For days Lucian in a of pleasure, when he was addressed, in the sunlight, warm to his heart. Annie had told him that she was going on a visit to her married sister, and said, with a caress, that he must be patient. He against her absence, but she him, her in his ear till he gave in and then they said good-bye, Lucian on his knees. The was as as the meeting, and that night when he his work aside, and let himself into the of memory, all the as and as magic.
"And you don't to do anything about those rascals?" said his father.
"Rascals? Which rascals? Oh, you Beit. I had all about it.
No; I don't think I shall trouble. They're not and shot."
And he returned to his dream, slowly from the to the and again. It to be by such questions; he had not time to think of the book he had so eagerly, much less of this labor of long ago. He without that it cost him many pains, that it was good here and there, and that it had been stolen, and it that there was nothing more to be said on the matter. He to think of the in the lane, of the voice that spoke to him, of the hand that his own, as he on the way. So far, it was wonderful. Since he had left and the company of the who had him there, he had almost the of with humanity; he had come to the as men the of the cobra. To Lucian a man or a woman meant something that stung, that spoke that rankled, and his life with scorn. At such him: he would over and and wonder if he were not mistaken, and he still now and then for sympathy. The boy had ideas about women; he they were and pitiful, very to the unlucky and helpless. Men had to be different; after all, the of a man was to on in the world, or, in plain language, to make money, to be successful; to than to be cheated, but always to be successful; and he that one who this high must to be by his fellows. For example, there was Bennett, Miss Spurry's nephew. Lucian had met him once or twice when he was his with Miss Spurry, and the two notes together. Bennett some he had written, over which Lucian had sad and enthusiastic. It was such magic verse, and so much than anything he to write, that there was a touch of in his congratulations. But when Bennett, after many prayers to his aunt, up a safe position in the bank, and himself to a London garret, Lucian was not at the verdict.
Mr. Dixon, as a clergyman, viewed the question from a high and it all deplorable, but the opinion was that Bennett was a lunatic. Old Mr. Gervase when his name was mentioned, and the Dixons very over the adventure.
"I always he was a ass," said Edward Dixon, "but I didn't think he'd away his like that. Said he couldn't a bank! I he'll be able to and water. That's all those get, I believe, Tennyson and Mark Twain and those of people."
Lucian of with the Bennett, but such were after all only natural. The man might have in the bank and succeeded to his aunt's thousand a year, and would have called him a very fellow—"clever, too." But he had chosen, as Edward Dixon had said, to his away for the of literature; and a of the main had pointed the way to a of wheedling, to a little on Miss Spurry's infirmities, to of a nature, and the "young ass" had been to the direction of one and the other. It almost right that the should moralize, that Edward Dixon should sneer, and that Mr. Gervase should with contempt. Men, Lucian thought, were like judges, who may the in their hearts, but are to the of the law by a sentence. He the same to his own case; he that his father should have had more money, that his should be newer and of a cut, that he should have gone to the and good friends. If such had been his he have looked his fellow-men proudly in the face, and unashamed. Having put on the whole of a first-rate West End tailor, with money in his purse, having taken for the morrow, and having some useful friends and good prospects; in such a case he might have his high in a and Christian community. As it was he had the of his fellows, that he their condemnation. But he had for a long time his about women; from the minor and pseudo-medievalists, or so he afterwards. But, fresh from school, a little with the of though boys, he had in his a image of womanhood, which he with and devotion. It was a figure, perhaps, but the arms were to be about the of a knight; there was for the of a lover; the hands were to do of pity, and the were to not love alone, but in defeat. Here was the for a heart; here the of men would but make increase; here was all and all with loving-kindness. It was a picture, in the "come on this bosom," and "a thou" manner, with touches of that all the sweeter. He soon that he had a little; in the of Bennett, while the men were the were virulent. He had been of Agatha Gervase, and she, so other ladies said, had "set her cap" at him. Now, when he rebelled, and the of his aunt, dear Miss Spurry, Agatha him with all rapidity. "After all, Mr. Bennett," she said, "you will be nothing than a beggar; now, will you? You mustn't think me cruel, but I can't help speaking the truth. Write books!" Her up the sentence; she with emotion. These passages came to Lucian's ears, and the Gervases of "how well Agatha had behaved."
"Never mind, Gathy," old Gervase had observed. "If the comes here again, we'll see what Thomas can do with the horse-whip."
"Poor dear child," Mrs. Gervase added in telling the tale, "and she was so of him too. But of it couldn't go on after his behavior."
But Lucian was troubled; he for the womanly, the note of "come on this bosom." Ministering angels, he convinced, do not red pepper and into the of mortals.
Then there was the case of Mr. Vaughan, a in the neighborhood, at all the of Caermaen had for years. Mr. Vaughan had a first-rate cook, and his was rare, and he was so happy as when he his good with his friends. His mother his house, and they all the girls with dances, while the men over the champagne. Investments proved disastrous, and Mr. Vaughan had to sell the manor-house by the river. He and his mother took a little modern in Caermaen, to be near their dear friends. But the men were "very sorry; on you, Vaughan. Always those Patagonians were risky, but you wouldn't of it. Hope we shall see you very long; you and Mrs. Vaughan must come to tea some day after Christmas."
"Of we are all very sorry for them," said Henrietta Dixon. "No, we haven't called on Mrs. Vaughan yet. They have no regular servant, you know; only a woman in the morning. I old mother Vaughan, as Edward will call her, nearly everything. And their house is small; it's little more than a cottage. One can't call it a gentleman's house."
Then Mr. Vaughan, his in the dust, to the Gervases and to borrow five of Mr. Gervase. He had to be ordered out of the house, and, as Edith Gervase said, it was all very painful; "he out in such a way," she added, "just like the dog when he's had a whipping. Of it's sad, if it is all his own fault, as says, but he looked so as he was going the steps that I couldn't help laughing." Mr. Vaughan the ringing, as he the lawn.
Young girls like Henrietta Dixon and Edith Gervase naturally viewed the Vaughans' position with all the high of their age, but the ladies not look at in this light.
"Hush, dear, hush," said Mrs. Gervase, "it's all too to be a laughing matter. Don't you agree with me, Mrs. Dixon? The that on at Pentre always me. You that they gave last year? Mr. Gervase me that the must have cost at least a hundred and fifty the dozen."
"It's dreadful, isn't it," said Mrs. Dixon, "when one thinks of how many people there are who would be for a of bread?"
"Yes, Mrs. Dixon," Agatha joined in, "and you know how the Vaughans the cottagers. Oh, it was wicked; one would think Mr. Vaughan to make them above their station. Edith and I for a walk one day nearly as as Pentre, and we a of water of old Mrs. Jones who in that near the brook. She the Vaughans in the most manner, and us some they had her at Christmas. I you, my dear Mrs. Dixon, the was the very best quality; no lady wish for better. It couldn't have cost less than half-a-crown a yard."
"I know, my dear, I know. Mr. Dixon always said it couldn't last. How often I have him say that the Vaughans were all the common people about Pentre, and every one else in a most position. Even from a point of view it was very taste on their part. So different from the true that Paul speaks of."
"I only wish they had away nothing than flannel," said Miss Colley, a lady of very views. "But I you there was a perfect orgy, I can call it nothing else, every Christmas. Great joints of beef, and of beer, and and tobacco wholesale; as if the wanted to be in their habits. It was to go through the village for after; the whole place was with the of tobacco pipes."
"Well, we see how that of thing ends," said Mrs. Dixon, up judicially. "We had to call, but I think it would be after what Mrs. Gervase has told us. The idea of Mr. Vaughan trying to on Mr. Gervase in that way! I think of that is so hateful."
It was the practical of all this that Lucian. He saw that in there was no high-flown in a woman's nature; the arms, he had for caressing, muscular; the hands meant for the doing of of in his system, appeared in the of "stingers," as Barnes might say, and the with great ease. Nor was he more in his personal experiences. As has been told, Mrs. Dixon spoke of him in with "judgments," and the ladies did not his acquaintance. Theoretically they "adored" books and "too sweet," but in they talking about and fox-terriers and their neighbors.
They were girls enough, very like other ladies in other country towns, with the teaching of their parents, reading the Bible every in their bedrooms, and every Sunday in church the well-dressed "sheep" on the right hand. It was not their fault if they failed to satisfy the of an boy, and indeed, they would have his woman immodest, sentimental, a ("never stays, my dear") and horrid.
At he was a good at the of that woman, the work of his brain. When the Miss Dixons by with a waggle, when the Miss Gervases passed in the laughing as the him, the would look up with a of that must have been very comic; "like a duck," as Edith Gervase said. Edith was very pretty, and he would have liked to talk to her, about fox-terriers, if she would have listened. One at the Dixons' he himself upon her, and with all the of an boy to discuss the Lotus Eaters of Tennyson. It was too absurd. Captain Kempton was making to Edith all the time, and Lieutenant Gatwick had gone off in disgust, and he had promised to her a "by Vick out of Wasp." At last the girl it no longer:
"Yes, it's very sweet," she said at last. "When did you say you were going to London, Mr. Taylor?"
It was about the time that his to everybody, and the told. He gave her a look and off, "just like the dog when he's had a whipping," to use Edith's own expression. Two or three lessons of this produced their effect; and when he saw a male Dixon or Gervase him he his lip and up his courage. But when he a "ministering angel" he and a or took to the woods. In of time the to an instinct, to be as a of course; in the same way he the on the mountain. His old were almost if not forgotten; he that the female of the bête humaine, like the adder, would in all sting, and he therefore from its trail, but without any of special resentment. The one had a as the other had a fang, and it was well to them alone. Then had come that of against all humanity, as he out of Caermaen the book that had been from him by the Beit. He as he though of how nearly he had approached the of madness, when his with blood and the earth to with fire. He how he had looked up to the and the sky was with scarlet; and the earth was red, with red and red fields. There was something of in the memory, and in the of that wild night walk through country, when every a symbol of some terrible doom. The of the brook, the wind through the wood, the light from the trunks, and the picture of his own and through the shades; all these that told a in hieroglyphics. And then the life and laws of the had passed away, and the and of the began. Though his were weary, he had his as steel; a woman, one of the race, was him in the darkness, and the wild him, for blood and lust; all the of the from which he came his heart. The out from the and from the in the hills, him, as he had the Caermaen, him to a and a victory that he had in his dreams. And then out of the the voice spoke again, and the hand was out to him up from the pit. It was sweet to think of that which he had at last; the boy's picture incarnate, all the and of his longing, all the and love and consolation. She, that woman up her in to him, she was of his worship. He how his had upon her breast, and how she had him, those unknown that sang to his heart. And she had herself him, and the that had been so despised. He in the happy that he had on the ground her, and had her and worshipped. The woman's had his religion; he at night looking into the with eyes; for a miracle, that the of the so-desired might be him. And when he was alone in places in the wood, he again on his knees, and on his face, out hands in the air, as if they would her flesh. His father noticed in those days that the pocket of his was with papers; he would see Lucian walking up and in a place at the of the orchard, reading from his of manuscript, the leaves, and again them out. He would walk a quick steps, and pause as if enraptured, in the air as if he looked through the of the world into some of glory, by his thought. Mr. Taylor was almost at the sight; he of that Lucian was a book. In the place, there something in the operation performed under one's eyes; it was as if the "make-up" of a were done on the stage, in full audience; as if one saw the in position, the on, the of the produced by means purely mechanical, from the paint-pot, and the well by the wigmaker. Books, Mr. Taylor thought, should swim into one's mysteriously; they should appear all printed and bound, without genesis; just as children are told that they have a little sister, by in the garden. But Lucian was not only in composition; he was rapturous, enthusiastic; Mr. Taylor saw him up his hands, and his with gesture. The to that his son was like some of those Frenchmen of he had read, who had a of of literature, and gave their whole to it, days over a page, and years over a book, art as Englishmen money, up a as if it were a business. Now Mr. Taylor by the "walking-stick" theory; he that a man of should have a profession, some solid in life. "Get something to do," he would have liked to say, "and then you can as much as you please. Look at Scott, look at Dickens and Trollope." And then there was the social point of view; it might be right, or it might be wrong, but there be no that the man, as such, was not much of in English society. Mr. Taylor his Thackeray, and he that old Major Pendennis, personified, did not of his nephew's occupation. Even Warrington was to own his with journalism, and Pendennis himself laughed openly at his novel-writing as an way of making money, a useful to the of dukes, his true in life. This was the plain English view, and Mr. Taylor was no right in it good, practical common sense. Therefore when he saw Lucian and sauntering, over his manuscript, of that which Britons have absurd, he at heart, and more than sorry that he had not been able to send the boy to Oxford.
"B.N.C. would have all this nonsense out of him," he thought. "He would have taken a First like my father and something of a in the world. However, it can't be helped." The man sighed, and his pipe, and walked in another part of the garden.
But he was in his of the symptoms. The book that Lucian had in the drawer; it was a work that he was on, and the that he took out of that pocket left him day or night. He slept with them next to his heart, and he would them when he was alone, and pay them such as he would have paid to her they symbolized. He on these a of and devotion; it was the of his religion. Again and again he and this of a lover; all days over the choice of a word, for more phrases. No common words, no such phrases as he might use in a would suffice; the of must and be quickened, they must and burn, and be out as with work of jewelry. Every part of that and must be adored; he for terms of praise, he his and mind low her, the under her feet, and yet as a Templar the image of Baphomet. He more in the knowledge that there was nothing of the or common in his ecstasy; he was not the fervent, lover of Tennyson's poems, who loves with and yet with a proud respect, with the love always of a for a lady. Annie was not a lady; the Morgans had their land for hundreds of years; they were what Miss Gervase and Miss Colley and the of them called common people. Tennyson's of their ladies with something of reticence; they them in and robes, walking with slow dignity; they of them as always stately, the of their houses, mothers of their heirs. Such lovers bowed, but not too low, their own honor, those who were to be equal and friends as well as wives. It was not such as these that he in the of his ritual; he was not, he told himself, a officer, "something in the city," or a to a Miss Dixon or a Miss Gervase. He had not of looking out for a little house in a good where they would have society; there were to be no about wall-papers, or from friends as to the of having a room that would do for a nursery. No thing had on his arm while they the in white enamel, and for "our bedroom," the salesman doing his best to their blushes. When Edith Gervase married she would to look out for two good servants, "as we must quietly," and would make sure that the and were right. Then her "girl friends" would come on a day to see all her "lovely things." "Two dozen of everything!" "Look, Ethel, did you see such frills?" "And that insertion, isn't it too sweet?" "My dear Edith, you are a lucky girl." "All the by Madame Lulu!" "What things!" "I he what a prize he is winning." "Oh! do look at those ribbon-bows!" "You darling, how happy you must be." "Real Valenciennes!" Then a in the lady's ear, and her reply, "Oh, don't, Nelly!" So they would over their treasures, as in Rabelais they over their cups; and every thing would be done in order till the wedding-day, when mamma, who had her and the to the match about, would and look at the bridegroom. "I you'll be to her, Robert." Then in a to the bride: "Mind, you on Wyman's the when you come back; are so careless and dirty too. Don't let him go about by himself in Paris. Men are so queer, one knows. You have got the pills?" And aloud, after these secreta, "God you, my dear; good-bye! cluck, cluck, good-bye!"
There were in the pages that Lucian cherished, that and like "coals of fire which a most flame." There were phrases that and as he them, and out in and rapture, as in some of the old litanies. He the that a great part of what he had was in the true of the word occult: page after page might have been read to the without the meaning. He night and day over these symbols, he and the nine times he it out in a little book which he himself of a skin of vellum. In his for that should be he had some skill in illumination, or as he to call it, always the word as the arts. First he set himself to the of the text; he many hours and days of in to fashion the of black letter, and till he shape the with true hand. He cut his with the patience of a monk in the scriptorium, and the nib, and the pressure and of the points, till the pen satisfied him, and gave a and even. Then he in inks, for some medium that would the black of the old manuscripts; and not till he produce a page of text did he turn to the more labor of the and borders and ornaments. He long over the Lombardic letters, as in their way as a cathedral, and his hand to the and lines; and then there was the art of the border, in all about the page. His cousin, Miss Deacon, called it all a great waste of time, and his father he would have done much in trying to his ordinary handwriting, which was and illegible. Indeed, there but a for the limner's art. He sent some of his skill to an "artistic firm" in London; a of the "Maud," emblazoned, and a Latin with the notes on a red stave. The civilly, telling him that his work, though good, was not what they wanted, and an text. "We have great for this of thing," they concluded, "and if you to attempt something in this we should be pleased to look at it." The said text was "Thou, God, me." The was of a form, much the same relation to the true as a "churchwarden gothic" to Canterbury Cathedral; the were varied. The was gold, the h pink, the o black, the u blue, and the was somehow with a bird's the of the pigeon, who were waited on by the female bird.
"What a text," said Miss Deacon. "I should like to it up in my room. Why don't you try to do something like that, Lucian? You might make something by it."
"I sent them these," said Lucian, "but they don't like them much."
"My dear boy! I should think not! Like them! What were you of to those flowers all the border? Roses? They don't look like roses at all events. Where do you such ideas from?"
"But the design is appropriate; look at the words."
"My dear Lucian, I can't read the words; it's such a old-fashioned writing. Look how plain that text is; one can see what it's about. And this other one; I can't make it out at all."
"It's a Latin hymn."
"A Latin hymn? Is it a Protestant hymn? I may be old-fashioned, but Hymns Ancient and Modern is good for me. This is the music, I suppose? But, my dear boy, there are only four lines, and who of notes like that: you have some square and some diamond-shape? Why didn't you look in your mother's old music? It's in the in the drawing-room. I have you how to make the notes; there are crotchets, you know, and quavers."
Miss Deacon the Urbs Beata in despair; she that her was "next door to an idiot."
And he out into the garden and a hedge. He two flower-pots and an apple-tree very hard with his stick, and then, more calm, what was the use in trying to do anything. He would not have put the into words, but in his he was that his liked the and the text, and did not like his roses and the Latin hymn. He he had taken great pains over the work, and that it was well done, and being still a man he praise. He that in this hard world there was a of appreciation; a abroad. If he have been scientifically as he and under the of "the old fool," as he called his cousin, the would have been diverting. Little boys sometimes a very entertainment; either with their or with mamma's scissors they a of its and legs. The odd and thin of the as it and fail to provide a fund of amusement. Lucian, indeed, himself a very ill-used individual; but he should have to the organization of the flies, which, as says, "can't feel."
But now, as he prepared the leaves, he his art with joy; he had not to do work in vain. He read over his once more, and of the of the pages. He sketches on of paper, and up books in his father's library for suggestions. There were books about architecture, and iron work, and which for adornment; and not with pictures he in the and hedges, the of trees, and the of great water-plants, and the of and briony. In one of these he a red earth which he into a pigment, and he in the juice of a an which he his black still more glossy. His book was all in symbols, and in the same of he it, to about the text, and the of flowers, with of creatures, and in rose thickets. All was to love and a lover's madness, and there were in it which him with their and refrain. When the book was it replaced the as his by day and night. Three times a day he his to himself, out the places in the woods, or going up to his room; and from the and of his gaze, the father him still in the of composition. At night he to wake for his courtship; and he had a when he got up in the dark and his candle. From a and wild hillside, not from the house, he had cut from time to time five large of and gorse. He had them into the house, one by one, and had them in the big box that his bed. Often he up and to himself the of one of his songs, and then when he had the candle, he would out the gorse-boughs, and place them on the floor, and taking off his nightgown, himself on the of and spines. Lying on his face, with the and the book him, he would and repeat the of his dear, dear Annie, and as he over page after page, and saw the gold of the and in the candle-light, he pressed the into his flesh. At such moments he in all its the of physical pain; and after two or three of such he his book, making a in on the of the passages where he was to on himself this sweet torture. Never did he fail to wake at the hour, a of will through all the of sleep, and he would up, though weeping, and set his upon the floor, his pain with his praise. When he had the last word, and had from the ground, his would be all with of blood; he used to view the marks with pride. Here and there a would be left in the flesh, and he would these out roughly, through the skin. On some nights when he had pressed with more on the his would with blood, red out on the flesh, and to his feet. He had some in away the so as not to any to the attention of the servant; and after a time he returned no more to his when his had been accomplished. For a he had a dark rug, a good worn, and in this he would his body, and on the hard floor, well to add an to the account of his pleasures. He was with scars, and those that the day were open at night; the skin was red with the angry marks of blood, and the of the man appeared like the of a martyr. He and every day, for he ate but little; the skin was on the of his face, and the black in dark hollows. His relations noticed that he was not looking well.
"Now, Lucian, it's perfect of you to go on like this," said Miss Deacon, one at breakfast. "Look how your hand shakes; some people would say that you have been taking brandy. And all that you want is a little medicine, and yet you won't be advised. You know it's not my fault; I have asked you to try Dr. Jelly's Cooling Powders again and again."
He the of the when he was a boy, and that those days were over. He only at his and a great cup of tea to his nerves, which were enough. Mrs. Dixon saw him one day in Caermaen; it was very hot, and he had been walking fast. The on his and tingled, and he as he his to the vicar's wife. She without that he must have been in public-houses.
"It a that Mrs. Taylor was taken," she said to her husband. "She has been a great deal. That man passed me this afternoon; he was intoxicated."
"How very said," said Mr. Dixon. "A little port, my dear?"
"Thank you, Merivale, I will have another of sherry. Dr. Burrows is always me and saying I must take something to keep up my energy, and this is so weak."
The Dixons were not teetotalers. They it deeply, and the doctor, who "insisted on some stimulant." However, there was some in trying to the to total abstinence, or, as they called it, temperance. Old were of the of taking a of for supper; were to try Cork-ho, the new drink; an beverage, coffee, was at the reading-room. Mr. Dixon an "temperance" sermon, soon after the above conversation, taking as his text: Beware of the of the Pharisees. In his he that and had much in common, that was at the present day "put away" Passover by the Jews; and in a moving he his dear brethren, "and more those us who are in this world's goods," to of that which was the of our nation. Mrs. Dixon after church:
"Oh, Merivale, what a sermon! How you were. I it will do good."
Mr. Dixon his port with great decorum, but his wife herself every with sherry. She was of the fact, and sometimes in a way why she always had to the children after dinner. And so sometimes in the nursery, and now and then the children looked at one another after a red-faced woman had gone out, panting.
Lucian nothing of his accuser's trials, but he was not long in of his own intoxication. The next time he to Caermaen he was by the doctor.
"Been again today?"
"No," said Lucian in a puzzled voice. "What do you mean?"
"Oh, well, if you haven't, that's all right, as you'll be able to take a with me. Come along in?"
Over the and pipes Lucian of the his character.
"Mrs. Dixon me you were from one of the to the other. You her, she said. Then she asked me if I her to take one or two of at for the palpitation; and of I told her two would be better. I have my to make here, you know. And upon my word, I think she wants it; she's always like waterworks. I wonder how old Dixon can it."
"I like 'ounces of spirit,'" said Lucian. "That's taking it medicinally, I suppose. I've often of ladies who have to 'take it medicinally'; and that's how it's done?"
"That's it. 'Dr Burrows won't to me': 'I tell him how I the taste of spirits, but he says they are necessary for my constitution': 'my medical man on something at bedtime'; that's the style."
Lucian laughed gently; all these people had to him; he no longer at their little and malignancies. Their voices calumny, and morality, and had like the thin angry note of a on a evening; he had his own and his own life, and he passed on without heeding.
"You come to Caermaen often, don't you?" said the doctor.
"I've you two or three times in the last fortnight."
"Yes, I the walk."
"Well, look me up you like, you know. I am often in just at this time, and a with a being isn't bad, now and then. It's a for me; I'm often I shall my patients."
The doctor had the of these terrible puns, into the conversation. He sometimes them Mrs. Gervase, who would in a and manner, and say:
"Ah, I see. Very indeed. We had an old once who was very clever, I believe, at that of thing, but Mr. Gervase was to send him away, the of the other was so very boisterous."
Lucian laughed, not boisterously, but good-humouredly, at the doctor's joke. He liked Burrows, that he was a man and not an machine.
"You look a little down," said the doctor, when Lucian rose to go. "No, you don't want my medicine. Plenty of and will do you more good than drugs. I it's the weather that has you a bit. Oh, you'll be all right again in a month."
As Lucian out of the town on his way home, he passed a small of assembled at the of an orchard. They were themselves immensely. The "healthy" boy, the same he had some ago on a cat, to have his selfishness in his to himself. He had a puppy, a little with eyes, almost in their fond, gaze. It was not a well-bred little dog; it was not that famous "by Vick out of Wasp"; it had and a long which it beseechingly, at once and kindness. The animal had been used to treatment; it would look up in a boy's face, and give a leap, on him, and then in a small voice, and a moment on the ground, at the strangeness, the and animation. The boys were themselves with eagerness; there was a of voices, arguing, discussing, suggesting. Each one had a plan of his own which he the leader, a and youth.
"Drown him! What be you thinkin' of, mun?" he was saying. "'Tain't no sport at all. You your mouth, gwaes. Be you goin' to ask your mother for the boiling-water? Is, Bob Williams, I do know all that: but where be you a-going to the fire from? Be quiet, mun, can't you? Thomas Trevor, be this dog or mine? Now, look you, if you don't all of you your mouths, I'll take the dog 'ome and keep him. There now!"
He was a leader of men. A and of itself on the boys' faces. They that the threat might very possibly be executed, and their were at once to attention. The was still on the ground in the of them: one or two to the of their by kicking him in the with their boots. It out with the pain and a little, but the little did not attempt to bite or snarl. It looked up with those at its persecutors, and on them again, and to its and be merry, to play with a on the road, to win a little in that way.
The leader saw the moment for his master-stroke. He slowly a piece of rope from his pocket.
"What do you say to that, mun? Now, Thomas Trevor! We'll him over that there bough. Will that you, Bobby Williams?"
There was a great of and delight. All was again and animation. "I'll tie it his neck?" "Get out, mun, you don't know how it be done." "Is, I do, Charley." "Now, let me, gwaes, now do let me." "You be sure he won't bite?" "He hain't mad, be he?" "Suppose we were to tie up his mouth first?"
The still and favor, and that sorry tail, and on one on the ground, sad and sorry in his heart, but still with a little of hope; for now and again he to play, and put up his face, praying with those fond, eyes. And then at last his and for ceased, and he up his voice in one long of despair. But he the hand of the boy that the noose.
He was slowly and into the air as Lucian by unheeded; he struggled, and his and writhed. The "healthy" boy the rope, and his friends and with glee. As Lucian the corner, the was to and fro, the was dying, but he still a little.
Lucian on his way hastily, and with disgust. The of the were too horrible; they the earth, and unpleasant, as the of a and an walk. The of those little animals with mouths that and filthy, with hands in torture, and to all errands, had him a and up the world of in which he had been dwelling. Yet it was no good being angry with them: it was their nature to be very loathsome. Only he they would go about their in their own gardens where nobody see them at work; it was too that he should be and in a country road. He to put the out of his mind, as if the whole thing had been a story, and the which he to move were to return, when he was again disturbed. A little girl, a child of eight or nine, was along the to meet him. She was and looking to left and right, and calling out some word all the time.
"Jack, Jack, Jack! Little Jackie! Jack!"
Then she into afresh, and into the hedge, and to through a gate into a field.
"Jackie, Jackie, Jackie!"
She came up to Lucian, as if her would break, and him an old-fashioned curtsy.
"Oh, sir, have you my little Jackie?"
"What do you mean?" said Lucian. "What is it you've lost?"
"A little dog, sir. A little dog with white hair. Father gave me him a month ago, and said I might keep him. Someone did the garden gate open this afternoon, and he must 'a got away, sir, and I was so of him sir, he was so and loving, and I be he be lost."
She to call again, without waiting for an answer.
"Jack, Jack, Jack!"
"I'm some boys have got your little dog," said Lucian. "They've killed him. You'd go home."
He on, walking as fast as he in his to the noise of the child's crying. It him, and he to think of other things. He his on the ground as he the of the afternoon, and for some on the mountains, above the and the of humanity.
A little farther, and he came to Croeswen, where the road off to right and left. There was a plot of the two roads; there the had once stood, "the and famous roode" of the old local chronicle. The in Lucian's ears as he by on the right hand. "There were five steps that did go up to the pace, and seven steps to the second pace, all of ashler. And all above it was most and with work; in the place was the Holy Roode with Christ upon the Cross having Marie on the one and John on the other. And were six and that up the roode, and them in their were the most and images of the Apostles and of other Saints and Martirs. And in the there was a of Beasts, such as and and swine, and little dogs and peacocks, all done in the and most wise, so that they all as they were in a Wood of Thorns, the which is their of this life. And here once in the year was a service, when the of Caermaen came out with the singers and all the people, the Benedicite as they passed along the road in their procession. And when they at the the did there his service, making prayers for the beasts, and then he up to the and a to the people, them that as our lord Jhu upon the Tree of his for us, so we too to the his Creatures, for that they are all his and servants. And that like as the Holy Aungells do their to him on high, and the Blessed Apostles and the Martirs, and all the Blissful Saints him on earth and now him in heaven, so also do the him, though they be in of life and men. For their downward, as Holy Writ us."
It was a old record, a of what the modern of Caermaen called the Dark Ages. A of the that had the of the still in position, with age, with black and green moss. The of the famous had been used to the roads, to and offices; it had Protestant, in fact. Indeed, if it had remained, the of Caermaen would have had no time for the service; the coffee-stall, the Portuguese Missions, the Society for the Conversion of the Jews, and social took up all his leisure. Besides, he the whole unscriptural.
Lucian passed on his way, at the of the Middle Ages. How was it that people who so a service in witchcraft, and obsession, in the and succubus, and in the Sabbath an in many other absurdities? It that to such tales, but there be no that the of old who on and liked black cats was once a very terror.
A cold wind up from the river at sunset, and the on his to and tingle. The pain his to him, and he to it as he walked along. He had cut a branch of from the and it next to his skin, pressing the into the with his hand till the warm blood ran down. He it was an and sweet for her sake; and then he of the he was for her, the and city in his imagination. As the night to close about the earth, and the last of the sun from the hills, he gave himself to the woman, his and his mind, all that he was, and all that he had.
