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Breaking Her
Jordan Marie
 Contents

Breaking Her
Blurb

Prologue
Lyla
1. Lyla
2. Thomas
3. Lyla
4. Thomas
5. Lyla
6. Thomas
7. Lyla
8. Dragon
9. Thomas
10. Lyla
11. Thomas
12. Dragon
13. Thomas
14. Lyla
15. Thomas
16. Lyla
17. Thomas
18. Ford
19. Thomas
20. Lyla
21. Thomas
22. Lyla
23. Lyla
24. Lyla
25. Thomas
26. Lyla
27. Thomas
28. Lyla
29. Thomas
30. Lyla
31. Thomas
32. Lyla
33. Gabby
34. Thomas
35. Lyla
36. Dragon
37. Thomas
38. Thomas
39. Ford
40. Lyla
41. Thomas
42. Lyla
43. King
44. Thomas
45. Lyla
46. Thomas
47. Lyla
Epilogue

Sneak Peek of Claiming What’s His

Jordan’s Insiders
Social Media Links
Also by Jordan Marie
 Breaking Her

Savage MC—2 nd Generation

Jordan Marie
Breaking Her
By: Jordan Marie
www.jordanmarieromance.com

Copyright © 2022 by Jordan Marie

Editor: Bookworm Edits & Creations

Cover Created by: Mayhem Creations

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: The unauthorized reproduction, transmission, or

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federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
This literary work is fiction. Any name, places, characters and incidents are the
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Please respect the author and do not participate in or encourage piracy of
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Created with Vellum
 Blurb
We were friends and I crossed a line I never meant to. Now,
we’re both forced to deal with the fallout.

Thomas “T” West has struggled his whole life. It was a silent
struggle that few understood. It left him content to live in the
shadow of his big brother.

Except when they both wanted the same woman.

Thomas thought he was finally being chosen first, that his speech
impediment didn’t make him less in her eyes. He was wrong.
So wrong.

When he saw Lyla, he was nursing wounds that touched his heart,
but also his pride. He knew it was a shit thing to do, but he used
her.
Lyla made him feel normal, like he could do anything, and a man can
get addicted to that feeling.

He shouldn’t have taken her to bed. He knew it, but he couldn’t

stop.

Lyla Ford fell in love with Thomas almost at once. She knew him as
the quiet guy who was good to her and made her feel beautiful. If
she had known he was a biker, or why he was truly attracted to her
—she would have kicked him in the balls and walked off.

The truth always comes out.

Too bad that’s when Lyla found out she was pregnant.
Now, her dad is calling for blood.
She doesn’t want a club war. Having her dad’s club go against the
Savage MC would be too bloody and she doesn’t want to be the
reason for anyone’s death.

That leaves her with only one option.

Claim the man she despises as her old man.

Prologue
 Thomas

Six Weeks After Lyla Walked Out

I pick up my phone. It’s been six weeks without hearing Lyla’s voice
or her laugh. I’ve moved back to Kentucky. I decided not to stay at
the club. I found an apartment across town. It’s not much, but then
again, the place in Virginia was worse. The difference is that I had
Lyla’s company there.
She made everything better.
I’ve made a huge mess. I know I have. I handled everything
wrong. I wanted to scream for her not to leave, and instead I let her
go. The truth is, she deserves better. That doesn’t mean it’s not
hurting like hell that she’s gone. I miss her laugh, and the way she’d
yawn while trying to convince me she wasn’t sleepy. I miss the way
she’d pick the toppings off her pizza, eating them separately before
eating the crust. I miss the way she’d get all sappy over movies or
scream out when something would scare her and then giggle
because she felt silly. Hell, I even miss the way she’d sigh when I’d
play with her hair.
Then, there are the things that I miss even more—like how she
touched me without even realizing it, or how she said my name and
the way the blue in her eyes deepened when I’d say hers. I miss
how it felt to snuggle into her late in the night and fuck if I don’t
miss the way she smells…
 In such a short time, she’s sunk down inside of me, and I ache…
wishing she was here.
That’s the only excuse I have as to why I’m picking up my phone
to text her. I’ve resisted up until now. It’s one in the morning and
she’s probably asleep, but I’ve drank a little too much and I just
want to feel her close.
God, I’m a fucking loser.

Me: I’m sorry, Sunflower.

Lyla: That doesn’t really help, Thomas.

Me: I know. I still am, though. I never meant to hurt you. I’m
surprised you answered me. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you
hadn’t.
Lyla: I wanted to talk to you about something or wouldn’t have.
Why did you invite me into your life when you didn't have feelings
for me?

Me: I did have feelings. You were my light. I was just in a bad place.
You have to understand. I’ve been in love with Gabby for as long as
I can remember. Finding out what she had done… I just needed
someone to see me, to want me, I guess.

Lyla: So, you used me. I mean, I look like her, so why not, right?

Me: I’ll admit that’s why I came over to you, Sunflower.

Lyla: And that’s when you decided to use me.

Me: Damn it, it wasn’t like that—at least not completely.

Lyla: But you did use me. Admit it.

Me: I guess maybe I did to help me get over the pain of losing her. I
know it was a shit thing to do, Sunflower. That’s why I let you go
that day. I didn’t want to hurt you. That’s the last thing I wanted. I
knew it was best if we just ended things. I didn’t want you to get
hurt in all this.

Lyla: Too late. How could you sleep with me in the same bed all this
time, Thomas? Then, make love to me if you loved her? How? Was it
all just because I looked like her?

Me: Nothing I say is going to make this better.

Lyla: I’ll take that as a yes.

I grimace, looking at my phone. There’s so much I want to say. I

want to tell her that nothing about her reminded me of Gabby after I
got to know her. I wanted to tell her that she was special and that I
miss her. Just her. I know telling her all of that will just hurt her even
more, so I let it go. Maybe it’s best for her to think she was just a
replacement.

Me: What did you want to talk to me about?

I stare at my phone, but she doesn’t respond…

 Lyla

I force myself to look at my phone as it vibrates. I shove my fingers

against my face and wipe away the tears. They’re tears that Thomas
doesn’t deserve. I can’t seem to stop them, though.

Thomas: What do you want to talk to me about?

I drop my phone back down on the mattress. He doesn’t deserve a

reply. There’s no sense telling him my news now. I’m too weak to
deal with him anymore. I’ve been in bed for almost a week off and
on. Doing too much makes me so sick that I feel like I’m going to
die. At first, I thought I might be.
Yesterday, I found out differently. My gaze goes to the small
white stick on my nightstand. A pregnancy test… I guess while
Thomas was busy imagining he was finally with his beloved Gabby,
his fantasy didn’t include wearing protection—not that I can blame
him entirely. I’ve been entirely too naïve about everything. I trusted
Thomas implicitly. I was a stupid fool.
My hand goes to my stomach. I vow that I’m going to get
smarter. No man will ever trick me again. I’ll be strong and self-
sufficient. I have to be…
For my baby.
Chapter 1
 Lyla

Present Day

“What are you doing here?”

I can’t believe what I’m seeing. I automatically touch my hair,
which is a matted mess, mostly because I’ve rolled around on the
couch all day, not having the energy to get up. There wasn’t a point,
anyway. That also means I don’t have makeup on. My hand goes
down to my face. I don’t know what I’m trying to do. Maybe if I put
my hand over part of my face, he won’t see the pimples that seem
to pop up daily—a complication of either being pregnant or binging
on chocolate peanut butter cups. My fingers feel a sticky, wet smear
of the chocolate on my cheek near the corner of my mouth, as if to
mock me.
Okay, so the acne outbreak may totally be related to the
chocolate binging and not pregnancy hormones.
“You’re pregnant,” Thomas says, and a sick, white-hot flushed
feeling spreads through me. My stomach rolls.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
“What?” I croak, trying to figure out how to get out of this.
“You’re preg…pregnant,” Thomas says, giving away that he’s not
completely comfortable here either.
He always stutters when he’s uncomfortable or upset. He’s
sensitive about it, but I never thought much about it. It embarrasses
Thomas, but I didn’t understand why. You just have to spend a little
time with him to realize that he’s special. He’s the kind of man a
woman would feel proud to belong to. At least that’s what I always
thought.
Until I discovered that he was only using me to nurse a broken
heart…
I must remember that and never let my guard down around him.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I bluff, furiously
wiping some of the chocolate from my face.
“Bullshit.”
“I’m serious Thomas, I don’t know where you got this idea, but
I’m not pregnant.” I hope like hell he buys what I’m saying. Luckily,
the room is semi-dark, and as I stand up, I’m confident that my
body is hidden under the overly large sundress that I’m wearing. I’m
not that far along, but you can definitely see the small swell of my
stomach when I wear more form-fitting clothes.
“Then, m-maybe you could tell your father that, since he’s
convinced you’re pregnant, and I’m the…the father,” he responds,
point blank. He’s clearly pissed, and a lot of that is directed at me. I
ignore it because I have bigger fish to fry—so to speak.
“I’m going to kill him,” I snap, talking about my father, although
killing Thomas sounds like a good plan, too.
“You’ve got bi…bi…bigger problems,” Thomas says, and I open
my mouth to deny him, but Thomas immediately shakes his head
no. “Don’t lie to me.”
“The way you lied to me, Thomas?”
“I never lied to… to you.”
“Do you remember when we were together? Your stuttering
rarely happened unless you were nervous or feeling guilty. You
would have trouble sometimes with others, but hardly ever with me.
I convinced myself that meant I was special,” I tell him. I hate that I
sound weak and broken in front of him. I hate that I feel that way.
“You’re acting like I m-m-made promises,” he stammers, and I
guess that’s what makes me feel the worst. I clearly thought we
were making promises together and he truly never did.
 “Why are you here, Thomas?” I finally ask. “Don’t you have a girl
to chase? Or have you caught her by now? Is she everything you
wanted?” Bitterness is thick in my voice. I can’t help it. I don’t try.
“I’m here because that’s what you w-wanted,” he accuses me. I
blink, thoroughly confused, because I have no idea what he’s talking
about.
“What does that even mean?”
“You can’t play dumb now, Sunflower.”
My eyes close, pain so intense that it almost floors me. It feels
like my heart is being frozen in my chest.
“Never,” I spit out under my breath—because it’s hard to talk. He
can hear me, though. I stare directly into his eyes and refuse to look
away. “Never call me that again.”
“I guess I deserv-vv-ve that,” he says, his face resigned.
“And so much more,” I agree. “You need to leave.”
“If only it were that easy, Sun…Lyla. It’s not though. Y-y-you
made it impossible for me to walk away.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about. Just the thought of
Thomas coming back into my life fills me with panic. I don’t want
him here.
Not anymore.
“I don’t understand,” I deny, shaking my head back and forth and
backing away from Thomas as if he were Satan himself—which he
very well could be.
“Your father tracked me down. We’re on the v-v-verge of a club-
b-b war and you and I are the only ones who c-can stop it.”
“How? I never told my father who you were. I never wanted him
to know. I never wanted anyone to know.”
“Lit-little too late to be ashamed of m-me now, Sunflower.”
I don’t think. I lash out, slapping him across the face with the
palm of my hand.
“I said never call me that!” I scream. “And for the record,
Thomas, I was never the one ashamed of you. You covered that
particular issue all on your own,” I add, walking away from him, sick
to my stomach.
 “You n-need to listen to me. If we’re going to stop this war, we’re
going to have to form an a-a-al-alliance.”
“What do you mean, alliance?”
“M-m-m-marriage.”
“You’re insane!” I growl, and then storm into my bedroom and
lock the door. I’m going to ignore him until he leaves.
I don’t need him. My hand goes to my stomach. I place it where
the tiny life is hiding inside me. My child doesn’t need him either. He
or she will have me, and I’ll never leave it alone like Thomas left me.
I sure as hell won’t marry him…
Chapter 2
 Thomas

“You don’t look happy,” Grunt says when I come out of Lyla’s. He
escorted me here since my dad and Ford can’t seem to agree on
shit. I wanted to tell them it’s not for either one of them to decide
because whatever happens is between Lyla and myself. That’s not
exactly true, though. This situation is complicated because our clubs
hate one another. I didn’t realize Lyla had any connection with a
club. I could bitch at her for keeping that from me, but when it
comes to me and her, it’s a toss-up as to who was keeping the most
secrets.
Today’s meeting didn’t help matters either. After Lyla’s outburst
about me calling her Sunflower, we were kind of at a standstill. I told
her the clubs are about to go to war and that the two of us getting
married would be the only thing that might possibly stop it. It might
not have been wise to lead with that, but then again, nothing I’ve
done with Lyla has been wise. She ran to her room and locked the
door. I figured leaving was about the only thing to do at that point.
Hopefully, she will be calmer tomorrow when she figures out that I’m
not going anywhere.
“N-n-n-not much to be happy ab-b-bout.”
Fuck. I hate it when I stutter. Lyla was right about that. It has
been happening more and more lately and I know that has more to
do with the shit I’m feeling and going through, rather than the
actual stutter. I hate it more at the moment because it shows a
weakness to Lyla’s people—namely her dad and his club. Grunt is a
member, but he’s also claimed Dancer’s daughter as his old lady.
Dancer is our VP, and it hasn’t been an easy thing for the club to
accept Grunt, but everyone respects him. It helps that Jazz loves
him and he’s not ashamed to admit he feels the same. Hell, it might
have even mended some fences between the clubs and paved the
way for a truce if it hadn’t been for this mess with Lyla.
Dad hasn’t busted my balls over that yet, but I’m sure it’s
coming. Hell, I deserve it. I fucked up royally. I know that. I knew it
while I was doing it, and yet, I did it anyway. I’d like to say I didn’t
realize what I was doing, that it just happened.
That would be a lie.
My ego was non-existent, and my pride blown to hell after Gabby
used me. I thought she had finally begun to acknowledge that there
was something between us. I thought she was the first person to
see me as a man in my own right—not the one behind Dom’s
shadow, not the boy who stuttered, and not Dragon West’s son.
Just me.
I was wrong.
So fucking wrong.
“You come back here, Thomas West, and it won’t be my father
you should be afraid of!” Lyla screams.
I look back at the house I just left. Lyla’s upstairs in what I can
only assume is her room. She’s crying, her hair is all but matted
together and she’s screaming like a banshee.
“Christ,” I mutter. “We’re getting m-m-married tomorrow, Lyla,” I
tell her, and shit, I’m just goading her at this point. I know it, I just
can’t seem to stop.
“I’d rather hang upside down by my toenails from a thirty-foot
tall building!” she huffs.
I shouldn’t laugh—and I don’t, but the laughter is close by. Lyla
always made me smile—apparently, she still does, even while mad.
When I was with her, I could forget about everything—including
Gabby. That wasn’t fair to her, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned,
it’s that life’s not fair. Mostly, life’s a bitch and then you die.
“The feeling is mutual,” I yell back, turning around to walk away.
In response, she just lets out an exasperated scream and slams the
window down so hard that I’m surprised the glass pane doesn’t
break.
“Jesus, kid, you need to stop this shit. Lyla’s a good girl. So, you
knocked her up. This isn’t the nineteen-thirties, you don’t have to
marry her.”
“That’s my kid she’s carrying,” I tell him, proud of myself for not
stuttering.
“Whatever, dude, but there’s no way Ford is going to force her to
marry you. He doesn’t even like you, and the only thing he wants in
the world is his daughter’s happiness. She doesn’t sound too fucking
happy right now,” Grunt says and, as if to accentuate his point, I feel
a large thump on my back. I turn as a baseball bounces to the
ground.
“What the f-fuck?” I growl, flinching as pain sears through my
shoulder.
Grunt’s laughing. I ignore him and look up at Lyla’s window
again.
“Next time, I’ll take your damn head off!” Lyla yells, and sure
enough, she’s holding another baseball.
“It’s hard enough to…to…withstand the…the hit,” I snap.
“I wasn’t talking about your skull, dumbass,” she yells.
“Neither wa-was I.” I move my shoulder carefully while Grunt
laughs his ass off and I’m left wondering what in the hell I’m going
to do.
Chapter 3
 Lyla

“Is Thomas right, Daddy?”

He looks at me as I come into the living room. I know he’s
shocked when he sees me. It’s probably the first time in months that
I look like myself. My hair is still slightly damp from a shower, the
blonde strands brighter in places because they’ve dried. I’m wearing
jeans and a bright pink tank. My stomach is a little more rounded,
but for the most part, I look like the old Lyla—the one before my
heart was broken.
At least on the outside.
“I’ve yet to see anything that dickless wonder is right about,
Butterfly, but I guess you’ll have to be more specific,” Daddy laughs.
“If I don’t marry him, will the clubs go to war?”
“No, he’s not.”
“Shew, okay then I—”
“We’re going to war regardless and just for your information,
you’re not marrying that son of a bitch,” he responds, his voice not
excited at all. Instead, his voice sounds like steel—unmovable.
“You can’t go to war!” I cry, knowing that would spell disaster for
a lot of people.
“If we do, it’s none of your business, Lyla. It’s club business.”
“That’s bullshit. You are my business, Dad,” I snap.
“This is my world, girl. You can’t put me in a damn box. I
wouldn’t let you even if you could,” he answers—which really isn’t an
answer at all.
 “I can marry him. You can’t go to war if I do.”
“I could and I would.”
“You wouldn’t,” I insist stubbornly.
“There’s no point in arguing this shit, Butterfly, because you
aren’t marrying him. We don’t need him, and that baby doesn’t need
him. We’ll raise your baby just fine without that piece of shit.”
“I can’t let this happen,” I insist, sitting down on the sofa beside
him, feeling lost. Dad instantly gathers me in his arms and pulls me
to his lap. I close my eyes and lay my head against his chest and for
a minute I’m transported back to when I was little. I remember
being scared of the monsters that I swore lived inside my bedroom
closet. Daddy would pull me onto his lap and hold me until I fell
asleep. I’d feel warm, safe, and loved. The same as I do right now.
There’s no better feeling in the world. Daddy may not be the
conventional father, but he is mine and even if I’ve always known
the club is his life, he does make time for me.
“This is my world, Butterfly. You can’t start getting pissy about it
now.”
“I’m not getting pissy,” I mutter. “If you start declaring war on
the Savage Brothers over this, you’re going to get yourself killed,” I
mumble into his chest.
“Thanks for having a little faith in your old man,” he grumbles
sarcastically.
“It’s not about that, and you know it. Everyone knows how
powerful the Savage crew is. You try to keep me out of the club junk
and even I know that,” I breathe out, frustrated.
“Don’t worry about me and don’t marry that fuck-head. That’s
not why I allowed him to meet with you.”
“Then why did you? I mean, you wouldn’t rest until you hunted
him down. I didn’t even know he was a biker. If I had, I never would
have talked to him and I know he had no idea who I was. I don’t
understand how you even found him or why you’re going so far with
all of this. If you had just left it alone, it would have been fine. What
is all of this about, Dad?” He sighs and I pull back to look at him.
“Tell me.”
 “Some people at your school noticed you hanging around some
guy, a couple knew where you would meet him. They said he was on
a bike when he picked you up.”
“You interrogated people I go to school with?”
“You had to know I wouldn’t stop until I found who hurt you,” he
grumbles. “Anyway, one of your friends mentioned the guy looked at
home on a bike and wore a cut like mine one day, but stored it in his
saddlebags before coming up to get you. They couldn’t tell me who,
or what the cut looked like, but since you had mentioned Kentucky it
gave me a place to start.”
“I can’t believe you!”
“Butterfly—”
“And you look so proud of yourself!”
“It wasn’t just me. King had some connections and information
on clubs in Kentucky. That was a dead end, unfortunately. There are
too many men and someone wouldn’t give me a description or a
name.”
“I did that for a reason. So, how did you find him?”
“That was pure luck. King was in Kentucky working on something
else and happened to see Gabby having lunch one day. He had to do
a double-take and mentioned it in passing. So, I figured, the chick
eats there once, she’d probably eat there again. I put the joint under
a stakeout.”
“Oh my God. You’re deranged.”
“The point is, he hurt you and he has to pay. I just needed to
make sure I had the right kid,” he answers. “Letting him meet with
you was the only way I could do that.”
“You can’t make him pay, and I still don’t see why it matters if
you know who the father of my child is,” I argue. Swallowing down
the hurt I feel toward him. I doubt he’s aware of how much pain I
felt just having to be face to face with Thomas right now.
“I didn’t want to murder an innocent man.” He sounds so matter
of fact about it that it’s almost as if he’s discussing the weather.
“Murder?” I squeak. “Daddy, you can’t kill Thomas.”
“Yeah, I can and I’m going to enjoy it, Butterfly.”
“You can’t kill the father of my child. I forbid it.”
 I watch as a smile twitches on his lips.
Shit. Fuck. Damn.
I know my father. When he gets like this, there’s no talking to
him. Which means I’m out of luck. I’m going to have to decide if I
want to save Thomas’s life or let him die. At one time, that wouldn’t
have even been a question. I loved Thomas with all my heart, I’d
have given my life for his without even blinking. Now? If it’s possible
to love and hate someone at the same time, then I suppose that’s
where I’m at.
“You need to stop thinking about it. You never have to speak to
that damn kid again.”
“Actually, I really do need to see him again, Daddy,” I mumble,
feeling doors close in on me.
“Nah, I don’t think you do, Butterfly.”
“Daddy!”
“I forbid it.”
“You can’t do that. I’m old enough to make up my own mind
about things, and the club may be your life, but this is my life.” I
argue, my heart kicking up in speed when I feel a surge of panic.
“I can do anything I want,” he says with a wink.
I love my father, but right now I want to choke him.
“Daddy, I still love him,” I respond, looking him in the eye. Dad
stares at me and I can tell he’s upset, but he believes me and that
might buy me a few days to figure out how to avoid a club war.
I try to never lie to my Dad. We’ve always had an upfront
relationship. Lately, I seem to be doing it often—like right now. I’m
totally lying. I don’t love Thomas. I hate him.
And now, I hate him even more for forcing me to save him—and
I am going to do that. I sigh as what I’m going to do lands on me
like a ton of bricks.
I’m going to claim Thomas West as my old man and pray that
does the trick. It’s more or less a marriage, at least in club life, and
hopefully that will be enough. I might be able to whisper a small lie
to my father, but I don’t want to lie to God and make vows that will
be impossible for me to keep.
I really do hate him…
 I keep saying it, but it’s becoming so intense that if I don’t repeat
it often, I just might explode.
Chapter 4
 Thomas

“I take it the meeting didn’t go that great.”

I look up to see my old man standing in the doorway of the hotel
room. He’s tense, but not as bad as he was earlier today when he
couldn’t go with me and had to trust Grunt to have my back. We
haven’t really spoken much about how bad I’ve fucked up. I know
he’s not happy with me. When Dad’s not happy, the world knows.
Still, he hasn’t said much about it, just that we’ll handle it. Mom is
upset. Well, I’m not sure that’s the exact word. I think she’s
disappointed, which feels worse. You would think at my age, I’d stop
worrying about what my parents thought of me, but that’s not the
case. I’ve always wanted what my parents have. They are
completely devoted to one another. There’s not much that comes
before the club with Dad, but Mom does, and I think everyone
knows that. Luckily, Mom has always wanted what was best for the
club, so it works out. If she didn’t, maybe Dad wouldn’t love her as
much as he does. She’s his entire world, though, and it’s the same
with her. That’s what I always envisioned having.
I’m not Dom. With him, the club is his whole life. Everything else
has taken a back seat. I love being part of the club. I love the legacy
that I’m involved with because my father and my uncles created it. I
love being on my bike and the way we live. I need more, though. I
want a home. I want the love I see between my parents.
I always have—even though I’ve never told anyone that. Well,
that’s not true. I did tell Lyla that once when we were talking about
what we wanted out of life. That’s different, though. It was a
general conversation between friends because that’s all we were
back then.
I should have never crossed that line…
“T?” Dad prompts, and I turn to look at him.
“I royally fucked up, D-dad.”
“Yeah, you did,” he says, slapping me on the back.
“I don’t know how to make it right,” I murmur, as he stands close
to me, and we look out the window together.
“There’s a chance you can’t, son,” Dad says, sounding resigned.
He walks away and I turn to watch as he sits on the bed. I can see
the stress on his face, and I know I put it there.
“I can’t let the c-club go to war over this shit,” I mutter.
“If we go to war, we go to war. It will have more to do with the
fact Ford is an asshole than the fact you can’t keep your dick under
control,” Dad says, and that doesn’t exactly make me feel better.
“I’ll find a way to make sure Lyla agrees to m-m-marry me and
that will stop this shit. Even Ford won’t be stupid enough to start a
war when his daughter is b-b-bound to a member of the Savage
MC.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that and Jesus, you stuck your dick in
this chick. That shouldn’t be a reason to marry her—although, fuck,
boy, I gave you that talk about wrapping your damn dick up.”
“M-m-m…” I stop, frustrated that I can’t even get the damn word
out. I take a breath and start again. “Marriage is the only thing that
might bridge the clubs,” I mumble.
“Bullshit. If you think marriage is going to heal the rift between
the clubs, you’re full of crap, T.”
“It’s w-worth a shot,” I insist.
“It’s a shit reason to tie yourself to a piece of pussy, T.”
“She’s not that, Dad. She’s a g-good woman.”
“You have feelings for her?” Dad asks, and I can tell he’s
studying me.
“Not like that. We were friends.”
“Boy, I have a lot of friends. I never wanted to sink my dick
inside of any of them,” he laughs, and I shake my head.
 “You don’t have f-f-female friends,” I point out, the tight knot
inside of me loosening some.
Dad is a hard ass and a man you don’t want to cross, but he’s
been a damn good father. He can be hard as nails, but he’s never
intentionally made me feel less because of my stutter. He’s never
made a difference between me and Dom, when I know Dom is more
of the kind son he wanted to follow in his footsteps. He’s never said
that, but it has to be true. Dom is just like my dad.
“Your mother would kill me,” he jokes—or maybe he’s not. Mom
does have a temper. “This Lyla,” he starts, and my body tightens
when Dad uses her name. I know he’s going to ask questions I’m
not comfortable with. Still, I man up. I got myself in this mess, I
can’t run away now.
“Yea-yeah?”
“Does she really look like Gabby?”
“Yeah, I guess. I mean I’d be ly-lying if-if I said that wasn’t what
made me n-notice her,” I admit, sounding like an ass, because I
guess that’s what I am.
“Damn, son.”
“I know.” I take a deep breath. “She’s n-n-n-not Gabby, though.”
“And that’s the problem? Jesus, I never understood yours or
Dom’s fascination with that girl,” Dad growls, and when I turn to
look at him, he rubs his hand over his head. He does that often, and
usually when he’s frustrated or upset. I’m surprised he isn’t bald
because Dad’s not always a calm guy.
“You d-d-don’t like her?”
“She’s self-centered. I haven’t seen a bit of fire in her. Skull
spoiled the hell out of her. Don’t get me wrong, I did the same with
Kayden. She’s a girl and you need to nurture the soft in them, but
you make sure you feed that fire, too. Women lead with their hearts,
which makes the world a better fucking place, T.”
“I know,” I mumble, because this is a speech that Dad has given
a hundred times to both me and Dom.
“But they need that fire inside of them to survive, to stand strong
when life gives you shit. Because if there’s one thing you can count
on—”
 “Life gives you shit,” I join in, smiling a real smile for the first
time in forever.
“A-fucking-men,” Dad mutters with a sigh.
“What drew you to M-mom?” I ask because I don’t think I’ve
ever taken the time to ask him before. I just knew there was so
much love between them that I assumed it had always been there.
I watch as Dad’s face transforms, as it often does when he talks
about Mom. It’s the weirdest fucking thing to watch this man who is
hard as nails to the outside world transform with just the thought of
Mom, but he does every single time.
“She has fire in spades, T. I wanted her from the beginning, but
it wasn’t until she kneed me in the balls that I knew I was going to
keep her.”
I laugh. “Mom did that?”
“Fuckin’ A. Right in the middle of the Wolves Den. Crush was
with me. The son of a bitch still laughs his ass off. It didn’t matter to
her what patch I wore, or the power I held. She let me have it, and
to be honest, I deserved it. Still, that’s when I knew she was special,
that she could not only handle me, but handle the club life, too.”
“Dad—”
“You need a woman with fire, T. You’re quieter than your
brother,” he adds, and I drop my head down. I’m nothing like Dom
and I’m quieter because I can’t make my damn words come out like
they sound in my head. “Stop T. I’m not talking about your speech.
No one who matters cares about that shit, and I told you what to do
if anyone said one fucking thing to you about it, didn’t I?”
“Yeah,” I murmur, although if I did what he told me to do every
time someone laughed or talked about my stutter, I’d have spent my
life in juvenile centers and jails.
“I mean, you think shit through. You don’t let emotions lead you.
That’s a damn good quality to have.”
“I di-di-didn’t exactly think this through,” I admit, and Dad gives
me a smirk.
“I will say that when you fuck up, T, you do it really good,” he
replies, but he does it without anger, which helps take the sting out
of the regret I feel for dragging Dad and the club into this shit.
 “Damn it, Lyla! What are you doing? You’re going to get us all
killed,” Grunt growls from outside.
“Lyla?” Dad repeats, but I’m already in action, headed toward the
door. I open it up to see Lyla standing in front of the door, facing
Grunt. The minute I get the door opened, however, she turns to look
at me.
“I came to see my old man,” she says and while she sounds
completely sure, she sounds like she’s trying to swallow nails when
she says it.
Damn.
Chapter 5
 Lyla

I keep my back straight and my hands in my pants pocket. If I

didn’t, I might crumble. The urge to wring my hands is strong, but I
don’t want Thomas to realize how nervous I am. My father is going
to be fit to be tied when he discovers I slipped out this morning. He
even went so far as to put a guard on me. Pregnant women
shouldn’t be sneaking out of their bedroom window. It wasn’t fun,
but desperate times call for desperate measures. I’m just thankful
Dad moved me to the downstairs guest bedroom when he found out
I was pregnant. He wanted me to have the comforts of an ensuite
bathroom and a bigger bedroom for me and the baby.
“Sunflower? Wh-what are you doing here?” Thomas asks.
I know I shouldn’t. I really do, but I’ve always been someone
who acts first and thinks later. My entire relationship with Thomas is
proof of that. So, I do as my dad taught me. He always told me that
a man expects a woman to kick him in the balls. That’s why the shot
is blocked all too easily. The trick for getting the better of a man
when you’re smaller is to do something unexpected.
First, I scream—and with as much pent-up hostility as I’ve got
against Thomas right now, I’d be surprised if my father couldn’t hear
me inside the clubhouse, which was a good sixty miles away. Next,
before the scream even dies on my lips, I curl my hand in a fist,
draw it back and then throat punch Thomas for all I’m worth.
“Holy fuck,” an older guy growls from just behind Thomas. I
didn’t see him, but I don’t care. I’m taking too much satisfaction in
the fact that Thomas is grabbing his throat and stumbling
backwards. Now would be the time to kick him in the balls, but I
don’t. Instead, I yell at him—but it’s not nearly as satisfying.
“I told you to never call me that again!” I growl, which is
immensely satisfying, even if my voice is a little wobbly from
screaming moments earlier.
The man behind Thomas puts his hands on him and pulls him
into the room just as Grunt moves behind me. He’s tense, and I
know he’s there to protect me. I also know it puts him in an
awkward position since he’s married to one of the Savage crew’s
daughters. I really like Jasmine, too. She’s been nice to me. I try to
not let the fact she’s best friends with the woman who indirectly
caused me the worst pain in my life affect our friendship—it’s not
easy.
“You must be Lyla,” the man says, his voice gruff.
He’s wearing a Savage Brothers MC cut, and automatically my
eyes go to the patches. President. Gee, looks like I just met
Thomas’s dad.
This should be fun.
“That’s me,” I respond, sounding tougher than I feel.
“You want to come in?” he asks, and he actually sounds like he’s
trying to be nice to me—which is weird. I just nailed his son pretty
good—if the way he’s squeaking and rubbing his throat is any
indication. You’d think he’d be pissed, but Thomas is a fuck-up.
Maybe his dad is appreciative that someone delivered him a lesson
and it wasn’t him for a change.
I shrug.
“I’m not sure that’d be wise,” I tell him honestly.
“Why’s that? You afraid we’ll hurt you?” he questions, tilting his
head to study me.
“I can take care of myself,” I tell him, and not to sound like an
idiot or anything, I feel like I can, so that didn’t enter my mind.
Admittedly, my bravery probably has to do with the fact Grunt is at
my back.
Thomas’s dad, whose patch tells me his name is Dragon, smiles
with my answer. It’s not exactly the reaction I expected, but it’s
better than him wanting to kill me, so I can deal.
“Then, why not come in?” he asks and for an older guy, he’s kind
of sexy with a smile playing at his lips. Thomas favors him a little—
although his features are softer. I frown at that thought.
There’s nothing sexy about Thomas. Not anymore. He’s slime—
the end.
“Because, Dragon—can I call you Dragon?” I ask, not wanting to
offend him.
“Yeah, Blondie, you can call me Dragon,” he says, and this time
the smile is bigger and he’s almost laughing.
I clench my teeth as he gives me a stupid nickname. I don’t take
him to task over it, however. There’s not much point. Right now, I
think I need to pick my battles and that’s not one.
“Lyla is my name,” I point out—totally picking the wrong battle
and before he can call me on it, I push forward. “Honestly, Dragon,
if I’m forced to be in a small room with your son, I might kill him. I
figure you would probably frown on that.”
“Probably,” he says, almost laughing.
“Since I’m here to stop a club war—not start one—I figured I
might as well stay out here.”
I announce all of that without showing my nervousness and
manage to do it without sounding winded. I’m kind of proud of
myself.
Dragon does laugh then. Full out laugh.
“Lyla,” Thomas squeaks—and yeah, okay, it brings me pleasure.
“Why are you here?”
“Trying to save your sorry ass—not that I want to. I don’t even
think I’d be sad if my father gutted you and left you in his garden to
scare off the crows, Thomas West,” I snap.
“Lyla,” Grunt says, and when I look over my shoulder at him, he’s
hiding his mouth—which I can tell is a sign he’s trying not to laugh. I
scowl at him—which makes it worse. He nudges his head in the
direction of the door. I turn around to see Dragon—who doesn’t look
angry—but I figure it’s not wise to talk about gutting his son. I take
a deep breath.
 “Sorry, Dragon, sir, but I’m kind of upset with your son,” I
grumble.
“Just Dragon. I haven’t been sir my entire life and I’d just as well
keep it that way,” he says.
“Dragon,” I agree with a nod of my head.
“I don’t need anyone to save me,” Thomas says stubbornly, and
all I can do is roll my eyes. “I don’t!” he insists.
“Fine! Then, I’ll leave,” I bark, turning on my heel.
“Wait!” Thomas snaps, but I’m practically pushing Grunt out of
the way.
“I came all this way to save your ass when I really didn’t want to!
If it wasn’t for the fact my father will attack your dad’s club and
probably get himself killed, I wouldn’t have even bothered!” I mutter,
mostly to myself, but saying it loud enough for everyone to hear me.
“Sunflower, stop,” he says, and I really want to kill him.
“I told you not to call me that!” I yell, turning around way too
quickly. The world goes sideways and my vision starts to blur.
“Lyla?” Thomas says, and I want to answer him, but this deep
pain hits my stomach, and I can only grab it and cry out.
I feel arms pick me up and it’s only then that I realize I’m
squeezing my eyes shut. Now, I’m starting to panic. I look up to see
Thomas is the one carrying me.
“The baby,” I whisper.
“Is fine,” he says. “Grunt, get her father, tell him we’ll b-b-b-be at
the hospital in W-w-wise,” he adds.
I see Thomas’s father come around us, heading toward a large,
black SUV. Then, I close my eyes again and I pray my stupidity
didn’t hurt my baby.
Chapter 6
 Thomas

“You gave us all a fright, Miss Ford,” the doctor says as he walks in,
holding her chart. She looks up at him, worry etched on her face.
Lyla doesn’t deserve the look of fear that I see on her. She’s the
sweetest, most genuine person I’ve ever met. I hate that I’ve fucked
up her life, but that seems to be my specialty. It’s become clear that
if it wasn’t for me, Dom and Gabby would have been together. I just
wish I had realized that before I had ruined Lyla’s life.
I hate Gabby for how she played me. Most of all, I hate that I’m
sitting in a hospital room with Lyla, waiting to hear what’s going on
with our child, and my mind is full of Gabby and her betrayal.
“Is my baby okay?” she asks, and her voice sounds frail. Lyla is
not a frail person. She never has been.
“Butterfly!” Lyla’s dad yells, coming in frantically.
He goes to Lyla’s bedside—a place where I almost sat and then
felt weird. I ended up sitting in the corner.
“Are—are you the baby’s father?” the doctor asks Ford, confusion
in his voice.
I stand up, annoyed at the question.
“I-I’m the father.”
“While you’re alive,” Ford snaps. “I’m Lyla’s father. How is she?”
he asks, dismissing me.
“How’s my baby?” Lyla asks and I suppose, given the
circumstances, it shouldn’t bother me—but it does. The two of them
want to pretend I’m not part of anything to do with this child and
yet, that’s my baby inside of Lyla. Everything is a mess, and I fucked
up, but it’s my child, too. I don’t think I realized that I wanted a
chance to be a father until Lyla began having pain.
“The baby appears to be fine,” the doctor responds, reassuringly.
“Wh-what do you mean appears?” I ask, not satisfied.
“I don’t believe he was talking to you,” Ford snaps. “What do you
mean appears?” the bastard repeats.
“All of the tests we ran, including testing the hormone levels in
your system, tells us that all is well.”
“Then why am I cramping?” she asks, her voice frightened. I find
myself walking toward her, standing on the opposite side of her
father. I want to comfort her, even though I know she doesn’t want
me anywhere around her.
“My best guess would be that you’ve overdone it today or have
had a lot of stress. It could be just the baby growing and taking up
more space in there. In any case, I don’t think it’s anything to
become alarmed about. We will keep you overnight for observation,
but that’s just as a precaution.”
“Okay,” she murmurs.
“In the meantime, would you like to see your baby? Normally we
don’t do this when all the tests come back normal, but I think it will
make you feel better just to see the little guy or girl.”
“Is that possible?” Lyla asks, and my heart fumbles in my chest
because I want to see the baby. My baby.
“Definitely. If you gentlemen would just step outside—”
“He-he can leave. I’m n-n-not going anywhere,” I stutter and
Jesus, I’ve never been more upset with my speech impediment than
I am right now. I don’t want to appear weak around Lyla’s dad. I
know he thinks I’m not good enough for his daughter—hell, I think
that. I don’t want him to look at me like I’m not able to take care of
her, though. All of those names I heard through school come hurling
back at me every single time someone looks at me like I’m less than
any other person. Stuttering Tom, Dumb Thomas, stupid, retard…
The list could go on for miles and I know as much as I pretended
they didn’t bother me, they scarred pieces of me that I will never be
able to heal.
 “I’m not leaving Lyla alone with you,” Ford growls.
“You’ll look fun-n-n-ny li-li-living with us when Lyla moves in w-w-
with m-m-me.”
“My daughter isn’t doing shit with you. You were lucky she gave
you the time of day. She could have her pick of men. The last thing
she needs is to saddle herself up with a—”
“Daddy!” Lyla cries and Ford jerks around to look at her. “Don’t
you say it,” she snaps.
“L-let him say wha-t he wants,” I respond, not blinking when I
look at the son of a bitch. I’m ready for him. Anything he says, I’m
sure I’ve heard before. Ford doesn’t say anything, but he keeps
staring at me. The tension is heavy in the air, and neither one of us
is willing to back down.
“Perhaps it would be best if both of you leave. I’m not sure this
fight you two have going on is good for Miss Ford or the baby,” the
doctor says, carefully standing between both of us. My gaze moves
to Lyla, and I find myself swallowing my pride.
“I-I’d like to stay, Sun—Lyla.”
She stares at me. There’s so much sadness hidden in her eyes,
and I hate that it’s there, because I know I’m the son of a bitch that
put it there.
“You both can stay, as long as you don’t talk,” she finally says.
I nod, not happy that Ford stays, but grateful that Lyla let me.
She has every reason not to. I move even closer to her, while
remaining on the opposite side of her father. I watch as the doctor
rubs stuff over Lyla’s stomach and then moves a wand-like
instrument over the same area. I have to admit it’s all foreign to me.
I’ve never thought about what happens when a woman is pregnant.
It’s nothing I ever worried about. That all changes the moment the
sound of my child’s heartbeat begins echoing in the room. My gaze
automatically goes to the screen and the doctor is highlighting this
small, little oval shape.
“Is tha-that…”
I stop talking and it’s not because of my stutter. It has more to
do with what I’m seeing.
“That’s the baby,” the doctor supplies.
Another random document with
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Philistine
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
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are not located in the United States, you will have to check the
laws of the country where you are located before using this
eBook.

Title: The Philistine

a periodical of protest (Vol. III, No. 3, August 1896)

Author: Various

Editor: Elbert Hubbard

Release date: January 11, 2024 [eBook #72688]

Language: English

Original publication: East Aurora: The Society of the Philistines,

1895

Credits: hekula03 and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team

at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from
images made available by the HathiTrust Digital
Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE

PHILISTINE ***
 The Philistine
A Periodical of Protest.
Let me take you a buttonhole lower.—Love’s Labour’s Lost.

Printed Every Little While for The Society

of The Philistines and Published by Them
Monthly. Subscription, One Dollar Yearly

Single Copies, 10 Cents. August, 1896.

 THE PHILISTINE.

CONTENTS FOR AUGUST.

Miserere, Hiram Dryer McCaskey.

An Hour with Maecenas, G. W. Stevens.
Sunrise Over the City, William James Baker.
The Captives, Ouida.
If Love Were All, Edith Neil.
The Man on a Bicycle, Harvey Lewis Wickham.
The Steward, C. P. N.
Let There Be Gall Enough in Thy Ink, Adeline Knapp.
The Worshippers, Charles P. Nettleton.
Side Talks with the Philistines.
Conducted by the East Aurora School of Philosophy.

Have you seen the Roycroft Quarterly? The “Stephen Crane”

number is attracting much attention and we believe it will interest
you. 25 cents a copy.

Entered at the Postoffice at East Aurora, New York, for

transmission as mail matter of the second class.
COPYRIGHT, 1896, by B. C. Hubbard.
 NOTICE TO
Collectors of Artistic Posters.

On receipt of 10 cents we will send to any address, a copy of

our largely illustrated catalogue of 500 posters exhibited by “The
Echo” and “The Century.”
“The Echo” is the pioneer in fostering the poster in America. It
began its department of Poster-Lore in August, 1895, and has
printed it fortnightly, with many illustrations, ever since.

Each issue of “The Echo” bears a poster design, in two or

more colors, on its cover. During the past year seven of these
covers were by Will H. Bradley.

“The Echo” is $2.00 a year, 10 cents a number. New York,

130 Fulton Street.

LOOK OUT for the second and popular edition of “Cape of

Storms,” price 25 cents. One sent free with every year’s
subscription to “The Echo.”

THE LOTUS.
A Miniature Magazine of Art and Literature Uniquely Printed and
Illustrated.

A graceful flower.—Rochester Herald.

 It is a wonder.—Chicago Times-Herald.
The handsomest of all the bibelots.—The Echo.
Alone in its scope and piquancy.—Boston Ideas.
Artistic in style and literary in character.—Brooklyn Citizen.
The prettiest of the miniature magazines.—Syracuse Herald.
Each bi-weekly visit brings a charming surprise.—Everybody.
The Lotus seeks to be novel, unconventional and entertaining
without sacrificing purity and wholesomeness. It seeks to be a
medium for the younger writers.
The Lotus is published every two weeks and is supplied to
subscribers for One Dollar a year; foreign subscription, $1.25.
Sample copy five cents. On sale at all news stands.
THE LOTUS, Kansas City, Mo.

The Roycroft Quarterly:

Being a Goodly collection of Literary Curiosities obtained from

Sources not easily accessible to the average Book-Lover. Offered
to the Discerning every three months for 25c. per number or one
dollar per year.
Contents for May:
I. Glints of Wit and Wisdom: Being replies from sundry Great Men
who missed a Good Thing.
II. Some Historical Documents by W. Irving Way, Phillip Hale and
Livy S. Richard.
III. As to Stephen Crane. E. H. A preachment by an admiring
friend.
IV. Seven poems by Stephen Crane.
 1—The Chatter of a Death Demon.
2—A Lantern Song.
3—A Slant of Sun on Dull Brown Walls.
4—I have heard the Sunset Song of the Birches.
5—What Says the Sea?
6—To the Maiden the Sea was Blue Meadow.
7—Fast Rode the Knight.

V. A Great Mistake. Stephen Crane. Recording the venial sin of a

mortal under sore temptation.
VI. A Prologue. Stephen Crane.
 THE PHILISTINE.

no. 3. August, 1896. vol. 3.

 MISERERE.
Joy and sorrow, mirth and tears,
Darkness, sunshine, kind words, jeers,
The flitting moments, halting years—
Strange contrasts these!

Today the youth, tomorrow age;

We read, and then we turn the page;
The fool we honour, not the sage—
Sad travesties!

The dancers gay, the open grave—

From foot-lights’ flare to solemn wave
The sale of souls Christ came to save—
Life’s tragedies!

—Hiram Dryer McCaskey.

 AN HOUR WITH MAECENAS.
One, two, three—five men that call themselves my friends, all wishful
to borrow money! Statilius, you will please to make a note of these
five gentlemen, and give orders that on no account are they to pass
my vestibule again. The settlement of society under our Prince has
done much to stamp out the dangerous classes, but we have not yet
got rid of the borrowers. I think it a little hard that after I have
neglected my estate for half my life to expel roguery by the front door
that it should creep in at the back.
Did you inquire, Statilius, why my cook served white sauce with
quails last night? Very well; I have made it a rule to deal with my
people in person: send for him. It is not possible to maintain a
household well regulated, unless the servants come personally into
touch with the master.
Plato, you served me last night a dish which, had any of my
friends been present, would have shamed me forever. As it was, my
dinner was ruined. It is incompetence such as yours whose ill effects
Rome has struggled these eight lustrums to efface. You will be sold
in the market tomorrow. Go.
You see now, Statilius, the wisdom of my rule to permit no
freedman in my household: all my servants are my own property.
You will buy me the best cook in Rome in three hours. What, sir?
You are a free man, and I employed you only to work at my pedigree
and my library? True: I am satisfied with you. But understand that if I
bid you litter my horses you will do it, or I sell you up tomorrow. Now,
sir, the best cook in Rome is Iulus Antonius’s Dama: buy him.
Antonius is a rich man? Very true, but I think we need not be afraid
of that. We can tempt him, I imagine, Statilius. At any price whatever:
do you understand? And not a penny more than he will sell at:
understand that also. If he is stubborn, hint at my influence with the
Prince; that will be sufficient. Go.
 Iulus knows that he is whispered against, and he looks to me to
prop him up. I shall not do so. Again and again I have urged on
Octavian the necessity of putting these malcontents out of the way.
His father’s son cannot but be a danger to a settled State, however
soundly disposed himself. It appears to me that Octavian is losing
his aptitude for politics, and Agrippa exercises the worst possible
influence upon him. This stupid, expensive system of banishment: it
should never have had my voice had I remained in politics.
Thucydides, I have told you once already I am not to be disturbed
in meditation. The poet Horace is in attendance? Horatius, I think
you mean; avoid these vulgarisms, Thucydides. Bid Horatius wait.
Indeed, I doubt not whether Octavian had at any time any real grasp
of the principles of government. I was deceived by the facility with
which he lent himself to my views. He is a man incapable of
understanding any system between militarism and license. Of the
finer arts of statecraft I am afraid he knows very little. How often
have I explained to that man how the law of treason might be
developed into an infallible engine of sound government! Yes: I was
wise to leave politics, though Octavian is ungrateful to his Mentor.
Well, I will see Horatius. He, at least, with all his faults, is a faithful
soul. A man I have made.
Good-day, Horatius. I hope you are well and keeping sober. Have
you brought the work I commissioned? Very well; let me see it. There
has been a very great improvement in your manner of writing,
Horatius, since I took you up: the large P’s are very much bolder
than they were. But what is this? This is not the Epistle Dedicatory I
ordered. That comes second? Ah! yes, here it is; you should have
given it to me first.

Maecenas, born of grandsire kings—

Quite right: “grandsire kings” is very good. It is not, of course, literally

correct, but one may, in poetry, fairly write the particular term
“grandsire” for the general “ancestor”—

O my defense and proud delight!

“Proud delight.” Now I think I shall correct that to “dear delight.” I
think the alliteration is well worth securing, and you may allow
yourself a familiarity in literature, Horatius, where all men are equal,
which, as I have no doubt you felt in writing, would be highly
unbecoming in society. “Proud delight” does you credit as a man, my
good Horatius; as a poet I permit—nay, I invite you to write “dear.”

To hug the post with wheels afire

The piece gets a little tame in the middle, Horatius, ... ah! what is
this?

But deign me so to canonize,

O’er highest heaven my fame will rise.

Yes, very happy. A very good ode, Horatius. You have distinctly
added to your reputation. I am very glad to note that you disavow
that most dangerous tendency, which I am sorry to see is growing
among some of my poets, to defer to the popular judgment. Even
poor Virgil is tainted by it in this last epic, as he calls it, published in
one of those measly magazinelets. I am afraid Virgil is coming to
think more of the so-called glories of Rome than of his truest friends.
Such defection on your part, I warn you candidly, I should feel very
deeply. Now what is this other? I hope none of that Epicurean stuff
which is such a handicap, if I may so phrase it, upon your best
powers for good....

Ah, Postumus, how fleet, how fleet,

The years slip by no prayers may stay
Since beldame Age knows not delay,
Since Death pursues with ruthless feet—

I think you might have found a fitter name than Postumus; but it is
very passable. I suppose you have verified all these mythological
allusions in the Greek; it is not your industry I need ever distrust.

Your land, your house, your yielding wife

Renounce; and of these trees you trim;
 None follows, save the cypress grim,
The lordling of the little life.

Yes, the tone of the work is quite good.... And then—really Horatius,
you are too annoying—then you must spoil all again in the last
stanza. I have warned you a thousand times against that, Horatius.
Listen, sir, to what you say here—

He breaks your seals, the worthier heir,

He sweeps your bins, the worthier lord,
Dashing imperial winds abroad,
While Pontiffs envy and despair.

Now, understand once and for all, Horatius, that I will not have such
pernicious and disloyal trash as this put out to pollute the State. You
say you meant nothing impious? Well, then I will ask you, Horatius,
who is Chief Pontiff? The prince; so I had thought. And then you say
you had no intention of disloyalty? In that case I will merely answer
that you have expressed yourself very badly. You will agree, I
suppose—even you who were out with Brutus, when I understand
you threw away your shield—that what we must all work for in Rome,
is a settled social order? And I suppose that you are not incapable of
perceiving that this is impossible without the maintenance of
religion? And perhaps you may have heard that His Highness is
supreme head of our religion? And then, do you tell me, sir, that you
did not see that this last stanza—this Pontiff’s ambition, or whatever
it is—is pernicious in the highest degree? Now this is what I shall do.
I shall make you, Horatius, write an ode of fourteen stanzas in praise
of His Highness as Chief Pontiff. Take your tablets and write down
the heads of the poem, as I dictate them.
First: The deplorable desuetude.
I beg your pardon: I think I was asking you to take down the heads
of the ode. What! I? You say that I gave you the subjects of this one?
Very possibly, though I do not remember: with the ode as a whole I
am very well satisfied. You say I gave the hint of the Pontiff? Very
true; I recollect it quite well, but it was not to be used, or wasted, in
the spirit in which you have used it here. Perhaps, however, you
meant it to refer to the Pontiffs of the old regime, whose unworthy
excesses I may have doubtless mentioned to you at some time? I
could wish, Horatius, that your execution were on a level with your
intention: you lay yourself open to a great deal of misconstruction. I
think we must substitute “late” for “while.”
What is that you are sputtering about Minucius? I told you to
glance at Minucius? Well, in one respect you are quite right. I do not
remember that I ever spoke of him to you, but the extravagance of
Minucius not only makes him a man impossible to be seen abroad
with, but constitutes a great scandal on the pontificate. And I tell you,
sir, I tell you that that man’s insolence to his betters is more than any
well-ordered State could endure. He has got the Prince’s ear, and
presumes upon it. Yes, you may jab at Minucius whenever you can,
and as hard as you can. I am very glad I suggested that, and you
have taken up the hint very cleverly. Sit down, my good Horatius;
you must be tired of standing, and we men of letters are all equal,
whatever our social position. I will read you a chapter of my own
history that I threw off last night. You will remember, of course, what
happened while I was Urban Prefect.
G. W. Stevens.
 SUNRISE OVER THE CITY.
With restless searching are the nightwinds spent,
A solitary bird pipes lovenotes lorn,
Portent of life new wakening with the morn;
Long lines of flaring lamps still burn their stent,
With gloom upon the city’s bosom blent;
But ’bove the dark threat of a cloud low drawn,
White as a wraith, pale glows God’s holy dawn,
The morning star her brightest ornament.
As gathering splendor floods the world with light,
The whilom watcher sleeps, forgetting grief;
And though ’neath fuming smoke, ’mid roll of wheels,
The sordid city wakes her giant might
Lustful of gain, her deepest heart yet feels
The benediction of that vision brief.

William James Baker.

 THE CAPTIVES.
Amongst them there was one colossal form, on which the sun
poured with its full radiance.
This was the form of a man grinding at a mill-stone; the majestic,
symmetrical, supple form of a man who was also a god.
In his naked limbs there was a supreme power; in his glance there
was a divine command; his head was lifted as though no yoke could
ever lie on that proud neck; his foot seemed to spurn the earth as
though no mortal tie had ever bound him to the sod that human
steps bestrode: yet at the corn-mill he laboured, grinding wheat like
the patient blinded oxen that toiled beside him.
It was the great Apollo in Pherae.
The hand which awoke the music of the spheres had been blood
stained with murder; the beauty which had the light and lustre of the
sun had been darkened with passion and with crime; the will which
no other on earth or in heaven could withstand had been bent under
the chastisement of Zeus.
He whose glances had made the black and barren slopes of Delos
to laugh with fruitfulness and gladness—he whose prophetic sight
beheld all things past, present, and to come, the fate of all unborn
races, the doom of all unspent ages—he, the Far-Striking King,
laboured here beneath the curse of crime, greatest of all the gods,
and yet a slave.
In all the hills and vales of Greece his Io paean sounded still.
Upon his holy mountains there still arose the smoke of fires of
sacrifice.
With dance and song the Delian maidens still hailed the divinity of
Leto’s son.
 The waves of the pure Ionian air still rang forever with the name of
Delphinios.
At Pytho and at Clarus, in Lycia and in Phodis, his oracles still
breathed forth upon their fiat terror or hope into the lives of men; and
still in all the virgin forests of the world the wild beasts honored him
wheresoever they wandered; and the lion and the bear came at his
bidding from the deserts to bend their necks and their wills of fire
meekly to bear his yoke in Thessaly.
Yet he labored here at the corn-mill of Admetus; and watching him
at his bondage stood the slender, slight, wing-footed Hermes, with a
slow, mocking smile upon his knavish lips, and a jeering scorn in his
keen eyes, even as though he cried:
“O brother, who would be greater than I! For what hast thou
bartered to me the golden rod of thy wealth and thy dominion over
the flocks and the herds? For seven chords strung on a shell—for a
melody not even thine own! For a lyre outshone by my syrinx hast
thou sold all thine empire to me. Will human ears give heed to thy
song now thy sceptre has passed to my hands? Immortal music only
is left thee, and the vision foreseeing the future. O god! O hero! O
fool! what shall these profit thee now?”
Thus to the artist by whom they had been begotten the dim white
shapes of the deities sometimes speak. Thus he sees them, thus he
hears, whilst the pale and watery sunlight lights up the form of the
toiler in Pherae. For even as it was with the divinity of Delos, so is it
likewise with the genius of a man, which, being born of a god, yet is
bound as a slave to the grind-stone. Since even as Hermes mocked
the Lord of the Unerring Bow, so is genius mocked of the world,
when it has bartered the herds, and the grain, and the rod that metes
wealth, for the seven chords that no ear, dully mortal, can hear.
He can bend great thoughts to take the shapes that he choose, as
the chained god in Pherae bound the strong kings of the desert and
forest to carry his yoke; yet, like the god, he likewise stands fettered
to the mill to grind for bread.
Ouida.