“Get the Castle if you possibly can,” were her words as they parted.  “I have set my heart on the Castle.”

“So have I,” said Piers, avoiding her look.

And Mrs. Borisoff laughed.

CHAPTER XXXIII

Once in the two years’ interval he had paid a short visit to England.  He came on disagreeable business—­to see his brother Daniel, who had fallen into the hands of the police on an infamous charge, and only by the exertions of clever counsel (feed by Piers) received the benefit of a doubt and escaped punishment.  Daniel had already written him several begging letters, and, when detected in what looked like crime, declared that poverty and ill-health were his excuse.  He was a broken man.  Surmising his hidden life, Piers wondered at the pass a man can be brought to, in our society, by his primitive instincts; instincts which may lead, when they are impetuous, either to grimiest degradation or loftiest attainment.  To save him, if possible, from the worst extremities, Piers granted him a certain small income, to be paid weekly, and therewith bade him final adieu.

The firm of Moncharmont & Co. grew in moderate prosperity.  Its London representative was a far better man, from the commercial point of view, than Piers Otway, and on visiting the new offices—­ which he did very soon after reaching London, in the spring of 1894 —­Piers marvelled how the enterprise had escaped shipwreck during those twelve months which were so black in his memory with storm and stress.  The worst twelve month of his life!—­with the possible exception of that which he spent part at Ewell, part at Odessa.

Since, he had sailed in no smooth water; had seen no haven.  But at least he sailed onward, which gave him courage.  Was courage to be now illumined with hope?  He tried to keep that thought away from him; he durst not foster it.  Among the papers he brought with him to England was a letter, which, having laid it aside, he never dared to open again.  He knew it by heart—­unfortunately for his peace.

He returned to another London than that he had known, a London which smiled welcome.  It was his duty, no less than his pleasure, to call upon certain people for whom he had letters of introduction from friends in Russia, and their doors opened wide to him.  Upon formalities followed kindness; the season was beginning, and at his modest lodgings arrived cards, notes, bidding to ceremonies greater and less; one or two of these summonses bore names which might have stirred envy in the sons of fashion.

Solus feci!  He allowed himself a little pride.  His doing, it was true, had as yet been nothing much to the eye of the world; but he had made friends under circumstances not very favourable, friends among the intelligent and the powerful.  That gift, it seemed, was his, if no other—­the ability to make himself liked, respected.  He, by law the son of nobody, had begun to approve himself true son of the father he loved and honoured.