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