Piers Otway spent ten days in Yorkshire. His father was well, but more
than ever silent, sunk in prophetic brooding; Mrs. Otway kept the
wonted tenor of her life, apprehensive for the purity of the Anglican
Church (assailed by insidious papistry), and monologising at large to
her inattentive husband upon the godlessness of his impenitent old age.
"Piers," said the father one day, with a twinkle in his eye, "I find
myself growing a little deaf. Your stepmother is fond of saying that
Providence sends blessings in disguise, and for once she seems to have
hit upon a truth."
On a glorious night of stars, he walked with his son up to the open
moor. A summer breeze whispered fitfully between the dark-blue vault
and the grey earth; there was a sound of water that leapt from the
bosom of the hills; deep answering to deep, infinite to infinite. After
standing silent for a while, Jerome Otway laid a hand on his
companion's shoulder, and muttered, "The creeds--the dogmas!"
They had two or three long conversations. Most of his time Piers spent
in rambling alone about the moorland, for health and for weariness.
When unoccupied, he durst not be physically idle; the passions that
ever lurked to frenzy him could only be baffled at such times by
vigorous exercise. His cold bath in the early morning was followed by
play of dumb-bells. He had made a cult of physical soundness; he looked
anxiously at his lithe, well-moulded limbs; feebleness, disease, were
the menaces of a supreme hope. Ideal love dwells not in the soul alone,
but in every vein and nerve and muscle of a frame strung to perfect
service. Would he win his heart's desire?--let him be worthy of it in
body as in mind. He pursued to excess the point of cleanliness. With no
touch of personal conceit, he excelled the perfumed exquisite in care
for minute perfections. Not in costume; on that score he was
indifferent, once the conditions of health fulfilled. His inherited
tone was far from perfect; with rage he looked back upon those
insensate years of study, which had weakened him just when he should
have been carefully fortifying his constitution. Only by conflict daily
renewed did he keep in the way of safety; a natural indolence had ever
to be combated; there was always the fear of relapse, such as had
befallen him now and again during his years in Russia; a relapse not
alone in physical training, but from the ideal of chastity. He had
cursed the temper of his blood; he had raved at himself for vulgar
gratifications; and once more the struggle was renewed. Asceticism in
diet had failed him doubly; it reduced his power of wholesome exertion,
and caused a mental languor treacherous to his chief purpose. Nowadays
he ate and drank like any other of the sons of men, on the whole to his
plain advantage.
A day or two after receiving a letter from Mrs. Hannaford, in which she
told him of her removal to Dr. Derwent's house, he bade farewell to his
father.
To his hotel in London, that night, came a note he had expected. Mrs.
Hannaford asked him to call in Bryanston Square at eleven the next
morning.
As he approached the house, memories shamed him. How he had slunk about
the square under his umbrella; how he had turned away in black despair
after that "Not at home"; his foolish long-tailed coat, his glistening
stovepipe! To-day, with scarce a thought for his dress, he looked
merely what he was: an educated man, of average physique, of
intelligent visage, of easy bearing. For all that, his heart throbbed
as he stood at the door, and with catching breath, he followed the
servant upstairs.
Before Mrs. Hannaford appeared, he had time to glance round the
drawing-room, which was simpler in array than is common in such houses.
His eye fell upon a portrait, a large crayon drawing, hung in a place
of honour; he knew it must represent Irene's mother; there was a
resemblance to the face which haunted him, with more of sweetness, with
a riper humanity. Whilst his wife still lived, Dr. Derwent had not been
able to afford a painting of her; this drawing was done and well done,
in the after days from photographs. On the wall beneath it was a little
bracket, supporting a little glass vessel which held a rose. The year
round, this tiny altar never lacked its flower.
Mrs. Hannaford entered. Her smile of greeting was not untroubled, but
seeing her for the first time somewhat ornately clad, and with suitable
background, Piers was struck by the air of youth that animated her
features. He had always admired Mrs. Hannaford, had always liked her,
and as she took his hand in both her own, he felt a warm response to
her unfeigned kindliness.
"Well, is it settled?"
"It is settled. I go back to Odessa, remain with the firm for another
six months, then make the great launch!"
They laughed together, both nervously. Piers' eyes wandered, and Mrs.
Hannaford, as she sat down, made an obvious effort to compose herself.
"I didn't ask you, the other day," she began, as if on a sudden
thought, "whether you had seen either of your brothers."
Piers shook his head, smiling.
"No. Alexander, I hear, is somewhere in the North, doing provincial
journalism. Daniel--I believe he is in London, but I'm not very likely
to meet him."
"Don't you wish to?" asked the other lightly.
"Oh, I'm not very anxious. Daniel and I haven't a great interest in
each other, I'm afraid. You haven't seen him lately?"
"No, no," Mrs. Hannaford answered, with an absent air. "No--not for a
long time. I have hoped to see an announcement of his book."
"His book?--Ah, I remember. I fear we shall wait long for that."
"But he really was working at it," said Mrs. Hannaford, bending forward
with a peculiar earnestness. "When he last spoke to me about it, he
said the material grew so on his hands. And then, there is the expense
of publication. Such a volume, really well illustrated, must cost much
to produce, and the author would have to bear----"
Piers was smiling oddly; she broke off, and observed him, as if the
smile pained her.
"Let us have faith," said Otway. "Daniel is a clever man no doubt, and
may do something yet."
Mrs. Hannaford abruptly changed the subject, returning to Piers'
prospects. They talked for half an hour, the lady's eyes occasionally
turning towards the door, and Otway sometimes losing himself as he
glanced at the crayon portrait. He was thinking of a reluctant
withdrawal, when the door opened. He heard a soft rustle, turned his
head, and rose.
It was Irene! Irene in all the grace of her earlier day, and with
maturer beauty; Irene with her light step, her bravely balanced head,
her smile of admirable courtesy, her golden voice. Otway knew not what
she said to him; something frank, cordial, welcoming. For an instant he
had held her hand, and felt its coolness thrill him to his heart of
hearts; he had bent before her, mutely worshipping. His brain was on
fire with the old passion newly kindled. He spoke, he was beginning to
converse; the room grew real again; he was aware once more of Mrs.
Hannaford's presence, of a look she had fixed upon him. A look half
amused, half compassionate; he answered it with a courageous smile.
Miss Derwent was in her happiest mood; impossible to be kinder and
friendlier in that merry way of hers. Scarce having expected to meet
her, still keeping in his mind the anguish of that calamitous and
shameful night three years ago when he fled before her grave reproof,
Piers beheld her and listened to her with such a sense of passionate
gratitude that he feared lest some crazy word should escape him. That
Irene remembered, no look or word of hers suggested; unless, indeed,
the perfection of her kindness aimed at assuring him that the past was
wholly past. She made inquiry about his father's health; she spoke of
his life at Odessa, and was full of interest when he sketched his
projects. To crown all, she said, with her eyes smiling upon him:
"My father would so like to know you; could you dine with us one
evening before you go?"
Piers declared his absolute freedom for a week to come.
"Suppose, then, we say Thursday? An old friend of ours will be with us,
whom you may like to meet."
She spoke a name which surprised and delighted him; that of a
scientific man known the world over. Piers went his way with raptures
and high resolves singing at his heart.
For the rest of daytime it was enough to walk about the streets in sun
and shower, seeing a glorified London, one exquisite presence obscuring
every mean thing and throwing light upon all that was beautiful. He did
not reason with himself about Irene's friendliness; it had cast a spell
upon him, and he knew only his joy, his worship. Three years of
laborious exile were trifling in the balance; had they been passed in
sufferings ten times as great, her smile would have paid for all.
Fortunately, he had a little business to transact in London; on the two
mornings that followed he was at his firm's house in the City, making
reports, answering inquiries--mainly about wool and hemp. Piers was
erudite concerning Russian wool and hemp. He talked about it not like
the ordinary business man, but as a scholar might who had very
thoroughly got up the subject. His firm did not altogether approve this
attitude of mind; they thought it _queer_, and would have smiled
caustically had they known Otway's purpose of starting as a merchant on
his own account. That, he had not yet announced, and would not do so
until he had seen his Swiss friend at Odessa again.
The evening of the dinner arrived, and again Piers was rapt above
himself. Nothing could have been more cordial than Dr. Derwent's
reception of him, and he had but to look into the Doctor's face to
recognise a man worthy of reverence; a man of genial wisdom, of the
largest humanity, of the sanest mirth. Eustace Derwent was present; he
behaved with exemplary good-breeding, remarking suavely that they had
met before, and betraying in no corner of his pleasant smile that that
meeting had been other than delightful to both. Three guests arrived,
besides Otway, one of them the distinguished person whose name had
impressed him; a grizzled gentleman, of bland brows, and the simplest,
softest manner.
At table there was general conversation--the mode of civilised beings.
His mind in a whirl at first, Otway presently found himself quite
capable of taking part in the talk. Someone had told a story
illustrative of superstition in English peasant folk, and Piers had
only to draw upon his Russian experiences for pursuit of the subject.
He told how, in a time of great drought, he had known a corpse dug up
from its grave by peasantry, and thrown into a muddy pond--a vigorous
measure for the calling down of rain; also, how he had seen a priest
submit to be dragged on his back across a turnip field, that thereby a
great crop might be secured. These things interested the great man, who
sat opposite; he beamed upon Otway, and sought from him further
information regarding Russia. Piers saw that Irene had turned to him;
he held himself in command, he spoke neither too much nor too little,
and as the things he knew were worth knowing, his share in the talk
made a very favourable impression. In truth, these three years had
intellectually much advanced him. It was at this time that he had begun
to use the brief, decisive turn of speech which afterwards became his
habit; a mode of utterance suggesting both mental resources and force
of character.
Later in the evening, he found himself beside Mrs. Hannaford in a
corner of the drawing-room. He had hoped to speak a little with Miss
Derwent, in semi-privacy, but of that there seemed no chance; enough
that he had her so long before his eyes. Nor did he venture to speak of
her to her aunt, though with difficulty subduing the desire. He knew
that Mrs. Hannaford understood what was in his mind, and he felt
pleased to have her for a silent confidante. She, not altogether at
ease in this company, was glad to talk to Otway of everyday things; she
mentioned her daughter, who was understood to be living elsewhere for
the convenience of artistic studies.
"I hope you will be able to meet Olga before you go. She shuts herself
up from us a great deal--something like you used to do at Ewell, you
remember."
"I do, only too well. Why mayn't I go and call on her?"
Mrs. Hannaford shook her head, vaguely, trying to smile.
"She must have her own way, like all artists. If she succeeds, she will
come amongst us again."
"I know that spirit," said Piers, "and perhaps it's the right one. Give
her my good wishes--they will do no harm."
The image of Olga Hannaford was distinct before his mind's eye, but did
not touch his emotions. He thought with little interest of her
embarking on an artist's career, and had small belief in her chances of
success. Under the spell of Irene, he felt coldly critical towards all
other women; every image of feminine charm paled and grew remote when
hers was actually before him, and it would have cost a great effort of
mind to assure himself that he had not felt precisely thus ever since
the days at Ewell. The truth was, of course, that though imagination
could always restore Irene's supremacy, and constantly did so, though
his intellectual being never failed from allegiance to her, his blood
had been at the mercy of any face sufficiently alluring. So it would be
again, little as he could now believe it.
Before he departed, he had his wish of a few minutes' talk with her.
The words exchanged were insignificant. Piers had nothing ready to his
tongue but commonplace, and Miss Derwent answered as became her. As he
left the room he suffered a flush of anger, the natural revolt of every
being who lives by emotion against the restraints of polite
intercourse. At such moments one _feels_ the bonds wrought for
themselves by civilised mankind; commonly accepted without
consciousness of voluntary or involuntary restraint. In revolt, he
broke through these trammels of self-subduing nature, saw himself free
man before her free woman, in some sphere of the unembarrassed impulse,
and uttered what was in him, pleaded with all his life, conquered by
vital energy. Only when he had walked back to the hotel was he capable
of remembering that Irene, in taking leave, had spoken the kindest
wishes for his future, assuredly with more than the common
hostess-note. Dr. Derwent, too, had held his hand with a pleasant grip,
saying good things. It was better than nothing, and he felt humanly
grateful amid the fire that tortured him.
In his room the sight of pen, ink and paper was a sore temptation. At
Odessa he had from time to time written what he thought poetry (it was
not quite that, yet as verse not contemptible), and now, recalling to
memory some favourite lines, he asked himself whether he might venture
to write them out and send them to Miss Derwent. Could he leave
England, this time, without confessing himself to her? Faint heart--he
mused over the proverb. The thought of a laboured letter repelled him,
and perhaps her reply--if she replied at all--would be a blow scarce
endurable. In the offer of a copy of verses there is no undue
presumption; it is a consecrated form of homage; it demands no
immediate response. But were they good enough, these rhymes of his?--He
would decide to-morrow, his last day.
And as was his habit, he read a little before sleeping, in one of the
half-dozen volumes which he had chosen for this journey. It was _Les
Chants du Crepuscule_, and thus the page sang:
"Laisse-toi donc aimer! Car l'amour, c'est la vie,
C'est tout ce qu'on regrette et tout ce qu'on envie
Quand on voit sa jeunesse au couchant décliner.
Sans lui rien n'est complet, sans lui rien ne rayonne.
La beauté c'est le front, l'amour c'est la couronne.
Laisse-toi couronner!"
His own lines sounded a sad jingle; he grew ashamed of them, and in the
weariness of his passions he fell asleep.
He had left till to-morrow the visit he owed to John Jacks. It was not
pleasant, the thought of calling at the house at Queen's Gate; Mrs.
Jacks might have heard strange things about him on that mad evening
three years ago. Yet in decency he must go; perhaps, too, in
self-interest. And at the wonted hour he went.
Fortunately; for John Jacks seemed unfeignedly glad to see him, and
talked with him in private for half an hour after the observances of
the drawing-room, where Mrs. Jacks had been very sweetly proper and
properly sweet. In the library, much more at his ease, Otway told what
he had before him, all the details of his commercial project.
"It occurs to me," said John Jacks--who was looking far from well, and
at times spoke with an effort--"that I may be able to be of some use in
this matter. I'll think about it, and--leave me your address--I shall
probably write to you. And now tell me all about your father. He is
hale and hearty?"
"In excellent health, I think," Piers replied cheerfully. "Dante
suffices him still."
"Odd that you should have come to-day. I don't know why, I was thinking
of your father all last night--I don't sleep very well just now. I
thought of the old days, a lifetime ago; and I said to myself that I
would write him a letter. So I will, to-day. And in a month or two I
shall see him. I'm a walking-copybook-line; procrastination--nothing
but putting off pleasures and duties these last years; I don't know how
it is. But certainly I will go over to Hawes when I'm in Yorkshire. And
I'll write today, tell him I've seen you."
Much better in spirits, Piers returned to the hotel. Yes, after all, he
would copy out those verses of his, and send them to Miss Derwent. They
were not bad; they came from his heart, and they might speak to hers.
Just his name at the end; no address. If she desired to write to him,
she could easily learn his address from Mrs. Hannaford. He would send
them!
"A telegram for you, sir," said the porter, as he entered.
Wondering, he opened it.
"Your father has suddenly died. Hope this will reach you in time.
EMMA OTWAY."
For a minute or two, the message was meaningless. He stood reading and
re-reading the figures which indicated hour of despatch and of
delivery. Presently he asked for a railway-guide, and with shaking
hands, with agony of mental confusion, sought out the next train
northwards. There was just time to catch it; not time to pack his bag.
He rushed out to the cab.