His
annoyance became so acute that he tramped nervously about the floor,
muttering maledictions.
It passed. A cup of tea brought him to his right mind, and he no
longer saw the event in such exaggerated colours. But he was glad of
his decision to spend the evening alone.
His father's letter had come at the right moment; in some degree it
allayed the worry caused by his brother Daniel's talk this morning.
Jerome Otway wrote, as usual, briefly, on the large letter-paper he
always used; his bold hand, full of a certain character, demanded
space. He began by congratulating Piers on the completion of his
one-and-twentieth year. "I am late, but had not forgotten the day;
it costs me an effort to put pen to paper, as you know." Proceeding,
he informed his son that a sum of money, a few hundred pounds, had
become payable to him on the attainment of his majority. "It was
your mother's, and she wished you to have it. A man of law will
communicate with you about the matter. Speak of it to me, or not, as
you prefer. If you wish it, I will advise; if you wish it not, I
will keep silence." There followed a few words about the beauty of
spring in the moorland; then: "Your ordeal approaches. An absurdity,
I fear, but the wisdom of our day will have it thus. I wish you
success. If you fall short of your hopes, come to me and we will
talk once more. Befall what may, I am to the end your father who
wishes you well.
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