He settled himself on the seat, his pipe, and to read: "A Bad Un to Beat: a Novel of Sporting Life, by the Honorable Mrs. Scudamore Runnymede, author of Yoicks, With the Mudshire Pack, The Sportleigh Stables, etc., etc., 3 vols. At all Libraries." The Press, it seemed, this to be a "charming book. Mrs. Runnymede has and to half-a-dozen ordinary novels." "Told with the and of a past-mistress in the art of writing," said the Review; while Miranda, of Smart Society, positively with enthusiasm. "You must me, Aminta," this person, "if I have not sent the I promised of Madame Lulu's new and others of that ilk. I must a unfold; Tom came in yesterday and to about the Honorable Mrs. Scudamore Runnymede's last novel, A Bad Un to Beat. He says all the Smart Set are talking of it, and it the police have to the at Mudie's. You know I read Mrs. Runnymede writes, so I set out Miggs directly to beg, borrow or a copy, and I I the midnight oil I it down. Now, mind you it, you will it so chic." Nearly all the on Messrs Beit's list were ladies, their all ran to three volumes, and all of them pleased the Press, the Review, and Miranda of Smart Society. One of these books, Millicent's Marriage, by Sarah Pocklington Sanders, was fit to on the school-room table, on the drawing-room bookshelf, or the pillow of the most of our daughters. "This," the on, "is high praise, in these days when we are by the loud-voiced of self-styled 'artists.' We would the men who so of and literature, and harmonies, that we the English reading public will have none of them. Harmless amusement, a of interest, a of the open and life of the field, pictures of and healthy English such as Miss Sanders here us; these are the that will always a welcome in our homes, which and against the artist and the stylist."
He over the pages of the little book and in high relish; he an enthusiasm, a to a for the good and true that and exhilarated. A face, and probably, an waistcoat, and a heart, to through the which Messrs Beit had quoted; and the of the final sentence; that was good too; there was for you if you wanted it. The of the and the that he too the of the enemy if he to trouble himself with such things. Lucian and with till the tom-cat who had succeeded to the looked up from his sunny corner, with a like the reviewer's, and and whiskered. At last he to his parcel and out some half-dozen of manuscript, and to read in a spirit; it was obvious, he thought, that the was and the of publication. The book had taken a year and a in the making; it was a attempt to into English the and of the hills, the magic of valleys, the of the red through woods. Day-dreams and at nights had gone into the pages, he had hard to do his very best, and rewriting, his cadences, over and over again, no patience, no trouble if only it might be good; good to print and sell to a reading public which had critical. He through the in his hand, and to his astonishment, he not help that in its measure it was work. After three months his fresh and as if it had been by another man, and in of himself he things, and that were not commonplace. He how weak it all was with his own conceptions; he had an city, awful, glorious, with about its battlements, like the of the Sangraal, and he had his copy in such as came to his hand; yet, in of the that the idea and the work, he as he read that the thing was very from a failure. He put the carefully, and again at Messrs Beit's list. It had his notice that A Bad Un to Beat was in its third three-volume edition. It was a great thing, at all events, to know in what direction to aim, if he to succeed. If he hard, he thought, he might some day win the of the and retiring Miranda of Smart Society; that might in his her of advertisement, her to "go to Jumper's, and mind you ask for Mr. C. Jumper, who will you the paper with the yellow at ten the piece." He put the pamphlet, and laughed again at the books and the reviewers: so that he might not weep. This then was English fiction, this was English criticism, and farce, after all, was but an ill-played tragedy.
The rejected was away, and his father Horace's as to the of for some time "in the wood." There was nothing to at, though Lucian was to think the of the reader's a little exaggerated. But this was a trifle; he did not to himself the position of a small traveler, who as a of course, and not at all as a favor. He his old book, and that he would make a one if he could. With the fit of resolution, the not to be out by one upon him, he to about in his mind for some new scheme. At it that he had upon a promising subject; he to plot out and for the that had entered his mind, his and the to be produced with all the of the artist. But after the the of the work changed; page after page was as hopeless, the he had of to be written, and his and wooden, of life or motion. Then all the old came back, the of the who and in vain; the that of fire to cold hard ice in his hands. He let the pen from his fingers, and how he have of books. Again, the that he might do something if he only away, and join the sad in the London streets, from the of those hills. But it was impossible; the relative who had once promised was to, and his that Lucian had out a "loafer," his time in scribbling, of trying to earn his living. Lucian at this letter, but the only as usual. He was of how he a check many years before, in the days of his prosperity, and the check was to this relative, then in but a way, and of a turn of mind.
The old rejected had almost passed out of his recollection. It was enough. He was looking over the Reader, and the criticisms, some three months after the return of his book, when his was by a passage in one of the notices. The and memory, the were familiar and beloved. He read through the from the beginning; it was a very one, and the an on Mr. Ritson's previous work. "Here, undoubtedly, the author has a of pure metal," the added, "and we that he will go far." Lucian had not yet his father's stage, he was unable to in the manner of that parson. The passage for high was taken almost word for word from the now in his room, the work that had not the high of Messrs Beit & Co., who, enough, were the of the book in the Reader. He had a in his possession, and at once to a in London for a copy of The Chorus in Green, as the author had named the book. He on June 21st and he might to the by the 24th; but the postman, true to his tradition, nothing for him, and in the he to walk to Caermaen, in case it might have come by a second post; or it might have been at the office; they sometimes, when the was and the weather hot. This 24th was a and day; a of cloud the sky, and a over the land, and up from the valleys. But at five o'clock, when he started, the clouds to break, and the through the air, making and of rich glory, and in the gloom. It was a and when, by to avoid the (as he very called the of the town), he the post-office; which was also the shop.
"Yes, Mr. Taylor, there is something for you, sir," said the man. "Williams the to take it up this morning," and he over the packet. Lucian took it under his arm and slowly through the till he came into the country. He got over the on the road, and in the of a hedge, cut the and opened the parcel. The Chorus in Green was got up in what call a manner: a bronze-green cloth, well-cut gold lettering, wide and black "old-face" type, all to the good taste of Messrs Beit & Co. He cut the pages and to read. He soon that he had Mr. Ritson—that old hand had by no means his book wholesale, as he had expected. There were about two hundred pages in the little volume, and of these about ninety were Lucian's, into a different with skill that was nothing of exquisite. And Mr. Ritson's own work was often very good; here and there for some tastes by the "cataloguing" method, a way of taking an of the country things; but, for that very reason, to a great with Lucian's and and note of haunting. And here and there Mr. Ritson had little in the of the passages he had conveyed, and most of these were amendments, as Lucian was to confess, though he would have liked to argue one or two points with his and corrector. He his pipe and in the hedge, over, very his of humanity, his with the "society" of the countryside, the of the The Chorus in Green, and some little that had him as he was walking through the of Caermaen that evening. At the post-office, when he was for his parcel, he had two old in the street; it seemed, so as he make out, that had been in much the same way. One was a Roman Catholic, hardened, and the of conversion; she had been to ask of the priests, "who are always and about." The other old was a Dissenter, and, "Mr. Dixon has to do to good Church people."
Mrs. Dixon, by Henrietta, was, it seemed, the lady high almoner, who these charities. As she said to Mrs. Colley, they would end by all the in the county, and they couldn't it. A large family was an thing, and the girls must have new frocks. "Mr. Dixon is always telling me and the girls that we must not the people by charity." Lucian had of these counsels, and through it them as he to the of the gaunt, old women. In the by which he passed out of the town he saw a large "healthy" boy kicking a cat; the had just to under an door; to die in torments. He did not much in the boy, but he did it with good will. Further on, at the where the used to be, was a big notice, announcing a meeting at the school-room in of the to the Portuguese. "Under the Patronage of the Lord Bishop of the Diocese," was the headline; the Reverend Merivale Dixon, of Caermaen, was to be in the chair, supported by Stanley Gervase, Esq., J.P., and by many of the and of the neighborhood. Senhor Diabo, "formerly a Romanist priest, now an in Lisbon," would address the meeting. "Funds are urgently needed to on this good work," the notice. So he well in the of the hedge, and some of an article not be by the terrible Yahoos; one might point out that they were in many respects a and race, were the result of their position, while such as they had were all their own. They might be compared, he thought, much to their advantage, with more civilizations. There was no hint of anything like the Beit of in them; the great Yahoo nation would surely and a Houyhnhnm, for his from the horse-community, and the dean, in all his minuteness, had said nothing of "safe" Yahoos. On reflection, however, he did not secure of this part of his defense; he that the leading had favorites, who were in offices about their masters, and it the would not on this point. He to himself as he of these comparisons, but his with a fury. Throwing his memory, he all the and he had suffered; as a boy he had the masters their of him and of his to learn other than ordinary work. As a man he had the of these people about him; their at his and in his ears; he saw the of some woman, some the in and manners, merciless, as he by with his on the dust, in his clothes. He and his father to pass an of and contempt, and from such animals as these! This filth, into shape, only to on the rich and them, no too if it were done in of those in power and authority; and no of too if it were of the and and oppressed; it was to this and that he was something to be pointed at. And these men and spoke of things, and the of God, the of fire, as they by Angels and Archangels and all the Company of Heaven; and in their very church they had one for the rich and another for the poor. And the was not to Caermaen; the rich men in London and the successful author were themselves at the of the they had and wounded; just as the "healthy" boy had into a great laugh when the cat out in agony, and its slowly, as it away to die. Lucian looked into his own life and his own will; he saw that in of his follies, and his want of success, he had not been malignant, he had in oppression, or looked on it with and approval, and he that when he the earth, by worms, he would be in a company than now, when he creatures. And he was to call this beast, all and filth, brother! "I had call the my brothers," he said in his heart, "I would in hell." Blood was in his eyes, and as he looked up the sky of blood, and the earth with fire.
The sun was low on the when he set out on the way again. Burrows, the doctor, home in his trap, met him a little on the road, and gave him a good-night.
"A long way on this road, isn't it?" said the doctor. "As you have come so far, why don't you try the cut across the fields? You will it easily enough; second on the left hand, and then go ahead."
He thanked Dr. Burrows and said he would try the cut, and Burrows on homeward. He was a and bachelor, and often very sorry for the lad, and he help him. As he on, it to him that Lucian had an look on his face, and he was sorry he had not asked him to jump in, and to come to supper. A slice of beef, with ale, and afterwards, a good pipe, and Rabelaisian which the doctor had for many years, would have done the a of good, he was certain. He on his seat, and looked to see if Lucian were still in sight, but he had passed the corner, and the doctor on, a little; the were to from the wet banks of the river.
Lucian slowly along the road, a look out for the the doctor had mentioned. It would be a little of an adventure, he thought, to his way by an unknown track; he the direction in which his home lay, and he he would not have much in from one to another. The path him up a field, and when he was at the top, the town and the up to the north him. The river was at the flood, and the yellow water, the sunset, in its like brass. These pools, the level with reeds, the long dark of the on the hill, were all clear and distinct, yet the light to have them with a new garment, as voices from the of Caermaen strangely, up thin with the smoke. There him the of Caermaen, the and that marked the and streets, here and there a pointed above its fellows; he the that marked the circle of the amphitheatre, and the dark of trees that where the Roman and old the and of eighteen hundred years. Thin and strange, together, the voices came up to him on the hill; it was as if an the city and talked in a language of and terrible things. The sun had the sky, and over the dark of the like a sacrifice, and then vanished. In the the clouds to and turn scarlet, and so in the of the snake-like river, that one would have said the still stirred, the and of the clouds to the stream, as if it and sent up of blood. But already about the town the was forming; fast, fast the upon it from the forest, and from all banks and of were gathering, as if a were being up against the city, and the who in its streets. Suddenly there out from the the clear and music of the réveillé, calling, recalling, iterated, reiterated, and with one long high note with which the rang. Perhaps a boy in the was on his bugle, but for Lucian it was magic. For him it was the note of the Roman trumpet, sonum, all the with its command, in dark places in the forest, and in the old without the walls. In his he saw the gates of the open, and the to the eagles. Century by century they passed by; they rose, dripping, from the river bed, they rose from the level, their in the orchard, they in ranks and from the cemetery, and as the sounded, the hill above the town gave up its dead. By hundreds and thousands the about the standard, the mist, to against the they had so many years before.
He sharply; it was very dark, and he was of missing his way. At the path him by the of a wood; there was a noise of and from the trees as if they were taking together. A high out the of the valley, and he on mechanically, without taking much note of the of the track, and when he came out from the to the open country, he for a moment and uncertain. A dark wild country him, of trees near at hand, and a his feet, and the and were dimmer, and all the air was very still. Suddenly the about him glowed; a fire had up on the mountain, and for a moment the little world of the and the hill in a light, and he he saw his path out in the him. The great to a red of fire, and it him on the slope, his against of ground, and from him at a dip. The out long vines, which he was entangled, and he was by wet earth. He had into a dark and valley, and with thickets; the were the only sounds, strange, mutterings, dismal, inarticulate. He pushed on in what he was the right direction, from to gate, through and shadow, and still for any landmark. Presently another upon the air, the of water over stones, against the old of trees, and clear in a channel. He passed into the of the brook, and almost he two voices speaking in its murmur; there a of words, an argument. With a mood of pressing on him, he to the noise of waters, and the wild him that he was not deceived, that two unknown beings together there in the and the of his life, and spoke his doom. The hour in the over the great of years to his thought; he had against the earth, and the earth and for vengeance. He still for a moment, with fear, and at last on blindly, no longer for the path, if only he might from the of that hollow. As he through the the his and hands; he stinging-nettles and was as he out his way the gorse. He headlong, his over his shoulder, through a wood, of undergrowth; there about the ground stumps, the of trees that had to their fall, and to earth, long ago; and from these there out a thin radiance, the of the with a of light. He had all count of the track; he he had for hours, and descending, and yet not advancing; it was as if he still and the of the land by, in a vision. But at last a hedge, high and straggling, rose him, and as he through it, his slipped, and he a bank into a lane. He still, half-stunned, for a moment, and then unsteadily, he looked into the him, and bewildered. In it was black as a midnight cellar, and he about, and saw a in the distance, as if a were in a farm-house window. He to walk with the light, when something started out from the him, and to swim and the air. He was going hill, and he onwards, and he see the of a against the sky, and the still with that motion. Then, as the road to the valley, the he had been appeared. To his right there up in the the of the Roman fort, and the fire of the great full moon through the of the oaks, and a about the hill. He was now close to the white appearance, and saw that it was only a woman walking the lane; the movement was an to the air and the moon's glamour. At the gate, where he had so many hours at the fort, they walked to foot, and he saw it was Annie Morgan.
"Good evening, Master Lucian," said the girl, "it's very dark, sir, indeed."
"Good evening, Annie," he answered, calling her by her name for the time, and he saw that she with pleasure. "You are out late, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir; but I've been taking a of supper to old Mrs. Gibbon. She's been very the last days, and there's nobody to do anything for her."
Then there were people who helped one another; and were not myths, of "society," as useful as Doe and Roe, and as non-existent. The Lucian with a shock; the evening's and delirium, the wild walk and physical had almost him in and mind. He was "degenerate," decadent, and the and of life, which a man would have laughed at and enjoyed, were to him "hail-storms and fire-showers." After all, Messrs Beit, the publishers, were only men of business, and these terrible Dixons and Gervases and Colleys the ordinary limited and of a country town; would have Dixon as an old humbug, Stanley Gervase, Esquire, J.P., as a "bit of a bounder," and the ladies as "rather a lot." But he was walking slowly now in painful silence, his heavy, against the stones. He was not of the girl him; only something to and and his heart; it was all the of his days, and disappointment, and throbbing, and the "I had call the my and live with them in hell." He and for breath, and in his face, and the of a him; he himself was in truth the of the of Caermaen that night, a city with by the legion. Life and the world and the laws of the had passed away, and the and of the began. The Celt him, from the he called the world, and his far-off ancestors, the "little people," out of their caves, and in speech; he was by that had slept in his for ages.
"I am you are very tired, Master Lucian. Would you like me to give you my hand over this bit?"
He had against a great and had nearly fallen. The woman's hand his in the darkness; as he the touch of the soft warm he moaned, and a through his arm to his heart. He looked up and he had only walked a since Annie had spoken; he had they had for hours together. The moon was just above the oaks, and the the dark hill brightened. He stopped short, and his of Annie's hand, looked into her face. A of moonlight around them and up their eyes. He had not since his boyhood; his was in color, thin and oval; marks of pain had about the eyes, and his black was already with grey. But the eager, still remained, and what he saw him up his with a new fire. She stopped too, and did not offer to away, but looked with all her heart. They were in many ways; her skin was also of that color, but her was sweet as a night, and her black no dimness, and the on the was like a when it a dark and land.
"You are tired, Master Lucian, let us here by the gate."
It was Lucian who spoke next: "My dear, my dear." And their were together again, and their arms locked together, each the other fast. And then the let his on his sweetheart's breast, and into a of weeping. The his face, and he with sobbing, in the moment that he had lived. The woman over him and to him, but his were his and his triumph. Annie was to him, her hand on his heart; she was beautiful, words, that him as a song. He did not know what they meant.
"Annie, dear, dear Annie, what are you saying to me? I have such words. Tell me, Annie, what do they mean?"
She laughed, and said it was only nonsense that the sang to the children.
"No, no, you are not to call me Master Lucian any more," he said, when they parted, "you must call me Lucian; and I, I you, my dear Annie."
He her, her knees, and adored, and she allowed him, and his worship. He slowly after her, the path which to her home with a glance. Nobody saw any in Lucian when he the rectory. He came in with his indifference, and told how he had his way by trying the cut. He said he had met Dr. Burrows on the road, and that he had the path by the fields. Then, as as if he had been reading some out of a newspaper, he gave his father the of the Beit case, producing the little book called The Chorus in Green. The in amazement.
"You to tell me that you this book?" he said. He was roused.
"No; not all of it. Look; that is mine, and that; and the of this chapter. Nearly the whole of the third chapter is by me."
He closed the book without interest, and he at his father's excitement. The to him unimportant.
"And you say that eighty or ninety pages of this book are yours, and these have your work?"
"Well, I they have. I'll the manuscript, if you would like to look at it."
The was produced, in paper, with Messrs
Beit's address label on it, and the post-office stamps.
"And the other book has been out a month." The parson, the office, and his good of grinning, at Messrs Beit and Mr. Ritson, calling them thieves, and then to read the manuscript, and to it with the printed book.
"Why, it's work. My fellow," he said after a while, "I had no you so well. I used to think of such in the old days at Oxford; 'old Bill,' the tutor, used to my essays, but I anything like this. And this of a Ritson has taken all your best and mixed them up with his own to make it go down. Of you'll the gang?"
Lucian was amused; he couldn't enter into his father's at all. He sat in one of the old easy chairs, taking the of a with his pipe, and out of his at the old parson. He was pleased that his father liked his book, he him to be a and and a judge of good letters; but he laughed to himself when he saw the magic of print. The had no wish to read the when it came in disgrace; he had grinned, said something about boomerangs, and Horace with relish. Whereas now, the book in its case, with another man's name, his of the and his of the "scoundrels," as he called them, were expressed, and, though a good smoker, he and at his pipe.
"You'll the rascals, of course, won't you?" he said again.
"Oh no, I think not. It doesn't much, it? After all, there are some very weak in the book; doesn't it you as 'young?' I have been of another plan, but I haven't done much with it lately. But I I've got of a good idea this time, and if I can manage to see the of it I to turn out a stealing. But it's so hard to at the of an idea—the heart, as I call it," he on after a pause. "It's like having a box you can't open, though you know there's something inside. But I do I've a thing in my hands, and I to try my best to work it."
Lucian talked with now, but his father, on his side, not these ardors. It was his part to be at over a book that was not begun, the of a book in the world of and failures. He had loved good letters, but he in the that attempt is always pitiful, though he did not subscribe to the other of the popular faith—that success is a of very little importance. He well of books, but only of printed books; in he put no faith, and the paulo-post-futurum he not in any manner conjugate. He returned once more to the of interest.
"But about this dirty these have played on you. You won't and it, surely? It's only a question of to the papers."
"They wouldn't put the in. And if they did, I should only laughed at. Some time ago a man to the Reader, of his play being stolen. He said that he had sent a little one-act to Burleigh, the great dramatist, for his advice. Burleigh gave his and took the idea for his own very successful play. So the man said, and I it was true enough. But the got nothing by his complaint. 'A of things,' said. 'Here's a Mr. Tomson, that no one has of, Burleigh with his rubbish, and then him of larceny. Is it likely that a man of Burleigh's position, a who can make his five thousand a year easily, would borrow from an unknown Tomson?' I should think it very likely, indeed," Lucian on, chuckling, "but that was their verdict. No; I don't think I'll to the papers."
"Well, well, my boy, I you know your own best. I think you are mistaken, but you must do as you like."
"It's all so unimportant," said Lucian, and he so. He had to of, and no of with that who had left Caermaen some hours before. He he had a of himself, he was to think of the of which he had been guilty, such was not only wicked, but absurd. A man do no good who put himself into a position of such against his fellow-creatures; so Lucian his heart, saying that he was old to know better. But he that he had to of; there was a that he and locked tight away, as a too for till he was alone; and then there was that for a new book that he had some time ago; it to have into life again the last hour; he that he had started on a false tack, he had taken the of his idea. Of the thing couldn't be in that way; it was like trying to read a page down; and he saw those he had disambushed, and a of events him.
It was a true resurrection; the plot he had itself as a thing, and mysterious, and warm as life itself. The was to all appearance, but in he was full of at his own son, and now and again he the man in the arm-chair by the empty hearth. In the place, Mr. Taylor was by what he had read of Lucian's work; he had so long been to look upon all as that success him. In the abstract, of course, he was prepared to admit that some people did well and got published and money, just as other an at odds; but it had as that Lucian should the of in one direction as in the other. Then the boy so little about it; he did not appear to be proud of being robbing, was he angry with the robbers.
He sat in the old chair, long slow of smoke, his from time to time, well at with himself. The father saw him smile, and it upon him that his son was very handsome; he had such and a mouth, and his were like a girl's. Mr. Taylor moved. What a Lucian had been; no a little and different from others, but and patient under disappointment. And Miss Deacon, her to the evening's had been characteristic; she had remarked, firstly, that was a very occupation, and secondly, that it was to one's property to people of one nothing. Father and son had together at these observations, which were true enough. Mr. Taylor at last left Lucian along; he hands with a good of respect, and said, almost deferentially:
"You mustn't work too hard, old fellow. I wouldn't up too late, if I were you, after that long walk. You must have gone miles out of your way."
"I'm not now, though. I as if I my new book on the spot"; and the man laughed a sweet laugh that the father as a new note in his son's life.
He sat still a moment after his father had left the room. He his of in its place; he would not it yet. He up a chair to the table at which he or to write, and taking and paper from the drawer. There was a great of paper there; all of it used, on one side, and many hours of scribbling, of heart-searching and of his brain; an of poor, lines by a fire with hope; all and abandoned. He took up the cheerfully, and in to look over these efforts. A page his attention; he how he it while a November was against the panes; and there was another, with a in one corner; he had got up from his chair and looked out, and all the earth was white fairyland, and the and in the wind. Then he saw the chapter of a night in March: a great that night and up one of the in the churchyard. He had the trees in the woods, and the long of the wind, and across the a white moon the clouds. And all these pages now sweet, and past was into happiness, and the nights of were holy. He over a dozen and to sketch out the of the new book on the pages; out a plan on one page, and fancies, suggestions, on others. He rapidly, to that phrases under his pen; a particular he had him with desire; he gave his hand free course, and saw the work glowing; and action and all the of and on the wet page. Happy took shape in words, and when at last he in his chair he the and of the as if it had been some of his own life. He read over what he had done with a in the and workmanship, and as he put the little of in the he paused to the of tomorrow's labor.
And then—but the of the night was to and things, and when he up to a was from the east.
