Again she failed to command her voice. Godwin raised his eyes, and was

astonished at the transformation she had suddenly undergone. Her face,

instead of being colourless and darkly vehement, had changed to a

bright warmth, a smiling radiance such as would have become a happy

girl. His look seemed to give her courage.

'Only hear me patiently. We are such old friends--are we not? We have

so often proclaimed our scorn of conventionality, and why should a

conventional fear hinder what I want to say? You know--don't you?--that

I have far more money than I need or am ever likely to. I want only a

few hundreds a year, and I have more than a thousand.' She spoke more

and more quickly, fearful of being interrupted. 'Why shouldn't I give

you some of my superfluity? Let me help you in this way. Money can do

so much. Take some from me, and use it as you will--just as you will.

It is useless to _me_. Why shouldn't someone whom I wish well benefit

by it?'

Godwin was not so much surprised as disconcerted. He knew that

Marcella's nature was of large mould, and that whether she acted for

good or evil its promptings would be anything but commonplace. The

ardour with which she pleaded, and the magnitude of the benefaction she

desired to bestow upon him, so affected his imagination that for the

moment he stood as if doubting what reply to make. The doubt really in

his mind was whether Marcella had calculated upon his weakness, and

hoped to draw him within her power by the force of such an obligation,

or if in truth she sought only to appease her heart with the exercise

of generosity.

'You will let me?' she panted forth, watching him with brilliant eyes.

'This shall be a secret for ever between you and me. It imposes no debt

of gratitude--how I despise the thought! I give you what is worthless

to me,--except that it can do _you_ good. But you can thank me if you

will. I am not above being thanked.' She laughed unnaturally. 'Go and

travel at first, as you wished to. Write me a short letter every

month--every two months, just that I may know you are enjoying your

life. It is agreed, isn't it?'

She held her hand to him, but Peak drew away, his face averted.

'How can you give me the pain of refusing such an offer?' he exclaimed,

with remonstrance which was all but anger. 'You know the thing is

utterly impossible. I should be ridiculous if I argued about it for a

moment.'

'I can't see that it is impossible.'

'Then you must take my word for it. But I have no right to speak to you

in that way,' he added, more kindly, seeing the profound humiliation

which fell upon her. 'You meant to come to my aid at a time when I

seemed to you lonely and miserable. It was a generous impulse, and I do

indeed thank you. I shall always remember it and be grateful to you.'

Marcella's face was again in shadow. Its lineaments hardened to an

expression of cold, stern dignity.

'I have made a mistake,' she said. 'I thought you above common ways of

thinking.'

'Yes, you put me on too high a pedestal,' Peak answered, trying to

speak humorously. 'One of my faults is that I am apt to mistake my own

position in the same way.'

'You think yourself ambitious. Oh, if you knew really great ambition!

Go back to your laboratory, and work for wages. I would have saved you

from that.'

The tone was not vehement, but the words bit all the deeper for their

unimpassioned accent. Godwin could make no reply.

'I hope,' she continued, 'we may meet a few years hence. By that time

you will have learnt that what I offered was not impossible. You will

wish you had dared to accept it. I know what your _ambition_ is. Wait

till you are old enough to see it in its true light. How you will scorn

yourself! Surely there was never a man who united such capacity for

great things with so mean an ideal. You will never win even the paltry

satisfaction on which you have set your mind--never! But you can't be

made to understand that. You will throw away all the best part of your

life. Meet me in a few years, and tell me the story of the interval.'

'I will engage to do that, Marcella.'

'You will? But not to tell me the truth. You will not dare to tell the

truth.'

'Why not?' he asked, indifferently. 'Decidedly I shall owe it you in

return for your frankness to-day. Till then--good-bye.'

She did not refuse her hand, and as he moved away she watched him with

a smile of slighting good-nature.

On the morrow Godwin was back in Bristol, and there he dwelt for

another six months, a period of mental and physical lassitude. Earwaker

corresponded with him, and urged him to attempt the work that had been

proposed, but such effort was beyond his power.

He saw one day in a literary paper an announcement that Reusch's _Bibel

und Natur_ was about to be published in an English translation. So

someone else had successfully finished the work he undertook nearly two

years ago. He amused himself with the thought that he could ever have

persevered so long in such profitless labour, and with a contemptuous

laugh he muttered '_Thohu wabohu_.'

Just when the winter had set in, he received an offer of a post in

chemical works at St. Helen's, and without delay travelled northwards.

The appointment was a poor one, and seemed unlikely to be a step to

anything better, but his resources would not last more than another

half year, and employment of whatever kind came as welcome relief to

the tedium of his existence. Established in his new abode, he at length

wrote to Sidwell. She answered him at once in a short letter which he

might have shown to anyone, so calm were its expressions of interest,

so uncompromising its words of congratulation. It began 'Dear Mr.

Peak', and ended with 'Yours sincerely'. Well, he had used the same

formalities, and had uttered his feelings with scarcely more of warmth.

Disappointment troubled him for a moment, and for a moment only. He was

so far from Exeter, and further still from the life that he had led

there. It seemed to him all but certain that Sidwell wrote coldly, with

the intention of discouraging his hopes. What hope was he so foolish as

to entertain? His position poorer than ever, what could justify him in

writing love-letters to a girl who, even if willing to marry him, must

not do so until he had a suitable home to offer her?

Since his maturity, he had never known so long a freedom from passion.

One day he wrote to Earwaker: 'I begin to your independence with regard

to women. It would be a strange thing if I became a convert to that way

of thinking, but once or twice of late I have imagined that it was

happening. My mind has all but recovered its tone, and I am able to

read, to think--I mean really to _think_, not to muse. I get through

big and solid books. Presently, if your offer still hold good, I shall

send you a scrap of writing on something or other. The pestilent

atmosphere of this place seems to invigorate me. Last Saturday evening

I took train, got away into the hills, and spent the Sunday

geologising. And a curious experience befell me,--one I had long, long

ago, in the Whitelaw days. Sitting down before some interesting strata,

I lost myself in something like nirvana, grew so subject to the idea of

vastness in geological time that all human desires and purposes

shrivelled to ridiculous unimportance. Awaking for a minute, I tried to

realise the passion which not long ago rent and racked me, but I was

flatly incapable of understanding it. Will this philosophic state

endure? Perhaps I have used up all my emotional energy? I hardly know

whether to hope or fear it.'

About midsummer, when his short holiday (he would only be released for

a fortnight) drew near, he was surprised by another letter from Sidwell.

'I am anxious [she wrote] to hear that you are well. It is more than

half a year since your last letter, and of late I have been constantly

expecting a few lines. The spring has been a time of trouble with us. A

distant relative, an old and feeble lady who has passed her life in a

little Dorsetshire village, came to see us in April, and in less than a

fortnight she was seized with illness and died. Then Fanny had an

attack of bronchitis, from which even now she is not altogether

recovered. On her account we are all going to Royat, and I think we

shall be away until the end of September. Will you let me hear from you

before I leave England, which will be in a week's time? Don't refrain

from writing because you think you have no news to send. Anything that

interests you is of interest to me. If it is only to tell me what you

have been reading, I shall be glad of a letter.'

It was still 'Yours sincerely'; but Godwin felt that the letter meant

more. In re-reading it he was pleasantly thrilled with a stirring of

the old emotions. But his first impulse, to write an ardent reply, did

not carry him away; he reflected and took counsel of the experience

gained in his studious solitude. It was evident that by keeping silence

he had caused Sidwell to throw off something of her reserve. The course

dictated by prudence was to maintain an attitude of dignity, to hold

himself in check. In this way he would regain what he had so

disastrously lost, Sidwell's respect. There was a distinct pleasure in

this exercise of self-command; it was something new to him; it

flattered his pride. 'Let her learn that, after all, I am her superior.

Let her fear to lose me. Then, if her love is still to be depended

upon, she will before long find a way to our union. It is in her power,

if only she wills it.'

So he sat down and wrote a short letter which seemed to him a model of

dignified expression.

CHAPTER IV

Sidwell took no one into her confidence. The case was not one for

counsel; whatever her future action, it must result from the maturing

of self-knowledge, from the effect of circumstance upon her mind and

heart. For the present she could live in silence.

'We hear,' she wrote from London to Sylvia Moorhouse, 'that Mr. Peak

has left Exeter, and that he is not likely to carry out his intention

of being ordained. You, I daresay, will feel no surprise.' Nothing more

than that; and Sylvia's comments in reply were equally brief.

Martin Warricombe, after conversations with his wife and with Buckland,

felt it impossible not to seek for an understanding of Sidwell's share

in the catastrophe. He was gravely perturbed, feeling that with himself

lay the chief responsibility for what had happened. Buckland's attitude

was that of the man who can only keep repeating 'I told you so'; Mrs.

Warricombe could only lament and upbraid in the worse than profitless

fashion natural to women of her stamp. But in his daughter Martin had

every kind of faith, and he longed to speak to her without reserve. Two

days after her return from Exeter, he took Sidwell apart, and, with a

distressing sense of the delicacy of the situation, tried to persuade

her to frank utterance.

'I have been hearing strange reports,' he began, gravely, but without

show of displeasure. 'Can you help me to understand the real facts of

the case, Sidwell?--What is your view of Peak's behaviour?'

'He has deceived you, father,' was the quiet reply.

'You are convinced of that?--It allows of no----?'

'It can't be explained away. He pretended to believe what he did not

and could not believe.'

'With interested motives, then?'

'Yes.--But not motives in themselves dishonourable.'

There was a pause. Sidwell had spoken in a steady voice, though with

eyes cast down. Whether her father could understand a position such as

Godwin's, she felt uncertain. That he would honestly endeavour to do

so, there could be no doubt, especially since he must suspect that her

own desire was to distinguish between the man and his fault. But a

revelation of all that had passed between her and Peak was not

possible; she had the support neither of intellect nor of passion; it

would be asking for guidance, the very thing she had determined not to

do. Already she found it difficult to recover the impulses which had

directed her in that scene of parting; to talk of it would be to see

her action in such a doubtful light that she might be led to some

premature and irretrievable resolve. The only trustworthy counsellor

was time; on what time brought forth must depend her future.

'Do you mean, Sidwell,' resumed her father, 'that you think it possible

for us to overlook this deception?'

She delayed a moment, then said:

'I don't think it possible for you to regard him as a friend.'

Martin's face expressed relief.

'But will he remain in Exeter?'

'I shouldn't think he can.'

Again a pause. Martin was of course puzzled exceedingly, but he began

to feel some assurance that Peak need not be regarded as a danger.

'I am grieved beyond expression,' he said at length. 'So deliberate a

fraud--it seems to me inconsistent with any of the qualities I thought

I saw in him.'

'Yes--it must.'

'Not--perhaps--to you?' Martin ventured, anxiously.

'His nature is not base.'

'Forgive me, dear.--I understand that you spoke with him after

Buckland's call at his lodgings----?'

'Yes, I saw him.'

'And--he strove to persuade you that he had some motive which justified

his conduct?'

'Excused, rather than justified.'

'Not--it seems--to your satisfaction?'

'I can't answer that question, father. My experience of life is too

slight. I can only say that untruthfulness in itself is abhorrent to

me, and that I could never try to make it seem a light thing.'

'That, surely, is a sound view, think as we may on speculative points.

But allow me one more question, Sidwell. Does it seem to you that I

have no choice but to break off all communication with Mr Peak?'

It was the course dictated by his own wish, she knew. And what could be

gained by any middle way between hearty goodwill and complete

repudiation? Time--time alone must work out the problem.

'Yes, I think you have no choice,' she answered.

'Then I must make inquiries--see if he leaves the town.'

'Mr. Lilywhite will know, probably.'

'I will write before long.'

So the dialogue ended, and neither sought to renew it.

Martin enjoined upon his wife a discreet avoidance of the subject. The

younger members of the family were to know nothing of what had

happened, and, if possible, the secret must be kept from friends at

Exeter. When a fortnight had elapsed, he wrote to Mr. Lilywhite, asking

whether it was true that Peak had gone away. 'It seems that private

circumstances have obliged him to give up his project of taking Orders.

Possibly he has had a talk with you?' The clergyman replied that Peak

had left Exeter. 'I have had a letter from him, explaining in general

terms his change of views. It hardly surprises me that he has

reconsidered the matter. I don't think he was cut out for clerical

work. He is far more likely to distinguish himself in the world of

science. I suspect that conscientious scruples may have something to do

with it; if so, all honour to him!'

The Warricombes prolonged their stay in London until the end of June.

On their return home, Martin was relieved to find that scarcely an

inquiry was made of him concerning Peak. The young man's disappearance

excited no curiosity in the good people who had come in contact with

him, and who were so far from suspecting what a notable figure had

passed across their placid vision. One person only was urgent in his

questioning. On an afternoon when Mrs Warricombe and her daughters were

alone, the Rev. Bruno Chilvers made a call.

'Oh!' he exclaimed, after a few minutes' conversation, 'I am so anxious

to ask you what has become of Mr. Peak. Soon after my arrival in

Exeter, I went to see him, and we had a long talk--a most interesting

talk. Then I heard all at once that he was gone, and that we should see

no more of him. Where is he? What is he doing?'

There was a barely appreciable delay before Mrs. Warricombe made answer.

'We have quite lost sight of him,' she said, with an artificial smile.

'We know only that he was called away on some urgent business--family

affairs, I suppose.'

Chilvers, in the most natural way, glanced from the speaker to Sidwell,

and instantly, without the slightest change of expression, brought his

eyes back again.

'I hope most earnestly,' he went on, in his fluty tone, 'that he will

return. A most interesting man! A man of _large_ intellectual scope,

and really _broad_ sympathies. I looked forward to many a chat with

him. Has he, I wonder, been led to change his views? Possibly he would

find a secular sphere more adapted to his special powers.'

Mrs. Warricombe had nothing to say. Sidwell, finding that Mr Chilvers'

smile now beamed in her direction, replied to him with steady utterance:

'It isn't uncommon, I think, nowadays, for doubts to interfere with the

course of study for ordination?'

'Far from uncommon!' exclaimed the Rector of St. Margaret's, with

almost joyous admission of the fact. 'Very far from uncommon. Such

students have my profound sympathy. I know from experience exactly what

it means to be overcome in a struggle with the modern spirit. Happily

for myself, I was enabled to recover what for a time I lost. But

charity forbid that I should judge those who think they must needs

voyage for ever in sunless gulfs of doubt, or even absolutely deny that

the human intellect can be enlightened from above.'

At a loss even to follow this rhetoric, Mrs. Warricombe, who was

delighted to welcome the Rev. Bruno, and regarded him as a gleaming

pillar of the Church, made haste to introduce a safer topic. After

that, Mr. Chilvers was seen at the house with some frequency. Not that

he paid more attention to the Warricombes than to his other

acquaintances. Relieved by his curate from the uncongenial burden of

mere parish affairs, he seemed to regard himself as an apostle at

large, whose mission directed him to the households of well-to-do

people throughout the city. His brother clergymen held him in slight

esteem. In private talk with Martin Warricombe, Mr. Lilywhite did not

hesitate to call him 'a mountebank', and to add other depreciatory

remarks.

'My wife tells me--and I can trust her judgment in such things--that

his sole object just now is to make a good marriage. Rather

disagreeable stories seem to have followed him from the other side of

England. He makes love to all unmarried women--never going beyond what

is thought permissible, but doing a good deal of mischief, I fancy. One

lady in Exeter--I won't mention names--has already pulled him up with a

direct inquiry as to his intentions; at her house, I imagine, he will

no more be seen.'

The genial parson chuckled over his narrative, and Martin, by no means

predisposed in the Rev. Bruno's favour, took care to report these

matters to his wife.

'I don't believe a word of it!' exclaimed Mrs. Warricombe. 'All the

clergy are jealous of Mr. Chilvers.'

'What? Of his success with ladies?'

'Martin! It is something new for you to be profane!--They are jealous

of his high reputation.'

'Rather a serious charge against our respectable friends.'

'And the stories are all nonsense,' pursued Mrs. Warricombe. 'It's very

wrong of Mr. Lilywhite to report such things. I don't believe any other

clergyman would have done so.'

Martin smiled--as he had been accustomed to do all through his married

life--and let the discussion rest there. On the next occasion of Mr.

Chilvers being at the house, he observed the reverend man's behaviour

with Sidwell, and was not at all pleased. Bruno had a way of addressing

women which certainly went beyond the ordinary limits of courtesy. At a

little distance, anyone would have concluded that he was doing his best

to excite Sidwell's affectionate interest. The matter of his discourse

might be unobjectionable, but the manner of it was not in good taste.

Mrs. Warricombe was likewise observant, but with other emotions. To her

it seemed a subject for pleasurable reflection, that Mr. Chilvers

should show interest in Sidwell. The Rev. Bruno had bright prospects.

With the colour of his orthodoxy she did not concern herself. He was

ticketed 'broad', a term which carried with it no disparagement; and

Sidwell's sympathies were altogether with the men of 'breadth'. The

time drew near when Sidwell must marry, if she ever meant to do so, and

in comparison with such candidates as Mr Walsh and Godwin Peak, the

Rector of St. Margaret's would be an ideal husband for her. Sidwell's

attitude towards Mr. Chilvers was not encouraging, but Mrs. Warricombe

suspected that a lingering regard for the impostor, so lately unmasked,

still troubled her daughter's mind: a new suitor, even if rejected,

would help the poor girl to dismiss that shocking infatuation.

Sidwell and her father nowadays spent much time together, and in the

autumn days it became usual for them to have an afternoon ramble about

the lanes. Their talk was of science and literature, occasionally

skirting very close upon those questions which both feared to discuss

plainly--for a twofold reason. Sidwell read much more than had been her

wont, and her choice of authors would alone have indicated a change in

her ways of thinking, even if she had not allowed it to appear in the

tenor of her talk. The questions she put with reference to Martin's

favourite studies were sometimes embarrassing.

One day they happened to meet Mr. Chilvers, who was driving with his

eldest child, a boy of four. The narrowness of the road made it

impossible--as Martin would have wished--to greet and pass on. Chilvers

stopped the carriage and jumped out. Sidwell could not but pay some

attention to the youthful Chilvers.

'Till he is ten years old,' cried Bruno, 'I shall think much more of

his body than of his mind. In fact, at this age the body _is_ the mind.

Books, books--oh, we attach far too much importance to them. Over-study

is one of the morbific tendencies of our time. Some one or other has

been trying to frown down what he calls the excessive athleticism of

our public schools. No, no! Let us rejoice that our lads have such an

opportunity of vigorous physical development. The culture of the body

is a great part of religion.' He always uttered remarks of this kind as

if suggesting that his hearers should note them in a collection of

aphorisms. 'If to labour is to pray, so also is the practice of

open-air recreation.

When they had succeeded in getting away, father and daughter walked for

some minutes without speaking. At length Sidwell asked, with a smile:

'How does this form of Christianity strike you?'

'Why, very much like a box on the ear with a perfumed glove,' replied

Martin.

'That describes it very well.'

They walked a little further, and Sidwell spoke in a more serious tone.

'If Mr. Chilvers were brought before the ecclesiastical authorities and

compelled to make a clear statement of his faith, what sect, in all the

history of heresies, would he really seem to belong to?'

'I know too little of him, and too little of heresies.'

'Do you suppose for a moment that he sincerely believes the dogmas of

his Church?'

Martin bit his lip and looked uneasy.

'We can't judge him, Sidwell.'

'I don't know,' she persisted. 'It seems to me that he does his best to

give us the means of judging him. I half believe that he often laughs

in himself at the success of his audacity.'

'No, no. I think the man is sincere.'

This was very uncomfortable ground, but Sidwell would not avoid it. Her

eyes flashed, and she spoke with a vehemence such as Martin had never

seen in her.

'Undoubtedly sincere in his determination to make a figure in the

world. But a Christian, in any intelligible sense of that much-abused

word,--no! He is one type of the successful man of our day. Where

thousands of better and stronger men struggle vainly for fair

recognition, he and his kind are glorified. In comparison with a really

energetic man, he is an acrobat. The crowd stares at him and applauds,

and there is nothing he cares for so much as that kind of admiration.'

Martin kept silence, and in a few minutes succeeded in broaching a

wholly different subject.

Not long after this, Mr. Chilvers paid a call at the conventional hour.

Sidwell, hoping to escape, invited two girls to step out with her on to

the lawn. The sun was sinking, and, as she stood with eyes fixed upon

it, the Rev. Bruno's voice disagreeably broke her reverie. She was

perforce involved in a dialogue, her companions moving aside.

'What a magnificent sky!' murmured Chilvers. '"There sinks the nebulous

star." Forgive me, I have fallen into a tiresome trick of quoting. How

differently a sunset is viewed nowadays from what it was in old times!

Our impersonal emotions are on a higher plane--don't you think so? Yes,

scientific discovery has done more for religion than all the ages of

pious imagination. A theory of Galileo or Newton is more to the soul

than a psalm of David.'

'You think so?' Sidwell asked, coldly.

In everyday conversation she was less suave than formerly. This summer

she had never worn her spray of sweet-brier, and the omission might

have been deemed significant of a change in herself. When the occasion

offered, she no longer hesitated to express a difference of opinion; at

times she uttered her dissent with a bluntness which recalled

Buckland's manner in private.

'Does the comparison seem to you unbecoming?' said Chilvers, with

genial condescension. 'Or untrue?'

'What do you mean by "the soul"?' she inquired, still gazing away from

him.

'The principle of conscious life in man--that which understands and

worships.'

'The two faculties seem to me so different that'----She broke off. 'But

I mustn't talk foolishly about such things.'

'I feel sure you have thought of them to some purpose. I wonder whether

you ever read Francis Newman's book on _The Soul_?'

'No, I never saw it.'

'Allow me to recommend it to you. I believe you would find it deeply

interesting.'

'Does the Church approve it?'

'The Church?' He smiled. 'Ah! what Church? Churchmen there are,

unfortunately, who detest the name of its author, but I hope you have

never classed me among them. The Church, rightly understood,

comprehends every mind and heart that is striving upwards. The age of

intolerance will soon be as remote from us as that of persecution. Can

I be mistaken in thinking that this broader view has your sympathy,

Miss Warricombe?'

'I can't sympathise with what I don't understand, Mr. Chilvers.'

He looked at her with tender solicitude, bending slightly from his

usual square-shouldered attitude.

'Do let me find an opportunity of talking over the whole matter with

you--by no means as an instructor. In my view, a clergyman may seek

instruction from the humblest of those who are called his flock. The

thoughtful and high-minded among them will often assist him materially

in his endeavour at self-development. To my "flock",' he continued,

playfully, 'you don't belong; but may I not count you one of that

circle of friends to whom I look for the higher kind of sympathy?'

Sidwell glanced about her in the hope that some one might be

approaching. Her two friends were at a distance, talking and laughing

together.

'You shall tell me some day,' she replied, with more attention to

courtesy, 'what the doctrines of the Broad Church really are. But the

air grows too cool to be pleasant; hadn't we better return to the

drawing-room?'

The greater part of the winter went by before she had again to submit

to a tete-a-tete with the Rev. Bruno. It was seldom that she thought of

him save when compelled to do so by his exacting presence, but in the

meantime he exercised no small influence on her mental life. Insensibly

she was confirmed in her alienation from all accepted forms of

religious faith. Whether she wished it or not, it was inevitable that

such a process should keep her constantly in mind of Godwin Peak. Her

desire to talk with him at times became so like passion that she

appeared to herself to love him more truly than ever. Yet such a mood

was always followed by doubt, and she could not say whether the

reaction distressed or soothed her. These months that had gone by

brought one result, not to be disguised. Whatever the true nature of

her feeling for Godwin, the thought of marrying him was so difficult to

face that it seemed to involve impossibilities. He himself had warned

her that marriage would mean severance from all her kindred. It was

practically true, and time would only increase the difficulty of such a

determination.

The very fact that her love (again, if love it were) must be indulged

in defiance of universal opinion tended to keep emotion alive. A woman

is disposed to cling to a lover who has disgraced himself, especially

if she can believe that the disgrace was incurred as a result of

devotion to her. Could love be separated from thought of marriage,

Sidwell would have encouraged herself in fidelity, happy in the

prospect of a life-long spiritual communion--for she would not doubt of

Godwin's upward progress, of his eventual purification. But this was a

mere dream. If Godwin's passion were steadfast, the day would come when

she must decide either to cast in her lot with his, or to bid him be

free. And could she imagine herself going forth into exile?

There came a letter from him, and she was fortunate enough to receive

it without the knowledge of her relatives. He wrote that he had

obtained employment. The news gave her a troubled joy, lasting for

several days. That no emotion appeared in her reply was due to a fear

lest she might be guilty of misleading him. Perhaps already she had

done so. Her last whisper--'Some day!'--was it not a promise and an

appeal? Now she had not the excuse of profound agitation, there must be

no word her conscience could not justify. But in writing those formal

lines she felt herself a coward. She was drawing back--preparing her

escape.

Often she had the letter beneath her pillow. It was the first she had

ever received from a man who professed to love her. So long without

romance in her life, she could not but entertain this semblance of it,

and feel that she was still young.

It told much in Godwin's favour that he had not ventured to write

before there was this news to send her. It testified to the force of

his character, the purity of his purpose. A weaker man, she knew, would

have tried to excite her compassion by letters of mournful strain,

might even have distressed her with attempts at clandestine meeting.

She had said rightly--his nature was not base. And she loved him! She

was passionately grateful to him for proving that her love had not been

unworthily bestowed.

When he wrote again, her answer should not be cowardly.

The life of the household went on as it had been wont to do for years,

but with the spring came events. An old lady died whilst on a visit to

the house (she was a half-sister of Mrs. Warricombe), and by a will

executed a few years previously she left a thousand pounds, to be

equally divided between the children of this family. Sidwell smiled

sadly on finding herself in possession of this bequest, the first sum

of any importance that she had ever held in her own right. If she

married a man of whom all her kith and kin so strongly disapproved that

they would not give her even a wedding present, two hundred and fifty

pounds would be better than no dowry at all. One could furnish a house

with it.

Then Fanny had an attack of bronchitis, and whilst she was recovering

Buckland came down for a few days, bringing with him a piece of news

for which no one was prepared. As if to make reparation to his elder

sister for the harshness with which he had behaved in the affair of

Godwin Peak, he chose her for his first confidante.

'Sidwell, I am going to be married. Do you care to hear about it?'

'Certainly I do.'

Long ago she had been assured of Sylvia Moorhouse's sincerity in

rejecting Buckland's suit. That was still a grief to her, but she

acknowledged her friend's wisdom, and was now very curious to learn who

it was that the Radical had honoured with his transferred affections.

'The lady's name,' Buckland began, 'is Miss Matilda Renshaw. She is the

second daughter of a dealer in hides, tallow, and that kind of thing.

Both her parents are dead; she has lived of late with her married

sister at Blackheath.'

Sidwell listened with no slight astonishment, and her countenance

looked what she felt.

'That's the bald statement of the cause,' pursued her brother, seeming

to enjoy the consternation he had excited. 'Now, let me fill up the

outline. Miss Renshaw is something more than good-looking, has had an

admirable education, is five-and-twenty, and for a couple of years has

been actively engaged in humanitarian work in the East End. She has

published a book on social questions, and is a very good public

speaker. Finally, she owns property representing between three and four

thousand a year.'

'The picture has become more attractive,' said Sidwell.

'You imagined a rather different person? If I persuade mother to invite

her down here presently, do you think you could be friendly with her?'

'I see no reason why I should not be.'

'But I must warn you. She has nothing to do with creeds and dogmas.'

He tried to read her face. Sidwell's mind was a mystery to him.

'I shall make no inquiry about her religious views,' his sister

replied, in a dispassionate tone, which conveyed no certain meaning.

'Then I feel sure you will like her, and equally sure that she will

like you.'

His parents had no distinct fault to find with this choice, though they

would both greatly have preferred a daughter-in-law whose genealogy

could be more freely spoken of. Miss Renshaw was invited to Exeter, and

the first week of June saw her arrival. Buckland had in no way

exaggerated her qualities. She was a dark-eyed beauty, perfect from the

social point of view, a very interesting talker,--in short, no ordinary

woman. That Buckland should have fallen in love with her, even after

Sylvia, was easily understood; it seemed likely that she would make him

as good a wife as he could ever hope to win.

Sidwell was expecting another letter from the north of England. The

silence which during those first months had been justifiable was now a

source of anxiety. But whether fear or hope predominated in her

expectancy, she still could not decide. She had said to herself that

her next reply should not be cowardly, yet she was as far as ever from

a courageous resolve.

Mental harassment told upon her health. Martin, watching her with

solicitude, declared that for her sake as much as for Fanny's they must

have a thorough holiday abroad.

Urged by the approaching departure, Sidwell overcame her reluctance to

write to Godwin before she had a letter to answer. It was done in a

mood of intolerable despondency, when life looked barren before her,

and the desire of love all but triumphed over every other

consideration. The letter written and posted, she would gladly have

recovered it--reserved, formal as it was. Cowardly still; but then

Godwin had not written.

She kept a watch upon the postman, and again, when Godwin's reply was

delivered, escaped detection.

Hardly did she dare to open the envelope. Her letter had perchance been

more significant than she supposed; and did not the mere fact of her

writing invite a lover's frankness?

But the reply was hardly more moving than if it had come from a total

stranger. For a moment she felt relieved; in an hour's time she

suffered indescribable distress. Godwin wrote--so she convinced herself

after repeated perusals--as if discharging a task; not a word suggested

tenderness. Had the letter been unsolicited, she could have used it

like the former one; but it was the answer to an appeal. The phrases

she had used were still present in her mind. 'I am anxious . . . it is

more than half a year since you wrote . . . I have been expecting . . .

anything that is of interest to you will interest me. . . .' How could

she imagine that this was reserved and formal? Shame fell upon her; she

locked herself from all companionship, and wept in rebellion against

the laws of life.

A fortnight later, she wrote from Royat to Sylvia Moorhouse. It was a

long epistle, full of sunny descriptions, breathing renewed vigour of

body and mind. The last paragraph ran thus:

'Yesterday was my birthday; I was twenty-eight. At this age, it is

wisdom in a woman to remind herself that youth is over. I don't regret

it; let it go with all its follies! But I am sorry that I have no

serious work in life; it is not cheerful to look forward to perhaps

another eight-and-twenty years of elegant leisure--that is to say, of

wearisome idleness. What can I do? Try and think of some task for me,

something that will last a lifetime.'

Part VII

CHAPTER I

At the close of a sultry day in September, when factory fumes hung low

over the town of St. Helen's, and twilight thickened luridly, and the

air tasted of sulphur, and the noises of the streets, muffled in their

joint effect, had individually an ominous distinctness, Godwin Peak

walked with languid steps to his lodgings and the meal that there

awaited him. His vitality was at low ebb. The routine of his life

disgusted him; the hope of release was a mockery. What was to be the

limit of this effort to redeem his character? How many years before the

past could be forgotten, and his claim to the style of honourable be

deemed secure? Rubbish! It was an idea out of old-fashioned romances.

What he was, he was, and no extent of dogged duration at St. Helen's or

elsewhere, could affect his personality. What, practically, was to be

the end? If Sidwell had no money of her own, and no expectations from

her father, how could she ever become his wife? Women liked this kind

of thing, this indefinite engagement to marry when something should

happen, which in all likelihood never would happen--this fantastic

mutual fidelity with only the airiest reward. Especially women of a

certain age.

A heavy cart seemed to be rumbling in the next street. No, it was

thunder. If only a good rattling storm would sweep the bituminous

atmosphere, and allow a breath of pure air before midnight.

She could not be far from thirty. Of course there prevails much

conventional nonsense about women's age; there are plenty of women who

reckon four decades, and yet retain all the essential charm of their

sex. And as a man gets older, as he begins to persuade himself that at

forty one has scarce reached the prime of life----

The storm was coming on in earnest. Big drops began to fall. He

quickened his pace, reached home, and rang the bell for a light.

His landlady came in with the announcement that a gentleman had called

to see him, about an hour ago; he would come again at seven o'clock.

'What name?'

None had been given. A youngish gentleman, speaking like a Londoner.

It might be Earwaker, but that was not likely. Godwin sat down to his

plain meal, and after it lit a pipe. Thunder was still rolling, but now

in the distance. He waited impatiently for seven o'clock.

To the minute, sounded a knock at the house-door. A little delay, and

there appeared Christian Moxey.

Godwin was surprised and embarrassed. His visitor had a very grave

face, and was thinner, paler, than three years ago; he appeared to

hesitate, but at length offered his hand.

'I got your address from Earwaker. I was obliged to see you--on

business.'

'Business?'

'May I take my coat off? We shall have to talk.'

They sat down, and Godwin, unable to strike the note of friendship lest

he should be met with repulse, broke silence by regretting that Moxey

should have had to make a second call.

'Oh, that's nothing! I went and had dinner.--Peak, my sister is dead.'

Their eyes met; something of the old kindness rose to either face.

'That must be a heavy blow to you,' murmured Godwin, possessed with a

strange anticipation which he would not allow to take clear form.

'It is. She was ill for three months.' Whilst staying in the country

last June she met with an accident. She went for a long walk alone one

day, and in a steep lane she came up with a carter who was trying to

make a wretched horse drag a load beyond its strength. The fellow was

perhaps half drunk; he stood there beating the horse unmercifully.

Marcella couldn't endure that kind of thing--impossible for her to pass

on and say nothing. She interfered, and tried to persuade the man to

lighten his cart. He was insolent, attacked the horse more furiously

than ever, and kicked it so violently in the stomach that it fell. Even

then he wouldn't stop his brutality. Marcella tried to get between him

and the animal--just as it lashed out with its heels. The poor girl was

so badly injured that she lay by the roadside until another carter took

her up and brought her back to the village. Three months of accursed

suffering, and then happily came the end.'

A far, faint echoing of thunder filled the silence of their voices.

Heavy rain splashed upon the pavement.

'She said to me just before her death,' resumed Christian, '"I have ill

luck when I try to do a kindness--but perhaps there is one more

chance." I didn't know what she meant till afterwards. Peak, she has

left nearly all her money to you.'

Godwin knew it before the words were spoken. His heart leaped, and only

the dread of being observed enabled him to control his features. When

his tongue was released he said harshly:

'Of course I can't accept it.'

The words were uttered independently of his will. He had no such

thought, and the sound of his voice shook him with alarm.

'Why can't you?' returned Christian.

'I have no right--it belongs to you, or to some other relative--it

would be'----

His stammering broke off. Flushes and chills ran through him; he could

not raise his eyes from the ground.

'It belongs to no one but you,' said Moxey, with cold persistence. 'Her

last wish was to do you a kindness, and I, at all events, shall never

consent to frustrate her intention. The legacy represents something

more than eight hundred a year, as the investments now stand. This will

make you independent--of everything and everybody.' He looked meaningly

at the listener. 'Her own life was not a very happy one; she did what

she could to save yours from a like doom.'

Godwin at last looked up.

'Did she speak of me during her illness?'

'She asked me once, soon after the accident, what had become of you. As

I knew from Earwaker, I was able to tell her.'

A long silence followed. Christian's voice was softer when he resumed.

'You never knew her. She was the one woman in ten thousand--at once

strong and gentle; a fine intellect, and a heart of rare tenderness.

But because she had not the kind of face that'----

He checked himself.

'To the end her mind kept its clearness and courage. One day she

reminded me of Heine--how we had talked of that "conversion" on the

mattress-grave, and had pitied the noble intellect subdued by disease.

"I shan't live long enough," she said, "to incur that danger. What I

have thought ever since I could study, I think now, and shall to the

last moment." I buried her without forms of any kind, in the cemetery

at Kingsmill. That was what she wished. I should have despised myself

if I had lacked that courage.'

'It was right,' muttered Godwin.

'And I wear no mourning, you see. All that kind of thing is ignoble. I

am robbed of a priceless companionship, but I don't care to go about

inviting people's pity. If only I could forget those months of

suffering! Some day I shall, perhaps, and think of her only as she

lived.'

'Were you alone with her all the time?'

'No. Our cousin Janet was often with us.' Christian spoke with averted

face. 'You don't know, of course, that she has gone in for medical

work--practises at Kingsmill. The accident was at a village called

Lowton, ten miles or more from Kingsmill. Janet came over very often.'

Godwin mused on this development of the girl whom he remembered so

well. He could not direct his thoughts; a languor had crept over him.

'Do you recollect, Peak,' said Christian, presently, 'the talk we had

in the fields by Twybridge, when we first met?'

The old friendliness was reappearing in his manner, He was yielding to

the impulse to be communicative, confidential, which had always

characterised him.

'I remember,' Godwin murmured.

'If only my words then had had any weight with you! And if only I had

acted upon my own advice! Just for those few weeks I was sane; I

understood something of life; I saw my true way before me. You and I

have both gone after ruinous ideals, instead of taking the solid good

held out to us. Of course, I know your story in outline. I don't ask

you to talk about it. You are independent now, and I hope you can use

your freedom.--Well, and I too am free.'

The last words were in a lower tone. Godwin glanced at the speaker,

whose sadness was not banished, but illumined with a ray of calm hope.

'Have you ever thought of me and my infatuation?' Christian asked.

'Yes.'

'I have outlived that mawkish folly. I used to drink too much; the two

things went well together. It would shame me to tell you all about it.

But, happily, I have been able to go back about thirteen years--recover

my old sane self--and with it what I then threw away.'

'I understand.'

'Do you? Marcella knew of it, just before her death, and it made her

glad. But the waste of years, the best part of a lifetime! It's

incredible to me as I look back. Janet called on us one day in London.

Heaven be thanked that she was forgiving enough to do so! What would

have become of me now?'

'How are you going to live, then?' Godwin asked, absently.

'How? My income is sufficient'----

'No, no; I mean, where and how will you live in your married life?'

'That's still uncertain. Janet mustn't go on with professional work. In

any case, I don't think she could for long; her strength isn't equal to

it. But I shouldn't wonder if we settle in Kingsmill. To you it would

seem intolerable? But why should we live in London? At Kingsmill Janet

has a large circle of friends; in London we know scarcely half-a-dozen

people--of the kind it would give us any pleasure to live with. We

shall have no lack of intellectual society; Janet knows some of the

Whitelaw professors. The atmosphere of Kingsmill isn't illiberal, you

know; we shan't be fought shy of because we object to pass Sundays in a

state of coma. But the years that I have lost! The irrecoverable years!'

'There's nothing so idle as regretting the past,' said Godwin, with

some impatience. 'Why groan over what couldn't be otherwise? The

probability is, Janet and you are far better suited to each other now

than you ever would have been if you had married long ago.'

'You think that?' exclaimed the other, eagerly. 'I have tried to see it

in that light. If I didn't feel so despicable!'

'She, I take it, doesn't think you so,' Godwin muttered.

'But how can she understand? I have tried to tell her everything, but

she refused to listen. Perhaps Marcella told her all she cared to know.'

'No doubt.'

Each brooded for a while over his own affairs, then Christian reverted

to the subject which concerned them both.

'Let us speak frankly. You will take this gift of Marcella's as it was

meant?'

How _was_ it meant? Critic and analyst as ever, Godwin could not be

content to see in it the simple benefaction of a woman who died loving

him. Was it not rather the last subtle device of jealousy? Marcella

knew that the legacy would be a temptation he could scarcely

resist--and knew at the same time that, if he accepted it, he

practically renounced his hope of marrying Sidwell Warricombe.

Doubtless she had learned as much as she needed to know of Sidwell's

position. Refusing this bequest, he was as far as ever from the

possibility of asking Sidwell to marry him. Profiting by it, he stood

for ever indebted to Marcella, must needs be grateful to her, and some

day, assuredly, would reveal the truth to whatever woman became his

wife. Conflict of reasonings and emotions made it difficult to answer

Moxey's question.

'I must take time to think of it,' he said, at length.

'Well, I suppose that is right. But--well, I know so little of your

circumstances'----

'Is that strictly true?' Peak asked.

'Yes. I have only the vaguest idea of what you have been doing since

you left us. Of course I have tried to find out.'

Godwin smiled, rather gloomily.

'We won't talk of it. I suppose you stay in St. Helen's for the night?'

'There's a train at 10.20. I had better go by it.'

'Then let us forget everything but your own cheerful outlook. At ten,

I'll walk with you to the station.'

Reluctantly at first, but before long with a quiet abandonment to the

joy that would not be suppressed, Christian talked of his future wife.

In Janet he found every perfection. Her mind was something more than

the companion of his own. Already she had begun to inspire him with a

hopeful activity, and to foster the elements of true manliness which he

was conscious of possessing, though they had never yet had free play.

With a sense of luxurious safety, he submitted to her influence,

knowing none the less that it was in his power to complete her

imperfect life. Studiously he avoided the word 'ideal'; from such

vaporous illusions he had turned to the world's actualities; his

language dealt with concretes, with homely satisfactions, with

prospects near enough to be soberly examined.

A hurry to catch the train facilitated parting. Godwin promised to

write in a few days.

He took a roundabout way back to his lodgings. The rain was over, the

sky had become placid. He was conscious of an effect from Christian's

conversation which half counteracted the mood he would otherwise have

indulged,--the joy of liberty and of an outlook wholly new. Sidwell

might perchance be to him all that Janet was to Christian. Was it not

the luring of 'ideals' that prompted him to turn away from his long

hope?

There must be no more untruthfulness. Sidwell must have all the facts

laid before her, and make her choice.

Without a clear understanding of what he was going to write, he sat

down at eleven o'clock, and began, 'Dear Miss Warricombe'. Why not

'Dear Sidwell'? He took another sheet of paper.

'Dear Sidwell,--To-night I can remember only your last word to me when

we parted. I cannot address you coldly, as though half a stranger. Thus

long I have kept silence about everything but the outward events of my

life; now, in telling you of something that has happened, I must speak

as I think.

'Early this evening I was surprised by a visit from Christian Moxey--a

name you know. He came to tell me that his sister (she of whom I once

spoke to you) was dead, and had bequeathed to me a large sum of money.

He said that it represented an income of eight hundred pounds.

'I knew nothing of Miss Moxey's illness, and the news of her will came

to me as a surprise. In word or deed, I never sought more than her

simple friendship--and even _that_ I believed myself to have forfeited.

'If I were to refuse this money, it would be in consequence of a

scruple which I do not in truth respect. Christian Moxey tells me that

his sister's desire was to enable me to live the life of a free man;

and if I have any duty at all in the matter, surely it does not

constrain me to defeat her kindness. No condition whatever is attached.

The gift releases me from the necessity of leading a hopeless

existence--leaves me at liberty to direct my life how I will.

'I wish, then, to put aside all thoughts of how this opportunity came

to me, and to ask you if you are willing to be my wife.

'Though I have never written a word of love, my love is unchanged. The

passionate hope of three years ago still rules my life. Is _your_ love

strong enough to enable you to disregard all hindrances? I cannot of

course know whether, in your sight, dishonour still clings to me, or

whether you understand me well enough to have forgiven and forgotten

those hateful things in the past. Is it yet too soon? Do you wish me

still to wait, still to prove myself? Is your interest in the free man

less than in the slave? For my life has been one of slavery and

exile--exile, if you know what I mean by it, from the day of my birth.

'Dearest, grant me this great happiness! We can live where we will. I

am not rich enough to promise all the comforts and refinements to which

you are accustomed, but we should be safe from sordid anxieties. We can

travel; we can make a home in any European city. It would be idle to

speak of the projects and ambitions that fill my mind--but surely I may

do something worth doing, win some position among intellectual men of

which you would not be ashamed. You yourself urged me to hope that.

With you at my side--Sidwell grant me this chance, that I may know the

joy of satisfied love! I am past the age which is misled by vain fancies.

I have suffered unspeakably, longed for the calm strength, the pure,

steady purpose which would result to me from a happy marriage. There is

no fatal divergence between our minds; did you not tell me that? You

said that if I had been truthful from the first, you might have loved

me with no misgiving. Forget the madness into which I was betrayed.

There is no soil upon my spirit. I offer you love as noble as any man

is capable of. Think--think well--before replying to me; let your true

self prevail. You _did_ love me, dearest.----

Yours ever, Godwin Peak.'

At first he wrote slowly, as though engaged on a literary composition,

with erasions, insertions. Facts once stated, he allowed himself to

forget how Sidwell would most likely view them, and thereafter his pen

hastened: fervour inspired the last paragraph. Sidwell's image had

become present to him, and exercised all--or nearly all--its old

influence.

The letter must be copied, because of that laboured beginning. Copying

one's own words is at all times a disenchanting drudgery, and when the

end was reached Godwin signed his name with hasty contempt. What answer

could he expect to such an appeal? How vast an improbability that

Sidwell would consent to profit by the gift of Marcella Moxey!

Yet how otherwise could he write? With what show of sincerity could he

_offer_ to refuse the bequest? Nay, in that case he must not offer to

do so, but simply state the fact that his refusal was beyond recall.

Logically, he had chosen the only course open to him,--for to refuse

independence was impossible.

A wheezy clock in his landlady's kitchen was striking two. For very

fear of having to revise his letter in the morning, he put it into its

envelope, and went out to the nearest pillar-post.

That was done. Whether Sidwell answered with 'Yes' or with 'No', he was

a free man.

On the morrow he went to his work as usual, and on the day after that.

The third morning might bring a reply--but did not. On the evening of

the fifth day, when he came home, there lay the expected letter. He

felt it; it was light and thin. That hideous choking of suspense--Well,

it ran thus:

'I cannot. It is not that I am troubled by your accepting the legacy.

You have every right to do so, and I know that your life will justify

the hopes of her who thus befriended you. But I am too weak to take

this step. To ask you to wait yet longer, would only be a fresh

cowardice. You cannot know how it shames me to write this. In my very

heart I believe I love you, but what is such love worth? You must

despise me, and you will forget me. I live in a little world; in the

greater world where your place is, you will win a love very different.

S. W.'

Godwin laughed aloud as the paper dropped from his hand.

Well, she was not the heroine of a romance. Had he expected her to

leave home and kindred--the 'little world' so infinitely dear to

her--and go forth with a man deeply dishonoured? Very young girls have

been known to do such a thing; but a thoughtful mature woman----!

Present, his passion had dominated her: and perhaps her nerves only.

But she had had time to recover from that weakness.

A woman, like most women of cool blood, temperate fancies. A domestic

woman; the ornament of a typical English home.

Most likely it was true that the matter of the legacy did not trouble

her. In any case she would not have consented to marry him, and

_therefore_ she knew no jealousy. Her love! why, truly, what was it

worth?

(Much, much! of no less than infinite value. He knew it, but this was

not the moment for such a truth.)

A cup of tea to steady the nerves. Then thoughts, planning,

world-building.

He was awake all night, and Sidwell's letter lay within reach.--Did

_she_ sleep calmly? Had she never stretched out her hand for _his_

letter, when all was silent? There were men who would not take such a

refusal. A scheme to meet her once more--the appeal of passion, face to

face, heart to heart--the means of escape ready--and then the 'greater

world'----

But neither was he cast in heroic mould. He had not the

self-confidence, he had not the hot, youthful blood. A critic of life,

an analyst of moods and motives; not the man who dares and acts. The

only important resolve he had ever carried through was a scheme of

ignoble trickery--to end in frustration.

'The greater world'. It was a phrase that had been in his own mind once

or twice since Moxey's visit. To point him thither was doubtless the

one service Sidwell could render him. And in a day or two, that phrase

was all that remained to him of her letter.

On a Sunday afternoon at the end of October, Godwin once more climbed

the familiar stairs at Staple Inn, and was welcomed by his friend

Earwaker. The visit was by appointment. Earwaker knew all about the

legacy; that it was accepted; and that Peak had only a few days to

spend in London, on his way to the Continent.

'You are regenerated,' was his remark as Godwin entered.

'Do I look it? Just what I feel. I have shaken off a good (or a bad)

ten years.'

The speaker's face, at all events in this moment, was no longer that of

a man at hungry issue with the world. He spoke cheerily.

'It isn't often that fortune does a man such a kind turn. One often

hears it said: If only I could begin life again with all the experience

I have gained! That is what I _can_ do. I can break utterly with the

past, and I have learnt how to live in the future.'

'Break utterly with the past?'

'In the practical sense. And even morally to a great extent.'

Earwaker pushed a box of cigars across the table. Godwin accepted the

offer, and began to smoke. During these moments of silence, the man of

letters had been turning over a weekly paper, as if in search of some

paragraph; a smile announced his discovery.

'Here is something that will interest you--possibly you have seen it.'

He began to read aloud:

'"On the 23rd inst. was celebrated at St. Bragg's, Torquay, the

marriage of the Rev. Bruno Leathwaite Chilvers, late Rector of St

Margaret's, Exeter, and the Hon. Bertha Harriet Cecilia Jute, eldest

daughter of the late Baron Jute. The ceremony was conducted by the Hon.

and Rev. J. C. Jute, uncle of the bride, assisted by the Rev. F.

Miller, the Very Rev. Dean Pinnock, the Rev. H. S. Crook, and the Rev.

William Tomkinson. The bride was given away by Lord Jute. Mr Horatio

Dukinfield was best man. The bridal dress was of white brocade, draped

with Brussels lace, the corsage being trimmed with lace and adorned

with orange blossoms. The tulle veil, fastened with three diamond

stars, the gifts of"----Well, shall I go on?'

'The triumph of Chilvers!' murmured Godwin. 'I wonder whether the Hon.

Bertha is past her fortieth year?'

'A blooming beauty, I dare say. But Lord! how many people it takes to

marry a man like Chilvers! How sacred the union must be!--Pray take a

paragraph more: "The four bridesmaids--Miss--etc., etc.--wore cream

crepon dresses trimmed with turquoise blue velvet, and hats to match.

The bridegroom's presents to them were diamond and ruby brooches."'

'Chilvers _in excelsis_!--So he is no longer at Exeter; has no living,

it seems. What does he aim at next, I wonder?'

Earwaker cast meaning glances at his friend.

'I understand you,' said Godwin, at length. 'You mean that this merely

illustrates my own ambition. Well, you are right, I confess my

shame--and there's an end of it.'

He puffed at his cigar, resuming presently:

'But it would be untrue if I said that I regretted anything.

Constituted as I am, there was no other way of learning my real needs

and capabilities. Much in the past is hateful to me, but it all had its

use. There are men--why, take your own case. You look back on life, no

doubt, with calm and satisfaction.'

'Rather, with resignation.'

Godwin let his cigar fall, and laughed bitterly.

'Your resignation has kept pace with life. I was always a rebel. My

good qualities--I mean what I say--have always wrecked me. Now that I

haven't to fight with circumstances, they may possibly be made

subservient to my happiness.'

'But what form is your happiness to take?'

'Well, I am leaving England. On the Continent I shall make no fixed

abode, but live in the places where cosmopolitan people are to be met.

I shall make friends; with money at command, one may hope to succeed in

that. Hotels, boarding-houses, and so on, offer the opportunities. It

sounds oddly like the project of a swindler, doesn't it? There's the

curse I can't escape from! Though my desires are as pure as those of

any man living, I am compelled to express myself as if I were about to

do something base and underhand. Simply because I have never had a

social place. I am an individual merely; I belong to no class, town,

family, club'----'Cosmopolitan people,' mused Earwaker. 'Your ideal is

transformed.'

'As you know. Experience only could bring that about. I seek now only

the free, intellectual people--men who have done with the old

conceptions--women who'----

His voice grew husky, and he did not complete the sentence. 'I shall

find them in Paris, Rome.--Earwaker, think of my being able to speak

like this! No day-dreams, but actual sober plans, their execution to

begin in a day or two. Paris, Rome! And a month ago I was a hopeless

slave in a vile manufacturing town.--I wish it were possible for me to

pray for the soul of that poor dead woman. I don't speak to you of her;

but do you imagine I am brutally forgetful of her to whom I owe all

this?'

'I do you justice,' returned the other, quietly.

'I believe you can and do.'

'How grand it is to go forth as I am now going!' Godwin resumed, after

a long pause. 'Nothing to hide, no shams, no pretences. Let who will

inquire about me. I am an independent Englishman, with so and so much a

year. In England I have one friend only--that is you. The result, you

see, of all these years savage striving to knit myself into the social

fabric.'

'Well, you will invite me some day to your villa at Sorrento,' said

Earwaker, encouragingly.

'That I shall!' Godwin's eyes flashed with imaginative delight. 'And

before very long. Never to a home in England!'

'By-the-bye, a request. I have never had your portrait. Sit before you

leave London.'

'No. I'll send you one from Paris--it will be better done.'

'But I am serious. You promise?'

'You shall have the thing in less than a fortnight.'

The promise was kept. Earwaker received an admirable photograph, which

he inserted in his album with a curious sense of satisfaction. A face

by which every intelligent eye must be arrested; which no two observers

would interpret in the same way.

'His mate must be somewhere,' thought the man of letters, 'but he will

never find her.'

CHAPTER II

In his acceptance of Sidwell's reply, Peak did not care to ask himself

whether the delay of its arrival had any meaning one way or another.

Decency would hardly have permitted her to answer such a letter by

return of post; of course she waited a day or so.

But the interval meant more than this.

Sylvia Moorhouse was staying with her friend. The death of Mrs

Moorhouse, and the marriage of the mathematical brother, had left

Sylvia homeless, though not in any distressing sense; her inclination

was to wander for a year or two, and she remained in England only until

the needful arrangements could be concluded.

'You had better come with me,' she said to Sidwell, as they walked

together on the lawn after luncheon.

The other shook her head.

'Indeed, you had better.--What are you doing here? What are you going

to make of your life?'

'I don't know.'

'Precisely. Yet one ought to live on some kind of plan. I think it is

time you got away from Exeter; it seems to me you are finding its

atmosphere _morbific_.'

Sidwell laughed at the allusion.

'You know,' she said, 'that the reverend gentleman is shortly to be

married?'

'Oh yes, I have heard all about it. But is he forsaking the Church?'

'Retiring only for a time, they say.'

'Forgive the question, Sidwell--did he honour you with a proposal?'

'Indeed, no!'

'Some one told me it was imminent, not long ago.'

'Quite a mistake,' Sidwell answered, with her grave smile. 'Mr Chilvers

had a singular manner with women in general. It was meant, perhaps, for

subtle flattery; he may have thought it the most suitable return for

the female worship he was accustomed to receive.'

Mr. Warricombe was coming towards them. He brought a new subject of

conversation, and as they talked the trio drew near to the gate which

led into the road. The afternoon postman was just entering; Mr

Warricombe took from him two letters.

'One for you, Sylvia, and--one for you, Sidwell.'

A slight change in his voice caused Sidwell to look at her father as he

handed her the letter. In the same moment she recognised the writing of

the address. It was Godwin Peak's, and undoubtedly her father knew it.

With a momentary hesitation Mr. Warricombe continued his talk from the

point at which he had broken off, but he avoided his daughter's look,

and Sidwell was too well aware of an uneasiness which had fallen upon

him. In a few minutes he brought the chat to an end, and walked away

towards the house.

Sidwell held her letter tightly. Conversation was no longer possible

for her; she had a painful throbbing of the heart, and felt that her

face must be playing traitor. Fortunately, Sylvia found it necessary to

write a reply to the missive she had received, and her companion was

soon at liberty to seek solitude.

For more than an hour she remained alone. However unemotional the

contents of the letter, its arrival would have perturbed her seriously,

as in the two previous instances; what she found on opening the

envelope threw her into so extreme an agitation that it was long before

she could subdue the anguish of disorder in all her senses. She had

tried to believe that Godwin Peak was henceforth powerless to affect

her in this way, write what he would. The romance of her life was over;

time had brought the solution of difficulties to which she looked

forward; she recognised the inevitable, as doubtless did Godwin also.

But all this was self-deception. The passionate letter delighted as

much as it tortured her; in secret her heart had desired this, though

reason suppressed and denied the hope. No longer need she remember with

pangs of shame the last letter she had written, and the cold response;

once again things were as they should be--the lover pleading before

her--she with the control of his fate. The injury to her pride was

healed, and in the thought that perforce she must answer with a final

'No', she found at first more of solace than of distress.

Subsidence of physical suffering allowed her to forget this emotion, in

its nature unavowable. She could think of the news Godwin sent, could

torment herself with interpretations of Marcella Moxey's behaviour, and

view in detail the circumstances which enabled Godwin to urge a formal

suit. Among her various thoughts there recurred frequently a regret

that this letter had not reached her, like the other two, unobserved.

Her father had now learnt that she was in correspondence with the

disgraced man; to keep silence would be to cause him grave trouble; yet

how much better if fortune had only once more favoured her, so that the

story might have remained her secret, from beginning to end.

For was not this the end?----

At the usual time she went to the drawing-room, and somehow succeeded

in conversing as though nothing had disturbed her. Mr Warricombe was

not seen till dinner. When he came forth, Sidwell noticed his air of

preoccupation, and that he avoided addressing her. The evening asked

too much of her self-command; she again withdrew, and only came back

when the household was ready for retiring. In bidding her father

goodnight, she forced herself to meet his gaze; he looked at her with

troubled inquiry, and she felt her cheek redden.

'Do you want to get rid of me?' asked Sylvia, with wonted frankness,

when her friend drew near.

'No. Let us go to the glass-house.'

Up there on the roof Sidwell often found a retreat when her thoughts

were troublesome. Fitfully, she had resumed her water-colour drawing,

but as a rule her withdrawal to the glass-house was for reading or

reverie. Carrying a small lamp, she led the way before Sylvia, and they

sat down in the chairs which on one occasion had been occupied by

Buckland Warricombe and Peak.

The wind, rarely silent in this part of Devon, blew boisterously from

the south-west. A far-off whistle, that of a train speeding up the

valley on its way from Plymouth, heightened the sense of retirement and

quietude always to be enjoyed at night here under the stars.

'Have you been thinking over my suggestion?' asked Sylvia, when there

had been silence awhile.

'No,' was the murmured reply.

'Something has happened, I think.'

'Yes. I should like to tell you, Sylvia, but'----

'But'----

'I _must_ tell you! I can't keep it in my own mind, and you are the

only one'----

Sylvia was surprised at the agitation which suddenly revealed itself in

her companion's look and voice. She became serious, her eyes

brightening with intellectual curiosity. Feminine expressions of

sympathy were not to be expected from Miss Moorhouse; far more

reassuring to Sidwell was the kind attentiveness with which her friend

bent forward.

'That letter father handed me to-day was from Mr. Peak.'

'You hear from him?'

'This is the third time--since he went away. At our last meeting'--her

voice dropped--'I pledged my faith to him.--Not absolutely. The future

was too uncertain'----

The gleam in Sylvia's eyes grew more vivid. She was profoundly

interested, and did not speak when Sidwell's voice failed.

'You never suspected this?' asked the latter, in a few moments.

'Not exactly that. What I did suspect was that Mr. Peak's departure

resulted from--your rejection of him.'

'There is more to be told,' pursued Sidwell, in tremulous accents. 'You

must know it all--because I need your help. No one here has learnt what

took place between us. Mr. Peak did not go away on that account.

But--you remember being puzzled to explain his orthodoxy in religion?'

She paused. Sylvia gave a nod, signifying much.

'He never believed as he professed,' went on Sidwell, hurriedly. 'You

were justified in doubting him. He concealed the truth--pretended to

champion the old faiths'----

For an instant she broke off, then hastened through a description of

the circumstances which had brought about Peak's discovery. Sylvia

could not restrain a smile, but it was softened by the sincere

kindliness of her feeling.

'And it was after this,' she inquired impartially, 'that the decisive

conversation between you took place?'

'No; just before Buckland's announcement. We met again, after

that.--Does it seem incredible to you that I should have let the second

meeting end as it did?'

'I think I understand. Yes, I know you well enough to follow it. I can

even guess at the defence he was able to urge.'

'You can?' asked Sidwell, eagerly. 'You see a possibility of his

defending himself?'

'I should conjecture that it amounted to the old proverb, "All's fair

in love and war". And, putting aside a few moral prejudices, one can

easily enough absolve him.--The fact is, I had long ago surmised that

his motives in taking to such a career had more reference to this world

than the next. You know, I had several long talks with him; I told you

how he interested me. Now I can piece together my conclusions.'

'Still,' urged Sidwell, 'you must inevitably regard him as ignoble--as

guilty of base deceit. I must hide nothing from you, having told so

much. Have you heard from anyone about his early life?'

'Your mother told me some old stories.'

Sidwell made an impatient gesture. In words of force and ardour, such

as never before had been at her command, she related all she knew of

Godwin's history prior to his settling at Exeter, and depicted the

mood, the impulses, which, by his own confession, had led to that

strange enterprise. Only by long exercise of an impassioned imagination

could she thus thoroughly have identified herself with a life so remote

from her own. Peak's pleading for himself was scarcely more impressive.

In listening, Sylvia understood how completely Sidwell had cast off the

beliefs for which her ordinary conversation seemed still to betray a

tenderness.

'I know,' the speaker concluded, 'that he cannot in that first hour

have come to regard me with a feeling strong enough to determine what

he then undertook. It was not I as an individual, but all of us here,

and the world we represented. Afterwards, he persuaded himself that he

had felt love for me from the beginning. And I, I tried to believe

it--because I wished it true; for his sake, and for my own. However it

was, I could not harden my heart against him. A thousand considerations

forbade me to allow him further hope; but I refused to listen--no, I

_could_ not listen. I said I would remain true to him. He went away to

take up his old pursuits, and if possible to make a position for

himself. It was to be our secret. And in spite of everything. I hoped

for the future.'

Silence followed, and Sidwell seemed to lose herself in distressful

thought.

'And now,' asked her friend, 'what has come to pass?'

'Do you know that Miss Moxey is dead?'

'I haven't heard of it.'

'She is dead, and has left Mr. Peak a fortune.--His letter of today

tells me this. And at the same time he claims my promise.'

Their eyes met. Sylvia still had the air of meditating a most

interesting problem. Impossible to decide from her countenance how she

regarded Sidwell's position.

'But why in the world,' she asked, 'should Marcella Moxey have left her

money to Mr. Peak?'

'They were friends,' was the quick reply. 'She knew all that had

befallen him, and wished to smooth his path.'

Sylvia put several more questions, and to all of them Sidwell replied

with a peculiar decision, as though bent on making it clear that there

was nothing remarkable in this fact of the bequest. The motive which

impelled her was obscure even to her own mind, for ever since receiving

the letter she had suffered harassing doubts where now she affected to

have none. 'She knew, then,' was Sylvia's last inquiry, 'of the

relations between you and Mr. Peak?'

'I am not sure--but I think so. Yes, I think she must have known.'

'From Mr. Peak himself, then?'

Sidwell was agitated.

'Yes--I think so. But what does that matter?'

The other allowed her face to betray perplexity.

'So much for the past,' she said at length. 'And now?'----

'I have not the courage to do what I wish.'

There was a long silence.

'About your wish,' asked Sylvia at length, 'you are not at all

doubtful?'

'Not for one moment.--Whether I err in my judgment of him could be

proved only by time; but I know that if I were free, if I stood

alone'----

She broke off and sighed. 'It would mean, I suppose,' said the other,

'a rupture with your family?'

'Father would not abandon me, but I should darken the close of his

life. Buckland would utterly cast me off; mother would wish to do

so.--You see, I cannot think and act simply as a woman, as a human

being. I am bound to a certain sphere of life. The fact that I have

outgrown it, counts for nothing. I cannot free myself without injury to

people whom I love. To act as I wish would be to outrage every rule and

prejudice of the society to which I belong. You yourself--you know how

you would regard me.'

Sylvia replied deliberately.

'I am seeing you in a new light, Sidwell. It takes a little time to

reconstruct my conception of you.'

'You think worse of me than you did.'

'Neither better nor worse, but differently. There has been too much

reserve between us. After so long a friendship, I ought to have known

you more thoroughly. To tell the truth, I have thought now and then of

you and Mr. Peak; that was inevitable. But I went astray; it seemed to

me the most unlikely thing that you should regard him with more than a

doubtful interest. I knew, of course, that he had made you his ideal,

and I felt sorry for him.'

'I seemed to you unworthy?'----

'Too placid, too calmly prudent.--In plain words, Sidwell, I do think

better of you.'

Sidwell smiled.

'Only to know me henceforth as the woman who did not dare to act upon

her best impulses.'

'As for "best"--I can't say. I don't glorify passion, as you know; and

on the other hand I have little sympathy with the people who are always

crying out for self-sacrifice. I don't know whether it would be "best"

to throw over your family, or to direct yourself solely with regard to

their comfort.'

Sidwell broke in.

'Yes, that is the true phrase--"their comfort". No higher word should

be used. That is the ideal of the life to which I have been brought up.

Comfort, respectability.--And has _he_ no right? If I sacrifice myself

to father and mother, do I not sacrifice _him_ as well? He has

forfeited all claim to consideration--that is what people say. With my

whole soul, I deny it! If he sinned against anyone, it was against me,

and the sin ended as soon as I understood him. That episode in his life

is blotted out; by what law must it condemn to imperfection the whole

of his life and of my own? Yet because people will not, cannot, look at

a thing in a spirit of justice, I must wrong myself and him.'

'Let us think of it more quietly,' said Sylvia, in her clear,

dispassionate tones. 'You speak as though a decision must be taken at

once. Where is the necessity for that? Mr. Peak is now independent.

Suppose a year or two be allowed to pass, may not things look

differently?'

'A year or two!' exclaimed Sidwell, with impatience. 'Nothing will be

changed. What I have to contend against is unchangeable. If I guide

myself by such a hope as that, the only reasonable thing would be for

me to write to Mr. Peak, and ask him to wait until my father and mother

are dead.'

'Very well. On that point we are at rest, then. The step must be taken

at once, or never.'

The wind roared, and for some minutes no other sound was audible. By

this [Updater's note: the word "time" missing?], all the inmates of the

house save the two friends were in bed, and most likely sleeping.

'You must think it strange,' said Sidwell, 'that I have chosen to tell

you all this, just when the confession is most humiliating to me. I

want to feel the humiliation, as one only can when another is witness

of it. I wish to leave myself no excuse for the future.'

'I'm not sure that I quite understand you. You have made up your mind

to break with him?'

'Because I am a coward.'

'If my feeling in any matter were as strong as that, I should allow it

to guide me.'

'Because your will is stronger. You, Sylvia, would never (in my

position) have granted him that second interview. You would have known

that all was at an end, and have acted upon the knowledge. I knew it,

but yielded to temptation--at _his_ expense. I could not let him leave

me, though that would have been kindest. I held him by a promise,

basely conscious that retreat was always open to me. And now I shall

have earned his contempt'----

Her voice failed. Sylvia, affected by the outbreak of emotion in one

whom she had always known so strong in self-command, spoke with a

deeper earnestness.

'Dear, do you wish me to help you against what you call your cowardice?

I cannot take it upon me to encourage you until your own will has

spoken. The decision must come from yourself. Choose what course you

may, I am still your friend. I have no idle prejudices, and no social

bonds. You know how I wish you to come away with me; now I see only

more clearly how needful it is for you to breathe new air. Yes, you

have outgrown these conditions, just as your brothers have, just as

Fanny will--indeed has. Take to-night to think of it. If you can decide

to travel with me for a year, be frank with Mr. Peak, and ask him to

wait so long--till you have made up your mind. He cannot reasonably

find fault with you, for he knows all you have to consider. Won't this

be best?'

Sidwell was long silent.

'I will go with you,' she said at last, in a low voice. 'I will ask him

to grant me perfect liberty for a year.'

When she came down next morning it was Sidwell's intention to seek a

private interview with her father, and make known her resolve to go

abroad with Sylvia; but Mr. Warricombe anticipated her.

'Will you come to the library after breakfast, Sidwell?' he said, on

meeting her in the hall.

She interpreted his tone, and her heart misgave her. An hour later she

obeyed the summons. Martin greeted her with a smile, but hardly tried

to appear at ease.

'I am obliged to speak to you,' were his first words. 'The letter you

had yesterday was from Mr. Peak?'

'Yes, father.'

'Is he'--Mr. Warricombe hesitated--'in these parts again?'

'No; in Lancashire.'

'Sidwell, I claim no right whatever to control your correspondence; but

it was a shock to me to find that you are in communication with him.'

'He wrote,' Sidwell replied with difficulty, 'to let me know of a

change that has come upon his prospects. By the death of a friend, he

is made independent.'

'For his own sake, I am glad to hear that. But how could it concern

_you_, dear?'

She struggled to command herself.

'It was at my invitation that he wrote, father.'

Martin's face expressed grave concern.

'Sidwell! Is this right?'

She was very pale, and kept her eyes unmovingly directed just aside

from her father.

'What can it mean?' Mr. Warricombe pursued, with sad remonstrance.

'Will you not take me into your confidence, Sidwell?'

'I can't speak of it,' she replied, with sudden determination. 'Least

of all with you, father.'

'Least of all?--I thought we were very near to each other.'

'For that very reason, I can't speak to you of this. I must be left

free! I am going away with Sylvia, for a year, and for so long I _must_

be absolutely independent. Father, I entreat you not to'----

A sob checked her. She turned away, and fought against the hysterical

tendency; but it was too strong to be controlled. Her father

approached, beseeching her to be more like herself. He held her in his

arms, until tears had their free course, and a measure of calmness

returned.

'I can't speak to you about it,' she repeated, her face hidden from

him. 'I must write you a long letter, when I have gone. You shall know

everything in that way.'

'But, my dearest, I can't let you leave us under these circumstances.

This is a terrible trial to me. You cannot possibly go until we

understand each other!'

'Then I will write to you here--to-day or to-morrow.'

With this promise Martin was obliged to be contented, Sidwell left him,

and was not seen, except by Sylvia, during the whole day.

Nor did she appear at breakfast on the morning that followed. But when

this meal was over, Sylvia received a message, summoning her to the

retreat on the top of the house. Here Sidwell sat in the light and

warmth, a glass door wide open to the west, the rays of a brilliant sun

softened by curtains which fluttered lightly in the breeze from the sea.

'Will you read this?' she said, holding out a sheet of notepaper on

which were a few lines in her own handwriting.

It was a letter, beginning--'I cannot.'

Sylvia perused it carefully, and stood in thought.

'After all?' were the words with which she broke silence. They were

neither reproachful nor regretful, but expressed grave interest.

'In the night,' said Sidwell, 'I wrote to father, but I shall not give

him the letter. Before it was finished, I knew that I must write

_this_. There's no more to be said, dear. You will go abroad without

me--at all events for the present.'

'If that is your resolve,' answered the other, quietly, 'I shall keep

my word, and only do what I can to aid it.' She sat down shielding her

eyes from the sunlight with a Japanese fan. 'After all, Sidwell,

there's much to be said for a purpose formed on such a morning as this;

one can't help distrusting the midnight.'

Sidwell was lying back in a low chair, her eyes turned to the woody

hills on the far side of the Exe.

'There's one thing I should like to say,' her friend pursued. 'It

struck me as curious that you were not at all affected, by what to me

would have been the one insuperable difficulty.'

'I know what you mean--the legacy.'

'Yes. It still seems to you of no significance?'

'Of very little,' Sidwell answered wearily, letting her eyelids droop.

'Then we won't talk about it. From the higher point of view, I believe

you are right; but--still let it rest.'

In the afternoon, Sidwell penned the following lines which she enclosed

in an envelope and placed on the study table, when her father was

absent.

'The long letter which I promised you, dear father, is needless. I have

to-day sent Mr. Peak a reply which closes our correspondence. I am sure

he will not write again; if he were to do so, I should not answer.

'I have given up my intention of going away with Sylvia. Later,

perhaps, I shall wish to join her somewhere on the Continent, but by

that time you will be in no concern about me.'

To this Mr. Warricombe replied only with the joyous smile which greeted

his daughter at their next meeting. Mrs. Warricombe remained in

ignorance of the ominous shadow which had passed over her house. At

present, she was greatly interested in the coming marriage of the Rev.

Bruno Chilvers, whom she tried _not_ to forgive for having disappointed

her secret hope.

Martin had finally driven into the background those uneasy

questionings, which at one time it seemed likely that Godwin Peak would

rather accentuate than silence. With Sidwell, he could never again

touch on such topics. If he were still conscious of a postponed debate,

the adjournment was _sine die_. Martin rested in the faith that,

without effort of his own, the mysteries of life and time would ere

long be revealed to him.

CHAPTER III

Earwaker spent Christmas with his relatives at Kingsmill. His father

and mother both lived; the latter very infirm, unable to leave the

house; the former a man of seventy, twisted with rheumatism, his face

rugged as a countenance picked out by fancy on the trunk of a big old

oak, his hands scarred and deformed with labour. Their old age was

restful. The son who had made himself a 'gentleman', and who in London

sat at the tables of the high-born, the wealthy, the famous, saw to it

that they lacked no comfort.

A bright, dry morning invited the old man and the young to go forth

together. They walked from the suburb countrywards, and their

conversation was of the time when a struggle was being made to bear the

expense of those three years at Whitelaw--no bad investment, as it

proved. The father spoke with a strong Midland accent, using words of

dialect by no means disagreeable to the son's ear--for dialect is a

very different thing from the bestial jargon which on the lips of the

London vulgar passes for English. They were laughing over some half

grim reminiscence, when Earwaker became aware of two people who were

approaching along the pavement, they also in merry talk. One of them he

knew; it was Christian Moxey.

Too much interested in his companion to gaze about him, Christian came

quite near before his eyes fell on Earwaker. Then he started with a

pleasant surprise, changed instantly to something like embarrassment

when he observed the aged man. Earwaker was willing to smile and go by,

had the other consented; but a better impulse prevailed in both. They

stopped and struck hands together.

'My father,' said the man of letters, quite at his ease.

Christian was equal to the occasion; he shook hands heartily with the

battered toiler, then turned to the lady at his side.

'Janet, you guess who this is.--My cousin, Earwaker, Miss Janet Moxey.'

Doubtless Janet was aware that her praises had suffered no diminution

when sung by Christian to his friends. Her eyes just fell, but in a

moment were ready with their frank, intelligent smile. Earwaker

experienced a pang--ever so slight--suggesting a revision of his

philosophy.

They talked genially, and parted with good wishes for the New Year.

Two days later, on reaching home, Earwaker found in his letter-box a

scrap of paper on which were scribbled a few barely legible lines.

'Here I am!' he at length deciphered. 'Got into Tilbury at eleven this

morning. Where the devil are you? Write to Charing Cross Hotel.' No

signature, but none was needed. Malkin's return from New Zealand had

been signalled in advance.

That evening the erratic gentleman burst in like a whirlwind. He was

the picture of health, though as far as ever from enduing the

comfortable flesh which accompanies robustness in men of calmer

temperament. After violent greetings, he sat down with abrupt gravity,

and began to talk as if in continuance of a dialogue just interrupted.

'Now, don't let us have any misunderstanding. You will please remember

that my journey to England is quite independent of what took place two

years and a half ago. It has _nothing whatever_ to do with those

circumstances.'

Earwaker smiled.

'I tell you,' pursued the other, hotly, 'that I am here to see

_you_--and one or two other old friends; and to look after some

business matters. You will oblige me by giving credit to my assertion!'

'Don't get angry. I am convinced of the truth of what you say.'

'Very well! It's as likely as not that, on returning to Auckland, I

shall marry Miss Maccabe--of whom I have written to you. I needn't

repeat the substance of my letters. I am not in love with her, you

understand, and I needn't say that my intercourse with that family has

been guided by extreme discretion. But she is a very sensible young

lady. My only regret is that I didn't know her half-a-dozen years ago,

so that I could have directed her education. She might have been even

more interesting than she is. But--you are at leisure, I hope,

Earwaker?'

'For an hour or two.'

'Oh, confound it! When a friend comes back from the ends of the

earth!--Yes, yes; I understand. You are a busy man; forgive my

hastiness. Well now, I was going to say that I shall probably call upon

Mrs. Jacox.' He paused, and gave the listener a stern look, forbidding

misconstruction. 'Yes, I shall probably go down to Wrotham. I wish to

put my relations with that family on a proper footing. Our

correspondence has been very satisfactory, especially of late. The poor

woman laments more sincerely her--well, let us say, her folly of two

years and a half ago. She has outlived it; she regards me as a friend.

Bella and Lily seem to be getting on very well indeed. That governess

of theirs--we won't have any more mystery; it was I who undertook the

trifling expense. A really excellent teacher, I have every reason to

believe. I am told that Bella promises to be a remarkable pianist, and

Lily is uncommonly strong in languages. But my interest in them is

merely that of a friend; let it be understood.'

'Precisely. You didn't say whether the girls have been writing to you?'

'No, no, no! Not a line. I have exchanged letters only with their

mother. Anything else would have been indiscreet. I shall be glad to

see them, but my old schemes are things of the past. There is not the

faintest probability that Bella has retained any recollection of me at

all.'

'I daresay not,' assented Earwaker.

'You think so? Very well; I have acted wisely. Bella is still a child,

you know--compared with a man of my age. She is seventeen and a few

months; quite a child! Miss Maccabe is just one-and-twenty; the proper

age. When we are married, I think I shall bring her to Europe for a

year or two. Her education needs that; she will be delighted to see the

old countries.'

'Have you her portrait?'

'Oh no! Things haven't got so far as that. What a hasty fellow you are,

Earwaker! I told you distinctly'----

He talked till after midnight, and at leave-taking apologised profusely

for wasting his friend's valuable time.

Earwaker awaited with some apprehension the result of Malkin's visit to

Wrotham. But the report of what took place on that occasion was

surprisingly commonplace. Weeks passed, and Malkin seldom showed

himself at Staple Inn; when he did so, his talk was exclusively of Miss

Maccabe; all he could be got to say of the young ladies at Wrotham was,

'Nice girls; very nice girls. I hope they'll marry well.' Two months

had gone by, and already the journalist had heard by letter of his

friend's intention to return to New Zealand, when, on coming home late

one night, he found Malkin sitting on the steps.

'Earwaker, I have something very serious to tell you. Give me just a

quarter of an hour.'

What calamity did this tone portend? The eccentric man seated himself

with slow movement. Seen by a good light, his face was not gloomy, but

very grave.

'Listen to me, old friend,' he began, sliding forward to the edge of

his chair. 'You remember I told you that my relations with the Maccabe

family had been marked throughout with extreme discretion.'

'You impressed that upon me.'

'Good! I have never made love to Miss Maccabe, and I doubt whether she

has ever thought of me as a possible husband.'

'Well?'

'Don't be impatient. I want you to grasp the fact. It is important,

because--I am going to marry Bella Jacox.'

'You don't say so?'

'Why not?' cried Malkin, suddenly passing to a state of excitement.

'What objection can you make? I tell you that I am absolutely free to

choose'----

The journalist calmed him, and thereupon had to hear a glowing account

of Bella's perfections. All the feeling that Malkin had suppressed

during these two months rushed forth in a flood of turbid eloquence.

'And now,' he concluded, 'you will come down with me to Wrotham. I

don't mean to-night; let us say the day after tomorrow, Sunday. You

remember our last joint visit! Ha, ha!'

'Mrs. Jacox is reconciled?'

'My dear fellow, she rejoices! A wonderful nobility in that poor little

woman! She wept upon my shoulder! But you must see Bella! I shan't take

her to New Zealand, at all events not just yet. We shall travel about

Europe, completing her education. Don't you approve of that?'

On Sunday, the two travelled down into Kent. This time they were

received by Lily, now a pretty, pale, half-developed girl of fifteen.

In a few minutes her sister entered. Bella was charming; nervousness

made her words few, and it could be seen that she was naturally

thoughtful, earnest, prone to reverie; her beauty had still to ripen,

and gave much promise for the years between twenty and thirty. Last of

all appeared Mrs. Jacox, who blushed as she shook hands with Earwaker,

and for a time was ill at ease; but her vocatives were not long

restrained, and when all sat down to the tea-table she chattered away

with astonishing vivacity. After tea the company was joined by a lady

of middle age, who, for about two years, had acted as governess to the

girls. Earwaker formed his conclusions as to the 'trifling expense'

which her services represented; but it was probably a real interest in

her pupils which had induced a person of so much refinement to bear so

long with the proximity of Mrs. Jacox.

'A natural question occurs to me,' remarked Earwaker, as they were

returning. 'Who and what was Mr. Jacox?'

'Ah! Bella was talking to me about him the other day. He must have been

distinctly an interesting man. Bella had a very clear recollection of

him, and she showed me two or three photographs. Engaged in some kind

of commerce. I didn't seek particulars. But a remarkable man, one can't

doubt.'

He resumed presently.

'Now don't suppose that this marriage entirely satisfies me. Bella has

been fairly well taught, but not, you see, under my supervision. I

ought to have been able to watch and direct her month by month. As it

is, I shall have to begin by assailing her views on all manner of

things. Religion, for example. Well, I have no religion, that's plain.

I might call myself this or that for the sake of seeming respectable,

but it all comes to the same thing. I don't mind Bella going to church

if she wishes, but I must teach her that there's no merit whatever in

doing so. It isn't an ideal marriage, but perhaps as good as this

imperfect world allows. If I have children, I can then put my

educational theories to the test.'

By way of novel experience, Earwaker, not long after this, converted

his study into a drawing-room, and invited the Jacox family to taste

his tea and cake. With Malkin's assistance, the risky enterprise was

made a great success. When Mrs. Jacox would allow her to be heard,

Bella talked intelligently, and showed eager interest in the details of

literary manufacture.

'O Mr. Earwaker!' cried her mother, when it was time to go. 'What a

delightful afternoon you have given us! We must think of you from now

as one of our very best friends. Mustn't we, Lily?'

But troubles were yet in store. Malkin was strongly opposed to a

religious marriage; he wished the wedding to be at a registrar's

office, and had obtained Bella's consent to this, but Mrs. Jacox would

not hear of such a thing. She wept and bewailed herself. 'How _can_ you

think of being married like a costermonger? O Mr. Malkin, you will

break my heart, indeed you will!' And she wrote an ejaculatory letter

to Earwaker, imploring his intercession. The journalist took his friend

in hand.

'My good fellow, don't make a fool of yourself. Women are born for one

thing only, the Church of England marriage service. How can you seek to

defeat the end of their existence? Give in to the inevitable. Grin and

bear it.'

'I can't! I won't! It shall be a runaway match! I had rather suffer the

rack than go through an ordinary wedding!'

Dire was the conflict. Down at Wrotham there were floods of tears. In

the end, Bella effected a compromise; the marriage was to be at a

church, but in the greatest possible privacy. No carriages, no gala

dresses, no invitations, no wedding feast; the bare indispensable

formalities. And so it came to pass. Earwaker and the girl's governess

were the only strangers present, when, on a morning of June, Malkin and

Bella were declared by the Church to be henceforth one and indivisible.

The bride wore a graceful travelling costume; the bridegroom was in

corresponding attire.

'Heaven be thanked, that's over!' exclaimed Malkin, as he issued from

the portal. 'Bella, we have twenty-three minutes to get to the railway

station. Don't cry!' he whispered to her. 'I can't stand that!'

'No, no; don't be afraid,' she whispered back. 'We have said good-bye

already.'

'Capital! That was very thoughtful of you.--Goodbye, all! Shall write

from Paris, Earwaker. Nineteen minutes; we shall just manage it!'

He sprang into the cab, and away it clattered.

A letter from Paris, a letter from Strasburg, from Berlin,

Munich--letters about once a fortnight. From Bella also came an

occasional note, a pretty contrast to the incoherent enthusiasm of her

husband's compositions. Midway in September she announced their

departure from a retreat in Switzerland.

'We are in the utmost excitement, for it is now decided that in three

days we start for Italy! The heat has been terrific, and we have waited

on what seems to me the threshold of Paradise until we could hope to

enjoy the delights beyond. We go first to Milan. My husband, of course,

knows Italy, but he shares my impatience. I am to entreat you to write

to Milan, with as much news as possible. Especially have you heard

anything more of Mr. Peak?'

November the pair spent in Rome, and thence was despatched the

following in Malkin's hand:

'This time I am _not_ mistaken! I have seen Peak. He didn't see me;

perhaps wouldn't have known me. It was in Piale's reading-room. I had

sat down to _The Times_, when a voice behind me sounded in such a

curiously reminding way that I couldn't help looking round. It was

Peak; not a doubt of it. I might have been uncertain about his face,

but the voice brought back that conversation at your rooms too

unmistakably--long ago as it was. He was talking to an American, whom

evidently he had met somewhere else, and had now recognised. "I've had

a fever," he said, "and can't quite shake off the results. Been in

Ischia for the last month. I'm going north to Vienna." Then the two

walked away together. He looked ill, sallow, worn out. Let me know if

you hear.'

On that same day, Earwaker received another letter, with the Roman

post-mark. It was from Peak.

'I have had nothing particular to tell you. A month ago I thought I

should never write to you again; I got malarial fever, and lay

desperately ill at the _Ospedale Internazionale_ at Naples. It came of

some monstrous follies there's no need to speak of. A new and valuable

experience. I know what it is to look steadily into the eyes of Death.

'Even now, I am far from well. This keeps me in low spirits. The other

day I was half decided to start for London. I am miserably alone, want

to see a friend. What a glorious place Staple Inn seemed to me as I lay

in the hospital! Proof how low I had sunk: I thought longingly of

Exeter, of a certain house there--never mind!

'I write hastily. An invitation from some musical people has decided me

to strike for Vienna. Up there, I shall get my health back. The people

are of no account--boarding-house acquaintances--but they may lead to

better. I never in my life suffered so from loneliness.'

This was the eighteenth of November. On the twenty-eighth the postman

delivered a letter of an appearance which puzzled Earwaker. The stamp

was Austrian, the mark 'Wien'. From Peak, therefore. But the writing

was unknown, plainly that of a foreigner.

The envelope contained two sheets of paper. The one was covered with a

long communication in German; on the other stood a few words of

English, written, or rather scrawled, in a hand there was no

recognising:

'Ill again, and alone. If I die, act for me. Write to Mrs. Peak,

Twybridge.'

Beneath was added, 'J. E. Earwaker, Staple Inn, London.'

He turned hurriedly to the foreign writing. Earwaker read a German book

as easily as an English, but German manuscript was a terror to him. And

the present correspondent wrote so execrably that beyond _Geehrter

Herr_, scarcely a word yielded sense to his anxious eyes. Ha! One he

had made out--_gestorben_.

Crumpling the papers into his pocket, he hastened out, and knocked at

the door of an acquaintance in another part of the Inn. This was a man

who had probably more skill in German cursive. Between them, they

extracted the essence of the letter.

He who wrote was the landlord of an hotel in Vienna. He reported that

an English gentleman, named Peak, just arrived from Italy, had taken a

bedroom at that house. In the night, the stranger became very ill, sent

for a doctor, and wrote the lines enclosed, the purport whereof he at

the same time explained to his attendants. On the second day Mr. Peak

died. Among his effects were found circular notes, and a sum of loose

money. The body was about to be interred. Probably Mr. Earwaker would

receive official communications, as the British consul had been

informed of the matter. To whom should _bills_ be sent?

The man of letters walked slowly back to his own abode.

'Dead, too, in exile!' was his thought. 'Poor old fellow!'