"With Nap to put things straight again. For all that a step was taken. We are better for Jean Jacques--a little better."
"And for Napoleon, too, I suppose. Napoleon--a wild beast with a genius for arithmetic."
John Jacks let his eyes rest upon the speaker, interested and amused.
"That's how you see him? Not a bad definition. I suppose the truth is, we know nothing about human history. The old view was good for working by--Jehovah holding his balance, smiting on one side, and rewarding on the other. It's our national view to this day. The English are an Old Testament people; they never cared about the New. Do you know that there's a sect who hold that the English are the Lost Tribes--the People of the Promise? I see a great deal to be said for that idea. No other nation has such profound sympathy with the history and the creeds of Israel. Did you ever think of it? That Old Testament religion suits us perfectly--our arrogance and our pugnaciousness; this accounts for its hold on the mind of the people; it couldn't be stronger if the bloodthirsty old Tribes were truly our ancestors. The English seized upon their spiritual inheritance as soon as a translation of the Bible put it before them. In Catholic days we fought because we enjoyed it, and made no pretences; since the Reformation we have fought for Jehovah."
"I suppose," said Piers, "the English are the least Christian of all so-called Christian peoples."
"Undoubtedly. They simply don't know the meaning of the prime Christian virtue--humility. But that's neither here nor there, in talking of progress. You remember Goldsmith--
'Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, I see the lords of human kind pass by.'
"Our pride has been a good thing, on the whole. Whether it will still be, now that it's so largely the pride of riches, let him say who is alive fifty years hence."
He paused and added gravely:
"I'm afraid the national character is degenerating. We were always too fond of liquor, and Heaven knows our responsibility for drunkenness all over the world; but worse than that is our gambling. You may drink and be a fine fellow; but every gambler is a sneak, and possibly a criminal. We're beginning, now, to gamble for slices of the world. We're getting base, too, in our grovelling before the millionaire--who as often as not has got his money vilely. This sort of thing won't do for 'the lords of human kind.' Our pride, if we don't look out, will turn to bluffing and bullying. I'm afraid we govern selfishly where we've conquered. We hear dark things of India, and worse of Africa. And hear the roaring of the Jingoes! Johnson defined Patriotism you know, as the last refuge of a scoundrel; it looks as if it might presently be the last refuge of a fool."
"Meanwhile," said Piers, "the real interests of England, real progress in national life, seem to be as good as lost sight of."
"Yes, more and more. They think that material prosperity is progress. So it is--up to a certain point, and who ever stops there? Look at Germany."
"Once the peaceful home of pure intellect, the land of Goethe."
"Once, yes. And my fear is that our brute, blustering Bismarck may be coming. But," he suddenly brightened, "croakers be hanged! The civilisers are at work too, and they have their way in the end. Think of a man like your father, who seemed to pass and be forgotten. Was it really so? I'll warrant that at this hour Jerome Otway's spirit is working in many of our best minds. There's no calculating the power of the man who speaks from his very heart. His words don't perish, though he himself may lose courage."
Listening, Piers felt a glow pass into all the currents of his life.
"If only," he exclaimed, in a voice that trembled, "I had as much strength as desire to carry on his work!"
"Why, who knows?" replied John Jacks, looking with encouragement wherein mingled something of affection.
"You have the power of sincerity, I see that. Speak always as you believe, and who knows what opportunity you may find for making yourself heard!"
John Jacks reflected deeply for a few moments.
"I'm going away in a day or two," he said at length, in a measured voice, "and my movements are uncertain--uncertain. But we shall meet again before the end of the year."
When he had left the house, Piers recalled the tone of this remark, and dwelt upon it with disquietude.
CHAPTER XXII
The night being fair, Piers set out to walk a part of the way home. It was only by thoroughly tiring himself with bodily exercise that he could get sound and long oblivion. Hours of sleeplessness were his dread. However soon he awoke after daybreak, he rose at once and drove his mind to some sort of occupation. To escape from himself was all he lived for in these days. An ascetic of old times, subduing his flesh in cell or cave, battled no harder than this idealist of London City tortured by his solitude.
On the pavement of Piccadilly he saw some yards before him, a man seemingly of the common lounging sort, tall-hatted and frock-coated, who was engaged in the cautious pursuit of a female figure, just in advance. A light and springy and half-stalking step; head jutting a little forward; the cane mechanically swung--a typical woman-hunter, in some doubt as to his quarry. On an impulse of instinct or calculation, the man all at once took a few rapid strides, bringing himself within sideview of the woman's face. Evidently he spoke a word; he received an obviously curt reply; he fell back, paced slowly, turned and Piers became aware of a countenance he knew--that of his brother Daniel.
It was a disagreeable moment. Daniel's lean, sallow visage had no aptitude for the expression of shame, but his eyes grew very round, and his teeth showed in a hard grin.
"Why, Piers, my boy! Again we meet in a London street--which is rhyme, and sounds like Browning, doesn't it? _Comment ca va-t-il_?"
Piers shook hands very coldly, without pretence of a smile.
"I am walking on," he said. "Yours is the other way, I think."
"What! You wish to cut me? Pray, your exquisite reason?"
"Well, then, I think you have behaved meanly and dishonourably to me. I don't wish to discuss the matter, only to make myself understood."
His ability to use this language, and to command himself as he did so, was a surprise to Piers. Nothing he disliked more than personal altercation; he shrank from it at almost any cost. But the sight of Daniel, the sound of his artificial voice, moved him deeply with indignation, and for the first time in his life he spoke out. Having done so, he had a pleasurable sensation; he felt his assured manhood.
Daniel was astonished, disconcerted, but showed no disposition to close the interview; turning, he walked along by his brother.
"I suppose I know what you refer to. But let me explain. I think my explanation will interest you."
"No, I'm afraid it will not," replied Piers quietly.
"In any case, lend me your ears. You are offended by my failure to pay that debt. Well, my nature is frankness, and I will plead guilty to a certain procrastination. I meant to send you the money; I fully meant to do so. But in the first place, it took much longer than I expected to realise the good old man's estate, and when at length the money came into my hands, I delayed and delayed--just as one does, you know; let us admit these human weaknesses. And I procrastinated till I was really ashamed--you follow the psychology of the thing? Then I said to myself: Now it is pretty certain Piers is not in actual want of this sum, or he would have pressed for it. On the other hand, a day may come when he will really be glad to remember that I am his banker for a hundred and fifty pounds. Yes--I said--I will wait till that moment comes; I will save the money for him, as becomes his elder brother. Piers is a good fellow, and will understand. _Voila_!"
Piers kept silence.
"Tell me, my dear boy," pursued the other. "Alexander of course paid that