“And, would you believe it, mate?” said he. “Would you believe it? He wants to put them in print in the Parish Magazine. In print! Fancy!”
He slapped his thigh. Triona stared at him for a moment and then laughed out loud for the first time for many weeks.
“What are you laughing at?” asked the astonished Bunnings.
“It seems so funny,” said Triona.
“That’s what I thought.”
“And a great honour,” said Triona recovering.
“Of course. Only he said he couldn’t print ’em without your permission.”
Triona gave permission, stipulating, however, that his name should not be used. His modesty forbade it he explained. Josh Bunnings went away delighted. In the course of a few posts came a grateful letter from the curate. In Mr. Briggs’s writing he saw signs of considerable literary talent which he hoped Mr. Briggs would cultivate. If he could be of help in this way, he put his services at Mr. Briggs’s disposal. Triona again laughed, with grim amusement, at a funny, ironical world.
Then, suddenly, the underlying tragedy of this comic interlude smote him breathless. Alexis Triona was dead and so were his writings, for evermore. But the impulse to write stirred within him so vehemently that even in these idle letters to Josh Bunnings he had put all his vividness of literary expression. The curate’s dim recognition of the unusual was a sign and a token. Whatever he wrote would be stamped with his individuality and if published, even anonymously, would lead to his identification. The arresting quality of his style had been a main factor in his success. This flashing pictorial way of his he could not change. If he strove self-consciously to write sober prose, he would produce dull, uninspired stuff that no man could read; if he lost self-consciousness, automatically he would betray himself. He would re-appear in the Olivia-dominated world. Every book or article would dance before her eyes like an ignis fatuus, reminding her maddeningly of his existence in her propinquity.
An ignis fatuus. At this point of his reflection he remembered his first talk with her, wherein he had counselled her never to lose faith in her Will-o’-the-Wisp, but to compel it to be her guiding star. More ironical laughter from the high gods! And yet, why not? He wrestled with the temptation. As he lay, convalescent on his back, his brain clear, the sap of youth working in his veins, the uncontrolled fancies of the imaginative writer wove themselves into shreds of fine romance and tapestries of exquisite scenes. Just a little concentration, impossible in the open hospital ward, and all these would blend together into a thing of immortal beauty. He would find a publisher. Nothing easier. No name would appear. Or else, perhaps, as a handle for convenience sake, he would sign the book “Incognito.” It would stir the hearts of men, and they would say: “There is but one man living who could do this and that is Alexis Triona.” And Olivia, reading it, and beholding him in it, would find her heart stirred with the rest, yet far far more deeply than the rest, and would seek him out, obeying his far-off counsel, and believe that, in his essential self and in his infinite love, he was verily her guiding-star.