Life (Kinross)

by Albert Kinross

 

Life

By Albert Kinross

Geoffrey had come; so they were complete—the three sons of the house of Vigo, the daughter, the son-in-law, and their stepmother Lady Vigo, second wife to Sir Anthony Vigo, now dying in the room above. It was the first time the whole family had been together under that roof. All,of them were there, even Geoffrey, who had been cast out, and Sir Anthony, who now lay dying. Geoffrey had seen nothing of them since he had gone away. Then Sir Anthony had not been dying, but very much alive. “Not in my House—not in my house!” he had cried; and Geoffrey had answered, “Not in your house and not even in your name.”

To-day they were all together once more. His sister Ella—she had been a little girl and always frightened fifteen years ago, slender, in short frocks, with trim brown legs in trim brown shoes and stockings. Sir Anthony had bought her an earl—the gentleman over there who began to say things and never finished them. Rather expensive, Geoffrey reflected, now that he had seen him. His two brothers, Merrick and Timothy—they had been school- boys then, timid and given to seeking shelter behind himself. Both were in the firm, had taken the chances that he had refused. He was glad he had refused. Merrick, the elder, seemed smothered, the youth knocked out of him and nothing definite to fill its place, with his long black coat and gentle, hesitating way. Timothy was unhappy. You had only to look at Timothy to see that he was unhappy. His stepmother, Lady Vigo, Geoffrey had never met before. She, like the Earl and his father's baronetcy, must be a later acquisition—a young woman, handsome, well-bred. Geoffrey felt sorry for her. She moved there like a ghost lost among strangers, as though in her heart she were repeating: “What are all these Vigos to me or I to them?” Sir Anthony, dying in the room above, was the sole link that held this little group together.

The cloak of conventional sorrow that muffled all their voices seemed actually real; created, indeed, an atmosphere infectious and profound. Were they, then, really sorry? thought Geoffrey, looking into the half-strange faces, hearing these whispered words and the conventional answers and questions that passed between him and them? Were they really anything but pale reflections of Sir Anthony's will? They were his brothers and his sister, and not one of them had had the courage to seek him out before to-day. Sir Anthony had put a stopper on that, and they had obeyed. To-day they had sent for him. Sir Anthony had commanded that, and again they had obeyed. A glimmer of contempt came into his eyes, and then one of pity. Had all these people trembled before that powerful old man? He supposed they must have been well paid for it; or were they too weak and too helpless to revolt?

“Sir Anthony said you were to go straight up to him”; it was Lady Vigo who was addressing Geoffrey now, quietly and like a woman who has a duty to perform; “that I was to bring you.”

Geoffrey was ready.

He followed her up two thickly-carpeted flights of stairs into the great bedroom on the second floor.

There was straw all down the street outside, so it was quiet here.

“Leave us,” said a voice from the bed; and Geoffrey caught his father's eye fixed on him, already fixed on him as though Sir Anthony had been watching, waiting, till he came.

“And you, too.” The same voice—this time to the nurse in her neat uniform.

“But the doctor——” the nurse began.

“I'm my own doctor, woman. Out you go, after her ladyship! I want my son.”

Geoffrey and his father were alone.

The older man held out a hand. “Take it,” he said. “You've done without it all these years. You've beaten me. I had three sons, but you're the only one that's beaten me.”

Geoffrey took it, and the hand drew him to a chair.

“Sit down close beside me, so that I can see your face.”

Geoffrey and his father were eye to eye at last.

“You've gray in your hair,” said the older man, “and a jaw something like mine; you were a boy the last time, and had the eyes of a woman; now—am I changed, too?” he asked.

Geoffrey was silent.

“You don't speak,” said Sir Anthony.

“Why did you send for me, sir?”

“Ah!” and Sir Anthony came back to this great room.

“How do you know I sent for you?” he asked.

“You sent for me.”

“You're my son, and I can do what I like with my own.”

“I'm not your son,” came coldly from the younger man.

“I know; your name's Duke now—Geoffrey Duke. Your mother's name. Egad, she was a woman, Geoff; not snow and ice like that cold slut downstairs! You took your mother's name.”

“I had a right to that.”

“You've a right to mine, and the title and the land—you're the eldest,” and Sir Anthony waited.

So this was why they had sent for him.

“My name's Duke; we settled that a good many years ago.”

“Pig-headed, eh?”

Geoffrey sat like bronze.

“Pig- headed, eh? The same as me,” said Sir Anthony; “I'm a good hater, too. But now—now there's no need for hate. I shall be gone as soon as this is settled. I've hung on for this. I want the name to go on—you're the eldest.”

“There' s Merrick and Timothy.”

“They're no good. They're frightened of me, like that cold slut downstairs. You were never frightened. That's why we fell out.”

“My name's Duke, and Duke it stays,” said Geoffrey, rising.

“Fix your price—and sit down.”

Geoffrey sat down.

“I have no price,” he said.

“Won't you do it for money?”

“Money's no good to me now—ten years ago—twelve years ago—not now.”

“You're rich now?” asked Sir Anthony.

“Comfortable.”

“Ten years ago—twelve years ago—you weren't comfortable?”

“Uncomfortable enough to have a price.”

“Starving?”

The younger man nodded.

“I've starved, too,” said Sir Anthony. “Where did you sleep?”

“In parks.”

“I always had a bed—some sort of a bed. I beat you there.”

Sir Anthony changed the subject.

“I faced it. What did you do?”

“Faced it.”

“Took rotten pay, and grinned—and moved on?”

The younger man nodded.

“And then you saved a bit?”

“Nothing to speak of.”

“Beat you again,” chuckled Sir Anthony; “you wasted time?”

“Time was cheap, sir.”

“Time's never cheap.”

Geoffrey did not dispute the point.

“And then you had things to sell, and you sold 'em?” pursued Sir Anthony.

The younger man nodded again.

“I sold mine, too—and things that weren't mine.”

“You wanted to sell me—and I wasn't yours.”

“I sold your two brothers, landed the firm with them, and there they are.”

“And when you've gone?”

“They'll stick to it; they've shares enough. They can't get kicked out—unless they sell.”

“They'll sell,” said Geoffrey.

Sir Anthony changed the subject.

“You found a market at last?”

The younger man nodded.

“You took their prices at first, and then made them take yours?”

Again Geoffrey nodded.

“They had to take 'em or go without?”

“That's it,” said Geoffrey.

“Where did you learn it?” asked Sir Anthony. “Not at Harrow, not at Oxford.”

“In the same place as yourself.”

“In the world, eh, Geoff? That was my school and my college. One has to learn that in the world.”

Geoffrey waited.

“Your two brothers haven't learned it yet; and they're in business. They're in the firm, directors—though I do most of the directing. They sign my cheques for me, Geoff, and get in the way, and haven't the pluck to give a straight yes or no.”

Still Geoffrey waited.

“Why don't you lend a hand?” cried Sir Anthony. “I make it worth your while. You're a man. I beat you in two places, eh, Geoff? But you're a man, my own flesh and blood, for all your airs and coldness. I know a man when I see one. Why don't you lend a hand?”

“I've my own work.”

“How much do you make at it?”

“As much as I want to make.”

“How much do you want?”

“That depends.”

“Wife and kids, eh?”

“Exactly.”

“A boy?” And Sir Anthony waited.

“Two.”

“I thought as much.”

“And?”

“One of 'em will take my name when he finds out. He'll only have to put out his hand. I've made provision for that. My name and the title and the places—when he finds out. Deep, ain't I?”

“He won't find out.”

“Egad, but I'd make him—if I were strong again!”

Sir Anthony changed the subject.

“You're well known now?”

Geoffrey nodded.

“I've heard of you these five years, and seen your portrait in the papers—Geoffrey Duke—my son Geoffrey Vigo!”

“Did you tell anybody?”

The older man reflected. “No.”

“I didn't either.”

Sir Anthony changed the subject yet again.

“Look here, Geoff. I kicked you out because you wanted one thing and I another. I said, 'He'll come back as soon as his belly pinches'; and so I kicked you out.... You said you'd be a painter. I said iron and steeel and Vigo's Foundry for all who have my name. I had made the firm; it was the work of my life; it was waiting for you—fortune and reputation for the mere handling! You were a fool. You said you were going to be an artist. 'Be an artist,' said I; 'but not here, not in my house'; and you went away. You've stayed away—I grant it. You've come back at my request—I grant it. You've succeeded; you've done what you set out to do; you've beaten me—I grant that. You're a man, Geoff, in spite of your trade—I grant that, too. I thought artists were fools; I thought they were spongers and lap-dogs, hangers-on who shirked honest work and amused the women. Some made money—I knew that. But so do fiddlers and men who sing at the opera, and actors, and all that trash. The women—they amuse the women. 'None of that for my son!' I said.... You went away, and after ten years I heard of you. You had come to the front without any help from me—your own doing. There must be something in the fellow, I said. He's come through the ruck; he seems to be making a name for himself. There must be something in the fellow, I said. I've seen some of your paintings. I didn't look for 'em, but I've seen 'em—portraits of men—good, straight, honest work. 'He isn't a lap-dog, after all,' I said.... I began to respect you, Geoff. You'd done something. Merrick and Timothy—they'd had all the chances that you and I had never had, and what had they done? Shoved me out of the firm as I would have done had I been in their place? Fought me for halves, and then the lot? Sponged on me, Geoff! Sponged on the firm, taken my name, and spent my money! To-day I sent for you. I've been a long time over it, I admit. I wanted to shake hands and make it up, Geoff. I wanted you to use my name again. I've made my will that way. If you take my name and keep my name, and no name but the one I gave to you, you get the land and the houses. I can't keep you out of the title; but the land and the houses—I can keep you out of that. Without my name you don't get an acre, and your children and your children's children don't get an acre; but with it you're rich—rich enough to burn your paints and brushes and pay the whole Academy to do your work for you.... I thought you might be a man, Geoff, because you'd succeeded in spite of me. That took some doing—I know it. And now I've seen you, you're no fool; you're not like a fiddler or a pug- faced tenor; you cut your hair and wear your clothes like a gentleman. I know one when I see one. I'm proud of you, Geoff. You're a man, and, though you paint and daub—by Gad, you're as good a man as I am, doing real work!”

“Better,” said Geoffrey. He had been silent up to now.

Sir Anthony looked at him through half-closed eyes.

“Better,” said Geoffrey; “I'll tell you why I am better. Can you stand it?”

“Go ahead,” said Sir Anthony.

“Twice just now you said you'd beaten me. Once because I'd slept in parks and you had always found a bed—'some sort of a bed'—those were your words?”

Sir Anthony nodded.

“The second time it was because you'd saved and because I hadn't?”

“I did beat you there,” added Sir Anthony.

“Not quite. I beat you both times—if you can listen—if it won't tire you?”

“Go ahead,” said Sir Anthony.

“Do you know why I slept in parks, while you had always found a bed—some sort of a bed? You'd taken my bed—done me out of it. Nobody ever did you out of yours. That wasn't quite playing the game. It wasn't fair. I had to begin life over again. You just went on from your Harrow and your Oxford. Nobody kicked you out; you weren't forced to start again. I was—and I've come through. Nobody stole your bed, but you had stolen mine. You didn't beat me there, but I beat you.... The second time it was because you'd saved. You were giving me a thousand a year when you kicked me out, and I made debts on top of that, and you didn't care much whether I made 'em. We could afford it, you said. 'As long as you don't marry a ballet-girl, I don't care what you do, Geoff,' you used to say.... Well, you didn't start with a thousand a year and debts. So that was hardly fair either. But that's not the point. I'll tell you why I didn't save. Whenever I had any money I put all my eggs into one basket, painted a picture, and starved and worried till it was sold. Had you ever the pluck to do that? When I was sleeping in parks, my 'Bridge-builders' was hanging in the Academy. It was a month before they hung it, and another two months before they sold it. I'd put all my eggs into that basket; and the man who bought it had to find me first. I had three stale crusts—one dry and two wet—in my pocket the day I met him, and a hundred and fifty guineas when we parted. And again I put all my eggs into one basket, and again and yet again. And then a man paid me four hundred guineas for 'Sunday,' and I was safe. Had you ever the pluck to do that?... Ten years ago, twelve years ago—if you had sent for me then! I had my weak moments when I'd have taken money, even from you! Do you think I enjoyed it?... You saved and gave yourself a dozen chances; but I came through without saving, and taking twenty times your risks! I think I beat you there again, didn't I?—even though you said I'd wasted time. Time was cheap, I answered; you said, 'Time's never cheap.' My time was cheap, and a time of suffering's never wasted—but that you'll hardly understand.... I've beaten you all through, first and last and in the middle; I'm a better man than you are, 'doing real work.'”

Sir Anthony was listening.

“My work's been real enough to me and several other people. And now you ask me to change my name, to throw away the name I've made for one that isn't mine. Would you change yours to Duke now? Not for all the titles, all the houses, all the land in England! Would you change Vigo to Duke?”—and Geoffrey paused. “I won't change mine to Vigo,” he said, rising.

“That's your last word?” now asked Sir Anthony.

“First and last.”

The older man nodded.

“You're right, Geoff,” he said, “but I'm right, too; and when both parties are right, there's only war or death can find the answer. It's so among nations. It'll be so between us. You're a pretty easy victory, me lying here. I've offered you everything, and you've refused everything. Give us your hand, Geoff. I've done all I could.”

it was a long clasp that followed, almost as though Sir Anthony were holding fast to life and must collapse the moment Geoffrey left him.

There was a knock at the door.

Lady Vigo entered, and father and son now drew apart. The nurse was close behind her.

“The doctor is here—he's been waiting,” said Lady Vigo.

“Send him in,” replied Sir Anthony; “there's precious little he can do for me. Good-bye, Geoff,” he added. “Perhaps next time we'll stand a better chance. We've rather made a mess of this one.”

Lady Vigo was about to follow Geoffrey from the room, but Sir Anthony kept her back. “Stay here, Caroline,” he said. “I want you. I don't want to see any of the others, but you can stay.”

Geoffrey went out, down the two thickly-carpeted flights of stairs, to the library, where he and his brothers and sister and brother in-law had met before. They were still there, still subdued, hushed, expectant, and whispering, as he had left them.

The Earl had lit a cigarette. He had given up trying to talk, and had retired to a deep leather chair and his meditations. He was obviously very tired of it all. Geoffrey's entry he hailed with a sigh of relief.

“Made it up with the old man?” he asked, brightening.

Geoffrey's answer could have been taken either way.

“So you'll be second baronet?” pursued the other.

“No, Merrick can be that.”

Merrick, slow, deprecatory, made a movement. “But why, Geoff,” he murmured; “and now you're here?”

“Nobody knows I'm here, or knows of the connection but yourselves. I won't put in any claim.”

“But we——” Timothy began. “We couldn't take it.”

“You take all you can get, my son,” said Geoffrey, smiling. Timothy was still “the kid” with him.

“Won't we see you again?” asked Ella.

“Not unless you particularly want to,” said Geoffrey.

“Of course we'll want to,” said the Earl; and, as if the thought had escaped him, “Rum lot, you Vigos,” he added at large.

Lady Vigo interrupted them. She was very pale.

“The doctor sent me away,” she said. “We are to wait. He'll be down presently,” and she sank into a chair. All her strength had gone from her.

There was silence now for a space, as though they all felt that impending calamity had moved nearer to them, had come down from the great bedroom on the second floor and found a way into their presence; was no longer remote, intangible, afar, but here, in this very room.

An air of gloom and mourning was already on them, and, in its shadow, none dared speak. The spell even embraced Geoffrey, seeking an opportunity to take his leave and go back whence he had been summoned. None came to him.

The doctor joined them.

“It's all over,” he said, slowly.

Ella was weeping; Lady Vigo was deathly white; and Geoffrey, looking round that rich, warm room, with its padded chairs and stately bookcases, was shaken by a swift and fulgent intuition. Ella's tears were tears of joy, as though a will had suddenly been given to her, as though life had opened at her feet at last! And Merrick, too—in his eyes was there not that stealthy something which precedes release? And Timothy—small, fragile Timothy—his gaze seemed fixed on some point outside that was anything but Vigo's Foundry!

To Geoffrey standing there, the old man's death was a signal. Merrick would throw away his long black coat and hesitations, and be some quiet, kindly settler in the country, growing roses and bothering his head about “the people”—he had that form of mildness stamped all over him. And Timothy would stoop in a library of his own now. He had always been studious, even taking a pleasure in his lessons. He had the face of a scholar and a book- worm. Ella and her Earl would do as they pleased, and play at life with no remonstrances, no awkward quarters of an hour such as the one now irking them. How the Earl must have hated his new connections—even at a price! And from them Geoffrey turned to Lady Vigo. A change had come over her pale face. A new beauty touched her cheeks with a faint rose and put a strange light in her eyes, as though, instead of “What are all these Vigos to me or I to them?” she were repeating, “I am thirty-three—seven more years in which I can live and love and lose myself; seven more years of youth—oh, seven more years!”

And in himself, try as he might, the infection ran its course. His work, real enough—what was it compared with what he might do once the need of money were removed? The dull portraits he turned out that made their three hundred guineas; the half-explored subject-pictures or landscapes painted to meet a date, one eye on varnishing day, the other on his theme—were these his limit? Had all his mastery been revealed? He had to live, to meet concession with concession. He had to work for a public, for prestige and the dealers, as much as for his art. He was tied to London, to his market, to the big house and studio that cost so much in rent, to the hundred extravagances of an incomplete status and position... Geoffrey could not escape these thoughts; they were stronger than he was.

From the stricken field of death had come forth life and promise in abundance. Such death as this was life; was the key that opened life's choicest doors, the rod of magic that evoked it. The wizardry had passed into Geoffrey's veins as well.

“You are the heir?” The doctor was addressing him.

“I am,” said Geoffrey.