What must be her practical course? If she went back to London without

addressing another word to him, he must understand her silence as a

final farewell. In that case his departure from Exeter would, no doubt,

speedily follow, and there was little likelihood that she would ever

again see him. Were Godwin a vulgar schemer, he would not so readily

relinquish the advantage he had gained; he would calculate upon the

weakness of a loving woman, and make at least one effort to redeem his

position. As it was, she could neither hope nor fear that he would try

to see her again. Yet she wished to see him, desired it ardently.

And yet--for each impulse of ardour was followed by a cold fit of

reasoning--might not his abandonment of the position bear a meaning

such as Buckland would of course attribute to it? If he were hopeless

of the goodwill of her parents, what profit would it be to him to

retain her love? She was no heiress; supposing him actuated by base

motive, her value in his eyes came merely of his regarding her as a

means to an end.

But this was to reopen the question of whether or not he truly loved

her. No; he was forsaking her because he thought it impossible for her

to pardon the deceit he had undeniably practised--with whatever

palliating circumstances. He was overcome with shame. He imagined her

indignant, scornful.

Why had she written such a short, cold note, the very thing to produce

in his mind a conviction of her resentment?

Hereupon came another paroxysm of tearful misery. It was intensified by

a thought she had half consciously been repressing ever since the

conversation with her brother. Was it true that Miss Moxey had had it

in her power to strip Godwin of a disguise? What, then, were the

relations existing between him and that strangely impressive woman? How

long had they known each other? It was now all but certain that a

strong intellectual sympathy united their minds--and perhaps there had

been something more.

She turned her face upon the pillow and moaned.

CHAPTER IV

And from the Moxeys Buckland had derived his information. What was it

he said--something about 'an odd look' on Miss Moxey's face when that

friend of theirs talked of Peak? Might not such a look signify a

conflict between the temptation to injure and the desire to screen?

Sidwell constructed a complete romance. Ignorance of the past of both

persons concerned allowed her imagination free play. There was no limit

to the possibilities of self-torment.

The desire to see Godwin took such hold upon her, that she had already

begun to think over the wording of another note to be sent to him the

first thing in the morning. His reply had been insufficient: simple

justice required that she should hear him in his own defence before

parting with him for ever. If she kept silence, he would always

remember her with bitterness, and this would make her life-long sorrow

harder to bear. Sidwell was one of those few women whose love, never

demonstrative, never exigent, only declares itself in all its profound

significance when it is called upon to pardon. What was likely to be

the issue of a meeting with Godwin she could not foresee. It seemed all

but impossible for their intercourse to continue, and their coming face

to face might result in nothing but distress to both, better avoided;

yet judgment yielded to emotion. Yesterday--only yesterday--she had

yielded herself to the joy of loving, and before her consciousness had

had time to make itself familiar with its new realm, before her eyes

had grown accustomed to the light suddenly shed about her, she was

bidden to think of what had happened as only a dream. Her heart refused

to make surrender of its hope. Though it could be held only by an

encouragement of recognised illusion, she preferred to dream yet a

little longer. Above all, she must taste the luxury of forgiving her

lover, of making sure that her image would not dwell in his mind as

that of a self-righteous woman who had turned coldly from his error,

perhaps from his repentance.

A little after midnight, she rose from bed, slipped on her

dressing-gown, and sat down by the still burning lamp to write what her

passion dictated:

'Why should you distrust my ability, or my willingness to understand

you? It would have been so much better if you had sent what you first

wrote. These few lines do not even let me know whether you think

yourself to blame. Why do you leave me to form a judgment of things as

they appear on the surface? If you _wish_ to explain, if you sincerely

feel that I am in danger of wronging you by misconstruction, come to me

as soon as you have received this note. If you will not come, then at

least write to me--the letter you at first thought of sending. This

afternoon (Friday) I return to London, but you know my address there.

Don't think because I wrote so briefly that I have judged you.

S. W.'

To have committed this to paper was a relief. In the morning she would

read it over and consider again whether she wished to send it.

On the table lay _The Critical_. She opened it once more at the page

that concerned her, and glanced over the first few lines. Then, having

put the lamp nearer to the bed, she again lay down, not to sleep but to

read.

This essay was not so repugnant to her mind or her feelings as when she

first became acquainted with it. Its bitterness no longer seemed to be

directed against herself. There was much in it with which she could

have agreed at any time during the last six months, and many strokes of

satire, which till the other day would have offended her, she now felt

to be legitimate. As she read on, a kind of anger such as she had never

experienced trembled along her nerves. Was it not flagrantly true that

English society at large made profession of a faith which in no sense

whatever it could be said sincerely to hold? Was there not every reason

to believe that thousands of people keep up an ignoble formalism,

because they feared the social results of declaring their severance

from the religion of the churches? This was a monstrous evil; she had

never till this moment understood the scope of its baneful effects. But

for the prevalence of such a spirit of hypocrisy, Godwin Peak would

never have sinned against his honour. Why was it not declared in

trumpet-tones of authority, from end to end of the Christian world,

that Christianity, as it has been understood through the ages, can no

longer be accepted? For that was the truth, the truth, the _truth_!

She lay back, quivering as if with terror. For an instant her soul had

been filled with hatred of the religion for which she could once have

died. It had stood before her as a power of darkness and ignorance, to

be assailed, crushed, driven from the memory of man.

Last night she had hardly slept, and now, though her body was numb with

weariness, her mind kept up a feverish activity. She was bent on

excusing Godwin, and the only way in which she could do so was by

arraigning the world for its huge dishonesty. In a condition between

slumber and waking, she seemed to plead for him before a circle of

Pharisaic accusers. Streams of silent eloquence rushed through her

brain, and the spirit which prompted her was closely akin to that of

'The New Sophistry'. Now and then, for a few seconds, she was smitten

with a consciousness of extraordinary change in her habits of thought.

She looked about her with wide, fearful eyes, and endeavoured to see

things in the familiar aspect. As if with physical constraint her angry

imagination again overcame her, until at length from the penumbra of

sleep she passed into its profoundest gloom.

To wake when dawn was pale at the window. A choking odour reminded her

that she had not extinguished the lamp, which must have gone out for

lack of oil. She opened the window, took a draught of water, and

addressed herself to sleep again. But in recollecting what the new day

meant for her, she had spoilt the chances of longer rest. Her head

ached; all worldly thoughts were repulsive, yet she could not dismiss

them. She tried to repeat the prayers she had known since childhood,

but they were meaningless, and a sense of shame attached to their

utterance.

When the first gleam of sun told her that it was past eight o'clock,

she made an effort and rose.

At breakfast Mrs. Warricombe talked of the departure for London. She

mentioned an early train; by getting ready as soon as the meal was

over, they could easily reach the station in time. Sidwell made no

direct reply and seemed to assent; but when they rose from the table,

she said, nervously:

'I couldn't speak before the servants. I wish to stay here till the

afternoon.'

'Why, Sidwell?'

'I have asked Mr. Peak to come and see me this morning.'

Her mother knew that expostulation was useless, but could not refrain

from a long harangue made up of warning and reproof.

'You have very little consideration for me,' was her final remark. 'Now

we shan't get home till after dark, and of course my throat will be bad

again.'

Glad of the anti-climax, Sidwell replied that the day was much warmer,

and that with care no harm need come of the journey.

'It's easy to say that, Sidwell. I never knew you to behave so

selfishly, never!'

'Don't be angry with me, mother. You don't know how grieved I am to

distress you so. I can't help it, dear; indeed, I can't. Won't you

sacrifice a few hours to put my mind at rest?'

Mrs. Warricombe once more gave expression to her outraged feelings.

Sidwell could only listen silently with bent head.

If Godwin were coming at all, he would be here by eleven o'clock.

Sidwell had learnt that her letter was put into his hands. She asked

him to come at once, and nothing but a resolve not to meet her could

delay him more than an hour or two.

At half-past ten the bell sounded. She was sitting in the library with

her back turned to the door. When a voice announced 'Mr. Peak', she did

not at once rise, and with a feeling akin to terror she heard the

footstep slowly approaching. It stopped at some distance from her;

then, overcoming a weakness which threatened to clog her as in a

nightmare, she stood up and looked round.

Peak wore neither overcoat nor gloves, but otherwise was dressed in the

usual way. As Sidwell fixed her eyes upon him, he threw his hat into a

chair and came a step or two nearer. Whether he had passed the night in

sleep or vigil could not be determined; but his look was one of shame,

and he did not hold himself so upright as was his wont.

'Will you come and sit down?' said Sidwell, pointing to a chair not far

from that on which one of her hands rested.

He moved forward, and was about to pass near her, when Sidwell

involuntarily held her hand to him. He took it and gazed into her face

with a melancholy smile.

'What does it mean?' she asked, in a low voice.

He relinquished her fingers, which he had scarcely pressed, and stood

with his arms behind his back.

'Oh, it's all quite true,' was his reply, wearily spoken.

'What is true?'

'All that you have heard from your brother.'

'All?--But how can you know what he has said?'

They looked at each other. Peak's lips were set as if in resistance of

emotion, and a frown wrinkled his brows. Sidwell's gaze was one of fear

and appeal.

'He said, of course, that I had deceived you.'

'But in what?--Was there no truth in anything you said to me?'

'To you I have spoken far more truth than falsehood.'

A light shone in her eyes, and her lips quivered.

'Then,' she murmured, 'Buckland was not right in everything.'

'I understand. He wished you to believe that my love was as much a

pretence as my religion?'

'He said that.'

'It was natural enough.--And you were disposed to believe it?'

'I thought it impossible. But I should have thought the same of the

other things.'

Peak nodded, and moved away. Watching him, Sidwell was beset with

conflicting impulses. His assurance had allayed her worst misgiving,

and she approved the self-restraint with which he bore himself, but at

the same time she longed for a passionate declaration. As a reasoning

woman, she did her utmost to remember that Peak was on his defence

before her, and that nothing could pass between them but grave

discussion of the motives which had impelled him to dishonourable

behaviour. As a woman in love, she would fain have obscured the moral

issue by indulgence of her heart's desire. She was glad that he held

aloof, but if he had taken her in his arms, she would have forgotten

everything in the moment's happiness.

'Let us sit down, and tell me--tell me all you can.'

He delayed a moment, then seated himself opposite to her. She saw now

that his movements were those of physical fatigue; and the full light

from the window, enabling her to read his face more distinctly,

revealed the impress of suffering. Instead of calling upon him to atone

in such measure as was possible for the wrong he had done her, she felt

ready to reproach herself for speaking coldly when his need of solace

was so great.

'What can I tell you,' he said, 'that you don't know, or that you can't

conjecture?'

'But you wrote that there was so much I could not be expected to

understand. And I can't, can't understand you. It still seems

impossible. Why did you hide the truth from me?'

'Because if I had begun by telling it, I should never have won a kind

look or a kind thought from you.'

Sidwell reflected.

'But what did you care for me then--when it began?'

'Not so much as I do now, but enough to overthrow all the results of my

life up to that time. Before I met you in this house I had seen you

twice, and had learned who you were. I was sitting in the Cathedral

when you came there with your sister and Miss Moorhouse--do you

remember? I heard Fanny call you by your name, and that brought to my

mind a young girl whom I had known in a slight way years before. And

the next day I again saw you there, at the service; I waited about the

entrance only to see you. I cared enough for you then to conceive a

design which for a long time seemed too hateful really to be carried

out, but--at last it was, you see.

Sidwell breathed quickly. Nothing he could have urged for himself would

have affected her more deeply than this. To date back and extend the

period of his love for her was a flattery more subtle than Peak

imagined.

'Why didn't you tell me that the day before yesterday?' she asked, with

tremulous bosom.

'I had no wish to remind myself of baseness in the midst of a pure joy.'

She was silent, then exclaimed, in accents of pain:

'Why should you have thought it necessary to be other than yourself?

Couldn't you see, at first meeting with us, that we were not bigoted

people? Didn't you know that Buckland had accustomed us to understand

how common it is nowadays for people to throw off the old religion?

Would father have looked coldly on you if he had known that you

followed where so many good and thoughtful men were leading?'

He regarded her anxiously.

'I had heard from Buckland that your father was strongly prejudiced;

that you also were quite out of sympathy with the new thought.'

'He exaggerated--even then.'

'Exaggerated? But on what plea could I have come to live in this

neighbourhood? How could I have kept you in sight--tried to win your

interest? I had no means, no position. The very thought of encouraging

my love for you demanded some extraordinary step. What course was open

to me?'

Sidwell let her head droop.

'I don't know. You might perhaps have discovered a way.'

'But what was the use, when the mere fact of my heresy would have

forbidden hope from the outset?'

'Why should it have done so?'

'Why? You know very well that you could never even have been friendly

with the man who wrote that thing in the review.'

'But here is the proof how much better it is to behave truthfully! In

this last year I have changed so much that I find it difficult to

understand the strength of my former prejudices. What is it to me now

that you speak scornfully of attempts to reconcile things that can't be

reconciled? I understand the new thought, and how natural it is for you

to accept it. If only I could have come to know you well, your opinions

would not have stood between us.'

Peak made a slight gesture, and smiled incredulously.

'You think so now.'

'And I have such good reason for my thought,' rejoined Sidwell,

earnestly, 'that when you said you loved me, my only regret in looking

to the future was--that you had resolved to be a clergyman.'

He leaned back in the chair, and let a hand fall on his knee. The

gesture seemed to signify a weary relinquishment of concern in what

they were discussing.

'How could I foresee that?' he uttered, in a corresponding tone.

Sidwell was made uneasy by the course upon which she had entered. To

what did her words tend? If only to a demonstration that fate had used

him as the plaything of its irony--if, after all, she had nothing to

say to him but 'See how your own folly has ruined you', then she had

better have kept silence. She not only appeared to be offering him

encouragement, but was in truth doing so. She wished him to understand

that his way of thinking was no obstacle to her love, and with that

purpose she was even guilty of a slight misrepresentation. For it was

only since the shock of this disaster that she had clearly recognised

the change in her own mind. True, the regret of which she spoke had for

an instant visited her, but it represented a mundane solicitude rather

than an intellectual scruple. It had occurred to her how much brighter

would be their prospect if Peak were but an active man of the world,

with a career before him distinctly suited to his powers.

His contention was undeniably just. The influence to which she had from

the first submitted was the same that her father felt so strongly.

Godwin interested her as a self-reliant champion of the old faiths, and

his personal characteristics would never have awakened such sympathy in

her but for that initial recommendation. Natural prejudice would have

prevented her from perceiving the points of kindred between his

temperament and her own. His low origin, the ridiculous stories

connected with his youth--why had she, in spite of likelihood, been

able to disregard these things? Only because of what she then deemed

his spiritual value.

But for the dishonourable part he had played, this bond of love would

never have been formed between them. The thought was a new apology for

his transgression; she could not but defy her conscience, and look

indulgently on the evil which had borne such fruit.

Godwin had begun to speak again.

'This is quite in keeping with the tenor of my whole life. Whatever I

undertake ends in frustration at a point where success seems to have

just come within my reach. Great things and trifles--it's all the same.

My course at College was broken off at the moment when I might have

assured my future. Later, I made many an effort to succeed in

literature, and when at length something of mine was printed in a

leading review, I could not even sign it, and had no profit from the

attention it excited. Now--well, you see. Laughable, isn't it?'

Sidwell scarcely withheld herself from bending forward and giving him

her hand.

'What shall you do?' she asked.

'Oh, I am not afraid. I have still enough money left to support me

until I can find some occupation of the old kind. Fortunately, I am not

one of those men whose brains have no marketable value.'

'If you knew how it pains me to hear you!'

'If I didn't believe that, I couldn't speak to you like this. I never

thought you would let me see you again, and if you hadn't asked me to

come, I could never have brought myself to face you. But it would have

been a miserable thing to go off without even knowing what you thought

of me.'

'Should you never have written to me?'

'I think not. You find it hard to imagine that I have any pride, no

doubt; but it is there, explain it how one may.'

'It would have been wrong to leave me in such uncertainty.'

'Uncertainty?'

'About you--about your future.'

'Did you quite mean that? Hadn't your brother made you doubt whether I

loved you at all?'

'Yes. But no, I didn't doubt. Indeed, indeed, I didn't doubt! But I

felt such a need of hearing from your own lips that--Oh, I can't

explain myself!'

Godwin smiled sadly.

'I think I understand. But there was every reason for my believing that

_your_ love could not bear such a test. You must regard me as quite a

different man--one utterly unknown to you.'

He had resolved to speak not a word that could sound like an appeal to

her emotions. When he entered the room he felt a sincere indifference

as to what would result from the interview, for to his mind the story

was ended, and he had only to retire with the dignity still possible to

a dishonoured man. To touch the note of pathos would be unworthy; to

exert what influence might be left to him, a wanton cruelty. But he had

heard such unexpected things, that it was not easy for him to remember

how complete had seemed the severance between him and Sidwell. The

charm of her presence was reasserting itself, and when avowal of

continued love appeared so unmistakably in her troubled countenance,

her broken words, he could not control the answering fervour. He spoke

in a changed voice, and allowed his eyes to dwell longingly upon hers.

'I felt so at first,' she answered. 'And it would be wrong to pretend

that I can still regard you as I did before.'

It cost her a great effort to add these words. When they were spoken,

she was at once glad and fearful.

'I am not so foolish, as to think it possible,' said Peak, half turning

away.

'But that is no reason,' she pursued, 'why we should become strangers.

You are still so young a man; life must be so full of possibilities for

you. This year has been wasted, but when you leave Exeter'----

An impatient movement of Godwin's checked her.

'You are going to encourage me to begin the struggle once more,' he

said, bitterly. 'Where? How? It is so easy to talk of "possibilities".'

'You are not without friends--I mean friends whose sympathy is of real

value to you.'

Saying this, she looked keenly at him.

'Friends,' he replied, 'who perhaps at this moment are laughing over my

disgrace.'

'How do they know of--what has happened?'

'How did your brother get his information? I didn't care to ask

him.--No, I don't even wish you to say anything about that.'

'But surely there is no reason for keeping it secret. Why may I not

speak freely? Buckland told me that he had heard you spoken of at the

house of people named Moxey.'

She endeavoured to understand the smile which rose to his lips. 'Now it

is clear to me,' he said. 'Yes, I suppose that was inevitable, sooner

or later.'

'You knew that he had become acquainted with the Moxeys?'

Her tone was more reserved than hitherto.

'Yes, I knew he had. He met Miss Moxey by chance at Budleigh Salterton,

and I happened to be there--at the Moorhouses'--on the same day.'

Sidwell glanced at him inquiringly, and waited for something more.

'I saw Miss Moxey in private,' he added, speaking more quickly, 'and

asked her to keep my secret. I ought to be ashamed to tell you this,

but it is better you should know how far my humiliation has gone.'

He saw that she was moved with strong feeling. The low tone in which

she answered had peculiar significance.

'Did you speak of me to Miss Moxey?'

'I must forgive you for asking that,' Peak replied, coldly. 'It may

well seem to you that I have neither honour nor delicacy left.'

There had come a flush on her cheeks. For some moments she was absorbed

in thought.

'It seems strange to you,' he continued at length, 'that I could ask

Miss Moxey to share such a secret. But you must understand on what

terms we were--she and I. We have known each other for several years.

She has a man's mind, and I have always thought of her in much the same

way as of my male companions.--Your brother has told you about her,

perhaps?'

'I have met her in London.'

'Then that will make my explanation easier,' said Godwin, disregarding

the anxious questions that at once suggested themselves to him. 'Well,

I misled her, or tried to do so. I allowed her to suppose that I was

sincere in my new undertakings, and that I didn't wish--Oh!' he

exclaimed, suddenly breaking off, 'Why need I go any further in

confession? It must be as miserable for you to hear as for me to speak.

Let us make an end of it. I can't understand how I have escaped

detection so long.'

Remembering every detail of Buckland's story, Sidwell felt that she had

possibly been unjust in representing the Moxeys as her brother's

authority; in strictness, she ought to mention that a friend of theirs

was the actual source of information. But she could not pursue the

subject; like Godwin, she wished to put it out of her mind. What

question could there be of honour or dishonour in the case of a person

such as Miss Moxey, who had consented to be party to a shameful deceit?

Strangely, it was a relief to her to have heard this. The moral

repugnance which threatened to estrange her from Godwin, was now

directed in another quarter; unduly restrained by love, it found scope

under the guidance of jealousy.

'You have been trying to adapt yourself,' she said, 'to a world for

which you are by nature unfitted. Your place is in the new order; by

turning back to the old, you condemned yourself to a wasted life. Since

we have been in London, I have come to understand better the great

difference between modern intellectual life and that which we lead in

these far-away corners. You must go out among your equals, go and take

your part with men who are working for the future.'

Peak rose with a gesture of passionate impatience.

'What is it to me, new world or old? My world is where _you_ are. I

have no life of my own; I think only of you, live only by you.'

'If I could help you!' she replied, with emotion. 'What can I do--but

be your friend at a distance? Everything else has become impossible.'

'Impossible for the present--for a long time to come. But is there no

hope for me?'

She pressed her hands together, and stood before him unable to answer.

'Remember,' he continued, 'that you are almost as much changed in my

eyes as I in yours. I did not imagine that you had moved so far towards

freedom of mind. If my love for you was profound and absorbing, think

what it must now have become! Yours has suffered by my disgrace, but is

there no hope of its reviving--if I live worthily--if I----?'

His voice failed.

'I have said that we can't be strangers,' Sidwell murmured brokenly.

'Wherever you go, I must hear of you.'

'Everyone about you will detest my name. You will soon wish to forget

my existence.'

'If I know myself, never!--Oh, try to find your true work! You have

such abilities, powers so much greater than those of ordinary men. You

will always be the same to me, and if ever circumstances'----

'You would have to give up so much, Sidwell. And there is little chance

of my ever being well-to-do; poverty will always stand between us, if

nothing else.'

'It must be so long before we can think of that.'

'But can I ever see you?--No, I won't ask that. Who knows? I may have

to go too far away. But I _may_ write to you--after a time?'

'I shall live in the hope of good news from you,' she replied, trying

to smile and to speak cheerfully. 'This will always be my home. Nothing

will be changed.'

'Then you don't think of me as irredeemably base?'

'If I thought you base,' Sidwell answered, in a low voice, 'I should

not now be speaking with you. It is because I feel and know that you

have erred only--that is what makes it impossible for me to think of

your fault as outweighing the good in your nature.'

'The good? I wonder how you understand that. What is there _good_ in

me? You don't mean mere intellect?'

He waited anxiously for what she would say. A necessity for speaking

out his inmost thoughts had arisen with the emotion, scarcely to be

called hope, excited by Sidwell's magnanimity. Now, or never, he must

stand before this woman as his very self, and be convinced that she

loved him for his own sake.

'No, I don't mean intellect,' she replied, with hesitation.

'What then? Tell me of one quality in me strong enough to justify a

woman's love.'

Sidwell dropped her eyes in confusion.

'I can't analyse your character--I only know'----

She became silent.

'To myself,' pursued Godwin, with the modulated, moving voice which

always expressed his genuine feeling, 'I seem anything but lovable. I

don't underrate my powers--rather the opposite, no doubt; but what I

always seem to lack is the gift of pleasing--moral grace. My strongest

emotions seem to be absorbed in revolt; for once that I feel tenderly,

I have a hundred fierce, resentful, tempestuous moods. To be suave and

smiling in common intercourse costs me an effort. I have to act the

part, and this habit makes me sceptical, whenever I am really prompted

to gentleness. I criticise myself ceaselessly; expose without mercy all

those characteristics which another man would keep out of sight. Yes,

and for this very reason, just because I think myself unlovable--the

gift of love means far more to me than to other men. If you could

conceive the passion of gratitude which possessed me for hours after I

left you the other day! You cannot!'

Sidwell regarded him fixedly.

'In comparison with this sincerity, what becomes of the pretence you

blame in me? If you knew how paltry it seems--that accusation of

dishonesty! I believed the world round, and pretended to believe it

flat: that's what it amounts to! Are you, on such an account as that,

to consider worthless the devotion which has grown in me month by

month? You--I was persuaded--thought the world flat, and couldn't think

kindly of any man who held the other hypothesis. Very well; why not

concede the trifle, and so at least give myself a chance? I did

so--that was all.'

In vain her conscience strove to assert itself. She was under the spell

of a nature infinitely stronger than hers; she saw and felt as Godwin

did.

'You think, Sidwell, that I stand in need of forgiveness. Then be great

enough to forgive me, wholly--once and for all. Let your love be

strengthened by the trial it has passed through. That will mean that my

whole life is yours, directed by the ever-present thought of your

beauty, face and soul. Then there _will_ be good in me, thanks to you.

I shall no longer live a life of hypocrisy, of suppressed rage and

scorn. I know how much I am asking; perhaps it means that for my sake

you give up everything else that is dear to you'----

The thought checked him. He looked at her despondently.

'You can trust me,' Sidwell answered, moving nearer to him, tears on

her cheeks. 'I must hear from you, and I will write.'

'I can ask no more than that.'

He took her hands, held them for a moment, and turned away. At the door

he looked round. Sidwell's head was bowed, and, on her raising it, he

saw that she was blinded with tears.

So he went forth.

Part VI

CHAPTER I

For several days after the scene in which Mr. Malkin unconsciously

played an important part, Marcella seemed to be ill. She appeared at

meals, but neither ate nor conversed. Christian had never known her so

sullen and nervously irritable; he did not venture to utter Peak's

name. Upon seclusion followed restless activity. Marcella was rarely at

home between breakfast and dinner-time, and her brother learnt with

satisfaction that she went much among her acquaintances. Late one

evening, when he had just returned from he knew not where, Christian

tried to put an end to the unnatural constraint between them. After

talking cheerfully for a few minutes, he risked the question:

'Have you seen anything of the Warricombes?'

She replied with a cold negative.

'Nor heard anything?'

'No. Have you?'

'Nothing at all. I have seen Earwaker. Malkin had told him about what

happened here the other day.'

'Of course.'

'But he had no news.--Of Peak, I mean.'

Marcella smiled, as if the situation amused her; but she would not

discuss it. Christian began to hope that she was training herself to a

wholesome indifference.

A month of the new year went by, and Peak seemed to be forgotten.

Marcella had returned to her studious habits, was fenced around with

books, seldom left the house. Another month and the brother and sister

were living very much in the old way, seeing few people, conversing

only of intellectual things. But Christian concealed an expectation

which enabled him to pass hours of retirement in the completest

idleness. Since the death of her husband, Mrs. Palmer had been living

abroad. Before the end of March, as he had been careful to discover,

she would be back in London, at the house in Sussex Square. By that

time he might venture, without indelicacy, to call upon her. And after

the first interview----

The day came, when, ill with agitation, he set forth to pay this call.

For two or three nights he had scarcely closed his eyes; he looked

ghastly. The weather was execrable, and on that very account he made

choice of this afternoon, hoping that he might find his widowed Laura

alone. Between ringing the bell and the opening of the door, he could

hardly support himself. He asked for Mrs. Palmer in a gasping voice

which caused the servant to look at him with surprise.

The lady was at home. At the drawing-room door, before his name could

be announced, he caught the unwelcome sound of voices in lively

conversation. It seemed to him that a score of persons were assembled.

In reality there were six, three of them callers.

Mrs. Palmer met him with the friendliest welcome. A stranger would have

thought her pretty, but by no means impressive. She was short, anything

but meagre, fair-haired, brisk of movement, idly vivacious in look and

tone. The mourning she wore imposed no restraint upon her humour, which

at present was not far from gay.

'Is it really Mr. Moxey?' she exclaimed. 'Why, I had all but forgotten

you, and positively it is your own fault! It must be a year or more

since you came to see me. No? Eight months?--But I have been through so

much trouble, you know.' She sighed mechanically. 'I thought of you one

day at Bordighera, when we were looking at some funny little

sea-creatures--the kind of thing you used to know all about. How is

your sister?'

A chill struck upon his heart. Assuredly he had no wish to find

Constance sunk in the semblance of dolour; such hypocrisy would have

pained him. But her sprightliness was a shock. Though months had passed

since Mr. Palmer's decease, a decent gravity would more have become her

condition. He could reply only in broken phrases, and it was a relief

to him when the widow, as if tiring of his awkwardness, turned her

attention elsewhere.

He was at length able to survey the company. Two ladies in mourning he

faintly recognised, the one a sister of Mr. Palmer's, comely but of

dull aspect; the other a niece, whose laugh was too frequent even had

it been more musical, and who talked of athletic sports with a young

man evidently better fitted to excel in that kind of thing than in any

pursuit demanding intelligence. This gentleman Christian had never met.

The two other callers, a grey-headed, military-looking person, and a

lady, possibly his wife, were equally strangers to him.

The drawing-room was much changed in appearance since Christian's last

visit. There was more display, a richer profusion of ornaments not in

the best taste. The old pictures had given place to showily-framed

daubs of the most popular school. On a little table at his elbow, he

remarked the photograph of a jockey who was just then engrossing public

affection. What did all this mean? Formerly, he had attributed every

graceful feature of the room to Constance's choice. He had imagined

that to her Mr. Palmer was indebted for guidance on points of aesthetic

propriety. Could it be that----?

He caught a glance which she cast in his direction, and instantly

forgot the troublesome problem. How dull of him to misunderstand her!

Her sportiveness had a double significance. It was the expression of a

hope which would not be subdued, and at the same time a means of

disguising the tender interest with which she regarded _him_. If she

had been blithe before his appearance, how could she suddenly change

her demeanour as soon as he entered? It would have challenged suspicion

and remark. For the same reason she affected to have all but forgotten

him. Of course! how could he have failed to see that? 'I thought of you

one day at Bordighera'--was not that the best possible way of making

known to him that he had never been out of her mind?

Sweet, noble, long-suffering Constance!

He took a place by her sister, and began to talk of he knew not what,

for all his attention was given to the sound of Constance's voice.

'Yes,' she was saying to the man of military appearance, 'it's very

early to come back to London, but I did get so tired of those foreign

places.'

(In other words, of being far from her Christian--thus he interpreted.)

'No, we didn't make a single pleasant acquaintance. A shockingly

tiresome lot of people wherever we went.'

(In comparison with the faithful lover, who waited, waited.)

'Foreigners are so stupid--don't you think so? Why should they always

expect you to speak _their_ language?--Oh, of course I speak French;

but it is such a disagreeable language--don't you think so?'

(Compared with the accents of English devotion, of course.)

'Do you go in for cycling, Mr. Moxey?' inquired Mrs. Palmer's laughing

niece, from a little distance.

'For cycling?' With a great effort he recovered himself and grasped the

meaning of the words. 'No, I--I'm sorry to say I don't. Capital

exercise!'

'Mr. Dwight has just been telling me such an awfully good story about a

friend of his. Do tell it again, Mr. Dwight! It'll make you laugh no

end, Mr. Moxey.'

The young man appealed to was ready enough to repeat his anecdote,

which had to do with a bold cyclist, who, after dining more than well,

rode his machine down a steep hill and escaped destruction only by

miracle. Christian laughed desperately, and declared that he had never

heard anything so good.

But the tension of his nerves was unendurable. Five minutes more of

anguish, and he sprang up like an automaton.

'Must you really go, Mr. Moxey?' said Constance, with a manner which of

course was intended to veil her emotion. 'Please don't be another year

before you let us see you again.'

Blessings on her tender heart! What more could she have said, in the

presence of all those people? He walked all the way to Notting Hill

through a pelting rain, his passion aglow.

Impossible to be silent longer concerning the brilliant future. Arrived

at home, he flung off hat and coat, and went straight to the

drawing-room, hoping to find Marcella alone. To his annoyance, a

stranger was sitting there in conversation, a very simply dressed lady,

who, as he entered, looked at him with a grave smile and stood up. He

thought he had never seen her before.

Marcella wore a singular expression; there was a moment of silence, for

Christian decidedly embarrassing, since it seemed to be expected that

he should greet the stranger.

'Don't you remember Janet?' said his sister.

'Janet?' He felt his face flush. 'You don't mean to say--? But how you

have altered! And yet, no; really, you haven't. It's only my

stupidity.' He grasped her hand, and with a feeling of genuine

pleasure, despite awkward reminiscences.

'One does alter in eleven years,' said Janet Moxey, in a very pleasant,

natural voice--a voice of habitual self-command, conveying the idea of

a highly cultivated mind, and many other agreeable things.

'Eleven years? Yes, yes! How very glad I am to see you! And I'm sure

Marcella was. How very kind of you to call on us!'

Janet was as far as ever from looking handsome or pretty, but it must

have been a dullard who proclaimed her face unpleasing. She had eyes of

remarkable intelligence, something like Marcella's but milder, more

benevolent. Her lips were softly firm; they would not readily part in

laughter; their frequent smile meant more than that of the woman who

sets herself to be engaging.

'I am on my way home,' she said, 'from a holiday in the South,--an

enforced holiday, I'm sorry to say.'

'You have been ill?'

'Overworked a little. I am practising medicine in Kingsmill.'

Christian did not disguise his astonishment.

'Medicine?'

'You don't remember that I always had scientific tastes?'

If it was a reproach, none could have been more gently administered.

'Of course--of course I do! Your botany, your skeletons of birds and

cats and mice--of course! But where did you study?'

'In London. The Women's Medical School. I have been in practice for

nearly four years.'

'And have overworked yourself.--But why are we standing? Let us sit

down and talk. How is your father?'

Marcella was watching her brother closely, and with a curious smile.

Janet remained for another hour. No reference was made to the long

rupture of intercourse between her family and these relatives.

Christian learnt that his uncle was still hale, and that Janet's four

sisters all lived, obviously unmarried. To-day he was disposed to be

almost affectionate with anyone who showed him a friendly face: he

expressed grief that his cousin must leave for Twybridge early in the

morning.

'Whenever you pass through the Midlands,' was Janet's indirect reply,

addressed to Marcella, 'try to stop at Kingsmill.'

And a few minutes after that she took her leave. There lingered behind

her that peculiar fragrance of modern womanhood, refreshing,

inspiriting, which is so entirely different from the merely feminine

perfume, however exquisite.

'What a surprising visit!' was Christian's exclamation, when he and his

sister were alone. 'How did she find us?'

'Directory, I suppose.'

'A lady doctor!' he mused.

'And a very capable one, I fancy,' said Marcella. 'We had nearly an

hour's talk before you came. But she won't be able to stand the work.

There'll be another breakdown before long.'

'Has she a large practice, then?'

'Not very large, perhaps; but she studies as well. I never dreamt of

Janet becoming so interesting a person.'

Christian had to postpone till after dinner the talk he purposed about

Mrs. Palmer. When that time came, he was no longer disposed for

sentimental confessions; it would be better to wait until he could

announce a settled project of marriage. Through the evening, his sister

recurred to the subject of Janet with curious frequency, and on the

following day her interest had suffered no diminution. Christian had

always taken for granted that she understood the grounds of the breach

between him and his uncle; without ever unbosoming himself, he had

occasionally, in his softer moments, alluded to the awkward subject in

language which he thought easy enough to interpret. Now at length, in

reply to some remark of Marcella's, he said with significant accent:

'Janet was very friendly to me.'

'She has studied science for ten years,' was his sister's comment.

'Yes, and can forgive a boy's absurdities.'

'Easier to forgive, certainly, than those of a man,' said Marcella,

with a curl of the lip.

Christian became silent, and went thoughtfully away.

A week later, he was again in Mrs. Palmer's drawing-room, where again

he met an assemblage of people such as seemed to profane this

sanctuary. To be sure--he said to himself--Constance could not at once

get rid of the acquaintances forced upon her by her husband; little by

little she would free herself. It was a pity that her sister and her

niece--persons anything but intelligent and refined--should be

permanent members of her household; for their sake, no doubt, she felt

constrained to welcome men and women for whose society she herself had

little taste. But when the year of her widowhood was past----Petrarch's

Laura was the mother of eleven children; Constance had had only three,

and one of these was dead. The remaining two, Christian now learnt,

lived with a governess in a little house at Bournemouth, which Mrs.

Palmer had taken for that purpose.

'I'm going down to see them to-morrow,' she informed Christian, 'and I

shall stay there over the next day. It's so quiet and restful.'

These words kept repeating themselves to Christian's ear, as he went

home, and all through the evening. Were they not an invitation? Down

there at Bournemouth, Constance would be alone the day after to-morrow.

'It is so quiet and restful;' that was to say, no idle callers would

break upon her retirement; she would be able to welcome a friend, and

talk reposefully with him. Surely she must have meant that; for she

spoke with a peculiar intonation--a look----

By the second morning he had worked himself up to a persuasion that

yonder by the seaside Constance was expecting him. To miss the

opportunity would be to prove himself dull of apprehension, a laggard

in love. With trembling hands, he hurried through his toilet and made

haste downstairs to examine a railway time-table. He found it was

possible to reach Bournemouth by about two o'clock, a very convenient

hour; it would allow him to take refreshment, and walk to the house

shortly after three.

His conviction strong as ever, he came to the journey's end, and in due

course discovered the pleasant little house of which Constance had

spoken. At the door, his heart failed him; but retreat could not now be

thought of. Yes, Mrs. Palmer was at home. The servant led him into a

sitting-room on the ground floor, took his name, and left him.

It was nearly ten minutes before Constance appeared. On her face he

read a frank surprise.

'I happened to--to be down here; couldn't resist the temptation'----

'Delighted to see you, Mr. Moxey. But how did you know I was here?'

He gazed at her.

'You--don't you remember? The day before yesterday--in Sussex

Square--you mentioned'----

'Oh, did I?' She laughed. 'I had quite forgotten.'

Christian sank upon his chair. He tried to convince himself that she

was playing a part; perhaps she thought that she had been premature in

revealing her wish to talk with him.

Mrs. Palmer was good-natured. This call evidently puzzled her, but she

did not stint her hospitality. When Christian asked after the children,

they were summoned; two little girls daintily dressed, pretty,

affectionate with their mother. The sight of them tortured Christian,

and he sighed deeply with relief when they left the room. Constance

appeared rather absent; her quick glance at him signified something,

but he could not determine what. In agony of constraint, he rose as if

to go.

'Oh, you will have a cup of tea with me,' said Mrs. Palmer. 'It will be

brought in a few minutes.'

Then she really wished him to stop. Was he not behaving like an obtuse

creature? Why, everything was planned to encourage him.

He talked recklessly of this and that, and got round to the years long

gone by. When the tea came, he was reviving memories of occasions on

which he and she had met as young people. Constance laughed merrily,

declared she could hardly remember.

'Oh, what a time ago!--But I was quite a child.'

'No--indeed, no! You were a young lady, and a brilliant one.'

The tea seemed to intoxicate him. He noticed again that Constance

glanced at him significantly. How good of her to allow him this

delicious afternoon!

'Mr. Moxey,' she said, after meditating a little, 'why haven't you

married? I should have thought you would have married long ago.'

He was stricken dumb. Her jerky laugh came as a shock upon his hearing.

'Married----?'

'What is there astonishing in the idea?'

'But--I--how can I answer you?'

The pretty, characterless face betrayed some unusual feeling. She

looked at him furtively; seemed to suppress a tendency to laugh.

'I mustn't pry into secrets,' she simpered.

'But there is no secret!' Christian panted, laying down his teacup for

fear he should drop it. 'Whom should I--could I have married?'

Constance also put aside her cup. She was bewildered, and just a little

abashed. With courage which came he knew not whence, Christian bent

forward and continued speaking:

'Whom could I marry after that day when I met you in the little

drawing-room at the Robinsons'?'

She stared in genuine astonishment, then was embarrassed.

'You cannot--cannot have forgotten----?'

'You surely don't mean to say, Mr. Moxey, that you have remembered? Oh,

I'm afraid I was a shocking flirt in those days!'

'But I mean _after_ your marriage--when I found you in tears'----

'Please, please don't remind me!' she exclaimed, giggling nervously.

'Oh how silly!--of me, I mean. To think that--but you are making fun of

me, Mr. Moxey?'

Christian rose and went to the window. He was not only shaken by his

tender emotions--something very like repugnance had begun to affect

him. If Constance were feigning, it was in very bad taste; if she spoke

with sincerity--what a woman had he worshipped! It did not occur to him

to lay the fault upon his own absurd romanticism. After eleven years'

persistence in one point of view, he could not suddenly see the affair

with the eyes of common sense.

He turned and approached her again.

'Do you not know, then,' he asked, with quiet dignity, 'that ever since

the day I speak of, I have devoted my life to the love I then felt? All

these years, have you not understood me?'

Mrs. Palmer was quite unable to grasp ideas such as these. Neither her

reading nor her experience prepared her to understand what Christian

meant. Courtship of a married woman was intelligible enough to her; but

a love that feared to soil itself, a devotion from afar, encouraged by

only the faintest hope of reward other than the most insubstantial--of

that she had as little conception as any woman among the wealthy vulgar.

'Do you really mean, Mr. Moxey, that you--have kept unmarried for _my_

sake?'

'You don't know that?' he asked, hoarsely.

'How could I? How was I to imagine such a thing? Really, was it proper?

How could you expect me, Mr. Moxey----?'

For a moment she looked offended. But her real feelings were

astonishment and amusement, not unmingled with an idle gratification.

'I must ask you to pardon me,' said Christian, whose forehead gleamed

with moisture.

'No, don't say that. I am really so sorry! What an odd mistake!'

'And I have hoped in vain--since you were free----?'

'Oh, you mustn't say such things! I shall never dream of marrying

again--never!'

There was a matter-of-fact vigour in the assertion which proved that

Mrs. Palmer spoke her genuine thought. The tone could not be

interpreted as devotion to her husband's memory; it meant, plainly and

simply, that she had had enough of marriage, and delighted in her

freedom.

Christian could not say another word. Disillusion was complete. The

voice, the face, were those of as unspiritual a woman as he could

easily have met with, and his life's story was that of a fool.

He took his hat, held out his hand, with 'Good-bye, Mrs. Palmer.' The

cold politeness left her no choice but again to look offended, and with

merely a motion of the head she replied, 'Good-bye, Mr. Moxey.'

And therewith permitted him to leave the house.

CHAPTER II

On calling at Earwaker's chambers one February evening, Malkin became

aware, from the very threshold of the outer door, that the domicile was

not as he had known it. With the familiar fragrance of Earwaker's

special 'mixture' blended a suggestion of new upholstery. The little

vestibule had somehow put off its dinginess, and an unwontedly

brilliant light from the sitting-room revealed changes of the interior

which the visitor remarked with frank astonishment.

'What the deuce! Has it happened at last? Are you going to be married?'

he cried, staring about him at unrecognised chairs, tables, and

bookcases, at whitened ceiling and pleasantly papered walls, at

pictures and ornaments which he knew not.

The journalist shook his head, and smiled contentedly.

'An idea that came to me all at once. My editorship seemed to inspire

it.'

After a year of waiting upon Providence, Earwaker had received the

offer of a substantial appointment much more to his taste than those he

had previously held. He was now literary editor of a weekly review

which made no kind of appeal to the untaught multitude.

'I have decided to dwell here for the rest of my life,' he added,

looking round the walls. 'One must have a homestead, and this shall be

mine; here I have set up my penates. It's a portion of space, you know;

and what more can be said of Longleat or Chatsworth? A house I shall

never want, because I shall never have a wife. And on the whole I

prefer this situation to any other. I am well within reach of

everything urban that I care about, and as for the country, that is too

good to be put to common use; let it be kept for holiday. There's an

atmosphere in the old Inns that pleases me. The new flats are

insufferable. How can one live sandwiched between a music-hall singer

and a female politician? For lodgings of any kind no sane man had ever

a word of approval. Reflecting on all these things, I have established

myself in perpetuity.'

'Just what I can't do,' exclaimed Malkin, flinging himself into a

broad, deep, leather-covered chair. 'Yet I have leanings that way. Only

a few days ago I sat for a whole evening with the map of England open

before me, wondering where would be the best place to settle down--a

few years hence, I mean, you know; when Bella is old enough.--That

reminds me. Next Sunday is her birthday, and do you know what? I wish

you'd go down to Wrotham with me.'

'Many thanks, but I think I had better not.'

'Oh, but do! I want you to see how Bella is getting on. She's grown

wonderfully since you saw her in Paris--an inch taller, I should think.

I don't go down there very often, you know, so I notice these changes.

Really, I think no one could be more discreet than I am, under the

circumstances. A friend of the family; that's all. Just dropping in for

a casual cup of tea now and then. Sunday will be a special occasion, of

course. I say, what are your views about early marriage? Do you think

seventeen too young?'

'I should think seven-and-twenty much better.'

Malkin broke into fretfulness.

'Let me tell you, Earwaker, I don't like the way you habitually speak

of this project of mine. Plainly, I don't like it. It's a very serious

matter indeed--eh? What? Why are you smiling?'

'I agree with you as to its seriousness.'

'Yes, yes; but in a very cynical and offensive way. It makes me

confoundedly uncomfortable, let me tell you. I don't think that's very

friendly on your part. And the fact is, if it goes on I'm very much

afraid we shan't see so much of each other as we have done. I like you,

Earwaker, and I respect you; I think you know that. But occasionally

you seem to have too little regard for one's feelings. No, I don't feel

able to pass it over with a joke.--There! The deuce take it! I've

bitten off the end of my pipe.'

He spat out a piece of amber, and looked ruefully at the broken stem.

'Take a cigar,' said Earwaker, fetching a box from a cupboard.

'I don't mind.--Well--what was I saying? Oh yes; I was quarrelling with

you. Now, look here, what fault have you to find with Bella Jacox?'

'None whatever. She seemed to me a very amiable child.'

'Child! Pooh! pshaw! And fifteen next Sunday, I tell you. She's a young

lady, and to tell you the confounded plain truth, I'm in love with her.

I am, and there's nothing to be ashamed of. If you smile, we shall

quarrel. I warn you, Earwaker, we shall quarrel.'

The journalist, instead of smiling, gave forth his deepest laugh.

Malkin turned very red, scowled, and threw his cigar aside.

'You really wish me to go on Sunday?' Earwaker asked, in a pleasant

voice.

The other's countenance immediately cleared.

'I shall take it as a great kindness. Mrs. Jacox will be delighted.

Meet me at Holborn Viaduct at 1.25. No, to make sure I'll come here at

one o'clock.'

In a few minutes he was chatting as unconcernedly as ever.

'Talking of settling down, my brother Tom and his wife are on the point

of going to New Zealand. Necessity of business; may be out there for

the rest of their lives. Do you know that I shall think very seriously

of following them some day? With Bella, you know. The fact of the

matter is, I don't believe I could ever make a solid home in England.

Why, I can't quite say; partly, I suppose, because I have nothing to

do. Now there's a good deal to be said for going out to the colonies. A

man feels that he is helping the spread of civilisation; and that's

something, you know. I should compare myself with the Greek and Roman

colonists--something inspiriting in that thought--what? Why shouldn't I

found a respectable newspaper, for instance? Yes, I shall think very

seriously of this.'

'You wouldn't care to run over with your relatives, just to have a

look?'

'It occurred to me,' Malkin replied, thoughtfully. 'But they sail in

ten days, and--well, I'm afraid I couldn't get ready in time. And then

I've promised to look after some little affairs for Mrs. Jacox--some

trifling money matters. But later in the year--who knows?'

Earwaker half repented of his promise to visit the Jacox household, but

there was no possibility of excusing himself. So on Sunday he journeyed

with his friend down to Wrotham. Mrs. Jacox and her children were very

comfortably established in a small new house. When the companions

entered they found the mother alone in her sitting-room, and she

received them with an effusiveness very distasteful to Earwaker.

'Now you shouldn't!' was her first exclamation to Malkin. 'Indeed you

shouldn't! It's really very naughty of you. O Mr. Earwaker! Who ever

took so much pleasure in doing kindnesses? Do look at this _beautiful_

book that Mr. Malkin has sent as a present to my little Bella. O Mr.

Earwaker!'

The journalist was at once struck with her tone and manner as she

addressed Malkin. He remarked that phrase, 'my little Bella', and it

occurred to him that Mrs. Jacox had been growing younger since he made

her acquaintance on the towers of Notre Dame. When the girls presented

themselves, they also appeared to him more juvenile; Bella, in

particular, was dressed with an exaggeration of childishness decidedly

not becoming. One had but to look into her face to see that she

answered perfectly to Malkin's description; she was a young lady, and

no child. A very pretty young lady, moreover; given to colouring, but

with no silly simper; intelligent about the eyes and lips; modest, in a

natural and sweet way. He conversed with her, and in doing so was

disagreeably affected by certain glances she occasionally cast towards

her mother. One would have said that she feared censure, though it was

hard to see why.

On the return journey Earwaker made known some of his impressions,

though not all.

'I like the girls,' he said, 'Bella especially. But I can't say much

good of their mother.'

They were opposite each other in the railway carriage. Malkin leaned

forward with earnest, anxious face.

'That's my own trouble,' he whispered. 'I'm confoundedly uneasy about

it. I don't think she's bringing them up at all in a proper way.

Earwaker, I would pay down five thousand pounds for the possibility of

taking Bella away altogether.'

The other mused.

'But, mind you,' pursued Malkin, 'she's not a _bad_ woman. By no means!

Thoroughly good-hearted I'm convinced; only a little weak here.' He

tapped his forehead. 'I respect her, for all she has suffered, and her

way of going through it. But she isn't the ideal mother, you know.'

On his way home, Malkin turned into his friend's chambers 'for five

minutes'. At two in the morning he was still there, and his talk in the

meanwhile had been of nothing but schemes for protecting Bella against

her mother's more objectionable influences. On taking leave, he asked:

'Any news of Peak yet?'

'None. I haven't seen Moxey for a long time.'

'Do you think Peak will look you up again, if he's in London?'

'No, I think he'll keep away. And I half hope he will; I shouldn't

quite know how to behave. Ten to one he's in London now. I suppose he

couldn't stay at Exeter. But he may have left England.'

They parted, and for a week did not see each other. Then, on Monday

evening, when Earwaker was very busy with a mass of manuscript, the

well-known knock sounded from the passage, and Malkin received

admission. The look he wore was appalling, a look such as only some

fearful catastrophe could warrant.

'Are you busy?' he asked, in a voice very unlike his own.

Earwaker could not doubt that the trouble was this time serious. He

abandoned his work, and gave himself wholly to his friend's service.

'An awful thing has happened,' Malkin began. 'How the deuce shall I

tell you? Oh, the ass I have made of myself! But I couldn't help it;

there seemed no way out of it.'

'Well? What?'

'It was last night, but I couldn't come to you till now. By Jove! I

veritably thought of sending you a note, and then killing myself. Early

this morning I was within an ace of suicide. Believe me, old friend.

This is no farce.'

'I'm waiting.'

'Yes, yes; but I can't tell you all at once. Sure you're not busy? I

know I pester you. I was down at Wrotham yesterday. I hadn't meant to

go, but the temptation was too strong. I got there at five o'clock, and

found that the girls were gone to have tea with some young friends.

Well, I wasn't altogether sorry; it was a good opportunity for a little

talk with their mother. And I _had_ the talk. But, oh, ass that I was!'

He smote the side of his head savagely.

'Can you guess, Earwaker? Can you give a shot at what happened?'

'Perhaps I might,' replied the other, gravely.

'Well?'

'That woman asked you to marry her.'

Malkin leapt from his chair, and sank back again.

'It came to that. Yes, upon my word, it came to that. She said she had

fallen in love with me--that was the long and short of it. And I had

never said a word that could suggest--Oh, confound it! What a frightful

scene it was!'

'You took a final leave of her?'

Malkin stared with eyes of anguish into his friend's face, and at

length whispered thickly:

'I said I would!'

'What? Take leave?'

'Marry her!'

Earwaker had much ado to check an impatiently remonstrant laugh. He

paused awhile, then began his expostulation, at first treating the

affair as too absurd for grave argument.

'My boy,' he concluded, 'you have got into a preposterous scrape, and I

see only one way out of it. You must flee. When does your brother start

for the Antipodes?'

'Thursday morning.'

'Then you go with him; there's an end of it.'

Malkin listened with the blank, despairing look of a man condemned to

death.

'Do you hear me?' urged the other. 'Go home and pack. On Thursday I'll

see you off.'

'I can't bring myself to that,' came in a groan from Malkin. 'I've

never yet done anything to be seriously ashamed of, and I can't run

away after promising marriage. It would weigh upon me for the rest of

my life.'

'Humbug! Would it weigh upon you less to marry the mother, and all the

time be in love with the daughter? To my mind, there's something

peculiarly loathsome in the suggestion.'

'But, look here; Bella is very young, really very young indeed. It's

possible that I have deluded myself. Perhaps I don't really care for

her in the way I imagined. It's more than likely that I might be

content to regard her with fatherly affection.'

'Even supposing that, with what sort of affection do you regard Mrs

Jacox?'

Malkin writhed on his chair before replying.

'You mustn't misjudge her!' he exclaimed. 'She is no heartless schemer.

The poor thing almost cried her eyes out. It was a frightful scene. She

reproached herself bitterly. What _could_ I do? I have a tenderness for

her, there's no denying that. She has been so vilely used, and has

borne it all so patiently. How abominable it would be if I dealt her

another blow!'

The journalist raised his eyebrows, and uttered inarticulate sounds.

'Was anything said about Bella?' he asked, abruptly.

'Not a word. I'm convinced she doesn't suspect that I thought of Bella

like that. The fact is, I have misled her. She thought all along that

my chief interest was in _her_.'

'Indeed? Then what was the ground of her self-reproach that you speak

of?'

'How defective you are in the appreciation of delicate feeling!' cried

Malkin frantically, starting up and rushing about the room. 'She

reproached herself for having permitted me to get entangled with a

widow older than myself, and the mother of two children. What could be

simpler?'

Earwaker began to appreciate the dangers of the situation. If he

insisted upon his view of Mrs. Jacox's behaviour (though it was not the

harshest that the circumstances suggested, for he was disposed to

believe that the widow had really lost her heart to her kind, eccentric

champion), the result would probably be to confirm Malkin in his

resolution of self-sacrifice. The man must be saved, if possible, from

such calamity, and this would not be effected by merely demonstrating

that he was on the highroad to ruin. It was necessary to try another

tack.

'It seems to me, Malkin,' he resumed, gravely, 'that it is you who are

deficient in right feeling. In offering to marry this poor woman, you

did her the gravest wrong.'

'What? How?'

'You know that it is impossible for you to love her. You know that you

will repent, and that she will be aware of it. You are not the kind of

man to conceal your emotions. Bella will grow up, and--well, the state

of things won't tend to domestic felicity. For Mrs Jacox's own sake, it

is your duty to put an end to this folly before it has gone too far.'

The other gave earnest ear, but with no sign of shaken conviction.

'Yes,' he said. 'I know this is one way of looking at it. But it

assumes that a man can't control himself, that his sense of honour

isn't strong enough to keep him in the right way. I don't think you

quite understand me. I am not a passionate man; the proof is that I

have never fallen in love since I was sixteen. I think a great deal of

domestic peace, a good deal more than of romantic enthusiasm. If I

marry Mrs. Jacox, I shall make her a good and faithful husband,--so

much I can safely say of myself.'

He waited, but Earwaker was not ready with a rejoinder.

'And there's another point. I have always admitted the defect of my

character--an inability to settle down. Now, if I run away to New

Zealand, with the sense of having dishonoured myself, I shall be a mere

Wandering Jew for the rest of my life. All hope of redemption will be

over. Of the two courses now open to me, that of marriage with Mrs.

Jacox is decidedly the less disadvantageous. Granting that I have made

a fool of myself, I must abide by the result, and make the best of it.

And the plain fact is, I _can't_ treat her so disgracefully; I _can't_

burden my conscience in this way. I believe it would end in suicide; I

do, indeed.'

'This sounds all very well, but it is weakness and selfishness.'

'How can you say so?'

'There's no proving to so short-sighted a man the result of his

mistaken course. I've a good mind to let you have your way just for the

satisfaction of saying afterwards, "Didn't I tell you so?" You propose

to behave with abominable injustice to two people, putting yourself

aside. Doesn't it occur to you that Bella may already look upon you as

her future husband? Haven't you done your best to plant that idea in

her mind?'

Malkin started, but quickly recovered himself.

'No, I haven't! I have behaved with the utmost discretion. Bella thinks

of me only as of a friend much older than herself.'

'I don't believe it!'

'Nonsense, Earwaker! A child of fifteen!'

'The other day you had quite a different view, and after seeing her

again I agreed with you. She is a young girl, and if not already in

love with you, is on the way to be so.'

'That will come to nothing when she hears that I am going to be her

step-father.'

'Far more likely to develop into a grief that will waste the best part

of her lifetime. She will be shocked and made miserable. But do as you

like. I am tired of arguing.'

Earwaker affected to abandon the matter in disgust. For several minutes

there was silence, then a low voice sounded from the corner where

Malkin stood leaning.

'So it is your honest belief that Bella has begun to think of me in

that way?'

'I am convinced of it.'

'But if I run away, I shall never see her again.'

'Why not? _She_ won't run away. Come back when things have squared

themselves. Write to Mrs. Jacox from the ends of the earth, and let her

understand that there is no possibility of your marrying her.'

'Tell her about Bella, you mean?'

'No, that's just what I don't mean. Avoid any mention of the girl. Come

back when she is seventeen, and, if she is willing, carry her off to be

happy ever after.'

'But she may have fallen in love with someone else.'

'I think not. You must risk it, at all events.'

'Look here!' Malkin came forward eagerly. 'I'll write to Mrs. Jacox

to-night, and make a full confession. I'll tell her exactly how the

case stands. She's a good woman; she'll gladly sacrifice herself for

the sake of her daughter.'

Earwaker was firm in resistance. He had no faith whatever in the

widow's capacity for self-immolation, and foresaw that his friend would

be drawn into another 'frightful scene', resulting probably in a

marriage as soon as the licence could be obtained.

'When are you to see her again?' he inquired.

'On Wednesday.'

'Will you undertake to do nothing whatever till Wednesday morning, and

then to have another talk with me? I'll come and see you about ten

o'clock.'

In the end Malkin was constrained into making this engagement, and not

long after midnight the journalist managed to get rid of him.

On Tuesday afternoon arrived a distracted note. 'I shall keep my

promise, and I won't try to see you till you come here tomorrow. But I

am sore beset. I have received _three_ letters from Mrs. Jacox, all

long and horribly pathetic. She seems to have a presentiment that I

shall forsake her. What a beast I shall be if I do! Tom comes here

to-night, and I think I shall tell him all.'

The last sentence was a relief to the reader; he knew nothing of Mr

Thomas Malkin, but there was a fair presumption that this gentleman

would not see his brother bent on making such a notable fool of himself

without vigorous protest.

At the appointed hour next morning, Earwaker reached his friend's

lodgings, which were now at Kilburn. On entering the room he saw, not

the familiar figure, but a solid, dark-faced, black-whiskered man, whom

a faint resemblance enabled him to identify as Malkin the younger.

'I was expecting you,' said Thomas, as they shook hands. 'My brother is

completely floored. When I got here an hour ago, I insisted on his

lying down, and now I think he's asleep. If you don't mind, we'll let

him rest for a little. I believe he has hardly closed his eyes since

this unfortunate affair happened.'

'It rejoiced me to hear that he was going to ask your advice. How do

matters stand?'

'You know Mrs. Jacox?'

Thomas was obviously a man of discretion, but less intellectual than

his brother; he spoke like one who is accustomed to the management of

affairs. At first he was inclined to a polite reserve, but Earwaker's

conversation speedily put him more at ease.

'I have quite made up my mind,' he said presently, 'that we must take

him away with us to-morrow. The voyage will bring him to his senses.'

'Of course he resists?'

'Yes, but if you will give me your help, I think we can manage him. He

is not very strong-willed. In a spasmodic way he can defy everyone, but

the steady pressure of common sense will prevail with him, I think.'

They had talked for half-an-hour, when the door opened and the object

of their benevolent cares stood before them. He was clad in a

dressing-gown, and his disordered hair heightened the look of illness

which his features presented.

'Why didn't you call me?' he asked his brother, irritably. 'Earwaker, I

beg a thousand pardons! I'm not very well; I've overslept myself.'

'Yes, yes; come and sit down.'

Thomas made an offer to leave them.

'Don't go,' said Malkin. 'No need whatever. You know why Earwaker has

been so kind as to come here. We may as well talk it over together.'

He sat on the table, swinging a tassel of his dressing-gown round and

round.

'Now, what do you really think of doing?' asked the journalist, in a

kind voice.

'I don't know. I absolutely do not know. I'm unutterably wretched.'

'In that case, will you let your brother and me decide for you? We have

no desire but for your good, and we are perfectly at one in our

judgment.'

'Of course I know what you will propose!' cried the other, excitedly.

'From the prudential point of view, you are right, I have no doubt. But

how can you protect me against remorse? If you had received letters

such as these three,' he pulled them out of a pocket, 'you would be as

miserable as I am. If I don't keep my promise, I shall never know

another moment of peace.'

'You certainly won't if you _do_ keep it,' remarked Thomas.

'No,' added Earwaker, 'and one if not two other persons will be put

into the same case. Whereas by boldly facing these reproaches of

conscience, you do a great kindness to the others.'

'If only you could assure me of that!'

'I _can_ assure you. That is to say, I can give it as my unassailable

conviction.'

And Earwaker once more enlarged upon the theme, stating it from every

point of view that served his purpose.

'You're making a mountain out of a mole-heap,' was the confirmatory

remark that came from Thomas. 'This respectable lady will get over her

sorrows quickly enough, and some day she'll be only too glad to have you

for a son-in-law, if Miss Bella still pleases you.'

'It's only right,' urged Earwaker, in pursuance of his subtler

intention, 'that you should bear the worst of the suffering, for the

trouble has come out of your own thoughtlessness. You are fond of

saying that you have behaved with the utmost discretion; so far from

that you have been outrageously indiscreet. I foresaw that something of

this kind might come to pass'----

'Then why the devil didn't you warn me?' shouted Malkin, in an agony of

nervous strain.

'It would have been useless. In fact, I foresaw it too late.'

The discussion continued for an hour. By careful insistence on the idea

of self-sacrifice, Earwaker by degrees demolished the arguments his

friend kept putting forward. Thomas, who had gone impatiently to the

window, turned round with words that were meant to be final.

'It's quite decided. You begin your preparations at once, and to-morrow

morning you go on board with us.'

'But if I don't go to Wrotham this afternoon, she'll be here either

to-night or the first thing to-morrow. I'm sure of it!'

'By four or five o'clock,' said Earwaker, 'you can have broken up the

camp. You've often done it at shorter notice. Go to an hotel for the

night.'

'I must write to the poor woman.'

'Do as you like about that.'

'Who is to help her, if she gets into difficulties--as she's always

doing? Who is to advise her about Bella's education? Who is to pay--I

mean, who will see to----? Oh, confound it!'

The listeners glanced at each other.

'Are her affairs in order?' asked Earwaker. 'Has she a sufficient

income?'

'For ordinary needs, quite sufficient. But'----

'Then you needn't be in the least uneasy. Let her know where you are,

when the equator is between you. Watch over her interests from a

distance, if you like. I can as good as promise you that Bella will

wait hopefully to see her friend again.'

Malkin succumbed to argument and exhaustion. Facing Earwaker with a

look of pathetic appeal, he asked hoarsely:

'Will you stand by me till it's over? Have you time?'

'I can give you till five o'clock.'

'Then I'll go and dress. Ring the bell, Tom, and ask them to bring up

some beer.'

Before three had struck, the arrangements for flight were completed. A

heavily-laden cab bore away Malkin's personal property; within sat the

unhappy man and his faithful friend.

The next morning Earwaker went down to Tilbury, and said farewell to

the travellers on board the steamship Orient. Mrs. Thomas had already

taken her brother-in-law under her special care.

'It's only three children to look after, instead of two,' she remarked,

in a laughing aside to the journalist. 'How grateful he will be to you

in a few days! And I'm sure _we_ are already.'

Malkin's eyes were no longer quite lustreless. At the last moment he

talked with animation of 'two years hence', and there was vigour in the

waving of his hand as the vessel started seaward.

CHAPTER III

Peak lost no time in leaving Exeter. To lighten his baggage, and to get

rid of possessions to which hateful memories attached, he sold all his

books that had any bearing on theology. The incomplete translation of

_Bibel und Natur_ he committed to the flames in Mrs Roots's kitchen,

scattering its black remnants with savage thrusts of the poker. Whilst

engaged in packing, he debated with himself whether or not he should

take leave of the few acquaintances to whom he was indebted for

hospitality and other kindness. The question was: Had Buckland

Warricombe already warned these people against him? Probably it had

seemed to Buckland the wiser course to be content with driving the

hypocrite away; and, if this were so, regard for the future dictated a

retirement from Exeter which should in no way resemble secret flight.

Sidwell's influence with her parents would perhaps withhold them from

making his disgrace known, and in a few years he might be glad that he

had behaved with all possible prudence. In the end, he decided to write

to Mr. Lilywhite, saying that he was obliged to go away at a moment's

notice, and that he feared it would be necessary altogether to change

the scheme of life which he had had in view. This was the best way.

From the Lilywhites, other people would hear of him, and perchance

their conjectures would be charitable.

Without much hesitation he had settled his immediate plans. To London

he would not return, for he dreaded the temptations to which the

proximity of Sidwell would expose him, and he had no mind to meet with

Moxey or Earwaker. As it was now imperative that he should find work of

the old kind, he could not do better than go to Bristol, where, from

the safe ground of a cheap and obscure lodging, he might make

inquiries, watch advertisements, and so on. He already knew of

establishments in Bristol where he might possibly obtain employment.

Living with the utmost economy, he need not fall into difficulties for

more than a year, and before then his good repute with the Rotherhithe

firm would ensure him some position or other; if not in Bristol, then

at Newcastle, St. Helen's--any great centre of fuming and malodorous

industry. He was ready to work, would delight in work. Idleness was now

the intolerable thing.

So to Bristol he betook himself, and there made his temporary abode.

After spending a few weeks in fruitless search for an engagement, he at

length paid his oft-postponed visit to Twybridge. In the old home he

felt completely a stranger, and his relatives strengthened the feeling

by declaring him so changed in appearance that they hardly knew his

face. With his mother only could he talk in anything like an intimate

way, and the falsehoods with which he was obliged to answer her

questions all but destroyed the pleasure he would otherwise have found

in being affectionately tended. His sister, Mrs Cusse, was happy in her

husband, her children, and a flourishing business. Oliver was making

money, and enjoyed distinction among the shopkeeping community. His

aunt still dealt in millinery, and kept up her acquaintance with

respectable families. To Godwin all was like a dream dreamt for the

second time. He could not acknowledge any actual connection between

these people and himself. But their characteristics no longer gravely

offended him, and he willingly recognised the homespun worth which

their lives displayed. It was clear to him that by no possible agency

of circumstances could he have been held in normal relations with his

kinsfolk. However smooth his career, it must have wafted him to an

immeasurable distance from Twybridge. Nature had decreed that he was to

resemble the animals which, once reared, go forth in complete

independence of birthplace and the ties of blood. It was a harsh fate,

but in what had not fate been harsh to him? The one consolation was

that he alone suffered. His mother was no doubt occasionally troubled

by solicitude on his account, but she could not divine his inward

miseries, and an assurance that he had no material cares sufficed to

set her mind at ease.

'You are very like your father, Godwin,' she said, with a sigh. 'He

couldn't rest, however well he seemed to be getting on. There was

always something he wanted, and yet he didn't know what it was.'

'Yes, I must be like him,' Godwin replied, smiling.

He stayed five days, then returned to Bristol. A week after that, his

mother forwarded to him a letter which had come to Twybridge. He at

once recognised the writing, and broke the envelope with curiosity.

'If you should be in London [the note began], I beg you to let me see

you. There is something I have to say. To speak to you for a few

minutes I would come any distance. Don't accuse me of behaving

treacherously; it was not my fault. I know you would rather avoid me,

but do consent to hear what I have to say. If you have no intention of

coming to London, will you write and let me know where you are living?

What could Marcella have to say to him? Nothing surely that he at all

cared to hear. No doubt she imagined that he might be in ignorance of

the circumstances which had led to Buckland Warricombe's discovery; she

wished to defend herself against the suspicion of 'treachery'. He

laughed carelessly, and threw her note aside.

Two months passed, and his efforts to find employment were still vain,

though he had received conditional promises. The solitude of his life

grew burdensome. Several times he began a letter to Sidwell, but his

difficulty in writing was so great that he destroyed the attempt. In

truth, he knew not how to address her. The words he penned were tumid,

meaningless. He could not send professions of love, for his heart

seemed to be suffering a paralysis, and the laborious artificiality of

his style must have been evident. The only excuse for breaking silence

would be to let her know that he had resumed honest work; he must wait

till the opportunity offered. It did not distress him to be without

news of her. If she wished to write, and was only withheld by ignorance

of his whereabouts, it was well; if she had no thought of sending him a

word, it did not matter. He loved her, and consciously nourished hope,

but for the present there was nothing intolerable in separation. His

state of mind resulted partly from nervous reaction, and in part from a

sense that only by silent suffering could his dignity in Sidwell's eyes

be ultimately restored. Between the evil past and the hopeful future

must be a complete break.

His thoughts kept turning to London, though not because Sidwell might

still be there. He felt urgent need of speaking with a friend. Moxey

was perhaps no longer to be considered one; but Earwaker would be

tolerant of human weaknesses. To have a long talk with Earwaker would

help him to recover his mental balance, to understand himself and his

position better. So one morning in March, on the spur of the moment, he

took train and was once more in the metropolis. On his way he had

determined to send a note to Earwaker before calling at Staple Inn. He

wrote it at a small hotel in Paddington, where he took a room for the

night, and then spent the evening at a theatre, as the best way of

killing time.

By the first post next morning came a card, whereon Earwaker had

written: 'Be here, if you can, at two o'clock. Shall be glad to see

you.'

'So you have been new-furnishing!' Godwin remarked, as he was admitted

to the chambers. 'You look much more comfortable.'

'I'm glad you think so. It is the general opinion.'

They had shaken hands as though this were one of the ordinary meetings

of old time, and their voices scarcely belied the appearance. Peak

moved about the study, glancing at pictures and books, Earwaker eyeing

him the while with not unfriendly expression. They were sincerely glad

to see each other, and when Peak seated himself it was with an audible

sigh of contentment.

'And what are you doing?' he inquired.

The journalist gave a brief account of his affairs, and Peak brightened

with pleasure.

'This is good news. I knew you would shake off the ragamuffins before

long. Give me some of your back numbers, will you? I shall be curious

to examine your new style.'

'And you?--Come to live in London?'

'No; I am at Bristol, but only waiting. There's a chance of an

analyst's place in Lancashire; but I may give the preference to an

opening I have heard of in Belgium. Better to go abroad, I think.'

'Perhaps so.'

'I have a question to ask you. I suppose you talked about that

_Critical_ article of mine _before_ you received my request for

silence?'

'That's how it was,' Earwaker replied, calmly.

'Yes; I understood. It doesn't matter.'

The other puffed at his pipe, and moved uneasily.

'I am taking for granted,' Peak continued, 'that you know how I have

spent my time down in Devonshire.'

'In outline. Need we trouble about the details?'

'No. But don't suppose that I should feel any shame in talking to you

about them. That would be a confession of base motive. You and I have

studied each other, and we can exchange thoughts on most subjects with

mutual understanding. You know that I have only followed my convictions

to their logical issue. An opportunity offered of achieving the supreme

end to which my life is directed, and what scruple could stand in my

way? We have nothing to do with names and epithets. _Here_ are the

facts of life as I had known it; _there_ is the existence promised as

the reward of successful artifice. To live was to pursue the object of

my being. I could not feel otherwise; therefore, could not act

otherwise. You imagine me defeated, flung back into the gutter.' His

words came more quickly, and the muscles of his face worked under

emotion. 'It isn't so. I have a great and reasonable hope. Perhaps I

have gained everything I really desired. I could tell you the strangest

story, but there a scruple _does_ interpose. If we live another twenty

years--but now I can only talk about myself.'

'And this hope of which you speak,' said Earwaker, with a grave smile,

'points you at present to sober work among your retorts and test-tubes?'

'Yes, it does.'

'Good. Then I can put faith in the result.'

'Yet the hope began in a lie,' rejoined Peak, bitterly. 'It will always

be pleasant to look back upon that, won't it? You see: by no

conceivable honest effort could I have gained this point. Life utterly

denied to me the satisfaction of my strongest instincts, so long as I

plodded on without cause of shame; the moment I denied my faith, and

put on a visage of brass, great possibilities opened before me. Of

course I understand the moralist's position. It behoved me, though I

knew that a barren and solitary track would be my only treading to the

end, to keep courageously onward. If I can't _believe_ that any such

duty is imposed upon me, where is the obligation to persevere, the

morality of doing so? That is the worst hypocrisy. I have been honest,

inasmuch as I have acted in accordance with my actual belief.'

'M--m--m,' muttered Earwaker, slowly. 'Then you have never been

troubled with a twinge of conscience?'

'With a thousand! I have been racked, martyred. What has that to do

with it? Do you suppose I attach any final significance to those

torments? Conscience is the same in my view as an inherited disease

which may possibly break out on any most innocent physical

indulgence.--What end have I been pursuing? Is it criminal? Is it mean?

I wanted to win the love of a woman--nothing more. To do that, I have

had to behave like the grovelling villain who has no desire but to fill

his pockets. And with success!--You understand that, Earwaker? I have

succeeded! What respect can I have for the common morality, after this?'

'You have succeeded?' the other asked, thoughtfully. 'I could have

imagined that you had been in appearance successful'----

He paused, and Peak resumed with vehemence:

'No, not in appearance only. I can't tell you the story'----

'I don't wish you to'----

'But what I have won is won for ever. The triumph no longer rests on

deceit. What I insist upon is that by deceit only was it rendered

possible. If a starving man succeeds in stealing a loaf of bread, the

food will benefit him no less than if he had purchased it; it is good,

true sustenance, no matter how he got it. To be sure, the man may

prefer starvation; he may have so strong a metaphysical faith that

death is welcome in comparison with what he calls dishonour. I--I have

no such faith; and millions of other men in this country would tell the

blunt truth if they said the same. I have _used means_, that's all. The

old way of candour led me to bitterness and cursing; by dissimulation I

have won something more glorious than tongue can tell.'

It was in the endeavour to expel the subtlest enemy of his peace that

Godwin dwelt so defiantly upon this view of the temptation to which he

had yielded. Since his farewell interview with Sidwell, he knew no rest

from the torment of a mocking voice which bade him bear in mind that

all his dishonour had been superfluous, seeing that whilst he played

the part of a zealous Christian, Sidwell herself was drifting further

and further from the old religion. This voice mingled with his dreams,

and left not a waking hour untroubled. He refused to believe it, strove

against the suggestion as a half-despairing man does against the

persistent thought of suicide. If only he could obtain Earwaker's

assent to the plan he put forward, it would support him in disregard of

idle regrets.

'It is impossible,' said the journalist, 'for anyone to determine

whether that is true or not--for you, as much as for anyone else. Be

glad that you have shaken off the evil and retained the good, no use in

saying more than that.'

'Yes,' declared the other, stubbornly, 'there is good in exposing false

views of life. I ought to have come utterly to grief and shame, and

instead'----

'Instead----? Well?'

'What I have told you.'

'Which I interpret thus: that you have permission to redeem your

character, if possible, in the eyes of a woman you have grievously

misled.'

Godwin frowned.

'Who suggested this to you, Earwaker?'

'You; no one else. I don't even know who the woman is of whom you

speak.'

'Grant you are right. As an honest man, I should never have won her

faintest interest.'

'It is absurd for us to talk about it. Think in the way that is most

helpful to you,--that, no doubt, is a reasonable rule. Let us have done

with all these obscurities, and come to a practical question. Can I be

of any use to you? Would you care, for instance, to write an article

now and then on some scientific matter that has a popular interest? I

think I could promise to get that kind of thing printed for you. Or

would you review an occasional book that happened to be in your line?'

Godwin reflected.

'Thank you,' he replied, at length. 'I should be glad of such work--if

I can get into the mood for doing it properly. That won't be just yet;

but perhaps when I have found a place'----

'Think it over. Write to me about it.'

Peak glanced round the room.

'You don't know how glad I am,' he said, 'that your prosperity shows

itself in this region of bachelordom. If I had seen you in a

comfortable house, married to a woman worthy of you--I couldn't have

been sincere in my congratulations: I should have envied you so

fiercely.'

'You're a strange fellow. Twenty years hence--as you said just now--you

will one way or another have got rid of your astounding illusions. At

fifty--well, let us say at sixty--you will have a chance of seeing

things without these preposterous sexual spectacles.'

'I hope so. Every stage of life has its powers and enjoyments. When I

am old, I hope to perceive and judge without passion of any kind. But

is that any reason why my youth should be frustrated? We have only one

life, and I want to live mine throughout.'

Soon after this Peak rose. He remembered that the journalist's time was

valuable, and that he no longer had the right to demand more of it than

could be granted to any casual caller. Earwaker behaved with all

friendliness, but their relations had necessarily suffered a change.

More than a year of separation, spent by the one in accumulating

memories of dishonour, had given the other an enviable position among

men; Earwaker had his place in the social system, his growing circle of

friends, his congenial labour; perhaps--notwithstanding the tone in

which he spoke of marriage--his hopes of domestic happiness. All this

with no sacrifice of principle. He was fortunate in his temper, moral

and intellectual; partly directing circumstances, partly guided by

their pressure, he advanced on the way of harmonious development.

Nothing great would come of his endeavours, but what he aimed at he

steadily perfected. And this in spite of the adverse conditions under

which he began his course. Nature had been kind to him; what more could

one say?

When he went forth into the street again, Godwin felt his heart sink.

His solitude was the more complete for this hour of friendly dialogue.

No other companionship offered itself; if he lingered here, it must be

as one of the drifting crowd, as an idle and envious spectator of the

business and pleasure rife about him. He durst not approach that

quarter of the town where Sidwell was living--if indeed she still

remained here. Happily, the vastness of London enabled him to think of

her as at a great distance; by keeping to the district in which he now

wandered he was practically as remote from her as when he walked the

streets of Bristol.

Yet there was one person who would welcome him eagerly if he chose to

visit her. And, after all, might it not be as well if he heard what

Marcella had to say to him? He could not go to the house, for it would

be disagreeable to encounter Moxey; but, if he wrote, Marcella would

speedily make an appointment. After an hour or two of purposeless

rambling, he decided to ask for an interview. He might learn something

that really concerned him; in any case, it was a final meeting with

Marcella, to whom he perhaps owed this much courtesy.

The reply was as prompt as that from Earwaker. By the morning post came

a letter inviting him to call upon Miss Moxey as soon as possible

before noon. She added, 'My brother is away in the country; you will

meet no one here.'

By eleven o'clock he was at Notting Hill; in the drawing-room, he sat

alone for two or three minutes. Marcella entered silently, and came

towards him without a smile; he saw that she read his face eagerly, if

not with a light of triumph in her eyes. The expression might signify

that she rejoiced at having been an instrument of his discomfiture;

perhaps it was nothing more than gladness at seeing him again.

'Have you come to live in London?' she asked, when they had shaken

hands without a word.

'I am only here for a day or two.'

'My letter reached you without delay?'

'Yes. It was sent from Twybridge to Bristol. I didn't reply then, as I

had no prospect of being in London.'

'Will you sit down? You can stay for a few minutes?'

He seated himself awkwardly. Now that he was in Marcella's presence, he

felt that he had acted unaccountably in giving occasion for another

scene between them which could only end as painfully as that at Exeter.

Her emotion grew evident; he could not bear to meet the look she had

fixed upon him.

'I want to speak of what happened in this house about Christmas time,'

she resumed. 'But I must know first what you have been told.'

'What have _you_ been told?' he replied, with an uneasy smile. 'How do

you know that anything which happened here had any importance for me?'

'I don't know that it had. But I felt sure that Mr. Warricombe meant to

speak to you about it.'

'Yes, he did.'

'But did he tell you the exact truth? Or were you led to suppose that I

had broken my promise to you?'

Unwilling to introduce any mention of Sidwell, Peak preferred to

simplify the story by attributing to Buckland all the information he

had gathered.

'I understood,' he replied, 'that Warricombe had come here in the hope

of learning more about me, and that certain facts came out in general

conversation. What does it matter how he learned what he did? From the

day when he met you down in Devonshire, it was of course inevitable

that the truth should sooner or later come out. He always suspected me.'

'But I want you to know,' said Marcella, 'that I had no willing part in

it. I promised you not to speak even to my brother, and I should never

have done so but that Christian somehow met Mr. Warricombe, and heard

him talk of you. Of course he came to me in astonishment, and for your

own interest I thought it best to tell Christian what I knew. When Mr.

Warricombe came here, neither Christian nor I would have enlightened

him about--about your past. It happened most unfortunately that Mr.

Malkin was present, and he it was who began to speak of the _Critical_

article--and other things. I was powerless to prevent it.'

'Why trouble about it? I quite believe your account.'

'You _do_ believe it? You know I would not have injured you?'

'I am sure you had no wish to,' Godwin replied, in as unsentimental a

tone as possible. And, he added after a moment's pause, 'Was this what

you were so anxious to tell me?'

'Yes. Chiefly that.'

'Let me put your mind at rest,' pursued the other, with quiet

friendliness. 'I am disposed to turn optimist; everything has happened

just as it should have done. Warricombe relieved me from a false

position. If _he_ hadn't done so, I must very soon have done it for

myself. Let us rejoice that things work together for such obvious good.

A few more lessons of this kind, and we shall acknowledge that the

world is the best possible.'

He laughed, but the tense expression of Marcella's features did not

relax.

'You say you are living in Bristol?'

'For a time.'

'Have you abandoned Exeter?'

The word implied something that Marcella could not utter more plainly.

Her face completed the question.

'And the clerical career as well,' he answered.

But he knew that she sought more than this, and his voice again broke

the silence.

'Perhaps you have heard that already? Are you in communication with

Miss Moorhouse?'

She shook her head.

'But probably Warricombe has told your brother----?'

'What?'

'Oh, of his success in ridding Exeter of my objectionable presence.'

'Christian hasn't seen him again, nor have I.'

'I only wish to assure you that I have suffered no injury. My

experiment was doomed to failure. What led me to it, how I regarded it,

we won't discuss; I am as little prepared to do so now as when we

talked at Exeter. That chapter in my life is happily over. As soon as I

am established again in a place like that I had at Rotherhithe, I shall

be quite contented.'

'Contented?' She smiled incredulously. 'For how long?'

'Who can say? I have lost the habit of looking far forward.'

Marcella kept silence so long that he concluded she had nothing more to

say to him. It was an opportunity for taking leave without emotional

stress, and he rose from his chair.

'Don't go yet,' she said at once. 'It wasn't only this that I'----

Her voice was checked.

'Can I be of any use to you in Bristol?' Peak asked, determined to

avoid the trial he saw approaching.

'There is something more I wanted to say,' she pursued, seeming not to

hear him. 'You pretend to be contented, but I know that is impossible.

You talk of going back to a dull routine of toil, when what you most

desire is freedom. I want--if I can--to help you.'