Sir Hildebrand, after giving Haversham, the lawyer, an account of his
stewardship--in his wild investments he had not imperilled a penny of
his wife's money--resigned his county appointments, chairmanships and
presidentships and memberships of committees, went to London and took a
room at his club. Rumour of his fallen fortunes spread quickly. He
found himself neither shunned nor snubbed, but not welcomed in the
inner smoke-room coterie before which, as a wealthy and important
county gentleman, he had been wont to lay down the law. No longer was
he Sir Oracle. Sensitive to the subtle changes he attributed them to
the rank snobbery of his fellow-members. No doubt he was right. The
delicate point of snobbery that he did not realise was the difference
between the degrees of sufferance accorded to the rich bore and the
poor bore. In the eyes of the club, Sir Hildebrand Oates was the poor
bore. He became freezingly aware of a devastating loneliness. In the
meanwhile his children had written the correctest of letters. Deep
grief for mother's death was the keynote of each. With regard to
worldly matters, Sybil confessed that the legacy made a revolution in
her plans for her children's future, but would not affect her present
movements, as she could not allow her husband to abandon a career which
promised to be brilliant. She would be home in a couple of years. The
son, Godfrey, welcomed the unexpected fortune. The small business he
had got together just needed this capital to expand into gigantic
proportions. It would be two or three years before he could leave it.
In the meantime, he hoped his father would not dream of leaving Eresby
Manor. Neither son nor daughter seemed to be aware of Sir Hildebrand's
impoverishment. Also, neither of them expressed sympathy for, or even
alluded to, the grief that he himself must be suffering. The omission
puzzled him; for he had the lawyer's assurance that they should remain
ignorant, as far as lay in his power, of the dreadful text of the will.
Did the omission arise from doubt in their minds as to his love for
their mother and the genuineness of his sorrow at her death? To solve
the riddle, Sir Hildebrand began to think as he had never thought
before.
V
Arrogance, uncharitableness, and cruelty. To wife and children. For
thirty years. Fifteen shillings to buy a scourge wherewith to do
penance. He could think of nothing else by day or night. The earth
beneath his feet which he had deemed so solid became a quagmire, so
that he knew not where to step. And the serene air darkened. The
roots of his being suffered cataclysm. Either his wife had been some
mad monster in human form, or her terrible indictment had some basis of
truth. The man's soul writhed in the flame of the blazing words. A
scourge for penance. Fifteen shillings to buy it with. In due course
he received the ghastly cheque from Haversham. His first impulse was
to tear it to pieces; his second, to fold it up and put it in his
letter-case. At the end of a business meeting with Haversham a day or
two later, he asked him point-blank:
"Why did you insult me by sending me the cheque for fifteen shillings?"
"It was a legal formality with which I was bound to comply."
"_De minimis non curet lex_," said Sir Hildebrand. "No one pays
barley-corn rent or farthing damages or the shilling consideration in a
contract. Your action implies malicious agreement with Lady Oates'
opinion of me."
He bent his head forward and looked at Haversham with feverish
intensity. Haversham had old scores to settle. The importance,
omniscience, perfection, and condescending urbanity of Sir Hildebrand
had rasped his nerves for a quarter of a century. If there was one
living man whom he hated whole-heartedly, and over whose humiliation he
rejoiced, it was Sir Hildebrand Oates. He yielded to the swift
temptation. He rose hastily and gathered up his papers.
"If you can find me a human creature in this universe who doesn't share
Lady Oates's opinion, I will give him every penny I am worth."
He went out, and then overcome with remorse for having kicked a fallen
man, felt inclined to hang himself. But he knew that he had spoken
truly. Meanwhile Sir Hildebrand walked up and down the little
visitors' room at the club, where the interview had taken place,
passing his hand over his indeterminate moustache and long blunt chin.
He felt neither anger nor indignation--but rather the dazed dismay of a
prisoner to whom the judge deals a severer sentence than he expected.
After a while he sat at a small table and prepared to write a letter
connected with the business matters he had just discussed with
Haversham. But the words would not come, his brain was fogged; he went
off into a reverie, and awoke to find himself scribbling in arabesque,
"Fifteen shillings to buy a scourge."
After a solitary dinner at the club that evening he discovered in a
remote corner of the smoking-room, a life-long acquaintance, an old
schoolfellow, one Colonel Bagot, reading a newspaper. He approached.
"Good evening, Bagot."
Colonel Bagot raised his eyes from the paper, nodded, and resumed his
reading. Sir Hildebrand deliberately wheeled a chair to his side and
sat down.
"Can I have a word or two with you?"
"Certainly, my dear fellow," Bagot replied, putting down his paper.
"What kind of a boy was I at school?"
"What kind of a ... what the deuce do you mean?" asked the astonished
colonel.
"I want you to tell me what kind of a boy I was," said Sir Hildebrand
gravely.
"Just an ordinary chap."
"Would you have called me modest, generous, and kind?"
"What in God's name are you driving at?" asked the Colonel, twisting
himself round on his chair.
"At your opinion of me. Was I modest, generous, and kind? It's a
vital question."
"It's a damned embarrassing one to put to a man during the process of
digestion. Well, you know, Oates, you always were a queer beggar. If
I had had the summing up of you I should have said: 'Free from vice.'"
"Negative."
"Well, yes--in a way--but----"
"You've answered me. Now another. Do you think I treated my children
badly?"
"Really, Oates--oh, confound it!" Angrily he dusted himself free from
the long ash that had fallen from his cigar. "I don't see why I should
be asked such a question."
"I do. You've known me all your life. I want you to answer it
frankly."
Colonel Bagot was stout, red, and choleric. Sir Hildebrand irritated
him. If he was looking for trouble, he should have it. "I think you
treated them abominably--there!" said he.
"Thank you," said Sir Hildebrand.
"What?" gasped Bagot.
"I said 'thank you.' And lastly--you have had many opportunities of
judging--do you think I did all in my power to make my wife happy?"
At first Bagot made a gesture of impatience. His position was both
grotesque and intolerable. Was Oates going mad? Answering the
surmise, Sir Hildebrand said:
"I'm aware my question is extraordinary, perhaps outrageous; but I am
quite sane. Did she look crushed, down-trodden, as though she were not
allowed to have a will of her own?"
It was impossible not to see that the man was in a dry agony of
earnestness. Irritation and annoyance fell like garments from Bagot's
shoulders.
"You really want to get at the exact truth, as far as I can give it
you?"
"From the depth of my soul," said Sir Hildebrand.
"Then," answered Bagot, quite simply, "I'm sorry to say unpleasant
things. But I think Lady Oates led a dog's life--and so does
everybody."
"That's just what I wanted to be sure of," said Sir Hildebrand, rising.
He bent his head courteously. "Good night, Bagot," and he went away
with dreary dignity.