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.