VIII

Between two and three years after their mother's death, Sir

Hildebrand's son and daughter, who bore each other a devoted affection

and carried on a constant correspondence, arranged to meet in England,

Godfrey travelling from Canada, Sybil, with her children, from India.

The first thing they learned (from Haversham, the lawyer) was the

extent of their father's financial ruin. They knew--many kind friends

had told them--that he had had losses and had retired from public life;

but, living out of the world, and accepting their childhood's tradition

of his incalculable wealth, they had taken it for granted that he

continued to lead a life of elegant luxury. When Haversham, one of the

few people who really knew, informed them (with a revengeful smile)

that their father could not possibly have more than a hundred or two a

year, they were shocked to the depths of their clean, matter-of-fact

English souls. The Great Panjandrum, arbiter of destinies, had been

brought low, was living in obscurity in Italy. The pity of it! As

they interchanged glances the same thought leaped into the eyes of each.

"We must look him up and see what can be done," said Godfrey.

"Of course, dear," said Sybil.

"I offered him the use of Eresby, but he was too proud to take it."

"And I never offered him anything at all," said Sybil.

"I should advise you," said Haversham, "to leave Sir Hildebrand alone."

Godfrey, a high-mettled young man and one who was accustomed to arrive

at his own decisions, and moreover did not like Haversham, gripped his

sister by the arm.

"Whatever advice you give me, Mr. Haversham, I will take just when I

think it necessary."

"That is the attitude of most of my clients," replied Haversham drily,

"whether it is a sound attitude or not----" he waved an expressive hand.

"We'll go and hunt him up, anyway," said Godfrey. "If he's impossible,

we can come back. If he isn't--so much the better. What do you say,

Sybil?"

Sybil said what he knew she would say.

"Sir Hildebrand's address is vague," remarked Haversham. "Cook's,

Venice."

"What more, in Hades, do we want?" cried the young man.

So, after Sybil had made arrangements for the safe keeping of her

offspring, and Godfrey and herself had written to announce their

coming, the pair set out for Venice.

"We are very sorry, but we are unable to give you Sir Hildebrand

Oates's address," said Messrs. Thomas Cook and Son.

Godfrey protested. "We are his son and daughter," he said, in effect.

"We have reason to believe our father is living in poverty. We have

written and he has not replied. We must find him."

Identity established, Messrs. Thomas Cook and Son disclosed the

whereabouts of their customer. A gondola took brother and sister to

the _Campo_ facing the west front of the church behind which lay the

_Campiello_ where the hotel was situated. Their hearts sank low as

they beheld the mildewed decay of the Albergo Tonelli, lower as they

entered the cool, canal-smelling _trattoria_--or restaurant, the main

entrance to the Albergo. Signore Tonelli in shirt sleeves greeted

them. What was their pleasure?

"Sir Hildebrand Oates?"

At first from his rapid and incomprehensible Italian they could gather

little else than the fact of their father's absence from home. After a

while the reiteration of the words _ospedale inglese_ made an

impression on their minds.

"_Malade?_" asked Sybil, trying the only foreign language with which

she had a slight acquaintance.

"_Si, si!_" cried Tonelli, delighted at eventual understanding.

And then a Providence-sent bagman who spoke a little English came out

and interpreted.

The _illustrissimo signore_ was ill. A pneumonia. He had stood to

feed the pigeons in the rain, in the northeast wind, and had contracted

a chill. When they thought he was dying, they sent for the English

doctor who had attended him before for trifling ailments, and

unconscious he had been transported to the English hospital in the

Giudecca. And there he was now. A thousand pities he should die. The

dearest and most revered man. The whole neighbourhood who loved him

was stricken with grief. They prayed for him in the church, the

signore and signora could see it there, and vows and candles had been

made to the Virgin, the Blessed Mother, for he too loved all children.

Signore Tonelli, joined by this time by his wife, exaggerated perhaps

in the imaginative Italian way. But every tone and gesture sprang from

deep sincerity. Brother and sister looked at each other in dumb wonder.

"_Ecco, Elizabetta!_" Tonelli, commanding the doorway of the

restaurant, summoned an elderly woman from the pump by the well-head

and discoursed volubly. She approached the young English couple and

also volubly discoursed. The interpreter interpreted. They gained

confirmation of the amazing fact that, in this squalid, stone-flagged,

rickety little square, Sir Hildebrand had managed to make himself

beloved. Childhood's memories rose within them, half-caught, but

haunting sayings of servants and villagers which had impressed upon

their minds the detestation in which he was held in their Somersetshire

home.

Godfrey turned to his sister. "Well, I'm damned," said he.

"I should like to see his rooms," said Sybil.

The interpreter again interpreted. The Tonellis threw out their arms.

Of course they could visit the apartment of the _illustrissimo

signore_. They were led upstairs and ushered into the chill, dark

bed-sitting-room, as ascetic as a monk's cell, and both gasped when

they beheld the flagellum hanging from its nail over the bed. They

requested privacy. The Tonellis and the bagman-interpreter retired.

"What the devil's the meaning of it?" said Godfrey.

Sybil, kind-hearted, began to cry. Something strange and piteous,

something elusive had happened. The awful, poverty-stricken room

chilled her blood, and the sight of the venomous scourge froze it. She

caught and held Godfrey's hand. Had their father gone over to Rome and

turned ascetic? They looked bewildered around the room. But no other

sign, crucifix, rosary, sacred picture, betokened the pious convert.

They scanned the rough deal bookshelf. A few dull volumes of English

classics, a few works on sociology in French and Italian, a flagrantly

staring red _Burke's Landed Gentry_, and that was practically all the

library. Not one book of devotion was visible, save the Bible, the

Book of Common Prayer, and a little vellum-covered Elzevir edition of

Saint Augustine's _Flammulæ Amoris_, which Godfrey remembered from

childhood on account of its quaint wood-cuts. They could see nothing

indicative of religious life but the flagellum over the bed--and that

seemed curiously new and unused. Again they looked around the bare

characterless room, characteristic only of its occupant by its

scrupulous tidiness; yet one object at last attracted their attention.

On a deal writing-table by the window lay a thick pile of manuscript.

Godfrey turned the brown paper covering. Standing together, brother

and sister read the astounding title-page:

"An enquiry into my wife's justification for the following terms of her

will:--

"'I will and bequeath to my husband, Sir Hildebrand Oates, Knight, the

sum of fifteen shillings to buy himself a scourge to do penance for the

arrogance, uncharitableness and cruelty with which he has treated

myself and my beloved children for the last thirty years.'

"This dispassionate enquiry I dedicate to my son Godfrey and my

daughter Sybil."

Brother and sister regarded each other with drawn faces and mutually

questioning eyes.

"We can't leave this lying about," said Godfrey. And he tucked the

manuscript under his arm.

The gondola took them through the narrow waterways to the Grand Canal

of the Giudecca, where, on the Zattere side, all the wave-worn merchant

shipping of Venice and Trieste and Fiume and Genoa finds momentary

rest, and across to the low bridge-archway of the canal cutting through

the island, on the side of which is Lady Layard's modest English

hospital. Yes, said the matron, Sir Hildebrand was there. Pneumonia.

Getting on as well as could be expected; but impossible to see him.

She would telephone to their hotel in the morning.

That night, until dawn, Godfrey read the manuscript, a document of

soul-gripping interest. It was neither an _apologia pro vita sua_, nor

a breast-beating _peccavi_ cry of confession; but a minute analysis of

every remembered incident in the relations between his family and

himself from the first pragmatical days of his wedding journey. And

judicially he delivered judgments in the terse, lucid French form.

"Whereas I, etc., etc...." and "whereas my wife, etc.,

etc...."--setting forth and balancing the facts--"it is my opinion that

I acted arrogantly," or "uncharitably," or "cruelly." Now and again,

though rarely, the judgments went in his favour. But invariably the

words were added: "I am willing, however, in this case, to submit to

the decision of any arbitrator or court of appeal my children may think

it worth while to appoint."

The last words, scrawled shakily in pencil, were:

"I have not, to my great regret, been able to bring this record

up-to-date; but as I am very ill and, at my age, may not recover, I

feel it my duty to say that, as far as my two years' painful

examination into my past life warrants my judgment, I am of the opinion

that my wife had ample justification for the terms she employed

regarding me in her will. Furthermore, if, as is probable, I should

die of my illness, I should like my children to know that long ere this

I have deeply desired in my loneliness to stretch out my arms to them

in affection and beg their forgiveness, but that I have been prevented

from so doing by the appalling fear that, I being now very poor and

they being very rich, my overtures, considering the lack of affection I

have exhibited to them in the past might be misinterpreted. The

British Consul here, who has kindly consented to be my executor,

will..."

And then strength had evidently failed him and he could write no more.

The next morning Godfrey related to his sister what he had read and

gave her the manuscript to read at her convenience; and together they

went to the hospital and obtained from the doctor his somewhat

pessimistic report; and then again they visited the Albergo Tonelli and

learned more of the strange, stiff and benevolent life of Sir

Hildebrand Oates. Once more they mounted to the cold cheerless room

where their father had spent the past two years. Godfrey unhooked the

scourge from the nail.

"What are you going to do?" Sybil asked, her eyes full of tears.

"I'm going to burn the damned thing. Whether he lives or dies, the

poor old chap's penance is at an end. By God! he has done enough." He

turned upon her swiftly. "You don't feel any resentment against him

now, do you?"

"Resentment?" Her voice broke on the word and she cast herself on the

hard little bed and sobbed.