"And another dieth in the bitterness of his soul."--JOB xxi. 25.
A profound knowledge of human nature enunciated the decree, "Thou shalt
not covet thy neighbour's _house_," and relegated the neighbour's wife
to a back seat among the servants and live stock.
The intense love of a house, passing the love even of prohibited women,
is a passion which those who "nightly pitch their moving tents" in
villas and hired dwellings, and look upon heaven as their home, can
hardly imagine, and frequently regard with the amused contempt of
ignorance. But where pride is a leading power the affections will be
generally found immediately in its wake. In these days it is the
fashion, especially of the vulgar-minded well-born, to decry birth as
being of no account. Those who do so, apparently fail to perceive that,
by the very fact of decrying it, they proclaim their own innate lack of
appreciation of those very advantages of refinement, manners, and a
certain distinction and freemasonry of feeling, which birth has
evidently withheld from them personally, but which, nevertheless, birth
alone can bestow. The strong hereditary pride of race which is as
natural a result of time and fixed habitat as the forest oak--which is
bred in the bone and comes out in the flesh from generation to
generation--is accompanied, as a rule, by a passionate love, not of
houses, but of _the_ house, the home, the eyrie, the one sacred spot
from which the race sprang.
Among the Tempests devotion to Overleigh had been an hereditary instinct
from time immemorial. Other possessions, gifts of royalty, or dowers of
heiresses came and went. Overleigh remained from generation to
generation. Scapegrace Tempests squandered the family fortune, and
mortgaged the family properties, but others rose up in their place, who,
whatever else was lost, kept fast hold on Overleigh. The old castle on
the crag had passed through many vicissitudes. It had been originally
built in Edward II.'s time, and the remains of fortification, and the
immense thickness of the outer walls, showed how fierce had been the
inroads of Scot and Borderer which such strength was needed to repel.
The massive arched doorway through which the yelling hordes of the
Tempests and their retainers swooped down, with black lion on pennant
flying, upon the enemy, was walled up in the time of the Tudors, and
the vaulted basement with its acutely pointed chamfered arches became
the dungeons of the later portion of the building; the cellars of the
present day.
Overleigh had entertained royalty royally in its time, and had sheltered
royalty more royally still. Cromwell's cannon had not prevailed against
it. It had been partially burnt, it had been partially rebuilt. There it
still stood, a glory, and a princely possession on the lands that had
been meted in the Doomsday book to a certain Norman knight Ivo de
Tempête, the founder of an iron race. And in the nineteenth century a
Tempest held it still. Tempest had become a great name. Gradually wealth
had gathered round Overleigh, as the lichen had gathered round its grey
stones. There were coal-mines now among the marsh-lands of William the
Conqueror's favourite, harbours and towns along the sea-coast. Tempest
of Overleigh was a power, a name that might be felt, that had been
felt. The name ranked high among the great commoners of England. Titles
and honours of various kinds had been offered it from time to time. But
for a Tempest, to be a Tempest was enough. And Overleigh Castle had
remained their solitary dwelling-place. Houses were built for younger
sons, but the head of the family made his home invariably at Overleigh
itself. There were town houses in London and York, but country seats
were not multiplied. To be a Tempest was enough. To live and die at
Overleigh was enough.
Some one was dying at Overleigh now. Mr. Tempest had come to that pass,
and was taking it very quietly, as he had taken everything so far, from
the elopement of his betrothed with his brother fourteen years ago, to
the death of his poor, pretty faithless wife in the room where he was
now lying; the round oak-panelled room, which followed the outer wall
of the western tower; the room in which he had been born, where Tempests
had arrived and departed, and lain in state. And now after a solitary
life he was dying, as he had lived, alone.
He had gone too far down the steep path which leads no man knows
whither, to care much for anything that he was leaving behind. He had
not read his brother's letter announcing his coming. It lay with a pile
of others for some one hereafter to sort or burn. Mr. Tempest had done
with letters, had done with everything except Death. The pressure of
Death's hand was heavy on him, upon his eyes, upon his heart. He had
been a punctual man all his life. He hoped he should not be kept waiting
long.
* * * * *
Colonel Tempest followed the servant with inward trepidation across the
white stone hall. He had been at once admitted, for it was known that
Mr. Tempest was dying, and the only wonder in the minds of nurse and
doctor and servants was that his only brother had not arrived before.
The servant led the way along the picture-gallery. A child was playing
at the further end of it under the Velasquez; or, to speak more
correctly, was looking earnestly out of one of the low mullioned
windows. The voice of the young year was calling him from without, as
the spring calls only the young. But he might not go out to-day, though
there were nests waiting for him, and holiday glories in wood and meadow
that his soul longed after. He had been told he must stay in, in case
that stern silent father who was dying should ask for him. John did not
think he would want him, for when had he ever wanted him yet? but he
remained at his post at the window, breathing his silent longing into a
little mist on the pane.
He looked round as Colonel Tempest and Archie approached, and then came
gravely forward, and put out a strong little brown hand.
Colonel Tempest just touched it without speaking, and turned his eyes
away. He could not trust himself to look again at the erect dignified
little figure with its square dark face. When had there ever been a dark
Tempest?
The two boys, near of an age, looked each other straight in the eyes.
Archie was the younger and the taller of the two.
"Are you John?" he asked at once.
"Yes."
"John what?"
"No. John Amyas Tempest."
"Archie," said Colonel Tempest, who had grown rather pale, "you can
stay here with----, until I send for you." And with one backward glance
at them, he followed the servant to an ante-room, where the doctor
presently came to him.
"I am his only brother," said Colonel Tempest hoarsely. "Can I see him?"
"Certainly, my dear sir, certainly; but at the same time all agitation,
all tendency to excitement, must be rigorously avoided."
"Is he really dying?" interrupted Colonel Tempest.
"He is."
"How long has he?" Colonel Tempest felt as if a hand were tightening
round his throat. The doctor shrugged his shoulders.
"Three hours. Five hours. He might live through the night. I cannot
say."
"There would be time," said Colonel Tempest to himself; and, not without
a shuddering foreboding that his brother might die in his actual
presence, without giving him time to bolt, he entered the sick-room,
from which the doctor had beckoned the nurse, and closed the door.
The room was full of light, for the dying man had been oppressed by the
darkness in which he lay, and a vain attempt had been made to alleviate
it by the flood of April sunshine which had been let into the room.
Through the open window came the rapture of the birds.
Mr. Tempest lay perfectly motionless with his eyes half closed. His worn
face had a strong family resemblance to his brother's, with the beauty
left out.
"Jack!" said Colonel Tempest.
Mr. Tempest heard from an immense distance, and came painfully back
across long wastes and desert places of confused memories, came slowly
back to the room, and the dim sunshine, and himself; and stopped short
with a jarred sense as he saw his own long feeble hands laid upon the
counterpane. He had forgotten them, though he recognized them now he saw
them again. Why had he returned?
"Jack," said the voice again.
Mr. Tempest opened his eyes suddenly, and looked full at his brother--at
the false, weak, handsome face of the man who had injured him.
It all came back, the passion and the despair; the intolerable agony of
jealousy and baffled love; and the deadly, deadly hatred. Fourteen years
ago was it since Diana had been taken from him? It returned upon him as
though it were yesterday. A light flamed up in the dying eyes before
which Colonel Tempest quailed.
All the sentences he had prepared beforehand seemed to fail him, as
prepared sentences have a way of doing, being made to fit imaginary
circumstances, and being consequently unsuited to any others. Mr.
Tempest, who had not prepared anything, had the advantage.
"Curse you," he said, in his low, difficult whisper. "You damned
scoundrel!"
Colonel Tempest was shocked. To bear a grudge after all these years!
Jack had always been vindictive! And what an unchristian state of mind
for one on the brink of that nightmare of horror, the grave! He was
unable to articulate.
"What are you here for?" said Mr. Tempest, after a pause. "Who let you
in? Why can't I be allowed to die in peace?"
"Oh, don't talk like that, Jack!" gasped Colonel Tempest, speaking
extempore, after fumbling in all the empty pockets of his mind for
something appropriate to say. "I am sure I am very sorry for----" A look
warned him that even his tactful reference to a certain subject would
be resented. "But, it's all past and gone now, and--it's a long time
ago, and you're----"
"Dying," suggested Mr. Tempest.
"... and," hurried on Colonel Tempest, glad of the lift, "it's not for
my own sake I've come. But I've got a boy, Jack; he is here now. I have
brought him with me. Such a fine, handsome boy--every inch a Tempest,
and the image of our father. I don't want to speak for myself, but for
the sake of the boy, and the place, and the old name."
Colonel Tempest hid his quivering face in his hands. He was really
moved.
The sick man's mouth twitched; he evidently understood his brother's
incoherent words.
"John succeeds," he said.
The two men looked away from each other.
"John is not a Tempest," said Colonel Tempest, in a choked voice. "You
know it--everybody knows it!"
"He was born in wedlock."
"Yes; but he is not your son. You would have divorced her if she had
lived. He is the legal heir, of course, if you countenance him; but
something might be done still--it is not too late. I know the estate
goes, failing you and your children, to me and mine. Don't bear a
grudge, Jack. You can't have any feeling for the child--it's against
nature. Remember the old name and the old place, that has never been out
of the hands of a Tempest yet. Don't drag our honour in the dust and put
it to open shame! Think how it would have grieved our father. Let me
call in the doctor and the nurse, and disown him now before witnesses.
Such things have been done before, and may be again. I can contest his
claim then; I shall have something to go on. And you _must_ have proofs
of his illegitimacy if you will only give them. But there will be _no_
chance if you uphold him to the last, and if--and if you--die--without
speaking."
Mr. Tempest made no answer except to look his brother steadily in the
face. The look was sufficient. It said plainly enough, "That is what I
mean to do."
Colonel Tempest lost all hope, but despair made one final clutch--a last
desperate appeal to his brother's feelings. It is one of the misfortunes
of self-centred people that their otherwise convenient habit of
disregarding what is passing in the minds of others, leads them to
trample on their feelings at the very moment when most desirous of
turning them to their own account. Colonel Tempest, with the best
intentions of a pure self-interest, trampled heavily.
"Pass me over--cut me out," he said, with a vague inappreciation of
points of law. "I'll sign anything you please; but let the little chap
have it--let Archie have it--_Di's son_."
There was a silence that might be felt. Approaching death seemed to make
a stride in those few breathless seconds; but it seemed also as if a
determined will were holding him momentarily at arm's length. Mr.
Tempest turned his fading face towards his brother. His eyes were
unflinching, but his voice was almost inaudible.
"Leave me," he said. "John succeeds."
The blood rushed to Colonel Tempest's head, and then seemed to ebb away
from his heart. A sudden horror took him of some subtle change that was
going forward in the room, and, seeing all was lost, he hastily left it.
The two boys had fraternized meanwhile. Each, it appeared, was
collecting coins, and Archie gave a glowing account of the cabinet his
father had given him to put them in. John kept his in an old sock, which
he solemnly produced, and the time was happily passed in licking the
most important coins, to give them a momentary brightness, and in
comparing notes upon them. John was sorry when Colonel Tempest came
hurriedly down the gallery and carried Archie off before he had time to
say good-bye, or to offer him his best coin, which he had hot in his
hand with a view to presentation.
Before he had time to gather up his collection, the old doctor came to
him, and told him, very gravely and kindly, that his father wished to
see him.
John nodded, and put down the sock at once. He was a person of few
words, and, though he longed to ask a question now, he asked it with his
eyes only. John's deep-set eyes were very dark and melancholy. Could it
be that his mother's remorse had left its trace in the young
unconscious eyes of her child? Their beauty somewhat redeemed the square
ugliness of the rest of his face.
The doctor patted him on the head, and led him gently to Mr. Tempest's
door.
"Go in and speak to him," he said. "Do not be afraid. I shall be in the
next room all the time."
"I am not afraid," said John, drawing himself up, and he went quietly
across the great oak-panelled room and stood at the bedside.
There was a look of tension in Mr. Tempest's face and hands, as if he
were holding on tightly to something which, did he once let go, he would
never be able to regain.
"John," he said, in an acute whisper.
"Yes, father." The child's face was pale and his eyes looked awed, but
they met Mr. Tempest's bravely.
"Try and listen to what I am going to say, and remember it. You are a
very little boy now, but you will hold a great position some day--when
you are a man. You will be the head of the family. Tempest is one of the
oldest names in England. Remember what I say"--the whisper seemed to
break and ravel down under the intense strain put on it to a single
quivering strand--"remember--you will understand it when you are older.
It is a great trust put into your hands. When you grow into a man, much
will be expected of you. Never disgrace your name; it stands high. Keep
it up--keep it up." The whisper seemed to die altogether, but an iron
will forced it momentarily back to the grey toiling lips. "You are the
head of the family; do your duty by it. You will have no one much to
help you. I shall not--be there. You must learn to be an upright,
honourable gentleman by yourself. Do you understand?"
"Yes, father."
"And you will--_remember_?"
"Yes, father." If the lip quivered, the answer came nevertheless.
"That is all; you can go."
The child hesitated.
"Good night," he said gravely, advancing a step nearer. The sun was
still streaming across the room, but it seemed to him, as he looked at
the familiar, unfamiliar face, that it was night already.
"Don't kiss me," said the dying man. "Good night."
And the child went.
Mr. Tempest sighed heavily, and relaxed his hold on the consciousness
that was ready to slip away from him, and wander feebly out he knew not
whither. Hours and voices came and went. His own voice had gone down
into silence before him. It was still broad daylight, but the casement
was slowly growing "a glimmering square," and he observed it.
Presently it flickered--glimmered--and went out.