Pepperdine
sat down again and shook his head.
Fletcher - Lucian the Dreamer
asked, looking at Lucian.
utterly regardless of the earl's presence.
' Why is he a liar? ' he
' He Ues when he says that—that
'
Lucian looked, almost entreatingly, at Haidee. She had stolen up to the earl's chair and leaned against its high back, taking in every detail of the scene with
choked and
eager glances. As Lucian's eyes met hers, she smiled; a dimple showed in the corner of her mouth.
' I understand,' said the earl. He twisted himself round and looked at Haidee. ' I think,' he said, ' this is one of those cases in which one may be excused if one appeals to the lady. It would seem, young lady, that Mr. Feversham, while abstaining, like a gentle- man, from boasting of it '
to, you know. '
' I say that Mr. Feversham, like a gentleman, does
not boast of but pleads that you have indulged him with the privileges of lover. His word has been ques- tioned—his honour at stake. Have you so indulged it, may one ask? '
Haidee assumed the airs of the coquette who must
fain make admissions.
—suppose so,' she breathed, with smile which
included everybody.
Very good,' said the earl. It may be that Mr.
Damerel has had reason to believe that he alone was
' Oh, I say, sir! ' burst out Dickie; ' I—didn't mean
Eh? '
Boys are so silly said Haidee. And Lucian
so serious and old-fashioned. And all boys like to kiss me. What fuss to make about nothing
entitled to those privileges.
understand your position and your mean- ing, my dear,' said the earl. have heard similar sentiments from other ladies. ' He turned to Lucian.
Well? ' he said, with sharp, humorous glance. Lucian had turned very pale, but dark flush still clouded his forehead. He put aside his rapier, which
until then he had held tightly, and he turned to Dickie.
quite
a
! '
'
I' a
'
I* ' 'I'
a
it, is a
!
'
is
'
a
84
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
' I beg your pardon,' he said; * I was wrong—quite wrong. I offer you my sincere apologies. I have behaved ill — I am sorry. '
Dickie looked uncomfortable and shuffled about.
' Oh, rot! ' he said, holding out his bandaged hand.
' It's all right, old chap. I don't mind at all now that you know I'm not a liar. I—I'm awfully sorry, too. I didn't know you were spoons on Haidee, you know— I'm a bit dense about things. Never mind, I shan't think any more of and besides, girls aren't worth— at least, mean—oh, hang don't let's say any more about the beastly affair! '
Lucian pressed his hand. He turned, looked at the
An hour later Sprats, tracking him down with the unerring sagacity of her sex, found him in haunt sacred to themselves, stretched full length on the grass, with his face buried in his arms. She sat down beside
earl, and made him low and ceremonious
Simonstower rose from his seat and returned with equal ceremony. Without glance in Haidee's direc- tion Lucian strode from the hall—he had
Sprats. He had, indeed, forgotten everything—the world had fallen in pieces.
him and put her arm round his neck and drew him to her. He burst into dry, bitter sobs.
Oh, Sprats! ' he said. It's all over—aU over. believed in her . . and now shall never beUeve in anybody again
bow. Lord forgotten
! '
.
a it,
I
'
'
a
it,
a I
it
I
IX
That night, when the last echoes of the village street had died away, and the purple and grey of the summer twilight was dissolving into the deep blue and gold of night, Sprats knelt at the open window of her bedroom, staring out upon the valley with eyes that saw nothing. She was thinking and wondering, and for the first time
in her Hfe she wished that a mother's heart and a mother's arms were at hand—she wanted to hear the beating love of the one and feel the protecting strength of the other.
CHAPTER
had come to her that afternoon as she strove to comfort Lucian. The episode of the duel;
Lucian's white face and burning eyes as he bowed to the cynical, pohte old nobleman and strode out of the hall with the dignity and grace of a great prince; the agony which had exhausted itself in her own arms; the resolution with which he had at last choked everj^hing down, and had risen up and shaken himself as if he were a dog that throws off the last drop of water; —all these things had opened the door into a new world for the girl who had seen them. She had been Lucian's other self; his constant companion, his faithful mentor, for three years; it was not until now that she began to realise him. She saw now that he was no ordinary human being, and that as long as he lived he would
never be amenable to ordinary rules. He was now a child in years, and he had the heart of a man; soon he would be a man, and he would still be a child. He would be a child all his life—self-willed, obstinate, proud, generous, wayward; he would sin as a child sins, and suffer as a child suffers; and there would always be something of wonder in him that either sin or suffering should come to him. When she felt his head within her protecting and consoling arm, Sprats recognised
85
Something
86 LUCIAN THE DREAMER
the weakness and helplessness which lay in Lucian's soul—he was the child that has fallen and runs to its mother for consolation. She recognised, too, that hers
was the stronger nature, the more robust character, and that the strange, mysterious Something that ordains all things, had brought her life and Lucian's together so that she might give help where help was needed. All their lives — all through the strange mystic To Come into which her eyes were trying to look as she stared out into the splendour of the summer night—she and Lucian were to be as they had been that evening; her breast the harbour of his soul. He might drift away; he might suffer shipwreck; but he must come home at last, and whether he came early or late his place must be ready for him.
This was knowledge —this was calm certainty: it changed the child into the woman. She knelt down at the window to say her prayers, still staring out into the night, and now she saw the stars and the deep blue of the sky, and she heard the murmur of the river in the valley. Her prayers took no form of words, and were all the deeper for it; underneath their wordless aspiration ran the solemn undercurrent of the new-bom knowledge that she loved Lucian with a love that would last till death.
CHAPTER X
Within twelve months Lucian's recollections of the perfidious Haidee were nebulous and indistinct. He had taken the muse for mistress and wooed her with such constant persistency that he had no time to think of anything else. He used up much manuscript paper and made large demands upon Sprats and his Aunt Judith, the only persons to whom he condescended to show his productions, and he was alike miserable and happy. Whenever he wrote a new poem he was filled with ela- tion, and for at least twenty-four hours glowed with admiration of his own powers; then set in a period of uncertainty, followed by one of doubt and another of gloom—the lines which had sounded so fine that they almost brought tears to his eyes seemed banal and weak, and were not infrequently cast into the fire, where his once-cherished copies of the Haidee sonnets had long since preceded them. Miss Judith nearly shed tears when these sacrifices were made, and more than once implored him tenderly to spare his offspring, but with no result, for no human monster is so savage as the poet who turns against his own fancies. It was due to her, however, that one of Lucian's earhest efforts was spared. Knowing his propensity for tearing and rending his chil- dren, she surreptitiously obtained his manuscript upon one occasion and made a fair copy of a sentimental story written in imitation of Lara, which had greatly moved her, and it was not until many years afterwards that Lucian was confronted and put to shame by the sight of it.
At the age of eighteen Lucian celebrated his birthday by burning every manuscript he had, and announcing that he would write no more verses imtil he was at least twenty-one. But chancing to hear a pathetic story of rural life which appealed powerfully to his imagination,
88 LUCIAN THE DREAMER
he began to write again; and after a time, during which he was unusually morose and abstracted, he presented himself to Sprats with a bundle of manuscript. He handed it over to her with something of shypess.
' I want you to read it—carefully,' he said.
* Of course,' she answered. ' But is it to share the fate of all the rest, Lucian? You made a clean sweep of everything, didn't you? '
' That stuff ! ' he said, with fine contempt. ' I should
But this
think so ! '
he paused, plunged his hands into his pockets, and strode up and down the room— ' this is—well, it's different. Sprats! —I believe it's
good. '
* I wish you'd let my father read it,' she said. ' Do,
Lucian. '
' Perhaps,' he answered. ' But you first —I want to
know what you think. I can trust you. '
Sprats read the poem that evening, and as she read
she marvelled. Lucian had done himself justice at last. The poem was full of the true country life; there was no false ring in it; he had realised the pathos of the story he had to tell; it was a moving performance, full of the spirit of poetry from the first line to the last. She was proud, glad, full of satisfaction. Without waiting to ask Lucian's permission, she placed the manuscript in the vicar's hands and begged him to read it. He car- ried it away to his study; Sprats sat up later than usual to hear his verdict. She occupied herself with no work, but with thoughts that had a little of the day-dream glamour in them. She was trying to map out Lucian's future for him. He ought to be protected and shielded from the world, wrapped in an environment that would help him to produce the best that was in him; the ordi- nary cares of Hfe ought never to come near him. He had a gift, and the world would be the richer if the gift were poured out lavishly to his fellow-creatures; but he must be treated tenderly and skilfully if the gift was to be poured out at all. Sprats, country girl though she was, knew something of the harshnesses of Ufe; she knew.
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
89
too, that Lucian's nature was the sort that would rebel at a crumpled rose-leaf. He was still, and always would be, a child that feels rather than understands. —
The vicar came back to her with the manuscript it was then nearly midnight, but he was too much excited to wonder that Sprats should still be downstairs. He came tapping the manuscript with his fingers — his face wore a delighted and highly important expression.
' My dear,' he said, ' this is a considerable perfor- mance. I am amazed, pleased, gratified, proud. The boy is a genius—he will make a great name for himself. Yes — it is good. It is sound work. It is so charmingly free from mere rhetoric—there is a restraint, a chaste- ness which one does not often find in the work of a young writer. And it is classical in form and style. I am proud of Lucian. You see now the result of only reading and studying the best masters. He is perhaps a little imitative—that is natural; it will wear away. Did you not notice a touch of Wordsworth, eh! —I was reminded of Michael. He will be a new Wordsworth — a Wordsworth with more passion and richer imagery. He has the true eye for nature —I do not know when I have been so pleased as with the bits of colour that I find here. Oh, it is certainly a remarkable perfor-
mance. '
' Father,'' said Sprats, ' don't you think it might be
published ?
Mr. Chilverstone considered the proposition gravely.
' I feel sure it would meet with great approbation if it were,' he said. ' I have no doubt whatever that the best critics would recognise its merit and its undoubted promise. — I wonder if Lucian would allow the earl to read it? his lordship is a fine judge of classic poetry, and though I beheve he cherishes a contempt for modern verse, he cannot fail to be struck by this poem the truth of its setting must appeal to him. '
' I will speak to Lucian,' said Sprats.
She persuaded Lucian to submit his work to Lord
Simonstower next day;—the old nobleman read, re-read.
90
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
and was secretly struck by the beauty and strength of the boy's performance. He sent for Lucian and con- gratulated him warmly. Later on in the day he walked into the vicar's study.
' Chilverstone, ' he said, ' what is to be done with that boy Damerel? He will make a great name if due care is taken of him at the critical moment. How old is
he now—nearly nineteen? I think he should go to Oxford. '
' That,' said the vicar, ' is precisely my own opinion. '
' It would do him all the good in the world,' continued the earl. ' It is a thing that should be pushed through. I think I have heard that the boy has some money? I knew his father, Cyprian Damerel. He was a man who earned a good deal, but I should say he spent it. Still, I have always understood that he left money in Simpson Pepperdine's hands for the boy. '
Mr. Chilverstone observed that he had always been so 'informed, though he did not know by whom.
Simpson Pepperdine should be approached,' said Lord Simonstower. ' I have a good mind to talk to him myself. '
' If your lordship would have the kindness to do so,'
said the vicar, ' it would be a most excellent Pepperdine is an estimable man, and very proud indeed of Lucian —I am sure he would be induced to give his consent. '
* I will see him to-morrow,' said the earl.
But before the morrow dawned an event had taken place in the history of the Pepperdine family which involved far-reaching consequences. While the earl and the vicar were in consultation over their friendly plans for Lucian 's benefit, Mr. Pepperdine was
travelling homewards from Oakborough, whither he had proceeded
in the morning in reference to a letter which caused him no Httle anxiety and perturbation. It was fortunate that he had a compartment all to himself in the train, for he groaned and sighed at frequent intervals, and manifested many signs of great mental distress. When he left
thing.
LUCIAN THE DREAMER 91
Wellsby station he walked with slow and heavy steps along the road to Mr. Trippett's farm, where, as usual, he had left his horse and trap. Mrs. Trippett, chancing to look out of the parlour window, saw him approaching the house and noticed the drag in his step. He walked, she said, discussing the matter later on with her husband, as if he had suddenly become an old man. She hastened to the door to admit him; Mr. Pepperdine gazed at her with a lack-lustre eye. '
Mr. Pepperdine made an effort to pull himself together. He walked in, sat down in the parlour, and
breathed heavily. ma'am,' he said. ' I'm a bit ' It's a very hot day,
overdone. ' water,' said ' You must have a drop of brandy and
Mrs. Trippett, and bustled into the kitchen for water and to the sideboard for brandy. ' Take a taste while
' Mercy upon us, Mr. Pepperdine !
Trippett, ' you do look badly. Aren't you feeling well? '
at his glass and nodded his head in acknowledgment of her thoughtfulness.
like to see him. ' that the master was in the fold, Mrs. Trippett replied
and she would let him know that Mr. Pepperdine was
Mr. Pepperdine sipped
' Thank you kindly,' said he.
'I
were feeHng a bit badly like. Is the master anywhere about? I would
husband, and hinted to him that his old friend did not seem at all well —she was sure there was something wrong with him. Mr. Trippett hastened into the house and found Mr.
Pepperdine pacing the room and sighing dismally.
* Now then ! ' said Mr. Trippett, 'whose face was always cheery even in times of trouble, th' owd woman says
you don't seem so chirpy like. Is it th' sun, or what? —get another taste o' brandy down your throttle, lad. '
Mr.
Pepperdine sat down again and shook his head.
' John,' he said, gazing earnestly at his friend. ' I'm
there. She went herself to fetch her
exclaimed Mrs.
fresh,' she said, handing him a liberal mixture.
it's
' It'll revive you. '
92
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
in sore trouble—real bad trouble. I doubt I'm a ruined
man. '
* Nay, for sure ! ' exclaimed Mr. Trippett.
*
What's
it all about, like? '
* It's all on account of a damned rascal! ' answered
Mr. Pepperdine, with a burst of indignation. 'Ah! — there's a pretty to-do in Oakborough this day, John. You haven't heard nothing about Bransby? '
' What, the lawyer? '
' Ah, lawyer and rogue and the Lord knows what! '
Mr. Pepperdine, groaning with wrath and ' He's gone and cleared himself off, and he's
repHed
misery.
naught but a swindler. They do say there that it's a hundred thousand pound job. '
Mr. Trippett whistled.
' I alius understood 'at he were such a well-to-do,
upright sort o' man,' he said. ' He'd a gre't reppyta- tion, any road. '
' Ay, and seems' to have traded on it! ' said Mr. Pep- perdine bitterly. He's been a smooth-tongued 'un, he has. He's done me, he has so—dang me if I ever trust the likes of him again ! '
Then he told his story. The absconded Mr. Bransby, an astute gentleman who had established a reputation for probity by scrupulous observance of the convention- alities dear to the society of a market town and had never missed attendance at his parish church, had sud- denly vanished into the Ewigkeit, leaving a few widows and orphans, several tradespeople, and a large number of unsuspecting and confiding clients, to mourn, not his loss, but his knavery. Simpson Pepperdine had been an easy victim. Some years previously he had consented to act as trustee for a neighbour's family—Mr. Bransby was his co-trustee. Simpson had left everything in Mr. Bransby' s hands —it now turned out that Mr. Bransby had converted everything to his own uses, leaving his careless coadjutor responsible. But this was not all. Simpson, who had made money by breeding shorthorns, had from time to time placed considerable sums in the
LUCIAN THE DREAMER 93
lawyer's hands for investment, and had trusted him entirely as to their nature. He had received good in- terest, and had never troubled either to ask for or inspect the securities. It had now been revealed to him that there had never been any securities —^his money had gone into Mr. Bransby's own coffers. Simpson Pepperdine, in short, was a ruined man.
Mr. Trippett was genuinely disturbed by this news.
and easy-going friend had been to blame in respect to his laxity and carelessness. But he himself had had some slight deahngs with Mr. and he knew the plausibility and suaveness
He felt that his good-natured
Bransby,
manner.
' It's a fair cropper! ' he exclaimed. ' I could ha'
' So he were,' answered Mr. Pepperdine, uncommon well—out of fools like me. '
of that gentleman's
trusted that Bransby like the Bank of England. I alius understood he were doing uncommon well. ' '
* I hope,' said Mr. Trippett, mentioning the subject
with some shyness, ' I hope the gals' money isn't lost,
an' all? ' Mr. ' What, Keziah and Judith? Nay, nay,' replied
Pepperdine. ' It isn't. What bit they have—matter of five hundred pound each, may be—is safe enough. '
' Nor the lad's, either,' said Mr. Trippett.
'The lad's? ' said Mr. Pepperdine questioningly. ' Oh, Lucian? Oh—ay—of course, he's all right. '
Mr. Trippett went over to the sideboard, produced the
whisky decanter, mixed himself a glass, Hghted his pipe,
and proceeded to think hard.
' Well,' he said, after some time, ' I know what I
should do if I were i' your case, Simpson. I should go to his lordship and tell him all about it. '
Mr. Pepperdine started and looked surprised.
* I've never asked a favour of him yet,' he said. * I
'
don't know
' I didn't say aught about asking any favour,' said
Mr. Trippett. ' I said — go and tell his lordship ail about
\
it. He's the reppytation of being a long-headed 'un, has Lord Simonstower— he'll happen suggest summut. '
Mr. Pepperdine rubbed his chin meditatively. '
' He's a sharp-tongued old gentleman,' he said; I've always fought a bit shy of him. Him an' me had a bit
of a difference twenty years since. '
* Let bygones be bygones,' counselled Mr. Trippett.
' You and your fathers afore you have been on his land and his father's land a bonny stretch o' time. '
' Three hundred and seventy-five year come next spring,' said Mr. Pepperdine.
94
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
' And he'll not see you turned off wi'out knowing why,' said Mr. Trippett with conviction. ' Any road, it'll do no harm to tell him how you stand. He'd have to hear on't sooner or later, and he'd best hear it from yourself. '
Turning this sage counsel over in his mind, Mr. Pep- perdine journeyed homewards, and as luck would have it he met the earl near the gates of the Castle. Lord Simonstower had just left the vicarage, and Mr. Pepper- dine was in his mind. He put up his hand in answer to the farmer's salutation. Mr. Pepperdine drew rein.
' Oh, Pepperdine,' said the earl, ' I want to have some conversation with you about your nephew. I have just been talking with the vicar about him. When can you come up to the Castle ? '
' Any time that pleases your lordship,' answered Mr.
' It so happens that I was going to ask the favour of an interview with your lordship on my own
Pepperdine.
account. '
' Then you had better drive up now and leave your
horse and trap in the stables,' said the earl. * Tell them to take you to the library —I'll join you there presently. ' Closeted with his tenant. Lord Simonstower plunged
into his own business first—it was his way, when he took anything in hand, to go through with it with as little
as possible. He came to the point at once by telUng Mr. Pepperdine that his nephew was a gifted youth who would almost certainly make a great name
delay
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
95
in the world of letters, and that it would be a most excellenT thing to send him to Oxford. He pomted out the ^^^^^^^ which would accrue to Lucian if
this bourse were adopted, spoke of his own mterest m Se boy and promised to help him in every way he Suld Mr. Pepperdine listened with respectful and
P'J My^rii' said, when the earl had explained
views for Lucian, I'm greatly obliged to your lordship to your kindness to the lad and your mterest m him
a^ee with every word your lordship says. ve alwTs known there was something out of the common
aSLucian, and I've wanted him to get on m his own way never had no doubt about his makmg great name for himself-I could see that in him when he were
little lad. Now about this going to Oxford-it would
cost good deal of money, wouldn it, my lordj
would certainly cost money,' replied the earl.
But would put to you in this way--or rather, this the way in which should be put to the boy himself. understand he has some money; well, he can make no
better investment of portion of than ^Y spending
on his education. Two or three years at Oxford will fit him for the life of man of letters as nothmg else would. He need not be extravagant—two hundred
^,,
. ,. ,. ,
Mr Pepperdine hstened to this with obvious per- plexity and unrest. He hesitated little before making any reply. At last he looked at the earl with the expres-
pounds year should suffice him. '
sion of man who going to confess something.
My lord,' he said, I'll tell your lordship what nobody else knows— not even my sisters. I'm sure your lordship'll say naught to nobody about it. My lord the lad hafn't penny. He never had. Your lordship knows that his father sent for me when he was dying
in London—he'd just come back, with the boy, from Italy— and he put Lucian in my care. He'd made will and was trustee and executor. He thought that there
was sufficient provision made for the boy, but he hadn
t
t
h^
I
a
a
a
I
'
•
Iis' a '
is '
it it a
a
it
t
a aI
a
I I It a
^^^
96
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
been well advised —he'd put all his eggs in one basket — the money was all invested in a building society in Rome, and every penny of it was lost. I did hear/ affirmed Mr. Pepperdine solemnly, ' that the Pope of Rome him- self lost a deal of money at the same time and in the
same society. ' true,' said the earl. I remember it ' That's quite '
very well.
' Well, there it was,' continued Mr. Pepperdine. ' It
was gone for ever—there wasn't a penny saved. I never said naught to my sisters, you know, my lord, because I didn't want 'em to know. I never said nothing to the boy, either—and he's the sort of lad that would never ask. He's a bit of a child in money matters—his father (but your lordship '11 remember him as well as I do) had always let him have all he wanted, and '
' And his uncle has followed in his father's lines, eh? ' said the earl, with a smile that was neither cynical nor unfriendly. ' Well, then, Pepperdine, I understand that the lad has been at your charges all this time as
regards everything — I suppose you've paid Mr. Chilver- stone, too? '
Mr. Pepperdine waved his hands.
' There's naught to talk of, my lord,' he said. ' I've
no children, and never shall have. I never were a marrying sort, and the lad's been welcome. And if it had been in my power he should have gone to Oxford; but, my lord, there's been that happened within this last day or so that's brought me nigh to ruin. It was that that I wanted to see your lordship about —it's a poor sort of tale for anybody's ears, but your lordship would have to hear it some time or other. You see, my lord ' —and Mr. Pepperdine, with praiseworthy directness and simphcity, set forth the story of his woes.
The Earl of Simonstower listened with earnest atten- tion until his tenant had spread out all his ruined hopes at his feet. His face expressed nothing until the re- grettable catalogue of foolishness and wrongs came to an end. Then he laughed, rather bitterly.
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
97
' Well, Pepperdine,' he said, ' you've been wronged, but you've been a fool into the bargain. And I can't blame you, for, in a smaller way—a matter of a thousand pounds or so—this man Bransby has victimised me. Well, now, what's to be done? There's one thing cer- tain—I don't intend to lose you as a tenant. If nothing else can be done, my solicitors must settle everything for you, and you must pay me back as you can. I understand you've been doing well with your shorthorns, haven't you? '
Mr. Pepperdine could hardly believe his ears. He had always regarded his landlord as a somewhat cold and cynical man, and no thought of such generous help as that indicated by the earl's last words had come into his mind in telling the story of his difficulties. He was a soft-hearted man, and the tears sprang into his eyes and his voice trembled as he tried to frame suitable words.
to say
' Then say nothing, Pepperdine,' said the earl. * I
understand what you would say. It's all right, my friend—we appear to be fellow-passengers in Mr. Bransby' s boat, and if I help you it's because I'm not quite as much damaged as you are. And eventually there will be no help about it—you'll have helped your- self. However, we'll discuss that later on; at present I want to talk about your nephew. Pepperdine, I don't want to give up my pet scheme of sending that boy to Oxford. It is the thing that should be done; I think it must be done, and that I must be allowed to do it. With your consent, Pepperdine, I will charge myself with your nephew's expenses for three years from the
time he goes up; by the end of the three years he will be in a position to look after himself. Don't try to give me any thanks. I have something of a selfish motive in all this. But now, listen: I do not wish the boy to know that he is owing this to anybody, and least of all to me. We must invent something in the nature of
G
' My lord! ' he said brokenly, * I—I don't know what
■'
98
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
a conspiracy. There must be no one but you, the vicar, and myself in the secret—no one, Pepperdine, and last of all any womankind, so your mouth must be closed as regards your sisters. I will get Mr. Chilverstone to talk to the boy, who will understand that the money is in your hands and that he must look to you. I want you
to preach economy to him — economy, mind
you, not meanness. I will talk to him in the same way myself,
because if he is anything like his father he will develop
an open-handedness
which will be anything but good for
him. Remember that you are the nominal holder of the
purse-strings —everything will pass through you. I
think that's all I wanted to say, Pepperdine,' concluded the earl. ' You'll remember your part? '
' I shall indeed, my lord,' said Mr. Pepperdine, as he shook the hand which the earl extended; ' and I shall remember a deal more, too, to my dying day. I can't rightly thank your lordship at this moment. '
' No need, Pepperdine, no need ! ' said Lord Simons- tower hastily. ' You'd do the same for me, I'm sure. Good-day to you, good-day; and don't forget the con- spiracy—no talking to the women, you know.
utterly regardless of the earl's presence.
' Why is he a liar? ' he
' He Ues when he says that—that
'
Lucian looked, almost entreatingly, at Haidee. She had stolen up to the earl's chair and leaned against its high back, taking in every detail of the scene with
choked and
eager glances. As Lucian's eyes met hers, she smiled; a dimple showed in the corner of her mouth.
' I understand,' said the earl. He twisted himself round and looked at Haidee. ' I think,' he said, ' this is one of those cases in which one may be excused if one appeals to the lady. It would seem, young lady, that Mr. Feversham, while abstaining, like a gentle- man, from boasting of it '
to, you know. '
' I say that Mr. Feversham, like a gentleman, does
not boast of but pleads that you have indulged him with the privileges of lover. His word has been ques- tioned—his honour at stake. Have you so indulged it, may one ask? '
Haidee assumed the airs of the coquette who must
fain make admissions.
—suppose so,' she breathed, with smile which
included everybody.
Very good,' said the earl. It may be that Mr.
Damerel has had reason to believe that he alone was
' Oh, I say, sir! ' burst out Dickie; ' I—didn't mean
Eh? '
Boys are so silly said Haidee. And Lucian
so serious and old-fashioned. And all boys like to kiss me. What fuss to make about nothing
entitled to those privileges.
understand your position and your mean- ing, my dear,' said the earl. have heard similar sentiments from other ladies. ' He turned to Lucian.
Well? ' he said, with sharp, humorous glance. Lucian had turned very pale, but dark flush still clouded his forehead. He put aside his rapier, which
until then he had held tightly, and he turned to Dickie.
quite
a
! '
'
I' a
'
I* ' 'I'
a
it, is a
!
'
is
'
a
84
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
' I beg your pardon,' he said; * I was wrong—quite wrong. I offer you my sincere apologies. I have behaved ill — I am sorry. '
Dickie looked uncomfortable and shuffled about.
' Oh, rot! ' he said, holding out his bandaged hand.
' It's all right, old chap. I don't mind at all now that you know I'm not a liar. I—I'm awfully sorry, too. I didn't know you were spoons on Haidee, you know— I'm a bit dense about things. Never mind, I shan't think any more of and besides, girls aren't worth— at least, mean—oh, hang don't let's say any more about the beastly affair! '
Lucian pressed his hand. He turned, looked at the
An hour later Sprats, tracking him down with the unerring sagacity of her sex, found him in haunt sacred to themselves, stretched full length on the grass, with his face buried in his arms. She sat down beside
earl, and made him low and ceremonious
Simonstower rose from his seat and returned with equal ceremony. Without glance in Haidee's direc- tion Lucian strode from the hall—he had
Sprats. He had, indeed, forgotten everything—the world had fallen in pieces.
him and put her arm round his neck and drew him to her. He burst into dry, bitter sobs.
Oh, Sprats! ' he said. It's all over—aU over. believed in her . . and now shall never beUeve in anybody again
bow. Lord forgotten
! '
.
a it,
I
'
'
a
it,
a I
it
I
IX
That night, when the last echoes of the village street had died away, and the purple and grey of the summer twilight was dissolving into the deep blue and gold of night, Sprats knelt at the open window of her bedroom, staring out upon the valley with eyes that saw nothing. She was thinking and wondering, and for the first time
in her Hfe she wished that a mother's heart and a mother's arms were at hand—she wanted to hear the beating love of the one and feel the protecting strength of the other.
CHAPTER
had come to her that afternoon as she strove to comfort Lucian. The episode of the duel;
Lucian's white face and burning eyes as he bowed to the cynical, pohte old nobleman and strode out of the hall with the dignity and grace of a great prince; the agony which had exhausted itself in her own arms; the resolution with which he had at last choked everj^hing down, and had risen up and shaken himself as if he were a dog that throws off the last drop of water; —all these things had opened the door into a new world for the girl who had seen them. She had been Lucian's other self; his constant companion, his faithful mentor, for three years; it was not until now that she began to realise him. She saw now that he was no ordinary human being, and that as long as he lived he would
never be amenable to ordinary rules. He was now a child in years, and he had the heart of a man; soon he would be a man, and he would still be a child. He would be a child all his life—self-willed, obstinate, proud, generous, wayward; he would sin as a child sins, and suffer as a child suffers; and there would always be something of wonder in him that either sin or suffering should come to him. When she felt his head within her protecting and consoling arm, Sprats recognised
85
Something
86 LUCIAN THE DREAMER
the weakness and helplessness which lay in Lucian's soul—he was the child that has fallen and runs to its mother for consolation. She recognised, too, that hers
was the stronger nature, the more robust character, and that the strange, mysterious Something that ordains all things, had brought her life and Lucian's together so that she might give help where help was needed. All their lives — all through the strange mystic To Come into which her eyes were trying to look as she stared out into the splendour of the summer night—she and Lucian were to be as they had been that evening; her breast the harbour of his soul. He might drift away; he might suffer shipwreck; but he must come home at last, and whether he came early or late his place must be ready for him.
This was knowledge —this was calm certainty: it changed the child into the woman. She knelt down at the window to say her prayers, still staring out into the night, and now she saw the stars and the deep blue of the sky, and she heard the murmur of the river in the valley. Her prayers took no form of words, and were all the deeper for it; underneath their wordless aspiration ran the solemn undercurrent of the new-bom knowledge that she loved Lucian with a love that would last till death.
CHAPTER X
Within twelve months Lucian's recollections of the perfidious Haidee were nebulous and indistinct. He had taken the muse for mistress and wooed her with such constant persistency that he had no time to think of anything else. He used up much manuscript paper and made large demands upon Sprats and his Aunt Judith, the only persons to whom he condescended to show his productions, and he was alike miserable and happy. Whenever he wrote a new poem he was filled with ela- tion, and for at least twenty-four hours glowed with admiration of his own powers; then set in a period of uncertainty, followed by one of doubt and another of gloom—the lines which had sounded so fine that they almost brought tears to his eyes seemed banal and weak, and were not infrequently cast into the fire, where his once-cherished copies of the Haidee sonnets had long since preceded them. Miss Judith nearly shed tears when these sacrifices were made, and more than once implored him tenderly to spare his offspring, but with no result, for no human monster is so savage as the poet who turns against his own fancies. It was due to her, however, that one of Lucian's earhest efforts was spared. Knowing his propensity for tearing and rending his chil- dren, she surreptitiously obtained his manuscript upon one occasion and made a fair copy of a sentimental story written in imitation of Lara, which had greatly moved her, and it was not until many years afterwards that Lucian was confronted and put to shame by the sight of it.
At the age of eighteen Lucian celebrated his birthday by burning every manuscript he had, and announcing that he would write no more verses imtil he was at least twenty-one. But chancing to hear a pathetic story of rural life which appealed powerfully to his imagination,
88 LUCIAN THE DREAMER
he began to write again; and after a time, during which he was unusually morose and abstracted, he presented himself to Sprats with a bundle of manuscript. He handed it over to her with something of shypess.
' I want you to read it—carefully,' he said.
* Of course,' she answered. ' But is it to share the fate of all the rest, Lucian? You made a clean sweep of everything, didn't you? '
' That stuff ! ' he said, with fine contempt. ' I should
But this
think so ! '
he paused, plunged his hands into his pockets, and strode up and down the room— ' this is—well, it's different. Sprats! —I believe it's
good. '
* I wish you'd let my father read it,' she said. ' Do,
Lucian. '
' Perhaps,' he answered. ' But you first —I want to
know what you think. I can trust you. '
Sprats read the poem that evening, and as she read
she marvelled. Lucian had done himself justice at last. The poem was full of the true country life; there was no false ring in it; he had realised the pathos of the story he had to tell; it was a moving performance, full of the spirit of poetry from the first line to the last. She was proud, glad, full of satisfaction. Without waiting to ask Lucian's permission, she placed the manuscript in the vicar's hands and begged him to read it. He car- ried it away to his study; Sprats sat up later than usual to hear his verdict. She occupied herself with no work, but with thoughts that had a little of the day-dream glamour in them. She was trying to map out Lucian's future for him. He ought to be protected and shielded from the world, wrapped in an environment that would help him to produce the best that was in him; the ordi- nary cares of Hfe ought never to come near him. He had a gift, and the world would be the richer if the gift were poured out lavishly to his fellow-creatures; but he must be treated tenderly and skilfully if the gift was to be poured out at all. Sprats, country girl though she was, knew something of the harshnesses of Ufe; she knew.
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
89
too, that Lucian's nature was the sort that would rebel at a crumpled rose-leaf. He was still, and always would be, a child that feels rather than understands. —
The vicar came back to her with the manuscript it was then nearly midnight, but he was too much excited to wonder that Sprats should still be downstairs. He came tapping the manuscript with his fingers — his face wore a delighted and highly important expression.
' My dear,' he said, ' this is a considerable perfor- mance. I am amazed, pleased, gratified, proud. The boy is a genius—he will make a great name for himself. Yes — it is good. It is sound work. It is so charmingly free from mere rhetoric—there is a restraint, a chaste- ness which one does not often find in the work of a young writer. And it is classical in form and style. I am proud of Lucian. You see now the result of only reading and studying the best masters. He is perhaps a little imitative—that is natural; it will wear away. Did you not notice a touch of Wordsworth, eh! —I was reminded of Michael. He will be a new Wordsworth — a Wordsworth with more passion and richer imagery. He has the true eye for nature —I do not know when I have been so pleased as with the bits of colour that I find here. Oh, it is certainly a remarkable perfor-
mance. '
' Father,'' said Sprats, ' don't you think it might be
published ?
Mr. Chilverstone considered the proposition gravely.
' I feel sure it would meet with great approbation if it were,' he said. ' I have no doubt whatever that the best critics would recognise its merit and its undoubted promise. — I wonder if Lucian would allow the earl to read it? his lordship is a fine judge of classic poetry, and though I beheve he cherishes a contempt for modern verse, he cannot fail to be struck by this poem the truth of its setting must appeal to him. '
' I will speak to Lucian,' said Sprats.
She persuaded Lucian to submit his work to Lord
Simonstower next day;—the old nobleman read, re-read.
90
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
and was secretly struck by the beauty and strength of the boy's performance. He sent for Lucian and con- gratulated him warmly. Later on in the day he walked into the vicar's study.
' Chilverstone, ' he said, ' what is to be done with that boy Damerel? He will make a great name if due care is taken of him at the critical moment. How old is
he now—nearly nineteen? I think he should go to Oxford. '
' That,' said the vicar, ' is precisely my own opinion. '
' It would do him all the good in the world,' continued the earl. ' It is a thing that should be pushed through. I think I have heard that the boy has some money? I knew his father, Cyprian Damerel. He was a man who earned a good deal, but I should say he spent it. Still, I have always understood that he left money in Simpson Pepperdine's hands for the boy. '
Mr. Chilverstone observed that he had always been so 'informed, though he did not know by whom.
Simpson Pepperdine should be approached,' said Lord Simonstower. ' I have a good mind to talk to him myself. '
' If your lordship would have the kindness to do so,'
said the vicar, ' it would be a most excellent Pepperdine is an estimable man, and very proud indeed of Lucian —I am sure he would be induced to give his consent. '
* I will see him to-morrow,' said the earl.
But before the morrow dawned an event had taken place in the history of the Pepperdine family which involved far-reaching consequences. While the earl and the vicar were in consultation over their friendly plans for Lucian 's benefit, Mr. Pepperdine was
travelling homewards from Oakborough, whither he had proceeded
in the morning in reference to a letter which caused him no Httle anxiety and perturbation. It was fortunate that he had a compartment all to himself in the train, for he groaned and sighed at frequent intervals, and manifested many signs of great mental distress. When he left
thing.
LUCIAN THE DREAMER 91
Wellsby station he walked with slow and heavy steps along the road to Mr. Trippett's farm, where, as usual, he had left his horse and trap. Mrs. Trippett, chancing to look out of the parlour window, saw him approaching the house and noticed the drag in his step. He walked, she said, discussing the matter later on with her husband, as if he had suddenly become an old man. She hastened to the door to admit him; Mr. Pepperdine gazed at her with a lack-lustre eye. '
Mr. Pepperdine made an effort to pull himself together. He walked in, sat down in the parlour, and
breathed heavily. ma'am,' he said. ' I'm a bit ' It's a very hot day,
overdone. ' water,' said ' You must have a drop of brandy and
Mrs. Trippett, and bustled into the kitchen for water and to the sideboard for brandy. ' Take a taste while
' Mercy upon us, Mr. Pepperdine !
Trippett, ' you do look badly. Aren't you feeling well? '
at his glass and nodded his head in acknowledgment of her thoughtfulness.
like to see him. ' that the master was in the fold, Mrs. Trippett replied
and she would let him know that Mr. Pepperdine was
Mr. Pepperdine sipped
' Thank you kindly,' said he.
'I
were feeHng a bit badly like. Is the master anywhere about? I would
husband, and hinted to him that his old friend did not seem at all well —she was sure there was something wrong with him. Mr. Trippett hastened into the house and found Mr.
Pepperdine pacing the room and sighing dismally.
* Now then ! ' said Mr. Trippett, 'whose face was always cheery even in times of trouble, th' owd woman says
you don't seem so chirpy like. Is it th' sun, or what? —get another taste o' brandy down your throttle, lad. '
Mr.
Pepperdine sat down again and shook his head.
' John,' he said, gazing earnestly at his friend. ' I'm
there. She went herself to fetch her
exclaimed Mrs.
fresh,' she said, handing him a liberal mixture.
it's
' It'll revive you. '
92
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
in sore trouble—real bad trouble. I doubt I'm a ruined
man. '
* Nay, for sure ! ' exclaimed Mr. Trippett.
*
What's
it all about, like? '
* It's all on account of a damned rascal! ' answered
Mr. Pepperdine, with a burst of indignation. 'Ah! — there's a pretty to-do in Oakborough this day, John. You haven't heard nothing about Bransby? '
' What, the lawyer? '
' Ah, lawyer and rogue and the Lord knows what! '
Mr. Pepperdine, groaning with wrath and ' He's gone and cleared himself off, and he's
repHed
misery.
naught but a swindler. They do say there that it's a hundred thousand pound job. '
Mr. Trippett whistled.
' I alius understood 'at he were such a well-to-do,
upright sort o' man,' he said. ' He'd a gre't reppyta- tion, any road. '
' Ay, and seems' to have traded on it! ' said Mr. Pep- perdine bitterly. He's been a smooth-tongued 'un, he has. He's done me, he has so—dang me if I ever trust the likes of him again ! '
Then he told his story. The absconded Mr. Bransby, an astute gentleman who had established a reputation for probity by scrupulous observance of the convention- alities dear to the society of a market town and had never missed attendance at his parish church, had sud- denly vanished into the Ewigkeit, leaving a few widows and orphans, several tradespeople, and a large number of unsuspecting and confiding clients, to mourn, not his loss, but his knavery. Simpson Pepperdine had been an easy victim. Some years previously he had consented to act as trustee for a neighbour's family—Mr. Bransby was his co-trustee. Simpson had left everything in Mr. Bransby' s hands —it now turned out that Mr. Bransby had converted everything to his own uses, leaving his careless coadjutor responsible. But this was not all. Simpson, who had made money by breeding shorthorns, had from time to time placed considerable sums in the
LUCIAN THE DREAMER 93
lawyer's hands for investment, and had trusted him entirely as to their nature. He had received good in- terest, and had never troubled either to ask for or inspect the securities. It had now been revealed to him that there had never been any securities —^his money had gone into Mr. Bransby's own coffers. Simpson Pepperdine, in short, was a ruined man.
Mr. Trippett was genuinely disturbed by this news.
and easy-going friend had been to blame in respect to his laxity and carelessness. But he himself had had some slight deahngs with Mr. and he knew the plausibility and suaveness
He felt that his good-natured
Bransby,
manner.
' It's a fair cropper! ' he exclaimed. ' I could ha'
' So he were,' answered Mr. Pepperdine, uncommon well—out of fools like me. '
of that gentleman's
trusted that Bransby like the Bank of England. I alius understood he were doing uncommon well. ' '
* I hope,' said Mr. Trippett, mentioning the subject
with some shyness, ' I hope the gals' money isn't lost,
an' all? ' Mr. ' What, Keziah and Judith? Nay, nay,' replied
Pepperdine. ' It isn't. What bit they have—matter of five hundred pound each, may be—is safe enough. '
' Nor the lad's, either,' said Mr. Trippett.
'The lad's? ' said Mr. Pepperdine questioningly. ' Oh, Lucian? Oh—ay—of course, he's all right. '
Mr. Trippett went over to the sideboard, produced the
whisky decanter, mixed himself a glass, Hghted his pipe,
and proceeded to think hard.
' Well,' he said, after some time, ' I know what I
should do if I were i' your case, Simpson. I should go to his lordship and tell him all about it. '
Mr. Pepperdine started and looked surprised.
* I've never asked a favour of him yet,' he said. * I
'
don't know
' I didn't say aught about asking any favour,' said
Mr. Trippett. ' I said — go and tell his lordship ail about
\
it. He's the reppytation of being a long-headed 'un, has Lord Simonstower— he'll happen suggest summut. '
Mr. Pepperdine rubbed his chin meditatively. '
' He's a sharp-tongued old gentleman,' he said; I've always fought a bit shy of him. Him an' me had a bit
of a difference twenty years since. '
* Let bygones be bygones,' counselled Mr. Trippett.
' You and your fathers afore you have been on his land and his father's land a bonny stretch o' time. '
' Three hundred and seventy-five year come next spring,' said Mr. Pepperdine.
94
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
' And he'll not see you turned off wi'out knowing why,' said Mr. Trippett with conviction. ' Any road, it'll do no harm to tell him how you stand. He'd have to hear on't sooner or later, and he'd best hear it from yourself. '
Turning this sage counsel over in his mind, Mr. Pep- perdine journeyed homewards, and as luck would have it he met the earl near the gates of the Castle. Lord Simonstower had just left the vicarage, and Mr. Pepper- dine was in his mind. He put up his hand in answer to the farmer's salutation. Mr. Pepperdine drew rein.
' Oh, Pepperdine,' said the earl, ' I want to have some conversation with you about your nephew. I have just been talking with the vicar about him. When can you come up to the Castle ? '
' Any time that pleases your lordship,' answered Mr.
' It so happens that I was going to ask the favour of an interview with your lordship on my own
Pepperdine.
account. '
' Then you had better drive up now and leave your
horse and trap in the stables,' said the earl. * Tell them to take you to the library —I'll join you there presently. ' Closeted with his tenant. Lord Simonstower plunged
into his own business first—it was his way, when he took anything in hand, to go through with it with as little
as possible. He came to the point at once by telUng Mr. Pepperdine that his nephew was a gifted youth who would almost certainly make a great name
delay
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
95
in the world of letters, and that it would be a most excellenT thing to send him to Oxford. He pomted out the ^^^^^^^ which would accrue to Lucian if
this bourse were adopted, spoke of his own mterest m Se boy and promised to help him in every way he Suld Mr. Pepperdine listened with respectful and
P'J My^rii' said, when the earl had explained
views for Lucian, I'm greatly obliged to your lordship to your kindness to the lad and your mterest m him
a^ee with every word your lordship says. ve alwTs known there was something out of the common
aSLucian, and I've wanted him to get on m his own way never had no doubt about his makmg great name for himself-I could see that in him when he were
little lad. Now about this going to Oxford-it would
cost good deal of money, wouldn it, my lordj
would certainly cost money,' replied the earl.
But would put to you in this way--or rather, this the way in which should be put to the boy himself. understand he has some money; well, he can make no
better investment of portion of than ^Y spending
on his education. Two or three years at Oxford will fit him for the life of man of letters as nothmg else would. He need not be extravagant—two hundred
^,,
. ,. ,. ,
Mr Pepperdine hstened to this with obvious per- plexity and unrest. He hesitated little before making any reply. At last he looked at the earl with the expres-
pounds year should suffice him. '
sion of man who going to confess something.
My lord,' he said, I'll tell your lordship what nobody else knows— not even my sisters. I'm sure your lordship'll say naught to nobody about it. My lord the lad hafn't penny. He never had. Your lordship knows that his father sent for me when he was dying
in London—he'd just come back, with the boy, from Italy— and he put Lucian in my care. He'd made will and was trustee and executor. He thought that there
was sufficient provision made for the boy, but he hadn
t
t
h^
I
a
a
a
I
'
•
Iis' a '
is '
it it a
a
it
t
a aI
a
I I It a
^^^
96
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
been well advised —he'd put all his eggs in one basket — the money was all invested in a building society in Rome, and every penny of it was lost. I did hear/ affirmed Mr. Pepperdine solemnly, ' that the Pope of Rome him- self lost a deal of money at the same time and in the
same society. ' true,' said the earl. I remember it ' That's quite '
very well.
' Well, there it was,' continued Mr. Pepperdine. ' It
was gone for ever—there wasn't a penny saved. I never said naught to my sisters, you know, my lord, because I didn't want 'em to know. I never said nothing to the boy, either—and he's the sort of lad that would never ask. He's a bit of a child in money matters—his father (but your lordship '11 remember him as well as I do) had always let him have all he wanted, and '
' And his uncle has followed in his father's lines, eh? ' said the earl, with a smile that was neither cynical nor unfriendly. ' Well, then, Pepperdine, I understand that the lad has been at your charges all this time as
regards everything — I suppose you've paid Mr. Chilver- stone, too? '
Mr. Pepperdine waved his hands.
' There's naught to talk of, my lord,' he said. ' I've
no children, and never shall have. I never were a marrying sort, and the lad's been welcome. And if it had been in my power he should have gone to Oxford; but, my lord, there's been that happened within this last day or so that's brought me nigh to ruin. It was that that I wanted to see your lordship about —it's a poor sort of tale for anybody's ears, but your lordship would have to hear it some time or other. You see, my lord ' —and Mr. Pepperdine, with praiseworthy directness and simphcity, set forth the story of his woes.
The Earl of Simonstower listened with earnest atten- tion until his tenant had spread out all his ruined hopes at his feet. His face expressed nothing until the re- grettable catalogue of foolishness and wrongs came to an end. Then he laughed, rather bitterly.
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
97
' Well, Pepperdine,' he said, ' you've been wronged, but you've been a fool into the bargain. And I can't blame you, for, in a smaller way—a matter of a thousand pounds or so—this man Bransby has victimised me. Well, now, what's to be done? There's one thing cer- tain—I don't intend to lose you as a tenant. If nothing else can be done, my solicitors must settle everything for you, and you must pay me back as you can. I understand you've been doing well with your shorthorns, haven't you? '
Mr. Pepperdine could hardly believe his ears. He had always regarded his landlord as a somewhat cold and cynical man, and no thought of such generous help as that indicated by the earl's last words had come into his mind in telling the story of his difficulties. He was a soft-hearted man, and the tears sprang into his eyes and his voice trembled as he tried to frame suitable words.
to say
' Then say nothing, Pepperdine,' said the earl. * I
understand what you would say. It's all right, my friend—we appear to be fellow-passengers in Mr. Bransby' s boat, and if I help you it's because I'm not quite as much damaged as you are. And eventually there will be no help about it—you'll have helped your- self. However, we'll discuss that later on; at present I want to talk about your nephew. Pepperdine, I don't want to give up my pet scheme of sending that boy to Oxford. It is the thing that should be done; I think it must be done, and that I must be allowed to do it. With your consent, Pepperdine, I will charge myself with your nephew's expenses for three years from the
time he goes up; by the end of the three years he will be in a position to look after himself. Don't try to give me any thanks. I have something of a selfish motive in all this. But now, listen: I do not wish the boy to know that he is owing this to anybody, and least of all to me. We must invent something in the nature of
G
' My lord! ' he said brokenly, * I—I don't know what
■'
98
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
a conspiracy. There must be no one but you, the vicar, and myself in the secret—no one, Pepperdine, and last of all any womankind, so your mouth must be closed as regards your sisters. I will get Mr. Chilverstone to talk to the boy, who will understand that the money is in your hands and that he must look to you. I want you
to preach economy to him — economy, mind
you, not meanness. I will talk to him in the same way myself,
because if he is anything like his father he will develop
an open-handedness
which will be anything but good for
him. Remember that you are the nominal holder of the
purse-strings —everything will pass through you. I
think that's all I wanted to say, Pepperdine,' concluded the earl. ' You'll remember your part? '
' I shall indeed, my lord,' said Mr. Pepperdine, as he shook the hand which the earl extended; ' and I shall remember a deal more, too, to my dying day. I can't rightly thank your lordship at this moment. '
' No need, Pepperdine, no need ! ' said Lord Simons- tower hastily. ' You'd do the same for me, I'm sure. Good-day to you, good-day; and don't forget the con- spiracy—no talking to the women, you know.
