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.