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.