The lad he employed in his office was run over by a cab one slippery
day, and all but killed. Piers visited him in the hospital, thus seeing
for the first time the interior of one of those houses of pain, which
he always disliked even to pass. The experience did not help to
brighten his mood; he lacked that fortunate temper of the average man,
which embraces as a positive good the less of two evils. The long,
grey, low-echoing ward, with its atmosphere of antiseptics; the rows of
little white camp-beds, an ominous screen hiding this and that; the
bloodless faces, the smothered groan, made a memory that went about
with him for many a day.
It strengthened his growing hatred of London, a huge battlefield
calling itself the home of civilisation and of peace; battlefield on
which the wounds were of soul no less than of body. In these gaunt
streets along which he passed at night, how many a sad heart suffered,
by the dim glimmer that showed at upper windows, a hopeless solitude
amid the innumerable throng! Human cattle, the herd that feed and
breed, with them it was well; but the few born to a desire for ever
unattainable, the gentle spirits who from their prisoning circumstance
looked up and afar how the heart ached to think of them! Some girl, of
delicate instinct, of purpose sweet and pure, wasting her unloved life
in toil and want and indignity; some man, whose youth and courage
strove against a mean environment, whose eyes grew haggard in the vain
search for a companion promised in his dreams; they lived, these two,
parted perchance only by the wall of neighbour houses, yet all huge
London was between them, and their hands would never touch. Beside this
hunger for love, what was the stomach-famine of a multitude that knew
no other?
The spring drew nigh, and Otway dreaded its coming. It was the time of
his burning torment, of imagination traitor to the worthier mind; it
was the time of reverie that rapt him above everything ignoble, only to
embitter by contrast the destiny he could not break. He rose now with
the early sun; walked fast and far before the beginning of his day's
work, with an aim he knew to be foolish, yet could not abandon. From
Guildford Street, along the byways, he crossed Tottenham Court Road,
just rattling with its first traffic, crossed Portland Place, still in
its soundest sleep, and so onward till he touched Bryanston Square. The
trees were misty with half-unfolded leafage birds twittered cheerily
among the branches; but Piers heeded not these things. He stood before
the high narrow-fronted house, which once he had entered as a guest,
where never again would he be suffered to pass the door. Irene was
here, he supposed, but could not be sure, for on the rare occasions
when he saw Olga Hannaford they did not speak of her cousin. Of the
course her life had taken, he knew nothing whatever. Here, in the chill
bright morning, he felt more a stranger to Irene than on the day, six
years ago, when with foolish timidity he ventured his useless call. She
was merely indifferent to him then; now she shrank from the sound of
his name.
On such a morning, a few weeks later, he pursued his walk in the
direction of Kensington, and passed along Queen's Gate. It was between
seven and eight o'clock. Nearing John Jacks house, he saw a carriage at
the door; it could of course be only the doctor's, and he became sad in
thinking of his kind old friend, for whom the last days of life were
made so hard. Just as he was passing, the door opened, and a man,
evidently a doctor, came quickly forth. With movement as if he were
here for this purpose, Otway ran up the steps; the servant saw him, and
waited with the door still open.
"Will you tell me how Mr. Jacks is?" he asked.
"I am sorry to say, sir," was the subdued answer, "that Mr. Jacks died
at three this morning."
Piers turned away. His eyes dazzled in the sunshine.
The evening papers had the news, with a short memoir--half of which was
concerned not with John Jacks, but with his son Arnold.
It seemed to him just possible that he might receive an invitation to
attend the funeral; but nothing of the kind came to him. The slight, he
took it for granted, was not social, but personal. His name, of course,
was offensive to Arnold Jacks, and probably to Mrs. John Jacks; only
the genial old man had disregarded the scandal shadowing the Otway name.
On the morrow, it was made known that the deceased Member of Parliament
would be buried in Yorkshire, in the village churchyard which was on
his own estate. And Otway felt glad of this; the sombre and crowded
hideousness of a London cemetery was no place of rest for John Jacks.
A fortnight later, at eleven o'clock on Sunday morning, Piers mounted
with a quick stride the stairs leading to Miss Bonnicastle's abode. The
door of her workroom stood ajar; his knock brought no response; after
hesitating a little, he pushed the door open and went in.
Accustomed to the grotesques and vulgarities which generally met his
eye upon these walls, he was startled to behold a life-size figure of
great beauty, suggesting a study for a serious work of art rather than
a design for a street poster. It was a woman, in classic drapery,
standing upon the seashore, her head thrown back, her magnificent hair
flowing unrestrained, and one of her bare arms raised in a gesture of
exultation. As he gazed at the drawing with delight, Miss Bonnicastle
appeared from the inner room, dressed for walking.
"What do you think of _that_?" she exclaimed.
"Better than anything you ever did!"
"True enough! That's Kite. Don't you recognise his type?"
"One thinks of Ariadne," said Piers, "but the face won't do for her."
"Yes, it's Ariadne--but I doubt if I shall have the brutality to finish
out my idea. She is to have lying on the sand by her a case of
Higginson's Hair-wash, stranded from a wreck, and a bottle of it in her
hand. See the notion? Her despair consoled by discovery of Higginson!"
They laughed, but Piers broke off in half-serious anger.
"That's damnable! You won't do it. For one thing, the mob wouldn't
understand. And in heaven's name do spare the old stories! I'm amazed
that Kite should consent to it."
"Poor old fellow!" said Miss Bonnicastle, with an indulgent smile,
"he'll do anything a woman asks of him. But I shan't have the heart to
spoil it with Higginson; I know I shan't."
"After all," Piers replied, "I don't know why you shouldn't. What's the
use of our scruples? That's the doom of everything beautiful."
"We'll talk about it another time. I can't stop now. I have an
appointment. Stay here if you like, and worship Ariadne. I shouldn't
wonder if Olga looks round this morning, and it'll disappoint her if
there's nobody here."
Piers was embarrassed. He had asked Olga to meet him, and wondered
whether Miss Bonnicastle knew of it. But she spared him the necessity
of any remark by speeding away at once, bidding him slam the door on
the latch when he departed.
In less than ten minutes, there sounded a knock without, and Piers
threw the door open. It was Olga, breathing rapidly after her ascent of
the stairs, and a startled look in her eyes as she found herself face
to face with Otway. He explained his being here alone.
"It is kind of you to have come!"
"Oh, I have enjoyed the walk. A delicious morning! And how happy one
feels when the church bells suddenly stop!"
"I have often known that feeling," said Piers merrily. "Isn't it
wonderful, how London manages to make things detestable which are
pleasant in other places! The bells in the country!--But sit down. You
look tired----"
She seated herself, and her eyes turned to the beautiful figure on the
wall. Piers watched her countenance.
"You have seen it already?" he said.
"A few days ago."
"You know who did it?"
"Mr. Kite, I am told," she answered absently. "And," she added, after a
pause, "I think he disgraced himself by lending his art to such a
purpose."
Piers said nothing, and looked away to hide his smile of pleasure.
"I asked you to come," were his next words, "to show you a letter I
have had from John Jacks' solicitors."
Glancing at him with surprise, Olga took the letter he held out, and
read it. In this communication, Piers Otway was informed that the will
of the late Mr. Jacks bequeathed to him the capital which the testator
had invested in the firm of Moncharmont & Co., and the share in the
business which it represented.
"This is important to you," said the girl, after reflecting for a
moment, her eyes down.
"Yes, it is important," Piers answered, in a voice not quite under
control. "It means that, if I choose, I can live without working at the
business. Just live; no more, at present, though it may mean more in
the future. Things have gone well with us, for a beginning; much better
than I, at all events, expected. What I should like to do, now, would
be to find a man to take my place in London. I know someone who, just
possibly, might be willing--a man at Liverpool."
"Isn't it a risk?" said Olga, regarding him with shamefaced anxiety.
"I don't think so. If _I_ could do so well, almost any real man of
business would be sure to do better. Moncharmont, you know, is the
indispensable member of the firm."
"And--what would you do? Go abroad, I suppose?"
"For a time, at all events. Possibly to Russia--I have a purpose--too
vague to speak of yet--I should frighten myself if I spoke of it. But
it all depends upon----" He broke off, unable to command his voice. A
moment's silence, during which he stared at the woman on the wall, and
he could speak again. "I can't go alone. I can't do--can't think
of--anything seriously, whilst I am maddened by solitude!"
Olga sat with her head bent. He drew nearer to her.
"It depends upon you. I want you for my companion--for my wife----"
She looked him in the face--a strange, agitated, half-defiant look.
"I don't think that is true! You don't want _me_----"
"You! Yes, you, Olga! And only you!"
"I don't believe it. You mean--any woman." Her voice all but choked.
"If that one"--she pointed to the wall--"could step towards you, you
would as soon have her. You would _rather_, because she is more
beautiful."
"Not in my eyes!" He seized her hand, and said, half laughing, shaken
with the moment's fever, "Come and stand beside her, and let me see how
the real living woman makes pale the ideal!"
Flushing, trembling at his touch, she rose. Her lips parted; she had
all but spoken; when there came a loud knock at the door of the room.
Their hands fell, and they gazed at each other in perturbation.
"Silence!" whispered Otway. "No reply!"
He stepped softly to the door; silently he turned the key in the lock.
No sooner had he done so, than someone without tried the handle; the
door was shaken a little, and there sounded another knock, loud,
peremptory. Piers moved to Olga's side, smiled at her reassuringly,
tried to take her hand; but, with a frightened glance towards the door,
she shrank away.
Two minutes of dead silence; then Otway spoke just above his breath.
"Gone! Didn't you hear the footstep on the stairs?"
Had she just escaped some serious peril, Olga could not have worn a
more agitated look. Her hand resisted Otway's approach; she would not
seat herself, but moved nervously hither and thither, her eyes
constantly turning to the door. It was in vain that Piers laughed at
the incident, asking what it could possibly matter to them that some
person had wished to see Miss Bonnicastle, and had gone away thinking
no one was within; Olga made a show of assenting, she smiled and
pretended to recover herself, but was still tremulous and unable to
converse.
He took her hands, held them firmly, compelled her to meet his look.
"Let us have an end of this, Olga! Your life is unhappy--let me help
you to forget. And help _me_! I want your love. Come to me--we can help
each other--put an end to this accursed loneliness, this longing and
raging that eats one's heart away!"
She suffered him to hold her close--her head bent back, the eyes half
veiled by their lids.
"Give me one day--to think----"
"Not one hour, not one minute! Now!"
"Because you are stronger than I am, that doesn't make me really
yours." She spoke in stress of spirit, her eyes wide and fearful. "If I
said 'yes,' I might break my promise. I warn you! I can't trust
myself--I warn you not to trust me!"
"I will take the risk!"
"I have warned you. Yes, yes! I will try!--Let me go now, and stay here
till I have gone. I _must_ go now!" She shook with hysterical passion.
"Else I take back my promise!--I will see you in two days; not here; I
will think of some place."
She drew towards the exit, and when her one hand was on the key, Piers,
with sudden self-subdual, spoke.
"You have promised!"
"Yes, I will write very soon."
With a look of gratitude, a smile all but of tenderness, she passed
from his sight.
On the pavement, she looked this way and that. Fifty yards away, on the
other side of the street, a well-dressed man stood supporting himself
on his umbrella, as if he had been long waiting; though to her
shortness of sight the figure was featureless, Olga trembled as she
perceived it, and started at a rapid walk towards the cabstand at the
top of the street. Instantly, the man made after her, almost running.
He caught her up before she could approach the vehicles.
"So you were there! Something told me you were there!"
"What do you mean, Mr. Florio?"
The man was raging with jealous anger; trying to smile, he showed his
teeth in a mere grin, and sputtered his words.
"The door was shut with the key! Why was that?"
"You mustn't speak to me in this way," said Olga, with troubled
remonstrance rather than indignation. "When I visit my friend, we don't
always care to be disturbed-----"
"Ha! Your friend--Miss Bonnicastle--was _not_ there! I have seen her in
Oxford Street! She said no one was there this morning, but I doubted--I
came!"
Whilst speaking, he kept a look turned in the direction of the house
from which Olga had come. And of a sudden his eyes lit with fierce
emotion.
"See! Something told me! _That_ is your friend!"
Piers Otway had come out. Olga could not have recognised him at this
distance, but she knew the Italian's eyes would not be deceived.
Instantly she took to flight, along a cross-street leading eastward.
Florio kept at her side, and neither spoke until breathlessness stopped
her as she entered Fitzroy Square.
"You are safe," said her pursuer, or companion. "He is gone the other
way. Ah! you are pale! You are suffering! Why did you run--run--run?
There was no need."
His voice had turned soothing, caressing; his eyes melted in compassion
as they bent upon her.
"I have given you no right to hunt me like this," said Olga, panting,
timid, her look raised for a moment to his.
"I take the right," he laughed musically. "It is the right of the man
who loves you."
She cast a frightened glance about the square, which was almost
deserted, and began to walk slowly on.
"Why was the door shut with the key?" asked Florio, his head near to
hers. "I thought I would break it open And I wish I had done so," he
added, suddenly fierce again.
"I have given you no right," stammered Olga, who seemed to suffer under
a sort of fascination, which dulled her mind.
"I take it!--Has _he_ a right? Tell me that! You are not good to me;
you are not honest to me; you deceive--deceive! Why was the door shut
with the key? I am astonished! I did not think this was done in
England--a lady--a young lady!"
"Oh, what do you mean?" Olga exclaimed, with a face of misery. "There
was no harm. It wasn't _I_ who wished it to be locked!"
Florio gazed at her long and searchingly, till the blood burned in her
face.
"Enough!" he said with decision, waving his arm. "I have learnt
something. One always learns something new in England. The English are
wonderful--yes, they are wonderful. _Basta_! and _addio_!"
He raised his hat, turned, moved away. As if drawn irresistibly, Olga
followed. Head down, arms hanging in the limpness of shame, she
followed, but without drawing nearer. At the corner of the square,
Florio, as if accidentally, turned his head; in an instant, he stood
before her.
"Then you do not wish good-bye?"
"You are very cruel! How can I let you think such things? You _know_
it's false!"
"But there must be explanation!"
"I can easily explain. But not here--one can't talk in the street----"
"Naturally!--Listen! It is twelve o'clock. You go home; you eat: you
repose. At three o'clock, I pay you a visit. Why not? You said it
yourself the other day, but I could not decide. Now I have decided. I
pay you a visit; you receive me privately--can you not? We talk, and
all is settled!"
Olga thought for a moment, and assented. A few minutes afterwards, she
was roiling in a cab towards Bryanston Square.
On Monday evening, Piers received a note from Olga. It ran thus:
"I warned you not to trust me. It is all over now; I have, in your own
words, 'put an end to it.' We could have given no happiness to each
other. Miss Bonnicastle will explain. Good-bye!"
He went at once to Great Portland Street. Miss Bonnicastle knew
nothing, but looked anxious when she had seen the note and heard its
explanation.
"We must wait till the morning," she said. "Don't worry. It's just what
one might have expected."
Don't worry! Piers had no wink of sleep that night. At post-time in the
morning he was at Miss Bonnicastle's, but no news arrived. He went to
business; the day passed without news; he returned to Great Portland
Street, and there waited for the last postal delivery. It brought the
expected letter; Olga announced her marriage that morning to Mr. Florio.
"It's better than I feared," said Miss Bonnicastle. "Now go home to
bed, and sleep like a philosopher."
Good advice, but not of much profit to one racked and distraught with
amorous frenzy, with disappointment sharp as death. Through the warm
spring night, Piers raved and agonised. The business hour found him
lying upon his bed, sunk in dreamless sleep.