faithin
the
Divine
Order
,
as
if
it
had
been
some
example
in
Butler
's
Analogy
.
"
Are
n't
Mr.
Taylor
's
views
very
extreme
?
"
she
said
to
her
husband
the
same
evening
.
"
I
am
afraid
they
are
,
"
he
replied
.
"
I
was
quite
grieved
at
the
last
Diocesan
Conference
at
the
way
in
which
he
spoke
.
The
dear
old
bishop
had
given
an
address
on
Auricular
Confession
;
he
was
forced
to
do
so
,
you
know
,
after
what
had
happened
,
and
I
must
say
that
I
never
felt
prouder
of
our
beloved
Church
.
"
Mr.
Dixon
told
all
the
Homeric
story
of
the
conference
,
reciting
the
achievements
of
the
champions
,
"
deploring
"
this
and
applauding
that
.
It
seemed
that
Mr.
Taylor
had
had
the
audacity
to
quote
authorities
which
the
bishop
could
not
very
well
repudiate
,
though
they
were
directly
opposed
to
the
"
safe
"
Episcopal
pronouncement
.
Mrs.
Dixon
of
course
was
grieved
;
it
was
"
sad
"
to
think
of
a
clergyman
behaving
so
shamefully
.
"
But
you
know
,
dear
,
"
she
proceeded
,
"
I
have
been
thinking
about
that
unfortunate
Taylor
boy
and
his
disappointments
,
and
after
what
you
've
just
told
me
,
I
am
sure
it
's
some
kind
of
judgment
on
them
both
.
Has
Mr.
Taylor
forgotten
the
vows
he
took
at
his
ordination
?
But
do
n't
you
think
,
dear
,
I
am
right
,
and
that
he
has
been
punished
:
'
The
sins
of
the
fathers
'
?
"
Somehow
or
other
Lucian
divined
the
atmosphere
of
threatenings
and
judgments
,
and
shrank
more
and
more
from
the
small
society
of
the
countryside
.
For
his
part
,
when
he
was
not
"
mooning
"
in
the
beloved
fields
and
woods
of
happy
memory
,
he
shut
himself
up
with
books
,
reading
whatever
could
be
found
on
the
shelves
,
and
amassing
a
store
of
incongruous
and
obsolete
knowledge
.
Long
did
he
linger
with
the
men
of
the
seventeenth
century
;
delaying
the
gay
sunlit
streets
with
Pepys
,
and
listening
to
the
charmed
sound
of
the
Restoration
Revel
;
roaming
by
peaceful
streams
with
Izaak
Walton
,
and
the
great
Catholic
divines
;
enchanted
with
the
portrait
of
Herbert
the
loving
ascetic
;
awed
by
the
mystic
breath
of
Crashaw
.
Then
the
cavalier
poets
sang
their
gallant
songs
;
and
Herrick
made
Dean
Prior
magic
ground
by
the
holy
incantation
of
a
verse
.
And
in
the
old
proverbs
and
homely
sayings
of
the
time
he
found
the
good
and
beautiful
English
life
,
a
time
full
of
grace
and
dignity
and
rich
merriment
.
He
dived
deeper
and
deeper
into
his
books
;
he
had
taken
all
obsolescence
to
be
his
province
;
in
his
disgust
at
the
stupid
usual
questions
,
"
Will
it
pay
?
"
"
What
good
is
it
?
"
and
so
forth
,
he
would
only
read
what
was
uncouth
and
useless
.
The
strange
pomp
and
symbolism
of
the
Cabala
,
with
its
hint
of
more
terrible
things
;
the
Rosicrucian
mysteries
of
Fludd
,
the
enigmas
of
Vaughan
,
dreams
of
alchemistsâ
€
”
all
these
were
his
delight
.
Such
were
his
companions
,
with
the
hills
and
hanging
woods
,
the
brooks
and
lonely
waterpools
;
books
,
the
thoughts
of
books
,
the
stirrings
of
imagination
,
all
fused
into
one
phantasy
by
the
magic
of
the
outland
country
.
He
held
himself
aloof
from
the
walls
of
the
fort
;
he
was
content
to
see
the
heaped
mounds
,
the
violent
height
with
faerie
bulwarks
,
from
the
gate
in
the
lane
,
and
to
leave
all
within
the
ring
of
oaks
in
the
mystery
of
his
boyhood
's
vision
.
He
professed
to
laugh
at
himself
and
at
his
fancies
of
that
hot
August
afternoon
,
when
sleep
came
to
him
within
the
thicket
,
but
in
his
heart
of
hearts
there
was
something
that
never
fadedâ
€
”
something
that
glowed
like
the
red
glint
of
a
gypsy
's
fire
seen
from
afar
across
the
hills
and
mists
of
the
night
,
and
known
to
be
burning
in
a
wild
land
.
Sometimes
,
when
he
was
sunken
in
his
books
,
the
flame
of
delight
shot
up
,
and
showed
him
a
whole
province
and
continent
of
his
nature
,
all
shining
and
aglow
;
and
in
the
midst
of
the
exultation
and
triumph
he
would
draw
back
,
a
little
afraid
.
He
had
become
ascetic
in
his
studious
and
melancholy
isolation
,
and
the
vision
of
such
ecstasies
frightened
him
.
He
began
to
write
a
little
;
at
first
very
tentatively
and
feebly
,
and
then
with
more
confidence
.
He
showed
some
of
his
verses
to
his
father
,
who
told
him
with
a
sigh
that
he
had
once
hoped
to
writeâ
€
”
in
the
old
days
at
Oxford
,
he
added
.
"
They
are
very
nicely
done
,
"
said
the
parson
;
"
but
I
'm
afraid
you
wo
n't
find
anybody
to
print
them
,
my
boy
.
"
So
he
pottered
on
;
reading
everything
,
imitating
what
struck
his
fancy
,
attempting
the
effect
of
the
classic
meters
in
English
verse
,
trying
his
hand
at
a
masque
,
a
Restoration
comedy
,
forming
impossible
plans
for
books
which
rarely
got
beyond
half
a
dozen
lines
on
a
sheet
of
paper
;
beset
with
splendid
fancies
which
refused
to
abide
before
the
pen
.
But
the
vain
joy
of
conception
was
not
altogether
vain
,
for
it
gave
him
some
armor
about
his
heart
.
The
months
went
by
,
monotonous
,
and
sometimes
blotted
with
despair
.
He
wrote
and
planned
and
filled
the
waste-paper
basket
with
hopeless
efforts
.
Now
and
then
he
sent
verses
or
prose
articles
to
magazines
,
in
pathetic
ignorance
of
the
trade
.
He
felt
the
immense
difficulty
of
the
career
of
literature
without
clearly
understanding
it
;
the
battle
was
happily
in
a
mist
,
so
that
the
host
of
the
enemy
,
terribly
arrayed
,
was
to
some
extent
hidden
.
Yet
there
was
enough
of
difficulty
to
appall
;
from
following
the
intricate
course
of
little
nameless
brooks
,
from
hushed
twilight
woods
,
from
the
vision
of
the
mountains
,
and
the
breath
of
the
great
wind
,
passing
from
deep
to
deep
,
he
would
come
home
filled
with
thoughts
and
emotions
,
mystic
fancies
which
he
yearned
to
translate
into
the
written
word
.
And
the
result
of
the
effort
seemed
always
to
be
bathos
!
Wooden
sentences
,
a
portentous
stilted
style
,
obscurity
,
and
awkwardness
clogged
the
pen
;
it
seemed
impossible
to
win
the
great
secret
of
language
;
the
stars
glittered
only
in
the
darkness
,
and
vanished
away
in
clearer
light
.
The
periods
of
despair
were
often
long
and
heavy
,
the
victories
very
few
and
trifling
;
night
after
night
he
sat
writing
after
his
father
had
knocked
out
his
last
pipe
,
filling
a
page
with
difficulty
in
an
hour
,
and
usually
forced
to
thrust
the
stuff
away
in
despair
,
and
go
unhappily
to
bed
,
conscious
that
after
all
his
labor
he
had
done
nothing
.
And
these
were
moments
when
the
accustomed
vision
of
the
land
alarmed
him
,
and
the
wild
domed
hills
and
darkling
woods
seemed
symbols
of
some
terrible
secret
in
the
inner
life
of
that
strangerâ
€
”
himself
.
Sometimes
when
he
was
deep
in
his
books
and
papers
,
sometimes
on
a
lonely
walk
,
sometimes
amidst
the
tiresome
chatter
of
Caermaen
"
society
,
"
he
would
thrill
with
a
sudden
sense
of
awful
hidden
things
,
and
there
ran
that
quivering
flame
through
his
nerves
that
brought
back
the
recollection
of
the
matted
thicket
,
and
that
earlier
appearance
of
the
bare
black
boughs
enwrapped
with
flames
.
Indeed
,
though
he
avoided
the
solitary
lane
,
and
the
sight
of
the
sheer
height
,
with
its
ring
of
oaks
and
molded
mounds
,
the
image
of
it
grew
more
intense
as
the
symbol
of
certain
hints
and
suggestions
.
The
exultant
and
insurgent
flesh
seemed
to
have
its
temple
and
castle
within
those
olden
walls
,
and
he
longed
with
all
his
heart
to
escape
,
to
set
himself
free
in
the
wilderness
of
London
,
and
to
be
secure
amidst
the
murmur
of
modern
streets
.
II
Lucian
was
growing
really
anxious
about
his
manuscript
.
He
had
gained
enough
experience
at
twenty-three
to
know
that
editors
and
publishers
must
not
be
hurried
;
but
his
book
had
been
lying
at
Messrs
Beit
's
office
for
more
than
three
months
.
For
six
weeks
he
had
not
dared
to
expect
an
answer
,
but
afterwards
life
had
become
agonizing
.
Every
morning
,
at
post-time
,
the
poor
wretch
nearly
choked
with
anxiety
to
know
whether
his
sentence
had
arrived
,
and
the
rest
of
the
day
was
racked
with
alternate
pangs
of
hope
and
despair
.
Now
and
then
he
was
almost
assured
of
success
;
conning
over
these
painful
and
eager
pages
in
memory
,
he
found
parts
that
were
admirable
,
while
again
,
his
inexperience
reproached
him
,
and
he
feared
he
had
written
a
raw
and
awkward
book
,
wholly
unfit
for
print
.
Then
he
would
compare
what
he
remembered
of
it
with
notable
magazine
articles
and
books
praised
by
reviewers
,
and
fancy
that
after
all
there
might
be
good
points
in
the
thing
;
he
could
not
help
liking
the
first
chapter
for
instance
.
Perhaps
the
letter
might
come
tomorrow
.
So
it
went
on
;
week
after
week
of
sick
torture
made
more
exquisite
by
such
gleams
of
hope
;
it
was
as
if
he
were
stretched
in
anguish
on
the
rack
,
and
the
pain
relaxed
and
kind
words
spoken
now
and
again
by
the
tormentors
,
and
then
once
more
the
grinding
pang
and
burning
agony
.
At
last
he
could
bear
suspense
no
longer
,
and
he
wrote
to
Messrs
Beit
,
inquiring
in
a
humble
manner
whether
the
manuscript
had
arrived
in
safety
.
The
firm
replied
in
a
very
polite
letter
,
expressing
regret
that
their
reader
had
been
suffering
from
a
cold
in
the
head
,
and
had
therefore
been
unable
to
send
in
his
report
.
A
final
decision
was
promised
in
a
week
's
time
,
and
the
letter
ended
with
apologies
for
the
delay
and
a
hope
that
he
had
suffered
no
inconvenience
.
Of
course
the
"
final
decision
"
did
not
come
at
the
end
of
the
week
,
but
the
book
was
returned
at
the
end
of
three
weeks
,
with
a
circular
thanking
the
author
for
his
kindness
in
submitting
the
manuscript
,
and
regretting
that
the
firm
did
not
see
their
way
to
producing
it
.
He
felt
relieved
;
the
operation
that
he
had
dreaded
and
deprecated
for
so
long
was
at
last
over
,
and
he
would
no
longer
grow
sick
of
mornings
when
the
letters
were
brought
in
.
He
took
his
parcel
to
the
sunny
corner
of
the
garden
,
where
the
old
wooden
seat
stood
sheltered
from
the
biting
March
winds
.
Messrs
Beit
had
put
in
with
the
circular
one
of
their
short
lists
,
a
neat
booklet
,
headed
:
Messrs
Beit
+
Co.
's
Recent
Publications
.
He
settled
himself
comfortably
on
the
seat
,
lit
his
pipe
,
and
began
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
,
pronounced
this
to
be
a
"
charming
book
.
Mrs.
Runnymede
has
wit
and
humor
enough
to
furnish
forth
half-a-dozen
ordinary
sporting
novels
.
"
"
Told
with
the
sparkle
and
vivacity
of
a
past-mistress
in
the
art
of
novel
writing
,
"
said
the
Review
;
while
Miranda
,
of
Smart
Society
,
positively
bubbled
with
enthusiasm
.
"
You
must
forgive
me
,
Aminta
,
"
wrote
this
young
person
,
"
if
I
have
not
sent
the
description
I
promised
of
Madame
Lulu
's
new
creations
and
others
of
that
ilk
.
I
must
a
tale
unfold
;
Tom
came
in
yesterday
and
began
to
rave
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
seems
the
police
have
to
regulate
the
crowd
at
Mudie
's
.
You
know
I
read
everything
Mrs.
Runnymede
writes
,
so
I
set
out
Miggs
directly
to
beg
,
borrow
or
steal
a
copy
,
and
I
confess
I
burnt
the
midnight
oil
before
I
laid
it
down
.
Now
,
mind
you
get
it
,
you
will
find
it
so
awfully
chic
.
"
Nearly
all
the
novelists
on
Messrs
Beit
's
list
were
ladies
,
their
works
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
pronounced
fit
to
lie
on
the
school-room
table
,
on
the
drawing-room
bookshelf
,
or
beneath
the
pillow
of
the
most
gently
nurtured
of
our
daughters
.
"
This
,
"
the
reviewer
went
on
,
"
is
high
praise
,
especially
in
these
days
when
we
are
deafened
by
the
loud-voiced
clamor
of
self-styled
'
artists
.
'
We
would
warn
the
young
men
who
prate
so
persistently
of
style
and
literature
,
construction
and
prose
harmonies
,
that
we
believe
the
English
reading
public
will
have
none
of
them
.
Harmless
amusement
,
a
gentle
flow
of
domestic
interest
,
a
faithful
reproduction
of
the
open
and
manly
life
of
the
hunting
field
,
pictures
of
innocent
and
healthy
English
girlhood
such
as
Miss
Sanders
here
affords
us
;
these
are
the
topics
that
will
always
find
a
welcome
in
our
homes
,
which
remain
bolted
and
barred
against
the
abandoned
artist
and
the
scrofulous
stylist
.
"
He
turned
over
the
pages
of
the
little
book
and
chuckled
in
high
relish
;
he
discovered
an
honest
enthusiasm
,
a
determination
to
strike
a
blow
for
the
good
and
true
that
refreshed
and
exhilarated
.
A
beaming
face
,
spectacled
and
whiskered
probably
,
an
expansive
waistcoat
,
and
a
tender
heart
,
seemed
to
shine
through
the
words
which
Messrs
Beit
had
quoted
;
and
the
alliteration
of
the
final
sentence
;
that
was
good
too
;
there
was
style
for
you
if
you
wanted
it
.
The
champion
of
the
blushing
cheek
and
the
gushing
eye
showed
that
he
too
could
handle
the
weapons
of
the
enemy
if
he
cared
to
trouble
himself
with
such
things
.
Lucian
leant
back
and
roared
with
indecent
laughter
till
the
tabby
tom-cat
who
had
succeeded
to
the
poor
dead
beasts
looked
up
reproachfully
from
his
sunny
corner
,
with
a
face
like
the
reviewer
's
,
innocent
and
round
and
whiskered
.
At
last
he
turned
to
his
parcel
and
drew
out
some
half-dozen
sheets
of
manuscript
,
and
began
to
read
in
a
rather
desponding
spirit
;
it
was
pretty
obvious
,
he
thought
,
that
the
stuff
was
poor
and
beneath
the
standard
of
publication
.
The
book
had
taken
a
year
and
a
half
in
the
making
;
it
was
a
pious
attempt
to
translate
into
English
prose
the
form
and
mystery
of
the
domed
hills
,
the
magic
of
occult
valleys
,
the
sound
of
the
red
swollen
brook
swirling
through
leafless
woods
.
Day-dreams
and
toil
at
nights
had
gone
into
the
eager
pages
,
he
had
labored
hard
to
do
his
very
best
,
writing
and
rewriting
,
weighing
his
cadences
,
beginning
over
and
over
again
,
grudging
no
patience
,
no
trouble
if
only
it
might
be
pretty
good
;
good
enough
to
print
and
sell
to
a
reading
public
which
had
become
critical
.
He
glanced
through
the
manuscript
in
his
hand
,
and
to
his
astonishment
,
he
could
not
help
thinking
that
in
its
measure
it
was
decent
work
.
After
three
months
his
prose
seemed
fresh
and
strange
as
if
it
had
been
wrought
by
another
man
,
and
in
spite
of
himself
he
found
charming
things
,
and
impressions
that
were
not
commonplace
.
He
knew
how
weak
it
all
was
compared
with
his
own
conceptions
;
he
had
seen
an
enchanted
city
,
awful
,
glorious
,
with
flame
smitten
about
its
battlements
,
like
the
cities
of
the
Sangraal
,
and
he
had
molded
his
copy
in
such
poor
clay
as
came
to
his
hand
;
yet
,
in
spite
of
the
gulf
that
yawned
between
the
idea
and
the
work
,
he
knew
as
he
read
that
the
thing
accomplished
was
very
far
from
a
failure
.
He
put
back
the
leaves
carefully
,
and
glanced
again
at
Messrs
Beit
's
list
.
It
had
escaped
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
wished
to
succeed
.
If
he
worked
hard
,
he
thought
,
he
might
some
day
win
the
approval
of
the
coy
and
retiring
Miranda
of
Smart
Society
;
that
modest
maiden
might
in
his
praise
interrupt
her
task
of
disinterested
advertisement
,
her
philanthropic
counsels
to
"
go
to
Jumper
's
,
and
mind
you
ask
for
Mr.
C
.
Jumper
,
who
will
show
you
the
lovely
blue
paper
with
the
yellow
spots
at
ten
shillings
the
piece
.
"
He
put
down
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
manuscript
was
hidden
away
,
and
his
father
quoted
Horace
's
maxim
as
to
the
benefit
of
keeping
literary
works
for
some
time
"
in
the
wood
.
"
There
was
nothing
to
grumble
at
,
though
Lucian
was
inclined
to
think
the
duration
of
the
reader
's
catarrh
a
little
exaggerated
.
But
this
was
a
trifle
;
he
did
not
arrogate
to
himself
the
position
of
a
small
commercial
traveler
,
who
expects
prompt
civility
as
a
matter
of
course
,
and
not
at
all
as
a
favor
.
He
simply
forgot
his
old
book
,
and
resolved
that
he
would
make
a
better
one
if
he
could
.
With
the
hot
fit
of
resolution
,
the
determination
not
to
be
snuffed
out
by
one
refusal
upon
him
,
he
began
to
beat
about
in
his
mind
for
some
new
scheme
.
At
first
it
seemed
that
he
had
hit
upon
a
promising
subject
;
he
began
to
plot
out
chapters
and
scribble
hints
for
the
curious
story
that
had
entered
his
mind
,
arranging
his
circumstances
and
noting
the
effects
to
be
produced
with
all
the
enthusiasm
of
the
artist
.
But
after
the
first
breath
the
aspect
of
the
work
changed
;
page
after
page
was
tossed
aside
as
hopeless
,
the
beautiful
sentences
he
had
dreamed
of
refused
to
be
written
,
and
his
puppets
remained
stiff
and
wooden
,
devoid
of
life
or
motion
.
Then
all
the
old
despairs
came
back
,
the
agonies
of
the
artificer
who
strives
and
perseveres
in
vain
;
the
scheme
that
seemed
of
amorous
fire
turned
to
cold
hard
ice
in
his
hands
.
He
let
the
pen
drop
from
his
fingers
,
and
wondered
how
he
could
have
ever
dreamed
of
writing
books
.
Again
,
the
thought
occurred
that
he
might
do
something
if
he
could
only
get
away
,
and
join
the
sad
procession
in
the
murmuring
London
streets
,
far
from
the
shadow
of
those
awful
hills
.
But
it
was
quite
impossible
;
the
relative
who
had
once
promised
assistance
was
appealed
to
,
and
wrote
expressing
his
regret
that
Lucian
had
turned
out
a
"
loafer
,
"
wasting
his
time
in
scribbling
,
instead
of
trying
to
earn
his
living
.
Lucian
felt
rather
hurt
at
this
letter
,
but
the
parson
only
grinned
grimly
as
usual
.
He
was
thinking
of
how
he
signed
a
check
many
years
before
,
in
the
days
of
his
prosperity
,
and
the
check
was
payable
to
this
didactic
relative
,
then
in
but
a
poor
way
,
and
of
a
thankful
turn
of
mind
.
The
old
rejected
manuscript
had
almost
passed
out
of
his
recollection
.
It
was
recalled
oddly
enough
.
He
was
looking
over
the
Reader
,
and
enjoying
the
admirable
literary
criticisms
,
some
three
months
after
the
return
of
his
book
,
when
his
eye
was
attracted
by
a
quoted
passage
in
one
of
the
notices
.
The
thought
and
style
both
wakened
memory
,
the
cadences
were
familiar
and
beloved
.
He
read
through
the
review
from
the
beginning
;
it
was
a
very
favorable
one
,
and
pronounced
the
volume
an
immense
advance
on
Mr.
Ritson
's
previous
work
.
"
Here
,
undoubtedly
,
the
author
has
discovered
a
vein
of
pure
metal
,
"
the
reviewer
added
,
"
and
we
predict
that
he
will
go
far
.
"
Lucian
had
not
yet
reached
his
father
's
stage
,
he
was
unable
to
grin
in
the
manner
of
that
irreverent
parson
.
The
passage
selected
for
high
praise
was
taken
almost
word
for
word
from
the
manuscript
now
resting
in
his
room
,
the
work
that
had
not
reached
the
high
standard
of
Messrs
Beit
+
Co.
,
who
,
curiously
enough
,
were
the
publishers
of
the
book
reviewed
in
the
Reader
.
He
had
a
few
shillings
in
his
possession
,
and
wrote
at
once
to
a
bookseller
in
London
for
a
copy
of
The
Chorus
in
Green
,
as
the
author
had
oddly
named
the
book
.
He
wrote
on
June
21st
and
thought
he
might
fairly
expect
to
receive
the
interesting
volume
by
the
24th
;
but
the
postman
,
true
to
his
tradition
,
brought
nothing
for
him
,
and
in
the
afternoon
he
resolved
to
walk
down
to
Caermaen
,
in
case
it
might
have
come
by
a
second
post
;
or
it
might
have
been
mislaid
at
the
office
;
they
forgot
parcels
sometimes
,
especially
when
the
bag
was
heavy
and
the
weather
hot
.
This
24th
was
a
sultry
and
oppressive
day
;
a
grey
veil
of
cloud
obscured
the
sky
,
and
a
vaporous
mist
hung
heavily
over
the
land
,
and
fumed
up
from
the
valleys
.
But
at
five
o'clock
,
when
he
started
,
the
clouds
began
to
break
,
and
the
sunlight
suddenly
streamed
down
through
the
misty
air
,
making
ways
and
channels
of
rich
glory
,
and
bright
islands
in
the
gloom
.
It
was
a
pleasant
and
shining
evening
when
,
passing
by
devious
back
streets
to
avoid
the
barbarians
(
as
he
very
rudely
called
the
respectable
inhabitants
of
the
town
)
,
he
reached
the
post-office
;
which
was
also
the
general
shop
.
"
Yes
,
Mr.
Taylor
,
there
is
something
for
you
,
sir
,
"
said
the
man
.
"
Williams
the
postman
forgot
to
take
it
up
this
morning
,
"
and
he
handed
over
the
packet
.
Lucian
took
it
under
his
arm
and
went
slowly
through
the
ragged
winding
lanes
till
he
came
into
the
country
.
He
got
over
the
first
stile
on
the
road
,
and
sitting
down
in
the
shelter
of
a
hedge
,
cut
the
strings
and
opened
the
parcel
.
The
Chorus
in
Green
was
got
up
in
what
reviewers
call
a
dainty
manner
:
a
bronze-green
cloth
,
well-cut
gold
lettering
,
wide
margins
and
black
"
old-face
"
type
,
all
witnessed
to
the
good
taste
of
Messrs
Beit
+
Co.
He
cut
the
pages
hastily
and
began
to
read
.
He
soon
found
that
he
had
wronged
Mr.
Ritsonâ
€
”
that
old
literary
hand
had
by
no
means
stolen
his
book
wholesale
,
as
he
had
expected
.
There
were
about
two
hundred
pages
in
the
pretty
little
volume
,
and
of
these
about
ninety
were
Lucian
's
,
dovetailed
into
a
rather
different
scheme
with
skill
that
was
nothing
short
of
exquisite
.
And
Mr.
Ritson
's
own
work
was
often
very
good
;
spoilt
here
and
there
for
some
tastes
by
the
"
cataloguing
"
method
,
a
somewhat
materialistic
way
of
taking
an
inventory
of
the
holy
country
things
;
but
,
for
that
very
reason
,
contrasting
to
a
great
advantage
with
Lucian
's
hints
and
dreams
and
note
of
haunting
.
And
here
and
there
Mr.
Ritson
had
made
little
alterations
in
the
style
of
the
passages
he
had
conveyed
,
and
most
of
these
alterations
were
amendments
,
as
Lucian
was
obliged
to
confess
,
though
he
would
have
liked
to
argue
one
or
two
points
with
his
collaborator
and
corrector
.
He
lit
his
pipe
and
leant
back
comfortably
in
the
hedge
,
thinking
things
over
,
weighing
very
coolly
his
experience
of
humanity
,
his
contact
with
the
"
society
"
of
the
countryside
,
the
affair
of
the
The
Chorus
in
Green
,
and
even
some
little
incidents
that
had
struck
him
as
he
was
walking
through
the
streets
of
Caermaen
that
evening
.
At
the
post-office
,
when
he
was
inquiring
for
his
parcel
,
he
had
heard
two
old
women
grumbling
in
the
street
;
it
seemed
,
so
far
as
he
could
make
out
,
that
both
had
been
disappointed
in
much
the
same
way
.
One
was
a
Roman
Catholic
,
hardened
,
and
beyond
the
reach
of
conversion
;
she
had
been
advised
to
ask
alms
of
the
priests
,
"
who
are
always
creeping
and
crawling
about
.
"
The
other
old
sinner
was
a
Dissenter
,
and
,
"
Mr.
Dixon
has
quite
enough
to
do
to
relieve
good
Church
people
.
"
Mrs.
Dixon
,
assisted
by
Henrietta
,
was
,
it
seemed
,
the
lady
high
almoner
,
who
dispensed
these
charities
.
As
she
said
to
Mrs.
Colley
,
they
would
end
by
keeping
all
the
beggars
in
the
county
,
and
they
really
could
n't
afford
it
.
A
large
family
was
an
expensive
thing
,
and
the
girls
must
have
new
frocks
.
"
Mr.
Dixon
is
always
telling
me
and
the
girls
that
we
must
not
demoralize
the
people
by
indiscriminate
charity
.
"
Lucian
had
heard
of
these
sage
counsels
,
and
through
it
them
as
he
listened
to
the
bitter
complaints
of
the
gaunt
,
hungry
old
women
.
In
the
back
street
by
which
he
passed
out
of
the
town
he
saw
a
large
"
healthy
"
boy
kicking
a
sick
cat
;
the
poor
creature
had
just
strength
enough
to
crawl
under
an
outhouse
door
;
probably
to
die
in
torments
.
He
did
not
find
much
satisfaction
in
thrashing
the
boy
,
but
he
did
it
with
hearty
good
will
.
Further
on
,
at
the
corner
where
the
turnpike
used
to
be
,
was
a
big
notice
,
announcing
a
meeting
at
the
school-room
in
aid
of
the
missions
to
the
Portuguese
.
"
Under
the
Patronage
of
the
Lord
Bishop
of
the
Diocese
,
"
was
the
imposing
headline
;
the
Reverend
Merivale
Dixon
,
vicar
of
Caermaen
,
was
to
be
in
the
chair
,
supported
by
Stanley
Gervase
,
Esq.
,
J.P.
,
and
by
many
of
the
clergy
and
gentry
of
the
neighborhood
.
Senhor
Diabo
,
"
formerly
a
Romanist
priest
,
now
an
evangelist
in
Lisbon
,
"
would
address
the
meeting
.
"
Funds
are
urgently
needed
to
carry
on
this
good
work
,
"
concluded
the
notice
.
So
he
lay
well
back
in
the
shade
of
the
hedge
,
and
thought
whether
some
sort
of
an
article
could
not
be
made
by
vindicating
the
terrible
Yahoos
;
one
might
point
out
that
they
were
in
many
respects
a
simple
and
unsophisticated
race
,
whose
faults
were
the
result
of
their
enslaved
position
,
while
such
virtues
as
they
had
were
all
their
own
.
They
might
be
compared
,
he
thought
,
much
to
their
advantage
,
with
more
complex
civilizations
.
There
was
no
hint
of
anything
like
the
Beit
system
of
publishing
in
existence
amongst
them
;
the
great
Yahoo
nation
would
surely
never
feed
and
encourage
a
scabby
Houyhnhnm
,
expelled
for
his
foulness
from
the
horse-community
,
and
the
witty
dean
,
in
all
his
minuteness
,
had
said
nothing
of
"
safe
"
Yahoos
.
On
reflection
,
however
,
he
did
not
feel
quite
secure
of
this
part
of
his
defense
;
he
remembered
that
the
leading
brutes
had
favorites
,
who
were
employed
in
certain
simple
domestic
offices
about
their
masters
,
and
it
seemed
doubtful
whether
the
contemplated
vindication
would
not
break
down
on
this
point
.
He
smiled
queerly
to
himself
as
he
thought
of
these
comparisons
,
but
his
heart
burned
with
a
dull
fury
.
Throwing
back
his
unhappy
memory
,
he
recalled
all
the
contempt
and
scorn
he
had
suffered
;
as
a
boy
he
had
heard
the
masters
murmuring
their
disdain
of
him
and
of
his
desire
to
learn
other
than
ordinary
school
work
.
As
a
young
man
he
had
suffered
the
insolence
of
these
wretched
people
about
him
;
their
cackling
laughter
at
his
poverty
jarred
and
grated
in
his
ears
;
he
saw
the
acrid
grin
of
some
miserable
idiot
woman
,
some
creature
beneath
the
swine
in
intelligence
and
manners
,
merciless
,
as
he
went
by
with
his
eyes
on
the
dust
,
in
his
ragged
clothes
.
He
and
his
father
seemed
to
pass
down
an
avenue
of
jeers
and
contempt
,
and
contempt
from
such
animals
as
these
!
This
putrid
filth
,
molded
into
human
shape
,
made
only
to
fawn
on
the
rich
and
beslaver
them
,
thinking
no
foulness
too
foul
if
it
were
done
in
honor
of
those
in
power
and
authority
;
and
no
refined
cruelty
of
contempt
too
cruel
if
it
were
contempt
of
the
poor
and
humble
and
oppressed
;
it
was
to
this
obscene
and
ghastly
throng
that
he
was
something
to
be
pointed
at
.
And
these
men
and
women
spoke
of
sacred
things
,
and
knelt
before
the
awful
altar
of
God
,
before
the
altar
of
tremendous
fire
,
surrounded
as
they
professed
by
Angels
and
Archangels
and
all
the
Company
of
Heaven
;
and
in
their
very
church
they
had
one
aisle
for
the
rich
and
another
for
the
poor
.
And
the
species
was
not
peculiar
to
Caermaen
;
the
rich
business
men
in
London
and
the
successful
brother
author
were
probably
amusing
themselves
at
the
expense
of
the
poor
struggling
creature
they
had
injured
and
wounded
;
just
as
the
"
healthy
"
boy
had
burst
into
a
great
laugh
when
the
miserable
sick
cat
cried
out
in
bitter
agony
,
and
trailed
its
limbs
slowly
,
as
it
crept
away
to
die
.
Lucian
looked
into
his
own
life
and
his
own
will
;
he
saw
that
in
spite
of
his
follies
,
and
his
want
of
success
,
he
had
not
been
consciously
malignant
,
he
had
never
deliberately
aided
in
oppression
,
or
looked
on
it
with
enjoyment
and
approval
,
and
he
felt
that
when
he
lay
dead
beneath
the
earth
,
eaten
by
swarming
worms
,
he
would
be
in
a
purer
company
than
now
,
when
he
lived
amongst
human
creatures
.
And
he
was
to
call
this
loathsome
beast
,
all
sting
and
filth
,
brother
!
"
I
had
rather
call
the
devils
my
brothers
,
"
he
said
in
his
heart
,
"
I
would
fare
better
in
hell
.
"
Blood
was
in
his
eyes
,
and
as
he
looked
up
the
sky
seemed
of
blood
,
and
the
earth
burned
with
fire
.
The
sun
was
sinking
low
on
the
mountain
when
he
set
out
on
the
way
again
.
Burrows
,
the
doctor
,
coming
home
in
his
trap
,
met
him
a
little
lower
on
the
road
,
and
gave
him
a
friendly
good-night
.
"
A
long
way
round
on
this
road
,
is
n't
it
?
"
said
the
doctor
.
"
As
you
have
come
so
far
,
why
do
n't
you
try
the
short
cut
across
the
fields
?
You
will
find
it
easily
enough
;
second
stile
on
the
left
hand
,
and
then
go
straight
ahead
.
"
He
thanked
Dr.
Burrows
and
said
he
would
try
the
short
cut
,
and
Burrows
span
on
homeward
.
He
was
a
gruff
and
honest
bachelor
,
and
often
felt
very
sorry
for
the
lad
,
and
wished
he
could
help
him
.
As
he
drove
on
,
it
suddenly
occurred
to
him
that
Lucian
had
an
awful
look
on
his
face
,
and
he
was
sorry
he
had
not
asked
him
to
jump
in
,
and
to
come
to
supper
.
A
hearty
slice
of
beef
,
with
strong
ale
,
whisky
and
soda
afterwards
,
a
good
pipe
,
and
certain
Rabelaisian
tales
which
the
doctor
had
treasured
for
many
years
,
would
have
done
the
poor
fellow
a
lot
of
good
,
he
was
certain
.
He
half
turned
round
on
his
seat
,
and
looked
to
see
if
Lucian
were
still
in
sight
,
but
he
had
passed
the
corner
,
and
the
doctor
drove
on
,
shivering
a
little
;
the
mists
were
beginning
to
rise
from
the
wet
banks
of
the
river
.
Lucian
trailed
slowly
along
the
road
,
keeping
a
look
out
for
the
stile
the
doctor
had
mentioned
.
It
would
be
a
little
of
an
adventure
,
he
thought
,
to
find
his
way
by
an
unknown
track
;
he
knew
the
direction
in
which
his
home
lay
,
and
he
imagined
he
would
not
have
much
difficulty
in
crossing
from
one
stile
to
another
.
The
path
led
him
up
a
steep
bare
field
,
and
when
he
was
at
the
top
,
the
town
and
the
valley
winding
up
to
the
north
stretched
before
him
.
The
river
was
stilled
at
the
flood
,
and
the
yellow
water
,
reflecting
the
sunset
,
glowed
in
its
deep
pools
like
dull
brass
.
These
burning
pools
,
the
level
meadows
fringed
with
shuddering
reeds
,
the
long
dark
sweep
of
the
forest
on
the
hill
,
were
all
clear
and
distinct
,
yet
the
light
seemed
to
have
clothed
them
with
a
new
garment
,
even
as
voices
from
the
streets
of
Caermaen
sounded
strangely
,
mounting
up
thin
with
the
smoke
.
There
beneath
him
lay
the
huddled
cluster
of
Caermaen
,
the
ragged
and
uneven
roofs
that
marked
the
winding
and
sordid
streets
,
here
and
there
a
pointed
gable
rising
above
its
meaner
fellows
;
beyond
he
recognized
the
piled
mounds
that
marked
the
circle
of
the
amphitheatre
,
and
the
dark
edge
of
trees
that
grew
where
the
Roman
wall
whitened
and
waxed
old
beneath
the
frosts
and
rains
of
eighteen
hundred
years
.
Thin
and
strange
,
mingled
together
,
the
voices
came
up
to
him
on
the
hill
;
it
was
as
if
an
outland
race
inhabited
the
ruined
city
and
talked
in
a
strange
language
of
strange
and
terrible
things
.
The
sun
had
slid
down
the
sky
,
and
hung
quivering
over
the
huge
dark
dome
of
the
mountain
like
a
burnt
sacrifice
,
and
then
suddenly
vanished
.
In
the
afterglow
the
clouds
began
to
writhe
and
turn
scarlet
,
and
shone
so
strangely
reflected
in
the
pools
of
the
snake-like
river
,
that
one
would
have
said
the
still
waters
stirred
,
the
fleeting
and
changing
of
the
clouds
seeming
to
quicken
the
stream
,
as
if
it
bubbled
and
sent
up
gouts
of
blood
.
But
already
about
the
town
the
darkness
was
forming
;
fast
,
fast
the
shadows
crept
upon
it
from
the
forest
,
and
from
all
sides
banks
and
wreaths
of
curling
mist
were
gathering
,
as
if
a
ghostly
leaguer
were
being
built
up
against
the
city
,
and
the
strange
race
who
lived
in
its
streets
.
Suddenly
there
burst
out
from
the
stillness
the
clear
and
piercing
music
of
the
réveillé
,
calling
,
recalling
,
iterated
,
reiterated
,
and
ending
with
one
long
high
fierce
shrill
note
with
which
the
steep
hills
rang
.
Perhaps
a
boy
in
the
school
band
was
practicing
on
his
bugle
,
but
for
Lucian
it
was
magic
.
For
him
it
was
the
note
of
the
Roman
trumpet
,
tuba
mirum
spargens
sonum
,
filling
all
the
hollow
valley
with
its
command
,
reverberated
in
dark
places
in
the
far
forest
,
and
resonant
in
the
old
graveyards
without
the
walls
.
In
his
imagination
he
saw
the
earthen
gates
of
the
tombs
broken
open
,
and
the
serried
legion
swarming
to
the
eagles
.
Century
by
century
they
passed
by
;
they
rose
,
dripping
,
from
the
river
bed
,
they
rose
from
the
level
,
their
armor
shone
in
the
quiet
orchard
,
they
gathered
in
ranks
and
companies
from
the
cemetery
,
and
as
the
trumpet
sounded
,
the
hill
fort
above
the
town
gave
up
its
dead
.
By
hundreds
and
thousands
the
ghostly
battle
surged
about
the
standard
,
behind
the
quaking
mist
,
ready
to
march
against
the
moldering
walls
they
had
built
so
many
years
before
.
He
turned
sharply
;
it
was
growing
very
dark
,
and
he
was
afraid
of
missing
his
way
.
At
first
the
path
led
him
by
the
verge
of
a
wood
;
there
was
a
noise
of
rustling
and
murmuring
from
the
trees
as
if
they
were
taking
evil
counsel
together
.
A
high
hedge
shut
out
the
sight
of
the
darkening
valley
,
and
he
stumbled
on
mechanically
,
without
taking
much
note
of
the
turnings
of
the
track
,
and
when
he
came
out
from
the
wood
shadow
to
the
open
country
,
he
stood
for
a
moment
quite
bewildered
and
uncertain
.
A
dark
wild
twilight
country
lay
before
him
,
confused
dim
shapes
of
trees
near
at
hand
,
and
a
hollow
below
his
feet
,
and
the
further
hills
and
woods
were
dimmer
,
and
all
the
air
was
very
still
.
Suddenly
the
darkness
about
him
glowed
;
a
furnace
fire
had
shot
up
on
the
mountain
,
and
for
a
moment
the
little
world
of
the
woodside
and
the
steep
hill
shone
in
a
pale
light
,
and
he
thought
he
saw
his
path
beaten
out
in
the
turf
before
him
.
The
great
flame
sank
down
to
a
red
glint
of
fire
,
and
it
led
him
on
down
the
ragged
slope
,
his
feet
striking
against
ridges
of
ground
,
and
falling
from
beneath
him
at
a
sudden
dip
.
The
bramble
bushes
shot
out
long
prickly
vines
,
amongst
which
he
was
entangled
,
and
lower
he
was
held
back
by
wet
bubbling
earth
.
He
had
descended
into
a
dark
and
shady
valley
,
beset
and
tapestried
with
gloomy
thickets
;
the
weird
wood
noises
were
the
only
sounds
,
strange
,
unutterable
mutterings
,
dismal
,
inarticulate
.
He
pushed
on
in
what
he
hoped
was
the
right
direction
,
stumbling
from
stile
to
gate
,
peering
through
mist
and
shadow
,
and
still
vainly
seeking
for
any
known
landmark
.
Presently
another
sound
broke
upon
the
grim
air
,
the
murmur
of
water
poured
over
stones
,
gurgling
against
the
old
misshapen
roots
of
trees
,
and
running
clear
in
a
deep
channel
.
He
passed
into
the
chill
breath
of
the
brook
,
and
almost
fancied
he
heard
two
voices
speaking
in
its
murmur
;
there
seemed
a
ceaseless
utterance
of
words
,
an
endless
argument
.
With
a
mood
of
horror
pressing
on
him
,
he
listened
to
the
noise
of
waters
,
and
the
wild
fancy
seized
him
that
he
was
not
deceived
,
that
two
unknown
beings
stood
together
there
in
the
darkness
and
tried
the
balances
of
his
life
,
and
spoke
his
doom
.
The
hour
in
the
matted
thicket
rushed
over
the
great
bridge
of
years
to
his
thought
;
he
had
sinned
against
the
earth
,
and
the
earth
trembled
and
shook
for
vengeance
.
He
stayed
still
for
a
moment
,
quivering
with
fear
,
and
at
last
went
on
blindly
,
no
longer
caring
for
the
path
,
if
only
he
might
escape
from
the
toils
of
that
dismal
shuddering
hollow
.
As
he
plunged
through
the
hedges
the
bristling
thorns
tore
his
face
and
hands
;
he
fell
amongst
stinging-nettles
and
was
pricked
as
he
beat
out
his
way
amidst
the
gorse
.
He
raced
headlong
,
his
head
over
his
shoulder
,
through
a
windy
wood
,
bare
of
undergrowth
;
there
lay
about
the
ground
moldering
stumps
,
the
relics
of
trees
that
had
thundered
to
their
fall
,
crashing
and
tearing
to
earth
,
long
ago
;
and
from
these
remains
there
flowed
out
a
pale
thin
radiance
,
filling
the
spaces
of
the
sounding
wood
with
a
dream
of
light
.
He
had
lost
all
count
of
the
track
;
he
felt
he
had
fled
for
hours
,
climbing
and
descending
,
and
yet
not
advancing
;
it
was
as
if
he
stood
still
and
the
shadows
of
the
land
went
by
,
in
a
vision
.
But
at
last
a
hedge
,
high
and
straggling
,
rose
before
him
,
and
as
he
broke
through
it
,
his
feet
slipped
,
and
he
fell
headlong
down
a
steep
bank
into
a
lane
.
He
lay
still
,
half-stunned
,
for
a
moment
,
and
then
rising
unsteadily
,
he
looked
desperately
into
the
darkness
before
him
,
uncertain
and
bewildered
.
In
front
it
was
black
as
a
midnight
cellar
,
and
he
turned
about
,
and
saw
a
glint
in
the
distance
,
as
if
a
candle
were
flickering
in
a
farm-house
window
.
He
began
to
walk
with
trembling
feet
towards
the
light
,
when
suddenly
something
pale
started
out
from
the
shadows
before
him
,
and
seemed
to
swim
and
float
down
the
air
.
He
was
going
down
hill
,
and
he
hastened
onwards
,
and
he
could
see
the
bars
of
a
stile
framed
dimly
against
the
sky
,
and
the
figure
still
advanced
with
that
gliding
motion
.
Then
,
as
the
road
declined
to
the
valley
,
the
landmark
he
had
been
seeking
appeared
.
To
his
right
there
surged
up
in
the
darkness
the
darker
summit
of
the
Roman
fort
,
and
the
streaming
fire
of
the
great
full
moon
glowed
through
the
bars
of
the
wizard
oaks
,
and
made
a
halo
shine
about
the
hill
.
He
was
now
quite
close
to
the
white
appearance
,
and
saw
that
it
was
only
a
woman
walking
swiftly
down
the
lane
;
the
floating
movement
was
an
effect
due
to
the
somber
air
and
the
moon
's
glamour
.
At
the
gate
,
where
he
had
spent
so
many
hours
gazing
at
the
fort
,
they
walked
foot
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
first
time
,
and
he
saw
that
she
smiled
with
pleasure
.
"
You
are
out
late
,
are
n't
you
?
"
"
Yes
,
sir
;
but
I
've
been
taking
a
bit
of
supper
to
old
Mrs.
Gibbon
.
She
's
been
very
poorly
the
last
few
days
,
and
there
's
nobody
to
do
anything
for
her
.
"
Then
there
were
really
people
who
helped
one
another
;
kindness
and
pity
were
not
mere
myths
,
fictions
of
"
society
,
"
as
useful
as
Doe
and
Roe
,
and
as
non-existent
.
The
thought
struck
Lucian
with
a
shock
;
the
evening
's
passion
and
delirium
,
the
wild
walk
and
physical
fatigue
had
almost
shattered
him
in
body
and
mind
.
He
was
"
degenerate
,
"
decadent
,
and
the
rough
rains
and
blustering
winds
of
life
,
which
a
stronger
man
would
have
laughed
at
and
enjoyed
,
were
to
him
"
hail-storms
and
fire-showers
.
"
After
all
,
Messrs
Beit
,
the
publishers
,
were
only
sharp
men
of
business
,
and
these
terrible
Dixons
and
Gervases
and
Colleys
merely
the
ordinary
limited
clergy
and
gentry
of
a
quiet
country
town
;
sturdier
sense
would
have
dismissed
Dixon
as
an
old
humbug
,
Stanley
Gervase
,
Esquire
,
J.P.
,
as
a
"
bit
of
a
bounder
,
"
and
the
ladies
as
"
rather
a
shoddy
lot
.
"
But
he
was
walking
slowly
now
in
painful
silence
,
his
heavy
,
lagging
feet
striking
against
the
loose
stones
.
He
was
not
thinking
of
the
girl
beside
him
;
only
something
seemed
to
swell
and
grow
and
swell
within
his
heart
;
it
was
all
the
torture
of
his
days
,
weary
hopes
and
weary
disappointment
,
scorn
rankling
and
throbbing
,
and
the
thought
"
I
had
rather
call
the
devils
my
brothers
and
live
with
them
in
hell
.
"
He
choked
and
gasped
for
breath
,
and
felt
involuntary
muscles
working
in
his
face
,
and
the
impulses
of
a
madman
stirring
him
;
he
himself
was
in
truth
the
realization
of
the
vision
of
Caermaen
that
night
,
a
city
with
moldering
walls
beset
by
the
ghostly
legion
.
Life
and
the
world
and
the
laws
of
the
sunlight
had
passed
away
,
and
the
resurrection
and
kingdom
of
the
dead
began
.
The
Celt
assailed
him
,
becoming
from
the
weird
wood
he
called
the
world
,
and
his
far-off
ancestors
,
the
"
little
people
,
"
crept
out
of
their
caves
,
muttering
charms
and
incantations
in
hissing
inhuman
speech
;
he
was
beleaguered
by
desires
that
had
slept
in
his
race
for
ages
.
"
I
am
afraid
you
are
very
tired
,
Master
Lucian
.
Would
you
like
me
to
give
you
my
hand
over
this
rough
bit
?
"
He
had
stumbled
against
a
great
round
stone
and
had
nearly
fallen
.
The
woman
's
hand
sought
his
in
the
darkness
;
as
he
felt
the
touch
of
the
soft
warm
flesh
he
moaned
,
and
a
pang
shot
through
his
arm
to
his
heart
.
He
looked
up
and
found
he
had
only
walked
a
few
paces
since
Annie
had
spoken
;
he
had
thought
they
had
wandered
for
hours
together
.
The
moon
was
just
mounting
above
the
oaks
,
and
the
halo
round
the
dark
hill
brightened
.
He
stopped
short
,
and
keeping
his
hold
of
Annie
's
hand
,
looked
into
her
face
.
A
hazy
glory
of
moonlight
shone
around
them
and
lit
up
their
eyes
.
He
had
not
greatly
altered
since
his
boyhood
;
his
face
was
pale
olive
in
color
,
thin
and
oval
;
marks
of
pain
had
gathered
about
the
eyes
,
and
his
black
hair
was
already
stricken
with
grey
.
But
the
eager
,
curious
gaze
still
remained
,
and
what
he
saw
before
him
lit
up
his
sadness
with
a
new
fire
.
She
stopped
too
,
and
did
not
offer
to
draw
away
,
but
looked
back
with
all
her
heart
.
They
were
alike
in
many
ways
;
her
skin
was
also
of
that
olive
color
,
but
her
face
was
sweet
as
a
beautiful
summer
night
,
and
her
black
eyes
showed
no
dimness
,
and
the
smile
on
the
scarlet
lips
was
like
a
flame
when
it
brightens
a
dark
and
lonely
land
.
"
You
are
sorely
tired
,
Master
Lucian
,
let
us
sit
down
here
by
the
gate
.
"
It
was
Lucian
who
spoke
next
:
"
My
dear
,
my
dear
.
"
And
their
lips
were
together
again
,
and
their
arms
locked
together
,
each
holding
the
other
fast
.
And
then
the
poor
lad
let
his
head
sink
down
on
his
sweetheart
's
breast
,
and
burst
into
a
passion
of
weeping
.
The
tears
streamed
down
his
face
,
and
he
shook
with
sobbing
,
in
the
happiest
moment
that
he
had
ever
lived
.
The
woman
bent
over
him
and
tried
to
comfort
him
,
but
his
tears
were
his
consolation
and
his
triumph
.
Annie
was
whispering
to
him
,
her
hand
laid
on
his
heart
;
she
was
whispering
beautiful
,
wonderful
words
,
that
soothed
him
as
a
song
.
He
did
not
know
what
they
meant
.
"
Annie
,
dear
,
dear
Annie
,
what
are
you
saying
to
me
?
I
have
never
heard
such
beautiful
words
.
Tell
me
,
Annie
,
what
do
they
mean
?
"
She
laughed
,
and
said
it
was
only
nonsense
that
the
nurses
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
worship
you
,
my
dear
Annie
.
"
He
fell
down
before
her
,
embracing
her
knees
,
and
adored
,
and
she
allowed
him
,
and
confirmed
his
worship
.
He
followed
slowly
after
her
,
passing
the
path
which
led
to
her
home
with
a
longing
glance
.
Nobody
saw
any
difference
in
Lucian
when
he
reached
the
rectory
.
He
came
in
with
his
usual
dreamy
indifference
,
and
told
how
he
had
lost
his
way
by
trying
the
short
cut
.
He
said
he
had
met
Dr.
Burrows
on
the
road
,
and
that
he
had
recommended
the
path
by
the
fields
.
Then
,
as
dully
as
if
he
had
been
reading
some
story
out
of
a
newspaper
,
he
gave
his
father
the
outlines
of
the
Beit
case
,
producing
the
pretty
little
book
called
The
Chorus
in
Green
.
The
parson
listened
in
amazement
.
"
You
mean
to
tell
me
that
you
wrote
this
book
?
"
he
said
.
He
was
quite
roused
.
"
No
;
not
all
of
it
.
Look
;
that
bit
is
mine
,
and
that
;
and
the
beginning
of
this
chapter
.
Nearly
the
whole
of
the
third
chapter
is
by
me
.
"
He
closed
the
book
without
interest
,
and
indeed
he
felt
astonished
at
his
father
's
excitement
.
The
incident
seemed
to
him
unimportant
.
"
And
you
say
that
eighty
or
ninety
pages
of
this
book
are
yours
,
and
these
scoundrels
have
stolen
your
work
?
"
"
Well
,
I
suppose
they
have
.
I
'll
fetch
the
manuscript
,
if
you
would
like
to
look
at
it
.
"
The
manuscript
was
duly
produced
,
wrapped
in
brown
paper
,
with
Messrs
Beit
's
address
label
on
it
,
and
the
post-office
dated
stamps
.
"
And
the
other
book
has
been
out
a
month
.
"
The
parson
,
forgetting
the
sacerdotal
office
,
and
his
good
habit
of
grinning
,
swore
at
Messrs
Beit
and
Mr.
Ritson
,
calling
them
damned
thieves
,
and
then
began
to
read
the
manuscript
,
and
to
compare
it
with
the
printed
book
.
"
Why
,
it
's
splendid
work
.
My
poor
fellow
,
"
he
said
after
a
while
,
"
I
had
no
notion
you
could
write
so
well
.
I
used
to
think
of
such
things
in
the
old
days
at
Oxford
;
'
old
Bill
,
'
the
tutor
,
used
to
praise
my
essays
,
but
I
never
wrote
anything
like
this
.
And
this
infernal
ruffian
of
a
Ritson
has
taken
all
your
best
things
and
mixed
them
up
with
his
own
rot
to
make
it
go
down
.
Of
course
you
'll
expose
the
gang
?
"
Lucian
was
mildly
amused
;
he
could
n't
enter
into
his
father
's
feelings
at
all
.
He
sat
smoking
in
one
of
the
old
easy
chairs
,
taking
the
rare
relish
of
a
hot
grog
with
his
pipe
,
and
gazing
out
of
his
dreamy
eyes
at
the
violent
old
parson
.
He
was
pleased
that
his
father
liked
his
book
,
because
he
knew
him
to
be
a
deep
and
sober
scholar
and
a
cool
judge
of
good
letters
;
but
he
laughed
to
himself
when
he
saw
the
magic
of
print
.
The
parson
had
expressed
no
wish
to
read
the
manuscript
when
it
came
back
in
disgrace
;
he
had
merely
grinned
,
said
something
about
boomerangs
,
and
quoted
Horace
with
relish
.
Whereas
now
,
before
the
book
in
its
neat
case
,
lettered
with
another
man
's
name
,
his
approbation
of
the
writing
and
his
disapproval
of
the
"
scoundrels
,
"
as
he
called
them
,
were
loudly
expressed
,
and
,
though
a
good
smoker
,
he
blew
and
puffed
vehemently
at
his
pipe
.
"
You
'll
expose
the
rascals
,
of
course
,
wo
n't
you
?
"
he
said
again
.
"
Oh
no
,
I
think
not
.
It
really
does
n't
matter
much
,
does
it
?
After
all
,
there
are
some
very
weak
things
in
the
book
;
does
n't
it
strike
you
as
'
young
?
'
I
have
been
thinking
of
another
plan
,
but
I
have
n't
done
much
with
it
lately
.
But
I
believe
I
've
got
hold
of
a
really
good
idea
this
time
,
and
if
I
can
manage
to
see
the
heart
of
it
I
hope
to
turn
out
a
manuscript
worth
stealing
.
But
it
's
so
hard
to
get
at
the
core
of
an
ideaâ
€
”
the
heart
,
as
I
call
it
,
"
he
went
on
after
a
pause
.
"
It
's
like
having
a
box
you
ca
n't
open
,
though
you
know
there
's
something
wonderful
inside
.
But
I
do
believe
I
've
a
fine
thing
in
my
hands
,
and
I
mean
to
try
my
best
to
work
it
.
"
Lucian
talked
with
enthusiasm
now
,
but
his
father
,
on
his
side
,
could
not
share
these
ardors
.
It
was
his
part
to
be
astonished
at
excitement
over
a
book
that
was
not
even
begun
,
the
mere
ghost
of
a
book
flitting
elusive
in
the
world
of
unborn
masterpieces
and
failures
.
He
had
loved
good
letters
,
but
he
shared
unconsciously
in
the
general
belief
that
literary
attempt
is
always
pitiful
,
though
he
did
not
subscribe
to
the
other
half
of
the
popular
faithâ
€
”
that
literary
success
is
a
matter
of
very
little
importance
.
He
thought
well
of
books
,
but
only
of
printed
books
;
in
manuscripts
he
put
no
faith
,
and
the
paulo-post-futurum
tense
he
could
not
in
any
manner
conjugate
.
He
returned
once
more
to
the
topic
of
palpable
interest
.
"
But
about
this
dirty
trick
these
fellows
have
played
on
you
.
You
wo
n't
sit
quietly
and
bear
it
,
surely
?
It
's
only
a
question
of
writing
to
the
papers
.
"
"
They
would
n't
put
the
letter
in
.
And
if
they
did
,
I
should
only
get
laughed
at
.
Some
time
ago
a
man
wrote
to
the
Reader
,
complaining
of
his
play
being
stolen
.
He
said
that
he
had
sent
a
little
one-act
comedy
to
Burleigh
,
the
great
dramatist
,
asking
for
his
advice
.
Burleigh
gave
his
advice
and
took
the
idea
for
his
own
very
successful
play
.
So
the
man
said
,
and
I
daresay
it
was
true
enough
.
But
the
victim
got
nothing
by
his
complaint
.
'
A
pretty
state
of
things
,
'
everybody
said
.
'
Here
's
a
Mr.
Tomson
,
that
no
one
has
ever
heard
of
,
bothers
Burleigh
with
his
rubbish
,
and
then
accuses
him
of
petty
larceny
.
Is
it
likely
that
a
man
of
Burleigh
's
position
,
a
playwright
who
can
make
his
five
thousand
a
year
easily
,
would
borrow
from
an
unknown
Tomson
?
'
I
should
think
it
very
likely
,
indeed
,
"
Lucian
went
on
,
chuckling
,
"
but
that
was
their
verdict
.
No
;
I
do
n't
think
I
'll
write
to
the
papers
.
"
"
Well
,
well
,
my
boy
,
I
suppose
you
know
your
own
business
best
.
I
think
you
are
mistaken
,
but
you
must
do
as
you
like
.
"
"
It
's
all
so
unimportant
,
"
said
Lucian
,
and
he
really
thought
so
.
He
had
sweeter
things
to
dream
of
,
and
desired
no
communion
of
feeling
with
that
madman
who
had
left
Caermaen
some
few
hours
before
.
He
felt
he
had
made
a
fool
of
himself
,
he
was
ashamed
to
think
of
the
fatuity
of
which
he
had
been
guilty
,
such
boiling
hatred
was
not
only
wicked
,
but
absurd
.
A
man
could
do
no
good
who
put
himself
into
a
position
of
such
violent
antagonism
against
his
fellow-creatures
;
so
Lucian
rebuked
his
heart
,
saying
that
he
was
old
enough
to
know
better
.
But
he
remembered
that
he
had
sweeter
things
to
dream
of
;
there
was
a
secret
ecstasy
that
he
treasured
and
locked
tight
away
,
as
a
joy
too
exquisite
even
for
thought
till
he
was
quite
alone
;
and
then
there
was
that
scheme
for
a
new
book
that
he
had
laid
down
hopelessly
some
time
ago
;
it
seemed
to
have
arisen
into
life
again
within
the
last
hour
;
he
understood
that
he
had
started
on
a
false
tack
,
he
had
taken
the
wrong
aspect
of
his
idea
.
Of
course
the
thing
could
n't
be
written
in
that
way
;
it
was
like
trying
to
read
a
page
turned
upside
down
;
and
he
saw
those
characters
he
had
vainly
sought
suddenly
disambushed
,
and
a
splendid
inevitable
sequence
of
events
unrolled
before
him
.
It
was
a
true
resurrection
;
the
dry
plot
he
had
constructed
revealed
itself
as
a
living
thing
,
stirring
and
mysterious
,
and
warm
as
life
itself
.
The
parson
was
smoking
stolidly
to
all
appearance
,
but
in
reality
he
was
full
