II
Lucian
was growing really anxious about his manuscript. He had gained enough
experience at twenty-three to know that editors and publishers must not be
hurried; but his book had been lying at Messrs Beit's office for more than
three months. For six weeks he had not dared to expect an answer, but
afterwards life had become agonizing. Every morning, at post-time, the poor
wretch nearly choked with anxiety to know whether his sentence had arrived, and
the rest of the day was racked with alternate pangs of hope and despair. Now
and then he was almost assured of success; conning over these painful and eager
pages in memory, he found parts that were admirable, while again, his
inexperience reproached him, and he feared he had written a raw and awkward
book, wholly unfit for print. Then he would compare what he remembered of it
with notable magazine articles and books praised by reviewers, and fancy that
after all there might be good points in the thing; he could not help liking the
first chapter for instance. Perhaps the letter might come tomorrow. So it went
on; week after week of sick torture made more exquisite by such gleams of hope;
it was as if he were stretched in anguish on the rack, and the pain relaxed and
kind words spoken now and again by the tormentors, and then once more the
grinding pang and burning agony. At last he could bear suspense no longer, and
he wrote to Messrs Beit, inquiring in a humble manner whether the manuscript
had arrived in safety. The firm replied in a very polite letter, expressing
regret that their reader had been suffering from a cold in the head, and had
therefore been unable to send in his report. A final decision was promised in a
week's time, and the letter ended with apologies for the delay and a hope that
he had suffered no inconvenience. Of course the "final decision" did
not come at the end of the week, but the book was returned at the end of three
weeks, with a circular thanking the author for his kindness in submitting the
manuscript, and regretting that the firm did not see their way to producing it.
He felt relieved; the operation that he had dreaded and deprecated for so long
was at last over, and he would no longer grow sick of mornings when the letters
were brought in. He took his parcel to the sunny corner of the garden, where
the old wooden seat stood sheltered from the biting March winds. Messrs Beit
had put in with the circular one of their short lists, a neat booklet, headed:
Messrs Beit & Co.'s Recent Publications.
He
settled himself comfortably on the seat, lit his pipe, and began to read:
"A Bad Un to Beat: a Novel of Sporting Life, by the Honorable Mrs.
Scudamore Runnymede, author of Yoicks, With the Mudshire Pack, The Sportleigh
Stables, etc., etc., 3 vols. At all Libraries." The Press, it seemed,
pronounced this to be a "charming book. Mrs. Runnymede has wit and humor
enough to furnish forth half-a-dozen ordinary sporting novels." "Told
with the sparkle and vivacity of a past-mistress in the art of novel
writing," said the Review; while Miranda, of Smart Society, positively
bubbled with enthusiasm. "You must forgive me, Aminta," wrote this
young person, "if I have not sent the description I promised of Madame
Lulu's new creations and others of that ilk. I must a tale unfold; Tom came in
yesterday and began to rave about the Honorable Mrs. Scudamore Runnymede's last
novel, A Bad Un to Beat. He says all the Smart Set are talking of it, and it
seems the police have to regulate the crowd at Mudie's. You know I read
everything Mrs. Runnymede writes, so I set out Miggs directly to beg, borrow or
steal a copy, and I confess I burnt the midnight oil before I laid it down.
Now, mind you get it, you will find it so awfully chic." Nearly all the
novelists on Messrs Beit's list were ladies, their works all ran to three
volumes, and all of them pleased the Press, the Review, and Miranda of Smart
Society. One of these books, Millicent's Marriage, by Sarah Pocklington
Sanders, was pronounced fit to lie on the school-room table, on the drawing-room
bookshelf, or beneath the pillow of the most gently nurtured of our daughters.
"This," the reviewer went on, "is high praise, especially in
these days when we are deafened by the loud-voiced clamor of self-styled
'artists.' We would warn the young men who prate so persistently of style and
literature, construction and prose harmonies, that we believe the English
reading public will have none of them. Harmless amusement, a gentle flow of
domestic interest, a faithful reproduction of the open and manly life of the
hunting field, pictures of innocent and healthy English girlhood such as Miss
Sanders here affords us; these are the topics that will always find a welcome
in our homes, which remain bolted and barred against the abandoned artist and
the scrofulous stylist."
He
turned over the pages of the little book and chuckled in high relish; he
discovered an honest enthusiasm, a determination to strike a blow for the good
and true that refreshed and exhilarated. A beaming face, spectacled and
whiskered probably, an expansive waistcoat, and a tender heart, seemed to shine
through the words which Messrs Beit had quoted; and the alliteration of the
final sentence; that was good too; there was style for you if you wanted it.
The champion of the blushing cheek and the gushing eye showed that he too could
handle the weapons of the enemy if he cared to trouble himself with such
things. Lucian leant back and roared with indecent laughter till the tabby
tom-cat who had succeeded to the poor dead beasts looked up reproachfully from
his sunny corner, with a face like the reviewer's, innocent and round and
whiskered. At last he turned to his parcel and drew out some half-dozen sheets
of manuscript, and began to read in a rather desponding spirit; it was pretty
obvious, he thought, that the stuff was poor and beneath the standard of
publication. The book had taken a year and a half in the making; it was a pious
attempt to translate into English prose the form and mystery of the domed
hills, the magic of occult valleys, the sound of the red swollen brook swirling
through leafless woods. Day-dreams and toil at nights had gone into the eager
pages, he had labored hard to do his very best, writing and rewriting, weighing
his cadences, beginning over and over again, grudging no patience, no trouble
if only it might be pretty good; good enough to print and sell to a reading
public which had become critical. He glanced through the manuscript in his
hand, and to his astonishment, he could not help thinking that in its measure
it was decent work. After three months his prose seemed fresh and strange as if
it had been wrought by another man, and in spite of himself he found charming
things, and impressions that were not commonplace. He knew how weak it all was
compared with his own conceptions; he had seen an enchanted city, awful,
glorious, with flame smitten about its battlements, like the cities of the
Sangraal, and he had molded his copy in such poor clay as came to his hand;
yet, in spite of the gulf that yawned between the idea and the work, he knew as
he read that the thing accomplished was very far from a failure. He put back
the leaves carefully, and glanced again at Messrs Beit's list. It had escaped
his notice that A Bad Un to Beat was in its third three-volume edition. It was
a great thing, at all events, to know in what direction to aim, if he wished to
succeed. If he worked hard, he thought, he might some day win the approval of
the coy and retiring Miranda of Smart Society; that modest maiden might in his
praise interrupt her task of disinterested advertisement, her philanthropic
counsels to "go to Jumper's, and mind you ask for Mr. C. Jumper, who will
show you the lovely blue paper with the yellow spots at ten shillings the
piece." He put down the pamphlet, and laughed again at the books and the
reviewers: so that he might not weep. This then was English fiction, this was
English criticism, and farce, after all, was but an ill-played tragedy.
The
rejected manuscript was hidden away, and his father quoted Horace's maxim as to
the benefit of keeping literary works for some time "in the wood."
There was nothing to grumble at, though Lucian was inclined to think the
duration of the reader's catarrh a little exaggerated. But this was a trifle;
he did not arrogate to himself the position of a small commercial traveler, who
expects prompt civility as a matter of course, and not at all as a favor. He
simply forgot his old book, and resolved that he would make a better one if he
could. With the hot fit of resolution, the determination not to be snuffed out
by one refusal upon him, he began to beat about in his mind for some new
scheme. At first it seemed that he had hit upon a promising subject; he began
to plot out chapters and scribble hints for the curious story that had entered
his mind, arranging his circumstances and noting the effects to be produced
with all the enthusiasm of the artist. But after the first breath the aspect of
the work changed; page after page was tossed aside as hopeless, the beautiful
sentences he had dreamed of refused to be written, and his puppets remained
stiff and wooden, devoid of life or motion. Then all the old despairs came
back, the agonies of the artificer who strives and perseveres in vain; the
scheme that seemed of amorous fire turned to cold hard ice in his hands. He let
the pen drop from his fingers, and wondered how he could have ever dreamed of
writing books. Again, the thought occurred that he might do something if he
could only get away, and join the sad procession in the murmuring London
streets, far from the shadow of those awful hills. But it was quite impossible;
the relative who had once promised assistance was appealed to, and wrote
expressing his regret that Lucian had turned out a "loafer," wasting
his time in scribbling, instead of trying to earn his living. Lucian felt
rather hurt at this letter, but the parson only grinned grimly as usual. He was
thinking of how he signed a check many years before, in the days of his
prosperity, and the check was payable to this didactic relative, then in but a
poor way, and of a thankful turn of mind.
The
old rejected manuscript had almost passed out of his recollection. It was
recalled oddly enough. He was looking over the Reader, and enjoying the
admirable literary criticisms, some three months after the return of his book,
when his eye was attracted by a quoted passage in one of the notices. The
thought and style both wakened memory, the cadences were familiar and beloved.
He read through the review from the beginning; it was a very favorable one, and
pronounced the volume an immense advance on Mr. Ritson's previous work.
"Here, undoubtedly, the author has discovered a vein of pure metal,"
the reviewer added, "and we predict that he will go far." Lucian had
not yet reached his father's stage, he was unable to grin in the manner of that
irreverent parson. The passage selected for high praise was taken almost word
for word from the manuscript now resting in his room, the work that had not
reached the high standard of Messrs Beit & Co., who, curiously enough, were
the publishers of the book reviewed in the Reader. He had a few shillings in
his possession, and wrote at once to a bookseller in London for a copy of The
Chorus in Green, as the author had oddly named the book. He wrote on June 21st
and thought he might fairly expect to receive the interesting volume by the
24th; but the postman, true to his tradition, brought nothing for him, and in
the afternoon he resolved to walk down to Caermaen, in case it might have come
by a second post; or it might have been mislaid at the office; they forgot
parcels sometimes, especially when the bag was heavy and the weather hot. This
24th was a sultry and oppressive day; a grey veil of cloud obscured the sky,
and a vaporous mist hung heavily over the land, and fumed up from the valleys.
But at five o'clock, when he started, the clouds began to break, and the
sunlight suddenly streamed down through the misty air, making ways and channels
of rich glory, and bright islands in the gloom. It was a pleasant and shining
evening when, passing by devious back streets to avoid the barbarians (as he
very rudely called the respectable inhabitants of the town), he reached the
post-office; which was also the general shop.
"Yes,
Mr. Taylor, there is something for you, sir," said the man. "Williams
the postman forgot to take it up this morning," and he handed over the
packet. Lucian took it under his arm and went slowly through the ragged winding
lanes till he came into the country. He got over the first stile on the road,
and sitting down in the shelter of a hedge, cut the strings and opened the
parcel. The Chorus in Green was got up in what reviewers call a dainty manner:
a bronze-green cloth, well-cut gold lettering, wide margins and black
"old-face" type, all witnessed to the good taste of Messrs Beit &
Co. He cut the pages hastily and began to read. He soon found that he had
wronged Mr. Ritson - that old literary hand had by no means stolen his book
wholesale, as he had expected. There were about two hundred pages in the pretty
little volume, and of these about ninety were Lucian's, dovetailed into a
rather different scheme with skill that was nothing short of exquisite. And Mr.
Ritson's own work was often very good; spoilt here and there for some tastes by
the "cataloguing" method, a somewhat materialistic way of taking an
inventory of the holy country things; but, for that very reason, contrasting to
a great advantage with Lucian's hints and dreams and note of haunting. And here
and there Mr. Ritson had made little alterations in the style of the passages
he had conveyed, and most of these alterations were amendments, as Lucian was
obliged to confess, though he would have liked to argue one or two points with
his collaborator and corrector. He lit his pipe and leant back comfortably in
the hedge, thinking things over, weighing very coolly his experience of
humanity, his contact with the "society" of the countryside, the
affair of the The Chorus in Green, and even some little incidents that had
struck him as he was walking through the streets of Caermaen that evening. At
the post-office, when he was inquiring for his parcel, he had heard two old
women grumbling in the street; it seemed, so far as he could make out, that
both had been disappointed in much the same way. One was a Roman Catholic,
hardened, and beyond the reach of conversion; she had been advised to ask alms
of the priests, "who are always creeping and crawling about." The
other old sinner was a Dissenter, and, "Mr. Dixon has quite enough to do
to relieve good Church people."
Mrs.
Dixon, assisted by Henrietta, was, it seemed, the lady high almoner, who
dispensed these charities. As she said to Mrs. Colley, they would end by
keeping all the beggars in the county, and they really couldn't afford it. A
large family was an expensive thing, and the girls must have new frocks.
"Mr. Dixon is always telling me and the girls that we must not demoralize
the people by indiscriminate charity." Lucian had heard of these sage
counsels, and through it them as he listened to the bitter complaints of the gaunt,
hungry old women. In the back street by which he passed out of the town he saw
a large "healthy" boy kicking a sick cat; the poor creature had just
strength enough to crawl under an outhouse door; probably to die in torments.
He did not find much satisfaction in thrashing the boy, but he did it with
hearty good will. Further on, at the corner where the turnpike used to be, was
a big notice, announcing a meeting at the school-room in aid of the missions to
the Portuguese. "Under the Patronage of the Lord Bishop of the
Diocese," was the imposing headline; the Reverend Merivale Dixon, vicar of
Caermaen, was to be in the chair, supported by Stanley Gervase, Esq., J.P., and
by many of the clergy and gentry of the neighborhood. Senhor Diabo, "formerly
a Romanist priest, now an evangelist in Lisbon," would address the
meeting. "Funds are urgently needed to carry on this good work,"
concluded the notice. So he lay well back in the shade of the hedge, and
thought whether some sort of an article could not be made by vindicating the
terrible Yahoos; one might point out that they were in many respects a simple
and unsophisticated race, whose faults were the result of their enslaved
position, while such virtues as they had were all their own. They might be
compared, he thought, much to their advantage, with more complex civilizations.
There was no hint of anything like the Beit system of publishing in existence
amongst them; the great Yahoo nation would surely never feed and encourage a
scabby Houyhnhnm, expelled for his foulness from the horse-community, and the
witty dean, in all his minuteness, had said nothing of "safe" Yahoos.
On reflection, however, he did not feel quite secure of this part of his
defense; he remembered that the leading brutes had favorites, who were employed
in certain simple domestic offices about their masters, and it seemed doubtful
whether the contemplated vindication would not break down on this point. He
smiled queerly to himself as he thought of these comparisons, but his heart
burned with a dully fury. Throwing back his unhappy memory, he recalled all the
contempt and scorn he had suffered; as a boy he had heard the masters murmuring
their disdain of him and of his desire to learn other than ordinary school
work. As a young man he had suffered the insolence of these wretched people
about him; their cackling laughter at his poverty jarred and grated in his
ears; he saw the acrid grin of some miserable idiot woman, some creature
beneath the swine in intelligence and manners, merciless, as he went by with
his eyes on the dust, in his ragged clothes. He and his father seemed to pass
down an avenue of jeers and contempt, and contempt from such animals as these!
This putrid filth, molded into human shape, made only to fawn on the rich and
beslaver them, thinking no foulness too foul if it were done in honor of those
in power and authority; and no refined cruelty of contempt too cruel if it were
contempt of the poor and humble and oppressed; it was to this obscene and
ghastly throng that he was something to be pointed at. And these men and women
spoke of sacred things, and knelt before the awful altar of God, before the
altar of tremendous fire, surrounded as they professed by Angels and Archangels
and all the Company of Heaven; and in their very church they had one aisle for
the rich and another for the poor. And the species was not peculiar to
Caermaen; the rich business men in London and the successful brother author
were probably amusing themselves at the expense of the poor struggling creature
they had injured and wounded; just as the "healthy" boy had burst
into a great laugh when the miserable sick cat cried out in bitter agony, and
trailed its limbs slowly, as it crept away to die. Lucian looked into his own
life and his own will; he saw that in spite of his follies, and his want of
success, he had not been consciously malignant, he had never deliberately aided
in oppression, or looked on it with enjoyment and approval, and he felt that
when he lay dead beneath the earth, eaten by swarming worms, he would be in a
purer company than now, when he lived amongst human creatures. And he was to
call this loathsome beast, all sting and filth, brother! "I had rather
call the devils my brothers," he said in his heart, "I would fare
better in hell." Blood was in his eyes, and as he looked up the sky seemed
of blood, and the earth burned with fire.
The
sun was sinking low on the mountain when he set out on the way again. Burrows,
the doctor, coming home in his trap, met him a little lower on the road, and gave
him a friendly good-night.
"A
long way round on this road, isn't it?" said the doctor. "As you have
come so far, why don't you try the short cut across the fields? You will find
it easily enough; second stile on the left hand, and then go straight ahead."
He
thanked Dr. Burrows and said he would try the short cut, and Burrows span on
homeward. He was a gruff and honest bachelor, and often felt very sorry for the
lad, and wished he could help him. As he drove on, it suddenly occurred to him
that Lucian had an awful look on his face, and he was sorry he had not asked
him to jump in, and to come to supper. A hearty slice of beef, with strong ale,
whisky and soda afterwards, a good pipe, and certain Rabelaisian tales which
the doctor had treasured for many years, would have done the poor fellow a lot
of good, he was certain. He half turned round on his seat, and looked to see if
Lucian were still in sight, but he had passed the corner, and the doctor drove
on, shivering a little; the mists were beginning to rise from the wet banks of
the river.
Lucian
trailed slowly along the road, keeping a look out for the stile the doctor had
mentioned. It would be a little of an adventure, he thought, to find his way by
an unknown track; he knew the direction in which his home lay, and he imagined
he would not have much difficulty in crossing from one stile to another. The
path led him up a steep bare field, and when he was at the top, the town and
the valley winding up to the north stretched before him. The river was stilled
at the flood, and the yellow water, reflecting the sunset, glowed in its deep
pools like dull brass. These burning pools, the level meadows fringed with
shuddering reeds, the long dark sweep of the forest on the hill, were all clear
and distinct, yet the light seemed to have clothed them with a new garment,
even as voices from the streets of Caermaen sounded strangely, mounting up thin
with the smoke. There beneath him lay the huddled cluster of Caermaen, the
ragged and uneven roofs that marked the winding and sordid streets, here and
there a pointed gable rising above its meaner fellows; beyond he recognized the
piled mounds that marked the circle of the amphitheatre, and the dark edge of
trees that grew where the Roman wall whitened and waxed old beneath the frosts
and rains of eighteen hundred years. Thin and strange, mingled together, the
voices came up to him on the hill; it was as if an outland race inhabited the
ruined city and talked in a strange language of strange and terrible things.
The sun had slid down the sky, and hung quivering over the huge dark dome of
the mountain like a burnt sacrifice, and then suddenly vanished. In the
afterglow the clouds began to writhe and turn scarlet, and shone so strangely
reflected in the pools of the snake-like river, that one would have said the
still waters stirred, the fleeting and changing of the clouds seeming to
quicken the stream, as if it bubbled and sent up gouts of blood. But already
about the town the darkness was forming; fast, fast the shadows crept upon it
from the forest, and from all sides banks and wreaths of curling mist were
gathering, as if a ghostly leaguer were being built up against the city, and
the strange race who lived in its streets. Suddenly there burst out from the
stillness the clear and piercing music of the réveillé, calling, recalling,
iterated, reiterated, and ending with one long high fierce shrill note with
which the steep hills rang. Perhaps a boy in the school band was practicing on
his bugle, but for Lucian it was magic. For him it was the note of the Roman
trumpet, tuba mirum spargens sonum, filling all the hollow valley with its
command, reverberated in dark places in the far forest, and resonant in the old
graveyards without the walls. In his imagination he saw the earthen gates of
the tombs broken open, and the serried legion swarming to the eagles. Century
by century they passed by; they rose, dripping, from the river bed, they rose
from the level, their armor shone in the quiet orchard, they gathered in ranks
and companies from the cemetery, and as the trumpet sounded, the hill fort
above the town gave up its dead. By hundreds and thousands the ghostly battle
surged about the standard, behind the quaking mist, ready to march against the
moldering walls they had built so many years before.
He
turned sharply; it was growing very dark, and he was afraid of missing his way.
At first the path led him by the verge of a wood; there was a noise of rustling
and murmuring from the trees as if they were taking evil counsel together. A
high hedge shut out the sight of the darkening valley, and he stumbled on
mechanically, without taking much note of the turnings of the track, and when
he came out from the wood shadow to the open country, he stood for a moment
quite bewildered and uncertain. A dark wild twilight country lay before him,
confused dim shapes of trees near at hand, and a hollow below his feet, and the
further hills and woods were dimmer, and all the air was very still. Suddenly
the darkness about him glowed; a furnace fire had shot up on the mountain, and
for a moment the little world of the woodside and the steep hill shone in a
pale light, and he thought he saw his path beaten out in the turf before him.
The great flame sank down to a red glint of fire, and it led him on down the
ragged slope, his feet striking against ridges of ground, and falling from
beneath him at a sudden dip. The bramble bushes shot out long prickly vines,
amongst which he was entangled, and lower he was held back by wet bubbling
earth. He had descended into a dark and shady valley, beset and tapestried with
gloomy thickets; the weird wood noises were the only sounds, strange,
unutterable mutterings, dismal, inarticulate. He pushed on in what he hoped was
the right direction, stumbling from stile to gate, peering through mist and
shadow, and still vainly seeking for any known landmark. Presently another
sound broke upon the grim air, the murmur of water poured over stones, gurgling
against the old misshapen roots of trees, and running clear in a deep channel.
He passed into the chill breath of the brook, and almost fancied he heard two
voices speaking in its murmur; there seemed a ceaseless utterance of words, an
endless argument. With a mood of horror pressing on him, he listened to the
noise of waters, and the wild fancy seized him that he was not deceived, that
two unknown beings stood together there in the darkness and tried the balances
of his life, and spoke his doom. The hour in the matted thicket rushed over the
great bridge of years to his thought; he had sinned against the earth, and the
earth trembled and shook for vengeance. He stayed still for a moment, quivering
with fear, and at last went on blindly, no longer caring for the path, if only
he might escape from the toils of that dismal shuddering hollow. As he plunged
through the hedges the bristling thorns tore his face and hands; he fell
amongst stinging-nettles and was pricked as he beat out his way amidst the
gorse. He raced headlong, his head over his shoulder, through a windy wood, bare
of undergrowth; there lay about the ground moldering stumps, the relics of
trees that had thundered to their fall, crashing and tearing to earth, long
ago; and from these remains there flowed out a pale thin radiance, filling the
spaces of the sounding wood with a dream of light. He had lost all count of the
track; he felt he had fled for hours, climbing and descending, and yet not
advancing; it was as if he stood still and the shadows of the land went by, in
a vision. But at last a hedge, high and straggling, rose before him, and as he
broke through it, his feet slipped, and he fell headlong down a steep bank into
a lane. He lay still, half-stunned, for a moment, and then rising unsteadily,
he looked desperately into the darkness before him, uncertain and bewildered.
In front it was black as a midnight cellar, and he turned about, and saw a
glint in the distance, as if a candle were flickering in a farm-house window.
He began to walk with trembling feet towards the light, when suddenly something
pale started out from the shadows before him, and seemed to swim and float down
the air. He was going down hill, and he hastened onwards, and he could see the
bars of a stile framed dimly against the sky, and the figure still advanced
with that gliding motion. Then, as the road declined to the valley, the
landmark he had been seeking appeared. To his right there surged up in the
darkness the darker summit of the Roman fort, and the streaming fire of the
great full moon glowed through the bars of the wizard oaks, and made a halo
shine about the hill. He was now quite close to the white appearance, and saw
that it was only a woman walking swiftly down the lane; the floating movement
was an effect due to the somber air and the moon's glamour. At the gate, where
he had spent so many hours gazing at the fort, they walked foot to foot, and he
saw it was Annie Morgan.
"Good
evening, Master Lucian," said the girl, "it's very dark, sir,
indeed."
"Good
evening, Annie," he answered, calling her by her name for the first time,
and he saw that she smiled with pleasure. "You are out late, aren't
you?"
"Yes,
sir; but I've been taking a bit of supper to old Mrs. Gibbon. She's been very
poorly the last few days, and there's nobody to do anything for her."
Then
there were really people who helped one another; kindness and pity were not
mere myths, fictions of "society," as useful as Doe and Roe, and as
non-existent. The thought struck Lucian with a shock; the evening's passion and
delirium, the wild walk and physical fatigue had almost shattered him in body
and mind. He was "degenerate," decadent, and the rough rains and
blustering winds of life, which a stronger man would have laughed at and
enjoyed, were to him "hail-storms and fire-showers." After all,
Messrs Beit, the publishers, were only sharp men of business, and these
terrible Dixons and Gervases and Colleys merely the ordinary limited clergy and
gentry of a quiet country town; sturdier sense would have dismissed Dixon as an
old humbug, Stanley Gervase, Esquire, J.P., as a "bit of a bounder,"
and the ladies as "rather a shoddy lot." But he was walking slowly
now in painful silence, his heavy, lagging feet striking against the loose
stones. He was not thinking of the girl beside him; only something seemed to
swell and grow and swell within his heart; it was all the torture of his days,
weary hopes and weary disappointment, scorn rankling and throbbing, and the
thought "I had rather call the devils my brothers and live with them in
hell." He choked and gasped for breath, and felt involuntary muscles
working in his face, and the impulses of a madman stirring him; he himself was
in truth the realization of the vision of Caermaen that night, a city with
moldering walls beset by the ghostly legion. Life and the world and the laws of
the sunlight had passed away, and the resurrection and kingdom of the dead
began. The Celt assailed him, becoming from the weird wood he called the world,
and his far-off ancestors, the "little people," crept out of their
caves, muttering charms and incantations in hissing inhuman speech; he was
beleaguered by desires that had slept in his race for ages.
"I
am afraid you are very tired, Master Lucian. Would you like me to give you my
hand over this rough bit?"
He
had stumbled against a great round stone and had nearly fallen. The woman's
hand sought his in the darkness; as he felt the touch of the soft warm flesh he
moaned, and a pang shot through his arm to his heart. He looked up and found he
had only walked a few paces since Annie had spoken; he had thought they had
wandered for hours together. The moon was just mounting above the oaks, and the
halo round the dark hill brightened. He stopped short, and keeping his hold of
Annie's hand, looked into her face. A hazy glory of moonlight shone around them
and lit up their eyes. He had not greatly altered since his boyhood; his face
was pale olive in color, thin and oval; marks of pain had gathered about the
eyes, and his black hair was already stricken with grey. But the eager, curious
gaze still remained, and what he saw before him lit up his sadness with a new
fire. She stopped too, and did not offer to draw away, but looked back with all
her heart. They were alike in many ways; her skin was also of that olive color,
but her face was sweet as a beautiful summer night, and her black eyes showed
no dimness, and the smile on the scarlet lips was like a flame when it
brightens a dark and lonely land.
"You
are sorely tired, Master Lucian, let us sit down here by the gate."
It
was Lucian who spoke next: "My dear, my dear." And their lips were
together again, and their arms locked together, each holding the other fast.
And then the poor lad let his head sink down on his sweethearts' breast, and
burst into a passion of weeping. The tears streamed down his face, and he shook
with sobbing, in the happiest moment that he had ever lived. The woman bent
over him and tried to comfort him, but his tears were his consolation and his
triumph. Annie was whispering to him, her hand laid on his heart; she was
whispering beautiful, wonderful words, that soothed him as a song. He did not
know what they meant.
"Annie,
dear, dear Annie, what are you saying to me? I have never heard such beautiful
words. Tell me, Annie, what do they mean?"
She
laughed, and said it was only nonsense that the nurses sang to the children.
"No,
no, you are not to call me Master Lucian any more," he said, when they
parted, "you must call me Lucian; and I, I worship you, my dear
Annie."
He
fell down before her, embracing her knees, and adored, and she allowed him, and
confirmed his worship. He followed slowly after her, passing the path which led
to her home with a longing glance. Nobody saw any difference in Lucian when he
reached the rectory. He came in with his usual dreamy indifference, and told
how he had lost his way by trying the short cut. He said he had met Dr. Burrows
on the road, and that he had recommended the path by the fields. Then, as dully
as if he had been reading some story out of a newspaper, he gave his father the
outlines of the Beit case, producing the pretty little book called The Chorus
in Green. The parson listened in amazement.
"You
mean to tell me that you wrote this book?" he said. He was quite roused.
"No;
not all of it. Look; that bit is mine, and that; and the beginning of this chapter.
Nearly the whole of the third chapter is by me."
He
closed the book without interest, and indeed he felt astonished at his father's
excitement. The incident seemed to him unimportant.
"And
you say that eighty or ninety pages of this book are yours, and these
scoundrels have stolen your work?"
"Well,
I suppose they have. I'll fetch the manuscript, if you would like to look at
it."
The
manuscript was duly produced, wrapped in brown paper, with Messrs
Beit's address label on it, and
the post-office dated stamps.
"And
the other book has been out a month." The parson, forgetting the
sacerdotal office, and his good habit of grinning, swore at Messrs Beit and Mr.
Ritson, calling them damned thieves, and then began to read the manuscript, and
to compare it with the printed book.
"Why,
it's splendid work. My poor fellow," he said after a while, "I had no
notion you could write so well. I used to think of such things in the old days
at Oxford; 'old Bill,' the tutor, used to praise my essays, but I never wrote
anything like this. And this infernal ruffian of a Ritson has taken all your
best things and mixed them up with his own rot to make it go down. Of course
you'll expose the gang?"
Lucian
was mildly amused; he couldn't enter into his father's feelings at all. He sat
smoking in one of the old easy chairs, taking the rare relish of a hot grog
with his pipe, and gazing out of his dreamy eyes at the violent old parson. He
was pleased that his father liked his book, because he knew him to be a deep
and sober scholar and a cool judge of good letters; but he laughed to himself
when he saw the magic of print. The parson had expressed no wish to read the
manuscript when it came back in disgrace; he had merely grinned, said something
about boomerangs, and quoted Horace with relish. Whereas now, before the book
in its neat case, lettered with another man's name, his approbation of the
writing and his disapproval of the "scoundrels," as he called them,
were loudly expressed, and, though a good smoker, he blew and puffed vehemently
at his pipe.
"You'll
expose the rascals, of course, won't you?" he said again.
"Oh
no, I think not. It really doesn't matter much, does it? After all, there are
some very weak things in the book; doesn't it strike you as 'young?' I have been
thinking of another plan, but I haven't done much with it lately. But I believe
I've got hold of a really good idea this time, and if I can manage to see the
heart of it I hope to turn out a manuscript worth stealing. But it's so hard to
get at the core of an idea - the heart, as I call it," he went on after a
pause. "It's like having a box you can't open, though you know there's
something wonderful inside. But I do believe I've a fine thing in my hands, and
I mean to try my best to work it."
Lucian
talked with enthusiasm now, but his father, on his side, could not share these
ardors. It was his part to be astonished at excitement over a book that was not
even begun, the mere ghost of a book flitting elusive in the world of unborn
masterpieces and failures. He had loved good letters, but he shared
unconsciously in the general belief that literary attempt is always pitiful,
though he did not subscribe to the other half of the popular faith - that
literary success is a matter of very little importance. He thought well of
books, but only of printed books; in manuscripts he put no faith, and the
paulo-post-futurum tense he could not in any manner conjugate. He returned once
more to the topic of palpable interest.
"But
about this dirty trick these fellows have played on you. You won't sit quietly
and bear it, surely? It's only a question of writing to the papers."
"They
wouldn't put the letter in. And if they did, I should only get laughed at. Some
time ago a man wrote to the Reader, complaining of his play being stolen. He
said that he had sent a little one-act comedy to Burleigh, the great dramatist,
asking for his advice. Burleigh gave his advice and took the idea for his own
very successful play. So the man said, and I daresay it was true enough. But
the victim got nothing by his complaint. 'A pretty state of things,' everybody
said. 'Here's a Mr. Tomson, that no one has ever heard of, bothers Burleigh
with his rubbish, and then accuses him of petty larceny. Is it likely that a
man of Burleigh's position, a playwright who can make his five thousand a year
easily, would borrow from an unknown Tomson?' I should think it very likely,
indeed," Lucian went on, chuckling, "but that was their verdict. No;
I don't think I'll write to the papers."
"Well,
well, my boy, I suppose you know your own business best. I think you are
mistaken, but you must do as you like."
"It's
all so unimportant," said Lucian, and he really thought so. He had sweeter
things to dream of, and desired no communion of feeling with that madman who
had left Caermaen some few hours before. He felt he had made a fool of himself,
he was ashamed to think of the fatuity of which he had been guilty, such
boiling hatred was not only wicked, but absurd. A man could do no good who put
himself into a position of such violent antagonism against his
fellow-creatures; so Lucian rebuked his heart, saying that he was old enough to
know better. But he remembered that he had sweeter things to dream of; there
was a secret ecstasy that he treasured and locked tight away, as a joy too
exquisite even for thought till he was quite alone; and then there was that
scheme for a new book that he had laid down hopelessly some time ago; it seemed
to have arisen into life again within the last hour; he understood that he had started
on a false tack, he had taken the wrong aspect of his idea. Of course the thing
couldn't be written in that way; it was like trying to read a page turned
upside down; and he saw those characters he had vainly sought suddenly
disambushed, and a splendid inevitable sequence of events unrolled before him.
It
was a true resurrection; the dry plot he had constructed revealed itself as a
living thing, stirring and mysterious, and warm as life itself. The parson was
smoking stolidly to all appearance, but in reality he was full of amazement at
his own son, and now and again he slipped sly furtive glances towards the
tranquil young man in the arm-chair by the empty hearth. In the first place,
Mr. Taylor was genuinely impressed by what he had read of Lucian's work; he had
so long been accustomed to look upon all effort as futile that success amazed
him. In the abstract, of course, he was prepared to admit that some people did
write well and got published and made money, just as other persons successfully
backed an outsider at heavy odds; but it had seemed as improbable that Lucian
should show even the beginnings of achievement in one direction as in the
other. Then the boy evidently cared so little about it; he did not appear to be
proud of being worth robbing, nor was he angry with the robbers.
He
sat back luxuriously in the disreputable old chair, drawing long slow wreaths
of smoke, tasting his whisky from time to time, evidently well at ease with
himself. The father saw him smile, and it suddenly dawned upon him that his son
was very handsome; he had such kind gentle eyes and a kind mouth, and his pale
cheeks were flushed like a girl's. Mr. Taylor felt moved. What a harmless young
fellow Lucian had been; no doubt a little queer and different from others, but
wholly inoffensive and patient under disappointment. And Miss Deacon, her
contribution to the evening's discussion had been characteristic; she had
remarked, firstly, that writing was a very unsettling occupation, and secondly,
that it was extremely foolish to entrust one's property to people of whom one
knew nothing. Father and son had smiled together at these observations, which
were probably true enough. Mr. Taylor at last left Lucian along; he shook hands
with a good deal of respect, and said, almost deferentially:
"You
mustn't work too hard, old fellow. I wouldn't stay up too late, if I were you,
after that long walk. You must have gone miles out of your way."
"I'm
not tired now, though. I feel as if I could write my new book on the
spot"; and the young man laughed a gay sweet laugh that struck the father
as a new note in his son's life.
He
sat still a moment after his father had left the room. He cherished his chief
treasure of thought in its secret place; he would not enjoy it yet. He drew up
a chair to the table at which he wrote or tried to write, and began taking pens
and paper from the drawer. There was a great pile of ruled paper there; all of
it used, on one side, and signifying many hours of desperate scribbling, of
heart-searching and rack of his brain; an array of poor, eager lines written by
a waning fire with waning hope; all useless and abandoned. He took up the
sheets cheerfully, and began in delicious idleness to look over these fruitless
efforts. A page caught his attention; he remembered how he wrote it while a
November storm was dashing against the panes; and there was another, with a
queer blot in one corner; he had got up from his chair and looked out, and all
the earth was white fairyland, and the snowflakes whirled round and round in
the wind. Then he saw the chapter begun of a night in March: a great gale blew
that night and rooted up one of the ancient yews in the churchyard. He had
heard the trees shrieking in the woods, and the long wail of the wind, and
across the heaven a white moon fled awfully before the streaming clouds. And
all these poor abandoned pages now seemed sweet, and past unhappiness was
transmuted into happiness, and the nights of toil were holy. He turned over
half a dozen leaves and began to sketch out the outlines of the new book on the
unused pages; running out a skeleton plan on one page, and dotting fancies,
suggestions, hints on others. He wrote rapidly, overjoyed to find that loving
phrases grew under his pen; a particular scene he had imagined filled him with
desire; he gave his hand free course, and saw the written work glowing; and
action and all the heat of existence quickened and beat on the wet page. Happy
fancies took shape in happier words, and when at last he leant back in his
chair he felt the stir and rush of the story as if it had been some portion of
his own life. He read over what he had done with a renewed pleasure in the
nimble and flowing workmanship, and as he put the little pile of manuscript
tenderly in the drawer he paused to enjoy the anticipation of tomorrow's labor.
And
then - but the rest of the night was given to tender and delicious things, and
when he went up to bed a scarlet dawn was streaming from the east.
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