No More Learning

' 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
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I
a
a
a
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•
Iis' a '
is '
it it a
a
it
t
a aI
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^^^
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. '
Mr. Pepperdine drove homewards with what country folk call a heart-and-a-half. He was unusually light- some in mood and garrulous in conversation that even-
but he would only discourse on one topic—the virtues of the British aristocracy. He named no names and condescended to no particulars — the British aristo- cracy in general served him for the text of a long sermon which amused Miss Judith and Lucian to a high degree, and made Miss Pepperdine wonder how many glasses of whisky Simpson had consumed at the * White Lion ' in Oakborough. It so happened that the good man had been so full of trouble that he had forgotten to take even one—his loquacity that evening was simply due to the fact that while he was preparing to wail De Profundis he had been commanded to sing Te De Laudamus, and his glorification of lords was his version of that paean of joyfulness.
ing,
CHAPTER XI
LuciAN received the news which Mr. Chilverstone com- municated to him in skilful and diplomatic fashion with an equanimity which seemed natural to him when hear- ing of anything that appeared to be his just due. He had so far had everything that he desired—always excepting the fidelity of Haidee, which now seemed a matter of no moment and was no longer a sore point— and he took it as a natural consequence of his own exist- ence that he should go to Oxford, the fame of which ancient seat of learning had been famihar to him from boyhood. He made no inquiries as to the cost of this step—anything relating to money had no interest for him, save as regards laying it out on the things he desired. He had been accustomed as a child to see his father receive considerable sums and spend them with royal lavishness, and as he had never known what it was to have to earn money before it could be enjoyed, he troubled himself in nowise as to the source of the
which were to keep him at Oxford for three He listened attentively to Mr. Pepperdine's
supplies
years.
solemn admonitions on the subjects of economy and
and replied at the end thereof that he would always let his uncle have a few days' notice when he wanted a cheque — a remark which made Lord
Simonstower's fellow-conspirator think a good deal.
It was impossible at this stage to do anything or say
an5^hing to shake Lucian's confidence in his destiny. He meant to work hard and to do great things, and without being conceited he was sure of success — it seemed to him to be his rightful due. Thanks to the influence of his father in childhood and to that of Mr. Chilverstone at a later stage, he had formed a fine taste and was already an accomplished scholar. He had never read any trash in his life, and it was now extremely
99
extravagance,
100 LUCIAN THE DREAMER
that he ever would, for he had developed an almost womanish disHke of the unlovely, the mean, and the sordid, and a delicate contempt for anything in hterature that was not based on good models. Mr. Chilverstone had every confidence in him, and every hope of his future; it filled him with pride to know that he was sending so promising a man to his own uni- versity; but he was cast down when he found that Lord Simonstower insisted on Lucian's entrance at St. Bene- dict's, instead of at St. Perpetua's, his own old college.
The only person who was full of fears was Sprats. She had been Lucian's other self for six years, and she, more than any one else, knew his need of constant help and friendship. He was full of simplicity; he credited everybody with the possession of qualities and sym-
which few people possess; he lived in a world of dreams rather than of stern facts. He was obstinate, wayward, impulsive; much too affectionate, and much too lovable; he Hved for the moment, and only regarded the future as one continual procession of rosy hours. Sprats, with feminine intuition, feared the moment when he would come into collision with stem experience of the world and the worldly —she longed to be with him when that moment came, as she had been with him when the frailty and coquetry of the Dolly kid nearly broke his child's heart. And so during the last few days of his stay at Simonstower she hovered about him as a faithful mother does about a sailor son, and she gave him much excellent advice and many counsels of perfection.
' You know you are a baby,' she said, when Lucian laughed at her. ' You have been so coddled all your life that you will cry if a pin pricks you. And there will be no Sprats to tie a rag round the wound. '
' It would certainly be better if Sprats were going too,' he said thoughtfully, and his face clouded. ' But then,' he continued, flashing into a smile, ' after all, Oxford is only two hundred miles from Simonstower, and there are trains which carry one over two hundred miles in a very short time. If I should chance to fall
unlikely
pathies
departed
»J1>1>> LUCIAN THE DREAMER loi
and bump my nose I shall take a ticket by the next train and come to Sprats to be patched up. '
' I shall keep a stock of ointments and lotions and
bandages in perpetual readiness/ she said. ' But it must be distinctly understood, Lucian, that I have the
monopoly of curing you — I have a sort of notion, you know, that it is my chief mission in life to be your nurse. '
' The concession is yours,' he answered, with mock
gravity.
It was with this understanding that they parted.
There came a day when all the good-byes had been said, the blessings and admonitions received, and Lucian
from the village with a pocket full of money
there through the fooHsh feminine of Miss Pepperdine and Miss Judith, who had womanly fears as to the horrible situations in which
he might be placed if he were bereft of ready cash) and a light and a sanguine heart. Mr. Chilverstone went with him to Oxford to see his protege settled and have a brief holiday of his own; on their departure Sprats drove them to the station at Wellsby. She waved her handkerchief until the train had disappeared; she was conscious when she turned away that her heart had gone with Lucian.
(largely placed indulgence
CHAPTER XII
About the middle of a May afternoon, seven years later, a young man turned out of the Strand into a quiet street in the neighbourhood of Covent Garden and began look- ing about him as if endeavouring to locate the where- abouts of some particular place. Catching sight of the name William Robertson on a neighbouring window,
it, he turned into the door of the establishment thus designated, and encountering an office-boy who was busily engaged in
reading a comic journal inside a small pen labelled
' Inquiries,'
with the word Publisher underneath
he asked with great politeness if Mr. Robertson was at that moment disengaged. The office- boy in his own good time condescended to examine the personal appearance of the inquirer, and having assured himself that the gentleman was worthy his attention he asked in sharp tones if he had an appointment with Mr. Robertson. To this the stranger replied that he believed he was expected by Mr. Robertson during the afternoon, but not at any particular hour, and produced a card from which the office-boy learned that he was confront- ing the Viscount Saxonstowe. He forthwith disappeared into some inner region and came back a moment later with a young gentleman who cultivated long hair and an aesthetic style of necktie, and bowed Lord Saxonstowe through various doors into a pleasant ante-room, where
he accommodated his lordship with a chair and the Times, and informed him that Mr. Robertson would be at liberty in a few moments. Lord Saxonstowe remarked that he was in no hurry at all, and would wait Mr. Robertson's convenience.
The young gentleman with the luxuriant locks replied politely that he was quite sure Mr. Robertson would not keep his lordship waiting long, and added that they were experiencing
quite summer-like weather. Lord Saxonstowe agreed Z02
LUC:r». N THE DREAMER 103
to this proposition, and opensd the Times. His host or keeper for the time being seated himself at a desk, one half of which was shared by a lady typist who had affected great interest in her work since Lord Saxon- stowe's entrance, and who now stole surreptitious glances at him as he scanned the newspaper. The clerk scribbled a line or two on a scrap of paper 'and passed it across to her. She untwisted it and read : This is the chap that did that tremendous exploration in the North
Asia: a real live lord, you know. ' She scribbled an
of line: ' course I know — do you think I answering Of
didn't recognise the name? ' and passed it over with a
The clerk indited another epistle Don't look as if he'd seen much of anything, does he? '
show of indignation. '
:^
The clerk sighed, caressed a few sprouts on his
top-lip, and remarking to his own soul that these toffs
always catch the girls' eyes, fell to doing nothing in
a practised way.
Viscount Saxonstowe, quite unconscious of the interest he was exciting, stared about him after a time and began to wonder if the two young people at the desk usually worked with closed windows. The atmosphere was heavy, and there was a concentrated smell of paper, and ink, and paste. He thought of the wind-swept plains and steppes on which he had spent long months —
there, but
The girl perused this, scribbled back : '
His eyes and moustache are real jam! ' and fell to work at her machine
again.
he had gone through some stiff experiences
he confessed to himself that he would prefer a bitter cold night in winter in similar solitudes to a summer's day in that ante-room. His own healthy tan and the clear- ness of his eyes, his alert look and the easy swing with which he walked, would never have been developed amidst such surroundings, and the consciousness of his own rude health made him feel sorry for the two white slaves before him. He felt that if he could have his own way he would cut the young gentleman's hair, put him
into a flannel shirt and trot him round; as for the young lady, he would certainly send her into the country for
104
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
a holiday. And while he thus indulged his fancies a door opened and he heard voices, and two men stepped into the ante-room.
He instinctively recognised one as the publisher whom he had come to see; at the other, a much younger man, he found himself staring with some sense of recognition which was as yet vague and unformed. He felt sure that he had met him before, and under some unusual circumstances, but he could not remember the occa- sion, nor assure his mind that the face on which he looked was really familiar—it was more suggestive of something that had been familiar than famihar in itself. He concluded that he must have seen a photograph of it in some illustrated paper; the man was in all likeH- hood a popular author. Saxonstowe carefully looked him over as he stood exchanging a last word with the publisher on the threshold of the latter's room. He noted the gracefulness of the slim figure in the perfectly fashioned clothes, and again he became conscious that his memory was being stirred. The man under obser- vation was swinging a light walking-cane as he chatted; he made a sudden movement with it to emphasise a point, and Saxonstowe 's memory cleared itself. His thoughts flew back ten years : he saw two boys, one the
very image of incarnate Wrath, the other an equally faithful impersonation of Amazement, facing each other in an antique hall, with rapiers in hand and a sense of battle writ large upon their faces and figures.
'And I can't remember the chap's name ! ' he thought. ' But this is he. '
He looked at his old antagonist more closely, and with a keener interest. Lucina was now twenty-five; he had developed into a tall, well-knit man of graceful and sinuous figure; he was dressed with great care and with
fashion, but with a close study of his own particular requirements;
strict attention to the height of the prevalent
his appearance was distinguished and notable, and Saxonstowe, little given to sentiment as regards manly beauty, confessed to himself that the face on which he
LUCIAN THE DREAMER 105
looked might have been moulded by Nature from a canvas or marble of the Renaissance. It was a face for which some women would forget everything, —Saxon- stowe, with this thought half-formed in his mind, caught sight of the anaemic typist, who, oblivious of anything else in the room, had fixed all her attention on Lucian. Her hands rested, motionless, on the keys of the machine before her; her head was slightly tilted back, her eyes
a faint flush of colour had stolen into her cheeks, and for the moment
shone, her lips were sHghtly parted;
she was a pretty girl. Saxonstowe smiled —it seemed to him that he had been privileged to peep into the secret chamber of a girlish soul. ' She would give something to kiss his hand,' he thought.
Lucian turned away from the publisher with a nod; his eye caught Saxonstowe's and held it. A puzzled look came into his face; he paused and involuntarily stretched out his hand, staring at Saxonstowe search- ingly. Saxonstowe smiled and gave his hand in return.
' We have met somewhere, ' said Lucian wonderingly , * I cannot think where. '
' Nor can I remember your name,' answered Saxon- stowe. ' But—we met in the Stone Hall at Simons-
tower. '
Lucian 's face lighted with the smile which had become
famous for its sweetness. — ' And with rapiers ! ' he exclaimed. ' I remember
I remember! You are Dickie —Dickie Feversham. '
He began to laugh. * How quaint that scene was ! ' he said. ' I have often thought that it had the very essence of the dramatic in it. Let me see—what did we fight about? Was it Haidee? How amusing —because Haidee and I are married. ' '
' That,' said Saxonstowe, seems a happy ending to the affair. But I think it ended happily at the time. And even yet I cannot remember your name. *
Mr. Robertson stepped forward before Lucian could reply. He introduced the young men to each other in due form. Then Saxonstowe knew that his old enemy
io6 LUCIAN THE DREAMER
was one of the great literary lions of the day; and Lucian recognised Saxonstowe as the mighty traveller of whose deeds most people were talking. They looked at each other with interest, and Mr. Robertson felt a glow of pride when he remembered that his was the only imprint which had ever appeared on a title-page of Lucian Damerel's, and that he was shortly to publish the two massive volumes in which Viscount Saxonstowe had given to the world an account of his wondrous wanderings. He rubbed his hands as he regarded these two splendid young men; it did him good to be near them.
Lucian was worshipping Saxonstowe with the guileless adoration of a child that looks on a man who has seen great things and done great things. It was a trick of his: he had once been known to stand motionless for an hour, gazing in silence at a man who had performed a deed of desperate valour, had suffered the loss of his legs in doing and had been obliged to exhibit himself with placard round his neck in order to scrape living
Lucian was now conjuring up vision of the steppes and plains over which Saxonstowe had travelled with his life in his hands.
'When will you dine with us? ' he said, suddenly bursting into speech. To-night —to-morrow? —the day after—when? Come before everybody snaps you up—you will have no peace for your soul or rest for your body after your book out. '
Then shall run away to certain regions where one can easily find both,' answered Saxonstowe laughingly. assure you have no intention of wasting either
body or soul in London. '
Then they arranged that the new lion was to dine with
Mr. and Mrs. Lucian Damerel on the following day, and Lucian departed, while Saxonstowe followed Mr. Robertson into his private room.
Your lordship has met Mr. Damerel before? ' said the publisher, who had something of liking for gossip about his pet authors.
together.
a
I' ''
I I
it,
' is
a
a
a
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
107
' Once,' answered Saxonstowe. ' We were boys at the time. I had no idea that he was the poet of whose work I have heard so much since coming home. '
' He has had an extraordinarily successful career,' said Mr. Robertson, glancing complacently at a little row of thin volumes bound in dark green cloth which figured in a miniature book-case above his desk. * I have pub- lished all his work—he leaped into fame with his first book, which I produced when he was at Oxford, and since then he has held a recognised place. Yes, one may say that Damerel is one of fortune's spoiled dar- lings — everything that he has done has turned out a great success. He has the grand manner in poetry. I don't know whether your lordship has read his great
tragedy, Domitia, which was staged so magnificently' at the Athenaeum, and proved the sensation of the year?
' I am afraid,' replied Saxonstowe, * that I have had few opportunities of reading anything at all for the past five years. I think Mr. Damerel' s first volume had just appeared when I left England, and books, you know, are not easily obtainable in the wilds of Central Asia. Now that I have better chances, I must not neglect them. '
' You have a great treat in store, my lord,' said the publisher. He nodded his head several times, as if to emphasise the remark. ' Yes,' he continued, ' Damerel has certainly been favoured by fortune. Everything has conspired to increase the sum of his fame. His romantic marriage, of course, was a great advertisement. '
* An advertisement ! '
* I mean, of course, from my standpoint,' said Mr. Robertson hastily. ' He ran away with a very beautiful girl who was on the very eve of contracting a most advantageous marriage from a worldly point of view, and the affair was much talked about.
There was a great rush on Damerel's books during the next few weeks—it is wonderful how a little sensation like that
helps the sale of a book. I remember that Lord Pintle- ford pubUshed a novel with me some years ago which
io8 LUCIAN THE DREAMER
we could not sell at all. He shot his coachman in a fit of anger—that sold the book like hot cakes. '
' I trust the unfortunate coachman was not seriously injured,' said Saxonstowe, who was much amused by these revelations. ' It is, I confess, an unusual method of advertising a book, and one which I should not care
to *adopt. ' ' Oh, we can spare your lordship the trouble !
said Mr. Robertson. ' There'll be no need to employ any
unusual methods in making your lordship's book known. I have already subscribed two large edit:<ons of it. '
With this gratifying announcement Mr. Robertson plunged into the business which had brought Lord Saxonstowe to his office, and for that time no more was said of Lucian Damerel and his great fame. But that night Saxonstowe dined with his aunt. Lady Firmanence, a childless widow who lived on past scandals and present gossip, and chancing to remark that he had encountered Lucian and renewed a very small acquaintance with him, was greeted with a sniff which plainly indicated that Lady Firmanence had something to say.
* And where, pray, did you meet Lucian Damerel at any time? ' she inquired. ' He was unknown, or just beginning to be known, when you left England. '
* It is ten years since I met him,' answered Saxon- stowe. * It was when I was staying at Saxonstowe with my uncle. I met Damerel at Simonstower, and the circumstances were rather amusing. '
He gave an account of the duel, which afforded Lady Firmanence much amusement, and he showed her the scar on his hand, and laughed as he related the story of Lucian's terrible earnestness.
' But I have never forgotten,' he concluded, ' how readily and sincerely he asked my forgiveness when he found that he had been in the wrong—it rather knocked me over, you know, because I didn't quite understand that he really felt the thing—we were both such boys, and the girl was a child. '
' Oh, Lucian
Damerel has good feeling,' said Lady
LUCIAN THE DREAMER 109
Firmanence. ' You wouldn't understand the Italian strain in him. But it is amusing that you should have fought over Haidee Brinklow, who is now Mrs. Lucian.
I'm glad he married her, and that you didn't. '
' Considering that I am to dine with Mr. and Mrs.
Lucian Damerel?
to-morrow, ' said Saxonstowe, ' it
Lucian Damerel
bit odd that don't know any more of them than this. She, remember, was some connection of Lord Simons- tower's; but who he? '
Oh, he was the son of Cyprian Damerel, an Italian artist who married the daughter of one of Simonstower's tenants. Simonstower was at all times greatly interested in him, and has always been my firm impression that was he who sent the boy to Oxford. At any rate, when he died, which was just before Lucian Damerel came of age, Simonstower left
him ten thousand pounds. '
That was good,' said Saxonstowe.
don't know,' said Lady Firmanence. has always seemed to me from what have seen of him— and keep my eyes open on most things — that would have been far better for that young man fortune had dealt him few sound kicks instead of so many half-
Saxonstowe, it's bad thing for man, and especially for man of that temperament,
to be pampered too much. Now, Lucian Damerel has been pampered all his life— know good deal about him, because was constantly down at Saxonstowe during the last two or three years of your uncle's Hfe, and Saxonstowe, as you may remember, close to Simonstower. know how Lucian was petted and pampered by his own people, and by the parson and his daughter, and by the old lord. His way has always been made smooth for him— would have done him good to find few rough places here and there. He had far too much flattery poured upon him when his success came, and he has got used to expecting though
indeed,' concluded the old lady, laughing, Heaven knows I'm wrong in saying " got used," for Damerel's
pence. Depend upon
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no LUCIAN THE DREAMER
one of the sort who take all the riches and luxuries of the worid as their just due. '
' He seemed to me to be very simple and unaffected,' said Saxonstowe.
Lady Firmanence nodded the ribbons of her cap.
' Yes,' she said, ' he's sadly too simple, and I wish— for I can't help hking him—that he was as affected as some of those young upstarts who cultivate long hair and velvet coats on the strength of a slim volume printed on one side of the paper only. No—Lucian Damerel hasn't a scrap of affectation about him, and he isn't a I wish he were affected and that he would pose
poseur.
—I do indeed, for his own sake. '
Saxonstowe knew that his aunt was a clever woman. He held his tongue, asking her by his eyes to explain this desire of hers, which seemed so much at variance with her well-known love of humbug and cant.
' Oh, of course I know you're wondering at that! ' she said. * Well, the explanation is simple enough. I wish Lucian Damerel were a poseur, I wish he were
affected, even to the insufferable stage, for the simple reason that if he were these things it would show that he was alive to the practical and business side of the matter. — What is he? A writer. He'll have to live by writing at the rate he and Haidee live they'll soon exhaust their resources — and he ought to be ahve to the £s, d. oi his trade, for it is a trade. As things are, he isn't alive. The difference between Lucian Damerel and some other men of equal eminence in his own craft is just this: they are for ever in an attitude, crying out, " Look at me—is it not wonderful that I am so clever? " Lucian, on the other hand, seems to suggest an attitude and air of " Wouldn't it be curious if I weren't? " '
* I think,' said Saxonstowe, * that there may be some affectation in that. '
' Affectation,' said Lady Firmanence, ' depends upon two things if it is to be successful : the power to deceive cleverly, and the abihty to deceive for ever. Lucian Damerel couldn't deceive anybody—he's a child, the
LUCIAN THE DREAMER
m
child who believes the world to be an illimitable nursery crammed with inexhaustible toys. '
* I mean that he plays in life,' said Lady Firmanence. ' He's still sporting on his mother's breast, and he'll go on sporting until somebody picks him up, smacks him
soundly, and throws him into a comer. Then, of course, he will be vastly surprised to find that such treatment could be meted out to him. '
' Then let us hope that he will be able to live in his world of dreams for ever,' said Saxonstowe.
' So he might, if the State were to estabhsh an asylum for folk of his sort,' said Lady Firmanence. ' But he
' You mean that he plays at life? '
happens to be Brinklow. '
married, and married to Haidee
' My pubHsher, ' remarked Saxonstowe, ' gloated over the romantic circumstances of the marriage, and ap- peared to think that that sort of thing was good for trade —made books sell, you know. '
' I have no doubt that Damerel's marriage made his books sell, and kept Domitia running at the Athenaeum for at least three months longer,' replied Lady Firmanence.
* I dare say they appealed to the sensations, emotions, feelings, and notions of the British public,' said the old lady. ' Haidee Brinklow, after a campaign of two seasons, was about to marry a middle-aged person who had made much money in something or other, and was prepared to execute handsome settlements. It was all arranged when Lucian burst upon the scene, blazing with triumph, youth, and good looks. He was the comet of that season, and Haidee was attracted by the glitter of his tail. I suppose he and she were madly in love with each other for quite a month —unfortunately, during that month they committed the indiscretion of marriage. '
'' A runaway marriage, was it not? '
* Under the very noses of the mamma and the bride- groom-elect. There was one happy result of the affair, '
' Were the circumstances, then, so very romantic? *
112 LUCIAN THE DREAMER
said Lady Firmanence musingly; ' it drove Mrs. Brinklow off to somewhere or other on the Continent, and there she has since remained —she took her defeat badly. Now the jilted gentleman took it in good part— it is said that he is quite a sort of grandpapa in the establishment, and has reahsed that there are compensa-
tions even in being jilted. '
Saxonstowe meditated upon these things in silence.
' Mrs. Damerel was a pretty girl,' he said, after a
time. doll,' said Fir- ' Mrs. Damerel is a nice little Lady
manence, ' a very pretty toy indeed. Give her plenty of pretty things to wear and sweets to eat, and all the honey of life to sip at, and she'll do well and go far; but don't ask her to draw cheques against a mental balance which she never had, or you'll get them back— dishonoured. '
' Are there any children? ' Saxonstowe asked.
' Only themselves,' rephed his aunt, ' and quite plenty too, in one house. If it were not for MiUie Chilverstone, I don't know what they would do—she descends upon them now and then, straightens them up as far as she can, and sets the wheels working once more. She is good to them. '
' And who is she? I have some sort of recollection of ' her name,' said Saxonstowe. —
She is the daughter of the parson at Simonstower the man who tutored Lucian Damerel. '
' Ah, I remember —she was the girl who came with him to the Castle that day, and he called her Sprats.