CHAPTER V

In the course of the afternoon, Godwin sat down to pen the rough draft

of a letter to Lady Whitelaw. When the first difficulties were

surmounted, he wrote rapidly, and at considerable length. It was not

easy, at his time of life, to compress into the limits of an ordinary

epistle all he wished to say to the widow of his benefactor. His

purpose was, with all possible respect yet as firmly as might be, to

inform Lady Whitelaw that he could not spend the last of his proposed

three years at the College in Kingsmill, and furthermore to request of

her that she would permit his using the promised sum of money as a

student at the Royal School of Mines. This had to be done without

confession of the reasons for his change of plan; he could not even

hint at them. Yet cause must be assigned, and the best form of words he

could excogitate ran thus: 'Family circumstances render it

desirable--almost necessary--that I should spend the next twelve months

in London. In spite of sincere reluctance to leave Whitelaw College, I

am compelled to take this step.' The lady must interpret that as best

she might. Very hard indeed was the task of begging a continuance of

her bounty under these changed conditions. Could he but have resigned

the money, all had been well; his tone might then have been dignified

without effort. But such disinterestedness he could not afford. His

mother might grant him money enough barely to live upon until he

discovered means of support--for his education she was unable to pay.

After more than an hour's work he had moderately satisfied himself;

indeed, several portions of the letter struck him as well composed, and

he felt that they must heighten the reader's interest in him. With an

author's pleasure (though at the same time with much uneasiness) he

perused the appeal again and again.

Late in the evening, when he was alone with his mother, he told her

what he had done, and read the letter for her opinion. Mrs. Peak was

gravely troubled.

'Lady Whitelaw will ask her sisters for an explanation,' she said.

'I have thought of that,' Godwin replied, with the confident, cheerful

air he had assumed from the first. 'If the Miss Lumbs go to aunt, she

must be prepared to put them off in some way. But look here, mother,

when uncle has opened his shop, it's pretty certain that some one or

other will hit on the true explanation of my disappearance. Let them.

Then Lady Whitelaw will understand and forgive me.'

After much musing, the mother ventured a timid question, the result of

her anxieties rather than of her judgment on the point at issue.

'Godwin, dear, are you quite sure that his shop would make so much

difference?'

The young man gave a passionate start.

'What! To have the fellows going there to eat, and hearing his talk,

and--? Not for a day could I bear it! Not for an hour!'

He was red with anticipated shame, and his voice shook with indignation

at the suggested martyrdom. Mrs. Peak dried a tear.

'You would be so alone in London, Godwin.'

'Not a bit of it. Young Mr. Moxey will be a useful friend, I am

convinced he will. To tell you the whole truth, I aim at getting a

place at the works in Rotherhithe, where he no doubt has influence. You

see, mother, I might manage it even before the end of the year. Our Mr.

Moxey will be disposed to help me with his recommendation.'

'But, my dear, wouldn't it come to the same thing, then, if you went

back to Mr. Moxey's?'

He made a gesture of impatience.

'No, no, no! I couldn't live at Twybridge. I have my way to make,

mother, and the place for that is London. You know I am ambitious.

Trust me for a year or two, and see the result. I depend upon your help

in this whole affair. Don't refuse it me. I have done with Whitelaw,

and I have done with Twybridge: now comes London. You can't regard me

as a boy, you know.'

'No--but'--

'But me no buts!' he cried, laughing excitedly. 'The thing is settled.

As soon as possible in the morning I post this letter. I feel it will

be successful. See aunt to-morrow, and get her support. Mind that

Charlotte and Oliver don't talk to people. If you all use discretion,

there's no need for any curiosity to be excited.'

When Godwin had taken a resolve, there was no domestic influence strong

enough to prevent his acting upon it. Mrs. Peak's ignorance of the

world, her mild passivity, and the faith she had in her son's

intellectual resources, made her useless as a counsellor, and from no

one else--now that Mr. Gunnery was dead--would the young man have

dreamt of seeking guidance. Whatever Lady Whitelaw's reply, he had made

up his mind to go to London. Should his subsidy be refused, then he

would live on what his mother could allow him until--probably with the

aid of Christian Moxey--he might obtain a salaried position. The letter

was despatched, and with feverish impatience he awaited a reply.

Nine days passed, and he heard nothing. Half that delay sufficed to

bring out all the self-tormenting capacities of a nature such as his.

To his mother's conjectural explanations he could lend no ear.

Doubtless Lady Whitelaw (against whom, for subtle reasons, he was

already prejudiced) had taken offence; either she would not reply at

all, or presently there would come a few lines of polite displeasure,

intimating her disinclination to aid his project. He silently raged

against 'the woman'. Her neglect was insolence. Had she not delicacy

enough to divine the anxiety natural to one in his dependent position?

Did she take him for an every-day writer of mendicant appeals? His

pride fed upon the outrage and became fierce.

Then arrived a small glossy envelope, containing a tiny sheet of very

thick note-paper, whereon it was written that Lady Whitelaw regretted

her tardiness in replying to him (caused by her absence from home), and

hoped he would be able to call upon her, at ten o'clock next morning,

at the house of her sisters, the Misses Lumb, where she was stopping

for a day--she remained his sincerely.

Having duly contorted this note into all manner of painful meanings,

Godwin occupied an hour in making himself presentable (scornful that he

should deem such trouble necessary), and with furiously beating heart

set out to walk through Twybridge. Arrived at the house, he was led by

a servant into the front room on the ground floor, where Lady Whitelaw,

alone, sat reading a newspaper. Her features were of a very common

order, and nothing distinguished her from middle-aged women of average

refinement; she had chubby hands, rather broad shoulders, and no

visible waist. The scrutiny she bestowed upon her visitor was close. To

Godwin's feelings it too much resembled that with which she would have

received an applicant for the post of footman. Yet her smile was

friendly enough, and no lack of civility appeared in the repetition of

her excuses for having replied so late.

'Let us talk about this,' she began, when Godwin was uneasily seated.

(She spoke with an excess of precision, as though it had at one time

been needful for her to premeditate polished phrases.) 'I am very sorry

you should have to think of quitting the College; very sorry indeed.

You are one of the students who do honour to the institution.'

This was pleasant, and Godwin felt a regret of the constraint that was

upon him. In his endeavour not to display a purring smile, he looked

grim, as if the compliment were beneath his notice.

'Pray don't think,' she pursued, 'that I wish you to speak more fully

about the private circumstances you refer to in your letter. But do let

me ask you: Is your decision final? Are you sure that when the

vacations are over you will see things just as you do now?'

'I am quite sure of it,' he replied.

The emphasis was merely natural to him. He could not so govern his

voice as to convey the respectful regret which at this moment he felt.

A younger lady, one who had heightened the charm of her compliment with

subtle harmony of tones and strongly feminine gaze, would perhaps have

elicited from him a free confession. Gratitude and admiration would

have made him capable of such frankness. But in the face of this

newspaper-reading woman (yes, he had unaccountably felt it jar upon him

that a lady should be reading a newspaper), under her matronly smile,

he could do no more than plump out his 'quite sure'. To Lady Whitelaw

it sounded altogether too curt; she was conscious of her position as

patroness, and had in fact thought it likely that the young man would

be disposed to gratify her curiosity in some measure.

'I can only say that I am sorry to hear it,' fell from her tightened

lips, after a moment's pause.

Instantly Godwin's pride expelled the softer emotion. He pressed hard

with his feet upon the floor, every nerve in his body tense with that

distressing passion peculiar to the shyly arrogant. Regard him, and you

had imagined he was submitting to rebuke for an offence he could not

deny.

Lady Whitelaw waited. A minute, almost, and Peak gave no sign of

opening his mouth.

'It is certainly much to be regretted,' she said at length, coolly. 'Of

course, I don't know what prospects you may have in London, but, if you

had remained at the College, something advantageous would no doubt have

offered before long.'

There went small tact to the wording of this admonition. Impossible for

Lady Whitelaw to understand the complexities of a character such as

Godwin's, even had she enjoyed opportunities of studying it; but many a

woman of the world would have directed herself more cautiously after

reading that letter of his. Peak's impulse was to thank her for the

past, and declare that henceforth he would dispense with aid; only the

choking in his throat obstructed some such utterance. He resented

profoundly her supposition (natural enough) that his chief aim was to

establish himself in a self-supporting career. What? Am I to be

grateful for a mere chance of earning my living? Have I not shown that

I am capable of something more than the ordinary lot in life? From the

heights of her assured independence, does she look down upon me as a

young man seeking a 'place'? He was filled with wrath, and all because

a good, commonplace woman could not divine that he dreamt of European

fame.

'I am very sorry that I can't take that into account,' he managed to

say. 'I wish to give this next year exclusively to scientific study,

and after that I shall see what course is open to me.'

He was not of the men who can benefit by patronage, and be simply

grateful for it. His position was a false one: to be begging with

awkward show of thankfulness for a benefaction which in his heart he

detested. He knew himself for an undesigning hypocrite, and felt that

he might as well have been a rascal complete. Gratitude! No man capable

of it in fuller measure than he; but not to such persons as Lady

Whitelaw. Before old Sir Job he could more easily have bowed himself.

But this woman represented the superiority of mere brute wealth,

against which his soul rebelled.

There was another disagreeable silence, during which Lady Whitelaw

commented on her protégé very much as Mrs. Warricombe had done.

'Will you allow me to ask,' she said at length, with cold politeness,

'whether you have acquaintances in London?'

'Yes. I know some one who studied at the School of Mines.'

'Well, Mr. Peak, I see that your mind is made up. And no doubt you are

the best judge of your private circumstances. I must ask you to let me

think over the matter for a day or two. I will write to you.'

'And I to you,' thought Godwin; a resolve which enabled him to rise

with something like a conventional smile, and thus put an end to a very

brief and quite unsatisfactory interview.

He strode homewards in a state of feverish excitement. His own

behaviour had been wretchedly clownish; he was only too well aware of

that. He ought to have put aside all the grosser aspects of his case,

and have exhibited the purely intellectual motives which made such a

change as he purposed seem desirable to him. That would have been to

act with dignity; that would have been the very best form of gratitude

for the kindness he had received. But no, his accursed lack of

self-possession had ruined all. 'The woman was now offended in good

earnest; he saw it in her face at parting. The fault was admittedly on

his side, but what right had she to talk about 'something

advantageous'? She would write to him, to be sure; that meant, she

could not yet make up her mind whether to grant the money or not. Pluto

take the money! Long before sitting down to her glossy note-paper she

should have received a letter from _him_.

Composed already. Now he was up in the garret bedroom, scribbling as

fast as pen could fly over paper. He had been guilty of a mistake--so

ran the epistle; having decided to leave Whitelaw, he ought never to

have requested a continuance of the pension. He begged Lady Whitelaw

would forgive this thoughtless impropriety; she had made him understand

the full extent of his error. Of course he could not accept anything

more from her. As for the past, it would be idle for him to attempt an

expression of his indebtedness. But for Sir Job's munificence, he must

now have been struggling to complete a radically imperfect

education,--'instead of going into the world to make a place for myself

among the scientific investigators of our time'.

One's claims to respectful treatment must be put forward unmistakably,

especially in dealing with such people as Lady Whitelaw. Now, perhaps,

she would understand what his reserve concealed. The satisfaction of

declining further assistance was enormous. He read his letter several

times aloud. This was the great style; he could imagine this incident

forming a landmark in the biography of a notable man. Now for a fair

copy, and in a hand, mind you, that gave no hint of his care for

caligraphic seemliness: bold, forthright.

The letter in his pocket, he went downstairs. His mother had been out

all the morning; now she was just returned, and Godwin saw trouble on

her forehead. Anxiously she inquired concerning the result of his

interview.

Now that it was necessary to make an intelligible report of what had

happened, Godwin found his tongue falter. How could he convey to

another the intangible sense of wounded dignity which had impelled his

pen? Instead of producing the letter with a flourish, he answered with

affected carelessness:

'I am to hear in a day or two.'

'Did she seem to take it--in the right way?'

'She evidently thinks of me too much as a schoolboy.'

And he began to pace the room. Mrs. Peak sat still, with an air of

anxious brooding.

'You don't think she will refuse, Godwin?' fell from her presently.

His hand closed on the letter.

'Why? Well, in that case I should go to London and find some occupation

as soon as possible. You could still let me have the same money as

before?'

'Yes.'

It was said absently, and did not satisfy Godwin. In the course of the

conversation it appeared that Mrs. Peak had that morning been to see

the legal friend who looked after her small concerns, and though she

would not admit that she had any special cause for uneasiness, her son

recalled similar occasions when an interview with Mr. Dutch had been

followed by several days' gloom. The truth was that Mrs Peak could not

live strictly within the income at her disposal, and on being from time

to time reminded of this, she was oppressed by passing worry. If Godwin

and Oliver 'got on well,' things would come all right in the end, but

in the meantime she could not face additional expenditure. Godwin did

not like to be reminded of the razor's edge on which the affairs of the

household were balanced. At present it brought about a very sudden

change in his state of mind; he went upstairs again, and sat with the

letter before him, sunk in misery. The reaction had given him a

headache.

A fortnight, and no word from Lady Whitelaw. But neither was Godwin's

letter posted.

Was he at liberty to indulge the self-respect which urged him to write?

In a moment of heated confidence it was all very well to talk of

'getting some occupation' in London, but he knew that this might prove

no easy matter. A year's work at the School of Mines would decidedly

facilitate his endeavour; and, seeing that his mother's peace depended

upon his being speedily self-supporting, was it not a form of

selfishness to reject help from one who could well afford it? From a

distance, he regarded Lady Whitelaw with more charity; a longer talk

with her might have led to better mutual apprehension. And, after all,

it was not she but her husband to whom he would stand indebted. Sir Job

was a very kind-hearted old fellow; he had meant thoroughly well. Why,

clearly, the bestower of this third year's allowance would not be Lady

Whitelaw at all.

If it were granted. Godwin began to suffer a troublesome misgiving;

perchance he had gone too far, and was now, in fact, abandoned to his

own resources.

Three weeks. Then came the expected letter, and, as he opened it, his

heart leaped at the sight of a cheque--talisman of unrivalled power

over the emotions of the moneyless! Lady Whitelaw wrote briefly and

formally. Having considered Godwin's request, she had no reason for

doubting that he would make a good use of the proposed year at the

School of Mines, and accordingly she sent him the sum which Sir Job had

intended for his final session at Whitelaw College. She wished him all

benefit from his studies, and prosperity henceforth.

Rejoicing, though shame-smitten, Godwin exhibited this remittance to

his mother, from whom it drew a deep sigh of relief. And forthwith he

sat down to write quite a different letter from that which still lay in

his private drawer,--a letter which he strove to make the justification

(to his own mind) of this descent to humility. At considerable length

he dwelt upon the change of tastes of which he had been conscious

lately, and did not fail to make obvious the superiority of his

ambition to all thought of material advancement. He offered his thanks,

and promised to give an account of himself (as in duty bound) at the

close of the twelvemonths' study he was about to undertake: a letter in

which the discerning would have read much sincerity, and some pathos;

after all, not a letter to be ashamed of. Lady Whitelaw would not

understand it; but then, how many people are capable of even faintly

apprehending the phenomena of mental growth?

And now to plan seriously his mode of life in London. With Christian

Moxey he was so slightly acquainted that it was impossible to seek his

advice with regard to lodgings; besides, the lodgings must be of a

character far too modest to come within Mr. Moxey's sphere of

observation. Other acquaintance he had none in the capital, so it was

clear that he must enter boldly upon the unknown world, and find a home

for himself as best he might. Mrs. Peak could offer suggestions as to

likely localities, and this was of course useful help. In the meantime

(for it would be waste of money to go up till near the end of the

holiday season) he made schemes of study and completed his information

concerning the School of Mines. So far from lamenting the interruption

of his promising career at Whitelaw, he persuaded himself that Uncle

Andrew had in truth done him a very good turn: now at length he was

fixed in the right course. The only thing he regretted was losing sight

of his two or three student-friends, especially Earwaker and Buckland

Warricombe. They, to be sure, would soon guess the reason of his

disappearance. Would they join in the laughter certain to be excited by

'Peak's Dining and Refreshment Rooms'? Probably; how could they help

it? Earwaker might be superior to a prejudice of that kind; his own

connections were of humble standing. But Warricombe must wince and

shrug his shoulders. Perhaps even some of the Professors would have

their attention directed to the ludicrous mishap: they were gentlemen,

and, even though they smiled, must certainly sympathise with him.

Wait a little. Whitelaw College should yet remember the student who

seemed to have vanished amid the world's obscure tumult.

Resolved that he was about to turn his back on Twybridge for ever, he

found the conditions of life there quite supportable through this last

month or two; the family reaped benefit from his improved temper. Even

to Mr. Cusse he behaved with modified contempt. Oliver was judicious

enough to suppress his nigger minstrelsy and kindred demonstrations of

spirit in his brother's presence, and Charlotte, though steadily

resentful, did her best to avoid conflict.

Through the Misses Lumb, Godwin's change of purpose had of course

become known to his aunt, who for a time took it ill that these debates

had been concealed from her. When Mrs. Peak, in confidence, apprised

her of the disturbing cause, Miss Cadman's indignation knew no bounds.

What! That low fellow had been allowed to interfere with the progress

of Godwin Peak's education, and not a protest uttered? He should have

been _forbidden_ to establish himself in Kingsmill! Why had they not

taken _her_ into council? She would have faced the man, and have

overawed him; he should have been made to understand the gross

selfishness of his behaviour. Never had she heard of such a monstrous

case--

Godwin spent much time in quiet examination of the cabinets bequeathed

to him by Mr. Gunnery. He used a pound or two of Lady Whitelaw's money

for the purchase of scientific books, and set to work upon them with

freshened zeal. The early morning and late evening were given to

country walks, from which he always returned with brain excited by the

forecast of great achievements.

When the time of his departure approached, he decided to pay a farewell

visit to Mr. Moxey. He chose an hour when the family would probably be

taking their ease in the garden. Three of the ladies were, in fact,

amusing themselves with croquet, while their father, pipe in mouth,

bent over a bed of calceolarias.

'What's this that I hear?' exclaimed Mr. Moxey, as he shook hands. 'You

are not going back to Whitelaw?'

The story had of course spread among all Twybridge people who knew

anything of the Peaks, and it was generally felt that some mystery was

involved. Godwin had reasonably feared that his obligations to Sir Job

Whitelaw must become known; impossible for such a matter to be kept

secret; all who took any interest in the young man had long been

privately acquainted with the facts of his position. Now that

discussion was rife, it would have been prudent in the Misses Lumb to

divulge as much of the truth at they knew, but (in accordance with the

law of natural perversity) they maintained a provoking silence. Hence

whispers and suspicious questions, all wide of the mark. No one had as

yet heard of Andrew Peak, and it seemed but too likely that Lady

Whitelaw, for some good reason, had declined to discharge the expenses

of Godwin's last year at the College.

Mr. Moxey himself felt that an explanation was desirable, but he

listened with his usual friendly air to Godwin's account of the

matter--which of course included no mention of Lady Whitelaw.

'Have you friends in London?' he inquired--like everyone else.

'No. Except that your nephew was so kind as to ask me to call on him,

if ever I happened to be there.'

There passed over Mr. Moxey's countenance a curious shadow. Godwin

noticed it, and at once concluded that the manufacturer condemned

Christian for undue advances to one below his own station. The result

of this surmise was of course a sudden coldness on Godwin's part,

increased when he found that Mr. Moxey turned to another subject,

without a word about his nephew.

In less than ten minutes he offered to take leave, and no one urged him

to stay longer. Mr. Moxey made sober expression of good wishes, and

hoped he might hear that the removal to London had proved

'advantageous'. This word sufficed to convert Godwin's irritation into

wrath; he said an abrupt 'good-evening', raised his hat as awkwardly as

usual, and stalked away.

A few paces from the garden gate, he encountered Miss Janet Moxey, just

coming home from walk or visit. Another grab at his hat, and he would

have passed without a word, but the girl stopped him.

'We hear that you are going to London, Mr. Peak.'

'Yes, I am, Miss Moxey.'

She examined his face, and seemed to hesitate.

'Perhaps you have just been to say good-bye to father?'

'Yes.'

Janet paused, looked away, again turned her eyes upon him.

'You have friends there, I hope?' she ventured.

'No, I have none.'

'My cousin--Christian, you remember--would, I am sure, be very glad to

help you in any way.' Her voice sank, and at the same time she coloured

just perceptibly under Godwin's gaze.

'So he assured me,' was the reply. 'But I must learn to be independent,

Miss Moxey.'

Whereupon Godwin performed a salute, and marched forward.

His boxes were packed, and now he had but one more evening in the old

home. It was made less pleasant than it might have been by a piece of

information upon which he by chance alighted in a newspaper. The result

of the Honours examination for the First B.A. at London had just been

made known, and in two subjects a high place was assigned to Bruno

Leathwaite Chilvers--not the first place happily, but it was

disagreeable enough.

Pooh! what matter? What are academic successes? Ten years hence, which

name would have wider recognition--Bruno Chilvers or Godwin Peak? He

laughed with scornful superiority.

No one was to accompany him to the station; on that he insisted. He had

decided for as early a train as possible, that the dolours of

leave-taking might be abridged. At a quarter to eight the cab drove up

to the door. Out with the trunks labelled 'London'!

'Take care of the cabinets!' were his last words to his mother. 'I may

want to have them sent before long.'

He implied, what he had not ventured to say plainly, that he was

leaving Twybridge for good, and henceforth would not think of it as

home. In these moments of parting, he resented the natural feeling

which brought moisture to his eyes. He hardened himself against the

ties of blood, and kept repeating to himself a phrase in which of late

he had summed his miseries: 'I was born in exile--born in exile.' Now

at length had he set forth on a voyage of discovery, to end perchance

in some unknown land among his spiritual kith and kin.

Part II

CHAPTER I

In the spring of 1882 Mr. Jarvis Runcorn, editor and co-proprietor of

the London _Weekly Post_, was looking about for a young man of

journalistic promise whom he might associate with himself in the

conduct of that long established Radical paper. The tale of his years

warned him that he could not hope to support much longer a burden which

necessarily increased with the growing range and complexity of public

affairs. Hitherto he had been the autocrat of the office, but competing

Sunday papers exacted an alertness, a versatile vigour, such as only

youth can supply; for there was felt to be a danger that the _Weekly

Post_ might lose its prestige in democratic journalism. Thus on the

watch, Mr. Runcorn--a wary man of business, who had gone through many

trades before he reached that of weekly literature--took counsel one

day with a fellow-campaigner, Malkin by name, who owned two or three

country newspapers, and had reaped from them a considerable fortune; in

consequence, his attention was directed to one John Earwaker, then

editing the _Wattleborough Courier_. Mr. Malkin's eldest son had

recently stood as Liberal candidate for Wattleborough, and though

defeated was loud in his praise of the _Courier_; with its editor he

had come to be on terms of intimate friendship. Earwaker was well

acquainted with journalistic life in the provinces. He sprang from a

humble family living at Kingsmill, had studied at Whitelaw College, and

was now but nine-and-twenty: the style of his 'leaders' seemed to mark

him for a wider sphere of work. It was decided to invite him to London,

and the young man readily accepted Mr. Runcorn's proposals. A few

months later he exchanged temporary lodgings for chambers in Staple

Inn, where he surrounded himself with plain furniture and many books.

In personal appearance he had changed a good deal since that prize-day

at Whitelaw when his success as versifier and essayist foretold a

literary career. His figure was no longer ungainly; the big head seemed

to fit better upon the narrow shoulders. He neither walked with

extravagant paces, nor waved his arms like a windmill. A sufficiency of

good food, and the habit of intercourse with active men; had given him

an every-day aspect; perhaps the sole peculiarity he retained from

student times was his hollow chuckle of mirth, a laugh which struggled

vainly for enlargement. He dressed with conventional decency, even

submitting to the chimney-pot hat. His features betrayed connection

with a physically coarse stock; but to converse with him was to

discover the man of original vigour and wide intellectual scope. With

ordinary companions, it was a rare thing for him to speak of his

professional interests. But for his position on _The Weekly Post_ it

would not have been easy to surmise how he stood with regard to

politics, and he appeared to lean as often towards the conservative as

to the revolutionary view of abstract questions.

The newspaper left him time for other literary work, and it was known

to a few people that he wrote with some regularity for reviews, but all

the products of his pen were anonymous. A fact which remained his own

secret was that he provided for the subsistence of his parents, old

people domiciled in a quiet corner of their native Kingsmill. The

strict sobriety of life which is indispensable to success in such a

career as this cost him no effort. He smoked moderately, ate and drank

as little as might be, could keep his health on six hours of sleep, and

for an occasional holiday liked to walk his twenty or thirty miles.

Earwaker was naturally marked for survival among the fittest.

On an evening of June in the year '84, he was interrupted whilst

equipping himself for dinner abroad, by a thunderous rat-tat-tat.

'You must wait, my friend, whoever you are,' he murmured placidly, as

he began to struggle with the stiff button-holes of his shirt.

The knock was repeated, and more violently.

'Now there's only one man of my acquaintance who knocks like that,' he

mused, elaborating the bow of his white tie. 'He, I should imagine, is

in Brazil; but there's no knowing. Perhaps our office is on

fire.--Anon, anon!'

He made haste to don waistcoat and swallow-tail, then crossed his

sitting-room and flung open the door of the chambers.

'Ha! Then it _is_ you! I was reminded of your patient habits.'

A tall man, in a light overcoat and a straw hat of spacious brim, had

seized both his hands, with shouts of excited greeting.

'Confound you! Why did you keep me waiting? I thought I had missed you

for the evening. How the deuce are you? And why the devil have you left

me without a line from you for more than six months?'

Earwaker drew aside, and allowed his tumultuous friend to rush into the

nearest room.

'Why haven't you written?--confound you!' was again vociferated, amid

bursts of boyish laughter. 'Why hasn't anybody written?'

'If everybody was as well informed of your movements as I, I don't

wonder,' replied the journalist. 'Since you left Buenos Ayres, I have

had two letters, each containing twenty words, which gave me to

understand that no answer could by possibility reach you.'

'Humbug! You could have written to half-a-dozen likely places. Did I

really say that? Ha, ha, ha!--Shake hands again, confound you! How do

you do? Do I look well? Have I a tropical colour? I say, what a blessed

thing it was that I got beaten down at Wattleborough! All this time I

should have been sitting in the fog at Westminster. What a time I've

had! What a time I've had!'

It was more than twelve months since Malkin's departure from England.

Though sun and sea had doubtless contributed to his robustness, he must

always have been a fair example of the vigorous Briton. His broad

shoulders, upright bearing, open countenance, and frank resonant voice,

declared a youth passed amid the wholesome conditions which wealth

alone can command. The hearty extravagance of his friendliness was only

possible in a man who has never been humiliated by circumstances, never

restricted in his natural needs of body and mind. Yet he had more than

the heartiness of a contented Englishman. The vivacity which made a

whirlwind about him probably indicated some ancestral mingling with the

blood of a more ardent race. Earwaker examined him with a smile of

pleasure.

'It's unfortunate,' he said, 'that I have to go out to dinner.'

'Dinner! Pooh! we can get dinner anywhere.'

'No doubt, but I am engaged.'

'The devil you are! Who is she? Why didn't you write to tell me?'

'The word has a less specific meaning, my dear fellow,' replied

Earwaker, laughing. 'Only you of all men would have rushed at the wrong

one. I mean to say--if your excitement can take in so common a

fact--that I have promised to dine with some people at Notting Hill,

and mustn't disappoint them.'

Malkin laughed at his mistake, then shouted:

'Notting Hill! Isn't that somewhere near Fulham? We'll take a cab, and

I can drop you on my way.'

'It wouldn't be on the way at all.'

The journalist's quiet explanation was cut short by a petulant outcry.

'Oh, very well! Of course if you want to get rid of me! I should have

thought after sixteen months'--

'Don't be idiotic,' broke in the other. 'There's a strong feminine

element in you, Malkin; that's exactly the kind of talk with which

women drive men to frenzy.'

'Feminine element!' shouted the traveller with hot face. 'What do you

mean? I propose to take a cab with you, and you'--

Earwaker turned away laughing. 'Time and distance are nothing to you,

and I shall be very glad of your company. Come by all means.'

His friend was instantly appeased.

'Don't let me make you late, Earwaker. Must we start this moment? Come

along, then. Can I carry anything for you? Lord! if you could only see

a tropical forest! How do you get on with old Runcorn? _Write_? What

the devil was the use of my writing, when words are powerless to

describe--? What a rum old place this seems, after experiences like

mine; how the deuce can you live here? I say, I've brought you a ton of

curiosities; will make your rooms look like a museum. Confound it! I've

broken my shin against the turn in the staircase! Whew! Who are you

going to dine with?--Moxey? Never heard the name.'

In Holborn a hansom was hailed, and the friends continued their

dialogue as they drove westward. Having at length effervesced, Malkin

began to exchange question and answer with something of the calm

needful for mutual intelligibility.

'And how do you get on with old Runcorn?'

'As well as can be expected where there is not a single subject of

agreement,' Earwaker replied. 'I have hopes of reducing our

circulation.'

'What the deuce do you mean?'

'In other words, of improving the paper. Runcorn is strong on the side

of blackguardism. We had a great fight the other day over a leader

offered by Kenyon,--a true effusion of the political gutter-snipe. I

refused point-blank to let it go in; Runcorn swore that, if I did not,

_I_ should go _out_. I offered to retire that moment. "We must write

for our public," he bellowed. "True," said I, "but not necessarily for

the basest among them. The standard at the best is low enough." "Do you

call yourself a Radical?" "Not if this be Radicalism." "You ought to be

on the _Morning_ instead of the _Weekly Post_." I had my way, and

probably shall end by sending Mr Kenyon back to his tinker's work shop.

If not, I must look out for cleaner occupation.'

'Go it, my boy! Go it!' cried Malkin, slapping his companion's knee

violently. 'Raise the tone! To the devil with mercenary considerations!

Help the proletariat out of its grovelling position.'

They approached the street where Earwaker had to alight. The other

declared his intention of driving on to Fulham in the hope of finding a

friend who lived there.

'But I must see you again. When shall you be home to-night?'

'About half-past eleven, I dare say.'

'Right! If I am free I'll come out to Staple Inn, and we'll talk till

three or four.'

The house at which the journalist presented himself was such as might

be inhabited by a small family of easy means. As he was taking off his

overcoat, a door opened and Christian Moxey came forward to greet him.

They shook hands like men who stood on friendly, but not exactly on

intimate, terms.

'Will you come up to the laboratory for a moment?' said Moxey. 'I

should like to show you something I have under the microscope.'

The room he spoke of was at the top of the house; two chambers had been

made into one, and the fittings were those required by a student of

physical science. Various odours distressed the air. A stranger to the

pursuits represented might have thought that the general disorder and

encumberment indicated great activity, but the experienced eye

perceived at once that no methodical work was here in progress.

Mineralogy, botany, biology, physics, and probably many other sciences,

were suggested by the specimens and apparatus that lay confusedly on

tables, shelves, or floor.

Moxey looked very slim and elegant in his evening costume. When he

touched any object, his long, translucent fingers seemed soft and

sensitive as a girl's. He stepped with peculiar lightness, and the

harmonious notes of his voice were in keeping with these other

characteristics. Ten years had developed in him that graceful languor

which at four-and-twenty was only beginning to get mastery over the

energies of a well-built frame.

'This stuff here,' he said, pointing to an open box full of mud, 'is

silt from down the Thames. It's positively loaded with

_diatomaceoe_,--you remember our talking about them when you were last

here? I am working at the fabric of the valves. Now, just look!'

Earwaker, with attentive smile, followed the demonstration.

'Peak is busy with them as well,' said Christian, presently. 'Has he

told you his theory of their locomotion? Nobody has found out yet how

the little beggars move about. Peak has a bright idea.'

They spent ten minutes in the laboratory, then went downstairs. Two

other guests had meanwhile arrived, and were conversing with the

hostess, Miss Moxey. The shy, awkward, hard-featured girl was grown

into a woman whose face made such declaration of intellect and

character that, after the first moment, one became indifferent to its

lack of feminine beauty. As if with the idea of compensating for

personal disadvantages, she was ornately dressed; her abundant tawny

hair had submitted to much manipulation, and showed the gleam of

jewels; expense and finished craft were manifest in every detail of her

garb. Though slightly round-shouldered, her form was well-proportioned

and suggested natural vigour. Like Christian, she had delicate hands.

'Do you know a distinguished clergyman, named Chilvers?' she asked of

Earwaker, with a laugh, when he had taken a place by her.

'Chilvers?--Is it Bruno Chilvers, I wonder?'

'That's the name!' exclaimed one of the guests, a young married lady of

eager face and fidgety manners.

'Then I knew him at College, but I had no idea he was become

distinguished.'

Miss Moxey again laughed.

'Isn't it amusing, the narrowness of a great clerical reputation? Mrs.

Morton was astonished that I had never heard his name.'

'Please don't think,' appealed the lady, looking anxiously at Earwaker,

'that I consider it shameful not to know him. I only happened to

mention a very ridiculous sermon of his, that was forced upon me by a

distressingly orthodox friend of mine. They tell me, he is one of the

newest lights of the Church.'

Earwaker listened with amusement, and then related anecdotes of Bruno

Chilvers. Whilst he was talking, the door opened to admit another

arrival, and a servant's voice announced 'Mr. Peak'. Miss Moxey rose,

and moved a step or two forward; a change was visible on her

countenance, which had softened and lightened.

'I am very sorry to be late,' said the new-comer, in a dull and rather

husky voice, which made strong contrast with the humorous tones his

entrance had interrupted.

He shook hands in silence with the rest of the company, giving merely a

nod and a smile as reply to some gracious commonplace from Mrs. Morton.

'Has it come to your knowledge,' Earwaker asked of him, 'that Bruno

Chilvers is exciting the orthodox world by his defence of Christianity

against neo-heathenism?'

'Chilvers?--No.'

'Mrs. Morton tells us that all the Church newspapers ring with his

name.'

'Please don't think,' cried Mrs. Morton, with the same anxious look as

before, 'that I read such papers. We never have such a thing in our

house, Mr. Peak. I have only been told about it.'

Peak smiled gravely, but made no other answer. Then he turned to

Earwaker.

'Where is he?'

'I can't say. Perhaps Mrs. Morton'--

'They tell me he is somewhere in Norfolk,' replied the lady. 'I forget

the town.'

A summons to dinner broke off the conversation. Moxey offered his arm

to the one lady present as guest, and Earwaker did the same courtesy to

the hostess. Mr. Morton, a meditative young man who had been listening

with a smile of indifference, sauntered along in the rear with Godwin

Peak.

At the dinner-table Peak was taciturn, and seemed to be musing on a

disagreeable subject. To remarks, he answered briefly and absently. As

Moxey, Earwaker, and Mrs. Morton kept up lively general talk, this

muteness was not much noticed, but when the ladies had left the room,

and Peak still frowned over his wineglass, the journalist rebuked him.

'What's the matter with you? Don't depress us.'

The other laughed impatiently, and emptied his glass.

'Malkin has come back,' pursued Earwaker. 'He burst in upon me, just as

I was leaving home--as mad as a March hare. You must come and meet him

some evening.'

'As you please.'

Returned to the upper room, Peak seated himself in a shadowy corner,

crossed his legs, thrust his hands into his pockets, and leaned back to

regard a picture on the wall opposite. This attitude gave sufficient

proof of the change that had been wrought in him by the years between

nineteen and nine-and-twenty; even in a drawing-room, he could take his

ease unconcernedly. His face would have led one to suppose him an older

man; it was set in an expression of stern, if not morose,

thoughtfulness.

He had small, hard lips, indifferent teeth (seldom exhibited), a

prominent chin, a long neck; his body was of firm, not ungraceful

build. Society's evening uniform does not allow a man much scope in the

matter of adornments; it was plain, however, that Godwin no longer

scorned the tailor and haberdasher. He wore a suit which confidently

challenged the criticism of experts, and the silk socks visible above

his shoes might have been selected by the most fastidious of worldlings.

When he had sat there for some minutes, his eyes happened to stray

towards Miss Moxey, who was just then without a companion. Her glance

answered to his, and a smile of invitation left him no choice but to

rise and go to a seat beside her.

'You are meditative this evening,' she said, in a voice subdued below

its ordinary note.

'Not very fit for society, to tell the truth,' Godwin answered,

carelessly. 'One has such moods, you know. But how would you take it

if, at the last moment, I sent a telegram, "Please excuse me. Don't

feel able to talk"?'

'You don't suppose I should be offended?'

'Certainly you would.'

'Then you know less of me than I thought.'

Her eyes wandered about the room, their smile betokening an uneasy

self-consciousness.

'Christian tells me,' she continued, 'that you are going to take your

holiday in Cornwall.'

'I thought of it. But perhaps I shan't leave town at all. It wouldn't

be worth while, if I go abroad at the end of the year.'

'Abroad?' Marcella glanced at him. 'What scheme is that?'

'Haven't I mentioned it? I want to go to South America and the Pacific

islands. Earwaker has a friend, who has just come back from travel in

the tropics; the talk about it has half decided me to leave England. I

have been saving money for years to that end.'

'You never spoke of it--to me, Marcella replied, turning a bracelet on

her wrist. 'Should you go alone?'

'Of course. I couldn't travel in company. You know how impossible it

would be for me to put up with the moods and idiosyncrasies of other

men.'

There was a quiet arrogance in his tone. The listener still smiled, but

her fingers worked nervously.

'You are not so unsocial as you pretend,' she remarked, without looking

at him.

'Pretend! I make no pretences of any kind,' was his scornful answer.

'You are ungracious this evening.'

'Yes--and can't hide it.'

'Don't try to, I beg. But at least tell me what troubles you.'

'That's impossible,' Peak replied, drily.

'Then friendship goes for nothing,' said Marcella, with a little forced

laugh.

'Yes--in all but a very few human concerns. How often could _you_ tell

_me_ what it is that prevents your taking life cheerfully?'

He glanced at her, and Marcella's eyes fell; a moment after, there was

a suspicion of colour in her cheek.

'What are you reading?' Peak asked abruptly, but in a voice of more

conventional note.

'Still Hafiz.'

'I envy your power of abstraction.'

'Yet I hear that you are deeply concerned about the locomotive powers

of the _diatomaceaoe_?'

Their eyes met, and they laughed--not very mirthfully.

'It preserves me from worse follies,' said Peak. 'After all, there are

ways more or less dignified of consuming time'--

As he spoke, his ear caught a familiar name, uttered by Christian

Moxey, and he turned to listen. Moxey and Earwaker were again talking

of the Rev. Bruno Chilvers. Straightway disregarding Marcella, Peak

gave attention to the men's dialogue, and his forehead wrinkled into

scornful amusement.

'It's very interesting,' he exclaimed, at a moment when there was

silence throughout the company, 'to hear that Chilvers is really coming

to the front. At Whitelaw it used to be prophesied that he would be a

bishop, and now I suppose he's fairly on the way to that. Shall we

write letters of congratulation to him, Earwaker?'

'A joint epistle, if you like.'

Mr. Morton, who had brightened since dinner, began to speak caustically

of the form of intellect necessary nowadays in a popular clergyman.

'He must write a good deal,' put in Earwaker, 'and that in a style

which would have scandalised the orthodox of the last century.

Rationalised dogma is vastly in demand.'

Peak's voice drew attention.

'Two kinds of books dealing with religion are now greatly popular, and

will be for a long time. On the one hand there is that growing body of

people who, for whatever reason, tend to agnosticism, but desire to be

convinced that agnosticism is respectable; they are eager for

anti-dogmatic books, written by men of mark. They couldn't endure to be

classed with Bradlaugh, but they rank themselves confidently with

Darwin and Huxley. Arguments matter little or nothing to them. They

take their rationalism as they do a fashion in dress, anxious only that

it shall be "good form". Then there's the other lot of people--a much

larger class--who won't give up dogma, but have learnt that bishops,

priests, and deacons no longer hold it with the old rigour, and that

one must be "broad"; these are clamorous for treatises which pretend to

reconcile revelation and science. It's quite pathetic to watch the

enthusiasm with which they hail any man who distinguishes himself by

this kind of apologetic skill, this pious jugglery. Never mind how

washy the book from a scientific point of view. Only let it obtain

vogue, and it will be glorified as the new evangel. The day has gone by

for downright assaults on science; to be marketable, you must prove

that _The Origin of Species_ was approvingly foreseen in the first

chapter of Genesis, and that the Apostles' Creed conflicts in no single

point with the latest results of biblical criticism. Both classes seek

to avoid ridicule, and to adapt themselves to a standard of

respectability. If Chilvers goes in for the newest apologetics, he is

bound to be enormously successful. The man has brains, and really there

are so few such men who still care to go into the Church.'

There was a murmur of laughing approval. The speaker had worked himself

into eloquent nervousness; he leaned forward with his hands straining

together, and the muscles of his face quivering.

'And isn't it surprising,' said Marcella, 'in how short a time this

apologetic attitude has become necessary?'

Peak flashed a triumphant look at her.

'I often rejoice to think of it!' he cried. 'How magnificent it is that

so many of the solemn jackasses who brayed against Darwin from ten to

twenty years ago should live to be regarded as beneath contempt! I say

it earnestly: this thought is one of the things that make life

tolerable to me!'

'You have need of charity, friend Peak,' interposed Earwaker. 'This is

the spirit of the persecutor.'

'Nothing of the kind! It is the spirit of justified reason. You may say

that those people were honestly mistaken;--such honesty is the brand of

a brainless obstructive. _They_ would have persecuted, but too gladly!

There were, and are, men who would have committed Darwin to penal

servitude, if they had had the power. Men like Lyell, who were able to

develop a new convolution in their brains, I respect heartily. I only

speak of the squalling mass, the obscene herd of idiot mockers.'

'Who assuredly,' remarked Earwaker, 'feel no shame whatever in the

retrospect of their idiocy. To convert a _mind_ is a subject for high

rejoicing; to confute a _temper_ isn't worth the doing.'

'That is philosophy,' said Marcella, 'but I suspect you of often

feeling as Mr. Peak does. I am sure _I_ do.'

Peak, meeting an amused glance from the journalist, left his seat and

took up a volume that lay on one of the tables. It was easy to see that

his hands shook, and that there was perspiration on his forehead. With

pleasant tact, Moxey struck into a new subject, and for the next

quarter of an hour Peak sat apart in the same attitude as before his

outburst of satire and invective. Then he advanced to Miss Moxey again,

for the purpose of taking leave. This was the signal for Earwaker's

rising, and in a few minutes both men had left the house.

'I'll go by train with you,' said Earwaker, as they walked away.

'Farringdon Street will suit me well enough.'

Peak vouchsafed no reply, but, when they had proceeded a little

distance, he exclaimed harshly:

'I hate emancipated women!'

His companion stopped and laughed loudly.

'Yes, I hate emancipated women,' the other repeated, with deliberation.

'Women ought neither to be enlightened nor dogmatic. They ought to be

sexual.'

'That's unusual brutality on your part.'

'Well, you know what I mean.'

'I know what you think you mean,' said Earwaker. 'But the woman who is

neither enlightened nor dogmatic is only too common in society. They

are fools, and troublesome fools.'

Peak again kept silence.

'The emancipated woman,' pursued his friend, 'needn't be a Miss Moxey,

nor yet a Mrs. Morton.'

'Miss Moxey is intolerable,' said Peak. 'I can't quite say why I

dislike her so, but she grows more antipathetic to me the better I know

her. She has not a single feminine charm--not one. I often feel very

sorry for her, but dislike her all the same.'

'Sorry for her,' mused Earwaker. 'Yes, so do I. I can't like her

either. She is certainly an incomplete woman. But her mind is of no low

order. I had rather talk with her than with one of the imbecile

prettinesses. I half believe you have a sneaking sympathy with the men

who can't stand education in a wife.'

'It's possible. In some moods.'

'In no mood can I conceive such a prejudice. I have no great attraction

to women of any kind, but the uneducated woman I detest.'

'Well, so do I,' muttered Peak. 'Do you know what?' he added, abruptly.

'I shall be off to the Pacific. Yes, I shall go this next winter. My

mind is made up.'

'I shan't try to dissuade you, old fellow, though I had rather have you

in sight. Come and see Malkin. I'll drop you a note with an

appointment.'

'Do.'

They soon reached the station, and exchanged but few more words before

Earwaker's leaving the train at Farringdon Street. Peak pursued his

journey towards the south-east of London.

On reaching home, the journalist flung aside his foolish coat of

ceremony, indued a comfortable jacket, lit a pipe with long stem, and

began to glance over an evening newspaper. He had not long reposed in

his arm-chair when the familiar appeal thundered from without. Malkin

once more shook his hand effusively.

'Had my journey to Fulham for nothing. Didn't matter; I ran over to

Putney and looked up my old landlady. The rooms are occupied by a

married couple, but I think we shall succeed in persuading them to make

way for me. I promised to find them lodgings every bit as good in two

days' time.'

'If that is so easy, why not take the new quarters yourself?'

'Why, to tell you the truth, I didn't think of it!--Oh, I had rather

have the old crib; I can do as I like there, you know. Confound it! Now

I shall have to spend all to-morrow lodging-hunting for other people.

Couldn't I pay a man to do it? Some confidential agent--private

police--you know what I mean?'

'A man of any delicacy,' replied Earwaker, with grave countenance,

'would feel bound by such a promise to personal exertion.'

'Right; quite right! I didn't mean it; of course I shall hunt

conscientiously. Oh, I say; I have brought over a couple of

armadilloes. Would you like one?'

'Stuffed, do you mean?'

'Pooh! Alive, man, alive! They only need a little care. I should think

you might keep the creature in your kitchen; they become quite

affectionate.'

The offer was unhesitatingly declined, and Malkin looked hurt. There

needed a good deal of genial explanation before Earwaker could restore

him to his sprightly mood.

'Where have you been dining?' cried the traveller. 'Moxey's--ah, I

remember. But who _is_ Moxey? A new acquaintance, eh?'

'Yes; I have known him about six months. Got to know him through Peak.'

'Peak? Peak? What, the fellow you once told me about--who disappeared

from Whitelaw because of his uncle, the cat's-meat man?'

'The man's-meat man, rather.'

'Yes, yes--the eating-house; I remember. You have met him again? Why on

earth didn't you tell me in your letters? What became of him? Tell me

the story.'

'Certainly, if you will cease to shake down plaster from the

ceiling.--We met in a restaurant (appropriate scene), happening to sit

at the same table. Whilst eating, we stared at each other fitfully.

"I'll be hanged if that isn't Peak," I kept saying to myself. And at

the same moment we opened our lips to question each other.'

'Just the same thing happened once to a friend of mine and a friend of

his. But it was on board ship, and both were devilish seasick.

Walker--you remember my friend Walker?--tells the story in a

side-splitting way. I wonder what has become of Walker? The last time I

met him he was travelling agent for a menagerie--a most interesting

fellow, Walker.--But I beg your pardon. Go on, old fellow!'

'Well, after that we at once saw a good deal of each other. He has been

working for years at a chemical factory down on the river; Moxey used

to be there, and got him the place.'

'Moxey?--Oh yes, the man you dined with. You must remember that these

are new names to me. I must know all these new people, I say. You don't

mind?'

'You shall be presented to the whole multitude, as soon as you like.

Peak wants to see you. He thinks of an excursion like this last of

yours.'

'He does? By Jove, we'll go together! I have always wanted a travelling

companion. We'll start as soon as ever he likes!--well, in a month or

two. I must just have time to look round. Oh, I haven't done with the

tropics yet! I must tell him of a rattling good insect-powder I have

invented; I think of patenting it. I say, how does one get a patent?

Quite a simple matter, I suppose?'

'Oh, always has been. The simplest and least worrying of all business

enterprises.'

'What? Eh? That smile of yours means mischief.'

In a quarter of an hour they had got back to the subject of Peak's

history.

'And did he really run away because of the eating-house?' Malkin

inquired.

'I shall never venture to ask, and it's not very likely he will admit

it. It was some time before he cared to talk much of Whitelaw.'

'But what is he doing? You used to think he would come out strong,

didn't you? Has he written anything?'

'A few things in _The Liberator_, five or six years ago.'

'What, the atheistic paper?'

'Yes. But he's ashamed of it now. That belongs to a bygone stage of

development.'

'Turned orthodox?'

Earwaker laughed.

'I only mean that he is ashamed of the connection with street-corner

rationalism.'

'Quite right. Devilish low, that kind of thing. But I went in for it

myself once. Did I ever tell you that I debated with a parson on

Mile-end Waste? Fact! That was in my hot-headed days. A crowd of

coster-mongers applauded me in the most flattering way.--I say,

Earwaker, you haven't any whisky?'

'Forgive me; your conversation makes me forget hospitality. Shall I

make hot water? I have a spirit-kettle.'

'Cold for me. I get in such a deuced perspiration when I begin to

talk.--Try this tobacco; the last of half a hundred-weight I took in at

Bahia.'

The traveller refreshed himself with a full tumbler, and resumed the

conversation cheerily.

'Has he just been wasting his time, then, all these years?'

'He goes in for science--laboratory work, evolutionary speculations. Of

course I can't judge his progress in such matters; but Moxey, a clever

man in the same line, thinks very highly of him.'

'Just the fellow to travel with. I want to get hold of some solid

scientific ideas, but I haven't the patience to work steadily. A

confounded fault of mine, you know, Earwaker,--want of patience. You

must have noticed it?'

'Oh--well, now and then, perhaps.'

'Yes, yes; but of course I know myself better. And now tell me about

Moxey. A married man, of course?'

'No, lives with a sister.'

'Unmarried sister?--Brains?'

'Pretty well supplied with that commodity.'

'You must introduce me to her. I do like women with brains.--

'Orthodox or enlightened?'

'Bitterly enlightened.'

'Really? Magnificent! Oh, I must know her. Nothing like an emancipated

woman! How any man can marry the ordinary female passes my

understanding. What do _you_ think?'

'My opinions are in suspense; not yet precipitated, as Peak might say.'

One o'clock sounded from neighbouring churches, but Malkin was wide

awake as ever. He entered upon a detailed narrative of his travels,

delightful to listen to, so oddly blended were the strains of conscious

and unconscious humour which marked his personality. Two o'clock; three

o'clock;--he would have talked till breakfast-time, but at last

Earwaker declared that the hour had come for sleep. As Malkin had taken

a room at the Inns of Court Hotel, it was easy for him to repair to his

quarters. The last his friend heard of him was an unexplained laugh,

echoing far down the staircase.

CHAPTER II

Peak's destination was Peckham Rye. On quitting the railway, he had a

walk of some ten minutes along a road which smelt of new bricks and

stucco heated by the summer sun; an obscure passage led him into a

street partly of dwelling-houses, partly of shops, the latter closed.

He paused at the side door of one over which the street lamp dimly

revealed--'Button, Herbalist'.

His latch-key admitted him to total darkness, but he moved forward with

the confidence of long use. He softly ascended two flights of stairs,

opened a door, struck a match, and found himself in a comfortable

sitting-room, soon illumined by a reading-lamp. The atmosphere, as

throughout the house, was strongly redolent of dried simples. Anyone

acquainted with the characteristics of furnished lodgings must have

surmised that Peak dwelt here among his own moveables, and was indebted

to the occupier of the premises for bare walls alone; the tables and

chairs, though plain enough, were such as civilisation permits; and

though there were no pictures, sundry ornaments here and there made

strong denial of lodging-house affinity. It was at once laboratory,

study, and dwelling-room. Two large cabinets, something the worse for

transportation, alone formed a link between this abode and the old home

at Twybridge. Books were not numerous, and a good microscope seemed to

be the only scientific instrument of much importance. On door-pegs hung

a knapsack, a botanist's vasculum, and a geologist's wallet.

A round table was spread with the materials of supper, and here again

an experienced lodger must have bestowed contemplative scrutiny, for no

hand of common landlady declared itself in the arrangement. The cloth

was spotless, the utensils tasteful and carefully disposed. In a bowl

lay an appetising salad, ready for mingling; a fragment of Camembert

cheese was relieved upon a setting of green leafage; a bottle of ale,

with adjacent corkscrew, stood beside the plate; the very loaf seemed

to come from no ordinary baker's, or was made to look better than its

kin by the fringed white cloth in which it nestled.

The custom of four years had accustomed Peak to take these things as a

matter of course, yet he would readily have admitted that they were

extraordinary enough. Indeed, he even now occasionally contrasted this

state of comfort with the hateful experiences of his first six years in

London. The subject of lodgings was one of those on which (often

intemperate of speech) he spoke least temperately. For six years he had

shifted from quarter to quarter, from house to house, driven away each

time by the hateful contact of vulgarity in every form,--by foulness

and dishonesty, by lying, slandering, quarrelling, by drunkenness, by

brutal vice,--by all abominations that distinguish the lodging-letter

of the metropolis. Obliged to practise extreme economy, he could not

take refuge among self-respecting people, or at all events had no luck

in endeavouring to find such among the poorer working-class. To a man

of Godwin's idiosyncrasy the London poor were of necessity abominable,

and it anguished him to be forced to live among them.

Rescue came at last, and in a very unexpected way. Resident in the more

open part of Bermondsey (winter mornings made a long journey to

Rotherhithe intolerable), he happened to walk one day as far as Peckham

Rye, and was there attracted by the shop window of a herbalist. He

entered to make a purchase, and got into conversation with Mr. Button,

a middle-aged man of bright intelligence and more reading than could be

expected. The herbalist led his customer to an upper room, in which

were stored sundry curiosities, and happened casually to say that he

was desirous of finding a lodger for two superfluous chambers. Peak's

inquiries led to his seeing Mrs. Button, whom he found to be a

Frenchwoman of very pleasing appearance; she spoke fluent

French-English, anything but disagreeable to an ear constantly

tormented by the London vernacular. After short reflection he decided

to take and furnish the rooms. It proved a most fortunate step, for he

lived (after the outlay for furniture) at much less expense than

theretofore, and in comparative luxury. Cleanliness, neatness, good

taste by no means exhausted Mrs. Button's virtues; her cooking seemed

to the lodger of incredible perfection, and the infinite goodwill with

which he was tended made strange contrast with the base usage he had

commonly experienced.

In these ten years he had paid but four visits to Twybridge, each of

brief duration. Naturally there were changes among his kinsfolk:

Charlotte, after an engagement which prolonged itself to the fifth

twelvemonth, had become Mrs. Cusse, and her husband now had a draper's

shop of his own, with two children already born into the world of

draperdom. Oliver, twice fruitlessly affianced, had at length (when

six-and-twenty) wedded a young person whom his mother and his aunt both

regarded as a most undesirable connection, the daughter (aged

thirty-two) of a man who was drinking himself to death on such money as

he could earn by casual reporting for a Twybridge newspaper. Mrs. Peak

the elder now abode with her sister at the millinery shop, and saw

little of her two married children. With Oliver and Charlotte their

brother had no sympathy, and affected none; he never wrote to them, nor

they to him; but years had strengthened his regard for his mother, and

with her he had fairly regular correspondence. Gladly he would have

seen her more often, but the air of shopkeeping he was compelled to

breathe when he visited Twybridge nauseated and repelled him. He

recognised the suitability both of Oliver and Charlotte for the

positions to which life had consigned them--they suffered from no

profitless aspiration; but it seemed to him a just cause of quarrel

with fate that his kindred should thus have relapsed, instead of

bettering the rank their father had bequeathed to them. He would not

avow to such friends as Moxey and Earwaker the social standing of his

only recognised relatives.

As for the unrecognised, he had long ago heard with some satisfaction

that Andrew Peak, having ultimately failed in his Kingsmill venture,

returned to London. Encounter with the fatal Andrew had been spared him

ever since that decisive day when Master Jowey Peak recited from

Coleridge and displayed his etymological genius.

For himself, he had earned daily bread, and something more; he had

studied in desultory fashion; he had seen a good deal of the British

Isles and had visited Paris. The result of it all was gnawing

discontent, intervals of furious revolt, periods of black despair.

He had achieved nothing, and he was alone.

Young still, to be sure; at twenty-nine it is too early to abandon

ambitions which are supported by force of brain and of will. But

circumstances must needs help if the desires of his soul were to be

attained. On first coming to London, received with all friendliness by

Christian Moxey, he had imagined that it only depended upon himself to

find admission before long to congenial society--by which he then

understood the companionship of intelligent and aspiring young men.

Christian, however, had himself no such circle, and knew that the

awkward lad from Twybridge could not associate with the one or two

wealthy families to which he could have presented him. The School of

Mines was only technically useful; it helped Godwin to get his place

with Bates & Sons, but supplied no friendships. In the third year,

Moxey inherited means and left the chemical works for continental

travel.

By tormenting attraction Godwin was often led to walk in the wealthy

districts of London. Why was no one of these doors open to him? There

were his equals; not in the mean streets where he dwelt. There were the

men of culture and capacity, the women of exquisite person and exalted

mind. Was he the inferior of such people? By heaven, no!

He chanced once to be in Hyde Park on the occasion of some public

ceremony, and was brought to pause at the edge of a gaping plebeian

crowd, drawn up to witness the passing of aristocratic vehicles. Close

in front of him an open carriage came to a stop; in it sat, or rather

reclined, two ladies, old and young. Upon this picture Godwin fixed his

eyes with the intensity of fascination; his memory never lost the

impress of these ladies' faces. Nothing very noteworthy about them; but

to Godwin they conveyed a passionate perception of all that is implied

in social superiority. Here he stood, one of the multitude, of the

herd; shoulder to shoulder with boors and pick-pockets; and within

reach of his hand reposed those two ladies, in Olympian calm, seeming

unaware even of the existence of the throng. Now they exchanged a word;

now they smiled to each other. How delicate was the moving of their

lips! How fine must be their enunciation! On the box sat an old

coachman and a young footman; they too were splendidly impassive,

scornful of the multitudinous gaze.--The block was relieved, and on the

carriage rolled.

They were his equals, those ladies, merely his equals. With such as

they he should by right of nature associate.

In his rebellion, he could not hate them. He hated the malodorous

rabble who stared insolently at them and who envied their immeasurable

remoteness. Of mere wealth he thought not; might he only be recognised

by the gentle of birth and breeding for what he really was, and be

rescued from the promiscuity of the vulgar!

Yet at this time he was drawn into connection with the movement of

popular Radicalism which revolts against religious respectability.

Inherited antipathy to all conventional forms of faith outweighed his

other prejudices so far as to induce him to write savage papers for

_The Liberator_. Personal contact with artisan freethinkers was

disgusting to him. From the meeting of emancipated workmen he went away

with scorn and detestation in his heart; but in the quiet of his

lodgings he could sit down to aid their propaganda. One explanation of

this inconsistency lay in the fact that no other channel was open to

his literary impulses. Pure science could not serve him, for he had no

original results to announce. Pure literature seemed beyond his scope,

yet he was constantly endeavouring to express himself. He burned with

the desire of fame, and saw no hope of achieving it save as an author.

_The Liberator_ would serve him as a first step. In time he might get

foothold in the monthly reviews, and see his name side by side with

those of the leaders of thought.

Occasions, of course, offered when he might have extended his

acquaintance, but they were never of a kind that he cared to use; at

best they would only have admitted him to the homes of decent,

semi-educated families, and for such society he was altogether

unfitted. The licence of the streets but seldom allured him. After his

twenty-fourth year he was proof against the decoys of venal pleasure,

and lived a life of asceticism exceedingly rare in young and lonely

men. When Christian Moxey returned to London and took the house at

Notting Hill, which he henceforth occupied together with his sister, a

possibility of social intercourse at length appeared. Indeed it was a

substantial gain to sit from time to time at a civilised table, and to

converse amid graceful surroundings with people who at all events

followed the intellectual current of the day. Careless hitherto of his

personal appearance, he now cultivated an elegance of attire in

conformity with his aristocratic instincts, and this habit became

fixed. When next he visited Twybridge, the change in his appearance was

generally remarked. Mrs. Peak naturally understood it as a significant

result of his intercourse with Miss Moxey, of whom, as it seemed to

her, he spoke with singular reticence.

But Marcella had no charm for Godwin's imagination, notwithstanding

that he presently suspected a warmth of interest on her side which he

was far from consciously encouraging. Nor did he find among his friends

any man or woman for whose acquaintance he greatly cared. The Moxeys

had a very small circle, consisting chiefly of intellectual inferiors.

Christian was too indolent to make a figure in society, and his sister

suffered from peculiarities of mind and temperament which made it as

difficult for her as for Peak himself to form intimate friendships.

When chance encounter brought him into connection with Earwaker, the

revival of bygone things was at first doubtfully pleasant. Earwaker

himself, remarkably developed and become a very interesting man, was as

welcome an associate as he could have found, but it cost him some

effort to dismiss the thought of Andrew Peak's eating-house, and to

accept the friendly tact with which the journalist avoided all hint of

unpleasant memories. That Earwaker should refrain from a single

question concerning that abrupt disappearance, nearly ten years ago,

sufficiently declared his knowledge of the unspeakable cause, a

reflection which often made Godwin writhe. However, this difficulty was

overcome, and the two met very frequently. For several weeks Godwin

enjoyed better spirits than he had known since the first excitement of

his life in London faded away.

One result was easily foreseen. His mind grew busy with literary

projects, many that he had long contemplated and some that were new.

Once more he aimed at contributing to the 'advanced' reviews, and

sketched out several papers of sociological tenor. None of these were

written. As soon as he sat down to deliberate composition, a sense of

his deficiencies embarrassed him. Godwin's self-confidence had nothing

in common with the conceit which rests on imaginary strength. Power

there was in him; of that he could not but be conscious: its true

direction he had not yet learned. Defect of knowledge, lack of

pen-practice, confusion and contradictoriness of aims, instability of

conviction,--these faults he recognised in himself at every moment of

inward scrutiny.

On his table this evening lay a library volume which he had of late

been reading, a book which had sprung into enormous popularity. It was

called _Spiritual Aspects of Evolution_, and undertook, with confidence

characteristic of its kind, to reconcile the latest results of science

with the dogmas of Oriental religion. This work was in his mind when he

spoke so vehemently at Moxey's; already he had trembled with an impulse

to write something on the subject, and during his journey home a

possible essay had begun to shape itself. Late as was the hour he could

not prepare for sleep. His brain throbbed with a congestion of thought;

he struggled to make clear the lines on which his satire might direct

itself. By two o'clock he had flung down on paper a conglomerate of

burning ideas, and thus relieved he at length went to bed.

Two days later came a note from Staple Inn, inviting him to meet Malkin

the next evening. By this time he had made a beginning of his critical

essay, and the exordium so far satisfied him that he was tempted to

take it for Earwaker's judgment. But no; better his friend should see

the thing when it was complete.

About eight o'clock he reached the journalist's chambers. Malkin had

not yet arrived. Peak amused himself with examining certain tropical

products which the traveller had recently cast pell-mell into his

friend's sitting-room. Then sounded a knock at the door, but it was not

such as would have heralded the expected man.

'A telegram,' observed Earwaker, and went to take it in.

He returned with hoarse sounds of mirth.

'Our friend excuses himself. Read this characteristic despatch.'

Peak saw with surprise that the telegram far exceeded familiar

dimensions. 'Unspeakably grieved,' it began. 'Cannot possibly with you.

At moment's notice undertaken escort two poor girls Rouen. Not even

time look in apologise. Go via Dieppe and leave Victoria few minutes.

Hope be back Thursday. Express sincerest regret Mr. Peak. Lament

appearance discourtesy. Will apologise personally. Common humanity

constrains go Rouen. Will explain Thursday. No time add another word.

Rush tickets train.'

'There you have the man!' cried Earwaker. 'How do you class such a mind

as that? Ten to one this is some Quixotic obligation he has laid upon

himself, and probably he has gone without even a handbag.'

'Vocally delivered,' said Peak, 'this would represent a certain stage

of drunkenness. I suppose it isn't open to such an explanation?'

'Malkin never was intoxicated, save with his own vivacity.'

They discussed the singular being with good-natured mirth, then turned

by degrees to other topics.

'I have just come across a passage that will delight you,' said

Earwaker, taking up a book. 'Perhaps you know it.'

He read from Sir Thomas Brown's _Pseudodoxia Epidemica_. '"Men's names

should not only distinguish them. A man should be something that all

men are not, and individual in somewhat beside his proper name. Thus,

while it exceeds not the bound of reason and modesty, we cannot condemn

singularity. _Nos numerus sumus_ is the motto of the multitude, and for

that reason are they fools."'

Peak laughed his approval.

'It astonishes me,' he said, lighting his pipe, 'that you can go on

writing for this Sunday rag, when you have just as little sympathy with

its aims as I have. Do get into some less offensive connection.'

'What paper would you recommend?' asked the other, with his significant

smile.

'Why need you journalise at all?'

'On the whole, I like it. And remember, to admit that the multitude are

fools is not the same thing as to deny the possibility of progress.'

'Do you really believe yourself a democrat, Earwaker?'

'M--m--m! Well, yes, I believe the democratic spirit is stronger in me

than any other.'

Peak mused for a minute, then suddenly looked up.

'And what am I?'

'I am glad nothing much depends on my successfully defining you.'

They laughed together.

'I suppose,' said Godwin, 'you can't call a man a democrat who

recognises in his heart and soul a true distinction of social classes.

Social, mark. The division I instinctively support is by no means

intellectual. The well-born fool is very often more sure of my respect

than the working man who struggles to a fair measure of education.'

Earwaker would have liked to comment on this with remarks personal to

the speaker, but he feared to do so. His silence, however, was eloquent

to Peak, who resumed brusquely.

'I am not myself well-born,--though if my parents could have come into

wealth early in their lives, perhaps I might reasonably have called

myself so. All sorts of arguments can be brought against my prejudice,

but the prejudice is ineradicable. I respect hereditary social

standing, independently of the individual's qualities. There's nothing

of the flunkey in this, or I greatly deceive myself. Birth in a sphere

of refinement is desirable and respectable; it saves one, absolutely,

from many forms of coarseness. The masses are not only fools, but very

near the brutes. Yes, they can send forth fine individuals--but remain

base. I don't deny the possibility of social advance; I only say that

at present the lower classes are always disagreeable, often repulsive,

sometimes hateful.'

'I could apply that to the classes above them.'

'Well, I can't. But I am quite ready to admit that there are all sorts

of inconsistencies in me. Now, the other day I was reading Burns, and I

couldn't describe what exaltation all at once possessed me in the

thought that a ploughman had so glorified a servant-girl that together

they shine in the highest heaven, far above all the monarchs of earth.

This came upon me with a rush--a very rare emotion. Wasn't that

democratic?'

He inquired dubiously, and Earwaker for a moment had no reply but his

familiar 'M--m--m!'

'No, it was not democratic,' the journalist decided at length; 'it was

pride of intellect.'

'Think so? Then look here. If it happens that a whining wretch stops me

in the street to beg, what do you suppose is my feeling? I am ashamed

in the sense of my own prosperity. I can't look him in the face. If I

yielded to my natural impulse, I should cry out, "Strike me! spit at

me! show you hate me!--anything but that terrible humiliation of

yourself before me!" That's how I feel. The abasement of which _he_

isn't sensible affects _me_ on his behalf. I give money with what

delicacy I can. If I am obliged to refuse, I mutter apologies and hurry

away with burning cheeks. What does that mean?'

Earwaker regarded him curiously.

'That is mere fineness of humanity.'

'Perhaps moral weakness?'

'I don't care for the scalpel of the pessimist. Let us give it the

better name.'

Peak had never been so communicative. His progress in composition these

last evenings seemed to have raised his spirits and spurred the

activity of his mind. With a look of pleasure he pursued his

self-analysis.

'Special antipathies--sometimes explicable enough--influence me very

widely. Now, I by no means hate all orders of uneducated people. A

hedger, a fisherman, a country mason,--people of that kind I rather

like to talk with. I could live a good deal with them. But the London

vulgar I abominate, root and branch. The mere sound of their voices

nauseates me; their vilely grotesque accent and pronunciation--bah! I

could write a paper to show that they are essentially the basest of

English mortals. Unhappily, I know so much about them. If I saw the

probability of my dying in a London lodging-house, I would go out into

the sweet-scented fields and there kill myself.'

Earwaker understood much by this avowal, and wondered whether his

friend desired him so to do.

'Well, I can't say that I have any affection for the race,' he replied.

'I certainly believe that, socially and politically, there is less hope

of them than of the lower orders in any other part of England.'

'They are damned by the beastly conditions of their life!' cried

Godwin, excitedly. 'I don't mean only the slum-denizens. All, all

Hammersmith as much as St. George's-in-the-East. I must write about

this; I must indeed.'

'Do by all means. Nothing would benefit you more than to get your soul

into print.'

Peak delayed a little, then:

'Well, I am doing something at last.'

And he gave an account of his projected essay. By this time his hands

trembled with nervous agitation, and occasionally a dryness of the

palate half choked his voice.

'This may do very well,' opined Earwaker. 'I suppose you will try _The

Critical_?'

'Yes. But have I any chance? Can a perfectly unknown man hope to get

in?'

They debated this aspect of the matter. Seeing Peak had laid down his

pipe, the journalist offered him tobacco.

'Thanks; I can't smoke just yet. It's my misfortune that I can't talk

earnestly without throwing my body into disorder.'

'How stolid I am in comparison!' said Earwaker.

'That book of M'Naughten's,' resumed the other, going back to his

subject. 'I suppose the clergy accept it?'

'Largely, I believe.'

Peak mused.

'Now, if I were a clergyman'--

But his eye met Earwaker's, and they broke into laughter.

'Why not?' pursued Godwin. 'Did I ever tell you that my people

originally wished to make a parson of me? Of course I resisted tooth

and nail, but it seems to me now that I was rather foolish in doing so.

I wish I _had_ been a parson. In many ways the position would have

suited me very well.'

'M--m--m!'

'I am quite serious. Well, if I were so placed, I should preach Church

dogma, pure and simple. I would have nothing to do with these

reconciliations. I would stand firm as Jeremy Taylor; and in

consequence should have an immense and enthusiastic congregation.'

'I daresay.'

'Depend upon it, let the dogmas do what they still can. There's a vast

police force in them, at all events. A man may very strongly defend

himself for preaching them.'

The pursuit of this argument led Earwaker to ask:

'What proportion of the clergy can still take that standing in stolid

conscientiousness?'

'What proportion are convinced that it is untenable?' returned Peak.

'Many wilfully shut their eyes to the truth.'

'No, they don't shut their eyes!' cried Godwin. 'They merely lower a

nictitating membrane which permits them to gaze at light without

feeling its full impact.'

'I recommend you to bring that into your paper,' said the journalist,

with his deep chuckle.

An hour later they were conversing with no less animation, but the talk

was not so critical. Christian Moxey had come up as a topic, and

Earwaker was saying that he found it difficult to divine the man's

personality.

'You won't easily do that,' replied Peak, 'until you know more of his

story. I can't see that I am bound to secrecy--at all events with you.

Poor Moxey imagines that he is in love, and the fancy has lasted about

ten years.

'Ten years?'

'When I first knew him he was paying obvious attentions to a rather

plain cousin down at Twybridge. Why, I don't know, for he certainly was

devoted to a girl here in London. All he has confessed to me is that he

had given up hopes of her, but that a letter of some sort or other

revived them, and he hastened back to town. He might as well have

stayed away; the girl very soon married another man. Less than a year

later she had bitterly repented this, and in some way or other she

allowed Moxey to know it. Since then they have been Platonic

lovers--nothing more, I am convinced. They see each other about once in

six months, and presumably live on a hope that the obnoxious husband

may decease. I only know the woman as "Constance"; never saw her.'

'So that's Moxey? I begin to understand better.'

'Admirable fellow, but deplorably weak. I have an affection for him,

and have had from our first meeting.'

'Women!' mused Earwaker, and shook his head.

'You despise them?'

'On the whole, I'm afraid so.'

'Yes, but _what_ women?' cried the other with impatience. 'It would be

just as reasonable to say that you despise men. Can't you see that?'

'I doubt it.'

'Now look here; the stock objections to women are traditional. They

take no account of the vast change that is coming about. Because women

were once empty-headed, it is assumed they are all still so _en masse_.

The defect of the female mind? It is my belief that this is nothing

more nor less than the defect of the uneducated human mind. I believe

most men among the brutally ignorant exhibit the very faults which are

cried out upon as exclusively feminine. A woman has hitherto been an

ignorant human being; that explains everything.'

'Not everything; something, perhaps. Remember your evolutionism. The

preservation of the race demands in women many kinds of irrationality,

of obstinate instinct, which enrage a reasoning man. Don't suppose I

speak theoretically. Four or five years ago I had really made up my

mind to marry; I wasted much valuable time among women and girls, of

anything but low social standing. But my passions were choked by my

logical faculty. I foresaw a terrible possibility--that I might beat my

wife. One thing I learned with certainty was that the woman, _qua_

woman, hates abstract thought--hates it. Moreover (and of consequence)

she despises every ambition that has not a material end.'

He enlarged upon the subject, followed it into all its ramifications,

elaborated the inconsistencies with which it is rife. Peak's reply was

deliberate.

'Admitting that some of these faults are rooted in sex, I should only

find them intolerable when their expression took a vulgar form. Between

irrationality and coarseness of mind there is an enormous distinction.'

'With coarse minds I have nothing to do.'

'Forgive me if I ask you a blunt question,' said Peak, after

hesitating. 'Have you ever associated with women of the highest

refinement?'

Earwaker laughed.

'I don't know what that phrase means. It sounds rather odd on your

lips.'

'Well, women of the highest class of commoners. With peeresses we

needn't concern ourselves.'

'You imagine that social precedence makes all that difference in women?'

'Yes, I do. The daughter of a county family is a finer being than any

girl who can spring from the nomad orders.'

'Even supposing your nomads produce a Rachel or a Charlotte Brontë?'

'We are not talking of genius,' Peak replied.

'It was irrelevant, I know.--Well, yes, I _have_ conversed now and then

with what you would call well-born women. They are delightful

creatures, some of them, in given circumstances. But do you think I

ever dreamt of taking a wife drenched with social prejudices?'

Peak's face expressed annoyance, and he said nothing.

'A man's wife,' pursued Earwaker, 'may be his superior in whatever you

like, _except_ social position. That is precisely the distinction that

no woman can forget or forgive. On that account they are the

obstructive element in social history. If I loved a woman of rank above

my own she would make me a renegade; for her sake I should deny my

faith. I should write for the _St. James's Gazette_, and at last poison

myself in an agony of shame.'

A burst of laughter cleared the air for a moment, but for a moment

only. Peak's countenance clouded over again, and at length he said in a

lower tone:

'There are men whose character would defy that rule.'

'Yes--to their own disaster. But I ought to have made one exception.

There is a case in which a woman will marry without much regard to her

husband's origin. Let him be a parson, and he may aim as high as he

chooses.'

Peak tried to smile. He made no answer, and fell into a fit of brooding.

'What's all this about?' asked the journalist, when he too had mused

awhile. 'Whose acquaintance have you been making?'

'No one's.'

The suspicion was inevitable.

'If it were true, perhaps you would be justified in mistrusting my way

of regarding these things. But it's the natural tendency of my mind. If

I ever marry at all, it will be a woman of far higher birth than my

own.'

'Don't malign your parents, old fellow. They gave you a brain inferior

to that of few men. You will never meet a woman of higher birth.'

'That's a friendly sophism. I can't thank you for it, because it has a

bitter side.'

But the compliment had excited Peak, and after a moment's delay he

exclaimed:

'I have no other ambition in life--no other! Think the confession as

ridiculous as you like; my one supreme desire is to marry a perfectly

refined woman. Put it in the correct terms: I am a plebeian, and I aim

at marrying a lady.'

The last words were flung out defiantly. He quivered as he spoke, and

his face flushed.

'I can't wish you success,' returned his friend, with a grave smile.

'You couldn't help it sounding like a sneer, if you did. The desire is

hopeless, of course. It's because I know that, that I have made up my

mind to travel for a year or two; it'll help me on towards the age when

I shall regard all women with indifference. We won't talk about it any

more.'

'One question. You seriously believe that you could find satisfaction

in the life to which such a marriage would condemn you?'

'What life?' asked Peak, impatiently.

'That of an average gentleman, let us say, with house in town and

country, with friends whose ruling motive was social propriety.'

'I could enjoy the good and throw aside the distasteful.'

'What about the distastefulness of your wife's crass conventionalism,

especially in religion?'

'It would not be _crass_, to begin with. If her religion were genuine,

I could tolerate it well enough; if it were merely a form, I could

train her to my own opinions. Society is growing liberal--the best of

it. Please remember that I have in mind a woman of the highest type our

civilisation can produce.'

'Then you mustn't look for her in society!' cried Earwaker.

'I don't care; where you will, so long as she had always lived among

people of breeding and high education, and never had her thoughts

soiled with the vile contact of poverty.'

Earwaker started up and reached a volume from a shelf. Quickly finding

the desired page, he began to read aloud:

'Dear, had the world in its caprice

Deigned to proclaim--I know you both,

Have recognised your plighted troth,

Am sponsor for you; live in peace!'----

He read to the end of the poem, and then looked up with an admiring

smile.

'An ideal!' exclaimed Peak. 'An ideal akin to Murger's and Musset's

grisettes, who never existed.'

'An ideal, most decidedly. But pray what is this consummate lady you

have in mind? An ideal every bit as much, and of the two I prefer

Browning's. For my own part, I am a polygamist; my wives live in

literature, and too far asunder to be able to quarrel. Impossible

women, but exquisite. They shall suffice to me.'

Peak rose, sauntered about the room for a minute or two, then said:

'I have just got a title for my paper. I shall call it "The New

Sophistry."'

'Do very well, I should think,' replied the other, smiling. 'Will you

let me see it when it's done?'

'Who knows if I shall finish it? Nothing I ever undertook has been

finished yet--nothing won that I ever aimed at. Good night. Let me hear

about Malkin.'

In a week's time Godwin received another summons to Staple Inn, with

promise of Malkin's assured presence. In reply he wrote:

'Owing to a new arrangement at Bates's, I start tomorrow for my holiday

in Cornwall, so cannot see you for a few weeks. Please offer Malkin my

apologies; make them (I mean it) as profuse as those he telegraphed.

Herewith I send you my paper, "The New Sophistry", which I have written

at a few vehement sittings, and have carelessly copied. If you think it

worth while, will you have the kindness to send it for me to _The

Critical_? I haven't signed it, as my unmeaning name would perhaps

indispose the fellow to see much good in it. I should thank you if you

would write in your own person, saying that you act for a friend; you

are probably well known in those quarters. If it is accepted, time

enough to claim my glory. If it seems to you to have no chance, keep it

till I return, as I hate the humiliation of refusals.--Don't think I

made an ass of myself the other night. We will never speak on that

subject again. All I said was horribly sincere, but I'm afraid you

can't understand that side of my nature. I should never have spoken so

frankly to Moxey, though he has made no secret with me of his own

weaknesses. If I perish before long in a South American swamp, you will

be able to reflect on my personality with completer knowledge, so I

don't regret the indiscretion.'

CHAPTER III

'_Pereunt et imputantur_.'

Godwin Peak read the motto beneath the clock in Exeter Cathedral, and

believed it of Christian origin. Had he known that the words were found

in Martial, his rebellious spirit would have enjoyed the consecration

of a phrase from such an unlikely author. Even as he must have laughed

had he stood in the Vatican before the figures of those two Greek

dramatists who, for ages, were revered as Christian saints.

His ignorance preserved him from a clash of sentiments. This afternoon

he was not disposed to cynicism; rather he welcomed the softening

influence of this noble interior, and let the golden sunlight form what

shapes it would--heavenly beam, mystic aureole--before his mind's eye.

Architecture had no special interest for him, and the history of church

or faith could seldom touch his emotions; but the glorious handiwork of

men long dead, the solemn stillness of an ancient sanctuary, made that

appeal to him which is independent of names.

'_Pereunt et imputantur_.'

He sat down where the soft, slow ticking of the clock could guide his

thoughts. This morning he had left London by the earliest train, and

after a night in Exeter would travel westward by leisurely stages,

seeing as much as possible of the coast and of that inland scenery

which had geological significance. His costume declared him bent on

holiday, but, at the same time, distinguished him with delicate

emphasis from the tourist of the season. Trustworthy sartorial skill

had done its best for his person. Sitting thus, he had the air of a

gentleman who enjoys no unwonted ease. He could forget himself in

reverie, and be unaware of soft footfalls that drew near along the

aisle.

But the sound of a young voice, subdued yet very clear, made claim upon

his attention.

'Sidwell!--Sidwell!'

She who spoke was behind him; on looking up, he saw that a lady just in

front had stopped and turned to the summons; smiling, she retraced her

steps. He moved, so as to look discreetly in the backward direction,

and observed a group of four persons, who were occupied with a tablet

on the wall: a young man (not long out of boyhood), a girl who might be

a year or two younger, and two ladies, of whom it could only be said

that they were mature in the beauty of youth, probably of

maidenhood--one of them, she who had been called back by the name of

'Sidwell'.

Surely an uncommon name. From a guide-book, with which he had amused

himself in the train, he knew that one of the churches of Exeter was

dedicated to St. Sidwell, but only now did his recollection apprise him

of a long past acquaintance with the name of the saint. Had not

Buckland Warricombe a sister called Sidwell? And--did he only surmise a

connection between the Warricombes and Devon? No, no; on that remote

day, when he went out with Buckland to the house near Kingsmill, Mr.

Warricombe spoke to him of Exeter,--mentioning that the town of his

birth was Axminster, where William Buckland, the geologist, also was

born; whence the name of his eldest son. How suddenly it all came back!

He rose and moved apart to a spot whence he might quietly observe the

strangers. 'Sidwell', once remarked, could not be confused with the

companion of her own age; she was slimmer, shorter (if but slightly),

more sedate in movement, and perhaps better dressed--though both were

admirable in that respect. Ladies, beyond a doubt. And the young man--

At this distance it was easy to deceive oneself, but did not that face

bring something back? Now, as he smiled, it seemed to recall Buckland

Warricombe--with a difference. This might well be a younger brother;

there used to be one or two.

They were familiar with the Cathedral, and at present appeared to take

exclusive interest in certain mural monuments. For perhaps ten minutes

they lingered about the aisle, then, after a glance at the west window,

went forth. With quick step, Godwin pursued them; he issued in time to

see them entering an open carriage, which presently drove away towards

High Street.

For half an hour he walked the Cathedral Close. Not long ago, on first

coming into that quiet space, with its old houses, its smooth lawns,

its majestic trees, he had felt the charm peculiar to such scenes--the

natural delight in a form of beauty especially English. Now, the

impression was irrecoverable; he could see nothing but those four

persons, and their luxurious carriage, and the two beautiful horses

which had borne them--whither? As likely as not the identity he had

supposed for them was quite imaginary; yet it would be easy to

ascertain whether a Warricombe family dwelt at Exeter. The forename of

Buckland's father--? He never had known it. Still, it was worth while

consulting a directory.

He walked to his hotel.

Yes, the name Warricombe stood there, but it occurred more than once.

He sought counsel of the landlord. Which of these Warricombes was a

gentleman of position, with grown-up sons and daughters? To such a

description answered Martin Warricombe, Esquire, well known in the

city. His house was in the Old Tiverton Road, out beyond St Sidwell's,

two miles away; anyone in that district would serve as guide to it.

With purpose indefinite, Godwin set forth in the direction suggested.

At little more than a saunter, he passed out of High Street into its

continuation, where he soon descried the Church of St. Sidwell, and

thence, having made inquiry, walked towards the Old Tiverton Road. He

was now quite beyond the town limits, and few pedestrians came in

sight; if he really wished to find the abode of Martin Warricombe, he

must stop the first questionable person. But to what end this inquiry?

He could not even be certain that Martin was the man he had in mind,

and even were he right in all his conjectures, what had he to do with

the Warricombes?

Ten years ago the family had received him courteously as Buckland's

fellow-student; he had spent an hour or two at their house, and

subsequently a few words had passed when they saw him on prize-day at

Whitelaw. To Buckland he had never written; he had never since heard of

him; that name was involved in the miserable whirl of circumstances

which brought his College life to a close, and it was always his hope

that Buckland thought no more of him. Even had there been no

disagreeable memories, it was surely impossible to renew after this

interval so very slight an acquaintance. How could they receive him,

save with civilly mild astonishment?

An errand-boy came along, whistling townwards, a big basket over his

head. No harm in asking where Mr. Warricombe lived. The reply was

prompt: second house on the right hand, rather a large one, not a

quarter of a mile onward.

Here, then. The site was a good one. From this part of the climbing

road one looked over the lower valley of the Exe, saw the whole

estuary, and beyond that a horizon of blue sea. Fair, rich land, warm

under the westering sun. The house itself seemed to be old, but after

all was not very large; it stood amid laurels, and in the garden behind

rose a great yew-tree. No person was visible; but for the wave-like

murmur of neighbouring pines, scarce a sound would have disturbed the

air.

Godwin walked past, and found that the road descended into a deep

hollow, whence between high banks, covered with gorse and bracken and

many a summer flower, it led again up a hill thick planted with firs;

at the lowest point was a bridge over a streamlet, offering on either

hand a view of soft green meadows. A spot of exquisite retirement:

happy who lived here in security from the struggle of life!

It was folly to spoil his enjoyment of country such as this by dreaming

impossible opportunities. The Warricombes could be nothing to him; to

meet with Buckland would only revive the shame long ago outlived. After

resting for a few minutes he turned back, passed the silent house

again, delighted himself with the wide view, and so into the city once

more, where he began to seek the remnants of its old walls.

The next morning was Sunday, and he had planned to go by the Plymouth

train to a station whence he could reach Start Point; but his mood was

become so unsettled that ten o'clock, when already he should have been

on his journey, found him straying about the Cathedral Close. A mere

half-purpose, a vague wavering intention, which might at any moment be

scattered by common sense, drew his steps to the door of the Cathedral,

where people were entering for morning service; he moved idly within

sight of the carriages which drew up. Several had discharged their

freightage of tailoring and millinery, when two vehicles, which seemed

companions, stopped at the edge of the pavement, and from the second

alighted the young ladies whom Godwin had yesterday observed; their

male companion, however, was different. The carriage in advance also

contained four persons: a gentleman of sixty, his wife, a young girl,

and the youth of yesterday. It needed but a glance to inform Godwin

that the oldest of the party was Mr. Warricombe, Buckland's father; ten

years had made no change in his aspect. Mrs. Warricombe was not less

recognisable. They passed at once into the edifice, and he had scarcely

time to bestow a keen look upon Sidwell.

That was a beautiful girl; he stood musing upon the picture registered

by his brain. But why not follow, and from a neighbouring seat survey

her and the others at his leisure? Pooh! But the impulse constrained

him. After all, he could not get a place that allowed him to see

Sidwell. Her companion, however, the one who seemed to be of much the

same age, was well in view. Sisters they could not be; nothing of the

Warricombe countenance revealed itself in those handsome but

strongly-marked features. A beautiful girl, she also, yet of a type

that made slight appeal to him. Sidwell was all he could imagine of

sweet and dignified; more modest in bearing, more gracile, more--

Monday at noon, and he still walked the streets of Exeter. Early this

morning he had been out to the Old Tiverton Road, and there, on the

lawn amid the laurels, had caught brief glimpse of two female figures,

in one of which he merely divined Sidwell. Why he tarried thus he did

not pretend to explain to himself. Rain had just come on, and the

lowering sky made him low-spirited; he mooned about the street under

his umbrella.

And at this rate, might vapour away his holiday. Exeter was tedious,

but he could not make up his mind to set forth for the sea-shore, where

only his own thoughts awaited him. Packed away in his wallet lay

geological hammer, azimuth compass, clinometer, miniature

microscope,--why should he drag all that lumber about with him? What to

him were the bygone millions of ages, the hoary records of unimaginable

time? One touch of a girl's hand, one syllable of musical speech,--was

it not that whereof his life had truly need?

As remote from him, however, as the age of the pterodactyl. How often

was it necessary to repeat this? On a long voyage, such as he had all

but resolved to take, one might perchance form acquaintances. He had

heard of such things; not impossibly, a social circle might open to him

at Buenos Ayres. But here in England his poor origin, his lack of means

would for ever bar him from the intimacy of people like the Warricombes.

He loitered towards the South-Western station, dimly conscious of a

purpose to look for trains. Instead of seeking the time-tables he stood

before the bookstall and ran his eye along the titles of new novels; he

had half a mind to buy one of Hardy's and read himself into the temper

which suited summer rambles. But just as his hand was stretched forth,

a full voice, speaking beside him, made demand for a London weekly

paper. Instantly he turned. The tones had carried him back to Whitelaw;

the face disturbed that illusion, but substituted a reality which threw

him into tremor.

His involuntary gaze was met with one of equal intensity. A man of his

own years, but in splendid health and with bright eyes that looked

enjoyment of life, suddenly addressed him.

'Godwin Peak--surely--?'

'Buckland Warricombe, no less surely.'

They shook hands with vigour, laughing in each other's faces; then,

after a moment's pause, Warricombe drew aside from the bookstall, for

sake of privacy.

'Why did we lose sight of each other?' he asked, flashing a glance at

Godwin's costume. 'Why didn't you write to me at Cambridge? What have

you been doing this half-century?'

'I have been in London all the time.'

'I am there most of the year. Well, I rejoice to have met you. On a

holiday?'

'Loitering towards Cornwall.'

'In that case, you can come and have lunch with me at my father's

house. It's only a mile or two off. I was going to walk, but we'll

drive, if you like.'