III

by Arthur Machen

　　For days Lucian lay in a swoon of pleasure, smiling when he wasaddressed, sauntering happily in the sunlight, hugging recollection warmto his heart. Annie had told him that she was going on a visit to hermarried sister, and said, with a caress, that he must be patient. Heprotested against her absence, but she fondled him, whispering her charmsin his ear till he gave in and then they said good-bye, Lucian adoring onhis knees. The parting was as strange as the meeting, and that night whenhe laid his work aside, and let himself sink deep into the joys ofmemory, all the encounter seemed as wonderful and impossible as magic.

　　"And you really don't mean to do anything about those rascals?" said hisfather.

　　"Rascals? Which rascals? Oh, you mean Beit. I had forgotten all about it.

　　No; I don't think I shall trouble. They're not worth powder and shot."

　　And he returned to his dream, pacing slowly from the medlar to the quinceand back again. It seemed trivial to be interrupted by such questions; hehad not even time to think of the book he had recommenced so eagerly,much less of this labor of long ago. He recollected without interest thatit cost him many pains, that it was pretty good here and there, and thatit had been stolen, and it seemed that there was nothing more to be saidon the matter. He wished to think of the darkness in the lane, of thekind voice that spoke to him, of the kind hand that sought his own, as hestumbled on the rough way. So far, it was wonderful. Since he had leftschool and lost the company of the worthy barbarians who had befriendedhim there, he had almost lost the sense of kinship with humanity; he hadcome to dread the human form as men dread the hood of the cobra. ToLucian a man or a woman meant something that stung, that spoke words thatrankled, and poisoned his life with scorn. At first such malignityshocked him: he would ponder over words and glances and wonder if he werenot mistaken, and he still sought now and then for sympathy. The poor boyhad romantic ideas about women; he believed they were merciful andpitiful, very kind to the unlucky and helpless. Men perhaps had to bedifferent; after all, the duty of a man was to get on in the world, or,in plain language, to make money, to be successful; to cheat rather thanto be cheated, but always to be successful; and he could understand thatone who fell below this high standard must expect to be severely judgedby his fellows. For example, there was young Bennett, Miss Spurry'snephew. Lucian had met him once or twice when he was spending hisholidays with Miss Spurry, and the two young fellows compared literarynotes together. Bennett showed some beautiful things he had written, overwhich Lucian had grown both sad and enthusiastic. It was such exquisitemagic verse, and so much better than anything he ever hoped to write,that there was a touch of anguish in his congratulations. But whenBennett, after many vain prayers to his aunt, threw up a safe position inthe bank, and betook himself to a London garret, Lucian was not surprisedat the general verdict.

　　Mr. Dixon, as a clergyman, viewed the question from a high standpoint andfound it all deplorable, but the general opinion was that Bennett was ahopeless young lunatic. Old Mr. Gervase went purple when his name wasmentioned, and the young Dixons sneered very merrily over the adventure.

　　"I always thought he was a beastly young ass," said Edward Dixon, "but Ididn't think he'd chuck away his chances like that. Said he couldn'tstand a bank! I hope he'll be able to stand bread and water. That's allthose littery fellows get, I believe, except Tennyson and Mark Twain andthose sort of people."

　　Lucian of course sympathized with the unfortunate Bennett, but suchjudgments were after all only natural. The young man might have stayed inthe bank and succeeded to his aunt's thousand a year, and everybody wouldhave called him a very nice young fellow—"clever, too." But he haddeliberately chosen, as Edward Dixon had said, to chuck his chances awayfor the sake of literature; piety and a sense of the main chance hadalike pointed the way to a delicate course of wheedling, to a littleharmless practicing on Miss Spurry's infirmities, to frequent compliancesof a soothing nature, and the "young ass" had been blind to the directionof one and the other. It seemed almost right that the vicar shouldmoralize, that Edward Dixon should sneer, and that Mr. Gervase shouldgrow purple with contempt. Men, Lucian thought, were like judges, who maypity the criminal in their hearts, but are forced to vindicate theoutraged majesty of the law by a severe sentence. He felt the sameconsiderations applied to his own case; he knew that his father shouldhave had more money, that his clothes should be newer and of a bettercut, that he should have gone to the university and made good friends. Ifsuch had been his fortune he could have looked his fellow-men proudly inthe face, upright and unashamed. Having put on the whole armor of afirst-rate West End tailor, with money in his purse, having taken anxiousthought for the morrow, and having some useful friends and goodprospects; in such a case he might have held his head high in agentlemanly and Christian community. As it was he had usually avoided thereproachful glance of his fellows, feeling that he deserved theircondemnation. But he had cherished for a long time his romanticsentimentalities about women; literary conventions borrowed from theminor poets and pseudo-medievalists, or so he thought afterwards. But,fresh from school, wearied a little with the perpetual society ofbarbarian though worthy boys, he had in his soul a charming image ofwomanhood, before which he worshipped with mingled passion and devotion.It was a nude figure, perhaps, but the shining arms were to be woundabout the neck of a vanquished knight; there was rest for the head of awounded lover; the hands were stretched forth to do works of pity, andthe smiling lips were to murmur not love alone, but consolation indefeat. Here was the refuge for a broken heart; here the scorn of menwould but make tenderness increase; here was all pity and all charitywith loving-kindness. It was a delightful picture, conceived in the "comerest on this bosom," and "a ministering angel thou" manner, with touchesof allurement that made devotion all the sweeter. He soon found that hehad idealized a little; in the affair of young Bennett, while the menwere contemptuous the women were virulent. He had been rather fond ofAgatha Gervase, and she, so other ladies said, had "set her cap" at him.Now, when he rebelled, and lost the goodwill of his aunt, dear MissSpurry, Agatha insulted him with all conceivable rapidity. "After all,Mr. Bennett," she said, "you will be nothing better than a beggar; now,will you? You mustn't think me cruel, but I can't help speaking thetruth. Write books!" Her expression filled up the incomplete sentence;she waggled with indignant emotion. These passages came to Lucian's ears,and indeed the Gervases boasted of "how well poor Agatha had behaved."

　　"Never mind, Gathy," old Gervase had observed. "If the impudentyoung puppy comes here again, we'll see what Thomas can do with thehorse-whip."

　　"Poor dear child," Mrs. Gervase added in telling the tale, "and she wasso fond of him too. But of course it couldn't go on after his shamefulbehavior."

　　But Lucian was troubled; he sought vainly for the ideal womanly, thetender note of "come rest on this bosom." Ministering angels, he feltconvinced, do not rub red pepper and sulfuric acid into the wounds ofsuffering mortals.

　　Then there was the case of Mr. Vaughan, a squire in the neighborhood, atwhose board all the aristocracy of Caermaen had feasted for years. Mr.Vaughan had a first-rate cook, and his cellar was rare, and he wasnever so happy as when he shared his good things with his friends. Hismother kept his house, and they delighted all the girls with frequentdances, while the men sighed over the amazing champagne. Investmentsproved disastrous, and Mr. Vaughan had to sell the grey manor-house bythe river. He and his mother took a little modern stucco villa inCaermaen, wishing to be near their dear friends. But the men were "verysorry; rough on you, Vaughan. Always thought those Patagonians wererisky, but you wouldn't hear of it. Hope we shall see you before verylong; you and Mrs. Vaughan must come to tea some day after Christmas."

　　"Of course we are all very sorry for them," said Henrietta Dixon. "No, wehaven't called on Mrs. Vaughan yet. They have no regular servant, youknow; only a woman in the morning. I hear old mother Vaughan, as Edwardwill call her, does nearly everything. And their house is absurdly small;it's little more than a cottage. One really can't call it a gentleman'shouse."

　　Then Mr. Vaughan, his heart in the dust, went to the Gervases and tried toborrow five pounds of Mr. Gervase. He had to be ordered out of the house,and, as Edith Gervase said, it was all very painful; "he went out in sucha funny way," she added, "just like the dog when he's had a whipping. Ofcourse it's sad, even if it is all his own fault, as everybody says, buthe looked so ridiculous as he was going down the steps that I couldn'thelp laughing." Mr. Vaughan heard the ringing, youthful laughter as hecrossed the lawn.

　　Young girls like Henrietta Dixon and Edith Gervase naturally viewed theVaughans' comical position with all the high spirits of their age, butthe elder ladies could not look at matters in this frivolous light.

　　"Hush, dear, hush," said Mrs. Gervase, "it's all too shocking to be alaughing matter. Don't you agree with me, Mrs. Dixon? The sinfulextravagance that went on at Pentre always frightened me. You rememberthat ball they gave last year? Mr. Gervase assured me that the champagnemust have cost at least a hundred and fifty shillings the dozen."

　　"It's dreadful, isn't it," said Mrs. Dixon, "when one thinks of how manypoor people there are who would be thankful for a crust of bread?"

　　"Yes, Mrs. Dixon," Agatha joined in, "and you know how absurdly theVaughans spoilt the cottagers. Oh, it was really wicked; one would thinkMr. Vaughan wished to make them above their station. Edith and I went fora walk one day nearly as far as Pentre, and we begged a glass of water ofold Mrs. Jones who lives in that pretty cottage near the brook. She beganpraising the Vaughans in the most fulsome manner, and showed us someflannel things they had given her at Christmas. I assure you, my dearMrs. Dixon, the flannel was the very best quality; no lady could wish forbetter. It couldn't have cost less than half-a-crown a yard."

　　"I know, my dear, I know. Mr. Dixon always said it couldn't last. Howoften I have heard him say that the Vaughans were pauperizing all thecommon people about Pentre, and putting every one else in a mostunpleasant position. Even from a worldly point of view it was very poortaste on their part. So different from the true charity that Paulspeaks of."

　　"I only wish they had given away nothing worse than flannel," said MissColley, a young lady of very strict views. "But I assure you there was aperfect orgy, I can call it nothing else, every Christmas. Great jointsof prime beef, and barrels of strong beer, and snuff and tobaccodistributed wholesale; as if the poor wanted to be encouraged in theirdisgusting habits. It was really impossible to go through the village forweeks after; the whole place was poisoned with the fumes of horridtobacco pipes."

　　"Well, we see how that sort of thing ends," said Mrs. Dixon, summing upjudicially. "We had intended to call, but I really think it would beimpossible after what Mrs. Gervase has told us. The idea of Mr. Vaughantrying to sponge on poor Mr. Gervase in that shabby way! I think meannessof that kind is so hateful."

　　It was the practical side of all this that astonished Lucian. He saw thatin reality there was no high-flown quixotism in a woman's nature; thesmooth arms, made he had thought for caressing, seemed muscular; thehands meant for the doing of works of pity in his system, appeareddexterous in the giving of "stingers," as Barnes might say, and thesmiling lips could sneer with great ease. Nor was he more fortunate inhis personal experiences. As has been told, Mrs. Dixon spoke of him inconnection with "judgments," and the younger ladies did not exactlycultivate his acquaintance. Theoretically they "adored" books and thoughtpoetry "too sweet," but in practice they preferred talking about maresand fox-terriers and their neighbors.

　　They were nice girls enough, very like other young ladies in othercountry towns, content with the teaching of their parents, reading theBible every morning in their bedrooms, and sitting every Sunday in churchamongst the well-dressed "sheep" on the right hand. It was not theirfault if they failed to satisfy the ideal of an enthusiastic dreamy boy,and indeed, they would have thought his feigned woman immodest, absurdlysentimental, a fright ("never wears stays, my dear") and horrid.

　　At first he was a good deal grieved at the loss of that charming tenderwoman, the work of his brain. When the Miss Dixons went haughtily by witha scornful waggle, when the Miss Gervases passed in the wagonettelaughing as the mud splashed him, the poor fellow would look up with aface of grief that must have been very comic; "like a dying duck," asEdith Gervase said. Edith was really very pretty, and he would have likedto talk to her, even about fox-terriers, if she would have listened. Oneafternoon at the Dixons' he really forced himself upon her, and with allthe obtuseness of an enthusiastic boy tried to discuss the Lotus Eatersof Tennyson. It was too absurd. Captain Kempton was making signals toEdith all the time, and Lieutenant Gatwick had gone off in disgust, andhe had promised to bring her a puppy "by Vick out of Wasp." At last thepoor girl could bear it no longer:

　　"Yes, it's very sweet," she said at last. "When did you say you weregoing to London, Mr. Taylor?"

　　It was about the time that his disappointment became known to everybody,and the shot told. He gave her a piteous look and slunk off, "just likethe dog when he's had a whipping," to use Edith's own expression. Two orthree lessons of this description produced their due effect; and when hesaw a male Dixon or Gervase approaching him he bit his lip and summonedup his courage. But when he descried a "ministering angel" he made hasteand hid behind a hedge or took to the woods. In course of time the desireto escape became an instinct, to be followed as a matter of course; inthe same way he avoided the adders on the mountain. His old ideals werealmost if not quite forgotten; he knew that the female of the bêtehumaine, like the adder, would in all probability sting, and hetherefore shrank from its trail, but without any feeling of specialresentment. The one had a poisoned tongue as the other had a poisonedfang, and it was well to leave them both alone. Then had come that suddenfury of rage against all humanity, as he went out of Caermaen carryingthe book that had been stolen from him by the enterprising Beit. Heshuddered as he though of how nearly he had approached the verge ofmadness, when his eyes filled with blood and the earth seemed to burnwith fire. He remembered how he had looked up to the horizon and the skywas blotched with scarlet; and the earth was deep red, with red woodsand red fields. There was something of horror in the memory, and in thevision of that wild night walk through dim country, when every shadowseemed a symbol of some terrible impending doom. The murmur of the brook,the wind shrilling through the wood, the pale light flowing from themoldered trunks, and the picture of his own figure fleeing and fleetingthrough the shades; all these seemed unhappy things that told a story infatal hieroglyphics. And then the life and laws of the sunlight hadpassed away, and the resurrection and kingdom of the dead began. Thoughhis limbs were weary, he had felt his muscles grow strong as steel; awoman, one of the hated race, was beside him in the darkness, and thewild beast woke within him, ravening for blood and brutal lust; all theraging desires of the dim race from which he came assailed his heart. Theghosts issued out from the weird wood and from the caves in the hills,besieging him, as he had imagined the spiritual legion besiegingCaermaen, beckoning him to a hideous battle and a victory that he hadnever imagined in his wildest dreams. And then out of the darkness thekind voice spoke again, and the kind hand was stretched out to draw himup from the pit. It was sweet to think of that which he had found atlast; the boy's picture incarnate, all the passion and compassion of hislonging, all the pity and love and consolation. She, that beautifulpassionate woman offering up her beauty in sacrifice to him, she wasworthy indeed of his worship. He remembered how his tears had fallen uponher breast, and how tenderly she had soothed him, whispering thosewonderful unknown words that sang to his heart. And she had made herselfdefenseless before him, caressing and fondling the body that had been sodespised. He exulted in the happy thought that he had knelt down on theground before her, and had embraced her knees and worshipped. The woman'sbody had become his religion; he lay awake at night looking into thedarkness with hungry eyes; wishing for a miracle, that the appearance ofthe so-desired form might be shaped before him. And when he was alone inquiet places in the wood, he fell down again on his knees, and even onhis face, stretching out vain hands in the air, as if they would feel herflesh. His father noticed in those days that the inner pocket of his coatwas stuffed with papers; he would see Lucian walking up and down in asecret shady place at the bottom of the orchard, reading from his sheafof manuscript, replacing the leaves, and again drawing them out. He wouldwalk a few quick steps, and pause as if enraptured, gazing in the air asif he looked through the shadows of the world into some sphere of glory,feigned by his thought. Mr. Taylor was almost alarmed at the sight; heconcluded of course that Lucian was writing a book. In the first place,there seemed something immodest in seeing the operation performed underone's eyes; it was as if the "make-up" of a beautiful actress were doneon the stage, in full audience; as if one saw the rounded calves fixedin position, the fleshings drawn on, the voluptuous outlines of thefigure produced by means purely mechanical, blushes mantling from thepaint-pot, and the golden tresses well secured by the wigmaker. Books,Mr. Taylor thought, should swim into one's ken mysteriously; they shouldappear all printed and bound, without apparent genesis; just as childrenare suddenly told that they have a little sister, found by mamma in thegarden. But Lucian was not only engaged in composition; he was plainlyrapturous, enthusiastic; Mr. Taylor saw him throw up his hands, and bowhis head with strange gesture. The parson began to fear that his sonwas like some of those mad Frenchmen of whom he had read, young fellowswho had a sort of fury of literature, and gave their whole lives to it,spending days over a page, and years over a book, pursuing art asEnglishmen pursue money, building up a romance as if it were a business.Now Mr. Taylor held firmly by the "walking-stick" theory; he believedthat a man of letters should have a real profession, some solidemployment in life. "Get something to do," he would have liked to say,"and then you can write as much as you please. Look at Scott, look atDickens and Trollope." And then there was the social point of view; itmight be right, or it might be wrong, but there could be no doubt thatthe literary man, as such, was not thought much of in English society.Mr. Taylor knew his Thackeray, and he remembered that old MajorPendennis, society personified, did not exactly boast of his nephew'soccupation. Even Warrington was rather ashamed to own his connection withjournalism, and Pendennis himself laughed openly at his novel-writing asan agreeable way of making money, a useful appendage to the cultivationof dukes, his true business in life. This was the plain English view, andMr. Taylor was no doubt right enough in thinking it good, practicalcommon sense. Therefore when he saw Lucian loitering and sauntering,musing amorously over his manuscript, exhibiting manifest signs of thatfine fury which Britons have ever found absurd, he felt grieved at heart,and more than ever sorry that he had not been able to send the boy toOxford.

　　"B.N.C. would have knocked all this nonsense out of him," he thought. "Hewould have taken a double First like my poor father and made something ofa figure in the world. However, it can't be helped." The poor man sighed,and lit his pipe, and walked in another part of the garden.

　　But he was mistaken in his diagnosis of the symptoms. The book thatLucian had begun lay unheeded in the drawer; it was a secret work that hewas engaged on, and the manuscripts that he took out of that inner pocketnever left him day or night. He slept with them next to his heart, and hewould kiss them when he was quite alone, and pay them such devotion as hewould have paid to her whom they symbolized. He wrote on these leaves awonderful ritual of praise and devotion; it was the liturgy of hisreligion. Again and again he copied and recopied this madness of a lover;dallying all days over the choice of a word, searching for more exquisitephrases. No common words, no such phrases as he might use in a tale wouldsuffice; the sentences of worship must stir and be quickened, they mustglow and burn, and be decked out as with rare work of jewelry. Every partof that holy and beautiful body must be adored; he sought for terms ofextravagant praise, he bent his soul and mind low before her, licking thedust under her feet, abased and yet rejoicing as a Templar before theimage of Baphomet. He exulted more especially in the knowledge that therewas nothing of the conventional or common in his ecstasy; he was not thefervent, adoring lover of Tennyson's poems, who loves with passion andyet with a proud respect, with the love always of a gentleman for a lady.Annie was not a lady; the Morgans had farmed their land for hundreds ofyears; they were what Miss Gervase and Miss Colley and the rest of themcalled common people. Tennyson's noble gentleman thought of their ladieswith something of reticence; they imagined them dressed in flowing andcourtly robes, walking with slow dignity; they dreamed of them as alwaysstately, the future mistresses of their houses, mothers of their heirs.Such lovers bowed, but not too low, remembering their own honor, beforethose who were to be equal companions and friends as well as wives. Itwas not such conceptions as these that he embodied in the amazing emblemsof his ritual; he was not, he told himself, a young officer, "somethingin the city," or a rising barrister engaged to a Miss Dixon or a MissGervase. He had not thought of looking out for a nice little house in agood residential suburb where they would have pleasant society; therewere to be no consultations about wall-papers, or jocose whispers fromfriends as to the necessity of having a room that would do for a nursery.No glad young thing had leant on his arm while they chose the suite inwhite enamel, and china for "our bedroom," the modest salesman doinghis best to spare their blushes. When Edith Gervase married she would getmamma to look out for two really good servants, "as we must beginquietly," and mamma would make sure that the drains and everythingwere right. Then her "girl friends" would come on a certain solemn day tosee all her "lovely things." "Two dozen of everything!" "Look, Ethel, didyou ever see such ducky frills?" "And that insertion, isn't it quite toosweet?" "My dear Edith, you are a lucky girl." "All the underlinenspecially made by Madame Lulu!" "What delicious things!" "I hope he knowswhat a prize he is winning." "Oh! do look at those lovely ribbon-bows!""You darling, how happy you must be." "Real Valenciennes!" Then a whisperin the lady's ear, and her reply, "Oh, don't, Nelly!" So they would chirpover their treasures, as in Rabelais they chirped over their cups; andevery thing would be done in due order till the wedding-day, when mamma,who had strained her sinews and the commandments to bring the matchabout, would weep and look indignantly at the unhappy bridegroom. "Ihope you'll be kind to her, Robert." Then in a rapid whisper to thebride: "Mind, you insist on Wyman's flushing the drains when you comeback; servants are so careless and dirty too. Don't let him go about byhimself in Paris. Men are so queer, one never knows. You have got thepills?" And aloud, after these secreta, "God bless you, my dear;good-bye! cluck, cluck, good-bye!"

　　There were stranger things written in the manuscript pages that Luciancherished, sentences that burnt and glowed like "coals of fire which hatha most vehement flame." There were phrases that stung and tingled as hewrote them, and sonorous words poured out in ecstasy and rapture, as insome of the old litanies. He hugged the thought that a great part of whathe had invented was in the true sense of the word occult: page after pagemight have been read aloud to the uninitiated without betraying the innermeaning. He dreamed night and day over these symbols, he copied andrecopied the manuscript nine times before he wrote it out fairly in alittle book which he made himself of a skin of creamy vellum. In hismania for acquirements that should be entirely useless he had gained someskill in illumination, or limning as he preferred to call it, alwayschoosing the obscurer word as the obscurer arts. First he set himself tothe severe practice of the text; he spent many hours and days of toil instruggling to fashion the serried columns of black letter, writing andrewriting till he could shape the massive character with firm true hand.He cut his quills with the patience of a monk in the scriptorium, shavingand altering the nib, lightening and increasing the pressure andflexibility of the points, till the pen satisfied him, and gave a strokeboth broad and even. Then he made experiments in inks, searching for somemedium that would rival the glossy black letter of the old manuscripts;and not till he could produce a fair page of text did he turn to the moreentrancing labor of the capitals and borders and ornaments. He mused longover the Lombardic letters, as glorious in their way as a cathedral, andtrained his hand to execute the bold and flowing lines; and then therewas the art of the border, blossoming in fretted splendor all about thepage. His cousin, Miss Deacon, called it all a great waste of time,and his father thought he would have done much better in trying toimprove his ordinary handwriting, which was both ugly and illegible.Indeed, there seemed but a poor demand for the limner's art. He sent somespecimens of his skill to an "artistic firm" in London; a verse of the"Maud," curiously emblazoned, and a Latin hymn with the notes pricked on ared stave. The firm wrote civilly, telling him that his work, thoughgood, was not what they wanted, and enclosing an illuminated text. "Wehave great demand for this sort of thing," they concluded, "and if youcare to attempt something in this style we should be pleased to lookat it." The said text was "Thou, God, seest me." The letter was of adegraded form, bearing much the same relation to the true character as a"churchwarden gothic" building does to Canterbury Cathedral; the colourswere varied. The initial was pale gold, the h pink, the o black, theu blue, and the first letter was somehow connected with a bird's nestcontaining the young of the pigeon, who were waited on by the femalebird.

　　"What a pretty text," said Miss Deacon. "I should like to nail it up inmy room. Why don't you try to do something like that, Lucian? You mightmake something by it."

　　"I sent them these," said Lucian, "but they don't like them much."

　　"My dear boy! I should think not! Like them! What were you thinking of todraw those queer stiff flowers all round the border? Roses? They don'tlook like roses at all events. Where do you get such ideas from?"

　　"But the design is appropriate; look at the words."

　　"My dear Lucian, I can't read the words; it's such a queer old-fashionedwriting. Look how plain that text is; one can see what it's about. Andthis other one; I can't make it out at all."

　　"It's a Latin hymn."

　　"A Latin hymn? Is it a Protestant hymn? I may be old-fashioned, butHymns Ancient and Modern is quite good enough for me. This is themusic, I suppose? But, my dear boy, there are only four lines, and whoever heard of notes shaped like that: you have made some square and somediamond-shape? Why didn't you look in your poor mother's old music? It'sin the ottoman in the drawing-room. I could have shown you how to makethe notes; there are crotchets, you know, and quavers."

　　Miss Deacon laid down the illuminated Urbs Beata in despair; she feltconvinced that her cousin was "next door to an idiot."

　　And he went out into the garden and raged behind a hedge. He broke twoflower-pots and hit an apple-tree very hard with his stick, and then,feeling more calm, wondered what was the use in trying to do anything.He would not have put the thought into words, but in his heart he wasaggrieved that his cousin liked the pigeons and the text, and did notlike his emblematical roses and the Latin hymn. He knew he had takengreat pains over the work, and that it was well done, and being still ayoung man he expected praise. He found that in this hard world there wasa lack of appreciation; a critical spirit seemed abroad. If he could havebeen scientifically observed as he writhed and smarted under thestrictures of "the old fool," as he rudely called his cousin, thespectacle would have been extremely diverting. Little boys sometimesenjoy a very similar entertainment; either with their tiny fingers orwith mamma's nail scissors they gradually deprive a fly of its wings andlegs. The odd gyrations and queer thin buzzings of the creature as itspins comically round and round never fail to provide a fund of harmlessamusement. Lucian, indeed, fancied himself a very ill-used individual;but he should have tried to imitate the nervous organization of theflies, which, as mamma says, "can't really feel."

　　But now, as he prepared the vellum leaves, he remembered his art withjoy; he had not labored to do beautiful work in vain. He read over hismanuscript once more, and thought of the designing of the pages. He madesketches on furtive sheets of paper, and hunted up books in his father'slibrary for suggestions. There were books about architecture, andmedieval iron work, and brasses which contributed hints for adornment;and not content with mere pictures he sought in the woods and hedges,scanning the strange forms of trees, and the poisonous growth of greatwater-plants, and the parasite twining of honeysuckle and briony. In oneof these rambles he discovered a red earth which he made into a pigment,and he found in the unctuous juice of a certain fern an ingredient whichhe thought made his black ink still more glossy. His book was written allin symbols, and in the same spirit of symbolism he decorated it, causingwonderful foliage to creep about the text, and showing the blossom ofcertain mystical flowers, with emblems of strange creatures, caught andbound in rose thickets. All was dedicated to love and a lover's madness,and there were songs in it which haunted him with their lilt and refrain.When the book was finished it replaced the loose leaves as his constantcompanion by day and night. Three times a day he repeated his ritual tohimself, seeking out the loneliest places in the woods, or going up tohis room; and from the fixed intentness and rapture of his gaze, thefather thought him still severely employed in the questionable process ofcomposition. At night he contrived to wake for his strange courtship; andhe had a peculiar ceremony when he got up in the dark and lit his candle.From a steep and wild hillside, not far from the house, he had cut fromtime to time five large boughs of spiked and prickly gorse. He hadbrought them into the house, one by one, and had hidden them in the bigbox that stood beside his bed. Often he woke up weeping and murmuringto himself the words of one of his songs, and then when he had lit thecandle, he would draw out the gorse-boughs, and place them on the floor,and taking off his nightgown, gently lay himself down on the bed ofthorns and spines. Lying on his face, with the candle and the book beforehim, he would softly and tenderly repeat the praises of his dear, dearAnnie, and as he turned over page after page, and saw the raised gold ofthe majuscules glow and flame in the candle-light, he pressed the thornsinto his flesh. At such moments he tasted in all its acute savor the joyof physical pain; and after two or three experiences of such delights healtered his book, making a curious sign in vermilion on the margin of thepassages where he was to inflict on himself this sweet torture. Neverdid he fail to wake at the appointed hour, a strong effort of will brokethrough all the heaviness of sleep, and he would rise up, joyful thoughweeping, and reverently set his thorny bed upon the floor, offering hispain with his praise. When he had whispered the last word, and had risenfrom the ground, his body would be all freckled with drops of blood; heused to view the marks with pride. Here and there a spine would be leftdeep in the flesh, and he would pull these out roughly, tearing throughthe skin. On some nights when he had pressed with more fervor on thethorns his thighs would stream with blood, red beads standing out on theflesh, and trickling down to his feet. He had some difficulty in washingaway the bloodstains so as not to leave any traces to attract theattention of the servant; and after a time he returned no more to his bedwhen his duty had been accomplished. For a coverlet he had a dark rug, agood deal worn, and in this he would wrap his naked bleeding body, andlie down on the hard floor, well content to add an aching rest to theaccount of his pleasures. He was covered with scars, and those thathealed during the day were torn open afresh at night; the pale olive skinwas red with the angry marks of blood, and the graceful form of the youngman appeared like the body of a tortured martyr. He grew thinner andthinner every day, for he ate but little; the skin was stretched on thebones of his face, and the black eyes burnt in dark purple hollows. Hisrelations noticed that he was not looking well.

　　"Now, Lucian, it's perfect madness of you to go on like this," said MissDeacon, one morning at breakfast. "Look how your hand shakes; some peoplewould say that you have been taking brandy. And all that you want is alittle medicine, and yet you won't be advised. You know it's not myfault; I have asked you to try Dr. Jelly's Cooling Powders again andagain."

　　He remembered the forcible exhibition of the powders when he was a boy,and felt thankful that those days were over. He only grinned at hiscousin and swallowed a great cup of strong tea to steady his nerves,which were shaky enough. Mrs. Dixon saw him one day in Caermaen; it wasvery hot, and he had been walking rather fast. The scars on his bodyburnt and tingled, and he tottered as he raised his hat to the vicar'swife. She decided without further investigation that he must have beendrinking in public-houses.

　　"It seems a mercy that poor Mrs. Taylor was taken," she said to herhusband. "She has certainly been spared a great deal. That wretched youngman passed me this afternoon; he was quite intoxicated."

　　"How very said," said Mr. Dixon. "A little port, my dear?"

　　"Thank you, Merivale, I will have another glass of sherry. Dr. Burrows isalways scolding me and saying I must take something to keep up myenergy, and this sherry is so weak."

　　The Dixons were not teetotalers. They regretted it deeply, and blamed thedoctor, who "insisted on some stimulant." However, there was someconsolation in trying to convert the parish to total abstinence, or, asthey curiously called it, temperance. Old women were warned of the sin oftaking a glass of beer for supper; aged laborers were urged to tryCork-ho, the new temperance drink; an uncouth beverage, styled coffee,was dispensed at the reading-room. Mr. Dixon preached an eloquent"temperance" sermon, soon after the above conversation, taking as histext: Beware of the leaven of the Pharisees. In his discourse he showedthat fermented liquor and leaven had much in common, that beer was at thepresent day "put away" during Passover by the strict Jews; and in amoving peroration he urged his dear brethren, "and more especially thoseamongst us who are poor in this world's goods," to beware indeed of thatevil leaven which was sapping the manhood of our nation. Mrs. Dixon criedafter church:

　　"Oh, Merivale, what a beautiful sermon! How earnest you were. I hope itwill do good."

　　Mr. Dixon swallowed his port with great decorum, but his wife fuddledherself every evening with cheap sherry. She was quite unaware of thefact, and sometimes wondered in a dim way why she always had to scold thechildren after dinner. And so strange things sometimes happened in thenursery, and now and then the children looked queerly at one anotherafter a red-faced woman had gone out, panting.

　　Lucian knew nothing of his accuser's trials, but he was not long inhearing of his own intoxication. The next time he went down to Caermaenhe was hailed by the doctor.

　　"Been drinking again today?"

　　"No," said Lucian in a puzzled voice. "What do you mean?"

　　"Oh, well, if you haven't, that's all right, as you'll be able to take adrop with me. Come along in?"

　　Over the whisky and pipes Lucian heard of the evil rumors affecting hischaracter.

　　"Mrs. Dixon assured me you were staggering from one side of the street tothe other. You quite frightened her, she said. Then she asked me if Irecommended her to take one or two ounces of spirit at bedtime for thepalpitation; and of course I told her two would be better. I have myliving to make here, you know. And upon my word, I think she wants it;she's always gurgling inside like waterworks. I wonder how old Dixon canstand it."

　　"I like 'ounces of spirit,'" said Lucian. "That's taking it medicinally,I suppose. I've often heard of ladies who have to 'take it medicinally';and that's how it's done?"

　　"That's it. 'Dr Burrows won't listen to me': 'I tell him how I dislikethe taste of spirits, but he says they are absolutely necessary for myconstitution': 'my medical man insists on something at bedtime'; that'sthe style."

　　Lucian laughed gently; all these people had become indifferent to him; hecould no longer feel savage indignation at their little hypocrisies andmalignancies. Their voices uttering calumny, and morality, and futilityhad become like the thin shrill angry note of a gnat on a summer evening;he had his own thoughts and his own life, and he passed on withoutheeding.

　　"You come down to Caermaen pretty often, don't you?" said the doctor.

　　"I've seen you two or three times in the last fortnight."

　　"Yes, I enjoy the walk."

　　"Well, look me up whenever you like, you know. I am often in just at thistime, and a chat with a human being isn't bad, now and then. It's achange for me; I'm often afraid I shall lose my patients."

　　The doctor had the weakness of these terrible puns, dragged headlong intothe conversation. He sometimes exhibited them before Mrs. Gervase, whowould smile in a faint and dignified manner, and say:

　　"Ah, I see. Very amusing indeed. We had an old coachmen once who was veryclever, I believe, at that sort of thing, but Mr. Gervase was obliged tosend him away, the laughter of the other domestics was so veryboisterous."

　　Lucian laughed, not boisterously, but good-humouredly, at the doctor'sjoke. He liked Burrows, feeling that he was a man and not an automaticgabbling machine.

　　"You look a little pulled down," said the doctor, when Lucian rose to go."No, you don't want my medicine. Plenty of beef and beer will do you moregood than drugs. I daresay it's the hot weather that has thinned you abit. Oh, you'll be all right again in a month."

　　As Lucian strolled out of the town on his way home, he passed a smallcrowd of urchins assembled at the corner of an orchard. They wereenjoying themselves immensely. The "healthy" boy, the same whom he hadseen some weeks ago operating on a cat, seemed to have recognized hisselfishness in keeping his amusements to himself. He had found a poorlost puppy, a little creature with bright pitiful eyes, almost human intheir fond, friendly gaze. It was not a well-bred little dog; it wascertainly not that famous puppy "by Vick out of Wasp"; it had rough hairand a foolish long tail which it wagged beseechingly, at once deprecatingseverity and asking kindness. The poor animal had evidently been used togentle treatment; it would look up in a boy's face, and give a leap,fawning on him, and then bark in a small doubtful voice, and cower amoment on the ground, astonished perhaps at the strangeness, the bustleand animation. The boys were beside themselves with eagerness; there wasquite a babble of voices, arguing, discussing, suggesting. Each one had aplan of his own which he brought before the leader, a stout and sturdyyouth.

　　"Drown him! What be you thinkin' of, mun?" he was saying. "'Tain't nosport at all. You shut your mouth, gwaes. Be you goin' to ask your motherfor the boiling-water? Is, Bob Williams, I do know all that: but wherebe you a-going to get the fire from? Be quiet, mun, can't you? ThomasTrevor, be this dog yourn or mine? Now, look you, if you don't all of youshut your bloody mouths, I'll take the dog 'ome and keep him. There now!"

　　He was a born leader of men. A singular depression and lowness of spiritshowed itself on the boys' faces. They recognized that the threat mightvery possibly be executed, and their countenances were at once composedto humble attention. The puppy was still cowering on the ground in themidst of them: one or two tried to relieve the tension of their feelingsby kicking him in the belly with their hobnail boots. It cried out withthe pain and writhed a little, but the poor little beast did not attemptto bite or even snarl. It looked up with those beseeching friendly eyesat its persecutors, and fawned on them again, and tried to wag its tailand be merry, pretending to play with a straw on the road, hoping perhapsto win a little favor in that way.

　　The leader saw the moment for his master-stroke. He slowly drew a pieceof rope from his pocket.

　　"What do you say to that, mun? Now, Thomas Trevor! We'll hang him overthat there bough. Will that suit you, Bobby Williams?"

　　There was a great shriek of approval and delight. All was again bustleand animation. "I'll tie it round his neck?" "Get out, mun, you don'tknow how it be done." "Is, I do, Charley." "Now, let me, gwaes, nowdo let me." "You be sure he won't bite?" "He hain't mad, be he?" "Supposewe were to tie up his mouth first?"

　　The puppy still fawned and curried favor, and wagged that sorry tail, andlay down crouching on one side on the ground, sad and sorry in his heart,but still with a little gleam of hope; for now and again he tried toplay, and put up his face, praying with those fond, friendly eyes. Andthen at last his gambols and poor efforts for mercy ceased, and he liftedup his wretched voice in one long dismal whine of despair. But he lickedthe hand of the boy that tied the noose.

　　He was slowly and gently swung into the air as Lucian went by unheeded;he struggled, and his legs twisted and writhed. The "healthy" boy pulledthe rope, and his friends danced and shouted with glee. As Lucian turnedthe corner, the poor dangling body was swinging to and fro, the puppy wasdying, but he still kicked a little.

　　Lucian went on his way hastily, and shuddering with disgust. The young ofthe human creature were really too horrible; they defiled the earth, andmade existence unpleasant, as the pulpy growth of a noxious and obscenefungus spoils an agreeable walk. The sight of those malignant littleanimals with mouths that uttered cruelty and filthy, with hands dexterousin torture, and feet swift to run all evil errands, had given him a shockand broken up the world of strange thoughts in which he had beendwelling. Yet it was no good being angry with them: it was their natureto be very loathsome. Only he wished they would go about their hideousamusements in their own back gardens where nobody could see them at work;it was too bad that he should be interrupted and offended in a quietcountry road. He tried to put the incident out of his mind, as if thewhole thing had been a disagreeable story, and the visions amongst whichhe wished to move were beginning to return, when he was again rudelydisturbed. A little girl, a pretty child of eight or nine, was comingalong the lane to meet him. She was crying bitterly and looking to leftand right, and calling out some word all the time.

　　"Jack, Jack, Jack! Little Jackie! Jack!"

　　Then she burst into tears afresh, and peered into the hedge, and tried topeep through a gate into a field.

　　"Jackie, Jackie, Jackie!"

　　She came up to Lucian, sobbing as if her heart would break, and droppedhim an old-fashioned curtsy.

　　"Oh, please sir, have you seen my little Jackie?"

　　"What do you mean?" said Lucian. "What is it you'velost?"

　　"A little dog, please sir. A little terrier dog with white hair. Fathergave me him a month ago, and said I might keep him. Someone did leave thegarden gate open this afternoon, and he must 'a got away, sir, and I wasso fond of him sir, he was so playful and loving, and I be afraid he belost."

　　She began to call again, without waiting for an answer.

　　"Jack, Jack, Jack!"

　　"I'm afraid some boys have got your little dog," said Lucian. "They'vekilled him. You'd better go back home."

　　He went on, walking as fast as he could in his endeavor to get beyond thenoise of the child's crying. It distressed him, and he wished to think ofother things. He stamped his foot angrily on the ground as he recalledthe annoyances of the afternoon, and longed for some hermitage on themountains, far above the stench and the sound of humanity.

　　A little farther, and he came to Croeswen, where the road branched off toright and left. There was a triangular plot of grass between the tworoads; there the cross had once stood, "the goodly and famous roode" ofthe old local chronicle. The words echoed in Lucian's ears as he went byon the right hand. "There were five steps that did go up to the firstpace, and seven steps to the second pace, all of clene hewn ashler. Andall above it was most curiously and gloriously wrought with thorowghcarved work; in the highest place was the Holy Roode with Christ upon theCross having Marie on the one syde and John on the other. Andbelow were six splendent and glisteringe archaungels that bore up theroode, and beneath them in their stories were the most fair and nobleimages of the xii Apostles and of divers other Saints and Martirs. Andin the lowest storie there was a marvelous imagerie of divers Beasts,such as oxen and horses and swine, and little dogs and peacocks, all donein the finest and most curious wise, so that they all seemed as they werecaught in a Wood of Thorns, the which is their torment of this life. Andhere once in the year was a marvelous solemn service, when the parson ofCaermaen came out with the singers and all the people, singing the psalmBenedicite omnia opera as they passed along the road in theirprocession. And when they stood at the roode the priest did there hisservice, making certain prayers for the beasts, and then he went up tothe first pace and preached a sermon to the people, shewing them that asour lord Jhu dyed upon the Tree of his deare mercy for us, so we too owemercy to the beasts his Creatures, for that they are all his poor liegesand silly servants. And that like as the Holy Aungells do their suit tohim on high, and the Blessed xii Apostles and the Martirs, and all theBlissful Saints served him aforetime on earth and now praise him inheaven, so also do the beasts serve him, though they be in torment oflife and below men. For their spirit goeth downward, as Holy Writteacheth us."

　　It was a quaint old record, a curious relic of what the moderninhabitants of Caermaen called the Dark Ages. A few of the stones thathad formed the base of the cross still remained in position, grey withage, blotched with black lichen and green moss. The remainder of thefamous rood had been used to mend the roads, to build pigsties anddomestic offices; it had turned Protestant, in fact. Indeed, if it hadremained, the parson of Caermaen would have had no time for the service;the coffee-stall, the Portuguese Missions, the Society for the Conversionof the Jews, and important social duties took up all his leisure.Besides, he thought the whole ceremony unscriptural.

　　Lucian passed on his way, wondering at the strange contrasts of theMiddle Ages. How was it that people who could devise so beautiful aservice believed in witchcraft, demoniacal possession and obsession, inthe incubus and succubus, and in the Sabbath an in many other horribleabsurdities? It seemed astonishing that anybody could even pretend tocredit such monstrous tales, but there could be no doubt that the dreadof old women who rode on broomsticks and liked black cats was once a verygenuine terror.

　　A cold wind blew up from the river at sunset, and the scars on his bodybegan to burn and tingle. The pain recalled his ritual to him, and hebegan to recite it as he walked along. He had cut a branch of thornfrom the hedge and placed it next to his skin, pressing the spikes intothe flesh with his hand till the warm blood ran down. He felt it was anexquisite and sweet observance for her sake; and then he thought of thesecret golden palace he was building for her, the rare and wonderful cityrising in his imagination. As the solemn night began to close about theearth, and the last glimmer of the sun faded from the hills, he gavehimself anew to the woman, his body and his mind, all that he was, andall that he had.