"The circumstances are these. On the day after I said good-bye to him,
my father went for his usual morning walk, and was absent for two
hours. He returned looking very pale and disturbed, and with some
difficulty was persuaded (you know how he disliked speaking of himself)
to tell what had happened. It seems that, somewhere on the lonely road,
he came across two men, honest-looking country folk, engaged in a
violent quarrel; their language made it clear that one accused the
other of some sort of slander, a very trivial affair. Just as my father
came up to them, they began fighting. He interfered, tried to separate
them--as he would have done, I am sure, had they been armed with
pistols, for the sight of fighting was intolerable to him, it put him
beside himself with a sort of passionate disgust. They were great
strong fellows, and one of them, whether intentionally or not, dealt
him a fierce blow on the chest, knocking him down. That put an end to
the fight. My father had to sit by the roadside for a time before he
could go home.
"The next day he did not look well, but spent his time as usual, and on
the morning after, he seemed to be all right again. The next day again
he went for his walk, and did not return. When his absence became
alarming, messengers were sent to look for him, and by one of these he
was found lying on the moorside, dead. The postmortem showed that the
blow he had received affected the heart, which was already diseased (he
did not know that). Of course the man who struck him cannot be
discovered, and I don't know that it matters. My father would no doubt
have been glad to foresee such a death as this. It was sudden (for that
he always hoped), and it came of a protest against the thing he most
hated, brutal violence."
So Piers Otway wrote in a letter to John Jacks. He did not add that his
father had died intestate, but of that he was aware before any
inquiries had been set on foot; in one of their last talks, Jerome had
expressly told his son that he would shortly make a will, not having
hitherto been able to decide how his possessions should be distributed.
This intestacy meant (if Daniel Otway had spoken truth) that Piers
would have no fruit whatever of his father's promises; that his recent
hopes and schemes would straightway fall to the ground.
And so it was. A telegram from Piers brought down into Yorkshire the
solicitor who had for many years been Jerome Otway's friend and
adviser; he answered the young man's inquiries with full and decisive
information. Mrs. Otway already knew the fact; whence her habitual
coldness to Piers, and the silent acerbity with which she behaved to
him at this juncture.
"Mrs. Otway," said Piers to her, on the day of the inquest, "I shall
stay for my father's funeral, and to avoid gossip I still ask your
hospitality. I do it with reluctance, but you will very soon see the
last of me."
"You are of course welcome to stay in the house," replied the lady.
"There is no need to say that we shall in future be strangers, and I
only hope that the example of this shockingly sudden death in the midst
of----"
His blood boiling, Piers left the room before the sentence was finished.
Had he obeyed his conscience, he would have followed the coffin in the
clothes he was wearing, for many a time he had heard his father speak
with dislike of the black trappings which made a burial hideous; but
enforced regard for public opinion, that which makes cowards of good
men and hampers the world's progress, sent him to the outfitter's,
where he was duly disguised. With the secret tears he shed, there
mingled a bitterness at being unable to show respect to his father's
memory in such small matters. That Jerome Otway should be buried as a
son of the Church, to which he had never belonged, was a ground of
indignation, but neither in this could any effective protest be made.
Mute in his sorrow, Piers marvelled with a young man's freshness of
feeling at the forms and insincerities which rule the world. He had a
miserable sense of his helplessness amid forces which he despised.
On the day of the inquest arrived Daniel Otway, Piers having
telegraphed to the club where he had seen his brother three years ago.
Before leaving London, Daniel had provided himself with solemn black,
of the latest cut; Hawes people remarked him with curiosity, saying
what a gentleman he looked, but whispering at the same time rumours and
doubts; for the little town had long gossiped about Jerome, a man not
much to its mind. A day later came Alexander. With him there had been
no means of communicating, and a newspaper paragraph informed him of
his father's death. Appearing in rough tweeds, with a felt hat, he
inspired more curiosity than respect. Both brothers greeted Piers
cordially; both were curt and formal with the widow, but, for
appearances' sake, accepted a cramped lodging in the cottage. Piers
kept very much to himself until the funeral was over; he was then
invited by Daniel to join a conference in what had been his father's
room. Here the man of law (Jerome's name for him) expounded the posture
of things; with all professional, and some personal, tact and delicacy.
Will there was certainly none; Daniel, in the course of things, would
apply for letters of administration. The estate, it might be said,
consisted of certain shares in a prosperous newspaper, an investment
which could be easily realised, and of a small capital in consols; to
the best of the speaker's judgment, the shares were worth about six
thousand pounds, the consols amounted to nearly fifteen hundred. This
capital sum, the widow and the sons would divide in legal proportion.
Followed technicalities, with conversation. Mrs. Otway kept dignified
silence; Piers, in the background, sat with eyes sunk.
"I think," remarked the solicitor gravely and firmly, "that, assembled
as we are in privacy, I am only doing my duty in making known that the
deceased had in view (as I know from hints in his correspondence) to
assist his youngest son substantially, as soon as that son appeared
likely to benefit by such pecuniary aid. I think I am justified in
saying that that time had arrived, that death interposed at an
unfortunate moment as regards such plans. I wished only to put the
point before you, as one within my own knowledge. Is there any question
you would like to ask me at present, Mrs. Otway?"
The widow shook her head (and her funeral trappings). Thereupon sounded
Piers Otway's voice.
"I should like to say that as I have no legal claim whatever upon my
father's estate, I do not wish to put forward a claim of any other
kind. Let that be understood at once."
There was silence. They heard the waters of the beck rushing over its
stony channel. For how many thousand years had the beck so murmured?
For how many thousand would it murmur still?
"As the eldest son," then observed Daniel, with his Oxford accent, and
a sub-note of feeling, "I desire to say that my brother"--he generously
emphasised the word--"has expressed himself very well, in the spirit of
a gentleman. Perhaps I had better say no more at this moment. We shall
have other opportunities of--of considering this point."
"Decidedly," remarked Alexander, who sat with legs crossed. "We'll talk
it over."
And he nodded with a good-natured smile in Piers' direction.
Later in the day--a family council having been held at which Piers was
not present--Daniel led the young man apart.
"You insist on leaving Hawes to-night? Well, perhaps it is best. But,
my dear boy, I can't let you go without saying how deeply I sympathise
with your position. You bear it like a man, Piers; indeed you do. I
think I have mentioned to you before how strong I am on the side of
morals."
"If you please," Piers interrupted, with brow dark.
"No, no, no!" exclaimed the other. "I was far from casting any
reflection. _De mortuis_, you know; much more so when one speaks of a
father. I think, by the bye, Alec ought to write something about him
for publication; don't you? I was going to say, Piers, that, if I
remember rightly, I am in your debt for a small sum, which you very
generously lent me. Ah, that book! It grows and grows; I _can't_ get it
into final form. The fact is Continental art critics-- But I was going
to say that I must really insist on being allowed to pay my
debt--indeed I must--soon as this business is settled."
He paused, watching Piers' face. His own had not waxed more spiritual
of late years, nor had his demeanour become more likely to inspire
confidence; but he was handsome, in a way, and very fluent, very suave.
"Be it so," replied Piers frankly; "I shall be glad of the money, I
confess."
"To be sure! You shall have it with the least possible delay. And,
Piers, it has struck us, my dear fellow, that you might like to choose
a volume or two of the good old man's library as a memento. We beg you
will do so. We beg you will do it at once, before you leave."
"Thank you. I should like the Dante he used to carry in his pocket."
"A most natural wish, Piers. Take it by all means. Nothing else, you
think?"
"Yes. You once told me that you had seen a portrait of my mother. Do
you think it still exists?"
"I will inquire about it," answered Daniel gravely. "It was a framed
photograph, and at one time--many years ago--used to stand on his
writing-table. I will inquire, my dear boy."
Next, Alexander sought a private colloquy with his disinherited brother.
"Look here, Piers," he began bluffly, "it's a cursed shame! I'm hanged
if it isn't! If we weren't so solemn, my boy, I should quote Bumble
about the law. Of course it's the grossest absurdity, and as far as I'm
concerned----. By Jove, Piers!" he cried, with sudden change of
subject, "if you knew the hard times Biddy and I have been going
through! Eh, but she's a brick, is Biddy; she sent you her love, old
boy, and that's worth something, I can tell you. But I was going to say
that you mustn't suppose I've forgotten about the debt. You shall be
repaid as soon as ever we realise this property; you shall, Piers! And,
what's more, you shall be repaid with interest; yes, three per cent. It
would be cursed meanness if I didn't."
"The fifty pounds I shall be glad of," said Piers. "I want no interest.
I'm not a money-lender."
"We won't quarrel about that," rejoined Alexander, with a merry look.
"But come now, why don't you let a fellow hear from you now and then?
What are you doing? Going back among the Muscovites?"
"Straight back to Odessa, yes."
"I may look you up there some day, if Biddy can spare me for a few
weeks. A glimpse of the bear--it might be useful to me. Terrible
savages I suppose?"
Piers laughed impatiently, and gave no other answer.
"Well, the one thing I really wanted to say, Piers--you _must_ let me
say it--I, for one, shall take a strong stand about your moral rights
in this business here, Of course your claim is every bit as good as
ours; only a dunder-headed jackass would see it in any other way.
Daniel quite agrees with me. The difficulty will be that woman. A
terrible woman! She regards you as sealed for perdition by the mere
fact of your birth. But you will hear from us, old boy, be sure of
that. Give me your Muscovite address."
Piers carelessly gave it. He was paying hardly any attention to his
brother's talk, and would have felt it waste of energy to reassert what
he had said in the formal conclave. Weariness had come upon him after
these days of grief and indignant tumult; he wanted to be alone.
The portrait for which he had asked was very quickly found. It lay in a
drawer, locked away among other mementoes of the past. With a shock of
disappointment, Piers saw that the old photograph had faded almost to
invisibility. He just discerned the outlines of a pleasant face, the
dim suggestion of womanly charm--all he would ever see of the mother
who bore him.
"It seems to me," said Daniel, after sympathising with his chagrin,
"that there must be a lot of papers, literary work, letters, and that
kind of thing, which will have more interest for you than for anyone
else. When we get things looked through, shall I send you whatever I
think you would care for?"
With gratitude Piers accepted what he could not have brought himself to
ask for.
On the southward journey he kept taking from his pocket two letters
which had reached him at Hawes. One was from John Jacks, full of the
kindliest condolence; a manly letter which it did him good to read. The
other came from Mrs. Hannaford, womanly, sincere; it contained a
passage to which Piers returned again and again. "My niece is really
grieved to hear of your sudden loss; happening at a moment when all
seemed to be going well with you. She begs me to assure you of her very
true sympathy, and sends every good wish." Little enough, this, but the
recipient tried to make much of it. He had faintly hoped that Irene
might send him a line in her own hand. That was denied, and perhaps he
was foolish even to have dreamt of it.
He could not address his verses to her, now. He must hurry away from
England, and try to forget her.
Of course she would hear, one way or another, about the circumstances
of his birth. It would come out that he had no share in the property
left by his father, and the reason be made known. He hoped that she
might also learn that death had prevented his father's plan for
benefiting him. He hoped it; for in that case she might feel
compassion. Yet in the same moment he felt that this was a delusive
solace. Pity for a man because he had lost money does not incline to
warmer emotion. The hope was sheer feebleness of spirit. He spurned it;
he desired no one's compassion.
How would Irene regard the fact of his illegitimacy? Not, assuredly,
from Mrs. Otway's point of view; she was a century ahead of that.
Possibly she was capable of dismissing it as indifferent. But he could
not be certain of her freedom from social prejudice. He remembered the
singular shock with which he himself had first learnt what he was; a
state of mind quite irrational, but only to be dismissed with an effort
of the trained intelligence. Irene would undergo the same experience,
and it might affect her thought of him for ever.
Not for one instant did he visit these troubles upon the dead man. His
loyalty to his father was absolute; no thought, or half-thought, looked
towards accusation.
He arrived at his hotel in London late at night, drank a glass of
spirits and went to bed. The sleep he hoped for came immediately, but
lasted only a couple of hours. Suddenly he was wide awake, and a horror
of great darkness enveloped him. What he now suffered he had known
before, but with less intensity. He stared forward into the coming
years, and saw nothing that his soul desired. A life of solitude, of
bitter frustration. Were it Irene, were it another, the woman for whom
he longed would never become his. He had not the power of inspiring
love. The mere flesh would constrain him to marriage, a sordid union, a
desecration of his ideal, his worship; and in the latter days he would
look back upon a futile life. What is life without love? And to him
love meant communion with the noblest. Nature had kindled in him this
fiery ambition only for his woe.
All the passion of the great hungry world seemed concentrated in his
sole being. Images of maddening beauty glowed upon him out of the
darkness, glowed and gleamed by he knew not what creative mandate;
faces, forms, such as may visit the delirium of a supreme artist. Of
him they knew not; they were worlds away, though his own brain bodied
them forth. He smothered cries of agony; he flung himself upon his
face, and lay as one dead.
For the men capable of passionate love (and they are few) to miss love
is to miss everything. Life has but the mockery of consolation for that
one gift denied. The heart may be dulled by time; it is not comforted.
Illusion if it be, it is that which crowns all other illusions whereof
life is made. The man must prove it, or he is born in vain.
At sunrise, Piers dressed himself, and made ready for his journey. He
was worn with fever, had no more strength to hope or to desire. His
body was a mechanism which must move and move.