labor he had done
nothing. And these were moments when the accustomed vision of the land
alarmed him, and the wild domed hills and darkling woods seemed symbols
of some terrible secret in the inner life of that stranger--himself.
Sometimes when he was deep in his books and papers, sometimes on a lonely
walk, sometimes amidst the tiresome chatter of Caermaen "society," he
would thrill with a sudden sense of awful hidden things, and there ran
that quivering flame through his nerves that brought back the
recollection of the matted thicket, and that earlier appearance of the
bare black boughs enwrapped with flames. Indeed, though he avoided the
solitary lane, and the sight of the sheer height, with its ring of oaks
and molded mounds, the image of it grew more intense as the symbol of
certain hints and suggestions. The exultant and insurgent flesh seemed to
have its temple and castle within those olden walls, and he longed with
all his heart to escape, to set himself free in the wilderness of London,
and to be secure amidst the murmur of modern streets.

II

Lucian was growing really anxious about his manuscript. He had gained
enough experience at twenty-three to know that editors and publishers
must not be hurried; but his book had been lying at Messrs Beit's
office for more than three months. For six weeks he had not dared to
expect an answer, but afterwards life had become agonizing. Every
morning, at post-time, the poor wretch nearly choked with anxiety to know
whether his sentence had arrived, and the rest of the day was racked with
alternate pangs of hope and despair. Now and then he was almost assured
of success; conning over these painful and eager pages in memory, he
found parts that were admirable, while again, his inexperience reproached
him, and he feared he had written a raw and awkward book, wholly unfit
for print. Then he would compare what he remembered of it with notable
magazine articles and books praised by reviewers, and fancy that after
all there might be good points in the thing; he could not help liking the
first chapter for instance. Perhaps the letter might come tomorrow. So it
went on; week after week of sick torture made more exquisite by such
gleams of hope; it was as if he were stretched in anguish on the rack,
and the pain relaxed and kind words spoken now and again by the
tormentors, and then once more the grinding pang and burning agony. At
last he could bear suspense no longer, and