It was very dark in the room. He by slow to from a long and torpor, from an forgetfulness, and as he his he the of the paper on the him. He something of a winter afternoon, of rain, of wind: he had asleep over his work, no doubt, and the night had come down.
He in his chair, it were late; his were closed, and he did not make the and himself. He the noise of the wind, and the him of the half-forgotten days. He of his boyhood, and the old rectory, and the great that it. There was something in the that he was still dreaming; he he wake up he pleased, but for the moment he himself by the that he was a little boy again, with his and the air of the hills. He how he would sometimes wake up in the dark at midnight, and for a moment to the of the wind and the trees, and it upon the walls, and then he would to again, happy in his warm, bed.
The wind louder, and the rattled. He opened his and them again, to that of long ago. He and with sleep; he that he was by some effort; he had, perhaps, been without rest. He not at the what the work had been; it would be to read the pages when he had up his mind to himself.
Surely that was the noise of boughs, and in the wind. He one night at home when such a had him from a sweet sleep. There was a and as of upon the air, and a noise, like away upon the mountain. He had got out of and looked from the to see what was abroad. He the he had seen, and he it would be just the same if he to look out now. There were clouds from the moon, and a light that the familiar land look and terrible. The blast of wind came with a great shriek, and the trees and and quivered; the was and horrible, and the night air was with a tumult, and voices as of a host. A black cloud rolled across the from the west and up the moon, and there came a of rain.
It was all a picture to him as he sat in his chair, to wake. Even as he let his mind to that night of the past years, the rain on the window-panes, and though there were no trees in the street, he the crash of boughs. He from to thought, memories, like a man trying to from door to door in a room. But, no doubt, if he were to look out, by some magic the whole would be him. He would not see the of two-storied houses, with here and there a white blind, a of light, and appearing and vanishing, not the rain in the road, not the of the gas-lamp opposite, but the wild moonlight on the loved country; away the circle of the and woods, and him the trees about the lawn, and the under the of the wind.
He to himself, his lazy meditations, to think how it seemed, and yet it was all away, the of an old play long ended and forgotten. It was that after all these years of trouble and work and he should be in any the same person as that little boy out, frightened, from the window. It was as if looking in the one should see a stranger, and yet know that the image was a true reflection.
The memory of the old home his father and mother to him, and he his mother would come if he were to out suddenly. One night, on just such a night as this, when a great from the mountain, a tree had with a crash and a had the roof, and he in a fright, calling for his mother. She had come and had him, him to sleep, and now he his eyes, her in the light, as she over his bed. He not think she had died; the memory was but a part of the that had come afterwards.
He said to himself that he had asleep and and agony, and he to all the of trouble. He would return to happy days, to the land, to the dear and paths across the fields. There was the paper, white him, and when he to stir, he would have the of reading his work. He not what he had been about, but he was somehow that the had been successful and had some long labor to a ending. Presently he would light the gas, and the that only the work give him, but for the time he to in the darkness, and to think of himself as from to through the meadows, and to the that sang to the alders.
It was winter now, for he the rain and the wind, and the of the trees, but in those old days how sweet the had been. The great in blossom, like a white cloud upon the earth, had appeared to him in twilight, he had in the to the nightingale, a voice out from the rich gloom, from the trees that around the well. The of the was to him across the of years, and with it came the and the and the longing, and the red in the sky, and the of the earth. There was a walk that he so well; one up from a little green byroad, an a wide, but yet like a river, over its pebbles, with its the water. One through the grass, and came to the that from hill to hill across the stream, and a green, and sent sweet to the sky. Through the the path wound, and dipping, and beneath, the of last year were soft and thick, and the gave out their odor as the warm night advanced, and the darkened. It was still; but he stayed, and the song of the like the echo of a river the mountains. How it was to look into the wood, to see the tall rising, pillar-like, and then the dusk, uncertain, and then the blackness. So he came out from the wood, from the green cloud and the shadow, into the of all hollows, in on one by the and him by high of turf, like the of a fort, with a clear line dark against the sky, and a that large, mysterious, on the summit, the of the star.
And he his in those old that from the common road and away the unknown, hills, and the of shadows, and into that virgin, unexplored, for the of man. He entered such a not where it might him, he had the way to fairyland, to the the world, to that that all the of a boy. He not tell where he might be, for the high banks rose steep, and the great a green above. Marvelous rich and thick in the dark red earth, their about the of and and maple, like the of a pillar. Down, like a dark shaft, the to the well of the hills, and came the rocks. He the bank at last, and looked out into a country that for a moment the land he sought, a with and and all golden, and white houses in the light.
And he of the where the was like a wood, and of places where the west wind sang over the gorse, of still circles in mid-lake, of the yew-tree in the middle of the wood, its cups on the earth. How he by black on every by wych-elms and black-stemmed alders, the to the banks as a or a from the trees.
And the whole air and wonder of the came to him. He had his way to the river valley, to the long the hills, and up and up the in the warm of midsummer, now and again through the green alleys, to the river in beneath, the that the hillside, ice-cold from the rock, the tumulus, the where the waited for the trumpet, the sending the of into the still air. He higher and higher, till at last he entered the long passage of the Roman road, and from this, the and of the wood, he saw the of green and and the level and the yellow sea. He looked on the forest, and of the city into a village on its verge, of its melting into the turf, of of an older temple which the earth had utterly.
It was winter now, for he the of the wind, and a the rain against the panes, but he of the bee's song in the clover, of the in full blossom, of the wild roses, delicate, enchanting, on a long above the hedge. He had been in places, he had and desolation, and had and in the work of letters, but he again in the sweetness, in the clear air of early morning, when the sky was in June, and the rolled like a white sea in the valley. He laughed when he that he had sometimes himself in those days; in those days when he be the sun shone, the wind fresh on the mountain. On those days he had been glad, looking at the and of the clouds upon the hills, and had gone up higher to the of the mountain, that up him.
He how, a boy, he had of love, of an and which all and desire. The time had come when all the wonder of the earth to this alone, when he the symbol of the Beloved in hill and and stream, and every flower and every dark a pure ecstasy. It was the for longing, the love of love, that had come to him when he one just the dawn, and for the time the of passion.
He in to to himself the of desire. Even now, after years, in of some dark cloud that the of his thought, the of the boy's came like a perfume into his reverie. It was no love of a woman but the of womanhood, the Eros of the unknown, that the tremble. He that such a love be satisfied, that the thirst of be slaked. He from all of actuality, not so much as to the place and of the mysteries. It was for him to in the court, to know that within, in the sweet gloom, were the and the rapture, the and the sacrifice.
He remembered, dimly, the passage of many years since that time of and passion, but, perhaps, the would pass away, and he the boy's thoughts, the that were part of the day, of the wild roses in the hedgerow. All other should be aside, he would let them trouble him no more after this winter night. He saw now that from the he had allowed his to him, to create a world in which he suffered, into terror and dismay. Vividly, he saw again the black circle of oaks, in a ring upon the of the Roman fort. The noise of the without louder, and he how the wind had come up the with the of a scream, how a great tree had ground its together, the blast. Clear and distinct, as if he were now in the lane, he saw the from the valley, and the black of the set against the sky, against a and of light as if great doors were opened. He saw the fire, as it were, about the bastions, about the that the fort, and the to in the blast of that from heaven. Strangely with the of the the of a white shape up the of the him, and he saw across the of years a girl's face, a that and away.
Then there was a memory of another day, of summer, of white in the sun, and a call from the in the cornfields. He had the and the and in the heat, alone on the soft that the fort. There was a cloud of madness, and of that had no meaning or but only an and defilement. He had asleep as he at the of the about him, and when he he was ashamed, and away that "they" would him. He did not know who "they" were, but it as if a woman's him from the boughs, and that she to her who had old through all the ages.
He looked up, it seemed, at a that over him, as he sat in the dark of the old farmhouse, and why the of those red and the of the with the in the fort, with the Sabbath he had as he sleeping on the soft turf. He had allowed these fancies, all this of terror and that he had in his mind, to trouble him for too long a time; presently he would light up the room, and all the old of his life him, and from he would walk in the day.
He still distinguish, though very vaguely, the of papers him, and he remembered, now, that he had a long that afternoon, he asleep. He not trouble himself to the exact nature of the work, but he was sure that he had done well; in a minutes, perhaps, he would a match, and read the title, and himself with his own forgetfulness. But the of the papers there in order him think of his beginnings, of those which were so and so hopeless. He saw himself over the table in the old familiar room, scribbling, and then his pen at the sad results on the page. It was late at night, his father had been long in bed, and the house was still. The fire was almost out, with only a here and there the cinders, and the room was chilly. He rose at last from his work and looked out on a earth and a dark and cloudy sky.
Night after night he had on, in his effort, through the cold of despair, when every line was as it was made. Now, with the that he at least the of literature, and that many years of and had him some of language, he these early and astonishing. He not how he had so stubbornly, how he had had the to a fresh page when so many of blotted, painful torn, derided, in their failure. It to him that it must have been a or an possession, a of madness, that had him on, every day disappointed, and every day hopeful.
And yet there was a to the illusion. In these days that he in, when he had bought, by a long and by hours of misery, a knowledge of his limitations, of the that the and the work, it was to think of a time when all were possible, when the most design an of a weeks. Now he had come to a acknowledgment; so as he was concerned, he every book till the last line of it was written, and he had learnt patience, the art of and the away in the pigeon-hole of what be. But to think of those days! Then one plot out a book that should be more than Rabelais, and the of a to Cervantes, and design and of contes, and of the Restoration; was to be done, and the was always the cup, a little way him.
He touched the on the desk, and the of the pages to all the papers that had been so long ago. It was the of the room that returned, the light of the on the leaves. This had been while the about the lawn and the lanes, this was of the night, this of the moon like a fire from the on the hill. How well he those half-dozen pages of which he had once been so proud; he had out the one evening, while he on the foot-bridge and the swim across the road. Every word of the that thick upon the banks; now, as he the and the phrase that had so charming, he saw again the the of the beech, and the green light of the in the hedge.
And in the west the to a great dome, and on the was a mound, the of some race, that dark and large against the red sky, when the sun set. He had it in the solitude, the winds, at evening, away from home; and oh, the labor and the to make the of it and the of it in prose, to the of the hill, and the of the world into the night, and the mystery, the of the hillock, against the magic sky.
He had to sing in the music that the sang, and the of the October wind through the on the hill. How many pages he had in the to a white winter world, a sun without in a grey-blue sky, all the fields, all the land white and shining, and one high where the dark towered, still in the still afternoon, in the air.
To win the of words, to make a phrase that would of and the bee, to the wind into a sentence, to the odor of the night into the and and of a line; this was the of the long evenings, of the white upon the paper and the pen.
He that in some book he had a or two of music, and, beneath, the that here was the of Westminster Abbey. His less ambitious, and he no longer that language present the and the and the of the earth. He had long that he, at all events, would have to be with a approach, with a notes that might suggest, perhaps, the song of the hill and the streams.
But in those days the was but a part of that him, of the world the and the mountain. All was to be conquered, all was to be achieved; he had but to make the and he would the world and the word, and those that the sang. He touched the manuscript; it was, it was the result of painful labor and disappointment, not of the old of hope, but it came of days, of and re-correction. It might be good in its measure; but he would no more for a time. He would go again to the happy world of masterpieces, to the of great and perfect books, in an ecstasy.
Like a dark cloud from the sea came the memory of the attempt he had made, of the history that had once his life. He and said alas, of his folly, of the hours when he was with futile, rage. Some person in London had his more and had it without an account of the profits, and for that he had been to humanity. Black, horrible, as the memory of a day, the of his returned to his mind, and he his eyes, to the picture of terror and that him. He to drive it all out of his thought, it him to these trifles; the of a publisher, the small and of the country folk, the of a village boy, had him almost to the of madness. His had with fury, and when he looked up the sky was blotched, and as if it blood.
Indeed he had almost that blood had upon him, and cold blood from a in heaven; his was wet and and dripping, and he had passed his hand across his and looked at it. A red cloud had to over the hill, and great, and come near to him; he was but an from madness.
It had almost come to that; the and the of the cloud had well-nigh touched him. It was that he had been so by such little things, and how after all the years he still the and and that his as with a tempest.
The memory of all that was wild and troubled; he that it should him no more, that now, for the last time, he would let himself be by the past. In a minutes he would to a new life, and all the that had gone over him.
Curiously, every detail was and clear in his brain. The of the doctor home, and the of the he had spoken came to him in the darkness, through the noise of the and the of the rain. Then he upon the of the hill and saw the up from the of Caermaen, in the calm; he to the voices thin and clear, in a tone, as if some were speaking in an unknown of things.
He saw the darkness, the of the village into an city, into some Atlantis, by a race. The fast, the that to issue from the black of the forest, to the walls, were him; and beneath, the river wound, snake-like, about the town, to the and in its still like brass. And as the water the and sent and of blood against the reeds, there came the trumpet-call, the loud that rose and fell, that called and recalled, through all the valley, to the as the last note rang. It the from the river and the and the battlefield, the up from the sea, the centuries about the eagles, the was set for the last great battle, the of the mist.
He himself still through the unknown, terrible country, at the and that to have put on an shape, the that his feet. He his way in a wild country, and the red light that up from the on the only him a land, in which he aghast, with the of upon him. The of the trees, the of an brook, him as if the earth spoke of his sin, and presently he was through a wood, where a light from the stumps, a of light that a radiance.
And then again the dark of the Roman fort, the black above the valley, and the around the ring of oaks, about the green that the and the place.
The room in which he sat appeared the vision, the trouble of the wind and rain without was but illusion, the noise of the in the seashell. Passion and and and the of the night returned, and the sweet of the woman appeared, and he at the soft touch of her hand on his flesh.
She as if she had into the from the moon that of cloud above the black circle of the oaks. She him away from all terror and and hate, and gave herself to him with rapture, him love, his away, his upon her breast.
His on her lips, his mouth upon the of her mouth, her arms were about him, and oh! she him with her voice, with sweet words, as she offered her sacrifice. How her down, and over his eyes, and there was a fire called the moon, and her were aflame, and her like a light on the hills.
All had come to him in the lane. Love had touched him in the and had away, but he had the and the glory, and his had the light.
AVE ATQUE VALE
The old in his ears like the of a chant, and he the music's close. Once only in his life, once the world had passed away, and he had her, the dear, dear Annie, the symbol of all womanhood.
The of still him, him these old memories, so that he not from his place. Oddly, there something about the of the room, as if the he had had the of the walls. He was that on this night he was not himself; fatigue, and the of sleep, and the had him. He how once or twice when he was a little boy by an dream, and had with a into nothingness, not where he was, all trembling, and quick, till he touched the rail of his bed, and the familiar of the looking-glass and the to out of the gloom. So now he touched the of and the at which he had so many hours, and reassured, though he at himself, and he the old dread, the to out for some one to a candle, and him that he was in his own room. He up for an instant, to see the of the that was on the wall, just his bureau, but it was too dark, and he not himself and make the that would drive the cloud and the away.
He again, the wet without, the rain like about the lamp, the of the wind on those waste places to the north. It was how in the and where no trees were, he all the time the noise of boughs, the of the together. There was a great and in this of London, and for the of the rain and the wind he not the and of the trams, and the and of the garden gates as they opened and shut. But he his street, the rain-swept of it, as it northward, and the empty roads, the windows, the field, the lane, and then yet another rising, a gas-lamp at a corner, and the plane tree its boughs, and great against the glass.
It was to think of. For when these were ended one the hill into the open country, into the world the of fires. Tonight, how waste they were, these wet roads, with the red-brick houses, with by the wind against one another, against the and the wall. There the wind the great on the sidewalk, the of the old fields, and each tree was a of wet, and a of with every gust. And one passed through the red avenues, by a little settlement of shops, and passed the last lamp, and the road a lane, and the from to across the open fields. And then, beyond, one touched again upon a still avant-garde of London, an the darkness, by its of twinkling, lights.
He his these of the town, and how all their must be tonight. They were in wet and wind, and only at long some one and along them, his to the of rain. Within the villas, the close-drawn curtains, they about the fire, and at the of the storm, for each great as it away, and the trees, and at last with a against their as if it were the of the sea. He of himself walking, as he had often walked, from lamp to lamp on such a night, his thoughts, and the hard him in his room. Often in the evening, after a long day's labor, he had his pen in listlessness, that he no more with ideas and words, and he had gone out into rain and darkness, the word of the as he on and on these of London.
Or on some in March or November he had of the and the life that he saw from his window, and had taken his design with him to the places, now and again by a gate, and in the of a through which the wind shivered, while, perhaps, he of Sicily, or of on the Provençal olives. Often as he from to field, and passed the Syrian tree in Britain, to an wall, the of the puzzle evident, and he laughed and home to make the page speak, to note the song he had on his way.
Sometimes he had many hours this and of London, now the fields, the by the wind, and now looking from a he see the of the town, and a water tower from a hill, and the snuff-colored cloud of that up from the into the sky.
There were and places that he had cherished; he loved a great old common that on high ground, about with houses of red brick, and their gardens. And there was on the road that to this common a space of ground with a and a oak, and here he had often in autumn and looked across the and the at the great theatre of the sunset, where a red cloud like a and a shape, and in a of green.
Or sometimes, when the of trim, monotonous, modern had him, he had an in the of a hamlet, left in a hollow, while all new London pressed and on every side, the of the red with its growth. These little peaceful houses, together the of trees, with their and roofs, somehow to him the of the country, and him with the of the old farm-houses, white or grey, the homes of lives, where, perhaps, no in.
For he had that there was neither health in all the waste of about him. It as if in those of dwellings, in the new villas, red and white and staring, there must be a which all to vulgarity. Beneath the sad slates, the doors, love to intrigue, to clamor, and the of life a common thing; religion was for in the and of the Independent chapel, the of the Doric columns. Nothing fine, nothing rare, nothing exquisite, it seemed, in the sea, in the which had from the and of the brickfields. It was as if the that from the had been into the shape of houses, and those who in these places also with the mud.
Hence he had in the of the past that he still on the suburb's edge, in the old houses that from the road, in the of the eighteenth century, in the that had only the and the of all the years that had passed over them. It appeared to him that and and had come with a flood, that not only the good but also the in man's had been common and ugly, that a was with all the springs, of death as of life. It would be to search these two-storied houses for a as for a saint; the very of these people of water and a vomit.
And so he had often away from the that him, for the old and and as an looks for the of the Roman temple the modern shops. In some way the of wind and the rain of the night him of an old house that had often him with a curiosity. He had it on a day in March, when he had gone out under a leaden-molded sky, from a wind that with it the and the of Siberian plains. More than that day the had him; insignificant, detestable, to and mind, it was the only that a age or make, an not by Dante but by the jerry-builder. He had gone out to the north, and when he up his again he that he had to turn up by one of the little that still across the fields. He had this path the at its was so and offensive, with and crockery, and in with a out of of wire, timber, and worn-out rails. But on this day, by happy chance, he had from the high road by the opening that offered, and he no longer his way refuse, by the of dogs, and from decay, but the had a peaceful lane, with warm its banks from the wind. For a mile he had walked quietly, and then a turn in the road him a little or hollow, by such a as his own knew, and beyond, alas, the of a "new neighborhood"; red villas, semi-detached, and then a of shops.
But as he was about to turn back, in the of some other outlet, his attention was by a small house that a little from the road on his right hand. There had been a white gate, but the paint had long to and black, and the under the touch, and only marked out the lines of the drive. The iron the lawn had fallen, and the flower-beds were with and a of weeds. But here and there a that had from the root, and on each of the door were box trees, untrimmed, ragged, but still green. The was all and livid, with the of a great that at one of the neglected lawn, and marks of and were thick on the walls, which had been yellow many years before. There was a of work the door, and Lucian had it in the wind, as if every must drive it down. There were two on the ground floor, one on each of the door, and two above, with a space where a window had been up.
This and house had him. Ancient and and fallen, by the and the yellow wash that had replaced the old tiles and the warm red walls, and again by and of decay; it as if its happy days were for ended. To Lucian it with a of and horror; the black that upon the walls, and the green upon the roof, appeared not so much the work of weather and boughs, as the of and in the of those within.
The stage to him for doom, painted with the of tragedy; and he as he looked any one were so as to live there still. There were in the windows, but he had asked himself who be so as to in that room, by the box, and of winter nights to the rain upon the window, and the of wind the that against the roof.
He not that any in such a house was habitable. Here the had lain, through the white the thin light had on the mouth, and still the must be wet with and still that great the and the of those who watched. No doubt, the was rising, and the odor of the earth the house, and such as entered back, the hour of death.
Often the of this old house had him; he had the empty rooms where a paper from the and in dark strips; and he not that a light from those that black and on the neglected lawn. But tonight the wet and the to the image of the place him, and as the wind he how those must be, if any there were, who sat in the by a light, and to the elm-tree and and on the walls.
And tonight was Saturday night; and there was about that phrase something that of the cell, of the of a man. Ghastly to his was the of any one in that room to the right of the door the larger box tree, where the was above the window and with a black in an shape.
He how it had been in the place to trouble his mind with such of a on the of London. And it was more now to these things, fantasies, forms, the issue of a sad mood and a day of spring. For soon, in a moments, he was to to a new life. He was but up the account of his past, and when the light came he was to think no more of and heaviness, of or terrors. He had too long in London, and he would once more taste the of the hills, and see the river in the long valley; ah! he would go home.
Something like a thrill, the of fear, passed over him as he that there was no home. It was in the winter, a year and a after his in town, that he had the of his father. He for many days prostrate, with and with the that now he was alone in the world. Miss Deacon was to live with another in Yorkshire; the old home was at last ended and done. He sorry that he had not more to his father: there were in his cousin's that had his sore. "Your father was always looking for your letters," she wrote, "they used to him so much. He nearly when you sent him that money last Christmas; he got it into his that you were to send it him. He was so much that you would have come this Christmas, and me about the plum-puddings months ago."
It was not only his father that had died, but with him the last link was broken, and the past life, the days of his boyhood, as a dream. With his father his mother died again, and the long years died, the time of his innocence, the memory of affection. He was sorry that his had gone home so rarely; it him to his father looking out when the post came in the morning, and to be sad there was nothing. But he had that his father valued the lines that he wrote, and it was often difficult to know what to say. It would have been to of those nights when the pen an and instrument, when every ended in defeat, or of the hours when at last wonder appeared and the line glowed, and exalted. To Mr. Taylor such would have but of some Oriental game, like an odd from a land where men have time for the little, and can make a science of in a jar, and discuss of politics. It would have been to to the of his only interest, and so he seldom.
And then he had been sorry he again and see his home. He had he would have gone to the old place at Christmas, if his father had lived. It was how common the griefs, but his father's that the plum-pudding should be good, and for him, had the into his eyes. He him saying in a voice that to be cheerful: "I you will be of the Christmas soon, Jane; you how Lucian used to be of plum-pudding. I we shall see him this December." No Miss Deacon with at the that she should make Christmas in July; and returned a answer; but it was pathetic. The wind wailed, and the rain and again and again upon the window. He that all his of home, of the old the elms, had into his mind the of the upon the trees, for, tonight, very he the of the boughs, the noise of and and on the walls, and a of wet, on wet earth, as if there were a near the window that off the raindrops, the gust.
That thrill, as it were a of fear, passed over him again, and he not what had him afraid. There were some dark on his mind that him; it as if a memory of terrible days like a cloud over his thought, but it was all indefinite, the last and of the that had over his life and the years. He and to himself and drive away the of and that so and so awful, and yet he not it. But the of sleep, the of the work that he had ended a hours before, still his and his thoughts. He that he had been at his a little while ago, and that just the winter day closed it and the rain to he had the pen with a of relief, and had slept in his chair. It was as if he had through a long and night, as if an of and and the that not had come to him sleeping. But he would no more on the darkness; he to the early days in London when he had said to the and to the waterpools, and had set to work in this little room in the street.
