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〃I can't do it；〃 he said； 〃I feel such a hypocrite； I can't put
myself into leading…strings again。 Why should I ask these people；
when I've settled everything already？ If it were a vital matter they
wouldn't want to hearthey'd simply wire； 'Manage this somehow！'〃
Scorrier said nothing； but thought privately 'This is a mad
business！' What was a letter？ Why make a fuss about a letter？ The
approach of mail…day seemed like a nightmare to the superintendent；
he became feverishly nervous like a man under a spell； and； when the
mail had gone； behaved like a respited criminal。 And this had been
going on two years！ Ever since that explosion。 Why； it was
monomania！
One day； a month after Hemmings' departure； Pippin rose early from
dinner； his face was flushed； he had been drinking wine。 〃I won't be
beaten this time；〃 he said； as he passed Scorrier。 The latter could
hear him writing in the next room； and looked in presently to say
that he was going for a walk。 Pippin gave him a kindly nod。
It was a cool； still evening： innumerable stars swarmed in clusters
over the forests； forming bright hieroglyphics in the middle heavens；
showering over the dark harbour into the sea。 Scorrier walked
slowly。 A weight seemed lifted from his mind； so entangled had he
become in that uncanny silence。 At last Pippin had broken through
the spell。 To get that； letter sent would be the laying of a
phantom； the rehabilitation of commonsense。 Now that this silence
was in the throes of being broken； he felt curiously tender towards
Pippin； without the hero…worship of old days； but with a queer
protective feeling。 After all； he was different from other men。 In
spite of his feverish； tenacious energy； in spite of his ironic
humour； there was something of the woman in him！ And as for this
silence； this horror of controlall geniuses had 〃bees in their
bonnets；〃 and Pippin was a genius in his way！
He looked back at the town。 Brilliantly lighted it had a thriving
air…difficult to believe of the place he remembered ten years back；
the sounds of drinking； gambling； laughter； and dancing floated to
his ears。 'Quite a city！' he thought。
With this queer elation on him he walked slowly back along the
street； forgetting that he was simply an oldish mining expert； with a
look of shabbiness； such as clings to men who are always travelling；
as if their 〃nap〃 were for ever being rubbed off。 And he thought of
Pippin； creator of this glory。
He had passed the boundaries of the town； and had entered the forest。
A feeling of discouragement instantly beset him。 The scents and
silence； after the festive cries and odours of the town； were
undefinably oppressive。 Notwithstanding； he walked a long time；
saying to himself that he would give the letter every chance。 At
last； when he thought that Pippin must have finished； he went back to
the house。
Pippin had finished。 His forehead rested on the table； his arms hung
at his sides； he was stone…dead！ His face wore a smile； and by his
side lay an empty laudanum bottle。
The letter； closely； beautifully written； lay before him。 It was a
fine document； clear； masterly； detailed； nothing slurred； nothing
concealed； nothing omitted； a complete review of the company's
position； it ended with the words： 〃Your humble servant； RICHARD
PIPPIN。〃
Scorrier took possession of it。 He dimly understood that with those
last words a wire had snapped。 The border…line had been overpassed；
the point reached where that sense of proportion； which alone makes
life possible； is lost。 He was certain that at the moment of his
death Pippin could have discussed bimetallism； or any intellectual
problem； except the one problem of his own heart； that； for some
mysterious reason； had been too much for him。 His death had been the
work of a moment of supreme revolta single instant of madness on a
single subject！ He found on the blotting…paper； scrawled across the
impress of the signature； 〃Can't stand it！〃 The completion of that
letter had been to him a struggle ungraspable by Scorrier。 Slavery？
Defeat？ A violation of Nature？ The death of justice？ It were
better not to think of it！ Pippin could have toldbut he would
never speak again。 Nature； at whom； unaided； he had dealt so many
blows； had taken her revenge。。。！
In the night Scorrier stole down； and； with an ashamed face； cut off
a lock of the fine grey hair。 'His daughter might like it！' he
thought。。。。
He waited till Pippin was buried； then； with the letter in his
pocket； started for England。
He arrived at Liverpool on a Thursday morning； and travelling to
town； drove straight to the office of the company。 The Board were
sitting。 Pippin's successor was already being interviewed。 He
passed out as Scorrier came in； a middle…aged man with a large； red
beard； and a foxy； compromising face。 He also was a Cornishman。
Scorrier wished him luck with a very heavy heart。
As an unsentimental man； who had a proper horror of emotion； whose
living depended on his good sense； to look back on that interview
with the Board was painful。 It had excited in him a rage of which he
was now heartily ashamed。 Old Jolyon Forsyte； the chairman； was not
there for once； guessing perhaps that the Board's view of this death
would be too small for him； and little Mr。 Booker sat in his place。
Every one had risen； shaken hands with Scorrier； and expressed
themselves indebted for his coming。 Scorrier placed Pippin's letter
on the table； and gravely the secretary read out to his Board the
last words of their superintendent。 When he had finished； a director
said； 〃That's not the letter of a madman！〃 Another answered： 〃Mad as
a hatter； nobody but a madman would have thrown up such a post。〃
Scorrier suddenly withdrew。 He heard Hemmings calling after him。
〃Aren't you well； Mr。 Scorrier？ aren't you well； sir？〃
He shouted back： 〃Quite sane； I thank you。。。。
The Naples 〃express〃 rolled round the outskirts of the town。
Vesuvius shone in the sun； uncrowned by smoke。 But even as Scorrier
looked； a white puff went soaring up。 It was the footnote to his
memories。
February 1901。
End