'My own experience,' pursued Godwin, 'has been among the lower classes

in London. I don't mean the very poorest, of whom one hears so much

nowadays; I never went among them because I had no power of helping

them, and the sight of their vileness would only have moved me to

unjust hatred. But the people who earn enough for their needs, and

whose spiritual guide is the Sunday newspaper--I know them, because for

a long time I was obliged to lodge in their houses. Only a consuming

fire could purify the places where they dwell. Don't misunderstand me;

I am not charging them with what are commonly held vices and crimes,

but with the consistent love of everything that is ignoble, with utter

deadness to generous impulse, with the fatal habit of low mockery. And

_these_ are the people who really direct the democratic movement. They

set the tone in politics; they are debasing art and literature; even

the homes of wealthy people begin to show the effects of their

influence. One hears men and women of gentle birth using phrases which

originate with shopboys; one sees them reading print which is addressed

to the coarsest million. They crowd to entertainments which are

deliberately adapted to the lowest order of mind. When commercial

interest is supreme, how can the tastes of the majority fail to lead

and control?'

Though he spoke from the depths of his conviction, and was so moved

that his voice rose and fell in tones such as a drawing-room seldom

hears, he yet kept anxious watch upon Sidwell's countenance. That hint

afforded him by Fanny was invaluable; it had enabled him to appeal to

Sidwell's nature by the ardent expression of what was sincerest in his

own. She too, he at length understood, had the aristocratic

temperament. This explained her to him, supplied the key of doubts and

difficulties which had troubled him in her presence. It justified,

moreover, the feelings with which she had inspired him--feelings which

this hour of intimate converse had exalted to passion. His heart

thrilled with hope. Where sympathies so profound existed, what did it

matter that there was variance on a few points between his intellect

and hers? He felt the power to win her, and to defy every passing

humiliation that lay in his course.

Sidwell raised her eyes with a look which signified that she was

shaping a question diffidently.

'Have you always thought so hopelessly of our times?'

'Oh, I had my stage of optimism,' he answered, smiling. 'Though I never

put faith in the masses, I once believed that the conversion of the

educated to a purely human religion would set things moving in the

right way. It was ignorance of the world.'

He paused a moment, then added:

'In youth one marvels that men remain at so low a stage of

civilisation. Later in life, one is astonished that they have advanced

so far.'

Sidwell met his look with appreciative intelligence and murmured:

'In spite of myself, I believe that expresses a truth.'

Peak was about to reply, when Fanny and her friend reappeared. Bertha

approached for the purpose of taking leave, and for a minute or two

Sidwell talked with her. The young girls withdrew again together.

By the clock on the mantelpiece it was nearly six. Godwin did not

resume his seat, though Sidwell had done so. He looked towards the

window, and was all but lost in abstraction, when the soft voice again

addressed him:

'But you have not chosen your life's work without some hope of doing

good?'

'Do you think,' he asked, gently, 'that I shall be out of place in the

Christian Church?'

'No--no, I certainly don't think that. But will you tell me what you

have set before yourself?'

He drew nearer and leaned upon the back of a chair.

'I hope for what I shall perhaps never attain. Whatever my first steps

may be--I am not independent; I must take the work that offers--it is

my ambition to become the teacher of some rural parish which is still

unpolluted by the influences of which we have been speaking--or, at all

events, is still capable of being rescued. For work in crowded centres,

I am altogether unfit; my prejudices are too strong; I should do far

more harm than good. But among a few simple people I think my efforts

mightn't be useless. I can't pretend to care for anything but

individuals. The few whom I know and love are of more importance to me

than all the blind multitude rushing to destruction. I hate the word

_majority_; it is the few, the very few, that have always kept alive

whatever of effectual good we see in the human race. There are

individuals who outweigh, in every kind of value, generations of

ordinary people. To some remote little community I hope to give the

best energies of my life. My teaching will avoid doctrine and

controversy. I shall take the spirit of the Gospels, and labour to make

it a practical guide. No doubt you find inconsistencies in me; but

remember that I shall not declare myself to those I instruct as I have

done to you. I have been laying stress on my antipathies. In the future

it will be a duty and a pleasure to forget these and foster my

sympathies, which also are strong when opportunity is given them.'

Sidwell listened, her face bent downwards but not hidden from the

speaker.

'My nature is intolerant,' he went on, 'and I am easily roused to an

antagonism which destroys my peace. It is only by living apart, amid

friendly circumstances, that I can cultivate the qualities useful to

myself and others. The sense that my life was being wasted determined

me a year ago to escape the world's uproar and prepare myself in

quietness for this task. The resolve was taken here, in your house.'

'Are you quite sure,' asked Sidwell, 'that such simple duties and

satisfactions'--

The sentence remained incomplete, or rather was finished in the timid

glance she gave him.

'Such a life wouldn't be possible to me,' he replied, with unsteady

voice, 'if I were condemned to intellectual solitude. But I have dared

to hope that I shall not always be alone.'

A parched throat would have stayed his utterance, even if words had

offered themselves. But sudden confusion beset his mind--a sense of

having been guilty of monstrous presumption--a panic which threw

darkness about him and made him grasp the chair convulsively. When he

recovered himself and looked at Sidwell there was a faint smile on her

lips, inexpressibly gentle.

'That's the rough outline of my projects,' he said, in his ordinary

voice, moving a few steps away. 'You see that I count much on fortune;

at the best, it may be years before I can get my country living.'

With a laugh, he came towards her and offered his hand for good-bye.

Sidwell rose.

'You have interested me very much. Whatever assistance it may be in my

father's power to offer you, I am sure you may count upon.'

'I am already much indebted to Mr. Warricombe's kindness.'

They shook hands without further speech, and Peak went his way.

For an hour or two he was powerless to collect his thoughts. All he had

said repeated itself again and again, mixed up with turbid comments,

with deadly fears and frantic bursts of confidence, with tumult of

passion and merciless logic of self-criticism. Did Sidwell understand

that sentence: 'I have dared to hope that I shall not always be alone'?

Was it not possible that she might interpret it as referring to some

unknown woman whom he loved? If not, if his voice and features had

betrayed him, what could her behaviour mean, except distinct

encouragement? 'You have interested me very much.' But could she have

used such words if his meaning had been plain to her? Far more likely

that her frank kindness came of misconception. She imagined him the

lover of some girl of his own 'station'--a toiling governess, or some

such person; it could not enter into her mind that he 'dared' so

recklessly as the truth implied.

But the glow of sympathy with which she heard his immeasurable scorn:

there was the spirit that defies artificial distances. Why had he not

been bolder? At this rate he must spend a lifetime in preparing for the

decisive moment. When would another such occasion offer itself?

Women are won by audacity; the poets have repeated it from age to age,

and some truth there must be in the saying. Suspicion of self-interest

could not but attach to him; that was inherent in the circumstances. He

must rely upon the sincerity of his passion, which indeed was beginning

to rack and rend him. A woman is sensitive to that, especially a woman

of Sidwell's refinement. In matters of the intellect she may be misled,

but she cannot mistake quivering ardour for design simulating love. If

it were impossible to see her again in private before she left Exeter,

then he must write to her. Half a year of complete uncertainty, and of

counterfeiting face to face with Bruno Chilvers, would overtax his

resolution.

The evening went by he knew not how. Long after nightfall he was

returning from an aimless ramble by way of the Old Tiverton Road. At

least he would pass the house, and soothe or inflame his emotions by

resting for a moment thus near to Sidwell.

What? He had believed himself incapable of erotic madness? And he

pressed his forehead against the stones of the wall to relieve his sick

dizziness.

It was Sidwell or death. Into what a void of hideous futility would his

life be cast, if this desire proved vain, and he were left to combat

alone with the memory of his dishonour! With Sidwell the reproach could

be outlived. She would understand him, pardon him--and thereafter a

glorified existence, rivalling that of whosoever has been most exultant

among the sons of men!

Part IV

CHAPTER I

Earwaker's struggle with the editor-in-chief of _The Weekly Post_ and

the journalist Kenyon came to its natural close about a month after

Godwin Peak's disappearance. Only a vein of obstinacy in his character

had kept him so long in a position he knew to be untenable. From the

first his sympathy with Mr. Runcorn's politics had been doubtful, and

experience of the working of a Sunday newspaper, which appealed to the

ignobly restive, could not encourage his adhesion to this form of

Radicalism. He anticipated dismissal by retirement, and Kenyon, a man

of coarsely vigorous fibre, at once stepped into his place.

Now that he had leisure to review the conflict, Earwaker understood

that circumstances had but hastened his transition from a moderate

ardour in the parliamentary cause of the people, to a regretful

neutrality regarding all political movements. Birth allied him with the

proletarian class, and his sentiment in favour of democracy was

unendangered by the disillusions which must come upon every

intellectual man brought into close contact with public affairs. The

course of an education essentially aristocratic (Greek and Latin can

have no other tendency so long as they are the privilege of the few)

had not affected his natural bent, nor was he the man to be driven into

reaction because of obstacles to his faith inseparable from human

weakness. He had learnt that the emancipation of the poor and untaught

must proceed more slowly than he once hoped--that was all. Restored to

generous calm, he could admit that such men as Runcorn and Kenyon--the

one with his polyarchic commercialism, the other with his demagogic

violence--had possibly a useful part to play at the present stage of

things. He, however, could have no place in that camp. Too indiscreetly

he had hoisted his standard of idealism, and by stubborn resistance of

insuperable forces he had merely brought forward the least satisfactory

elements of his own character. 'Hold on!' cried Malkin. 'Fight the

grovellers to the end!' But Earwaker had begun to see himself in a

light of ridicule. There was just time to save his self-respect.

He was in no concern for his daily bread. With narrower resources in

the world of print, he might have been compelled, like many another

journalist, to swallow his objections and write as Runcorn dictated;

for the humble folks at home could not starve to allow him the luxury

of conscientiousness, whatever he might have been disposed to do on his

own account. Happily, his pen had a scope beyond politics, and by

working steadily for reviews, with which he was already connected, he

would be able to keep his finances in reasonable order until,

perchance, some hopeful appointment offered itself. In a mood of much

cheerfulness he turned for ever from party uproar, and focused his mind

upon those interests of humanity which so rarely coincide with the aims

of any league among men.

Half a year went by, and at length he granted himself a short holiday,

the first in a twelvemonth. It took the form of a voyage to Marseilles,

and thence of a leisurely ramble up the Rhone. Before returning, he

spent a day or two in Paris, for the most part beneath cafe' awnings,

or on garden seats--an indulgence of contented laziness.

On the day of his departure, he climbed the towers of Notre Dame, and

lingered for half-an-hour in pleasant solitude among the stone

monsters. His reverie was broken by an English voice, loud and animated:

'Come and look at this old demon of a bird; he has always been a

favourite of mine.--Sure you're not tired, Miss Bella? When you want to

rest, Miss Lily, mind you say so at once. What a day! What a sky!--When

I was last up here I had my hat blown away. I watched it as far as

Montmartre. A fact! Never knew such a wind in my life--unless it was

that tornado I told you about--Hollo! By the powers, if that isn't

Earwaker! Confound you, old fellow! How the deuce do you do? What a

glorious meeting! Hadn't the least idea where you were!--Let me have

the pleasure of introducing you to Mrs. Jacox--and to Miss Jacox--and

to Miss Lily. They all know you thoroughly well. Now who would have

thought of our meeting up here! Glorious!'

It was with some curiosity that Earwaker regarded the companions of his

friend Malkin--whose proximity was the last thing he could have

imagined, as only a few weeks ago he had heard of the restless fellow's

departing, on business unknown, for Boston, US. Mrs. Jacox, the widow

whose wrongs had made such an impression on Malkin, announced herself,

in a thin, mealy face and rag-doll figure, as not less than forty,

though her irresponsible look made it evident that years profited her

nothing, and suggested an explanation of the success with which she had

been victimised. She was stylishly dressed, and had the air of enjoying

an unusual treat. Her children were of more promising type, though

Earwaker would hardly have supposed them so old as he knew them to be.

Bella, just beyond her fourteenth year, had an intelligent prettiness,

but was excessively shy; in giving her hand to the stranger she flushed

over face and neck, and her bosom palpitated visibly. Her sister, two

years younger, was a mere child, rather self-conscious, but of laughing

temper. Their toilet suited ill with that of their mother; its

plainness and negligence might have passed muster in London, but here,

under the lucent sky, it seemed a wrong to their budding maidenhood.

'Mrs. Jacox is on the point of returning to England,' Malkin explained.

'I happened to meet her, by chance--I'm always meeting my friends by

chance; you, for instance, Earwaker. She is so good as to allow me to

guide her and the young ladies to a few of the sights of Paris.'

'O Mr. Malkin!' exclaimed the widow, with a stress on the exclamation

peculiar to herself--two notes of deprecating falsetto. 'How can you

say it is good of me, when I'm sure there are no words for your

kindness to us all! If only you knew our debt to your friend, Mr

Earwaker! To our dying day we must all remember it. It is entirely

through Mr. Malkin that we are able to leave that most disagreeable

Rouen--a place I shall never cease to think of with horror. O Mr

Earwaker! you have only to think of that wretched railway station,

stuck between two black tunnels! O Mr. Malkin!'

'What are you doing?' Malkin inquired of the journalist. 'How long

shall you be here? Why haven't I heard from you?'

'I go to London to-night.'

'And we to-morrow. On Friday I'll look you up. Stay, can't you dine

with me this evening? Anywhere you like. These ladies will be glad to

be rid of me, and to dine in peace at their hotel.'

'O Mr. Malkin!' piped the widow, 'you know how very far that is from

the truth. But we shall be very glad indeed to know that you are

enjoying yourself with Mr. Earwaker.'

The friends made an appointment to meet near the Madeleine, and

Earwaker hastened to escape the sound of Mrs. Jacox's voice.

Punctual at the rendezvous, Malkin talked with his wonted effusiveness

as he led towards the Cafe Anglais.

'I've managed it, my boy! The most complete success! I had to run over

to Boston to get hold of a scoundrelly relative of that poor woman. You

should have seen how I came over him--partly dignified sternness,

partly justifiable cajolery. The affair only wanted some one to take it

up in earnest. I have secured her about a couple of hundred a

year--withheld on the most paltry and transparent pretences. They're

going to live at Wrotham, in Kent, where Mrs Jacox has friends. I never

thought myself so much of a man of business. Of course old Haliburton,

the lawyer, had a hand in it, but without my personal energy it would

have taken him a year longer. What do you think of the girls? How do

you like Bella?'

'A pretty child.'

'Child? Well, yes, yes--immature of course; but I'm rather in the habit

of thinking of her as a young lady. In three years she'll be seventeen,

you know. Of course you couldn't form a judgment of her character.

She's quite remarkably mature for her age; and, what delights me most

of all, a sturdy Radical! She takes the most intelligent interest in

all political and social movements, I assure you! There's a great deal

of democratic fire in her.'

'You're sure it isn't reflected from your own fervour?'

'Not a bit of it! You should have seen her excitement when we were at

the Bastille Column yesterday. She'll make a splendid woman, I assure

you. Lily's very interesting, too--profoundly interesting. But then she

is certainly very young, so I can't feel so sure of her on the great

questions. She hasn't her sister's earnestness, I fancy.'

In the after-glow of dinner, Malkin became still more confidential.

'You remember what I said to you long since? My mind is made

up--practically made up. I shall devote myself to Bella's education, in

the hope--you understand me? Impossible to have found a girl who suited

better with my aspirations. She has known the hardships of poverty,

poor thing, and that will keep her for ever in sympathy with the

downtrodden classes. She has a splendid intelligence, and it shall be

cultivated to the utmost.'

'One word,' said Earwaker, soberly. 'We have heard before of men who

waited for girls to grow up. Be cautious, my dear fellow, both on your

own account and hers.'

'My dear Earwaker! Don't imagine for a moment that I take it for

granted she will get to be fond of me. My attitude is one of the most

absolute discretion. You must have observed how I behaved to them

all--scrupulous courtesy, I trust; no more familiarity than any friend

might be permitted. I should never dream of addressing the girls

without ceremonious prefix--never! I talk of Bella's education, but be

assured that I regard my own as a matter of quite as much importance. I

mean, that I shall strive incessantly to make myself worthy of her. No

laxity! For these next three years I shall live as becomes a man who

has his eyes constantly on a high ideal--the pure and beautiful girl

whom he humbly hopes to win for a wife.'

The listener was moved. He raised his wine-glass to conceal the smile

which might have been misunderstood. In his heart he felt more

admiration than had yet mingled with his liking for this strange fellow.

'And Mrs. Jacox herself,' pursued Malkin; 'she has her weaknesses, as

we all have. I don't think her a very strong-minded woman, to tell the

truth. But there's a great deal of goodness in her. If there's one

thing I desire in people, it is the virtue of gratitude, and Mrs Jacox

is grateful almost to excess for the paltry exertions I have made on

her behalf. You know that kind of thing costs me nothing; you know I

like running about and getting things done. But the poor woman imagines

that I have laid her under an eternal obligation. Of course I shall

show her in time that it was nothing at all; that she might have done

just as much for herself if she had known how to go about it.'

Earwaker was musing, a wrinkle of uneasiness at the corner of his eye.

'She isn't the kind of woman, you know, one can regard as a mother. But

we are the best possible friends. She _may_, perhaps, think of me as a

possible son-in-law. Poor thing; I hope she does. Perhaps it will help

to put her mind at rest about the girls.'

'Then shall you often be down at Wrotham?' inquired the journalist,

abstractedly.

'Oh, not often--that is to say, only once a month or so, just to look

in. I wanted to ask you: do you think I might venture to begin a

correspondence with Bella?'

'M--m--m! I can't say.'

'It would be so valuable, you know. I could suggest books for her

reading; I could help her in her study of politics, and so on.'

'Well, think about it. But be cautious, I beg of you. Now I must be

off. Only just time enough to get my traps to the station.'

'I'll come with you. Gare du Nord? Oh, plenty of time, plenty of time!

Nothing so abominable as waiting for trains. I make a point of never

getting to the station more than three minutes before time. Astonishing

what one can do in three minutes! I want to tell you about an adventure

I had in Boston. Met a fellow so devilish like Peak that I _couldn't_

believe it wasn't he himself. I spoke to him, but he swore that he knew

not the man. Never saw such a likeness!'

'Curious. It may have been Peak.'

'By all that's suspicious, I can't help thinking the same! He had an

English accent, too.'

'Queer business, this of Peak's. I hope I may live to hear the end of

the story.'

They left the restaurant, and in a few hours Earwaker was again on

English soil.

At Staple Inn a pile of letters awaited him, among them a note from

Christian Moxey, asking for an appointment as soon as possible after

the journalist's return. Earwaker at once sent an invitation, and on

the next evening Moxey came. An intimacy had grown up between the two,

since the mysterious retreat of their common friend. Christian was at

first lost without the companionship of Godwin Peak; he forsook his

studies, and fell into a state of complete idleness which naturally

fostered his tendency to find solace in the decanter. With Earwaker, he

could not talk as unreservedly as with Peak, but on the other hand

there was a tonic influence in the journalist's personality which he

recognised as beneficial. Earwaker was steadily making his way in the

world, lived a life of dignified independence. What was the secret of

these strong, calm natures? Might it not be learnt by studious

inspection?

'How well you look!' Christian exclaimed, on entering. 'We enjoyed your

Provencal letter enormously. That's a ramble I have always meant to do.

Next year perhaps.'

'Why not this? Haven't you got into a dangerous habit of postponement?'

'Yes, I'm afraid I have. But, by-the-bye, no news of Peak, I suppose?'

Earwaker related the story he had heard from Malkin, adding:

'You must remember that they met only once in London; Malkin might very

well mistake another man for Peak.'

'Yes,' replied the other musingly. 'Yet it isn't impossible that Peak

has gone over there. If so, what on earth can he be up to? Why _should_

he hide from his friends?'

'_Cherchez la femme_,' said the journalist, with a smile. 'I can devise

no other explanation.'

'But I can't see that it would be an explanation at all. Grant

even--something unavowable, you know--are we Puritans? How could it

harm him, at all events, to let us know his whereabouts? No such

mystery ever came into my experience. It is too bad of Peak; it's

confoundedly unkind.'

'Suppose he has found it necessary to assume a character wholly

fictitious--or, let us say, quite inconsistent with his life and

opinions as known to us?'

This was a fruitful suggestion, long in Earwaker's mind, but not

hitherto communicated. Christian did not at once grasp its significance.

'How could that be necessary? Peak is no swindler. You don't imply that

he is engaged in some fraud?'

'Not in the ordinary sense, decidedly. But picture some girl or woman

of conventional opinions and surroundings. What if he resolved to win

such a wife, at the expense of disguising his true self?'

'But what an extraordinary idea!' cried Moxey. 'Why Peak is all but a

woman-hater!'

The journalist uttered croaking laughter.

'Have I totally misunderstood him?' asked Christian, confused and

abashed.

'I think it not impossible.'

'You amaze me!--But no, no; you are wrong, Earwaker. Wrong in your

suggestion, I mean. Peak could never sink to that. He is too

uncompromising'----

'Well, it will be explained some day, I suppose.'

And with a shrug of impatience, the journalist turned to another

subject. He, too, regretted his old friend's disappearance, and in a

measure resented it. Godwin Peak was not a man to slip out of one's

life and leave no appreciable vacancy. Neither of these men admired

him, in the true sense of the word, yet had his voice sounded at the

door both would have sprung up with eager welcome. He was a force--and

how many such beings does one encounter in a lifetime?

CHAPTER II

In different ways, Christian and Marcella Moxey had both been lonely

since their childhood. As a schoolgirl, Marcella seemed to her

companions conceited and repellent; only as the result of reflection in

after years did Sylvia Moorhouse express so favourable an opinion of

her. In all things she affected singularity; especially it was her

delight to utter democratic and revolutionary sentiments among hearers

who, belonging to a rigidly conservative order, held such opinions

impious. Arrived at womanhood, she affected scorn of the beliefs and

habits cherished by her own sex, and shrank from association with the

other. Godwin Peak was the first man with whom she conversed in the

tone of friendship, and it took a year or more before that point was

reached. As her intimacy with him established itself, she was observed

to undergo changes which seemed very significant in the eyes of her few

acquaintances. Disregard of costume had been one of her

characteristics, but now she moved gradually towards the opposite

extreme, till her dresses were occasionally more noticeable for

richness than for good taste.

Christian, for kindred reasons, was equally debarred from the pleasures

and profits of society. At school, his teachers considered him clever,

his fellows for the most part looked down upon him as a sentimental

weakling. The death of his parents, when he was still a lad, left him

to the indifferent care of a guardian nothing akin to him. He began

life in an uncongenial position, and had not courage to oppose the

drift of circumstances. The romantic attachment which absorbed his best

years naturally had a debilitating effect, for love was never yet a

supporter of the strenuous virtues, save when it has survived fruition

and been blessed by reason. In most men a fit of amorous mooning works

its own cure; energetic rebound is soon inevitable. But Christian was

so constituted that a decade of years could not exhaust his capacity

for sentimental languishment. He made it a point of honour to seek no

female companionship which could imperil his faith. Unfortunately, this

avoidance of the society which would soon have made him a happy

renegade, was but too easy. Marcella and he practically encouraged each

other in a life of isolation, though to both of them such an existence

was anything but congenial. Their difficulties were of the same nature

as those which had always beset Godwin Peak; they had no relatives with

whom they cared to associate, and none of the domestic friends who, in

the progress of time, establish and extend a sphere of genuine intimacy.

Most people who are capable of independent thought rapidly outgrow the

stage when compromise is abhorred; they accept, at first reluctantly,

but ere long with satisfaction, that code of polite intercourse which,

as Steele says, is 'an expedient to make fools and wise men equal'. It

was Marcella's ill-fate that she could neither learn tolerance nor

persuade herself to affect it. The emancipated woman has fewer

opportunities of relieving her mind than a man in corresponding

position; if her temper be aggressive she must renounce general

society, and, if not content to live alone, ally herself with some

group of declared militants. By correspondence, or otherwise, Marcella

might have brought herself into connection with women of a sympathetic

type, but this effort she had never made. And chiefly because of her

acquaintance with Godwin Peak. In him she concentrated her interests;

he was the man to whom her heart went forth with every kind of fervour.

So long as there remained a hope of moving him to reciprocal feeling

she did not care to go in search of female companions. Year after year

she sustained herself in solitude by this faint hope. She had lost

sight of the two or three schoolfellows who, though not so zealous as

herself, would have welcomed her as an interesting acquaintance; and

the only woman who assiduously sought her was Mrs. Morton, the wife of

one of Christian's friends, a good-natured but silly person bent on

making known that she followed the 'higher law'.

Godwin's disappearance sank her in profound melancholy. Through the

black weeks of January and February she scarcely left the house, and on

the plea of illness refused to see any one but her brother. Between

Christian and her there was no avowed confidence, but each knew the

other's secret; their mutual affection never spoke itself in words, yet

none the less it was indispensable to their lives. Deprived of his

sister's company, Christian must have yielded to the vice which had

already too strong a hold upon him, and have become a maudlin drunkard.

Left to herself, Marcella had but slender support against a grim

temptation already beckoning her in nights of sleeplessness. Of the

two, her nature was the more tragic. Circumstances aiding, Christian

might still forget his melancholy, abandon the whisky bottle, and pass

a lifetime of amiable uxoriousness, varied with scientific enthusiasm.

But for Marcella, frustrate in the desire with which every impulse of

her being had identified itself, what future could be imagined?

When a day or two of sunlight (the rays through a semi-opaque

atmosphere which London has to accept with gratitude) had announced

that the seven-months' winter was overcome, and when the newspapers

began to speak, after their fashion, of pictures awaiting scrutiny,

Christian exerted himself to rouse his sister from her growing

indolence. He succeeded in taking her to the Academy. Among the works

of sculpture, set apart for the indifference of the public, was a

female head, catalogued as 'A Nihilist'--in itself interesting, and

specially so to Marcella, because it was executed by an artist whose

name she recognised as that of a schoolmate, Agatha Walworth. She spoke

of the circumstance to Christian, and added:

'I should like to have that. Let us go and see the price.'

The work was already sold. Christian, happy that his sister could be

aroused to this interest, suggested that a cast might be obtainable.

'Write to Miss Walworth,' he urged. 'Bring yourself to her

recollection.--I should think she must be the right kind of woman.'

Though at the time she shook her head, Marcella was presently tempted

to address a letter to the artist, who responded with friendly

invitation. In this way a new house was opened to her; but,

simultaneously, one more illusion was destroyed. Knowing little of

life, and much of literature, she pictured Miss Walworth as inhabiting

a delightful Bohemian world, where the rules of conventionalism had no

existence, and everything was judged by the brain-standard. Modern

French biographies supplied all her ideas of studio society. She

prepared herself for the first visit with a joyous tremor, wondering

whether she would be deemed worthy to associate with the men and women

who lived for art. The reality was a shock. In a large house at

Chiswick she found a gathering of most respectable English people,

chatting over the regulation tea-cup; not one of them inclined to

disregard the dictates of Mrs. Grundy in dress, demeanour, or dialogue.

Agatha Walworth lived with her parents and her sisters like any other

irreproachable young woman. She had a nice little studio, and worked at

modelling with a good deal of aptitude; but of Bohemia she knew nothing

whatever, save by hearsay. Her 'Nihilist' was no indication of a

rebellious spirit; some friend had happened to suggest that a certain

female model, a Russian, would do very well for such a character, and

the hint was tolerably well carried out--nothing more. Marcella

returned in a mood of contemptuous disappointment. The cast she had

desired to have was shortly sent to her as a gift, but she could take

no pleasure in it.

Still, she saw more of the Walworths and found them not illiberal.

Agatha was intelligent, and fairly well read in modern authors; no need

to conceal one's opinions in conversation with her. Marcella happened

to be spending the evening with these acquaintances whilst her brother

was having his chat at Staple Inn; on her return, she mentioned to

Christian that she had been invited to visit the Walworths in

Devonshire a few weeks hence.

'Go, by all means,' urged her brother.

'I don't think I shall. They are too respectable.'

'Nonsense! They seem very open-minded; you really can't expect absolute

unconventionality. Is it desirable? Really is it, now?--Suppose I were

to marry some day, Marcella; do you think my household would be

unconventional?'

His voice shook a little, and he kept his eyes averted. Marcella, to

whom her brother's romance was anything but an agreeable subject,--the

slight acquaintance she had with the modern Laura did not encourage her

to hope for that lady's widowhood,--gave no heed to the question.

'They are going to have a house at Budleigh Salterton; do you know of

the place? Somewhere near the mouth of the Exe. Miss Walworth tells me

that one of our old school friends is living there--Sylvia Moorhouse.

Did I ever mention Sylvia? She had gleams of sense, I remember; but no

doubt society has drilled all that out of her.'

Christian sighed.

'Why?' he urged. 'Society is getting more tolerant than you are

disposed to think. Very few well-educated people would nowadays object

to an acquaintance on speculative grounds. Some one--who was it?--was

telling me of a recent marriage between the daughter of some well-known

Church people and a man who made no secret of his agnosticism; the

parents acquiescing cheerfully. The one thing still insisted on is

decency of behaviour.'

Marcella's eyes flashed.

'How can you say that? You know quite well that most kinds of

immorality are far more readily forgiven by people of the world than

sincere heterodoxy on moral subjects.'

'Well, well, I meant decency from _their_ point of view. And there

really must be such restrictions, you know. How very few people are

capable of what you call sincere heterodoxy, in morals or religion!

Your position is unphilosophical; indeed it is. Take the world as you

find it, and make friends with kind, worthy people. You have suffered

from a needless isolation. Do accept this opportunity of adding to your

acquaintances!--Do, Marcella! I shall take it as a great kindness, dear

girl.'

His sister let her head lie back against the chair, her face averted. A

stranger seated in Christian's place, regarding Marcella whilst her

features were thus hidden, would have thought it probable that she was

a woman of no little beauty. Her masses of tawny hair, her arms and

hands, the pose and outline of her figure, certainly suggested a

countenance of corresponding charm, and the ornate richness of her

attire aided such an impression. This thought came to Christian as he

gazed at her; his eyes, always so gentle, softened to a tender

compassion. As the silence continued, he looked uneasily about him;

when at length he spoke, it was as though a matter of trifling moment

had occurred to him.

'By-the-bye, I am told that Malkin (Earwaker's friend, you know) saw

Peak not long ago--in America.'

Marcella did not change her position, but at the sound of Peak's name

she stirred, as if with an intention, at once checked, of bending

eagerly forward.

'In America?' she asked, incredulously.

'At Boston. He met him in the street--or thinks he did. There's a

doubt. When Malkin spoke to the man, he declared that he was not Peak

at all--said there was a mistake.'

Marcella moved so as to show her face; endeavouring to express an

unemotional interest, she looked coldly scornful.

'That ridiculous man can't be depended upon,' she said.

There had been one meeting between Marcella and Mr. Malkin, with the

result that each thoroughly disliked the other--an antipathy which

could have been foreseen.

'Well, there's no saying,' replied Christian. 'But of one thing I feel

pretty sure: we have seen the last of Peak. He'll never come back to

us.'

'Why not?'

'I can only say that I feel convinced he has broken finally with all

his old friends.--We must think no more of him, Marcella.'

His sister rose slowly, affected to glance at a book, and in a few

moments said good-night. For another hour Christian sat by himself in

gloomy thought.

At breakfast next morning Marcella announced that she would be from

home the whole day; she might return in time for dinner, but it was

uncertain. Her brother asked no questions, but said that he would lunch

in town. About ten o'clock a cab was summoned, and Marcella, without

leave-taking, drove away.

Christian lingered as long as possible over the morning paper, unable

to determine how he should waste the weary hours that lay before him.

There was no reason for his remaining in London through this brief

season of summer glow. Means and leisure were his, he could go whither

he would. But the effort of decision and departure seemed too much for

him. Worst of all, this lassitude (not for the first time) was

affecting his imagination; he thought with a dull discontent of the

ideal love to which he had bound himself. Could he but escape from it,

and begin a new life! But he was the slave of his airy obligation; for

very shame's sake his ten years' consistency must be that of a lifetime.

There was but one place away from London to which he felt himself

drawn, and that was the one place he might not visit. This morning's

sunshine carried him back to that day when he had lain in the meadow

near Twybridge and talked with Godwin Peak. How distinctly he

remembered his mood! 'Be practical--don't be led astray after

ideals--concentrate yourself;'--yes, it was he who had given that

advice to Peak: and had he but recked his own rede--! Poor little

Janet! was she married? If so, her husband must be a happy man.

Why should he not go down to Twybridge? His uncle, undoubtedly still

living, must by this time have forgotten the old resentment, perhaps

would be glad to see him. In any case he might stroll about the town

and somehow obtain news of the Moxey family.

With vague half-purpose he left the house and walked westward. The

stream of traffic in Edgware Road brought him to a pause; he stood for

five minutes in miserable indecision, all but resolving to go on as far

as Euston and look for the next northward train. But the vice in his

will prevailed; automaton-like he turned in another direction, and

presently came out into Sussex Square. Here was the house to which his

thoughts had perpetually gone forth ever since that day when Constance

gave her hand to a thriving City man, and became Mrs. Palmer. At

present, he knew, it was inhabited only by domestics: Mr. Palmer,

recovering from illness that threatened to be fatal, had gone to

Bournemouth, where Constance of course tended him. But he would walk

past and look up at the windows.

All the blinds were down--naturally. Thrice he went by and retraced his

steps. Then, still automaton-like, he approached the door, rang the

bell. The appearance of the servant choked his voice for an instant,

but he succeeded in shaping an inquiry after Mr. Palmer's health.

'I'm sorry to say, sir,' was the reply, 'that Mr. Palmer died last

night. We received the news only an hour or two ago.'

Christian tottered on his feet and turned so pale that the servant

regarded him with anxiety. For a minute or two he stared vacantly into

the gloomy hall; then, without a word, he turned abruptly and walked

away.

Unconscious of the intervening distance, he found himself at home, in

his library. The parlour-maid was asking him whether he would have

luncheon. Scarcely understanding the question, he muttered a refusal

and sat down.

So, it had come at last. Constance was a widow. In a year or so she

might think of marrying again.

He remained in the library for three or four hours. At first incapable

of rejoicing, then ashamed to do so, he at length suffered from such a

throbbing of the heart that apprehension of illness recalled him to a

normal state of mind. The favourite decanter was within reach, and it

gave him the wonted support. Then at length did heart and brain glow

with exulting fervour.

Poor Constance! Noble woman! Most patient of martyrs! The hour of her

redemption had struck. The fetters had fallen from her tender,

suffering body. Of _him_ she could not yet think. He did not wish it.

The womanhood must pay its debt to nature before she could gladden in

the prospect of a new life. Months must go by before he could approach

her, or even remind her of his existence. But at last his reward was

sure.

And he had thought of Twybridge, of his cousin Janet! O unworthy lapse!

He shed tears of tenderness. Dear, noble Constance! It was now nearly

twelve years since he first looked upon her face. In those days he

mingled freely with all the society within his reach. It was not very

select, and Constance Markham shone to him like a divinity among

creatures of indifferent clay. They said she was coquettish, that she

played at the game of love with every presentable young man--envious

calumny! No, she was single-hearted, inexperienced, a lovely and joyous

girl of not yet twenty. It is so difficult for such a girl to

understand her own emotions. Her parents persuaded her into wedding

Palmer. That was all gone into the past, and now his concern--their

concern--was only with the blessed future.

At three o'clock he began to feel a healthy appetite. He sent for a cab

and drove towards the region of restaurants.

Had he yielded to the impulse which this morning directed him to

Twybridge, he would have arrived in that town not very long after his

sister.

For that was the aim of Marcella's journey. On reaching the station,

she dropped a light veil over her face and set forth on foot to

discover the abode of Mrs. Peak. No inhabitant of Twybridge save her

uncle and his daughters could possibly recognise her, but she shrank

from walking through the streets with exposed countenance. Whether she

would succeed in her quest was uncertain. Godwin Peak's mother still

dwelt here, she knew, for less than a year ago she had asked the

question of Godwin himself; but a woman in humble circumstances might

not have a house of her own, and her name was probably unknown save to

a few friends.

However, the first natural step was to inquire for a directory. A

stationer supplied her with one, informing her, with pride, that he

himself was the author of it--that this was only the second year of its

issue, and that its success was 'very encouraging'. Retiring to a quiet

street, Marcella examined her purchase, and came upon 'Peak, Oliver;

seedsman'--the sole entry of the name. This was probably a relative of

Godwin's. Without difficulty she found Mr Peak's shop; behind the

counter stood Oliver himself, rubbing his hands. Was there indeed a

family likeness between this fresh-looking young shopkeeper and the

stern, ambitious, intellectual man whose lineaments were ever before

her mind? Though with fear and repulsion, Marcella was constrained to

recognise something in the commonplace visage. With an uncertain voice,

she made known her business.

'I wish to find Mrs. Peak--a widow--an elderly lady'----

'Oh yes, madam! My mother, no doubt. She lives with her sister, Miss

Cadman--the milliner's shop in the first street to the left. Let me

point it out.'

With a sinking of the heart, Marcella murmured thanks and walked away.

She found the milliner's shop--and went past it.

Why should discoveries such as these be so distasteful to her? Her own

origin was not so exalted that she must needs look down on trades-folk.

Still, for the moment she all but abandoned her undertaking. Was Godwin

Peak in truth of so much account to her? Would not the shock of meeting

his mother be final? Having come thus far, she must go through with it.

If the experience cured her of a hopeless passion, why, what more

desirable?

She entered the shop. A young female assistant came forward with

respectful smile, and waited her commands.

'I wish, if you please, to see Mrs. Peak.'

'Oh yes, madam! Will you have the goodness to walk this way?'

Too late Marcella remembered that she ought to have gone to the

house-entrance. The girl led her out of the shop into a dark passage,

and thence into a sitting-room which smelt of lavender. Here she waited

for a few moments; then the door opened softly, and Mrs. Peak presented

herself.

There was no shock. The widow had the air of a gentlewoman--walked with

elderly grace--and spoke with propriety. She resembled Godwin, and this

time it was not painful to remark the likeness.

'I have come to Twybridge,' began Marcella, gently and respectfully,

'that is to say, I have stopped in passing--to ask for the address of

Mr. Godwin Peak. A letter has failed to reach him.

It was her wish to manage without either disclosing the truth about

herself or elaborating fictions, but after the first words she felt it

impossible not to offer some explanation. Mrs. Peak showed a slight

surprise. With the courage of cowardice, Marcella continued more

rapidly:

'My name is Mrs. Ward. My husband used to know Mr. Peak, in London, a

few years ago, but we have been abroad, and unfortunately have lost

sight of him. We remembered that Mr. Peak's relatives lived at

Twybridge, and, as we wish very much to renew the old acquaintance, I

took the opportunity--passing by rail. I made inquiries in the town,

and was directed to you--I hope rightly'----

The widow's face changed to satisfaction. Evidently her straightforward

mind accepted the story as perfectly credible. Marcella, with

bitterness, knew herself far from comely enough to suggest perils. She

looked old enough for the part she was playing, and the glove upon her

hand might conceal a wedding-ring.

'Yes, you were directed rightly,' Mrs. Peak made quiet answer. 'I shall

be very glad to give you my son's address. He left London about last

Christmas, and went to live at Exeter.'

'Exeter? We thought he might be out of England.'

'No; he has lived all the time at Exeter. The address is Longbrook

Street'--she added the number. 'He is studying, and finds that part of

the country pleasant. I am hoping to see him here before very long.'

Marcella did not extend the conversation. She spoke of having to catch

a train, and veiled as well as she could beneath ordinary courtesies

her perplexity at the information she had received.

When she again reached the house at Notting Hill, Christian was absent.

He came home about nine in the evening. It was impossible not to remark

his strange mood of repressed excitement; but Marcella did not question

him, and Christian had resolved to conceal the day's event until he

could speak of it without agitation. Before they parted for the night,

Marcella said carelessly:

'I have decided to go down to Budleigh Salterton when the time comes.'

'That's right!' exclaimed her brother, with satisfaction. 'You couldn't

do better--couldn't possibly. It will be a very good thing for you in

several ways.'

And each withdrew to brood over a perturbing secret.

CHAPTER III

Three or four years ago, when already he had conceived the idea of

trying his fortune in some provincial town, Peak persuaded himself that

it would not be difficult to make acquaintances among educated people,

even though he had no credentials to offer. He indulged his fancy and

pictured all manner of pleasant accidents which surely, sooner or

later, must bring him into contact with families of the better sort.

One does hear of such occurrences, no doubt. In every town there is

some one or other whom a stranger may approach: a medical man--a local

antiquary--a librarian--a philanthropist; and with moderate advantages

of mind and address, such casual connections may at times be the

preface to intimacy, with all resulting benefits. But experience of

Exeter had taught him how slight would have been his chance of getting

on friendly terms with any mortal if he had depended solely on his

personal qualities. After a nine months' residence, and with the

friendship of such people as the Warricombes, he was daily oppressed by

his isolation amid this community of English folk. He had done his

utmost to adopt the tone of average polished life. He had sat at the

tables of worthy men, and conversed freely with their sons and

daughters; he exchanged greetings in the highways: but this availed him

nothing. Now, as on the day of his arrival, he was an alien--a lodger.

What else had he ever been, since boyhood? A lodger in Kingsmill, a

lodger in London, a lodger in Exeter. Nay, even as a boy he could

scarcely have been said to 'live at home', for from the dawn of

conscious intelligence he felt himself out of place among familiar

things and people, at issue with prevalent opinions. Was he never to

win a right of citizenship, never to have a recognised place among men

associated in the duties and pleasures of life?

Sunday was always a day of weariness and despondency, and at present he

suffered from the excitement of his conversation with Sidwell, followed

as it had been by a night of fever. Extravagant hope had given place to

a depression which could see nothing beyond the immediate gloom. Until

mid-day he lay in bed. After dinner, finding the solitude of his little

room intolerable, he went out to walk in the streets.

Not far from his door some children had gathered in a quiet corner, and

were playing at a game on the pavement with pieces of chalk. As he drew

near, a policeman, observing the little group, called out to them in a

stern voice:

'Now then! what are you doing there? Don't you know _what day_ it is?'

The youngsters fled, conscious of shameful delinquency.

There it was! There spoke the civic voice, the social rule, the public

sentiment! Godwin felt that the policeman had rebuked _him_, and in

doing so had severely indicated the cause of that isolation which he

was condemned to suffer. Yes, all his life he had desired to play games

on Sunday; he had never been able to understand why games on Sunday

should be forbidden. And the angry laugh which escaped him as he went

by the guardian of public morals declared the impossibility of his ever

being at one with communities which made this point the prime test of

worthiness.

He walked on at a great speed, chafing, talking to himself. His way

took him through Heavitree (when Hooker saw the light here, how easy to

believe that the Anglican Church was the noblest outcome of human

progress!) and on and on, until by a lane with red banks of sandstone,

thick with ferns, shadowed with noble boughs, he came to a hamlet which

had always been one of his favourite resorts, so peacefully it lay amid

the exquisite rural landscape. The cottages were all closed and silent;

hark for the reason! From the old church sounded an organ prelude, then

the voice of the congregation, joining in one of the familiar hymns.

A significant feature of Godwin's idiosyncrasy. Notwithstanding his

profound hatred and contempt of multitudes, he could never hear the

union of many voices in song but his breast heaved and a choking warmth

rose in his throat. Even where prejudice wrought most strongly with

him, it had to give way before this rush of emotion; he often hurried

out of earshot when a group of Salvationists were singing, lest the

involuntary sympathy of his senses should agitate and enrage him. At

present he had no wish to draw away. He entered the churchyard, and

found the leafy nook with a tombstone where he had often rested. And as

he listened to the rude chanting of verse after verse, tears fell upon

his cheeks.

This sensibility was quite distinct from religious feeling. If the note

of devotion sounding in that simple strain had any effect upon him at

all, it merely intensified his consciousness of pathos as he thought of

the many generations that had worshipped here, living and dying in a

faith which was at best a helpful delusion. He could appreciate the

beautiful aspects of Christianity as a legend, its nobility as a

humanising power, its rich results in literature, its grandeur in

historic retrospect. But at no moment in his life had he felt it as a

spiritual influence. So far from tending in that direction, as he sat

and brooded here in the churchyard, he owed to his fit of tearfulness a

courage which determined him to abandon all religious pretences, and

henceforth trust only to what was sincere in him--his human passion.

The future he had sketched to Sidwell was impossible; the rural

pastorate, the life of moral endeavour which in his excitement had

seemed so nearly a genuine aspiration that it might perchance become

reality--dreams, dreams! He must woo as a man, and trust to fortune for

his escape from a false position. Sidwell should hear nothing more of

clerical projects. He was by this time convinced that she held far less

tenaciously than he had supposed to the special doctrines of the

Church; and, if he had not deceived himself in interpreting her

behaviour, a mutual avowal of love would involve ready consent on her

part to his abandoning a career which--as he would represent it--had

been adopted under a mistaken impulse. He returned to the point which

he had reached when he set forth with the intention of bidding good-bye

to the Warricombes--except that in flinging away hypocrisy he no longer

needed to trample his desires. The change need not be declared till

after a lapse of time. For the present his task was to obtain one more

private interview with Sidwell ere she went to London, or, if that

could not be, somehow to address her in unmistakable language.

The fumes were dispelled from his brain, and as he walked homeward he

plotted and planned with hopeful energy. Sylvia Moorhouse came into his

mind; could he not in some way make use of her? He had never yet been

to see her at Budleigh Salterton. That he would do forthwith, and

perchance the visit might supply him with suggestions.

On the morrow he set forth, going by train to Exmouth, and thence by

the coach which runs twice a day to the little seaside town. The

delightful drive, up hill and down dale, with its magnificent views

over the estuary, and its ever-changing wayside beauties, put him into

the best of spirits. About noon, he alighted at the Rolle Arms, the

hotel to which the coach conducts its passengers, and entered to take a

meal. He would call upon the Moorhouses at the conventional hour. The

intervening time was spent pleasantly enough in loitering about the

pebbled beach. A south-west breeze which had begun to gather clouds

drove on the rising tide. By four o'clock there was an end of sunshine,

and spurts of rain mingled with flying foam. Peak turned inland,

pursued the leafy street up the close-sheltered valley, and came to the

house where his friends dwelt.

In crossing the garden he caught sight of a lady who sat in a room on

the ground floor; her back was turned to the window, and before he

could draw near enough to see her better she had moved away, but the

glimpse he had obtained of her head and shoulders affected him with so

distinct an alarm that his steps were checked. It seemed to him that he

had recognised the figure, and if he were right.--But the supposition

was ridiculous; at all events so vastly improbable, that he would not

entertain it. And now he descried another face, that of Miss Moorhouse

herself, and it gave him a reassuring smile. He rang the door bell.

How happy--he said to himself--those men who go to call upon their

friends without a tremor! Even if he had not received that shock a

moment ago, he would still have needed to struggle against the

treacherous beating of his heart as he waited for admission. It was

always so when he visited the Warricombes, or any other family in

Exeter. Not merely in consequence of the dishonest part he was playing,

but because he had not quite overcome the nervousness which so

anguished him in earlier days. The first moment after his entering a

drawing-room cost him pangs of complex origin.

His eyes fell first of all upon Mrs. Moorhouse, who advanced to welcome

him. He was aware of three other persons in the room. The nearest, he

could perceive without regarding her, was Sidwell's friend; the other

two, on whom he did not yet venture to cast a glance, sat--or rather

had just risen--in a dim background. As he shook hands with Sylvia,

they drew nearer; one of them was a man, and, as his voice at once

declared, no other than Buckland Warricombe. Peak returned his

greeting, and, in the same moment, gazed at the last of the party. Mrs.

Moorhouse was speaking.

'Mr. Peak--Miss Moxey.'

A compression of the lips was the only sign of disturbance that anyone

could have perceived on Godwin's countenance. Already he had strung

himself against his wonted agitation, and the added trial did not

sensibly enhance what he suffered. In discovering that he had rightly

identified the figure at the window, he experienced no renewal of the

dread which brought him to a stand-still. Already half prepared for

this stroke of fate, he felt a satisfaction in being able to meet it so

steadily. Tumult of thought was his only trouble; it seemed as if his

brain must burst with the stress of its lightning operations. In three

seconds, he re-lived the past, made several distinct anticipations of

the future, and still discussed with himself how he should behave this

moment. He noted that Marcella's face was bloodless; that her attempt

to smile resulted in a very painful distortion of brow and lips. And he

had leisure to pity her. This emotion prevailed. With a sense of

magnanimity, which afterwards excited his wonder, he pressed the cold

hand and said in a cheerful tone:

'Our introduction took place long ago, if I'm not mistaken. I had no

idea, Miss Moxey, that you were among Mrs. Moorhouse's friends.'

'Nor I that you were, Mr. Peak,' came the answer, in a steadier voice

than Godwin had expected.

Mrs. Moorhouse and her daughter made the pleasant exclamations that

were called for. Buckland Warricombe, with a doubtful smile on his

lips, kept glancing from Miss Moxey to her acquaintance and back again.

Peak at length faced him.

'I hoped we should meet down here this autumn.'

'I should have looked you up in a day or two,' Buckland replied,

seating himself. 'Do you propose to stay in Exeter through the winter?'

'I'm not quite sure--but I think it likely.'

Godwin turned to the neighbour of whose presence he was most conscious.

'I hope your brother is well, Miss Moxey?'

Their eyes encountered steadily.

'Yes, he is quite well, thank you. He often says that it seems very

long since he heard from you.'

'I'm a bad correspondent.--Is he also in Devonshire?'

'No. In London.'

'What a storm we are going to have!' exclaimed Sylvia, looking to the

window. 'They predicted it yesterday. I should like to be on the top of

Westdown Beacon--wouldn't you, Miss Moxey?'

'I am quite willing to go with you.'

'And what pleasure do you look for up there?' asked Warricombe, in a

blunt, matter-of-fact tone.

'Now, there's a question!' cried Sylvia, appealing to the rest of the

company.

'I agree with Mr. Warricombe,' remarked her mother. 'It's better to be

in a comfortable room.'

'Oh, you Radicals! What a world you will make of it in time!'

Sylvia affected to turn away in disgust, and happening to glance

through the window she saw two young ladies approaching from the road.

'The Walworths--struggling desperately with their umbrellas.'

'I shouldn't wonder if you think it unworthy of an artist to carry an

umbrella,' said Buckland.

'Now you suggest it, I certainly do. They should get nobly drenched.'

She went out into the hall, and soon returned with her friends--Miss

Walworth the artist, Miss Muriel Walworth, and a youth, their brother.

In the course of conversation Peak learnt that Miss Moxey was the guest

of this family, and that she had been at Budleigh Salterton with them

only a day or two. For the time he listened and observed, endeavouring

to postpone consideration of the dangers into which he had suddenly

fallen. Marcella had made herself his accomplice, thus far, in

disguising the real significance of their meeting, and whether she

would betray him in her subsequent talk with the Moorhouses remained a

matter of doubt. Of course he must have assurance of her

disposition--but the issues involved were too desperate for instant

scrutiny. He felt the gambler's excitement, an irrational pleasure in

the consciousness that his whole future was at stake. Buckland

Warricombe had a keen eye upon him, and doubtless was eager to strike a

train of suspicious circumstances. His face, at all events, should give

no sign of discomposure. Indeed, he found so much enjoyment in the

bright gossip of this assembly of ladies that the smile he wore was

perfectly natural.

The Walworths, he gathered, were to return to London in a week's time.

This meant, in all probability, that Marcella's stay here would not be

prolonged beyond that date. Perhaps he could find an opportunity of

seeing her apart from her friends. In reply to a question from Mrs.

Moorhouse, he made known that he proposed staying at the Rolle Arms for

several days, and when he had spoken he glanced at Marcella. She

understood him; he felt sure. An invitation to lunch here on the morrow

was of course accepted.

Before leaving, he exchanged a few words with Buckland.

'Your relatives will be going to town very soon, I understand.

Warricombe nodded.

'Shall I see you at Exeter?' Godwin continued.

'I'm not sure. I shall go over to-morrow, but it's uncertain whether I

shall still be there when you return.'

The Radical was distinctly less amicable than even on the last occasion

of their meeting. They shook hands in rather a perfunctory way.

Early in the evening there was a temporary lull in the storm; rain no

longer fell, and in spaces of the rushing sky a few stars showed

themselves. Unable to rest at the hotel, Peak set out for a walk

towards the cliff summit called Westdown Beacon; he could see little

more than black vacancies, but a struggle with the wind suited his

temper, and he enjoyed the incessant roar of surf in the darkness.

After an hour of this buffeting he returned to the beach, and stood as

close as possible to the fierce breakers. No person was in sight. But

when he began to move towards the upper shore, three female figures

detached themselves from the gloom and advanced in his direction. They

came so near that their voices were audible, and thereupon he stepped

up to them.

'Are you going to the Beacon after all, Miss Moorhouse?'

Sylvia was accompanied by Agatha Walworth and Miss Moxey. She explained

laughingly that they had stolen out, by agreement, whilst the males of

their respective households still lingered at the dinner-table.

'But Mr. Warricombe was right after all. We shall be blown to pieces. A

very little of the romantic goes a long way, nowadays.'

Godwin was determined to draw Marcella aside. Seemingly she met his

wish, for as all turned to regain the shelter of houses she fell behind

her female companions, and stood close by him.

'I want to see you before you go back to London,' he said, bending his

head near to hers.

'I wrote a letter to you this morning,' was her reply.

'A letter? To what address?'

'Your address at Exeter.'

'But how did you know it?'

'I'll explain afterwards.'

'When can I see you?'

'Not here. It's impossible. I shall go to Exeter, and there write to

you again.'

'Very well. You promise to do this?'

'Yes, I promise.'

There was danger even in the exchange of these hurried sentences. Miss

Walworth had glanced back, and might possibly have caught a phrase that

aroused curiosity. Having accompanied the girls to within view of their

destination, Peak said good-night, and went home to spend the rest of

the evening in thought which was sufficiently absorbing.

The next day he had no sight of Marcella. At luncheon the Moorhouses

were alone. Afterwards Godwin accepted a proposal of the mathematician

(who was generally invisible amid his formulae) for a walk up the Otter

valley. Naturally they talked of Coleridge, whose metaphysical side

appealed to Moorhouse. Peak dwelt on the human and poetical, and was

led by that peculiar recklessness of mood, which at times relieved his

nervous tension, to defend opium eating, as a source of pleasurable

experience.

'You will hardly venture on that paradox in the pulpit,' remarked his

companion, with laughter.

'Perhaps not. But I have heard arguments from that place decidedly more

immoral.'

'No doubt.'

Godwin corrected the impression he perhaps had made by turning with

sudden seriousness to another subject. The ironic temptation was

terribly strong in him just now. One is occasionally possessed by a

desire to shout in the midst of a silent assembly; and impulse of the

same kind kept urging him to utter words which would irretrievably ruin

his prospects. The sense that life is an intolerable mummery can with

difficulty be controlled by certain minds, even when circumstances

offer no keen incitement to rebellion. But Peak's position to-day

demanded an incessant effort to refrain from self-betrayal. What a joy

to declare himself a hypocrite, and snap mocking fingers in the world's

face! As a safeguard, he fixed his mind upon Sidwell, recalled her

features and her voice as clearly as possible, stamped into his heart

the conviction that she half loved him.

When he was alone again, he of a sudden determined to go to Exeter. He

could no longer endure uncertainty as to the contents of Marcella's

letter. As it was too late for the coach, he set off and walked five

miles to Exmouth, where he caught a train.

The letter lay on his table, and with it one on which he recognised his

mother's handwriting.

Marcella wrote in the simplest way, quite as if their intercourse had

never been disturbed. As she happened to be staying with friends at

Budleigh Salterton, it seemed possible for her to meet him. Might she

hope that he would call at the hotel in Exeter, if she wrote again to

make an appointment?

Well, that needed no reply. But how had she discovered the address? Was

his story known in London? In a paroxysm of fury, he crushed the letter

into a ball and flung it away. The veins of his forehead swelled; he

walked about the room with senseless violence, striking his fist

against furniture and walls. It would have relieved him to sob and cry

like a thwarted child, but only a harsh sound, half-groan,

half-laughter, burst from his throat.

The fit passed, and he was able to open the letter from Twybridge, the

first he had received from his mother for more than a month. He

expected to find nothing of interest, but his attention was soon caught

by a passage, which ran thus:

'Have you heard from some friends of yours, called Ward? Some time ago

a lady called here to ask for your address. She said her name was Mrs.

Ward, and that her husband, who had been abroad for a long time, very

much wished to find you again. Of course I told her where you were to

be found. It was just after I had written, or I should have let you

know about it before.'

Ward? He knew no one of that name. Could it be Marcella who had done

this? It looked more than likely; he believed her capable of strange

proceedings.

In the morning he returned to the seaside. Prospect of pleasure there

was none, but by moving about he made the time pass more quickly.

Wandering in the lanes (which would have delighted him with their

autumnal beauties had his mind been at rest), he came upon Miss

Walworth, busy with a water-colour sketch. Though their acquaintance

was so slight, he stopped for conversation, and the artist's manner

appeared to testify that Marcella had as yet made no unfavourable

report of him. By mentioning that he would return home on the morrow,

he made sure that Marcella would be apprised of this. Perhaps she might

shorten her stay, and his suspense.

Back in Longbrook Street once more, he found another letter. It was

from Mrs. Warricombe, who wrote to tell him of their coming removal to

London, and added an invitation to dine four days hence. Then at all

events he would speak again with Sidwell. But to what purpose? Could he

let her go away for months, and perhaps all but forget him among the

many new faces that would surround her. He saw no feasible way of being

with her in private. To write was to run the gravest risk; things were

not ripe for that. To take Martin into his confidence? That asked too

much courage. Deliberate avowals of this kind seemed to him ludicrous

and humiliating, and under the circumstances--no, no; what force of

sincerity could make him appear other than a scheming adventurer?

He lived in tumult of mind and senses. When at length, on the day

before his engagement with the Warricombes, there came a note from

Marcella, summoning him to the interview agreed upon, he could scarcely

endure the hour or two until it was time to set forth; every minute

cost him a throb of pain. The torment must have told upon his visage,

for on entering the room where Marcella waited he saw that she looked

at him with a changing expression, as if something surprised her.

They shook hands, but without a word. Marcella pointed to a chair, yet

remained standing. She was endeavouring to smile; her eyes fell, and

she coloured.

'Don't let us make each other uncomfortable,' Peak exclaimed suddenly,

in the off-hand tone of friendly intimacy. 'There's nothing tragic in

this affair, after all. Let us talk quietly.'

Marcella seated herself.

'I had reasons,' he went on, 'for going away from my old acquaintances

for a time. Why not, if I chose? You have found me out. Very well; let

us talk it over as we have discussed many another moral or

psychological question.'

He did not meditate these sentences. Something must of necessity be

said, and words shaped themselves for him. His impulse was to avoid the

emotional, to talk with this problematic woman as with an intellectual

friend of his own sex.

'Forgive me,' were the first sounds that came from Marcella's lips. She

spoke with bent head, and almost in a whisper.

'What have I to forgive?' He sat down and leaned sideways in the easy

chair. 'You were curious about my doings? What more natural?'

'Do you know how I learnt where you were?'

She looked up for an instant.

'I have a suspicion. You went to Twybridge?'

'Yes.'

'But not in your own name?'

'I can hardly tell why not.'

Peak laughed. He was physically and mentally at rest in comparison with

his state for the past few days. Things had a simpler aspect all at

once. After all, who would wish to interfere maliciously with him?

Women like to be in secrets, and probably Marcella would preserve his.

'What conjectures had you made about me?' he asked, with an air of

amusement.

'Many, of course. But I heard something not long ago which seemed so

unlikely, yet was told so confidently, that at last I couldn't overcome

my wish to make inquiries.'

'And what was that?'

'Mr. Malkin has been to America, and he declared that he had met you in

the streets of Boston--and that you refused to admit you were yourself.'

Peak laughed still more buoyantly. His mood was eager to seize on any

point that afforded subject for jest.

'Malkin seems to have come across my Doppelgänger. One mustn't pretend

to certainty in anything, but I am disposed to think I never was in

Boston.'

'He was of course mistaken.'

Marcella's voice had an indistinctness very unlike her ordinary tone.

As a rule she spoke with that clearness and decision which corresponds

to qualities of mind not commonly found in women. But confidence seemed

to have utterly deserted her; she had lost her individuality, and was

weakly feminine.

'I have been here since last Christmas,' said Godwin, after a pause.

'Yes. I know.'

Their eyes met.

'No doubt your friends have told you as much as they know of me?'

'Yes--they have spoken of you.'

'And what does it amount to?'

He regarded her steadily, with a smile of indifference.

'They say'--she gazed at him as if constrained to do so--'that you are

going into the Church.' And as soon as she uttered the last word, a

painful laugh escaped her.

'Nothing else? No comments?'

'I think Miss Moorhouse finds it difficult to understand.'

'Miss Moorhouse?' He reflected, still smiling. 'I shouldn't wonder. She

has a sceptical mind, and she doesn't know me well enough to understand

me.'

'Doesn't know you well enough?'

She repeated the words mechanically. Peak gave her a keen glance.

'Has she led you to suppose,' he asked, 'that we are on intimate terms?'

'No.' The word fell from her, absently, despondently.

'Miss Moxey, would anything be gained by our discussing my position? If

you think it a mystery, hadn't we better leave it so?'

She made no answer.

'But perhaps,' he went on, 'you have told them--the Walworths and the

Moorhouses--that I owe my friends an explanation? When I see them

again, perhaps I shall be confronted with cold, questioning faces?'

'I haven't said a word that could injure you,' Marcella replied, with

something of her usual self-possession, passing her eyes distantly over

his face as she spoke.

'I knew the suggestion was unjust, when I made it.'

'Then why should you refuse me your confidence?'

She bent forward slightly, but with her eyes cast down. Tone and

features intimated a sense of shame, due partly to the feeling that she

offered complicity in deceit.

'What can I tell you more than you know?' said Godwin, coldly. 'I

propose to become a clergyman, and I have acknowledged to you that my

motive is ambition. As the matter concerns my conscience, that must

rest with myself; I have spoken of it to no one. But you may depend

upon it that I am prepared for every difficulty that may spring up. I

knew, of course, that sooner or later some one would discover me here.

Well, I have changed my opinions, that's all; who can demand more than

that?'

Marcella answered in a tone of forced composure.

'You owe me no explanation at all. Yet we have known each other for a

long time, and it pains me that--to be suddenly told that we are no

more to each other than strangers.'

'Are we talking like strangers, Marcella?'

She flushed, and her eyes gleamed as they fixed themselves upon him for

an instant. He had never before dreamt of addressing her so familiarly,

and least of all in this moment was she prepared for it. Godwin

despised himself for the impulse to which he had yielded, but its

policy was justified. He had taken one more step in disingenuousness--a

small matter.

'Let it be one of those things on which even friends don't open their

minds to each other,' he pursued. 'I am living in solitude, and perhaps

must do so for several years yet. If I succeed in my purposes, you will

see me again on the old terms; if I fail, then too we shall be

friends--if you are willing.'

'You won't tell me what those purposes are?'

'Surely you can imagine them.'

'Will you let me ask you--do you look for help to anyone that I have

seen here?' She spoke with effort and with shame.

'To no one that you have met,' he answered, shortly.

'Then to some one in Exeter? I have been told that you have friends.'

He was irritated by her persistency, and his own inability to decide

upon the most prudent way of answering.

'You mean the Warricombe family, I suppose?'

'Yes.'

'I think it very likely that Mr. Warricombe may be able to help me

substantially.'

Marcella kept silence. Then, without raising her eyes, she murmured:

'You will tell me no more?'

'There is nothing more to tell.'

She bit her lips, as if to compel them to muteness. Her breath came

quickly; she glanced this way and that, like one who sought an escape.

After eyeing her askance for a moment, Peak rose.

'You are going?' she said.

'Yes; but surely there is no reason why we shouldn't say good-bye in a

natural and friendly way?'

'Can you forgive me for that deceit I practised?'

Peak laughed.

'What does it matter? We should in any case have met at Budleigh

Salterton.'

'No. I had no serious thought of accepting their invitation.'

She stood looking away from him, endeavouring to speak as though the

denial had but slight significance. Godwin stirred impatiently.

'I should never have gone to Twybridge,' Marcella continued, 'but for

Mr. Malkin's story.'

He turned to her.

'You mean that his story had a disagreeable sound?'

Marcella kept silence, her fingers working together.

'And is your mind relieved?' he added.

'I wish you were back in London. I wish this change had never come to

pass.'

'I wish that several things in my life had never come to pass. But I am

here, and my resolve is unalterable. One thing I must ask you--how

shall you represent my position to your brother?'

For a moment Marcella hesitated. Then, meeting his look, she answered

with nervous haste:

'I shall not mention you to him.'

Ashamed to give any sign of satisfaction, and oppressed by the feeling

that he owed her gratitude, Peak stood gazing towards the windows with

an air of half-indifferent abstractedness. It was better to let the

interview end thus, without comment or further question; so he turned

abruptly, and offered his hand.

'Good-bye. You will hear of me, or from me.'

'Good-bye!'

He tried to smile; but Marcella had a cold face, expressive of more

dignity than she had hitherto shown. As he closed the door she was

still looking towards him.

He knew what the look meant. In his position, a man of ordinary fibre

would long ago have nursed the flattering conviction that Marcella

loved him. Godwin had suspected it, but in a vague, unemotional way,

never attaching importance to the matter. What he _had_ clearly

understood was, that Christian wished to inspire him with interest in

Marcella, and on that account, when in her company, he sometimes set

himself to display a deliberate negligence. No difficult undertaking,

for he was distinctly repelled by the thought of any relations with her

more intimate than had been brought about by his cold intellectual

sympathy. Her person was still as disagreeable to him as when he first

met her in her uncle's house at Twybridge. If a man sincerely hopes

that a woman does not love him (which can seldom be the case where a

suggestion of such feeling ever arises), he will find it easy to

believe that she does not. Peak not only had the benefit of this

principle; the constitution of his mind made it the opposite of natural

for him to credit himself with having inspired affection. That his male

friends held him in any warm esteem always appeared to him improbable,

and as regards women his modesty was profound. The simplest

explanation, that he was himself incapable of pure devotedness, perhaps

hits the truth. Unsympathetic, however, he could with no justice be

called, and now that the reality of Marcella's love was forced upon his

consciousness he thought of her with sincere pity,--the emotion which

had already possessed him (though he did not then analyse it) when he

unsuspectingly looked into her troubled face a few days ago.

It was so hard to believe, that, on reaching home, he sat for a long

time occupied with the thought of it, to the exclusion of his own

anxieties. What! this woman had made of _him_ an ideal such as he

himself sought among the most exquisite of her sex? How was that

possible? What quality of his, personal, psychical, had such magnetic

force? What sort of being was he in Marcella's eyes? Reflective men

must often enough marvel at the success of whiskered and trousered

mortals in wooing the women of their desire, for only by a specific

imagination can a person of one sex assume the emotions of the other.

Godwin had neither that endowment nor the peculiar self-esteem which

makes love-winning a matter of course to some intelligent males. His

native arrogance signified a low estimate of mankind at large, rather

than an overweening appreciation of his own qualities, and in his most

presumptuous moments he had never claimed the sexual refulgence which

many a commonplace fellow so gloriously exhibits. At most, he had hoped

that some woman might find him _interesting_, and so be led on to like

him well enough for the venture of matrimony. Passion at length

constrained him to believe that his ardour might be genuinely

reciprocated, but even now it was only in paroxysms that he held this

assurance; the hours of ordinary life still exposed him to the familiar

self-criticism, sometimes more scathing than ever. He dreaded the

looking-glass, consciously avoided it; and a like disparagement of his

inner being tortured him through the endless labyrinths of erotic

reverie.

Yet here was a woman who so loved him that not even a proud temper and

his candid indifference could impose restraint upon her emotions. As he

listened to the most significant of her words he was distressed with

shame, and now, in recalling them, he felt that he should have said

something, done something, to disillusion her. Could he not easily show

himself in a contemptible light? But reflection taught him that the

shame he had experienced on Marcella's behalf was blended with a

gratification which forbade him at the moment to be altogether

unamiable. It was not self-interest alone that prompted his use of her

familiar name. In the secret places of his heart he was thankful to her

for a most effective encouragement. She had confirmed him in the hope

that he was loved by Sidwell.

And now that he no longer feared her, Marcella was gradually dismissed

from mind. For a day or two he avoided the main streets of the town,

lest a chance meeting with her should revive disquietude; but, by the

time that Mrs. Warricombe's invitation permitted him once more to

follow his desire, he felt assured that Marcella was back in London,

and the sense of distance helped to banish her among unrealities.

The hours had never pressed upon him with such demand for resolution.

In the look with which Sidwell greeted him when he met her in the

drawing-room, he seemed to read much more than wonted friendliness; it

was as though a half secret already existed between them. But no

occasion offered for a word other than trivial. The dinner-party

consisted of about a score of people, and throughout the evening Peak

found himself hopelessly severed from the one person whose presence was

anything but an importunity to him. He maddened with jealousy, with

fear, with ceaseless mental manoeuvring. More than one young man of

agreeable aspect appeared to be on dangerous terms with Sidwell,

approaching her with that air of easy, well-bred intimacy which Godwin

knew too well he would never be able to assume in perfection. Again he

was humiliated by self-comparison with social superiors, and again

reminded that in this circle he had a place merely on sufferance. Mrs.

Warricombe, when he chanced to speak with her, betrayed the slight

regard in which she really held him, and Martin devoted himself to more

important people. The evening was worse than lost.

Yet in two more days Sidwell would be beyond reach. He writhed upon his

bed as the image of her loveliness returned again and again,--her face

as she conversed at table, her dignity as she rose with the other

ladies, her smile when he said good-night. A smile that meant more than

civility; he was convinced of it. But memory would not support him

through half-a-year of solitude and ill-divining passion.

He would write to her, and risk all. Two o'clock in the morning saw him

sitting half-dressed at the table, raging over the difficulties of a

composition which should express his highest self. Four o'clock saw the

blotched letter torn into fragments. He could not write as he wished,

could not hit the tone of manly appeal. At five o'clock he turned

wretchedly into bed again.

A day of racking headache; then the long restful sleep which brings

good counsel. It was well that he had not sent a letter, nor in any

other way committed himself. If Sidwell were ever to be his wife, the

end could only be won by heroic caution and patience. Thus far he had

achieved notable results; to rush upon his aim would be the most absurd

departure from a hopeful scheme gravely devised and pursued. To wait,

to establish himself in the confidence of this family, to make sure his

progress step by step, that was the course indicated from the first by

his calm reason. Other men might triumph by sudden audacity; for him

was no hope save in slow, persevering energy of will. Passion had all

but ruined him; now he had recovered self-control.

Sidwell's six months in London might banish him from her mind, might

substitute some rival against whom it would be hopeless to contend.

Yes; but a thousand possibilities stood with menace in the front of

every great enterprise. Before next spring he might be dead.

Defiance, then, of every foreboding, of every shame; and a life that

moulded itself in the ardour of unchangeable resolve.

CHAPTER IV

Martin Warricombe was reconciled to the prospect of a metropolitan

winter by the fact that his old friend Thomas Gale, formerly Geological

Professor at Whitelaw College, had of late returned from a three years'

sojourn in North America, and now dwelt in London. The breezy man of

science was welcomed back among his brethren with two-fold

felicitation; his book on the Appalachians would have given no

insufficient proof of activity abroad, but evidence more generally

interesting accompanied him in the shape of a young and beautiful wife.

Not every geologist whose years have entered the fifties can go forth

and capture in second marriage a charming New England girl, thirty

years his junior. Yet those who knew Mr. Gale--his splendid physique,

his bluff cordiality, the vigour of his various talk--were scarcely

surprised. The young lady was no heiress; she had, in fact, been a

school teacher, and might have wearied through her best years in that

uncongenial pursuit. Transplanted to the richest English soil, she

developed remarkable aptitudes. A month or two of London exhibited her

as a type of all that is most attractive in American womanhood.

Between Mrs. Gale and the Warricombes intimacy was soon established.

Sidwell saw much of her, and liked her. To this meditative English girl

the young American offered an engrossing problem, for she avowed her

indifference to all religious dogmas, yet was singularly tolerant and

displayed a moral fervour which Sidwell had believed inseparable from

Christian faith. At the Gales' house assembled a great variety of

intellectual people, and with her father's express approval (Martin had

his reasons) Sidwell made the most of this opportunity of studying the

modern world. Only a few days after her arrival in London, she became

acquainted with a Mr. Walsh, a brother of that heresiarch, the Whitelaw

Professor, whose name was still obnoxious to her mother. He was a

well-favoured man of something between thirty and forty, brilliant in

conversation, personally engaging, and known by his literary

productions, which found small favour with conservative readers. With

surprise, Sidwell in a short time became aware that Mr. Walsh had a

frank liking for her society. He was often to be seen in Mrs.

Warricombe's drawing-room, and at Mrs Gale's he yet more frequently

obtained occasions of talking with her. The candour with which he

expressed himself on most subjects enabled her to observe a type of

mind which at present had peculiar interest for her. Discretion often

put restraint upon her curiosity, but none the less Mr. Walsh had

plausible grounds for believing that his advances were not unwelcome.

He saw that Sidwell's gaze occasionally rested upon him with a pleasant

gravity, and noted the mood of meditation which sometimes came upon her

when he had drawn apart. The frequency of these dialogues was observed

by Mrs Warricombe, and one evening she broached the subject to her

daughter rather abruptly.

'I am surprised that you have taken such a liking to Mr. Walsh.'

Sidwell coloured, and made answer in the quiet tone which her mother

had come to understand as a reproof, a hint of defective delicacy:

'I don't think I have behaved in a way that should cause you surprise.'

'It seemed to me that you were really very--friendly with him.'

'Yes, I am always friendly. But nothing more.'

'Don't you think there's a danger of his misunderstanding you, Sidwell?'

'I don't, mother. Mr. Walsh understands that we differ irreconcilably

on subjects of the first importance. I have never allowed him to lose

sight of that.'

Intellectual differences were of much less account to Mrs. Warricombe

than to her daughter, and her judgment in a matter such as this was

consequently far more practical.

'If I may advise you, dear, you oughtn't to depend much on that. I am

not the only one who has noticed something--I only mention it, you

know.'

Sidwell mused gravely. In a minute or two she looked up and said in her

gentlest voice:

'Thank you, mother. I will be more careful.'

Perhaps she had lost sight of prudence, forgetting that Mr. Walsh could

not divine her thoughts. Her interest in him was impersonal; when he

spoke she was profoundly attentive, only because her mind would have

been affected in the same way had she been reading his words instead of

listening to them. She could not let him know that another face was

often more distinct to her imagination than his to her actual sight,

and that her thoughts were frequently more busy with a remembered

dialogue than with this in which she was engaged. She had abundantly

safe-guarded herself against serious misconstruction, but if gossip

were making her its subject, it would be inconsiderate not to regard

the warning.

It came, indeed, at a moment when she was very willing to rest from

social activity. At the time of her last stay in London, three years

ago, she had not been ripe for reflection on what she saw. Now her mind

was kept so incessantly at strain, and her emotions answered so

intensely to every appeal, that at length she felt the need of repose.

It was not with her as with the young women who seek only to make the

most of their time in agreeable ways. Sidwell's vital forces were

concentrated in an effort of profound spiritual significance. The

critical hour of her life was at hand, and she exerted every faculty in

the endeavour to direct herself aright.

Having heard from his brother that Sidwell had not been out for several

days, Buckland took an opportunity of calling at the house early one

morning. He found her alone in a small drawing-room, and sat down with

an expression of weary discontent. This mood had been frequent in the

young man of late. Sidwell remarked a change that was coming over him,

a gloominess unnatural to his character.

'Seen the Walworths lately?' he asked, when his sister had assured him

that she was not seriously ailing.

'We called a few days ago.'

'Meet anyone there?'

'Two or three people. No one that interested me.'

'You haven't come across some friends of theirs called Moxey?'

'Oh yes! Miss Moxey was there one afternoon about a fortnight ago.'

'Did you talk to her at all?' Buckland asked.

'Yes; we hadn't much to say to each other, though. How do you know of

her? Through Sylvia, I daresay.'

'Met her when I was last down yonder.'

Sidwell had long since heard from her friend of Miss Moxey's visit to

Budleigh Salterton, but she was not aware that Buckland had been there

at the same time. Sylvia had told her, however, of the acquaintance

existing between Miss Moxey and Peak, a point of much interest to her,

though it remained a mere unconnected fact. In her short conversation

with Marcella, she had not ventured to refer to it.

'Do you know anything of the family?'

'I was going to ask you the same,' returned Buckland. 'I thought you

might have heard something from the Walworths.'

Sidwell had in fact sought information, but, as her relations with the

Walworths were formal, such inquiry as she could make from them

elicited nothing more than she already knew from Sylvia.

'Are you anxious to discover who they are?' she asked.

Buckland moved uneasily, and became silent.

'Oh, not particularly.'

'I dined with Walsh yesterday,' he said, at length, struggling to shake

off the obvious dreariness that oppressed him. 'He suits me; we can get

on together.'

'No doubt.'

'But you don't dislike him, I think?'

'Implying that I dislike _you_,' said Sidwell, lightsomely.

'You have no affection for my opinions.--Walsh is an honest man.'

'I hope so.'

'He says what he thinks. No compromise with fashionable hypocrisy.'

'I despise that kind of thing quite as much as you do.'

They looked at each other. Buckland had a sullen air.

'Yes, in your own way,' he replied, 'you are sincere enough, I have no

doubt. I wish all women were so.

'What exception have you in mind?'

He did not seem inclined to answer.

'Perhaps it is your understanding of them that's at fault,' added

Sidwell, gently.

'Not in one case, at all events,' he exclaimed. 'Supposes you were

asked to define Miss Moorhouse's religious opinions, how would you do

it?'

'I am not well enough acquainted with them.'

'Do you imagine for a moment that she has any more faith in the

supernatural than I have?'

'I think there is a great difference between her position and yours.'

'Because she is hypocritical!' cried Buckland, angrily. 'She deceives

you. She hasn't the courage to be honest.'

Sidwell wore a pained expression.

'You judge her,' she replied, 'far too coarsely. No one is called upon

to make an elaborate declaration of faith as often as such subjects are

spoken of. Sylvia thinks so differently from you about almost

everything that, when she happens to agree with you, you are misled and

misinterpret her whole position.'

'I understand her perfectly,' Buckland went on, in the same irritated

voice. 'There are plenty of women like her--with brains enough, but

utter and contemptible cowards. Cowards even to themselves, perhaps.

What can you expect, when society is based on rotten shams?'

For several minutes he pursued this vein of invective, then took an

abrupt leave. Sidwell had a piece of grave counsel ready to offer him,

but he was clearly in no mood to listen, so she postponed it.

A day or two after this, she received a letter from Sylvia. Miss

Moorhouse was anything but a good correspondent; she often confessed

her inability to compose anything but the briefest and driest statement

of facts. With no little surprise, therefore, Sidwell found that the

envelope contained two sheets all but covered with her friend's cramped

handwriting. The letter began with apology for long delay in

acknowledging two communications.

'But you know well enough my dilatory disposition. I have written to

you mentally at least once a day, and I hope you have mentally received

the results--that is to say, have assured yourself of my goodwill to

you, and I had nothing else to send.'

At this point Sylvia had carefully obliterated two lines, blackening

the page into unsightliness. In vain Sidwell pored over the effaced

passage, led to do so by a fancy that she could discern a capital P,

which looked like the first letter of a name. The writer continued:

'Don't trouble yourself so much about insoluble questions. Try to be

more positive--I don't say become a Positivist. Keep a receptive mind,

and wait for time to shape your views of things. I see that London has

agitated and confused you; you have lost your bearings amid the maze of

contradictory finger-posts. If you were here I could soothe you with

Sylvian (much the same as sylvan) philosophy, but I can't write.'

Here the letter was to have ended, for on the line beneath was legible

'Give my love to Fanny', but this again had been crossed out, and there

followed a long paragraph:

I have been reading a book about ants. Perhaps you know all the

wonderful things about them, but I had neglected that branch of natural

history. Their doings are astonishingly like those of an animal called

man, and it seems to me that I have discovered one point of resemblance

which perhaps has never been noted. Are you aware that at an early

stage of their existence ants have wings? They fly--how shall I express

it?--only for the brief time of their courtship and marriage and when

these important affairs are satisfactorily done with their wings wither

away, and thenceforth they have to content themselves with running

about on the earth. Now isn't this a remarkable parallel to one stage

of human life? Do not men and women also soar and flutter--at a certain

time? And don't their wings manifestly drop off as soon as the end of

that skyward movement has been achieved? If the gods had made me

poetical, I would sonnetise on this idea. Do you know any poet with a

fondness for the ant-philosophy? If so, offer him this suggestion with

liberty to "make any use of it he likes".

'But the fact of the matter is that some human beings are never winged

at all. I am decidedly coming to the conclusion that I am one of those.

Think of me henceforth as an apteryx--you have a dictionary at hand?

Like the tailless fox, I might naturally maintain that my state is the

more gracious, but honestly I am not assured of that. It may be (I half

believe it is) a good thing to soar and flutter, and at times I regret

that nature has forbidden me that experience. Decidedly I would never

try to _persuade anyone else_ to forego the use of wings. Bear this in

mind, my dear girl. But I suspect that in time to come there will be an

increasing number of female human creatures who from their birth are

content with _walking_. Not long ago, I had occasion to hint

that--though under another figure--to your brother Buckland. I hope he

understood me--I think he did--and that he wasn't offended.

'I had something to tell you. I have forgotten it--never mind.'

And therewith the odd epistle was concluded. Sidwell perused the latter

part several times. Of course she was at no loss to interpret it.

Buckland's demeanour for the past two months had led her to surmise

that his latest visit to Budleigh Salterton had finally extinguished

the hopes which drew him in that direction. His recent censure of

Sylvia might be thus explained. She grieved that her brother's suit

should be discouraged, but could not persuade herself that Sylvia's

decision was final. The idea of a match between those two was very

pleasant to her. For Buckland she imagined it would be fraught with

good results, and for Sylvia, on the whole, it might be the best thing.

Before she replied to her friend nearly a month passed, and Christmas

was at hand. Again she had been much in society. Mr. Walsh had renewed

his unmistakable attentions, and, when her manner of meeting them began

to trouble him with doubts, had cleared the air by making a formal

offer of marriage. Sidwell's negative was absolute, much to her

mother's relief. On the day of that event, she wrote rather a long

letter to Sylvia, but Mr. Walsh's name was not mentioned in it.

'Mother tells me [it began] that _your_ mother has written to her from

Salisbury, and that you yourself are going there for a stay of some

weeks. I am sorry, for on the Monday after Christmas Day I shall be in

Exeter, and hoped somehow to have seen you. We--mother and I--are going

to run down together, to see after certain domestic affairs; only for

three days at most.

'Your ant-letter was very amusing, but it saddened me, dear Sylvia. I

can't make any answer. On these subjects it is very difficult even for

the closest friends to open their minds to each other. I don't--and

don't wish to--believe in the _apteryx_ profession; that's all I must

say.

'My health has been indifferent since I last wrote. We live in all but

continuous darkness, and very seldom indeed breathe anything that can

be called air. No doubt this state of things has its effect on me. I

look forwards, not to the coming of spring, for here we shall see

nothing of its beauties, but to the month which will release us from

London. I want to smell the pines again, and to see the golden gorse in

_our_ road.

'By way of being more "positive", I have read much in the newspapers,

supplementing from them my own experience of London society. The result

is that I am more and more confirmed in the fears with which I have

already worried you. Two movements are plainly going on in the life of

our day. The decay of religious belief is undermining morality, and the

progress of Radicalism in politics is working to the same end by

overthrowing social distinctions. Evidence stares one in the face from

every column of the papers. Of course you have read more or less about

the recent "scandal"--I mean the _most_ recent.--It isn't the kind of

thing one cares to discuss, but we can't help knowing about it, and

does it not strongly support what I say? Here is materialism sinking

into brutal immorality, and high social rank degrading itself by

intimacy with the corrupt vulgar. There are newspapers that make

political capital out of these "revelations".

I have read some of them, and they make me so _fiercely_ aristocratic

that I find it hard to care anything at all even for the humanitarian

efforts of people I respect. You will tell me, I know, that this is

quite the wrong way of looking at it. But the evils are so monstrous

that it is hard to fix one's mind on the good that may long hence

result from them.

'I cling to the essential (that is the _spiritual_) truths of

Christianity as the only absolute good left in our time. I would say

that I care nothing for forms, but some form there must be, else one's

faith evaporates. It has become very easy for me to understand how men

and women who know the world refuse to believe any longer in a

directing Providence. A week ago I again met Miss Moxey at the

Walworths', and talked with her more freely than before. This

conversation showed me that I have become much more tolerant towards

individuals. But though this or that person may be supported by moral

sense alone, the world cannot dispense with religion. If it tries

to--and it _will_--there are dreadful times before us.

'I wish I were a man! I would do something, however ineffectual. I

would stand on the side of those who are fighting against mob-rule and

mob-morals. How would you like to see Exeter Cathedral converted into a

"coffee music-hall"? And that will come.'

Reading this, Sylvia had the sense of listening to an echo. Some of the

phrases recalled to her quite a different voice from Sidwell's. She

smiled and mused.

On the morning appointed for her journey to Exeter Sidwell rose early,

and in unusually good spirits. Mrs. Warricombe was less animated by the

prospect of five hours in a railway carriage, for London had a covering

of black snow, and it seemed likely that more would fall. Martin

suggested postponement, but circumstances made this undesirable.

'Let Fanny go with me,' proposed Sidwell, just after breakfast. 'I can

see to everything perfectly well, mother.'

But Fanny hastened to decline. She was engaged for a dance on the

morrow.

'Then I'll run down with you myself, Sidwell,' said her father.

Mrs. Warricombe looked at the weather and hesitated. There were strong

reasons why she should go, and they determined her to brave discomforts.

It chanced that the morning post had brought Mr. Warricombe a letter

from Godwin Peak. It was a reply to one that he had written with

Christmas greetings; a kindness natural in him, for he had remembered

that the young man was probably hard at work in his lonely lodgings. He

spoke of it privately to his wife.

'A very good letter--thoughtful and cheerful. You're not likely to see

him, but if you happen to, say a pleasant word.'

'I shouldn't have written, if I were you,' remarked Mrs. Warricombe.

'Why not? I was only thinking the other day that he contrasted very

favourably with the younger generation as we observe it here. Yes, I

have faith in Peak. There's the right stuff in him.'

'Oh, I daresay. But still'----

And Mrs. Warricombe went away with an air of misgiving.

CHAPTER V

In volunteering a promise not to inform her brother of Peak's singular

position, Marcella spoke with sincerity. She was prompted by

incongruous feelings--a desire to compel Godwin's gratitude, and

disdain of the circumstances in which she had discovered him. There

seemed to be little likelihood of Christian's learning from any other

person that she had met with Peak at Budleigh Salterton; he had,

indeed, dined with her at the Walworths', and might improve his

acquaintance with that family, but it was improbable that they would

ever mention in his hearing the stranger who had casually been

presented to them, or indeed ever again think of him. If she held her

peace, the secret of Godwin's retirement must still remain

impenetrable. He would pursue his ends as hitherto, thinking of _her_,

if at all, as a weak woman who had immodestly betrayed a hopeless

passion, and who could be trusted never to wish him harm.

That was Marcella's way of reading a man's thoughts. She did not

attribute to Peak the penetration which would make him uneasy. In spite

of masculine proverbs, it is the habit of women to suppose that the

other sex regards them confidingly, ingenuously. Marcella was unusually

endowed with analytic intelligence, but in this case she believed what

she hoped. She knew that Peak's confidence in her must be coloured with

contempt, but this mattered little so long as he paid her the

compliment of feeling sure that she was superior to ignoble

temptations. Many a woman would behave with treacherous malice. It was

in her power to expose him, to confound all his schemes, for she knew

the authorship of that remarkable paper in _The Critical Review_.

Before receiving Peak's injunction of secrecy, Earwaker had talked of

'The New Sophistry' with Moxey and with Malkin; the request came too

late. In her interview with Godwin at the Exeter hotel, she had not

even hinted at this knowledge, partly because she was unconscious that

Peak imagined the affair a secret between himself and Earwaker, partly

because she thought it unworthy of her even to seem to threaten. It

gratified her, however, to feel that he was at her mercy, and the

thought preoccupied her for many days.

Passion which has the intellect on its side is more easily endured than

that which offers sensual defiance to all reasoning, but on the other

hand it lasts much longer. Marcella was not consumed by her emotions;

she often thought calmly, coldly, of the man she loved. Yet he was

seldom long out of her mind, and the instigation of circumstances at

times made her suffering intense. Such an occasion was her first

meeting with Sidwell Warricombe, which took place at the Walworths', in

London. Down in Devonshire she had learnt that a family named

Warricombe were Peak's intimate friends; nothing more than this, for

indeed no one was in a position to tell her more. Wakeful jealousy

caused her to fix upon the fact as one of significance; Godwin's

evasive manner when she questioned him confirmed her suspicions; and as

soon as she was brought face to face with Sidwell, suspicion became

certainty. She knew at once that Miss Warricombe was the very person

who would be supremely attractive to Godwin Peak.

An interval of weeks, and again she saw the face that in the meantime

had been as present to her imagination as Godwin's own features. This

time she conversed at some length with Miss Warricombe. Was it merely a

fancy that the beautiful woman looked at her, spoke to her, with some

exceptional interest? By now she had learnt that the Moorhouses and the

Warricombes were connected in close friendship: it was all but certain,

then, that Miss Moorhouse had told Miss Warricombe of Peak's visit to

Budleigh Salterton, and its incidents. Could this in any way be

explanatory of the steady, searching look in those soft eyes?

Marcella had always regarded the emotion of jealousy as characteristic

of a vulgar nature. Now that it possessed her, she endeavoured to call

it by other names; to persuade herself that she was indignant on

abstract grounds, or anxious only with reference to Peak's true

interests. She could not affect surprise. So intensely sympathetic was

her reading of Godwin's character that she understood--or at all events

recognised--the power Sidwell would possess over him. He did not care

for enlightenment in a woman; he was sensual--though in a subtle way;

the aristocratic vein in his temper made him subject to strong

impressions from trivialities of personal demeanour, of social tone.

Yet all was mere conjecture. She had not dared to utter Peak's name,

lest in doing so she should betray herself. Constantly planning to make

further discoveries, she as constantly tried to dismiss all thought of

the matter--to learn indifference. Already she had debased herself, and

her nature must be contemptible indeed if anything could lure her

forward on such a path.