greateract
.
For
in
that
woman
was
the
consummation
and
catastrophe
of
it
all
,
and
the
whole
stage
waited
for
their
meeting
.
He
fancied
that
after
this
the
voices
and
the
lights
died
away
,
that
the
crowd
sank
swiftly
into
the
darkness
,
and
that
the
street
was
at
once
denuded
of
the
great
lamps
and
of
all
its
awful
scenic
apparatus
.
Again
,
he
thought
,
the
same
mystery
would
be
represented
before
him
;
suddenly
on
some
dark
and
gloomy
night
,
as
he
wandered
lonely
on
a
deserted
road
,
the
wind
hurrying
before
him
,
suddenly
a
turn
would
bring
him
again
upon
the
fiery
stage
,
and
the
antique
drama
would
be
re-enacted
.
He
would
be
drawn
to
the
same
place
,
to
find
that
woman
still
standing
there
;
again
he
would
watch
the
rose
radiant
and
palpitating
upon
her
cheek
,
the
argent
gleam
in
her
brown
eyes
,
the
bronze
curls
gilding
the
white
splendor
of
her
neck
.
And
for
the
second
time
she
would
freely
offer
herself
.
He
could
hear
the
wail
of
the
singers
swelling
to
a
shriek
,
and
see
the
dusky
dancers
whirling
round
in
a
faster
frenzy
,
and
the
naphtha
flares
tinged
with
red
,
as
the
woman
and
he
went
away
into
the
dark
,
into
the
cloistered
court
where
every
flower
was
a
flame
,
whence
he
would
never
come
out
.
His
only
escape
was
in
the
desk
;
he
might
find
salvation
if
he
could
again
hide
his
heart
in
the
heap
and
litter
of
papers
,
and
again
be
rapt
by
the
cadence
of
a
phrase
.
He
threw
open
his
window
and
looked
out
on
the
dim
world
and
the
glimmering
amber
lights
.
He
resolved
that
he
would
rise
early
in
the
morning
,
and
seek
once
more
for
his
true
life
in
the
work
.
But
there
was
a
strange
thing
.
There
was
a
little
bottle
on
the
mantelpiece
,
a
bottle
of
dark
blue
glass
,
and
he
trembled
and
shuddered
before
it
,
as
if
it
were
a
fetish
.
VII
It
was
very
dark
in
the
room
.
He
seemed
by
slow
degrees
to
awake
from
a
long
and
heavy
torpor
,
from
an
utter
forgetfulness
,
and
as
he
raised
his
eyes
he
could
scarcely
discern
the
pale
whiteness
of
the
paper
on
the
desk
before
him
.
He
remembered
something
of
a
gloomy
winter
afternoon
,
of
driving
rain
,
of
gusty
wind
:
he
had
fallen
asleep
over
his
work
,
no
doubt
,
and
the
night
had
come
down
.
He
lay
back
in
his
chair
,
wondering
whether
it
were
late
;
his
eyes
were
half
closed
,
and
he
did
not
make
the
effort
and
rouse
himself
.
He
could
hear
the
stormy
noise
of
the
wind
,
and
the
sound
reminded
him
of
the
half-forgotten
days
.
He
thought
of
his
boyhood
,
and
the
old
rectory
,
and
the
great
elms
that
surrounded
it
.
There
was
something
pleasant
in
the
consciousness
that
he
was
still
half
dreaming
;
he
knew
he
could
wake
up
whenever
he
pleased
,
but
for
the
moment
he
amused
himself
by
the
pretence
that
he
was
a
little
boy
again
,
tired
with
his
rambles
and
the
keen
air
of
the
hills
.
He
remembered
how
he
would
sometimes
wake
up
in
the
dark
at
midnight
,
and
listen
sleepily
for
a
moment
to
the
rush
of
the
wind
straining
and
crying
amongst
the
trees
,
and
hear
it
beat
upon
the
walls
,
and
then
he
would
fall
to
dreams
again
,
happy
in
his
warm
,
snug
bed
.
The
wind
grew
louder
,
and
the
windows
rattled
.
He
half
opened
his
eyes
and
shut
them
again
,
determined
to
cherish
that
sensation
of
long
ago
.
He
felt
tired
and
heavy
with
sleep
;
he
imagined
that
he
was
exhausted
by
some
effort
;
he
had
,
perhaps
,
been
writing
furiously
without
rest
.
He
could
not
recollect
at
the
instant
what
the
work
had
been
;
it
would
be
delightful
to
read
the
pages
when
he
had
made
up
his
mind
to
bestir
himself
.
Surely
that
was
the
noise
of
boughs
,
swaying
and
grinding
in
the
wind
.
He
remembered
one
night
at
home
when
such
a
sound
had
roused
him
suddenly
from
a
deep
sweet
sleep
.
There
was
a
rushing
and
beating
as
of
wings
upon
the
air
,
and
a
heavy
dreary
noise
,
like
thunder
far
away
upon
the
mountain
.
He
had
got
out
of
bed
and
looked
from
behind
the
blind
to
see
what
was
abroad
.
He
remembered
the
strange
sight
he
had
seen
,
and
he
pretended
it
would
be
just
the
same
if
he
cared
to
look
out
now
.
There
were
clouds
flying
awfully
from
before
the
moon
,
and
a
pale
light
that
made
the
familiar
land
look
strange
and
terrible
.
The
blast
of
wind
came
with
a
great
shriek
,
and
the
trees
tossed
and
bowed
and
quivered
;
the
wood
was
scourged
and
horrible
,
and
the
night
air
was
ghastly
with
a
confused
tumult
,
and
voices
as
of
a
host
.
A
huge
black
cloud
rolled
across
the
heaven
from
the
west
and
covered
up
the
moon
,
and
there
came
a
torrent
of
bitter
hissing
rain
.
It
was
all
a
vivid
picture
to
him
as
he
sat
in
his
chair
,
unwilling
to
wake
.
Even
as
he
let
his
mind
stray
back
to
that
night
of
the
past
years
,
the
rain
beat
sharply
on
the
window-panes
,
and
though
there
were
no
trees
in
the
grey
suburban
street
,
he
heard
distinctly
the
crash
of
boughs
.
He
wandered
vaguely
from
thought
to
thought
,
groping
indistinctly
amongst
memories
,
like
a
man
trying
to
cross
from
door
to
door
in
a
darkened
unfamiliar
room
.
But
,
no
doubt
,
if
he
were
to
look
out
,
by
some
magic
the
whole
scene
would
be
displayed
before
him
.
He
would
not
see
the
curve
of
monotonous
two-storied
houses
,
with
here
and
there
a
white
blind
,
a
patch
of
light
,
and
shadows
appearing
and
vanishing
,
not
the
rain
plashing
in
the
muddy
road
,
not
the
amber
of
the
gas-lamp
opposite
,
but
the
wild
moonlight
poured
on
the
dearly
loved
country
;
far
away
the
dim
circle
of
the
hills
and
woods
,
and
beneath
him
the
tossing
trees
about
the
lawn
,
and
the
wood
heaving
under
the
fury
of
the
wind
.
He
smiled
to
himself
,
amidst
his
lazy
meditations
,
to
think
how
real
it
seemed
,
and
yet
it
was
all
far
away
,
the
scenery
of
an
old
play
long
ended
and
forgotten
.
It
was
strange
that
after
all
these
years
of
trouble
and
work
and
change
he
should
be
in
any
sense
the
same
person
as
that
little
boy
peeping
out
,
half
frightened
,
from
the
rectory
window
.
It
was
as
if
looking
in
the
glass
one
should
see
a
stranger
,
and
yet
know
that
the
image
was
a
true
reflection
.
The
memory
of
the
old
home
recalled
his
father
and
mother
to
him
,
and
he
wondered
whether
his
mother
would
come
if
he
were
to
cry
out
suddenly
.
One
night
,
on
just
such
a
night
as
this
,
when
a
great
storm
blew
from
the
mountain
,
a
tree
had
fallen
with
a
crash
and
a
bough
had
struck
the
roof
,
and
he
awoke
in
a
fright
,
calling
for
his
mother
.
She
had
come
and
had
comforted
him
,
soothing
him
to
sleep
,
and
now
he
shut
his
eyes
,
seeing
her
face
shining
in
the
uncertain
flickering
candle
light
,
as
she
bent
over
his
bed
.
He
could
not
think
she
had
died
;
the
memory
was
but
a
part
of
the
evil
dreams
that
had
come
afterwards
.
He
said
to
himself
that
he
had
fallen
asleep
and
dreamed
sorrow
and
agony
,
and
he
wished
to
forget
all
the
things
of
trouble
.
He
would
return
to
happy
days
,
to
the
beloved
land
,
to
the
dear
and
friendly
paths
across
the
fields
.
There
was
the
paper
,
white
before
him
,
and
when
he
chose
to
stir
,
he
would
have
the
pleasure
of
reading
his
work
.
He
could
not
quite
recollect
what
he
had
been
about
,
but
he
was
somehow
conscious
that
the
had
been
successful
and
had
brought
some
long
labor
to
a
worthy
ending
.
Presently
he
would
light
the
gas
,
and
enjoy
the
satisfaction
that
only
the
work
could
give
him
,
but
for
the
time
he
preferred
to
linger
in
the
darkness
,
and
to
think
of
himself
as
straying
from
stile
to
stile
through
the
scented
meadows
,
and
listening
to
the
bright
brook
that
sang
to
the
alders
.
It
was
winter
now
,
for
he
heard
the
rain
and
the
wind
,
and
the
swaying
of
the
trees
,
but
in
those
old
days
how
sweet
the
summer
had
been
.
The
great
hawthorn
bush
in
blossom
,
like
a
white
cloud
upon
the
earth
,
had
appeared
to
him
in
twilight
,
he
had
lingered
in
the
enclosed
valley
to
hear
the
nightingale
,
a
voice
swelling
out
from
the
rich
gloom
,
from
the
trees
that
grew
around
the
well
.
The
scent
of
the
meadowsweet
was
blown
to
him
across
the
bridge
of
years
,
and
with
it
came
the
dream
and
the
hope
and
the
longing
,
and
the
afterglow
red
in
the
sky
,
and
the
marvel
of
the
earth
.
There
was
a
quiet
walk
that
he
knew
so
well
;
one
went
up
from
a
little
green
byroad
,
following
an
unnamed
brooklet
scarce
a
foot
wide
,
but
yet
wandering
like
a
river
,
gurgling
over
its
pebbles
,
with
its
dwarf
bushes
shading
the
pouring
water
.
One
went
through
the
meadow
grass
,
and
came
to
the
larch
wood
that
grew
from
hill
to
hill
across
the
stream
,
and
shone
a
brilliant
tender
green
,
and
sent
vague
sweet
spires
to
the
flushing
sky
.
Through
the
wood
the
path
wound
,
turning
and
dipping
,
and
beneath
,
the
brown
fallen
needles
of
last
year
were
soft
and
thick
,
and
the
resinous
cones
gave
out
their
odor
as
the
warm
night
advanced
,
and
the
shadows
darkened
.
It
was
quite
still
;
but
he
stayed
,
and
the
faint
song
of
the
brooklet
sounded
like
the
echo
of
a
river
beyond
the
mountains
.
How
strange
it
was
to
look
into
the
wood
,
to
see
the
tall
straight
stems
rising
,
pillar-like
,
and
then
the
dusk
,
uncertain
,
and
then
the
blackness
.
So
he
came
out
from
the
larch
wood
,
from
the
green
cloud
and
the
vague
shadow
,
into
the
dearest
of
all
hollows
,
shut
in
on
one
side
by
the
larches
and
before
him
by
high
violent
walls
of
turf
,
like
the
slopes
of
a
fort
,
with
a
clear
line
dark
against
the
twilight
sky
,
and
a
weird
thorn
bush
that
grew
large
,
mysterious
,
on
the
summit
,
beneath
the
gleam
of
the
evening
star
.
And
he
retraced
his
wanderings
in
those
deep
old
lanes
that
began
from
the
common
road
and
went
away
towards
the
unknown
,
climbing
steep
hills
,
and
piercing
the
woods
of
shadows
,
and
dipping
down
into
valleys
that
seemed
virgin
,
unexplored
,
secret
for
the
foot
of
man
.
He
entered
such
a
lane
not
knowing
where
it
might
bring
him
,
hoping
he
had
found
the
way
to
fairyland
,
to
the
woods
beyond
the
world
,
to
that
vague
territory
that
haunts
all
the
dreams
of
a
boy
.
He
could
not
tell
where
he
might
be
,
for
the
high
banks
rose
steep
,
and
the
great
hedges
made
a
green
vault
above
.
Marvelous
ferns
grew
rich
and
thick
in
the
dark
red
earth
,
fastening
their
roots
about
the
roots
of
hazel
and
beech
and
maple
,
clustering
like
the
carven
capitals
of
a
cathedral
pillar
.
Down
,
like
a
dark
shaft
,
the
lane
dipped
to
the
well
of
the
hills
,
and
came
amongst
the
limestone
rocks
.
He
climbed
the
bank
at
last
,
and
looked
out
into
a
country
that
seemed
for
a
moment
the
land
he
sought
,
a
mysterious
realm
with
unfamiliar
hills
and
valleys
and
fair
plains
all
golden
,
and
white
houses
radiant
in
the
sunset
light
.
And
he
thought
of
the
steep
hillsides
where
the
bracken
was
like
a
wood
,
and
of
bare
places
where
the
west
wind
sang
over
the
golden
gorse
,
of
still
circles
in
mid-lake
,
of
the
poisonous
yew-tree
in
the
middle
of
the
wood
,
shedding
its
crimson
cups
on
the
dank
earth
.
How
he
lingered
by
certain
black
waterpools
hedged
on
every
side
by
drooping
wych-elms
and
black-stemmed
alders
,
watching
the
faint
waves
widening
to
the
banks
as
a
leaf
or
a
twig
dropped
from
the
trees
.
And
the
whole
air
and
wonder
of
the
ancient
forest
came
back
to
him
.
He
had
found
his
way
to
the
river
valley
,
to
the
long
lovely
hollow
between
the
hills
,
and
went
up
and
up
beneath
the
leaves
in
the
warm
hush
of
midsummer
,
glancing
back
now
and
again
through
the
green
alleys
,
to
the
river
winding
in
mystic
esses
beneath
,
passing
hidden
glens
receiving
the
streams
that
rushed
down
the
hillside
,
ice-cold
from
the
rock
,
passing
the
immemorial
tumulus
,
the
graves
where
the
legionaries
waited
for
the
trumpet
,
the
grey
farmhouses
sending
the
blue
wreaths
of
wood
smoke
into
the
still
air
.
He
went
higher
and
higher
,
till
at
last
he
entered
the
long
passage
of
the
Roman
road
,
and
from
this
,
the
ridge
and
summit
of
the
wood
,
he
saw
the
waves
of
green
swell
and
dip
and
sink
towards
the
marshy
level
and
the
gleaming
yellow
sea
.
He
looked
on
the
surging
forest
,
and
thought
of
the
strange
deserted
city
moldering
into
a
petty
village
on
its
verge
,
of
its
encircling
walls
melting
into
the
turf
,
of
vestiges
of
an
older
temple
which
the
earth
had
buried
utterly
.
It
was
winter
now
,
for
he
heard
the
wail
of
the
wind
,
and
a
sudden
gust
drove
the
rain
against
the
panes
,
but
he
thought
of
the
bee
's
song
in
the
clover
,
of
the
foxgloves
in
full
blossom
,
of
the
wild
roses
,
delicate
,
enchanting
,
swaying
on
a
long
stem
above
the
hedge
.
He
had
been
in
strange
places
,
he
had
known
sorrow
and
desolation
,
and
had
grown
grey
and
weary
in
the
work
of
letters
,
but
he
lived
again
in
the
sweetness
,
in
the
clear
bright
air
of
early
morning
,
when
the
sky
was
blue
in
June
,
and
the
mist
rolled
like
a
white
sea
in
the
valley
.
He
laughed
when
he
recollected
that
he
had
sometimes
fancied
himself
unhappy
in
those
days
;
in
those
days
when
he
could
be
glad
because
the
sun
shone
,
because
the
wind
blew
fresh
on
the
mountain
.
On
those
bright
days
he
had
been
glad
,
looking
at
the
fleeting
and
passing
of
the
clouds
upon
the
hills
,
and
had
gone
up
higher
to
the
broad
dome
of
the
mountain
,
feeling
that
joy
went
up
before
him
.
He
remembered
how
,
a
boy
,
he
had
dreamed
of
love
,
of
an
adorable
and
ineffable
mystery
which
transcended
all
longing
and
desire
.
The
time
had
come
when
all
the
wonder
of
the
earth
seemed
to
prefigure
this
alone
,
when
he
found
the
symbol
of
the
Beloved
in
hill
and
wood
and
stream
,
and
every
flower
and
every
dark
pool
discoursed
a
pure
ecstasy
.
It
was
the
longing
for
longing
,
the
love
of
love
,
that
had
come
to
him
when
he
awoke
one
morning
just
before
the
dawn
,
and
for
the
first
time
felt
the
sharp
thrill
of
passion
.
He
tried
in
vain
to
express
to
himself
the
exquisite
joys
of
innocent
desire
.
Even
now
,
after
troubled
years
,
in
spite
of
some
dark
cloud
that
overshadowed
the
background
of
his
thought
,
the
sweetness
of
the
boy
's
imagined
pleasure
came
like
a
perfume
into
his
reverie
.
It
was
no
love
of
a
woman
but
the
desire
of
womanhood
,
the
Eros
of
the
unknown
,
that
made
the
heart
tremble
.
He
hardly
dreamed
that
such
a
love
could
ever
be
satisfied
,
that
the
thirst
of
beauty
could
be
slaked
.
He
shrank
from
all
contact
of
actuality
,
not
venturing
so
much
as
to
imagine
the
inner
place
and
sanctuary
of
the
mysteries
.
It
was
enough
for
him
to
adore
in
the
outer
court
,
to
know
that
within
,
in
the
sweet
gloom
,
were
the
vision
and
the
rapture
,
the
altar
and
the
sacrifice
.
He
remembered
,
dimly
,
the
passage
of
many
heavy
years
since
that
time
of
hope
and
passion
,
but
,
perhaps
,
the
vague
shadow
would
pass
away
,
and
he
could
renew
the
boy
's
thoughts
,
the
unformed
fancies
that
were
part
of
the
bright
day
,
of
the
wild
roses
in
the
hedgerow
.
All
other
things
should
be
laid
aside
,
he
would
let
them
trouble
him
no
more
after
this
winter
night
.
He
saw
now
that
from
the
first
he
had
allowed
his
imagination
to
bewilder
him
,
to
create
a
fantastic
world
in
which
he
suffered
,
molding
innocent
forms
into
terror
and
dismay
.
Vividly
,
he
saw
again
the
black
circle
of
oaks
,
growing
in
a
haggard
ring
upon
the
bastions
of
the
Roman
fort
.
The
noise
of
the
storm
without
grew
louder
,
and
he
thought
how
the
wind
had
come
up
the
valley
with
the
sound
of
a
scream
,
how
a
great
tree
had
ground
its
boughs
together
,
shuddering
before
the
violent
blast
.
Clear
and
distinct
,
as
if
he
were
standing
now
in
the
lane
,
he
saw
the
steep
slopes
surging
from
the
valley
,
and
the
black
crown
of
the
oaks
set
against
the
flaming
sky
,
against
a
blaze
and
glow
of
light
as
if
great
furnace
doors
were
opened
.
He
saw
the
fire
,
as
it
were
,
smitten
about
the
bastions
,
about
the
heaped
mounds
that
guarded
the
fort
,
and
the
crooked
evil
boughs
seemed
to
writhe
in
the
blast
of
flame
that
beat
from
heaven
.
Strangely
with
the
sight
of
the
burning
fort
mingled
the
impression
of
a
dim
white
shape
floating
up
the
dusk
of
the
lane
towards
him
,
and
he
saw
across
the
valley
of
years
a
girl
's
face
,
a
momentary
apparition
that
shone
and
vanished
away
.
Then
there
was
a
memory
of
another
day
,
of
violent
summer
,
of
white
farmhouse
walls
blazing
in
the
sun
,
and
a
far
call
from
the
reapers
in
the
cornfields
.
He
had
climbed
the
steep
slope
and
penetrated
the
matted
thicket
and
lay
in
the
heat
,
alone
on
the
soft
short
grass
that
grew
within
the
fort
.
There
was
a
cloud
of
madness
,
and
confusion
of
broken
dreams
that
had
no
meaning
or
clue
but
only
an
indefinable
horror
and
defilement
.
He
had
fallen
asleep
as
he
gazed
at
the
knotted
fantastic
boughs
of
the
stunted
brake
about
him
,
and
when
he
woke
he
was
ashamed
,
and
fled
away
fearing
that
"
they
"
would
pursue
him
.
He
did
not
know
who
"
they
"
were
,
but
it
seemed
as
if
a
woman
's
face
watched
him
from
between
the
matted
boughs
,
and
that
she
summoned
to
her
side
awful
companions
who
had
never
grown
old
through
all
the
ages
.
He
looked
up
,
it
seemed
,
at
a
smiling
face
that
bent
over
him
,
as
he
sat
in
the
cool
dark
kitchen
of
the
old
farmhouse
,
and
wondered
why
the
sweetness
of
those
red
lips
and
the
kindness
of
the
eyes
mingled
with
the
nightmare
in
the
fort
,
with
the
horrible
Sabbath
he
had
imagined
as
he
lay
sleeping
on
the
hot
soft
turf
.
He
had
allowed
these
disturbed
fancies
,
all
this
mad
wreck
of
terror
and
shame
that
he
had
gathered
in
his
mind
,
to
trouble
him
for
too
long
a
time
;
presently
he
would
light
up
the
room
,
and
leave
all
the
old
darkness
of
his
life
behind
him
,
and
from
henceforth
he
would
walk
in
the
day
.
He
could
still
distinguish
,
though
very
vaguely
,
the
pile
of
papers
beside
him
,
and
he
remembered
,
now
,
that
he
had
finished
a
long
task
that
afternoon
,
before
he
fell
asleep
.
He
could
not
trouble
himself
to
recollect
the
exact
nature
of
the
work
,
but
he
was
sure
that
he
had
done
well
;
in
a
few
minutes
,
perhaps
,
he
would
strike
a
match
,
and
read
the
title
,
and
amuse
himself
with
his
own
forgetfulness
.
But
the
sight
of
the
papers
lying
there
in
order
made
him
think
of
his
beginnings
,
of
those
first
unhappy
efforts
which
were
so
impossible
and
so
hopeless
.
He
saw
himself
bending
over
the
table
in
the
old
familiar
room
,
desperately
scribbling
,
and
then
laying
down
his
pen
dismayed
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
dim
glow
here
and
there
amongst
the
cinders
,
and
the
room
was
growing
chilly
.
He
rose
at
last
from
his
work
and
looked
out
on
a
dim
earth
and
a
dark
and
cloudy
sky
.
Night
after
night
he
had
labored
on
,
persevering
in
his
effort
,
even
through
the
cold
sickness
of
despair
,
when
every
line
was
doomed
as
it
was
made
.
Now
,
with
the
consciousness
that
he
knew
at
least
the
conditions
of
literature
,
and
that
many
years
of
thought
and
practice
had
given
him
some
sense
of
language
,
he
found
these
early
struggles
both
pathetic
and
astonishing
.
He
could
not
understand
how
he
had
persevered
so
stubbornly
,
how
he
had
had
the
heart
to
begin
a
fresh
page
when
so
many
folios
of
blotted
,
painful
effort
lay
torn
,
derided
,
impossible
in
their
utter
failure
.
It
seemed
to
him
that
it
must
have
been
a
miracle
or
an
infernal
possession
,
a
species
of
madness
,
that
had
driven
him
on
,
every
day
disappointed
,
and
every
day
hopeful
.
And
yet
there
was
a
joyous
side
to
the
illusion
.
In
these
dry
days
that
he
lived
in
,
when
he
had
bought
,
by
a
long
experience
and
by
countless
hours
of
misery
,
a
knowledge
of
his
limitations
,
of
the
vast
gulf
that
yawned
between
the
conception
and
the
work
,
it
was
pleasant
to
think
of
a
time
when
all
things
were
possible
,
when
the
most
splendid
design
seemed
an
affair
of
a
few
weeks
.
Now
he
had
come
to
a
frank
acknowledgment
;
so
far
as
he
was
concerned
,
he
judged
every
book
wholly
impossible
till
the
last
line
of
it
was
written
,
and
he
had
learnt
patience
,
the
art
of
sighing
and
putting
the
fine
scheme
away
in
the
pigeon-hole
of
what
could
never
be
.
But
to
think
of
those
days
!
Then
one
could
plot
out
a
book
that
should
be
more
curious
than
Rabelais
,
and
jot
down
the
outlines
of
a
romance
to
surpass
Cervantes
,
and
design
renaissance
tragedies
and
volumes
of
contes
,
and
comedies
of
the
Restoration
;
everything
was
to
be
done
,
and
the
masterpiece
was
always
the
rainbow
cup
,
a
little
way
before
him
.
He
touched
the
manuscript
on
the
desk
,
and
the
feeling
of
the
pages
seemed
to
restore
all
the
papers
that
had
been
torn
so
long
ago
.
It
was
the
atmosphere
of
the
silent
room
that
returned
,
the
light
of
the
shaded
candle
falling
on
the
abandoned
leaves
.
This
had
been
painfully
excogitated
while
the
snowstorm
whirled
about
the
lawn
and
filled
the
lanes
,
this
was
of
the
summer
night
,
this
of
the
harvest
moon
rising
like
a
fire
from
the
tithebarn
on
the
hill
.
How
well
he
remembered
those
half-dozen
pages
of
which
he
had
once
been
so
proud
;
he
had
thought
out
the
sentences
one
evening
,
while
he
leaned
on
the
foot-bridge
and
watched
the
brook
swim
across
the
road
.
Every
word
smelt
of
the
meadowsweet
that
grew
thick
upon
the
banks
;
now
,
as
he
recalled
the
cadence
and
the
phrase
that
had
seemed
so
charming
,
he
saw
again
the
ferns
beneath
the
vaulted
roots
of
the
beech
,
and
the
green
light
of
the
glowworm
in
the
hedge
.
And
in
the
west
the
mountains
swelled
to
a
great
dome
,
and
on
the
dome
was
a
mound
,
the
memorial
of
some
forgotten
race
,
that
grew
dark
and
large
against
the
red
sky
,
when
the
sun
set
.
He
had
lingered
below
it
in
the
solitude
,
amongst
the
winds
,
at
evening
,
far
away
from
home
;
and
oh
,
the
labor
and
the
vain
efforts
to
make
the
form
of
it
and
the
awe
of
it
in
prose
,
to
write
the
hush
of
the
vast
hill
,
and
the
sadness
of
the
world
below
sinking
into
the
night
,
and
the
mystery
,
the
suggestion
of
the
rounded
hillock
,
huge
against
the
magic
sky
.
He
had
tried
to
sing
in
words
the
music
that
the
brook
sang
,
and
the
sound
of
the
October
wind
rustling
through
the
brown
bracken
on
the
hill
.
How
many
pages
he
had
covered
in
the
effort
to
show
a
white
winter
world
,
a
sun
without
warmth
in
a
grey-blue
sky
,
all
the
fields
,
all
the
land
white
and
shining
,
and
one
high
summit
where
the
dark
pines
towered
,
still
in
the
still
afternoon
,
in
the
pale
violet
air
.
To
win
the
secret
of
words
,
to
make
a
phrase
that
would
murmur
of
summer
and
the
bee
,
to
summon
the
wind
into
a
sentence
,
to
conjure
the
odor
of
the
night
into
the
surge
and
fall
and
harmony
of
a
line
;
this
was
the
tale
of
the
long
evenings
,
of
the
candle
flame
white
upon
the
paper
and
the
eager
pen
.
He
remembered
that
in
some
fantastic
book
he
had
seen
a
bar
or
two
of
music
,
and
,
beneath
,
the
inscription
that
here
was
the
musical
expression
of
Westminster
Abbey
.
His
boyish
effort
seemed
hardly
less
ambitious
,
and
he
no
longer
believed
that
language
could
present
the
melody
and
the
awe
and
the
loveliness
of
the
earth
.
He
had
long
known
that
he
,
at
all
events
,
would
have
to
be
content
with
a
far
approach
,
with
a
few
broken
notes
that
might
suggest
,
perhaps
,
the
magistral
everlasting
song
of
the
hill
and
the
streams
.
But
in
those
far
days
the
impossible
was
but
a
part
of
wonderland
that
lay
before
him
,
of
the
world
beyond
the
wood
and
the
mountain
.
All
was
to
be
conquered
,
all
was
to
be
achieved
;
he
had
but
to
make
the
journey
and
he
would
find
the
golden
world
and
the
golden
word
,
and
hear
those
songs
that
the
sirens
sang
.
He
touched
the
manuscript
;
whatever
it
was
,
it
was
the
result
of
painful
labor
and
disappointment
,
not
of
the
old
flush
of
hope
,
but
it
came
of
weary
days
,
of
correction
and
re-correction
.
It
might
be
good
in
its
measure
;
but
afterwards
he
would
write
no
more
for
a
time
.
He
would
go
back
again
to
the
happy
world
of
masterpieces
,
to
the
dreams
of
great
and
perfect
books
,
written
in
an
ecstasy
.
Like
a
dark
cloud
from
the
sea
came
the
memory
of
the
attempt
he
had
made
,
of
the
poor
piteous
history
that
had
once
embittered
his
life
.
He
sighed
and
said
alas
,
thinking
of
his
folly
,
of
the
hours
when
he
was
shaken
with
futile
,
miserable
rage
.
Some
silly
person
in
London
had
made
his
manuscript
more
saleable
and
had
sold
it
without
rendering
an
account
of
the
profits
,
and
for
that
he
had
been
ready
to
curse
humanity
.
Black
,
horrible
,
as
the
memory
of
a
stormy
day
,
the
rage
of
his
heart
returned
to
his
mind
,
and
he
covered
his
eyes
,
endeavoring
to
darken
the
picture
of
terror
and
hate
that
shone
before
him
.
He
tried
to
drive
it
all
out
of
his
thought
,
it
vexed
him
to
remember
these
foolish
trifles
;
the
trick
of
a
publisher
,
the
small
pomposities
and
malignancies
of
the
country
folk
,
the
cruelty
of
a
village
boy
,
had
inflamed
him
almost
to
the
pitch
of
madness
.
His
heart
had
burnt
with
fury
,
and
when
he
looked
up
the
sky
was
blotched
,
and
scarlet
as
if
it
rained
blood
.
Indeed
he
had
almost
believed
that
blood
had
rained
upon
him
,
and
cold
blood
from
a
sacrifice
in
heaven
;
his
face
was
wet
and
chill
and
dripping
,
and
he
had
passed
his
hand
across
his
forehead
and
looked
at
it
.
A
red
cloud
had
seemed
to
swell
over
the
hill
,
and
grow
great
,
and
come
near
to
him
;
he
was
but
an
ace
removed
from
raging
madness
.
It
had
almost
come
to
that
;
the
drift
and
the
breath
of
the
scarlet
cloud
had
well-nigh
touched
him
.
It
was
strange
that
he
had
been
so
deeply
troubled
by
such
little
things
,
and
strange
how
after
all
the
years
he
could
still
recall
the
anguish
and
rage
and
hate
that
shook
his
soul
as
with
a
spiritual
tempest
.
The
memory
of
all
that
evening
was
wild
and
troubled
;
he
resolved
that
it
should
vex
him
no
more
,
that
now
,
for
the
last
time
,
he
would
let
himself
be
tormented
by
the
past
.
In
a
few
minutes
he
would
rise
to
a
new
life
,
and
forget
all
the
storms
that
had
gone
over
him
.
Curiously
,
every
detail
was
distinct
and
clear
in
his
brain
.
The
figure
of
the
doctor
driving
home
,
and
the
sound
of
the
few
words
he
had
spoken
came
to
him
in
the
darkness
,
through
the
noise
of
the
storm
and
the
pattering
of
the
rain
.
Then
he
stood
upon
the
ridge
of
the
hill
and
saw
the
smoke
drifting
up
from
the
ragged
roofs
of
Caermaen
,
in
the
evening
calm
;
he
listened
to
the
voices
mounting
thin
and
clear
,
in
a
weird
tone
,
as
if
some
outland
folk
were
speaking
in
an
unknown
tongue
of
awful
things
.
He
saw
the
gathering
darkness
,
the
mystery
of
twilight
changing
the
huddled
squalid
village
into
an
unearthly
city
,
into
some
dreadful
Atlantis
,
inhabited
by
a
ruined
race
.
The
mist
falling
fast
,
the
gloom
that
seemed
to
issue
from
the
black
depths
of
the
forest
,
to
advance
palpably
towards
the
walls
,
were
shaped
before
him
;
and
beneath
,
the
river
wound
,
snake-like
,
about
the
town
,
swimming
to
the
flood
and
glowing
in
its
still
pools
like
molten
brass
.
And
as
the
water
mirrored
the
afterglow
and
sent
ripples
and
gouts
of
blood
against
the
shuddering
reeds
,
there
came
suddenly
the
piercing
trumpet-call
,
the
loud
reiterated
summons
that
rose
and
fell
,
that
called
and
recalled
,
echoing
through
all
the
valley
,
crying
to
the
dead
as
the
last
note
rang
.
It
summoned
the
legion
from
the
river
and
the
graves
and
the
battlefield
,
the
host
floated
up
from
the
sea
,
the
centuries
swarmed
about
the
eagles
,
the
array
was
set
for
the
last
great
battle
,
behind
the
leaguer
of
the
mist
.
He
could
imagine
himself
still
wandering
through
the
dim
unknown
,
terrible
country
,
gazing
affrighted
at
the
hills
and
woods
that
seemed
to
have
put
on
an
unearthly
shape
,
stumbling
amongst
the
briars
that
caught
his
feet
.
He
lost
his
way
in
a
wild
country
,
and
the
red
light
that
blazed
up
from
the
furnace
on
the
mountains
only
showed
him
a
mysterious
land
,
in
which
he
strayed
aghast
,
with
the
sense
of
doom
weighing
upon
him
.
The
dry
mutter
of
the
trees
,
the
sound
of
an
unseen
brook
,
made
him
afraid
as
if
the
earth
spoke
of
his
sin
,
and
presently
he
was
fleeing
through
a
desolate
shadowy
wood
,
where
a
pale
light
flowed
from
the
moldering
stumps
,
a
dream
of
light
that
shed
a
ghostly
radiance
.
And
then
again
the
dark
summit
of
the
Roman
fort
,
the
black
sheer
height
rising
above
the
valley
,
and
the
moonfire
streaming
around
the
ring
of
oaks
,
glowing
about
the
green
bastions
that
guarded
the
thicket
and
the
inner
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
waves
in
the
seashell
.
Passion
and
tears
and
adoration
and
the
glories
of
the
summer
night
returned
,
and
the
calm
sweet
face
of
the
woman
appeared
,
and
he
thrilled
at
the
soft
touch
of
her
hand
on
his
flesh
.
She
shone
as
if
she
had
floated
down
into
the
lane
from
the
moon
that
swam
between
films
of
cloud
above
the
black
circle
of
the
oaks
.
She
led
him
away
from
all
terror
and
despair
and
hate
,
and
gave
herself
to
him
with
rapture
,
showing
him
love
,
kissing
his
tears
away
,
pillowing
his
cheek
upon
her
breast
.
His
lips
dwelt
on
her
lips
,
his
mouth
upon
the
breath
of
her
mouth
,
her
arms
were
strained
about
him
,
and
oh
!
she
charmed
him
with
her
voice
,
with
sweet
kind
words
,
as
she
offered
her
sacrifice
.
How
her
scented
hair
fell
down
,
and
floated
over
his
eyes
,
and
there
was
a
marvelous
fire
called
the
moon
,
and
her
lips
were
aflame
,
and
her
eyes
shone
like
a
light
on
the
hills
.
All
beautiful
womanhood
had
come
to
him
in
the
lane
.
Love
had
touched
him
in
the
dusk
and
had
flown
away
,
but
he
had
seen
the
splendor
and
the
glory
,
and
his
eyes
had
seen
the
enchanted
light
.
AVE
ATQUE
VALE
The
old
words
sounded
in
his
ears
like
the
ending
of
a
chant
,
and
he
heard
the
music
's
close
.
Once
only
in
his
weary
hapless
life
,
once
the
world
had
passed
away
,
and
he
had
known
her
,
the
dear
,
dear
Annie
,
the
symbol
of
all
mystic
womanhood
.
The
heaviness
of
languor
still
oppressed
him
,
holding
him
back
amongst
these
old
memories
,
so
that
he
could
not
stir
from
his
place
.
Oddly
,
there
seemed
something
unaccustomed
about
the
darkness
of
the
room
,
as
if
the
shadows
he
had
summoned
had
changed
the
aspect
of
the
walls
.
He
was
conscious
that
on
this
night
he
was
not
altogether
himself
;
fatigue
,
and
the
weariness
of
sleep
,
and
the
waking
vision
had
perplexed
him
.
He
remembered
how
once
or
twice
when
he
was
a
little
boy
startled
by
an
uneasy
dream
,
and
had
stared
with
a
frightened
gaze
into
nothingness
,
not
knowing
where
he
was
,
all
trembling
,
and
breathing
quick
,
till
he
touched
the
rail
of
his
bed
,
and
the
familiar
outlines
of
the
looking-glass
and
the
chiffonier
began
to
glimmer
out
of
the
gloom
.
So
now
he
touched
the
pile
of
manuscript
and
the
desk
at
which
he
had
worked
so
many
hours
,
and
felt
reassured
,
though
he
smiled
at
himself
,
and
he
felt
the
old
childish
dread
,
the
longing
to
cry
out
for
some
one
to
bring
a
candle
,
and
show
him
that
he
really
was
in
his
own
room
.
He
glanced
up
for
an
instant
,
expecting
to
see
perhaps
the
glitter
of
the
brass
gas
jet
that
was
fixed
on
the
wall
,
just
beside
his
bureau
,
but
it
was
too
dark
,
and
he
could
not
rouse
himself
and
make
the
effort
that
would
drive
the
cloud
and
the
muttering
thoughts
away
.
He
leant
back
again
,
picturing
the
wet
street
without
,
the
rain
driving
like
fountain
spray
about
the
gas
lamp
,
the
shrilling
of
the
wind
on
those
waste
places
to
the
north
.
It
was
strange
how
in
the
brick
and
stucco
desert
where
no
trees
were
,
he
all
the
time
imagined
the
noise
of
tossing
boughs
,
the
grinding
of
the
boughs
together
.
There
was
a
great
storm
and
tumult
in
this
wilderness
of
London
,
and
for
the
sound
of
the
rain
and
the
wind
he
could
not
hear
the
hum
and
jangle
of
the
trams
,
and
the
jar
and
shriek
of
the
garden
gates
as
they
opened
and
shut
.
But
he
could
imagine
his
street
,
the
rain-swept
desolate
curve
of
it
,
as
it
turned
northward
,
and
beyond
the
empty
suburban
roads
,
the
twinkling
villa
windows
,
the
ruined
field
,
the
broken
lane
,
and
then
yet
another
suburb
rising
,
a
solitary
gas-lamp
glimmering
at
a
corner
,
and
the
plane
tree
lashing
its
boughs
,
and
driving
great
showers
against
the
glass
.
It
was
wonderful
to
think
of
.
For
when
these
remote
roads
were
ended
one
dipped
down
the
hill
into
the
open
country
,
into
the
dim
world
beyond
the
glint
of
friendly
fires
.
Tonight
,
how
waste
they
were
,
these
wet
roads
,
edged
with
the
red-brick
houses
,
with
shrubs
whipped
by
the
wind
against
one
another
,
against
the
paling
and
the
wall
.
There
the
wind
swayed
the
great
elms
scattered
on
the
sidewalk
,
the
remnants
of
the
old
stately
fields
,
and
beneath
each
tree
was
a
pool
of
wet
,
and
a
torment
of
raindrops
fell
with
every
gust
.
And
one
passed
through
the
red
avenues
,
perhaps
by
a
little
settlement
of
flickering
shops
,
and
passed
the
last
sentinel
wavering
lamp
,
and
the
road
became
a
ragged
lane
,
and
the
storm
screamed
from
hedge
to
hedge
across
the
open
fields
.
And
then
,
beyond
,
one
touched
again
upon
a
still
remoter
avant-garde
of
London
,
an
island
amidst
the
darkness
,
surrounded
by
its
pale
of
twinkling
,
starry
lights
.
He
remembered
his
wanderings
amongst
these
outposts
of
the
town
,
and
thought
how
desolate
all
their
ways
must
be
tonight
.
They
were
solitary
in
wet
and
wind
,
and
only
at
long
intervals
some
one
pattered
and
hurried
along
them
,
bending
his
eyes
down
to
escape
the
drift
of
rain
.
Within
the
villas
,
behind
the
close-drawn
curtains
,
they
drew
about
the
fire
,
and
wondered
at
the
violence
of
the
storm
,
listening
for
each
great
gust
as
it
gathered
far
away
,
and
rocked
the
trees
,
and
at
last
rushed
with
a
huge
shock
against
their
walls
as
if
it
were
the
coming
of
the
sea
.
He
thought
of
himself
walking
,
as
he
had
often
walked
,
from
lamp
to
lamp
on
such
a
night
,
treasuring
his
lonely
thoughts
,
and
weighing
the
hard
task
awaiting
him
in
his
room
.
Often
in
the
evening
,
after
a
long
day
's
labor
,
he
had
thrown
down
his
pen
in
utter
listlessness
,
feeling
that
he
could
struggle
no
more
with
ideas
and
words
,
and
he
had
gone
out
into
driving
rain
and
darkness
,
seeking
the
word
of
the
enigma
as
he
tramped
on
and
on
beneath
these
outer
battlements
of
London
.
Or
on
some
grey
afternoon
in
March
or
November
he
had
sickened
of
the
dull
monotony
and
the
stagnant
life
that
he
saw
from
his
window
,
and
had
taken
his
design
with
him
to
the
lonely
places
,
halting
now
and
again
by
a
gate
,
and
pausing
in
the
shelter
of
a
hedge
through
which
the
austere
wind
shivered
,
while
,
perhaps
,
he
dreamed
of
Sicily
,
or
of
sunlight
on
the
Provençal
olives
.
Often
as
he
strayed
solitary
from
street
to
field
,
and
passed
the
Syrian
fig
tree
imprisoned
in
Britain
,
nailed
to
an
ungenial
wall
,
the
solution
of
the
puzzle
became
evident
,
and
he
laughed
and
hurried
home
eager
to
make
the
page
speak
,
to
note
the
song
he
had
heard
on
his
way
.
Sometimes
he
had
spent
many
hours
treading
this
edge
and
brim
of
London
,
now
lost
amidst
the
dun
fields
,
watching
the
bushes
shaken
by
the
wind
,
and
now
looking
down
from
a
height
whence
he
could
see
the
dim
waves
of
the
town
,
and
a
barbaric
water
tower
rising
from
a
hill
,
and
the
snuff-colored
cloud
of
smoke
that
seemed
blown
up
from
the
streets
into
the
sky
.
There
were
certain
ways
and
places
that
he
had
cherished
;
he
loved
a
great
old
common
that
stood
on
high
ground
,
curtained
about
with
ancient
spacious
houses
of
red
brick
,
and
their
cedarn
gardens
.
And
there
was
on
the
road
that
led
to
this
common
a
space
of
ragged
uneven
ground
with
a
pool
and
a
twisted
oak
,
and
here
he
had
often
stayed
in
autumn
and
looked
across
the
mist
and
the
valley
at
the
great
theatre
of
the
sunset
,
where
a
red
cloud
like
a
charging
knight
shone
and
conquered
a
purple
dragon
shape
,
and
golden
lances
glittered
in
a
field
of
faerie
green
.
Or
sometimes
,
when
the
unending
prospect
of
trim
,
monotonous
,
modern
streets
had
wearied
him
,
he
had
found
an
immense
refreshment
in
the
discovery
of
a
forgotten
hamlet
,
left
in
a
hollow
,
while
all
new
London
pressed
and
surged
on
every
side
,
threatening
the
rest
of
the
red
roofs
with
its
vulgar
growth
.
These
little
peaceful
houses
,
huddled
together
beneath
the
shelter
of
trees
,
with
their
bulging
leaded
windows
and
uneven
roofs
,
somehow
brought
back
to
him
the
sense
of
the
country
,
and
soothed
him
with
the
thought
of
the
old
farm-houses
,
white
or
grey
,
the
homes
of
quiet
lives
,
harbors
where
,
perhaps
,
no
tormenting
thoughts
ever
broke
in
.
For
he
had
instinctively
determined
that
there
was
neither
rest
nor
health
in
all
the
arid
waste
of
streets
about
him
.
It
seemed
as
if
in
those
dull
rows
of
dwellings
,
in
the
prim
new
villas
,
red
and
white
and
staring
,
there
must
be
a
leaven
working
which
transformed
all
to
base
vulgarity
.
Beneath
the
dull
sad
slates
,
behind
the
blistered
doors
,
love
turned
to
squalid
intrigue
,
mirth
to
drunken
clamor
,
and
the
mystery
of
life
became
a
common
thing
;
religion
was
sought
for
in
the
greasy
piety
and
flatulent
oratory
of
the
Independent
chapel
,
the
stuccoed
nightmare
of
the
Doric
columns
.
Nothing
fine
,
nothing
rare
,
nothing
exquisite
,
it
seemed
,
could
exist
in
the
weltering
suburban
sea
,
in
the
habitations
which
had
risen
from
the
stench
and
slime
of
the
brickfields
.
It
was
as
if
the
sickening
fumes
that
steamed
from
the
burning
bricks
had
been
sublimed
into
the
shape
of
houses
,
and
those
who
lived
in
these
grey
places
could
also
claim
kinship
with
the
putrid
mud
.
Hence
he
had
delighted
in
the
few
remains
of
the
past
that
he
could
find
still
surviving
on
the
suburb
's
edge
,
in
the
grave
old
houses
that
stood
apart
from
the
road
,
in
the
moldering
taverns
of
the
eighteenth
century
,
in
the
huddled
hamlets
that
had
preserved
only
the
glow
and
the
sunlight
of
all
the
years
that
had
passed
over
them
.
It
appeared
to
him
that
vulgarity
and
greasiness
and
squalor
had
come
with
a
flood
,
that
not
only
the
good
but
also
the
evil
in
man
's
heart
had
been
made
common
and
ugly
,
that
a
sordid
scum
was
mingled
with
all
the
springs
,
of
death
as
of
life
.
It
would
be
alike
futile
to
search
amongst
these
mean
two-storied
houses
for
a
splendid
sinner
as
for
a
splendid
saint
;
the
very
vices
of
these
people
smelt
of
cabbage
water
and
a
pothouse
vomit
.
And
so
he
had
often
fled
away
from
the
serried
maze
that
encircled
him
,
seeking
for
the
old
and
worn
and
significant
as
an
antiquary
looks
for
the
fragments
of
the
Roman
temple
amidst
the
modern
shops
.
In
some
way
the
gusts
of
wind
and
the
beating
rain
of
the
night
reminded
him
of
an
old
house
that
had
often
attracted
him
with
a
strange
indefinable
curiosity
.
He
had
found
it
on
a
grim
grey
day
in
March
,
when
he
had
gone
out
under
a
leaden-molded
sky
,
cowering
from
a
dry
freezing
wind
that
brought
with
it
the
gloom
and
the
doom
of
far
unhappy
Siberian
plains
.
More
than
ever
that
day
the
suburb
had
oppressed
him
;
insignificant
,
detestable
,
repulsive
to
body
and
mind
,
it
was
the
only
hell
that
a
vulgar
age
could
conceive
or
make
,
an
inferno
created
not
by
Dante
but
by
the
jerry-builder
.
He
had
gone
out
to
the
north
,
and
when
he
lifted
up
his
eyes
again
he
found
that
he
had
chanced
to
turn
up
by
one
of
the
little
lanes
that
still
strayed
across
the
broken
fields
.
He
had
never
chosen
this
path
before
because
the
lane
at
its
outlet
was
so
wholly
degraded
and
offensive
,
littered
with
rusty
tins
and
broken
crockery
,
and
hedged
in
with
a
paling
fashioned
out
of
scraps
of
wire
,
rotting
timber
,
and
bending
worn-out
rails
.
But
on
this
day
,
by
happy
chance
,
he
had
fled
from
the
high
road
by
the
first
opening
that
offered
,
and
he
no
longer
groped
his
way
amongst
obscene
refuse
,
sickened
by
the
bloated
bodies
of
dead
dogs
,
and
fetid
odors
from
unclean
decay
,
but
the
malpassage
had
become
a
peaceful
winding
lane
,
with
warm
shelter
beneath
its
banks
from
the
dismal
wind
.
For
a
mile
he
had
walked
quietly
,
and
then
a
turn
in
the
road
showed
him
a
little
glen
or
hollow
,
watered
by
such
a
tiny
rushing
brooklet
as
his
own
woods
knew
,
and
beyond
,
alas
,
the
glaring
foreguard
of
a
"
new
neighborhood
"
;
raw
red
villas
,
semi-detached
,
and
then
a
row
of
lamentable
shops
.
But
as
he
was
about
to
turn
back
,
in
the
hope
of
finding
some
other
outlet
,
his
attention
was
charmed
by
a
small
house
that
stood
back
a
little
from
the
road
on
his
right
hand
.
There
had
been
a
white
gate
,
but
the
paint
had
long
faded
to
grey
and
black
,
and
the
wood
crumbled
under
the
touch
,
and
only
moss
marked
out
the
lines
of
the
drive
.
The
iron
railing
round
the
lawn
had
fallen
,
and
the
poor
flower-beds
were
choked
with
grass
and
a
faded
growth
of
weeds
.
But
here
and
there
a
rosebush
lingered
amidst
suckers
that
had
sprung
grossly
from
the
root
,
and
on
each
side
of
the
hall
door
were
box
trees
,
untrimmed
,
ragged
,
but
still
green
.
The
slate
roof
was
all
stained
and
livid
,
blotched
with
the
drippings
of
a
great
elm
that
stood
at
one
corner
of
the
neglected
lawn
,
and
marks
of
damp
and
decay
were
thick
on
the
uneven
walls
,
which
had
been
washed
yellow
many
years
before
.
There
was
a
porch
of
trellis
work
before
the
door
,
and
Lucian
had
seen
it
rock
in
the
wind
,
swaying
as
if
every
gust
must
drive
it
down
.
There
were
two
windows
on
the
ground
floor
,
one
on
each
side
of
the
door
,
and
two
above
,
with
a
blind
space
where
a
central
window
had
been
blocked
up
.
This
poor
and
desolate
house
had
fascinated
him
.
Ancient
and
poor
and
fallen
,
disfigured
by
the
slate
roof
and
the
yellow
wash
that
had
replaced
the
old
mellow
dipping
tiles
and
the
warm
red
walls
,
and
disfigured
again
by
spots
and
patches
of
decay
;
it
seemed
as
if
its
happy
days
were
for
ever
ended
.
To
Lucian
it
appealed
with
a
sense
of
doom
and
horror
;
the
black
streaks
that
crept
upon
the
walls
,
and
the
green
drift
upon
the
roof
,
appeared
not
so
much
the
work
of
foul
weather
and
dripping
boughs
,
as
the
outward
signs
of
evil
working
and
creeping
in
the
lives
of
those
within
.
The
stage
seemed
to
him
decked
for
doom
,
painted
with
the
symbols
of
tragedy
;
and
he
wondered
as
he
looked
whether
any
one
were
so
unhappy
as
to
live
there
still
.
There
were
torn
blinds
in
the
windows
,
but
he
had
asked
himself
who
could
be
so
brave
as
to
sit
in
that
room
,
darkened
by
the
dreary
box
,
and
listen
of
winter
nights
to
the
rain
upon
the
window
,
and
the
moaning
of
wind
amongst
the
tossing
boughs
that
beat
against
the
roof
.
He
could
not
imagine
that
any
chamber
in
such
a
house
was
habitable
.
Here
the
dead
had
lain
,
through
the
white
blind
the
thin
light
had
filtered
on
the
rigid
mouth
,
and
still
the
floor
must
be
wet
with
tears
and
still
that
great
rocking
elm
echoed
the
groaning
and
the
sobs
of
those
who
watched
.
No
doubt
,
the
damp
was
rising
,
and
the
odor
of
the
earth
filled
the
house
,
and
made
such
as
entered
draw
back
,
foreseeing
the
hour
of
death
.
Often
the
thought
of
this
strange
old
house
had
haunted
him
;
he
had
imagined
the
empty
rooms
where
a
heavy
paper
peeled
from
the
walls
and
hung
in
dark
strips
;
and
he
could
not
believe
that
a
light
ever
shone
from
those
windows
that
stared
black
and
glittering
on
the
neglected
lawn
.
But
tonight
the
wet
and
the
storm
seemed
curiously
to
bring
the
image
of
the
place
before
him
,
and
as
the
wind
sounded
he
thought
how
unhappy
those
must
be
,
if
any
there
were
,
who
sat
in
the
musty
chambers
by
a
flickering
light
,
and
listened
to
the
elm-tree
moaning
and
beating
and
weeping
on
the
walls
.
And
tonight
was
Saturday
night
;
and
there
was
about
that
phrase
something
that
muttered
of
the
condemned
cell
,
of
the
agony
of
a
doomed
man
.
Ghastly
to
his
eyes
was
the
conception
of
any
one
sitting
in
that
room
to
the
right
of
the
door
behind
the
larger
box
tree
,
where
the
wall
was
cracked
above
the
window
and
smeared
with
a
black
stain
in
an
ugly
shape
.
He
knew
how
foolish
it
had
been
in
the
first
place
to
trouble
his
mind
with
such
conceits
of
a
dreary
cottage
on
the
outskirts
of
London
.
And
it
was
more
foolish
now
to
meditate
these
things
,
fantasies
,
feigned
forms
,
the
issue
of
a
sad
mood
and
a
bleak
day
of
spring
.
For
soon
,
in
a
few
moments
,
he
was
to
rise
to
a
new
life
.
He
was
but
reckoning
up
the
account
of
his
past
,
and
when
the
light
came
he
was
to
think
no
more
of
sorrow
and
heaviness
,
of
real
or
imagined
terrors
.
He
had
stayed
too
long
in
London
,
and
he
would
once
more
taste
the
breath
of
the
hills
,
and
see
the
river
winding
in
the
long
lovely
valley
;
ah
!
he
would
go
home
.
Something
like
a
thrill
,
the
thrill
of
fear
,
passed
over
him
as
he
remembered
that
there
was
no
home
.
It
was
in
the
winter
,
a
year
and
a
half
after
his
arrival
in
town
,
that
he
had
suffered
the
loss
of
his
father
.
He
lay
for
many
days
prostrate
,
overwhelmed
with
sorrow
and
with
the
thought
that
now
indeed
he
was
utterly
alone
in
the
world
.
Miss
Deacon
was
to
live
with
another
cousin
in
Yorkshire
;
the
old
home
was
at
last
ended
and
done
.
He
felt
sorry
that
he
had
not
written
more
frequently
to
his
father
:
there
were
things
in
his
cousin
's
letters
that
had
made
his
heart
sore
.
"
Your
poor
father
was
always
looking
for
your
letters
,
"
she
wrote
,
"
they
used
to
cheer
him
so
much
.
He
nearly
broke
down
when
you
sent
him
that
money
last
Christmas
;
he
got
it
into
his
head
that
you
were
starving
yourself
to
send
it
him
.
He
was
hoping
so
much
that
you
would
have
come
down
this
Christmas
,
and
kept
asking
me
about
the
plum-puddings
months
ago
.
"
It
was
not
only
his
father
that
had
died
,
but
with
him
the
last
strong
link
was
broken
,
and
the
past
life
,
the
days
of
his
boyhood
,
grew
faint
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
letters
had
gone
home
so
rarely
;
it
hurt
him
to
imagine
his
father
looking
out
when
the
post
came
in
the
morning
,
and
forced
to
be
sad
because
there
was
nothing
.
But
he
had
never
thought
that
his
father
valued
the
few
lines
that
he
wrote
,
and
indeed
it
was
often
difficult
to
know
what
to
say
.
It
would
have
been
useless
to
write
of
those
agonizing
nights
when
the
pen
seemed
an
awkward
and
outlandish
instrument
,
when
every
effort
ended
in
shameful
defeat
,
or
of
the
happier
hours
when
at
last
wonder
appeared
and
the
line
glowed
,
crowned
and
exalted
.
To
poor
Mr.
Taylor
such
tales
would
have
seemed
but
trivial
histories
of
some
Oriental
game
,
like
an
odd
story
from
a
land
where
men
have
time
for
the
infinitely
little
,
and
can
seriously
make
a
science
of
arranging
blossoms
in
a
jar
,
and
discuss
perfumes
instead
of
politics
.
It
would
have
been
useless
to
write
to
the
rectory
of
his
only
interest
,
and
so
he
wrote
seldom
.
And
then
he
had
been
sorry
because
he
could
never
write
again
and
never
see
his
home
.
He
had
wondered
whether
he
would
have
gone
down
to
the
old
place
at
Christmas
,
if
his
father
had
lived
.
It
was
curious
how
common
things
evoked
the
bitterest
griefs
,
but
his
father
's
anxiety
that
the
plum-pudding
should
be
good
,
and
ready
for
him
,
had
brought
the
tears
into
his
eyes
.
He
could
hear
him
saying
in
a
nervous
voice
that
attempted
to
be
cheerful
:
"
I
suppose
you
will
be
thinking
of
the
Christmas
puddings
soon
,
Jane
;
you
remember
how
fond
Lucian
used
to
be
of
plum-pudding
.
I
hope
we
shall
see
him
this
December
.
"
No
doubt
poor
Miss
Deacon
paled
with
rage
at
the
suggestion
that
she
should
make
Christmas
pudding
in
July
;
and
returned
a
sharp
answer
;
but
it
was
pathetic
.
The
wind
wailed
,
and
the
rain
dashed
and
beat
again
and
again
upon
the
window
.
He
imagined
that
all
his
thoughts
of
home
,
of
the
old
rectory
amongst
the
elms
,
had
conjured
into
his
mind
the
sound
of
the
storm
upon
the
trees
,
for
,
tonight
,
very
clearly
he
heard
the
creaking
of
the
boughs
,
the
noise
of
boughs
moaning
and
beating
and
weeping
on
the
walls
,
and
even
a
pattering
of
wet
,
on
wet
earth
,
as
if
there
were
a
shrub
near
the
window
that
shook
off
the
raindrops
,
before
the
gust
.
That
thrill
,
as
it
were
a
shudder
of
fear
,
passed
over
him
again
,
and
he
knew
not
what
had
made
him
afraid
.
There
were
some
dark
shadow
on
his
mind
that
saddened
him
;
it
seemed
as
if
a
vague
memory
of
terrible
days
hung
like
a
cloud
over
his
thought
,
but
it
was
all
indefinite
,
perhaps
the
last
grim
and
ragged
edge
of
the
melancholy
wrack
that
had
swelled
over
his
life
and
the
bygone
years
.
He
shivered
and
tried
to
rouse
himself
and
drive
away
the
sense
of
dread
and
shame
that
seemed
so
real
and
so
awful
,
and
yet
he
could
not
grasp
it
.
But
the
torpor
of
sleep
,
the
burden
of
the
work
that
he
had
ended
a
few
hours
before
,
still
weighed
down
his
limb
and
bound
his
thoughts
.
He
could
scarcely
believe
that
he
had
been
busy
at
his
desk
a
little
while
ago
,
and
that
just
before
the
winter
day
closed
it
and
the
rain
began
to
fall
he
had
laid
down
the
pen
with
a
sigh
of
relief
,
and
had
slept
in
his
chair
.
It
was
rather
as
if
he
had
slumbered
deeply
through
a
long
and
weary
night
,
as
if
an
awful
vision
of
flame
and
darkness
and
the
worm
that
dieth
not
had
come
to
him
sleeping
.
But
he
would
dwell
no
more
on
the
darkness
;
he
went
back
to
the
early
days
in
London
when
he
had
said
farewell
to
the
hills
and
to
the
waterpools
,
and
had
set
to
work
in
this
little
room
in
the
dingy
street
.
How
he
had
toiled
and
labored
at
the
desk
before
him
!
He
had
put
away
