Lucian 's observant eyes roved about the room, noting the quaint old pictures on the walls; the oil
paintings
of Mr.
Fletcher - Lucian the Dreamer
.
.
Fletcher, J. S. (Joseph Smith), 1863-1935. London, W. Collins Sons & Co. , Ltd. [1903]
http://hdl. handle. net/2027/uc2. ark:/13960/t2x34vk3p
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an
'earner iJ. S. Fletcher
■9
lf=
LUCIAN
THE
DREAMER
This is the Story
'X'HIS is the study of an artistic temperament in a generation not so far removed from our own as the
hurried events of the last two decades would make appear — the generation which fought in the Boer War.
Mr. Fletcher has told us the Ufe story of boy,
" thinker " rather than " doer "—Lucian the Dreamer. We follow with great interest his many love affairs while under the care of his uncle and aunt in the country. We enjoy with him the simple rustic beauties of Wellsby, and from the moment he arrives at the Httle village station until that final tragic scene in the dry-bed of
South African river we are held as in vice.
Also by
THE DIAMONDS
THE TIME-WORN TOWN
Fletcher
THE KANG-HE VASE THE GOLDEN VENTURE
THE MILL OF MANY WINDOWS
THE CARTWRIGHT GARDENS MURDER
THE RAVENSWOOD MYSTERY AND OTHER STORIES
J. S.
a
a
a
a ait
-''
LUCIAN
THE
J. S. FLETCHER
Author of " The Cartwright Gardens Murder," "The Kang-He Vase," etc.
. . •••(•>>) »J»»•
LONDON
48 PALL MALL
DREAMER
by
& CO LTD GLASGOW SYDNEY AUCKLAND
W. COLLINS
SONS
Copyright
Printed in Great Britain.
TO
SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
IN SOME SLIGHT RECOGNITION OF A KINDLY SERVICE
KINDLY RENDERED
say 4 t^>*3
CHAPTER I
The railway station stood in the midst of an apparent solitude, and from its one long platform there was no
of any human habitation. A stranger, looking around him in passing that way, might well have wondered why a station should be found there at all; nevertheless, the board which figured prominently above the white palings suggested the near presence of three places —Wellsby, Meadhope, and Simonstower
and a glance at a map of the county would have sufficed to show him that three villages of the names
sign
the surrounding woods, one to the east and two to the west of the railway. The Hne was a single one, served by a train which made three out-and-home journeys a day between the market-town of Oakborough and the village of Normanford, stopping on its way at seven stations, of which Wellsby was the pen- ultimate one. These wayside stations sometimes
witnessed arrivals and departures, but there were many occasions on which the train neither took up passengers nor set them down—it was only a considerable traific
there indicated lay hidden amongst
intermediate
the extra business of the and its connection with the main line, that enabled the directors to keep the Oakborough
in agricultural produce, weekly market-day,
and Normanford Branch open. At each small station
maintained a staff consisting of a collector or station-master, a booking-clerk, and a porter, but the duties of these officials were light, and a good deal of spare time lay at their disposal, and was chiefly used in cultivating patches of garden along the side of the line, or in discussing the news of the neighbourhood.
On a fine April evening of the early eighties the staff of this particular station assembled on the platform at half-past six o'clock in readiness to receive the train
7
they
8 LUCIAN THE DREAMER
(which, save on market-days, was composed of an engine, two carriages, and the guard's van), as it made its last down journey. There were no passengers to
forward towards Normanford, and the porter, according to custom, went out to the end of the plat- form as the train came into view, and held up his arms as a signal to the driver that he need not stop unless he had reasons of his own for doing so. To this signal the driver responded with two sharp shrieks of his whistle, on hearing which the porter turned away, put his hands in his pockets, and slouched back along the platform.
' Somebody to set down, anyway, Mr. Simmons,' said the booking-clerk with a look at the station- master. ' I wonder who it is — I've only booked one up ticket to-day; James White it was, and he came back by the 2. 30, so it isn't him. '
The station-master made no reply, feeling that another moment would answer the question definitely. He walked forward as the train drew up, and amidst the harsh grinding of its wheels threw a greeting to the engine-driver, which he had already given four times that day and would give again as the train went
back two hours later. His eyes, straying along the train, caught sight of a hand fumbling at the handle of a third-class compartment, and he hastened to open the door.
' It's you, is Mr. Pepperdine? ' he said. wondered who was getting out—it's not often that this train brings us passenger. '
Two of us this time,' answered the man thus addressed as he quickly descended, nodding and smiling at the station-master and the booking-clerk;
two of us this time, Mr. Simmons. Ah He drew long breath of air as the scent of the woods and fields did him good, and then turned to the open door
of the carriage, within which stood boy leisurely attiring himself in an overcoat. Come, my lad,' he said good-humouredly, the train'U be going on—let's
go
'
if
'
a
! '
a
'
'
a
it,
I*
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
9
see now, Mr. Simmons, there's a portmanteau, a trunk, and a box in the van—perhaps Jim there '11 see they're got out. '
The porter hurried off to the van; as he turned away the boy descended from the train, put his gloved hands in the pockets of his overcoat, and stared about him with a deliberate and critical expression. His glance ran over the station, the creeping plants on the station- master's house, the station-master, and the booking- clerk; his companion, meanwhile, was staring hard at
a patch of bright green beyond the fence and smiling with evident enjoyment.
' I'll see that the things are all right,' said the boy suddenly, and strode off to the van. The porter had already brought out a portmanteau and a trunk; he and the guard were now struggling with a larger obstacle in the shape of a packing-case which taxed all their energies.
' It's a heavy 'un, this is ! ' panted the guard. ' You might be carrying all the treasure of the Bank of England in here, young master. '
' Books,' said the boy laconically. ' They are heavy. Be careful, please—don't let the box drop. '
There was a note in his voice which the men were quick to recognise—the note of command and of full expectancy that his word would rank as law. He stood by, anxious of eye and keenly observant, while the men lowered the packing-case to the platform; behind him stood Mr. Pepperdine, the station-master, and the booking-clerk, mildly interested.
' There! ' said the guard. ' We ha' n't given her a single bump. Might ha' been the delicatest chiny, the way we handled it. '
He wiped his brow with a triumphant wave of the hand. The boy, still regarding the case with grave, speculative eyes, put his hand in his pocket, drew forth a shilling, and with a barely perceptible glance at the
stared, smiled, pocketed the gift, and touched his cap. He
guard, dropped it in his hand. The man
10 LUCIAN THE DREAMER
waved his green flag vigorously; in another moment the train was rattling away into the shadow of the woods.
Mr. Pepperdine stepped up to the boy's side and
gazed at the packing-case.
' It'll never go in my trap, lad/ he said, scratching
his chin. ' It's too big and too heavy. We must send a horse and cart for it in the morning. '
' But where shall we leave it? ' asked the boy, with
evident anxiety.
' We'll put it in the warehouse, young master,' said
the porter. ' It'll be all right there. I'll see that no harm comes to it. '
The boy, however, demanded to see the warehouse, and assured himself that it was water-tight and would be locked up. He issued strict mandates to the porter as to his safe-keeping of the packing-case, presented him also with a shilling, and turned away uncon-
as if the matter were now settled. Mr. Pepperdine took the porter in hand.
cernedly,
' Jim,' he said, ' my trap's at the Grange; maybe you could put that trunk and portmanteau on a barrow and bring them down in a while? No need to hurry — I shall have a pipe with Mr. Trippett before going on. '
' All right, sir,' answered the porter. ' I'll bring 'em both down in an hour or so. '
' Come on, then, lad,' said Mr. Pepperdine, nodding good-night to the station-master, and leading the way to the gate. ' Eh, but it's good to be back where there's some fresh air! Can you smell boy? '
The boy threw up his face, and sniffed the fragrance of the woods. There had been April showers during the afternoon, and the air was sweet and cool he drew
in with relish that gratified the countryman at his side.
Yes,' he answered. smell —it's beautiful. '
Ah, so is! ' said Mr. Pepperdine; as beautiful as —as—well, as anything. Yes, so, my lad. '
The boy looked up and laughed, and Mr. Pepperdine
it
a
I* it
is
'
it
it *'
it, :
LUCIAN THE DREAMER ii
laughed too. He had no idea why he laughed, but it leased him to do so; it pleased him, too, to hear the Eoy laugh. But when the boy's face grew grave again Mr. Pepperdine's countenance composed itself and became equally grave and somewhat solicitous. He
looked out of his eye-comers at the slim figure walking at his side, and wondered what other folk would think of his companion. ' A nice, smart-looking boy,' said Mr. Pepperdine to himself for the hundredth time; ' nice, gentlemanlike boy, and a credit to anybody. ' Mr. Pepperdine felt proud to have such a boy in his company, and prouder still to know that the boy was his nephew and ward.
The boy thus speculated upon was a lad of twelve, somewhat tall for his age, of a slim, well-knit figure, a handsome face, and a confidence of manner and bear- ing that seemed disproportionate to his years. He walked with easy, natural grace; his movements were Hthe and sinuous; the turn of his head, as he looked up at Mr. Pepperdine, or glanced at the overhanging trees in the lane, was smart and alert; it was easy to see that he was naturally quick in action and in percep- tion. His face, which Mr. Pepperdine had studied a good deal during the past week, was of a type which is more often met with in Italy than in England. The forehead was broad and high, and crowned by a mass of thick, blue-black hair that clustered and waved all over the head, and curled into rings at the temples; the brows were straight, dark, and full; the nose and mouth delicately but strongly carved; the chin square and firm; obstinacy, pride, detemination, were all
there, and already stffening into permanence. But in this face, so Italian, so full of the promise of passion, there were eyes of an essentially English type, almost violet in colour, gentle, soft, dreamy, shadfed by long black lashes, and it was in them that Mr.
Pepperdine found the thing he sought for when he looked long and
wistfully at his dead sister's son.
Mr. Pepperdine's present scrutiny passed from the
12 LUCIAN THE DREAMER
boy's face to the boy's clothes. It was not often, he said to himself, that such a well-dressed youngster was seen in those parts. His nephew was clothed in black from head to foot; his hat was surrounded by a mourn- ing-band; a black tie, fashioned into a smart knot, and secured by an antique cameo-pin, encircled his spotless man's collar: every garment was shaped as if its wearer had been the most punctilious man about town; his neat boots shone like mirrors. The boy was a dandy in miniature, and it filled Mr. Pepperdine with a vast amusement to find him so. He chuckled inwardly, and was secretly proud of a youngster who, as he had
discovered, could walk into a fashionable tailor's and order exactly what he wanted with an evi- dent determination to get it. But Mr. Pepperdine himself was a rustic dandy. Because of the necessi-
ties of a recent occasion he was at that moment clad in sober black —his Sunday-and-State-Occasion's suit — but at home he possessed many wonderful things in the way of riding-breeches, greatcoats ornamented with pearl buttons as big as saucers, and sprigged waistcoats which were the despair of the young country bucks, who were forced to admit that Simpson Pepperdine knew a thing or two about the fashion and was a man of style. It was natural, then, Mr. Pepperdine should be pleased to find his nephew a petit-maitre—it grati- fied an eye which was never at any time indisposed to regard the vanities of this world with complaisance.
Mr. Pepperdine, striding along at the boy's side, presented the cheerful aspect of a healthy countryman. He was a tall, well-built man, rosy of face, bright of eye, a little on the wrong side of forty, and rather pre- disposed to stoutness of figure, but firm and solid in his tread, and as yet destitute of a grey hair. In his sable garments and his high hat—bought a week before in London itself, and of the latest fashionable shape—he looked very distinguished, and no one could have taken him for less than a churchwarden and a large ratepayer. His air of distinction was further improved by the fact
recently
LUCIAN THE DREAMER iS
that he was in uncommonly good spirits—^he had spent a week in London on business of a sorrowful nature, and he was glad to be home again amongst his native woods and fields. He sniffed the air as he walked, and set his feet down as if the soil belonged to him, and his eyes danced with satisfaction.
The boy suddenly uttered a cry of delight, and stopped, pointing down a long vista of the woods. Mr. Papperdine turned in the direction indicated, and
beheld a golden patch of daffodils. * And
' Daffy-down-dillies,' said Mr. Pepperdine.
very pretty too. But just you wait till you see the
woods about Simonstower. I always did say that Wellsby woods were nought to our woods — ah, you
And as for primroses—
they could stock all Covent Garden market in London
should see the bluebells !
well,
town with 'em, and have enough for next day into the bargain, so they could. Very pretty is them daffies,
but I reckon there's something a deal prettier to be seen in a minute or two, for here's the Grange, and Mrs. Trippett has an uncommon nice way
very pretty,
of setting out a tea-table. ' of colour to The boy turned from the glowing patch
look at another attractive picture. They had rounded the edge of the wood on their right hand, and now stood gazing at a peculiarly English scene —a green paddock, fenced from the road by neat railings, painted white, at the further end of which, shaded by a belt of tall elms, stood a many-gabled farmhouse, with a flower- garden before its front door and an orchard at its side. The farm-buildings rose a little distance in rear of the house; beyond them was the stackyard, still crowded
with wheat and barley stacks; high over everything rose a pigeon-cote, about the weather-vane of which flew countless pigeons. In the paddock were ewes and lambs; cattle and horses looked over the wall of the fold; the soft light of the April evening lay on every- thing like a benediction.
' Wellsby Grange,' said Mr. Pepperdine, pushing
! e4
lucian the dreamer
open a wicket-gate in the white fence and motioning the boy to enter. ' The abode of Mr. and Mrs. Trippett, very particular friends of mine. I always leave my trap here when I have occasion to go by train—it would be sent over this morning, and we shall find it all ready
for us presently. '
The boy followed his uncle up the path to the side-
door of the farmhouse, his eyes taking in every detail of the scene. He was staring about him when the door
and revealed a jolly-faced, red-cheeked man with sandy whiskers and very blue eyes, who grinned delightedly at sight of Mr. Pepperdine, and held out a hand of considerable proportions. '
We heard the whistle, and the missis put the kettle on to boil up that minute. Come in, Simpson—come in,
opened,
' We were just looking out for you,' said he.
my lad—you're heartily welcome. Now then, missis
—they're here. '
A stout, motherly-looking
woman, with cherry-
coloured ribbons in a nodding cap that crowned a head of glossy dark hair, came bustling to the door.
' Come in, come in, 'Mr. Pepperdine—glad to see you safe back,' said she. And this'll be your little nevvy. Come in, love, come in—you must be tired wi' travelling all that way. '
The boy took off his hat with a courtly gesture, and stepped into the big, old-fashioned kitchen. He looked frankly at the farmer and his wife, and the woman, noting his beauty with quick feminine perception, put her arm round his neck and drew him to her.
' Eh, but you're a handsome lad ! ' she said. ' Come straight into the parlour and sit you down—the tea'll be ready in a minute. What's your name, my dear? '
The boy looked up at her—Mrs. Trippett's memory, at the sight of his eyes, went back to the days of her
girlhood. Lucian,' he answered. ' My name is
Mrs. Trippett looked at him again as if she had
scarcely
heard him reply to her question. She sighed.
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
15
and with a sudden impetuous tenderness bent down and kissed him warmly on the cheek.
' Off with your coat, my dear,' she said cheerily. ' And if you're cold, sit down by the fire—if it is spring,
it's cold enough for fires at night. Now I'll be back in a minute, and your uncle and the master' 11 be coming —I lay they've gone to look at a poorly horse that we've got just now—and then we'll have tea. '
She bustled from the room, the
ribbons streaming behind her. The boy, left alone, took off his overcoat and gloves, and laid them aside with his hat; then he put his hands in the pockets of his trousers, and examined his new surroundings.
cherry-coloured
CHAPTER II
Never before had Lucian seen the parlour of an English farmhouse, nor such a feast as that spread out on the square dinner-table. The parlour was long and wide and low-roofed, and the ceiling was spanned by beams of polished oak; a bright fire crackled in the old-fashioned grate, and a lamp burned on the table; but there were no blinds or curtains drawn over the
latticed windows which overlooked the garden.
Lucian 's observant eyes roved about the room, noting the quaint old pictures on the walls; the oil paintings of Mr. Trippett's father and mother; the framed samplers and the fox's brush; the silver cups on the sideboard, and the ancient blunderbuss which
on the centre beam. It seemed to him that the parlour
was delightfully quaint and picturesque; it smelled of dried roses and lavender and sweetbriar; there was an old sheep-dog on the hearth who pushed his muzzle into the boy's hand, and a grandfather's clock in one comer that ticked a solemn welcome to him. He had never seen such an interior before, and it appealed to his sense of the artistic.
Lucian 's eyes wandered at last to the table, spread for high tea. That was as new to him as the old pic- tures and samplers. A cold ham of generous propor- tions figured at one side of the table; a round of cold roast-beef at the other; the tea-tray filled up one end; opposite it space was left for something that was yet to come. This something presently appeared in the shape of a couple of roast fowls and a stand of boiled
borne in by a strapping maid whose face shone like the setting sun, and who was sharply marshalled by Mrs. Trippett, carrying a silver teapot and a dish of hot muffins.
' Now then, my dear,' she said, giving a final glance
over the table, ' we can begin as soon as the gentlemen z6
eggs,
hung
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
17
come, and I lay they won't be long, for Mr. Pepperdine '11 be hungry after his journey, and so I'm sure are you. Come and sit down here and help yourself to an
egg—they're as fresh as morning dew—every one's been laid this very day. '
The boy sat down and marvelled at the bountiful provision of Mrs. Trippett's tea-table; it seemed to him that there was enough there to feed a regiment. But when Mr. Trippett and Mr. Pepperdine entered and fell to, he no longer wondered, for the one had been out in the fields all day, and the other had been engaged in the unusual task of travelling, and they were both exceptional trenchermen at any time. Mr. Trippett joked with the boy as they ate, and made sundry refer- ences to Yorkshire pudding and roast-beef which seemed to afford himself great satisfaction, and he heaped up his youthful visitor's plate so generously that Lucian grew afraid.
' Cut and come again,' said Mr. Trippett, with his mouth full and his jaws working vigorously. ' Nothing like a good appetite for growing lads—ah, I was always hungry when I was a boy. Never came amiss to me, didn't food, never. '
' But I've never eaten so much before,' said Lucian,
his host's pressing entreaty to have another slice off the breast, or a bit of cold ham. ' I was hungry, too, or I couldn't have eaten so much now. '
' He'll soon get up an appetite at Simonstower, ' said Mrs. Trippett. ' You're higher up than we are, Mr. Pepperdine, and the air's keener with you. To be sure, our children have good enough appetites here— you should see them at meal times! —I'm sure I oft wonder wherever they put it all. '
' It's ' a provision of nature, ma'am,' said Mr. Pepper- dine. There's some wonderful things in Nature. '
' They're wanting to see you, my dear,' said Mrs. Trippett, ignoring her elder guest's profound remark and looking at her younger one. * I told them Mr. Pepperdine was going to bring a young gentleman with
B
refusing
i8 LUCIAN THE DREAMER
him. You shall see them after tea—they're out in the orchard now—they had their teas an hour ago, and they've gone out to play. There's two of them— John and Mary. John's about your own age, and Mary's a year younger. '
' Can't I go out to them? ' said Lucian. ' I will, if you will please to excuse me. '
' With pleasure, my dear,' said Mrs. Trippett. ' Go by all means, if you'd like to. Go through the window there—you'll hear them somewhere about, and they'll show you their rabbits and things. '
The boy picked up his hat and went out. Mrs. Trippett followed him with meditative eyes.
'He's not shy, seemingly,' she said, looking at Mr. Pepperdine.
* Not he, ma'am. He's an old-fashioned one, is the lad,' answered Lucian's uncle. ' He's the manners of a man in some things. I reckon, you see, that it's because he's never had other children to play with. '
' He's a handsome boy,' sighed the hostess. ' Like his father as I remember him. He was a fine-looking man, in a foreign way. But he's his mother's eyes— poor Lucy! '
* Yes,' said Mr. Pepperdine. ' He's Lucy's eyes, but all the rest of him's like his father. '
' Were you in time to see his father before he died? ' asked Mr. Trippett, who was now attacking the cold beef, after having demolished the greater part of a fowl.
' You didn't think you would be when you went off that
morning. '
' Just in time, just in time,* answered Mr. Pepper-
dine. * Ay, just in time. He went very sudden and very peaceful. The boy was very brave and very old- fashioned about it—he never says anything now, and I don't mention it. *
' It's best not,' said Mrs. Trippett. ' Poor Uttle fellow! —of course, he'll not remember his mother at all? '
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
19
' No/ said Mr. Pepperdine, shaking his head. ' No, he was only two years old when his mother died. '
Mr. Trippett changed the subject, and began to talk of London and what Mr. Pepperdine had seen there. But when the tea-table had been cleared, and Mrs. Trippett had departed to the kitchen regions to bustle
amongst her maids, and the two farmers were left in the parlour with the spirit decanters on the table, their tumblers at their elbows and their pipes in their mouths, the host referred to Mr. Pepperdine's recent mission with some curiosity.
' I never rightly heard the story of this nephew of yours,' he said. ' You see, I hadn't come to these parts when your sister was married. The missis says she remembers her, 'cause she used to visit hereabouts
in days past. It were a bit of a romance
like, eh? ' Mr. Pepperdine took a pull at his glass and shook his
head.
'Ah! ' said he oracularly. ' It was. A romance
like those you read of in the story-books. I remember the beginning of it all as well as if it were yesterday. Lucy—that was the lad's mother, my youngest sister, you know, Trippett—was a girl then, and the prettiest in all these parts: there's nobody '11 deny that. '
* I always understood that she was a beauty,' said Mr. Trippett.
* And you understood rightly. There wasn't Lucy's equal for beauty in all the county,' afi&rmed Mr. Pepperdine. ' The lad has her eyes — eh, dear, I've heard high and low talk of her eyes. But he's naught else of hers—all the rest his father's—Lucy was fair. '
He paused to apply a glowing coal to the tobacco in his long pipe, and he puffed out several thick clouds of 'smoke before he resumed his story.
Well, Lucy was nineteen when this Mr. Cyprian' Damerel came along. You can ask your missis what like he was — women are better hands at describing a man's looks than a man is. He were a handsome
young man, but foreign in appearance, though you
20 LUCIAN THE DREAMER
wouldn't ha' told it from his tongue. The boy'U be like him some day. He came walking through Simons- tower on his way from Scarhaven, and naught would content him but that he must set up his easel and make a picture of the village. He found lodgings at old
Grant's, and settled down, and he was one of that sort that makes themselves at home with every- body in five minutes. He'd an open face and an open hand; he'd talk to high and low in just the same way; and he'd a smile for everybody. '
' And naturally all the lasses fell in love with him,' suggested Mr. Trippett, with a hearty laugh. 'I've heard my missis say he'd a way with him that was taking with the wenches — specially them as were inclined that way, like. '
' Undoubtedly he had,' said Mr. Pepperdine. * Undoubtedly he had. But after he'd seen her, he'd no eyes for any lass but our Lucy. He fell in love with her and she with him as naturally as a duckling
takes to water. Ah
Mother
!
I don't think I ever did see two
young people quite so badly smitten as they were. It became evident to everybody in the place. But he
acted like a man all through—oh yes !
alive then, you know, 'Trippett,' Mr. Pepperdine con- tinued, with a sigh. She was a straight-laced 'un, was my mother, and had no hking for foreigners, and Damerel had a livelyish time with her when he came to th' house and asked her, bold as brass, if he might marry her daughter. '
' I'll lay he wo'd; I'll lay he wo'd,' chuckled Mr. Trippett.
' Ay, and so he had,' continued Mr. Pepperdine. ' She was very stiff and stand-off, was our old lady, and she treated him to some remarks about foreigners
and papists, and what not, and gave him to under- stand that she'd as soon seen her daughter marry a gipsy as a strolling artist, 'cause you see, being old- lashioned, she'd no idea of what an artist, if he's up to his trade, can make. But he was one too many for
My mother was
LUCIAN THE DREAIMER 21
her, was Damerel. He listened to all she had to say, and then he offered to give her references about him- self, and he told her who he was, the son of an ItaHan gentleman that had come to live in England 'cause of poHtical reasons, and what he earned, and he made it clear enough that Lucy wouldn't want for bread and butter, nor a silk gown neither. '
' Good reasoning,' commented Mr. Trippett.
' Well, there were no doubt about Damerel 's making
' Very good reasoning. Love-making's
but it's nowt wi'out a bit o' money at th' back on't. '
said Mr. Pepperdine, 'and we'd soon good proof o' that; for as soon as he'd finished his picture of the village he sold it to th' Earl for five hundred pound, and it hangs i' the dining-room at th' castle to this day. I saw it the last time I paid my rent there. Mistress Jones, th' housekeeper, let me have
a look at it. And of course, seeing that the young man was able to support a wife, th' old lady had to
money,'
all very well,
and they were married. Fifteen year ago that is,' concluded Mr. Pepperdine with a shake of the head. * Dear-a-me! it seems only like yesterday since that day—they made the handsomest bride and bride- groom I ever saw. '
' She died soon, didn't she? ' inquired Mr. Trippett.
* Lived a matter of four years after the marriage,' answered Mr. Pepperdine. ' She wasn't a strong woman, wasn't poor Lucy—there was something wrong with her lungs, and after the boy came she seemed to wear away. He did all that a man could, did her husband—took her off to the south of Europe. Eh, dear, the letters that Keziah and Judith used to have from her, describing the places she saw—they read fair beautiful! But it were no good—she died at Rome,
poor lass, when the boy was two years' old. '
And had all that
'
give way,
' Poor thing! ' said Mr. Trippett. she wanted, seemingly. '
' Everything,' said Mr. Pepperdine. short but sweet, as you may say. '
Her hfe was
22 LUCIAN THE DREAMER
* And now he's gone an' all,' said Mr. Trippett.
Mr. Pepperdine nodded.
' Ay,' he said, ' he's gone an' all. I don't think he
ever rightly got over his wife's death—anyway, he led a very restless life ever after, first one place and then another, never settling anywhere. Sometimes it was
Italy, sometimes something, Damerel. '
Paris, sometimes London —he's seen has that boy. Ay, he's dead, is poor
' Leave owt behind him like? * asked Mr. Trippett
sententiously.
Mr. Pepperdine polished the end of his nose.
' Well,' he said, ' there'll be a nice little nest-egg for the boy when all's settled up, I dare say. He wasn't a saving sort of man, I should think, but dear-a-me, he must ha' made a lot of money in his time — and
'
spent it, too. '
' Easy come and easy go,' said Mr. Trippett.
I've heard that's the way with that sort. Will this lad take
after his father, then? '
* Nay,' said Mr. Pepperdine, * I don't think he will.
He can't draw a line—doesn't seem to have it in him. Curious thing that, but it is so. No—he's all for read- ing. I never saw such a lad for books. He's got a great chest full o' books at the station yonder—wouldn't leave London without them. '
' Happen turn out a parson or a lawyer,' suggested
Mr. Trippett. ' * Nay,' said Mr. Pepperdine.
It's my impression he'll turn out a poet, or something o' that sort. They
tell me there's a good living to be made out o' that
nowadays. '
Mr. Trippett Hfted the kettle on to the brightest part
of the fire, mixed himself another glass of grog, and pushed the decanter towards his friend.
' There were only a' poorish market at Oakbro' t'other day,' he said. Very low prices, and none so much stuff there, nayther.
Fletcher, J. S. (Joseph Smith), 1863-1935. London, W. Collins Sons & Co. , Ltd. [1903]
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an
'earner iJ. S. Fletcher
■9
lf=
LUCIAN
THE
DREAMER
This is the Story
'X'HIS is the study of an artistic temperament in a generation not so far removed from our own as the
hurried events of the last two decades would make appear — the generation which fought in the Boer War.
Mr. Fletcher has told us the Ufe story of boy,
" thinker " rather than " doer "—Lucian the Dreamer. We follow with great interest his many love affairs while under the care of his uncle and aunt in the country. We enjoy with him the simple rustic beauties of Wellsby, and from the moment he arrives at the Httle village station until that final tragic scene in the dry-bed of
South African river we are held as in vice.
Also by
THE DIAMONDS
THE TIME-WORN TOWN
Fletcher
THE KANG-HE VASE THE GOLDEN VENTURE
THE MILL OF MANY WINDOWS
THE CARTWRIGHT GARDENS MURDER
THE RAVENSWOOD MYSTERY AND OTHER STORIES
J. S.
a
a
a
a ait
-''
LUCIAN
THE
J. S. FLETCHER
Author of " The Cartwright Gardens Murder," "The Kang-He Vase," etc.
. . •••(•>>) »J»»•
LONDON
48 PALL MALL
DREAMER
by
& CO LTD GLASGOW SYDNEY AUCKLAND
W. COLLINS
SONS
Copyright
Printed in Great Britain.
TO
SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
IN SOME SLIGHT RECOGNITION OF A KINDLY SERVICE
KINDLY RENDERED
say 4 t^>*3
CHAPTER I
The railway station stood in the midst of an apparent solitude, and from its one long platform there was no
of any human habitation. A stranger, looking around him in passing that way, might well have wondered why a station should be found there at all; nevertheless, the board which figured prominently above the white palings suggested the near presence of three places —Wellsby, Meadhope, and Simonstower
and a glance at a map of the county would have sufficed to show him that three villages of the names
sign
the surrounding woods, one to the east and two to the west of the railway. The Hne was a single one, served by a train which made three out-and-home journeys a day between the market-town of Oakborough and the village of Normanford, stopping on its way at seven stations, of which Wellsby was the pen- ultimate one. These wayside stations sometimes
witnessed arrivals and departures, but there were many occasions on which the train neither took up passengers nor set them down—it was only a considerable traific
there indicated lay hidden amongst
intermediate
the extra business of the and its connection with the main line, that enabled the directors to keep the Oakborough
in agricultural produce, weekly market-day,
and Normanford Branch open. At each small station
maintained a staff consisting of a collector or station-master, a booking-clerk, and a porter, but the duties of these officials were light, and a good deal of spare time lay at their disposal, and was chiefly used in cultivating patches of garden along the side of the line, or in discussing the news of the neighbourhood.
On a fine April evening of the early eighties the staff of this particular station assembled on the platform at half-past six o'clock in readiness to receive the train
7
they
8 LUCIAN THE DREAMER
(which, save on market-days, was composed of an engine, two carriages, and the guard's van), as it made its last down journey. There were no passengers to
forward towards Normanford, and the porter, according to custom, went out to the end of the plat- form as the train came into view, and held up his arms as a signal to the driver that he need not stop unless he had reasons of his own for doing so. To this signal the driver responded with two sharp shrieks of his whistle, on hearing which the porter turned away, put his hands in his pockets, and slouched back along the platform.
' Somebody to set down, anyway, Mr. Simmons,' said the booking-clerk with a look at the station- master. ' I wonder who it is — I've only booked one up ticket to-day; James White it was, and he came back by the 2. 30, so it isn't him. '
The station-master made no reply, feeling that another moment would answer the question definitely. He walked forward as the train drew up, and amidst the harsh grinding of its wheels threw a greeting to the engine-driver, which he had already given four times that day and would give again as the train went
back two hours later. His eyes, straying along the train, caught sight of a hand fumbling at the handle of a third-class compartment, and he hastened to open the door.
' It's you, is Mr. Pepperdine? ' he said. wondered who was getting out—it's not often that this train brings us passenger. '
Two of us this time,' answered the man thus addressed as he quickly descended, nodding and smiling at the station-master and the booking-clerk;
two of us this time, Mr. Simmons. Ah He drew long breath of air as the scent of the woods and fields did him good, and then turned to the open door
of the carriage, within which stood boy leisurely attiring himself in an overcoat. Come, my lad,' he said good-humouredly, the train'U be going on—let's
go
'
if
'
a
! '
a
'
'
a
it,
I*
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
9
see now, Mr. Simmons, there's a portmanteau, a trunk, and a box in the van—perhaps Jim there '11 see they're got out. '
The porter hurried off to the van; as he turned away the boy descended from the train, put his gloved hands in the pockets of his overcoat, and stared about him with a deliberate and critical expression. His glance ran over the station, the creeping plants on the station- master's house, the station-master, and the booking- clerk; his companion, meanwhile, was staring hard at
a patch of bright green beyond the fence and smiling with evident enjoyment.
' I'll see that the things are all right,' said the boy suddenly, and strode off to the van. The porter had already brought out a portmanteau and a trunk; he and the guard were now struggling with a larger obstacle in the shape of a packing-case which taxed all their energies.
' It's a heavy 'un, this is ! ' panted the guard. ' You might be carrying all the treasure of the Bank of England in here, young master. '
' Books,' said the boy laconically. ' They are heavy. Be careful, please—don't let the box drop. '
There was a note in his voice which the men were quick to recognise—the note of command and of full expectancy that his word would rank as law. He stood by, anxious of eye and keenly observant, while the men lowered the packing-case to the platform; behind him stood Mr. Pepperdine, the station-master, and the booking-clerk, mildly interested.
' There! ' said the guard. ' We ha' n't given her a single bump. Might ha' been the delicatest chiny, the way we handled it. '
He wiped his brow with a triumphant wave of the hand. The boy, still regarding the case with grave, speculative eyes, put his hand in his pocket, drew forth a shilling, and with a barely perceptible glance at the
stared, smiled, pocketed the gift, and touched his cap. He
guard, dropped it in his hand. The man
10 LUCIAN THE DREAMER
waved his green flag vigorously; in another moment the train was rattling away into the shadow of the woods.
Mr. Pepperdine stepped up to the boy's side and
gazed at the packing-case.
' It'll never go in my trap, lad/ he said, scratching
his chin. ' It's too big and too heavy. We must send a horse and cart for it in the morning. '
' But where shall we leave it? ' asked the boy, with
evident anxiety.
' We'll put it in the warehouse, young master,' said
the porter. ' It'll be all right there. I'll see that no harm comes to it. '
The boy, however, demanded to see the warehouse, and assured himself that it was water-tight and would be locked up. He issued strict mandates to the porter as to his safe-keeping of the packing-case, presented him also with a shilling, and turned away uncon-
as if the matter were now settled. Mr. Pepperdine took the porter in hand.
cernedly,
' Jim,' he said, ' my trap's at the Grange; maybe you could put that trunk and portmanteau on a barrow and bring them down in a while? No need to hurry — I shall have a pipe with Mr. Trippett before going on. '
' All right, sir,' answered the porter. ' I'll bring 'em both down in an hour or so. '
' Come on, then, lad,' said Mr. Pepperdine, nodding good-night to the station-master, and leading the way to the gate. ' Eh, but it's good to be back where there's some fresh air! Can you smell boy? '
The boy threw up his face, and sniffed the fragrance of the woods. There had been April showers during the afternoon, and the air was sweet and cool he drew
in with relish that gratified the countryman at his side.
Yes,' he answered. smell —it's beautiful. '
Ah, so is! ' said Mr. Pepperdine; as beautiful as —as—well, as anything. Yes, so, my lad. '
The boy looked up and laughed, and Mr. Pepperdine
it
a
I* it
is
'
it
it *'
it, :
LUCIAN THE DREAMER ii
laughed too. He had no idea why he laughed, but it leased him to do so; it pleased him, too, to hear the Eoy laugh. But when the boy's face grew grave again Mr. Pepperdine's countenance composed itself and became equally grave and somewhat solicitous. He
looked out of his eye-comers at the slim figure walking at his side, and wondered what other folk would think of his companion. ' A nice, smart-looking boy,' said Mr. Pepperdine to himself for the hundredth time; ' nice, gentlemanlike boy, and a credit to anybody. ' Mr. Pepperdine felt proud to have such a boy in his company, and prouder still to know that the boy was his nephew and ward.
The boy thus speculated upon was a lad of twelve, somewhat tall for his age, of a slim, well-knit figure, a handsome face, and a confidence of manner and bear- ing that seemed disproportionate to his years. He walked with easy, natural grace; his movements were Hthe and sinuous; the turn of his head, as he looked up at Mr. Pepperdine, or glanced at the overhanging trees in the lane, was smart and alert; it was easy to see that he was naturally quick in action and in percep- tion. His face, which Mr. Pepperdine had studied a good deal during the past week, was of a type which is more often met with in Italy than in England. The forehead was broad and high, and crowned by a mass of thick, blue-black hair that clustered and waved all over the head, and curled into rings at the temples; the brows were straight, dark, and full; the nose and mouth delicately but strongly carved; the chin square and firm; obstinacy, pride, detemination, were all
there, and already stffening into permanence. But in this face, so Italian, so full of the promise of passion, there were eyes of an essentially English type, almost violet in colour, gentle, soft, dreamy, shadfed by long black lashes, and it was in them that Mr.
Pepperdine found the thing he sought for when he looked long and
wistfully at his dead sister's son.
Mr. Pepperdine's present scrutiny passed from the
12 LUCIAN THE DREAMER
boy's face to the boy's clothes. It was not often, he said to himself, that such a well-dressed youngster was seen in those parts. His nephew was clothed in black from head to foot; his hat was surrounded by a mourn- ing-band; a black tie, fashioned into a smart knot, and secured by an antique cameo-pin, encircled his spotless man's collar: every garment was shaped as if its wearer had been the most punctilious man about town; his neat boots shone like mirrors. The boy was a dandy in miniature, and it filled Mr. Pepperdine with a vast amusement to find him so. He chuckled inwardly, and was secretly proud of a youngster who, as he had
discovered, could walk into a fashionable tailor's and order exactly what he wanted with an evi- dent determination to get it. But Mr. Pepperdine himself was a rustic dandy. Because of the necessi-
ties of a recent occasion he was at that moment clad in sober black —his Sunday-and-State-Occasion's suit — but at home he possessed many wonderful things in the way of riding-breeches, greatcoats ornamented with pearl buttons as big as saucers, and sprigged waistcoats which were the despair of the young country bucks, who were forced to admit that Simpson Pepperdine knew a thing or two about the fashion and was a man of style. It was natural, then, Mr. Pepperdine should be pleased to find his nephew a petit-maitre—it grati- fied an eye which was never at any time indisposed to regard the vanities of this world with complaisance.
Mr. Pepperdine, striding along at the boy's side, presented the cheerful aspect of a healthy countryman. He was a tall, well-built man, rosy of face, bright of eye, a little on the wrong side of forty, and rather pre- disposed to stoutness of figure, but firm and solid in his tread, and as yet destitute of a grey hair. In his sable garments and his high hat—bought a week before in London itself, and of the latest fashionable shape—he looked very distinguished, and no one could have taken him for less than a churchwarden and a large ratepayer. His air of distinction was further improved by the fact
recently
LUCIAN THE DREAMER iS
that he was in uncommonly good spirits—^he had spent a week in London on business of a sorrowful nature, and he was glad to be home again amongst his native woods and fields. He sniffed the air as he walked, and set his feet down as if the soil belonged to him, and his eyes danced with satisfaction.
The boy suddenly uttered a cry of delight, and stopped, pointing down a long vista of the woods. Mr. Papperdine turned in the direction indicated, and
beheld a golden patch of daffodils. * And
' Daffy-down-dillies,' said Mr. Pepperdine.
very pretty too. But just you wait till you see the
woods about Simonstower. I always did say that Wellsby woods were nought to our woods — ah, you
And as for primroses—
they could stock all Covent Garden market in London
should see the bluebells !
well,
town with 'em, and have enough for next day into the bargain, so they could. Very pretty is them daffies,
but I reckon there's something a deal prettier to be seen in a minute or two, for here's the Grange, and Mrs. Trippett has an uncommon nice way
very pretty,
of setting out a tea-table. ' of colour to The boy turned from the glowing patch
look at another attractive picture. They had rounded the edge of the wood on their right hand, and now stood gazing at a peculiarly English scene —a green paddock, fenced from the road by neat railings, painted white, at the further end of which, shaded by a belt of tall elms, stood a many-gabled farmhouse, with a flower- garden before its front door and an orchard at its side. The farm-buildings rose a little distance in rear of the house; beyond them was the stackyard, still crowded
with wheat and barley stacks; high over everything rose a pigeon-cote, about the weather-vane of which flew countless pigeons. In the paddock were ewes and lambs; cattle and horses looked over the wall of the fold; the soft light of the April evening lay on every- thing like a benediction.
' Wellsby Grange,' said Mr. Pepperdine, pushing
! e4
lucian the dreamer
open a wicket-gate in the white fence and motioning the boy to enter. ' The abode of Mr. and Mrs. Trippett, very particular friends of mine. I always leave my trap here when I have occasion to go by train—it would be sent over this morning, and we shall find it all ready
for us presently. '
The boy followed his uncle up the path to the side-
door of the farmhouse, his eyes taking in every detail of the scene. He was staring about him when the door
and revealed a jolly-faced, red-cheeked man with sandy whiskers and very blue eyes, who grinned delightedly at sight of Mr. Pepperdine, and held out a hand of considerable proportions. '
We heard the whistle, and the missis put the kettle on to boil up that minute. Come in, Simpson—come in,
opened,
' We were just looking out for you,' said he.
my lad—you're heartily welcome. Now then, missis
—they're here. '
A stout, motherly-looking
woman, with cherry-
coloured ribbons in a nodding cap that crowned a head of glossy dark hair, came bustling to the door.
' Come in, come in, 'Mr. Pepperdine—glad to see you safe back,' said she. And this'll be your little nevvy. Come in, love, come in—you must be tired wi' travelling all that way. '
The boy took off his hat with a courtly gesture, and stepped into the big, old-fashioned kitchen. He looked frankly at the farmer and his wife, and the woman, noting his beauty with quick feminine perception, put her arm round his neck and drew him to her.
' Eh, but you're a handsome lad ! ' she said. ' Come straight into the parlour and sit you down—the tea'll be ready in a minute. What's your name, my dear? '
The boy looked up at her—Mrs. Trippett's memory, at the sight of his eyes, went back to the days of her
girlhood. Lucian,' he answered. ' My name is
Mrs. Trippett looked at him again as if she had
scarcely
heard him reply to her question. She sighed.
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
15
and with a sudden impetuous tenderness bent down and kissed him warmly on the cheek.
' Off with your coat, my dear,' she said cheerily. ' And if you're cold, sit down by the fire—if it is spring,
it's cold enough for fires at night. Now I'll be back in a minute, and your uncle and the master' 11 be coming —I lay they've gone to look at a poorly horse that we've got just now—and then we'll have tea. '
She bustled from the room, the
ribbons streaming behind her. The boy, left alone, took off his overcoat and gloves, and laid them aside with his hat; then he put his hands in the pockets of his trousers, and examined his new surroundings.
cherry-coloured
CHAPTER II
Never before had Lucian seen the parlour of an English farmhouse, nor such a feast as that spread out on the square dinner-table. The parlour was long and wide and low-roofed, and the ceiling was spanned by beams of polished oak; a bright fire crackled in the old-fashioned grate, and a lamp burned on the table; but there were no blinds or curtains drawn over the
latticed windows which overlooked the garden.
Lucian 's observant eyes roved about the room, noting the quaint old pictures on the walls; the oil paintings of Mr. Trippett's father and mother; the framed samplers and the fox's brush; the silver cups on the sideboard, and the ancient blunderbuss which
on the centre beam. It seemed to him that the parlour
was delightfully quaint and picturesque; it smelled of dried roses and lavender and sweetbriar; there was an old sheep-dog on the hearth who pushed his muzzle into the boy's hand, and a grandfather's clock in one comer that ticked a solemn welcome to him. He had never seen such an interior before, and it appealed to his sense of the artistic.
Lucian 's eyes wandered at last to the table, spread for high tea. That was as new to him as the old pic- tures and samplers. A cold ham of generous propor- tions figured at one side of the table; a round of cold roast-beef at the other; the tea-tray filled up one end; opposite it space was left for something that was yet to come. This something presently appeared in the shape of a couple of roast fowls and a stand of boiled
borne in by a strapping maid whose face shone like the setting sun, and who was sharply marshalled by Mrs. Trippett, carrying a silver teapot and a dish of hot muffins.
' Now then, my dear,' she said, giving a final glance
over the table, ' we can begin as soon as the gentlemen z6
eggs,
hung
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
17
come, and I lay they won't be long, for Mr. Pepperdine '11 be hungry after his journey, and so I'm sure are you. Come and sit down here and help yourself to an
egg—they're as fresh as morning dew—every one's been laid this very day. '
The boy sat down and marvelled at the bountiful provision of Mrs. Trippett's tea-table; it seemed to him that there was enough there to feed a regiment. But when Mr. Trippett and Mr. Pepperdine entered and fell to, he no longer wondered, for the one had been out in the fields all day, and the other had been engaged in the unusual task of travelling, and they were both exceptional trenchermen at any time. Mr. Trippett joked with the boy as they ate, and made sundry refer- ences to Yorkshire pudding and roast-beef which seemed to afford himself great satisfaction, and he heaped up his youthful visitor's plate so generously that Lucian grew afraid.
' Cut and come again,' said Mr. Trippett, with his mouth full and his jaws working vigorously. ' Nothing like a good appetite for growing lads—ah, I was always hungry when I was a boy. Never came amiss to me, didn't food, never. '
' But I've never eaten so much before,' said Lucian,
his host's pressing entreaty to have another slice off the breast, or a bit of cold ham. ' I was hungry, too, or I couldn't have eaten so much now. '
' He'll soon get up an appetite at Simonstower, ' said Mrs. Trippett. ' You're higher up than we are, Mr. Pepperdine, and the air's keener with you. To be sure, our children have good enough appetites here— you should see them at meal times! —I'm sure I oft wonder wherever they put it all. '
' It's ' a provision of nature, ma'am,' said Mr. Pepper- dine. There's some wonderful things in Nature. '
' They're wanting to see you, my dear,' said Mrs. Trippett, ignoring her elder guest's profound remark and looking at her younger one. * I told them Mr. Pepperdine was going to bring a young gentleman with
B
refusing
i8 LUCIAN THE DREAMER
him. You shall see them after tea—they're out in the orchard now—they had their teas an hour ago, and they've gone out to play. There's two of them— John and Mary. John's about your own age, and Mary's a year younger. '
' Can't I go out to them? ' said Lucian. ' I will, if you will please to excuse me. '
' With pleasure, my dear,' said Mrs. Trippett. ' Go by all means, if you'd like to. Go through the window there—you'll hear them somewhere about, and they'll show you their rabbits and things. '
The boy picked up his hat and went out. Mrs. Trippett followed him with meditative eyes.
'He's not shy, seemingly,' she said, looking at Mr. Pepperdine.
* Not he, ma'am. He's an old-fashioned one, is the lad,' answered Lucian's uncle. ' He's the manners of a man in some things. I reckon, you see, that it's because he's never had other children to play with. '
' He's a handsome boy,' sighed the hostess. ' Like his father as I remember him. He was a fine-looking man, in a foreign way. But he's his mother's eyes— poor Lucy! '
* Yes,' said Mr. Pepperdine. ' He's Lucy's eyes, but all the rest of him's like his father. '
' Were you in time to see his father before he died? ' asked Mr. Trippett, who was now attacking the cold beef, after having demolished the greater part of a fowl.
' You didn't think you would be when you went off that
morning. '
' Just in time, just in time,* answered Mr. Pepper-
dine. * Ay, just in time. He went very sudden and very peaceful. The boy was very brave and very old- fashioned about it—he never says anything now, and I don't mention it. *
' It's best not,' said Mrs. Trippett. ' Poor Uttle fellow! —of course, he'll not remember his mother at all? '
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
19
' No/ said Mr. Pepperdine, shaking his head. ' No, he was only two years old when his mother died. '
Mr. Trippett changed the subject, and began to talk of London and what Mr. Pepperdine had seen there. But when the tea-table had been cleared, and Mrs. Trippett had departed to the kitchen regions to bustle
amongst her maids, and the two farmers were left in the parlour with the spirit decanters on the table, their tumblers at their elbows and their pipes in their mouths, the host referred to Mr. Pepperdine's recent mission with some curiosity.
' I never rightly heard the story of this nephew of yours,' he said. ' You see, I hadn't come to these parts when your sister was married. The missis says she remembers her, 'cause she used to visit hereabouts
in days past. It were a bit of a romance
like, eh? ' Mr. Pepperdine took a pull at his glass and shook his
head.
'Ah! ' said he oracularly. ' It was. A romance
like those you read of in the story-books. I remember the beginning of it all as well as if it were yesterday. Lucy—that was the lad's mother, my youngest sister, you know, Trippett—was a girl then, and the prettiest in all these parts: there's nobody '11 deny that. '
* I always understood that she was a beauty,' said Mr. Trippett.
* And you understood rightly. There wasn't Lucy's equal for beauty in all the county,' afi&rmed Mr. Pepperdine. ' The lad has her eyes — eh, dear, I've heard high and low talk of her eyes. But he's naught else of hers—all the rest his father's—Lucy was fair. '
He paused to apply a glowing coal to the tobacco in his long pipe, and he puffed out several thick clouds of 'smoke before he resumed his story.
Well, Lucy was nineteen when this Mr. Cyprian' Damerel came along. You can ask your missis what like he was — women are better hands at describing a man's looks than a man is. He were a handsome
young man, but foreign in appearance, though you
20 LUCIAN THE DREAMER
wouldn't ha' told it from his tongue. The boy'U be like him some day. He came walking through Simons- tower on his way from Scarhaven, and naught would content him but that he must set up his easel and make a picture of the village. He found lodgings at old
Grant's, and settled down, and he was one of that sort that makes themselves at home with every- body in five minutes. He'd an open face and an open hand; he'd talk to high and low in just the same way; and he'd a smile for everybody. '
' And naturally all the lasses fell in love with him,' suggested Mr. Trippett, with a hearty laugh. 'I've heard my missis say he'd a way with him that was taking with the wenches — specially them as were inclined that way, like. '
' Undoubtedly he had,' said Mr. Pepperdine. * Undoubtedly he had. But after he'd seen her, he'd no eyes for any lass but our Lucy. He fell in love with her and she with him as naturally as a duckling
takes to water. Ah
Mother
!
I don't think I ever did see two
young people quite so badly smitten as they were. It became evident to everybody in the place. But he
acted like a man all through—oh yes !
alive then, you know, 'Trippett,' Mr. Pepperdine con- tinued, with a sigh. She was a straight-laced 'un, was my mother, and had no hking for foreigners, and Damerel had a livelyish time with her when he came to th' house and asked her, bold as brass, if he might marry her daughter. '
' I'll lay he wo'd; I'll lay he wo'd,' chuckled Mr. Trippett.
' Ay, and so he had,' continued Mr. Pepperdine. ' She was very stiff and stand-off, was our old lady, and she treated him to some remarks about foreigners
and papists, and what not, and gave him to under- stand that she'd as soon seen her daughter marry a gipsy as a strolling artist, 'cause you see, being old- lashioned, she'd no idea of what an artist, if he's up to his trade, can make. But he was one too many for
My mother was
LUCIAN THE DREAIMER 21
her, was Damerel. He listened to all she had to say, and then he offered to give her references about him- self, and he told her who he was, the son of an ItaHan gentleman that had come to live in England 'cause of poHtical reasons, and what he earned, and he made it clear enough that Lucy wouldn't want for bread and butter, nor a silk gown neither. '
' Good reasoning,' commented Mr. Trippett.
' Well, there were no doubt about Damerel 's making
' Very good reasoning. Love-making's
but it's nowt wi'out a bit o' money at th' back on't. '
said Mr. Pepperdine, 'and we'd soon good proof o' that; for as soon as he'd finished his picture of the village he sold it to th' Earl for five hundred pound, and it hangs i' the dining-room at th' castle to this day. I saw it the last time I paid my rent there. Mistress Jones, th' housekeeper, let me have
a look at it. And of course, seeing that the young man was able to support a wife, th' old lady had to
money,'
all very well,
and they were married. Fifteen year ago that is,' concluded Mr. Pepperdine with a shake of the head. * Dear-a-me! it seems only like yesterday since that day—they made the handsomest bride and bride- groom I ever saw. '
' She died soon, didn't she? ' inquired Mr. Trippett.
* Lived a matter of four years after the marriage,' answered Mr. Pepperdine. ' She wasn't a strong woman, wasn't poor Lucy—there was something wrong with her lungs, and after the boy came she seemed to wear away. He did all that a man could, did her husband—took her off to the south of Europe. Eh, dear, the letters that Keziah and Judith used to have from her, describing the places she saw—they read fair beautiful! But it were no good—she died at Rome,
poor lass, when the boy was two years' old. '
And had all that
'
give way,
' Poor thing! ' said Mr. Trippett. she wanted, seemingly. '
' Everything,' said Mr. Pepperdine. short but sweet, as you may say. '
Her hfe was
22 LUCIAN THE DREAMER
* And now he's gone an' all,' said Mr. Trippett.
Mr. Pepperdine nodded.
' Ay,' he said, ' he's gone an' all. I don't think he
ever rightly got over his wife's death—anyway, he led a very restless life ever after, first one place and then another, never settling anywhere. Sometimes it was
Italy, sometimes something, Damerel. '
Paris, sometimes London —he's seen has that boy. Ay, he's dead, is poor
' Leave owt behind him like? * asked Mr. Trippett
sententiously.
Mr. Pepperdine polished the end of his nose.
' Well,' he said, ' there'll be a nice little nest-egg for the boy when all's settled up, I dare say. He wasn't a saving sort of man, I should think, but dear-a-me, he must ha' made a lot of money in his time — and
'
spent it, too. '
' Easy come and easy go,' said Mr. Trippett.
I've heard that's the way with that sort. Will this lad take
after his father, then? '
* Nay,' said Mr. Pepperdine, * I don't think he will.
He can't draw a line—doesn't seem to have it in him. Curious thing that, but it is so. No—he's all for read- ing. I never saw such a lad for books. He's got a great chest full o' books at the station yonder—wouldn't leave London without them. '
' Happen turn out a parson or a lawyer,' suggested
Mr. Trippett. ' * Nay,' said Mr. Pepperdine.
It's my impression he'll turn out a poet, or something o' that sort. They
tell me there's a good living to be made out o' that
nowadays. '
Mr. Trippett Hfted the kettle on to the brightest part
of the fire, mixed himself another glass of grog, and pushed the decanter towards his friend.
' There were only a' poorish market at Oakbro' t'other day,' he said. Very low prices, and none so much stuff there, nayther.
