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And it was not only superb, it was almost humble in that which it further confessed and implied her gratitude to him for having made that act of justice consistent with loyalty to her cousin. How clever of her to pack so many meanings into one little phrase! "I did it too late," he said, emphasizing the point which served for Jewdwine's vindication. "Never mind that. You did it."
Rickman was a sharp fellow; he knew pretty well what he was about. Jewdwine's mind went back to the dawn of their acquaintance, and to a certain Florio Montaigne. Rickman had got the better of him over that Florio Montaigne.
It had indeed provided the editor of The Museion with much matter for disagreeable thought. He knew that Rickman the journalist had no more deadly enemy than Rickman the poet; and at that particular moment he did not greatly care to be reminded of his existence. Jewdwine's attitude to Rickman and his confidences was the result of a change in the attitude of The Museion and its proprietors.
But she was never there. Sometimes he would sit for hours on one of the seats under the elm tree at the back. There was a high walk there overlooking the West Heath and shaded by the elms and by Jewdwine's garden wall. The wall had a door in it that might some day open and let out the thing he longed for. Only it never did. There was nothing to hope for from Jewdwine's house.
A new poet, according to Jewdwine, had arisen in the person of an eminent Cabinet Minister, who in ninety-seven was beguiling the tedium of office with a very pretty playing on the pastoral pipe. Mr. Fulcher's In Arcadia lay on the editorial table, bound in white vellum, with the figure of the great God Pan symbolizing Mr. Fulcher, on the cover. Jewdwine's attitude to Mr.
And at this point Rickman gave himself away. "What's the good of that?" said he, "if young Paterson believes I wrote them?" "Young Paterson isn't entitled to any belief in the matter." "But he knew." There was a shade of genuine annoyance on Jewdwine's face. "Oh of course, if you've told him that you were the author. That's rather awkward for you, but it's hardly my fault.
That sonnet was meant for a sort of motto to it." A lyrical drama? She was right, then; he was Horace Jewdwine's great "find." If so, the subject was fenced around with difficulty. She must on no account give Horace away. Mr. He was inclined to be reticent about his writings. Lucia was wrong. Mr. Rickman had never been less inclined to reticence in his life.
The next step was that somebody who was paying for the boy's doctor's bills paid also for the publication of his poems. Therein were the last sweet pipings of the pastoral Fulcher. No other hand but Jewdwine's, as Jewdwine sorrowfully owned, could have done anything for this work, and he meant to have devoted a flattering article to it in the next number.
He could have avoided it by referring to her loftily as Miss Grace; but this course, besides being unfamiliar would have savoured somewhat of subterfuge. So he blurted it all out with an air of defiance, as much as to say that when you had called her Poppy Grace you had said the worst of her. Jewdwine's face expressed, as Rickman had anticipated, an exquisite disapproval.
So that Rickman was torn between Maddox's enthusiasm for him and his own enthusiasm for Jewdwine. That affection endured, being one with his impetuous and generous youth; while his genius, that thing alone and apart, escaped from Jewdwine. He knew that Jewdwine's incorruptibility left him nothing to expect in the way of approval and protection, and the knowledge did not greatly affect him.
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