Part-2
How he had and at the him! He had put away the old wild of the and in a of inspiration, out in one white of joy; it was if by of long and of he at last, in pain and and despair, after failure and and renewed, fashion something of which he need not be ashamed. He had put himself to again, and had, with what patience he command, ground his teeth into the rudiments, that at last he would test out the of the mystery. They were good nights to remember, these; he was to think of the little room, with its wall-paper and its "bird's-eye" furniture, up, while he sat at the and on into the cold of the London morning, when the and the together. It was an labor, and he had always it to be as as alchemy. The gold, the great and masterpiece, would the and of the crucible, but in the of the life, in the the failures, he might possibly things.
These were the good nights that he look on without any or shame, when he had been happy and on a diet of and tea and tobacco, and of some into its hundredth thousand, and laugh cheerfully—if only that last page had been aright, if the phrases noted in the still hours out their music when he read them in the morning. He the and that the Miss Deacon used to to him, and how he had at her of reproof, admonition, and advice. She had once Dolly to pay him a visit, and that of had talked about the of Bolter at the Scurragh meeting in Ireland; and then, at Lucian's books, had any of them had "warm bits." He had been though patronizing, and to have moved in the most of Stoke Newington. He had not been able to give any as to the present condition of Edgar Allan Poe's old school. It appeared that his report at home had not been a very one, for no to high tea had followed, as Miss Deacon had hoped. The Dollys many people, who were well off, and Lucian's cousin, as she said, had done her best to him to the of those northern suburbs.
But after the visit of the Dolly, with what he had returned to the which he had from eyes. He had looked out and his visitor on the tram at the corner, and he laughed out loud, and locked his door. There had been moments when he was lonely, and to again the of speech, but, after such an of futility, it was a delight, to that he was secure on his tower, that he himself in his as safe and as if he were in mid-desert.
But there was one period that he not revive; he no to think of those of and terror in the winter after his to London. His mind was sluggish, and he not how many years had passed since that experience; it all an old story, but yet it was still vivid, a of terror from which he his away. One into his memory, and he not out the of an orgy, of in a ring, of in the darkness, of great lamps, like thuribles, very slowly in a blast of air. And there was something else, something which he not remember, but it him with terror, but it in the dark places of his soul, as a wild in the of a cave.
Again, and without reason, he to image to himself that old house in the field. With what a loud noise the wind must be about on this night, how the great and in the storm, and the rain and on the windows, and on the earth from the the door. He moved on his chair, and to put the picture out of his thoughts; but in of himself he saw the walls, that of above the window, and a of light through the blind, and some one, above all and for lost, sat the room. Or rather, every window was black, without a of hope, and he who was in thick the wind and the rain, and the noise of the elm-tree and and on the walls.
For all his the would not him, and as he sat his looking into the he almost see that which he had so often imagined; the low up by a beam, the of and long usage, the and of the plaster. Old furniture, shabby, deplorable, battered, about the room; there was a sofa and tottering, and a paper, patterned in a red, and near the floor, and off and in from the walls. And there was that odor of decay, of the rank steaming, of wood, a that the and the full of and heaviness.
Lucian again with a of dread; he was that he had himself and that he was from the of illness. His mind on and terrible recollections, and with a gave and to phantoms; and now he a long breath, almost that the air in his room was and noisome, that it entered his with some of the crypt. And his was still languid, and though he a motion to he not energy for the effort, and he again into the chair. At all events, he would think no more of that sad house in the field; he would return to those long with letters, to the happy nights when he had victories.
He something of his from the and the than that had him that winter in London. He had gone free one in February, and after those terrible the and the and of papers had once more and him. And in the summer, of a night when he and to the birds, images came to him. For an hour, while the brightened, he had the presence of an age, the of the life that the green had hidden, and his for when he that he and all the that had so long moldered. He asleep for and thoughts, and as soon as his was over he out and paper and of a in Notting Hill. The was not as he passed to and on his errand. The by at intervals, a came from London, there the same and of the trams. The life of the was unaltered; a people, un-classed, without or possible description, and walked from east to west, and from west to east, or slowly into the to in the black waste to the north, or go in the that the river. He these by-roads as he passed, and was astonished, as always, at their and aspect. Some were empty; lines of neat, residences, and as if for occupation, the white road; and not a was abroad, and not a their stillness. It was a picture of the of midnight up, but empty and waste as the most and hours the day. Other of these by-roads, of older settlement, were with more houses, from the pavement, each in a little of greenery, and thus one might look as through a vista, and see a way and with low and yet untrodden, and all a silence. Here and there in some of these a in the distance, and delaying, as if in the labyrinth. It was difficult to say which were the more dismal, these that away to right and left, or the great main with its and life. For the appeared vast, interminable, grey, and those who by it were real, the of the living, but the and that come and go across the in an Eastern tale, when men look up from the and see a pass them, all in silence, without a or a greeting. So they passed and each other on those pavements, appearing and vanishing, each on his own secret, and in obscurity. One might have that not a man saw his neighbor who met him or him, that here every one was a for the other, though the lines of their paths and recrossed, and their like the of live men. When two by together, they and them as though all the world was an enemy, and the of was like the noise of a of rain. Curious and of life at points in the road, for at the ended and shops in a row, and looked so that one who buy. There were about the greengrocers, and in black touched and the red that an offered, and already in the public there was a noise, with a of voices that rose and like a Jewish chant, with the of into an of gaiety. Then, in a that like mid-winter in stone, he from one world to another, for an old house its garden the opposite corner. The had into black skeletons, with green drift, the over the porch, the had the flower-beds. Dark over an elm-tree, and a in on the lawn, where the of trees moldered. The verandah, the over the door, had to grey, and the was with marks of weather, and a of decay, that of black earth in old town gardens, about the gates. And then a of had pushed out in shops to the pavement, and the in black and about the cabbages, and the red of meat.
It was the same terrible street, he had so often, where but a light, where the of always drifted. On black winter nights he had the lights through the rain and close together, as the road in long perspective. Perhaps this was its most moment, when nothing of its and shops but the of their windows, when the old house its was but a dark cloud, and the to the north and south like wastes, them the of infinity. Always in the it had been to him and abominable, and its houses and had been fungus-like sproutings, an of decay.
But on that neither the those who moved about it him. He returned to his den, and out the paper on his desk. The world about him was but a on a wall; its were as the of trees in a wood. The and of those who the Amber Venus were his distinct, clear, and visions, and for one them who came to him in a fire of his with the of love. She it was who from all the and the in amber, out her in gold, her of enamel, and from a box all her of and stones, and sardonyx, and diamond, and pearl. And then she from her her and the in the of her hair, praying that to her who had all and came to the shrine, love might be given, and the of Venus. And when at last, after adventures, her prayer was granted, then when the sweet light came from the sea, and her lover at to that glory, he saw him a little of amber. And in the shrine, in Britain where the black the marble, they the and of the Golden Venus, the last of that the lady had from her fingers, and the at her feet. And her was like the lady's when the sun had it on that day of her devotion.
The Lucian's eyes; he as though the soft touched his and his and his hands. The of bricks, the of water, his that were with the perfume of unguents, with the of the sea in Italy. His was an inebriation, an of that all the Hottentot and as with one white flash, and through the hours of that day he sat enthralled, not a with patient art, but into another time, and by the urgent in the lady's eyes.
The little of The Amber Statuette had at last from a office in the after his father's death. The author was unknown; the author's Murray was a and in of development, so that Lucian was when the book a success. The had been sadly irritated, and now he with an article in an daily paper, an article headed: "Where are the disinfectants?"
And then—but all the months doubtful, there were only of the hours renewed, and the white nights when he had the moonlight and the at the approach of dawn.
He listened. Surely that was the of rain on ground, the of great from wet by the of wind, and then again the of sang above the of the air; there was a noise as if the the of a ship. He had only to up and look out of the window and he would see the empty street, and the rain the under the gas-lamp, but he would wait a little while.
He to think why, in of all his resolutions, a dark to more and more over all his mind. How often he had sat and on just such nights as this, if the were in though the wind might wail, though the air were black with rain. Even about the little book that he had there some taint, some memory that came to him across the of forgetfulness. Somehow the of the to Venus, of the phrases that he had so invented, again the that in the orgy, the lamps; and again the the way to the sad house in the fields, and the red up the and the black windows. He for breath, he to a air that of and rottenness, and the odor of the was in his nostrils.
That unknown cloud that had his and him, was upon him, his with a dread. In a moment, it seemed, a would be away and would appear.
He to from his chair, to out, but he not. Deep, the closed upon him, and the away. The Roman up, terrific, and he saw the in a ring, and them a and of fire. There were that in the of the oaks; they called and to him, and rose into the air, into the that was from about the walls. And them was the of the beloved, but of from her breasts, and her was a old woman, naked; and they, too, him to the hill.
He Dr. Burrows of the that had been in old Mrs. Gibbon's cottage, figures, and unknown contrivances. She was a witch, he said, and the of witches.
He against the nightmare, against the that him. All his life, he thought, had been an dream, and for the common world he had an red garment, that in his eyes. Truth and the were so that now he not one from the other. He had let Annie drink his the hill, on the night when the shone, but he had not surely her in the flame, the Queen of the Sabbath. Dimly he Dr. Burrows to see him in London, but had he not all the rest?
Again he himself in the lane, and Annie to him from the moon above the hill. His upon her again, but, alas, it was aflame. And he looked down, and he saw that his own was aflame, and he that the fire be quenched.
There was a weight upon his head, his were to the floor, and his arms tight him. He to himself to and with the of a madman; but his hand only and a little as it upon the desk.
Again he was in the mist; through the waste of a city that had been from ages. It had been as Rome, terrible as Babylon, and for the had it, and it for in the plain. And and the passages into the night, into the fields, into the place of gloom.
Ring ring the temple closed around him; circles of stones, circle circle, and every circle less all ages. In the center was the of the rite, and he was as in the of a whirlpool, to his ruin, to the wedding of the Sabbath. He up his arms and the air, with all his strength, with that mountains; and this time his little for an instant, and his upon the floor.
Then a him. There was about him, but it with of light and fires, and great very slowly in a blast of air. A music, and the of voices, in his ears, and he saw an of that and him. There was a noise like the of the lost, and then there appeared in the of the orgy, a red flame, the of a woman. Her and were illuminate, and an light from her eyes, and with a that his her opened to speak to him. The away, into a of darkness, and then she out from her of gold, and in enamel, and out him from a box, and then she from her her robes, and in the of her hair, and out her arms to him. But he his and saw the and on the of a room, and a paper was to the floor. A of the entered his nostrils, and he out with a loud scream; but there was only an in his throat.
And presently the woman away from him, and he her. She away him through midnight country, and he after her, her from to thicket, from to valley. And at last he her and her with caresses, and they up to and make the marriage of the Sabbath. They were the thicket, and they in the flames, insatiable, for ever. They were tortured, and one another, in the of thousands who thick about them; and their rose up like a black smoke.
Without, the to the of an sea, the wind to a long scream, the elm-tree was and with the crash of a thunderclap. To Lucian the and the came as a murmur, as if a a in summer. And then a him.
A minutes later there was a of in the passage, and the door was opened. A woman came in, a light, and she at the still in the chair the desk. The woman was dressed, and she had let her down, her were flushed, and as she into the room, the lamp she on the paper, with marks of damp, and in from the wet, wall. The had not been drawn, but no light or of light through the window, for a great box tree that the rain upon the out the night. The woman came softly, and as she over Lucian an from her eyes, and the little upon her were like work upon marble. She put her hand to his heart, and looked up, and to some one who was waiting by the door.
"Come in, Joe," she said. "It's just as I it would be: 'Death by misadventure'"; and she up a little empty bottle of dark that was on the desk. "He would take it, and I always he would take a too much one of these days."
"What's all those papers that he's got there?"
"Didn't I tell you? It was to see him. He got it into 'is 'ead he a book; he's been at it for the last six months. Look 'ere."
She spread the of over the desk, and took a at haphazard. It was all with scribblings; only here and there it was possible to a word.
"Why, nobody read it, if they wanted to."
"It's all like that. He it was beautiful. I used to 'ear him to himself about it, nonsense it was he used to talk. I did my best to him out of it, but it wasn't any good."
"He must have been a dotty. He's left you everything."
"Yes."
"You'll have to see about the funeral."
"There'll be the and all that first."
"You've got to he took the stuff."
"Yes, to be sure I have. The doctor told him he would be to do for himself, and he was two or three times in the streets. They had to him away from a house in Halden Road. He was on dreadful, at the gaite, and calling out it was 'is 'ome and they wouldn't let him in. I Dr. Manning myself tell 'im in this very room that he'd kill 'imself one of these days. Joe! Aren't you of yourself. I you're rude, and it's almost Sunday too. Bring the light over here, can't you?"
The man took up the lamp, and set it on the desk, the of that terrible manuscript. The light through the into the brain, and there was a within, as if great doors were opened.
