The Fall of the House of Heron (Prologue Science Fiction)

by Eden Phillpotts

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  The Fall of the House of Heron

  BY

  Eden Phillpotts

  a division of F+W Media, Inc.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XVI

  CHAPTER XVII

  Also Available

  Copyright

  CHAPTER I

  THE ardour with which we support a cause, or declare a conviction is often only excelled by our ignorance and inability to find any rational excuse for doing so. Indeed, such a challenge may only act as a fresh incentive to cleave to our opinions at any cost. In the matter of common sense, for example, who doubts his personal possession of this endowment and would strongly resent a shadow cast upon it? Yet how often do we secretly deplore the stupidity of those we love and how frequently must they regret ours? Common sense is in truth the rarest of saving graces — an amalgam of treasures demanding open mind, toleration, patience, goodwill and, above all, a valuation of one’s own significance in the scheme of things, which requires the additional ingredient of humour.

  But, being as we say “made of sense,” the head of the Heron family was never heard to compliment himself thereon and would have been the last man to claim sounder judgment than another. By accident of circumstance and opportunity he had attained to exceptional importance at an age when ample years still promised to enjoy it. An iron-master and the only son of an iron-master, he was born to wealth; but with an outstanding and inherited position in the world of steel, he bettered this handsome start and, during the Great War, served his country to very valuable purpose. His trade had taken him, year after year, from early manhood, to the great central sources throughout Europe, and his knowledge of fellow magnates, together with his reputation, courage and probity created him a tower of strength during the critical years. Automatically his riches expanded with his powers, until victory in the war found him far wealthier than he aspired to be, weary of work and free to pursue his own plan of living on any scale that seemed good to him. He was offered a barony and, for the sake of his eldest son, accepted a baronetcy, then, casting round for an estate to go with this distinction, acquired property in the West Country, and set about to build a lasting home. An ancient manor answered his purpose and he was well content to become lord of it, thus saving large domains from division and extinction. Cliff extended to the Channel southerly and, since an Elizabethan manor house inland did not attract Sir Hector, he built a mansion half a mile from the shore on uplifted ground whence great marine views extended to the horizon of the sea and the promontories of Portland and Start to east and west of it.

  Here, with peace restored and heartily weary of work, the iron-master entered his ideal life of horticulture and sport, setting about the business of endearing himself to Cliff and those who dwelt therein. He loved the West Country and now, concentrating his activities on making the country love him, approached the task with ardour and in due course won a welcome. Sir Hector laughed at the familiar attitude of rural suspicion apt to greet any new-comer, knowing himself competent to dispel local fears and, long before his great new home was ready for him, he found friends. Cliff discovered him generous and just, even forgave him for deserting the old manor house and agreed that the growing mansion, the new home farm, the range of glass-houses and walled gardens were all majestic in themselves and promised a beacon for its future sons and daughters in search of employment.

  Some five years after the Great War’s end, Sir Hector entered his kingdom, and Lady Heron, who had dwelt with him in a dower house two miles distant, set about gathering her enlarged staff. Their three children were completing education at this time and the two boys about to go from Harrow to Cambridge, the girl to a finishing school in France and also destined for a university. There had been a gentle rivalry between their parents when the first-born arrived, for Greta Heron desired the boy to be called “Alfred,” after that monarch, ever her prime hero, while Hector held Michael Faraday his mightiest exemplar. But Alfred won the day and, when a second son arrived, him they called “Faraday”; while the daughter, who came midway was named Greta, after her mother.

  More than ten years were now passed since then and the pattern of life became changed for Sir Hector. His wife was dead and Cliff churchyard the richer for a modest work of art; his own tasks remained unaltered, but his natural good spirits somewhat modified by a loss unexpected and, for a season, crushing. His children had become declared as to character and two of the three abode with him. Alfred, after an undistinguished career as scholar, though winning his “blue” at Rugby football, was now his father’s bailiff and closest companion. Absurdly like Sir Hector physically, with the same great frame, blond colouring and big voice, he shared the paternal warmth and kindness of disposition, but not the intelligence and mental activity of the elder. He loved sport and met his father on that ground. Together they rode to hounds, for while Sir Hector still declared each season to be his last, he persisted yet, being a man of temperate habits and in the enjoyment of very perfect health. His father was Alfred’s god and he steered his life and fixed his convictions by all the iron-master might say or do. It was an attitude that endeared him to Sir Hector with affection far deeper than he could feel either to Greta or Faraday. His elder son supported him beyond their powers and signified far more to him than either.

  Greta had taken her degree at Newnham and gave promise of a scholastic career; but she changed her mind, returned home and, after an unfortunate love affair following her mother’s death, settled at Cliff House to administer his home for her father. A capable and loyal housekeeper — an old servant of high repute — saved her much trouble in that respect and her life was largely devoted to reading and reflections concerning which she seldom spoke. Her father perceived that she was of a moody and introspective mind, yet hoped that she might fall in love again with greater success. Her inhibitions he could not measure, but he respected her brain power and pleasured any ambition she might declare. She had travelled with him as a girl in his working days and seen Vienna, Budapest and Russian and Norwegian cities where his business took him; and still sometimes she wandered in Europe for her own pleasure with college friends. Sir Hector urged her to write, guessing she might find interest and even happiness in detailing her experiences and setting down her thoughts; but Greta told him she could find nothing to say that had not already been better said. She went on her way with banked fires and was popular in Cliff among the folk, but something of an enigma to the sophisticated of her own class.

  Faraday Heron presented great problems for his father. He possessed the brains of the family and was, indeed, greatly gifted from adolescence, manifesting an almost uncanny quality of intellect and steadfast
regard for the future. The boy took charge of his own career from the beginning of it and gave evidence of a bent to science so strong that only the question of final choice remained. Nor did doubt as to that last long: he chose medicine for his immediate profession and not until becoming a qualified physician did the young man reveal his ultimate desires. After a brilliant school career, Faraday took medical degrees and then entered upon active practice, keeping to himself the fact that this was no more than means to an end. Not until he had achieved the distinction of a house-physicianship at his hospital did he explain his great secret purpose and ambition to his father and afforded Sir Hector yet another surprise. The elder had found swiftly enough that in Faraday appeared promise of outstanding accomplishment and he felt gratified at this early evidence of something more than good brains. He welcomed the thought of a scientific son in a profession he revered; but, with a passion for science, Faraday revealed other qualities less agreeable to his family. He was a silent, unsociable type and indifferent to the interests of other people, or the commonplace calls of home and blood. So little, indeed, did these command his attention that, on more than one occasion, his father reminded the lad how he possessed a parent, a brother and a sister whose interests were worthy of consideration, along with further and more extended obligations involving the duty to his fellow-creatures.

  “There are two variations of the scientific mind,” said Sir Hector. “In the one case you find humanist and scientist combined, welcome a noble nature, where love of his fellow-man blends with the genius of a discoverer and the courage of the explorer in uncharted seas of knowledge. Of such was the illustrious philosopher and man of science whose name you are honoured to bear: Michael Faraday and Darwin and Huxley. These rare spirits respected humanity and displayed the finest human emotions, winning love as well as admiration. But another and lesser order who follow science suffer their subject to dominate them to the exclusion of all others, become self-centred, and sacrifice all altruistic ambitions. You must check a tendency that way, my son, and not exalt your ruling passion at the cost of character.”

  Faraday would listen to such admonitions with outward respect, but inner indifference. His heroes were eminent physicists living at that time, but at no period of his own career did he seek the company of others. It was enough for him to read their books, learn of their discoveries and esteem their significance in pursuit of truth. He was cold save to the abstractions of science and, as his sister once told him, loved chemicals better than mankind. For answer he expressed surprise that any respectable mind could hesitate to do so.

  “Infinitely better,” he told her. “The construction of a crystal, for example, is far more beautiful than that of a man, and I know both.”

  “We have consciousness and are fearfully and wonderfully made,” declared Greta, who was at Newnham still in those days.

  “Fearfully, yes,” agreed Faraday, “but there is nothing more wonderful about us than any other mammal. The mammalia are rather a clumsy, faulty order and evolution hasn’t done much for them. A great many things are far more interesting to the biologist than ourselves.”

  He persevered in these opinions and when, on another occasion, Sir Hector told him that he was too lonely and did not see enough of other people outside St. Luke’s hospital, or share in ordinary interests and pleasures, he only answered to the same purpose.

  “Why should I, Father?” he asked. “To be nothing better than a human being oneself is boring enough without making it worse by herding with other human beings. I prefer to live in the realms of science and study phenomena more attractive to me than biology can offer.”

  Yet he had chosen to begin life as a medical man, though, when reminded of that, Faraday found his answer. It appeared at a later time to be recorded when the challenge arose.

  While his elder brother, Alfred, resembled their father in mind and body, the younger and their sister were physically dark and slighter of build. Greta reminded Sir Hector of her mother. She and Faraday had strong, clean-cut faces and at times the girl sparkled into a sort of gipsy beauty; but the young scientist’s face revealed little more animation than his voice, which was beautiful, but pitched in a monotonous key that neither rose nor fell. His features were Greek in their emotionless perfection and his eyes large and luminous, his complexion darker than Greta’s. It might have been expected that these twain would have found much in common, but the young man’s strangely insensitive nature made no greater appeal to his sister than anybody else. He appeared to have outlawed himself from his kind and his teachers in those early years, while agreeing to prophesy great things for him, also were one in the fear that the aloof and inhuman atmosphere which he created would rob him of much enthusiasm for anything but what he might accomplish. At his father’s will on one occasion, when a medical student in London, Faraday went for a week-end to an old metallurgist friend of the elder, who dwelt in a suburb and was anxious to make the lad’s acquaintance; but his father learned afterwards a candid opinion with some dismay though little surprise.

  “My dear Hector,” wrote his ancient acquaintance, “your Faraday came to order. He is an iceberg of a boy — an iceberg like other icebergs, the major part of which continues to be concealed. How brilliant he may be it is impossible to judge, but I felt disposed to light a fire, that I might raise the temperature somewhat during his visit. Do not think I was the cause of these arctic conditions. You know me too well for that. May life thaw him for his own sake and the norm of humanity with whom he must be called to mingle.”

  So it remained to see whether life would prove capable of thawing Faraday Heron.

  In midway years, between the Great War and World War, the young man, now serving his term as house-physician at St. Luke’s, always returned to Cliff for Christmas Day at his father’s wish. The visit was a brief one and Faraday soon vanished again, driving his own motor car to and from Devon; but he cared not for the country and his annual vacation was always spent where scientists might chance to be gathering together. There came another Noel and, for once, the young doctor returned to his family with a purpose. His own ambitions were matured and his future intentions clear, but they demanded some generous co-operation from his father, and he knew the old iron-master well enough to feel small hope of success. Sir Hector disliked surprises and his son designed to spring another that even the season of good will and good cheer might not support. He arrived as usual to find the customary greeting and the family friendship always awaiting him. Things did not change at Cliff and when the folk came to sing their carols by night and the servants enjoyed their Christmas dance, Faraday would play the usual part of onlooker, or fade away to his own room if able to do so without reproof. He went to church with his people on Christmas Day and heard his father read the Lessons. He subscribed to Greta’s charities and listened to Alfred’s adventures in the hunting field. He bore it all quietly; but the Herons knew that his mind was far away. Of his own doings and his great hospital’s prosperity he said nothing; but when a footman came under his observation, he observed that the man was ill and prescribed for him.

  On Boxing night the four of them talked together after dinner, and to talk at home, for Faraday, was generally to reveal differences of opinion from his father. He had not yet broken his surprise, but kept it until the festival was ended as the last thing he would leave behind him before his departure.

  To-night some direct challenge from Sir Hector demanded a reply and, while they sat smoking together in the billiards room and Greta played with Alfred, their father declared doubts on the subject of certain scientific activities in the social world.

  “Nevertheless,” said Faraday, “you wouldn’t deny that the march of science is the march of civilization, Father?”

  “With considerable qualifications,” answered the elder. “More goes to civilization than science, son, and science cannot be permitted to dictate to the world at large. Vast fields of moral conduct lie outside the laboratories of science and you fellows mus
t be prepared to respect those who represent religion and the artists and creators and not claim paramount place for your test tubes and scales and retorts. Reason demands, for the advance of civilization, the union and understanding and co-operation of what I call ‘The great Three’: Religion, Science and Art.”

  His son reflected and a faint smile lightened his face.

  “Good, Father,” he said. “But your three principles must suffer reason to control them. Science is above all things reasonable in the eternal search for truth. Of Art I know nothing and feel no need. Religion in some shape belongs to the very core of our nature and quality — an instinctive thing; but it takes too many shapes and is too protean to find itself running in double harness with science. It demands too much and yields too little.”

  “Why should it yield to anything or anybody?” asked Sir Hector. “It is for the heart and soul of man to yield to the principles of religion.”

  His son answered without emotion.

  “There are all manner of life-saving appliances on an ocean liner, just as there are all manner of soul-saving appliances for those who believe they have a soul to save, on their voyage ashore. But all these expedients are subject to evolution and gradually become modified, or bettered if they are to persist. Faiths come and go and, while they accommodate themselves to the law of eternal change, they win their measure of devotion; but if they cannot change, or reach a composition with truth they perish and every form of religion founded in the supernatural must perish soon or late. Christianity has fought science from the beginning, and our ultimate victory results from no opposition to religious principles. We recognize the need for faith and are only concerned that it should be cleared from the jungles of myth and legend and become a more stable guide to conduct. Faith must be founded on tenets of truth acceptable to human reason. Our knowledge of Nature increases, but our standards of reality lag far behind, and we shall not make any substantial advance in that direction while our religious creeds only agree and unite in one thing: to quarrel mortally. Faiths have fought each other since the beginning and no more hideous warfare is yet recorded by history; but a time may come when science will do more for religion than ever religion has done for science, Father, and free it from those superstitions which make a winding sheet for all of them soon or late.”