Within twelve months Lucian’s recollections of the perfidious Haidee
were nebulous and indistinct. He had taken the muse for mistress and
wooed her with such constant persistency that he had no time to think of
anything else. He used up much manuscript paper and made large demands
upon Sprats and his Aunt Judith, the only persons to whom he
condescended to show his productions, and he was alike miserable and
happy. Whenever he wrote a new poem he was filled with elation, and for
at least twenty-four hours glowed with admiration of his own powers;
then set in a period of uncertainty, followed by one of doubt and
another of gloom--the lines which had sounded so fine that they almost
brought tears to his eyes seemed banal and weak, and were not
infrequently cast into the fire, where his once-cherished copies of the
Haidee sonnets had long since preceded them. Miss Judith nearly shed
tears when these sacrifices were made, and more than once implored him
tenderly to spare his offspring, but with no result, for no human
monster is so savage as the poet who turns against his own fancies. It
was due to her, however, that one of Lucian’s earliest efforts was
spared. Knowing his propensity for tearing and rending his children, she
surreptitiously obtained his manuscript upon one occasion and made a
fair copy of a sentimental story written in imitation of _Lara_, which
had greatly moved her, and it was not until many years afterwards that
Lucian was confronted and put to shame by the sight of it.
At the age of eighteen Lucian celebrated his birthday by burning every
manuscript he had, and announcing that he would write no more verses
until he was at least twenty-one. But chancing to hear a pathetic story
of rural life which appealed powerfully to his imagination, he began to
write again; and after a time, during which he was unusually morose and
abstracted, he presented himself to Sprats with a bundle of manuscript.
He handed it over to her with something of shyness.
‘I want you to read it--carefully,’ he said.
‘Of course,’ she answered. ‘But is it to share the fate of all the rest,
Lucian? You made a clean sweep of everything, didn’t you?’
‘That stuff!’ he said, with fine contempt. ‘I should think so! But
this----’ he paused, plunged his hands into his pockets, and strode up
and down the room--‘this is--well, it’s different. Sprats!--I believe
it’s good.’
‘I wish you’d let my father read it,’ she said. ‘Do, Lucian.’
‘Perhaps,’ he answered. ‘But you first--I want to know what you think. I
can trust you.’
Sprats read the poem that evening, and as she read she marvelled. Lucian
had done himself justice at last. The poem was full of the true country
life; there was no false ring in it; he had realised the pathos of the
story he had to tell; it was a moving performance, full of the spirit of
poetry from the first line to the last. She was proud, glad, full of
satisfaction. Without waiting to ask Lucian’s permission, she placed the
manuscript in the vicar’s hands and begged him to read it. He carried it
away to his study; Sprats sat up later than usual to hear his verdict.
She occupied herself with no work, but with thoughts that had a little
of the day-dream glamour in them. She was trying to map out Lucian’s
future for him. He ought to be protected and shielded from the world,
wrapped in an environment that would help him to produce the best that
was in him; the ordinary cares of life ought never to come near him. He
had a gift, and the world would be the richer if the gift were poured
out lavishly to his fellow-creatures; but he must be treated tenderly
and skilfully if the gift was to be poured out at all. Sprats, country
girl though she was, knew something of the harshnesses of life; she
knew, too, that Lucian’s nature was the sort that would rebel at a
crumpled rose-leaf. He was still, and always would be, a child that
feels rather than understands.
The vicar came back to her with the manuscript--it was then nearly
midnight, but he was too much excited to wonder that Sprats should still
be downstairs. He came tapping the manuscript with his fingers--his face
wore a delighted and highly important expression.
‘My dear,’ he said, ‘this is a considerable performance. I am amazed,
pleased, gratified, proud. The boy is a genius--he will make a great
name for himself. Yes--it is good. It is sound work. It is so charmingly
free from mere rhetoric--there is a restraint, a chasteness which one
does not often find in the work of a young writer. And it is classical
in form and style. I am proud of Lucian. You see now the result of only
reading and studying the best masters. He is perhaps a little
imitative--that is natural; it will wear away. Did you not notice a
touch of Wordsworth, eh!--I was reminded of _Michael_. He will be a new
Wordsworth--a Wordsworth with more passion and richer imagery. He has
the true eye for nature--I do not know when I have been so pleased as
with the bits of colour that I find here. Oh, it is certainly a
remarkable performance.’
‘Father,’ said Sprats, ‘don’t you think it might be published?’
Mr. Chilverstone considered the proposition gravely.
‘I feel sure it would meet with great approbation if it were,’ he said.
‘I have no doubt whatever that the best critics would recognise its
merit and its undoubted promise. I wonder if Lucian would allow the earl
to read it?--his lordship is a fine judge of classic poetry, and though
I believe he cherishes a contempt for modern verse, he cannot fail to be
struck by this poem--the truth of its setting must appeal to him.’
‘I will speak to Lucian,’ said Sprats.
She persuaded Lucian to submit his work to Lord Simonstower next
day;--the old nobleman read, re-read, and was secretly struck by the
beauty and strength of the boy’s performance. He sent for Lucian and
congratulated him warmly. Later on in the day he walked into the vicar’s
study.
‘Chilverstone,’ he said, ‘what is to be done with that boy Damerel? He
will make a great name if due care is taken of him at the critical
moment. How old is he now--nearly nineteen? I think he should go to
Oxford.’
‘That,’ said the vicar, ‘is precisely my own opinion.’
‘It would do him all the good in the world,’ continued the earl. ‘It is
a thing that should be pushed through. I think I have heard that the boy
has some money? I knew his father, Cyprian Damerel. He was a man who
earned a good deal, but I should say he spent it. Still, I have always
understood that he left money in Simpson Pepperdine’s hands for the
boy.’
Mr. Chilverstone observed that he had always been so informed, though he
did not know by whom.
‘Simpson Pepperdine should be approached,’ said Lord Simonstower. ‘I
have a good mind to talk to him myself.’
‘If your lordship would have the kindness to do so,’ said the vicar, ‘it
would be a most excellent thing. Pepperdine is an estimable man, and
very proud indeed of Lucian--I am sure he would be induced to give his
consent.’
‘I will see him to-morrow,’ said the earl.
But before the morrow dawned an event had taken place in the history of
the Pepperdine family which involved far-reaching consequences. While
the earl and the vicar were in consultation over their friendly plans
for Lucian’s benefit, Mr. Pepperdine was travelling homewards from
Oakborough, whither he had proceeded in the morning in reference to a
letter which caused him no little anxiety and perturbation. It was
fortunate that he had a compartment all to himself in the train, for he
groaned and sighed at frequent intervals, and manifested many signs of
great mental distress. When he left Wellsby station he walked with slow
and heavy steps along the road to Mr. Trippett’s farm, where, as usual,
he had left his horse and trap. Mrs. Trippett, chancing to look out of
the parlour window, saw him approaching the house and noticed the drag
in his step. He walked, she said, discussing the matter later on with
her husband, as if he had suddenly become an old man. She hastened to
the door to admit him; Mr. Pepperdine gazed at her with a lack-lustre
eye.
‘Mercy upon us, Mr. Pepperdine!’ exclaimed Mrs. Trippett, ‘you do look
badly. Aren’t you feeling well?’
Mr. Pepperdine made an effort to pull himself together. He walked in,
sat down in the parlour, and breathed heavily.
‘It’s a very hot day, ma’am,’ he said. ‘I’m a bit overdone.’
‘You must have a drop of brandy and water,’ said Mrs. Trippett, and
bustled into the kitchen for water and to the sideboard for brandy.
‘Take a taste while it’s fresh,’ she said, handing him a liberal
mixture. ‘It’ll revive you.’
Mr. Pepperdine sipped at his glass and nodded his head in acknowledgment
of her thoughtfulness.
‘Thank you kindly,’ said he. ‘I were feeling a bit badly like. Is the
master anywhere about? I would like to see him.’
Mrs. Trippett replied that the master was in the fold, and she would let
him know that Mr. Pepperdine was there. She went herself to fetch her
husband, and hinted to him that his old friend did not seem at all
well--she was sure there was something wrong with him. Mr. Trippett
hastened into the house and found Mr. Pepperdine pacing the room and
sighing dismally.
‘Now then!’ said Mr. Trippett, whose face was always cheery even in
times of trouble, ‘th’ owd woman says you don’t seem so chirpy like. Is
it th’ sun, or what?--get another taste o’ brandy down your throttle,
lad.’
Mr. Pepperdine sat down again and shook his head.
‘John,’ he said, gazing earnestly at his friend. ‘I’m in sore
trouble--real bad trouble. I doubt I’m a ruined man.’
‘Nay, for sure!’ exclaimed Mr. Trippett. ‘What’s it all about, like?’
‘It’s all on account of a damned rascal!’ answered Mr. Pepperdine, with
a burst of indignation. ‘Ah!--there’s a pretty to-do in Oakborough this
day, John. You haven’t heard nothing about Bransby?’
‘What, the lawyer?’
‘Ah, lawyer and rogue and the Lord knows what!’ replied Mr. Pepperdine,
groaning with wrath and misery. ‘He’s gone and cleared himself off, and
he’s naught but a swindler. They do say there that it’s a hundred
thousand pound job.’
Mr. Trippett whistled.
‘I allus understood ’at he were such a well-to-do, upright sort o’ man,’
he said. ‘He’d a gre’t reppytation, any road.’
‘Ay, and seems to have traded on it!’ said Mr. Pepperdine bitterly.
‘He’s been a smooth-tongued ’un, he has. He’s done me, he has so--dang
me if I ever trust the likes of him again!’
Then he told his story. The absconded Mr. Bransby, an astute gentleman
who had established a reputation for probity by scrupulous observance of
the conventionalities dear to the society of a market town and had never
missed attendance at his parish church, had suddenly vanished into the
_Ewigkeit_, leaving a few widows and orphans, several tradespeople, and
a large number of unsuspecting and confiding clients, to mourn, not his
loss, but his knavery. Simpson Pepperdine had been an easy victim. Some
years previously he had consented to act as trustee for a neighbour’s
family--Mr. Bransby was his co-trustee. Simpson had left everything in
Mr. Bransby’s hands--it now turned out that Mr. Bransby had converted
everything to his own uses, leaving his careless coadjutor responsible.
But this was not all. Simpson, who had made money by breeding
shorthorns, had from time to time placed considerable sums in the
lawyer’s hands for investment, and had trusted him entirely as to their
nature. He had received good interest, and had never troubled either to
ask for or inspect the securities. It had now been revealed to him that
there had never been any securities--his money had gone into Mr.
Bransby’s own coffers. Simpson Pepperdine, in short, was a ruined man.
Mr. Trippett was genuinely disturbed by this news. He felt that his
good-natured and easy-going friend had been to blame in respect to his
laxity and carelessness. But he himself had had some slight dealings
with Mr. Bransby, and he knew the plausibility and suaveness of that
gentleman’s manner.
‘It’s a fair cropper!’ he exclaimed. ‘I could ha’ trusted that Bransby
like the Bank of England. I allus understood he were doing uncommon
well.’
‘So he were,’ answered Mr. Pepperdine, ‘uncommon well--out of fools like
me.’
‘I hope,’ said Mr. Trippett, mentioning the subject with some shyness,
‘I hope the gals’ money isn’t lost, an’ all?’
‘What, Keziah and Judith? Nay, nay,’ replied Mr. 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, lighted 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 all 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.
‘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. Pepperdine 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.
Pepperdine 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. Pepperdine. ‘It so
happens that I was going to ask the favour of an interview with your
lordship on my own 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 delay as possible. He came to the point at once by
telling Mr. Pepperdine that his nephew was a gifted youth who would
almost certainly make a great name in the world of letters, and that it
would be a most excellent thing to send him to Oxford. He pointed out
the great advantages which would accrue to Lucian if this course were
adopted, spoke of his own interest in the boy, and promised to help him
in every way he could. Mr. Pepperdine listened with respectful and
polite attention.
‘My lord,’ he said, when the earl had explained his views for Lucian,
‘I’m greatly obliged to your lordship for your kindness to the lad and
your interest in him. I agree with every word your lordship says. I’ve
always known there was something out of the common about Lucian, and
I’ve wanted him to get on in his own way. I never had no doubt about his
making a great name for himself--I could see that in him when he were a
little lad. Now about this going to Oxford--it would cost a good deal of
money, wouldn’t it, my lord?’
‘It would certainly cost money,’ replied the earl. ‘But I would put it
to you in this way--or, rather, this is the way in which it should be
put to the boy himself. I understand he has some money; well, he can
make no better investment of a portion of it than by spending it on his
education. Two or three years at Oxford will fit him for the life of a
man of letters as nothing else would. He need not be extravagant--two
hundred pounds a year should suffice him.’
Mr. Pepperdine listened to this with obvious perplexity and unrest. He
hesitated a little before making any reply. At last he looked at the
earl with the expression of a man who is 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 hasn’t a 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
a will and I was trustee and executor. He thought that there was
sufficient provision made for the boy, but he hadn’t 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 himself
lost a deal of money at the same time and in the same society.’
‘That’s quite true,’ said the earl. ‘I remember it 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’ll
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. Chilverstone,
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 simplicity,
set forth the story of his woes.
The Earl of Simonstower listened with earnest attention until his tenant
had spread out all his ruined hopes at his feet. His face expressed
nothing until the regrettable catalogue of foolishness and wrongs came
to an end. Then he laughed, rather bitterly.
‘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 certain--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.
‘My lord!’ he said brokenly, ‘I--I don’t know what 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 yourself. 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 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 Simonstower hastily. ‘You’d do
the same for me, I’m sure. Good-day to you, good-day; and don’t forget
the conspiracy--no talking to the women, you know.’
Mr. Pepperdine drove homewards with what country folk call a
heart-and-a-half. He was unusually lightsome in mood and garrulous in
conversation that evening, 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 aristocracy 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 pæan of joyfulness.