Lucian the dreamer

ooed her with such constant persistency that he had no time to think of anything else. He used up much manuscript paper and made large dema

e, 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

twenty-one. But chancing to hear a pathetic story of rural life which appealed powerfully to his imagination,{88} he began to write again; and after a time, dur

read it—caref

are the fate of all the rest, Lucian? You m

——’ he paused, plunged his hands into his pockets, and strode up and do

father read it,’ sh

you first—I want to know what

ands 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 n

too much excited to wonder that Sprats should still be downstairs. He came tapping th

s 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 Word

, ‘don’t you think it

considered the pr

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 tho

k to Lucian,

-read,{90} and was secretly struck by the beauty and strength of the boy’s performance. He sent

will make a great name if due care is taken of him at the critical mome

icar, ‘is precisel

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

he had always been so informed,

ched,’ said Lord Simonstower. ‘I hav

would be a most excellent thing. Pepperdine is an estimable man, and very

m to-morrow,’

r 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{91} Wellsby station he walked with slow and heavy steps along the road to Mr. Trippett’s farm, where, as usual, h

xclaimed Mrs. Trippett, ‘you do lo

himself together. He walked in, sat do

, ma’am,’ he said. ‘

into the kitchen for water and to the sideboard for brandy. ‘Take a taste wh

ass and nodded his head in ackn

eling a bit badly like. Is the master a

herself to fetch her husband, and hinted to him that his old friend did not seem at all well—she was sure there was some

es of trouble, ‘th’ owd woman says you don’t seem so chirpy like. Is it

at down again an

s friend.{92} ‘I’m in sore trouble—real

med Mr. Trippett. ‘What

, with a burst of indignation. ‘Ah!—there’s a pretty to-do in Oak

the l

ning with wrath and misery. ‘He’s gone and cleared himself off, and he’s nau

ppett w

well-to-do, upright sort o’ man,’ he sa

tterly. ‘He’s been a smooth-tongued ’un, he has. He’s done m

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 breedi

iend had been to blame in respect to his laxity and carelessness. But he himself had had some slig

’ trusted that Bransby like the Bank of England.

. Pepperdine, ‘uncommon w

g the subject with some shyness, ‘I ho

Pepperdine. ‘It isn’t. What bit they have—matter

, either,’ sai

e questioningly. ‘Oh, Lucian? O

ced the whisky decanter, mixed himself a glass

should do if I were i’ your case, Simpson. I shou

started and l

avour of him yet,’ he

d—go and tell his lordship all about{94} it. He’s the reppytation of be

rubbed his ch

‘I’ve always fought a bit shy of him. Him an’ m

‘You and your fathers afore you have been on his

y-five year come next spr

ith conviction. ‘Any road, it’ll do no harm to tell him how you stand. He’

he met the earl near the gates of the Castle. Lord Simonstower had just left the vicarage, and Mr. Peppe

sation with you about your nephew. I have just been talking

erdine. ‘It so happens that I was going to ask the favou

and trap in the stables,’ said the earl. ‘Tell them to

ing Mr. Pepperdine that his nephew was a gifted youth who would almost certainly make a great name{95} in the world of letters, and that it would be a most excellent thing to send him to Oxford. He pointed out the grea

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

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 yea

e hesitated a little before making any reply. At last he looked at th

ying 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{96} been well advised—he’d put all

said the earl. ‘I r

w, 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

either cynical nor unfriendly. ‘Well, then, Pepperdine, I understand that the lad has been at

dine waved

one 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

t all his ruined hopes at his feet. His face expressed nothing until the regrettable c

unds 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

ught of such generous help as that indicated by the earl’s last words had come into his mind in telling the story of his difficu

brokenly, ‘I—I don’

ur 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{98} 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 cl

d which the earl extended; ‘and I shall remember a deal more, too,

You’d do the same for me, I’m sure. Good-day to you, good-day; a

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 fu