Spratswas 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 beingthough 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 (sheisa 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 atpresent; 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 pisfor 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’sdelights 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—
‘Thy dove-like soul is prisoned in my heartWith gold and silver chains that may not break,’
‘Thy dove-like soul is prisoned in my heartWith gold and silver chains that may not break,’
‘Thy dove-like soul is prisoned in my heartWith gold and silver chains that may not break,’
and concluded—
‘While e’er the world remaineth, thou shalt beQueen of my heart as I am king of thine.’
‘While e’er the world remaineth, thou shalt beQueen of my heart as I am king of thine.’
‘While e’er the world remaineth, thou shalt beQueen of my heart as I am king of thine.’
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 amoueat 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 shesmacked 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 astraw 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 areyoutalking 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 hisfists 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 beautifulplunkon 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 therewillbe 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 theblood, 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’mnota 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 foeutterly 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!’
Thatnight, 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 recognisedthe 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.
Withintwelve 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 ofLara, 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 ofMichael. 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 leftWellsby 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 theEwigkeit, 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 thelawyer’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 aboutit. 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 namein 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’tbeen 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 ofa 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 wailDe Profundishe had been commanded to singTe De Laudamus, and his glorification of lords was his version of that pæan of joyfulness.
Lucianreceived 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 extremelyunlikely 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 falland 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 hisprotégésettled 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.
Aboutthe 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 nameWilliam Robertsonon a neighbouring window, with the wordPublisherunderneath 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 theTimes, 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 agreedto this proposition, and opened theTimes. 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 fora 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 helooked 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 enemywas 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?’