None the less, she was assiduous in maintaining friendly relations with

the Walworths. Christian, too, had got into the habit of calling there;

it was significant of the noticeable change which was come upon him--a

change his sister was at no loss to understand from the moment that he

informed her (gravely, but without expressiveness) of Mr. Palmer's

death. Instead of shunning ordinary society, he seemed bent on

extending the circle of his acquaintance. He urged Marcella to invite

friendly calls, to have guests at dinner. There seemed to be a general

revival of his energies, exhibited in the sphere of study as well as of

amusement. Not a day went by without his purchasing books or scientific

apparatus, and the house was brightened with works of art chosen in the

studios which Miss Walworth advised him to visit. All the amiabilities

of his character came into free play; with Marcella he was mirthful,

affectionate, even caressing. He grew scrupulous about his neckties,

his gloves, and was careful to guard his fingers against corroding

acids when he worked in the laboratory. Such indications of hopefulness

caused Marcella more misgiving than pleasure; she made no remark, but

waited with anxiety for some light on the course of events.

Just before dinner, one evening, as she sat alone in the drawing-room,

Christian entered with a look which portended some strange

announcement. He spoke abruptly:

'I have heard something astonishing.'

'What is that?'

'This afternoon I went to the matinée at the Vaudeville, and found

myself among a lot of our friends--the Walworths and the Hunters and

the Mortons. Between the acts I was talking to Hunter, when a man came

up to us, spoke to Hunter, and was introduced to me--a Mr Warricombe.

What do you think he said? "I believe you know my friend Peak, Mr.

Moxey?" "Peak? To be sure! Can you tell me what has become of him?" He

gave me an odd look. "Why, I met him last, some two months ago, in

Devonshire." At that moment we were obliged to go to our places, and I

couldn't get hold of the fellow again. Hunter told me something about

him; he knows the Walworths, it seems--belongs to a good Devonshire

family. What on earth can Peak be doing over there?'

Marcella kept silence. The event she had judged improbable had come to

pass. The chance of its doing so had of course increased since

Christian began to associate freely with the Walworths and their

circle. Yet, considering the slightness of the connection between that

group of people and the Warricombe family, there had seemed no great

likelihood of Christian's getting acquainted with the latter. She

debated rapidly in her troubled mind how to meet this disclosure.

Curiosity would, of course, impel her brother to follow up the clue; he

would again encounter Warricombe, and must then learn all the facts of

Peak's position. To what purpose should she dissemble her own knowledge?

Did she desire that Godwin should remain in security? A tremor more

akin to gladness than its opposite impeded her utterance. If Warricombe

became aware of all that was involved in Godwin Peak's withdrawal from

among his friends--if (as must follow) he imparted the discovery to his

sister----

The necessity of speaking enabled her to ignore these turbulent

speculations, which yet were anything but new to her.

'They met at Budleigh Salterton,' she said, quietly.

'Who did? Warricombe and Peak?'

'Yes. At the Moorhouses'. It was when I was there.'

Christian stared at her.

'When you were there? But--_you_ met Peak?'

His sister smiled, turning from the astonished gaze.

'Yes, I met him.'

'But, why the deuce----? Why didn't you tell me, Marcella?'

'He asked me not to speak of it. He didn't wish you to know that--that

he has decided to become a clergyman.'

Christian was stricken dumb. In spite of his sister's obvious

agitation, he could not believe what she told him; her smile gave him

an excuse for supposing that she jested.

'Peak a clergyman?' He burst out laughing. 'What's the meaning of all

this?--Do speak intelligibly! What's the fellow up to?'

'I am quite serious. He is studying for Orders--has been for this last

year.'

In desperation, Christian turned to another phase of the subject.

'Then Malkin _was_ mistaken?'

'Plainly.'

'And you mean to tell me that Peak----? Give me more details. Where's

he living? How has he got to know people like these Warricombes?'

Marcella told all that she knew, and without injunction of secrecy. The

affair had passed out of her hands; destiny must fulfil itself. And

again the tremor that resembled an uneasy joy went through her frame.

'But how,' asked Christian, 'did this fellow Warricombe come to know

that _I_ was a friend of Peak's?'

'That's a puzzle to me. I shouldn't have thought he would have

remembered my name; and, even if he had, how could he conclude----'

She broke off, pondering. Warricombe must have made inquiries, possibly

suggested by suspicions.

'I scarcely spoke of Mr. Peak to anyone,' she added. 'People saw, of

course, that we were acquaintances, but it couldn't have seemed a thing

of any importance.'

'You spoke with him in private, it seems?'

'Yes, I saw him for a few minutes--in Exeter.'

'And you hadn't said anything to the Walworths that--that would

surprise them?'

'Purposely not.--Why should I injure him?'

Christian knit his brows. He understood too well why his sister should

refrain from such injury.

'You would have behaved in the same way,' Marcella added.

'Why really--yes, perhaps so. Yet I don't know.--In plain English, Peak

is a wolf in sheep's clothing!'

'I don't know anything about that,' she replied, with gloomy evasion.

'Nonsense, my dear girl!--Had he the impudence to pretend to you that

he was sincere?'

'He made no declaration.'

'But you are convinced he is acting the hypocrite, Marcella. You spoke

of the risk of injuring him.--What are his motives? What does he aim

at?'

'Scarcely a bishopric, I should think,' she replied, bitterly.

'Then, by Jove! Earwaker may be right!'

Marcella darted an inquiring look at him.

'What has he thought?'

'I'm ashamed to speak of it. He suggested once that Peak might disguise

himself for the sake of--of making a good marriage.'

The reply was a nervous laugh.

'Look here, Marcella.' He caught her hand. 'This is a very awkward

business. Peak is disgracing himself; he will be unmasked; there'll be

a scandal. It was kind of you to keep silence--when don't you behave

kindly, dear girl?--but think of the possible results to _us_. We shall

be something very like accomplices.'

'How?' Marcella exclaimed, impatiently. 'Who need know that we were so

intimate with him?'

'Warricombe seems to know it.'

'Who can prove that he isn't sincere?'

'No one, perhaps. But it will seem a very odd thing that he hid away

from all his old friends. You remember, I betrayed that to Warricombe,

before I knew that it mattered.'

Yes, and Mr. Warricombe could hardly forget the circumstance. He would

press his investigation--knowing already, perhaps, of Peak's approaches

to his sister Sidwell.

'Marcella, a man plays games like that at his own peril. I don't like

this kind of thing. Perhaps he has audacity enough to face out any

disclosure. But it's out of the question for you and me to nurse his

secret. We have no right to do so.'

'You propose to denounce him?'

Marcella gazed at her brother with an agitated look.

'Not denounce. I am fond of Peak; I wish him well. But I can't join him

in a dishonourable plot.--Then, we mustn't endanger our place in

society.'

'I have no place in society,' Marcella answered, coldly.

'Don't say that, and don't think it. We are both going to make more of

our lives; we are going to think very little of the past, and a great

deal of the future. We are still young; we have happiness before us.'

'We?' she asked, with shaken voice.

'Yes--both of us! Who can say'----

Again he took her hand and pressed it warmly in both his own. Just then

the door opened, and dinner was announced. Christian talked on, in low

hurried tones, for several minutes, affectionately, encouragingly.

After dinner, he wished to resume the subject, but Marcella declared

that there was no more to be said; he must act as honour and discretion

bade him; for herself, she should simply keep silence as hitherto. And

she left him to his reflections.

Though with so little of ascertained fact to guide her, Marcella

interpreted the hints afforded by her slight knowledge of the

Warricombes with singular accuracy. Precisely as she had imagined,

Buckland Warricombe was going about on Peak's track, learning all he

could concerning the theological student, forming acquaintance with

anyone likely to supplement his discoveries. And less than a fortnight

after the meeting at the theatre, Christian made known to his sister

that Warricombe and he had had a second conversation, this time

uninterrupted.

'He inquired after you, Marcella, and--really I had no choice but to

ask him to call here. I hardly think he'll come. He's not the kind of

man I care for--though liberal enough, and all that.'

'Wasn't it rather rash to give that invitation?'

'The fact was, I so dreaded the appearance of--of seeming to avoid

him,' Christian pleaded, awkwardly. 'You know, that affair--we won't

talk any more of it; but, if there _should_ be a row about it, you are

sure to be compromised unless we have managed to guard ourselves. If

Warricombe calls, we must talk about Peak without the least show of

restraint. Let it appear that we thought his choice of a profession

unlikely, but not impossible. Happily, we needn't know anything about

that anonymous _Critical_ article.--Indeed, I think I have acted

wisely.'

Marcella murmured:

'Yes, I suppose you have.'

'And, by the way, I have spoken of it to Earwaker. Not of your part in

the story, of course. I told him that I had met a man who knew all

about Peak.--Impossible, you see, for me to keep silence with so

intimate a friend.'

'Then Mr. Earwaker will write to him?' said Marcella, reflectively.

'I couldn't give him any address.'

'How does Mr. Warricombe seem to regard Mr. Peak?'

'With a good deal of interest, and of the friendliest kind. Naturally

enough; they were College friends, as you know, before I had heard of

Peak's existence.'

'He has no suspicions?'

Christian thought not, but her brother's judgment had not much weight

with Marcella.

She at once dreaded and desired Warricombe's appearance. If he thought

it worth while to cultivate her acquaintance, she would henceforth have

the opportunity of studying Peak's relations with the Warricombes; on

the other hand, this was to expose herself to suffering and temptation

from which the better part of her nature shrank with disdain. That she

might seem to have broken the promise voluntarily made to Godwin was a

small matter; not so the risk of being overcome by an ignoble jealousy.

She had no overweening confidence in the steadfastness of her

self-respect, if circumstances were all on the side of sensual impulse.

And the longer she brooded on this peril, the more it allured her. For

therewith was connected the one satisfaction which still remained to

her: however little he desired to keep her constantly in mind, Godwin

Peak must of necessity do so after what had passed between them. Had

but her discovery remained her own secret, then the pleasure of

commanding her less pure emotions, of proving to Godwin that she was

above the weakness of common women, might easily have prevailed. Now

that her knowledge was shared by others, she had lost that safeguard

against lower motive. The argument that to unmask hypocrisy was in

itself laudable she dismissed with contempt; let that be the resource

of a woman who would indulge her rancour whilst keeping up the inward

pretence of sanctity. If _she_ erred in the ways characteristic of her

sex, it should at all events be a conscious degradation.

'Have you seen that odd creature Malkin lately?' she asked of

Christian, a day or two after.

'No, I haven't; I thought of him to make up our dinner on Sunday; but

you had rather not have him here, I daresay?'

'Oh, he is amusing. Ask him by all means,' said Marcella, carelessly.

'He may have heard about Peak from Earwaker, you know. If he begins to

talk before people'----

'Things have gone too far for such considerations,' replied his sister,

with a petulance strange to her habits of speech.

'Well, yes,' admitted Christian, glancing at her. 'We can't be

responsible.'

He reproached himself for this attitude towards Peak, but was heartily

glad that Marcella seemed to have learnt to regard the intriguer with a

wholesome indifference.

On the second day after Christmas, as they sat talking idly in the

dusking twilight, the door of the drawing-room was thrown open, and a

visitor announced. The name answered with such startling suddenness to

the thought with which Marcella had been occupied that, for an instant,

she could not believe that she had heard aright. Yet it was undoubtedly

Mr. Warricombe who presented himself. He came forward with a slightly

hesitating air, but Christian made haste to smooth the situation. With

the help of those commonplaces by which even intellectual people are at

times compelled to prove their familiarity with social usages,

conversation was set in movement.

Buckland could not be quite himself. The consciousness that he had

sought these people not at all for their own sake made him formal and

dry; his glances, his half-smile, indicated a doubt whether the Moxeys

belonged entirely to the sphere in which he was at home. Hence a rather

excessive politeness, such as the man who sets much store on breeding

exhibits to those who may at any moment, even in a fraction of a

syllable, prove themselves his inferiors. With men and women of the

unmistakably lower orders, Buckland could converse in a genial tone

that recommended him to their esteem; on the borderland of refinement,

his sympathies were repressed, and he held the distinctive part of his

mind in reserve.

Marcella desired to talk agreeably, but a weight lay upon her tongue;

she was struck with the resemblance in Warricombe's features to those

of his sister, and this held her in a troubled preoccupation,

occasionally evident when she made a reply, or tried to diversify the

talk by leading to a new topic. It was rather early in the afternoon,

and she had slight hope that any other caller would appear; a female

face would have been welcome to her, even that of foolish Mrs. Morton,

who might possibly look in before six o'clock. To her relief the door

did presently open, but the sharp, creaking footstep which followed was

no lady's; the servant announced Mr. Malkin.

Marcella's eyes gleamed strangely. Not with the light of friendly

welcome, though for that it could be mistaken. She rose quietly, and

stepped forward with a movement which again seemed to betoken eagerness

of greeting. In presenting the newcomer to Mr. Warricombe, she spoke

with an uncertain voice. Buckland was more than formal. The stranger's

aspect impressed him far from favourably, and he resented as an

impudence the hearty hand-grip to which he perforce submitted.

'I come to plead with you,' exclaimed Malkin, turning to Marcella, in

his abrupt, excited way. 'After accepting your invitation to dine, I

find that the thing is utterly and absolutely impossible. I had

entirely forgotten an engagement of the very gravest nature. I am

conscious of behaving in quite an unpardonable way.'

Marcella laughed down his excuses. She had suddenly become so mirthful

that Christian looked at her in surprise, imagining that she was unable

to restrain her sense of the ridiculous in Malkin's demeanour.

'I have hurried up from Wrotham,' pursued the apologist. 'Did I tell

you, Moxey, that I had taken rooms down there, to be able to spend a

day or two near my friends the Jacoxes occasionally? On the way here, I

looked in at Staple Inn, but Earwaker is away somewhere. What an odd

thing that people will go off without letting one know! It's such

common ill-luck of mine to find people gone away--I'm really astonished

to find you at home, Miss Moxey.'

Marcella looked at Warricombe and laughed.

'You must understand that subjectively,' she said, with nervous gaiety

which again excited her brother's surprise. 'Please don't be

discouraged by it from coming to see us again; I am very rarely out in

the afternoon.'

'But,' persisted Malkin, 'it's precisely my ill fortune to hit on those

rare moments when people _are_ out!--Now, I never meet acquaintances in

the streets of London; but, if I happen to be abroad, as likely as not

I encounter the last person I should expect to find. Why, you remember,

I rush over to America for scarcely a week's stay, and there I come

across a man who has disappeared astonishingly from the ken of all his

friends!'

Christian looked at Marcella. She was leaning forward, her lips

slightly parted, her eyes wide as if in gaze at something that

fascinated her. He saw that she spoke, but her voice was hardly to be

recognised.

'Are you quite sure of that instance, Mr. Malkin?'

'Yes, I feel quite sure, Miss Moxey. Undoubtedly it was Peak!'

Buckland Warricombe, who had been waiting for a chance of escape,

suddenly wore a look of interest. He rapidly surveyed the trio.

Christian, somewhat out of countenance, tried to answer Malkin in a

tone of light banter.

'It happens, my dear fellow, that Peak has not left England since we

lost sight of him.'

'What? He has been heard of? Where is he then?'

'Mr. Warricombe can assure you that he has been living for a year at

Exeter.'

Buckland, perceiving that he had at length come upon something

important to his purposes, smiled genially.

'Yes, I have had the pleasure of seeing Peak down in Devon from time to

time.'

'Then it was really an illusion!' cried Malkin. 'I was too hasty. Yet

that isn't a charge that can be often brought against me, I think. Does

Earwaker know of this?'

'He has lately heard,' replied Christian, who in vain sought for a

means of checking Malkin's loquacity. 'I thought he might have told

you.'

'Certainly not. The thing is quite new to me. And what is Peak doing

down there, pray? Why did he conceal himself?'

Christian gazed appealingly at his sister. She returned the look

steadily, but neither stirred nor spoke. It was Warricombe's voice that

next sounded:

'Peak's behaviour seems mysterious,' he began, with ironic gravity. 'I

don't pretend to understand him. What's your view of his character, Mr.

Malkin?'

'I know him very slightly indeed, Mr. Warricombe. But I have a high

opinion of his powers. I wonder he does so little. After that article

of his in _The Critical_'----

Malkin became aware of something like agonised entreaty on Christian's

countenance, but this had merely the effect of heightening his

curiosity.

'In _The Critical_?' said Warricombe, eagerly. 'I didn't know of that.

What was the subject?'

'To be sure, it was anonymous,' went on Malkin, without a suspicion of

the part he was playing before these three excited people. 'A paper

called "The New Sophistry", a tremendous bit of satire.'

Marcella's eyes closed as if a light had flashed before them; she drew

a short sigh, and at once seemed to become quite at ease, the smile

with which she regarded Warricombe expressing a calm interest.

'That article was Peak's?' Buckland asked, in a very quiet voice.

Christian at last found his opportunity.

'He never mentioned it to you? Perhaps he thought he had gone rather

too far in his Broad Churchism, and might be misunderstood.'

'Broad Churchism?' cried Malkin. 'Uncommonly broad, I must say!'

And he laughed heartily; Marcella seemed to join in his mirth.

'Then it would surprise you,' said Buckland, in the same quiet tone as

before, 'to hear that Peak is about to take Orders?'

'Orders?--For what?'

Christian laughed. The worst was over; after all, it came as a relief.

'Not for wines,' he replied. 'Mr. Warricombe means that Peak is going

to be ordained.'

Malkin's amazement rendered him speechless. He stared from one person

to another, his features strangely distorted.

'You can hardly believe it?' pressed Buckland.

The reply was anticipated by Christian saying:

'Remember, Malkin, that you had no opportunity of studying Peak. It's

not so easy to understand him.'

'But I don't see,' burst out the other, 'how I could possibly so

_mis_understand him! What has Earwaker to say?'

Buckland rose from his seat, advanced to Marcella, and offered his

hand. She said mechanically, 'Must you go?' but was incapable of

another word. Christian came to her relief, performed the needful

civilities, and accompanied his acquaintance to the foot of the stairs.

Buckland had become grave, stiff, monosyllabic; Christian made no

allusion to the scene thus suddenly interrupted, and they parted with a

formal air.

Malkin remained for another quarter of an hour, when the muteness of

his companions made it plain to him that he had better withdraw. He

went off with a sense of having been mystified, half resentful, and

vastly impatient to see Earwaker.

Part V

CHAPTER I

The cuckoo clock in Mrs. Roots's kitchen had just struck three. A wind

roared from the north-east, and light thickened beneath a sky which

made threat of snow. Peak was in a mood to enjoy the crackling fire; he

settled himself with a book in his easy-chair, and thought with

pleasure of two hours' reading, before the appearance of the homely

teapot.

Christmas was just over--one cause of the feeling of relief and

quietness which possessed him. No one had invited him for Christmas Eve

or the day that followed, and he did not regret it. The letter he had

received from Martin Warricombe was assurance enough that those he

desired to remember him still did so. He had thought of using this

season for his long postponed visit to Twybridge, but reluctance

prevailed. All popular holidays irritated and depressed him; he loathed

the spectacle of multitudes in Sunday garb. It was all over, and the

sense of that afforded him a brief content.

This book, which he had just brought from the circulating library, was

altogether to his taste. The author, Justin Walsh, he knew to be a

brother of Professor Walsh, long ago the object of his rebellious

admiration. Matter and treatment rejoiced him. No intellectual delight,

though he was capable of it in many forms, so stirred his spirit as

that afforded him by a vigorous modern writer joyously assailing the

old moralities. Justin Walsh was a modern of the moderns; at once man

of science and man of letters; defiant without a hint of popular

cynicism, scornful of English reticences yet never gross. '_Oui,

répondit Pococurante, il est beau d'écrire ce qu'on pense; c'est le

privilège de l'homme_.' This stood by way of motto on the title-page,

and Godwin felt his nerves thrill in sympathetic response.

What a fine fellow he must be to have for a friend! Now a man like this

surely had companionship enough and of the kind he wished? He wrote

like one who associates freely with the educated classes both at home

and abroad. Was he married? Where would _he_ seek his wife? The fitting

mate for him would doubtless be found among those women, cosmopolitan

and emancipated, whose acquaintance falls only to men in easy

circumstances and of good social standing, men who travel much, who are

at home in all the great centres of civilisation.

As Peak meditated, the volume fell upon his knee. Had it not lain in

his own power to win a reputation like that which Justin Walsh was

achieving? His paper in _The Critical Review_, itself a decided

success, might have been followed up by others of the same tenor.

Instead of mouldering in a dull cathedral town, he might now be living

and working in France or Germany. His money would have served one

purpose as well as the other, and two or three years of determined

effort----

Mrs. Roots showed her face at the door.

'A gentleman is asking for you, sir,--Mr. Chilvers.'

'Mr. Chilvers? Please ask him to come up.'

He threw his book on to the table, and stood in expectancy. Someone

ascended the stairs with rapid stride and creaking boots. The door was

flung open, and a cordial but affected voice burst forth in greeting.

'Ha, Mr. Peak! I hope you haven't altogether forgotten me? Delighted to

see you again!'

Godwin gave his hand, and felt it strongly pressed, whilst Chilvers

gazed into his face with a smiling wistfulness which could only be

answered with a grin of discomfort. The Rev. Bruno had grown very tall,

and seemed to be in perfect health; but the effeminacy of his brilliant

youth still declared itself in his attitudes, gestures, and attire. He

was dressed with marked avoidance of the professional pattern. A hat of

soft felt but not clerical, fashionable collar and tie, a sweeping

ulster, and beneath it a frock-coat, which was doubtless the pride of

some West End tailor. His patent-leather boots were dandiacally

diminutive; his glove fitted like that of a lady who lives but to be

_bien gantee_. The feathery hair, which at Whitelaw he was wont to pat

and smooth, still had its golden shimmer, and on his face no growth was

permitted.

'I had heard of your arrival here, of course,' said Peak, trying to

appear civil, though anything more than that was beyond his power.

'Will you sit down?'

'This is the "breathing time o' the day" with you, I hope? I don't

disturb your work?'

'I was only reading this book of Walsh's. Do you know it?'

But for some such relief of his feelings, Godwin could not have sat

still. There was a pleasure in uttering Walsh's name. Moreover, it

would serve as a test of Chilvers' disposition.

'Walsh?' He took up the volume. 'Ha! Justin Walsh. I know him. A

wonderful book! Admirable dialectic! Delicious style!'

'Not quite orthodox, I fancy,' replied Godwin, with a curling of the

lips.

'Orthodox? Oh, of course not, of course not! But a rich vein of

humanity. Don't you find that?--Pray allow me to throw off my overcoat.

Ha, thanks!--A rich vein of humanity. Walsh is by no means to be

confused with the nullifidians. A very broad-hearted, large-souled man;

at bottom the truest of Christians. Now and then he effervesces rather

too exuberantly. Yes, I admit it. In a review of his last book, which I

was privileged to write for one of our papers, I ventured to urge upon

him the necessity of _restraint_; it seems to me that in this new work

he exhibits more self-control, an approach to the serene fortitude

which I trust he may attain. A man of the broadest brotherliness. A

most valuable ally of renascent Christianity.'

Peak was hardly prepared for this strain. He knew that Chilvers prided

himself on 'breadth', but as yet he had enjoyed no intercourse with the

broadest school of Anglicans, and was uncertain as to the limits of

modern latitudinarianism. The discovery of such fantastic liberality in

a man whom he could not but dislike and contemn gave him no pleasure,

but at least it disposed him to amusement rather than antagonism.

Chilvers' pronunciation and phraseology were distinguished by such

original affectation that it was impossible not to find entertainment

in listening to him. Though his voice was naturally thin and piping, he

managed to speak in head notes which had a ring of robust utterance.

The sound of his words was intended to correspond with their virile

warmth of meaning. In the same way he had cultivated a habit of the

muscles which conveyed an impression that he was devoted to athletic

sports. His arms occasionally swung as if brandishing dumb-bells, his

chest now and then spread itself to the uttermost, and his head was

often thrown back in an attitude suggesting self-defence.

'So you are about to join us,' he exclaimed, with a look of touching

interest, much like that of a ladies' doctor speaking delicately of

favourable symptoms. Then, as if consciously returning to the virile

note, 'I think we shall understand each other. I am always eager to

study the opinions of those among us who have scientific minds. I hear

of you on all hands; already you have strongly impressed some of the

thinking people in Exeter.'

Peak crossed his legs and made no reply.

'There is distinct need of an infusion of the scientific spirit into

the work of the Church. The churchman hitherto has been, as a matter of

course, of the literary stamp; hence much of our trouble during the

last half-century. It behoves us to go in for science--physical,

economic--science of every kind. Only thus can we resist the morbific

influences which inevitably beset an Established Church in times such

as these. I say it boldly. Let us throw aside our Hebrew and our Greek,

our commentators ancient and modern! Let us have done with polemics and

with compromises! What we have to do is to construct a spiritual

edifice on the basis of scientific revelation. I use the word

revelation advisedly. The results of science are the divine message to

our age; to neglect them, to fear them, is to remain under the old law

whilst the new is demanding our adherence, to repeat the Jewish error

of bygone time. Less of St Paul, and more of Darwin! Less of Luther,

and more of Herbert Spencer!'

'Shall I have the pleasure of hearing this doctrine at St Margaret's?'

Peak inquired.

'In a form suitable to the intelligence of my parishioners, taken in

the mass. Were my hands perfectly free, I should begin by preaching a

series of sermons on _The Origin of species_. Sermons! An obnoxious

word! One ought never to use it. It signifies everything inept, inert.'

'Is it your serious belief, then, that the mass of parishioners here or

elsewhere--are ready for this form of spiritual instruction?'

'Most distinctly--given the true capacity in the teacher. Mark me; I

don't say that they are capable of receiving much absolute knowledge.

What I desire is that their minds shall be relieved from a state of

harassing conflict--put at the right point of view. They are not to

think that Jesus of Nazareth teaches faith and conduct incompatible

with the doctrines of Evolutionism. They are not to spend their lives

in kicking against the pricks, and regard as meritorious the punctures

which result to them. The establishment in their minds of a few

cardinal facts--that is the first step. Then let the interpretation

follow--the solace, the encouragement, the hope for eternity!'

'You imagine,' said Godwin, with a calm air, 'that the mind of the

average church-goer is seriously disturbed on questions of faith?'

'How can you ignore it, my dear Peak?--Permit me this familiarity; we

are old fellow-collegians.--The average churchgoer is the average

citizen of our English commonwealth,--a man necessarily aware of the

great Radical movement, and all that it involves. Forgive me. There has

been far too much blinking of actualities by zealous Christians whose

faith is rooted in knowledge. We gain nothing by it; we lose immensely.

Let us recognise that our churches are filled with sceptics,

endeavouring to believe in spite of themselves.'

'Your experience is much larger than mine,' remarked the listener,

submissively.

'Indeed I have widely studied the subject.'

Chilvers smiled with ineffable self-content, his head twisted like that

of a sagacious parrot.

'Granting your average citizen,' said the other, 'what about the

average citizeness? The female church-goers are not insignificant in

number.'

'Ha! There we reach the core of the matter! Woman! woman! Precisely

_there_ is the most hopeful outlook. I trust you are strong for female

emancipation?'

'Oh, perfectly sound on that question!'

'To be sure! Then it must be obvious to you that women are destined to

play the leading part in our Christian renascence, precisely as they

did in the original spreading of the faith. What else is the meaning of

the vast activity in female education? Let them be taught, and

forthwith they will rally to our Broad Church. A man may be content to

remain a nullifidian; women cannot rest at that stage. They demand the

spiritual significance of everything.--I grieve to tell you, Peak, that

for three years I have been a widower. My wife died with shocking

suddenness, leaving me her two little children. Ah, but leaving me also

the memory of a singularly pure and noble being. I may say, with all

humility, that I have studied the female mind in its noblest modern

type. I _know_ what can be expected of woman, in our day and in the

future.'

'Mrs. Chilvers was in full sympathy with your views?'

'Three years ago I had not yet reached my present standpoint. In

several directions I was still narrow. But her prime characteristic was

the tendency to spiritual growth. She would have accompanied me step by

step. In very many respects I must regard myself as a man favoured by

fortune,--I know it, and I trust I am grateful for it,--but that loss,

my dear Peak, counterbalances much happiness. In moments of repose,

when I look back on work joyously achieved, I often murmur to myself,

with a sudden sigh, _Excepto quod non simul esses, caetera Iaetus_!'

He pronounced his Latin in the new-old way, with Continental vowels.

The effect of this on an Englishman's lips is always more or less

pedantic, and in his case it was intolerable.

'And when,' he exclaimed, dismissing the melancholy thought, 'do you

present yourself for ordination?'

It was his habit to pay slight attention to the words of anyone but

himself, and Peak's careless answer merely led him to talk on wide

subjects with renewal of energy. One might have suspected that he had

made a list of uncommon words wherewith to adorn his discourse, for

certain of these frequently recurred. 'Nullifidian', 'morbific',

'renascent', were among his favourites. Once or twice he spoke of

'psychogenesis', with an emphatic enunciation which seemed to invite

respectful wonder. In using Latin words which have become fixed in the

English language, he generally corrected the common errors of quantity:

'_minnus_ the spiritual fervour', 'acting as his _loccum tennens_'.

When he referred to Christian teachers with whom he was acquainted,

they were seldom or never members of the Church of England. Methodists,

Romanists, Presbyterians appeared to stand high in his favour, and Peak

readily discerned that this was a way of displaying 'large-souled

tolerance'. It was his foible to quote foreign languages, especially

passages which came from heretical authors. Thus, he began to talk of

Feuerbach for the sole purpose of delivering a German sentence.

'He has been of infinite value to me--quite infinite value. You

remember his definition of God? It is constantly in my mind. "_Gott ist

eine Trane der Liebe, in tiefster Verborgenheit vergossen uber das

menschliche Elend_." Profoundly touching! I know nothing to approach

it.'

Suddenly he inquired:

'Do you see much of the Exeter clergy?'

'I know only the Vicar of St. Ethelreda's, Mr. Lilywhite.'

'Ha! Admirable fellow! Large-minded, broad of sympathies. Has

distinctly the scientific turn of thought.'

Peak smiled, knowing the truth. But he had hit upon a way of meeting

the Rev. Bruno which promised greatly to diminish the suffering

inherent in the situation. He would use the large-souled man

deliberately for his mirth. Chilvers's self-absorption lent itself to

persiflage, and by indulging in that mood Godwin tasted some

compensation for the part he had to play.

'And I believe you know the Warricombes very well?' pursued Chilvers.

'Yes.'

'Ha! I hope to see much of them. They are people after my own heart.

Long ago I had a slight acquaintance with them. I hear we shan't see

them till the summer.'

'I believe not.'

'Mr. Warricombe is a great geologist, I think?--Probably he frequents

public worship as a mere tribute to social opinion?'

He asked the question in the airiest possible way, as if it mattered

nothing to him what the reply might be.

'Mr. Warricombe is a man of sincere piety,' Godwin answered, with grave

countenance.

'That by no means necessitates church-going, my dear Peak,' rejoined

the other, waving his hand.

'You think not? I am still only a student, you must remember. My mind

is in suspense on not a few points.'

'Of course! Of course! Pray let me give you the results of my own

thought on this subject.'

He proceeded to do so, at some length. When he had rounded his last

period, he unexpectedly started up, swung on his toes, spread his

chest, drew a deep breath, and with the sweetest of smiles announced

that he must postpone the delight of further conversation.

'You must come and dine with me as soon as my house is in reasonable

order. As yet, everything is _sens dessus-dessous_. Delightful old

city, Exeter! Charming! Charming!'

And on the moment he was gone.

What were this man's real opinions? He had brains and literature; his

pose before the world was not that of an ignorant charlatan. Vanity, no

doubt, was his prime motive, but did it operate to make a cleric of a

secret materialist, or to incite a display of excessive liberalism in

one whose convictions were orthodox? Godwin could not answer to his

satisfaction, but he preferred the latter surmise.

One thing, however, became clear to him. All his conscientious scruples

about entering the Church were superfluous. Chilvers would have smiled

pityingly at anyone who disputed his right to live by the

Establishment, and to stand up as an authorised preacher of the

national faith. And beyond a doubt he regulated his degree of 'breadth'

by standards familiar to him in professional intercourse. To him it

seemed all-sufficient to preach a gospel of moral progress, of

intellectual growth, of universal fraternity. If this were the tendency

of Anglicanism, then almost any man who desired to live a cleanly life,

and to see others do the same, might without hesitation become a

clergyman. The old formulae of subscription were so symbolised, so

volatilised, that they could not stand in the way of anyone but a

combative nihilist. Peak was conscious of positive ideals by no means

inconsistent with Christian teaching, and in his official capacity

these alone would direct him.

He spent his evening pleasantly, often laughing as he recalled a phrase

or gesture of the Rev. Bruno's.

In the night fell a sprinkling of snow, and when the sun rose it

gleamed from a sky of pale, frosty blue. At ten o'clock Godwin set out

for his usual walk, choosing the direction of the Old Tiverton Road. It

was a fortnight since he had passed the Warricombes' house. At present

he was disposed to indulge the thoughts which a sight of it would make

active.

He had begun the ascent of the hill when the sound of an approaching

vehicle caused him to raise his eyes--they were generally fixed on the

ground when he walked alone. It was only a hired fly. But, as it passed

him, he recognised the face he had least expected to see,--Sidwell

Warricombe sat in the carriage, and unaccompanied. She noticed

him--smiled--and bent forward. He clutched at his hat, but it happened

that the driver had turned to look at him, and, instead of the salute

he had intended, his hand waved to the man to stop. The gesture was

scarcely voluntary; when he saw the carriage pull up, his heart sank;

he felt guilty of monstrous impudence. But Sidwell's face appeared at

the window, and its expression was anything but resentful; she offered

her hand, too. Without preface of formal phrase he exclaimed:

'How delightful to see you so unexpectedly! Are you all here?'

'Only mother and I. We have come for a day or two.'

'Will you allow me to call? If only for a few minutes'----

'We shall be at home this afternoon.'

'Thank you! Don't you enjoy the sunshine after London?'

'Indeed I do!'

He stepped back and signed to the driver. Sidwell bent her head and was

out of sight.

But the carriage was visible for some distance, and even when he could

no longer see it he heard the horse's hoofs on the hard road. Long

after the last sound had died away his heart continued to beat

painfully, and he breathed as if recovering from a hard run.

How beautiful were these lanes and hills, even in mid-winter! Once more

he sang aloud in his joyous solitude. The hope he had nourished was not

unreasonable; his boldness justified itself. Yes, he was one of the men

who succeed, and the life before him would be richer for all the

mistakes and miseries through which he had passed. Thirty, forty,

fifty--why, twenty years hence he would be in the prime of manhood,

with perhaps yet another twenty years of mental and bodily vigour. One

of the men who succeed!

CHAPTER II

On the morning after her journey down from London, Mrs. Warricombe

awoke with the conviction that she had caught a cold. Her health was in

general excellent, and she had no disposition to nurse imaginary

ailments, but when some slight disorder broke the routine of her life

she made the most of it, enjoying--much as children do--the importance

with which for the time it invested her. At such seasons she was wont

to regard herself with a mildly despondent compassion, to feel that her

family and her friends held her of slight account; she spoke in a tone

of conscious resignation, often with a forgiving smile. When the girls

redoubled their attentions, and soothed her with gentle words, she

would close her eyes and sigh, seeming to remind them that they would

know her value when she was no more.

'You are hoarse, mother,' Sidwell said to her, when they met at

breakfast.

'Am I, dear? You know I felt rather afraid of the journey. I hope I

shan't be laid up.'

Sidwell advised her not to leave the house to-day. Having seen the

invalid comfortably established in an upper room, she went into the

city on business which could not be delayed. On her way occurred the

meeting with Peak, but of this, on her return, she made no mention.

Mother and daughter had luncheon upstairs, and Sidwell was full of

affectionate solicitude.

'This afternoon you had better lie down for an hour or two,' she said.

'Do you think so? Just drop a line to father, and warn him that we may

be kept here for some time.'

'Shall I send for Dr Endacott?'

'Just as you like, dear.'

But Mrs. Warricombe had eaten such an excellent lunch, that Sidwell

could not feel uneasy.

'We'll see how you are this evening. At all events, it will be safer

for you not to go downstairs. If you lie quiet for an hour or two, I

can look for those pamphlets that father wants.'

'Just as you like, dear.'

By three o'clock the invalid was calmly slumbering. Having entered the

bedroom on tiptoe and heard regular breathing, Sidwell went down and

for a few minutes lingered about the hall. A servant came to her for

instructions on some domestic matter; when this was dismissed she

mentioned that, if anyone called, she would be found in the library.

The pamphlets of which her father had spoken were soon discovered. She

laid them aside, and seated herself by the fire, but without leaning

back. At any sound within or outside the house she moved her head to

listen. Her look was anxious, but the gleam of her eyes expressed

pleasurable agitation.

At half-past three she went into the drawing-room, where all the

furniture was draped, and the floor bare. Standing where she could look

from a distance through one of the windows, at which the blind had been

raised, she waited for a quarter of an hour. Then the chill atmosphere

drove her back to the fireside. In the study, evidences of temporary

desertion were less oppressive, but the windows looked only upon a

sequestered part of the garden. Sidwell desired to watch the approach

from the high-road, and in a few minutes she was again in the

drawing-room. But scarcely had she closed the door behind her when a

ringing of the visitors' bell sounded with unfamiliar distinctness. She

started, hastened from the room, fled into the library, and had time to

seat herself before she heard the footsteps of a servant moving in

answer to the summons.

The door opened, and Peak was announced.

Sidwell had never known what it was to be thus overcome with emotion.

Shame at her inability to command the calm features with which she

would naturally receive a caller flushed her cheeks and neck; she

stepped forward with downcast eyes, and only in offering her hand could

at length look at him who stood before her. She saw at once that Peak

was unlike himself; he too had unusual warmth in his countenance, and

his eyes seemed strangely large, luminous. On his forehead were drops

of moisture.

This sight restored her self-control, or such measure of it as

permitted her to speak in the conventional way.

'I am sorry that mother can't leave her room. She had a slight cold

this morning, but I didn't think it would give her any trouble.'

Peak was delighted, and betrayed the feeling even whilst he constrained

his face into a look of exaggerated anxiety.

'It won't be anything serious, I hope? The railway journey, I'm afraid.'

'Yes, the journey. She has a slight hoarseness, but I think we shall

prevent it from'----

Their eyes kept meeting, and with more steadfastness. They were

conscious of mutual scrutiny, and, on both sides, of changes since they

last met. When two people have devoted intense study to each other's

features, a three months' absence not only revives the old impressions

but subjects them to sudden modification which engrosses thought and

feeling. Sidwell continued to utter commonplaces, simply as a means of

disguising the thoughts that occupied her; she was saying to herself

that Peak's face had a purer outline than she had believed, and that

his eyes had gained in expressiveness. In the same way Godwin said and

replied he knew not what, just to give himself time to observe and

enjoy the something new--the increased animation or subtler facial

movements--which struck him as often as he looked at his companion.

Each wondered what the other had been doing, whether the time had

seemed long or short.

'I hope you have kept well?' Sidwell asked.

Godwin hastened to respond with civil inquiries.

'I was very glad to hear from Mr. Warricombe a few days ago, he

continued. Sidwell was not aware that her father had written, but her

pleased smile seemed to signify the contrary.

'She looks younger,' Peak said in his mind. 'Perhaps that London dress

and the new way of arranging her hair have something to do with it. But

no, she looks younger in herself. She must have been enjoying the

pleasures of town.'

'You have been constantly occupied, no doubt,' he added aloud, feeling

at the same time that this was a clumsy expression of what he meant.

Though he had unbuttoned his overcoat, and seated himself as easily as

he could, the absurd tall hat which he held embarrassed him; to deposit

it on the floor demanded an effort of which he was yet incapable.

'I have seen many things and heard much talk,' Sidwell was replying, in

a gay tone. It irritated him; he would have preferred her to speak with

more of the old pensiveness. Yet perhaps she was glad simply because

she found herself again talking with him?

'And you?' she went on. 'It has not been all work, I hope?'

'Oh no! I have had many pleasant intervals.'

This was in imitation of her vivacity. He felt the words and the manner

to be ridiculous, but could not restrain himself. Every moment

increased his uneasiness; the hat weighed in his hands like a lump of

lead, and he was convinced that he had never looked so clownish. Did

her smile signify criticism of his attitude?

With a decision which came he knew not how, he let his hat drop to the

floor and pushed it aside. There, that was better; he felt less of a

bumpkin.

Sidwell glanced at the glossy grotesque, but instantly averted her

eyes, and asked rather more gravely:

'Have you been in Exeter all the time?'

'Yes.'

'But you didn't spend your Christmas alone, I hope?'

'Oh, I had my books.'

Was there not a touch of natural pathos in this? He hoped so; then

mocked at himself for calculating such effects.

'I think you don't care much for ordinary social pleasures, Mr Peak?'

He smiled bitterly.

'I have never known much of them,--and you remember that I look forward

to a life in which they will have little part. Such a life,' he

continued, after a pause, 'seems to you unendurably dull? I noticed

that, when I spoke of it before.'

'You misunderstood me.' She said it so undecidedly that he gazed at her

with puzzled look. Her eyes fell.

'But you like society?'

'If you use the word in its narrowest meaning,' she answered, 'then I

not only dislike society, but despise it.'

She had raised her eyebrows, and was looking coldly at him. Did she

mean to rebuke him for the tone he had adopted? Indeed, he seemed to

himself presumptuous. But if they were still on terms such as these,

was it not better to know it, even at the cost of humiliation? One

moment he believed that he could read Sidwell's thoughts, and that they

were wholly favourable to him; at another he felt absolutely ignorant

of all that was passing in her, and disposed to interpret her face as

that of a conventional woman who had never regarded him as on her own

social plane. These uncertainties, these frequent reversions to a state

of mind which at other times he seemed to have long outgrown, were a

singular feature of his relations with Sidwell. Could such experiences

consist with genuine love? Never had he felt more willing to answer the

question with a negative. He felt that he was come here to act a part,

and that the end of the interview, be it what it might, would only

affect him superficially.

'No,' he replied, with deliberation; 'I never supposed that you had any

interest in the most foolish class of wealthy people. I meant that you

recognise your place in a certain social rank, and regard intercourse

with your equals as an essential of happiness.'

'If I understood why you ask'--she began abruptly, but ceased as she

met his glance. Again he thought she was asserting a distant dignity.

'The question arose naturally out of a train of thought which always

occupies me when I talk with you. I myself belong to no class whatever,

and I can't help wondering how--if the subject ever occurred to

you--you would place me.'

He saw his way now, and, having said thus much, could talk on

defiantly. This hour must decide his fortune with Sidwell, yet his

tongue utterly refused any of the modes of speech which the situation

would have suggested to an ordinary mind. He could not 'make love'.

Instead of humility, he was prompted to display a rough arrogance;

instead of tender phrases, he uttered what sounded like deliberate

rudeness. His voice was less gently tuned than Sidwell had been wont to

hear it. It all meant that he despaired of wooing successfully, and

more than half wished to force some word from Sidwell which would spare

him the necessity of a plain avowal.

But before he had finished speaking, her face changed. A light of

sudden understanding shone in her eyes; her lips softened to a smile of

exquisite gentleness.

'The subject never _did_ occur to me,' she answered. 'How should it? A

friend is a friend.'

It was not strictly true, but in the strength of her emotion she could

forget all that contradicted it.

'A friend--yes.'

Godwin began with the same note of bluntness. But of a sudden he felt

the influence of Sidwell's smile. His voice sank into a murmur, his

heart leapt, a thrill went through his veins.

'I wish to be something more than a friend.'

He felt that it was bald, inadequate. Yet the words had come of their

own accord, on an impulse of unimpaired sincerity. Sidwell's head was

bent.

'That is why I can't take simple things for granted,' he continued, his

gaze fixed upon her. 'If I thought of nothing but friendship, it would

seem rational enough that you should accept me for what I am--a man of

education, talking your own language. Because I have dared to hope

something more, I suffer from the thought that I was not born into your

world, and that you must be always remembering this difference.'

'Do you think me so far behind the age?' asked Sidwell, trying to laugh.

'Classes are getting mixed, confused. Yes, but we are so conscious of

the process that we talk of class distinctions more than of anything

else,--talk and think of them incessantly. You have never heard me make

a profession of Radicalism; _I_ am decidedly behind the age. Be what I

may--and I have spiritual pride more than enough--the fact that I have

relatives in the lower, even the lowest, social class must necessarily

affect the whole course of my life. A certain kind of man declares

himself proud of such an origin--and most often lies. Or one may be

driven by it into rebellion against social privilege. To me, my origin

is simply a grave misfortune, to be accepted and, if possible,

overcome. Does that sound mean-spirited? I can't help it; I want you to

know me.'

'I believe I know you very well,' Sidwell replied.

The consciousness that she was deceived checked the words which were

rising to his lips. Again he saw himself in a pitiful light, and this

self-contempt reflected upon Sidwell. He could not doubt that she was

yielding to him; her attitude and her voice declared it; but what was

the value of love won by imposture? Why had she not intelligence enough

to see through his hypocrisy, which at times was so thin a veil? How

defective must her sympathy be!

'Yet you have seen very little of me,' he said, smiling.

There was a short silence; then he exclaimed in a voice of emotion:

'How I wish we had known each other ever since that day when your

brother brought me to your house near Kingsmill! If we had met and

talked through all those years! But that was impossible for the very

reason which makes me inarticulate now that I wish to say so much. When

you first saw me I was a gawky schoolboy, learning to use my brains,

and knowing already that life had nothing to offer me but a false

position. Whether I remained with my kith and kin, or turned my back

upon them in the hope of finding my equals, I was condemned to a life

of miserable incompleteness. I was born in exile. It took a long time

before I had taught myself how to move and speak like one of the class

to which I belonged by right of intellect. I was living alone in

London, in mean lodging-houses. But the day came when I felt more

confidence in myself. I had saved money, and foresaw that in a year or

two I should be able to carry out a plan, make one serious attempt to

win a position among educated people.'

He stopped. Had he intended a full confession, it was thus he might

have begun it. Sidwell was regarding him, but with a gentle look,

utterly unsuspecting. She was unable to realise his character and his

temptations.

'And have you not succeeded?' she asked, in a low voice.

'Have I? Let me put it to the test. I will set aside every thought of

presumption; forget that I am a penniless student looking forward to a

country curacy; and say what I wished to when we had our last

conversation. Never mind how it sounds. I have dared to hope that some

day I shall ask you to be my wife, and that you won't refuse.'

The word 'wife' reverberated on his ears. A whirl of emotion broke the

defiant calm he had supported for the last few minutes. The silence

seemed to be endless; when he looked at Sidwell, her head was bent, the

eyes concealed by their drooping lids. Her expression was very grave.

'Such a piece of recklessness,' he said at length, 'deserves no answer.'

Sidwell raised her eyes and spoke gently, with voice a little shaken.

'Why should you call it recklessness? I have never thought of the

things that seem to trouble you so much. You were a friend of ours.

Wasn't that enough?'

It seemed to him an evasive reply. Doubtless it was much that she

showed neither annoyance nor prudish reserve. He had won the right of

addressing her on equal terms, but she was not inclined to anticipate

that future day to which he pointed.

'You have never thought of such things, because you have never thought

of me as I of you. Every day of your absence in London has caused me

torments which were due most often to the difference between your

social position and mine. You have been among people of leisure and

refinement and culture. Each evening you have talked with men whom it

cost no effort to make themselves liked and respected. I think of that

with bitterness.'

'But why? I have made many acquaintances; have met very interesting

people. I am glad of it; it enables me to understand you better than I

could before.'

'You are glad on that account?'

'Yes; indeed I am.'

'Dare I think you mean more than a civil phrase?'

'I mean quite simply all that my words imply. I have thought of you,

though certainly without bitterness. No one's conversation in London

interested me so much as yours.'

Soothed with an exquisite joy, Godwin felt his eyes moisten. For a

moment he was reconciled to all the world, and forgot the hostilities

of a lifetime.

'And will it still be so, now, when you go back?' he asked, in a soft

tone.

'I am sure it will.'

'Then it will be strange if I ever feel bitterly again.'

Sidwell smiled.

'You could have said nothing that could please me more. Why should your

life be troubled by these dark moods? I could understand it if you were

still struggling with--with doubts, with all manner of uncertainties

about your course'----

She hesitated, watching his face.

'You think I have chosen well?' said Godwin, meeting her look.

Sidwell's eyes were at once averted.

'I hope,' she said, 'we may talk of that again very soon. You have told

me much of yourself, but I have said little or nothing of my

own--difficulties. It won't be long before we come back from London,

and then'----

Once more their eyes met steadily.

'You think,' Godwin asked, 'that I am right in aiming at a life of

retirement?'

'It is one of my doubts. Your influence would be useful anywhere; but

most useful, surely, among people of active mind.'

'Perhaps I shan't be able to choose. Remember that I am seeking for a

livelihood as well as for a sphere of usefulness.'

His eyes fell as he spoke. Hitherto he had had no means of learning

whether Sidwell would bring her husband a dowry substantial enough to

be considered. Though he could not feel that she had betrothed herself

to him, their talk was so nearly that of avowed lovers that perchance

she would disclose whatever might help to put his mind at rest. The

thought revived his painful self-consciousness; it was that of a

schemer, yet would not the curse of poverty have suggested it to any

man?

'Perhaps you won't be able to choose--at first,' Sidwell assented,

thereby seeming to answer his unspoken question. 'But I am sure my

father will use whatever influence he has.'

Had he been seated near enough, he would have been tempted to the

boldness of taking her hand. What more encouragement did he await? But

the distance between them was enough to check his embarrassed impulses.

He could not even call her 'Sidwell'; it would have been easier a few

minutes ago, before she had begun to speak with such calm friendliness.

Now, in spite of everything, he felt that to dare such a familiarity

must needs call upon him the reproof of astonished eyes.

'You return to-morrow?' he asked, suddenly.

'I think so. You have promised me to be cheerful until we are home

again.'

'A promise to be cheerful wouldn't mean much. But it _does_ mean much

that I can think of what you have said to-day.'

Sidwell did not speak, and her silence seemed to compel him to rise. It

was strange how remote he still felt from her pure, grave face, and the

flowing outlines of her figure. Why could he not say to her, 'I love

you; give me your hands; give me your lips'? Such words seemed

impossible. Yet passion thrilled in him as he watched the grace of her

movements, the light and shadow upon her features. She had risen and

come a step or two forward.

'I think you look taller--in that dress.'

The words rather escaped him than were spoken. His need was to talk of

common things, of trifles, that so he might come to feel humanly.

Sidwell smiled with unmistakable pleasure.

'Do I? Do you like the dress?'

'Yes. It becomes you.'

'Are you critical in such things?'

'Not with understanding. But I should like to see you every day in a

new and beautiful dress.'

'Oh, I couldn't afford it!' was the laughing reply.

He offered his hand; the touch of her warm, soft fingers fired his

blood.

'Sidwell!'

It was spoken at last, involuntarily, and he stood with his eyes on

hers, her hand crushed in his.

'Some day!' she whispered.

If their lips met, the contact was so slight as to seem accidental; it

was the mere timorous promise of a future kiss. And both were glad of

the something that had imposed restraint.

When Sidwell went up to her mother's sitting-room, a servant had just

brought tea.

'I hear that Mr. Peak has been,' said Mrs. Warricombe, who looked puffy

and uncomfortable after her sleep. 'Emma was going to take tea to the

study, but I thought it unnecessary. How could he know that we were

here?'

'I met him this morning on my way into the town.'

'Surely it was rather inconsiderate of him to call.'

'He asked if he might.'

Mrs. Warricombe turned her head and examined Sidwell.

'Oh! And did he stay long?'

'Not very long,' replied Sidwell, who was in quiet good-humour.

'I think it would have been better if you had told him by the servant

that I was not well enough to see callers. You didn't mention that he

might be coming.'

Mrs. Warricombe's mind worked slowly at all times, and at present she

was suffering from a cold.

'Why didn't you speak of it, Sidwell?'

'Really--I forgot,' replied the daughter, lightly.

'And what had he to say?'

'Nothing new, mother. Is your head better, dear?'

There was no answer. Mrs. Warricombe had conceived a vague suspicion

which was so alarming that she would not press inquiries alluding to

it. The encouragement given by her husband to Godwin Peak in the

latter's social progress had always annoyed her, though she could not

frame solid objections. To be sure, to say of a man that he is about to

be ordained meets every possible question that society can put; but

Mrs. Warricombe's uneasiness was in part due to personal dislike.

Oftener than not, she still thought of Peak as he appeared some eleven

years ago--an evident plebeian, without manners, without a redeeming

grace. She knew the story of his relative who had opened a shop in

Kingsmill; thinking of that now, she shuddered.

Sidwell began to talk of indifferent matters, and Peak was not again

mentioned.

Her throat being still troublesome, Mrs. Warricombe retired very soon

after dinner. About nine o'clock Sidwell went to the library, and sat

down at her father's writing-table, purposing a letter to Sylvia. She

penned a line or two, but soon lapsed into reverie, her head on her

hands. Of a sudden the door was thrown open, and there stood Buckland,

fresh from travel.

'What has brought you?' exclaimed his sister, starting up anxiously,

for something in the young man's look seemed ominous.

'Oh, nothing to trouble about. I had to come down--on business. Mother

gone to bed?'

Sidwell explained.

'All right; doesn't matter. I suppose I can sleep here? Let them get me

a mouthful of something; cold meat, anything will do.'

His needs were quickly supplied, and before long he was smoking by the

library fire.

'I was writing to Sylvia,' said his sister, glancing at her fragmentary

letter.

'Oh!'

'You know she is at Salisbury?'

'Salisbury? No, I didn't.'

His carelessness proved to Sidwell that she was wrong in conjecturing

that his journey had something to do with Miss Moorhouse. Buckland was

in no mood for conversation; he smoked for a quarter of an hour whilst

Sidwell resumed her writing.

'Of course you haven't seen Peak?' fell from him at length.

His sister looked at him before replying.

'Yes. He called this afternoon.'

'But who told him you were here?'

His brows were knitted, and he spoke very abruptly. Sidwell gave the

same explanation as to her mother, and had further to reply that she

alone received the caller.

'I see,' was Buckland's comment.

Its tone troubled Sidwell.

'Has your coming anything to do with Mr. Peak?'

'Yes, it has. I want to see him the first thing to-morrow.

'Can you tell me what about?'

He searched her face, frowning.

'Not now. I'll tell you in the morning.'

Sidwell saw herself doomed to a night of suspense. She could not

confess how nearly the mystery concerned her. Had Buckland made some

discovery that irritated him against Peak? She knew he was disposed to

catch at anything that seemed to tell against Godwin's claims to

respectful treatment, and it surely must be a grave affair to hurry him

on so long a journey. Though she could imagine no ground of fear, the

situation was seriously disturbing.

She tried to go on with her letter, but failed. As Buckland smoked in

silence, she at length rose and said she would go upstairs.

'All right! Shall see you at breakfast. Good-night!'

At nine next morning Mrs. Warricombe sent a message to Buckland that

she wished to see him in her bedroom. He entered hurriedly.

'Cold better, mother? I have only just time to drink a cup of coffee. I

want to catch Peak before he can have left home.'

'Mr. Peak? Why? I was going to speak about him.'

'What were you going to say?' Buckland asked, anxiously.

His mother began in a roundabout way which threatened long detention.

In a minute or two Buckland had gathered enough to interrupt her with

the direct inquiry:

'You don't mean that there's anything between him and Sidwell?'

'I do hope not; but I can't imagine why she should--really, almost make

a private appointment. I am very uneasy, Buckland. I have hardly slept.

Sidwell is rather--you know'----

'The deuce! I can't stop now. Wait an hour or two, and I shall have

seen the fellow. You needn't alarm yourself. He will probably have

disappeared in a few days.'

'What do you mean?' Mrs. Warricombe asked, with nervous eagerness.

'I'll explain afterwards.'

He hurried away. Sidwell was at the breakfast-table. Her eyes seemed to

declare that she had not slept well. With an insignificant word or two,

the young man swallowed his cup of coffee, and had soon left the house.

CHAPTER III

The wrath which illumined Buckland's countenance as he strode rapidly

towards Longbrook Street was not unmingled with joy. In the deep pocket

of his ulster lay something heavy which kept striking against his leg,

and every such contact spurred him with a sense of satisfaction. All

his suspicions were abundantly justified. Not only would his father and

Sidwell be obliged to confess that his insight had been profounder than

theirs, but he had the pleasure of standing justified before his own

conscience. The philosophy by which he lived was strikingly illustrated

and confirmed.

He sniffed the morning air, enjoyed the firmness of the frozen ground,

on which his boots made a pleasant thud. To be sure, the interview

before him would have its disagreeableness, but Buckland was not one of

those over-civilised men who shrink from every scene of painful

explanation. The detection of a harmful lie was decidedly congenial to

him--especially when he and his had been made its victims. He was now

at liberty to indulge that antipathetic feeling towards Godwin Peak

which sundry considerations had hitherto urged him to repress. Whatever

might have passed between Peak and Sidwell, he could not doubt that his

sister's peace was gravely endangered; the adventurer (with however

much or little sincerity) had been making subtle love to her. Such a

thought was intolerable. Buckland's class-prejudice asserted itself

with brutal vigour now that it had moral indignation for an ally.

He had never been at Peak's lodgings, but the address was long since

noted. Something of disdain came into his eyes as he approached the row

of insignificant houses. Having pulled the bell, he stood at his full

height, looking severely at the number painted on the door.

Mrs. Roots opened to him, and said that her lodger was at home. He gave

his name, and after waiting for a moment was led to the upper floor.

Godwin, who had breakfasted later than usual, still sat by the table.

On Warricombe's entrance, he pushed back his chair and rose, but with

deliberate movement, scarcely smiling. That Buckland made no offer of a

friendly hand did not surprise him. The name of his visitor had alarmed

him with a sudden presentiment. Hardening his features, he stood in

expectancy.

'I want to have a talk with you,' Buckland began. 'You are at leisure,

I hope?'

'Pray sit down.'

Godwin pointed to a chair near the fire, but Warricombe, having thrown

his hat on to a side table, seated himself by one of the windows. His

motions proved that he found it difficult to support a semblance of

courtesy.

'I have come down from London on purpose to see you. Unless I am

strangely misinformed you have been guilty of conduct which I shouldn't

like to call by its proper name.'

Remembering that he was in a little house, with thin partitions, he

kept his voice low, but the effort this cost him was obvious. He looked

straight at Peak, who did not return the gaze.

'Indeed?' said Godwin, coldly. 'What is my crime?'

'I am told that you have won the confidence of my relatives by what

looks like a scheme of gross dishonesty.'

'Indeed? Who has told you so?'

'No one in so many words. But I happened to come across certain

acquaintances of yours in London--people who know you very well indeed;

and I find that they regard your position here as altogether

incredible. You will remember I had much the same feeling myself. In

support of their view it was mentioned to me that you had published an

article in _The Critical_--the date less than a year ago, observe. The

article was anonymous, but I remember it very well. I have re-read it,

and I want you to tell me how the views it expresses can be reconciled

with those you have maintained in conversation with my father.'

He drew from his pocket the incriminating periodical, turned it back at

the article headed 'The New Sophistry', and held it out for inspection.

'Perhaps you would like to refresh your memory.'

'Needless, thank you,' returned Godwin, with a smile--in which the

vanity of an author had its part.

Had Marcella betrayed him? He had supposed she knew nothing of this

article, but Earwaker had perhaps spoken of it to Moxey before

receiving the injunction of secrecy. On the other hand, it might be

Earwaker himself from whom Warricombe had derived his information. Not

impossible for the men to meet, and Earwaker's indignation might have

led him to disregard a friend's confidence.

The details mattered little. He was face to face with the most serious

danger that could befall him, and already he had strung himself to

encounter it. Yet even in the same moment he asked, 'Is it worth while?'

'Did you write this?' Buckland inquired.

'Yes, I wrote it.'

'Then I wait for your explanation.'

'You mustn't expect me to enter upon an elaborate defence,' Godwin

replied, taking his pipe from the mantelpiece and beginning to fill it.

'A man charged with rascality can hardly help getting excited--and that

excitement, to one in your mood, seems evidence against him. Please to

bear in mind that I have never declared myself an orthodox theologian.

Mr. Warricombe is well acquainted with my views; to you I have never

explained them.'

'You mean to say that my father knew of this article?'

'No. I have not spoken of it.'

'And why not?'

'Because, for one thing, I shouldn't write in that way now; and, for

another, the essay seems to imply more than I meant when I did write

it.'

'"Seems to imply"----? I understand. You wish to represent that this

attack on M'Naughten involves no attack on Christianity?'

'Not on Christianity as I understand it.'

Buckland's face expressed profound disgust, but he controlled his

speech.

'Well, I foresaw this. You attacked a new sophistry, but there is a

newer sophistry still, and uncommonly difficult it is to deal with. Mr.

Peak, I have a plain word to say to you. More than a year ago you asked

me for my goodwill, to aid you in getting a social position. Say what

you like, I see now that you dealt with me dishonestly. I can no longer

be your friend in any sense, and I shall do my best to have you

excluded from my parents' house. My father will re-read this essay--I

have marked the significant passages throughout--and will form his own

judgment; I know what it will be.'

'You are within your rights.'

'Undoubtedly,' replied Buckland, with polished insolence, as he rose

from his seat. 'I can't forbid you to go to the house again, but--I

hope we mayn't meet there. It would be very unpleasant.'

Godwin was still pressing down the tobacco in the bowl of his pipe. He

smiled, and glanced about the room. Did Warricombe know how far things

had gone between him and Sidwell? Whether or no, it was certain now

that Sidwell would be informed of this disastrous piece of

authorship--and the result?

What did it matter? There is no struggling against destiny. If he and

Sidwell were ever fated to come together, why, these difficulties would

all be surmounted. If, as seemed more than likely, he was again to be

foiled on the point of success--he could bear it, perhaps even enjoy

the comedy.

'There is no possibility of arguing against determined anger,' he said,

quietly. 'I am not at all inclined to plead for justice: one only does

that with a friend who desires to be just. My opinions are utterly

distasteful to you, and personal motives have made you regard me as--a

scoundrel to be got rid of. Well, there's an end of it. I don't see

what is to be gained by further talk.'

This was a dismissal. Godwin felt the necessity of asserting himself

thus far.

'One question,' said Warricombe, as he put the periodical back into his

pocket. 'What do you mean by my "personal motives"?'

Their eyes met for an instant.

'I mean the motives which you have spoken of.'

It was Buckland's hope that Peak might reveal his relations with

Sidwell, but he shrank from seeming to know anything of the matter.

Clearly, no light was to be had from this source.

'I am afraid,' he said, moving to the door, 'that you will find my

motives shared by all the people whose acquaintance you have made in

Exeter.'

And without further leave-taking he departed.

There was a doubt in his mind. Peak's coolness might be the audacity of

rascaldom; he preferred to understand it so; but it _might_ have

nothing to do with baseness.

'Confound it!' he muttered to himself, irritably. 'In our times life is

so deucedly complicated. It used to be the easiest thing to convict a

man of religious hypocrisy; nowadays, one has to bear in mind such a

multiplicity of fine considerations. There's that fellow Bruno

Chilvers: mightn't anyone who had personal reasons treat him precisely

as I have treated Peak? Both of them _may_ be honest. Yet in Peak's

case all appearances are against him--just because he is of low birth,

has no means, and wants desperately to get into society. The fellow is

a scoundrel; I am convinced of it. Yet his designs may be innocent.

How, then, a scoundrel?----

'Poor devil! Has he really fallen in love with Sidwell?----

'Humbug! He wants position, and the comfort it brings. And if he hadn't

acted like a blackguard--if he had come among us telling the truth--who

knows? Sidwell wouldn't then have thought of him, but for my own part I

would willingly have given him a hand. There are plenty of girls who

have learned to think for themselves.'

This was an unhappy line of reflection. It led to Sylvia Moorhouse--and

to grinding of the teeth. By the time he reached the house, Buckland

was again in remorseless mood.

He would have it out with Sidwell. The desire of proving to her that he

had been right from the first overrode all thought of the pain he might

inflict.

She was in the library. At breakfast he had noticed her heavy eyes, and

that she made only a pretence of eating. She was now less unlike

herself, but her position at the window showed that she had been

waiting impatiently.

'Isn't mother coming down to-day?' he asked.

'Yes; after luncheon she will go out for an hour, if it keeps fine.'

'And to-morrow you return?'

'If mother feels able to travel.'

He had _The Critical_ in his hand, and stood rustling the pages with

his fingers.

'I have been to see Peak.'

'Have you?'

She moved a few steps and seated herself sideways on a small chair.

'My business with him was confoundedly unpleasant. I'm glad it's over.

I wish I had known what I now do half a year ago.'

'Let me hear what it is.'

'You remember that I told you to be on your guard against Peak?'

Sidwell smiled faintly, and glanced at him, but made no answer.

'I knew he wasn't to be trusted,' pursued her brother, with gloomy

satisfaction. 'And I had far better means of judging than father or

you; but, of course, my suspicions were ungenerous and cynical.'

'Will you come to the point?' said Sidwell, in an irritated tone.

'I think you read this article in _The Critical_?' He approached and

showed it to her. 'We spoke of it once, _a propos_ of M'Naughten's

book.'

She raised her eyes, and met his with a look of concern she could not

disguise.

'What of that?'

'Peak is the author of it. It seems to have been written just about the

time when I met him and brought him here as a visitor, and it was

published after he had begun to edify you with his zeal for

Christianity.'

She held out her hand.

'You remember the tone of the thing?' Buckland added. 'I'll leave it

with you; but just glance at one or two of the passages I have marked.

The Anglicanism of their writer is decidedly "broad", it seems to me.'

He moved apart and watched his sister as she bent over the pages. There

was silence for five minutes. Seeing that Sidwell had ceased to read,

he ejaculated, 'Well?'

'Has Mr. Peak admitted the authorship?' she asked, slowly and

distinctly.

'Yes, and with a cool impudence I hardly expected.'

'Do you mean that he has made no attempt to justify himself?'

'None worth listening to. Practically, he refused an explanation.'

Sidwell rested her forehead lightly upon the tips of her fingers; the

periodical slipped from her lap and lay open on the floor.

'How did you find this out?'

'In the simplest way. Knowing perfectly well that I had only to get

familiar with some of his old friends to obtain proof that he was an

impostor, I followed up my acquaintance with Miss Moxey--got hold of

her brother--called upon them. Whilst I was there, a man named Malkin

came in, and somehow or other he began talking of Peak. I learned at

once precisely what I expected, that Peak was known to all these people

as a violent anti-Christian. Malkin refused to believe the story of his

going in for the Church--it sounded to him a mere joke. Then came out

the fact that he had written this article. They all knew about it.'

He saw a flush of shame upon Sidwell's half-hidden face. It gratified

him. He was resolved to let her taste all the bitterness of her folly.

'It seems pretty clear that the Moxeys--at all events Miss Moxey--knew

the rascally part he was playing. Whether they wished to unmask him, or

not, I can't say. Perhaps not. Yet I caught an odd look on Miss Moxey's

face when that man Malkin began to talk of Peak's characteristics and

achievements. It came out, by-the-bye, that he had given all his

acquaintances the slip; they had completely lost sight of him--I

suppose until Miss Moxey met him by chance at Budleigh Salterton.

There's some mystery still. She evidently kept Peak's secret from the

Moorhouses and the Walworths. A nice business, altogether!'

Again there was a long silence. Then Sidwell raised her face and said,

abruptly:

'You may be quite mistaken.'

'How?'

'You went to Mr. Peak in a spirit of enmity and anger. It is not likely

he would explain himself. You may have quite misunderstood what he

said.'

'Ridiculous! You mean that he was perhaps "converted" after writing

this article?--Then why did he allow it to be published?'

'He did not sign it. He may have been unable to withdraw it from the

editor's hands.'

'Bosh! He didn't sign it, because the idea of this Exeter campaign came

between the reception and the appearance of his paper. In the ordinary

course of things, he would have been only too glad to see his name in

_The Critical_. The scoundrelly project was conceived perhaps the very

day that I brought him here--perhaps in that moment--at lunch, do you

remember?--when he began to talk of the sermon at the Cathedral?'

'Why did he go to the Cathedral and hear that sermon?'

'To amuse a Sunday morning, I suppose.'

'That is not very likely in a man who hates and ridicules religion.'

'It is decidedly more probable than the idea of his conversion.'

Sidwell fell back again into her brooding attitude.

'The reason of your mistake in judging him,' resumed Buckland, with

emphasis, 'is that you have undervalued his intellect. I told you long

ago that a man of Peak's calibre could not possibly be a supporter of

dogmas and churches. No amount of plausible evidence would have made me

believe in his sincerity. Let me beg you to appreciate the simple fact,

that _no_ young man of brains and education is nowadays an honest

defender of mediaeval Christianity--the Christianity of your churches.

Such fellows may transact with their conscience, and make a more or

less decent business of the clerical career; or, in rare cases, they

may believe that society is served by the maintenance of a national

faith, and accordingly preach with all manner of mental reserves and

symbolical interpretations. These are in reality politicians, not

priests. But Peak belongs to neither class. He is an acute cynic, bent

on making the best of this world, since he believes in no other. How he

must have chuckled after every visit to this house! He despises you,

one and all. Believe me, he regards you with profound contempt.'

Buckland's obtuseness on the imaginative side spared him the

understanding of his sister's state of mind. Though in theory he

recognised that women were little amenable to reasoning, he took it for

granted that a clear demonstration of Peak's duplicity must at once

banish all thought of him from Sidwell's mind. Therefore he was

unsparing in his assaults upon her delusion. It surprised him when at

length Sidwell looked up with flashing, tear-dewed eyes and addressed

him indignantly:

'In all this there is not one word of truth! You know that in

representing the clergy as a body of ignorant and shallow men you speak

out of prejudice. If you believed what you say, you would be yourself

both ignorant and shallow. I can't trust your judgment of anyone

whatever.'

She paused, but in a moment added the remark which would have come

first had she spoken in the order of her thoughts.

'It is because the spirit of contempt is so familiar to you that you

are so ready to perceive it in others. I consider that habit of mind

worse than hypocrisy--yes, worse, far worse!'

Buckland was sorry for the pain he had given. The retort did not affect

him, but he hung his head and looked uncomfortable. His next speech was

in a milder strain:

'I feel it a duty, Sidwell, to represent this man to you in what I

verily believe to be the true light. To be despised by one who is

immeasurably contemptible surely can't distress you. If a butler gets

into your house by means of a forged character, and then lays his plans

for a great burglary, no doubt he scorns you for being so easily taken

in,--and that is an exact parallel to Peak's proceedings. He has

somehow got the exterior of a gentleman; you could not believe that one

who behaved so agreeably and talked so well was concealing an

essentially base nature. But I must remind you that Peak belongs by

origin to the lower classes, which is as much as to say that he lacks

the sense of honour generally inherited by men of our world. A powerful

intellect by no means implies a corresponding development of the moral

sense.'

Sidwell could not close her ears against the argument. But her features

were still set in an expression of resentment, and she kept silence

lest her voice should sound tearful.

'And don't be tempted by personal feeling,' pursued her brother, 'to

make light of hypocrisy--especially this kind. The man who can act such

a part as Peak's has been for the last twelve months must be capable of

any depravity. It is difficult for you to estimate his baseness,

because you are only half convinced that any one can really be an enemy

of religious faith. You suspect a lurking belief even in the minds of

avowed atheists. But take the assurance from me that a man like Peak

(and I am at one with him in this matter) regards with absolute

repugnance every form of supernaturalism. For him to affect belief in

your religion, is a crime against conscience. Peak has committed this

crime with a mercenary motive,--what viler charge could be brought

against him?'

Without looking at him, his sister replied:

'Whether he is guilty or not, I can't yet determine. But the motive of

his life here was not mercenary.'

'Then how would you describe it?' Buckland asked, in astonishment.

'I only know that it can't be called mercenary.'

'Then the distinction you draw must be a very fine one.--He has

abandoned the employment by which he lived, and by his own admission he

looks to the Church for means of support. It was necessary for him to

make interest with people of social position; the closer his relations

with them the better. From month to month he has worked skilfully to

establish his footing in this house, and among your friends. What do

you call this?'

She had no verbal answer to make, but her look declared that she held

to another interpretation.

'Well,' Buckland added, impatiently, 'we will hear father's opinion.

He, remember, has been deceived in a very gross and cruel way. Possibly

he may help you to see the thing in all its hatefulness.'

Sidwell turned to him.

'You go to London this afternoon?'

'In an hour or two,' he replied, consulting his watch.

'Is it any use my asking you to keep silence about everything until I

am back in town?'

Buckland frowned and hesitated.

'To mother as well as father, you mean?'

'Yes. Will you do me this kindness?'

'Answer me a question, Sidwell. Have you any thought of seeing Peak?'

'I can't say,' she replied, in agitation. 'I must leave myself free. I

have a right to use my own judgment.'

'Don't see him! I beg you not to see him!'

He was so earnest that Sidwell suspected some other reason in his

request than regard for her dignity.

'I must leave myself free,' she repeated, with shaking voice. 'In any

case I shall be back in London to-morrow evening--that is, if--but I am

sure mother will wish to go. Grant me this one kindness; say nothing

here or there till I am back and have seen you again.'

He turned a deaf ear, for the persistency with which she resisted proof

of Peak's dishonour had begun to alarm him. Who could say what

miserable folly she might commit in the next four-and-twenty hours? The

unavoidable necessity of his own return exasperated him; he wished to

see her safe back in London, and under her father's care.

'No,' he exclaimed, with a gesture of determination; 'I can't keep such

a thing as this secret for another hour. Mother must know at

once--especially as you mean to invite that fellow into the house

again.--I have half a mind to telegraph to Godolphin that I can't

possibly be with him to-night.'

Sidwell regarded him and spoke with forced composure.

'Do as seems right to you, Buckland. But don't think that by remaining

here you would prevent me from seeing Mr. Peak, if I wish to do so.

That is treating me too much like a child. You have done your

part--doubtless your duty; now I must reflect and judge for myself.

Neither you nor anyone else has authority over me in such

circumstances.'

'Very well. I have no authority, as you say, but common sense bids me

let mother know how the case stands.'

And angrily he left the room.

_The Critical_ still lay where it had fallen. When Sidwell had stood a

while in confused thought, her eye turned to it, and she went hurriedly

to take it up. Yes, that was the first thing to be done, to read those

pages with close care. For this she must have privacy. She ran upstairs

and shut herself in her bedroom.

But did not at once begin to read. It concerned her deeply to know

whether Peak had so expressed himself in this paper, that no room was

left for doubt as to his convictions; but another question pressed upon

her with even more urgency--could it be true that he did not love her?

If Buckland were wholly right, then it mattered little in what degree

she had been misled by intellectual hypocrisy.

It was impossible to believe that Peak had made love to her in cold

blood, with none but sordid impulses. The thought was so humiliating

that her mind resolutely rejected it; and she had no difficulty in

recalling numberless minutiae of behaviour--nuances of look and tone

such as abide in a woman's memory--any one of which would have sufficed

to persuade her that he felt genuine emotion. How had it come to pass

that a feeling of friendly interest, which did not for a moment

threaten her peace, changed all at once to an agitation only the more

persistent the more she tried to subdue it,--how, if it were not that

her heart responded to a passionate appeal, effectual as only the

sincerest love can prove? Prior to that long talk with Godwin, on the

eve of her departure for London, she had not imagined that he loved

her; when they said good-bye to each other, she knew by her own

sensations all that the parting meant to him. She felt glad, instead of

sorry, that they were not to meet again for several months; for she

wished to think of him calmly and prudently, now that he presented

himself to her imagination in so new an aspect. The hand-clasp was a

mutual assurance of fidelity.

'I should never have loved him, if he had not first loved me. Of that I

am as firmly convinced as of my own existence. It is not in my nature

to dream romances. I never did so even as a young girl, and at this age

I am not likely to fall into a foolish self-deception. I had often

thought about him. He seemed to me a man of higher and more complex

type than those with whom I was familiar; but most surely I never

attributed to him even a corresponding interest in me. I am neither

vain, nor very anxious to please; I never suffered because men did not

woo me; I have only moderate good looks, and certainly no uncommon

mental endowments.--If he had been attracted by Sylvia, I should have

thought it natural; and I more than once suspected that Sylvia was

disposed to like him. It seemed strange at first that his choice should

have fallen upon me; yet when I was far away from him, and longed so to

sit once more by him and hear him talk, I understood that it might be

in my power to afford him the companionship he needed.--Mercenary? If I

had been merely a governess in the house, he would have loved me just

the same!'

Only by a painful effort could she remind herself that the ideal which

had grown so slowly was now defaced. He loved her, but it was not the

love of an honest man. After all, she had no need to peruse this

writing of his; she remembered so well how it had impressed her when

she read it on its first appearance, how her father had spoken of it.

Buckland's manifold evidence was irresistible. Why should Peak have

concealed his authorship? Why had he disappeared from among the people

who thoroughly knew him?

She had loved a dream. What a task would it be to distinguish between

those parts of Peak's conversation which represented his real thoughts,

and those which were mockery of his listeners! The plan of a retired

life which he had sketched to her--was it all falsehood? Impossible,

for his love was inextricably blended with the details. Did he imagine

that the secret of his unbelief could be preserved for a lifetime, and

that it would have no effect whatever upon his happiness as a man? This

seemed a likely reading of the problem. But what a multitude of moral

and intellectual obscurities remained! The character which had seemed

to her nobly simple was become a dark and dread enigma.

She knew so little of his life. If only it could all be laid bare to

her, the secret of his position would be revealed. Buckland's violence

altogether missed its mark; the dishonour of such a man as Godwin Peak

was due to no gross incentive.

It was probable that, in talk with her father, he had been guilty of

more deliberate misrepresentation than had marked his intercourse with

the rest of the family. Her father, she felt sure, had come to regard

him as a valuable source of argument in the battle against materialism.

Doubtless the German book, which Peak was translating, bore upon that

debate, and consequently was used as an aid to dissimulation. Thinking

of this, she all but shared her brother's vehement feeling. It pained

her to the inmost heart that her father's generous and candid nature

should thus have been played upon. The deceit, as it concerned herself

alone, she could forgive; at least she could suspend judgment until the

accused had offered his defence--feeling that the psychology of the

case must till then be beyond her powers of analysis. But the wrong

done to her father revolted her.

A tap at the door caused her to rise, trembling. She remembered that by

this time her mother must be aware of the extraordinary disclosure, and

that a new scene of wretched agitation had to be gone through.

'Sidwell!'

It was Mrs. Warricombe's voice, and the door opened.

'Sidwell!--What _does_ all this mean? I don't understand half that

Buckland has been telling me.'

The speaker's face was mottled, and she stood panting, a hand pressed

against her side.

'How very, very imprudent we have been! How wrong of father not to have

made inquiries! To think that such a man should have sat at our table!'

'Sit down, mother; don't be so distressed,' said Sidwell, calmly. 'It

will all very soon be settled.'

'Of course not a word must be said to anyone. How very fortunate that

we shall be in London till the summer! Of course he must leave Exeter.'

'I have no doubt he will. Let us talk as little of it as possible,

mother. We shall go back to-morrow'----

'This afternoon! We will go back with Buckland. That is decided. I

couldn't sleep here another night.'

'We must remain till to-morrow,' Sidwell replied, with quiet

determination.

'Why? What reason can there be?'

Mrs. Warricombe's voice was suspended by a horrible surmise.

'Of course we shall go to-day, Sidwell,' she continued, in nervous

haste. 'To think of that man having the impudence to call and sit

talking with you! If I could have dreamt'----

'Mother,' said Sidwell, gravely, 'I am obliged to see Mr. Peak, either

this evening or to-morrow morning.'

'To--to _see_ him----? Sidwell! What can you mean?'

'I have a reason for wishing to hear from his own lips the whole truth.'

'But we _know_ the whole truth!--What can you be thinking of, dear? Who

is this Mr. Peak that you should ask him to come and see you, under

_any_ circumstances?'

It would never have occurred to Sidwell to debate with her mother on

subtle questions of character and motive, but the agitation of her

nerves made it difficult for her to keep silence under these vapid

outcries. She desired to be alone; commonplace discussion of the misery

that had come upon her was impossible. A little more strain, and she

would be on the point of tears, a weakness she was resolute to avoid.

'Let me think quietly for an hour or two,' she said, moving away. 'It's

quite certain that I must stay here till to-morrow. When Buckland has

gone, we can talk again.'

'But, Sidwell'----

'If you insist, I must leave the house, and find a refuge somewhere

else.'

Mrs. Warricombe tossed her head.

'Oh, if I am not permitted to speak to you! I only hope you won't have

occasion to remember my warning! Such extraordinary behaviour was

surely never known! I should have thought'----

Sidwell was by this time out of the room. Safe in privacy she sat down

as if to pen a letter. From an hour's agitated thought, the following

lines resulted:

'My brother has told me of a conversation he held with you this

morning. He says you admit the authorship of an article which seems

quite inconsistent with what you have professed in our talks. How am I

to understand this contradiction? I beg that you will write to me at

once. I shall anxiously await your reply.'

This, with her signature, was all. Having enclosed the note in an

envelope, she left it on her table and went down to the library, where

Buckland was sitting alone in gloomy reverie. Mrs. Warricombe had told

him of Sidwell's incredible purpose. Recognising his sister's

independence, and feeling sure that if she saw Peak it could only be to

take final leave of him, he had decided to say no more. To London he

must perforce return this afternoon, but he had done his duty

satisfactorily, and just in time. It was plain that things had gone far

between Peak and Sidwell; the latter's behaviour avowed it. But danger

there could be none, with 'The New Sophistry' staring her in the eyes.

Let her see the fellow, by all means. His evasions and hair-splittings

would complete her deliverance.

'There's a train at 1.53,' Buckland remarked, rising, 'and I shall

catch it if I start now. I can't stay for the discomfort of luncheon.

You remain here till to-morrow, I understand?'

'Yes.'

'It's a pity you are angry with me. It seems to me I have done you a

kindness.'

'I am not angry with you, Buckland,' she replied, gently. 'You have

done what you were plainly obliged to do.'

'That's a sensible way of putting it. Let us say goodbye with

friendliness then.'

Sidwell gave her hand, and tried to smile. With a look of pained

affection, Buckland went silently away.

Shortly after, Sidwell fetched her note from upstairs, and gave it to

the housekeeper to be delivered by hand as soon as possible. Mrs

Warricombe remained invisible, and Sidwell went back to the library,

where she sat with _The Critical_ open before her at Godwin's essay.

Hours went by; she still waited for an answer from Longbrook Street.

At six o'clock she went upstairs and spoke to her mother.

'Shall you come down to dinner?'

'No, Sidwell,' was the cold reply. 'Be so good as to excuse me.

Towards eight, a letter was brought to her; it could only be from

Godwin Peak. With eyes which endeavoured to take in all at once, and

therefore could at first distinguish nothing, she scanned what seemed

to be hurriedly written lines.

'I have tried to answer you in a long letter, but after all I can't

send it. I fear you wouldn't understand. Better to repeat simply that I

wrote the article you speak of. I should have told you about it some

day, but now my intentions and hopes matter nothing. Whatever I said

now would seem dishonest pleading. Good-bye.'

She read this so many times that at length she had but to close her

eyes to see every word clearly traced on the darkness. The meanings she

extracted from each sentence were scarcely less numerous than her

perusals. In spite of reason, this enigmatic answer brought her some

solace. He _could_ defend himself; that was the assurance she had

longed for. Impossible (she again and again declared to herself with

emphasis) for their intimacy to be resumed. But in secret she could

hold him, if not innocent, at all events not base. She had not bestowed

her love upon a mere impostor.

But now a mournful, regretful passion began to weigh upon her heart.

She shed tears, and presently stole away to her room for a night of

sorrow.