



Produced by Charles Aldarondo.  HTML version by Al Haines.









THE CROWN OF LIFE


by

George Gissing



CHAPTER I


Amid the throng of suburban arrivals volleyed forth from Waterloo
Station on a May morning in the year '86, moved a slim, dark,
absent-looking young man of one-and-twenty, whose name was Piers Otway.
In regard to costume--blameless silk hat, and dark morning coat with
lighter trousers--the City would not have disowned him, but he had not
the City countenance. The rush for omnibus seats left him unconcerned;
clear of the railway station, he walked at a moderate pace, his eyes
mostly on the ground; he crossed the foot-bridge to Charing Cross, and
steadily made his way into the Haymarket, where his progress was
arrested by a picture shop.

A window hung with engravings, mostly after pictures of the day; some
of them very large, and attractive to a passing glance. One or two
admirable landscapes offered solace to the street-wearied imagination,
but upon these Piers Otway did not fix his eye; it was drawn
irresistibly to the faces and forms of beautiful women set forth with
varied allurement. Some great lady of the passing time lounged in
exquisite array amid luxurious furniture lightly suggested; the faint
smile of her flattered loveliness hovered about the gazer; the subtle
perfume of her presence touched his nerves; the greys of her complexion
transmuted themselves through the current of his blood into life's
carnation; whilst he dreamed upon her lips, his breath was caught, as
though of a sudden she had smiled for him, and for him alone. Near to
her was a maiden of Hellas, resting upon a marble seat, her eyes bent
towards some AEgean isle; the translucent robe clung about her perfect
body; her breast was warm against the white stone; the mazes of her
woven hair shone with unguent. The gazer lost himself in memories of
epic and idyll, warming through worship to desire. Then his look
strayed to the next engraving; a peasant girl, consummate in grace and
strength, supreme in chaste pride, cheek and neck soft-glowing from the
sunny field, eyes revealing the heart at one with nature. Others there
were, women of many worlds, only less beautiful; but by these three the
young man was held bound. He could not satisfy himself with looking and
musing; he could not pluck himself away. An old experience; he always
lingered by the print shops of the Haymarket, and always went on with
troubled blood, with mind rapt above familiar circumstance, dreaming
passionately, making wild forecast of his fate.

At this hour of the morning not many passers had leisure to stand and
gaze; one, however, came to a pause beside Piers Otway, and viewed the
engravings. He was a man considerably older; not so well dressed, but
still, on the strength of externals, entitled to the style of
gentleman; his brown, hard felt hat was entirely respectable, as were
his tan gloves and his boots, but the cut-away coat began to hint at
release from service, and the trousers owed a superficial smartness
merely to being tightly strapped. This man had a not quite agreeable
face; inasmuch as it was smoothly shaven, and exhibited a peculiar
mobility, it might have denoted him an actor; but the actor is wont to
twinkle a good-natured mood which did not appear upon this visage. The
contour was good, and spoke intelligence; the eyes must once have been
charming. It was a face which had lost by the advance of years; which
had hardened where it was soft, and seemed likely to grow harder yet;
for about the lips, as he stood examining these pictures, came a
suggestion of the vice in blood which tends to cruelty. The nostrils
began to expand and to tremble a little; the eyes seemed to project
themselves; the long throat grew longer. Presently, he turned a glance
upon the young man standing near to him, and in that moment his
expression entirely altered.

"Why," he exclaimed, "Piers!"

The other gave a start of astonishment, and at once smiled recognition.

"Daniel! I hadn't looked--I had no idea----" They shook hands, with
graceful cordiality on the elder man's part, with a slightly
embarrassed goodwill on that of the younger. Daniel Otway, whose age
was about eight-and-thirty, stood in the relation of half-brotherhood
to Piers, a relation suggested by no single trait of their visages.
Piers had a dark complexion, a face of the square, emphatic type, and
an eye of shy vivacity; Daniel, with the long, smooth curves of his
countenance and his chestnut hair was, in the common sense, better
looking, and managed his expression with a skill which concealed the
characteristics visible a few moments ago; he bore himself like a suave
man of the world, whereas his brother still betrayed something of the
boy in tone and gesture, something, too, of the student accustomed to
seclusion. Daniel's accent had nothing at all in keeping with a shabby
coat; that of the younger man was less markedly refined, with much more
of individuality.

"You live in London?" inquired Daniel, reading the other's look as if
affectionately.

"No. Out at Ewell--in Surrey."

"Oh yes, I know Ewell. Reading?"

"Yes for the Civil Service. I've come up to lunch with a man who knows
father--Mr. Jacks."

"John Jacks, the M.P.?"

Piers nodded nervously, and the other regarded him with a smile of new
interest.

"But you're very early. Any other engagements?"

"None," said Piers. It