She recognised that she would have to capitu- late, and had a happy moment in
assuring
herself that she would make her own terms.
Fletcher - Lucian the Dreamer
' she said, eyeing him with some curiosity.
* Not at all. I have thought a lot about it/ he
answered. ' I have not only thought,
but I have come
to a conclusion. ' '
' Yes? ' she said, still curious.
' That you are deceiving yourself,' he answered.
' You think you love Lucian Damerel. I do not doubt that you do, in a certain way, but not in the way in which I would wish you, for instance, to love me, and
What conclusion? '
LUCIAN THE DREAMER 219
in which I believe you could and would love me—if you
would let yourself. '
Sprats stared at him with growing curiosity and sur-
There was something masterful and lordly about his tone and speech that filled her heart with a great sense of contentment —it was the voice of the superior animal calling to the inferior, of the stronger to the weaker. And she was so strong that she had a great longing to be weak—always providing that something stronger than herself were shielding her weakness.
prise.
' Well? ' was all she could say. '
' You have always felt a sense of protection for him, continued Saxonstowe. ' It was in you from the first — you wanted something to take care of. But isn't there sometimes a feeling within you that you'd like to be taken care of yourself? '
' Who taught you all this? ' she asked, with puzzled
brows. ' You seem to have acquired some strange
knowledge of late. '
' I expect it's instinct, or nature, or something,' he
said. ' Anyhow, have I spoken the truth? '
' You don't expect me to confess the truth to you, do
you? ' she answered. ' You have not yet learned every- thing, I see. ' She paused and regarded him for some time in silence. ' I don't know why,' she said at last, ' but this seems as if it were the prelude to a fight. I feel as I used to feel when I fought with Lucian —there was always a lot of talk before the tearing and rending began. I feel talky now, and I also feel that I must fight you. To begin with, just remember that I am a woman and you're a man. I don't know anything about men—they're incomprehensible to me. To begin with, why do you wish to marry me? —you're the first man
who ever did. I want to know why—why—why? '
' Because you're the woman for me and I'm the man
for you,' he replied masterfully. ' You are my mate. ' ' How do you know ? '
• I feel it. '
' Then why don't I feel it? ' she asked quickly.
220 LUCIAN THE DREAMER
' Are you dead certain you don't? ' he said, smiling at her. ' I think, perhaps, that if you could just get deep down into yourself, you do. '
' But that doesn't explain why you want to marry me,' she said inconsequently. ' You tell me that what I have always felt for Lucian is not what I ought to feel for the man I love. Well, if I analyse what I feel for Lucian, perhaps it is what you say it is—a sense of protection, of wanting to help, and to shield; but then, you say that that is the sort of love you have for me. '
' Did I? ' he said, laughing quietly. * You forget that I have not yet told you what sort of love I have for you —we have not reached the love-making stage yet. '
Sprats felt femininity assert itself. She knew that she blushed, and she felt very hot and very uncomfortable, and she wished Saxonstowe would not smile. She was as much a girl and just as shy of a possible lover as in her tom-boy days, and there was something in Saxon- stowe 's presence which aroused new tides of feeling in her. He had become bold and masterful; it was as if she were being forced out of herself. And then he sud- denly did a thing which sent all the blood to her heart with a wild rush before it leapt back pulsing and throbbing through her body. Saxonstowe spoke her
name.
* Millicent ! ' he said, and laid his hand very gently on
hers. 'Millicent! '
She drew away from him quickly, but her eyes met
his with courage.
* My name ! ' she said. ' No one ever called me bymy
name before. I had half forgotten it. '
' Listen,' he said. ' I want you to think all this over,
like the woman you are. Don't waste your life on a dream or a delusion. Come to me and be my wife and friend so long as God lets us live. You are a true woman—a woman in a thousand. I would not ask you else. I will be a true man to you. And you and I together can do great things, for others. Think, and tell me your thoughts —afterwards. '
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
221
' Yes, afterwards/ she said. She wanted him to go, and he saw it and went, and Sprats sat down to think. But for the first time in her hfe she found it impossible to think clearly. She tried to marshal facts and to place them before her in due sequence and proper order, but she discovered that she was pretty much Uke all other women at these junctures and that a strange confusion had taken possession of her. For the moment there was too much of Saxonstowe in her mental atmosphere to enable her to think, and after some time she uttered an impatient exclamation and went off to attend to her duties. For the remainder of the afternoon she bustled about the house, and the nursing-staff wondered what it was that had given their Head such a fit of vigorous research into unexplored corners. It was not until even- ing that she allowed herself to be alone again, and by that time she was prepared to sit down and face the situa- tion. She went to her own room with a resolute deter- mination to think of everything calmly and coolly, and there she found evening newspapers lying on the table, and she picked one up mechanically and opened it with-
it, and ere she knew what was happening she had read of the tragedy in Paris. The news stamped itself upon her at first without causing her smart or pain, even as a clean shot passes through the flesh with little tearing of the fibres. She sat down and read all that the telegrams had to tell, and searched each of the newspapers until she was in possession of the latest
news.
She had gone into her room with the influence of
Saxonstowe's love-making still heavy upon her woman- hood; she left it an unsexed thing of action and forceful determination. In a few moments she had seen her senior nurse and had given her certain orders; in a few more she was in her outdoor cloak and bonnet and at the door, and a maid was whistling for a hansom for her. But just as she was running down the steps to enter it, another came came hurriedly into the square, and Saxon- stowe waved his hand to her. She paused and went
out the intention of reading
222
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
door; he jumped from his cab and joined her, and they went into the house together, and
into the room which she had just left.
' I was going to you,' she said, ' and yet I might have
known that you would come to me. '
' I came as soon as I knew,' he answered.
She looked at him narrowly : he was watching her with
back to the open
inquiring eyes.
' We must go there at once,' she said.
'
There is time
to catch the night train? '
' Yes,' he said, ' plenty of time. I have already made
some arrangements —I thought you would wish it. '
She nodded in answer to this, and began to take some things out of a desk. Saxonstowe noticed that her hand
was perfectly steady, though her face was very pale.
She turned presently from packing a small handbag and
came up to him.
' Listen,' she said; ' it is you and I who are going—
you understand? ' silence, and then He looked at her for a moment in
bowed his head. He had not understood, but he felt that she had come to some determination, and that that was no time to question her. In a few moments more they had left the house and set out on their journey to Paris.
CHAPTER XXVII
Our neighbours on the other side of the Channel are
blessed with many qualities which were not given to us who reside in these islands, and amongst them is one which most EngUshmen would not pay a penny for if it were on sale in market overt. This is the quality of sentiment a thing which we others strive to choke at its birth, and to which at any time we give but an outside corner of the hearth of life. It is a quality of which one may have too much, but in its place it is an excellent and a desirable quality, for it tends to the establishment of a fitting sense of proportion, and makes people polite and considerate at the right moment. Had the tragedy of Haidee and Darlington occurred in England, there would have been much vulgar curiosity manifested, for amongst us we often fail to gauge the niceties of a situa- tion. In Paris, sentiment fixed the affaire Darnerel at its right value in a few hours. It was a veritable tragedy —one to be spoken of with bated breath —one of those terrible dramas of real life which far transcend anything that can be placed upon the stage. The situations were
the figures of the chief actors of a veritable notability. The young husband, great as a poet and handsome as a Greek god; the young wife, beautiful and charming; the plutocrat lover, of whom death forbade to speak—they were all of a type to attract. Then the intense tragedy of the final situation ! Who could tell what had occurred between the lover and the wife in that last supreme scene, since he was dead and she bereft of reason? It had all the elements of greatness, and greatness demands respect. Therefore, instead of being
vulgarised, as it would have been in unsentimental England, the affaire Damerel was spoken of with a tender respect and with few words. It was an event too deplor- able to merit common discussion,
223
pathetic,
224
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
Lucian had swept through London to Paris intent on killing Darlington with his own hands. His mental balance had been destroyed, and he himself rendered
of hearing or seeing reason long before he reached the French capital. The courteous manager who replied to Lucian's calm inquiries for Mrs. Damerel did not realise that the composure of the distinguished- looking young gentleman was that of the cunning madman. Inside Lucian's breast nestled a revelver— his fingers were itching to get at it as he followed his guide up the stairs, for he had made up his mind to shoot his faithless wife and his treacherous enemy on sight.
The sight of Haidee, mopping and mowing in her corner, the sound of her awful laughter, brought Lucian back to sanity. Living and moving as if he were in some fearful dream, he gave orders and issued directions. The people of the hotel, half paralysed by the strangeness of the tragedy, wondered at his calmness; the police were astonished by the lucidity of the statement which he gave to them. His one great desire was to shield his wife's name. The fierce resentment which he had felt during his pursuit of her had completely disappeared in presence of the tragedy. Before the end of the afternoon some curious mental process in him had completely re- habilitated Haidee in his estimation : he believed her to have been deeply wronged, and declared with emphasis that she must have killed Darlington in a fit of despera- tion following upon some wickedness of his own. Her incriminating letter he swept aside contemptuously—it was a sure proof, he said, that the poor child's mind was already unhinged when it was written. He turned a blind eye to undoubted facts. Out of a prodigal imagination and an exuberant fancy he quickly built up a theory which presently assumed for him the colours of absolute truth. Haidee had been tempted in secret by this devil who had posed as friend; he had used his insidious arts to corrupt her, and the temptation had fallen upon her at the very moment when he, Lucian,
incapable
LUCIAN THE DREAMER 225
was worrying her with his projects of retrenchment. She had taken flight, the poor Haidee who had Uved in rose-leaf luxury all her days, and had fled from her exaggerated fears to the man she believed her friend and Lucian's. Then, when she had found out his true char- acter, she—in a moment of awful fear or fright, most probably—had killed him. That was the real story, the poor, helpless truth. He put it before Sprats and Saxonstowe with a childlike belief in its plausibility and veracity that made at least one of them like to weep— he had shown them the letter which Haidee had written to Lucian before leaving town, and they knew the real truth of the whole sorry business. It seemed best, after all, thought Sprats, and said so to Saxonstowe when she
chance, that Lucian should cherish a fiction rather than believe the real truth. And that he did believe his fiction was soon made evident.
got the
' It is all my fault—all ! ' he said to Sprats, with bitter
' I never took care of her as I should have done, as I had vowed to do. You were right. Sprats, in everything that you said to me. I wonder what it is that makes me so bhnd to things that other
self-reproach.
people see so clearly? I ought not to have let the poor child be exposed to the temptations of that arch-devil; but I trusted him implicitly. He always made the most sincere professions of his friendship for both of us. Then again, how is it, why is that people so constantly deceive me believe every man as expect every man to beHeve me. Do you think ever dreamt of all this, ever dreamt of what was in that scoundrel's mind? Yet
ought to have foreseen— ought to have been guided by you. all my fault, all my fault
was useless to argue with him or to condole with him. He had persuaded himself without an effort that such and such things were, and the only thing to be done with him was to acquiesce in his conclusions and help him as judiciously as possible. The two faithful friends who had hurried to his side remained with him until the troubled waters grew calm again. That was now
P
I It
It ?
is
I
!
'
I
I
it,
I
226 LUCIAN THE DREAMER
an affair of time. Haidee was certainly insane, and the physicians held out Uttle hope of her recovery. By their
advice she was removed to a private institution within easy distance of Paris, and Lucian announced his inten-
tion of settling down in the gay city in order to be near her. He talked of her now as if she had been a girl- bride, snatched away from him by ruthless fate, and it was plain to see that he had obliterated the angry thoughts that had filled him during his frenzy of resent- ment, and now cherished nothing but feelings of
chastened and tender regret. For
frailest of frail mortals, became apotheosised into some- thing very different. Lucian, who never did anything by halves and could not avoid extremes, exalted her into a sort of much-wronged saint; she became his dream, and nobody had the heart to wake him.
Sprats
for Haidee, the other of a large part of the business affairs brought into active operation by the recent tragedy. Saxonstowe, working untiringly
on his behalf, was soon able to place Lucian's affairs in order. Lucian gave him full power to act, and ere long had the satisfaction of knowing that the liability to Darlington and Darlington had been discharged, that Miss Pepperdine's mind had been set at rest as to the
necessary arrangements
honour, and that he owed money to no one. He would be able to surround the stricken Haidee with every comfort and luxury that one
in her condition could enjoy, and he himself need never feel a moment's anxiety. For the affaire Damerel had had its uses. Lucian came again in the market. Mr. Robertson began to sell the thin green-clad volumes more rapidly than ever before; even the portly epic moved,
and finally began racing its sister competitors for the favour of the fickle public. Mr. Harcourt, with a rare sense of fitness, revived Lucian's first play to crowded houses; an enterprising Frenchman went over to London and witnessed a performance, and within a few weeks
preservation of the family
Haidee, indeed,
and Saxonstowe worked hard for him at this time, one relieving him of much trouble in making the
LUCIAN THE DREAMER 227
presented a version of it at ons of the Parisian theatres. French translations of Lucian's works followed, and sold Hke hot cakes; the Italian translations received a fillip, and people in the United States became interested.
Nothing, said Mr.
from a trade point of view.
Robertson, could have been better,
Lucian accepted all this with indifference and equani- mity. All his thoughts were centred on the quiet house in the little village outside Paris, where Haidee laughed
at her own fingers or played with dolls. Every afternoon he left his appartement and travelled into the country to inquire after his wife's health. He always carried some little gift with him—flowers, fruit, a child's picture- book, a child's toy, and the nurse to whom these things were given used to weep over them, being young and sentimental, and very much in love with Lucian's face and hair, which was now turning a pretty and becoming grey at the temples. Sometimes he saw the doctor, who was sympathetic, and guarded in his answers, and some- times he walked in the garden with an old abbe who used to visit the place, and exchanged pious sentiments with him. But he never saw Haidee, for the doctors feared and thus his conception of her was not of the madwoman, but of the young beauty with whom he had made an impetuous runaway marriage. He used to walk about Paris in those days with eyes that wore
and the women would speak of his beauty with tears in their eyes and shake their heads over the sadness of his story, which was well known to everybody, and in pecuniary value was worth gold-
mine.
far-away expression,
a
a
it,
CHAPTER XXVIII
When they had done everything that could be done for him at that time, Sprats and Saxonstowe left Lucian in Paris and returned together to London. He appeared to have no particular desire that they should remam with him, nor any dread of being alone. Sprats had seen to the furnishing of his rooms and to the transportation of his most cherished books and pictures; he was left sur- rounded with comfort and luxury, and he assured his friends that he wanted for nothing. He intended to devote himself to intense study, and if he wanted a little society, well, he already had a considerable acquaintance amongst authors and artists in Paris, and could make use of it if need were. But he spoke of himself as of an anchorite; it was plain to see that he believed that the joie de vivre existed for him no longer. It was also plain that something in him wished to be clear of the old life and the old associations. He took an affectionate fare- well of Sprats and of Saxonstowe at the Gare du Nord, whither he accompanied them on their departure, but Sprats was keenly aware of the fact that there was that in him which was longing to see the last of them. They were links of a chain that bound him to a life with which he wished to have no further connection. When they said good-bye, Sprats knew that she was turning down a page that closed a long chapter of her own life.
She faced the problem bravely and with clear-headed- ness. She saw now that much of what she had taken to be real fact had been but a dream. Lucian had awak- ened the mother-instinct in her by his very helplessness, but nothing in him had ever roused the new feeling which had grown in her every day since Saxonstowe had told her of his love. She had made the mistake of taking interest and affection for love, and now that she had
found it out she was contented and uneasy, happy and 228
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
229
miserable, pleased and furious, all at once. She wanted to run away from Saxonstowe to the very ends of the earth, but she also cherished a secret desire to sit at his feet and be his slave, and would rather have torn her tongue out than tell him of it.
While they were father-and-mother-ing Lucian in Paris, Saxonstowe had remained solid and grim as one of the Old Guard, doing nothing but his duty. Sprats had watched him with keen observation, and had admired his stern determination and the earnest way in which he did everything. He had taken hold of Lucian as a big brother might take a little one, and had been gentle and firm, kindly and tactful, all at once. She had often longed to throw her arms round him and kiss him
for his good-boy qualities, but he had sunk the lover in the friend with unmistakable purpose, and she was afraid of him. She began to catch herself looking at him out of her eye-corners when he was not looking at her, and she hated herself. Once when he came suddenly into a room, she blushed so furiously that she could have cried with vexation, and it was all the more aggravating, she said, because she had just happened to be thinking of him. Travelling back together, she was very subdued and essentially feminine. Her manner invited con- fidence, but Saxonstowe was stiff as a ramrod and cold as an icicle. He put her into a hansom at Charing Cross, and bade her good-bye as if she had been a mere
acquaintance.
But he came to her the next afternoon, and she knew
from his face that he was in an urgent and a masterful mood.
She recognised that she would have to capitu- late, and had a happy moment in assuring herself that she would make her own terms. Saxonstowe wasted no time. He might have been a smart young man calling to collect the water-rate.
* The night that we went to Paris together,' he said, ' you made an observation which you thought I under- stood. I didn't understand and now want to know
what you meant. '
it,
I
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
230
' What I said. That we were going—you and I—
together,' she answered. '
' But what did that mean?
' Together,' she said, ' together means—well, of
course, it means — together. ' shoulders; she Saxonstowe put his hands on her
immediately began to study the pattern of the hearthrug
at their feet. me, Millicent? ' he said. ' Will you marry
She nodded her head, but her eyes still remained fixed
on his toes.
' Answer me,' he commanded.
' Yes,' she said, and lifted her eyes to his.
A moment later she disengaged herself from his arms
and began to laugh. conditions,' she ' I was going to extract such a lot of
said. ' Somehow I don't care about them now. But
will you tell me just what is going to happen? '
' You knew, I suppose, that I should have already mapped everything out. Well, so I have. We shall be
married at once, in the quietest possible fashion, and then we are going round the world in our own way. It is to be your holiday after all these years of work. '
She nodded, with perfect acquiescence in his plans.
' At once? ' she said questioningly.
' A week from to-day,' he said.
The notion of such precipitancy brought the blood into
her face.
' I suppose I ought to say that I can't possibly be
ready in a week,' she said, ' but it so happens that I can.
A week to-day, then. '
Mr. Chilverstone came up from Simonstower to marry
them. It was a very quiet wedding in a quiet church. Lady Firmanence, however, was there, and before the bride and bridegroom left to catch a transatlantic liner for Ney York she expressed a decided opinion that the fourth Viscount Saxonstowe had inherited more than his share of the good sense and wise perception for which their family had always been justly famous.
XXIX
LuciAN settled down into a groove-like existence. He read when he liked and worked when he felt any parti- cular inclination to do so; he amused himself at times with the life which a man of his temperament may live in Paris, but always with the air of one who looks on. He made a few new friends and sometimes visited old ones. Now and then he entertained in a quiet, old- fashioned way. He was very indulgent and caressing to a certain coterie of young people who believed in him as a great master and elevated his poetry to the dignity of a cult. He was always a distinguished figure when he showed himself at the opera or the theatre, and people still pointed him out on the boulevards and shook their heads and said what a pity it was that one so young and handsome and talented should carry so heavy a burden. In this way he may be said to have become quite an institution of Paris, and Americans stipulated with their guides that he should be pointed out to them at the first opportunity.
Whatever else engaged Lucian's attention or his time, he never forgot his daily visit to the quiet house in the suburbs where Haidee still played with dolls or laughed gleefully at her attendants. He permitted nothing to interfere with this duty, which he regarded as a penance for his sins of omission to Haidee in days gone by. Others might forsake Paris for the sea or the mountains; Lucian remained there all the year round for two years, making his daily pilgrimage. He saw the same faces every day, and heard the same report, but he never saw his wife. Life became curiously even and regular, but it never oppressed him. He had informed himself at the very beginning of this period that this was a thing to be endured, and he endured it as pleasantly and
231
CHAPTER
232
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
bravely as possible. During those two years he pub- lished two new volumes, of a somewhat new note, which sold better in a French translation than in the English original, and at Mr. Harcourt's urgent request he wrote a romantic drama. It filled the Athenaeum during the whole of a London season, and the financial results were gratifying in a high degree, for the glamour and mystery of the affaire Damerel were still powerful, and Lucian had become a personality and a force by reason of his troubles.
At the end of two years, the doctor to whose care Haidee had been entrusted called Lucian into his private room one day and told him that he had grave news to communicate. His patient, he said, was dying—slowly,
But there was more than that: before her death she would recover her reason. She would probably recall everything that had taken place; it was more than possible that she would have painfully clear
but very surely.
recollections of the scene, whatever it might be, that had immediately preceded her sudden loss of sanity. It was but right, said the doctor, that Mr. Damerel should know of this, but did Mr. Damerel wish to be with his wife when this development occurred? It might be a pain- ful experience, and death must soon follow it. It was for Mr. Damerel to decide. Lucian decided on the instant. He had carried an image of Haidee in his mind for two years, and it had become fixed on his mental vision with such firmness that he could not think of her as anything but what he imagined her to be. He told the doctor that he would wish to know as soon as his
wife regained her reason —it was his duty, he said, to be with her. After that, every visit to the private asylum was made with anxious wonder if the tortured brain had cleared. —
It was not until the following spring two and a half years after the tragedy of the Bristol—that Lucian saw Haidee. He scarcely knew the woman to whom they took him. They had deluged him with warnings as to the change in her, but he had not expected to find her a
LUCIAN THE DREAMER 233
grey-haired, time-worn woman, and he had difficulty in preserving his composure when he saw her. He did not know it, but her reason had returned some time before, and she had become fully cognisant of her surroundings and of what was going to happen. More than that, she had asked for a priest and had enjoyed ghostly consola- tion. She gazed at Lucian with a curious wistfulness,
and yet there was something strangely
sullen in her
manner.
* I wanted to see you,' she said, after a time. ' I
know I'm going to die very soon, and there are things I want to say. I remember all that happened, you know. Oh yes, it's quite clear to me now, but somehow it doesn't trouble me—I was mad enough when I did it. '
' Don't speak of that,' he said. ' Forget it all. '
She shook her head.
' Never mind,' she went on. ' What I wanted to say
was, that I'm sorry that—well, you know. '
Lucian gazed at her with a sickening fear creeping
closely round his heart. He had forced the truth away
from him: he was to hear it at last from the lips of a
dying woman.
* You were to blame, though,' she said presently.
' You ought not to have let me go alone on his yacht or to the Highlands. It was so easy to go wrong there. '
Lucian could not control a sharp cry.
' Don't! ' he said, ' don't! You don't know what you're saying. It can't be that—that you wrote the truth in that letter? It was—hallucination. '
She looked at him out of dull eyes.
' I want you to say you forgive me,' she said. ' The priest —he said I ought to ask your forgiveness. '
Lucian bowed his head.
' Yes,' he said, ' I forgive all you wish. Try not to
think of it any more. '
He was saying over and ovei to himself that she was
still disordered of mind, that the sin she was confessing was imaginary; but deeper than his insistence on this lay a dull consciousness that he was hearing the truth.
234
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
He stood watching her curiously. She suddenly looked up at him, and he saw a strange gleam in her eyes.
' After all,' she said, half spitefully, ' you came between him and me at the beginning. '
Lucian never saw his wife again. A month later she was dead. All the time of the burial service he was thinking that it would have been far better if she had never recovered her reason. For two years he had cherished a dream of her that had assumed tender and pathetic tones. It had become a part of him; the ugly reality of the last grim moments of her life stood out in violent contrast to its gentleness and softness. When the earth was thrown upon the coffin, he was wondering at the wide difference which exists between the real and the unreal, and whether the man is most truly blessed who walks amongst stern verities or dreams amidst the
poppy-beds of illusion. One thing was certain : the face of truth was not always beautiful, nor her voice always soothing to the ear.
XXX
After Haidee's death Lucian left Paris, and during the rest of the spring and summer of that year went wander-
autumn.
unwonted activity.
CHAPTER
ing hither and thither about Europe.
this time in a state of quiescence; he lounged from one place to another, faintly interested and lazily amused. He was beginning to be a little bored by life, and a little tempted to drift with its stream. It was in this frame of mind that he returned to London in the following
There, soon after his return, he sprang into
It was on the very eve of the outbreak of the war in South Africa. Men were wondering what was going
His mind was at
Some, clearer of vision than their fellows, saw that nothing but war would solve the problem which
to happen.
had assumed vast proportions
because of the vacillating poUcy of a weak Government of twenty years before; the Empire was going to pay now, with millions of its treasure and thousands of its men, for the fatal error which had brought the name of
in the Transvaal and given the Boers a false notion of English strength and character.
Others were all for a policy of smoothing things over, for spreading green boughs over pitfalls — not that any one should fall into them, but in order to make believe that the pitfalls were not there. Others again, of a breed that
England into contempt
islands, advocated, not without success, a policy of surrender to everybody and everything. There was much talking at street comers and in the market-place; much angry debate and acrimonious discussion. Men began to be names, and few took the trouble to meantime, events
has but lately sprung into existence in these
labelled by new
understand each
developed as inevitable consequence always develops them in such situations. Amidst the chattering of tiny voices the thunders of war burst loud and clear.
other. In the 235
and strange intricacies
236
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
Fond as he was of insisting on his ItaHan nationality, he was passionately
devoted to England and the English, and had a great admiration for the history and traditions of the country
Lucian was furious with indignation.
There had once been a question in his mind as to whether he should write in English or in Italian—he had elected to serve England for many reasons, but chiefly because he recognised her greatness Like all Italians, he loved her for what she had done for Greece and for Italy. England and Liberty were synonymous names; of all nations in the world, none had made for freedom as
England had. His blood had leapt in his veins many a time at the thought of the thousand and one great things she had done, the mighty battles she had fought for truth and liberty; he had drunk in the notion from boyhood that England stood in the very vanguard of the army of deliverance. And now she was sending out her armies, marshalling her forces, pouring out her money like water, to crush a tiny folk, a nation of farmers, a sturdy, simple- minded race, one of the least amongst the peoples of the
earth! He shook his head as if he had been asleep, and asked himself if the nation had suddenly gone mad with lust of blood. It was inconceivable that the England of his dreams could do this thing. He looked for her, and found her nowhere. The streets were hot all day with the tramping of armed men. The first tidings of reverse filled the land with the old savage
determination to fight things out to the end, even though all the world should range itself on the other side.
Lucian flung all his feelings of rage, indignation, sorrow, and infinite amazement into a passionate sonnet which appeared next morning in large type, well leaded and spaced, in the columns of a London daily newspaper that favoured the views of the peace-at-any-price party. He followed it up with others. At first there was more sorrow and surprise than anything else in these admoni- tions; but as the days went on their tone altered. He
had endeavoured to bring the giant to his senses by an
of his adoption.
and beheved in her destiny.
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
237
appeal to certain feelings which the giant was too much engaged to feel at that moment; eliciting no response, he became troublesome, and strove to attract the giant's attention by pricking him with pins. The giant paid small attention to this; he looked down, saw a small thing hanging about his feet with apparently mischievous intentions, and calmly pushed it away. Then Lucian began the assault in dead earnest. He could dip his pen in vitriol with the best of them, and when he realised that the giant was drunk with the lust of blood he fell upon him with fury. The vials of poetic wrath had
never been emptied of such a flood of righteous anger since the days wherein Milton called for vengeance upon the murderers of the Piedmontese.
It is an ill thing to fight against the prevalent temper of a nation. Lucian soon discovered that you may kick and prick John Bull for a long time with safety to your- self, because of his good nature, his dislike of bothering about trifles, and his natural sluggishness, but that he always draws a line somewhere, and brings down a heavy fist upon the man who crosses it. He began to find people fighting shy of his company; invitations became less in number; men nodded who used to shake hands; strong things were said in newspapers; and he was warned by friends that he was carrying things too far.
' Endeavour,' said one man, an acquaintance of some years' standing, for whose character and abilities he had a great regard, ' endeavour to get some accurate sense of the position. You are blackguarding us every day with your sonorous sonnets as if we were cut-throats and thieves going out on a murdering and marauding expedi- tion. We are nothing of the sort. We are a great nation, with a
engaged in a very difficult task. The war is bringing us together like brothers —out of its blood and ashes there will spring an Empire such as the world has never seen. You are belittling everything to the level of Hooliganism. '
' What is it but Hooliganism? ' retorted Lucian. ' The
very painful sense of responsibility,
238
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
most powerful nation in the world seizing one of the weakest by the throat ! '
' It is nothing of the sort/ said the other. ' You know it is your great curse, my dear Lucian, that you never get a clear notion of the truth. You have a trick of seeing
as you think they ought to be; you will not see them as they are. Just because the Boers happen to be numerically small, to lead a pastoral life, and to have gone into the desert like the Israelites of old, you have brought that far too powerful imagination of yours to bear upon them, and have elevated them into a class with the Swiss and the ItaHans, who fought for their country. '
' What are the Boers fighting for? ' asked Lucian.
' At present to grab somebody else's property,' returned the other. ' Don't get sentimental about them. After all, much as you love us, you're only half an Englishman, and you don't understand the English feel- ing. Are the English folk not suffering, and is a Boer widow or a Boer orphan more worthy of pity than a Yorkshire lass whose lad is lying dead out there, or a Scottish child whose father will never come back again? '
Lucian swept these small and insignificant details aside
things
with some impatience.
* You are the mightiest nation the world has ever
seen,' he said. ' You have a past—such a past as no other people can boast. You have a responsibility because of that past, and at present you have thrown all sense of it away, and are behaving like the drunken brute who rises gorged with flesh and wine, and yells for blood. This is an England with vine-leaves in her hair —it is not the England of Cromwell. '
* Ithank God it is not! ' said the other man with heartfelt reverence. ' We wish for no dictatorship here. Come, leave off slanging us in this bloodthirsty fashion, and try to arrive at a sensible view of things. Turn your energies to a practical direction—write a new romantic play for Harcourt, something that will cheer us in these dark days, and give the money for bandages
LUCIAN THE DREAMER 239
and warm socks and tobacco for poor Tommy out at the front. He isn't as picturesque —so it's said—as Brother Boer, but he's a man after all, and has a stomach. '
But Lucian would neither be cajoled nor chaffed out of his role of prophet. He became that most objection- able of all things — the man who believes he has a mes- sage, and must deliver it. He continued to hurl his philippics at the British public through the ever-ready
and the man in the street, who is not given to the drawing of fine dis-
columns of the peace-at-any-price paper,
tinctions, called him a pro-Boer.
reality, was not a pro-Boer—he merely saw the artistry of the pro-Boer position. He remembered Byron's atti- tude with respect to Greece, and a too generous instinct had led him to compare Mr. Kruger to Cincinnatus. The man in the street knew nothing of these things, and
Lucian, in strict
cared less. It seemed to him that
after all, nothing but an ink-slinger, a blooming poet, was slanging the quarter of a million men who were hurrying to Table Bay as rapidly as the War Office could get them there. To this sort of thing the man in the street objected. He did not care if Lucian's instincts were all on the side of the weaker party, nor was it an excuse that Lucian himself, in the matter of strict nation- ality, was an Italian. He had chosen to write his poems in England, said the man in the street, and also in the English language, and he had made a good thing out of it too, and no error, and the best thing he could do now was to keep a civil tongue in his head, or, rather, pen in his hand. This was no time for the cuckoo to foul the nest wherein he had had free quarters for so long.
The opinion of the man in the street is the crystallised common-sense of England, voiced in elementary lan- guage. Lucian, unfortunately, did not know this, and he kept on firing sonnets at the heads of people who, without bluster or complaint, were already tearing up their shirts for bandages. The man in the street read them, and ground his teeth, and waited for an oppor- tunity. That came when Lucian was ill-advised enough
Lucian, who was,
240
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
to allow his name to be printed in large letters upon the placard of a great meeting whereat various well-inten-
to protest against a war which had been forced upon the nation, and from which it was then impossible to draw back with either safety or honour. Lucian was still in the clouds; still thinking of Byron at Missolonghi; still harping upon the undoubted but scarcely pertinent facts
that England had freed slaves, slain giants, and waved her flag protectingly over all who ran to her for help. The foolishness of assisting at a public meeting whereat the nation was to be admonished of its wickedness in daring to assert itself never occurred to him. He was still the man with the message.
He formed one of a platform party of whom it might safely have been said that every man was a crank, and every woman a faddist. He was somewhat astonished and a little perplexed when he looked around him, and realised that his fellow-protestants were not of the sort wherewith he usually foregathered; but he speedily became interested in the audience. It had been intended to restrict admission to those well-intentioned folk who desired peace at any price, but the man in the street had placed a veto upon that, and had come in large numbers, and with a definite resolve to take part in the proceedings. The meeting began in a cheerful
tioned but somewhat thoughtless persons proposed
fashion, and ended in one dear to the English heart. The chairman was listened to with some forbearance and patience; a lady was allowed to have her say because she was a woman. It was a sad inspiration that led the chairman to put Lucian up next;
a still sadder one to refer to his poetical exhortations to the people. The sight of Lucian, the fashionably attired, dilettante, dreamy-eyed poet, who had lashed and pricked the nation whose blood was being poured out like water, and whose coffers were being depleted at a rapid rate, was too much for the folk he essayed to address. They knew him and his recent record.
* Not at all. I have thought a lot about it/ he
answered. ' I have not only thought,
but I have come
to a conclusion. ' '
' Yes? ' she said, still curious.
' That you are deceiving yourself,' he answered.
' You think you love Lucian Damerel. I do not doubt that you do, in a certain way, but not in the way in which I would wish you, for instance, to love me, and
What conclusion? '
LUCIAN THE DREAMER 219
in which I believe you could and would love me—if you
would let yourself. '
Sprats stared at him with growing curiosity and sur-
There was something masterful and lordly about his tone and speech that filled her heart with a great sense of contentment —it was the voice of the superior animal calling to the inferior, of the stronger to the weaker. And she was so strong that she had a great longing to be weak—always providing that something stronger than herself were shielding her weakness.
prise.
' Well? ' was all she could say. '
' You have always felt a sense of protection for him, continued Saxonstowe. ' It was in you from the first — you wanted something to take care of. But isn't there sometimes a feeling within you that you'd like to be taken care of yourself? '
' Who taught you all this? ' she asked, with puzzled
brows. ' You seem to have acquired some strange
knowledge of late. '
' I expect it's instinct, or nature, or something,' he
said. ' Anyhow, have I spoken the truth? '
' You don't expect me to confess the truth to you, do
you? ' she answered. ' You have not yet learned every- thing, I see. ' She paused and regarded him for some time in silence. ' I don't know why,' she said at last, ' but this seems as if it were the prelude to a fight. I feel as I used to feel when I fought with Lucian —there was always a lot of talk before the tearing and rending began. I feel talky now, and I also feel that I must fight you. To begin with, just remember that I am a woman and you're a man. I don't know anything about men—they're incomprehensible to me. To begin with, why do you wish to marry me? —you're the first man
who ever did. I want to know why—why—why? '
' Because you're the woman for me and I'm the man
for you,' he replied masterfully. ' You are my mate. ' ' How do you know ? '
• I feel it. '
' Then why don't I feel it? ' she asked quickly.
220 LUCIAN THE DREAMER
' Are you dead certain you don't? ' he said, smiling at her. ' I think, perhaps, that if you could just get deep down into yourself, you do. '
' But that doesn't explain why you want to marry me,' she said inconsequently. ' You tell me that what I have always felt for Lucian is not what I ought to feel for the man I love. Well, if I analyse what I feel for Lucian, perhaps it is what you say it is—a sense of protection, of wanting to help, and to shield; but then, you say that that is the sort of love you have for me. '
' Did I? ' he said, laughing quietly. * You forget that I have not yet told you what sort of love I have for you —we have not reached the love-making stage yet. '
Sprats felt femininity assert itself. She knew that she blushed, and she felt very hot and very uncomfortable, and she wished Saxonstowe would not smile. She was as much a girl and just as shy of a possible lover as in her tom-boy days, and there was something in Saxon- stowe 's presence which aroused new tides of feeling in her. He had become bold and masterful; it was as if she were being forced out of herself. And then he sud- denly did a thing which sent all the blood to her heart with a wild rush before it leapt back pulsing and throbbing through her body. Saxonstowe spoke her
name.
* Millicent ! ' he said, and laid his hand very gently on
hers. 'Millicent! '
She drew away from him quickly, but her eyes met
his with courage.
* My name ! ' she said. ' No one ever called me bymy
name before. I had half forgotten it. '
' Listen,' he said. ' I want you to think all this over,
like the woman you are. Don't waste your life on a dream or a delusion. Come to me and be my wife and friend so long as God lets us live. You are a true woman—a woman in a thousand. I would not ask you else. I will be a true man to you. And you and I together can do great things, for others. Think, and tell me your thoughts —afterwards. '
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
221
' Yes, afterwards/ she said. She wanted him to go, and he saw it and went, and Sprats sat down to think. But for the first time in her hfe she found it impossible to think clearly. She tried to marshal facts and to place them before her in due sequence and proper order, but she discovered that she was pretty much Uke all other women at these junctures and that a strange confusion had taken possession of her. For the moment there was too much of Saxonstowe in her mental atmosphere to enable her to think, and after some time she uttered an impatient exclamation and went off to attend to her duties. For the remainder of the afternoon she bustled about the house, and the nursing-staff wondered what it was that had given their Head such a fit of vigorous research into unexplored corners. It was not until even- ing that she allowed herself to be alone again, and by that time she was prepared to sit down and face the situa- tion. She went to her own room with a resolute deter- mination to think of everything calmly and coolly, and there she found evening newspapers lying on the table, and she picked one up mechanically and opened it with-
it, and ere she knew what was happening she had read of the tragedy in Paris. The news stamped itself upon her at first without causing her smart or pain, even as a clean shot passes through the flesh with little tearing of the fibres. She sat down and read all that the telegrams had to tell, and searched each of the newspapers until she was in possession of the latest
news.
She had gone into her room with the influence of
Saxonstowe's love-making still heavy upon her woman- hood; she left it an unsexed thing of action and forceful determination. In a few moments she had seen her senior nurse and had given her certain orders; in a few more she was in her outdoor cloak and bonnet and at the door, and a maid was whistling for a hansom for her. But just as she was running down the steps to enter it, another came came hurriedly into the square, and Saxon- stowe waved his hand to her. She paused and went
out the intention of reading
222
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
door; he jumped from his cab and joined her, and they went into the house together, and
into the room which she had just left.
' I was going to you,' she said, ' and yet I might have
known that you would come to me. '
' I came as soon as I knew,' he answered.
She looked at him narrowly : he was watching her with
back to the open
inquiring eyes.
' We must go there at once,' she said.
'
There is time
to catch the night train? '
' Yes,' he said, ' plenty of time. I have already made
some arrangements —I thought you would wish it. '
She nodded in answer to this, and began to take some things out of a desk. Saxonstowe noticed that her hand
was perfectly steady, though her face was very pale.
She turned presently from packing a small handbag and
came up to him.
' Listen,' she said; ' it is you and I who are going—
you understand? ' silence, and then He looked at her for a moment in
bowed his head. He had not understood, but he felt that she had come to some determination, and that that was no time to question her. In a few moments more they had left the house and set out on their journey to Paris.
CHAPTER XXVII
Our neighbours on the other side of the Channel are
blessed with many qualities which were not given to us who reside in these islands, and amongst them is one which most EngUshmen would not pay a penny for if it were on sale in market overt. This is the quality of sentiment a thing which we others strive to choke at its birth, and to which at any time we give but an outside corner of the hearth of life. It is a quality of which one may have too much, but in its place it is an excellent and a desirable quality, for it tends to the establishment of a fitting sense of proportion, and makes people polite and considerate at the right moment. Had the tragedy of Haidee and Darlington occurred in England, there would have been much vulgar curiosity manifested, for amongst us we often fail to gauge the niceties of a situa- tion. In Paris, sentiment fixed the affaire Darnerel at its right value in a few hours. It was a veritable tragedy —one to be spoken of with bated breath —one of those terrible dramas of real life which far transcend anything that can be placed upon the stage. The situations were
the figures of the chief actors of a veritable notability. The young husband, great as a poet and handsome as a Greek god; the young wife, beautiful and charming; the plutocrat lover, of whom death forbade to speak—they were all of a type to attract. Then the intense tragedy of the final situation ! Who could tell what had occurred between the lover and the wife in that last supreme scene, since he was dead and she bereft of reason? It had all the elements of greatness, and greatness demands respect. Therefore, instead of being
vulgarised, as it would have been in unsentimental England, the affaire Damerel was spoken of with a tender respect and with few words. It was an event too deplor- able to merit common discussion,
223
pathetic,
224
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
Lucian had swept through London to Paris intent on killing Darlington with his own hands. His mental balance had been destroyed, and he himself rendered
of hearing or seeing reason long before he reached the French capital. The courteous manager who replied to Lucian's calm inquiries for Mrs. Damerel did not realise that the composure of the distinguished- looking young gentleman was that of the cunning madman. Inside Lucian's breast nestled a revelver— his fingers were itching to get at it as he followed his guide up the stairs, for he had made up his mind to shoot his faithless wife and his treacherous enemy on sight.
The sight of Haidee, mopping and mowing in her corner, the sound of her awful laughter, brought Lucian back to sanity. Living and moving as if he were in some fearful dream, he gave orders and issued directions. The people of the hotel, half paralysed by the strangeness of the tragedy, wondered at his calmness; the police were astonished by the lucidity of the statement which he gave to them. His one great desire was to shield his wife's name. The fierce resentment which he had felt during his pursuit of her had completely disappeared in presence of the tragedy. Before the end of the afternoon some curious mental process in him had completely re- habilitated Haidee in his estimation : he believed her to have been deeply wronged, and declared with emphasis that she must have killed Darlington in a fit of despera- tion following upon some wickedness of his own. Her incriminating letter he swept aside contemptuously—it was a sure proof, he said, that the poor child's mind was already unhinged when it was written. He turned a blind eye to undoubted facts. Out of a prodigal imagination and an exuberant fancy he quickly built up a theory which presently assumed for him the colours of absolute truth. Haidee had been tempted in secret by this devil who had posed as friend; he had used his insidious arts to corrupt her, and the temptation had fallen upon her at the very moment when he, Lucian,
incapable
LUCIAN THE DREAMER 225
was worrying her with his projects of retrenchment. She had taken flight, the poor Haidee who had Uved in rose-leaf luxury all her days, and had fled from her exaggerated fears to the man she believed her friend and Lucian's. Then, when she had found out his true char- acter, she—in a moment of awful fear or fright, most probably—had killed him. That was the real story, the poor, helpless truth. He put it before Sprats and Saxonstowe with a childlike belief in its plausibility and veracity that made at least one of them like to weep— he had shown them the letter which Haidee had written to Lucian before leaving town, and they knew the real truth of the whole sorry business. It seemed best, after all, thought Sprats, and said so to Saxonstowe when she
chance, that Lucian should cherish a fiction rather than believe the real truth. And that he did believe his fiction was soon made evident.
got the
' It is all my fault—all ! ' he said to Sprats, with bitter
' I never took care of her as I should have done, as I had vowed to do. You were right. Sprats, in everything that you said to me. I wonder what it is that makes me so bhnd to things that other
self-reproach.
people see so clearly? I ought not to have let the poor child be exposed to the temptations of that arch-devil; but I trusted him implicitly. He always made the most sincere professions of his friendship for both of us. Then again, how is it, why is that people so constantly deceive me believe every man as expect every man to beHeve me. Do you think ever dreamt of all this, ever dreamt of what was in that scoundrel's mind? Yet
ought to have foreseen— ought to have been guided by you. all my fault, all my fault
was useless to argue with him or to condole with him. He had persuaded himself without an effort that such and such things were, and the only thing to be done with him was to acquiesce in his conclusions and help him as judiciously as possible. The two faithful friends who had hurried to his side remained with him until the troubled waters grew calm again. That was now
P
I It
It ?
is
I
!
'
I
I
it,
I
226 LUCIAN THE DREAMER
an affair of time. Haidee was certainly insane, and the physicians held out Uttle hope of her recovery. By their
advice she was removed to a private institution within easy distance of Paris, and Lucian announced his inten-
tion of settling down in the gay city in order to be near her. He talked of her now as if she had been a girl- bride, snatched away from him by ruthless fate, and it was plain to see that he had obliterated the angry thoughts that had filled him during his frenzy of resent- ment, and now cherished nothing but feelings of
chastened and tender regret. For
frailest of frail mortals, became apotheosised into some- thing very different. Lucian, who never did anything by halves and could not avoid extremes, exalted her into a sort of much-wronged saint; she became his dream, and nobody had the heart to wake him.
Sprats
for Haidee, the other of a large part of the business affairs brought into active operation by the recent tragedy. Saxonstowe, working untiringly
on his behalf, was soon able to place Lucian's affairs in order. Lucian gave him full power to act, and ere long had the satisfaction of knowing that the liability to Darlington and Darlington had been discharged, that Miss Pepperdine's mind had been set at rest as to the
necessary arrangements
honour, and that he owed money to no one. He would be able to surround the stricken Haidee with every comfort and luxury that one
in her condition could enjoy, and he himself need never feel a moment's anxiety. For the affaire Damerel had had its uses. Lucian came again in the market. Mr. Robertson began to sell the thin green-clad volumes more rapidly than ever before; even the portly epic moved,
and finally began racing its sister competitors for the favour of the fickle public. Mr. Harcourt, with a rare sense of fitness, revived Lucian's first play to crowded houses; an enterprising Frenchman went over to London and witnessed a performance, and within a few weeks
preservation of the family
Haidee, indeed,
and Saxonstowe worked hard for him at this time, one relieving him of much trouble in making the
LUCIAN THE DREAMER 227
presented a version of it at ons of the Parisian theatres. French translations of Lucian's works followed, and sold Hke hot cakes; the Italian translations received a fillip, and people in the United States became interested.
Nothing, said Mr.
from a trade point of view.
Robertson, could have been better,
Lucian accepted all this with indifference and equani- mity. All his thoughts were centred on the quiet house in the little village outside Paris, where Haidee laughed
at her own fingers or played with dolls. Every afternoon he left his appartement and travelled into the country to inquire after his wife's health. He always carried some little gift with him—flowers, fruit, a child's picture- book, a child's toy, and the nurse to whom these things were given used to weep over them, being young and sentimental, and very much in love with Lucian's face and hair, which was now turning a pretty and becoming grey at the temples. Sometimes he saw the doctor, who was sympathetic, and guarded in his answers, and some- times he walked in the garden with an old abbe who used to visit the place, and exchanged pious sentiments with him. But he never saw Haidee, for the doctors feared and thus his conception of her was not of the madwoman, but of the young beauty with whom he had made an impetuous runaway marriage. He used to walk about Paris in those days with eyes that wore
and the women would speak of his beauty with tears in their eyes and shake their heads over the sadness of his story, which was well known to everybody, and in pecuniary value was worth gold-
mine.
far-away expression,
a
a
it,
CHAPTER XXVIII
When they had done everything that could be done for him at that time, Sprats and Saxonstowe left Lucian in Paris and returned together to London. He appeared to have no particular desire that they should remam with him, nor any dread of being alone. Sprats had seen to the furnishing of his rooms and to the transportation of his most cherished books and pictures; he was left sur- rounded with comfort and luxury, and he assured his friends that he wanted for nothing. He intended to devote himself to intense study, and if he wanted a little society, well, he already had a considerable acquaintance amongst authors and artists in Paris, and could make use of it if need were. But he spoke of himself as of an anchorite; it was plain to see that he believed that the joie de vivre existed for him no longer. It was also plain that something in him wished to be clear of the old life and the old associations. He took an affectionate fare- well of Sprats and of Saxonstowe at the Gare du Nord, whither he accompanied them on their departure, but Sprats was keenly aware of the fact that there was that in him which was longing to see the last of them. They were links of a chain that bound him to a life with which he wished to have no further connection. When they said good-bye, Sprats knew that she was turning down a page that closed a long chapter of her own life.
She faced the problem bravely and with clear-headed- ness. She saw now that much of what she had taken to be real fact had been but a dream. Lucian had awak- ened the mother-instinct in her by his very helplessness, but nothing in him had ever roused the new feeling which had grown in her every day since Saxonstowe had told her of his love. She had made the mistake of taking interest and affection for love, and now that she had
found it out she was contented and uneasy, happy and 228
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
229
miserable, pleased and furious, all at once. She wanted to run away from Saxonstowe to the very ends of the earth, but she also cherished a secret desire to sit at his feet and be his slave, and would rather have torn her tongue out than tell him of it.
While they were father-and-mother-ing Lucian in Paris, Saxonstowe had remained solid and grim as one of the Old Guard, doing nothing but his duty. Sprats had watched him with keen observation, and had admired his stern determination and the earnest way in which he did everything. He had taken hold of Lucian as a big brother might take a little one, and had been gentle and firm, kindly and tactful, all at once. She had often longed to throw her arms round him and kiss him
for his good-boy qualities, but he had sunk the lover in the friend with unmistakable purpose, and she was afraid of him. She began to catch herself looking at him out of her eye-corners when he was not looking at her, and she hated herself. Once when he came suddenly into a room, she blushed so furiously that she could have cried with vexation, and it was all the more aggravating, she said, because she had just happened to be thinking of him. Travelling back together, she was very subdued and essentially feminine. Her manner invited con- fidence, but Saxonstowe was stiff as a ramrod and cold as an icicle. He put her into a hansom at Charing Cross, and bade her good-bye as if she had been a mere
acquaintance.
But he came to her the next afternoon, and she knew
from his face that he was in an urgent and a masterful mood.
She recognised that she would have to capitu- late, and had a happy moment in assuring herself that she would make her own terms. Saxonstowe wasted no time. He might have been a smart young man calling to collect the water-rate.
* The night that we went to Paris together,' he said, ' you made an observation which you thought I under- stood. I didn't understand and now want to know
what you meant. '
it,
I
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
230
' What I said. That we were going—you and I—
together,' she answered. '
' But what did that mean?
' Together,' she said, ' together means—well, of
course, it means — together. ' shoulders; she Saxonstowe put his hands on her
immediately began to study the pattern of the hearthrug
at their feet. me, Millicent? ' he said. ' Will you marry
She nodded her head, but her eyes still remained fixed
on his toes.
' Answer me,' he commanded.
' Yes,' she said, and lifted her eyes to his.
A moment later she disengaged herself from his arms
and began to laugh. conditions,' she ' I was going to extract such a lot of
said. ' Somehow I don't care about them now. But
will you tell me just what is going to happen? '
' You knew, I suppose, that I should have already mapped everything out. Well, so I have. We shall be
married at once, in the quietest possible fashion, and then we are going round the world in our own way. It is to be your holiday after all these years of work. '
She nodded, with perfect acquiescence in his plans.
' At once? ' she said questioningly.
' A week from to-day,' he said.
The notion of such precipitancy brought the blood into
her face.
' I suppose I ought to say that I can't possibly be
ready in a week,' she said, ' but it so happens that I can.
A week to-day, then. '
Mr. Chilverstone came up from Simonstower to marry
them. It was a very quiet wedding in a quiet church. Lady Firmanence, however, was there, and before the bride and bridegroom left to catch a transatlantic liner for Ney York she expressed a decided opinion that the fourth Viscount Saxonstowe had inherited more than his share of the good sense and wise perception for which their family had always been justly famous.
XXIX
LuciAN settled down into a groove-like existence. He read when he liked and worked when he felt any parti- cular inclination to do so; he amused himself at times with the life which a man of his temperament may live in Paris, but always with the air of one who looks on. He made a few new friends and sometimes visited old ones. Now and then he entertained in a quiet, old- fashioned way. He was very indulgent and caressing to a certain coterie of young people who believed in him as a great master and elevated his poetry to the dignity of a cult. He was always a distinguished figure when he showed himself at the opera or the theatre, and people still pointed him out on the boulevards and shook their heads and said what a pity it was that one so young and handsome and talented should carry so heavy a burden. In this way he may be said to have become quite an institution of Paris, and Americans stipulated with their guides that he should be pointed out to them at the first opportunity.
Whatever else engaged Lucian's attention or his time, he never forgot his daily visit to the quiet house in the suburbs where Haidee still played with dolls or laughed gleefully at her attendants. He permitted nothing to interfere with this duty, which he regarded as a penance for his sins of omission to Haidee in days gone by. Others might forsake Paris for the sea or the mountains; Lucian remained there all the year round for two years, making his daily pilgrimage. He saw the same faces every day, and heard the same report, but he never saw his wife. Life became curiously even and regular, but it never oppressed him. He had informed himself at the very beginning of this period that this was a thing to be endured, and he endured it as pleasantly and
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CHAPTER
232
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
bravely as possible. During those two years he pub- lished two new volumes, of a somewhat new note, which sold better in a French translation than in the English original, and at Mr. Harcourt's urgent request he wrote a romantic drama. It filled the Athenaeum during the whole of a London season, and the financial results were gratifying in a high degree, for the glamour and mystery of the affaire Damerel were still powerful, and Lucian had become a personality and a force by reason of his troubles.
At the end of two years, the doctor to whose care Haidee had been entrusted called Lucian into his private room one day and told him that he had grave news to communicate. His patient, he said, was dying—slowly,
But there was more than that: before her death she would recover her reason. She would probably recall everything that had taken place; it was more than possible that she would have painfully clear
but very surely.
recollections of the scene, whatever it might be, that had immediately preceded her sudden loss of sanity. It was but right, said the doctor, that Mr. Damerel should know of this, but did Mr. Damerel wish to be with his wife when this development occurred? It might be a pain- ful experience, and death must soon follow it. It was for Mr. Damerel to decide. Lucian decided on the instant. He had carried an image of Haidee in his mind for two years, and it had become fixed on his mental vision with such firmness that he could not think of her as anything but what he imagined her to be. He told the doctor that he would wish to know as soon as his
wife regained her reason —it was his duty, he said, to be with her. After that, every visit to the private asylum was made with anxious wonder if the tortured brain had cleared. —
It was not until the following spring two and a half years after the tragedy of the Bristol—that Lucian saw Haidee. He scarcely knew the woman to whom they took him. They had deluged him with warnings as to the change in her, but he had not expected to find her a
LUCIAN THE DREAMER 233
grey-haired, time-worn woman, and he had difficulty in preserving his composure when he saw her. He did not know it, but her reason had returned some time before, and she had become fully cognisant of her surroundings and of what was going to happen. More than that, she had asked for a priest and had enjoyed ghostly consola- tion. She gazed at Lucian with a curious wistfulness,
and yet there was something strangely
sullen in her
manner.
* I wanted to see you,' she said, after a time. ' I
know I'm going to die very soon, and there are things I want to say. I remember all that happened, you know. Oh yes, it's quite clear to me now, but somehow it doesn't trouble me—I was mad enough when I did it. '
' Don't speak of that,' he said. ' Forget it all. '
She shook her head.
' Never mind,' she went on. ' What I wanted to say
was, that I'm sorry that—well, you know. '
Lucian gazed at her with a sickening fear creeping
closely round his heart. He had forced the truth away
from him: he was to hear it at last from the lips of a
dying woman.
* You were to blame, though,' she said presently.
' You ought not to have let me go alone on his yacht or to the Highlands. It was so easy to go wrong there. '
Lucian could not control a sharp cry.
' Don't! ' he said, ' don't! You don't know what you're saying. It can't be that—that you wrote the truth in that letter? It was—hallucination. '
She looked at him out of dull eyes.
' I want you to say you forgive me,' she said. ' The priest —he said I ought to ask your forgiveness. '
Lucian bowed his head.
' Yes,' he said, ' I forgive all you wish. Try not to
think of it any more. '
He was saying over and ovei to himself that she was
still disordered of mind, that the sin she was confessing was imaginary; but deeper than his insistence on this lay a dull consciousness that he was hearing the truth.
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LUCIAN THE DREAMER
He stood watching her curiously. She suddenly looked up at him, and he saw a strange gleam in her eyes.
' After all,' she said, half spitefully, ' you came between him and me at the beginning. '
Lucian never saw his wife again. A month later she was dead. All the time of the burial service he was thinking that it would have been far better if she had never recovered her reason. For two years he had cherished a dream of her that had assumed tender and pathetic tones. It had become a part of him; the ugly reality of the last grim moments of her life stood out in violent contrast to its gentleness and softness. When the earth was thrown upon the coffin, he was wondering at the wide difference which exists between the real and the unreal, and whether the man is most truly blessed who walks amongst stern verities or dreams amidst the
poppy-beds of illusion. One thing was certain : the face of truth was not always beautiful, nor her voice always soothing to the ear.
XXX
After Haidee's death Lucian left Paris, and during the rest of the spring and summer of that year went wander-
autumn.
unwonted activity.
CHAPTER
ing hither and thither about Europe.
this time in a state of quiescence; he lounged from one place to another, faintly interested and lazily amused. He was beginning to be a little bored by life, and a little tempted to drift with its stream. It was in this frame of mind that he returned to London in the following
There, soon after his return, he sprang into
It was on the very eve of the outbreak of the war in South Africa. Men were wondering what was going
His mind was at
Some, clearer of vision than their fellows, saw that nothing but war would solve the problem which
to happen.
had assumed vast proportions
because of the vacillating poUcy of a weak Government of twenty years before; the Empire was going to pay now, with millions of its treasure and thousands of its men, for the fatal error which had brought the name of
in the Transvaal and given the Boers a false notion of English strength and character.
Others were all for a policy of smoothing things over, for spreading green boughs over pitfalls — not that any one should fall into them, but in order to make believe that the pitfalls were not there. Others again, of a breed that
England into contempt
islands, advocated, not without success, a policy of surrender to everybody and everything. There was much talking at street comers and in the market-place; much angry debate and acrimonious discussion. Men began to be names, and few took the trouble to meantime, events
has but lately sprung into existence in these
labelled by new
understand each
developed as inevitable consequence always develops them in such situations. Amidst the chattering of tiny voices the thunders of war burst loud and clear.
other. In the 235
and strange intricacies
236
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
Fond as he was of insisting on his ItaHan nationality, he was passionately
devoted to England and the English, and had a great admiration for the history and traditions of the country
Lucian was furious with indignation.
There had once been a question in his mind as to whether he should write in English or in Italian—he had elected to serve England for many reasons, but chiefly because he recognised her greatness Like all Italians, he loved her for what she had done for Greece and for Italy. England and Liberty were synonymous names; of all nations in the world, none had made for freedom as
England had. His blood had leapt in his veins many a time at the thought of the thousand and one great things she had done, the mighty battles she had fought for truth and liberty; he had drunk in the notion from boyhood that England stood in the very vanguard of the army of deliverance. And now she was sending out her armies, marshalling her forces, pouring out her money like water, to crush a tiny folk, a nation of farmers, a sturdy, simple- minded race, one of the least amongst the peoples of the
earth! He shook his head as if he had been asleep, and asked himself if the nation had suddenly gone mad with lust of blood. It was inconceivable that the England of his dreams could do this thing. He looked for her, and found her nowhere. The streets were hot all day with the tramping of armed men. The first tidings of reverse filled the land with the old savage
determination to fight things out to the end, even though all the world should range itself on the other side.
Lucian flung all his feelings of rage, indignation, sorrow, and infinite amazement into a passionate sonnet which appeared next morning in large type, well leaded and spaced, in the columns of a London daily newspaper that favoured the views of the peace-at-any-price party. He followed it up with others. At first there was more sorrow and surprise than anything else in these admoni- tions; but as the days went on their tone altered. He
had endeavoured to bring the giant to his senses by an
of his adoption.
and beheved in her destiny.
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
237
appeal to certain feelings which the giant was too much engaged to feel at that moment; eliciting no response, he became troublesome, and strove to attract the giant's attention by pricking him with pins. The giant paid small attention to this; he looked down, saw a small thing hanging about his feet with apparently mischievous intentions, and calmly pushed it away. Then Lucian began the assault in dead earnest. He could dip his pen in vitriol with the best of them, and when he realised that the giant was drunk with the lust of blood he fell upon him with fury. The vials of poetic wrath had
never been emptied of such a flood of righteous anger since the days wherein Milton called for vengeance upon the murderers of the Piedmontese.
It is an ill thing to fight against the prevalent temper of a nation. Lucian soon discovered that you may kick and prick John Bull for a long time with safety to your- self, because of his good nature, his dislike of bothering about trifles, and his natural sluggishness, but that he always draws a line somewhere, and brings down a heavy fist upon the man who crosses it. He began to find people fighting shy of his company; invitations became less in number; men nodded who used to shake hands; strong things were said in newspapers; and he was warned by friends that he was carrying things too far.
' Endeavour,' said one man, an acquaintance of some years' standing, for whose character and abilities he had a great regard, ' endeavour to get some accurate sense of the position. You are blackguarding us every day with your sonorous sonnets as if we were cut-throats and thieves going out on a murdering and marauding expedi- tion. We are nothing of the sort. We are a great nation, with a
engaged in a very difficult task. The war is bringing us together like brothers —out of its blood and ashes there will spring an Empire such as the world has never seen. You are belittling everything to the level of Hooliganism. '
' What is it but Hooliganism? ' retorted Lucian. ' The
very painful sense of responsibility,
238
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
most powerful nation in the world seizing one of the weakest by the throat ! '
' It is nothing of the sort/ said the other. ' You know it is your great curse, my dear Lucian, that you never get a clear notion of the truth. You have a trick of seeing
as you think they ought to be; you will not see them as they are. Just because the Boers happen to be numerically small, to lead a pastoral life, and to have gone into the desert like the Israelites of old, you have brought that far too powerful imagination of yours to bear upon them, and have elevated them into a class with the Swiss and the ItaHans, who fought for their country. '
' What are the Boers fighting for? ' asked Lucian.
' At present to grab somebody else's property,' returned the other. ' Don't get sentimental about them. After all, much as you love us, you're only half an Englishman, and you don't understand the English feel- ing. Are the English folk not suffering, and is a Boer widow or a Boer orphan more worthy of pity than a Yorkshire lass whose lad is lying dead out there, or a Scottish child whose father will never come back again? '
Lucian swept these small and insignificant details aside
things
with some impatience.
* You are the mightiest nation the world has ever
seen,' he said. ' You have a past—such a past as no other people can boast. You have a responsibility because of that past, and at present you have thrown all sense of it away, and are behaving like the drunken brute who rises gorged with flesh and wine, and yells for blood. This is an England with vine-leaves in her hair —it is not the England of Cromwell. '
* Ithank God it is not! ' said the other man with heartfelt reverence. ' We wish for no dictatorship here. Come, leave off slanging us in this bloodthirsty fashion, and try to arrive at a sensible view of things. Turn your energies to a practical direction—write a new romantic play for Harcourt, something that will cheer us in these dark days, and give the money for bandages
LUCIAN THE DREAMER 239
and warm socks and tobacco for poor Tommy out at the front. He isn't as picturesque —so it's said—as Brother Boer, but he's a man after all, and has a stomach. '
But Lucian would neither be cajoled nor chaffed out of his role of prophet. He became that most objection- able of all things — the man who believes he has a mes- sage, and must deliver it. He continued to hurl his philippics at the British public through the ever-ready
and the man in the street, who is not given to the drawing of fine dis-
columns of the peace-at-any-price paper,
tinctions, called him a pro-Boer.
reality, was not a pro-Boer—he merely saw the artistry of the pro-Boer position. He remembered Byron's atti- tude with respect to Greece, and a too generous instinct had led him to compare Mr. Kruger to Cincinnatus. The man in the street knew nothing of these things, and
Lucian, in strict
cared less. It seemed to him that
after all, nothing but an ink-slinger, a blooming poet, was slanging the quarter of a million men who were hurrying to Table Bay as rapidly as the War Office could get them there. To this sort of thing the man in the street objected. He did not care if Lucian's instincts were all on the side of the weaker party, nor was it an excuse that Lucian himself, in the matter of strict nation- ality, was an Italian. He had chosen to write his poems in England, said the man in the street, and also in the English language, and he had made a good thing out of it too, and no error, and the best thing he could do now was to keep a civil tongue in his head, or, rather, pen in his hand. This was no time for the cuckoo to foul the nest wherein he had had free quarters for so long.
The opinion of the man in the street is the crystallised common-sense of England, voiced in elementary lan- guage. Lucian, unfortunately, did not know this, and he kept on firing sonnets at the heads of people who, without bluster or complaint, were already tearing up their shirts for bandages. The man in the street read them, and ground his teeth, and waited for an oppor- tunity. That came when Lucian was ill-advised enough
Lucian, who was,
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LUCIAN THE DREAMER
to allow his name to be printed in large letters upon the placard of a great meeting whereat various well-inten-
to protest against a war which had been forced upon the nation, and from which it was then impossible to draw back with either safety or honour. Lucian was still in the clouds; still thinking of Byron at Missolonghi; still harping upon the undoubted but scarcely pertinent facts
that England had freed slaves, slain giants, and waved her flag protectingly over all who ran to her for help. The foolishness of assisting at a public meeting whereat the nation was to be admonished of its wickedness in daring to assert itself never occurred to him. He was still the man with the message.
He formed one of a platform party of whom it might safely have been said that every man was a crank, and every woman a faddist. He was somewhat astonished and a little perplexed when he looked around him, and realised that his fellow-protestants were not of the sort wherewith he usually foregathered; but he speedily became interested in the audience. It had been intended to restrict admission to those well-intentioned folk who desired peace at any price, but the man in the street had placed a veto upon that, and had come in large numbers, and with a definite resolve to take part in the proceedings. The meeting began in a cheerful
tioned but somewhat thoughtless persons proposed
fashion, and ended in one dear to the English heart. The chairman was listened to with some forbearance and patience; a lady was allowed to have her say because she was a woman. It was a sad inspiration that led the chairman to put Lucian up next;
a still sadder one to refer to his poetical exhortations to the people. The sight of Lucian, the fashionably attired, dilettante, dreamy-eyed poet, who had lashed and pricked the nation whose blood was being poured out like water, and whose coffers were being depleted at a rapid rate, was too much for the folk he essayed to address. They knew him and his recent record.
