Immediately upon his uncle's departure, Godwin disappeared; Mrs. Peak
caught only a glimpse of him as he went by the parlour window. In a
short time Oliver came home, and, having learned what had happened,
joined his mother and sister in a dull, intermittent conversation on
the subject of Godwin's future difficulties.
'He won't go back to Whitelaw,' declared the lad. 'He said he wouldn't.'
'People must be above such false shame,' was Charlotte's opinion. 'I
can't see that it will make the slightest difference in his position or
his prospects.'
Whereupon her mother's patience gave way.
'Don't talk such nonsense, Charlotte! You understand perfectly well how
serious it will be. I never knew anything so cruel.'
'I was never taught,' persisted the girl, with calm obstinacy, 'that
one ought to be ashamed of one's relatives just because they are in a
humble position.'
Oliver brought the tedious discussion to an end by clamouring for
supper. The table was laid, and all were about to sit down when Godwin
presented himself. To the general astonishment, he seemed in excellent
spirits, and ate more heartily than usual. Not a word was spoken of
Uncle Andrew, until Mrs. Peak and her elder son were left alone
together; then Godwin remarked in a tone of satisfied decision:
'Of course, this is the end of my work at Whitelaw. We must make new
plans, mother.'
'But how can we, dear? What will Lady Whitelaw say?'
'I have to think it out yet. In a day or two I shall very likely write
a letter to Lady Whitelaw. There's no need, you know, to go talking
about this in Twybridge. Just leave it to me, will you?'
'It's not a subject I care to talk about, you may be sure. But I do
hope you won't do anything rash, Godwin.'
'Not I. To tell you the truth, I'm not at all sorry to leave. It was a
mistake that I went in for the Arts course--Greek, and Latin, and so
on, you know; I ought to have stuck to science. I shall go back to it
now. Don't be afraid. I'll make a position for myself before long. I'll
repay all you have spent on me.'
To this conclusion had he come. The process of mind was favoured by his
defeat in all the Arts subjects; in that direction he could see only
the triumphant Chilvers, a figure which disgusted him with Greeks,
Romans, and all the ways of literature. As to his future efforts he was
by no means clear, but it eased him greatly to have cast off a burden
of doubt; his theorising intellect loved the sensation of life thrown
open to new, however vague, possibilities. At present he was convinced
that Andrew Peak had done him a service. In this there was an
indication of moral cowardice, such as commonly connects itself with
intense pride of individuality. He desired to shirk the combat with
Chilvers, and welcomed as an excuse for doing so the shame which
another temper would have stubbornly defied.
Now he would abandon his B.A. examination,--a clear saving of money.
Presently it might suit him to take the B.Sc. instead; time enough to
think of that. Had he but pursued the Science course from the first,
who at Whitelaw could have come out ahead of him? He had wasted a
couple of years which might have been most profitably applied: by this
time he might have been ready to obtain a position as demonstrator in
some laboratory, on his way perhaps to a professorship. How had he thus
been led astray? Not only had his boyish instincts moved strongly
towards science, but was not the tendency of the age in the same
direction? Buckland Warricombe, who habitually declaimed against
classical study, was perfectly right; the world had learned all it
could from those hoary teachers, and must now turn to Nature. On every
hand, the future was with students of the laws of matter. Often, it was
true, he had been tempted by the thought of a literary career; he had
written in verse and prose, but with small success. An attempt to
compose the Prize Poem was soon abandoned in discouragement; the essay
he sent in had not been mentioned. These honours had fallen to
Earwaker, with whom it was not easy to compete on such ground. No, he
was not born a man of letters. But in science, granted fair
opportunity, he might make a name. He might, and he would!
On the morrow, splendour of sunshine drew him forth to some distance
from the town. He went along the lanes singing; now it was holiday with
him, and for the first time he could enjoy the broad golden daylight,
the genial warmth. In a hollow of grassy fields, where he least
expected to encounter an acquaintance, it was his chance to come upon
Christian Moxey, stretched at full length in the company of nibbling
sheep. Since the dinner at Mr. Moxey's, he had neither seen nor heard
of Christian, who, it seemed probable, was back at his work in
Rotherhithe. As their looks met, both laughed.
'I won't get up,' said Christian; 'the effort would be too great. Sit
down and let us have a talk.'
'I disturb your thoughts,' answered Godwin.
'A most welcome disturbance; they weren't very pleasant just then. In
fact, I have come as far as this in the hope of escaping them. I'm not
much of a walker, are you?'
'Well, yes, I enjoy a good walk.'
'You are of an energetic type,' said Christian, musingly. 'You will do
something in life. When do you go up for Honours?'
'I have decided not to go in at all.'
'Indeed; I'm sorry to hear that.'
'I have half made up my mind not to return to Whitelaw.'
Observing his hearer's look of surprise, Godwin asked himself whether
it signified a knowledge of his footing at Whitelaw. The possibility of
this galled him; but it was such a great step to have declared, as it
were in public, an intention of freeing himself, that he was able to
talk on with something of aggressive confidence.
'I think I shall go in for some practical work of a scientific kind. It
was a mistake for me to pursue the Arts course.'
Christian looked at him earnestly.
'Are you sure of that?'
'Yes, I feel sure of it.'
There was silence. Christian beat the ground with his stick.
'Your state of mind, then,' he said at length, 'is more like my own
than I imagined. I, too, have wavered for a long time between
literature and science, and now at last I have quite
decided--quite--that scientific study is the only safe line for me. The
fact is, a man must concentrate himself. Not only for the sake of
practical success, but--well, for his own sake.'
He spoke lazily, dreamily, propped upon his elbow, seeming to watch the
sheep which panted at a few yards from him.
'I have no right,' he pursued, with a shadow of kindly anxiety on his
features, 'to offer you advice, but--well, if you will let me insist on
what I have learned from my own experience. There's nothing like having
a special line of work and sticking to it vigorously. I, unfortunately,
shall never do anything of any account,--but I know so well the
conflict between diverging tastes. It has played the deuce with me, in
all sorts of ways. At Zurich I utterly wasted my time, and I've done no
better since I came back to England. Don't think me presumptuous. I
only mean--well, it is so important to--to go ahead in one line.'
His air of laughing apology was very pleasant. Godwin felt his heart
open to the kind fellow.
'No one needs the advice more than I,' he replied. 'I am going back to
the line I took naturally when I first began to study at all.'
'But why leave Whitelaw?' asked Christian, gently.
'Because I dislike it--I can't tell you why.'
With ready tact Moxey led away from a subject which he saw was painful.
'Of course there are many other places where one can study just as
well.'
'Do you know anything of the School of Mines in London?' Godwin
inquired, abruptly.
'I worked there myself for a short time.'
'Then you could tell me about the--the fees, and so on?'
Christian readily gave the desired information, and the listener mused
over it.
'Have you any friends in London?' Moxey asked, at length.
'No. But I don't think that matters. I shall work all the harder.'
'Perhaps so,' said the other, with some hesitation. And he added
thoughtfully, 'It depends on one's temperament. Doesn't answer to be
too much alone--I speak for myself at all events. I know very few
people in London--very few that I care anything about. That, in fact,
is one reason why I am staying here longer than I intended.' He seemed
to speak rather to himself than to Godwin; the half-smile on his lips
expressed a wish to disclose circumstances and motives which were yet
hardly a suitable topic in a dialogue such as this. 'I like the
atmosphere of a--of a comfortable home. No doubt I should get on
better--with things in general--if I had a home of my own. I live in
lodgings, you know; my sister lives with friends. Of course one has a
sense of freedom, but then'--
His voice murmured off into silence, and again he beat the ground with
his cane. Godwin was strongly interested in this broken revelation; he
found it difficult to understand Moxey's yearning for domesticity, all
his own impulses leading towards quite a contrary ideal. To him, life
in London lodgings made rich promise; that indeed would be freedom, and
full of all manner of high possibilities!
Each communed with his thoughts. Happening to glance at Christian,
Godwin was struck with the graceful attitude in which the young man
reclined; he himself squatted awkwardly on the grass, unable to abandon
himself in natural repose, even as he found it impossible to talk with
the ease of unconsciousness. The contrast, too, between his garments,
his boots, and those of the Londoner was painful enough to him. Without
being a dandy, Christian, it was evident, gave a good deal of thought
to costume. That kind of thing had always excited Godwin's contempt,
but now he confessed himself envious; doubtless, to be well dressed was
a great step towards the finished ease of what is called a gentlemanly
demeanour, which he knew he was very far from having attained.
'Well,' exclaimed Christian, unexpectedly, 'if I can be of ever so
little use to you, pray let me. I must get back to town in a few days,
but you know my address. Write to me, I beg, if you wish for any more
information.'
The talk turned to less difficult topics. Godwin made inquiries about
Zurich, then about Switzerland in general.
'Did you see much of the Alps?'
'Not as a climber sees them. That sort of thing isn't in my way; I
haven't the energy--more's the pity. Would you like to see a lot of
good photographs I brought back? I have them here; brought them to show
the girls.'
In spite of the five Miss Moxeys and Christian's sister, Peak accepted
the invitation to walk back with his companion, and presently they
began to stroll towards Twybridge.
'I have an absurd tendency to dream--to lose myself amid ideals--I
don't quite know how to express it,' Christian resumed, when both had
been silent for some minutes. 'That's why I mean to go in earnestly for
science--as a corrective. Fortunately, I have to work for my living;
otherwise, I should moon my life away--no doubt. My sister has ten
times as much energy--she knows much more than I do already. What a
splendid thing it is to be of an independent character! I had rather be
a self-reliant coal-heaver than a millionaire of uncertain will. My
uncle--there's a man who knows his own mind. I respect those strong
practical natures. Don't be misled by ideals. Make the most of your
circumstances. Don't aim at--but I beg your pardon; I don't know what
right I have to lecture you in this way.' And he broke off with his
pleasant, kind-hearted laugh, colouring a little.
They reached Mr. Moxey's house. In a garden chair on the lawn sat Miss
Janet, occupied with a book. She rose to meet them, shook hands with
Godwin, and said to her cousin:
'The postman has just left a letter for you--forwarded from London.'
'Indeed? I'm going to show Mr. Peak my Swiss photographs. You wouldn't
care to come and help me in the toil of turning them over?'
'O lazy man!'
Her laugh was joyous. Any one less prejudiced than Peak would have
recognised the beauty which transformed her homely features as she met
Christian's look.
On the hall table lay the letter of which Janet had spoken. Christian
took it up, and Godwin, happening at that moment to observe him, caught
the tremor of a sudden emotion on lip and eyelid. Instantly, prompted
by he knew not what perception, he turned his gaze to Janet, and in
time to see that she also was aware of her cousin's strong interest in
the letter, which was at once put away in Christian's pocket.
They passed into the sitting-room, where a large portfolio stood
against the back of a chair. The half-hour which ensued was to Godwin a
time of uneasiness. His pleasure in the photographs suffered
disturbance from a subtle stress on his nerves, due to something
indeterminable in the situation, of which he formed a part. Janet's
merry humour seemed to be subdued. Christian was obviously forcing
himself to entertain the guest whilst his thoughts were elsewhere. As
soon as possible, Godwin rose to depart. He was just saying good-bye to
Janet, when Marcella entered the room. She stood still, and Christian
said, hurriedly:
'It's possible, Marcella, that Mr. Peak will be coming to London before
long. We may have the pleasure of seeing him there.'
'You will be glad, I'm sure,' answered his sister. Then, as if forcing
herself to address Peak directly, she faced to him and added, 'It isn't
easy to find sympathetic companions.'
'I, at all events, haven't found very many,' Godwin replied, meaning to
speak in a tone only half-serious, but conscious at once that he had
made what might seem an appeal for sympathy. Thereupon his pride
revolted, and in a moment drove him from the room.
Christian followed, and at the front door shook hands with him. Nervous
impatience was unmistakable in the young man's look and words. Again
Godwin speculated on the meaning of this, and wondered, in connection
therewith, what were the characteristics which Marcella Moxey looked
for in a 'sympathetic companion'.