He paused again; but this time Philip did not speak or move. There was something so pitiful as well as painful in this confession that he was dumb.
‘They—father, mother, sister—all died before I had broken down the first barrier between me and fortune. I shed no tears: each death in poverty hardened me more and more.... It was—your mother who enabled me to break down the first barrier’——
‘Ah, I am glad of that,’ exclaimed the son with a burst of happy relief.
‘Wait. I did not know what love was: I did not love her.’ (Philip started, but remained silent.) ‘She had money: I married her for it. She did not love me; but she had quarrelled with the man she did love, and accepted me in her mad chagrin. We understood each other, and I was content—she was not. From the day of her marriage to the day of her death, her life was one weary lamentation that in her moment of passion I had crossed her path—a life of self-scourging and regret for the man she loved. I saw it, and knew it; but I did not know what love was, and I could not pity it. I did know something of hate; and I believed she hated me.... Had she only cared for me a little, it might have been different,’ he added in a lower voice, and as if speaking to himself.
‘You wrong her, father, you wrong her,’ said Philip in a husky, tremulous voice.
‘It may be; but I did not know then, what I understand too well now. A pity, a pity—for it might have been so different! As it was, her brother turned from her too, and would not forgive her. He hated me—he hates me: because the lover she had deserted was his close friend; and whilst I prospered, his friend failed. In a few years the man had lost everything he possessed, and died—some say by his own hand: killed by me, as your mother seemed to believe, and as Austin Shield does believe. I had ruined his life, he said, and I was as much responsible for his death, as if I had given him poison or shot him. These were the last words Shield ever spoke to me.’
‘It must have been in mere passion. He cannot believe that now, or he would not send for me.’
‘I do not know. I went on my way, unheeding his words, and would have forgotten him, but for your mother’s grief. I had no home-life; but I did my duty, as it seemed to me. The money which had been brought to me was repaid with compound interest: all that money could buy was at your mother’s command: all that she could wish for her children was supplied to them, and you all seemed satisfied. But I was not with you—you were hushed and lifeless in my presence, and seemed only happy in my absence. Sitting in this room, I have heard your voices raised in gladness, and if I passed in amongst you, seeking for that strange something which the Demon Wealth with all his gold could not supply, it seemed as if the Demon sat upon my shoulder, frightening you and rendering you speechless. So I lived alone, although so near you, and my Familiar became kinder and kinder to me, until I wearied of him. I sought I did not know what, and could not find it.’
He stopped, breathing heavily, as if suppressing his emotion.
‘Oh, if you had only spoken to us as you are speaking to me now, father!’ cried Philip, so earnestly that it sounded like a reproach.