LUCIAN THE DREAMER
_This is the Story_
This is the study of an artistic temperament in a generation not so far
removed from our own as the hurried events of the last two decades would
make it appear--the generation which fought in the Boer War. Mr.
Fletcher has told us the life story of a boy, a “thinker” rather than a
“doer”--Lucian the Dreamer. We follow with great interest his many love
affairs while under the care of his uncle and aunt in the country. We
enjoy with him the simple rustic beauties of Wellsby, and from the
moment he arrives at the little village station until that final tragic
scene in the dry-bed of a South African river we are held as in a vice.
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_Also by J. S. Fletcher_
THE DIAMONDS THE KANG-HE VASE
THE TIME-WORN TOWN THE GOLDEN VENTURE
THE MILL OF MANY WINDOWS
THE CARTWRIGHT GARDENS MURDER
THE RAVENS WOOD MYSTERY AND OTHER STORIES
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LUCIAN
THE DREAMER
_by_
J. S. FLETCHER
Author of “The Cartwright Gardens Murder,”
“The Kang-He Vase,” etc.
[Illustration: colophon]
LONDON 48 PALL MALL
W. COLLINS SONS & CO LTD
GLASGOW SYDNEY AUCKLAND
Copyright
_Printed in Great Britain._
*/
/*
TO
SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
IN SOME SLIGHT RECOGNITION
OF A KINDLY SERVICE
KINDLY RENDERED
*/
CHAPTER I
The railway station stood in the midst of an apparent solitude, and from
its one long platform there was no sign of any human habitation. A
stranger, looking around him in passing that way, might well have
wondered why a station should be found there at all; nevertheless, the
board which figured prominently above the white palings suggested the
near presence of three places--Wellsby, Meadhope, and Simonstower--and a
glance at a map of the county would have sufficed to show him that three
villages of the names there indicated lay hidden amongst the surrounding
woods, one to the east and two to the west of the railway. The line was
a single one, served by a train which made three out-and-home journeys a
day between the market-town of Oakborough and the village of Normanford,
stopping on its way at seven intermediate stations, of which Wellsby was
the penultimate one. These wayside stations sometimes witnessed arrivals
and departures, but there were many occasions on which the train neither
took up passengers nor set them down--it was only a considerable traffic
in agricultural produce, the extra business of the weekly market-day,
and its connection with the main line, that enabled the directors to
keep the Oakborough and Normanford Branch open. At each small station
they maintained a staff consisting of a collector or station-master, a
booking-clerk, and a porter, but the duties of these officials were
light, and a good deal of spare time lay at their disposal, and was
chiefly used in cultivating patches of garden along the side of the
line, or in discussing the news of the neighbourhood.
On a fine April evening of the early eighties the staff of this
particular station assembled on the platform at half-past six o’clock in
readiness to receive the train (which, save on market-days, was
composed of an engine, two carriages, and the guard’s van), as it made
its last down journey. There were no passengers to go forward towards
Normanford, and the porter, according to custom, went out to the end of
the platform as the train came into view, and held up his arms as a
signal to the driver that he need not stop unless he had reasons of his
own for doing so. To this signal the driver responded with two sharp
shrieks of his whistle, on hearing which the porter turned away, put his
hands in his pockets, and slouched back along the platform.
‘Somebody to set down, anyway, Mr. Simmons,’ said the booking-clerk with
a look at the station-master. ‘I wonder who it is--I’ve only booked one
up ticket to-day; James White it was, and he came back by the 2.30, so
it isn’t him.’
The station-master made no reply, feeling that another moment would
answer the question definitely. He walked forward as the train drew up,
and amidst the harsh grinding of its wheels threw a greeting to the
engine-driver, which he had already given four times that day and would
give again as the train went back two hours later. His eyes, straying
along the train, caught sight of a hand fumbling at the handle of a
third-class compartment, and he hastened to open the door.
‘It’s you, is it, Mr. Pepperdine?’ he said. ‘I wondered who was getting
out--it’s not often that this train brings us a passenger.’
‘Two of us this time,’ answered the man thus addressed as he quickly
descended, nodding and smiling at the station-master and the
booking-clerk; ‘two of us this time, Mr. Simmons. Ah!’ He drew a long
breath of air as if the scent of the woods and fields did him good, and
then turned to the open door of the carriage, within which stood a boy
leisurely attiring himself in an overcoat. ‘Come, my lad,’ he said
good-humouredly, ‘the train’ll be going on--let’s see now, Mr. Simmons,
there’s a portmanteau, a trunk, and a box in the van--perhaps Jim
there’ll see they’re got out.’
The porter hurried off to the van; as he turned away the boy descended
from the train, put his gloved hands in the pockets of his overcoat, and
stared about him with a deliberate and critical expression. His glance
ran over the station, the creeping plants on the station-master’s house,
the station-master, and the booking-clerk; his companion, meanwhile, was
staring hard at a patch of bright green beyond the fence and smiling
with evident enjoyment.
‘I’ll see that the things are all right,’ said the boy suddenly, and
strode off to the van. The porter had already brought out a portmanteau
and a trunk; he and the guard were now struggling with a larger obstacle
in the shape of a packing-case which taxed all their energies.
‘It’s a heavy ’un, this is!’ panted the guard. ‘You might be carrying
all the treasure of the Bank of England in here, young master.’
‘Books,’ said the boy laconically. ‘They are heavy. Be careful,
please--don’t let the box drop.’
There was a note in his voice which the men were quick to recognise--the
note of command and of full expectancy that his word would rank as law.
He stood by, anxious of eye and keenly observant, while the men lowered
the packing-case to the platform; behind him stood Mr. Pepperdine, the
station-master, and the booking-clerk, mildly interested.
‘There!’ said the guard. ‘We ha’n’t given her a single bump. Might ha’
been the delicatest chiny, the way we handled it.’
He wiped his brow with a triumphant wave of the hand. The boy, still
regarding the case with grave, speculative eyes, put his hand in his
pocket, drew forth a shilling, and with a barely perceptible glance at
the guard, dropped it in his hand. The man stared, smiled, pocketed the
gift, and touched his cap. He waved his green flag vigorously; in
another moment the train was rattling away into the shadow of the woods.
Mr. Pepperdine stepped up to the boy’s side and gazed at the
packing-case.
‘It’ll never go in my trap, lad,’ he said, scratching his chin. ‘It’s
too big and too heavy. We must send a horse and cart for it in the
morning.’
‘But where shall we leave it?’ asked the boy, with evident anxiety.
‘We’ll put it in the warehouse, young master,’ said the porter. ‘It’ll
be all right there. I’ll see that no harm comes to it.’
The boy, however, demanded to see the warehouse, and assured himself
that it was water-tight and would be locked up. He issued strict
mandates to the porter as to his safe-keeping of the packing-case,
presented him also with a shilling, and turned away unconcernedly, as if
the matter were now settled. Mr. Pepperdine took the porter in hand.
‘Jim,’ he said, ‘my trap’s at the Grange; maybe you could put that trunk
and portmanteau on a barrow and bring them down in a while? No need to
hurry--I shall have a pipe with Mr. Trippett before going on.’
‘All right, sir,’ answered the porter. ‘I’ll bring ’em both down in an
hour or so.’
‘Come on, then, lad,’ said Mr. Pepperdine, nodding good-night to the
station-master, and leading the way to the gate. ‘Eh, but it’s good to
be back where there’s some fresh air! Can you smell it, boy?’
The boy threw up his face, and sniffed the fragrance of the woods. There
had been April showers during the afternoon, and the air was sweet and
cool: he drew it in with a relish that gratified the countryman at his
side.
‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘I smell it--it’s beautiful.’
‘Ah, so it is!’ said Mr. Pepperdine; ‘as beautiful as--as--well, as
anything. Yes, it is so, my lad.’
The boy looked up and laughed, and Mr. Pepperdine laughed too. He had
no idea why he laughed, but it pleased him to do so; it pleased him,
too, to hear the boy laugh. But when the boy’s face grew grave again Mr.
Pepperdine’s countenance composed itself and became equally grave and
somewhat solicitous. He looked out of his eye-corners at the slim figure
walking at his side, and wondered what other folk would think of his
companion. ‘A nice, smart-looking boy,’ said Mr. Pepperdine to himself
for the hundredth time; ‘nice, gentlemanlike boy, and a credit to
anybody.’ Mr. Pepperdine felt proud to have such a boy in his company,
and prouder still to know that the boy was his nephew and ward.
The boy thus speculated upon was a lad of twelve, somewhat tall for his
age, of a slim, well-knit figure, a handsome face, and a confidence of
manner and bearing that seemed disproportionate to his years. He walked
with easy, natural grace; his movements were lithe and sinuous; the turn
of his head, as he looked up at Mr. Pepperdine, or glanced at the
overhanging trees in the lane, was smart and alert; it was easy to see
that he was naturally quick in action and in perception. His face, which
Mr. Pepperdine had studied a good deal during the past week, was of a
type which is more often met with in Italy than in England. The forehead
was broad and high, and crowned by a mass of thick, blue-black hair that
clustered and waved all over the head, and curled into rings at the
temples; the brows were straight, dark, and full; the nose and mouth
delicately but strongly carved; the chin square and firm; obstinacy,
pride, determination, were all there, and already stiffening into
permanence. But in this face, so Italian, so full of the promise of
passion, there were eyes of an essentially English type, almost violet
in colour, gentle, soft, dreamy, shaded by long black lashes, and it was
in them that Mr. Pepperdine found the thing he sought for when he looked
long and wistfully at his dead sister’s son.
Mr. Pepperdine’s present scrutiny passed from the boy’s face to the
boy’s clothes. It was not often, he said to himself, that such a
well-dressed youngster was seen in those parts. His nephew was clothed
in black from head to foot; his hat was surrounded by a mourning-band; a
black tie, fashioned into a smart knot, and secured by an antique
cameo-pin, encircled his spotless man’s collar: every garment was shaped
as if its wearer had been the most punctilious man about town; his neat
boots shone like mirrors. The boy was a dandy in miniature, and it
filled Mr. Pepperdine with a vast amusement to find him so. He chuckled
inwardly, and was secretly proud of a youngster who, as he had recently
discovered, could walk into a fashionable tailor’s and order exactly
what he wanted with an evident determination to get it. But Mr.
Pepperdine himself was a rustic dandy. Because of the necessities of a
recent occasion he was at that moment clad in sober black--his
Sunday-and-State-Occasion’s suit--but at home he possessed many
wonderful things in the way of riding-breeches, greatcoats ornamented
with pearl buttons as big as saucers, and sprigged waistcoats which were
the despair of the young country bucks, who were forced to admit that
Simpson Pepperdine knew a thing or two about the fashion and was a man
of style. It was natural, then, Mr. Pepperdine should be pleased to find
his nephew a _petit-maître_--it gratified an eye which was never at any
time indisposed to regard the vanities of this world with complaisance.
Mr. Pepperdine, striding along at the boy’s side, presented the cheerful
aspect of a healthy countryman. He was a tall, well-built man, rosy of
face, bright of eye, a little on the wrong side of forty, and rather
predisposed to stoutness of figure, but firm and solid in his tread, and
as yet destitute of a grey hair. In his sable garments and his high
hat--bought a week before in London itself, and of the latest
fashionable shape--he looked very distinguished, and no one could have
taken him for less than a churchwarden and a large ratepayer. His air of
distinction was further improved by the fact that he was in uncommonly
good spirits--he had spent a week in London on business of a sorrowful
nature, and he was glad to be home again amongst his native woods and
fields. He sniffed the air as he walked, and set his feet down as if the
soil belonged to him, and his eyes danced with satisfaction.
The boy suddenly uttered a cry of delight, and stopped, pointing down a
long vista of the woods. Mr. Pepperdine turned in the direction
indicated, and beheld a golden patch of daffodils.
‘Daffy-down-dillies,’ said Mr. Pepperdine. ‘And very pretty too. But
just you wait till you see the woods about Simonstower. I always did say
that Wellsby woods were nought to our woods--ah, you should see the
bluebells! And as for primroses--well, they could stock all Covent
Garden market in London town with ’em, and have enough for next day into
the bargain, so they could. Very pretty is them daffies, very pretty,
but I reckon there’s something a deal prettier to be seen in a minute or
two, for here’s the Grange, and Mrs. Trippett has an uncommon nice way
of setting out a tea-table.’
The boy turned from the glowing patch of colour to look at another
attractive picture. They had rounded the edge of the wood on their right
hand, and now stood gazing at a peculiarly English scene--a green
paddock, fenced from the road by neat railings, painted white, at the
further end of which, shaded by a belt of tall elms, stood a many-gabled
farmhouse, with a flower-garden before its front door and an orchard at
its side. The farm-buildings rose a little distance in rear of the
house; beyond them was the stackyard, still crowded with wheat and
barley stacks; high over everything rose a pigeon-cote, about the
weather-vane of which flew countless pigeons. In the paddock were ewes
and lambs; cattle and horses looked over the wall of the fold; the soft
light of the April evening lay on everything like a benediction.
‘Wellsby Grange,’ said Mr. Pepperdine, pushing open a wicket-gate in
the white fence and motioning the boy to enter. ‘The abode of Mr. and
Mrs. Trippett, very particular friends of mine. I always leave my trap
here when I have occasion to go by train--it would be sent over this
morning, and we shall find it all ready for us presently.’
The boy followed his uncle up the path to the side-door of the
farmhouse, his eyes taking in every detail of the scene. He was staring
about him when the door opened, and revealed a jolly-faced, red-cheeked
man with sandy whiskers and very blue eyes, who grinned delightedly at
sight of Mr. Pepperdine, and held out a hand of considerable
proportions.
‘We were just looking out for you,’ said he. ‘We heard the whistle, and
the missis put the kettle on to boil up that minute. Come in,
Simpson--come in, my lad--you’re heartily welcome. Now then,
missis--they’re here.’
A stout, motherly-looking woman, with cherry-coloured ribbons in a
nodding cap that crowned a head of glossy dark hair, came bustling to
the door.
‘Come in, come in, Mr. Pepperdine--glad to see you safe back,’ said she.
‘And this’ll be your little nevvy. Come in, love, come in--you must be
tired wi’ travelling all that way.’
The boy took off his hat with a courtly gesture, and stepped into the
big, old-fashioned kitchen. He looked frankly at the farmer and his
wife, and the woman, noting his beauty with quick feminine perception,
put her arm round his neck and drew him to her.
‘Eh, but you’re a handsome lad!’ she said. ‘Come straight into the
parlour and sit you down--the tea’ll be ready in a minute. What’s your
name, my dear?’
The boy looked up at her--Mrs. Trippett’s memory, at the sight of his
eyes, went back to the days of her girlhood.
‘My name is Lucian,’ he answered.
Mrs. Trippett looked at him again as if she had scarcely heard him reply
to her question. She sighed, and with a sudden impetuous tenderness
bent down and kissed him warmly on the cheek.
‘Off with your coat, my dear,’ she said cheerily. ‘And if you’re cold,
sit down by the fire--if it is spring, it’s cold enough for fires at
night. Now I’ll be back in a minute, and your uncle and the master’ll be
coming--I lay they’ve gone to look at a poorly horse that we’ve got just
now--and then we’ll have tea.’
She bustled from the room, the cherry-coloured ribbons streaming behind
her. The boy, left alone, took off his overcoat and gloves, and laid
them aside with his hat; then he put his hands in the pockets of his
trousers, and examined his new surroundings.