There was a in the sky as if great doors were opened.
But all the his had looked on glamour; he had in fairyland. The were nearly done, and Lucian Taylor had gone out to himself, to and that he had before. The air was still, breathless, after rain, and the clouds looked as if they had been of lead. No upon the hill, and in the well of the not a stirred, not a in all the dark January woods.
About a mile from the he had from the main road by an opening that promised and adventure. It was an old neglected lane, little more than a ditch, ten by its winter waters, and by great hedges, together. On each were streams, and here and there a of water the banks, the lane. It was so and dark that he not a of the country through which he was passing, but the way and to some hollow.
Perhaps he walked two miles the high of the its ceased, but he with the of having very far, all the long way from the know to the unknown. He had come as it were into the of a bowl the hills, and black out the world. From the road him, from the road him, from the the trees, of and the center to the that the lane. Amid the and of the air, and clouds, it was to such a of and water, and he for a while on the and the of and and of straw, all past him, to into the spume, the that had against a tree.
Then he again, and up rocks, higher and higher, till the noise of indistinct, a of in summer. He walked some on level ground, till there was a in the banks and a on which he and look out. He himself, as he had hoped, and forlorn; he had into and territory. From the of the lane, the of a hill, he looked into and dingles, and beyond, across the trees, to country, wild and dark lands meeting the still sky. Immediately his the ground to the valley, a of close with bracken, and here and there with thorns, and there were woods, all still and silent, and as if no one passed that way. The and and and woods, all were and the sky, and as Lucian looked he was amazed, as though he were reading a story, the meaning of which was a little than his understanding. Then, like the hero of a fairy-book, he on and on, now and again of the country into which he had penetrated, and than that as the day more and somber. As he he the of the farms, the low of the cattle, and the barking of the sheepdogs; a thin noise from away. It was late, and as the he walked faster, till once more the to descend, there was a turn, and he himself, with a good of relief, and a little disappointment, on familiar ground. He had nearly a circle, and this end of the very well; it was not much more than a mile from home. He walked the hill; the air was all and indistinct, trees and into shapes, and the of the White House Farm on the hillside, as if they were moving him. Then a came. First, a little of wind with a through the hedges, the left on the to stir, and one or two madly, and as the wind and came up from a new quarter, the above against one another like bones. The to clear the air and it. He was the where a path to old Mrs. Gibbon's little cottage, in the middle of the fields, at some from the lane, and he saw the light of her above the trees, against a that was along the horizon. As he passed the with his bent, and his on the ground, something white started out from the black of the hedge, and in the twilight, now with a from the west, a to swim past him and disappear. For a moment he who it be, the light was so and unsteady, so the of the day, when he it was only Annie Morgan, old Morgan's at the White House. She was three years older than he, and it him to that though she was only fifteen, there had been a in her since the holidays. He had got to the of the hill, and, up his eyes, saw the of the sky. The had into a clear space of light, and above, the clouds were and across the the wind. He stopped to watch, and looked up at the great that out from the into mid-valley. It was a natural formation, and always it must have had something of the of a fort, but its had been by Roman art, and there were high banks on the which Lucian's father had told him were the of the camp, and a had been to the north to it from the hillside. On this had grown, stunted-looking trees with and trunks, and branches; and these now out black against the sky. And then the air once more; the increased, and a spot like blood appeared in the by the gate, and all the clouds were touched with and of flame; here and there it looked as if doors were being opened.
The wind wildly, and it came up through the with a noise like a scream, and a great by the ground its together with a jar. As the red in the sky, the earth and all upon it glowed, the winter and the crimsoned, the were of brass, and the very road glittered. He was wonder-struck, almost aghast, the magic of the afterglow. The old Roman was with fire; from were about its walls, and above there was a dark cloud, like of smoke, and every tree as black as midnight against the black of the furnace.
When he got home he his mother's voice calling: "Here's Lucian at last. Mary, Master Lucian has come, you can the tea ready." He told a long of his adventures, and when his father perfectly with the whole of the lane, and the names of the wild through which he had passed in awe.
"You must have gone by the Darren, I suppose"—that was all he said. "Yes, I noticed the sunset; we shall have some weather. I don't to see many in church tomorrow."
There was toast for tea "because it was holidays." The red were drawn, and a fire was burning, and there was the old familiar furniture, a little shabby, but from association. It was much than the cold and schoolroom; and much to be reading Chambers's Journal than learning Euclid; and to talk to his father and mother than to be such as: "I say, Taylor, I've my trousers; how much do you for mending?" "Lucy, dear, come quick and this on my shirt."
That night the him, and he with his hands the bedclothes, and sat up, shuddering, not where he was. He had himself, in a dream, the Roman fort, some dark horror, and the doors were opened and a blast of from was upon him.
Lucian slowly, but not discreditably, up the school, now and again, and in love more and more with reading and knowledge. He did his and well enough, but he himself in the Latin of the middle ages. He liked history, but he loved to on a land waste, Britain by the legions, the by frost, Celtic magic still on the wild and in the black of the forest, the marbles with rain, and the grey. The masters did not these researches; a pure enthusiasm, they felt, should be for and football, the might play and read Shakespeare without blame, but healthy English boys should have nothing to do with periods. He was once of Villon to a school-fellow named Barnes. Barnes to from the text preparation, and in his place, to his for the language. The was a one; the had of Villon, and the gave up the name of his without remorse. Hence, for Lucian, and complete for the Barnes, who to his to the Old Testament, a book which the well. As for Lucian, he on, learning his work decently, and sometimes doing very Latin and Greek prose. His school-fellows him mad, and him, and were very to him in their manner. He often in after life of and good nature done by like Barnes, who had no for old French for meters, and such always moved him to emotion. Travelers tell such tales; upon races, they have no little and of hospitality.
He looked to the as as the of them. Barnes and his friend Duscot used to tell him their plans and anticipation; they were going home to and sisters, and to cricket, more cricket, or to football, more football, and in the winter there were parties and of all sorts. In return he would his of studying the Hebrew language, or Provençal, with a walk up a and by way of open-air amusement, and on a rainy day for choice. Whereupon Barnes would to Duscot his that old Taylor was cracked. It was a queer, life that of school, and so very anything in Tom Brown. He once saw the the of the bishop's little boy, while he called him "my little man," and hideously. He told the in the room the same day, and much applause, but all directly by a of logic. One him to the ground and another jumped on him, but it was done very pleasantly. There were, indeed, some of a class in the school, sycophants, perfected from years, who life already "serious," and yet, as the said, were "joyous, fellows." Some of these for dinner at home, and talked of when they came in January. But this was infrequent, and great success in after life. Taking his days as a whole, he always spoke up for the system, and years he with the at a tavern, some way out of the town. But he always that the taste for tobacco, in early life, was the great life, was the great note of the English Public School.
Three years after Lucian's of the narrow and the of the fort, the August him home at a time of great heat. It was one of those years of English weather, when some Provençal spell the in the northern sea, and the as the cicadas, the of rosemary, and white of the old in the as if they in Arles or Avignon or Tarascon by Rhone.
Lucian's father was late at the station, and Lucian the Confessions of an English Opium Eater which he saw on the bookstall. When his father did drive up, Lucian noticed that the old had had a new of dark paint, and that the looked in years.
"I was that I should be late, Lucian," said his father, "though I old Polly go like anything. I was just going to tell George to put her into the when Philip Harris came to me in a terrible state. He said his father 'all of a like' in the middle of the field, and they couldn't make him speak, and would I to come and see him. So I had to go, though I couldn't do anything for the fellow. They had sent for Dr. Burrows, and I am he will it a case of sunstroke. The old people say they such a before."
The along the road, taking for the on the way to the station. The were white with the dust, and the of over the fields. Lucian his Confessions to his father, and to talk of the he had already found. Mr. Taylor the book well—had read it many years before. Indeed he was almost as difficult to as that in Daudet, who had one for all the of life, and when he saw the Academician out of the river, "J'ai vu ça." Mr. Taylor the parson, as his called him, had read the books and loved the and woods, and now no more of or surprises. Indeed the was much in value, and his own private means were almost to point, and under such the great many of its savors. He was very of Lucian, and by his return, but in the he would be a sad man again, with his on one hand, and sorry fortune.
Nobody called out "Here's your master with Master Lucian; you can tea ready," when the up to the door. His mother had been a year, and a house. She was a person called Deacon, of middle age, and ordinary standards; and, consequently, there was cold mutton on the table. There was a cake, but nothing of flour, in ovens, would at Miss Deacon's evocation. Still, the was in the "parlor," with the view of and and from the open window, and the old was still to see, and the old books in the had many memories. One of the most of the had weak in the and had to be up, but Lucian it very after the hard forms. When tea was over he out and in the garden and orchards, and looked over the into the brake, where and and with the undergrowth, where he of and recesses, in the green, the for many years of his meditations. Every path about his home, every and had dear and memories for him; and the odor of the was than the in the sunshine. He loitered, and over the till the far-off to turn purple, till the white were in the valley.
Day after day, through all that August, and were in haze; day after day the earth in the heat, and the air was strange, unfamiliar. As he in the and by the sweet of the woods, he saw and that nothing was common or accustomed, for the the and all the of the earth. Under the Provençal sun, the and looked trees, and in the early morning, when the were thick, the had put on an shape.
The one of the was the visit to the Roman fort, to that hill about and he had the of nearly three years before. Ever since that Saturday in January, the had been a place to him; he had the green in and winter weather, had the the rain, had marked the swim up from the ice-white of evenings, had the and in April twilight. In the of the there was a gate on which he used to and look south to where the hill up so suddenly, its on not only by the but by the ring of green that marked the circle of trees. Higher up the lane, on the way he had come that Saturday afternoon, one see the white of Morgan's farm on the to the north, and on the south there was the with the view of old Mrs. Gibbon's smoke; but in the hollow, looking over the gate, there was no hint of work, those green and battlements, on which the in circle, the wood.
The ring of the him with that August weather. Standing, or as his would have said, "mooning" by the gate, and looking into that and valley, it to his as if there were a about the hill, an that played like around it. One as he from his station by the gate the and the were more than of enchantment; the green ring out against the sky as still and as in a picture, and Lucian, in of his respect for the law of trespass, over the gate. The farmers and their men were on the with the harvest, and the was irresistible. At he along by the in the of the alders, where the and the flowers of wet richly; but as he nearer to the fort, and its now rose above him, he left all shelter, and to mount. There was not a of wind; the on the hillside; the loud of the was the only sound. It was a and as the away. He for a moment, and looked the which now to wind the alders; above the there were small dark moving in the cornfield, and now and again there came the echo of a high-pitched voice through the air as on a wire. He was wet with heat; the off his face, and he it all over his body. But above him the green rose defiant, and the dark ring of promised coolness. He pressed on, and higher, and at last to up the vallum, on hands and knees, the and here and there the that had through the red earth. And then he lay, with breaths, on the summit.
Within the it was all and and hollow; it was as if one at the of a great cup. Within, the higher than without, and the ring of up like a dark green vault. There were thick and rank in the foss; they looked different from the common in the lanes, and Lucian, his hand touch a by accident, the like fire. Beyond the there was an undergrowth, a of trees, and old, and by the into and forms; and and and and and so and that each seemed, like the nettle, of no common kind. He to his way through the growth, and hard from the of boughs. His once or twice against something than wood, and looking he saw white with the of age, but still the work of the axe. And farther, the of the trees the foot-high of a wall; and a of rank, unknown herbs, that poisonous. The earth was black and unctuous, and under the feet, left no behind. From it, in the places where the was thickest, the of an fungus, making the still air with its odor, and he as he the thing his feet. Then there was a of sunlight, and as he the last apart, he into the open space in the of the camp. It was a lawn of sweet close in the center of the brake, of clean earth from which no sprouted, and near the middle of the was a of a yew-tree, left by the woodman. Lucian it must have been for a seat; a through which a little still ran was a support for the back, and he sat and rested after his toil. It was not so a seat as one of the forms, but the was to anything at all that would for a chair. He sat there, still after the climb and his through the and jungle-like thicket, and he as if he were and hotter; the of the was his hand, and the fire to spread all over his body.
Suddenly, he that he was alone. Not solitary; that he had often been the and in the lanes; but now it was a different and a very sensation. He of the him, all its by the green and peaceful and still, without path or track. Then he had the of the hill, and the green and battlements, the ring of oaks, and the thicket, had come to the space. And there were, he knew, many fields, wild as common, untrodden, unvisited. He was alone. He still as he sat on the stump, and at last at full length on the soft grass, and more at his the of pass over his body.
And then he to dream, to let his over half-imagined, things, a mind in its wanderings. The air to upon him in waves, and the and intolerably; and he was alone upon the hill, the great mounds, the ring of oaks, in the of the thicket. Slowly and he to his boots, with the laces, and all the while on every at the trees that the lawn. Not a branch was straight, not one was free, but all were and one about another; and just above ground, where the joined the roots, there were that the shape, and and that him. Green were hair, and were in lichen; a into a limb; in the of the he saw the of men. His were and by the of the wood, and not see his hands, and so at last, and suddenly, it seemed, he in the sunlight, with his skin, dark haired, dark eyed, the of a faun.
Quick now in the of his nerves, of mysteries, of life passed through his brain, unknown him. As he across the and into the thicket, the to green, and the the on the lawn and the black of the an odd light, in which all the of and to stir; the was alive. The him and as with the of the sea. He asleep, and still on the grass, in the of the thicket.
He out that he must have slept for nearly an hour. The had when he awoke; his came to him with a shock, and he sat up and at his in amazement. He on his and his boots, what had him. Then, while he indecisive, hesitating, his brain a of puzzled thought, his trembling, his hands shaking; as with electric heat, him. A red on his cheeks, and and through his limbs. As he awoke, a and had in a of the boughs, and there was a that might have been the of across shadow, and the and for a moment, at the wind's passage.
He out his hands, and to his to return; he the dark that had over him, and the that had him. And then panic into his heart, and he ran blindly, through the wood. He the vallum, and looked out, crouching, should see him. Only the were changed, and a of air from the brook; the were still and peaceful, the black moved, away, the corn, and the echo of the high-pitched voices sang thin and on the wind. Across the stream, in the on the hill, opposite to the fort, the up a from the of old Mrs. Gibbon's cottage. He to full the of the hill, and stopped till he was over the gate and in the again. As he looked back, the to the south, and saw the ascent, the green bulwarks, and the dark ring of oaks; the to play about the with an of flame.
"Where on earth have you been all this time, Lucian?" said his when he got home. "Why, you look ill. It is of you to go walking in such weather as this. I wonder you haven't got a sunstroke. And the tea must be nearly cold. I couldn't keep your father waiting, you know."
He something about being tired, and sat to his tea. It was not cold, for the "cozy" had been put over the pot, but it was black and strong, as his it. The was unpalatable, but it did him good, and the came with great that he had only been asleep and queer, dreams. He off all his with resolution, and the of the camp, and the sunlight, and possibly the sting, which still most abominably, must have been the only in his of recollections. He that when he had the sting, he had a with thick of his handkerchief, and having off a good length, and put it in his pocket to his father. Mr. Taylor was almost when he came in from his about the garden and saw the specimen.
"Where did you manage to come across that, Lucian?" he said. "You haven't been to Caermaen, have you?"
"No. I got it in the Roman by the common."
"Oh, the twyn. You must have been then. Do you know what it is?"
"No. I it looked different from the common nettles."
"Yes; it's a Roman nettle—arctic pilulifera. It's a plant. Burrows says it's to be at Caermaen, but I was able to come across it. I must add it to the of the parish."
Mr. Taylor had to a by a siccus, but on high and fragmentary. He put the on his desk, to it in the book, but the it away, and withered, in a day or two.
Lucian and out in his sleep that night, and the in the was, in a measure, a of the in the fort. But the was not so strong, and in a plain room it all delirium, a phantasmagoria. He had to go to Caermaen in the afternoon, for Mrs. Dixon, the vicar's wife, had "commanded" his presence at tea. Mr. Dixon, though and and clean shaven, of face, was a safe man, with no views on anything. He "deplored" all party convictions, and the great needs of our Church were conciliation, moderation, and above all "amolgamation"—so he the word. Mrs. Dixon was tall, imposing, splendid, well for the Episcopal order, with gifts that would have at the palace. There were daughters, who German Literature, and Miss Frances Ridley Havergal poetry, but Lucian had no of them; he the boys. Everybody said they were such fine, fellows, such boys, with such a good manner, sure to on in the world. Lucian had said "Bother!" in a very manner when the was to him, but there was no out of it. Miss Deacon did her best to make him look smart; his were all so that she had to supply the want with a narrow of a sky-blue tint; and she him so long and so that he why a sometimes and sometimes kicks the groom. He set out two and three in a of mind; he too well what the with boys meant. He the more than his anticipation. The boys were in the field, and the he when he got in of the group was:
"Hullo, Lucian, how much for the tie?" "Fine tie," another, a stranger, observed. "You it from the kitten, didn't you?"
Then they up a game of cricket, and he was put in first. He was l.b.w. in his second over, so they all said, and had to for the of the afternoon. Arthur Dixon, who was about his own age, all the laws of hospitality, told him he was a when he missed a catch, a difficult catch. He missed catches, and it as if he were always after balls, which, as Edward Dixon said, any fool, a baby, have stopped. At last the game up, from Lucian's of skill, as declared. Edward Dixon, who was thirteen, and had a red and a eye, wanted to him for the game, and the others that he the in a dirty manner. The boy, who was called De Carti, and was to be related to Lord De Carti of M'Carthytown, said openly that the at his place wouldn't such a for five minutes. So the passed off very indeed, till it was time to go into the for weak tea, cake, and plums. He got away at last. As he out at the gate, he De Carti's final observation:
"We like to dress well at our place. His must be to let him go about like that. D'y' see his are all at heel? Is old Taylor a gentleman?"
It had been a very afternoon, but there was a when the was behind, and the of the little town, once the of Siluria, haze-like over the and with the river mist. He looked from the of the road on the houses, saw the points of light start out from the on the beyond, and at the long in the twilight, till the came and all that was the of the forest. The way was through the lane, with of country, the of night the and meadows. A warm wind of odor from the by the brook, now and then and through the air, a note as from a great organ away, and from the of the came the "who-oo, who-oo, who-oo" of the owls, a wild that with the and of the night-jar, in the bracken. The moon up through the of cloud, and hung, a lantern, in mid-air; and, set in the hedge, the little green of the appeared. He slowly up the lane, in the religion of the scene, and the country by night as and as a dimly-lit cathedral. He had the "manly fellows" and their sports, and only as the land to and in the moonlight that he by some medium of or color how to the about his way.
"Had a evening, Lucian?" said his father when he came in.
"Yes, I had a walk home. Oh, in the we played cricket. I didn't for it much. There was a boy named De Carti there; he is with the Dixons. Mrs. Dixon to me when we were going in to tea, 'He's a second of Lord De Carti's,' and she looked as if she were in church."
The and his old pipe.
"Baron De Carti's great-grandfather was a Dublin attorney," he remarked. "Which his name was Jeremiah M'Carthy. His fellow-citizens called him the Unjust Steward, also the Bloody Attorney, and I that 'to with M'Carthy' was a popular about the time of the Union."
Mr. Taylor was a man of very wide and reading and a memory; he often used to wonder why he had not in the Church. He had once told Mr. Dixon a and the bishop's college days, and he why the did not according to his when the name of Taylor was called at the next visitation. Some people said the was candles, but that was impossible, as the Reverend and Honorable Smallwood Stafford, Lord Beamys's son, who had a of in the city, was well to no end of candles, and with him the was on the best of terms. Indeed the often at Coplesey (pronounced "Copsey") Hall, Lord Beamys's place in the west.
Lucian had mentioned the name of De Carti with intention, and had a little Mrs. Dixon's manner. He such his father, who look at these from a proper point of view, and, as people said, sometimes the for a clergyman. This way of was one of the great father and son, but it to their isolation. People said they would often have liked to asked Mr. Taylor to garden-parties, and tea-parties, and other entertainments, if only he had not been such an man and so queer. Indeed, a year before, Mr. Taylor had gone to a garden-party at the Castle, Caermaen, and had such fun of the bishop's address on to the Portuguese, that the Gervases and Dixons and all who him were and annoyed. And, as Mrs. Meyrick of Lanyravon observed, his black was perfectly green with age; so on the whole the Gervases did not like to Mr. Taylor again. As for the son, nobody to have him; Mrs. Dixon, as she said to her husband, asked him out of charity.
"I am he a at home," she remarked, "so I he would a good tea for once in a way. But he is such an boy, he would only have one slice of that plain cake, and I couldn't him to take more than two plums. They were too, and boys are so of fruit."
Thus Lucian was to his in his own company, and make the best he of the on the south of the garden. There was a where the of that August concentrated, from one to the other, and here he liked to of mornings, when the were still thick in the valleys, "mooning," meditating, his walk from the to the and again, the of brick. He was full of a wonder and awe, not with a of exultation, and more and more to be alone, to think over that the fort. In of himself the was fading; he not that of panic terror that him through the and the hillside; yet, he had so the physical and of the flesh; he that for a after his the of his own had him and as if it had some degradation. He saw him a of two forms; a with and in the sunlight, and there was also the of a boy, with and shaking, hands. It was all confused, a of images, now of and ecstasy, and now of terror and shame, in a light that was and unreal. He not approach the again; he in the road to Caermaen that passed it, but a mile away, and by the wild land and a of from the battlements. Here he was looking over a gate one day, and wondering, when he a step him, and saw it was old Morgan of the White House.
"Good afternoon, Master Lucian," he began. "Mr. Taylor well, I suppose? I be goin' to the house a minute; the men in the are wantin' some more cider. Would you come and taste a of cider, Master Lucian? It's very good, sir, indeed."
Lucian did not want any cider, but he it would old Morgan if he took some, so he said he should like to taste the very much indeed. Morgan was a sturdy, thick-set old man of the stock; a churchman, who on and Caerphilly in the fashion of his ancestors; hot, was for winter nights, and for seasons. The farm had always been the of the family, and when Lucian, in the wake of the yeoman, passed through the by the door, into the long dark kitchen, he as though the seventeenth century still on. One window, set in the wall, gave all the light there was through of thick in which there were and circles, so that the rose-branch and the garden and the were to the sight. Two beams, but whitewashed, ran across the ceiling; a little of fire in the great fireplace, and a of up the of the chimney. Here was the chimney-corner of our fathers; there were seats on each of the where one and on December nights, warm and in the light, and to the of the storm, and the and at the snowflakes. At the of the fire were great tiles with and a date.—I.M., 1684.
"Sit down, Master Lucian, down, sir," said Morgan.
"Annie," he called through one of the doors, "here's Master Lucian, the parson, would like a of cider. Fetch a jug, will you, directly?"
"Very well, father," came the voice from the dairy and presently the girl entered, the she held. In his way Lucian had been a good by Annie Morgan; he see her on Sundays from his seat in church, and her skin, pale, her that as though they were with some pigment, her black hair, and the black eyes, gave him odd which he had to himself. Annie had into a woman in three years, and he was still a boy. She came into the kitchen, and smiling.
"Good-day, Master Lucian, and how is Mr. Taylor, sir?"
"Pretty well, thank you. I you are well."
"Nicely, sir, thank you. How your voice do in church, Master
Lucian, to be sure. I was telling father about it last Sunday."
Lucian and uncomfortable, and the girl set the on the table and a from the dresser. She close over him as she out the green cider, of the orchard; her hand touched his for a moment, and she said, "I your pardon, sir," very prettily. He looked up at her face; the black eyes, a little in shape, were shining, and the smiled. Annie a plain dress of some black stuff, open at the throat; her skin was beautiful. For a moment the of a in his mind; and then Annie as she him the cider, and to his thanks with, "And welcome kindly, sir."
The drink was good; not thin, sweet, but and full and generous, with a yellow through the green when one it up to the light. It was like a on the in a orchard, and he the with relish, and had some more, it. Mr. Morgan was touched.
"I see you do know a good thing, sir," he said. "Is, indeed, now, it's good stuff, though it's my own makin'. My old he planted the trees in the time of the wars, and he was a very good judge of an apple in his day and generation. And a famous he was, to be sure. You will see no in the trees he at all whatever. Now there's James Morris, Penyrhaul, he's a famous grafter, too, and yet them Redstreaks he for me five year ago, they be all swollen-like the already. Would you like to taste a Blemmin pippin, now, Master Lucian? there be a left in the loft, I believe."
Lucian said he should like an apple very much, and the farmer out by another door, and Annie in the talking. She said Mrs. Trevor, her married sister, was to them soon to a days.
"She's got such a baby," said Annie, "and he's sensible-like already, though he's only nine months old. Mary would like to see you, sir, if you would be so as to step in; that is, if it's not you at all, Master Lucian. I you must be a now, sir?"
"I am doing well, thank you," said the boy. "I was in my last term."
"Fancy! To think of that! D'you hear, father, what a Master
Lucian be getting?"
"He be a grammarian, I'm sure," said the farmer. "You do take after your father, sir; I always do say that nobody have got such a good in the pulpit."
Lucian did not the Blenheim Orange as good as the cider, but he ate it with all the of relish, and put another, with thanks, in his pocket. He thanked the farmer again when he got up to go; and Annie and smiled, and him good-day, and welcome, kindly.
Lucian her saying to her father as he out what a nice-mannered he was getting, to be sure; and he on his way, that Annie was very pretty, and as to he would have the to her, if they met in a dark lane. He was sure she would only laugh, and say, "Oh, Master Lucian!"
For many months he had occasional of recollection, cold and hot; but the of time, lengthening, those and images more and more indistinct, till at last they all passed into that which a looks upon in amazement, not why this used to be a symbol of terror or that of joy. At the end of each term he would come home and his father a little more despondent, and to for a moment; and the paper and the more and more and shabby. The two cats, loved and beasts, that he when he was a little boy, he to school, died miserably, one after the other. Old Polly, the pony, at last in the from the of old age, and had to be killed there; the old ran no longer along the well-remembered lanes. There was long on the lawn, and the fruit trees on the had got out of hand. At last, when Lucian was seventeen, his father was to take him from school; he no longer the fees. This was the sorry of many hopes, and of a double-first, a fellowship, and that the had long for his son, and the two together, in the room, one on each of the fire, of days and plans, and a in the years that them. At one time there some of a relative to Lucian's assistance; and it was settled that he should go up to London with aims. Mr. Taylor told the good news to his acquaintances—his was too green now for any of friendship; and Lucian himself spoke of his plans to Burrows the doctor and Mr. Dixon, and one or two others. Then the whole through, and the and his son much sympathy. People, of course, had to say they were sorry, but in the news was with high spirits, with the with which one sees a stone, as it a place, give yet another the beneath. Mrs. Dixon the from Mrs. Colley, who came in to talk about the Mothers' Meeting and the Band of Hope. Mrs. Dixon was nursing little Athelwig, or some such name, at the time, and many on the with which the world was governed. Indeed, Lucian's to her in the Divine Order, as if it had been some example in Butler's Analogy.
"Aren't Mr. Taylor's views very extreme?" she said to her husband the same evening.
"I am they are," he replied. "I was at the last Diocesan Conference at the way in which he spoke. The dear old had an address on Auricular Confession; he was to do so, you know, after what had happened, and I must say that I of our Church."
Mr. Dixon told all the Homeric of the conference, the of the champions, "deploring" this and that. It that Mr. Taylor had had the to which the not very well repudiate, though they were directly to the "safe" Episcopal pronouncement.
Mrs. Dixon of was grieved; it was "sad" to think of a so shamefully.
"But you know, dear," she proceeded, "I have been about that Taylor boy and his disappointments, and after what you've just told me, I am sure it's some of on them both. Has Mr. Taylor the he took at his ordination? But don't you think, dear, I am right, and that he has been punished: 'The of the fathers'?"
Somehow or other Lucian the of and judgments, and more and more from the small of the countryside. For his part, when he was not "mooning" in the and of happy memory, he himself up with books, reading be on the shelves, and a store of and knowledge. Long did he with the men of the seventeenth century; the with Pepys, and to the of the Restoration Revel; by peaceful with Izaak Walton, and the great Catholic divines; with the portrait of Herbert the ascetic; by the of Crashaw. Then the sang their songs; and Herrick Dean Prior magic ground by the of a verse. And in the old and of the time he the good and English life, a time full of and and rich merriment. He and into his books; he had taken all to be his province; in his at the questions, "Will it pay?" "What good is it?" and so forth, he would only read what was and useless. The and of the Cabala, with its hint of more terrible things; the Rosicrucian of Fludd, the of Vaughan, of alchemists—all these were his delight. Such were his companions, with the and woods, the and waterpools; books, the of books, the of imagination, all into one by the magic of the country. He himself from the of the fort; he was to see the mounds, the with bulwarks, from the gate in the lane, and to all the ring of in the of his boyhood's vision. He to laugh at himself and at his of that August afternoon, when sleep came to him the thicket, but in his of there was something that faded—something that like the red of a gypsy's fire from across the and of the night, and to be in a wild land. Sometimes, when he was in his books, the of up, and him a whole and of his nature, all and aglow; and in the of the and he would back, a little afraid. He had in his and isolation, and the of such him. He to a little; at very and feebly, and then with more confidence. He some of his to his father, who told him with a that he had once to write—in the old days at Oxford, he added.
"They are very done," said the parson; "but I'm you won't to print them, my boy."
So he on; reading everything, what his fancy, attempting the of the in English verse, trying his hand at a masque, a Restoration comedy, plans for books which got a dozen lines on a of paper; with which to the pen. But the of was not vain, for it gave him some about his heart.
The months by, monotonous, and sometimes with despair. He and planned and the waste-paper with efforts. Now and then he sent or articles to magazines, in of the trade. He the of the career of without it; the was in a mist, so that the of the enemy, arrayed, was to some hidden. Yet there was of to appall; from the of little brooks, from woods, from the of the mountains, and the of the great wind, from to deep, he would come home with and emotions, which he to into the word. And the result of the always to be bathos! Wooden sentences, a style, obscurity, and the pen; it to win the great of language; the only in the darkness, and away in light. The of were often long and heavy, the victories very and trifling; night after night he sat after his father had out his last pipe, a page with in an hour, and to the away in despair, and go to bed, that after all his labor he had done nothing. And these were moments when the of the land him, and the wild and of some terrible in the life of that stranger—himself. Sometimes when he was in his books and papers, sometimes on a walk, sometimes the of Caermaen "society," he would with a of things, and there ran that through his nerves that the of the thicket, and that of the black with flames. Indeed, though he the lane, and the of the height, with its ring of and mounds, the image of it more as the symbol of and suggestions. The and to have its temple and those walls, and he with all his to escape, to set himself free in the of London, and to be secure the of modern streets.
