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The Crown of Life

by George Gissing · English · Gutenberg #4541 · 693,215 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Crown of Life

Author: George Gissing


        
Release date: October 1, 2003 [eBook #4541]
                Most recently updated: December 28, 2020

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/4541

Credits: Produced by Charles Aldarondo.  HTML version by Al Haines.


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Produced by Charles Aldarondo.  HTML version by Al Haines.









THE CROWN OF LIFE


by

George Gissing



CHAPTER I


Amid the throng of suburban arrivals volleyed forth from Waterloo
Station on a May morning in the year '86, moved a slim, dark,
absent-looking young man of one-and-twenty, whose name was Piers Otway.
In regard to costume--blameless silk hat, and dark morning coat with
lighter trousers--the City would not have disowned him, but he had not
the City countenance. The rush for omnibus seats left him unconcerned;
clear of the railway station, he walked at a moderate pace, his eyes
mostly on the ground; he crossed the foot-bridge to Charing Cross, and
steadily made his way into the Haymarket, where his progress was
arrested by a picture shop.

A window hung with engravings, mostly after pictures of the day; some
of them very large, and attractive to a passing glance. One or two
admirable landscapes offered solace to the street-wearied imagination,
but upon these Piers Otway did not fix his eye; it was drawn
irresistibly to the faces and forms of beautiful women set forth with
varied allurement. Some great lady of the passing time lounged in
exquisite array amid luxurious furniture lightly suggested; the faint
smile of her flattered loveliness hovered about the gazer; the subtle
perfume of her presence touched his nerves; the greys of her complexion
transmuted themselves through the current of his blood into life's
carnation; whilst he dreamed upon her lips, his breath was caught, as
though of a sudden she had smiled for him, and for him alone. Near to
her was a maiden of Hellas, resting upon a marble seat, her eyes bent
towards some AEgean isle; the translucent robe clung about her perfect
body; her breast was warm against the white stone; the mazes of her
woven hair shone with unguent. The gazer lost himself in memories of
epic and idyll, warming through worship to desire. Then his look
strayed to the next engraving; a peasant girl, consummate in grace and
strength, supreme in chaste pride, cheek and neck soft-glowing from the
sunny field, eyes revealing the heart at one with nature. Others there
were, women of many worlds, only less beautiful; but by these three the
young man was held bound. He could not satisfy himself with looking and
musing; he could not pluck himself away. An old experience; he always
lingered by the print shops of the Haymarket, and always went on with
troubled blood, with mind rapt above familiar circumstance, dreaming
passionately, making wild forecast of his fate.

At this hour of the morning not many passers had leisure to stand and
gaze; one, however, came to a pause beside Piers Otway, and viewed the
engravings. He was a man considerably older; not so well dressed, but
still, on the strength of externals, entitled to the style of
gentleman; his brown, hard felt hat was entirely respectable, as were
his tan gloves and his boots, but the cut-away coat began to hint at
release from service, and the trousers owed a superficial smartness
merely to being tightly strapped. This man had a not quite agreeable
face; inasmuch as it was smoothly shaven, and exhibited a peculiar
mobility, it might have denoted him an actor; but the actor is wont to
twinkle a good-natured mood which did not appear upon this visage. The
contour was good, and spoke intelligence; the eyes must once have been
charming. It was a face which had lost by the advance of years; which
had hardened where it was soft, and seemed likely to grow harder yet;
for about the lips, as he stood examining these pictures, came a
suggestion of the vice in blood which tends to cruelty. The nostrils
began to expand and to tremble a little; the eyes seemed to project
themselves; the long throat grew longer. Presently, he turned a glance
upon the young man standing near to him, and in that moment his
expression entirely altered.

"Why," he exclaimed, "Piers!"

The other gave a start of astonishment, and at once smiled recognition.

"Daniel! I hadn't looked--I had no idea----" They shook hands, with
graceful cordiality on the elder man's part, with a slightly
embarrassed goodwill on that of the younger. Daniel Otway, whose age
was about eight-and-thirty, stood in the relation of half-brotherhood
to Piers, a relation suggested by no single trait of their visages.
Piers had a dark complexion, a face of the square, emphatic type, and
an eye of shy vivacity; Daniel, with the long, smooth curves of his
countenance and his chestnut hair was, in the common sense, better
looking, and managed his expression with a skill which concealed the
characteristics visible a few moments ago; he bore himself like a suave
man of the world, whereas his brother still betrayed something of the
boy in tone and gesture, something, too, of the student accustomed to
seclusion. Daniel's accent had nothing at all in keeping with a shabby
coat; that of the younger man was less markedly refined, with much more
of individuality.

"You live in London?" inquired Daniel, reading the other's look as if
affectionately.

"No. Out at Ewell--in Surrey."

"Oh yes, I know Ewell. Reading?"

"Yes for the Civil Service. I've come up to lunch with a man who knows
father--Mr. Jacks."

"John Jacks, the M.P.?"

Piers nodded nervously, and the other regarded him with a smile of new
interest.

"But you're very early. Any other engagements?"

"None," said Piers. It being so fine a morning, he had proposed a long
ramble about London streets before making for his destination in the
West End.

"Then you must come to my club," returned Daniel. "I shall be glad of a
talk with you, very glad, my dear boy. Why, it must be four years since
we saw each other. And, by the bye, you are just of age, I think?"

"Three days ago."

"To be sure. Heard anything from father?--No?--You're looking very
well, Piers--take my arm. I understood you were going into business.
Altered your mind? And how is the dear old man?"

They walked for a quarter of an hour, turning at last into a quiet,
genteel byway westward of Regent Street, and so into a club house of
respectable appearance. Daniel wrote his brother's name, and led up to
the smoking-room, which they found unoccupied.

"You smoke?--I am very glad to hear it. I began far too young, and have
suffered. It's too early to drink--and perhaps you don't do that
either?--Really? Vegetarian also, perhaps?--Why, you are the model son
of your father. And the regime seems to suit you. _Per Bacco_! couldn't
follow it myself: but I, like our fat friend, am little better than one
of the wicked. So you are one-and-twenty. You have entered upon your
inheritance, I presume?"

Piers answered with a look of puzzled inquiry.

"Haven't you heard about it? The little capital due to you."

"Not a word!"

"That's odd. _Was soil es bedeuten_?--By the bye, I suppose you speak
German well?"

"Tolerably."

"And French?"

"Moderately."

"_Benissimo_!" Daniel had just lit a cigar; he lounged gracefully,
observing his brother with an eye of veiled keenness. "Well, I think
there is no harm in telling you that you are entitled to
something--your mother's money, you know."

"I had no idea of it," replied Piers, whom the news had in some degree
excited.

"Apropos, why don't you live with father? Couldn't you read as well
down there?"

"Not quite, I think, and--the truth is, the stepmother doesn't much
like me. She's rather difficult to get on with you know."

"I imagined it. So you're just in lodgings?"

"I am with some people called Hannaford. I got to know them at
Geneva--they're not very well off; I have a room and they board me."

"I must look you up there--Piers, my dear boy, I suppose you know your
mother's history?"

It was asked with an affected carelessness, with a look suggestive of
delicacy in approaching the subject. More and more perturbed, Piers
abruptly declared his ignorance; he sat in an awkward attitude, bending
forward; his brows were knit, his dark eyes had a solemn intensity, and
his square jaw asserted itself more than usual.

"Well, between brothers, I don't see why you shouldn't. In fact, I am a
good deal surprised that the worthy old man has held his peace about
that legacy, and I don't think I shall scruple to tell you all I know.
You are aware, at all events, that our interesting parent has been a
little unfortunate in his matrimonial adventures. His first wife--not
to pick one's phrase--quarrelled furiously with him. His second, you
inform me, is somewhat difficult to live with."

"His _third_," interrupted Piers.

"No, my dear boy," said the other gravely, sympathetically. "That
intermediate connection was not legal."

"Not----? My mother was not----?"

"Don't worry about it," proceeded Daniel in a kind tone. "These are the
merest prejudices, you know. She could not become Mrs. Otway, being
already Mrs. Somebody-else. Her death, I fear, was a great misfortune
to our parent. I have gathered that they suited each other--fate, you
know, plays these little tricks. Your mother, I am sure, was a most
charming and admirable woman--I remember her portrait. _A l'heure qu'il
est_, no doubt, it has to be kept out of sight. She had, I am given to
understand, a trifling capital of her own, and this was to become
yours."

Piers stared at vacancy. When he recovered himself he said with
decision:

"Of course I shall hear about it. There's no hurry. Father knows I
don't want it just now. Why, of course he will tell me. The exam. comes
off in autumn, and no doubt he keeps the news back as a sort of reward
when I get my place. I think that would be just like him, you know."

"Or as a solatium, if you fail," remarked the other genially.

"Fail? Oh, I'm not going to fail," cried Piers in a voice of
half-resentful confidence.

"Bravo!" laughed the other; "I like that spirit. So you're going to
lunch with John Jacks. I don't exactly know him, but I know friends of
his very well. Known him long?"

Piers explained that as yet he had no personal acquaintance with Mr.
Jacks; that he had, to his surprise, received a written invitation a
few days ago.

"It may be useful," Daniel remarked reflectively. "But if you'll permit
the liberty, Piers, I am sorry you didn't pay a little more attention
to costume. It should have been a frock coat--really it should."

"I haven't such a thing," exclaimed the younger brother, with some
annoyance and confusion. "And what can it matter? You know very well
how father would go."

"Yes, yes; but Jerome Otway the democratic prophet and young Mr. Piers
Otway his promising son, are very different persons. Never mind, but
take care to get a frock coat; you'll find it indispensable if you are
going into that world. Where does Jacks live?"

"Queen's Gate."

Daniel Otway meditated, half closing his eyes as he seemed to watch the
smoke from his cigar. Dropping them upon his brother, he found that the
young man wore a look of troubled thoughtfulness.

"Daniel," began Piers suddenly, "are you quite sure about all you have
told me?"

"Quite. I am astonished it's news to you."

Piers was no longer able to converse, and very soon he found it
difficult to sit still. Observant of his face and movements, the elder
brother proposed that they should resume their walk together, and forth
they went. But both were now taciturn, and they did not walk far in
company.

"I shall look you up at Ewell," said Daniel, taking leave. "Address me
at that club; I have no permanent quarters just now. We must see more
of each other."

And Piers went his way with shadowed countenance.



CHAPTER II


Straying about Kensington Gardens in the pleasant sunshine, his mind
occupied with Daniel's information, Piers Otway lost count of time, and
at last had to hurry to keep his engagement. As he entered the house in
Queen's Gate, a mirrored image of himself made him uneasy about his
costume. But for Daniel, such a point would never have troubled him. It
was with an unfamiliar sense of irritation and misgiving that he moved
into the drawing-room.

A man of sixty or so, well preserved, with a warm complexion, broad
homely countenance and genial smile, stepped forward to receive him.
Mr. Jacks was member for the Penistone Division of the West Riding; new
to Parliament, having entered with the triumphant Liberals in the
January of this year 1886. His friends believed, and it seemed
credible, that he had sought election to please the lady whom, as a
widower of twenty years' endurance, he had wedded only a short time
before; politics interested him but moderately, and the greater part of
his life had been devoted to the manufacturing business which brought
him wealth and local influence. Not many people remembered that in the
days of his youth John Jacks had been something of a Revolutionist,
that he had supported the People's Charter; that he had written, nay
had published, verses of democratic tenor, earning thereby dark
reputation in the respectable society of his native town. The
turning-point was his early marriage. For a while he still wrote
verses--of another kind, but he ceased to talk about liberty, ceased to
attend public meetings, and led an entirely private life until, years
later, his name became reputably connected with municipal affairs.
Observing Mr. Jacks' face, one saw the possibility of that early
enthusiasm; he had fine eyes full of subdued tenderness, and something
youthful, impulsive, in his expression when he uttered a thought.
Good-humoured, often merry, abounding in kindness and generosity, he
passed for a man as happy as he was prosperous; yet those who talked
intimately with him obtained now and then a glimpse of something not
quite in harmony with these characteristics, a touch of what would be
called fancifulness, of uncertain spirits. Men of his world knew that
he was not particularly shrewd in commerce; the great business to which
his name was attached had been established by his father, and was kept
flourishing mainly by the energy of his younger brother. As an
occasional lecturer before his townsfolk, he gave evidence of wide
reading and literary aptitudes. Of three children of his first
marriage, two had died; his profound grief at their loss, and the
inclination for domestic life which always appeared in the man, made it
matter for surprise that he had waited so long before taking another
wife. It would not have occurred to most of those who knew him that his
extreme devotion to women made him shy, diffident, all but timorous in
their presence. But Piers Otway, for all his mental disturbance at this
moment, remarked the singular deference, the tone and look of admiring
gentleness, with which Mr. Jacks turned to his wife as he presented
their guest.

Mrs. Jacks was well fitted to inspire homage. Her age appeared to be
less than five-and-twenty; she was of that tall and gracefully
commanding height which became the English ideal in the last quarter of
the century--her portrait appears on every page illustrated by Du
Manner. She had a brilliant complexion, a perfect profile; her smile,
though perhaps a little mechanical, was the last expression of
immutable sweetness, of impeccable self-control; her voice never
slipped from the just note of unexaggerated suavity. Consummate as an
ornament of the drawing-room, she would be no less admirably at ease on
the tennis lawn, in the boat, on horseback, or walking by the seashore.
Beyond criticism her breeding; excellent her education. There appeared,
too, in her ordinary speech, her common look, a real amiability of
disposition; one could not imagine her behaving harshly or with
conscious injustice. Her manners--within the recognised limits--were
frank, spontaneous; she had for the most part a liberal tone in
conversation, and was evidently quite incapable of bitter feeling on
any everyday subject. Piers Otway bent before her with unfeigned
reverence; she dazzled him, she delighted and confused his senses. As
often as he dared look at her, his eye discovered some new elegance in
her attitude, some marvel of delicate beauty in the details of her
person. A spectator might have observed that this worship was manifest
to Mr. Jacks, and that it by no means displeased him.

"You are very like your father, Mr. Otway," was the host's first remark
after a moment of ceremony. "Very like what he was forty years ago." He
laughed, not quite naturally, glancing at his wife. "At that time he
and I were much together. But he went to London; I stayed in the North;
and so we lost sight of each other for many a long year. Somewhere
about 1870 we met by chance, on a Channel steamer; yes, it was just
before the war; I remember your father prophesied it, and foretold its
course very accurately. Then we didn't see each other again until a
month ago--I had run down into Yorkshire for a couple of days and stood
waiting for a train at Northallerton. Someone came towards me, and
looked me in the face, then held out his hand without speaking; and it
was my old friend. He has become a man of few words."

"Yes, he talks very little," said Piers. "I've known him silent for two
or three days together."

"And what does he do with himself there among the moors? You don't know
Hawes," he remarked to the graciously attentive Mrs. Jacks. "A little
stony town at the wild end of Wensleydale. Delightful for a few months,
but very grim all the rest of the year. Has he any society there?"

"None outside his home, I think. He sits by the fire and reads Dante."

"Dante?"

"Yes, Dante; he seems to care for hardly anything else. It has been so
for two or three years. Editions of Dante and books about Dante crowd
his room--they are constantly coming. I asked him once if he was going
to write on the subject, but he shook his head."

"It must be a very engrossing study," remarked Mrs. Jacks, with her
most intelligent air. "Dante opens such a world."

"Strange!" murmured her husband, with his kindly smile. "The last thing
I should have imagined."

They were summoned to luncheon. As they entered the dining-room, there
appeared a young man whom Mr. Jacks greeted warmly.

"Hullo, Arnold! I am so glad you lunch here to-day. Here is the son of
my old friend Jerome Otway."

Arnold Jacks pressed the visitor's hand and spoke a few courteous words
in a remarkably pleasant voice. In physique he was quite unlike his
father; tall, well but slenderly built, with a small finely-shaped
head, large grey-blue eyes and brown hair. The delicacy of his
complexion and the lines of his figure did not suggest strength, yet he
walked with a very firm step, and his whole bearing betokened habits of
healthy activity. In early years he had seemed to inherit a very feeble
constitution; the death of his brother and sister, followed by that of
their mother at an untimely age, left little hope that he would reach
manhood; now, in his thirtieth year, he was rarely troubled on the
score of health, and few men relieved from the necessity of earning
money found fuller occupation for their time. Some portion of each day
he spent at the offices of a certain Company, which held rule in a
British colony of considerable importance. His interest in this colony
had originated at the time when he was gaining vigour and enlarging his
experience in world-wide travel; he enjoyed the sense of power, and his
voice did not lack weight at the Board of the Company in question. He
had all manner of talents and pursuits. Knowledge--the only kind of
knowledge he cared for, that of practical things, things alive in the
world of to-day--seemed to come to him without any effort on his part.
A new invention concealed no mysteries from him; he looked into it;
understood, calculated its scope. A strange piece of news from any part
of the world found him unsurprised, explanatory. He liked mathematics,
and was wont to say jocosely that an abstract computation had a fine
moral effect, favouring unselfishness. Music was one of his foibles; he
learnt an instrument with wonderful facility, and, up to a certain
point, played well. For poetry, though as a rule he disguised the fact,
he had a strong distaste; once, when aged about twenty, he startled his
father by observing that "In Memoriam" seemed to him a shocking
instance of wasted energy; he would undertake to compress the whole
significance of each section, with its laborious rhymings, into two or
three lines of good clear prose. Naturally the young man had undergone
no sentimental troubles; he had not yet talked of marrying, and cared
only for the society of mature women who took common-sense views of
life. His religion was the British Empire; his saints, the men who had
made it; his prophets, the politicians and publicists who held most
firmly the Imperial tone.

Where Arnold Jacks was in company, there could be no dullness. Alone
with his host and hostess, Otway would have found the occasion rather
solemn, and have wished it over, but Arnold's melodious voice, his
sprightly discussion and anecdotage, his frequent laughter, charmed the
guest into self-oblivion.

"You are no doubt a Home Ruler, Mr. Otway," observed Arnold, soon after
they were seated.

"Yes, I am," answered Piers cheerily. "You too, I hope?"

"Why, yes. I would grant Home Rule of the completest description, and I
would let it run its natural course for--shall we say five years? When
the state of Ireland had become intolerable to herself and dangerous to
this adjacent island, I would send over dragoons. And," he added
quietly, crumbling his bread, "the question would not rise again."

"Arnold," remarked Mr. Jacks, with good humour, "you are quite
incapable of understanding this question. We shall see. Mr. Gladstone's
Bill----"

"Mr. Gladstone's _little_ Bill--do say his _little_ Bill."

"Arnold, you are too absurd!" exclaimed the hostess mirthfully.

"What does your father think?" Mr. Jacks inquired of their guest. "Has
he broken silence on the subject?"

"I think not. He never says a word about politics."

"The little Bill hasn't a chance," cried Arnold. "Your majority is
melting away. You, of course, will stand by the old man, but that is
chivalry, not politics. You don't know what a picturesque figure you
make, sir; you help me to realise Horatius Codes, and that kind of
thing."

John Jacks laughed heartily at his own expense, but his wife seemed to
think the jest unmannerly. Home Rule did not in the least commend
itself to her sedate, practical mind, but she would never have
committed such an error in taste as to proclaim divergence from her
husband's views.

"It is a most difficult and complicated question," she said, addressing
herself to Otway. "The character of the people makes it so; the Irish
are so sentimental."

Upon the young man's ear this utterance fell strangely; it gave him a
little shock, and he could only murmur some commonplace of assent. With
men, Piers had plenty of moral courage, but women daunted him.

"I heard a capital idea last night," resumed Arnold Jacks, "from a man
I was dining with--interesting fellow called Hannaford. He suggested
that Ireland should be made into a military and naval depot--used
solely for that purpose. The details of his scheme were really very
ingenious. He didn't propose to exterminate the natives----"

John Jacks interrupted with hilarity, which his son affected to resent:
the look exchanged by the two making pleasant proof of how little their
natural affection was disturbed by political and other differences. At
the name of Hannaford, Otway had looked keenly towards the speaker.

"Is that Lee Hannaford?" he asked. "Oh, I know him. In fact, I'm living
in his house just now."

Arnold was interested. He had only the slightest acquaintance with
Hannaford, and would like to hear more of him.

"Not long ago," Piers responded, "he was a teacher of chemistry at
Geneva--I got to know him there. He seems to speak half a dozen
languages in perfection; I believe he was born in Switzerland. His
house down in Surrey is a museum of modern weapons--a regular armoury.
He has invented some new gun."

"So I gathered. And a new explosive, I'm told."

"I hope he doesn't store it in his house?" said Mr. Jacks, looking with
concern at Piers.

"I've had a moment's uneasiness about that, now and then," Otway
replied, laughing, "especially after hearing him talk."

"A tremendous fellow!" Arnold exclaimed admiringly. "He showed me, by
sketch diagrams, how many men he could kill within a given space."

"If this gentleman were not your friend, Mr. Otway," began the host, "I
should say----"

"Oh, pray say whatever you like! He isn't my friend at all, and I
detest his inventions."

"Shocking!" fell sweetly from the lady at the head of the table.

"As usual, I must beg leave to differ," put in Arnold. "What would
become of us if we left all that kind of thing to the other countries?
Hannaford is a patriot. He struck me as quite disinterested; personal
gain is nothing to him. He loves his country, and is using his genius
in her service."

John Jacks nodded.

"Well, yes, yes. But I wish your father were here, Mr. Otway, to give
his estimate of such genius; at all events if he thinks as he did years
ago. Get him on that topic, and he was one of the most eloquent men
living. I am convinced that he only wanted a little more
self-confidence to become a real power in public life--a genuine
orator, such, perhaps, as England has never had."

"Nor ever will have," Arnold interrupted. "We act instead of talking."

"My dear boy," said his father weightily, "we talk very much, and very
badly; in pulpit, and Parliament, and press. We want the man who has
something new to say, and knows how to say it. For my own part, I don't
think, when he comes, that he will glorify explosives. I want to hear
someone talk about Peace--and _not_ from the commercial point of view.
The slaughterers shan't have it all their own way, Arnold; civilisation
will be too strong for them, and if Old England doesn't lead in that
direction, it will be her shame to the end of history."

Arnold smiled, but kept silence. Mrs. Jacks looked and murmured her
approval.

"I wish Hannaford could hear you," said Piers Otway.

When they rose from the table, John Jacks invited the young man to come
with him into his study for a little private talk.

"I haven't many books here," he said, noticing Otway's glance at the
shelves. "My library is down in Yorkshire, at the old home; where I
shall be very glad indeed to see you, whenever you come north in
vacation-time. Well now, let us make friends; tell me something about
yourself. You are reading for the Civil Service, I understand?"

Piers liked Mr. Jacks, and was soon chatting freely. He told how his
education had begun at a private school in London, how he had then gone
to school at Geneva, and, when seventeen years old, had entered an
office of London merchants, dealing with Russia.

"It wasn't my own choice. My father talked to me, and seemed so anxious
for me to go into business that I made no objection. I didn't
understand him then, but I think I do now. You know"--he added in a
lower tone--"that I have two elder brothers?"

"Yes, I know. And a word that fell from your father at Northallerton
the other day--I think I understand."

"Both went in for professions," Otway pursued, "and I suppose he wasn't
very well satisfied with the results. However, after I had been two
years in the office, I felt I couldn't stand it, and I began privately
to read law. Then one day I wrote to my father, and asked whether he
would allow me to be articled to a solicitor. He replied that he would,
if, at the age of twenty, I had gone steadily on with the distasteful
office work, and had continued to read law in my leisure. Well, I
accepted this, of course, and in a year's time found how right he had
been; already I had got sick of the law books, and didn't care for the
idea of being articled. I told father that, and he asked me to wait six
months more, and then to let him know my mind again. I hadn't got to
like business any better, and one day it seemed to me that I would try
for a place in a Government office. When the time came, I suggested
this, and my father ultimately agreed. I lived with him at Hawes for a
month or two, then came into Surrey, to work on for the examination. We
shall see what I get."

The young man spoke with a curious blending of modesty and
self-confidence, of sobriety beyond his years and the glow of a fervid
temperament. He seemed to hold himself consciously in restraint, but,
as if to compensate for subdued language, he used more gesticulation
than is common with Englishmen. Mr. Jacks watched him very closely,
and, when he ceased, reflected for a moment.

"True; we shall see. You are working steadily?"

"About fourteen hours a day."

"Too much! too much!--All at the Civil Service subjects?"

"No; I manage a few other things. For instance, I'm trying to learn
Russian. Father says he made the attempt long ago, but was beaten. I
don't think I shall give in."

"Your father knew Herzen and Bakounine, in the old days. Well, don't
overdo it; don't neglect the body. We must have another talk before
long."

Again Mr. Jacks looked thoughtfully at the keen young face, and his
countenance betrayed a troublous mood.

"How you remind me of my old friend, forty years ago--forty years ago!"



CHAPTER III


A little apart from the village of Ewell, within sight of the noble
trees and broad herbage of Nonsuch Park, and looking southward to the
tilth and pasture of the Downs, stood the house occupied by Mr. Lee
Hannaford. It was just too large to be called a cottage; not quite old
enough to be picturesque; a pleasant enough dwelling, amid its green
garden plot, sheltered on the north side by a dark hedge of yew, and
shut from the quiet road by privet topped with lilac and laburnum. This
day of early summer, fresh after rains, with a clear sky and the sun
wide-gleaming over young leaf and bright blossom, with Nature's perfume
wafted along every alley, about every field and lane, showed the spot
at its best. But it was with no eye to natural beauty that Mr.
Hannaford had chosen this abode; such considerations left him
untouched. He wanted a cheap house not far from London, where his
wife's uncertain health might receive benefit, and where the simplicity
of the surroundings would offer no temptations to casual expense. For
his own part, he was a good deal from home, coming and going as it
suited him; a very small income from capital, and occasional earnings
by contribution to scientific journalism, left slender resources to
Mrs. Hannaford and her daughter after the husband's needs were
supplied. Thus it came about that they gladly ceded a spare room to
Piers Otway, who, having boarded with them during his student time at
Geneva, had at long intervals kept up a correspondence with Mrs.
Hannaford, a lady he admired.

The rooms were indifferently furnished; in part, owing to poverty, and
partly because neither of the ladies cared much for things domestic.
Mr. Hannaford's sanctum alone had character; it was hung about with
lethal weapons of many kinds and many epochs, including a memento of
every important war waged in Europe since the date of Waterloo. A
smoke-grimed rifle from some battlefield was in Hannaford's view a
thing greatly precious; still more, a bayonet with stain of blood;
these relics appealed to his emotions. Under glass were ranged minutiae
such as bullets, fragments of shells, bits of gore-drenched cloth or
linen, a splinter of human bone--all ticketed with neat inscription. A
bookcase contained volumes of military history, works on firearms,
treatises on (chiefly explosive) chemistry; several great portfolios
were packed with maps and diagrams of warfare. Upstairs, a long garret
served as laboratory, and here were ranged less valuable possessions;
weapons to which some doubt attached, unbloody scraps of accoutrements,
also a few models of cannon and the like.

In society, Hannaford was an entertaining, sometimes a charming, man,
with a flow of well-informed talk, of agreeable anecdote; his friends
liked to have him at the dinner-table; he could never be at a loss for
a day or two's board and lodging when his home wearied him. Under his
own roof he seldom spoke save to find fault, rarely showed anything but
acrid countenance. He and his wife were completely alienated; but for
their child, they would long ago have parted. It had been a love match,
and the daughter's name, Olga, still testified to the romance of their
honeymoon; but that was nearly twenty years gone by, and of these at
least fifteen had been spent in discord, concealed or flagrant. Mrs.
Hannaford was something of an artist; her husband spoke of all art with
contempt--except the great art of human slaughter. She liked the
society of foreigners; he, though a remarkable linguist, at heart
distrusted and despised all but English-speaking folk. As a girl in her
teens, she had been charmed by the man's virile accomplishments, his
soldierly bearing and gay talk of martial things, though Hannaford was
only a teacher of science. Nowadays she thought with dreary wonder of
that fascination, and had come to loathe every trapping and habiliment
of war. She knew him profoundly selfish, and recognised the other
faults which had hindered so clever a man from success in life;
indolent habits, moral untrustworthiness, and a conceit which at times
menaced insanity. He hated her, she was well aware, because of her cold
criticism; she returned his hate with interest.

Save in suicide, of which she had sometimes thought, Mrs. Hannaford saw
but one hope of release. A sister of hers had married a rich American,
and was now a widow in failing health. That sister's death might
perchance endow her with the means of liberty; she hung upon every
message from across the Atlantic.

She had a brother, too; a distinguished, but not a wealthy man. Dr.
Derwent would gladly have seen more of her, gladly have helped to cheer
her life, but a hearty antipathy held him aloof from Lee Hannaford.
Communication between the two families was chiefly maintained through
Dr. Derwent's daughter Irene, now in her nineteenth year. The girl had
visited her aunt at Geneva, and since then had occasionally been a
guest at Ewell. Having just returned from a winter abroad with her
father, and no house being ready for her reception in London, Irene was
even now about to pass a week with her relatives. They expected her
to-day. The prospect of Irene's arrival enabled Mrs. Hannaford and Olga
to find pleasure in the sunshine, which otherwise brought them little
solace.

Neither was in sound health. The mother had an interesting face; the
daughter had a touch of beauty; but something morbid appeared on the
countenance of each. They lived a strange life, lonely, silent; the
stillness of the house unbroken by a note of music, unrelieved by a
sound of laughter. In the neighbourhood they had no friends; only at
long intervals did a London acquaintance come thus far to call upon
them. But for the presence of Piers Otway at meals, and sometimes in
the afternoon or evening, they would hardly have known conversation.
For when Hannaford was at home, his sour muteness discouraged any kind
of talk; in his absence, mother and daughter soon exhausted all they
had to say to each other, and read or brooded or nursed their headaches
apart.

With the coming of Irene, gloom vanished. It had always been so, since
the beginning of her girlhood; the name of Irene Derwent signified
miseries forgotten, mirthful hours, the revival of health and hope.
Unable to resist her influence, Hannaford always kept as much as
possible out of the way when she was under his roof; the conflict
between inclination to unbend and stubborn coldness towards his family
made him too uncomfortable. Vivaciously tactful in this as in all
things, Irene had invented a pleasant fiction which enabled her to meet
Mr. Hannaford without embarrassment; she always asked him "How is your
neuralgia?" And the man, according as he felt, made answer that it was
better or worse. That neuralgia was often a subject of bitter jest
between Mrs. Hannaford and Olga, but it had entered into the life of
the family, and at times seemed to be believed in even by the imagined
sufferer.

Nothing could have been more characteristic of Irene. Wit at the
service of good feeling expressed her nature.

Her visit this time would be specially interesting, for she had passed
the winter in Finland, amid the intellectual society of Helsingfors.
Letters had given a foretaste of what she would have to tell, but Irene
was no great letter-writer. She had an impatience of remaining seated
at a desk. She did not even read very much. Her delight was in
conversation, in movement, in active life. For several years her father
had made her his companion, as often as possible, in holiday travel and
on the journeys prompted by scientific study. Though successful as a
medical man, Dr. Derwent no longer practised; he devoted himself to
pathological research, and was making a name in the world of science.
His wife, who had died young, left him two children; the elder,
Eustace, was an amiable and intelligent young man, but had small place
in his father's life compared with that held by Irene.

She was to arrive at Ewell in time for luncheon. Her brother would
bring her, and return to London in the afternoon.

Olga walked to the station to meet them. Mrs. Hannaford having paid
unusual attention to her dress--she had long since ceased to care how
she looked, save on very exceptional occasions--moved impatiently,
nervously, about the house and the garden. Her age was not yet forty,
but a life of disappointment and unrest had dulled her complexion, made
her movements languid, and was beginning to touch with grey her soft,
wavy hair. Under happier circumstances she would have been a most
attractive woman; her natural graces were many, her emotions were vivid
and linked with a bright intelligence, her natural temper inclined to
the nobler modes of life. Unfortunately, little care had been given to
her education; her best possibilities lay undeveloped; thrown upon her
inadequate resources, she nourished the weaknesses instead of the
virtues of her nature. She was always saying to herself that life had
gone by, and was wasted; for life meant love, and love in her
experience had been a flitting folly, an error of crude years, which
should, in all justice, have been thrown aside and forgotten, allowing
her a second chance. Too late, now. Often she lay through the long
nights shedding tears of misery. Too late; her beauty blurred, her
heart worn with suffering, often poisoned with bitterness. Yet there
came moments of revolt, when she rose and looked at herself in the
mirror, and asked----But for Olga, she would have tried to shape her
own destiny.

To-day she could look up at the sunshine. Irene was coming.

A sound of young voices in the quiet road; then the shimmer of a bright
costume, the gleam of a face all health and charm and merriment. Irene
came into the garden, followed by her brother, and behind them Olga.

Her voice woke the dull house; of a sudden it was alive, responding to
the cheerful mood of its inhabitants. The rooms had a new appearance;
sunlight seemed to penetrate to every shadowed corner; colours were
brighter, too familiar objects became interesting. The dining-room
table, commonly so uninviting, gleamed as for a festival. Irene's eyes
fell on everything and diffused her own happy spirit. Irene had an
excellent appetite; everyone enjoyed the meal. This girl could not but
bestow something of herself on all with whom she came together; where
she felt liking, her influence was incalculable.

"How much better you look than when I last saw you." she said to her
aunt. "Ewell evidently suits you."

And at once Mrs. Hannaford felt that she was stronger, younger, than
she had thought. Yes, she felt better than for a long time, and Ewell
was exactly suited to her health.

"Is that pastel yours, Olga? Admirable! The best thing of yours I ever
saw."

And Olga, who had thought her pastel worthless, saw all at once that it
really was not bad; she glowed with gratification.

The cousins were almost of an age, of much the same stature; but Olga
had a pallid tint, tawny hair, and bluish eyes, whilst Irene's was a
warm complexion, her hair of dark-brown, and her eyes of hazel. As
efficient human beings, there could be no comparison between them; Olga
looked frail, despondent, inclined to sullenness, whilst Irene
impressed one as in perfect health, abounding in gay vitality, infinite
in helpful resource. Straight as an arrow, her shoulders the perfect
curve, bosom and hips full-moulded to the ideal of ripe girlhood, she
could not make a gesture which was not graceful, nor change her
position without revealing a new excellence of form. Yet a certain
taste would have leant towards Miss Hannaford, whose traits had more
mystery; as an uncommon type, she gained by this juxtaposition. Miss
Derwent, despite her larger experience of the world, her vastly better
education, was a much younger person than Olga; she had an occasional
_naivete_ unknown to her cousin; her sex was far less developed. To the
average man, Olga's proximity would have been troubling, whereas
Irene's would simply have given delight.

During the excitement of the arrival, and through the cheerful meal
which followed, Eustace Derwent maintained a certain reserve, was
always rather in the background. This implied no defect of decent
sentiment; the young man--he was four-and-twenty--could not regard his
aunt and cousin with any fond emotion, but he did not dislike them, and
was willing to credit them with all the excellent qualities perceived
by Irene, wondering merely how his father's sister, a member of the
Derwent family, could have married such a "doubtful customer" as Lee
Hannaford. Eustace never became demonstrative; he had in perfection the
repose of a self-conscious, delicately bred, and highly trained
Englishman. In a day of democratisation, he supported the ancient fame
of the University which fostered gentlemen. Balliol was his College.
His respect for that name, and his reverence for the great master who
ruled there, were not inconsistent with a private feeling that,
whatever he might owe to Balliol, Balliol in turn lay under a certain
obligation to him. His academic record had no brilliancy; he aimed at
nothing of the kind, knowing his limitations--or rather his
distinctions; but he was quietly conscious that no graduate of his year
better understood the niceties of decorum, more creditably represented
the tone of that famous school of manners.

Eustace Derwent was in fact a thoroughly clear-minded and well-meaning
young man; sensitive as to his honour; ambitious of such social
advancement as would illustrate his name; unaffectedly attached to
those of his own blood, and anxious to fulfil with entire propriety all
the recognised duties of life. He was intelligent, with originality; he
was good-natured without shadow of boisterous impulse. In countenance
he strongly resembled his mother, who had been a very handsome woman
(Irene had more of her father's features), and, of course, he well knew
that the eyes of ladies rested upon him with peculiar interest; but no
vulgar vanity appeared in his demeanour. As a matter of routine, he
dressed well, but he abhorred the hint of foppishness. In athletics he
had kept the golden mean, as in all else; he exercised his body for
health, not for the pride of emulation. As to his career, he was at
present reading for the Bar. In meditative moments it seemed to him
that he was, perhaps, best fitted for the diplomatic service.

Not till this gentleman had taken his leave, which he did (to catch a
train) soon after lunch, was there any mention of the fact that the
Hannafords had a stranger residing under their roof: in coarse English,
a lodger.

To Eustace, as his aunt knew, the subject would necessarily have been
painful; and not only in the snobbish sense; it would really have
distressed him to learn that his kinsfolk were glad of such a
supplement to their income. But soon after his retirement, Mrs.
Hannaford spoke of the matter, and no sooner had she mentioned Piers
Otway's name than Irene flashed upon her a look of attentive interest.

"Is he related to Jerome Otway, the agitator?--His son? How delightful!
Oh, I know all about him; I mean, about the old man. One of our friends
at Helsingfors was an old French revolutionist, who has lived a great
deal in England; he was always talking about his English friends of
long ago, and Jerome Otway often came in. He didn't know whether he was
still alive. Oh, I must write and tell him."

The ladies gave what information they could (it amounted to very
little) about the recluse of Wensleydale; then they talked of the young
man.

"We knew him at Geneva, first of all," said Mrs. Hannaford. "Indeed, he
lived with us there for a time; he was only a boy, then, and such a
nice boy! He has changed a good deal--don't you think so, Olga? I don't
mean for the worse; not at all; but he is not so talkative and
companionable. You'll find him shy at first, I fancy."

"He works terrifically," put in Olga. "It's certain he must be injuring
his health."

"Then," exclaimed Irene, "why do you let him?"

"Let him? We have no right to interfere with a young man of
one-and-twenty."

"Surely you have, if he's behaving foolishly, to his own harm. But what
do you call terrific work?"

"All day long, and goodness knows how much of the night. Somebody told
us his light had been seen burning once at nearly three o'clock."

"Is he at it now?" asked Irene, with a comical look towards the ceiling.

They explained Otway's absence.

"Oh, he lunches with Members of Parliament, does he?"

"It's a very exceptional thing for him to leave home," said Mrs.
Hannaford. "He only goes out to breathe the air for half an hour or so
in an afternoon."

"You astonish me, aunt! You oughtn't to allow it--_I_ shan't allow it,
I assure you."

The listeners laughed gaily.

"My dear Irene," said her aunt, "Mr. Otway will be much flattered, I'm
sure. But his examination comes on very soon, and he was telling us
only yesterday that he didn't want to lose an hour if he could help it."

"He'll lose a good many hours before long, at this rate. Silly fellow!
That's not the way to do well at an exam! I must counsel him for his
soul's good, I must, indeed. Will he dine here to-night?"

"No doubt."

"And make all haste to get away when dinner is over," said Olga, with a
smile.

"Then we won't let him. He shall tell us all about the Member of
Parliament; and then all about his famous father. I undertake to keep
him talking till ten."

"Then, poor fellow, he'll have to work all night to make it up."

"Indeed, no! I shall expressly forbid it. What a shocking thing if he
died here, and it got into the papers! Aunt, do consider; they would
call you his _landlady_!"

Mrs. Hannaford reddened whilst laughing, and the girl saw that her joke
was not entirely relished, but she could never resist the temptation to
make fun of certain prejudices.

"And when you give your evidence," she went on, "the coroner will
remark that if the influence of a lady so obviously sweet and
right-feeling and intelligent could not avail to save the poor youth,
he was plainly destined to a premature end."

At which Mrs. Hannaford again laughed and reddened, but this time with
gratification.

If Irene sometimes made a mistake, no one could have perceived it more
quickly, and more charmingly have redeemed the slip.



CHAPTER IV


When Piers Otway got back to Ewell, about four o'clock, he felt the
beginning of a headache. The day of excitement might have accounted for
it, but in the last few weeks it had been too common an experience with
him, a warning, naturally, against his mode of life, and of course
unheeded. On reaching the house, he saw and heard no one; the door
stood open, and he went straight up to his room.

He had only one, which served him for study and bedchamber. In front of
the window stood a large table, covered with his books and papers, and
there, on the blotting pad, lay a letter which had arrived for him
since his departure this morning. It came, he saw, from his father. He
took it up eagerly, and was tearing the envelope when his eye fell on
something that stayed his hand.

The wide-open window offered a view over the garden at the back of the
house, and on the lawn he saw a little group of ladies. Seated in
basket chairs, Mrs. Hannaford and her daughter were conversing with a
third person whom Piers did not know, a tall, fair-faced girl who stood
before them and seemed at this moment to be narrating some lively
story. Even had her features been hidden, the attitude of this
stranger, her admirable form and rapid, graceful gestures, must have
held the young man's attention; seeing her with the light full on her
countenance, he gazed and gazed, in sudden complete forgetfulness of
his half-opened letter. Just so had he stood before the print shop in
London this morning, with the same wide eyes, the same hurried
breathing; rapt, self-oblivious.

He remembered. The Hannafords' relative, Miss Derwent, was expected
to-day; and Miss Derwent, doubtless, he beheld.

The next moment it occurred to him that his observation, within earshot
of the group, was a sort of eavesdropping; he closed his window and
turned away. The sound must have drawn attention, for very soon there
came a knock at the door, and the servant inquired of him whether he
would have tea, as usual, in his room, or join the ladies below.

"Bring it here, please," he replied. "And--yes, tell Mrs. Hannaford
that I shall not come down to dinner--you can bring me anything you
like--just a mouthful of something."

Now there went, obscurely, no less than three reasons to the quick
shaping of this decision. In the first place, Piers had glanced over
his father's letter, and saw in it matter for long reflection.
Secondly, his headache was declared, and he would be better alone for
the evening. Thirdly, he shrank from meeting Miss Derwent. And this
last was the predominant motive. Letter and headache notwithstanding,
he would have joined the ladies at dinner but for the presence of their
guest. An inexplicable irritation all at once possessed him; a
grotesque resentment of Miss Derwent's arrival.

Why should she have come just when he wanted to work harder than ever?
That was how things happened--the perversity of circumstance! She would
be at every meal for at least a week; he must needs talk with her, look
at her, think about her. His annoyance became so acute that he tramped
nervously about the floor, muttering maledictions.

It passed. A cup of tea brought him to his right mind, and he no longer
saw the event in such exaggerated colours. But he was glad of his
decision to spend the evening alone.

His father's letter had come at the right moment; in some degree it
allayed the worry caused by his brother Daniel's talk this morning.
Jerome Otway wrote, as usual, briefly, on the large letter-paper he
always used; his bold hand, full of a certain character, demanded
space. He began by congratulating Piers on the completion of his
one-and-twentieth year. "I am late, but had not forgotten the day; it
costs me an effort to put pen to paper, as you know." Proceeding, he
informed his son that a sum of money, a few hundred pounds, had become
payable to him on the attainment of his majority. "It was your
mother's, and she wished you to have it. A man of law will communicate
with you about the matter. Speak of it to me, or not, as you prefer. If
you wish it, I will advise; if you wish it not, I will keep silence."
There followed a few words about the beauty of spring in the moorland;
then: "Your ordeal approaches. An absurdity, I fear, but the wisdom of
our day will have it thus. I wish you success. If you fall short of
your hopes, come to me and we will talk once more. Befall what may, I
am to the end your father who wishes you well." The signature was very
large, and might have drawn censure of affectation from the
unsympathetic. As, indeed, might the whole epistle: very significant of
the mind and temper of Jerome Otway.

To Piers, the style was too familiar to suggest reflections: besides, he
had a loyal mind towards his father, and never criticised the old man's
dealing with him. The confirmation of Daniel's report about the legacy
concerned him little in itself; he had no immediate need of money, and
so small a sum could not affect the course of his life; but, this being
true, it seemed probable that Daniel's other piece of information was
equally well founded. If so, what matter? Already he had asked himself
why the story about his mother should have caused him a shock. His
father, in all likelihood, would now never speak of that; and, indeed,
why should he? The story no longer affected either of them, and to
worry oneself about it was mere "philistinism," a favourite term with
Piers at that day.

In replying, which he did this same night, he decided to make no
mention of Daniel. The name would give his father no pleasure.

When he rang to have his tea-things taken away, Mrs. Hannaford
presented herself. She was anxious about him. Why would he not dine?
She wished him to make the acquaintance of Miss Derwent, whose talk was
sure to interest him. Piers pleaded his headache, causing the lady more
solicitude. She entreated. As he could not work, it would be much
better for him to spend an hour or two in company. Would he not? to
please her?

Mrs. Hannaford spoke in a soft, caressing voice, and Piers returned her
look of kindness; but he was firm. An affection had grown up between
these two; their intercourse, though they seldom talked long together,
was much like that of mother and son.

"You are injuring you health," said Mrs. Hannaford gravely, "and it is
unkind to those who care for you."

"Wait a few weeks," he replied cheerily, "and I'll make up the health
account."

"You refuse to come down to please me, this once?"

"I must be alone--indeed I must," Piers replied, with unusual
abruptness. And Mrs. Hannaford, a little hurt, left the room without
speaking.

He all but hastened after her, to apologise; but the irritable impulse
overcame him again, and he had to pace the room till his nerves grew
steady.

Very soon after it was dark he gave up the effort to read, and went to
bed. A good night's sleep restored him. He rose with the sun, felt the
old appetite for work, and when the breakfast bell rang had redeemed
more than three good hours. He was able now to face Miss Derwent, or
anyone else. Indeed, that young lady hardly came into his mind before
he met her downstairs. At the introduction he behaved with his natural
reserve, which had nothing, as a rule, of awkwardness. Irene was
equally formal, though a smile at the corner of her lips half betrayed
a mischievous thought. They barely spoke to each other, and at table
Irene took no heed of him.

But with the others she talked as brightly as usual, managing, none the
less, to do full justice to the meal. Miss Derwent's vigour of mind and
body was not sustained on air, and she never affected a delicate
appetite. There was still something of the healthy schoolgirl in her
manner. Otway glanced at her once or twice, but immediately averted his
eyes--with a slight frown, as if the light had dazzled him.

She was talking of Finland, and mentioned the name of her father's
man-servant, Thibaut. It entered several times into the narrative, and
always with an approving epithet, the excellent Thibaut, the brave
Thibaut.

"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Hannaford, presently, "do tell Mr. Otway the story
of Thibaut."

"Yes, do!" urged Olga.

Piers raised his eyes to the last speaker, and moved them timidly
towards Irene. She smiled, meeting his look with a sort of merry
satisfaction.

"Mr. Otway is occupied with serious thoughts," was her good-humoured
remark.

"I should much like to hear the story of Thibaut," said Piers, bending
forward a little.

"Would you? You shall--Thibaut Rossignol; delightful name, isn't it?
And one of the most delightful of men, though only a servant, and the
son of a village shopkeeper. It begins fifteen years ago, just after
the Franco-Prussian War. My father was taking a holiday in eastern
France, and he came one day to a village where an epidemic of typhoid
was raging. _Tant mieux_! Something to do; some help to be given. If
you knew my father--but you will understand. He offered his services to
the overworked couple of doctors and was welcomed. He fought the
typhoid day and night--if you knew my father! Well, there was a bad
case in a family named Rossignol: a boy of twelve. What made it worse
was that two elder brothers had been killed in the war, and the parents
sat in despair by the bedside of their only remaining child. The father
was old and very shaky; the mother much younger, but she had suffered
dreadfully from the death of her two boys--you should hear my father
tell it! I make a hash of it; when _he_ tells it people cry. Madame
Rossignol was the sweetest little woman--you know that kind of
Frenchwoman, don't you? Soft-voiced, tender, intelligent, using the
most delightful phrases; a jewel of a woman. My father settled himself
by the bedside and fought; Madame Rossignol watching him with eyes he
did not dare to meet--until a certain moment. Then--_then_ the soft
voice for once was loud. '_Ii est sauve_!' My father shed tears;
everybody shed tears--except Thibaut himself."

Piers hung on the speaker's lips. No music had ever held him so rapt.
When she ceased he gazed at her.

"No, of course, that's not all," Irene proceeded, with the mischievous
smile again; and she spoke much as she might have done to an eagerly
listening child. "Six years pass by. My father is again in the east of
France, and he goes to the old village. He is received with enthusiasm;
his name has become a proverb. Rossignol _pere_, alas, is dead, long
since. Dear Madame Rossignol lives, but my father sees at a glance that
she will not live long. The excitement of meeting him was almost too
much for her--pale, sweet little woman. Thibaut was keeping shop with
her, but he seemed out of place there; a fine lad of eighteen; very
intelligent, wonderfully good-humoured, and his poor mother had no
peace, night or day, for the thought of what would become of him after
her death; he had no male kinsfolk, and certainly would not stick to a
dull little trade. My father thought, and after thinking, spoke.
'Madame, will you let me take your son to England, and find something
for him to do?' She screamed with delight. 'But will Thibaut consent?'
Thibaut had his patriotic scruples; but when he saw and heard his poor
mother, he consented. Madame Rossignol had a sister near by, with whom
she could live. And so on the spot it was settled."

Piers hung on the speaker's lips; no tale had ever so engrossed him.
Indeed, it was charmingly told; with so much girlish sincerity, so much
womanly feeling.

"No, that's not all. My father went to his inn for the night. Early in
the morning he was hastily summoned; he must come at once to the house
of the Rossignols; something was wrong. He went, and there, in her bed,
lay the little woman, just as if asleep, and a smile on her face--but
she was dead."

Piers had a lump in his throat; he straightened himself, and tried to
command his features. Irene, smiling, looked steadily at him.

"From that day," she added, "Thibaut has been my father's servant. He
wouldn't be anything else. This, he always says, would best have
pleased his mother. He will never leave Dr. Derwent. The good Thibaut!"

All were silent for a minute; then Piers pushed back his chair.

"Work?" said Mrs. Hannaford, with a little note of allusion to last
evening.

"Work!" Piers replied grimly, his eyes down.

"Well, now," exclaimed Irene, turning to her cousin, "what shall we do
this splendid morning? Where can we go?"

Piers left the room as the words were spoken. He went upstairs with
slower step than usual, head bent. On entering his room (it was always
made ready for him while he was at breakfast), he walked to the window,
and stared out at the fleecy clouds in the summer blue, at the trees
and the lawn. He was thinking of the story of Thibaut. What a fine
fellow Dr. Derwent must be! He would like to know him.

To work! He meant to give an hour or two to his Russian, with which he
had already made fair progress. By the bye, he must tell his father
that; the old man would be pleased.

An hour later, he again stood at his window, staring at the clouds and
the blue. Russian was against the grain, somehow, this morning. He
wondered whether Miss Derwent had learnt any during her winter at
Helsingfors.

What a long day was before him! He kept looking at his watch. And,
instead of getting on with his work, he thought and thought again of
the story of Thibaut.



CHAPTER V


At lunch Piers was as silent as at breakfast; he hardly spoke, save in
answer to a chance question from Mrs. Hannaford. His face had an
unwonted expression, a shade of sullenness, a mood rarely seen in him.
Miss Derwent, whose animation more than made up for this muteness in
one of the company, glanced occasionally at Otway, but did not address
him.

As his habit was, he went out for an afternoon walk, and returned with
no brighter countenance. On the first landing of the staircase, as he
stole softly to his room, he came face to face with Miss Derwent,
descending.

"We are going to have tea in the garden," she exclaimed, with the
friendliest look and tone.

"Are you? It will be enjoyable--it's so warm and sunny."

"You will come, of course?"

"I'm sorry--I have too much to do."

He blundered out the words with hot embarrassment, and would have
passed on. Irene did not permit it.

"But you have been working all the morning?"

"Oh, yes----"

"Since when?"

"Since about--oh, five o'clock----"

"Then you have already worked something like eight hours, Mr. Otway.
How many more do you think of working?"

"Five or six, I hope," Piers answered, finding courage to look into her
face, and trying to smile.

"Mr. Otway," she rejoined, with an air of self-possession which made
him feel like a rebuked schoolboy, "I prophesy that you will come to
grief over your examination."

"I don't think so, Miss Derwent," he said, with the firmness of
desperation, as he felt his face grow red under her gaze.

"I am the daughter of a medical man. Prescriptions are in my blood.
Allow me to tell you that you have worked enough for one day, and that
it is your plain duty to come and have tea in the garden."

So serious was the note of interest which blended with her natural
gaiety as she spoke these words that Piers felt his nerves thrill with
delight. He was able to meet her eyes, and to respond in becoming terms.

"You are right. Certainly I will come, and gladly."

Irene nodded, smiled approval, and moved past him.

In his room he walked hither and thither aimlessly, still holding his
hat and stick. A throbbing of the heart, a quickening of the senses,
seemed to give him a new consciousness of life. His mood of five
minutes ago had completely vanished. He remembered his dreary ramble
about the lanes as if it had taken place last week. Miss Derwent was
still speaking to him; his mind echoed again and again every word she
had said, perfectly reproducing her voice, her intonation; he saw her
bright, beautiful face, its changing lights, its infinite subtleties of
expression. The arch of her eyebrows and the lovely hazel eyes beneath;
the small and exquisitely shaped mouth; the little chin, so delicately
round and firm; all were engraved on his memory, once and for ever.

He sat down and was lost in a dream. His arms hung idly; all his
muscles were relaxed. His eyes dwelt on a point of the carpet which he
did not see.

Then, with a sudden start of activity, he went to the looking-glass and
surveyed himself. His tie was the worse for wear. He exchanged it for
another. He brushed his hair violently, and smoothed his moustache.
Never had he felt such dissatisfaction with his appearance. Never had
it struck him so disagreeably before that he was hard-featured, sallow,
anything but a handsome man. Yet, he had good teeth, very white and
regular; that was something, perhaps. Observing them, he grinned at
himself grotesquely--and at once was so disgusted that he turned with a
shudder away.

Ordinarily, he would have awaited the summons of the bell for tea. But,
after making himself ready, he gazed from the window and saw Miss
Derwent walking alone in the garden; he hastened down.

She gave him a look of intelligence, but took his arrival as a matter
of course, and spoke to him about a flowering shrub which pleased her.
Otway's heart sank. What had he expected? He neither knew nor asked
himself; he stood beside her, seeing nothing, hearing only a voice and
wishing it would speak on for ever. He was no longer a reflecting,
reasoning young man, with a tolerably firm will and fixed purposes, but
a mere embodied emotion, and that of the vaguest, swaying in dependence
on another's personality.

Olga Hannaford joined them. Olga, for all the various charms of her
face, had never thus affected him. But then, he had known her a few
years ago, when, as something between child and woman, she had little
power to interest an imaginative boy, whose ideal was some actress seen
only in a photograph, or some great lady on her travels glimpsed as he
strayed about Geneva. She, in turn, regarded him with the coolest
friendliness, her own imagination busy with far other figures than that
of a would-be Government clerk.

Just as tea was being served, there sounded a voice welcome to no one
present, that of Lee Hannaford. He came forward with his wonted air of
preoccupation; a well-built man, in the prime of life, carefully
dressed, his lips close-set, his eyes seemingly vacant, but in reality
very attentive; a pinched ironical smile meant for cordiality. After
greetings, he stood before Miss Derwent's chair conversing with her; a
cup of tea in his steady hand, his body just bent, his forehead
curiously wrinkled--a habit of his when he talked for civility's sake
and nothing else. Hannaford could never be at ease in the presence of
his wife and daughter if others were there to observe him; he avoided
speaking to them, or, if obliged, did so with awkward formality.
Indeed, he was not fond of the society of women, and grew less so every
year. His tone with regard to them was marked with an almost
puritanical coldness; he visited any feminine breach of the proprieties
with angry censure. Yet, before his marriage, he had lived, if
anything, more laxly than the average man, and to his wife he had
confessed (strange memory nowadays), that he owed to her a moral
redemption. His morality, in fact, no one doubted; the suspicions Mrs.
Hannaford had once entertained when his coldness to her began, she now
knew to be baseless. Absorbed in meditations upon bloodshed and havoc,
he held high the ideal of chastity, and, in company agreeable to him,
could allude to it as the safeguard of civil life.

When he withdrew into the house, Mrs. Hannaford followed him. Olga,
always nervous when her father was near, sat silent. Piers Otway, with
a new reluctance, was rising to return to his studies, when Miss
Derwent checked him with a look.

"What a perfect afternoon!"

"It is, indeed," he murmured, his eyes falling.

"Olga, are you too tired for another walk?"

"I? Oh, no! I should enjoy it."

"Do you think"--Irene looked roguishly at her cousin--"Mr. Otway would
forgive us if we begged him to come, too?"

Olga smiled, and glanced at the young man with certainty that he would
excuse himself.

"We can but ask," she said.

And Piers, to her astonishment, at once assented. He did so with sudden
colour in his cheeks, avoiding Olga's look.

So they set forth together; and, little by little, Piers grew
remarkably talkative. Miss Derwent mentioned his father, declared an
interest in Jerome Otway, and this was a subject on which Piers could
always discourse to friendly hearers. This evening he did so with
exceptional fervour, abounded in reminiscences, rose at moments to
enthusiasm. His companions were impressed; to Irene it was an
unexpected revelation of character. She had imagined young Otway dry
and rather conventional, perhaps conceited; she found him impassioned
and an idealist, full of hero-worship, devoted to his father's name and
fame.

"And he lives all the year round in that out-of-the-way place?" she
asked. "I must make a pilgrimage to Hawes. Would he be annoyed? I could
tell him about his old friends at Helsingfors----"

"He would be delighted to see you!" cried Piers, his face glowing. "Let
me know before--let me write----"

"Is he quite alone?"

"No, his wife--my stepmother--is living."

Irene's quick perception interpreted the change of note.

"It would really be very interesting--if I can manage to get so far,"
she said, less impulsively.

They walked the length of the great avenue at Nonsuch, and back again
in the golden light of the west. Piers Otway disregarded the beauty of
earth and sky, he had eyes for nothing but the face and form beside
him. At dinner, made dull by Hannaford's presence, he lived still in
the dream of his delight, listening only when Irene spoke, speaking
only when she addressed him, which she did several times. The meal
over, he sought an excuse for spending the next hour in the
drawing-room; but Mrs. Hannaford, unconscious of any change in his
habits, offered no invitation, and he stole silently away.

He did not light his lamp, but sat in the dim afterglow till it faded
through dusk into dark. He sat without movement, in an enchanted
reverie. And when night had fallen, he suddenly threw off his clothes
and got into bed, where for hours he lay dreaming in wakefulness.

He rose at eight the next morning, and would, under ordinary
circumstances, have taken a book till breakfast. But no book could hold
him, for he had already looked from the window, and in the garden below
had seen Irene. Panting with the haste he had made to finish his
toilet, he stepped towards her.

"Three hours' work already, I suppose," she said, as they shook hands.

"Unfortunately, not one. I overslept myself."

"Come, that's reasonable! There's hope of you. Tell me about this
examination. What are the subjects?"

He expounded the matter as they walked up and down. It led to a
question regarding the possibilities of such a career as he had in view.

"To tell the truth, I haven't thought much about that," said Piers,
with wandering look. "My idea was, I fancy, to get a means of earning
my living which would leave me a good deal of time for private work."

"What, literary work?"

"No; I didn't think of writing. I like study for its own sake."

"Then you have no ambitions, of the common kind?"

"Well, perhaps not. I suppose I have been influenced by my father's
talk about that kind of thing."

"To be sure."

He noticed a shrinking movement in Miss Derwent and saw that Hannaford
was approaching. This dislike of the man, involuntarily betrayed, gave
Piers an exquisite pleasure. Not only because it showed they had a
strong feeling in common; it would have delighted him in any case, for
he was jealous of any human being who approached Irene.

Hannaford made known at breakfast that he was leaving home again that
afternoon, and might be absent for several days. A sensitive person
must have felt the secret satisfaction caused all round the table by
this announcement; Hannaford, whether he noticed it or not, was
completely indifferent; certain letters he had received took most of
his attention during the meal. One of them related to an appointment in
London which he was trying to obtain; the news was favourable, and it
cheered him.

An hour later, as he sat writing in his study, Mrs. Hannaford brought
in a parcel, which had just arrived for him.

"Ah, what's that?" he asked, looking up with interest.

"I'm sure I don't know," answered his wife. "Something with blood on
it, I dare say."

Hannaford uttered a crowing laugh of scorn and amusement.

Through the afternoon Piers Otway sat in the garden with the ladies.
After tea he again went for a walk with Olga and Irene. After dinner he
lingered so significantly that Mrs. Hannaford invited him to the
drawing-room, and with unconcealed pleasure he followed her thither.
When at length he had taken his leave for the night, there was a short
silence, Mrs. Hannaford glancing from her daughter to Irene, and
smiling reflectively.

"Mr. Otway seems to be taking a holiday," she said at length.

"Yes, so it seemed to me," fell from Olga, who caught her mother's eye.

"It'll do him good," was Miss Derwent's remark. She exchanged no glance
with the others, and seemed to be thinking of something else.

Next morning, though the sun shone brilliantly, she did not appear in
the garden before breakfast. From a window above, eyes were watching,
watching in vain. At the meal Irene was her wonted self, but she did
not enter into conversation with Otway. The young man had grown silent
again.

Heavily he went up to his room. Mechanically he seated himself at the
table. But, instead of opening books, he propped his head upon his
hands, and so sat for a long, long time.

When thoughts began to shape themselves (at first he did not think, but
lived in a mere tumult of emotions) he recalled Irene's question: what
career had he really in view? A dull, respectable clerkship, with two
or three hundred a year, and the chance of dreary progress by seniority
till it was time to retire on a decent pension? That, he knew, was what
the Civil Service meant. The far, faint possibility of some assistant
secretaryship to some statesman in office; really nothing else. His
inquiries had apprised him of this delightful state of things, but he
had not cared. Now he did care. He was beginning to understand himself
better.

In truth, he had never looked forward beyond a year or two. Ambition,
desires, he possessed in no common degree, but as a vague, unexamined
impulse. He had dreamt of love, but timidly, tremulously; that was for
the time to come. He had dreamt of distinction; that, also, must be
patiently awaited. In the meantime, labour. He enjoyed intellectual
effort; he gloried in the amassing of mental riches.

    "To follow Knowledge like a sinking star
    Beyond the
    utmost bound of human thought--"

these lines were frequently in his mind, and helped to shape his
enthusiasm. Consciously he subdued a great part of himself, binding his
daily life in asceticism. He would not live in London because he
dreaded its temptations. Gladly he adhered to his father's principles
in the matter of food and drink; this helped him to subdue his body, or
at least he thought so. He was happiest when, throwing himself into bed
after some fourteen hours of hard reading, he felt the stupor of utter
weariness creep upon him, with certainty of oblivion until the next
sunrise.

He did not much reflect upon the course of his life hitherto, with its
false starts, its wavering; he had not experience enough to understand
their significance. Of course his father was mainly responsible for
what had so far happened. Jerome Otway, whilst deciding that this
youngest son of his should be set in the sober way of commerce, to
advance himself, if fate pleased, through recognised grades of social
respectability, was by no means careful to hide from the lad his own
rooted contempt of such ideals. Nothing could have been more
inconsistent than the old agitator's behaviour in attempting to
discharge this practical duty. That he meant well was all one could say
of him; for it was not permissible to suppose Jerome Otway defective in
intelligence. Perhaps the outcome of solicitude in the case of his two
elder sons had so far discouraged him, that, on the first symptoms of
instability, he ceased to regard Piers as within his influence.

Piers, this morning, had a terrible sense of loneliness, of
abandonment. The one certainty by which he had lived, his delight in
books, his resolve to become erudite, now of a sudden vanished. He did
not know himself; he was in a strange world, and bewildered. Nay, he
was suffering anguish.

Why had Miss Derwent disregarded him at breakfast? He must have
offended her last night. And that could only be in one way, by
neglecting his work to loiter about the drawing-room. She had respected
him at all events; now, no doubt she fancied he had not deserved her
respect.

This magnificent piece of self-torturing logic sufficed to occupy him
all the morning.

At luncheon-time he was careful not to come down before the bell rang.
As he prepared himself, the glass showed a drawn visage, heavy eyes; he
thought he was uglier than ever.

Descending, he heard no voices. With tremors he stepped into the
dining-room, and there sat Mrs. Hannaford alone.

"They have gone off for the day," she said, with a kind look. "To
Dorking, and Leith Hill, and I don't know where."

Piers felt a stab through the heart. He stammered something about a
hope that they would enjoy themselves. The meal passed very silently,
for Mrs. Hannaford was meditative. She paid unusual attention to Piers,
trying to tempt his appetite; but with difficulty he swallowed a
mouthful. And, the meal over, he returned at once to his room.

About four o'clock--he was lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling--a
knock aroused him. The servant opened the door.

"A gentleman wanting to see you, sir--Mr. Daniel Otway."

Piers was glad. He would have welcomed any visitor. When Daniel--who
was better dressed than the other day--came into the room, Piers shook
hands warmly with him.

"Delightful spot!" exclaimed the elder, with more than his accustomed
suavity. "Charming little house!--I hope I shan't be wasting your time?"

"Of course not. We shall have some tea presently. How glad I am to see
you!--I must introduce you to Mrs. Hannaford."

"Delighted, my dear boy! How well you look!--stop though; you are _not_
looking very well----"

Piers broke into extravagant gaiety.



CHAPTER VI


There had only been time to satisfy Daniel's profound and touching
interest in his brother's work for the examination when the tea bell
rang, and they went down to the drawing-room. Piers noticed that Mrs.
Hannaford had made a special toilet; so rarely did a new acquaintance
enter the house that she was a little fluttered in receiving Daniel
Otway, whose manners evidently impressed and pleased her. Had he known
his brother well, Piers would have understood that this exhibition of
fine courtesy meant a peculiar interest on Daniel's part. Such interest
was not difficult to excite; there needed only an agreeable woman's
face of a type not familiar to him, in circumstances which offered the
chance of intimacy. And Mrs. Hannaford, as it happened, made peculiar
appeal to Daniel's sensibilities. As they conversed, her thin cheeks
grew warm, her eyes gathered light; she unfolded a charm of personality
barely to be divined in her usual despondent mood.

Daniel's talk was animated, varied, full of cleverness and character.
No wonder if his hostess thought that she had never met so delightful a
man. Incidentally, in quite the permissible way, he made known that he
was a connoisseur of art; he spoke of his travels on the track of this
or that old master, of being consulted by directors of great Galleries,
by wealthy amateurs. He was gracefully anecdotic; he allowed one to
perceive a fine enthusiasm. And Piers listened quite as attentively as
Mrs. Hannaford, for he had no idea how Daniel made his living. The
kernel of truth in this fascinating representation was that Daniel
Otway, among other things, collected _bric-a-brac_ for a certain
dealer, and at times himself disposed of it to persons with more money
than knowledge or taste. At the age of thirty-eight this was the point
he had reached in a career which once promised brilliant things. In
whatever profession he had steadily pursued, Daniel would have come to
the front; but precisely that steady pursuit was the thing impossible
to him. His special weakness, originally amiable, had become an
enthralling vice; the soul of goodness in the man was corrupted, and
had turned poisonous.

The conversation was still unflagging when Olga and her cousin returned
from their day's ramble. Daniel was presented to them. Olga at once
noticed her mother's strange vivacity, and, sitting silent, closely
observed Mr. Otway. Irene, also, studied him with her keen eyes; not,
one would have guessed, with very satisfactory results. As time was
drawing on, Mrs. Hannaford presently asked Daniel if he could give them
the pleasure of staying to dine; and Daniel accepted without a moment's
hesitation. When the ladies retired to dress, he went up to Piers'
room, where a little dialogue of some importance passed between the
brothers.

"Have you heard anything about that matter I spoke of?" Daniel began by
asking, confidentially.

Piers answered in the affirmative, and gave details, much to the
elder's satisfaction. Thereupon, Daniel began talking in a strain of
yet closer confidence, sitting knee to knee with Piers and tapping him
occasionally in a fraternal way. It might interest Piers to know that
he was writing a book--a book which would revolutionise opinion with
regard to certain matters, and certain periods of art. The work was all
but finished. Unfortunately, no publisher could be found to bear the
entire expense of this publication, which of course appealed to a very
small circle of readers. The illustrations made it costly, and--in
short, Daniel found himself pressingly in need of a certain sum to
complete this undertaking, which could not but establish his fame as a
connoisseur, and in all likelihood would secure his appointment as
Director of a certain Gallery which he must not name. The money could
be had for the asking from twenty persons--a mere bagatelle of a
hundred and fifty pounds or so; but how much pleasanter it would be if
this little loan could be arranged between brothers. Daniel would engage
to return the sum on publication of the book, probably some six months
hence. Of course he merely threw out the suggestion--

"I shall be only too glad to help," exclaimed Piers at once. "You shall
have the money as soon as I get it."

"That's really noble of you, my dear boy--By the bye, let all this be
very strictly _entre nous_. To tell you the truth. I want to give the
dear old philosopher of Wensleydale a pleasant surprise. I'm afraid he
misjudges me; we have not been on the terms of perfect confidence which
I should desire. But this book will delight him, I know. Let it come as
a surprise."

Piers undertook to say nothing; and Daniel after washing his hands and
face, and smoothing his thin hair, was radiant with gratification.

"Charming girl, Miss Derwent--eh, Piers? I seem to know the name--Dr.
Derwent? Why, to be sure! Capital acquaintance for you. Lucky rascal,
to have got into this house. Miss Hannaford, too, has points. Nothing
so good at your age, my dear boy, as the habit of associating with
intelligent girls and women. _Emollit mores_, and something more than
that. An excellent influence every way. I'm no preacher, Piers, but I
hold by morality; it's the salt of life--the salt of life!"

At dinner, Daniel surpassed himself. He told admirable stories, he
started just the right topics, and dealt with them in the right way; he
seemed to know intuitively the habits of thought of each person he
addressed. The hostess was radiant; Olga looked almost happy; Irene,
after a seeming struggle with herself, which an unkind observer might
have attributed to displeasure at being rivalled in talk, yielded to
the cheery influence, and held her own against the visitor in wit and
merriment. Not till half-past ten did Daniel resolve to tear himself
away. His thanks to Mrs. Hannaford for an "enjoyable evening" were
spoken with impressive sincerity, and the lady's expression of hope
that they might meet again made his face shine.

Piers accompanied him to the station. After humming to himself for a
few moments, as they walked along the dark lane, Daniel slipped a hand
through his brother's arm and spoke affectionately.

"You don't know how glad I am that we have met, old boy! Now don't let
us lose sight of each other--By the bye, do you ever hear of Alec?"

Alexander, Jerome Otway's second son, had not communicated with his
father for a good many years. His reputation was that of a good-natured
wastrel. Piers replied that he knew nothing whatever of him.

"He is in London," pursued Daniel, "and he is rather anxious to meet
_you_. Now let me give you a word of warning. Alec isn't at all a bad
sort. I confess I like him, for all his faults--and unfortunately he
has plenty of them; but to you, Piers, he would be dangerous.
Dangerous, first of all, because of his want of principle--you know my
feelings on that point. Then, I'm afraid he knows of your little
inheritance, and he _might_--I don't say he would--but he might be
tempted to presume upon your good nature. You understand?"

"What is he doing?" Piers inquired.

"Nothing worth speaking of, I fear. Alec has no stability--so unlike
you and me in that. You and I inherit the brave old man's love of work;
Alec was born an idler. If I thought you might influence him for
good--but no, it is too risky. One doesn't like to speak so of a
brother, Piers, but I feel it my duty to warn you against poor Alec.
_Basta_!"

That night Piers did not close his eyes. The evening's excitement and
the unusual warmth of the weather enhanced the feverishness due to his
passionate thoughts. Before daybreak he rose and tried to read, but no
book would hold his attention. Again he flung himself on to the bed,
and lay till sunrise vainly groaning for sleep.

With the new day came a light rain, which threatened to continue.
Dullness ruled at breakfast. The cousins spoke fitfully of what they
might do if the rain ceased.

"A good time for work," said Irene to Piers. "But perhaps it's all the
same to you, rain or shine?

"Much the same," Piers answered mechanically.

He passed a strange morning. Though to begin with he had seated himself
resolutely, the attempt to study was ridiculous; the sight of his books
and papers moved him to loathing. He watched the sky, hoping to see it
broken. He stood by his door, listening, listening if perchance he
might hear the movements of the girls, or hear a word in Irene's voice.
Once he did hear her; she called to Olga, laughingly; and at the sound
he quivered, his breath stopped.

The clouds parted; a fresh breeze unveiled the summer blue. Piers stood
at the window, watching; and at length he had his reward; the cousins
came out and walked along the garden paths, conversing intimately. At
one moment, Olga gave a glance up at his window, and he darted back,
fearful of having been detected. Were they talking of him? How would
Miss Derwent speak of him? Did he interest her in the least?

He peeped again. Irene was standing with her hands linked at the back
of her head, seeming to gaze at a lovely cloud above the great elm
tree. This attitude showed her to perfection. Piers felt sick and dizzy
as his eyes fed upon her form.

At an impulse as sudden as irresistible, he pushed up the sash.

"Miss Hannaford! It's going to be fine, you see."

The girls turned to him with surprise.

"Shall you have a walk after lunch?" he continued.

"Certainly," replied Olga. "We were just talking about it."

A moment's pause--then:

"Would you let me go with you?"

"Of course--if you can really spare the time."

"Thank you."

He shut down the window, turned away, stood in an agony of shame. Why
had he done this absurd thing? Was it not as good as telling them that
he had been spying? Irene's absolute silence meant disapproval, perhaps
annoyance. And Olga's remark about his ability to spare time had hinted
the same thing: her tone was not quite natural; she averted her look in
speaking. Idiot that he was! He had forced his company upon them, when,
more likely than not, they much preferred to be alone. Oh, tactless
idiot! Now they would never be able to walk in the garden without a
suspicion that he was observing them.

He all but resolved to pack a travelling-bag and leave home at once. It
seemed impossible to face Irene at luncheon.

When the bell rang, he stole, slunk, downstairs. Scarcely had he
entered the dining-room, when he began an apology; after all, he could
not go this afternoon; he must work; the sky had tempted him, but----

"Mr. Otway," said Irene, regarding him with mock sternness, "we don't
allow that kind of thing. It is shameful vacillation--I love a long
word--What's the other word I was trying for?--still longer--I mean,
tergiversation! it comes from _tergum_ and _verso_, and means turning
the back. It is rude to turn your back on ladies."

Piers would have liked to fall at her feet, in his voiceless gratitude.
She had rescued him from his shame, had put an end to all awkwardness,
and, instead of merely permitting, had invited his company.

"That decides it, Miss Derwent. Of course I shall come. Forgive me for
being so uncivil."

At lunch and during their long walk afterwards, Irene was very gracious
to him. She had never talked with him in such a tone of entire
friendliness; all at once they seemed to have become intimate. Yet
there was another change less pleasing to the young man; Irene talked
as though either she had become older, or he younger. She counselled
him with serious kindness, urged him to make rational rules about study
and recreation.

"You're overdoing it, you know. To-day you don't look very well."

"I had no sleep last night," he replied abruptly, shunning her gaze.

"That's bad. You weren't so foolish as to try to make up for lost time?"

"No, no! I _couldn't_ sleep."

He reddened, hung his head. Miss Derwent grew almost maternal. This,
she pointed out, was the natural result of nerves overstrained. He must
really use common sense. Come now, would he promise?

"I will promise you anything!"

Olga glanced quickly at him from one side; Irene, on the other, looked
away with a slight smile.

"No," she said, "you shall promise Miss Hannaford. She will have you
under observation; whereas you might play tricks with me after I'm
gone. Olga, be strict with this young gentleman. He is well-meaning,
but he vacillates; at times he even tergiversates--a shocking thing."

There was laughter, but Piers suffered. He felt humiliated. Had he been
alone with Miss Derwent, he might have asserted his manhood, and it
would have been _her_ turn to blush, to be confused. He had a couple of
years more than she. The trouble was that he could not feel this
superiority of age; she treated him like a schoolboy, and to himself he
seemed one. Even more than Irene's, he avoided Olga's look, and walked
on shamefaced.

The remaining days, until Miss Derwent departed, were to him a mere
blank of misery. Impossible to open a book, and sleep came only with
uttermost exhaustion. How he passed the hours, he knew not. Spying at
windows, listening for voices, creeping hither and thither in torment
of multiform ignominy, forcing speech when he longed to be silent, not
daring to break silence when his heart seemed bursting with desire to
utter itself--a terrible time. And Irene persevered in her elder-sister
attitude; she was kindness itself, but never seemed to remark a
strangeness in his look and manner. Once he found courage to say that
he would like to know Dr. Derwent; she replied that her father was a
very busy man, but that no doubt some opportunity for their meeting
would arise--and that was all. When the moment came for leave-taking,
Piers tried to put all his soul into a look; but he failed, his eyes
dropped, even as his tongue faltered. And Irene Derwent was gone.

If, in the night that followed, a wish could have put an end to his
existence, Piers would have died. He saw no hope in living, and the
burden seemed intolerable. Love-anguish of one-and-twenty; we smile at
it, but it is anguish all the same, and may break or mould a life.



CHAPTER VII


A week went by, and Piers was as far as ever from resuming his regular
laborious life. One day he spent in London. His father's solicitor had
desired to see him, in the matter of the legacy; Piers received his
money, and on the same day made over one hundred and fifty pounds to
Daniel Otway, whom he met by appointment; in exchange, Daniel handed
him a beautifully written I.O.U., which the younger brother would
pocket only with protest.

Another week passed. Piers no longer pretended to keep his usual times;
he wandered forth whenever home grew intolerable, and sometimes
snatched his only sleep in the four-and-twenty hours under the hawthorn
blossom of some remote meadow. His mood had passed into bitterness. "I
was well before; why did she interfere with me? She did it knowing what
would happen; it promised her amusement. I should have kept to myself,
and have been safe. She waylaid me. That first meeting on the
stairs----"

He raged against her and against all women.

One evening, towards sunset, he came home dusty and weary and with a
hang-dog air, for he had done something which made him ashamed. Miles
away from Ewell thirst and misery had brought him to a wayside inn,
where--the first time for years--he drank strong liquor. He drank more
than he needed, and afterwards fell asleep in a lane, and woke to new
wretchedness.

As he entered the house and was about to ascend the stairs, a voice
called to him. It was Mrs. Hannaford's; she bade him come to her in the
drawing-room. Reluctantly he moved thither. The lady was sitting idle
and alone; she looked at him for a moment without speaking, then
beckoned him forward.

"Your brother has been here," she said, in a low voice not quite her
own.

"Daniel?"

"Yes. He called very soon after you had gone out. He wouldn't--couldn't
stay. He'll let you know when he is coming next time."

"Oh, all right."

"Come and sit down." She pointed to a chair next hers. "How tired you
look!"

Her tone was very soft, and, as he seated himself, she touched his arm
gently. The room was scented with roses. A blind, half-drawn on the
open window, broke the warm western rays; upon a tree near by, a garden
warbler was piping evensong.

"What is it?" she asked, with a timid kindness. "What has happened?
Won't you tell me?"

"You know--I am sure you know----"

His voice was choked into silence.

"But you will get over it--oh, yes, you will! Your work----"

"I can't work!" he broke out vehemently--"I shall never work again. She
has changed all my life. I must find something else to do--I don't care
what. I can't go in for that examination."

Then abruptly he turned to her with a look of eagerness.

"Would it be any use? Suppose I got a place in one of the offices?
Would there be any hope for me?"

Mrs. Hannaford's eyes dropped.

"Don't think of her," she answered. "She has such brilliant
prospects--it is so unlikely. You think me unsympathetic--oh, I'm not!"
Again she let her fingers rest on his arm. "I feel so much with you
that I daren't offer imaginary hopes. She belongs to such a different
world, try, try to forget her."

"Of course I know she cares and thinks nothing about me now. But if I
made my way----"

"She will marry very early, and someone----"

With an upward movement of her hand the speaker, was sufficiently
explicit. Otway, he knew not why, tried to laugh, and frightened
himself with the sound.

"She is not the only girl, good and beautiful," Mrs. Hannaford
continued, pleading with him.

"For me she is," he replied, in a hard voice. "And I believe she will
be always."

For a minute or two the little warbler sang in silence, then Piers, of
a sudden, stood up, and strode hastily away.

Mrs. Hannaford fell into reverie. Her daughter was in London to-day,
her husband absent somewhere else. But she had not been solitary, for
Daniel Otway, failing to meet his brother, lingered a couple of hours
in the drawing-room. As she sat dreaming under the soft light, her face
relieved for the moment of its weariness and discontent, had a beauty
more touching than that of youth.

Upstairs, Piers found a letter awaiting him. He did not know the
writing, and found with surprise that it came from his brother
Alexander, who had addressed it to him through their father's
solicitor. Alexander wrote from the neighbourhood of Bloomsbury Square;
it was an odd letter, beginning formally, almost paternally, and
running off into chirruping facetiousness, as if the writer had tried
in vain to subdue his natural gaiety. There were extraordinary phrases.
"I congratulate you on being gazetted major in the regiment of Old
Time." "For my own part I am just beginning my thirty-fifth round with
knuckly life, and I rejoice to say that I have come up smiling.
Floorers I have suffered, not a few, in the rounds preceding, but I am
harder for it, harder and gamer." "Shall we not crack a bottle together
on this side of the circumfluent Oceanus?" And so on, to the effect
that Alexander much wished for a meeting with his brother, and urged
him to come to Theobald's Road as soon as possible, at his own
convenience.

It gave Piers--what he needed badly--something new to think about. From
what he remembered of Alexander, he did not dislike him, and this
letter made, on the whole, an agreeable impression; but he remembered
Daniel's warning. In any case, there could be no harm in calling on his
brother; it made an excuse for a day in London, the country stillness
having driven him all but to frenzy. So he replied at once, saying that
he would call on the following afternoon.

Alexander occupied the top floor of a great old house in Theobald's
Road. Whether he was married or not, Piers had not heard; the
appearance of the place suggested bachelor quarters, but, as he knocked
at what seemed the likely door, there sounded from within an infantine
wail, which became alarmingly shrill when the door was thrown open by a
dirty little girl. At sight of Piers this young person, evidently a
servant, drew back smiling, and said with a strong Irish accent:

"Please to come in. They're expecting of you."

He passed into a large room, magnificently lighted by the sunshine, but
very simply furnished. A small round table, two or three chairs and a
piano were lost on the great floor, which had no carpeting, only a
small Indian rug being displayed as a thing of beauty, in the very
middle. There were no pictures, but here and there, to break the
surface of the wall, strips of bright-coloured material were hung from
the cornice. At the table, next the window, sat a man writing, also, as
his lips showed, whistling a tune; and on the bare boards beside him
sat a young woman with her baby on her lap, another child, of two or
three years old, amusing itself by pulling her dishevelled hair.

"Here's your brother, Mr. Otw'y," yelled the little servant. "Give that
baby to me, mum. I know what'll quoiet him, bless his little heart."

Alexander sprang up, waving his arm in welcome. He was a stoutish man
of middle height, with thick curly auburn hair, and a full beard;
geniality beamed from his blue eyes.

"Is it yourself, Piers?" he shouted, with utterance suggestive of the
Emerald Isle, though the man was so loudly English. "It does me good to
set eyes on you, upon my soul, it does! I knew you'd come. Didn't I say
he'd come, Biddy?--Piers, this is my wife, Bridget the best wife living
in all the four quarters of the world!"

Mrs. Otway had risen, and stood smiling, the picture of cordiality. She
was not a beauty, though the black hair broad-flung over her shoulders
made no common adornment; but her round, healthy face, with its merry
eyes and gleaming teeth, had an honest attractiveness, and her soft
Irish tongue went to the heart. It never occurred to her to apologise
for the disorderly state of things. Having got rid of her fractious
baby--not without a kiss--she took the other child by the hand and with
pride presented "My daughter Leonora"--a name which gave Piers a little
shock of astonishment.

"Sit down, Piers," shouted her husband. "First we'll have tea and talk;
then we'll have talk and tobacco; then we'll have dinner and talk
again, and after that whatever the gods please to send us. My day's
work is done--_ecce signum_!"

He pointed to the slips of manuscript from which he had risen.
Alexander had begun life as a medical student, but never got so far as
a diploma. In many capacities, often humble but never disgraceful, he
had wandered over Broader Britain--drifting at length, as he was bound
to do, into irregular journalism.

"And how's the old man at home?" he asked, whilst Mrs. Otway busied
herself in getting tea. "Piers, it's the sorrow of my life that he
hasn't a good opinion of me. I don't say I deserve it, but, as I live,
I've always meant to. And I admire him, Piers. I've written about him;
and I sent him the article, but he didn't acknowledge it. How does he
bear his years, the old Trojan? And how does his wife use him? Ah, that
was a mistake, Piers; that was a mistake. In marriage--and remember
this, Piers, for your time'll come--it must be the best, or none at
all. I acted upon that, though Heaven knows the trials and temptations
I went through. I said to myself--the best or none! And I found her,
Piers; I found her sitting at a cottage door by Enniscorthy, County
Wexford, where for a time I had the honour of acting as tutor to a
young gentleman of promise, cut short, alas!--'the blind Fury with the
abhorred shears!' I wrote an elegy on him, which I'll show you. His
father admired it, had it printed, and gave me twenty pounds, like the
gentleman he was!"

There appeared a handsome tea-service; the only objection to it being
that every piece was chipped or cracked, and not one thoroughly clean.
Leonora, a well-behaved little creature who gave earnest of a striking
face, sat on her mother's lap, watching the visitor and plainly afraid
of him.

"Well," exclaimed Mrs. Otway, "I should never have taken you two for
brothers--no, not even the half of it!"

"He has an intellectual face, Biddy," observed her husband. "Pale just
now, but it's 'the pale cast of thought.' What are you aiming at,
Piers?"

"I don't know," was the reply, absently spoken.

"Ah, but I'm sorry to hear that. You should have concentrated yourself
by now, indeed you should. If I had to begin over again, I should go in
for commerce."

Piers gave him a look of interest.

"Indeed? You mean that?"

"I do. I would apply myself to the science and art of money-making in
the only hopeful way--honest buying and selling. There's something so
satisfying about it. I envy even the little shopkeeper, who reckons up
his profits every Saturday night, and sees his business growing. But
you must begin early; you must learn money-making like anything else.
If I had made money, Piers, I should be at this moment the most
virtuous and meritorious citizen of the British Empire!"

Alexander was vexed to find that his brother did not smoke. He lit his
pipe after tea, and for a couple of hours talked ceaselessly, relating
the course of his adventurous life; an entertaining story, told with
abundant vigour, with humorous originality. Though he had in his
possession scarce a dozen volumes, Alexander was really a bookish man
and something of a scholar; his quotations, which were frequent, ranged
from Homer to Horace, from Chaucer to Tennyson. He recited a few of his
own poetical compositions, and they might have been worse; Piers made
him glow and sparkle with a little praise.

Meanwhile, Bridget was putting the children to bed and cooking the
evening meal--styled dinner for this occasion. Both proceedings were
rather tumultuous, but, amid the clamour they necessitated, no word of
ill-temper could be heard; screams of laughter, on the other hand, were
frequent. With manifest pride the little servant came in to lay the
table; she only broke one glass in the operation, and her "Sure now,
who'd have thought it!" as she looked at the fragments, delighted
Alexander beyond measure. The chief dish was a stewed rabbit, smothered
in onions; after it appeared an immense gooseberry tart, the pastry
hardly to be attacked with an ordinary table knife. Compromising for
the nonce with his teetotalism as well as his vegetarianism--not to
pain the hosts--Piers drank bottled ale. It was an uproarious meal. The
little servant, whilst in attendance, took her full share of the
conversation, and joined shrilly in the laughter. Mrs. Otway had
arrayed herself in a scarlet gown, and her hair was picturesquely
braided. She ceased not from hospitable cares, and set a brave example
in eating and drinking. Yet she was never vulgar, as an untaught London
woman in her circumstances would have been, and many a delightful
phrase fell from her lips in the mellow language of County Wexford.

When the remnants of dinner were removed, a bottle of Irish whisky came
forth, with the due appurtenances. Then it was that Alexander, with
pride in his eyes, made known Bridget's one accomplishment; she had a
voice, and would presently use it for their guest's delectation. She
was trying to learn the piano, as yet with small success; but Alexander
who had studied music concurrently with medicine, and to better result,
was able to furnish accompaniments. The concert began, and Piers, who
had felt misgivings, was most agreeably surprised. Not only had Bridget
a voice, a very sweet mezzo-contralto, but she sang with remarkable
feeling. More than once the listener had much ado to keep tears out of
his eyes; they were at his throat all the time, and his heart swelled
with the passionate emotion which had lurked there to the ruin of his
peace. But music, the blessed, the peacemaker (for music called martial
is but a blustering bastard), changed his torments to ecstasy; his
love, however hopeless, became an inestimable possession, and he seemed
to himself capable of such great, such noble things as had never
entered into the thought of man.

The crying of her baby obliged Bridget to withdraw for a little.
Alexander, who had already made a gallant inroad on the whisky bottle,
looked almost fiercely at his brother, and exclaimed:

"What do you say to _that_? Isn't that a woman? Isn't that a wife to be
proud of?"

Piers replied with enthusiasm.

"Not long ago," proceeded the other, "when we were really hard up, she
wanted me to let her try to earn money with her voice. She could, you
know! But do you think I'd allow it? Sooner I'll fry the soles of my
boots and make believe they're beefsteak!--Look at her, and remember
her when you're seeking for a wife of your own. Never mind if you have
to wait; it's worth it. When it comes to wives, the best or none!
That's my motto."

In his emotional mood, Piers had an impulse. He bent forward and asked
quietly:

"Are things all right now? About money, I mean."

"Oh, we get on. We could do with a little more furniture, but all in
good time."

Piers again listened to his impulse. He spoke hurriedly of the money he
had received, and hinted, suggested, made an embarrassed offer.
Impossible not to remark the gleam of joy that came into Alexander's
eyes; though he vehemently, almost angrily, declared such a thing
impossible, it was plain he quivered to accept. And in the end accept
he did--a round fifty pounds. A loan, strictly a loan, of course, the
most binding legal instrument should be given in acknowledgment of the
debt; interest should be paid at the rate of three and a half per cent.
per annum--not a doit less! And just when this was settled, Bridget
came back again, the sleepless baby at her breast.

"He wants to have his share of the good company," she exclaimed. "And
why shouldn't he, bless um!"

Alexander grew glorious. It was one of his peculiarities that, when he
had drunk more than enough, he broke into noisy patriotism.

"Piers, have you ever felt grateful enough for being born an
Englishman? I've seen the world, and I know; the Englishman is the top
of creation. When I say English, I mean all of us, English, Irish, or
Scotch. Give me an Englishman and an Irishwoman, and let all the rest
of the world go hang!--I've travelled, Piers, my boy. I've seen what
the great British race is doing the world round; and I'm that proud of
it I can't find words to express myself."

"I've seen something of other races," interposed Piers, lifting his
glass with unsteady hand, "and I don't think we've any right to despise
them."

"I don't exactly despise them, but I say, What are they compared with
us? A poor lot! A shabby lot!--I'm a journalist, Piers, and let me tell
you that we English newspaper men have the destiny of the world in our
hands. It makes me proud when I think of it. We guard the national
honour. Let any confounded foreigner insult England, and he has to
reckon with _us_. A word from _us_, and it means war, Piers, glorious
war, with triumphs for the race and for civilisation! England means
civilisation; the other nations don't count."

"Oh, come----"

"I tell you they don't count!" roared Alexander, his hair wild and his
beard ferocious. "You're not one of the muffs who want to keep England
little and tame, are you?"

"I think pretty much with father about these things."

"The old man! Oh, I'd forgotten the old man. But he's not of our time,
Piers; he's old-fashioned, though a good old man, I admit. No, no; we
must be armed and triple-armed; we must be so strong that not all the
confounded foreigners leagued together can touch us. It's the cause of
civilisation, Piers. I preach it whenever I get the chance; I wish I
got it oftener. I stand for England's honour, England's supremacy on
sea and land. I st-tand----"

He tried to do so, to reach the bottle, which proved to be empty.

"Send for another, Biddy--the right Irish, my lass! Another bottle to
the glory of the British Empire! Piers, we'll make a night of it. I
haven't a bed to offer you, but Biddy'll give you a shake-down here on
the floor. You're the right sort, Piers. You're a noble-minded,
generous-hearted Englishman."

Mrs. Otway, with a glance at the visitor, only made pretence of sending
for more whisky, and Piers, after looking at his watch, insisted on
taking leave. Alexander would have gone with him to the station, but
Bridget forbade this. The patriot had to be content with promises of
another such evening, and Piers, saying significantly "You will hear
from me," hastened to catch his train.



CHAPTER VIII


When he awoke next morning from a heavy sleep, Piers suffered the
half-recollection of some reproachful dream. His musty palate and dull
brain reminded him of Alexander's whisky; matter, that, for
self-reproach; but in the background was something more. He had dreamt
of his father, and seemed to have discharged in sleep a duty still in
reality neglected; that, namely, of responding to the old man's offer
of advice respecting the use he should make of his money. Out of four
hundred pounds, two hundred were already given away--for he had no
serious expectation that his brothers would repay the so-called loans.
Plainly it behoved him to be frank on this subject. Affectionate
loyalty to his father had ever been a guiding principle in Piers
Otway's life; he was uneasy under the sense that he had begun to slip
towards neglectfulness, towards careless independence.

He would have written this morning, but, after all, it was better to
wait until he had settled the doubt which made havoc of his days. At
heart he knew that he would not present himself for the Civil Service
examination; but he durst not yet put the resolve into words. It seemed
a sort of madness, after so many months of laborious preparation, and
the fixity of purpose which had grown with his studious habit. And what
a return for the patient kindness with which his father had counselled
and assisted him! He thought of Daniel and Alexander. Was he, too,
going to drift in life, instead of following a steadfast, manly course?
The perception and fear of such a danger were something new to him.
Piers had seen himself as an example of moral and intellectual vigour.
His abandonment of commerce had shown as a strong step in practical
wisdom; the fourteen hours of daily reading had flattered his pride.
Thereupon came this sudden collapse of the whole scheme. He could no
longer endure the prospects for which he had toiled so strenuously.

But for shame, he would have bundled together all the books that lay on
his table, and have flung them out of sight.

In the afternoon, he sought a private conversation with Mrs. Hannaford.
It was not easily managed, as Hannaford and Olga were both at home;
but, by watching and waiting, he caught a moment when the lady stood
alone in the garden.

"Do you think," he asked, with tremulous, sudden speech, "that I might
call at Dr. Derwent's?"

"Why not?" was the answer, but given with troubled countenance. "You
mean"--she smiled--"call upon Miss Derwent. There would be no harm; she
is the lady of the house, at present."

"Would she be annoyed?"

"I don't see why. But of course I can't answer for another person in
such things."

Their eyes met. Mrs. Hannaford gazed at him sadly for an instant, shook
her head, and turned away. Piers went back to lonely misery.

Early next day he stole from the house, and went to London. His
business was at the tailor's; he ordered a suit of ceremony--the frock
coat on which his brother Daniel had so pathetically insisted--and
begged that it might be ready at the earliest possible moment. Next he
made certain purchases in haberdashery. Through it all, he had a most
oppressive feeling of self-contempt, which--Piers was but
one-and-twenty--he did not try to analyze. Every shop-mirror which
reflected him seemed to present a malicious caricature; he hurried away
on to the pavement, small, ignoble, silly. His heart did battle, and at
moments assailed him in a triumph of heroic desire; but then again came
the sinking moments, the sense of a grovelling fellowship with people
he despised.

It was raining. His shopping done, he entered an omnibus, which took
him as far as the Marble Arch; thence, beneath his umbrella, he walked
in search of Bryanston Square. Here was Dr. Derwent's house. Very much
like a burglar, a beginner at the business, making survey of his field,
he moved timidly into the Square, and sought the number; having found
it with unexpected suddenness, he hurried past. To be detected here
would be dreadful; he durst not go to the opposite side, lest Irene
should perchance be at a window; yet he wanted to observe the house,
and did, from behind his umbrella, when a few doors away.

Never had he known what it was to feel such an insignificant mortal.
Standing here in the rain, he saw no distinction between himself and
the ragged, muddy crossing-sweeper; alike, they were lost in the huge
welter of common London. On the other hand, there in the hard-fronted,
exclusive-looking house sat Irene Derwent, a pearl of women, the prize
of wealth, distinction, and high manliness. What was this wild dream he
had been harbouring? Like a chill wind, reality smote him in the face;
he turned away, saying to himself that he was cured of folly.

On the journey home he shaped a project. He would seek an interview
with the head of the City house in which he had spent so much time and
worked so conscientiously, a quite approachable man as he knew from
experience, and would ask if he might be allowed to re-enter their
service; not, however, in London, but in their place of business at
Odessa. He had made a good beginning with Russian, and living in
Russia, might hope soon to master the language. If necessary, he would
support himself at Odessa for a time, until he was capable of serving
the firm in some position of trust. Yes, this was what he would do; it
gave him a new hope. For Alexander, foolish fellow as he might be in
some respects, had spoken the truth on the subject of money-making; the
best and surest way was by honourable commerce. Money he must have; a
substantial position; a prospect of social advance. Not for their own
sake, these things, but as steps to the only end he felt worth living
for--an ideal marriage.

He marvelled that the end of life should have been so obscure to him
hitherto. Knowledge! What satisfaction was there in that? Fame! What
profit in that by itself? Yet he had thought these aims predominant;
had been willing to toil day and night in such pursuits. His eyes were
opened. His first torturing love might be for ever frustrate, but it
had revealed him to himself. He looked forth upon the world, its
activities, its glories, and behold there was for him but one prize
worth winning, the love of the ideal woman.

He found a letter at Ewell. It contained a card of invitation; Mrs.
John Jacks graciously announced to him that she would be at home on an
evening a week hence, at nine o'clock.

How came he to have forgotten the Jacks family? Not once had he
mentioned to Miss Derwent that he was on friendly terms with these most
respectable people. What a foolish omission! It would at once have
given him a better standing in her sight, have smoothed their social
relations.

Instantly, his plan of exile was forgotten. He would accept this
invitation, and on the same day, in the afternoon, he would boldly call
at the Derwents'. Why not?--as Mrs. Hannaford said. John Jacks, M.P.,
was undoubtedly the social superior of Dr. Derwent; admitted to the
house at Queen's Gate, one might surely with all confidence present
oneself in Bryanston Square. Was he not an educated man, by birth a
gentleman? If he had no position, why, who had at one-and-twenty? How
needlessly he had been humiliating and discouraging himself! In the
highest spirits he went down into the garden to talk with Mrs.
Hannaford and Olga. They gazed at him, astonished; he was a new
creature; he joked and laughed and could hardly contain his exuberance
of joy. When there fell from him a casual mention of Mrs. Jacks' card,
no one could have imagined that this was the explanation of his altered
mood. Mrs. Hannaford felt sure that he had been to see Irene, and had
received, or fancied, some sort of encouragement. Olga thought so too,
and felt sorry to see him in a fool's paradise.

That very evening he sat down and resolved to work. He had an appetite
for it once more. He worked till long after midnight, and on the morrow
kept his old hours. Moreover, he wrote a long letter to Hawes, a good,
frank letter, giving his father a full account of the meetings with
Daniel and Alexander, and telling all about the pecuniary
transactions:--"I hope you will not think I behaved very foolishly.
Indeed, it has given me pleasure to share with them. My trouble is lest
you should think I acted in complete disregard of you; but, if I am
glad to do a good turn, remember, dear father, that it is to you I owe
this habit of mind. And I shall not need money. I feel it practically
certain that I shall get my office, and then it will go smoothly. The
examination draws near, and I am working like a Trojan!"

"I cannot carp at you," wrote Jerome Otway in reply, "but tighten the
purse-strings after this, and be not overmuch familiar with Alexander
the Little or Daniel the Purblind. Their ways are not mine; let them
not be yours!"

He had to run up to town for the trying-on of his new garments, and
this time the business gave him satisfaction. In future he would be
seeing much more society; he must have a decent regard for appearances.

His spirits faltered not; they were in harmony with the June weather.
Never had he laboured to such purpose. Everything seemed easy; he
strode with giant strides into the field of knowledge. Papers such as
would be set him at the examination were matter for his mirth, mere
schoolboy tests. Now and then he rose from study with a troublesome
dizziness, and of a morning his head generally ached a little; but
these were trifles. _Prisch zu_!--as a German friend of his at Geneva
used to say.

Even on the morning of the great day he worked; it was to prove his
will-power, his worthiness. After lunch, clad in the garb of
respectability, he went up by a quick train.

His evening suit he had previously despatched to Alexander's abode,
where he was to dine and dress.

At four o'clock he was in Bryanston Square, tremulous but sanguine, a
different man from him who had sneaked about here under the umbrella.
He knocked. The servant civilly informed him that Miss Derwent was not
at home, asked his name, and bowed him away.

It was a shock. This possibility had not entered his mind, so engrossed
was he in forecasting, in dramatising, the details of the interview.
Looking like one who has received some dreadful news, he turned slowly
from the door and walked away with head down. Probably no event in all
his life had given him such a sense of desolating frustration. At once
the sky was overcast, the ways were woebegone; he shrank within his new
garments, and endured once more the feeling of personal paltriness.

Though the time before him was so long, he had no choice but to go at
once to Theobald's Road, where at all events friendly faces would greet
him. The streets of London are terrible to one who is both lonely and
unhappy; the indifference of their hard egotism becomes fierce
hostility; instead of merely disregarding, they crush. As soon as he
could command his thoughts, Piers made for the shortest way, and
hurried on.

Mrs. Otway admitted him; Alexander, she said, was away on business, but
would soon return. On entering the large room, Piers was startled at
the change in its appearance. The well-carpeted floor, the numerous
chairs of inviting depth and softness, the centre-table, the handsome
bureau, the numerous pictures, and a multitude of knickknacks not to be
taken in at one glance, made it plain that most of the money he had
lent his brother had been expended at once in this direction. Bridget
stood watching his face, and at the first glimmer of a smile broke into
jubilation. What did he think? How did he like it? Wasn't it a room to
be proud of? She knew it would do his kind heart good to see such
splendours! Let him sit down--after selecting his chair--and take it
all in whilst she got some tea. No wonder it took away his breath! She
herself had hardly yet done gazing in mute ecstasy.

"It's been such a feast for my eyes, Mr. Piers, that I've scarcely
wanted to put a bit in my mouth since the room was finished!"

When Alexander arrived, he greeted his brother as though with rapturous
congratulation; one would have thought some great good fortune had
befallen the younger man.

"Biddy!" he shouted, "I've a grand idea! We'll celebrate the occasion
with a dinner out; we'll go to a restaurant. Hanged if you shall have
the trouble of cooking on such a day as this! Get ready; make yourself
beautiful--though you're always that. We'll dine early, as Piers has to
leave us at nine o'clock."

Outcries and gesticulations confirmed the happy thought. Tea over,
Piers was dismissed to the bedroom (very bare and uncomfortable, this)
to don his evening suit, and by six o'clock the trio set forth. They
drove in a cab to festive regions, and, as one to the manner born,
Alexander made speedy arrangements for their banquet. An odd-looking
party; the young man's ceremonious garb and not ungraceful figure
contrasting with his brother's aspect of Bohemian carelessness and
jollity, whilst Bridget, adorned in striking colours, would have passed
for anything you like but a legitimate and devoted spouse. Once again
did Piers stifle his conscience in face of the exhilarating bottle;
indeed, he drank deliberately to drown his troubles, and before the
second course had already to some extent succeeded.

Alexander talked of his journalistic prospects. Whether there was any
special reason for hopefulness, Piers could not discover; it seemed
probable that here also the windfall of fifty pounds had changed the
aspect of the world. To hear him, one might have supposed that the
struggling casual contributor had suddenly been offered some brilliant
appointment on a great journal; but he discoursed with magnificent
vagueness, and could not be brought to answer direct questions. His
attention to the wine was unremittent; he kept his brother's glass
full, nor was Bridget allowed to shirk her convivial duty. At dessert
appeared a third bottle; by this time, Piers was drinking without heed
to results; jovially, mechanically, glass after glass, talking, too, in
a strain of nebulous imaginativeness. There could be little doubt, he
hinted, that one of his Parliamentary friends (John Jacks had been
insensibly multiplied) would give him a friendly lift. A secretaryship
was sure to come pretty quickly, and then, who knew what opening might
present itself! He wouldn't mind a consulship, for a year or two, at
some agreeable place. But eventually--who could doubt it?--he would
enter the House. "Why, of course!" cried Alexander; the outline of his
career was plain beyond discussion. And let him go in strong for Home
Rule. That would be the great question for the next few years, until it
was triumphantly settled. Private information--from a source only to be
hinted at--assured him that Mr. Gladstone (after the recent defeat) was
already hard at work preparing another Bill. Come now, they must drink
Home Rule--"Justice to Ireland, and the world-supremacy of the British
Empire!"--that was his toast. They interrupted their sipping of green
Chartreuse to drink it in brimming glasses of claret.

"We'll drive you to Queen's Gate!" said Alexander, when Piers began to
look at his watch. "No hurry, my boy! The night is young! 'And'"--he
broke into lyric quotation--"'haply the Queen Moon is on her throne,
clustered around with all her starry fays.'--I shall never forget this
dinner; shall you, Biddy? We'll have a song when we get home."

One little matter had to be attended to, the paying of the bill. Having
glanced carelessly at the total, Alexander began to search his pockets.

"Why, hang it!" he exclaimed. "What a fellow I am! Piers, it's really
too absurd, but I shall have to ask you to lend me a sovereign; I can't
make up enough--stupid carelessness! Biddy, why didn't you ask me if
I'd got money?--No, no; just a sovereign, Piers; I have the rest. I'll
pay you back to-morrow morning."

With laughter at such a capital joke, Piers disbursed the coin. Quaint,
comical fellow, this brother of his! He liked him, and was beginning
to like Biddy too.

A cab bore them all to Queen's Gate, Alexander and his wife making the
journey just for the fun of the thing. Piers would have paid for the
vehicle back to Theobald's Road, but this his brother declined; he and
Mrs. Otway preferred the top of a 'bus this warm night. They parted at
Mr. Jacks' door, where carriages and cabs were stopping every minute or
two.

"I'll sit up for you, Piers," roared Alexander genially. "You'll want a
whisky-and-soda after this job. Come along, Biddy!"

In another frame of mind, Piers would have felt the impropriety of
these loud remarks at such a moment. Even as it was, he would doubtless
have regretted the incident had he turned his head to observe the two
persons who had just alighted and were moving up the steps close behind
him. A young, slim, perfectly equipped man, with features expressive of
the most becoming sentiment; a lady--or girl--of admirable figure, with
bright, intelligent, handsome face. These two exchanged a look; they
exchanged a discreet murmur; and were careful not to overtake Piers
Otway in the hall.

He, hat and overcoat surrendered, moved up the gleaming staircase. A
sound of soft music fluttered his happy temper. Seeing his form in a
mirror, he did not at once recognise himself; for his face had a high
colour, with the result of making him far more comely than at ordinary
times. He stepped firmly on, delighted to be here, eager to perceive
his hostess. Mrs. Jacks, for a moment, failed to remember him; but
needless to say that this did not appear in her greeting, which, as she
recollected, dropped upon a tone of special friendliness. To her, Piers
Otway was the least interesting of young men; but her husband had
spoken of him very favourably, and Mrs. Jacks had a fine sense of her
duty on such points. Piers was dazzled by the lady's personal charm;
her brilliantly pure complexion, her faultless shoulders and soft white
arms, her pose of consummate dignity and courtesy. Happily, his
instincts and his breeding held their own against perilous
circumstance; excited as he was, nothing of the cause appeared in his
brief colloquy with the hostess, and he acquitted himself very
creditably. A little farther on, John Jacks advanced to him with
cordial welcome.

"So glad you could come. By the bye"--he lowered his voice--"if you
have any trouble about trains back to Ewell, do let us put you up for
the night. Just stay or not, as you like. Delighted if you do."

Piers replied that he was staying at his brother's. Whereupon John
Jacks became suddenly thoughtful, said, "Ah, I see," and with a
pleasant smile turned to someone else. Only when it was too late did
Piers remember that Mr. Jacks possibly had a private opinion about
Jerome Otway's elder sons. He wished, above all things, that he could
have accepted the invitation. But doubtless it would be repeated some
other time.

As he looked about him at the gathering guests, he recalled his
depression this afternoon in Bryanston Square, and it seemed to him so
ridiculous that he could have laughed aloud. As if he would not have
other chances of calling upon Irene Derwent! Ah, but, to be sure, he
must provide himself with visiting-cards. A trifling point, but he had
since reflected on it with some annoyance.

A hand was extended to him, a pink, delicate, but shapely hand, which
his eyes fell upon as he stood in half-reverie. He exchanged civilities
with Arnold Jacks.

"I think some particular friends of yours are here," said Arnold. "The
Derwents----"

"Indeed! Are they? Miss Derwent?"

Piers' vivacity caused the other to examine him curiously.

"I only learned a day or two ago," Arnold pursued, "that you knew each
other."

"I knew Miss Derwent. I haven't met Dr. Derwent or her brother. Are
they here yet? I wish you would introduce me."

Again Arnold, smiling discreetly, scrutinised the young man's
countenance, and for an instant seemed to reflect as he glanced around.

"The Doctor perhaps hasn't come. But I see Eustace Derwent. Shall we go
and speak to him?"

They walked towards Irene's brother, Piers gazing this way and that in
eager hope of perceiving Irene herself. He was wild with delight. Could
fortune have been kinder? Under what more favourable circumstance could
he possibly have renewed his relations with Miss Derwent? Eustace,
turning at the right moment, stood face to face with Arnold Jacks, who
presented his companion, then moved away. Had he lingered, John Jacks'
critical son would have found hints for amused speculation in the scene
that followed. For Eustace Derwent, remembering, as always, what he
owed to himself and to society, behaved with entire politeness; only,
like certain beverages downstairs, it was iced. Otway did not
immediately become aware of this.

"I think we missed each other only by an hour or two, when you brought
Miss Derwent to Ewell. That very day, curiously, I was lunching here."

"Indeed?" said Eustace, with a marble smile.

"Miss Derwent is here, I hope?" pursued Piers; not with any offensive
presumption, but speaking as he thought, rather impetuously.

"I believe Miss Derwent is in the room," was the answer, uttered with
singular gravity and accompanied with a particularly freezing look.

This time, Piers could not but feel that Eustace Derwent was speaking
oddly. In his peculiar condition, however, he thought it only an
amusing characteristic of the young man. He smiled, and was about to
continue the dialogue, when, with a slight, quick bow, the other turned
away.

"Disagreeable fellow, that!" said Piers to himself. "I hope the Doctor
isn't like him. Who could imagine him Irene's brother?"

His spirits were not in the least affected; indeed, every moment they
grew more exuberant, as the wine he had drunk wrought progressively
upon his brain. Only he could have wished that his cheeks and ears did
not burn so; seeing himself again in a glass, he decided that he was
really too high-coloured. It would pass, no doubt. Meanwhile, his eyes
kept seeking Miss Derwent. The longer she escaped him, the more
vehement grew his agitation. Ah, there!

She was seated, and had been hidden by a little group standing in
front. At this moment, Eustace Derwent was bending to speak to her; she
gave a nod in reply to what he said. As soon as the objectionable
brother moved from her side, Piers stepped quickly forward.

"How delightful to meet you here! It seems too good to be true. I
called this afternoon at your house--called to see you--but you were
not at home. I little imagined I should see you this evening."

Irene raised her eyes, and let them fall back upon her fan; raised them
again, and observed the speaker attentively.

"I was told you had called, Mr. Otway."

How her voice thrilled him! What music like that voice! It made him
live through his agonies again, which by contrast heightened the
rapture of this hour.

"May I sit down by you?"

"Pray do."

He remarked nothing of her coldness; he was conscious only of her
presence, of the perfume which breathed from her and made his heart
faint with longing.

Irene again glanced at him, and her countenance was troubled. She
looked to left and right, sure that they were not overheard, and
addressed him with quick directness.

"Where did you dine, Mr. Otway?"

"Dine?--Oh, at a restaurant, with one of my brothers and his wife."

"Did your brother and his wife accompany you to this house?"

Piers was startled. He gazed into her face, and Irene allowed him to
meet her eyes, which reminded him most unpleasantly of the look he had
seen in those of Eustace.

"Why do you ask that, Miss Derwent?" he faltered.

"I will tell you. I happened to be just behind you as you entered, and
couldn't help hearing the words shouted to you by your brother. Will
you forgive me for mentioning such a thing? And, as your friend, will
you let me say that I think it would be unfortunate if you were
introduced to my father this evening? He is not here yet, but he will
be--I have taken a great liberty, Mr. Otway; but it seemed to me that I
had no choice. When an unpleasant thing _has_ to be done, I always try
to do it quickly."

Piers was no longer red of face. A terrible sobriety had fallen upon
him; his lips quivered; cold currents ran down his spine. He looked at
Irene with the eyes of a dog entreating mercy.

"Had I"--his dry throat forced him to begin again--"had I better go
now?"

"That is as you think fit."

Piers stood up, bowed before her, gave her one humble, imploring look,
and walked away.

He went down, as though to the supper-room; in a few minutes, he had
left the house. He walked to Waterloo Station, and by the last train
returned to Ewell.



CHAPTER IX


At the head of Wensleydale, where rolling moor grows mountainous toward
the marches of Yorkshire and Westmorland, stands the little market-town
named Hawes. One winding street of houses and shops, grey,
hard-featured, stout against the weather; with little byways climbing
to the height above, on which rises the rugged church, stern even in
sunshine; its tower, like a stronghold, looking out upon the
brooding-place of storms. Like its inhabitants, the place is harsh of
aspect, warm at heart; scornful of graces, its honest solidity speaks
the people that built it for their home. This way and that go forth the
well-kept roads, leading to other towns, their sharp tracks shine over
the dark moorland, climbing by wind-swept hamlets, by many a lonely
farm; dipping into sudden hollows, where streams become cascades, and
guiding the wayfarers by high, rocky passes from dale to dale. A
country always impressive by the severe beauty of its outlines;
sometimes speaking to the heart in radiant stillness, its moments of
repose mirthful sometimes, inspiring joyous life, with the gleams of
its vast sky, the sweet, keen breath of its heaths and pastures; but
for the most part shadowed, melancholy, an austere nurse of the
striving spirit of man, with menace in its mountain-rack, in the
rushing voice of its winds and torrents.

Here, in a small, plain cottage, stone-walled, stone-roofed, looking
over the wide and deep hollow of a stream--a beck in the local
language--which at this point makes a sounding cataract on its course
from the great moor above, lived Jerome Otway. It had been his home for
some ten years. He lived as a man of small but sufficient means, amid
very plain household furniture, and with no sort of social pretence.
With him dwelt his wife, and one maidservant.

On an evening of midsummer, still and sunny, the old man sat among his
books; open before him the great poem of Dante. His much-lined face,
austere in habitual expression, yet with infinite possibilities of
radiance in the dark eyes, of tenderness on the mobile lips, was
crowned with hair which had turned iron-grey but remained wonderfully
thick and strong; the moustache and beard, only a slight growth, were
perfectly white. He had once been of more than average stature; now his
bent shoulders and meagre limbs gave him an appearance of shortness,
whilst he suffered on the score of dignity by an excessive disregard of
his clothing. He sat in a round-backed wooden chair at an ordinary
table, on which were several volumes ranked on end, a large blotter,
and an inkstand. The room was exclusively his, two bookcases and a few
portraits on the walls being almost the only other furniture; but at
this moment it was shared by Mrs. Otway, who, having some sort of
woman's work on her lap, sat using her fingers and her tongue with
steady diligence. She looked about forty, had a colourless but healthy
face, not remarkable for charm, and was dressed as a sober,
self-respecting gentlewoman. In her accents sounded nothing harsh,
nothing vehement; she talked quietly, without varied inflections, as if
thoughtfully expounding an agreeable theme; such talk might well have
inclined a disinterested hearer to somnolence. But her husband's
visage, and his movements, betokened no such peaceful tendency; every
moment he grew more fidgety, betrayed a stronger irritation.

"I suppose," Mrs. Otway was saying, "there are persons who live without
any religious conscience. It seems very strange; one would think that
no soul could be at rest in utter disregard of its Maker, in complete
neglect of the plainest duties of a creature endowed with human
intelligence--which means, of course, power to perceive spiritual
truths. Yet such persons seem capable of going through a long life
without once feeling the impulse to worship, to render thanks and
praise to the Supreme Being. I suppose they very early deaden their
spiritual faculties; perhaps by loose habits of life, or by the
indulgence of excessive self-esteem, or by----"

Jerome made a quick gesture with his hands, as if defending himself
against a blow; then he turned to his wife, and regarded her fixedly.

"Will it take you much longer," he asked, with obvious struggle for
self-command, but speaking courteously, "to exhaust this theme?"

"It annoys you?" said the lady, very coldly, straightening herself to
an offended attitude.

"I confess it does. Or rather, it worries me. If I may beg----"

"I understood you to invite me to your room."

"I did. And the fact of my having done so ought, I should think, to
have withheld you from assailing me with your acrid tedium."

"Thank you," said Mrs. Otway, as she rose to her full height. "I will
leave you to your own tedium, which must be acrid enough, I imagine, to
judge from the face you generally wear."

And she haughtily withdrew.

A scene of this kind--never more violent, always checked at the right
moment--occurred between them about once every month. During the rest
of their time they lived without mutual aggression; seldom conversing,
but maintaining the externals of ordinary domestic intercourse. Nor was
either of them acutely unhappy. The old man (Jerome Otway was
sixty-five, but might have been taken for seventy) did not, as a rule,
wear a sour countenance; he seldom smiled, but his grave air had no
cast of gloominess; it was profoundly meditative, tending often to the
rapture of high vision. The lady had her own sufficient pursuits, chief
among them a rigid attention to matters ecclesiastical, local and
national. That her husband held notably aloof from such interests was
the subject of Mrs. Otway's avowed grief, and her peculiar method of
assailing his position brought about the periodical disturbance which
seemed on the whole an agreeable feature of her existence.

He lived much in the past, brooding upon his years of activity as
author, journalist, lecturer, conspirator, between 1846 and 1870. He
talked in his long days of silence with men whose names are written in
history, men whom he had familiarly known, with whom he had struggled
and hoped for the Better Time. Mazzini and Herzen, Kossuth and
Ledru-Rollin, Bakounine, Louis Blanc, and a crowd of less eminent
fighters in the everlasting war of human emancipation. The war that
aims at Peace; the strife that assails tyranny, and militarism, and
international hatred. Beginning with Chartism (and narrowly escaping
the fierce penalties suffered by some of his comrades), he grew to
wider activities, and for a moment seemed likely to achieve a bright
position among the liberators of mankind; but Jerome Otway had more
zeal than power, and such powers as he commanded were scattered over
too wide a field of enthusiastic endeavour. He succeeded neither as man
of thought nor as man of action. His verses were not quite poetry; his
prose was not quite literature; personally he interested and exalted,
but without inspiring confidence such as is given to the born leader.
And in this year 1886, when two or three letters on the Irish Question
appeared over his signature, few readers attached any meaning to the
name. Jerome Otway had fought his fight and was forgotten.

He married, for the first time, at one-and-twenty, his choice being the
daughter of an impoverished "county" family, a girl neither handsome
nor sweet-natured, but, as it seemed, much in sympathy with his
humanitarian views. Properly speaking, he did not choose her; the men
who choose, who deliberately select a wife, are very few, and Jerome
Otway could never have been one of them. He was ardent and impulsive;
marriage becoming a necessity, he clutched at the first chance which in
any way addressed his imagination; and the result was calamitous. In a
year or two his wife repented the thoughtlessness with which she had
sacrificed the possibilities of her birth and breeding for marriage
with a man of no wealth. Narrow of soul, with a certain frothy
intelligence, she quickly outgrew the mood of social rebellion which
had originated in personal discontent, and thenceforward she had
nothing but angry scorn for the husband who allowed her to live in
poverty. Two sons were born to them; the elder named Daniel (after
O'Connell), the second called Alexander (after the Russian Herzen). For
twelve years they lived in suppressed or flagrant hostility; then Mrs.
Otway died of cholera. To add to the bitterness of her fate, she had
just received, from one of her "county" relatives, a legacy of a couple
of thousand pounds.

This money, which became his own, Otway invested in a newspaper then
being started by certain of his friends; a paper, as it seemed, little
likely to have commercial success, but which, after many changes of
editorship, ultimately became an established organ of Liberalism. The
agitator retained an interest in this venture, and the small income it
still continued to yield him was more than enough for his personal
needs; it enabled him to set a little aside, year after year, thus
forming a fund which, latterly, he always thought of as destined to
benefit his youngest son--the child of his second marriage.

For he did not long remain solitary, and his next adventure was
somewhat in keeping with the character he had earned in public
estimate. Living for a time in Switzerland, he there met with a young
Englishwoman, married, but parted from her husband, who was maintaining
herself at Geneva as a teacher of languages; Jerome was drawn to her,
wooed her, and won her love. The husband, a Catholic, refused her legal
release, but the irregular union was a true marriage. It had lasted for
about four years when their only child was born. In another
twelvemonth, Jerome was again a widower. A small sum of money which had
belonged to the dead woman, Jerome, at her wish, put out at interest
for their boy, if he should attain manhood. The child's name was Piers;
for Jerome happened at that time to be studying old Langland's
"Vision," with delight in the brave singer, who so long ago cried for
social justice--one of the few in Christendom who held by the spirit of
Christ.

He was now forty-five years old; he mourned the loss of his comrade, a
gentle, loving woman, whom, though she seldom understood his views of
life, his moods and his aims, he had held in affection and esteem. For
eight years he went his way alone; then, chancing to be at a seaside
place in the north of England, he made the acquaintance of a mother and
daughter who kept a circulating library, and in less than six months
the daughter became Mrs. Otway. Aged not quite thirty, tall, graceful,
with a long, pale face, distinguished by its air of meditative
refinement, this lady probably never made quite clear to herself her
motives in accepting the wooer of fifty-three, whose life had passed in
labours and experiences with which she could feel nothing like true
sympathy. Perhaps it was that she had never before received offer of
marriage; possibly Jerome's eloquent dark eyes, of which the gleam was
not yet dulled, seconded the emotional language of his lips, and
stirred her for the moment to genuine feeling. For a few months they
seemed tolerably mated, then the inevitable divergence began to show
itself. Jerome withdrew into his reveries, became taciturn, absorbed
himself at length in the study of Dante; Mrs. Otway, resenting this
desertion, grew critical, condemnatory, and, as if to atone for her
union with a man who stood outside all the creeds, developed her mild
orthodoxy into a peculiarly virulent form of Anglican puritanism. The
only thing that kept them together was their common inclination for a
retired existence, and their love of the northern moorland.

Looking back upon his marriages, the old man wondered sadly. Why had he
not--he who worshipped the idea of womanhood--sought patiently for his
perfect wife? Somewhere in the world he would have found her, could he
but have subdued himself to the high seriousness of the quest. In a
youthful poem, he had sung of Love as "the crown of life," believing it
fervently; he believed it now with a fervour more intense, because more
spiritual. That crown he had missed, even as did the multitude of
mankind. Only to the elect is it granted--the few chosen, where all are
called. To some it falls as if by the pure grace of Heaven, meeting
them as they walk in the common way. Some, the fewest, attain it by
merit of patient hope, climbing resolute until, on the heights of noble
life, a face shines before them, the face of one who murmurs "_Guardami
ben_!"

He thought much, too, about his offspring. The two children of his
first marriage he had educated on the approved English model, making
them "gentlemen." Partly because he knew not well how else to train
them, for Jerome was far too weak on the practical side to have shaped
a working system of his own--a system he durst rely upon; and partly,
too, because they seemed to him to inherit many characteristics from
their mother, and so to be naturally fitted for some conventional
upper-class career. The result was grievous failure. In the case of
Piers, he decided to disregard the boy's seeming qualifications, and,
after having him schooled abroad for the sake of modern languages, to
put him early into commerce. If Piers were marked out for better
things, this discipline could do him no harm. And to all appearances,
the course had been a wise one. Piers had as yet given no cause for
complaint. In wearying of trade, in aiming at something more liberal,
he claimed no more than his rights.

With silent satisfaction, Jerome watched the boy's endeavours, his
heart warming when he received one of those well-worded and dutiful,
yet by no means commonplace letters, which came from Geneva and from
London. On Piers he put the hope of his latter day; and it gladdened
him to think that this, his only promising child, was the offspring of
the union which he could recall with tenderness.

When Mrs. Otway had withdrawn with her sour dignity, the old man sighed
and lost himself in melancholy musing. The house was, as usual, very
still, and from without the only sound was that of the beck, leaping
down over its stony ledges. Jerome loved this sound. It tuned his
thoughts; it saved him from many a fit of ill-humour. It harmonised
with the melody of Dante's verses, fit accompaniment to many a passage
of profound feeling, of noble imagery. Even now he had been brooding
the anguish of Maestro Adamo who hears for ever

    Li ruscelletti che de' verdi colli
    Del Casentin discendon giuso in Arno--"

and the music of the Tuscan fountains blended with the voice of this
moorland stream.

There was a knock at the door; the maid-servant handed him a letter; it
came from Piers. The father read it, and, after a few lines, with grave
visage. Piers began by saying that, a day or two ago, he had all but
resolved to run down to Hawes, for he had something very serious to
speak about; on the whole, it seemed better to make the communication
in writing.

"I have abandoned the examination, and all thought of the Civil
Service. If I invented reasons for this, you would not believe them,
and you would think ill of me. The best way is to tell you the plain
truth, and run the risk of being thought a simpleton, or something
worse. I have been in great trouble, have gone through a bad time. Some
weeks ago there came to stay here a girl of eighteen or nineteen, the
daughter of Dr. Lowndes Derwent (whose name perhaps you know). She is
very beautiful, and I was unlucky enough--if I ought to use such a
phrase--to fall in love with her. I won't try to explain what this
meant to me; you wouldn't have patience to read it; but it stopped my
studies, utterly overthrew my work. I was all but ill; I suffered
horribly. It was my first such experience; I hope it may be the
last--in that form. Indeed, I believe it will, for I can't imagine that
I shall ever feel towards anyone else in the same way, and--you will
smile, no doubt--I have a conviction that Irene Derwent will remain my
ideal as long as I live."

"Enough of that. It being quite clear to me that I simply could not go
in for the examination, I hit upon another scheme; one, it seemed to
me, which might not altogether displease you. I went to see Mr.
Tadworth, and told him that I had decided to go back into business;
could he, I asked, think of giving me a place in their office at
Odessa? If necessary, I would work without salary till I had thoroughly
learned Russian, and could substantially serve them. Well, Mr. Tadworth
was very kind, and, after a little questioning, promised to send me out
to Odessa in some capacity or other, still to be determined. I am to go
in about ten days."

"This, father, is my final decision. I shall give myself to the
business, heartily and energetically. I think there is no harm in
telling you that I hope to make money. If I do so, it will be done, I
think, honourably, as the result of hard work. I had better not see
you; I should be ashamed. But I beg you will write to me soon. I hope I
shall not have overtried your patience. Bear with me, if you can, and
give me the encouragement I value."

Jerome pondered long. He looked anything but displeased: there was
tenderness in his smile, and sympathy; something, too, of pride. Very
much against his usual practice, he wrote a reply the same day.

"So be it, my dear lad! I have no fault to find, no criticism to offer.
Your letter is an honest one, and it has much moved me. Let me just say
this: you rightly doubt whether you should call yourself unlucky. If,
as I can imagine, the daughter of Dr. Derwent is a girl worth your
homage, nothing better could have befallen you than this discovery of
your 'ideal.' Whether you will be faithful to it, the gods alone know.
If you _can_ be, even for a few years of youth, so much the happier and
nobler your lot!

"Work at money-making, then. And, as I catch a glimmer of your meaning
in this resolve, I will tell you something for your comfort. If you
hold on at commerce, and verily make way, and otherwise approve
yourself what I think you, I promise that you shall not lack
advancement. Plainly, I have a little matter of money put by, for
sundry uses; and, if the day comes when something of capital would
stead you (after due trial, as I premise), it shall be at your disposal.

"Write to me with a free heart. I have lived my life; perchance I can
help you to live yours better. The will, assuredly, is not wanting.

"Courage, then! Pursue your purpose--

    'Con l'animo che vince ogni battaglia,
     Se col suo grave corpo non s'accascia.'

"And, believe me that you could have no better intimate for leisure
hours than the old Florentine, who knew so many things; among them,
your own particular complaint."



CHAPTER X


Clad for a long railway journey on a hot day; a grey figure of fluent
lines, of composedly decisive movements; a little felt hat
close-fitting to the spirited head, leaving full and frank the soft
rounded face, with its quietly observant eyes, its lips of contained
humour--Irene Derwent stepped from a cab at Euston Station and went
forward into the booking-office. From the box-seat of the same vehicle
descended a brisk, cheerful little man, looking rather like a courier
than an ordinary servant, who paid the cabman, saw to the luggage, and,
at a respectful distance, followed Miss Derwent along the platform; it
was Thibaut Rossignol.

Grey-clad also, with air no less calm and sufficient, a gentleman
carrying newspapers in Britannic abundance moved towards the train
which was about to start. Surveying for a moment, with distant
curiosity, the travellers about him, his eye fell upon that maiden of
the sunny countenance just as she was entering a carriage; he stopped,
insensibly drew himself together, subdued a smile, and advanced for
recognition.

"I am going to Liverpool, Miss Derwent. May I have the pleasure----?"

"If you will promise not to talk politics, Mr. Jacks."

"I can't promise that. I want to talk politics."

"From here to Crewe?"

"As far as Rugby, let us say. After that--morphology, or some other of
your light topics."

It seemed possible that they might have the compartment to themselves,
for it was mid-August, and the tumult of northward migration had
ceased. Arnold Jacks, had he known a moment sooner, would have settled
it with the guard. He looked forbiddingly at a man who approached; who,
in his turn, stared haughtily and turned away.

Irene beckoned to Thibaut, and from the window gave him a trivial
message for her father, speaking in French; Thibaut, happy to serve
her, put a world of chivalrous respect into his "Bien, Mademoiselle!"
Arnold Jacks averted his face and smiled. Was she girlish enough, then,
to find pleasure in speaking French before him? A charming trait!

The train started, and Mr. Jacks began to talk. It was not the first
time that they had merrily skirmished on political and other grounds;
they amused each other, and, as it seemed, in a perfectly harmless way;
the English way of mirth between man and maid, candid, inallusive,
without self-consciousness. Arnold made the most of his thirty years,
spoke with a tone something paternal. He was wholly sure of himself,
knew so well his own mind, his scheme of existence, that Irene's beauty
and her charm were nothing more to him than an aesthetic perception.
That she should feel an interest in him, a little awe of him, was to be
hoped and enjoyed: he had not the least thought of engaging deeper
emotion--would, indeed, have held himself reprobate had such purpose
entered his head. Nor is it natural to an Englishman of this type to
imagine that girls may fall in love with him. Love has such a
restricted place in their lives, is so consistently kept out of sight
in their familiar converse. They do not entirely believe in it; it ill
accords with their practical philosophy. Marriage--that is another
thing. The approaches to wedlock are a subject of honourable
convention, not to be confused with the trivialities of romance.

"I'm going down to Liverpool," he said, presently, "to meet Trafford
Romaine."

It gratified him to see the gleam in Miss Derwent's eyes the
announcement had its hoped-for effect. Trafford Romaine, the Atlas of
our Colonial world; the much-debated, the universally interesting
champion of Greater British interests! She knew, of course, that Arnold
Jacks was his friend; no one could talk with Mr. Jacks for half an hour
without learning that; but the off-hand mention of their being about to
meet this very day had an impressiveness for Irene.

"I saw that he was coming to England."

"From the States--yes. He has been over there on a holiday--merely a
holiday. Of course, the papers have tried to find a meaning in it. That
kind of thing amuses him vastly. He says in his last letter to me----"

Carelessly, the letter was drawn from an inner pocket. Only a page and
a half; Arnold read it out. A bluff and rather slangy epistolary style.

"May I see his hand?" asked Irene, trying to make fun of her wish.

He gave her the letter, and watched her amusedly as she gazed at the
first page. On receiving it back again, he took his penknife, carefully
cut out the great man's signature, and offered it for Irene's
acceptance.

"Thank you. But you know, of course, that I regard it as a mere
curiosity."

"Oh, yes! Why not? So do I the theory of Evolution."

By a leading question or two, Miss Derwent set her companion talking at
large of Trafford Romaine, his views and policies. The greatest man in
the Empire! he declared. The only man, in fact, who held the true
Imperial conception, and had genius to inspire multitudes with his own
zeal. Arnold's fervour of admiration betrayed him into no excessive
vivacity, no exuberance in phrase or unusual gesture such as could
conflict with "good form"; he talked like the typical public schoolboy,
with a veneering of wisdom current in circles of higher officialdom.
Enthusiasm was never the term for his state of mind; instinctively he
shrank from that, as a thing Gallic, "foreign." But the spirit of
practical determination could go no further. He followed Trafford
Romaine as at school he had given allegiance to his cricket captain;
impossible to detect a hint that he felt the life of peoples in any way
more serious than the sports of his boyhood, yet equally impossible to
perceive how he could have been more profoundly in earnest. This made
the attractiveness of the man; he compelled confidence; it was felt
that he never exaggerated in the suggestion of force concealed beneath
his careless, mirthful manner. Irene, in spite of her humorous
observation, hung upon his speech. Involuntarily, she glanced at his
delicate complexion, at the whiteness and softness of his ungloved
hand, and felt in a subtle way this combination of the physically fine
with the morally hard, trenchant, tenacious. Close your eyes, and
Arnold Jacks was a high-bred bulldog endowed with speech; not otherwise
would a game animal of that species, advanced to a world-polity, utter
his convictions.

"You take for granted," she remarked, "that our race is the finest
fruit of civilisation."

"Certainly. Don't you?"

"It's having a pretty good conceit of ourselves. Is every foreigner who
contests it a poor deluded creature? Take the best type of Frenchman,
for instance. Is he necessarily fatuous in his criticism of us?"

"Why, of course he is. He doesn't understand us. He doesn't understand
the world. He has his place, to be sure, but that isn't in
international politics. We are the political people; we are the
ultimate rulers. Our language----"

"There's a quotation from Virgil----"

"I know. We are very like the Romans. But there are no new races to
overthrow us."

He began to sketch the future extension of Britannic lordship and
influence. Kingdoms were overthrown with a joke, continents were
annexed in a boyish phrase; Armageddon transacted itself in sheer
lightness of heart. Laughing, he waded through the blood of nations,
and in the end seated himself with crossed legs upon the throne of the
universe.

"Do you know what it makes me wish?" said Irene, looking wicked.

"That you may live to see it?"

"No. That someone would give us a good licking, for the benefit of our
souls."

Having spoken it, she was ashamed, and her lip quivered a little. But
the train had slackened speed; they entered a station.

"Rugby!" she exclaimed, with relief. "Have you any views about
treatment of the phylloxera?"

"Odd that you should mention that. Why?"

"Only because my father has been thinking about it: we have a friend
from Avignon staying with us--all but ruined in his vineyards."

Jacks had again taken out his letter-case. He selected a folded sheet
of paper, and showed what looked like a dry blade of grass. The wheat,
he said, on certain farms in his Company's territory had begun to
suffer from a strange disease; here was an example of the
parasite-eaten growth; no one yet had recognised the disease or
discovered a check for it.

"Let my father have it," said Irene. "He is interested in all that kind
of thing."

"Really? Seriously?"

"Quite seriously. He would much like to see it."

"Then I will either call on him, or write to him, when I get back."

Miss Derwent had not yet spoken of her destination. She mentioned, now,
that she was going to spend a week or two with relations at a country
place in Cheshire. She must change trains at Crewe. This gave a lighter
turn to the conversation. Arnold Jacks launched into frank gaiety, and
Irene met him with spirit. Not a little remarkable was the absence of
the note of sex from their merry gossip in the narrow seclusion of a
little railway compartment. Irene was as safe with this
world-conquering young man as with her own brother; would have been so,
probably, on a desert island. They were not man and woman, but English
gentleman and lady, and, from one point of view, very brilliant
specimens of their kind.

At Crewe both alighted, Arnold to stretch his legs for a moment.

"By the bye," he said, as Miss Derwent, having seen to her luggage, was
bidding him farewell, "I'm sorry to hear that young Otway has been very
ill."

"Ill?--I had no knowledge of it. In Russia?"

"Yes. My father was speaking of it yesterday. He had heard it from his
friend, old Mr. Otway. A fever of some kind. He's all right again, I
believe."

"We have heard nothing of it. There's your whistle. Good-bye!"

Jacks leapt into his train, waved a hand from the window, and was
whirled away.

For the rest of her journey, Irene seemed occupied with an alternation
of grave and amusing thoughts. At moments she looked seriously
troubled. This passed, and the arrival found her bright as ever; the
pink of modern maidenhood, fancy free.

The relatives she was visiting were two elderly ladies, cousins of her
mother; representatives of a family native to this locality for
hundreds of years. One of the two had been married, but husband and
child were long since dead; the other, devoted to sisterly affection,
had shared in the brief happiness of the wife and remained the solace
of the widow's latter years. They were in circumstances of simple
security, living as honoured gentlewomen, without display as without
embarrassment; fulfilling cheerfully the natural duties of their
position, but seeking no influence beyond the homely limits; their life
a humanising example, a centre of charity and peace. The house they
dwelt in came to them from their yeoman ancestors of long ago; it was
held on a lease of one thousand years from near the end of the
sixteenth century, "at a quit-rent of one shilling," and certain pieces
of furniture still in use were contemporary with the beginning of the
tenure. No corner of England more safely rural; beyond sound of railway
whistle, bosomed in great old elms, amid wide meadows and generous
tillage; sloping westward to the river Dee, and from its soft green
hills descrying the mountains of Wales.

Here in the old churchyard lay Irene's mother. She died in London, but
Dr. Derwent wished her to rest by the home of her childhood, where
Irene, too, as a little maid, had spent many a summer holiday. Over the
grave stood a simple slab of marble, white as the soul of her it
commemorated, graven thereon a name, parentage, dates of birth and
death--no more. Irene's father cared not to tell the world how that
bereavement left him.

Round about were many kindred tombs, the most noticeable that of Mrs.
Derwent's grandfather, a ripe old scholar, who rested from his mellow
meditations just before the century began.

  "GULIELMI W----
  Pii, docti, integri,
  Reliquiae seu potius exuviae."

It was the first Latin Irene learnt, and its quaint phrasing to this
day influenced her thoughts of mortality. Standing by her mother's
grave, she often repeated to herself "_seu potius exuviae_," and
wondered whether her father's faith in science excluded the hope of
that old-world reasoning. She would not have dared to ask him, for all
the frank tenderness of their companionship. On that subject Dr.
Derwent had no word to say, no hint to let fall. She knew only that, in
speaking of her they had lost, his voice would still falter; she knew
that he always came into this churchyard alone, and was silent,
troubled, for hours after the visit. Instinctively, too, she understood
that, though her father might almost be called a young man, and had
abounding vitality, no second wife would ever obscure to him that
sacred memory. It was one of the many grounds she had for admiring as
much as she loved him. His loyalty stirred her heart, coloured her view
of life.

The ladies had some little apprehension that their young relative,
fresh from contact with a many-sided world, might feel a dulness in
their life and their interests; but nothing of the sort entered Irene's
mind. She was intelligent enough to appreciate the superiority of these
quiet sisters to all but the very best of the acquaintances she had
made in London or abroad, and modest enough to see in their entire
refinement a correction of the excessive _sans-gene_ to which society
tempted her. They were behind the times only in the sense of escaping,
by seclusion, those modern tendencies which vulgarise. An excellent
library of their own supplied them with the essentials of culture, and
one or two periodicals kept them acquainted with all that was worth
knowing in the activity of the day. They belonged to the very small
class of persons who still read, who have mind and leisure to find
companionship in books. Their knowledge of languages passed the common;
in earlier years they had travelled, and their reminiscences fostered
the liberality which was the natural tone of their minds. To converse
familiarly with them was to discover their grasp of historical
principles, their insight into philosophic systems, their large
apprehension of world-problems. At the same time, they nurtured
jealously their intellectual preferences, differing on such points from
each other as they did from the common world. One of them would betray
an intimate knowledge of some French or Italian poet scarce known by
name to ordinary educated people; something in him had appealed to her
mind at a certain time, and her memory held him in gratitude. The other
would be found to have informed herself exhaustively concerning the
history of some neglected people, dear to her for some subtle reason of
affinity or association. But in their table-talk appeared no pedantry;
things merely human were as interesting to them as to the babbler of
any drawing-room, and their inexhaustible kindliness sweetened every
word they spoke.

Nothing more salutary for Irene Derwent than this sojourn with persons
whom she in every way respected--with whom there was not the least
temptation to exhibit her mere dexterities. In London, during this past
season, she had sometimes talked as a young, clever and admired girl is
prone to do; always to the mockery of her sager self when looking back
on such easy triumphs. How very easy it was to shine in London
drawing-rooms, no one knew better. Here, in the country stillness, in
this beautiful old house sacred to sincerity of heart and mind, to aim
at "smartness" would indeed have been to condemn oneself. Instead of
phrasing, she was content, as became her years, to listen; she enjoyed
the feeling of natural youthfulness, of spontaneity without misgiving.
The things of life and intellect appeared in their true proportions;
she saw the virtue of repose.

When she had been here a day or two, the conversation chanced to take a
turn which led to her showing the autograph of Trafford Romaine; she
said merely that a friend had given it to her.

"An interesting man, I should think," remarked the elder of the two
sisters, without emphasis.

"An Englishman of a new type, wouldn't you say?" fell from the other.

"So far as I understand him. Or perhaps of an old type under new
conditions."

Irene, paying close attention, was not sure that she understood all
that these words implied.

"He is immensely admired by some of our friends," she said with
restraint. "They compare him to the fighting heroes of our history."

"Indeed?" rejoined the elder lady. "But the question is: Are those the
qualities that we want nowadays? I admire Sir Walter Raleigh, but I
should be sorry to see him, just as he was, playing an active part in
our time."

"They say," ventured Irene, with a smile, "that but for such men, we
may really become a mere nation of shopkeepers."

"Do they? But may we not fear that their ideal is simply a shopkeeper
ready to shoot anyone who rivals him in trade? The finer qualities I
admit; but one distrusts the objects they serve."

"We are told," said Irene, "that England _must_ expand."

"Probably. But the mere necessity of the case must not become our law.
It won't do for a great people to say, 'Make room for us, and we
promise to set you a fine example of civilisation; refuse to make room,
and we'll blow your brains out!' One doubts the quality of the
civilisation promised."

Irene laughed, delighted with the vigour underlying the old lady's calm
and gentle habit of speech. Yet she was not convinced, though she
wished to be. A good many times she had heard in thought the suavely
virile utterances of Arnold Jacks; his voice had something that pleased
her, and his way of looking at things touched her imagination. She
wished these ladies knew Arnold Jacks, that she might ask their opinion
of him.

And yet, she felt she would rather not have asked it.



CHAPTER XI


From this retreat, Irene wrote to her cousin Olga Hannaford, and in the
course of the letter made inquiry whether anything was known at Ewell
about a severe illness that had befallen young Mr. Otway. Olga replied
that she had heard of no such event; that they had received no news at
all of Mr. Otway since his leaving England. This did not allay an
uneasiness which, in various forms, had troubled Irene ever since she
heard that her studious acquaintance had abandoned his ambitions and
gone back to commerce. A few weeks more elapsed, and--being now in
Scotland--she received a confirmation of what Arnold Jacks had
reported. Immediately on reaching Odessa, Piers Otway had fallen ill,
and for a time was in danger. Irene mused. She would have preferred not
to think of Otway at all, but often did so, and could not help it. A
certain reproach of conscience connected itself with his name. But as
time went on, and it appeared that the young man was settled to his
mercantile career in Russia, she succeeded in dismissing him from her
mind.

For the next three years she lived with her father in London; a life
pretty evenly divided between studies and the amusements of her world.

Dr. Derwent pursued his quiet activity. In a certain sphere he had
reputation; the world at large knew little or nothing of him. All he
aimed at was the diminution of human suffering; whether men thanked him
for his life's labour did not seem to him a point worth considering. He
knew that only his scientific brethren could gauge the advance in
knowledge, and consequent power over disease, due to his patient toil;
it was a question of minute discoveries, of investigations
unintelligible to the layman. Some of his colleagues held that he
foolishly restricted himself in declining to experimentalise _in
corpore vili_, whenever such experiments were attended with pain; he
was spoken of in some quarters as a "sentimentalist," a man who might
go far but for his "fads." One great pathologist held that the whole
idea of pursuing science for mitigation of human ills was nothing but a
sentimentality and a fad. A debate between this personage and Dr.
Derwent was brought to a close by the latter's inextinguishable mirth.
He was, indeed, a man who laughed heartily, and laughter often served
him where another would have waxed choleric.

"Only a dog!" he exclaimed once to Irene, apropos of this subject, and
being in his graver mood. "Why, what assurance have I that any given
man is of more importance to the world than any given dog? How can I
know what is important and what is not, when it comes to the ultimate
mystery of life? Create me a dog--just a poor little mongrel puppy--and
you shall torture him; then, and not till then. And in that event I
reserve my opinion of the----" He checked himself on the point of a
remark which seemed of too wide bearing for the girl's ears. But Irene
supplied the hiatus for herself, as she was beginning to do pretty
often when listening to her father.

Dr. Derwent was, in a sense, a self-made man; in youth he had gone
through a hard struggle, and but for his academic successes he could
not have completed the course of medical training. Twenty years of very
successful practice had made him independent, and a mechanical
invention--which he had patented--an ingenuity of which he thought
nothing till some friend insisted on its value--raised his independence
to moderate wealth. For his children's sake he was glad of this
comfort; like every educated man who has known poverty at the outset of
life, he feared it more than he cared to say.

His wife had brought him nothing--save her beauty and her noble heart.
She wedded him when it was still doubtful whether he would hold his own
in the fierce fight for a living; she died before the days of his
victory. Now and then, a friend who heard him speak of his wife's
family smiled with the thought that he only just escaped being
something of a snob. Which merely signified that a man of science
attached value to descent. Dr. Derwent knew the properties of such
blood as ran in his wife's veins, and it rejoiced him to mark the
characteristics which Irene inherited from her mother.

He often suffered anxiety on behalf of his sister, Mrs. Hannaford, whom
he knew to be pinched in circumstances, but whom it was impossible to
help. Lee Hannaford he disliked and distrusted; the men were poles
apart in character and purpose. The family had now left Ewell, and
lived in a poor house in London. Olga was trying to earn money by her
drawing, not, it seemed, with much success. Hannaford was always said
to be on the point of selling some explosive invention to the British
Government, whence would result a fortune; but the Government had not
yet come to terms.

"What a shame it is," quoth Dr. Derwent, "that an honest man who
facilitates murder on so great a scale should be kept waiting for his
reward!"

Hannaford pursued his slight acquaintance with Arnold Jacks, who, in
ignorance of any relationship, once spoke of him to Miss Derwent.

"An ingenious fellow. I should like to make some use of him, but I
don't quite know how."

"I am sorry to say he belongs by marriage to our family," replied Irene.

"Indeed? Why sorry?"

"I detest his character. He is neither a gentleman, nor anything else
that one can respect."

It closed a conversation in which they had differed more sharply than
usual, with--on Irene's part--something less than the wonted gaiety of
humour. They did not see each other very often, but always seemed glad
to meet, and always talked in a tone of peculiar intimacy, as if
conscious of mutual understanding. Yet no two acquaintances could have
been in greater doubt as to each other's mind and character. Irene was
often mentally occupied with Mr. Jacks, and one of the questions she
found most uncertain was whether he in turn ever thought of her with
like interest. Now she seemed to have proof that he sought an
opportunity of meeting; now, again, he appeared to have forgotten her
existence. He interested her in his personality, he interested her in
his work. She would have liked to speak of him with her father; but Dr.
Derwent never broached the subject, and she could not herself lead up
to it. Whenever she saw his name in the paper--where it often stood in
reports of public festivities or in items of social news--her eye dwelt
upon it, and her fancy was stirred. Curiosity, perhaps, had the greater
part in her feeling. Arnold Jacks seemed to live so "largely," in
contact with such great affairs and such eminent people. One day, at
length, a little paragraph in an evening journal announced that he was
engaged to be married, and to a lady much in the light, the widowed
daughter of a Conservative statesman. It was only an hour or two after
reading this news that Irene met him at dinner, and spoke with him of
Hannaford; neither to Arnold himself nor to anyone else did she allude
to the rumoured engagement; but that night she was not herself.

About lunch time on the next day she received a note from Jacks. His
attention had been drawn--he wrote--to an absurd bit of gossip
connecting his name with that of a lady whose friend he was, and
absolutely nothing more. Would Miss Derwent, if occasion arose, do him
the kindness to contradict this story in her circle? He would be
greatly obliged to her.

Irene was something more than surprised. It struck her as odd that
Arnold Jacks should request her services in such a matter as this. In
an obscure way she half resented the brief, off-hand missive. And she
paid no further attention to it.

A month later, she, her father and brother, were on their way to
Switzerland. Stepping into the boat at Dover, she saw in front of her
Arnold Jacks. It was a perfectly smooth passage, and they talked all
the way; for part of the time, alone.

"I think," said Arnold, at the first opportunity, looking her in the
face, "you never replied to a letter of mine last month about a certain
private affair?"

"A letter? Oh, yes. I didn't think it required an answer."

"Don't you generally answer letters from your friends?"

Irene, in turn, gave him a steady look.

"Generally, yes. But not when I have the choice between silence and
being disagreeable."

"You were both silent _and_ disagreeable," said Arnold, smiling. "Do
you mind being disagreeable again, and telling me what your answer
would have been?"

"Simply that I never, if I can help it, talk about weddings and rumours
of weddings, and that I couldn't make an exception in your case."

Arnold laughed in the old way.

"A most original rule, Miss Derwent, and admirable. If all kept to it I
shouldn't have been annoyed by that silly chatter. It occurs to me that
I perhaps ought not to have sent you that note. I did it in a moment of
irritation--wanting to have the stupid thing contradicted right and
left, as fast as possible. I won't do it again."

They were on excellent terms once more. Irene felt a singular pleasure
in his having apologised; it was one of the very rare occasions of his
yielding to her on any point whatever. Never had she felt so kindly
disposed to him.

Arnold was going to Paris, and on business; he hinted at something
pending between his Company and a French Syndicate.

"You are a sort of informal diplomatist," said Irene, her interest keen.

"Now and then, yes. And"--he added with the frankness which was one of
his more amiable points--"I rather like it."

"One sees that you do. Better, I suppose, than the thought of going
into Parliament."

"That may come some day," he answered, glancing at a gull that hovered
above the ship. "Not whilst my father sits there."

"You would be on different sides, I suppose."

Arnold smiled, and went on to say that he was uneasy about his father's
health. John Jacks had fallen of late into a habit of worry about
things great and small, as though age were suddenly telling upon him.
He fretted over public affairs; he suffered from the death of old
friends, especially that of John Bright, whom he had held in
affectionate regard for a lifetime. Irene was glad to hear this
expression of anxiety. For it sometimes seemed to her that Arnold Jacks
had little, if any, domestic feeling.

She wished they could have travelled further together. Their talks were
always broken off too soon, just when she began to get a glimpse of
characteristics still unknown to her. On the journey she thought
constantly of him; not with any sort of tender emotion, but with much
curiosity. It would have gratified her to know what degree of truth
there was in that rumour of his engagement a month ago; some,
undoubtedly, for she had noticed a peculiar smile on the faces of
persons who alluded to it. His apparent coldness towards women in
general might be natural, or might conceal mysteries. So difficult a
man to know! And so impossible to decide whether he was really worth
knowing!

Among intimates of her own sex Irene had a reputation for a certain
chaste severity becoming at moments all but prudery. It did not
altogether harmonise with the tone of highly taught young women who
rather prided themselves on freedom of thought, and to some extent of
utterance. Singular in one so far from cold-blooded, so abounding in
vitality. Towards men, her attitude seemed purely intellectual; no one
had ever so much as suspected a warmer interest. A hint of things
forbidden with regard to any male acquaintance caused her to turn away,
silent, austere. That such things not seldom came to her hearing was a
motive of troubled reflection, common enough in all intelligent girls
who live in touch with the wider world. Men puzzled her, and Irene did
not like to be puzzled. As free from unwholesome inquisitiveness as a
girl can possibly be, she often wished to know, once for all, whatever
was to be learnt about the concealed life of men; to know it and to
have done with it; to settle her mind on that point, as on any other
that affected the life of a reasonable being. Yet she shrank from all
such enquiry, with a sense of womanly pride, doing her best to believe
that there was no concealment in the case of any man with whom she
could have friendly relations. She scorned the female cynic; she
disliked the carelessly liberal in moral judgment. Profoundly
mysterious to her was everything covered by the word "passion"--a word
she detested.

Her way of seeing life on the amusing side aided, of course, her
maidenly severity against trouble of sense and sentiment. This she had
from her father, a man of quips and jokes on the surface of his
seriousness. As she grew older, it threatened a decline of intimacy
between her and her cousin Olga, who, never naturally buoyant, was
becoming so cheerless, so turbid of temper, that Irene found it
difficult to talk with her for long together. Domestic miseries might
greatly account for the girl's mood, but Irene had insight enough to
perceive that this was not all. And she felt uncomfortably helpless. To
jest seemed unfeeling; sympathy of the sentimental sort she could not
give. She feared that Olga was beginning to shrink from her.

Since the Hannaford's removal to London, they had not been able to see
much of each other. Irene understood that she was not very welcome in
the little house at Hammersmith, even before her aunt wrote to ask her
not to come. Lee Hannaford's aloofness from his wife's relatives had
turned to hostility; he spoke of them with increasing bitterness, threw
contempt on Dr. Derwent's scientific work, and condemned Irene as a
butterfly of fashion. Olga ceased to visit the house in Bryanston
Square, and the cousins only corresponded. It was Dr. Derwent's opinion
that Hannaford could not be quite sane; he was much troubled on his
sister's account, and had often pondered extreme measures for her
rescue from an intolerable position.

At length there came to pass the event to which Mrs. Hannaford had
looked as her only hope. The widowed sister in America died, and, out
of her abundance, her children all provided for, left to the unhappy
wife in England a substantial bequest. News of this came first to Dr.
Derwent, who was appointed trustee.

But before he had time to communicate with Mrs. Hannaford, a letter
from her occasioned him new anxiety. His sister wrote that Olga was
bent on making a most undesirable marriage, having fallen in love with
a penniless nondescript who called himself an artist; a man given, it
was suspected, to drink, and without any decent connection that one
could hear of. A wretched, squalid affair! Would the Doctor come at
once and see Olga? Her father was away, as usual; of course the girl
would not be influenced by _him_, in any case; she was altogether in a
strange, wild, headstrong state, and one could not be sure how soon the
marriage might come about.

With wrinkled brows, the vexed pathologist set forth for Hammersmith.



CHAPTER XII


A semi-detached dwelling in a part of Hammersmith just being invaded by
the social class below that for which it was built; where, in
consequence, rents had slightly fallen, and notices of "apartments"
were beginning to rise; where itinerant vendors, finding a new market,
strained their voices with special discord; where hired pianos vied
with each other through party walls; where the earth was always very
dusty or very muddy, and the sky above in all seasons had a
discouraging hue. The house itself furnished half-heartedly, as if it
was felt to be a mere encampment; no comfort in any chamber, no air of
home. Hannaford had not cared to distribute his mementoes of battle and
death in the room called his own; they remained in packing-cases. Each
member of the family, unhappy trio, knew that their state was
transitional, and waited rather than lived.

With the surprise of a woman long bitter against destiny, Mrs.
Hannaford learnt that something _had_ happened, and that it was a piece
of good, not ill, fortune. When her brother left the house (having
waited two hours in vain for Olga's return), she made a change of garb,
arranged her hair with something of the old grace, and moved restlessly
from room to room. A light had touched her countenance, dispelling
years of premature age; she was still a handsome woman; she could still
find in her heart the courage for a strong decision.

There was no maid--Mrs. Hannaford herself laid upon the table what was
to serve for an evening meal; and she had just done so when her
daughter came in. Olga had changed considerably in the past three
years; at one-and-twenty she would have passed for several years older;
her complexion was fatigued, her mouth had a nervous mobility which
told of suppressed suffering, her movements were impatient, irritable.
But at this moment she did not wear a look of unhappiness; there was a
glow in her fine eyes, a tremour of resolve on all her features. On
entering the room where her mother stood, she at once noticed a change.
Their looks met: they gazed excitedly at each other.

"What is it? Why have you dressed?"

"Because I am a free woman. My sister is dead, and has left me a lot of
money."

They rushed into each other's arms; they caressed with tears and sobs;
it was minutes before they could utter more than broken phrases and
exclamations.

"What shall you do?" the girl asked at length, holding her mother's
hand against her heart. Of late there had been unwonted conflict
between them, and in the reaction of joy they became all tenderness.

"What I ought to have done long ago--go and live away----"

"Will it be possible, dear?"

"It shall be!" exclaimed the mother vehemently. "I am not a slave--I am
not a wife! I ought to have had courage to go away years since. It was
wrong, wrong to live as I have done. The money is my own, and I will be
free. He shall have a third of it every year, if he leaves me free.
One-third is yours, one mine."

"No, no!" said Olga drawing back. "For me, none of it!"

"Yes, you will live with me--you will, Olga! This makes everything
different. You will see that you cannot do what you thought of! Don't
speak of it now--think--wait----"

The girl moved apart. Her face lost its brightness; hardened in
passionate determination.

"I can't begin all that again," she said, with an accent of weariness.

"No! I won't speak of it now, Olga. But will you do one thing for me?
Will you put it off for a short time? I'll tell you what I've planned;
your uncle and I talked it all over. I must leave this house before
_he_ comes back, to-morrow morning. I can't go to your uncle's house,
as he asked me; you see why it is better not, don't you? The best will
be to go into lodgings for a time, and not to let _him_ know where I
am, till I hear whether he will accept the terms I offer. Look, I have
enough money for the present." She showed gold that had been left with
her by Dr. Derwent. "But am I to go alone? Will you desert me in my
struggle? I want you, dear; I need your help. Oh, it would be cruel to
leave me just now! Will you put it off for a few weeks, until I know
what my life is going to be? You won't refuse me this one thing, Olga,
after all we have gone through together?"

"For a few weeks: of course I will do that," replied the girl, still in
an attitude of resistance. "But you mustn't deceive yourself, mother.
My mind is made up; _nothing_ will change it. Money is nothing to me;
we shall be able to live----"

"I can count on you till the struggle is over?"

"I won't leave you until it is settled. And perhaps there will be no
struggle at all. I should think it will be enough for you to say what
you have decided----"

"Perhaps. But I can't feel sure. He has got to be such a tyrant, and it
will enrage him--But perhaps the money--Yes, he will be glad of the
money."

Presently they sat down to make a pretence of eating; it was over in a
few minutes. Mrs. Hannaford made known in detail what she had rapidly
decided with her brother. Tonight she would pack her clothing and
Olga's; she would leave a letter for her husband; and early in the
morning they would leave London. Not for any distant hiding-place; it
was better to be within easy reach of Dr. Derwent, and a retreat in
Surrey would best suit their purposes, some place where lodgings could
be at once obtained. The subject of difference put aside, they talked
again freely and affectionately of this sudden escape from a life which
in any case Mrs. Hannaford could not have endured much longer. About
nine o'clock, the quiet of the house was broken by a postman's knock;
Olga ran to take the letter, and exclaimed on seeing the address--

"Why, it's from Mr. Otway, and an English stamp!"

Mrs. Hannaford found a note of a few lines. Piers Otway had reached
London that morning, and would be in town for a day or two only, before
going on into Yorkshire. Could he see his old friends to-morrow? He
would call in the afternoon.

"Better reply to-night," said Olga, "and save him the trouble of coming
here."

The letter in her hand, Mrs. Hannaford stood thinking, a half-smile
about her lips.

"Yes; I must write," she said slowly. "But perhaps he could come and
see us in the country. I'll tell him where we are going."

They talked of possible retreats, and decided upon Epsom, which was not
far from their old home at Ewell; then Mrs. Hannaford replied to Otway.
Through the past three years she had often heard from him, and she knew
that he was purposing a visit to England, but no date had been
mentioned. After writing, she was silent, thoughtful. Olga, too, having
been out to post the letter, sat absorbed in her own meditations. They
did some hasty packing before bedtime, but talked little. They were to
rise early, and flee at once from the hated house.

A sunny morning--it was July--saw them start on their journey,
tremulous, but rejoicing. Long before midday they had found lodgings
that suited them, and had made themselves at home. The sense of liberty
gave everything a delightful aspect; their little sitting-room was
perfection; the trees and fields had an ideal beauty after Hammersmith,
and they promised themselves breezy walks on the Downs above. Not a
word of the trouble between them. The mother held to a hope that the
great change of circumstance would insensibly turn Olga's thoughts from
her reckless purpose; and, for the moment, Olga herself seemed happy in
self-forgetfulness.

The man to whom she had plighted herself was named Kite. He did not
look like a bird of prey; his countenance, his speech, were anything
but sinister; but for his unlucky position, Mrs. Hannaford would
probably have rather taken to him. Olga's announcement came with
startling suddenness. For a twelvemonth she had been trying to make
money by artistic work, and to a small extent had succeeded, managing
to sell a few drawings to weekly papers, and even to get a poor little
commission for the illustrating of a poor little book. In this way she
had made a few acquaintances in the so-called Bohemian world, but she
spoke seldom of them, and Mrs. Hannaford suspected no special intimacy
with anyone whose name was mentioned to her. One evening (a week ago)
Olga said quietly that she was going to be married.

Mr. Kite was summoned to Hammersmith. A lank, loose-limbed,
indolent-looking man of thirty or so, with a long, thin face, tangled
hair, gentle eyes. The clothes he wore were decent, but suggested the
idea that they had been purchased at second-hand; they did not fit him
well; perhaps he was the kind of man whose clothes never do fit. Unless
Mrs. Hannaford was mistaken, his breath wafted an alcoholic odour; but
Mr. Kite had every appearance of present sobriety. He seemed
chronically tired; sat down with a little sigh of satisfaction;
stretched his legs, and let his arms fall full length. To the maternal
eye, a singular, problematic being, anything but likely to inspire
confidence. Yet he talked agreeably, if oddly; his incomplete sentences
were full of good feeling; above all, he evidently meant to be frank,
put his poverty in the baldest aspect, set forth his hopes with extreme
moderation. "We seem to suit each other," was his quiet remark, with a
glance at Olga; and Mrs. Hannaford could not doubt that he meant well.
But what a match! Scarcely had he gone, when the mother began her
dissuasions, and from that moment there was misery.

For Olga, Mrs. Hannaford had always been ambitious. The girl was
clever, warm-hearted, and in her way handsome. But for the disastrous
father, she would have had every chance of marrying "well." Mrs.
Hannaford was not a worldly woman, and all her secret inclinations were
to romance, but it is hard for a mother to dissociate the thought of
marriage from that of wealth and respectability. Mr. Kite, well-meaning
as he might be, would never do.

To-day there was truce. They talked much of Piers Otway, and in the
afternoon, as had been arranged by letter, both went to the railway
station, to meet the train by which it was hoped he would come--Piers
arrived.

"How much improved!" was the thought of both. He was larger, manlier,
and though still of pale complexion had no longer the bloodless look of
years ago. Walking, he bore himself well; he was self-possessed in
manner, courteous in not quite the English way; brief, at first, in his
sentences, but his face lit with cordiality. On the way to the ladies'
lodgings, he stole frequent glances at one and the other; plainly he
saw change in them, and perhaps not for the better.

Mrs. Hannaford kept mentally comparing him with the scarecrow Kite. A
tremor of speculation took hold upon her; a flush was on her cheeks,
she talked nervously, laughed much.

Nothing was to be said about the flight from home; they were at Epsom
for a change of air. But Mrs. Hannaford could not keep silence
concerning her good fortune; she had revealed it in a few nervous
words, before they reached the house.

"You will live in London?" asked Otway.

"That isn't settled. It would be nice to go abroad again. We liked
Geneva."

"I must tell you about a Swiss friend of mine," Piers resumed. "A man
you would like; the best, jolliest, most amusing fellow I ever met; his
name is Moncharmont. He is in business at Odessa. There was talk of his
coming to England with me, but we put it off; another time. He's a man
who does me good; but for him, I shouldn't have held on."

"Then you don't like it, after all?" asked Mrs. Hannaford.

"Like it? No. But I have stuck to it--partly for very shame, as you
know. I've stuck to it hard, and it's getting too late to think of
anything else. I have plans; I'll tell you."

These plans were laid open when tea had been served in the little
sitting-room. Piers had it in mind to start an independent business,
together with his friend Moncharmont; one of them to live in Russia,
one in London.

"My father has promised the money. He promised it three years ago. I
might have had it when I liked; but I should have been ashamed to ask
till a reasonable time had gone by. It won't be a large capital, but
Moncharmont has some, and putting it together, we shall manage to
start, I think."

He paused, watching the effect of his announcement

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