grossly insulted--a young lady!’ he said, puckering up his face with -honest amazement. ‘What the dickens do you mean? You must be jolly well -dotty!’ - -‘You have insulted Miss Brinklow,’ said Lucian. ‘You forced your -unwelcome attentions upon her all the afternoon, though she showed you -plainly that they were distasteful to her, and you were finally rude and -brutal to her--beast!’ - -‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed Dickie, now thoroughly amazed, ‘I never forced -any attention on her--we were only larking. Rude? Brutal? Good -heavens!--I only kissed her behind the hedge, and I’ve kissed her many a -time before!’ - -Lucian became insane with wrath. - -‘Liar!’ he hissed. ‘Liar!’ - -Master Richard Feversham straightened himself, mentally as well as -physically. He bunched up his fists and advanced upon Lucian with an -air that was thoroughly British. - -‘Look here,’ he said, ‘I don’t know who the devil you are, you -outrageous ass, but if you call me a liar again, I’ll hit you!’ - -‘Liar!’ said Lucian, ‘Liar!’ - -Dickie’s left fist, clenched very artistically, shot out like a small -battering-ram, and landed with a beautiful _plunk_ on Lucian’s cheek, -between the jaw and the bone. He staggered back. - -‘I kept off your nose on purpose,’ said Dickie, ‘but, by the Lord, I’ll -land you one there and spoil your pretty eyes for you if you don’t beg -my pardon.’ - -‘Pardon!’ Lucian’s voice sounded hollow and strange. ‘Pardon!’ He swore -a strange Italian oath that made Dickie creep. ‘Pardon!--of you? I will -kill you--beast and liar!’ - -He sprang to the wall as he spoke, tore down a couple of light rapiers -which hung there, and threw one at his enemy’s feet. - -‘Defend yourself!’ he said. ‘I shall kill you.’ - -Dickie recoiled. He would have faced anybody twice his size with fists -as weapons, or advanced on a battery with a smiling face, but he had no -taste for encountering an apparent lunatic armed with a weapon of which -he himself did not know the use. Besides, there was murder in Lucian’s -eye--he seemed to mean business. - -‘Look here, I say, you chap!’ exclaimed Dickie, ‘put that thing down. -One of us’ll be getting stuck, you know, if you go dancing about with it -like that. I’ll fight you as long as you like if you’ll put up your -fists, but I’m not a fool. Put it down, I say.’ - -‘Coward!’ said Lucian. ‘Defend yourself!’ - -He made at Dickie with fierce intent, and the latter was obliged to pick -up the other rapier and fall into some sort of a defensive position. - -‘Of all the silly games,’ he said, ‘this is----’ - -But Lucian was already attacking him with set teeth, glaring eyes, and -a resolute demeanour. There was a rapid clashing of blades; then Dickie -drew in his breath sharply, and his weapon dropped to the ground. He -looked at a wound in the back of his hand from which the blood was -flowing rather freely. - -‘I knew you’d go and do it with your silliness!’ he said. ‘Now there’ll -be a mess on the carpet and we shall be found out. Here--wipe up that -blood with your handkerchief while I tie mine round my hand. We.... -Hello, here they all are, of course! Now there _will_ be a row! I say, -you chap, swear it was all a lark--do you hear?’ - -Lucian heard but gave no sign. He still gripped his rapier and stared -fixedly at Haidee and Sprats, who had run to the hall on hearing the -clash of steel and now stood gazing at the scene with dilated eyes. -Behind them, gaunt, grey, and somewhat amused and cynical, stood the -earl. He looked from one lad to the other and came forward. - -‘I heard warlike sounds,’ he said, peering at the combatants through -glasses balanced on the bridge of the famous Simonstower nose, ‘and now -I see warlike sights. Blood, eh? And what may this mean?’ - -‘It’s all nothing, sir,’ said Dickie in suspicious haste, ‘absolutely -nothing. We were larking about with these two old swords, and the other -chap’s point scratched my hand, that’s all, sir--’pon my word.’ - -‘Does the other chap’s version correspond?’ inquired the earl, looking -keenly at Lucian’s flushed face. ‘Eh, other chap?’ - -Lucian faced him boldly. - -‘No, sir,’ he answered; ‘what he says is not true, though he means -honourably. I meant to punish him--to kill him.’ - -‘A candid admission,’ said the earl, toying with his glasses. ‘You -appear to have effected some part of your purpose. And his offence?’ - -‘He----’ Lucian paused. The two girls, fascinated at the sight of the -rapiers, the combatants, and the blood, had drawn near and were staring -from one boy’s face to the other’s; Lucian hesitated at sight of them. - -‘Come!’ said the earl sharply. ‘His offence?’ - -‘He insulted Miss Brinklow,’ said Lucian gravely. ‘I told him I should -punish him. Then he told lies--about her. I said I would kill him. A man -who lies about a woman merits death.’ - -‘A very excellent apothegm,’ said the earl. ‘Sprats, my dear, draw that -chair for me--thank you. Now,’ he continued, taking a seat and sticking -out his gouty leg, ‘let me have a clear notion of this delicate -question. Feversham, your version, if you please.’ - -‘I--I--you see, it’s all one awfully rotten misunderstanding, sir,’ said -Dickie, very ill at ease. ‘I--I--don’t like saying things about anybody, -but I think Damerel’s got sunstroke or something--he’s jolly dotty, or -carries on as if he were. You see, he called me a cad, and said I was -rude and brutal to Haidee, just because I--well, because I kissed her -behind the laurel hedge when we were larking in the garden, and I said -it was nothing and I’d kissed her many a time before, and he said I was -a liar, and then--well, then I hit him.’ - -‘I see,’ said the earl, ‘and of course there was then much stainless -honour to be satisfied. And how was it that gentlemen of such advanced -age resorted to steel instead of fists?’ - -The boys made no reply: Lucian still stared at the earl; Dickie -professed to be busy with his impromptu bandage. Sprats went round to -him and tied the knot. - -‘I think I understand,’ said the earl. ‘Well, I suppose honour is -satisfied?’ - -He looked quizzingly at Lucian. Lucian returned the gaze with another, -dark, sombre, and determined. - -‘He is still a liar!’ he said. - -‘I’m _not_ a liar!’ exclaimed Dickie, ‘and as sure as eggs are eggs I’ll -hit you again, and on the nose this time, if you say I am,’ and he -squared up to his foe utterly regardless of the earl’s presence. The -earl smiled. - -‘Why is he a liar?’ he asked, looking at Lucian. - -‘He lies when he says that--that----’ Lucian choked and looked, almost -entreatingly, at Haidee. She had stolen up to the earl’s chair and -leaned against its high back, taking in every detail of the scene with -eager glances. As Lucian’s eyes met hers, she smiled; a dimple showed in -the corner of her mouth. - -‘I understand,’ said the earl. He twisted himself round and looked at -Haidee. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘this is one of those cases in which one may -be excused if one appeals to the lady. It would seem, young lady, that -Mr. Feversham, while abstaining, like a gentleman, from boasting of -it----’ - -‘Oh, I say, sir!’ burst out Dickie; ‘I--didn’t mean to, you know.’ - -‘I say that Mr. Feversham, like a gentleman, does not boast of it, but -pleads that you have indulged him with the privileges of a lover. His -word has been questioned--his honour is at stake. Have you so indulged -it, may one ask?’ - -Haidee assumed the airs of the coquette who must fain make admissions. - -‘I--suppose so,’ she breathed, with a smile which included everybody. - -‘Very good,’ said the earl. ‘It may be that Mr. Damerel has had reason -to believe that he alone was entitled to those privileges. Eh?’ - -‘Boys are so silly!’ said Haidee. ‘And Lucian is so serious and -old-fashioned. And all boys like to kiss me. What a fuss to make about -nothing!’ - -‘I quite understand your position and your meaning, my dear,’ said the -earl. ‘I have heard similar sentiments from other ladies.’ He turned to -Lucian. ‘Well?’ he said, with a sharp, humorous glance. - -Lucian had turned very pale, but a dark flush still clouded his -forehead. He put aside his rapier, which until then he had held tightly, -and he turned to Dickie. - -‘I beg your pardon,’ he said; ‘I was wrong--quite wrong. I offer you my -sincere apologies. I have behaved ill--I am sorry.’ - -Dickie looked uncomfortable and shuffled about. - -‘Oh, rot!’ he said, holding out his bandaged hand. ‘It’s all right, old -chap. I don’t mind at all now that you know I’m not a liar. I--I’m -awfully sorry, too. I didn’t know you were spoons on Haidee, you -know--I’m a bit dense about things. Never mind, I shan’t think any more -of it, and besides, girls aren’t worth--at least, I mean--oh, hang it, -don’t let’s say any more about the beastly affair!’ - -Lucian pressed his hand. He turned, looked at the earl, and made him a -low and ceremonious bow. Lord Simonstower rose from his seat and -returned it with equal ceremony. Without a glance in Haidee’s direction -Lucian strode from the hall--he had forgotten Sprats. He had, indeed, -forgotten everything--the world had fallen in pieces. - -An hour later Sprats, tracking him down with the unerring sagacity of -her sex, found him in a haunt sacred to themselves, stretched full -length on the grass, with his face buried in his arms. She sat down -beside him and put her arm round his neck and drew him to her. He burst -into dry, bitter sobs. - -‘Oh, Sprats!’ he said. ‘It’s all over--all over. I believed in her ... -and now I shall never believe in anybody again!’ - - - - -CHAPTER IX - - -That night, when the last echoes of the village street had died away, -and the purple and grey of the summer twilight was dissolving into the -deep blue and gold of night, Sprats knelt at the open window of her -bedroom, staring out upon the valley with eyes that saw nothing. She was -thinking and wondering, and for the first time in her life she wished -that a mother’s heart and a mother’s arms were at hand--she wanted to -hear the beating love of the one and feel the protecting strength of the -other. - -Something had come to her that afternoon as she strove to comfort -Lucian. The episode of the duel; Lucian’s white face and burning eyes as -he bowed to the cynical, polite old nobleman and strode out of the hall -with the dignity and grace of a great prince; the agony which had -exhausted itself in her own arms; the resolution with which he had at -last choked everything down, and had risen up and shaken himself as if -he were a dog that throws off the last drop of water;--all these things -had opened the door into a new world for the girl who had seen them. She -had been Lucian’s other self; his constant companion, his faithful -mentor, for three years; it was not until now that she began to realise -him. She saw now that he was no ordinary human being, and that as long -as he lived he would never be amenable to ordinary rules. He was now a -child in years, and he had the heart of a man; soon he would be a man, -and he would still be a child. He would be a child all his -life--self-willed, obstinate, proud, generous, wayward; he would sin as -a child sins, and suffer as a child suffers; and there would always be -something of wonder in him that either sin or suffering should come to -him. When she felt his head within her protecting and consoling arm, -Sprats recognised the weakness and helplessness which lay in Lucian’s -soul--he was the child that has fallen and runs to its mother for -consolation. She recognised, too, that hers was the stronger nature, the -more robust character, and that the strange, mysterious Something that -ordains all things, had brought her life and Lucian’s together so that -she might give help where help was needed. All their lives--all through -the strange mystic To Come into which her eyes were trying to look as -she stared out into the splendour of the summer night--she and Lucian -were to be as they had been that evening; her breast the harbour of his -soul. He might drift away; he might suffer shipwreck; but he must come -home at last, and whether he came early or late his place must be ready -for him. - -This was knowledge--this was calm certainty: it changed the child into -the woman. She knelt down at the window to say her prayers, still -staring out into the night, and now she saw the stars and the deep blue -of the sky, and she heard the murmur of the river in the valley. Her -prayers took no form of words, and were all the deeper for it; -underneath their wordless aspiration ran the solemn undercurrent of the -new-born knowledge that she loved Lucian with a love that would last -till death. - - - - -CHAPTER X - - -Within twelve months Lucian’s recollections of the perfidious Haidee -were nebulous and indistinct. He had taken the muse for mistress and -wooed her with such constant persistency that he had no time to think of -anything else. He used up much manuscript paper and made large demands -upon Sprats and his Aunt Judith, the only persons to whom he -condescended to show his productions, and he was alike miserable and -happy. Whenever he wrote a new poem he was filled with elation, and for -at least twenty-four hours glowed with admiration of his own powers; -then set in a period of uncertainty, followed by one of doubt and -another of gloom--the lines which had sounded so fine that they almost -brought tears to his eyes seemed banal and weak, and were not -infrequently cast into the fire, where his once-cherished copies of the -Haidee sonnets had long since preceded them. Miss Judith nearly shed -tears when these sacrifices were made, and more than once implored him -tenderly to spare his offspring, but with no result, for no human -monster is so savage as the poet who turns against his own fancies. It -was due to her, however, that one of Lucian’s earliest efforts was -spared. Knowing his propensity for tearing and rending his children, she -surreptitiously obtained his manuscript upon one occasion and made a -fair copy of a sentimental story written in imitation of _Lara_, which -had greatly moved her, and it was not until many years afterwards that -Lucian was confronted and put to shame by the sight of it. - -At the age of eighteen Lucian celebrated his birthday by burning every -manuscript he had, and announcing that he would write no more verses -until he was at least twenty-one. But chancing to hear a pathetic story -of rural life which appealed powerfully to his imagination, he began to -write again; and after a time, during which he was unusually morose and -abstracted, he presented himself to Sprats with a bundle of manuscript. -He handed it over to her with something of shyness. - -‘I want you to read it--carefully,’ he said. - -‘Of course,’ she answered. ‘But is it to share the fate of all the rest, -Lucian? You made a clean sweep of everything, didn’t you?’ - -‘That stuff!’ he said, with fine contempt. ‘I should think so! But -this----’ he paused, plunged his hands into his pockets, and strode up -and down the room--‘this is--well, it’s different. Sprats!--I believe -it’s good.’ - -‘I wish you’d let my father read it,’ she said. ‘Do, Lucian.’ - -‘Perhaps,’ he answered. ‘But you first--I want to know what you think. I -can trust you.’ - -Sprats read the poem that evening, and as she read she marvelled. Lucian -had done himself justice at last. The poem was full of the true country -life; there was no false ring in it; he had realised the pathos of the -story he had to tell; it was a moving performance, full of the spirit of -poetry from the first line to the last. She was proud, glad, full of -satisfaction. Without waiting to ask Lucian’s permission, she placed the -manuscript in the vicar’s hands and begged him to read it. He carried it -away to his study; Sprats sat up later than usual to hear his verdict. -She occupied herself with no work, but with thoughts that had a little -of the day-dream glamour in them. She was trying to map out Lucian’s -future for him. He ought to be protected and shielded from the world, -wrapped in an environment that would help him to produce the best that -was in him; the ordinary cares of life ought never to come near him. He -had a gift, and the world would be the richer if the gift were poured -out lavishly to his fellow-creatures; but he must be treated tenderly -and skilfully if the gift was to be poured out at all. Sprats, country -girl though she was, knew something of the harshnesses of life; she -knew, too, that Lucian’s nature was the sort that would rebel at a -crumpled rose-leaf. He was still, and always would be, a child that -feels rather than understands. - -The vicar came back to her with the manuscript--it was then nearly -midnight, but he was too much excited to wonder that Sprats should still -be downstairs. He came tapping the manuscript with his fingers--his face -wore a delighted and highly important expression. - -‘My dear,’ he said, ‘this is a considerable performance. I am amazed, -pleased, gratified, proud. The boy is a genius--he will make a great -name for himself. Yes--it is good. It is sound work. It is so charmingly -free from mere rhetoric--there is a restraint, a chasteness which one -does not often find in the work of a young writer. And it is classical -in form and style. I am proud of Lucian. You see now the result of only -reading and studying the best masters. He is perhaps a little -imitative--that is natural; it will wear away. Did you not notice a -touch of Wordsworth, eh!--I was reminded of _Michael_. He will be a new -Wordsworth--a Wordsworth with more passion and richer imagery. He has -the true eye for nature--I do not know when I have been so pleased as -with the bits of colour that I find here. Oh, it is certainly a -remarkable performance.’ - -‘Father,’ said Sprats, ‘don’t you think it might be published?’ - -Mr. Chilverstone considered the proposition gravely. - -‘I feel sure it would meet with great approbation if it were,’ he said. -‘I have no doubt whatever that the best critics would recognise its -merit and its undoubted promise. I wonder if Lucian would allow the earl -to read it?--his lordship is a fine judge of classic poetry, and though -I believe he cherishes a contempt for modern verse, he cannot fail to be -struck by this poem--the truth of its setting must appeal to him.’ - -‘I will speak to Lucian,’ said Sprats. - -She persuaded Lucian to submit his work to Lord Simonstower next -day;--the old nobleman read, re-read, and was secretly struck by the -beauty and strength of the boy’s performance. He sent for Lucian and -congratulated him warmly. Later on in the day he walked into the vicar’s -study. - -‘Chilverstone,’ he said, ‘what is to be done with that boy Damerel? He -will make a great name if due care is taken of him at the critical -moment. How old is he now--nearly nineteen? I think he should go to -Oxford.’ - -‘That,’ said the vicar, ‘is precisely my own opinion.’ - -‘It would do him all the good in the world,’ continued the earl. ‘It is -a thing that should be pushed through. I think I have heard that the boy -has some money? I knew his father, Cyprian Damerel. He was a man who -earned a good deal, but I should say he spent it. Still, I have always -understood that he left money in Simpson Pepperdine’s hands for the -boy.’ - -Mr. Chilverstone observed that he had always been so informed, though he -did not know by whom. - -‘Simpson Pepperdine should be approached,’ said Lord Simonstower. ‘I -have a good mind to talk to him myself.’ - -‘If your lordship would have the kindness to do so,’ said the vicar, ‘it -would be a most excellent thing. Pepperdine is an estimable man, and -very proud indeed of Lucian--I am sure he would be induced to give his -consent.’ - -‘I will see him to-morrow,’ said the earl. - -But before the morrow dawned an event had taken place in the history of -the Pepperdine family which involved far-reaching consequences. While -the earl and the vicar were in consultation over their friendly plans -for Lucian’s benefit, Mr. Pepperdine was travelling homewards from -Oakborough, whither he had proceeded in the morning in reference to a -letter which caused him no little anxiety and perturbation. It was -fortunate that he had a compartment all to himself in the train, for he -groaned and sighed at frequent intervals, and manifested many signs of -great mental distress. When he left Wellsby station he walked with slow -and heavy steps along the road to Mr. Trippett’s farm, where, as usual, -he had left his horse and trap. Mrs. Trippett, chancing to look out of -the parlour window, saw him approaching the house and noticed the drag -in his step. He walked, she said, discussing the matter later on with -her husband, as if he had suddenly become an old man. She hastened to -the door to admit him; Mr. Pepperdine gazed at her with a lack-lustre -eye. - -‘Mercy upon us, Mr. Pepperdine!’ exclaimed Mrs. Trippett, ‘you do look -badly. Aren’t you feeling well?’ - -Mr. Pepperdine made an effort to pull himself together. He walked in, -sat down in the parlour, and breathed heavily. - -‘It’s a very hot day, ma’am,’ he said. ‘I’m a bit overdone.’ - -‘You must have a drop of brandy and water,’ said Mrs. Trippett, and -bustled into the kitchen for water and to the sideboard for brandy. -‘Take a taste while it’s fresh,’ she said, handing him a liberal -mixture. ‘It’ll revive you.’ - -Mr. Pepperdine sipped at his glass and nodded his head in acknowledgment -of her thoughtfulness. - -‘Thank you kindly,’ said he. ‘I were feeling a bit badly like. Is the -master anywhere about? I would like to see him.’ - -Mrs. Trippett replied that the master was in the fold, and she would let -him know that Mr. Pepperdine was there. She went herself to fetch her -husband, and hinted to him that his old friend did not seem at all -well--she was sure there was something wrong with him. Mr. Trippett -hastened into the house and found Mr. Pepperdine pacing the room and -sighing dismally. - -‘Now then!’ said Mr. Trippett, whose face was always cheery even in -times of trouble, ‘th’ owd woman says you don’t seem so chirpy like. Is -it th’ sun, or what?--get another taste o’ brandy down your throttle, -lad.’ - -Mr. Pepperdine sat down again and shook his head. - -‘John,’ he said, gazing earnestly at his friend. ‘I’m in sore -trouble--real bad trouble. I doubt I’m a ruined man.’ - -‘Nay, for sure!’ exclaimed Mr. Trippett. ‘What’s it all about, like?’ - -‘It’s all on account of a damned rascal!’ answered Mr. Pepperdine, with -a burst of indignation. ‘Ah!--there’s a pretty to-do in Oakborough this -day, John. You haven’t heard nothing about Bransby?’ - -‘What, the lawyer?’ - -‘Ah, lawyer and rogue and the Lord knows what!’ replied Mr. Pepperdine, -groaning with wrath and misery. ‘He’s gone and cleared himself off, and -he’s naught but a swindler. They do say there that it’s a hundred -thousand pound job.’ - -Mr. Trippett whistled. - -‘I allus understood ’at he were such a well-to-do, upright sort o’ man,’ -he said. ‘He’d a gre’t reppytation, any road.’ - -‘Ay, and seems to have traded on it!’ said Mr. Pepperdine bitterly. -‘He’s been a smooth-tongued ’un, he has. He’s done me, he has so--dang -me if I ever trust the likes of him again!’ - -Then he told his story. The absconded Mr. Bransby, an astute gentleman -who had established a reputation for probity by scrupulous observance of -the conventionalities dear to the society of a market town and had never -missed attendance at his parish church, had suddenly vanished into the -_Ewigkeit_, leaving a few widows and orphans, several tradespeople, and -a large number of unsuspecting and confiding clients, to mourn, not his -loss, but his knavery. Simpson Pepperdine had been an easy victim. Some -years previously he had consented to act as trustee for a neighbour’s -family--Mr. Bransby was his co-trustee. Simpson had left everything in -Mr. Bransby’s hands--it now turned out that Mr. Bransby had converted -everything to his own uses, leaving his careless coadjutor responsible. -But this was not all. Simpson, who had made money by breeding -shorthorns, had from time to time placed considerable sums in the -lawyer’s hands for investment, and had trusted him entirely as to their -nature. He had received good interest, and had never troubled either to -ask for or inspect the securities. It had now been revealed to him that -there had never been any securities--his money had gone into Mr. -Bransby’s own coffers. Simpson Pepperdine, in short, was a ruined man. - -Mr. Trippett was genuinely disturbed by this news. He felt that his -good-natured and easy-going friend had been to blame in respect to his -laxity and carelessness. But he himself had had some slight dealings -with Mr. Bransby, and he knew the plausibility and suaveness of that -gentleman’s manner. - -‘It’s a fair cropper!’ he exclaimed. ‘I could ha’ trusted that Bransby -like the Bank of England. I allus understood he were doing uncommon -well.’ - -‘So he were,’ answered Mr. Pepperdine, ‘uncommon well--out of fools like -me.’ - -‘I hope,’ said Mr. Trippett, mentioning the subject with some shyness, -‘I hope the gals’ money isn’t lost, an’ all?’ - -‘What, Keziah and Judith? Nay, nay,’ replied Mr. Pepperdine. ‘It isn’t. -What bit they have--matter of five hundred pound each, may be--is safe -enough.’ - -‘Nor the lad’s, either,’ said Mr. Trippett. - -‘The lad’s?’ said Mr. Pepperdine questioningly. ‘Oh, Lucian? Oh--ay--of -course, he’s all right.’ - -Mr. Trippett went over to the sideboard, produced the whisky decanter, -mixed himself a glass, lighted his pipe, and proceeded to think hard. - -‘Well,’ he said, after some time, ‘I know what I should do if I were i’ -your case, Simpson. I should go to his lordship and tell him all about -it.’ - -Mr. Pepperdine started and looked surprised. - -‘I’ve never asked a favour of him yet,’ he said. ‘I don’t know----’ - -‘I didn’t say aught about asking any favour,’ said Mr. Trippett. ‘I -said--go and tell his lordship all about it. He’s the reppytation of -being a long-headed ’un, has Lord Simonstower--he’ll happen suggest -summut.’ - -Mr. Pepperdine rubbed his chin meditatively. - -‘He’s a sharp-tongued old gentleman,’ he said; ‘I’ve always fought a bit -shy of him. Him an’ me had a bit of a difference twenty years since.’ - -‘Let bygones be bygones,’ counselled Mr. Trippett. ‘You and your fathers -afore you have been on his land and his father’s land a bonny stretch o’ -time.’ - -‘Three hundred and seventy-five year come next spring,’ said Mr. -Pepperdine. - -‘And he’ll not see you turned off wi’out knowing why,’ said Mr. Trippett -with conviction. ‘Any road, it’ll do no harm to tell him how you stand. -He’d have to hear on’t sooner or later, and he’d best hear it from -yourself.’ - -Turning this sage counsel over in his mind, Mr. Pepperdine journeyed -homewards, and as luck would have it he met the earl near the gates of -the Castle. Lord Simonstower had just left the vicarage, and Mr. -Pepperdine was in his mind. He put up his hand in answer to the farmer’s -salutation. Mr. Pepperdine drew rein. - -‘Oh, Pepperdine,’ said the earl, ‘I want to have some conversation with -you about your nephew. I have just been talking with the vicar about -him. When can you come up to the Castle?’ - -‘Any time that pleases your lordship,’ answered Mr. Pepperdine. ‘It so -happens that I was going to ask the favour of an interview with your -lordship on my own account.’ - -‘Then you had better drive up now and leave your horse and trap in the -stables,’ said the earl. ‘Tell them to take you to the library--I’ll -join you there presently.’ - -Closeted with his tenant, Lord Simonstower plunged into his own business -first--it was his way, when he took anything in hand, to go through with -it with as little delay as possible. He came to the point at once by -telling Mr. Pepperdine that his nephew was a gifted youth who would -almost certainly make a great name in the world of letters, and that it -would be a most excellent thing to send him to Oxford. He pointed out -the great advantages which would accrue to Lucian if this course were -adopted, spoke of his own interest in the boy, and promised to help him -in every way he could. Mr. Pepperdine listened with respectful and -polite attention. - -‘My lord,’ he said, when the earl had explained his views for Lucian, -‘I’m greatly obliged to your lordship for your kindness to the lad and -your interest in him. I agree with every word your lordship says. I’ve -always known there was something out of the common about Lucian, and -I’ve wanted him to get on in his own way. I never had no doubt about his -making a great name for himself--I could see that in him when he were a -little lad. Now about this going to Oxford--it would cost a good deal of -money, wouldn’t it, my lord?’ - -‘It would certainly cost money,’ replied the earl. ‘But I would put it -to you in this way--or, rather, this is the way in which it should be -put to the boy himself. I understand he has some money; well, he can -make no better investment of a portion of it than by spending it on his -education. Two or three years at Oxford will fit him for the life of a -man of letters as nothing else would. He need not be extravagant--two -hundred pounds a year should suffice him.’ - -Mr. Pepperdine listened to this with obvious perplexity and unrest. He -hesitated a little before making any reply. At last he looked at the -earl with the expression of a man who is going to confess something. - -‘My lord,’ he said, ‘I’ll tell your lordship what nobody else knows--not -even my sisters. I’m sure your lordship’ll say naught to nobody about -it. My lord, the lad hasn’t a penny. He never had. Your lordship knows -that his father sent for me when he was dying in London--he’d just come -back, with the boy, from Italy--and he put Lucian in my care. He’d made -a will and I was trustee and executor. He thought that there was -sufficient provision made for the boy, but he hadn’t been well -advised--he’d put all his eggs in one basket--the money was all invested -in a building society in Rome, and every penny of it was lost. I did -hear,’ affirmed Mr. Pepperdine solemnly, ‘that the Pope of Rome himself -lost a deal of money at the same time and in the same society.’ - -‘That’s quite true,’ said the earl. ‘I remember it very well. - -‘Well, there it was,’ continued Mr. Pepperdine. ‘It was gone for -ever--there wasn’t a penny saved. I never said naught to my sisters, you -know, my lord, because I didn’t want ’em to know. I never said nothing -to the boy, either--and he’s the sort of lad that would never ask. He’s -a bit of a child in money matters--his father (but your lordship’ll -remember him as well as I do) had always let him have all he wanted, -and----’ - -‘And his uncle has followed in his father’s lines, eh?’ said the earl, -with a smile that was neither cynical nor unfriendly. ‘Well, then, -Pepperdine, I understand that the lad has been at your charges all this -time as regards everything--I suppose you’ve paid Mr. Chilverstone, -too?’ - -Mr. Pepperdine waved his hands. - -‘There’s naught to talk of, my lord,’ he said. ‘I’ve no children, and -never shall have. I never were a marrying sort, and the lad’s been -welcome. And if it had been in my power he should have gone to Oxford; -but, my lord, there’s been that happened within this last day or so -that’s brought me nigh to ruin. It was that that I wanted to see your -lordship about--it’s a poor sort of tale for anybody’s ears, but your -lordship would have to hear it some time or other. You see, my -lord’--and Mr. Pepperdine, with praiseworthy directness and simplicity, -set forth the story of his woes. - -The Earl of Simonstower listened with earnest attention until his tenant -had spread out all his ruined hopes at his feet. His face expressed -nothing until the regrettable catalogue of foolishness and wrongs came -to an end. Then he laughed, rather bitterly. - -‘Well, Pepperdine,’ he said, ‘you’ve been wronged, but you’ve been a -fool into the bargain. And I can’t blame you, for, in a smaller way--a -matter of a thousand pounds or so--this man Bransby has victimised me. -Well, now, what’s to be done? There’s one thing certain--I don’t intend -to lose you as a tenant. If nothing else can be done, my solicitors must -settle everything for you, and you must pay me back as you can. I -understand you’ve been doing well with your shorthorns, haven’t you?’ - -Mr. Pepperdine could hardly believe his ears. He had always regarded his -landlord as a somewhat cold and cynical man, and no thought of such -generous help as that indicated by the earl’s last words had come into -his mind in telling the story of his difficulties. He was a soft-hearted -man, and the tears sprang into his eyes and his voice trembled as he -tried to frame suitable words. - -‘My lord!’ he said brokenly, ‘I--I don’t know what to say----’ - -‘Then say nothing, Pepperdine,’ said the earl. ‘I understand what you -would say. It’s all right, my friend--we appear to be fellow-passengers -in Mr. Bransby’s boat, and if I help you it’s because I’m not quite as -much damaged as you are. And eventually there will be no help about -it--you’ll have helped yourself. However, we’ll discuss that later on; -at present I want to talk about your nephew. Pepperdine, I don’t want to -give up my pet scheme of sending that boy to Oxford. It is the thing -that should be done; I think it must be done, and that I must be allowed -to do it. With your consent, Pepperdine, I will charge myself with your -nephew’s expenses for three years from the time he goes up; by the end -of the three years he will be in a position to look after himself. Don’t -try to give me any thanks. I have something of a selfish motive in all -this. But now, listen: I do not wish the boy to know that he is owing -this to anybody, and least of all to me. We must invent something in the -nature of a conspiracy. There must be no one but you, the vicar, and -myself in the secret--no one, Pepperdine, and last of all any womankind, -so your mouth must be closed as regards your sisters. I will get Mr. -Chilverstone to talk to the boy, who will understand that the money is -in your hands and that he must look to you. I want you to preach economy -to him--economy, mind you, not meanness. I will talk to him in the same -way myself, because if he is anything like his father he will develop an -open-handedness which will be anything but good for him. Remember that -you are the nominal holder of the purse-strings--everything will pass -through you. I think that’s all I wanted to say, Pepperdine,’ concluded -the earl. ‘You’ll remember your part?’ - -‘I shall indeed, my lord,’ said Mr. Pepperdine, as he shook the hand -which the earl extended; ‘and I shall remember a deal more, too, to my -dying day. I can’t rightly thank your lordship at this moment.’ - -‘No need, Pepperdine, no need!’ said Lord Simonstower hastily. ‘You’d do -the same for me, I’m sure. Good-day to you, good-day; and don’t forget -the conspiracy--no talking to the women, you know.’ - -Mr. Pepperdine drove homewards with what country folk call a -heart-and-a-half. He was unusually lightsome in mood and garrulous in -conversation that evening, but he would only discourse on one topic--the -virtues of the British aristocracy. He named no names and condescended -to no particulars--the British aristocracy in general served him for the -text of a long sermon which amused Miss Judith and Lucian to a high -degree, and made Miss Pepperdine wonder how many glasses of whisky -Simpson had consumed at the ‘White Lion’ in Oakborough. It so happened -that the good man had been so full of trouble that he had forgotten to -take even one--his loquacity that evening was simply due to the fact -that while he was preparing to wail _De Profundis_ he had been commanded -to sing _Te De Laudamus_, and his glorification of lords was his version -of that pæan of joyfulness. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - - -Lucian received the news which Mr. Chilverstone communicated to him in -skilful and diplomatic fashion with an equanimity which seemed natural -to him when hearing of anything that appeared to be his just due. He had -so far had everything that he desired--always excepting the fidelity of -Haidee, which now seemed a matter of no moment and was no longer a sore -point--and he took it as a natural consequence of his own existence that -he should go to Oxford, the fame of which ancient seat of learning had -been familiar to him from boyhood. He made no inquiries as to the cost -of this step--anything relating to money had no interest for him, save -as regards laying it out on the things he desired. He had been -accustomed as a child to see his father receive considerable sums and -spend them with royal lavishness, and as he had never known what it was -to have to earn money before it could be enjoyed, he troubled himself in -nowise as to the source of the supplies which were to keep him at Oxford -for three years. He listened attentively to Mr. Pepperdine’s solemn -admonitions on the subjects of economy and extravagance, and replied at -the end thereof that he would always let his uncle have a few days’ -notice when he wanted a cheque--a remark which made Lord Simonstower’s -fellow-conspirator think a good deal. - -It was impossible at this stage to do anything or say anything to shake -Lucian’s confidence in his destiny. He meant to work hard and to do -great things, and without being conceited he was sure of success--it -seemed to him to be his rightful due. Thanks to the influence of his -father in childhood and to that of Mr. Chilverstone at a later stage, he -had formed a fine taste and was already an accomplished scholar. He had -never read any trash in his life, and it was now extremely unlikely -that he ever would, for he had developed an almost womanish dislike of -the unlovely, the mean, and the sordid, and a delicate contempt for -anything in literature that was not based on good models. Mr. -Chilverstone had every confidence in him, and every hope of his future; -it filled him with pride to know that he was sending so promising a man -to his own university; but he was cast down when he found that Lord -Simonstower insisted on Lucian’s entrance at St. Benedict’s, instead of -at St. Perpetua’s, his own old college. - -The only person who was full of fears was Sprats. She had been Lucian’s -other self for six years, and she, more than any one else, knew his need -of constant help and friendship. He was full of simplicity; he credited -everybody with the possession of qualities and sympathies which few -people possess; he lived in a world of dreams rather than of stern -facts. He was obstinate, wayward, impulsive; much too affectionate, and -much too lovable; he lived for the moment, and only regarded the future -as one continual procession of rosy hours. Sprats, with feminine -intuition, feared the moment when he would come into collision with -stern experience of the world and the worldly--she longed to be with him -when that moment came, as she had been with him when the frailty and -coquetry of the Dolly kid nearly broke his child’s heart. And so during -the last few days of his stay at Simonstower she hovered about him as a -faithful mother does about a sailor son, and she gave him much excellent -advice and many counsels of perfection. - -‘You know you are a baby,’ she said, when Lucian laughed at her. ‘You -have been so coddled all your life that you will cry if a pin pricks -you. And there will be no Sprats to tie a rag round the wound.’ - -‘It would certainly be better if Sprats were going too,’ he said -thoughtfully, and his face clouded. ‘But then,’ he continued, flashing -into a smile, ‘after all, Oxford is only two hundred miles from -Simonstower, and there are trains which carry one over two hundred miles -in a very short time. If I should chance to fall and bump my nose I -shall take a ticket by the next train and come to Sprats to be patched -up.’ - -‘I shall keep a stock of ointments and lotions and bandages in perpetual -readiness,’ she said. ‘But it must be distinctly understood, Lucian, -that I have the monopoly of curing you--I have a sort of notion, you -know, that it is my chief mission in life to be your nurse.’ - -‘The concession is yours,’ he answered, with mock gravity. - -It was with this understanding that they parted. There came a day when -all the good-byes had been said, the blessings and admonitions received, -and Lucian departed from the village with a pocket full of money -(largely placed there through the foolish feminine indulgence of Miss -Pepperdine and Miss Judith, who had womanly fears as to the horrible -situations in which he might be placed if he were bereft of ready cash) -and a light and a sanguine heart. Mr. Chilverstone went with him to -Oxford to see his _protégé_ settled and have a brief holiday of his own; -on their departure Sprats drove them to the station at Wellsby. She -waved her handkerchief until the train had disappeared; she was -conscious when she turned away that her heart had gone with Lucian. - - - - -CHAPTER XII - - -About the middle of a May afternoon, seven years later, a young man -turned out of the Strand into a quiet street in the neighbourhood of -Covent Garden and began looking about him as if endeavouring to locate -the whereabouts of some particular place. Catching sight of the name -_William Robertson_ on a neighbouring window, with the word _Publisher_ -underneath it, he turned into the door of the establishment thus -designated, and encountering an office-boy who was busily engaged in -reading a comic journal inside a small pen labelled ‘Inquiries,’ he -asked with great politeness if Mr. Robertson was at that moment -disengaged. The office-boy in his own good time condescended to examine -the personal appearance of the inquirer, and having assured himself that -the gentleman was worthy his attention he asked in sharp tones if he had -an appointment with Mr. Robertson. To this the stranger replied that he -believed he was expected by Mr. Robertson during the afternoon, but not -at any particular hour, and produced a card from which the office-boy -learned that he was confronting the Viscount Saxonstowe. He forthwith -disappeared into some inner region and came back a moment later with a -young gentleman who cultivated long hair and an æsthetic style of -necktie, and bowed Lord Saxonstowe through various doors into a pleasant -ante-room, where he accommodated his lordship with a chair and the -_Times_, and informed him that Mr. Robertson would be at liberty in a -few moments. Lord Saxonstowe remarked that he was in no hurry at all, -and would wait Mr. Robertson’s convenience. The young gentleman with the -luxuriant locks replied politely that he was quite sure Mr. Robertson -would not keep his lordship waiting long, and added that they were -experiencing quite summer-like weather. Lord Saxonstowe agreed to this -proposition, and opened the _Times_. His host or keeper for the time -being seated himself at a desk, one half of which was shared by a lady -typist who had affected great interest in her work since Lord -Saxonstowe’s entrance, and who now stole surreptitious glances at him as -he scanned the newspaper. The clerk scribbled a line or two on a scrap -of paper and passed it across to her. She untwisted it and read: ‘_This -is the chap that did that tremendous exploration in the North of Asia: a -real live lord, you know._’ She scribbled an answering line: ‘_Of course -I know--do you think I didn’t recognise the name?_’ and passed it over -with a show of indignation. The clerk indited another epistle: ‘_Don’t -look as if he’d seen much of anything, does he?_’ The girl perused this, -scribbled back: ‘_His eyes and moustache are real jam!_’ and fell to -work at her machine again. The clerk sighed, caressed a few sprouts on -his top-lip, and remarking to his own soul that these toffs always catch -the girls’ eyes, fell to doing nothing in a practised way. - -Viscount Saxonstowe, quite unconscious of the interest he was exciting, -stared about him after a time and began to wonder if the two young -people at the desk usually worked with closed windows. The atmosphere -was heavy, and there was a concentrated smell of paper, and ink, and -paste. He thought of the wind-swept plains and steppes on which he had -spent long months--he had gone through some stiff experiences there, but -he confessed to himself that he would prefer a bitter cold night in -winter in similar solitudes to a summer’s day in that ante-room. His own -healthy tan and the clearness of his eyes, his alert look and the easy -swing with which he walked, would never have been developed amidst such -surroundings, and the consciousness of his own rude health made him feel -sorry for the two white slaves before him. He felt that if he could have -his own way he would cut the young gentleman’s hair, put him into a -flannel shirt and trot him round; as for the young lady, he would -certainly send her into the country for a holiday. And while he thus -indulged his fancies a door opened and he heard voices, and two men -stepped into the ante-room. - -He instinctively recognised one as the publisher whom he had come to -see; at the other, a much younger man, he found himself staring with -some sense of recognition which was as yet vague and unformed. He felt -sure that he had met him before, and under some unusual circumstances, -but he could not remember the occasion, nor assure his mind that the -face on which he looked was really familiar--it was more suggestive of -something that had been familiar than familiar in itself. He concluded -that he must have seen a photograph of it in some illustrated paper; the -man was in all likelihood a popular author. Saxonstowe carefully looked -him over as he stood exchanging a last word with the publisher on the -threshold of the latter’s room. He noted the gracefulness of the slim -figure in the perfectly fashioned clothes, and again he became conscious -that his memory was being stirred. The man under observation was -swinging a light walking-cane as he chatted; he made a sudden movement -with it to emphasise a point, and Saxonstowe’s memory cleared itself. -His thoughts flew back ten years: he saw two boys, one the very image of -incarnate Wrath, the other an equally faithful impersonation of -Amazement, facing each other in an antique hall, with rapiers in hand -and a sense of battle writ large upon their faces and figures. - -‘And I can’t remember the chap’s name!’ he thought. ‘But this is he.’ - -He looked at his old antagonist more closely, and with a keener -interest. Lucian was now twenty-five; he had developed into a tall, -well-knit man of graceful and sinuous figure; he was dressed with great -care and with strict attention to the height of the prevalent fashion, -but with a close study of his own particular requirements; his -appearance was distinguished and notable, and Saxonstowe, little given -to sentiment as regards manly beauty, confessed to himself that the face -on which he looked might have been moulded by Nature from a canvas or -marble of the Renaissance. It was a face for which some women would -forget everything,--Saxonstowe, with this thought half-formed in his -mind, caught sight of the anæemic typist, who, oblivious of anything -else in the room, had fixed all her attention on Lucian. Her hands -rested, motionless, on the keys of the machine before her; her head was -slightly tilted back, her eyes shone, her lips were slightly parted; a -faint flush of colour had stolen into her cheeks, and for the moment she -was a pretty girl. Saxonstowe smiled--it seemed to him that he had been -privileged to peep into the secret chamber of a girlish soul. ‘She would -give something to kiss his hand,’ he thought. - -Lucian turned away from the publisher with a nod; his eye caught -Saxonstowe’s and held it. A puzzled look came into his face; he paused -and involuntarily stretched out his hand, staring at Saxonstowe -searchingly. Saxonstowe smiled and gave his hand in return. - -‘We have met somewhere,’ said Lucian wonderingly, ‘I cannot think -where.’ - -‘Nor can I remember your name,’ answered Saxonstowe. ‘But--we met in the -Stone Hall at Simonstower.’ - -Lucian’s face lighted with the smile which had become famous for its -sweetness. - -‘And with rapiers!’ he exclaimed. ‘I remember--I remember! You are -Dickie--Dickie Feversham.’ He began to laugh. ‘How quaint that scene -was!’ he said. ‘I have often thought that it had the very essence of the -dramatic in it. Let me see--what did we fight about? Was it Haidee? How -amusing--because Haidee and I are married.’ - -‘That,’ said Saxonstowe, ‘seems a happy ending to the affair. But I -think it ended happily at the time. And even yet I cannot remember your -name.’ - -Mr. Robertson stepped forward before Lucian could reply. He introduced -the young men to each other in due form. Then Saxonstowe knew that his -old enemy was one of the great literary lions of the day; and Lucian -recognised Saxonstowe as the mighty traveller of whose deeds most people -were talking. They looked at each other with interest, and Mr. Robertson -felt a glow of pride when he remembered that his was the only imprint -which had ever appeared on a title-page of Lucian Damerel’s, and that he -was shortly to publish the two massive volumes in which Viscount -Saxonstowe had given to the world an account of his wondrous wanderings. -He rubbed his hands as he regarded these two splendid young men; it did -him good to be near them. - -Lucian was worshipping Saxonstowe with the guileless adoration of a -child that looks on a man who has seen great things and done great -things. It was a trick of his: he had once been known to stand -motionless for an hour, gazing in silence at a man who had performed a -deed of desperate valour, had suffered the loss of his legs in doing it, -and had been obliged to exhibit himself with a placard round his neck in -order to scrape a living together. Lucian was now conjuring up a vision -of the steppes and plains over which Saxonstowe had travelled with his -life in his hands. - -‘When will you dine with us?’ he said, suddenly bursting into speech. -‘To-night--to-morrow?--the day after--when? Come before everybody snaps -you up--you will have no peace for your soul or rest for your body after -your book is out.’ - -‘Then I shall run away to certain regions where one can easily find -both,’ answered Saxonstowe laughingly. ‘I assure you I have no intention -of wasting either body or soul in London.’ - -Then they arranged that the new lion was to dine with Mr. and Mrs. -Lucian Damerel on the following day, and Lucian departed, while -Saxonstowe followed Mr. Robertson into his private room. - -‘Your lordship has met Mr. Damerel before?’ said the publisher, who had -something of a liking for gossip about his pet authors. - -‘Once,’ answered Saxonstowe. ‘We were boys at the time. I had no idea -that he was the poet of whose work I have heard so much since coming -home.’ - -‘He has had an extraordinarily successful career,’ said Mr. Robertson, -glancing complacently at a little row of thin volumes bound in dark -green cloth which figured in a miniature book-case above his desk. ‘I -have published all his work--he leaped into fame with his first book, -which I produced when he was at Oxford, and since then he has held a -recognised place. Yes, one may say that Damerel is one of fortune’s -spoiled darlings--everything that he has done has turned out a great -success. He has the grand manner in poetry. I don’t know whether your -lordship has read his great tragedy, _Domitia_, which was staged so -magnificently at the Athenæum, and proved the sensation of the year?’ - -‘I am afraid,’ replied Saxonstowe, ‘that I have had few opportunities of -reading anything at all for the past five years. I think Mr. Damerel’s -first volume had just appeared when I left England, and books, you know, -are not easily obtainable in the wilds of Central Asia. Now that I have -better chances, I must not neglect them.’ - -‘You have a great treat in store, my lord,’ said the publisher. He -nodded his head several times, as if to emphasise the remark. ‘Yes,’ he -continued, ‘Damerel has certainly been favoured by fortune. Everything -has conspired to increase the sum of his fame. His romantic marriage, of -course, was a great advertisement.’ - -‘An advertisement!’ - -‘I mean, of course, from my standpoint,’ said Mr. Robertson hastily. ‘He -ran away with a very beautiful girl who was on the very eve of -contracting a most advantageous marriage from a worldly point of view, -and the affair was much talked about. There was a great rush on -Damerel’s books during the next few weeks--it is wonderful how a little -sensation like that helps the sale of a book. I remember that Lord -Pintleford published a novel with me some years ago which we could not -sell at all. He shot his coachman in a fit of anger--that sold the book -like hot cakes.’ - -‘I trust the unfortunate coachman was not seriously injured,’ said -Saxonstowe, who was much amused by these revelations. ‘It is, I confess, -an unusual method of advertising a book, and one which I should not care -to adopt.’ - -‘Oh, we can spare your lordship the trouble!’ said Mr. Robertson. -‘There’ll be no need to employ any unusual methods in making your -lordship’s book known. I have already subscribed two large editions of -it.’ - -With this gratifying announcement Mr. Robertson plunged into the -business which had brought Lord Saxonstowe to his office, and for that -time no more was said of Lucian Damerel and his great fame. But that -night Saxonstowe dined with his aunt, Lady Firmanence, a childless widow -who lived on past scandals and present gossip, and chancing to remark -that he had encountered Lucian and renewed a very small acquaintance -with him, was greeted with a sniff which plainly indicated that Lady -Firmanence had something to say. - -‘And where, pray, did you meet Lucian Damerel at any time?’ she -inquired. ‘He was unknown, or just beginning to be known, when you left -England.’ - -‘It is ten years since I met him,’ answered Saxonstowe. ‘It was when I -was staying at Saxonstowe with my uncle. I met Damerel at Simonstower, -and the circumstances were rather amusing.’ - -He gave an account of the duel, which afforded Lady Firmanence much -amusement, and he showed her the scar on his hand, and laughed as he -related the story of Lucian’s terrible earnestness. - -‘But I have never forgotten,’ he concluded, ‘how readily and sincerely -he asked my forgiveness when he found that he had been in the wrong--it -rather knocked me over, you know, because I didn’t quite understand that -he really felt the thing--we were both such boys, and the girl was a -child.’ - -‘Oh, Lucian Damerel has good feeling,’ said Lady Firmanence. ‘You -wouldn’t understand the Italian strain in him. But it is amusing that -you should have fought over Haidee Brinklow, who is now Mrs. Lucian. I’m -glad he married her, and that you didn’t.’ - -‘Considering that I am to dine with Mr. and Mrs. Lucian Damerel -to-morrow,’ said Saxonstowe, ‘it is a bit odd that I don’t know any more -of them than this. She, I remember, was some connection of Lord -Simonstower’s; but who is he?’ - -‘Lucian Damerel? Oh, he was the son of Cyprian Damerel, an Italian -artist who married the daughter of one of Simonstower’s tenants. -Simonstower was at all times greatly interested in him, and it has -always been my firm impression that it was he who sent the boy to -Oxford. At any rate, when he died, which was just before Lucian Damerel -came of age, Simonstower left him ten thousand pounds.’ - -‘That was good,’ said Saxonstowe. - -‘I don’t know,’ said Lady Firmanence. ‘It has always seemed to me from -what I have seen of him--and I keep my eyes open on most things--that it -would have been far better for that young man if fortune had dealt him a -few sound kicks instead of so many halfpence. Depend upon it, -Saxonstowe, it’s a bad thing for a man, and especially for a man of that -temperament, to be pampered too much. Now, Lucian Damerel has been -pampered all his life--I know a good deal about him, because I was -constantly down at Saxonstowe during the last two or three years of your -uncle’s life, and Saxonstowe, as you may remember, is close to -Simonstower. I know how Lucian was petted and pampered by his own -people, and by the parson and his daughter, and by the old lord. His way -has always been made smooth for him--it would have done him good to find -a few rough places here and there. He had far too much flattery poured -upon him when his success came, and he has got used to expecting it, -though indeed,’ concluded the old lady, laughing, ‘Heaven knows I’m -wrong in saying “got used,” for Damerel’s one of the sort who take all -the riches and luxuries of the world as their just due.’ - -‘He seemed to me to be very simple and unaffected,’ said Saxonstowe. - -Lady Firmanence nodded the ribbons of her cap. - -‘Yes,’ she said, ‘he’s sadly too simple, and I wish--for I can’t help -liking him--that he was as affected as some of those young upstarts who -cultivate long hair and velvet coats on the strength of a slim volume -printed on one side of the paper only. No--Lucian Damerel hasn’t a scrap -of affectation about him, and he isn’t a _poseur_. I wish he were -affected and that he would pose--I do indeed, for his own sake.’ - -Saxonstowe knew that his aunt was a clever woman. He held his tongue, -asking her by his eyes to explain this desire of hers, which seemed so -much at variance with her well-known love of humbug and cant. - -‘Oh, of course I know you’re wondering at that!’ she said. ‘Well, the -explanation is simple enough. I wish Lucian Damerel were a _poseur_, I -wish he were affected, even to the insufferable stage, for the simple -reason that if he were these things it would show that he was alive to -the practical and business side of the matter. What is he? A writer. -He’ll have to live by writing--at the rate he and Haidee live they’ll -soon exhaust their resources--and he ought to be alive to the £ s. d. of -his trade, for it is a trade. As things are, he isn’t alive. The -difference between Lucian Damerel and some other men of equal eminence -in his own craft is just this: they are for ever in an attitude, crying -out, “Look at me--is it not wonderful that I am so clever?” Lucian, on -the other hand, seems to suggest an attitude and air of “Wouldn’t it be -curious if I weren’t?”’ - -‘I think,’ said Saxonstowe, ‘that there may be some affectation in -that.’ - -‘Affectation,’ said Lady Firmanence, ‘depends upon two things if it is -to be successful: the power to deceive cleverly, and the ability to -deceive for ever. Lucian Damerel couldn’t deceive anybody--he’s a child, -the child who believes the world to be an illimitable nursery crammed -with inexhaustible toys.’ - -‘You mean that he plays at life?’ - -‘I mean that he plays _in_ life,’ said Lady Firmanence. ‘He’s still -sporting on his mother’s breast, and he’ll go on sporting until somebody -picks him up, smacks him soundly, and throws him into a corner. Then, of -course, he will be vastly surprised to find that such treatment _could_ -be meted out to him.’ - -‘Then let us hope that he will be able to live in his world of dreams -for ever,’ said Saxonstowe. - -‘So he might, if the State were to establish an asylum for folk of his -sort,’ said Lady Firmanence. ‘But he happens to be married, and married -to Haidee Brinklow.’ - -‘My publisher,’ remarked Saxonstowe, ‘gloated over the romantic -circumstances of the marriage, and appeared to think that that sort of -thing was good for trade--made books sell, you know.’ - -‘I have no doubt that Damerel’s marriage made his books sell, and kept -_Domitia_ running at the Athenæum for at least three months longer,’ -replied Lady Firmanence. - -‘Were the circumstances, then, so very romantic?’ - -‘I dare say they appealed to the sensations, emotions, feelings, and -notions of the British public,’ said the old lady. ‘Haidee Brinklow, -after a campaign of two seasons, was about to marry a middle-aged person -who had made much money in something or other, and was prepared to -execute handsome settlements. It was all arranged when Lucian burst upon -the scene, blazing with triumph, youth, and good looks. He was the comet -of that season, and Haidee was attracted by the glitter of his tail. I -suppose he and she were madly in love with each other for quite a -month--unfortunately, during that month they committed the indiscretion -of marriage.’ - -‘A runaway marriage, was it not?’ - -‘Under the very noses of the mamma and the bridegroom-elect. There was -one happy result of the affair,’ said Lady Firmanence musingly; ‘it -drove Mrs. Brinklow off to somewhere or other on the Continent, and -there she has since remained--she took her defeat badly. Now the jilted -gentleman took it in good part--it is said that he is quite a sort of -grandpapa in the establishment, and has realised that there are -compensations even in being jilted.’ - -Saxonstowe meditated upon these things in silence. - -‘Mrs. Damerel was a pretty girl,’ he said, after a time. - -‘Mrs. Damerel is a nice little doll,’ said Lady Firmanence, ‘a very -pretty toy indeed. Give her plenty of pretty things to wear and sweets -to eat, and all the honey of life to sip at, and she’ll do well and go -far; but don’t ask her to draw cheques against a mental balance which -she never had, or you’ll get them back--dishonoured.’ - -‘Are there any children?’ Saxonstowe asked. - -‘Only themselves,’ replied his aunt, ‘and quite plenty too, in one -house. If it were not for Millie Chilverstone, I don’t know what they -would do--she descends upon them now and then, straightens them up as -far as she can, and sets the wheels working once more. She is good to -them.’ - -‘And who is she? I have some sort of recollection of her name,’ said -Saxonstowe. - -‘She is the daughter of the parson at Simonstower--the man who tutored -Lucian Damerel.’ - -‘Ah, I remember--she was the girl who came with him to the Castle that -day, and he called her Sprats. A lively, good-humoured girl, with a heap -of freckles in a very bright face,’ said Saxonstowe. - -‘She is little altered,’ remarked Lady Firmanence. ‘Now, that was the -girl for Lucian Damerel! She would have taken care of his money, darned -his socks, given him plain dinners, seen that the rent was paid, and -made a man of him.’ - -‘Admirable qualifications,’ laughed Saxonstowe. ‘But one might -reasonably suppose that a poet of Damerel’s quality needs others--some -intellectual gifts, for example, in his helpmeet.’ - -‘Stuff and nonsense!’ retorted Lady Firmanence. ‘He wants a good -managing housekeeper with a keen eye for the butcher’s bill and a genius -for economy. As for intellect--pray, Saxonstowe, don’t foster the -foolish notion that poets are intellectual. Don’t you know that all -genius is lopsided? Your poet has all his brain-power in one little -cell--there may be a gold-mine there, but the rest of him is usually -weak even to childishness. And the great need of the weak man is the -strong woman.’ - -Saxonstowe’s silence was a delicate and flattering compliment to Lady -Firmanence’s perspicacity. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - - -Lady Firmanence’s observations upon the family history of Mr. and Mrs. -Lucian Damerel sent Lord Saxonstowe to their house at seven o’clock the -following evening with feelings of pleasant curiosity. He had been out -of the world--as that phrase is known by people whose chief idea of life -is to live in social ant-heaps--long enough to enjoy a renewed -acquaintance with it, and since his return to England had found a -hitherto untasted pleasure in studying the manners and customs of his -fellow-subjects. He remembered little about them as they had presented -themselves to him before his departure for the East, for he was then -young and unlicked: the five years of comparative solitude which he had -spent in the deserts and waste places of the earth, only enlivened by -the doubtful company of Kirghese, Tartars, and children of nature, had -lifted him upon an eminence from whence he might view civilised humanity -with a critical eye. So far everything had amused him--it seemed to him -that never had life seemed so small and ignoble, so mean and trifling, -as here where the men and women were as puppets pulled by strings which -fate had attached to most capricious fingers. Like all the men who come -back from the deserts and the mountains, he gazed on the whirling life -around him with a feeling that was half pity, half contempt. The antics -of the puppets made him wonder, and in the wonder he found amusement. - -Mr. and Mrs. Lucian Damerel, as befitted young people untroubled by -considerations of economy, resided in one of those smaller streets in -Mayfair wherein one may find a house large enough to turn round in -without more than an occasional collision with the walls. Such a house -is not so comfortable as a suburban residence at one-tenth the rent, but -it has the advantage of being in the middle of the known world, and if -its frontage to the street is only one of six yards, its exterior may be -made pretty and even taking by a judicious use of flowering plants, -bright paint, and a quaint knocker. The interior is usually suggestive -of playing at doll’s house; but the absence of even one baby makes a -great difference, and in Lucian’s establishment there were no children. -Small as it was, the house was a veritable nest of comfort--Lucian and -Haidee had the instinct of settling themselves amongst soft things, and -surrounding their souls with an atmosphere of æsthetic delight, and one -of them at least had the artist’s eye for colour, and the true -collector’s contempt for the cheap and obvious. There was scarcely a -chair or table in the rooms sacred to the householders and their friends -which had not a history and a distinction: every picture was an -education in art; the books were masterpieces of the binder’s craft; the -old china and old things generally were the despair of many people who -could have afforded to buy a warehouse full of the like had they only -known where to find it. Lucian knew, and when he came into possession of -Lord Simonstower’s legacy he began to surround himself with the fruits -of money and knowledge, and as riches came rolling in from royalties, he -went on indulging his tastes until the house was full, and would hold no -more examples of anything. But by that time it was a nest of luxury -wherein even the light, real and artificial, was graduated to a fine -shade, where nothing crude in shape or colour interfered with the -delicate susceptibilities of a poetic temperament. - -When Lord Saxonstowe was shown into the small drawing-room of this small -house he marvelled at the cleverness and delicacy of the taste which -could make so much use of limited dimensions. It was the daintiest and -prettiest room he had ever seen, and though he himself had small -inclinations to ease and luxury of any sort, he drank in the -pleasantness of his surroundings with a distinct sense of personal -gratification. The room was empty of human life when he entered it, but -the marks of a personality were all over it, and the personality was -neither masculine nor feminine--it was the personality of a neuter -thing, and Saxonstowe dimly recognised that it meant Art. He began to -understand something of Lucian as he looked about him, and to conceive -him as a mind which dominated its enveloping body to a love of beauty -that might easily degenerate into a slavedom to luxury. He began to -wonder if Lucian’s study or library, or wherever he worked, were -similarly devoted to the worship of form and colour. - -He was turning over the leaves of an Italian work, a book sumptuous in -form and wonderful in its vellum binding and gold scroll-work, when a -rustle of skirts aroused him from the first stages of a reverie. He -turned, expecting to see his hostess--instead he saw a young lady whom -he instinctively recognised as Miss Chilverstone, the girl of the merry -eyes and the innumerable freckles of ten years earlier. He looked at her -closely as she approached him, and he saw that the merry eyes had lost -some of their roguery, but were still frank, clear, and kindly; some of -the freckles had gone, but a good many were still there, adding piquancy -to a face that had no pretensions to beauty, but many to the charms -which spring from the possession of a kindly heart and a purposeful -temperament. Good temper and good health appeared to radiate from Miss -Chilverstone; the active girl of sixteen had developed into a splendid -woman, and Lord Saxonstowe, as she moved towards him, admired her with a -sudden recognition of her feminine strength--she was just the woman, he -said to himself, who ought to be the mate of a strong man, a man of -action and purpose and determination. - -She held out her hand to him with a frank smile. - -‘Do you remember me?’ she said. ‘It is quite ten years since that -fateful afternoon at Simonstower.’ - -‘Was it fateful?’ he answered. ‘Yes, I remember quite well. In those -days you were called Sprats.’ - -‘I am still Sprats,’ she answered, with a laugh. ‘I shall always be -Sprats. I am Sprats to Lucian and Haidee, and even to my children.’ - -‘To your children?’ he said wonderingly. - -‘I have twenty-five,’ she replied, smiling at his questioning look. ‘But -of course you do not know. I have a private orphanage, all of my own, in -Bayswater--it is my hobby. If you are interested in babies and children, -do come to see me there, and I will introduce you to all my charges.’ - -‘I will certainly do that,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it hard work?’ - -‘Isn’t everything hard work that is worth doing?’ she answered. ‘Yes, I -suppose it is hard work, but I like it. I have a natural genius for -mothering helpless things--that is why I occasionally condescend to put -on fine clothes and dine with children like Lucian and Haidee when they -entertain great travellers who are also peers of the realm.’ - -‘Do they require mothering?’ he asked. - -‘Very much so sometimes--they are very particular babies. I come to them -every now and then to scold them, smack them, straighten them up, and -see that they are in no danger of falling into the fire or upsetting -anything. Afterwards I dine with them in order to cheer them up after -the rough time they have had.’ - -Saxonstowe smiled. He had been watching her closely all the time. - -‘I see,’ he said, ‘that you are still Sprats. Has the time been very -rough to-day?’ - -‘Somewhat rough on poor Haidee, perhaps,’ answered Sprats. ‘Lucian has -wisely kept out of the way until he can find safety in numbers. But -please sit down and tell me about your travels until our hostess -appears--it seems quite funny to see you all in one piece after such -adventures. Didn’t they torture you in some Thibetan town?’ she -inquired, with a sudden change from gaiety to womanly concern. - -‘They certainly were rather inhospitable,’ he answered. ‘I shouldn’t -call it torture, I think--it was merely a sort of gentle hint as to -what they would do if I intruded upon them again.’ - -‘But I want to know what they did,’ she insisted. ‘You look so nice and -comfortable sitting there, with no other sign of discomfort about you -than the usual I-want-my-dinner look, that one would never dream you had -gone through hardships.’ - -Saxonstowe was not much given to conversation--his nomadic life had -communicated the gift of silence to him, but he recognised the -sympathetic note in Miss Chilverstone’s voice, and he began to tell her -about his travels in a somewhat boyish fashion that amused her. As he -talked she examined him closely and decided that he was almost as young -as on the afternoon when he occasioned such mad jealousy in Lucian’s -breast. His method of expressing himself was simple and direct and -schoolboyish in language, but the exuberance of spirits which she -remembered had disappeared and given place to a staid, old-fashioned -manner. - -‘I wonder what did it?’ she said, unconsciously uttering her thought. - -‘Did what?’ he asked. - -‘I was thinking aloud,’ she answered. ‘I wondered what had made you so -very staid in a curiously young way--you were a rough-and-tumble sort of -boy that afternoon at Simonstower.’ - -Saxonstowe blushed. He had recollections of his youthfulness. - -‘I believe I was an irrepressible sort of youngster,’ he said. ‘I think -that gets knocked out of you though, when you spend a lot of time -alone--you get no end of time for thinking, you know, out in the -deserts.’ - -‘I should think so,’ she said. ‘And I suppose that even this solitude -becomes companionable in a way that only those who have experienced it -can understand?’ - -He looked at her with some surprise and with a new interest and strange -sense of kinship. - -‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘That’s it--that is it exactly. How did you know?’ - -‘It isn’t necessary to go into the deserts and steppes to feel a bit -lonely now and then, is it?’ she said, with a laugh. ‘I suppose most of -us get some sort of notion of solitude at some time or other.’ - -At that juncture Haidee entered, and Saxonstowe turned to her with a -good deal of curiosity. He was somewhat surprised to find that ten years -of added age had made little difference in her. She was now a woman, it -was true, and her girlish prettiness had changed into a somewhat -luxurious style of beauty--there was no denying the loveliness of face -and figure, of charm and colour, he said to himself, but he was quick to -observe that Haidee’s beauty depended entirely upon surface qualities. -She fell, without effort or consciousness, into poses which other women -vainly tried to emulate; it was impossible to her to walk across a room, -sit upon an unaccommodating chair, or loll upon a much becushioned sofa -in anything but a graceful way; it was equally impossible, so long as -nothing occurred to ruffle her, to keep from her lips a perpetual smile, -or inviting glances from her dark eyes. She reminded Saxonstowe of a -fluffy, silky-coated kitten which he had seen playing on Lady -Firmanence’s hearthrug, and he was not surprised to find, when she began -to talk to him, that her voice had something of the feline purr in it. -Within five minutes of her entrance he had determined that Mrs. Damerel -was a pretty doll. She showed to the greatest advantage amidst the -luxury of her surroundings, but her mouth dropped no pearls, and her -pretty face showed no sign of intellect, or of wit, or of any strong -mental quality. It was evident that conversation was not Mrs. Damerel’s -strong point--she indicated in an instinctive fashion that men were -expected to amuse and admire her without drawing upon her intellectual -resources, and Saxonstowe soon formed the opinion that a judicious use -of monosyllables would carry her a long way in uncongenial company. Her -beauty had something of sleepiness about it--there was neither vivacity -nor animation in her manner, but she was beautifully gowned and -daintily perfect, and as a picture deserved worship and recognition. - -Saxonstowe was presently presented to another guest, Mrs. Berenson, a -lady who had achieved great distinction on the stage, and who claimed a -part proprietorship in Lucian Damerel because she had created the part -of the heroine in his tragedy, and almost worn herself to skin and bone -in playing it in strenuous fashion for nearly three hundred nights. She -was now resting from these labours, and employing her leisure in an -attempt to induce Lucian to write a play around herself, and the project -was so much in her mind that she began to talk volubly of it as soon as -she entered his wife’s drawing-room. Saxonstowe inspected her with -curiosity and amusement. He had seen her described as an embodiment of -sinuous grace; she seemed to him an angular, scraggy woman, whose joints -were too much in evidence, and who would have been the better for some -addition to her adipose tissue. From behind the footlights Mrs. Berenson -displayed many charms and qualities of beauty--Saxonstowe soon came to -the conclusion that they must be largely due to artificial aids and the -power of histrionic art, for she presented none of them on the dull -stage of private life. Her hair, arranged on the principle of artful -carelessness, was of a washed-out colour; her complexion was mottled and -her skin rough; she had an unfortunately prominent nose which evinced a -decided partiality to be bulbous, and her mouth, framed in harsh lines -and drooping wrinkles, was so large that it seemed to stretch from one -corner of an elongated jaw to the other. She was noticeable, but not -pleasant to look upon, and in spite of a natural indifference to such -things, Saxonstowe wished that her attire had been either less eccentric -or better suited to her. Mrs. Berenson, being very tall and very thin, -wore a gown of the eighteenth-century-rustic-maiden style, made very -high at the waist, low at the neck, and short in the sleeves--she thus -looked like a lamp-post, or a bean-stalk, topped with a mask and a -flaxen wig. She was one of those women who wear innumerable chains, and -at least half-a-dozen rings on each hand, and she had an annoying trick -of clasping her hands in front of her and twisting the chains round her -fingers, which were very long and very white, and apt to get on other -people’s nerves. It was also to be observed that she never ceased -talking, and that her one subject of conversation was herself. - -As Saxonstowe was beginning to wish that his host would appear, Mr. -Eustace Darlington was announced, and he found himself diverted from -Mrs. Berenson by a new object of interest, in the shape of the man whom -Mrs. Damerel had jilted in order to run away with Lucian. Mr. Darlington -was a man of apparently forty years of age; a clean-shaven, keen-eyed -individual, who communicated an immediate impression of shrewd -hard-headedness. He was very quiet and very self-possessed in manner, -and it required little knowledge of human nature to predict of him that -he would never do anything in a hurry or in a perfunctory manner--a -single glance of his eye at the clock as eight struck served to indicate -at least one principal trait of his character. - -‘It is utterly useless to look at the clock,’ said Haidee, catching Mr. -Darlington’s glance. ‘That won’t bring Lucian any sooner--he has -probably quite forgotten that he has guests, and gone off to dine at his -club or something of that sort. He gets more erratic every day. I wish -you’d talk seriously to him, Sprats. He never pays the least attention -to me. Last week he asked two men to dine--utter strangers to me--and at -eight o’clock came a wire from Oxford saying he had gone down there to -see a friend and was staying the night.’ - -‘I think that must be delightful in the man to whom you are married,’ -said Mrs. Berenson. ‘I should hate to live with a man who always did the -right thing at the right moment--so dull, you know.’ - -‘There is much to be said on both sides,’ said Darlington dryly. ‘In -husbands, as in theology, a happy medium would appear to be found in the -_via media_. I presume, Mrs. Berenson, that you would like your husband -to wear his waistcoat outside his coat and dine at five o’clock in the -morning?’ - -‘I would prefer even that to a husband who lived on clock-work -principles,’ Mrs. Berenson replied. ‘Eccentricity is the surest proof of -strong character.’ - -‘I should imagine,’ said Sprats, with a glance at Saxonstowe which -seemed to convey to him that the actress was amusing. ‘I should imagine -that Lord Saxonstowe and Mr. Darlington are men of clock-work -principles.’ - -Mrs. Berenson put up her pince-nez and favoured the two men with a long, -steady stare. She dropped the pince-nez with a deep sigh. - -‘They do look like it, don’t they?’ she said despairingly. ‘There’s -something in the way they wear their clothes and hold their hands that -suggests it. Do you always rise at a certain hour?’ she went on, turning -to Saxonstowe. ‘My husband had a habit of getting up at six in summer -and seven in winter--it brought on an extraordinary form of nervous -disease in me, and the doctors warned him that they would not be -responsible for my life if he persisted. I believe he tried to break the -habit off, poor fellow, but he died, and so of course there was an end -of it.’ - -Ere Saxonstowe could decide whether he was expected to reply to the -lady’s question as to his own habits, the sound of a rapidly driven and -sharply pulled-up cab was heard outside, followed by loudly delivered -instructions in Lucian’s voice. A minute later he rushed into the -drawing-room. He had evidently come straight out of the cab, for he wore -his hat and forgot to take it off--excitement and concern were written -in large letters all over him. He began to gesticulate, addressing -everybody, and talking very quickly and almost breathlessly. He was -awfully sorry to have kept them waiting, and even now he must hurry away -again immediately. He had heard late that afternoon of an old college -friend who had fallen on evil days after an heroic endeavour to make a -fortune out of literature, and had gone to him to find that the poor -fellow, his wife, and two young children were all in the last stages of -poverty, and confronting a cold and careless world from the insecure -bastion of a cheap lodging in an unknown quarter of the town named -Ball’s Pond. He described their plight and surroundings in a few graphic -sentences, looking from one to the other with quick eager glances, as if -appealing to them for comprehension, or sympathy, or assent. - -‘And of course I must see to the poor chap and his family,’ he said. -‘They want food, and money, and lots of things. And the two -children--Sprats, _you_ must come back with me just now. I am keeping -the cab--you must come and take those children away to your hospital. -And where is Hoskins? I want food and wine for them; he must put it on -top of the hansom.’ - -‘Are we all to go without dinner?’ asked Mrs. Damerel. - -‘By no means, by no means!’ said Lucian. ‘Pray do not wait -longer--indeed I don’t know when I shall return, there will be lots to -do, and----’ - -‘But Sprats, if she goes with you, will go hungry,’ Mrs. Damerel urged. - -Lucian stared at Sprats, and frowned, as if some deep mental problem had -presented itself to him. - -‘You can’t be very hungry, Sprats, you know,’ he said, with visible -impatience. ‘You must have had tea during the afternoon--can’t you wait -an hour or two and we’ll get something later on? Those two children must -be brought away--my God! you should see the place--you must come, of -course.’ - -‘Oh, I’m going with you!’ answered Sprats. ‘Don’t bother about us, you -other people--angels of mercy are not very pleasant things at the moment -you’re starving for dinner--go and dine and leave Lucian to me; I’ll put -a cloak or something over my one swell gown and go with him. Now, -Lucian, quick with your commissariat arrangements.’ - -‘Yes, yes, I’ll be quick,’ answered Lucian. ‘You see,’ he continued, -turning to Saxonstowe with the air of a child who has asked another -child to play with it, and at the last moment prefers an alternative -amusement; ‘it’s an awful pity, isn’t it, but you do quite understand? -The poor chap’s starving and friendless, you know, and I don’t know when -I shall get back, but----’ - -‘Please don’t bother about me,’ said Saxonstowe; ‘I quite understand.’ - -Lucian sighed--a sigh of relief. He looked round; Sprats had -disappeared, but Hoskins, a staid and solemn butler, lingered at the -door. Lucian appealed to him with the pathetic insistence of the man who -wants very much to do something, and is not quite sure how to do it. - -‘Oh, I say, Hoskins, I want--some food, you know, and wine, and----’ - -‘Yes, sir,’ said Hoskins. ‘Miss Chilverstone has just given me -instructions, sir.’ - -‘Oh, then we can go!’ exclaimed Lucian. ‘I say, you really mustn’t -mind--oh! I am forgetting that I must take some money,’ he said, and -hurriedly left the room. His wife sighed and looked at Darlington. - -‘I suppose we may now go to dinner,’ she said. ‘Lucian will sup on a -sandwich somewhere about midnight.’ - -In the hall they found Sprats enveloped in an ulster which completely -covered her dinner-gown; Lucian was cramming a handful of money, -obviously taken at random from a receptacle where paper-currency and -gold and silver coins were all mingled together, into a pocket; a -footman was carrying a case of food and wine out to the cab. Mrs. -Berenson insisted on seeing the two apostles of charity depart--the -entire episode had put her into a good temper, and she enlivened the -next hour with artless descriptions of her various states of feeling. -Her chatter amused Saxonstowe; Darlington and Mrs. Damerel appeared to -have heard much of it on previous occasions, and received it with -equanimity. As soon as dinner was over she announced that if Lucian had -been at home she had meant to spend the rest of the evening in -expounding her ideas on the subject of the wished-for drama to him, but -as things were she would go round to the Empire for an hour--she would -just be in time, she said, to see a turn in which the performer, a -contortionist, could tie himself into a complicated knot, dislocate -every joint in his body, and assume the most grotesque positions, all -without breaking himself in pieces. - -‘It is the grimmest performance,’ she said to Saxonstowe; ‘it makes me -dream, and I wake screaming; and the sensation of finding that the dream -is a dream, and not a reality, is so exquisite that I treat myself to it -at least once a week. I think that all great artists should cultivate -sensations--don’t you?’ - -Upon this point Saxonstowe was unable to give a satisfactory answer, but -he replied very politely that he trusted Mrs. Berenson would enjoy her -treat. Soon after her departure he made his own adieu, leaving Mrs. -Damerel to entertain Darlington and two or three other men who had -dropped in after dinner, and who seemed in nowise surprised to find -Lucian not at home. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - - -Lucian swooped down upon the humble dwelling in which his less fortunate -fellow resided, like an angel who came to destroy rather than to save. -He took everything into his own hands, as soon as the field of -operations lay open to him, and it was quite ten minutes before Sprats, -by delicate finesse, managed to shut him up in one room with the -invalid, while she and the wife talked practical matters in another. At -the end of an hour she got him safely away from the house. He was in a -pleasurable state of mind; the situation had been full of charm to him, -and he walked out into the street gloating over the fact that the sick -man and his wife and children were now fed and warmed and made generally -comfortable, and had money in the purse wherewith to keep the wolf from -the door for many days. His imagination had seized upon the misery which -the unlucky couple must have endured before help came in their way: he -conjured up the empty pocket, the empty cupboard, the blank despair that -comes from lack of help and sympathy, the heart sickness which springs -from the powerlessness to hope any longer. He had read of these things -but had never seen them: he only realised what they meant when he looked -at the faces of the sick man and his wife as he and Sprats left them. -Striding away at Sprats’s side, his head drooping towards his chest and -his hands plunged in his pockets, Lucian ruminated upon these things and -became so keenly impressed by them that he suddenly paused and uttered a -sharp exclamation. - -‘By George, Sprats!’ he said, standing still and staring at her as if he -had never seen her before, ‘what an awful thing poverty must be! Did -that ever strike you?’ - -‘Often,’ answered Sprats, with laconic alacrity, ‘as it might have -struck you, too, if you’d kept your eyes open.’ - -‘I am supposed to have excellent powers of observation,’ he said -musingly, ‘but somehow I don’t think I ever quite realised what poverty -meant until to-night. I wonder what it would be like to try it for a -while--to go without money and food and have no hope?--but, of course, -one couldn’t do it--one would always know that one could go back to -one’s usual habits, and so on. It would only be playing at being poor. I -wonder, now, where the exact line would be drawn between the end of hope -and the beginning of despair?--that’s an awfully interesting subject, -and one that I should like to follow up. Don’t you think----’ - -‘Lucian,’ said Sprats, interrupting him without ceremony, ‘are we going -to stand here at the street corner all night while you moon about -abstract questions? Because if you are, I’m not.’ - -Lucian came out of his reverie and examined his surroundings. He had -come to a halt at a point where the Essex Road is transected by the New -North Road, and he gazed about him with the expression of a traveller -who has wandered into strange regions. - -‘This is a quarter of the town which I do not know,’ he said. ‘Not very -attractive, is it? Let us walk on to those lights--I suppose we can find -a hansom there, and then we can get back to civilisation.’ - -They walked forward in the direction of Islington High Street: round -about the Angel there was life and animation and a plenitude of bright -light; Lucian grew interested, and finally asked a policeman what part -of the town he found himself in. On hearing that that was Islington he -was immediately reminded of the ‘Bailiff’s Daughter’ and began to recall -lines of it. But Islington and old ballads were suddenly driven quite -out of his thoughts by an object which had no apparent connection with -poetry. - -Sprats, keeping her eyes open for a hansom, suddenly missed Lucian from -her side, and turned to find him gazing at the windows of a little -café-restaurant with an Italian name over its door and a suspicion of -Continental cookery about it. She turned back to him: he looked at her -as a boy might look whose elder sister catches him gazing into the -pastry-cook’s window. - -‘I say, Sprats,’ he said coaxingly, ‘let’s go in there and have supper. -It’s clean, and I’ve suddenly turned faint--I’ve had nothing since -lunch. Dinner will be all over now at home, and besides, we’re miles -away. I’ve been in these places before--they’re all right, really, -something like the _ristoranti_ in Italy, you know.’ - -Sprats was hungry too. She glanced at the little café--it appeared to be -clean enough to warrant one in eating, at any rate, a chop in it. - -‘I think I should like some food,’ she said. - -‘Come on, then,’ said Lucian gaily. ‘Let’s see what sort of place it -is.’ - -He pushed open the swinging doors and entered. It was a small place, -newly established, and the proprietor and his wife, two Italians, and -their Swiss waiter were glad to see customers who looked as if they -would need something more than a cup of coffee and a roll and butter. -The proprietor bowed himself double and ushered them to the most -comfortable corner in his establishment: he produced a lengthy _menu_ -and handed it to Lucian with great _empressement_; the waiter stood -near, deeply interested; the proprietor’s wife, gracious of figure and -round of face, leaned over the counter thinking of the coins which she -would eventually deposit in her cash drawer. Lucian addressed the -proprietor in Italian and discussed the _menu_ with him; while they -talked, Sprats looked about her, wondering at the red plush seats, the -great mirrors in their gilded frames, and the jars of various fruits and -conserves arranged on the counter. Every table was adorned with a -flowering plant fashioned out of crinkled paper; the ceiling was picked -out in white and gold; the Swiss waiter’s apron and napkin were very -stiffly starched; the proprietor wore a frock coat, which fitted very -tightly at the waist, and his wife’s gown was of a great smartness. -Sprats decided that they were early customers in the history of the -establishment--besides themselves there were only three people in the -place: an old gentleman with a napkin tucked into his neckband, who was -eating his dinner and reading a newspaper propped up against a bottle, -and a pair of obvious lovers who were drinking _café-au-lait_ in a quiet -corner to the accompaniment of their own murmurs. - -‘I had no idea that I was so hungry,’ said Lucian when he and the -proprietor had finally settled upon what was best to eat and drink. ‘I -am glad I saw this place: it reminds me in some ways of Italy. I say, I -don’t believe those poor people had had much to eat to-day, Sprats--it -is a most fortunate thing that I happened to hear of them. My God! I -wouldn’t like to get down to that stage--it must be dreadful, especially -when there are children.’ - -Sprats leaned her elbows on the little table, propped her chin in her -hands, and looked at him with a curious expression which he did not -understand. A half-dreamy, half-speculative look came into her eyes. - -‘I wonder what you would do if you _did_ get down to that stage?’ she -said, with a rather quizzical smile. - -Lucian stared at her. - -‘I? Why, what do you mean?’ he said. ‘I suppose I should do as other men -do.’ - -‘It would be for the first time in your life, then,’ she answered. ‘I -fancy seeing you do as other men do in any circumstances.’ - -‘But I don’t think I could conceive myself at such a low ebb as that,’ -he said. - -Sprats still stared at him with a speculative expression. - -‘Lucian,’ she said suddenly, ‘do you ever think about the future? -Everything has been made easy for you so far; does it ever strike you -that fortune is in very truth a fickle jade, and that she might desert -you?’ - -He looked at her as a child looks who is requested to face an unpleasant -contingency. - -‘I don’t think of unpleasant things,’ he answered. ‘What’s the good? And -why imagine possibilities which aren’t probabilities? There is no -indication that fortune is going to desert me.’ - -‘No,’ said Sprats, ‘but she might, and very suddenly too. Look here, -Lucian; I’ve the right to play grandmother always, haven’t I, and -there’s something I want to put before you plainly. Don’t you think you -are living rather carelessly and extravagantly?’ - -Lucian knitted his brows and stared at her. - -‘Explain,’ he said. - -‘Well,’ she continued, ‘I don’t think it wants much explanation. You -don’t bother much about money matters, do you?’ - -He looked at her somewhat pityingly. - -‘How can I do that and attend to my work?’ he asked. ‘I could not -possibly be pestered with things of that sort.’ - -‘Very well,’ said Sprats, ‘and Haidee doesn’t bother about them either. -Therefore, no one bothers. I know your plan, Lucian--it’s charmingly -simple. When Lord Simonstower left you that ten thousand pounds you paid -it into a bank, didn’t you, and to it you afterwards added Haidee’s two -thousand when you were married. Twice a year Mr. Robertson pays your -royalties into your account, and the royalties from your tragedy go to -swell it as well. That’s one side of the ledger. On the other side you -and Haidee each have a cheque-book, and you draw cheques as you please -and for what you please. That’s all so, isn’t it?’ - -‘Yes,’ answered Lucian, regarding her with amazement, ‘of course it is; -but just think what a very simple arrangement it is.’ - -‘Admirably simple,’ Sprats replied, laughing, ‘so long as there is an -inexhaustible fund to draw upon. But seriously, Lucian, haven’t you been -drawing on your capital? Do you know, at this moment, what you are -worth?--do you know how you stand?’ - -‘I don’t suppose that I do,’ he answered. ‘But why all this questioning? -I know that Robertson pays a good deal into my account twice a year, and -the royalties from the tragedy were big, you know.’ - -‘But still, Lucian, you’ve drawn off your capital,’ she urged. ‘You have -spent just what you pleased ever since you left Oxford, and Haidee -spends what she pleases. You must have spent a lot on your Italian tour -last year, and you are continually running over to Paris. You keep up an -expensive establishment; you indulge expensive tastes; you were born, my -dear Lucian, with the instincts of an epicure in everything.’ - -‘And yet I am enjoying a supper in an obscure little café!’ he exclaimed -laughingly. ‘There’s not much extravagance here.’ - -‘You may gratify epicurean tastes by a sudden whim to be Spartan-like,’ -answered Sprats. ‘I say that you have the instincts of an epicure, and -you have so far gratified them. You’ve never known what it was, Lucian, -to be refused anything, have you? No: well, that naturally inclines you -to the opinion that everything will always be made easy for you. Now -supposing you lost your vogue as a poet--oh, there’s nothing impossible -about it, my dear boy!--the public are as fickle as fortune herself--and -supposing your next tragedy does not catch the popular taste--ah, and -that’s not impossible either--what are you going to do? Because, Lucian, -you must have dipped pretty heavily into your capital, and if you want -some plain truths from your faithful Sprats, you spend a great deal more -than you earn. Now give me another potato, and tell me plainly if you -know how much your royalties amounted to last year and how much you and -Haidee spent.’ - -‘I don’t know,’ answered Lucian. ‘I could tell by asking my bankers. Of -course I have spent a good deal of money in travel, and in books, and in -pictures, and in furnishing a house--could I have laid out Lord -Simonstower’s legacy in better fashion? And I do earn large sums--I had -a small fortune out of _Domitia_, you know.’ - -‘There is no doubt,’ she replied, ‘that you have had enough money to -last you for all the rest of your life if it had been wisely invested.’ - -‘Do you mean to say that I have no investments?’ he said, half angrily. -‘Why, I have thousands of pounds invested in pictures, books, furniture, -and china--my china alone is worth two thousand.’ - -‘Dear boy, I don’t doubt it,’ she answered soothingly, ‘but you know it -doesn’t produce any interest. I like you to have pretty things about -you, but you have precious little modesty in your mighty brain, and you -sometimes indulge tastes which only a millionaire ought to possess.’ - -‘Well,’ he said, sighing, ‘I suppose there’s a moral at the end of the -sermon. What is it, Sprats? You are a brick, of course--in your way -there’s nobody like you, but when you are like this you make me think of -mustard-plaisters.’ - -‘The moral is this,’ she answered: ‘come down from the clouds and -cultivate a commercial mind for ten minutes. Find out exactly what you -have in the way of income, and keep within it. Tell Haidee exactly how -much she has to spend.’ - -‘You forget,’ he said, ‘that Haidee has two thousand pounds of her own. -It’s a very small fortune, but it’s hers.’ - -‘Had, you mean, not has,’ replied Sprats. ‘Haidee must have spent her -small fortune twice over, if not thrice over.’ - -‘It would be an unkind thing to be mean with her,’ said Lucian, with an -air of wise reflection. ‘If Haidee had married Darlington she would have -had unlimited wealth at her disposal; as she preferred to throw it all -aside and marry me, I can’t find it in me to deny her anything. No, -Sprats--poor little Haidee must have her simple pleasures even if I -have to deny myself of my own.’ - -‘Oh, did you ever hear such utter rot!’ Sprats exclaimed. ‘Catch you -denying yourself of anything! Dear boy, don’t be an ass--it’s bad form. -And Haidee’s pleasures are not simple.’ - -‘They are simple in comparison with what they might have been if she had -married Darlington,’ he said. - -‘Then why didn’t she marry Darlington?’ inquired Sprats. - -‘Because she married me,’ answered Lucian. ‘She gave up the millionaire -for the struggling poet, as you might put it if you were writing a -penny-dreadful. No; seriously, Sprats, I think there’s a good deal due -to Haidee in that respect. I think she is really easily contented. When -you come to think of it, we are not extravagant--we like pretty things -and comfortable surroundings, but when you think of what some people -do----’ - -‘Oh, you’re hopeless, Lucian!’ she said. ‘I wish you’d been sent out to -earn your living at fifteen. Honour bright--you’re living in a world of -dreams, and you’ll have a nasty awakening some day.’ - -‘I have given the outer world something of value from my world of -dreams,’ he said, smiling at her. - -‘You have written some very beautiful poetry, and you are a marvellously -gifted man who ought to feel the responsibility of your gifts,’ she said -gravely. ‘And all I want is to keep you, if I can, from the rocks on -which you might come to grief. I’m sure that if you took my advice about -business matters you would avoid trouble in the future. You’re too -cock-sure, too easy-going, too thoughtless, Lucian, and this is a hard -and a cruel world.’ - -‘It’s been a very pleasant world to me so far,’ he said. ‘I’ve never had -a care or a trouble; I’ve heaps of friends, and I’ve always got -everything that I wanted. Why, it’s a very pleasant world! You, Sprats, -have found it so, too.’ - -‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I have found it pleasant, but it is hard and cruel -nevertheless, and one realises it sometimes when one least expects to. -One may wake out of a dream to a very cruel reality.’ - -‘You speak as of a personal experience,’ he said smiling. ‘And yet I -swear you never had one.’ - -‘I don’t want you to have one,’ she answered. - -‘Is sermonising a cruel reality?’ he asked with a mock grimace. - -‘No, it’s a necessary thing; and that reminds me that I have not quite -finished mine. Look here, Lucian, here’s a straight question to you. Do -you think it a good thing to be so very friendly with Mr. Darlington?’ - -Lucian dropped his knife and fork and stared at her in amazement. - -‘Why on earth not?’ he said. ‘Darlington is an awfully good fellow. Of -course, I know that he must have felt it when Haidee ran away with me, -but he has been most kind to both of us--we have had jolly times on his -yacht and at his Scotch place; and you know, Sprats, when you can’t -afford things yourself it’s rather nice to have friends who can give -them to you.’ - -‘Lucian, that’s a piece of worldliness that’s unworthy of you,’ she -said. ‘Well, I can’t say anything against Mr. Darlington. He seems kind, -and he is certainly generous and hospitable, but it is well known that -he was very, very much in love with Haidee, and that he felt her loss a -good deal.’ - -‘Yes, it was awfully hard on him,’ said Lucian, stroking his chin with a -thoughtful air; ‘and of course that’s just why one feels that one ought -to be nice to him. He and Haidee are great friends, and that’s far -better than that he should cherish any bitter feelings against her -because she preferred me to him.’ - -Sprats looked at him with the half-curious, half-speculative expression -which had filled her eyes in the earlier stages of their conversation. -They had now finished their repast, and she drew on her gloves. - -‘I want to go home to my children,’ she said. ‘One of the babies has -croup, and it was rather bad when I left. Pay the bill, Lucian, and get -them to call a hansom.’ - -Lucian put his hands in his pockets, and uttered a sudden exclamation of -dismay. - -‘I haven’t any money,’ he said. ‘I left it all with poor Watson. Have -you any?’ - -‘No,’ she answered, ‘of course I haven’t. You dragged me away in my -dinner-dress, and it hasn’t even a pocket in it. What are you going to -do?’ - -‘What an awkward predicament!’ said Lucian, searching every pocket. ‘I -don’t know what to do--I haven’t a penny.’ - -‘Well, you must walk back to Mr. Watson’s and get some money there,’ -said Sprats. ‘You will be back in ten minutes.’ - -‘What! borrow money from a man to whom I have just given it?’ he cried. -‘Oh, I couldn’t do that!’ - -Sprats uttered an impatient exclamation. - -‘Well, do something!’ she said. ‘We can’t sit here all night.’ - -Lucian summoned the proprietor and explained the predicament. The -situation ended in a procession of two hansom cabs, in one of which rode -Sprats and Lucian, in the other the Swiss waiter, who enjoyed a long -drive westward and finally returned to the heights of Islington with the -amount of the bill and a substantial gratuity in his pocket. As Sprats -pointed out with force and unction, Lucian’s foolish pride in not -returning to the Watsons and borrowing half a sovereign had increased -the cost of their supper fourfold. But Lucian only laughed, and Sprats -knew that the shillings thrown away were to him as things of no -importance. - - - - -CHAPTER XV - - -There had been a moment in Sprats’s life when she had faced things--it -was when she heard that Lucian and Haidee had made a runaway marriage. -This escapade had been effected very suddenly; no one had known that -these two young people were contemplating so remarkable a step. It was -supposed that Miss Brinklow was fully alive to the blessings and -advantages attendant upon a marriage with Mr. Eustace Darlington, who, -as head of a private banking firm which carried out financial operations -of vast magnitude, was a prize of much consequence in the matrimonial -market: no one ever imagined that she would throw away such a chance for -mere sentiment. But Haidee, shallow as she was, had a certain vein of -romance in her composition; and when Lucian, in all the first flush of -manhood and the joyous confidence of youth, burst upon her, she fell in -love with him in a fashion calculated to last for at least a fortnight. -He, too, fell madly in love with the girl’s physical charms: as to her -mental qualities, he never gave them a thought. She was Aphrodite, warm, -rosy-tinted, and enticing; he neither ate, slept, nor drank until she -was in his arms. He was a masterful lover; his passion swept Haidee out -of herself, and before either knew what was really happening, they were -married. They lived on each other’s hearts for at least a week, but -their appetites were normal again within the month, and there being no -lack of money and each having a keen perception of the _joie de vivre_, -they settled down very comfortably. - -Sprats had never heard of Haidee from the time of the latter’s visit to -Simonstower until she received the news of her marriage to Lucian. The -tidings came to her with a curious heaviness. She had never disguised -from herself the fact that she herself loved Lucian: now that she knew -he was married to another woman she set herself the task of -distinguishing between the love that she might have given him and the -love which she could give him. Upon one thing she decided at once: since -Lucian had elected Haidee as his life’s partner, Haidee must be Sprats’s -friend too, even if the friendship were all on one side. She would love -Haidee--for Lucian’s sake, primarily: for her own if possible. But when -events brought the three together in London, Sprats was somewhat -puzzled. Lucian as a husband was the must curious and whimsical of men. -He appeared to be absolutely incapable of jealousy, and would watch his -wife flirting under his eyes with appreciative amusement. He himself -made love to every girl who aroused any interest or curiosity in him--to -women who bored him he was cold as ice, and indifferent to the verge of -rudeness. He let Haidee do exactly as she pleased; with his own liberty -in anything, and under any circumstances, he never permitted -interference. Sprats was never able to decide upon his precise feelings -for his wife or his attitude towards her--they got on very smoothly, but -each went his or her own way. And after a time Haidee’s way appeared to -run in parallel lines with the way of her jilted lover, Eustace -Darlington. - -Mr. Darlington had taken his pill with equanimity, and had not even made -a wry face over it. He had gone so far as to send the bride a wedding -present, and had let people see that he was kindly disposed to her. When -the runaways came back to town and Lucian began the meteor-like career -which brought his name so prominently before the world, Darlington saw -no reason why he should keep aloof. He soon made Lucian’s acquaintance, -became his friend, and visited the house at regular intervals. Some -people, who knew the financier rather well, marvelled at the kindness -which he showed to these young people--he entertained them on his yacht -and at his place in Scotland, and Mrs. Damerel was seen constantly, -sometimes attended by Lucian and sometimes not, in his box at the -opera. At the end of two years Darlington was regarded as Haidee’s -particular cavalier, and one half their world said unkind things which, -naturally, never reached Lucian’s ears. He was too fond of smoothness in -life to say No to anything, and so long as he himself could tread the -primrose path unchecked and untroubled, he did not care to interfere in -anybody’s arrangements--not even in Haidee’s. It seemed to him quite an -ordinary thing, an everyday occurrence, that he and she and Darlington -should be close friends, and he went in and out of Darlington’s house -just as Darlington went in and out of his. - -Lucian, all unconsciously, had developed into an egoist. He watched -himself playing his part in life with as much interest as the lover of -dramatic art will show in studying the performance of a great actor. He -seemed to his own thinking a bright and sunny figure, and he arranged -everything on his own stage so that it formed a background against which -that figure moved or stood with striking force. He was young; he was a -success; people loved to have him in their houses; his photograph sold -by the thousands in the shop windows; a stroll along Bond Street or -Piccadilly was in the nature of a triumphal procession; hostesses almost -went down on their knees to get him to their various functions; he might -have dined out every night, if he had liked. He very often did -like--popularity and admiration and flattery and homage were as incense -to his nostrils, and he accepted every gift poured at his shrine as if -nothing could be too good for him. And yet no one could call him -conceited, or vain, or unduly exalted: he was transparently simple, -ingenuous, and childlike; he took everything as a handsome child takes -the gifts showered upon him by admiring seniors. He had a rare gift of -making himself attractive to everybody--he would be frivolous and gay -with the young, old-fashioned and grave with the elderly. He was a -butterfly and a man of fashion; there was no better dressed man in -town, nor a handsomer; but he was also a scholar and a student, and in -whatever idle fashion he spent most of his time, there were so many -hours in each day which he devoted to hard, systematic reading and to -his own work. It was the only matter in which he was practical; in all -other moods he was a gaily painted, light-winged thing that danced and -fluttered in the sunbeams. He was careless, thoughtless, light-hearted, -sanguine, and he never stopped to think of consequences or results. But -through everything that critical part of him kept an interested and -often amused eye on the other parts. - -Sprats at this stage watched him carefully. She had soon discovered that -he and Haidee were mere children in many things, and wholly incapable of -management or forethought. It had been their ill-fortune to have all -they wanted all their lives, and they lived as if heaven had made a -contract with them to furnish their table with manna and their wardrobes -with fine linen, and keep no account of the supply. She was of a -practical mind, and had old-fashioned country notions about saving up in -view of contingencies, and she expounded them at certain seasons with -force and vigour to both Lucian and Haidee. But as Lucian cherished an -ineradicable belief in his own star, and had never been obliged to earn -his dinner before he could eat it, there was no impression to be made -upon him; and Haidee, having always lived in the softest corner of -luxury’s lap, could conceive of no other state of being, and was -mercifully spared the power of imagining one. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - - -In spite of Sprats’s sermon in the little café-restaurant, Lucian made -no effort to follow her advice. He was at work on a new tragedy which -was to be produced at the Athenæum in the following autumn, and had -therefore no time to give to considerations of economy, and when he was -not at work he was at play, and play with Lucian was a matter of as much -importance, so far as strenuous devotion to it was concerned, as work -was. But there came a morning and an occurrence which for an hour at -least made him recall Sprats’s counsel and ponder rather deeply on -certain things which he had never pondered before. - -It was ten o’clock, and Lucian and Haidee were breakfasting. They -invariably spent a good hour over this meal, for both were possessed of -hearty appetites, and Lucian always read his letters and his newspapers -while he ate and drank. He was alternately devoting himself to his plate -and to a leading article in the _Times_, when the footman entered and -announced that Mr. Pepperdine wished to see him. Lucian choked down a -mouthful, uttered a joyous exclamation, and rushed into the hall. Mr. -Pepperdine, in all the glories of a particularly horsy suit of clothes, -was gazing about him as if he had got into a museum. He had visited -Lucian’s house before, and always went about in it with his mouth wide -open and an air of expectancy--there was usually something fresh to see, -and he never quite knew where he might come across it. - -‘My dear uncle!’ cried Lucian, seizing him in his arms and dragging him -into the dining-room, ‘why didn’t you let me know you were coming? Have -you breakfasted? Have some more, any way--get into that chair.’ - -Mr. Pepperdine solemnly shook hands with Haidee, who liked him because -he betrayed such ardent and whole-souled admiration of her and had once -bought her a pair of wonderful ponies, assured himself by a careful -inspection that she was as pretty as ever, and took a chair, but not at -the table. He had breakfasted, he said, at his hotel, two hours earlier. - -‘Then have a drink,’ said Lucian, and rang the bell for whisky and soda. -‘How is everybody at Simonstower?’ - -‘All well,’ answered Mr. Pepperdine, ‘very well indeed, except that -Keziah has begun to suffer a good deal from rheumatism. It’s a family -complaint. I’m glad to see you both well and hearty--you keep the roses -in your cheeks, ma’am, and the light in your eyes, something wonderful, -considering that you are a townbird, as one may say. There are country -maidens with less colour and brightness, so there are!’ - -‘You said that so prettily that I shall allow you to smoke a cigar, if -you like,’ said Haidee. ‘Lucian, your case.’ - -Mr. Pepperdine shook his head knowingly as he lighted a cigar and sipped -his whisky and soda. He knew a pretty woman when he saw her, he said to -himself, and it was his opinion that Mrs. Lucian Damerel was uncommonly -pretty. Whenever he came to see her he could never look at her enough, -and Haidee, who accepted admiration on principle, used to smile at him -and air her best behaviour. She was sufficiently woman of the world to -overlook the fact that Mr. Pepperdine was a tenant-farmer and used the -language of the people--he was a handsome man and a dandy in his way, -and he was by no means backward, in spite of his confirmed bachelorhood, -of letting a pretty woman see that he had an eye for beauty. So she made -herself very agreeable to Mr. Pepperdine and told him stories of the -ponies, and Lucian chatted of various things, and Mr. Pepperdine, taking -in the general air of comfort and luxury which surrounded these young -people, felt that his nephew had begun life in fine style and was -uncommonly clever. - -They went into Lucian’s study when breakfast was over, and Lucian -lighted a pipe and began to chat carelessly of Simonstower and old times -there. Mr. Pepperdine, however, changed the subject somewhat abruptly. - -‘Lucian, my boy,’ he said, ‘I’ll tell you what’s brought me here: I want -you to lend me a thousand pounds for a twelvemonth. Will you do that?’ - -‘Why, of course!’ exclaimed Lucian. ‘I shall be only too pleased--for as -long as ever you like.’ - -‘A year will do for me,’ answered Mr. Pepperdine. ‘I’ll explain -matters,’ and he went on to tell Lucian the story of the Bransby -defalcations, and his own loss, and of the late Lord Simonstower’s -generosity. ‘He was very good about it, was the old lord,’ he said: ‘it -made things easy for me while he lived, but now he’s dead, and I can’t -expect the new lord to be as considerate. I’ve had a tightish time -lately, Lucian, my boy, and money’s been scarce; but you can have your -thousand pounds back at the twelvemonth end--I’m a man of my word in all -matters.’ - -‘My dear uncle!’ exclaimed Lucian, ‘there must be no talk of that sort -between us. Of course you shall have the money at once--that is as soon -as we can get to the bank. Or will a cheque do?’ - -‘Aught that’s of the value of a thousand pounds’ll do for me,’ replied -Mr. Pepperdine. ‘I want to complete a certain transaction with the money -this afternoon, and if you give me a cheque I can call in at your bank.’ - -Lucian produced his cheque-book and wrote out a cheque for the amount -which his uncle wished to borrow. Mr. Pepperdine insisted upon drawing -up a formal memorandum of its receipt, and admonished his nephew to put -it carefully away with his other business papers. But Lucian never kept -any business papers--his usual practice was to tear everything up that -looked like a business document and throw the fragments into the -waste-paper basket. He would treasure the most obscure second-hand -bookseller’s catalogue as if it had been a gilt-edged security, but -bills and receipts and business letters annoyed him, and Mr. -Pepperdine’s carefully scrawled sheet of notepaper went into the usual -receptacle as soon as its writer had left the room. And as he crumpled -it up and threw it into the basket, laughing at the old-fashioned habits -of his uncle, Lucian also threw off all recollection of the incident and -became absorbed in his new tragedy. - -Coming in from the theatre that night he found a little pile of letters -waiting for him on the hall table, and he took them into his study and -opened them carelessly. There was a long epistle from Mrs. Berenson--he -read half of it and threw that and the remaining sheets away with an -exclamation of impatience. There was a note from the great actor-manager -who was going to produce the new tragedy--he laid that open on his desk -and put a paper-weight upon it. The rest of his letters were -invitations, requests for autographs, gushing epistles from admiring -readers, and so on--he soon bundled them all together and laid them -aside. But there was one which he had kept to the last--a formal-looking -affair with the name of his bank engraved on the flap of the envelope, -and he opened it with some curiosity. The letter which it enclosed was -short and formal, but when Lucian had read it he recognised in some -vague and not very definite fashion that it constituted an epoch. He -read it again and yet again, with knitted brows and puzzled eyes, and -then he put it on his desk and sat staring at it as if he did not -understand the news which it was meant to convey to him. - -It was a very commonplace communication this, but Lucian had never seen -anything of its sort before. It was just a brief, politely worded note -from his bankers, informing him that they had that day paid a cheque for -one thousand pounds, drawn by him in favour of Simpson Pepperdine, -Esquire, and that his account was now overdrawn by the sum of £187, 10s. -0d. That was all--there was not even a delicately expressed request to -him to put the account in credit. - -Lucian could not quite realise what this letter meant; he said nothing -to Haidee of it, but after breakfast next morning he drove to the bank -and asked to see the manager. Once closeted with that gentleman in his -private room he drew out the letter and laid it on the desk at which the -manager sat. - -‘I don’t quite understand this letter,’ he said. ‘Would you mind -explaining it to me?’ - -The manager smiled. - -‘It seems quite plain, I think,’ he said pleasantly. ‘It means that your -account is overdrawn to the amount of £187, 10s. 0d.’ - -Lucian sat down and stared at him. - -‘Does that mean that I have exhausted all the money I placed in your -hands, and have drawn on you for £187, 10s. 0d. in addition?’ he asked. - -‘Precisely, Mr. Damerel,’ answered the manager. ‘Your balance yesterday -morning was about £820, and you drew a cheque in favour of Mr. -Pepperdine for £1000. That, of course, puts you in our debt.’ - -Lucian stared harder than ever. - -‘You’re quite sure there is no mistake?’ he said. - -The manager smiled. - -‘Quite sure!’ he replied. ‘But surely you have had your pass-book?’ - -Lucian had dim notions that a small book bound in parchment had upon -occasions been handed to him over the counter of the bank, and on others -had been posted by him to the bank at some clerk’s request; he also -remembered that he had once opened it and found it full of figures, at -the sight of which he had hastily closed it again. - -‘I suppose I have,’ he answered. - -‘I believe it is in our possession just now,’ said the manager. ‘If you -will excuse me one moment I will fetch it.’ - -He came back with the pass-book in his hand and offered it to Lucian. - -‘It is posted up to date,’ he said. - -Lucian took the book and turned its pages over. - -‘Yes, but--’ he said. ‘I--do I understand that all the money that has -been paid in to my account here is now spent? You have received -royalties on my behalf from Mr. Robertson and from Mr. Harcourt of the -Athenæum?’ - -‘You will find them all specified in the pass-book, Mr. Damerel,’ said -the manager. ‘There will, I presume, be further payments to come from -the same sources?’ - -‘Of course there will be the royalties from Mr. Robertson every -half-year,’ answered Lucian, turning the pages of his pass-book. ‘And -Mr. Harcourt produces my new tragedy at the Athenæum in December.’ - -‘That,’ said the manager, with a polite bow, ‘is sure to be successful.’ - -‘But,’ said Lucian, with a childlike candour, ‘what am I to do if you -have no money of mine left? I can’t go on without money.’ - -The manager laughed. - -‘We shall be pleased to allow you an overdraft,’ he said. ‘Give us some -security, or get a friend of stability to act as guarantor for -you--that’s all that’s necessary. I suppose the new tragedy will bring -you a small fortune? You did very well out of your first play, if I -remember rightly.’ - -‘I can easily procure a guarantor,’ answered Lucian. His thoughts had -immediately flown to Darlington. ‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘I think we shall -have a long run--longer, perhaps, than before.’ - -Then he went away, announcing that he would make the necessary -arrangements. When he had gone, the manager, to satisfy a momentary -curiosity of his own, made a brief inspection of Lucian’s account. He -smiled a little as he totalled it up. Mr. and Mrs. Lucian Damerel had -gone through seventeen thousand pounds in four years, and of that amount -twelve thousand represented capital. - -Lucian carried the mystifying pass-book to his club and began to study -the rows of figures. They made his head ache and his eyes burn, and the -only conclusion he came to was that a few thousands of pounds are soon -spent, and that Haidee of late had been pretty prodigal with her -cheques. One fact was absolutely certain: his ten thousand, and her two -thousand, and the five thousand which he had earned, were all gone, -never to return. He felt somewhat depressed at this thought, but -recovered his spirits when he remembered the value of his pictures, his -books, and his other possessions, and the prospects of increased -royalties in the golden days to be. He went off to seek out Darlington -in the city as joyously as if he had been embarking on a voyage to the -Hesperides. - -Darlington was somewhat surprised to see Lucian in Lombard Street. He -knew all the details of Lucian’s business within ten minutes, and had -made up his mind within two more. - -‘Of course, I’ll do it with pleasure, old chap,’ he said, with great -heartiness. ‘But I think I can suggest something far preferable. These -people don’t seem to have given you any particular advantages, and there -was no need for them to bother you with a letter reminding you that you -owed them a miserable couple of hundred. Look here: you had better open -two accounts with us; one for yourself and one for Mrs. Damerel, and -keep them distinct--after all, you know, women rather mix things up. -Give Robertson and Harcourt instructions to pay your royalties into your -own account here, and pay your household expenses and bills out of it. -Mrs. Damerel’s account won’t be a serious matter--mere pinmoney, you -know--and we can balance it out of yours at periodic intervals. That’s a -much more convenient and far simpler thing than giving the other people -a guarantee for an overdraft.’ - -‘It seems to be so, certainly,’ said Lucian. ‘Thanks, very many. And -what am I to do in arranging this?’ - -‘At present,’ answered Darlington, ‘you are to run away as quickly as -possible, for I’m over the ears in work. Come in this afternoon at -three o’clock, and we will settle the whole thing.’ - -Lucian went out into the crowded streets, light-hearted and joyous as -ever. The slight depression of the morning had worn off; all the world -was gold again. A whim seized him: he would spend the three hours -between twelve and three in wandering about the city--it was an almost -unknown region to him. He had read much of it, but rarely seen it, and -the prospect of an acquaintance with it was alluring. So he wandered -hither and thither, his taste for the antique leading him into many a -quaint old court and quiet alley, and he was fortunate enough to find an -old-fashioned tavern and an old-world waiter, and there he lunched and -enjoyed himself and went back to Darlington’s office in excellent -spirits and ready to do anything. - -There was little to do. Lucian left the private banking establishment of -Darlington and Darlington a few minutes after he had entered it, and he -then carried with him two cheque-books, one for himself and one for -Haidee, and a request that Mrs. Damerel should call at the office and -append her signature to the book wherein the autographs of customers -were preserved. He went home and found Haidee just returned from -lunching with Lady Firmanence: Lucian conducted her into his study with -some importance. - -‘Look here, Haidee,’ he said, ‘I’ve been making some new business -arrangements. We’re going to bank at Darlington’s in future--it’s much -the wiser plan; and you are to have a separate account. That’s your -cheque-book. I say--we’ve rather gone it lately, you know. Don’t you -think we might economise a little?’ - -Haidee stared, grew perplexed, and frowned. - -‘I think I’m awfully careful,’ she said. ‘If you think----’ - -Lucian saw signs of trouble and hastened to dispel them. - -‘Yes, yes,’ he said hurriedly, ‘I know, of course, that you are. We’ve -had such a lot of absolutely necessary expense, haven’t we? Well, -there’s your cheque-book, and the account is your own, you know.’ - -Haidee asked no questions, and carried the cheque-book away. When she -had gone, Lucian wrote out a cheque for £187, 10s. and forwarded it to -his former bankers, with a covering letter in which he explained that it -was intended to balance his account and that he wished to close the -latter. That done, he put all thoughts of money out of his mind with a -mighty sigh of relief. In his own opinion he had accomplished a hard -day’s work and acquitted himself with great credit. Everything, he -thought, had been quite simple, quite easy. And in thinking so he was -right--nothing simpler, nothing easier, could be imagined than the -operation which had put Lucian and Haidee in funds once more. It had -simply consisted of a brief order, given by Eustace Darlington to his -manager, to the effect that all cheques bearing the signatures of Mr. -and Mrs. Damerel were to be honoured on presentation, and that there was -to be no limit to their credit. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - - -In spite of the amusing defection of his host, Saxonstowe had fully -enjoyed the short time he had spent under the Damerels’ roof. Mrs. -Berenson had amused him almost as much as if she had been a professional -comedian brought there to divert the company; Darlington had interested -him as a specimen of the rather reserved, purposeful sort of man who -might possibly do things; and Haidee had made him wonder how it is that -some women possess great beauty and very little mind. But the -recollection which remained most firmly fixed in him was of Sprats, and -on the first afternoon he had at liberty he set out to find the -Children’s Hospital which she had invited him to visit. - -He found the hospital with ease--an ordinary house in Bayswater Square, -with nothing to distinguish it from its neighbours but a large brass -plate on the door, which announced that it was a Private Nursing Home -for Children. A trim maid-servant, who stared at him with reverent awe -after she had glanced at his card, showed him into a small waiting-room -adorned with steel engravings of Biblical subjects, and there Sprats -shortly discovered him inspecting a representation of the animals -leaving the ark. It struck him as he shook hands with her that she -looked better in her nurse’s uniform than in the dinner-gown which she -had worn a few nights earlier--there was something businesslike and -strong about her in her cap and cuffs and apron and streamers: it was -like seeing a soldier in fighting trim. - -‘I am glad that you have come just now,’ she said. ‘I have a whole hour -to spare, and I can show you all over the place. But first come into my -parlour and have some tea.’ - -She led him into another room, where Biblical prints were not in -evidence--if they had ever decorated the walls they were now replaced by -Sprats’s own possessions. He recognised several water-colour drawings of -Simonstower, and one of his own house and park at Saxonstowe. - -‘These are the work of Cyprian Damerel--Lucian’s father, you know,’ said -Sprats, as he uttered an exclamation of pleasure at the sight of -familiar things. ‘Lucian gave them to me. I like that one of Saxonstowe -Park--I have so often seen that curious atmospheric effect amongst the -trees in early autumn. I am very fond of my pictures and my household -gods--they bring Simonstower closer to me.’ - -‘But why, if you are so fond of it, did you leave it?’ he asked, as he -took the chair which she pointed out to him. - -‘Oh, because I wanted to work very hard!’ she said, busying herself with -the tea-cups. ‘You see, my father married Lucian Damerel’s aunt--a very -dear, nice, pretty woman--and I knew she would take such great care of -him that I could be spared. So I went in for nursing, having a natural -bent that way, and after three or four years of it I came here; and here -I am, absolute she-dragon of the establishment.’ - -‘Is it very hard work?’ he asked, as he took a cup of tea from her -hands. - -‘Well, it doesn’t seem to affect me very much, does it?’ she answered. -‘Oh yes, sometimes it is, but that’s good for one. You must have worked -hard yourself, Lord Saxonstowe.’ - -Saxonstowe blushed under his tan. - -‘I look all right too, don’t I?’ he said, laughing. ‘I agree with you -that it’s good for one, though. I’ve thought since I came back that---- -’ He paused and did not finish the sentence. - -‘That it would do a lot of people whom you’ve met a lot of good if they -had a little hardship and privation to go through,’ she said, finishing -it for him. ‘That’s it, isn’t it?’ - -‘I wouldn’t let them off with a little,’ he said. ‘I’d give them--some -of them, at any rate--a good deal. Perhaps I’m not quite used to it, but -I can’t stand this sort of life--I should go all soft and queer under -it.’ - -‘Well, you’re not obliged to endure it at all,’ said Sprats. ‘You can -clear out of town whenever you please and go to Saxonstowe--it is lovely -in summer.’ - -‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘I’m going there soon. I--I don’t think town life -quite appeals to me.’ - -‘I suppose that you will go off to some waste place of the earth again, -sooner or later, won’t you?’ she said. ‘I should think that if one once -tastes that sort of thing one can’t very well resist the temptation. -What made you wish to explore?’ - -‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he answered. ‘I always wanted to travel when I was a -boy, but I never got any chance. Then the title came to me rather -unexpectedly, you know, and when I found that I could indulge my -tastes--well, I indulged them.’ - -‘And you prefer the desert to the drawing-room?’ she said, watching him. - -‘Lots!’ he said fervently. ‘Lots!’ - -Sprats smiled. - -‘I should advise you,’ she said, ‘to cut London the day your book -appears. You’ll be a lion, you know.’ - -‘Oh, but!’ he exclaimed, ‘you don’t quite recognise what sort of book it -is. It’s not an exciting narrative--no bears, or Indians, or scalpings, -you know. It’s--well, it’s a bit dry--scientific stuff, and so on.’ - -Sprats smiled the smile of the wise woman and shook her head. - -‘It doesn’t matter what it is--dry or delicious, dull or enlivening,’ -she remarked sagely, ‘the people who’ll lionise you won’t read it, -though they’ll swear to your face that they sat up all night with it. -You’ll see it lying about, with the pages all cut and a book-marker -sticking out, but most of the people who’ll rave to your face about it -wouldn’t be able to answer any question that you asked them concerning -it. Lionising is an amusing feature of social life in England--if you -don’t like the prospect of it, run away.’ - -‘I shall certainly run,’ he answered. ‘I will go soon. I think, perhaps, -that you exaggerate my importance, but I don’t want to incur any -risk--it isn’t pleasant to be stared at, and pointed out, and all that -sort of--of----’ - -‘Of rot!’ she said. ‘No--it isn’t, to some people. To other people it -seems quite a natural thing. It never seemed to bother Lucian Damerel, -for example. You cannot realise the adulation which was showered upon -him when he first flashed into the literary heavens. All the women were -in love with him; all the girls love-sick because of his dark face and -wondrous hair; he was stared at wherever he went; and he might have -breakfasted, lunched, and dined at somebody else’s expense every day.’ - -‘And he liked--that?’ asked Saxonstowe. - -‘It’s a bit difficult,’ answered Sprats, ‘to know what Lucian does like. -He plays lion to perfection. Have you ever been to the Zoo and seen a -real first-class, A1 diamond-of-the-first-water sort of lion in his -cage?--especially when he is filled with meat? Well, you’ll have noticed -that he gazes with solemn eyes above your head--he never sees you at -all--you aren’t worth it. If he should happen to look at you, he just -wonders why the devil you stand there staring at him, and his eyes show -a sort of cynical, idle contempt, and become solemn and ever-so-far-away -again. Lucian plays lion in that way beautifully. He looks out of his -cage with eyes that scorn the miserable wondering things gathered -open-mouthed before him.’ - -‘Does he live in a cage?’ asked Saxonstowe. - -‘We all live in cages,’ answered Sprats. ‘You had better hang up a -curtain in front of yours if you don’t wish the crowd to stare at you. -And now come--I will show you my children.’ - -Saxonstowe followed her all over the house with exemplary obedience, -secretly admiring her mastery of detail, her quickness of perception, -and the motherly fashion in which she treated her charges. He had never -been in a children’s hospital before, and he saw some sights that sent -him back to Sprats’s parlour a somewhat sad man. - -‘I dare say you get used to it,’ he said, ‘but the sight of all that -pain must be depressing. And the poor little mites seem to bear it -well--bravely, at any rate.’ - -Sprats looked at him with the speculative expression which always came -into her face when she was endeavouring to get at some other person’s -real self. - -‘So you, too, are fond of children?’ she said, and responded cordially -to his suggestion that he might perhaps be permitted to come again. He -went away with a cheering consciousness that he had had a glimpse into a -little world wherein good work was being done--it had seemed a far -preferable world to that other world of fashion and small things which -seethed all around it. - -On the following day Saxonstowe spent the better part of the morning in -a toy-shop. He proved a good customer, but a most particular one. He had -counted heads at the children’s hospital: there were twenty-seven in -all, and he wanted twenty-seven toys for them. He insisted on a minute -inspection of every one, even to the details of the dolls’ clothing and -the attainments of the mechanical frogs, and the young lady who attended -upon him decided that he was a nice gentleman and free-handed, but -terribly exacting. His bill, however, yielded her a handsome commission, -and when he gave her the address of the hospital she felt sure that she -had spent two hours in conversation--on the merits of toys--with a young -duke, and for the rest of the day she entertained her shopmates with -reminiscences of the supposed ducal remarks, none of which, according to -her, had been of a very profound nature. - -Saxonstowe wondered how soon he might call at the hospital again--at the -end of a week he found himself kicking his heels once more in the room -wherein Noah, his family, and his animals trooped gaily down the slopes -of Mount Ararat. When Sprats came in she greeted him with an abrupt -question. - -‘Was it you who sent a small cart-load of toys here last week?’ she -asked. - -‘I certainly did send some toys for the children,’ he answered. - -‘I thought it must be your handiwork,’ she said. ‘Thank you. You will -now receive a beautifully written, politely worded letter of thanks, -inscribed on thick, glossy paper by the secretary--do you mind?’ - -‘Yes, I do mind!’ he exclaimed. ‘Please don’t tell the secretary--what -has he or she to do with it?’ - -‘Very well, I won’t,’ she said. ‘But I will give you a practical tip: -when you feel impelled to buy toys for children in hospital, buy -something breakable and cheap--it pleases the child just as much as an -expensive plaything. There was one toy too many,’ she continued, -laughing, ‘so I annexed that for myself--a mechanical spider. I play -with it in my room sometimes. I am not above being amused by small -things.’ - -After this Saxonstowe became a regular visitor--he was accepted by some -of the patients as a friend and admitted to their confidences. They knew -him as ‘the Lord,’ and announced that ‘the Lord’ had said this, or done -that, in a fashion which made other visitors, not in the secret, wonder -if the children were delirious and had dreams of divine communications. -He sent these new friends books, and fruit, and flowers, and the house -was gayer and brighter that summer than it had ever been since the brass -plate was placed on its door. - -One afternoon Saxonstowe arrived with a weighty-looking parcel under his -arm. Once within Sprats’s parlour he laid it down on the table and began -to untie the string. She shook her head. - -‘You have been spending money on one or other of my children again,’ she -said. ‘I shall have to stop it.’ - -‘No,’ he said, with a very shy smile. ‘This--is--for you.’ - -‘For me?’ Her eyes opened with something like incredulous wonder. ‘What -an event!’ she said; ‘I so seldom have anything given to me. What is -it?--quick, let me see--it looks like an enormous box of chocolate.’ - -‘It’s--it’s the book,’ he answered, shamefaced as a schoolboy producing -his first verses. ‘There! that’s it,’ and he placed two -formidable-looking volumes, very new and very redolent of the -bookbinder’s establishment, in her hands. ‘That’s the very first copy,’ -he added. ‘I wanted you to have it.’ - -Sprats sat down and turned the books over. He had written her name on -the fly-leaf of the first volume, and his own underneath it. She glanced -at the maps, the engravings, the diagrams, the scientific tables, and a -sudden flush came across her face. She looked up at him. - -‘I should be proud if I had written a book like this!’ she said. ‘It -means--such a lot of--well, of _manliness_, somehow. Thank you. And it -is really published at last?’ - -‘It is not supposed to be published until next Monday,’ he answered. -‘The reviewers’ copies have gone out to-day, but I insisted on having a -copy supplied to me before any one handled another--I wanted you to have -the very first.’ - -‘Why?’ she asked. - -‘Because I think you’ll understand it,’ he said; ‘and you’ll read it.’ - -‘Yes,’ she answered, ‘I shall read it, and I think I shall understand. -And now all the lionising will begin.’ - -Saxonstowe shrugged his shoulders. - -‘If the people who really know about these things think I have done -well, I shall be satisfied,’ he said. ‘I don’t care a scrap about the -reviews in the popular papers--I am looking forward with great anxiety -to the criticisms of two or three scientific periodicals.’ - -‘You were going to run away from the lionising business,’ she said. -‘When are you going?--there is nothing to keep you, now that the book is -out.’ - -Saxonstowe looked at her. He was standing at the edge of the table on -which she had placed the two volumes of his book; she was sitting in a -low chair at its side. She looked up at him; she saw his face grow very -grave. - -‘I didn’t think anything would keep me,’ he said, ‘but I find that -something is keeping me. It is you. Do you know that I love you?’ - -The colour rose in her cheeks, and her eyes left his for an instant; -then she faced him. - -‘I did not know it until just now,’ she answered, laying her hand on one -of the volumes at her side. ‘I knew it then, because you wished me to -have the first-fruits of your labour. I was wondering about it--as we -talked.’ - -‘Well?’ he said. - -‘Will you let me be perfectly frank with you?’ she said. ‘Are you sure -about yourself in this?’ - -‘I am sure,’ he answered. ‘I love you, and I shall never love any other -woman. Don’t think that I say that in the way in which I dare say it’s -been said a million times--I mean it.’ - -‘Yes,’ she said; ‘I understand. You wouldn’t say anything that you -didn’t mean. And I am going to be equally truthful with you. I don’t -think it’s wrong of me to tell you that I have a feeling for you which I -have not, and never had, for any other man that I have known. I could -depend on you--I could go to you for help and advice, and I should rely -on your strength. I have felt that since we met, as man and woman, a few -weeks ago.’ - -‘Then----’ he began. - -‘Stop a bit,’ she said, ‘let me finish. I want to be brutally -plain-spoken--it’s really best to be so. I want you to know me as I am. -I have loved Lucian Damerel ever since he and I were boy and girl. It -is, perhaps, a curious love--you might say that there is very much more -of a mother’s, or a sister’s, love in it than a wife’s. Well, I don’t -know. I do know that it nearly broke my heart when I heard of his -marriage to Haidee. I cannot tell--I have never been able to tell--in -what exact way it was that I wanted him, but I did not want her to have -him. Perhaps all that, or most of that, feeling has gone. I have tried -hard, by working for others, to put all thought of another woman’s -husband out of my mind. But the thought of Lucian is still there--it -may, perhaps, always be there. While it is--even in the least, the very -least degree--you understand, do you not?’ she said, with a sudden note -of eager appeal breaking into her voice. - -‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘I understand.’ - -She rose to her feet and held out her hand to him. - -‘Then don’t let us try to put into words what we can feel much better,’ -she said, smiling. ‘We are friends--always. And you are going away.’ - -The children found out that for some time at any rate there would be no -more visits from the Lord. But the toys and the books, the fruit and -flowers, came as regularly as ever, and the Lord was not forgotten. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - - -During the greater part of that summer Lucian had been working steadily -on two things: the tragedy which Mr. Harcourt was to produce at the -Athenæum in December, and a new poem which Mr. Robertson intended to -publish about the middle of the autumn season. Lucian was flying at high -game in respect of both. The tragedy was intended to introduce something -of the spirit and dignity of Greek art to the nineteenth-century -stage--there was to be nothing common or mean in connection with its -production; it was to be a gorgeous spectacle, but one of high -distinction, and Lucian’s direct intention in writing it was to set -English dramatic art on an elevation to which it had never yet been -lifted. The poem was an equally ambitious attempt to revive the epic; -its subject, the Norman Conquest, had filled Lucian’s mind since -boyhood, and from his tenth year onwards he had read every book and -document procurable which treated of that fascinating period. He had -begun the work during his Oxford days; the greater part of it was now in -type, and Mr. Robertson was incurring vast expense in the shape of -author’s corrections. Lucian polished and rewrote in a fashion that was -exasperating; his publisher, never suspecting that so many alterations -would be made, had said nothing about them in drawing up a formal -agreement, and he was daily obliged to witness a disappearance of -profits. - -‘What a pity that you did not make all your alterations and corrections -before sending the manuscript to press!’ he exclaimed one day, when -Lucian called with a bundle of proofs which had been hacked about in -such a fashion as to need complete resetting. ‘It would have saved a -lot of trouble--and expense.’ - -Lucian stared at him with the eyes of a young owl, round and wondering. - -‘How on earth can you see what a thing looks like until it’s in print?’ -he said irritably. ‘What are printers for?’ - -‘Just so--just so!’ responded the publisher. ‘But really, you know, this -book is being twice set--every sheet has had to be pulled to pieces, and -it adds to the expense.’ - -Lucian’s eyes grew rounder than ever. - -‘I don’t know anything about that,’ he answered. ‘That is your -province--don’t bother me about it.’ - -Robertson laughed. He was beginning to find out, after some experience, -that Lucian was imperturbable on certain points. - -‘Very well,’ he said. ‘By the bye, how much more copy is there--or if -copy is too vulgar a word for your mightiness, how many more lines or -verses?’ - -‘About four hundred and fifty lines,’ answered Lucian. - -‘Say another twenty-four pages,’ said Robertson. ‘Well, it runs now to -three hundred and fifty--that means that it’s going to be a book of -close upon four hundred pages.’ - -‘Well?’ questioned Lucian. - -‘I was merely thinking that it is a long time since the public was asked -to buy a volume containing four hundred pages of blank verse,’ remarked -the publisher. ‘I hope this won’t frighten anybody.’ - -‘You make some very extraordinary remarks,’ said Lucian, with -unmistakable signs of annoyance. ‘What _do_ you mean?’ - -‘Oh, nothing, nothing!’ answered Robertson, who was on sufficient terms -of intimacy with Lucian to be able to chaff him a little. ‘I was merely -thinking of trade considerations.’ - -‘You appear to be always “merely thinking” of something extraordinary,’ -said Lucian. ‘What can trade considerations have to do with the length -of my poem?’ - -‘What indeed?’ said the publisher, and began to talk of something else. -But when Lucian had gone he looked rather doubtfully at the pile of -interlineated proof, and glanced from it to the thin octavo with which -the new poet had won all hearts nearly five years before. ‘I wish it had -been just a handful of gold like that!’ he said to himself. ‘Four -hundred pages of blank verse all at one go!--it’s asking a good deal, -unless it catches on with the old maids and the dowagers, like the -_Course of Time_ and the _Epic of Hades_. Well, we shall see; but I’d -rather have some of your earlier lyrics than this weighty performance, -Lucian, my boy--I would indeed!’ - -Lucian finished his epic before the middle of July, and fell to work on -the final stages of his tragedy. He had promised to read it to the -Athenæum company on the first day of the coming October, and there was -still much to do in shaping and revising it. He began to feel impatient -and irritable; the sight of his desk annoyed him, and he took to running -out of town into the country whenever the wish for the shade of woods -and the peacefulness of the lanes came upon him. Before the end of the -month he felt unable to work, and he repaired to Sprats for counsel and -comfort. - -‘I don’t know how or why it is,’ he said, telling her his troubles, ‘but -I don’t feel as if I had a bit of work left in me. I haven’t any power -of concentration left--I’m always wanting to be doing something else. -And yet I haven’t worked very hard this year, and we have been away a -great deal. It’s nearly time for going away again, too--I believe Haidee -has already made some arrangement.’ - -‘Lucian,’ said Sprats, ‘why don’t you go down to Simonstower? They would -be so glad to have you at the vicarage--there’s heaps of room. And just -think how jolly it is there in August and September--I wish I could -go!’ - -Lucian’s face lighted up--some memory of the old days had suddenly fired -his soul. He saw the familiar scenes once more under the golden -sunlight--the grey castle and its Norman keep, the winding river, the -shelving woods, and, framing all, the gold and purple of the moorlands. - -‘Simonstower!’ he exclaimed. ‘Yes, of course--it’s Simonstower that I -want. We’ll go at once. Sprats, why can’t you come too?’ - -Sprats shook her head. - -‘I can’t,’ she answered. ‘I shall have a holiday in September, but I -can’t take a single day before. I’m sure it will do you good if you go -to Simonstower, Lucian--the north-country air will brighten you up. You -haven’t been there for four years, and the sight of the old faces and -places will act like a tonic.’ - -‘I’ll arrange it at once,’ said Lucian, delighted at the idea, and he -went off to announce his projects to Haidee. Haidee looked at him -incredulously. - -‘Whatever are you thinking of, Lucian?’ she said. ‘Don’t you remember -that we’re cramful of engagements from the beginning of August to the -end of September?’ She recited a list of arrangements already entered -into, which included a three-weeks’ sojourn on Eustace Darlington’s -steam-yacht, and a fortnight’s stay at his shooting-box in the -Highlands. ‘Had you forgotten?’ she asked. - -‘I believe I had!’ he replied; ‘we seem to have so many engagements. -Look here: do you know, I think I’ll back out. I must have this tragedy -finished for Harcourt and his people by October, and I can’t do it if I -go rushing about from one place to another. I think I shall go down to -Simonstower and have a quiet time and finish my work there--I’ll explain -it all to Darlington.’ - -‘As you please,’ she answered. ‘Of course, I shall keep my -engagements.’ - -‘Oh, of course,’ he said. ‘You won’t miss me, you know. I suppose there -are lots of other people going?’ - -‘I suppose so,’ she replied carelessly, and there was an end of the -conversation. Lucian explained to Darlington that night that he would -not be able to keep his engagement, and set forth the reasons with a -fine air of devotion to business. Darlington sympathised, and applauded -Lucian’s determination--he knew, he said, what a lot depended upon the -success of the new play, and he’d no doubt Lucian wouldn’t feel quite -easy until it was all in order. After that he must have a long rest--it -would be rather good fun to winter in Egypt. Lucian agreed, and next day -made his preparations for a descent upon Simonstower. At heart he was -rather more than glad to escape the yacht, the Highland shooting-box, -and the people whom he would have met. He cared little for the sea, and -hated any form of sport which involved the slaying of animals or birds; -the thought of Simonstower in the last weeks of summer was grateful to -him, and all that he now wanted was to find himself in a Great Northern -express gliding out of King’s Cross, bound for the moorlands. - -He went round to the hospital on the morning of his departure, and told -Sprats with the glee of a schoolboy who is going home for the holidays, -that he was off that very afternoon. He was rattling on as to his joy -when Sprats stopped him. - -‘And Haidee?’ she asked. ‘Does she like it?’ - -‘Haidee?’ he said. ‘But Haidee is not going. She’s joining a party on -Darlington’s yacht, and they’re going round the coast to his place in -the Highlands. I was to have gone, you know, but really I couldn’t have -worked, and I must work--it’s absolutely necessary that the play should -be finished by the end of September.’ - -Sprats looked anxious and troubled. - -‘Look here, Lucian,’ she said, ‘do you think it’s quite right to leave -Haidee like that?--isn’t it rather neglecting your duties?’ - -‘But why?’ he asked, with such sincerity that it became plain to Sprats -that the question had never even entered his mind. ‘Haidee’s all right. -It would be beastly selfish on my part if I dragged her down to -Simonstower for nearly two months--you know, she doesn’t care a bit for -the country, and there would be no society for her. She needs sea air, -and three weeks on Darlington’s yacht will do her a lot of good.’ - -‘Who are the other people?’ asked Sprats. - -‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Lucian replied. ‘The usual Darlington lot, I -suppose. Between you and me, Sprats, I’m glad I’m not going. I get -rather sick of that sort of thing--it’s too much of a hot-house -existence. And I don’t care about the people one meets, either.’ - -‘And yet you let Haidee meet them!’ Sprats exclaimed. ‘Really, Lucian, -you grow more and more paradoxical.’ - -‘But Haidee likes them,’ he insisted. ‘That’s just the sort of thing she -does like. And if she likes it, why shouldn’t she have it?’ - -‘You are a curious couple,’ said Sprats. - -‘I think we are to be praised for our common-sense view of things,’ he -said. ‘I am often told that I am a dreamer--you’ve said so yourself, you -know--but in real, sober truth, I’m an awfully matter-of-fact sort of -person. I don’t live on illusions and ideals and things--I worship the -God of the Things that Are!’ - -Sprats gazed at him as a mother might gaze at a child who boasts of -having performed an impossible task. - -‘Oh, you absolute baby!’ she said. ‘Is your pretty head stuffed with -wool or with feathers? Paragon of Common-Sense! Compendium of all the -Practical Qualities! I wonder I don’t shrivel in your presence like a -bit of bacon before an Afric sun. Do you think you’ll catch your train?’ - -‘Not if I stay here listening to abuse. Seriously, Sprats, it’s all -right--about Haidee, I mean,’ he said appealingly. - -‘If you were glissading down a precipice at a hundred miles a minute, -Lucian, everything would be all right with you until your head broke off -or you snapped in two,’ she answered. ‘You’re the Man who Never Stops to -Think. Go away and be quiet at Simonstower--you’re mad to get there, and -you’ll probably leave it within a week.’ - -In making this calculation, however, Sprats was wrong. Lucian went down -to Simonstower and stayed there three weeks. He divided his time between -the vicarage and the farm; he renewed his acquaintance with the -villagers, and had forgotten nothing of anything relating to them; he -spent the greater part of the day in the open air, lived plainly and -slept soundly, and during the second week of his stay he finished his -tragedy. Mr. Chilverstone read it and the revised proofs of the epic; as -he had a great liking for blank verse, rounded periods, and the grand -manner, he prophesied success for both. Lucian drank in his applause -with eagerness--he had a great belief in his old tutor’s critical -powers, and felt that whatever he stamped with the seal of his -admiration must be good. He had left London in somewhat depressed and -irritable spirits because of his inability to work; now that the work -was completed and praised by a critic in whom he had good reason to -repose the fullest confidence, his spirits became as light and joyous as -ever. - -Lucian would probably have remained longer at Simonstower but for a -chance meeting with Lord Saxonstowe, who had got a little weary of the -ancestral hall and had conceived a notion of going across to Norway and -taking a long walking tour in a district well out of the tourist track. -He mentioned this to Lucian, and--why, he could scarcely explain to -himself at the moment--asked him to go with him. Lucian’s imagination -was fired at the mere notion of exploring a country which he had never -seen before, and he accepted the invitation with fervour. A week later -they sailed from Newcastle, and for a whole month they spent nights and -days side by side amidst comparative solitudes. Each began to -understand the other, and when, just before the end of September, they -returned to England, they had become firm friends, and were gainers by -their pilgrimage in more ways than one. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - - -When Lucian went back to town Haidee was winding up a short round of -visits in the North; she rejoined him a week later in high spirits and -excellent health. Everything had been delightful; everybody had been -nice to her; no end of people had talked about Lucian and his new -play--she was dreaming already of the glories of the first night and of -the radiance which would centre about herself as the wife of the -brilliant young author. Lucian had returned from Norway in equally good -health and spirits; he was confident about the tragedy and the epic: he -and his wife therefore settled down to confront an immediate prospect of -success and pleasure. Haidee resumed her usual round of social gaieties; -Lucian was much busied with rehearsals at the theatre and long -discussions with Harcourt; neither had a care nor an anxiety, and the -wheels of their little world moved smoothly. - -Saxonstowe, who had come back to town for a few weeks before going -abroad again, took to calling a good deal at the little house in -Mayfair. He had come to understand and to like Lucian, and though they -were as dissimilar in character as men of different temperament can -possibly be, a curious bond of friendship, expressed in tacit -acquiescence rather than in open avowal, sprang up between them. Each -had a respect for the other’s world--a respect which was amusing to -Sprats, who, watching them closely, knew that each admired the other in -a somewhat sheepish, schoolboy fashion. Lucian, being the less reserved -of the two, made no secret of his admiration of the man who had done -things the doing of which necessitated bravery, endurance, and -self-denial. He was a fervent worshipper--almost to a pathetic -extreme--of men of action: the sight of soldiers marching made his toes -tingle and his eyes fill with the moisture of enthusiasm; he had been so -fascinated by the mere sight of a great Arctic explorer that he had -followed him from one town to another during a lecturing tour, simply to -stare at him and conjure up for himself the scenes and adventures -through which the man had passed. He delighted in hearing Saxonstowe -talk about his life in the deserts, and enjoyed it all the more because -Saxonstowe had small gift of language and told his tale with the blushes -of a schoolboy who hates making a fuss about anything that he has done. -Saxonstowe, on his part, had a sneaking liking, amounting almost to -worship, for men who live in a world of dreams--he had no desire to live -in such a world himself, but he cherished an immense respect for men -who, like Lucian, could create. Sometimes he would read a page of the -new epic and wonder how on earth it all came into Lucian’s head; Lucian -at the same moment was probably turning over the leaves of Saxonstowe’s -book and wondering how a man could go through all that that laconic -young gentleman had gone through and yet come back with a stiff upper -lip and a smile. - -‘You and Lucian Damerel appear to have become something of friends,’ -Lady Firmanence remarked to her nephew when he called upon her one day. -‘I don’t know that there’s much in common between you.’ - -‘Perhaps that is why we are friends,’ said Saxonstowe. ‘You generally do -get on with people who are a bit different to yourself, don’t you?’ - -Lady Firmanence made no direct answer to this question. - -‘I’ve no doubt Lucian is easy enough to get on with,’ she said dryly. -‘The mischief in him, Saxonstowe, is that he’s too easy-going about -everything. I suppose you know, as you’re a sort of friend of the -family, that a good deal is being said about Mrs. Damerel and Eustace -Darlington?’ - -‘No,’ said Saxonstowe; ‘I’m not in the way to hear that sort of thing.’ - -‘I don’t know that you’re any the better for being out of the way. I am -in the way. There’s a good deal being said,’ Lady Firmanence retorted -with some asperity. ‘I believe some of you young men think it a positive -crime to listen to the smallest scrap of gossip--it’s nothing of the -sort. If you live in the world you must learn all you can about the -people who make up the world.’ - -Saxonstowe nodded. His eyes fixed themselves on a toy dog which snored -and snuffled at Lady Firmanence’s feet. - -‘And in this particular case?’ he said. - -‘Why was Lucian Damerel so foolish as to go off in one direction while -his wife went in another with the man she originally meant to marry?’ -inquired Lady Firmanence. ‘Come now, Saxonstowe, would you have done -that?’ - -‘No,’ he said hesitatingly, ‘I don’t think I should; but then, you see, -Damerel looks at things differently. I don’t think he would ever give -the foolishness of it a thought, and he would certainly think no -evil--he’s as guileless as a child.’ - -‘Well,’ remarked Lady Firmanence, ‘I don’t admire him any the more for -that. I’m a bit out of love with grown-up children. If Lucian Damerel -marries a wife he should take care of her. Why, she was three weeks on -Darlington’s yacht, and three weeks at his place in Scotland (of course -there were lots of other people there too, but even then it was -foolish), and he was with her at two or three country houses in -Northumberland later on--I met them at one myself.’ - -‘Lucian and his wife,’ said Saxonstowe, ‘are very fond of having their -own way.’ - -Lady Firmanence looked at her nephew out of her eye-corners. - -‘Oh!’ she said, with a caustic irony, ‘you think so, do you? Well, you -know, young people who like to have their own way generally come to -grief. To my mind, your new friends seem to be qualifying for trouble.’ - -Saxonstowe studied the pattern of the carpet and traced bits of it out -with his stick. - -‘Do you think men like Damerel have the power of reckoning things up?’ -he said, suddenly looking at his aunt with a quick, appealing glance. ‘I -don’t quite understand these things, but he always seems to me to be a -bit impatient of anything that has to do with everyday life, and yet -he’s keen enough about it in one way. He’s a real good chap, you -know--kindly natured and open-hearted and all that. You soon find that -in him. And I don’t believe he ever had a wrong thought of anybody--he’s -a sort of confiding trust in other people that’s a bit amusing, even to -me, and I haven’t seen such an awful lot of the world. But----’ He came -to a sudden pause and shook his head. Lady Firmanence laughed. - -‘Yes, but,’ she repeated. ‘That “but” makes all the difference. But this -is Lucian Damerel--he is a child who sits in a gaily caparisoned, -comfortably appointed boat which has been launched on a wide river that -runs through a mighty valley. He has neither sail nor rudder, and he is -so intent on the beauty of the scenery through which he is swept that he -does not recognise their necessity. His eyes are fixed on the -rose-flushed peak of a far-off mountain, the glitter of the sunshine on -a dancing wave, or on the basket of provisions which thoughtful hands -have put in the boat. It may be that the boat will glide to its -destination in safety, and land him on the edge of a field of velvety -grass wherein he can lie down in peace to dream as long as he pleases. -But it also may be that it will run on a rock in mid-stream and knock -his fool’s paradise into a cocked hat--and what’s going to happen then?’ -asked Lady Firmanence. - -‘Lots of things might happen,’ said Saxonstowe, smiling triumphantly at -the thought of beating his clever relative at her own game. ‘He might be -able to swim, for example. He might right the boat, get into it again, -and learn by experience that one shouldn’t go fooling about without a -rudder. Some other chap might come along and give him a hand. Or the -river might be so shallow that he could walk ashore with no more -discomfort than he would get from wet feet.’ - -Lady Firmanence pursed her lips and regarded her nephew with a fixed -stare which lasted until the smile died out of his face. - -‘Or there might be a crocodile, or an alligator, at hand, which he could -saddle and bridle, and convert into a park hack,’ she said. ‘There are -indeed many things which might happen; what I’m chiefly concerned about -is, what would happen if Lucian’s little boat did upset? I confess that -I should know Lucian Damerel much more thoroughly, and have a more -accurate conception of him, if I knew exactly what he would say and do -when the upsetting happened. There is no moment in life, Saxonstowe, -wherein a man’s real self, real character, real quality, is so severely -tested and laid bare as that unexpected one in which Fortune seizes him -by the scruff of his neck and bundles him into the horsepond of -adversity--it’s what he says and does when he comes up spluttering that -stamps him as a man or a mouse.’ - -Saxonstowe felt tolerably certain of what any man would say under the -circumstances alluded to by Lady Firmanence, but as she seemed highly -delighted with her similes and her epigrams, he said nothing of his -convictions, and soon afterwards took his departure. - - - - -CHAPTER XX - - -On a certain Monday morning in the following November, Lucian’s great -epic was published to the trade and the world, and the leading -newspapers devoted a good deal of their space to remarking upon its -merits, its demerits, and its exact relation to literature. Lucian found -a pile of the London morning dailies of the superior sort awaiting his -attention when he descended to his breakfast-room, and he went through -them systematically. When he had made an end of them he looked across -the table at Haidee, and he smiled in what she thought a rather queer -way. - -‘I say, Haidee!’ he exclaimed, ‘these reviews are--well, they’re not -very flattering. There are six mighty voices of the press -here,--_Times_, _Telegraph_, _Post_, _News_, _Chronicle_, and -_Standard_--and there appears to be a strange unanimity of opinion in -their pronunciations. The epic poem seems to be at something of a -discount.’ - -The reviews, in fact, were not couched in an enthusiastic vein--taking -them as a whole they were cold. There was a ring of disappointment in -them. One reviewer, daring to be bold, plain, and somewhat brutal, said -there was more genuine poetry in any one page of any of Mr. Damerel’s -previous volumes than in the whole four hundred of his new one. Another -openly declared his belief that the poem was the result of long years of -careful, scholarly labour, of constant polishing, resetting, and -rewriting; it smelled strongly of the lamp, but the smell of the lamp -was not in evidence in the fresh, free, passionate work which they had -previously had from the same pen. Mr. Damerel’s history, said a third, -was as accurate as his lines were polished; one learned almost as much -of the Norman Conquest from his poem as from the pages of Freeman, but -the spontaneity of his earliest work appeared to be wanting in his -latest. Each of the six reviewers seemed to be indulging a sentimental -sorrow for the Mr. Damerel of the earlier days; their criticisms had an -undercurrent of regret that Lucian had chosen to explore another path -than that which he had hitherto trodden in triumph. The consensus of -opinion, as represented by the critics of the six morning newspapers -lying on Lucian’s breakfast-table, amounted to this: that Mr. Damerel’s -new work, unmistakably the production of a true poet though it was, did -not possess the qualities of power and charm which had distinguished his -previous volumes. And to show his exact meaning and make out a good case -for himself, each critic hit upon the exasperating trick of reprinting -those of Lucian’s earlier lines which made perpetual music in their own -particular souls, pointing to them with a proud finger as something -great and glorious, and hinting that they were samples of goods which -they would have wished Mr. Damerel to supply for ever. - -Lucian was disappointed and gratified; amused and annoyed. It was -disappointing to find that the incense to which he had become accustomed -was not offered up to him in the usual lavish fashion; but it was -pleasing to hear the nice things said of what he had done and of what -the critics believed him capable of doing. He was amused at the -disappointment of the gentlemen who preferred Lucian the earlier to -Lucian the later--and, after all, it was annoying to find one’s great -effort somewhat looked askance at. - -‘I’ve given them too much,’ he said, turning to considerations of -breakfast with a certain amount of pity for himself. ‘I ought to have -remembered that the stomach of this generation is a weak one--Tennyson -was wise in giving his public the _Idylls of the King_ in fragments--if -he’d given his most fervent admirers the whole lot all at once they’d -have had a surfeit. I should have followed his example, but I wanted to -present the thing as a whole. And it _is_ good, however they may damn it -with faint praise.’ - -‘Does this mean that the book won’t sell?’ asked Haidee, who had -gathered up the papers, and was glancing through the columns at the head -of which Lucian’s name stood out in bold letters. - -‘Sell? Why, I don’t think reviews make much difference to the sales of a -book,’ answered Lucian. ‘I really don’t know--I suppose the people who -bought all my other volumes will buy this.’ - -But as he ate his chop and drank his coffee he began to wonder what -would happen if the new volume did not sell. He knew exactly how many -copies of his other volumes had been sold up to the end of the previous -half-year: it was no business instinct that made him carry the figures -in his mind, but rather the instinct of the general who counts his -prisoners, his captured eagles, and his dead enemies after a victory, -and of the sportsman who knows that the magnitude of the winnings of a -great racehorse is a tribute to the quality of its blood and bone and -muscle. He recalled the figures of the last statement of account -rendered to him by his publisher, and their comfortable rotundity -cheered him. Whatever the critics might say, he had a public, and a -public of considerable size. And after all, this was the first time the -critics had not burned incense at his shrine--he forgave them with -generous readiness, and ere he rose from the breakfast table was as full -as ever of confident optimism. He felt as regards those particular -reviewers as a man might feel who bids all and sundry to a great feast, -and finds that the first-comers are taken aback by the grand proportions -of the banquet--he pitied them for their lack of appetite, but he had no -doubt of the verdict of the vast majority of later comers. - -But if Lucian had heard some of the things that were said of him and his -beloved epic in those holes and corners of literary life wherein one may -hear much trenchant criticism plainly voiced, he would have felt less -cock-sure about it and himself. It was the general opinion amongst a -certain class of critics, who exercised a certain influence upon public -thought, that there was too much of the workshop in his _magnum opus_. -It was a magnificent block of marble that he had handled, but he had -handled it too much, and the result would have been greater if he had -not perpetually hovered about it with a hungry chisel and an itching -mallet. It was perfect in form and language and proportion, but it -wanted life and fire and rude strength. - -‘It reminds me,’ said one man, discussing it in a club corner where -coffee cups, liqueur glasses, and cigarettes were greatly in evidence, -‘of the statue of Galatea, flawless, immaculate, but neuter,--yes, -neuter--as it appeared at the very moment ere Pygmalion’s love breathed -into it the very flush, the palpitating, forceful tremor of life.’ - -This man was young and newly come to town--the others looked at him with -shy eyes and tender sympathy, for they knew what it was that he meant to -say, and they also knew, being older, how difficult it is to express -oneself in words. - -‘How very differently one sees things!’ sighed one of them. ‘Damerel’s -new poem, now, reminds me of a copy of the _Pink ’Un_, carefully edited -by a committee of old maids for the use of mixed classes in infant -schools.’ - -The young man who used mellifluous words manifested signs of -astonishment. He looked at the last speaker with inquiring eyes. - -‘You mean----’ he began. - -‘Ssh!’ whispered a voice at his elbow, ‘don’t ask _him_ what he means at -any time. He means that the thing’s lacking in virility.’ - -It may have been the man who likened Lucian’s epic to an emasculated and -expurgated _Pink ’Un_ to whom was due a subsequent article in the -_Porthole_, wherein, under the heading _Lucian the Ladylike_, much -sympathy was expressed with William the Conqueror at his sad fate in -being sung by a nineteenth-century bard. There was much good-humoured -satire in that article, but a good many of its points were sharply -barbed, and Lucian winced under them. He was beginning to find by that -time that his epic was not being greeted with the enthusiasm which he -had anticipated for it; the great literary papers, the influential -journals of the provinces, and the critics who wrote of it in two or -three of the monthly reviews, all concurred that it was very fine as a -literary exercise, but each deplored the absence of a certain something -which had been very conspicuous indeed in his earlier volumes. - -Lucian began to think things over. He remembered how his earlier work -had been written--he recalled the free, joyous flush of thought, the -impulse to write, the fertility and fecundity which had been his in -those days, and he contrasted it all with the infinite pains which he -had taken in polishing and revising the epic. It must have been the -process of revision, he thought, which had sifted the fire and life out -of the poem. He read and re-read passages of it--in spite of all that -the critics said, they pleased him. He remembered the labour he had gone -through, and valued the results by it. And finally, he put the whole -affair away from him, feeling that he and his world were not in accord, -and that he had better wrap himself in his cloak for a while. He spoke -of the epic no more. But unfortunately for Lucian, there were monetary -considerations at the back of the new volume, and when he discovered at -the end of a month that the sales were small and already at a -standstill, he felt a sudden, strange sinking at the heart. He looked at -Mr. Robertson, who communicated this news to him, in a fashion which -showed the publisher that he did not quite understand this apparently -capricious neglect on the part of the public. Mr. Robertson endeavoured -to explain matters to him. - -‘After all,’ he said, ‘there is such a thing as a vogue, and the best -man may lose it. I don’t say that you have lost yours, but here’s the -fact that the book is at a standstill. The faithful bought as a -religious duty as soon as we published; those of the outer courts won’t -buy. For one thing, your poem is not quite in the fashion--what people -are buying just now in poetry is patriotism up-to-date, with extension -of the Empire, and Maxim-guns, and deification of the soldier and -sailor, and so on.’ - -‘You talk as if there were fashions in poetry as there are in clothes,’ -said Lucian, with some show of scornful indignation. - -‘So there are, my dear sir!’ replied the publisher. ‘If you lived less -in the clouds and more in the world of plain fact you would know it. -You, for instance, would think it strange, if you had ever read it, to -find Pollok’s poem, _The Course of Time_, selling to the extent of -thousands and tens of thousands, or of Tupper’s _Proverbial Philosophy_ -making almost as prominent a figure in the middle-class household as the -Bible itself. Of course there’s a fashion in poetry, as there is in -everything else. Byron was once the fashion; Mrs. Hemans was once the -fashion; even Robert Montgomery was once fashionable. You yourself were -very fashionable for three years--you see, if you’ll pardon me for -speaking plainly, you were an interesting young man. You had a beautiful -face; you were what the women call “interesting”; you aroused all the -town by your romantic marriage--you became a personality. I think you’ve -had a big run of it,’ concluded Mr. Robertson. ‘Why, lots of men come up -and go down within two years--you’ve had four already.’ - -Lucian regarded him with grave eyes. - -‘Do you think of me as of a rocket or a comet?’ he said. ‘If things are -what you say they are, I wish I had never published anything. But I -think you are wrong,’ and he went away to consider all that had been -said to him. He decided, after some thought and reflection, that his -publisher was not arguing on sound lines, and he assured himself for the -hundredth time that the production of the tragedy would put everything -right. - -It was now very near to the day on which the tragedy was to be produced -at the Athenæum, and both Lucian and Mr. Harcourt had been worried to -the point of death by pressmen who wanted to know all about it. Chiefly -owing to their persistency the public were now in possession of a -considerable amount of information as to what it might expect to hear -and see. It was to witness--that portion of it, at any rate, which was -lucky enough to secure seats for the first night--an attempt to revive -tragedy on the lines of pure Greek art. As this attempt was being made -at the close of the nineteenth century, it was quite in accordance with -everything that vast sums of money should be laid out on costumes, -scenery, and accessories, and it was well known to the readers of the -halfpenny newspapers that the production involved the employment of so -many hundreds of supernumeraries, that so many thousands of pounds had -been spent on the scenery, that certain realistic effects had been -worked up at enormous cost, and that the whole affair, to put it in -plain language, was a gigantic business speculation--nothing more nor -less, indeed, than the provision of a gorgeous spectacular drama, full -of life and colour and modern stage effects, which should be enthralling -and commanding enough to attract the public until a handsome profit had -been made on the outlay. But the words ‘an attempt to revive Tragedy on -the lines of pure Greek Art’ looked well in print, and had a highly -respectable sound, and the production of Lucian’s second tribute to the -tragic muse was looked forward to with much interest by many people who -ignored the fact that many thousands of pounds were being expended in -placing it upon the stage. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI - - -At twelve o’clock on the night that witnessed the production of the -tragedy, Lucian found himself one of a group of six men which had -gathered together in Harcourt’s dressing-room. There was a blue haze of -cigarette smoke all over the room; a decanter of whisky with syphons and -glasses stood on a table in the centre; most of the men had already -helped themselves to a drink. Lucian found a glass in his own hand, and -sipped the mixture in it he recognised the taste of soda, and remembered -in a vague fashion that he much preferred Apollinaris, but he said to -himself, or something said to him, that it didn’t matter. His brain was -whirling with the events of the night; he still saw, as in a dream, the -misty auditorium as he had seen it from a box; the stage as he had seen -it during a momentary excursion to the back of the dress-circle; the -busy world behind the scenes where stage-carpenters sweated and swore, -and the dust made one’s throat tickle. He recalled particular faces and -heard particular voices; all the world and his wife had been there, and -all the first-nighters, and all his friends, and he had spoken to a -great many people. They all seemed to swim before him as in a dream, and -the sound of their voices came, as it were, from the cylinder of a -phonograph. He remembered seeing Mr. Chilverstone and his wife in the -stalls--their faces were rapt and eloquent; in the stalls, too, he had -seen Sprats and Lord Saxonstowe and Mrs. Berenson; he himself had spent -some of the time with Haidee and Darlington and other people of their -set in a box, but he had also wandered in and out of Harcourt’s -dressing-room a good deal, and had sometimes spoken to Harcourt, and -sometimes to his business manager. He had a vague recollection that he -had faced the house himself at the end of everything, and had bowed -several times in response to cheering which was still buzzing in his -ears. The night was over. - -He took another drink from the glass in his hand and looked about him; -there was a curious feeling in his brain that he himself was not there, -that he had gone away, or been left behind somewhere in the world’s mad -rush, and that he was something else, watching a semblance of himself -and the semblance’s surroundings. The scene interested and amused -whatever it was that was looking on from his brain. Harcourt, free of -his Greek draperies, now appeared in a shirt and trousers; he stood -before the mirror on his dressing-table, brushing his hair--Lucian -wondered where he bought his braces, which, looked at closely, revealed -a peculiarly dainty pattern worked by hand. All the time that he was -manipulating the brushes he was talking in disconnected sentences. -Lucian caught some of them: ‘Little cutting here and there--that bit -dragged--I’m told that _was_ a fine effect--very favourable indeed--we -shall see, we shall see!’--and he wondered what Harcourt was talking -about. Near the actor-manager, in an easy-chair, sat an old gentleman of -benevolent aspect, white-bearded, white-moustached, who wore a fur-lined -cloak over his evening-dress. He was sucking at a cigar, and his hand, -very fat and very white, held a glass at which he kept looking from time -to time as if he were not quite certain what to do with it. He was -reported to be at the back of Harcourt in financial matters, and he -blinked and nodded at every sentence rapidly spoken by the -actor-manager, but said nothing. Near him stood two men in cloaks and -opera-hats, also holding glasses in their hands and smoking -cigarettes--one of them Lucian recognised as a great critic, the other -as a famous actor. At his own side, talking very rapidly, was the sixth -man, Harcourt’s business-manager. Lucian suddenly realised that he was -nodding his head at this man as if in intelligent comprehension of what -he was saying, whereas he had not understood one word. He shook himself -together as a man does who throws drowsiness aside. - -‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I--I don’t think I was paying attention. I don’t -know why, but I feel half-asleep.’ - -‘It’s the reaction,’ said Harcourt, hastily getting into his waistcoat -and coat. ‘I feel tired out--if I had my way there should be no such -thing as a first night--it’s a most wearing occasion.’ - -The famous critic turned with a smile. - -‘Think of being able to lie in bed to-morrow with a sheaf of newspapers -on your counterpane!’ he said pleasantly. - -Then somehow, chatting disjointedly, they got out of the theatre. -Harcourt and Lucian drove off in a hansom together--they were near -neighbours. - -‘What do you think?’ asked Lucian, as they drove away. - -‘Oh, I think it went all right, as far as one could judge. There was -plenty of applause--we shall see what is said to-morrow morning,’ -answered Harcourt, with a mighty yawn. ‘They can’t say that it wasn’t -magnificently staged,’ he added, with complacency. ‘And everything went -like clockwork. I’ll tell you what--I wish I could go to sleep for the -next six months!’ - -‘I believe I feel like that,’ responded Lucian. ‘Well, it is launched, -at any rate.’ - -The old gentleman of the white beard and fur-lined cloak drove off in a -private brougham, still nodding and blinking; the actor and the critic, -lighting cigars, walked away together, and for some time kept silence. - -‘What do you really think?’ said the actor at last. ‘You’re in rather a -lucky position, you know, in respect of the fact that the _Forum_ is a -weekly and not a daily journal--it gives you more time to make up your -mind. But you already have some notion of what your verdict will be?’ - -‘Yes,’ answered the critic. He puffed thoughtfully at his cigar. ‘Well,’ -he said, ‘I think we have heard some beautiful poetry, beautifully -recited. But I confess to feeling a certain sense of incongruity in the -attempt to mingle Greek art with modern stage accessories. I think -Damerel’s tragedy will read delightfully--in the study. But I counted -several speeches to-night which would run to two and three pages of -print, and I saw many people yawn. I fear that others will yawn.’ - -‘What would you give it?’ said the actor. ‘The other ran for twelve -months.’ - -‘This,’ said the critic, ‘may run for one. But I think Harcourt will -have to withdraw it within three weeks. I am bearing the yawns in -mind.’ - - - - -CHAPTER XXII - - -Lucian’s tragedy ran for precisely seventeen nights. The ‘attempt to -revive Tragedy on the lines of pure Greek Art’ was a failure. Everybody -thought the poetry very beautiful, but there were too many long speeches -and too few opportunities for action and movement to satisfy a modern -audience, and Harcourt quickly discovered that not even magnificent -scenery and crowds of supernumeraries arrayed in garments of white and -gold and purple and green will carry a play through. He was in despair -from the second night onwards, for it became evident that a great deal -of cutting was necessary, and on that point he had much trouble with -Lucian, who, having revised his work to the final degree, was not -disposed to dock it in order to please the gods in the gallery. The -three weeks during which the tragedy ran were indeed weeks of storm and -stress. The critics praised the poetry of the play, the staging, the -scenery, the beauty and charm of everything connected with it, but the -public yawned. In Lucian’s previous play there had been a warm, somewhat -primitive human interest--it took those who saw it into the market-place -of life, and appealed to everyday passions; in the new tragedy people -were requested to spend some considerable time with the gods in Olympus -amidst non-human characteristics and qualities. No one, save a few -armchair critics like Mr. Chilverstone, wished to breathe this diviner -air; the earlier audiences left the theatre cold and untouched. ‘It -makes you feel,’ said somebody, ‘as if you had been sitting amongst a -lot of marble statues all night and could do with something warming to -the blood.’ In this way the inevitable end came. All the people who -really wanted to see the tragedy had seen it within a fortnight; during -the next few nights the audiences thinned and the advance bookings -represented small future business, and before the end of the third week -Harcourt had withdrawn the attempt to revive tragedy on the lines of -pure Greek Art, and announced a revival of an adaptation from a famous -French novel which had more than once proved its money-earning powers. - -Lucian said little of this reverse of fortune--he was to all appearance -unmoved by it; but Sprats, who could read his face as easily as she -could read an open book, saw new lines write themselves there which told -of surprise, disappointment, and anxiety, and she knew from his subdued -manner and the unwonted reticence which he observed at this stage that -he was thinking deeply of more things than one. In this she was right. -Lucian by sheer force of circumstances had been dragged to a certain -point of vantage whereat he was compelled to stand and look closely at -the prospect which confronted him. When it became evident that the -tragedy was a failure as a money-making concern, he remembered, with a -sudden shock that subdued his temperamental buoyancy in an unpleasant -fashion, that he had not foreseen such a contingency, and that he had -confidently expected a success as great as the failure was complete. He -sat down in his study and put the whole matter to himself in commendably -brief fashion: for several months he and Haidee had been living and -spending money on anticipation; it was now clear that the anticipation -was not to be realised. The new volume was selling very slowly; the -tragedy was a financial failure; very little in the way of solid cash -would go from either to the right side of Lucian’s account at -Darlington’s. And on the wrong side there must be an array of figures -which he felt afraid to think of. He hurriedly cast up in his mind a -vague account of those figures which memory presented to him; when he -added the total to an equally vague guess of what Haidee might have -spent, he recognised that he must be in debt to the bank to a -considerable amount. He had never had the least doubt that the tragedy -would prove a gold-mine--everybody had predicted it. Darlington had -predicted it a hundred times, and Darlington was a keen, hard-headed -business man. Well, the tragedy was a failure--to use the expressive -term of the man in the street, ‘there was no money in it.’ It was to -have replenished Lucian’s coffers--it left them yawning. - -Easy-going and thoughtless though he was, Lucian had a constitutional -dislike of owing money to any one, and the thought that he was now in -debt to his bankers irritated and annoyed him. Analysed to a fine -degree, it was not that he was annoyed because he owed money, but -because he was not in a position to cancel the debt with a few scratches -of his pen, and so relieve himself of the disagreeable necessity of -recognising his indebtedness to any one. He had a temperamental dislike -of unpleasant things, and especially of things which did not interest -him--his inherited view of life had caused him to regard it as a walk -through a beautiful garden under perpetual sunshine, with full liberty -to pluck whatever flower appealed to his eye, eat whatever fruit tempted -his palate, and turn into whatever side-walk took his fancy. Now that he -was beginning to realise that it is possible to wander out of such a -garden into a brake full of thorns and tangles, and to find some -difficulty in escaping therefrom, his dislike of the unpleasant was -accentuated and his irritation increased. But there was a certain vein -of method and of order in him, and when he really recognised that he had -got somewhere where he never expected to be, he developed a sincere -desire to find out at once just where he was. The present situation had -some intellectual charm for him: he had never in all his life known what -it was to want money; it had always come to his hand as manna came to -the Israelites in the desert--he wondered, as these unwonted -considerations for the present and the future filled him, what would -develop from it. - -‘It will be best to know just where one really is,’ he thought, and he -went off to find his wife and consult with her. It was seldom that he -ever conversed with her on any matter of a practical nature; he had long -since discovered that Haidee was bored by any topic that did not -interest her, or that she did not understand. She scarcely grasped the -meaning of the words which Lucian now addressed to her, simple though -they were, and she stared at him with puzzled eyes. - -‘You see,’ he said, feeling that his explanation was inept and crude, -‘I’d fully expected to have an awful lot of money out of the book and -the play, and now, it seems, there won’t be so much as I had -anticipated. Of course there will be Robertson’s royalties, and so on, -but I don’t think they will amount to very much for the half-year, -and----’ - -Haidee interrupted him. - -‘Does it mean that you have spent all the money?’ she asked. ‘There was -such a lot, yours and mine, together.’ - -Lucian felt powerless in the face of this apparently childish remark. - -‘Not such a lot,’ he said. ‘And you know we had heavy expenses at -first--we had to spend a lot on the house, hadn’t we?’ - -‘But will there be no more to spend?’ she asked. ‘I mean, has it all -been spent? Because I want a lot of things, if we are to winter in Egypt -as you proposed.’ - -Lucian laughed. - -‘I’m afraid we shall not go to Egypt this winter,’ he said. ‘But don’t -be alarmed; I think there will be money for new gowns and so on. No; -what I just wished to know was--have you any idea of what you have spent -since I transferred our accounts to Darlington’s bank?’ - -Haidee shrugged her shoulders. As a matter of fact she had used her -cheque-book as she pleased, and had no idea of anything relating to her -account except that she had drawn on it whenever she wished to do so. - -‘I haven’t,’ she answered. ‘You told me I was to have a separate -account, and, of course, I took you at your word.’ - -‘Well, it will be all right,’ said Lucian soothingly. ‘I’ll see about -everything.’ - -He was going away, desirous of closing any discussion of the subject, -but Haidee stopped him. - -‘Of course it makes a big difference if your books don’t sell and people -won’t go to your plays,’ she said. ‘That doesn’t bring money, does it?’ - -‘My dear child!’ exclaimed Lucian, ‘how terribly perturbed you look! One -must expect an occasional dose of bad luck. The next book will probably -sell by the tens of thousands, and the next play run for a hundred -years!’ - -‘They were saying at Lady Firmanence’s the other afternoon that you had -had your day,’ she said, looking inquiringly at him. ‘Do you think you -have?’ - -‘I hope I have quite a big day to come yet,’ he answered quietly. ‘You -shouldn’t listen to that sort of thing--about me.’ - -Then he left her and went back to his study and thought matters over -once more. ‘I’ll find out exactly where I am,’ he thought at last, and -he went out and got into a hansom and was driven to Lombard Street--he -meant to ascertain his exact position at the bank. When he entered, with -a request for an interview with Mr. Eustace Darlington, he found that -the latter was out of town, and for a moment he thought of postponing -his inquiries. Then he reflected that others could probably give him the -information he sought, and he asked to see the manager. Five minutes -after entering the manager’s private room he knew exactly how he stood -with Messrs. Darlington and Darlington. He owed them close upon nine -thousand pounds. - -Lucian, bending over the slip of paper upon which the manager had jotted -down a memorandum of the figures, trusted that the surprise which he -felt was not being displayed in his features. He folded the paper, -placed it in his pocket, thanked the manager for his courtesy, and left -the bank. Once outside he looked at the paper again: the manager had -made a distinction between Mr. Damerel’s account and his wife’s. Mr. -Damerel’s was about eighteen hundred pounds in debt; Mrs. Damerel’s -separate account had been drawn against to the extent of nearly seven -thousand pounds. Lucian knew what had become of the money which he had -spent, but he was puzzled beyond measure to account for the sums which -Haidee had gone through within a few months. - -Whenever he was in any doubt or perplexity as to practical matters -Lucian invariably turned to Sprats, and he now called a hansom and bade -the man drive to Bayswater. He knew, from long experience of her, that -he could tell Sprats anything and everything, and that she would never -once say ‘I told you so!’ or ‘I knew how it would turn out!’ or ‘Didn’t -I warn you?’ She might scold him; she would almost certainly tell him -that he was a fool; but she wouldn’t pose as a superior person, or howl -over the milk which he had spilled--instead, she would tell him quietly -what was the best thing to do. - -He found her alone, and he approached her with the old boyish formula -which she had heard a hundred times since he had discovered that she -knew a great deal more about many things than he knew himself. - -‘I say, Sprats, I’m in a bit of a hole!’ he began. - -‘And, of course, you want me to pull you out. Well, what is it?’ she -asked, gazing steadily at him and making a shrewd guess at the sort of -hole into which he had fallen. ‘Do the usual, Lucian, tell everything.’ - -When he liked to be so, Lucian was the most candid of men. He laid bare -his soul to Sprats on occasions like these in a fashion which would -greatly have edified a confessor. He kept nothing back; he made no -excuses; he added no coat of paint or touch of white-wash. He set forth -a plain, unvarnished statement, without comment or explanation; it was a -brutally clear and lucid account of facts which would have honoured an -Old Bailey lawyer. It was one of his gifts, and Sprats never had an -instance of it presented to her notice without wondering how it was that -a man who could marshal facts so well and put them before others in -such a crisp and concise fashion should be so unpractical in the stern -business of life. - -‘And that’s just how things are,’ concluded Lucian, ‘What do you advise -me to do?’ - -‘There is one thing to be done at once,’ she answered, without -hesitation. ‘You must get out of debt to Darlington; you must pay him -every penny that you owe him as quickly as possible. You say you owe him -nearly nine thousand pounds: very good. How much have you got towards -paying that off?’ - -Lucian sighed deeply. - -‘That’s just it!’ he exclaimed. ‘I don’t exactly know. Let me see, now; -well, look here, Sprats--you won’t tell, of course--Mr. Pepperdine owes -me a thousand--at least I mean to say I lent him a thousand, but then, -don’t you know, he has always been so good to me, that----’ - -‘I think you had better chuck sentiment,’ she said. ‘Mr. Pepperdine has -a thousand of yours. Very well--go on.’ - -‘I’ve been thinking,’ he continued, ‘that I might now ask him for the -money which my father left me. He has had full charge of that, you know. -I’ve never known what it was. I dare say it was rather heavily dipped -into during the time I was at Oxford, but there may be something left.’ - -‘Has he never told you anything about it?’ asked Sprats. - -‘Very little. Indeed, I have never asked him anything--I could trust him -with everything. It’s quite possible there may not be a penny; he may -have spent it all on me before I came of age,’ said Lucian. ‘Still, if -there is anything, it would go towards making up the nine thousand, -wouldn’t it?’ - -‘Well, leave it out of the question at present,’ she answered. ‘What -else have you coming in soon?’ - -‘Harcourt has two hundred of mine, and Robertson about three hundred.’ - -‘That’s another five hundred. Well, and the rest?’ - -‘I think that’s the lot,’ he said. - -‘There are people who owe you money,’ she said. ‘Come, now, Lucian, you -know there are.’ - -Lucian began to wriggle and to study the pattern of the hearthrug. - -‘Oh! ah! well!’ he said, ‘I--I dare say I have lent other men a little -now and then.’ - -‘Better say given,’ she interrupted. ‘I was only wondering if there was -any considerable sum that you could get in.’ - -‘No, really,’ he answered. - -‘Very well; then you’ve got fifteen hundred towards your nine thousand. -That’s all, eh?’ she asked. - -‘All that I know of,’ he said. - -‘Well, there are other things,’ she remarked, with some emphasis. ‘There -are your copyrights and your furniture, pictures, books, and -curiosities.’ - -Lucian’s mouth opened and he uttered a sort of groan. - -‘You don’t mean that I should--_sell_ any of these?’ he said, looking at -her entreatingly. - -‘I’d sell the very clothes off my back before I’d owe a penny to -Darlington!’ she replied. ‘Don’t be a sentimental ass, Lucian; books in -vellum bindings, and pictures by old masters, and unique pots and pans -and platters, don’t make life! Sell every blessed thing you’ve got -rather than owe Darlington money. Pay him off, get out of that house, -live in simpler fashion, and you’ll be a happier man.’ - -Lucian sat for some moments in silence, staring at the hearthrug. At -last he looked up. Sprats saw something new in his face--or was it -something old? something that she had not seen there for years? He -looked at her for an instant, and then he looked away. - -‘I should be very glad to live a simpler life,’ he said. ‘I dare say it -seems rather sentimental and all that, you know, but of late I’ve had an -awfully strong desire--sort of home-sickness, you know--for Simonstower. -I’ve caught myself thinking of the old days, and--’ he paused, laughed -in rather a forced way, and sitting straight up in the easy-chair in -which he had been lounging, began to drum on its arms with his fingers. -‘What you say,’ he continued presently, ‘is quite right. I must not be -in debt to Darlington--it has been a most kind and generous thing on his -part to act as one’s banker in this fashion, but one mustn’t trespass on -a friend’s kindness.’ - -Sprats flashed a swift, half-puzzled look upon him--he was looking -another way, and did not see her. - -‘Yes,’ he went on meditatively, ‘I’m sure you are right, Sprats, quite -right. I’ll act on your advice. I’ll go down to Simonstower to-morrow -and see if Uncle Pepperdine can let me have that thousand, and if there -is any money of my own, and when I come back I’ll see if Robertson will -buy my copyrights--I may be able to clear the debt off with all that. If -not, I shall sell the furniture, books, pictures, everything, and Haidee -and I will go to Italy, to Florence, and live cheaply. Ah! I know the -loveliest palazzo on the Lung’ Arno--I wish we were there already. I’m -sick of England.’ - -‘It will make a difference to Haidee, Lucian,’ said Sprats. ‘She likes -England--and English society.’ - -‘Yes,’ he answered thoughtfully, ‘it will make a great difference. But -she gave up a great deal for me when we married, and she’ll give up a -great deal now. A woman will do anything for the man she loves,’ he -added, with the air of a wiseacre. ‘It’s a sort of fixed law.’ - -Then he went away, and Sprats, after spending five minutes in deep -thought, remembered her other children and hastened to them, wondering -whether the most juvenile of the whole brood were quite so childish as -Lucian. ‘It will go hard with him if his disillusion comes suddenly,’ -she thought, and for the rest of the day she felt inclined to sadness. - -Lucian went home in a good humour and a brighter flow of spirits. He was -always thus when a new course of action suggested itself to him, and on -this occasion he felt impelled to cheerfulness because he was -meditating a virtuous deed. He wrote some letters, and then went to his -club, and knowing that his wife had an engagement of her own that night, -he dined with an old college friend whom he happened to meet in the -smoking-room, and to whom before and after dinner he talked in lively -fashion. It was late when he reached home, and he was then more cheerful -than ever; the picture of the old palazzo on the Lung’ Arno had fastened -itself upon the wall of his consciousness and compelled him to look at -it. Haidee had just come in; he persuaded her to go with him into his -study while he smoked a final cigarette, and there, full of his new -projects, he told her what he intended to do. Haidee listened without -saying a word in reply. Lucian took no notice of her silence: he was one -of those people who imagine that they are addressing other people when -they are in reality talking to themselves and require neither Yea nor -Nay; he went on expatiating upon his scheme, and the final cigarette was -succeeded by others, and Haidee still listened in silence. - -‘You mean to do all that?’ she said at last. ‘To sell everything and go -to Florence? And to live there?’ - -‘Certainly,’ he replied tranquilly; ‘it will be so cheap.’ - -‘Cheap?’ she exclaimed. ‘Yes--and dull! Besides, why this sudden fuss -about owing Darlington money? It’s been owing for months, and you didn’t -say anything.’ - -‘I expected to be able to put the account straight out of the money -coming from the book and the play,’ he replied. ‘As they are not exactly -gold-mines, I must do what I can. I can’t remain in Darlington’s debt in -that way--it wouldn’t be fair to him.’ - -‘I don’t see that you need upset everything just for that,’ she said. -‘He has not asked you to put the account straight, has he?’ - -‘Of course not!’ exclaimed Lucian. ‘He never would; he’s much too good a -fellow to do that sort of thing. But that’s just why I must get out of -his debt--it’s taking a mean advantage of his kindness. I’m quite -certain nobody else would have been so very generous.’ - -Haidee glanced at her husband out of the corners of her eyes: the glance -was something like that with which Sprats had regarded him in the -afternoon. He had not caught Sprats’s glance, and he did not catch his -wife’s. - -‘By the bye, Haidee,’ he said, after a short silence, ‘I called at -Darlington’s to-day to find out just how we stand there, and the manager -gave me the exact figures. You’ve rather gone it, you know, during the -past half-year. You’ve gone through seven thousand pounds.’ - -Haidee looked at him wonderingly. - -‘But I paid for the diamonds out of that, you know,’ she said. ‘They -cost over six thousand.’ - -‘Good heavens!--did they?’ said Lucian. ‘I thought it was an affair of -fifty pounds or so.’ - -‘How ridiculous!’ she exclaimed. ‘Diamonds--like these--for fifty -pounds! You are the simplest child I ever knew.’ - -Lucian was endeavouring to recall the episode of the buying of the -diamonds. He remembered at last that Haidee had told him that she had -the opportunity of buying some diamonds for a much less sum than they -were worth. He had thought it some small transaction, and had bidden her -to consult somebody who knew something about that sort of thing. - -‘I remember now,’ he said. ‘I told you to ask advice of some one who -knew something about diamonds.’ - -‘And so I did,’ she answered. ‘I asked Darlington’s advice--he’s an -authority--and he said I should be foolish to miss the chance. And then -I said I didn’t know whether I dare draw a cheque for such an amount, -and he laughed and said of course I might, and that he would arrange it -with you.’ - -‘There you are!’ said Lucian triumphantly; ‘that’s just another proof of -what I’ve been saying all along. Darlington’s such a kind-hearted sort -of chap that he never said anything about it to me. Well, there’s no -harm done there, any way, Haidee; in fact, it’s rather a relief to know -that you’ve locked up six thousand in that way, because you can sell the -diamonds and the money will go towards putting the account straight.’ - -Haidee looked at him narrowly: Lucian’s eyes were fixed on the curling -smoke of his cigarette. - -‘Sell my diamonds?’ she said in a low voice. - -‘Yes, of course,’ said Lucian; ‘it’ll be rather jolly if there’s a -profit on them. Oh yes, we must sell them. I can’t afford to lock up six -thousand in precious stones, you know, and of course we can’t let -Darlington pay for them. I wonder what they really are worth? What a -lark if we got, say, ten thousand for them!’ - -Then he wandered into an account of how a friend of his had once picked -up a ring at one of the stalls on the Ponte Vecchio in Florence, and had -subsequently sold it for just ten times as much as he had given for it. -He laughed very much in telling his wife this story, for it had certain -amusing points in it, and Haidee laughed too, but if Lucian had been -endowed with a better understanding of women he would have known that -she was neither amused nor edified. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII - - -Lucian came down to breakfast next morning equipped for his journey to -Simonstower. He was in good spirits: the day was bright and frosty, and -he was already dreaming of the village and the snow-capped hills beyond -it. In dressing he had thought over his plans, and had decided that he -was now quite reconciled to the drastic measures which Sprats had -proposed. He would clear off all his indebtedness to Darlington, pay -whatever bills might be owing, and make a fresh start, this time on the -lines of strict economy, forethought, and prudence. He had very little -conception of the real meaning of these important qualities, but he had -always admired them in the abstract, and he now intended to form an -intimate acquaintance with them. - -‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said, as he faced Haidee at the breakfast-table -and spread out the _Morning Post_, ‘that when I have readjusted -everything we shall be much better off than I thought. Those diamonds -make a big difference, Haidee. In fact we shall have, or we ought to -have, quite a decent little capital, and we’ll invest it in something -absolutely safe and sound. I’ll ask Darlington’s advice about that, and -we’ll never touch it. The interest and the royalties will yield an -income which will be quite sufficient for our needs--you can live very -cheaply in Italy.’ - -‘Then you are still bent on going to Italy--to Florence?’ she asked -calmly. - -‘Certainly,’ he replied. ‘It’s the best thing we can do. I’m looking -forward to it. After all, why should we be encumbered as we are at -present with an expensive house, a troop of servants, and all the rest -of it? We don’t really want them. Has it never occurred to you that all -these things are something like the shell which the snail has to carry -on his back and can’t get away from? Why should a man carry a big shell -on his back? It’s all very well talking about the advantages and -comforts of having a house of one’s own, but it’s neither an advantage -nor a comfort to be tied to a house nor to anything that clogs one’s -action.’ - -Haidee made no reply to those philosophic observations. - -‘How long do you propose to stay in Italy?’ she asked. ‘Simply for the -winter? I suppose we should return here for the season next year?’ - -‘I don’t think so,’ answered Lucian. ‘We might go into Switzerland -during the very hot months--we couldn’t stand Florence in July and -August. But I don’t intend returning to London for some time. I don’t -think I shall ever settle here again. After all, I am Italian.’ - -Then, finding that it was time he set out for King’s Cross, he kissed -his wife’s cheek, bade her amuse and take care of herself during his -absence, and went away, still in good spirits. For some time after he -had gone Haidee remained where he had left her. She ate and drank -mechanically, and she looked straight before her in the blank, -purposeless fashion which often denotes intense concentration of -thought. When she rose from the table she walked about the room with -aimless, uncertain movements, touching this and that object without any -reason for doing so. She picked up the _Morning Post_, glanced at it, -and saw nothing; she fingered two or three letters which Lucian had left -lying about on the breakfast-table, and laid them down again. They -reminded her, quite suddenly, of a letter from Eustace Darlington which -she had in her pocket, a trivial note, newly arrived, which informed her -that he had made some purchase or other for her in Paris, whither he had -gone for a week on business, and that she would shortly receive a parcel -containing it. There was nothing of special interest or moment in the -letter; she referred to it merely to ascertain Darlington’s address. - -After a time Haidee went into the study and sought out a railway guide. -She had already made up her mind to join Eustace Darlington, and she now -decided to travel by a train which would enable her to reach Paris at -nine o’clock that evening. She began to make her preparations at once, -and instructed her maid to pack two large portmanteaus. Her jewels she -packed herself, taking them out of a safe in which they were usually -deposited, and after she had bestowed them in a small handbag she kept -the latter within sight until her departure. Everything was carried out -with coolness and thoughtfulness. The maid was told that her mistress -was going to Paris for a few days and that she was to accompany her; the -butler received his orders as to what was to be done until Mrs. -Damerel’s return the next day or the day following. There was nothing to -surprise the servants, and nothing to make them talk, in Haidee’s -proceedings. She lunched at an earlier hour than usual, drove to the -station with her maid, dropped a letter, addressed to Lucian at -Simonstower vicarage, into the pillar-box on the platform, and departed -for Paris with an admirable unconcern. There was a choppy sea in the -Channel, and the maid was ill, but Haidee acquired a hearty appetite, -and satisfied it in the dining-car of the French train. She was one of -those happily constituted people who can eat at the greatest moments of -life. - -She drove from the Gare du Nord to the Hôtel Bristol, and engaged rooms -immediately on her arrival. A little later she inquired for Darlington, -and then discovered that he had that day journeyed to Dijon, and was not -expected to return until two days later. Haidee, in nowise disconcerted -by this news, settled down to await his reappearance. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV - - -Lucian arrived at the old vicarage towards the close of the afternoon. -He had driven over from Oakborough through a wintry land, and every -minute spent in the keen air had added to the buoyancy of his spirits. -Never, he thought as he was driven along the valley, did Simonstower -look so well as under its first coating of snow, and on the rising -ground above the village he made his driver stop so that he might drink -in the charm of the winter sunset. At the western extremity of the -valley a shelving hill closed the view; on its highest point a long row -of gaunt fir-trees showed black and spectral against the molten red of -the setting sun and the purpled sky into which it was sinking; nearer, -the blue smoke of the village chimneys curled into the clear, frosty -air--it seemed to Lucian that he could almost smell the fires of -fragrant wood which burned on the hearths. He caught a faint murmur of -voices from the village street: it was four o’clock, and the children -were being released from school. Somewhere along the moorland side a dog -was barking; in the windows of his uncle’s farmhouse, high above the -river and the village, lights were already gleaming; a spark of bright -light amongst the pine and fir trees near the church told him that Mr. -Chilverstone had already lit his study-lamp. Every sound, every sight -was familiar--they brought the old days back to him. And there, keeping -stern watch over the village at its foot, stood the old Norman castle, -its square keep towering to the sky, as massive and formidable as when -Lucian had first looked upon it from his chamber window the morning -after Simpson Pepperdine had brought him to Simonstower. - -He bade the man drive on to the vicarage. He had sent no word of his -coming; he had more than once descended upon his friends at Simonstower -without warning, and had always found a welcome. The vicar came bustling -into the hall to him, with no sign of surprise. - -‘I did not know they had wired to you, my boy,’ he said, greeting him in -the old affectionate way, ‘but it was good of you to come so quickly.’ - -Lucian recognised that something had happened. - -‘I don’t understand you,’ he said. ‘No one wired to me; I came down on -my own initiative--I wanted to see my uncle on business.’ - -‘Ah!’ said the vicar, shaking his head. ‘Then you do not know?--your -uncle is ill. He had a stroke--a fit--you know what I mean--this very -morning. Your Aunt Judith is across at the farm now. But come in, my -dear boy--how cold you must be.’ - -Lucian went out to the conveyance which had brought him over, paid the -driver, and bade him refresh himself at the inn, and then joined the -vicar in his study. There again were the familiar objects which spelled -Home. It suddenly occurred to him that he was much more at home here or -in the farmhouse parlour along the roadside than in his own house in -London, and he wondered in vague, indirect fashion why that should be -so. - -‘Is my uncle dangerously ill, then?’ he asked, looking at the vicar, who -was fidgeting about with the fire-irons and repeating his belief that -Lucian must be very cold. - -‘I fear so, I fear so,’ answered Mr. Chilverstone. ‘It is, I think, an -apoplectic seizure--he was rather inclined to that, if you come to think -of it. Your aunt has just gone across there. It was early this morning -that it happened, and she has been over to the farm several times during -the day, but this time I think she will find a specialist there--Dr. -Matthews wished for advice and wired to Smokeford for some great man who -was to arrive an hour ago. I am glad you have come, Lucian. Did you see -Sprats before leaving?’ - -Lucian replied that he had seen Sprats on the previous day. He sat down, -answering the vicar’s questions respecting his daughter in mechanical -fashion--he was thinking of the various events of the past twenty-four -hours, and wondering if Mr. Pepperdine’s illness was likely to result in -death. Mr. Chilverstone turned from Sprats to the somewhat sore question -of the tragedy. It was to him a sad sign of the times that the public -had neglected such truly good work, and he went on to express his own -opinion of the taste of the age. Lucian listened absent-mindedly until -Mrs. Chilverstone returned with news of the sick man. She was much -troubled; the specialist gave little hope of Simpson’s recovery. He -might linger for some days, but it was almost certain that a week would -see the end of him. But in spite of her trouble Aunt Judith was -practical. Keziah, she said, must not be left alone that night, and she -herself was going back to the farm as soon as she had seen that the -vicar was properly provided for in respect of his sustenance and -comfort. Ever since her marriage Mrs. Chilverstone had felt that her -main object in life was the pleasing of her lord; she had put away all -thought of the dead hussar, and her romantic disposition had bridled -itself with the reins of chastened affection. Thus the vicar, who under -Sprats’s _régime_ had neither been pampered nor coddled, found himself -indulged in many modes hitherto unknown to him, and he accepted all that -was showered upon him with modest thankfulness. He thought his wife a -kindly and considerate soul, and did not realise, being a truly simple -man, that Judith was pouring out upon him the resources of a treasury -which she had been stocking all her life. He was the first thing she had -the chance of loving in a practical fashion; hence he began to live -among rose-leaves. He protested now that Lucian and himself wanted for -nothing. Mrs. Chilverstone, however, took the reins in hand, saw that -the traveller was properly attended to and provided for, and did not -leave the vicarage until the two men were comfortably seated at the -dinner-table, the maids admonished as to lighting a fire in Mr. -Damerel’s room, and the vicar warned of the necessity of turning out -the lamps and locking the doors. Then she returned to her brother’s -house, and for an hour or two Lucian and his old tutor talked of things -nearest to their hearts, and the feelings of home came upon the younger -man more strongly than ever. He began to wonder how it was that he had -settled down in London when he might have lived in the country; the -atmosphere of this quiet, book-lined room in a village parsonage was, he -thought just then, much more to his true taste than that in which he had -spent the last few years of his life. At Oxford Lucian had lived the -life of a book-worm and a dreamer: he was not a success in examinations, -and he brought no great honour upon his tutor. In most respects he had -lived apart from other men, and it was not until the publication of his -first volume had drawn the eyes of the world upon him that he had been -swept out of the peaceful backwater of a student’s existence into the -swirling tides of the full river of life. Then had followed Lord -Simonstower’s legacy, and then the runaway marriage with Haidee, and -then four years of butterfly existence. He began to wonder, as he ate -the vicar’s well-kept mutton, fed on the moorlands close by, and sipped -the vicar’s old claret, laid down many a year before, whether his recent -life had not been a feverish dream. Looked at from this peaceful -retreat, its constant excitement and perpetual rush and movement seemed -to have lost whatever charm they once had for him. Unconsciously Lucian -was suffering from reaction: his moral as well as his physical nature -was crying for rest, and the first oasis in the desert assumed the -delightful colours and soft air of Paradise. - -Later in the evening he walked over to the farmhouse, through softly -falling snow, to inquire after his uncle’s condition. Mrs. Chilverstone -was in the sick man’s room and did not come downstairs; Miss Pepperdine -received him in the parlour. In spite of the trouble that had fallen -upon the house and of the busy day which she had spent, Keziah was robed -in state for the evening, and she sat bolt upright in her chair plying -her knitting-needles as vigorously as in the old days which Lucian -remembered so well. He sat down and glanced at Simpson Pepperdine’s -chair, and wished the familiar figure were occupying it, and he talked -to his aunt of her brother’s illness, and the cloud which hung over the -house weighed heavily upon both. - -‘I am glad you came down, Lucian,’ said Miss Pepperdine, after a time. -‘I have been wanting to talk to you.’ - -‘Yes,’ he said. ‘What about?’ - -Keziah’s needles clicked with unusual vigour for a moment or two. - -‘Simpson,’ she said at last, ‘was always a soft-hearted man. If he had -been harder of heart, he would have been better off.’ - -Lucian, puzzled by this ambiguous remark, stared at Miss Pepperdine in a -fashion indicative of his amazement. - -‘I think,’ continued Miss Pepperdine, with pointed emphasis, ‘I think it -is time you knew more than you know at present, Lucian. When all is said -and done, you are the nearest of kin in the male line, and after hearing -the doctors to-night I’m prepared for Simpson’s death at any moment. -It’s a very bad attack of apoplexy--if he lived he’d be a poor invalid -all his life. Better that he should be taken while in the full -possession of his faculties.’ - -Lucian gazed at the upright figure before him with mingled feelings. -Miss Pepperdine used to sit like that, and knit like that, and talk like -that, in the old days--especially when she felt it to be her duty to -reprimand him for some offence. So far as he could tell, she was wearing -the same stiff and crackly silk gown, she held her elbows close to her -side and in just the same fashion, she spoke with the same precision as -in the time of Lucian’s youth. The sight of her prim figure, the sound -of her precise voice, blotted out half a score of years: Lucian felt -very young again. - -‘It may not be so bad as you think,’ he said. ‘Even the best doctors may -err.’ - -Miss Pepperdine shook her head. - -‘No,’ she said, ‘it’s all over with Simpson. And I think you ought to -know, Lucian, how things are with him. Simpson has been a close man, he -has kept things to himself all his life; and of late he has been obliged -to confide in me, and I know a great deal that I did not know.’ - -‘Yes?’ said Lucian. - -‘Simpson,’ she continued, ‘has not done well in business for some time. -He had a heavy loss some years ago through a rascally lawyer whom he -trusted--he always was one of those easy-going men that will trust -anybody--and although the old Lord Simonstower helped him out of the -difficulty, it ultimately fell on his own shoulders, and of late he has -had hard work to keep things going. Simpson will die a poor man. Not -that that matters--Judith and myself are provided for. I shall leave -here, afterwards. Judith, of course, is married. But as regards you, -Lucian, you lent Simpson some money a few months ago, didn’t you?’ - -‘My dear aunt!’ exclaimed Lucian, ‘I----’ - -‘I know all about it,’ she said, ‘though it’s only recently that I have -known. Well, you mustn’t be surprised if you have to lose it, Lucian. -When all is settled up, I don’t think there will be much, if anything, -over; and of course everybody must be paid before a member of the -family. The Pepperdines have always had their pride, and as your mother -was a Pepperdine, Lucian, you must have a share of it in you.’ - -‘I have my father’s pride as well,’ answered Lucian. ‘Of course I shall -not expect the money. I was glad to be able to lend it.’ - -‘Well,’ said Miss Pepperdine, with the air of one who deals out justice -impartially, ‘in one way you were only paying Simpson back for what he -had laid out on you. He spent a good deal of money on you, Lucian, when -you were a boy.’ - -Lucian heard this news with astonished feelings. - -‘I did not know that,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I am careless about these -things, but I have always thought that my father left money for me.’ - -‘I thought so too, until recently,’ replied Miss Pepperdine. ‘Your -father thought that he did, too, and he made Simpson executor and -trustee. But the money was badly invested. It was in a building society -in Rome, and it was all lost. There was never a penny piece from it, -from the time of your father’s death to this.’ - -Lucian listened in silence. - -‘Then,’ he said, after a time, ‘my uncle was responsible for everything -for me? I suppose he paid Mr. Chilverstone, and bought my clothes, and -gave me pocket-money, and so on?’ - -‘Every penny,’ replied his aunt. ‘Simpson was always a generous man.’ - -‘And my three years at Oxford?’ he said inquiringly. - -‘Ah!’ replied Miss Pepperdine, ‘that’s another matter. Well--I don’t -suppose it matters now that you should know, though Simpson wouldn’t -have told you, but I think you ought to know. That was Lord -Simonstower--the old lord. He paid every penny.’ - -Lucian uttered a sharp exclamation. He rose from his chair and took a -step or two about the room. Miss Pepperdine continued to knit with -undiminished vigour. - -‘So it would seem,’ he said presently, ‘that I lived and was educated on -charity?’ - -‘That is how most people would put it,’ she answered, ‘though, to do -them justice, I don’t think either Lord Simonstower or Simpson -Pepperdine would have called it that. They thought you a promising youth -and they put money into you. That’s why I want you to feel that Simpson -was only getting back a little of his own in the money that you lent -him, though I know he would have paid it back to the day, according to -his promise, if he’d been able. But I’m afraid that he would not have -been able, and I think his money affairs have worked upon him.’ - -‘I wish I had known,’ said Lucian. ‘He should have had no anxiety on my -account.’ - -He continued to pace the floor; Miss Pepperdine’s needles clicked an -accompaniment to his advancing and retreating steps. - -‘I thought it best,’ she observed presently, ‘that you should know all -these things--they will explain a good deal.’ - -‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘it is best. I should know. But I wish I had known -long ago. After all, a man should not be placed in a false position even -by his dearest friends. I ought to have been told the truth.’ - -Miss Pepperdine’s needles clicked viciously. - -‘So I always felt--after I knew, and that is but recently,’ she -answered. ‘But, as I have said to you before, Simpson Pepperdine is a -soft-hearted man.’ - -‘He has been a kind-hearted man,’ said Lucian. He was thinking, as he -walked about the room, glancing at the well-remembered objects, that the -money which he had wasted in luxuries that he could well have done -without would have relieved Mr. Pepperdine of anxiety and trouble. And -yet he had never known, never guessed, that the kindly-hearted farmer -had anything to distress him. - -‘I think we all seem to walk in darkness,’ he said, thinking aloud. ‘I -never had the least notion of this. Had I known anything of it, Uncle -Simpson should have had all that I could give him.’ - -Miss Pepperdine melted. She had formed rather hard thoughts of Lucian -since his marriage. The side-winds which blew upon her ears from time to -time represented him as living in a style which her old-fashioned mind -did not approve: she had come to consider him as extravagant, frivolous, -and unbalanced. But she was a woman of sound common sense and great -shrewdness, and she recognised the genuine ring in Lucian’s voice and -the sincerity of his regret that he had not been able to save Simpson -Pepperdine some anxiety. - -‘I’m sure you would, my boy,’ she said kindly. ‘However, Simpson has -done with everything now. I didn’t tell Judith, because she frets so, -but the doctors don’t think he’ll ever regain consciousness--it will -only be a matter of a few days, Lucian.’ - -‘And that only makes one wish that one had known of his anxieties -sooner,’ he said. ‘Five years ago I could have helped him -substantially.’ - -He was thinking of the ten thousand pounds which had already -disappeared. Miss Pepperdine did not follow his line of thought. - -‘Yes, I’ve heard that you’ve made a lot of money,’ she said. ‘You’ve -been one of the lucky ones, Lucian, for I always understood that poets -generally lived in garrets and were half-starved most of their time. I’m -sure one used to read all that sort of thing in books; but perhaps times -have changed, and so much the better. Simpson always read your books as -soon as you sent them. Upon my word, I’m sure he never understood what -it was all about, except perhaps some of the songs and ballads, but he -liked the long words, and he was very proud of these little green -books--they’re all in his bureau there, along with his account-books. -Well, as I was saying, I understand you’ve made money, Lucian. Take care -of it, my boy, for you never know when you may want it, and want it -badly, in this world. There’s one thing I want you to promise me. I -don’t yet know how things will be when Simpson’s gone, but if he is a -bit on the wrong side of the ledger, it must be made up by the family, -and you must do your share. It mustn’t be said that a Pepperdine died -owing money that he couldn’t pay. I’ve already talked it over with -Judith, and if there is money to be found, she and I and you must find -it between us. If need be, all mine can go,’ she added sharply. ‘I can -get a place as a housekeeper even at my age.’ - -Lucian gave her his promise readily enough, and immediately began to -wonder what it might imply. But he agreed with her reasoning, and -assured himself that, if necessary, he would live on a crust in order to -carry out her wishes. And soon afterwards he set out for the vicarage, -promising to return for news of Mr. Pepperdine’s condition at an early -hour in the morning. - -As he walked back over the snow Lucian was full of thought. The -conversation with Miss Pepperdine had opened a new world to him. He had -always believed himself independent: it now turned out that for years -and years he had lived at other men’s charges. He owed his very food to -the charity of a relative; another man, upon whom he had no claim, had -lavished generosity upon him in no unstinted fashion. He was full of -honest gratitude to these men, but he wished at the same time that he -had known of their liberality sooner. He felt that he had been placed in -a false position, and the feeling lowered him in his own estimation. He -thought of his father, who earned money easily and spent it freely, and -realised that he had inherited his happy-go-lucky temperament. Yet he -had never doubted that his father had made provision for him, for he -remembered hearing him tell some artist friends one afternoon in -Florence that he had laid money aside for Lucian’s benefit, and Cyprian -Damerel had been a man of common sense, fond of pleasure and good living -and generous though he was. But Lucian well understood the story of the -Roman building society--greater folk than he, from the Holy Father -downwards, had lost money out of that feverish desire to build which has -characterised the Romans of all ages. No doubt his father had been -carried away by some wave of enthusiasm, and had put all his eggs into -one basket, and they had all been broken together. Still, Lucian wished -that Mr. Pepperdine had told him all this on his reaching an age of -understanding--it would have made a difference in many ways. ‘I seem,’ -he thought, as he plodded on through the snow, ‘I seem to have lived in -an unreal world, and to have supposed things which were not!’ And he -began to recall the days of sure and confident youth, when his name was -being extolled as that of a newly risen star in the literary firmament, -and his own heart was singing with the joy of pride and strength and -full assurance. He had never felt one doubt of the splendour of his -career, never accepted it as anything but his just due. His very -certainty on these matters had, all unknown to himself, induced in him -an unassuming modesty, at which many people who witnessed his triumphs -and saw him lionised had wondered. Now, however, he had tasted the -bitterness of reverse; he had found that Fortune can frown as easily as -she can smile, and that it is hard to know upon what principle her -smiles and frowns are portioned out. To a certain point, life for Lucian -had been a perpetual dancing along the primrose way--it was now -developing into a tangle wherein were thorns and briars. - -He was too full of these thoughts to care for conversation, even with -his old tutor, and he pleaded fatigue and went to bed. He lay awake for -the greater part of the night, thinking over his talk with Miss -Pepperdine, and endeavouring to arrange his affairs so that he might -make good his promise to her, and when he slept, his sleep was troubled -by uneasy dreams. He woke rather late in the morning with a feeling of -impending calamity hanging heavily upon him. As he dressed, Mr. -Chilverstone came tapping at his door--something in the sound warned -Lucian of bad news. He was not surprised when the vicar told him that -Simpson Pepperdine had died during the night. - -He walked over to the farm as soon as he had breakfasted, and remained -there until noon. Coming back, he overtook the village postman, who -informed him that the letters were three hours late that morning in -consequence of the heavy fall of snow, which had choked up the roads -between Simonstower and Oakborough. - -‘It’ll be late afternoon afore I’ve finished my rounds,’ he added, with -a strong note of self-pity. ‘If you’re going up to the vicarage, sir, it -’ud save me a step if you took the vicar’s letters--and there’s one, I -believe, for yourself.’ - -Lucian took the bundle of letters which the man held out to him, and -turned it over until he found his own. He wondered why Haidee had -written to him--she had no great liking for correspondence, and he had -not expected to hear from her during his absence. He opened the letter -in the vicar’s study, without the least expectation of finding any -particular news in it. - -It was a very short letter, and, considering the character of the -intimation it was intended to make, the phrasing was commendably plain -and outspoken. Lucian’s wife merely announced that his plans for the -future were not agreeable to her, and that she was leaving home with the -intention of joining Eustace Darlington in Paris. She further added that -it was useless to keep up pretences any longer; she had already been -unfaithful, and she would be glad if Lucian would arrange to divorce her -as quickly as possible, so that she and Darlington might marry. Either -as an afterthought, or out of sheer good will, she concluded with a -lightly worded expression of friendship and of hope that Lucian might -have better luck next time. - -It is more than probable that Haidee was never quite so much her true -self in her relation to Lucian as when writing this letter. It is -permitted to every woman, whatever her mental and moral quality, to have -her ten minutes of unreasoning romance at some period of her life, and -Haidee had hers when she and Lucian fell in love with each other’s -beauty and ran away to hide themselves from the world while they played -out their little comedy. It was natural that they should tire of each -other within the usual time; but the man’s sense of duty was developed -in Lucian in a somewhat exceptional way, and he was inclined to settle -down to a Darby and Joan life. Haidee had little of that particular -instinct. She was all for pleasure and the glory of this world, and -there is small wonder that the prospect of exile in a land for which she -had no great liking should have driven her to the salvation of her -diamonds and herself by recourse to the man whom she ought to have -married instead of Lucian. There was already a guilty bond between them; -it seemed natural to Haidee to look to it as a means of drawing her away -from the dangers which threatened her worldly comfort. It was equally -natural to her to announce all these things to Lucian in pretty much the -same terms that she would have employed had she been declining an -invitation to some social engagement. - -Lucian read the letter three times. He gave no sign of whatever emotion -it called up. All that he did was to announce in quiet, matter-of-fact -tones that he must return to London that afternoon, and to beg the loan -of the vicar’s horse and trap as far as Wellsby station. After that he -lunched with Mr. and Mrs. Chilverstone, and if they thought him -unusually quiet, there was good reason for that in the fact that Simpson -Pepperdine was lying dead in the old farmhouse behind the pine groves. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV - - -Haidee, waiting for Darlington in Paris, spent the time in a state of -perfect peace, amused herself easily and successfully, and at the same -time kept clear of such of her acquaintance as she knew to be in the -French capital at that moment. On the morrow Darlington would return, -and after that everything would be simple. She had arranged it all in -her own mind as she travelled from London, and she believed--having a -confident and sanguine disposition--that the way in which the affair -presented itself to her was the only way in which it could possibly -present itself to any one. It had been a mistake to marry Lucian. Well, -it wasn’t too late to rectify the mistake, and one was wise, of course, -in rectifying it. If you find out that you are on the wrong road--why, -what more politic and advisable than to take the shortest cut to the -right one? She was sorry for Lucian, but the path which he was following -just then was by no means to her own taste, and she must leave him to -tread it alone. She was indeed sorry for him. He had been an ardent and -a delightful lover--for a while--and it was a pity he was not a rich -man. Perhaps they might be friends yet. She, at any rate, would bear no -malice--why should she? She was fond enough of Lucian in one way, but -she had no fondness for a quiet life in Florence or Pisa or anywhere -else, and she had been brought up to believe that a woman must be good -to the man who can best afford to be good to her, and she felt as near -an approach to thankfulness as she had ever felt in her life when she -remembered that Eustace Darlington still cherished a benevolent -disposition towards her. - -Darlington did not return to Paris until nearly noon of the following -day. When he reached his hotel he was informed by his valet, whom he had -left behind, that Mrs. Damerel had arrived, and had asked for him. -Darlington felt no surprise on hearing this news; nothing more serious -than a shopping expedition occurred to him. He sent his man to Haidee’s -rooms with a message, and after changing his clothes went to call upon -her himself. His manner showed her that he neither suspected nor -anticipated anything out of the common, but his first question paved the -way for her explanation. It was a question that might have been put had -they met in New York or Calcutta or anywhere, a question that needed no -definite answer. - -‘What brings you here? Frills, or frocks, or something equally feminine, -I suppose?’ he said carelessly, as he shook hands with her. ‘Staying -long?’ - -The indifference of his tone sounded somewhat harshly in Haidee’s -hearing. It was evident that he suspected nothing and had no idea of the -real reason of her presence. She suddenly became aware that there might -be difficulties in the path that had seemed so easy. - -‘Lucian here?’ asked Darlington, with equal carelessness. - -‘No,’ she said. Then, in a lower tone, she added, ‘I have left Lucian.’ - -Darlington turned quickly from the window, whither he had strolled after -their greeting. He uttered a sharp, half-suppressed exclamation. - -‘Left him?’ he said. ‘You don’t mean----’ - -His interrogative glance completed the sentence. There was something in -his eyes, something stern and businesslike, that made Haidee afraid. Her -own eyes turned elsewhere. - -‘Yes,’ she said. - -Darlington put his hands in his pockets and came and stood in front of -her. He looked down at her as if she had been a child out of whom he -wished to extract some information. - -‘Quarrelling, eh?’ he said. - -‘No, not quarrelling at all,’ she answered. - -‘Then--what?’ - -‘He has spent all the money,’ she said, ‘and lots beside, and he is -going to sell everything in the house in order to pay you, and then he -wanted me to go and live cheaply--_cheaply_, you understand?--in Italy; -and--and he said I must sell my diamonds.’ - -‘Did he?’ said Darlington. ‘And he is going to sell everything in order -to pay me, is he? Well, that’s honest; I didn’t think he’d the pluck. -He’s evidently not quite such an utter fool as I’ve always thought him. -Well?’ - -‘And, of course, I left him.’ - -‘That “of course” is good. Of course, being you, you did, “of course.” -Yes, I understand that part, Haidee. But’--he looked around him with an -expressive glance at her surroundings, ‘why--here?’ he inquired sharply. - -‘I came to you,’ she said in a low and not too confident voice. - -Darlington laughed--a low, satirical, cynical laughter that frightened -her. She glanced at him timidly; she had never known him like that -before. - -‘I see!’ he said. ‘You thought that I should prove a refuge for the -fugitive wife? But I’m afraid that I am not disposed to welcome refugees -of any description--it isn’t my _métier_, you know.’ - -Haidee looked at him in astonishment. Her eyes caught and held his: he -saw the growing terror in her face. - -‘But----’ she said, and came to a stop. Then she repeated the word, -still staring at him with questioning eyes. Darlington tore himself away -with a snarl. - -‘Look here!’ he said, ‘I’m not a sentimental man. If I ever had a scrap -of sentiment, _you_ knocked it out of me four years ago. I was fond of -you then. I’d have made you a kind husband, my girl, and you’d have got -on, fool as you are by nature. But you threw me over for that half-mad -boy, and it killed all the soft things I had inside me. I knew I should -have my revenge on both of you, and I’ve had it. He’s ruined; he hasn’t -a penny piece that isn’t due to me; and as for you--listen, my girl, -and I’ll tell you some plain truths. You’re a pretty animal, nice to -play with for half an hour now and then, but you’re no man’s mate for -life, unless the man’s morally blind. I once heard a scientific chap say -that the soul’s got to grow in human beings. Well, yours hasn’t sprouted -yet, Haidee. You’re a fool, though you are a very lovely woman. I -suppose--’--he came closer to her, and looking down at her astonished -face smiled more cynically than ever--‘I suppose you thought that I -would run away with you and eventually marry you?’ - -‘I--yes--of course!’ she whispered. - -‘Well,’ he said, ‘if I, too, had been a fool, I might have done that. -But I am not a fool, my dear Haidee. Perhaps I’m hard, brutal, -cynical--the world and its precious denizens have made me so. I’m not -going to run away with the woman who ran away with another man on the -very eve of her marriage to me; and as to marrying you, well--I’m plain -spoken enough to tell you that I made up my mind years ago that whatever -other silliness I might commit, I would never commit the crowning folly -of marrying a woman who had been my mistress.’ - -Haidee caught her breath with a sharp exclamation. If she had possessed -any spirit she would have risen to her feet, said things, done things: -having none, like most of her sort, she suddenly buried her face in her -hands and sobbed. - -‘I dare say it doesn’t sound nice,’ said Darlington, ‘but Lord knows -it’s best to be plain spoken. Now, my girl, listen to me. Go home and -make the best of your bargain. I’ll let Lucian Damerel off easily, -though to tell you the truth I’ve always had cheerful notions of ruining -him hopelessly. If he wants to live cheaply in Italy, go with him--you -married him. You have your maid here?--tell her to pack up and be ready -to leave by the night train. I dare say Damerel thinks you have only run -over here to buy a new gown; he never need know anything to the -contrary.’ - -‘B-b-b-but I have t-t-_told_ him!’ she sobbed. ‘He _knows_!’ - -‘Damn you for a fool!’ said Darlington, between his teeth. He put his -hands in his pockets again and began rattling the loose money there. For -a moment he stood staring at Haidee, his face puckered into frowning -lines. He came up to her. ‘How did you tell him?’ he said. ‘You -didn’t--write it?’ - -‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘I did--I wrote him a letter.’ - -Darlington sighed. - -‘Oh, well!’ he said, ‘it doesn’t matter, only he’ll be able to get heavy -damages, and I wanted to clear him out. It’s the fortune of war. Well, -I’m going. Good-day.’ - -He had walked across to the door and laid his hand upon the latch ere -Haidee comprehended the meaning of his words. Then she sprang up with a -scream. - -‘And what of me?’ she cried. ‘Am I to be left here?’ - -‘You brought yourself here,’ he retorted, eyeing her evilly. ‘I did not -ask you to come.’ - -She stared at him open-mouthed as if he were some strange thing that had -come into her line of vision for the first time. Her breath began to -come and go in gasps. She was an elementary woman, but at this treatment -from the man she had known as her lover a natural indignation sprang up -in her and she began to find words. - -‘But this!’ she said, with a nearer approach to honesty than she had -ever known, ‘this is--desertion!’ - -‘I am under no vow to you,’ he said. - -‘You have implied it. I trusted you.’ - -‘As Lucian trusted you,’ he sneered. - -She became speechless again. Something in her looks brought Darlington -back from the door to her side. - -‘Look here, Haidee,’ he said, not unkindly, ‘don’t be a little fool. Go -home quickly and settle things with your husband. Tell him you wrote -that letter in a fit of temper; tell him--oh, tell him any of the lies -that women invent so easily on these occasions! It’s absolutely -hopeless to look to me for protection, absolutely impossible for me to -give it----’ - -He stopped. She was staring at him in a strange way--the way in which a -dumb animal might stare if the butcher who was about to kill it -condescended to try to explain to it why it was necessary that he should -presently cut its throat. Darlington hummed and ha’d when he caught that -look. He cast a furtive glance at the door and half turned away from -Haidee. - -‘Yes, quite impossible,’ he repeated. ‘The fact is--well, you may as -well knew it now as hear it later on--I am going to be married.’ - -She nodded her head as if she quite understood his meaning, and he, -looking full at her again, noticed that she was trying to moisten her -lips with the tip of her tongue, and that her eyes were dilated to an -unusual degree. - -‘You can’t say that I’ve treated you badly,’ he said. ‘After all, you -had the first chance, and it wasn’t my fault if you threw it away. -There, now, be sensible and go back to London and make it up with -Damerel. You can easily get round him--he’ll believe anything you tell -him. Say you were upset at the thought of going to Italy with him, and -lost your head. Things will come all right if you only manage your cards -properly. Well, I’m going--good-day.’ - -He turned slowly from her as if he were somewhat ashamed of his -desertion. They had been standing by the side of a table, littered about -on which were several odds and ends picked up by Haidee on the previous -day. Amongst them was an antique stiletto, sharp as a needle, which had -taken her fancy at a shop in the Palais Royal. She had thought of using -it as a hat-pin, and was charmed when the dealer suggested that it had -probably tasted the heart’s-blood of more than one victim. Its glitter -caught her eye now, and she picked it up and struck furiously at -Darlington’s back. - -At that moment Lucian was being conducted to his wife’s room by a -courteous manager. At the threshold they paused, brought to a -simultaneous standstill by a wild scream. When they entered the room, -Darlington lay crumpled up and dead in the centre of the floor, and -Haidee, gazing spellbound at him from the furthest corner, was -laughing--a long, low ripple of laughter that seemed as if it would -never cease. The stiletto, thrown at her feet, flashed back a ray of -sunlight from the window. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI - - -That afternoon Saxonstowe arrived in town from Yorkshire with a grim -determination in his heart to have it out once and for all with Sprats. -He had tried to do his duty as a country squire and to interest himself -in country life and matters: he had hunted the fox and shot pheasants, -sat on the bench at petty and at quarter sessions, condoled with farmers -on poor prices and with old women on bad legs, and he was still -unsatisfied and restless and conscious of wanting something. The folk -round about him came to the conclusion that he was not as other young -men of his rank and wealth--he seemed inclined to bookishness, he was a -bit shy and a little bit stand-offish in manner, and he did not appear -to have much inclination for the society of neighbours in his own -station of life. Before he succeeded to the title Saxonstowe had not -been much known in the neighbourhood. He had sometimes visited his -predecessor as a schoolboy, but the probability of his becoming the next -Lord Saxonstowe was at that time small, and no one had taken much notice -of Master Richard Feversham. When he came back to the place as lord and -master, what reputation he had was of a sort that scarcely appealed to -the country people. He had travelled in some fearsome countries where no -other man had ever set foot, and he had written a great book about his -adventures, and must therefore be a clever young man. But he was not a -soldier, nor a sailor, and he did not particularly care for hunting or -shooting, and was therefore somewhat of a hard nut to crack. The honest -gentlemen who found fox-hunting the one thing worth living for could -scarcely realise that even its undeniable excitements were somewhat tame -to a man who had more than once taken part in a hunt in which he was the -quarry, and they were disposed to regard the new Viscount Saxonstowe as -a bit of a prig, being unconscious that he was in reality a very -simple-minded, unaffected young man who was a little bit embarrassed by -his title and his wealth. As for their ladies, it was their decided -opinion that a young peer of such ancient lineage and such great -responsibilities should marry as soon as possible, and each believed -that it was Lord Saxonstowe’s bounden duty to choose a wife from one of -the old north-country families. In this Saxonstowe agreed with them. He -desired a wife, and a wife from the north country, and he knew where to -find her, and wanted her so much that it had long been evident to his -sober judgment that, failing her, no other woman would ever call him -husband. The more he was left alone, the more deeply he sank in the sea -of love. And at last he felt that life was too short to be trifled with, -and he went back to Sprats and asked her firmly and insistently to marry -him. - -Sprats was neither hurt nor displeased nor surprised. She listened -silently to all he had to say, and she looked at him with her usual -frankness when he had finished. - -‘I thought we were not to talk of these matters?’ she said. ‘We were to -be friends--was there not some sort of compact?’ - -‘If so, I have broken it,’ he answered--‘not the friendship--that, -never!--but the compact. Besides, I don’t remember anything about that. -As to talking of this, well, I intend to go on asking you to marry me -until you do.’ - -‘You have not forgotten what I told you?’ she said, eyeing him with some -curiosity. - -‘Not at all. I have thought a lot about it,’ he answered. ‘I have not -only thought, but I have come to a conclusion.’ - -‘Yes?’ she said, still curious. ‘What conclusion?’ - -‘That you are deceiving yourself,’ he answered. ‘You think you love -Lucian Damerel. I do not doubt that you do, in a certain way, but not in -the way in which I would wish you, for instance, to love me, and in -which I believe you could and would love me--if you would let yourself.’ - -Sprats stared at him with growing curiosity and surprise. There was -something masterful and lordly about his tone and speech that filled her -heart with a great sense of contentment--it was the voice of the -superior animal calling to the inferior, of the stronger to the weaker. -And she was so strong that she had a great longing to be weak--always -providing that something stronger than herself were shielding her -weakness. - -‘Well?’ was all she could say. - -‘You have always felt a sense of protection for him,’ continued -Saxonstowe. ‘It was in you from the first--you wanted something to take -care of. But isn’t there sometimes a feeling within you that you’d like -to be taken care of yourself?’ - -‘Who taught you all this?’ she asked, with puzzled brows. ‘You seem to -have acquired some strange knowledge of late.’ - -‘I expect it’s instinct, or nature, or something,’ he said. ‘Anyhow, -have I spoken the truth?’ - -‘You don’t expect me to confess the truth to you, do you?’ she answered. -‘You have not yet learned everything, I see.’ She paused and regarded -him for some time in silence. ‘I don’t know why,’ she said at last, ‘but -this seems as if it were the prelude to a fight. I feel as I used to -feel when I fought with Lucian--there was always a lot of talk before -the tearing and rending began. I feel talky now, and I also feel that I -must fight you. To begin with, just remember that I am a woman and -you’re a man. I don’t know anything about men--they’re incomprehensible -to me. To begin with, why do you wish to marry me?--you’re the first man -who ever did. I want to know why--why--why?’ - -‘Because you’re the woman for me and I’m the man for you,’ he replied -masterfully. ‘You are my mate.’ - -‘How do you know?’ - -‘I feel it.’ - -‘Then why don’t I feel it?’ she asked quickly. - -‘Are you dead certain you don’t?’ he said, smiling at her. ‘I think, -perhaps, that if you could just get deep down into yourself, you do.’ - -‘But that doesn’t explain why you want to marry me,’ she said -inconsequently. ‘You tell me that what I have always felt for Lucian is -not what I ought to feel for the man I love. Well, if I analyse what I -feel for Lucian, perhaps it is what you say it is--a sense of -protection, of wanting to help, and to shield; but then, you say that -that is the sort of love you have for me.’ - -‘Did I?’ he said, laughing quietly. ‘You forget that I have not yet told -you what sort of love I have for you--we have not reached the -love-making stage yet.’ - -Sprats felt femininity assert itself. She knew that she blushed, and she -felt very hot and very uncomfortable, and she wished Saxonstowe would -not smile. She was as much a girl and just as shy of a possible lover as -in her tom-boy days, and there was something in Saxonstowe’s presence -which aroused new tides of feeling in her. He had become bold and -masterful; it was as if she were being forced out of herself. And then -he suddenly did a thing which sent all the blood to her heart with a -wild rush before it leapt back pulsing and throbbing through her body. -Saxonstowe spoke her name. - -‘Millicent!’ he said, and laid his hand very gently on hers. -‘Millicent!’ - -She drew away from him quickly, but her eyes met his with courage. - -‘My name!’ she said. ‘No one ever called me by my name before. I had -half forgotten it.’ - -‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I want you to think all this over, like the woman -you are. Don’t waste your life on a dream or a delusion. Come to me and -be my wife and friend so long as God lets us live. You are a true -woman--a woman in a thousand. I would not ask you else. I will be a true -man to you. And you and I together can do great things, for others. -Think, and tell me your thoughts--afterwards.’ - -‘Yes, afterwards,’ she said. She wanted him to go, and he saw it and -went, and Sprats sat down to think. But for the first time in her life -she found it impossible to think clearly. She tried to marshal facts and -to place them before her in due sequence and proper order, but she -discovered that she was pretty much like all other women at these -junctures and that a strange confusion had taken possession of her. For -the moment there was too much of Saxonstowe in her mental atmosphere to -enable her to think, and after some time she uttered an impatient -exclamation and went off to attend to her duties. For the remainder of -the afternoon she bustled about the house, and the nursing-staff -wondered what it was that had given their Head such a fit of vigorous -research into unexplored corners. It was not until evening that she -allowed herself to be alone again, and by that time she was prepared to -sit down and face the situation. She went to her own room with a -resolute determination to think of everything calmly and coolly, and -there she found evening newspapers lying on the table, and she picked -one up mechanically and opened it without the intention of reading it, -and ere she knew what was happening she had read of the tragedy in -Paris. The news stamped itself upon her at first without causing her -smart or pain, even as a clean shot passes through the flesh with little -tearing of the fibres. She sat down and read all that the telegrams had -to tell, and searched each of the newspapers until she was in possession -of the latest news. - -She had gone into her room with the influence of Saxonstowe’s -love-making still heavy upon her womanhood; she left it an unsexed thing -of action and forceful determination. In a few moments she had seen her -senior nurse and had given her certain orders; in a few more she was in -her outdoor cloak and bonnet and at the door, and a maid was whistling -for a hansom for her. But just as she was running down the steps to -enter it, another came hurriedly into the square, and Saxonstowe waved -his hand to her. She paused and went back to the open door; he jumped -from his cab and joined her, and they went into the house together, and -into the room which she had just left. - -‘I was going to you’ she said, ‘and yet I might have known that you -would come to me.’ - -‘I came as soon as I knew,’ he answered. - -She looked at him narrowly: he was watching her with inquiring eyes. - -‘We must go there at once,’ she said. ‘There is time to catch the night -train?’ - -‘Yes,’ he said, ‘plenty of time. I have already made some -arrangements--I thought you would wish it.’ - -She nodded in answer to this, and began to take some things out of a -desk. Saxonstowe noticed that her hand was perfectly steady, though her -face was very pale. She turned presently from packing a small handbag -and came up to him. - -‘Listen,’ she said; ‘it is you and I who are going--you understand?’ - -He looked at her for a moment in silence, and then bowed his head. He -had not understood, but he felt that she had come to some determination, -and that that was no time to question her. In a few moments more they -had left the house and set out on their journey to Paris. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII - - -Our neighbours on the other side of the Channel are blessed with many -qualities which were not given to us who reside in these islands, and -amongst them is one which most Englishmen would not pay a penny for if -it were on sale in market overt. This is the quality of sentiment--a -thing which we others strive to choke at its birth, and to which at any -time we give but an outside corner of the hearth of life. It is a -quality of which one may have too much, but in its place it is an -excellent and a desirable quality, for it tends to the establishment of -a fitting sense of proportion, and makes people polite and considerate -at the right moment. Had the tragedy of Haidee and Darlington occurred -in England, there would have been much vulgar curiosity manifested, for -amongst us we often fail to gauge the niceties of a situation. In Paris, -sentiment fixed the _affaire Damerel_ at its right value in a few hours. -It was a veritable tragedy--one to be spoken of with bated breath--one -of those terrible dramas of real life which far transcend anything that -can be placed upon the stage. The situations were pathetic, the figures -of the chief actors of a veritable notability. The young husband, great -as a poet and handsome as a Greek god; the young wife, beautiful and -charming; the plutocrat lover, of whom death forbade to speak--they were -all of a type to attract. Then the intense tragedy of the final -situation! Who could tell what had occurred between the lover and the -wife in that last supreme scene, since he was dead and she bereft of -reason? It had all the elements of greatness, and greatness demands -respect. Therefore, instead of being vulgarised, as it would have been -in unsentimental England, the _affaire Damerel_ was spoken of with a -tender respect and with few words. It was an event too deplorable to -merit common discussion. - -Lucian had swept through London to Paris intent on killing Darlington -with his own hands. His mental balance had been destroyed, and he -himself rendered incapable of hearing or seeing reason long before he -reached the French capital. The courteous manager who replied to -Lucian’s calm inquiries for Mrs. Damerel did not realise that the -composure of the distinguished-looking young gentleman was that of the -cunning madman. Inside Lucian’s breast nestled a revolver--his fingers -were itching to get at it as he followed his guide up the stairs, for he -had made up his mind to shoot his faithless wife and his treacherous -enemy on sight. - -The sight of Haidee, mopping and mowing in her corner, the sound of her -awful laughter, brought Lucian back to sanity. Living and moving as if -he were in some fearful dream, he gave orders and issued directions. The -people of the hotel, half paralysed by the strangeness of the tragedy, -wondered at his calmness; the police were astonished by the lucidity of -the statement which he gave to them. His one great desire was to shield -his wife’s name. The fierce resentment which he had felt during his -pursuit of her had completely disappeared in presence of the tragedy. -Before the end of the afternoon some curious mental process in him had -completely rehabilitated Haidee in his estimation: he believed her to -have been deeply wronged, and declared with emphasis that she must have -killed Darlington in a fit of desperation following upon some wickedness -of his own. Her incriminating letter he swept aside contemptuously--it -was a sure proof, he said, that the poor child’s mind was already -unhinged when it was written. He turned a blind eye to undoubted facts. -Out of a prodigal imagination and an exuberant fancy he quickly built up -a theory which presently assumed for him the colours of absolute truth. -Haidee had been tempted in secret by this devil who had posed as friend; -he had used his insidious arts to corrupt her, and the temptation had -fallen upon her at the very moment when he, Lucian, was worrying her -with his projects of retrenchment. She had taken flight, the poor Haidee -who had lived in rose-leaf luxury all her days, and had fled from her -exaggerated fears to the man she believed her friend and Lucian’s. Then, -when she had found out his true character, she--in a moment of awful -fear or fright, most probably--had killed him. That was the real story, -the poor, helpless truth. He put it before Sprats and Saxonstowe with a -childlike belief in its plausibility and veracity that made at least one -of them like to weep--he had shown them the letter which Haidee had -written to Lucian before leaving town, and they knew the real truth of -the whole sorry business. It seemed best, after all, thought Sprats, and -said so to Saxonstowe when she got the chance, that Lucian should -cherish a fiction rather than believe the real truth. And that he did -believe his fiction was soon made evident. - -‘It is all my fault--all!’ he said to Sprats, with bitter self-reproach. -‘I never took care of her as I should have done, as I had vowed to do. -You were right, Sprats, in everything that you said to me. I wonder what -it is that makes me so blind to things that other people see so clearly? -I ought not to have let the poor child be exposed to the temptations of -that arch-devil; but I trusted him implicitly. He always made the most -sincere professions of his friendship for both of us. Then again, how is -it, why is it, that people so constantly deceive me? I believe every man -as I expect every man to believe me. Do you think I ever dreamt of all -this, ever dreamt of what was in that scoundrel’s mind? Yet I ought to -have foreseen--I ought to have been guided by you. It is all my fault, -all my fault!’ - -It was useless to argue with him or to condole with him. He had -persuaded himself without an effort that such and such things were, and -the only thing to be done with him was to acquiesce in his conclusions -and help him as judiciously as possible. The two faithful friends who -had hurried to his side remained with him until the troubled waters grew -calm again. That was now an affair of time. Haidee was certainly -insane, and the physicians held out little hope of her recovery. By -their advice she was removed to a private institution within easy -distance of Paris, and Lucian announced his intention of settling down -in the gay city in order to be near her. He talked of her now as if she -had been a girl-bride, snatched away from him by ruthless fate, and it -was plain to see that he had obliterated the angry thoughts that had -filled him during his frenzy of resentment, and now cherished nothing -but feelings of chastened and tender regret. For Haidee, indeed, -frailest of frail mortals, became apotheosised into something very -different. Lucian, who never did anything by halves and could not avoid -extremes, exalted her into a sort of much-wronged saint; she became his -dream, and nobody had the heart to wake him. - -Sprats and Saxonstowe worked hard for him at this time, one relieving -him of much trouble in making the necessary arrangements for Haidee, the -other of a large part of the business affairs brought into active -operation by the recent tragedy. Saxonstowe, working untiringly on his -behalf, was soon able to place Lucian’s affairs in order. Lucian gave -him full power to act, and ere long had the satisfaction of knowing that -the liability to Darlington and Darlington had been discharged, that -Miss Pepperdine’s mind had been set at rest as to the preservation of -the family honour, and that he owed money to no one. He would be able to -surround the stricken Haidee with every comfort and luxury that one in -her condition could enjoy, and he himself need never feel a moment’s -anxiety. For the _affaire Damerel_ had had its uses. Lucian came again -in the market. Mr. Robertson began to sell the thin green-clad volumes -more rapidly than ever before; even the portly epic moved, and finally -began racing its sister competitors for the favour of the fickle public. -Mr. Harcourt, with a rare sense of fitness, revived Lucian’s first play -to crowded houses; an enterprising Frenchman went over to London and -witnessed a performance, and within a few weeks presented a version of -it at one of the Parisian theatres. French translations of Lucian’s -works followed, and sold like hot cakes; the Italian translations -received a fillip, and people in the United States became interested. -Nothing, said Mr. Robertson, could have been better, from a trade point -of view. - -Lucian accepted all this with indifference and equanimity. All his -thoughts were centred on the quiet house in the little village outside -Paris, where Haidee laughed at her own fingers or played with dolls. -Every afternoon he left his _appartement_ and travelled into the country -to inquire after his wife’s health. He always carried some little gift -with him--flowers, fruit, a child’s picture-book, a child’s toy, and the -nurse to whom these things were given used to weep over them, being -young and sentimental, and very much in love with Lucian’s face and -hair, which was now turning a pretty and becoming grey at the temples. -Sometimes he saw the doctor, who was sympathetic, and guarded in his -answers, and sometimes he walked in the garden with an old abbé who used -to visit the place, and exchanged pious sentiments with him. But he -never saw Haidee, for the doctors feared it, and thus his conception of -her was not of the madwoman, but of the young beauty with whom he had -made an impetuous runaway marriage. He used to walk about Paris in those -days with eyes that wore a far-away expression, and the women would -speak of his beauty with tears in their eyes and shake their heads over -the sadness of his story, which was well known to everybody, and in -pecuniary value was worth a gold-mine. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII - - -When they had done everything that could be done for him at that time, -Sprats and Saxonstowe left Lucian in Paris and returned together to -London. He appeared to have no particular desire that they should remain -with him, nor any dread of being alone. Sprats had seen to the -furnishing of his rooms and to the transportation of his most cherished -books and pictures; he was left surrounded with comfort and luxury, and -he assured his friends that he wanted for nothing. He intended to devote -himself to intense study, and if he wanted a little society, well, he -already had a considerable acquaintance amongst authors and artists in -Paris, and could make use of it if need were. But he spoke of himself as -of an anchorite; it was plain to see that he believed that the _joie de -vivre_ existed for him no longer. It was also plain that something in -him wished to be clear of the old life and the old associations. He took -an affectionate farewell of Sprats and of Saxonstowe at the Gare du -Nord, whither he accompanied them on their departure, but Sprats was -keenly aware of the fact that there was that in him which was longing to -see the last of them. They were links of a chain that bound him to a -life with which he wished to have no further connection. When they said -good-bye, Sprats knew that she was turning down a page that closed a -long chapter of her own life. - -She faced the problem bravely and with clear-headedness. She saw now -that much of what she had taken to be real fact had been but a dream. -Lucian had awakened the mother-instinct in her by his very helplessness, -but nothing in him had ever roused the new feeling which had grown in -her every day since Saxonstowe had told her of his love. She had made -the mistake of taking interest and affection for love, and now that she -had found it out she was contented and uneasy, happy and miserable, -pleased and furious, all at once. She wanted to run away from Saxonstowe -to the very ends of the earth, but she also cherished a secret desire to -sit at his feet and be his slave, and would rather have torn her tongue -out than tell him of it. - -While they were father-and-mother-ing Lucian in Paris, Saxonstowe had -remained solid and grim as one of the Old Guard, doing nothing but his -duty. Sprats had watched him with keen observation, and had admired his -stern determination and the earnest way in which he did everything. He -had taken hold of Lucian as a big brother might take a little one, and -had been gentle and firm, kindly and tactful, all at once. She had often -longed to throw her arms round him and kiss him for his good-boy -qualities, but he had sunk the lover in the friend with unmistakable -purpose, and she was afraid of him. She began to catch herself looking -at him out of her eye-corners when he was not looking at her, and she -hated herself. Once when he came suddenly into a room, she blushed so -furiously that she could have cried with vexation, and it was all the -more aggravating, she said, because she had just happened to be thinking -of him. Travelling back together, she was very subdued and essentially -feminine. Her manner invited confidence, but Saxonstowe was stiff as a -ramrod and cold as an icicle. He put her into a hansom at Charing Cross, -and bade her good-bye as if she had been a mere acquaintance. - -But he came to her the next afternoon, and she knew from his face that -he was in an urgent and a masterful mood. She recognised that she would -have to capitulate, and had a happy moment in assuring herself that she -would make her own terms. Saxonstowe wasted no time. He might have been -a smart young man calling to collect the water-rate. - -‘The night that we went to Paris together,’ he said, ‘you made an -observation which you thought I understood. I didn’t understand it, and -now I want to know what you meant.’ - -‘What I said. That we were going--you and I--together,’ she answered. - -‘But what _did_ that mean?’ - -‘Together,’ she said, ‘together means--well, of course, it -means--together.’ - -Saxonstowe put his hands on her shoulders; she immediately began to -study the pattern of the hearthrug at their feet. - -‘Will you marry me, Millicent?’ he said. - -She nodded her head, but her eyes still remained fixed on his toes. - -‘Answer me,’ he commanded. - -‘Yes,’ she said, and lifted her eyes to his. - -A moment later she disengaged herself from his arms and began to laugh. - -‘I was going to extract such a lot of conditions,’ she said. ‘Somehow I -don’t care about them now. But will you tell me just what is going to -happen?’ - -‘You knew, I suppose, that I should have already mapped everything out. -Well, so I have. We shall be married at once, in the quietest possible -fashion, and then we are going round the world in our own way. It is to -be your holiday after all these years of work.’ - -She nodded, with perfect acquiescence in his plans. - -‘At once?’ she said questioningly. - -‘A week from to-day,’ he said. - -The notion of such precipitancy brought the blood into her face. - -‘I suppose I ought to say that I can’t possibly be ready in a week,’ she -said, ‘but it so happens that I can. A week to-day, then.’ - -Mr. Chilverstone came up from Simonstower to marry them. It was a very -quiet wedding in a quiet church. Lady Firmanence, however, was there, -and before the bride and bridegroom left to catch a transatlantic liner -for New York she expressed a decided opinion that the fourth Viscount -Saxonstowe had inherited more than his share of the good sense and wise -perception for which their family had always been justly famous. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX - - -Lucian settled down into a groove-like existence. He read when he liked -and worked when he felt any particular inclination to do so; he amused -himself at times with the life which a man of his temperament may live -in Paris, but always with the air of one who looks on. He made a few new -friends and sometimes visited old ones. Now and then he entertained in a -quiet, old-fashioned way. He was very indulgent and caressing to a -certain coterie of young people who believed in him as a great master -and elevated his poetry to the dignity of a cult. He was always a -distinguished figure when he showed himself at the opera or the theatre, -and people still pointed him out on the boulevards and shook their heads -and said what a pity it was that one so young and handsome and talented -should carry so heavy a burden. In this way he may be said to have -become quite an institution of Paris, and Americans stipulated with -their guides that he should be pointed out to them at the first -opportunity. - -Whatever else engaged Lucian’s attention or his time, he never forgot -his daily visit to the quiet house in the suburbs where Haidee still -played with dolls or laughed gleefully at her attendants. He permitted -nothing to interfere with this duty, which he regarded as a penance for -his sins of omission to Haidee in days gone by. Others might forsake -Paris for the sea or the mountains; Lucian remained there all the year -round for two years, making his daily pilgrimage. He saw the same faces -every day, and heard the same report, but he never saw his wife. Life -became curiously even and regular, but it never oppressed him. He had -informed himself at the very beginning of this period that this was a -thing to be endured, and he endured it as pleasantly and bravely as -possible. During those two years he published two new volumes, of a -somewhat new note, which sold better in a French translation than in the -English original, and at Mr. Harcourt’s urgent request he wrote a -romantic drama. It filled the Athenæum during the whole of a London -season, and the financial results were gratifying in a high degree, for -the glamour and mystery of the _affaire Damerel_ were still powerful, -and Lucian had become a personality and a force by reason of his -troubles. - -At the end of two years, the doctor to whose care Haidee had been -entrusted called Lucian into his private room one day and told him that -he had grave news to communicate. His patient, he said, was -dying--slowly, but very surely. But there was more than that: before her -death she would recover her reason. She would probably recall everything -that had taken place; it was more than possible that she would have -painfully clear recollections of the scene, whatever it might be, that -had immediately preceded her sudden loss of sanity. It was but right, -said the doctor, that Mr. Damerel should know of this, but did Mr. -Damerel wish to be with his wife when this development occurred? It -might be a painful experience, and death must soon follow it. It was for -Mr. Damerel to decide. Lucian decided on the instant. He had carried an -image of Haidee in his mind for two years, and it had become fixed on -his mental vision with such firmness that he could not think of her as -anything but what he imagined her to be. He told the doctor that he -would wish to know as soon as his wife regained her reason--it was his -duty, he said, to be with her. After that, every visit to the private -asylum was made with anxious wonder if the tortured brain had cleared. - -It was not until the following spring--two and a half years after the -tragedy of the Bristol--that Lucian saw Haidee. He scarcely knew the -woman to whom they took him. They had deluged him with warnings as to -the change in her, but he had not expected to find her a grey-haired, -time-worn woman, and he had difficulty in preserving his composure when -he saw her. He did not know it, but her reason had returned some time -before, and she had become fully cognisant of her surroundings and of -what was going to happen. More than that, she had asked for a priest and -had enjoyed ghostly consolation. She gazed at Lucian with a curious -wistfulness, and yet there was something strangely sullen in her manner. - -‘I wanted to see you,’ she said, after a time. ‘I know I’m going to die -very soon, and there are things I want to say. I remember all that -happened, you know. Oh yes, it’s quite clear to me now, but somehow it -doesn’t trouble me--I was mad enough when I did it.’ - -‘Don’t speak of that,’ he said. ‘Forget it all.’ - -She shook her head. - -‘Never mind,’ she went on. ‘What I wanted to say was, that I’m sorry -that--well, you know.’ - -Lucian gazed at her with a sickening fear creeping closely round his -heart. He had forced the truth away from him: he was to hear it at last -from the lips of a dying woman. - -‘You were to blame, though,’ she said presently. ‘You ought not to have -let me go alone on his yacht or to the Highlands. It was so easy to go -wrong there.’ - -Lucian could not control a sharp cry. - -‘Don’t!’ he said, ‘don’t! You don’t know what you’re saying. It can’t be -that--that you wrote the truth in that letter? It was--hallucination.’ - -She looked at him out of dull eyes. - -‘I want you to say you forgive me,’ she said. ‘The priest--he said I -ought to ask your forgiveness.’ - -Lucian bowed his head. - -‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I forgive all you wish. Try not to think of it any -more.’ - -He was saying over and over to himself that she was still disordered of -mind, that the sin she was confessing was imaginary; but deeper than his -insistence on this lay a dull consciousness that he was hearing the -truth. He stood watching her curiously. She suddenly looked up at him, -and he saw a strange gleam in her eyes. - -‘After all,’ she said, half spitefully, ‘you came between him and me at -the beginning.’ - -Lucian never saw his wife again. A month later she was dead. All the -time of the burial service he was thinking that it would have been far -better if she had never recovered her reason. For two years he had -cherished a dream of her that had assumed tender and pathetic tones. It -had become a part of him; the ugly reality of the last grim moments of -her life stood out in violent contrast to its gentleness and softness. -When the earth was thrown upon the coffin, he was wondering at the wide -difference which exists between the real and the unreal, and whether the -man is most truly blessed who walks amongst stern verities or dreams -amidst the poppy-beds of illusion. One thing was certain: the face of -truth was not always beautiful, nor her voice always soothing to the -ear. - - - - -CHAPTER XXX - - -After Haidee’s death Lucian left Paris, and during the rest of the -spring and summer of that year went wandering hither and thither about -Europe. His mind was at this time in a state of quiescence; he lounged -from one place to another, faintly interested and lazily amused. He was -beginning to be a little bored by life, and a little tempted to drift -with its stream. It was in this frame of mind that he returned to London -in the following autumn. There, soon after his return, he sprang into -unwonted activity. - -It was on the very eve of the outbreak of the war in South Africa. Men -were wondering what was going to happen. Some, clearer of vision than -their fellows, saw that nothing but war would solve the problem which -had assumed vast proportions and strange intricacies because of the -vacillating policy of a weak Government of twenty years before; the -Empire was going to pay now, with millions of its treasure and thousands -of its men, for the fatal error which had brought the name of England -into contempt in the Transvaal and given the Boers a false notion of -English strength and character. Others were all for a policy of -smoothing things over, for spreading green boughs over pitfalls--not -that any one should fall into them, but in order to make believe that -the pitfalls were not there. Others again, of a breed that has but -lately sprung into existence in these islands, advocated, not without -success, a policy of surrender to everybody and everything. There was -much talking at street corners and in the market-place; much angry -debate and acrimonious discussion. Men began to be labelled by new -names, and few took the trouble to understand each other. In the -meantime, events developed as inevitable consequence always develops -them in such situations. Amidst the chattering of tiny voices the -thunders of war burst loud and clear. - -Lucian was furious with indignation. Fond as he was of insisting on his -Italian nationality, he was passionately devoted to England and the -English, and had a great admiration for the history and traditions of -the country of his adoption. There had once been a question in his mind -as to whether he should write in English or in Italian--he had elected -to serve England for many reasons, but chiefly because he recognised her -greatness and believed in her destiny. Like all Italians, he loved her -for what she had done for Greece and for Italy. England and Liberty were -synonymous names; of all nations in the world, none had made for freedom -as England had. His blood had leapt in his veins many a time at the -thought of the thousand and one great things she had done, the mighty -battles she had fought for truth and liberty; he had drunk in the notion -from boyhood that England stood in the very vanguard of the army of -deliverance. And now she was sending out her armies, marshalling her -forces, pouring out her money like water, to crush a tiny folk, a nation -of farmers, a sturdy, simple-minded race, one of the least amongst the -peoples of the earth! He shook his head as if he had been asleep, and -asked himself if the nation had suddenly gone mad with lust of blood. It -was inconceivable that the England of his dreams could do this thing. He -looked for her, and found her nowhere. The streets were hot all day with -the tramping of armed men. The first tidings of reverse filled the land -with the old savage determination to fight things out to the end, even -though all the world should range itself on the other side. - -Lucian flung all his feelings of rage, indignation, sorrow, and infinite -amazement into a passionate sonnet which appeared next morning in large -type, well leaded and spaced, in the columns of a London daily newspaper -that favoured the views of the peace-at-any-price party. He followed it -up with others. At first there was more sorrow and surprise than -anything else in these admonitions; but as the days went on their tone -altered. He had endeavoured to bring the giant to his senses by an -appeal to certain feelings which the giant was too much engaged to feel -at that moment; eliciting no response, he became troublesome, and strove -to attract the giant’s attention by pricking him with pins. The giant -paid small attention to this; he looked down, saw a small thing hanging -about his feet with apparently mischievous intentions, and calmly pushed -it away. Then Lucian began the assault in dead earnest. He could dip his -pen in vitriol with the best of them, and when he realised that the -giant was drunk with the lust of blood he fell upon him with fury. The -vials of poetic wrath had never been emptied of such a flood of -righteous anger since the days wherein Milton called for vengeance upon -the murderers of the Piedmontese. - -It is an ill thing to fight against the prevalent temper of a nation. -Lucian soon discovered that you may kick and prick John Bull for a long -time with safety to yourself, because of his good nature, his dislike of -bothering about trifles, and his natural sluggishness, but that he -always draws a line somewhere, and brings down a heavy fist upon the man -who crosses it. He began to find people fighting shy of his company; -invitations became less in number; men nodded who used to shake hands; -strong things were said in newspapers; and he was warned by friends that -he was carrying things too far. - -‘Endeavour,’ said one man, an acquaintance of some years’ standing, for -whose character and abilities he had a great regard, ‘endeavour to get -some accurate sense of the position. You are blackguarding us every day -with your sonorous sonnets as if we were cut-throats and thieves going -out on a murdering and marauding expedition. We are nothing of the sort. -We are a great nation, with a very painful sense of responsibility, -engaged in a very difficult task. The war is bringing us together like -brothers--out of its blood and ashes there will spring an Empire such as -the world has never seen. You are belittling everything to the level of -Hooliganism.’ - -‘What is it but Hooliganism?’ retorted Lucian. ‘The most powerful -nation in the world seizing one of the weakest by the throat!’ - -‘It is nothing of the sort,’ said the other. ‘You know it is your great -curse, my dear Lucian, that you never get a clear notion of the truth. -You have a trick of seeing things as you think they ought to be; you -will not see them as they are. Just because the Boers happen to be -numerically small, to lead a pastoral life, and to have gone into the -desert like the Israelites of old, you have brought that far too -powerful imagination of yours to bear upon them, and have elevated them -into a class with the Swiss and the Italians, who fought for their -country.’ - -‘What are the Boers fighting for?’ asked Lucian. - -‘At present to grab somebody else’s property,’ returned the other. -‘Don’t get sentimental about them. After all, much as you love us, -you’re only half an Englishman, and you don’t understand the English -feeling. Are the English folk not suffering, and is a Boer widow or a -Boer orphan more worthy of pity than a Yorkshire lass whose lad is lying -dead out there, or a Scottish child whose father will never come back -again?’ - -Lucian swept these small and insignificant details aside with some -impatience. - -‘You are the mightiest nation the world has ever seen,’ he said. ‘You -have a past--such a past as no other people can boast. You have a -responsibility because of that past, and at present you have thrown all -sense of it away, and are behaving like the drunken brute who rises -gorged with flesh and wine, and yells for blood. This is an England with -vine-leaves in her hair--it is not the England of Cromwell.’ - -‘I thank God it is not!’ said the other man with heartfelt reverence. -‘We wish for no dictatorship here. Come, leave off slanging us in this -bloodthirsty fashion, and try to arrive at a sensible view of things. -Turn your energies to a practical direction--write a new romantic play -for Harcourt, something that will cheer us in these dark days, and give -the money for bandages and warm socks and tobacco for poor Tommy out at -the front. He isn’t as picturesque--so it’s said--as Brother Boer, but -he’s a man after all, and has a stomach.’ - -But Lucian would neither be cajoled nor chaffed out of his _rôle_ of -prophet. He became that most objectionable of all things--the man who -believes he has a message, and must deliver it. He continued to hurl his -philippics at the British public through the ever-ready columns of the -peace-at-any-price paper, and the man in the street, who is not given to -the drawing of fine distinctions, called him a pro-Boer. Lucian, in -strict reality, was not a pro-Boer--he merely saw the artistry of the -pro-Boer position. He remembered Byron’s attitude with respect to -Greece, and a too generous instinct had led him to compare Mr. Kruger to -Cincinnatus. The man in the street knew nothing of these things, and -cared less. It seemed to him that Lucian, who was, after all, nothing -but an ink-slinger, a blooming poet, was slanging the quarter of a -million men who were hurrying to Table Bay as rapidly as the War Office -could get them there. To this sort of thing the man in the street -objected. He did not care if Lucian’s instincts were all on the side of -the weaker party, nor was it an excuse that Lucian himself, in the -matter of strict nationality, was an Italian. He had chosen to write his -poems in England, said the man in the street, and also in the English -language, and he had made a good thing out of it too, and no error, and -the best thing he could do now was to keep a civil tongue in his head, -or, rather, pen in his hand. This was no time for the cuckoo to foul the -nest wherein he had had free quarters for so long. - -The opinion of the man in the street is the crystallised common-sense of -England, voiced in elementary language. Lucian, unfortunately, did not -know this, and he kept on firing sonnets at the heads of people who, -without bluster or complaint, were already tearing up their shirts for -bandages. The man in the street read them, and ground his teeth, and -waited for an opportunity. That came when Lucian was ill-advised enough -to allow his name to be printed in large letters upon the placard of a -great meeting whereat various well-intentioned but somewhat thoughtless -persons proposed to protest against a war which had been forced upon the -nation, and from which it was then impossible to draw back with either -safety or honour. Lucian was still in the clouds; still thinking of -Byron at Missolonghi; still harping upon the undoubted but scarcely -pertinent facts that England had freed slaves, slain giants, and waved -her flag protectingly over all who ran to her for help. The foolishness -of assisting at a public meeting whereat the nation was to be admonished -of its wickedness in daring to assert itself never occurred to him. He -was still the man with the message. - -He formed one of a platform party of whom it might safely have been said -that every man was a crank, and every woman a faddist. He was somewhat -astonished and a little perplexed when he looked around him, and -realised that his fellow-protestants were not of the sort wherewith he -usually foregathered; but he speedily became interested in the audience. -It had been intended to restrict admission to those well-intentioned -folk who desired peace at any price, but the man in the street had -placed a veto upon that, and had come in large numbers, and with a -definite resolve to take part in the proceedings. The meeting began in a -cheerful and vivacious fashion, and ended in one dear to the English -heart. The chairman was listened to with some forbearance and patience; -a lady was allowed to have her say because she was a woman. It was a sad -inspiration that led the chairman to put Lucian up next; a still sadder -one to refer to his poetical exhortations to the people. The sight of -Lucian, the fashionably attired, dilettante, dreamy-eyed poet, who had -lashed and pricked the nation whose blood was being poured out like -water, and whose coffers were being depleted at a rapid rate, was too -much for the folk he essayed to address. They knew him and his recent -record. At the first word they rose as one man, and made for the -platform. Lucian and the seekers after peace were obliged to run, as -rabbits run to their warrens, and the enemy occupied the position. -Somebody unfurled a large flag, and the entire assemblage joined in -singing Mr. Kipling’s invitation to contribute to the tambourine fund. - -In the school of life the teacher may write many lessons with the -whitest chalk upon the blackest blackboard, and there will always be a -child in the corner who will swear that he cannot see the writing. -Lucian could not see the lesson of the stormed platform, and he -continued his rhyming crusade and made enemies by the million. He walked -with closed eyes along a road literally bristling with bayonets: it was -nothing but the good-natured English tolerance of a poet as being more -or less of a lunatic that kept the small boys of the Strand from going -for him. Men at street corners made remarks upon him which were -delightful to overhear: it was never Lucian’s good fortune to overhear -them. His nose was in the air. - -He heard the truth at last from that always truthful person, the man in -liquor. In the smoking-room of his club he was encountered one night by -a gentleman who had dined in too generous fashion, and whose natural -patriotism glowed and scintillated around him with equal generosity. He -met Lucian face to face, and he stopped and looked him up and down with -a fine and eminently natural scorn. - -‘Mr. Lucian Damerel,’ he said, with an only slightly interrupted -articulation; ‘Mr. Lucian Damerel--the gentleman who spills ink while -better men spend blood.’ Then he spat on the ground at Lucian’s feet, -and moved away with a sneer and a laugh. - -The room was full of men. They all saw, and they all heard. No one -spoke, but every one looked at Lucian. He knew that the drunken man had -voiced the prevalent sentiment. He looked round him, without reproach, -without defiance, and walked quietly from the room and the house. He -had suddenly realised the true complexion of things. - -Next morning, as he sat over a late breakfast in his rooms, he was -informed that a young gentleman who would give no name desired earnestly -to see him. He was feeling somewhat bored that morning, and he bade his -man show the unknown one in. He looked up from his coffee to behold a -very young gentleman upon whom the word subaltern was written in very -large letters, whose youthful face was very grim and earnest, and who -was obviously a young man with a mission. He pulled himself up in stiff -fashion as the door closed upon him, and Lucian observed that one hand -evidently grasped something which was concealed behind his back. - -‘Mr. Lucian Damerel?’ the young gentleman said, with polite -interrogation. - -Lucian bowed and looked equally interrogative. His visitor glowered upon -him. - -‘I have come to tell you that you are a damned scoundrel, Mr. Lucian -Damerel,’ he said, ‘and to thrash you within an inch of your beastly -life!’ - -Lucian stared, smiled, and rose lazily from his seat. - -The visitor displayed a cutting-whip, brandished it, and advanced as -seriously as if he were on parade. Lucian met him, seized the -cutting-whip in one hand and his assailant’s collar in the other, -disarmed him, shook him, and threw him lightly into an easy-chair, where -he lay gasping and surprised. Lucian hung the cutting-whip on the wall. -He looked at his visitor with a speculative gaze. - -‘What shall I do with you, young sir?’ he said. ‘Throw you out of the -window, or grill you on the fire, or merely kick you downstairs? I -suppose you thought that because I happen to be what your lot call “a -writin’ feller,” there wouldn’t be any spunk in me, eh?’ - -The visitor was placed in a strange predicament. He had expected the -sweet savour of groans and tears from a muscleless, flabby -ink-and-parchment thing: this man had hands which could grip like steel -and iron. Moreover, he was cool--he actually sat down again and -continued his breakfast. - -‘I hope I didn’t squeeze your throat too much,’ said Lucian politely. ‘I -have a nasty trick of forgetting that my hands are abnormally developed. -If you feel shaken, help yourself to a brandy and soda, and then tell me -what’s the matter.’ - -The youth shook his head hopelessly. - -‘Y--you have insulted the Army!’ he stammered at last. - -‘Of which, I take it, you are the self-appointed champion. Well, I’m -afraid I don’t plead guilty, because, you see, I know myself rather -better than you know me. But you came to punish me? Well, again, you see -you can’t do that. Shall I give you satisfaction of some sort? There are -pistols in that cabinet--shall we shoot at each other across the table? -There are rapiers in the cupboard--shall we try to prick each other?’ - -The young gentleman in the easy-chair grew more and more uncomfortable. -He was being made ridiculous, and the man was laughing at him. - -‘I have heard of the tricks of foreign duellists,’ he said rudely. - -Lucian’s face flushed. - -‘That was a silly thing to say, my boy,’ he said, not unkindly. ‘Most -men would throw you out of the window for it. As it is, I’ll let you off -easy. You’ll find some gloves in that cupboard--get them out and take -your coat off. I’m not an _Englishman_, as you just now reminded me in -very pointed fashion, but I can use my fists.’ - -Then he took off his dressing-gown and rolled up his sleeves, and the -youngster, who had spent many unholy hours in practising the noble art, -looked at the poet’s muscles with a knowing eye and realised that he was -in for a very pretty scrap. He was a little vain of his own prowess, -and fought for all he was worth, but at the end of five minutes he was a -well-licked man, and at the expiration of ten was glad to be allowed to -put on his coat and go. - -Lucian flung his gloves into the corner of the room with a hearty curse. -He stroked the satiny skin under which his muscle rippled smoothly. He -had the arm of a blacksmith, and had always been proud of it. The remark -of the drunken man came back to him. That was what they thought of him, -was it?--that he was a mere slinger of ink, afraid of spilling his blood -or suffering discomfort for the courage of his convictions? Well, they -should see. England had gone mad with the lust of blood and domination, -and after all he was not her son. He had discharged whatever debt he -owed her. To the real England, the true England that had fallen on -sleep, he would explain everything, when the awakening came. It would be -no crime to shoulder a rifle and strap a bandolier around one’s -shoulders in order to help the weak against the strong. He had fought -with his pen, taking what he believed to be the right and honest course, -in the endeavour to convert people who would not be converted, and who -regarded his efforts as evidences of enmity. Very well: there seemed now -to be but one straight path, and he would take it. - -It was remembered afterwards as a great thing in Lucian’s favour that he -made no fuss about his next step. He left London very quietly, and no -one knew that he was setting out to join the men whom he honestly -believed to be fighting for the best principles of liberty and freedom. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI - - -When the war broke out, Saxonstowe and his wife, after nearly three -years of globe-trotting, were in Natal, where they had been studying the -conditions of native labour. Saxonstowe, who had made himself well -acquainted with the state of affairs in South Africa, knew that the -coming struggle would be long and bitter. He and his wife entered into a -discussion as to which they were to do: stay there, or return to -England. Sprats knew quite well what was in Saxonstowe’s mind, and she -unhesitatingly declared for South Africa. Then Saxonstowe, who had a new -book on hand, put his work aside, and set the wires going, and within a -few hours had been appointed special correspondent of one of the London -newspapers, with the prospect of hard work and exciting times before -him. - -‘And what am I to do?’ inquired Lady Saxonstowe, and answered her own -question before he could reply. ‘There will be sick and wounded--in -plenty,’ she said. ‘I shall organise a field-hospital,’ and she went to -work with great vigour and spent her husband’s money with inward -thankfulness that he was a rich man. - -Before they knew where they were, Lord and Lady Saxonstowe were shut up -in Ladysmith, and for one of them at least there was not so much to do -as he had anticipated, for there became little to record but the story -of hope deferred, of gradual starvation, and of death and disease. But -Sprats worked double tides, unflinchingly and untiringly, and almost -forgot that she had a husband who chafed because he could not get more -than an occasional word over the wires to England. At the end of the -siege she was as gaunt as a far-travelled gypsy, and as brown, but her -courage was as great as ever and her resolution just as strong. One day -she received an ovation from a mighty concourse that sent her, -frightened and trembling, to shelter; when she emerged into the light of -day again it was only to begin reorganising her work in preparation for -still more arduous duties. The tide of war rolled on northwards, and -Sprats followed, picking up the bruised and shattered jetsam which it -flung to her. She had never indulged in questionings or speculations as -to the rights or wrongs of the war. Her first sight of a wounded man had -aroused all the old mothering instinct in her, and because she had no -baby of her own she took every wounded man, Boer or Briton, into her -arms and mothered him. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXII - - -A huddled mass of fugitives--men, women, children, horses, -cattle--crowded together in the dry bed of a river, seeking shelter -amongst rocks and boulders and under shelving banks, subjected -continually to a hurricane of shot and shell, choked by the fumes of the -exploding Lyddite, poisoned by the stench of blood, saturated all -through with the indescribable odour of death. Somewhere in its midst, -caged like a rat, but still sulkily defiant, the peasant general -fingered his switch as he looked this way and that and saw no further -chance of escape. In the distance, calmly waiting the inevitable end, -the little man with the weather-beaten face and the grey moustaches -listened to the never-ceasing roar of his cannon demanding insistently -the word of surrender that must needs come. - -Saxonstowe, lying on a waterproof sheet on the floor of his tent, was -writing on a board propped up in front of him. All that he wrote was by -way of expressing his wonder, over and over again, that Cronje should -hold out so long against the hell of fire which was playing in and -around his last refuge. He was trying to realise what must be going on -in the river bed, and the thought made him sick. Near him, writing on an -upturned box, was another special correspondent who shared the tent with -him; outside, polishing tin pannikins because he had nothing else to do, -was a Cockney lad whom these two had picked up in Ladysmith and had -attached as body-servant. He was always willing and always cheerful, and -had a trick of singing snatches of popular songs in a desultory and -disconnected way. His raucous voice came to them under the booming of -the guns. - -/p - ‘Ow, ’ee’s little but ’ee’s wise, - ’Ee’s a terror for ’is size, - An’ ’ee does not hadvertise: - Do yer, Bobs?’ -p/ - -‘What a voice that chap has!’ said Saxonstowe’s companion. ‘It’s like a -wheel that hasn’t been oiled for months!’ - -/p - ‘Will yer kindly put a penny in my little tambourine, - For a gentleman in khaki ordered sou-outh?’ -p/ - -chanted the polisher of tin pans. - -‘They have a saying in Yorkshire,’ remarked Saxonstowe, ‘to the effect -that it’s a poor heart that never rejoices.’ - -‘This chap must have a good ’un, then,’ said the other. Give us a -pipeful of tobacco, will you, Saxonstowe? Lord! will those guns never -stop?’ - -/p - ‘For the colonel’s lady and Judy O’Grady, - Are sisters hunder their skins,’ -p/ - -sang the henchman. - -‘Will our vocalist never stop?’ said Saxonstowe, handing over his pouch. -‘He seems as unconcerned as if he were on a Bank Holiday.’ - -/p - ‘We wos as ’appy as could be, that dye, - Dahn at the Welsh ’Arp, which is ’Endon--’ -p/ - -The raucous voice broke off suddenly; the close-cropped Cockney head -showed at the open flap of the tent. - -‘Beg pardon, sir,’ said the Cockney voice, ‘but I fink there’s somethin’ -’appened, sir--guns is dyin’ orf, sir.’ - -Saxonstowe and his fellow scribe sprang to their feet. The roar of the -cannon was dying gradually away, and it suddenly gave place to a strange -and an awful silence. - -Saxonstowe walked hither and thither about the bed of the river, turning -his head jerkily to right and left. - -‘It’s a shambles!--a shambles!--a shambles!’ he kept repeating. He shook -his head and then his body as if he wanted to shake off the impression -that was fast stamping itself ineffaceably upon him. ‘A shambles!’ he -said again. - -He pulled himself together and looked around him. It seemed to him that -earth and sky were blotted out in blood and fire, and that the smell of -death had wrapped him so closely that he would never breathe freely -again. Dead and dying men were everywhere. Near him rose a pile of what -appeared to be freshly slaughtered meat--it was merely the result of the -bursting of a Lyddite shell amongst a span of oxen. Near him, too, stood -a girl, young, not uncomely, with a bullet-wound showing in her white -bosom from which she had just torn the bodice away; at his feet, amongst -the boulders, were twisted, strange, grotesque shapes that had once been -human bodies. - -‘There’s a chap here that looks like an Englishman,’ said a voice behind -him. - -Saxonstowe turned, and found the man who shared his tent standing at his -elbow, and pointed to a body stretched out a yard or two away--the body -of a well-formed man who had fallen on his side, shot through the heart. -He lay as if asleep, his face half hidden in his arm-pit; near him, -within reach of the nerveless fingers that had torn out a divot of turf -in his last moment’s spasmodic feeling for something to clutch at, lay -his rifle: round his rough serge jacket was clasped a bandolier well -stored with cartridges. His broad-brimmed hat had fallen off, and half -his face, very white and statuesque in death, caught the sunlight that -straggled fitfully through the smoke-clouds which still curled over the -bed of the river. - -‘Looks like an Englishman,’ repeated the special correspondent. ‘Look at -his hands, too--he hasn’t handled a rifle very long, I’m thinking.’ - -Saxonstowe glanced at the body with perfunctory interest--there were so -many dead men lying all about him. Something in the dead man’s face woke -a chord in his memory: he went nearer and bent over him. His brain was -sick and dizzy with the horrors of the blood and the stink of the -slaughter. He stood up again, and winked his eyes rapidly. - -‘No, no!’ he heard himself saying. ‘No! It can’t be--of course it can’t -be. What should Lucian be doing here? Of course it’s not he--it’s mere -imagination--mere im-ag-in-a-tion!’ - -‘Here, hold up, old chap!’ said his companion, pulling out a flask. -‘Take a nip of that. Better? Hallo--what’s going on there?’ - -He stepped on a boulder and gazed in the direction of a wagon round -which some commotion was evident. Saxonstowe, without another glance at -the dead man, stepped up beside him. - -He saw a roughly built, rugged-faced man, wrapped in a much-worn -overcoat that had grown green with age, stepping out across the plain, -swishing at the herbage with a switch which jerked nervously in his -hand. At his side strode a muscular-looking woman, hard of feature, -brown of skin--a peasant wife in a faded skirt and a crumpled -sun-bonnet. Near them marched a tall British officer in khaki; other -Boers and British, a group of curious contrasts, hedged them round. - -‘That’s Cronje,’ said the special correspondent, as he stepped down from -the boulder. ‘Well, it’s over, thank God!’ - -The conquered was on his way to the conqueror. - - - LONDON AND GLASGOW: COLLINS’ CLEAR-TYPE PRESS. - - * * * * * - - COLLINS’ POPULAR NOVELS - - BY FOREMOST WRITERS OF THE DAY - - FULL CLOTH 3/6 LIBRARY BINDING - - _Complete List of Titles_ - - -/* - 4. These Charming People.....MICHAEL ARLEN</small> - 5. Piracy.....MICHAEL ARLEN - 6. The Romantic Lady.....MICHAEL ARLEN - 30. The Green Hat.....MICHAEL ARLEN - 70. May Fair.....MICHAEL ARLEN - 139. Claire and Circumstances.....E. MARIA ALBANESI - 176. The Moon Thro’ Glass.....E. MARIA ALBANESI - 85. The Splendour of Asia.....L. ADAMS BECK - 27. The Treasure of Ho.....L. ADAMS BECK - 37. The Way of Stars.....L. ADAMS BECK - 117. The Decoy.....J. D. BERESFORD - 86. The Tapestry.....J. D. BERESFORD - 87. Unity.....J. D. BERESFORD - 88. Love’s Pilgrim.....J. D. BERESFORD - 24. The Monkey Puzzle.....J. D. BERESFORD - 39. That Kind of Man.....J. D. BERESFORD - 138. All or Nothing.....J. D. BERESFORD - 118. Wild Grapes.....PHYLLIS BOTTOME - 89. The Belated Reckoning.....PHYLLIS BOTTOME - 36. Old Wine.....PHYLLIS BOTTOME - 69. The Kingfisher.....PHYLLIS BOTTOME - 150. Strange Fruit.....PHYLLIS BOTTOME - 64. Experience.....CATHERINE COTTON - 96. A Gay Lover.....RUTHERFORD CROCKETT - 97. Safety Last.....RUTHERFORD CROCKETT - 1. The Return.....WALTER DE LA MARE - 3. Memoirs of a Midget.....WALTER DE LA MARE - 135. Brighton Beach.....MRS. HENRY DUDENEY - 162. Fair Lady.....MAY EDGINTON - 167. Life Isn’t so Bad.....MAY EDGINTON - 14. The Foolish Lovers.....ST. JOHN ERVINE - 129. The Wayward Man.....ST. JOHN ERVINE - 166. Martin Pippin.....ELEANOR FARJEON - 170. Kaleidoscope.....ELEANOR FARJEON -*/ - - * * * * * - - COLLINS’ POPULAR NOVELS - - _Complete List of 3/6 Titles--continued_ - -/* - 120. Deep Currents.....A. FIELDING - 173. Lucian the Dreamer.....J. S. FLETCHER - 33. The Crater.....ROBERT GORE-BROWNE - 172. An Imperfect Lover.....ROBERT GORE-BROWNE - 67. My Lady of the Chimney Corner.....DR. ALEXANDER IRVINE - 68. The Souls of Poor Folk.....DR. ALEXANDER IRVINE - 98. Told by an Idiot.....ROSE MACAULAY - 99. Mystery at Geneva.....ROSE MACAULAY - 100. Potterism.....ROSE MACAULAY - 8. Dangerous Ages.....ROSE MACAULAY - 7. Orphan Island.....ROSE MACAULAY - 52. Crewe Train.....ROSE MACAULAY - 149. Keeping Up Appearances.....ROSE MACAULAY - 134. Patrol.....PHILIP MACDONALD - 121. Soldier Born.....CONAL O’RIORDAN - 11. Adam of Dublin.....CONAL O’RIORDAN - 12. Adam and Caroline.....CONAL O’RIORDAN - 35. In London.....CONAL O’RIORDAN - 43. Married Life.....CONAL O’RIORDAN - 153. Soldier of Waterloo.....CONAL O’RIORDAN - 9. Sayonara.....JOHN PARIS - 10. Kimono.....JOHN PARIS - 33. Banzai.....JOHN PARIS - 163. A Man Beguiled.....RALPH RODD - 122. The Bride’s Prelude.....MRS. ALFRED SIDGWICK - 103. London Mixture.....MRS. ALFRED SIDGWICK - 104. Humming Bird.....MRS. ALFRED SIDGWICK - 53. Sack and Sugar.....MRS. ALFRED SIDGWICK - 63. None-Go-By.....MRS. ALFRED SIDGWICK - 161. Come-by-Chance.....MRS. ALFRED SIDGWICK - 95. Haroun of London.....KATHARINE TYNAN - 145. The Respectable.....Lady KATHARINE TYNAN - 171. Lover of Women.....KATHARINE TYNAN - 119. Greenlow.....ROMER WILSON - 42. The Death of Society.....ROMER WILSON - 130. Irene in the Centre.....HANNAH YATES - 158. Dim Star.....HANNAH YATES -*/ - - * * * * * - - COLLINS’ POPULAR NOVELS - - BY FOREMOST WRITERS OF THE DAY - - FULL CLOTH 3/6 LIBRARY BINDING - - _Detective Novels_ - - -/* - 155. The Instrument of Destiny.....J. D. BERESFORD - 147. The Silk Stocking Murders.....A. BERKELEY - 143. The Slip Carriage Mystery.....LYNN BROCK - 108. The Big Four.....AGATHA CHRISTIE - 40. The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.....AGATHA CHRISTIE - 137. The Mystery of the Blue Train.....AGATHA CHRISTIE - 148. The Man from the River.....G. D. H. AND M. COLE - 174. Superintendent Wilson’s Holiday.....G. D. H. AND M. COLE - 105. Inspector French and the Starvel Tragedy.....FREEMAN WILLS CROFTS - 44. Inspector French and the Cheyne Mystery.....FREEMAN WILLS CROFTS - 51. The Groote Park Murder.....FREEMAN WILLS CROFTS - 133. The Dalehouse Murder.....FRANCIS EVERTON - 142. The Net Around Joan Ingilby.....A. FIELDING - 19. The Diamonds.....J. S. FLETCHER - 144. The Golden Venture.....J. S. FLETCHER - 141. The Time-Worn Town.....A. FIELDING - 152. The Ravenswood Mystery.....J. S. FLETCHER - 132. Queen of Clubs.....HULBERT FOOTNER - 127. The Murder of an M.P......ROBERT GORE-BROWNE - 156. The Murder of Mrs. Davenport.....ANTHONY GILBERT - 128. The Tragedy at Freyne.....ANTHONY GILBERT - 164. The White Crow.....PHILIP MACDONALD - 177. The Rasp.....PHILIP MACDONALD - 168. Without Judge or Jury.....RALPH RODD -*/ - - * * * * * - - COLLINS’ POPULAR NOVELS - - BY FOREMOST WRITERS OF THE DAY - - FULL CLOTH 3/6 LIBRARY BINDING - - _Wild West Novels_ - - -/* - 123. The Desert Girl.....ROBERT AMES BENNET - 124. The Two-Gun Girl.....ROBERT AMES BENNET - 136. The Cow Country Killers.....ROBERT AMES BENNET - 151. Ken of the Cow Country.....ROBERT AMES BENNET - 165. Deep Canyon.....ROBERT AMES BENNET - 178. The Mystery of the Four Abreast.....COURTNEY RYLEY COOPER - 154. Bird of Freedom.....HUGH PENDEXTER - 140. The Boss of the Double E.....FRANK C. ROBERTSON - 157. The Boss of the Ten Mile Basin.....FRANK C. ROBERTSON - 146. The Boss of the Flying M.....FRANK C. ROBERTSON - 175. The Hidden Cabin.....FRANK C. ROBERTSON - 179. The Far Horizon.....FRANK C. ROBERTSON - 131. The Corral Riders.....CHARLES WESLEY SANDERS - 169. The Crimson Trail.....CHARLES WESLEY SANDERS - 126. Hashknife of the Canyon Trail.....W. C. TUTTLE - 111. Hashknife of the Double Bar 8.....W. C. TUTTLE - 112. Hashknife Lends a Hand.....W. C. TUTTLE - 82. Sun-Dog Loot.....W. C. TUTTLE - 83. Rustlers’ Roost.....W. C. TUTTLE - 84. The Dead-Line.....W. C. TUTTLE -*/ - - * * * * * - - COLLINS’ POPULAR NOVELS - - BY FOREMOST WRITERS OF THE DAY - - 2/6 - - _Complete List of Titles_ - - -/* - 129. Ghost Stones.....MICHAEL ARLEN - 133. The White in the Black.....E. MARIA ALBANESI - 61. Roseanne.....E. MARIA ALBANESI - 116. Sally in Her Alley.....E. MARIA ALBANESI - 160. Seed Pods.....MRS. HENRY DUDENEY - 131. Quince Alley.....MRS. HENRY DUDENEY - 132. Beanstalk.....MRS. HENRY DUDENEY - 103. The Finger Post.....MRS. HENRY DUDENEY - 169. Trilby.....GEORGE DU MAURIER - 134. The Allbright Family.....ARCHIBALD MARSHALL - 56. Big Peter.....ARCHIBALD MARSHALL - 74. Pippin.....ARCHIBALD MARSHALL - 99. The Graftons.....ARCHIBALD MARSHALL - 110. Anthony Dare.....ARCHIBALD MARSHALL - 127. The Education of Anthony Dare.....ARCHIBALD MARSHALL - 159. That Island.....ARCHIBALD MARSHALL - 163. Woman’s Way.....RALPH RODD - 166. The Whipping Girl.....RALPH RODD - 137. Treasure Island.....ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON - 138. The Black Arrow.....ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON - 139. Catriona.....ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON - 140. Kidnapped.....ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON - 141. The Master of Ballantrae.....ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON - 142. The Dynamiter.....ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON - 157. Prince Otto.....ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON - 165. New Arabian Nights.....ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON - 168. Island Nights’ Entertainments.....ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON - 135. Men Like Gods.....H. G. WELLS -*/ - - * * * * * - - COLLINS’ POPULAR NOVELS - - BY FOREMOST WRITERS OF THE DAY - - 2/6 - - _Complete List of Titles--continued_ - -/* - 136. God, the Invisible King.....H. G. WELLS - 16. The Passionate Friends.....H. G. WELLS - 18. Tales of the Unexpected.....H. G. WELLS - 21. The Research Magnificent.....H. G. WELLS - 27. The First Men in the Moon.....H. G. WELLS - 33. Tales of Life and Adventure.....H. G. WELLS - 38. Marriage.....H. G. WELLS - 43. In the Days of the Comet.....H. G. WELLS - 51. Tales of Wonder.....H. G. WELLS - 59. The Food of the Gods.....H. G. WELLS - 68. Tono-Bungay.....H. G. WELLS - 72. The History of Mr. Polly.....H. G. WELLS - 75. Kipps.....H. G. WELLS - 79. Love and Mr. Lewisham.....H. G. WELLS - 89. The War in the Air.....H. G. WELLS - 92. The World Set Free.....H. G. WELLS - 106. A Modern Utopia.....H. G. WELLS - 109. The Sleeper Awakes.....H. G. WELLS - 111. The Invisible Man.....H. G. WELLS - 118. The New Machiavelli.....H. G. WELLS - 122. The Secret Places of the Heart.....H. G. WELLS - 153. Mr Britling.....H. G. WELLS - 156. The Wife of Sir Isaac Harman.....H. G. WELLS - 154. More Salty.....CHARLES WESTRON - 112. Cold Harbour.....FRANCIS BRETT YOUNG - 130. The Black Diamond.....FRANCIS BRETT YOUNG - 25. The Young Physician.....FRANCIS BRETT YOUNG - 81. Pilgrim’s Rest.....FRANCIS BRETT YOUNG - 91. Woodsmoke.....FRANCIS BRETT YOUNG - 123. The Dark Tower.....FRANCIS BRETT YOUNG - 105. The Crescent Moor.....FRANCIS BRETT YOUNG -*/ - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Lucian the dreamer, by J. S. 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Fletcher. -</title> -<style type="text/css"> - p {margin-top:.2em;text-align:justify;margin-bottom:.2em;text-indent:4%;} - -.c {text-align:center;text-indent:0%;} - -.cb {text-align:center;text-indent:0%;font-weight:bold;} - -p.ded {margin:5em auto 5em auto;text-align:center;text-indent:0%;} - -.lftspc {margin-left:.15em;} - -.letra {font-size:250%;float:left;margin-top:-1%;} - @media print, handheld - { .letra - {font-size:250%;margin:auto auto;padding:0%;} - } - -.sml {font-size:80%;} - -.middlz {vertical-align:middle;} - -.nind {text-indent:0%;} - -.r {text-align:right;margin-right: 5%;} - -.rt {text-align:right;} - -.rtg {text-align:right;font-size:75%;} - -small {font-size: 70%;} - -big {font-size: 130%;} - - h1 {margin-top:5%;text-align:center;clear:both;} - - h2 {margin-top:4%;margin-bottom:2%;text-align:center;clear:both; - font-size:120%;} - - hr {width:100%;margin:.52em auto .52em auto;clear:both;color:black; -border:2px solid black;} - - hr.full {width: 60%;margin:2% auto 2% auto;border-top:1px solid black; -padding:.1em;border-bottom:1px solid black;border-left:none;border-right:none;} - - table {margin-top:2%;margin-bottom:2%;margin-left:auto;margin-right:auto;border:none;} - - body{margin-left:4%;margin-right:6%;background:#ffffff;color:black;font-family:"Times New Roman", serif;font-size:medium;} - -a:link {background-color:#ffffff;color:blue;text-decoration:none;} - - link {background-color:#ffffff;color:blue;text-decoration:none;} - -a:visited {background-color:#ffffff;color:purple;text-decoration:none;} - -a:hover {background-color:#ffffff;color:#FF0000;text-decoration:underline;} - -.smcap {font-variant:small-caps;font-size:100%;} - - img {border:none;} - -.blockquot {margin-top:2%;margin-bottom:2%;} - -.figcenter {margin-top:3%;margin-bottom:3%;clear:both; -margin-left:auto;margin-right:auto;text-align:center;text-indent:0%;} - @media handheld, print - {.figcenter - {page-break-before: avoid;} - } - -.toc {border:3px outset gray;text-align:center; -padding:.5em;margin:auto auto 2em auto;max-width:80%;} - -div.poetry {text-align:center;} -div.poem {font-size:90%;margin:auto auto;text-indent:0%; -display: inline-block; text-align: left;} -.poem .stanza {margin-top: 1em;margin-bottom:1em;} -.poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -.poem span.i1 {display: block; margin-left: .45em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} - -.poem span.i4 {display: block; margin-left: 3em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} - -.pagenum {font-style:normal;position:absolute; -left:95%;font-size:55%;text-align:right;color:gray; -background-color:#ffffff;font-variant:normal;font-style:normal;font-weight:normal;text-decoration:none;text-indent:0em;} -@media print, handheld -{.pagenum - {display: none;} - } -</style> - </head> -<body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Lucian the dreamer, by J. S. Fletcher - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Lucian the dreamer - -Author: J. S. Fletcher - -Release Date: September 4, 2017 [EBook #55484] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LUCIAN THE DREAMER *** - - - - -Produced by Suzanne Shell, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" alt="" title="" /> -</div> - -<div class="toc"> -<p> -<a href="#CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_II">II, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_III">III, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IV">IV, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_V">V, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VI">VI, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VII">VII, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">VIII, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IX">IX, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_X">X, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XI">XI, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XII">XII, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">XIII, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">XIV, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XV">XV, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">XVI, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">XVII, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">XVIII, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">XIX, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XX">XX, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">XXI, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">XXII, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">XXIII, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV">XXIV, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXV">XXV, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI">XXVI, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII">XXVII, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII">XXVIII, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX">XXIX, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXX">XXX, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXI">XXXI, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXII">XXXII, </a> -</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_001" id="page_001"></a>{1}</span></p> - -<p class="cb">LUCIAN THE DREAMER</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_002" id="page_002"></a>{2}</span></p> - -<hr /> -<p class="cb"><i>This is the Story</i></p> -<hr /> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HIS is the study of an artistic temperament in a generation not so far -removed from our own as the hurried events of the last two decades would -make it appear—the generation which fought in the Boer War. Mr. -Fletcher has told us the life story of a boy, a “thinker” rather than a -“doer”—Lucian the Dreamer. We follow with great interest his many love -affairs while under the care of his uncle and aunt in the country. We -enjoy with him the simple rustic beauties of Wellsby, and from the -moment he arrives at the little village station until that final tragic -scene in the dry-bed of a South African river we are held as in a vice.</p> - -<p class="c"> <br /><img src="images/i_dec.jpg" -width="25" -alt="" -/></p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="" -style="margin-top:5em;"> -<tr><td class="c" colspan="2"><i>Also by J. S. Fletcher</i></td></tr> -<tr class="sml"><td>THE DIAMONDS</td><td class="rt">THE KANG-HE VASE</td></tr> -<tr class="sml"><td>THE TIME-WORN TOWN</td><td class="rt">THE GOLDEN VENTURE</td></tr> -<tr class="sml"><td class="c" colspan="2">THE MILL OF MANY WINDOWS</td></tr> -<tr class="sml"><td class="c" colspan="2">THE CARTWRIGHT GARDENS MURDER</td></tr> -<tr class="sml"><td class="c" colspan="2">THE RAVENS WOOD MYSTERY AND OTHER STORIES</td></tr> -</table> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_003" id="page_003"></a>{3}</span></p> - -<h1> -LUCIAN<br /> - -THE DREAMER</h1> - -<p class="c"> -<b><i>by</i><br /> -<br /> -<big>J. S. FLETCHER</big></b><br /> -<small>Author of “The Cartwright Gardens Murder,”<br /> -“The Kang-He Vase,” etc.</small><br /> -<br /><br /><br /> -<img src="images/tp.jpg" -width="65" -alt="" -/><br /> -LONDON 48 PALL MALL<br /> -W. COLLINS SONS & CO LTD<br /> -GLASGOW SYDNEY AUCKLAND<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_004" id="page_004"></a>{4}</span><br /> -Copyright<br /> -<br /> -<i>Printed in Great Britain.</i><br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_005" id="page_005"></a>{5}</span></p> - -<p class="ded"> -TO<br /> -<br /> -SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE<br /> -<br /> -<small>IN SOME SLIGHT RECOGNITION<br /> -OF A KINDLY SERVICE<br /> -KINDLY RENDERED</small><br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_006" id="page_006"></a>{6}</span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_007" id="page_007"></a>{7}</span> </p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> railway station stood in the midst of an apparent solitude, and from -its one long platform there was no sign of any human habitation. A -stranger, looking around him in passing that way, might well have -wondered why a station should be found there at all; nevertheless, the -board which figured prominently above the white palings suggested the -near presence of three places—Wellsby, Meadhope, and Simonstower—and a -glance at a map of the county would have sufficed to show him that three -villages of the names there indicated lay hidden amongst the surrounding -woods, one to the east and two to the west of the railway. The line was -a single one, served by a train which made three out-and-home journeys a -day between the market-town of Oakborough and the village of Normanford, -stopping on its way at seven intermediate stations, of which Wellsby was -the penultimate one. These wayside stations sometimes witnessed arrivals -and departures, but there were many occasions on which the train neither -took up passengers nor set them down—it was only a considerable traffic -in agricultural produce, the extra business of the weekly market-day, -and its connection with the main line, that enabled the directors to -keep the Oakborough and Normanford Branch open. At each small station -they maintained a staff consisting of a collector or station-master, a -booking-clerk, and a porter, but the duties of these officials were -light, and a good deal of spare time lay at their disposal, and was -chiefly used in cultivating patches of garden along the side of the -line, or in discussing the news of the neighbourhood.</p> - -<p>On a fine April evening of the early eighties the staff of this -particular station assembled on the platform at half-past six o’clock in -readiness to receive the train<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_008" id="page_008"></a>{8}</span> (which, save on market-days, was -composed of an engine, two carriages, and the guard’s van), as it made -its last down journey. There were no passengers to go forward towards -Normanford, and the porter, according to custom, went out to the end of -the platform as the train came into view, and held up his arms as a -signal to the driver that he need not stop unless he had reasons of his -own for doing so. To this signal the driver responded with two sharp -shrieks of his whistle, on hearing which the porter turned away, put his -hands in his pockets, and slouched back along the platform.</p> - -<p>‘Somebody to set down, anyway, Mr. Simmons,’ said the booking-clerk with -a look at the station-master. ‘I wonder who it is—I’ve only booked one -up ticket to-day; James White it was, and he came back by the 2.30, so -it isn’t him.’</p> - -<p>The station-master made no reply, feeling that another moment would -answer the question definitely. He walked forward as the train drew up, -and amidst the harsh grinding of its wheels threw a greeting to the -engine-driver, which he had already given four times that day and would -give again as the train went back two hours later. His eyes, straying -along the train, caught sight of a hand fumbling at the handle of a -third-class compartment, and he hastened to open the door.</p> - -<p>‘It’s you, is it, Mr. Pepperdine?’ he said. ‘I wondered who was getting -out—it’s not often that this train brings us a passenger.’</p> - -<p>‘Two of us this time,’ answered the man thus addressed as he quickly -descended, nodding and smiling at the station-master and the -booking-clerk; ‘two of us this time, Mr. Simmons. Ah!’ He drew a long -breath of air as if the scent of the woods and fields did him good, and -then turned to the open door of the carriage, within which stood a boy -leisurely attiring himself in an overcoat. ‘Come, my lad,’ he said -good-humouredly, ‘the train’ll be going on—let’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_009" id="page_009"></a>{9}</span> see now, Mr. Simmons, -there’s a portmanteau, a trunk, and a box in the van—perhaps Jim -there’ll see they’re got out.’</p> - -<p>The porter hurried off to the van; as he turned away the boy descended -from the train, put his gloved hands in the pockets of his overcoat, and -stared about him with a deliberate and critical expression. His glance -ran over the station, the creeping plants on the station-master’s house, -the station-master, and the booking-clerk; his companion, meanwhile, was -staring hard at a patch of bright green beyond the fence and smiling -with evident enjoyment.</p> - -<p>‘I’ll see that the things are all right,’ said the boy suddenly, and -strode off to the van. The porter had already brought out a portmanteau -and a trunk; he and the guard were now struggling with a larger obstacle -in the shape of a packing-case which taxed all their energies.</p> - -<p>‘It’s a heavy ’un, this is!’ panted the guard. ‘You might be carrying -all the treasure of the Bank of England in here, young master.’</p> - -<p>‘Books,’ said the boy laconically. ‘They are heavy. Be careful, -please—don’t let the box drop.’</p> - -<p>There was a note in his voice which the men were quick to recognise—the -note of command and of full expectancy that his word would rank as law. -He stood by, anxious of eye and keenly observant, while the men lowered -the packing-case to the platform; behind him stood Mr. Pepperdine, the -station-master, and the booking-clerk, mildly interested.</p> - -<p>‘There!’ said the guard. ‘We ha’n’t given her a single bump. Might ha’ -been the delicatest chiny, the way we handled it.’</p> - -<p>He wiped his brow with a triumphant wave of the hand. The boy, still -regarding the case with grave, speculative eyes, put his hand in his -pocket, drew forth a shilling, and with a barely perceptible glance at -the guard, dropped it in his hand. The man stared, smiled, pocketed the -gift, and touched his cap. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_010" id="page_010"></a>{10}</span> waved his green flag vigorously; in -another moment the train was rattling away into the shadow of the woods.</p> - -<p>Mr. Pepperdine stepped up to the boy’s side and gazed at the -packing-case.</p> - -<p>‘It’ll never go in my trap, lad,’ he said, scratching his chin. ‘It’s -too big and too heavy. We must send a horse and cart for it in the -morning.’</p> - -<p>‘But where shall we leave it?’ asked the boy, with evident anxiety.</p> - -<p>‘We’ll put it in the warehouse, young master,’ said the porter. ‘It’ll -be all right there. I’ll see that no harm comes to it.’</p> - -<p>The boy, however, demanded to see the warehouse, and assured himself -that it was water-tight and would be locked up. He issued strict -mandates to the porter as to his safe-keeping of the packing-case, -presented him also with a shilling, and turned away unconcernedly, as if -the matter were now settled. Mr. Pepperdine took the porter in hand.</p> - -<p>‘Jim,’ he said, ‘my trap’s at the Grange; maybe you could put that trunk -and portmanteau on a barrow and bring them down in a while? No need to -hurry—I shall have a pipe with Mr. Trippett before going on.’</p> - -<p>‘All right, sir,’ answered the porter. ‘I’ll bring ’em both down in an -hour or so.’</p> - -<p>‘Come on, then, lad,’ said Mr. Pepperdine, nodding good-night to the -station-master, and leading the way to the gate. ‘Eh, but it’s good to -be back where there’s some fresh air! Can you smell it, boy?’</p> - -<p>The boy threw up his face, and sniffed the fragrance of the woods. There -had been April showers during the afternoon, and the air was sweet and -cool: he drew it in with a relish that gratified the countryman at his -side.</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘I smell it—it’s beautiful.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah, so it is!’ said Mr. Pepperdine; ‘as beautiful as—as—well, as -anything. Yes, it is so, my lad.’</p> - -<p>The boy looked up and laughed, and Mr. Pepperdine<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_011" id="page_011"></a>{11}</span> laughed too. He had -no idea why he laughed, but it pleased him to do so; it pleased him, -too, to hear the boy laugh. But when the boy’s face grew grave again Mr. -Pepperdine’s countenance composed itself and became equally grave and -somewhat solicitous. He looked out of his eye-corners at the slim figure -walking at his side, and wondered what other folk would think of his -companion. ‘A nice, smart-looking boy,’ said Mr. Pepperdine to himself -for the hundredth time; ‘nice, gentlemanlike boy, and a credit to -anybody.’ Mr. Pepperdine felt proud to have such a boy in his company, -and prouder still to know that the boy was his nephew and ward.</p> - -<p>The boy thus speculated upon was a lad of twelve, somewhat tall for his -age, of a slim, well-knit figure, a handsome face, and a confidence of -manner and bearing that seemed disproportionate to his years. He walked -with easy, natural grace; his movements were lithe and sinuous; the turn -of his head, as he looked up at Mr. Pepperdine, or glanced at the -overhanging trees in the lane, was smart and alert; it was easy to see -that he was naturally quick in action and in perception. His face, which -Mr. Pepperdine had studied a good deal during the past week, was of a -type which is more often met with in Italy than in England. The forehead -was broad and high, and crowned by a mass of thick, blue-black hair that -clustered and waved all over the head, and curled into rings at the -temples; the brows were straight, dark, and full; the nose and mouth -delicately but strongly carved; the chin square and firm; obstinacy, -pride, determination, were all there, and already stiffening into -permanence. But in this face, so Italian, so full of the promise of -passion, there were eyes of an essentially English type, almost violet -in colour, gentle, soft, dreamy, shaded by long black lashes, and it was -in them that Mr. Pepperdine found the thing he sought for when he looked -long and wistfully at his dead sister’s son.</p> - -<p>Mr. Pepperdine’s present scrutiny passed from the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_012" id="page_012"></a>{12}</span> boy’s face to the -boy’s clothes. It was not often, he said to himself, that such a -well-dressed youngster was seen in those parts. His nephew was clothed -in black from head to foot; his hat was surrounded by a mourning-band; a -black tie, fashioned into a smart knot, and secured by an antique -cameo-pin, encircled his spotless man’s collar: every garment was shaped -as if its wearer had been the most punctilious man about town; his neat -boots shone like mirrors. The boy was a dandy in miniature, and it -filled Mr. Pepperdine with a vast amusement to find him so. He chuckled -inwardly, and was secretly proud of a youngster who, as he had recently -discovered, could walk into a fashionable tailor’s and order exactly -what he wanted with an evident determination to get it. But Mr. -Pepperdine himself was a rustic dandy. Because of the necessities of a -recent occasion he was at that moment clad in sober black—his -Sunday-and-State-Occasion’s suit—but at home he possessed many -wonderful things in the way of riding-breeches, greatcoats ornamented -with pearl buttons as big as saucers, and sprigged waistcoats which were -the despair of the young country bucks, who were forced to admit that -Simpson Pepperdine knew a thing or two about the fashion and was a man -of style. It was natural, then, Mr. Pepperdine should be pleased to find -his nephew a <i>petit-maître</i>—it gratified an eye which was never at any -time indisposed to regard the vanities of this world with complaisance.</p> - -<p>Mr. Pepperdine, striding along at the boy’s side, presented the cheerful -aspect of a healthy countryman. He was a tall, well-built man, rosy of -face, bright of eye, a little on the wrong side of forty, and rather -predisposed to stoutness of figure, but firm and solid in his tread, and -as yet destitute of a grey hair. In his sable garments and his high -hat—bought a week before in London itself, and of the latest -fashionable shape—he looked very distinguished, and no one could have -taken him for less than a churchwarden and a large ratepayer. His air of -distinction was further improved by the fact<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_013" id="page_013"></a>{13}</span> that he was in uncommonly -good spirits—he had spent a week in London on business of a sorrowful -nature, and he was glad to be home again amongst his native woods and -fields. He sniffed the air as he walked, and set his feet down as if the -soil belonged to him, and his eyes danced with satisfaction.</p> - -<p>The boy suddenly uttered a cry of delight, and stopped, pointing down a -long vista of the woods. Mr. Pepperdine turned in the direction -indicated, and beheld a golden patch of daffodils.</p> - -<p>‘Daffy-down-dillies,’ said Mr. Pepperdine. ‘And very pretty too. But -just you wait till you see the woods about Simonstower. I always did say -that Wellsby woods were nought to our woods—ah, you should see the -bluebells! And as for primroses—well, they could stock all Covent -Garden market in London town with ’em, and have enough for next day into -the bargain, so they could. Very pretty is them daffies, very pretty, -but I reckon there’s something a deal prettier to be seen in a minute or -two, for here’s the Grange, and Mrs. Trippett has an uncommon nice way -of setting out a tea-table.’</p> - -<p>The boy turned from the glowing patch of colour to look at another -attractive picture. They had rounded the edge of the wood on their right -hand, and now stood gazing at a peculiarly English scene—a green -paddock, fenced from the road by neat railings, painted white, at the -further end of which, shaded by a belt of tall elms, stood a many-gabled -farmhouse, with a flower-garden before its front door and an orchard at -its side. The farm-buildings rose a little distance in rear of the -house; beyond them was the stackyard, still crowded with wheat and -barley stacks; high over everything rose a pigeon-cote, about the -weather-vane of which flew countless pigeons. In the paddock were ewes -and lambs; cattle and horses looked over the wall of the fold; the soft -light of the April evening lay on everything like a benediction.</p> - -<p>‘Wellsby Grange,’ said Mr. Pepperdine, pushing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_014" id="page_014"></a>{14}</span> open a wicket-gate in -the white fence and motioning the boy to enter. ‘The abode of Mr. and -Mrs. Trippett, very particular friends of mine. I always leave my trap -here when I have occasion to go by train—it would be sent over this -morning, and we shall find it all ready for us presently.’</p> - -<p>The boy followed his uncle up the path to the side-door of the -farmhouse, his eyes taking in every detail of the scene. He was staring -about him when the door opened, and revealed a jolly-faced, red-cheeked -man with sandy whiskers and very blue eyes, who grinned delightedly at -sight of Mr. Pepperdine, and held out a hand of considerable -proportions.</p> - -<p>‘We were just looking out for you,’ said he. ‘We heard the whistle, and -the missis put the kettle on to boil up that minute. Come in, -Simpson—come in, my lad—you’re heartily welcome. Now then, -missis—they’re here.’</p> - -<p>A stout, motherly-looking woman, with cherry-coloured ribbons in a -nodding cap that crowned a head of glossy dark hair, came bustling to -the door.</p> - -<p>‘Come in, come in, Mr. Pepperdine—glad to see you safe back,’ said she. -‘And this’ll be your little nevvy. Come in, love, come in—you must be -tired wi’ travelling all that way.’</p> - -<p>The boy took off his hat with a courtly gesture, and stepped into the -big, old-fashioned kitchen. He looked frankly at the farmer and his -wife, and the woman, noting his beauty with quick feminine perception, -put her arm round his neck and drew him to her.</p> - -<p>‘Eh, but you’re a handsome lad!’ she said. ‘Come straight into the -parlour and sit you down—the tea’ll be ready in a minute. What’s your -name, my dear?’</p> - -<p>The boy looked up at her—Mrs. Trippett’s memory, at the sight of his -eyes, went back to the days of her girlhood.</p> - -<p>‘My name is Lucian,’ he answered.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Trippett looked at him again as if she had scarcely heard him reply -to her question. She sighed,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_015" id="page_015"></a>{15}</span> and with a sudden impetuous tenderness -bent down and kissed him warmly on the cheek.</p> - -<p>‘Off with your coat, my dear,’ she said cheerily. ‘And if you’re cold, -sit down by the fire—if it is spring, it’s cold enough for fires at -night. Now I’ll be back in a minute, and your uncle and the master’ll be -coming—I lay they’ve gone to look at a poorly horse that we’ve got just -now—and then we’ll have tea.’</p> - -<p>She bustled from the room, the cherry-coloured ribbons streaming behind -her. The boy, left alone, took off his overcoat and gloves, and laid -them aside with his hat; then he put his hands in the pockets of his -trousers, and examined his new surroundings.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_016" id="page_016"></a>{16}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Never</span> before had Lucian seen the parlour of an English farmhouse, nor -such a feast as that spread out on the square dinner-table. The parlour -was long and wide and low-roofed, and the ceiling was spanned by beams -of polished oak; a bright fire crackled in the old-fashioned grate, and -a lamp burned on the table; but there were no blinds or curtains drawn -over the latticed windows which overlooked the garden. Lucian’s -observant eyes roved about the room, noting the quaint old pictures on -the walls; the oil paintings of Mr. Trippett’s father and mother; the -framed samplers and the fox’s brush; the silver cups on the sideboard, -and the ancient blunderbuss which hung on the centre beam. It seemed to -him that the parlour was delightfully quaint and picturesque; it smelled -of dried roses and lavender and sweetbriar; there was an old sheep-dog -on the hearth who pushed his muzzle into the boy’s hand, and a -grandfather’s clock in one corner that ticked a solemn welcome to him. -He had never seen such an interior before, and it appealed to his sense -of the artistic.</p> - -<p>Lucian’s eyes wandered at last to the table, spread for high tea. That -was as new to him as the old pictures and samplers. A cold ham of -generous proportions figured at one side of the table; a round of cold -roast-beef at the other; the tea-tray filled up one end; opposite it -space was left for something that was yet to come. This something -presently appeared in the shape of a couple of roast fowls and a stand -of boiled eggs, borne in by a strapping maid whose face shone like the -setting sun, and who was sharply marshalled by Mrs. Trippett, carrying a -silver teapot and a dish of hot muffins.</p> - -<p>‘Now then, my dear,’ she said, giving a final glance over the table, ‘we -can begin as soon as the gentlemen<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_017" id="page_017"></a>{17}</span> come, and I lay they won’t be long, -for Mr. Pepperdine’ll be hungry after his journey, and so I’m sure are -you. Come and sit down here and help yourself to an egg—they’re as -fresh as morning dew—every one’s been laid this very day.’</p> - -<p>The boy sat down and marvelled at the bountiful provision of Mrs. -Trippett’s tea-table; it seemed to him that there was enough there to -feed a regiment. But when Mr. Trippett and Mr. Pepperdine entered and -fell to, he no longer wondered, for the one had been out in the fields -all day, and the other had been engaged in the unusual task of -travelling, and they were both exceptional trenchermen at any time. Mr. -Trippett joked with the boy as they ate, and made sundry references to -Yorkshire pudding and roast-beef which seemed to afford himself great -satisfaction, and he heaped up his youthful visitor’s plate so -generously that Lucian grew afraid.</p> - -<p>‘Cut and come again,’ said Mr. Trippett, with his mouth full and his -jaws working vigorously. ‘Nothing like a good appetite for growing -lads—ah, I was always hungry when I was a boy. Never came amiss to me, -didn’t food, never.’</p> - -<p>‘But I’ve never eaten so much before,’ said Lucian, refusing his host’s -pressing entreaty to have another slice off the breast, or a bit of cold -ham. ‘I was hungry, too, or I couldn’t have eaten so much now.’</p> - -<p>‘He’ll soon get up an appetite at Simonstower,’ said Mrs. Trippett. -‘You’re higher up than we are, Mr. Pepperdine, and the air’s keener with -you. To be sure, our children have good enough appetites here—you -should see them at meal times!—I’m sure I oft wonder wherever they put -it all.’</p> - -<p>‘It’s a provision of nature, ma’am,’ said Mr. Pepperdine. ‘There’s some -wonderful things in Nature.’</p> - -<p>‘They’re wanting to see you, my dear,’ said Mrs. Trippett, ignoring her -elder guest’s profound remark and looking at her younger one. ‘I told -them Mr. Pepperdine was going to bring a young gentleman with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_018" id="page_018"></a>{18}</span> him. You -shall see them after tea—they’re out in the orchard now—they had their -teas an hour ago, and they’ve gone out to play. There’s two of -them—John and Mary. John’s about your own age, and Mary’s a year -younger.’</p> - -<p>‘Can’t I go out to them?’ said Lucian. ‘I will, if you will please to -excuse me.’</p> - -<p>‘With pleasure, my dear,’ said Mrs. Trippett. ‘Go by all means, if you’d -like to. Go through the window there—you’ll hear them somewhere about, -and they’ll show you their rabbits and things.’</p> - -<p>The boy picked up his hat and went out. Mrs. Trippett followed him with -meditative eyes.</p> - -<p>‘He’s not shy, seemingly,’ she said, looking at Mr. Pepperdine.</p> - -<p>‘Not he, ma’am. He’s an old-fashioned one, is the lad,’ answered -Lucian’s uncle. ‘He’s the manners of a man in some things. I reckon, you -see, that it’s because he’s never had other children to play with.’</p> - -<p>‘He’s a handsome boy,’ sighed the hostess. ‘Like his father as I -remember him. He was a fine-looking man, in a foreign way. But he’s his -mother’s eyes—poor Lucy!’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said Mr. Pepperdine. ‘He’s Lucy’s eyes, but all the rest of him’s -like his father.’</p> - -<p>‘Were you in time to see his father before he died?’ asked Mr. Trippett, -who was now attacking the cold beef, after having demolished the greater -part of a fowl. ‘You didn’t think you would be when you went off that -morning.’</p> - -<p>‘Just in time, just in time,’ answered Mr. Pepperdine. ‘Ay, just in -time. He went very sudden and very peaceful. The boy was very brave and -very old-fashioned about it—he never says anything now, and I don’t -mention it.’</p> - -<p>‘It’s best not,’ said Mrs. Trippett. ‘Poor little fellow!—of course, -he’ll not remember his mother at all?’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_019" id="page_019"></a>{19}</span></p> - -<p>‘No,’ said Mr. Pepperdine, shaking his head. ‘No, he was only two years -old when his mother died.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Trippett changed the subject, and began to talk of London and what -Mr. Pepperdine had seen there. But when the tea-table had been cleared, -and Mrs. Trippett had departed to the kitchen regions to bustle amongst -her maids, and the two farmers were left in the parlour with the spirit -decanters on the table, their tumblers at their elbows and their pipes -in their mouths, the host referred to Mr. Pepperdine’s recent mission -with some curiosity.</p> - -<p>‘I never rightly heard the story of this nephew of yours,’ he said. ‘You -see, I hadn’t come to these parts when your sister was married. The -missis says she remembers her, ’cause she used to visit hereabouts in -days past. It were a bit of a romance like, eh?’</p> - -<p>Mr. Pepperdine took a pull at his glass and shook his head.</p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ said he oracularly. ‘It was. A romance like those you read of in -the story-books. I remember the beginning of it all as well as if it -were yesterday. Lucy—that was the lad’s mother, my youngest sister, you -know, Trippett—was a girl then, and the prettiest in all these parts: -there’s nobody’ll deny that.’</p> - -<p>‘I always understood that she was a beauty,’ said Mr. Trippett.</p> - -<p>‘And you understood rightly. There wasn’t Lucy’s equal for beauty in all -the county,’ affirmed Mr. Pepperdine. ‘The lad has her eyes—eh, dear, -I’ve heard high and low talk of her eyes. But he’s naught else of -hers—all the rest his father’s—Lucy was fair.’</p> - -<p>He paused to apply a glowing coal to the tobacco in his long pipe, and -he puffed out several thick clouds of smoke before he resumed his story.</p> - -<p>‘Well, Lucy was nineteen when this Mr. Cyprian Damerel came along. You -can ask your missis what like he was—women are better hands at -describing a man’s looks than a man is. He were a handsome young man, -but foreign in appearance, though you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_020" id="page_020"></a>{20}</span> wouldn’t ha’ told it from his -tongue. The boy’ll be like him some day. He came walking through -Simonstower on his way from Scarhaven, and naught would content him but -that he must set up his easel and make a picture of the village. He -found lodgings at old Mother Grant’s, and settled down, and he was one -of that sort that makes themselves at home with everybody in five -minutes. He’d an open face and an open hand; he’d talk to high and low -in just the same way; and he’d a smile for everybody.’</p> - -<p>‘And naturally all the lasses fell in love with him,’ suggested Mr. -Trippett, with a hearty laugh. ‘I’ve heard my missis say he’d a way with -him that was taking with the wenches—specially them as were inclined -that way, like.’</p> - -<p>‘Undoubtedly he had,’ said Mr. Pepperdine. ‘Undoubtedly he had. But -after he’d seen her, he’d no eyes for any lass but our Lucy. He fell in -love with her and she with him as naturally as a duckling takes to -water. Ah! I don’t think I ever did see two young people quite so badly -smitten as they were. It became evident to everybody in the place. But -he acted like a man all through—oh yes! My mother was alive then, you -know, Trippett,’ Mr. Pepperdine continued, with a sigh. ‘She was a -straight-laced ’un, was my mother, and had no liking for foreigners, and -Damerel had a livelyish time with her when he came to th’ house and -asked her, bold as brass, if he might marry her daughter.’</p> - -<p>‘I’ll lay he wo’d; I’ll lay he wo’d,’ chuckled Mr. Trippett.</p> - -<p>‘Ay, and so he had,’ continued Mr. Pepperdine. ‘She was very stiff and -stand-off, was our old lady, and she treated him to some remarks about -foreigners and papists, and what not, and gave him to understand that -she’d as soon seen her daughter marry a gipsy as a strolling artist, -’cause you see, being old-fashioned, she’d no idea of what an artist, if -he’s up to his trade, can make. But he was one too many for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_021" id="page_021"></a>{21}</span> her, was -Damerel. He listened to all she had to say, and then he offered to give -her references about himself, and he told her who he was, the son of an -Italian gentleman that had come to live in England ’cause of political -reasons, and what he earned, and he made it clear enough that Lucy -wouldn’t want for bread and butter, nor a silk gown neither.’</p> - -<p>‘Good reasoning,’ commented Mr. Trippett. ‘Very good reasoning. -Love-making’s all very well, but it’s nowt wi’out a bit o’ money at th’ -back on’t.’</p> - -<p>‘Well, there were no doubt about Damerel’s making money,’ said Mr. -Pepperdine, ‘and we’d soon good proof o’ that; for as soon as he’d -finished his picture of the village he sold it to th’ Earl for five -hundred pound, and it hangs i’ the dining-room at th’ castle to this -day. I saw it the last time I paid my rent there. Mistress Jones, th’ -housekeeper, let me have a look at it. And of course, seeing that the -young man was able to support a wife, th’ old lady had to give way, and -they were married. Fifteen year ago that is,’ concluded Mr. Pepperdine -with a shake of the head. ‘Dear-a-me! it seems only like yesterday since -that day—they made the handsomest bride and bridegroom I ever saw.’</p> - -<p>‘She died soon, didn’t she?’ inquired Mr. Trippett.</p> - -<p>‘Lived a matter of four years after the marriage,’ answered Mr. -Pepperdine. ‘She wasn’t a strong woman, wasn’t poor Lucy—there was -something wrong with her lungs, and after the boy came she seemed to -wear away. He did all that a man could, did her husband—took her off to -the south of Europe. Eh, dear, the letters that Keziah and Judith used -to have from her, describing the places she saw—they read fair -beautiful! But it were no good—she died at Rome, poor lass, when the -boy was two years old.’</p> - -<p>‘Poor thing!’ said Mr. Trippett. ‘And had all that she wanted, -seemingly.’</p> - -<p>‘Everything,’ said Mr. Pepperdine. ‘Her life was short but sweet, as you -may say.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_022" id="page_022"></a>{22}</span></p> - -<p>‘And now he’s gone an’ all,’ said Mr. Trippett.</p> - -<p>Mr. Pepperdine nodded.</p> - -<p>‘Ay,’ he said, ‘he’s gone an’ all. I don’t think he ever rightly got -over his wife’s death—anyway, he led a very restless life ever after, -first one place and then another, never settling anywhere. Sometimes it -was Italy, sometimes Paris, sometimes London—he’s seen something, has -that boy. Ay, he’s dead, is poor Damerel.’</p> - -<p>‘Leave owt behind him like?’ asked Mr. Trippett sententiously.</p> - -<p>Mr. Pepperdine polished the end of his nose.</p> - -<p>‘Well,’ he said, ‘there’ll be a nice little nest-egg for the boy when -all’s settled up, I dare say. He wasn’t a saving sort of man, I should -think, but dear-a-me, he must ha’ made a lot of money in his time—and -spent it, too.’</p> - -<p>‘Easy come and easy go,’ said Mr. Trippett. ‘I’ve heard that’s the way -with that sort. Will this lad take after his father, then?’</p> - -<p>‘Nay,’ said Mr. Pepperdine, ‘I don’t think he will. He can’t draw a -line—doesn’t seem to have it in him. Curious thing that, but it is so. -No—he’s all for reading. I never saw such a lad for books. He’s got a -great chest full o’ books at the station yonder—wouldn’t leave London -without them.’</p> - -<p>‘Happen turn out a parson or a lawyer,’ suggested Mr. Trippett.</p> - -<p>‘Nay,’ said Mr. Pepperdine. ‘It’s my impression he’ll turn out a poet, -or something o’ that sort. They tell me there’s a good living to be made -out o’ that nowadays.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Trippett lifted the kettle on to the brightest part of the fire, -mixed himself another glass of grog, and pushed the decanter towards his -friend.</p> - -<p>‘There were only a poorish market at Oakbro’ t’other day,’ he said. -‘Very low prices, and none so much stuff there, nayther.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Pepperdine followed his host’s example with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_023" id="page_023"></a>{23}</span> respect to the grog, -and meditated upon the market news. They plunged into a discussion upon -prices. Mrs. Trippett entered the room, took up a basket of stockings, -planted herself in her easy-chair, and began to look for holes in toes -and heels. The two farmers talked; the grandfather’s clock ticked; the -fire crackled; the whole atmosphere was peaceful and homelike. At last -the talk of prices and produce was interrupted by the entrance of the -stout serving-maid.</p> - -<p>‘If you please’m, there’s Jim Wood from the station with two trunks for -Mr. Pepperdine, and he says is he to put ’em in Mr. Pepperdine’s trap?’ -she said, gazing at her mistress.</p> - -<p>‘Tell him to put them in the shed,’ said Mr. Pepperdine. ‘I’ll put ’em -in the trap myself. And here, my lass, give him this for his trouble,’ -he added, diving into his pocket and producing a shilling.</p> - -<p>‘And give him a pint o’ beer and something to eat,’ said Mr. Trippett.</p> - -<p>‘Give him some cold beef and pickles, Mary,’ said Mrs. Trippett.</p> - -<p>Mary responded ‘Yes, sir—Yes’m,’ and closed the door. Mr. Pepperdine, -gazing at the clock with an air of surprise, remarked that he had no -idea it was so late, and he must be departing.</p> - -<p>‘Nowt o’ th’ sort!’ said Mr. Trippett. ‘You’re all right for another -hour—help yourself, my lad.’</p> - -<p>‘The little boy’s all right,’ said Mrs. Trippett softly. ‘He’s soon made -friends with John and Mary—they were as thick as thieves when I left -them just now.’</p> - -<p>‘Then let’s be comfortable,’ said the host. ‘Dang my buttons, there’s -nowt like comfort by your own fireside. And how were London town -looking, then, Mr. Pepperdine?—mucky as ever, I expect.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Pepperdine, with a replenished glass and a newly charged pipe, -plunged into a description of what he had seen in London. The time -slipped away—the old clock struck nine at last, and suddenly reminded -him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_024" id="page_024"></a>{24}</span> that he had six miles to drive and that his sisters would be -expecting his arrival with the boy.</p> - -<p>‘Time flies fast in good company,’ he remarked as he rose with evident -reluctance. ‘I always enjoy an evening by your hospitable fireside, Mrs. -Trippett, ma’am.’</p> - -<p>‘You’re in a great hurry to leave it, anyhow,’ said Mr. Trippett, with a -broad grin. ‘Sit ye down again, man—you’ll be home in half an hour with -that mare o’ yours, and it’s only nine o’clock, and ten to one th’ owd -clock’s wrong.’</p> - -<p>‘Ay, but my watch isn’t,’ answered Mr. Pepperdine. ‘Nay, we must -go—Keziah and Judith’ll be on the look-out for us, and they’ll want to -see the boy.’</p> - -<p>‘Ay, I expect they will,’ said Mr. Trippett. ‘Well, if you must you -must—take another glass and light a cigar.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Pepperdine refused neither of these aids to comfort, and lingered a -few minutes longer. But at last they all went out into the great -kitchen, Mrs. Trippett leading the way with words of regret at her -guest’s departure. She paused upon the threshold and turned to the two -men with a gesture which commanded silence.</p> - -<p>The farmhouse kitchen, quaint and picturesque with its old oak -furniture, its flitches of bacon and great hams hanging from the -ceiling, its bunches of dried herbs and strings of onions depending from -hooks in the corners, its wide fireplace and general warmth and -cheeriness, formed the background of a group which roused some sense of -the artistic in Mrs. Trippett’s usually matter-of-fact intellect. On the -long settle which stretched on one side of the hearth sat four -shock-headed ploughboys, leaning shoulder to shoulder; in an easy-chair -opposite sat the red-cheeked maid-servant; close to her, on a low stool, -sat a little girl with Mrs. Trippett’s features and eyes, whose sunny -hair fell in wavy masses over her shoulders; behind her, hands in -pockets, sturdy and strong, stood a miniature edition<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_025" id="page_025"></a>{25}</span> of Mr. Trippett, -even to the sandy hair, the breeches, and the gaiters; in the centre of -the floor, at a round table on which stood a great oil lamp, sat the -porter, busy with a round of beef, a foaming tankard of ale, and a -crusty loaf. Of these eight human beings a similar peculiarity was -evident. Each one sat with mouth more or less open—the ploughboys’ -mouths in particular had revolved themselves into round O’s, while the -porter, struck as it were in the very act of forking a large lump of -beef into a cavernous mouth, looked like a man who has suddenly become -paralysed and cannot move. The maid-servant’s eyes were wider than her -mouth; the little girl shrank against the maid’s apron as if afraid—it -was only the sturdy boy in the rear who showed some symptoms of a faint -smile. And the object upon which all eyes were fixed was Lucian, who -stood on the hearth, his back to the fire, his face glowing in the -lamplight, winding up in a low and thrilling voice the last passages of -what appeared to be a particularly blood-curdling narrative.</p> - -<p>Mr. Trippett poked Mr. Pepperdine in the ribs.</p> - -<p>‘Seems to ha’ fixed ’em,’ he whispered. ‘Gow—the lad’s gotten the gift -o’ the gab!—he talks like a book.’</p> - -<p>‘H’sh,’ commanded Mrs. Trippett.</p> - -<p>‘And so the body hung on the gibbet,’ Lucian was saying, ‘through all -that winter, and the rain, and the hail, and the snow fell upon it, and -when the spring came again there remained nothing but the bones of the -brigand, and they were bleached as white as the eternal snows; and -Giacomo came and took them down and buried them in the little cemetery -under the cypress-trees; but the chain still dangles from the gibbet, -and you may hear it rattle as you pass that way as it used to rattle -when Luigi’s bones hung swaying in the wind.’</p> - -<p>The spell was broken; the porter sighed deeply, and conveyed the -interrupted forkful to his mouth; the ploughboys drew deep breaths, and -looked as if they had arisen from a deep sleep; the little girl, -catching sight of her mother, ran to her with a cry of ‘Is it true?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_026" id="page_026"></a>{26}</span> Is -it true?’ and Mr. Trippett brought everybody back to real life by loud -calls for Mr. Pepperdine’s horse and trap. Then followed the putting on -of overcoats and wraps, and the bestowal of a glass of ginger-wine upon -Lucian by Mr. Trippett, in order that the cold might be kept out, and -then good-nights and Godspeeds, and he was in the dogcart at Mr. -Pepperdine’s side, and the mare, very fresh, was speeding over the six -miles of highway which separated Mr. Trippett’s stable from her own.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_027" id="page_027"></a>{27}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">While</span> Mr. Pepperdine refreshed himself at his friend’s house, his -sisters awaited the coming of himself and his charge with as much -patience as they could summon to their aid. Each knew that patience was -not only necessary, but inevitable. It would have been the easiest thing -in the world for Mr. Pepperdine to have driven straight home from the -station and supped in his own parlour, and that, under the -circumstances, would have seemed the most reasonable thing to do. But -Mr. Pepperdine made a rule of never passing the gates of the Grange -Farm, and his sisters knew that he would tarry there on his homeward -journey, accept Mrs. Trippett’s invitation to tea, and spend an hour or -two afterwards in convivial intercourse with Mr. Trippett. That took -place every market-day and every time Mr. Pepperdine had occasion to -travel by train; and the Misses Pepperdine knew that it would go on -taking place as long as their brother Simpson and his friends at the -Grange Farm continued to exist.</p> - -<p>At nine o’clock Miss Pepperdine, who had been knitting by the parlour -fire since seven, grew somewhat impatient.</p> - -<p>‘I think Simpson might have come home straight from the station,’ she -said in sharp, decided tones. ‘The child is sure to be tired.’</p> - -<p>Miss Judith Pepperdine, engaged on fancy needlework on the opposite side -of the hearth, shook her head.</p> - -<p>‘Simpson never passes the Grange,’ she said. ‘That night I came with him -from Oakborough last winter, I couldn’t get him to come home. He coaxed -me to go in for just ten minutes, and we had to stop four hours.’</p> - -<p>Miss Pepperdine sniffed. Her needles clicked vigorously for a few -minutes longer; she laid them down at a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_028" id="page_028"></a>{28}</span> quarter past nine, went across -the parlour to a cupboard, unlocked it, produced a spirit-case and three -glasses, and set them on the table in the middle of the room. At the -same moment a tap sounded on the door, and a maid entered bearing a jug -of hot water, a dish of lemons, and a bowl of sugar. She was about to -leave the room after setting her tray down when Miss Pepperdine stopped -her.</p> - -<p>‘I wonder what the boy had better have, Judith?’ she said, looking at -her sister. ‘He’s sure to have had a good tea at the Grange—Sarah -Trippett would see to that—but he’ll be cold. Some hot milk, I should -think. Bring some new milk in the brass pan, Anne, and another -glass—I’ll heat it myself over this fire.’</p> - -<p>Then, without waiting to hear whether Miss Judith approved the notion of -hot milk or not, she sat down to her knitting again, and when the maid -had brought the brass pan and the glass and withdrawn, the parlour -became hushed and silent. It was an old-world room—there was not an -article of furniture in it that was less than a hundred years old, and -the old silver and old china arranged in the cabinets and on the -side-tables were as antiquated as the chairs, the old bureau, and the -pictures. Everything was old, good, and substantial; everything smelled -of a bygone age and of dried rose-leaves.</p> - -<p>The two sisters, facing each other across the hearth, were in thorough -keeping with the old-world atmosphere of their parlour. Miss Keziah -Pepperdine, senior member of the family, and by no means afraid of -admitting that she had attained her fiftieth year, was tall and -well-built; a fine figure of a woman, with a handsome face, jet-black -hair, and eyes of a decided keenness. There was character and decision -in her every movement; in her sharp, incisive speech; in her quick -glance; and in the nervous, resolute click of her knitting needles. As -she knitted, she kept her lips pursed tightly together and her eyes -fixed upon her work: it needed little observation to make sure that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_029" id="page_029"></a>{29}</span> -whatever Miss Pepperdine did would be done with resolution and -thoroughness. She was a woman to be respected rather than loved; feared -more than honoured; and there was a flash in her hawk’s eyes, and a -grimness about her mouth, which indicated a temper that could strike -with force and purpose. Further indications of her character were seen -in her attire, which was severely simple—a gown of black, unrelieved by -any speck of white, hanging in prim, straight folds, and utterly -unadorned, but, to a knowing eye, fashioned of most excellent and costly -material.</p> - -<p>Judith Pepperdine, many years younger than her sister, was dressed in -black too, but the sombreness of her attire was relieved by white cuffs -and collar, and by a very long thin gold chain, which was festooned -twice round her neck ere it sought refuge in the watch-pocket at her -waist. She had a slender figure of great elegance, and was proud of it, -just as she was proud of the fact that at forty years of age she was -still a pretty woman. There was something of the girl still left in her: -some dreaminess of eye, a suspicion of coquetry, an innate desire to -please the other sex and to be admired by men. Her cheek was still -smooth and peach-like; her eyes still bright, and her brown hair glossy; -old maid that she undoubtedly was, there were many good-looking girls in -the district who had not half her attractions. To her natural good looks -Judith Pepperdine added a native refinement and elegance; she knew how -to move about a room and walk the village street. Her smile was -famous—old Dr. Stubbins, of Normanfold, an authority in such matters, -said that for sweetness and charm he would back Judith Pepperdine’s -smile against the world.</p> - -<p>There were many people who wondered why the handsome Miss Pepperdine had -never married, but there was scarcely one who knew why she had remained -and meant to remain single. Soon after the marriage of her sister Lucy -to Cyprian Damerel, Judith developed a love-affair of her own with a -dashing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_030" id="page_030"></a>{30}</span> cavalry man, a sergeant of the 13th Hussars, then quartered at -Oakborough. He was a handsome young man, the son of a local farmer, and -his ambition had been for soldiering from boyhood. Coming into the -neighbourhood in all his glory, and often meeting Judith at the houses -of mutual friends, he had soon laid siege to her and captured her -susceptible heart. Their engagement was kept secret, for old Mrs. -Pepperdine had almost as great an objection to soldiers as to -foreigners, and would have considered a non-commissioned officer beneath -her daughter’s notice. The sergeant, however, had aspirations—it was -his hope to secure a commission in an infantry regiment, and his -ambition in this direction seemed likely to be furthered when his -regiment was ordered out to India and presently engaged in a frontier -campaign. But there his good luck came to an untimely end—he performed -a brave action which won him the Victoria Cross, but he was so severely -wounded in doing it that he died soon afterwards, and Judith’s romance -came to a bitter end. She had had many offers of marriage since, and had -refused them all—the memory of the handsome Hussar still lived in her -sentimental heart, and her most cherished possession was the cross which -he had won and had not lived to receive. Time had healed the wound: she -no longer experienced the pangs and sorrows of her first grief. -Everything had been mellowed down into a soft regret, and the still -living affection for the memory of a dead man kept her heart young.</p> - -<p>That night Judith for once in a while had no thought of her dead -lover—she was thinking of the boy whom Simpson was bringing to them. -She remembered Lucy with wondering thoughts, trying to recall her as she -was when Cyprian Damerel took her away to London and a new life. None of -her own people had ever seen Lucy again—they were stay-at-home folk, -and the artist and his wife had spent most of their short married life -on the Continent. Now Damerel, too, was dead,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_031" id="page_031"></a>{31}</span> and the boy was coming -back to his mother’s people, and Judith, who was given to dreaming, -speculated much concerning him.</p> - -<p>‘I wonder,’ she said, scarcely knowing that she spoke, ‘I wonder what -Lucian will be like.’</p> - -<p>‘And I wonder,’ said Miss Pepperdine, ‘if Damerel has left any money for -him.’</p> - -<p>‘Surely!’ exclaimed Judith. ‘He earned such large sums by his -paintings.’</p> - -<p>Miss Pepperdine’s needles clicked more sharply than ever.</p> - -<p>‘He spent large sums too,’ she said. ‘I’ve heard of the way in which he -lived. He was an extravagant man, like most of his sort. That sort of -money is earned easily and spent easily. With his ideas and his tastes, -he ought to have been a duke. I hope he has provided for the boy—times -are not as good as they might be.’</p> - -<p>‘You would never begrudge anything to Lucy’s child, sister?’ said Judith -timidly, and with a wistful glance at Miss Pepperdine’s stern -countenance. ‘I’m sure I shouldn’t—he is welcome to all I have.’</p> - -<p>‘Umph!’ replied Miss Pepperdine. ‘Who talked of begrudging anything to -the child? All I say is, I hope his father has provided for him.’</p> - -<p>Judith made no answer to this remark, and the silence which followed was -suddenly broken by the sound of wheels on the drive outside the house. -Both sisters rose to their feet; each showed traces of some emotion. -Without a word they passed out of the room into the hall. The -maid-servant had already opened the door, and in the light of the -hanging lamp they saw their brother helping Lucian out of the dogcart. -The sisters moved forward.</p> - -<p>‘Now, then, here we are!’ said Mr. Pepperdine. ‘Home again, safe and -sound, and no breakages. Lucian, my boy, here’s your aunts Keziah and -Judith. Take him in, lassies, and warm him—it’s a keenish night.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_032" id="page_032"></a>{32}</span></p> - -<p>The boy stepped into the hall, and lifted his hat as he looked up at the -two women.</p> - -<p>‘How do you do?’ he said politely.</p> - -<p>Miss Pepperdine drew a quick breath. She took the outstretched hand and -bent down and kissed the boy’s cheek; in the lamplight she had seen her -dead sister’s eyes look out of the young face, and for the moment she -could not trust herself to speak. Judith trembled all over; as the boy -turned to her she put both arms round him and drew him into the parlour, -and there embraced him warmly. He looked at her somewhat wonderingly and -critically, and then responded to her embrace.</p> - -<p>‘You are my Aunt Judith,’ he said. ‘Uncle Pepperdine told me about you. -You are the handsome one.’</p> - -<p>Judith kissed him again. She had fallen in love with him on the spot.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I am your Aunt Judith, my dear,’ she said. ‘And I am very, very -glad to see you—we are all glad.’</p> - -<p>She still held him in her arms, looking at him long and hungrily. Miss -Pepperdine came in, businesslike and bustling; she had lingered in the -hall, ostensibly to give an order to the servant, but in reality to get -rid of a tear or two.</p> - -<p>‘Now, then, let me have a look at him,’ she said, and drew the boy out -of Judith’s hands and turned him to the light. ‘Your Aunt Judith,’ she -continued as she scanned him critically, ‘is the handsome one, as I -heard you say just now—I’m the ugly one. Do you think you’ll like me?’</p> - -<p>Lucian stared back at her with a glance as keen and searching as her -own. He looked her through and through.</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I like you. I think——’ He paused and smiled a -little.</p> - -<p>‘You think—what?’</p> - -<p>‘I think you might be cross sometimes, but you’re good,’ he said, still -staring at her.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_033" id="page_033"></a>{33}</span></p> - -<p>Miss Pepperdine laughed. Judith knew that she was conquered.</p> - -<p>‘Well, you’ll find out,’ said Miss Pepperdine. ‘Now, then, off with your -coat—are you hungry?’</p> - -<p>‘No,’ answered Lucian. ‘I ate too much at Mrs. Trippett’s—English -people have such big meals, I think.’</p> - -<p>‘Give him a drop of something warm,’ said Mr. Pepperdine, entering with -much rubbing of hands and stamping of feet. ‘<span class="lftspc">’</span>Tis cold as Christmas, -driving through them woods ’twixt here and Wellsby.’</p> - -<p>Miss Pepperdine set the brass pan on the fire, and presently handed -Lucian a glass of hot milk, and produced an old-fashioned biscuit-box -from the cupboard. The boy sat down near Judith, ate and drank, and -looked about him, all unconscious that the two women and the man were -watching him with all their eyes.</p> - -<p>‘I like this room better than Mrs. Trippett’s,’ he said suddenly. ‘Hers -is a pretty room, but this shows more taste. And all the furniture is -Chippendale!’</p> - -<p>‘Bless his heart!’ said Miss Pepperdine, ‘so it is. How did you know -that, my dear?’</p> - -<p>Lucian stared at her.</p> - -<p>‘I know a lot about old furniture,’ he said; ‘my father taught me.’ He -yawned and looked apologetic. ‘I think I should like to go to bed,’ he -added, glancing at Miss Pepperdine. ‘I am sleepy—we have been -travelling all day.’</p> - -<p>Judith rose from her chair with alacrity. She was pining to get the boy -all to herself.</p> - -<p>‘I’ll take him to his room,’ she said. ‘Come along, dear, your room is -all ready for you.’</p> - -<p>The boy shook hands with Aunt Keziah. She kissed him again and patted -his head. He crossed over to Mr. Pepperdine, who was pulling off his -boots.</p> - -<p>‘I’ll go riding with you in the morning,’ he said. ‘After breakfast, I -suppose, eh?’</p> - -<p>‘Ay, after breakfast,’ answered Mr. Pepperdine. ‘I’ll tell John to have -the pony ready. Good-night,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_034" id="page_034"></a>{34}</span> my lad; your Aunt Judith’ll see you’re all -comfortable.’</p> - -<p>Lucian shook hands with his uncle, and went cheerfully away with Judith. -Miss Pepperdine sighed as the door closed upon them.</p> - -<p>‘He’s the very image of Cyprian Damerel,’ she said; ‘but he has Lucy’s -eyes.’</p> - -<p>‘He’s a fine little lad,’ said Mr. Pepperdine. ‘An uncommon fine little -lad, and quite the gentleman. I’m proud of him.’</p> - -<p>He had got into his slippers by this time, and he cast a longing eye at -the spirit-case on the table. Miss Pepperdine rose, produced an -old-fashioned pewter thimble, measured whisky into it, poured it into a -tumbler, added lemon, sugar, and hot water, and handed it to her -brother, who received it with an expression of gratitude, and sipped it -critically. She measured a less quantity into two other glasses and -mixed each with similar ingredients.</p> - -<p>‘Judith won’t be coming down again,’ she said. ‘I’ll take her tumbler up -to her room; and I’m going to bed myself—we’ve had a long day with -churning. You’ll not want any news to-night, Simpson; it’ll keep till -to-morrow, and there’s little to tell—all’s gone on right.’</p> - -<p>‘That’s a blessing,’ said Mr. Pepperdine, stretching his legs.</p> - -<p>Miss Pepperdine put away her knitting, removed the spirit-case into the -cupboard, locked the door and put the key in her pocket, and took up the -little tray on which she had placed the tumblers intended for herself -and her sister. But on the verge of leaving the room she paused and -looked at her brother.</p> - -<p>‘We were glad you got there in time, Simpson,’ she said. ‘And you did -right to bring the child home—it was the right thing to do. I hope -Damerel has made provision for him?’</p> - -<p>Mr. Pepperdine was seized with a mighty yawning.</p> - -<p>‘Oh ay!’ he said as soon as he could speak. ‘The<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_035" id="page_035"></a>{35}</span> lad’s all right, -Keziah—all right. Everything’s in my hands—yes, it’s all right.’</p> - -<p>‘You must tell me about it afterwards,’ said Miss Pepperdine. ‘I’ll go -now—I just want to see that the boy has all he wants. Good-night, -Simpson.’</p> - -<p>‘Good-night, my lass, good-night,’ said the farmer. ‘I’ll just look -round and be off to bed myself.’</p> - -<p>Miss Pepperdine left the room and closed the door; her brother heard the -ancient staircase creak as she climbed to the sleeping-chambers. He -waited a few minutes, and then, rising from his chair, he produced a key -from his pocket, walked over to the old bureau, unlocked a small -cupboard, and brought forth a bottle of whisky. He drew the cork with a -meditative air and added a liberal dose of spirit to that handed to him -by his sister. He replaced the bottle and locked up the cupboard, poured -a little more hot water into his glass, and sipped the strengthened -mixture with approbation. Then he winked solemnly at his reflection in -the old mirror above the chimney-piece, and sat down before the fire to -enjoy his nightcap in privacy and comfort.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_036" id="page_036"></a>{36}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Lucian</span> went to sleep in a chamber smelling of lavender. He was very -tired, and passed into a land of gentle dreams as soon as his head -touched the pillow. Almost before he realised that he was falling asleep -he was wide awake again and it was morning. Broad rays of sunlight -flooded the room; he heard the notes of many birds singing outside the -window; it was plain that another day was already hastening to noon. He -glanced at his watch: it was eight o’clock. Lucian left his bed, drew up -the blind, and looked out of the window.</p> - -<p>He had seen nothing of Simonstower on the previous evening: it had -seemed to him that after leaving Mr. Trippett’s farmstead he and Mr. -Pepperdine had been swallowed up in deep woods. He had remarked during -the course of the journey that the woods smelled like the pine forests -of Ravenna, and Mr. Pepperdine had answered that there was a deal of -pine thereabouts and likewise fir. Out of the woods they had not emerged -until they drove into the lights of a village, clattered across a bridge -which spanned a brawling stream, and climbed a winding road that led -them into more woods. Then had come the open door, and the new faces, -and bed, and now Lucian had his first opportunity of looking about him.</p> - -<p>The house stood halfway up a hillside. He saw, on leaning out of the -window, that it was stoutly fashioned of great blocks of grey stone and -that some of the upper portions were timbered with mighty oak beams. -Over the main doorway, a little to the right of his window, a slab of -weather-worn stone exhibited a coat of arms, an almost illegible motto -or legend, of which he could only make out a few letters, and the -initials ‘S. P.’ over the date 1594. The house, then, was of a -respectable<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_037" id="page_037"></a>{37}</span> antiquity, and he was pleased because of it. He was -pleased, too, to find the greater part of its exterior half obscured by -ivy, jessamine, climbing rose-trees, honeysuckle, and wistaria, and that -the garden which stretched before it was green and shady and -old-fashioned. He recognised some features of it—the old, moss-grown -sun-dial; the arbour beneath the copper-beech; the rustic bench beneath -the lilac-tree—he had seen one or other of these things in his father’s -pictures, and now knew what memories had placed them there.</p> - -<p>Looking further afield Lucian now saw the village through which they had -driven in the darkness. It lay in the valley, half a mile beneath him, a -quaint, picturesque place of one long straggling street, in which at -that moment he saw many children running about. The houses and cottages -were all of grey stone; some were thatched, some roofed with red tiles; -each stood amidst gardens and orchards. He now saw the bridge over which -Mr. Pepperdine’s mare had clattered the night before—a high, single -arch spanning a winding river thickly fenced in from the meadows by -alder and willow. Near it on rising ground stood the church, -square-towered, high of roof and gable, in the midst of a green -churchyard which in one corner contained the fallen masonry of some old -abbey or priory. On the opposite side of the river, in a small square -which seemed to indicate the forum of the village, stood the inn, easily -recognisable even at that distance by the pole which stood outside it, -bearing aloft a swinging sign, and by the size of the stables -surrounding it. This picture, too, was familiar to the boy’s eyes—he -had seen it in pictures a thousand times.</p> - -<p>Over the village, frowning upon it as a lion frowns upon the victim at -its feet, hung the grim, gaunt castle which, after all, was the -principal feature of the landscape on which Lucian gazed. It stood on a -spur of rocky ground which jutted like a promontory from the hills -behind it—on three sides at least its situation was impregnable. From -Lucian’s point of vantage it still<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_038" id="page_038"></a>{38}</span> wore the aspect of strength and -power; the rustic walls were undamaged; the smaller towers and turrets -showed little sign of decay; and the great Norman keep rose like a -menace in stone above the skyline of the hills. All over the giant mass -of the old stronghold hung a drifting cloud of blue smoke, which -gradually mingled with the spirals rising from the village chimneys and -with the shadowy mists that curled about the pine-clad uplands. And over -everything—village, church, river, castle, meadow, and hill, man and -beast—shone the spring sun, life-giving and generous. Lucian looked and -saw and understood, and made haste to dress in order that he might go -out and possess all these things. He had a quick eye for beauty and an -unerring taste, and he recognised that in this village of the grey North -there was a charm and a romance which nothing could exhaust. His father -had recognised its beauty before him and had immortalised it on canvas; -Lucian, lacking the power to make a picture of it, had yet a keener -æsthetic sense of its appeal and its influence. It was already calling -to him with a thousand voices—he was so impatient to revel in it that -he grudged the time given to his breakfast. Miss Pepperdine expressed -some fears as to the poorness of his appetite; Miss Judith, -understanding the boy’s eagerness somewhat better, crammed a thick slice -of cake into his pocket as he set out. He was in such haste that he had -only time to tell Mr. Pepperdine that he would not ride the pony that -morning—he was going to explore the village, and the pony might wait. -Then he ran off, eager, excited.</p> - -<p>He came back at noon, hungry as a ploughman, delighted with his -morning’s adventures. He had been all over the village, in the church -tower, inside the inn, where he had chatted with the landlord and the -landlady, he had looked inside the infants’ school and praised the red -cloaks worn by the girls to an evidently surprised schoolmistress, and -he had formed an acquaintance with the blacksmith and the carpenter.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_039" id="page_039"></a>{39}</span></p> - -<p>‘And I went up to the castle, too,’ he said in conclusion, ‘and saw the -earl, and he showed me the picture which my father painted—it is -hanging in the great hall.’ Lucian’s relatives betrayed various -emotions. Mr. Pepperdine’s mouth slowly opened until it became -cavernous; Miss Pepperdine paused in the act of lifting a potato to her -mouth; Miss Judith clapped her hands.</p> - -<p>‘You went to the castle and saw the earl?’ said Miss Pepperdine.</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ answered Lucian, unaware of the sensation he was causing. ‘I saw -him and the picture, and other things too. He was very kind—he made his -footman give me a glass of wine, but it was home-made and much too -sweet.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Pepperdine winked at his sisters and cut Lucian another slice of -roast-beef.</p> - -<p>‘And how might you have come to be so hand-in-glove with his lordship, -the mighty Earl of Simonstower?’ he inquired. ‘He’s a very nice, affable -old gentleman, isn’t he, Keziah? Ah—very—specially when he’s got the -gout.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, I went to the castle and rang the bell, and asked if the Earl of -Simonstower was at home,’ Lucian replied. ‘And I told the footman my -name, and he went away, and then came back and told me to follow him, -and he took me into a big study where there was an old, very -cross-looking old gentleman in an old-fashioned coat writing letters. He -had very keen eyes....’</p> - -<p>‘Ah, indeed!’ interrupted Mr. Pepperdine. ‘Like a hawk’s!’</p> - -<p>‘...and he stared at me,’ continued Lucian, ‘and I stared at him. And -then he said, “Well, my boy, what do you want?” and I said, “Please, if -you are the Earl of Simonstower, I want to see the picture you bought -from my father some years ago.” Then he stared harder than ever, and he -said, “Are you Cyprian Damerel’s son?” and I said “Yes.” He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_040" id="page_040"></a>{40}</span> pointed to -a chair and told me to sit down, and he talked about my father and his -work, and then he took me out to look at the pictures. He wanted to know -if I, too, was going to paint, and I had to tell him that I couldn’t -draw at all, and that I meant to be a poet. Then he showed me his -library, or a part of it—I stopped with him a long time, and he shook -hands with me when I left, and said I might go again whenever I wished -to.’</p> - -<p>‘Hear, hear!’ said Mr. Pepperdine. ‘It’s very evident there’s a soft -spot somewhere in the old gentleman’s heart.’</p> - -<p>‘And what did his lordship talk to you about?’ asked Miss Pepperdine, -who had sufficiently recovered from her surprise to resume her dinner. -‘I hope you said “my lord” and “your lordship” when you spoke to him?’</p> - -<p>‘No, I didn’t, because I didn’t know,’ said Lucian. ‘I said “sir,” -because he was an old man. Oh, we talked about Italy—fancy, he hasn’t -been in Italy for twenty years!—and he asked me a lot of questions -about several things, and he got me to translate a letter for him which -he had just received from a professor at Florence—his own Italian, he -said, is getting rusty.’</p> - -<p>‘And could you do it?’ asked Miss Pepperdine.</p> - -<p>Lucian stared at her with wide-open eyes.</p> - -<p>‘Why, yes,’ he answered. ‘It is my native tongue. I know much, much more -Italian than English. Sometimes I cannot find the right word in -English—it is a difficult language to learn.’</p> - -<p>Lucian’s adventures of his first morning pleased Mr. Pepperdine greatly. -He chuckled to himself as he smoked his after-dinner pipe—the notion of -his nephew bearding the grim old earl in his tumble-down castle was -vastly gratifying and amusing: it was also pleasing to find Lucian -treated with such politeness. As the Earl of Simonstower’s tenant Mr. -Pepperdine had much respect but little affection for his titled -neighbour: the old gentleman was arbitrary and autocratic and totally<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_041" id="page_041"></a>{41}</span> -deaf to whatever might be said to him about bad times. Mr. Pepperdine -was glad to get some small change out of the earl through his nephew.</p> - -<p>‘Did his lordship mention me or your aunties at all?’ he said, puffing -at his pipe as they all sat round the parlour fire.</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ answered Lucian, ‘he spoke of you.’</p> - -<p>‘And what did he say like? Something sweet, no doubt,’ said Mr. -Pepperdine.</p> - -<p>Lucian looked at Miss Judith and made no answer.</p> - -<p>‘Out with it, lad!’ said Mr. Pepperdine.</p> - -<p>‘It was only about Aunt Judith,’ answered Lucian. ‘He said she was a -very pretty woman.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Pepperdine exploded in bursts of hearty laughter; Miss Judith -blushed like any girl; Miss Pepperdine snorted with indignation. She was -about to make some remark on the old nobleman’s taste when a diversion -was caused by the announcement that Lucian’s beloved chest of books had -arrived from Wellsby station. Nothing would satisfy the boy but that he -must unpack them there and then; he seized Miss Judith by the hand and -dragged her away to help him. For the rest of the afternoon the two were -arranging the books in an old bookcase which they unearthed from a -lumber-room and set up in Lucian’s sleeping chamber. Mr. Pepperdine, -looking in upon them once or twice and noting their fervour, retired to -the parlour or the kitchen with a remark to his elder sister that they -were as throng as Throp’s wife. Judith, indeed, had some taste in the -way of literature—in her own room she treasured a collection of volumes -which she had read over and over again. Her taste was chiefly for Lord -Byron, Moore, Mrs. Hemans, Miss Landon, and the sentimentalists; she -treasured a steel-plate engraving of Byron as if it had been a sacred -picture, and gazed with awe upon her nephew when he told her that he had -seen the palazzo in which Byron lived during his residence in Pisa, and -the house which he had occupied in Venice. Her own romance had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_042" id="page_042"></a>{42}</span> given -Judith a love of poetry: she told Lucian as she helped him to unpack his -books and arrange them that she should expect him to read to her. Modern -literature was an unexplored field in her case; her knowledge of letters -was essentially early Victorian, and her ideas those of the age in which -a poet was most popular when most miserable, and young ladies wore white -stockings and low shoes with ankle-straps. She associated fiction with -high waists, and essays with full-bottomed wigs, and it seemed the most -natural thing to her to shed the tear of sympathy over the Corsair and -to sigh with pity for Childe Harold.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_043" id="page_043"></a>{43}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Lucian</span> settled down in his new surroundings with a readiness and -docility that surprised his relatives. He rarely made any allusion to -the loss of his father—he appeared to possess a philosophic spirit that -enabled him, even at so early an age, to accept the facts of life as -they are. He was never backward, however, in talking of the past. He had -been his father’s constant companion for six years, and had travelled -with him wherever he went, especially in Italy, and he brought out of -his memory stores of reminiscences with which to interest and amuse his -newly found relatives. He would talk to Mr. Pepperdine of Italian -agriculture; to Keziah of Italian domestic life; to Judith of the -treasures of Rome and Naples, Pisa and Florence, of the blue skies and -sun-kissed groves of his native land. He always insisted on his -nationality—the accident of his connection with England on the maternal -side seemed to have no meaning for him.</p> - -<p>‘I am Italian,’ he would say when Mr. Pepperdine slyly teased him. ‘It -does not matter that I was born in England. My real name is Luciano -Damerelli, and my father’s, if he had used it, was Cypriano.’</p> - -<p>Little by little they began to find out the boy’s qualities and -characteristics. He was strangely old-fashioned, precocious, and -unnaturally grave, and cared little for the society of other children, -at whom he had a trick of staring as if they had been insects impaled -beneath a microscope and he a scientist examining them. He appeared to -have two great passions—one for out-door life and nature; the other for -reading. He would sit for hours on the bridge watching the river run by, -or lie on his back on the lawn in front of the house staring at the -drifting clouds. He knew every nook of the ruinous part of the castle -and every corner<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_044" id="page_044"></a>{44}</span> of the old church before he had been at Simonstower -many weeks. He made friends with everybody in the village, and if he -found out that an old man had some strange legend to tell, he pestered -the life out of him until it was told. And every day he did so much -reading, always with the stern concentration of the student who means to -possess a full mind.</p> - -<p>When Lucian had been nearly two months at the farm it was borne in upon -Miss Pepperdine’s mind that he ought to be sent to school. She was by no -means anxious to get rid of him—on the contrary she was glad to have -him in the house: she loved to hear him talk, to see him going about, -and to watch his various proceedings. But Keziah Pepperdine had been -endowed at birth with the desire to manage—she was one of those people -who are never happy unless they are controlling, devising, or -superintending. Moreover, she possessed a very strict sense of -justice—she believed in doing one’s duty, especially to those people to -whom duty was owing, and who could not extract it for themselves. It -seemed to her that it was the plain duty of Lucian’s relatives to send -Lucian to school. She was full of anxieties for his future. Every -attempt which she had made to get her brother to tell her anything about -the boy’s affairs had resulted in sheer failure—Simpson Pepperdine, -celebrated from the North Sea to the Westmoreland border as the -easiest-going and best-natured man that ever lived, was a past master in -the art of evading direct questions. Keziah could get no information -from him, and she was anxious for Lucian’s sake. The boy, she said, -ought to be fitted out for some walk in life.</p> - -<p>She took the vicar into her confidence, seizing the opportunity when he -called one day and found no one but herself at home.</p> - -<p>‘Of course,’ she said, ‘the boy is a great book-worm. Reading is all -that he seems to care about. He brought a quantity of books with him—he -has bought others since. He reads in an old-fashioned sort of way—not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_045" id="page_045"></a>{45}</span> -as you would think a child would. I offered him a child’s book one -night—it was one that a little boy who once stayed here had left in the -house. He took it politely enough, and pretended to look at it, but it -was plain to see that he was amused. He is a precocious child, Mr. -Chilverstone.’</p> - -<p>The vicar agreed. He suggested that he might be better able to judge the -situation, and to advise Miss Pepperdine thereon, if he were allowed to -inspect Lucian’s library, and Keziah accordingly escorted him to the -boy’s room. Mr. Chilverstone was somewhat taken aback on being -confronted by an assemblage of some three or four hundred volumes, -arranged with great precision and bearing evidences of constant use. He -remarked that the sight was most interesting, and proceeded to make a -general inspection. A rapid survey of Lucian’s books showed him that the -boy had three favourite subjects—history, mediæval romance, and poetry. -There were histories of almost every country in Europe, and at least -three of the United States of America; there were editions of the -ancient chronicles; the great Italian poets were all there in the -original; the English poets, ancient and modern, were there too, in -editions that bespoke the care of a book-lover. There was nothing of a -juvenile, or even a frivolous nature from the top of the old bookcase to -the bottom—the nearest approach to anything in the shape of light -literature was found in the presence of certain famous historical -romances of undoubted verisimilitude, and in much-thumbed copies of -<i>Robinson Crusoe</i> and <i>The Pilgrim’s Progress</i>.</p> - -<p>Mr. Chilverstone was puzzled. As at least one-half of the books before -him were in Italian, he concluded that Lucian was as well acquainted -with that language as with English, and said so. Miss Pepperdine -enlightened him on the point, and gave him a rapid sketch of Lucian’s -history.</p> - -<p>‘Just so, just so,’ said he. ‘No doubt the boy’s father formed his -taste. It is really most interesting.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_046" id="page_046"></a>{46}</span> It is very evident that the child -has an uncommon mind—you say that he reads with great attention and -concentration?’</p> - -<p>‘You might let off a cannon at his elbow and he wouldn’t take any -notice,’ said Miss Pepperdine.</p> - -<p>‘It is evident that he is a born student. This is a capital collection -of modern histories,’ said Mr. Chilverstone. ‘If your nephew has read -and digested them all he must be well informed as to the rise and -progress of nations. I should like, I think, to have an opportunity of -conversing with him.’</p> - -<p>Although he did not say so to Miss Pepperdine, the vicar was secretly -anxious to find out what had diverted the boy’s attention from the usual -pursuits of childhood into these paths. He contrived to waylay Lucian -and to draw him into conversation, and being a man of some talent and of -considerable sympathy, he soon knew all that the boy had to tell. He -found that Lucian had never received any education of the ordinary type; -had never been to school or known tutor or governess. He could not -remember who taught him to read, but cherished a notion that reading and -writing had come to him with his speech. As to his choice of books, that -had largely had its initiative in his father’s recommendation; but there -had been a further incentive in the fact that the boy had travelled a -great deal, was familiar with many historic scenes and places, and had a -natural desire to re-create the past in his own imagination. For six -years, in short, he had been receiving an education such as few children -are privileged to acquire. He talked of mediæval Italy as if he had -lived in its sunny-tinted hours, and of modern Rome as though it lay in -the next parish. But Mr. Chilverstone saw that the boy was in no danger -of becoming either prig or pedant, and that his mind was as normal as -his body was healthy. He was the mere outcome of an exceptional -environment. He had lived amongst men who talked and worked and thought -but with one object—Art—and their enthusiasm had filled<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_047" id="page_047"></a>{47}</span> him too. ‘I -am to be a poet—a great poet,’ he said, with serious face and a -straight stare from the violet eyes whose beauty brought everybody -captive to his feet. ‘It is my destiny.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Chilverstone had a sheaf of yellow papers locked away in a secret -drawer which he had never exhibited to living man or woman—verses -written in long dead college days. He was sentimental about them still, -and the sentiment inclined him to tenderness with youthful genius. He -assured Lucian that he sincerely trusted that he might achieve his -heart’s desire, and added a word of good advice as to the inadvisability -of writing too soon. But he discovered that some one had been beforehand -with the boy on that point—the future poet, with a touch of worldly -wisdom which sounded as odd as it was quaint, assured the parson that he -had a horror of immaturity and had been commanded by his father never to -print anything until it had stood the test of cool-headed reflection and -twelve months’ keeping.</p> - -<p>The vicar recognised that here was material which required careful -nursing and watchful attention. He soon found that Lucian knew nothing -of mathematics, and that his only desire in the way of Greek and Latin -was that he might be able to read the poets of those languages in the -originals. Of the grammar of the English language he knew absolutely -nothing, but as he spoke with an almost too extreme correctness, and in -a voice of great refinement, Mr. Chilverstone gave it as his opinion -that there was no necessity to trouble him with its complexities. But in -presenting his report to Miss Pepperdine the vicar said that it would do -the boy good to go to school. He would mix with other boys—he was -healthy and normal enough, to be sure, and full of boyish fun in his -way, but the society of lads of his own age would be good for him. He -recommended Miss Pepperdine to send him to the grammar-school at -Saxonstowe, the headmaster of which was a friend of his and would gladly -give special<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_048" id="page_048"></a>{48}</span> attention to any boy whom he recommended. He volunteered, -carrying his kindness further, to go over to Saxonstowe and talk to Dr. -Babbacombe; for Lucian, he remarked, was no ordinary boy, and needed -special attention.</p> - -<p>Miss Pepperdine, like most generals who conceive their plans of campaign -in secret, found that her troubles commenced as soon as she began to -expose her scheme to criticism. Mr. Pepperdine, as a lifelong exponent -of the art of letting things alone, wanted to know what she meant by -disturbing everything when all was going on as comfortably as it could -be. He was sure the boy had as much book-learning as the archbishop -himself—besides, if he was sent away to school, he, Simpson Pepperdine, -would have nobody to talk to about how they farmed in foreign countries. -Judith, half recognising the force of her sister’s arguments, was still -angry with Keziah for allowing them to occur to her—she knew that the -boy had crept so closely into her heart and had so warmed it with new -fire that she hated the thought of his leaving her, even though -Saxonstowe was only thirty miles away. Consequently Miss Pepperdine -fought many pitched battles with her brother and sister, and Simpson and -Judith, who knew that she had more brains in her little finger than they -possessed in their two heads, took to holding conferences in secret in -the vain hope of circumventing her designs.</p> - -<p>It came as a vast surprise to these two conspirators that Lucian -himself, on whose behalf they basely professed to be fighting, deserted -to, or rather openly joined, the enemy as soon as the active campaign -began. Miss Pepperdine, like the astute woman she was, gained the boy’s -ear and had talked him over before either Simpson or Judith could -pervert his mind. He listened to all she had to say, showed that he was -impressed, and straightway repaired to the vicarage to seek Mr. -Chilverstone’s advice. That evening, in the course of a family council, -shared in by Mr. Pepperdine with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_049" id="page_049"></a>{49}</span> gloomy face and feelings of silent -resentment against Keziah, and by Judith with something of the emotion -displayed by a hen who is about to be robbed of her one chicken, Lucian -announced that he would go to school, adding, however, that if he found -there was nothing to be learnt there he would return to his uncle’s -roof. Mr. Pepperdine plucked up amazingly after this announcement, for -he cherished a secret conviction that his nephew already knew more than -any schoolmaster could teach him; but Judith shed tears when she went to -bed, and felt ill-disposed towards Keziah for the rest of the week.</p> - -<p>Lucian went to Saxonstowe presently with cheerfulness and a businesslike -air, and the three middle-aged Pepperdines were miserable. Mr. -Pepperdine took to going over to the Grange at Wellsby nearly every -night, and Judith was openly rebellious. Miss Pepperdine herself felt -that the house was all the duller for the boy’s absence, and wondered -how they had endured its dumb monotony before he came. There was much of -the Spartan in her, however, and she bore up without sign; but the -experience taught her that Duty, when actually done, is not so pleasing -to the human feelings as it seems to be when viewed from a distance.</p> - -<p>No word came from Lucian for two weeks after his departure; then the -postman brought a letter addressed to Mr. Pepperdine, which was opened -amidst great excitement at the breakfast table. Mr. Pepperdine, however, -read it in silence.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>‘My dear Uncle Simpson Pepperdine,’ wrote Lucian, ‘I did not wish -to write to you until I had been at school quite two weeks, so that -I could tell you what I thought of it, and whether it would suit -me. It is a very nice school, and all the boys are very nice too, -and I like Dr. Babbacombe, and his wife, and the masters. We have -very good meals, and I should be quite content in that respect if -one could sometimes have a cup of decent coffee, but I believe that -is impossible<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_050" id="page_050"></a>{50}</span> in England. They have a pudding here, sometimes, -which the boys call Spotted Dog—it is very satisfying and I do not -remember hearing of it before—it has what English people call -plums in it, but they are in reality small dried raisins.</p> - -<p>‘I am perfectly content with my surroundings and my new friends, -but I greatly fear that this system of education will not suit me. -In some subjects, such as history and general knowledge, I find -that I already know much more than Dr. Babbacombe usually teaches -to boys. As regards other subjects I find that it is not <i>en règle</i> -to permit discussion or argument between master and pupil. I can -quite see the reasonableness of that, but it is the only way in -which I have ever learnt everything. I am not quick at learning -anything—I have to read a thing over and over again before I -arrive at the true significance. It may be that I would spend a -whole day in accounting to myself why a certain cause produces a -certain effect—the system of education in use here, however, -requires one to learn many things in quite a short time. It reminds -me of the man who taught twelve parrots all at once. In more ways -than one it reminds me of this, because I feel that many boys here -learn the sound of a word and yet do not know what the word means. -That is what I have been counselled to avoid.</p> - -<p>‘I am anxious to be amenable to your wishes, but I think I shall -waste time here. If I could have my own way I should like to have -Mr. Chilverstone for a tutor, because he is a man of understanding -and patience, and would fully explain everything to me. I am not -easy in my mind here, though quite so in my body. Everybody is very -kind and the life is comfortable, but I do not think Dr. Babbacombe -or his masters are great <i>savants</i>, though they are gracious and -estimable gentlemen.</p> - -<p>‘I send my love to you and my aunts, and to Mr. Chilverstone and -Mr. and Mrs. Trippett. I have bought a cricket-bat for John -Trippett and a doll for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_051" id="page_051"></a>{51}</span> Mary, which I shall send in a box very -soon.—And I am your affectionate kinsman,</p> - -<p class="r"> -‘<span class="smcap">Lucian Damerel</span>.</p></div> - -<p>As the greater part of this remarkable epistle was pure Greek to Mr. -Pepperdine, he repaired to the vicarage with it and laid it before Mr. -Chilverstone, who, having duly considered it, returned with Lucian’s -kinsman to the farm and there entered into solemn conclave with him and -his sisters. The result of their deliberations was that the boy was soon -afterwards taken from the care of the gracious and estimable gentlemen -who were not <i>savants</i>, and placed, so far as his education was -concerned, under the sole charge of the vicar.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_052" id="page_052"></a>{52}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Mr. Chilverstone</span> was one of those men upon whom many sorrows and -disappointments are laid. He had set out in life with a choice selection -of great ambitions, and at forty-five not one of them had fructified. -Ill-health had always weighed him down in one direction; ill-luck in -another; the only piece of good fortune which had ever come to him came -when the Earl of Simonstower, who had heard of him as an inoffensive man -content to serve a parish without going to extremes in either of the -objectionable directions, presented him to a living which even in bad -times was worth five hundred pounds a year. But just before this -preferment came in his way Mr. Chilverstone had the misfortune to lose -his wife, and the enjoyment of the fit things of a country living was -necessarily limited to him for some time. He was not greatly taxed by -his pastoral duties, for his flock, from the earl downwards, loved that -type of parson who knows how to keep his place, and only insists on his -professional prestige on Sundays and the appointed days, and he had no -great inclination to occupy himself in other directions. As the -bitterness of his great sorrow slipped away from him he found his life -resolving itself into a level—his time was passed in reading, in -pottering about his garden, and, as she grew up, in educating his only -child, a girl who at the time of her mother’s death was little more than -an infant. At the time of Lucian’s arrival in the village Mr. -Chilverstone’s daughter was at school in Belgium—the boy’s first visits -to the vicarage were therefore made to a silent and lonely house, and -they proved very welcome to its master.</p> - -<p>Lucian’s experience at the grammar-school was never repeated under the -new <i>régime</i>. The vicar had been somewhat starved in the matter of -conversation for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_053" id="page_053"></a>{53}</span> more years than he cared to remember, and it was a -Godsend to him to have a keen and inquiring mind opposed to his own. His -pupil’s education began and was continued in an unorthodox fashion; -there was no system and very little order in it, but it was good for man -and boy. They began to spend much time together, in the field as much as -in the study. Mr. Chilverstone, encouraged thereto by Lucian, revived an -ancient taste for archæology, and the two made long excursions to the -ruined abbeys, priories, castles, and hermitages in their neighbourhood. -Miss Pepperdine, to whom Lucian invariably applied for large supplies of -sandwiches on these occasions, had an uncomfortable suspicion that the -boy would have been better employed with a copy-book or a slate, but she -had great faith in the vicar, and acknowledged that her nephew never got -into mischief, though he had certainly set his room on fire one night by -a bad habit of reading in bed. She had become convinced that Lucian was -an odd chicken, who had got into the brood by some freak of fortune, and -she fell into the prevalent fashion of the family in regarding him as -something uncommon that was not to be judged by ordinary rules of life -or interfered with. To Mr. Pepperdine and to Judith he remained a -constant source of wonder, interest, and amusement, for his tongue never -ceased to wag, and he communicated to them everything that he saw, -heard, and thought, with a freedom and generosity that kept them in a -perpetual state of mental activity.</p> - -<p>Towards the end of June, when Lucian had been three months at -Simonstower, he walked into the vicar’s study one morning to find him in -a state of mild excitement. Mr. Chilverstone nodded his head at a letter -which lay open on his desk.</p> - -<p>‘The day after to-morrow,’ he said, ‘you will see my daughter. She is -coming home from school.’</p> - -<p>Lucian made no answer. It seemed to him that this bare announcement -wrought some subtle change. He knew nothing whatever of girls—they had -never come<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_054" id="page_054"></a>{54}</span> into his life, and he was doubtful about them. He stared -hard at the vicar.</p> - -<p>‘Will you be glad to see her?’ he asked.</p> - -<p>‘Why, surely!’ exclaimed Mr. Chilverstone. ‘Yes—I have not seen her for -nearly a year, and it is two years since she left home. Yes—Millie is -all I have.’</p> - -<p>Lucian felt a pang of jealousy. It was part of his nature to fall in -love with every new friend he made; in return, he expected each new -friend to devote himself to him. He had become very fond of the vicar; -they got on together excellently; it was not pleasant to think that a -girl was coming between them. Besides, what Mr. Chilverstone said was -not true. This Millie was not all he had—he had some of him, Lucian.</p> - -<p>‘You will like my little girl,’ the vicar went on, utterly oblivious of -the fact that he was making the boy furiously jealous. ‘She is full of -life and fun—a real ray of sunshine in a house.’ He sighed heavily and -looked at a portrait of his wife. ‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘she is quite a -lively girl, my little Millie. A sort of tomboy, you know. I call her -Sprats; it seems to fit her, somehow.’</p> - -<p>Lucian almost choked with rage and grief. All the old, pleasant -companionship; all the long talks and walks; all the disputations and -scholarly wrangles were to be at an end, and all because of a girl whose -father called her Sprats! It was unbelievable. He gazed at the -unobservant clergyman with eyes of wonder; he had come to have a great -respect for him as a scholar, and could not understand how a man who -could make the Greek grammar so interesting could feel any interest in a -girl, even though that girl happened to be his own daughter. For women -like his aunts, and Mrs. Trippett, and the housekeeper at the castle, -Lucian had a great liking; they were all useful in one way or another, -either to get good things to eat out of, or to talk to when one wanted -to talk; but girls—whatever place had they in the economy of nature! He -had never spoken to a girl in his life, except to little Mary Trippett, -who was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_055" id="page_055"></a>{55}</span> nine, and to whom he sometimes gave sweets and dolls. Would he -be expected to talk to this girl whose father called her Sprats? He -turned hot and cold at the thought.</p> - -<p>His visit to the vicarage that morning was a dead failure. Mr. -Chilverstone’s behaviour was foolish and ridiculous: he would talk of -Sprats. He even went as far as to tell Lucian of some of Sprats’s -escapades. They were mostly of the practical-joke order, and seemed to -afford Mr. Chilverstone huge amusement—Lucian wondered how he could be -so silly. He endeavoured to be as polite as possible, but he declined an -invitation to stay to lunch. He would cheerfully listen to Mr. -Chilverstone on the very dryest points of an irregular verb, but Mr. -Chilverstone on Sprats was annoying—he almost descended to futility.</p> - -<p>Lucian refused two invitations that afternoon. Mr. Pepperdine offered to -take him with him to York, whither he was proceeding on business; Miss -Judith asked him if he would like to go with her to the house of a -friend in whose grounds was a haunted hermitage. He declined both -invitations with great politeness and went out in solitude. Part of the -afternoon he spent with an old man who mended the roads. The old man was -stone-deaf and needed no conversational effort on the part of a friend, -and when he spoke himself he talked of intelligent subjects, such as -rheumatism, backache, and the best cure for stone in the bladder. Lucian -thought him a highly intelligent man, and presented him with a screw of -tobacco purchased at the village shop—it was a tacit thankoffering to -the gods that the old man had avoided the subject of girls. His spirits -improved after a visit to the shoemaker, who told him a brand-new ghost -story for the truth of which he vouched with many solemn asseverations, -and he was chatty with his Aunt Keziah when they took tea together. But -that night he did not talk so much as usual, and he went to bed early -and made no attempt to coax Miss Pepperdine into letting him have the -extra<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_056" id="page_056"></a>{56}</span> light which she had confiscated after he had set his bed on fire.</p> - -<p>Next day Lucian hoped to find the vicar in a saner frame of mind, but to -his astonishment and disgust Mr. Chilverstone immediately began to talk -of Sprats again, and continued to do so until he became unbearable. -Lucian was obliged to listen to stories which to him seemed inept, -fatuous, and even imbecile. He was told of Sprats’s first distinct -words; of her first tooth; of her first attempts to walk; of the -memorable occasion upon which she placed her pet kitten on the fire in -order to warm it. The infatuated father, who had not had an opportunity -of retailing these stories for some time, and who believed that he was -interesting his listener, continued to pour forth story after story, -each more feeble and ridiculous than the last, until Lucian could have -shrieked with the agony which was tearing his soul to pieces. He pleaded -a bad headache at last and tried to slip away—Mr. Chilverstone detained -him in order to give him an anti-headache powder, and accompanied his -researches into the medicine cupboard with a highly graphic description -of a stomach-ache which Sprats had once contracted from too lavish -indulgence in unripe apples, and was cured by himself with some simple -drug. The vicar, in short, being a disingenuous and a simple-minded man, -had got Sprats on the brain, and he imagined that every word he said was -meeting with a responsive thrill in the boy’s heart.</p> - -<p>Lucian escaped the fatuous father at last. He rushed out into the -sunlight, almost choking with rage, grief, and disappointment. He flung -the powder into the hedge-bottom, sat down on a stone-heap at the side -of the road, and began to swear in Italian. He swore freely and fluently -until he had exhausted that eloquent vocabulary which one may pick up in -Naples and Venice and in the purlieus of Hatton Garden, and when he had -finished he began it all over again and repeated it with as much fervour -as one should display, if one is honest, in reciting the Rosary. This -saved him from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_057" id="page_057"></a>{57}</span> apoplexy, but the blood grew black within him and his -soul was scratched. It had been no part of Lucian’s plans for the future -that Sprats should come between him and his friend.</p> - -<p>He slept badly that night, and while he lay awake he said to himself -that it was all over. It was a mere repetition of history—a woman -always came between men. He had read a hundred instances—this was one -more. Of course, the Sprats creature would oust him from his -place—nothing would ever be as it had been. All was desolate, and he -was alone. He read several pages of the fourth canto of <i>Childe Harold</i> -as soon as it was light, and dropped asleep with the firm conviction -that life is a grey thing.</p> - -<p>All that day and the next Lucian kept away from the vicarage. The -domestic deities wondered why he did not go as usual; he invented -plausible excuses with facile ingenuity. He neglected his books and -betrayed a suspicious interest in Mr. Pepperdine’s recent purchases of -cattle; he was restless and at times excited, and Miss Keziah looked at -his tongue and felt his forehead and made him swallow a dose of a -certain home-made medicine by which she set great store. On the third -day the suppressed excitement within him reached boiling-point. He went -out into the fields mad to work it off, and by good or ill luck lighted -upon an honest rustic who was hoeing turnips under a blazing midsummer -sun. Lucian looked at the rustic with the eye of a mocking and -mischievous devil.</p> - -<p>‘Boggles,’ he said, with a Mephistophelian coaxing, ‘would you like to -hear some Italian?’ Boggles ruminated.</p> - -<p>‘Why, Master Lucian,’ he said, ‘I don’t know as I ever did hear that -language—can’t say as I ever did, anyhow.’</p> - -<p>‘Listen, then,’ said Lucian. He treated Boggles to a string of -expletives, delivered with native force and energy, making use of his -eyes and teeth until the man began to feel frightened.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_058" id="page_058"></a>{58}</span></p> - -<p>‘Lord sakes, Master Lucian!’ he said, ‘one ’ud think you was going to -murder somebody—you look that fierce. It’s a queer sort o’ language -that, sir—I never heard nowt like it. It flays a body.’</p> - -<p>‘It is the most delightful language in the world when you want to -swear,’ said Lucian. ‘It....’</p> - -<p>‘Nonsense! It isn’t a patch on German. You wait till I get over the -hedge and I’ll show you,’ cried a ringing and very authoritative voice. -‘I can reel off twice as much as that.’</p> - -<p>Lucian turned round with an instinctive feeling that a critical moment -was at hand. He caught sight of something feminine behind the hedgerow; -the next instant a remarkably nimble girl came over a half-made gap. The -turnip-hoeing man uttered an exclamation which had much joy in it.</p> - -<p>‘Lord sakes if it isn’t Miss Millie!’ he said, touching his cap. ‘Glad -to see ’ee once again, missie. They did tell me you was coming from them -furrineerin’ countries, and there you be, growed quite up, as one might -say.’</p> - -<p>‘Not quite, but nearly, Boggles,’ answered Miss Chilverstone. ‘How’s -your rheumatics, as one might call ’em? They were pretty bad when I went -away, I remember.’</p> - -<p>‘They’re always bad i’ th’ winter, miss,’ said Boggles, leaning on his -hoe and evincing a decided desire to talk, ‘and a deal better in summer, -allus providing the Lord don’t send no rain. Fine, dry weather, miss, is -what I want—the rain ain’t no good to me.’</p> - -<p>‘A little drop wouldn’t hurt the turnips, anyway,’ said Miss -Chilverstone, looking about her with a knowing air. ‘Seem pretty well -dried up, don’t they?’ She looked at Lucian. Their eyes met: the boy -stared and blushed; the girl stared and laughed.</p> - -<p>‘Did it lose its tongue, then?’ she said teasingly. ‘It seemed to have a -very long and very ready one when it was swearing at poor old Boggles. -What made him use such bad language to you, Boggles?’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_059" id="page_059"></a>{59}</span></p> - -<p>‘Lord bless ’ee, missie,’ said Boggles hurriedly, ‘he didn’t mean no -harm, didn’t Master Lucian—he was telling me how they swear in -Eye-talian. Not but what it didn’t sound very terrible—but he wouldn’t -hurt a fly, wouldn’t Master Lucian, miss, he wouldn’t indeed.’</p> - -<p>‘Dear little lamb!’ she said mockingly, ‘I shouldn’t think he would.’ -She turned on the boy with a sudden twist of her shoulders. ‘So you are -Lucian, are you?’ she asked.</p> - -<p>‘I am Lucian, yes,’ he answered.</p> - -<p>‘Do you know who I am?’ she asked, with a flashing look.</p> - -<p>Lucian stared back at her, and the shadow of a smile stole into his -face.</p> - -<p>‘I think,’ he said musingly, ‘I think you must be Sprats.’</p> - -<p>Then the two faced each other and stared as only stranger children can -stare.</p> - -<p>Mr. Boggles, his watery old eyes keenly observant, leaned his chin upon -his hoe and stared also, chuckling to himself. Neither saw him; their -eyes were all for each other. The girl, without acknowledging it, -perhaps without knowing it, recognised the boy’s beauty and hated him -for it in a healthy fashion. He was too much of a picture; his clothes -were too neat; his collar too clean; his hands too white; he was -altogether too much of a fine and finicking little gentleman; he ought, -she said to herself, to be stuck in a velvet suit, and a point-lace -collar, and labelled. The spirit of mischief entered into her at the -sight of him.</p> - -<p>Lucian examined this strange creature with care. He was relieved to find -that she was by no means beautiful. He saw a strong-limbed, -active-looking young damsel, rather older and rather taller than -himself, whose face was odd, rather than pretty, and chiefly remarkable -for a prodigality of freckles and a healthy tan. Her nose was pugnacious -and inclined to be of the snub order; her hair sandy and anything but -tidy;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_060" id="page_060"></a>{60}</span> there was nothing beautiful in her face but a pair of brown eyes -of a singularly clear and honest sort. As for her attire, it was not in -that order which an exacting governess might have required: she wore a -blue serge frock in which she had evidently been climbing trees or -scrambling through hedgerows, a battered straw hat wherein she or -somebody had stuck the long feathers from a cock’s tail; there was a -rent in one of her stockings, and her stout shoes looked as if she had -tramped through several ploughed fields in them. All over and round her -glowed a sort of aureole of rude and vigorous health, of animal spirits, -and of a love of mischief—the youthful philosopher confronting her -recognised a new influence and a new nature.</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ she said demurely, ‘I’m Sprats, and you’ve a cheek to call me -so—who gave you leave, I’d like to know? What would you think if I told -you that you’d look nice if you had a barrel-organ and a monkey on it? -Ha! ha! had him there, hadn’t I, Boggles? Well, do you know where I am -going, monkey-boy?’</p> - -<p>Lucian sighed resignedly.</p> - -<p>‘No,’ he answered.</p> - -<p>‘Going to fetch you,’ she said. ‘You haven’t been to your lessons for -two days, and you’re to go this instant minute.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t think I want any lessons to-day,’ replied Lucian.</p> - -<p>‘Hear him!’ she said, making a grimace. ‘What do they do with little -boys who won’t go to school, Boggles—eh?’</p> - -<p>If Lucian had known more of a world with which he had never, poor child, -had much opportunity of making acquaintance, he would have seen that -Sprats was meditating mischief. Her eyes began to glitter: she smiled -demurely.</p> - -<p>‘Are you coming peaceably?’ she asked.</p> - -<p>‘But I’m not coming at all,’ replied Lucian.</p> - -<p>‘Aren’t you, though? We’ll soon settle that,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_061" id="page_061"></a>{61}</span> won’t we, Boggles?’ she -exclaimed. ‘Now then, monkey—off you go!’</p> - -<p>She was on him with a rush before he knew what was about to happen, and -had lifted him off his feet and swung him on to her shoulder ere he -could escape her. Lucian expostulated and beseeched; Sprats, shouting -and laughing, made for a gap in the hedgerow; Boggles, hugely delighted, -following in the wake. At the gap a battle royal ensued—Lucian fighting -to free himself, the girl clinging on to him with all the strength of -her vigorous young arms.</p> - -<p>‘Let me go, I say!’ cried Lucian. ‘Let me down!’</p> - -<p>‘You’d best to go quiet and peaceable, Master Lucian,’ counselled -Boggles. ‘Miss Millie ain’t one to be denied of anything.’</p> - -<p>‘But I won’t be carried!’ shouted Lucian, half mad with rage. ‘I -won’t....’</p> - -<p>He got no further. Sprats, holding on tight to her captive, caught her -foot in a branch as she struggled over the gap, and pitched headlong -through. There was a steep bank at the other side with a wide ditch of -water at its foot: Boggles, staring over the hedge with all his eyes, -beheld captor and captive, an inextricable mass of legs and arms, turn a -series of hurried somersaults and collapse into the duck-weed and -water-lilies with a splash that drowned their mutual screams of rage, -indignation, and delight.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_062" id="page_062"></a>{62}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> followed as a matter of inevitable consequence that Lucian and Sprats -when they emerged from the waters of the wayside ditch had become fast -friends for life; from that time forward they were as David and -Jonathan, loving much, and having full confidence in each other. They -became inseparable, and their lives were spent together from an early -hour of the morning until the necessary bedtime. The vicar was to a -certain degree shelved: his daughter possessed the charm of youth and -high spirits which was wanting in him. He became a species of elder -brother, who was useful in teaching one things and good company on -occasions. He, like the philosopher which life had made him, accepted -the situation. He saw that the devotion which Lucian had been about to -pour out at his own feet had by a sudden whim of fate been diverted to -his daughter, and he smiled. He took from these two children all that -they gave him, and was sometimes gorged to satiety and sometimes kept on -short commons, according to their vagaries and moods. Like all young and -healthy things, they believed that the world had been made for their own -particular benefit, and they absorbed it. Perhaps there had never been -such a close companionship as that which sprang up between these two. -The trifling fact that one was a boy and the other a girl never seemed -to strike them: they were sexless and savage in their freedom. Under -Sprats’s fostering care Lucian developed a new side of his character: -she taught him to play cricket and football, to climb trees and -precipices, to fish and to ride, and to be an out-of-door boy in every -way. He, on his part, repaid her by filling her mind with much of his -own learning: she became as familiar with the scenes of his childhood as -if she had lived in them herself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_063" id="page_063"></a>{63}</span></p> - -<p>For three years the vicar, Sprats, and Lucian lived in a world of their -own, with the Pepperdines as a closely fitting environment. Miss -Pepperdine was accustomed to remark that she did not know whether Lucian -really lived at the farm or at the vicarage, but as the vicar often made -a similar observation with respect to his daughter, things appeared to -be equalised. It was true that the two children treated the houses with -equal freedom. If they happened to be at the farm about dinner-time they -dined there, but the vicarage would have served them equally well if it -had harboured them when the luncheon-bell rang. Mr. Pepperdine was -greatly delighted when he found them filling a side of his board: their -remarks on things in general, their debates, disputes, and more than -all, their quarrels, afforded him much amusement. They were not so well -understood by Miss Pepperdine, who considered the young lady from the -vicarage to be something of a hoyden, and thought it the vicar’s duty to -marry again and provide his offspring with a mother.</p> - -<p>‘And a pretty time she’d have!’ remarked Mr. Pepperdine, to whom this -sage reflection was offered. ‘A nice handful for anybody, is that young -Sprats—as full of mischief as an egg is full of meat. But a good ge’l, -a good ge’l, Keziah, and with a warm heart, you make no mistake.’</p> - -<p>Sprats’s kindness of heart, indeed, was famous throughout the village. -She was her father’s almoner, and tempered charity with discrimination -in a way that would have done credit to a professional philanthropist. -She made periodical visits through the village, followed by Lucian, who -meekly carried a large basket containing toothsome and seasonable doles, -which were handed out to this or that old woman in accordance with -Sprats’s instructions. The instinct of mothering something was strong -within her. From the moment of her return from school she had taken her -father in hand and had shaken him up and pulled him together. He had -contracted bad habits as regards food and was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_064" id="page_064"></a>{64}</span> becoming dyspeptic; he -was careless about his personal comfort and neglectful of his -health—Sprats dragooned him into the paths of rectitude. But she -extended her mothering instincts to Lucian even more than to her father. -She treated him at times as if he were a child with whom it was -unnecessary to reason; there was always an affectionate solicitude in -her attitude towards him which was, perhaps, most marked when she -bullied him into subjection. Once when he was ill and confined to his -room for a week or two she took up her quarters at the farm, summarily -dismissed Keziah and Judith from attendance on the invalid, and nursed -him back to convalescence. It was useless to argue with her on these -occasions. Sprats, as Boggles had truly said, was not one to be denied -of anything, and every year made it more manifest that when she had -picked Lucian up in the turnip-field and had fallen headlong into the -ditch with him, it had been a figure of her future interest in his -welfare.</p> - -<p>It was in the fourth summer of Lucian’s residence at Simonstower, and he -was fifteen and Sprats nearly two years older, when the serpent stole -into their Paradise. Until the serpent came all had gone well with them. -Sprats was growing a fine girl; she was more rudely healthy than ever, -and just as sunburned; her freckles had increased rather than decreased; -her hair, which was growing deeper in colour, was a perpetual nuisance -to her. She had grown a little quieter in manner, but would break out at -times; the mere fact that she wore longer skirts did not prevent her -from climbing trees or playing cricket. And she and Lucian were still -hand-in-glove, still David and Jonathan; she had no friends of her own -sex, and he none of his; each was in a happy state of perfect content. -But the stage of absolute perfection is by no means assured even in the -Arcadia of childhood—it may endure for a time, but sooner or later it -must be broken in upon, and not seldom in a rudely sudden way.</p> - -<p>The breaking up of the old things began one Sunday<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_065" id="page_065"></a>{65}</span> morning in summer, -in the cool shade of the ancient church. Nothing heralded the momentous -event; everything was as placid as it always was. Lucian, sitting in the -pew sacred to the family of Pepperdine, looked about him and saw just -what he saw every Sunday. Mr. Pepperdine was at the end of the pew in -his best clothes; Miss Pepperdine was gorgeous in black silk and bugles; -Miss Judith looked very handsome in her pearl-grey. In the vicarage pew, -all alone, sat Sprats in solemn state. Her freckled face shone with much -polishing; her sailor hat was quite straight; as for the rest of her, -she was clothed in a simple blouse and a plain skirt, and there were no -tears in either. All the rest was as usual. The vicar’s surplice had -been newly washed, and Sprats had mended a bit of his hood, which had -become frayed by hanging on a nail in the vestry, but otherwise he -presented no different appearance to that which always characterised -him. There were the same faces, and the same expressions upon them, in -every pew, and that surely was the same bee that always buzzed while -they waited for the service to begin, and the three bells in the tower -droned out. ‘<i>Come</i> to church—<i>come</i> to church—<i>come</i> to church!’</p> - -<p>It was at this very moment that the serpent stole into Paradise. The -vicar had broken the silence with ‘When the wicked man turneth away from -his wickedness,’ and everybody had begun to rustle the leaves of their -prayer-books, when the side-door of the chancel opened and the Earl of -Simonstower, very tall, and very gaunt, and very irascible in -appearance, entered in advance of two ladies, whom he marshalled to the -castle pew with as much grace and dignity as his gout would allow. -Lucian and Sprats, with a wink to each other which no one else -perceived, examined the earl’s companions during the recitation of the -General Confession, looking through the slits of their hypocritical -fingers. The elder lady appeared to be a woman of fashion: she was -dressed in a style not often seen at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_066" id="page_066"></a>{66}</span> Simonstower, and her attire, her -lorgnette, her vinaigrette, her fan, and her airs and graces formed a -delightful contrast to the demeanour of the old earl, who was famous for -the rustiness of his garments, and stuck like a leech to the fashion of -the ‘forties.’</p> - -<p>But it was neither earl nor simpering madam at which Lucian gazed at -surreptitious moments during the rest of the service. The second of the -ladies to enter into the pew of the great house was a girl of sixteen, -ravishingly pretty, and gay as a peacock in female flaunts and fineries -which dazzled Lucian’s eyes. She was dark, and her eyes were shaded by -exceptionally long lashes which swept a creamy cheek whereon there -appeared the bloom of the peach, fresh, original, bewitching; her hair, -curling over her shoulders from beneath a white sun-bonnet, artfully -designed to communicate an air of innocence to its wearer, was of the -same blue-black hue that distinguished Lucian’s own curls. It chanced -that the boy had just read some extracts from <i>Don Juan</i>: it seemed to -him that here was Haidee in the very flesh. A remarkably strange -sensation suddenly developed in the near region of his heart—Lucian for -the first time in his life had fallen in love. He felt sick and queer -and almost stifled; Miss Pepperdine noticed a drawn expression on his -face, and passed him a mint lozenge. He put it in his mouth—something -nearly choked him, but he had a vague suspicion that the lozenge had -nothing to do with it.</p> - -<p>Mr. Chilverstone had a trick of being long-winded if he found a text -that appealed to him, and when Lucian heard the subject of that -morning’s discourse he feared that the congregation was in for a sermon -of at least half an hour’s duration. The presence of the Earl of -Simonstower, however, kept the vicar within reasonable bounds, and -Lucian was devoutly thankful. He had never wished for anything so much -in all his life as he then wished to be out of church and safely hidden -in the vicarage, where he always lunched on Sunday, or in some corner of -the woods. For the girl in the earl’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_067" id="page_067"></a>{67}</span> pew was discomposing, not merely -because of her prettiness but because she would stare at him, Lucian. -He, temperamentally shy where women were concerned, had only dared to -look at her now and then; she, on the contrary, having once seen him -looked at nothing else. He knew that she was staring at him all through -the sermon. He grew hot and uncomfortable and wriggled, and Miss Judith -increased his confusion by asking him if he were not quite well. It was -with a great sense of relief that he heard Mr. Chilverstone wind up his -sermon and begin the Ascription—he felt that he could not stand the -fire of the girl’s eyes any longer.</p> - -<p>He joined Sprats in the porch and seemed in a great hurry to retreat -upon the vicarage. Sprats, however, had other views—she wanted to speak -to various old women and to Miss Pepperdine, and Lucian had to remain -with her. Fate was cruel—the earl, for some mad reason or other, -brought his visitors down the church instead of taking them out by the -chancel door; consequently Haidee passed close by Lucian. He looked at -her; she raised demure eyelids and looked at him. The soul within him -became as water—he was lost. He seemed to float into space; his head -burned, his heart turned icy-cold, and he shut his eyes, or thought he -did. When he opened them again the girl, a dainty dream of white, was -vanishing, and Sprats and Miss Judith were asking him if he didn’t feel -well. New-born love fostered dissimulation: he complained of a sick -headache. The maternal instinct was immediately aroused in Sprats: she -conducted him homewards, stretched him on a comfortable sofa in a -darkened room, and bathed his forehead with eau-de-cologne. Her care and -attention were pleasant, but Lucian’s thoughts were of the girl whose -eyes had smitten him to the heart.</p> - -<p>The sick headache formed an excellent cloak for the shortcomings of the -afternoon and evening. He recovered sufficiently to eat some lunch, and -he afterwards<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_068" id="page_068"></a>{68}</span> lay on a rug in the garden and was tended by the faithful -Sprats with a fan and more eau-de-cologne. He kept his eyes shut most of -the time, and thought of Haidee. Her name, he said to himself, must be -Haidee—no other name would fit her eyes, her hair, and her red lips. He -trembled when he thought of her lips; Sprats noticed it, and wondered if -he was going to have rheumatic fever or ague. She fetched a clinical -thermometer out of the house and took his temperature. It was quite -normal, and she was reassured, but still a little puzzled. When tea-time -came she brought his tea and her own out into the garden—she observed -that he ate languidly, and only asked twice for strawberries. She -refused to allow him to go to church in the evening, and conducted him -to the farm herself. On the way, talking of the events of the day, she -asked him if he had noticed the stuck-up doll in the earl’s pew. Lucian -dissembled, and replied in an indifferent tone—it appeared from his -reply that he had chiefly observed the elder lady, and had wondered who -she was. Sprats was able to inform him upon this point—she was a Mrs. -Brinklow, a connection, cousin, half-cousin, or something, of Lord -Simonstower’s, and the girl was her daughter, and her name was Haidee.</p> - -<p>Lucian knew it—it was Fate, it was Destiny. He had had dreams that some -such mate as this was reserved for him in the Pandora’s box which was -now being opened to him. Haidee! He nearly choked with emotion, and -Sprats became certain that he was suffering from indigestion. She had -private conversation with Miss Pepperdine at the farm on the subject of -Lucian’s indisposition, with the result that a cooling draught was -administered to him and immediate bed insisted upon. He retired with -meek resignation; as a matter of fact solitude was attractive—he wanted -to think of Haidee.</p> - -<p>In the silent watches of the night—disturbed but twice, once by Miss -Pepperdine with more medicine, and once by Miss Judith with nothing but -solicitude—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_069" id="page_069"></a>{69}</span>he realised the entire situation. Haidee had dawned upon -him, and the Thing was begun which made all poets mighty. He would be -miserable, but he would be great. She was a high-born maiden, who sat in -the pews of earls, and he was—he was not exactly sure what he was. She -would doubtless look upon him with scorn: well, he would make the world -ring with his name and fame; he would die in a cloud of glory, fighting -for some oppressed nation, as Byron did, and then she would be sorry, -and possibly weep for him. By eleven o’clock he felt as if he had been -in love all his life; by midnight he was asleep and dreaming that Haidee -was locked up in a castle on the Rhine, and that he had sworn to release -her and carry her away to liberty and love. He woke early next morning, -and wrote some verses in the metre and style of my Lord Byron’s famous -address to a maiden of Athens; by breakfast-time he knew them by heart.</p> - -<p>It was all in accordance with the decrees of Fate that Lucian and Haidee -were quickly brought into each other’s company. Two days after the -interchange of glances in the church porch the boy rushed into the -dining-room at the vicarage one afternoon, and found himself confronted -by a group of persons, of whom he for the first bewildering moment -recognised but one. When he realised that the earth was not going to -open and swallow him, and that he could not escape without shame, he saw -that the Earl of Simonstower, Mrs. Brinklow, Mr. Chilverstone, and -Sprats were in the room as well as Haidee. It was fortunate that Mrs. -Brinklow, who had an eye for masculine beauty and admired pretty boys, -took a great fancy to him, and immediately began to pet him in a manner -which he bitterly resented. That cooled him, and gave him -self-possession. He contrived to extricate himself from her caresses -with dignity, and replied to the questions which the earl put to him -about his studies with modesty and courage. Sprats conducted Haidee to -the garden to inspect her collection of animals; Lucian<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_070" id="page_070"></a>{70}</span> went with them, -and became painfully aware that for every glance which he and Haidee -bestowed on rabbits, white mice, piebald rats, and guinea-pigs, they -gave two to each other. Each glance acted like an electric thrill—it -seemed to Lucian that she was the very spirit of love, made flesh for -him to worship. Sprats, however, had an opinion of Miss Brinklow which -was diametrically opposed to his own, and she expressed it with great -freedom. On any other occasion he would have quarrelled with her: the -shame and modesty of love kept him silent; he dared not defend his lady -against one of her own sex.</p> - -<p>It was in the economy of Lucian’s dream that he and Haidee were to be -separated by cruel and inexorable Fate: Haidee, however, had no -intention of permitting Fate or anything else to rob her of her just -dues. On the afternoon of the very next day Lord Simonstower sent for -Lucian to read an Italian magazine to him; Haidee, whose mother loved -long siestas on summer days, and was naturally inclined to let her -daughter manage her own affairs, contrived to waylay the boy with the -beautiful eyes as he left the Castle, and as pretty a piece of comedy -ensued as one could wish to see. They met again, and then they met in -secret, and Lucian became bold and Haidee alluring, and the woods by the -river, and the ruins in the Castle, might have whispered of romantic -scenes. And at last Lucian could keep his secret no longer, and there -came a day when he poured into Sprats’s surprised and sisterly ear the -momentous tidings that he and Haidee had plighted their troth for ever -and a day, and loved more madly and despairingly than lovers ever had -loved since Leander swam to Hero across the Hellespont.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_071" id="page_071"></a>{71}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Sprats</span> was of an eminently practical turn of mind. She wanted to know -what was to come of all this. To her astonishment she discovered that -Lucian was already full of plans for assuring bread and butter and many -other things for himself and his bride, and had arranged their future on -a cut-and-dried scheme. He was going to devote himself to his studies -more zealously than ever, and to practise himself in the divine art -which was his gift. At twenty he would publish his first volume of -poems, in English and in Italian; at the same time he would produce a -great blank verse tragedy at Milan and in London, and his name would be -extolled throughout Europe, and he himself probably crowned with laurel -at Rome, or Florence, or somewhere. He would be famous, and also rich, -and he would then claim the hand of Haidee, who in the meantime would -have waited for him with the fidelity of a Penelope. After that, of -course, there would follow eternal bliss—it was not necessary to look -further ahead. But he added, with lordly condescension, that he and -Haidee would always love Sprats, and she, if she liked, might live with -them.</p> - -<p>‘Did Haidee tell you to tell me so?’ asked Sprats, ‘because the prospect -is not exactly alluring. No, thank you, my dear—I’m not so fond of -Haidee as all that. But I will teach her to mend your clothes and darn -your socks, if you like—it will be a useful accomplishment.’</p> - -<p>Lucian made no reply to this generous offer. He knew that there was no -love lost between the two girls, and could not quite understand why, any -more than he could realise that they were sisters under their skins. He -understood the Sprats of the sisterly, maternal, good-chum side; but -Haidee was an ethereal being<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_072" id="page_072"></a>{72}</span> though possessed of a sound appetite. He -wished that Sprats were more sympathetic about his lady-love; she was -sympathetic enough about himself, and she listened to his rhapsodies -with a certain amount of curiosity which was gratifying to his pride. -But when he remarked that she too would have a lover some day, Sprats’s -rebellious nature rose up and kicked vigorously.</p> - -<p>‘Thank you!’ she said, ‘but I don’t happen to want anything of that -sort. If you could only see what an absolute fool you look when you are -anywhere within half a mile of Haidee, you’d soon arrive at the -conclusion that spooniness doesn’t improve a fellow! I suppose it’s all -natural, but I never expected it of you, you know, Lucian. I’m sure I’ve -acted like a real pal to you—just look what a stuck-up little monkey -you were when I took you in hand!—you couldn’t play cricket nor climb a -tree, and you used to tog up every day as if you were going to an old -maid’s muffin-worry. I did get you out of all those bad ways—until the -Dolly came along (she <i>is</i> a Dolly, and I don’t care!). You didn’t mind -going about with a hole or two in your trousers and an old straw hat and -dirty hands, and since then you’ve worn your best clothes every day, and -greased your hair, and yesterday you’d been putting scent on your -handkerchief! Bah!—if lovers are like that, I don’t want one—I could -get something better out of the nearest lunatic asylum. And I don’t -think much of men anyhow—they’re all more or less babies. You’re a -baby, and so is his Vicarness’ (this was Sprats’s original mode of -referring to her father), ‘and so is your uncle Pepperdine—all babies, -hopelessly feeble, and unable to do anything for yourselves. What would -any of you do without a woman? No, thank you, I’m not keen about -men—they worry one too much. And as for love—well, if it makes you go -off your food, and keeps you awake at night, and turns you into a -jackass, I don’t want any of it—it’s too rotten altogether.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_073" id="page_073"></a>{73}</span></p> - -<p>‘You don’t understand,’ said Lucian pityingly, and with a deep sigh.</p> - -<p>‘Don’t want to,’ retorted Sprats. ‘Oh, my—fancy spending your time in -spooning when you might be playing cricket! You have degenerated, -Lucian, though I expect you can’t help it—it’s inevitable, like measles -and whooping-cough. I wonder how long you will feel bad?’</p> - -<p>Lucian waxed wroth. He and Haidee had sworn eternal love and -faithfulness—they had broken a coin in two, and she had promised to -wear her half round her neck, and next to the spot where she believed -her heart to be, for ever; moreover, she had given him a lock of her -hair, and he carried it about, wrapped in tissue paper, and he had -promised to buy her a ring with real diamonds in it. Also, Haidee -already possessed fifteen sonnets in which her beauty, her soul, and a -great many other things pertaining to her were praised, after love’s -extravagant fashion—it was unreasonable of Sprats to talk as if this -were an evanescent fancy that must needs pass. He let her see that he -thought so.</p> - -<p>‘All right, old chap!’ said Sprats. ‘It’s for life, then. Very well; -there is, of course, only one thing to be done. You must act on the -square, you know—they always do in these cases. If it’s such a serious -affair, you must play the part of a man of honour, and ask the -permission of the young lady’s mamma, and of her distinguished relative -the Earl of Simonstower—mouldy old ass!—to pay your court to her.’</p> - -<p>Lucian seemed disturbed and uneasy.</p> - -<p>‘Yes—yes—I know!’ he answered hurriedly. ‘I know that’s the right -thing to do, but you see, Sprats, Haidee doesn’t wish it, at present at -any rate. She—she’s a great heiress, or something, and she says it -wouldn’t do. She wishes it to be kept secret until I’m twenty. -Everything will be all right then, of course. And it’s awfully easy to -arrange stolen meetings at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_074" id="page_074"></a>{74}</span> present; there are lots of places about the -Castle and in the woods where you can hide.’</p> - -<p>‘Like a housemaid and an under-footman,’ remarked Sprats. ’Um—well, I -suppose that’s inevitable, too. Of course the earl would never look at -you, and it’s very evident that Mrs. Brinklow would be horrified—she -wants the Dolly kid to marry into the peerage, and you’re a nobody.’</p> - -<p>‘I’m not a nobody!’ said Lucian, waxing furious. ‘I am a gentleman—an -Italian gentleman. I am the earl’s equal—I have the blood of the -Orsini, the Odescalchi, and the Aldobrandini in my veins! The -earl?—why, your English noblemen are made out of tradesfolk—pah! It is -but yesterday that they gave a baronetcy to a man who cures bacon, and a -peerage to a fellow who brews beer. In Italy we should spit upon your -English peers—they have no blood. I have the blood of the Cæsars in -me!’</p> - -<p>‘Your mother was the daughter of an English farmer, and your father was -a macaroni-eating Italian who painted pictures,’ said Sprats, with -imperturbable equanimity. ‘You yourself ought to go about with a -turquoise cap on your pretty curls, and a hurdy-gurdy with a monkey on -the top. <i>Tant pis</i> for your rotten old Italy!—anybody can buy a -dukedom there for a handful of centesimi!’</p> - -<p>Then they fought, and Lucian was worsted, as usual, and came to his -senses, and for the rest of the day Sprats was decent to him and even -sympathetic. She was always intrusted with his confidence, however much -they differed, and during the rest of the time which Haidee spent at the -Castle she had to listen to many ravings, and more than once to endure -the reading of a sonnet or a canzonet with which Lucian intended to -propitiate the dark-eyed nymph whose image was continually before him. -Sprats, too, had to console him on those days whereon no sight of Miss -Brinklow was vouchsafed. It was no easy task: Lucian, during these -enforced abstinences from love’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_075" id="page_075"></a>{75}</span> delights and pleasures, was -preoccupied, taciturn, and sometimes almost sulky.</p> - -<p>‘You’re like a bear with a sore head,’ said Sprats, using a homely -simile much in favour with the old women of the village. ‘I don’t -suppose the Dolly kid is nursing her sorrows like that. I saw Dicky -Feversham riding up to the Castle on his pony as I came in from taking -old Mother Hobbs’s rice-pudding.’</p> - -<p>Lucian clenched his fists. The demon of jealousy was aroused within him -for the first time.</p> - -<p>‘What do you mean?’ he cried.</p> - -<p>‘Don’t mean anything but what I said,’ replied Sprats. ‘I should think -Dickie has gone to spend the afternoon there. He’s a nice-looking boy, -and as his uncle is a peer of the rel-lum, Mrs. Brinklow doubtless loves -him.’</p> - -<p>Lucian fell into a fever of rage, despair, and love. To think that -Another should have the right of approaching His Very Own!—it was -maddening; it made him sick. He hated the unsuspecting Richard -Feversham, who in reality was a very inoffensive, fun-loving, -up-to-lots-of-larks sort of schoolboy, with a deadly hatred. The thought -of his addressing the Object was awful; that he should enjoy her society -was unbearable. He might perhaps be alone with her—might sit with her -amongst the ruined halls of the Castle, or wander with her through the -woods of Simonstower. But Lucian was sure of her—had she not sworn by -every deity in the lover’s mythology that her heart was his alone, and -that no other man should ever have even a cellar-dwelling in it? He -became almost lachrymose at the mere thought that Haidee’s lofty and -pure soul could ever think of another, and before he retired to his -sleepless bed he composed a sonnet which began—</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘Thy dove-like soul is prisoned in my heart<br /></span> -<span class="i1">With gold and silver chains that may not break,’<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">and concluded—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_076" id="page_076"></a>{76}</span></p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘While e’er the world remaineth, thou shalt be<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Queen of my heart as I am king of thine.’<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>He had an assignation with Haidee for the following afternoon, and was -looking forward to it with great eagerness, more especially because he -possessed a new suit of grey flannel, a new straw hat, and new brown -boots, and he had discovered from experience that the young lady loved -her peacock to spread his tail. But, as ill-luck would have it, the -earl, with the best intention in the world, spoiled the whole thing. -About noon Lucian and Sprats, having gone through several pages of -Virgil with the vicar, were sitting on the gate of the vicarage garden, -recreating after a fashion peculiar to themselves, when the earl and -Haidee, both mounted, came round the corner and drew rein. The earl -talked to them for a few minutes, and then asked them up to the Castle -that afternoon. He would have the tennis-lawn made ready for them, he -said, and they could eat as many strawberries as they pleased, and have -tea in the garden. Haidee, from behind the noble relative, made a <i>moue</i> -at this; Lucian was obliged to keep a straight face, and thank the earl -for his confounded graciousness. Sprats saw that something was wrong.</p> - -<p>‘What’s up?’ she inquired, climbing up the gate again when the earl had -gone by. ‘You look jolly blue.’</p> - -<p>Lucian explained the situation. Sprats snorted.</p> - -<p>‘Well, of all the hardships!’ she said. ‘Thank the Lord, I’d rather play -tennis and eat strawberries and have tea—especially the Castle -tea—than go mooning about in the woods! However, I suppose I must -contrive something for you, or you’ll groan and grumble all the way -home. You and the Doll must lose yourselves in the gardens when we go -for strawberries. I suppose ten minutes’ slobbering over each other -behind a hedge or in a corner will put you on, won’t it?’</p> - -<p>Lucian was overwhelmed at her kindness. He offered to give her a -brotherly hug, whereupon she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_077" id="page_077"></a>{77}</span> smacked his face, rolled him into the dust -in the middle of the road, and retreated into the garden, bidding him -turn up with a clean face at half-past two. When that hour arrived she -found him awaiting her in the porch; one glance at him showed that he -had donned the new suit, the new hat, and the new boots. Sprats shrieked -with derision.</p> - -<p>‘Lord have mercy upon us!’ she cried. ‘It might be a Bank Holiday! Do -you think I am going to walk through the village with a thing like that? -Stick a cabbage in your coat—it’ll give a finishing touch to your -appearance. Oh, you miserable monkey-boy!—wouldn’t I like to stick you -in the kitchen chimney and shove you up and down in the soot for five -minutes!’</p> - -<p>Lucian received this badinage in good part—it was merely Sprats’s way -of showing her contempt for finicking habit. He followed her from the -vicarage to the Castle—she walking with her nose in the air, and from -time to time commiserating him because of the newness of his boots; he -secretly anxious to bask in the sunlight of Haidee’s smiles. And at last -they arrived, and there, sprawling on the lawn near the basket-chair in -which Haidee’s lissome figure reposed, was the young gentleman who -rejoiced in the name of Richard Feversham. He appeared to be very much -at home with his young hostess; the sound of their mingled laughter fell -on the ears of the newcomers as they approached. Lucian heard it, and -shivered with a curious, undefinable sense of evil; Sprats heard it too, -and knew that a moral thunderstorm was brewing.</p> - -<p>The afternoon was by no means a success, even in its earlier stages. -Mrs. Brinklow had departed to a friend’s house some miles away; the earl -might be asleep or dead for all that was seen of him. Sprats and Haidee -cherished a secret dislike of each other; Lucian was proud, gloomy, and -taciturn; only the Feversham boy appeared to have much zest of life left -in him. He was a somewhat thick-headed youngster, full of good nature -and high spirits; he evidently did not care a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_078" id="page_078"></a>{78}</span> straw for public or -private opinion, and he made boyish love to Haidee with all the -shamelessness of depraved youth. Haidee saw that Lucian was jealous, and -encouraged Dickie’s attentions—long before tea was brought out to them -the materials for a vast explosion were ready and waiting. After -tea—and many plates of strawberries and cream—had been consumed, the -thick-headed youth became childishly gay. The tea seemed to have mounted -to his head—he effervesced. He had much steam to let off: he suggested -that they should follow the example of the villagers at the -bun-struggles and play kiss-in-the-ring, and he chased Haidee all round -the lawn and over the flower-beds in order to illustrate the way of the -rustic man with the rustic maid. The chase terminated behind a hedge of -laurel, from whence presently proceeded much giggling, screaming, and -confused laughter. The festive youngster emerged panting and triumphant; -his rather homely face wore a broad grin. Haidee followed with highly -becoming blushes, settling her tumbled hair and crushed hat. She -remarked with a pout that Dickie was a rough boy; Dickie replied that -you don’t play country games as if you were made of egg-shell china.</p> - -<p>The catastrophe approached consummation with the inevitableness of a -Greek tragedy. Lucian waxed gloomier and gloomier; Sprats endeavoured, -agonisingly, to put things on a better footing; Haidee, now thoroughly -enjoying herself, tried hard to make the other boy also jealous. But the -other boy was too full of the joy of life to be jealous of anything; he -gambolled about like a young elephant, and nearly as gracefully; it was -quite evident that he loved horseplay and believed that girls were as -much inclined to it as boys. At any other time Sprats would have fallen -in with his mood and frolicked with him to his heart’s content; on this -occasion she was afraid of Lucian, who now looked more like a young -Greek god than ever. The lightning was already playing about his eyes; -thunder sat on his brows.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_079" id="page_079"></a>{79}</span></p> - -<p>At last the storm burst. Haidee wanted to shoot with bow and arrow at a -target; she despatched the two youngsters into the great hall of the -Castle to fetch the materials for archery. Dickie went off capering and -whistling; Lucian followed in sombre silence. And inside the vaulted -hall, mystic with the gloom of the past, and romantic with suits of -armour, tattered banners, guns, pikes, bows, and the rest of it, the -smouldering fires of Lucian’s wrath burst out. Master Richard Feversham -found himself confronted by a figure which typified Wrath, and -Indignation, and Retribution.</p> - -<p>‘You are a cad!’ said Lucian.</p> - -<p>‘Cad yourself!’ retorted Dickie. ‘Who are <i>you</i> talking to?’</p> - -<p>‘I am talking to you,’ answered Lucian, stern and cold as a stone figure -of Justice. ‘I say you are a cad—a cad! You have grossly insulted a -young lady, and I will punish you.’</p> - -<p>Dickie’s eyes grew round—he wondered if the other fellow had suddenly -gone off his head, and if he’d better call for help and a strait -waistcoat.</p> - -<p>‘Grossly insulted—a young lady!’ he said, puckering up his face with -honest amazement. ‘What the dickens do you mean? You must be jolly well -dotty!’</p> - -<p>‘You have insulted Miss Brinklow,’ said Lucian. ‘You forced your -unwelcome attentions upon her all the afternoon, though she showed you -plainly that they were distasteful to her, and you were finally rude and -brutal to her—beast!’</p> - -<p>‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed Dickie, now thoroughly amazed, ‘I never forced -any attention on her—we were only larking. Rude? Brutal? Good -heavens!—I only kissed her behind the hedge, and I’ve kissed her many a -time before!’</p> - -<p>Lucian became insane with wrath.</p> - -<p>‘Liar!’ he hissed. ‘Liar!’</p> - -<p>Master Richard Feversham straightened himself, mentally as well as -physically. He bunched up his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_080" id="page_080"></a>{80}</span> fists and advanced upon Lucian with an -air that was thoroughly British.</p> - -<p>‘Look here,’ he said, ‘I don’t know who the devil you are, you -outrageous ass, but if you call me a liar again, I’ll hit you!’</p> - -<p>‘Liar!’ said Lucian, ‘Liar!’</p> - -<p>Dickie’s left fist, clenched very artistically, shot out like a small -battering-ram, and landed with a beautiful <i>plunk</i> on Lucian’s cheek, -between the jaw and the bone. He staggered back.</p> - -<p>‘I kept off your nose on purpose,’ said Dickie, ‘but, by the Lord, I’ll -land you one there and spoil your pretty eyes for you if you don’t beg -my pardon.’</p> - -<p>‘Pardon!’ Lucian’s voice sounded hollow and strange. ‘Pardon!’ He swore -a strange Italian oath that made Dickie creep. ‘Pardon!—of you? I will -kill you—beast and liar!’</p> - -<p>He sprang to the wall as he spoke, tore down a couple of light rapiers -which hung there, and threw one at his enemy’s feet.</p> - -<p>‘Defend yourself!’ he said. ‘I shall kill you.’</p> - -<p>Dickie recoiled. He would have faced anybody twice his size with fists -as weapons, or advanced on a battery with a smiling face, but he had no -taste for encountering an apparent lunatic armed with a weapon of which -he himself did not know the use. Besides, there was murder in Lucian’s -eye—he seemed to mean business.</p> - -<p>‘Look here, I say, you chap!’ exclaimed Dickie, ‘put that thing down. -One of us’ll be getting stuck, you know, if you go dancing about with it -like that. I’ll fight you as long as you like if you’ll put up your -fists, but I’m not a fool. Put it down, I say.’</p> - -<p>‘Coward!’ said Lucian. ‘Defend yourself!’</p> - -<p>He made at Dickie with fierce intent, and the latter was obliged to pick -up the other rapier and fall into some sort of a defensive position.</p> - -<p>‘Of all the silly games,’ he said, ‘this is——’</p> - -<p>But Lucian was already attacking him with set teeth,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_081" id="page_081"></a>{81}</span> glaring eyes, and -a resolute demeanour. There was a rapid clashing of blades; then Dickie -drew in his breath sharply, and his weapon dropped to the ground. He -looked at a wound in the back of his hand from which the blood was -flowing rather freely.</p> - -<p>‘I knew you’d go and do it with your silliness!’ he said. ‘Now there’ll -be a mess on the carpet and we shall be found out. Here—wipe up that -blood with your handkerchief while I tie mine round my hand. We.... -Hello, here they all are, of course! Now there <i>will</i> be a row! I say, -you chap, swear it was all a lark—do you hear?’</p> - -<p>Lucian heard but gave no sign. He still gripped his rapier and stared -fixedly at Haidee and Sprats, who had run to the hall on hearing the -clash of steel and now stood gazing at the scene with dilated eyes. -Behind them, gaunt, grey, and somewhat amused and cynical, stood the -earl. He looked from one lad to the other and came forward.</p> - -<p>‘I heard warlike sounds,’ he said, peering at the combatants through -glasses balanced on the bridge of the famous Simonstower nose, ‘and now -I see warlike sights. Blood, eh? And what may this mean?’</p> - -<p>‘It’s all nothing, sir,’ said Dickie in suspicious haste, ‘absolutely -nothing. We were larking about with these two old swords, and the other -chap’s point scratched my hand, that’s all, sir—’pon my word.’</p> - -<p>‘Does the other chap’s version correspond?’ inquired the earl, looking -keenly at Lucian’s flushed face. ‘Eh, other chap?’</p> - -<p>Lucian faced him boldly.</p> - -<p>‘No, sir,’ he answered; ‘what he says is not true, though he means -honourably. I meant to punish him—to kill him.’</p> - -<p>‘A candid admission,’ said the earl, toying with his glasses. ‘You -appear to have effected some part of your purpose. And his offence?’</p> - -<p>‘He——’ Lucian paused. The two girls, fascinated at the sight of the -rapiers, the combatants, and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_082" id="page_082"></a>{82}</span> blood, had drawn near and were staring -from one boy’s face to the other’s; Lucian hesitated at sight of them.</p> - -<p>‘Come!’ said the earl sharply. ‘His offence?’</p> - -<p>‘He insulted Miss Brinklow,’ said Lucian gravely. ‘I told him I should -punish him. Then he told lies—about her. I said I would kill him. A man -who lies about a woman merits death.’</p> - -<p>‘A very excellent apothegm,’ said the earl. ‘Sprats, my dear, draw that -chair for me—thank you. Now,’ he continued, taking a seat and sticking -out his gouty leg, ‘let me have a clear notion of this delicate -question. Feversham, your version, if you please.’</p> - -<p>‘I—I—you see, it’s all one awfully rotten misunderstanding, sir,’ said -Dickie, very ill at ease. ‘I—I—don’t like saying things about anybody, -but I think Damerel’s got sunstroke or something—he’s jolly dotty, or -carries on as if he were. You see, he called me a cad, and said I was -rude and brutal to Haidee, just because I—well, because I kissed her -behind the laurel hedge when we were larking in the garden, and I said -it was nothing and I’d kissed her many a time before, and he said I was -a liar, and then—well, then I hit him.’</p> - -<p>‘I see,’ said the earl, ‘and of course there was then much stainless -honour to be satisfied. And how was it that gentlemen of such advanced -age resorted to steel instead of fists?’</p> - -<p>The boys made no reply: Lucian still stared at the earl; Dickie -professed to be busy with his impromptu bandage. Sprats went round to -him and tied the knot.</p> - -<p>‘I think I understand,’ said the earl. ‘Well, I suppose honour is -satisfied?’</p> - -<p>He looked quizzingly at Lucian. Lucian returned the gaze with another, -dark, sombre, and determined.</p> - -<p>‘He is still a liar!’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘I’m <i>not</i> a liar!’ exclaimed Dickie, ‘and as sure as eggs are eggs I’ll -hit you again, and on the nose this time, if you say I am,’ and he -squared up to his foe<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_083" id="page_083"></a>{83}</span> utterly regardless of the earl’s presence. The -earl smiled.</p> - -<p>‘Why is he a liar?’ he asked, looking at Lucian.</p> - -<p>‘He lies when he says that—that——’ Lucian choked and looked, almost -entreatingly, at Haidee. She had stolen up to the earl’s chair and -leaned against its high back, taking in every detail of the scene with -eager glances. As Lucian’s eyes met hers, she smiled; a dimple showed in -the corner of her mouth.</p> - -<p>‘I understand,’ said the earl. He twisted himself round and looked at -Haidee. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘this is one of those cases in which one may -be excused if one appeals to the lady. It would seem, young lady, that -Mr. Feversham, while abstaining, like a gentleman, from boasting of -it——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, I say, sir!’ burst out Dickie; ‘I—didn’t mean to, you know.’</p> - -<p>‘I say that Mr. Feversham, like a gentleman, does not boast of it, but -pleads that you have indulged him with the privileges of a lover. His -word has been questioned—his honour is at stake. Have you so indulged -it, may one ask?’</p> - -<p>Haidee assumed the airs of the coquette who must fain make admissions.</p> - -<p>‘I—suppose so,’ she breathed, with a smile which included everybody.</p> - -<p>‘Very good,’ said the earl. ‘It may be that Mr. Damerel has had reason -to believe that he alone was entitled to those privileges. Eh?’</p> - -<p>‘Boys are so silly!’ said Haidee. ‘And Lucian is so serious and -old-fashioned. And all boys like to kiss me. What a fuss to make about -nothing!’</p> - -<p>‘I quite understand your position and your meaning, my dear,’ said the -earl. ‘I have heard similar sentiments from other ladies.’ He turned to -Lucian. ‘Well?’ he said, with a sharp, humorous glance.</p> - -<p>Lucian had turned very pale, but a dark flush still clouded his -forehead. He put aside his rapier, which until then he had held tightly, -and he turned to Dickie.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_084" id="page_084"></a>{84}</span></p> - -<p>‘I beg your pardon,’ he said; ‘I was wrong—quite wrong. I offer you my -sincere apologies. I have behaved ill—I am sorry.’</p> - -<p>Dickie looked uncomfortable and shuffled about.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, rot!’ he said, holding out his bandaged hand. ‘It’s all right, old -chap. I don’t mind at all now that you know I’m not a liar. I—I’m -awfully sorry, too. I didn’t know you were spoons on Haidee, you -know—I’m a bit dense about things. Never mind, I shan’t think any more -of it, and besides, girls aren’t worth—at least, I mean—oh, hang it, -don’t let’s say any more about the beastly affair!’</p> - -<p>Lucian pressed his hand. He turned, looked at the earl, and made him a -low and ceremonious bow. Lord Simonstower rose from his seat and -returned it with equal ceremony. Without a glance in Haidee’s direction -Lucian strode from the hall—he had forgotten Sprats. He had, indeed, -forgotten everything—the world had fallen in pieces.</p> - -<p>An hour later Sprats, tracking him down with the unerring sagacity of -her sex, found him in a haunt sacred to themselves, stretched full -length on the grass, with his face buried in his arms. She sat down -beside him and put her arm round his neck and drew him to her. He burst -into dry, bitter sobs.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Sprats!’ he said. ‘It’s all over—all over. I believed in her ... -and now I shall never believe in anybody again!’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_085" id="page_085"></a>{85}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">That</span> night, when the last echoes of the village street had died away, -and the purple and grey of the summer twilight was dissolving into the -deep blue and gold of night, Sprats knelt at the open window of her -bedroom, staring out upon the valley with eyes that saw nothing. She was -thinking and wondering, and for the first time in her life she wished -that a mother’s heart and a mother’s arms were at hand—she wanted to -hear the beating love of the one and feel the protecting strength of the -other.</p> - -<p>Something had come to her that afternoon as she strove to comfort -Lucian. The episode of the duel; Lucian’s white face and burning eyes as -he bowed to the cynical, polite old nobleman and strode out of the hall -with the dignity and grace of a great prince; the agony which had -exhausted itself in her own arms; the resolution with which he had at -last choked everything down, and had risen up and shaken himself as if -he were a dog that throws off the last drop of water;—all these things -had opened the door into a new world for the girl who had seen them. She -had been Lucian’s other self; his constant companion, his faithful -mentor, for three years; it was not until now that she began to realise -him. She saw now that he was no ordinary human being, and that as long -as he lived he would never be amenable to ordinary rules. He was now a -child in years, and he had the heart of a man; soon he would be a man, -and he would still be a child. He would be a child all his -life—self-willed, obstinate, proud, generous, wayward; he would sin as -a child sins, and suffer as a child suffers; and there would always be -something of wonder in him that either sin or suffering should come to -him. When she felt his head within her protecting and consoling arm, -Sprats recognised<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_086" id="page_086"></a>{86}</span> the weakness and helplessness which lay in Lucian’s -soul—he was the child that has fallen and runs to its mother for -consolation. She recognised, too, that hers was the stronger nature, the -more robust character, and that the strange, mysterious Something that -ordains all things, had brought her life and Lucian’s together so that -she might give help where help was needed. All their lives—all through -the strange mystic To Come into which her eyes were trying to look as -she stared out into the splendour of the summer night—she and Lucian -were to be as they had been that evening; her breast the harbour of his -soul. He might drift away; he might suffer shipwreck; but he must come -home at last, and whether he came early or late his place must be ready -for him.</p> - -<p>This was knowledge—this was calm certainty: it changed the child into -the woman. She knelt down at the window to say her prayers, still -staring out into the night, and now she saw the stars and the deep blue -of the sky, and she heard the murmur of the river in the valley. Her -prayers took no form of words, and were all the deeper for it; -underneath their wordless aspiration ran the solemn undercurrent of the -new-born knowledge that she loved Lucian with a love that would last -till death.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_087" id="page_087"></a>{87}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Within</span> twelve months Lucian’s recollections of the perfidious Haidee -were nebulous and indistinct. He had taken the muse for mistress and -wooed her with such constant persistency that he had no time to think of -anything else. He used up much manuscript paper and made large demands -upon Sprats and his Aunt Judith, the only persons to whom he -condescended to show his productions, and he was alike miserable and -happy. Whenever he wrote a new poem he was filled with elation, and for -at least twenty-four hours glowed with admiration of his own powers; -then set in a period of uncertainty, followed by one of doubt and -another of gloom—the lines which had sounded so fine that they almost -brought tears to his eyes seemed banal and weak, and were not -infrequently cast into the fire, where his once-cherished copies of the -Haidee sonnets had long since preceded them. Miss Judith nearly shed -tears when these sacrifices were made, and more than once implored him -tenderly to spare his offspring, but with no result, for no human -monster is so savage as the poet who turns against his own fancies. It -was due to her, however, that one of Lucian’s earliest efforts was -spared. Knowing his propensity for tearing and rending his children, she -surreptitiously obtained his manuscript upon one occasion and made a -fair copy of a sentimental story written in imitation of <i>Lara</i>, which -had greatly moved her, and it was not until many years afterwards that -Lucian was confronted and put to shame by the sight of it.</p> - -<p>At the age of eighteen Lucian celebrated his birthday by burning every -manuscript he had, and announcing that he would write no more verses -until he was at least twenty-one. But chancing to hear a pathetic story -of rural life which appealed powerfully to his imagination,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_088" id="page_088"></a>{88}</span> he began to -write again; and after a time, during which he was unusually morose and -abstracted, he presented himself to Sprats with a bundle of manuscript. -He handed it over to her with something of shyness.</p> - -<p>‘I want you to read it—carefully,’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘Of course,’ she answered. ‘But is it to share the fate of all the rest, -Lucian? You made a clean sweep of everything, didn’t you?’</p> - -<p>‘That stuff!’ he said, with fine contempt. ‘I should think so! But -this——’ he paused, plunged his hands into his pockets, and strode up -and down the room—‘this is—well, it’s different. Sprats!—I believe -it’s good.’</p> - -<p>‘I wish you’d let my father read it,’ she said. ‘Do, Lucian.’</p> - -<p>‘Perhaps,’ he answered. ‘But you first—I want to know what you think. I -can trust you.’</p> - -<p>Sprats read the poem that evening, and as she read she marvelled. Lucian -had done himself justice at last. The poem was full of the true country -life; there was no false ring in it; he had realised the pathos of the -story he had to tell; it was a moving performance, full of the spirit of -poetry from the first line to the last. She was proud, glad, full of -satisfaction. Without waiting to ask Lucian’s permission, she placed the -manuscript in the vicar’s hands and begged him to read it. He carried it -away to his study; Sprats sat up later than usual to hear his verdict. -She occupied herself with no work, but with thoughts that had a little -of the day-dream glamour in them. She was trying to map out Lucian’s -future for him. He ought to be protected and shielded from the world, -wrapped in an environment that would help him to produce the best that -was in him; the ordinary cares of life ought never to come near him. He -had a gift, and the world would be the richer if the gift were poured -out lavishly to his fellow-creatures; but he must be treated tenderly -and skilfully if the gift was to be poured out at all. Sprats, country -girl though she was, knew something of the harshnesses of life; she -knew,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_089" id="page_089"></a>{89}</span> too, that Lucian’s nature was the sort that would rebel at a -crumpled rose-leaf. He was still, and always would be, a child that -feels rather than understands.</p> - -<p>The vicar came back to her with the manuscript—it was then nearly -midnight, but he was too much excited to wonder that Sprats should still -be downstairs. He came tapping the manuscript with his fingers—his face -wore a delighted and highly important expression.</p> - -<p>‘My dear,’ he said, ‘this is a considerable performance. I am amazed, -pleased, gratified, proud. The boy is a genius—he will make a great -name for himself. Yes—it is good. It is sound work. It is so charmingly -free from mere rhetoric—there is a restraint, a chasteness which one -does not often find in the work of a young writer. And it is classical -in form and style. I am proud of Lucian. You see now the result of only -reading and studying the best masters. He is perhaps a little -imitative—that is natural; it will wear away. Did you not notice a -touch of Wordsworth, eh!—I was reminded of <i>Michael</i>. He will be a new -Wordsworth—a Wordsworth with more passion and richer imagery. He has -the true eye for nature—I do not know when I have been so pleased as -with the bits of colour that I find here. Oh, it is certainly a -remarkable performance.’</p> - -<p>‘Father,’ said Sprats, ‘don’t you think it might be published?’</p> - -<p>Mr. Chilverstone considered the proposition gravely.</p> - -<p>‘I feel sure it would meet with great approbation if it were,’ he said. -‘I have no doubt whatever that the best critics would recognise its -merit and its undoubted promise. I wonder if Lucian would allow the earl -to read it?—his lordship is a fine judge of classic poetry, and though -I believe he cherishes a contempt for modern verse, he cannot fail to be -struck by this poem—the truth of its setting must appeal to him.’</p> - -<p>‘I will speak to Lucian,’ said Sprats.</p> - -<p>She persuaded Lucian to submit his work to Lord Simonstower next -day;—the old nobleman read, re-read,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_090" id="page_090"></a>{90}</span> and was secretly struck by the -beauty and strength of the boy’s performance. He sent for Lucian and -congratulated him warmly. Later on in the day he walked into the vicar’s -study.</p> - -<p>‘Chilverstone,’ he said, ‘what is to be done with that boy Damerel? He -will make a great name if due care is taken of him at the critical -moment. How old is he now—nearly nineteen? I think he should go to -Oxford.’</p> - -<p>‘That,’ said the vicar, ‘is precisely my own opinion.’</p> - -<p>‘It would do him all the good in the world,’ continued the earl. ‘It is -a thing that should be pushed through. I think I have heard that the boy -has some money? I knew his father, Cyprian Damerel. He was a man who -earned a good deal, but I should say he spent it. Still, I have always -understood that he left money in Simpson Pepperdine’s hands for the -boy.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Chilverstone observed that he had always been so informed, though he -did not know by whom.</p> - -<p>‘Simpson Pepperdine should be approached,’ said Lord Simonstower. ‘I -have a good mind to talk to him myself.’</p> - -<p>‘If your lordship would have the kindness to do so,’ said the vicar, ‘it -would be a most excellent thing. Pepperdine is an estimable man, and -very proud indeed of Lucian—I am sure he would be induced to give his -consent.’</p> - -<p>‘I will see him to-morrow,’ said the earl.</p> - -<p>But before the morrow dawned an event had taken place in the history of -the Pepperdine family which involved far-reaching consequences. While -the earl and the vicar were in consultation over their friendly plans -for Lucian’s benefit, Mr. Pepperdine was travelling homewards from -Oakborough, whither he had proceeded in the morning in reference to a -letter which caused him no little anxiety and perturbation. It was -fortunate that he had a compartment all to himself in the train, for he -groaned and sighed at frequent intervals, and manifested many signs of -great mental distress. When he left<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_091" id="page_091"></a>{91}</span> Wellsby station he walked with slow -and heavy steps along the road to Mr. Trippett’s farm, where, as usual, -he had left his horse and trap. Mrs. Trippett, chancing to look out of -the parlour window, saw him approaching the house and noticed the drag -in his step. He walked, she said, discussing the matter later on with -her husband, as if he had suddenly become an old man. She hastened to -the door to admit him; Mr. Pepperdine gazed at her with a lack-lustre -eye.</p> - -<p>‘Mercy upon us, Mr. Pepperdine!’ exclaimed Mrs. Trippett, ‘you do look -badly. Aren’t you feeling well?’</p> - -<p>Mr. Pepperdine made an effort to pull himself together. He walked in, -sat down in the parlour, and breathed heavily.</p> - -<p>‘It’s a very hot day, ma’am,’ he said. ‘I’m a bit overdone.’</p> - -<p>‘You must have a drop of brandy and water,’ said Mrs. Trippett, and -bustled into the kitchen for water and to the sideboard for brandy. -‘Take a taste while it’s fresh,’ she said, handing him a liberal -mixture. ‘It’ll revive you.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Pepperdine sipped at his glass and nodded his head in acknowledgment -of her thoughtfulness.</p> - -<p>‘Thank you kindly,’ said he. ‘I were feeling a bit badly like. Is the -master anywhere about? I would like to see him.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Trippett replied that the master was in the fold, and she would let -him know that Mr. Pepperdine was there. She went herself to fetch her -husband, and hinted to him that his old friend did not seem at all -well—she was sure there was something wrong with him. Mr. Trippett -hastened into the house and found Mr. Pepperdine pacing the room and -sighing dismally.</p> - -<p>‘Now then!’ said Mr. Trippett, whose face was always cheery even in -times of trouble, ‘th’ owd woman says you don’t seem so chirpy like. Is -it th’ sun, or what?—get another taste o’ brandy down your throttle, -lad.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Pepperdine sat down again and shook his head.</p> - -<p>‘John,’ he said, gazing earnestly at his friend.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_092" id="page_092"></a>{92}</span> ‘I’m in sore -trouble—real bad trouble. I doubt I’m a ruined man.’</p> - -<p>‘Nay, for sure!’ exclaimed Mr. Trippett. ‘What’s it all about, like?’</p> - -<p>‘It’s all on account of a damned rascal!’ answered Mr. Pepperdine, with -a burst of indignation. ‘Ah!—there’s a pretty to-do in Oakborough this -day, John. You haven’t heard nothing about Bransby?’</p> - -<p>‘What, the lawyer?’</p> - -<p>‘Ah, lawyer and rogue and the Lord knows what!’ replied Mr. Pepperdine, -groaning with wrath and misery. ‘He’s gone and cleared himself off, and -he’s naught but a swindler. They do say there that it’s a hundred -thousand pound job.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Trippett whistled.</p> - -<p>‘I allus understood ’at he were such a well-to-do, upright sort o’ man,’ -he said. ‘He’d a gre’t reppytation, any road.’</p> - -<p>‘Ay, and seems to have traded on it!’ said Mr. Pepperdine bitterly. -‘He’s been a smooth-tongued ’un, he has. He’s done me, he has so—dang -me if I ever trust the likes of him again!’</p> - -<p>Then he told his story. The absconded Mr. Bransby, an astute gentleman -who had established a reputation for probity by scrupulous observance of -the conventionalities dear to the society of a market town and had never -missed attendance at his parish church, had suddenly vanished into the -<i>Ewigkeit</i>, leaving a few widows and orphans, several tradespeople, and -a large number of unsuspecting and confiding clients, to mourn, not his -loss, but his knavery. Simpson Pepperdine had been an easy victim. Some -years previously he had consented to act as trustee for a neighbour’s -family—Mr. Bransby was his co-trustee. Simpson had left everything in -Mr. Bransby’s hands—it now turned out that Mr. Bransby had converted -everything to his own uses, leaving his careless coadjutor responsible. -But this was not all. Simpson, who had made money by breeding -shorthorns, had from time to time placed considerable sums in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_093" id="page_093"></a>{93}</span> -lawyer’s hands for investment, and had trusted him entirely as to their -nature. He had received good interest, and had never troubled either to -ask for or inspect the securities. It had now been revealed to him that -there had never been any securities—his money had gone into Mr. -Bransby’s own coffers. Simpson Pepperdine, in short, was a ruined man.</p> - -<p>Mr. Trippett was genuinely disturbed by this news. He felt that his -good-natured and easy-going friend had been to blame in respect to his -laxity and carelessness. But he himself had had some slight dealings -with Mr. Bransby, and he knew the plausibility and suaveness of that -gentleman’s manner.</p> - -<p>‘It’s a fair cropper!’ he exclaimed. ‘I could ha’ trusted that Bransby -like the Bank of England. I allus understood he were doing uncommon -well.’</p> - -<p>‘So he were,’ answered Mr. Pepperdine, ‘uncommon well—out of fools like -me.’</p> - -<p>‘I hope,’ said Mr. Trippett, mentioning the subject with some shyness, -‘I hope the gals’ money isn’t lost, an’ all?’</p> - -<p>‘What, Keziah and Judith? Nay, nay,’ replied Mr. Pepperdine. ‘It isn’t. -What bit they have—matter of five hundred pound each, may be—is safe -enough.’</p> - -<p>‘Nor the lad’s, either,’ said Mr. Trippett.</p> - -<p>‘The lad’s?’ said Mr. Pepperdine questioningly. ‘Oh, Lucian? Oh—ay—of -course, he’s all right.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Trippett went over to the sideboard, produced the whisky decanter, -mixed himself a glass, lighted his pipe, and proceeded to think hard.</p> - -<p>‘Well,’ he said, after some time, ‘I know what I should do if I were i’ -your case, Simpson. I should go to his lordship and tell him all about -it.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Pepperdine started and looked surprised.</p> - -<p>‘I’ve never asked a favour of him yet,’ he said. ‘I don’t know——’</p> - -<p>‘I didn’t say aught about asking any favour,’ said Mr. Trippett. ‘I -said—go and tell his lordship all about<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_094" id="page_094"></a>{94}</span> it. He’s the reppytation of -being a long-headed ’un, has Lord Simonstower—he’ll happen suggest -summut.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Pepperdine rubbed his chin meditatively.</p> - -<p>‘He’s a sharp-tongued old gentleman,’ he said; ‘I’ve always fought a bit -shy of him. Him an’ me had a bit of a difference twenty years since.’</p> - -<p>‘Let bygones be bygones,’ counselled Mr. Trippett. ‘You and your fathers -afore you have been on his land and his father’s land a bonny stretch o’ -time.’</p> - -<p>‘Three hundred and seventy-five year come next spring,’ said Mr. -Pepperdine.</p> - -<p>‘And he’ll not see you turned off wi’out knowing why,’ said Mr. Trippett -with conviction. ‘Any road, it’ll do no harm to tell him how you stand. -He’d have to hear on’t sooner or later, and he’d best hear it from -yourself.’</p> - -<p>Turning this sage counsel over in his mind, Mr. Pepperdine journeyed -homewards, and as luck would have it he met the earl near the gates of -the Castle. Lord Simonstower had just left the vicarage, and Mr. -Pepperdine was in his mind. He put up his hand in answer to the farmer’s -salutation. Mr. Pepperdine drew rein.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Pepperdine,’ said the earl, ‘I want to have some conversation with -you about your nephew. I have just been talking with the vicar about -him. When can you come up to the Castle?’</p> - -<p>‘Any time that pleases your lordship,’ answered Mr. Pepperdine. ‘It so -happens that I was going to ask the favour of an interview with your -lordship on my own account.’</p> - -<p>‘Then you had better drive up now and leave your horse and trap in the -stables,’ said the earl. ‘Tell them to take you to the library—I’ll -join you there presently.’</p> - -<p>Closeted with his tenant, Lord Simonstower plunged into his own business -first—it was his way, when he took anything in hand, to go through with -it with as little delay as possible. He came to the point at once by -telling Mr. Pepperdine that his nephew was a gifted youth who would -almost certainly make a great name<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_095" id="page_095"></a>{95}</span> in the world of letters, and that it -would be a most excellent thing to send him to Oxford. He pointed out -the great advantages which would accrue to Lucian if this course were -adopted, spoke of his own interest in the boy, and promised to help him -in every way he could. Mr. Pepperdine listened with respectful and -polite attention.</p> - -<p>‘My lord,’ he said, when the earl had explained his views for Lucian, -‘I’m greatly obliged to your lordship for your kindness to the lad and -your interest in him. I agree with every word your lordship says. I’ve -always known there was something out of the common about Lucian, and -I’ve wanted him to get on in his own way. I never had no doubt about his -making a great name for himself—I could see that in him when he were a -little lad. Now about this going to Oxford—it would cost a good deal of -money, wouldn’t it, my lord?’</p> - -<p>‘It would certainly cost money,’ replied the earl. ‘But I would put it -to you in this way—or, rather, this is the way in which it should be -put to the boy himself. I understand he has some money; well, he can -make no better investment of a portion of it than by spending it on his -education. Two or three years at Oxford will fit him for the life of a -man of letters as nothing else would. He need not be extravagant—two -hundred pounds a year should suffice him.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Pepperdine listened to this with obvious perplexity and unrest. He -hesitated a little before making any reply. At last he looked at the -earl with the expression of a man who is going to confess something.</p> - -<p>‘My lord,’ he said, ‘I’ll tell your lordship what nobody else knows—not -even my sisters. I’m sure your lordship’ll say naught to nobody about -it. My lord, the lad hasn’t a penny. He never had. Your lordship knows -that his father sent for me when he was dying in London—he’d just come -back, with the boy, from Italy—and he put Lucian in my care. He’d made -a will and I was trustee and executor. He thought that there was -sufficient provision made for the boy, but he hadn’t<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_096" id="page_096"></a>{96}</span> been well -advised—he’d put all his eggs in one basket—the money was all invested -in a building society in Rome, and every penny of it was lost. I did -hear,’ affirmed Mr. Pepperdine solemnly, ‘that the Pope of Rome himself -lost a deal of money at the same time and in the same society.’</p> - -<p>‘That’s quite true,’ said the earl. ‘I remember it very well.</p> - -<p>‘Well, there it was,’ continued Mr. Pepperdine. ‘It was gone for -ever—there wasn’t a penny saved. I never said naught to my sisters, you -know, my lord, because I didn’t want ’em to know. I never said nothing -to the boy, either—and he’s the sort of lad that would never ask. He’s -a bit of a child in money matters—his father (but your lordship’ll -remember him as well as I do) had always let him have all he wanted, -and——’</p> - -<p>‘And his uncle has followed in his father’s lines, eh?’ said the earl, -with a smile that was neither cynical nor unfriendly. ‘Well, then, -Pepperdine, I understand that the lad has been at your charges all this -time as regards everything—I suppose you’ve paid Mr. Chilverstone, -too?’</p> - -<p>Mr. Pepperdine waved his hands.</p> - -<p>‘There’s naught to talk of, my lord,’ he said. ‘I’ve no children, and -never shall have. I never were a marrying sort, and the lad’s been -welcome. And if it had been in my power he should have gone to Oxford; -but, my lord, there’s been that happened within this last day or so -that’s brought me nigh to ruin. It was that that I wanted to see your -lordship about—it’s a poor sort of tale for anybody’s ears, but your -lordship would have to hear it some time or other. You see, my -lord’—and Mr. Pepperdine, with praiseworthy directness and simplicity, -set forth the story of his woes.</p> - -<p>The Earl of Simonstower listened with earnest attention until his tenant -had spread out all his ruined hopes at his feet. His face expressed -nothing until the regrettable catalogue of foolishness and wrongs came -to an end. Then he laughed, rather bitterly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_097" id="page_097"></a>{97}</span></p> - -<p>‘Well, Pepperdine,’ he said, ‘you’ve been wronged, but you’ve been a -fool into the bargain. And I can’t blame you, for, in a smaller way—a -matter of a thousand pounds or so—this man Bransby has victimised me. -Well, now, what’s to be done? There’s one thing certain—I don’t intend -to lose you as a tenant. If nothing else can be done, my solicitors must -settle everything for you, and you must pay me back as you can. I -understand you’ve been doing well with your shorthorns, haven’t you?’</p> - -<p>Mr. Pepperdine could hardly believe his ears. He had always regarded his -landlord as a somewhat cold and cynical man, and no thought of such -generous help as that indicated by the earl’s last words had come into -his mind in telling the story of his difficulties. He was a soft-hearted -man, and the tears sprang into his eyes and his voice trembled as he -tried to frame suitable words.</p> - -<p>‘My lord!’ he said brokenly, ‘I—I don’t know what to say——’</p> - -<p>‘Then say nothing, Pepperdine,’ said the earl. ‘I understand what you -would say. It’s all right, my friend—we appear to be fellow-passengers -in Mr. Bransby’s boat, and if I help you it’s because I’m not quite as -much damaged as you are. And eventually there will be no help about -it—you’ll have helped yourself. However, we’ll discuss that later on; -at present I want to talk about your nephew. Pepperdine, I don’t want to -give up my pet scheme of sending that boy to Oxford. It is the thing -that should be done; I think it must be done, and that I must be allowed -to do it. With your consent, Pepperdine, I will charge myself with your -nephew’s expenses for three years from the time he goes up; by the end -of the three years he will be in a position to look after himself. Don’t -try to give me any thanks. I have something of a selfish motive in all -this. But now, listen: I do not wish the boy to know that he is owing -this to anybody, and least of all to me. We must invent something in the -nature of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_098" id="page_098"></a>{98}</span> a conspiracy. There must be no one but you, the vicar, and -myself in the secret—no one, Pepperdine, and last of all any womankind, -so your mouth must be closed as regards your sisters. I will get Mr. -Chilverstone to talk to the boy, who will understand that the money is -in your hands and that he must look to you. I want you to preach economy -to him—economy, mind you, not meanness. I will talk to him in the same -way myself, because if he is anything like his father he will develop an -open-handedness which will be anything but good for him. Remember that -you are the nominal holder of the purse-strings—everything will pass -through you. I think that’s all I wanted to say, Pepperdine,’ concluded -the earl. ‘You’ll remember your part?’</p> - -<p>‘I shall indeed, my lord,’ said Mr. Pepperdine, as he shook the hand -which the earl extended; ‘and I shall remember a deal more, too, to my -dying day. I can’t rightly thank your lordship at this moment.’</p> - -<p>‘No need, Pepperdine, no need!’ said Lord Simonstower hastily. ‘You’d do -the same for me, I’m sure. Good-day to you, good-day; and don’t forget -the conspiracy—no talking to the women, you know.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Pepperdine drove homewards with what country folk call a -heart-and-a-half. He was unusually lightsome in mood and garrulous in -conversation that evening, but he would only discourse on one topic—the -virtues of the British aristocracy. He named no names and condescended -to no particulars—the British aristocracy in general served him for the -text of a long sermon which amused Miss Judith and Lucian to a high -degree, and made Miss Pepperdine wonder how many glasses of whisky -Simpson had consumed at the ‘White Lion’ in Oakborough. It so happened -that the good man had been so full of trouble that he had forgotten to -take even one—his loquacity that evening was simply due to the fact -that while he was preparing to wail <i>De Profundis</i> he had been commanded -to sing <i>Te De Laudamus</i>, and his glorification of lords was his version -of that pæan of joyfulness.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_099" id="page_099"></a>{99}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Lucian</span> received the news which Mr. Chilverstone communicated to him in -skilful and diplomatic fashion with an equanimity which seemed natural -to him when hearing of anything that appeared to be his just due. He had -so far had everything that he desired—always excepting the fidelity of -Haidee, which now seemed a matter of no moment and was no longer a sore -point—and he took it as a natural consequence of his own existence that -he should go to Oxford, the fame of which ancient seat of learning had -been familiar to him from boyhood. He made no inquiries as to the cost -of this step—anything relating to money had no interest for him, save -as regards laying it out on the things he desired. He had been -accustomed as a child to see his father receive considerable sums and -spend them with royal lavishness, and as he had never known what it was -to have to earn money before it could be enjoyed, he troubled himself in -nowise as to the source of the supplies which were to keep him at Oxford -for three years. He listened attentively to Mr. Pepperdine’s solemn -admonitions on the subjects of economy and extravagance, and replied at -the end thereof that he would always let his uncle have a few days’ -notice when he wanted a cheque—a remark which made Lord Simonstower’s -fellow-conspirator think a good deal.</p> - -<p>It was impossible at this stage to do anything or say anything to shake -Lucian’s confidence in his destiny. He meant to work hard and to do -great things, and without being conceited he was sure of success—it -seemed to him to be his rightful due. Thanks to the influence of his -father in childhood and to that of Mr. Chilverstone at a later stage, he -had formed a fine taste and was already an accomplished scholar. He had -never read any trash in his life, and it was now extremely<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100"></a>{100}</span> unlikely -that he ever would, for he had developed an almost womanish dislike of -the unlovely, the mean, and the sordid, and a delicate contempt for -anything in literature that was not based on good models. Mr. -Chilverstone had every confidence in him, and every hope of his future; -it filled him with pride to know that he was sending so promising a man -to his own university; but he was cast down when he found that Lord -Simonstower insisted on Lucian’s entrance at St. Benedict’s, instead of -at St. Perpetua’s, his own old college.</p> - -<p>The only person who was full of fears was Sprats. She had been Lucian’s -other self for six years, and she, more than any one else, knew his need -of constant help and friendship. He was full of simplicity; he credited -everybody with the possession of qualities and sympathies which few -people possess; he lived in a world of dreams rather than of stern -facts. He was obstinate, wayward, impulsive; much too affectionate, and -much too lovable; he lived for the moment, and only regarded the future -as one continual procession of rosy hours. Sprats, with feminine -intuition, feared the moment when he would come into collision with -stern experience of the world and the worldly—she longed to be with him -when that moment came, as she had been with him when the frailty and -coquetry of the Dolly kid nearly broke his child’s heart. And so during -the last few days of his stay at Simonstower she hovered about him as a -faithful mother does about a sailor son, and she gave him much excellent -advice and many counsels of perfection.</p> - -<p>‘You know you are a baby,’ she said, when Lucian laughed at her. ‘You -have been so coddled all your life that you will cry if a pin pricks -you. And there will be no Sprats to tie a rag round the wound.’</p> - -<p>‘It would certainly be better if Sprats were going too,’ he said -thoughtfully, and his face clouded. ‘But then,’ he continued, flashing -into a smile, ‘after all, Oxford is only two hundred miles from -Simonstower, and there are trains which carry one over two hundred miles -in a very short time. If I should chance to fall<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101"></a>{101}</span> and bump my nose I -shall take a ticket by the next train and come to Sprats to be patched -up.’</p> - -<p>‘I shall keep a stock of ointments and lotions and bandages in perpetual -readiness,’ she said. ‘But it must be distinctly understood, Lucian, -that I have the monopoly of curing you—I have a sort of notion, you -know, that it is my chief mission in life to be your nurse.’</p> - -<p>‘The concession is yours,’ he answered, with mock gravity.</p> - -<p>It was with this understanding that they parted. There came a day when -all the good-byes had been said, the blessings and admonitions received, -and Lucian departed from the village with a pocket full of money -(largely placed there through the foolish feminine indulgence of Miss -Pepperdine and Miss Judith, who had womanly fears as to the horrible -situations in which he might be placed if he were bereft of ready cash) -and a light and a sanguine heart. Mr. Chilverstone went with him to -Oxford to see his <i>protégé</i> settled and have a brief holiday of his own; -on their departure Sprats drove them to the station at Wellsby. She -waved her handkerchief until the train had disappeared; she was -conscious when she turned away that her heart had gone with Lucian.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102"></a>{102}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">About</span> the middle of a May afternoon, seven years later, a young man -turned out of the Strand into a quiet street in the neighbourhood of -Covent Garden and began looking about him as if endeavouring to locate -the whereabouts of some particular place. Catching sight of the name -<i>William Robertson</i> on a neighbouring window, with the word <i>Publisher</i> -underneath it, he turned into the door of the establishment thus -designated, and encountering an office-boy who was busily engaged in -reading a comic journal inside a small pen labelled ‘Inquiries,’ he -asked with great politeness if Mr. Robertson was at that moment -disengaged. The office-boy in his own good time condescended to examine -the personal appearance of the inquirer, and having assured himself that -the gentleman was worthy his attention he asked in sharp tones if he had -an appointment with Mr. Robertson. To this the stranger replied that he -believed he was expected by Mr. Robertson during the afternoon, but not -at any particular hour, and produced a card from which the office-boy -learned that he was confronting the Viscount Saxonstowe. He forthwith -disappeared into some inner region and came back a moment later with a -young gentleman who cultivated long hair and an æsthetic style of -necktie, and bowed Lord Saxonstowe through various doors into a pleasant -ante-room, where he accommodated his lordship with a chair and the -<i>Times</i>, and informed him that Mr. Robertson would be at liberty in a -few moments. Lord Saxonstowe remarked that he was in no hurry at all, -and would wait Mr. Robertson’s convenience. The young gentleman with the -luxuriant locks replied politely that he was quite sure Mr. Robertson -would not keep his lordship waiting long, and added that they were -experiencing quite summer-like weather. Lord Saxonstowe agreed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103"></a>{103}</span> to this -proposition, and opened the <i>Times</i>. His host or keeper for the time -being seated himself at a desk, one half of which was shared by a lady -typist who had affected great interest in her work since Lord -Saxonstowe’s entrance, and who now stole surreptitious glances at him as -he scanned the newspaper. The clerk scribbled a line or two on a scrap -of paper and passed it across to her. She untwisted it and read: ‘<i>This -is the chap that did that tremendous exploration in the North of Asia: a -real live lord, you know.</i>’ She scribbled an answering line: ‘<i>Of course -I know—do you think I didn’t recognise the name?</i>’ and passed it over -with a show of indignation. The clerk indited another epistle: ‘<i>Don’t -look as if he’d seen much of anything, does he?</i>’ The girl perused this, -scribbled back: ‘<i>His eyes and moustache are real jam!</i>’ and fell to -work at her machine again. The clerk sighed, caressed a few sprouts on -his top-lip, and remarking to his own soul that these toffs always catch -the girls’ eyes, fell to doing nothing in a practised way.</p> - -<p>Viscount Saxonstowe, quite unconscious of the interest he was exciting, -stared about him after a time and began to wonder if the two young -people at the desk usually worked with closed windows. The atmosphere -was heavy, and there was a concentrated smell of paper, and ink, and -paste. He thought of the wind-swept plains and steppes on which he had -spent long months—he had gone through some stiff experiences there, but -he confessed to himself that he would prefer a bitter cold night in -winter in similar solitudes to a summer’s day in that ante-room. His own -healthy tan and the clearness of his eyes, his alert look and the easy -swing with which he walked, would never have been developed amidst such -surroundings, and the consciousness of his own rude health made him feel -sorry for the two white slaves before him. He felt that if he could have -his own way he would cut the young gentleman’s hair, put him into a -flannel shirt and trot him round; as for the young lady, he would -certainly send her into the country for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104"></a>{104}</span> a holiday. And while he thus -indulged his fancies a door opened and he heard voices, and two men -stepped into the ante-room.</p> - -<p>He instinctively recognised one as the publisher whom he had come to -see; at the other, a much younger man, he found himself staring with -some sense of recognition which was as yet vague and unformed. He felt -sure that he had met him before, and under some unusual circumstances, -but he could not remember the occasion, nor assure his mind that the -face on which he looked was really familiar—it was more suggestive of -something that had been familiar than familiar in itself. He concluded -that he must have seen a photograph of it in some illustrated paper; the -man was in all likelihood a popular author. Saxonstowe carefully looked -him over as he stood exchanging a last word with the publisher on the -threshold of the latter’s room. He noted the gracefulness of the slim -figure in the perfectly fashioned clothes, and again he became conscious -that his memory was being stirred. The man under observation was -swinging a light walking-cane as he chatted; he made a sudden movement -with it to emphasise a point, and Saxonstowe’s memory cleared itself. -His thoughts flew back ten years: he saw two boys, one the very image of -incarnate Wrath, the other an equally faithful impersonation of -Amazement, facing each other in an antique hall, with rapiers in hand -and a sense of battle writ large upon their faces and figures.</p> - -<p>‘And I can’t remember the chap’s name!’ he thought. ‘But this is he.’</p> - -<p>He looked at his old antagonist more closely, and with a keener -interest. Lucian was now twenty-five; he had developed into a tall, -well-knit man of graceful and sinuous figure; he was dressed with great -care and with strict attention to the height of the prevalent fashion, -but with a close study of his own particular requirements; his -appearance was distinguished and notable, and Saxonstowe, little given -to sentiment as regards manly beauty, confessed to himself that the face -on which he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105"></a>{105}</span> looked might have been moulded by Nature from a canvas or -marble of the Renaissance. It was a face for which some women would -forget everything,—Saxonstowe, with this thought half-formed in his -mind, caught sight of the anæemic typist, who, oblivious of anything -else in the room, had fixed all her attention on Lucian. Her hands -rested, motionless, on the keys of the machine before her; her head was -slightly tilted back, her eyes shone, her lips were slightly parted; a -faint flush of colour had stolen into her cheeks, and for the moment she -was a pretty girl. Saxonstowe smiled—it seemed to him that he had been -privileged to peep into the secret chamber of a girlish soul. ‘She would -give something to kiss his hand,’ he thought.</p> - -<p>Lucian turned away from the publisher with a nod; his eye caught -Saxonstowe’s and held it. A puzzled look came into his face; he paused -and involuntarily stretched out his hand, staring at Saxonstowe -searchingly. Saxonstowe smiled and gave his hand in return.</p> - -<p>‘We have met somewhere,’ said Lucian wonderingly, ‘I cannot think -where.’</p> - -<p>‘Nor can I remember your name,’ answered Saxonstowe. ‘But—we met in the -Stone Hall at Simonstower.’</p> - -<p>Lucian’s face lighted with the smile which had become famous for its -sweetness.</p> - -<p>‘And with rapiers!’ he exclaimed. ‘I remember—I remember! You are -Dickie—Dickie Feversham.’ He began to laugh. ‘How quaint that scene -was!’ he said. ‘I have often thought that it had the very essence of the -dramatic in it. Let me see—what did we fight about? Was it Haidee? How -amusing—because Haidee and I are married.’</p> - -<p>‘That,’ said Saxonstowe, ‘seems a happy ending to the affair. But I -think it ended happily at the time. And even yet I cannot remember your -name.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Robertson stepped forward before Lucian could reply. He introduced -the young men to each other in due form. Then Saxonstowe knew that his -old enemy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106"></a>{106}</span> was one of the great literary lions of the day; and Lucian -recognised Saxonstowe as the mighty traveller of whose deeds most people -were talking. They looked at each other with interest, and Mr. Robertson -felt a glow of pride when he remembered that his was the only imprint -which had ever appeared on a title-page of Lucian Damerel’s, and that he -was shortly to publish the two massive volumes in which Viscount -Saxonstowe had given to the world an account of his wondrous wanderings. -He rubbed his hands as he regarded these two splendid young men; it did -him good to be near them.</p> - -<p>Lucian was worshipping Saxonstowe with the guileless adoration of a -child that looks on a man who has seen great things and done great -things. It was a trick of his: he had once been known to stand -motionless for an hour, gazing in silence at a man who had performed a -deed of desperate valour, had suffered the loss of his legs in doing it, -and had been obliged to exhibit himself with a placard round his neck in -order to scrape a living together. Lucian was now conjuring up a vision -of the steppes and plains over which Saxonstowe had travelled with his -life in his hands.</p> - -<p>‘When will you dine with us?’ he said, suddenly bursting into speech. -‘To-night—to-morrow?—the day after—when? Come before everybody snaps -you up—you will have no peace for your soul or rest for your body after -your book is out.’</p> - -<p>‘Then I shall run away to certain regions where one can easily find -both,’ answered Saxonstowe laughingly. ‘I assure you I have no intention -of wasting either body or soul in London.’</p> - -<p>Then they arranged that the new lion was to dine with Mr. and Mrs. -Lucian Damerel on the following day, and Lucian departed, while -Saxonstowe followed Mr. Robertson into his private room.</p> - -<p>‘Your lordship has met Mr. Damerel before?’ said the publisher, who had -something of a liking for gossip about his pet authors.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107"></a>{107}</span></p> - -<p>‘Once,’ answered Saxonstowe. ‘We were boys at the time. I had no idea -that he was the poet of whose work I have heard so much since coming -home.’</p> - -<p>‘He has had an extraordinarily successful career,’ said Mr. Robertson, -glancing complacently at a little row of thin volumes bound in dark -green cloth which figured in a miniature book-case above his desk. ‘I -have published all his work—he leaped into fame with his first book, -which I produced when he was at Oxford, and since then he has held a -recognised place. Yes, one may say that Damerel is one of fortune’s -spoiled darlings—everything that he has done has turned out a great -success. He has the grand manner in poetry. I don’t know whether your -lordship has read his great tragedy, <i>Domitia</i>, which was staged so -magnificently at the Athenæum, and proved the sensation of the year?’</p> - -<p>‘I am afraid,’ replied Saxonstowe, ‘that I have had few opportunities of -reading anything at all for the past five years. I think Mr. Damerel’s -first volume had just appeared when I left England, and books, you know, -are not easily obtainable in the wilds of Central Asia. Now that I have -better chances, I must not neglect them.’</p> - -<p>‘You have a great treat in store, my lord,’ said the publisher. He -nodded his head several times, as if to emphasise the remark. ‘Yes,’ he -continued, ‘Damerel has certainly been favoured by fortune. Everything -has conspired to increase the sum of his fame. His romantic marriage, of -course, was a great advertisement.’</p> - -<p>‘An advertisement!’</p> - -<p>‘I mean, of course, from my standpoint,’ said Mr. Robertson hastily. ‘He -ran away with a very beautiful girl who was on the very eve of -contracting a most advantageous marriage from a worldly point of view, -and the affair was much talked about. There was a great rush on -Damerel’s books during the next few weeks—it is wonderful how a little -sensation like that helps the sale of a book. I remember that Lord -Pintleford published a novel with me some years ago which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108"></a>{108}</span> we could not -sell at all. He shot his coachman in a fit of anger—that sold the book -like hot cakes.’</p> - -<p>‘I trust the unfortunate coachman was not seriously injured,’ said -Saxonstowe, who was much amused by these revelations. ‘It is, I confess, -an unusual method of advertising a book, and one which I should not care -to adopt.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, we can spare your lordship the trouble!’ said Mr. Robertson. -‘There’ll be no need to employ any unusual methods in making your -lordship’s book known. I have already subscribed two large editions of -it.’</p> - -<p>With this gratifying announcement Mr. Robertson plunged into the -business which had brought Lord Saxonstowe to his office, and for that -time no more was said of Lucian Damerel and his great fame. But that -night Saxonstowe dined with his aunt, Lady Firmanence, a childless widow -who lived on past scandals and present gossip, and chancing to remark -that he had encountered Lucian and renewed a very small acquaintance -with him, was greeted with a sniff which plainly indicated that Lady -Firmanence had something to say.</p> - -<p>‘And where, pray, did you meet Lucian Damerel at any time?’ she -inquired. ‘He was unknown, or just beginning to be known, when you left -England.’</p> - -<p>‘It is ten years since I met him,’ answered Saxonstowe. ‘It was when I -was staying at Saxonstowe with my uncle. I met Damerel at Simonstower, -and the circumstances were rather amusing.’</p> - -<p>He gave an account of the duel, which afforded Lady Firmanence much -amusement, and he showed her the scar on his hand, and laughed as he -related the story of Lucian’s terrible earnestness.</p> - -<p>‘But I have never forgotten,’ he concluded, ‘how readily and sincerely -he asked my forgiveness when he found that he had been in the wrong—it -rather knocked me over, you know, because I didn’t quite understand that -he really felt the thing—we were both such boys, and the girl was a -child.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Lucian Damerel has good feeling,’ said Lady<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109"></a>{109}</span> Firmanence. ‘You -wouldn’t understand the Italian strain in him. But it is amusing that -you should have fought over Haidee Brinklow, who is now Mrs. Lucian. I’m -glad he married her, and that you didn’t.’</p> - -<p>‘Considering that I am to dine with Mr. and Mrs. Lucian Damerel -to-morrow,’ said Saxonstowe, ‘it is a bit odd that I don’t know any more -of them than this. She, I remember, was some connection of Lord -Simonstower’s; but who is he?’</p> - -<p>‘Lucian Damerel? Oh, he was the son of Cyprian Damerel, an Italian -artist who married the daughter of one of Simonstower’s tenants. -Simonstower was at all times greatly interested in him, and it has -always been my firm impression that it was he who sent the boy to -Oxford. At any rate, when he died, which was just before Lucian Damerel -came of age, Simonstower left him ten thousand pounds.’</p> - -<p>‘That was good,’ said Saxonstowe.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know,’ said Lady Firmanence. ‘It has always seemed to me from -what I have seen of him—and I keep my eyes open on most things—that it -would have been far better for that young man if fortune had dealt him a -few sound kicks instead of so many halfpence. Depend upon it, -Saxonstowe, it’s a bad thing for a man, and especially for a man of that -temperament, to be pampered too much. Now, Lucian Damerel has been -pampered all his life—I know a good deal about him, because I was -constantly down at Saxonstowe during the last two or three years of your -uncle’s life, and Saxonstowe, as you may remember, is close to -Simonstower. I know how Lucian was petted and pampered by his own -people, and by the parson and his daughter, and by the old lord. His way -has always been made smooth for him—it would have done him good to find -a few rough places here and there. He had far too much flattery poured -upon him when his success came, and he has got used to expecting it, -though indeed,’ concluded the old lady, laughing, ‘Heaven knows I’m -wrong in saying “got used,” for Damerel’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110"></a>{110}</span> one of the sort who take all -the riches and luxuries of the world as their just due.’</p> - -<p>‘He seemed to me to be very simple and unaffected,’ said Saxonstowe.</p> - -<p>Lady Firmanence nodded the ribbons of her cap.</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ she said, ‘he’s sadly too simple, and I wish—for I can’t help -liking him—that he was as affected as some of those young upstarts who -cultivate long hair and velvet coats on the strength of a slim volume -printed on one side of the paper only. No—Lucian Damerel hasn’t a scrap -of affectation about him, and he isn’t a <i>poseur</i>. I wish he were -affected and that he would pose—I do indeed, for his own sake.’</p> - -<p>Saxonstowe knew that his aunt was a clever woman. He held his tongue, -asking her by his eyes to explain this desire of hers, which seemed so -much at variance with her well-known love of humbug and cant.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, of course I know you’re wondering at that!’ she said. ‘Well, the -explanation is simple enough. I wish Lucian Damerel were a <i>poseur</i>, I -wish he were affected, even to the insufferable stage, for the simple -reason that if he were these things it would show that he was alive to -the practical and business side of the matter. What is he? A writer. -He’ll have to live by writing—at the rate he and Haidee live they’ll -soon exhaust their resources—and he ought to be alive to the £ s. d. of -his trade, for it is a trade. As things are, he isn’t alive. The -difference between Lucian Damerel and some other men of equal eminence -in his own craft is just this: they are for ever in an attitude, crying -out, “Look at me—is it not wonderful that I am so clever?” Lucian, on -the other hand, seems to suggest an attitude and air of “Wouldn’t it be -curious if I weren’t?”’</p> - -<p>‘I think,’ said Saxonstowe, ‘that there may be some affectation in -that.’</p> - -<p>‘Affectation,’ said Lady Firmanence, ‘depends upon two things if it is -to be successful: the power to deceive cleverly, and the ability to -deceive for ever. Lucian Damerel couldn’t deceive anybody—he’s a child, -the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111"></a>{111}</span> child who believes the world to be an illimitable nursery crammed -with inexhaustible toys.’</p> - -<p>‘You mean that he plays at life?’</p> - -<p>‘I mean that he plays <i>in</i> life,’ said Lady Firmanence. ‘He’s still -sporting on his mother’s breast, and he’ll go on sporting until somebody -picks him up, smacks him soundly, and throws him into a corner. Then, of -course, he will be vastly surprised to find that such treatment <i>could</i> -be meted out to him.’</p> - -<p>‘Then let us hope that he will be able to live in his world of dreams -for ever,’ said Saxonstowe.</p> - -<p>‘So he might, if the State were to establish an asylum for folk of his -sort,’ said Lady Firmanence. ‘But he happens to be married, and married -to Haidee Brinklow.’</p> - -<p>‘My publisher,’ remarked Saxonstowe, ‘gloated over the romantic -circumstances of the marriage, and appeared to think that that sort of -thing was good for trade—made books sell, you know.’</p> - -<p>‘I have no doubt that Damerel’s marriage made his books sell, and kept -<i>Domitia</i> running at the Athenæum for at least three months longer,’ -replied Lady Firmanence.</p> - -<p>‘Were the circumstances, then, so very romantic?’</p> - -<p>‘I dare say they appealed to the sensations, emotions, feelings, and -notions of the British public,’ said the old lady. ‘Haidee Brinklow, -after a campaign of two seasons, was about to marry a middle-aged person -who had made much money in something or other, and was prepared to -execute handsome settlements. It was all arranged when Lucian burst upon -the scene, blazing with triumph, youth, and good looks. He was the comet -of that season, and Haidee was attracted by the glitter of his tail. I -suppose he and she were madly in love with each other for quite a -month—unfortunately, during that month they committed the indiscretion -of marriage.’</p> - -<p>‘A runaway marriage, was it not?’</p> - -<p>‘Under the very noses of the mamma and the bridegroom-elect. There was -one happy result of the affair,’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112"></a>{112}</span> said Lady Firmanence musingly; ‘it -drove Mrs. Brinklow off to somewhere or other on the Continent, and -there she has since remained—she took her defeat badly. Now the jilted -gentleman took it in good part—it is said that he is quite a sort of -grandpapa in the establishment, and has realised that there are -compensations even in being jilted.’</p> - -<p>Saxonstowe meditated upon these things in silence.</p> - -<p>‘Mrs. Damerel was a pretty girl,’ he said, after a time.</p> - -<p>‘Mrs. Damerel is a nice little doll,’ said Lady Firmanence, ‘a very -pretty toy indeed. Give her plenty of pretty things to wear and sweets -to eat, and all the honey of life to sip at, and she’ll do well and go -far; but don’t ask her to draw cheques against a mental balance which -she never had, or you’ll get them back—dishonoured.’</p> - -<p>‘Are there any children?’ Saxonstowe asked.</p> - -<p>‘Only themselves,’ replied his aunt, ‘and quite plenty too, in one -house. If it were not for Millie Chilverstone, I don’t know what they -would do—she descends upon them now and then, straightens them up as -far as she can, and sets the wheels working once more. She is good to -them.’</p> - -<p>‘And who is she? I have some sort of recollection of her name,’ said -Saxonstowe.</p> - -<p>‘She is the daughter of the parson at Simonstower—the man who tutored -Lucian Damerel.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah, I remember—she was the girl who came with him to the Castle that -day, and he called her Sprats. A lively, good-humoured girl, with a heap -of freckles in a very bright face,’ said Saxonstowe.</p> - -<p>‘She is little altered,’ remarked Lady Firmanence. ‘Now, that was the -girl for Lucian Damerel! She would have taken care of his money, darned -his socks, given him plain dinners, seen that the rent was paid, and -made a man of him.’</p> - -<p>‘Admirable qualifications,’ laughed Saxonstowe. ‘But one might -reasonably suppose that a poet of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113"></a>{113}</span> Damerel’s quality needs others—some -intellectual gifts, for example, in his helpmeet.’</p> - -<p>‘Stuff and nonsense!’ retorted Lady Firmanence. ‘He wants a good -managing housekeeper with a keen eye for the butcher’s bill and a genius -for economy. As for intellect—pray, Saxonstowe, don’t foster the -foolish notion that poets are intellectual. Don’t you know that all -genius is lopsided? Your poet has all his brain-power in one little -cell—there may be a gold-mine there, but the rest of him is usually -weak even to childishness. And the great need of the weak man is the -strong woman.’</p> - -<p>Saxonstowe’s silence was a delicate and flattering compliment to Lady -Firmanence’s perspicacity.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114"></a>{114}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Lady Firmanence’s</span> observations upon the family history of Mr. and Mrs. -Lucian Damerel sent Lord Saxonstowe to their house at seven o’clock the -following evening with feelings of pleasant curiosity. He had been out -of the world—as that phrase is known by people whose chief idea of life -is to live in social ant-heaps—long enough to enjoy a renewed -acquaintance with it, and since his return to England had found a -hitherto untasted pleasure in studying the manners and customs of his -fellow-subjects. He remembered little about them as they had presented -themselves to him before his departure for the East, for he was then -young and unlicked: the five years of comparative solitude which he had -spent in the deserts and waste places of the earth, only enlivened by -the doubtful company of Kirghese, Tartars, and children of nature, had -lifted him upon an eminence from whence he might view civilised humanity -with a critical eye. So far everything had amused him—it seemed to him -that never had life seemed so small and ignoble, so mean and trifling, -as here where the men and women were as puppets pulled by strings which -fate had attached to most capricious fingers. Like all the men who come -back from the deserts and the mountains, he gazed on the whirling life -around him with a feeling that was half pity, half contempt. The antics -of the puppets made him wonder, and in the wonder he found amusement.</p> - -<p>Mr. and Mrs. Lucian Damerel, as befitted young people untroubled by -considerations of economy, resided in one of those smaller streets in -Mayfair wherein one may find a house large enough to turn round in -without more than an occasional collision with the walls. Such a house -is not so comfortable as a suburban residence at one-tenth the rent, but -it has the advantage of being<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115"></a>{115}</span> in the middle of the known world, and if -its frontage to the street is only one of six yards, its exterior may be -made pretty and even taking by a judicious use of flowering plants, -bright paint, and a quaint knocker. The interior is usually suggestive -of playing at doll’s house; but the absence of even one baby makes a -great difference, and in Lucian’s establishment there were no children. -Small as it was, the house was a veritable nest of comfort—Lucian and -Haidee had the instinct of settling themselves amongst soft things, and -surrounding their souls with an atmosphere of æsthetic delight, and one -of them at least had the artist’s eye for colour, and the true -collector’s contempt for the cheap and obvious. There was scarcely a -chair or table in the rooms sacred to the householders and their friends -which had not a history and a distinction: every picture was an -education in art; the books were masterpieces of the binder’s craft; the -old china and old things generally were the despair of many people who -could have afforded to buy a warehouse full of the like had they only -known where to find it. Lucian knew, and when he came into possession of -Lord Simonstower’s legacy he began to surround himself with the fruits -of money and knowledge, and as riches came rolling in from royalties, he -went on indulging his tastes until the house was full, and would hold no -more examples of anything. But by that time it was a nest of luxury -wherein even the light, real and artificial, was graduated to a fine -shade, where nothing crude in shape or colour interfered with the -delicate susceptibilities of a poetic temperament.</p> - -<p>When Lord Saxonstowe was shown into the small drawing-room of this small -house he marvelled at the cleverness and delicacy of the taste which -could make so much use of limited dimensions. It was the daintiest and -prettiest room he had ever seen, and though he himself had small -inclinations to ease and luxury of any sort, he drank in the -pleasantness of his surroundings with a distinct sense of personal -gratification. The room was empty of human life when he entered it, but -the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116"></a>{116}</span> marks of a personality were all over it, and the personality was -neither masculine nor feminine—it was the personality of a neuter -thing, and Saxonstowe dimly recognised that it meant Art. He began to -understand something of Lucian as he looked about him, and to conceive -him as a mind which dominated its enveloping body to a love of beauty -that might easily degenerate into a slavedom to luxury. He began to -wonder if Lucian’s study or library, or wherever he worked, were -similarly devoted to the worship of form and colour.</p> - -<p>He was turning over the leaves of an Italian work, a book sumptuous in -form and wonderful in its vellum binding and gold scroll-work, when a -rustle of skirts aroused him from the first stages of a reverie. He -turned, expecting to see his hostess—instead he saw a young lady whom -he instinctively recognised as Miss Chilverstone, the girl of the merry -eyes and the innumerable freckles of ten years earlier. He looked at her -closely as she approached him, and he saw that the merry eyes had lost -some of their roguery, but were still frank, clear, and kindly; some of -the freckles had gone, but a good many were still there, adding piquancy -to a face that had no pretensions to beauty, but many to the charms -which spring from the possession of a kindly heart and a purposeful -temperament. Good temper and good health appeared to radiate from Miss -Chilverstone; the active girl of sixteen had developed into a splendid -woman, and Lord Saxonstowe, as she moved towards him, admired her with a -sudden recognition of her feminine strength—she was just the woman, he -said to himself, who ought to be the mate of a strong man, a man of -action and purpose and determination.</p> - -<p>She held out her hand to him with a frank smile.</p> - -<p>‘Do you remember me?’ she said. ‘It is quite ten years since that -fateful afternoon at Simonstower.’</p> - -<p>‘Was it fateful?’ he answered. ‘Yes, I remember quite well. In those -days you were called Sprats.’</p> - -<p>‘I am still Sprats,’ she answered, with a laugh. ‘I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117"></a>{117}</span> shall always be -Sprats. I am Sprats to Lucian and Haidee, and even to my children.’</p> - -<p>‘To your children?’ he said wonderingly.</p> - -<p>‘I have twenty-five,’ she replied, smiling at his questioning look. ‘But -of course you do not know. I have a private orphanage, all of my own, in -Bayswater—it is my hobby. If you are interested in babies and children, -do come to see me there, and I will introduce you to all my charges.’</p> - -<p>‘I will certainly do that,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it hard work?’</p> - -<p>‘Isn’t everything hard work that is worth doing?’ she answered. ‘Yes, I -suppose it is hard work, but I like it. I have a natural genius for -mothering helpless things—that is why I occasionally condescend to put -on fine clothes and dine with children like Lucian and Haidee when they -entertain great travellers who are also peers of the realm.’</p> - -<p>‘Do they require mothering?’ he asked.</p> - -<p>‘Very much so sometimes—they are very particular babies. I come to them -every now and then to scold them, smack them, straighten them up, and -see that they are in no danger of falling into the fire or upsetting -anything. Afterwards I dine with them in order to cheer them up after -the rough time they have had.’</p> - -<p>Saxonstowe smiled. He had been watching her closely all the time.</p> - -<p>‘I see,’ he said, ‘that you are still Sprats. Has the time been very -rough to-day?’</p> - -<p>‘Somewhat rough on poor Haidee, perhaps,’ answered Sprats. ‘Lucian has -wisely kept out of the way until he can find safety in numbers. But -please sit down and tell me about your travels until our hostess -appears—it seems quite funny to see you all in one piece after such -adventures. Didn’t they torture you in some Thibetan town?’ she -inquired, with a sudden change from gaiety to womanly concern.</p> - -<p>‘They certainly were rather inhospitable,’ he answered. ‘I shouldn’t -call it torture, I think—it was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118"></a>{118}</span> merely a sort of gentle hint as to -what they would do if I intruded upon them again.’</p> - -<p>‘But I want to know what they did,’ she insisted. ‘You look so nice and -comfortable sitting there, with no other sign of discomfort about you -than the usual I-want-my-dinner look, that one would never dream you had -gone through hardships.’</p> - -<p>Saxonstowe was not much given to conversation—his nomadic life had -communicated the gift of silence to him, but he recognised the -sympathetic note in Miss Chilverstone’s voice, and he began to tell her -about his travels in a somewhat boyish fashion that amused her. As he -talked she examined him closely and decided that he was almost as young -as on the afternoon when he occasioned such mad jealousy in Lucian’s -breast. His method of expressing himself was simple and direct and -schoolboyish in language, but the exuberance of spirits which she -remembered had disappeared and given place to a staid, old-fashioned -manner.</p> - -<p>‘I wonder what did it?’ she said, unconsciously uttering her thought.</p> - -<p>‘Did what?’ he asked.</p> - -<p>‘I was thinking aloud,’ she answered. ‘I wondered what had made you so -very staid in a curiously young way—you were a rough-and-tumble sort of -boy that afternoon at Simonstower.’</p> - -<p>Saxonstowe blushed. He had recollections of his youthfulness.</p> - -<p>‘I believe I was an irrepressible sort of youngster,’ he said. ‘I think -that gets knocked out of you though, when you spend a lot of time -alone—you get no end of time for thinking, you know, out in the -deserts.’</p> - -<p>‘I should think so,’ she said. ‘And I suppose that even this solitude -becomes companionable in a way that only those who have experienced it -can understand?’</p> - -<p>He looked at her with some surprise and with a new interest and strange -sense of kinship.</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘That’s it—that is it exactly. How did you know?’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119"></a>{119}</span></p> - -<p>‘It isn’t necessary to go into the deserts and steppes to feel a bit -lonely now and then, is it?’ she said, with a laugh. ‘I suppose most of -us get some sort of notion of solitude at some time or other.’</p> - -<p>At that juncture Haidee entered, and Saxonstowe turned to her with a -good deal of curiosity. He was somewhat surprised to find that ten years -of added age had made little difference in her. She was now a woman, it -was true, and her girlish prettiness had changed into a somewhat -luxurious style of beauty—there was no denying the loveliness of face -and figure, of charm and colour, he said to himself, but he was quick to -observe that Haidee’s beauty depended entirely upon surface qualities. -She fell, without effort or consciousness, into poses which other women -vainly tried to emulate; it was impossible to her to walk across a room, -sit upon an unaccommodating chair, or loll upon a much becushioned sofa -in anything but a graceful way; it was equally impossible, so long as -nothing occurred to ruffle her, to keep from her lips a perpetual smile, -or inviting glances from her dark eyes. She reminded Saxonstowe of a -fluffy, silky-coated kitten which he had seen playing on Lady -Firmanence’s hearthrug, and he was not surprised to find, when she began -to talk to him, that her voice had something of the feline purr in it. -Within five minutes of her entrance he had determined that Mrs. Damerel -was a pretty doll. She showed to the greatest advantage amidst the -luxury of her surroundings, but her mouth dropped no pearls, and her -pretty face showed no sign of intellect, or of wit, or of any strong -mental quality. It was evident that conversation was not Mrs. Damerel’s -strong point—she indicated in an instinctive fashion that men were -expected to amuse and admire her without drawing upon her intellectual -resources, and Saxonstowe soon formed the opinion that a judicious use -of monosyllables would carry her a long way in uncongenial company. Her -beauty had something of sleepiness about it—there was neither vivacity -nor animation in her manner, but she was beautifully<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120"></a>{120}</span> gowned and -daintily perfect, and as a picture deserved worship and recognition.</p> - -<p>Saxonstowe was presently presented to another guest, Mrs. Berenson, a -lady who had achieved great distinction on the stage, and who claimed a -part proprietorship in Lucian Damerel because she had created the part -of the heroine in his tragedy, and almost worn herself to skin and bone -in playing it in strenuous fashion for nearly three hundred nights. She -was now resting from these labours, and employing her leisure in an -attempt to induce Lucian to write a play around herself, and the project -was so much in her mind that she began to talk volubly of it as soon as -she entered his wife’s drawing-room. Saxonstowe inspected her with -curiosity and amusement. He had seen her described as an embodiment of -sinuous grace; she seemed to him an angular, scraggy woman, whose joints -were too much in evidence, and who would have been the better for some -addition to her adipose tissue. From behind the footlights Mrs. Berenson -displayed many charms and qualities of beauty—Saxonstowe soon came to -the conclusion that they must be largely due to artificial aids and the -power of histrionic art, for she presented none of them on the dull -stage of private life. Her hair, arranged on the principle of artful -carelessness, was of a washed-out colour; her complexion was mottled and -her skin rough; she had an unfortunately prominent nose which evinced a -decided partiality to be bulbous, and her mouth, framed in harsh lines -and drooping wrinkles, was so large that it seemed to stretch from one -corner of an elongated jaw to the other. She was noticeable, but not -pleasant to look upon, and in spite of a natural indifference to such -things, Saxonstowe wished that her attire had been either less eccentric -or better suited to her. Mrs. Berenson, being very tall and very thin, -wore a gown of the eighteenth-century-rustic-maiden style, made very -high at the waist, low at the neck, and short in the sleeves—she thus -looked like a lamp-post, or a bean-stalk, topped with a mask and a -flaxen wig. She was one of those<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121"></a>{121}</span> women who wear innumerable chains, and -at least half-a-dozen rings on each hand, and she had an annoying trick -of clasping her hands in front of her and twisting the chains round her -fingers, which were very long and very white, and apt to get on other -people’s nerves. It was also to be observed that she never ceased -talking, and that her one subject of conversation was herself.</p> - -<p>As Saxonstowe was beginning to wish that his host would appear, Mr. -Eustace Darlington was announced, and he found himself diverted from -Mrs. Berenson by a new object of interest, in the shape of the man whom -Mrs. Damerel had jilted in order to run away with Lucian. Mr. Darlington -was a man of apparently forty years of age; a clean-shaven, keen-eyed -individual, who communicated an immediate impression of shrewd -hard-headedness. He was very quiet and very self-possessed in manner, -and it required little knowledge of human nature to predict of him that -he would never do anything in a hurry or in a perfunctory manner—a -single glance of his eye at the clock as eight struck served to indicate -at least one principal trait of his character.</p> - -<p>‘It is utterly useless to look at the clock,’ said Haidee, catching Mr. -Darlington’s glance. ‘That won’t bring Lucian any sooner—he has -probably quite forgotten that he has guests, and gone off to dine at his -club or something of that sort. He gets more erratic every day. I wish -you’d talk seriously to him, Sprats. He never pays the least attention -to me. Last week he asked two men to dine—utter strangers to me—and at -eight o’clock came a wire from Oxford saying he had gone down there to -see a friend and was staying the night.’</p> - -<p>‘I think that must be delightful in the man to whom you are married,’ -said Mrs. Berenson. ‘I should hate to live with a man who always did the -right thing at the right moment—so dull, you know.’</p> - -<p>‘There is much to be said on both sides,’ said Darlington dryly. ‘In -husbands, as in theology, a happy medium would appear to be found in the -<i>via media</i>. I presume, Mrs. Berenson, that you would like your husband<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122"></a>{122}</span> -to wear his waistcoat outside his coat and dine at five o’clock in the -morning?’</p> - -<p>‘I would prefer even that to a husband who lived on clock-work -principles,’ Mrs. Berenson replied. ‘Eccentricity is the surest proof of -strong character.’</p> - -<p>‘I should imagine,’ said Sprats, with a glance at Saxonstowe which -seemed to convey to him that the actress was amusing. ‘I should imagine -that Lord Saxonstowe and Mr. Darlington are men of clock-work -principles.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Berenson put up her pince-nez and favoured the two men with a long, -steady stare. She dropped the pince-nez with a deep sigh.</p> - -<p>‘They do look like it, don’t they?’ she said despairingly. ‘There’s -something in the way they wear their clothes and hold their hands that -suggests it. Do you always rise at a certain hour?’ she went on, turning -to Saxonstowe. ‘My husband had a habit of getting up at six in summer -and seven in winter—it brought on an extraordinary form of nervous -disease in me, and the doctors warned him that they would not be -responsible for my life if he persisted. I believe he tried to break the -habit off, poor fellow, but he died, and so of course there was an end -of it.’</p> - -<p>Ere Saxonstowe could decide whether he was expected to reply to the -lady’s question as to his own habits, the sound of a rapidly driven and -sharply pulled-up cab was heard outside, followed by loudly delivered -instructions in Lucian’s voice. A minute later he rushed into the -drawing-room. He had evidently come straight out of the cab, for he wore -his hat and forgot to take it off—excitement and concern were written -in large letters all over him. He began to gesticulate, addressing -everybody, and talking very quickly and almost breathlessly. He was -awfully sorry to have kept them waiting, and even now he must hurry away -again immediately. He had heard late that afternoon of an old college -friend who had fallen on evil days after an heroic endeavour to make a -fortune out of literature, and had gone to him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123"></a>{123}</span> to find that the poor -fellow, his wife, and two young children were all in the last stages of -poverty, and confronting a cold and careless world from the insecure -bastion of a cheap lodging in an unknown quarter of the town named -Ball’s Pond. He described their plight and surroundings in a few graphic -sentences, looking from one to the other with quick eager glances, as if -appealing to them for comprehension, or sympathy, or assent.</p> - -<p>‘And of course I must see to the poor chap and his family,’ he said. -‘They want food, and money, and lots of things. And the two -children—Sprats, <i>you</i> must come back with me just now. I am keeping -the cab—you must come and take those children away to your hospital. -And where is Hoskins? I want food and wine for them; he must put it on -top of the hansom.’</p> - -<p>‘Are we all to go without dinner?’ asked Mrs. Damerel.</p> - -<p>‘By no means, by no means!’ said Lucian. ‘Pray do not wait -longer—indeed I don’t know when I shall return, there will be lots to -do, and——’</p> - -<p>‘But Sprats, if she goes with you, will go hungry,’ Mrs. Damerel urged.</p> - -<p>Lucian stared at Sprats, and frowned, as if some deep mental problem had -presented itself to him.</p> - -<p>‘You can’t be very hungry, Sprats, you know,’ he said, with visible -impatience. ‘You must have had tea during the afternoon—can’t you wait -an hour or two and we’ll get something later on? Those two children must -be brought away—my God! you should see the place—you must come, of -course.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, I’m going with you!’ answered Sprats. ‘Don’t bother about us, you -other people—angels of mercy are not very pleasant things at the moment -you’re starving for dinner—go and dine and leave Lucian to me; I’ll put -a cloak or something over my one swell gown and go with him. Now, -Lucian, quick with your commissariat arrangements.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, yes, I’ll be quick,’ answered Lucian. ‘You see,’ he continued, -turning to Saxonstowe with the air<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124"></a>{124}</span> of a child who has asked another -child to play with it, and at the last moment prefers an alternative -amusement; ‘it’s an awful pity, isn’t it, but you do quite understand? -The poor chap’s starving and friendless, you know, and I don’t know when -I shall get back, but——’</p> - -<p>‘Please don’t bother about me,’ said Saxonstowe; ‘I quite understand.’</p> - -<p>Lucian sighed—a sigh of relief. He looked round; Sprats had -disappeared, but Hoskins, a staid and solemn butler, lingered at the -door. Lucian appealed to him with the pathetic insistence of the man who -wants very much to do something, and is not quite sure how to do it.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, I say, Hoskins, I want—some food, you know, and wine, and——’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, sir,’ said Hoskins. ‘Miss Chilverstone has just given me -instructions, sir.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, then we can go!’ exclaimed Lucian. ‘I say, you really mustn’t -mind—oh! I am forgetting that I must take some money,’ he said, and -hurriedly left the room. His wife sighed and looked at Darlington.</p> - -<p>‘I suppose we may now go to dinner,’ she said. ‘Lucian will sup on a -sandwich somewhere about midnight.’</p> - -<p>In the hall they found Sprats enveloped in an ulster which completely -covered her dinner-gown; Lucian was cramming a handful of money, -obviously taken at random from a receptacle where paper-currency and -gold and silver coins were all mingled together, into a pocket; a -footman was carrying a case of food and wine out to the cab. Mrs. -Berenson insisted on seeing the two apostles of charity depart—the -entire episode had put her into a good temper, and she enlivened the -next hour with artless descriptions of her various states of feeling. -Her chatter amused Saxonstowe; Darlington and Mrs. Damerel appeared to -have heard much of it on previous occasions, and received it with -equanimity. As soon as dinner was over she announced that if Lucian<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125"></a>{125}</span> had -been at home she had meant to spend the rest of the evening in -expounding her ideas on the subject of the wished-for drama to him, but -as things were she would go round to the Empire for an hour—she would -just be in time, she said, to see a turn in which the performer, a -contortionist, could tie himself into a complicated knot, dislocate -every joint in his body, and assume the most grotesque positions, all -without breaking himself in pieces.</p> - -<p>‘It is the grimmest performance,’ she said to Saxonstowe; ‘it makes me -dream, and I wake screaming; and the sensation of finding that the dream -is a dream, and not a reality, is so exquisite that I treat myself to it -at least once a week. I think that all great artists should cultivate -sensations—don’t you?’</p> - -<p>Upon this point Saxonstowe was unable to give a satisfactory answer, but -he replied very politely that he trusted Mrs. Berenson would enjoy her -treat. Soon after her departure he made his own adieu, leaving Mrs. -Damerel to entertain Darlington and two or three other men who had -dropped in after dinner, and who seemed in nowise surprised to find -Lucian not at home.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126"></a>{126}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Lucian</span> swooped down upon the humble dwelling in which his less fortunate -fellow resided, like an angel who came to destroy rather than to save. -He took everything into his own hands, as soon as the field of -operations lay open to him, and it was quite ten minutes before Sprats, -by delicate finesse, managed to shut him up in one room with the -invalid, while she and the wife talked practical matters in another. At -the end of an hour she got him safely away from the house. He was in a -pleasurable state of mind; the situation had been full of charm to him, -and he walked out into the street gloating over the fact that the sick -man and his wife and children were now fed and warmed and made generally -comfortable, and had money in the purse wherewith to keep the wolf from -the door for many days. His imagination had seized upon the misery which -the unlucky couple must have endured before help came in their way: he -conjured up the empty pocket, the empty cupboard, the blank despair that -comes from lack of help and sympathy, the heart sickness which springs -from the powerlessness to hope any longer. He had read of these things -but had never seen them: he only realised what they meant when he looked -at the faces of the sick man and his wife as he and Sprats left them. -Striding away at Sprats’s side, his head drooping towards his chest and -his hands plunged in his pockets, Lucian ruminated upon these things and -became so keenly impressed by them that he suddenly paused and uttered a -sharp exclamation.</p> - -<p>‘By George, Sprats!’ he said, standing still and staring at her as if he -had never seen her before, ‘what an awful thing poverty must be! Did -that ever strike you?’</p> - -<p>‘Often,’ answered Sprats, with laconic alacrity, ‘as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127"></a>{127}</span> it might have -struck you, too, if you’d kept your eyes open.’</p> - -<p>‘I am supposed to have excellent powers of observation,’ he said -musingly, ‘but somehow I don’t think I ever quite realised what poverty -meant until to-night. I wonder what it would be like to try it for a -while—to go without money and food and have no hope?—but, of course, -one couldn’t do it—one would always know that one could go back to -one’s usual habits, and so on. It would only be playing at being poor. I -wonder, now, where the exact line would be drawn between the end of hope -and the beginning of despair?—that’s an awfully interesting subject, -and one that I should like to follow up. Don’t you think——’</p> - -<p>‘Lucian,’ said Sprats, interrupting him without ceremony, ‘are we going -to stand here at the street corner all night while you moon about -abstract questions? Because if you are, I’m not.’</p> - -<p>Lucian came out of his reverie and examined his surroundings. He had -come to a halt at a point where the Essex Road is transected by the New -North Road, and he gazed about him with the expression of a traveller -who has wandered into strange regions.</p> - -<p>‘This is a quarter of the town which I do not know,’ he said. ‘Not very -attractive, is it? Let us walk on to those lights—I suppose we can find -a hansom there, and then we can get back to civilisation.’</p> - -<p>They walked forward in the direction of Islington High Street: round -about the Angel there was life and animation and a plenitude of bright -light; Lucian grew interested, and finally asked a policeman what part -of the town he found himself in. On hearing that that was Islington he -was immediately reminded of the ‘Bailiff’s Daughter’ and began to recall -lines of it. But Islington and old ballads were suddenly driven quite -out of his thoughts by an object which had no apparent connection with -poetry.</p> - -<p>Sprats, keeping her eyes open for a hansom, suddenly missed Lucian from -her side, and turned to find him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128"></a>{128}</span> gazing at the windows of a little -café-restaurant with an Italian name over its door and a suspicion of -Continental cookery about it. She turned back to him: he looked at her -as a boy might look whose elder sister catches him gazing into the -pastry-cook’s window.</p> - -<p>‘I say, Sprats,’ he said coaxingly, ‘let’s go in there and have supper. -It’s clean, and I’ve suddenly turned faint—I’ve had nothing since -lunch. Dinner will be all over now at home, and besides, we’re miles -away. I’ve been in these places before—they’re all right, really, -something like the <i>ristoranti</i> in Italy, you know.’</p> - -<p>Sprats was hungry too. She glanced at the little café—it appeared to be -clean enough to warrant one in eating, at any rate, a chop in it.</p> - -<p>‘I think I should like some food,’ she said.</p> - -<p>‘Come on, then,’ said Lucian gaily. ‘Let’s see what sort of place it -is.’</p> - -<p>He pushed open the swinging doors and entered. It was a small place, -newly established, and the proprietor and his wife, two Italians, and -their Swiss waiter were glad to see customers who looked as if they -would need something more than a cup of coffee and a roll and butter. -The proprietor bowed himself double and ushered them to the most -comfortable corner in his establishment: he produced a lengthy <i>menu</i> -and handed it to Lucian with great <i>empressement</i>; the waiter stood -near, deeply interested; the proprietor’s wife, gracious of figure and -round of face, leaned over the counter thinking of the coins which she -would eventually deposit in her cash drawer. Lucian addressed the -proprietor in Italian and discussed the <i>menu</i> with him; while they -talked, Sprats looked about her, wondering at the red plush seats, the -great mirrors in their gilded frames, and the jars of various fruits and -conserves arranged on the counter. Every table was adorned with a -flowering plant fashioned out of crinkled paper; the ceiling was picked -out in white and gold; the Swiss waiter’s apron and napkin were very -stiffly starched; the proprietor wore a frock coat, which fitted very -tightly at the waist,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129"></a>{129}</span> and his wife’s gown was of a great smartness. -Sprats decided that they were early customers in the history of the -establishment—besides themselves there were only three people in the -place: an old gentleman with a napkin tucked into his neckband, who was -eating his dinner and reading a newspaper propped up against a bottle, -and a pair of obvious lovers who were drinking <i>café-au-lait</i> in a quiet -corner to the accompaniment of their own murmurs.</p> - -<p>‘I had no idea that I was so hungry,’ said Lucian when he and the -proprietor had finally settled upon what was best to eat and drink. ‘I -am glad I saw this place: it reminds me in some ways of Italy. I say, I -don’t believe those poor people had had much to eat to-day, Sprats—it -is a most fortunate thing that I happened to hear of them. My God! I -wouldn’t like to get down to that stage—it must be dreadful, especially -when there are children.’</p> - -<p>Sprats leaned her elbows on the little table, propped her chin in her -hands, and looked at him with a curious expression which he did not -understand. A half-dreamy, half-speculative look came into her eyes.</p> - -<p>‘I wonder what you would do if you <i>did</i> get down to that stage?’ she -said, with a rather quizzical smile.</p> - -<p>Lucian stared at her.</p> - -<p>‘I? Why, what do you mean?’ he said. ‘I suppose I should do as other men -do.’</p> - -<p>‘It would be for the first time in your life, then,’ she answered. ‘I -fancy seeing you do as other men do in any circumstances.’</p> - -<p>‘But I don’t think I could conceive myself at such a low ebb as that,’ -he said.</p> - -<p>Sprats still stared at him with a speculative expression.</p> - -<p>‘Lucian,’ she said suddenly, ‘do you ever think about the future? -Everything has been made easy for you so far; does it ever strike you -that fortune is in very truth a fickle jade, and that she might desert -you?’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130"></a>{130}</span></p> - -<p>He looked at her as a child looks who is requested to face an unpleasant -contingency.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t think of unpleasant things,’ he answered. ‘What’s the good? And -why imagine possibilities which aren’t probabilities? There is no -indication that fortune is going to desert me.’</p> - -<p>‘No,’ said Sprats, ‘but she might, and very suddenly too. Look here, -Lucian; I’ve the right to play grandmother always, haven’t I, and -there’s something I want to put before you plainly. Don’t you think you -are living rather carelessly and extravagantly?’</p> - -<p>Lucian knitted his brows and stared at her.</p> - -<p>‘Explain,’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘Well,’ she continued, ‘I don’t think it wants much explanation. You -don’t bother much about money matters, do you?’</p> - -<p>He looked at her somewhat pityingly.</p> - -<p>‘How can I do that and attend to my work?’ he asked. ‘I could not -possibly be pestered with things of that sort.’</p> - -<p>‘Very well,’ said Sprats, ‘and Haidee doesn’t bother about them either. -Therefore, no one bothers. I know your plan, Lucian—it’s charmingly -simple. When Lord Simonstower left you that ten thousand pounds you paid -it into a bank, didn’t you, and to it you afterwards added Haidee’s two -thousand when you were married. Twice a year Mr. Robertson pays your -royalties into your account, and the royalties from your tragedy go to -swell it as well. That’s one side of the ledger. On the other side you -and Haidee each have a cheque-book, and you draw cheques as you please -and for what you please. That’s all so, isn’t it?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ answered Lucian, regarding her with amazement, ‘of course it is; -but just think what a very simple arrangement it is.’</p> - -<p>‘Admirably simple,’ Sprats replied, laughing, ‘so long as there is an -inexhaustible fund to draw upon. But seriously, Lucian, haven’t you been -drawing on<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131"></a>{131}</span> your capital? Do you know, at this moment, what you are -worth?—do you know how you stand?’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t suppose that I do,’ he answered. ‘But why all this questioning? -I know that Robertson pays a good deal into my account twice a year, and -the royalties from the tragedy were big, you know.’</p> - -<p>‘But still, Lucian, you’ve drawn off your capital,’ she urged. ‘You have -spent just what you pleased ever since you left Oxford, and Haidee -spends what she pleases. You must have spent a lot on your Italian tour -last year, and you are continually running over to Paris. You keep up an -expensive establishment; you indulge expensive tastes; you were born, my -dear Lucian, with the instincts of an epicure in everything.’</p> - -<p>‘And yet I am enjoying a supper in an obscure little café!’ he exclaimed -laughingly. ‘There’s not much extravagance here.’</p> - -<p>‘You may gratify epicurean tastes by a sudden whim to be Spartan-like,’ -answered Sprats. ‘I say that you have the instincts of an epicure, and -you have so far gratified them. You’ve never known what it was, Lucian, -to be refused anything, have you? No: well, that naturally inclines you -to the opinion that everything will always be made easy for you. Now -supposing you lost your vogue as a poet—oh, there’s nothing impossible -about it, my dear boy!—the public are as fickle as fortune herself—and -supposing your next tragedy does not catch the popular taste—ah, and -that’s not impossible either—what are you going to do? Because, Lucian, -you must have dipped pretty heavily into your capital, and if you want -some plain truths from your faithful Sprats, you spend a great deal more -than you earn. Now give me another potato, and tell me plainly if you -know how much your royalties amounted to last year and how much you and -Haidee spent.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know,’ answered Lucian. ‘I could tell by asking my bankers. Of -course I have spent a good deal of money in travel, and in books, and in -pictures, and in furnishing a house—could I have laid out Lord<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132"></a>{132}</span> -Simonstower’s legacy in better fashion? And I do earn large sums—I had -a small fortune out of <i>Domitia</i>, you know.’</p> - -<p>‘There is no doubt,’ she replied, ‘that you have had enough money to -last you for all the rest of your life if it had been wisely invested.’</p> - -<p>‘Do you mean to say that I have no investments?’ he said, half angrily. -‘Why, I have thousands of pounds invested in pictures, books, furniture, -and china—my china alone is worth two thousand.’</p> - -<p>‘Dear boy, I don’t doubt it,’ she answered soothingly, ‘but you know it -doesn’t produce any interest. I like you to have pretty things about -you, but you have precious little modesty in your mighty brain, and you -sometimes indulge tastes which only a millionaire ought to possess.’</p> - -<p>‘Well,’ he said, sighing, ‘I suppose there’s a moral at the end of the -sermon. What is it, Sprats? You are a brick, of course—in your way -there’s nobody like you, but when you are like this you make me think of -mustard-plaisters.’</p> - -<p>‘The moral is this,’ she answered: ‘come down from the clouds and -cultivate a commercial mind for ten minutes. Find out exactly what you -have in the way of income, and keep within it. Tell Haidee exactly how -much she has to spend.’</p> - -<p>‘You forget,’ he said, ‘that Haidee has two thousand pounds of her own. -It’s a very small fortune, but it’s hers.’</p> - -<p>‘Had, you mean, not has,’ replied Sprats. ‘Haidee must have spent her -small fortune twice over, if not thrice over.’</p> - -<p>‘It would be an unkind thing to be mean with her,’ said Lucian, with an -air of wise reflection. ‘If Haidee had married Darlington she would have -had unlimited wealth at her disposal; as she preferred to throw it all -aside and marry me, I can’t find it in me to deny her anything. No, -Sprats—poor little Haidee must have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133"></a>{133}</span> her simple pleasures even if I -have to deny myself of my own.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, did you ever hear such utter rot!’ Sprats exclaimed. ‘Catch you -denying yourself of anything! Dear boy, don’t be an ass—it’s bad form. -And Haidee’s pleasures are not simple.’</p> - -<p>‘They are simple in comparison with what they might have been if she had -married Darlington,’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘Then why didn’t she marry Darlington?’ inquired Sprats.</p> - -<p>‘Because she married me,’ answered Lucian. ‘She gave up the millionaire -for the struggling poet, as you might put it if you were writing a -penny-dreadful. No; seriously, Sprats, I think there’s a good deal due -to Haidee in that respect. I think she is really easily contented. When -you come to think of it, we are not extravagant—we like pretty things -and comfortable surroundings, but when you think of what some people -do——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, you’re hopeless, Lucian!’ she said. ‘I wish you’d been sent out to -earn your living at fifteen. Honour bright—you’re living in a world of -dreams, and you’ll have a nasty awakening some day.’</p> - -<p>‘I have given the outer world something of value from my world of -dreams,’ he said, smiling at her.</p> - -<p>‘You have written some very beautiful poetry, and you are a marvellously -gifted man who ought to feel the responsibility of your gifts,’ she said -gravely. ‘And all I want is to keep you, if I can, from the rocks on -which you might come to grief. I’m sure that if you took my advice about -business matters you would avoid trouble in the future. You’re too -cock-sure, too easy-going, too thoughtless, Lucian, and this is a hard -and a cruel world.’</p> - -<p>‘It’s been a very pleasant world to me so far,’ he said. ‘I’ve never had -a care or a trouble; I’ve heaps of friends, and I’ve always got -everything that I wanted. Why, it’s a very pleasant world! You, Sprats, -have found it so, too.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134"></a>{134}</span></p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I have found it pleasant, but it is hard and cruel -nevertheless, and one realises it sometimes when one least expects to. -One may wake out of a dream to a very cruel reality.’</p> - -<p>‘You speak as of a personal experience,’ he said smiling. ‘And yet I -swear you never had one.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t want you to have one,’ she answered.</p> - -<p>‘Is sermonising a cruel reality?’ he asked with a mock grimace.</p> - -<p>‘No, it’s a necessary thing; and that reminds me that I have not quite -finished mine. Look here, Lucian, here’s a straight question to you. Do -you think it a good thing to be so very friendly with Mr. Darlington?’</p> - -<p>Lucian dropped his knife and fork and stared at her in amazement.</p> - -<p>‘Why on earth not?’ he said. ‘Darlington is an awfully good fellow. Of -course, I know that he must have felt it when Haidee ran away with me, -but he has been most kind to both of us—we have had jolly times on his -yacht and at his Scotch place; and you know, Sprats, when you can’t -afford things yourself it’s rather nice to have friends who can give -them to you.’</p> - -<p>‘Lucian, that’s a piece of worldliness that’s unworthy of you,’ she -said. ‘Well, I can’t say anything against Mr. Darlington. He seems kind, -and he is certainly generous and hospitable, but it is well known that -he was very, very much in love with Haidee, and that he felt her loss a -good deal.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, it was awfully hard on him,’ said Lucian, stroking his chin with a -thoughtful air; ‘and of course that’s just why one feels that one ought -to be nice to him. He and Haidee are great friends, and that’s far -better than that he should cherish any bitter feelings against her -because she preferred me to him.’</p> - -<p>Sprats looked at him with the half-curious, half-speculative expression -which had filled her eyes in the earlier stages of their conversation. -They had now finished their repast, and she drew on her gloves.</p> - -<p>‘I want to go home to my children,’ she said. ‘One<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135"></a>{135}</span> of the babies has -croup, and it was rather bad when I left. Pay the bill, Lucian, and get -them to call a hansom.’</p> - -<p>Lucian put his hands in his pockets, and uttered a sudden exclamation of -dismay.</p> - -<p>‘I haven’t any money,’ he said. ‘I left it all with poor Watson. Have -you any?’</p> - -<p>‘No,’ she answered, ‘of course I haven’t. You dragged me away in my -dinner-dress, and it hasn’t even a pocket in it. What are you going to -do?’</p> - -<p>‘What an awkward predicament!’ said Lucian, searching every pocket. ‘I -don’t know what to do—I haven’t a penny.’</p> - -<p>‘Well, you must walk back to Mr. Watson’s and get some money there,’ -said Sprats. ‘You will be back in ten minutes.’</p> - -<p>‘What! borrow money from a man to whom I have just given it?’ he cried. -‘Oh, I couldn’t do that!’</p> - -<p>Sprats uttered an impatient exclamation.</p> - -<p>‘Well, do something!’ she said. ‘We can’t sit here all night.’</p> - -<p>Lucian summoned the proprietor and explained the predicament. The -situation ended in a procession of two hansom cabs, in one of which rode -Sprats and Lucian, in the other the Swiss waiter, who enjoyed a long -drive westward and finally returned to the heights of Islington with the -amount of the bill and a substantial gratuity in his pocket. As Sprats -pointed out with force and unction, Lucian’s foolish pride in not -returning to the Watsons and borrowing half a sovereign had increased -the cost of their supper fourfold. But Lucian only laughed, and Sprats -knew that the shillings thrown away were to him as things of no -importance.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136"></a>{136}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">There</span> had been a moment in Sprats’s life when she had faced things—it -was when she heard that Lucian and Haidee had made a runaway marriage. -This escapade had been effected very suddenly; no one had known that -these two young people were contemplating so remarkable a step. It was -supposed that Miss Brinklow was fully alive to the blessings and -advantages attendant upon a marriage with Mr. Eustace Darlington, who, -as head of a private banking firm which carried out financial operations -of vast magnitude, was a prize of much consequence in the matrimonial -market: no one ever imagined that she would throw away such a chance for -mere sentiment. But Haidee, shallow as she was, had a certain vein of -romance in her composition; and when Lucian, in all the first flush of -manhood and the joyous confidence of youth, burst upon her, she fell in -love with him in a fashion calculated to last for at least a fortnight. -He, too, fell madly in love with the girl’s physical charms: as to her -mental qualities, he never gave them a thought. She was Aphrodite, warm, -rosy-tinted, and enticing; he neither ate, slept, nor drank until she -was in his arms. He was a masterful lover; his passion swept Haidee out -of herself, and before either knew what was really happening, they were -married. They lived on each other’s hearts for at least a week, but -their appetites were normal again within the month, and there being no -lack of money and each having a keen perception of the <i>joie de vivre</i>, -they settled down very comfortably.</p> - -<p>Sprats had never heard of Haidee from the time of the latter’s visit to -Simonstower until she received the news of her marriage to Lucian. The -tidings came to her with a curious heaviness. She had never disguised -from herself the fact that she herself loved Lucian: now that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137"></a>{137}</span> she knew -he was married to another woman she set herself the task of -distinguishing between the love that she might have given him and the -love which she could give him. Upon one thing she decided at once: since -Lucian had elected Haidee as his life’s partner, Haidee must be Sprats’s -friend too, even if the friendship were all on one side. She would love -Haidee—for Lucian’s sake, primarily: for her own if possible. But when -events brought the three together in London, Sprats was somewhat -puzzled. Lucian as a husband was the must curious and whimsical of men. -He appeared to be absolutely incapable of jealousy, and would watch his -wife flirting under his eyes with appreciative amusement. He himself -made love to every girl who aroused any interest or curiosity in him—to -women who bored him he was cold as ice, and indifferent to the verge of -rudeness. He let Haidee do exactly as she pleased; with his own liberty -in anything, and under any circumstances, he never permitted -interference. Sprats was never able to decide upon his precise feelings -for his wife or his attitude towards her—they got on very smoothly, but -each went his or her own way. And after a time Haidee’s way appeared to -run in parallel lines with the way of her jilted lover, Eustace -Darlington.</p> - -<p>Mr. Darlington had taken his pill with equanimity, and had not even made -a wry face over it. He had gone so far as to send the bride a wedding -present, and had let people see that he was kindly disposed to her. When -the runaways came back to town and Lucian began the meteor-like career -which brought his name so prominently before the world, Darlington saw -no reason why he should keep aloof. He soon made Lucian’s acquaintance, -became his friend, and visited the house at regular intervals. Some -people, who knew the financier rather well, marvelled at the kindness -which he showed to these young people—he entertained them on his yacht -and at his place in Scotland, and Mrs. Damerel was seen constantly, -sometimes attended by<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138"></a>{138}</span> Lucian and sometimes not, in his box at the -opera. At the end of two years Darlington was regarded as Haidee’s -particular cavalier, and one half their world said unkind things which, -naturally, never reached Lucian’s ears. He was too fond of smoothness in -life to say No to anything, and so long as he himself could tread the -primrose path unchecked and untroubled, he did not care to interfere in -anybody’s arrangements—not even in Haidee’s. It seemed to him quite an -ordinary thing, an everyday occurrence, that he and she and Darlington -should be close friends, and he went in and out of Darlington’s house -just as Darlington went in and out of his.</p> - -<p>Lucian, all unconsciously, had developed into an egoist. He watched -himself playing his part in life with as much interest as the lover of -dramatic art will show in studying the performance of a great actor. He -seemed to his own thinking a bright and sunny figure, and he arranged -everything on his own stage so that it formed a background against which -that figure moved or stood with striking force. He was young; he was a -success; people loved to have him in their houses; his photograph sold -by the thousands in the shop windows; a stroll along Bond Street or -Piccadilly was in the nature of a triumphal procession; hostesses almost -went down on their knees to get him to their various functions; he might -have dined out every night, if he had liked. He very often did -like—popularity and admiration and flattery and homage were as incense -to his nostrils, and he accepted every gift poured at his shrine as if -nothing could be too good for him. And yet no one could call him -conceited, or vain, or unduly exalted: he was transparently simple, -ingenuous, and childlike; he took everything as a handsome child takes -the gifts showered upon him by admiring seniors. He had a rare gift of -making himself attractive to everybody—he would be frivolous and gay -with the young, old-fashioned and grave with the elderly. He was a -butterfly and a man of fashion; there was no better dressed man in -town,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139"></a>{139}</span> nor a handsomer; but he was also a scholar and a student, and in -whatever idle fashion he spent most of his time, there were so many -hours in each day which he devoted to hard, systematic reading and to -his own work. It was the only matter in which he was practical; in all -other moods he was a gaily painted, light-winged thing that danced and -fluttered in the sunbeams. He was careless, thoughtless, light-hearted, -sanguine, and he never stopped to think of consequences or results. But -through everything that critical part of him kept an interested and -often amused eye on the other parts.</p> - -<p>Sprats at this stage watched him carefully. She had soon discovered that -he and Haidee were mere children in many things, and wholly incapable of -management or forethought. It had been their ill-fortune to have all -they wanted all their lives, and they lived as if heaven had made a -contract with them to furnish their table with manna and their wardrobes -with fine linen, and keep no account of the supply. She was of a -practical mind, and had old-fashioned country notions about saving up in -view of contingencies, and she expounded them at certain seasons with -force and vigour to both Lucian and Haidee. But as Lucian cherished an -ineradicable belief in his own star, and had never been obliged to earn -his dinner before he could eat it, there was no impression to be made -upon him; and Haidee, having always lived in the softest corner of -luxury’s lap, could conceive of no other state of being, and was -mercifully spared the power of imagining one.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140"></a>{140}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">In</span> spite of Sprats’s sermon in the little café-restaurant, Lucian made -no effort to follow her advice. He was at work on a new tragedy which -was to be produced at the Athenæum in the following autumn, and had -therefore no time to give to considerations of economy, and when he was -not at work he was at play, and play with Lucian was a matter of as much -importance, so far as strenuous devotion to it was concerned, as work -was. But there came a morning and an occurrence which for an hour at -least made him recall Sprats’s counsel and ponder rather deeply on -certain things which he had never pondered before.</p> - -<p>It was ten o’clock, and Lucian and Haidee were breakfasting. They -invariably spent a good hour over this meal, for both were possessed of -hearty appetites, and Lucian always read his letters and his newspapers -while he ate and drank. He was alternately devoting himself to his plate -and to a leading article in the <i>Times</i>, when the footman entered and -announced that Mr. Pepperdine wished to see him. Lucian choked down a -mouthful, uttered a joyous exclamation, and rushed into the hall. Mr. -Pepperdine, in all the glories of a particularly horsy suit of clothes, -was gazing about him as if he had got into a museum. He had visited -Lucian’s house before, and always went about in it with his mouth wide -open and an air of expectancy—there was usually something fresh to see, -and he never quite knew where he might come across it.</p> - -<p>‘My dear uncle!’ cried Lucian, seizing him in his arms and dragging him -into the dining-room, ‘why didn’t you let me know you were coming? Have -you breakfasted? Have some more, any way—get into that chair.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Pepperdine solemnly shook hands with Haidee,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141"></a>{141}</span> who liked him because -he betrayed such ardent and whole-souled admiration of her and had once -bought her a pair of wonderful ponies, assured himself by a careful -inspection that she was as pretty as ever, and took a chair, but not at -the table. He had breakfasted, he said, at his hotel, two hours earlier.</p> - -<p>‘Then have a drink,’ said Lucian, and rang the bell for whisky and soda. -‘How is everybody at Simonstower?’</p> - -<p>‘All well,’ answered Mr. Pepperdine, ‘very well indeed, except that -Keziah has begun to suffer a good deal from rheumatism. It’s a family -complaint. I’m glad to see you both well and hearty—you keep the roses -in your cheeks, ma’am, and the light in your eyes, something wonderful, -considering that you are a townbird, as one may say. There are country -maidens with less colour and brightness, so there are!’</p> - -<p>‘You said that so prettily that I shall allow you to smoke a cigar, if -you like,’ said Haidee. ‘Lucian, your case.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Pepperdine shook his head knowingly as he lighted a cigar and sipped -his whisky and soda. He knew a pretty woman when he saw her, he said to -himself, and it was his opinion that Mrs. Lucian Damerel was uncommonly -pretty. Whenever he came to see her he could never look at her enough, -and Haidee, who accepted admiration on principle, used to smile at him -and air her best behaviour. She was sufficiently woman of the world to -overlook the fact that Mr. Pepperdine was a tenant-farmer and used the -language of the people—he was a handsome man and a dandy in his way, -and he was by no means backward, in spite of his confirmed bachelorhood, -of letting a pretty woman see that he had an eye for beauty. So she made -herself very agreeable to Mr. Pepperdine and told him stories of the -ponies, and Lucian chatted of various things, and Mr. Pepperdine, taking -in the general air of comfort and luxury which surrounded these young -people, felt that his nephew had begun life in fine style and was -uncommonly clever.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142"></a>{142}</span></p> - -<p>They went into Lucian’s study when breakfast was over, and Lucian -lighted a pipe and began to chat carelessly of Simonstower and old times -there. Mr. Pepperdine, however, changed the subject somewhat abruptly.</p> - -<p>‘Lucian, my boy,’ he said, ‘I’ll tell you what’s brought me here: I want -you to lend me a thousand pounds for a twelvemonth. Will you do that?’</p> - -<p>‘Why, of course!’ exclaimed Lucian. ‘I shall be only too pleased—for as -long as ever you like.’</p> - -<p>‘A year will do for me,’ answered Mr. Pepperdine. ‘I’ll explain -matters,’ and he went on to tell Lucian the story of the Bransby -defalcations, and his own loss, and of the late Lord Simonstower’s -generosity. ‘He was very good about it, was the old lord,’ he said: ‘it -made things easy for me while he lived, but now he’s dead, and I can’t -expect the new lord to be as considerate. I’ve had a tightish time -lately, Lucian, my boy, and money’s been scarce; but you can have your -thousand pounds back at the twelvemonth end—I’m a man of my word in all -matters.’</p> - -<p>‘My dear uncle!’ exclaimed Lucian, ‘there must be no talk of that sort -between us. Of course you shall have the money at once—that is as soon -as we can get to the bank. Or will a cheque do?’</p> - -<p>‘Aught that’s of the value of a thousand pounds’ll do for me,’ replied -Mr. Pepperdine. ‘I want to complete a certain transaction with the money -this afternoon, and if you give me a cheque I can call in at your bank.’</p> - -<p>Lucian produced his cheque-book and wrote out a cheque for the amount -which his uncle wished to borrow. Mr. Pepperdine insisted upon drawing -up a formal memorandum of its receipt, and admonished his nephew to put -it carefully away with his other business papers. But Lucian never kept -any business papers—his usual practice was to tear everything up that -looked like a business document and throw the fragments into the -waste-paper basket. He would treasure the most obscure second-hand -bookseller’s catalogue as if it had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143"></a>{143}</span> been a gilt-edged security, but -bills and receipts and business letters annoyed him, and Mr. -Pepperdine’s carefully scrawled sheet of notepaper went into the usual -receptacle as soon as its writer had left the room. And as he crumpled -it up and threw it into the basket, laughing at the old-fashioned habits -of his uncle, Lucian also threw off all recollection of the incident and -became absorbed in his new tragedy.</p> - -<p>Coming in from the theatre that night he found a little pile of letters -waiting for him on the hall table, and he took them into his study and -opened them carelessly. There was a long epistle from Mrs. Berenson—he -read half of it and threw that and the remaining sheets away with an -exclamation of impatience. There was a note from the great actor-manager -who was going to produce the new tragedy—he laid that open on his desk -and put a paper-weight upon it. The rest of his letters were -invitations, requests for autographs, gushing epistles from admiring -readers, and so on—he soon bundled them all together and laid them -aside. But there was one which he had kept to the last—a formal-looking -affair with the name of his bank engraved on the flap of the envelope, -and he opened it with some curiosity. The letter which it enclosed was -short and formal, but when Lucian had read it he recognised in some -vague and not very definite fashion that it constituted an epoch. He -read it again and yet again, with knitted brows and puzzled eyes, and -then he put it on his desk and sat staring at it as if he did not -understand the news which it was meant to convey to him.</p> - -<p>It was a very commonplace communication this, but Lucian had never seen -anything of its sort before. It was just a brief, politely worded note -from his bankers, informing him that they had that day paid a cheque for -one thousand pounds, drawn by him in favour of Simpson Pepperdine, -Esquire, and that his account was now overdrawn by the sum of £187, 10s. -0d. That was all—there was not even a delicately expressed request to -him to put the account in credit.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144"></a>{144}</span></p> - -<p>Lucian could not quite realise what this letter meant; he said nothing -to Haidee of it, but after breakfast next morning he drove to the bank -and asked to see the manager. Once closeted with that gentleman in his -private room he drew out the letter and laid it on the desk at which the -manager sat.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t quite understand this letter,’ he said. ‘Would you mind -explaining it to me?’</p> - -<p>The manager smiled.</p> - -<p>‘It seems quite plain, I think,’ he said pleasantly. ‘It means that your -account is overdrawn to the amount of £187, 10s. 0d.’</p> - -<p>Lucian sat down and stared at him.</p> - -<p>‘Does that mean that I have exhausted all the money I placed in your -hands, and have drawn on you for £187, 10s. 0d. in addition?’ he asked.</p> - -<p>‘Precisely, Mr. Damerel,’ answered the manager. ‘Your balance yesterday -morning was about £820, and you drew a cheque in favour of Mr. -Pepperdine for £1000. That, of course, puts you in our debt.’</p> - -<p>Lucian stared harder than ever.</p> - -<p>‘You’re quite sure there is no mistake?’ he said.</p> - -<p>The manager smiled.</p> - -<p>‘Quite sure!’ he replied. ‘But surely you have had your pass-book?’</p> - -<p>Lucian had dim notions that a small book bound in parchment had upon -occasions been handed to him over the counter of the bank, and on others -had been posted by him to the bank at some clerk’s request; he also -remembered that he had once opened it and found it full of figures, at -the sight of which he had hastily closed it again.</p> - -<p>‘I suppose I have,’ he answered.</p> - -<p>‘I believe it is in our possession just now,’ said the manager. ‘If you -will excuse me one moment I will fetch it.’</p> - -<p>He came back with the pass-book in his hand and offered it to Lucian.</p> - -<p>‘It is posted up to date,’ he said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145"></a>{145}</span></p> - -<p>Lucian took the book and turned its pages over.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, but—’ he said. ‘I—do I understand that all the money that has -been paid in to my account here is now spent? You have received -royalties on my behalf from Mr. Robertson and from Mr. Harcourt of the -Athenæum?’</p> - -<p>‘You will find them all specified in the pass-book, Mr. Damerel,’ said -the manager. ‘There will, I presume, be further payments to come from -the same sources?’</p> - -<p>‘Of course there will be the royalties from Mr. Robertson every -half-year,’ answered Lucian, turning the pages of his pass-book. ‘And -Mr. Harcourt produces my new tragedy at the Athenæum in December.’</p> - -<p>‘That,’ said the manager, with a polite bow, ‘is sure to be successful.’</p> - -<p>‘But,’ said Lucian, with a childlike candour, ‘what am I to do if you -have no money of mine left? I can’t go on without money.’</p> - -<p>The manager laughed.</p> - -<p>‘We shall be pleased to allow you an overdraft,’ he said. ‘Give us some -security, or get a friend of stability to act as guarantor for -you—that’s all that’s necessary. I suppose the new tragedy will bring -you a small fortune? You did very well out of your first play, if I -remember rightly.’</p> - -<p>‘I can easily procure a guarantor,’ answered Lucian. His thoughts had -immediately flown to Darlington. ‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘I think we shall -have a long run—longer, perhaps, than before.’</p> - -<p>Then he went away, announcing that he would make the necessary -arrangements. When he had gone, the manager, to satisfy a momentary -curiosity of his own, made a brief inspection of Lucian’s account. He -smiled a little as he totalled it up. Mr. and Mrs. Lucian Damerel had -gone through seventeen thousand pounds in four years, and of that amount -twelve thousand represented capital.</p> - -<p>Lucian carried the mystifying pass-book to his club<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146"></a>{146}</span> and began to study -the rows of figures. They made his head ache and his eyes burn, and the -only conclusion he came to was that a few thousands of pounds are soon -spent, and that Haidee of late had been pretty prodigal with her -cheques. One fact was absolutely certain: his ten thousand, and her two -thousand, and the five thousand which he had earned, were all gone, -never to return. He felt somewhat depressed at this thought, but -recovered his spirits when he remembered the value of his pictures, his -books, and his other possessions, and the prospects of increased -royalties in the golden days to be. He went off to seek out Darlington -in the city as joyously as if he had been embarking on a voyage to the -Hesperides.</p> - -<p>Darlington was somewhat surprised to see Lucian in Lombard Street. He -knew all the details of Lucian’s business within ten minutes, and had -made up his mind within two more.</p> - -<p>‘Of course, I’ll do it with pleasure, old chap,’ he said, with great -heartiness. ‘But I think I can suggest something far preferable. These -people don’t seem to have given you any particular advantages, and there -was no need for them to bother you with a letter reminding you that you -owed them a miserable couple of hundred. Look here: you had better open -two accounts with us; one for yourself and one for Mrs. Damerel, and -keep them distinct—after all, you know, women rather mix things up. -Give Robertson and Harcourt instructions to pay your royalties into your -own account here, and pay your household expenses and bills out of it. -Mrs. Damerel’s account won’t be a serious matter—mere pinmoney, you -know—and we can balance it out of yours at periodic intervals. That’s a -much more convenient and far simpler thing than giving the other people -a guarantee for an overdraft.’</p> - -<p>‘It seems to be so, certainly,’ said Lucian. ‘Thanks, very many. And -what am I to do in arranging this?’</p> - -<p>‘At present,’ answered Darlington, ‘you are to run away as quickly as -possible, for I’m over the ears in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147"></a>{147}</span> work. Come in this afternoon at -three o’clock, and we will settle the whole thing.’</p> - -<p>Lucian went out into the crowded streets, light-hearted and joyous as -ever. The slight depression of the morning had worn off; all the world -was gold again. A whim seized him: he would spend the three hours -between twelve and three in wandering about the city—it was an almost -unknown region to him. He had read much of it, but rarely seen it, and -the prospect of an acquaintance with it was alluring. So he wandered -hither and thither, his taste for the antique leading him into many a -quaint old court and quiet alley, and he was fortunate enough to find an -old-fashioned tavern and an old-world waiter, and there he lunched and -enjoyed himself and went back to Darlington’s office in excellent -spirits and ready to do anything.</p> - -<p>There was little to do. Lucian left the private banking establishment of -Darlington and Darlington a few minutes after he had entered it, and he -then carried with him two cheque-books, one for himself and one for -Haidee, and a request that Mrs. Damerel should call at the office and -append her signature to the book wherein the autographs of customers -were preserved. He went home and found Haidee just returned from -lunching with Lady Firmanence: Lucian conducted her into his study with -some importance.</p> - -<p>‘Look here, Haidee,’ he said, ‘I’ve been making some new business -arrangements. We’re going to bank at Darlington’s in future—it’s much -the wiser plan; and you are to have a separate account. That’s your -cheque-book. I say—we’ve rather gone it lately, you know. Don’t you -think we might economise a little?’</p> - -<p>Haidee stared, grew perplexed, and frowned.</p> - -<p>‘I think I’m awfully careful,’ she said. ‘If you think——’</p> - -<p>Lucian saw signs of trouble and hastened to dispel them.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, yes,’ he said hurriedly, ‘I know, of course, that you are. We’ve -had such a lot of absolutely necessary<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148"></a>{148}</span> expense, haven’t we? Well, -there’s your cheque-book, and the account is your own, you know.’</p> - -<p>Haidee asked no questions, and carried the cheque-book away. When she -had gone, Lucian wrote out a cheque for £187, 10s. and forwarded it to -his former bankers, with a covering letter in which he explained that it -was intended to balance his account and that he wished to close the -latter. That done, he put all thoughts of money out of his mind with a -mighty sigh of relief. In his own opinion he had accomplished a hard -day’s work and acquitted himself with great credit. Everything, he -thought, had been quite simple, quite easy. And in thinking so he was -right—nothing simpler, nothing easier, could be imagined than the -operation which had put Lucian and Haidee in funds once more. It had -simply consisted of a brief order, given by Eustace Darlington to his -manager, to the effect that all cheques bearing the signatures of Mr. -and Mrs. Damerel were to be honoured on presentation, and that there was -to be no limit to their credit.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149"></a>{149}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">In</span> spite of the amusing defection of his host, Saxonstowe had fully -enjoyed the short time he had spent under the Damerels’ roof. Mrs. -Berenson had amused him almost as much as if she had been a professional -comedian brought there to divert the company; Darlington had interested -him as a specimen of the rather reserved, purposeful sort of man who -might possibly do things; and Haidee had made him wonder how it is that -some women possess great beauty and very little mind. But the -recollection which remained most firmly fixed in him was of Sprats, and -on the first afternoon he had at liberty he set out to find the -Children’s Hospital which she had invited him to visit.</p> - -<p>He found the hospital with ease—an ordinary house in Bayswater Square, -with nothing to distinguish it from its neighbours but a large brass -plate on the door, which announced that it was a Private Nursing Home -for Children. A trim maid-servant, who stared at him with reverent awe -after she had glanced at his card, showed him into a small waiting-room -adorned with steel engravings of Biblical subjects, and there Sprats -shortly discovered him inspecting a representation of the animals -leaving the ark. It struck him as he shook hands with her that she -looked better in her nurse’s uniform than in the dinner-gown which she -had worn a few nights earlier—there was something businesslike and -strong about her in her cap and cuffs and apron and streamers: it was -like seeing a soldier in fighting trim.</p> - -<p>‘I am glad that you have come just now,’ she said. ‘I have a whole hour -to spare, and I can show you all over the place. But first come into my -parlour and have some tea.’</p> - -<p>She led him into another room, where Biblical prints<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150"></a>{150}</span> were not in -evidence—if they had ever decorated the walls they were now replaced by -Sprats’s own possessions. He recognised several water-colour drawings of -Simonstower, and one of his own house and park at Saxonstowe.</p> - -<p>‘These are the work of Cyprian Damerel—Lucian’s father, you know,’ said -Sprats, as he uttered an exclamation of pleasure at the sight of -familiar things. ‘Lucian gave them to me. I like that one of Saxonstowe -Park—I have so often seen that curious atmospheric effect amongst the -trees in early autumn. I am very fond of my pictures and my household -gods—they bring Simonstower closer to me.’</p> - -<p>‘But why, if you are so fond of it, did you leave it?’ he asked, as he -took the chair which she pointed out to him.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, because I wanted to work very hard!’ she said, busying herself with -the tea-cups. ‘You see, my father married Lucian Damerel’s aunt—a very -dear, nice, pretty woman—and I knew she would take such great care of -him that I could be spared. So I went in for nursing, having a natural -bent that way, and after three or four years of it I came here; and here -I am, absolute she-dragon of the establishment.’</p> - -<p>‘Is it very hard work?’ he asked, as he took a cup of tea from her -hands.</p> - -<p>‘Well, it doesn’t seem to affect me very much, does it?’ she answered. -‘Oh yes, sometimes it is, but that’s good for one. You must have worked -hard yourself, Lord Saxonstowe.’</p> - -<p>Saxonstowe blushed under his tan.</p> - -<p>‘I look all right too, don’t I?’ he said, laughing. ‘I agree with you -that it’s good for one, though. I’ve thought since I came back that—— -’ He paused and did not finish the sentence.</p> - -<p>‘That it would do a lot of people whom you’ve met a lot of good if they -had a little hardship and privation to go through,’ she said, finishing -it for him. ‘That’s it, isn’t it?’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151"></a>{151}</span></p> - -<p>‘I wouldn’t let them off with a little,’ he said. ‘I’d give them—some -of them, at any rate—a good deal. Perhaps I’m not quite used to it, but -I can’t stand this sort of life—I should go all soft and queer under -it.’</p> - -<p>‘Well, you’re not obliged to endure it at all,’ said Sprats. ‘You can -clear out of town whenever you please and go to Saxonstowe—it is lovely -in summer.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘I’m going there soon. I—I don’t think town life -quite appeals to me.’</p> - -<p>‘I suppose that you will go off to some waste place of the earth again, -sooner or later, won’t you?’ she said. ‘I should think that if one once -tastes that sort of thing one can’t very well resist the temptation. -What made you wish to explore?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he answered. ‘I always wanted to travel when I was a -boy, but I never got any chance. Then the title came to me rather -unexpectedly, you know, and when I found that I could indulge my -tastes—well, I indulged them.’</p> - -<p>‘And you prefer the desert to the drawing-room?’ she said, watching him.</p> - -<p>‘Lots!’ he said fervently. ‘Lots!’</p> - -<p>Sprats smiled.</p> - -<p>‘I should advise you,’ she said, ‘to cut London the day your book -appears. You’ll be a lion, you know.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, but!’ he exclaimed, ‘you don’t quite recognise what sort of book it -is. It’s not an exciting narrative—no bears, or Indians, or scalpings, -you know. It’s—well, it’s a bit dry—scientific stuff, and so on.’</p> - -<p>Sprats smiled the smile of the wise woman and shook her head.</p> - -<p>‘It doesn’t matter what it is—dry or delicious, dull or enlivening,’ -she remarked sagely, ‘the people who’ll lionise you won’t read it, -though they’ll swear to your face that they sat up all night with it. -You’ll see it lying about, with the pages all cut and a book-marker -sticking out, but most of the people who’ll rave to your face about it -wouldn’t be able to answer any question that you asked them concerning -it. Lionising is an<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152"></a>{152}</span> amusing feature of social life in England—if you -don’t like the prospect of it, run away.’</p> - -<p>‘I shall certainly run,’ he answered. ‘I will go soon. I think, perhaps, -that you exaggerate my importance, but I don’t want to incur any -risk—it isn’t pleasant to be stared at, and pointed out, and all that -sort of—of——’</p> - -<p>‘Of rot!’ she said. ‘No—it isn’t, to some people. To other people it -seems quite a natural thing. It never seemed to bother Lucian Damerel, -for example. You cannot realise the adulation which was showered upon -him when he first flashed into the literary heavens. All the women were -in love with him; all the girls love-sick because of his dark face and -wondrous hair; he was stared at wherever he went; and he might have -breakfasted, lunched, and dined at somebody else’s expense every day.’</p> - -<p>‘And he liked—that?’ asked Saxonstowe.</p> - -<p>‘It’s a bit difficult,’ answered Sprats, ‘to know what Lucian does like. -He plays lion to perfection. Have you ever been to the Zoo and seen a -real first-class, A<small>I</small> diamond-of-the-first-water sort of lion in his -cage?—especially when he is filled with meat? Well, you’ll have noticed -that he gazes with solemn eyes above your head—he never sees you at -all—you aren’t worth it. If he should happen to look at you, he just -wonders why the devil you stand there staring at him, and his eyes show -a sort of cynical, idle contempt, and become solemn and ever-so-far-away -again. Lucian plays lion in that way beautifully. He looks out of his -cage with eyes that scorn the miserable wondering things gathered -open-mouthed before him.’</p> - -<p>‘Does he live in a cage?’ asked Saxonstowe.</p> - -<p>‘We all live in cages,’ answered Sprats. ‘You had better hang up a -curtain in front of yours if you don’t wish the crowd to stare at you. -And now come—I will show you my children.’</p> - -<p>Saxonstowe followed her all over the house with exemplary obedience, -secretly admiring her mastery of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153"></a>{153}</span> detail, her quickness of perception, -and the motherly fashion in which she treated her charges. He had never -been in a children’s hospital before, and he saw some sights that sent -him back to Sprats’s parlour a somewhat sad man.</p> - -<p>‘I dare say you get used to it,’ he said, ‘but the sight of all that -pain must be depressing. And the poor little mites seem to bear it -well—bravely, at any rate.’</p> - -<p>Sprats looked at him with the speculative expression which always came -into her face when she was endeavouring to get at some other person’s -real self.</p> - -<p>‘So you, too, are fond of children?’ she said, and responded cordially -to his suggestion that he might perhaps be permitted to come again. He -went away with a cheering consciousness that he had had a glimpse into a -little world wherein good work was being done—it had seemed a far -preferable world to that other world of fashion and small things which -seethed all around it.</p> - -<p>On the following day Saxonstowe spent the better part of the morning in -a toy-shop. He proved a good customer, but a most particular one. He had -counted heads at the children’s hospital: there were twenty-seven in -all, and he wanted twenty-seven toys for them. He insisted on a minute -inspection of every one, even to the details of the dolls’ clothing and -the attainments of the mechanical frogs, and the young lady who attended -upon him decided that he was a nice gentleman and free-handed, but -terribly exacting. His bill, however, yielded her a handsome commission, -and when he gave her the address of the hospital she felt sure that she -had spent two hours in conversation—on the merits of toys—with a young -duke, and for the rest of the day she entertained her shopmates with -reminiscences of the supposed ducal remarks, none of which, according to -her, had been of a very profound nature.</p> - -<p>Saxonstowe wondered how soon he might call at the hospital again—at the -end of a week he found himself kicking his heels once more in the room -wherein Noah, his family, and his animals trooped gaily down the slopes<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154"></a>{154}</span> -of Mount Ararat. When Sprats came in she greeted him with an abrupt -question.</p> - -<p>‘Was it you who sent a small cart-load of toys here last week?’ she -asked.</p> - -<p>‘I certainly did send some toys for the children,’ he answered.</p> - -<p>‘I thought it must be your handiwork,’ she said. ‘Thank you. You will -now receive a beautifully written, politely worded letter of thanks, -inscribed on thick, glossy paper by the secretary—do you mind?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I do mind!’ he exclaimed. ‘Please don’t tell the secretary—what -has he or she to do with it?’</p> - -<p>‘Very well, I won’t,’ she said. ‘But I will give you a practical tip: -when you feel impelled to buy toys for children in hospital, buy -something breakable and cheap—it pleases the child just as much as an -expensive plaything. There was one toy too many,’ she continued, -laughing, ‘so I annexed that for myself—a mechanical spider. I play -with it in my room sometimes. I am not above being amused by small -things.’</p> - -<p>After this Saxonstowe became a regular visitor—he was accepted by some -of the patients as a friend and admitted to their confidences. They knew -him as ‘the Lord,’ and announced that ‘the Lord’ had said this, or done -that, in a fashion which made other visitors, not in the secret, wonder -if the children were delirious and had dreams of divine communications. -He sent these new friends books, and fruit, and flowers, and the house -was gayer and brighter that summer than it had ever been since the brass -plate was placed on its door.</p> - -<p>One afternoon Saxonstowe arrived with a weighty-looking parcel under his -arm. Once within Sprats’s parlour he laid it down on the table and began -to untie the string. She shook her head.</p> - -<p>‘You have been spending money on one or other of my children again,’ she -said. ‘I shall have to stop it.’</p> - -<p>‘No,’ he said, with a very shy smile. ‘This—is—for you.’</p> - -<p>‘For me?’ Her eyes opened with something like<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155"></a>{155}</span> incredulous wonder. ‘What -an event!’ she said; ‘I so seldom have anything given to me. What is -it?—quick, let me see—it looks like an enormous box of chocolate.’</p> - -<p>‘It’s—it’s the book,’ he answered, shamefaced as a schoolboy producing -his first verses. ‘There! that’s it,’ and he placed two -formidable-looking volumes, very new and very redolent of the -bookbinder’s establishment, in her hands. ‘That’s the very first copy,’ -he added. ‘I wanted you to have it.’</p> - -<p>Sprats sat down and turned the books over. He had written her name on -the fly-leaf of the first volume, and his own underneath it. She glanced -at the maps, the engravings, the diagrams, the scientific tables, and a -sudden flush came across her face. She looked up at him.</p> - -<p>‘I should be proud if I had written a book like this!’ she said. ‘It -means—such a lot of—well, of <i>manliness</i>, somehow. Thank you. And it -is really published at last?’</p> - -<p>‘It is not supposed to be published until next Monday,’ he answered. -‘The reviewers’ copies have gone out to-day, but I insisted on having a -copy supplied to me before any one handled another—I wanted you to have -the very first.’</p> - -<p>‘Why?’ she asked.</p> - -<p>‘Because I think you’ll understand it,’ he said; ‘and you’ll read it.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ she answered, ‘I shall read it, and I think I shall understand. -And now all the lionising will begin.’</p> - -<p>Saxonstowe shrugged his shoulders.</p> - -<p>‘If the people who really know about these things think I have done -well, I shall be satisfied,’ he said. ‘I don’t care a scrap about the -reviews in the popular papers—I am looking forward with great anxiety -to the criticisms of two or three scientific periodicals.’</p> - -<p>‘You were going to run away from the lionising business,’ she said. -‘When are you going?—there is nothing to keep you, now that the book is -out.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156"></a>{156}</span></p> - -<p>Saxonstowe looked at her. He was standing at the edge of the table on -which she had placed the two volumes of his book; she was sitting in a -low chair at its side. She looked up at him; she saw his face grow very -grave.</p> - -<p>‘I didn’t think anything would keep me,’ he said, ‘but I find that -something is keeping me. It is you. Do you know that I love you?’</p> - -<p>The colour rose in her cheeks, and her eyes left his for an instant; -then she faced him.</p> - -<p>‘I did not know it until just now,’ she answered, laying her hand on one -of the volumes at her side. ‘I knew it then, because you wished me to -have the first-fruits of your labour. I was wondering about it—as we -talked.’</p> - -<p>‘Well?’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘Will you let me be perfectly frank with you?’ she said. ‘Are you sure -about yourself in this?’</p> - -<p>‘I am sure,’ he answered. ‘I love you, and I shall never love any other -woman. Don’t think that I say that in the way in which I dare say it’s -been said a million times—I mean it.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ she said; ‘I understand. You wouldn’t say anything that you -didn’t mean. And I am going to be equally truthful with you. I don’t -think it’s wrong of me to tell you that I have a feeling for you which I -have not, and never had, for any other man that I have known. I could -depend on you—I could go to you for help and advice, and I should rely -on your strength. I have felt that since we met, as man and woman, a few -weeks ago.’</p> - -<p>‘Then——’ he began.</p> - -<p>‘Stop a bit,’ she said, ‘let me finish. I want to be brutally -plain-spoken—it’s really best to be so. I want you to know me as I am. -I have loved Lucian Damerel ever since he and I were boy and girl. It -is, perhaps, a curious love—you might say that there is very much more -of a mother’s, or a sister’s, love in it than a wife’s. Well, I don’t -know. I do know that it nearly broke<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157"></a>{157}</span> my heart when I heard of his -marriage to Haidee. I cannot tell—I have never been able to tell—in -what exact way it was that I wanted him, but I did not want her to have -him. Perhaps all that, or most of that, feeling has gone. I have tried -hard, by working for others, to put all thought of another woman’s -husband out of my mind. But the thought of Lucian is still there—it -may, perhaps, always be there. While it is—even in the least, the very -least degree—you understand, do you not?’ she said, with a sudden note -of eager appeal breaking into her voice.</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘I understand.’</p> - -<p>She rose to her feet and held out her hand to him.</p> - -<p>‘Then don’t let us try to put into words what we can feel much better,’ -she said, smiling. ‘We are friends—always. And you are going away.’</p> - -<p>The children found out that for some time at any rate there would be no -more visits from the Lord. But the toys and the books, the fruit and -flowers, came as regularly as ever, and the Lord was not forgotten.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158"></a>{158}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">During</span> the greater part of that summer Lucian had been working steadily -on two things: the tragedy which Mr. Harcourt was to produce at the -Athenæum in December, and a new poem which Mr. Robertson intended to -publish about the middle of the autumn season. Lucian was flying at high -game in respect of both. The tragedy was intended to introduce something -of the spirit and dignity of Greek art to the nineteenth-century -stage—there was to be nothing common or mean in connection with its -production; it was to be a gorgeous spectacle, but one of high -distinction, and Lucian’s direct intention in writing it was to set -English dramatic art on an elevation to which it had never yet been -lifted. The poem was an equally ambitious attempt to revive the epic; -its subject, the Norman Conquest, had filled Lucian’s mind since -boyhood, and from his tenth year onwards he had read every book and -document procurable which treated of that fascinating period. He had -begun the work during his Oxford days; the greater part of it was now in -type, and Mr. Robertson was incurring vast expense in the shape of -author’s corrections. Lucian polished and rewrote in a fashion that was -exasperating; his publisher, never suspecting that so many alterations -would be made, had said nothing about them in drawing up a formal -agreement, and he was daily obliged to witness a disappearance of -profits.</p> - -<p>‘What a pity that you did not make all your alterations and corrections -before sending the manuscript to press!’ he exclaimed one day, when -Lucian called with a bundle of proofs which had been hacked about in -such<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159"></a>{159}</span> a fashion as to need complete resetting. ‘It would have saved a -lot of trouble—and expense.’</p> - -<p>Lucian stared at him with the eyes of a young owl, round and wondering.</p> - -<p>‘How on earth can you see what a thing looks like until it’s in print?’ -he said irritably. ‘What are printers for?’</p> - -<p>‘Just so—just so!’ responded the publisher. ‘But really, you know, this -book is being twice set—every sheet has had to be pulled to pieces, and -it adds to the expense.’</p> - -<p>Lucian’s eyes grew rounder than ever.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know anything about that,’ he answered. ‘That is your -province—don’t bother me about it.’</p> - -<p>Robertson laughed. He was beginning to find out, after some experience, -that Lucian was imperturbable on certain points.</p> - -<p>‘Very well,’ he said. ‘By the bye, how much more copy is there—or if -copy is too vulgar a word for your mightiness, how many more lines or -verses?’</p> - -<p>‘About four hundred and fifty lines,’ answered Lucian.</p> - -<p>‘Say another twenty-four pages,’ said Robertson. ‘Well, it runs now to -three hundred and fifty—that means that it’s going to be a book of -close upon four hundred pages.’</p> - -<p>‘Well?’ questioned Lucian.</p> - -<p>‘I was merely thinking that it is a long time since the public was asked -to buy a volume containing four hundred pages of blank verse,’ remarked -the publisher. ‘I hope this won’t frighten anybody.’</p> - -<p>‘You make some very extraordinary remarks,’ said Lucian, with -unmistakable signs of annoyance. ‘What <i>do</i> you mean?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, nothing, nothing!’ answered Robertson, who was on sufficient terms -of intimacy with Lucian to be able to chaff him a little. ‘I was merely -thinking of trade considerations.’</p> - -<p>‘You appear to be always “merely thinking” of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160"></a>{160}</span> something extraordinary,’ -said Lucian. ‘What can trade considerations have to do with the length -of my poem?’</p> - -<p>‘What indeed?’ said the publisher, and began to talk of something else. -But when Lucian had gone he looked rather doubtfully at the pile of -interlineated proof, and glanced from it to the thin octavo with which -the new poet had won all hearts nearly five years before. ‘I wish it had -been just a handful of gold like that!’ he said to himself. ‘Four -hundred pages of blank verse all at one go!—it’s asking a good deal, -unless it catches on with the old maids and the dowagers, like the -<i>Course of Time</i> and the <i>Epic of Hades</i>. Well, we shall see; but I’d -rather have some of your earlier lyrics than this weighty performance, -Lucian, my boy—I would indeed!’</p> - -<p>Lucian finished his epic before the middle of July, and fell to work on -the final stages of his tragedy. He had promised to read it to the -Athenæum company on the first day of the coming October, and there was -still much to do in shaping and revising it. He began to feel impatient -and irritable; the sight of his desk annoyed him, and he took to running -out of town into the country whenever the wish for the shade of woods -and the peacefulness of the lanes came upon him. Before the end of the -month he felt unable to work, and he repaired to Sprats for counsel and -comfort.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know how or why it is,’ he said, telling her his troubles, ‘but -I don’t feel as if I had a bit of work left in me. I haven’t any power -of concentration left—I’m always wanting to be doing something else. -And yet I haven’t worked very hard this year, and we have been away a -great deal. It’s nearly time for going away again, too—I believe Haidee -has already made some arrangement.’</p> - -<p>‘Lucian,’ said Sprats, ‘why don’t you go down to Simonstower? They would -be so glad to have you at the vicarage—there’s heaps of room. And just -think<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161"></a>{161}</span> how jolly it is there in August and September—I wish I could -go!’</p> - -<p>Lucian’s face lighted up—some memory of the old days had suddenly fired -his soul. He saw the familiar scenes once more under the golden -sunlight—the grey castle and its Norman keep, the winding river, the -shelving woods, and, framing all, the gold and purple of the moorlands.</p> - -<p>‘Simonstower!’ he exclaimed. ‘Yes, of course—it’s Simonstower that I -want. We’ll go at once. Sprats, why can’t you come too?’</p> - -<p>Sprats shook her head.</p> - -<p>‘I can’t,’ she answered. ‘I shall have a holiday in September, but I -can’t take a single day before. I’m sure it will do you good if you go -to Simonstower, Lucian—the north-country air will brighten you up. You -haven’t been there for four years, and the sight of the old faces and -places will act like a tonic.’</p> - -<p>‘I’ll arrange it at once,’ said Lucian, delighted at the idea, and he -went off to announce his projects to Haidee. Haidee looked at him -incredulously.</p> - -<p>‘Whatever are you thinking of, Lucian?’ she said. ‘Don’t you remember -that we’re cramful of engagements from the beginning of August to the -end of September?’ She recited a list of arrangements already entered -into, which included a three-weeks’ sojourn on Eustace Darlington’s -steam-yacht, and a fortnight’s stay at his shooting-box in the -Highlands. ‘Had you forgotten?’ she asked.</p> - -<p>‘I believe I had!’ he replied; ‘we seem to have so many engagements. -Look here: do you know, I think I’ll back out. I must have this tragedy -finished for Harcourt and his people by October, and I can’t do it if I -go rushing about from one place to another. I think I shall go down to -Simonstower and have a quiet time and finish my work there—I’ll explain -it all to Darlington.’</p> - -<p>‘As you please,’ she answered. ‘Of course, I shall keep my -engagements.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162"></a>{162}</span></p> - -<p>‘Oh, of course,’ he said. ‘You won’t miss me, you know. I suppose there -are lots of other people going?’</p> - -<p>‘I suppose so,’ she replied carelessly, and there was an end of the -conversation. Lucian explained to Darlington that night that he would -not be able to keep his engagement, and set forth the reasons with a -fine air of devotion to business. Darlington sympathised, and applauded -Lucian’s determination—he knew, he said, what a lot depended upon the -success of the new play, and he’d no doubt Lucian wouldn’t feel quite -easy until it was all in order. After that he must have a long rest—it -would be rather good fun to winter in Egypt. Lucian agreed, and next day -made his preparations for a descent upon Simonstower. At heart he was -rather more than glad to escape the yacht, the Highland shooting-box, -and the people whom he would have met. He cared little for the sea, and -hated any form of sport which involved the slaying of animals or birds; -the thought of Simonstower in the last weeks of summer was grateful to -him, and all that he now wanted was to find himself in a Great Northern -express gliding out of King’s Cross, bound for the moorlands.</p> - -<p>He went round to the hospital on the morning of his departure, and told -Sprats with the glee of a schoolboy who is going home for the holidays, -that he was off that very afternoon. He was rattling on as to his joy -when Sprats stopped him.</p> - -<p>‘And Haidee?’ she asked. ‘Does she like it?’</p> - -<p>‘Haidee?’ he said. ‘But Haidee is not going. She’s joining a party on -Darlington’s yacht, and they’re going round the coast to his place in -the Highlands. I was to have gone, you know, but really I couldn’t have -worked, and I must work—it’s absolutely necessary that the play should -be finished by the end of September.’</p> - -<p>Sprats looked anxious and troubled.</p> - -<p>‘Look here, Lucian,’ she said, ‘do you think it’s quite right to leave -Haidee like that?—isn’t it rather neglecting your duties?’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163"></a>{163}</span></p> - -<p>‘But why?’ he asked, with such sincerity that it became plain to Sprats -that the question had never even entered his mind. ‘Haidee’s all right. -It would be beastly selfish on my part if I dragged her down to -Simonstower for nearly two months—you know, she doesn’t care a bit for -the country, and there would be no society for her. She needs sea air, -and three weeks on Darlington’s yacht will do her a lot of good.’</p> - -<p>‘Who are the other people?’ asked Sprats.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Lucian replied. ‘The usual Darlington lot, I -suppose. Between you and me, Sprats, I’m glad I’m not going. I get -rather sick of that sort of thing—it’s too much of a hot-house -existence. And I don’t care about the people one meets, either.’</p> - -<p>‘And yet you let Haidee meet them!’ Sprats exclaimed. ‘Really, Lucian, -you grow more and more paradoxical.’</p> - -<p>‘But Haidee likes them,’ he insisted. ‘That’s just the sort of thing she -does like. And if she likes it, why shouldn’t she have it?’</p> - -<p>‘You are a curious couple,’ said Sprats.</p> - -<p>‘I think we are to be praised for our common-sense view of things,’ he -said. ‘I am often told that I am a dreamer—you’ve said so yourself, you -know—but in real, sober truth, I’m an awfully matter-of-fact sort of -person. I don’t live on illusions and ideals and things—I worship the -God of the Things that Are!’</p> - -<p>Sprats gazed at him as a mother might gaze at a child who boasts of -having performed an impossible task.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, you absolute baby!’ she said. ‘Is your pretty head stuffed with -wool or with feathers? Paragon of Common-Sense! Compendium of all the -Practical Qualities! I wonder I don’t shrivel in your presence like a -bit of bacon before an Afric sun. Do you think you’ll catch your train?’</p> - -<p>‘Not if I stay here listening to abuse. Seriously, Sprats, it’s all -right—about Haidee, I mean,’ he said appealingly.</p> - -<p>‘If you were glissading down a precipice at a hundred<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164"></a>{164}</span> miles a minute, -Lucian, everything would be all right with you until your head broke off -or you snapped in two,’ she answered. ‘You’re the Man who Never Stops to -Think. Go away and be quiet at Simonstower—you’re mad to get there, and -you’ll probably leave it within a week.’</p> - -<p>In making this calculation, however, Sprats was wrong. Lucian went down -to Simonstower and stayed there three weeks. He divided his time between -the vicarage and the farm; he renewed his acquaintance with the -villagers, and had forgotten nothing of anything relating to them; he -spent the greater part of the day in the open air, lived plainly and -slept soundly, and during the second week of his stay he finished his -tragedy. Mr. Chilverstone read it and the revised proofs of the epic; as -he had a great liking for blank verse, rounded periods, and the grand -manner, he prophesied success for both. Lucian drank in his applause -with eagerness—he had a great belief in his old tutor’s critical -powers, and felt that whatever he stamped with the seal of his -admiration must be good. He had left London in somewhat depressed and -irritable spirits because of his inability to work; now that the work -was completed and praised by a critic in whom he had good reason to -repose the fullest confidence, his spirits became as light and joyous as -ever.</p> - -<p>Lucian would probably have remained longer at Simonstower but for a -chance meeting with Lord Saxonstowe, who had got a little weary of the -ancestral hall and had conceived a notion of going across to Norway and -taking a long walking tour in a district well out of the tourist track. -He mentioned this to Lucian, and—why, he could scarcely explain to -himself at the moment—asked him to go with him. Lucian’s imagination -was fired at the mere notion of exploring a country which he had never -seen before, and he accepted the invitation with fervour. A week later -they sailed from Newcastle, and for a whole month they spent nights and -days side by side amidst comparative solitudes. Each began to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165"></a>{165}</span> -understand the other, and when, just before the end of September, they -returned to England, they had become firm friends, and were gainers by -their pilgrimage in more ways than one.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166"></a>{166}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">When</span> Lucian went back to town Haidee was winding up a short round of -visits in the North; she rejoined him a week later in high spirits and -excellent health. Everything had been delightful; everybody had been -nice to her; no end of people had talked about Lucian and his new -play—she was dreaming already of the glories of the first night and of -the radiance which would centre about herself as the wife of the -brilliant young author. Lucian had returned from Norway in equally good -health and spirits; he was confident about the tragedy and the epic: he -and his wife therefore settled down to confront an immediate prospect of -success and pleasure. Haidee resumed her usual round of social gaieties; -Lucian was much busied with rehearsals at the theatre and long -discussions with Harcourt; neither had a care nor an anxiety, and the -wheels of their little world moved smoothly.</p> - -<p>Saxonstowe, who had come back to town for a few weeks before going -abroad again, took to calling a good deal at the little house in -Mayfair. He had come to understand and to like Lucian, and though they -were as dissimilar in character as men of different temperament can -possibly be, a curious bond of friendship, expressed in tacit -acquiescence rather than in open avowal, sprang up between them. Each -had a respect for the other’s world—a respect which was amusing to -Sprats, who, watching them closely, knew that each admired the other in -a somewhat sheepish, schoolboy fashion. Lucian, being the less reserved -of the two, made no secret of his admiration of the man who had done -things the doing of which necessitated bravery, endurance, and -self-denial. He was a fervent worshipper—almost to a pathetic -extreme—of men of action: the sight of soldiers marching made his toes<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167"></a>{167}</span> -tingle and his eyes fill with the moisture of enthusiasm; he had been so -fascinated by the mere sight of a great Arctic explorer that he had -followed him from one town to another during a lecturing tour, simply to -stare at him and conjure up for himself the scenes and adventures -through which the man had passed. He delighted in hearing Saxonstowe -talk about his life in the deserts, and enjoyed it all the more because -Saxonstowe had small gift of language and told his tale with the blushes -of a schoolboy who hates making a fuss about anything that he has done. -Saxonstowe, on his part, had a sneaking liking, amounting almost to -worship, for men who live in a world of dreams—he had no desire to live -in such a world himself, but he cherished an immense respect for men -who, like Lucian, could create. Sometimes he would read a page of the -new epic and wonder how on earth it all came into Lucian’s head; Lucian -at the same moment was probably turning over the leaves of Saxonstowe’s -book and wondering how a man could go through all that that laconic -young gentleman had gone through and yet come back with a stiff upper -lip and a smile.</p> - -<p>‘You and Lucian Damerel appear to have become something of friends,’ -Lady Firmanence remarked to her nephew when he called upon her one day. -‘I don’t know that there’s much in common between you.’</p> - -<p>‘Perhaps that is why we are friends,’ said Saxonstowe. ‘You generally do -get on with people who are a bit different to yourself, don’t you?’</p> - -<p>Lady Firmanence made no direct answer to this question.</p> - -<p>‘I’ve no doubt Lucian is easy enough to get on with,’ she said dryly. -‘The mischief in him, Saxonstowe, is that he’s too easy-going about -everything. I suppose you know, as you’re a sort of friend of the -family, that a good deal is being said about Mrs. Damerel and Eustace -Darlington?’</p> - -<p>‘No,’ said Saxonstowe; ‘I’m not in the way to hear that sort of thing.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168"></a>{168}</span></p> - -<p>‘I don’t know that you’re any the better for being out of the way. I am -in the way. There’s a good deal being said,’ Lady Firmanence retorted -with some asperity. ‘I believe some of you young men think it a positive -crime to listen to the smallest scrap of gossip—it’s nothing of the -sort. If you live in the world you must learn all you can about the -people who make up the world.’</p> - -<p>Saxonstowe nodded. His eyes fixed themselves on a toy dog which snored -and snuffled at Lady Firmanence’s feet.</p> - -<p>‘And in this particular case?’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘Why was Lucian Damerel so foolish as to go off in one direction while -his wife went in another with the man she originally meant to marry?’ -inquired Lady Firmanence. ‘Come now, Saxonstowe, would you have done -that?’</p> - -<p>‘No,’ he said hesitatingly, ‘I don’t think I should; but then, you see, -Damerel looks at things differently. I don’t think he would ever give -the foolishness of it a thought, and he would certainly think no -evil—he’s as guileless as a child.’</p> - -<p>‘Well,’ remarked Lady Firmanence, ‘I don’t admire him any the more for -that. I’m a bit out of love with grown-up children. If Lucian Damerel -marries a wife he should take care of her. Why, she was three weeks on -Darlington’s yacht, and three weeks at his place in Scotland (of course -there were lots of other people there too, but even then it was -foolish), and he was with her at two or three country houses in -Northumberland later on—I met them at one myself.’</p> - -<p>‘Lucian and his wife,’ said Saxonstowe, ‘are very fond of having their -own way.’</p> - -<p>Lady Firmanence looked at her nephew out of her eye-corners.</p> - -<p>‘Oh!’ she said, with a caustic irony, ‘you think so, do you? Well, you -know, young people who like to have their own way generally come to -grief. To my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169"></a>{169}</span> mind, your new friends seem to be qualifying for trouble.’</p> - -<p>Saxonstowe studied the pattern of the carpet and traced bits of it out -with his stick.</p> - -<p>‘Do you think men like Damerel have the power of reckoning things up?’ -he said, suddenly looking at his aunt with a quick, appealing glance. ‘I -don’t quite understand these things, but he always seems to me to be a -bit impatient of anything that has to do with everyday life, and yet -he’s keen enough about it in one way. He’s a real good chap, you -know—kindly natured and open-hearted and all that. You soon find that -in him. And I don’t believe he ever had a wrong thought of anybody—he’s -a sort of confiding trust in other people that’s a bit amusing, even to -me, and I haven’t seen such an awful lot of the world. But——’ He came -to a sudden pause and shook his head. Lady Firmanence laughed.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, but,’ she repeated. ‘That “but” makes all the difference. But this -is Lucian Damerel—he is a child who sits in a gaily caparisoned, -comfortably appointed boat which has been launched on a wide river that -runs through a mighty valley. He has neither sail nor rudder, and he is -so intent on the beauty of the scenery through which he is swept that he -does not recognise their necessity. His eyes are fixed on the -rose-flushed peak of a far-off mountain, the glitter of the sunshine on -a dancing wave, or on the basket of provisions which thoughtful hands -have put in the boat. It may be that the boat will glide to its -destination in safety, and land him on the edge of a field of velvety -grass wherein he can lie down in peace to dream as long as he pleases. -But it also may be that it will run on a rock in mid-stream and knock -his fool’s paradise into a cocked hat—and what’s going to happen then?’ -asked Lady Firmanence.</p> - -<p>‘Lots of things might happen,’ said Saxonstowe, smiling triumphantly at -the thought of beating his clever relative at her own game. ‘He might be -able to swim,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170"></a>{170}</span> for example. He might right the boat, get into it again, -and learn by experience that one shouldn’t go fooling about without a -rudder. Some other chap might come along and give him a hand. Or the -river might be so shallow that he could walk ashore with no more -discomfort than he would get from wet feet.’</p> - -<p>Lady Firmanence pursed her lips and regarded her nephew with a fixed -stare which lasted until the smile died out of his face.</p> - -<p>‘Or there might be a crocodile, or an alligator, at hand, which he could -saddle and bridle, and convert into a park hack,’ she said. ‘There are -indeed many things which might happen; what I’m chiefly concerned about -is, what would happen if Lucian’s little boat did upset? I confess that -I should know Lucian Damerel much more thoroughly, and have a more -accurate conception of him, if I knew exactly what he would say and do -when the upsetting happened. There is no moment in life, Saxonstowe, -wherein a man’s real self, real character, real quality, is so severely -tested and laid bare as that unexpected one in which Fortune seizes him -by the scruff of his neck and bundles him into the horsepond of -adversity—it’s what he says and does when he comes up spluttering that -stamps him as a man or a mouse.’</p> - -<p>Saxonstowe felt tolerably certain of what any man would say under the -circumstances alluded to by Lady Firmanence, but as she seemed highly -delighted with her similes and her epigrams, he said nothing of his -convictions, and soon afterwards took his departure.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171"></a>{171}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">On</span> a certain Monday morning in the following November, Lucian’s great -epic was published to the trade and the world, and the leading -newspapers devoted a good deal of their space to remarking upon its -merits, its demerits, and its exact relation to literature. Lucian found -a pile of the London morning dailies of the superior sort awaiting his -attention when he descended to his breakfast-room, and he went through -them systematically. When he had made an end of them he looked across -the table at Haidee, and he smiled in what she thought a rather queer -way.</p> - -<p>‘I say, Haidee!’ he exclaimed, ‘these reviews are—well, they’re not -very flattering. There are six mighty voices of the press -here,—<i>Times</i>, <i>Telegraph</i>, <i>Post</i>, <i>News</i>, <i>Chronicle</i>, and -<i>Standard</i>—and there appears to be a strange unanimity of opinion in -their pronunciations. The epic poem seems to be at something of a -discount.’</p> - -<p>The reviews, in fact, were not couched in an enthusiastic vein—taking -them as a whole they were cold. There was a ring of disappointment in -them. One reviewer, daring to be bold, plain, and somewhat brutal, said -there was more genuine poetry in any one page of any of Mr. Damerel’s -previous volumes than in the whole four hundred of his new one. Another -openly declared his belief that the poem was the result of long years of -careful, scholarly labour, of constant polishing, resetting, and -rewriting; it smelled strongly of the lamp, but the smell of the lamp -was not in evidence in the fresh, free, passionate work which they had -previously had from the same pen. Mr. Damerel’s history, said a third, -was as accurate as his lines were polished; one learned almost as much -of the Norman Conquest from his poem as from the pages of Freeman, but -the spontaneity of his earliest work appeared to be wanting in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172"></a>{172}</span> his -latest. Each of the six reviewers seemed to be indulging a sentimental -sorrow for the Mr. Damerel of the earlier days; their criticisms had an -undercurrent of regret that Lucian had chosen to explore another path -than that which he had hitherto trodden in triumph. The consensus of -opinion, as represented by the critics of the six morning newspapers -lying on Lucian’s breakfast-table, amounted to this: that Mr. Damerel’s -new work, unmistakably the production of a true poet though it was, did -not possess the qualities of power and charm which had distinguished his -previous volumes. And to show his exact meaning and make out a good case -for himself, each critic hit upon the exasperating trick of reprinting -those of Lucian’s earlier lines which made perpetual music in their own -particular souls, pointing to them with a proud finger as something -great and glorious, and hinting that they were samples of goods which -they would have wished Mr. Damerel to supply for ever.</p> - -<p>Lucian was disappointed and gratified; amused and annoyed. It was -disappointing to find that the incense to which he had become accustomed -was not offered up to him in the usual lavish fashion; but it was -pleasing to hear the nice things said of what he had done and of what -the critics believed him capable of doing. He was amused at the -disappointment of the gentlemen who preferred Lucian the earlier to -Lucian the later—and, after all, it was annoying to find one’s great -effort somewhat looked askance at.</p> - -<p>‘I’ve given them too much,’ he said, turning to considerations of -breakfast with a certain amount of pity for himself. ‘I ought to have -remembered that the stomach of this generation is a weak one—Tennyson -was wise in giving his public the <i>Idylls of the King</i> in fragments—if -he’d given his most fervent admirers the whole lot all at once they’d -have had a surfeit. I should have followed his example, but I wanted to -present the thing as a whole. And it <i>is</i> good, however they may damn it -with faint praise.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173"></a>{173}</span></p> - -<p>‘Does this mean that the book won’t sell?’ asked Haidee, who had -gathered up the papers, and was glancing through the columns at the head -of which Lucian’s name stood out in bold letters.</p> - -<p>‘Sell? Why, I don’t think reviews make much difference to the sales of a -book,’ answered Lucian. ‘I really don’t know—I suppose the people who -bought all my other volumes will buy this.’</p> - -<p>But as he ate his chop and drank his coffee he began to wonder what -would happen if the new volume did not sell. He knew exactly how many -copies of his other volumes had been sold up to the end of the previous -half-year: it was no business instinct that made him carry the figures -in his mind, but rather the instinct of the general who counts his -prisoners, his captured eagles, and his dead enemies after a victory, -and of the sportsman who knows that the magnitude of the winnings of a -great racehorse is a tribute to the quality of its blood and bone and -muscle. He recalled the figures of the last statement of account -rendered to him by his publisher, and their comfortable rotundity -cheered him. Whatever the critics might say, he had a public, and a -public of considerable size. And after all, this was the first time the -critics had not burned incense at his shrine—he forgave them with -generous readiness, and ere he rose from the breakfast table was as full -as ever of confident optimism. He felt as regards those particular -reviewers as a man might feel who bids all and sundry to a great feast, -and finds that the first-comers are taken aback by the grand proportions -of the banquet—he pitied them for their lack of appetite, but he had no -doubt of the verdict of the vast majority of later comers.</p> - -<p>But if Lucian had heard some of the things that were said of him and his -beloved epic in those holes and corners of literary life wherein one may -hear much trenchant criticism plainly voiced, he would have felt less -cock-sure about it and himself. It was the general opinion amongst a -certain class of critics, who exercised<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174"></a>{174}</span> a certain influence upon public -thought, that there was too much of the workshop in his <i>magnum opus</i>. -It was a magnificent block of marble that he had handled, but he had -handled it too much, and the result would have been greater if he had -not perpetually hovered about it with a hungry chisel and an itching -mallet. It was perfect in form and language and proportion, but it -wanted life and fire and rude strength.</p> - -<p>‘It reminds me,’ said one man, discussing it in a club corner where -coffee cups, liqueur glasses, and cigarettes were greatly in evidence, -‘of the statue of Galatea, flawless, immaculate, but neuter,—yes, -neuter—as it appeared at the very moment ere Pygmalion’s love breathed -into it the very flush, the palpitating, forceful tremor of life.’</p> - -<p>This man was young and newly come to town—the others looked at him with -shy eyes and tender sympathy, for they knew what it was that he meant to -say, and they also knew, being older, how difficult it is to express -oneself in words.</p> - -<p>‘How very differently one sees things!’ sighed one of them. ‘Damerel’s -new poem, now, reminds me of a copy of the <i>Pink ’Un</i>, carefully edited -by a committee of old maids for the use of mixed classes in infant -schools.’</p> - -<p>The young man who used mellifluous words manifested signs of -astonishment. He looked at the last speaker with inquiring eyes.</p> - -<p>‘You mean——’ he began.</p> - -<p>‘Ssh!’ whispered a voice at his elbow, ‘don’t ask <i>him</i> what he means at -any time. He means that the thing’s lacking in virility.’</p> - -<p>It may have been the man who likened Lucian’s epic to an emasculated and -expurgated <i>Pink ’Un</i> to whom was due a subsequent article in the -<i>Porthole</i>, wherein, under the heading <i>Lucian the Ladylike</i>, much -sympathy was expressed with William the Conqueror at his sad fate in -being sung by a nineteenth-century bard. There was much good-humoured -satire in that article, but a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175"></a>{175}</span> good many of its points were sharply -barbed, and Lucian winced under them. He was beginning to find by that -time that his epic was not being greeted with the enthusiasm which he -had anticipated for it; the great literary papers, the influential -journals of the provinces, and the critics who wrote of it in two or -three of the monthly reviews, all concurred that it was very fine as a -literary exercise, but each deplored the absence of a certain something -which had been very conspicuous indeed in his earlier volumes.</p> - -<p>Lucian began to think things over. He remembered how his earlier work -had been written—he recalled the free, joyous flush of thought, the -impulse to write, the fertility and fecundity which had been his in -those days, and he contrasted it all with the infinite pains which he -had taken in polishing and revising the epic. It must have been the -process of revision, he thought, which had sifted the fire and life out -of the poem. He read and re-read passages of it—in spite of all that -the critics said, they pleased him. He remembered the labour he had gone -through, and valued the results by it. And finally, he put the whole -affair away from him, feeling that he and his world were not in accord, -and that he had better wrap himself in his cloak for a while. He spoke -of the epic no more. But unfortunately for Lucian, there were monetary -considerations at the back of the new volume, and when he discovered at -the end of a month that the sales were small and already at a -standstill, he felt a sudden, strange sinking at the heart. He looked at -Mr. Robertson, who communicated this news to him, in a fashion which -showed the publisher that he did not quite understand this apparently -capricious neglect on the part of the public. Mr. Robertson endeavoured -to explain matters to him.</p> - -<p>‘After all,’ he said, ‘there is such a thing as a vogue, and the best -man may lose it. I don’t say that you have lost yours, but here’s the -fact that the book is at a standstill. The faithful bought as a -religious duty as soon as we published; those of the outer courts won’t -buy. For<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176"></a>{176}</span> one thing, your poem is not quite in the fashion—what people -are buying just now in poetry is patriotism up-to-date, with extension -of the Empire, and Maxim-guns, and deification of the soldier and -sailor, and so on.’</p> - -<p>‘You talk as if there were fashions in poetry as there are in clothes,’ -said Lucian, with some show of scornful indignation.</p> - -<p>‘So there are, my dear sir!’ replied the publisher. ‘If you lived less -in the clouds and more in the world of plain fact you would know it. -You, for instance, would think it strange, if you had ever read it, to -find Pollok’s poem, <i>The Course of Time</i>, selling to the extent of -thousands and tens of thousands, or of Tupper’s <i>Proverbial Philosophy</i> -making almost as prominent a figure in the middle-class household as the -Bible itself. Of course there’s a fashion in poetry, as there is in -everything else. Byron was once the fashion; Mrs. Hemans was once the -fashion; even Robert Montgomery was once fashionable. You yourself were -very fashionable for three years—you see, if you’ll pardon me for -speaking plainly, you were an interesting young man. You had a beautiful -face; you were what the women call “interesting”; you aroused all the -town by your romantic marriage—you became a personality. I think you’ve -had a big run of it,’ concluded Mr. Robertson. ‘Why, lots of men come up -and go down within two years—you’ve had four already.’</p> - -<p>Lucian regarded him with grave eyes.</p> - -<p>‘Do you think of me as of a rocket or a comet?’ he said. ‘If things are -what you say they are, I wish I had never published anything. But I -think you are wrong,’ and he went away to consider all that had been -said to him. He decided, after some thought and reflection, that his -publisher was not arguing on sound lines, and he assured himself for the -hundredth time that the production of the tragedy would put everything -right.</p> - -<p>It was now very near to the day on which the tragedy was to be produced -at the Athenæum, and both Lucian and Mr. Harcourt had been worried to -the point of death<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177"></a>{177}</span> by pressmen who wanted to know all about it. Chiefly -owing to their persistency the public were now in possession of a -considerable amount of information as to what it might expect to hear -and see. It was to witness—that portion of it, at any rate, which was -lucky enough to secure seats for the first night—an attempt to revive -tragedy on the lines of pure Greek art. As this attempt was being made -at the close of the nineteenth century, it was quite in accordance with -everything that vast sums of money should be laid out on costumes, -scenery, and accessories, and it was well known to the readers of the -halfpenny newspapers that the production involved the employment of so -many hundreds of supernumeraries, that so many thousands of pounds had -been spent on the scenery, that certain realistic effects had been -worked up at enormous cost, and that the whole affair, to put it in -plain language, was a gigantic business speculation—nothing more nor -less, indeed, than the provision of a gorgeous spectacular drama, full -of life and colour and modern stage effects, which should be enthralling -and commanding enough to attract the public until a handsome profit had -been made on the outlay. But the words ‘an attempt to revive Tragedy on -the lines of pure Greek Art’ looked well in print, and had a highly -respectable sound, and the production of Lucian’s second tribute to the -tragic muse was looked forward to with much interest by many people who -ignored the fact that many thousands of pounds were being expended in -placing it upon the stage.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178"></a>{178}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXI" id="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">At</span> twelve o’clock on the night that witnessed the production of the -tragedy, Lucian found himself one of a group of six men which had -gathered together in Harcourt’s dressing-room. There was a blue haze of -cigarette smoke all over the room; a decanter of whisky with syphons and -glasses stood on a table in the centre; most of the men had already -helped themselves to a drink. Lucian found a glass in his own hand, and -sipped the mixture in it he recognised the taste of soda, and remembered -in a vague fashion that he much preferred Apollinaris, but he said to -himself, or something said to him, that it didn’t matter. His brain was -whirling with the events of the night; he still saw, as in a dream, the -misty auditorium as he had seen it from a box; the stage as he had seen -it during a momentary excursion to the back of the dress-circle; the -busy world behind the scenes where stage-carpenters sweated and swore, -and the dust made one’s throat tickle. He recalled particular faces and -heard particular voices; all the world and his wife had been there, and -all the first-nighters, and all his friends, and he had spoken to a -great many people. They all seemed to swim before him as in a dream, and -the sound of their voices came, as it were, from the cylinder of a -phonograph. He remembered seeing Mr. Chilverstone and his wife in the -stalls—their faces were rapt and eloquent; in the stalls, too, he had -seen Sprats and Lord Saxonstowe and Mrs. Berenson; he himself had spent -some of the time with Haidee and Darlington and other people of their -set in a box, but he had also wandered in and out of Harcourt’s -dressing-room a good deal, and had sometimes spoken to Harcourt, and -sometimes to his business manager. He had a vague recollection that he -had faced the house himself at the end of everything, and had bowed -several times in response to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179"></a>{179}</span> cheering which was still buzzing in his -ears. The night was over.</p> - -<p>He took another drink from the glass in his hand and looked about him; -there was a curious feeling in his brain that he himself was not there, -that he had gone away, or been left behind somewhere in the world’s mad -rush, and that he was something else, watching a semblance of himself -and the semblance’s surroundings. The scene interested and amused -whatever it was that was looking on from his brain. Harcourt, free of -his Greek draperies, now appeared in a shirt and trousers; he stood -before the mirror on his dressing-table, brushing his hair—Lucian -wondered where he bought his braces, which, looked at closely, revealed -a peculiarly dainty pattern worked by hand. All the time that he was -manipulating the brushes he was talking in disconnected sentences. -Lucian caught some of them: ‘Little cutting here and there—that bit -dragged—I’m told that <i>was</i> a fine effect—very favourable indeed—we -shall see, we shall see!’—and he wondered what Harcourt was talking -about. Near the actor-manager, in an easy-chair, sat an old gentleman of -benevolent aspect, white-bearded, white-moustached, who wore a fur-lined -cloak over his evening-dress. He was sucking at a cigar, and his hand, -very fat and very white, held a glass at which he kept looking from time -to time as if he were not quite certain what to do with it. He was -reported to be at the back of Harcourt in financial matters, and he -blinked and nodded at every sentence rapidly spoken by the -actor-manager, but said nothing. Near him stood two men in cloaks and -opera-hats, also holding glasses in their hands and smoking -cigarettes—one of them Lucian recognised as a great critic, the other -as a famous actor. At his own side, talking very rapidly, was the sixth -man, Harcourt’s business-manager. Lucian suddenly realised that he was -nodding his head at this man as if in intelligent comprehension of what -he was saying, whereas he had not understood one word. He shook himself -together as a man does who throws drowsiness aside.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180"></a>{180}</span></p> - -<p>‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I—I don’t think I was paying attention. I don’t -know why, but I feel half-asleep.’</p> - -<p>‘It’s the reaction,’ said Harcourt, hastily getting into his waistcoat -and coat. ‘I feel tired out—if I had my way there should be no such -thing as a first night—it’s a most wearing occasion.’</p> - -<p>The famous critic turned with a smile.</p> - -<p>‘Think of being able to lie in bed to-morrow with a sheaf of newspapers -on your counterpane!’ he said pleasantly.</p> - -<p>Then somehow, chatting disjointedly, they got out of the theatre. -Harcourt and Lucian drove off in a hansom together—they were near -neighbours.</p> - -<p>‘What do you think?’ asked Lucian, as they drove away.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, I think it went all right, as far as one could judge. There was -plenty of applause—we shall see what is said to-morrow morning,’ -answered Harcourt, with a mighty yawn. ‘They can’t say that it wasn’t -magnificently staged,’ he added, with complacency. ‘And everything went -like clockwork. I’ll tell you what—I wish I could go to sleep for the -next six months!’</p> - -<p>‘I believe I feel like that,’ responded Lucian. ‘Well, it is launched, -at any rate.’</p> - -<p>The old gentleman of the white beard and fur-lined cloak drove off in a -private brougham, still nodding and blinking; the actor and the critic, -lighting cigars, walked away together, and for some time kept silence.</p> - -<p>‘What do you really think?’ said the actor at last. ‘You’re in rather a -lucky position, you know, in respect of the fact that the <i>Forum</i> is a -weekly and not a daily journal—it gives you more time to make up your -mind. But you already have some notion of what your verdict will be?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ answered the critic. He puffed thoughtfully at his cigar. ‘Well,’ -he said, ‘I think we have heard some beautiful poetry, beautifully -recited. But I confess to feeling a certain sense of incongruity in the -attempt to mingle Greek art with modern stage accessories.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181"></a>{181}</span> I think -Damerel’s tragedy will read delightfully—in the study. But I counted -several speeches to-night which would run to two and three pages of -print, and I saw many people yawn. I fear that others will yawn.’</p> - -<p>‘What would you give it?’ said the actor. ‘The other ran for twelve -months.’</p> - -<p>‘This,’ said the critic, ‘may run for one. But I think Harcourt will -have to withdraw it within three weeks. I am bearing the yawns in -mind.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182"></a>{182}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXII" id="CHAPTER_XXII"></a>CHAPTER XXII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Lucian’s</span> tragedy ran for precisely seventeen nights. The ‘attempt to -revive Tragedy on the lines of pure Greek Art’ was a failure. Everybody -thought the poetry very beautiful, but there were too many long speeches -and too few opportunities for action and movement to satisfy a modern -audience, and Harcourt quickly discovered that not even magnificent -scenery and crowds of supernumeraries arrayed in garments of white and -gold and purple and green will carry a play through. He was in despair -from the second night onwards, for it became evident that a great deal -of cutting was necessary, and on that point he had much trouble with -Lucian, who, having revised his work to the final degree, was not -disposed to dock it in order to please the gods in the gallery. The -three weeks during which the tragedy ran were indeed weeks of storm and -stress. The critics praised the poetry of the play, the staging, the -scenery, the beauty and charm of everything connected with it, but the -public yawned. In Lucian’s previous play there had been a warm, somewhat -primitive human interest—it took those who saw it into the market-place -of life, and appealed to everyday passions; in the new tragedy people -were requested to spend some considerable time with the gods in Olympus -amidst non-human characteristics and qualities. No one, save a few -armchair critics like Mr. Chilverstone, wished to breathe this diviner -air; the earlier audiences left the theatre cold and untouched. ‘It -makes you feel,’ said somebody, ‘as if you had been sitting amongst a -lot of marble statues all night and could do with something warming to -the blood.’ In this way the inevitable end came. All the people who -really wanted to see the tragedy had seen it within a fortnight; during -the next few nights the audiences thinned and the advance bookings -represented small future business, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183"></a>{183}</span> before the end of the third week -Harcourt had withdrawn the attempt to revive tragedy on the lines of -pure Greek Art, and announced a revival of an adaptation from a famous -French novel which had more than once proved its money-earning powers.</p> - -<p>Lucian said little of this reverse of fortune—he was to all appearance -unmoved by it; but Sprats, who could read his face as easily as she -could read an open book, saw new lines write themselves there which told -of surprise, disappointment, and anxiety, and she knew from his subdued -manner and the unwonted reticence which he observed at this stage that -he was thinking deeply of more things than one. In this she was right. -Lucian by sheer force of circumstances had been dragged to a certain -point of vantage whereat he was compelled to stand and look closely at -the prospect which confronted him. When it became evident that the -tragedy was a failure as a money-making concern, he remembered, with a -sudden shock that subdued his temperamental buoyancy in an unpleasant -fashion, that he had not foreseen such a contingency, and that he had -confidently expected a success as great as the failure was complete. He -sat down in his study and put the whole matter to himself in commendably -brief fashion: for several months he and Haidee had been living and -spending money on anticipation; it was now clear that the anticipation -was not to be realised. The new volume was selling very slowly; the -tragedy was a financial failure; very little in the way of solid cash -would go from either to the right side of Lucian’s account at -Darlington’s. And on the wrong side there must be an array of figures -which he felt afraid to think of. He hurriedly cast up in his mind a -vague account of those figures which memory presented to him; when he -added the total to an equally vague guess of what Haidee might have -spent, he recognised that he must be in debt to the bank to a -considerable amount. He had never had the least doubt that the tragedy -would prove a gold-mine—everybody had predicted it. Darlington had -predicted it a hundred<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184"></a>{184}</span> times, and Darlington was a keen, hard-headed -business man. Well, the tragedy was a failure—to use the expressive -term of the man in the street, ‘there was no money in it.’ It was to -have replenished Lucian’s coffers—it left them yawning.</p> - -<p>Easy-going and thoughtless though he was, Lucian had a constitutional -dislike of owing money to any one, and the thought that he was now in -debt to his bankers irritated and annoyed him. Analysed to a fine -degree, it was not that he was annoyed because he owed money, but -because he was not in a position to cancel the debt with a few scratches -of his pen, and so relieve himself of the disagreeable necessity of -recognising his indebtedness to any one. He had a temperamental dislike -of unpleasant things, and especially of things which did not interest -him—his inherited view of life had caused him to regard it as a walk -through a beautiful garden under perpetual sunshine, with full liberty -to pluck whatever flower appealed to his eye, eat whatever fruit tempted -his palate, and turn into whatever side-walk took his fancy. Now that he -was beginning to realise that it is possible to wander out of such a -garden into a brake full of thorns and tangles, and to find some -difficulty in escaping therefrom, his dislike of the unpleasant was -accentuated and his irritation increased. But there was a certain vein -of method and of order in him, and when he really recognised that he had -got somewhere where he never expected to be, he developed a sincere -desire to find out at once just where he was. The present situation had -some intellectual charm for him: he had never in all his life known what -it was to want money; it had always come to his hand as manna came to -the Israelites in the desert—he wondered, as these unwonted -considerations for the present and the future filled him, what would -develop from it.</p> - -<p>‘It will be best to know just where one really is,’ he thought, and he -went off to find his wife and consult with her. It was seldom that he -ever conversed with her on any matter of a practical nature; he had long -since<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185"></a>{185}</span> discovered that Haidee was bored by any topic that did not -interest her, or that she did not understand. She scarcely grasped the -meaning of the words which Lucian now addressed to her, simple though -they were, and she stared at him with puzzled eyes.</p> - -<p>‘You see,’ he said, feeling that his explanation was inept and crude, -‘I’d fully expected to have an awful lot of money out of the book and -the play, and now, it seems, there won’t be so much as I had -anticipated. Of course there will be Robertson’s royalties, and so on, -but I don’t think they will amount to very much for the half-year, -and——’</p> - -<p>Haidee interrupted him.</p> - -<p>‘Does it mean that you have spent all the money?’ she asked. ‘There was -such a lot, yours and mine, together.’</p> - -<p>Lucian felt powerless in the face of this apparently childish remark.</p> - -<p>‘Not such a lot,’ he said. ‘And you know we had heavy expenses at -first—we had to spend a lot on the house, hadn’t we?’</p> - -<p>‘But will there be no more to spend?’ she asked. ‘I mean, has it all -been spent? Because I want a lot of things, if we are to winter in Egypt -as you proposed.’</p> - -<p>Lucian laughed.</p> - -<p>‘I’m afraid we shall not go to Egypt this winter,’ he said. ‘But don’t -be alarmed; I think there will be money for new gowns and so on. No; -what I just wished to know was—have you any idea of what you have spent -since I transferred our accounts to Darlington’s bank?’</p> - -<p>Haidee shrugged her shoulders. As a matter of fact she had used her -cheque-book as she pleased, and had no idea of anything relating to her -account except that she had drawn on it whenever she wished to do so.</p> - -<p>‘I haven’t,’ she answered. ‘You told me I was to have a separate -account, and, of course, I took you at your word.’</p> - -<p>‘Well, it will be all right,’ said Lucian soothingly. ‘I’ll see about -everything.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186"></a>{186}</span></p> - -<p>He was going away, desirous of closing any discussion of the subject, -but Haidee stopped him.</p> - -<p>‘Of course it makes a big difference if your books don’t sell and people -won’t go to your plays,’ she said. ‘That doesn’t bring money, does it?’</p> - -<p>‘My dear child!’ exclaimed Lucian, ‘how terribly perturbed you look! One -must expect an occasional dose of bad luck. The next book will probably -sell by the tens of thousands, and the next play run for a hundred -years!’</p> - -<p>‘They were saying at Lady Firmanence’s the other afternoon that you had -had your day,’ she said, looking inquiringly at him. ‘Do you think you -have?’</p> - -<p>‘I hope I have quite a big day to come yet,’ he answered quietly. ‘You -shouldn’t listen to that sort of thing—about me.’</p> - -<p>Then he left her and went back to his study and thought matters over -once more. ‘I’ll find out exactly where I am,’ he thought at last, and -he went out and got into a hansom and was driven to Lombard Street—he -meant to ascertain his exact position at the bank. When he entered, with -a request for an interview with Mr. Eustace Darlington, he found that -the latter was out of town, and for a moment he thought of postponing -his inquiries. Then he reflected that others could probably give him the -information he sought, and he asked to see the manager. Five minutes -after entering the manager’s private room he knew exactly how he stood -with Messrs. Darlington and Darlington. He owed them close upon nine -thousand pounds.</p> - -<p>Lucian, bending over the slip of paper upon which the manager had jotted -down a memorandum of the figures, trusted that the surprise which he -felt was not being displayed in his features. He folded the paper, -placed it in his pocket, thanked the manager for his courtesy, and left -the bank. Once outside he looked at the paper again: the manager had -made a distinction between Mr. Damerel’s account and his wife’s. Mr. -Damerel’s was about eighteen hundred pounds in debt; Mrs. Damerel’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187"></a>{187}</span> -separate account had been drawn against to the extent of nearly seven -thousand pounds. Lucian knew what had become of the money which he had -spent, but he was puzzled beyond measure to account for the sums which -Haidee had gone through within a few months.</p> - -<p>Whenever he was in any doubt or perplexity as to practical matters -Lucian invariably turned to Sprats, and he now called a hansom and bade -the man drive to Bayswater. He knew, from long experience of her, that -he could tell Sprats anything and everything, and that she would never -once say ‘I told you so!’ or ‘I knew how it would turn out!’ or ‘Didn’t -I warn you?’ She might scold him; she would almost certainly tell him -that he was a fool; but she wouldn’t pose as a superior person, or howl -over the milk which he had spilled—instead, she would tell him quietly -what was the best thing to do.</p> - -<p>He found her alone, and he approached her with the old boyish formula -which she had heard a hundred times since he had discovered that she -knew a great deal more about many things than he knew himself.</p> - -<p>‘I say, Sprats, I’m in a bit of a hole!’ he began.</p> - -<p>‘And, of course, you want me to pull you out. Well, what is it?’ she -asked, gazing steadily at him and making a shrewd guess at the sort of -hole into which he had fallen. ‘Do the usual, Lucian, tell everything.’</p> - -<p>When he liked to be so, Lucian was the most candid of men. He laid bare -his soul to Sprats on occasions like these in a fashion which would -greatly have edified a confessor. He kept nothing back; he made no -excuses; he added no coat of paint or touch of white-wash. He set forth -a plain, unvarnished statement, without comment or explanation; it was a -brutally clear and lucid account of facts which would have honoured an -Old Bailey lawyer. It was one of his gifts, and Sprats never had an -instance of it presented to her notice without wondering how it was that -a man who could marshal facts so well and put them before others in -such<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188"></a>{188}</span> a crisp and concise fashion should be so unpractical in the stern -business of life.</p> - -<p>‘And that’s just how things are,’ concluded Lucian, ‘What do you advise -me to do?’</p> - -<p>‘There is one thing to be done at once,’ she answered, without -hesitation. ‘You must get out of debt to Darlington; you must pay him -every penny that you owe him as quickly as possible. You say you owe him -nearly nine thousand pounds: very good. How much have you got towards -paying that off?’</p> - -<p>Lucian sighed deeply.</p> - -<p>‘That’s just it!’ he exclaimed. ‘I don’t exactly know. Let me see, now; -well, look here, Sprats—you won’t tell, of course—Mr. Pepperdine owes -me a thousand—at least I mean to say I lent him a thousand, but then, -don’t you know, he has always been so good to me, that——’</p> - -<p>‘I think you had better chuck sentiment,’ she said. ‘Mr. Pepperdine has -a thousand of yours. Very well—go on.’</p> - -<p>‘I’ve been thinking,’ he continued, ‘that I might now ask him for the -money which my father left me. He has had full charge of that, you know. -I’ve never known what it was. I dare say it was rather heavily dipped -into during the time I was at Oxford, but there may be something left.’</p> - -<p>‘Has he never told you anything about it?’ asked Sprats.</p> - -<p>‘Very little. Indeed, I have never asked him anything—I could trust him -with everything. It’s quite possible there may not be a penny; he may -have spent it all on me before I came of age,’ said Lucian. ‘Still, if -there is anything, it would go towards making up the nine thousand, -wouldn’t it?’</p> - -<p>‘Well, leave it out of the question at present,’ she answered. ‘What -else have you coming in soon?’</p> - -<p>‘Harcourt has two hundred of mine, and Robertson about three hundred.’</p> - -<p>‘That’s another five hundred. Well, and the rest?’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189"></a>{189}</span></p> - -<p>‘I think that’s the lot,’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘There are people who owe you money,’ she said. ‘Come, now, Lucian, you -know there are.’</p> - -<p>Lucian began to wriggle and to study the pattern of the hearthrug.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! ah! well!’ he said, ‘I—I dare say I have lent other men a little -now and then.’</p> - -<p>‘Better say given,’ she interrupted. ‘I was only wondering if there was -any considerable sum that you could get in.’</p> - -<p>‘No, really,’ he answered.</p> - -<p>‘Very well; then you’ve got fifteen hundred towards your nine thousand. -That’s all, eh?’ she asked.</p> - -<p>‘All that I know of,’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘Well, there are other things,’ she remarked, with some emphasis. ‘There -are your copyrights and your furniture, pictures, books, and -curiosities.’</p> - -<p>Lucian’s mouth opened and he uttered a sort of groan.</p> - -<p>‘You don’t mean that I should—<i>sell</i> any of these?’ he said, looking at -her entreatingly.</p> - -<p>‘I’d sell the very clothes off my back before I’d owe a penny to -Darlington!’ she replied. ‘Don’t be a sentimental ass, Lucian; books in -vellum bindings, and pictures by old masters, and unique pots and pans -and platters, don’t make life! Sell every blessed thing you’ve got -rather than owe Darlington money. Pay him off, get out of that house, -live in simpler fashion, and you’ll be a happier man.’</p> - -<p>Lucian sat for some moments in silence, staring at the hearthrug. At -last he looked up. Sprats saw something new in his face—or was it -something old? something that she had not seen there for years? He -looked at her for an instant, and then he looked away.</p> - -<p>‘I should be very glad to live a simpler life,’ he said. ‘I dare say it -seems rather sentimental and all that, you know, but of late I’ve had an -awfully strong desire—sort of home-sickness, you know—for Simonstower. -I’ve caught myself thinking of the old days, and—’ he paused, laughed -in rather a forced way, and sitting<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190"></a>{190}</span> straight up in the easy-chair in -which he had been lounging, began to drum on its arms with his fingers. -‘What you say,’ he continued presently, ‘is quite right. I must not be -in debt to Darlington—it has been a most kind and generous thing on his -part to act as one’s banker in this fashion, but one mustn’t trespass on -a friend’s kindness.’</p> - -<p>Sprats flashed a swift, half-puzzled look upon him—he was looking -another way, and did not see her.</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ he went on meditatively, ‘I’m sure you are right, Sprats, quite -right. I’ll act on your advice. I’ll go down to Simonstower to-morrow -and see if Uncle Pepperdine can let me have that thousand, and if there -is any money of my own, and when I come back I’ll see if Robertson will -buy my copyrights—I may be able to clear the debt off with all that. If -not, I shall sell the furniture, books, pictures, everything, and Haidee -and I will go to Italy, to Florence, and live cheaply. Ah! I know the -loveliest palazzo on the Lung’ Arno—I wish we were there already. I’m -sick of England.’</p> - -<p>‘It will make a difference to Haidee, Lucian,’ said Sprats. ‘She likes -England—and English society.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ he answered thoughtfully, ‘it will make a great difference. But -she gave up a great deal for me when we married, and she’ll give up a -great deal now. A woman will do anything for the man she loves,’ he -added, with the air of a wiseacre. ‘It’s a sort of fixed law.’</p> - -<p>Then he went away, and Sprats, after spending five minutes in deep -thought, remembered her other children and hastened to them, wondering -whether the most juvenile of the whole brood were quite so childish as -Lucian. ‘It will go hard with him if his disillusion comes suddenly,’ -she thought, and for the rest of the day she felt inclined to sadness.</p> - -<p>Lucian went home in a good humour and a brighter flow of spirits. He was -always thus when a new course of action suggested itself to him, and on -this occasion he felt impelled to cheerfulness because he was -meditating<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191"></a>{191}</span> a virtuous deed. He wrote some letters, and then went to his -club, and knowing that his wife had an engagement of her own that night, -he dined with an old college friend whom he happened to meet in the -smoking-room, and to whom before and after dinner he talked in lively -fashion. It was late when he reached home, and he was then more cheerful -than ever; the picture of the old palazzo on the Lung’ Arno had fastened -itself upon the wall of his consciousness and compelled him to look at -it. Haidee had just come in; he persuaded her to go with him into his -study while he smoked a final cigarette, and there, full of his new -projects, he told her what he intended to do. Haidee listened without -saying a word in reply. Lucian took no notice of her silence: he was one -of those people who imagine that they are addressing other people when -they are in reality talking to themselves and require neither Yea nor -Nay; he went on expatiating upon his scheme, and the final cigarette was -succeeded by others, and Haidee still listened in silence.</p> - -<p>‘You mean to do all that?’ she said at last. ‘To sell everything and go -to Florence? And to live there?’</p> - -<p>‘Certainly,’ he replied tranquilly; ‘it will be so cheap.’</p> - -<p>‘Cheap?’ she exclaimed. ‘Yes—and dull! Besides, why this sudden fuss -about owing Darlington money? It’s been owing for months, and you didn’t -say anything.’</p> - -<p>‘I expected to be able to put the account straight out of the money -coming from the book and the play,’ he replied. ‘As they are not exactly -gold-mines, I must do what I can. I can’t remain in Darlington’s debt in -that way—it wouldn’t be fair to him.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t see that you need upset everything just for that,’ she said. -‘He has not asked you to put the account straight, has he?’</p> - -<p>‘Of course not!’ exclaimed Lucian. ‘He never would; he’s much too good a -fellow to do that sort of thing. But that’s just why I must get out of -his debt—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192"></a>{192}</span>it’s taking a mean advantage of his kindness. I’m quite -certain nobody else would have been so very generous.’</p> - -<p>Haidee glanced at her husband out of the corners of her eyes: the glance -was something like that with which Sprats had regarded him in the -afternoon. He had not caught Sprats’s glance, and he did not catch his -wife’s.</p> - -<p>‘By the bye, Haidee,’ he said, after a short silence, ‘I called at -Darlington’s to-day to find out just how we stand there, and the manager -gave me the exact figures. You’ve rather gone it, you know, during the -past half-year. You’ve gone through seven thousand pounds.’</p> - -<p>Haidee looked at him wonderingly.</p> - -<p>‘But I paid for the diamonds out of that, you know,’ she said. ‘They -cost over six thousand.’</p> - -<p>‘Good heavens!—did they?’ said Lucian. ‘I thought it was an affair of -fifty pounds or so.’</p> - -<p>‘How ridiculous!’ she exclaimed. ‘Diamonds—like these—for fifty -pounds! You are the simplest child I ever knew.’</p> - -<p>Lucian was endeavouring to recall the episode of the buying of the -diamonds. He remembered at last that Haidee had told him that she had -the opportunity of buying some diamonds for a much less sum than they -were worth. He had thought it some small transaction, and had bidden her -to consult somebody who knew something about that sort of thing.</p> - -<p>‘I remember now,’ he said. ‘I told you to ask advice of some one who -knew something about diamonds.’</p> - -<p>‘And so I did,’ she answered. ‘I asked Darlington’s advice—he’s an -authority—and he said I should be foolish to miss the chance. And then -I said I didn’t know whether I dare draw a cheque for such an amount, -and he laughed and said of course I might, and that he would arrange it -with you.’</p> - -<p>‘There you are!’ said Lucian triumphantly; ‘that’s just another proof of -what I’ve been saying all along.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193"></a>{193}</span> Darlington’s such a kind-hearted sort -of chap that he never said anything about it to me. Well, there’s no -harm done there, any way, Haidee; in fact, it’s rather a relief to know -that you’ve locked up six thousand in that way, because you can sell the -diamonds and the money will go towards putting the account straight.’</p> - -<p>Haidee looked at him narrowly: Lucian’s eyes were fixed on the curling -smoke of his cigarette.</p> - -<p>‘Sell my diamonds?’ she said in a low voice.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, of course,’ said Lucian; ‘it’ll be rather jolly if there’s a -profit on them. Oh yes, we must sell them. I can’t afford to lock up six -thousand in precious stones, you know, and of course we can’t let -Darlington pay for them. I wonder what they really are worth? What a -lark if we got, say, ten thousand for them!’</p> - -<p>Then he wandered into an account of how a friend of his had once picked -up a ring at one of the stalls on the Ponte Vecchio in Florence, and had -subsequently sold it for just ten times as much as he had given for it. -He laughed very much in telling his wife this story, for it had certain -amusing points in it, and Haidee laughed too, but if Lucian had been -endowed with a better understanding of women he would have known that -she was neither amused nor edified.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194"></a>{194}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXIII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Lucian</span> came down to breakfast next morning equipped for his journey to -Simonstower. He was in good spirits: the day was bright and frosty, and -he was already dreaming of the village and the snow-capped hills beyond -it. In dressing he had thought over his plans, and had decided that he -was now quite reconciled to the drastic measures which Sprats had -proposed. He would clear off all his indebtedness to Darlington, pay -whatever bills might be owing, and make a fresh start, this time on the -lines of strict economy, forethought, and prudence. He had very little -conception of the real meaning of these important qualities, but he had -always admired them in the abstract, and he now intended to form an -intimate acquaintance with them.</p> - -<p>‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said, as he faced Haidee at the breakfast-table -and spread out the <i>Morning Post</i>, ‘that when I have readjusted -everything we shall be much better off than I thought. Those diamonds -make a big difference, Haidee. In fact we shall have, or we ought to -have, quite a decent little capital, and we’ll invest it in something -absolutely safe and sound. I’ll ask Darlington’s advice about that, and -we’ll never touch it. The interest and the royalties will yield an -income which will be quite sufficient for our needs—you can live very -cheaply in Italy.’</p> - -<p>‘Then you are still bent on going to Italy—to Florence?’ she asked -calmly.</p> - -<p>‘Certainly,’ he replied. ‘It’s the best thing we can do. I’m looking -forward to it. After all, why should we be encumbered as we are at -present with an expensive house, a troop of servants, and all the rest -of it? We don’t really want them. Has it never occurred to you that all -these things are something like the shell which the snail has to carry -on his back and can’t get<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195"></a>{195}</span> away from? Why should a man carry a big shell -on his back? It’s all very well talking about the advantages and -comforts of having a house of one’s own, but it’s neither an advantage -nor a comfort to be tied to a house nor to anything that clogs one’s -action.’</p> - -<p>Haidee made no reply to those philosophic observations.</p> - -<p>‘How long do you propose to stay in Italy?’ she asked. ‘Simply for the -winter? I suppose we should return here for the season next year?’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t think so,’ answered Lucian. ‘We might go into Switzerland -during the very hot months—we couldn’t stand Florence in July and -August. But I don’t intend returning to London for some time. I don’t -think I shall ever settle here again. After all, I am Italian.’</p> - -<p>Then, finding that it was time he set out for King’s Cross, he kissed -his wife’s cheek, bade her amuse and take care of herself during his -absence, and went away, still in good spirits. For some time after he -had gone Haidee remained where he had left her. She ate and drank -mechanically, and she looked straight before her in the blank, -purposeless fashion which often denotes intense concentration of -thought. When she rose from the table she walked about the room with -aimless, uncertain movements, touching this and that object without any -reason for doing so. She picked up the <i>Morning Post</i>, glanced at it, -and saw nothing; she fingered two or three letters which Lucian had left -lying about on the breakfast-table, and laid them down again. They -reminded her, quite suddenly, of a letter from Eustace Darlington which -she had in her pocket, a trivial note, newly arrived, which informed her -that he had made some purchase or other for her in Paris, whither he had -gone for a week on business, and that she would shortly receive a parcel -containing it. There was nothing of special interest or moment in the -letter; she referred to it merely to ascertain Darlington’s address.</p> - -<p>After a time Haidee went into the study and sought<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196"></a>{196}</span> out a railway guide. -She had already made up her mind to join Eustace Darlington, and she now -decided to travel by a train which would enable her to reach Paris at -nine o’clock that evening. She began to make her preparations at once, -and instructed her maid to pack two large portmanteaus. Her jewels she -packed herself, taking them out of a safe in which they were usually -deposited, and after she had bestowed them in a small handbag she kept -the latter within sight until her departure. Everything was carried out -with coolness and thoughtfulness. The maid was told that her mistress -was going to Paris for a few days and that she was to accompany her; the -butler received his orders as to what was to be done until Mrs. -Damerel’s return the next day or the day following. There was nothing to -surprise the servants, and nothing to make them talk, in Haidee’s -proceedings. She lunched at an earlier hour than usual, drove to the -station with her maid, dropped a letter, addressed to Lucian at -Simonstower vicarage, into the pillar-box on the platform, and departed -for Paris with an admirable unconcern. There was a choppy sea in the -Channel, and the maid was ill, but Haidee acquired a hearty appetite, -and satisfied it in the dining-car of the French train. She was one of -those happily constituted people who can eat at the greatest moments of -life.</p> - -<p>She drove from the Gare du Nord to the Hôtel Bristol, and engaged rooms -immediately on her arrival. A little later she inquired for Darlington, -and then discovered that he had that day journeyed to Dijon, and was not -expected to return until two days later. Haidee, in nowise disconcerted -by this news, settled down to await his reappearance.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197"></a>{197}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXIV</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Lucian</span> arrived at the old vicarage towards the close of the afternoon. -He had driven over from Oakborough through a wintry land, and every -minute spent in the keen air had added to the buoyancy of his spirits. -Never, he thought as he was driven along the valley, did Simonstower -look so well as under its first coating of snow, and on the rising -ground above the village he made his driver stop so that he might drink -in the charm of the winter sunset. At the western extremity of the -valley a shelving hill closed the view; on its highest point a long row -of gaunt fir-trees showed black and spectral against the molten red of -the setting sun and the purpled sky into which it was sinking; nearer, -the blue smoke of the village chimneys curled into the clear, frosty -air—it seemed to Lucian that he could almost smell the fires of -fragrant wood which burned on the hearths. He caught a faint murmur of -voices from the village street: it was four o’clock, and the children -were being released from school. Somewhere along the moorland side a dog -was barking; in the windows of his uncle’s farmhouse, high above the -river and the village, lights were already gleaming; a spark of bright -light amongst the pine and fir trees near the church told him that Mr. -Chilverstone had already lit his study-lamp. Every sound, every sight -was familiar—they brought the old days back to him. And there, keeping -stern watch over the village at its foot, stood the old Norman castle, -its square keep towering to the sky, as massive and formidable as when -Lucian had first looked upon it from his chamber window the morning -after Simpson Pepperdine had brought him to Simonstower.</p> - -<p>He bade the man drive on to the vicarage. He had sent no word of his -coming; he had more than once<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198"></a>{198}</span> descended upon his friends at Simonstower -without warning, and had always found a welcome. The vicar came bustling -into the hall to him, with no sign of surprise.</p> - -<p>‘I did not know they had wired to you, my boy,’ he said, greeting him in -the old affectionate way, ‘but it was good of you to come so quickly.’</p> - -<p>Lucian recognised that something had happened.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t understand you,’ he said. ‘No one wired to me; I came down on -my own initiative—I wanted to see my uncle on business.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ said the vicar, shaking his head. ‘Then you do not know?—your -uncle is ill. He had a stroke—a fit—you know what I mean—this very -morning. Your Aunt Judith is across at the farm now. But come in, my -dear boy—how cold you must be.’</p> - -<p>Lucian went out to the conveyance which had brought him over, paid the -driver, and bade him refresh himself at the inn, and then joined the -vicar in his study. There again were the familiar objects which spelled -Home. It suddenly occurred to him that he was much more at home here or -in the farmhouse parlour along the roadside than in his own house in -London, and he wondered in vague, indirect fashion why that should be -so.</p> - -<p>‘Is my uncle dangerously ill, then?’ he asked, looking at the vicar, who -was fidgeting about with the fire-irons and repeating his belief that -Lucian must be very cold.</p> - -<p>‘I fear so, I fear so,’ answered Mr. Chilverstone. ‘It is, I think, an -apoplectic seizure—he was rather inclined to that, if you come to think -of it. Your aunt has just gone across there. It was early this morning -that it happened, and she has been over to the farm several times during -the day, but this time I think she will find a specialist there—Dr. -Matthews wished for advice and wired to Smokeford for some great man who -was to arrive an hour ago. I am glad you have come, Lucian. Did you see -Sprats before leaving?’</p> - -<p>Lucian replied that he had seen Sprats on the previous day. He sat down, -answering the vicar’s questions<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199"></a>{199}</span> respecting his daughter in mechanical -fashion—he was thinking of the various events of the past twenty-four -hours, and wondering if Mr. Pepperdine’s illness was likely to result in -death. Mr. Chilverstone turned from Sprats to the somewhat sore question -of the tragedy. It was to him a sad sign of the times that the public -had neglected such truly good work, and he went on to express his own -opinion of the taste of the age. Lucian listened absent-mindedly until -Mrs. Chilverstone returned with news of the sick man. She was much -troubled; the specialist gave little hope of Simpson’s recovery. He -might linger for some days, but it was almost certain that a week would -see the end of him. But in spite of her trouble Aunt Judith was -practical. Keziah, she said, must not be left alone that night, and she -herself was going back to the farm as soon as she had seen that the -vicar was properly provided for in respect of his sustenance and -comfort. Ever since her marriage Mrs. Chilverstone had felt that her -main object in life was the pleasing of her lord; she had put away all -thought of the dead hussar, and her romantic disposition had bridled -itself with the reins of chastened affection. Thus the vicar, who under -Sprats’s <i>régime</i> had neither been pampered nor coddled, found himself -indulged in many modes hitherto unknown to him, and he accepted all that -was showered upon him with modest thankfulness. He thought his wife a -kindly and considerate soul, and did not realise, being a truly simple -man, that Judith was pouring out upon him the resources of a treasury -which she had been stocking all her life. He was the first thing she had -the chance of loving in a practical fashion; hence he began to live -among rose-leaves. He protested now that Lucian and himself wanted for -nothing. Mrs. Chilverstone, however, took the reins in hand, saw that -the traveller was properly attended to and provided for, and did not -leave the vicarage until the two men were comfortably seated at the -dinner-table, the maids admonished as to lighting a fire in Mr. -Damerel’s room, and the vicar warned of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200"></a>{200}</span> the necessity of turning out -the lamps and locking the doors. Then she returned to her brother’s -house, and for an hour or two Lucian and his old tutor talked of things -nearest to their hearts, and the feelings of home came upon the younger -man more strongly than ever. He began to wonder how it was that he had -settled down in London when he might have lived in the country; the -atmosphere of this quiet, book-lined room in a village parsonage was, he -thought just then, much more to his true taste than that in which he had -spent the last few years of his life. At Oxford Lucian had lived the -life of a book-worm and a dreamer: he was not a success in examinations, -and he brought no great honour upon his tutor. In most respects he had -lived apart from other men, and it was not until the publication of his -first volume had drawn the eyes of the world upon him that he had been -swept out of the peaceful backwater of a student’s existence into the -swirling tides of the full river of life. Then had followed Lord -Simonstower’s legacy, and then the runaway marriage with Haidee, and -then four years of butterfly existence. He began to wonder, as he ate -the vicar’s well-kept mutton, fed on the moorlands close by, and sipped -the vicar’s old claret, laid down many a year before, whether his recent -life had not been a feverish dream. Looked at from this peaceful -retreat, its constant excitement and perpetual rush and movement seemed -to have lost whatever charm they once had for him. Unconsciously Lucian -was suffering from reaction: his moral as well as his physical nature -was crying for rest, and the first oasis in the desert assumed the -delightful colours and soft air of Paradise.</p> - -<p>Later in the evening he walked over to the farmhouse, through softly -falling snow, to inquire after his uncle’s condition. Mrs. Chilverstone -was in the sick man’s room and did not come downstairs; Miss Pepperdine -received him in the parlour. In spite of the trouble that had fallen -upon the house and of the busy day which she had spent, Keziah was robed -in state for the evening, and she sat bolt upright in her chair plying -her knitting-needles<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201"></a>{201}</span> as vigorously as in the old days which Lucian -remembered so well. He sat down and glanced at Simpson Pepperdine’s -chair, and wished the familiar figure were occupying it, and he talked -to his aunt of her brother’s illness, and the cloud which hung over the -house weighed heavily upon both.</p> - -<p>‘I am glad you came down, Lucian,’ said Miss Pepperdine, after a time. -‘I have been wanting to talk to you.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ he said. ‘What about?’</p> - -<p>Keziah’s needles clicked with unusual vigour for a moment or two.</p> - -<p>‘Simpson,’ she said at last, ‘was always a soft-hearted man. If he had -been harder of heart, he would have been better off.’</p> - -<p>Lucian, puzzled by this ambiguous remark, stared at Miss Pepperdine in a -fashion indicative of his amazement.</p> - -<p>‘I think,’ continued Miss Pepperdine, with pointed emphasis, ‘I think it -is time you knew more than you know at present, Lucian. When all is said -and done, you are the nearest of kin in the male line, and after hearing -the doctors to-night I’m prepared for Simpson’s death at any moment. -It’s a very bad attack of apoplexy—if he lived he’d be a poor invalid -all his life. Better that he should be taken while in the full -possession of his faculties.’</p> - -<p>Lucian gazed at the upright figure before him with mingled feelings. -Miss Pepperdine used to sit like that, and knit like that, and talk like -that, in the old days—especially when she felt it to be her duty to -reprimand him for some offence. So far as he could tell, she was wearing -the same stiff and crackly silk gown, she held her elbows close to her -side and in just the same fashion, she spoke with the same precision as -in the time of Lucian’s youth. The sight of her prim figure, the sound -of her precise voice, blotted out half a score of years: Lucian felt -very young again.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202"></a>{202}</span></p> - -<p>‘It may not be so bad as you think,’ he said. ‘Even the best doctors may -err.’</p> - -<p>Miss Pepperdine shook her head.</p> - -<p>‘No,’ she said, ‘it’s all over with Simpson. And I think you ought to -know, Lucian, how things are with him. Simpson has been a close man, he -has kept things to himself all his life; and of late he has been obliged -to confide in me, and I know a great deal that I did not know.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes?’ said Lucian.</p> - -<p>‘Simpson,’ she continued, ‘has not done well in business for some time. -He had a heavy loss some years ago through a rascally lawyer whom he -trusted—he always was one of those easy-going men that will trust -anybody—and although the old Lord Simonstower helped him out of the -difficulty, it ultimately fell on his own shoulders, and of late he has -had hard work to keep things going. Simpson will die a poor man. Not -that that matters—Judith and myself are provided for. I shall leave -here, afterwards. Judith, of course, is married. But as regards you, -Lucian, you lent Simpson some money a few months ago, didn’t you?’</p> - -<p>‘My dear aunt!’ exclaimed Lucian, ‘I——’</p> - -<p>‘I know all about it,’ she said, ‘though it’s only recently that I have -known. Well, you mustn’t be surprised if you have to lose it, Lucian. -When all is settled up, I don’t think there will be much, if anything, -over; and of course everybody must be paid before a member of the -family. The Pepperdines have always had their pride, and as your mother -was a Pepperdine, Lucian, you must have a share of it in you.’</p> - -<p>‘I have my father’s pride as well,’ answered Lucian. ‘Of course I shall -not expect the money. I was glad to be able to lend it.’</p> - -<p>‘Well,’ said Miss Pepperdine, with the air of one who deals out justice -impartially, ‘in one way you were only paying Simpson back for what he -had laid out on you. He spent a good deal of money on you, Lucian, when -you were a boy.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203"></a>{203}</span></p> - -<p>Lucian heard this news with astonished feelings.</p> - -<p>‘I did not know that,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I am careless about these -things, but I have always thought that my father left money for me.’</p> - -<p>‘I thought so too, until recently,’ replied Miss Pepperdine. ‘Your -father thought that he did, too, and he made Simpson executor and -trustee. But the money was badly invested. It was in a building society -in Rome, and it was all lost. There was never a penny piece from it, -from the time of your father’s death to this.’</p> - -<p>Lucian listened in silence.</p> - -<p>‘Then,’ he said, after a time, ‘my uncle was responsible for everything -for me? I suppose he paid Mr. Chilverstone, and bought my clothes, and -gave me pocket-money, and so on?’</p> - -<p>‘Every penny,’ replied his aunt. ‘Simpson was always a generous man.’</p> - -<p>‘And my three years at Oxford?’ he said inquiringly.</p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ replied Miss Pepperdine, ‘that’s another matter. Well—I don’t -suppose it matters now that you should know, though Simpson wouldn’t -have told you, but I think you ought to know. That was Lord -Simonstower—the old lord. He paid every penny.’</p> - -<p>Lucian uttered a sharp exclamation. He rose from his chair and took a -step or two about the room. Miss Pepperdine continued to knit with -undiminished vigour.</p> - -<p>‘So it would seem,’ he said presently, ‘that I lived and was educated on -charity?’</p> - -<p>‘That is how most people would put it,’ she answered, ‘though, to do -them justice, I don’t think either Lord Simonstower or Simpson -Pepperdine would have called it that. They thought you a promising youth -and they put money into you. That’s why I want you to feel that Simpson -was only getting back a little of his own in the money that you lent -him, though I know he would have paid it back to the day, according to -his promise, if he’d been able. But I’m afraid that he would not have -been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204"></a>{204}</span> able, and I think his money affairs have worked upon him.’</p> - -<p>‘I wish I had known,’ said Lucian. ‘He should have had no anxiety on my -account.’</p> - -<p>He continued to pace the floor; Miss Pepperdine’s needles clicked an -accompaniment to his advancing and retreating steps.</p> - -<p>‘I thought it best,’ she observed presently, ‘that you should know all -these things—they will explain a good deal.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘it is best. I should know. But I wish I had known -long ago. After all, a man should not be placed in a false position even -by his dearest friends. I ought to have been told the truth.’</p> - -<p>Miss Pepperdine’s needles clicked viciously.</p> - -<p>‘So I always felt—after I knew, and that is but recently,’ she -answered. ‘But, as I have said to you before, Simpson Pepperdine is a -soft-hearted man.’</p> - -<p>‘He has been a kind-hearted man,’ said Lucian. He was thinking, as he -walked about the room, glancing at the well-remembered objects, that the -money which he had wasted in luxuries that he could well have done -without would have relieved Mr. Pepperdine of anxiety and trouble. And -yet he had never known, never guessed, that the kindly-hearted farmer -had anything to distress him.</p> - -<p>‘I think we all seem to walk in darkness,’ he said, thinking aloud. ‘I -never had the least notion of this. Had I known anything of it, Uncle -Simpson should have had all that I could give him.’</p> - -<p>Miss Pepperdine melted. She had formed rather hard thoughts of Lucian -since his marriage. The side-winds which blew upon her ears from time to -time represented him as living in a style which her old-fashioned mind -did not approve: she had come to consider him as extravagant, frivolous, -and unbalanced. But she was a woman of sound common sense and great -shrewdness, and she recognised the genuine ring in Lucian’s voice<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205"></a>{205}</span> and -the sincerity of his regret that he had not been able to save Simpson -Pepperdine some anxiety.</p> - -<p>‘I’m sure you would, my boy,’ she said kindly. ‘However, Simpson has -done with everything now. I didn’t tell Judith, because she frets so, -but the doctors don’t think he’ll ever regain consciousness—it will -only be a matter of a few days, Lucian.’</p> - -<p>‘And that only makes one wish that one had known of his anxieties -sooner,’ he said. ‘Five years ago I could have helped him -substantially.’</p> - -<p>He was thinking of the ten thousand pounds which had already -disappeared. Miss Pepperdine did not follow his line of thought.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I’ve heard that you’ve made a lot of money,’ she said. ‘You’ve -been one of the lucky ones, Lucian, for I always understood that poets -generally lived in garrets and were half-starved most of their time. I’m -sure one used to read all that sort of thing in books; but perhaps times -have changed, and so much the better. Simpson always read your books as -soon as you sent them. Upon my word, I’m sure he never understood what -it was all about, except perhaps some of the songs and ballads, but he -liked the long words, and he was very proud of these little green -books—they’re all in his bureau there, along with his account-books. -Well, as I was saying, I understand you’ve made money, Lucian. Take care -of it, my boy, for you never know when you may want it, and want it -badly, in this world. There’s one thing I want you to promise me. I -don’t yet know how things will be when Simpson’s gone, but if he is a -bit on the wrong side of the ledger, it must be made up by the family, -and you must do your share. It mustn’t be said that a Pepperdine died -owing money that he couldn’t pay. I’ve already talked it over with -Judith, and if there is money to be found, she and I and you must find -it between us. If need be, all mine can go,’ she added sharply. ‘I can -get a place as a housekeeper even at my age.’</p> - -<p>Lucian gave her his promise readily enough, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206"></a>{206}</span> immediately began to -wonder what it might imply. But he agreed with her reasoning, and -assured himself that, if necessary, he would live on a crust in order to -carry out her wishes. And soon afterwards he set out for the vicarage, -promising to return for news of Mr. Pepperdine’s condition at an early -hour in the morning.</p> - -<p>As he walked back over the snow Lucian was full of thought. The -conversation with Miss Pepperdine had opened a new world to him. He had -always believed himself independent: it now turned out that for years -and years he had lived at other men’s charges. He owed his very food to -the charity of a relative; another man, upon whom he had no claim, had -lavished generosity upon him in no unstinted fashion. He was full of -honest gratitude to these men, but he wished at the same time that he -had known of their liberality sooner. He felt that he had been placed in -a false position, and the feeling lowered him in his own estimation. He -thought of his father, who earned money easily and spent it freely, and -realised that he had inherited his happy-go-lucky temperament. Yet he -had never doubted that his father had made provision for him, for he -remembered hearing him tell some artist friends one afternoon in -Florence that he had laid money aside for Lucian’s benefit, and Cyprian -Damerel had been a man of common sense, fond of pleasure and good living -and generous though he was. But Lucian well understood the story of the -Roman building society—greater folk than he, from the Holy Father -downwards, had lost money out of that feverish desire to build which has -characterised the Romans of all ages. No doubt his father had been -carried away by some wave of enthusiasm, and had put all his eggs into -one basket, and they had all been broken together. Still, Lucian wished -that Mr. Pepperdine had told him all this on his reaching an age of -understanding—it would have made a difference in many ways. ‘I seem,’ -he thought, as he plodded on through the snow, ‘I seem to have lived in -an unreal world, and to have supposed things which were not!’ And he -began to recall the days<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207"></a>{207}</span> of sure and confident youth, when his name was -being extolled as that of a newly risen star in the literary firmament, -and his own heart was singing with the joy of pride and strength and -full assurance. He had never felt one doubt of the splendour of his -career, never accepted it as anything but his just due. His very -certainty on these matters had, all unknown to himself, induced in him -an unassuming modesty, at which many people who witnessed his triumphs -and saw him lionised had wondered. Now, however, he had tasted the -bitterness of reverse; he had found that Fortune can frown as easily as -she can smile, and that it is hard to know upon what principle her -smiles and frowns are portioned out. To a certain point, life for Lucian -had been a perpetual dancing along the primrose way—it was now -developing into a tangle wherein were thorns and briars.</p> - -<p>He was too full of these thoughts to care for conversation, even with -his old tutor, and he pleaded fatigue and went to bed. He lay awake for -the greater part of the night, thinking over his talk with Miss -Pepperdine, and endeavouring to arrange his affairs so that he might -make good his promise to her, and when he slept, his sleep was troubled -by uneasy dreams. He woke rather late in the morning with a feeling of -impending calamity hanging heavily upon him. As he dressed, Mr. -Chilverstone came tapping at his door—something in the sound warned -Lucian of bad news. He was not surprised when the vicar told him that -Simpson Pepperdine had died during the night.</p> - -<p>He walked over to the farm as soon as he had breakfasted, and remained -there until noon. Coming back, he overtook the village postman, who -informed him that the letters were three hours late that morning in -consequence of the heavy fall of snow, which had choked up the roads -between Simonstower and Oakborough.</p> - -<p>‘It’ll be late afternoon afore I’ve finished my rounds,’ he added, with -a strong note of self-pity. ‘If you’re going up to the vicarage, sir, it -’ud save me a step if<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208"></a>{208}</span> you took the vicar’s letters—and there’s one, I -believe, for yourself.’</p> - -<p>Lucian took the bundle of letters which the man held out to him, and -turned it over until he found his own. He wondered why Haidee had -written to him—she had no great liking for correspondence, and he had -not expected to hear from her during his absence. He opened the letter -in the vicar’s study, without the least expectation of finding any -particular news in it.</p> - -<p>It was a very short letter, and, considering the character of the -intimation it was intended to make, the phrasing was commendably plain -and outspoken. Lucian’s wife merely announced that his plans for the -future were not agreeable to her, and that she was leaving home with the -intention of joining Eustace Darlington in Paris. She further added that -it was useless to keep up pretences any longer; she had already been -unfaithful, and she would be glad if Lucian would arrange to divorce her -as quickly as possible, so that she and Darlington might marry. Either -as an afterthought, or out of sheer good will, she concluded with a -lightly worded expression of friendship and of hope that Lucian might -have better luck next time.</p> - -<p>It is more than probable that Haidee was never quite so much her true -self in her relation to Lucian as when writing this letter. It is -permitted to every woman, whatever her mental and moral quality, to have -her ten minutes of unreasoning romance at some period of her life, and -Haidee had hers when she and Lucian fell in love with each other’s -beauty and ran away to hide themselves from the world while they played -out their little comedy. It was natural that they should tire of each -other within the usual time; but the man’s sense of duty was developed -in Lucian in a somewhat exceptional way, and he was inclined to settle -down to a Darby and Joan life. Haidee had little of that particular -instinct. She was all for pleasure and the glory of this world, and -there is small wonder that the prospect of exile in a land for which she -had no great liking should<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209"></a>{209}</span> have driven her to the salvation of her -diamonds and herself by recourse to the man whom she ought to have -married instead of Lucian. There was already a guilty bond between them; -it seemed natural to Haidee to look to it as a means of drawing her away -from the dangers which threatened her worldly comfort. It was equally -natural to her to announce all these things to Lucian in pretty much the -same terms that she would have employed had she been declining an -invitation to some social engagement.</p> - -<p>Lucian read the letter three times. He gave no sign of whatever emotion -it called up. All that he did was to announce in quiet, matter-of-fact -tones that he must return to London that afternoon, and to beg the loan -of the vicar’s horse and trap as far as Wellsby station. After that he -lunched with Mr. and Mrs. Chilverstone, and if they thought him -unusually quiet, there was good reason for that in the fact that Simpson -Pepperdine was lying dead in the old farmhouse behind the pine groves.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210"></a>{210}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXV" id="CHAPTER_XXV"></a>CHAPTER XXV</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Haidee</span>, waiting for Darlington in Paris, spent the time in a state of -perfect peace, amused herself easily and successfully, and at the same -time kept clear of such of her acquaintance as she knew to be in the -French capital at that moment. On the morrow Darlington would return, -and after that everything would be simple. She had arranged it all in -her own mind as she travelled from London, and she believed—having a -confident and sanguine disposition—that the way in which the affair -presented itself to her was the only way in which it could possibly -present itself to any one. It had been a mistake to marry Lucian. Well, -it wasn’t too late to rectify the mistake, and one was wise, of course, -in rectifying it. If you find out that you are on the wrong road—why, -what more politic and advisable than to take the shortest cut to the -right one? She was sorry for Lucian, but the path which he was following -just then was by no means to her own taste, and she must leave him to -tread it alone. She was indeed sorry for him. He had been an ardent and -a delightful lover—for a while—and it was a pity he was not a rich -man. Perhaps they might be friends yet. She, at any rate, would bear no -malice—why should she? She was fond enough of Lucian in one way, but -she had no fondness for a quiet life in Florence or Pisa or anywhere -else, and she had been brought up to believe that a woman must be good -to the man who can best afford to be good to her, and she felt as near -an approach to thankfulness as she had ever felt in her life when she -remembered that Eustace Darlington still cherished a benevolent -disposition towards her.</p> - -<p>Darlington did not return to Paris until nearly noon of the following -day. When he reached his hotel he was informed by his valet, whom he had -left behind, that Mrs. Damerel had arrived, and had asked for him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211"></a>{211}</span> -Darlington felt no surprise on hearing this news; nothing more serious -than a shopping expedition occurred to him. He sent his man to Haidee’s -rooms with a message, and after changing his clothes went to call upon -her himself. His manner showed her that he neither suspected nor -anticipated anything out of the common, but his first question paved the -way for her explanation. It was a question that might have been put had -they met in New York or Calcutta or anywhere, a question that needed no -definite answer.</p> - -<p>‘What brings you here? Frills, or frocks, or something equally feminine, -I suppose?’ he said carelessly, as he shook hands with her. ‘Staying -long?’</p> - -<p>The indifference of his tone sounded somewhat harshly in Haidee’s -hearing. It was evident that he suspected nothing and had no idea of the -real reason of her presence. She suddenly became aware that there might -be difficulties in the path that had seemed so easy.</p> - -<p>‘Lucian here?’ asked Darlington, with equal carelessness.</p> - -<p>‘No,’ she said. Then, in a lower tone, she added, ‘I have left Lucian.’</p> - -<p>Darlington turned quickly from the window, whither he had strolled after -their greeting. He uttered a sharp, half-suppressed exclamation.</p> - -<p>‘Left him?’ he said. ‘You don’t mean——’</p> - -<p>His interrogative glance completed the sentence. There was something in -his eyes, something stern and businesslike, that made Haidee afraid. Her -own eyes turned elsewhere.</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ she said.</p> - -<p>Darlington put his hands in his pockets and came and stood in front of -her. He looked down at her as if she had been a child out of whom he -wished to extract some information.</p> - -<p>‘Quarrelling, eh?’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘No, not quarrelling at all,’ she answered.</p> - -<p>‘Then—what?’</p> - -<p>‘He has spent all the money,’ she said, ‘and lots<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212"></a>{212}</span> beside, and he is -going to sell everything in the house in order to pay you, and then he -wanted me to go and live cheaply—<i>cheaply</i>, you understand?—in Italy; -and—and he said I must sell my diamonds.’</p> - -<p>‘Did he?’ said Darlington. ‘And he is going to sell everything in order -to pay me, is he? Well, that’s honest; I didn’t think he’d the pluck. -He’s evidently not quite such an utter fool as I’ve always thought him. -Well?’</p> - -<p>‘And, of course, I left him.’</p> - -<p>‘That “of course” is good. Of course, being you, you did, “of course.” -Yes, I understand that part, Haidee. But’—he looked around him with an -expressive glance at her surroundings, ‘why—here?’ he inquired sharply.</p> - -<p>‘I came to you,’ she said in a low and not too confident voice.</p> - -<p>Darlington laughed—a low, satirical, cynical laughter that frightened -her. She glanced at him timidly; she had never known him like that -before.</p> - -<p>‘I see!’ he said. ‘You thought that I should prove a refuge for the -fugitive wife? But I’m afraid that I am not disposed to welcome refugees -of any description—it isn’t my <i>métier</i>, you know.’</p> - -<p>Haidee looked at him in astonishment. Her eyes caught and held his: he -saw the growing terror in her face.</p> - -<p>‘But——’ she said, and came to a stop. Then she repeated the word, -still staring at him with questioning eyes. Darlington tore himself away -with a snarl.</p> - -<p>‘Look here!’ he said, ‘I’m not a sentimental man. If I ever had a scrap -of sentiment, <i>you</i> knocked it out of me four years ago. I was fond of -you then. I’d have made you a kind husband, my girl, and you’d have got -on, fool as you are by nature. But you threw me over for that half-mad -boy, and it killed all the soft things I had inside me. I knew I should -have my revenge on both of you, and I’ve had it. He’s ruined; he hasn’t -a penny piece that isn’t due to me; and as for you—listen,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213"></a>{213}</span> my girl, -and I’ll tell you some plain truths. You’re a pretty animal, nice to -play with for half an hour now and then, but you’re no man’s mate for -life, unless the man’s morally blind. I once heard a scientific chap say -that the soul’s got to grow in human beings. Well, yours hasn’t sprouted -yet, Haidee. You’re a fool, though you are a very lovely woman. I -suppose—’—he came closer to her, and looking down at her astonished -face smiled more cynically than ever—‘I suppose you thought that I -would run away with you and eventually marry you?’</p> - -<p>‘I—yes—of course!’ she whispered.</p> - -<p>‘Well,’ he said, ‘if I, too, had been a fool, I might have done that. -But I am not a fool, my dear Haidee. Perhaps I’m hard, brutal, -cynical—the world and its precious denizens have made me so. I’m not -going to run away with the woman who ran away with another man on the -very eve of her marriage to me; and as to marrying you, well—I’m plain -spoken enough to tell you that I made up my mind years ago that whatever -other silliness I might commit, I would never commit the crowning folly -of marrying a woman who had been my mistress.’</p> - -<p>Haidee caught her breath with a sharp exclamation. If she had possessed -any spirit she would have risen to her feet, said things, done things: -having none, like most of her sort, she suddenly buried her face in her -hands and sobbed.</p> - -<p>‘I dare say it doesn’t sound nice,’ said Darlington, ‘but Lord knows -it’s best to be plain spoken. Now, my girl, listen to me. Go home and -make the best of your bargain. I’ll let Lucian Damerel off easily, -though to tell you the truth I’ve always had cheerful notions of ruining -him hopelessly. If he wants to live cheaply in Italy, go with him—you -married him. You have your maid here?—tell her to pack up and be ready -to leave by the night train. I dare say Damerel thinks you have only run -over here to buy a new gown; he never need know anything to the -contrary.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214"></a>{214}</span></p> - -<p>‘B-b-b-but I have t-t-<i>told</i> him!’ she sobbed. ‘He <i>knows</i>!’</p> - -<p>‘Damn you for a fool!’ said Darlington, between his teeth. He put his -hands in his pockets again and began rattling the loose money there. For -a moment he stood staring at Haidee, his face puckered into frowning -lines. He came up to her. ‘How did you tell him?’ he said. ‘You -didn’t—write it?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘I did—I wrote him a letter.’</p> - -<p>Darlington sighed.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, well!’ he said, ‘it doesn’t matter, only he’ll be able to get heavy -damages, and I wanted to clear him out. It’s the fortune of war. Well, -I’m going. Good-day.’</p> - -<p>He had walked across to the door and laid his hand upon the latch ere -Haidee comprehended the meaning of his words. Then she sprang up with a -scream.</p> - -<p>‘And what of me?’ she cried. ‘Am I to be left here?’</p> - -<p>‘You brought yourself here,’ he retorted, eyeing her evilly. ‘I did not -ask you to come.’</p> - -<p>She stared at him open-mouthed as if he were some strange thing that had -come into her line of vision for the first time. Her breath began to -come and go in gasps. She was an elementary woman, but at this treatment -from the man she had known as her lover a natural indignation sprang up -in her and she began to find words.</p> - -<p>‘But this!’ she said, with a nearer approach to honesty than she had -ever known, ‘this is—desertion!’</p> - -<p>‘I am under no vow to you,’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘You have implied it. I trusted you.’</p> - -<p>‘As Lucian trusted you,’ he sneered.</p> - -<p>She became speechless again. Something in her looks brought Darlington -back from the door to her side.</p> - -<p>‘Look here, Haidee,’ he said, not unkindly, ‘don’t be a little fool. Go -home quickly and settle things with your husband. Tell him you wrote -that letter in a fit of temper; tell him—oh, tell him any of the lies -that women<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215"></a>{215}</span> invent so easily on these occasions! It’s absolutely -hopeless to look to me for protection, absolutely impossible for me to -give it——’</p> - -<p>He stopped. She was staring at him in a strange way—the way in which a -dumb animal might stare if the butcher who was about to kill it -condescended to try to explain to it why it was necessary that he should -presently cut its throat. Darlington hummed and ha’d when he caught that -look. He cast a furtive glance at the door and half turned away from -Haidee.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, quite impossible,’ he repeated. ‘The fact is—well, you may as -well knew it now as hear it later on—I am going to be married.’</p> - -<p>She nodded her head as if she quite understood his meaning, and he, -looking full at her again, noticed that she was trying to moisten her -lips with the tip of her tongue, and that her eyes were dilated to an -unusual degree.</p> - -<p>‘You can’t say that I’ve treated you badly,’ he said. ‘After all, you -had the first chance, and it wasn’t my fault if you threw it away. -There, now, be sensible and go back to London and make it up with -Damerel. You can easily get round him—he’ll believe anything you tell -him. Say you were upset at the thought of going to Italy with him, and -lost your head. Things will come all right if you only manage your cards -properly. Well, I’m going—good-day.’</p> - -<p>He turned slowly from her as if he were somewhat ashamed of his -desertion. They had been standing by the side of a table, littered about -on which were several odds and ends picked up by Haidee on the previous -day. Amongst them was an antique stiletto, sharp as a needle, which had -taken her fancy at a shop in the Palais Royal. She had thought of using -it as a hat-pin, and was charmed when the dealer suggested that it had -probably tasted the heart’s-blood of more than one victim. Its glitter -caught her eye now, and she picked it up and struck furiously at -Darlington’s back.</p> - -<p>At that moment Lucian was being conducted to his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216"></a>{216}</span> wife’s room by a -courteous manager. At the threshold they paused, brought to a -simultaneous standstill by a wild scream. When they entered the room, -Darlington lay crumpled up and dead in the centre of the floor, and -Haidee, gazing spellbound at him from the furthest corner, was -laughing—a long, low ripple of laughter that seemed as if it would -never cease. The stiletto, thrown at her feet, flashed back a ray of -sunlight from the window.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217"></a>{217}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXVI</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">That</span> afternoon Saxonstowe arrived in town from Yorkshire with a grim -determination in his heart to have it out once and for all with Sprats. -He had tried to do his duty as a country squire and to interest himself -in country life and matters: he had hunted the fox and shot pheasants, -sat on the bench at petty and at quarter sessions, condoled with farmers -on poor prices and with old women on bad legs, and he was still -unsatisfied and restless and conscious of wanting something. The folk -round about him came to the conclusion that he was not as other young -men of his rank and wealth—he seemed inclined to bookishness, he was a -bit shy and a little bit stand-offish in manner, and he did not appear -to have much inclination for the society of neighbours in his own -station of life. Before he succeeded to the title Saxonstowe had not -been much known in the neighbourhood. He had sometimes visited his -predecessor as a schoolboy, but the probability of his becoming the next -Lord Saxonstowe was at that time small, and no one had taken much notice -of Master Richard Feversham. When he came back to the place as lord and -master, what reputation he had was of a sort that scarcely appealed to -the country people. He had travelled in some fearsome countries where no -other man had ever set foot, and he had written a great book about his -adventures, and must therefore be a clever young man. But he was not a -soldier, nor a sailor, and he did not particularly care for hunting or -shooting, and was therefore somewhat of a hard nut to crack. The honest -gentlemen who found fox-hunting the one thing worth living for could -scarcely realise that even its undeniable excitements were somewhat tame -to a man who had more than once taken part in a hunt in which he was the -quarry, and they were disposed to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218"></a>{218}</span> regard the new Viscount Saxonstowe as -a bit of a prig, being unconscious that he was in reality a very -simple-minded, unaffected young man who was a little bit embarrassed by -his title and his wealth. As for their ladies, it was their decided -opinion that a young peer of such ancient lineage and such great -responsibilities should marry as soon as possible, and each believed -that it was Lord Saxonstowe’s bounden duty to choose a wife from one of -the old north-country families. In this Saxonstowe agreed with them. He -desired a wife, and a wife from the north country, and he knew where to -find her, and wanted her so much that it had long been evident to his -sober judgment that, failing her, no other woman would ever call him -husband. The more he was left alone, the more deeply he sank in the sea -of love. And at last he felt that life was too short to be trifled with, -and he went back to Sprats and asked her firmly and insistently to marry -him.</p> - -<p>Sprats was neither hurt nor displeased nor surprised. She listened -silently to all he had to say, and she looked at him with her usual -frankness when he had finished.</p> - -<p>‘I thought we were not to talk of these matters?’ she said. ‘We were to -be friends—was there not some sort of compact?’</p> - -<p>‘If so, I have broken it,’ he answered—‘not the friendship—that, -never!—but the compact. Besides, I don’t remember anything about that. -As to talking of this, well, I intend to go on asking you to marry me -until you do.’</p> - -<p>‘You have not forgotten what I told you?’ she said, eyeing him with some -curiosity.</p> - -<p>‘Not at all. I have thought a lot about it,’ he answered. ‘I have not -only thought, but I have come to a conclusion.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes?’ she said, still curious. ‘What conclusion?’</p> - -<p>‘That you are deceiving yourself,’ he answered. ‘You think you love -Lucian Damerel. I do not doubt that you do, in a certain way, but not in -the way in which I would wish you, for instance, to love me, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219"></a>{219}</span> in -which I believe you could and would love me—if you would let yourself.’</p> - -<p>Sprats stared at him with growing curiosity and surprise. There was -something masterful and lordly about his tone and speech that filled her -heart with a great sense of contentment—it was the voice of the -superior animal calling to the inferior, of the stronger to the weaker. -And she was so strong that she had a great longing to be weak—always -providing that something stronger than herself were shielding her -weakness.</p> - -<p>‘Well?’ was all she could say.</p> - -<p>‘You have always felt a sense of protection for him,’ continued -Saxonstowe. ‘It was in you from the first—you wanted something to take -care of. But isn’t there sometimes a feeling within you that you’d like -to be taken care of yourself?’</p> - -<p>‘Who taught you all this?’ she asked, with puzzled brows. ‘You seem to -have acquired some strange knowledge of late.’</p> - -<p>‘I expect it’s instinct, or nature, or something,’ he said. ‘Anyhow, -have I spoken the truth?’</p> - -<p>‘You don’t expect me to confess the truth to you, do you?’ she answered. -‘You have not yet learned everything, I see.’ She paused and regarded -him for some time in silence. ‘I don’t know why,’ she said at last, ‘but -this seems as if it were the prelude to a fight. I feel as I used to -feel when I fought with Lucian—there was always a lot of talk before -the tearing and rending began. I feel talky now, and I also feel that I -must fight you. To begin with, just remember that I am a woman and -you’re a man. I don’t know anything about men—they’re incomprehensible -to me. To begin with, why do you wish to marry me?—you’re the first man -who ever did. I want to know why—why—why?’</p> - -<p>‘Because you’re the woman for me and I’m the man for you,’ he replied -masterfully. ‘You are my mate.’</p> - -<p>‘How do you know?’</p> - -<p>‘I feel it.’</p> - -<p>‘Then why don’t I feel it?’ she asked quickly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220"></a>{220}</span></p> - -<p>‘Are you dead certain you don’t?’ he said, smiling at her. ‘I think, -perhaps, that if you could just get deep down into yourself, you do.’</p> - -<p>‘But that doesn’t explain why you want to marry me,’ she said -inconsequently. ‘You tell me that what I have always felt for Lucian is -not what I ought to feel for the man I love. Well, if I analyse what I -feel for Lucian, perhaps it is what you say it is—a sense of -protection, of wanting to help, and to shield; but then, you say that -that is the sort of love you have for me.’</p> - -<p>‘Did I?’ he said, laughing quietly. ‘You forget that I have not yet told -you what sort of love I have for you—we have not reached the -love-making stage yet.’</p> - -<p>Sprats felt femininity assert itself. She knew that she blushed, and she -felt very hot and very uncomfortable, and she wished Saxonstowe would -not smile. She was as much a girl and just as shy of a possible lover as -in her tom-boy days, and there was something in Saxonstowe’s presence -which aroused new tides of feeling in her. He had become bold and -masterful; it was as if she were being forced out of herself. And then -he suddenly did a thing which sent all the blood to her heart with a -wild rush before it leapt back pulsing and throbbing through her body. -Saxonstowe spoke her name.</p> - -<p>‘Millicent!’ he said, and laid his hand very gently on hers. -‘Millicent!’</p> - -<p>She drew away from him quickly, but her eyes met his with courage.</p> - -<p>‘My name!’ she said. ‘No one ever called me by my name before. I had -half forgotten it.’</p> - -<p>‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I want you to think all this over, like the woman -you are. Don’t waste your life on a dream or a delusion. Come to me and -be my wife and friend so long as God lets us live. You are a true -woman—a woman in a thousand. I would not ask you else. I will be a true -man to you. And you and I together can do great things, for others. -Think, and tell me your thoughts—afterwards.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221"></a>{221}</span></p> - -<p>‘Yes, afterwards,’ she said. She wanted him to go, and he saw it and -went, and Sprats sat down to think. But for the first time in her life -she found it impossible to think clearly. She tried to marshal facts and -to place them before her in due sequence and proper order, but she -discovered that she was pretty much like all other women at these -junctures and that a strange confusion had taken possession of her. For -the moment there was too much of Saxonstowe in her mental atmosphere to -enable her to think, and after some time she uttered an impatient -exclamation and went off to attend to her duties. For the remainder of -the afternoon she bustled about the house, and the nursing-staff -wondered what it was that had given their Head such a fit of vigorous -research into unexplored corners. It was not until evening that she -allowed herself to be alone again, and by that time she was prepared to -sit down and face the situation. She went to her own room with a -resolute determination to think of everything calmly and coolly, and -there she found evening newspapers lying on the table, and she picked -one up mechanically and opened it without the intention of reading it, -and ere she knew what was happening she had read of the tragedy in -Paris. The news stamped itself upon her at first without causing her -smart or pain, even as a clean shot passes through the flesh with little -tearing of the fibres. She sat down and read all that the telegrams had -to tell, and searched each of the newspapers until she was in possession -of the latest news.</p> - -<p>She had gone into her room with the influence of Saxonstowe’s -love-making still heavy upon her womanhood; she left it an unsexed thing -of action and forceful determination. In a few moments she had seen her -senior nurse and had given her certain orders; in a few more she was in -her outdoor cloak and bonnet and at the door, and a maid was whistling -for a hansom for her. But just as she was running down the steps to -enter it, another came hurriedly into the square, and Saxonstowe waved -his hand to her. She paused and went<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222"></a>{222}</span> back to the open door; he jumped -from his cab and joined her, and they went into the house together, and -into the room which she had just left.</p> - -<p>‘I was going to you’ she said, ‘and yet I might have known that you -would come to me.’</p> - -<p>‘I came as soon as I knew,’ he answered.</p> - -<p>She looked at him narrowly: he was watching her with inquiring eyes.</p> - -<p>‘We must go there at once,’ she said. ‘There is time to catch the night -train?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ he said, ‘plenty of time. I have already made some -arrangements—I thought you would wish it.’</p> - -<p>She nodded in answer to this, and began to take some things out of a -desk. Saxonstowe noticed that her hand was perfectly steady, though her -face was very pale. She turned presently from packing a small handbag -and came up to him.</p> - -<p>‘Listen,’ she said; ‘it is you and I who are going—you understand?’</p> - -<p>He looked at her for a moment in silence, and then bowed his head. He -had not understood, but he felt that she had come to some determination, -and that that was no time to question her. In a few moments more they -had left the house and set out on their journey to Paris.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223"></a>{223}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXVII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Our</span> neighbours on the other side of the Channel are blessed with many -qualities which were not given to us who reside in these islands, and -amongst them is one which most Englishmen would not pay a penny for if -it were on sale in market overt. This is the quality of sentiment—a -thing which we others strive to choke at its birth, and to which at any -time we give but an outside corner of the hearth of life. It is a -quality of which one may have too much, but in its place it is an -excellent and a desirable quality, for it tends to the establishment of -a fitting sense of proportion, and makes people polite and considerate -at the right moment. Had the tragedy of Haidee and Darlington occurred -in England, there would have been much vulgar curiosity manifested, for -amongst us we often fail to gauge the niceties of a situation. In Paris, -sentiment fixed the <i>affaire Damerel</i> at its right value in a few hours. -It was a veritable tragedy—one to be spoken of with bated breath—one -of those terrible dramas of real life which far transcend anything that -can be placed upon the stage. The situations were pathetic, the figures -of the chief actors of a veritable notability. The young husband, great -as a poet and handsome as a Greek god; the young wife, beautiful and -charming; the plutocrat lover, of whom death forbade to speak—they were -all of a type to attract. Then the intense tragedy of the final -situation! Who could tell what had occurred between the lover and the -wife in that last supreme scene, since he was dead and she bereft of -reason? It had all the elements of greatness, and greatness demands -respect. Therefore, instead of being vulgarised, as it would have been -in unsentimental England, the <i>affaire Damerel</i> was spoken of with a -tender respect and with few words. It was an event too deplorable to -merit common discussion.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224"></a>{224}</span></p> - -<p>Lucian had swept through London to Paris intent on killing Darlington -with his own hands. His mental balance had been destroyed, and he -himself rendered incapable of hearing or seeing reason long before he -reached the French capital. The courteous manager who replied to -Lucian’s calm inquiries for Mrs. Damerel did not realise that the -composure of the distinguished-looking young gentleman was that of the -cunning madman. Inside Lucian’s breast nestled a revolver—his fingers -were itching to get at it as he followed his guide up the stairs, for he -had made up his mind to shoot his faithless wife and his treacherous -enemy on sight.</p> - -<p>The sight of Haidee, mopping and mowing in her corner, the sound of her -awful laughter, brought Lucian back to sanity. Living and moving as if -he were in some fearful dream, he gave orders and issued directions. The -people of the hotel, half paralysed by the strangeness of the tragedy, -wondered at his calmness; the police were astonished by the lucidity of -the statement which he gave to them. His one great desire was to shield -his wife’s name. The fierce resentment which he had felt during his -pursuit of her had completely disappeared in presence of the tragedy. -Before the end of the afternoon some curious mental process in him had -completely rehabilitated Haidee in his estimation: he believed her to -have been deeply wronged, and declared with emphasis that she must have -killed Darlington in a fit of desperation following upon some wickedness -of his own. Her incriminating letter he swept aside contemptuously—it -was a sure proof, he said, that the poor child’s mind was already -unhinged when it was written. He turned a blind eye to undoubted facts. -Out of a prodigal imagination and an exuberant fancy he quickly built up -a theory which presently assumed for him the colours of absolute truth. -Haidee had been tempted in secret by this devil who had posed as friend; -he had used his insidious arts to corrupt her, and the temptation had -fallen upon her at the very moment when he, Lucian,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225"></a>{225}</span> was worrying her -with his projects of retrenchment. She had taken flight, the poor Haidee -who had lived in rose-leaf luxury all her days, and had fled from her -exaggerated fears to the man she believed her friend and Lucian’s. Then, -when she had found out his true character, she—in a moment of awful -fear or fright, most probably—had killed him. That was the real story, -the poor, helpless truth. He put it before Sprats and Saxonstowe with a -childlike belief in its plausibility and veracity that made at least one -of them like to weep—he had shown them the letter which Haidee had -written to Lucian before leaving town, and they knew the real truth of -the whole sorry business. It seemed best, after all, thought Sprats, and -said so to Saxonstowe when she got the chance, that Lucian should -cherish a fiction rather than believe the real truth. And that he did -believe his fiction was soon made evident.</p> - -<p>‘It is all my fault—all!’ he said to Sprats, with bitter self-reproach. -‘I never took care of her as I should have done, as I had vowed to do. -You were right, Sprats, in everything that you said to me. I wonder what -it is that makes me so blind to things that other people see so clearly? -I ought not to have let the poor child be exposed to the temptations of -that arch-devil; but I trusted him implicitly. He always made the most -sincere professions of his friendship for both of us. Then again, how is -it, why is it, that people so constantly deceive me? I believe every man -as I expect every man to believe me. Do you think I ever dreamt of all -this, ever dreamt of what was in that scoundrel’s mind? Yet I ought to -have foreseen—I ought to have been guided by you. It is all my fault, -all my fault!’</p> - -<p>It was useless to argue with him or to condole with him. He had -persuaded himself without an effort that such and such things were, and -the only thing to be done with him was to acquiesce in his conclusions -and help him as judiciously as possible. The two faithful friends who -had hurried to his side remained with him until the troubled waters grew -calm again. That was now<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226"></a>{226}</span> an affair of time. Haidee was certainly -insane, and the physicians held out little hope of her recovery. By -their advice she was removed to a private institution within easy -distance of Paris, and Lucian announced his intention of settling down -in the gay city in order to be near her. He talked of her now as if she -had been a girl-bride, snatched away from him by ruthless fate, and it -was plain to see that he had obliterated the angry thoughts that had -filled him during his frenzy of resentment, and now cherished nothing -but feelings of chastened and tender regret. For Haidee, indeed, -frailest of frail mortals, became apotheosised into something very -different. Lucian, who never did anything by halves and could not avoid -extremes, exalted her into a sort of much-wronged saint; she became his -dream, and nobody had the heart to wake him.</p> - -<p>Sprats and Saxonstowe worked hard for him at this time, one relieving -him of much trouble in making the necessary arrangements for Haidee, the -other of a large part of the business affairs brought into active -operation by the recent tragedy. Saxonstowe, working untiringly on his -behalf, was soon able to place Lucian’s affairs in order. Lucian gave -him full power to act, and ere long had the satisfaction of knowing that -the liability to Darlington and Darlington had been discharged, that -Miss Pepperdine’s mind had been set at rest as to the preservation of -the family honour, and that he owed money to no one. He would be able to -surround the stricken Haidee with every comfort and luxury that one in -her condition could enjoy, and he himself need never feel a moment’s -anxiety. For the <i>affaire Damerel</i> had had its uses. Lucian came again -in the market. Mr. Robertson began to sell the thin green-clad volumes -more rapidly than ever before; even the portly epic moved, and finally -began racing its sister competitors for the favour of the fickle public. -Mr. Harcourt, with a rare sense of fitness, revived Lucian’s first play -to crowded houses; an enterprising Frenchman went over to London and -witnessed a performance, and within a few weeks<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227"></a>{227}</span> presented a version of -it at one of the Parisian theatres. French translations of Lucian’s -works followed, and sold like hot cakes; the Italian translations -received a fillip, and people in the United States became interested. -Nothing, said Mr. Robertson, could have been better, from a trade point -of view.</p> - -<p>Lucian accepted all this with indifference and equanimity. All his -thoughts were centred on the quiet house in the little village outside -Paris, where Haidee laughed at her own fingers or played with dolls. -Every afternoon he left his <i>appartement</i> and travelled into the country -to inquire after his wife’s health. He always carried some little gift -with him—flowers, fruit, a child’s picture-book, a child’s toy, and the -nurse to whom these things were given used to weep over them, being -young and sentimental, and very much in love with Lucian’s face and -hair, which was now turning a pretty and becoming grey at the temples. -Sometimes he saw the doctor, who was sympathetic, and guarded in his -answers, and sometimes he walked in the garden with an old abbé who used -to visit the place, and exchanged pious sentiments with him. But he -never saw Haidee, for the doctors feared it, and thus his conception of -her was not of the madwoman, but of the young beauty with whom he had -made an impetuous runaway marriage. He used to walk about Paris in those -days with eyes that wore a far-away expression, and the women would -speak of his beauty with tears in their eyes and shake their heads over -the sadness of his story, which was well known to everybody, and in -pecuniary value was worth a gold-mine.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228"></a>{228}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVIII" id="CHAPTER_XXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">When</span> they had done everything that could be done for him at that time, -Sprats and Saxonstowe left Lucian in Paris and returned together to -London. He appeared to have no particular desire that they should remain -with him, nor any dread of being alone. Sprats had seen to the -furnishing of his rooms and to the transportation of his most cherished -books and pictures; he was left surrounded with comfort and luxury, and -he assured his friends that he wanted for nothing. He intended to devote -himself to intense study, and if he wanted a little society, well, he -already had a considerable acquaintance amongst authors and artists in -Paris, and could make use of it if need were. But he spoke of himself as -of an anchorite; it was plain to see that he believed that the <i>joie de -vivre</i> existed for him no longer. It was also plain that something in -him wished to be clear of the old life and the old associations. He took -an affectionate farewell of Sprats and of Saxonstowe at the Gare du -Nord, whither he accompanied them on their departure, but Sprats was -keenly aware of the fact that there was that in him which was longing to -see the last of them. They were links of a chain that bound him to a -life with which he wished to have no further connection. When they said -good-bye, Sprats knew that she was turning down a page that closed a -long chapter of her own life.</p> - -<p>She faced the problem bravely and with clear-headedness. She saw now -that much of what she had taken to be real fact had been but a dream. -Lucian had awakened the mother-instinct in her by his very helplessness, -but nothing in him had ever roused the new feeling which had grown in -her every day since Saxonstowe had told her of his love. She had made -the mistake of taking interest and affection for love, and now that she -had found it out she was contented and uneasy, happy and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229"></a>{229}</span> miserable, -pleased and furious, all at once. She wanted to run away from Saxonstowe -to the very ends of the earth, but she also cherished a secret desire to -sit at his feet and be his slave, and would rather have torn her tongue -out than tell him of it.</p> - -<p>While they were father-and-mother-ing Lucian in Paris, Saxonstowe had -remained solid and grim as one of the Old Guard, doing nothing but his -duty. Sprats had watched him with keen observation, and had admired his -stern determination and the earnest way in which he did everything. He -had taken hold of Lucian as a big brother might take a little one, and -had been gentle and firm, kindly and tactful, all at once. She had often -longed to throw her arms round him and kiss him for his good-boy -qualities, but he had sunk the lover in the friend with unmistakable -purpose, and she was afraid of him. She began to catch herself looking -at him out of her eye-corners when he was not looking at her, and she -hated herself. Once when he came suddenly into a room, she blushed so -furiously that she could have cried with vexation, and it was all the -more aggravating, she said, because she had just happened to be thinking -of him. Travelling back together, she was very subdued and essentially -feminine. Her manner invited confidence, but Saxonstowe was stiff as a -ramrod and cold as an icicle. He put her into a hansom at Charing Cross, -and bade her good-bye as if she had been a mere acquaintance.</p> - -<p>But he came to her the next afternoon, and she knew from his face that -he was in an urgent and a masterful mood. She recognised that she would -have to capitulate, and had a happy moment in assuring herself that she -would make her own terms. Saxonstowe wasted no time. He might have been -a smart young man calling to collect the water-rate.</p> - -<p>‘The night that we went to Paris together,’ he said, ‘you made an -observation which you thought I understood. I didn’t understand it, and -now I want to know what you meant.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230"></a>{230}</span></p> - -<p>‘What I said. That we were going—you and I—together,’ she answered.</p> - -<p>‘But what <i>did</i> that mean?’</p> - -<p>‘Together,’ she said, ‘together means—well, of course, it -means—together.’</p> - -<p>Saxonstowe put his hands on her shoulders; she immediately began to -study the pattern of the hearthrug at their feet.</p> - -<p>‘Will you marry me, Millicent?’ he said.</p> - -<p>She nodded her head, but her eyes still remained fixed on his toes.</p> - -<p>‘Answer me,’ he commanded.</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ she said, and lifted her eyes to his.</p> - -<p>A moment later she disengaged herself from his arms and began to laugh.</p> - -<p>‘I was going to extract such a lot of conditions,’ she said. ‘Somehow I -don’t care about them now. But will you tell me just what is going to -happen?’</p> - -<p>‘You knew, I suppose, that I should have already mapped everything out. -Well, so I have. We shall be married at once, in the quietest possible -fashion, and then we are going round the world in our own way. It is to -be your holiday after all these years of work.’</p> - -<p>She nodded, with perfect acquiescence in his plans.</p> - -<p>‘At once?’ she said questioningly.</p> - -<p>‘A week from to-day,’ he said.</p> - -<p>The notion of such precipitancy brought the blood into her face.</p> - -<p>‘I suppose I ought to say that I can’t possibly be ready in a week,’ she -said, ‘but it so happens that I can. A week to-day, then.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Chilverstone came up from Simonstower to marry them. It was a very -quiet wedding in a quiet church. Lady Firmanence, however, was there, -and before the bride and bridegroom left to catch a transatlantic liner -for New York she expressed a decided opinion that the fourth Viscount -Saxonstowe had inherited more than his share of the good sense and wise -perception for which their family had always been justly famous.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231"></a>{231}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIX" id="CHAPTER_XXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXIX</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Lucian</span> settled down into a groove-like existence. He read when he liked -and worked when he felt any particular inclination to do so; he amused -himself at times with the life which a man of his temperament may live -in Paris, but always with the air of one who looks on. He made a few new -friends and sometimes visited old ones. Now and then he entertained in a -quiet, old-fashioned way. He was very indulgent and caressing to a -certain coterie of young people who believed in him as a great master -and elevated his poetry to the dignity of a cult. He was always a -distinguished figure when he showed himself at the opera or the theatre, -and people still pointed him out on the boulevards and shook their heads -and said what a pity it was that one so young and handsome and talented -should carry so heavy a burden. In this way he may be said to have -become quite an institution of Paris, and Americans stipulated with -their guides that he should be pointed out to them at the first -opportunity.</p> - -<p>Whatever else engaged Lucian’s attention or his time, he never forgot -his daily visit to the quiet house in the suburbs where Haidee still -played with dolls or laughed gleefully at her attendants. He permitted -nothing to interfere with this duty, which he regarded as a penance for -his sins of omission to Haidee in days gone by. Others might forsake -Paris for the sea or the mountains; Lucian remained there all the year -round for two years, making his daily pilgrimage. He saw the same faces -every day, and heard the same report, but he never saw his wife. Life -became curiously even and regular, but it never oppressed him. He had -informed himself at the very beginning of this period that this was a -thing to be endured, and he endured it as pleasantly and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232"></a>{232}</span> bravely as -possible. During those two years he published two new volumes, of a -somewhat new note, which sold better in a French translation than in the -English original, and at Mr. Harcourt’s urgent request he wrote a -romantic drama. It filled the Athenæum during the whole of a London -season, and the financial results were gratifying in a high degree, for -the glamour and mystery of the <i>affaire Damerel</i> were still powerful, -and Lucian had become a personality and a force by reason of his -troubles.</p> - -<p>At the end of two years, the doctor to whose care Haidee had been -entrusted called Lucian into his private room one day and told him that -he had grave news to communicate. His patient, he said, was -dying—slowly, but very surely. But there was more than that: before her -death she would recover her reason. She would probably recall everything -that had taken place; it was more than possible that she would have -painfully clear recollections of the scene, whatever it might be, that -had immediately preceded her sudden loss of sanity. It was but right, -said the doctor, that Mr. Damerel should know of this, but did Mr. -Damerel wish to be with his wife when this development occurred? It -might be a painful experience, and death must soon follow it. It was for -Mr. Damerel to decide. Lucian decided on the instant. He had carried an -image of Haidee in his mind for two years, and it had become fixed on -his mental vision with such firmness that he could not think of her as -anything but what he imagined her to be. He told the doctor that he -would wish to know as soon as his wife regained her reason—it was his -duty, he said, to be with her. After that, every visit to the private -asylum was made with anxious wonder if the tortured brain had cleared.</p> - -<p>It was not until the following spring—two and a half years after the -tragedy of the Bristol—that Lucian saw Haidee. He scarcely knew the -woman to whom they took him. They had deluged him with warnings as to -the change in her, but he had not expected to find her a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233"></a>{233}</span> grey-haired, -time-worn woman, and he had difficulty in preserving his composure when -he saw her. He did not know it, but her reason had returned some time -before, and she had become fully cognisant of her surroundings and of -what was going to happen. More than that, she had asked for a priest and -had enjoyed ghostly consolation. She gazed at Lucian with a curious -wistfulness, and yet there was something strangely sullen in her manner.</p> - -<p>‘I wanted to see you,’ she said, after a time. ‘I know I’m going to die -very soon, and there are things I want to say. I remember all that -happened, you know. Oh yes, it’s quite clear to me now, but somehow it -doesn’t trouble me—I was mad enough when I did it.’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t speak of that,’ he said. ‘Forget it all.’</p> - -<p>She shook her head.</p> - -<p>‘Never mind,’ she went on. ‘What I wanted to say was, that I’m sorry -that—well, you know.’</p> - -<p>Lucian gazed at her with a sickening fear creeping closely round his -heart. He had forced the truth away from him: he was to hear it at last -from the lips of a dying woman.</p> - -<p>‘You were to blame, though,’ she said presently. ‘You ought not to have -let me go alone on his yacht or to the Highlands. It was so easy to go -wrong there.’</p> - -<p>Lucian could not control a sharp cry.</p> - -<p>‘Don’t!’ he said, ‘don’t! You don’t know what you’re saying. It can’t be -that—that you wrote the truth in that letter? It was—hallucination.’</p> - -<p>She looked at him out of dull eyes.</p> - -<p>‘I want you to say you forgive me,’ she said. ‘The priest—he said I -ought to ask your forgiveness.’</p> - -<p>Lucian bowed his head.</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I forgive all you wish. Try not to think of it any -more.’</p> - -<p>He was saying over and over to himself that she was still disordered of -mind, that the sin she was confessing was imaginary; but deeper than his -insistence on this lay a dull consciousness that he was hearing the -truth.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234"></a>{234}</span> He stood watching her curiously. She suddenly looked up at him, -and he saw a strange gleam in her eyes.</p> - -<p>‘After all,’ she said, half spitefully, ‘you came between him and me at -the beginning.’</p> - -<p>Lucian never saw his wife again. A month later she was dead. All the -time of the burial service he was thinking that it would have been far -better if she had never recovered her reason. For two years he had -cherished a dream of her that had assumed tender and pathetic tones. It -had become a part of him; the ugly reality of the last grim moments of -her life stood out in violent contrast to its gentleness and softness. -When the earth was thrown upon the coffin, he was wondering at the wide -difference which exists between the real and the unreal, and whether the -man is most truly blessed who walks amongst stern verities or dreams -amidst the poppy-beds of illusion. One thing was certain: the face of -truth was not always beautiful, nor her voice always soothing to the -ear.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235"></a>{235}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXX" id="CHAPTER_XXX"></a>CHAPTER XXX</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">After</span> Haidee’s death Lucian left Paris, and during the rest of the -spring and summer of that year went wandering hither and thither about -Europe. His mind was at this time in a state of quiescence; he lounged -from one place to another, faintly interested and lazily amused. He was -beginning to be a little bored by life, and a little tempted to drift -with its stream. It was in this frame of mind that he returned to London -in the following autumn. There, soon after his return, he sprang into -unwonted activity.</p> - -<p>It was on the very eve of the outbreak of the war in South Africa. Men -were wondering what was going to happen. Some, clearer of vision than -their fellows, saw that nothing but war would solve the problem which -had assumed vast proportions and strange intricacies because of the -vacillating policy of a weak Government of twenty years before; the -Empire was going to pay now, with millions of its treasure and thousands -of its men, for the fatal error which had brought the name of England -into contempt in the Transvaal and given the Boers a false notion of -English strength and character. Others were all for a policy of -smoothing things over, for spreading green boughs over pitfalls—not -that any one should fall into them, but in order to make believe that -the pitfalls were not there. Others again, of a breed that has but -lately sprung into existence in these islands, advocated, not without -success, a policy of surrender to everybody and everything. There was -much talking at street corners and in the market-place; much angry -debate and acrimonious discussion. Men began to be labelled by new -names, and few took the trouble to understand each other. In the -meantime, events developed as inevitable consequence always develops -them in such situations. Amidst the chattering of tiny voices the -thunders of war burst loud and clear.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236"></a>{236}</span></p> - -<p>Lucian was furious with indignation. Fond as he was of insisting on his -Italian nationality, he was passionately devoted to England and the -English, and had a great admiration for the history and traditions of -the country of his adoption. There had once been a question in his mind -as to whether he should write in English or in Italian—he had elected -to serve England for many reasons, but chiefly because he recognised her -greatness and believed in her destiny. Like all Italians, he loved her -for what she had done for Greece and for Italy. England and Liberty were -synonymous names; of all nations in the world, none had made for freedom -as England had. His blood had leapt in his veins many a time at the -thought of the thousand and one great things she had done, the mighty -battles she had fought for truth and liberty; he had drunk in the notion -from boyhood that England stood in the very vanguard of the army of -deliverance. And now she was sending out her armies, marshalling her -forces, pouring out her money like water, to crush a tiny folk, a nation -of farmers, a sturdy, simple-minded race, one of the least amongst the -peoples of the earth! He shook his head as if he had been asleep, and -asked himself if the nation had suddenly gone mad with lust of blood. It -was inconceivable that the England of his dreams could do this thing. He -looked for her, and found her nowhere. The streets were hot all day with -the tramping of armed men. The first tidings of reverse filled the land -with the old savage determination to fight things out to the end, even -though all the world should range itself on the other side.</p> - -<p>Lucian flung all his feelings of rage, indignation, sorrow, and infinite -amazement into a passionate sonnet which appeared next morning in large -type, well leaded and spaced, in the columns of a London daily newspaper -that favoured the views of the peace-at-any-price party. He followed it -up with others. At first there was more sorrow and surprise than -anything else in these admonitions; but as the days went on their tone -altered. He had endeavoured to bring the giant to his senses by an<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237"></a>{237}</span> -appeal to certain feelings which the giant was too much engaged to feel -at that moment; eliciting no response, he became troublesome, and strove -to attract the giant’s attention by pricking him with pins. The giant -paid small attention to this; he looked down, saw a small thing hanging -about his feet with apparently mischievous intentions, and calmly pushed -it away. Then Lucian began the assault in dead earnest. He could dip his -pen in vitriol with the best of them, and when he realised that the -giant was drunk with the lust of blood he fell upon him with fury. The -vials of poetic wrath had never been emptied of such a flood of -righteous anger since the days wherein Milton called for vengeance upon -the murderers of the Piedmontese.</p> - -<p>It is an ill thing to fight against the prevalent temper of a nation. -Lucian soon discovered that you may kick and prick John Bull for a long -time with safety to yourself, because of his good nature, his dislike of -bothering about trifles, and his natural sluggishness, but that he -always draws a line somewhere, and brings down a heavy fist upon the man -who crosses it. He began to find people fighting shy of his company; -invitations became less in number; men nodded who used to shake hands; -strong things were said in newspapers; and he was warned by friends that -he was carrying things too far.</p> - -<p>‘Endeavour,’ said one man, an acquaintance of some years’ standing, for -whose character and abilities he had a great regard, ‘endeavour to get -some accurate sense of the position. You are blackguarding us every day -with your sonorous sonnets as if we were cut-throats and thieves going -out on a murdering and marauding expedition. We are nothing of the sort. -We are a great nation, with a very painful sense of responsibility, -engaged in a very difficult task. The war is bringing us together like -brothers—out of its blood and ashes there will spring an Empire such as -the world has never seen. You are belittling everything to the level of -Hooliganism.’</p> - -<p>‘What is it but Hooliganism?’ retorted Lucian. ‘The<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238"></a>{238}</span> most powerful -nation in the world seizing one of the weakest by the throat!’</p> - -<p>‘It is nothing of the sort,’ said the other. ‘You know it is your great -curse, my dear Lucian, that you never get a clear notion of the truth. -You have a trick of seeing things as you think they ought to be; you -will not see them as they are. Just because the Boers happen to be -numerically small, to lead a pastoral life, and to have gone into the -desert like the Israelites of old, you have brought that far too -powerful imagination of yours to bear upon them, and have elevated them -into a class with the Swiss and the Italians, who fought for their -country.’</p> - -<p>‘What are the Boers fighting for?’ asked Lucian.</p> - -<p>‘At present to grab somebody else’s property,’ returned the other. -‘Don’t get sentimental about them. After all, much as you love us, -you’re only half an Englishman, and you don’t understand the English -feeling. Are the English folk not suffering, and is a Boer widow or a -Boer orphan more worthy of pity than a Yorkshire lass whose lad is lying -dead out there, or a Scottish child whose father will never come back -again?’</p> - -<p>Lucian swept these small and insignificant details aside with some -impatience.</p> - -<p>‘You are the mightiest nation the world has ever seen,’ he said. ‘You -have a past—such a past as no other people can boast. You have a -responsibility because of that past, and at present you have thrown all -sense of it away, and are behaving like the drunken brute who rises -gorged with flesh and wine, and yells for blood. This is an England with -vine-leaves in her hair—it is not the England of Cromwell.’</p> - -<p>‘I thank God it is not!’ said the other man with heartfelt reverence. -‘We wish for no dictatorship here. Come, leave off slanging us in this -bloodthirsty fashion, and try to arrive at a sensible view of things. -Turn your energies to a practical direction—write a new romantic play -for Harcourt, something that will cheer us in these dark days, and give -the money for bandages<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239"></a>{239}</span> and warm socks and tobacco for poor Tommy out at -the front. He isn’t as picturesque—so it’s said—as Brother Boer, but -he’s a man after all, and has a stomach.’</p> - -<p>But Lucian would neither be cajoled nor chaffed out of his <i>rôle</i> of -prophet. He became that most objectionable of all things—the man who -believes he has a message, and must deliver it. He continued to hurl his -philippics at the British public through the ever-ready columns of the -peace-at-any-price paper, and the man in the street, who is not given to -the drawing of fine distinctions, called him a pro-Boer. Lucian, in -strict reality, was not a pro-Boer—he merely saw the artistry of the -pro-Boer position. He remembered Byron’s attitude with respect to -Greece, and a too generous instinct had led him to compare Mr. Kruger to -Cincinnatus. The man in the street knew nothing of these things, and -cared less. It seemed to him that Lucian, who was, after all, nothing -but an ink-slinger, a blooming poet, was slanging the quarter of a -million men who were hurrying to Table Bay as rapidly as the War Office -could get them there. To this sort of thing the man in the street -objected. He did not care if Lucian’s instincts were all on the side of -the weaker party, nor was it an excuse that Lucian himself, in the -matter of strict nationality, was an Italian. He had chosen to write his -poems in England, said the man in the street, and also in the English -language, and he had made a good thing out of it too, and no error, and -the best thing he could do now was to keep a civil tongue in his head, -or, rather, pen in his hand. This was no time for the cuckoo to foul the -nest wherein he had had free quarters for so long.</p> - -<p>The opinion of the man in the street is the crystallised common-sense of -England, voiced in elementary language. Lucian, unfortunately, did not -know this, and he kept on firing sonnets at the heads of people who, -without bluster or complaint, were already tearing up their shirts for -bandages. The man in the street read them, and ground his teeth, and -waited for an opportunity. That came when Lucian was ill-advised enough<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240"></a>{240}</span> -to allow his name to be printed in large letters upon the placard of a -great meeting whereat various well-intentioned but somewhat thoughtless -persons proposed to protest against a war which had been forced upon the -nation, and from which it was then impossible to draw back with either -safety or honour. Lucian was still in the clouds; still thinking of -Byron at Missolonghi; still harping upon the undoubted but scarcely -pertinent facts that England had freed slaves, slain giants, and waved -her flag protectingly over all who ran to her for help. The foolishness -of assisting at a public meeting whereat the nation was to be admonished -of its wickedness in daring to assert itself never occurred to him. He -was still the man with the message.</p> - -<p>He formed one of a platform party of whom it might safely have been said -that every man was a crank, and every woman a faddist. He was somewhat -astonished and a little perplexed when he looked around him, and -realised that his fellow-protestants were not of the sort wherewith he -usually foregathered; but he speedily became interested in the audience. -It had been intended to restrict admission to those well-intentioned -folk who desired peace at any price, but the man in the street had -placed a veto upon that, and had come in large numbers, and with a -definite resolve to take part in the proceedings. The meeting began in a -cheerful and vivacious fashion, and ended in one dear to the English -heart. The chairman was listened to with some forbearance and patience; -a lady was allowed to have her say because she was a woman. It was a sad -inspiration that led the chairman to put Lucian up next; a still sadder -one to refer to his poetical exhortations to the people. The sight of -Lucian, the fashionably attired, dilettante, dreamy-eyed poet, who had -lashed and pricked the nation whose blood was being poured out like -water, and whose coffers were being depleted at a rapid rate, was too -much for the folk he essayed to address. They knew him and his recent -record. At the first word they rose as one man, and made for the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241"></a>{241}</span> -platform. Lucian and the seekers after peace were obliged to run, as -rabbits run to their warrens, and the enemy occupied the position. -Somebody unfurled a large flag, and the entire assemblage joined in -singing Mr. Kipling’s invitation to contribute to the tambourine fund.</p> - -<p>In the school of life the teacher may write many lessons with the -whitest chalk upon the blackest blackboard, and there will always be a -child in the corner who will swear that he cannot see the writing. -Lucian could not see the lesson of the stormed platform, and he -continued his rhyming crusade and made enemies by the million. He walked -with closed eyes along a road literally bristling with bayonets: it was -nothing but the good-natured English tolerance of a poet as being more -or less of a lunatic that kept the small boys of the Strand from going -for him. Men at street corners made remarks upon him which were -delightful to overhear: it was never Lucian’s good fortune to overhear -them. His nose was in the air.</p> - -<p>He heard the truth at last from that always truthful person, the man in -liquor. In the smoking-room of his club he was encountered one night by -a gentleman who had dined in too generous fashion, and whose natural -patriotism glowed and scintillated around him with equal generosity. He -met Lucian face to face, and he stopped and looked him up and down with -a fine and eminently natural scorn.</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Lucian Damerel,’ he said, with an only slightly interrupted -articulation; ‘Mr. Lucian Damerel—the gentleman who spills ink while -better men spend blood.’ Then he spat on the ground at Lucian’s feet, -and moved away with a sneer and a laugh.</p> - -<p>The room was full of men. They all saw, and they all heard. No one -spoke, but every one looked at Lucian. He knew that the drunken man had -voiced the prevalent sentiment. He looked round him, without reproach, -without defiance, and walked quietly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242"></a>{242}</span> from the room and the house. He -had suddenly realised the true complexion of things.</p> - -<p>Next morning, as he sat over a late breakfast in his rooms, he was -informed that a young gentleman who would give no name desired earnestly -to see him. He was feeling somewhat bored that morning, and he bade his -man show the unknown one in. He looked up from his coffee to behold a -very young gentleman upon whom the word subaltern was written in very -large letters, whose youthful face was very grim and earnest, and who -was obviously a young man with a mission. He pulled himself up in stiff -fashion as the door closed upon him, and Lucian observed that one hand -evidently grasped something which was concealed behind his back.</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Lucian Damerel?’ the young gentleman said, with polite -interrogation.</p> - -<p>Lucian bowed and looked equally interrogative. His visitor glowered upon -him.</p> - -<p>‘I have come to tell you that you are a damned scoundrel, Mr. Lucian -Damerel,’ he said, ‘and to thrash you within an inch of your beastly -life!’</p> - -<p>Lucian stared, smiled, and rose lazily from his seat.</p> - -<p>The visitor displayed a cutting-whip, brandished it, and advanced as -seriously as if he were on parade. Lucian met him, seized the -cutting-whip in one hand and his assailant’s collar in the other, -disarmed him, shook him, and threw him lightly into an easy-chair, where -he lay gasping and surprised. Lucian hung the cutting-whip on the wall. -He looked at his visitor with a speculative gaze.</p> - -<p>‘What shall I do with you, young sir?’ he said. ‘Throw you out of the -window, or grill you on the fire, or merely kick you downstairs? I -suppose you thought that because I happen to be what your lot call “a -writin’ feller,” there wouldn’t be any spunk in me, eh?’</p> - -<p>The visitor was placed in a strange predicament. He had expected the -sweet savour of groans and tears<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243"></a>{243}</span> from a muscleless, flabby -ink-and-parchment thing: this man had hands which could grip like steel -and iron. Moreover, he was cool—he actually sat down again and -continued his breakfast.</p> - -<p>‘I hope I didn’t squeeze your throat too much,’ said Lucian politely. ‘I -have a nasty trick of forgetting that my hands are abnormally developed. -If you feel shaken, help yourself to a brandy and soda, and then tell me -what’s the matter.’</p> - -<p>The youth shook his head hopelessly.</p> - -<p>‘Y—you have insulted the Army!’ he stammered at last.</p> - -<p>‘Of which, I take it, you are the self-appointed champion. Well, I’m -afraid I don’t plead guilty, because, you see, I know myself rather -better than you know me. But you came to punish me? Well, again, you see -you can’t do that. Shall I give you satisfaction of some sort? There are -pistols in that cabinet—shall we shoot at each other across the table? -There are rapiers in the cupboard—shall we try to prick each other?’</p> - -<p>The young gentleman in the easy-chair grew more and more uncomfortable. -He was being made ridiculous, and the man was laughing at him.</p> - -<p>‘I have heard of the tricks of foreign duellists,’ he said rudely.</p> - -<p>Lucian’s face flushed.</p> - -<p>‘That was a silly thing to say, my boy,’ he said, not unkindly. ‘Most -men would throw you out of the window for it. As it is, I’ll let you off -easy. You’ll find some gloves in that cupboard—get them out and take -your coat off. I’m not an <i>Englishman</i>, as you just now reminded me in -very pointed fashion, but I can use my fists.’</p> - -<p>Then he took off his dressing-gown and rolled up his sleeves, and the -youngster, who had spent many unholy hours in practising the noble art, -looked at the poet’s muscles with a knowing eye and realised that he was -in for a very pretty scrap. He was a little vain of his own<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244"></a>{244}</span> prowess, -and fought for all he was worth, but at the end of five minutes he was a -well-licked man, and at the expiration of ten was glad to be allowed to -put on his coat and go.</p> - -<p>Lucian flung his gloves into the corner of the room with a hearty curse. -He stroked the satiny skin under which his muscle rippled smoothly. He -had the arm of a blacksmith, and had always been proud of it. The remark -of the drunken man came back to him. That was what they thought of him, -was it?—that he was a mere slinger of ink, afraid of spilling his blood -or suffering discomfort for the courage of his convictions? Well, they -should see. England had gone mad with the lust of blood and domination, -and after all he was not her son. He had discharged whatever debt he -owed her. To the real England, the true England that had fallen on -sleep, he would explain everything, when the awakening came. It would be -no crime to shoulder a rifle and strap a bandolier around one’s -shoulders in order to help the weak against the strong. He had fought -with his pen, taking what he believed to be the right and honest course, -in the endeavour to convert people who would not be converted, and who -regarded his efforts as evidences of enmity. Very well: there seemed now -to be but one straight path, and he would take it.</p> - -<p>It was remembered afterwards as a great thing in Lucian’s favour that he -made no fuss about his next step. He left London very quietly, and no -one knew that he was setting out to join the men whom he honestly -believed to be fighting for the best principles of liberty and freedom.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245"></a>{245}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXI" id="CHAPTER_XXXI"></a>CHAPTER XXXI</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">When</span> the war broke out, Saxonstowe and his wife, after nearly three -years of globe-trotting, were in Natal, where they had been studying the -conditions of native labour. Saxonstowe, who had made himself well -acquainted with the state of affairs in South Africa, knew that the -coming struggle would be long and bitter. He and his wife entered into a -discussion as to which they were to do: stay there, or return to -England. Sprats knew quite well what was in Saxonstowe’s mind, and she -unhesitatingly declared for South Africa. Then Saxonstowe, who had a new -book on hand, put his work aside, and set the wires going, and within a -few hours had been appointed special correspondent of one of the London -newspapers, with the prospect of hard work and exciting times before -him.</p> - -<p>‘And what am I to do?’ inquired Lady Saxonstowe, and answered her own -question before he could reply. ‘There will be sick and wounded—in -plenty,’ she said. ‘I shall organise a field-hospital,’ and she went to -work with great vigour and spent her husband’s money with inward -thankfulness that he was a rich man.</p> - -<p>Before they knew where they were, Lord and Lady Saxonstowe were shut up -in Ladysmith, and for one of them at least there was not so much to do -as he had anticipated, for there became little to record but the story -of hope deferred, of gradual starvation, and of death and disease. But -Sprats worked double tides, unflinchingly and untiringly, and almost -forgot that she had a husband who chafed because he could not get more -than an occasional word over the wires to England. At the end of the -siege she was as gaunt as a far-travelled gypsy, and as brown, but her -courage was as great as ever and her resolution just as strong. One day -she received an ovation from a mighty concourse that sent<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246"></a>{246}</span> her, -frightened and trembling, to shelter; when she emerged into the light of -day again it was only to begin reorganising her work in preparation for -still more arduous duties. The tide of war rolled on northwards, and -Sprats followed, picking up the bruised and shattered jetsam which it -flung to her. She had never indulged in questionings or speculations as -to the rights or wrongs of the war. Her first sight of a wounded man had -aroused all the old mothering instinct in her, and because she had no -baby of her own she took every wounded man, Boer or Briton, into her -arms and mothered him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247"></a>{247}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXII" id="CHAPTER_XXXII"></a>CHAPTER XXXII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">A huddled</span> mass of fugitives—men, women, children, horses, -cattle—crowded together in the dry bed of a river, seeking shelter -amongst rocks and boulders and under shelving banks, subjected -continually to a hurricane of shot and shell, choked by the fumes of the -exploding Lyddite, poisoned by the stench of blood, saturated all -through with the indescribable odour of death. Somewhere in its midst, -caged like a rat, but still sulkily defiant, the peasant general -fingered his switch as he looked this way and that and saw no further -chance of escape. In the distance, calmly waiting the inevitable end, -the little man with the weather-beaten face and the grey moustaches -listened to the never-ceasing roar of his cannon demanding insistently -the word of surrender that must needs come.</p> - -<p>Saxonstowe, lying on a waterproof sheet on the floor of his tent, was -writing on a board propped up in front of him. All that he wrote was by -way of expressing his wonder, over and over again, that Cronje should -hold out so long against the hell of fire which was playing in and -around his last refuge. He was trying to realise what must be going on -in the river bed, and the thought made him sick. Near him, writing on an -upturned box, was another special correspondent who shared the tent with -him; outside, polishing tin pannikins because he had nothing else to do, -was a Cockney lad whom these two had picked up in Ladysmith and had -attached as body-servant. He was always willing and always cheerful, and -had a trick of singing snatches of popular songs in a desultory and -disconnected way. His raucous voice came to them under the booming of -the guns.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘Ow, ’ee’s little but ’ee’s wise,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">’Ee’s a terror for ’is size,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248"></a>{248}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i1"> An’ ’ee does not hadvertise:<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Do yer, Bobs?’<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>‘What a voice that chap has!’ said Saxonstowe’s companion. ‘It’s like a -wheel that hasn’t been oiled for months!’</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘Will yer kindly put a penny in my little tambourine,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">For a gentleman in khaki ordered sou-outh?’<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">chanted the polisher of tin pans.</p> - -<p>‘They have a saying in Yorkshire,’ remarked Saxonstowe, ‘to the effect -that it’s a poor heart that never rejoices.’</p> - -<p>‘This chap must have a good ’un, then,’ said the other. Give us a -pipeful of tobacco, will you, Saxonstowe? Lord! will those guns never -stop?’</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘For the colonel’s lady and Judy O’Grady,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Are sisters hunder their skins,’<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">sang the henchman.</p> - -<p>‘Will our vocalist never stop?’ said Saxonstowe, handing over his pouch. -‘He seems as unconcerned as if he were on a Bank Holiday.’</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘We wos as ’appy as could be, that dye,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Dahn at the Welsh ’Arp, which is ’Endon—’<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>The raucous voice broke off suddenly; the close-cropped Cockney head -showed at the open flap of the tent.</p> - -<p>‘Beg pardon, sir,’ said the Cockney voice, ‘but I fink there’s somethin’ -’appened, sir—guns is dyin’ orf, sir.’</p> - -<p>Saxonstowe and his fellow scribe sprang to their feet. The roar of the -cannon was dying gradually away, and it suddenly gave place to a strange -and an awful silence.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249"></a>{249}</span></p> - -<p>Saxonstowe walked hither and thither about the bed of the river, turning -his head jerkily to right and left.</p> - -<p>‘It’s a shambles!—a shambles!—a shambles!’ he kept repeating. He shook -his head and then his body as if he wanted to shake off the impression -that was fast stamping itself ineffaceably upon him. ‘A shambles!’ he -said again.</p> - -<p>He pulled himself together and looked around him. It seemed to him that -earth and sky were blotted out in blood and fire, and that the smell of -death had wrapped him so closely that he would never breathe freely -again. Dead and dying men were everywhere. Near him rose a pile of what -appeared to be freshly slaughtered meat—it was merely the result of the -bursting of a Lyddite shell amongst a span of oxen. Near him, too, stood -a girl, young, not uncomely, with a bullet-wound showing in her white -bosom from which she had just torn the bodice away; at his feet, amongst -the boulders, were twisted, strange, grotesque shapes that had once been -human bodies.</p> - -<p>‘There’s a chap here that looks like an Englishman,’ said a voice behind -him.</p> - -<p>Saxonstowe turned, and found the man who shared his tent standing at his -elbow, and pointed to a body stretched out a yard or two away—the body -of a well-formed man who had fallen on his side, shot through the heart. -He lay as if asleep, his face half hidden in his arm-pit; near him, -within reach of the nerveless fingers that had torn out a divot of turf -in his last moment’s spasmodic feeling for something to clutch at, lay -his rifle: round his rough serge jacket was clasped a bandolier well -stored with cartridges. His broad-brimmed hat had fallen off, and half -his face, very white and statuesque in death, caught the sunlight that -straggled fitfully through the smoke-clouds which still curled over the -bed of the river.</p> - -<p>‘Looks like an Englishman,’ repeated the special correspondent. ‘Look at -his hands, too—he hasn’t handled a rifle very long, I’m thinking.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250"></a>{250}</span></p> - -<p>Saxonstowe glanced at the body with perfunctory interest—there were so -many dead men lying all about him. Something in the dead man’s face woke -a chord in his memory: he went nearer and bent over him. His brain was -sick and dizzy with the horrors of the blood and the stink of the -slaughter. He stood up again, and winked his eyes rapidly.</p> - -<p>‘No, no!’ he heard himself saying. ‘No! It can’t be—of course it can’t -be. What should Lucian be doing here? Of course it’s not he—it’s mere -imagination—mere im-ag-in-a-tion!’</p> - -<p>‘Here, hold up, old chap!’ said his companion, pulling out a flask. -‘Take a nip of that. Better? Hallo—what’s going on there?’</p> - -<p>He stepped on a boulder and gazed in the direction of a wagon round -which some commotion was evident. Saxonstowe, without another glance at -the dead man, stepped up beside him.</p> - -<p>He saw a roughly built, rugged-faced man, wrapped in a much-worn -overcoat that had grown green with age, stepping out across the plain, -swishing at the herbage with a switch which jerked nervously in his -hand. At his side strode a muscular-looking woman, hard of feature, -brown of skin—a peasant wife in a faded skirt and a crumpled -sun-bonnet. Near them marched a tall British officer in khaki; other -Boers and British, a group of curious contrasts, hedged them round.</p> - -<p>‘That’s Cronje,’ said the special correspondent, as he stepped down from -the boulder. ‘Well, it’s over, thank God!’</p> - -<p>The conquered was on his way to the conqueror.</p> - -<p class="c"><small>LONDON AND GLASGOW: COLLINS’ CLEAR-TYPE PRESS.</small><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251"></a>{251}</span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="cb"><big><big>COLLINS’ POPULAR NOVELS</big></big></p> - -<p class="c">BY FOREMOST WRITERS OF THE DAY</p> - -<p class="c">FULL CLOTH <big><big><span class="middlz">3/6</span></big></big> LIBRARY BINDING</p> - -<p class="c"><i>Complete List of Titles</i></p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td class="rt">4.</td><td align="left">These Charming People</td><td class="rtg">MICHAEL ARLEN</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">5.</td><td align="left">Piracy</td><td class="rtg">MICHAEL ARLEN</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">6.</td><td align="left">The Romantic Lady</td><td class="rtg">MICHAEL ARLEN</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">30.</td><td align="left">The Green Hat</td><td class="rtg">MICHAEL ARLEN</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">70.</td><td align="left">May Fair</td><td class="rtg">MICHAEL ARLEN</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">139.</td><td align="left">Claire and Circumstances</td><td class="rtg">E. MARIA ALBANESI</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">176.</td><td align="left">The Moon Thro’ Glass</td><td class="rtg">E. MARIA ALBANESI</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">85.</td><td align="left">The Splendour of Asia</td><td class="rtg">L. ADAMS BECK</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">27.</td><td align="left">The Treasure of Ho</td><td class="rtg">L. ADAMS BECK</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">37.</td><td align="left">The Way of Stars</td><td class="rtg">L. ADAMS BECK</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">117.</td><td align="left">The Decoy</td><td class="rtg">J. D. BERESFORD</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">86.</td><td align="left">The Tapestry</td><td class="rtg">J. D. BERESFORD</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">87.</td><td align="left">Unity</td><td class="rtg">J. D. BERESFORD</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">88.</td><td align="left">Love’s Pilgrim</td><td class="rtg">J. D. BERESFORD</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">24.</td><td align="left">The Monkey Puzzle</td><td class="rtg">J. D. BERESFORD</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">39.</td><td align="left">That Kind of Man</td><td class="rtg">J. D. BERESFORD</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">138.</td><td align="left">All or Nothing</td><td class="rtg">J. D. BERESFORD</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">118.</td><td align="left">Wild Grapes</td><td class="rtg">PHYLLIS BOTTOME</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">89.</td><td align="left">The Belated Reckoning</td><td class="rtg">PHYLLIS BOTTOME</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">36.</td><td align="left">Old Wine</td><td class="rtg">PHYLLIS BOTTOME</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">69.</td><td align="left">The Kingfisher</td><td class="rtg">PHYLLIS BOTTOME</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">150.</td><td align="left">Strange Fruit</td><td class="rtg">PHYLLIS BOTTOME</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">64.</td><td align="left">Experience</td><td class="rtg">CATHERINE COTTON</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">96.</td><td align="left">A Gay Lover</td><td class="rtg">RUTHERFORD CROCKETT</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">97.</td><td align="left">Safety Last</td><td class="rtg">RUTHERFORD CROCKETT</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">1.</td><td align="left">The Return</td><td class="rtg">WALTER DE LA MARE</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">3.</td><td align="left">Memoirs of a Midget</td><td class="rtg">WALTER DE LA MARE</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">135.</td><td align="left">Brighton Beach</td><td class="rtg">MRS. HENRY DUDENEY</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">162.</td><td align="left">Fair Lady</td><td class="rtg">MAY EDGINTON</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">167.</td><td align="left">Life Isn’t so Bad</td><td class="rtg">MAY EDGINTON</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">14.</td><td align="left">The Foolish Lovers</td><td class="rtg">ST. JOHN ERVINE</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">129.</td><td align="left">The Wayward Man</td><td class="rtg">ST. JOHN ERVINE</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">166.</td><td align="left">Martin Pippin</td><td class="rtg">ELEANOR FARJEON</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">170.</td><td align="left">Kaleidoscope</td><td class="rtg">ELEANOR FARJEON</td></tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252"></a>{252}</span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="cb"><big><big>COLLINS’ POPULAR NOVELS</big></big></p> - -<p class="c"><i>Complete List of <big><big><span class="middlz">3/6</span></big></big> Titles—continued</i></p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td class="rt">120.</td><td align="left">Deep Currents</td><td class="rtg">A. FIELDING</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">173.</td><td align="left">Lucian the Dreamer</td><td class="rtg">J. S. FLETCHER</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">33.</td><td align="left">The Crater</td><td class="rtg">ROBERT GORE-BROWNE</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">172.</td><td align="left">An Imperfect Lover</td><td class="rtg">ROBERT GORE-BROWNE</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">67.</td><td align="left">My Lady of the Chimney Corner</td><td class="rtg">DR. ALEXANDER IRVINE</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">68.</td><td align="left">The Souls of Poor Folk</td><td class="rtg">DR. ALEXANDER IRVINE</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">98.</td><td align="left">Told by an Idiot</td><td class="rtg">ROSE MACAULAY</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">99.</td><td align="left">Mystery at Geneva</td><td class="rtg">ROSE MACAULAY</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">100.</td><td align="left">Potterism</td><td class="rtg">ROSE MACAULAY</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">8.</td><td align="left">Dangerous Ages</td><td class="rtg">ROSE MACAULAY</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">7.</td><td align="left">Orphan Island</td><td class="rtg">ROSE MACAULAY</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">52.</td><td align="left">Crewe Train</td><td class="rtg">ROSE MACAULAY</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">149.</td><td align="left">Keeping Up Appearances</td><td class="rtg">ROSE MACAULAY</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">134.</td><td align="left">Patrol</td><td class="rtg">PHILIP MACDONALD</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">121.</td><td align="left">Soldier Born</td><td class="rtg">CONAL O’RIORDAN</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">11.</td><td align="left">Adam of Dublin</td><td class="rtg">CONAL O’RIORDAN</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">12.</td><td align="left">Adam and Caroline</td><td class="rtg">CONAL O’RIORDAN</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">35.</td><td align="left">In London</td><td class="rtg">CONAL O’RIORDAN</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">43.</td><td align="left">Married Life</td><td class="rtg">CONAL O’RIORDAN</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">153.</td><td align="left">Soldier of Waterloo</td><td class="rtg">CONAL O’RIORDAN</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">9.</td><td align="left">Sayonara</td><td class="rtg">JOHN PARIS</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">10 .</td><td align="left">Kimono</td><td class="rtg">JOHN PARIS</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">33.</td><td align="left">Banzai</td><td class="rtg">JOHN PARIS</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">163.</td><td align="left">A Man Beguiled</td><td class="rtg">RALPH RODD</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">122.</td><td align="left">The Bride’s Prelude</td><td class="rtg">MRS. ALFRED SIDGWICK</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">103.</td><td align="left">London Mixture</td><td class="rtg">MRS. ALFRED SIDGWICK</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">104.</td><td align="left">Humming Bird</td><td class="rtg">MRS. ALFRED SIDGWICK</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">53.</td><td align="left">Sack and Sugar</td><td class="rtg">MRS. ALFRED SIDGWICK</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">63.</td><td align="left">None-Go-By</td><td class="rtg">MRS. ALFRED SIDGWICK</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">161.</td><td align="left">Come-by-Chance</td><td class="rtg">MRS. ALFRED SIDGWICK</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">95.</td><td align="left">Haroun of London</td><td class="rtg">KATHARINE TYNAN</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">145.</td><td align="left">The Respectable</td><td align="left">Lady KATHARINE TYNAN</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">171.</td><td align="left">Lover of Women</td><td class="rtg">KATHARINE TYNAN</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">119.</td><td align="left">Greenlow</td><td class="rtg">ROMER WILSON</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">42.</td><td align="left">The Death of Society</td><td class="rtg">ROMER WILSON</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">130.</td><td align="left">Irene in the Centre</td><td class="rtg">HANNAH YATES</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">158.</td><td align="left">Dim Star</td><td class="rtg">HANNAH YATES</td></tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253"></a>{253}</span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="cb"><big><big>COLLINS’ POPULAR NOVELS</big></big></p> - -<p class="c">BY FOREMOST WRITERS OF THE DAY</p> - -<p class="c">FULL CLOTH <big><big><span class="middlz">3/6</span></big></big> LIBRARY BINDING</p> - -<p class="c"><i>Complete List of Titles</i></p> - -<p class="c"><i>Detective Novels</i></p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td class="rt">155.</td><td align="left">The Instrument of Destiny</td><td class="rtg">J. D. BERESFORD</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">147.</td><td align="left">The Silk Stocking Murders</td><td class="rtg">A. BERKELEY</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">143.</td><td align="left">The Slip Carriage Mystery</td><td class="rtg">LYNN BROCK</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">108.</td><td align="left">The Big Four</td><td class="rtg">AGATHA CHRISTIE</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">40.</td><td align="left">The Murder of Roger Ackroyd</td><td class="rtg">AGATHA CHRISTIE</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">137.</td><td align="left">The Mystery of the Blue Train</td><td class="rtg">AGATHA CHRISTIE</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">148.</td><td align="left">The Man from the River</td><td class="rtg">G. D. H. AND M. COLE</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">174.</td><td align="left">Superintendent Wilson’s Holiday</td><td class="rtg">G. D. H. AND M. COLE</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">105.</td><td align="left">Inspector French and the Starvel Tragedy </td><td class="rtg">FREEMAN WILLS CROFTS</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">44.</td><td align="left">Inspector French and the Cheyne Mystery</td><td class="rtg">FREEMAN WILLS CROFTS</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">51.</td><td align="left">The Groote Park Murder</td><td class="rtg">FREEMAN WILLS CROFTS</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">133.</td><td align="left">The Dalehouse Murder</td><td class="rtg">FRANCIS EVERTON</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">142.</td><td align="left">The Net Around Joan Ingilby</td><td class="rtg">A. FIELDING</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">19.</td><td align="left">The Diamonds</td><td class="rtg">J. S. FLETCHER</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">144.</td><td align="left">The Golden Venture</td><td class="rtg">J. S. FLETCHER</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">141.</td><td align="left">The Time-Worn Town</td><td class="rtg">A. FIELDING</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">152.</td><td align="left">The Ravenswood Mystery</td><td class="rtg">J. S. FLETCHER</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">132.</td><td align="left">Queen of Clubs</td><td class="rtg">HULBERT FOOTNER</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">127.</td><td align="left">The Murder of an M.P.</td><td class="rtg">ROBERT GORE-BROWNE</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">156.</td><td align="left">The Murder of Mrs. Davenport</td><td class="rtg">ANTHONY GILBERT</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">128.</td><td align="left">The Tragedy at Freyne</td><td class="rtg">ANTHONY GILBERT</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">164.</td><td align="left">The White Crow</td><td class="rtg">PHILIP MACDONALD</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">177.</td><td align="left">The Rasp</td><td class="rtg">PHILIP MACDONALD</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">168.</td><td align="left">Without Judge or Jury</td><td class="rtg">RALPH RODD</td></tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254"></a>{254}</span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="cb"><big><big>COLLINS’ POPULAR NOVELS</big></big></p> - -<p class="cb">BY FOREMOST WRITERS OF THE DAY</p> - -<p class="c">FULL CLOTH <big><big><span class="middlz">3/6</span></big></big> LIBRARY BINDING</p> - -<p class="c"><i>Wild West Novels</i></p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td class="rt">123.</td><td align="left">The Desert Girl</td><td class="rtg">ROBERT AMES BENNET</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">124.</td><td align="left">The Two-Gun Girl</td><td class="rtg">ROBERT AMES BENNET</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">136.</td><td align="left">The Cow Country Killers</td><td class="rtg">ROBERT AMES BENNET</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">151.</td><td align="left">Ken of the Cow Country</td><td class="rtg">ROBERT AMES BENNET</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">165.</td><td align="left">Deep Canyon</td><td class="rtg">ROBERT AMES BENNET</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">178.</td><td align="left">The Mystery of the Four Abreast</td><td class="rtg">COURTNEY RYLEY COOPER</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">154.</td><td align="left">Bird of Freedom</td><td class="rtg">HUGH PENDEXTER</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">140.</td><td align="left">The Boss of the Double E</td><td class="rtg">FRANK C. ROBERTSON</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">157.</td><td align="left">The Boss of the Ten Mile Basin</td><td class="rtg">FRANK C. ROBERTSON</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">146.</td><td align="left">The Boss of the Flying M</td><td class="rtg">FRANK C. ROBERTSON</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">175.</td><td align="left">The Hidden Cabin</td><td class="rtg">FRANK C. ROBERTSON</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">179.</td><td align="left">The Far Horizon</td><td class="rtg">FRANK C. ROBERTSON</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">131.</td><td align="left">The Corral Riders</td><td class="rtg">CHARLES WESLEY SANDERS</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">169.</td><td align="left">The Crimson Trail</td><td class="rtg">CHARLES WESLEY SANDERS</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">126.</td><td align="left">Hashknife of the Canyon Trail</td><td class="rtg">W. C. TUTTLE</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">111.</td><td align="left">Hashknife of the Double Bar 8</td><td class="rtg">W. C. TUTTLE</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">112.</td><td align="left">Hashknife Lends a Hand</td><td class="rtg">W. C. TUTTLE</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">82.</td><td align="left">Sun-Dog Loot</td><td class="rtg">W. C. TUTTLE</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">83.</td><td align="left">Rustlers’ Roost</td><td class="rtg">W. C. TUTTLE</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">84.</td><td align="left">The Dead-Line</td><td class="rtg">W. C. TUTTLE</td></tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255"></a>{255}</span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="cb"><big><big>COLLINS’ POPULAR NOVELS</big></big></p> - -<p class="cb">BY FOREMOST WRITERS OF THE DAY</p> - -<p class="cb"><big><big>2/6</big></big></p> - -<p class="c"><i>Complete List of Titles</i></p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td class="rt">129.</td><td align="left">Ghost Stones</td><td class="rtg">MICHAEL ARLEN</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">133.</td><td align="left">The White in the Black</td><td class="rtg">E. MARIA ALBANESI</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">61.</td><td align="left">Roseanne</td><td class="rtg">E. MARIA ALBANESI</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">116.</td><td align="left">Sally in Her Alley</td><td class="rtg">E. MARIA ALBANESI</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">160.</td><td align="left">Seed Pods</td><td class="rtg">MRS. HENRY DUDENEY</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">131.</td><td align="left">Quince Alley</td><td class="rtg">MRS. HENRY DUDENEY</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">132.</td><td align="left">Beanstalk</td><td class="rtg">MRS. HENRY DUDENEY</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">103.</td><td align="left">The Finger Post</td><td class="rtg">MRS. HENRY DUDENEY</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">169.</td><td align="left">Trilby</td><td class="rtg">GEORGE DU MAURIER</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">134.</td><td align="left">The Allbright Family</td><td class="rtg">ARCHIBALD MARSHALL</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">56.</td><td align="left">Big Peter</td><td class="rtg">ARCHIBALD MARSHALL</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">74.</td><td align="left">Pippin</td><td class="rtg">ARCHIBALD MARSHALL</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">99.</td><td align="left">The Graftons</td><td class="rtg">ARCHIBALD MARSHALL</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">110.</td><td align="left">Anthony Dare</td><td class="rtg">ARCHIBALD MARSHALL</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">127.</td><td align="left">The Education of Anthony Dare</td><td class="rtg">ARCHIBALD MARSHALL</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">159.</td><td align="left">That Island</td><td class="rtg">ARCHIBALD MARSHALL</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">163.</td><td align="left">Woman’s Way</td><td class="rtg">RALPH RODD</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">166.</td><td align="left">The Whipping Girl</td><td class="rtg">RALPH RODD</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">137.</td><td align="left">Treasure Island</td><td class="rtg">ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">138.</td><td align="left">The Black Arrow</td><td class="rtg">ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">139.</td><td align="left">Catriona</td><td class="rtg">ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">140.</td><td align="left">Kidnapped</td><td class="rtg">ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">141.</td><td align="left">The Master of Ballantrae</td><td class="rtg">ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">142.</td><td align="left">The Dynamiter</td><td class="rtg">ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">157.</td><td align="left">Prince Otto</td><td class="rtg">ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">165.</td><td align="left">New Arabian Nights</td><td class="rtg">ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">168.</td><td align="left">Island Nights’ Entertainments</td><td class="rtg">ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">135.</td><td align="left">Men Like Gods</td><td class="rtg">H. G. WELLS</td></tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256"></a>{256}</span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="cb"><big><big>COLLINS’ POPULAR NOVELS</big></big></p> - -<p class="cb">BY FOREMOST WRITERS OF THE DAY</p> - -<p class="cb"><big><big>2/6</big></big></p> - -<p class="c"><i>Complete List of Titles—continued</i></p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td class="rt">136.</td><td align="left">God, the Invisible King</td><td class="rtg">H. G. WELLS</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">16.</td><td align="left">The Passionate Friends</td><td class="rtg">H. G. WELLS</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">18.</td><td align="left">Tales of the Unexpected</td><td class="rtg">H. G. WELLS</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">21.</td><td align="left">The Research Magnificent</td><td class="rtg">H. G. WELLS</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">27.</td><td align="left">The First Men in the Moon</td><td class="rtg">H. G. WELLS</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">33.</td><td align="left">Tales of Life and Adventure</td><td class="rtg">H. G. WELLS</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">38.</td><td align="left">Marriage</td><td class="rtg">H. G. WELLS</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">43.</td><td align="left">In the Days of the Comet</td><td class="rtg">H. G. WELLS</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">51.</td><td align="left">Tales of Wonder</td><td class="rtg">H. G. WELLS</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">59.</td><td align="left">The Food of the Gods</td><td class="rtg">H. G. WELLS</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">68.</td><td align="left">Tono-Bungay</td><td class="rtg">H. G. WELLS</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">72.</td><td align="left">The History of Mr. Polly</td><td class="rtg">H. G. WELLS</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">75.</td><td align="left">Kipps</td><td class="rtg">H. G. WELLS</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">79.</td><td align="left">Love and Mr. Lewisham</td><td class="rtg">H. G. WELLS</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">89.</td><td align="left">The War in the Air</td><td class="rtg">H. G. WELLS</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">92.</td><td align="left">The World Set Free</td><td class="rtg">H. G. WELLS</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">106.</td><td align="left">A Modern Utopia</td><td class="rtg">H. G. WELLS</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">109.</td><td align="left">The Sleeper Awakes</td><td class="rtg">H. G. WELLS</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">111.</td><td align="left">The Invisible Man</td><td class="rtg">H. G. WELLS</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">118.</td><td align="left">The New Machiavelli</td><td class="rtg">H. G. WELLS</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">122.</td><td align="left">The Secret Places of the Heart</td><td class="rtg">H. G. WELLS</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">153.</td><td align="left">Mr Britling</td><td class="rtg">H. G. WELLS</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">156.</td><td align="left">The Wife of Sir Isaac Harman</td><td class="rtg">H. G. WELLS</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">154.</td><td align="left">More Salty</td><td class="rtg">CHARLES WESTRON</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">112.</td><td align="left">Cold Harbour</td><td class="rtg">FRANCIS BRETT YOUNG</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">130.</td><td align="left">The Black Diamond</td><td class="rtg">FRANCIS BRETT YOUNG</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">25.</td><td align="left">The Young Physician</td><td class="rtg">FRANCIS BRETT YOUNG</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">81.</td><td align="left">Pilgrim’s Rest</td><td class="rtg">FRANCIS BRETT YOUNG</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">91.</td><td align="left">Woodsmoke</td><td class="rtg">FRANCIS BRETT YOUNG</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">123.</td><td align="left">The Dark Tower</td><td class="rtg">FRANCIS BRETT YOUNG</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">105.</td><td align="left">The Crescent Moor</td><td class="rtg">FRANCIS BRETT YOUNG</td></tr> -</table> - -<hr class="full" /> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Lucian the dreamer, by J. 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